The Darkling Hunters_Fox Company Alpha

by Rhiannon Ayers

  Dex chuckled. “No wonder so many guys are dicks.”

  Sydney rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Peanut Gallery. Think of the mind as an empty vessel. At birth, that vessel is filled with the essence of lif: the human soul.” She dipped a finger in one of the cups and held it up. “The soul isn’t a solid entity, at least not like the scriptures would have you believe. It’s fluid. Ever-changing.” Her eyes hardened. “And, most importantly, it can be drained.”

  Sam shifted uneasily, and Dex did the same. Sam cleared his throat. “With you so far. So what makes all those darklings different?”

  “It’s more than just the lack of soul that makes them darklings,” she said in a quiet voice. “It also matters how the soul was drained. Specifically, how fast, and how violently.”

  Oh, he did not like the sound of that.

  Sydney picked up the first cup, held it up for both of them to see, and rose to her feet. She stepped inside the bathtub, then placed the cup on the floor of the tub, near the drain. Then she stood straight, took careful aim—and stomped the cup flat with the heel of her boot. The water gushed everywhere, splashing her, and both men winced at the sound of crushing paper. Sydney used the towel rack for balance as she carefully lifted her foot and peeled the wax-coated paper from her boot heel. She held up the flattened disc, showing them both sides, then carefully worked at the remains until it formed a mangled parody of a paper cup.

  She balanced it on her palm and held it up. “Take a good look. Does it still look like a cup?”

  “Maybe if you squint and hold your head sideways,” Dex said doubtfully, doing just that.

  Sydney’s lips twitched. “So, if someone handed you this, you wouldn’t mistake it for a real cup, would you? The damage is too extensive, too obvious.” She met Sam’s eyes, eyebrow raised. “What kind of darkling does that remind you of?”

  Dex shook his head, but Sam was having a lightbulb moment. “The cannibals,” he said in a soft, horrified voice. “The darklings we first encountered, way back in Afghanistan. None of us could ever bring ourselves to call them men. Nothing about them was even remotely human.”

  She nodded. “That’s what happens when a soul is removed by brute force. They’re known as the Broken. Those men’s souls weren’t just drained—they were crushed. In the process, their minds—the living vessel for the soul, more so than the body—were shattered. It’s a painful, horrifying process. They were reduced to one instinct and one instinct only: to make everyone else hurt just as much as they do.”

  She held up the mangled cup. “This type of darkling can’t even begin to pass for human. They’re too damaged. In the grand scheme of things, they’re cannon-fodder, nothing more. And, thankfully, they’re not all that common.”

  Sam felt sweat beading along his temples. He gestured toward the second cup with his chin. “What about the second kind?”

  Sydney set the mangled bit of wax paper on the side of the tub, then carefully lifted the second cup. As they watched, she pulled a small switch-blade out of her pocket and pinched the cup by the rolled rim with the other hand. Before they could react, she drew six vertical slits down the sides of the cup, spacing them evenly around the perimeter. The water gushed out in less than a heartbeat, splashing the tub and her boots.

  She met both their eyes with a solemn look. “These are the ones I call Minions. Their souls were drained out of them, not crushed, though the effects are similar. The loss is so great, and so immediate, that these darklings lose all sense of what it meant to be human. These are the guys who murder, rape, and steal for the hell of it, without regard for consequences. It’s not because they’re stupid, mind you. It’s because they lack the sense of self-preservation that makes normal men think twice before committing a crime. Their souls were drained so fast that their minds were damaged, but not broken, in the process.”

  Sam’s throat was going dry. “How common are they?”

  Sydney lifted a shoulder. “More common than you’d think, unfortunately. The DEA seems to ignore these guys because their crimes are mostly petty. But if you want to find them, I suggest walking into any prison in America. These are the guys who usually get snapped up by the justice system—petty crooks and rapists, arsonists, and thieves. And murderers, of course. They don’t have the sense to cover their tracks or try to avoid capture. They’re just…evil.”

  “How many?” Dex asked in a hoarse, horrified voice. “How many prisoners are darklings?”

  She shrugged again. “I don’t have hard statistics for you. But, I would say look at the lifers, and the guys on death row. These darklings quite literally can’t help themselves; they end up in prison, or dead, no matter how many times the system tries to rehabilitate them. They’re dangerous, sure, but that lack of a sense of self-preservation makes them weak. They’ll do and say anything to get what they want, even if it means going to prison for it.”

  “At least the justice system is good for something,” Sam said sourly. He swallowed hard. “You’ve got our undivided attention, Syd. What about the next kind?”

  She set the slotted cup on the tub’s edge and reached for the third one. Pulling out her switch-blade again, she paused and met their eyes. “These guys are the ones who usually ping the DEA’s radar. I call them Bastards.”

  With that, she held the cup in one hand, aimed the tip of her knife, and poked a small hole near the bottom of the cup. The men watched as the water drained out in a long, thin stream. It took over a minute for the flow to slow down until only a few drips and dribbles clung to the bottom ridge of the cup.

  For whatever reason, the sight gave Sam chills.

  “When the soul is drained slowly,” Sydney said in a solemn, dangerous voice, “the mind has time to acclimate. The loss is apparent—you’ve seen the black void it leaves behind their eyes—but these darklings still remember what it was like to be human. These are the guys who end up becoming drug kingpins and Mafia bosses. They retain their sense of self-preservation but lack the moral compass that drives the rest of humanity. They’re devious and cunning, and they’re well-aware of the stakes in this game.”

  Her ice-blue eyes flashed with something akin to loathing. “These are the guys who go out of their way not to be caught. And they often go out of their way to pretend they’re still human.”

  Dex frowned. “There’s gotta be something more to it, though.”

  Sam nodded, mind racing. “The other two kinds had their souls removed, and they lost any semblance of humanity—effectively, they forgot what it was like, so they can’t even begin to pretend. But why does the slow drain affect these darklings differently? How do they retain enough sense to realize they need to hide?”

  In answer, Sydney held out her hand. “Look in the bottom of the cup.”

  Both men did, squeezing in close to see all the way to the bottom. Dex drew back with an uncertain frown—but Sam felt the blood drain from his face.

  “There’s still a little water in there,” he said, voice gone rough and gravelly. “So…you’re saying…”

  Sydney nodded, just once. “When the soul is drained slow like that, with deliberate intent, just enough stays behind for the darkling to remember what it was like to be human. Oh, they lose all sense of why it mattered, but they still retain the memory. That last remnant, that residue, is what gives them access to their sense of self-preservation. They may not remember why they cared, but they still remember what it was like when they did. That’s why they’re so hard to identify, and so hard to track down. There’s just enough soul left for them to mimic being human.”

  “So…these are the guys the DEA’s been focused on,” Dex said, finally seeming to grasp her meaning. “The ones who hide in plain sight. The ones who still pretend.”

  “The ones we’ve always assumed were born that way,” Sam said grimly. He indicated the last cup. “That one still has water in it. What’s the fourth kind?”

  “Hold out your hand, Sam,” she said in reply. “Palm up.”


  He complied, glad to see his hand wasn’t as shaky as his insides seemed to be, and watched as she set the small Dixie up in the center of his palm. “Uh…”

  “Relax,” she said with a twinkling little smile. “You won’t get wet.” Dex mumbled something about phrasing, but Sam kept his focus on the woman in front of him. She pulled a small bendy straw out of her pocket, pinched one end, and used her knife to cut a one-inch section from the bottom.

  Dex, watching as she put the remainder of the straw and her knife away, raised an eyebrow. “You always keep random straws in your pockets?”

  “A Girl Scout is always prepared,” she said with a wink. “Now, pay attention.”

  “Yes ma’am,” both men said, deliberately deadpan.

  Sydney let a smile twist her lips, then gestured toward the cup. “Get a feel for the weight of it, Sam. Think you can remember what it feels like?”

  “Uh…yeah,” he said, frowning as he briefly lifted his hand up and down, careful not to spill the water.

  “Good.” Sydney pinched the piece of plastic straw between her fingers, then dipped half of it into the water. She used her index finger to cover the open hole, then lifted the straw back out again. She raised an eyebrow. “Did the weight change? Can you tell the difference?”

  Sam’s frown deepened. “No. Did you do anything?”

  In answer, she held the straw over the tub’s drain and lifted her finger. A single drop of water fell out, splashing the tub wall. She waited for a heartbeat, then dipped the straw in the cup once more. “Let’s try that again. Let me know if you feel a difference.” She covered the hole with her index finger, lifted the straw, and held it over the drain. This time, two droplets fell when she lifted her finger. “Anything?”

  “No,” Sam said, starting to get frustrated—and nervous, for no reason he could fathom. “It feels the same to me.”

  She cocked her head. “How long do you think it would take for me to get rid of enough water for you to feel the difference? An hour? Two?”

  Sam frowned. “I…I don’t know.”

  Her voice went solemn. “Now imagine I spread that out over weeks, maybe months. Even years. Do you think you’d still remember what it felt like when the cup was full? Would you even be able to tell the difference?”

  Either the room had gone cold, or he had. “If it was spread out over a long period of time like that? I doubt it. I guess I’d just…get used to it.”

  She kept dipping the straw, pulling out droplets one-by-one. “That’s why this type of darkling is so hard to spot—and so hard to stop. Their souls are drained, so carefully and so slowly, that they retain their sense of humanity long after they’ve lost any sense of compassion. These guys…they don’t even realize when they’ve gone darkling. They just continue on with their lives, slowly going evil.”

  “Example?” Sam grated, voice full of pitted rocks.

  “Ever seen a news story about a CEO who went cold?” Syd answered quietly. “The wife always says he started out so good-hearted, such a wonderful man. But over time, he started doing things—small, hateful things, things regular people wouldn’t do without considering the consequences. Firing people to save a few pennies. Refusing to honor safety standards, so workers end up hurt. Becoming obsessed with profit over performance, trying to turn human beings into automatons. On and on, and on it goes, until he finally snaps and does something at home. Slaps his kid, maybe, or perhaps his wife. Starts drinking, gambling, doing harder and harder drugs. Has affairs, rapes hookers, starts causing pain just for the fun of it. He starts to spiral, getting more and more depraved, until all the petty transgressions morph into a driving need to kill something.”

  Her ice-blue eyes flashed. “That’s when you know the soul is finally gone. Normal humans, those who still possess souls, only kill for two reasons: to protect their own lives, or to protect someone else’s. Darklings kill for the fun of it, for the brief rush that comes from snuffing out a life. And these darklings,” she indicated the now half-empty cup, “are some of the worst of the worst. Not because they think like darklings or act like darklings. It’s because they think they’re still human. They’re not trying to hide, or fly under the radar, because they think they don’t have to. The slow loss of their souls results in a twisted sense of humanity that makes them believe their actions are justified, even necessary. That’s why they’re always so surprised when they’re caught and brought to justice. They always think they’re still innocent. Thus, my personal nickname for them—I call them the Lost.”

  Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, folded his palm around the cup, and held it out to her. “I get it. I wish I didn’t.”

  Dex seemed just as disturbed. He pointed to the last cup. “That one doesn’t have any water.”

  Sydney picked it up. “That’s because this is a born darkling—the only kind the DEA seems to think exist. But in reality, they’re pretty rare. Maybe one in ten-million, if not less.”

  “How are they…I mean how do they…” Sam gestured helplessly, not sure how to articulate his question.

  “They arrive in the usual fashion,” she said with a small smile. “Born darklings are the product of a human-darkling coupling. But, despite the seeming fifty-fifty odds, there’s only about a one-percent chance of a pure darkling being born.”

  “Why’s that?” Dex wanted to know.

  Sydney shrugged. “The mind is a funny thing. It wants—needs—a soul to function properly. Therefore, it’s much, much more likely for a child to be born with one than without. Natural selection prevents most darklings from being born.”

  “Yet, the DEA has been focused on capturing the born darklings all these years,” Sam said with a grimace. “How many have we actually caught? How many times were we right?”

  “That I know of?” Syd pursed her lips. “Two, I think. The second was the original darkling lab rat, Sylace Jones. And the first wasn’t caught; he was the one who made people realize creatures like darklings could exist.”

  “Mudgett,” Dex said with a grimace. He met Sam’s look. “H.H. Holmes. The guy whose wife originally coined the name ‘darkling.’ He was the first. The first that the U.S. government acknowledged, that is. And the worst, as far as we’ve been able to tell.”

  Sydney nodded. “The same. But there have been others who’ve been caught by the system. The serial killers, mostly. Manson and Bundy and Dahmer and the like. The born psychopaths. The cold-blooded killers.”

  Silence fell as both men absorbed her words. Sam watched as Sydney calmly gathered her cups, poured out the last of the water, and deposited them in the wastebasket. He had no idea what to say to any of this, about any of it. It was all just so…disturbing.

  A sudden thought occurred. “Which kind is this Big Man you’re chasing? One of the born darklings?”

  Sydney bit her lip, looked away, and slowly shook her head. “No. He’s much, much worse.”

  Sam frowned, and so did Dex. “But you said there were only five types of darklings,” Dex reminded her. “So, what is he?”

  She hesitated. Finally, she held out her hand. The one-inch piece of straw rolled across her palm, looking solemn and forlorn.

  Sam stared at it—and everything in him went cold.

  “The straw?” Dex said, frowning. “But…”

  “The Big Man isn’t a darkling, is he?” Sam whispered.

  “No,” Sydney said, caverns and nightmares drifting behind her voice. “He’s the one who makes the darklings.”

  Chapter 10

  “A darkling-maker,” Dex said in an awed, horrified whisper. Goosebumps rose all up and down his arms. “The Big Man is a fucking darkling-maker?”

  Sydney said nothing. She tossed the piece of straw in the trash, stepped out of the tub, and pushed past both men. They followed her into the bedroom, where Sydney reclaimed her seat in the only chair. Dex settled on the loveseat, while Sam sat heavily on one of the beds.

  “Are you saying this guy’s a demon?” Dex said
. “Like, a straight-up, no-holds-barred, Biblical steal-your-soul-for-the-devil type demon?”

  Sydney snorted. “Only if you ascribe to the pop-culture version of what demons are supposed to be. Although, I believe his kind were the origin of the demon mythos. In ancient times, they didn’t have secret scientific labs set up to study why some humans were different from others. They ascribed anything supernatural to the realm of religious doctrine and called it a day.”

  “So, where did he come from?” That was from Sam.

  “Where does any baby come from?” Sydney said flatly. “If you’re asking how he came to have his power, you’d have to ask him. All I know is he exists, and he’s been stealing souls for a very, very long time.”

  All three of them fell silent.

  Finally, Dex couldn’t stand it any longer. “How do you know about him, Sydney? How do you know all that stuff about darklings? And how do you know he’s the one making them?”

  Sydney kept her eyes on her lap. She started picking at a loose thread on the arm of her chair, idly twisting it back and forth. At long last, she said, “The darklings call him the Big Man because that’s what he is to them—their maker, their leader. But his real name is…Levi. I don’t know what surname he uses nowadays; he changes it every few years. But I know it’s him.”

  “How do you know he’s the darkling-maker?”

  “We have…history.” She looked up. “The DEA has been wondering why darklings have become so prevalent, right? Especially over the last few decades? Levi is the reason. He came to this country a long time ago and sort of…went to ground. Went into hiding. But something happened…years ago, and he just sort of…snapped. Since then, he’s been using his power, his gift, to steal men’s souls all over the country.”

  “Why?” Dex asked, horrified.

  Her eyebrows drew downward. “Let’s just say he’s not fond of the DEA.”

  Sam frowned. “But why would that make him create a bunch of new darklings?”