by Peter Dawes
Table of Contents
Praise for THE VAMPIRE FLYNN
The Vampire Flynn Series
crimsonmelodies.com
Copyright
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Part Two
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Three
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Four
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Five
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part Six
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
In Acknowledgement
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Also by Peter Dawes
Praise for THE VAMPIRE FLYNN
“Dawes is one of my favorite vampire authors, and if you can nab the entire Vampire Flynn series in one go, I say do it quick, before the next book comes out. The psychological exploration of a bisected mind is fascinating stuff, just unbelievable enough to make it appropriate for a vampire, just realistic enough to make it terrifying. The agony of the story is palpable, and each character brings a particular piquancy to the narrative. The story itself is fast-paced and engaging, with plenty of kinks (in multiple senses of the word) thrown in for spice. It's one of those rare series in which, rather than running slowly out of steam, each subsequent book is better than the last. (And the world needs vastly more Robin. Just saying.)”
M.R. Graham
THE BOOKS OF LOST KNOWLEDGE
“For the author, I have much admiration. This tale is not so much a vampire story, not even a tale of the good struggling against the evil, as it is an intimate account of one man's fate, of the pain he suffers in body and in mind, and of his strength to pull himself together regardless the agony.”
Ciaran Dwynvil
GUARDIAN DEMON SERIES
“You have a believable mythology, an interesting if not entirely sympathetic main character, awesome writing and plot twists. You really can’t ask for more than that in a vampire book.”
The Mad Reviewer
“Once again, This is my kind of vampire book. If you haven’t read it yet, pick up this series. The first book [Eyes] delved deep into the mind of a sociopathic killer, and we watched his struggle and rise from his murdering ways. [Rebirth] was more story focused. We still get to see Peter’s struggle but we also got to see more of the antagonists, from narrow minded sorcerers to bloodthirsty vampires. You learn more about Monica (Love Monica!) and meet quite a few new players. Mr. Dawes style is still very elegant. The continuation was well worth the wait.”
Reader Review
“Dawes lives in the real world, where a stake through the heart will do you in before you can say ‘ouch’. Vampires burn in the daylight, are reduced to piles of ash, need human blood to survive, and oh yeah, are KILLERS. They are Classic, and there is a reason such things are called Classics in the first place. All hail Bela Lugosi.”
Author Jessica Fortunato
THE SIN COLLECTOR
The Vampire Flynn Series
Eyes of the Seer
Rebirth of the Seer
Fate of the Seer
Divided by Night
Undone by Blood
Reforged by Death
Short Stories by Peter Dawes
Featuring The Vampire Flynn
A Vampire’s Game
Hunting on Halloween
Nocturnal Embers, an anthology
Lost Highway
Red Phone Box, a story cycle
All Fall Down
Turn About Is Fair Play
More from Crimson Melodies...
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1st Edition Release January 2017
CRIMSON MELODIES PUBLISHING
Copyright
Digital Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit crimsonmelodies.com to find out where you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Crimson Melodies Ebook
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Copyright © 2009-2017 by Peter Dawes
Edited by J.R. Wesley
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Front Cover Illustration by Omri Koresh
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“His fears had been ever since growing upon him.
He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.
He had been saying to himself—
"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—
it is only a mouse crossing the floor,"
or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp."
Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions:
but he had found all in vain.
All in vain; because Death, in approaching him
had stalked with his black shadow before him,
and enveloped the victim.”
“The Tell-Tale Heart” - Edgar Allan Poe
Prologue
It had not been my intention to yell at the woman, and if not for my already threadbare patience, I might not have. As it was, however, she became the straw which caused my composure to snap, hurtling me into a state of incomprehensible rage. My pulse thundered in my ears. My blood pressure spiked and I tightened the grip with which I held my stethoscope, shifting to face the source of my vexation – a small Costa Rican nurse who had been assigned to serve as my assistant.
She paled and stepped backward, her eyes widening.
My chest rose and fell in deep breaths, the impetus to stalk closer almost overwhelming me. A thrill tickled at my spine, but somehow I managed to suppress any sign of it as my gaze flicked down to the hypodermic needle, now shattered on the floor. The inoculation I had intended to administer to my patient seeped onto the tile, provoking me to press the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Clean it up right this minute,” I said, managing through my fledgling Spanish.
Rather than turning away, she stood, frozen with fear.
“Now.” My hand shot away from my head, finger pointing in an arbitrary direction. “Before I force you onto your knees to pick it up with your bare hands.” Sparks danced across my field of vision, and while I could not be certain if I had issued the command in Spanish or English, the intention carried across language barriers. She spun on her heels, dashing away while p
arting a room full of villagers waiting to be seen. I watched her leave, my heart still racing and each breath I took shallow. It took until she disappeared around a corner for me to realize what I had done.
The crowd who had just witnessed the spectacle directed the weight of their stares onto me. As I saw myself in their eyes, I realized what ugliness they beheld. A child began crying. Their mother gathered them close while my mouth motioned in an effort to force calmer speech past my lips. Nothing which came to mind formed enough apology – not with only one year of practice in a completely foreign tongue – and as my gaze shifted to my patient, it was all I could do not to groan. He tensed as though I had shown him the devil in the doctor’s eyes.
After the nurse returned with another needle, I settled enough to finish what I had started and passed off my stethoscope to another doctor. The air outside felt thick, my mind clouded as I emerged from the clinic, a headache wanting to form and my jaw stuck in a perpetual state of being clenched. It seemed the wisest course of action. If another patient proved to be difficult, I feared how I might lose my temper next.
It had been twelve months since we had fled Italy and I felt less human than I had in Rome.
Swallowing hard, I squinted against the blaring sun and made a hasty exit from the building. My time as a vampire continued to haunt me, regardless of the fact that I could march away from the clinic and not incinerate in the process. My fingernails dug into my palms, the scant amount of people circulating outside giving me a wide berth. Not a soul dared to interrupt me in my march toward the sprawling, ranch-style building which held the volunteers’ dormitories, though unwelcomed whispers from the minds of several passersby skipped in and out of my brain.
Sighing against the onslaught, I formed a mental block and continued on to our apartment. As I entered the modest-sized living space, my thumb flicked across the simple wedding band I wore while I held out hope the quixotic woman I had married was not yet home. A radio played in the distance, my Spanish filter turned off enough for it to become little more than irritating background noise. As I shut the door, I strode through the living area, choosing the dark of the bedroom in which to retreat.
I sat upon the bed and cradled my head in my hands. A distinct part of me wanted to sink into a lie, saying that this had been the first time my temper had flared and would be the last. A year played out inside my mind, with several vignettes stating a case in counterargument. The moment I had argued with another volunteer doctor over a diagnosis. And the first and last time the head priest of the Catholic mission, Arturo Santiago, asked me to pray over a meal. Yes, I could recount ten days of being settled for each one wrapped in a tempest, but it could not be denied. I felt disconnected from all of them. I had killed their kind without impunity for five years and had been thrust into the midst of their clumsiness. Their paranoia. Their absurd short-sightedness.
Humans – bloody humans. They would be the death of me.
Whatever length of time had passed between when I first sat and when the front door opened, I could not be certain. The sound startled me out of a mental spiral, though – enough for me to realize I was still in no mood for entertaining company. “Peter?” The voice lilting from the entryway bore the intonation of an inquiry, forcing me to wince. She always sensed me and I always sensed her. In this moment, I considered our psychic link more of a curse than a blessing.
“In the bedroom,” I called back. Lifting both hands, I scrubbed at my face, making myself aware I had not shaved for a few days in the process. Strands of hair fell in my face, longer than I had worn it as an adult, brushed away again when I pushed my palms up to my temples. My hands fell to my sides as I stood, turning my back to the door in time for it to open.
Light flooded the darkness, disrupted only by the sliver of space she occupied. I did not need to turn to face her in order to visualize how she must have looked in that moment. Much shorter than me, with a swath of blonde hair in an otherwise sea of dark locks, Monica had worn a long skirt that went down to her ankles and a loose-fitting blouse. The scarfs she once wore as my watcher – my sorceress partner in crime – still adorned her neck, but mostly to ward off questions about the peculiar sets of scars. She shifted further into the room, reaching to switch on a lamp before shutting the door. “How long have you been sitting here?” she asked.
I shrugged, pivoting only to direct a small glance toward her in my periphery. “Not certain how long ago I returned, to be honest. I lost track of time.”
“Didn’t you have a long shift at the clinic?”
“I did. I left early.”
Her footsteps closed in on me, pausing a few feet shy of where I stood with her emerald eyes seeking mine out. I looked away and shut my thoughts against a tickle running through my brain, an edge threatening to creep back into my words when I recognized the sensation. “Please, no telepathy,” I said. “Whatever you are looking for, you can ask me.”
Instantly, the pin pricks which had invaded my mind abated. “I’ll try, but you’re not known for being chatty when you get in these moods.” Monica stared intently at me even when I failed to look at her. “What set you off this time?” she asked.
I hesitated, wanting to rebuff her once more while reminding myself she was my wife and the sole confident I had in the world. My hand settled on a small, mirrored dresser as if for support, gaze shifting to the only other piece of furniture our small room boasted – a wooden trunk we had purchased prior to leaving Italy. A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth as I remembered the sword it contained and its last bloody excursion. “Do you think the Fates were wrong to make me human again?” I asked.
Monica failed to answer me at first. She paced over to the bed where I had been sitting and lowered down onto it, the mattress giving a soft creak as she settled into place. I pictured her folding her hands on her lap, and felt the weight of her gaze on my back as though she could read me like tea leaves in a cup. Silence settled in the room, the quiet anything but gentle.
“I doubt they thought it’d be easy, Peter,” she finally said, her voice calm and measured as I turned to regard her. “It’s not exactly the kind of gift that comes without an adjustment period.”
“Twelve months?” My frown deepened. “Or will it be one year for each spent as a vampire?”
“Maybe we should rewind to what happened at the clinic first before we get existential.”
Nodding, I crossed the short expanse between us. “I lashed out at one of the nurses,” I said while sitting, my voice subdued. “She dropped a needle and the glass broke. There was a mother fighting against medicating her daughter and a man who resisted transport to one of the larger hospitals because it was too far away.” My hands slid out, but only to settle into my hair again, combing it back with my fingers. “Each day, there is a barrage of superstitious, spiteful creatures and I get tired of arguing sense into them. Bloody aggravating humans.”
As my arms lowered once more, Monica furrowed her brow at me. At first, I wondered if her expression registered confusion or disappointment, or if I was reading something more into the way she studied me than was already there. When her chest rose to take in breath, the look settled. “Wow. You really are grumpy,” she said, “And painting with one hell of a broad-sweeping brush.”
I shrugged in assent. “You asked me what I was thinking and I am telling you,” I responded.
“No, I get that, it’s just that...” She trailed off, shaking her head. Slowly, Monica rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt. “Nevermind. Maybe you should take a nap. I’m going to go take a walk while you do.”
“Dearest, wait.” Tracking her progress to the door, I lifted to a stand as well while she opened the door. She left it ajar rather than shutting it, the action offering some implied consent for me to follow. I stole a moment to calm myself first before giving sedate pursuit. “It is not as though I enjoy entertaining these thoughts.”
“I know you don’t, but at the same time, I don’t think you’r
e ready to hear what I’d have to say.”
“Grant me a chance to listen first?”
Monica sighed, pausing halfway through the modest-sized living area. Her arms folded across her chest as she faced me, weight shifting from one hip to the other. “I think I see it clearer sometimes than you do, that’s all,” she said.
“See what?” I countered.
“How much you hold onto the vampire mentality. The fact that it’s what you lapse into when you aren’t paying attention.” Her gaze held me hostage, the weight behind it bordering between exasperated and concerned. “Somebody gets you upset and suddenly, you’re the sharpest tool in a room full of blunt objects.”
“You have used that expression with me before.”
“Yes, I have, Flynn.” The way she issued my old nomme-de-plume caused me to glower. She countered with a raised eyebrow, as if daring me to refute the insinuation she had placed in front of me. When I failed to respond, her expression evened. “If these bursts of anger make you upset, you need to let it go. Or figure out what’s causing it.”
“You make it sound like a simple exercise, when it is anything but.” Shaking my head, I frowned again almost as a reflex. My gaze shifted away, eyes going distant in thought. “I wish I could describe it better. My patience is tried and something comes over me, beyond my control. One moment, I am calm and rational, and the next, I am ready to press a scalpel against somebody’s throat. I feel like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
“Probably a good way of putting it.” Her arms lowered, feet pacing forward until the distance between us disappeared. “Peter, look at me?”
My attention shifted back toward her, something about the request causing my demeanor to sober. A warm smile crossed her lips as our eyes met, her hand lifting to rest on my shoulder. “A person doesn’t just walk away from what you went through intact,” she said. “Most normal human beings don’t know what it’s like to kill somebody, let alone a city full of somebodies.”
“No, they do not,” I responded. My disposition sank, tears threatening to surface the more I considered this impossible conundrum. I felt frustrated and tired. Left to gaze upon a permanent purgatory after a day wrestling my inner demons. Where did I have left to retreat, I asked myself. How far would I have to run to get away?