Dark Series, The Color of Seven and The Color of Dusk (Books We Love Special Edition)

by Gail Roughton

  Dark Series

  by

  Gail Roughton

  ISBN: 978-1-77145-038-6

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Books We Love Ltd.

  Chestermere, Alberta

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2012 by Gail Roughton

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The Color of Seven

  Chapter One

  Twin dirt bikes tore through the night, shattering the stillness of the woods. The riders couldn’t ride fast enough to escape the vision chasing them. The vision of the skeleton sprawled across the cave floor, the rotting stake lying against its rib bones. Or of the resurrection begun when they’d pulled the stake from its resting place.

  Back in the cave, that resurrection accelerated. Arms and legs rippled with muscle. The rib cage re-fleshed itself as the face re-formed. The skeleton moved its arms and worked its mouth. A croak issued from newly formed vocal cords. A shout split the dark.

  “I’m alive!”

  The echoes bounced off the cave walls as the figure inched forward and stood. The man, a coal black giant with shaved skull and massive shoulders, tore off the rags clinging to his new flesh and stood naked in the night. His new body raged with thirst. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of prey.

  The man didn’t know where he was, though he knew where he’d been. He knew who’d drained his body of life-sustaining blood and buried him in the cave. He didn’t know how much time had passed but it didn’t matter. If he was alive again, then his nemesis, that interfering highfaluting white doctor, the recipient of the dark powers he himself had unleashed—he was somewhere near as well. And by all the dark gods, he would find him. But first, he must have blood. He sniffed the air. He didn’t care if the prey was animal or human. He must hunt. He must stalk and capture, bite and tear. And drink. And drink. And drink.

  He stood, naked under the moonglow, and reveled in his rebirth.

  “I’m aliiiiiiiiive!” he shouted again. His laughter rushed out over the woods and moved on further, filling the deepest reaches of the swamp. Night fishermen, tending their lines along Stone Creek, stopped dead in their tracks and shivered. The night noises of the frogs and crickets ceased. No hoot-owl or whippoorwill sent forth its distinctive calls. Even the swamp snakes ceased to slither. The heartbeat of the woods and swamp stopped. It took a remarkably long time for it to resume.

  * * *

  The house on Orange Street sat and waited.

  While it waited, it remembered the glory of its early years. It felt unloved and unwanted as it sulked within the narrow boundaries of its city lot, pouting in the humid haze of the July heat.

  The gracious two-story brick had been such a happy house. In its past life, its rooms were open and airy, painted in light colors, with golden woodwork and scrolled mantles over the fireplaces. A fitting haven for the golden couple who laughed within its walls.

  The succession of owners hadn’t been kind to the house. They’d partitioned its interior into apartments and later into offices, allowing it to slide into shabby disrepair. Its spacious rooms were now small and dark, the glowing woodwork raped by paint. The hardwood floors lay hidden beneath cheap carpet. The ceilings looked down on the walls and floors and sighed.

  Still, the house hoped. Perhaps it had absorbed into its bricks and boards the optimism and vitality of the young doctor who’d been its first master.

  A ‘For Sale’ sign stood in the front yard. Maybe someone special would walk through its front door and see it not as it was, but as it had been, as it could be again. Maybe even today.

  And as the house sat lonely under the blazing sun, a car pulled up and parked at its curb. A young man got out of the car and slapped another notice over the ‘For Sale’ sign. He stepped back to survey his handiwork.

  ‘Sold.’

  * * *

  Sunset streaked in lines of purple and crimson over the horizon. It faded into streamers of rose and mauve before dying away into full dark.

  Deep in the woods near Stone Creek, the giant emerged from the cave in the side of the hill. He stood, tall and still naked, and sniffed the air. His bare chest and upper arms were roadmaps of dried blood from the prior night’s frenzied feeding, his hand reddish-brown. His animal intelligence knew there were things he must investigate. He didn’t know exactly where he was. He assumed he was still near Macon, Georgia, the city he’d chosen for his last and greatest victory. He didn’t know what amount of time had passed since the hated white man snatched triumph from his waiting grasp.

  He felt stirrings of the dark powers he’d first explored the prior night when he’d cast himself out in the night, disincorporating into a whirlwind of swirling molecules, coming together again into solid form by the power of his thoughts. Now, removed from the red mist of his urgent hunt for blood, he remembered the night of his defeat, his enemy’s strength, the relentless attacks, no moment spared for the actual act of moving from one point to another. Now he understood.

  He stood, upraised nostrils quivering to catch the scent of blood. He gave his body a mental push and disappeared into the thick trees. Every living wood creature went on high alert, fully aware of the new predator who appeared and disappeared silently with no warning.

  The hours of the hunt flew by. He looked up at the moon, then back at the body of the wild dog he was holding in his hands. He tossed the carcass casually into the pile of fur that only an hour before had roamed through the undergrowth in a large pack.

  He laughed. His bloodlust lingered as a dull echo. He sensed that echo would never fully die away, no matter how much blood he guzzled. But for tonight, he’d had enough, which was as good as a feast. There were matters to be tended to, things to be considered.

  He sent his swirling essence into the air and returned to his lair, where he sat in cogitation for some half-hour. The woodlife, sensing the cessation of the active hunt, gradually resumed some measure of normality.

  First, he needed to be sure he was still where he thought he was, somewhere on the fringes of the city. Then he needed to check how much time had passed in dark limbo. A very long time, he was sure. During the course of his hunt strange noises off in the distance reminded him of the rushing sound of a locomotive, but he knew that wasn’t it, exactly.

  He needed an acolyte. Someone to introduce him to this new world. An acolyte to follow him blindly and serve him devotedly, do all things needful and necessary to be done to ensure his continued well-being.

  Struck by a sudden idea, he got up and paced off the clearing in measured strides. Someone else had been here last night. Someone had uncovered the cave and pulled the rotting wood from his rib cage. He sniffed and came to point.

  Two. There’d been two. One of the scents, though faint, still gave off the pleasing aroma of terror. The other scent, much stronger, was the scent of another predator leaving its spoor. Its strong smell of fear mingled with something else, something broadcasting simultaneous strength and weakness, flavored with a hint of madness. He smiled. Even a human should be able to track this spoor. And he was anything but.

  Chapter
Two

  Just after dark, Justin Dinardo walked up to the door of the Billings’ family’s big Tudor two-story in Country Hills Estates and rang the bell.

  Joyce Billings opened the door and waved him in.

  “He’s in his room, Justin.” She turned back towards the den to resume her interrupted phone conversation with Glynis Adams. “Been in a bad mood all day. See what you can do with him. God knows, nobody talks to their mother anymore!”

  She resumed her phone conversation with Margie Potter about Tuesday’s Bridge Club. It had never, nor would it ever, occur to her that Dennis never talked to her because she was always talking to someone else.

  Justin’s Nikes slapped the parquet floor of the foyer and slid into silence as he approached the carpeted stairs. He moved down the hall and knocked on the third door to the left. “I’m not hungry!” Dennis shouted.

  “And I ain’t your mother!” Justin snapped back. He glanced around the room, taking in the scattered books that lay haphazardly on the shelves of the desk’s hutch, the clothes draped over the back of the chair, the rumpled spread covering the double bed. Something was different.

  His eyes moved over the room. Playboy’s pin-up of Miss July peeked out at him from the half-open closet door, flashing big boobs. That poster of the Beach Boys in their heyday irritated Justin every time he saw it. Dennis loved that retro wimpy ‘60s beach music. He had all the ‘60s and ‘70s rock ‘n’ roll and posters of the early Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Jefferson Starship when they were still Jefferson Airplane covered the walls. Jeeezzz. Boy had no taste at all.

  Same room though, the room where they’d spent innumerable nights from the age of six upwards, just as they had in Justin’s room in the house next door. So what was different?

  Quiet. Too quiet. No blaring rock ‘n’ roll from the new state-of-the-art sound system.

  “No sound, man?”

  “No.”

  Dennis lay on his back on his bed, his hands behind his head. Justin glanced toward the entertainment center.

  “Hey, what happened?”

  The stand sat empty. Narrow strips of dusty wooden veneer formed frames for the polished rectangles where the equipment ought to be.

  “I took it out to the Methodist Children’s Home this morning.”

  “You did what?”

  “I made a charitable donation for their rec room. Or wherever they want to put it. I don’t care if they junk it.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Dennis sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Almost eighteen, his long frame was shedding adolescent awkwardness. At six foot two, he towered over his mother. Almost a man’s body, but the face underneath the longer than fashionable sandy hair was still a boy’s face, smooth and nondescript. Or it had been. Now, looking at Justin, the lines of his square jaw and the jut of his nose seemed stronger. His eyes held new wisdom. It was the face of a chrysalis, forecasting the emergence of the man.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me. What we’re doing makes me sick. And I’m ready to puke it right the fuck up. Ain’t never goin’ back to that clearing, never goin’ to sell an ounce of anything, ever again, not to anybody. Never goin’ to use anything I ever bought with any of that money, gave it all away. Ain’t even havin’ it in my room.”

  Justin glared at Dennis. His eyes narrowed and took on an obsidian gleam. He pursed his mouth and cooed sympathetically. “Owww, is the baby’s wittle hands dirty?”

  “Fuck you,” Dennis said shortly. “Get the hell outta my room. Don’t come back.”

  Justin was flabbergasted. This couldn’t be Dennis Billings, who’d tagged along with all his whims since they were six years old. Dennis was a pain in the ass sometimes but he was handy to have around, no doubt about it. No one ever suspected that the duo could be involved in anything but clean fun and good living, mostly because of Dennis’ all-American good looks. Justin needed that cover.

  “Now listen, man, you’re just freaked out about last night and I been thinking ‘bout that. I think we just let our imaginations go crazy, you know?”

  Dennis got up off the bed and advanced toward Justin.

  “I don’t give a shit if it was Dracula or Elvis Presley. Ain’t going back. And I told you to get the fuck outta my room.”

  Justin fell back. He’d never seen Dennis like this.

  “You asshole! You limp-dick—”

  “Ain’t gonna work anymore, Justin. I don’t care what you call me. Don’t care what you think about me.”

  “You think you can just walk away from me, from all that money? You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you get away with this!”

  “Yeah? Whatcha gonna do, Justin? Call the police?” Dennis laughed shortly. “Be my guest. But not in my room. Get out.”

  Justin turned and jerked the door open.

  “You’re going to regret crossing me, fucker! See if you don’t!”

  Justin stalked down the stairs. Dennis, falling heavily across his bed, heard the loud slam of the front door. Good riddance.

  * * *

  Justin Dinardo awoke with a start. The glow of the outside security lights streamed faintly into his room. A gigantic hand covered his mouth. His eyes widened. His chest hurt from the sledgehammer force of his heartbeat, thumping wildly in sudden panic.

  The face loomed over him. He stared into the round, ebony eyes. Hypnotic eyes. Powerful eyes. It was all so simple. All he had to do was follow those eyes and the world would fall at his feet. It was all so simple. The terror changed to instant adoration. Sensing the change, the owner of the hand removed it from Justin’s mouth.

  “Who—who are you?” Justin asked in wonder.

  “My name be Cain.” The voice rumbled low like distant thunder. “An’ my color be sebben.”

  Chapter Three

  Maria Elizabeth Knight came down the stairs of the big house on Orange Street and paused on the landing. She looked down at the crowd of well-wishers flowing across the floors of the new offices of Bishop & Knight, Attorneys at Law.

  Her eye caught her partner, Jonathon Ralston Bishop III. They’d grown up together. He’d been her best friend from earliest childhood. Feeling her gaze, Johnny glanced up toward the stairs. He smiled and raised his hand and she smiled back.

  “No more hassles, no rule books, no more partners’ dirty looks,” Ria whispered to herself.

  The house was meant to be hers. It told her so the minute she’d set foot in it. This house had known life, heard the laughter of graceful ladies sipping iced tea in the parlor, the jokes of elegant, languid gentlemen sipping port in the drawing room, servants gossiping in the kitchens. Now it lived again.

  Ria breathed in the smell of fresh paint, new carpet, furniture polish, the clean tang of lemon potpourri she’d scattered around the rooms. She’d had a hell of a time convincing Johnny, though. Finally, as ready as she was to leave the halls of the hundred year old firm where they practiced law as associates, he’d given in and conceded their combined trust funds would cover the renovations. The available space upstairs, converted into two separate apartments, obviated the need for separate mortgages or apartment leases.

  She felt the house preen in its newfound elegance as she went down the stairs to join the guests.

  * * *

  It was almost three a.m. when the last of the crowd departed. Ria and Johnny stood in the middle of the foyer and surveyed the damage. Ria roused herself from the alcoholic haze. Empty bottles, dirty glasses, littered napkins, food trays holding only crumbs.

  “Holy shit,” she breathed.

  “Don’t worry ‘bout it now,” Johnny mumbled. He threw himself face forward onto one of the Victorian sofas of the reception room.

  “I couldn’t worry about it now if I had to,” she admitted. “I’ll help you up the stairs if you’ll help me.”

  “No. Go ‘way,” he mumbled.

  “You’re going to stay here?”

  “Damn straight.”

 
; “Oh, c’mon, Johnny! First official night in our new—”

  She broke off at the snore. Out like a light. She thought about throwing herself onto the other sofa, but these sofas were for looks, not comfort. She painstakingly dragged herself up the stairs. She opened her door, determined to ignore the sofa and make it the bedroom. She froze.

  “No,” she whispered. This wasn’t her new living room. This was a bedroom. A huge oriental rug covered the floor. A canopied four-poster bed, draped with blue velvet hangings, stood against one wall. A tall tiered mirror topped an old-fashioned dresser.

  A young woman sat on the edge of the bed. Pale hair, almost pure gilt, streamed down her shoulders over the delicate lace of her pale blue negligee. Slightly tilted eyes emphasized the oval shape of her face. Her head shifted as a door opened. A smile lit her face.

  “It was a lovely party, darlin’, wasn’t it?”

  “Especially now it’s over.” A tall man, lean and well-made, moved into view. He stripped off his shirt in lithe movements. He too, was blond, but of a ruddier hue. The golden brown tones of unstrained honey glowed in the lamplight.

  “Paul, you are downright anti-social sometimes,” she said with a pretty pout, as he dropped onto the bed beside her.

  “Sometimes I just prefer my wife’s company,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

  “Sometimes I prefer my husband’s company, but half of Macon pounds on the door and you go rushing out at one o’clock in the morning.”

  “Goes with the territory,” he said.

  “My mother told me not to marry a doctor.”

  “But think of the fringe benefits! I know all the right spots,” he said, and nuzzled her neck.