Rising Dark (The Darkling Trilogy, Book 2)
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RISING DARK
The Darkling Trilogy
Book 2
Copyright 2014 A.D. Koboah
Smashwords Edition
www.adkoboah.com
Copyright © 2014 A. Addo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For permission, contact the author at www.adkoboah.com
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: http://idobookcovers.com
ISBN 13 (epub): 978-0-9573003-5-4
ISBN 13 (paperback): 978-0-9573003-6-1
DEDICATION
I first of all want to thank God as it is truly a miracle that this book was written.
I would also like to thank all of my readers and the wonderful people who have written reviews of Dark Genesis. You will never know how much those reviews mean to me. I’m just sorry about the fact that you’ve had to wait nearly two years to read the sequel!
Thank you also to the wonderful Cynthia Boudreaux for her help in getting this manuscript in shape and for trying to put an end to this addiction I have to adverbs, along with a lot of other bad habits. And a huge thank you to Evensong editing for doing a fantastic job on my manuscript.
A special thank you also goes to my family and friends for their continued support.
And last but not least, thank you to www.idobookcovers.com for the fantastic covers for my novels.
To “my precious” Mya.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Nemesis
PART I
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
PART II
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
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Afterword
What would have been Chapter 24
Peace excerpt
Nemesis
London 1922
I landed silently on the roof of the cathedral in a crouch. The city stretched before me, the buildings clustered together like broken tombstones beneath a night that sat huddled over London like an assassin lying in wait.
Normally my near-indestructible body did not feel the extremes of heat or cold, but tonight I felt everything. I felt the bitter sting of the cruel wind lashing at my face and hands. I also felt the phantom throb of the dagger wound in my left shoulder, although it had healed long before I reached the cathedral. Binding it all with a barbwire kiss was the pain of my loss, which threatened to rend my mind and soul to pieces.
At last I found what I was searching for: a lithe figure on a rooftop in the distance, her profile stark and forlorn against the indigo night sky. She stood with her back to me, looking down on the street below her with an air of tense expectation, a sword dangling casually from her right hand.
Blinding hatred flared within me like the heart of a shooting star as she turned and regarded me for a brief moment. Then she fled, disappearing in midstride as she leapt from one rooftop to the next. She soon melted into the night.
She ran but knew I would follow, and when I did, I would leave behind the Avery I had spent years learning to become once more. That Avery had shunned the seductive lure of death and destruction for the faint light of humanity that had lain dormant for many years in a wilderness of desolation. Tonight I would once more succumb to the demon within and could only hope that, with her death, my humanity would not be lost forever.
I straightened, the sword in my hand glinting in the moonlight.
Visualising myself on a roof a few streets away, I drew the dark energy to me until I was weightless and everything around me dissolved. Seconds later, I burst out of the nothingness, my feet striking the roof I had envisioned in my mind. I was there for less than a second before I disappeared into the ether again.
I was soon close enough to see her ahead of me, leaping, sometimes somersaulting in mid-air before she landed on one of the rooftops. If anyone chanced to glance upward, all they would see would be shadows seeming to dip and dive, for we were moving far too fast for the naked eye to perceive.
She disappeared once more and I followed.
“Run, Luna,” I hissed, knowing she could hear me over the distance, the wind, and the clamour of life from the streets below. “Run. I will follow, and when I catch you, one of us will not live to see another sunrise.”
I sped on, slowly closing the distance between us and death.
PART I
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
–John Newton, Amazing Grace
Chapter 1
I am a vampire.
I have lived, in one form or another, for two hundred and eighty-two years.
When you have walked the Earth for so long, time ceases to be the indomitable foe to whom you spend your entire life bowing and scraping. Instead it becomes as insignificant as that childhood bully you left behind at the school gates. And a year can seem to linger only for as long as it takes for you to turn a page in a book.
After so, so many years, it is difficult to remember a time when I did not exist for Luna, the woman I have loved since I was made into a being of darkness. Nearly all the pages of my life are filled with Luna. There are pages spent in a wilderness of despair, her face haunting me, keeping me bound to the grim spectre of the life that was now mine. Many more of those pages are ones of ceaseless joy in which, united, we basked in the light of our love. But far too many pages of my life are coloured a soulless sepia with faded words, her absence a weeping wound which bleeds through to the many more blank pages that are still left for me to fill.
But there was such a time in England, in the 1700s, when I, Avery Wentworth, was a man and time was something to be respected. I remember that life so well: the shy boy who transitioned from awkward, stuttering youth to the pensive man who joined the priesthood. I remember those days, but they lack colour and vitality, and it is often like looking out of the window to a view so unremarkable the eye slides across the entire panorama without taking in a single detail of it until one must turn away from the sheer pain of boredom.
They are there, nonetheless. Memories of my mother, her sorrow the silent wraith haunting my childhood; the philandering father—usually loud and boisterous—who was barely present during my childhood, his charismatic personality lingering i
n the rooms of our haunted house long after he departed.
There was the pain of my mother’s death when I was ten, along with the stark reality that I was alone in a cold, harsh world which would never be softened by her gentle words, her kindness, and the protection of her love.
From then on I lived with my father—a man I barely knew—who soon became impatient with the young boy who was overwhelmed by his booming voice, overbearing personality, and extravagant ways. Then he became critical of the studious teenager and eventually bored with the young man who did not share his interests for women, drink, or hunting. Boarding school was a sanctuary, and upon graduating from university I did what my father has always seen as the worst insult to his name: I joined the priesthood and dove into my duties with a feverish kind of desperation.
But my story really begins on the evening of April 14, 1757, the night before my fateful trip to the Americas. I was twenty-seven years old, and on that evening, I was in what I really saw as my first home, my church. I wore black clothing: breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and a white necktie from which hung two large flat vertical pieces of cloth—the simple clothing the clergy wore to distinguish themselves in those days. I was kneeling before the altar, deep in prayer, and had been for some time. The church was still and quiet, the chaos of the outside world far from me in the sanctuary. And all that remained was His strength and peace, which had been my guiding light since the day I made the decision to give my life to Him. When I eventually opened my eyes, it was not a surprise to see the grey early evening light in the church had given way to darkness. I saw that a few candles had been lit and my coat was draped over my shoulders.
I rose to my feet and turned around. A petite young woman in a blue gown and matching coat sat in the first pew, her waist drawn to an excruciatingly narrow point above the full skirts of the gown, as the fashions of that time demanded.
When the world looked at this woman, my wife, they saw a plain woman with harsh features that were emphasised by the way her long, brown hair was pulled back into a severe-looking bun. But whenever I looked at Julia, I saw her inner beauty, especially when she smiled her gentle, sweet smile, as she did now.
She got to her feet as I crossed over to her. My own smile was somewhat apologetic. We had been married for less than a year, but I frequently forgot that I had someone other than myself to consider and care for.
“I am sorry, Julia. I completely forgot the time. You should have let me know you were here.” I took her hands in mine and, feeling how cold they were, tried to massage some warmth back into them.
“I did not wish to disturb you.” She gazed at me with pure adoration in her eyes. At first, seeing this clear love and devotion made me uncomfortable, but now I found that it reassured me.
I picked up her hat and put it on for her, promising myself to be much more attentive from now on.
“I need to pay a visit to my father,” I said. “Why not come with me? I do not intend to stay for long, and then we can go home and spend our last few hours with the dogs.”
We left the church hand in hand and stepped out into the cool spring evening. The moon was sickle-thin, casting weak light over the grounds, and the cemetery on the other side of the church had been all but devoured by darkness.
A slash of red to my right caught my eye and I glanced toward the cemetery to see a woman standing at its gates. She was a tall woman who possessed the dark beauty of the Spaniard, a shock of thick raven hair hanging down to her waist. She was dressed in an elaborate red gown and large red hat that was more suited to formal occasions. Lavish jewels adorned her neck and wrists. There was something wanton about her, a dark lasciviousness in the way her ruby lips spread in a smile that was more of a sneer.
I turned to help Julia into the carriage, and when I glanced at the cemetery once more, the woman was gone. I quickly put her out of my mind and entered the waiting carriage. We made our way along dark streets doused in flickering shadow from the weak candlelight sputtering from neglected streetlights. The streetlights did little to illuminate the cramped roads littered with manure from the heavy traffic it saw every day.
In what I would call a rather unremarkable life, that was the period when I was at my happiest. Marriage had opened up my world and was bringing a level of joy and contentment to life I hadn’t known was there. The only thing missing in our marriage was a child. It had been nearly a year since our vows, and every month that passed without the longed-for pregnancy seemed to bring a quiet air of desperation to Julia’s countenance that nothing could dispel. But I remained hopeful and believed that God would bless our union with what we both desired most: a son.
The only thing that marred my thoughts that evening was the impending visit to see my father. Our relationship was fractured at best, volatile at worst. My interactions with him were always clouded by the childhood memories of my mother lost in her sorrow as she waited night after night for her husband to come home, pretending not to be aware of the gossip that frequently blazed through her social circles of his whereabouts and the many married and unmarried women he seduced. But there was one thing I was grateful to him for: He was the one who brought about my union with Julia.
Over a year ago I had been summoned to the house of my childhood. It was a stately detached house set back from the road, offering a haven from London’s crowded, noisy streets.
I entered the warm, cosy drawing room to a pang of longing, its familiar, solid furnishings taking me back to the many evenings I spent on my mother’s lap in front of the fire. Unfortunately, my father’s imposing presence intruded upon that happy memory. He was standing by the fireplace with a glass of brandy in his hand, staring up at two swords hanging above it. The swords were his most prized possessions, an extremely extravagant gift from a wealthy female admirer. They had staghorn grips and intricate silver markings along the blade and lining its edges.
My father was an extremely handsome man. He was now in his fifties, the streaks of grey in his dark hair giving him a distinguished air, and although he was running to fat, he was tall enough to wear it well and merely looked robust. I was a younger, leaner version of him and had inherited his dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and aristocratic features.
Considering our relationship, it always surprised me to see the simple joy that infused him whenever he saw me. He gave me a warm smile when I entered and did not appear to notice that I did not return that smile. He bounded over to me and I braced myself for one of his characteristic—and painful—slaps across the back.
“Avery, my boy!” In addition to the slap, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and roughly pulled me over to the drinks cabinet. “It is good to see you. I see too little of you. I may have to start attending that church of yours just so I can get a glimpse of my firstborn.”
That booming laugh of his, which had a habit of grating on my nerves, rang out in the small room.
“So what will it be? Brandy?” he asked.
I pasted a thin smile on my lips and moved away to the chair by the window, where weak, frosty light shone into the room.
“No thank you, Father.”
He poured it anyway and placed it before me, generously topping up his own glass before he sat down opposite me.
“Don’t be wet, Avery. One drink will not hurt.”
My smile became colder. “‘Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise.’ Proverbs Chapter twenty, Verse one.”
His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second and the grip on the glass of brandy tightened. But then he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“I hear the congregation of St Anne’s has increased dramatically since you took over. Apparently it is difficult to get a seat due to all the young ladies who descend in droves so they can fawn over the dashing—and single—Reverend Wentworth. You know, all these years I believed that little act of yours. But you are a Wentworth. You must be going through those girls like a wild stallion.”
I bristled. I
had never noticed before, but the majority of my parishioners were women. But to imply they merely came to look at me was ludicrous—and insulting. And to even suggest I was acting in a way that would dishonour those sacred vows I had taken left me in a silent rage.
I rose to my feet.
“I can see there is no purpose to this visit other than to sit here and listen to you make slurs against my character.”
“Sit down, Avery. It was a joke.”
When I stepped away from the chair, his temper was quick to rise to the surface.
“Damn you, I said sit down! I rarely see you, and when I do, you are here for barely a few minutes before you take your leave.”
The sound of him raising his voice elicited an echo of the dread I used to feel around him as a child, and almost without realising it, I responded as I would have then and quickly sat down before he became angrier. I glared at him for a few moments before I spoke again.
“Why did you summon me, Father?”
“It is time you found yourself a wife.”
“Father, if this is the reason why you called me here, then you are wasting your time. My work keeps me far too busy to go about the business of finding a wife.”
“Then it is a good thing I have already found one for you. And do stop pouting. Your mother used to do that and I find it most annoying.”
It was necessary for me to inhale deeply before responding.
“It is most kind of you to have taken it upon yourself to find me a wife, Father, but if some of the unfortunate females I have seen you consort with over the years, including the very night you laid your first wife to rest, are an example of what I am to expect, then I will have to refuse your kind offer.”