Darkness Brutal (The Dark Cycle Book 1) by Rachel A. Marks Page A

air around me now, like she’s spread herself out, a cloud of energy and static, prickling against my skin. “I could remind you.”
    And then I smell it: green apple Jolly Ranchers.
    The club. The girl. The kiss.
    I jerk back so hard I nearly fall down the stairs.
    She raises her brow. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
    The urge to run away vibrates through me . . . along with the urge to press her into the wall, kiss her, touch her, dive into her . . . or dive down the stairs headfirst to escape.
    “What the hell are you?” she asks.
    The exact same question is on my tongue.
    Then she lets out a forced laugh and holds her hands up. “I should be insulted, but I’m more impressed than anything.” She waves for me to follow and heads down the hall. “I mean, the other boys, I have to pretty much threaten to cut their balls off if they touch me. I can see you won’t be a problem.” She laughs again.
    She’s terrifying. I cannot live here with this girl. What is she? I’m suddenly sure she’s not a regular human.
    “All in time, sweetie. All in time,” she says, like she can read my mind.
    “I’m just here for Sid,” I say again.
    I should go. Forget this. I’ll get help another way.
    She leans on the doorjamb of my room . “You don’t need to bolt. Really. I promise to never kiss you again.” She waves her hand and adds, “Or whatever.”
    And the air settles, like she flipped off a switch.
    I shift my feet, unsure of the right move.
    Her face grows serious. “I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I really didn’t mean to. It was just, well, you feel it, too; I know you do. And come on. Even you have to admit that kiss last night was pretty damn well off the charts.”
    Something surfaces in my head, a knowledge about her: she doesn’t smile much. She doesn’t feel comfortable being happy.
    She smiled last night, though. I remember it now. That grin that made her blue eyes lighten. And she had a thin blue energy and a glowing tattoo on the back of her neck. But I don’t see that now.
    I let myself look at her, really look at her. Her hair’s dyed black, with a violet tint in the light. It’s in low, messy pigtails, resting in layers on her chest. She’s got earbuds hanging around her neck, and there’s an ever-so-faint beat coming out of them. She looks casual, bored at first glance, but there’s a tension under the surface; her jaw is clenched just a little too much.
    And then I see the markings, not on her flesh, but on her soul. Her skin is covered. But not in Chinese symbols. In handprints. The darkest one is almost turning her skin red, firm around her throat.
    My own throat goes tight with the knowledge of what that means.
    Rape .
    Then there are scars. Real ones. Lots of them. Thick scars up the inside of her arms, wrist to elbow.
    I’ve seen so many souls like hers in the street, wide eyes glazed, looking over their shoulders as they slip into a stranger’s car or down an alley. Demons cling to them, feeding on their sorrow and desperation, as if it’s ripe fruit ready to pluck.
    “Kara,” I say, like saying her name might heal something. My fear of her has evaporated in an instant. Whatever she is, she didn’t choose it.
    The sound of her name seems to affect her, or maybe it’s the look of knowledge on my face. She clears her throat, sticks an earbud in. “Sid’ll be home soon. You can wait downstairs.” Then she slips away into the next room, closing herself in.
    I watch her shadow move under the door. I watch it pace back and forth for several seconds.
    Then I go downstairs to wait for Sid.

SEVEN
    I sit on the couch beside Finger and his Funyuns.
    Across the hall and through an archway, I can see Lester and Jax playing a game at the kitchen table. They keep smacking down cards and yelling out numbers and calling each other “fart nugget” and “pencil dick.” I wonder if it’s ever quiet here.
    Just as I start to think the answer is probably no, a somber-looking guy