Living in Darkness (Bloodbreeders)

by Robin Renee Ray,

  BLOODBREEDERS:

  Living in Darkness

  By Robin Renee Ray

  I am honored to give thanks to several people who are dear to me. To my firstborn grandchild, Akasha Leigh, whom without the sight of I may have never sat down with a pencil and tablet. To her baby sister, Shya Rayne, my second muse who has driven me further in my desire to create. To Edna Jeanette Miller, my beautiful mother, for starting this tale by being born in the setting that fed my mind with the life of living in the darkness. To my sister, Deanna Earlene Slayton, who explored more cemeteries and abandoned homes with me than one can even imagine. We will miss her dearly. To my brother, Sydney Bruce Slayton, for lending me his home when the need to write another book in this series arises. And finally to my daughter, Kysha Rockell McBee, the other half of my heart, without her this would not be possible. Thanks for sharing your time with me, Robby!

  Living in Darkness

  Book one in the Bloodbreeders series

  By: Robin Renee Ray

  Copyright © 2011 Robin Renee Ray

  Published by: Hellfire Publishing, Inc

  www.hellfirepublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-937179-73-1

  Cover art by: Dara England

  Edited by: Jen Hart

  This book is work of fiction. Characters, names, place, incidents, or organizations are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Bloodbreeders:

  Living in Darkness

  Prologue

  I lie in the cold silent darkness with no way of knowing how much time has passed, for what seemed like an eternity. Saturated in the putrid demise of others, I feel the absurdities terrorize what is left of my mind. All that I have to keep me lucid are my memories of home, and my ever present wish that someone will save me from the unimaginable nightmare that is now my unthinkable reality. The pain that’s throbbing with every beat of my heart, coursing its way up from my badly broken ankles is just one of the many obstacles standing in my way of escape. I know now that he never lied to me. I’ve known it for quite some time, but I had allowed my vulnerability to sway me into the deceitful arms of my creator’s long time enemy, and her evil plot for revenge.

  Even as I lay broken, both in body and spirit, I know that somehow, I will one day find my way back home—back to the place from which all this madness manifested. I know I will never be able to show my family that I’m not in the grave where they so grievously placed me. They have every right to believe me dead and rotting in my hand-made coffin, and to them, as well as the rest of the normal world, maybe that’s exactly where I should be. But I will go to my final death trying to get back to them, only this time things will be on my terms and not on those of my maker. Oh, how I have prayed that my body would die before the setting sun, and that my final thoughts before the dawn that takes me to my daily death would be my gift for suffering. Then I would at least be at home with my family, in a sense… or would I be cursed to the final fire, because he took my soul?

  I lie feeling the gore soak into my flesh, while the stench threatens to steal the already tainted air from my lungs. Bones of others now surround me in my dome-like cage encasement. The thick slime covered floor will be my bed for as long as they wish to keep me. I close my eyes to the already black silence, hoping for a slither of solace in a place filled with nothing but vulgar brutality—and undeniable death. I still often pray to the Lord, having no way of knowing if he even listens, that I can someday envision, just once with my eyes and not in the many dreams of fantasy rescues, that beautiful farm back home. Slipping deeper into the darkness of my mind, I work hard to find a dim memory. One, that I can vaguely evoke, but desperately grasp through the misty clouds of my thoughts.

  The one that I find and hold is of my mother in the kitchen, what now seems like centuries ago, with my little sister Edna hanging on her apron string. I had found my form of escape in that small piece of my mind, and that’s when I reclined in my desolate domain, giving way to the pain as I started to recall how it all began.

  Chapter 1

  I will never forget the night that he arrived at the farm. My family had already sat down for supper when we heard the knock on the door. Even though it was late in the evening for company, it was not unusual for a lone traveler to take on work with my father for room and board. Most would ask to stay for a few nights and at times end up staying until the following spring, while others only wanted a short rest, accompanied by a hot meal. So it was no surprise when my father opened the door to yet another stranger in need. The man standing on the other side caught everyone’s attention, especially mine, wearing his long black coat and tailor made gray suit, spruced up with shiny black shoes.

  You could tell by his manner and the way he took off his gray silk hat, tilting his head as he gave us his greeting, that he was a true born gentleman, apologizing without delay for interrupting our meal.

  "Forgive my intrusion," he said softly.

  I was so busy staring that I almost missed the accent that carried the words that he spoke. He was a very handsome man and absolutely not from our neck of the woods. From what I could tell, he was somewhere in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He was tall with a slender build, and his hair was a bit long for what I was used to seeing on a man, but he wore it well.

  The flowing locks were as black as night, pushed back behind his ears and draping down over the front of his shoulders. His eyes were like a clear summer’s day, the palest blue that I had ever seen, but they stood out brilliantly next to his extremely white skin in the glow of our lanterns. His skin was by no means that of a working man; it looked as smooth as silk from what little my wandering eyes could see.

  When my father asked him what it was that he needed, he only replied, “A place to rest good sir, for I have traveled far and I am very weary." Every single one of us had to pick our mouths up off the floor, because not even my parents had ever heard someone speak in that fashion.

  "Why don’t you join us? You must be starvin’, and we got plenty," my mother asked, getting up from the table.

  "That is most kind, but please do not worry yourself, I have need only for rest," he replied, then looked back at my father.

  My father grabbed his hat from the nail by the front door and put it on before taking our guest—the most intriguing thing to cross my path since I've had one—to our bunkhouse, where we boarded those who stayed. The hat was just a ritual and something my father did whether he was going to work in the fields or out back to the outhouse. God love my parents, they never turned down anyone, not one single soul. My mother, being the sweet woman she was, made me take a plate of food out to him, regardless of his choice to decline, along with some extra blankets. Needless to say, I was scared to death. I had never seen a more beautiful man in all my days, and I guess you could say I already fancied him just a bit.

  It wasn’t often a man could turn my eye. I knew my family needed my help, so it was just something that I tried not to think about. But while I gathered the blankets, I couldn’t stop hoping that I didn’t look as bad as I knew that I did. Sloppin’ pigs and milkin’ cows wasn’t something to curl your hair for. God knows I didn’t have time to fix the strands of hair that had made their way out of the tightly woven braid that had been wrapped in a bun at the back of my head all day, nor did I have a snowballs chance of changing my soiled dress. So, I pinched my cheeks to give myself some color, smoothed my hair best I could, and out the door I went.
I remember to this day how stupid I felt on my way to the bunkhouse, thinking to myself, Do I say ‘Howdy, sir’ or ‘How are you? My name is Renee.’? What actually came out of my mouth made me seem like a stuttering fool.

  I walked through the open door to the bunkhouse, and didn’t see him anywhere. I took a few steps in, and as I opened my mouth to say the words ‘excuse me’, a voice with a foreign tongue from behind me said, “Yes?” I jerked around, somehow managing not to scream, but at the same time lost my footing. The man reached out, taking hold of my arm to keep me from falling, simultaneously grabbing the stack of items that I had in my hands. When I was once again steady on my feet, he handed me back the stack that was meant for him in the first place. I swallowed the lump that had firmly cemented itself in my throat and smiled.

  “Oh, hey, I was just bringing you some blankets to eat.” You blooming idiot, I thought to myself, immediately feeling the blood rush in massive amounts to my cheeks. “Um... I mean, I brought some food to keep you warm.”

  I closed my mouth, biting at my bottom lip to keep any other dim-witted ramblings from slipping out, and just stood there looking as ridiculous as I felt. As soon as I saw the corner of his lip start to creep up, I held the items out in front of me. He smiled a small gentle curve with his luscious lips, as he leaned down, taking the items for the second time. The moment my hands were empty, I spun on my heel and bolted straight toward the house without so much as a backward glance. I was almost there when he called out, “Rest well this night... Renee.”

  I turned back to look at him, not recalling introducing myself, but didn’t put as much mind to it as I’m now sure that I should have. His beauty was a snare and it had me trapped. Absolutely frozen where I stood, I watched as he slightly lowered his head, never once taking his eyes off of me. He continued to gaze at me as he slowly turned and walked back into the bunkhouse. I blinked a few times, feeling almost dazed, like I wasn’t sure how long that I had been standing there or how long he had been gone. I shook the feeling off and turned in for the night, thinking of nothing else on the matter, other than the captivating color of his eyes.

  The next morning, I woke to the smell of bacon frying. My mother always knew how to wake us up, and today I wasted no time. I hopped out of bed, and went straight to the mirror. I wasn’t about to let the beautiful wanderer see what he had last night. I pulled my hair into a tightly braided bun and splashed water onto my face. I wasn’t one for makeup—didn’t even own any, so that was the best I could do. I decided to give my cheeks a nice hard pinch for good measure. I headed downstairs, said good morning, and then headed out the door.

  Chores came first on the farm, even before breakfast, and today was no different, other than I moved somewhat faster. My first chore of the day was milking the cow, so we would have fresh milk for breakfast. Normally, I would mosey on out, taking my precious time. Today, I practically sprinted. After all, the barn was right next to the bunkhouse. I peered in as I walked by and was disappointed to see that the stranger had already left. There was a five dollar bill lying on his bunk, and that was a lot for one night. It was actually more than enough for the whole month. The plate of food that I had taken out the night before sat atop the folded blanket, completely untouched. As usual, while we were having breakfast, curiosity got the better of me.

  “Pa?” I started, in a voice almost too low to hear.

  “What is it, child?” he asked.

  “How come that gentleman left so early this mornin’?” When the look of disapproval flashed across my father’s face, I tried to come up with a reason for asking. “I mean, he didn’t even get to eat breakfast, that’s all.”

  “Eat your food, girl. This ain’t no time for you to be askin’ about some stranger’s business,” he said in a very serious tone.

  Well, that was that and life went on as usual: me helping with the little ones, while my mother went to the field with my father. She’d usually work up at the house, leaving the harvesting to the boys and I, but when it came to picking beans, she always wanted to pick her own, claiming she could get the best ones. I knew she did it just so I didn’t have to go out all the time. I enjoyed staying with the kids, even though at times they were more than a handful. The youngest, Johnny, was the worst. That boy could walk outside, and before he could get off the front porch, he was crying about one thing or another. The reason could range from falling and hurting his knee, to getting upset simply because one of the other kids wouldn’t play with him. No matter what the situation, he was always my hard one, but still one of my favorites. I guess he kind of had to be, since according to my mother, “He’s so much like you, Renee, if I didn’t go through thirteen hours of labor to get ‘im here, I’d bet my hide he was yours!” All in all, I didn’t mind the trouble, because I was always the one he ran to, to make it all better. To me, that was worth it.

  I swear, sometimes I was convinced that both the youngest ones thought I was their ma. My little sister, Edna, who was six, only two years older than Johnny, followed me everywhere—even to the outhouse on most days. Her hair was as golden as the sunset and her little face was as sweet as they come, but that child had a temper that would not stop. If one of the boys picked on her, she just tore into them. On more than one occasion, I saw her grab a stick and run after them, yelling, “Come back, ya sissies!” She wasn’t what you’d call a girly-girl. There was no doubt about it, when Edna wanted to play, it was more tree-climbing than tea parties, and being quite the tomboy myself, I was more than okay with it.

  That day was no different, as I spent most of my time refereeing, roughhousing, and consoling. By the time my folks got home with the three oldest boys, Sam Jr., James, and Thomas, I was ready for a break, even if it meant starting supper or unloading the pickup. The old pickup was my father's pride and joy. He had an old Ford Model T that he’d converted into a truck so that we could use it for hauling and such. We didn’t use it often, because with the depression and all, we couldn’t really afford it. We just didn’t have that many stamps for gas. We mostly walked, rode the horse, or hooked up the buckboard wherever we needed to go, regardless if it was miles to town or just down the road to church. But for days like today, we got to take advantage of the truck, and my father loved every minute.

  I hadn’t thought much about the stranger that day. I figured he was another one that was just passing through—just a much better looking passerby than usual. We had already finished our supper, and the young ones were fast asleep, when once again a knock came at our door. My heart jumped so hard, I tasted it in my mouth. My mother opened the door, and there he stood. Apparently, he and my father had made an arrangement for him to stop by for the next few nights. That kind of business was my father’s concern, and that was the one thing we didn’t talk about. In those days, a woman did what she was told by her husband without question. My mother was one of the lucky ones who didn’t get beat by her husband. My father was a very good man, but I always wanted to know things that I shouldn’t ask, just like at breakfast that day. My overwhelming urge to know things that were not my business may have been the very reason that I’d never married. My father shook his hand and invited him in to sit for a spell.

  “Myrtle,” my father said, looking back at my mother. “I’d like you to meet Martin Vigée Lebrun. Did I say that right?” My father’s face contorted a bit as he struggled to articulate Mar-teen Vee-zhay Leh-broon.

  “Pronounced very well, sir,” he replied, grinning slightly at my father.

  “How d’ya do?” my mother asked, with a delicate nod of her head.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Mr. Lebrun tenderly lifted her hand and lightly kissed the back of it. That was the only time I had seen my mother blush, when my father wasn’t concerned.

  Then, as Martin began stepping toward me, I felt myself start to shake. My body was reacting as if it were twenty below outside. My mouth must have been hanging open, because Pa glanced at me and leaned my direction.

  “Girl,
you're just about to drip on that dress you’re making,” he smirked, putting his fingers under my chin and gently pushed my mouth closed.

  I was so embarrassed that I must have looked as if someone had just slapped me. I closed my mouth a bit tighter and stood to greet the most perfect being that I had ever laid eyes on. He took my hand, just like I was a true lady and bent down, staring me straight in the eye as he lightly brushed the back of my hand with his lips.

  “How is my fair lady this fine evening?” he asked, still not breaking his gaze.

  “I…I'm fine, thank you,” I said, feeling the blood once again rush to my cheeks.

  I wanted to giggle like a stupid little schoolgirl, but the alluring little half-smile gracing his face made me think about matters of a much more mature nature.

  “Would you like some honey?” my mother asked, handing him a hot cup of tea.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” he said, politely accepting the cup.

  “How ‘bout some supper? We got some left over, if you’re hungry,” she offered.

  “I have had my meal this night,” he replied, looking back at me. “But I thank you for the cup of tea. You are most kind.” Then he politely excused himself as he walked over to visit with my father, where the two took the chairs in front of the fireplace.

  Just hearing him talk brought questions to my mind: what does he do for a living, where does he come from, but most importantly, how long he would be staying. I found it hard to keep my eyes off of him. I sat watching as he and my father talked about things that men do, well aware that my mother, who was sewing in her rocker, was watching me. I did notice a time or two that when he would turn to speak to my mother, he would glance my way with a little smile—that perfect little smile. I would turn my head, as if I were shy, just to try to play lady-like, but as soon as I felt that it was safe to turn back, I would.