Dark Arts for Bright Hearts

Chapter 1Jet slipped through the shadows of the club, unnoticed, unheard. He was solitary, friendless— “Hey, Trevor,” Jonno said casually. Jet gritted his teeth. “Hi, Jonno. Hi, Tear.” He didn’t call them Jonathan and Tracy, although it was tempting. Jet wasn’t a jerk; he respected peoples’ pronouns and name-changes. He moved on before his classmates could introduce him to the people at their table as Trevor. Or worse, not introduce him at all, so that he was left standing there awkwardly, unsure whether or not to sit down. This was the problem with turning eighteen after everyone else. They’d already been coming to Club Nox, first while he had been writing papers and taking exams, and then while he was working at the library or reading alone in his room. Now summer was almost over and everyone had their groups and were getting ready to leave town for college or move on to grown-up jobs. And here was Jet, pretending to not care. He checked his black-dyed hair in a deliberately fogged mirror. Why didn’t a town the size of Overlook have more than one Goth club? Someplace he could meet sympathetic strangers. “Good night.” A voice like velvet stroked Jet’s spine. He turned to see a gaunt but hot person a couple years older than him considering him in the mirror. The stranger had long black hair that looked like it might be natural, and wore eyeliner, tight leather pants, a frothy black shirt, heeled boots, and a pendant the size of a fist with an ease that suggested he’d had no third or even second thoughts about leaving the house dressed like that. “Hey,” Jet breathed. He dug his nails into his palm and reminded himself to be indifferent. “I haven’t seen you here before,” the stranger said. It was a statement, as if he would certainly have noticed Jet had they passed in the shadows. That was flattering. “It’s my birthday,” Jet admitted. “What a coincidence. It’s my birthday, too.” He stepped closer. “It must be fate, us meeting here. Let me buy you a drink.” He turned in a swirl of silky hair and lacey fabric and headed down the hall before Jet could answer. Jet followed more slowly, not wanting to look desperate or excited. Hope was something he generally avoided, but he couldn’t help it right now. He blamed hormones. The stranger was already coming back before Jet reached the bar, a bottle of wine dangling from one pale, long-fingered hand. “They would only give me one glass without a second ID, but we can share. Have you seen the balcony yet?” “No…” He took Jet’s hand and tugged him behind a velvet curtain, which hid a staircase leading up. Jet let himself be led, in awe of the stranger’s confidence, and amazed, if slightly confused, that he wanted to spend time with Jet. Jet had pictured something like the balcony of the auditorium at school, only darker, but what he found himself entering was much smaller, like, what were those things in opera houses called? A box, tiny and private, the rest of the club out of sight unless you leaned over the railing, just a distant murmur of voices and music. The balcony would have held maybe six people if they’d had seats. There weren’t chairs, though, just a round café table on which his host placed the bottle after filling the glass with red wine. He wrapped Jet’s fingers around the stem, but didn’t remove his own. “To a fateful night.” He took the first mouthful, then pressed the glass to Jet’s lips. Jet’s pulse beat in his throat, making it hard to swallow. The alcohol eased the lump, though, and relaxed his tense spine. It was surprisingly good, soft and full in his mouth. He had drunk wine once before, from a box, and once some peppermint schnapps Tear had stolen from her older brother. Those illicit sips hadn’t been anything like this wine: rich and dark. The stranger took another drink, then Jet did. Somehow the glass was almost empty. The stranger was still holding his hand. “I’m Jet,” he blurted. “Jet. You can call me Darken.” Damn, even his name was cooler than Jet’s. “How do you, um, identify?” “I’m a damned soul,” Darken pronounced. “I meant, uh, pronouns?” “He is fine. Or they. Whichever. You?” “He.” Jet had considered they, but it might have led to questions he didn’t feel like answering. Anyway, his family still called him Trev no matter how many times he asked them not to, so it would probably have been a wasted effort. Darken was refilling the glass. He drank, then held the glass to Jet’s lips, saying, “To many happy returns of the night.” Jet swallowed. If he had tried to feed someone wine he would probably have poured it all over them. “About being, uh, damned,” Jet asked. “Do you believe that?” “You don’t?” “Hell is a state of being.” Jet hadn’t come up with that line, alas. And it hadn’t reassured his grandmother when she first saw his new look and was convinced he was going to Hell. She’d been so upset, which in turn had made his mom so upset, that he’d relented and promised that he was not worshipping Satan. Maybe he’d wait until Grammy died before mentioning the whole pansexuality thing. It wasn’t like he was beating boys off with a stick. Or girls, either. At least, not before tonight. Darken was still looking at him over the rim of the wineglass. He had a way of smiling with his eyes instead of his mouth that Jet really…liked. As if they were sharing a secret joke about the world. Maybe if Jet didn’t talk too much, Darken wouldn’t realize Jet didn’t know the punchline. Jet took another gulp of wine and looked for a subject change. “Cool pendant. Different.” The pendant was a heart—an anatomically correct one, about the size of a real heart, Jet thought. It was black, but when Darken turned it in his fingers, it caught the light and glinted dark red inside. “Do you want my heart, Jet?” Darken asked softly. “I’ll give it to you.” He lifted Jet’s hand and pressed it to his chest, palm covering the pendant. Jet could feel the throb of his heartbeat and the warmth of his skin. “A birthday gift,” Darken added. “Oh, that would be too much.” Dammit, Jet’s voice was trembling. “Well, then, you could give me something in exchange,” Darken suggested. “How about a kiss?” Jet felt his face go hot. He wished he could tell whether Darken were joking. He wished he knew whether he wanted Darken to be joking, or not. “That doesn’t seem like a fair trade,” Jet said as lightly as he could. “I’d be getting a bargain.” Darken stepped closer, almost touching. “Do you know how jet comes into being?” Darken murmured in Jet’s ear. “It hardens under extreme pressure. There are two types of jet. They look the same, but one is more likely to crack.” His voice flexed hard on the last word. His lips brushed Jet’s earlobe. “I bet I know which type you are, kitten.” His lips slipped over Jet’s earlobe. He sucked it, then bit. Jet whimpered. He could feel the flutter of his pulse in his ear, as if Darken had Jet’s throat between his teeth. When Darken let go, Jet turned his face and gave him his mouth. Jet had imagined situations in which he might kiss someone. There would be a boy or a girl in black and they would walk in the woods and talk about the emptiness of life, or sit and read poetry to each other. The kiss he had imagined was mostly chaste and did not involve teeth or spit or the taste of wine. He definitely would not have had the nerve to suck that imaginary first date’s tongue or press his leg between their thighs the way Darken was doing. Both Jet’s arms were around Darken, and Darken’s hands were on his back and thigh, and he thought dimly that they must have dropped the glass, but he couldn’t care now, just like he couldn’t care about how he was grinding on a stranger in a strange place and how if Darken didn’t stop soon, Jet was going to come. Darken didn’t stop, and neither did Jet. He closed his eyes and let pleasure sweep over him like a dark curtain.