The Preternatural Chronicles: Books 0-3

by Hunter Blain

I looked at the beanie, reached down, and picked it up, probing the hole that had been created.

  “That was my favorite beanie,” I said coldly as I turned and strode over to where G6 stood pissing his pants.

  “Wha-what are you?” he stammered.

  “Someone who wants answers,” I started. Slapping on my best Kindergarten Cop voice, I said, “Now I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want to have them answered immediately.” I willed my words into his brain, asking his synapses to cooperate.

  His tense posture loosened and he became relaxed; his eyes turned glassy. “Of course…” he whispered obediently.

  A toothy smile spread across my face.

  Chapter 2

  Ireland, 1480

  “They are almost upon us!” my mother exclaimed, losing the battle against her panic as we scrambled to collect our belongings.

  “Fiona, what’d ye see?” my father asked as my mother’s wide eyes stared out the window.

  “The McPhersons’ lands are ablaze!” she shrieked. “I see banners approaching our land! What do we do, Gerald?”

  “Take John an’ hide. These are me lands, and I will face them head on,” he said. His eyes held an empty look about them.

  “Ge-Gerald…” she stammered.

  My father grabbed my mother’s arms and whirled her around, bringing her to him. He kissed her like it was the last time.

  “Hide now fer Christ’s sake!” He pointed at the cellar door. “John, protect yer ma!”

  Bewildered, we did as we were told, and just as he was about to shut the door, he said, “I love ye both. Ye’re me flesh, and I will protect ye. Now hush now, nay matter what happens!”

  The cellar door shut, and he slid the rug over the door.

  From outside, an authoritative British voice called, “Gerald Cook, come out and face your charges.”

  Whispering, he said in our direction, “N’matter what, son!”

  He then stood and faced the front of the house. From between the floorboards, I saw him say to the men standing outside, “This inquisition is as much fer take’n property from the conversos as fer defending the faith. ’Tis the goods that are the heretics,” my father said accusingly.

  “Come out now, or we will burn your farm to ashes,” the man said, annoyed he had had to repeat himself.

  My father stood in silence looking sternly out the window, seemingly deep in thought.

  “Burn it.”

  My father quickly followed with, “I’m comin’ out!”

  “Very well. Do so quickly,” the voice instructed.

  My father stepped to the door, grabbed the handle, and then turned and looked toward where my mother and I were hiding. I saw the despair in his eyes, but there was strength there too. He took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and stepped into the light of dawn. He closed his eyes and outstretched his arms, feeling the morning air and the welcoming warmth of the cresting sun.

  “Stop right there,” said the man. “Where is the rest of your flock?” Papers rustled before he continued, “Wife, Fiona, and son, John.”

  Without missing a beat, my father lied, “They are visit’n their aunt ’cross the river and through the mountain pass.”

  “And why are they there?” the man inquired dubiously, expecting to catch him in a lie.

  “John, he be sick. My brother-in-law learned medicine. I could show ye the letters if ye would prefer,” he said, pointing behind him at the house.

  I whispered in my mother’s ear, “Stay here,” and pulled away from her grip. I slowly inched my way to the edge of the cellar where there was a small gap in the stones, careful not to rustle up any dust or move any pebbles.

  The man seemed to ponder for a moment, studying my father. He then nodded, seemingly to himself, and without turning his gaze from my father, uttered the words that began the destruction of everything I knew.

  “Burn it down.”

  “No!” my father screamed as he lunged for the advancing soldier. They wrestled for control over the flame, with my father having the upper hand due to his will to protect us.

  A dagger flew from the commander’s hand and slid into my father’s thigh, embedding itself with a thump; metal crushing bone. Gerald Cook fell to the ground, as if his leg had been rendered completely useless, and reached for the blade with shaking hands. Through clenched teeth, he screamed as he tried to pull the weapon free. I knew my father was adept with a knife, and for a moment there was the briefest sliver of hope in my chest that the man I had always looked up to and aspired to be like could fight off these men intruding on our lands.

  As the knife slowly withdrew a fraction of an inch at a time, there was a sound that reminded me of porridge being mixed in a bowl. Blood began to pour out like an open wine cask, staining his pants and dribbling to the dirt.

  The commander stepped off his horse, smiling, and walked to where my father lay struggling. He put his foot on the hilt of the blade and started to push it slowly back into its new sheath. My father put more muscle into his efforts, the cords on his neck standing out.

  After a few moments of toying with him, the commander’s smile faded as he slammed his foot down, until even the hilt had started sinking in. It took my father a moment to gasp in more air than he had ever breathed in his entire life before he released it in a scream of pure agony.

  “Oh…” the commander cooed, “Can’t let you bleed out before your trial, can we?”

  My father swayed and then passed out. With a motion of the commander, soldiers dragged my father to a cart, where they threw him in.

  “No!” I screamed before I could cover my mouth.

  With a snap of his eyes, the commander’s gaze locked with mine through the stone gap.

  “Just as I thought,” he said with pleasure. “Find the door, look under every rug and table, and bring them to me.” The man turned and returned to his horse, content that his task was complete. They had the farm.

  My mother collapsed and started sobbing uncontrollably. The anger in my throat sunk down to my chest and created a black hole of dread in my guts. I had just given them my mom.

  I heard the rug being yanked away. Dust and light flowed through the cracks and into my eyes. The door was almost pulled off its hinges as several men peered in and reached down. Greedy hands grasped my mother’s limbs as I rushed to her, trying to fight them off. Several viselike grips dug painfully into my skin and muscles as I felt myself being hoisted through the cellar door. My eyes burned from the dirt in them. I heard my mother scream, and squinted to see her being struck in the head.

  Everything went into pinpoint focus. My feet found purchase as they cleared the cellar, and I shoved with all my might, throwing my captors off balance. I felt their hands releasing me as they tried to catch themselves. I pivoted as I fell and used my momentum to bring my fists down like hammers on the closest soldier. His mouth had been open in surprise, and as I rained my anger and rage on his chin, it snapped, meeting his own throat and caving it inward. The panic was immediate, akin to a stuck pig. Helpless hands grasped at his crushed throat. A crimson cloud escaped the snakelike jaws as he tried to inhale precious air. The sound dampened and then cut off completely as his throat swelled shut. His eyes searched around desperately for help, but after a handful of heartbeats, they went unfocused, leaving only the steady gurgling of his last breath squeezing out. Red bubbles boiled out of his mouth and nose, then ceased.

  I started to pick myself up to attack the next one when there was a flash of blinding light accompanied by a crack of thunder, and my head snapped forward. I was distantly aware of my teeth clattering as my chin hit my chest. The stars in my vision faded to black, and I felt myself falling into nothingness.

  Chapter 3

  Present day

  Euphoric with blood, I was practically dancing as I approached Father Thomes Philseep’s church to report on the resounding success of my mission.

  What’s that, you say? Vampires can’t enter churches…and…a
nd crucifixes and what not?

  Balderdash, I say to you. Another myth to make humans feel safe. Vampires aren’t inherently evil, as movies and books would have you believe, or emotional crybabies, like those sparkly twats.

  We choose what to do with our dark gift. Though the “dark” part doesn’t make it sound like all halos and harps, admittedly. I didn’t name it, but it’s better than “the fuchsia gift.”

  Humans make their choice to be good or not so good. It is the same with most supernatural beings. Otherwise, the news would bukkake the public with stories and videos of mountains made from mangled human bodies. So, much like a man who has murdered his neighbor can enter a church, so can I.

  The decaying cathedral was seemingly ancient and in a #WhitePeopleLockingCarDoors part of town. A century’s worth of grime coated the stained-glass windows. The once gray stone was now a deliciously creepy shade of dirty black. Even the noble statues that had once guarded the grounds seemed to have transformed into eerie, shapeless figures. One even had a face that looked like a black skull peering down at you.

  Around the property, the iron fence was rusting, the gravestones were indiscernible, and the trees and grass were all dead. I absolutely loved it. It was like it had been made just for little ol’ me.

  I ascended the crumbling stone steps to the door with a bounce in my step, where I knocked my secret after-hours knock: the theme to Terminator.

  After a few moments, I heard rustling behind the weathered wooden door. I could tell by the creaking that someone had stopped at the threshold—which was another myth for human’s peace of mind, by the way. I could cross them just fine, even without an invitation. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was only the Fae, ghosts, and demons that had to abide by the rules of Sacred Hospitality.

  “What’s the secret phrase?” a confident, calm voice asked through the thick wooden door.

  I responded in my best Arnold impression, “I nheed yourh cloothes, yourh boohts, and yourh motorcycle.”

  There was a grinding metallic groan as locks were freed and the ancient door creaked open.

  Father Thomes appeared in the doorway wearing, and I kid you not, a blue and white striped pj’s set complete with a matching cap and slippers.

  “What are you wearing?” I asked, giving him a once over.

  “Traditional old-man nightwear,” he responded with a smile. “Come inside, my son.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. Did I mention I was witty? “You know I was kidding about the passphrase after hours, right? I mean, who else would come knocking on this decadently eerie place at night? Ha! I rhymed.”

  “I know you were undying to try out your impression,” he returned with a smirk while putting a fist to his mouth, trying to stifle the laughter from his dad joke.

  “Touché, Father T,” I said with mock annoyance. Secretly, I notated the “undying” pun for later use.

  Once again summoning my inner Arnold, I informed the father, “the tarhgets have been turhmenated.”

  “Blessed be the Father!” he exclaimed. “That is the third attempted summoning this month alone. They are increasing in regularity, it would seem. I fear the balance is shifting out of our favor. I just got word that a lesser demon has broken through.”

  We walked into the room with all the pews, and Father Thomes eased himself down. I sat across the middle aisle from him.

  “Yeah, I heard from one of the goons that they are really trying to make this shit happen; recruiting and whatnot. What’s odd is that no one knows the name of the person they are working for, only the steps needed for an actual summoning. Not a single Ouija board between them. I don’t know who their boss is, but he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Though what you say is interesting, we still need to send the demon back,” Father Thomes said, still focusing on the immediate problem at hand.

  “Tomorrow night, Papa T,” I responded. “It’s too near dawn, and I’m already clocked out for the night. Plus, my manager said no OT or he’d write me up. Besides, the demon will have to lay low during the day. So, I’m going to have a drink and then hit the coffin. Care to join me for half of my nightly agenda?”

  Accepting my point, he said while stifling another dad joke chuckle, “No, thank you, John. I’m not fond of coffins.”

  “Dang! Is that what I’m like? No wonder I can’t get a date!” I joked while rubbing my temples and shaking my head in faux exasperation.

  “Thank you for the drink offer, John, but I am ready to return to my chambers,” he said, standing and walking back toward his room.

  “Father, I’m not going to be able to stop them all. Sooner or later, they’ll wise up. Might even set a trap for yours truly,” I told him grimly.

  Father Thomes stopped and turned to face me. “Perhaps it is time to seek help, my son.”

  I replied with my best Christian Bale voice, “I work alone. You know that.”

  “This is important, John. Is there no one who will answer your call?” he asked.

  I continued, “Harvey Dent, can we trust him?”

  Turning back around, he continued to his room and said casually, “Be back here tomorrow night. Lock the door behind you, and if you take the hearse, return it filled up, won’t you? That’s a good lad.” His voice trailed off toward the end as he rounded a corner down the hall.

  I stared after him for a while, taking a deep breath and feeling a prod of worry entering my mind. Something was off, and I could feel it. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed some help. Even with my sharp wit, platinum tongue, and sexy body, I hadn’t made as many friends as you would think over the years. I didn’t really have a Facebook or LinkedIn account.

  I took in a deep breath and shifted my gaze up to the man on the cross. Thinking about my next steps, I exhaled and said, “Jesus, I need a drink.”

  Chapter 4

  Ireland, 1480

  The sound of wood being thrown together stirred me, and I blinked awake after some effort. I was terrified to only have muddy darkness enter my vision. I could make out a stone structure with what I thought to be chains hanging from the walls, and a small window on one of the walls let in the dimmest of pale light. It took me a moment to realize that it must have been night now, which meant I had been unconscious for the entire day.

  Assessing the room, I was struck by a surge of stabbing fire as I turned my head. With every vein in my head pulsing in a painful rhythm, I let my chin drop back to my bruised chest. My numb arms must have been shackled above my head because they hadn’t responded to the instinct of covering my throbbing skull at the point of impact. I could feel them pressing on either side of my head, useless.

  Outside, the wind had started to howl. Rising and falling, like the wailing of an apparition.

  I attempted to stand, only to find my legs had been confined to the wall. I was in a sitting position, with my backside resting on my calves. Out of nowhere, I recalled a story my father had told me, and I was relieved that they hadn’t hung me from my ankles with metal shackles. He had told me of men whose feet had eventually been pulled off from being hung upside down, like a chicken leg at dinner.

  The brief thought of my father filled me with anger. I gathered my strength and tried to pull the restraints off, in vain. I felt like a fish on a hook being pulled from the safety of the water. My breaths were ragged as snot and spittle shot from my nose and gritted teeth. They had taken him, and my mother. Tears brimmed in my eyes from the frustration and helplessness.

  From the darkness came an eerie chuckle.

  “So, you are John,” the calm voice of a cultured British man said with mild amusement. “If you stay here, they might string you up by your feet yet.”

  I froze in pure terror. “Wh-who’s there?” I pathetically stammered.

  He spoke with dramatic pauses and emphasis, “Worry not, John…”

  “Where’s me Da? Whe…where’s me Ma?” The brimming tears fell from my eyes. I could taste the salt as they ran past the corners of my mouth.


  “Ah-ah-aah, John. Let us not be rude. There will be time for your questions, but first, I would enjoy a game. Will you play it?”

  “Game? What game, ye bodach? Why the shite am I here!” Rage started to build from deep within my core. “Me fam did nuthin’ wrong!”

  Still calm, and with his words slithering smoothly into my ears like a snake, he retorted with, “A game where, if you win, you will live and harness the power of the gods; the power to send all those who have wronged you into oblivion. But if you lose, your agony will be eternal, as will be the knowledge that you could have been free. As for your family’s wrongdoings, you are sheep who are guilty of possessing what a wolf desires.”

  His words froze me. My heart beat furiously, and I forgot how to breathe as his words sunk in. Only the howls of the wind drifted in the air.

  “They only wanted our land?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Precisely. Now, what is your answer, John?” he almost purred with anticipation.

  “Ye will free me and help me stop the men from hurtin’ me family?” I said to myself. “Then I will walk tru’ the fires of Hell if that’s what I must do!”

  In the darkness, a throaty chuckle started, which rapidly cascaded into full-bodied laughter. I even heard foot stomps on the ground, as if a child had just been given back their long-lost favorite toy.

  “How delightful!” he exclaimed, with his voice pitching higher as the words came out.

  There was the sound of two firm stomps and clothes rustling as the man stood in the darkness. A pause, and then a step. Another pause and a closer step. He was coming from directly in front of me. More steps. At some point, I should have been able to see something moving in the darkness, but my eyes only revealed unmoving shapes in the infinite blackness. The steps stopped no more than a foot in front of where I was chained. I squinted my eyes, struggling to see.