The Night House Read online

  She took a deep breath of soil, cedar and salal, and forced her tired body from the bush. She brushed off the dirt from her jeans while something crawled over her skin. She swatted the spider from her arm. Another shiver travelled through her body and she rapidly swept her hands all over her body in case the mammoth spider had any friends.

  Dirt and spider free, she hauled on her backpack and stepped from the protection of the forest and onto the grassy bank on the side of the road. The land around the town was a clear, gently sloping field. Her skin tingled. The summer sun beat down on her. The trees swayed in a gentle breeze. She paused.

  A long branch about an inch in diameter lay broken on the side of the road. It wasn’t perfectly straight, and a little short at roughly five feet, but it would do. She bent and plucked it from the ground. Using her pocket knife, she shaved off the straggling twigs jutting out randomly from its length before standing to twirl it in her hands. Not quite long enough for a bō staff, too long for a jō or hanbō and unbalanced, the rough stick wasn’t ideal as a weapon, but the familiar sensation of gripping the stick in her hands bolstered her confidence. She couldn’t hide in the forest forever.

  She turned to the still-smoking town and stepped onto the road.

  Chapter Five

  Leftovers, Anyone?

  Taya held her breath the entire walk into town for nothing. It was deserted. The fires had burned out, leaving the carcasses of old buildings. Smoke and chalky dust plugged her nose and left her throat raw. Scattered ash lined the cracked sidewalks. At first, she assumed the dry flakes were residue from the fires, but then a sick realization punched her in the gut. The ash was also the remains of the victims.

  The horsemen took the only survivors. No one remained.

  Though a number of houses with caved in roofs lined the street, it didn’t feel right to loot them. Not yet. The inhabitants were ripped from their protective walls less than twenty-four hours ago. She’d check for a grocery store first.

  When she rounded the corner and turned onto Main Street, wings fluttered and birds called out to each other in warning. She let out a long, pent-up breath. A grocery store sat at the end of the street. A large display window had been smashed and the door hung ajar, but it was one of the only buildings left standing relatively unscathed from the fires.

  Ash and soot lined the old, unevenly paved road running through the center of town. She stepped into the store and perused the aisles. She needed high protein food, like beef jerky. Her sneakers squeaked against the hard flooring.

  She exited an aisle and turned into a fist. She stumbled back. Her ears rang. What the hell? A young man lunged forward. Taya brought the staff up and V-stepped out of his way. With a twirl, she whipped the staff down and smash it into the back of the man’s head. He flailed and fell to the ground.

  Blood pulsed in her veins. The man wore jeans and a ripped, black T-shirt. He wasn’t an alien soldier. He was another survivor like her. Would she have to kill him, too?

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she hissed. “Haven’t enough of us died?”

  He groaned and rolled over. He blinked up at her, studying her clothes and weapon.

  “We have a whole grocery store to share,” she continued. If she missed signs of this guy in the town, had she missed others? Was it not as deserted as she thought?

  He propped himself up on his elbows and frowned.

  In a different time, in a different world, she would’ve found him attractive, and probably would’ve danced with him in a club if he asked.

  “You look like them,” he said.

  “Like who?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  Like hell she’d go anywhere with this guy. She opened her mouth to tell him where he to go. Glass cracked at the front of the store. She snapped her mouth shut and flinched. She turned toward the sound. No view of the entrance.

  “Are there more of you?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  Taya scrambled behind the meat freezer—the kind without doors that opened upward for passing customers to view the contents. The products had started to spoil and everything smelled slightly off. Ice flowed along her skin. What an idiot! She hadn’t counted the number of horseman going in and out of the town. She had assumed because no one waved too-da-loo from the town’s entrance, nor shouted vivaciously along the streets, that the big bad villains had all left together. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  The man joined her. He had short black hair, hazel eyes, and despite punching her in the face, he had a kind mouth.

  She scowled at him. He could get his own meat freezer to hide behind.

  He glared back, but didn’t try to attack her again.

  She slipped off her backpack, the wet clothes from the other day still tied to the outside, and clutched her staff. This hiding place sucked. As soon as the others stepped past the displays at the back of the store, they’d see her and Pretty Boy squatting beside the hunks of expired ham like pathetic ducks.

  She remained crouched and waddle-walked to the edge of the freezer. The light from outside streaked in and sparkled off metal near the front of the building.

  Armour.

  Great.

  The soldiers moved forward. They didn’t mask their movement or make any attempt to hide their progress. It would’ve been difficult since their armour creaked with each step.

  Taya eyed the swinging doors to the butcher area behind her. She hadn’t gone through them before because she made a split second decision and feared the hinges would creak. She didn’t want to alert the soldiers of her presence. But that was ridiculous. Of course they knew she was here. They would’ve heard her and Pretty Boy scuffling around and hissing at one another.

  There should be an emergency exit out the back or a loading bay.

  And knives.

  She considered the man crouched beside her. He narrowed his eyes. She didn’t owe him anything, but…but he was a survivor like her.

  She jerked her head toward the swinging doors.

  His gaze flicked toward her escape route and back. He shook his head. To each to their own then. At least she tried. What about her backpack? Should she take it? Though light from dwindling supplies, the sack and straps would prove cumbersome in a fight. But without it, she’d have nothing.

  Decision made, she slung the bag back on and bolted for the doors.

  The men didn’t call out or yell for her to stop. Their heavy boots thudding against the floor grew louder, faster and closer. She charged through the swinging doors. The hinges screamed. With no electricity, she had no glaring red sign to indicate the exit. The sunlight didn’t cut through the gloom this far into the building. She rushed into darkness and ran straight to the back. She slammed into the exit door. The metal bar dug into her stomach, unyielding. The air whooshed from her lungs and pain erupted in her belly.

  Locked.

  Goddammit.

  She swore and her stomach ached.

  Think. Think. Think. Taya rounded the butcher station and pressed against the far wall. She sucked in air. She was breathing too hard. They wouldn’t need to search for her at this point. They’d just follow the sound of heavy panting.

  The doors swung open again, the hinges announcing more players to the dark pit. Light momentarily reflected off knives lying on the table.

  The soldiers halted inside. The doors swung shut and darkness enveloped her again.

  Come on, heart. Stop thumping so loud. Footsteps travelled to the back of the room. Metal groaned as one of the men tried to push down the same metal bar on the exit door.

  They knew she was still in here.

  The heavy thumping of their boots separated into two distinct patterns. They’d split up. One went toward the fish section—brave soul—and the other headed toward her. The soldier’s boots smacked across the cold tiles like a gut-wrenching countdown.

  He’d pass her hiding spot in three, two, one…

  A large shadow of a man stepped beside her. She flung
up her staff, and smashed the butt of the stick into his face.

  His dark head whipped back. He snarled and swung. She dropped down in a crouch and narrowly missed his giant fist. With a twist, she flung out a leg to sweep him. Her leg slapped the hard armour. Pain streaked up her leg. The soldier remained standing. He gripped her head and pulled her up by her hair. Some ripped from her scalp.

  “Motherfucker.”

  He flashed a cruel smile that somehow managed to gleam in the dark.

  She spun her staff and struck his unprotected armpit. He grunted. She struck again and again. He pinched in his arm to defend the vulnerable area and she took the opening to strike him in the face.

  His nose cracked. Blood gushed from the wound.

  He swore and released her. She wrapped her hands around the cold plastic handles of one of the knives on the counter and drove it into his neck. He coughed and spat blood. His eyes widened. He fell to his knees, and face-planted in front of her. Oh God. She’d killed an—

  Standing directly behind him was the other soldier.

  He glared at her. With no helmet, his dark hair and skin disappeared without a shiny surface for the sparse light to shine off. He pulled a sword from the scabbard on his belt.

  Fuck.

  Her little carving knife wasn’t up for this task.

  She’d beaten his buddy because he’d underestimated her abilities and planned on capturing her, not killing. From the murderous glare of Soldier Number Two glinting in the dim light, he didn’t share the same plans. He stepped forward.

  She backed up.

  He stepped forward again.

  She moved back farther and into the edge of the countertop. He’d cornered her.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

  She flipped the carving knife in her hand and threw it at the man. He batted the blade out of the air with his sword. It clattered to the floor.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  She readjusted her hold on her staff as Soldier Number Two advanced. He raised his sword and smiled cruelly.

  She widened her stand. Engaging a battle-proven, armoured, sword-wielding warrior who watched her stab his comrade in the neck was less than ideal, but that didn’t mean success was impossible. Taya wouldn’t give up. She’d go down fighting like a crazy banshee.

  Do the unexpected. Never give up. Her dad’s voice trickled through her memory.

  No, Dad. I’m not giving up.

  She ran through her defensive and offensive options. It didn’t look good.

  The solider straightened, gurgled and fell to the side. A carving knife jutted out of his exposed neck.

  Pretty Boy stood behind him with eyes wide, mouth parted to a trembling “O” and eyebrows reaching up to his hairline. Her brother had worn a similar “did I just do that?” expression when he’d accidentally tipped over Mom’s china cabinet and broke every single piece of Grandma’s fine china.

  They looked down at the body, almost imperceptible in the dim light. This invasion had made them into killers.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  The soldiers had walked right past Pretty Boy. He could’ve escaped to safety. Instead, he’d entered the dark butcher area to help her. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  He nodded, reached down and yanked the knife from the body. “You were right. Enough of us have died already.”

  She waved her hand at the dead soldiers’ bodies and their shock of dark hair. “I don’t look anything like either of these guys.”

  Pretty Boy shook his head. “Not them. The others.”

  She leaned on her staff. Her limbs shook.

  “You look like their lords. The ones they call Tarkas.”

  “How are they different?” she asked.

  “They wield magic.”

  Chapter Six

  Lighting Rarely Strikes Twice

  The glazed eyes of a man with long platinum hair stared at Taya from where he lay on a dead clump of charred grass next to an old road. The afternoon sunlight played with the white highlights of his hair splayed against the ground and dried blood. Of course the dead man wasn’t actually looking at her, but studying his appearance and noting the uncanny resemblance to the men in her family sent shivers racing along her limbs.

  “A Tarka?” She glanced at John. They’d exchanged names on the awkward walk over. He’d also told her the soldiers referred to each other as Arkavians and they’d apparently travelled to Earth through some sort of portal. She hadn’t asked yet how he avoided capture when he was obviously close enough to gather this information. He probably hid somewhere and watched the entire invasion. She would’ve done the same—she did do the same—so the guilt probably ate at him like it did with her.

  “That’s what the other men called him.”

  The dead Tarka must’ve been the brother to the leader, the one the other soldier mentioned as they casually monitored the progress of their spoils of war through the dust cloud.

  “If he wielded magic, how’d he die?” she asked.

  “A knife.”

  “That’s obvious.” She waved at the gaping wound in the man’s neck. The surrounding skin was mottled and black, and caked with dried blood. The location of the death blow also explained how John knew to aim the knife at the warrior’s neck in the butcher’s section of the grocery store. Most untrained fighters would’ve gone for the body, regardless of the armour.

  “One of the men from town hid around the corner,” John said. “He surprised him by attacking from behind. It’s where…it’s where I got the idea for the other guy.” The colour drained from his face.

  Her chest tightened as if her own cells tried to hug away the influx of memories from her recent killings. She nodded, ignored the nausea rising within her, and crouched beside the body. Apparently, these Tarkas were not all-knowing or all-powerful. They bled and they died. Noted.

  His body gave off an odd floral smell. “What powers do they have?”

  “This one moved things.”

  “All kinds of things?” She glanced up.

  John nodded. “People, too.”

  “Lovely.” The glimmering hilts of twin swords reflected the sunlight and caught her attention. She leaned forward.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why not?” How’d he know what she planned to do anyway?

  “Gives you a zap.”

  Well, he obviously survived whatever love tap the swords gave. Why should he have all the fun? She rubbed her sweaty palms on her pants before she reached out and grabbed the hilt of one. A tingling sensation ran through her arm. Not painful, but not exactly pleasant either. So far, so good. She took a deep breath and pulled, unsheathing the sword.

  Flashes of blue and white light traveled in bolts of lightning from the pommel to the tip of the blade. The scent of fresh rain and loam surrounded her and a tingling energy pulled at something inside. Like tugging the arm of a friend to come and play on the monkey bars, the power called to her, begged her. To do what? The sword wanted something and demanded payment. She shivered. The blade wanted blood.

  John whistled. “Didn’t do that for me.”

  She sheathed the sword. The fire in her blood took a long minute to cool. She traced the intricate design stitched into the leather straps for the scabbard with her finger. “What happened?”

  “When I touched them? Zapped me so bad it sent me flying back about five feet.”

  “Maybe the blades prefer blondes?”

  He chuckled and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Maybe. Are you going to take them?”

  Hell yeah, she’d take them. The power still called to her. Magical lightning blades only she could wield? She’d be a fool not to keep them. She found the clasp for the dual back scabbard. “I’m not leaving them here.”

  “Should I take his armour?” John pointed at the thick metal breastplate on the body and the helmet resting on the ground next to a flattened pile of ash.

  “It’s your choice.”

  “But?”


  She shrugged. “I think it will be too heavy, too noisy and too big.” The Tarka was twice the width of John. Her fellow survivor would look like a little boy playing dress up.

  “I guess you’re right.” John’s shoulders drooped and he eyed the metal.

  “You can always come back for it or hide it somewhere.”

  His eyes lit up. “Yeah. We can stash it at my place along with your swords…you know, until you learn how to use them.”

  She unbuckled the scabbard and rolled the corpse so she could pry the weapons from the cold body. The metal armour clanked against the broken pavement. God, the Tarka’s arms were huge. Until she learned to use them. Could he sound more condescending? “No offense, but I’m not staying with you.”

  “What?” His head snapped back as if she punched him in the face. “Look, I’m sorry I attacked you. I think we should stick together.”

  “I agree, but I don’t think we should stay in a town where they left two soldiers waiting for their return. The sun’s going down soon, and I need to make camp.”

  “Camp? As in a tent?”

  “Yes, princess, a tent. If it’s not glamorous enough, you can stay here and welcome the Arkavians when they return for another raid.”

  John scowled.

  “And you need your own tent and sleeping bag.”

  He stared at the sky and mouthed a silent prayer.

  “I don’t know you. I’m not going to sleep in a small, confined tent with a man I don’t know.” She’d sleep next to her knife anyway, but if he decided to attack her, hopefully the zipper would provide an early warning.

  His shoulders relaxed. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Men didn’t constantly make decisions to minimize their risks of sexual assault. Not that all men were bad or men weren’t victims, but the majority of them lived life blissfully unaware of things like rape culture and victim blaming.

  “I have a tent. Let me pack supplies.”

  She straightened, buckled the swords to her back and readjusted the straps. She hoisted her backpack on next, pinning the sheaths between her body and the bag. Luckily it worked. She’d have to practice drawing the blades with the backpack on to see if she could do it without decapitating herself, or slicing her supplies to pieces.