Shrouded in Blackness

by Karlsson, Norma Jeanne

  Shrouded in Blackness

  © 2014 Norma Jeanne Karlsson

  Published by It’s Publishing

  Edited by Progressive Edits

  Cover Design and Layout by

  Ellie Bockert Augsburger

  Creative Digital Studios

  CreativeDigitalStudios.com

  Cover Images by

  © cristovao31 / Dollar Photo Club

  © creative_stock / Dollar Photo Club

  © ChaosMaker / Dollar Photo Club

  © triling / Dollar Photo Club

  © jirikaderabek / Dollar Photo Club

  ISBN e-book: 978-0-9911873-4-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  Looney Tunes, characters, names and all related indicia are trademarks of and © 2001 Warner Bros. Incredible Hulk and The Avengers is a registered trademark of Cadence Industries Corporation 1981 (d.b.a. Marvel Comics Group).

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is available in print from most online retailers.

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgements

  Into the Blackness Preview

  To the people who forgot to fight for me. It’s because of you I can fight for myself. And it’s because of you I’ll always fight for others.

  Quinn

  Do you want to know what heaven feels like? It’s this right here. Standing under a steaming hot shower head, dousing my grime-covered body in droplets of freshness. After a week and a half of being out there with nothing more than a wet wipe to do a basic rubdown in a public bathroom, this is pure ecstasy. My muscles are releasing tension as each second ticks by. My skin is breathing deeply through each pore as the water drags away the filth. My lungs are being cleansed by the steam mixed with the scent of some cheap generic soap that may as well be the most high dollar body cleanser the world has ever seen. I never thought soap could mean so much to me, but at this point in my life I live for soap.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but my fingers are pruney to the point of pain. Time to move this along. I stick my hand under the pump attached to the wall and fill it with an industrial, green-colored shampoo-conditioner-body wash combination that has a manly fragrance. I don’t care. I scrub my inky raven hair into a sudsy pile on top of my head. A feat really, considering it reaches my waist at this point. That happens when you don’t cut your hair for eight years.

  I brace my hands against the cracked, grey, used-to-be-white-twenty-years-ago tile and let the fluffy mound on my head set while the water scalds my back. I’m covered in goosebumps from the sting and I relish it. I use the pump combo soap again to scour my body clean. I buff so deeply that it’s red and welted. Clean. I won’t be able to come back for another week and a half so I’m making it count. Now that I’m covered in foam from head to toe I step back in the searing heat and rinse myself slowly.

  I hear something and halt my movement instantly. I’ve become hyper aware of every sound in the last eight years. I can hear a rat take a shit I’m so highly tuned in. I wait for thirty paced breaths. I’ve found in that amount of time if something’s actually making a sound it’ll make another in that space of time. The breaths come and go without another peep so I return to rinsing. I shave everything with the cheap one-blade BIC Ian gives me every week while I’m here. He leaves me the razor and a towel without fail, and the soap pump is always full as well as the lotion pump out in the changing area.

  Ian Brogan is the closest relationship I have in this world. Seven years ago, he came upon me and decided to insert himself into my life. I fought and bitched like crazy until I realized he didn’t care what my opinion was on the matter. So, the then-sixty-two year-old with the body of a man twenty years his junior and a face always masked in some form of pissed off became…my everything. He watches out for me, feeds me when I allow it (or so I tell myself), and lets me come here whenever I want to clean up.

  Ian owns and operates a gym of sorts. It’s really an old warehouse that he converted into a training center for fighters in the 1970s. Not boxers: fighters are what he and his crew train. Fighters that are vicious, lethal men who no one wants to cross in the dark of night or even on a bright sunshine-filled day. Some of the men he’s trained have gone on to fight professionally, but most stick to the underground bare-knuckle fights that have been going on for centuries. I met Ian after one of the fights he hosted here. I was out back in an alleyway when some guy, who had bet on one of the fights and lost and then got rip-roaring drunk, decided he wanted to make my acquaintance. It didn’t take long for the guy to realize that my five-foot-nothing, barely hundred-pound frame was not in the mood to be acquainted with him or his “skin flute,” I believe is what he called it. Instead, I introduced him to a swift knee to his musical instrument.

  Ian had been watching the guy because, well, that’s what Ian does. As I unmanned the prick, Ian watched from afar before approaching me cautiously. He complimented me on my skills and tried to start up a conversation which I quickly shut down and disappeared into the night. I didn’t see Ian again for months but when I did, I was in a worse situation and Ian didn’t watch from afar. Needless to say, after our second encounter I was more willing to talk to Ian Brogan.

  After shaving and rewashing myself, I cut off my heavenly shower and wrap myself in a towel. The only problem with using a men’s gym is that I have to use men’s towels. I flip my hair over and wrap it up turban-style with one towel before I dry my body and then wrap the other tiny one around my waist man-style. Walking into the changing area, I slather lotion anywhere and everywhere. It’s another industrial product that smells manly and, again, I don’t give a shit. It feels silky with a bite on my raw skin that I welcome.

  The dryer isn’t don
e with my clothes yet so I sit on the bench and wait. I dig through my worn and holey backpack to find a book I’ve been reading. There’s a lady at one of the shelters I hop around that gives me books. I think she runs a program to educate homeless people. I don’t pay her much mind other than to collect books when I see her and then take off. I never stay anywhere more than a few hours. Moving makes me invisible. You can’t catch something that isn’t there. Life lesson learned early.

  I hear a noise out in the gym and begin counting my breaths. Ten breaths in and I hear the noise again, louder. I slide my hand into my bag and grasp my knife. Ian gave me his Yarborough knife after our second encounter. He taught me how to use it and I perfected my craft over the last several years. Oddly, in my life I haven’t had to use my knife skills all that often. I wish I could claim I have a steely disposition and feel no fear but right now, I feel sick to my stomach and my hand has the slightest tremor as I prepare myself for whatever I’m about to meet.

  I stand up silently and move in the direction of the noise. It sounds like someone is moving something across the mats in the grappling area. Ian left before I got in the shower and won’t be coming back until later. I know it’s not him. He would make himself known before jacking around in the gym. I reach the door to the locker room and wait to hear the sound again. Five breaths and the same dragging noise mumbles through the glass and wood door. I’m wearing a damn towel around my waist. Not my idea of combat clothing, but it’ll have to do. Sometimes fighters come in to train at night, though Ian doesn’t allow it when I’m here. It’s not a fighter out there. The gym is in a rough neighborhood, but Ian Brogan possesses enough of a reputation that no one would think to rob him. It could be someone like me out there, looking for a warm, dry place to sleep for the night. Whoever it is, I’m about to find out.

  I push the door open slowly and peer through the crack, seeing the back of a man dragging something from the far end of the gym toward me. I can’t see what he’s dragging or what he looks like. There are only a few running lights on so he’s mostly shadowed. He’s broad in the shoulders and a good foot taller than me. I’ll have to surprise him to maintain the upper hand. When he’s about twenty feet away from me, I step lightly into his path. As he’s about to run into me, I take my opportunity.

  “Don’t move,” I warn menacingly as he comes to a halt. Before he can turn around I press the tip of my blade in the center of his spine. He stays stock still at the sensation.

  “Down on your knees,” I order. He complies quickly, keeping his hands raised on either side of his head. With him on his knees, he no longer has a size advantage over me. I stay silent for a long moment and then rip his head back with my left hand on his forehead, crushing it into my bare chest and pressing my blade to his fully-exposed neck.

  “What are you doin’ here?” I ask in a whisper.

  “You could ask nicely without the blade, girly,” he responds in a cocky tone. Yeah, that’s not going to work with me.

  “I could just slit your throat and go back to reading.” I press the blade into his skin, drawing the slightest glimmer of blood.

  “Okay. I’m here for Ian,” he responds more respectfully, not even wincing at his wound.

  “Ian’s not here and fighters aren’t supposed to be here right now, so try again.” I pull his forehead even harder, avoiding his eyes with my hand covering his brow.

  “I’m here for Ian,” he repeats in a calm tone. Why is this dude not afraid I’ll kill him?

  “We seem to be havin’ a communication issue. Ian’s not fuckin’ here. So why are you?”

  “He asked me to come by. I’m here.” He shrugs. He SHRUGS! I’m a little mindfucked right now.

  “You can wait outside for Ian if you want. Not in here. I’ll walk you out.” Those words sound nice, but my tone is far from it.

  “Ian didn’t want me to wait outside. He asked me to meet him in his office. I’ll go up there,” he says flippantly. Death wish for sure with this guy.

  “You’ll stand up. I’ll keep my blade at your spine. You’ll go outside. Ian gets here he can decide what to do with you. Tell me you understand and I’ll let you up.”

  “I understand. Do you always walk people outside with your tits out?” I see the corners of his mouth turn up and realize this guy thinks he has the upper hand and is quite possibly some freak who’s turned on by knife play and a half-naked woman. I bet he’s hard right now.

  “I don’t have time for this shit. Easier to kill you and let Ian clean up the damn mess. Nice talkin’ to you,” I say in a completely civil tone. I move to drag my blade across his throat.

  “QUINN!” Ian screams from the door into the gym. I snap my gaze to him as he runs toward me. I halt my execution based on the crazed look on Ian’s face; he doesn’t want this mess in his gym.

  “Quinn, let him go. I asked him here. He’s a little early. Let him up,” Ian orders softly, trying to placate my mood. I hold his gaze a moment longer before releasing my captive. He stands up slowly with his back still to me as I cross my left arm across my boobs so he doesn’t get a free show. I’m covering the essentials but there’s a lot spilling over and under my arm.

  “Quinn, you okay?” Ian asks as the other guy turns around. I get a good look at his face now. He is definitely a fighter. There are scars under his eyes, above his brow and one just brushing his top lip. His eyes are a murky blue and there is a bump on his nose from a break at some point. Square jaw and deep lines around his mouth, he’s a lethal killing machine. I’d know that face anywhere. Even his espresso colored hair, that’s not long enough to style with product and not short enough to be buzzed, looks angry and perfectly disheveled.

  After studying him, I realize that even though his face is worn and marred he’s gorgeous. Aren’t they all? Not that I give a shit. He could be a Calvin Klein model and I wouldn’t react. A woman in my position can’t…ever.

  “I’m fine,” I reply confidently to Ian. I am fine. This is not the first time I’ve been in this situation and this won’t be the last. The life I live on the streets demands that I be this person. I’ve had to become her…I like being her.

  “You wanna go get some clothes on?” Ian prompts. I nod and turn on my heel to return to the locker room. Once inside, I check the dryer and my clothes are finally done. I pull on my underwear and bra before covering myself in long underwear, cargo pants, a black thermal, a hoodie and my biker boots. I fold the other two outfits I have, which are much the same, and stuff them in my bag with my book and a few food items I have with me. I slide my blade into its sheath and attach it to the back of my pants. I flip my head under the hand dryer, getting as much moisture out of my hair as possible. After a long while, my hair is almost dry. I check myself in the mirror and see cold, lifeless crystal blue eyes staring back at me. Good to go.

  Kieran

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Ian apologizes after G.I. Jane enters the locker room.

  “Quite the welcoming committee,” I snark, reaching up to inspect my wound. It stings, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. I step around the tire I was dragging through the gym before that ninja attacked me.

  That chick was impressive. I didn’t even know she was in the room before I felt her blade in my back. I know one other person with skills like that…Shannon. I’ve got to be the only motherfucker in the world to meet two women with abilities like that. This one’s different from Shannon though.

  Shannon Kelly is a woman I’ve admired and loved since she was seventeen. I met her after a piece of shit and his buddy conspired to rape her at a college party my cousin, Brian O’Sullivan, was having at his house. Once Brian and his roommates were done with the rapist and his pal, I cleaned up the mess. One of the best nights of my life.

  When Shannon was eight, her father, the former State’s Attorney, was killed in a hit carried out by the mob ordered by a crazy fucking politician here in Chicago. She was in the car when the hit was executed and her uncle faked her death t
o keep her safe. This is a fact we just learned when the same crazy fucking politician had Shannon kidnapped to get information from her about the hit and other incriminating evidence he believed she had about him and his connections to organized crime. It was a shitstorm within a clusterfuck to get her back safe and sound. But she’s back now and facing a new landslide of whacked-out.

  Shannon’s uncle was some sort of super-soldier and he trained Shannon from the time she was little to become her own version of a killing machine. And that’s what she is. The fight that Shannon has is innate, intuitive. Her abilities are so ingrained it comes as easily as breathing to her. I swear she’s calmer with a gun in her hand than she is taking a bubble bath. This chick with the knife to my throat has been forced to be what she is. It makes her no less deadly than Shannon, but somehow softer. There was a tremor in her hand as she held the blade.

  “Quinn can be a bit much. Sorry, Kieran,” Ian says looking at the slice in my neck. “Let’s clean that up.” I nod and we head to the locker room as Quinn comes out.

  “Thanks, Ian,” she says politely, moving past us like I’m not in the damn room.

  “Quinn, don’t take off. We need to talk,” Ian orders in his gruff voice. She turns and offers him a glare that’s piercing and cold. Her eyes are ice blue surrounded by long dark lashes. Her long hair is pure black and contrasts her pale skin. Her lips are plump, full, bow shaped pillows. Highest ass cheek bones I’ve ever seen and a perfectly small, sloping nose. She can’t be more than an inch over five feet and ninety pounds soaking wet. This chick is a knock out. Fuck me running.

  “Ian,” she growls cutting her eyes to me. If looks could kill I’d be in tiny pieces dotted around the gym.

  “Christ, Quinn, you almost slit his throat. Don’t fuckin’ leave,” he bites out and stomps into the locker room leaving me with my would-be murderer.

  “Sorry about scarin’ you,” I apologize in a kind tone, as kind as my whiskey and tar voice can be.