The Deepest Black

by Rainy Kaye

  The Deepest Black

  Rainy Kaye

  Contents

  Copyright

  Blurb

  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

  About the Author

  The Deepest Black © 2016, Rainy Kaye

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Created with Vellum

  The Deepest Black

  Ember has a little problem. . .fairies want her dead.

  Ember spends her Friday nights lurking in the bad parts of town, killing fairies. It’s either that, or become a victim to their flesh-eating hunger.

  Then she meets Remy, a fae who, despite getting on her nerves, isn’t evil. He tells her that a shadow has been consuming his world, changing its inhabitants and letting destructive beasts into his city. He is searching for his brother who went missing during the catastrophe.

  When a team of mercenaries come for Ember, she has little choice but to join Remy in his quest. Together, they decide to bait a trap. What they find reveals the destruction of the fae world means the end of the human world, too–and it’s Ember’s fault.

  1

  While all of my friends are partying on a Friday night, I'm out hunting fairies. It's not like I'm stalking Tinkerbell. They're evil, they're coming for me, and they won't stop unless I kill them first. So far, I've taken out about a dozen. I don't know how many are left, but I won't feel safe until they're gone. Every last one of them.

  I slink around the side of Pink Boutique, a raunchy two-story strip club, check that my holstered baton is still at my hip, then swing myself up and over the chain length fence blocking off the back lot. The fence catches my jacket on the way down and tears across the shoulder. I land in a crouch among a pile of trash bags, crates full of junk, and—judging by the stench—more than a few dead animals. Just one of the several glamorous locations where the fae hang out. This place, full of rusted out cars and bad decisions, has been their hot spot since the get-go.

  The fae I had scoped inside is on her way out here. She hadn't seen me spying on her in the club, or that I had watched her pick her boy toy from the dance floor and lead him toward the back exit. Catching them by surprise is really the only upper hand I have. That, and sage oil.

  The back door creaks open, letting out thudding music and the smell of sweat that mingles into the already delicate potpourri in the cool air making me want to vomit. She steps out into the glare of the single light mounted on the broken down pergola, catching her long platinum hair and doing nothing to reveal her dark, nearly invisible, eyes.

  She giggles and slaps girly-like at her new plaything, but his eyes are riveted to her breasts about to explode from her tight red top. Of course, he doesn't acknowledge the black wisps behind her. When I first ran into the fae, I had thought the wisps were a black aura and I had just manifested psychic abilities, but I put it together piece by piece. The wisps are wings. He doesn't notice them, not because her boobs are that great, but because no one can see the fae for what they are. No one, that is, but me. And I have no idea why.

  I hold my breath, steadying myself so I don't make any noise. They continue their low conversation that I can't make out, but judging by the way she flips her hair and tilts her head back, she's really working it. Nights with the fae generally end with either a drug deal, violent sex, or murder. Sometimes, all of the above.

  My hand goes to the baton at my side, and I wait, calculating my moves. As best as I can, anyway. Before the fae invaded my life, I wasn't much of a sporty person, let alone Artemis incarnate. I've had to learn fast, and I still prefer when there aren't any bystanders. Not only to minimize collateral damage, but also because I don't like to rope any other people into this craziness. I don't know how to explain what is happening when I barely understand it—but sometimes I'm left with few choices. Usually, I just tell them they were drugged and hallucinating wildly and to drink a lot of OJ in the morning to clear their system. I don't think they really buy it, though.

  Her beautiful face starts to contort. My heart revs up.

  He takes a step back. I pull the baton, shake it open, and charge. She should turn to me as I dash over the garbage. She should be distracted into fighting me.

  But she launches after him as she finishes transforming.

  His scream is cut off before it finishes developing as her claws smash through his sternum. His eyes go wide. He drops to the ground. His muscular wad of heart is ripped from his chest, arteries and all, with a sickening crunch and wet tearing sound.

  She holds it up, beaming as she turns toward me. She knew damn well I was there the whole time. Her distorted features are not the least bit scared of me as I swing the baton at her. It cracks against her skull. Then her ugly expression lights up with realization—the baton is covered in sage oil—and horror. She falls over, leaving nothing behind except the amount of ashes from a small campfire.

  I holster the baton and run, beseeching any plausible deity that no other fae are on my trail. Sometimes, I make a clean escape. Other times, not so much.

  I catch two dark, winged silhouettes pounding toward me.

  This would be one of those other times.

  Terror ices my skin, but I don't slow down. At the end of the block, I half-skid around the corner and keep running, looking for a place to hide.

  The baton bounces against my hip as I pick up my pace. There's a bottle of sage in my pocket, but I try to keep to one fight a night. I'm just an average twenty-five-year-old, after all, not some Buffy of the fae. I can't slay all night and still look great in the morning.

  I'm not sure I can slay all night and still be alive in the morning.

  I need to stop to reapply the sage oil so it's potent enough to work if I'm forced to confront these two, but slowing down is probably the worst idea. I like my heart in my chest cavity, right where nature intended.

  Without any real direction, I hop off the sidewalk, down a slope, sliding on the gravel, and tear across a dark parking lot of a dying strip mall. A look back reveals the silhouettes chasing me are gone. I barely slow as I cross the parking lot. A car idles in the far corner, two dudes making out on the trunk. They pull apart as I pass, but the only thing I care about is if they have wings—and they don't.

  Where the hell are my pursuers? They couldn't have given up that easily.

  I steal a glance skyward. I've never actually seen the fae fly, despite seemingly equipped for such activity, but I'm at a loss where they could have gone. It's dark out, but they aren't invisible. I should hear footsteps. Something. Anything.

  But it's silent.

  I cut through a dark breezeway in the strip mall, turn into the courtyard bouncing around the s
ounds of a single water fountain, and weave through benches and trees. Going home would be ideal, but so far, the fae don't seem to know where I live, and I would like to keep it that way.

  I duck around a turn, heading out of the center. My face meets the ground. Wide, sharp pains streak up my skull. I'm jerked up to my knees by my arms. A bag drops over my head. I try to pull away, but I'm held tight, and then lifted up. My legs drag across the ground as I kick and try to flail from the hold. I attempt to scream, but every breath I suck in just pulls the bag to my mouth. It barely puffs away with each exhale. Panic doubles up; I'm caught, and I can't breathe.

  I'm shoved hard and land on something soft. A door slams shut. I sit straight up, yanking the bag off my head. My lungs fill with air as I orientate myself: I'm in the middle row of a station wagon, with a wire grate blocking the front seat welded into place. It's very DIY.

  Two men sit in the front. The driver's dark hair is nearly covered by a tan and purple panama hat. The glow from the headlights reveals a splattering of deep pockmarks across his face and a slight crook in his nose. He's whistling Pink Shoelaces, the joke not lost on me, totally at ease. The man in the passenger seat has a wild mess of red curls and freckles on top of freckles. He's grooming his fingernails with his teeth.

  Both men have wisps of black wings trailing from them.

  My fingers wrap through the grate and I shake it, though I have no idea what I would do if it happened to loosen.

  I amp up my faux fierceness by screaming, “Let me the fuck out!”

  “No,” the red-head says so simply, I feel, briefly, like a lunatic. I'm the only one stirred up.

  Except, I'm trapped in a modified station wagon by two evil fae. Perhaps I'm not over-reacting.

  I touch my baton with one hand, ascertaining it's still there, but I see no possible way to use it yet. Even if I could get some sage oil through the grate holes, would it be enough to kill them? I always use it on my baton so the strike keeps them down long enough for the sage to work.

  I've never done it any other way, and it's not like there's a lot of people I could ask for effective fae-murdering techniques. I had only figured out the sage oil from an older woman who ran a New Age store downtown. She said it got rid of evil entities, and I couldn't think of anything more fitting. Turns out, it worked.

  The men in the front of the station wagon don't acknowledge my existence any further. With nothing left to argue—clearly they're not going to let me go even if I say please—I turn my attention to the doors. They're locked, but even if they respond to the unlock switch, what am I going to do from there? Jump out of a moving vehicle? Maybe that works in the movies, but right now, that is more terrifying than the fae holding me captive. The road is hard and my face is soft, and we're going at least 75 mph in the dead of night. I have no desire to jump. Even an hour into the drive, I still haven't convinced myself to try any brave maneuvers and I’ve entirely lost track of where I am on the map.

  Killing the headlights, the driver takes a fast turn, tires screeching, and pummels us into absolute darkness. A second later, the station wagon halts. I slam forward into the grate hard enough I probably now look like a waffle.

  The men jump out and come around to either side of the station wagon. The red-head yanks open the door, reaches in, and pulls me out by the neck of my jacket and shirt. I choke a little as he twists into his hold and drags me across the darkness. My feet stumble over dry leaves, and I make out the tall silhouettes of enormous trees.

  An alcove of trees. Finally, the fae do something stereotypical. Within the alcove isn't a charming house, though. Instead, a lit up warehouse stands in the center.

  And that's exactly where they're taking me.

  I scream, loud enough to hurt my lungs and throat. I keep screaming. The red-head drags me toward the building, Panama Hat right behind us.

  If there's anyone around to hear my terrified wailing, no one comes to my rescue as I'm pulled inside. Damp dust and the stench of mold hit me in the face. I'm thrown into a small room.

  The door is slammed shut and bolted, leaving me in absolute darkness.

  * * *

  I wait, breath still, for any sound, any indication of what is coming, but my room is silent. Beyond my door, the occasional soft tapping of footsteps indicate I'm not alone. If the men are speaking, I cannot hear them.

  My room is the most absolute darkness I have ever experienced. No matter how my eyes strain for light, they can't catch even a glimmer. Neither can they adjust enough to make out the slightest indication of my surroundings.

  I reach out to explore the room with my fingers, but my hand rams into a wall. I reach the other direction to the opposite side and discover I'm basically in a closet. Panic fires up again, but I resist beating my fists on the door. I need to stay collected, be prepared to make a run for it.

  Something creaks. I straighten up and listen. Nothing.

  “Hello?” I whisper.

  No response, but eyes are staring at me. I can feel them. I turn from one side to the other, trying to find the source, but my back is inches from the far wall, and my feet are touching the door. No one else could even fit in this room.

  I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and try to remember how to breathe.

  The door is jerked open with a screech. Light hits me in the face, and my hands go up to shield my eyes. Before I can adjust to the sudden impact, the red-haired guy leans down, grabs my shirt, and yanks me to my feet.

  I grasp at the door frame to brace myself, but manage to grab nothing. Despite my gasping protests, he hauls me down a lit corridor of dank walls speckled with black mold. My lungs take in the heavy air, and I suppress the coughs tightening my chest.

  The corridor opens into a wide room, with a metal rusty table to one side and a chair with straps right smack in the middle.

  I suddenly regret every interaction with the fae. How could I be stupid enough to think they wouldn't retaliate? That I would go unpunished for slinking around their lairs and offing them with sage oil?

  Sage.

  My heart perks up. I have a bottle of sage oil in my back pocket. If I can find a way to get to it, to douse them with it, I should be able to escape.

  Easier said than done, though, as he drops me down in the chair and starts fastening my wrists to the arms and my ankles to the legs. I scream as I pull against the restraints, the chair scooting a little across the dirty cement floor, but nothing else comes of it. My screaming mixes with tears streaming down my cheeks, and eventually I dissolve into terrified sobs.

  I didn't want any of this.

  “What is your name?” the red-haired man asks, standing in front of me, blocking the bright light in a way that creates a frightening silhouette.

  I'm crying too hard to speak, my body limp, my head hanging so I don't have to meet his eyes. He grabs the top of my hair, wrenches my head back, and brings his face close to mine.

  “What is your fuckin' name?” Spittle flicks onto my cheeks. “Answer me!”

  My eyes are bleary with tears, and I try to blink some clarity into them as I find my resolve.

  He slaps me across the face.

  I stutter a breath. “Ember.”

  “Good girl,” he says with a sneer. “Now your mama wants me to give you something, so hold still.”

  He snickers at his own joke, letting go of my hair and crossing the room to the table.

  What did he mean by that? A few hours ago, Mom was tucked into bed in the little apartment we share with my best friend in the shithole part of town. I want to ask him how he knows my mama—what did he do to her?—but I don't want to show any sign of weakness. More than I have already, anyway. And letting him know I'm worried seems like just such a giveaway.

  So I keep my mouth shut as he fumbles around with some items on the table. I can't make out what they are, then he turns around with a syringe in his hand. I scream and flail against the straps again.

  He raises the syringe, an
d the needle is all but glimmering like it's out of a cheesy B-rated horror movie. Or maybe I'm imagining it. I have never been afraid of getting an injection—until now. With some kind of demented relish, he saunters over to me, smiles, then jabs me in the arm.

  I open my mouth to protest, but no words come out. The world turns gray, then darker. I force my mind forward, into reality. Resist submerging below the line of consciousness.

  Then I black out.

  2

  When I wake up, I know immediately where I left off. Terror seizes me from making any move. I try to will myself back to sleep, afraid of beginning a mental assessment of what is wrong with my body. But as my mind forces me to run through it, anyway, I find I actually feel just fine. Maybe even better than I have in days. Except the whole absolute terror issue, of course.

  Certain my body is intact and unviolated, I take in the rest of my surroundings as much as I can without moving too much. I'm on my back on a thin cot in a small, dimly lit room. The place smells familiarly dank, and there are no windows, so I assume I'm still in the warehouse.

  A bent door stands across the room from me. I could make myself get up and try it, but I'm positive it's locked. This won't end so easily. I'm afraid to try and fail, and accidentally alert the men that I'm awake.

  I go to roll onto my side, but something hard in my pocket catches my attention.

  The bottle of sage oil.

  I work it out of my pocket and hold the bottle up in the dim overhead light to see through the brown glass. I have about half left. I can stretch this to last for two more fae. . .I hope.

  Footsteps pound toward my room, and I know the men are coming for me. If I don't try to escape now, I may not have another opportunity. Who knows what is next on their agenda. Or what they are anticipating to happen from the drug they had injected me with.