Borne Rising Read online

“You want me to just pull at the darkness?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Pull the darkness into you and the vacuum should be what?”

  Madigan muttered under his breath, feeling like an idiot at her patronizing tone. “Light.”

  “Now pull the damn darkness. This is getting boring.”

  Just imagine how it is for me then. He grumbled and closed his eyes once more. If there wasn’t darkness, there had to be light, is that what it was? He’d never really given much thought to it. He supposed it made sense; there wasn’t an in-between, there was no quantum state of light and dark where things existed in-between, not that he knew of.

  He didn’t know if he believed in whatever it was Ileta was having him do, but she was the expert. She was the one who had come to him, seeking him out for training. Though she’d still never explained how she found me. How the hell do people keep finding Will and me? For all their intention of a secret mission, it certainly hadn’t panned out that way. First Cephora, although he supposed the Crow had sent for her. Then the repeated encounters with Morella. Then Valmont’s sudden and seemingly random appearance. Then Ileta, appearing from nowhere on the road. Some secret.

  Come to think of it, Ileta’s appearance was almost as sudden as Valmont’s.

  Was that just some special part of being Shadowborne he’d never heard of before? Not for the first time, he wondered if Valmont and Ileta were connected. After all, she refused to tell him anything about her past, refused to tell him who she worked for. Everything seemed a little too neat and tidy, though, a little too obvious. From the stories he’d heard, that wasn’t Valmont’s way. Valmont was subtle, whereas Ileta was anything but.

  “Dammit, are you even trying, Madigan? What the hell is taking so long?”

  He sighed. Alright, pull the darkness. Right. He thought back to his shadow analogy, but stepping to the side was out of the question; there was no light to move away from. He thought about it not having anything to do with his Shade and concentrated on that. I always use my Shade to push out, so to pull I would need to . . . to what? Find somewhere to move the darkness to, that was the logical step. But how to move it? And where to move it to?

  I always think of releasing my Shade outward. What if I tried pulling it farther in?

  He pushed outward with his Shade, exploring the feeling in his body and—

  “Put your goddam Shade away, Madigan.”

  “Just give me one damn minute, I’m working through some shit, alright?”

  He loved their little conversations.

  He felt the sensation of his Shade around him and then, rather than releasing it, he drew it back. It began to pool into itself. He pulled harder, imagining the Shade condensing at his center, the size of a pinprick. He thought of black holes, of something so dense that light couldn’t possibly escape, and pulled the Shade deeper into itself, growing smaller and smaller.

  The edges of his vision began to flutter. He sensed rather than saw Ileta nodding. He pulled harder and could swear that he could almost make out the outline of her pixie-cut hair against the cellar wall. The room was definitely brightening. Emboldened, Madigan pulled with every bit of strength he had, pouring his frustration in as an added bonus. For a brief second he was able to make out Ileta’s features. Then it all came crashing down.

  His head erupted into immense, splitting pain as his Shade contracted even further. He doubled over and collapsed, gasping. He felt like he was being kicked in the gut over and over and over. He clutched his head. He curled into the fetal position, coughing violently.

  Don’t overextend. Cephora’s words echoed distantly in his head. This was so much worse than that, infinitely worse.

  “Shit,” Ileta said. She was there in a second, hoisting him onto his hands and knees. He leaned his head against the cold floor, which did not help his raging headache at all. The light behind his eyelids was still too bright. He wanted to bore his eyes out.

  Ileta moved in front of him then gripped him by the hair and pulled his head up and back. If he’d been able to see, he would have been staring straight at her. “Sorry for this,” she said. With a head-rattling crack, she brought her open palm flat against his face with enough force to drive him back to the ground. At the sound and strength of the impact, he thought his head would burst open, blood and brains spilling across the darkness.

  He caught himself before he fully connected to the ground. The overall pain had actually lessened. His cheek stung and he had no doubt that he bore a bright red handprint across his jaw, but that paled in comparison to the previous pain.

  “Ow.”

  “You’re bullheaded and overzealous. I said pull.”

  “I was pulling.” He rubbed his jaw and winced.

  “You were pushing.”

  “How the hell was I—”

  She flicked his forehead. “You pushed your Shade into itself, correct?” He didn’t answer. “That’s what I thought. Then, when you finally did start to pull at the darkness, you pushed it deeper into your Shade. That won’t work.”

  “No shit,” he fumed. “So, what the hell am I supposed to do, then?”

  “Exactly what you did in that middle step when you did it correctly. Pull the darkness. You’re Shadowborne. You control the darkness, not just some small bit of Shade. Leave your Shade the hell out of it.”

  He bit back a comment and grit his teeth. Fine. I control the darkness. Mad closed his eyes and focused, ignoring the pain in his head. So, I just need to ignore my Shade. Peachy. There had been that sensation of the world fluttering around him when he’d pulled. He turned his attention there, focused on that feeling. The flutter was the key, he knew it. But it was like peeling back a film you just couldn’t get ahold of. Every time he grabbed at the darkness, he grabbed at nothing.

  No, that was wrong. He had felt it. He could feel the darkness on his face the same way that a claustrophobe could feel the walls closing in on him. There was something tangible there. Without moving his hands, he brushed at it with his consciousness—he could have sworn he felt something. He brushed again and, yes, there was definitely something there. It was thin and wispy, spider’s silk blowing in the wind. But it was there. He grasped the thread and pulled.

  Countless more threads appeared. Something was unraveling around him. He grabbed each and every one and drew it back, peeling it toward him. More and more came and every time, he held the darkness, pushing it somewhere deep inside him. He opened his eyes.

  The room had brightened.

  With a calm fury, Madigan pulled at the seemingly infinite web of darkness. The more strands he controlled, the more the light appeared. It was not the same light as the incandescent bulb, though. It reminded him more of the deep glowing light that permeated the Ways. It was not simply light that shone, it was the utter absence of darkness.

  “You’d think I was asking you to move a damn mountain or something. Next time, try to speed it up a bit.”

  He held the threads and looked at Ileta. She was smiling, despite her words.

  “You’re such a patient instructor.”

  “I do what I can.” She shrugged lightly. “Now, move around. Walk. Get used to the sensation.”

  Madigan did as instructed, but not without difficulty. He was strangely off balance and his mind, though clear, felt like he was in a dream state when he tried to move.

  “Find your balance. Think of it like any form of exercise, small, controlled movements and then work your way up from there.”

  “Taking three steps isn’t exactly what I would call a difficult movement.”

  “It was when you were an infant. Slow down. Move carefully. Don’t screw up again.”

  Such gentle words of encouragement.

  Madigan moved slowly, adjusting to the extra weight (for he could think of no better word) of the darkness in his mind. His head began to ache again. He was fatigued. That wasn’t normal; he shouldn’t be so tired from so little.

  “Now, release just a little bit, b
ut do so with control. Keep the light around us but let the entrance return to darkness.”

  Madigan turned his attention to the invisible threads coming from the trapdoor. Easing his grip on them, he saw the fluttering again. His head ached. No, it was more than that. Madigan’s head felt filled to bursting, and every time he blinked, he wanted to vomit. People get used to this?

  Gradually, the darkness returned to the entrance, but Ileta remained illuminated. Her arms were folded but she was smiling freely now. His nose began to run. He sniffed it back and tasted iron in the back of his throat.

  “Alright, let go,” Ileta said, moving toward the door. “I’m not in the mood to clean you up if you pass out and bleed all over yourself.”

  Madigan let go, releasing the strands from where he had balled them up tightly in front of him. They snapped back into place like a released bow string. Ileta pulled down the tarp and opened the cellar door, allowing the afternoon light to fill the space.

  Madigan pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped off the blood that trickled down. His eyes fell to his shadow. Blocked at the last second before reaching the Earth.

  “You need water.” Ileta’s form was silhouetted in the doorframe above. “At least, I do.”

  “Water sounds great.” Madigan took a few tentative steps and swayed. I’ve been standing still way too long.

  Outside the cellar, Ileta stuck her face beneath the ground spigot and drank deep. Madigan followed suit, washing the blood from his beard. The cool water snapped his senses back into place. He let it run down his face before drinking. It was cold and fresh, that homey, earthy flavor he and Will had enjoyed so much as kids after a long day’s training. His headache started to fade.

  “You did well,” Ileta said while Madigan splashed water through his hair. “Once you finally stopped fumbling around like an idiot long enough to focus.”

  “Yeah, well, not all of us are inherently brilliant like you.”

  Ileta playfully smacked him on the back of the head, momentarily plunging his face back into the water. He snorted and sputtered, unprepared for the sudden splash and inhaling in his surprise. She snickered and they both laughed.

  “Questions?” She eyed him up and down. “Or do you think that next time you’ll be able to do it without another lesson?”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  “Good. Next time, we’ll move the other direction.”

  Madigan raised an eyebrow. “Other direction?”

  “You pulled the darkness into you and brought light. The reverse is the same.”

  Mad grinned openly. “So, I can move the light and make it dark?”

  Ileta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Yes. That would be the reverse of making it light. Just remember, baby steps. There’s a reason we went into the cellar. It’s small. There isn’t a lot of space to work with. Makes it easier.”

  “Couldn’t we have started with a closet or something?” Madigan stretched his neck, which popped.

  “Could have, yes.” She shrugged. “But we didn’t. As you improve, the smaller spaces will come easier. Larger rooms are more difficult. Anything bigger is damn near impossible.”

  Madigan’s mind darted back to his first meeting with the Crow in the large antechamber of the Nordoth. Before, with the seneschal, the space had seemed dark and cramped, but when the Crow appeared it had been revealed to be one cavernous audience chamber. The thought of trying to pull so much darkness, to control a space so enormous, seemed absurdly difficult. Was it the Crow? Did he move so much?

  He had never questioned whether the Crow was Shadowborne or not. He thought it unlikely and dismissed the thought almost immediately, but surely he must employ someone Shadowborne. Except Cephora said no one had seen shadow magic performed in years. If not that, then what?

  “It’s more than just controlling the level of visibility in a room, you know.” Ileta’s words interrupted his train of thought and he glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. She nodded. “You felt it. That energy? That power? You can harness it. Manipulate it the same way you do your Shade.” She tottered her head from side to side. “Well, not quite the same. But you can use it. You’ll see.”

  However the hell I’m supposed to manage that. “I’ll have to try that next time.”

  “Baby steps.”

  “Right, baby steps.” She’s not just throwing me to the wolves then. Good. “So, listen, I’m really appreciative of everything, Ileta, but I’ve gotta ask—”

  She gave a deep sigh and shook her head. “You never learn, do you?”

  He smirked. “I need to know. Who is it that—”

  She held up her hand to cover his face. “Quiet.”

  “No, really. I want to—”

  “I said quiet!”

  Madigan stared at her, eyes wide. She had never been so vehement when he asked her questions. “Ileta—”

  This time she lunged at him and drew him close, clapping her hand over his mouth. The move caught him completely unawares and he stood still in shock. She wasn’t looking at him, but at something off in the distance.

  “Someone is coming.”

  “You can hear that?” he whispered, pulling her hand away from his face. “Who the hell would be coming out here?”

  Her face turned down in a frown. “No one good. Get to the trees. Now.”

  Mad knew better than to argue. The two of them made straight for the trees atop the levee. A car rumbled in the distance, growing closer and kicking up dust as it made its way down the long drive that led to the lot that used to be his home. No one official should be coming by. Grandda had this place all paid off. The accounts were still good for years to come; it was the first thing he checked when he and Ileta arrived.

  The car came into view and he recognized the yellow and black of a taxicab. Who the hell would be coming out here? It paused next to the double trailer, idling for a moment before slowly creeping forward. It stopped at the end of the drive, a short distance from the old fire pit. After a moment, the rear doors opened.

  A man he did not recognize exited the cab. Mad couldn’t see his face. His hair was buzzed close and he wore blue jeans and a black jacket with a hood. He handed the driver a wad of bills and Mad heard Ileta curse.

  “More than one. This could be a problem.”

  Madigan barely listened. The second person had emerged from the taxi, a woman. She was dressed in the same style of clothes as the man. Her hair was dark and cut to frame her face. Even from this distance he could see how pale her skin was. As the cab reversed out and she reached for the man’s hand, Madigan saw what he already knew would be on her wrists: tattoos. Morella Darklore.

  Madigan’s mouth went dry as a small fire of hope flared to life in his chest. The man turned and looked straight toward the trees and Madigan could finally see his face. Thin, gaunt, and rough, but a face he knew.

  His brother had come home.

  22

  The Brothers of Darkness

  “That was amazing.” Morella’s grin stretched wide as she watched the car speed away. “Oh, that gives me so many ideas!”

  Noctis nodded and gave her a halfhearted smile as he took her outstretched hand. “They’re helpful, yeah. At least you’re not screaming this time.”

  Morella pouted playfully. “I was crossing into a new realm! I was excited.”

  “Yeah well, thanks for toning it down a bit.” He surveyed his old home, a sudden wave of suppressed memories flooding him. Someone had cleared the wreckage, but the evidence was still apparent. The stone foundation of the former house had a deep fissure that ran the length of it. The ground from the uprooted cedar tree had been cleared, but the base of the trunk remained. It was old and weathered, just a fallen log, now. If Madigan had been there, he had been busy.

  “There’s so much green.” Morella shook her head. “There are parts of Aeril that have green like this, but nowhere near as much. You grew up here?”

  Noctis nodded. “It’s home.”

  His ear
s caught a faint sound and he whirled around. A tall, bearded man with long hair was sprinting from the levee as though chased by a swarm of bees. He ran with the fearless abandon of a child. He ran with an air of desperation. He ran straight for Noctis.

  “Noctis . . .”

  Noctis tensed. “I see him.”

  “Will!” the man cried out, growing closer in his frantic run. “Will!”

  Noctis stared, not daring himself to believe it. Then, the next thing he knew, he was running with the same wild joy. They collided with a force that sent them spinning. Noctis threw his arms around his brother and held him fiercely. Madigan gave a half-choked sob, arms gripping his brother tight.

  “Holy shit, Will. It’s you? Holy shit, it’s really you.”

  “I’m here, Mad.” Noctis felt the warm streams of tears running down his cheeks. “I’m here.”

  “I thought you were dead.” Madigan pulled him even closer. “I couldn’t . . . I didn’t want to believe it. Jesus, Will, I’m so sorry I left you.”

  “I’m alright, Mad, I’m alright.”

  “How the hell did you—no, no that can wait. Dammit, kid, I was so scared.”

  “I know.” Noctis couldn’t help himself. “You always were a big baby.”

  “You goddam bastard.” Madigan laughed and pulled back to get a proper look at his brother. “Look at you, man. You’ve changed.”

  “You’re one to talk.” Noctis waved his hand around his hair and face then gestured to his brother and shrugged.

  Madigan laughed and embraced his brother again. Noctis noticed that a second figure had appeared from the trees, watching them with arms crossed. She was lean and muscular and had angular features. Her hair was short, shorter even than Morella’s, and cut into wayward, pixie-like spikes. She didn’t approach.

  So that’s the Shadowborne. The supposed daughter of Dorian Valmont.

  “How did you get here?” Madigan asked, rubbing Noctis’s buzzed hair.

  “A cab.” Noctis jerked his head back toward the drive and smiled. “Didn’t you see?”

  “You bastard.” Madigan pulled him into another hug. “You know what I meant. How the hell did you pay for that cab, anyway?”