Toska (Dark World Saga Book 1)

by A. R. Kingston

  Sobbing on the floor, I start to feel black tentacles stretching through the shadows, reaching for us. I swat them away as I fight the voice beckoning me to join them, singing tempting melodies inside my head. The thing keeps making promises to me, of saving Victor and restoring us to life. This cunning serpent thinks it has an upper hand on me, that it knows what I want, but it’s mistaking. No matter what this creature tries to sell me, I know it’s not true, I just hope my will to resist him holds out. Forcing my eyes shut I concentrate on happy things, pushing the darkness further away from my mind.

  I’m not sure how long I lay there, staring up at the cracked white ceiling with Victor nestled in my arms. Nor am I sure for how long I have been fighting the beast who was calling me until it finally slithered away back to its hidden layer. What I do know is that I was in a trance until a soft sound coming from the direction of the door caught my attention and pulled me back to reality. A faint sound of claws rubbing against wood reels me in; I think something is scratching at the front door, begging to be let in.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I awkwardly wobble over to the door as if I am a child who is learning to walk for the first time again. The scratching is getting faster, more agitated; I can sense the urgency behind their maker. I walk as fast as my failing feet are able to carry me, until I am falling over on the wood frame, clutching the handle with my injured hand. Shaking from the pain, my hands tremble as I grip the cold metal, my hands feel like they are on fire. Fighting through the sting, I press down on the smooth latch and allow the door to swing in before collapsing back against the frame that houses it.

  When the door opens I glance around the hall, trying to find the visitor who got me out of bed in my current condition. I see nothing at first, but I feel something rubbing up against my legs, I look down to see a familiar sight. The orange tabby is sitting on the floor, staring up at me, meowing softly. I bend down and rub his head, making sure to scratch behind his ears like Victor always did. The cat closes his eyes and makes rumbling sounds, pushing his head closer to my hand, the pain in my palm calms under his soft fur.

  “You must be hungry.” I continue to stroke his head while enjoying the relief it brings. “But I’m afraid I have no food to give you.”

  The cat stops purring and opens his eyes, almost like he understood what I was trying to tell him. I expect him to slink away back under the stairs, but instead, with a soft meow, he darts past my feet into the apartment. Stopping halfway inside the room the orange beast looks back at me and lets out a long crackling wail as if telling me to come join him. Observing this odd behavior, I step back in and shut the door behind me. Perhaps he is just cold and doesn’t realize that he will not be any warmer in here.

  Weaving between my legs the cat darts around the room and under furniture as if he is looking for something. Pressed to the floor he prowls around meticulously, squinting his eyes until he stops, wiggling his behind with his eyes locked on target. Darting past me he glides into the wardrobe and begins swatting his paws madly underneath it, flinging clouds of dust everywhere. Yowling continuously the tabby sits up to look at me; I stare at the cat, and he stares at me, his green lanterns unblinking.

  “I’m sorry,” frowning, I glance over to where he’s sitting, “is there something under there that you want me to get for you?”

  “Meow.”

  “Well, alright, let me take a look.” I frown at the cat again and fall to my knees.

  The cat moves out of the way, opting to sit by the door, cleaning its paws, while I kneel on all fours to look under the armoire. Straining my eyes through the decades of dust, I finally spot what he was trying to get at. Far against the wall lays a crisp white envelope that unlike everything else under the dresser is devoid of dust. It must have been slid under the door recently and got stuck underneath, I’m curious to know who it came from but my hand can’t reach far enough underneath.

  I recall seeing a broken shoehorn inside the wardrobe when I got my coat that one time. Jumping back to my feet, I fling open the door. Rummaging amongst the socks and hats, I don’t stop until I find it. Dropping back down to the floor, I swipe the horn around until the envelope slides out from underneath. Picking it up, I notice the flap is not sealed, so I turn it to the front, it has my name written on it in neat handwriting. From its spot by the door, the cat yowls at me. Turning the envelope back over I fold up the flap and pull out a crisp piece of paper folded in thirds. Unfolding the parchment, I begin to read the carefully written note which had been addressed to me.

  Dear Katya,

  I sure hope your stay in Dedinovo was pleasant, and that you were able to uncover the truth behind your death. While you were away, I have found some crucial information, and I need to get in touch with you right away. There is something I need you to confirm for me; I think I have found a way to help your Victor. I am staying at the Layla Hotel, Room 405. It’s imperative that you see me before the New Year, Victor's life depends on it.

  Yours Truly,

  Father McAllister

  The words on the page shock me into a stupor. Paralyzed by fear, my fingers part, the paper leaves my grasp, floating down to land by my feet. Why was Victor’s life in danger, and what could be so important that it could not wait until after tonight? I had to see Shawn right away; I needed to know what he knew. I knew the hotel he was staying in well, Layla is only a ten-minute walk away, but I think it is best if I went there in spirit form. This would give my body a chance to heal, and my feet hurt far too much to walk. I start getting ready to change when I feel something tugging at my skirt; I glance down to see the tabby sitting at my feet, tilting his head at me.

  “Keep an eye on Victor for me, will you?”

  “Meow.”

  Having received his instructions, the cat slinks over to the kitchen and jumps up on the small table. Settling down on the checkered surface, the beast turns to overlook the mattress from a stop that was apparently a safe distance away. Satisfied Victor will have something keeping him company I shift into my spirit form and float out the door. Even before I leave the safety of the building I know something terrible is awaiting me on the other side, I’m just not prepared for what I find once I force myself through the small door.

  13

  Their Covenant

  O

  ut on the city streets, my senses are exposed to sights and sounds that are far more horrible than anyone can have imagined. The world is strange in the space between the realms of the living and the dead. In this spiritual limbo, I can see a lot more now than I did in my human form. I was right to be concerned about being here, the whole space looked like a scene from an apocalypse painting. A frightful nightmare of some disturbed mind has broken and leaked all over Moscow.

  Dark smoke is creeping around the nooks and crannies of the city, completely snuffing out all the light. I know it’s still early in the afternoon, but it appears that a never-ending night has befell the once lively metropolis. In this current condition, Moscow looks more like Dedinovo. The usual glitz and charisma I had become accustomed to, has all but vanished. The ground below my feet is split open, hot lava seeps from the veins in the pavement as fireballs hurl down from the dark gray sky above.

  A district aroma of ash, carrion, and burning flesh permeates the air around me, making me gag at the vulgar combination. In the distance, I can barely make out anguished screams and pleads for mercy. I am getting overwhelmed by this ghastly assault on my senses as I attempt to comprehend what all this means. So, this must be hell on earth then. If that’s the case, what I am witnessing makes Dante’s Inferno look like a pleasant dream. Even the Bible could not describe the nightmare before my eyes accurately, and just this once, I wanted to believe again. Desperately, I want to think God was right here with me. For once, I wished to imagine I was not alone to face this catastrophe.

  From a nearby building, an emaciated, leathery, gargoyle creature swoops down and lands at my feet. It’s glaring at me with its stark white eyes, s
preading out its arms over me to reveal its bat wings. Screeching, it extends long, claw-tipped fingers for my face. The creature pulls back its lips to reveal a row of sharp fangs. With a hiss it lunges for me, I think it intends to rip my face off. It doesn’t get far though, as a black tentacle comes up from a crack by my feet to swat it away. With a shrill yelp, the monster flies up to sit on top of a neighboring building, giving me an evil eye from above.

  From the silence flows a melodic chanting in a language I do not know, there is no syntax similar to anything around today, so I know it has to predate any known spoken language on Earth. A tentacle crawls closer to me, wrapping my legs in its cold grasp, the suction cups suckle on my skin as it trails further up my skirt. Screaming, I stumble and fall over backward, kicking at the assailant to get this limb off me. The beast lets go, allowing me to scramble to my feet and make a run for it. With a mad dash, I traverse the crowded streets, not stopping until I reach the library.

  Pressing my back against the fence, I stop briefly to catch my breath, and steady my racing heart. For some reason, I feel oddly human, even in my spirit form, almost like I have no advantage here. At least the tentacles did not seem to have come after me; I’m not sure how far I’d make it if I had to keep fighting them. Petrified by my encounter with the thing I wish to curl up and die, but Victor is relying on me, so I have no choice but to keep going.

  With a slight shiver of fright and foreboding, I start walking again. Glancing nervously at my side, I notice sites that are far more terrifying than back by the building. For the first time, I realize the people who walk by me are no longer alone like they used to be, they have a spiritual parasite attached to them. Dark-robed voids float behind each mortal soul, extending long pointed fingers around their would-be victim.

  Any mortal person who was to look upon them would mistake them for a grim reaper as this is what he has been depicted as in art. Me, on the other hand, has met the so called grim reapers, and they are nothing like this. They technically prefer the term guides, as their sole duty is to guide spirits into the afterlife. These guides appear as wolves and walk with you until the gates open to allow you in unless you get reborn as a ghost that is, then there is nothing they can do for you. As for these hideous creatures in front of me, I have no clue as to even guess what they are, but Shawn’s whole spiel about religion was beginning to make more sense now.

  One of the things looks right at me, all I can see in the oblivion of its face are two glowing embers for eyes. It lets out a terrible screech that slices through the air, sending me stumbling back into the wall from dread. Floating away from the man it was attached to, the hooded figured glides over to me. Grabbing hold of my wrists, it tilts its hood to my feet and starts working its way up. I can hear sniffling from the robe; I think it’s trying to smell me. With another screech, it floats swiftly away from me back to the man it was originally attached to.

  Terrified, I force myself to pull away from the wall, I do not doubt that I should not be here. These things are well aware of my presence, and they don’t want me watching them. This was my warning to mind my own business. Five minutes, I tell myself, Shawn is just five minutes away. I can do this, no, I need to do this, for Victor. I have to face my fear, or he will surely die. I’m afraid to keep my eyes open, but I have no choice, I need to see where I’m going. With a deep breath, I force myself to move from my spot so I can begin my brisk walk to the Layla Hotel.

  The closer I get to the hotel the more of the hoods I encounter, I force myself to push through them. Still trying to intimidate me, the black figures screech at me left and right, some going as far as to push me with their bony fingers. My skin crawls with their touch, and to make it worse, the smells which have filled the city are making my head spin. I feel like throwing up even though it’s not physically possible. By the time I reach the unassuming beige block house that is the Layla Hotel, I’m trembling like a leaf from my short walk.

  The small building has an ominous aura around it. Dark, soulless, as if this was one of the first building in the city to fall victim to the evil presence. The pavement around it is cracked and glowing amber, it’s forming a moat of lava around the hotel. Steam rises from the fiery pit, carrying on it the unmistakable scent of burning skin. With a shudder I recall the images of the sinful souls burning in the pits of hell.

  From the lava something grabs hold of my leg, forcing me to looking down into the bubbling pit. A burned hand has popped out from the magma to take hold of me. Almost pulling me into the lava, a melted human form pulls itself out from the trench. Reaching up for me the disfigured form lets out a terrible gurgling noise as if it was trying to say something. Disgusted by this grotesque being, I kick it in the face, forcing it back into its fiery grave.

  Too traumatized to stay in the open any longer, I float through the hotel door into a small lobby, no bigger than Victor’s apartment. It is just large enough to accommodate a plush velvet love seat, a fake plant, and a tiny reception desk. The woman behind the counter doesn’t see me, but I can see that her body is almost devoid of her soul. Her eyes are just black marbles staring past me into the abyss.

  The thing which has attached itself to her stares at me, but it doesn’t make a sound, it has what it came for, and there is nothing anyone can do to save the woman now. We stand there and stare at one another, neither of us is willing to make the first move. Then, as if seemingly bored with me, the hood starts to float around the woman as a wicked chortle comes from the void hidden inside the cloak. What a terribly vile creature this is, but at least now I know what they came here for. These things are here to steal the souls of Moscow’s residents.

  I back up slowly until I am no longer met with the red orbs of whatever this is, before I turn around and run upstairs to the last floor. Desperately, I start looking around at doors, searching for the room I need. The number system of Layla makes no logical sense; I keep striking out until I spot it almost all the way at the end of a long hall. The silver numbers are barely visible on the front of the narrow dark door, but that’s the one I want. Not bothering to change yet, I float through the door into the tiny room, adorned with orange and yellow plaid wallpaper.

  It’s barely large enough to accommodate the double bed which has been placed in it, leaving the bathroom door wide open and not able to be closed. Across from the bed, Father McAllister sits on the chair at a small, triangular desk, his face buried in another book. Unlike everyone else in the city, he does not have a creature attached to him. Instead, a giant black tentacle has wound itself firmly around his body.

  “Hello, Katya.” He says without looking up “It’s okay to change back, nothing here will hurt you.”

  The way he can sense me in the room infuriates me, it takes any advantage away from me, and he still has not told me what he is. Begrudgingly I shift back to human form, this being the first time I had done so in weeks. After so long I have forgotten how excruciatingly painful it was, and I restrain a scream. Even in physical form, the presence of the darkness outside is unmistakable, and I am starting to see more traces of it in the physical world.

  The room is still dim, the two scones on the wall are barely able to keep up with the gray mist that is slowly taking over. From the single window of this room, I should be able to see the bright afternoon sun, but all I see are dark clouds blocking out the sunlight. I glance back over at Shawn, the traces of the tentacle around his torso remain visible, he is wearing a grave expression on his face as he finally pries his eyes from his book.

  “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

  “About that.” Shawn places his book down on the table and leans forward on the small desk. “First thing first. Did you ever figure out who killed you?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. You were right about my mind blocking out the memories and me knowing the killer. It was Nadia, the woman Victor had been living with for the last fifty years, the one who turned him into a vampire.”

  Father McAllister
looks sullen. Nodding gravely, he walks over to a narrow nightstand on the side of the bed. Rummaging around he pulls out what appears to be an old, leather-bound journal and silently flips through its pages until he stumbles on the one he seeks. Walking over to me, he shows me a drawing of an inverted pentagram encircled in vines and two vipers weaving their way through the symbol in the center. It is identical to the tattoo that is on Victor’s chest, but why is it in this antique journal?

  “Is this the symbol that is on Victor’s chest?”

  “Yes, that is exactly it. But how…and…what is it?”

  “Just as I feared.” Father McAllister lets out a deep sigh. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back to the ceiling before focusing his attention back to me. “Why don’t you have a seat Katya, this will take some time to explain.”

  “Explain what? What is there to explain? Shawn, just tell me what’s wrong with my Victor?”

  “Katya…” he looks at me sternly before sitting down at his desk “…sit.”

  Disheartened by his lack of response and the stern tone in his voice, I know there is only bad news involved in the demand that a person sits down. Reluctantly I comply by walking over to the bed and plopping myself down on the corner across from him. We sit silently for what seems like eons while I continue to stare at the book he has in his hands, wondering what horrors it contains. He sits staring at the picture on the aged parchment as if it is the black spot given out by pirates to mark someone for death.

  “This right here…” Shawn lifts the leather-bound book, tapping his finger on the aged pages “…is the diary of Pope Benedict I, it was buried by the Vatican upon his death. This book, along with most of what is known of him has been erased from history. The Vatican did this to prevent the public from finding out the information contained in these pages. If this knowledge were to get out, mass panic would ensue.” He places the journal down, leans forward and looks at me earnestly. “Katya, I’m afraid this, along with what you told me, proves indisputably that Victor is not a typical vampire.”