CONTENTS
Dedication
Legal
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Author Notes
Social Links
Series List
DEDICATION
For my father, Michael
Thank you for your help, your humor, and your love.
If all this goes well, I probably owe you more than just a steak,
but we can start there, yeah?
— D’Artagnan
Sevanouir: REBIRTH
The Strange Tales of the Malefic 01
Editors
Jen McDonnell
Lynne Stiegler
Sevanouir: REBIRTH (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2017 D’Artagnan Anderle
Cover Design by Jeff Brown - http://JeffBrownGraphics.com
Cover copyright © Curio Publishing
Curio Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Curio Publishing
First US edition, 2017
Version 1.00 May, 2017
The Strange Tales of the Malefic (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are copyright © 2017 by D’Artagnan Anderle
CHAPTER ONE
If there is a more ironic sound than joyous laughter after just saying good-bye to a dead body an hour before, Sylas couldn't think of it.
He walked the newly refurbished halls of the Tomlin Memorial Home in an irritated state. The fringe members of his family and the friends of his now-deceased father had gathered in the main chamber to reminisce and trade stories about his old man over what was going to be a foolish amount of liquor followed by large numbers of imprudent acts. In the morning there would be monumental hangovers, copious amounts of tears, and much exotic cursing.
Ah, to toast the well lived life of a man so great! A man who conquered life with zeal and traversed afar, seeing sights most dreamed of and living the pleasures of an adventurer.
Though to be fair, his sudden death— possibly due to murder—would probably be left out of the drunken toasts. Or, perhaps not; remember that foolish amount of liquor.
Sylas turned into another hall as the voices from the chamber grew quieter and quieter. If he were honest, there was a part of him that wanted to join the crowd. He had many fond memories of his father from his childhood as a strong man brimming with courage and humor.
He remembered going into the Eventide Forest with him many weekends. His father encouraged his study of wildlife and taught him survival tips and self-defense training from his days as a soldier.
They would go sailing on the Pacific Ocean and fish in Little Fox Lake. Then, when he got a little older and his interests took on a more supernatural bent, his father would take him to the disturbingly many landmarks and buildings in Ombre Falls that were thought to be haunted or had a mysterious past.
Most of these were obviously tall tales; that was clear to him even as a pre-teen. But it was excursions like these that left him with the precious moments that he cherished to this day.
The problems came after his thirteenth birthday. His father had grown more and more aloof in the days leading up to it. They celebrated, sure, but it was capped off with a rather unique gift—the announcement that he was going to boarding school.
A nice one, sure, but he had never so much as left the country up until that point, and it was just dropped on him.
He left for five years in Paris; there he made friends, learned the language, and developed a coffee habit. But more often than not, whenever he planned to return home during vacations and holidays, his father wasn’t able to be there.
As the years went on, correspondence with his father dwindled from letters to phone calls to curt texts to nothing. By the time he graduated he had decided to go to university in Britain rather than return home.
There was no point, as he saw it.
Sylas eventually found a surprisingly lucrative gig writing about his paranormal hobby, authoring guides and a blog about locations he would visit or artifacts he had seen that had an ominous backstory.
Truly, he had never seen anything that would make these places otherworldly, save for the occasional abandoned asylum or rotting home that simply felt eerie in the dark. But there was an audience for things like a serial killer's weapon in museums and sideshows, and they were willing to pay.
A large crash and hooting laughter snapped him from his thoughts. He turned around briefly to look back in the direction of the main chamber and realized he had wandered into “Sylvia's Hall”—one of Ombre Fall's many macabre points of interest.
Most of Tomlin's remodeling had been done here, less to do with any sort of faulty wiring or chipped tile than to remove the blood stain from the wood that seemed to reveal itself no matter how many times it had been painted over or hidden behind new wood.
Strangely enough, he had just been here doing research for a new book. After dropping out of college and traveling for a bit, he had returned to his hometown in hopes of meeting old friends and possibly reconnecting with his father. He was one-for-two in that regard. Seeing the few friends that were still residents was comforting, as the ones who mattered the most to him were there to greet him upon his return; who the hell even liked Bethany Anne anyway?
As for the whole reconnecting part of the equation, he wasn't expecting some sort of teary cinematic reunion but he did wish to see that something remained of the person his father had been.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that his dad at least offered him a shot of whisky, Sylas would have thought that he didn't want him there at all. At least, that was what he thought at first. One day, his father asked him to join him for dinner. He was going to put it off and go meet some friends downtown, but his father said please.
It was rather surprising. His father was a nice guy, to be sure, but formality wasn't his strong suit. He was more of a “you will do this or there will be problems” kind of a man.
He remembered sitting by the fireplace at his dad’s house, sipping on dark roast as he and his father just stared into the fire before he finally spoke up.
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry,” his father began. “I…I can't tell you everything, but I know I haven't been there for you for a long time. You have grown up to be a great man, and I am so proud.”
Sylas didn't know whether to be moved or start checking the house for Quaaludes. “Just know that I love you, Sylas. You'll always be that energetic little devil from your childhood to me, but there are things in life that we cannot always prepare for, not even if we really sit down and think of what could possibly come at us.”
A moment later his father had continued, “Ironically, I think you will be more prepared than I ever was when the mysteries of our world reveal themselves to you. Remember one thing: whenever you encounter any crossroad, the choice and direction you go has to be your own. You cannot base your life on what people make you do. The only thing walking beside you is your own spirit, and that is defined by your own will.” Sylas leaned back into his chair, draining the last bit of his coffee.
“You drunk, old man?” he asked, half-honestly and half-jokingly. His father chuckled, the first true smile he had seen in a while.
“Maybe a little bit. But I know what I'm saying, and I mean every word.” He stood up from his seat and walked over to the front door, picking up a long black case and putting on a long-brimmed hat that caused his braids to press against his neck. “I don't mean to leave on such a cliffhanger, but I'll do my best to explain it some other time. You still got that medallion I gave you?”
Sylas did; the little silver and red trinket that hung around his neck was the only thing he could never seem to part with, even during his greatest moments of frustration.
“I do, yeah.”
“Keep it close for now. It's been good luck for you.” He opened the door and the cool fall air blew in, sending a few fallen leaves into the home.
“I thought you said all that superstition stuff was, how'd you put it? ‘The stuff madmen dream to make sense of the world?’” He smiled as he placed his cup down, and his father gave one last small chuckle.
“Yeah, and I still do, but there are more madmen in the world than I believed.” He stepped out and turned before closing the door, “Plus, I said all that, and still took you on your little haunted house tours; maybe I was always in denial.” He placed a long-brimmed hat on his head and smiled, “Take care of the house, I'll be back in the morning.”
That was a week ago, and the last time he had seen his father before the whole identify-the-body and funeral thing.
He was burned, badly, caught in a building in the Spice Quarter that had erupted in flames.
It was the fourth incident in a string of arson attacks that had happened in the city over the last eight weeks. He didn't know why his father was there. He was a detective, so maybe he was working a case or perhaps even trying to catch the arsonist himself.
This time it was different. His father was the only casualty and, as far as they could tell, the only one there, and it wasn't the flames that killed him. Those happened postmortem, after someone had decapitated him.
“Looking for some solitude, huh?” Sylas looked up to see a wild mane of dark red hair. Attached to that mane was a figure with almost porcelain skin, a sharp smile, and sharper teeth. “I'm not sure I would have gone to a hallway where someone was killed sixty years ago, but I guess I don't usually go for ambiance.”
“Tell that to whoever booked this place for a wake, Roux.” Before him in a dark pressed suit and rounded sunglasses, was Valen “Roux'” St. Clair, an old friend from childhood and one of the few who still hung around Ombre Falls.
Roux had been like an older brother to him growing up, and a great support since the passing of his father. “Didn't get to say anything during the funeral, but it's actually kind of funny to see you dressed to the nines.”
“If I spent every day looking this dashing, the rest of the men of Old Hollow would be in a sexual drought.”
“Does calling a town by an antique name give you a sense of class?” Sylas inquired, noting Roux’s use of Ombre Falls former title.
“Oh no, just a means to show that I'm a well read and well informed socialite of the town.”
“Says the guy who lives on the outskirts of town in a hut that he only leaves after dark, like a fire-crotch vampire.”
“Huts don't have electricity and wi-fi, Sylas.”
“But they do shelter dumbasses, apparently.” Roux chuckled as he walked up to him, then slid his hands into his pockets.
“You doing all right?” he asked, honest concern weighing in his voice. “I know it's rough, but trying to hide in dark corners like you're the Elephant Man isn't the healthiest way to deal with tragedy. Besides, you’ve got quite a few people asking about you.”
“Can't say I know most of them; pop's friends and family I haven't seen since I was a kid. Not my kind of a ball.” He began walking through the hall again as Roux followed his lead. “Nothing against them, but I'm not here to be a fetish for those who want to just spout on about why they are my old man's favorite buddy.”
“Now who's trying to have a sense of class?” Roux mused as he stopped and placed his hand on a restroom door. “Need to hit the head, but I'll find you after since I doubt you wanna follow me and hold my hand. I’ll be right out, there is one person I need to introduce to you to before I leave.”
“Did I not just mention wanting to get my ear talked off?” Sylas asked.
“This one is a bit more pertinent. Plus, she won't waste your time. I promise you that, you grumpy puss,” Roux retorted before entering the lavatory.
Sylas sighed and noticed a twin doorway before him. It was the study, and one of the few places he hadn’t had an opportunity to look around during his last visit. He decided that since there were no guides to stop him this time he would take a look, and if nothing else, maybe find a book he could read while waiting for Roux and this important person he just had to meet.
As he approached, he felt the room grow hot as if the furnace had started and the cool air just evaporated. He drew closer and heard a crackling sound from behind the doorway; a fire was lit. He paused, wondering if some of the hosts or members of the wake had come here before him. He hadn't seen anyone leave the ballroom before him or on the way, and any personnel should be catering to the guests.
His curiosity got the better of him and he slowly opened the door into the study, looking around for anyone who may be inside. He saw two chairs, of wood and cracked leather in front of the roaring fireplace. Along the walls were at least a dozen bookcases filled from top to bottom, and a dark wooden desk in the corner, with documents strewn about, and a small statue of a man holding a skull placed on the corner. The room was empty and he entered, looking quizzically at the fire. The logs weren't too burned, so it had only been lit recently. He examined the desk and saw that the documents had nothing on them; just some scribbling, possibly done by some bored kids who were previously here.
The door closed behind him. He looked back to see if Roux had joined him, but no one was there. As he looked back, his eyes widened; one of the previously barren pages now revealed a drawing. He moved the other empty papers and held the drawing in the light.
His mouth went dry; it was a sketch of him and his father.
He remembered this picture. He and his father had gone to a fair when he was ten, and his father got it commissioned towards the end of the day. He had hated sitting in place so long, his arm wrapped around his father's shoulder as he knelt beside him. But it had since become one of his favorite keepsakes from his childhood.
“That was one of your favorite trips, the time we went to Portland,” a low, gravelly voice muttered behind him. Sylas spun back to face the stranger, only to nearly lose his balance in shock.
Before him was a man with long braids, dark skin——tough and aged by experience—wearing a familiar long gray jacket, dark leather boots and black brimmed hat. It was the eyes that he found so startling; deep-seated hazel eyes, the same as his own.
It was Raines Chevalier, his father.
CHAPTER TWO
“Why are you so silent? You were always an inquisitive boy.” Raines Chevalier asked, or, at least the person in front of him that looked like his father. Sylas, shocked, his mind racing with a cacophony of questions, gradually took a step forward and composed himself. Then his wide eyes narrowed in anger.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled, hands closing into fists. He had seen his father,
body burned and head severed. He had just laid him to rest, and there was no chance this person was him.
“Whoever the fuck you are, this is a terrible joke.” He rushed forward, grabbing the man by his collar. “You better tell me why you thought this was a good idea. If you can make up even a half-decent excuse, then maybe I'll just leave you looking ugly and limping.” The man's expression didn't change from an unsettling, if not morbidly appropriate, dead-eyed stare.
“Do you remember when I taught you how to subdue an attacker? You can't let them have any room to maneuver, son,” came his monotone reply. Sylas' grip tightened and he shoved the man into one of the bookcases, pressing his arm into his neck.
“Better now?” he asked, sarcasm lacing his voice. “You seem to know a lot, but tell me, if you want a five-star performance, what was my father's nickname for me?” The man's unmoving eyes suddenly wavered, rolling to the left and then the right before returning to their blank stare.
“This is no time for games, son,” the man answered, his voice suddenly sharper and cracking.
“Wrong. It was ‘little devil’.” Sylas threw all his rage into the punch that connected with the man's jaw. He fell to the floor in a heap, knocking books off the shelf to land on top of him. Sylas could feel a throbbing pain in his hand from the impact, but the satisfaction he felt trumped it by far.
“If you want to keep up this charade, then get up. My old man would not be finished by one little punch.” He sneered as he knelt down by the body. “Let me ask you again. Why did you think this was a good idea?” The man responded with a gurgling, almost inhuman, noise. “Yeah, I can't come up with a reason either.”
“Di...Di...” The man's voice had changed; it was high-pitched, nearly shrieking. His hand pounded the floor, twisting to the point that Sylas should have heard bone snap. The man's left leg followed, turning so that his knee was facing up to the air while he was still face down. He began to rise.
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