In the Dark

  IN THE DARK

  Melody Taylor

  Copyright 2013 Melody Taylor

  Kindle Edition

  http://howdoyouwriteanovel.wordpress.com

  Cover design by David Anderson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, businesses or incidents, is purely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  A sound startled Donal awake. He opened his eyes to darkness, sleep muzzy and confused. He raised himself up on one elbow to look over the single room of the house. Whatever noise had woken him, he did not hear it now. The fire had burned down to embers, leaving everything in dim, shadowy light. Nothing seemed amiss – wooden cups and bowls still stacked where Sarah had put them, the cast iron pot hung on its hook and the door was firmly latched.

  Donal relaxed a little, then more when he still heard nothing. With a sigh, he settled in to stare at the thatch and waited to drift back to sleep.

  His eyelids had begun to droop when he heard the sound again. He held his breath at the same time his eyes came open, listening.

  Outside. The sheep, bleating in a panic, now closer and louder, now far and quiet. With his breath held, Donal could just hear their hooves thudding against the ground.

  Damn wolves.

  Sarah tensed beside him and snuggled close. Likely awakened by the same noise.

  “Wolves after the flock.” He brushed his lips to her cheek. “I’ll chase them off.”

  She set a hand on his arm. “I don’t think it’s wolves this time,” she murmured. “Listen.”

  Frowning, he paused. Over the pop of the fire and the desperate cries of the sheep, he heard nothing. The last time wolves had attacked, he’d been woken by the sounds of snarling, barking, howling. Now – none of that. The sheep might have been terrified of the moon. A cold shiver crawled up Donal’s spine.

  Witchery? Or the demon dog the old women told stories of, the Cu Sith . . .

  He refused to consider it. Nonsense. Tales to frighten children with, to scare one another at festivals. But his hands were unsteady as he pushed himself off the pallet.

  “Whatever it is, I’ll chase it off. I’m not of a mind to lose the flock to wolves or witches.”

  Sarah sat up with him. “I’ll help.”

  Donal set a hand on her shoulder, holding her there. If it were something other than wolves, he did not want her out there.

  “Don’t you worry,” he said, forcing his voice calm. “If I need you, I’ll holler. Don’t imagine it’ll take many to run them off.”

  Her lips tightened as though she might insist. Donal waited for it, already forming arguments in his mind – but she only nodded, her cloudy blue eyes glinting in the firelight. He squeezed her shoulder briefly, though he longed to climb back into bed and hold her close.

  Instead he crept across the hard-packed dirt floor, cold on his feet. At the door he paused, thinking. He’d left the pitchfork along the wall outside; if he went quietly enough, he should be able to find it before he tried to chase anything away. Wolves or demons, he wanted some sort of weapon.

  He stepped out into the chilly dark, wishing for more light. The stone walls of the house, the wooden fenceposts – all were uncomfortably shadowy. The gray shapes of the sheep ran madly inside their pen, scattering, then recollecting. No darker shapes bounded after them, no sign at all of any wolves.

  Maybe just one, Donal told himself. That’s why no howls, no movement. It has no mates to call to and it has one sheep down already.

  Repeating that to himself, he put his hand out to feel for the pitchfork and slipped to the corner of the house. His hand brushed a few wooden handles; the shovel, his staff. Searching by feel seemed to take far too long. He tightened his jaw and kept groping for the pitchfork.

  The sheep had collected in one corner of the pen now, shoving against each other to keep back from the thing that had their mate. The silence in the pen made Donal pause. Perhaps the beastie had run off, leaving no need for the pitchfork. He turned, slowly, and felt a small relief when he saw only the sheep in their pen.

  Until he saw the eyes.

  A single pair of them, too high up to be something small like a wolf. He had missed them before, looking too low. They glowed brightly despite the dark, set in a shadowed shape Donal wanted to call “man.” But no man had eyes like that.

  Demon – Witch – Dear God!

  Donal choked and grabbed for the pitchfork. His fingers hit it too hard, sent it tumbling instead of catching it. The wooden handle cracked against the ground, out of reach.

  “Damn!”

  He snapped his mouth shut over the curse and shot a look at the pen.

  The eyes turned toward him, as if they had not noticed him until that moment. Donal swallowed. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple.

  In a flash of movement, it came for him. Donal fell to his knees, slapping the ground for the pitchfork. The shadow-man vaulted the fence easily. Donal could not make out the face in the blackness. If those terrible eyes could glow in the moon’s light, he should have been able to see the face.

  His hand landed on rough wooden tines. The pitchfork!

  A cold hand landed on the back of his neck. It pulled him up and off his feet. The pitchfork slipped from his hands to land with a dull clatter. He found himself facing hard gold-brown eyes.

  Now that he could see the creature he wished he could not. He saw only a man’s face, shockingly ordinary, except for those eyes. Wild, animal eyes that did not belong to a person. Donal trembled.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he whispered.

  It jerked him closer.

  Knives stabbed into his neck. He yelled out, like a frightened sheep himself. In a disconnected part of his mind he realized he was screaming for Sarah to run. He only wished she would hear.

  Arms too strong to be a man’s held him to a cold body. The knives withdrew from his neck –

  Not knives, he realized numbly. Teeth.

  It had bitten him.

  Donal struggled, but those arms held him tight. A mouth – cold as ice, but a soft, wet mouth all the same – touched his neck, searching out the wound there.

  Almighty God, what devilry –

  He felt a gentle suction at his neck, then heard the wet sound of a swallow. It was drinking his blood. As he might drink from a waterskin.

  “Sarah! Run!”

  His struggles grew weaker while the arms that held him became impossibly stronger. His voice slowly failed him, until he called out in confusion for a reason he no longer recalled. The world around him faded to gray, then into emotionless black.

  * * *

  He surged awake to pain!

  Every limb, every inch of skin, every fiber of muscle burned from inside out. Donal screamed. The pain faded as fast as it had happened, leaving only a searing memory.

  He lay crumpled on the ground while the thing that had attacked him fled, a dark shape vanishing into the night.

  Shaking and weak, he forced himself to his feet, only to cause another jolt of pain. He cringed as it stabbed through him, centered in his stomach. A dull, heavy, hungry feeling.

  Hungry. Starving. That must be the cause of the pain. He stumbled back to the door. Hunger didn’t matter. Pain didn’t matter. Sarah mattered.

  He fell as he stepped inside and could not find strength to push himself up again. He heard her footsteps as she ran to him. Heard her crying his name.

  “I’m here, love, I’m here.” His voice was small and cracked. She pulled him close and held him. Her hands felt red-hot, scalding where she touched.

  “You’re cold,” she said, “you’re cold, come by the fire, get warm.
” Her tears thupped hot against his skin.

  Another wave of agony pulsed through him. “I’m here, love,” he said again. “I’m all right. I’m so hungry. Please love, is there any stew left? Any at all? I’m so hungry.”

  “I’ll look.” She leaned forward to kiss him before she stood. The pain surged through him again. Pain mixed with desperate need.

  “Donal?”

  He found himself holding her, his hand clenched at the back of her neck, found himself –

  – biting her.

  Stop!

  He could not stop. He was so hungry, so hungry, and what he tasted now sated him in a way bread or water or even wine never had.

  He tried to pull away, horrified at himself – his body would not obey. Against his will he swallowed. With every sip, he felt himself healing, strengthening. He only needed a little more –

  – blood.

  “Donal, stop!”

  Stop!

  Impossible.

  An eternity seemed to pass. At last Sarah fell, drooping across his chest, gasping. At last the hunger began to fade, letting him take hold of his own body and release his wife.

  He sat up holding her. A dizziness swept over him as he did, an exhaustion so intense he could feel himself falling asleep. He sank back to the floor, holding Sarah tight.

  “Sarah, love, can you hear me?” His voice came out an intoxicated blur. She weighed heavy in his arms and did not answer.

  “Sarah, I’m all right now, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” His concern flagged as his eyelids drifted shut. He had fought himself as hard as he could, surely he hadn’t hurt her. Surely all they both needed was to rest.

  “Donal?” she said, a breath of sound.

  He stroked her hair and let his eyes close. “I’m here, love.”

  “Donal, I love you.”

  Her voice sounded weaker than his. She must be even more tired.

  “Sleep, love,” he murmured. “Sleep.”

  The feel of her hair and the sounds of the room faded into black. Donal fell deeply asleep.

  IAN

  The woman’s head seemed wrong somehow. I stepped back from my easel, paintbrush in hand, frowning. I wanted an abstract self-portrait, mostly in greens and blacks. The background looked right – downtown Seattle, melting in the rain – but her head wouldn’t cooperate. It seemed misshapen. Her face looked how I wanted, and her hair seemed fine close up. Except when taken all together, she looked wrong. I scowled and resisted checking the mirror to see if I had some deformity I didn’t know about.

  With one eye shut I took another step back, hoping maybe I was being too critical and if I looked at her head objectively it would come out right. It didn’t seem chopped off on the top . . . didn’t seem too round or too thin . . .

  “Ian!”

  Hands grabbed my shoulders! I shrieked and whirled, striking out with my paintbrush like a dagger –

  And left a gray acrylic streak across Kent’s face.

  He put his hands up in surrender and backed away laughing. I stomped my foot and flicked my paintbrush at him.

  “Don’t do that!”

  He faked a flinch, still grinning. “You should have seen the look on your face!”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “You should see yours. Starting a new fashion statement? Tribal acrylic?”

  He wiped at the gray steak and only made more of a mess. “Totally worth it.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him for good measure and turned back to my deformed woman. As soon as I turned, I forgot to pretend to be upset with Kent. She was messed up. I stared at her staring at me.

  “Dammit.”

  “Painting’s not your strongest suit,” Kent said behind me. He sounded patient and understanding. Trying to convince me to feel the same way.

  I shrugged.

  “Why don’t you work from the sketch I saw you make?” he asked. “You seem happier with your paintings when you do.”

  “Threw it away,” I mumbled.

  “Why?”

  I shifted in my spot. “I feel like I’m on crutches when I work that way. I should be able to paint from my head.”

  “But that’s your technique.” Kent set his hands on my shoulders. “If someone said they should be able to draw without copying from real life first, what would you tell them?”

  I sighed. I knew the answer. “I know, it’s just not the same –”

  “What would you tell them?” he insisted, squeezing my shoulders gently.

  I sighed again, harder. “I’d tell them they have to learn somewhere.”

  Kent laughed. “Hey, it’s your own advice, remember? Be patient with yourself. You have a long, long time to figure this out.”

  “Yeah.” That didn’t make me feel a lot better. I wanted to create masterpieces now. I put off saying more by dipping my paintbrush back into the paint. Kent let my shoulders go and stepped back, watching. In a matter of seconds, pretense became real, and I was distracted trying to get her head right. If I added some more hair and smoothed it all out, she might come out okay . . .

  “Meow!”

  I turned and smiled at Gypsy, weaving her way between Kent’s legs in a desperate bid for affection. I didn’t know how he could resist her. She was the cutest little black kitty in the tri-state area. But he ignored her.

  “Kent, pick the kitty up,” I chided – the look on his face stopped me.

  His eyes were far away, glistening red, the corners of his mouth turned down. It took him a second to notice I’d said his name. When he did, the expression on his face vanished, turning guilty instead. “Hm?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Shouldn’t it be?”

  “What was that look for?”

  “What look?” he asked, all innocence.

  I screwed up my face to mimic the intense, thoughtful expression he’d had.

  He shook his head. “Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  He smiled again, but a heavier, less playful smile this time. “When you’ve lived to be two hundred and twenty-five, see if you don’t just stand around and think about stuff sometimes.”

  “Yes, oh ancient one,” I intoned, raising my hands over my head. “I hear and obey.”

  He aimed a finger at me. “And don’t you forget it, little girl.”

  I dropped the worshipful pose. “So what were you thinking?”

  He glanced at his watch instead of answering. I sighed and waited for what I knew he’d say next.

  “We better get ready and go if I don’t want to be late.”

  Right on cue. I pouted, but Kent grinned at me, and I dropped it so I could get my brushes soaking. No point in trying to get him to talk. He’d just keep repeating himself.

  “Late like last time?” I asked over my shoulder. “And the time before that, and the time before that, and . . .”

  He rolled his hand in the air. “Yeahyeahyeah. Let’s go.”

  “Do I get to get dressed first?” I struck a pose in my over-sized paint-splattered tee shirt and ripped jeans.

  “What, no nudity?”

  I rolled my eyes and brushed past him out of my studio. “Whatever my mother thinks, we are not that close.”

  “Sometimes I like your mom’s ideas,” he shouted after me.

  “My mom doesn’t like you.”

  “I didn’t say I agreed with all her ideas. Just the naked ones.”

  With a short laugh I tromped down the stairs into the basement. I flicked on the light in my room, eyeing it suspiciously again – I thought vampires were supposed to have nifty see-in-the-dark powers. If we did, Kent had never said anything to me about it.

  A lot of legends aren’t true, I reminded myself. That’s probably just another one.

  I pulled off my paint-stained clothes and threw them on the floor. I’d already picked something more appropriate for Kent’s show tonight. He sang for an industrial band called Dark Rage and they had a gig at the Half-Moon, the fetish club
in Seattle. So I’d gotten out my red mini dress with the leather buckle straps and very little fabric – silk, of course. With it went some fish-net tights and my favorite pair of knee-high black leather boots. My hair went up into a bun with an ornamental pair of hair needles, and a little black eyeshadow and red lipstick finished the look. The dress slid on like a second skin, but I couldn’t reach the zipper in the back. I knew this from the last time I’d worn it and only tried briefly to see if I’d gotten more flexible since then.

  Boots in hand, I flipped off the light and ran back up in stocking feet. I found Kent waiting upstairs in the disaster area that we called a living room. Walls over-crowded with paintings, sketches, masks, scarves and stuff that inspired us; floor covered in LPs, CDs, guitars, sound equipment, sketch pads and pencils. We each had our own studios, but that didn’t mean the mess stayed there. Kent had a delighted Gypsy getting a good chin-scratching in his arms. His face was streak-free.

  “Zip me?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow, still scratching Gypsy. “The red one? How cliché.”

  “How not cliché is that black one you always pick?”

  He gave me the “sage wisdom” face. “Dahling, vhat you do not know is zat vee ver vearing black long before zee mortals picked up on how chic it is.”

  “This one shows off my legs,” I insisted. “The black one’s long. Come on, zip me!”

  He sighed and let Gypsy hop down. “Ah, vell, I never said I chose you for your taste,” he said, and zipped up the back.

  “Bitch, please.”

  He slapped a hand to his chest, all wounded dignity. “I’m just trying to give you good advice. You look as zo you are dressed for laundry day, a vampire all in red! Dahling, really!”

  “Dahling, black is no better.” I waved a hand at him. He was in all black. Though on him it added to his “tall, blond and handsome.” Sprayed-on black shirt over his defined muscles, black leather bondage pants, heavy engineer boots. Yummy. It was almost too bad I didn’t want to complicate our friendship with sex.

  “You vill make a mockery of me yet,” he complained. “Zo you do look lovely – for a mortal.”