Autumn Storm (The Witchling #2)(5)

Envious and frustrated, Decker rose and crossed to the window overlooking a crowded parking lot.

Without Summer, Darkness was all that truly soothed his misery.

Feed it, and it will take you away. You are lucky she died before she saw what you are, one of the voices in his head told him.

When he’d become the Master of Dark, he’d inherited the souls of all his predecessors. They were constantly chattering, filling his head with noise he couldn’t escape. Of all the Dark Masters and Mistresses before him, the most feared of them all had taken on the role of mentoring Decker. Bartholomew-the-Terrible was known for the mass slaughter of humans and witchlings he committed over the course of dozens of years. He’d taught Decker where to find the small moments of relief and how many ways there were to kill with nothing more than a knife and his hands.

Recognizing the truth in the words, Decker looked at his hands. He showered half a dozen times a day but always felt the warmth of blood on him. It was intoxicating to the Dark side of him. When the high wore off, he was left with the hole inside of him and a mess to clean up.

His phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand. His twin, Beck, called or texted almost every day. Decker ignored him, along with everyone else who tried to contact him. He’d wanted to talk to one person the past few months, the woman he’d inherited his Dark role from.

His mother, however, refused to speak to him. He stopped trying to reach her when it became clear she wanted nothing to do with him and let Bartholomew guide him.

Maybe tonight, he thought with another glance at the clock. No one with a clear conscience was up at this hour. His mother definitely fit the bill.

He crossed to his phone and saw his father’s name on it. Surprised, Decker read the text.

Give me a call when you’re up!

Calm, quiet Michael Turner was the foundation of the family. He was reserved, and normally, it was Decker’s mother who checked up on him. Decker dressed and pulled at his magick. He wasn’t going back to sleep this night.

It took him where he willed it, to the cabin in Priest Lake where his parents were for the next week. The cabin was quiet and dark. He paced through the ground floor, hoping his father was down here and not upstairs with his mother. Light in the kitchen drew him to the large area, where his father and grandfather sat at the breakfast table. Opposite him, the bank of windows reflected the light of the kitchen. During the day, they’d display the stunning view of the lake the nearby town of Priest Lake was named for.

“Hello, son,” his father said without turning. “Have a seat.”

Decker hesitated, sensing something was off. They were playing cards and drinking coffee at three in the morning. His grandfather wore a robe and smoked a cigar inside the house, which was usually a no-no. His father was clothed in sweatpants and socks, the bronze skin of his upper body snug around his lean frame. Michael Turner ran marathons. Decker knew now it had to be because of how crazy his mother drove him.

Summer was supposed to sit at the third seat at the table. Fresh pain filled him as he realized he stood in the presence of two generations of Dark Mistresses’ mates. His mother inherited her position from her mother, who married Grandpa Louis over fifty years ago.

Decker sat, at once aware of the soothing warmth that flowed off the two Dark mates. It quieted the voices in his head without silencing them.

“Got a call from the insurance company today,” Michael Turner said, glancing up. His eyes were understanding.

Heat crept up Decker’s face. He cleared his throat. No matter how bad he already felt, his father’s compassion made him feel worse.

“Glad you weren’t hurt. I’ll send you another bike, if you promise not to run into any more mountains.”

It was one thing for Decker to tell his brother about the suicide attempt when Beck showed up at the hospital. It was different telling his mother, who understood too well what it was to grieve as deeply as he did. She’d lost her twin long ago. Based on all accounts, she’d gone crazy afterwards, like he was, except that she had her mate, Michael Turner, the man she’d eventually marry.

Decker revered the unflappable man who somehow managed to cage his mother’s Darkness. After becoming the Master of Dark, he was in greater awe, knowing what he did about how strong that Dark could be. His father wasn’t the best person he knew; he was also the strongest. In the darkest hours of his despair, Decker often wondered if Summer was as able as his father, especially since she failed her trial and fell into Dark magick.

He hated himself for doubting her. He deserved whatever the Darkness did to him.

“How about a three-quarter ton truck?” his father asked at his silence. “Harder to wreck.” A smile was on his face.

“It’s okay, dad. I don’t need a vehicle,” Decker said at last. “Thanks.”

“I know you’re struggling, Decker,” he said. “As my son, you’re half Light, too. The Dark won’t consume you, as long as you remember that.”

Decker managed to nod. He didn’t dare tell his father he wanted the Darkness to consume him. He’d driven his motorcycle into a cliff at ninety miles an hour, trying to end the pain. When he awoke, the bike was in pieces, and he was in the hospital with Beck standing at his bed. Three days later, Decker was fully healed.

One of you must sire successors. Until then, you will be immortal to all but death by magick, Bartholomew had told him wisely. I tried many times to end my life. Eventually, I realized giving into the Darkness was all that would stop the pain.