Page 32 of Darkness

His rooms were small but still larger in diameter than his living quarters back home, although lower-ceilinged. The ability to float meant no vertical space went to waste. Farren missed the windows, though, where he could sit and watch purple waves rolling in from the sea. He’d been to the ocean once since crossing over. Blue and white surf. Not the same.

Oh, to stretch his wings, let a breeze lift him, allow air currents to carry him along.

Farren sat on his couch, placing his meal on the coffee table. The fully stocked kitchen adjoined the living room, separated by a bar and two stools. The living room area held a brown leather couch, a matching chair, a contrasting recliner, a coffee table, matching end tables, a wall-mounted TV, and a plastic plant in the corner.

With no knowledge of how to decorate a human apartment, upon joining the team, he’d taken his moving allowance to a local furniture store and bought the display. No fuss, no muss, minimal decisions. And no visiting IKEA. Just trying to pronounce some of those names almost convinced him he was secretly summoning a traveler.

His quarters were surprisingly comfortable for what some would call crapshoot decorating.

He'd even bought an ugly metal wall sculpture, spending idle moments trying to make sense of the random shapes cobbled together. A giraffe? A condemned building? A hubcap run over by a train?

The stew scent temporarily chased back the dragon’s blood incense permeating the rooms. The scent reminded him of home. Throw pillows and a crocheted blanket in shades of purple were Arianna’s contributions. Purple, “To remind you of home.” She’d even bought Farren a fluffy purple dinosaur popular with children, calling the toy a gag gift.

Farren had furnished his bedroom by the same method, though sleeping while lying down required practice. Most nights he spent in a hammock, which more closely resembled his previous method of rest.

While he ate, his mind once more turned to his new prospective partner. Farren usually trained rookies but never received a permanent partner.

Tenebris. A darkness to Farren’s light. Dark followed light, light followed dark.

Morrisey James. No family to speak of. Adopted as an infant, raised by an older couple who’d died before Morrisey reached twenty.

Nevertheless, a hint of mystery clung to him.

What secrets are you hiding, Morrisey James?

And do I want to know?

Chapter Twelve

Six hours’ worth of mind-blowing details later, Morrisey sat in his living room on the white leather couch someone else picked out. A white leather couch, now stained by time and rough treatment. In fact, most of the stuff in the apartment had been picked by someone else, left by previous tenants, or donated by well-meaning coworkers. There might even be an item or two scavenged from off the street. Who had time to worry about the décor? The mattress wasn’t too lumpy, though the bed was empty, the fridge kept beer cold, and the shower supplied plenty of hot water. What more could a man want?

Oh, right. Not having an empty bed.

Morrisey stared at two fingers’ worth of tequila in a shot glass sitting on a wooden cable reel he’d salvaged from the dumpster behind an electrical supply company—not because he couldn’t afford better, but because he didn’t need anything fancy as a coffee table. Besides, who’d see?

In all honesty, drinking was probably the very last thing he needed right now, even if he’d worked up the nerve to go to another liquor store to restock supplies. No shots fired. Nobody died. No demon possessions.

All in all, a successful foray into the outside world.

He downed the shot, sucking in air at the burn. Burn. Exactly what he needed. Feeling. Fire to make him feel alive again.

Was the FBI Alternate Entities Task Force for real or an elaborate hoax? Googling didn’t turn up anything. It wasn't as if he’d expected full disclosure from the feds. Especially feds talking sci-fi crap. They probably should say the FBI Entities Alternate Task Force, or EAT for short, since the evil bastards essentially tried to eat human souls.

Or so his pickled brain told him.

Morrisey had discreetly taken pictures on his phone of Austen and Leary. The Leary image didn’t get a hit, but Austen’s?

Holy shit. Image lookup showed a picture of a young model from about ten years ago. Austen hadn’t changed much. The guy had to be at least eighteen in the photos, plus ten years, which would put Austen at twenty-eight at a minimum.

Morrisey read the article.

Male model, twenty-seven. Went out drinking with friends after a show. Disappeared while walking back to his hotel, never seen again.

Wait! Austen had been twenty-seven ten years ago?

A lead weight settled into Morrisey’s gut. The whole day, especially Leary and Austen, made him want to run.

Austen's story could have been Morrisey's, apart from the male model part. The picture showed Austen on a runway, shirt off, pants skin tight. Oh hell. What a body.

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