by Peter Dawes
Dark as the Grave
The Vampire Flynn Book One
Peter Dawes
Edited by
J.R. Wesley
Contents
The Vampire Flynn
Sign Up for the Author’s Mailing List
Praise for THE VAMPIRE FLYNN
Short Stories
Title Page
Copyright
“He who fights monsters…”
Prologue
The Blind
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Rise of the Assassin
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Four Year Later
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Secret
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Humanity Restored
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
The Final Challenge
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
“There is no person…”
Epilogue
Get the Next Vampire Flynn Book
Leave a Review
Also by Peter Dawes
Peter Dawes’ Mailing List
In Acknowledgement
Follow Us
The Vampire Flynn
Dark as the Grave
The Silence of Ashes
Blade of the Slayer
* * *
Divided By Night
Undone By Blood
Reforged By Death
Sign Up for the Author’s Mailing List
There’s an easy way to get an extra taste of The Vampire Flynn.
Go online and sign up for Peter Dawes’ email list to receive the latest book news, exclusive content, invitations to author appearances, and more.
* * *
writerofstuff.com/mailinglist/
Praise for THE VAMPIRE FLYNN
“This isn’t Twilight folks, Peter is now a Vampire. He has enhanced senses, increased stamina, intense bloodlust, and a fondness for swords. He has disassociated from his humanity even further by taking on the new name Flynn. The ensuing story isn’t puppies and lollipops. In a sophisticated and eloquent manner very reminiscent of early Anne Rice, we are taken through Peter/Flynn’s journey from healer, to Vampire, to Assassin.”
Author Jessica Fortunato
THE SIN COLLECTOR
“Dark as the Grave is a vampire story at its core, but you can throw out all cliches.Flynn is a complex character, a man who's both gritty and sleek, who's been delivered into his new life by a delicious coven of classy, sophisticated, sharp-dressing blood drinkers in the city of Philadelphia.”Author Jodi McClure from Grit City Fiction
SWING ZONE
“I’ve been lucky enough to see this story evolve from a rough to the form it’s in now. And man, it has grown into a polished, decadent tale of evil plots, warring supernatural forces, and zee power o’ love. I recommend this to anyone tired of the modern ‘vampire fad,’ for these vampires are traditional, bloodthirsty gods in the night. But in each of them, a streak of humanity runs, and how that influences their ‘dominant nature’ makes a great mess of things, but a great treat to the reader. The ensuing drama is a tale worthy of being told, and the author tells it with skill and excitement. Plus you know you’ve always wanted to read about an angry vampire slicing other vampires in half with a katana. Don’t deny it.”
Author Heather Watson
THE DROWNED
“This book really explores humanity, and the struggle of one’s self. Peter struggles reconciling the man and the monster throughout most of the book. Also, on a more subtle level is the question of freedom. Are you responsible for the deeds you have done if you were manipulated? The author presents both themes beautifully.”
Author Noree Cosper
TRIP THE ECLIPSE
Short Stories
By Peter Dawes
Featuring the Vampire Flynn
Hunting on Halloween
A Vampire’s Game
* * *
Nocturnal Embers, an anthology
Lost Highway
* * *
Red Phone Box, a story cycle
All Fall Down
Turn About Is Fair Play
May 2017 – 10th Anniversary Edition
Copyright
Dark as the Grave
Digital Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit crimsonmelodies.com to find out where you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
A Crimson Melodies Ebook
Digital Edition
* * *
Copyright © 2007-2017 by Peter Dawes
Edited by J.R. Wesley
* * *
All rights reserved, including the right to
reproduce this book or portions thereof in
any form whatsoever, without permission
in writing from the publisher.
* * *
www.crimsonmelodies.com
[email protected]
* * *
Front Cover Design © 2017 by Crimson Melodies Publishing
Front Cover Illustration by Leah Keeler
* * *
Previously published as
Eyes of the Seer - The Vampire Flynn Book One
“He who fights monsters should look into it
that he himself does not become a monster.
When you gaze long into the Abyss,
the Abyss also gazes into you.”
* * *
Friedrich Nietzsche
Prologue
I spent my last days alone, not knowing I was about to die. While the world around me had been shifting for some time, taking my ordinary existence and transforming it, I could not have told you what was happening to me at the time. For long hours, I stood at work, staring at the people who passed through the emergency room of Temple University Hospital as if trying to determine what had changed and when. Little did I realize what waited for me around the corner.
Granted, in retrospect, most of those weeks are a blur. Maybe because I had unwittingly been placed under a spell, or perhaps because I sensed I was living on borrowed time. Shattered memories of patients and strangers fill what few things I recall, but none of them answer the question of whether anyone noticed me fading or not. I only know it reached a crescendo the night of January 20, 1983, setting me on the path I find myself today.
That line marks the transition from the human I once was to the vampire I have become. I am not old enough yet to forget the days when I yet bore a pulse, even if they have become scrapbook images over the intervening decades. Those
pictures, however, have formed a story of cause and effect, bringing me to the present. In that story they tell, I see purpose. I see the hand of fate guiding my path.
Even if some of those steps have been less graceful than others.
I wonder if I would have entered willingly into this phase of my life, had I been able to see where it would lead. The highs and lows; the moments of despair peppered with the thrill of triumph, all which fashioned the man I have become. Yes, I am an immortal, but I am no ordinary vampire. I still possess the fangs, the nature, and the consuming instincts of one. What the casual observer misses when they first see me is a very crucial feature beyond my tall stature and unruly brown hair.
Not that I blame them. Not many recognize the relevance of my emerald green eyes or know what they represent. Unique creatures like me work best in the shadows, where an entire world lurks unseen until that time when the supernatural reveals itself. I used to be one of the ignorant and unaware – an unsuspecting and unknowing mortal, at that time with blue eyes instead of the ethereal irises I now possess. And I have decided to break the silence, to reveal myself to you.
I have lived many lives by now. I have held many different titles and been several people and several things already. The years in which I acted with compassion have been followed by ones in which I have claimed victims with little care before sending them to meet their maker. Saint and sinner. Bastard, friend, and foe. So many deaths and so many rebirths mark the total of my immortal existence. So many layers to this creature I am; this being I became.
I will not linger any longer on riddles. Suffice to say when the Fates fashioned what would be my existence, they created a paradox; an eternal enigma.
My name is Peter and this is my story.
It all started with a murder.
Part I
The Blind
“If man were immortal he could be perfectly
sure of seeing the day when everything
in which he had trusted should betray his trust.”
Charles Sanders Pierce
Chapter 1
January 20, 1983 – Philadelphia, PA
I cannot recall what caused the clarion alarm to sound in my psyche, but time froze and an epiphany struck in all its horrible glory.
I had completely screwed up.
A thought echoed that this was some twisted nightmare I would wake from, but I could not help trying to piece together facts until reality could finally set in. Lifting my gaze from the knife poised in my blood-covered hand, I spied them lying there: two people – a man and a woman – and both were dead.
My knees gave out. Sliding down the bedroom wall, I settled on the floor. The knife dropped from my slackened grip and I brought both hands to my head as recollections assailed me. I had walked in on her, this was true. She looked at me and screamed. It was when the other person shot out of bed that my memories shattered like a pane of glass. I struggled to replay the events, my head throbbing and the sensation of the knife’s hilt lingering on my skin.
The knife. I had fetched it from the kitchen. Oh God, what had I done?
Curling up with my back to the wall, I hugged my knees and winced. The dam of shock buckled under the weight of too many images crowding in at once. Too many images, such as her calling out, “No, Peter! This isn’t what you think!” and me spitting out the words, “You selfish whore, what did you do? What did you do?!” An involuntary laugh broke the silence when I remembered the bastard she had been fondling. He fell to the floor, tripping over his own jeans, and barely came to a stand by the time I rushed upon him.
Tears clouded my eyes. More hysterics burst forth from my lips. Neither convinced me I yet possessed my right mind, while doing nothing to make me feel justified in what I did next, either. Rather, I plunged deeper into the abyss while crimson tainted the black and white movie playing in my mind.
He had been my first victim. Not pausing to ask his name, I had also given no warning of what I meant to do. Instead, I charged forward with the kitchen knife and sank it deep into his stomach. His face contorted in pain, but as he looked up at me, he revealed a sight I found strangely delicious.
My gaze focused on his neck. I licked my lips and slashed the blade across his throat. Whatever he had been struggling to say, the gash ensured he would never speak again.
My senses should have come screaming back to me right then and there, but as my lover of two years looked at me with glassy eyes, I realized her tears were not for me. Enraged, I closed the distance between us and tore the gold chain from around her neck. The knife plunged through her chest with sickening ease and I held it there while watching the light dim from her eyes. The instrument of her death had slipped from her body when she crumpled to the floor.
“I have to get out of here,” I whispered, wiping my cheeks as I returned to the present. Two dead bodies lay before me. A lifetime of remorse loomed on the horizon. My fingers left bloody smudges where I had touched my face, but I did not care. In fact, I was amazed when my weak knees supported my weight enough for me to pick myself back up.
I stumbled down the hallway, to her front door. The thought occurred to me, as I opened it, that her neighbors might have heard screams coming from the apartment. When I swung open the door, however, I saw nothing more than an empty corridor. So, I trudged forward, not knowing yet where to go, but realizing I could not stay there.
Images assailed me again.
I saw the look in her eyes as our gazes locked, her brain not yet dead from the lack of life-giving oxygen. “Peter... I’m sorry.” That miserable bitch. Why did she say she was sorry? Why did she rob me of a pure lover’s vengeance by staining my actions with her repentance?
My walk became a run.
I remembered the scowl of hate I felt myself direct at her in return. “Burn in hell,” I had muttered. How could I have said that? Did I not realize what I had just done? Even if her love for me was so easily cast aside, mine for her remained strong.
Hysteria threatened to claim me. I dashed for the main door and slammed my weight against it, only to recoil at the first blast of January wind which greeted me. The idea of being lost – vulnerable – struck as I stumbled outside, surprised not to find a mob gathered with pitchforks and torches. Running toward the street, I tried to escape the guilt pounding through my head. My conscience was moving fast and gaining, leaving me naked before my own scrutiny.
I passed beneath awnings of upscale apartment buildings and raced across a dimly-lit park. When a patch of Philadelphia asphalt suddenly stretched before me, I darted across it without caring one iota for the traffic. One car swerved, then another, but I did not remain on the street for long. I dodged down an alleyway, still running from the pain threatening to tear me limb from limb. Footsteps closed in. Someone’s breath tickled against my neck. A presence enveloped me, but none of that prepared me for the abrupt way my sprint came to a halt.
It was as though my conscience obtained corporeal form; or so I thought at the time. Ignorance converged with my frenzy and prevented me from understanding when one hand grabbed me, followed by another. I struggled wildly against the grip, screaming, “I was going to marry her!” The pair of hands kept firm grasp of me through my manic attempts to break away, and I continued shouting pleas for understanding until my attackers silenced my rant with a swift smack against my throat. Suddenly, I began to realize it was not my conscience holding me back.
The second clue was more painful.
I felt a tongue slide along my neck milliseconds before a set of sharp teeth pierced my skin. Hollering as an afterthought, I gasped while blood ran down my chest in rivulets and mingled with the sweat already present. The lips pressed against my flesh pursed and drew inward. A sickening sucking noise resonated in my ears and the hands around me tightened.
My eyes fluttered shut. My head bobbed. I could not see the face of my attacker, but had little desire to as my pulse became faint and my knees threatened to buckle a second time that night. Whoeve
r held me prevented me from falling over while my brain began the same shut down I had witnessed minutes earlier with Lydia.
“...Lydia.” I whispered her name as though remembering it for the first time through all the chaos. It formed the only apology my dying breaths could manage before I was robbed of the chance to add any further words of remorse. Instead, the cool flesh of somebody’s wrist touched my lips. It silenced even my thoughts and focused my fleeting attention toward a viscous liquid that ran into my mouth. The moment I tasted blood, a foreign notion stirred my senses the same way seeing the exposed throat of Lydia’s lover had.
A feminine voice spoke in a soothing manner. “Drink,” she said. “Take it in, Peter. Because tonight, we will fulfill your destiny.”
I drew inward once, compelled by the woman’s command. It restored enough of my strength for me to drink again, leaving me wanting more without knowing why. In fact, I became more and more ravenous with each mouthful and did not realize I had grabbed hold of her arm until a violent pulse of pain caused my fingers to tighten. My mouth lifted from her wrist so I could cry out in agony. Before I figured out what was happening, another wave of fatigue struck.
