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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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.
Nightwalkers
Copyright ã 2004 Kirstin South
ISBN: 1-55410-102-6
Cover art and design by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2004
Look for us online at:
www.zumayapublications.com
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Dedication:
To my three wives: the one who praises me; the one who criticizes me and the one who loves me in between.
Also By Kirstin South
For the Love of Jake
Preamble And Prologue
Mediaeval lore speaks of an ancient clan of werewolf-like shape-shifters called Nightwalkers who terrorized not only the countryside but even invaded the cities. Unlike the common werewolf, these shape-shifters were not limited to the nights of the full moon but could metamorphose any time and, though they were long-lived, they were not eternal, like the werewolf. Moreover, they were 'pack' creatures, not independent of each other as the werewolf was.
Thus, from time to time, their leaders would die and have to be replaced. These leaders were two: a male, called the Konor, or Conor, and his mate, known as the Jacynthe, who would commit ritual suicide when he died. The Conor was quickly replaced by heredity, but the Jacynthe, was, at first, unidentified. It was thus the primary task of the Conor to discover his Jacynthe from among a small number of women born at exactly the hour the previous Jacynthe died. Then his secondary duty was to have his candidate 'trained' to become both a cold-blooded killer and his devoted mate.
This training was performed by the Clan's 'Magdalena', whose task it was to break down the personality of the chosen one and utterly destroy her identity and self-esteem through seemingly endless and gradually intensifying physical, psychological and sexual tortures.
If the Magdalena was successful, therefore, the chosen one would be no more and only the Jacynthe would be left in her place.
There was one possible obstacle, however. For the Magdalena to be successful, the candidate must love the Conor enough to be willing to sacrifice her self, her soul and ultimately her life to him.
This is the story of one Jacqueline Talbot, of her love for one Conor Montrose and of her subsequent physical and psycho-sexual indoctrination as a Jacynthe.
August 2004
The night air rising off the bayous was like a sauna, and Brad Cannis found that drawing breath was almost painful. The rain pelted against the windshield so hard that the road could only be glimpsed in his murky headlights as if in a slow strobe light, visible for a bare split second as the wiper blades swept across the glass.
He should have stopped at least an hour ago, except for one thing. He had not seen a single motel—or for that matter a single light that could have been a house—since he had left Lafayette, and there was no going back there now. Faint crackling reports on the ancient car's radio had informed him that Belcher's Creek had taken out the bridge on Highway One soon after he had passed over it.
No, there was nothing to do but press on at a sedate and safe thirty miles an hour.
The only good thing about the weather was the absence of traffic on the road. That lessened the chances of someone trying to pass him on the rain-slick pavement and causing an accident.
But it was getting pretty lonely and claustrophobic being cooped up in this sweltering tin box with nothing to look forward to but another six hours of the same empty road through dark and flooded bayous.
Her sudden appearance on the narrow shoulder was, therefore, both a shock and a relief.
It was a relief because she represented human companionship in this desolate night. It was a shock because she shouldn't have been there at all, in the midst of this god-forsaken swamp in the dead of night, alone without even a slicker to protect her from the torrential rain. Her light cotton dress was almost transparent as it plastered itself to her thin but rather shapely body, showing her bra and panties clearly and her long black hair hung in long, sodden strands over her eyes and face. She carried a small white purse and a pair of muddy white high heels in her left hand while her right was held out in the universal gesture of the hitchhiker.
And in the arch of her body as she leaned out over the roadway, Brad could read a kind of desperation.
"Well, I guess!" he said, voicing his thoughts aloud. "On a deserted road at night, all alone. Fool shouldn't be out walking in this. Well, being foolish doesn't deny her the right to be helped."
He pulled the old car over onto the shoulder and the girl scampered barefoot up to it, pulled the door open and leapt in.
"Oh, thank God, "she breathed. "I had almost given up hope. I was sure I was a midnight snack for the alligators."
"You may be yet if we don't reach a gas station soon," Brad smiled at her. She really was pretty, he saw as she brushed the sodden hair off her face. She was probably in her mid-twenties, with deep sea-green eyes and lovely, full, red lips, though her cheeks were sallow. He stopped his eyes from traveling any lower...for the moment. "But you're lucky I came along at all. Not much traffic out tonight. I've only seen one tow truck going the other way. And the way back is closed off for a while. The bridge over Belcher's Creek is out back there."
"That's probably where the tow-truck was off to, then," the girl said. "To pull out people who didn't see that in time. A single girl hitch-hiking wouldn't stand a chance against the money he'd earn at that."
"That what happened to you?" Brad asked. "Car go off the road?"
"Skidded in a puddle as I braked to avoid a polecat," she nodded. "Ended up in a slough back there."
"Maybe we can get it out," Brad said. "I met another girl back away. Other side of Belcher's Creek. She was nose into the ditch. But with me pushing and her backing slowly, we got her out."
"I can see you're big and strong," the girl said appraisingly. "But more than muscle-power's going to be needed for this one, I'm afraid. It's twenty feet at least down that embankment and the car's on its side with only the doors visible. I had to crawl out a window. That's why I'm such a mess."
"O.K., then. We'll see what we can do at that gas station you mentioned," Brad nodded to her.
"You better have enough gas for thirty miles," the girl said. "That's about how far it is."
"Perhaps we could phone from someone's house..."
"Nope. Nobody lives between Lafayette and Rowles' Corners, where the station is."
"God, what a desolate stretch of road!" Brad said. "I didn't think there was that much empty road east of the Appalachians any more."
"It's always been this way," the girl said. "Oh, people try to live out here occasionally but they don't last."
"Swamps aren't very hospitable...alligators, mosquitoes," Brad nodded.
"That's true enough," the girl agreed. "But, in this case, I think they're scared of the Nightwalkers."
"Nightwalkers? What are they?"
"Just superstitions," the girl snorted
derisively. "There's a local legend says they are creatures who live out here in the swamp who are blood-drinking shape-shifters. They walk the roads on moonless nights, pretending to be hitchhiking..."
"Like you..."
"In my case, I really did need a ride," the girl smiled easily, showing straight white teeth. "At any rate, they say those motorists are never seen alive again. They are found floating in a ditch beside their cars, with their throats torn out."
"But you don't believe any of this?" Brad asked.
"It's a bunch of hog-wallow," the girl humphed. "For instance, if there were Nightwalkers, I'd be a prime candidate to be one. I mean, you just have my word for it that I lost my car in a slough. And, by now, you'd be in a slough yourself minus one throat."
"Then I'm certainly glad you're a non-believer!" Brad laughed.
"Still, I'll be just as glad once we get to that gas station and start to do something about getting my car back." She shuddered suddenly, despite the cloying heat and humidity. "There are still nights that driving this road gives me the willies."
She glanced out the window and stiffened.
"What's that?"
"I don't see anything."
"That's just it," the girl said. "We should be approaching the Opeongo River, and I don't see the bridge. I mean, it's just like a part of the road at the best of times, but there are posts marking its corners. Stop, please!"
Brad slowly brought the old car to a halt and leaned out his window so that he wouldn't be distracted by the sporadic glimpses provided by the windshield wipers.
In the rain-diffused light of his headlamps he could just make out the narrow wooden posts that were supposed to mark the near corners of the bridge. But the water had risen, and the river's current had pushed the posts over so that they now lay half-submerged and useless as warning markers.
He relayed what he saw to the girl beside him in the car.
"So we can't get across, then," the girl assumed.
"Not necessarily. The bridge itself looks strong enough and the water flowing over it's not too deep. Trouble is, without those edge-markers we'd be just as likely to drive off the narrow pavement into the river. That air's so thick with humidity it's almost like fog, and the windshield wipers on this old crate are useless."
"Maybe if one of us stood out on the bridge and directed the other across with hand signals..."
"That might work," Brad nodded thoughtfully. "You drive?"
"I can. But I'm already wet. No use us both getting soaked."
And, before he could protest, she was out of the car and making her way into the glow of the headlights.
She was certainly an attractive beacon, Brad thought, as she stood in the light, her dress sticking to her like a second skin. The name Circe came to mind. Wasn't she the siren that lured Odysseus' ships onto the rocks? Never mind. This Circe was trying to save their butts.
He inched the old crate out onto the bridge, with the girl—he must ask her name!—backing up and motioning him forwards. It was a horribly slow progression, but it looked as if they were going to get across when, suddenly, he felt the car sag about six inches beneath him and the girl shrieked and leapt aside.
"Gun it! Gun it!" she hollered frantically.
Brad floored the gas pedal, sending the bucket of bolts across the remainder of the span and up onto the muddy bank on the other side. Behind him, he heard the crunch and splash as the current tore the bridge loose and dropped it into the water.
"You all right?" the girl's face frowned in through the driver's window.
"Never better," Brad smiled weakly. "Thanks to you."
She sighed with relief and disappeared momentarily.
"I think it's me who should be thanking you," she said as she climbed into the front seat again. "If I'd continued walking, I'd have found that bridge gone and no way to get to Rowles' Corners."
"It looks like you won't be getting back to your car tonight, though," Brad said.
"Then I'll have to stay at Rowles' Corners," the girl shrugged. "The station has a hotel and tavern across the road. Maybe I can buy you a drink for saving my life."
"You certainly know how to take things in stride," Brad laughed, in some awe.
"I can take care of myself," the girl nodded.
"Careful. Many a corpse has uttered those very words," Brad said, only half-seriously.
"But you are avoiding my offer. About that drink?"
"Only if you tell me your name. I never allow anyone whose name I don't know to buy me a drink," Brad made up a rule on the spur of the moment.
"Jassy."
"Jassy who?"
"That's it. Just Jassy. You don't need to know more."
"O.K. Jassy is a lovely name, anyway."
"And yours? I never buy a man a drink whose name I don't know."
"Brad."
"Just Brad."
"Two can play your game," Brad laughed. "What's that up ahead?"
"Looks like police. They've set up a road block," Jassy said, leaning out her window. "Don't tell me the bridge at Rowles' Creek is out, too! We'd be left staring across the water at our drinks."
"Rather like 'water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink,'" Brad quoted with a bitter laugh.
"Where you folks headed?" the gray-haired deputy frowned in through Brad's window.
"We've set our sights on Rowles' Corners for now," Brad answered.
"Oh, that's all right, then," he drawled, turning 'right' into a two-syllable word. "They've sandbagged the creek and the bridge there is solid. But I wouldn't count on going any farther tonight. The bridge at Gaynesville wasn't as lucky. If you like, though, I'll get my cell and call the Overniter Hotel at Rowles' to book y'all a room for the night. They're bound to be as scarce as hen's teeth with the road closed from Gaynesville to Lafayette."
Brad opened his mouth to protest that they weren't married, but Jassy leapt in.
"That'd be great of you, Officer," she smiled. 'Thanks."
"Oh, one further thing before y'all go on." The Deputy seemed to add this purely as an afterthought. "Y'all see anything suspicious on the road tonight?"
"Nothing, apart from a couple of cars in the ditch," Brad said. "But that's hardly suspicious, considering the weather. Something happen?"
"Yeah. Woman was killed. Throat torn out. Like it was a Nightwalker."
"You surely don't believe in them, Officer," Jassy laughed.
"After what I've seen since I was posted here, I sure as hell don't disbelieve in them," the Officer said. "Think about what I asked though. I'll call y'all in the morning at the Overniter to see if y'all've remembered anything. So don't leave until I call. Now y'all better skedaddle while that bridge at Rowles Creek holds."
"Why didn't you tell him we'd need two rooms?" Brad asked as they drove on. "Aren't you afraid I'll try something? I mean, you're damned attractive, even sexy in those sodden clothes. And considering you don't have any others, you'll probably have to sleep in the altogether..."
"Thank you for the compliments...and your concern," Jassy laughed and her cheeks were flushed in the light of the dashboard. "But, I told you, I can take care of myself."
"And I told you what often happens to people who say that."
"Then try something tonight, and you'll see what I mean," she said, and there was no laughter in her voice. "Tonight, nothing gets between these legs except my hands."
"Well, I guess that's definite enough. I mean, you talk like a stevedore."
"It's the only way to communicate with some of the pricks you meet."
Brad fell silent, bit taken aback by her candid vocabulary. And a hush fell over them as they drove on through a night that just seemed to get steadily worse.
The rain came more heavily than ever now, and the fog increased until the headlights merely created a wall of gray a few feet ahead of the car. Signposts leapt unexpectedly out of the fog and the occasional tree gave barely enough warning that Brad had strayed off the now-unpaved road and onto
the shoulder. He tightened his grip on the wheel until his knuckles were white in the dashboard light and he slowed their pace to a mere twenty miles per hour.
Finally, he broke the silence simply to shatter the tension he felt building in his gut.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked.
"What makes you say that?"
"It occurred to me when that cop was talking to us. You don't turn one-syllable words into two-syllable ones like he did. 'Thay-uh' for 'there. 'Hee-yah' for 'here.' And you don't say 'y'all.'"
"Neither do you," she observed. "So where are you from?"
"A long way away," Brad smiled. "And you?"
"From farther."
"So we let our secret lives remain secret, do we, along with our surnames?" Brad chuckled nervously.
"I'd rather it stayed that way," Jassy said. "That way, if...something should, by any chance...happen...between us tonight there'd be no recriminations."
"Is that an...?"
"Invitation? Hardly. We're sharing a room, that's all. I need a drink and nothing more. And you're sleeping on the sofa."
"If there is one," Brad said.
"On the floor, then, if there isn't. Or in the bathtub. I sleep alone, Brad, unless I choose not to. And, believe me, I choose who I screw. Not the other way around. It's one of the ways I take care of myself."
"So I can't seduce you with honeyed words or alcohol?"
"That's a distinctly remote eventuality which we'll only discuss after a drink or two. For now shut up and contemplate the monastic life."
They drove on through the night, Brad haunted by fleeting glimpses through the dense fog of figures walking along the shoulders, their throats torn open by Nightwalkers.
They were upon Rowles' Corners and the Overniter Hotel almost before they knew it.
The outline of the garish orange table-dancer on the roof was muted by the swirling fog and an 'O'and 'T' had burned out so that the sign now read 'Overnite H-el'.
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