Brush of Darkness by Allison Pang Read Free Book Online Page A

studying me from beneath his sweep of dark lashes. “You seemed . . . sad.”
    My shoulders tightened beneath the added scrutiny. “Yes, I suppose I was.” The sign hanging from the shutter of the Pit creaked lightly in the breeze, the faded paint gleaming under the dim streetlight. “You almost lost it in there, didn’t you?”
    “You’re changing the subject.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted away from me.
    “Yes. Is that a common thing for incubi? I’ve never seen that happen before.”
    He exhaled sharply and then sighed, leaning up against the glass window of the storefront. “No. It shouldn’t havehappened. I suppose I owe you for stopping it.” His head tipped backward, his eyes shutting. One eye cracked back open at me, a soft halo of gold flaring from beneath the lid. “So do you normally dance at work?”
    “Now who’s changing the subject?” I folded my arms over my chest in the universal gesture of
I’m horrified. Please fuck off
. “And I hardly think waggling my hips up the aisle counts as much of a show.” My face blazed hot in the darkness. “How much did you see?”
    “Enough.” He chuckled bemusedly. “Why Tom Jones?”
    I blinked. “Why . . . what?”
    “Tom Jones. You were listening to him when I came into the store.” His eyes lit up with amusement and I bristled.
    “Yeah, I was. What’s your point? It’s a free country.”
    “Word on the street is that your little enchanted iPod there can play just about every song in existence. Why in the hell would you choose to listen to Tom Jones?”
    “It reminds me of my mother,” I said softly. “He was her favorite. She . . . died . . . rather recently.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” His voice gentled. For a moment, I hated him for it. Hated the way that awful aching guilt pushed its way to the forefront, hated the way it echoed in the familiar words of pity, the murmurs of condolences, the sound of screeching metal and slurred, drunken apologies.
    Helpless, I let the memory wash over me, a bittersweet wave tinged by the copper taste of blood and the blinding gleam of headlights. It was wrapped in the perfect stillness of the asphalt and pine trees through the cracked windshield, overcome by the repetitious seat-belt chime and the cloying scent of fluid leaking from the engine and the remainder of my mother’s brainpan in my lap.
    “I don’t want your sympathy, Brystion.” I backed away from him, my eyes beginning to burn. I blinked rapidlyagainst the threatening tears. “I don’t want anything from you at all.”
    He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I fumbled at the lock, turned the key, and didn’t look back as I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me.

D amn the incubus, anyway.
    I was in a foul mood. The evening had been about as successful as diving into an empty swimming pool. Based on the wretched slide of emotions tearing at my heart, I think I would have chosen the pool.
    I pushed the thoughts away and turned my attention to the controlled chaos of the Midnight Marketplace. I had enough trouble as it was without putting my mother’s death under the Freudian microscope.
    “Chaos” may actually be too kind a word. If the bookstore was shabby and used, the Marketplace was anything but. Glittering and warm, it had an aura of hominess that shone about the place. Rich woods, soft carpets, and magnificent tapestries—all of it lush and comfortably mystical. Small balls of witchlight floated up by the ceiling, adding a sparkling glow to everything the pastel hues touched.
    OtherFolk could visit the Marketplace at will, beyond the limits of the CrossRoads and without the use of TouchStones. I wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, only that the store resided in its own little dimension. It was separate from our world, but anchored here by me. Or more realistically,by Moira, using me as her TouchStone. The Doorway itself was really the key to the whole thing. By whatever