The Darkness Within (Sanguine Series: Awakening Book 1)

by H. M Reilly

  “You know I don’t deal with supernatural stuff anymore. I haven’t in a very long time,” she said with a frown. Even still, she sighed and turned toward Michael, directing him to lift his shirt. She winced and leaned forward, carefully touching the scratches. “Are you sure this is what’s making him sick? They do look inflamed, but they don’t look supernatural, Bryan.”

  “You don’t think he’s been poisoned?”

  “Depends on how long ago he was scratched, but I don’t think he has from the look of them,” she said, rising from the couch. “How long have you had them?”

  “I dunno,” Michael said. He pulled his shirt back down into place.

  “I’m only a healer, not a doctor. I don’t believe you were, but I can't be sure,” she said. “Maybe you should talk to your uncle about them if you believe it was supernatural. But I will at least treat you. Follow me to the back.”

  Marina made her way out the back door with Bryan and Michael right behind. They crossed the back yard to the large storage shed sitting in the far corner—or the apothecary, as she called it.

  When they stepped inside, they were greeted by the pungent scent of herbs. The scent was strong enough to make their head spin. Soon, they would all have a headache. Several herbs hung from a wire at the far corner. Some looked dry and ready to crumble while others appeared fresh. A set of tall shelves stood fixed in the nearest corner. Dozens of blue jars of varying sizes sat on the shelves; the larger the jar, the lower they sat on the shelves. A couch stood in the front corner and a stove in another.

  Marina crossed to a table sitting in the middle of the room and lit a couple beeswax candles. The table was cluttered with a stack of bowls, a mortar and pestle, and a pair of pruning shears. A branch of dried leaves sat on the table, a few crushed on the surface.

  She reached down and pulled out a stainless-steel bowl from a lower cabinet and placed it on the table. She went over to the shelves and grabbed a few blue jars, taking them to her workbench. Bryan and Michael sat on the old couch near the front door.

  She returned to her shelves and grabbed a box from the top. She brushed the dust off the lid and lifted it, pulling out a handful of branches with a yellow flower on the end. “Aunt Marina, what is that?”

  “This? This is yarrow. It is a common flower used in potions to ward off and protect from the supernatural,” she said. She plucked the flowers and placed them into the mortar to create a powder she dumped into the large bowl. Michael and Bryan watched as she dumped a few more ingredients into the large bowl, water being the last before she started to mix.

  She stepped over to the stove and poured the mixture into another bowl. She reached for a box of matches and turned on the stove, striking one of the matches. Blue flames licked the bottom of the bowl sitting on the burner. She stirred the mixture in the bowl and turned the flame down, turning her attention to the boys. “It will be done shortly. Michael, I need to clean the scratches before I put the salve on it.”

  She reached for another blue jar from her shelves and placed it on the table, grabbing a handful of cotton swabs, and set everything down on the table beside the water. Michael took off his shirt, and Marina moved the salve to another bowl to heat up some water. She called Michael over and went to work, cleaning out any infection found in the scratches.

  She patted the area dry and took one of the cotton swabs, dipping the end into the blue jar on the table. Michael let out a groan at the sharp sting as she spread the salve against the scratches. “Don’t be a baby, Michael,” she said, slathering on another layer of the salve. “You will have scars, but at least they can heal now.”

  Marina grabbed a cup and filled it with some of the hot liquid concoction she made, steam still rising. She blew gently into the cup before handing it over to Michael.

  “You’re going to need to drink every drop of this. I don’t care how nasty it tastes. It’s going to help rid of any poison already in your system. Drink it quick, and it won’t taste so bad. Michael glanced at her, his face still pale from the procedure to clean his wounds. He lifted the brim of the cup to his lips and slammed the drink, grimacing. “You may feel sick later but get some rest, and you should be fine, Michael.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Bryan said.

  “If you need anything else, just give me a call, Bryan.” She stepped over and gave her son a hug before they turned to leave the shed. They stepped outdoors and inhaled the fresh air. In a fit of coughs, they expelled the noxious smoke that had filled their lungs.

  Bryan drove his cousin home, stopping at the taco joint sitting on the corner. They grabbed themselves a dozen tacos and a few drinks to wash them down with. They arrived at Michael’s apartment soon after, where they sat in the living room to eat together.

  “What ya gonna do about Charlotte?” Bryan asked. They divided the tacos and salsa packets into separate piles. Michael glanced over at him, pulling his pile of tacos close. He took one from the pile and unwrapped it, emptying a salsa packet inside.

  “I dunno. We can call Logan to check her out,” he said. “See what he thinks about her. He deals with this shit all the time.”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “No, I don’t.” Michael didn't care what happened to Charlotte. He had been done with her the morning after she slept over, but he wondered what could have happened. He still couldn’t remember anything that would have made her seem supernatural in any capacity. Well, except the sex.

  Sex with her had been different. Not like any other girl he had been with. At the time, he didn’t think much of her expressing her sexual aggression and passion. He knew some girls weren’t shy about enjoying sex; Charlotte just seemed to take it to a whole other level. But now that he thought back to that night, but he knew her response during sex seemed much too weird. What kind of girl had that reaction? When he thought about, he could even swore he’d seen her eyes turn black.

  He didn’t have enough hunting experience to know what she could be. He knew whatever she was, it wasn’t human, and that made him uneasy.

  CHAPTER 10

  A cool breeze snuck in through the nearby cracked window and carried the thick scent of the rain coming from the clouds. A halo glowed above the flickering candlelight as the flame started to die in the corner of the room. A muted crack of thunder broke the silence as it faded into the night.

  It’s such a beautiful night. He dropped his hand from the curtains, holding a glass of bourbon in his other hand, then turned on the heel of his boots and stalked across the large room of his loft apartment. Upon emptying his glass with a gulp, he placed it on the nearest table. He reached for his old pea coat, still draped over the back of the living room chair, and slipped it on as he made his way to the front door.

  The falling rain was nothing more than a steady drizzle, and the fresh scent nearly overwhelmed his senses as he stepped out the front door. The pavement was slick with rain, and a few puddles sat stagnant across the asphalt.

  Silence fell as he walked along the sidewalk, the only sound coming from the nearby drainpipe as water dripped from the end. A car zoomed by as he made his way across the parking lot to his car. He climbed in and started the engine, letting it warm up a little as he rolled down his windows to let the crisp air in. A moment later, he pulled out of his parking space and drove.

  It wasn’t long before he turned down a long, quiet road that led to a large warehouse that sat at the base of the mountains. At least, so it appeared. He drove around the side of the building and parked in the quiet alleyway, then slipped out of his car and made his way to the front door. Water splashed against his boots as he stepped slowly across the cracked pavement, avoiding large puddles of rainwater. He reached for the door and turned the knob, the rusty hinges squeaking as the door swung open.

  To most, Viper's Cavern wasn’t anything special. A warehouse sitting on the edge of Sequoia tucked away at the base of the mountains. To Patrick, it was his baby and his source of income. He opened the Cavern’s do
ors many years ago, right under the noses of unsuspecting humans living in around Sequoia. It was much easier to make money selling booze and other supernatural concoctions than doing the usual demon work Hell expected.

  A plethora of magic warded the Cavern. Some beings stepped through the front door feeling the overwhelming aura, including a handful of humans, but Patrick had lived through centuries surrounded by the hidden magic of the world. He knew the struggle to blend in among the humans, in a world of vampires and shapeshifters, but he struggled with the demon who fought to dominate within him. Many could see the evil in his eyes before he spoke a word to them, and if a single being met his gaze, they would know his name before he disappeared again.

  Patrick wasn’t your typical demon, though. Most demons were damaged souls sent to Hell to be molded for Lucifer’s work. Not Patrick. He had been born a supernatural centuries ago, cursed while still in his human mother's womb. Evil sparked in his veins before he even knew how to control it. Any goodness he felt died long ago with a brief humanity as a child.

  In the crowded bar, Patrick was just a dark-haired man with faded tattoos and a colored Irish brogue. Beneath the dim red light that illuminated the room, the jagged scar on his chest peeked out under his collared shirt, almost glowing. He approached the bar and called, “Has it been busy tonight, Julio?”

  The bartender, a tall man with long limbs and androgynous features, glanced toward the familiar voice. “The usual. Steady. What are you doing here tonight?” He grabbed a clean mug from the shelf, placed it beneath the beer tap, and filled it.

  Patrick stepped behind the bar and reached below, pulling out a bottle he found with ease. He lifted the half-empty bottle towards the light behind him, reading the label of his Irish whiskey. He twisted off the cap and sniffed the contents before pouring himself a drink. His employees all knew about the location of the bottle and knew not to move it.

  On the shelves behind him, there were many different liquids and potions that could poison some or kill others. Sanguine, a wine made of rose petals, could only be consumed by vampires. Other bottles of liquid were formulated for shifters, and there were far more drinks that could harm a human.

  “It has been a while since I’ve been here to grace you with my presence,” he said as he poured himself a generous glass of the golden whiskey. He lifted the glass to his lips, swallowing a gulp.

  “It’s nice of you to join us.”

  “Don’t be a smart mouth, Julio. You should know better than that by now,” he said. Julio lowered his eyes and crossed over to the end of the bar, a redheaded waitress appearing. A smirk appeared on Patrick’s face, and he glanced around the room, holding his glass close. He reached for the bottle and snatched it away. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”

  He opened his office door and flipped on the overhead light, shutting the door behind him. He set the bottle of whiskey down on his desk and parked himself in his chair, then powered on the computer and waited for the sign-on screen to appear, lifting his feet to the desk.

  After putting in his password, he opened his accounting spreadsheet and grabbed the box of receipts sitting on his desk. At least there weren’t many to review. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and twisted the cap off, tossing his head back as he took a drink. Before long, the alcohol flowing through his veins started to take effect, and it was a comfort. He’d learned many years ago that alcohol was the only way to control the dark, lustful urges hiding beneath the surface.

  A couple of hours later, Patrick was just about done with his work when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey once more. A single drop fell to his tongue. He set the bottle back down and rose to his feet, feeling the grasp of alcohol on his senses. He took a glance at the clock and grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.

  He headed out the back door and lifted his eyes up to the clear night sky. A few fluffy clouds hugged the mountains off in the distance, and the snowcapped peaks poked through the mist. He turned down the alley and crossed the parking lot to his matte black convertible, sitting just under the streetlight. He climbed in and turned the key in the ignition, and the sound of his engine growled through the night.

  He pulled out on to the quiet street and rolled down the windows, letting in the cool air. As a demon, his body temperature ran hotter than the average human, but the cold wintery air blasting him in the face didn’t faze him. Instead, the cold air calmed his buzzing head.

  Once he pulled out on to the highway, he reached over and grabbed a small tin box from the glove box. He popped open the lid, finding a handful of hand-rolled cigarettes, and slipped one between his lips. He punched the cigarette lighter on the center console. His phone started to ring. With a glance at the screen, he answered.

  “Lana?” he said.

  “Patrick. I need you,” she answered. Her voice sounded muffled, thick with emotion. She sniffled on the other end. Patrick let out a grumble, puffing on his cigarette.

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “Downtown. I’m here at the coven house. Something…something happened.”

  “You need to tell me what happened, Lana.”

  “It’s Thalia. She’s…dead.”

  He ended the call from his steering wheel and took another drag off the end of his cigarette, a strong sense of urgency, pulling him to find Lana. The bond he shared with her was more than lifesaving magic. Over the years, she’d become the most loyal confidant in his life. At times, she was even more.

  The rain stopped long before he pulled down the alley, but the pavement was still slick. The warmth of his breath misted in the air. Downtown was quiet tonight, but he could still hear and feel the vibrations of the music from the club blocks away. He walked down the alley toward the abandoned building where magical energy hung in the air. The energy wasn’t heavy, but a blue glow appeared around the building. A glow no human could see.

  The magic seemed to envelop him once he stepped through the front door, the rusty hinges creaking with movement. Someone was crying nearby. He lifted his gaze towards the stairs and called out to her. When Lana called back, he crossed the room to the stairs and stepped up, calling out to her once again. "Lana, where are you?"

  "I'm up here," she said. He lifted his eyes. Her silver hair glowed in the darkness. The light of the moon hit his pale skin as he went up the stairs. The head of the serpent tattoo peeked from the collar of his shirt. Dark veins spiderwebbed across his cheeks. The amber of his eyes was swallowed by a crimson hue, his pupils widening, much like a cat’s.

  He could smell the magic in the air thicken as he walked up the stairs. Some of the magic smelled old, like a boiling potion left unattended had burned into the base of a cauldron. The copper aroma of old blood reached his nose when he reached the top of the stairs, following the sound of sniffles.

  Lana sat on the floor. A pile of black dust coated the floorboards. "She was murdered, Patrick. Thalia."

  “I can smell it,” he said.

  She rose from the floor, lifting her hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Who could do this? She was a powerful witch.”

  Patrick stepped forward and crouched down beside the pile of black dust. He gently brushed a finger over the dust that once was Thalia, Lana’s coven master. The dark stain on the floorboards could only be blood. He rose to his feet, meeting Lana's violet eyes still red with tears.

  He stepped past her and crossed into another room. Piles of books and a few old scrolls sat on a shelf in the far corner. The table and couch sitting in the middle of the room were faded and worn. A few burns scarred the dark blue material of the couch. A pile of old branches on the carpet and candles were fixed carefully placed around the room. A cauldron perched on the coffee table. Blood stained the floor, and another pile of gray ash had been scattered.

  As he approached the pile of ash, a glimmer caught the corner of his eye. He crouched down and found a bullet on the floor. He examined the bullet’s familiar markings, steam rising from his skin as the silver
burned his skin. He had seen the markings etched into the bullet before.

  The Eaton witch family, a family nearly as old as he, which he faced more than once in his lifetime. The last time he had faced the Eaton's was a few centuries before. He still wore the wide pale scar across his chest like a badge of honor. Great-great Grandpa Eaton was a well-known hunter in the magic community. His name became infamous because of his views on keeping black magic out of rituals, which led him to murder fellow witches and the demons they consorted with. As the story goes, he was hanged for violence towards his own kind.

  Patrick had known about that family and their legacy for centuries. The Eaton's came from one of the most powerful lines of magic, but they were also one of the most despised in the magical world. And Patrick heard the Eaton hunter was no exception. Many whispered about the hunter’s prowess, making him well known throughout the country’s underground culture.

  “Is everything okay, Patrick?”

  “Everything will be fine, love,” he said, rising from the floor. He gave her a crooked smile, and she stepped up to him. He lifted his arm and pulled her close. She rested her head against his shoulder, slipping an arm around him. “We’ll find who did this, Lana.”

  “How, Patrick?”

  “I have my ways. You should know this. After centuries…I have my ways.” The crimson of his eyes began to fade to his normal glowing amber irises. His feline shaped pupils were still wide as he stepped away. “We’ll find them, Lana.”

  He sat on the couch and leaned back against the cushions. He played with the bullet in his hand, feeling the silver burn, rolling the piece between his fingers. He stared at the pile of dust on the floor. Lana crossed the room to join him on the couch. “Who could be strong enough to overpower her?”

  "That's not something for you to worry about, love," he said. He glanced over at her, and she moved closer to him, wiping away the last of the tears from her cheeks. He slipped an arm around her again.