Available Darkness Box Set | Books 1-3

by Platt, Sean

  Something in him shifted.

  While Larry was devastated that Lydia, one of the only women he was ever close to having loved — though he’d never uttered the words or even admitted the fact to himself before now — was dead, he was also curious.

  Abigail being turned was the first such transformation he’d ever seen. He’d known of a few instances where people had become feeders; they were rare, the stuff of whispered legend. But John had done it — not just brought the girl back from the brink of death, but turned her into a feeder.

  Too many questions raced through his mind, so much he wanted — needed — to know. But for now, those questions would have to stay buried.

  John

  John watched Larry’s face transform, his flesh fading from raspberry to blush, and finally to its normal doughy hue. He could sense Larry’s pulse slowing like a man letting up on the gas of a high-speed performance car. John glanced over to the gun, a good ten feet behind Larry.

  “We have a problem here?” John asked.

  Larry shook his head. His eyes darted past John to something behind him. John did a 180 and found Abigail standing, facing them.

  John braced for what was to come, for her to break down and cry or scream in anger at what they’d done to her. He considered what he would say to comfort her, how he could explain what happened, and hopefully deal with the anger or fear she felt after killing Lydia. Then he considered that Lydia’s memories which might be swirling through Abigail’s mind, luring the girl toward madness.

  But she wasn’t crying.

  Abigail didn’t seem like she was losing her grip.

  She was a marble slab.

  After a long silence, her vacant expression shifted.

  “What happened?” she said, in barely a whisper.

  Thirty-Nine

  Caleb

  “What are you looking for?” Bob repeated.

  While Caleb would normally flare up at anyone (no matter how high their ranking) with the temerity to ask him such a thing, or dare spy on him, he needed to tread carefully. Something big was happening, and for the first time in his professional career, he was at a disadvantage. He couldn’t see the game board, or even the players moving the pawns.

  Honesty was the best policy, seeing as Caleb had no idea how much they knew. “I’m remembering things, Bob. Things that don’t make a lot of sense.”

  The other side of the line was silent.

  Shit. I said too much.

  After an extended pause, Bob said, “Let it go, Caleb.”

  Caleb wanted to do anything but let it go. He wanted to jump through the phone and shake the answers from Bob’s body.

  “Listen, Caleb, I get that you have more questions than answers, and that it’s frustrating. But I need your head in the game. We have a killer to catch. The man who killed your wife, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing,” Caleb said, pissed that Bob would play that card. And somewhat pleased. If Bob was getting desperate enough to try such a cheap tactic, it meant that Caleb was closing in on something that they, whoever they were, didn’t want him to know.

  “We’ll help you make sense of things. Soon, I promise. Right now, I need to know you won’t be sidetracked. I need to know you won’t botch this.”

  Caleb measured Bob’s words. If he responded too quickly, Bob wouldn’t buy the change of heart. Moreover, he’d likely lock down Caleb’s ability to get any information at all, if he’d not already done so. Caleb pulled a sigh from the depths of his belly and uncapped the whiskey he kept on his nightstand. He took a swig and sighed a second time, half enjoying the show he was putting on for Bob.

  “I’m just so tired,” Caleb said, broadcasting utter exhaustion. “I just want to close this case and end the nightmare.”

  “I know,” Bob said, his voice soothing.

  “You know, I haven’t cried since the funeral,” Caleb said, in a moment of spontaneous honesty, surprising himself with the confession.

  Bob was quiet. Caleb continued.

  “My head hasn’t been right in a while, Bob. I’m not eating or sleeping. It’s no wonder I’m having such fucked-up dreams. I just want to catch this guy, nail him to the fucking wall so my wife can finally rest in peace.”

  “Do you need some time off? I can have Omega take this off your plate.”

  “No. Just let me get this monster, then we can deal with whatever else we need to deal with.”

  “If you ever need anything, Caleb, anything at all, just ask.”

  “Thanks,” Caleb said, taking another sip. “Right now, I’m gonna get some sleep so I can hit this tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

  They hung up.

  Caleb killed the light and stared at his computer, wondering how else they might be monitoring him. He glanced at his window, the curtains closed like always. Then he rolled off the bed, dropped softly to the carpet, crawled toward the wall, and slowly pulled the bottom corner of the curtain aside just enough to steal a glimpse outside.

  About half a block down he saw a van nearly swallowed by darkness. Inside, two dark figures, watching his house.

  Well, hello there.

  Forty

  Abigail And John

  Abigail

  Abigail’s body moved with alien instincts. She was surprised by her hands locking on Lydia, startled by the energy surging into her fingers then flowing through her arms and into her brain.

  Memories coursed through her mind like a hard wall of waves bursting through a dam. Foreign images, memories from another life lived, unfurling as she feasted on the energy swirling from the woman’s emptying shell, slowly overwhelming her.

  Lydia’s older sister, Vicky, took her pink dolly away from her. “She’s mine!” Lydia was hurt. Then, another memory, of her and Larry in bed. He was casually puffing on a cigarette while drawing lazy circles on Lydia’s breasts with his fingers, whispering odes to her beauty. Then, Abigail watched, through Lydia’s eyes, as her boyfriend, Tony, bloodied his knuckles against an unmoving wall. Lydia was afraid …

  Darkness extinguished the memory.

  The energy stopped flowing, and Abigail sat, hunched over, staring at the charred corpse beneath her.

  Lydia’s memories continued to flicker, a strobe light in Abigail’s mind, threading through her own images of yesterday, weaving all thoughts into one incomprehensible tapestry.

  Lydia as a girl again, this time walking to school, alone. She was fiercely proud to not need an escort. A big girl now. School was only two short blocks away, but you’d think it was two miles the way her mom kept carrying on. Lydia had made it almost all the way when she caught a movement in the corner of her eye. She turned just in time to see her mom, about half a block behind her, ducking behind a car. Lydia flared. “Mom, how could you?”

  Grief clawed at her throat as Abigail experienced and mourned a life reduced to moments remembered in dying gasps.

  As cruel as it was, Abigail’s body had never felt more alive. But the intoxication of power did nothing to soothe the decay she felt in her mind and soul. She wanted to weep, but tears wouldn’t come. Sadness washed over her as another flood of memories seeped through her system. She struggled to focus on the present. Then, she heard a familiar voice — John!

  Abigail stood and turned, desperate for sanctuary from the darkness swallowing her.

  John’s back was turned to her as he stood over Larry. They appeared to have been fighting. She noted the gun on the floor behind Larry. He saw her first, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. Then John turned to her, a cold sadness sculpting his face.

  She struggled to push words from her mouth.

  “What happened?” she finally managed.

  “You were hurt.” John cautiously approached. “You were dying. And I … saved you.” He looked at the ground. “But I turned you into … this.”

  Abigail flinched, remembering the pain that had shattered her insides. She’d been shot. Panic pounded through her as she noticed t
he blooms of dark crimson staining her shirt, coating her hands and blackening her nails. She lifted her shirt, searching for wounds, then reached back with her fingers in an awkward search for any sign of puncture.

  “You’re all healed,” John said.

  Suddenly, Abigail became conscious of her exposed flesh, lowered her shirt, and glanced at the ground.

  “I’m so sorry,” John said, his voice quaking. “It was the only way to save you.”

  “So,” she hesitated before finishing the sentence, “I’m a vampire now?”

  John turned to Larry for an answer.

  “In short, yes.” Larry fixed his stare on Abigail. “You likely have the same abilities and weaknesses as John.”

  “You mean,” she flicked her eyes at Lydia, “I’ll have to do that again?”

  Larry looked down, pursing his lips. He swallowed and nodded.

  Abigail shook her head, slowly at first, then furiously from side to side.

  “No, no, no! I can’t do that again!”

  Her knees hit the concrete. Tears were seconds behind.

  John knelt beside Abigail, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. She flinched at first then realized his touch was no longer a danger. They were now the same. A small wave of relief fluttered through her. She shuddered.

  She could finally root into her angel’s embrace. So strong, so comforting. The opposite of every other touch she’d experienced in her recent history.

  Abigail continued to cry.

  “It’ll be okay,” John whispered into her ear, brushing the damp hair from her face. “I’m here for you.”

  She thought he might also be crying, but couldn’t bear to look up. She nuzzled her head into his chest and allowed tears to flow as she pondered a future of murder for survival. Then she thought of the sun she’d never see again. Years locked away from the world in a closet, rarely seeing sunlight. Now, she’d never see it again. For some reason she couldn’t understand, this made her cry more than the thought of having to kill again.

  They embraced for an eternity until Larry’s shuffling and pacing drew their attention.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said.

  John pulled away and looked down at Abigail. His eyes were wet. He had been crying. For a moment their eyes locked, exchanging some unspoken truth, something she couldn’t yet voice, perhaps a kinship in their curses.

  “Okay,” John said, turning to Larry, “we’ll get in the back. Let’s find that safe house.”

  Larry took a moment to say his goodbyes to Lydia, or what was left of her, and Abigail felt a sting in her heart as she watched him kneel beside her. Traces of her feelings for Larry still lingered in Abigail, and she wanted to comfort him.

  She approached Larry from behind, waited for him to turn. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Larry turned back to her, his eyes wet, meeting hers for the first time since her revival.

  He nodded and returned his attention to Lydia.

  Abigail crawled into the van, mentally exhausted, and quickly fell asleep, swaddled in John’s strong arms.

  John

  As John slowly drifted to sleep, he thought about the look in Abigail’s eyes right before they climbed inside the van. There was something there, something that whispered only to him. Maybe it was the incredible sadness within them, but he knew better. Two had become one. His darkness had swallowed her light, like cancer spreading through the body. He grieved for her loss. All John could do now was be there to help her.

  How can I help her when so much of my life is a mystery?

  John’s mind circled the missing pieces of his mysterious past. Who was he? How many people had he left dead in his wake? Why had his mind been erased? What was he running from? Who was Jacob? What secrets did John harbor that so many people were willing to murder for?

  Where is Hope?

  With so much to contemplate, John felt his mind might soon crack with the pressure. Then, as he slept, something clicked inside the vault that kept his memories.

  John remembered.

  Into The Forgotten Past

  “Man … cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him.”

  — Friedrich Nietzsche

  Forty-One

  John

  Saint Augustine, Florida

  October 2, 1999

  Twelve years ago

  John woke from a nightmare, shivering.

  His sopping shirt was sticking to his chest again.

  He’d had the same dream nightly for nearly two weeks, killing innocents across his dreamscapes just as he once had in real life. The monster within him, the one he’d taken so many measures to bury, was clawing its way to the surface.

  Not again.

  He rolled across the empty bed to see the soft blue neon face of their alarm clock: 2:07 a.m.

  Where’s Hope?

  He slid from bed, the cold hardwood floor greeting his bare feet like a shallow pool of ice water. For the hundredth time, if not the thousandth, John reminded himself that he really needed to get a good pair of slippers.

  He opened the bedroom door. The mostly dark hallway was bleeding with a thin sliver of light seeping from beneath Hope’s studio door. She’d been having her own sleeping problems lately. He wondered if his nightmares and restless sleep were waking her, or if it was the artist, feeding her muse when inspiration struck, no matter the hour.

  He pushed her door open quietly, not wanting to surprise her mid-stroke. But she wasn’t painting. She was sitting on the floor, wearing John’s navy and yellow T-shirt, face in her hands, crying.

  “What’s wrong?” John dropped to one knee and put his arms around her.

  Hope’s cry approached a whispered shriek; she shrank into his arms.

  “What is it?” John brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed her brow.

  He searched the studio for the source of her tears. The room was well stocked (or cluttered, in his words) with paintings, blank canvases, and a small store’s worth of art supplies, but it had no TV, radio, or even a phone, which ruled out a sad song, TV show, or phone call heralding bad news. Hope preferred to work in solitude. Whatever it was, she’d probably kept the cork in the bottle a bit too long.

  Finally, she spoke, through a snort. “Nothing — it’s silly.”

  “No, tell me.” John stroked her hair and grazed her back.

  “It’s the painting.”

  “What?”

  She pointed toward the window, where her two in-progress paintings stood on easels. But he couldn’t see the canvases. Both paintings faced the wide window that overlooked a scenic lake. For all its beauty, the shimmering pool had never served as inspiration for one of her paintings.

  “I don’t know.” Hope shook her head and swallowed. “It’s not like anything I’ve ever done. For some reason, as I was painting it tonight, I felt overwhelmed with sadness.”

  “A painting made you sad?” John wanted to laugh but couldn’t bear to offend her in a moment of genuine pain.

  He stood up and approached the window. One painting was an apple orchard at midnight, which she’d started seven months earlier, but had yet to finish.

  The other, the inspiration for her tears, was unlike anything he’d ever seen her work on before. The painting was surreal: a nude man with long dark hair who looked a bit like John. He seemed to hover against a dark violet background of churning storm clouds, hands outstretched with red rings of light swirling around them, suspended by two large white angel’s wings.

  Forty-Two

  Jacob

  Los Angeles, California

  September 4, 1999

  One month prior

  Jacob stood on the building’s ledge, wind whipping the loose charcoal suit against his wiry frame. The city view from fifty stories in the sky personified his feelings about humanity — almost beautiful — from a distance.

  He’d been on their soil, mingling among insects for fa
r too long. His body was starting to show signs of human frailty. His face was sunken and pale. His hair had fallen out years ago. His pain was constant.

  Of course, Jacob could regenerate at any time and look and feel years younger, but his desire to feed had faded. A few months earlier, he’d started to widen his time between feedings. Now he was trying to see how far he could stretch the rubber band before it finally snapped. Though he’d not given it much thought, Jacob supposed he was trying to see how close he could drift to death before she finally closed her talons around him.

  Death was an inviting mistress, offering sweet release from breathing the stench of a world where he didn’t belong.

  When he first crossed over, thirsty for vengeance against his mother and brothers, the idea of a new world held eternal wonder. It was the world’s initial beauty and seemingly endless possibilities that had caused him to spare his young brothers’ lives so many years ago. He’d planned to kill them all, to make them pay for their treachery, for leaving him alone with his brutal father. But there was something about this world — a chance to reinvent himself and create a new life away from his father — which was liberating.

  His singular act of mercy stood as a splinter that had haunted his years. Ironically enough, his brothers were the only ones on this planet who knew of the lone portal leading back home.

  Of course, he hadn’t known of the portal back then. He’d thought he was taking a one-way trip, and had been consumed with enough hate not to mind. Now that he knew of the portal, his brothers were beyond his reach, hidden by the conspirators, the so-called Guardians, who sought to rid the world of all his kind.