Page 13 of Darkness

The Nutrix studied the cop’s face and then blew a low whistle. “Wow. Dark. You reckon he’s a Tenebris?”

Tenebris. Darkness. An unreadable, unpredictable entity. “I don’t know. He seems pure human to me.”

The Nutrix stared at the cop again, brow furrowed. “Yeah, he does. What happens when he wakes up?”

“If he wakes up.” Farren inwardly shuddered at how doubtful the possibility might be. “Then we’ll have to convince him he didn’t see what he thought he saw. If he saw anything.” Standard procedure. This Morrisey James guy being a cop presented another option, though.

Anyone who could fight off an occisor might prove useful.

James appeared oblivious to the conversation, not that he’d understand Farren’s native tongue. The detective wasn’t model handsome, with a skin tone Farren had heard described as olive. Sculptured nose, if the sculptor liked them big, with a gangly build. Not someone you’d notice twice on the street.

Making him even more valuable.

Maybe Farren should invite Morrisey James into the fold.

If he survived with his mind intact.

Chapter Six

Damn, what wonderful drugs. Morrisey blinked hard. The EMT appeared normal one moment, with a shimmering aura the next. And when their skin touched, the EMTs glowed a soft blue. Not Blue Man Group blue, but blue all the same. The EMT fussed like a mother hen over Morrisey, taking vitals, offering solace with a gentle graze of his hand here, a crooned melody there.

Nothing but comfort came from him, and peace. Peace enough to drown in.

Morrisey rested on a soft surface, someplace where the air no longer reeked of the essence of dumpster. Someplace… moving. Or maybe… yeah… drugs.

His breath caught. The angel from the alley sat nearby, tight blond ringlets a halo around his head, stopping just above his ears. He had to be an angel. Delicate, with the lithe body of a dancer from a show someone once talked Morrisey into seeing. The plot eluded him, but the male dancers, with their tight musculature and tighter tights, had him on his feet during the standing ovation.

Good drugs. Still, Morrisey’s head hurt like a motherfucker. Angel and the medic spoke quietly, their words slurring out of Morrisey’s hearing. Were they even speaking English? The clicks and whirrs didn’t sound like any language he’d ever heard before.

Then again, what did Morrisey know? World traveler, he wasn’t.

And drugs. Yeah.

The angel caught Morrisey’s eye, giving a bittersweet smile, complete with a flash of a dimple on one cheek. “Rest now,” the vision said in English, with a soft, lilting accent. “You’re going to need it.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Tenebris.”

Tenebris?

The bluish man injected a syringe into Morrisey’s IV.

A song title came to mind…The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia. Except now they were going out in Atlanta. Well, Atlanta was in Georgia. Yep. Out they went.

***

“Sure you weren’t high? Start from the top again. You saw a monster with big pointy teeth.” The cop questioning Morrisey smirked. “Did you also see a singing teapot?”

The second cop in Morrisey’s hospital room no longer attempted to hide his laughter. “He probably just glanced at himself in a mirror.”

If they didn’t believe him, why keep asking? No chance to escape since everything still hurt, and leaving the hospital bed might be undoable at the moment. Plus, they sat in chairs between Morrisey and the door. “I don’t care how often I tell it, the story ain’t changing.” Someone give him drugs for his headache or finish the job of splitting his skull with a hammer.

“Didn’t the report say he’d been to a liquor store?” the second cop asked. “I bet he was drunk off his ass.” He shifted his focus from his partner to Morrisey. “Hey, James! Were you drunk?” Not the most creative of bullies.

They did, however, find his RAV4 at a liquor store.

No real stretch of the imagination there. Craig’s death ushered in a new era of self-destruction through alcohol and tobacco that clearly Morrisey hadn’t hidden as effectively as he’d thought. He’d avoided coworkers off the job, though some probably knew, hearing rumors from friends of friends, seeing him out at night, or maybe catching a whiff of his day-old whiskey breath.

So much for hiding his drinking problem. He’d only been kidding himself, thinking he’d kept his vices private.

He ignored the sniggers. The stench of antiseptic stinging his nose offered a distraction.

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