BIRTH OF A KILLER

AN ALICE BERGMAN NOVELLA

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2019 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, April 17th, 2008

Sunbeams. Sunbeams penetrate the fissure between my curtains. I lie in bed, stiff as a corpse, watching them march across the floor and scale the side of my bed, an ancient army sieging my castle. They attack my exposed arm with their fiery touch, and gooseflesh envelops me. I shudder as they crawl up my arm, a horde of spiders, caressing my flesh with spindly legs.

My alarm blares on the nightstand next to my bed. It’s not a siren or buzzing noise, but it’s annoying just the same. I have it set on a local pop radio station: 98.3, The Buzz. Right now they are playing a new song by Justin Timberlake. My best friend, Veronica, has told me countless times that his smile melts all the girls like the people at the end of the movie Raiders of the Lost Ark. I laugh aloud and snort a little every time I think about it, still not quite understanding what it truly means.

Justin’s voice is good, but he doesn’t play my type of music. Songs that make me feel violent and aggressive are my preference. I desire music that gets me off my feet and makes me whip my head around, like Disturbed or Red or Rob Zombie. My neck twinges just thinking of the last concert Veronica took me to, and it puts a smile on my face.

One might speculate why I set my alarm to a radio station that plays Justin Timberlake, but the answer is simple. The music they play is vexing enough that it wakes me up and forces me to crawl out of bed to silence it. I’d never venture out of my bed otherwise.

Artemis pads over to me and nuzzles my hand. She’s a black lab, four years old and full of energy. She’s also my other best friend. We’ve been together for two years. Without her, I’m lost in the world.

Yeah, I was born blind, but I’m not complaining. I’ve never known anything else. Besides, I can distinguish between darkness and light to an extent. I’m sure it’s far better than those who are blind and live in perfect darkness or others who see constant light day and night.

It’s strange navigating through a world where I know nothing of what surrounds me other than indistinguishable blobs. People speak of colors, shapes, and textures—a world of depth beyond measure. They marvel at the beauty and ugliness of everything that fills our world, but I see none of it.

The only thing I know is what I touch, hear, smell, and taste. My sense of touch is strange sometimes, especially as of late. Sometimes, and maybe it’s my imagination running wild like it does, I feel the difference between colors. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know if it’s true, but who could tell me I’m wrong?

I’m a senior in high school, and life there would be hell if it wasn’t for Veronica. Most of the kids just ignore me. We’re invisible to each other but for different reasons. We walk amongst each other like spirits, existing on separate planes and never encountering one another. It’s a lonely existence, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever known. It’s my life.

The only exceptions to the ghost rule are Robbie and Jimmy. Robbie’s a total jerk and a bully, but not just to me, so he doesn’t really count. Jimmy hangs around sometimes, usually when Veronica’s not there. I think he might be scared of her.

Oddly enough, Veronica was my sworn enemy in middle school. She dedicated her life to making mine a living hell for two long years. She’d find the grossest, ugliest boys in school and tell them I had a crush on them and that they should come and kiss me. She told them I enjoyed my butt being grabbed and that my breasts actually honked when squeezed. Girls are cruel. Boys are stupid.

I spent many days in the principal’s office, always in trouble for beating the crap out of boys who were daft enough to believe Veronica’s lies. I hated her for so long and I still get flustered thinking about the things she did to me. What made her treat me so bad is beyond me. It made no sense then, and it still doesn’t. The only reason that I can think of is jealousy, but why? I’m a blind girl. I’m nothing. No one. Invisible.

I’ve confronted Veronica about it several times, but she’s never offered up an explanation. At least she has apologized profusely though. Either way, I’m indebted to her and her friendship now. She arranges her class schedule every year to match mine and helps lead me through school and life. My human Artemis.

Artemis accompanied me to school for several years, but people are spiteful and uneducated. They fed her and petted her when I took her with me, not understanding that she was a service dog and was working when she was at my side. They called me cruel names when I corrected her and accused me of abusing her. They didn’t understand that she couldn’t do her job if she didn’t think she was working. Sadly, she stays home most of the time now.

A soft rap at my door pulls me from the depths of my thoughts. The bed creaks when I sit up. I yawn and stretch my arms above my head. “I’m awake, Mother.”

Her soft yet stern voice penetrates the door. “You’d better be. It’s a school day and you will be late if you don’t get up.”

I roll my eyes, not bothering to open them. I rarely ever do unless I’m at home or wearing sunglasses. There’s little point to it anyway since I see so little. Besides, I’m sure people give me strange looks when I do open them because I have little control over where my gaze lies.

I opened them once in middle school and that was one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made in my short life. For a full year after that the entire school called me lazy eyes. And yes, Veronica poured fuel on that fire too. No one ever stood up for me then, not even the teachers, but I don’t blame them. I’m sure I would have done the same thing if the situation was reversed.

I push my covers down and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Artemis whimpers, letting me know she’s still there. I reach out and she moves her head under my hand. Her long fur is silk under my fingers.

Her floppy ears are so soft. She groans happily when I rub them. “You’re such a silly girl, Artemis.” She lifts her head, nuzzles my hand, and then licks my palm several times. It makes me giggle, but not like a little girl. “I love you too, my furry friend.”

I slide down the side of the bed until my bare feet touch the cold, concrete floor. Chills rush up my legs and send me into a shivering fit. I hate our floors, but Mother can’t afford to fix them. When she bought this house, the carpets were stained beyond repair and the stench of cat urine permeated everything, so she ripped them all out. At least we have a roof over our heads.

My mother, Gladys, works at the local library but she’s not a librarian, as one might think. She does all the financial work for them: inventory, ordering, expenditures, bookkeeping, and taxes. I’m certain the place would go out of business without her. She’s also a devout Christian, seldom missing an opportunity for church and fellowship with some of the other ladies.

I touch the wooden cross that hangs from the chain around my neck and can’t help but smile. I’m not religious, like Mother, but wearing the cross keeps her from prying too far into my life. It’s also my way of letting her know that we’re still a part of each other’s life in some small way.

She doesn’t approve of the cubic zirconia stud in my right nostril, but there’s nothing she can do at this point. If she ever finds out about the mermaid tattoo on my groin just below my panty line, all hell will break loose. She’ll haul me off to church, strap me into the pew, and beg God to save my damned soul. I love her.

Several months ago, Veronica insisted we get matching tattoos. I hesitated, but just for a moment. Funny thing is I didn’t even know what a mermaid looked like when she suggested we get them.

Veronica described the tattoos to me after we got them, pointing out their vibrant color palettes and painstaking detail. Unfortunately, I had no reference point for any of it, so the details didn’t stick in my mind for long. Getting them together made her beyond happy though, so it made me happy too. Still does.

Another rap at the door. “Are you moving, Alice? I don’t hear you.”

I smile. You can’t hear a ninja.

Artemis whines, snorts, and pads over to the door. She’s ready for breakfast. The thought of food rumbles my stomach. I hadn’t even noticed I was hungry until just this moment.

A short, backless bench with a padded top sits at the foot of my bed. I walk over to it. My clothes lay on it as usual. It’s both endearing and annoying that Mother does it. I keep telling her that I’m sixteen years old and that I can choose my clothing myself, but she doesn’t listen because I’m still her baby.

Jeans and a V-neck T-shirt greet my fingers. What if I had wanted to wear something different today? One might argue that I’m blind and I shouldn’t care about what I wear but being blind doesn’t make me ignorant or stave off self-consciousness. I have a sense of style, and I care how I look—perhaps more than I should. Then again, I am a sixteen-year-old girl. It’s in my blood.

* * * * *

A dozen minutes and two changes of clothes later—back to the original ones Mother picked out—, I emerge from my room like a caterpillar from its cocoon, spread my arms wide like wings, and flap my arms. Mother stands in the hallway a few paces away. She slowly shakes her head with disdain, one evil eye trained on the center of my forehead like the laser of a sniper’s rifle.

How do I know? Simple. Her cold, hard stare pulses and radiates from her like an invisible signal that only I can detect. It penetrates my skin, seeps down into my bloodstream, and infiltrates my mind like a wretched disease.

I’d say the thought conjures an image in my mind but that wouldn’t be true. I’d need to know what one’s brain looked like. If only I could reach into someone’s head and touch it. The idea fascinates me but perhaps it shouldn’t.

In reality, she’s done this for as long as I can remember and has told me as much on several occasions. I lower my arms and shrug.

Mother sighs. “Lord, have mercy on my daughter.”

The natural response to most everything she says is an eye roll, and I don’t deny her one. “I certainly keep him busy. I wonder how he finds the time to deal with anyone else’s problems?” I laugh. Mother does not.

Her footsteps soften as she walks away, but, with no carpet and hard-soled shoes, she’s no ninja. Again, I’m sure these things would be far funnier if I could truly imagine what they look like. Still, I chuckle.

From the kitchen where Mother retreated, I hear Artemis lapping up water with her tongue. I swallow instinctively and realize my mouth is much drier than I’d imagined. I walk down the hallway and to the kitchen entry without making a sound. Unlike Mother, I am a ninja.

I sneak into the kitchen, circumnavigate the small square table at its center, and open the refrigerator door. Cold air rushes out as its invisible seal breaks, creating a small but noticeable whooshing sound. I stand there for several moments, not because of indecision or a lack of knowledge as to where things are located in the refrigerator, but because it annoys Mother. I tap my fingers on the side of the door, banging out the rhythm to one of my favorite songs, The Enemy by Godsmack. The lyrics fill my mind and the need to bang my head wells up within me until I cannot resist. My head bobs to the phantom music.

Mother huffs. “Stop with your nonsense. Either select something from the refrigerator or close the door. You keep that up and I’ll make you pay the electric bill. I can’t afford to cool the house with the refrigerator.”

She stands behind me, a hell demon at my back. Her hot breath moistens my nape and sends chills skittering across my bare flesh. In my mind, her right hand sits on her hip, her left nostril wrinkles and flares, and her brow furrows—her standard gestures. Veronica and I often muse over Mother’s predictability.

Satisfied that I’ve piqued her annoyance, I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator’s second shelf and shut the door. A brief but noticeable sucking sound escapes from the refrigerator as it reestablishes its vacuum seal.

I turn around and hold the bottle out for Mother. “Please?” She takes it from my open hand, and I hear her grunt as she strains to remove its lid. Why do the manufacturers insist on making the lids virtually impossible to remove? One must be a strongman to twist them off without effort. One day I’ll write a formal complaint.

She hands the bottle back to me and places its lid in my other hand. “You’d better get a move on before you’re late to school. I don’t have time to take you today, so you’ll have to walk.” Her tone grates my skin.

Veronica and I walk to school together most days, so it’s not like it’s something new. I put the edge of the bottle to my lips and tilt my head back. The cold water aches my teeth as it flows over them, but I don’t stop. I gulp it down like one would a beer, draining the bottle without pause. My throat burns from the arctic liquid. I love the feeling of it, but it always makes me cough, and this time is no exception. Air gurgles and bubbles in the back of my throat like a partially clogged drain and emerges from my mouth as a loud belch. I can’t help but laugh as Mother snatches the empty bottle from my grasp.

Mother scoffs. “I don’t know whose daughter you are, but you’re certainly not mine. My father would have slapped me into the next week if I’d let something like that come out of my mouth.”

My fingers instinctively curl into fists as anger rises in my chest and tightens my muscles. “At least you had one,” I say under my breath. I’m certain my words sting me more than they do her, and I regret voicing them as quickly as they leave my lips. My father, or lack of one, is a heated subject in our house, and I know Mother has no time for it today.

Mother’s foot smashes down the pedal that opens the recycle container lid. Anger and hurt drive it down hard, and the metal lid clangs against the side of the refrigerator like a misplaced beat of percussion. Guilt tightens my stomach as the empty water bottle thumps around the bottom of the recycle container before settling. She removes her foot from the pedal and slams the lid down hard, not waiting for it to close on its own. Perhaps my words hurt her as much as they do me after all.

Internally, I cringe. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but sometimes I can’t help pushing back. I sigh loudly and slough it off like I do everything that bothers me. My throat loosens, and my fingers uncurl.

I pull a few strands of hair from my face and fold them back over the top of my head. “What time is it?”

“7:38.” Anger laces her voice. She walks out of the kitchen, her heels clicking on the cement floor.

Realization of today’s date sinks into my mind. April 17th. I follow her into the living room; Artemis hugs the side of my leg. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“I made your lunch. It’s on the kitchen table. I harnessed Artemis for you as well.” Tremors quake her voice this time, the anger from before replaced with a deep sorrow. “I thought you might want to take her with you today since Veronica won’t be there.” Her voice breaks apart and she sniffs softly.

“Ugh, I forgot Vee won’t be there today.”

She grabs my hand and I nearly pull away, not used to her touch. To be truthful, I’m not used to anyone’s touch but Veronica’s. Mother’s hand trembles in mine. Thank God I didn’t pull it away. This day has been hell on her for two years now. Grandma passed away in 2006, quite unexpectedly, and left Mother devastated. It shook me as well, but not to the core as it had Mother.

I squeeze Mother’s hand. “I miss her too.”

She sniffs again and pulls her hand away. She walks over to the side table by the front door, plucks her car keys from the bowl that sits atop it, and then unbolts the deadlock. I contemplate going over to her and giving her one last hug, but the thought is fleeting.

“I’ll see you when you get home,” she says. The front door squawks on its hinges when she pulls it open. A moment later, it squawks again. Her key slides into the lock with a scrape, and then the bolt moves into place with a soft thud as it rams the back of the doorjamb.

The thought of walking to school alone sends my pulse racing. I miss Veronica already. What I wouldn’t give to just sit down on the couch, curl up with a blanket, and forget about school. But I can’t. Mother would kill me if she found out that I had. Besides, my grades are already suffering from senioritis. Okay, that’s not true. I’d suffer an aneurysm if I didn’t have perfect grades. What is true though is the fact that I can’t wait for high school to be done next month.

There’s no ditching for this girl. Instead, I walk over to the coat closet to the left of the front door and pull out my favorite rain jacket, the dark-green one. I pull it on and zip it up tight. It’s a snug fit, but it keeps me warm and the spring rain out of my hair.

I walk back into the kitchen and grab my lunch from the table. Don’t know what’s in it, but I imagine it’s the left-over pizza from last night. Mother and I tend to eat out a lot or at least get food delivered because neither of us has a cooking bone in our body. Pizza and Chinese tend to be our foods of choice with Chinese being the clear winner. My stomach rumbles again, but I ignore it. Given time, the feeling will subside. It always does. Breakfast on school days makes me fall asleep in class, so I always forgo it.

“Artemis, to me,” I say.

In an instant, she’s at my left side and my fear subsides. She and I walk over to the back door on the other side of the kitchen and I unlock it. The door always sticks, so I yank it hard to unjam it. It groans and pops as it slowly swings inward. A gust of wind and rain rips through the open door and steals my breath away. Grandma’s spirit has come to pay me a visit. The thought rocks me to my core, and I shudder, but I won’t let it get to me. It’s a silly notion. I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits. In fact, there’s little I do believe in.

I close the door and lock it behind us with the key from my right jacket pocket. The key is always there so I never have to look for it. When Mother and I went to get spare keys for the house the man at the hardware store gasped when she told him that we needed a hundred copies. Needless to say, we have keys tucked away in every nook, cranny, and hole. I think four or five would’ve sufficed, but what do I know?

I turn and face the alley behind our house. The wind whips my jacket and rain peppers my face. It’s not too late to turn around and go back inside.

Artemis presses against my left leg. She knows I’m having second thoughts about this. I reach down, take her harness handle, and put my life into her hands, so to speak.

“Find the school,” I say to her.

Artemis guides me across the backyard, through the alley, and into the wet, dark unknown.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Artemis and I duck out of the drizzling rain and into the long hallway that splits the science building between its Eastern and Western facing classrooms. It’s rare that she accompanies me to school, this being just her fourth time in my three years of attendance, but she never forgets a location once she’s been there.

The hall buzzes with conversation. Truth be told, it’s more of a frenzy. I hate crowds. A strong urge beckons me to turn around and head back home and I desperately want to give in. Instead, I lean toward Artemis and say, “Find my locker.”

Immediately, she begins navigating us through an unending maze of people and toward my locker three-quarters of the way down the hall on the left. Most days, I’d be counting my steps, but today, I can’t keep my mind on task. Perhaps it’s the weather or Grandma’s day or maybe just the simple fact that Veronica isn’t here, and I miss her. Whatever the case, Artemis stops us at a bank of lockers much sooner than I anticipate.

I reach out and locate my locker; it’s the only one I know of with a braille plaque mounted on its front. Even if it wasn’t, I’m certain none of the others would say “Wonderland” on them.

Six punches and a yank and the 10-button combination lock springs open. The lock has given me five years of hassle-free service, so I’m just waiting for the day it fails me. Then again, I’ve only got five weeks left before graduation. Fingers crossed it lasts.

None of my four classes before lunch are near this building, so I retrieve my books for all of them and shove them into my backpack. The seven-minute warning bell sounds and I panic. I yank on the zipper to close the backpack, but it won’t budge.

I drop the backpack and slam my locker shut. “Dammit!”

“Need help, Ally?”

Jimmy. He’s the only other kid at school who acknowledges my existence besides Veronica. Had I not been so involved with everything else, I would have smelled him coming. He must bathe in Old Spice.

I huff, “Can’t get the damned zipper to zip and I’m gonna be late to class.”

His cold, clammy hand touches the back of mine. “Lemme get that for you.”

I let go of the backpack and pull my hand from underneath his. The thrum of students in the hallway quiets with each passing moment. “Hurry up.”

He grunts and the zipper grinds. “Well, it’s halfway there.” He hands me the backpack. “Don’t tilt the bag and you’ll be fine.”

“Thanks.” I swing the backpack over my right shoulder and grab hold of Artemis’s harness handle.

“No prob—”

“Find the math class.” Artemis lurches forward and leads us back down the hallway where we came in from.

“Locked your locker for you!” yells Jimmy.

I wave behind my head with my free hand. I can’t wait for this day to be over.

Artemis stops at the end of the hallway in front of the double doors. I shove the door open with my hip and we get halfway through it before a strong gust of wind kicks up and knocks the door back into me. My backpack flies off my shoulder and I trip over the top of Artemis.

I smash my hand into something solid but manage to hook my fingers around the other door’s handle and keep myself from face-planting on the concrete sidewalk. Several people snicker and others laugh aloud but none of them stop and offer me help. To the contrary, the familiar sound of a paper-covered book skidding across concrete fills my ears.

“Fetch,” says a boy. I’m certain he’s not talking to Artemis.

I grit my teeth and scowl but say nothing. He’s not worth my time or the waste of a single breath. Instead, I squat down to find my backpack.

Artemis nuzzles my cheek. “It’s okay, girl. This isn’t your fault.”

After locating my backpack, I realize it’s significantly lighter than before. More than one book has escaped. A quick check verifies only one book remains in the backpack. I groan and drop to my knees. The ground is soaked and saturates my jeans in a few seconds.

This is your fault, Vee. Why did you choose today to be sick?

The final bell rings, and now I’m late to class. Detention is the last place I want to go right now. My rain-slicked hair sticks to my face and sweeping it away only lasts a moment before it falls right back in place. Had I just listened to myself earlier, I’d be curled up on the couch at home right now.

Artemis follows along as I search the area around me for the discarded books. She’s the smartest dog I know, but some tasks are too difficult for even her. What I wouldn’t give to literally see through her eyes. It’s a superpower I’ve yet to develop, but I work at it daily. One day it will work. I can feel it.

I locate two of my fallen books, but the last one is nowhere to be found. I snarl, “Stupid boy.”

“Rest assured, he’ll get what’s coming to him.” The gruff, male voice startles me.

I freeze. Was that a threat?

“Looks like you could use a hand.” He’s somewhere to my left.

I don’t bother looking his direction. “Thanks, but I can manage. Besides, don’t you have to get to class?”

He approaches, his footfall heavy, splashing through puddles. “No classes for me. Floors need mopped, but they’ll wait.”

The janitor…

A recent conversation with Veronica rises from the depths of my mind:

“He’s watching you,” she says.

“Who?” I ask, squeezing my shoulders together as waves of goosebumps march up my arms.

She pulls me close. Whispers in my ear, “The janitor. And it ain’t in a nice way. He’s a total creeper.”

Artemis stands at my side, whimpering and licking my face, but I’m left speechless and cannot comfort her. My legs turn to stone, fusing to the concrete slab I kneel upon. A few moments more and I’ll be little more than a fallen gargoyle statue. Broken wings. Shattered soul.

My lungs, chest, and throat solidify, and my head spins about my shoulders, lacking precious oxygen. The shadows darken until nothing remains but perfect darkness. The air thickens. I cannot breathe.

A hand rests on my shoulder. Larger than I would’ve guessed. In my mind, I recoil from his unwanted touch. In truth, his hand doesn’t move. Nor do I.

“I’m invisible too.” His hot, cigarette breath warms my cheek and slithers into my nostrils.

He’s too close, and there’s nothing I can do but pray Artemis saves me. Attack, Artemis! Attack! She presses her cold nose under my chin.

“They forget I see what goes on here.” His hand slides off my shoulder, crawls down my arm, and latches onto my elbow.

He lifts my arm and me with it. My knees break free from their concrete bindings and my feet find solid footing. I pull my arm away from his grasp again, and this time my body responds.

My voice returns as well. “Thanks. I can manage from here.”

“So you say.” He pushes a book into my hand. “Believe that one’s yours.”

I take the book and shove it into my backpack. “Thanks.”

Artemis rubs against my leg. I reach down and grab her harness handle.

“Never more than a holler away, Alice.” His tone is menacing.

Five letters. One word. Flattens me against an anvil. How does he know my name?

The rain beats down on me. I’m soaked through. A drowned rat. I’m sure Artemis hasn’t fared any better. I tug on Artemis’s harness handle and we start forward, but the man’s hand catches my arm once more. His fingers are razor-sharp talons, ripping through layers of clothing and piercing my flesh.

Again, he moves in close. Only the rain separates us. Fresh ozone, cigarettes, and a hint of garlic. “I’m always watching.”

THE BRAILLE KILLER

AN ALICE BERGMAN NOVEL

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2019 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited by Catherine Jones Payne - www.quillpeneditorial.com

Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

CHAPTER ONE

I cannot peel my gaze away from the manila envelope sitting in the driver’s seat of my sedan. The single, calligraphic ‘A’ handwritten on its front is unmistakable. Immediately, I know what day it is, but I take my cell phone out of my pants pocket and engage the display to verify. It reads Tuesday, July 17 06:34. My fingers and toes curl and chills sweep through me despite it being ninety degrees already.

After ten years you’d think I’d never forget this day, or perhaps I would’ve added a calendar reminder on my phone so that I wouldn’t. Yet I stand frozen in my driveway staring through my car window at an envelope I should’ve expected but didn’t. In my defense, it’s not an event that I ever wanted to be memorialized, but the bastard who’s left it will never let me forget it.

I glance around, half-expecting him to be watching me—waiting for my reaction and getting off on it like the disturbed voyeur I imagine him to be. It sickens me that he’s eluded me for so long, and so the chase goes on.

He’s forced me to participate in his twisted little game. I never asked to be part of it, yet I obsess over it. I will not rest until I bring him to justice.

I take my keys out of my pocket. They jingle-jangle in my trembling hand like sleigh bells. I wish the envelope were from Santa Claus or some other imaginary entity full of jolly and kindness, but I know better. I settle on thanking the stars for the key fob that hangs from the keyring. If not for it, I’d be keying the side of my car trying to unlock it.

I press the right button on the key fob, but nothing happens. I press harder, then several more times, but the doors don’t unlock. Anger stills my hand. Why does technology thwart me at every turn? It has my entire life, and I’d love a reprieve from it. Just for one day. This day. Is it too much to ask for?

I smash the button down one last time and the doors unlock with a click. Tension drains from my fingers and toes, but I know it’ll be short lived. I pull the driver’s side door open, grab the envelope and toss it onto the passenger seat, and then plop down in the driver’s seat.

I thumb the lock button on the door several times, even after hearing and seeing the locks engage. A scream rises in my throat, so I force it back down like bile. He’ll never hear my fear manifest.

My hands wrap the steering wheel and I stare at the brown stucco wall in front of me. I have no desire to open the envelope because it will contain another letter and some random-ass item that leads me straight back to where I am: nowhere.

However, my resolve is fragile, and my curiosity is piqued, so I snatch the envelope off the passenger seat and clutch it between my hands. I want to rip it open and dump its contents into my lap, but this one is different than the others. The ink used for the ‘A’ on its front is blood-red instead of the usual black.

My breath catches in my throat like half-swallowed food, and my heart knocks against my rib cage with such violence that it jolts me forward time and again. What does the red ink signify? My heart knows the answer, but my mind isn’t ready to make the connection and draw the conclusion.

I turn the envelope over and carefully bend up the two metal prongs that secure its flap. I pull the flap open, reach inside the envelope, and pull out a bracelet of tightly woven strands of red and brown. The materials used are silky and fibrous simultaneously, their origins elusive.

Another friendship bracelet?

I examine it closely for clues but find nothing tangible. No tag. No message. A simple bracelet just like the first one. Why would he send these to me? I slide it back into the envelope, pull out the folded piece of yellowed, card stock paper, and place the envelope back on the passenger seat.

Unfolded, the paper stares up at me. Without lead, graphite, or ink marring its surface one might assume it to be blank, but it’s far from that. Its message will pierce my heart just as the others have.

My palms, wet with perspiration, stick to its edges. I peel my right hand away and wipe it on my pantleg several times. The clamminess remains.

I take a deep breath and slowly glide my finger across the page. The words, strung together with braille letters meticulously pressed into the paper, pierce my heart and numb my mind.

A badge and a gun you possess

But it’s a heart you’ve never had

The lies you tell make you far less

And drive this hatter mad

You should’ve listened to me

But you blew your last chance

You wouldn’t pay the fee

For your sordid little romance

Now my patience has run dry

And your time has just run out

You’ll no longer turn a blind eye

To things that come about

You will play into my plans

And soon you’ll see just how

All the blood is on your hands

And there’s no stopping now

As with all his letters, it ends with a threat of disclosure: “This matter stays between us. Involve the authorities or anyone else and everyone you love will die.”

I groan and the paper bends where I’m clutching it. I want to wad it up and toss it into a burning trashcan down on South Central. I want to forget Denise ever existed, but I can’t.

Why does her death still haunt me?

I didn’t even know her, let alone kill her, yet I’ve clung to her existence for these last ten years. She’s the thread that binds me to him, and he’s the only person in the world that can explain why she chose me and why he helped her. This single event forces me forward on a path I might never have chosen, and I cannot rest until I meet its end.

I smooth the paper out where I bent it, fold it back up, and return it to the envelope. I close and secure the envelope and take a deep breath. Everything will be okay. By this point in my life I should know that lying to myself does no good.

I press the start button on my dash and the engine roars to life without hesitation. Honestly, I’m surprised. I switch on the AC, but nothing happens. I smack the top of the dash with my fist because sometimes it helps make things work, but not today. Not on July 17th. The damned thing’s gone on strike.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the parking lot at the police station. I’m not sure how I even made it here, the drive just a blur. I shove the envelope under the seat and climb out of the car. My clothes are stuck to my sweat-covered body. I pull at my blouse and fan myself with it to try and get some air circulation, but the result is far less than I’d hoped for. I’m glad I showered this morning.

I walk inside and straight to my office, grab my mug off my desk, and head for the breakroom down the hall and to the left. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts in the hallway and tractor beams me into the breakroom. The coffeepot isn’t on the warmer. Glass shards and puddles of coffee glisten on the countertop and across the floor. Officer Janis kneels with her back to me, picking up pieces of shattered coffeepot.

“What happened?” I ask even though the evidence is clear.

She looks up at me over her shoulder. “Stupid thing stopped dispensing water, overheated the pot, and exploded. Luckily no one was in here at the time. Heard the pop from my desk.”

“Ugh. How am I supposed to survive the briefing without caffeine?” I eye the counter to my left. “No donuts either?”

Officer Janis shakes her head. “Nope. Bob’s out sick today.”

I groan. The perfect storm.

Like the rest of the police station, the breakroom is battle worn. Paint chips hang on the cinder-block walls in several places like scabs waiting to be peeled off. The carpet is ripped in places and completely gone in others, the pattern it once donned lost in the past. Brown stains dominate the yellowed, drop-ceiling tiles which were once a pristine white. All three tables sit on crooked legs, each wobblier that a Weebles doll, and the chairs are a hazard waiting to be had with cracked seats and unbolted backrests. Budget cuts have impacted everything.

Defeated, I retreat back to my office, drop off my empty mug, and head to the locker room. A few minutes later, I find myself staring into my open locker, my mind hung on the words of this morning’s letter. All the blood is on your hands. Had he meant Denise or something far worse?

“Bergman.” Lieut. Frost’s voice startles me.

I glance around, knowing the exact reason for his visit. No Seth? Where the hell are you? No one else lurks about in the locker room.

Lieut. Frost strides toward me with dogged determination. His bulldog jaw is set and his ice-cold, brown-eyed gaze chills my core. This day can’t possibly get better. I shake my head and slam my locker door shut.

Lieut. Frost pulls up next to me and suddenly I’m a dwarf from Middle Earth. I’m 5’7”, but he’s nearly a foot taller than me and twice as wide. He has the Superman look nailed, but there’s no chance of him having a suit and cape underneath his drab attire. Every day he wears brown slacks, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and some sort of power tie. Today it’s red and matches his cheeks.

Matches the ink on the envelope.

The smell of his cheap cologne snakes into my nostrils like octopus tentacles. I breathe through my mouth and do my best not to gag on its skunk-butt odor. Lieut. Frost’s brow sinks, and his nostrils flare. He’s clearly immune to his own stench. I stifle a snort by coughing.

His eyes narrow as he pushes his wire frame glasses up his nose. Even in that small act his bicep bulges underneath his shirt. I’ve seen him do it a thousand times, but I still stare with awe. He is an exquisite specimen of the human male and I cannot deny myself a lingering glance even though his personality repulses me even more than his cologne does. I lower my gaze.

“Bergman, where’s that worthless partner of yours?” His gruff voice shakes my chest with a barrage of bass reminiscent of rap songs. It focuses my attention quicker than a dog sighting a squirrel.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the locker for effect. “Oh God, I knew I’d forgotten to do something. Ryan’s car is in the shop. He asked me to give him a lift this morning.” I slam my fist into the locker next to my head. “Dammit.”

“You keep covering for him and it’ll be your ass, Bergman.”

I sigh and pull my head away from the locker. “I swear, Lieutenant, he really did ask me for a ride this morning. I totally spaced it. This one’s on me.”

He shoves a meaty finger in my face and shakes it at me. “Briefing room in thirty. Detective Ryan had better be there. Am I clear?”

Clear? Not through your cloud of cologne. I need to seek lower ground to survive. I hold my tongue and nod. It’s a rare occasion, and I’m proud of myself for doing so.

Lieut. Frost shakes his head, a boulder atop his broad shoulders. “Save your smirks until after I’ve walked away. Makes your blatant lies a bit more palatable.”

I nod again and then clear my throat when I hear the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the other side of the lockers. Lieut. Frost doesn’t react to the sound and instead storms away. I let out a deep sigh, breathe in through my nose, and regret it. The air still reeks of skunk butt.

I turn around and face the opposite end of the line of lockers. “You can come out now, Seth.”

Seth Ryan’s head pokes around the end of the lockers. “How do you do that? I didn’t make a single noise when I came in.”

I breathe on my nails and rub them on my shirt. “I told you I’m a certified ninja. I’ve got more than ten years of ninjutsu training.” I move into an angry tiger stance and motion him forward. “Nothing escapes me. By the way, you need new shoes. The soles are wearing on the outside edge and causing you to walk bowlegged. I don’t date cowboys, so you’d better get them replaced.”

Seth rounds the corner and waddles toward me like a penguin-cowboy. A crooked smile mars his otherwise beautiful, hairless face. I conjure a smile as I roll my eyes.

His wavy brown locks hug the top of his head like a glove, and the sides and back are trimmed short. If he were allowed to grow it out, I think he’d look even sexier. He reminds me of Jon Bon Jovi, but only in looks. Seth can’t carry a tune to save his life. Believe me, I know. Karaoke night at The Dive was a one-time deal. I’d never been asked to step off the stage in the middle of a song before. Awkward moment. Who knew a duet of Close My Eyes Forever would bring us to the lowest point in our relationship? I’m certain I did Lita Ford proud, and who could possibly screw up Ozzy Osbourne? Seth. Only Seth.

We still hang our heads in shame every time we pass by The Dive’s doors, and we’ve never set foot inside its walls since. I think back on all the situations we’ve been forced into over the last two years that we’ve worked together, and I cringe. Hopefully Seth will never have to sing to save my life. His voice might kill me before my captors got a chance.

His tight blue jeans hug his muscular legs and drape over his black leather boots like curtains hung too low, and his black button-up shirt is untucked at the side and back. He always wears his shirt with two buttons undone at the top—a sight I relish. He’s not a hairy man, so thankfully there’s no tuft of hair poking out like the gerbil on Tom Selleck. A thick, silver necklace with a dagger pendant hangs just below his neckline. He’s never without it, just as I am never without my cross-pendant necklace.

His cologne, Drakkar Noir, precedes him and chases away the nidorous scent that Lieut. Frost left behind. I breathe deep, every muscle in my body tenses, and I shudder with delight. Seth is my partner, both in work and in life. He is my foundation rock. My shelter. He holds the weight of the world on his shoulders so that I don’t have to. He keeps the monsters at bay—at least the ones he knows about.

There are some things I keep from Seth, not for his sake but for mine. He knows nothing of my past, and I’ll do everything in my power to keep it that way. He doesn’t know about the ten letters I’ve received over the past decade either. I cannot risk losing him and everyone I love, so he never will.

Those letters are to be kept between me and the sicko who sends them. He’s made it perfectly clear. I will catch him if it’s the last thing I do. He’s the reason I studied criminology, joined the force, and worked my way up to detective. In some twisted way I guess I can thank him for that.

Seth weaves his fingers into mine and presses me up against the lockers with my hands over my head. He leans down, and his hot breath moistens my skin just before his soft lips caress the side of my neck. I moan, louder than I’d expected and flinch. I scan the locker room and find we’re still alone.

“Seth, we can’t—”

He leans into me, nibbles on my lower lip, and pulls on it. I wish I could forget where we are and give into the moment but too many things niggle my mind. Anyone could walk in and see us together. His gun digs into my ribs a little, and perspiration trickles down my nape, under my arms, and into places I don’t even want to think about.

The air conditioning units have been on the fritz all summer. It must be a hundred degrees in here. I doubt they’ll ever get fixed.

I push Seth away with reluctance, but his hands stay locked in mine. I smile. “Save it for tonight.”

He presses into me again. “What’s wrong with right now?”

“Oh geez, get a room.” Officer Todd appears in my peripheral view.

Seth backs away and releases my hands. I look over at Officer Todd. “Your timing is impeccable, Tommy.”

Seth turns and winks at Officer Todd. “I’m afraid the show’s over, buddy. Better get here earlier next time. Doors open at 6 am.”

I roll my eyes at Seth. “The only times you’ve ever seen 6 am is when you’ve been awake all night.”

Seth hooks his thumbs in his front pockets. “Pfft. Stay the night with me, and I’ll be up anytime you want. Guaranteed.”

Tommy’s cheeks turn red and his gaze falls to the floor. “Don’t you guys have somewhere to be? Some corpse to unbury or some killer to hunt down?”

Seth nods. “Every day, buddy. Death never sleeps.”

Tommy shakes his head and walks over to his locker. He puts one hand over the lock so that we can’t see his combination and spins the dial back and forth with his other hand. It clicks, pops, and then the door groans open.

Tommy’s only been on the force for three weeks, but he’s already made a lasting impression on me. His elongated forehead and alien-shaped face reminds me of Barney Fife from The Andy Griffith Show. Much like Fife, he’s a beat cop down on South Central Blvd. Not a place I’d want to be assigned.

Thomas Terrence Todd. What were his parents thinking? He goes by Trip T in the rap world. My eyes tear up, and I snort so violently that it pangs my throat.

Seth frowns at me. “What’s so funny?”

I shake my head and walk toward the exit. Sometimes it’s the best thing to do. “Be safe out there, Tommy. I don’t want you to be my next call.”

He nods as I walk by. “You, too.”

Seth follows me out of the locker room and down the main corridor like a leashed dog. My leashed dog. We’re like Turner & Hooch. I snort again and cough. If he knew some of my thoughts, he wouldn’t be so eager to stand at my side. Then again, I can’t even imagine what goes through his mind at times. Don’t think I want to.

We stop by our shared office and I freeze in the doorway. The light on my desk phone flashes like an ambulance and my breath catches in my throat. I look over at Seth’s desk. His isn’t flashing. My pulse begins to race and sweat beads on my brow. No one ever calls my desk phone anymore. I check my cell phone, but I’ve missed no calls and have no messages.

I walk into the office and round my desk. The stale, hot air weighs on me like a dense fog and I have to sit down to keep my legs from buckling underneath the crushing weight. My throat muscles contract, and I fight to catch my breath.

I look up. Seth is eying my desk phone.

His gaze moves to me and locks on mine. “Are you going to check it?”

I swallow hard and nod once, certain that if I were to answer vocally, I’d only squeak like a mouse. My breath catches with every blink of the red light and the tension in my jaw ratchets up another level.

Red… just like the ‘A’ on the envelope. I know it’s him. It must be.

Seth settles in his chair and drums his fingers on the leather armrests.

I exhale, pull my desk phone close, and stare at it for several moments before finally picking up the receiver. I press the red button and enter my 6-digit code on the dial pad.

I stare at Seth as the message plays. Static crackles and pops for several seconds like it does at the beginning of a 45 record and then a music box begins to play in the background. I know it’s a music box because I had one when I was little and because the metal strips flicking against the nubs on the metal roller are so distinctive. The tune it plays is familiar, but I can’t recall its name or where I’ve heard it before.

A gruff, male voice talks over the music and pulls me down into the depths of my past. “Five one four three Elm Street. I took my time with her. She never saw me coming. Blind girls never do.” He laughs. “Fifteen years old. She was ripe for the plucking. Sarah Johnson’s blood is on your hands, Detective Bergman. How many more will you kill?”

The music stops, the line clicks, and then the message ends.

My fingers tremble as I press the button and delete the message. I set the receiver back down on its cradle and exhale. My heart thunders. This day is unrelenting. I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean back in my chair.

Several seconds go by as Seth’s brow wrinkles and then furrows, and his eyes narrow until nothing but slits remain of them. “Well? What did the message say?”

The blood is on your hands. I look down at my crimson-stained hands and cringe. They’re not actually red, but it doesn’t stop me from picturing them that way.

I look Seth in the eye and tell him what he needs to know. “Anonymous call. A body’s been discovered.”

He slams his fist into the chair arm. “Damn. I’d hoped today would be a good day.”

“So did I.” I know how the rest of this conversation will go. I can feel it in my bones, and my heart’s already aching. I know all the questions he’ll ask me and the things I must withhold.

“Give me the breakdown.”

I close my eyes. “A young girl. Early teens. Looks to have been raped.”

“Damn.” Seth slams his fist into his desk and my eyes shoot open.

A stack of case files tilts and then falls on the floor with a smack, and his phone’s receiver jumps out of its cradle. He picks the receiver back up and slams it back home. It wouldn’t surprise me if he cracked the whole damn phone.

Seth rolls his chair around the side of his desk and scoops up the splayed files. “You get a location?”

“Five one four three Elm Street.” My eyes are open, but I stare into a world made of nightmares. Seth says something to me, but fear renders me deaf and his words fade into the ambient noise of buzzing fluorescent lights.

The blood is on your hands.

My stomach twists in knots, and I cannot move. My feet root themselves to the floor and my arms to the chair. I fight back tears of anger and shame from a decade’s worth of neglected emotions.

When I return to our world Seth is on his phone with Officer Janice, reporting the tip. He hangs up and stands. “Ready to roll? Officers Spalding and Dupree are right down the street from the scene and forensics should be rolling up on it soon as well. They were just a block over wrapping up another scene.”

I reach deep within and find the strength to rise from my chair. “After you.”

As we walk out to the unmarked sedan my mind returns to the call. Blind. It’s no coincidence. He’s killed, and I know why. I cringe as a single thought sears my mind like a cattle brand and marks me as the monster I am.

She’s dead because of me.

THE NIGHT MAULER

AN ALICE BERGMAN NOVEL

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2020 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

CHAPTER ONE

THE ROAD SIGN FOR Desert Springs Nature Preserve says it’s half a mile ahead on the right. Most Mondays, there is little to no traffic in the area, but this Monday is an exception. The place is a zoo, and Seth and I haven’t even reached the parking lot entrance yet.

Multiple TV crews line the main road, each broadcasting live on the situation still unfolding in the woods. As with most reporting these days, it’s likely five percent news and ninety-five percent speculation and opinion. They’ll say and do just about anything to get viewers to tune in, truth be damned.

Vultures.

Officer Mike Brex stands in front of his cruiser, blocking most of the entrance to the dirt-and-gravel parking lot when we pull off the main road. The man’s built like a tank, solid muscle from his thick neck down to his massive calves, and he’s always ready to engage. Sunlight glints off his freshly shaved head, distorted by plumes of steam rising from his scalp. It’s a bitter cold morning, especially for Desert Springs. He dips his head toward us and waves us into the parking lot.

The lot stretches a good quarter mile across the front of the preserve, able to accommodate more than a hundred vehicles during peak seasons and hours. At present, there are a half-dozen police vehicles spread across the lot, including the DSPD CSI van that Charlie drives. Only two other parking spaces are occupied.

Two uniformed officers huddle together with Detective Terry Roland next to one of the patrol cars close to the main trailhead entrances. A young woman sits on the rear bumper of the car. Bloodshot eyes and trembling hands tell her story. She’s the one who must’ve discovered the body and called it in.

Head to toe, the woman’s dressed in pink running attire, save an oversized brown jacket draped over her shoulders. Raven locks are pulled tight against her scalp and drawn into a braided ponytail that lies over the front of her right shoulder. A small, pink bow hangs from the end of the braid. High cheekbones and a narrow jawline frame her bronze face. A beautiful woman lurks beneath those swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

The woman is likely around the same age as me. Maybe a year or two older. To be honest, I’ve yet to master the art of predicting one’s age. I blame my sixteen years of blindness, but it might just be one of the many things I’m not good at.

Detective Roland rubs his bare arms nonchalantly, clearly the donor of the jacket the woman huddles beneath. Kindness isn’t something Terry lacks, especially when a beautiful young woman is involved. Unless that woman happens to be me. He glances my direction as Seth and I walk past the four of them. His smile fades, and he says nothing to me, but the contempt in his eyes speaks volumes.

Guess I’m still a sore spot.

The light reprimand and short suspension I received after closing the case on the Braille Killer didn’t sit well with Terry. He’d expected me to be fired. In a way, I don’t blame him. The information I withheld during those several weeks we hunted the Braille Killer was inexcusable, and my actions reprehensible. I’ve yet to forgive myself for it. If I ever do, it won’t be before I locate and bring down the Shadow Priests. I owe Sarah Johnson and Cara Strum that much.

More than that.

Loose gravel and freshly fallen leaves crunch beneath our boots as Seth and I enter the starting point of Trailhead 4A on the 50-square-mile preserve just northeast of town. The sound echoes in my ears. Grates my nerves. Conjures images in my mind of cracking bones; prey caught within the constricting grasp of a boa. The thought is fleeting, but the chill it produces latches to my skin and sticks with me as we head toward our destination.

Toward death.

My feet move at twice the pace of Seth’s just to keep up with him. He’s nowhere near running, but his pace has urgency. Everyone knows the dead never rise and walk away—except in the zombie apocalypse—, but convincing Seth of such facts proves fruitless time and again. He’s as stubborn as they come. A mule at times. Then again, so am I. Perhaps more so than him.

“If I’d known we’d be going for a jog, I would’ve worn my running shoes.” The words half-stutter from my lips, broken between gasps of air.

Seth’s gaze stays locked on the trail as his left hand arcs downward toward his thigh, slicing the air between us. “Can we not do this right now?” The sternness in his voice warns me to back off more than his words do. Crime scenes always bring out his angry side. I’m still waiting for his skin to turn green and his seams to burst.

Maybe one day.

The beauty of the fall leaves, a rainbow of reds, oranges, yellows, and some fading greens, takes my mind away from Seth’s foul mood and the cool morning air. The tension in my shoulders and neck melts away as I take it all in, but the tranquil sensation is short-lived.

Strung across the path ahead of us is the notorious black-and-yellow crime scene tape. The hairs on my arms stand on end underneath my jacket sleeves as we approach. This is the point where things become real.

Officer Frank Bartoli stands just beyond the tape, a clipboard clutched in his left hand and a pen in his right. He nods curtly. “Mornin’.” The pen scratches against paper as he adds our names to the crime scene entry log.

Seth returns Officer Bartoli’s nod and skirts underneath the tape, hardly missing a step as he continues marching down the path. I stop short and take a deep breath, steeling my nerves against what lies ahead. Officer Bartoli lifts the tape high enough for me to walk beneath it without the need to stoop. For his effort, he receives a nod and a small smile as I proceed underneath it.

“Good morning, Frank,” I say.

The tape thrums low when Officer Bartoli releases it. “Gotta warn ya—” He glances back over his shoulder in the direction Seth went and sighs heavily as he crosses himself. “—it’s a bloodbath up ahead.”

Dread seeps into my bones as I nibble on a piece of loose skin on my lower lip. “Aren’t they always?”

“Guess so, but nothing like this one.” Frank scratches the side of his neck with the corner of the clipboard. Three red streaks bloom on his tanned skin. Several white scars mark his temples and cheeks, and several black stitches surrounded by puffy purplish-red skin run parallel beneath his right eye, evidence of his ongoing battle with melanoma. “Just watch your step.”

Frank and I go back more than a decade, far more years than what I’ve shared with Seth. My first memory of Frank rises to the front of my mind and takes me back to 2006. It was a breezy spring Sunday as we stood on the church steps after service. Frank had been attending just a few weeks, always alone, so Mother invited him over for lunch. The offer lit his brown eyes, and he accepted without a moment’s thought.

To say the least, he and Mother didn’t hit it off romantically—for the record, I never thought they would—, but it sure stirred up a hornet’s nest at church. If only I could’ve witnessed the priceless look of disdain Father Benito Rogallo must’ve worn when he found out about the lunch date. He tore into Mother that next Sunday, his jealousy over the trivial affair obvious. Somehow, Mother didn’t catch on to the fact that Father Rogallo had feelings toward her; I beg the gods daily that she never does.

The past fades as my mind returns to the present and Frank’s grim expression. “Watch my step. Noted.” The trail stretches north twenty paces before bending eastward. “See ya later,” I say and head up the trail.

Rounding a sharp bend in the trail, I spot Seth a dozen paces farther ahead. He’s crouched down, his back to me and his head cocked to the side. Seth’s body position blocks a good portion of the trail from my view, but the part that isn’t blocked captures my attention.

The morning light shimmers on the surfaces of several crimson-brown puddles. The effect mesmerizes and sickens me. Stills my beating heart, if only for a moment as my breath catches in the back of my throat. Then my pulse races.

A nearly severed head lies on the blood-soaked gravel. Brown eyes, wide and glassy, stare in my direction, but they’ll never see again in this lifetime. Closely cropped hair and a shaggy, brown beard several inches in length cover much of the victim’s face, along with bits of gravel and dried blood. The man’s mouth is agape and shifted to one side, perhaps from a broken jaw. From what I can see, a good section of his throat is torn away, exposing bone and ligament and leaving his head twisted unnaturally.

As I draw nearer and kneel next to Seth, the full scene comes into view. Deep lacerations mar the victim’s hands, wrists, and forearms, and the front of his black jacket is torn to shreds, along with his blood-soaked shirt. Eight gashes crisscross his chest, from pectorals to external obliques. The skin is ripped like paper around them, and blackish-red blood is congealed within them.

My stomach gurgles, churning the French toast sticks with syrup and the single cup of coffee I downed on the way over. It threatens to push it all back up my esophagus, but I’ve seen far worse. Nothing compares to child victims, especially when they’ve been violated. Suddenly, my hands feel tacky, and not from sweat. I don’t need to look at them to see their crimson hue, yet my gaze falls to them. It’s all in my head. Every last drop. But I’ll never forget.

Sarah and Cara.

Each time it happens, I’m thrust into their memories once again. A whirlwind of emotions I cannot seem to control. Hands balled at my sides, fingernails biting into the flesh of my palms, I ride it out. For once, I manage to hold back the tears. It’s a small victory, and I hold on to it with all my strength.

Eyes closed, I breathe deep to settle my nerves and calm my beating heart. Given the location and frigid air, the smell isn’t entirely unpleasant. Earthy, with a hint of decay, but not from the body. The victim must’ve showered in Axe Dark Phoenix body spray before coming out here. I know the scent well, thanks to several male students at Desert Springs College. In a few hours, when the heat of the day reaches its peak, the smell will become unbearable.

Other than Seth’s shallow breathing and the sound of Charlie Jones, a member of our CSI team, snapping photographs, the forest is quiet. No birds chirp. No leaves rustle. No chipmunks chatter.

Death silences them.

Opening my eyes, I take in the full scene, cataloging every last detail with my nearly photographic memory. Dried blood spatters and smears the foliage and gravel in a good dozen-foot diameter around the body. Several yellow, tented markers sit throughout the scene, bringing attention to details that might otherwise be lost in photographs, sketches, and video: a chunk of flesh submerged in a pool of blood, a broken watch drenched in blood and covered with leaves, and a satchel, still hanging from the victim’s right shoulder, ripped open and its contents strewn about. A few pens, a box of Wintergreen Tic Tac mints, a pair of handcuffs, a folded switchblade, and a blank, shredded notepad smeared with blood.

Several feet from the victim’s left hand lies a Colt Government pistol, still cocked and locked. From what I can tell, the serial number’s been filed off. There’s only one reason someone would do that, and it’s not because they intend to use the weapon lawfully.

A stepping-stone path constructed from clear, anti-contamination stepping plates circles halfway around the body. Charlie kneels across two of them as he takes several closeup photographs of the body, the blood spatter pattern and radius, and the various items of interest designated by the tented markers. He’s thorough, and one of the best at what he does.

My knees pop in protest when I stand. From a higher angle, I see nothing else of interest. Other than a few oddities, the scene screams animal attack. I fail to understand why we’re here.

Seth looks up at me. “It’s an animal attack.”

Thanks, Captain Obvious.

The source of the deadly wounds would be apparent to a child. Heat rises in my cheeks, but as I stare into Seth’s grayish-blue eyes, my anger quells, so I nod. “That’s what I gathered.”

Charlie pulls himself to his feet and lowers his mask below his chin. “And you should both be concerned by it.”

Seth slowly rises. Concern distorts his features. Wrinkles his brow. “More so than usual?”

Charlie nods as he looks between Seth and me. “For certain. There are several reasons, but the main ones are the viciousness of the attack and the fact that the animal didn’t feast on its kill.”

Seth interjects, “Maybe something or someone scared it off before it had a chance.”

“Perhaps, but not likely.” Charlie rubs his nose with the back of his latex-gloved hand. “An animal that kills for food, especially a human, would likely defend its kill.”

Now my brow wrinkles. “What are you saying, Charlie? You think this animal was hunting for sport?” The notion sets my pulse racing.

“Precisely,” confirms Charlie.

Seth rubs the back of his neck. “Ugh. If that’s the case, we could have a real problem on our hands.”

“More kills…” My shoulders jerk as I cringe.

“Exactly.” Charlie looks around and nods to himself. “The more information we can gather about this beast, the more likely it will be that the men and women over at Game and Fish can track it down.”

A light breeze rustles what remains of the leaves in the trees and tousles my hair, leaving several strands dangling across my face. Seth reaches over and tucks them back behind my ears. The simple gesture wrecks my train of thought and takes me back to a time before everything got derailed between us.

Perhaps we’ll find that path again.

The tender moment is lost when Seth resumes the conversation, his tone grim. “No one in Desert Springs will be safe at night until the beast responsible for this is captured or killed.”

My mind conjures images of a beast the size of a grizzly bear, but with claws as sharp as razor blades. “The Night Mauler.”

Charlie’s face scrunches up as he surveys the scene once more. “Well, this was most definitely a mauling.”

Seth stares at me for a moment and then shakes his head. He can’t quite hide his smile. “Not sure you need to start naming this thing just yet. I don’t think a beast with a single kill is worthy of having a name. Besides, the news media will go nuts if they catch wind of this Night Mauler of yours.” He emphasizes Night Mauler with air quotes.

I shrug, fully aware of the fact that he digs the name. “Fine. I’ll keep the name to myself. For now.”

“Good.” Seth turns to Charlie. “Anything you can tell us about the victim?”

Charlie crouches back down and pulls his mask back up. It muffles his voice a little when he talks. “From what I can tell, the victim was surprised by the attack.” He points to the Colt Government pistol. “As you can see, he didn’t get a shot off.”

“Saw that,” I confirm.

“Most likely, he raised his arms to defend his face and throat.” He points at the victim’s ravaged hands and arms. “That’s where he got these wounds. The ones on his chest came next, likely after he was knocked to the ground.”

“And his throat?” My hand rises and massages my own.

Deep trenches stretch across Charlie’s brow. “That’s where things become a bit strange.”

Strange? The hairs on my nape stand on end.

Seth crouches again and meets Charlie’s gaze. “Strange how?”

“Postmortem strange.” Charlie shakes his head. “I’ve never seen an animal kill its prey and then return later to inflict further damage. At least not one that isn’t feeding off the carcass—or cadaver in this instance.”

“Then perhaps something did scare it off.” The three of us turn our heads toward Detective Roland as he approaches.

Eying the victim again, I just can’t get the facts to add up. “What could scare off an animal that’d just taken down a six-foot-four, 260-pound man?”

Detective Roland shrugs. “Maybe the victim wasn’t alone or was meeting someone here. Could explain the gun.”

“Yes, but why would an animal return later and rip out the victim’s throat?” questions Charlie. “As I said, the wound happened postmortem.”

“Or it just snacked on the victim’s throat and decided that it didn’t like the taste,” mused Seth.

“I’m fairly certain that the animal consumed none of it.” Charlie points toward the trees behind him, south of the trail. “There’s a pile of discharged tissue just over there.”

“Discharged tissue?” The mental image nearly triggers my gag reflex.

“Gross, right?” says Seth, swallowing hard and rubbing his throat.

Detective Roland scowls, his nose wrinkled on one side. “Without a doubt.”

Charlie continues, “Once Deborah and I get samples back to the lab, I’ll be able to determine if those tissues were spit out or thrown up. Again, my initial thought is that they were simply spit out.”

“Why?” asks Detective Roland. His scowl deepens.

Charlie looks up at Detective Roland. “If you’re asking why I believe the tissues to be spit out, it’s because they didn’t look to be chewed. However, if you’re asking why an animal would do something like that, then I’ve got no rational explanation for you. It just doesn’t happen in nature.”

The more details that Charlie piles up, the more uneasy I become. A picture of this beast forms in my mind once again, but this time it’s more human-like than bear-like. The hairs on my nape rise. “What kind of animal could be so cunning and vindictive?”

“What kind, indeed?” asks Charlie, as much to himself as to me. He cocks his head and frowns. “Not a one comes to mind. Unless of course you include humans in that category. We can certainly be animals.”

“Don’t put too much thought into it,” says Detective Roland. “We don’t possess the kind of strength required to inflict such damage without a weapon.” He looks to Charlie and changes the subject. “Any ID on the victim?”

Charlie reaches across the victim and carefully extracts a wallet from the victim’s back pocket. A long, silver chain attaches it to a front belt loop. He retrieves an ID from the wallet and holds it toward the light. “Ernesto Vasquez.” Cocking his head, he peers between the ID and the victim’s face. “Looks to be the right man.”

Seth pulls on a latex glove and takes the ID from Charlie. After a few seconds and several glances, Seth confirms the victim’s identification. “It is Ernesto Vasquez. Born May 28th in 1961. Six-foot-five and 256 pounds. Pretty good guess, Bergman.” He hands the ID back to Charlie and stares at the victim. “So what the hell were you doing out here in the middle of the night, Mr. Vasquez?”

One touch, and I could have an answer.

“Perhaps answering that question will be easier than you think,” says Detective Roland. The three of us look at him and he continues, “There are several webcams located throughout the preserve to monitor animal activity, plus there are cameras stationed at both the entrances and exits of all seventeen trailheads. We’ve already requested footage from all cameras and webcams be delivered to the station.”

“Good.” Seth stands. “And what about the woman who discovered the body? Did you get anything out of her?”

“Besides her number,” I add with immediate regret. Sometimes I just can’t keep my mouth shut. “Sorry.”

Detective Roland glares at me as he answers Seth’s question. “Samantha George. She’s run these trails every morning for several years and never encountered any animals beyond the usual fare: birds, rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, snakes, lizards, and the occasional deer. Never once could she recall feeling threatened or uneasy here, but this morning she couldn’t shake the notion of being watched. Before she discovered the body.”

“Watched or hunted?” I ask. “There’s a difference.”

“Watched.” Detective Roland looks to each of us in turn and then continues, “She removed her earbuds and stopped several times along the trail so she could listen for any sort of movement, but she never heard anything out of the ordinary. However, she swore she saw the same yellow eyes staring at her through the brush and trees each time she stopped. It totally spooked her.

“A few minutes after her last stop, she came upon the body. Had her senses not been heightened already, she might’ve stumbled right over it, given the gloom of the morning. As it was, she had to use the light on her cellphone to confirm what she knew to be there.

“She immediately called 911 and headed back the way she’d come, toward the trailhead exit. Officer Bartoli met her there fifteen minutes later and took control of the scene until I arrived ten minutes after that.”

My eyes scan the packed gravel and decaying foliage. Clues could easily be missed in such an environment, especially with the way the trees filter the sunlight. Shadows distort everything. One thing I don’t recall seeing raises alarm bells in my mind. Charlie stands and cocks his head when I look to him.

“Something’s brewing in that head of yours, isn’t it?” says Charlie.

“Did you find any footprints or paw prints in the blood surrounding the body?” I ask. “Perhaps under one of the stepping plates?”

Charlie smiles and shakes a finger at me. “You’ve got a good eye for detail, Detective. I didn’t find a one. But there are several places where the blood is smeared.” He bends down and points out a few of them.

The taste of maple syrup blooms on my tongue as I nibble the end of one of my fingernails. It’s a gross habit, but there are worse things I could be doing. “I’d noticed that. Any guesses as to what caused the smearing?”

“I do, but it’s quite silly, given the circumstances of this situation,” says Charlie.

“Spit it out,” says Seth.

A tinge of red blossoms on Charlie’s cheeks as he briefly glances skyward. “Were the attacker human, I’d be inclined to say they were covering their tracks.”

Covering their tracks?

My eyes widen as I kneel and stare at the ground with fresh vision. The places Charlie had pointed out certainly looked suspicious, and I can’t think of another reason as to why they’d all be smeared. A few during the attack, for certain, but all of them?

Mathematically impossible.

Detective Roland scoffs, “That’s not just silly, it’s absurd.”

Charlie shrugs and nods. “I agree, but that’s the only explanation I have for it.” He stares at me for several seconds when I rise back up, and then he smiles. “Quite curious, isn’t it?”

“Disturbing, more like.” I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “I’ll be interested to know what the forensics and cameras reveal.”

“Same here,” says Seth.

Detective Roland clears his throat. “We already know the answer, and the evidence will support it. The only question in my mind that needs answered is what kind of animal did this. A wolf? Bear? Mountain lion?”

Fingernails bite into my palms once again as heat burns in my neck and cheeks. How can he just dismiss everything?

Seth crosses his arms. “Obviously something strong.”

I huff. Seth can’t see it either.

“There’s no doubt about that fact,” confirms Charlie.

He glances at me again for only a moment, but in that moment, I sense we share the same concern. A concern that springs up from my gut and constricts my chest. I swallow down a growing lump in my throat.

Something isn’t right.

Detective Roland looks around and then checks his watch. “I think we’re close to wrapping up here.” He eyes Seth, avoiding my glare. “I’ll keep you informed of the progress.”

In all this time, it hadn’t occurred to me that Detective Roland would take the lead on this case even though he’d arrived on scene first. There’s no denying that Terry’s good at his job, perhaps almost as good as Seth and me, but his apparent failure to see that something’s amiss concerns me. It’s obvious that he’s already written the case off as an animal attack, and it ticks me off. There are several details that potentially contradict the animal attack narrative he thinks to be true, but he’s not going to give them a second thought.

The side of my nose twitches and lifts the corner of my mouth. I’m about to say something to Terry, but Seth glances over at me and interrupts.

“Please do, Terry.” Seth’s eyes tell me exactly what he’s thinking, and I don’t like it one bit. “Let’s go, Bergman.”

In my mind, I know stepping back is the right thing to do, but my heart aches for me to push Terry on this. Perhaps I can persuade him to hand the case over to us.

Or force him to.

Seth gently takes my arm and pulls me around, obviously sensing that I’m about to say something I’ll likely regret. He has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to me. It’s both endearing and annoying. He whispers, “We can talk about this in the car.”

“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth as I push Seth’s hand away and slowly inch my way back toward Officer Bartoli and the crime scene tape stretched across the trail.

I glance back just before rounding the bend in the trail. Detective Roland stares at me, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug grin on his face. It takes everything I’ve got to keep from flipping him the bird. Jaw tense and teeth gritted, I turn back and march on down the trail, Seth in tow.

This isn’t over, Terry Roland. Not by a long shot.

THE CHRONO SLASHER

AN ALICE BERGMAN NOVEL

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2022 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

CHAPTER ONE

SEVEN ROWS FROM THE front of the nave within Notre-Dame Cathedral, the man I’ve hunted for the past nine weeks kneels on the black and white diamond-patterned marble floor in front of his chair. He’s no priest. No saint.

A parasite.

God or not, no matter how much time he spends on his knees, forgiveness will evade him. He’s damned himself to hell for what he’s done. Honestly, though, it’s irrelevant. All that matters is what happens next.

Beads of sweat glisten on the back of his bald, misshapen head, the left side of his cranium cratered and scarred. Had I an ounce of empathy for the man, I’d inquire as to how the grotesque injury came about. But he deserves nothing.

Soon, the whole of Paris will know the name of the man I’ve come to call the Chrono Slasher: Jacques Milan. A horrible man. Ruthless serial killer. Friend of none.

A quick glance around the nave reconfirms that he and I are alone. The privacy both comforts and alarms me at once, given the man’s unique gift. And, speaking of said gift, it’s the only thing that keeps me from putting a bullet through the back of his skull. A relentless curiosity.

What can I say? Perhaps I’m part feline. Or maybe just a curious zealot. Either way, my mind refuses to contemplate anything else.

Sweaty palms and a racing heart root my feet to the marble floor. Both ailments cloud my judgment and ratchet up the tension in my shoulders. But the tension grows beyond me. A virus spreading throughout the entire nave. It leaves a dense, acrid taste upon my lips.

Two deep breaths slow my pulse as I clutch a golden FNX-45 Tactical FDE between my hands. The piece isn’t mine, and no matter how tight my grip, it still feels loose. Not a good combination, especially given that the fear of it jamming or misfiring ceaselessly runs through my mind. It scares me almost as much as he does.

Another slow, deep breath frees my feet. Clears my mind.

Now or never, Alice.

Eyes forward and barrel raised, I take several steps toward him. “Jacques Milan—” My voice echoes through the cavernous cathedral, shattering the silence. “—place your hands above your head where I can see them and rise to your feet,” I say in French.

Black, bell-shaped sleeves slide down brown, lanky arms disfigured with pinkish-red scars as the man raises his arms and rises from his knees. Two fingers are missing from his right hand. The middle one and his pinky.

Jacques steps into the aisle and turns toward me. As his head slowly rises, the shadows surrounding him withdraw, revealing facial features I’ll never be able to unsee. Pieces of skin hang from grayish, cracked lips, the lower one split and crusted with blood. A small nub and two gaping holes lie between his eyes and lips.

My God… he’s a monster.

Then, his gaze meets mine. No number of deep breaths could stave off the fear radiating from my bones as I stare into his unmatched eyes. Green with flecks of gold on the right; its yellow sclera fissured with angry red veins. An inkwell as black as death itself consumes his left eye. At least the part of it that remains intact.

A dry, raspy breath escapes from my parted lips as we stare each other down. Fear will not force me to break eye contact with the man. I won’t give in. Doing so would give him the upper hand.

Nostrils flaring, I inhale a mixture of stale sweat and incense. The former smells of my own brand. It triggers my mind to trace back to my last shower.

Days…

I shake off the query as the man’s head tilts slightly to the right. For a moment, I imagine he does so because of an unevenly weighted head, but then his lips pull apart, forming a crooked, gapped smile of nicotine-stained teeth. Tendrils of saliva and fresh blood connect his upper and lower lips.

Hairs rise on my nape. Thunderous drums pound in my ears. Sweat runs down the sides of my ribcage.

He smells my fear.

Just twenty paces separate us. Two hundred wouldn’t be enough. My left foot slides back several inches. Its traitorous act infuriates me, and I’ll be damned before I let the other one retreat as well.

Reflected light glints off the twisted silver cross that hangs from his neck on a cord of twine. It demands my attention. Pulls me forward a step.

Disfigured, like him.

Jacques slowly reaches down and grasps the wretched cross between finger and thumb. The impulse to do the same with my necklace is so strong that my left hand jerks back awkwardly, leaving the gun flailing in my right hand for half a beat.

Jacques doesn’t seem to notice, his attention glued to his own pendant. Beads of sweat roll down the small of my back as I shrug off the misstep and regrip the gun.

I motion with the barrel. “Arms up.” The words stick in the back of my dry throat like sand.

Jacques’s fingers linger on the cross a few more moments before his arm rises again. “Simple, right? Yet such power.” His rough, French accent turns my head ever so slightly as my mind works to decipher his words.

A speech impediment?

At first, I think I’m right, but then I see it. A dime-sized hole through the tip of his tongue. Could be larger. Another glance of the man’s features and the way he stands and holds himself reveals just how disfigured and maimed he really is.

An abomination. God’s punishment.

His words finally sink in, but their reference point lost. “I don’t follow.”

Jacques motions toward the raised, golden altar behind him with his head. “I speak of the Christ. A single deed to rid humanity of its sin. Once, for all. Simple. Powerful.”

Christ.

The word reminds me of Mother. Of home. I can’t wait to unshackle myself from Paris and the filth that accompanies it.

I shift my weight, fully aware of the consequence it might bring about, especially while handling a weapon that isn’t mine. “Is that why you kill? You believe you’re already forgiven?”

His head tilts farther to the side. Awkwardly so. “You wear a cross, but you’re no believer, are you?”

There’s no hint of accusation in his tone, yet his words pierce my heart. Draw blood. Send anger coursing through my veins. Jaws clenched, I can’t help but lash out at him, a vile murderer condemning me. “You know nothing about me or what I believe.”

“Our bodies speak for us. Tell the truth when our lips lie.” Jacques, arms still raised, takes an awkward step toward me. Then another. The unsteady, yet bold moves leave me breathless. “I can see the pain in your eyes, Detective. The way you reached for your cross when I grasped mine nearly drove me to tears. You’re lost, but there’s no need for you to be. I can help you find solace.”

“You help me?” I’d be pissed if the suggestion weren’t so ludicrous. “How can you stand there and act like you’re the better person between us?”

“Better?” He chuckles. “We are all sinners, Detective, yet salvation is close at hand.” His fingers grasp at the air above his head as he inhales through the two holes above his mouth. “Ahh. Can you feel it?”

“Salvation? What would you know of it? The ground you stand upon bulges with the bodies of your victims.”

Jacques’s gaze pierces me. Sends my heart into a frenzy. “Come now, Detective. The ground you tread does not differ from mine. In fact, I’m inclined to believe that it’s our similarities that drive fear through your veins.”

“I’m no killer!” My banshee voice shrieks through the nave, but the ancient, stained-glass windows hold strong.

His right eye glistens in the pale light as his smile fades. “Nor am I,” he whispers.

Anger flares. Tightens my grip on the gun. “Eleven bodies say otherwise.”

“Do they?” Jacques takes another step. Three more. Only a dozen paces separate us now.

My finger slides down and caresses the side of the trigger. “One more step, and I’ll send you straight to hell.”

Jacques’s brow wrinkles as his gaze falls to the floor. Mine follows his, and it’s then that I notice his bare, disproportioned feet. One foot lacks all toes, and the other foot part of its heel. “One more step will end my suffering, and I so long for it, but doing so will not save…”

Drops of water splatter on Jacques’s feet and pummel the white tile he stands upon. When our eyes meet again, I notice the light glistening off his tear-streaked cheeks. Several drops cling to the underside of his narrow jaw. Sparkling little jewels.

This time, it’s my feet that draw us closer. Dangerously close. I steady my hand and level the weapon toward his gut, easing my finger away from the trigger.

Silence gathers around us as we continue to stare at one another. Two strangers. Different worlds. United by death.

He’s the killer.

I remind myself of this fact repeatedly, yet I’m one, too.

But we’re not the same.

Empathy he doesn’t deserve creeps into my voice. “Finish what you were going to say, Jacques. Killing you will not save what?”

Jacques’s gaze returns to the floor, and the pool of tears puddled at his feet continues to grow. A waft of booze masked with peppermint hits my nostrils when he exhales. After a handful of seconds in utter silence, he finally responds with a hollow whisper, “Him.”

SCOURGE

A WORLD OF CENTAURIA NOVELLA

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2019 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Emorith Darkridge stood alone in the center of the granite slab road, her eyes wet with moisture, but far too little to satiate the fire within them. With her legs spread shoulder-width and her hands wrapped tight around her twisted staff, she leaned forward and craned her head back as far as it would go.

Two thousand feet above her, suspended just below the jagged, dome-shaped ceiling, hung the aethershard crystal. The Äfärəlleƨʈinzh. Its dim light, born of a magical energy known in the world as mezhik, bathed the entire city in a bluish hue, a beacon to battle the forever-night of Intus.

She’d heard tales of its majesty and striking beauty, but all those accounts paled in comparison. The veins in her neck bulged and twitched as her pulse rose. She closed her eyes, yet its glow still filled her vision. Her skin pricked and the hairs on her nape and arms stood on end as its mezhik called to her.

She raised up onto her tippy toes, stretched her arm up as far as she could reach, and willed its mezhik to consume her. Her toes departed from the ground and she sailed into the air. Upward. So close to the ceiling, she felt its presence just above her head. She opened her eyes with a gasp, yet found her feet still rooted to the stone road and the crystal impossibly far from her grasp.

Her heart thrashed against her ribcage, jerking her forward with each beat. Beads of sweat lined her hairline and moistened her armpits. She rubbed her arms, but the chill remained.

Emorith breathed deep and realized her scarf had slipped down under her chin. An earthy, musty, rotten egg stench filled her nostrils and set her lungs afire. The forges of Intus. Her nose wrinkled. How anyone would choose to live beneath a mountain bewildered her, but the dwellers—a hairless, albino-skinned race of short-statured, humanoid creatures—flourished. Their hidden city spanned many square miles and boasted a palace hewn from solid stone and fit for the gods.

The dwellers of Intus did little trading with the outside world. In fact, few knew of their existence. They would’ve faded from the memories of all Centauria long ago if not for their skilled craftsmanship with precious gems and metals. Their war hammers, maces, shields, and other forged weapons and armor rival that of the elves and their kinsman, the derro dwarves. However, unlike the fierce derro warriors, the dwellers fashioned themselves as arms dealers, willing to sell their goods to anyone for a price. Wars raged across Centauria through the ages, and kings and queens rose and fell from power, but the dwellers kept to their subterranean city under the mountain. Their haven.

Emorith’s eyes narrowed. Soon, they’ll all be dead.

She knew none of them, yet the thought of taking part in wiping out an entire race unsettled her. Her stomach gurgled, and her chest ached right about where her heart should be, but she no longer had one. What must be done required her to feel nothing, and she told herself that she didn’t, but her body failed to heed the commands of her mind.

She had to be strong. Must be strong. If not for herself, then for Illian.

Illian. His name touched her heart like no other. Flesh of my flesh. Her first and only born. The others had been lost in her womb, spared from this harsh world by nameless gods.

Her hands trembled as tears welled in her eyes and her throat tightened. She ground her teeth and gripped her staff so hard that her knuckles turned white, and her hands ached. The tears receded, but her throat remained constricted.

Just find a test subject and be done with it.

Emorith dug her fingers into the leather pouch that hung from her waist, retrieved a wad of mint leaves, and stuffed them inside her left cheek. Succulent, refreshing juices seeped from the leaves as she worked a few of them between her back molars. The taste calmed her nerves.

She adjusted her scarf so that it covered her nose and mouth once again, but the thick air clung to the fabric and saturated the tightly woven strands of black silk. She pursed her lips.

Focus on the task and Magus will reward you.

She took pride in her persuasive mezhik skills, but she’d never believe her own lies. Magus Carac cared nothing for her—for anyone for that matter. He reigned over the southern half of the Ancient Realm with a bloody fist. No, the only reward she’d obtain from him would be an escape from punishment.

Magus sought ultimate power—to rule all Centauria, not just the southern half of the Ancient Realm. Like many of those under his strict rule, he used her time and again. Mentally. Physically. Magically. Sexually. She hated him for everything he did to her, but the arrival of Illian nine years ago made the steep price bearable.

Each task she performed for him darkened her soul further. Soon, she’d be lost forever; a shell of a woman without heart or soul. But she’d endure anything as long as Illian remained unharmed.

But will Magus keep his word?

She sighed, knowing she had no recourse if he didn’t. No alternative existed that she could think of either. A man indifferent to his own flesh and blood could not be bargained or reasoned with. A tyrant. A mad king. War loomed on the horizon, and she must do his bidding once again.

Everything she’d done for Magus over the past ten years boiled down to this moment, and the only way she’d survive the night would be to do the unthinkable. She must locate a test subject and lure them to Magus with her powers of persuasion. Anything short of completing her task would earn her and Illian a one-way trip to Ef Demd Dhä, the realm of the damned, and bring them face-to-face with the dark one, Diƨäfär.

The thought made her skin crawl. She didn’t bow down to Diƨäfär, nor did she serve Ƨäʈūr, the supposed “one true God.” Her loyalties lie only with Illian. For him, she’d cross the veil of death and face any god or demon.

Illian’s soft, green eyes, pale complexion, and thick raven hair drifted into her mind and tightened her throat. A single tear formed in the corner of her left eye. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

I’ll save you from your father, my love.

Had Emorith been one of the ʊnzhifʈäd, a person or creature born without mezhik, as Magus claimed Illian to be, Magus would’ve killed them both long ago. Twice, Magus had left her on the brink of death, and once, she’d crossed over into death before his vile mezhik ripped her back into the world. Never had she endured such agony. She never wanted to feel it again.

She stared at her hand and the thick scar across her palm. Her other palm had a matching scar of its own.

“A lesson in mind over matter,” Magus had said, time and again.

How many times had he forced her to hold that length of glowing steel he’d pulled straight from the fiery forge? She couldn’t recall, but her fingers curled, and her hand recoiled with the memory as pain seared her palm anew.

I’m stronger than this.

She took a deep breath and forced her gaze to the inside of her left wrist. A dark-blue, heart-shaped mark about an inch wide and tall marred her pale, freckled skin. On their sixteenth name day, each mage, wizard, and sorceress would gain their mezhik and their wizard’s mark. Her heart-shaped mark symbolized the type of sorceress she’d become: Fizärd Imōƨzhn. As an emotion wizard, she possessed the power to release emotions that blocked true memories, an ability to gain knowledge of one’s past based on reading emotions, and the gift of persuasion.

As with all wizards and sorceresses, Emorith possessed basic mezhik abilities beyond her classification as Fizärd Imōƨzhn. Some of those abilities, like conjuring balls of light or fire, telepathy, and telekinesis of small objects, required little effort and mezhik. Other abilities, like teleportation and basic healing, consumed far more mezhik based on the distance of teleportation or the severity of a wound. Expending too much mezhik, especially in the case of teleportation, could kill the wizard or sorceress.

With a single thought, an orange glow of mezhik—a white-hot heat that bubbled up from deep within the marrow of her bones—rose from her palm. Intense, yet soothing. She closed her palm and snuffed out the ball of light.

She closed her eyes and drifted into the past. She’d just turned eighteen the week prior to meeting Magus. She worked nights at the Drunken Fool’s Tavern as a bar wench and had a reputation for garnering large tips. Drunken patrons and a touch of mezhik persuasion proved a perfect combination. No one knew her secret, and she split the extra coins with the other girls, so none of them ever questioned her or complained.

Magus came alone that night. His slicked-back, silver hair and piercing, yellow eyes grabbed her attention the moment he stepped through the door. His gaze scanned the patrons as he strode toward the bar—toward her. His eyes met hers, and his smile drew her in. Had she known then what she knew now, she never would’ve used her mezhik on him. Magus lay his hands on the counter and asked for a cup of water, but no one ordered water from her.

She smiled as she brushed her hand against his. Mezhik rose from within her, coating her tongue and lacing her words with persuasion. “Are you sure you don’t want a tankard of ale?” she’d asked. Magus’s eyes narrowed and then the edges of his lips curled upward. He grabbed her left hand, quick as a snake’s strike, and turned it over. He pushed up her sleeve before she could take a breath. She gasped.

He lowered her sleeve, turned her hand over, and kissed the top of it. He smiled, a devious glint in his eye. “You’re the one I’ve been looking for.”

Emorith pulled her hand back and rubbed her wrist. Her heart thundered. She could no longer meet his steady gaze, so she stared at the napkin sitting on the bar between them. “I am?”

“Emotion is a rare gift,” Magus had said. “Your talents are wasted collecting coins from drunkards. Join me, and we can reshape the world into a better place. A place where you’ll never have to hide who you are. It’s time you shared your gift with the world.”

She breathed deep and opened her eyes. Intus bloomed into view once again, but its details blurred with tears.

Gifted… to what end?

With Magus, only one path existed. Slavery.

Emorith balled her hand into a fist and gritted her teeth. “This is the last thing I do for you, Magus.”

She ground the wad of mint leaves between her molars, working her jaws to squeeze the succulent juices from them, but their taste diminished with each passing moment. Soon, the fresh taste morphed into a putrid amalgamation of mint and sulfur.

She lowered her scarf and spat the wad out. The half-inch ball sailed several feet before crashing onto the solid surface and scuttling across it for several more. She looked about, but the road remained empty and the buildings dark.

Her brow furrowed as she turned her attention back to the wad. She glared at it and pointed a long, slender finger at it. “Diƨinʈäzhräíʈ.” The wad of blackened mint leaves burst with orange flames, turned to ash, and sank into a narrow fissure between the stones. She’d give anything to do the same to Magus, but she was nothing more than a night bug under his heel.

A small pebble tick-tick-ticked as it skidded along the stone road, rolling to a rest next to her foot. She whirled to her left, hand outstretched and the fire of mezhik at her fingertips. Her dark-purple cloak twisted and fluttered behind her.

Large, glowing eyes shone from the shadows a dozen paces away.

THE DRAGON’S STONE

BOOK ONE OF THE DARK HEART CHRONICLES

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2018, 2019 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited by Ben Wolf - www.benwolf.com

Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One

She sat atop their maple-brown steed, Rydar, keeping pace alongside the wagon. In her arms, their one-year-old daughter, Savannah, lay fast asleep against her breast. He beamed at them, only as a proud father and husband could.

Beauty, perfected.

He turned toward the back of the wagon and verified Shardan and Shanara, his three-year-old twins, were still fast asleep.

Whoosh!

Nardus knew the unmistakable sound of a flying arrow. He rose to his feet, still grasping the reins, his senses heightened.

Shick!

The familiar bite of an arrow ripped into his left bicep, twisted him around, and left him unbalanced. A burst of energy dulled his sense of pain, and the wound fleeted from his mind like a leaf in the wind.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Two more arrows loosed. By the time he twisted back toward Vitara, it was too late. Words of warning caught in his throat, infused with bile. They burned with acid as he coughed and choked them back down.

Thunk!

He watched in horror as an arrow buried itself in the back of Savannah’s skull. Her head bounced off Vitara’s right breast for a brief moment, and then pushed against it, the arrow pinning her to Vitara’s chest like a brooch.

Vitara screamed, but the ear-piercing sound quickly morphed into a low gurgle as the third arrow burrowed itself into the center of her throat and pushed its way through the back of her neck, silencing her.

Ƨäʈūr, my God, don’t do this!

Tick.

Everything moved in slow motion. Vitara fell backward from her horse, still clutching Savannah in her arms.

Tick.

Nardus’s heart thundered in his ears. He leapt from atop the wagon, hoping to catch Vitara and Savannah before they collided with the ground.

Tick.

He stretched his arms out and willed himself to reach them in time, but he didn’t. Vitara landed firmly on her back. Savannah’s frail body flailed in her loosened arms like a rag doll. Vitara’s head snapped backward and slammed into the ground with a thud.

Tick.

Nardus grunted as he belly-flopped against the ground and scrambled to his feet. He raced to Vitara’s side, knelt beside her, and gently lifted her head in his hands. Savannah lie still against her chest; in his heart, he knew his precious little angel had died, but the thought of never hearing her sweet laughter again lingered beyond his comprehension.

No! No! NO!

The chaos of the moment rushed back into full motion around him. Behind him, the twins cried. Vitara, her head still cradled in his hands, coughed. Blood oozed from the corners of her mouth.

A few paces south, Rydar squealed and reared. Several arrows protruded from his massive chest and neck. He fell on his side with a thump, whimpered, and then lay still.

Nardus lay Vitara’s head on the ground and rose to his feet, exposed. His heart jumped in his chest like a wild bird trapped in a cage. Every muscle in his body bulged against his skin, full of adrenaline and begging to fulfill his need for vengeance.

At the edge of the forest stood three figures of average height, all dressed in dark leathers and furs. Black scarves covered their heads, leaving only their eyes exposed. Each had an arrow nocked and ready for flight, but they didn’t loose them.

What are they waiting for?

Whoosh!

Nardus bolted toward the wagon and dove for cover behind it just as an arrow sailed past his right leg. He rolled to a crouch behind the wagon. He gazed up at the wet faces of his twins. Terror filled their eyes as they trembled. He desperately wanted to comfort them and let them know everything would be okay, but the threat on their lives left him without time for it.

“Stay in the wagon and stay down.” He did his best to produce a smile for them.

Nardus peered over the top of the wagon’s bed, toward the forest’s edge. The three figures stood like statues, unmoving. Their strange behavior made his skin crawl.

Nardus knew what must be done, but the idea of leaving the twins behind tore at his soul. He looked at them again and smiled. “Shardan, take care of your sister. Stay hidden and stay quiet. Papa will be right back.”

The twins protested, but Nardus put his finger to his lips, quieting them. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Nardus kissed each of them on the forehead and then reached over them and grabbed his bow and quiver. He quickly lifted the quiver over his head and pulled his left arm through the strap.

He forced air through his nostrils. Anger boiled his blood.

You’ve taken my wife and child without cause. I’ll destroy you all.

He looked at Shardan and Shanara one last time. The fear in their eyes left his heart aching with guilt, but he’d made his decision. No other choice existed.

“I love you both.”

“Papa—” Shanara sniffled.

He wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Just think of sandcastles, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

Nardus strung the bow, pulled an arrow from the quiver, and nocked it. He moved toward the edge of the wagon and poked his head around its side. The three figures hadn’t moved. He looked over at Vitara and Savannah and his stomach roiled with grief.

A deep, dark fury welled up within him. It consumed him, changed him. He flew around the side of the wagon like a demon and charged the three figures, firing arrows as quickly as he could nock them. He opened his mouth and let out a guttural, bone-chilling howl.

His manic cry and the flurry of arrows sent the three attackers retreating into the cover of the forest. A white-hot, blinding rage separated him from his humanity, and drove him into the forest after them.

The shadows of the forest moved around him like spirits, driven by the wind. His pulse raced as he picked up on their trail. The three of them moved as one.

Easier to kill.

He raced through the brush like a lion after its prey, giving little care to the ruckus he stirred up. Ten paces ahead he saw a flash of movement and turned to the side just as an arrow whooshed by his shoulder. He loosed an arrow of his own and boldly pushed forward.

The thud of a body dropping to the ground registered in his mind just moments before he stepped over it.

One down. Two to go.

A twig snapped behind him. His beating heart echoed in his ears like a thunderous drum, banging out the final moments before his untimely death.

Thump-thump.

Nardus twisted on his left heel and brought himself around to face his attacker as he fell back toward the ground.

Thump-thump.

The glint of a steel blade flashed as it arced just above his face. Had he not been falling to the ground, he would’ve been headless.

Thump-thump.

He loosed his last arrow just as he hit the ground and watched it bury itself into his attacker’s chest. The attacker twisted and fell to the side.

Thump-thump.

The air rushed from his lungs and past his lips as the third attacker jumped on top of him.

Thump-thump.

Cold, hard hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Nardus fought against his attacker’s grip, but their strength seemed inhuman. He kicked his legs in the air to try and disrupt their leverage, but it did no good.

Thump-thump.

Nardus fought against the fire in his lungs and forced himself to stay alert despite his mind urging him to give up. He reached down and felt the hilt of the knife on his belt.

Thump-thump.

Nardus worked his fingers around the hilt of the knife and then down to the snap holding it in its sheath. The attacker let go of Nardus’s neck with one hand and backhanded him square in the jaw.

Thump-thump.

The attacker grabbed for Nardus’s arm, but Nardus freed the knife and plunged it into the attacker’s side. Nardus twisted the knife and the attacker grunted.

Thump-thump.

Nardus thrust the knife into the attacker’s side repeatedly. Their hand moved from Nardus’s throat and grabbed at their side. Nardus pushed them off himself and scrambled backward. He wheezed as he drew air into his lungs.

The sensation of wind rushing through an open canyon brought the world around him back to speed. He coughed as he stood to his feet and spat on the ground. A few feet away, the attacker huddled on the ground, moaning and clutching their side.

Nardus walked over to the attacker and kicked the side of their head with his boot. The attacker bellowed as their head snapped to the right. Even in the shadows, Nardus could tell the attacker neared death.

Nardus reached down and pulled the black scarf from around the attacker’s head. He staggered backward a few paces and fell to his knees, stunned by what he’d uncovered.

“Bradwr?”

Bradwr choked on his own blood as he spoke. “I’m so sorry, Nardus.”

Vomit swelled in Nardus’s throat, making it difficult to breathe or talk. “Why would you do this? You’re my best friend.”

Blood oozed from Bradwr’s graying lips. “I swear I had no choice. They took Izzy.”

Nardus could barely contain his rage. “And so you slaughter my family? Who put you up to this? Who told you to do this?”

Bradwr coughed and then grew still.

Nardus crawled over to Bradwr and shook him. “Answer me! Who put you up to this?”

Nardus pounded Bradwr’s chest with his fists. “Answer me!”

The dead man held no answers and Nardus snapped. He roared at the sky and gave in to his madness.

He tore the three men apart, limb by limb, with his bare hands. With his serrated blade, he removed their eyes so they couldn’t find their way to Ƨäʈūr and salvation in the next life.

He ripped their hearts from their chests and squished them in his hands like fists full of mud, and watched them ooze between the cracks of his fingers. He castrated them and cursed their children, signifying the death of their lineage. He set a blazing fire and burned every remnant of their existence within it.

With the deed done, Nardus shed the rage from his heart like a snake sheds its skin. Beneath the rage, only emptiness and sorrow remained. He hadn’t known two of the men, but Bradwr? The betrayal crushed him.

Nardus stumbled through the trees until he came upon a small brook. He bent down and scooped the fresh water into his mouth with his hands. The water tasted of iron—of blood—and he spat it out.

Beams of light shone through the canopy of trees and fell on his face. He looked down and saw that blood covered his clothes. His hands stained crimson. Kneeling, he plunged his hands into the cold water and scrubbed them with fervor. He cupped the water in his hands and bathed his face in it, desperate to cleanse himself of the blood.

Nardus pulled himself to his feet and stumbled back into the shadows, drunk with the guilt of failing to protect his family. Three losses in a single day. Sickness rumbled deep within. He doubled over and purged the contents of his stomach and then spat the rancid taste from his mouth.

How do I move on from this? I’ve lost the love of my life, my precious Savannah, and my best friend.

The fledgling protruding from the back of Savannah’s head flashed in his mind and knocked the wind from him like a punch to the gut. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the nearest tree to keep himself upright.

My precious little angel.

Nardus closed his eyes and relived the past few hours in his mind, scouring his memories for anything that could’ve altered the events. Everything had happened so fast. He’d reacted to the attack like a seasoned man of war, not as a father.

Something felt amiss. The precision of the three attackers’ shots were right on their mark, except the first shot that’d sunk into his bicep. Had they missed a kill-shot on purpose? In fact, every shot they’d taken at him had been off mark, as though intentional.

Was I drawn away on purpose?

A grapefruit-sized lump rose in his throat.

“The twins!”

He wiped his tear-filled eyes and then rushed through the maze of trees, desperate to get back to the wagon and his twins.

“Shardan! Shanara! It’s Papa.” He pushed his way through the last few trees.

No answer.

He burst into the clearing and his pulse quickened.

Vitara, Savannah, and Rydar lay on the ground, undisturbed.

Where’s the wagon?

Tracks led toward the east, along the road, but there were more than just the ones from the wagon and horses. Tracks like wolves—but significantly larger—littered the ground.

My God!

Fear slithered across his skin and seeped into his bones, and he shivered. He swallowed hard to stifle the vomit rising in his throat.

He sprinted down the road, but the feeling in his gut told him he’d be too late.

Don’t do this to me, Ƨäʈūr. You’ve already taken two from me. Don’t take them all.

A mile down the road he spotted the wagon, turned on its side and propped against a tree. His muscles tightened with anticipation, and he charged toward it.

Please, Ƨäʈūr, let them be alive.

“Shardan! Shanara!” he yelled, nearly upon the wagon.

No answer again.

Nardus rounded the side of the wagon and dropped to his knees, unable to stand or breathe. He grabbed at his chest. His heart slammed against his ribcage, trying desperately to separate itself from the searing pain racing through his bloodstream. He wrenched over and vomited.

Blood. So much blood.

Blood splattered across everything. Too much blood for two small children, wasn’t it? The sight of its crimson hue brought back memories of war—memories he’d fought to forget for more than two decades. Some of the things he’d seen and done during the war were horrific, but the scene before him would forever haunt him.

He crawled over to what remained of his precious twins, Shardan and Shanara. Their limbs were torn from their bodies and strewn along the forest line. Their torsos and faces were shredded with claw and teeth marks—mauled beyond recognition. He turned to the side and dry-heaved.

Emotions spun his head.

My fault. This is all my fault. How could I let this happen?

He sat there and wept for hours, unable to think or move as the last remnants of daylight gave way to nightfall.

I’m sorry, my children. I should’ve listened to your mother. I’ve let you down again. I’ve let you all down.

The night passed into day and back into night. The incomprehensible violence spread before him left him immobilized. He wanted to end his life right there and rid himself of the pain, but the idea of leaving them that way—exposed—was unthinkable, unacceptable, and intolerable.

I must bury you, and I know just the place, my loves.

Nardus righted the wagon and unhitched the bloodied yokes. Virtually nothing remained of the two horses that’d pulled the wagon but bones, hide, and hooves. He carefully loaded the remains of his twins into the back of the wagon and then pulled the wagon back onto the road.

He took one of the breast collars, slipped it over his head, and attached it to the wagon shaft. The weight of the wagon fought against him as he struggled to get it moving, and it took every ounce of his strength to pull it down the road to where Vitara and Savannah lay.

Nardus pulled the breast collar over his head and dropped to the ground next to Vitara, exhausted. In the moonlight, her once beautiful, violet eyes were glazed over, their exquisite sparkle extinguished for eternity. He lifted her head in his hands, smoothed back her matted, blood-soaked hair, and kissed her soft, beautiful lips—only they were cold, dry, and cracked.

The pungent smell of her dead body lingered in his nostrils, but he didn’t care. He’d suffer anything just to be close to her.

He fought back a swarm of emotions as he spoke to her. “My anchor, my heart, and my everything. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be with us. We were supposed to grow old together.”

Holding her corpse through the night, he sang her favorite song to her repeatedly. His heart felt trapped in a tangled mess of pain, but he didn’t allow a single tear to fall from his eyes.

You’ll always be my everything.

At first light, Nardus rose to his feet and scooped Vitara and Savannah into his arms. He placed their bodies in the back of the wagon, alongside the remains of the twins. He swallowed hard as he fought to stay in control of his emotions. The four of them lying in the back of the wagon—dead to the world—tortured his soul.

I’ll find you again, my loves.

Three days he hauled the wagon—through the valley, across the river, and deep into the forest—until he reached a secluded grove of giant, sacred-heart trees.

He and Vitara had spent many a day there, enjoying the cool summer air and relaxing in the shade of the trees. They’d oft spoken of the day they’d build a house there and live out their lives, free of care.

In a way, he’d kept his promise to her. He placed the four of them in a single grave beneath the blossoming branches of their favorite tree. He took special care to wrap his children safely in Vitara’s arms.

She’ll take care of you now, as I’ve failed.

Each shovel-full of dirt he placed over them brought more tears with it until he could no longer see their bodies through his blurred vision. He buried his heart with them.

With trembling hands, he carved each of their names into the tree trunk as tears streaked down his cheeks. “I do this to honor your lives and memories forever.”

† † †

After burying his family, Nardus spent two weeks trying to track the beasts that’d killed his twins. The pawprints surrounding the wagon resembled those of wolves—only much larger. Tracks led in nearly every direction, and all of them ended in disappointment. Hope of closure withered and morphed into a deep despair, and he wanted to be done.

A week later, his failure extinguished his last thread of hope. Nardus sat in the woods on a log, covered in dried blood, sweat, and urine. He cared for nothing and deprived his body of sleep, food, and water for days, hoping death would come for him.

At the frayed ends of sanity, he wanted to carve out the darkness from within. His heart threatened to punch a hole through his chest just to escape the grasp of his marred and twisted soul.

Kill me, Ƨäʈūr. Strike me dead. I no longer have purpose. My life means nothing now. You’ve taken everything from me. Just let me die.

Desperate to end his life, Nardus held a blade to his throat. He could endure a lifetime of physical pain, but the mental pain tortured his soul relentlessly.

One deep slice. That’s all it takes.

The notion of never seeing his family again paralyzed him. No more hope existed for him, did it? If not, why did he allow the task to remain unfinished?

His whole body trembled, but his hand stayed firm. “Bah! Just do it.”

He knew what he’d done to those filthy animals. Seeking justice would’ve served him well, but he’d gone far beyond that. To complicate matters, he felt little remorse.

They deserved what they got.

Vengeance drove his thoughts that day, and with it had come his downfall. Because of his hotheaded, swift justice, he now carried with him not only the loss of his entire family, but also the mark of a lost man. It weighed on his heart like an anvil. Nothing—not even Ƨäʈūr—could bring back what he’d lost. He only regretted not dying with his family.

Nardus glared at the sky. “You’ve separated me from my family and damned my soul. You’ve left me with no choice. I now damn You, Ƨäʈūr!”

† † †

One year later…

Nardus staggered along the rutted, frozen road that split the small town of Diabolus Pes down its middle. Haggard, wooden structures lined the narrow road like lumps of rotted flesh, and people moved through and around them like maggots.

Just ahead on Nardus’s right, a large iron sign hung out over the road. The sign donned no words, but its emblem of a large, wolf-like head couldn’t be mistaken: Ferzh’s Head Inn. He trekked there daily and drank until Ferdi, the owner, kicked him out, or he ran out of coins.

Nardus stepped into the shallow alcove underneath the sign and grunted as he pushed his way through the heavy, wooden door. The door’s rusted hinges screeched. Every head in the room turned toward him, shook with disgust upon recognition, and turned away.

Ferdi glared at him from across the room. “Shut the door, ya clakker.” Her thick accent harshened her words further. “Feel the cold creeping upon me skin already.” She rubbed her arms with hands that resembled paws, the backs of them covered in thick, black hair.

More blubber hung on Ferdi’s bones than what one might find in a pod of whales. Her being cold is an impossibility. Nardus scowled at her and gestured with his middle and third fingers.

Ferdi’s large lips parted and curled upward into a crooked-toothed smile and she winked at Nardus. “Save it for later.”

A bitter-cold blast of air rushed through the open door and sent a flash of gooseflesh up the back of Nardus’s neck. He shrugged it away, but the cold bit.

A few swigs of ale will warm me right up. And dull my mind.

He shoved the door closed with his shoulder as he scanned the large room. Men and women laughed, shouted, and flirted at nearly every table. The only unoccupied table in the inn sat in the far corner, away from the crowd.

Perfect.

Nardus wove his way through the gauntlet of tables and people and sat down on one of the two long benches that flanked the table, his back to the room. He reached into his coin purse, withdrew three silver coins, and stacked them on the end of the table.

Moments later, Ferdi arrived with four frothy mugs of ale. “How long ya gonna keep this up?”

Nardus set his jaw. “Until it kills me.”

Ferdi frowned, and her cheeks drooped like a hound’s. “Listening tis me gift.”

Nardus scowled. “Is it now? You’ve yet to use it for what—a year now? Use your gift on someone who gives a care. Leave the ale, and leave me be.”

She snorted like a bull. “So be it.” She shoved the mugs in front of Nardus, scooped up the pile of coins, and stomped off.

Nardus closed his eyes and dove into the darkness of his mind. Every minute he continued to exist tortured him, and he only found solace in maintaining a constant state of drunkenness. Often, he couldn’t remember where he was, but no amount of spirits took away his memories.

He grabbed the first mug and downed its contents without pause. He slammed the mug down, grabbed the second one, and drained it too. The third met its fate as quickly as the first two, but with the fourth he took his time. The alcohol settled in his empty stomach and left him numb.

Is this all that’s left of me? My love, how will I ever find you again?

Hot tears wet his cheeks and he swatted at them like flies. “Damn you, Bradwr!” He picked up one of the empty mugs and slammed it down on the table. “Damn you.” The room rocked and tossed him about, so he leaned over the table to steady himself, but the storm raged on.

A tall man sat down on the bench on the opposite side of the table from him. Nardus straightened and eyed the man for several moments. The well-dressed man—more so than any other in the inn—looked out of place.

The man’s top hat sat back on his forehead and touched his rounded ears, but it didn’t sit on top of them. His dark-purple overcoat—likely made of silk—gleamed in the candlelight, and the look in his golden-brown eyes hinted at an air of superiority, but his demeanor spoke against it.

Nardus could give two flips. He spat on the floor and slurred, “Table’s taken. Find someone else to pester.”

The man leaned forward, his brow creased, and his jaw tensed. “I think you misunderstand, my friend. After all, I’ve traveled a great distance to see you… Nardus.”

“I don’t—” The sound of Nardus’s own name registered in his mind, giving him pause. His nostrils flared as he eyed the man further. “Do I know you?” He leaned forward and squinted at the man. “No, I think not. How is it you know my name? No one in these parts knows me. Who are you and what do you want?”

The man leaned back. “The name’s Pravus, but I’m certain that’s of no significance to you. The only item of pertinence is the business we must discuss.”

Nardus squinted as Pravus doubled in his vision. “We’ve no business. Leave me to my ale.” He blinked several times, but the two Pravuses lingered. He shook his head, but it only distorted his vision further. “On second thought, it doesn’t matter. I’m leaving.”

Pravus placed his hand over Nardus’s just as Nardus started to stand. Nardus glared at him.

You have the audacity to touch me?

Nardus gritted his teeth. “Remove your hand before I remove your face.”

Pravus smiled and made no attempt to comply.

Nardus’s hand started tingling. He tried pulling it out from under Pravus’s hand but found he couldn’t move it. In fact, he couldn’t move anything below his neck.

Nardus’s eyes widened, and his pulse raced. “What’ve you done to me? Release me at once.”

The man’s thin lips curled at the corners. “Take a deep breath, friend. I’m here to offer you my help.”

Nardus snarled, “I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t need help from your kind.”

“My kind?” Pravus leaned across the table and gazed intently at Nardus. “Even without mezhik, I see the lack of hope and purpose in your eyes. I’m here to offer you both and more.”

Nardus scowled. “I want no part of whatever you’re peddling, wizard. Leave me before I cause a scene.”

“You would’ve caused a scene long ago if you really wanted to. Besides, I doubt any of the peasants in this sordid establishment would rush to your aid.”

“Maybe not, but are you willing to find out? Ferdi’s quite fond of me.”

Pravus’s smile widened and his eyes narrowed. “Oh, she is, is she? So you’re unaware of what she and the others say about you behind your back then?”

Nardus glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not deaf, but none of their empty talk matters. They know nothing about me and neither do you.”

“The alcohol speaks for you, but I know what’s in your heart.”

Murder. Let me loose, and I’ll tear you apart.

Nardus forced air out his nose. “And what might that be?”

“First, let’s take care of business.” Pravus swept his free hand across the table, and six stacks of golden coins appeared.

Nardus eyed the coins. Are those all there, or is it just my eyes? He glared at Pravus. “You think you can entice me with your blood money?”

Pravus tapped the table with another coin. “There are thirty gold coins in total. You know as well as I that this amount of money in the Ancient Realm is hard to come by. You could add up a year’s worth of income for every person in this town, and it wouldn’t match a quarter of what’s on the table. All I’m asking is that you listen to my offer. Take it, and these coins are yours.”

Pravus lifted his hand from Nardus’s. The tingling sensation faded, and Nardus slumped over the table. Damned mezhik.

Nardus flexed his stiff hand. “What is it you’re playing at, wizard? What do you want from me?”

The man smoothed out the wrinkles in his dark-purple sleeves. “There’s something I need you to do.”

Nardus leaned back from the table. “And what makes you think I’d be willing to do anything for you?”

“You’re still sitting there.” Pravus’s perfect teeth gleamed in the candlelight as he smiled.

Why am I still here? Because I have nowhere else to be? A simple truth shone bright in the dimly lit inn, and he salivated. I could drink myself to death with those coins.

Nardus rubbed his left bicep. Does anything matter? Have I not lost you already, my love? Children? I’m damned to this world without you.

Nardus looked around. “I guess I am. So what is it that you want?”

Pravus rapped his knuckles against the table. “Complete one task for me, and I’ll give you back what you thought to be lost.”

Nardus frowned. “And what might that be?”

“Why, your family, Nardus.” A thin smile parted Pravus’s lips. He cracked his knuckles.

Nardus’s pulse quickened, and his palms moistened. “What do you know of my family?”

Pravus removed his top hat and sat it on the table. His raven locks caressed the table as he leaned over it. He stared at Nardus for a long moment.

“I’ve been watching you for several months. A lot can be surmised about a man just by observance. You wear a ring on your middle finger but return to an empty house every night. No man wears a ring like that for show.

“I also recognize the pain in your eyes, and it reminds me of the pain I once possessed. The excessive drinking you do brings you no closer to what you want, does it?” Pravus didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m no stranger to loss myself and have traveled the treacherous and lonely road you’re going down now.

“With mezhik, there are ways to accomplish the impossible. Trust me when I say that I can help you.”

Nardus slammed his fist on the table. “You think me a fool? They’re all dead. My whole family’s dead. How do you expect to help me with that? Do you believe yourself to be some sort of god?”

“A god?” Pravus’s eyes sparkled with energy. “Perhaps not, but what makes you believe only a god can raise the dead?”

Nardus’s heart stuttered and his breath caught in his throat. Madness spun through his mind.

Either he’s more delusional than I am, or he’s a liar.

“What you’re suggesting is impossible.”

In his mind’s eye, Nardus rose from the bench and walked out of the inn, but reality rooted him to the bench and to that moment. More than reality, something deep within himself rendered him motionless and speechless. A dormant feeling he’d forgotten existed. A power stronger than mezhik itself: hope.

Could it be true? Is there really a way to get my family back? Does it matter? If there’s even a slim chance of bringing them back, how could I possibly turn the man down?

Nardus blinked. His thoughts flowed freely, clearly. The haze in his mind dissipated, and he felt more sober than he could remember.

How’s this possible?

Pravus leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Is that what you believe? I’m incapable of such a feat?”

Nardus rubbed his left bicep again. The scars, a reminder even through his shirt, remained. Nothing could ever change the past, but the future felt more malleable than he remembered.

Nardus raised his hands. “Okay. As impossible as it is, let’s say you’ve found a way to raise the dead. Why do you need me? What’s in it for you?”

“My motives are of no concern to you. Focus on your family and what it would mean for you to reunite with them. And do not forget about the thirty pieces of gold.”

Nardus eyed the gold coins. “You’ve garnered my attention.” He met Pravus’s gaze. “I’d do anything for my family, so what’s the task?”

Pravus’s right eyebrow rose. “Anything? You’d risk death to bring them back?”

“Given the choice, I’d switch places with them. Nothing matters to me, except them.”

Pravus tented his fingers. “Good. No one’s ever returned from where I’m sending you. I hope you’ll be the first.”

Nardus stood. “Look at me. I’ve traveled through many cesspools throughout the Ancient Realm and met some of the foulest brutes and beasts around. I’ve been cursed by Ƨäʈūr to survive everything I’ve ever faced. Death eludes me.”

Pravus waved his hand. “Yes, I’m sure you have. However, I’m sending you to the lower world—Ef Demd Dhä.”

“Ha!” Nardus slapped his own thigh. “You’re sending me to the land of the dead? Do you think I’m mad? As though raising the dead weren’t impossible enough! Are you going to kill me to get me there?”

Pravus sighed heavily and pointed at the bench. “Sit down, and listen.”

Nardus shook his head but sat down. Forgive my madness, my love. I stay for you.

Pravus leaned in. “There’s an ancient gateway that leads into Ef Demd Dhä, and I know its location. The gateway—Zhäíʈfäí Fäíʈƨ—will transform you, but you must get past the gatekeeper to enter. Once you’ve gone through the gateway, you’ll face seven trials created by some of the most powerful wizards who ever lived.”

Nardus took one of the empty mugs and peered inside of it. “And why is it that I must go there?”

“Inside Ʈämbəll Dhef Däd Dhä, you’ll need to find Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh—a stone so powerful that it can raise the dead. Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh—the stone of death—is the reason Ef Demd Dhä exists. Do you understand now? The stone will change everything—your past and mine.”

Nardus turned the mug upside down and placed it in the middle of the table. “So why don’t you retrieve it yourself? After all, you’ve got mezhik.”

Pravus folded his hands together. “Even if I could get past the trials, I wouldn’t be able to take the stone. It’s protected by ancient mezhik. I intend on using the stone, and that fact would prevent me from taking it. I’d be trapped there forever. However, you have no such desire to use the stone yourself, so you’re the perfect choice. The only choice.”

Nardus shook his head and wrinkled his brow. “But why me? Of the millions of people in the Ancient Realm, why choose me?”

Pravus opened his hands. “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

Nardus rubbed his left bicep. “You’re right, but how can I guarantee you won’t go back on your word as soon as I return and hand over the stone?”

“Relationships are based on trust. I’m giving you my word and my gold. What more would you have me do?”

Nardus eyed the coin stacks again. “Double the price, and I’m your man.”

Candle flames danced in Pravus’s eyes like demons, and the ends of his lips curled upward. “Greed is a dangerous trait, friend, but on this night, it benefits you.”

Pravus reached inside his overcoat, pulled out a large coin purse, and sat it on the table. The stacks of coins vibrated, then coins from each stack flipped into the air and into the open coin purse. The coin purse bulged by the time the last coin dropped into it.

Nardus reached for the coin purse, but Pravus grabbed his wrist. “There’s no turning back from this, Nardus. Once you open Zhäíʈfäí Fäíʈƨ, you’ll either succeed in retrieving Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh, or you’ll be lost in Ef Demd Dhä forever. Can you live with that?”

Nardus shrugged, “I’ve got nothing left to live for.”

Pravus smiled, released Nardus’s wrist, and cracked his knuckles. “Then let’s get started.”

REBORN

BOOK TWO OF THE DARK HEART CHRONICLES

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2018 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited by Ben Wolf - www.benwolf.com

Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One

A nest of twigs, bramble, and feathers nestled the back wall of a small, flat, rock shelf thirty feet to her right. Three baby birds peered over the nest’s edge and squawked at Theyn with a deafening frenzy. She knew little about most birds, but these were rare. Their bald faces and red plumage gave them away.

Theyn smiled. Little red rooks.

Despite the wind at her back, the smell of sweaty fur wrinkled her nose. A blue dingo—not named after its dingy brown fur but by its long blue tongue—peered over the crag’s top edge, head low and ears pinned back, splitting its attention between the rooks and Theyn.

Theyn growled deep in her throat. “You even think of making a meal of those birds, and I’ll gut you like a troller, you mangy mutt.”

The dingo glared at her for several moments, snorted with a twist of its head, and shrank away from the edge.

“Theyn!” Berggren bellowed.

Theyn rolled her eyes. Guess I didn’t climb high enough to escape his loud mouth.

Still holding on with one hand, she swung around backward and leaned against the cliff wall. She dug her boot heels into the half-inch grooves she’d carved out on her first ascent many months before and gazed down at the two men far below.

Berggren stood atop a rounded berm of lava rock, his arms crossed over his barreled chest and his forehead rutted by his brooding scowl. Beads of sweat glistened on the top of his bald head.

“Stop gallivanting, and tell me what you see,” barked Berggren.

Shaul stood next to Berggren, just as tall but not as muscular. He held one hand in the air and waved in a wide arc, but he held his other hand just below his nose—one finger buried inside of it.

Theyn shook her head. Disgusting.

“Yes, boss,” she yelled.

Theyn glanced back up at the crag’s edge but didn’t spot the dingo. However, she still smelled it. She wrinkled her nose. I’ll deal with you in a few.

She reached down, freed the bronze spyglass that hung from the leather loop on her belt, and held it up to her left eye. Its powerful lens took her right into the middle of the rolling fields of bubbled and sharpened lava. Greyish-white corpses of once-mighty trees speckled the blackened landscape like leprosy and stretched miles into the distance.

She swept the eyeglass back and forth, searching for any changes. The daily routine wore on her mind and eroded any sense of time she’d once possessed; the weeks blurred into months—or perhaps years.

Incendia Island had little to offer outside of its complete seclusion from the civilized world, and she hated living there. She didn’t understand why Berggren chose to move them out into the middle of nowhere, but she owed him everything and so she kept her mouth shut.

Three miles out, Theyn spotted a human man lying on the ground. Her breath caught in her throat, and she froze. Zhedäƨ Ƨʊn… The man with the scars.

Several moments passed before she realized she’d let go of the spyglass. It plummeted toward the ground, and its glass lens shattered when it collided with a cluster of rocks that jutted up from a small ledge far below, but she kept her gaze trained on the man.

He’s here. He’s here!

“Theyn!” yelled Berggren, his voice tunneled and distant. “You can’t fly!”

Fly? How absurd. But what had Berggren meant by it?

Theyn looked down, and the ledge far below raced toward her. She gasped, cried out, and twisted in the air. She reached out and dug her nails into the crag’s rocky wall as she slid down its steep face, but the effort didn’t slow her descent.

Each heartbeat jolted her entire body like seizures. She tensed up, closed her eyes for a moment, and braced for impact. She hit the ledge hard and gasped as shards of pain ripped through her soles, streaked up her legs, and into her chest.

Her mind sharp, Theyn used the force of the impact to springboard herself sideways, toward a small ledge. She met the wall again with a grunt but managed to grab the ledge with her fingertips before she plummeted again.

She exhaled, then laughed.

“Gonna beat you when you get down here,” bellowed Berggren. “Never scare me like that again.”

Theyn laughed harder.

“He’s here,” she said. “He’s here!”

† † †

Nardus lay on his back in the middle of the lava fields of Incendia Island, just outside the ruins of Mortuus Terra, where his journey to find Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh had begun. The red sky hung over him like a pall, suffocating him.

The air around him crackled with energy as lightning sliced through the air, tearing the red fabric sky like claws through flesh. In its wake, the ground trembled beneath him. Or was it he who trembled?

“Black lightning—” The hairs on his arms stood on end. “—what have I brought into this world?”

He swallowed hard. Or whom?

Flashes of a hideous horned beast—what he imagined Diƨäfär to look like—riddled his mind. Words of warning from both Tharos and Gnaud whispered in his ears like spectres from the past. Had he brought damnation upon the world?

If I have, for what?

He clenched his fists. Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh.

Pravus assured him that the small, reddish-black stone held the power to resurrect the dead. He’d placed his faith in Pravus and the stone—he’d had no choice. Nothing mattered more to him than family, and his desire to be with them again drove him through Zhäíʈfäí Fäíʈƨ and helped him prevail through the seven trials.

He’d accomplished the impossible, yet hope, love, guilt, and fear warred in his mind and heart. As usual, he’d only heard the words that he’d wanted to hear. Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh may indeed bring the dead back to life, but at what cost? Did he really want to bring his family back into the world only to condemn them to a waking nightmare with everyone else?

How would it help? I’ve let them down so many times already. And they’re in a better place now. I’ve been such a fool, blinded and driven by the pain of their loss.

Then again, why endure all the pain and suffering if not to bring his family back? His fractured mind seemed incapable of piecing it all together and making a rational decision.

Aren’t they better off with me than with Ƨäʈūr? Haven’t they suffered enough by His hand?

Nardus sat up, pulled himself to his feet, and brushed the dust from his tattered trousers. His boots needed more than just a shine—the worn leather had ripped clean through in spots.

Where’s a good cobbler when you need one? He smiled.

He reached inside his coat’s left inner pocket, but his fingers pushed against its bottom.

Empty? His pulse rose.

He turned the rest of his pockets out, but none of them contained the stone. “This isn’t happening.”

He threw his pack to the ground and sifted through its contents.

“No stone,” he growled.

Unsatisfied, he emptied the contents of his pack on the ground and shuffled through them.

No stone.

He unlatched the straps that held Brinzhär Dädh and its scabbard to his back and let it drop to the ground. He grabbed the sword’s hilt and slid it free. The golden blade rang, but its sweet song gave him no comfort. He laid the blade on the ground and turned the scabbard upside-down and shook it violently, but nothing fell out of it.

No stone.

He tossed the scabbard to the ground, stripped off his clothes, and rifled through them.

No stone.

He thrust his hands in the air and screamed at the sky, “Just strike me dead, Ƨäʈūr! Send a bolt of lightning through my heart. I’m begging You!”

Nardus dropped to his knees, weary from his sufferings and spent of energy. He’d lost everything. Nothing mattered.

He glared at the red sky. Damn this world and everything in it.

He traced the scars on either side of his left bicep with his fingers.

The arrow that’d started it all. To what end?

A single moment in time—a lapse in judgment—had cost him everything. The scars tortured his soul, filled his mind with sorrow and rage, and drove him toward redemption—not for himself, but for his family.

Vitara, my love. Shardan. Shanara. Savannah. Don’t give up on me.

Nardus looked down at his arm. Under the dim light of the red sky his skin looked pale and grey—dead.

Dead within and without. So be it.

His mouth and throat were a wasteland of lava and sand, and the act of swallowing a task unto itself. He needed water soon.

Despite his dire predicament, he couldn’t hold back his laughter.

Madness.

How had he fallen so far so fast? Not so long ago, he’d had everything he’d ever dreamed of—the perfect life. Now, despite his best efforts, he had nothing left to show for it but a severely fractured mind.

No stone.

What had he done with it? How could he have lost it? Had Tharos stolen it from him?

It didn’t matter. He was a dead man either way.

I’m naked and alone in this godforsaken wilderness. Where are you, my love?

Vitara’s violet eyes—full of scorn—filled his head. Guilt twisted around him and squeezed the air from his lungs like a constrictor. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks like rivers of ice, stinging his skin as they streaked down his chin.

I’m so sorry, my love.

Nardus roared at the sky like an animal.

“End me now, Ƨäʈūr. I demand it of You!”

He wiped the tears from his chin with the backs of his hands. The flesh on his hands sizzled from his tears. He rubbed the back of his left hand with his right, and layers of skin sloughed away.

What’s wrong with me now?

Frantic, he rubbed his arms and legs, and a pile of dead skin gathered on the ground. Underneath the layers of grey skin his flesh glowed like red-hot coals. Was it the tint of the red sky playing tricks on his mind?

If only it were true. But he knew better. He felt it. He was different—changed. His acceptance of it furthered his panic.

Pain stabbed his heart like daggers of fire, burrowing deep inside and ripping him apart. He grabbed at his chest, dug his dirty, broken fingernails into his skin, and ripped at his flesh like a rabid animal. Madness raged within him, and he dug his fingers deeper—striking what felt like bone.

A wave of unprecedented pain swept across his body and Nardus screamed. His vision blurred, and the pain dissipated. But a few moments later the world snapped back into focus, and the pain rained down on him like thousands of needles. He drew a deep breath, flexed every muscle in his body, and fought through it until the pain dropped to a level he could bear.

He looked down at his mangled chest. Had he just done that? His stomach soured, and he thought he might vomit.

This is madness!

But the need to know what lay hidden within him grew. He didn’t have a choice, did he? He needed to know. He had to know. The need consumed him again.

Nardus cringed as he peeled back the flesh around the hole in his chest. Beneath the layers of skin and lodged underneath his ribcage—where his heart should’ve been—sat a familiar reddish-black stone.

Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh.

Fear swelled within him.

I’ve gotta get it out!

Nardus pushed his fingers deep inside the hole in his chest and tried to wrap his fingers around the stone, but he couldn’t grasp it. Nauseating pain twisted his stomach, and his vision dimmed as he teetered on the edge of passing out.

Despite the pain and dry heaving, he pressed on. Black sludge oozed around his fingers and seeped from the open wound. The stench of death rose into his nostrils and gagged him. He coughed and spat up ash.

Spent of energy and unable to dig at his flesh any further, his hand slid out of the hole in his chest and drooped to his side. He fell back against the sharp lava rocks. They bit into his back and head like spearheads, but he did nothing to stop them.

Just let me die. Set me free.

Rip my soul from this body, Ƨäʈūr. Damn me no more.

Nardus closed his eyes and withdrew into his mind—his self-made prison. Gruesome images of his slain family bombarded him and tormented him further. The pain within and without united, and from them he had no escape.

I am the stone. I am death. I am dead, yet I live.

Madness.

The great dragon Tharos had said the stone could raise the dead. But had he ever made the price known to him? Nardus couldn’t recall.

If it’s my life for theirs, I’ll gladly pay it, Ƨäʈūr. I’ll endure any such nightmare for my family. Just bring them back.

Pravus, the man who’d sent him down this path of madness, had mentioned no such price. Perhaps Pravus had been unaware of it? Or maybe Pravus knew and kept it to himself, believing Nardus wouldn’t go through with it knowing the price of doing so.

Am I the key? Is there still hope?

Yes!

But how do I get my family back?

Knowledge.

He needed a better understanding of the stone and how it worked. Eventually, he’d seek out Pravus, but first he needed answers—ones he could find in only one place: Nasduron.

Gnaud.

Excited by the prospect of seeing the little gordak again, Nardus sprang to his feet with a burst of renewed energy. Despite the gaping hole in his chest, the pain faded—at least the physical part. But was that really a good thing?

What does it mean?

Am I really dying? He shuddered the thought away.

Nardus gathered up the clothes he’d strewn across the lava field and pulled them back on. He returned all the items to his pack and strapped his scabbard onto his back. He picked up Brinzhär Dädh, felt its surge of mezhik course through his veins, and reluctantly slid it back into its scabbard.

Damned mezhik. He spat at the ground but produced no saliva.

Nardus lifted his foot to step out of the lava field and into the Great Library, but a voice from behind called his name. He stopped, turned, and watched an ox-of-a-man approach him from within the ruins of Mortuus Terra.

The man—a walking mountain—carried no weapons, but his size set Nardus on edge. The man’s rounded head perched atop mounds of muscle, and the green shirt he wore stretched across his massive chest—seemingly to its limit. Strange ridges wrapped the man’s torso and marred his chest. They reminded Nardus of a network of tree roots.

Nardus reached up and put his hand on the hilt of Brinzhär Dädh. The tingle of its mezhik seeped into his palm and calmed his nerves. “That’s close enough.”

The man halted and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “As you wish.” His deep voice vibrated the air.

Nardus, his brow furrowed, stared the man down. “How do you know my name?”

A broad smile parted the man’s lips. “Mutual friend sent me to await your return. I’d all but given up on you.”

Pravus? It must be. But how does he know I’m back? He looked up at the red sky. Right.

Nardus relaxed further as the sword’s mezhik continued flowing into him, but he kept his hand on its hilt as he eyed the man. “And you are?”

“Berggren, but my friends call me Iceberg.” He took a step forward.

Brinzhär Dädh slid from its sheath with a ring.

Nardus growled, “I said you’re close enough. Take another step, and I’ll make a mound of you.”

Nardus twirled the sword between his hands then raised it above his head, at the ready. He felt alive inside as the mezhik from the sword flowed through his entire body.

I still hate you, mezhik.

Berggren raised one of his meaty hands in the air, still smiling. “Easy, friend. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Nardus spat on the ground again. “Then you won’t mind stepping back.”

Berggren chuckled. “Like your enthusiasm, friend, but it’s not that simple. We both know I can’t do that.”

“Then prepare for your death.” Nardus took a half-step back, resolved to take the “Iceberg” down by any means necessary.

Berggren stuck his smallest fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled. Nardus glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye but had no time to react before the large rock struck the side of his head. The blow knocked him off his feet and sent Brinzhär Dädh flying from his hands. His head slammed into the lava rocks, and a high-pitched noise filled his ears.

Pain swept through his head like a tidal wave, and his vision blurred. He screamed, but the third blow to his head cut it short and sent him spiraling into darkness.

REBORN

BOOK TWO OF THE DARK HEART CHRONICLES

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2018 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited by Ben Wolf - www.benwolf.com

Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One

A nest of twigs, bramble, and feathers nestled the back wall of a small, flat, rock shelf thirty feet to her right. Three baby birds peered over the nest’s edge and squawked at Theyn with a deafening frenzy. She knew little about most birds, but these were rare. Their bald faces and red plumage gave them away.

Theyn smiled. Little red rooks.

Despite the wind at her back, the smell of sweaty fur wrinkled her nose. A blue dingo—not named after its dingy brown fur but by its long blue tongue—peered over the crag’s top edge, head low and ears pinned back, splitting its attention between the rooks and Theyn.

Theyn growled deep in her throat. “You even think of making a meal of those birds, and I’ll gut you like a troller, you mangy mutt.”

The dingo glared at her for several moments, snorted with a twist of its head, and shrank away from the edge.

“Theyn!” Berggren bellowed.

Theyn rolled her eyes. Guess I didn’t climb high enough to escape his loud mouth.

Still holding on with one hand, she swung around backward and leaned against the cliff wall. She dug her boot heels into the half-inch grooves she’d carved out on her first ascent many months before and gazed down at the two men far below.

Berggren stood atop a rounded berm of lava rock, his arms crossed over his barreled chest and his forehead rutted by his brooding scowl. Beads of sweat glistened on the top of his bald head.

“Stop gallivanting, and tell me what you see,” barked Berggren.

Shaul stood next to Berggren, just as tall but not as muscular. He held one hand in the air and waved in a wide arc, but he held his other hand just below his nose—one finger buried inside of it.

Theyn shook her head. Disgusting.

“Yes, boss,” she yelled.

Theyn glanced back up at the crag’s edge but didn’t spot the dingo. However, she still smelled it. She wrinkled her nose. I’ll deal with you in a few.

She reached down, freed the bronze spyglass that hung from the leather loop on her belt, and held it up to her left eye. Its powerful lens took her right into the middle of the rolling fields of bubbled and sharpened lava. Greyish-white corpses of once-mighty trees speckled the blackened landscape like leprosy and stretched miles into the distance.

She swept the eyeglass back and forth, searching for any changes. The daily routine wore on her mind and eroded any sense of time she’d once possessed; the weeks blurred into months—or perhaps years.

Incendia Island had little to offer outside of its complete seclusion from the civilized world, and she hated living there. She didn’t understand why Berggren chose to move them out into the middle of nowhere, but she owed him everything and so she kept her mouth shut.

Three miles out, Theyn spotted a human man lying on the ground. Her breath caught in her throat, and she froze. Zhedäƨ Ƨʊn… The man with the scars.

Several moments passed before she realized she’d let go of the spyglass. It plummeted toward the ground, and its glass lens shattered when it collided with a cluster of rocks that jutted up from a small ledge far below, but she kept her gaze trained on the man.

He’s here. He’s here!

“Theyn!” yelled Berggren, his voice tunneled and distant. “You can’t fly!”

Fly? How absurd. But what had Berggren meant by it?

Theyn looked down, and the ledge far below raced toward her. She gasped, cried out, and twisted in the air. She reached out and dug her nails into the crag’s rocky wall as she slid down its steep face, but the effort didn’t slow her descent.

Each heartbeat jolted her entire body like seizures. She tensed up, closed her eyes for a moment, and braced for impact. She hit the ledge hard and gasped as shards of pain ripped through her soles, streaked up her legs, and into her chest.

Her mind sharp, Theyn used the force of the impact to springboard herself sideways, toward a small ledge. She met the wall again with a grunt but managed to grab the ledge with her fingertips before she plummeted again.

She exhaled, then laughed.

“Gonna beat you when you get down here,” bellowed Berggren. “Never scare me like that again.”

Theyn laughed harder.

“He’s here,” she said. “He’s here!”

† † †

Nardus lay on his back in the middle of the lava fields of Incendia Island, just outside the ruins of Mortuus Terra, where his journey to find Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh had begun. The red sky hung over him like a pall, suffocating him.

The air around him crackled with energy as lightning sliced through the air, tearing the red fabric sky like claws through flesh. In its wake, the ground trembled beneath him. Or was it he who trembled?

“Black lightning—” The hairs on his arms stood on end. “—what have I brought into this world?”

He swallowed hard. Or whom?

Flashes of a hideous horned beast—what he imagined Diƨäfär to look like—riddled his mind. Words of warning from both Tharos and Gnaud whispered in his ears like spectres from the past. Had he brought damnation upon the world?

If I have, for what?

He clenched his fists. Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh.

Pravus assured him that the small, reddish-black stone held the power to resurrect the dead. He’d placed his faith in Pravus and the stone—he’d had no choice. Nothing mattered more to him than family, and his desire to be with them again drove him through Zhäíʈfäí Fäíʈƨ and helped him prevail through the seven trials.

He’d accomplished the impossible, yet hope, love, guilt, and fear warred in his mind and heart. As usual, he’d only heard the words that he’d wanted to hear. Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh may indeed bring the dead back to life, but at what cost? Did he really want to bring his family back into the world only to condemn them to a waking nightmare with everyone else?

How would it help? I’ve let them down so many times already. And they’re in a better place now. I’ve been such a fool, blinded and driven by the pain of their loss.

Then again, why endure all the pain and suffering if not to bring his family back? His fractured mind seemed incapable of piecing it all together and making a rational decision.

Aren’t they better off with me than with Ƨäʈūr? Haven’t they suffered enough by His hand?

Nardus sat up, pulled himself to his feet, and brushed the dust from his tattered trousers. His boots needed more than just a shine—the worn leather had ripped clean through in spots.

Where’s a good cobbler when you need one? He smiled.

He reached inside his coat’s left inner pocket, but his fingers pushed against its bottom.

Empty? His pulse rose.

He turned the rest of his pockets out, but none of them contained the stone. “This isn’t happening.”

He threw his pack to the ground and sifted through its contents.

“No stone,” he growled.

Unsatisfied, he emptied the contents of his pack on the ground and shuffled through them.

No stone.

He unlatched the straps that held Brinzhär Dädh and its scabbard to his back and let it drop to the ground. He grabbed the sword’s hilt and slid it free. The golden blade rang, but its sweet song gave him no comfort. He laid the blade on the ground and turned the scabbard upside-down and shook it violently, but nothing fell out of it.

No stone.

He tossed the scabbard to the ground, stripped off his clothes, and rifled through them.

No stone.

He thrust his hands in the air and screamed at the sky, “Just strike me dead, Ƨäʈūr! Send a bolt of lightning through my heart. I’m begging You!”

Nardus dropped to his knees, weary from his sufferings and spent of energy. He’d lost everything. Nothing mattered.

He glared at the red sky. Damn this world and everything in it.

He traced the scars on either side of his left bicep with his fingers.

The arrow that’d started it all. To what end?

A single moment in time—a lapse in judgment—had cost him everything. The scars tortured his soul, filled his mind with sorrow and rage, and drove him toward redemption—not for himself, but for his family.

Vitara, my love. Shardan. Shanara. Savannah. Don’t give up on me.

Nardus looked down at his arm. Under the dim light of the red sky his skin looked pale and grey—dead.

Dead within and without. So be it.

His mouth and throat were a wasteland of lava and sand, and the act of swallowing a task unto itself. He needed water soon.

Despite his dire predicament, he couldn’t hold back his laughter.

Madness.

How had he fallen so far so fast? Not so long ago, he’d had everything he’d ever dreamed of—the perfect life. Now, despite his best efforts, he had nothing left to show for it but a severely fractured mind.

No stone.

What had he done with it? How could he have lost it? Had Tharos stolen it from him?

It didn’t matter. He was a dead man either way.

I’m naked and alone in this godforsaken wilderness. Where are you, my love?

Vitara’s violet eyes—full of scorn—filled his head. Guilt twisted around him and squeezed the air from his lungs like a constrictor. Tears filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks like rivers of ice, stinging his skin as they streaked down his chin.

I’m so sorry, my love.

Nardus roared at the sky like an animal.

“End me now, Ƨäʈūr. I demand it of You!”

He wiped the tears from his chin with the backs of his hands. The flesh on his hands sizzled from his tears. He rubbed the back of his left hand with his right, and layers of skin sloughed away.

What’s wrong with me now?

Frantic, he rubbed his arms and legs, and a pile of dead skin gathered on the ground. Underneath the layers of grey skin his flesh glowed like red-hot coals. Was it the tint of the red sky playing tricks on his mind?

If only it were true. But he knew better. He felt it. He was different—changed. His acceptance of it furthered his panic.

Pain stabbed his heart like daggers of fire, burrowing deep inside and ripping him apart. He grabbed at his chest, dug his dirty, broken fingernails into his skin, and ripped at his flesh like a rabid animal. Madness raged within him, and he dug his fingers deeper—striking what felt like bone.

A wave of unprecedented pain swept across his body and Nardus screamed. His vision blurred, and the pain dissipated. But a few moments later the world snapped back into focus, and the pain rained down on him like thousands of needles. He drew a deep breath, flexed every muscle in his body, and fought through it until the pain dropped to a level he could bear.

He looked down at his mangled chest. Had he just done that? His stomach soured, and he thought he might vomit.

This is madness!

But the need to know what lay hidden within him grew. He didn’t have a choice, did he? He needed to know. He had to know. The need consumed him again.

Nardus cringed as he peeled back the flesh around the hole in his chest. Beneath the layers of skin and lodged underneath his ribcage—where his heart should’ve been—sat a familiar reddish-black stone.

Ƨʈōn Dhef Dädh.

Fear swelled within him.

I’ve gotta get it out!

Nardus pushed his fingers deep inside the hole in his chest and tried to wrap his fingers around the stone, but he couldn’t grasp it. Nauseating pain twisted his stomach, and his vision dimmed as he teetered on the edge of passing out.

Despite the pain and dry heaving, he pressed on. Black sludge oozed around his fingers and seeped from the open wound. The stench of death rose into his nostrils and gagged him. He coughed and spat up ash.

Spent of energy and unable to dig at his flesh any further, his hand slid out of the hole in his chest and drooped to his side. He fell back against the sharp lava rocks. They bit into his back and head like spearheads, but he did nothing to stop them.

Just let me die. Set me free.

Rip my soul from this body, Ƨäʈūr. Damn me no more.

Nardus closed his eyes and withdrew into his mind—his self-made prison. Gruesome images of his slain family bombarded him and tormented him further. The pain within and without united, and from them he had no escape.

I am the stone. I am death. I am dead, yet I live.

Madness.

The great dragon Tharos had said the stone could raise the dead. But had he ever made the price known to him? Nardus couldn’t recall.

If it’s my life for theirs, I’ll gladly pay it, Ƨäʈūr. I’ll endure any such nightmare for my family. Just bring them back.

Pravus, the man who’d sent him down this path of madness, had mentioned no such price. Perhaps Pravus had been unaware of it? Or maybe Pravus knew and kept it to himself, believing Nardus wouldn’t go through with it knowing the price of doing so.

Am I the key? Is there still hope?

Yes!

But how do I get my family back?

Knowledge.

He needed a better understanding of the stone and how it worked. Eventually, he’d seek out Pravus, but first he needed answers—ones he could find in only one place: Nasduron.

Gnaud.

Excited by the prospect of seeing the little gordak again, Nardus sprang to his feet with a burst of renewed energy. Despite the gaping hole in his chest, the pain faded—at least the physical part. But was that really a good thing?

What does it mean?

Am I really dying? He shuddered the thought away.

Nardus gathered up the clothes he’d strewn across the lava field and pulled them back on. He returned all the items to his pack and strapped his scabbard onto his back. He picked up Brinzhär Dädh, felt its surge of mezhik course through his veins, and reluctantly slid it back into its scabbard.

Damned mezhik. He spat at the ground but produced no saliva.

Nardus lifted his foot to step out of the lava field and into the Great Library, but a voice from behind called his name. He stopped, turned, and watched an ox-of-a-man approach him from within the ruins of Mortuus Terra.

The man—a walking mountain—carried no weapons, but his size set Nardus on edge. The man’s rounded head perched atop mounds of muscle, and the green shirt he wore stretched across his massive chest—seemingly to its limit. Strange ridges wrapped the man’s torso and marred his chest. They reminded Nardus of a network of tree roots.

Nardus reached up and put his hand on the hilt of Brinzhär Dädh. The tingle of its mezhik seeped into his palm and calmed his nerves. “That’s close enough.”

The man halted and crossed his arms over his massive chest. “As you wish.” His deep voice vibrated the air.

Nardus, his brow furrowed, stared the man down. “How do you know my name?”

A broad smile parted the man’s lips. “Mutual friend sent me to await your return. I’d all but given up on you.”

Pravus? It must be. But how does he know I’m back? He looked up at the red sky. Right.

Nardus relaxed further as the sword’s mezhik continued flowing into him, but he kept his hand on its hilt as he eyed the man. “And you are?”

“Berggren, but my friends call me Iceberg.” He took a step forward.

Brinzhär Dädh slid from its sheath with a ring.

Nardus growled, “I said you’re close enough. Take another step, and I’ll make a mound of you.”

Nardus twirled the sword between his hands then raised it above his head, at the ready. He felt alive inside as the mezhik from the sword flowed through his entire body.

I still hate you, mezhik.

Berggren raised one of his meaty hands in the air, still smiling. “Easy, friend. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Nardus spat on the ground again. “Then you won’t mind stepping back.”

Berggren chuckled. “Like your enthusiasm, friend, but it’s not that simple. We both know I can’t do that.”

“Then prepare for your death.” Nardus took a half-step back, resolved to take the “Iceberg” down by any means necessary.

Berggren stuck his smallest fingers in the corners of his mouth and whistled. Nardus glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye but had no time to react before the large rock struck the side of his head. The blow knocked him off his feet and sent Brinzhär Dädh flying from his hands. His head slammed into the lava rocks, and a high-pitched noise filled his ears.

Pain swept through his head like a tidal wave, and his vision blurred. He screamed, but the third blow to his head cut it short and sent him spiraling into darkness.

RENDED SOULS

BOOK THREE OF THE DARK HEART CHRONICLES

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2019 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One

He breathed deep and exhaled evenly, releasing his pent-up fear with the breath. His pulse slowed, and the wild bird trapped within his chest settled. He held out his right hand; it trembled like a leaf in the spring wind for several moments before stilling.

The beast stalked forward, her ears pinned back against her head and her tail held low. Her beige fur glistened in the pale light as her muscled form moved effortlessly across the remains of torn books, demolished wooden shelves, and shattered crystal chandeliers.

Her yellow eyes locked onto his. He didn’t recognize her transfigured body, but those eyes he knew. He’d never forget them. Never thought he’d see them again.

Theyn.

Nardus leaned forward and stretched his arm out as far as he could. “Theyn, it’s me.” His voice didn’t waver, but his fear returned as flashes of Berggren’s mutilated stomach and chest pummeled his mind.

His pulse raced and his mind reeled as questions bombarded him. Where’s Gnaud? Were there tufts of fur in the rubble? Dried blood? Is Gnaud dead, buried amongst the remains of the books? His eyes grew wide. Did she eat him? He quickly pushed the thought from his mind, unwilling to contemplate it further.

The beast paused, sniffed the air, and growled deep in her throat. She crouched down, ready to pounce, but she didn’t move.

It’s me, Theyn. You know me… better than most.

Time itself stood still as they held each other’s gaze, neither willing to blink or look away. Each passing moment proved more difficult than the last for Nardus to breathe, and his thoughts failed to make sense.

Had the air been sucked from the room, or had he forgotten how to breathe? He didn’t know, but either way the air pressed down on him and suffocated him like a thick pillow over his face. His arm fell to his side, the act of holding it out any longer unbearable.

The beast lunged from her crouch like a wound spring unloaded, and she hit Nardus square in the chest before he had a chance to react or brace himself. The impact forced out what little air he’d held in his lungs, and it knocked him backward and onto his back. He grunted as her full weight settled on top of him.

She pinned him down; her claws pressed into the fleshy part of the backs of his arms. Her claws didn’t break the skin, but they would if he moved. She snarled, her fanged teeth dripping with saliva. She opened her jaws wide, howled like no other creature he’d ever heard, and then went for his throat.

Instinct pulled Nardus’s eyes closed, his body turned rigid, and he grimaced. Her fangs rested against either side of his neck. It’s me, Theyn. Don’t do it. You love me. Theyn applied pressure, and her fangs sank into his skin like four arrowheads.

Nardus gasped and swallowed hard. His pulse raced, and beads of sweat formed on his brow as droplets of warm blood slid down the sides of his neck. Moments they’d shared flashed through his mind: long looks, subtle touches, shared smiles, the night at Joriah’s, the vision of their future when their minds had interlinked.

Nardus opened his eyes. Our minds…

With no understanding of how it worked or if he had the ability to do so, Nardus opened his mind and reached out to Theyn. “I know you don’t want to kill me. You love me. Remember that. You love me, Theyn.”

Theyn’s jaws tightened, and her claws dug into his arms. Nardus winced as fresh blood trickled down the sides of his neck.

Damn. Guess that didn’t work. What had he expected? Mezhik? The idea sickened him.

Theyn’s words pierced his mind and left him stunned. “I do. But do you love me?”

Do I love her? Attracted to? Yes. Enamored with? Perhaps. But love? Preposterous. How could he? To love Theyn would betray his love of Vitara, wouldn’t it?

Theyn bit down harder, and Nardus groaned.

“Don’t think too long on it,” she said in his mind.

Tell her what she wants to hear… even though it’s a lie.

Nardus gritted his teeth. “I do love you, Theyn—” The words burned his heart like acid. “—but I never wanted to.”

In his mind’s eye, Nardus grabbed the arrow that had pierced Vitara’s throat. He twisted it violently and shoved it in deeper. He tensed, balled his fists, and screamed within his mind. Forgive me, my love! They’re only words, nothing more. I don’t love her. I swear it! But even he didn’t believe his own lie.

Theyn’s claws retracted, and she released his throat. She purred as she stroked the wounds on his neck with her sandpaper tongue.

Even her tongue? “Huh…” He’d never contemplated it changing in her transfigured state, but it made sense. Everything about her had changed.

Theyn rubbed her furry jaw against his. “I knew you loved me. It’s about time you admitted it. Had you been anyone else, I would’ve killed you. Until you spoke to me in my mind, my thoughts were purely animalistic. Thank you for coming back for me. I’ve longed to be with you since we separated. Never have I felt so alone.”

Theyn rubbed against him and kneaded his arms with her claws.

Nardus jerked. “Ouch! Can you please stop with the claws and let me up? I think there’s a book crushing my spine.”

Theyn growled, but she rose and moved to the side. “Don’t make me regret not killing you.”

Nardus sat up and rubbed his neck; the puncture wounds Theyn had left were little more than pricks. Leaning over, he wrapped his arms around her neck and held her for several moments. “I thought you were dead, Theyn. We all did. I didn’t know what had happened. I stepped through the mirror, Pravus placed another collar around my neck, and then Berggren started cursing at me.

“If Joriah hadn’t been there to restrain him, he would’ve killed himself trying to attack me through the mirror. I couldn’t see the ground where you’d been standing, and I thought I might’ve killed you like I did Shaul. Then the mirror went dark and Pravus wouldn’t let me go back.”

“How did I get here? Where exactly is here? And how do we escape? There are no doors, and the windows are too high to climb out of. Trust me. That’s why most of the bookshelves are toppled over.” She looked around. “The rest of this chaos I can’t explain.”

Nardus scratched the back of his head. “I think I know what happened, but I’m surprised it did. When Joriah removed the silver collar from my neck and placed it on yours I thought I’d be able to finally escape and return here—Nasduron. What I didn’t realize at the time was that the stone prevented me from returning here, not the collar.

“You must’ve been touching me when I stepped forward to return here. Unfortunately, I only phased in and out from here as I did on the boat, but you remained here. In that brief moment, you must’ve let go of me.

“No one there knew about this place or that I could travel here, so they assumed that I’d killed you like I did Shaul. You cannot comprehend the sorrow I experienced in that moment and in every one since then until I came here and found you alive. I’d lost everything, Theyn. Again. I begged for death.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them back.

Theyn sat back on her haunches. Her tail whipped the air, and her upper lip rose, exposing her fangs. “If you thought I was dead then you didn’t come back for me.” She growled. “Why did you come here?”

Nardus huffed. “To escape from Pravus and Cinolth, but now that I know you’re alive, I’ll do everything I can to help you get back to your human form.”

“Cinolth? As in the dragon Cinolth the Dark? Cyrus Nithik killed him 1200 years ago.”

Nardus sighed. “Yes, the same one. The stone I retrieved for Pravus didn’t resurrect the dead—as he’d told me it would. Instead, it brought Cinolth back to life. It wasn’t a stone that I’d retrieved. It was Cinolth’s heart. Dragons are apparently difficult—if not impossible—to kill. So, I’ve basically ensured the destruction of the world.”

Theyn shook her head. “I can’t believe you’ve brought the most evil being to have ever walked this world back into it. You may as well have brought Diƨäfär here.”

“Yeah… lesson learned: never trust an evil wizard, even if they’ve promised to raise your family from the dead.” Nardus chuckled, more from nervous guilt than amusement. “Anyway, Cinolth was about to kill me. That’s why I came here.”

He glanced toward the ceiling and frowned. “To be honest, I’m not sure how I escaped. Based on the rules of traveling here, I should’ve been prevented from coming. You cannot travel here as a means of escaping death, and I most certainly did. Then again, those rules seem to have no relevance or hold over me. I’ve broken more than one of them on multiple occasions.”

Theyn cocked her head. “What else have you lied to me about, wizard?”

“Wizard?” Nardus spat on the floor and pointed his finger at Theyn. “Don’t you dare accuse me of being something so vile. I’m as much a wizard as you’re a spectre.” He spat again.

“You walk between places—across great distances in the blink of an eye—and you don’t believe you do so with the power of mezhik?” Theyn laughed, but it sounded like small bursts of growls. “What else would it be?”

Nardus frowned as he thought about it. No answer came to mind. He shrugged and shook his head slowly. “I can’t explain how I’m able to do it, but it’s certainly not mezhik. Don’t you think I’d know if I were a wizard and could wield mezhik? My life would’ve turned out much different. I would’ve shielded my family from the arrows and destroyed the bastards who attacked us with a single thought.”

“You’re a strange man, Nardus. It’s just one of the many reasons why I love you.”

Love… Everything I’ve done for it has repaid me with grief.

Nardus surveyed the room again. “Speaking of strange men, where’s Gnaud? You didn’t eat him, did you?” He laughed.

“I…” Theyn lowered her head. “Forgive me, Nardus.”

Nardus swallowed hard and clutched his stomach. “My God, Theyn…”

Theyn’s cat-like eyes misted. “Please listen before you judge me.”

Gnaud… Nardus closed his eyes and nodded, lost for words.

Theyn continued, “For the first few days I held my condition in check, clinging to my identity with thoughts of you. But my condition raged within. Several times I blacked out for many minutes, waking to find myself surrounded by destruction and Gnaud in a panic.

”I warned him to keep his distance from me, but he’d convinced himself that he could find an answer as to how to cure or control my condition. Then, as before, my last thread of sanity snapped, and I lost control. My condition consumed me within a few minutes. From that moment, I’ve remembered nothing until your arrival.”

Nardus exhaled, stood, and dusted off his trousers. He looked at Theyn and held her gaze for several minutes. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.

Nardus rubbed the scars on his left bicep. “I’m the last person that would ever have the right to judge you.”

Theyn rose and sniffed the air. “The wood shelves and leather-bound books overpower almost every other scent, but I do smell traces of blood as well. Nothing of death, but this place is massive. He could be anywhere or gone.”

Nardus shook his head. “Gnaud would never leave this place. This is his home. He’s gotta be here somewhere.”

Theyn moaned softly. “If he’s dead, I’ll never forgive myself.”

And I might never forgive you.

Nardus looked to his right. The destruction impressed him. Nary a shelf still stood, nor a book unrent. Gnaud, if you’re still alive, will you forgive us?

Nardus cleared his throat. “Gnaud, it’s Nardus,” he yelled. “If you can hear me, answer me. Or make some noise if you can’t talk.”

A minute passed in silence.

“Gnaud!” Nardus’s voice thundered through the Great Library.

Theyn bounded up and over two mounds of carnage and stopped abruptly atop a third. She looked back at Nardus, her tail tucked between her hind legs and her head low. Nardus scrambled over the piles, tripped, fell, and gouged his hand on the splintered end of a chair leg. He cursed loudly, picked himself back up, and pushed forward.

The wound stung his hand, but the thought of Gnaud dead stung his heart. Ƨäʈūr, don’t let him be dead.

Nardus reached Theyn and stopped next to her. He met her gaze briefly, but then his gaze locked onto the tufts of fur and the pool of dried blood at the bottom of the mound they stood atop.

Nardus’s hands dampened, his breathing shallowed, and he dropped to his knees. Pain ripped into his heart, a feeling he’d experienced too many times in his life.

Theyn’s voice quivered in his mind. “I’m so sorry, Nardus. I don’t remember any of it. Forgive me.”

Nardus clenched his fists. Forgive you? How could I? Anger welled in his stomach, swelled in his chest, rose into his throat, and burst from his lips as a bone-chilling, guttural scream.

Theyn slunk back. “Kill me if you must. I will not fight you. I deserve nothing less.”

Nardus rose to his knees and shook his fist at her. “No! I’ve been down that road. Killing the men who took the lives of my wife and youngest daughter brought me no satisfaction. I’ve suffered endlessly since that day. Nothing I did brought them back, and nothing ever will.”

His chest convulsed, and he sobbed. Have I lost hope? Will I never see you again Vitara? Savannah? And what of you, Shardan? Do you still live, or did I bury you with your mother?

Nardus took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and looked down at Theyn. “So no, I’m not killing you, Theyn. I’ve lost almost everyone I’ve ever cared about or loved. I’m not losing you, too. Do you hear me? Whether I choose to forgive you or not is irrelevant. I will not abandon you.”

We’ll be damned together.

Theyn crawled over to Nardus. “How will I live with myself knowing that I ate your friend? I can’t even fathom having done so.”

Nardus couldn’t wrap his mind around it either. He pulled his hair back and groaned. “I don’t know. Every time I think my life can’t possibly get worse it does.” He punched the remnants of a book next to him.

Theyn jerked upright and craned her neck forward. She blinked several times and then howled. “At the far end of the room, there’s a door with a bloody handprint on it!”

Nardus jumped to his feet. He squinted but couldn’t even find a door let alone discern that a bloody handprint marred its surface.

He looked down at Theyn. “Are you certain?”

She nodded. “I can see for miles. How do you think I spotted you in the middle of the lava fields on Incendia Island?”

Nardus ignored the question and bolted ahead, Theyn at his side. “Gnaud!”

TRUE HEIR

BOOK FOUR OF THE DARK HEART CHRONICLES

CHAPTER 1 SAMPLE

Copyright © 2021 Daniel Kuhnley

Edited & Published by Drezhn Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One

Little dragon.

Those two words, forever seared into the forefront of her mind, drove Aria’s fury. Two words tied to the only two people she loved in the world.

Little dragon.

Pravus’s last words to her. The cause of Alderan’s death. Fuel for her rage.

Little dragon.

Night cloaked the dark plains below as she and Cinolth flew toward the last place the little dragon had been spotted. Nothing would stand in the way of her hunting down the traitorous dragon and ripping the scales from its hide. As they drew near their destination, lightning flashed, revealing a scene below that her mind worked hard to process: a standoff.

The flash had been just that, but the image burned in her mind. Two dozen orcs, weapons drawn, surrounded four gnolls. Rage swelled in her chest and burst from her lips in a roar that rivaled that of Cinolth. It took every bit of will power to keep herself from calling down lightning from the heavens and destroying them all. Had she not known Karraar to be among them, she never would’ve held back.

Cinolth’s voice entered her mind. “I’ll burn them alive.”

“No,” she fired back. “They might have information about the little dragon.”

A cloud of sulfuric smoke billowed from Cinolth’s nostrils and swept past Aria, stinging her eyes. “Extract the information, and then I’ll eat them all. I could use a satisfying meal.”

“Until they’ve outlived their usefulness, I want them kept alive.”

“A pack of ferzh would better serve you. These beasts live without thought of anything beyond themselves and their own survival. I assure you that they cannot be controlled.”

“And yet Pravus controlled them,” she bit back.

“Do not fool yourself. Pravus bound them to himself and to each other with blood mezhik.”

Aria snarled. “Then I’ll do the same.”

Cinolth’s head jerked around. One of his red, serpentine eyes met her gaze. Fiery ash spewed from his mouth. “No!”

Rage simmered on the tip of Aria’s tongue. “Give me one good reason.”

Cinolth straightened and flew faster. “Blood bonds weaken the spirit and lessen the strength of a wizard. Why do you think Pravus grew so weak and fell so easily?”

As she reflected over the past year, she couldn’t deny what Cinolth claimed. The man who rescued her from Portador Tempestade certainly wasn’t the man who fought on the battlefield. She recalled how weak he’d grown when she first arrived at Galondu Castle. He had blamed it on the distance he’d teleported, an undeniable fact given what she now knew, but his full strength never returned as it should have. The only event that had occurred between those two events was the blood bond Pravus made with the zhebəllin.

Cinolth’s head bobbed. “Now you understand.”

“Wouldn’t it still be a good idea? I could create blood bonds with every species of evolved creatures and control them all.”

“Orcs, gnolls, zhebəllin, and other fallen races are susceptible to such blood oaths, but no higher races are. You are still naive and have much to learn.”

“Don’t you dare—” Cinolth swooped down and settled on the ground with a thud, jerking Aria forward and disrupting her thought.

The orcs and gnolls turned in their direction, weapons poised for an attack. Mezhik crackled at Aria’s fingertips as she slid off the side of Cinolth’s neck. She landed hard on the ground, jarring the bones from her feet all the way up through her spine. With a touch of mezhik, she cast her pain away.

Using mindspeak, she said to Cinolth, “I’ll handle this. Go find yourself some food.”

Cinolth didn’t respond but took to the air, nearly knocking her off her feet. She knew he did it on purpose, but she had more important business than scolding him. Besides, it wouldn’t do her a fat bit of good. Instead, she conjured a ball of light and stalked forward through the wet, waist-high, golden grass. Her fingertips stroked the stalks as she walked, reminding her of Red’s corn patch back in Viscus D’Silva. She touched her stomach and smiled.

You’ll live far better than I ever did, blood of my blood.

One of the orcs—a massive beast of muscles and veins—positioned himself in her path. Several fox hides, soaked with rain and covered in dried blood, draped around his thick neck. A golden ring hung from the cartilage between the nostrils of his porcine nose, and blue eyes glared from beneath ridges of fiery-red eyebrows. A mace rested atop his left shoulder.

The monster snarled and slurred his words. “Ah, yes, the famed dragon rider and recent widow. Assumed you’d be older—” He wet his lower tusks with a grayish-brown tongue. “—but you’re good on the eyes… for a human. Think I might make a trophy out of you.” Some of the other orcs roared with laughter.

“Enough,” she growled. “You will bow when in my presence.”

The beast laughed, yet his hand tightened around the handle of his mace. “Orcs bow to no one but our master, Ƨin.”

Aria balled her right hand, and a purple, sparkling glow enveloped her fist. She yanked her arm down by her side. The orc groaned and dropped to his knees; his height now matched hers.

Several of the other orcs drew closer. One of them roared and launched himself at her. With a flick of the wrist, she released a burst of mezhik into the ground. A seven-foot-long spike of pure granite shot up through the grass and impaled the beast mid torso.

Blood gushed from the wound and ran down the length of the spike. The orc sputtered blood and wheezed one final breath before his yellow eyes dulled and he fell limp. The other orcs quickly backed off.

Not as stupid as I thought.

She turned her attention back to the first orc and moved within inches of his face. “What’s your name, foul beast?”

The orc fought to stand back up, but Aria kept the air around him weighed down with a thousand pounds of force. It took a good minute for him to realize that struggling was futile. Finally, he relaxed and said, “Murtag.” His breath reeked of sewage.

Aria retreated several paces, swiping at the air in front of her nose. She coughed. “You will address me as your queen. Am I clear?”

“As glass.”

She squeezed her fist tighter, dropping Murtag to his hands and knees. “Did you not just hear what I commanded of you?”

Murtag nodded. “Yes.”

“Address me properly, or I’ll remove your head from your shoulders and mount it on one of the walls in my castle.”

Murtag’s face nearly touched the ground. “Yes… my queen,” he grunted.

“There you go.” She withdrew some of her mezhik, lessening the force driving him toward the ground. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Murtag rose back up on his knees. “No, my queen.”

“Good.” She eyed the other orcs and the four gnolls. Each of them failed to meet her glare. “From this point forward, all of you will set aside your differences and work together in service to me. If any of you are caught fighting, you will be put to death. Both parties, no matter who started it. If this isn’t something you feel can be achieved, let me know now. I’ll be happy to end your lives right here.”

“No, my queen,” each muttered.

“Very well.” Aria moved around Murtag, keeping the pressure on his shoulders. The others backed away, and she strode toward the four gnolls.

Karraar, her indebted slave, bowed low as she approached. “My queen.”

The others mimicked him, albeit with what she perceived as a touch of reluctance. Her rage flared but remained within her control. She would deal with the three of them later. Right now, she needed answers.

“Rise.” The four beasts straightened, each towering over her by a good two feet. She scanned her surroundings but failed to see the reason Karraar had requested her presence. “What’s the meaning of this? Where is the dragon?” Mezhik crackled just beneath her skin, begging to be released. “Did you request my assistance to save your own hide?”

“Never, my queen. Please, follow me.” Karraar turned and led her a dozen paces south where the grass lay splayed on the ground for a good, long stretch. The other gnolls remained behind with the orcs. “This is where the beast crashed down. It slid to a stop at the far end over there.”

Her eyes followed the conjured light as it swept across the area.

No little dragon.

She walked over to the far end of the damaged area and knelt to examine the grass. Many of the stalks were charred, and dried blood spattered the surrounding foliage. A single claw mark pressed into an exposed patch of wet dirt.

Aria stood and faced Karraar. “And then it took off again?”

Karraar joined her. “Yes, but only for a short stretch.” He led her farther south until they reached another spot. “It crashed again right here.”

A three-foot diameter of smashed grass. But still no dragon. “Help me understand why I’m still not seeing a dragon. What the gods happened?”

Karraar scowled at the ground, then nodded. “I think you’ll want to hear the story first-hand.” He signaled one of the other gnolls.

A gangly beast with brownish-orange fur and mismatched eyes—one a deep amber and the other a yellowish white—joined them. Bloodstains painted his leather armor, and a deep, puss-filled gash ran crosswise along the right side of his neck and down into his collarbone. He favored the shoulder, his arm hanging limp at his side.

Karraar pushed him forward. “Tell our queen what happened, Durqel.”

Durqel picked at the wound on his neck and kept glancing back at the other two gnolls as he spoke. “The others think I’m crazy, but I know what I saw. Gods be my witness.” Although gruff like Karraar’s, Durqel’s voice came out several octaves higher and a bit faster. Almost slurred. “When I moved in for the kill, the beast struck me with one of its claws. Quick as a flash.” He pointed at his neck. “Right here. Never felt anything so painful. Surprised me. And I don’t surprise easy. Ask Karraar.”