by Jeremy Craig
Darkling Rising
Book one
The Cursed Blood
JEREMY SCOTT CRAIG
Copyright © 2020 by Jeremy Scott Craig
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2020
This is a work of fiction. Names. characters, events and incidents described therein are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living, undead or just plain old dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.
The author can be contacted at:
[email protected]
Webpage:
https://jscraigbooks.me/
I would like to thank everyone that helped make this dream of mine come true. Especially my family who endured many a long night of me sequestered in my office typing. My simply awesome artist whose outstanding work brought my story to life. My simply outstanding editor who tolerated my odd writing style and helped polish this book from a manuscript to a reality. And of course, my ever patient and helpful beta readers.
I love and appreciate you all, and cannot thank you enough for all your hard work on this journey we took together.
Acknowledgements:
Editing: Katrina Schroeder
Webpage: www.katrinaeditorial.com
Cover Art: Jeff Brown
Webpage: www.jeffbrowngraphics.com
Ebook formatting by ebooklaunch.com
I lovingly dedicate this book to all my family,
But particularly my grandmother who inspired me,
and my sons whose love of reading constantly
reminds me that books are magical portals to
countless new worlds and adventures
A Note to the reader
When I started typing up this novel I sincerely hoped that as you read it, not only would you enjoy a dive into a magical world full of wizards, witches, hunters, and adventure, but also, I rather hoped I might reach some of you. Not with any subliminal messages or silly gratuitous ideas of me being particularly gifted or better than anyone else. No, it’s nothing to do with that sort of arrogant silliness.
I wanted you to understand and see that no matter what, no matter how much anyone—even that shoulder perched nagging devil of self-doubt that whispers in your ear that you don’t have it in you and that you should play it safe and not even try—none of that means a thing unless you let it. Unless you give up. Unless you listen to the rejection, ridicule, or advice of the doubters who cautioned you away from daring to have a dream.
I am intimately familiar with all of this and all the feelings that come with it, and I’ve been told more than once that I couldn’t, shouldn’t, and was daft for even considering it.
My advice, as a man with disabilities who has heard “you aren’t able” and “some people have it – you just don’t” his whole life, is a simple four-letter word, and easy to remember: RISE.
Be the phoenix that soars from the ashes. Be fiery, fly, be beautiful. Do it despite them, and never, NEVER, ever give up on your dreams.
Kindest Regards,
J.S. Craig
Contents
Acknowledgements
Dedication
A Note to the reader
Prelude
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
White Owl’s Halloween Ghost Story
Prelude
A world a step outside yours…
Magic is real. May as well rip that band-aid off right at the beginning. As, for some odd reason, it is a harder pill to swallow than Elves, Vampires, Orcs, Dwarves, and pretty much every other fairytale creature still walking the earth, and most mundane humans don’t even notice.
Yeah, mundane human beings—or simply the non-Fey humans, born or living with no magical ability, curse, or affliction—are pretty much oblivious and gullible. Give them some electronics to play with and they would walk right past a dragon, step over its tail, totally ignore a sounder of Orcs lurking in a dark alley and shoulder through a gaggle of Elves, not even once looking up from typing out their social media post or staring at the newest viral cat video.
Of course, Agnos Merlin’s Oldfable enchantment definitely helps nowadays. To expand on that, several hundred years ago a bunch of the most powerful of the Feyborn (Shamans, Witches, and Wizards of the races) got together in a great council to discuss the “human problem.”
And yes, the average non-Feyborn/mundane human is unquestionably a big problem. How you ask? Well, it’s fairly simple. The ones that know about magic and the Elder races, (Dwarves, Elves, and such), tend to fall into two categories. The ones that are scared out of their wits and blame magic and Elder race creatures for everything, and those that want to use them and their magics to solve all manner of problems. From the simple, to the world dominating variety.
I imagine things must have gotten pretty exhausting back then. The Feyborn were either running from torch and pitchfork-waving mobs that wanted to burn them at the stake. Or worse, being pestered to make magic swords and brew potions and other such silliness (or even more distressingly, being press ganged into service to cast fireballs and other destructive spells as an enslaved weapon) by every would-be warlord and hero from Athens to Atlantis with a bit of ambition.
So, back to this great big meeting. It was held in what is now called England in the celestial temple you all now may know as Stonehenge, which is hallowed ground that not even an Orc would dare cross with weapons or bad intentions.
Which is exactly why that spot was chosen, as even then, the races and Feyborn all hated each other for one silly grudge or stupid reason or another, and they needed assurances that battles wouldn’t break out mid-conversation. As humans were the one and only problem dangerous enough to everyone, the rest agreed that something just had to be done.
And so, the first Council began on the first day of the winter solstice. There were arguments, feasts, more arguments, debates, a few duels, a rather spectacular game of what you now call ‘soccer’ and yes, more arguments. Honestly, that is the one thing besides a deep distrust of Humans that Feyborn mostly all have in common, the love of arguing.
The two Dwarfish kingdoms had different opinions. The Mountain Thanes wanted to construct an army of automatons (you probably know these horrors of magic as elementals) to wipe you all out down to the last woman and child.
While the Stone King of the Underworld wanted to flood the surface again and just be done with it. Insisting it was simpler just to let things start over fresh and clean. This idea gained more than a bit of traction in the beginning but was eventually crushed under the enormity of trying to figure out just how to save everything living that couldn’t swim.
The Seven Forest kingdoms of the High Born (Elves), who normally wanted nothing more than to be left alone and save the trees you lot like to chop down so much, were totally ready to march on humanity as a whole, killing or enslaving every last one of you.
Not surprisingly the Orcs loved the idea of a big war, but no one liked the idea of another army of Orcs. Because once they were done with the humans, it was more than likely that they would become quite a big problem for everyone else as well.
The Vampires, who none really trusted or liked (for obvious reasons), wanted to protect but cull their herds of fo
od, but were adamant that such measures be taken to assure that things didn’t get out of hand. This being the one and only time in written history (Feyborn history goes back WAY farther than Human history) that Vampires were the champions of reason and cautioned for restraint on behalf of anyone.
In short, it was a big mess and not a soul was happy until old Agnus Merlin the Arch Wizard, tottered up to the floor with his blue crystal topped staff and pointy hat, offering a solution (between bites of a ham sandwich) that perked up more than a few pointed ears with a spell he had been working on for over a thousand years, which he advised was really an older spell he’d finally perfected.
It had taken ages (Wizards—even Human ones—live an absurdly long time and are outrageously powerful, which is why there is only ever five of them at any one time) but he assured the gathered dignitaries that his pursuit (which many folk, many of whom were in attendance had mocked and ridiculed him endlessly for) had been absolutely worth it in the end.
Merlin warned that the spell was costly, it wasn’t perfect, and to keep it going would have consequences, but all in all everyone agreed it was for the best. Mostly because hordes of Orcs, apocalyptic floods, elemental armies, and world war were just too large and ugly tasting pills for all the Council to unanimously agree to swallow.
It was done the very next year on what you now call Devil’s Night, and tragically the last of Earth’s ancient dragons were hunted, captured, and sacrificed to pay the blood price (dragon blood is an extremely potent magical catalyst—the older the dragon the better).
And so it was done.
The Oldfable spell slipped over the minds and eyes of all humanity. And all of a sudden, away into legend and make-believe went the Elves, Witches, and Vampires, and with them the last golden age of magic ended – at least for the majority of mundane humanity which was going through a very bloody dark age at the time (one of many they’ve had, I’m afraid) that Feydom was more than happy to finally be left out of.
Which brings us to me, of course. The part not a soul among what we now just call “The Fey” are incredibly happy about. I’m (mostly) what they call a Darkling.
A Human born of magic, but with no magical powers, who can see through all magic, but mostly no magic can affect (among other things that most of my kind can do, and others that they can’t).
I know, confusing. Just imagine trying to live with it. It’s quite the headache at the best of times and ‘best of times’ for me are few, which just comes with the territory, I suppose.
Now that you’re likely somewhat confused as to what a Darkling is, I’ll get to the real simple part. What we do. In short, we’re hunters and guardians (At least were supposed to be). Investigating, covering up the Oldfable that shrouds the magical world and protecting mundane humanity and the races from the darker beings and touch of magic.
Which, I have to tell you, can be a royal pain in the neck, and no, that wasn’t a derogatory comment about Vampires. When it comes to them it’s more a migraine from hell than anything else.
I’m really trying not to be racist, but I simply don’t like them. The whole blood drinking thing just makes me queasy, even if 90% of it is willfully donated (yup, they pretty much own the Red Cross). Needless to say, I don’t trust them in the least (trust me I have my reasons), a frowned upon and icky bigotry that has more than once saved my skin.
So, we’ve covered in a few short pages the Fey, the Fable, and I’ve given you a bit of an idea as to what most of my kind do. Not bad considering it’s a very, VERY, VERY simplified summation of over five thousand years of history (give or take a decade or two). I’m pretty proud of that to be honest. However, we’ve got a way’s yet to go.
I suppose it all tragically started when it always does, thanks to Merlin’s dirty little spell, with the way magic seems to just love dark, sinister, lonely nights as equinoxes of power and such.
I was thirteen at the time. It was October. The beginning of it to be precise, on the 3rd. On the day that most of the races of the Fey revere and uphold as a festival day with much feasting and merriment known as Harvestide.
Ironically for me, it is a day traditionally begun in celebration and thanks of fruitful harvests and ended with drinking and the burning of the Straw Man to bring fresh starts, luck, hope, and prosperity for the next season.
Every now and again over the years I find myself wondering if, as the revelers tossing their papers with bad habits and bad thoughts jotted onto them into the flames to be purged that night, if they had idea the tragedy, misfortune, and horrors that was only just beginning to be set into motion for all of Feydom. I know I had been pleasantly clueless of what the fates had in store; of that I can assure you.
Up until then I was a pretty average kid, nothing special, nothing unique. My family wasn’t rich or famous and I definitely wasn’t popular or even really noticed (outside of the opportunity my existence offered for regular entertainment, at my expense of course). I certainly wasn’t athletic or even very coordinated as I regularly tripped over my own feet. Not particularly smart or gifted, or even noticeably unique in any interesting way, I was honestly just an average, simple, run-of-the-mill kid.
Lots of folks liked to say it was a great time to be alive back then. A perfect time to grow up. It was years before cell phones, the internet, and social media, back when “kids knew their place.” And years before things really started to “go to crap” as the old timers in trucker or VFW hats lining the lunch counter at the local Walworth would insist, as they sipped at their coffee and picked at fried baloney sandwiches and slurped at split pea soup. Mom used to bring me in there every Saturday for a Coke and egg salad sandwich in one of those paper lined red baskets.
Good times.
That glass Coke bottle really made it taste better, and to this day I can’t quite get over the soda fountain taste. And yeah, there’s a difference. Something about that frosted bottle of ice-cold soda with a straw just made it more real as you sipped at it and crunched on those salty potato chips.
I was thinking about this when we were puttering about a local AMES Halloween section (another now defunct , long shuttered, and bankrupt American department store) for my costume with my very frazzled and tired Mom, the Friday before I went to a school friend’s Halloween party.
Billy, a short, chubby, freckle-faced, and allergic-to-almost-everything kid was easily the closest thing to a friend I’d had for years—and pretty much my only friend, to be honest. However, I’m fairly sure he only invited me because his mother made him as her and my mom were in a book club together. I was the weird kid, and even he knew associating too much with me could earn him a trip to the toilet bowl courtesy of “the jocks.”
We only hung out on weekends, but never outside or in the sun (his mother insisted it wasn’t good for him). And he always vanished from school at lunchtime, which I couldn’t blame him for as the cafeteria could be a risky pace to be—no place to hide and lots of people to laugh at you and make things worse when the inevitable bullying started up.
It was nothing personal. He was just as scared of the football team as I was and didn’t want to give them any more reason than normal to take an unhealthy notice of him. Like everyone at the bottom of the school food chain, things could easily get difficult quick if one wasn’t careful. Although on this particular occasion, I’d had a rough, frightening, and exhausting day, to say the least.
I remember it as if it were yesterday.
I was thinking about that Saturday tradition of lunch and hanging out in the school cafeteria, just daydreaming away over a chocolate milk and what the lunch lady tried to sell as a sloppy joe. “Staring off into space” as my mom liked to call the habit.
Quite suddenly, but not entirely unexpectedly, things all at once got out of hand rather spectacularly as one of the school varsity patch jacket-toting dick heads from two grades up decided to take up his favorite past time of screwing with me.
My daydream of a nice tall ice-cold Coke, a gri
lled cheese, and a spirited game of chess was interrupted as one of those cardboard milk cartons the cafeteria served was dumped over my head.
This indignity was predictably accompanied by a chorus of raucous applause, pointing, high fiving, and laughter as I sat there in stunned silence. Rivulets of milk streamed from my hair, down the back of my shirt, into my eyes and onto my face and glasses. You get the picture, right?
“Kids can be cruel.” I’d heard that often enough in my life up to that point as I was tall for my age and a little too thin (my dad regularly called it proper bean pole thin) with thick rimmed glasses, no Nike shoes or school sports jacket and longish hair, so I’m sure you can hazard a guess at the stuff I dealt with in school up to that point.
I’d heard it all from teachers and the school guidance counselor and even my parents who had exhausted almost every avenue of recourse to try to put a stop to it, even getting kicked out of a PTA meeting if you believe it. Everyone ended up always saying the same thing and nothing made it any better and everyone knew it. Everyone just gave me those “poor kid” sympathetic looks.
I’d just learned to take it and move on.
I sat there with my face flushing with humiliation and wiped at my face and cleaned my glasses off with a part of my shirt not yet covered in milk. Scrubbing at the lenses until I could see through the streaky mess well enough to make it out of the cafeteria and down the hall to the bathroom without tripping and falling on my face.
Or at least be able to see and react to when another of my fine classmates (likely looking to score some social popularity points by adding to my humiliation) inevitably stuck their foot out in the hopes of making me faceplant on my ear reddeningly jeered and cat called “walk of shame.”
I shouldered my backpack, picked up my now milk-drenched tray, stepped over the feet that swept out on my way to the trash cans at the front of the lunchroom where I dumped the sopping ruined lunch and stacked my tray with the rest of them.