Dearest Clementine: Dark and Romantic Monstrous Tales (Letters Book 1)

by Candace Robinson

  “Neck is fine.” Ira cocked his head and faced away from him. However, March could feel Ira’s eyes trying to study him.

  March’s hand didn’t shake because he’d cut flesh before. It wasn’t as if it was hard and he knew how deep to go. He bent his knees a fraction so he could meet the spot where the blood bloomed. With a deep breath, he leaned forward and sucked in the liquid’s warmth, not the least turned on by that either. But parts of him hardened at the softness of Ira’s skin and how one of the half demon’s hands lingered at March’s waist, stroking his thumb back and forth.

  It was the wrong time for March to lust for a stranger, but he felt it nonetheless. He pulled away and backed up a few steps. “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Ira said, breathing deeply, “but we need to hurry. The blood should also help so you won’t fall under his spell.”

  March squeezed the arrowhead in his hand and noticed that the screaming had stopped. No one was making a single sound out in the corridor. They quietly slipped out of the room and March looked to his right, seeing people still lined up against the wall. Before his head could fully shift to his left, something hard slammed into his shoulder, pushing him up against the wall. He couldn’t see who it was, but he knew it was the underground demon. The flap of the demon’s wings echoed around the corridor.

  From up ahead, Ira whirled around, with his eyebrows raised all the way up, and mouthed, Don’t move. March didn’t think he could move if he tried.

  “What is this?” a deep voice slurred at his ear. March could smell the scent of blood wafting off the demon.

  “One of your feasts, my lord,” Ira said, sauntering closer.

  “Why is he following you?” the demon’s voice boomed, deep with rage.

  Before Ira could speak, the demon flipped March around to face him. March stood as still as he could, trying to appear glazed and unfocused like the others decorating the corridor. He silently prayed the blood worked and he wouldn’t become the demon’s bloody plaything.

  The demon’s eyes were large like Ira’s, except their color was a bright, glowing red. His nose curved and came to a long point.

  “I want this one next,” the demon cooed, inching closer so that their noses almost touched. March had heard of people pissing their pants when frightened. He never thought it was true until that very moment when he thought he might not be able to control himself.

  “You have a line waiting.” Ira motioned up ahead at the others.

  “No,” the demon said. “I think this one will be sufficient.”

  The arrowhead was still clenched in March’s hand and with all the courage he had, he shoved it into the side of the demon’s neck and took off on the quickest sprint of his life. Ira caught up and grabbed March’s hand and pulled him even faster.

  Behind them, the pounding and beating of the demon’s wings echoed, nearer than March would have liked.

  Up ahead a lake sparkled and Ira shouted, “Hold your breath.”

  They barreled into the lake, Ira wrapping his arms around March’s waist. Automatically, March kicked his legs as Ira propelled them forward. The dark water made it so he couldn’t see anything, least of all where they were headed.

  Eventually, above them, a small amount of light filtered through what might have been a door of sorts. Ira pushed it open, breaking them through. March’s lungs started to burn and he needed air, but he held on as much as he could.

  The water became no longer dark, but clear—familiar. The lake. His lake.

  In his head, March counted as the surface came closer and closer. Four. Three. Two. One. His face hit air and he took in a deep inhale—the oxygen feeling like a true feast. Ira flung March onto the shore and right as he stuck his hand out to Ira, the half-demon was sucked back into the depths.

  Frantically, March searched around, knowing he could take off running—but he didn’t. He clumsily jumped back into the lake and swam until he could see the demon clasped onto Ira’s leg, trying to yank him back under. The demon’s wings beat against the water, creating thick waves.

  March sliced through the water, getting as close as he could. With a tight fist, he punched the underground demon in the face. It barely moved. The demon turned his head to look at March as in, What the fuck did you just do? March wanted to ask himself the same question.

  The demon’s clawed hand came around March’s throat, crushing like a vise, choking him. Ira rushed between them, ripping the second arrowhead from around his own neck before plunging it into the translucent skin just below the creature’s ear. Blood mixed with the water as March found the opportunity to slam his foot into the demon’s stomach.

  Angry bubbles escaped the demon's hideous mouth as he screamed. March felt the creature's grip loosen from his neck as the demon sank, falling, flailing furiously at his wound. Ira kicked the demon viciously in the head—once, twice—driving the struggling creature deeper into the darkness.

  Ira grasped March’s hand in his, both kicking their legs without turning back. March wanted to lean into Ira’s strength as he carried him forward, pulling him upward, toward the surface.

  Hands shaking, March fell to the ground, breathing heavily as he scooted back away from the lake. “Is the demon dead?”

  “No.” Ira shook his head. “He can’t die.”

  “But you can?” March knew Ira was half human so it was possible.

  He shook his head again and lowered it, then placed his hand in March’s, squeezing it tightly. “And neither can you. But we have to go before he finds a new helper—underground demons cannot last too long in the air above the surface. That’s why he refuses to come out.”

  March didn’t hesitate and ran, not releasing his hold on Ira’s hand. All he had ever wanted in the world was to die, but in that moment, March truly wanted to live. He had Ira to thank for that. Their story together wouldn’t end here. Bound together forever, it had only just begun.

  Dearest Clementine,

  I’m going positively mad without you. I feel as if I can hear you screaming in my sleep, and when I’m awake, I can hear you everywhere! My fiend heart is crying for you, too. Wherever you are, I hope you hear my words of encouragement. Who would have thought that fiends could love so deeply? You saved me. Did I ever tell you that? You rescued me from myself when I felt so incredibly alone. It was because of you, and it always will be, my beautiful darling. For now, my dearest, this story is for you. You did always like a good ghost story.

  Always Yours,

  Dorin

  Darkness Can Be Good

  1942

  From the pot on top of the stove, Frankie ladled the steaming stew into a ceramic bowl. Her hand cramped up, causing a bit to splash on the hardwood floor.

  “Drats,” she said as she bent down and cleaned the spill with the edge of her apron. She stood back up, a dizzy spell washing over her, and her body swayed from side to side. She’d been getting these episodes for the past week. The same thing had happened to her sisters. First came Anna with her bright smile, then Julia with her caring heart, and then Wendy with her curious questions. Now, it seemed to be happening to her.

  Frankie and Wendy were the only two left, though. Anna and Julia had already passed into the next world.

  “Are you all right?” The shout came from the sitting room—her Aunt Gemma. She heard the creak of her aunt’s rocking chair as the older woman sat in her usual place by the fire, her slippered feet moving her back and forth as her wrinkled hands stitched endless blankets.

  “I’m fine, Auntie,” Frankie called back, holding the hot stew in between her palms. “Thank you.”

  After Frankie and her sisters’ parents died, Aunt Gemma had taken the four of them into her home. It had been tough adjusting at first but, as time went by, things got better—until the illnesses struck.

  “You’re moving too slowly,” Felisha said, her cousin brushing past her to go into the sitting room, not stopping to lift a finger to help. Her cousin was more like the evil stepsisters
in Cinderella. Lazy and a-good-for-nothing. Always playing with her bright red hair or putting on makeup in the mirror.

  Frankie wanted to yell at Felisha’s back, but it would do nothing. There were times when Frankie felt she was too nice, but sometimes, she didn’t want to be that way anymore. And Felisha didn’t help in that matter.

  Instead of saying what she really wanted, she asked, “Would you like some stew?” It was only meant for Wendy, to help her heal, but Felisha had gazed at it with hungry eyes.

  “No.” Felisha turned around and crinkled her nose before leaving Frankie’s view. “I prefer my own cooking, thank you.”

  Frankie nodded, even though Felisha couldn’t see her. Sighing, she picked up a spoon and placed it into the stew. The stairs groaned as she headed up to her shared room with Wendy.

  A noise from inside caused Frankie to stop in front of the closed door. Voices radiated from inside. No, not voices, only her sister’s. “Will you tell me about your life again?”

  Frankie craned her neck so that she was only a millimeter from her cheek touching the door, to get a better listen.

  “What do I dream about?” Wendy asked, her voice weak. “Going outside again.”

  Frankie’s chest ached when she heard Wendy’s words. It had been weeks since her sister had been able to go outdoors. Quietly, Frankie pushed open the door and peered inside. “Talking to ghosts again?”

  Wendy wasn’t frightened by Frankie’s intrusion, just gave a tiny shrug. “Only Gordy.”

  Frankie smiled a small smile at her younger sister. She’d already heard so much about Gordy and what a gentleman he was. “I remember those days of having imaginary friends.”

  “Again, Sister, he’s not imaginary.” Wendy let out a little giggle. “He’s standing right beside you.”

  A chill crawled up Frankie’s spine as she slowly turned to the spot where Wendy was looking. Nothing was there. She wanted to slap herself for believing that something could be. “There’s no one.”

  Her sister cocked her head and grinned. “Gordy has a crush on you, you know.” Wendy shifted her eyes from Frankie to a spot across the room. “Don’t lie, Gordy. You’re always asking where my sister is, and you’ve even mentioned how pretty she is.”

  Frankie frowned in confusion because Wendy’s imagination was becoming a bit too unrealistic. Above her sister’s brow, beads of sweat had gathered.

  Setting the stew beside Wendy’s bedside, Frankie leaned over to press a hand against her sister’s head. “You’re burning up!” She quickly grabbed the dry rag from the headboard and dabbed at her forehead.

  “I’m fine, Gordy!” Wendy shut her eyelids.

  “I’m Frankie.” When her sister didn’t respond, Frankie wrapped her hands around her sister’s shoulders and lightly shook her. “Wendy? Wendy!” But she didn’t open her eyes.

  Death should have been a usual occurrence by now, but it was something Frankie would never really get used to. And if she did, maybe she wasn’t really human after all. In that moment, she wished she wasn’t human. The room with the ornate yellow wallpaper, the dresser, and the old writing desk seemed to spin around her.

  “Auntie!” she screamed, releasing her sister’s shoulders and clasping the headboard.

  The dizziness didn’t dissipate when she straightened.

  Something moved in her periphery. Before she could fully turn to the image, Frankie’s legs buckled, and she dropped to the floor. The last thing she heard before she closed her eyes was a man’s voice shouting out her name.

  Frankie fluttered her eyes open, meeting sunlight for a split second, and then shut them again. Her entire body felt so weak, her muscles stiff, and she wanted to sleep for days. Finally, after many struggling attempts, her eyes opened and settled on a man around her own eighteen years of life. He sat on the edge of her bed, black hair cascading to his shoulders, a lock falling over one blue eye.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her throat dry.

  “Gordon.” His voice had a thick and deep sound that was pleasant and friendly.

  The room was still spinning as she sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “A doctor?” Her memories hit her like a hammer to the skull, and she twisted her neck to her sister’s bed, throwing off the covers. “Where’s Wendy?”

  Gordon shook his head, something akin to sorrow crossing his face. “She passed two days ago, and she’s already been buried.”

  Frankie needed air—her lungs were lagging. It couldn’t be true. “Where are my aunt and cousin?” They couldn’t have just left her for days in this room, making her miss her sister being buried, could they?

  He shrugged, but his eyes never left hers.

  Frankie stood and noticed she was wearing a white nightgown. Her aunt or cousin must have helped dress her. At that moment, the door flew open and her cousin stepped inside the room.

  “Well, since you can’t serve yourself, guess who became the next servant?” Felisha spat. “Me. That’s who.” Her cousin flicked her red braid over her shoulder.

  “I don’t need a servant.” Especially if it was to be Felisha.

  “You’ve already ended up like your sisters and are going to die anyway.” Pursing her lips, Felisha crossed her arms and leaned on the doorframe.

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped, and she glanced at Gordon and then back at her cousin. “I don’t need a doctor. I’m feeling fine.” She wasn’t feeling all right at all, but she didn’t want this attention from anyone.

  Felisha’s eyebrows furrowed and a deep crease formed down the middle. “The doctor is on his way—we’ve had it handled. It isn’t as if your fever ever got too terribly high, but Mother wants to make sure.”

  “Thanks, Gordon,” Frankie said with a hint that he could leave. “That will be all.”

  “Who’s Gordon?” Felisha took a small step forward. “And who are you talking to?”

  Frankie’s head twisted to where Gordon was standing, chewing on his lip and staring at the ceiling. He didn’t say a single word.

  “The man right there!” She pointed fiercely at the guest.

  Felisha shook her head with no concern whatsoever. “I think you’re starting the hallucinations, same as Wendy did. Remember Gordy? Or have you already forgotten?”

  Frankie gripped her skull—she avoided looking at the man that she could still see in her periphery. It wasn’t possible. “Take me to Wendy.”

  “You’re too sick and need to rest. Going outside to the cemetery will only make things worse.”

  “I feel fine!” she lied.

  “You’ll stay in here before you condemn anyone else. I’m probably already catching whatever is festering inside you.” Felisha put her hand on the doorknob. “Now sit down, and I’ll bring you your dinner.”

  Turning around, Felisha’s skirts swished as she shut and locked the door. Why were there locks?

  Behind her, Frankie could hear light breathing. Shakily, she turned to face the man—Gordon—still seeing him there. She hurried to the door and twisted the knob, but it had indeed been locked. She couldn’t leave and she wanted to scream.

  Holding her breath, she turned back around, and the person, who only she could see, stood with a blank expression. “Gordon—Gordy?”

  Slowly, he nodded and gave a slight bow. “My lady.”

  “Why-why can I see you? I didn’t before.” Wendy had really been seeing Gordon all along, but there had to be a reason why she couldn’t see him until now.

  “Because,” he whispered, “you’re dying, my lady.”

  Her entire body stilled, the heart inside her chest seemed to no longer exist as it quieted at the same time. But then it pounded, pounded so fiercely she couldn’t keep her breaths even. “It’s not lady… My name’s Frankie or Francesca, but I prefer Frankie.” Her lower lip trembled on the last word.

  “I already knew your name… Frankie.”

  A tiny memory came to her from before she’d passed out and struck the floor. “It was you who I heard before slip
ping away, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Are you dead?”

  He nodded.

  Her heart beat more frantically than it ever had as she stared at this man, this demon, this ghost. “Only the evil stay. You would have passed when you died.”

  Gordon nodded again. All the time he’d remained standing beside her bed as if glued to the floor. She got a better look at his face as she focused clearly on it for the first time. High forehead, plump lips, straight nose, and a strong jaw. He was pleasant to look at.

  “Are you bewitching us one at a time? Is that it?” she whisper-shouted and backed up until she hit the wall.

  A sigh escaped his well-shaped lips as though he was human, as though he was going to put a spell on her with his words. “No. I’m trapped here because of things I’ve done in my past. Things that I thought were out of my control.”

  Frankie stared hard at the man in front of her, building up the courage to calm herself down—to stop thinking irrational thoughts. Her bare feet moved over the cool wooden floor. Without taking her gaze from his, she held up her hand, not trusting herself at the moment—or her possible ill-induced hallucinations.

  Her eyes stayed locked with his and she spread her fingers apart. “Touch me, then.”

  For a long time Gordon stared at her before deciding to shuffle toward her. Biting his lip, he pushed his hand forward. Frankie waited for his fingers to pass through hers. But they didn’t—his skin, not quite warm, not quite cool, pressed against hers. A squeak escaped her lips, and she yanked her hand away, then bounced back on the bed.

  “I can feel you!” Her hands flew to her mouth and she looked away from him.

  “Yes…”

  “But how?” And even if he was a ghost, or something like that, she’d have expected him to feel as cold as ice.

  “I told you before… You’re dying.” His tone was incredibly soft as if he knew saying anything slightly wrong would cause her to panic. However, she still trembled.