Searching

Justin's head was spinning. He had spent hours trying to find the connection between all that had happened, starting with the blood stars. He almost hadn't found the ones left at the sites Cynthia and Timothy were last seen, but now he had accurate sketches of each area. Timothy had vanished from the library, and the mark had been hidden behind a tapestry that concealed a large window. A trick of the light made him believe he had seen a dark shape slip into the woods surrounding the cliffs, but he wasn't entirely sure. Cynthia's had been in the daycare, giving quite a scare to the children. He was now in the chamber he used to hide his secrets, going over his journals to find the sketches he had made of the first group of stars, when they'd stained the halls of the rosebush. He also had the name of its victim listed beneath it. He was beginning to notice some horrid similarities.

The victims were all either half-breeds or orphans, people who had little or no family to care for them. Jonathan hadn't been the only one to marry a normal creature, nor the only one to keep the secret from his family. And each star had a word scrawled in the center. It appeared to be some type of message, but he couldn't make head or tails of it.

'The white keeps peace, the black destroys, but together…' that was it, nine words that created a phrase of complete nonsense. What did colors have to do with murder? But then he remembered what Nicodemus had often told him as a child: "The white keeps peace, the black destroys, but together they keep the balance of life." He knew that the old rat was supposedly psychic, had his words been a warning of some sort? But that doesn't make sense, he thought hopelessly, but knew he couldn't think of it now. Sunset was coming; he could tell by the surging in his blood. Carefully, he packed the books in a large bag, set it on his back, then slipped out through his hidden door. He thought he heard someone calling his name, but only picked up his pace in reply. He had to get out of sight before the change began. He'd done well so far with keeping the secret, and wasn't about to slip up now. But the person calling him was barely alive.

"Excuse me," he lifted his head, seeing a young girl with brown hair. Brianna, if he remembered correctly, the youngest of that group of teens that came almost every night.

"Yes, can I help you?" he asked, smiling charmingly. Her face seemed to darken a shade. But something seemed off. "Is anything wrong?"

Before she could reply, a large crash sounded from the front of the store, shocking them both. A dangerous shower of glittering glass began coating the floor, and in its midst was a young man with a bloody knife.

"You're not getting away that easy," he shouted, bounding through the mess. Justin finally noticed that Brianna's left leg was soaked in blood, her jeans and shirt ragged and torn. Her light eyes were wide and frightened as the boy came closer.

"Please," she begged, tugging on his shirt. "Please, help me!"

Justin could feel her shake as she dove behind him, felt her tears soaking his shirt. He pulled out his knife with the poisoned blade, yet didn't risk the shot. He knew he should have, though, when he felt the burn of steel in his side, ripping open the wound Isabella had given to him. The pain was much more than it should have been, seeming to tear into his very soul.

"Hand her over if you want to live," the boy hissed evilly. There was a cruel glint in his otherwise empty black eyes. He scarred lips were curled in a humorless grin. He reached down, whipping the toxic blade from his hand, pressing the tip toward his heart; if even a drop of it got into his blood…

"N-Never," he struggled to stand, clutching his side. His other hand he had pressed to the wall, holding him up as he glared at the boy. He then began to whisper strange words, the incantation to bring forth his full power. A strange light glimmered in his eyes, his wound quickly stopped bleeding, but it didn't disappear. She'd suspect something if it did. But now her tearing eyes were tightly closed, hands stopping her ears, her body folded in a ball on the floor behind him. The punk backed up.

"Y-You're not human," he gasped.

He laughed. "No, I am simply one hell of a creature."

"You're not from here, are you?" she asked. Justin had closed the shop early, using the time he had left to stitch up her wound. It was deep, and ran from her knee to her thigh, and was made even worse by the glass that had somehow fallen in it. He shook his head in response to her question.

"I was born in Mexico," he said. "My parents came here when I was a baby." It was true. His parents had lived in a factory down in Nuevo León, and had built their home in the trunk of a car they'd thought was no longer used, only to wake up one morning, passing through a place called Texas. In a few days they'd come to a city named Louisville, and had moved into an old sewer pipe mere blocks from the farmer's market. A few weeks later his parents had died, run over by the very car that had brought them to the States; two nights after he'd been caught by the men of NIMH, where he'd begun to learn English. His time in the rosebush had finished the job. He'd thought he had completely forgotten his native language, until that night when that girl had shown up; he finished with the stitches, cutting away the excess. She just gazed at his handiwork, shocked that he'd known just what to do.

"Where did you learn this?" she asked.

He shrugged, not knowing how much he could tell her. She barely saw the look in his eyes, the nostalgic sadness she had often seen hidden in their depths, no matter how he was acting. She bowed her head, fighting to keep the blush from her face. "Well now what?" she murmured.

"I suppose I should take you home," he replied, yet upon questioning discovered that she lived in a foster home about two miles down the road. Getting a ride would be impossible at this hour, and he didn't know of any hospitals nearby, so he went for his only option. He curled his hand carefully under her knees, letting the other lie flat on her back. The dusty wind burned in his wound, but it received little attention as he learned more about the young girl in his arms. That man in the shop had jumped her, asking about something called an "Ivory Sun", and had proceeded to rape her when she hadn't replied.

That's the second attack involving this artifact, he realized, and both of the victims had been in his shop at the time. But what in the world was it?

"We're here," her tired voice cut through his thoughts. He looked up to see a large house, probably built in the last century, with small shrubs struggling to grow around it perimeter. The small light on the porch lent its light to a stately white door. He held Brianna easily with one hand, ringing a bell that echoed loudly inside. In a few minutes a young woman peeked out.

"Yes?" she asked, then saw the child. "What happened? You were supposed to be home two hours ago, and-"

"Relax, I'm alright," replied Brianna. She tightened her grip on his shirt, resting her head on his shoulder. "He…saved me…" in seconds she was asleep. Justin felt himself smile.

"Thank you, for bringing her back." The woman's name was Alani, or so she claimed. Justin had helped her clean the girl up and get her to bed, and now they sat talking on the living room sofa.

"It wasn't a problem," he said. He gently fingered the wound on his side, only to see his fingers smeared with blood. "Guess that opened up again."

"You were injured?" she lifted his shirt to see for herself. The narrow cut was more than three inches across, and appeared to lie atop an older wound. "How come you didn't notice?"

He shrugged. "To tell the truth, I'd stopped thinking about it once I saw Brianna. She wouldn't have lasted long if I'd left her how she was. Besides," he added, and ran a finger down the scar on his face. "I've been through worse."

She stared at it, unintentionally looking deeply into his eyes, seeing the mix of emotions that hid there. In a few minutes she shook her head, blushing profusely. "Here, let me fix that up," she murmured, and brought a small box from under the coffee table. It was white, with a red cross on the lid. He spent the next hour thinking of what had occurred, trying to figure out what this Ivory Sun was, and why this cult was willing to kill to get it back.

"The Ivory Sun," he whispered, hearing her laugh. It was mischievous, as though she were a child who'd escaped with a cookie from the jar. A sexy smile formed on her lips as she held up the leather cord on her neck.

"I've got it right here," resting between two of her cherry-red nails was a marble, its etched design too small to make out. Justin lifted a brow; that was it? She laughed.

"Don't worry, it's not the real thing; it's just a replica I made after hearing the story."

She went on to tell him about the cult, which had started in Mexico centuries earlier, spreading to almost every corner of the globe. The sun was one of their relics, supposedly representing the pureness of light; there were supposedly four such relics, each a different stone, each with a different meaning. There was the Obsidian Moon, which was pure evil, and the Jade Dragon, new life, but the last had been lost to the ages. "And now the culture is starting to revive," she finished. "Meaning we're all in danger."

"What do you mean?"

"They are a murderous group," she whispered to him, and shivered. "They call themselves Diablo Paria, and believe they are the ones chosen to rule the new world." She shivered violently. "If you ask me, they're all just insane."

He sighed, looking away. So this is what Nicodemus had warned him of, a threat to the human world? But what did that have to do with them? Anything that threatens them threatens us; it was another of the lines the old rat had given him, possibly another clue, though none of it seemed to fit. "Tell me," he spoke suddenly. "If they do murder someone, what signs would they leave?"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "But I hope I never find out."

He pulled a journal from his pack, flipping through it to the page he was looking for. It showed an image of a star, drawn so that it's five points touched the circle surrounding it. In the center was a word written in Latin: Impura. She gazed at it, lifting horrified eyes to his face…