Beautiful Darkness(111)

An old palmetto frond snapped loudly under one of Ridley's shoes. Then something else, and I felt myself slipping away —

Macon could feel it immediately when his shoulder snapped — the intense pain of his bones cracking. His skin tightened, as if it could no longer hold whatever was lurking inside him. The breath was sucked from his lungs, like he was being crushed. His vision began to blur, and he had the sensation he was falling, even though he could feel the rocks tearing at his flesh as his body seized on the ground.



The Transformation.



From this moment forth, he would not be able to walk among Mortals in the daylight. The sun would singe the flesh from his body. He wouldn't be able to ignore the urge to feed on the blood of Mortals. He was one of them now — another Blood Incubus in the long line of killers on the Ravenwood Family Tree. A predator walking among his prey, waiting to feed.





I was back again, as suddenly as I had gone.

I stumbled toward Liv, my head reeling. “We've got to get going. Things are getting out of control.”

“What things?”

“The Arclight — the things in my head,” I said, unable to explain it any better than that.

She nodded. “I thought it might get bad for you. I wasn't sure if a Wayward would react more strongly to an intensely powerful place, being as sensitive to the pull of certain Casters as you are. I mean, if you really are …” If I really was a Wayward. She didn't have to say it.

“So you're saying you finally believe the Great Barrier is real?”

“No. Unless …” She pointed out past the farthest dock on the horizon, where the skinniest, most splintered dock extended past the others, so far that we couldn't see where it ended, except that it disappeared into fog. “That could be the bridge we're looking for.”

“Not much of a bridge.” Link looked skeptical.

“Only one way to find out.” I walked ahead of them.

As we picked our way across rotting boards and oyster shells, I found myself slipping over and over. I was there, and I wasn't. In and out. One minute, I could hear Ridley's and Link's voices echoing as they bickered. The next, the fog blurred around the edges, and I was pulled back into visions of Macon's past. I knew there was something I was supposed to gain from the visions, but they were coming so quickly now it was impossible to figure out.

I thought about Amma. She would have said, “Everythin’ means somethin’.” I tried to imagine what she would have said next.

P. O. R. T. E. N. D. Seven down. As in, you be sure to pay attention to the what now, Ethan Wate, because that's gonna point the way to the what's next.

She was right, as usual — everything did mean something, didn't it? All the changes in Lena would have added up to the truth, if I had been able to see it. Even now, I tried to piece together my glimpses of the visions, to find the story they were trying to tell.

I didn't have time, though, because as we reached the bridge, I felt another surge, the walkway started to sway, and Ridley's and Link's voices faded —

The room was dark, but Macon didn't need light to see. The shelves were lined with books, as he had imagined they would be. Volumes on every aspect of American history, particularly the wars that had shaped this country — the Revolutionary War and the Civil War. Macon ran his fingers over the leather spines. These books were of no use to him now.



This was a different kind of war. A war among the Casters, waged within his own family.



He could hear footsteps above, the sound of the crescent key fitting into the lock. The door creaked, a slice of light escaping as the hatch in the ceiling opened. He wanted to reach out, offer his hand to help her down, but he didn't dare.



It had been years since he had seen or touched her.



They had only met in letters and between the covers of the books she left for him in the Tunnels. But he hadn't seen her or heard her voice in all that time. Marian had made sure of that. She stepped through the door cut into the ceiling, the light spilling into the room. Macon's breath caught in his throat. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her shiny brown hair was held away from her face by a pair of red reading glasses. She smiled.



“Jane.” He hadn't said her name aloud in such a long time. It was like a song.



“No one's called me that since …” She looked down. “I use Lila now.”



“Of course, I knew that.”



Lila was visibly nervous, her voice shaky. “I'm sorry I had to come, but this was the only way.” She avoided his eyes. It was too painful to look at him. “What I have to tell you — it's not something I could leave for you in the study, and I couldn't risk sending a message through the Tunnels.”



Macon had a small study in the Tunnels, a reprieve from the self-induced exile of his solitary life in Gatlin. Sometimes Lila pressed messages between the pages of the books she left for him. The messages were never personal. They always related to her research in the Lunae Libri — possible answers to the questions they were both asking.



“It's good to see you.” Macon took a step forward, and Lila stiffened. He looked hurt. “It's safe. I can control the urges now.”