Dauntless
Thomas G. Atwood Jr.
© Copyright Thomas G. Atwood Jr. 2016
Published by Black Rose Writing
www.blackrosewriting.com
© 2016 by Thomas G. Atwood Jr.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First digital version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-1-61296-725-7
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Print edition produced in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to my father, who taught me that heroes are real and are all around us. And to Angel Blackwood who has been instrumental and amazing through every step of writing this novel.
I could not have done this without her.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
About the Author
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Chapter 1
It’s been four years since the night of my mother’s death. I can still see it in the quiet moments. I can feel the Arctic wind freezing my face. I can hear the soft hiss of the ice cracking, and the giant crash as the lake swallowed me whole. My mom didn’t hesitate; she plunged into the frigid waters to pull me out. She handed me into my dad’s open arms, letting the icy waters claim her instead. I’ll never forget the expression on her face as she fell into the blackness. Countless therapist visits couldn’t make me shake one simple fact. She was dead, and it was all my fault.
Our home was never the same afterward. My dad was determined to spend every moment with me. After a few months, he scoured the house, taking down all her pictures and moving them to a secluded part of the crawlspace. Two things survived the purge. The first was a single photograph, showing me standing in front of a small cabin. The second was the white, frilly book that held his wedding photos. He’d pull the album out of his room, and we’d huddle together, sifting through pictures. My dad would tell me all about her adventures, traveling the globe, climbing the tallest mountains, skiing the steepest hills, and hiking through the thickest jungles. Every day he told me how I reminded him of her, and each day I followed her example.
I didn’t have any mountains to climb, hills to ski, or jungles to hike, but I did have Woodland Falls. It was my city, a place I knew better than anyone else. The city was my playground. I spent every day jumping from rooftops, leaping onto fire escapes, and running from one end of town to another. The adrenaline surge helped me forget. I’d outrun the hordes of bullies who roamed the streets and dodged the police who’d run after me for sneaking in somewhere. When the adrenaline surge wore off, I’d lose myself in mementos of her. The relief would vanish, consumed by the guilt. Every discovery brought the pain back as if it was yesterday. My dad swore several times I’d inherited all she owned.
So you can imagine my irritation when I got a six AM phone call telling me to drive down to her lawyer's office and pick up a chest I inherited.
We pulled into the driveway around noon. The wind screamed like a giant’s breath, sending icy waves cutting through the neighborhood. Snow continued to fall over the city, casting everything in a delicate white powder. My feet crunched as I stepped out of Aidan’s truck. He grunted as he pulled the gleaming rosewood box out of the flatbed.
“This thing weighs a ton!” he complained as he struggled to hold onto it.
“You’re a big guy; you can handle it,” I said, teasing. He rolled his eyes at me, and I grinned, brushing away a stray strand of black hair. Aidan was my best friend ever since we were kids. I’ve loved him even before I knew what love was. We were never apart. Whatever foolish stunt I decided to pull, he was never far behind. While I grew up awkward and scrawny, he’d become the kind of guy girls threw themselves after. Every inch of his body was bronzed muscle, and emerald eyes seemed to peer straight through you. Long, chestnut colored hair flowed in the wind, and his grin radiated with a warmth that made each moment feel like the first day of spring. I opened the door for him, and electricity seemed to shoot up my arm when he touched it. He dragged the chest in with a grunt, pressing his hand against me to move me out of the way. I shook my head, banishing a series of thoughts and fantasies that flowed through my mind at the small gesture, and helped him cart the chest into the middle of the living room.
“So what’s in that thing, boulders?” Aidan asked, setting the chest down in the middle of the living room.
“No idea.” I walked over to the chest and pulled on the top, but the lid remained closed. I sniffed as I inspected the lock.
“Yeah, whatever. Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I beamed. “Where’s my cake?”
“It’s in the back of my truck. There’s a crowbar back there that you can use to open the chest,” Aidan offered, which caused me to glare at him.
“Don’t you dare, this was my mother’s.”
“Well, how else do you propose we get it open?”
“Like this.” I knelt next to the chest, reaching into my jacket pocket to produce a small lockpick kit. Aidan cocked his head as he saw me examining them.
“Why do you have those?” he asked.
“Mom taught me how to use them. I broke a window after I locked myself out once. She said picking locks was easier and cheaper.” It was a matter of seconds before I felt the tumblers align and the lock opened. I grinned at Aidan as I threw the trunk open. He walked over, helping me to inspect the contents.
“Let’s see…clothes,” I said, setting a folded pile to the side. Aidan pulled out a scarlet, silk blouse that was cut low at the top, and gave me a sly grin.
“You should wear this,” he said, causing my cheeks to burn bright red as I snatched the shirt from him, and set it on top of the pile.
“Think so?” I mumbled eyes focused
on the bottom of the chest as I felt my heart pounding.
“Well yeah, you’re hot,” he replied, as calm as if he was reporting the weather. I rolled my eyes as my cheeks burned, but he turned his attention back to the chest. “We have…wow, what has to be a dozen medical textbooks.”
“My mom was a nurse.” I set the books to the side, smiling as I flipped through them. “She always wanted me to be a doctor.”
“Well, we’re heading to college next month, you can go pre-med.”
“No way, I am nowhere near smart enough to be a doctor.”
“Come on; you earned straight A’s after glancing at the textbook. You’re the most intelligent person I know.”
“Then you need to hang out with a better class of friends,” I quipped, glancing inside the open chest. As we continued to pull my mom’s old clothes out, I noticed knives of all shapes and sizes stuck to the side. Each had brown, well treated, leather sheaths. Aidan pulled one out and held it up to the light. The gray steel blade gleamed in the well-lit room, light dancing on the edge of the blade as it traveled down to the keen, razor-sharp edge. Aidan flipped the knife around in his hand several times before giving a low whistle.
“Wow, they’re light,” he said, impressed. “I think it’s Damascus steel, fashioned into an ivory handle. This thing is a work of art!”
“Damascus steel?”
“Back in the day, the city of Damascus had some of the finest smiths in the world. There’s a rumor that the masters could make weapons that could cleave through the side of an anvil.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I know knives,” he explained. I continued to stare at him, and he rolled his eyes. “My uncle owns a pawn shop. People brought all sort of merchandise in there, and I have to be able to say what they’re worth.” He cast his eyes on the ground as he said it and tugged at his sleeve. My eyes went wide at the gesture. Aidan was lying to me. He’d never done that before, at least as far as I knew. He glanced up and gave his usual million-dollar smile. I set my suspicions to the side and stared back into the chest to find a small, gray lockbox inside. I lifted it out of the chest and set it down. The lock box had a numbered keypad on it, and I scowled as I considered how to proceed.
“Well, that’s a pain,” Aidan said, staring at it. “Any chance your mom told you how to get past these?”
“As a matter of fact, she did,” I returned. “I can pop the cover and fiddle with the wires until it short circuits, but that could take hours.”
“Wow. I’d help you with that, but Cyber-Ninjas vs. The Bikers from Venus is on in a few,” Aidan quipped.
“I’ve seen that one, the sequel is better. Besides, I can guess what the combination is.”
“How do you plan to do that? A lock like that has got to have a billion combinations.”
“It’s simple. No one’s password or PIN is random. So Mom taught me to think of a password that would mean something to me but seem random to anyone else.”
“Does it bother you that your mom taught you all of this?” Aidan asked, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.
“What do you mean?” I asked, lost in concentration. "Doesn't everyone's mom teach them skills?"
“Sure, my mom taught me how to knit. Laurie’s mom told her how to mix a long island iced tea from scratch…”
I stared up at him. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, her mom has issues. My point is, your mom taught you parkour, martial arts, gymnastics, and how to pick locks? It’s almost as if your mom was teaching you how to be a thief.”
“Hey,” I said, pointing my lock pick at him, “my mom was awesome.” Aidan held his hands up in surrender, and I gave him one last glare before pressing a combination into the keypad, causing it to pop open. Air hissed as it escaped from the box.
“So what was the combination?”
“I’d tell you if I wasn’t too busy being a thief,” I grumbled, annoyed at him.
“I’m sorry, alright. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
“If I buy you a bottle of soda at the arcade, will you love me again?”
“Love? I…you…. I never said…what?” I sputtered up at him, confused and nonplussed, and my hands shook so hard the lock pick fell from my hands and tumbled across the floor. I stared up at Aidan, and his emerald eyes shone down at me.
“I knew if you were flustered, you’d forget you were mad at me,” he replied, smirking.
I glared at him. “You are not half as smart as you think you are.”
“I know I’m not. What’s in the box?
Inside was a leather bound journal. Strange runes decorated the edges of it, glowing like the embers of a dying fire. I ran my fingers over the cover, and I could almost feel my mother gazing down at me. I flipped to the first page and saw my mom’s usual immaculate calligraphy writing across the page.
“The war journal of Marie Alexander…” I started, the words grabbing my attention.
“Huh, I didn’t know your mom kept a journal,” Aidan replied, still fascinated by the knives.
“Aka Sophia Angeline Blackrose,” I finished, blinking in surprise at the name. “Who’s that?”
Aidan shot up, his face as white as the grave as he turned toward me.
“Say that name…one more time,” he asked, each word tense and heavy.
“Sophia Angeline Blackrose?” I asked, staring at him. “Why?”
“Kacey, I need you to listen to me. I want you to take that journal and hide it away somewhere.”
“What?”
“A safe deposit box, the top of Mount Everest, hell, try the surface of the goddamn moon. Somewhere where no one else can find it.”
“What’s your deal? Why are you overreacting?”
“That name…means something to my group of friends.”
“Who are your friends?”
“I can’t tell you that,” Aidan said, pacing.
“Okay…why does that name freak you out?”
“I can't say that either,” Aidan said, groaning. He ran his fingers through his hair. “I…I need you to trust me on this.”
I ignored him and continued to flip through the book. The pages had stories of hunts ranging all across Europe, of my mom tracking down and killing hundreds of monsters. Grotesque illustrations lined the pages. Vivisections of beings with their organs cataloged pictures of snarling creatures from the deepest nightmares growled across the page, as if ready to leap out. The bottom of each page had the same illustration, a sketched rose with a leering skull imposed in front of it. The last few pages began to mention me, and I chuckled as I read them.
“I had no idea my mom was into writing fiction.”
“What?” Aidan asked, running his fingers through his hair as he continued to give me worried glances.
“This is grotesque, but it’s awesome,” I replied. “She even wrote me into the story.”
“What did she say?” Aidan asked, racing over to stare at the journal. I inched away from him, confused as I snapped the journal shut.
“Okay, you need to calm down. Why does this freak you out?”
Aidan continued to pace back and forth until collapsing on the chair across from me.
“Kacey, I’m going to tell you something. You’re not going to believe me, but I swear every word is true.”
“Shoot.”
“All of this is real.”
I laughed. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
“Kacey!”
“Is this a practica
l joke? You slipped this book in there to screw with me, right? Well done, come on let’s put everything else away.”
“This isn’t a practical joke,” Aidan swore. I continued to smirk at him.
“If I can prove it to you, do you promise that you’ll hear me out?”
“Sure,” I said, sarcasm dripping from my words. “Prove it to me.”
Aidan proceeded to push back the furniture, creating a wide-open space in the middle of the living room. I chuckled to myself. I loved Aidan’s practical jokes when they didn’t involve me prying my shoes from the ceiling. Whenever he saw someone he thought deserved to be taken down a peg he’d do something to screw with them. Sometimes small pranks, like hiding their keys, putting hair remover in their shampoo, and even tricks as banal as a hand buzzer. Other times he went all out, including the time he managed to suspend our principal’s new Porsche from the auditorium ceiling. He never explained how he did them, and the most elaborate tricks often seemed like magic. I’d never seen him commit to the pranks before, but I was sure that all of this was some joke he was pulling on me.
And then the lights went out.
One by one, every light bulb in the house flickered and died, plunging the room into the dim light of the storm-ravaged sun. Darkness crept across the windows and seemed to flow like an ooze invading my home. The cloud of darkness swirled and danced around the living room until I couldn’t see an inch in front of me. I fell back, sprawled on the living room floor as terror gripped me tight in its grasp.
Fire burst across the room, illuminating everything with its weak light. I stared in disbelief as a single torch hung from the wall as if it had always been there. One by one, dozens of braziers surrounded the living room, creating a wall of fire that cast the room in their dull light.
Dad is going to be pissed if these burn his wallpaper was the one thought that managed to penetrate my overwhelmed mind. Aidan stood in the middle of the room, chanting as a solid sheet of ice appeared in the center of the area. Inch by inch it swallowed him, twisting and blackening as it turned into a suit of black plate mail. A blue, icy battle ax appeared in his hands as he stared down at me.
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