Dancing in Darkness: The Damned Read online

  Those two words echoed in his mind, taunting. From the past. Someone. Somewhere had said those same words.

  Tell me why.

  Why?

  Why did you kill--

  “I didn’t do anything!” He lashed out suddenly, violent in his burst of rage.

  The woman - no - he remembered the name. Blackwood. Blackwood made him think of horrible things, ugly scenes he’d rather forget. Blackwood held her ground, withdrawing the hand she had outstretched toward him, fingers closing over air.

  “Daniel.” In her sharp-edged voice, a plaintive note sounded.

  He thought of a young girl in a funeral parlor being torn from the long casket settled on a white velvet bier. He wanted to remember, but pulled back, drawing away from the memory. He glared at her - this interloper into his shitty life. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Afraid?” Blackwood echoed, frowning. “Why would I be?”

  “You’re alone.” Daniel stated as simple as fact. “Lonely people are always afraid.”

  She seemed to struggle to make sense of his simile. “I’m not alone.”

  He made a great show of looking around for others. “Excuse the mess for your friends, for me.” He rose, padding barefoot across the floor. The sharp edges of glass sliced thinly, some deeply into his feet leaving sickly crimson trails in his wake. Daniel relished the pain, thrived on it. He disappeared into the kitchenette, pulling a bottle of chilled Vodka straight from the fridge. Blackwood had followed him, stepping on some of the glass, crackling, crunching it underfoot.

  “You shouldn’t be drinking,” she said slowly, watching him twist the metal cap from the pale Smirnoff.

  “Says the AA.”

  “Daniel...,”

  “Says the shitheads in blue.”

  “...don’t do this to yourself.”

  He sneered at her one last time before raising the bottle to his lips.

  The bottle shattered into a million fragments of alcohol and painted glass. The slug burrowed itself into the wall, exited from the smoking barrel of a medium-sized handgun clasped by Blackwood. “One life is enough.” She said, lowering the handgun. “You’ve taken one. It’s never too late to save your own.”

  ***

  Zac had strayed to the windows of the lower floor, his mind needing rest from the reports of supernatural conundrums that filled the pages of Blackwood’s chronicles. From the reflection mirrored on the surface before him of the room, the door opened. Reno walked in carrying a paper carton of Starbucks coffee. As always, he was sleekly dressed in a three piece tailored suit, this time in silvery blue. He had been most helpful explaining some of the obscure terms written of by hunters past.

  “Thanks.” Zac nodded, taking the whipped cream filled caramel macchiato. He winced at the raw feeling of his fingers, smelly with an unguent from an office first aid kit. He decided wisely it was better not to ask the ingredients.

  “Making headway?” Reno asked, retreating to the best chair in the lounge.

  “Not really. There’s just so much to take in.”

  Reno chuckled a warm masculine sound of mirth. “So, would say a newcomer.”

  He smiled slightly, appreciatively. Maybe they could move on past that interloper jazz and he could finally feel a part of the team. “Ms. Blackwood doesn’t seem to be around much.”

  “She has other engagements.”

  He half-nodded; well, that was partly true. “You know, I was surprised she posted bail on that guy. I thought she was going to go ballistic on him.”

  Reno looked momentarily confused, “who - ah, yes. Hurain. The police hadn’t released the name of the suspect. A child was killed?”

  “Yeah, it was real awful. The father tried to beat up that Hurain guy, and he just took the abuse like he was stoned. The police said he was drunk; I personally thought drugs or prescription meds.” Zac crossed his arms.

  Reno was silent, brow furrowed. “What were his symptoms, do you know?”

  “Oh...hysteria. Nervous anxiety, visions - ”

  The older man stood up abruptly, walking out. Zac floundered in his wake, “did I say something?” He wondered, drinking his coffee.

  ***

  The murderer’s name sent ripples across Julian’s memory. He had heard it before - the files? His mind leapt to the most obvious conclusion, discarding it only when the connection seemed too farfetched. The suspect’s age had been released; he would’ve been a child when Blackwood’s hunts were discontinued. Still, Julian thought it prudent to run the name twice through the database, retiring to his office for privacy.

  Quinn hadn’t understood how his simple allusion had caused the cogs to churn in the older man’s mind. Hurain brought no matches. He persisted with Daniel as first name with a question mark as last. Too many results. Julian wiped the field clean with a slight sneer of disgust. There had to be something else - visions! Aha! He typed in the query, navigating to the sub-categories of delusions, common traits of misdiagnosed seeds whose latent powers were manifesting.

  “Hyster...,” Julian read quietly. “From the Greek word for womb. Hysteria...victim showed signs of acute hysteria when confronted by the image of Michael, glorious Archangel of God.” The excerpt in the search results came from a newspaper clipping dating back to the late 19th century. Julian took note of the number under which the clipping was stored in, spotting the reference a few results down.

  “Victim’s parents succumb. Asphyxiation likely cause.”

  Further back.

  “Tryal held for suspected enchantress of childe.”

  The words leapt out at him from different time periods, different ages of Blackwood reign.

  Panic attacks.

  Fites.

  Mass hysteria.

  “Insanity.” Julian murmured, highlighting the final entry from the early nineties. File 302. He closed the system, drawing a set of keys from the key-coded drawer. The file room occupied one of the lower floors, under lock and key, the thirty-third level had some of the most powerful charms inlaid into its floor and ceiling. He headed there after checking on Quinn; whom was engrossed in another chapter about the witch trials. A surprising choice, as it seemed he had gone through the carton looking only for that subject.

  Rather than deliberate on the neophyte’s reading material; Julian entered the private elevator, inserting the key for the second time that day. With the key, the thirty-third floor became accessible. The elevator quietly glided down without further incident, the door revolving inward to the towering crypt of shelves and low lamps. Cartons were stacked in corners, neatly labeled in a spidery hand. Bags of more recent date, held yellowed papers and musty clippings.

  Into the plethora of arcane history, he stepped, weaving expertly through the maze of ancient paraphernalia. The rows were deep, his eyesight no longer youthful, squinted deeply at the margins of numbers and initials left behind by previous hunters.

  J.B.P.

  E.P.

  M.T.B; he smiled at Marilyn Blackwood’s looped writing.

  L.M. His smile slipped. The bitterness of bile arose in his throat. He passed onto the next and the one after that, his light mood vanished. The numbers were out of sync for the years following Evelyn Blackwood’s birth.

  ***

  Hysteria, the word came to mind. Though, her voice shook none, she was troubled inwardly. Insanity could be dangerous in its impossibility to predict. “Daniel,” she tried again, softer. “You might not believe this, but I honestly want to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what they all said.”

  Her lips pursed; she sensed she had gone as far as she could. “If you need help or just some advice, I can put you in touch with a good lawyer I know. He mostly handles corporate cases, but he’ll occasionally make an exception for public court.” She made a show of packing away her firearm, drawing a business card with her private number from another hidden pocket.

  “Call m
e.” Evelyn murmured, holding the card out between two gloved fingers. He stared at her through bloodshot dark eyes resembling black obsidian. Kindness was no longer recognized in that frozen shell he had built up over himself. After a moment, she dropped her hand and instead tucked the card in between two shot glasses on the counter.

  “Don’t bother,” he said, unmoving from the spot.

  Evelyn forced a sardonic twist to her lips, walking away with a bounce in her step. “Someone has to.” When, she was upon the threshold, her gaze fixated ahead on a distant goal, she remarked softly for her ears alone. “Even so, I’m no angel.”

  Behind her, what could’ve sufficed for a laugh sounded with the crackle of glass from the bleeding young man.

  ***

  Daniel watched her go, grinding the shattered mirror shards with his heels.

  She reminded him - desperately - of a hundred faceless women. Women of all shapes, colors and tongues, arms wide open. Hearts, he broke them all. Daniel’s gaze flicked to the white card with intricate black lettering. Evelyn, was her name. A pretty name for a pretty, fuckable face. “Evelyn.” He repeated in the quiet dorm. “Evelyn...Evel...”

  Somewhere in the depths of his mind, memory stirred.

  “Eve.”

  “Eve.”

  He tried to grasp onto the fleeing grains of memory. I know her. Where? How? The slip of memory proved elusive. Daniel filed it away for later perusal, surprised at how calm he felt. How clear-headed his mind was, not muddled with those...other things.

  Daniel wondered if it was a remnant of her presence? Unconsciously, his fingers curled over the stone cross. He glanced around, seeming to see for the first time the bloodied footprints marring the hardwood floor, staining the deep rug of the adjoining sitting room. This wouldn’t do. Pete had a family emergency in Utah while Cameron had left on winter break for his folks place in Florida.

  He retrieved a mop from the storage closet in the bathroom, returning to the kitchen. As he pushed the wet mop across the floor, he thought back to the woman whom had just been there.

  “Eve.”

  Why did she keep the night terrors away?

  ***

  The lack of success felt like burning failure in her eyes. “Dammit!” She vented inside the confines of the luxury car, slamming her fists on the steering column. Daniel didn’t trust her. She had been foolish to think she could easily take down the walls he had built around himself. A resounding honk emitted from the touch erupting in a chorus of drivers around her. She sneered at the closest sedan and cut off an SUV going into the next turn. She felt the twinge in her neck from the jolt of the accident, aggravated by her motions.

  “Call Will Morris,” she said aloud; the built in hands-free device went from stasis to dialing within minutes. A click sounded over the car’s internal speakers and a cool, calm male voice rumbled pleasantly. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Morris, it’s Ms. Blackwood. I want you to compile a list of every report we have - those not leaked to the media and send them to the email address pertaining to that other matter.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she smiled acidly into the center view mirror. “Put the pressure on him and the entire corporation. I’ve no doubt they’ll see eye to eye with us eventually.” She crossed over into upper Manhattan. “Oh, and Morris, schedule a redeye flight into Tokyo. There’s someone I want you to look up in two days time.”

  Chapter 11: Shot in the Dark

  Loup Garou. Zac memorized the word, his gaze passing over the image of muscular man-beast baying beneath the full moon. Werewolf. He turned the page to encounter blank sheets. A single sentence was scrawled on the faceplate. Record continued - L.M. 302. L.M. 302? Reno hadn’t let him go down to the records floor, in fact had barely mentioned where the records were kept. But, he had seen a mention in one of the other files, a note really to a long-dead hunter telling them to store such and such evidence on the thirty-third floor evidence room.

  He felt it wasn’t a large stretch to assume the records were kept nearby.

  Zac rose from his seat automatically, the seat he had occupied for two or more hours. Reno had left without saying much, briefly coming in a while later to check up on him. Zac had been casual about the whole thing, careful to keep his inquiries on other subjects when under supervision. Reno hadn’t suspected anything, of that he was sure.

  With a low whistle on his lips, he exited the circuitous way. The records weren’t forbidden - expressly not, at least. He used that excuse to precipitate any guilt he might’ve felt about entering into places where curiosity bade him tread. Not curiosity, he checked his thoughts in the way that he checked Reno’s whereabouts. The man’s low voice rose and fell with someone on the phone; he had seen the secretary’s back disappear through the door into Reno’s office, giving a window’s minute in which to return to the elevator and strike the key for the thirty-third floor. The only button that had never been illuminated until then.

  Why? He wondered. Was it under lock and key? Was it inaccessible to a regular operative? He dared not ask for permission since it was certain to be denied. Reno had lost some of his standoffishness yet still retained a distance between acceptance and denial which was only his right. Preoccupied with his thoughts, Zac was startled when the elevator car juddered to a stop, the door slid back to a set of doors that looked like they belonged to Fort Knox.

  Ever think it’s too much?

  He stepped from the car; the motion sensor allowed the door to slide shut behind him. For a moment, he was a little awed and slightly afraid of what he’d find inside. Better today rather than tomorrow, he thought to himself, summoning up the dregs of courage. Courage, he thought he’d spent the day before. I can do this.

  I have to do this.

  I have to know.

  Zac went and pushed against one side of the doors, the panel yielded. He stepped inside, inhaling the musty odor of over a century’s worth of paper, faded ink and memories. Tall shelves resembling the towering stacks of a library filled the entire floor. Occasional study tables peeked from desolate corners with old-fashioned green glass-shaded desk lamps. A few cartons had been taken down, books moved from their dusty places. Zac moved through it all, simply taking it in, forgetting for a time his purpose in descending into the thirty-third floor.

  The cartons were labeled with a familiar number system, moving counter clockwise from the early thousands to the hundreds. Zac noticed the pattern, wending his way around the aisles, keeping a close eye on the boxes as the numbers counted down.

  R - 310

  310

  L.M.- 309

  309

  R, he stopped to consider the repeating pattern. Must’ve been a hunter. Or Reno. Through the next shelf, he dropped down to a crouch, squinting at the faded labels. 302 was an empty space. He placed his hand there, no dust; 302 had been recently taken. But, L.M. was there. Zac hefted the carton up in his arms and went down the length of the aisle.

  At the turn, a tall dark figure stepped into sight. Zac stifled his instinctual urge to yelp and threw on the brakes, stopping short of colliding with the scowling man. “What’re you doing down here?” Reno asked sharply, keys jiggling from his left hand.

  Zac froze, his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He found himself babbling an incoherent lie. “I-I-you were look-looking for file 302?” His stomach refused to rise from the heights of his knees. Reno surveyed him coldly, taking the carton from him.

  “I was, now come along.”

  “Y-Yes, sir.” Zac muttered faintly; he hadn’t been destroyed yet.

  ***

  Julian got off the phone with Marilyn, sometime after three pm. The old southern belle had called, looking for news about her granddaughter’s whereabouts. Nonplussed, he had listened with a patience he rarely accorded anyone except the sweet-voiced woman, as she outlined the reasons why Ms. Blackwood needed to return power over the company to the bond-holders and resume living in the family manse.


  A goodly majority of Marilyn’s opinions were outdated, even vaguely scandalous, but he listened and agreed at the right moments. He did disagree with her assessment of Ms. Blackwood’s skills and the fact that Ms. Blackwood was the only woman who looked sexy in a miniskirt. Ms. Blackwood was a perfectly skilled negotiator and businesswoman, otherwise.

  He hung up with a further appreciation for the newer generation’s manner of handling a crisis. “Where’s Quinn?” He asked the fey who had been waiting patiently just inside the door for him to finish the call. “Is he still downstairs?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to know. I am forbidden to descend any lower than this floor and the next.”

  Julian looked away, pulling the keys from his pocket. “Fair enough,” he admitted, unable to remember if he had locked the records room. We’re both birds trapped in a cage, he thought sympathetically, walking away. Through the lobby he went, pausing to check security feeds on his personal tablet. A quick check of the lounge several floors below revealed an empty room. Julian scowled and quickened his pace. The records room was on a system of its own, with a controlled sprinkler system and lockdown mode in case of fire. The only thing more protected were the bunkers built in case of an emergency.

  “Kid...don’t do anything rash.” He murmured quietly, taking the elevator down six floors. Reaching the thirty-third level, he found the doors secure but unlocked. Cursing himself, he went in, searching for any sign of disturbed files. Several rows in, he caught the sound of footsteps and flattened against the wall.

  Quinn wasn’t making any effort to disguise his footsteps which could’ve been a good sign depending on how he looked at it. Aware of how quickly things could turn ugly, he counted on the younger man’s foolishness and deliberately stepped into Quinn’s path.

  Immediately, the younger man stammered out a few incoherent words while Julian observed him coolly. “Indeed?” He inquired when the other had stopped. The carton was between them, a veritable peace offering. Julian had the strange sense Quinn was telling the truth so far as no harm done. Yet, complete innocence was lacking from his aura.

  “Thank you.”

  The other relaxed visibly. Disapproving still, Julian carried the carton over to a nearby table. “You aren’t allowed on this floor - ”

  “But the others were.” Quinn retorted with little venom. The petulance in his voice reminded Julian of an aimless puppy dog looking for acceptance.