Darkness Descends: A Skye Faden Novel

by Alisha Ashton

  “You’re sure?” Franco asked.

  Without saying a word, Skye turned and walked into the bathroom. When she came back, she tossed a small, white object to him. Franco caught it, but it took him a moment to identify it.

  “Holy fuck,” he gasped once he realized what he was holding. “Is this... ?” He asked with wide eyes.

  “A souvenir from the bloodsucker that killed that girl? Yeah,” she replied coldly while Franco studied the fang in horror. “So, to answer your question, yes. I’m sure that he and his friends died painfully. Your neighborhood is safe for now. What else do you want to know?”

  He needed to get out soon, she decided. It made her anxious to talk to people – especially men. Particularly when in close quarters with them. She felt trapped. Like she was putting herself in danger by speaking civilly. Like she was showing weakness. Like she needed to fight.

  She tilted her head to the side and closed her eyes as she cracked her neck. It was a means of relieving the intensifying tension in her neck and shoulders. The habit had saved many men’s lives. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest as she ground her teeth. Her eyes burned into his and in her mind, she was counting backward from 100 in an effort to stay in control.

  “But... if more come, how can I kill them?” He asked.

  Ordinarily, she would have just escorted him out right then. She would have told him that the Jesus-with-a-stake scenario was more likely than him actually managing to kill a vampire. Unfortunately, she felt the slightest pang of sympathy for him.

  “You’re asking because you wanna protect your kids?” She managed through clenched teeth.

  Franco nodded that it was true.

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine. They can’t survive a wooden stake through the heart or decapitation. But if you do come up against one, you’ll more than likely be dead before you can react,” she answered honestly. “Your best bet is to follow the rules. Don’t go looking for trouble. Stay indoors after dark. Stay out of their neighborhoods at all times. Make sure your wife locks your house up tight while you’re at work. Train daily. Stock up on weapons. And if you’re gonna pray for anything, pray that you never have a reason to use them.”

  “Do crucifixes or garlic or any of that stuff work?” He asked hopefully.

  “Oh, you mean like ‘in the movies’?” She asked snidely. “Garlic doesn’t do jack shit. The only way a crucifix is gonna help is if you sharpen a wooden one and jam it into their heart. And before you ask, no – they do not have to be invited before they can cross the threshold.”

  Seeing the growing anxiety in his features, Skye tried to reign herself in a little. True, his presence here was stressing her out, but he was not doing it intentionally.

  “Not ordinarily, anyway,” she added hesitantly.

  Just that quickly, his face lit up with hope. She felt like scum for giving him even a glimmer of it. He would die. His wife would die. If his kids weren’t turned, they would wind up as entrees or entertainment. Still, she forced herself to give him the comfort of that glimmer.

  “There are rites and spells that can be used to protect your home. The only way to undo them would be for the rightful owner to grant a vampire entry. I’m guessing that’s where the whole ‘no entry without an invite’ rumor started.”

  “And these spells – they really work?” He asked eagerly.

  They did. However, if the vampires wanted you dead, you wound up dead... or you spent the rest of your life on the run, constantly looking over your shoulder, and moving from one rundown motel to the next.

  “At first, I was skeptical,” she reluctantly continued. “But I’ve seen stuff like that work three times in my life. The first was done by a Wiccan high priestess, the second by a Catholic priest, the third by a Vodou mambo. The Wiccan’s blessing on the home seemed to have the strongest effect on the vampires. It didn’t just keep them out, it kept them away. They didn’t want to get anywhere near it. The other two methods didn’t have that kind of repelling effect. The vamps just kept testing the boundaries until the sun came up – and then they sent their lickers to try and finish the job.”

  “Lickers?” He repeated in bewilderment.

  “Yeah – humans trying to earn a bite. They don’t have fangs,” she answered quickly. When he continued to stare at her with a look of absolute perplexity on his face, she rolled her eyes. “No fangs yet, so they can’t bite,” she added, but still he did not seem to grasp the concept. “They only drink blood to fit in, not because they need it, and they can’t feed like the vamps do. They have to lap it up after their master bites somebody for them, got it? Lickers.”

  Franco’s mouth dropped open in revulsion.

  “That’s fucking nasty,” he declared with a curled lip.

  “Tell me about it,” Skye said with a smirk. “Anyway, lickers work for vamps in the daytime. If they prove themselves useful, they get turned. But while they’re still mortal, they can be even more dangerous than vamps because they can be anyone. Cops, doctors, neighbors, night managers at shitty motels...”

  With that, she arched a purposeful brow.

  His eyes widened as all of the blood drained from his face.

  “I’m not a licker, I swear to God,” he insisted adamantly.

  “I know,” she assured. “Just illustrating a point. If I had any doubt at all, you and I would not be having this discussion.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. “How do I tell if someone’s a... licker?”

  “You don’t,” she answered with a shrug. “If you ever survive a vamp attack, don’t trust anybody afterward. It only takes one licker,” she said sternly as she held up a finger. “It only takes trusting one wrong person to get yourself and your family killed. Vampires are immortal – means they can hunt you forever. The only thing you can do at that point is take your family, change your names, move to the other side of the country, and never ever let your guard down again.”

  Franco exhaled slowly as he took all of this in.

  “So... if you were me, what would you do?” He asked worriedly.

  Skye shook her head and laughed bitterly. “I’m not you, bub. No point in wishing I was leading anyone else’s life. But my advice to you? Keep up the lie about the ‘gangs’ for your family. Let them stay ignorant. Once you have this knowledge, you can never give it back. Preach to your kids like a broken record about the dangers of talking to strangers. When they get old enough to run the streets, set their curfew before sunset – no matter how much they bitch about it. For now, stock up on stakes and get started on training for the fight you hope will never come. I usually rely on Muay Thai and Savate, personally. Those styles have a lot of strong strikes that you can dole out with your knees, shins, and feet. It keeps your juiciest artery well out of reach. Generally, that’s a good idea when fighting vamps. They’re not the type of enemy you want to be grappling or wrestling around with.

  “And since you’re spending your nights away from home, get a Wiccan blessing on your house as soon as possible. Find a local shop and ask around for a priest or priestess with a good reputation. Say that you need their ‘council’. You’ll know which ones are legitimate by talking to practitioners. They’ll be referred to reverently. Meaning people won’t say, ‘call Mike’, they’ll say, ‘contact High Priest Michael’, ya know? There’ll be a major difference in the respect people have for them. Once you find a good one, tell them you want the ‘divine blessing of the Triple Goddess’. Do not mention the word ‘vampire’ to anyone. You’ll be able to tell if your priest or priestess is the real deal by how they react to your request. A wannabe will be clueless about the importance of that particular blessing and they’ll jump right to negotiating a price. A legit one will ask you where you live and offer a serious discount once you tell them. Wiccans are well aware of the movements of vampire covens in their cities because, as you can imagine, the vamps don’t like them very much.”

  “Christ...” Franco breathed and ran a trembling hand throu
gh his hair.

  For a few moments, he closed his eyes and struggled to come to terms with everything he had heard. During that time, Skye remained silent. She often forgot what it was like to hear this stuff for the first time. It was a lot to take in all at once.

  Finally, he took a deep breath and looked up at her again. “I feel like I should be paying you now,” he said with a weak smile.

  “What time do you get off work?” She asked.

  “You already guessed. I finish at 5:00. Why?” He asked curiously.

  “I could use a ride to the airport tonight if you’re feeling like you owe me... and besides,” she began with a smirk as she pressed the wad of cash back into his hand. “I did already pay you to help me out.”

  3: Fatally Wrong

  MIAMI, FL

  Skye made her way to the bar, ignoring the startled stares that had followed her from the moment she walked through the door. It seemed her reputation preceded her no matter where she went these days. As usual, she did not blend with the locals. Regardless of the attention it drew, she had purchased more of her trademark attire from a military surplus store in NYC before catching her flight. These clothes were designed for tactical advantage. She had weighed-out the benefits. The possibility of going unnoticed for a few moments was not enough of an incentive to persuade her to change. Besides, this was her way of announcing her arrival, ensuring that her presence was noted by her quarry.

  Despite the 70° F Miami weather – which was a stark contrast to the 19° that it had been in New York – her damnably curvaceous body was covered in black tactical gear. Only her face and hands were exposed. Atop a skin-tight Under Armour shirt, she wore a vest loaded to capacity with weapons. A tight, stiff blonde braid reached the center of her back. Her footfalls caused heads to turn. The sound of heavy combat boots hammering across the tile floor was a definite change of pace from the normal clientele. Blue and yellow eyes, encircled thickly with black liner, surveyed her surroundings in disgust.

  ‘Goth-club’ my ass, she thought bitterly as she ordered a bottle of Grey Goose from the bartender.

  He gave her a look that plainly conveyed his opinion of her mental state. She merely arched a challenging brow in response. After considering the look on her face for a moment, he decided it best not to argue. Grudgingly, he took her money and pulled her order from bottles kept purely for show.

  Fuck him. I need this, she thought as she sat her backpack on the floor and lit a cigarette. It was obvious that the bartender had failed to notice her resemblance to the club’s owner. If he had, he would be sneaking out the back door right now. Reason being? Within the next few moments, this place was going to turn into an all-out warzone.

  Pouring the first of many tall shots, Skye drank a toast to the impending massacre. She was breaking the rules here, of course. Rules that she, herself, had set down. There could be no charging in without preparation, even if she did know that he was at the club. There could be no emotion until she had her hands on him; even then, it could be nothing more than rage. The plan was to track him down, learn his coven and habits, watch him, and then take him out as mercilessly as she had his brothers...

  Or more specifically, their brothers.

  After her escape, Skye had spent nearly two and a half years training, practicing, learning. Once she was satisfied with her abilities, she had set out in search of them. It had taken her a full year to find Gavin. Another five months passed after his death before she found Marcus. She had assumed finding Adrian would take just as long. Imagine her surprise when, just the night prior, his address had been gurgled by a vamp in exchange for the mercy of a stake. And so, this time she was a bit hasty in her desire to take action. She was so close to her goal that she could taste it. Her instincts told her that it was now or never. She suspected, however, that her true motivation was a deep-rooted desire to be through with it finally. Her plane had only landed in Miami an hour earlier. She had intended to spend the night preparing before following the lead. Here she was, though – sitting right in the middle of his club, staring up at the tinted glass through which he was undoubtedly watching her. She tossed back her fifth shot and smiled that there were no two-way mirrors in a place like this. It simply would not do to advertise that the majority of the club’s patrons had no reflection.

  She cracked her neck, letting out a relieved sigh as the vodka began easing her tension. The blessed liquid was drowning out images that haunted her. Things her brother had done to her after being changed, along with memories of the happier times they shared before their world was turned into a living hell.

  The music stopped abruptly, leaving the patrons of the club to cast annoyed glances in the direction of the DJ’s booth. Skye was just pouring herself another shot when the music started back up again. She nearly dropped the bottle when a chilling, digitally altered child’s voice began singing the unbearably familiar words:

  “Thou shall not kill...

  Thou shall not die...”

  The bass line picked up in an edgy, hardcore remix of ‘Cry Little Sister’ and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her adrenaline began pumping. The berserker in her blood struggled to break free as her enraged eyes wandered back up to the tinted glass.

  Adrian... so he knew she was here.

  The selection in music was, no doubt, his sick attempt at humor. They had adored that damned movie as kids, watched it hundreds of times together. Her brothers had all wanted so badly to be ‘Lost Boys’... but Keifer Sutherland had been able to take out those fangs and go on with his life. Reality was nowhere near as entertaining to watch. When your own brothers were suddenly hell-bent on feeding from and torturing you, such films understandably lost their novelty.

  As the song went on, she realized that her shot glass had shattered in her steadily tightening grip. She fought back a wave of nausea, recalling the sight of Adrian licking her blood from his blade. It seemed his sadistic obsession with knives had come with the change in him.

  Out of reflex, she was reaching for the bottle again. She did not bother replacing her glass or removing the broken shards of it from her hand. Either action would only slow her down. She needed to dull the memories. They would stir emotions that she could not afford in that moment; breed weakness that could prove fatal. The few people who had known her for more than a day since her escape had called her an alcoholic. It always amused her to no end. Little did they know, a drinking problem was the least of her worries. With what she had been through, she should have, by right, been catatonic and institutionalized. If it had been safe for her to do so, that was precisely where she would have remained.

  The bottle was nearly empty now, which surprised her. She had never expected him to wait so long before showing his face. Almost certainly, his ego was faltering with news of the slaughter of Marcus, Gavin, and both of their covens reaching his ears.

  You see, little sister was not the crying type. Little sister was out for blood.

  In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of an approaching stranger. He bravely took a seat at the bar beside her, but made a point of leaving a stool between them. A dangerous smile formed on her lips. Smart man, she thought as she lowered the bottle and looked over at him, I wouldn’t get within swinging distance of me, either.

  “Ya know, that stuff’ll kill ya,” the stranger said and smacked his hands on the bar to the beat of the music. He leaned forward, cocking his head to the side and smirking over at her.

  She merely bit her bottom lip in response, letting her eyes wander freely over his form. His complexion was warm and invitingly tan. His eyes were dark and soulful. He was Hispanic, she decided as she studied his features. A broad nose, full lips, and strong jaw graced his youthful, yet masculine, face. His hair was spiked in a Mohawk. The shaved sides and back of his head revealed tribal tattoos on his scalp. With a brow arching in amusement, she noted that his hard body was far more muscular than his clothing could begin to hide. The weather-beaten black leather vest and
loose-fitting pair of Dickies he wore told her one of two things. He had either arrived here on a motorcycle, or he desperately wanted others to believe that was the case.

  Seeing the way she was eyeing him up, Miko licked his lips and flashed a confident, playful smile. He turned to face her, giving her a better view of the goods.

  The familiarity with which his fingers pressed into the seat between his thighs and comfortable way he straddled it made her lean toward the assessment of him being a legitimate biker. His heavily muscled forearms and biceps were covered with black ink of the usual variety. Flaming skulls, reapers, memorials to fallen friends, and other common figures had faded in the years since their placement. The veins of his arms were well pronounced, snaking beneath supple, sinuous skin in the way only a man could make look attractive. Ripe, juicy... these words came to mind for him. He was sumptuously masculine fruit, ready and eagerly awaiting the picking. To her senses, he exuded a palpable air of vitality. As with all males, she was able to perceive his arousal by scent alone. It was an inherent ability of hers – one she was surprised to learn that not all females possessed. Men with Latino blood had an aroma about them that she could always detect with ease. She smiled to herself as she inhaled deeply through her nose. His scent coincided with the visual indicators of his heritage.

  Thick hands... mmm, she loved that. Nearly every one of his fingers had a heavy silver ring on it, creating a legal version of brass knuckles. A long chain from his wallet swung beside him. Its breadth clued her in to its dual purpose as a weapon used in desperate situations. These casual additions to his attire for the purposes of combat made her temporarily shift the function of her appraisal. Was this man a mongoose set loose for her? Or was he unaware that the woman before him was a cobra ready to strike?

  She took in even the minutest details of the way he moved, quickly working to establish the level of threat he might pose. Though he was a few inches shy of 6’ tall, his physique was solid and formidable. He carried himself with the confidence of a man fully aware of his capabilities. He would be a brawler, a street fighter. His style would be geared toward overpowering opponents, throwing the full weight of his body mass into the blows he dealt. There would be no grace in his attack, should it come.