Page 105 of Darkness

Oh, not to mention no coffee, booze, or cigarettes.

A single bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The floors were unfinished concrete, the wall cement blocks, and there were no windows.

Several times, the two goons brought humans into the room to huddle at the far end, trembling. What did they think? Morrisey was some kind of monster?

“I promise I won’t hurt you.” He didn’t approach the current offering. He’d learned his lesson. “What’s your name? What happened to you? Are you okay?”

The man trembled and whimpered but didn’t answer. Nothing but fear radiated from him, no sense of who he might be.

Morrisey lounged around in boxers he’d learned to hate, since he’d not received any clothes. Even so, he offered the one lone blanket to the guy.

The man shrieked and threw the blanket back. At least he wore clothes, so he likely wasn’t as cold as Morrisey. He also cried out anytime Morrisey tried to get close.

“Poor guy. What the hell did they do to you?”

The man rocked back and forth, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, with unkempt dark hair and beard. Had Asher taken advantage of a homeless man?

One more reason to hate the bastard.

Morrisey wrapped himself as best he could in the threadbare plaid, sat on the cold concrete floor, and leaned against the wall. How long had he been here? He’d close his eyes just for a few minutes.

He dreamed of floating among the stars, searching for Farren without finding him. His rest must’ve lasted only ten minutes. He woke even more tired than he’d been before the nap, and roamed the approximately twelve feet by twenty feet of space, then went back to sleep—after finally making use of the milk jug.

The goons provided a thermos of water each day, along with a sandwich, which he tried to share with the human, who now just huddled and moaned.

Most of Morrisey’s waking hours alternated between thoughts of doing horrible things to Asher—who needs brothers, anyway?—and Farren.

Where was Farren? What was he doing?

Did he have any idea how Morrisey felt about him? Before, one being human and the other being, well, not entirely human, created a barrier for them. Now they stood on equal footing unless the ridiculous tier system of the other realm got in the way.

Morrisey couldn’t be a traveler. He’d know, right? Yet he got impressions from the dead. Proved nothing. Maybe he was psychic.

Which brought on another line of thinking to occupy Morrisey’s time.

How tiring to find obstacles in the way. Morrisey usually blamed his lot in life on circumstances. He drank because of depression over Craig’s leaving and eventual death, staggering through life into his forties. If he ever hoped to accomplish anything, have his life matter at all, he needed to step up to the plate—and soon.

What might he accomplish if he stopped letting others’ expectations get in his way? He’d bucked authority in the past, but never challenged his superiors in constructive ways. Time to educate himself as Farren did, get all the facts, then present his case.

Damn it, Farren had become a positive influence in Morrisey’s life. Just what he needed.

The human whimpered. Already Morrisey identified the human as different from himself. Maybe he always had. Fear wafted off the trembling man. Rich and sweet, like chocolate.

What the hell? Like chocolate?

Morrisey opened his senses, breathing deeply, soaking in the essence. His body grew stronger, his thoughts clearer. He drew in the essence again. Yes! Yes! This was what he needed. What he’d always needed.

His nearly ever-present headache eased.

The man whined, sinking farther into a corner on the floor.

Morrisey stood and staggered nearer, wrapping the stranger’s fear around him, a warm blanket against the cold.

The man cried out. Morrisey’s eyes flew open. The man panted, gasping, face turning blue.

No! Morrisey retreated to the other side of the space. This wasn't just emotions wafting around, like Jessa said. No. Morrisey was pulling them from the man, draining him. “Asher!” he bellowed. Newfound power roared out with Morrisey’s voice. No doubt Asher heard him. Anyone within a three-mile radius likely heard.

Instead of Asher, a goon came, keys clanking while he opened a series of locks. The mountain of a man stood on the steps, arms folded over his chest, glaring down.

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