Dreams of Darkness

by Eve Langlais

  Dreams of Darkness

  The Forsaken Chronicles: One

  Eve Langlais

  Copyright © September 2017, Eve Langlais

  First Printing July 2018

  Cover Art by Yocla Designs © November 2017

  Produced in Canada

  Published by Eve Langlais

  http://www.EveLanglais.com

  E-ISBN-13: 978 1988 328 92 8

  PRINT ISBN: 978 1988 328 93 5

  All Rights Reserved

  Dreams of Darkness is a work of fiction and the characters, events and dialogue found within the story are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, either living or deceased, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to digital copying, file sharing, audio recording, email and printing without permission in writing from the author.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  Adara has no idea who she is.

  What she is.

  That doesn’t stop danger from stalking her.

  It also does nothing to stem the nightmares.

  Caught in her dreams of darkness, Adara attracts the attention of a werewolf and a vampire and wonders if she’s losing her mind. They can’t exist, and her mind says…forget. But she wants to remember.

  However, if she does, will the truth shatter her?

  Warning: This story is a dark urban fantasy rife with violence. Reader discretion is advised.

  * * *

  Prologue

  She hadn’t died—yet. Regaining consciousness proved that at least. However, with the pain coursing through her limbs, a fiery agony that stole her breath so she couldn’t find a voice to scream, she wished for sweet oblivion. Overwhelming in its intensity, the torment of her body didn’t allow her a moment to think or wonder how she’d ended up in such a state. She only wished for it to end.

  Giving up so soon?

  Cool fingers brushed across her temple, leaving behind an icy tingle that spread, and where it crept, it left blessed relief in its wake, a numbness she welcomed.

  This is what it’s like to be free of pain. She savored the brief moment, knowing it wouldn’t last long. It never did.

  The misery retreated, a dark beast that returned to its cave. She opened her eyes. Panic clutched her, for she stared into nothingness.

  Have I gone blind? Or had she passed through the final veil?

  “Where am I?” she whispered, her voice a hoarse croak she didn’t recognize.

  “Silence. You weren’t given permission to speak.” The brusque tone clamped her lips together. At least she wasn’t alone—a realization that did little to quell her inner trepidation.

  Small sounds—the whisper of fabric as something moved, a hushed murmur as if more than one person were present—drifted to her, and yet, all around, only darkness reigned. At her sides, her hands lay flat on cold stone. The surface not entirely smooth. Etchings were chiseled into it.

  She dragged her nails across the hard surface before curling her fingers into fists. She tried to push herself up to a seated position, but a heaviness upon her chest kept her pinned. Not a strap, or even a hand holding her down, more like a pressure, the very air itself keeping her prisoner.

  What’s happening? She didn’t know, which only served to feed her panic. Her breathing quickened.

  “Enough. Calm yourself.” The commanding voice cut through her anxiety, and despite the situation, her limbs loosened—a relaxation she didn’t truly feel.

  “It is time,” a deep voice announced.

  Time for what? she wanted to ask; however, her mouth would not respond.

  “What is your name?” Cold and impersonal, the questioner—not the same one who’d spoken before—paused to allow her time to answer.

  Caught in the dark, bodiless limbo, she could only look within herself, an even scarier vacuum. She peeked around every corner of her mind. Looked for doors to open. Any hint of an answer.

  She found nothing. Not even an echo.

  Aching sorrow gripped her as she whispered, “I have no name. I am nobody.”

  “Where do you come from?” Another query by the faceless voice that made her want to scream, Who are you and what do you want?

  Instead, the answer rose without conscious thought and slipped from her mouth. “Nowhere.”

  “What do you remember?”

  Once again, she reached into the shadowy recesses of her mind, searching for something, anything. Who am I? Only a hollow void loomed around her. “Nothing.”

  “What are you?”

  Finally, a question she had an answer for. How could she not when it rang in her head, screamed at her in all its ugliness? A tear streaked down her cheek.

  “Forsaken.”

  Chapter One

  The hushed silence of anticipation caught Logan’s attention as he prowled the deserted sidewalk running along the front of the unlit storefronts. Very few legit businesses stayed open in this part of town once twilight fell. Only those catering to vices best indulged in at night dared to open their doors.

  In the distance, the strobing beat of a strip club was one such example. A few blocks down, neon flashed. A corner store that catered to those who absolutely needed a midnight snack or a case of beer.

  But the places that remained open were few and rare. Most chose to lock their doors once the sun went down. Sturdy, metal guards lined the dirty windows, an almost mandatory accessory to ensure the safety of the goods hidden within. And just like the bars were a common feature, so was the sour smell of fear.

  Smart people hurried home before night fell, smothering the streets in a blanketing shadow that concealed predators. Anybody who stayed out, tempting the dark things that walked at night, deserved to be culled. The world had enough stupid people. It wouldn’t miss the few that went missing. Gone because they didn’t listen to their instincts that told them to burrow safely in their homes.

  Logan had no time for victims, which was why he ignored the terror he scented in the cool night air. Should have stayed inside where it was safe. He would have kept on walking, patrolling this part of town—my town—had the aroma of the grave not also wafted to him. Not an animal. He wouldn’t have paid that any mind. But the more distinctive stench of a decaying body.

  Something dead this way comes.

  He didn’t need his inner voice to point out that this wasn’t normal, or natural. Dead things didn’t walk, not without help.

  Slowing his steps, Logan took a moment to inhale again. The lingering stench of flesh long past its expiry date was quite distinctive. The sickly, sweet smell revolt
ed his human nature whilst exciting his bestial side.

  Time to hunt.

  Yes, he would hunt because this was his town, and in his protected zone, dead things weren’t supposed to wander around.

  Because when I kill something, it stays dead.

  He paused to listen and heard nothing but the distant beat of the music in the club—always a quick tempo for the scantily clad to gyrate their way through a routine.

  His eyes, which could perceive things better than any human—even in the dark—scanned the area around him. He noted naught out of place. Nothing moved. Not even the shadows.

  He took a step forward and heard a crunch. Too slight for normal ears to hear, but loud for one such as he. A peek at his feet showed the crumbling dirt scattered on the cracked pavement. The trail, much like breadcrumbs, weaved along the sidewalk and ended in front of a door. The sign in the barred glass entrance showed the word Closed; however, a slight push on the portal betrayed its unlocked state.

  Peering quickly upward, Logan checked for a bell or other chime that would betray him when he passed through the entrance. Nothing. Shaking his head at his luck—and the stupidity of the storeowner—he quietly eased in, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom within.

  Racks upon racks lined the interior, each filled. Plastic sleeves in some cases, glossy paper in others, the colors vivid, the titles bold. A comic book store; a new one, which had not yet learned the axiom of home before dark. The death of the hapless employee would make that rule clear in the morning.

  The stench of the undead thing hung heavily in the air—damp earth, decay, and the jarring scent of something unnatural. Black magic. The forbidden art the only way to animate that which should remain in the arms of Gaia.

  Necromancy was forbidden and had been for a long time. Those caught practicing it received a swift punishment: death. However, even such a harsh sentence didn’t deter everyone. There were always those who thought themselves above the law. It was Logan’s job to hunt them down.

  The world, make that humanity, wasn’t ready to find out that the things they feared, the bogeyman and all his monstrous friends, truly existed. We even live amongst you. Neighbors, coworkers, friends… They never suspected, and Logan intended to keep it that way.

  A whimper, the smallest of sounds, caught his attention. Logan’s brows rose in surprise. The clerk is still alive? The dead thing must have just arrived because they were not known for their patience when food beckoned. The movies depicting the mindless hunger of zombies strayed close to the truth, but brains weren’t their only diet. Blood and flesh of any kind would do.

  They could also open doors, unlike those portrayed on television. Turn knobs, climb stairs, even run if their limbs could handle it.

  On silent feet, Logan trod quickly to the rear, a small crack of illumination from the seam of a closed door a bright beacon in the gloom. He paused, hand over the knob as he listened, trying to ascertain the unnatural creature’s position.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” pled a soft voice. He could have told her not to bother. Zombies could not talk or feel. They just followed one instinct: their driving need for blood—preferably fresh. It made them single-minded in their focus. Most of the time.

  Some necromancers, if powerful enough, could set the walking nightmares to task, but they needed a truly great power to overcome a zombie’s natural desire to kill and feed.

  Zombies didn’t scare him. Yet he did wonder, should he go as himself or his alter ego? A shriek of terror made the decision for him. Kicking the door open with a heavily booted foot, Logan got a quick snapshot of the situation before charging in.

  A newly dead corpse, the dirt from the grave still clinging to the folds of its suit, was bent over, its curled fingers reaching for a huddled figure on the floor. The animated body retained enough wits to realize danger had arrived behind it. It attempted to straighten and turn to face him.

  Logan was faster—much faster. Wrapping his callused hands around the creature’s neck, he squeezed the soft and pliant flesh. His fingers sank into the skin, repulsing and fueling his need to rid the world of this abomination.

  The zombie struggled, stronger than expected. It roused the primal animal within Logan, and he felt that surge of energy pulse through him, his arms bulking with strength, his lip curling back on a canine snarl.

  He gave a firm twist and snapped the zombie’s neck, the cracking sound loud as a gunshot. The walking corpse—spine severed and its body no longer controlled by the mind—dropped to the ground. It twitched a few times, the eyes rolling far enough to stare at him.

  Logan stared back. Did someone watch through those eyes?

  He raised his middle finger. Waggled it. “Stay out of my town, asshole.” Because he wouldn’t stand for zombies.

  The semblance of life in the eyes faded, the irises taking on an opaque grayness. Death, a final passing, came to claim the body.

  The threat neutralized, Logan allowed himself to look at the girl slumped in a heap on the floor. Head down, features covered by a curtain of dark hair. Tiny in shape.

  Weak, growled his inner beast.

  She’d passed out, more than likely from fear. Most humans couldn’t handle the supernatural. In all fairness, though, most supernaturals tended to have an aversion to zombies. The fact that they even existed was why Logan had stated quite clearly in his will, and to all who would listen, to cremate him when he died. He refused to become a necromancer’s puppet.

  The huddled form shivered.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  She didn’t reply. Didn’t even move.

  “Did the zombie bite you?” he asked, not because she’d turn into a zombie—it wasn’t a disease, it needed a dead body and magic—but more because a bite from the undead could contain all kinds of bacteria. She would probably need a shot.

  A twitch. A subtle movement, then a shake of her head.

  No, then, not bitten. Which was good, but Logan still wondered what to do with the girl.

  Leave her. The easiest solution. Humans shouldn’t be shown the underpinnings of humanity more than necessary. He and the body should get out of sight.

  So why then did he kneel before her, his knees hitting the hard floor, bringing him nearer to her scent?

  The impulse didn’t come from him, and yet it pulsed inside like an instinct. A primal command that he couldn’t deny.

  Need to get closer.

  The strands of her hair had parted, revealing the pallor of her features. Her head sagged to the side, too heavy surely for that slender neck. Her eyes shut as she passed out again.

  Look at that fluttering pulse. Tick. Tock. Lick it up.

  He fought the urge to tongue it.

  Would prefer to bite it.

  The urge to let go pulsed through his body, and he fought through it. Breathed deeply. Kept control. But he didn’t do it by turning away from the object of his fascination.

  Real men didn’t run from shit.

  What is it about her that’s setting me off?

  The girl sat with her eyes shut, her arms still hugged tightly around her knees. He inhaled deeply, pulling in the air around him, shutting off the part of his mind that recognized the putrid aroma of death. Human death.

  He looked past it, the other perfume nestled underneath it. Vanilla, the spicy-crisp scent of a bean just crushed. Under that…something else. An indefinable layer that made him wonder…is she human?

  Doesn’t matter. Smells good, rumbled his other self.

  More like interesting. Logan frowned at her frail frame. He’d never smelled anything like her before. Perhaps he was mistaken. He was, after all, in a room with a corpse.

  He brought his face closer. Her eyes remained shut, the veins coloring them a bluish purple through the parchment thinness of her skin.

  Lips almost touching her skin, he inhaled deeply. Truly got the full effect of her. Delicious vanilla, the smell of it eye-rollingly pleasurable. And did he detect a tingle of power? Whate
ver it was caused an intense flare of awareness. There was something different about her.

  Not human.

  Who and what is she?

  She couldn’t have lived or worked in this area of town for long, else Logan or one of his pack would have noticed her, discovered her like this zombie had. Her scent, so fresh and sweet, must have proven irresistible to the dead one.

  Yummy, yummy in the tummy.

  Don’t start with the rhymes. Because they often got stuck repeating in his head.

  Not rhymes. Truth. Lick it. You’ll see why.

  This boldness from his other half was not new, but the interest in a woman was. Perhaps he should bring her to his home for questioning.

  Yes, that’s it. Kidnap a girl and bring her to your house. A girl who will probably freak when she wakes up. Which usually means screaming. And probably threats to call the cops. Logan didn’t exactly want the police involved. It would be hard to explain a dead body.

  No, officer, I didn’t kill the body or dig it up. It was a zombie, you see. And I just saved this town. He’d probably get tossed into a psych evaluation for seventy-two hours.

  He’d never live it down if that happened. So, probably not a good idea to take her out of here, then. But he had to know what she was.

  Maybe she’s dangerous. We should detain her, said his dark side—the hunger a hot flame that licked his skin from the inside.

  No keeping her. However, he would keep an eye on her. See what she did once she woke again. Would she remember the zombie? Had she seen Logan?