Wilde's Fire (Darkness Falls #1) (11 page)

“Ah, then you spoke the truth.” He smiles wryly and comes closer to me.

My cheeks warm, and I pretend to look at something on the floor.

“I am sorry we left you alone for so long this morning,” Arland says.

I’m beginning to worry he’ll hear my heart pounding, he’s standing so close. “It’s okay.”

I hope Arland’s apology means I won’t be left alone that long again: I need to be busy or else I’m going to go insane.

“I had my entire crew scouring the perimeter for daemons. We cannot risk any being around, if we plan to take you to our training facility. Are you still willing?”

“Yes!” Flanna answers for me.

Arland scowls at her.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Yes, as long as Flanna can join us,” I say, winking at her.

Flanna’s face radiates excitement. Yes, she and I
are
going to be good friends. She makes me miss Brit, but I’m glad someone like my sister is here to keep me company.

“Since it appears Flanna has finished her duties already, I do not see that as a problem.”

“I finished a few minutes ago, Arland. Can we go now?” Flanna asks, giving me a conspiratorial look.

“Follow me.”

Arland leads us through a narrow corridor at the far side of the kitchen. There’s a door on either side of the corridor, just before we reach a set of steps. Curiosity begs me to ask what’s on the other side of these doors, but I’ll have to save my questions for later, because we’re moving up the steps too fast.

Split logs sunk into the dirt make up each tread. They don’t creak as we walk up, like the steps do in our farmhouse back home. We stop.

Arland reaches into the dark space above him, unlatching a lock, and then swings a heavy metal bar from its braces. He pushes up the ceiling, then walks out slowly, looking from side to side. He motions for Flanna and me to wait below.

No light pours in from outside. There is no warmth, no songs of birds, no smells of summer; the outdoors are as dark, cold, and quiet as the indoors.

“How long has Darkness kept the sunshine from you?” I whisper.

“As soon as Darkness entered our world, it began stealing our light. But for the last seven months, it has been completely black. Is it not disturbing?” Flanna asks.

“Depressing, disturbing … . I can think of a lot of ways to describe it.”

Creepy, cold, eerie … .

“The nights grew longer as more people died.”

“Does that mean there aren’t many people left to die?”

She shrugs. “In all our bases around the world, we have a few thousand left—”

“Out of how many?”

“Millions.”

I suck in a sharp breath.

“But you are here now,” she says.

Flanna points up to Arland; he waves, indicating we should meet him outside the stairwell. I climb the remaining distance while Flanna pushes me to move faster, but I feel like there are lead weights in my boots.

When I reach the top step, Arland takes my hand. He leads me through the forest, his touch gentle—as if he holds the hand of a small child—but it reminds me of a dream I once had of him.

We walked together through a meadow full of wildflowers. Two young children followed behind us, picking flowers, and laughing. The little girl ran to me—her curly, brown locks bounced in her excitement—and put a ring of white and purple flowers she’d fashioned on my head. I twirled around for her, displaying how beautiful her creation made me feel. She smiled and hugged my leg. The four of us were happy together, playing in the meadow. The sun beamed down on us as we set out a picnic blanket and ate our lunch. I curled into Arland’s arms, watching the small boy and girl chase each other through the tall grasses. Arland ran his fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. Warm from the happiness of my life, I slept the afternoon away. When I awoke, the sun was gone; no stars or moon were in the sky. Arland and the children lay next to me—their skin cold, their breathing stopped. Panic consumed me, not knowing what killed them, or why whatever killed them left me alive.

I shudder.

“Are you cold?” Arland asks.

“Yes.” The temperature isn’t the reason I shuddered, but I’m definitely freezing.

When I left Virginia, summer was beginning to make its presence known, but the chilly air here feels like the middle of winter. It could be any month; without the sunlight and not being able to see the leaves on the trees, it’s impossible for me to tell.

“I apologize, we did not think of how cold you would be. Our people are accustomed to life without the warmth of the sun. Flanna will ensure you have something more appropriate to put on tomorrow,” Arland says, giving Flanna a pointed look.

“Warmer. Got it,” she says.

We walk in complete silence the remaining twenty feet or so between the trees.

Lann appears in front of us. Kneeling, he opens a door in the ground similar to the one we came out of at the base.

Arland steps down first, showing me where I need to walk, then he turns, takes me by the hand again, and leads me in.

Once I’m in the stairwell, he releases me, leaving me cold. I feel my way along the wall until we reach the bottom of the steps. The screeching sounds of the locks and bar swinging closed come from behind me.

The room opens up into an expansive training space. This is, by far, the most well lit area in any part of the base I’ve seen. Candles burn in metal chandeliers overhead, in sconces lining almost the entire length of the middle of every wall, they sit in glass jars on tables, along the floor—pretty much everywhere possible, a candle is burning, providing beautiful, warm light.

At the far left of the room are three long aisles, ending in targets painted on the wall. Each aisle has a person armed with a bow and arrow, accurately releasing shafts into the center of their targets.

There are so many soldiers here—young and old—and they all stop training and focus their attention on me. I know they don’t realize
who
I am, but there’s no doubt they identify me as a stranger. Fighting off an overwhelming desire to run and hide somewhere, I rake my fingers through my hair and eye my clothes to make sure everything is in the right place.

Flanna takes off to the other end of the room, while Arland introduces me as a new recruit from an area called “The Meadows.” I almost fall over. Is it possible The Meadows is a place like the meadow in my dream of him? Could life be that beautiful there, where endless fields of tall, green grasses and wild flowers in purples, yellows, and whites all grow together? The last part of my dream—the unhappy part where I woke up and found everyone dead—tells me that, no, life couldn’t be that beautiful here … at least, it hasn’t been for a long time.

Some soldiers introduce themselves. There are so many, sorting out any of their names becomes difficult. Once the last of the soldiers who come up for introductions shakes my hand and welcomes me, Arland instructs everyone to return to their assignments.

In the middle of the room, men are teaching young children how to wield swords. They stop as we pass. A couple children, who didn’t come up for introductions, wave at me. They wear huge smiles on their faces. I cannot imagine these young boys and girls going into a war against the types of monsters that attacked Brad and me. How would they even be able to fight against something so strong? When I was a child, if I ever thought something was scary, I would run and hide under the covers, or behind the couch, or wherever I felt safe, but these kids train to run headfirst into a battle. They have to be brave.

We stop at the far end of the room, where Flanna had run. Multiple types of weapons lay arranged on a series of tables. Knives, bows, axes, spears; things I’ve never dreamed of having a reason to use. Of course, I did dream about fighting with swords, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in real life until now.

“Have you had any formal training with weapons?” Arland asks.

“I’ve never used anything like these, but my stepdad and I shot clay pigeons with one of his rifles on our farm once,” I say, running my fingers across the different weapons.

“You will not find any guns here,” Arland whispers. “Fire seems to be the only weapon that takes life from the daemons. Our swords still have some old magic in them, aiding greatly in taking daemons down, but in the end, it is fire we use to deliver the final blow. We light the arrows before releasing them. So what would you like to begin with: swords or bows?”

Old magic in the swords
? Maybe I did hear the knife humming yesterday? I wonder if I should ask Arland about it, but it doesn’t seem all that important. If there’s magic in them, then that’s probably what I heard.

“Umm, swords.” Does it matter? No chance I’ll know what I’m doing with either one.

“Choose one of the claymores from the table. Flanna will fit you with a shield. When you are ready, meet me in the middle of the room and I will give you your first lesson,” Arland says, walking toward the men and children in the center of the room.

Great, I get to embarrass myself in front of everyone.

My palms are sweating so profusely I’m positive anything I pick up will slide out of my hands. I try to calm myself, wiping my palms on my pants. The first sword is long, and too heavy to use in a fight. I put it down, then pick up another. This sword also weighs too much for me. While half as long as I am tall, the third sword seems manageable. The claymore’s blade is polished silver, the hilt an antiqued brass.

I hold onto the sword and look to Flanna.

She raises her eyebrow.

I shrug.

Flanna gives me an angelic smile.

I am in for it
. Could Arland not have found a better way to train me? Why does it have to be in front of a bunch of people I’ve just met?

“Calm down, Kate. Arland is an excellent instructor; he will have you ready to fight daemons in no time,” Flanna says, loud enough for only my ears to hear.

I’m doing this for Brad. I exhale and draw in a deep, composing breath. “Right, calm.”

“This is your shield. Put your arm through here, hold firm to the handhold, here.” She positions the shield on my arm, then scoots me forward, toward Arland … toward utter humiliation.

I make my way to the center of the room with trepidation. The children were all training here moments ago. They’ve spread out toward the edges, giving Arland and me more room to work. Everyone watches me fumbling my sword and shield in my hands.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“As ready as I’ll ever be … I guess.”

The way Arland looks at me, as if I’m some sort of zoo animal he’s never seen before, drives me crazy. He expects me to save the world. Like, magically, I will somehow know what I’m doing, but I don’t have a clue. I’ve never held a sword before. This thing is half my size, and heavy. I can’t fight—and I certainly can’t kill anything. Only one thing will happen here today: everyone will find out what an ass I can make out of myself. At least, when we finish, Arland won’t expect much of me anymore.

“First, you need to focus on protecting yourself. Hold your shield in front of your torso to block an attack aimed at your heart.” Arland holds the shield in front of him. “During most fights, your opponents will battle without a sword, but unfortunately, there are a few you will encounter who are masterfully skilled with them.”

“So some of the daemons are human-like?” I ask, glad to be able to stall for a minute.

Arland’s eyes scan through the room before he continues with his instructions. “Well, only as human as the rest of us are. Darkness has tainted some of our own, taken control of their minds, and turned them against their brothers and sisters.”

Did I interpret Arland correctly? Is he implying we’re not human? I’m pretty sure I have hands and feet and a brain, two eyes, a heart, a skeleton … all the DNA of a regular human. I’ve had my blood drawn at the doctor’s office, donated it to needy patients in the hospitals. No one has ever come back and said anything about my blood having something wrong with it. Judging by Arland’s nervous expression when I asked that, now is not the time to ask him about it, but I know this will drive me crazy until I find out what he means.

”I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say about our own people being turned against us; my mind is still trying to figure out the news about my genetic make-up.

“I pray once Darkness is defeated, the hold it has over our own will be released,” Arland says, staring beyond me.

I wait for my next instruction … without talking.

Shaking his head, Arland snaps out of his trance and steps behind me. He presses his firm chest against my back, takes my right wrist in his hand, then goes through the motions of fighting with a sword.

Paying attention becomes difficult as I battle a sensation of déjà vu; I’m trying to focus on his instructions. Arland demonstrates a move, and I mirror it. The longer I hold the sword, the stronger the déjà vu becomes, but I force it from my thoughts. Parts of my body that have never been used before ache, as I lunge and jab the claymore through the air at my imaginary opponent.

“You are doing great. Now do a vertical slash.”

I drag the sword through the air from high above my head, and it stops near the floor.

“Perfect. Are you sure you have never used a sword before?” Arland asks.

“I’m sure,” I say, proud of myself. The claymore feels good in my hands now. It doesn’t feel heavy or awkward to hold, like it did before. I haven’t embarrassed myself, yet.

Arland shows me another technique, kneeling and stabbing at the same time, and it becomes clear where the déjà vu has been coming from—my first dream of him.

He didn’t die that night. He taught me how to fight with a sword, how to protect myself with a shield, and showed me how much he was in love with me. He was a high-ranking military official whose purpose was to train and protect me … no more than that.

I’d been sad when I learned of this; my desire was to be more to Arland than someone he was ordered to be around. We had spent months working together, spent countless hours talking to each other about nothing and everything.

After a long day of training, he shared his feelings with me. They equaled mine. Arland wanted us to escape the confines of the military base where we lived and go out on our own, if I would have him. But I was scared, and procrastinated about leaving.