Tormented by Darkness by Claire Ashgrove

always make me wonder about the majesty of the world. When I was a kid I used to think the old cabin up there was haunted.” She forced out a laugh, making up the story as she went along.
    “We all have demons, Rhiannon.” He repositioned his hands on the wheel. “But if you’re asking me if I believe in ghosts, and an afterlife, or poltergeists…” Mick shrugged. “The devil made me do it is a great fall back for murderers. Ironically, it’s the sane ones who claim that shit.”
    His gaze drifted off the road and latched onto hers. For a second, the hard set to his jaw hinted he had another scathing remark prepared. But his dark eyes flickered, and simple curiosity smoothed the tightness at the corners of his mouth. “What about you?”
    She hadn’t prepared for the conversation to be turned on her. What exactly could she say? She knew firsthand the powers of the other world? If she told him she was over two thousand years old and the product of an incubus’ lust for power, he’d pull over before they ever reached her family’s land.
    Troubled by the opposing desire to explain what she was, and the need to keep him in the car, she turned her stare out the passenger window. “There’s something out there more powerful than us, and yet we’re part of it. The Celts used to say, Is leor nod don eolach —A hint is sufficient for the wise. We are the hint.” After a thoughtful pause, she forced a light chuckle. “But what do I know? It’ll be nice to sit beneath the stars and the weather’s supposed to be clear.”
    As Rhiannon stole another cautious glance at Mick, she berated herself for her cowardice. Instead of telling him outright, she’d waxed philosophical. And judging from the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek, he wasn’t any too impressed with hearing her theories on the world.
    ****
    Mick hadn’t made Lieutenant by not hearing what people said between the lines. She was telling him something, giving him a hint. What that something was remained elusive. Yet as her words soaked into his topsy-turvy system, it became imperative to understand her on a deeper level and learn all he could about the obvious link between her vague reference and the woman she was. He relaxed his grip on the wheel and slid his gaze to the intricate tattoos on her face. “You’re proud of your heritage, aren’t you?”
    Her eyes widened infinitesimally, but enough to tell him he’d caught her off guard. She cocked her head to the side as she asked, “It’s that obvious?”
    He couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know too many women who’d tattoo tribal art on their face.” Reaching across the center console, he dropped his hand onto hers and added more quietly, “Or too many who could wear them so well.”
    “Oh, those.” She pushed a thick lock of hair out of her face. “I’ve had them so long I forget about them. And actually…” A frown marred her high forehead as she paused. Delicate teeth worried her lower lip.
    “Actually?”
    “I didn’t do them. My mother did when I was born.”
    It was his turn to blink. He didn’t know a tattoo shop around that would put ink on a baby. Much less a school system who wouldn’t turn said mother in.
    Then again, Rhiannon had said her mother died when she was five. Maybe there wasn’t anyone to turn in by that time.
    “Your mother,” he repeated flatly, dumbfounded by the concept.
    Rhiannon shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not unlike a suspect in the hot seat. “Yeah. It’s a family mark. Passed down through generations. All my siblings have one somewhere. Dáire and I wear ours on our face.”
    Odd. Damned odd. But those unique whorls and lines had drawn him to her in the first place. Not that he could have missed her fire-red hair or the twinkling of her cerulean blue eyes. The artwork though…it explained how herbal remedies blended with floral arrangements and added to Rhiannon’s mystique.
    “My father—not Steve, my real one—was