Beckoned: Born of Darkness (Book 1)

by R. B. Fields

  Beckoned

  Born of Darkness #1

  R. B. Fields

  Copyright 2020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect those of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, scanned, or transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without written consent of the author. All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Pygmalion Publishing, LLC

  Contents

  1. Dawn MacEwan

  2. Silas

  3. Dawn

  4. Dawn

  5. Markula

  6. Silas

  7. Dawn

  8. Dawn

  9. Draynor

  10. Dawn

  11. Dawn

  12. Kain

  13. Dawn

  14. Dawn

  15. Markula

  16. Dawn

  17. Draynor

  18. Dawn

  19. Silas

  20. Dawn

  21. Dawn

  22. Dawn

  23. Kain

  24. Dawn

  25. Dawn

  26. Markula

  27. Silas

  28. Draynor

  29. Dawn

  30. Kain

  31. Dawn

  About the Author

  For the strong women, the badasses, the misunderstood. May you never feel the need to fit into someone else’s box.

  Vampire Prophecy:

  “One will rise, forged of bone and flesh, to become a love like no other — inamorata.”

  1

  Dawn MacEwan

  My mother used to tell me I was born to the dark; that’s mostly bullshit.

  But I am drawn to it. It’s weird the way it wakes me some nights, shadows slithering through my veins like oil, seeping out from the hidden places inside me where no one else can see. Dawn is a weird name for a woman like that, a woman so immersed in darkness, but I think my mom was trying to fight against what she already knew — that I wasn’t like her.

  I’m not like most people.

  I walk, the thumping of my black boots on the splintered wood of the boardwalk making a sound like that of an angry bullfrog. The thin line of lights they’ve strung above the boardwalk sways, and the shadows undulate, a million ghosts trying to find footing before the breeze whips the light away, making the ghostly shadows vanish into the water below. I guess I’ve always had a vivid imagination. Maybe I should have been an author, a playwright, a musician, some particularly creative brand of person who spends their days on fanciful pursuits, who loves life and flowers and puppies — I mean, not that I don’t love puppies. What kind of monster wouldn’t love those fuzzy bastards? I’m only human, after all. But the monsters …

  I know them when I see them.

  I’ve been a nurse for ten years, and I’ll never get used to the injuries or the heartache that often comes with them. And no matter how fast I stitch, there’s always one more asshole ready to destroy the people I want to help, whether it’s a woman beaten senseless by her lover or a kid abused by his parents — a man run into a tree by some dickhead with road rage. I’m not perfect by any means; I’m one pill away from a quick slide to hell. I used to think the drugs would take the edge off, but it never lasts.

  But this high will last, at least for a little while. I’m pretty sure this isn’t what my mother wanted for me, raising me alone — she tried so hard to keep me away from monsters.

  And here I am, wandering toward them.

  This stretch of bridge has been the hunting ground for someone more vicious than the domestic abusers who show up at the hospital to kiss their wives after they’ve roughed them up. A serial killer, they think, strangling women and tossing them from the bridge — three have washed up on shore, the same fine band of bruising around their throats, their chests and bellies torn open, organs missing, intestines shredded. The guy I’m after is probably just responsible for the strangulation, though; it’s most likely that an animal lurking beneath the bridge is responsible for the rest, ripping up the scraps the murderer tosses down — a symbiotic relationship between killer and wildlife. I can still hear the newscaster’s voice in my head: Police say the Breakwater Bridge is hazardous and have imposed a curfew — no foot traffic is allowed on the bridge after seven p.m.

  But not everyone can avoid the bridge, which means there will be more victims unless I stop him. The police force in this tiny Maine town can’t patrol the boardwalk — it would take all night to walk up and down, and there are only two deputies on duty, and at least one of them needs to be stationed outside the town’s only bar. Clarence Church will be beating the shit out of someone come eleven o’clock, nine on the weekend. And there’s not another good way home if you work on the peninsula. On a busy weekend night, it takes forty-five minutes by car to take the clogged two-lane street around the water — the peninsula, what the kids call “the penis,” juts out far enough that a bridge over the rocky shoreline is the fastest way back to civilization, and the long stretch of beach under the bridge is made of gray stones that are treacherous on a good day but vicious in the dark. Anyone trying to take a shortcut beneath the bridge would likely kill themselves in the surf.

  But it’s Tuesday now; no one’s working tonight. The Ferris wheel is dark on the pier, just a skeleton outline that I wouldn’t have been able to see if not for the silvery moon. This is when he’ll hunt, I can feel it in my bones, but it’s also logical — he hasn’t been caught yet, which means there’s no way he’s hunting when it’s busy.

  The ocean roars, salty and cold — I can almost hear ice in the autumn tide. I can hear the rocks too, the way the waves throw themselves onto their sharp surfaces, uncaring, ready to be cleaved apart for just one moment of freedom, one taste of raw air. Like me, I guess. Catching a homicidal maniac … it’s exhilarating. I’ve caught three killers so far, but any one of them might be the one that kills me. Any one of them might see me. I’m not sure why I haven’t been snatched up yet, but my mom always said I was sneaky, and that’s probably true based on the current evidence.

  But there’s nowhere to hide on this long stretch of bridge, not so much as a garbage can to obscure my presence, and only the noise of the surf to cover my footsteps. Quiet — good. Ever since my mother died, I’ve been partial to silence. Something about hearing her being torn apart — serial killers, amiright? Probably not a shocker that I’ve made it my life’s mission to put these assholes out of commission. I wouldn’t wish the things I’ve seen on my worst enemy, except maybe Marcy Miller, who showed my panties to our whole third-grade class. That hoe has it coming.

  I stop in the middle of the bridge and listen to the song of the ocean, the accompanying whistle of the rushing wind pushed around by the tides. Seconds pass. Minutes. Bitter wind bites at my nose. The Ferris wheel vanishes when the clouds obscure the moon, then glints back into being. A dove coos at me from the railing, brilliant red eyes glaring — it’s watching me. The skin between my shoulders prickles. The bird flutters off into the night as if it feels my tension and wants to escape it.

  And then I hear him — footsteps.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  It sounds like a heartbeat, and my heart responds in kind, matching every throbbing movement of his shoes — more a sixth sense born of having to watch your back. Between the hospital and my mother, I know bad actors abound; even my own fathe
r sounds like a real piece of work. I sometimes wonder if my dad raped my mom, if that’s my real legacy, but I never asked her. And I sure as hell can’t ask her now.

  And then … nothing. My heart pauses. Silence sighs through my veins, thick and heavy. And then the throbbing is back. The tap of the man’s shoes draws closer — is it him? The Boardwalk Butcher? I don’t know for sure, not yet, but I raise my fingertips to my hip where I keep my mother’s knife. The leather is chill and damp and has never felt more like skin. The blade’s edge and the symbols carved along the sides are hot, though — they’re always hot because, by the time I reach for it, my adrenaline is already pumping like a firehose through my veins.

  The dull tapping of leather on wood comes again, louder, wetter — thwack, thwack, thwack. I click the snap and unsheathe the blade. I’ve always been more comfortable with a knife than with a gun. I’m more agile than most of the assholes I catch, and martial arts has forged me into a better fighter than, say, a dickhead who needs a wire to strangle a woman on a bridge.

  I push myself off the railing and turn away from the sound of his feet — still too far to be dangerous. If he starts running, I’ll run too. I’m fast as hell, and I can have the police on either end of this bridge by the time I get to the parking lot that marks the end of the boardwalk.

  But I only take a few steps before my heart leaps into my throat. The man behind me is not the only one on the bridge. In the distance, another man is approaching. There’s no reason for anyone to be out here, not now, and despite his broad-shouldered frame, the boots on his feet, I did not hear his footsteps approaching over the rickety surface of the bridge. A dark hoodie hides most of his face, but I can see the chiseled line of his jaw; faded jeans cling loosely to his hips. He raises his head, and his gaze meets mine, eyes violet in the silvery moonlight.

  The footsteps behind me accelerate.

  The man in front of me smiles.

  Two of them. There are two of them out here on a night no one should be on the bridge. Are there two killers, a tag team of maniacs? The police hadn’t considered this, and neither had I. Shit. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

  I slip the knife free of its holster and clutch it to my abdomen, ready to raise it if I have to — the stranger in front of me is twenty feet and closing, and from behind me, the spread thrum of footsteps carries on, thud-thwack-thud. I pick up my pace, muscles like steel, eyes narrowed, but when I blink …

  Huh. I squint, scanning the boardwalk, but I see only the moon-washed boards, the rail on either side, the black horizon of the parking lot in the distance. The man in front of me is gone. But there’s nowhere for a man to go unless he flung himself over the railing. I almost laugh — of course my brain would invent a handsome stranger on a long lonesome bridge. Not only is this exactly the kind of situation that screams “damsel in distress," but I haven’t had sex in months.

  I listen to the footsteps behind me — closer. Closer. Who needs sex when you can bag a killer?

  Thudthwackthwack, faster now, still far enough back that I’m not in danger yet, but time is of the essence. I run. The parking lot seems so far away, but I’ve got the stamina. I clutch the knife in one hand and thumb my cell phone on with the other. 9-1 —

  The pain comes out of nowhere, a blinding flash of agony like white-hot poker stabbing into my brain. I don’t remember falling, but I’m on my knees, the wood splintering against my shins, my head an aching, throbbing ball of light. No, there’s no way, he was so far back — how did he get here so fast?

  It’s impossible, but undeniable — I’m on the ground, my head aching where he smashed something into my skull.

  And he’s above me.

  I can smell him, an old muskiness like mildew mingling with the metallic tang of fear. Dizziness tugs at me, trying to pull me to the earth — my ears are ringing. And the phone … I see it, the screen blinking at the sky ten feet up the boardwalk. I imagine how I might look dashed against the rocks, my dark hair hiding the blood. That thin line of purple around my neck. My heart ripped clean out of my chest.

  I squint, trying to focus my eyes, but they refuse; all I can do is listen. His breath is like the growl of a monster, but I can’t tell exactly where he is. It’s as if his breath is coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, whisking around me in a tornado of hatred. It should be nothing more than a hissed whispering barely noticeable above the roar of the surf, but I swear it’s like he’s screaming at me — I hear the blood in his veins, too, the whooshing of each individual air sac in his lungs. I hear how desperately he wants to kill me. It’s weird how it doesn’t scare me — death. I don’t hate my life, I don’t, but it’s just never felt like … well, enough.

  Sorry, Mom, I know you wanted more than this for me. I’ll be apologizing to her in person soon enough. Well, not “person,” I guess. In … ghost? But I don’t believe in ghosts.

  I do believe in evil. My spine goes rigid.

  I’m not dying on this fucking bridge.

  I blink, the fuzzy haze dissipating from the corners of my vision, and launch myself forward, skittering up the boardwalk, the knife still clenched tightly against my ribs — if I can get to the phone, maybe I can alert the police. I’m not sure what other choice I have; if I climb over the rail, I’ll die on the rocks below just as surely as I’ll die here, but at least I won’t give that fuckstick the satisfaction of killing me.

  Splinters stab into my kneecaps. The phone is a weight in my hand. His breath … Is he gone? I can’t see, the world beyond the phone looks dark with shadows, and even if that’s my eyes … I don’t hear him. Can’t hear anything but the wind and the pulse of panic in my brain. My fingers shake as I tap the buttons, 9-1-1, sen —

  The phone skitters away as he grabs my arm just below the shoulder, wrenching it from the socket. I grind my teeth to avoid screaming — because fuck him, that’s why — and use his stability to haul myself against his arm as I twist, pulling my fist from the earth and slamming the butt of the knife into his balls. Usually, a shot to the taint puts a man on his knees, but he doesn’t seem to feel it; his grip doesn’t waver. His nails are steel spikes against my bicep, sharp — too sharp — tearing my skin.

  But I won’t scream. I won’t give him that.

  Dizzy — so dizzy.

  I go limp for one heartbeat, long enough for him to shift right. He’s at my back, one hand on my arm, his shoes squared behind my hips. I tighten my fingers on the blade. One. I breathe — deeply, purposefully. Two. I tense my muscles, preparing.

  Now.

  I whip the knife back into his thigh, feel the blade ram into his flesh. I know I hurt him this time; his hand slips from my injured shoulder. I jerk away, scrambling up the boardwalk. I can’t see the end anymore. Too far — much too far.

  He roars like an animal, a low rumble deep in his chest, but he does not stop moving. He lunges for me, staggering, dragging his injured leg. The knife falls from his flesh and clatters to the wood. I throw an elbow, whipping my body his way, and lash out with my opposite fist, connecting with his hip, but again, it does not phase him — it’s like hitting stone. And I can’t fucking see him; his face is dark beneath his hood. But I can hear him. His breath is ragged as if he has marbles in his lungs — as if he’s dying — but I know that’s too much to ask for. Every martial arts lesson, every day of training, and it was all for nothing. The world wavers, a kaleidoscope pattern of the boardwalk planks, and the far-off Ferris wheel, the dim yellow glint of a lighthouse well past its prime.

  I feel the metal around my throat.

  The world solidifies. I look at the sky, the blanket of stars. The killer behind me pulls the wire tighter. Heat pours into my face as the blood freezes in my veins. Darkness encroaches on the edges of my vision. I flail at him, but every time I move, the band around my throat grows tighter. The world is shrouded in darkness — I can’t even see my own knees.

  And suddenly, the pressure is gone, the roar of the surf is gone, and all I can
hear is a horrific screaming like that of a thousand demons — or what I imagine they might sound like. Am I dying? Is this what it feels like? But no, the pain is all still there, the horrid ache in the back of my skull, the stinging pain from my tattered arm, the burning in my lungs, but the air … It’s rushing into my chest, and I can see my hands, the wood beneath, the bloody nub where one of my fingernails used to be.

  The screaming stops. The surf roars. And while there is no screaming, there is another sound, a wet tearing sound, and that noise … I know that noise. I can see my mother on the floor; I can hear the monster above her. But that was just a dream.

  This is real.

  I push myself onto my knees and finally turn my head. A sharp pain sears through my throat — dizziness tugs at me once more. But through the film of my wavering vision, I can make out the shape of a man … No. Two men, one on the ground, the other crouched above him. A heavyset man with tousled blonde hair lays on the boardwalk, his black hood puddled on the planks, a wire wrapped around his fingers. The wire that should have killed me. So familiar, that man — where have I seen him before? Is it my imagination? I shudder when I meet his eyes, but he’s not staring at me — he’s looking through me. Dead, he’s dead, that fucker.

  But the man above him …

  The man on the boardwalk — he’s real, he’s real, too — is hunched over the killer, the thick ropey muscles of his shoulders wrestling beneath the cloth of his sweatshirt, his face hidden behind the bulk of his shoulders. He leans lower, and the killer’s arm jerks, too, and … What is he doing? Giving him CPR? Don’t help him, that asshole deserves to die! But if they were partners …