THE DAUGHTERS
OF THE
DARKNESS
BY
LUKE PHILLIPS
Copyright © 2017 Luke Phillips
All Rights Reserved
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017
by Black Beast Publishing
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Print Book ISBN: 978-0-9562987-4-4
e-book ISBN: 978-0-9562987-3-7
For my mum, for whom Africa was merely the back garden, hippos, crocs and all, and always inspired my imagination.
Acknowledgements
The book you are about to read would not have reached you without the considerable help of a great number of people.
First, I must thank those who contributed to the book itself. That includes Richard and Dani of Valle Walkley, who have provided the stunning and sensational cover art. It also includes a whole suite of beta-readers, Liz, Ian, Rosie and Abigail, whose feedback helped make the story, characters and scenes within, that little more polished and presentable.
Thank you also to the Field Museum of Chicago, who answered my questions on one of their prized exhibits, and to the Museum of Natural History in both London and Paris, who helped in my search for the Barbary lion.
I also need to thank those who support me and keep me going long enough to write whole novels. Rosie Marr, you have been a constant source of encouragement, timely time-outs and help. And to my family, thank you too for another few years of patience and practical support.
And lastly, thank you to you, the reader. Thank you for choosing this book. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads.
Modern Day Man-Eating
As you pick up this book and begin to weave your way through the story, you may find the theme of active man-eaters a little surprising and out of place in a modern age. However, the truth is that predators haven’t stopped doing what they have always been capable of, when the opportunity and right circumstances present themselves.
The statistics show that man is still very much on the menu. In sub-Saharan Africa, approximately 3,000 people are taken every year by crocodiles. 1,500 Tibetans are killed by bears. 600 Indians are preyed on by leopards whilst another 85 are taken by tigers. The king of beasts naturally tallies the most cat-based kills, with lions taking 700 people on average annually.
Some of them become revered and infamous. The Tsavo Man-eaters, who feature in the legacy of the fictional lions in this book, were very real, as is the tigress in Nepal known as the claw. A lion given the name of Osama killed more than 50 people in Tanzania between 2002 and 2004. He was less than four years old and suspected to be part of a local pride that deliberately targeted humans. The story you are about to read is not as far-fetched as you think.
Another Osama, this one a crocodile, ate its way through 83 villagers in the waters of Lake Victoria before being captured in 2005. After sixty years of snatching victims from the banks, capsizing boats, and even boarding the wooden vessels to find his prey, he now lives out his days as breeding stock for Uganda Crocs Ltd, makers of fine leather handbags.
Human-predator conflict isn’t restricted to the more far flung places of the world either. Hans Kruuk, a carnivore zoologist for the University of Aberdeen, concluded that wolf predation on humans is still a factor of life for Eastern Europeans after a lengthy study of death records.
In the U.S too, although rare, predator related death is a possibility. Mountain lions take an average of one person every four years. Bears (polar, brown and black species combined) take to man meat about twice a year. Wolves barely register, with one human fatality every five years in the last twenty. Only a total of three fatal coyote attacks have ever been recorded.
The risk is minimal, and I do mean minimal. You are eleven times more likely to win your state lottery than fall victim to an American predator taken to a palate of people. Death by dog is fifteen times more likely, and death by cow or horse 32 more times likely.
But there is one killer that just can’t even begin to be compared to - us. Americans kill over 3,000 mountain lions every year. In the last two decades, over 100,000 black bears have been killed in the eastern United States alone. About 1,750 wolves are culled or simply hunted across North America annually.
The story you are about to read is fiction. The facts are very different. I hope you enjoy the book and find a new respect for our predators in equal measure.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Modern Day Man-Eating
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
TSAVO, KENYA, EAST AFRICA – SEVEN YEARS AGO
Amanda Walker woke with a start, sitting up in her sleeping bag and instinctively reaching for the old Marine Corps fighting knife she kept under her pillow. For a few seconds, she sat completely still, trying to work out what had woken her. Her first thought was that a snake had decided to curl up in or near the sleeping bag. It wouldn’t be the first time. When she couldn’t detect any movement, she relaxed a little and began to listen.
The door of the canvas tent was still tied shut. There was a soft breeze and she could hear the song of crickets carried on it. Then she heard something else. Soft murmurs, coming from outside. She looked over at her husband, Thomas. Even in his sleep he looked exhausted. She turned up the collar of his shirt to cover the insect bites on his neck. He had fallen asleep in his clothes almost as soon as he had returned from the day’s tracking. His fitful slumber and the sheen of sweat on his skin told her he was fighting another bout of Rift Valley fever. She smiled to herself and affectionately ran her fingers through his hair. She would let him sleep, but she couldn’t ignore the sounds. They had heard the man-eaters calling close to the camp during the day.
Just like her husband, she had gone to bed in her clothes, and she tucked the knife into the back of her shorts as she pulled the mosquito net up and made her way to the door-flap of the tent. She undid the top tie whilst yawning silently and peered out. The camp’s outbuildings were across the way, but no lights were on in the windows. Nothing seemed to be stirring. Then she heard the murmur again. Standing on the veranda of one of the buildings was a little boy. His skin was incredibly dark, showing up the blue and mauve tones of the night sky above. He was completely naked and held his hand over his mouth as he sobbed, staring in
to the darkness in wide-eyed terror.
As Amanda undid the rest of the flap ties, the boy noticed her immediately. As she watched him streak out of the camp, she immediately realised he wasn’t one of the children who lived with the crew and staff. He moved with absolute silence, his feet hardly touching the ground as he ran. The moon was full and bathed the scorched ground in an eerie light. Amanda couldn’t help the pang of panic she felt and took a few steps in the direction the boy was headed, intent on following. She hesitated. Thomas would be angry if he knew she had left the tent during the night. All the better reason to let him sleep, she decided.
She began to follow the little boy. The red dust stuck to her bare feet and the ground was still warm from the baking heat of the day. She crossed the road that led into the camp and paused for a moment as she looked out over the long grass. Thomas really would be angry at the thought of her going any further without a gun or an escort. But she could see the path the boy had taken and now she was growing concerned. She had already imagined the possibility the boy was from a local village, where maybe the man-eaters had attacked. What if he came for help? Amanda thought. She pushed on into the long grass.
She moved carefully and quietly, moving the brush aside and listening intently with every step. She could barely see over the top, so instead she crouched and followed the path the boy had made, peering ahead.
“Kito,” she whispered softly, “kito?”
The Swahili word was often used affectionately by mothers to children. The literal translation meant ‘precious one’. Amanda had considered the boy was so young that he may never have met a white person, and her appearance could have startled him. If he heard her speaking softly and in Swahili, he might stop running.
The moon was directly above her, making her long blonde hair look silver in the strange light. Somehow it made her feel alone and exposed, and she shivered with the cold she suddenly felt. Instinct overrode her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she reached the abrupt end of the trail. The boy had seemingly disappeared into thin air. The tall grass ahead of her swayed silently in the wind, moving back and forth as if caught in the breath of some invisible giant beast. She crouched, spinning on her heels to face the direction she had come from. She began to tremble as she closed her eyes and listened, as the crickets stopped singing one by one until there was silence.
For a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. She gritted her teeth and blinked, peering out into the grass around her. At first, she didn’t see anything. Then a pair of amber eyes flashed in the darkness, then another. More eyes, like burning coals in the shadows, appeared over to her left. Even in her fear, she was amazed at the pride’s ability to work together in silence and in the dark. She could feel them closing in on her. She estimated them to be no more than twenty yards away, and they were obviously hunting. She was in no doubt what, or rather who, the prey was.
She decided she had only one chance. The camp was three hundred yards ahead of her, beyond the long grass and across the road. She leapt upwards, her bare feet tearing into the ground violently as she sprinted through the grass. The greenery around her seemed to ripple with tawny-coloured flashes of fur. The lions began to call to each other quietly, emitting little coughs and grunts that came from both sides. She knew they were verging in on her, attracted by her flight and the noise she made as she ran. Her muscles burned as she willed herself faster.
She could now see the road and she felt a momentary swell of relief. She was going to make it. She knew the lions would at least hesitate before they broke cover, giving her the few seconds she needed to make it into the camp. She decided she was at least close enough to start screaming and raise the alarm. She opened her mouth just as the silhouette passed in front of her. She found herself suddenly stunned and winded as she was dragged to the ground. A large, pale coloured paw pushed her face into the dust, stifling the scream that waited to burst from her lungs. It had been the perfect ambush. The big female had always been behind her, waiting for the rest of the pride to drive Amanda into her waiting jaws. She went for the knife, but knew she would never reach her attacker face down in the dirt as she was.
The hot, wet breath of the animal lashed her skin as she tried to struggle free. Then came the torturous moment she felt the pressure of its teeth upon her neck just before they punctured the skin. Tears welled as she thought of Thomas and what he would discover come the morning. She convulsed as agonising pain momentarily rippled through her body. She kicked out a few times in her violent death throes as she asphyxiated, then her body went limp as her windpipe was crushed and the nerves at the top of the spinal cord were severed. As the big female began to feed on the kill, the other members of the pride drew close, waiting their turn to feast.
CHAPTER ONE
CANNICH, SCOTLAND, PRESENT DAY
Thomas Walker leaned back into the deep green leather of the desk chair, letting out an audible sigh. Even from his study, he could hear the television in the living room down the corridor. Meg, the chocolate and grey merle coloured Border collie, trotted up to the open doorway. She tilted her head and made a questioning huffing noise, clearly confused that she could hear Thomas’s voice from down the hall and yet saw him there, right in front of her. He couldn’t help smiling though. Catherine, his fiancée, was watching an old episode of Hunter Hunted. The year before, they had discovered a remarkable feline predator in the Highlands of Scotland, and tracking and eventually killing it had brought them considerable fame. For Thomas, it was his second dose, taking his fifteen minutes up to a full half hour. Hunter Hunted had been his first, a popular TV series centring on his adventures and that of his wife, Amanda, as they hunted man-eaters across the world. Amanda’s death in Kenya, seven years ago, had signalled the end of the programme. But now, with his name and actions back in the limelight, an ambitious reporter had seen an opportunity.
Kelly Keelson had become a figure as strongly associated with the story of Scotland’s spate of big cat attacks as he was. Her reports had helped clear his name after it had been dragged through the mud by a politician named David Fairbanks. He and Thomas had clashed before, when he had openly criticised the show and the circumstances of Amanda’s death, whilst on holiday in South Africa. They clashed again after, as Fairbanks rose through the government ranks to become the Minister for the Environment. The bad blood with Fairbanks had dried up when he was killed by the great cat, but not before he had tried to kill Catherine. It wasn’t something Thomas liked to dwell on, but Keelson had fed the eager public stories new and old, as well as re-runs of Hunter Hunted via her own, newly formed production company. But she hadn’t stopped there. Thomas was thumbing through her proposal for a new series. He picked up the phone and dialled Keelson’s number. She answered almost immediately.
“So, what do you think Walker?” Keelson asked with glee. “I’m already being swamped with offers after just putting out a few feelers. There’s a tigress in Nepal called ‘the claw’ that has killed eleven. Mumbai in India has an especially nasty leopard problem, which would be interesting given the city surroundings. Or for something completely different, how about a croc in Burundi? You’ve never done a crocodile before, and this one’s been called Osama. He’s meant to be 24 feet long and...”
“Take a breath Keelson,” laughed Thomas, rolling his eyes. “There’s a reason I’ve never done a crocodile before, I’m not that bloody stupid. You’re also forgetting I’ve already said no, several times.”
“You’re just playing hard to get. Come on Walker, you can’t tell me those new royalty cheques are hurting. There’s much more where that came from,” Keelson added coolly.
“I’m not exactly hard up. And you should realise I got out of the business a long time ago for a good reason. You can only cheat death so many times, and I think he’s beginning to take it personally.”
“So that’s it, back to putting flea collars on foxes and such like?” Keelson retorted, trying to bait him.
“Yes, exactly that. I’m a conservationist, and I like to think things have moved on from blowing holes in animals we have a problem with,” Thomas replied curtly.
“Tell that to Suru, who lost his mother, father and two children to ‘The Claw’. Or the families of the 300 people Osama chewed on. You know it’s not that simple, you’re a realist,” Keelson challenged, changing tack.
“I am a realist. And I know I can’t take all my memories, baggage and a new fiancée into that kind of danger again. I’m damaged goods, whether you like it or not,” Thomas admitted.
There was a pause, and Thomas knew Keelson wasn’t going to push him anymore, at least not today.
“Okay, but I’m not giving up. I actually think this would be good for you. Not many people get second chances. Just think about it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you Kelly,” smiled Thomas.
He couldn’t help feeling a little fond of her as he put the phone down. She never pushed past the point he could take it. They had found a mutual respect for each other over her handling of the cat story, and the numerous phone calls and emails since. He stood up and stretched. It had been a relatively quiet Sunday afternoon up until that point. He walked round the large oak desk and passed through the door into the hall. Meg barked and wagged her tail with excitement, darting between his legs as she scampered ahead of him. Her missing hind leg made her gait lop-sided, but didn’t seem to slow her down. The victim of a mountain lion attack in the States, she was another reminder of the risks posed by what Keelson was suggesting.
He put his head round the door of the living room. Catherine was curled up on the sofa. Just seeing her soothed his weariness a little. She embodied cosiness with her short, flame-coloured hair, a thick jumper wrapped around her, and the massive blue-grey hulk of Arturo, the Italian cane corso mastiff they had adopted, draped over the sofa with his head on her lap.
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