Hope lay in bed, mentally tracing her fingers over John’s angular jaw, across his chin, and then over his soft lips as his breath rose, fell, and whispered between them.

The soft blue light of predawn made her feel ridiculous for her mini-breakdown hours earlier.

The painting, which she’d started without any thoughts of what it was or where it would eventually go, had taken a dark turn in recent weeks. It was a non-commissioned piece and not something she planned to show at her friend Sergei’s gallery. She initially thought the new direction was some unrealized artistic desire bubbling up and pushing her to explore her boundaries.

However, as the painting progressed, she began to sense another power at work. Night after night, she was continuously pulled from her sleep, unable to rest until she returned to the canvas, adding bits and pieces of images, compelled to lay them across the canvas as though she were obsessively divining the will of the Gods.

She’d never felt so out of control and without direction, save for the first painting she’d ever professionally shown, Dusk Wanderlust. The one which drew John into Sergei’s art gallery when it first opened in the historic district of St. Augustine nearly two years ago. Just as that painting seemed to draw her and John together as one, this painting seemed more ominous, though she wasn’t quite sure why, as though it would rip them back to two.

The angel didn’t originally start out looking like John. He originally appeared a rather generic, golden-haired heavenly being. Prior to that morning, there was also another person in the painting—the broken body of a red haired woman, her body draped in black. A dark tattoo of a shooting star stained the pale flesh along the nape of her neck.
Hope wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was positive the angel had just killed the woman.

Then, last night, she was roused from her sleep with a sudden, burning desire to return to the canvas and scrub it with changes. Without realizing where her mind was moving her hands, she’d endowed the angel with her lover’s face.

Two hours later, sweat matting the hair on her forehead, she dropped her brush and lost the first of her tears. Shaking, she knelt down and picked it back up, then quickly began to paint over the dead woman’s body in violent strokes of indigo and violet.

Horror was bubbling to the surface of their lives. Hope could feel it burning beneath her skin and in every pore of her body. Well, at least, in the inky shadows of the night.

In the bright light of morning, under the down covers of a warm, soft bed, that fear seemed as out of place as a grandfather clock in the corner of a nightclub. John had talked her down from the ledge last night, helping her examine why she was so upset. She didn’t tell him about the woman in the painting because some part of her felt it had something to do with infidelity and she didn’t want to appear insecure. If there was one thing Hope knew about John without any doubt whatsoever, it was that he was a faithful man.

During his examination of the painting, John told her, with a satisfied smile, that she’d never been so happy for such a long period of time. That realization, in the face of the looming two year milestone of their dating, was bringing some nested fear to the surface and manifesting itself in the form of this unsettling painting.

“The fear will go away,” he’d said, squeezing her shoulder blades beneath his large, strong hands. He turned her around, then pulled her into his embrace, absorbing her tears as they soaked the thick cotton of his nightshirt. “You deserve to be happy.”

While other men in her life had analyzed her only to determine that there was something wrong with her and that it was her fault she was miserable because she must be afraid of happiness, or some such psychobabble, John didn’t search for what was wrong.

He simply told her what was right—them and their love.

And he was right. She deserved to be happy. She just needed to get past the fears.

Even though they’d been together for two years—her longest relationship by at least 14 months—they had never settled into the mundane routine which seemed to poison the wells of so many other relationships around her. She sometimes wondered why this man seemed so different than all the others?

She was far too cynical to believe in things like fate or soul mates. But the inner romantic in her, the one who existed at her core despite all the bad experiences life had seen fit to throw her way, secretly believed that John was the closest thing to a soul mate she would ever know.

They were different in many ways, but their differences seemed to work in harmony. While she was anxious, frenetic and prone to emotional flights and dives, he was calm, laid back and perhaps the most evenly tempered person she’d ever known. However, they also had many things in common, including a love for reading, art, and equally at home discussing philosophy or why there would never be a show on TV better than the X-Files.

John was also the first person who ever took such a deep curiosity in knowing everything about her—from what she was like as a child (a clumsy, scrawny introvert), to the consistency of her dreams (incredibly rare), to her deepest fears (being unable to conceive a child), to what inspired each and every one of her paintings. At times, John appeared like a scholar with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge of the subject of her, no matter how uninteresting she sometimes felt.

Perhaps the biggest reason their love was so intense, even after all this time, was that to her, John was still something of a mystery.

He worked as a cook at an upscale Italian restaurant just a short walk from Sergei’s gallery, and didn’t talk much about his life before moving to Florida, which he said was rather ordinary. With any other man, she would suspect such reticence to be indicative of an unseemly past filled with debauchery and selfish deeds.

John was different, though.

He grew up in more than 20 foster homes after his parents died, drifting from state to state, never really establishing roots in any of them. He spent his time working and reading and sometimes composing music on piano, though he never played for another soul. He had no friends, family or meaningful relationships. John was, in some ways, a blank slate, a guy who seemed to have been waiting for some spark to bring him to life. Hope was that spark, he confessed during one of their few discussions of his past.

Despite his claims to the ordinary, there were times, such as this, when she lay next to him in bed watching him sleep, that she felt there was far more to John than she might ever know. There was a deeper John somewhere inside, a John who had yet to look her in the eye. She suspected that perhaps he had suffered some great hurt which made him the way he was, so remote and distant to everyone other than her.

She moved a bit closer to him in bed, wanting to touch him, but not wake him.

John’s eyes opened and his left eyebrow arched.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he asked, a smile breaking through the surface of his tired face. It wasn’t the first time she’d been busted.

She slid towards him under the sheets, her hand sliding under his shirt and finding his warm chest as her leg wrapped around his groin. She felt his cock stiffen immediately. She smiled.

“Well, good morning,” she said as she climbed on top of him and reached down to slide him into her.

“Wow,” John said, still smiling, “it is a good morning.”

Suddenly, the sound of their doorbell shattered the intimacy of the moment.

“What the hell?” Hope said, climbing off of John and cycling through the possible selections in her mind—who could possibly be showing up on her doorstep at this hour?

John threw on some jeans and then flew downstairs.

He peered through the front door’s peep hole and glanced back at Hope, who stood at the foot of the stairs with the phone in her hand—just in case she needed to call the cops.

She didn’t need to, though. They were standing at her doorstep.

“It’s the cops,” John whispered, a confused look on his face.

He flicked on the porch light and opened the door. Hope, suddenly by his side, wrapped both her arms around his right one.

“Hi, I’m Detective Avery,” said the tall, hawk-nosed, dark-haired cop with raccoon circles under his eyes. “This is Detective Johnson,” he said, gesturing toward his partner, a thin black man with salt and pepper hair and a receding hair line.

“We’re wondering if either of you have seen this woman?”

Avery held out a photo. Hope’s throat closed and her stomach nearly fell through the floorboards. Staring back at her was a glossy image of a red haired woman, a shooting star tattoo leaving a trail of ink across the nape of her neck.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

October 2,1999

Los Angelas, California

Jacob stood on the building’s ledge, wind whipping the loose charcoal suit against his wiry frame. The city view from 50 stories in the sky personified his feelings about humanity: almost beautiful, from a distance.

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

Of course, Jacob could regenerate at any time, but his desire to feed had faded a while ago. A few months earlier, he’d started to widen the gap 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, he supposed he was trying to see how close he could drift to death before she finally circled her fingers around him.

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

When he first crossed over, thirsty for vengeance against his mother and brothers, the idea of a new world seemed to harbor eternal wonder. It was the world’s initial beauty and seemingly endless possibilities, actually, which had caused him to spare his young brothers’ lives so many years before. He had planned to kill them all, planned to make them pay for their treachery. There was however, something about this world, a chance to reinvent himself, create a new life away from his father and his expectations, that seemed liberating.

Of course, his singular act of mercy was a splinter of resolve that had haunted him for years. Because, ironically enough, his brothers were the only ones on this planet who knew of the one way back home. Of course, he had not known that back then. And now they were now beyond his reach, hidden by the conspirators who sought to rid the world of all of his kind while he remained stuck in eternal purgatory.

Though he knew better than to believe in such human constructs as Hell, Jacob surely felt as if he were stuck in his own version of it. He was tired of this world and its people; narrow-minded, petty creatures with such limited intellect. They did serve their purposes, though. They were such wonderful fun to torment. And the pleasure of a good hunt was universal, regardless of the animal. Frankly, Jacob was amazed humans had gotten as far as they had as a species—not that they hadn’t had some help along the way from his kind.

Jacob creased his face with a slight smile as his memories drifted back to his first home, the true one. Though it had been two decades since he’d last laid eyes on it, Earth, for all its incessant assaulting of the senses, could not erase the nostalgia for home from his mind. The spiraling snow capped mountains, the lush green and blue forests, and the sky at night—a dizzying array of colors and shapes. He also longed for Other World’s denizens, a rich diversity of species which made Earth seem like a small fish tank in comparison. To think that he would never lay eyes on another Allutroch only made him sadder than he already was.

He glanced again at the pavement below. Given his weakened state, he wondered if the fall would finally do it. His foot inched forward, seemingly with a mind of its own. He laughed at the thought that his body was willing to do what his mind had not found the strength to carry out.

Perhaps I should listen to my body.

His right foot was hovering in midair, 50 stories above probable death, when a ringing from his pocket suddenly whispered above the wind’s cry.

He laughed again. Cell phones, always interrupting him from important tasks.

He looked at the screen. It was Davis, a man he had not heard from in more than a year. Davis was a descendant of one of The Pioneers and wouldn’t be calling Jacob to exchange pleasantries.

No, this was important.

Jacob turned, leaped to the rooftop, then dangled his legs from the ledge where he’d just seconds ago been ready to jump.

“Yes?” Jacob answered the phone.

“It’s Davis,” the man on the other line said. He sounded excited. “I found him!”

Jacob said nothing. The words had paralyzed him with something he had never felt before—hope.

Davis continued, “I found John.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

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

Memories coursed through Abigail’s mind like a torrent of waves bursting through a dam. The images were foreign; memories from another life lived—Lydia’s life, unfurling before Abigail as she feasted on the energy swirling from the woman’s emptying shell.

The memories overwhelmed Abigail.

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

Then, 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 like 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 not to need an escort. A big girl now. Though school was only two short blocks away, you’d think it was two miles, the way her mom kept carrying on. Lydia had made it almost all the way to school 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 Lydia’s life, which had been reduced to moments remembered in her dying gasps.

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 no tears would come. Sadness washed over her, as another flood of memories seeped through her system. She struggled to focus on the here and now. Then, she heard a familiar voice—John!

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

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 noticed her first, eyes wide and mouth slightly opened. Then, John turned to her; a cold sadness sculpted his marble face.

She struggled to push words from her mouth, though breath would’ve been a good start. “What happened?” she finally managed.

“You were hurt,” John said, as he cautiously approached her, “You were dying. And I… saved you.” He looked at the floor; it was easier than her eyes. “But I turned you into…this.”

Abigail flinched as she remembered the pain that had shattered her insides. She’d been shot in the back. Panic pounded through her body as she noticed the blooms of dark crimson, which stained the front of her shirt, coated her hands and blackened her fingernails. She pulled up her shirt, searching for wounds, and 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, pulled her shirt down, and glanced down at the ground.

“I am so sorry,” John said, “it was the only thing I could do to save you.”

“So, I’m a vampire now?” she asked.

John turned to Larry, who now stood next to John, for an answer.

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

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

Larry looked down and pursed his lips. His chest surrendered into a sigh, “I’m afraid so.”

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 only seconds behind.

John knelt beside her. He wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her close. She flinched at first, then realized his touch was no longer a danger to her. They were, after all, now the same. A small wave of soothing relief fluttered through her body and caused her to shudder.

She was finally able to root into the embrace of her angel. 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,” he 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 the tears to flow as she pondered a future of killing to survive. Then, she thought of the sun she would never see again. The only sun she’d seen in years was the waning sunshine the evening before. Now she’d never see it again. For some reason she couldn’t understand, this made her cry more than the thought of killing more people.

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, she noticed. He had been crying. For a moment, their eyes locked, exchanging some unspoken truth between them, something she could not yet give voice to, 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.

Abigail crawled into the back of the van and quickly fell to sleep, swaddled in the strength of John’s arms.

_________

As John slowly drifted to sleep, he thought about the look in Abigail’s eyes right before they crawled into the van. There was something there, something that whispered only to him. Perhaps it was the incredible sadness within them, he thought. But John knew better. Two had become one. His darkness had swallowed her light, like cancer that spreads through the body.
He grieved for her loss. All he could do now was be there to help her. But, he wondered, how could he help her when so much of his life remained a mystery?

His mind dwelled on the missing pieces of the puzzle that was his past. Who was he? How many people had he left dead in his wake? Why did he choose to have his mind erased? What was he running from? Who was the bald man who sought to capture him? What secrets did he harbor that so many people were willing to murder to get?

Where was Hope?

Too much to contemplate, he felt his mind would soon crack beneath the pressure. Then, as he slept, something clicked inside the vault that kept his memories.

John remembered.

PART TWO: INTO THE PAST

October 2, 1999
St. Augustine, Florida

John woke from a nightmare, shivering. His sopping shirt sticking to his chest, again.

He’d had the same dream for nearly two weeks, now. In the dreams, he had returned to his killing. The monster within him, the one he’d taken so many measures to bury, had clawed its way to the surface.

Not again.

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

Where’s Hope?

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

He opened the bedroom door. The hallway was dark, save for a sliver of light bleeding from beneath the door to Hope’s studio.

She’d also been unable to sleep recently. He wondered if she was having some sort of reaction to his nightmares. Or perhaps it was just the artist in her, demanding its muse to be fed out at odd hours.

He opened her door slowly, not wanting to surprise her in mid stroke. She wasn’t painting though. She was sitting on the floor, face in her hands, and crying.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he said, quickly falling next to her and wrapping an arm around her.

Her cry grew more intense as she hugged him tightly.

“What is it?” he asked.

He looked around the studio for the source of her tears. While the studio was well stocked (or cluttered, in his words) with paintings, blank canvases and a small store’s worth of art supplies, it had no TV or radio or even a phone, which ruled out a sad song, TV show or phone call heralding bad news. Hope liked to work in solitude. Whatever the source of her tears was something she’d been holding inside for some time.

Finally, she spoke, through a snort, “It’s silly.”

“No, tell me,” John said, his hand stroking her hair and down her back. She was wearing one of his shirts, a blue and yellow Wolverines tee.

“It’s the painting,” she said.

“What?”

She pointed towards the window, where one of her two in-progress paintings stood on an easel. He couldn’t see what the painting was. It was facing the large picture window, which overlooked a scenic lake. For all its beauty, the shimmering pool had never been a source for one of Hope’s paintings.

“I don’t know,” Hope said, “It’s not like anything I’ve ever painted before. And for some reason, as I was painting it tonight, I just became overwhelmed with sadness.”

“A painting?” John asked, wanting to laugh, but not wanting 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 before but had yet to finish.

The other, the inspiration for her tears, was unlike anything he’d ever seen her create before. It was almost surreal in its nature. The painting was of a nude man with long dark hair, who looked a bit like John. He seemed to be floating against a dark violet background of churning storm clouds. His hands were outstretched, red rings of something spinning around them.

And he was suspended by two incredinbly large white angel’s wings.
TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

Jack kneaded his temples and stared at the screen. On a safari for clues to his foggy past, he’d accessed a database in the bureau computer, wound his way through a series of gateways, and finally located his full file. While he’d pieced together many puzzles via public and classified records during his years with the agency—lives collected neatly in folders filled with facts, photos and crime scene reports—it was another thing altogether, attempting to quilt the fragments of his own scattered existence.

Facts stared back at Baldwin; things remembered and forgotten, both seeming as ancient as he was feeling. He saw nothing which indicated that his parents, William and Elizabeth Winslow, died in a violent crime. Their deaths were listed as a car accident, just as he recalled. Driving home one rainy night, their car lost control on a slick road and wrapped around a light post.

Death on impact. Survived by one son, Jack. No mention of another.

Shortly following the accident, Jack was adopted by Ed and Myriam Baldwin. Ed was an agent with the FBI, leaving a career’s worth of footsteps for Jack to eventually follow. According to the gospel which Jack had never thought to question, Ed and Myriam were a freshly married couple, unable to conceive. Ed had been on his way home from work when he arrived at the scene of the accident, Jack’s parents hugging the lamppost, twisted inside a couple tons of metal. After a long talk with Myriam, they decided to adopt Jack. They got their child and saved the world from one more orphan.

Jack sighed and put his elbows on the desk. He’d already searched for records of his birth parents, but turned up nothing. Not too surprising. If they died in a car accident, they shouldn’t have been in the database unless they had been flagged for some reason, or were victims of a crime the bureau was investigating.

Another few seconds in front of the screen and the corners of Jack’s mouth suddenly twitched. He leaned forward and let his fingers dance across the keyboard. He typed John Winslow in the search box, and then ENTER.

Four names, three of them with no relation to him; the fourth, a huge question mark.

When Jack clicked on the fourth name, he received a message window. ACCESS DENIED, the red letters said. PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED, the green ones agreed. Below the lines, a message showed his IP address and mentioned that his search and failure to meet clearance had been noted. Great.

What the hell is going on? Why would John Winslow, possibly his brother, be a secret FBI file?

Jack continued to stare at the monitor, the corners of his mouth curled in frustration. He had no memories of a brother, yet something in the name tickled the deep recesses of his brain.

Could he have completely forgotten having a brother? He’d known of people forgetting things and blocking things out after traumatic events. Hell, he could understand wanting to forget your parents’ murders and burning the reels of the mind movie. But this, if it were true, went well beyond forgetting. There was a paper trail noting his parents’ death in a car accident, implicating lie as truth. That meant conspiracy.

But why?

Why cover up a murder? Why cover up the existence of a brother? Could the government really have rinsed his memories, not only of murder but of a younger brother as well?

A week ago he would’ve thought it was impossible or at least downright lunacy. But it had been a long week, even without the dream. The dream! Jack shuddered at the involuntary image of his father’s burned heap of a body; a sack of ashy flesh no different from those which had littered the last few of his days; no different than his wife, Julia’s.

Something brought Jack to life, out of his drugged fog, like an animal perking to a strange and sudden scent.

The monster in his dream had claimed to be his brother, Jacob.

Two brothers, one nightmare.

Jack entered the name Jacob Winslow.

ACCESS DENIED, PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED

Jack thought of the killer he was tracking. The killer, who finally had a name, thanks to Bob’s information—John Sullivan. He entered the name and held his breath.

ACCESS DENIED, PROPER CLEARANCE REQUIRED

What the hell?

Jack’s mind was crackling, connections slowly clicking into place. Something inside him shuddered. What if the killer, John, was also his brother? It didn’t make sense, of course. According to Bob, the killer wasn’t from this planet. The killer also seemed younger, though Bob said he was in fact, much older.

The boy in the dream was distinctly younger than Jack.

Yet when Jack thought of the damage Jacob had done to his father’s body, and the damage this John Sullivan was doing to others right now, the connections, as crazy as they seemed, almost arranged themselves with an impossible sort of certainty. If both brothers were real and both some sort of otherworldly feeders, then …

What in the hell does that make me?

Jack leaned back in his chair and pondered the question. His cell phone rang. His boss, Bob.

“Hello?” Jack said, feigning grogginess so Bob would think he was still asleep rather than launching an investigation into some half-cocked tapestry of deception, based on a dream, more likely inspired by his drugs than actual memories.

“What are you looking for, Jack?” Bob said.

Jack’s heart started pounding. They’re monitoring me? Why? He swallowed, “What do you mean, Bob?”

“Don’t make me drag it out of you, Jack. Why are you accessing department databases and dredging up ancient history? What is it you’re trying to find?”

Jack, normally quick with a lie, was frozen.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

Larry swung the black van into the chop shop. The unassuming warehouse sat in the middle of a dozen others, nearly invisible, in a broken row in a rundown neighborhood just two miles south of their next port of call.

Lydia was waiting outside, alone as he’d requested. Most hours, she’d have a crew of at least six to help ensure her safety, but their amorous past was a solid promise of safety. She raised the bay door and Larry pulled inside, parking beside the white Ford Econoline she’d readied for him. The van was modified inside, with a spacious cargo area sealed off from the front to prevent any light from seeping inside. Larry would transfer John and Abigail, and then be on his way. Lydia would take care of the black van and all its tracking systems.

Larry hopped from the van. Lydia pulled the bay door down and turned to him, her infectious smile lighting the room, “Hey, stranger.”

He laughed. “Not by choice. You still seeing Tony?”

“Hell no, he’s back with his little bitch Jessi.” Lydia sidled towards Larry, then leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You asking for any particular reason?”

Larry grinned. It had been a while since he’d been laid. Even longer since he’d been with a kinky little minx like Lydia. He felt the usual stir, and then ignored the wish that was turning to a want which time wouldn’t allow. Lydia’s eyes danced; hands in her pocket, head sideways, a lock of chestnut curls teasing the nape of her neck. Larry swallowed.

“No reason, just wanted to make sure the hairs on my neck weren’t rising because of an asshole behind me.”

Lydia laughed. “Nope, just you and me … and whoever you have in the van.”

“Thanks for this,” Larry said, reaching into his pocket for an envelope of cash which found her fingers in a whisper, with the fluidity of a man used to greasing palms and paying for those items or services which were unavailable on the open market.

“Nothing but a thing,” Lydia said, peering over Larry’s shoulder at the black van. “So, what are we about to unwrap?”

“I need to get these people to safety,” Larry said as he led her to the side door. He slid it open. Inside, an especially large looking John with a still sleeping Abigail like a rag doll in the nook of his body.

“Oh shit!” Lydia’s eyes widened. She took an involuntary step back from the van.

“So you get the news in this city too, huh?” Larry made a weak attempt at humor. It didn’t work.

“Dude, what the hell are you into? I’m not into helping a kidnapping, no way.” Lydia took another step back, this one on purpose.

Larry had seconds to calm her. Lydia’s blood was always hot and it didn’t take much to roll it to a boil. She may have run a chop shop with a regular clientele of thugs, thieves, and organized crime, many which had blood on their hands, but kidnapping, or any crime involving a child, was something she wasn’t willing to take part in.

He spoke calmly.

“Come on, you know me better than that. Don‘t believe any of that shit you saw on TV. There are some people after her, bad people. We’re protecting her.”

John crawled from the van and nodded to Lydia.

“What about him?” she said, “I saw what he did on TV. What the hell is he?”

“You trust me?” Larry asked, his voice climbing an octave like a guy in a fight with his girlfriend.

Lydia looked past John and at Abigail, who was starting to stir. “You okay, sweetie?”

Abigail looked up at Lydia. The child’s eyes were cloudy and distant. Larry could only imagine the accusations barreling through Lydia’s mind. They drugged this girl!

Larry had always been able to count on Lydia in a pinch, but they hadn’t spoken in more than half a year, since the “Tony situation” came out of nowhere and took over everything. Who knew where her loyalties lay now?

Larry eyed her up and down, while her attention was on the child. He was certain she was packing heat; something small like a snub nosed Ruger, probably in the small of her back. Lydia might not have run with the lowest of the low, but she was, like Larry, always prepared for any eventuality. He didn’t want to get into a gunfight, so he’d have to act quickly to disarm her the moment before she reached for her piece.

“Where are we?” Abigail asked, her syllables slurring through the slosh of a thick tongue and vacant expression.

Something looked off about the girl, Larry thought. Same doll, different batteries.

“You okay, honey?” Lydia asked, edging towards her.

John leaned over, blocking access to Abigail, and growled. “Don’t touch her!”

Lydia drew back, and before Larry could make a move, she had a gun in hand, a Ruger, indeed, Larry noted, and aimed it at John. Oh fuck, Larry thought, this is gonna get ugly.

“What the hell is going on here?” Lydia asked, gun trained on John, but eyes on Larry; wide, wild, and dilating in a fear that was full yet unflinching.

“Put the gun away,” Larry said, his voice a glassy calm, “You saw what this guy did to those people, right? He may not be human, BUT, he’s not the bad guy here. And this girl here, Abigail, isn’t human either. These government fucks are after them both. They want to capture them, experiment on them and God knows what else. All that shit on TV is a giant spin by the media machine, Lydia. You have to believe me.”

Something in Lydia’s eyes softened and Larry could see she was starting to buy what he was selling. He might have even believed they would get out of the entire mess unscathed if Abigail hadn’t started to scream at that moment, her body convulsing in a wicked rhythm of spasms, eyes rolling into the top of her head. A low predatory snarl started to spill from her throat.

“What the fuck?” Lydia said, gun back on John.

John’s face turned gray as he turned to Larry, “What’s happening?”

Abigail echoed the question in broken gasps, her fingernails digging into John’s arm. “Wh… what’s hap…pening to me?”

Abigail’s back arched upward, her body a circus freak of twisted contortions as anguished cries erupted from her lungs.

Tears poured down Lydia’s face, “What’s happening?”

She put the gun back behind her back and moved towards Abigail, reaching out to help somehow. Neither Larry nor John were able to stop her before Abigail’s flailing hand seized Lydia’s forearm and locked.

And the feeding began.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

The black van rolled along the highway beneath the bruised tangerine sky of early dawn. Larry looked in the rear-view for the third time in two minutes, searching for cops, feds or more gunmen, then stepped down harder on the gas pedal.

They were heading towards one of the many secret spots he kept scattered throughout the region. No doubt an entire team of feds was currently turning over the motel, scouring through every hair and fiber as they sorted through what was easily the biggest mass murder the area had seen in decades. Since most of the bodies were burnt to a crisp, the murders would be tied to John, intensifying an already white hot manhunt. Larry wasn’t too concerned about what was left behind. The motel and van (and even the van’s tag) were bought through an assumed name and neither his DNA or fingerprints were in any database, so it was doubtful that he left much of a trail.

While circumstance had forced Larry to abandon his surveillance equipment, which would no doubt raise a battery of questions as to who was living there and what in the raging fires of hell they were doing, he’d managed to retrieve the bank of hard drives where he kept nearly all his research. Of course, he had also grabbed the plastic totes from his van, which were essentially his portable survival kits, loaded with weapons, cash and a few other items of contraband he didn’t dare leave behind.

Though the motel looked like homeless people were squatting there, Larry was always organized and prepared to leave the second that the shit hit the fan.

Larry now had two main concerns—switching the van he was in for another, and hoping he’d eliminated enough of the bastards to prevent them from regrouping too quickly. He was certain they were living on borrowed time. Sure as shit, the van he was driving probably had a half dozen tracking systems enabled, with red dots blinking on a monitor or ten somewhere. Fortunately, they were only a mile away from a chop shop where he placed an emergency order the minute they left the hotel.

Sometimes it paid to keep the right company.

__________________

In the darkened rear of the van, Abigail’s breath rose and fell, her body curled against John. No windows meant the heat John was feeling through the indented panels was mostly in his imagination. He was safe from the sun, and thankfully, Abigail was safe from his parasitic touch.

John had become so used to avoiding unintentional human contact that he flinched when Abigail had first leaned so lovingly against him. However, as she relaxed, then passed out almost immediately, he wrapped an arm around her, receiving as much comfort as he was providing. John’s sad eyes, swollen with salt, lost a tear to the top of Abigail’s head.

Her gunshot had stitched together entirely, the skin where the bullet had torn through her flesh was no less smooth than that of her cheek. A part of John was glad that Abigail had remained groggy; not yet lucid enough to receive an explanation of how he had managed to save her.

Larry had grabbed two fistfuls of pillows and a pile of blankets to make their accommodations a bit more comfortable, but John was too distracted, or perhaps too scared, to close his eyes. He didn’t mind turning over the recent events in his mind. It was necessary to try and pull order from the chaos, but closing his eyes seemed to give the images teeth.

From the bits of memories John had managed to extract from the agents, he knew the gunmen were part of a unit called Harbinger. Harbinger of what, though? The agents were as in the dark about their end game as John was, though crystal clear on how much their boss Jacob had paid them to kill enemies, silence opposition and unearth various artifacts with mythical properties.

Artifacts from Otherworld.

Why they wanted him, though, John wasn’t certain. At least not beyond anything outside the bristle of instinct. Perhaps he was the ultimate artifact, a man who once walked on another world’s soil.

John looked down at Abigail and felt a fierce need to protect her. Like a paternal drive, he imagined, to inoculate her from all danger. However, that aching need embittered the palette of his thought, tainted with wave after wave of unforgiving guilt. He had delivered his curse unto her, even if it had saved her life. He turned her into a vampire.

What would that mean for her? Would she also need to feast in order to survive? Had he turned an innocent child into an eager killer? Was she now immortal? Would her soul grow old as she remained fixed behind the mask of a child forever?

An endless underpass of questions tortured his insides as Abigail’s cool skin soothed his outer shell.

The only person with any answers was sitting up front, punishing the drivetrain of the cargo van. The only thing John knew with certainty was that there was nothing in the world he wouldn’t do to ensure Abigail’s safety.

Soon as Larry killed the engine, John would find out everything he knew, whether Larry wanted to tell him or not.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

Swallow enough pills and sleep eventually finds you. For Jack, it came quickly. His breathing relaxed and he found himself deep in his dreams, though he wasn’t in the bedroom of his youth. He was somewhere else.

Jack stood on a deck overlooking a pristine white shore, familiar, though only through the hazy fog of fragmented memory. He was more relaxed than he’d remembered feeling in a while. Chasing criminals has a way of owning you even when off duty. Prior to their mutual “I do’s,” Julia used to continually complain, both with words and dancing eyes, about his inability to unplug from work and just be happy.

Julia!

He remembered the shoreline; the pristine white sands of Aruba, where he and Julia spent three amazing weeks on their honeymoon. Which was, oddly enough, probably the last time he’d felt at peace. Julia had made him promise to take three weeks off from work, a luxury he’d never experienced, even though he’d probably built up a half year’s worth of vacation time. He didn’t want to. He had too much work and knew it would pile up without his constant attention.

“The world will still turn and the job will get done without you,” Julia had said.

And she was right. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he found his shoulders relaxing long enough to let him enjoy life. An epiphany, Jack returned home with renewed purpose. Life was his to create. Family first, a husband’s duty.

That vow lasted almost until the end of his first week back until Jack found himself buried alive with a case that kept him hostage to the office from early light to mocking moon. One case turned to two, then weeks to months and months to years until just like that, he found that he’d slowly surrendered his limbs to the shackles of fate without even realizing it.

Waves lapped. Jack took a sip of wine. Behind him, he heard a muffled voice from the other side of the double French doors of their honeymoon villa. Though he was deep into dream and memory, a part of him was also aware of the waking life in which his wife was long since dead. His eager heart sped in his chest.

It had been so long since she had visited his dreams. Even though he’d wake up sad, these brief moments were better than nothing. He opened the door and…

…was again a child, back in the middle of that awful night which had been blotted from his memory ever since, stepping gingerly into the darkened hallway. Downstairs, his father was still screaming at his mother. The shadow man was just ahead of him, at the landing of the stairs. He turned back and in that dissonant voice, warned Jack to wait.

And Jack did.

Moments later, he heard his father cry out, “What the fuck?”

The end of fuck was severed by a ripping sound followed by a wet thud and a splash which sent chills down Jack’s spine.

He’s dead.

While a part of him should have been happy that the man who tormented he and his mother would no longer do so, the reality of murder did not bring the relief he’d sought. Panicked tears welled inside and warm piss trickled down Jack’s leg.

His mother screamed. At first Jack assigned the sound to the horror of seeing her husband murdered. Yet the scream held an elevated fear which went far beyond the terror of a frightened witness, sharp as it was with the acid panic of self preservation.

“Hello, mother,” the man in shadows said in a voice of boots crunching atop vomit soaked gravel.

Then, the sound of ripping flesh and gurgling, followed by silence.

Jack waited, fear circling the drain of his throat.

She’s dead, you killed her!

The adult part of Jack was frozen as well. He remembered nothing of this night from his youth, these memories were not the ones of how he knew his parents to have died, yet he knew it wasn’t a dream. This was a truth he’d been hiding from, or … which had removed from his mind. Entombed memories were no less real for their burial. He urged his dream self to take a step forward, to unravel the rest of the mystery.

“Mommy!” young Jack screamed, bolting down the stairs and into the living room.

He saw the still smoldering corpse of his father, flesh still bubbling as his headless body twitched. Wherever his father’s head was, it wasn’t anywhere next to his body.

The next two things he noticed in unison.

The shadow man, now looking slightly more human in form, stood in the center of the living room with his arms outstretched, while his mother, throat slashed and blood soaking through the thin gauze of her night shirt, danced. Her arms were raised, her lifeless head rolling back and forth barely there and maybe only by a thread. Her feet hovered inches above the ground. The shadow man moved his arms wildly like a crazed marionette as Jack’s mother danced some perverse jig. The shadow man continued to vent a smog of chilling laughter during the macabre recital.

Jack screamed. The shadow man turned to him, surprised, and allowed his mother to collapse in an inanimate heap.

“Forgive me, a son should have one final dance with his mother, yes?” The trailing S, a serpent’s hiss.

Jack was confused. He longed to run at the monster, pound him, tear him apart, anything. But fear bolted his ankles to the floor.

“You don’t remember me, do you Jackie?” the monster said, drifting closer.

Jack wanted to turn and run. The adult Jack also wanted to turn away, tears streaming down his sleeping cheeks. Neither Jack could do anything but watch the mind movie that had no pause.

Finally, the child spoke.

“Why did you kill her?”

“Because!” the monster yelled, his voice sounding more boyish and human than before, “she left me. You all left me behind.”

“She’s not your mother!” Jack cried out.

“Ah, what have they done to you, brother? You really don’t remember me, do you? It’s me … Jacob.”

And just like that, the shape of the shadow man dissipated like spider webs in a tornado, and standing before Jack was a boy, not much older than he, wearing a black shirt and pants, coated in the fresh blood of Jack’s parents.

Jack was torn between confusion, anger and a sudden, incredible sadness. None of this was making any sense and his head felt as if it were going to split and spill its contents.

“She made you forget,” Jacob said, “but I,” and he pointed at his head and spread his lips in a lunatic’s smile, “I NEVER forget!”

The monster boy stepped forward and Jack took a step back, shaking.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you two. You‘re my brothers.”

Brothers? Two? Who else is he talking about? Adult Jack was puzzled, though his mind was too entrenched in the dream to work out the logic at play.

The monster headed to the front door, opened it, and disappeared into the night.

This was all too much for young Jack, what was he supposed to do now? His head hurt and more than anything, he wanted to march behind his mother right into the arms of death. Adult Jack was feeling the same feelings as he was experiencing this, in some way, for the first time. Part of him wanted to die right there in his dream. To spare him of not only this, but of living alone in this cold world without Julia.

But he couldn’t.

A tiny voice called from upstairs, “Is he gone?”

Jack glanced up at the four year old peering back between the banisters. A boy so young should not see such things.

Adult Jack was dumbstruck. I have a brother?

“Go back in your room, Johnny!” Jack shouted, tears twisting his voice into a gasp.

Confusion, shock and pain were twined like hair in a braid, but he couldn’t allow himself to shut down. Though he were just a child himself, he had to protect John. Family first, a brother’s duty.

__________

Jack snapped awake.

“John?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

It’s coming.

He closed his eyes, tried to focus on Abigail, to connect with her. He could feel her there, could even how close she was, but there was something—some sort of darkness surrounding her—preventing him access to her mind.

He heard Brock shouting.

Abigail!

And then the gunshots.

John leapt to a squatting position, waiting for something, his body prickling for action. But he was caged and helpless.

He felt Abigail starting to fade. She was wounded in the gunfire. He knew it as certainly as he knew the sun would soon be rising. He screamed and began to use his body as a battering ram, slamming himself against the side door as if he could somehow shake the locks loose.

“Abigail!” he screamed.

He thought he heard something, her voice? He stopped moving and tilted his head, hungry to hear something rise above the gunshots. Everything went silent as time seemed to pause in wait for whatever was next. Either his side door would open and Larry would appear or the van would start moving, on their way to his would-be kidnappers, and away from Abigail, who needed him now more than ever.

The silence was like a slow and steady suffocation. He started to rock again, shaking the van wildly and screaming. “Let me out!”

The side door slid open as John flinched, preparing for the worst. Thankfully, it was Larry whose dark shape filled the open door and not Brock‘s. Larry didn’t have to say a word, John could see the truth in his eyes and on the asphalt, just yards away. Abigail, in a pool of blood, eyes open and staring at him in a dead gaze.

John’s heart crumbled as he exploded from the van and sprinted towards Abigail. He collapsed to her side and reached to feel for a pulse even as her eyes held their dead focus on the van. He caught himself, unsure what damage his touch could do to her in this state. He called to her; but no response.

“Don’t touch her!” Larry screamed, his heavy footsteps thundering across the asphalt towards them.

Larry reached down and touched the child’s neck. His eyes widened.

“Holy shit!” he cried out, “she’s still alive.”

“Call an ambulance, we’ve got to help her!” John said through a cracked voice.

Larry looked grave, his hand still on Abigail’s neck.

“There’s no time, John. She’s dying.”

John’s mind raced as he shook his head, repeating, “No, no, no, no. There’s got to be something we can do!”

Something flickered from deep within the recesses of John’s forgotten memories; a glimmer of something almost recognizable, a faint echo of a lost transmission from a long dead satellite. Larry mumbled something about needing to get out of there before the cops came. John closed his eyes, trying to block Larry’s voice out.

“Wait!” he said, pointing at Larry.

John dove deeper into the murkiness of his subconscious like a blind man trying to find his keys along the ocean floor. Only, John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the keys, let alone recall what they unlocked.

“John,” Larry said, “she’s dying.”

“I fucking know that,” John barked, spinning towards Larry, anger flashing, and then…

…something came to him and John had an idea.

“I can turn her?” John asked Larry, “I can bring her back as a vampire, can’t I?”

Larry nodded, “You know how?”

“I think so, I am remembering… something.”

“If you do this,” Larry warned, “you’re sentencing her to a life of hell.”

“A life of hell is all she’s ever known,” John said, “but it sure as hell beats not living.”

John looked down at the helpless child. His angel. Her open, glassy eyes cut straight into his heart. Though Larry said she was alive, John was pretty certain she couldn’t see him. Something resembling instinct whispered, just let me take over. He wasn’t sure if the voice was to be trusted or if it was wishful thinking that someone or something would answer his silent pleas for guidance.

Do it, now.

John knelt down, leaned in close, closed his eyes and handed his intuition the reigns. As he drew closer to her neck, he could feel her pulse, faint and barely there, against his fevered lips. Something pulled him, commanded him, compelled him. He opened his mouth. Pain splintered through his entire jaw as John’s teeth seemed to grind, twist and churn beneath his gums as his canines grew longer and sharper, piercing the edges of his tongue. Blood flooded his mouth with the taste of metal.

Bite her.

Rationality and doubt pleaded with him to stop. This is insane, you’re going to finish her off right here! John closed his eyes tighter, ignoring the voice, and put his mouth on Abigail’s neck. His instincts screamed to just bite, but fear held him in check, wondering how hard to bite, what if he bit in the wrong place?

Do it!

Instinct took over and flipped a switch. John bit down without further thought or hesitation. Blood flooded his mouth, warm and bitter. He drank, swallowed, and felt Abigail’s life blood sluice down his throat in two reluctant gulps. John then breathed into her wound. Only it wasn’t a breath from his lungs, but something else entirely; his essence delivered as her elixir. A current, different and less intense than the kind which he stole from the lives of so many, flowed—this time from him, to her.

Abigail’s body began to convulse. John pulled back, afraid his touch had started a fire which would quickly consume her. Her fingers splayed, as her legs shot out completely stiff. Her back arched up in an almost unnatural arc. Her jaws opened wide, her eyes even wider as she fought for ragged breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

John took another step back, his heart on the precipice of either fear that these were her final spastic death throes, or joy that he’d managed to save her. And then…

her body then fell limp as if whatever puppeteer holding the strings had just cut them all at once.

John dropped to his knees, his breath and heart both on pause. Her hair hung in tangles over her pale face—he couldn’t tell if she were alive or dead. A silent moan escaped her open mouth as she lifted her head, hair falling from her waxen face and eyes blinking open. Though barely there, Abigail smiled and spoke in a voice so frail, the gathering wind nearly tore it asunder.

“My angel.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out our new feature, Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

You asked – we listened. Since so many of you have commented, emailed and tweeted demanding more than one chapter per week, we figured what better time than Halloween to serve up a double dose of Available Darkness? Come back on Saturday for the bonus chapter, which is practically as long as two chapters, so it’s almost like we’re doing three chapters this week!

And all we ask in return is that you help us promote Available Darkness – especially for Halloween weekend, when people might be looking for a good scary read. Please tweet, email, or just tell a friend. And for all you new readers, or shy ones, we’d love to hear what you think. Please leave a comment or email us and let us know what you think.

And lastly, a sneak peek at the book cover below.

Abigail!

John filled the empty room with his hoarse voice but the only thing that returned was the sound of his own dull echo. Where the hell are they?

Pain hammered against his skull as a ravenous feeling of need burned through his entire body. The deep yearning felt somewhere close to hunger, but more insatiable and far less reasonable; clouding the edges of every thought. He HAD to get out now. Had to … feed.

For the second time in as many days, he woke up confined. This time by a jacket rather than a grave. John would have gladly taken the tomb instead.

He writhed and squirmed, trying to free his arms from the goddamned prison of fabric and buckles, but the constant motion only seemed to tangle him further. Panic and rage flooded his senses like a shot of adrenaline as he shook his entire body in a vain attempt at escape.

“Damnit!” he screamed, spittle raining from his mouth.

“What did you do to me?!” he bellowed to the empty rooms, hoping that bastard Larry was within earshot.

He began breathing faster and more shallow as panic needled his brain, whispering that he would die right here in this spot if he did not break free RIGHT NOW.

He shook again, this time kicking his feet into the floor and sending his chair flying back into the wall. His head bounced against the drywall with a dull thud.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

Where were Abigail and Larry? With a flare of anger, John vowed to tear Larry to shreds if he’d done anything to harm the girl. Then, he had an idea – he could try to connect to Abigail. Perhaps if he could concentrate long enough he would be able to sense her, to at least know if she was okay. His mind, however, was a tumultuous mix of panic, pain, and hunger, flashing through each phase with equal intensity, making slow, deliberate thought all but impossible.

He glared up at the monitors, showing the news – still – of him. Isn’t there anything else happening in the fucking world?

Two of the monitors weren’t displaying news. They were closed circuit monitors, one which showed the parking lot of the motel and the other which showed what John presumed to be the rear of the building. From his viewpoint, he could see the entire parking lot. Larry’s van was missing.

It’s okay, they’ll be back … no, they fucking left and you know it … you’re going to die right here. They left you to die. He and Abigail left you alone. To die.

John closed his eyes, trying to shake the anger from his thoughts. It worked, even if only temporarily. He found himself thinking of Hope and the dream, and suddenly, he was awash in the emotions that he woke to, sadness and misery. John could feel tears wanting to burst from his eyes, but his face seemed frozen, taut, like it was going to crack from the pressure building within.

Suddenly, a beeping sound.

John glanced up and the two closed circuit monitors had red bars along the bottom which read “ALERT.”

That’s when John saw four black vans pull into the parking lot. Panic returned to seize control of his senses. He began to writhe again in his jacket in another attempt to squirm free.

____________________

The newspapers were full of people who needed to die; corrupt politicians whose actions indirectly led to the deaths to their constituents, unscrupulous businessmen who took ungodly sums of money while robbing the pensions of their employees, to the hundreds of people who beat, robbed and raped those weaker than themselves.

A world of wolves fat with prey.

Though there was no shortage of people who would enhance the world in their absence, people who deserved a verdict harsher than that which the dubious legal system would impose, there were none which were both local and within easy reach. A shame really, because Larry, now that he had given it some thought, rather liked the idea of vigilantism by vampire. But justice, it seemed, would have to wait. This morning, they might have to be the very wolves who preyed on the weak and innocent.

“I wish I were a vampire,” Abigail said, tossing the paper to the floor, “I would just roam the night, helping people and killing bad guys.”

“That would be cool,” Larry said. “Though I don’t think you’d enjoy the loneliness of such an existence.”

A chorus of beeping abruptly rang through the cabin. The alarm he’d set up at the motel began its cry on his cell phone.

“Shit,” he said, awkwardly scrambling toward the back of the van.

On the monitor, he could see the four vans which had breached the motel’s parking lot.

Abigail was behind him. “What’s happening?”

“John has company,” he said as he bolted back to the front seat and gunned the engine. “We need to get back there now.”

Staring at the monitors, Abigail stumbled forward to the floorboard and rolled into the back of the passenger bucket seat as Larry kicked the van into motion. She sat up, holding tight to the back of the seat.

“Who are they?”

“It’s either the good guys or the bad guys,” Larry said, “my money’s on the bad guys.”

“What do you mean?”

There are two different groups of people who want something John has, Larry explained. Something he doesn’t even know he has.

“What is it?”

“A memory both sides want,” Larry said.

“So why doesn’t he give it to the good guys?”

“Because,” Larry explained in as simple as terms as he could, “the good guys aren’t necessarily the ‘good guys.’ They’re just a little better than the bad guys.” Larry shrugged. “And maybe worse. The bad guys only want the information, but the good guys want to prevent the bad guys from getting it. And the only way to really do that is to kill John.”

Abigail turned back to the monitors and watched as the van doors opened and a small army of men spilled from the aperture with weapons drawn. She cried out.

“They’ve got an army,” she cried out.

“How many are there?”

Abigail counted, “I see 12.”

“Fuck,” Larry cursed as he raced down the highway, hoping he could reach the motel in time.

TO BE CONTINUED… TOMORROW

Be sure to check out our new feature, Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

Baldwin stumbled through the doorway and into his darkened house; a cavernous hollow in the deep dead of night. It was close to dawn and he was exhausted. While Bob waved the carrot of promotion, he’d not been nearly as forthcoming with details as Baldwin would’ve liked. There was a process, Bob said, which would be starting soon – though not until this case was officially closed. In other words, if Baldwin wanted to know everything, he had to catch the killer he was already hunting.

Baldwin wasn’t sure why Bob had bothered to call the meeting. Sure he filled him in with some sensitive details – that he was in fact hunting something not human. A pretty big fucking deal, no doubt. But something wasn’t adding up. Why withhold other pertinent information? Why promise him a promotion he wasn’t bucking for? Bob was putting the squeeze on him, a gentle one, but a squeeze nonetheless. But why? It wasn’t as if he needed more motivation than catching the man who murdered his wife.

Five minutes from Bob’s estate, Baldwin called his second in charge and said he’d be out of commission for the day. Not exactly the best way to kick the investigation into overdrive, but it had to be done. He was falling apart and needed time to mend, a few hours to do nothing but lower his lids and surrender to the dark.

He fell into bed, not even bothering to get undressed, reached into his pants pocket and retrieved the only tether he had to peace of mind. The pills that made all his thoughts disappear… at least for a little while.

Jack Baldwin quickly fell into a peaceful slumber, a blissful smile on his face.

_______________

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Larry said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Killing someone isn’t a big deal?” Abigail asked, not quite believing what she was hearing. They’d been debating his proposal for nearly half an hour already.

“It’s no different than feeding a snake. Sure, you don’t want to kill the mice or rats because they’re cute, but you know if you don’t put the cute and fuzzies in the tank, your snake is going to die. Same thing here, we just need to bring someone here for when John gets hungry.”

“I don’t like snakes,” Abigail said, her arms crossed, “and people aren’t rats.”

“Apparently, we don’t hang in the same circles,” Larry joked, but the joke fell flat; Abigail giving him the silent treatment.

Finally, she said, “There has to be another way.”

Larry suddenly rushed Abigail, wrapped his arms around her from behind, closed his hands over hers and pulled the gun up, aiming it straight at John’s head.

“No!” she screamed, tears flooding her eyes as she tried to free herself from Larry’s sudden grip.

“This is the only other way,” Larry whispered in a soothing voice that seemed at odds with his quick, abrasive actions. “If you want John to die, then pull the trigger now so he doesn’t suffer.”

Abigail trembled, unable to say anything, as she looked at her angel’s face, so calm and peaceful. His eyes moved again under their lids and she wondered again what dreams he was dreaming and if, perhaps, she was in them?

_________________

The boy clutched his pillow tightly as the shadow in the corner subtly shifted, dark charcoal barely outlined against the inky black backdrop.

“I’m sorry I took so long,” the shadow said, its voice strained and fragile as if it were made of fibers which might crumble to nothing in the slightest of breezes. Despite the voice’s brittle quality, the shadow seemed to exude an incredible force of undiluted strength, which gathered in his room like a slowly churning funnel cloud, absorbing every available shadow and casting itself into an impossible shroud of darkness.

“Wh.. What?” was all the boy could manage.

Downstairs, his father piped up again, screaming incoherent curses at the boy’s mom.

The shadow’s head, if it indeed had one, spun quickly towards the boy’s bedroom door.

“Ah, father is quite mad tonight, eh?”

The boy’s bottom lip trembled as the shadow swirled even faster, as if gathering a solid mass of twisted knots of sinew, forming into something.

“You … won’t need to … worry any long … er,” the voice said. The shadow man drifted towards the doorway, shadows trailing him along the walls, floor and ceiling like floating streamers tied to an automobile.

“No!” the boy cried out, “don’t…”

The shadow stopped and turned, fixing its eyes, if it had such things, on the boy.

“Surely … you want him to stop … hurting you … yes?” it asked.

A million thoughts raced through the boy’s mind – what was this thing? Why did it apologize for being so late? Was it The Devil who had come to answer his many silent prayers for his father’s death? The boy was awash in guilt, fear and confusion. The monster waited, its shadows swirling around it like wisps of inky smoke caught in a holding pattern … waiting for the boy to give the command.

“It can … all … be … over,” the thing said, its voice seemingly weaker, giving the boy the impression that if he didn’t act now, this thing, whatever it was, would go away forever.

“You stupid cunt!” his father screamed, followed by a sickening thump of his fist on the boy’s mother.

Now or never.

“Kill him,” the boy said, his eyes suddenly steel marbles of clarity and conviction.

The monster flew from the room, its form tightening into an ever more human shape until the boy could clearly make out the features of a face, and two, impossibly blue eyes. It turned to the boy, the shadows of its face rising in a smile.

“You w … won‘t regret this … Jack.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out our new feature, Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.