by E. S. Carter
Also by E.S. Carter
Love By Numbers
Nineteen
Twenty One
Three
Thirteen
One
The Red Order
Feyness
Parasight (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at E.S. Carter’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by E.S. Carter
About Parasight
Quote
Poem
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Copyright 2017 by E.S. Carter
The Love by Numbers series
Nineteen
Twenty-One
Three
Thirteen
One
The Red Order series
Feyness
Parasight
I am drowning in darkness.
My limbs submerged in inky tar, my lungs asphyxiated by the stench of death’s hold.
My eyes see nothing but black.
Yet I see him.
And I am not scared.
I should be.
Don’t look into my eyes, for my demons will eat you alive.
My devil inside will feast on your soft flesh. His jagged teeth will tear the meat from your bones and drink the light from your soul.
His scars will turn the innocent into sinful and drag you into his dark pit of hell.
No light lives within this disfigured shell.
I am a vessel for pain.
Giving and receiving.
It feeds me.
It nourishes me.
It holds me close like the arms of a lover and whispers to me in the twilight.
They say the devil was once an angel.
There is no angel inside me.
I do not seek repentance nor forgiveness.
I do not crave things as weak as love.
My desire for her is purely selfish and once my appetite is sated she will be unlucky to leave with her life.
When she looks into my eyes, my demons will eat her alive.
*Book #2 of ‘The Red Order’ series. Can be read as a standalone, but to understand the full storyline consider beginning the journey with Feyness*
**WARNING**
Parasight is a dark standalone that follows on from the first book in the ‘Red Order’ series – Feyness.
Readers of a sensitive disposition may want to step away from the book. Step away, nothing to see here.
Readers who like to dance on the dark side, come on in and enjoy the ride.
This book is for adult audiences only and, as such, may contain graphic violence and scenes of an explicit or sexual nature.
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” – Oscar Wilde
You came back.
You liked the darkness.
You thirsted for more.
Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.
Grim
“No. Please, Mother. I don’t want to.”
“Get up, you pathetic brat. Stop snivelling and show your father you’re worthy of his name.”
My hands grasp uselessly at the hem of her expensive, cashmere trousers. My tears fall off my chin in fat droplets, landing on her patent leather shoes. Their salty fear rolls over the slick surface in redundant rivulets.
The knife reappears in my peripheral vision; the glint of shiny, silver metal dazzling me, begging me to turn my head and look, to take it. It’s nothing more than a steak knife; highly polished by one of the servants who wait on my family. The black bone handle shaped for comfort in your palm, the serrated edge perfect for carving into thick cuts of meat.
“Take the fucking knife, Henry,” he finally orders, his voice a quiet, calm and authoritative level, strikingly opposite to his words.
The small girl strapped to the low, metal table whimpers and my blurry gaze lands on her powder white face. Her dark brown eyes sunken and wide, stare at me begging me to help her. I can smell her fear; it’s pungent like sewage and burns the inside of my nose. When she pisses herself and the warm, yellow liquid rolls off the edge of the table, splattering on the concrete floor, I cower behind my mother’s leg and swallow down the bile burning the back of my throat.
She looks no older than me, five, maybe six years old and I don’t know who she is or from where she’s come. I’ve never encountered another child here. Not one of the staff on our estate has any children for me to play with, so her presence is confusing. Plus, she’s completely naked and so painfully skinny that I can see each one of her ribs in high definition.
“Henry,” my father warns, waving the knife he holds between his fingers and extending it towards me. “Take the knife and do what your mother has just told you.”
I look from the knife to the girl’s tear stained face. Snot dribbles from both her nostrils and pools against a cloth gag. The saturated fabric, a frieze of pastel coloured animals, is unable to absorb any more liquid.
“Do, it, now. Don’t make me tell you again, boy.”
The order is loud in my ears despite the words being said in a measured, even tone.
My mother’s hand threads through my hair, and I lean into the contact. But it isn’t meant to soothe me. With callous fingers, she grips my skull and drags me forward. The knife is now just inches from my face. All I have to do is reach out and take it, and all this stops. I can close my eyes and pretend it never happened. I can climb the stairs to my wing of our house and crawl into my bed. It can all be a dream.
My body stills as I reach out for the weapon. My arm stops trembling, and my steady hand extends to grip the handle; the skin-warmed bone feeling foreign in my grasp.
A smile breaks out over my father’s handsome face when my fingertips make contact, and my mother’s fingers loosen in my hair.
“Good boy, Henry,” she coos. “Now plunge it straight into her throat. Don’t be afraid, child. It’s just like carving into Cook’s roast dinner.”
I turn my head and look up at my mother. Her elegant features are serene, not an ounce of malice, hysteria or evil paints her face. This, what she’s asking me to do, is normal to her. Wanting me to carve into a little girl means nothing to her. No, that’s incorrect; it proves my worth to her, to the Renshaw name.
I let my eyes search her face for any signs of wrongness; my young mind needing the comfort of an adult’s approval.
All this is just a game, just a dream. Mother and Father say it’s okay, it’s not wrong, they want me to do this for them.
I turn and take another look at my father, needing more of his approval to ward off the cold that has penetrated my chest, and I see the same look on his face as on my mother’s; pride, acceptance, and a hint of excitement. Why is he excited? Is it because I’m honouring the famil
y name?
An encouraging tilt of his head towards the girl has me taking a step forward on sure and steady legs.
Plunge it into her throat.
Will that make her bleed a lot?
Will this girl die?
My eyes land on the bruised column of her neck. Her white skin mottled with blotches of black and purple. I follow the patterns on her skin, up to her chin, over the cloth covering her mouth. I sweep briefly over her freckled nose and land on her fear filled brown eyes.
My steady arm begins to mirror the slight trembling of her body. My hand that holds the knife flinches as she starts to sob. Each blink of her horrified eyes brings fresh tears. Why must I hurt her? What has she done? I want to ask if she’s done something naughty. If this is a punishment of some kind, but I know I haven’t been naughty and yet it feels like punishment for me too.
“Do it, son,” my father demands. His voice once level now holds a hint of anticipation.
“Henry,” my mother soothes, “do as your father tells you.” A slight hitch in her breath is the only giveaway to the change in the air around us.
My hand rises. The blade points directly at its target. I step forward, and my body is close enough to feel the vibrations echo through the table as the small girl quivers against the metal. Higher and higher my arm lifts. The jagged blade screams at me to sink it into her abused flesh.
Once more my eyes find hers, and she blinks once, a slow, smooth closing of her lids. When they reopen a few seconds later her trembling stops, and she stills. The stench of fear dissipates as if a fresh wind has blown through the room and taken with it the reek of horror.
Her head nods almost imperceptibly.
“Do it. It’s okay.” I hear whispered through my mind.
“No. I don’t want to.” I whisper back.
I bring my hand down swiftly, my eyes locked on the girl’s and at the last moment I fling the knife into the far corner of the room. It hits the ground with a metallic clatter against the smooth concrete floor and the girl’s eyes lift at the corners before she closes them on what I imagine is a smile.
“Henry!” my mother screeches right before her cruel hands wrap around my upper arms and drag me back from the table. My feet leave the floor and I am tossed to the side where I land heavily on my hip. I scramble backwards until my back hits the far wall, wincing as pain arcs down my left side.
“You worthless piece of shit!” she screams as she strides towards the knife I threw away, bending to pick it up and then storming towards me. The pride in her eyes has turned into raging anger. She looks inhumane as her long graceful neck draws taut, and her jaw bulges from the sides of her face as her whole façade contorts with fury.
I bring my knees up and wrap my arms around my shins, tucking my face into my lap, trying to make myself as small as possible. She reaches me and stops dead. Her breathing is erratic, and her foot taps incessantly on the floor by my side.
Silence reigns. My breathing stops. Then pain slices through my ribs.
“Get up!” she roars, before landing another kick to my side. I feel a crack as agony steals my breath. Then her free hand is in my hair, dragging me to my feet as I open my eyes to pointlessly look at my father for help.
He’s not paying any attention to his wife or me as she beats me black and blue. He stands over the table that holds the bound form of the young girl. I watch as he produces a larger knife from the inside pocket of his hand-tailored suit and with precise, swift movements, he carves at her throat. The girl’s legs twitch a few times and then she stills. Where her piss previously poured over the ledge of the table, now blood takes its place and runs in thick, dark rivers.
A keening noise fills the room, and I want to put my hands over my ears to block it out, but I can’t let go of my mother’s wrist as she grips at my scalp. It feels like she’s ripping out my hair from the roots.
“Shut him up, Emily,” my father instructs as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
The noise in the room is me.
My mother tugs hard, pulling my head back and exposing my throat.
“You’re not a Renshaw. You’re pathetic.”
I watch as my father mounts the table and proceeds to thrust over the girl. His movements rock the metal frame causing more blood to spill from the edges.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy.”
My mother tugs hard once more. My neck stretched back so far that I can’t drag in any air to my lungs.
“I should just kill you and be done with it. You’re not fit to be our son. But you’ll soon learn, boy. You’ll soon understand the life you could’ve had. It’s just a shame you’ll see it from the other side of the table.”
Her free hand draws back and I wait for the slap.
It’s not her hand she brings down to my face. It’s the knife.
Pain sears like acid across my skin as she slowly drags the edge from my top lip across my cheek. My eyes flutter and close, the air in my lungs evaporates and with each slow blink I will myself away from this room.
Blink.
My father ruts into the body of a dead girl while my mother carves into her own child.
Blink.
Pure ecstasy twinkles in the depths of her mossy green eyes as she follows the movements of the knife across my face.
Blink.
A single diamond sparkles brightly in her earlobe.
Blink.
It’s the last thing I see before my world, my life and my childhood gets extinguished.
Blink.
Grim
Money doesn’t buy sense.
This fucker is a perfect example.
The sprawling estate would appear heavily protected to the untrained eye, but a couple of pussy-boy guards and a few Rottweilers does not an army make.
I killed the guards, and the dogs now obey my orders. I’m like a modern day Crocodile Dundee but without the stupid hat or pathetic necklace made of teeth. The trophies I wear around my neck are more than prizes won by wrestling wild animals. I paid for them with my blood, my flesh and my sanity. That makes them priceless.
This hit is personal.
It’s years in the making.
Gaining entry to the main house is as simple as using the severed hand of one of the guards to activate the fingerprint scanner.
The oak double doors swing open, beckoning me into the luxurious abode like the arms of a mother, welcoming home her son from war.
My mother.
I absentmindedly trace my fingers across the pendant that hangs around my neck. The skin is supple like the softest buttery leather. Months of wear morphing the object into something tactile, sinuous and worthy of my touch. It brings me comfort to trace the remnants of cartilage, feeling it flex under my fingers. My fingers stop their caress when I reach the large, diamond solitaire stud pierced through the once fleshy shell. She always was a proud, ostentatious bitch. Wearing her wealth gave her a false sense of power. That power belongs to me now. I took it from her. I took everything from her.
As I step into the lavish entryway, I tuck the last surviving piece of the woman who birthed me under the loose fabric of my t-shirt. I’m ready for battle, my axe in one hand, my beloved Busse Battle Mistress ten-inch hunting knife, affectionately called ‘Missy’, in my other.
The majestic house is eerily silent.
Not a soul approaches me; no one attempts to halt the imminent massacre. It all feels too easy. Maybe it’s just my lucky day. Maybe not. Let’s find out.
Not bothering with stealth, I charge up the grand staircase, following the path of old memories. I must’ve been no more than five or six when I was last here, yet, like all of my childhood recollections, the layout of this grand house seared itself into my brain.
I pass numerous doors, my heavy boots loud on the polished floors until I halt at the master suite. I know that behind this door is an extravagantly decorated room, with chandeliers, ornate fixtures and Louis XIII furniture. An ostentatious attempt to
mask the filth it conceals.
Sure enough, the lavish suite is exactly as I recall, even down to the hidden doorway. My eyes land on it immediately, and my feet are moving before my brain has caught up.
He’s in there. I can feel him, crawling over my skin.
I can feel his fat fingers penetrating my young body. I can smell his expensive cologne as it mixes with his sweat and drips into my eyes.
Fear is unwelcome here. I am not that boy; I’m the angel of death.
Movement behind me snaps me from these unwanted thoughts, and I spin around, weapons raised, arms poised to strike.
The hallway behind me fills with naked bodies. Men, women and children are all herded towards the exit by two women in servant’s uniforms. The older one of the two stops dead as soon as she realises I’ve caught her in my sights, and she bravely tugs at the arms of two small children at her sides until she shields their bodies with hers.
“Are you here to kill us all?”
I cock my head, ignoring her question and appraising the body language of the children she protects.
Their skinny, bruised frames do not shake with fear. They have been trained to obey, conditioned to believe that their lives are not their own and that their bodies are just vessels for the pleasure of others.
“Would they not be better off dead?” I motion with my axe to the children behind her.
“No!” Her vehement reply shocks her into silence, and I raise my eyebrows in challenge. For all I know she is a willing accomplice.
Her chin raises, and she fearlessly stares into my eyes, her gaze briefly dropping to my mother’s ear around my chest that has slipped out from under the fabric of my shirt.
“They have suffered enough, let me care for them,” she pleads.
“And how do I know you will do as you say?”
She hesitates briefly, unsure whether to let the truth free of her lips before straightening her spine and locking her gaze with mine. I see both empathy and strength in her stare.
“Because I know who you are, Henry. I saved you once. Let me do the same for them.”
