The DARK Trilogy: Titan's Song Chronicles Volume 1 (Books 1 - 3)

by Jacob Stanley

  She decided to go look around to see if she could find her pants, which only took a few seconds. Myra had simply thrown them into the dirty clothes hamper, which was only a few feet away, right next to the bathroom door.

  Simone took the pants, removed the note from the pocket, unfolded it, read it again.

  It was real, not a dream, and the message was eerily relevant to her current situation: wait till the time is right before you make your move.

  “Well,” she muttered. “I waited, Daddy, and I don’t see how I could get a better chance than this. But it didn’t work. There are guards and shit, and the phone lines are cut, and my car is ruined… I’ll never be able to slip out of here.”

  Then, suddenly, almost as if someone had whispered a reminder in her ear, Simone remembered that her mother owned a shotgun.

  Chapter 7 - The Big Reveal

  Simone was worried that the gun would be gone, that Myra would’ve already found it and removed it from the house. After all, if the goal was to keep Simone trapped here, as it seemed, then getting rid of any weapons was an obvious precaution to take, and so far Myra had shown herself to be nothing if not thorough.

  But still, there was hope, because the gun was very well hidden. Simone’s mother, who hated firearms, had always felt bad about owning it—the very sight of the thing made her worry that some bizarre accident might happen—and so she had taken care to store it in a place where no one would ever stumble on it by accident.

  The gun had originally been purchased by Simone’s father, who loved weapons of all kinds and insisted on keeping lots of them around even though his wife disapproved. After he died, Simone’s mother wasted no time getting rid of his whole collection, all except for the pump-action shotgun, which she kept mostly for sentimental reasons. It was technically supposed to be her gun; he had given it to her early in their marriage, so she would have a way to protect Simone and herself on the occasions when he needed to leave town.

  It was a high dollar gun, made by some Italian company, designed more for self-defense than hunting. Simone had fired it several times, under her father’s supervision, back when she was a kid; it was one of her last, and most vivid, memories of him—also one of the least pleasant. The recoil and the horrible noise from the gun had frightened her so badly that she cried like a baby, but he had forced her to keep firing anyway, till she proved her ability to hit targets competently. Looking back, she realized his behavior had been rather cruel, but now she was glad it had happened.

  Maybe Daddy had some kind of premonition, she thought as she entered the laundry room, and peered up at the deep cubby built into the wall above the dryer.

  The space was high enough off the ground that even a tall person—like Myra, for example—would have to stand on something in order to reach it. And the gun—if it was still there—was pushed all the way to the back wall of the compartment, making it impossible to see from the ground.

  Overall, it was an excellent, and very unlikely, hiding place. But still, Simone breathed a heavy sigh of relief when she climbed up on the dryer and saw the sleek gray weapon lying there right where it was supposed to be, covered in cobwebs and dust.

  It wasn’t loaded—her mother never would’ve felt safe storing it that way—but there was a white cardboard box full of buckshot sitting right next to it.

  At first, Simone couldn’t figure out how to put the shells in, but as her fingers grew accustomed to the feel of the weapon, the memories of how to operate it started coming back.

  Once the gun was loaded, Simone hefted it up, sighted down the length of it. She felt pretty bad-ass holding it.

  A strange excitement came over her.

  This is gonna be fun, she thought.

  And then she realized how crazy that sounded. Normal people didn’t get excited about the possibility of violence. Normal people would be afraid.

  But she wasn’t afraid. She tried thinking of all the horrible things that could happen, tried imagining herself shot full of holes and dying, but all she could stir up was another pleasant tingle of excited anticipation, a feeling not too far removed from sexual arousal.

  Which means I’m not a normal person. Not even a little bit. Not anymore.

  The idea was still new, but it was getting easier to accept.

  - - -

  Simone was on her way into the living room, gun at the ready, when she heard Myra outside talking to Bobby.

  She could hear every word of the conversation with surprising clarity—Myra had just noticed the shocking damage to the hood of Simone’s car, and was asking about it. Bobby gave her a quick rundown of events, leaving out any mention of Simone’s attempted bribery.

  Because he thinks that part’ll make him look like a fink…

  When he finished, Myra lit into him with a flurry of questions. Obviously she could tell he was trying to sneak something past her.

  Simone ignored the rest of the conversation, and walked the rest of the way into the living room, where she crept up to one of the big windows that opened onto the front porch, and peeked out through the slender gap at the edge of the curtain.

  By then, Myra had finished her cross examination and was now walking up the driveway towards the house, carrying several white plastic grocery bags. Behind her, Bobby was standing out by the smashed hood of Simone’s car, hands in pockets, looking flustered.

  Not a good day for Bobby, she thought. And probably about to get a lot worse. His own fault, for getting involved with these creeps.

  When Myra reached the top of the porch-steps, she suddenly hesitated, an expression of unease spreading over her face.

  She sniffed around like a nervous cat. Then opened her mouth and tasted the air with her tongue: flick, flick, flick.

  Simone’s stomach did a somersault as she immediately assumed the worst—clearly Myra possessed some sort of keen sixth sense, and now she had become magically aware of Simone’s ambush scheme.

  Suddenly things didn’t feel so exciting anymore. Maybe this wasn’t the right time to attempt an escape after all.

  I could still do it later though… Maybe hide the gun somewhere close by, some place where I could grab it quick when the time is right… Maybe behind the couch…

  Simone was just about to put everything on hold. But then Myra suddenly knelt, laid her grocery bags down, and walked the length of the porch to the trash can. She raised the lid, and rooted around in the garbage. A moment later, she came up with the bag containing the pyramid.

  Simone felt goose pimples break out all over her body, because what she’d just witnessed, from appearances, was impossible. No normal human should’ve been able to pick up on that scent. Not from that distance; not with the pyramid wrapped so tight in a garbage bag, and covered up with a metal lid; not outdoors, with all the fresh air washing through and no closed-in spaces for a stink to pool up in.

  That lemony fragrance was pungent, but it wasn’t that pungent.

  Myra turned to face the yard and addressed Bobby: “When did this happen?” She raised the trash bag and shook it so he would know what she was talking about.

  “Oh yeah,” he answered. “Forgot to mention that. The girl came out and threw that away a few minutes before she smashed up the car.”

  “You forgot?”

  “Yeah, it didn’t seem important.”

  “Everything she does is important. No matter how small.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ll remember that.”

  “You better,” she said, putting the lid back down on the trash can. Then she glared out at him for a while without saying anything, like she wanted to press her point home, and maybe intimidate him a little too.

  He looked down at his feet, and looked away, and shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets.

  Finally she relaxed her shoulders a little, and there was a smugness showing in her expression as she carried the pyramid-bag over to the spot where her groceries were scattered, and started gathering everything up.

  Almost tim
e, thought Simone.

  She took a deep breath, stepped back from the window and raised the gun, aiming at the door.

  Her eyes were on the brass knob, which was the important bit, the part that would tell her when everything was beginning to unfold.

  She watched as it started to turn, watched the door begin to swing inward, watched Myra cross the threshold, grocery bags dangling from one hand, pyramid-bag dangling from the other.

  She met Simone’s eyes, glanced briefly at the gun, then back up, smiling slightly. It was an expression that almost made it seem like she was eager for a showdown. Not at all the reaction Simone was expecting.

  The silent tension stretched between them for a long time. Or maybe it was only for a few seconds, but it seemed to last forever.

  And, as the moment inflated to an improbable degree, Simone began to feel nervous; almost shy actually. Which, she realized, was a bit ridiculous under the circumstances. But the feeling persisted despite her realization, and it was a very unpleasant feeling, one she wasn’t at all accustomed to. So she was trying to think of something to say, to break the ice, when Myra, without any warning, made a small, sudden motion with her right hand, and sent all the grocery bags sailing through the air.

  They flew right at Simone’s face, and for a brief instant all she could see was white plastic. Panic made her squeeze down on the trigger. The explosion of the shell filled the room, deafening; followed immediately by a new sound: a scream that changed halfway through to something deeper; rolling, inhuman vibrations, as if the earth itself had come to life and was trying to communicate some terrible emotion.

  And then there was darkness, an inky blackness that washed over everything, so thick and so real that it almost seemed solid; and the room was suddenly frigid, like stepping outside on an early morning in January.

  Slimy hands gripped Simone by the waist, and more hands—more than any person with a normal anatomy should possess—took the gun away from her.

  Simone swung her fists uselessly at a cold rubbery body that had strange and profane shapes protruding from it.

  And that was when all her bravado vanished, and she finally experienced real human terror.

  This was too much. It was all just too horrible.

  Hysteria bubbled up, and she gibbered like a frightened child: “No, no. Please, no! Let go! Please don’t!”

  The thing responded with hideous laughter, like the sound of glass breaking, and then came the voice: clicking, rattling, sighing up from a throat that plainly couldn’t possess anything resembling a human larynx. “You wanted to kill me? Oh yes, that’s the good stuff. I’m so glad.”

  Each spoken word sent damp puffs of cold air up into Simone’s face, air that reeked of lemons and rotten flesh.

  She started to gag.

  The thing laughed again. “You hurt me, I think. Yes… Good job. I’ll have to kill one of my boys now, to help repair the damage—maybe I’ll let you watch! I can show you better ways to kill people. Juicier ways. Sexier ways. Guns are boring. Guns are much too dry.”

  Simone struggled, kicking out with her feet, but it was like kicking an old tire.

  “Relax now,” it said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you.” Abruptly, the limbs holding Simone loosened.

  She pulled free and backed away, and the darkness lifted all at once, like a curtain had been drawn to the side; and where the monster had stood now there was just Myra, and she had two arms, two legs, a very human body. The shotgun blast had hit her in the right shoulder and there was some blood soaking through the fabric of her shirt. Her facial expression was slightly strained from the pain, but mostly she looked quite pleased.

  She enjoyed being shot.

  Simone felt most of her hopes drain away.

  Myra really was some kind of horrible thing, something from hell… Simone was pretty sure she didn’t have the nerve to face her again.

  And anyway, why bother? She couldn’t damage her. Might as well fight a brick wall.

  I’m lucky to be alive. I should be happy she didn’t want to hurt me.

  Simone backed away another pace, and almost lost her footing when she stepped in something slick.

  She glanced down and saw blood and chunks of meat splattered all over the floor.

  At first she was confused, and then she saw the open containers of chicken livers that had burst when the grocery bags hit the ground, scattering their contents.

  Then, before she could give this any real thought, there was a sound of heavy boots on wood, and a moment later Bobby came running inside, pistol in hand, in a stance like a policeman on a TV show.

  “Took you long enough,” said Myra.

  “Came as soon as I heard the shot.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she said, her tone dripping with icy sarcasm. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Everything is fine.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing. But I’m afraid we’ll have to be more cautious from now on. Go talk to the one I put in charge—what’s his name?”

  “Craig?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Go talk to Craig, and tell him to give you the duffel bag I gave him, the one with the restraints. We’re going to have to tie her up.”

  Chapter 8 - Chained

  Simone’s first thought when she heard Myra ask for restraints was: great, now I can just lay back and let them do whatever the fuck they want.

  If they immobilized her, escape would be impossible, and then it wouldn’t be her fault for throwing in the towel.

  Bobby left them to go get the bag, which Simone presumed was probably in one of the cars parked out on that logging trail. She wondered what they would use to truss her up. Hand cuffs? Manacles? A strait-jacket?

  Myra waited behind, and settled down on the big easy-chair, prodding at her wounded shoulder, wincing a few times when she managed to hurt herself.

  She looked over at Simone. “I didn’t think you’d be awake this soon. That potion I gave you was made from mother’s venom… I mentioned earlier that the venom was flexible, useful for more than just burning people up. You can just as easily use it to heal, and all sorts of other things. The potion was made from a special batch that mother brewed up inside herself, just for me and my brother, to help us keep all our different parts—the human ones and the other ones—working together in harmony, and to help us with our own process of transformation, to make it easier and smoother when it happens. I knew it would help you too; what you’re becoming is only slightly different from what I already am. But it’s strong medicine. That dose should’ve made you sleep half the night. The fact that it didn’t means your change is coming along faster than I expected. Which is very good news—a bit painful for me, of course,”—she poked at the bloody shoulder and wrinkled her nose like it smarted a little— “but nothing too serious.”

  Simone was barely listening, her mind having skipped over to another issue. “If you brought restraints,” she said. “Then you were already thinking you might have to tie me up.”

  “Yes. I knew it was possible.”

  “So why haven’t you done it already? Why am I still walking around? Or—a better question—why am I still here at all? You can do whatever you want with me anyway, without bothering to tie me up—you could kidnap me right now if you wanted, make me go to this weird place you keep talking about.”

  “Yes, I could.”

  “So why haven’t you?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to follow tradition as much as possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are rules about this process—what’s happening to you. It’s supposed to be a kind of initiation, a new beginning. And you are meant to face it alone. When you eventually surrender to the will of our Great Father, it is supposed to happen without any outside interference. Your ego must be integrated with the Father’s ego, a process of give and take, a process of evolution. You become more like him, and he becomes more like you—a joining, combining of
purposes. Growing pains and struggle are a part of that process, and this can lead to unforeseen complications, mostly arising from unpredictable behavior. There are accidents. Always. My job was to try and minimize the accidents, to help you avoid the consequences of any complications that might arise, but I’m also expected to avoid any action that might subvert your free will or manipulate you. Ideally, I should be striving to stay behind the scenes and keep you safe, but obviously things didn’t work out that way. This world’s too interconnected now with the Internet and cell phones. Things happen too fast. When you killed that young man, I had to step in, rules or no rules.”

  “So you’re breaking the rules?”

  “Yes. And I might be punished for it eventually, but I’m willing to accept that. You could’ve ended up in jail or worse, and that’s a risk we can’t afford to take. You’re too important. It might take us 100 years to find another one like you.”

  These words were heavy as they came tumbling down from the big woman’s mouth. Simone felt like puking.

  What if I was always meant for this? she wondered. Maybe it really is my destiny.

  She had never actually been a very good person, after all. Mostly she was a self-centered brat; that was her main mode of operation. That was her essential identity. She almost never went out of her way to do nice things for people.

  Maybe her lack of goodness was natural, maybe it was meant to be there.

  She wiped at the tears that had begun rolling down her face, and looked up at Myra. “I can feel it happening, you know… Like, there’s something inside me now, that loves the idea of hurting people.”

  Myra shrugged. “Violence is a fundamental part of nature. Everything in the world that lives and breathes is either prey or a predator.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “What do you mean?”