Darkness Rises

by Michele Ryan

“Bloody hell,” he groaned. He buried his face in her neck once more.

  His thrusts became erratic, intensifying. His mouth watered. The ardor grew. The only thing he heard was the beat of Annabelle’s heart. It flooded his ears. Consumed him. Left him a salivating vampire, desperate for blood. Needing her lifeforce. Nothing else mattered.

  He nuzzled the spot, then ran his tongue over the puncture marks. A rough growl passed his lips. Jonah palmed her hip, holding her still while he thrust over and over, growing more frantic. Her cries dissolved into sobs of bliss and need. He didn’t know where he found the will to continue this sensual assault of their senses, but he didn’t want to stop yet.

  However, the more he smelled the delectable aroma, the need grew more intense. Clawed at him. Ripped him open. He bit down on her neck, his teeth popping through the skin, entering her vein. The first rivulet of blood over his tongue and down his throat snapped his body to attention. By the second, Annabelle climaxed. The hard, harsh pulse of her pussy milked his cock.

  Jonah gave over to it as he drank from her. He throbbed deep within her passage, spending himself. After two more pulls, he licked the wound to her throat, starting the healing process. He laid his head upon her bosom, not willing to leave the warmth of her body.

  Their teams were gathered around the table in the library when Jonah and Annabelle made their way into the room. A new sense of life filled him. His skin felt tight, too cumbersome yet his own. He couldn’t describe it properly. ‘Human’ came to mind; however, the second time he took her, the same base need of the vampire rose within, and he had foregone drinking from his beloved. No sense in making her sick when they all needed to be in tip-top shape.

  “What have you found?” He crossed the room. The map laid out before them had several X’s on it.

  “Well, you old hound,” Ezra smacked him on the back. The first real emotion Jonah had seen in weeks from the werewolf besides disdain and anger.

  “Yes, well. None of that. We have work to do.” He tracked his beloved as she stood with Clara. The woman spoke in hushed tones while Annabelle shook her head.

  “It seems the locations of attacks aren’t random,” Emmitt replied. He slid his finger along the markers, forming a pentagram.

  “Well, he’s not too much of a showman.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

  “You say he,” Miss Clara sneered. “It could very well be a woman.”

  “My apologies, Miss.” He covered his heart with his hand. “I meant no harm.”

  “Let’s stay on task, shall we?” Charlie stepped forward. “If my calculations are correct, he will strike in the middle of the pentagram next. Whatever this necromancer’s meant to do, it will be finished when the last piece is placed.”

  “Where do you believe he will strike next, Charlie?” Annabelle linked her arm through Jonah’s. Having her beside him bolstered him.

  “Miss Craig, you won’t like the answer.” The automaton lifted his head. The blank, unemotional face of the robot unnerved Jonah.

  “Tell us,” he said. “We have to prepare.”

  The machination lowered his head and pointed to the middle of the map. “I do believe the next disturbance will happen here.”

  “My home?” Jonah cocked a brow. “What is the point?”

  “For that you would have to catch the necromancer.”

  “I feared this,” Omer stated. He pushed into the space; today, his corporeal form moved with ease, and Jonah suspected it was to not scare their new associates.

  “What do you know?”

  The ancient clasped his hands behind his back as he strode across the room to one of the hidden shelves contained within a bookcase. The false wall opened revealing a book. “I should have realized he would return. I gave him a choice, he went the opposite way.” He brought the leather-bound book to the table.

  “He called himself The Summoner. His real name was Lucian Wright.” Omer drew his hand over the tome. The pages shuddered then quickly moved until a hand drawn picture of Mr. Wright greeted them. “This is him.”

  “You said, he called himself. His real name was…did he die?” Clara reached for the book, and turned it toward her.

  “I thought he had.” Omer glanced at Jonah. “You were here during his last days. Do you remember him?”

  Jonah stared down at the book. “Vaguely.” A blip. A minor hiccup along the way. Those early days with Omer, he didn’t care who spared him a glance. He wanted death. Was ready to greet the sun to take away his guilt. His self-recrimination. The pain. If Omer said Mr. Wright lived there, then he believed the ancient one.

  “He never listened to me. Each member of our team, Miss Clara, takes an oath. I offer redemption for those who might not feel worthy of such. Mr. Wright didn’t see the point sometimes.”

  “What sent him away?”

  “I found him dissecting bodies.” Omer frowned. “He had the ability to raise the dead. Curious about his abilities, I suppose, he began to take them apart while they were…undead.”

  Annabelle paled. Miss Clara placed her automaton hand over her belly. The man gave Mr. Tinnin a run for his money. “Fits. If you stop to think about it. The entire zombie horde has added machinations. A cog heart. A steam powered arm. He is experimenting on the bodies he is raising, adding to them.”

  Mr. Lloyd scrubbed his chin. “What gave you the idea he died, though?”

  “Our connection snapped. I carry a mental link with each person who accepts my oath. On the day I believed he died, the connection severed.”

  “A witch could break it,” Miss Clara announced. “A simple spell to mask it, or undo it.”

  Omer seemed to consider her words. “Perhaps. It could also be why we can’t find him.”

  “Where did you find him, Omer?” Jonah crossed his arms. The idea that one of them, former or not, was terrorizing the city, made his blood boil and wasn’t that interesting. Curiouser, his skin had been a bit warmer than the normal chill he experienced.

  “The cemetery. Near the park. Of course, it wasn’t a park when I came upon the derelict man.”

  “Where we followed the first faction of the horde,” Ezra reminded them.

  “Interesting,” Jonah whispered.

  “There are a few mausoleums that are open,” Dr. Brew said. “Mr. Tinnin said as much. Claims one is devoid of caskets.”

  Jonah arched a brow and glanced at Omer. “The beginning?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Annabelle looked at the map. “The cemetery is an x on the map and a point on the pentagram. We have at least two days before he’ll strike again according to the schedule he’s been keeping. We should take a look around.”

  “Lay a trap,” Mr. Lloyd muttered. “Catch this bastard and break the curse.”

  “I agree,” Miss Clara said. “I can reverse the incantation, but I need the necromancer’s blood to do so.”

  “Since you know what you must do,” Omer stated. “I will take my leave.” He glided toward the door. “Mr. Tinnin, Mr. Blakely and Mr. O’Keefe will be your strongest members. Use them to draw out Mr. Wright. Mr. Dunn, Mr. Charlie, and Mr. Nealy should be there when he is flushed out. The rest of you should stay away. You can be manipulated.”

  Jonah agreed. After the first night, he couldn’t imagine what would happen if he were out and the spell was rejuvenated. Or worse: if Miss Craig was hurt by him, he’d never forgive himself and for sure he would walk into the sun. “Right. Tonight, we will investigate the cemetery, see if we can find the empty tomb, then tomorrow evening, we hunt.”

  “Agreed,” Annabelle stated. “Clara and I will work on the magical aspect of this investigation. Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Cantrel, please assist Mr. Blakely and Mr. O’Keefe with their enquiry.”

  “It would be nice if we could see Mr. O’Keefe,” Mr. Cantrel grumbled. “He enjoys a good spooking now and again.”

  A light chuckle came from the fireplace. A wisp of smoke curled around Mr. O’Keefe’s body. “It’s hard not pranking you lot
. You’re so easy.”

  “Jack, put on some clothes,” Jonah snarled. “There are ladies present.”

  “It’s a waste. Can’t see me bollocks or me cock.”

  “Mr. O’Keefe!” Clara’s shrill, clipped tone rose the hair on the back of Jonah’s neck.

  Ezra growled. “Invisible or not, I will kill you.”

  Jack laughed. “I’ll put me clothes on. No humor whatsoever.”

  “I will keep him occupied,” Emmitt announced. “We have several more things to go over. How about I warm us a pot of tea and grab some treats so we may eat while we work?”

  About that. “Jerome, I am in need of a bottle of elixir.”

  Dr. Brew nodded. “I have one in my bag. I will grab it for you. Mr. Tinnin is getting restless as well.”

  “Let him out. Tell him to stay near the manor, but be vigilant for now,” Jonah answered.

  “Aye, he is agreeable. Thank you.”

  Jonah nodded. He would accept the platitude when they were victorious; until then he smacked the good doctor on the back as they exited the library. “Perhaps you can help me later, as a thank you.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Jack! Where the bloody hell are you?” Mr. Nealy hissed.

  “Right ‘ere,” Jack announced, chuckling when Lawson Nealy swung around looking for him.

  “You took your bloody clothes off again, didn’t you?” Mr. Nealy stared at the spot where Jack stood.

  “The ladies are no longer present,” Jack grumbled.

  Reaching out he touched Mr. Nealy’s sleeve, letting him know where he was. “We should start in the empty mausoleum and go from there.”

  “Agreed.”

  Being invisible had drawbacks. The biggest? People tended to walk right into him, which started the screaming, especially women. Some of them were frail. Weak of heart. Or, if they didn’t scream, they’d step on him and keep going, excusing their actions by brushing their skirts. Pissed him off when it happened. He had learned it was easier to walk behind a group. Unless of course he wanted to fook with them. Then he walked in front of, around or between them and to trip them up.

  “I’ll be goin’ first, make sure it’s empty,” he whispered. They had stopped at the corner near the iron gate door, which hung open, leading into the mausoleum.

  Moving past Mr. Nealy he slipped between the gate and into the cold marble building. A shiver of dread slid down his spine. He didn’t need anyone to tell him evil happened here, he could feel it.

  “It be clear,” he called out.

  Mr. Nealy appeared seconds later.

  “Is that blood?” Lawson pointed to an area in the corner where a bowl rested, stained in red.

  “Looks like it, yeah.” He cocked his head to the side. The back wall was off. As though the edges didn’t meet properly. Moving closer, he ran his hand down the slabs of marble and where they met each other. “Found something. I think it’s a hidden door.”

  “Think we can open it?”

  “Sure of it.” He gave a hearty shove and stepped away as the door flew open. “The real question is, who’s goin’ first?”

  The thick, heavy air reeked of death, along with rotting and decaying flesh. Pleasant. He gagged. The putrid smell made his eyes water. Lawson retched behind him, then groaned.

  “You found it, you go can go first,” Lawson proclaimed. He looked over his shoulder at the other man and pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat, placing it over his nose.

  “That helping?”

  “No. Not really.”

  Lawson peered around him. “We do not require torches.” He pointed to the lower level where several were illuminated.

  “One thing to be grateful for, innit.” He breathed in through his mouth. It didn’t help. Now he tasted what he smelled. “Might as well get dis shite over with,” he grumbled as he stepped into the narrow walkway and took the stairs to the first landing.

  “Either I’m getting used to the putrid smell or it is easing,” Lawson muttered, as he joined Jack on the landing.

  He handed him one of the two torches perched on the wall above them. “I should ‘ave left me bloody clothes on.” Jack continued down the creaking, old wood steps. “I’ll ‘ave to soak in me tub for days to remove this bleeding smell.”

  “I will need to burn these clothes,” Lawson fumed. “Outside. Under the cover of darkness. So those around the house do not realize it is me.”

  He snorted. “Shite! No one needs ter see ya arse on da full moon.”

  It took them a while to meander down the old spiral stair case. When he hit the final step, he breathed in through his nose. The ugly oppressive air dissolved, allowing them to breathe a bit easier. Holding the torch above his head, Lawson joined him, and their combined light pushed back the darkness to reveal what was buried under the cemetery.

  “Bloody hell,” Lawson cursed.

  He couldn’t have said it any better as he looked around the underground cavern—an ossuary to be exact.

  “This is just like the Catacombs of Paris,” Lawson murmured as he moved his torch around in the dark, dank tomb. Light flickered off the human skeletal remains tucked into large alcoves.

  “Never saw’em and ‘ave no desire to after seein’ this shite,” he stated. “It’s makin’ the hair on me neck stand up!”

  He shivered in disgust as mucky skull after mucky skull all but stared at him.

  “Let’s get moving.”

  They walked through the endless tomb, creeping farther into the underbelly of the cemetery. A sense of foreboding settled over him. Like walking over his own grave, even though it didn’t exist. Lawd above! I swear I'm never se'in' foot in'er cemetery ever again.

  “See that?” Lawson moved his torch further in front of him.

  “Yeah.”

  Spread out in front of them was a room. Littered around the room on display were the items Clara described might be found around where the black magic was performed.

  “This be the spot,” he declared.

  Crouching down, he traced the magical circle etched deep into the rock with his gaze. Lawson stepped over the circle and went to the slab of marble dead center in the circular room.

  “Is that a—”

  “Sacrificial stone would be my guess,” Lawson stated. “It’s coated in blood and I believe in the bucket are human remains.”

  “Bollocks!” he exclaimed, standing up and following Nealy.

  “The witch, Clara, she described this perfectly.” Lawson moved to the large box and placed his torch into an empty bucket. “This is where it’s happening. I’ve found all different machinations used to build the horde.”

  “Where are da zombies though?”

  “Not here, which means they are out and that doesn’t bode well for the citizens of London,” Lawson announced.

  “Good evening, Gentlemen,” the voice rumbled behind them.

  Turning, Jack held out his torch, lighting the darkness behind him. Nealy followed his lead and added the light of his torch. It wasn’t enough. All he could make out in the darkness was a shadowy figure in front of them.

  “I see you didn’t bring Mr. McRae. Pity,” he sighed. “Perhaps Omer isn’t as foolish as I suspected. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I am Lucian Wright.” The dark figure stepped into the light.

  Jack stood dumfounded at the man who appeared in front of him. The man, Lucian Wright, was exceedingly handsome. So, striking, one would not expect evil from such a man—till he examined the man’s eyes. Black, soulless eyes, holding zero emotion. Lucian was also dressed in all black, carrying a silver walking stick.

  Bloody hell, a fookin’ dandy, he was.

  “Tell me, exactly how long did it take Omer and his band of outcasts to figure out I was behind the horde?” Lucian arched a brow. “It seems he might be slipping in his old age.”

  “Bugger off,” Jack snarled.

  “Such a brave man, considering you are standing in my territory,”
Lucian countered.

  “We aren’t afraid of the likes of you!”

  “You should be. But, alas, it’s not you I want.” Lucian smiled, his perfect façade slipping. “Tell Omer I’m coming for him and you all. In good time. Good evening.” His maniacal laughter echoed through the chamber as he disappeared.

  What the bloody ‘ell just ‘appened?

  How did he bloody disappear into thin air?

  “It was a projection,” Lawson answered.

  “So, he wasn’t really ‘ere? How’s that even fookin’ possible?”

  “A spell,” Lawson stated as he moved to the spot where Lucian had stood. “Black magic for sure. You can feel the remains of it lingering in the air.”

  “I’ve seen enough. We can go now,” he declared, following Nealy, except he didn’t stop, but continued back the way they came.

  “Jack,” Lawson yelled. “Slow down. Lucian doesn’t want us. Yet.”

  “Fook Lucian. This place bloody freaks me out. I need to get some fresh air in me lungs,” he called as he began to climb the stairs, his companion on his heels.

  The putrid, rancid smell came back with a vengeance when he hit the landing, stronger than before. It had a bitter, almost choking aftertaste that stuck in his throat and made his eyes water.

  Shoving the torch back in the sconce on the wall, he held his breath and traversed the last flight of stairs, bursting through the door out of the mausoleum.

  “Omer can assign another team the next time he wants any underground caverns explored.” He shuddered as the smell followed them.

  “He sent us, Jack, because Lucian cannot raise us from the dead.”

  “Well, if we die of that putrid smell, then ‘e can,” he snapped.

  “Let’s go update Omer.” Lawson smacked him on the shoulder. The phantom’s uncanny ability to see the unseen never ceased to amaze Jack.

  “Sounds like a plan.” He trailed behind his friend as they weaved their way around tombstones to the front gate.

  “Did you get your elixir?’ Annabelle approached Jonah the moment he stepped into his study.

  A deep frown formed between his brows. “Yes. You are quite safe now.” He continued to his desk, avoiding eye contact with her as he did.