by Amy Cross
Darper Danver:
The Complete First Series
by Amy Cross
Kindle Edition
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by Dark Season Books
This edition first published: October 2013
Originally published in serial form: September to October 2013
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.
COMING SOON
The Gate (Journey to the Library 1.1)
Tables and Chairs (Journey to the Library 1.2)
The Doll parts I and II (Male / Female 1.3 &1.4)
The Doctor (The Devil's Photographer 1.3)
The Letting (The Devil's Photographer 1.4)
ALSO BY AMY CROSS
Horror
Asylum
American Coven
The Night Girl
Devil's Briar
The Vampire's Grave
Fantasy / Horror
Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3
The Hollow Church (Abby Hart)
Lupine Howl series 1, 2 & 3
Grave Girl
Ghosts
The Library
Romance / Thriller
Other People's Bodies (The Heights book 1)
Dystopia
Mass Extinction Event series 1
Erotica
Broken Blue
Broken White
Table of Contents
The Homecoming part I
The Homecoming part II
Echoes of a Distant Voice part I
Echoes of a Distant Voice part II
And All Your Armies, Dust part I
And All Your Armies, Dust part II
The Ballad of Darper Danver part I
The Ballad of Darper Danver part II
Bonus
Resurrection
(Extract from The Vampire's Grave)
Darper Danver:
The Complete First Series
The Homecoming part I
Prologue
Darper's gone. She has to be. She's gone and she's never coming back.
There's blood everywhere. On the floor. On the walls. On the furniture. On the windows. On my hands...
Everywhere.
But at least it's over now.
The average human body holds about six liters of blood. Take six liters of water, or six liters of milk, and pour it out onto the floor, and you'll see just how much blood we're talking about here. Each and every person is walking around with this huge amount of liquid in their bodies, but when a human body is ripped open - I mean really ripped open - everything comes gushing out. All that's left behind, in the end, is a pale and lifeless corpse, surrounded by the still-warm blood that once flowed through its veins.
Sitting completely still, I listen to the sound of footsteps racing through the leaves.
I have things to do. I can't just sit and wait for the police to arrive. There's far too much blood to clean up, of course, so there's no point trying to get rid of it all. By now, the stuff has already started to seep into the wooden floorboards, staining the grain and dripping through the gaps, into the space beneath the cabin. I swear, it's as if the blood is determined to spread itself as far as possible; it wants to cover everything, and there's no way it can ever be stopped. Covering this whole mess up is definitely not an option. Instead, I need to re-frame the context. I need to make sure that people don't think that this is my fault.
Or, if they think it's my fault, that at least they won't know why I did it.
After all, who am I trying to fool? There's no way I'm going to get out of this mess. There's blood all over my hands and my clothes, and I'm the only one who can be pinned down to this location. Plenty of people knew that I'd be hanging out with Bobby today, and they're all going to point the finger straight at me. Right now, I wouldn't blame anyone for assuming that I'm responsible for this mess. If I walked in on this scene, I'd have no doubt. I'm right in the frame, and it's going to take a miracle for me to persuade anyone that I didn't kill Bobby.
Still, miracles can be manufactured.
Sometimes, at least.
I pause for a moment, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat. It's the only thing I can hear.
First, I need to get the hell out of here. Stumbling to my feet, I try to work out where to go. Covered in blood, I can't possibly go home, but at the same time I need to get away from this place. My clothes are ruined, and although I could try to sneak through the dark streets and reach my parents' house before dawn, I'd be running a huge risk. If even one person saw me, I'd be condemned instantly, and Fort Powell is just the kind of place where it's possible to bump into someone at any time of the day or night. The last thing I need is to be spotted sneaking around, but I can't stay here either. As I try to work out what the hell to do, I realize that I'm almost frozen to the spot. I always thought I was pretty smart, but right now my brain seems to have gone offline. Time's running out, and if I don't manage to come up with a solution soon, I'm going to still be standing here when police officers break that door down and see the mess. If that happens, I'm as good as dead.
Someone smart would have come up with a plan by now. Someone smart would know what to do. As it stands, I can't come up with a solution. All I can do is stare at the blood and pray that somehow everything works out okay. Maybe he's not really dead after all? Pausing, I realize that I'm starting to get into the realm of miracles. Of course he's dead. No matter what else I try to believe, I can't even begin to doubt the basic facts. Bobby's dead, and there's nothing I can do to bring him back. Right now, people don't know what's happened, but soon the news will be everywhere. There's a storm coming, and I'm going to be right in the center. I keep telling myself that I'll find a way out, that I'll think of something when the time comes; well, the time has arrived, and I've got nothing.
Hearing a noise outside, I turn to the window and see that someone's coming. I guess time for plans and schemes is over. I should have been smarter. If only I'd been smarter and wiser and faster, I wouldn't have ended up in this mess. I had plans, and some of them might have worked, but I didn't put them into play. As I want to be discovered, all I can do is take a deep breath. I always thought I'd be able to come up with some kind of cover story, but as I stand here right now, I can't think of a damn thing. I guess people will just think I did all of this. Unless I can think of a last-minute explanation. Is it too much to hope that, in the next couple of seconds, I find a way out of this mess?
Too late.
A few minutes later, I'm being led out of the cabin by a pair of armed officers. I can see it in their eyes, and I can hear it in their voices: they think I did it. They all think I did it. No, that's not true: they know I did it; not one of them doubts it for a second. They haven't said anything yet, but as they haul me over to the waiting car, I can tell what they're thinking. I don't even blame them. How could they possibly understand what really happened here?
Once I'm in the car, I wait to see what's going to happen next. It would be a massive understatement to say that I'm scared. Frankly, I'm terrified. The fear is so strong, and so overpowering, it's as if my mind has become completely blank. All I can think about is the fact that I've allowed myself to get into this mess. I mean, I always thought of myself as a kinda smart person. Maybe not a genius, exactly, but certainly not dumb. And yet here I am, in the kind of mess that only really idiotic people could ever get into, and I'm starting to think that ma
ybe I'm the biggest fool who's ever lived. How else can I explain the fact that everyone thinks I'm a murderer? Surely anyone else in the world would never have made the kind of bad decisions that have led me to this point.
I just wish I could tell the truth.
There are gonna be questions, of course. They're all gonna want to know exactly what happened, down to the very last detail. They're gonna want to know everything I was thinking, everything Bobby was thinking, everything anyone was thinking who came within a hundred meters of us over the past few days. They're gonna want to understand every goddamn aspect of our lives, and if they think I'm not telling them the truth, they're gonna assume the worst. There's no way around it. Every lie I tell, every omission I make, will be another brick in the wall of the prison that's gonna be built around me. By the time this whole mess is over, there's not gonna be a person on the planet who thinks I'm innocent.
"Cassandra Briggs?" asks a voice nearby.
Turning, I see that a cop is leaning through the window.
I nod.
"Just making sure," he says. "You're Neil and Lucy's kid, right?"
"Yeah."
"Huh." He pauses for a moment. "I went to school with your Dad," he adds eventually.
"You're not gonna tell my parents, are you?"
He stares at me. "You don't want them to be informed?"
"No," I say, panicking for a moment. "I mean... Do they have to know right now?"
"They're gonna find out some time," he replies. "They're gonna wonder where you are."
"Yeah," I say, my heart racing, "but not yet. You don't have to tell them, do you? Can't it wait just a few more hours?"
"I guess," he says with a sigh. "You're not a minor, so..." He pauses. "I don't know what you think's gonna happen, but they're gonna find out. Word spreads in a place like this, so I'd have thought you'd rather they were told officially rather than hearing it on the grapevine. For their sake."
"Just don't tell them," I say. "Please. Not yet. I mean, maybe we can sort this out without..."
He waits for me to finish the sentence. "I don't think things are gonna be sorted out any time soon," he says eventually. "You should make sure they're informed."
"Not yet," I say, still hoping against hope that I might come up with a way out of this mess. "Please!"
"Fine," he says. "Can't promise they won't find out some other way, though." With that, he turns and walks away.
Taking a deep breath, I try not to imagine my parents' reaction when they discover what's happened. I know it's inevitable that they, and everyone else, will learn the truth at some point, but at the moment I want to keep things contained as much as possible. There'll be time for all the screaming and explanations later. For now, I just want to deal with my own reaction to the past few days' events. I just can't handle the sight of my mother's tears. Even a delay of a few hours would be good. I just need time, that's all. Time to fix this.
"Okay," says the cop, getting into the front of the car. "We're heading to the station."
"What happens next?" I ask.
"There's some processing to do," he replies wearily. "Forms, that kind of thing. It's slow, but it's gotta be done. You'll get your mugshot taken, and then someone'll be speaking to you. If you want a lawyer, one will be provided, and then the only thing that matters is that you tell the truth. If you do that, things'll start to move pretty quickly." He pauses, before turning to me. "It's the same advice I give to everyone in this kind of situation, Ms. Briggs. The truth is your friend. The truth, and only the truth, will set you free."
I stare at him. I wish he was right. Maybe he is, in his world. In mine, in the world I entered tonight, things aren't so easy.
"I'm not gonna lie to you," he continues. "Even once you've told the truth, things might not be so easy. Still, you need to get on the right path, and the truth is always the best way to go about regaining your direction. Once God sees that you're telling the truth about what happened, he'll know that you're ready to atone for anything you might have done, and you'll find that you gain some positive momentum."
"I didn't kill Bobby," I say suddenly.
He sighs.
"I didn't!"
"You've got time to think about things on the drive," he says, turning and starting the engine. "No-one can force you to say anything you don't want to, but I've been on the force for ten years and I can tell you without a shadow of a doubt that lies always lead to more trouble, and the truth is always the best option. Feel free to ignore that advice, but don't say I didn't warn you." He pauses for a moment. "By the way, I heard on the grapevine that your parents already know, so they'll probably be at the station when we arrive.
As the car starts to pull away from the yard, I turn and look out the window. I guess it must be so easy to be like this cop, and to believe that the truth is some powerful thing that makes everything better. The problem is, sometimes the truth is much, much worse than every other option; sometimes the truth would destroy everything and cause more damage than anyone could possibly imagine. Sure, by not telling the truth I'm going to be risking everything, but the truth would be a thousand times worse. A lie can be just as beautiful and necessary as the truth.
The last thing I see, as we reach the gate, is the old beech tree, with a single name scratched into the bark: Darper Danver. Feeling a shiver pass through my body, I stare at my hands for a moment and then finally I close my eyes. At least Darper's gone forever. She has to be.
Five years later
Cassie Briggs
"Stop the car!" I shout, banging on the back of the driver's seat. "Stop! Right here!"
"I thought you were going to Branch Street," the guy says grouchily as he brings the taxi to a halt and reaches out to stop the meter. "You told me Branch Street. That's another two miles. I oughta charge you for Branch Street."
"I don't care," I mutter, furiously sorting through my purse before pulling out the voucher I was given to cover the journey, which I throw onto the front seat. "This is fine. Thank you!" Without waiting for him to reply, I get out of the car, my eyes fixed on the house on the other side of the street. My heart is racing and even though I know I should go straight home, I'm suddenly filled with an urge to go to this house instead. Actually, 'urge' isn't the right word: I have to go inside. My body demands it. I've waited too long.
"You'll be wanting this," the taxi driver says, limping around to the back of the vehicle and opening the boot, before hauling my suitcase out and dropping it on the side of the road.
"Thanks," I say, ignoring the suitcase and jogging across the road. The house looks exactly the same as before. It's as if nothing has changed in the five years I've been away, and I even recognize the beat-up old truck in the front yard. Hurrying toward the porch, I make my way up the steps, and even though I know this is an absolutely terrible idea, I reach out and try the door. Sure enough, it swings open and I walk into the hallway, where I'm immediately confronted by the smell of a very familiar brand of cologne.
He still lives here.
"Fisher!" I shout, hurrying to the kitchen but not finding anyone. "Fisher, where are you?"
Seconds later, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I run back out into the hallway just in time to see Fisher Benhauser stop dead in his tracks as soon as he sees me. The look on his face is priceless: he seems absolutely stunned, as if he never, ever expected to see me again. Without giving him time to react, I hurry over and put my arms around his shoulders, before shifting my weight forward and forcing him down to the ground. I quickly get on top of him, and before I know what I'm doing, my trembling hands are reaching down to the front of his trousers, undoing the button.
"Um..." he mutters. "Wait -"
"No," I say breathlessly, starting to pull his trousers down before reaching into his boxers and feeling his thick, placid penis in my hand. "I've waited long enough."
"No, Cassie, stop," he continues, trying to push my hands away.
"No," I reply, stroking
him as I lean closer and try to kiss him. He resists, turning his head first one way and then the other while keeping his lips tight shut.
"Cassie!" he splutters. "Stop!"
"No!" I say forcefully, finally slipping my tongue between his lips. I can feel his penis growing in my hand, which tells me all I need to know: he still wants me. After all this time, he hasn't forgotten. He waited.
"Cassie!" he shouts, still trying to push me away. "Get the hell off of me!"
"No!" I shout.
"Fuck!" he shouts back, slamming me against the wall before moving away as he slips his penis back into his pants. "What the holy fuck is wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with me?" I reply, shocked at the way he's behaving. "What's wrong with you?"
"Jesus Christ!" he says, fixing his clothes.
I stare at him. Totally out of breath and feeling horny as hell, it's all I can do to keep from leaping back on top of him. The truth is, it never even occurred to me that Fisher Benhauser wouldn't want me. It's the memory of his kiss, and his touch, that kept me going while I was in prison, and even though he didn't write to me or come visit, I know that nothing's changed between us. We've always been made for each other, and the time apart is only going to prove that more than ever. We didn't need to communicate. We're stronger than that.
"It's me," I say, figuring that maybe he's a little confused. "I'm home. Didn't anyone tell you I was coming?"
"Sure," he replies, still looking shocked. "I've had reporters door-stepping me all week, asking how I feel about seeing you again."
"And?" I ask, finally catching my breath. I wait for him to reply, and finally I can't help but break into a stupid grin. "It's me!" I say again. "It's Cassie! I'm back! After five years, I'm back!"
