Dark Light of Day Read online

  Failing is not an option…

  “I’ve been watching you, wondering, waiting to see where you’d end up. After all, there are other demon law schools,” Seknecus said, making a moue of distaste that showed me exactly what he thought of them. “But I was happy to see that you chose St. Lucifer’s.”

  Technically my mother chose St. Lucifer’s… But there seemed no reason to interrupt to clarify that bit of misinformation. Seknecus wandered around the room, picking through papers, flipping open and quickly shutting the front covers of various leather-bound books, never meeting my eye. I had no doubt, however, that his attention was fully focused on me.

  “So, you see, seeing your name on my list wasn’t exactly a surprise, although it appeared much later than I would have liked.”

  He glanced at me then, with a frown of disapproval. I did my best to look expressionless because none seemed appropriate. It wouldn’t do to look amused, bored, or, Luck forbid, rebellious. Seknecus stared at me with narrowed eyes and then went back to wandering.

  “You’ve got some catching up to do,” he said, addressing a copy of Sin and Sanction: Codification & Case Law. “It doesn’t matter why or what excuses you’ve got for yourself. You will be held to the same standards as everyone else, regardless of whose daughter you are. And you’ve missed a lot of class already.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with a wave.

  “Manipulation class,” he clarified. “You’re going to have to work ten times as hard as everyone else just to pass. Quintus Rochester doesn’t go easy on students and he’s likely to see your absence during the early part of the semester as a challenge. You know, failing is not an option. Not if you want to live…”

  DARK LIGHT

  OF DAY

  JILL ARCHER

  ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  DARK LIGHT OF DAY

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Black Willow, LLC

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / October 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Black Willow, LLC.

  Cover art by David Palumbo.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58962-5

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  Almost twenty years ago

  my mother gave me a hurricane lamp.

  Its pewter base was engraved with the words

  “May Your Light Shine Bright.”

  This one’s for you, Mom.

  I love you, and always will.

  Acknowledgments

  A huge heartfelt thanks to Lois Winston, fellow author, mentor, and awesome agent. Lois was the first person to see promise in Noon’s story, and I will always be grateful for that. Throughout this whole process, she has been extremely accessible and extraordinarily tenacious. Her frank words of caution or encouragement are always well received. Thanks to Ashley and Carolyn Grayson as well for all of their advice and early enthusiasm.

  Mega thanks to Jessica Wade for being such a dedicated editor. Revisions are kind of like boot camp for novels. At the end, the manuscript should be leaner and meaner (or, in DLOD’s case, stronger and kinder). Jessica’s an excellent trainer! Thanks also to Lesley Worrell, the art director, and David Palumbo, the cover artist, for bringing Noon visually to life. I love Noon’s slightly defiant expression as well as the other details! Nice work.

  I’m also incredibly grateful to Michelle Kasper, my production editor; Mary Pell, my copy editor; and the rest of the folks over at Penguin who made this book happen. A big thanks to Joan Havens too for assisting with the Latin phrases.

  Finally, thank you to my family and friends who have supported me with love, affection, education, passion, curiosity, and commitment. To my free-spirited mother, who passed on her fierce independence and artistic aesthetics. To my pragmatic father, who was always there for me even when we lived apart. My dad loves books as much as I do, and we’ve spent large chunks of time discussing novels, characters, and authors, and visiting bookstores together. To my stepmom, who was the one who suggested I take the LSAT and encouraged me to apply to law school.

  To my mother-in-law for always helping out around the house and with the kids. She’s my fairy godmother! To my father-in-law, who’s also a lawyer, for not thinking I was absolutely insane to quit practicing law to write about it (especially when he heard I was adding demons and magic to the mix!). To my brother, best friends, and daughters for being a part of my life. A writer’s life is much richer with people to love, laugh with, and take care of.

  And to my husband, whose unwavering support over the years is awe-inspiring. Sometimes he has more faith in me than I do! I couldn’t have asked for a better, more steadfast, and more dauntless partner in life’s endeavors, including this latest of mine.

  Table of Contents

  I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  II

  Chapter 15

 
Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  I

  Deep into that darkness peering,

  long I stood there wondering, fearing,

  Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal

  ever dared to dream before…

  —EDGAR ALLAN POE

  Chapter 1

  The wind whipping across my face made it feel as if I’d just scrubbed with camphor and bits of glass. My eyes watered and my nose ran. I sniffled and kept walking, my boots crunching over the ice and snow. Stars winked high above me like baby’s breath thrown into an inky sea, but the main light came from small umber streetlights tucked into the stone wall beside me. The Asters’ front gate was just thirty yards ahead. I tried not to think about how cold the walk home would be if they refused to let me in. Inside my pocket, I squeezed my letter, forever wrinkling it. I knew some people framed theirs. I didn’t care. I planned to burn mine.

  The wall I’d been walking along ended and a massive iron gate rose up in its place. To its side was a call box. Giving the letter one final vicious squeeze, I withdrew my hand, opened the box, and turned the crank. It stuck at first and I had to wrench it free from a brittle crust of snow and ice. Finally I heard a pop and some clicking. But no one answered. I stood for another half minute or so, blowing breath into my cupped hands to warm my now-frigid mouth and nose. I turned the crank again. It was too late for dinner and too early for bed. Someone would answer. After a while, Mrs. Aster did.

  “Hello?” squawked the box.

  “Evening, Mrs. Aster,” I said, trying to keep my voice pleasant. “It’s Nouiomo Onyx.”

  A moment of silence passed as I tucked a strand of hair back into my hood. The frost on my mitten brushed my cheek. The spot burned as if someone had just nicked me with a metal rake.

  “Good evening, Noon.”

  “Is Peter home?”

  “I haven’t seen him since dinner.” This may or may not have been true. The Asters’ house was as big as a castle and I knew Peter spent most of his time studying either in his room or in the family library.

  “I need to talk to him about something,” I said, still managing to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Would you let him know I’m here?”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. I’m leaving tomorrow. That’s what I want to talk to him about.”

  There was a long pause before she answered again.

  “Noon, I have two hundred poinsettias, five holly trees, and a dozen live mistletoe sprigs in the house. You can’t come in. I’m sorry.”

  I fought for calm and swallowed the lump in my throat. What had I expected? It was Yuletide and the Asters were Angels, for Luck’s sake.

  “Can you tell him to come out?”

  Another long pause and then, “He’s studying.”

  I sighed. The lump was gone, replaced with resignation. I had lived next to Peter for twenty-one years, my whole life. And I could count on one hand the number of times this gate had opened for me. I cleared my throat, wanting my voice to sound stronger than I felt.

  “Tell him I stopped by then, would you?”

  “Of course. Good night, Noon.” The squawking stopped and then the static and the box went completely silent.

  I turned and started crunching my way back, stepping carefully, and clutching my hood beneath my chin to keep the wind from my ears. I was so focused on how cold and miserable I was that it took me a while to notice the warmth spreading from the pocket of my cape. Just as I started to smell burning wool—disgusting!—warm turned to seriously hot and I glanced down to see that I had set my cape on fire. Brilliant. I hadn’t inadvertently set anything on fire since puberty. I waved a flat hand over the flames and quickly smothered the fire. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. Someone was.

  Luckily, it was Peter.

  He was leaning against the stone wall I had just walked along. The same stone wall that ran for miles along the Lemiscus, a lane as old as the Apocalypse which separated our families’ estates. The Asters had a wall running along their side. On ours? Nothing. My father, Karanos Onyx, was one of the most powerful Maegesters in the country. We didn’t need walls to keep our privacy.

  Peter’s hood was down, his cloak unbuttoned, and his hands bare—obviously he’d rushed to meet me. In the deep twilight, his white blond hair was the color of snow and ash, nearly the opposite of my midnight colored tresses. He pushed off the wall with his shoulder, his lanky frame ambling over to my shivering one, and put his arm around me. His smile was friendly but his frost blue eyes were disapproving. He’d seen the fire.

  “Shall we?” he said, motioning toward a small wooden door that was half-hidden in the wall.

  “Is it safe?”

  “As safe as it always is. I cast the spell just before opening the door.”

  Huddled together we stepped through the doorway. Peter closed the door behind us and I stared ahead, remembering the first time I had stepped through that door. I’d been five and it was the first time I’d ever stepped foot in a garden. I’d been so in awe, so overwhelmed, by the life growing within these walls. The dark, destructive waning magic I tried so desperately to keep hidden deep inside of me had pulsed in response to the rich magentas, bright clarets, and cheerful fuchsias of the blooms and buds. Within seconds of my entry, I had killed three hydrangeas, two hostas, and a mulberry tree. Instantly, they’d become black silhouettes against the garden’s remaining ruddy colors.

  It was the single most horrifying day of my life. And the most hopeful. Because a moment later Peter had cast a protective spell over the surviving plants so that I could walk among them—green, growing, living plants. I dared not touch anything now, but at least I could look.

  The place would have been magical even without a spell. Yew topiaries shaped as Mephistopheles, Beelzebub, and Alecto warred alongside Gabriel, Michael, and Mary. They were all dormant now, the yews buried under an inch of fresh snow, but I could feel their presence. Alive and well, they waited for spring to resume their fight. Behind the wall, shielded by hedgerows and distant cypress trees, the snowflakes felt less like bits of glass and more like cold confetti. Peter and I sat down on a small cement bench, which was nestled back nicely in a cut-out niche of the hedgerow. He spread one side of his cloak around me and cast a spell of warmth over us. My shivering subsided.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  He’d seen the fire so I couldn’t very well say, “Nothing.” But I’d burned the letter so I couldn’t just shove it at him in way of explanation either.

  “I’ve been accepted to St. Lucifer’s Law School.”

  Peter’s face went still. It could have been surprise. It could have been anger. With Peter, you could never tell.

  “Luck, Noon, did you apply there?”

  I rolled my eyes. “My mom sent in the application for me. She swears she didn’t tell them about my magic. She thinks I should tell them. Her exact words were, ‘It’s your power, you have to decide to use it.’” I snorted, remembering.

  My power. As if it was something positive. People like me, who possessed waning magic, were a menace. Not only could I kill something just by touching it, my presence alone had the potential to harm growing things. Plants, pregnant women, gardens, greenery—all could suffer disastrous consequences if I came too near. Worse than that though, was what we were expected to become: Maegesters, or demon peacekeepers. Because waning magic was the only type of magic that could be used to control demons. Becoming a Maegester meant learning all of the Byzantine laws that Halja’s ruling demons idolized and then training to become their consiglieres, their judges, and even their executioners.

  Worse than that though, was that I was the only female with waning magic that I knew of. />
  Unfortunately, I had to live with it, which was why I’d spent my whole life wishing I possessed the waxing magic of a Mederi healer, rather than the waning magic of a future Maegester.

  “So are you going to go?”

  I shrugged and made a helpless gesture. Ever since I was five, after that first disastrous entry into the Aster garden, Peter and I had been plotting a way to reverse my magic. Peter thought the answer was to find a rumored long-lost Reversal Spell. But, so far, we hadn’t found it and my time was running out. Law and scripture required us to use our talents for the greater good. The demons who ruled Halja had no patience for rule breakers, and so under Haljan law, anyone with magic had to declare it by Bryde’s Day of their twenty-first year. That day, the day I’d been dreading my entire life, was now just weeks away.

  “I don’t know, Peter. It’s a big gamble, not declaring by the deadline. I’ll be killed if they find out I have magic and didn’t declare it.”

  Peter scoffed and I bristled.

  “Peter!” I said, suddenly angry. The snow on the branches above us instantly melted and dribbled down on us, a chilling reminder of the combustible magic I was trying to hide. “You act as if the demons, the Council, and the law are of no concern.”

  Slowly, he rubbed the back of his bare neck, swiping at the cold drops that had fallen there. He stared out into the snow covered garden, his lustrous blue eyes never meeting the soft smokey bronze of mine.

  “Noon, I’m so close,” he said finally, turning to me. “You’ve got to trust me. I know I’ll be able to find the Reversal Spell before Bryde’s Day. Can’t you convince your mother to let you stay home for a few more weeks?”

  I shook my head. “She kicked me out, Peter. My own mother.”

  Peter grimaced. “Is there anyone else you can stay with? Just until I find the spell?”

  I stared at him and then smirked. “I’d move in with you, but your mother hates me.”

  “She doesn’t hate you… Wait, you’d move in with me?”