Page 48 of Darkness

Morrisey longed to punch the smugness off Leary’s face.

Farren turned, mouthing, “Sorry.”

Not nearly as sorry as Morrisey. Just when he thought life couldn’t get any more fucked.

He turned toward the window and hummed along with the music in his head. While the whole situation should repulse him, he couldn’t deny a thread of admiration for Farren. This clearly wasn’t some piece of cake for him. A demon. A traveler. A man from an alternate dimension.

No, not a demon. An angel.

Someone fighting evil in their own way.

Just like Morrisey.

Chapter Seventeen

Morrisey sprang from the vehicle the moment they parked at the FBI offices, marching with purpose toward the far side of the lot where he’d parked.

“Morrisey! Wait!” Damn! "I warned you we should have filled him in first," Farren growled to Leary. Both Farren and Leary had had ten years of prospective agents’ reactions to draw on, but it looked like only one of them learned anything from the experiences. Farren glared at his boss, then followed Morrisey across the asphalt, trying to match his much longer strides.

Morrisey stopped but didn’t turn back. “What the fuck do you want?” Amazing how the chill in his voice didn’t drop the temperature by fifty degrees.

“I’m sorry you found out the hard way. I told Leary we should have covered everything in advance.”

“If you’re a demon, why couldn’t I tell?” The growl in Morrisey’s voice would’ve sent the most hardened criminals running.

“Traveler. I’m not a demon. I’m a traveler.” Farren had grown quite used to being called a demon, but hearing the accusation from Morrisey hurt. Just like being called an angel, even while Morrisey was sedated, warmed Farren’s spirit.

Morrisey finally whirled around, hands clenched into tight fists. “What?”

Farren spread out his hands in a see, I’m harmless gesture. “I’m not a demon. I’m a traveler. Someone who unintentionally stumbled upon your world but dedicated myself to protecting others. You’ve nothing to fear from me. Some travelers use the term ‘demon’ to describe criminals and occisors, although it is considered derogatory. In which cases, the term was sometimes accurate.”

Morrisey squinted, dark brows scrunching. “Can you get into my mind?”

“No one can. You’re… immune.” Farren needed to keep explanations short, given Morrisey’s unbalanced state. “To answer your earlier question… You read about the classifications of those from Domus, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Each classification comes with skill sets to help us in our jobs. I am Magestra.”

“Right. Those sort of merged into a blur after a while.”

Understandable. Very few recruits remembered even half of the list. Plus, Morrisey had a reputation as a hard drinker, though Farren would never betray Captain Gaskins’s trust by saying so. “Cop, pretty much. Although we preferred ‘peacekeeper.’ But I’ve discovered here, other travelers can’t see me for what I am unless I let them. Only those I allow can see the real me. I imagine being able to fly under the radar helps with my job to disguise my nature.”

Morrisey took in a prolonged, noisy breath, then blew the air out, making him appear to deflate. He scratched the nape of his neck. Some of the anger left his words. “I imagine that’s pretty useful.”

“Yes.” Farren’s tension bled away. Standing here, just a couple of feet apart, he saw through the bluster to a vulnerable man. Morrisey’s recent past hadn’t been easy. “C’mon. Let me buy you lunch. Then we can talk some more.” Farren reached out his hand, but Morrisey pulled back. Ouch.

The expression on Morrisey’s face turned from indecisive to resigned. “Okay, but I pick the restaurant and I drive.”

“Fair enough.” Right now, Morrisey’s beliefs were rearranging. He needed to feel in control to ground himself. Him not running yet offered some reassurances. Like a coffee stain on a shirt, the longer new concepts stayed in one's mind, the greater the chance for permanence.

Morrisey swung open the passenger door of an older model RAV4, immediately clearing books, papers, coffee cups, gum packs, and other debris from the seat. A touch of color flushed his cheeks. He tossed everything unceremoniously onto the back seat—his typical way of dealing with clutter, judging by the evidence. “Sorry. I rarely have people in here.”

Farren bit back, obviously. He wouldn’t add to his new partner’s embarrassment. Instead, he crawled into the RAV4, even finding the seatbelt after some searching. It took three strong yanks before the belt extended. If Farren’s feet were much larger, they wouldn’t have fit in the floorboard with all the discarded coffee cups and fast-food wrappers.

Morrisey took his place in the driver's seat, strapped in, then fired up the engine. He said nothing while exiting the parking lot. If he didn’t feel like talking, Farren wouldn’t push matters—for now. However, they’d need to clear the air eventually.

Where would Morrisey take them? Some burger place? The evidence on the floorboard strongly suggested the possibility. Then again, a smattering of taco wrappers mixed in looked to have come from the corner convenience store. Farren braced for whatever came his way. His advanced healing should overcome food poisoning.

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