Page 95 of Darkness

Or a disaster already happened. Farren’s deepest fear.

Colm stood. “Where is he now?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’d better the hell find out before someone else gets there first. If he’s Tenebris from the Princeps, not balanced by a Lux, his powers could be limitless.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Morrisey came to slowly. Where was he, and how much had he drunk last night? He opened his eyes, only to slam them closed again. Pain.

“Oh, my apologies,” a smooth voice purred. The room immediately darkened.

Morrisey's hackles rose, or as far as they could, given his headache. What died in his mouth? He wasn’t here alone and didn’t recognize the voice. Not good. After his latest black out, he’d woken in some guy’s bed and snuck out while the big bear of a man still snored.

The previous couple of minutes of memory surfaced. Someone at Morrisey's place—and not his friendly neighborhood succuba. The pinch of a needle.

Blacking out.

He gave a discreet stretch, testing motion. No restrictions, so not tied. Last night’s alcohol swished around in his stomach. Please don’t puke, please don’t puke. Of course, it would serve the assholes right if Morrisey forcefully emptied his stomach all over them.

Whoever the fuck they were, who dared take him from his sanctuary.

This time, the room appeared much dimmer when Morrisey blinked his eyes open, but not too dim to distinguish the face of the man sitting in an overstuffed armchair nearby.

The room felt large somehow, diffused light peeking in from a series of long drapes, hinting at tall, arched windows. The dry air carried the summer storm scent he associated with Farren. Whereas Farren evoked thoughts of a fresh grass, this man brought to mind rotting apples.

Is this what Farren meant by herbs?

Morrisey sprawled on a rather uncomfortable couch, the kind more for show than sitting. The fabric prickled. A ray of sunshine filtering through the drapes cast a glow on a polished floor. Marble? At least he’d traded up on his surroundings.

Memories slammed into him. After a moment, the face registered. The asshole from the train tracks. Morrisey gasped instinctively. Even so, his heart hammered, and breath caught in his throat. He wasn’t dead yet, so must be of some use—for now—but he didn’t delude himself on the situation lasting.

Most people who knew Morrisey for over ten minutes wanted him dead.

“Ah, you’re finally awake. I’ve been waiting somewhat impatiently, I must confess.” The sound emerged smooth and cultured, so unlike what Morrisey thought a brutal murderer would sound like. "If you had known your true nature and how to utilize your abilities, you would have overcome the sedatives' effects a while back. Lucky for me, you didn’t know. What’s the human phrase, ‘Ignorance is bliss?’”

Your true nature? A cop? A drunk? A middle-aged man with no prospects? “And what am I?” When in doubt, play dumb.

The man chuckled. “Not the pitiful human you pretend to be.”

Pitiful? Maybe. But… “I never pretended to be human.” Not by a long shot. Morrisey was just… himself. Some days, he scared even him. “What am I then, if not human? And who the bloody hell are you?"

Smug satisfaction oozed from the asshole’s voice. “In answer to your first question, a wonderful experiment that turned out exactly how I’d hoped.”

Vague much? “I’ve never been one for guessing games. Just say whatever the fuck’s on your mind and spare me the melodrama. And if you expect me to listen, you'd better have coffee. A ton of coffee.” And a pack of Marlboros.

"I'm afraid I have no coffee, and you can address me as Asher."

The bastard had the same arrogant asshole voice some public figures used when convinced they were right and everyone else was sleaze.

“I didn’t ask what I could call you. I asked who you are. I’ll probably refer to you as bastard or motherfucker, regardless. I haven’t decided yet. You got a preference?” Morrisey considered his words, unable to stop poking the bear. “If you like Asher, what about asshole? It’s close.”

Asher, Asher, Asher. Morrisey scrolled through his mental Most Wanted folder, matching the visible portions of the man's face. Nope. No matches, except maybe for the man throwing a murderer before a train. Why not take a shot in the dark? “Asshole Asher. Yeah, it fits you. Tell me, is throwing people under trains just a normal Wednesday for you?”

Asher didn’t acknowledge the barbs. “Only those who’ve served their purpose, aren’t discreet enough to avoid notice, or are otherwise no longer useful. Do you not throw away a disposable coffee cup once you’ve no further use for it?”

Not to hear Will tell it. He’d commented often enough on the growing piles of Styrofoam in the RAV4’s back seat.

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