by JM Bray
Tearing the Shroud
J.M. Bray
Tearing the Shroud
J.M. Bray
Fall in love, be possessed, hunt a sorcerer and save the world — and Vincent thought calculus was tough.
1984 — Vincent expected college to be about freedom and girls, but then the nightmares of sorcery, monsters and other worlds began. Not even the surprising attention from his dream girl, Julie, could shake them.
Before he’s even nailed his second date with Julie, he’s possessed by Coleman, a warrior from another realm. Coleman is hell bent on defeating the monstrous Kafla who threatens to tear into Vincent’s reality, changing both his and Coleman’s worlds forever. They have one chance to stop them: Vincent must allow Coleman to share his body and wage war against the sorcerer.
Now it’s up to them, the women they love, and Vincent’s rag-tag bunch of role-playing and gaming friends to save the world, or see 1984 descend into the apocalypse.
About the Author
J.M. Bray lives in Southern California with his college sweetheart and their two dogs. After a lifetime together, they are happier than the moment they met. In his spare time, he races an old Porsche named ‘Tuffy’.
Acknowledgements
Nothing lives in a vacuum; this is especially true for stories. The words don’t fall, fully formed from the tips of my fingers like magic seeds of thought. They are the result of many lives that influenced me, and people who supported my efforts.
Flea and Knife (yes, they are real) generously let me re-imagine them for this tale. Ruth Young, the first person to read the rough draft and subsequent versions. My writing partners, Amy Cavenaugh, Stacey Nash, and Lindsey Frydman, amazing authors who helped sharpen the story and talked me off ledges when I felt like jumping. Morgan McGregor and Ahna Hall, are my grammar Warriors, saving me from countless disasters. Steve Parolini, editor extraordinaire, cookies are in your future. Editor Belinda Holmes slipped on her velvet superhero gloves and challenged me to take the story to another level. My family that still loves me after endless late nights and 3 a.m. idea scribbling.
And…
Life.
Kari, you are the best part of every woman in this story.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowlegements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Chapter 1
Connection
Despair scalded Vincent like boiling oil.
He rubbed his eyes. Dreams of mutilated bodies piled like cordwood and razor-clawed monsters chasing him plagued his nights.
And now this.
He leaned his head onto trembling hands. A minty odor caressed his nostrils then slowly dissipated. After a long moment, Vincent glanced at his wristwatch and blew out. He couldn’t be late for the appointment with his advisor, the fourth this month. As the thought brought another surge of panic, stillness descended on the world around him. The back of his neck tingled like a spider crawled up it.
Vincent gazed around his dorm room, happening to glance out the window and saw it coming: the fog. It marched across the ocean waves like an invasion of cotton soldiers. A wall of billowing white from north to south as far as the eye could see. The swirling mass crept over the building and he opened his window, letting its cool embrace wash over him. As he did, the crushing weight on his chest lifted.
Despite his shortcomings, which he considered numerous, Vincent had an enormous imagination. The scenes he played in his mind rivaled any movie he’d ever watched. This talent had carried him through many nights, when the screams of his parents’ fighting or passion came through the walls. The fog played an important role, blurring the edges of the world. It made reality seem thin, as if his dreams came to life.
Vincent’s career at Pacific Coast University wasn’t going as he’d hoped. Maybe it was time to ignore Mom and Dad and do what he wanted. The idea made his stomach roil as he climbed the stairs outside his dorm.
But...what did he like?
He breathed in the water-laden air as the fog chased him up the hill. That was easy. He loved this weather.
The storm front had come through a week ago, with screaming winds and drops of rain so heavy it was almost dangerous to be outdoors. After the deluge passed, the campus had let out a collective sigh of relief. Everyone looked forward to a return of the usual sunny days, except for Vincent. He had always felt at ease in weather that concealed him — having it back brought a smile.
He glanced up from the sidewalk as a pretty blonde passed, tilting her head and smiling back at him. His looks tended to push women’s buttons. Not that he did anything about it. Ducking his head, blushing, he kept walking along the road through campus. He’d once gotten up the nerve to ask his roommate, Flea, about it.
‘Blue eyes, long dark hair, and your build? Are ya kidding me?’ Flea had replied.
Vincent didn’t get it then and still didn’t.
Maybe he’d start a career at the coffee house. He just had to pierce his ear and get some tattoos. Vincent shook his head. Tattoos…he wouldn’t be able to decide what to get, let alone where to put it.
Vincent stared at the floor of his advisor’s office, his stomach tying into knots. Mr Fisker had to be frustrated with him.
‘Vincent.’ Mr Fisker took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Yep, frustrated. Vincent held in a sigh.
‘You do well in all your coursework.’ He flipped through the papers on his desk. ‘A solid four point O, but you can’t major in everything. This is what?’ He held up one of the sheets of paper and shook it lightly. ‘The sixth time you’ve switched? Or are we on number seven? This is your third year. If you want to graduate with the class of eighty-five, don’t you think it’s time you settled on a direction?’ He cleaned his glasses and slipped the dark frames back on. ‘Unless, of course, you want to be a professional student?’ He smiled.
‘No, sir. I need to figure something out, I agree, it’s just...’
‘Vincent. What’s really the matter?’
‘I...I’m sure you’re tired of seeing my name on the appointment sheet.’ His sigh finally escaped.
‘My dad wants me to go into law; well, at least he does now. My mom is on this new health regime and thought that sports therapy would be a good field.’
‘Yes, Vincent, it’s good that your parents are involved but it is, after all, your life. Not theirs.’ He glanced at his watch and patted his hand on the des
k. ‘Our time’s up, I’m afraid. Take a look at your options, and let me know what you decide.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fisker,’ Vincent said, as he stood.
‘My door is always open.’ The advisor waved as Vincent left. Walking quietly down the hall, he lowered his head as he passed the secretary’s desk, hoping she wouldn’t make eye contact with him.
Chapter 2
7493 AR, 9th Cycle
East of Callendel
Mutilated bodies stood in piles like cordwood around Coleman. Looking for a way out, he staggered when a severed hand clawed at his boot. As he straightened, something darted from the fog — another beast. It leaped at him, razor-edged claws extended. Narrowly ducking the swipe meant to decapitate him, Coleman let his momentum carry him where his strength could not, and fell into a forward roll. Slashing the creature’s leg off at the knee, he got to his feet and ran. The other beasts howled in frustration and took up the chase.
His earliest training as a Warrior of the Oaks was not how to handle a sword. He’d learned to run. The Warriors named the highest form of it after the activity itself: The Run. If needed, a Runner could use every resource his body contained in order to keep moving. Coleman called on his reserved energy, added the adrenaline impending death brings, and bolted into the fog.
Heavy mist diffused the late afternoon light, making it impossible to know what direction he traveled. Coleman knew the outpost was west, but finding it would have to come later. Now, it was time to survive. He tried to calm his pounding heart, but his efforts were futile. Put it to use. The land he crossed was rolling open grass, with scattered trees. While it gave him no place to hide, he was able to open some distance on his pursuers. If he could get far enough ahead, perhaps he could lose them. Coleman put on a burst of speed.
A scrub oak rose up in the gloom, then another. Short, dull green shrubs dotted the landscape, and golden sandstone rocks started to show, partially immersed in the soil like sprouted crops ready for harvest. Scattered, monolithic boulders appeared, and faded as he passed. He wove his way through them, looking for a place to hide. Finding none, he kept moving. The shrubs and trees thickened, marking the end of the huge meadow. The dense wall of plants made him think he might have to stand and fight, but as he neared them, he noticed a small game trail off to the right, and angled toward it. Darting between two prickly waist-high bushes, he pounded down the path without breaking stride.
Coleman’s tall muscular frame ached with wounds and fatigue. He wiped at the gore and blood dripping from his short hair onto his face. Fog further limited his view, and running became a thing of chance. The trail opened on a short clearing, with a stream crossing the center. It was just a few strides wide; not enough to lose his tracks in, and too risky to follow. A broken ankle was as deadly as a taloned claw, so he leapt over it and scrambled up the small bank on the opposite side. At the top, he glanced back, only to see a misshapen form emerge like an apparition from the haze.
The tan soil was firm beneath his boots, and he was thankful for the traction it provided as the slope he climbed became a hill. He heard a grunting beast closing in. Still moving uphill, he drew his longknives then spun quickly to attack. He caught the beast off guard, as it thought to bring him to ground. The keen blade sliced into its leathery neck, and the force of Coleman’s spin lopped its head completely off, sending a dark fountain of blood into the air. Coleman never paused, but let his momentum carry him around, and set off from the beasts once again. He could hear them pounding through the brush toward him. The one he killed must have been a scout, or more fleet of foot.
Just as the incline became too steep to maintain decent speed, he came across a trail that angled to the left. He turned onto it, increasing his pace. A short distance ahead, it made a switchback to the right. Once again, the path continued for several hundred strides and cut to the left. Onward he climbed, his lungs, legs, and heart working in harmony. The path held out, and he kept pace against the fiends; while he had not lost them, at least they were no closer. He rose above the dense layer of mist into a clear night, awash with stars and illuminated by Lunos at its fullest. Thank you, dear Orb, for light to run. The path branched and without pause, he went right, heading deeper into the forest.
Time lost any meaning. Night slowly gave way to day. Light came and went. Hills led to plateaus, with deep ravines crisscrossing them. Coleman tried to lose himself in the mountains that emerged before him, his feet finding paths along their steep sides. He skirted a large lake, and wondered if the creatures that hounded his steps could swim. In the end, he reconsidered, knowing that though The Run powered his legs, his arms might not keep him afloat. He tucked his head and ran on. The scenery became a blur. Conscious thought slipped from his grasp. His entire universe condensed to gliding another stride over the ground.
Coleman forced every resource into his effort, yet he still heard the beasts close behind. His legs were done in, and he knew his heart was near its bursting point. In the end, his sight failed him, not his legs, when he caught his foot on an unseen root and fell headlong down a steep embankment. As he rolled and bounced off rocks and trees, he knew it might be the last few moments of his life. Either the fall would kill him, or one of the monstrosities that pursued. Then, in one of his unstoppable rotations, he caught a glimpse of a small building dug into the bottom of the hill. ‘Help me end up near it,’ he mumbled-thought-prayed, ‘or they’ll tear me apart before I can get inside.’ He came to a stop, yards away from the door, and crawled to it. Coleman pushed against the thick iron with feeble hands and it swung open easily. Once inside, he shut the stout ironbound door, and dropped the bar in place, before collapsing to the floor. Moments later, the creatures arrived and threw themselves against the barricade, mindlessly trying to reach their prey. With each blow the door shivered but held. A mighty karoom reverberated into the room. Coleman murmured his thanks in the direction of the roof. The Divine must have heard him and decided he was worth saving. As he slipped into unconsciousness, the pounding beat into his exhausted mind, a deep sound, like a tree falling at his feet.
Karroom...
Karroom...
Knock, knock.
Knock, knock.
‘Hey Vincent,’ Flea yelled. ‘It’s time to go to dinner.’
Vincent opened the door with a dazed look.
‘Sorry, forgot my key. What’s wrong?’ Flea asked, while punching him on the shoulder lightly. ‘I wake ya up?’
‘Ah...no. I was kinda zoning.’
‘Well, you scared me pretty bad.’
Vincent blinked to clear his head. ‘What?’
Flea gave one of his patented terrified faces, an ability that made him a standout drama major, and said, ‘I thought I’d have to face the cafeteria food alone.’
‘Right, like you don’t have anybody else to sit with.’
‘Nobody like youuu, Vinieee.’
‘All right, don’t get your G-string in a wad.’
‘Ouch, low blow.’ Flea winced.
It was a long-standing joke from their sophomore year as roommates. To meet his major’s requirements, Flea had to take a dance class. This meant stuffing his six-foot, four-inch frame into a G-string-style jock strap and dancer’s tights. With Flea’s rawboned, broncobuster physique and wiry shock of red-blond hair, he’d looked like a psychotic clown. Vincent had nearly wet himself laughing as Flea went from pirouetting to striking bodybuilder poses.
As they stepped out into the fog, Flea shivered, ‘Man, I hate this stuff.’
‘Yeah? Why?’
‘I don’t know. I guess it’s okay for the first day or so, but it’s been seven — ’
‘Six.’
‘Fine, six days since we’ve been able to see more than thirty feet,’ Flea went on, slightly irritated. ‘Anyhow, it’s been too stinkin’ long for my taste.’
‘I didn’t know it upset you so much.’
‘It doesn’t really,’ Flea said. ‘It’s just starting to make me feel claustro
phobic. Plus, it’s kinda spooky. I keep expecting zombies to come shuffling out of it, trailing their intestines, saying — ’
At that moment, the lighthouse foghorn sounded and they jumped as if stabbed with pins. They laughed in astonishment, though Flea sounded a little unnerved as well. ‘I can’t believe it. Did you hear that? It was timed perfectly.’
‘Yeah it was...wait...you planned that, didn’t you.’
‘Right. I’ve been counting in my head since we left the dorm.’
‘Knowing your flair for the dramatic, you probably paid someone to sound it at...’ Vincent glanced at his watch, ‘...five forty-eight and fifteen seconds.’
They rounded the end of the track and followed the path alongside the tennis courts. Walking in comfortable silence, they turned to climb the steps in front of the gym. Flea cleared his throat. ‘Hey, what are you doing tonight after dinner?’
‘I dunno, the usual exciting stuff, I guess. Go back to the dorm, crack the books, maybe watch some TV. Why?’
‘I wanted to hit a shop in Old Town before it closes, and wondered if you’d give me a ride?’
‘Sure, why not, what are you shopping for?’
‘I need to pick up some stuff for gaming tomorrow night.’
‘Are you playing man-barbies again?’
‘It’s not man-barbies,’ Flea said.
Vincent fought back a smile. ‘Sure it is. You have your little statues and paint them up all — ’
‘Vincent,’ Flea said. ‘It’s not like that at all.’
‘Well then, enlighten me.’ Vincent looked over at Flea as they stopped at the top of the stairs. Flea cleared his throat, and he figured he was in for a speech. He wasn’t disappointed. But this one was out of character; there was no fake British accent, no extemporaneous poses. For once, Flea actually sounded passionate, like an educated college student speaking earnestly about a subject.
‘Oral storytelling is as ancient as humankind, and still the most intimate form. Why, you ask?’ Flea raised a finger. ‘Because, as a person tells the story, the listener’s whole person is engaged. It stirs their minds and emotions. The storyteller is sharing himself through telling his tale, and the listeners share themselves through receiving it. And don’t miss a key element.’ His index finger waved again and he started pacing. ‘Each listener actually hears something different, because what is said is interpreted through their own life experiences. Plus, an oral story can be adjusted according to the needs of the people in the audience, their situation or...’ He gestured to the beautiful campus. ‘Even the location where it’s told. They don’t just experience the creative process; they’re empowered by being a part of it. Now, consider this: in a good gaming session, each person acts as both the storyteller and the listener. So, what do you have?’ He raised both hands like a conductor finishing a symphony. ‘The process is amplified and the experience heightened as each person adds their narrative to the whole.’
