Table of Contents
Title Page
Stirring Embers (The Light & The Void, #1)
Author’s Note
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 52
EPILOGUE
Author’s Notes
Choose your side! The Light, or the Void...
Acknowledgements
STIRRING EMBERS
By
Willem Killian
Book 1 of The Light & the Void Series
Copyright Notice
©(2021) Digital Prospects (Pty) Ltd. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or copied without the expressed written permission of the Author.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters and events in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader
Thank you for taking a chance on this book and getting me a little closer to the life I want to live!
Happy reading,
-W.K.
PS: If you like the book, please make sure to leave an honest review when you are done reading. Thanks!
PPS: If you ever forget what a name, place, or term refers to, I have created an online Index for the Light and the Void series. It’s called A Grimdark Tracker’s Field Guide to Creatures, and Places
You can find it here:
https://willemkillian.com/creature-feature-list/
PROLOGUE
The moment the door locked behind her, Eleanor knew she was in trouble. That cold premonition of dread started to send tiny ice blocks down the back of her neck and spine. Hairs all over her body stirred awake and rose to add to the tension in her muscles.
The front of the building looked like any other apartment block. There was even a few potted plants and a tree defying the early winter chill with a last bit of greenery, preparing for their winter sleep, lined up before the entrance. From the outside, at a quick glance, it appeared to look like all the other buildings on the street.
Eleanor berated herself for being so irresponsible. She was usually so observant!
Yes, it was cold, and yes, she had forgotten her scarf in her haste to get here. Her shoulders were hunched trying to get some warmth to her exposed ears and her eyes were teary from the occasional sniping breeze that came screaming around corners without warning.
So yes, she had been distracted, but that was no excuse.
Now, she was trapped. The door wouldn't budge. There was no keyhole on this side, making the key in her hand utterly useless. She thought about throwing it away for a second, but then reconsidered and placed it back inside a zippered pocket in her purse. She replaced it instead with her .38 Chief's Special. It was a gift from Dan Almeida, which at the time she had thought totally unnecessary and overdramatic from the old stalwart. But Dan had insisted, had even trained her on how to use it, and now she was grateful. Having the firearm in hand gave her a little more confidence that she would get through this.
The initial panic subsided somewhat and she briefly looked at the empty foyer before turning her full attention to the front door of the building. It was a solid thing. Plated in steel, fit to protect the hoard of a king. It had no knob. No keyhole. It opened to the inside, which meant pushing it would serve no purpose. There was nothing to hold on to, to pull the thing open - even if it hadn't been locked. She had heard the distinctive SNICK! of the lock mechanism falling in place the moment it closed.
Eleanor considered shooting at it with the revolver. Dan's safety training however, gave her second thoughts. She was worried about all that steel plating. You can still die from a ricochet.
Oh well, she thought. I'll just sit here with my back to the door until the cavalry arrives.
She took out her cellphone and was about to settle in for a short wait when she cursed silently at the no signal message. She stood up straight again, back against the door, eyeing the small foyer.
I'm in the city! How is that possible, she wondered.
Suspicion and a small amount of panic crept back into her system.
She retraced her steps, thinking of how she had been lured here.
It had been a simple handwritten note. The author possessed a neat and delicate cursive that flowed over the lines.
Dear Miss Kraye,
I am convinced my sister has been murdered. The police think it was a drug related suicide, but I know better. My sister was the occasional soft-drug user, but she only ever used things like weed over weekends to unwind after a particularly long week.
She was the personal assistant to Michael Braithwhaite, the CEO of North Hemprop, the urban development company known for evicting tenants in dubious fashion from old buildings they buy and then flip into high rise, exclusive apartments.
I found some copied documents hidden in my sister's apartment when I was cleaning it out. She had made detailed notes as well from boardroom meetings, emails and internal memos. It details how North Hemprop intimidated people, most often by force, out of their apartments. Her notes state that she even has proof of how North Hemprop had murdered two people, sanctioned by Michael Braithwhaite himself.
My sister, Annie (BTW), mentioned your name. It looks like she wanted to go to you with all the info she had. I did my research on you and I think you are trustworthy. So, I'm leaving you the keys to my sister's apartment.
I didn’t want to discuss this over the phone, hence the note. I also wanted to meet you in person, but my mother has taken a turn for the worse (she is literally heartbroken following Annie's death), and I need to visit her urgently in the hospital. Your apartment was on the way, so...
If interested, you are welcome to the files while I am with my mother. I shouldn't be more than two or three hours. I'll just buzz you when I get there and you can let me in. If you are not at Annie's, I will return to your apartment.
Kind regards,
Regina Sanderson.
Eleanor cursed herself for being so stupid. As a reporter, she was supposed to be skeptical. The note however, had cau
ght her at exactly the right time. She needed a distraction. A new story. Something else to occupy her thoughts.
For the past few weeks, everything had revolved around the Ice Cream Killer. The case consumed her entire life, both personal and professional.
As a green reporter with only a year's experience behind her, she had stumbled upon the third of his victims, little Markus Engbright. Markus had been only ten. To date, he had been the youngest of the serial murderer's four victims. Eleanor saw Markus in her nightmares at least three times a week. She wondered if she would ever be able to forget his serene little cherub face.
Somehow, the killer saw her at the scene and became infatuated with her. He started sending her little handwritten notes. Sometimes, the most beautiful haikus - which was even more disturbing than the personal notes. Naturally, the young, pretty and scrappy reporter was pushed into the limelight and she became the official voice of the people. Her articles were a sensation and she became synonymous with the Ice Cream Killer.
That's why she needed a reprieve. Something else to occupy her time and distract her thoughts from the monster stalking young children. The note from Regina Sanderson had seemed heaven sent.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
The building was too quiet. It had that empty feel to it, abandoned. It had been in the midst of renovations when the work had stopped. Eleanor could see discarded plastic sheeting and bags of cement near the dead elevators. The only light was coming from a single bar of bright LED in the center of the small foyer. To her left, Eleanor could see mailboxes, tightly packed against the wall for each apartment. To her right was a dusty plastic fern, elevator doors for a single elevator, plastic sheeting, and about ten or twelve bags of cement resting on a wooden pallet between the elevator and a door that said STAIRS.
The walls were bare, the floor industrial grade linoleum covered with a faint layer of dust where Eleanor could make out footprints. A clear path had been made between the front door and the stairs. The foyer had seen some activity recently. Before that though, the building had stood empty for months. It probably belonged to one of the many businesses that went bust during the pandemic, but because the building was situated in an upper class neighborhood, the front had been kept neat and clean. You wouldn’t find vagrants around here. No illegal squatters hijacking an empty building. Appearances had to be upheld, taxpayers kept happy.
That was why she had been fooled. That, and the wind. The icy wind had nipped at her bones and had kept her head low, eyes averted to her feet.
Eleanor cursed again. The last year had taught her a lot. Especially how to keep her eyes open, to read a situation, to take in details. And yet, here she was, locked inside an abandoned building.
Great, she thought sarcastically, once again scanning the small foyer. At least there’s electricity.
She checked her phone a last time, wondered briefly how it was possible not to have signal, and was about to set off in search of an emergency exit or a backdoor, maybe even a fire escape, when something caught her eye to her left. The mail boxes were all empty except for one. The very last one, number 81 Penthouse. The edge of a white envelope was sticking out.
Eleanor reached out with a steady left hand, the right hand still holding the .38 comfortably but firmly. She wasn't surprised when she saw her name in the same cursive that Regina Sanderson favored. The envelope wasn't sealed and opened easily.
Her hand started an involuntary palsy when she recognized the handwriting on the single folded page. She had seen the bold block type letter formation before.
Dearest Eleanor,
Apologies for the subterfuge, but it was time we met. Alone. I couldn't let Detective Almeida and the entire NYC chaperone you.
Come up to the eighth floor. I have a little surprise for you. The lift doesn’t work, but the stairs shouldn’t take a fit little thing like you too long.
And don’t take too long.
You might miss little David bleeding out.
Love,
David ICK.
PS: How ironic that his name is David, too, don’t you think?
PPS: Hurry. There might be a gurgle left in him.
Eleanor knew she was being baited, but she had no option. The psycho was here in the building and the monster might have a child with him. Another victim. Number four.
She almost ran to the stairwell door.
Without heed for her own safety, she opened the door and went in low, holding the gun close to her side to protect it from a would-be attacker who might be lurking on the other side.
There was no one there. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the stairwell was well lit. Her win was forgotten, however, when the door slammed against the wall, sending a booming echo up the stairs. If the sicko didn't know she was here, he would now.
Instead of holding back and being more cautious, it urged her forward with even more determination.
She checked the doors on each floor, but they were all locked. She briefly stopped on the third, sixth, and again on the eighth to check for network coverage, but there was still no signal. Eyeing the last landing, slightly out of breath, Eleanor knew she was on her own. Taking her last tentative steps as quietly as possible, she inched her way to the penthouse suite door. Revolver at the ready, she steeled herself for what was to come and opened it. Nothing could have prepared her for what she would find.
It was the beginning of her nightmare.
CHAPTER 1
Blood on the walls...
It was everywhere.
As if a demented spray painter had doused the walls in a fine mist of candy red. The droplets hardly trickled down. Like a fine layer of paint, they remained in place, stuck to the walls where they first fell, creating a fine pattern of tiny red droplets. A milky way of bright red on the white backdrop of the wall. There was blood on the floor as well. And some on the ceiling.
Eleanor hoped that an animal had been slaughtered in some sadistic ritual to appease a tribal god from a savage land, but in her heart, she knew the truth. This wasn't animal blood.
She had seen it before.
She had almost stumbled over the still-warm corpse of Markus Engbright that night. It had been dark in that abandoned tenement and she had seen the body just in time. Her right foot however, had stepped fully into the spongy, red pool around him. The monster must have just placed the frozen popsicle on the boy’s dying lips a few short minutes before, as it was only halfway melted. The sweet, sticky mess of purple, blue and red that was symbolic of fun, of laughter in the sunshine, was a stark contrast to Markus' own warm, sticky pool that had spread around his inert body in the grimy darkness. When the crime scene lights had been added later, the walls around Markus Engbright had also been painted in a fine mist of red.
Just like here.
Movement caught her eye and Eleanor saw Markus standing in the shadows. His face only half visible. His gaze was accusatory. His mouth set in a stern razor-like scowl. He stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
Eleanor knew now that she was dreaming. Tonight, it was David Cronin's turn to haunt her. She recognized the crime scene. Markus had just made a little guest appearance and would probably not appear again.
Knowing it was a nightmare, didn't make it any easier. Reliving a horror was bad. Reliving it when there could be new twists and turns that added to the terror was somehow worse, even if deep down, she knew it wasn't real. Eleanor didn't like surprises.
No matter how many times she saw the little victims in her nightmares, their dead gazes still seemed to suck the life from her. Her heart broke every time. Especially when the dreamscapes didn't allow her to avenge the fallen. Sometimes, the Ice Cream Killer would make an appearance and she would shoot him as she had in real life, ending his reign of terror, but every now and again, he would get away and he would continue killing in the dream world. Most often though, David Samuel Sterling, a.k.a. Dave ICK, a.k.a. the Ice Cream Killer, didn't even feature in her nightmare.
&nb
sp; Those were the worst.
Everything would then focus on the dead children. The nightmare would have more detailed overtones. Everything would pop. Reds were brighter, shadows darker, the eyes of dead children shining brightly with reproach and condemnation.
Once again, for the hundredth time, Eleanor tried to tiptoe through the swaths of fine crimson droplets on the floor. The bloodied footprints left in her wake, seemed to accuse her of something. As if she was an accomplice in the atrocity. The squelching of her feet only exasperated her guilt.
The short corridor ended at a single door, the door that led into the penthouse suite. Eleanor's hand reached out and she willed it to stop. She wanted to turn around and run, perhaps even use the .38 on herself, just to end the nightmare. But her hands were empty and unresponsive. Her feet also didn't respond to commands. Not even spoken ones. She was controlled by a higher power that forced her onwards against her will.
The door opened to a half-finished luxury apartment. Large, square porcelain tiles had been laid, but not grouted. The walls were still bare, kitchen cupboards were up, but the granite tops still rested against the walls. Bare bulbs hung from the ceilings.
Renovations must have stopped suddenly, she thought for the umpteenth time.
The kid was sprawled out on what would have been the living room floor. Unlike Markus, his blood had not pooled around him, but had instead trickled into the empty spaces surrounding the tiles. Interconnected networks of white porcelain tiles were now bordered by squares of red. It looked like an aerial photograph of city grids covered in ice, the streets running with rivers of blood.
The red grids were still expanding, which meant that the kid had not been bleeding for too long. Eleanor raced to him, threw away the multi-colored popsicle which had only just started to melt on his lips and felt for a pulse.
She stopped immediately, as soon as her fingers touched his neck, just as she had in real life, knowing that finding a pulse wouldn't help much. She was wasting time. She had to stop the bleeding.
Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1) Page 1