The Sweetest Darkness

Alana

The air runs cold in the city. The temperature never rising, the light never quite creeping in through the walls of high-rise buildings and towers that dominate the skyline.

Once it had been beautiful, full of life and promises. But now the city feels as it lives; cold and ruthless.

I pull my jacket closer around my shoulders as I move through the dark streets, my bag slung across my body and smashing into my hip with every hurried step, and my eyes down. Five more minutes and I'll be safe and warm in the tiny haven we have called home for the last three years. I just have the back alley behind The Cherry Blossom to navigate.

The roar of laughter splits the air behind me, the red door of a dingy dive bar swinging open as men stumble out and hold each other to steady themselves, and I step forwards a little faster.

It's not that I'm scared. I know I have no reason to be scared - these men are drunk idiots, blowing off steam after another long day of work in the city that never tires - but some primal part of my brain tells me to keep my distance when groups of men gather on this side of town. And that's a part of my mind I have never ignored. And I never will, not as long as I live in the one part of town torn in two.

As I slip unnoticed into the shadows of the one decent Chinese restaurant in town, surely a front for the shadier sides of business most families around here dabble in, I let my mind wander over the history of my home and a familiar tug of disappointment twists in my gut. When I was a child, this city was a place of hope and promises. It was the space artists thrived and families settled. It was a place of safety. But beneath that surface something sinister stirred, and now the city is a place of fear. Overnight it changed; families warred, blood was spilled and those of us who had never known another place to call home were trapped in the shadows of a war we never asked to be a part of.

The Ove stood tall in the battle; the family of choice who lived and died by the sword. Their power dominated the East Side of the city and everyone who knew anyone knew their darkness danced under the lights of some of the most successful clubs and bars in the city. They owned the women who danced for them. They controlled the men who drank with them. They were the family of terror. And yet terror feared something. Or someone.

The Farkas Family were touched by no one. Not even The Ove dared to step up to challenge their control. North, West and South was theirs. The family tore the city to shreds before infiltrating every bank and every station, every business and every home, infecting them with their poison as they built this place to suit their darkness. They are a battleship of destruction - tearing away the lives of those who had found solace on these streets and burning bridges that could help us escape - and at its helm sits Andrei Farkas. Even here, in the one part of the city considered neutral territory - where people like me can stick to the sidelines and avoid the attention of our darkest inhabitants - uttering his name can empty a room or clear a street.

The head of the Farkas family is known for his penchant for bloodshed. The Devil himself. He shoots first and asks questions later. He strikes with speed and skill and if you cross his path your name is marked in red. Only fools cross him. Only the desperate call on him. Only the damned are accepted by him.

But, and here's the real kicker, even I know his power balances on someone else.

Rumours sing in the city and rumour has it that Andrei Farkas is suffering. His power is waning. His hold is slackening. His grip is weakening. But in the shadow of the man he once was, another stands in wait.

Sebastian Farkas: The Harbinger of Death.

***

"Chris?" I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it on the rack by the door, and shiver as I peer into the darkness of my apartment.

Three years ago this place was empty and falling apart. The windows were busted and the whole floor was stained with dirt and grime and something I'm still afraid to name. But it meant we could snatch it at such a low price we didn't care. Now it's a sanctuary for us both. The natural wooden floors are covered in rugs you sink into as you walk and outside each window sits small boxes of flowers and greenery - life in the middle of Death's city.

"Chris?" I call out again, expecting my roommate and best friend to be home long before I finished work, and flick the switch by the door.

Nothing. Not one flicker of light or one whisper of life. The breaker must have malfunctioned again.

Groaning, I spin on my heels and grab my keys from my jacket pocket before reaching for the door just as it swings open.

Chris crashes into me as he flies into the room, the haw of his breath rushing from him as he exhales with the impact, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and grunted apologies.

"Alana? Crap, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were home. Shit. You're on my leg." He twitches as I twist and eventually we're no longer tangled as we lay on the floor of our hallway. "Power's out."

"No shit," I laugh as I push myself to sit up and glance at Chris. He's a year older than me and everything about him screams success. And not in the way most men in this city scream of success. Chris is handsome and soft and his eyes, a murky sort of green, sparkle even in the darkness. His lips are full and rounded and his cheek bones could be the envy of male models across the globe. He throws an arm over his face, his t-shirt pulling to reveal chiselled abs and a sliver of dark Calvins above the band of his jeans and he sighs dramatically as I push to my knees and wrap my fingers around his wrist. "Need me to call the landlord again?"

"No use," he groans, letting me uncover his eyes and rolling his head to the side. "The whole building is out and half the street, too."

I can't help the frown that falls into place at his words. Power outages for single apartments is common place here. But the whole building? The street? A shiver crawls its way up my spine at the images that creep into my mind unbidden, and with the passing seconds that slip past us and towards an unspoken truth, I find my body tensing. The power is out on our street. Someone dies tonight.

"Al?" Chris pushes himself up onto his elbows and kicks our door closed as he glances to me, his mind surely now colliding with the same realisation I have already had, and I blink back memories I have always hoped would remain locked away. "You good?"

I push to my feet and hold out a hand for him. "Yeah. Let's just get this place locked up. The power will be back on in the morning."

He nods knowingly.

It's a small comfort to know that when we step into our rooms to rest tonight we will be safe from the lawless rule of this city; when we lay our heads down to sleep we can dream knowing that we will see the rise of sun in the morning. But beneath the sweet whispers of safety our life on the sidelines has promised us, is a harrowing pain. Because beneath those whispers is the sound of violence heading straight for our sanctuary, heading straight for our reality, ready to strip the world of one more soul desperate and damaged enough to deal with the devil.