Dawn Of Hope: Charity Anthology

by J. A. Culican

  Asta wanted that dress. She wiped her face and hands with her blouse and trousers as she pulled them off and tore the dress from the woman's body, leaving her almost entirely naked. The dress hung off her shoulders, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. She had always been fond of her shoulders, anyway. Her piece of shit husband thought they were her prettiest feature. Why shouldn't she show them off?

  The dress was such a lovely deep shade of blue, the type of colour she’d loved to wear as a human. The woman’s dead eyes stared up at her. Asta pursed her lips and smashed her heel into the woman’s pretty face again and again until her skull splintered beneath her weight. The spoiled bitch wasn't so pretty now, was she?

  Inside, the party was still ongoing, oblivious to the blood she had just spilled. It wasn’t enough to satisfy her hunger. The animal inside her wanted more, and she would give it everything it wanted.

  She followed the path the dead couple had taken and let herself into the castle through a side door. A long, winding hall led to a ballroom. The stone was cold against her feet, even colder than the dew-damp grass outside.

  Be discreet.

  Tor might have been the leader of their little clan, but he wasn’t the boss of her. Nobody was. She did what she wanted. What she wanted now was to kill more.

  The music and dancing stopped, the pleasant chatter turning to horrified whispers. Her mouth watered at their fear, and the animal scratched at her insides, demanding release, demanding enough flesh and blood to satisfy itself. Red eyes moved over the guests, pressing themselves against the walls as far away from her as possible.

  Another lifetime ago, she might have been one of these people. But she had never been such a coward as this. Asta Andreassen had stared her death in the face and laughed behind the hood that hid her from the crowd gathered to watch her execution. Her village still whispered her name in horror when they recalled her, and for good reason. In the last days of her life, Asta had shed blood for the first time without so much as flinching as she stabbed her adultering husband and his mistress to death. Now? Tor might have been their leader, but she was the one who had a ballroom full of mortals trembling under her gaze.

  If they wanted something to fear, she would give them something fear.

  Over the centuries, Tor had suffered at the hands of hunters. That was not to say, of course, that humans had not suffered just as much at his. There had been an unspoken order to things before, when he was young: vampires killed humans, hunters killed vampires, vampires killed hunters. It was a simple cycle, one that was meant to ensure the survival of both species. Tor had never taken it to heart until he found Sweyn.

  Sweyn and his maker had been held captive by hunters when Tor found them, following the decaying stench of vampire blood. His maker was long dead, left rotting at the young man’s shackled feet. Sweyn himself had been naked, with silver bands holding him in place and burning his flesh. His claws and fangs decorated the bloody cabin floor, and the hunters were laughing as Sweyn screamed in pain. It wasn't the way things were meant to be. They might have been monsters, but even they didn't deserve torture.

  The hunters were dead before they had even realized Tor was there.

  It would have been cruel to leave Sweyn to fend for himself in such a condition, and Tor had never been as solitary as most vampires. He had taken care of the young vampire until his claws and fangs regrew, then gave him the option to stay with his clan if he wanted.

  Sweyn had stayed.

  They’d learned that hunters were cruel. Perhaps there were some that hunted only out of self-preservation. Tor could respect that. However, after several lifetimes of killing to survive and seeing many young vampires starve to death rather than feed on humans, Tor realized people killed because part of them wanted to. Even Sweyn, who was so docile by vampire standards, enjoyed tearing through flesh. Even Tor enjoyed it.

  Tor liked to believe he didn’t. Death was such an ugly thing. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with how much he loved the feel of taking a life.

  Nobody liked to think of themselves as a monster.

  He watched the girl run from the castle, shouting about checking on her horse. Emilia, her father had called her. Her movements were quick and agitated, and she looked over her shoulder in an anxious motion. Sweyn stood in the doorway watching her. Perhaps she knew she was being followed. Their eyes met, and Tor gave a small nod. After a pause, Sweyn turned back inside.

  Tor had followed Sweyn’s lead and found something else to wear. With his hair pushed back, he might have looked handsome if not for his waxy pallor. He held out the handkerchief Sweyn and Johannes had found in one hand as he approached her. It would have been easy to creep up and kill her, but he was curious.

  It took Emilia a moment to notice him. When she did, she gasped and stumbled away from him, her delicate hand on her chest. Tor could hear the rapid increase of her heart, smell her blood rushing beneath her skin. His teeth itched with the urge to extend as though they were their own entity, reminding him of how little he had fed in recent days. The hunter’s blood had been far from enough to satisfy.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t see you coming. You startled me.”

  The words caught Tor by surprise and the realization dawned on him. This girl had no idea what he was. Though why should she? It was possible she had never seen a vampire in her life; most people hadn’t. With his clothes borrowed from one of the party’s guests, he certainly didn’t seem out of place. The only indication of what he was were the glowing red eyes hidden behind a mask that obscured most of his face. Did she not realize how foolish it was to come outside at night? Did she not think they might have followed her here? Did she not sense the animal attempting to claw its way through Tor’s body?

  No, of course she didn’t. Emilia wasn’t so much a girl as a young woman, perhaps even younger than Tor’s wife had been at her death, but living in such isolation must have given her an amount of naivety. Regardless of what she knew about them, one couldn’t understand what existed in the world until one experienced it for themselves.

  It was a shame she would never have that chance.

  Screams echoed through the castle. Tor cursed Asta at the back of his mind. It had to be her. She always had to be the centre of attention. He should have known better than to let her out of his sight.

  “That bitch,” he muttered.

  Tor wanted to spend more time with this girl, but the opportunity was lost. Emilia turned towards the castle and away from him, her fear strong enough to smell. There was no time to savour it. He grabbed her by the throat and pulled her flush against his chest. His hand crushing her windpipe cut off her scream. Fingernails extended into sharp claws, piercing her skin and puncturing her veins for him.

  Her blood was thick and rich, with a sweetness that would have faded with age if he had let her live. A century or two ago, he might have. That wasn’t the way the world worked anymore. If hunters were going to kill his family, Tor would do the same to theirs. The hunter had come after them. He had brought this on her himself.

  It only took seconds for her to stop struggling. The force of her heart beat pushed more blood into Tor’s mouth and only served to drain her more quickly.

  Erland and Gottfrid were at his side before the others. Tor dropped the body to the ground. Her wide eyes stared up at him in empty horror. His gaze lingered on her for only a moment before he turned his attention back to the castle and the screaming inside. Figures ran past the windows to find safety.

  “Asta,” Erland spat as though it was a curse.

  “She’s going to get us all killed one day,” Gottfrid said in his usual quiet drawl.

  Tor ignored them both. He would deal with Asta later, though he knew she would be entirely unapologetic about it. His daughter-figure was remorseless. Though, perhaps he was just as responsible. He would have been lying if he said he didn’t let her get away with more than he should have.

  “Where are Sweyn and Johannes?
” he asked.

  Worry crept into his voice. He didn’t like not knowing where his clan was, especially when he didn’t know whether these humans had weapons. Silver weapons were far from household staples, but one could never be sure.

  Before either Gottfrid or Erland could answer, two figures emerged across the grass at an unbothered pace. Blood hit Tor’s nose, but it didn’t belong to either of them. Human blood.

  “Where’s Asta?” he called.

  One of the figures, Sweyn judging by the height, turned back to the castle. Tor followed his gaze. A mad laugh cut through the air and a woman jumped through a window. Panic tightened Tor’s chest, but she landed and took off running in the same beat, holding up her torn skirts. She overtook Sweyn and Johannes, who broke into sprints to catch up, and ran past him into the woods, still laughing. Her fangs and claws glimmered in the moonlight.

  “She’s going to get us all killed,” Gottfrid repeated.

  Again, Tor ignored him. The humans were still shouting and screaming, but they didn’t appear to be making any effort to chase after them. Still, there was no sense overstaying their welcome.

  “Let’s go.”

  They followed after Asta, the sound of her laughter echoing through the trees. Sunrise was coming, and they needed to find shelter. Hunger still gnawed at him, but it would have to wait until the next night. Humanity wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he.

  The End

  * * *

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  Sea Glass and Sand Memories

  By Marsha A. Moore

  Sea Glass and Sand Memories © 2017, Marsha A. Moore

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Car packed, mail held, gas tank full, lunch in cooler. Ready. I drove away from my home, embarking on a five-hour drive north to Lake Michigan. The midday heat of July climbed, and I longed for cool shore breezes.

  Heading along Route 12, I drifted back through memories of past trips to the eastern shore with my parents.

  This time I chose to travel alone. I brought my journal, watercolors, and traveling easel. No companion would sit still long enough for me to compose a story or painting. The picturesque dunes, scattered with grasses, drew plenty of artists. I planned to visit several local galleries and gain some ideas.

  The ring of my cell phone pulled me out of my daydreams. A Michigan number, it was the owner of the bed and breakfast I’d booked for my stay.

  I answered, and her voice crackled apprehensively. “I’m calling to ask if it’s all right that we switch your room. Last night a pipe broke in the bath of the weekly you requested. I’ll upgrade you to a suite for no extra charge…if that’s acceptable.”

  “Sure, no problem. A bigger room sounds great.”

  “Oh, thanks,” she said, and sighed.

  “Yep, be there in a couple hours.” After I hung up, I wondered why she sounded so upset. Maybe upheaval with a household problem. The bill for repairs would make anyone shake.

  Warren Dunes State Park was my stop for a lunch break. I opened the car door, and a wave of crisp sea air and sweet pine tickled my nose. I breathed deeply. It had been a long time. After eating, I headed to the shore to stretch my legs. I combed the surf for beach glass, like many times before with my folks. I collected a pocketful of frosty white, cobalt blue, and apple green fragments, edges softened to a hazy patina from years of tumbling in harsh lake waters. I turned one piece over in my fingers while studying it.

  A lone gull glided close and let out a cry, probably a game to see if I’d jump. It won–I did.

  After stowing my treasure in a pocket, I headed back to the car.

  * * *

  In neat blue lettering, a sign on the main road indicated “Sea Grass Bed & Breakfast, turn right here.” I followed its direction down a gravel lane, expecting to soon see something resembling the internet picture of a quaint, clapboard two-story inn.

  Passing only deep woods for a quarter mile, I wondered what lay ahead. By now the forest grew so dense, the overhanging limbs formed a dark tunnel. Did I miss another marked turn? The online advertisement described the accommodation as, “Secluded, with breathtaking lake views. Great for those wanting to be inspired by nature or seeking a romantic get-away.” Okay, I agreed with the secluded part. The road became an unpaved lane, just two tire tracks. My front wheel thumped into a pothole, and I slowed to fifteen mph. Creeping at that pace another quarter mile set my nerves on edge. Secluded now seemed more like isolated.

  Finally, I rounded a bend, and there stood the house I recalled from the picture. White with royal blue trim, shutters, and door. A porch swing swayed in the breeze. Planters sat on the railings, filled with cheery red geraniums. I parked on the circular drive. My feet crunched against gravel as I walked to the stepping stone path. A black lab greeted me with a wagging tail and escorted me up the porch steps. I rapped with the fish-shaped door knocker, while my new friend barked to herald my arrival.

  A plump, gray-haired woman appeared. With a kind, grandmotherly smile, she held the screen door open and encouraged me to enter. “Hello. I’m Margaret, but everyone calls me Mags.”

  “Hi! I’m Kate, from Ohio.”

  “Come in! I thought it might be you. My, what lovely blue eyes you have. I see Erebus beat me to welcoming you.” Recognizing his name, the dog’s ever-wagging tail increased to triple speed. “I know you’re happy to see her, too.”

  “That name hardly suits him, he’s so friendly. His black coat seems like his only connection to Hades.” I bent down and rubbed one of the pooch’s ears.

  “I know.” The owner shrugged her narrow shoulders. “He belongs to one of my lessees and stays with me during the day, while she’s at work.” She glanced at the dog and extended a hand, which he happily licked. “You’re my companion, aren’t you, Erebus?” Mags motioned to Kate. “Let me show you around inside and help you get settled. Follow me.” She turned and walked slowly with a slight limp through a large sitting area showcasing a wall of picture windows.

  “Wow! What a view!” Gray-blue water stretched to the horizon. The pine forest gave way to rocks and then a large expanse of grasses, tousled into matted confusion by changing winds. The rippling blades rose into humps that followed contours of the dunes beneath.

  The advertisement pitch now made sense. I itched to start painting.

  Mags smiled, obviously accustomed to this reaction from her clientele. She led me on to the dining area. “I serve breakfast for my guests here daily from seven to nine, but on weekends, I tend to do it up a bit fancier with hotcakes, scones and such. Of course, you’ll be able to fix meals for yourself in your suite. I think you’ll be pleased. It’s quite spacious, and the view is lovely. Still can’t make out how that new plumbing failed and during the night with no one there. Neither can my plumber.” At an antique roll-top desk, she placed a pen next to a rental agreement. “If you’ll take a minute to sign in.”

  The accommodations she described sounded terrific, so I scribbled my signature.

  Mags as
ked to check my driver’s license, then gave me a key. “Why don’t you move your car to the side of this building, and I’ll meet you there by the old garage to show you your rooms.”

  I repositioned my car and gathered bags, while Erebus tried to help me.

  My apartment was located above the oversized garage, finished in the same manner as the inn. As we headed up an outdoor staircase, the dog squirmed past, obviously unable to wait for Mags to take her time climbing. At the top were two doors. Mags unlocked one and showed me where I’d stay. The main area held simple basics: kitchenette; dining nook; TV; couch; coffee table. But a large window offered the same amazing view as in the main house. I dropped my bags and hurried to look out. It overlooked a tiny deck with two chairs and a side table. “Fantastic! That will be a great place to paint.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” she called out from the bedroom. “I’ll open a window in here to let in the lake breeze. That always feels good on summer evenings.”

  I followed her voice. The tiny room was big enough for only a double bed and nightstand. I didn’t mind. I was here to paint, write, and enjoy the coast and shops.

  “I think that’s all, so I’ll let you get settled.”

  I escorted her to the door. As soon as I opened it a crack, Erebus darted out and disappeared through a dog access flap in the opposite door. “He lives there?”

  “Yes, with Zandra. She must be home. It’s after the time she closes her store.”

  “What kind of shop does Sandra own?”

  She whispered. “Zandra...with a ‘Z.’ An art gallery of sorts—kinda kooky stuff, but she makes a living. Keeps to herself, a free spirit. She’s been here five years, since—” Mags didn’t finish her sentence. She appeared troubled and drifted toward the stairs. Zandra seemed to bother her. But weren’t all artists eccentric? I was probably no different.