Darkness Descends: A Skye Faden Novel

by Alisha Ashton

  “Hey, buddy – I don’t want no trouble,” he warned. Given how nervous he was in that moment, his Staten Island accent was coming out even thicker than normal. “So why don’t you just go on back out the way you came and there won’t be any. Ya heard?”

  Despite the gun currently aimed directly at the stranger’s chest, they replied in a calm, even tone: “But your sign says ‘vacancy’.”

  Franco lowered his gun a few inches in astonishment. The feminine voice that he had just heard did not fit with the menacing appearance of its owner. When the hood was pushed back, he found himself staring into the blue and yellow eyes of a bloodied and battered young woman.

  “What the fuck?” He breathed.

  “Look,” Skye began, but stopped when forming that word reopened a split in her swollen upper lip. Cursing crudely under her breath, she pressed the back of one of her bloody hands to it for a moment. She laughed bitterly when she ran her tongue across her lip and found the source of the stinging pain. Just an inch to the left of this new split was a scar that ran upward all the way to her eye. It had been earned in a similar manner. She sighed at what would undoubtedly become the latest addition to her collection of scars before continuing. “I just need a place to crash and clean up. You got any rooms or not?”

  Franco eyed her warily as he rested his gun on his shoulder.

  “That depends... what the hell happened to you?” He asked suspiciously and inclined his head to the evidence of a beating he could see on her face. Her long blonde braid was coated in so much blood that it looked as if she had red streaks.

  “I’d imagine the same thing that happens to everyone at this time of night in this part of the city,” she replied disinterestedly before sliding her backpack off her shoulder and dropping it onto one of the chairs. Crouching down beside it, she began rooting through its contents.

  “Not exactly,” he countered as he craned his neck to keep an eye on what she was doing. “Everybody else winds up in a body bag.”

  “Yeah well, maybe I’m just lucky,” Skye muttered as she checked the numerous wallets and purses that she had collected during that night’s hunt. After finding what she was searching for, she stood and walked toward the counter. “Or maybe I just know how to kill those soulless blood-sucking bastards before they can kill me.”

  Franco blinked in surprise and took a step back. He had never heard the subject broached aloud before. Everyone knew what was out there – or rather, they knew what was done by what was out there – but no one ever talked about it. Out of reflex, he crossed himself and muttered a prayer.

  Skye shook her head condemningly at the useless gesture. In her life, she had seen literal dozens of people do that very same thing before their jugulars had been ripped out. You could pray until you were blue in the face. Jesus Christ was not going to descend from the heavens, armed with love and a wooden stake, to fight the vampires mano-a-mano just because one of His followers had asked Him nicely to do so.

  “That doesn’t help, you know,” she advised wryly once he finished his prayer. After quickly counting out the cash in her hands, she held it up beside her face. “I got over five large here. Help me and it’s yours.”

  Franco eyed the bloody bills apprehensively as she slid them under the glass.

  $5,000 would buy a hell of a lot of diapers.

  “What do I gotta do?” He asked skeptically.

  Skye arched a brow. “Give me a room for the night, for starters.”

  “And... ?” He pressed, waiting for the part that he was sure to dislike.

  “You got a pen and paper back there, slick?” She asked and waited for him to reluctantly turn and retrieve them.

  “Go ahead,” he said with a heavy sigh once he returned.

  In his mind, he was cursing the fact that his current financial bind had him listening to this girl’s proposal instead of chasing her right back out the door. Unfortunately, he got the distinct impression that he did not have the luxury of that option. If she wanted to, she would probably just take whatever she was offering to pay him for and make him seriously regret turning her down.

  “I need a corner room without windows. No adjoining rooms – I’m not spending the night with an eye on each door. Been there, done that. It’s not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep, if ya feel me,” she began as she leaned heavily on the counter.

  Finally, she thought, we’re making some progress.

  “I got two empty ones like that,” Franco answered distractedly. His alarm at the possibility of what might be following her was plain in his voice. As he considered the dangerous implications of her safety concerns, his fear only grew worse.

  He jumped when she knocked on the glass in front of his face.

  “You still with me?” She asked and scowled at the way his hand was now trembling where it rested on the sheet of paper.

  “Yeah, I’m cool,” he answered unconvincingly. “Go on.”

  Skye rolled her eyes. Given her present condition, she had no choice but to make this work. Were it not taking all of her strength just to stay standing, she would have walked out right then. With the way this guy was shaking, he would smell like filet mignon to a vamp.

  “I need food,” she continued. Just thinking of the words ‘filet mignon’ had her stomach eagerly voicing its approval of the suggestion. “I don’t care what kind. Leftovers, crackers, whatever – something to stick in my stomach to hold me over until sunrise. Fruit juice – preferably orange if you’ve got any,” she rattled off as she rubbed her eyes.

  The natural sugars in the juice would help get her glucose level up. She could not remember exactly when she last stopped to eat anything of substance. It must have been within the last three days, she reasoned, because she was still functioning. Hopefully, some OJ would cut down on the dizziness that she was currently experiencing. It would not cure it completely, though – judging by the warmth trickling down her right arm and the pain that had been singing soprano in her bicep for nearly twenty minutes already. She was losing a lot of blood. The hasty tourniquet that she had fastened around her upper arm before making a post-arson getaway was not doing the trick.

  “Soap, shampoo, and as many clean towels as you can give me,” she continued.

  Yes, that was a point that needed to be specified. She knew this kind of dive. She had been bouncing from one to the next for the past three years of her so-called life. This was definitely not a ‘mint-waiting-on-the-pillow’ type of joint. Shit, she would be lucky if there even was a pillow, let alone one that she would be willing to consider using. The only posted rate here was ‘hourly’. That was never a good sign. Only three types of people stayed in hell-holes like this one: cheap hookers, drug addicts, and those who needed to stay as far off the grid as possible. Given that she fell into the third category, and had never been a fan of diseases, she generally elected to sleep on the floor or in the tub.

  “A few bottles of liquor. Anything you can get a hold of that’s over 70 proof. Don’t bother bringing weak stuff, even if it’s all you can find. It’s not gonna do me any good.”

  Once he was engrossed in the task of writing, she discretely stretched out her coat and the collar of her shirt far enough to take a look at her bicep. She gritted her teeth at what she found. Well, she thought to herself bitterly, that explains the blood that won’t stop dripping down my freaking arm.

  “A shirt. Something loose, preferably black. Tweezers. A pair of scissors, heavy ones. Two sewing needles – the thick kind – and some thin wire.” After running a hand experimentally over her stomach, she winced and added, “At least a couple feet of the wire. If you can’t find any, just bring me an extension cord that you don’t mind parting with.”

  Franco stopped writing and looked up at her in sudden realization.

  Seeing the questions forming on his lips, she quickly went on. “Something with an internet connection that I can use for a few hours. A Blackberry, PSP, laptop, whatever. Does this place have cable?”
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br />   “Umm... yeah,” he answered, though his eyes were now wandering over her form in search of injuries. He had assumed that the blood dripping from her belonged to other people.

  He was mostly right.

  Skye clenched her teeth as he continued his inspection. Curiosity had killed more than a few cats. This was a prime example of why she always removed her coat prior to picking fights with legions of the undead. His roving eyes were turning up next to nothing.

  “Good. Well, I guess that’s it,” she announced before taking a seat in one of the chairs. When he remained glued in place, staring at her dumbly, she clapped her hands together noisily to snap him out of it. “Chop chop, slim! I’d like to get some sleep tonight if possible,” she snapped impatiently.

  In actuality, her only concern in that moment was reaching a (somewhat) secure location where she could tend to her wounds before she lost consciousness from blood loss – not that she was going to tell him that.

  “I’ll wait here while you see what you can come up with, that way you don’t have to bring it to the room. I’m guessing you stay inside your nice little box there as much as possible.”

  She smiled to herself at his naivety as she picked at her nails. When he finally tore his eyes from her and started to walk away, she called after him without looking up.

  “And just so you know, bulletproof glass doesn’t help, either.”

  Skye entered the pitiful place that would be her home for the night. Her eyes carefully surveyed the room’s interior for additional points of entry. Fortunately, the unit was entirely windowless. Before closing the door behind her (and effectively blocking her only exit), she made a sweep to ensure that no one was hiding within the room. That had happened to her once in the beginning. It was, without a doubt, the single worst mistake that crackhead had ever made in his life.

  Once she was satisfied that she was alone, she locked the numerous deadbolts and dropped her bag on the floor. With a now nearly numb arm, she cleared the top of the dresser to make room for the items that Franco had found for her. She smirked at the welded, bolted-down steel box which secured the television in place and patted it appreciatively. Her amusement was short-lived. It was time to get started on her least favorite part of the night – surveying the damage that she had sustained.

  Preparing herself for the worst, she entered the bathroom again. This time, instead of checking the shower for crackheads, she actually flicked on the light to get a look at the room itself. It was in desperate need of renovation, much like the rest of the motel. More than half of the tiles were missing from the shower walls. A hole had been punched in the door recently. The sink and tub were each sporting hard-earned hard-water stains left behind by equally leaky faucets. This bathroom would not win any beauty contests, that was for sure, but the day staff had done a remarkable job of keeping it clean. She ran a finger across the counter top and sniffed it experimentally.

  Thank God for bleach and Comet, she mused.

  After giving an impressed nod, she bent to the task of removing the mats. They would only get bloody if she left them in place. While she prepared the room and brought in the supplies she would need, she avoided looking into the mirror at all costs. Even after three years, her reflection still seemed foreign to her.

  “Let’s see what we got tonight,” she breathed. Biting her bottom lip to prevent any cries from escaping, she began the slow process of peeling off her coat. “Fuck me,” she groaned when she focused on her shoulder. With a trembling hand, she gripped her bicep and turned it slightly to get a better look at the wound. “Ooh am I glad I ashed your sorry ass,” she told the vampire that had given her this little forget-me-not.

  She grabbed the scissors and made quick work of cutting off her shirt. It was destroyed anyway and this would be far less painful than trying to pull it off over her head. There were a few deep lacerations across her abdomen from talons, but the worst injury, by far, was the attempted mauling of her bicep. When she spread the wound to ensure that it was free of any debris, she found a fang embedded in the flesh.

  Okay, she thought bitterly, maybe punching him in the face until he let go wasn’t such a wise decision.

  The process of removing the fang involved just as much growling, panting, and muffled whimpering as the amorous activities of the couple in the room beside hers. A few minutes later, the fang clattered noisily into the sink. She gripped the counter to steady herself as a wave of nausea and dizziness hit in response to the pain.

  “In fact,” she panted, continuing her discussion with the ashed vamp. “I wish you would come back from the dead a second time, just so I could stake you all over again,” she ground out as she tried to catch her breath.

  With blood-slicked fingers, she unscrewed the cap from the bottle of cheap vodka. The cap slipped from her grasp and landed in the sink beside the fang. She shrugged and ignored it. There would not be anything left of the bottle when she was done, anyway. She downed half of it before pouring a generous amount into the wound. When the burning sensation became so intense that it nearly caused her to scream, she brought the bottle back to her lips and chugged until the pain subsided to its previous level.

  She let out a hiss as she tossed the empty bottle in the trashcan and shimmied out of her pants. With a bit of a struggle, given that she was right-handed and there was no way in hell her right arm would be able to bend in its current condition, she managed to get her bra off. When she turned on the tap in the shower, she was grateful to find that there was actual hot water in this place. She rarely encountered such a luxury. Soaking one of the towels, she used it to wipe away the worst of the blood from her skin.

  “Okay... so just you two...” she muttered as she identified the wounds that would need to be stitched closed.

  By the time she dissected the extension cord and laid out workable sections of wire on the counter, the vodka was finally starting to take effect. She opened the bottle of whisky and took a few gulps. Unlike the bo-bo-brand vodka, which had likely been made locally in someone’s basement, the whisky was actually Jameson. She had saved it for her second course of the evening. The first had been strictly for antiseptic and anesthetic purposes. This was for toasting another battle won, another night survived, and another lead procured.

  Pleading with her hands to be steady, she got to work stitching – but a seamstress, Skye was not. In her defense, she did as well as can be expected from a person stitching their own flesh closed, left-handed, while under the influence. The result of a half hour spent sweating and whimpering would surely make any medical doctor weep. It served its purpose, though. The wounds were sealed and the bleeding had stopped.

  She got to work cleaning her blood from the sink and floor, all the while listening to an incomparably amusing argument between the gay couple in the room above hers. Apparently one of the men had been unfaithful. The accuser vehemently declared that his cheating partner was a ‘fagot’ because he had slept with another man.

  She quirked a brow and smiled at that logic.

  The accused fired back a retort that had her clutching her wounded stomach to keep the stitches from bursting: “At least I’m real about who I am, bitch! You’re so far in the closet you’re having adventures in Narnia!”

  Who needs cable when you’ve got in-room entertainment like this? Skye mused, resisting the urge to cheer him on.

  After showering, she pulled on the baggy shirt that Franco had given her and washed her clothes in the tub. She hung them up to dry on the curtain rod and wandered out to the bedroom. The sheets on the bed were approaching the classification of ‘plague-ridden’ in her mind. She growled in disappointment at the discovery.

  Can’t have everything, she thought glumly.

  Using a trick that she had picked up along the way, she went and removed the shower curtain and brought it back into the bedroom with her. After stripping the mattress and making sure there were no bed-bugs present, she laid down the shower curtain and covered it with the clean towels.
It was not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but at least she knew that once she lay down, she would not be curling up with any souvenirs left behind by the previous guests.

  Her stomach growled impatiently as she finished tucking the shower curtain beneath the mattress. It was apparently displeased that, yet again, she had elected to save its care for last. She settled down on the bed with a container of leftover pork lo mein and her bottle of Jameson.

  That’s right, whisky and two day old Chinese food – the midnight dinner of champions.

  She contented herself with flipping through the channels, never sticking with one program for more than a minute. As usual, she could only shake her head in irritation at the latest fashions and musical styles, as well as the rich tarts that were considered ‘famous’. The whole reality-television craze was completely lost on Skye. Since when did talent become optional? When did acting like a complete jackass become the only prerequisite for fame?

  Once the food was gone, she turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the bedside table. Yawning the entire time, she sifted through the purses of the dozen or so female vamps that she had ashed that night.

  “Looks like you’re the lucky winner, Marissa Stern,” she declared as she removed the ID and social security cards. She chucked the rest of the vamp’s purse aside as she and inspected them. Stealing the fake identities of vamps saved so much time. They had already done all of the work for her. The ID was of the low-tech variety, thankfully. That made it so much easier to replace the picture. The newer kind required finding a local who could replicate all of the latest security features. She was grateful that she would not be sidetracked by such a trivial matter this time.

  Because this time, she recalled with a smile, she had an address.

  She opened the blood-spattered napkin on which she had written the lead. The informant had been reluctant to part with it, of course, but after a bit of persuasion, that stool-pigeon had sung his ever-loving ass off for her.

  “Florida...” she muttered with a smirk. “50 states to choose from, you pick the fucking ‘Sunshine State’. You never were very bright, Adrian.”