Shrouds of Darkness
By
Brock E. Deskins
Copyright ©2011 by Brock E. Deskins
ISBN: 978-1-4657-0431-3
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2011
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All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
To my readers
Thank you for your outstanding support.
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
Epilogue
From the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Martin Goldstein, accountant to several of New York’s less savory inhabitants, exits his Brooklyn office. Marty hesitates in the shadowy doorway of the old brick building before shrugging his narrow shoulders and stepping out into the dark, nearly abandoned street.
A light spring rain is falling, quickly wetting his beige trench coat and misting his round, wire-framed glasses. The mousey, fortyish-looking accountant looks left and right, hoping to spy a cab but is not surprised when none enters his view.
This was not a neighborhood where the cabs willingly run at night. It is late, well past normal business hours, but tax time is nearing and he has several important and dangerous clients that will not look kindly upon a late return or any errors that might gain the attention of the IRS.
His wife is waiting patiently at home, keeping dinner warm for his eventual return. It is not a far walk and it will likely be much quicker than waiting for a cab. Even if he called for one, the driver will likely find any excuse to delay picking up the fare. There are many other fares in the city in far better locations than this.
The nondescript accountant wipes his spectacles on a clean handkerchief and peers into the darkness through squinted eyes. He scans the area around the few working lamp poles and sees only an occasional vagrant.
Marty has lived here all his life and most people that are willing to cause another harm know that Marty is a protected man. Dropping the name of one of his clients is a powerful deterrent for all but the most ignorant or desperate of criminals. Marty is a naturally nervous man however, and even this knowledge does little to take the edge from his anxiety.
With a final sigh of resignation, Marty steps off the curb and strides briskly into the night-shrouded canyon of multi-storied buildings.
He knows it is foolish for any but the most apathetic homeless with nothing to steal or the most hardened of gutter scum to traverse the dark streets of this neighborhood. Nevertheless, he takes a measure of confidence in his position as accountant to the mob and his own knowledge of the streets to see him home safely where his wife actually waits for his return with eagerness.
His mind drifts to his wife, Beverley. Tall and fair-haired, he thinks of how she is far too smart and beautiful for him. Women of that quality rarely see the kind and gentle man that lay beneath the pathetically scrawny, intellectual exterior of men like Marty. Nevertheless, she does and has given him two wonderful children, grown now, and twenty-nine years of absolutely blissful marriage.
Marty’s street sense snaps him out of his reverie. A furtive glance over his shoulder reveals two men shadowing his movements. They are walking swiftly towards him, rapidly closing the distance that separates them. The accountant’s heart rate doubles in an instant.
Marty knows this bodes ill for him. The thugs have marked him and his wallet—and more importantly—life may be in dire jeopardy if these miscreants are very stupid or poorly informed. He immediately breaks into a run, skirting the debris that litters the sidewalks with a grace that belies his apparent lack of physical prowess.
All he needs to do is make it another block and a half without being caught and he will exit the concealing confines of the concrete chasms and emerge onto the busier streets of the city.
Marty redoubles his efforts as he spies what he prays will offer some measure of sanctuary in the glow of the streetlight only a hundred feet ahead.
His oxford shoes slide on the rain-slicked asphalt as another figure suddenly steps out of the shadows and into the light directly ahead of him. Marty whips his head about, searching for another path of egress. His pursuers are nearly upon him and the new figure is now advancing with malicious intent.
His voice cracks as he shouts in desperation, “I am a protected man! Very dangerous and powerful men will come after you if you hurt me!”
The man that is quickly advancing from the end of the street begins to laugh. “Oh we know who you are, Marty.”
Oh God! This isn’t a mugging, it’s a hit! Martin realizes as a fresh wave of terror courses through his body.
His options are extremely limited. He darts down the only path available. Unfortunately, it takes him down an even narrower and darker alley. Having lived in this very neighborhood for nearly fifty years, Marty knows the layout of the streets and alleys as well as anyone. This alley empties out onto a wider avenue that he can then take to the busier street that the new assailant denied him.
Unfortunately, Marty is unaware of the construction on one of the towering buildings near the end of the alley. A ten-foot chain link fence blocks his only route of escape. Martin spins around as pounding footsteps close in on him from behind.
The footsteps slow as they near and the men begin to laugh as they stalk towards the feeble accountant now hunched down in a squat with his face buried in his hands, pathetically whimpering for divine intervention.
“Oh, God, no! Please, God, no, don’t let this happen,” Martin chants a desperate mantra.
His pleading amuses the assassins immensely. They take great pleasure in his stark terror, laughing as if they share the greatest of jokes as they leisurely advance on the cowering man.
Had the petty thugs-turned–killers known the true reason for Marty’s desperate pleas they would have found absolute terror instead of malicious joy. Marty is not praying for his own safety and survival. He is praying for theirs.
A loud popping, as if someone were wringing bubble-wrap in their hands, sounds out over the chorus of laughter as the frail-looking accountant’s body begins to twist and contort. His pleas for salvation change to pain-induced grunts before becoming an ominously deep rumble of uncontrolled fury and power.
The transformation is so swift that the lead thug barely has time to recognize the change that has come over what is supposed to be their helpless prey. The gang-banger’s death is so swift that the source of his demise never has time to register in his brain.
A lunge and single swipe of the incredibly powerful, fur-covered paw that just a moment ago had been the dexterous digits of a seemingly innocuous accountant, takes the head from the attempted murderer’s shoulders. The power of the blow hits with such force that the decapitated cranium strikes the brick wall of the building with enough force to shatter most of the bones that encase the pathetically weak brain.
The second man has just enough time to regis
ter the four-legged monster that stands before him and recognize the death promised in the creature’s eyes before the powerful, extending jaws of the werewolf tears out his throat. The only sound that manages to escape the doomed man is the wet gurgling of blood-inundated air that leaves his lungs for the final time.
The third assailant has long been known as a man fleet of foot and actions by those that know him. Rarely caught by surprise, he turns and runs back down the alley in the direction from which he came the instant he sees the inhuman creature leap onto the leader of what had been their small gang. He does not even see his other friend die as he races towards what he prays will be the safety of the populated streets that lay only a few hundred feet away.
Though the alley is less than a hundred feet long, he fails to reach even the midway point before something swift and heavy strikes him in the back with the force of a speeding automobile and bears him to the ground.
The long canines that sprout from the inhumanly powerful jaws of the werewolf sink deeply into the flesh of his neck and crush the bones of the thug. A quick whipping of the beast’s powerful jaws removes the dead man’s head with no more effort than a child popping off the top of an immature dandelion.
The werewolf is furious with the men that have forced it to kill and takes out all of its rage upon their corpses. The creature that had once been Martin the accountant raises its muzzle to the dreary, drizzling sky and releases a howl of rage, sorrow, and uncontrolled primal instincts.
CHAPTER TWO
Like a fierce but patient jaguar, I crouch on my chosen ambush point, scanning the city around and below me with eyes that have no problem piercing even the deepest shadows. I patiently wait for my prey to present itself.
My perch is no tree limb or towering rock but the ledge of a building so narrow even the pigeons choose better spots to roost. Couple the incredibly narrow outcrop with the constant, drizzling rain, and the twelve-story drop to the unyielding concrete below, one might think me suicidal.
I’m not. A fall from here probably wouldn’t even kill me. It would hurt like hell; that I know for certain. I chose this spot with deliberate intent and without fear. Along with my incredibly keen eyesight comes unparalleled balance and reflexes. The longish nails that grow from my fingers are nearly as strong as steel and assist me in maintaining my grip on the concrete and mortar.
I used to curse the kind of chilly, soggy weather that I have chosen to put myself in tonight, but that was a lifetime ago—a couple lifetimes for some. I ceased caring about the cold and damp long ago—so very long ago.
I was turned, or cursed depending on your point of view, on December fifth, 1933. I remember the date so clearly because a lot of things happened to me that day. The first event of any significance was the repeal of prohibition. The streets of New York were alive with all manner of people drinking and toasting strangers. The fact that there could be so much booze in the hands of so many so quickly gave testament to the uselessness of outlawing alcohol.
That was how I met her. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life. Alabaster skin; her long, black tresses hung past her slim waist. Long hair was completely out of fashion back then but it made her look only more exotic to my nineteen-year-old eyes. It was the height of the Great Depression, but that night I was anything but depressed.
Even her name made me quiver with excitement—Lesile. Her voice was soft but strangely powerful. The slight French accent was even more intoxicating than the champagne we shared. Little did I know that champagne was not her drink of choice.
She was intent on taking control of our liaison and I had no problem giving her the reins. I was no altar boy. Times were tough and I had taken to running the streets when I was thirteen, but she was an older woman and I knew she had things she could teach me and I was more than willing to learn. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, maybe even one of those women in her early forties that somehow maintained an incredible body and a timeless complexion. Not a line marred her perfect skin and every other part of her body was a work of perfection, as if personally sculpted by the hand of God himself.
She led me to where she said she lived. The fact that she lived in an abandoned theater never occurred to me to be the least bit odd. Her domicile was the last thing on my mind. I thought it was the booze that had my mind in a jumble, but later I was certain she had somehow bewitched me.
Lesile took me deep into the throws of passion such as I had never thought possible. The encounter was so raw and incredible I may as well have been a virgin. I winced when she sank her teeth into the nape of my neck, but I was so far gone the pain was lost in the ecstasy. When she told me to return the bite, I didn’t think twice. She kept telling me to bite her harder and harder. It felt like I was trying to chew through the soft hide of a leather sofa but I soon tasted the copper tang of blood as it seeped into my mouth.
I don’t remember how I got home, but I awoke in my shabby little apartment with my blood feeling like it was on fire. Agony as I had never thought possible flared through every cell in my body. At first, I was afraid I was going to die. As the pain intensified, I was terrified that I wouldn’t.
It was a good thing that I lived alone and in the worst part of New York. The only attempts at intervention were my neighbors pounding on the walls, floor, and ceiling shouting at me to shut the fuck up or have enough consideration to die. I blessedly lost consciousness after what seemed an eternity.
When I awoke once more, I felt cold so I donned every piece of clothing I owned and wrapped myself up in blankets, but nothing raised my body temperature. I had no heat in my apartment and ice covered the outside and inside of my small window but I soon noticed I got no colder either.
I shed my blankets, extra clothing, and stomped out into snow and biting cold. As I grew accustomed to my own frigid body temperature, I noticed that the freezing cold outside did not bother me. The second thing I noticed was that everyone I saw was blowing out thick puffs of fog as they breathed—everyone but me. That’s when I noticed I wasn’t breathing at all.
I rubbed the base of my neck, expecting to feel some remnant of the bite that beautiful, dark seductress had given me but my skin was unblemished.
I was been a big fan of the moving pictures back then. I loved to be scared, I had seen Vignola’s, The Vampire, and F.W. Murnau’s, Nosferatu, a dozen times, and I began to put things together. At first, I thought these crazy ideas were a result of whatever illness had struck me, but then I recalled Kipling’s, The Vampire. It was that poem that had gotten me interested in the undead when I was a kid. Bram Stoker’s Dracula had clenched it.
I almost convinced myself that the entire idea was an insane delusion brought on by this mysterious ailment. Realizing that I had almost started to believe in vampires pissed me off and I vented my frustration on a large trash bin in the alley.
My kick sent the quarter-ton, steel bin sliding more than ten feet. As I stood there staring in shock at what I had just done the hunger hit me. Suddenly, my stomach was gnawing at me with a voraciousness I had never before felt, and I was no stranger to missing a meal or five.
The smell hit me a moment later, the scent of blood pumping through the veins of another human, and it was nearby. I walked further into the alley and I could sense that I was getting nearer.
I saw him picking through some rubbish bins for anything of value. The bum probably hoped to scrape up enough for a bottle of the newly re-legalized booze. He flashed me a grin, thinking I was not so far from him in society’s social standing, before turning back to his barrel to resume pawing through its contents.
He pulled his head back out and looked at me with wariness as I stalked closer. Maybe it was the look of intent in my eyes or the fact that I was actually salivating, but he went on guard and backed slowly away. He cast his eyes about for a weapon or a way to escape but neither was within view.
“Look, buddy, I ain’t got nothin’, ok?” he told me nervously.
He was wr
ong. He had exactly what I wanted, what I needed. I covered the fifteen or twenty feet that separated us in a second. I broke his neck with a quick twist at the same time my teeth tore into his throat. There was so much blood, but somehow I seemed to consume most of it.
As my stomach settled, my brain began to issue disturbing rumblings of its own. I dropped the transient down into the shallow carpeting of snow. I looked down in horror at the dead, accusing eyes that stared up at me from the scarlet backdrop that contrasted so starkly with the layer of white all around.
I wiped my face with my sleeve and scrubbed away the blood on my face, neck, and hands with handfuls of clean snow. Images of a beautiful woman and an old theater flashed through my mind. Disjointed memories began to align themselves into a coherent pattern. I knew what had happened and I knew who had done this to me.
I sprinted out of the alley and down the sidewalk, forcing myself not to run faster than the black cars that sped down the street beside me. Block after block I ran until I stood facing that once majestic hall where actors once performed the works of Shakespeare and Moliere.
I walked through the formerly grand lobby and up the stairs that were still covered in a red but moth-eaten carpet. A swift kick shattered the door to Lesile’s boudoir and I stormed in, rage and fury etched all over my face.
If I thought to put fear into this woman, this creature, that had done this to me I was sorely disappointed. She pursed her ruby-red lips into an amused look of disapproval at her ruined door.
“Leonard, Look at what you have done to my beautiful door. It was an antique, you know. I do so love antiques—being one myself,” she crooned, seemingly lost in momentary recollections.
I shouted at her, “Don’t fucking call me Leonard! My name is Leo!” I railed. Although I lowered my voice, it still trembled with rage. “What have you done to me?”
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