The DARK Trilogy: Titan's Song Chronicles Volume 1 (Books 1 - 3)

by Jacob Stanley

“How long before I stop being me, and start being something else.”

  “You’ll never stop being you.”

  “How long before I ‘surrender’ then?”

  “That’s partly up to you. The Great Father’s still working on your body, to change it and make it more like his own, which will give you the capacity to adopt certain aspects of his physicality. Once that process is complete, the mental connection between you and him will solidify, and then the struggle will begin in earnest. The physical part of your transition should be over pretty soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe tonight. At some time in the next few hours your body will reach a tipping point, and then things will begin to happen very suddenly. There will be pain, fevers, sweats, delirium. The potion I gave you will make that process more tolerable.”

  “Didn’t you also say the potion would make it happen faster?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I want more of the potion.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why not? I’m fucked anyway. I want this to be over.”

  Myra seemed surprised. “Waving the white flag already?”

  “I’m a murderer now. My life’s basically over. And obviously I’m not fit to be around normal people anymore.”

  Myra frowned a bit, and then shrugged. “If you really want more potion, I guess I could give you a little bit.”

  “I’d rather have a lot.”

  “That might be dangerous. You recovered very quickly from the last dose, but there’s a cumulative effect—venom builds up in the system, and you’re still just a human. Mostly. I wouldn’t want to risk a mishap.”

  “Fine, whatever. Give me a little or give me a lot. I just want to go back to sleep again. I’m tired of thinking about all this.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then.” Myra removed a little vial from her right front pants pocket. It was half full of a dark black powder. “I gave you two caps-full last time. This time I’m only giving you one. Let me go get something to mix it into.”

  She got up and went to the kitchen, and as soon as she rounded the corner, Simone’s eyes immediately darted over to the discarded shotgun, which was lying in the floor just a few feet away.

  She just walked out and left it. Is she fucking crazy?

  What kind of arrogance did it take to leave a loaded gun within easy reach of someone who just shot you a few minutes before?

  Maybe she’s not arrogant. Maybe she’s just invincible.

  It was something to think about—the first shot certainly hadn’t made much of an impression on her, after all.

  But then again… There was definitely some damage. The bitch was bleeding, fiddling with her wound. Clearly she was at least a little bit uncomfortable…

  Simone crawled over to the gun, trying her best not to make any noise.

  There was blood all over the gun’s stock, from the spilled livers in the floor, and she could smell the blood: a cold, pungent aroma that made her feel kinda hungry, which obviously wasn’t the way a normal person would react.

  She tried not to think about it. Which was hard, because the gun was slippery with the stuff, and she couldn’t help but notice the slimy feel of it on her skin when she grabbed the weapon, and stood, and raised it to her shoulder.

  But that was okay, because suddenly her mood was a whole lot better, pretty much like everything was okay again.

  Who cared about a little blood anyway?

  All she could think about now was how stupid Myra was for leaving the gun behind, and how much fun it would be to make her pay for her stupidity.

  Way back in some dark corner of her mind, a little voice said: this isn’t me. I wouldn’t do this. I’d be too scared.

  But it was easy to ignore the voice, because it was so quiet, and because of the other voice, the loud voice, that was blabbering over the top of it, roaring: I’ll shoot that stupid cunt in the face this time, see if she can bounce back from that!

  She heard the familiar sound of a cabinet opening and closing in the kitchen (Myra just got a cup). Mentally, Simone started preparing to shoot. And that was when she realized she needed to pump the shotgun again, to chamber another shell, which would make a lot of noise, which would ruin the surprise.

  And surprise was important. It might not even be worth the risk if she couldn’t keep the advantage of surprise.

  It was a serious problem, and as Simone tried to decide how to deal with it, she heard Myra turn on the water in the kitchen, presumably to fill the cup, which meant time was running out.

  Gotta make a decision.

  She was torn.

  But then, suddenly the whole issue was taken out of her hands, because, from behind her, she heard the sound of brisk footsteps on wood. Someone out on the porch.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the front door just as it opened.

  Bobby, wearing sunglasses now, and carrying a black duffel bag.

  He stopped at the threshold, and for a moment, he just stared at her, like he didn’t really know how to react. Then, like lightning, he dropped the bag and went for his pistol. Almost before she could blink, he was back in that classic shooting stance, aiming his nasty little weapon at her chest, a stern expression stamped on his face.

  “I’m gonna need you to put the gun down,” he said.

  Simone considered trying to kill him, but immediately saw that it wouldn’t be possible. He was obviously adept in the handling of his weapon. Most likely he could put five or six bullets in her before she could draw a full breath, and on top of that, she still needed to pump the action on her shotgun before she could do anything.

  As these unfortunate facts swept through her mind, Myra walked in and casually took the gun away. “Tssk, Tssk,” she said, though she seemed rather pleased.

  Then she turned to Bobby, and her eyes made it clear she wasn’t pleased at all with him.

  “Do you want to die?” she asked him.

  After a long pause, he shook his head. “No.”

  “Then make sure you never point a gun at her again.”

  “She was aiming one at me first.”

  “There are worse ways to die than a shotgun blast,” said Myra, her voice utterly cold. “And if you aim a gun at her again, I’ll show you what I mean by that.”

  He raised his eyebrows and screwed his face up in a way that made it seem as if he desperately wanted to respond, probably with something rye or humorous, something to save his pride, but then he clearly decided it wouldn’t be prudent at that particular moment. In the end he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “you’re the boss.”

  Myra glared across at him for a few more seconds, like maybe she was thinking about killing him right now just for the heck of it. Then she nodded and said, “just remember. She isn’t to be harmed under any circumstances.”

  “Understood.”

  Simone felt herself shrinking inside again. The brief burst of excitement that had come over her when she saw the gun was already long gone.

  Myra had a small tea-cup in one hand, full to the brim with dark murky liquid. She held it up so Simone could get a good look at it. “Do you still want this?”

  Simone considered for about half a second, then took the cup without a word and swallowed the liquid down in one big gulp.

  It had a faint lemony taste, and it burned some going down.

  Venom, she thought.

  She hadn’t noticed the taste last time, probably because it had been mixed with alcohol.

  She went over and sat down on the couch, and a moment later she felt the stuff hit, like her head was full of black cotton candy, and the world was wavering and everything was bending and twisting.

  She felt her limbs going dead, and waited for unconsciousness to arrive, but this time it didn’t happen. She just felt really drunk.

  Myra was watching her carefully, but said nothing.

  Bobby asked, “what’s going on?”

  “Not that it’s any of your bu
siness,” said Myra. “But she just took some medication. Something that will calm her down.”

  “I want to go to sleep,” slurred Simone. “Give me more.”

  “It wouldn’t be safe,” said Myra. She turned to Bobby. “Let’s get her up to her bedroom. She probably won’t be able to walk.”

  They came over and helped her up, and she needed it. Her everything felt weak. She leaned against one and then the other of them, wobbling back and forth as they led her up the stairs and into her bedroom.

  And then she wriggled free, sat down on the edge of her bed, closed her eyes to keep the room from spinning so much, fell back onto her pillows.

  In her imagination she saw her dad’s face. He seemed sad. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, he said. But please honey, don’t give up.”

  “Why fight,” she whispered. “What’s the point? They got me figured out, Daddy.”

  He shook his head. They have no idea what you can do. No clue. Just wait. We’ll come again when the time is right. We’ll show you how to get away.

  “I wish you were real,” she said, and that was when she felt the first restraint being fastened to her right hand. It was a wrist-band made of thick leather with soft fabric on the inner side, to make her feel more comfortable, probably.

  The band was attached to a thin rusty chain, which they wrapped around one of the end posts of her iron headboard and fastened with a heavy-duty padlock.

  The cuff looked like something out of an old movie about insane asylums, the sorts of movies where they would fasten people down to give them electric shock therapy.

  She felt a twinge of something when she looked at it. A panicked feeling.

  She tugged once, twice, but she was too weak to do anything.

  “There’s no need for these,” she said, her tongue barely cooperating. “I’m not gonna try to get away again.”

  Myra shook her head. “Sorry, but I can’t count on that. If you hadn’t tried that last little stunt with the shotgun, I might give you another chance, but under the circumstances I’m sure you can understand why I need to be sure you can’t get up and go anywhere.”

  Meanwhile, Bobby was on the other side of the bed. She felt him grab her right hand and wrap it with the other wrist-band. She tried to jerk away, but her reflexes were slow and she was weak as a kitten. He quickly attached the chain to the headboard, and that was that. She was trapped.

  Simone looked up at Myra. “I can’t take this. These chains… I didn’t think they would bother me, but it makes me really nervous.”

  “It’ll only be for tonight.”

  “You gotta take them off.”

  “I’ll take them off when I’m sure I can trust you.”

  “No,” said Simone, surprised by the sudden strength in her own voice. “You’ll take them off now, or I’ll make you pay when I get loose.”

  “Did you see that?” said Bobby to Myra.

  “What?”

  “Her face. What the hell’s wrong with her face?”

  Myra glanced down, and studied Simone carefully for a moment. Then she shrugged and said, “She Looks normal to me. What do you see?”

  He looked at Simone again, stared for a long time, and finally shook his head. “I don’t know… Now she looks normal again. Coulda’ swore I saw something for a second…”

  Myra smiled. “Are you afraid of her?”

  “No,” he said, a little too quickly.

  “Good. Then you can stay in here and watch her for me. Make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. If she gets rowdy, come find me. I’ll give her some more of the sedative.”

  “What if she has to use the bathroom.”

  “I can handle that part too. Just come fetch me.” She looked down at Simone. “You just try to relax. This will all be over soon. I bought some liver at the store. I’ll cook some up and feed you later—your body needs the iron. For what’s coming.”

  Simone said nothing.

  “You’re angry,” said Myra. “That’s good. It worried me to see you giving up so easily.”

  “If you’d just let me loose,” said Simone, “I promise I won’t try anything else. I don’t care anymore. I just don’t like being tied up.”

  Myra ignored her, and turned to Bobby. “Watch her close. If she gets hurt, it’s your responsibility.”

  He nodded, and she walked out of the room without another word.

  Simone closed her eyes again and tried to ignore the chains, but no matter what she did, the terrible trapped feeling continued to worsen.

  Outside, the sun was setting.

  Chapter 9 - In The Flesh

  The airport was tiny, basically just a flat area with a landing strip and a parking lot populated by about a dozen small private planes. Malcolm stood by his van, waiting for his pilot to arrive.

  A small metal shack—one of those prefab things—stood at the far end of the lot, and there was an office inside tended by a small fat man, round faced and red like a tomato, with a nose as stubby as a hammered nail.

  Thackery had caught the little man watching him through the window several times, and detected something purposeful in his expression, something he didn’t like. A quick glance at the man’s aura had revealed a bright orange outer layer—never a good sign—along with a number of very suspicious looking squiggles that made Thackery feel queasy in his stomach. He couldn’t help but wonder if the little troll was working for Enid. She had, after all, chosen this particular airport—insisted on it, actually, despite the fact that there were several other facilities just as functional that would have been vastly more convenient for him in terms of location.

  Upon reflection, it seemed very possible, perhaps even likely, that this place was owned by The Order of Merlin.

  The little fellow could even be a mind-reader…

  If so, he couldn’t blame Enid for trying, but she ought to know it was a waste of time. Thackery was well trained, by his father and other members of his family, in the art of resisting psychic invasion. Which meant the office manager might get a few morsels, but he wouldn’t get much, and probably nothing useful.

  Malcolm glanced at the window again, hoping to catch the fellow peeking out once more, but this time there was nobody there.

  Bloody little rascal…

  The possibility of being snooped on was a definite annoyance, but even without that his mood would’ve still been dark, mostly due to impatience. This had all taken far too long, and now he still had to wait for the pilot, who, by all rights, should’ve already been there.

  He supposed it was getting dark in Virginia by now, and he wondered what awful things might be happening there. He had doubts and worries aplenty, and the heat rising off the pavement was nearly unbearable, and sweat was rolling down into his eyes.

  Where’s that damn pilot?

  He took his phone out to check the time. Nearly five o'clock.

  Should’ve been here 30 minutes ago.

  He got back into his van, cranked it up, started the AC, turned on the radio.

  He was in the mood for a little rock and roll. Something older, from back when music was still decent. 1960s or 70s. Maybe even 80s. Nothing newer than that though.

  He flicked through the stations, and mostly found annoying talk radio stuff. Then he came across a station playing a song by the progressive rock band King Crimson. It was a song called 21st Century Schizoid man, one of his favorites; a strange and intense and jazzy sort of song. Not the kind of thing you heard on the radio very often. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard it on the radio.

  He cranked it up, and leaned back, and let his mind go blank as the music washed over him.

  And then, all too soon, the music faded, and he heard the DJ, a woman with a nice deep smooth voice. “That was King Crimson blowing your mind with 21st Century Schizoid Man, from their 1969 debut album—a great request from our chatroom. The next request, also from one of our loyal chatroom peeps… Someone going by the name Cosmic Penpal—a pretty cool nickname as
far as we’re concerned… This one is a special song, for a guy named Malcolm who’s currently waiting for his pilot to show up at some dinky little airport way out in the middle of nowhere…”

  Malcolm stared down at the radio, not sure if he could believe what he’d just heard.

  Then the song started, and he recognized it instantly: Call Me by Blondie.

  And then he thought about the name of the requester: Cosmic Penpal. And finally it all clicked into place.

  He reached into his coat and found the ouija-pad, and checked through pages till he found one that was glowing.

  It was a different page this time, but still very late in the book, still in the section for Gods and their ilk.

  He took the little pen and wrote:

  Are you trying to contact me?

  His writing faded, and the response appeared without delay:

  You and I have to talk. Immediately. In Person.

  Which brought one very obvious issue to his mind: That would be interesting, he wrote. But I’m not sure it’s possible.

  You’ll Have to summon me.

  I’m sorry to say that I don’t have any particular talent in that area.

  You don’t need talent. Not if I tell you precisely how to do it. So listen up: the procedure is very simple. Even someone like you can probably do it without any great difficulty. After I finish explaining, I want you to get out of your van and go do it immediately. Go hide behind one of the planes or something, for privacy, and perform the ritual without any delay. Do you understand me?

  Yes, he wrote. I understand, but there’s a problem. I’m actually expecting my pilot to show up any minute now, and I really think I ought to hurry and get to Virginia. Don’t you?

  Your pilot is going to be delayed, just for a bit, long enough so that you and I will have time to take care of our business. And, naturally, it’s very important business, important enough to justify a slight delay, otherwise I wouldn’t bother interacting with you at all.