The Darkest Night. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ try. She would have made the journey naked and barefoot if necessary. Anything for a chance at normalcy.

      She loved that she helped safeguard the world with her—gag—gift, but the torment she endured was too much. Surely there was another way for her to help. With a little silence, she might be able to think of how. Deep-breathing exercises and meditation only did so much for her peace of mind.

      She rubbed her legs more frantically, the ministrations finally melting some of the internal ice and spurring her back into motion. Ök itt. Tudom ök, she heard as she stepped past a hunched, gnarled tree. They’re here, her mind instantly translated, I know they are.

      Then someone else said, Aren’t you a pretty thing?

      “Yes, I am, thank you,” she said, hoping the sound of her own voice would overshadow the others. It didn’t. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

      As she continued to slog forward, different conversations from different time periods drifted into her awareness, stacking one on top of the other in her mind. Most were spoken in Hungarian, some in English, and that made them all the more jumbled.

      Yes. Yes! Touch me. There, yes, there.

      Bárhol as én kardom? En nem tudom holvan.

      One more taste of his lips, and I’ll forget him. I just need one more taste.

      Ashlyn stumbled over twigs and rocks, the words blending together, growing louder. Louder still. Her heart drummed in her chest and she barely refrained from screaming in frustration. Deep breath in, deep breath—

      If you knock on the door, you’ll be fucked like an animal and I guarantee you’ll love every minute of it.

      She covered her ears, even though she knew that wouldn’t work, either. “Keep going. Find them.” More wind. More voices. “Keep going,” she repeated, the words chiming in harmony with her footsteps. She’d come all this way; she could make it a little farther. “Find them.”

      When she’d told Dr. McIntosh, vice president of the Institute as well as her boss and mentor, what she’d learned about the men, he’d given her a brief nod and a brisk “Well done”—his highest form of praise.

      Then she’d asked to be taken to the chateau atop this imposing hill.

      “Not a chance,” he’d said, turning away from her. “They could be the demons some of the locals paint them.”

      “Or they could very well be the angels most of the locals consider them.”

      “You’re not going to risk it, Darrow.” That’s when he’d ordered her to pack her bags and readied a car for her departure to the airport, just as he always did when her part of the job—providing the ears—was done.

      It was “standard agency procedure,” he always claimed, yet he never sent the rest of the workers home. Just her. McIntosh cared about her and wanted her safe, she knew that. After all, he’d seen to her care for more than fifteen years, taking her under his wing when she’d been a scared child whose parents hadn’t known how to ease their “gifted” daughter’s torment. He’d even read her fairy tales to teach her that the world was a place of magic and endless possibilities, a place where nobody—not even someone like her—had to feel odd.

      While he did care, she also knew her ability was important to his career, that the Institute would not be half as effective without her and that as a result, she was something of a pawn in his eyes. That’s why she didn’t feel (too) guilty for sneaking here the moment his back was turned.

      Fingers numb, Ashlyn once again smoothed her hair from her face. Maybe she should have taken the time to ask the locals for the best route, but the voices had been too loud, too incapacitating in the heart of the city. More than that, she’d been afraid an Institute employee would see her and take her in.

      Might have been worth taking her chances, though, to avoid this debilitating cold.

      There’s one way to learn the truth. Stab one in the heart and see if he dies, a voice said, snagging her attention.

       Oh, that feels good. Please, more!

      Distracted, Ashlyn tripped over a fallen limb. Down she tumbled, landing with a pained gasp. Sharp rocks abraded her palms and scratched at her jeans. For a long while, she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Too cold, she thought. Too loud.

      As she lay there, her strength seemed to drain completely. Her temples throbbed, the voices still bombarding her. Closing her eyes, she pulled the lapels of her jacket tight and managed to crawl to and huddle against the base of a tree.

      We shouldn’t be here. They see everything.

       Are you hurt?

       Look what I found! Isn’t it pretty?

      “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” she shouted. Of course, the voices didn’t listen to her. They never did.

      Dare you to run through the trees naked.

       Éhes vagyok. Kaphatok volamit eni?

      A pop and whiz suddenly sounded, and her eyelids sprang open. Next there was a tortured scream. A man’s scream, quickly followed by three others.

      Present. Not past. After twenty-four years, she knew the difference.

      Terror snaked her in an iron grip, squeezing the breath out of her. Even through the chattering of voices, she heard a sickening thud. She tried to stand, to run, but a sudden whoosh of air held her in place. No, not air, she realized a second later, but a blade. Her entire body jerked in surprise as the hilt of a blood-coated knife swayed just above her shoulder, embedded in tree bark.

      Before she had time to scramble away, to scream, there was another whoosh. Another jerk. Ashlyn’s attention swung to the other side. Sure enough, a second blade was rooted just above her left shoulder.

      How—What—The thoughts hadn’t yet fully formed when something burst from a nearby thicket. Brittle leaves clashed together in an ominous dance, the snow that had covered them sprinkling to the ground as limbs slapped and shook. Then the something raced past a ray of moonlight and she caught a glimpse of black hair and radiant violet eyes. A man. A big, muscled man was charging toward her at top speed. His expression was pure brutality.

      “Ohmygod,” she gasped out. “Stop. Stop!”

      Suddenly he was there, right in her face. Crouching, pinning her in place, sniffing her neck. “They were Hunters,” he said in lightly accented English, his voice as harsh and rough as his rugged features. “Are you?” He grabbed her right wrist and peeled back the material of her jacket and sweater. He ran his thumb over the pulse there. “No tattoo, like they had.”

      They? Hunters? Tattoo? A tremor cartwheeled down her spine. The intruder was huge, hulking, his muscular frame surrounding her with menace. A metallic tang drifted from him, mixed with the fragrance of man and heat and something she couldn’t identify.

      Up close, she could see the splatter of red on his too-harsh face. Blood? The biting wind seemed to slither past her skin and into the marrow СКАЧАТЬ