Available Darkness Box Set | Books 1-3

by Platt, Sean

  Graduation from Duke, meeting Jack, getting married. Then Bobby, followed by countless merry memories of a loving family.

  Unlike the others Abigail fed on, Marge was mostly happy. Her memories swirled through Abigail’s head, making her feel warm and pleasant, erasing many of the darker pasts she’d gathered over the year.

  A sudden gunshot — and intense pain splintering inside her gut — interrupted the flow and killed her connection to Marge.

  Abigail’s eyes blinked back to the bedroom, staring at Jack, gun in hand. She looked down, saw the hole in her stomach, and involuntarily whimpered at the blood pouring out from inside it.

  Jack fired again.

  The second bullet slammed into Abigail’s chest and threw her back to the headboard where she lay still beside Marge’s burned body.

  “What did you do?” Jack screamed, running toward her, gun still aimed.

  Pain pounded through her body, reminding Abigail of the agony she’d felt when shot a year before, back when she died in the motel parking lot. Before John saved her with his curse.

  She looked up at Jack, seeing him through the filter of Marge’s memories. He was a good husband. Kind, caring, loving. He’d worked hard to provide for their family. Marge truly loved him, even if they weren’t as intimate as they’d once been. Jack was her everything. To see him in so much pain cut like a knife in Abigail’s heart.

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail said through tears and torrents of pain, wanting, in the current of Marge’s memories and feelings, to reach out and console him. But she was frozen, dying from the gunshot. Though John said she was nearly invincible, nearly wasn’t completely. And this time her angel wasn’t there to save the day.

  This time, death was permanent.

  Abigail couldn’t move her limbs. Her eyes drifted in and out of focus as Jack kneeled beside his wife, mouth agape, unable to fathom what could have possibly happened to his sweet Margie.

  “What are you?” he trembled, holding his wife’s ashen remains, glaring at Abigail. “What kind of monster are you?”

  Abigail continued crying, “I’m sorry,” she said, fresh blood spilling from her mouth.

  She said, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  When Abigail said his name, Jack’s eyes narrowed on hers, grief and shock igniting a fire in them.

  “Fuck you!” he said, dropping his gun, jumping over his wife’s body, and attacking Abigail with his bare hands.

  His hands found her neck, ending his life for hers.

  She fed again — this time with happy memories crushed under the agony of a man finding his son and wife dead, killed by a monstrous girl.

  Jack’s darkness festered inside her own, killing the flickers of joy from Marge’s memories, salting her wounds with misery and death.

  Seventeen

  Hannah

  Arbor Falls, California

  The picnic looked like a postcard.

  Their basket spilled out from its spot on the blanket, laying on a bed of deep green grass a dozen yards from a glassy lake, nestled at the base of two smallish mountains. Greg said it was his favorite spot in California, if not the world.

  Hannah looked out at the gorgeous landscape, and then to the gluttonous spread, smiling. She was tipsy, if not drunk. They were each responsible for preparing what they thought the other wanted, and while there was some overlap, mostly with the skewers — melon, ham, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, and artichokes — and sandwiches, with both sliced muffalettas made by Greg and tea sandwiches from Hannah, there were also small plates of fresh sushi, piles of finger fruits, though only cherries and grapes remained, and a copious amount of Hannah’s homemade sangria.

  “More sangria, my lady?” Greg proffered the large carafe in the nook of his arm as if it were a wine bottle and he a steward.

  Hannah was already warm, and on the verge of three glasses too many.

  “No, no, I’m good,” she said, holding up a hand and giggling at his impression.

  “That’s good,” Greg said, holding the carafe close to his eyes and lightly swirled the remaining liquid. “Not much more than a sip left, anyway.” He lifted the large carafe to his lips, finished it off, then dropped it into the wicker basket.

  “Wow, we finished all the sangria?” Hannah said, genuinely impressed.

  “No, you finished most of it, you lush!” Greg jabbed his finger between her breasts, smiling.

  “No, I didn’t! You did.” She set her glass on the blanket, crawled toward Greg, climbed on top, straddled him, then leaned into his body, kissed his mouth, and teased his lips with her tongue.

  Hannah imagined they’d have a nice romantic evening in their bedroom after a long romantic bath in the oversize whirlpool Jacuzzi, but she was horny now, and no longer willing to wait. Greg’s hardness pressed against his pants, and her dress.

  She looked around to see if they were still alone. They were beside a lake in the middle of nowhere, save for a few other cabins in the distance. She couldn’t imagine anyone sitting in their windows, watching with binoculars. If so, screw it, let them enjoy the show.

  She laughed at the thought, and her current level of daring, then reached down to unbuckle his pants.

  “What are you doing?” Greg asked, also looking around as if they were in the middle of Hanley Park back home, surrounded by joggers, kids playing, and people walking their dogs.

  “I think you know,” Hannah said, winking.

  Greg laughed. “Wow, you are a terrible winker!”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you’re wink was kind of like, I dunno, Quasimodo?”

  Hannah slapped him playfully across the chest, “Bastard!” then climbed off his crotch and pouted.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nope, I don’t accept your apology,” she said playfully.

  “You have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Um,” Greg looked to the violet sky as if there was a clever comeback hiding inside it. He opened his mouth, but his cell rang from inside the basket.

  “I thought you turned it off!” She turned from Greg, reached into the basket, and looked at the display: PRIVATE: BLOCKED.

  “Who is Private: Blocked? Is he related to General Pain?” She smiled, trying to make a joke.

  “Gimme the phone,” Greg said, rushing to answer.

  Something, Hannah didn’t know if it was because she was drunk, or annoyed that he was letting his work invade their time, made her hold the phone just out of reach. “Nope. No business. It’s Us Time, remember?”

  Greg reached for the phone and she pulled it back, hopping to her feet and sprinting away, laughing. Three steps from Greg, Hannah’s foot knocked over her wine glass, and she fell to the grass, dropping the phone on the blanket.

  Greg grabbed the phone, glared at her, then took the call.

  “Greg here.”

  He began to walk off, likely looking for privacy, when Hannah felt a pang of hurt, from both his glare and indifference. He could have helped her to her feet, but had grabbed the phone instead.

  What a jerk!

  Hannah sat at the blanket’s edge, watching the spilled red wine spread through the fibers. She fumed as Greg walked farther away from their cozy spot, into the woods along the trail they’d taken from cabin to lake, until he was nearly out of sight. What was so important that it couldn’t wait? And what was with the blocked number?

  “He’s having an affair.”

  Her inner whisper was so sudden, insistent, and out of the blue, Hannah almost had to laugh. The whisper, as if it was from someone else, even though it was her voice and tone, demanded her attention.

  “Think about it. He’s always working late. Sometimes he takes calls in front of you for work, then other times, he goes off to another room. When he does take calls in front of you, it sounds like he’s talking in coded language, like a parent who doesn’t want their kid to catch on to Christmas planning.”

  No, he’s not cheating! Greg is like the nicest guy
I’ve ever known. Sure, he works a lot, and that’s annoying, but so do I, and I’m not sleeping around. I truly doubt he is.

  “Yeah? How would you know?”

  Because I know!

  “You don’t even know what you don’t know.”

  Hannah sat wondering what the hell that even meant. It was like she was arguing not with herself, but some other part of herself.

  Maybe it fear was having her say.

  She and Greg kept getting more serious, and her fear was searching for reasons to ruin things. Some part of her was so afraid of living the unknown with a man she loved, Hannah was willing to trash it and stick with the known of isolation.

  Hannah wished she had a girlfriend close enough to help her sort things out. Jenny was her only friend besides Greg, and an employee. Hannah had to distance the personal stuff. Even though Jenny’s sordid life was an open book to Hannah, from her favorite sexual positions to her scariest dreams, Hannah never felt comfortable reciprocating.

  Jenny often joked that Hannah needed to step out of her shell, trust more. And while Hannah was trying, it wasn’t easy. As she watched Greg surface from the woods, some part, if not most of her, wondered who the hell he was talking to and why one phone call could make her feel like everything was wrong.

  Hannah spent the rest of the night trying to pretend she wasn’t annoyed, until she finally lost it.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t help me up.” She turned to stare at the mountains, to keep from crying and hopefully hide the truth if she did.

  Greg didn’t apologize like Hannah expected. Instead he said, “I spend most of my day putting out fires, Hannah. You tripping in the grass isn’t an emergency. That phone call was.”

  He should have punched her in the stomach. Less painful, and over quicker. His tone was so cold, and workmanlike, that it caught her by surprise. While he worked a lot, Greg was usually tender when spending time with her. Now, it seemed like he was being Work Greg, all business, no emotion.

  They fought for a half hour. The closest Hannah and Greg had ever come to fighting before, was when he didn’t want to see a Jon Conway movie because “Conway was a douche bag.” He was her favorite actor so she dug her heels in, but only for a few minutes until Greg offered to take her to dinner instead.

  That was a silly fight, but this one was real.

  It was horrible, but over quickly, with verbal anger erupting from either side. Greg eventually apologized: for the stresses of his work, for letting them bleed into their personal time like the wound they were, and for his job being so complicated and boring that it could barely be explained without a fresh cup of coffee for each of them, let alone added to their general conversation.

  During the most heated flare of their battle, both were near snarling, just as they were when making up between the sheets.

  Hannah was drifting between sleep and waking when her inner whisper came back.

  “He’s watching you.”

  What do you mean he’s watching me?

  “He’s watching you sleep. Can’t you feel him?”

  No.

  “Go ahead, open your eyes. You’ll see that I’m right.”

  Hannah lay still for a moment, then decided to take a peek rather than open her eyes all the way. She peered from a barely fluttered lid, and saw Greg lying beside her, staring.

  Startled, Hannah’s eyes shot open.

  She bolted up from the mattress.

  “What the hell? You scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry, Baby,” he said from behind a calm smile. “I was just watching you sleep.”

  She glanced at the clock beside his nightstand: 3:14 a.m.

  “Why are you even up?” she asked as Greg pulled her close to his warm, naked skin.

  “Couldn’t sleep, I was horny.”

  “So, you what? Just stare at me, hoping I’d wake up?”

  Greg smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, you creeped me the hell out, if that’s what you meant by ‘worked.’” Hannah rolled over, as far from him on the bed as possible, yanked the covers around her, and turned toward the wall.

  His cock found her backside as his left hand slithered up her torso to cup her breasts. His right hand trailed down between her legs. He slid three fingers inside her. Hannah swallowed, turned, and kissed him.

  As she drifted from climax to slumber for the second time that night, her inner whisper hissed.

  “He’s lying to you, Hope.”

  Hope?

  Hannah turned the thought in her mind for a moment, until its weight was too heavy to hold. Then she lost the thought and drifted to sleep trying to find it again.

  Hannah was surprised to find Greg still sleeping when she woke the next morning. She lay in bed, thinking about their argument and trying to remember her dreams as a craving for melon claimed her. It took 10 minutes or so before the craving was sharp enough to pull her from the cozy bundle of down and blankets. Hannah peeled the covers from her body, about to climb from the bed, when she noticed Greg’s phone — which had been in his pants when they slipped into bed — sitting on top of the nightstand.

  Did he check messages, or make a call? And who the hell is he calling? PRIVATE: BLOCKED?

  An idea nudged itself to the front of her mind, either brilliant or horrible, depending on the outcome.

  Hannah eased herself from bed, her eyes on Greg in the early morning light, watching as he slept, face down, on his stomach, snoring hard. She crept toward the spacious bathroom where she left her purse, slipped inside, softly closed the door, grabbed her purse, and sat on the toilet.

  She rifled through her purse and retrieved her phone as she peed, thumbing through her apps until she found The Dictator, a funny but effective dictation app she used to record her ideas, everything from ways to mine more business from her standing orders, to ways she could reduce her spoilage. The app was voice-activated, meaning she could leave it running, and it would start recording only when she spoke.

  But in this case, the app wouldn’t be recording her voice.

  She clicked RECORD, left the bathroom, and crept back into the bedroom with a hush. She scanned the room for somewhere discreet to bury her phone, then decided on the dresser, tucked behind a vase of fresh cut flowers. The dresser was close to the bed, as well as the doorway leading out to the balcony, and Hannah figured it would likely capture voice from either location.

  I shouldn’t do this. It’s spying!

  “No, it’s called discovering truth, and you need to do it. If Greg is innocent, there’s nothing to worry about, right?”

  Right, she thought, hating herself anyway.

  Hannah finished hiding the phone, then hopped onto the bed like an exuberant child.

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!” she yelled, feeling almost as if she were faking an orgasm. “Still wanna go to El Montaño today? I was hoping we could get drunk on great wine, then pig out on amazing food.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Greg said groggily, maybe hung over. “Of course.”

  “Okay, I’m going to enjoy the Jacuzzi, then I’ll need to dry my hair, put on makeup, and all that jazz, so you probably have another hour of snooze time.”

  “Well, gee, thanks for waking me up now,” Greg said, turning over and burying his head under the pillow.

  Hannah laughed, smacked him playfully on the ass, then went into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

  As she sank into the warm, bubbling water, Hannah closed her eyes, trying her best to relax, and stop wondering what she’d find later.

  She thought about it every second anyway.

  Eighteen

  Duncan

  Duncan woke in his basement, hungry and cold. Shaking, and feeling every bit of his thousands of years. Yet, he was glad to be alone in the dark, spared the indignity of what had happened in his home.

  Upstairs, Jacob and his freaks — Harbinger soldiers and monsters — had commandeered his house. God knew what they’d done to the place a
nd his life’s work: collections of rare art, books, and artifacts from Otherworld, all now in the hands of the monstrosity, Jacob, and the creatures he’d brought with him. Duncan’s estate had become, it seemed, Harbinger Central, at least while the monster plotted his evil plans for whatever the hell it aimed to do.

  He sat up on the mattress that Jacob’s beasts had brought down for him and looked up at the windows. Someone had nailed boards across them while he’d slept. There were no lights on, and the basement should’ve been pitch black, but Duncan could see well enough. Most of the large basement was filled with old furniture he’d not yet parted with, or stuff he’d told himself that he’d restore if he ever got back into restoration. Then there were boxes of stuff whose contents he couldn’t remember, and the remnants of a food supply he’d kept in the basement, which Jacob’s minions must’ve raided. Nothing screamed, Use this to escape!

  Even if I could escape, where would I go like this?

  He thought of the parasite inside him, evolving his body to turn him into the very things he’d been hunting for so much of his life — feeders, vampires, whatever the hell you wanted to call them.

  Now he was one of them.

  Duncan wished he could reach inside himself and pluck the disgusting monstrosity from his body, but it was now one with him, controlling his urges — more by the minute — and now some of his thoughts. Jacob used their psychic connection as a leash, making Duncan his dog.

  Duncan had never been anyone’s bitch.

  The swirling regret, circling his mind ever since he was thrown down into the basement, was that he’d wasted his one shot on Jacob, when clearly he should have used it on himself.

  Jacob tried prying information from inside him — chiefly where Jacob’s brother, John, could be found. Duncan was trained in psychic warfare well enough to keep Jacob from the most sensitive information inside his mind, but it was difficult to maintain his vigilance with the parasite’s constant sniffing for weaknesses in his mental firewall. It was only a matter of time before Jacob would break through his defenses.