The Dark Ones by Bryan Smith

posters. Hatebreed. Killswitch Engage. Slayer. There were stacks of paperbacks on his desk. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas . The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test . The Anarchist’s Cookbook . And several other titles obviously inappropriate for a young child. There were bad influences everywhere she looked.
    Something else to have a long talk with him about when he returned.
    Suzie scooted backward on the bed, stretched out, and turned onto her side to stare at the dark window and the pale branches of the tree outside.
    She let go of the belt and slid the tips of her fingers over a bare hip.
    The bad, forbidden thoughts surfaced again, more vibrant and vivid than before.
    She hoped Derek would be back soon.

N INE

    Kent Hickerson was having a restless night. This “lying wide awake and staring up at the ceiling for hours” business was not normal for him. It was annoying and frustrating. It was now almost midnight and he was as awake and alert as he normally was at school in the middle of the day.
    He sighed. “This is fucked.”
    Maybe he should just surrender and get up for a while. Maybe find something cool to watch on cable. Have a midnight snack. The notion had an unexpected appeal. Kent was a guy who appreciated a sense of order in all things. Nighttime was for sleeping. A good night’s rest was crucial for excelling during the day. He planned to be a successful man one day. A rich man. To make that happen it was necessary to adhere to a rigid self-discipline. The mind-set had paid off so far. His grades were stellar, yet he wasn’t some uncool egghead. He was popular with the girls because he was very conscious of the importance of proper grooming and wearing the right things. He always looked well put together, but with just enough safe pseudo-edginess to avoid the curse of coming off like a straitlaced bore. He was one of Ransom High’s most popular seniors, a status he was certain would set the tone for the rest of his life.
    And yet . . .
    He kept thinking of that midnight snack.
    His stomach growled.
    “Fuck it.”
    Clearly the only viable way of dealing with this crazy impulse was to indulge it. He would get up and have a sandwich. Roast beef. Some crunchy chips. Tomorrow night he would slip back into his normal routine. Tonight had to be a one-time deviation from the norm. He reached for the lamp on his nightstand and switched it on, blinking his eyes against the sudden glare. He tossed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His intent was to go directly to the kitchen, but a random impulse caused him to get up and go to his bedroom window.
    He tugged at an edge of the curtain and peered outside.
    He saw nothing remarkable at first. The neighborhood was quiet, undisturbed by sirens or the constant sound of car engines and horns, which had constituted the nighttime soundtrack of his city life as a child. Wheaton Hills went to sleep at night. It was very still and peaceful. But what was this? He glimpsed movement just outside the sphere of light cast by the closest street lamp, on the other side of the narrow residential street. He kept his eye on the street, hoping to see whatever he’d seen again. Several seconds passed. Nothing happened.
    Then there they were.
    Two people, a boy and a girl, stepped into the light. Their features were clearly defined beneath the glare of the street lamp for perhaps as long as two seconds before they continued down the street and again became two indistinct forms moving through the night. The boy was Mark Bell, who lived in the house directly across the street. Mark’s dad was a big deal, an executive at Stanton. The girl was Natasha Wagner. He was pretty sure she lived in Wheaton Hills, too, a few streets over in one of the newer sections. He saw her in the hallways of Ransom High now and then and was always struck by her beauty. But she was the wrong sort for him. Too edgy. And it wasn’t just a pose. Her body language was rife with suggestions of