Siren's Call (Dark Seas) Page 28

  No humans dared enter the forest, for rumors told it was haunted and that the former residents of Blade’s property—the original 1910 mansion had been razed—had killed themselves after hearing voices tell them to cut out their hearts.

  Great rumor, Blade thought. It helped him maintain his privacy. It wasn’t at all true. But it worked for him. Though he respected the boundaries of the Darkwood and only entered it with a certain reverence and much caution. Even then, he only stayed so long as his comfort level allowed.

  Rumors told that people went into the Darkwood and they never came out. Deer, squirrels and wildlife? They didn’t exist within the dark thickness of evil that formed the murky wood.

  Blade smirked as a squirrel scampered past him, its goal, the stream. And at that reminder that all was not as it seemed—or was rumored to be—he let down his shoulders and knelt on a mossy stone, pressing his fingers into the thick, verdant frosting. For the moment, he connected with it all. The grass, stones and trees. All creatures small and large whose heartbeats he could sense. The atoms that formed his body were the same atoms that formed nature, the very air, earth and flora.

  How blessed was he?

  You are alive. You have survived. Move on, yes?

  He was trying.

  While principally considered vampire, Blade had also his mother’s faery genetics coursing within his system. His black wings were not so faery-like, and the leathery edges were serrated and sharp, as if demonic. He didn’t mention his faery side to others. It was his dark beast, which craved unnatural tastes, such as demon blood, that others knew about—if they knew at all.

  Blade honored all of nature’s creatures, including those breeds considered monsters by humans who would believe in myth. And yet, he hated demons. That a part of him looked similar to the creatures disturbed him. His wings shamed him and defined him as different. And different amongst the varied species was not always a saving grace.

  Such a difference had attracted cruelty to his life.

  He’d kept to himself over the past year. To the point that his brothers and sister had begun to call him a hermit. The quiet one.

  He’d always been quiet. More in tune with nature than with what was going on with the human realm. The cruelty that his difference had attracted? He’d suffered torture a year ago. And following that, he had hidden away. Not wanting to show his face, his scars, to anyone. Not wanting to put himself out in a world that could attack at any moment.

  For if attacked, he would retaliate.

  He didn’t wish to harm others. Unless it was necessary.

  He’d almost mastered the hermit role until last month when an old man filling his rusty 1970s Ford at the gas station had asked him if he’d any carpentry skills. Reluctantly, Blade had nodded and stepped outside his self-imposed prison of comfort. He’d been helping the elderly with small projects in and about their homes for a couple weeks now, and...it did feel good.

  Life was beginning to look up.

  At the sound of something heavy lighting onto the moss behind him Blade tilted his head. He smelled no odor out of the usual, yet his skin prickled. He should be able to pick up most scents. He rose to his six-feet-four-inch height, and with a stealthy twist, turned to stare into the cold white irises of a man with equally pale skin.

  From the Darkwood? Most likely. The man looked human, save for the diagonal scars over each temple, which resembled gills, but no breath opened and closed the slashes. His brows were as black as his hair and clothing, which blended him into the night. His pale face, neck and hands were the only things remarkable; the pinpoint blue glow that seemed to radiate from around his irises especially stood out on his face.

  “Blade Saint-Pierre,” the man said in tones that slithered with a sharp silver edge. “I am Sim.”

  “What are you?” Blade asked, stepping up closer and thrusting back his shoulders. He unfurled his wings and they stretched out boldly behind him.

  “Nothing so spectacular as a winged vampire,” the man said with a glance to take in the imposing wingspan. “I have an offer for you.”

  Blade inhaled through his nostrils, frustrated that he couldn’t scent the man. Which meant he was not one of the many species he could instinctually sniff out. But for every breed with which he was familiar, there were so many more he could not scent.

  The curiosity wasn’t demon. That scent always put up Blade’s hackles. And that small detail was the only thing that stopped Blade from sweeping forward a wingtip and slashing it across the stranger’s long pale neck.

  “I can move much faster than your feeble mortal realm allows you,” the man warned, seeming to sense Blade’s defensive thoughts. “You do not know me, but trust me, you’ve no reason to fear or consider me enemy. In fact, what I want of you will give you such satisfaction that your faery will delight in the riches.”

  “I don’t need money,” Blade countered. “You know nothing about me.”

  “Not monetary riches but rather such that feeds your very soul. I know you crave demon blood, fanged one.”

  Blade’s fingers twitched for the knife he’d left back home. He’d not revealed to anyone his insistent craving for demonic blood. It had developed during the torture a year ago. His family members would be appalled to learn of his new habit. For a man without a vast network of friends, their opinion meant everything to him.

  He remained before the scentless curiosity, willing to hear him out.

  “The demonic ranks are growing in the area,” Sim stated, clasping his pale hands before him. “I want you to annihilate them.”

  Blade chuckled.

  “You laugh as defense, vampire. Foolishly so. You have the desire to do as I request. I know you have been humiliated and crushed by the mimicus denizen. I offer you the chance to bring them all down. Cleanse this realm of the demons who dare to tread amongst humans before their denizens populate into rages.”

  A denizen was a group of demons, much like a vampire tribe. When their numbers increased or the denizens joined forces they were termed a rage, vast quantities of the merciless bastards.

  The man was playing it dramatically, and that made Blade wonder if he was mentally unbalanced, or if it was just his manner. It wasn’t every day he met a dark stranger in a haunted woods who asked him to slay denizens.

  But he did have one thing right—beyond the insistent craving for demon blood, even more fiercely, Blade craved vengeance.

  But he was no assassin. Not without good reason.

  And he had begun to step toward the light. To do good. He strived to avoid making the same mistake twice.

  “No,” Blade stated simply. He folded down his wings and took a step back off the mossy rock, putting himself a head below Sim’s stance. “The way to redemption is not through violence.”

  “It doesn’t concern you that the demons will soon take over? They will torment humans and paranormals alike.”

  “Where’s your proof? I’ve lived here all my life. There are demons who live amongst us, sure. But not in numbers so great as a rage.”

  “You’ll simply have to trust I know of what I speak.”

  “I do not blindly offer something so valuable as my trust.” And Blade walked around the man and into the woods. “Get off my property!” he called back.

  “The Darkwood belongs to no man.” He heard the quiet reply. “You will change your mind. I can wait. But not for long.”

  Blade started to run. Flapping his wings, he soared up from the ground. He dodged a ghostly wraith that lived within the forest, but which would never leave.

  Kill all the demons? Sounded like a dream. But Blade was trying to turn his life around and be less violent. And he could do it.

  If he could get beyond the need for revenge.

  One week later...

  Zenia parked the olive-green Che
vy truck at the end of the block where she’d been hit by the bus. Hopping out, she skipped across the grassy road verge to the sidewalk. A wind-strewn newspaper lay on the ground, and she recognized the faded ad she’d seen a week earlier. A pharmaceutical ad touted something called Zenia. A word she’d liked so much she’d taken it as her name. It conveyed mystery. Just like her.

  Which was about the only thing she did know about herself. That she was a mystery. The term used to describe her condition was amnesia, and she had it. And it had started in this neighborhood.

  The street and houses were quaint. A smooth, narrow sidewalk stretched before neat yards, and most of those yards were fenced with white pickets. Bright yellow marigolds, pink-and-white roses and orange zinnias bloomed in profusion. Butterflies and bees fluttered from bloom to bloom.

  The bus must have been cruising this quiet neighborhood so slowly that if someone had been hit by it, they wouldn’t have sustained a serious injury. And the bus driver may have never noticed the casualty.

  Zenia strode down the sidewalk, a long floral skirt flitting between her legs. Her pink T-shirt was encrusted with rhinestones in the shape of a heart. She loved anything that sparkled. That much she did know about herself.

  Summer sun warmed her skin and she flipped her long, midback hair over a shoulder. She brushed at an insect that briefly landed on her arm, and took note of the faint design on the inside of her elbow. Barely there, it looked as though someone had taken a white marker and drawn an arabesque. It was also on her other inner elbow, and had faded, but perhaps still needed a few more showers to completely wash away. It resembled the mehndi designs she knew were a Vedic custom in India.

  How she knew about that baffled her. She seemed to know quite a bit about many things—except personal details. Had someone drawn these marks on her? Or perhaps she’d scrawled it during a lazy afternoon doing...what?

  She wanted to know what she’d done in life, if only so she could resume doing that for survival. It had been a week since the accident and she had no money, had stolen clothes from a donation box on a street corner, and had only managed a handful of meals by chatting up lone men in the local diners and then dashing before they could ask her out.

  And while remembering who she was would be terrific, perhaps she didn’t know for a reason?

  Weird thoughts. But what else was there to think about?

  A lot actually. Everything. From the solid feel of the sidewalk beneath the pink flip-flop sandals she wore to the warmth of the air embracing her shoulders. The sensory details were immense in this world. And it was almost as if she was experiencing touch, sight, smell and sound for the first time. There, a bird chirp sounded like a song she must know the words to, but unfortunately had—like her identity—forgotten.

  Forgetting was frustrating. So she had returned, determined to trace her steps to learn where she had come from and what she had been doing before the accident.

  Zenia stopped walking. A warm sensation blossomed in her chest. A visceral feeling of memory. She studied the pink, two-story house in front of her. White paint decorated the window frames and front door as if it were a confection under glass at a bakery. It looked familiar.

  She walked up to the picket fence and darted her gaze over the yard, which was overgrown with brushy emerald grass and dotted with yellow dandelions. It smelled lush and wild. Didn’t look as though anyone lived on this lot. Did she live here?

  “I walked through this yard,” she said with definite knowing.

  She turned and eyed the street. The bus stop sign was thirty yards to the left, and the grass around the sign had been worn to dirt where she assumed people waited while sipping their morning coffees. “And there is where I got hit.”

  Turning and wandering into the yard, she had to lift her skirt so that she didn’t get tangled in the long grass. Had she been walking out from behind the house? She could see an open backyard. No trees. And beyond that a field stretched quite a distance before it ended at a forest’s dark, jagged tree line.

  Paralleling the side of the pink house, she walked around to the back and let out a gasp when someone stepped right in front of her. The woman couldn’t be younger than ninety, and her posture curled her spine forward so she had to lift her head to look up at Zenia. She smelled smoky. And a little too ripe for Zenia’s heightened senses.

  “I’m sorry,” Zenia said, stepping back a pace. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m trying to track down a path I took a week ago. Would it be all right if I walked through your backyard to that field?”

  “Never seen you before, young lady. Why would you walk through my yard?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost my memory. I’m trying to piece things together, and I recall walking from back here. Maybe even through that field. Though I’m not sure why I would be in a field. I won’t do any harm to your property. I’ll walk straight through and on to the field.”

  “Very well. You go find yourself. And I’ll go, uh...find myself.”

  The old woman gestured dismissively with a swing of her arm then made a surprisingly hasty retreat into her house through the back door.

  “Yes, find myself,” Zenia muttered. “But out in a field?”

  And the old lady needed to find herself? Curious. But old people were some kind of curiosity, for sure. If not badly in need of a shower.

  Zenia strode onward, her sandals stomping down the grass until she landed on the soft black earth of the freshly plowed field. Didn’t feel familiar to walk across the uneven surface. Hmm...

  “This is the closest I’ve come to finding myself. I won’t give up.”

  She walked onward.

  * * *

  Blade Saint-Pierre shoved the Craftsman toolbox into his truck box and pushed up the creaky metal gate to close it. He’d helped old man Larson fix the trellis that had come detached from the back of his house. Squirrels had been nibbling at the trusses. Now it was secure and the violet morning glories that reminded Larson of his dead wife, Gloria, showed through his bedroom window.

  These neighborly fix-it stops were fast becoming an enjoyable way to spend the day for Blade. It made him feel better to help someone he didn’t know. But he was sure it would never counter all the guilt that weighed down his heart. It certainly wouldn’t grant him redemption.

  But neither would slaying a rage of demons. He hadn’t seen the stranger, Sim, since that night in the forest a few days ago. Probably for the better.

  Opening the driver’s door, he paused to eye the stunning beauty walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. He’d not seen her in Tangle Lake before. Blade had seen a lot of pretty women pass through this tiny Minnesota town. Most visitors hailed from the big city. Some liked to do an antiques run through the smaller towns along the highway that stretched from the Twin Cities north to the shipping harbor of Duluth.

  So he was unusually curious about this beauty who looked as out of place as a demon in a salt factory.

  Long red hair spilled down her back. He wouldn’t exactly call it red, more like copper that caught the sun in glints much like polished metal. Her skin resembled creamy caramel. A flowery skirt flitted between long legs as she strode the sidewalk, her attention taking in the house fronts and tidy yards. A faded T-shirt with an obvious hole at the back hem topped off the bohemian look. She scampered through an overgrown yard, which Blade wondered if he should offer to mow the lawn. Could be a hazard to an elder person trying to navigate the long grass.

  He observed the sexy bohemian chick speak to an elder woman who seemed a bit too spry as she bounced back into her house. Blade could see the old woman’s shadow through the front window that wasn’t obscured by drapes. He kept her in peripheral vision while he satisfied his need for beauty.

  The woman in the skirt scampered toward a dirt field. Did she have something to do back there? It was a
big empty expanse. And across the stretch of black dirt was forest, which, after dozens of acres, backed up to Tangle Lake. Maybe she owned a strip of the black earth and intended to plant a garden? It was a little late in the season for that and she hadn’t any gardening tools on her.

  An odd commotion inside the house made Blade turn his attention to the front window. The old woman’s silhouette was...changing. One moment she stood hunched, her head hanging and shoulders curved forward and down. The next moment, she’d grown another head. And another.

  Instincts kicked in and Blade tugged out the silver bowie knife he kept stuffed in his combat boot. He closed the truck door. He knew better than to doubt his instincts.

  The silhouettes in the house were now three separate entities, and big, and...

  Blade sniffed. A faint trace of sulfur curled into his nostrils.

  “Demons,” he muttered. “I do hate demons.”

  Copyright © 2015 by Michele Hauf

  ISBN-13: 9781460382943

  Siren’s Call

  Copyright © 2015 by Debbie Herbert

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