Deeper Into Darkness
Darkness Series, Book Two
Maria Ann Green
Table of Contents
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:
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
Chapter Thirty:
Chapter Thirty-One:
Chapter Thirty-Two:
Chapter Thirty-Three:
Chapter Thirty-Four:
Chapter Thirty-Five:
Chapter Thirty-Six:
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
Chapter Thirty-Nine:
Chapter Forty:
Chapter Forty-One:
Chapter Forty-Two:
Chapter Forty-Three:
Chapter Forty-Four:
Chapter Forty-Five:
Chapter Forty-Six:
Chapter Forty-Seven:
Chapter Forty-Eight:
Chapter Forty-Nine:
Chapter Fifty:
Chapter Fifty-One:
Chapter Fifty-Two:
Chapter Fifty-Three:
Chapter Fifty-Four:
DEEPER INTO DARKNESS
Copyright © 2019 Maria Ann Green
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Angela Fristoe
Covered Creatively Book Cover Design
Formatting by Jaye Cox
Formatting the Affordable Way
Editing by Heather DiAngelis
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781796671964
All works by Maria Ann Green
In the Rearview, young adult poetry and prose
Darkness Series
Nothing but Darkness (Book One), adult thriller
Deeper into Darkness (Book Two), adult thriller
For Dad; I think you would have liked this one.
And for all my creeps and freaks, who love a dark story as much as me, thanks for being my wonderful readers. All five of you. Especially Scarlett, Tory, Katie, Carly, and Kim.
Deep (adjective):
1. Extending well below the surface: he sat quietly at the bottom of a deep cavern, unsure how to escape
2. Intense or severe: she put herself in deep trouble with her flippant comments, assuring herself at least one enemy
“Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.”
―William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Now
The best sex Aidan and I have is after one of us, it doesn’t matter which, has killed someone. Even better if we time it so both have, our coming back together like magnets—no chance of resisting the powerful pull. And I don’t mean “killed” in a suggestive way, like some chauvinistic euphemism about tearing someone apart; I mean murder.
No joke.
It’s electrifying, pure uncut excitement in a way that’s unbelievable, incomprehensible, unless it’s been experienced. Every nerve ending feels huge, amplified, connected to each cell throughout my body. When he’s inside me after I’ve drawn blood, I feel high, so high I could float away into another universe, another dimension. But at the same time, somehow, I’m tethered to him, connected in a way I never believed possible before I knew Aidan, our souls bonded by the dark hunger eating us from the inside out.
Even with this, I’m selling it short, not quite describing it right. The words that come so naturally to me otherwise fail me when it comes to this topic.
I could live on that sex, within it, continuing without breaking the connection, for days, weeks. Forever. I don’t even think I’d need to come up for air or sustenance. That kind of sex sustains by itself, regenerates everything spent. It’s all-encompassing.
Not that at other times, normally, our sex is bad. Never. I’m not even sure I’d go as far as saying it’s been lackluster yet. But the intensity multiplies, explodes, after a kill, exponentially. Suddenly it’s blinding and infinite.
And this mind-blowing sex is what I’m thinking about as my side cramps, slowing the pounding of my shoes against the moving track of the treadmill, just a little. I almost forgot I’m working out, that I’m at the gym. But I push forward, massaging my ribs with one hand, the other still pumping, and I close my eyes to focus harder, willing concentration to replace pain. Trying to get back into my hell of a workout daydream, I let it push me to finish this excruciating run, imagining what Aidan may do with me tonight. To me. What he’ll do to me, after what I did earlier today. And, thankfully, the new flush in my cheeks has other plausible explanations, explanations going along with the sweat trickling down my back and into my running shorts instead of the tingling blooming inside these sweaty shorts.
Looking around the gym, at the too-bright shirts and idiots staring at themselves in the mirror, really looking anywhere but at the clock on my machine and its reminder of how much I still have to push through, I go back to a place of daydreaming.
Dreaming about what I did. Before the gym, of course. Before sunlight cracked into the sky, spider-webbing upward, announcing morning. Before stars winked out of sight, the sun taking precedence, too big and flashy to be ignored. Before the scent of roasted coffee beans filled kitchens. Before Aidan’s sharp eyes stirred beneath his lids. Before all of that, someone was struggling, whispering for help—an empty voice falling on deaf ears—and that someone didn’t wake with the morning sun. That someone won’t wake ever again. That someone filled me with an iridescent quiet, a dense calm, that shimmered outward and smoothed every wrinkle within my mind; that someone was another blank canvas, stripped and reverted to a clean start.
A small smile, crooked and sly, creeps across my lips, tugging the corners just a bit upward. I don’t need a mirror to know what it looks like; I’ve seen it enough times to have the curve memorized. And the smile stays despite my short breath and fast heart rate, despite the pile of wet hair on top of my head—with plenty sticking to my face in waves of light brown—and despite the cramp in my side that’s still pinching.
I smirk; I run.
“Who’s chasing you today?” Jason asks me, breaking into my thoughts. His expression knowing, without actually understanding a thing.
Jason, Aidan’s best friend, runs about twice as fast as me and looks at least twice as tired. His black shirt is plastered to his body, heavy with his spent effort. Maybe it was dark gray before, I’m not so sure. And let’s not even acknowledge the fact that when I look to the numbers on his machine he’s run three times as far as I have. His face is red, and he’s breathing heavily, but he looks way too happy for someone running.
Show off.
“Maybe I’m the doing the chasing.” Or something.
It’s the best I c
an come up with, and even though it’s super lame, he laughs anyway. Sometimes I think Jason would laugh at anything. The skin around his warm, brown eyes crinkles, and he leans back without missing a beat, to send the sound to the ceiling.
“I bet you are.” Jason’s words, once he’s caught his breath, would sound lecherous from anyone else, but he’s such a teddy bear and he’s been so close with Aidan for so long—not to mention he’s never looked at me or spoken to me in any way other than a brother would—I know there’s nothing slimy behind them. He’s all fluff and compassion, with his genuine smiles and tentative, soft hugs. He’s a good guy.
Boring, but sweet.
So instead of snapping at his reply, I roll my eyes, not actually annoyed, letting it drop.
With my thoughts pulled from the future, thanks Jason, thudding back into the here and now, it’s harder to look away from the mile ticker and how slowly it’s climbing. At this rate I’ll collapse, winded and disgusting, before finishing.
“How much weight have you lost now?” I ask.
Diversion, one of my superpowers.
After a pause, either to figure it out or to decide if he wants to answer, he says, “Fifty.”
“That’s amazing.” He laughs, clearly uncomfortable, but I don’t let him deflect. “I’m serious, Jase. It’s only been, what, six months. Ah-maze-ing. I don’t know how you keep it up with a newborn around half the time, either.”
I don’t know how you do anything with a newborn around, personally. But that’s why Aidan and I aren’t having any. Not that I’ve told him that. Not that he’ll fight me on it when I do tell him.
Jason’s soon-to-be ex-wife—which I have more-than-complicated feelings about, considering she used to sleep with my fiancé—left him when she was still pregnant with that newborn. She cheated on him with Aidan, though Jason still has no idea about that, and then she left him to be a single dad. A single dad of four girls. He was so miserable after she left him, it was hard to watch, almost impossible to bear.
But now he’s a new person, happier and healthier and filling his time with working out and making new friends. Aidan said he even went on a date recently, but I haven’t asked about it yet. He hasn’t brought it up either, so it can’t have been too exciting.
Jason slows his treadmill, ready to cool down, his smile transforming from sarcastic to sheepish before answering. “Thanks, Bee.”
“I didn’t do anything; don’t thank me,” I say, finally slowing my own machine down too, so over running.
“Well, actually, you did,” Jason says as I hop to the floor, ready to shower and leave.
The smell of the gym usually starts to get to me the moment I’m done moving; so many bodies exerting themselves in one room is revolting, and Jason knows that. He’s used to my ditching him quickly, but today he opens his mouth to continue before I can turn to go, and I suppress the cringe, or gag, trying to break free.
“I wouldn’t come here nearly as often if you didn’t join me,” he rushes through the words, embarrassed. “I’d gotten so used to being lazy. If you and Aidan hadn’t been there when Mel left…” I’m still so thankful to have Aidan as an excuse for losing touch with Amelia in their separation, “…I don’t think I’d have even considered losing weight. Probably not if she’d stayed, either. So I guess I could thank her too.” Please, don’t. “So anyway, yes I should thank you. You’ve helped motivate me.”
Well, crap.
“Okay, stop. I’m going to cry. And I haven’t cried since Aidan proposed.”
“Aren’t I lucky,” he says, getting down from his machine too. Jason winks as I turn again, starting to move away. “Meet back here tomorrow?”
I shake my head. “Can’t tomorrow. Next week?” I say over my shoulder.
“Sure.” He opens his mouth to ask something else, but I pretend not to notice.
As I turn just before disappearing into the locker room, he looks a little disappointed as he heads to the men’s, but I’ve got too many other things flooding back into my mind to worry about that.
***
The water, hot enough to flush my skin, falls in sheets, hitting the drain so loud it’s all I can hear. Even my thoughts feel like they’re pounding in time with the water. The beat swells, then echoes, in long, flat notes. Though, my rhythmic thoughts aren’t very exciting, like I wish they were. I’d rather be thinking about the electricity I’ll feel, shocking my system in new ways, tonight. Or about the wan smile I coaxed earlier before sad eyes closed in resignation, ready for death. The recent past and the near future, cause and effect.
But no.
Since, stupidly, bringing up the proposal earlier, now all I can think about is the wedding. The wedding Aidan and I have yet to plan, yet to even set a date for. We’ve barely even spoken about it recently, save for picking out my ring.
The proposal. The wedding.
I thought about it all, the whole drive home from the gym. I’d rushed out to the parking lot without showering, then regretted it. And while trapped in the car with my own post-workout perfume, I missed several turns, completely distracted and thinking about those un-laid plans. As I drove, my brain was on autopilot, and I was trying not to focus on the what-ifs. I tried and I failed as I parked, went inside, and undressed for the shower.
The biggest “ifs” haven’t been too far from my mind at any point, though. And the biggest, the worst, if is like a wound I can’t stop picking at, festering beneath pristine skin that’s hiding the rot below.
What if he doesn’t want to marry me anymore?
“Ugh.” Crying out, I stamp my foot onto the wet tile, needing to immediately stop the thoughts. They won’t get me anywhere I want to be. I grab the loofah and scrub my skin until it’s raw. Rinsing the sweat down the drain, I’m hoping to scrub away the frustration as well.
Tilting my head back, I take a few deep breaths before pulling my hand up to inspect the diamond that always starts the train of thought. Again.
First I land on my nails, though. The color is fresh, a deep plum, and it calms me more the longer I look at it. No chips, just a new perfection.
Then, looking past my nails to the ring, that eases even more of the annoyance. It is gorgeous. And special. No one else could have gotten me anything even close. Then again, no one else would have killed for it. No one else would have pulled it from limp fingers, reset it to both reflect my style and ensure it looks different from the one in photo albums now splattered in blood somewhere, miles away, then surprised me with both the story and massive stone.
Okay, well, I would have done the same for him. But that’s why it was so perfect.
That was seven months ago.
I drop my hand back down, spinning the band by the tall setting with my other fingers, a habit I’ve adopted, trying to recenter.
To be fair, it’s not Aidan’s fault we haven’t planned the wedding. It’s not anyone’s fault, really. These last few months after…after Eva, his former boss, died, have been rough.
Okay, “died” isn’t quite accurate.
The correct phrasing would be, after I killed Eva, it’s been a rough few months. In my defense, I did it for him. I murdered her; moments later we got engaged, and then we buried the body together—it was an eventful evening spent in the freezing, Maine winter air.
An eventful start to an otherwise stalled engagement.
I sigh, pretty loudly considering I’m home alone. So much for washing away my irritation. Letting my head slump back toward my shoulder blades, I turn then hold my hair under the stream, weighting it down even more until it’s beyond the middle of my back and the cascade makes loud sounds around me.
Pressing the heel of my hand to an eye, I sigh again.
I turn up the heat on the shower, leaning into the water until it’s crashing over my head and down my face. Finally, that helps, and under the heat I feel a little better. It is what it is, I remind myself. We’ll get married when we do, in a courthouse or on a beach, I don’t really
care. It’ll happen because we’re the same, and of course he still wants to be with me.
As long as Aidan isn’t questioned again by police about Eva disappearing, maybe I can broach the subject soon. If we can go long enough between incidents or issues then it may be easier. When his nerves, and mine too if I’m honest, are completely back to normal. We could make it a vacation, just us, and stop putting it off.
A loud crack reverberates off the tile walls of the bathroom as Aidan charges in, making me jump, crying out. And suddenly all that deep breathing and hot water mean nothing, as my stomach knots right back up.
“Nice shriek, Bumble Bee,” he says, his voice all depth and charm. I’ll never tell him, but if he hadn’t chased me, I’d have hooked him anyway. I was prepared to be charming too. Though, he beat me to the punch and convinced himself he had to work hard to get me to come around.
“Oh, shut up.” I throw water at him just before he runs from the room. Yelling so he can hear me, I ask, “What’s the plan for tonight?” and I try, desperately, to keep the hope from my voice.
“No.” The playfulness is gone from both his voice and his honey-colored eyes when Aidan leans just his head back into the room. He narrows them at me, his lips a hard line as he tries to create a roadblock with them. Shutting off the shower, I take one long breath before turning. I’m not swayed that easily, but he starts before I can. “I told you, we need to be more careful. Playdates,” his, “and rendezvous,” mine, “need to be minimal. Weeks apart. At the very least. Months would be better.” His eyes slim to slits, about as narrow as they can before closing, his expression sharp and with no room for negotiation.
Whoops.
My lips flatten as the corners of my mouth pull backward, in the most adorable, awkward look I can muster. My shoulders lift up, my eyes widen, and my fingers twist together behind my back. It doesn’t work, though, as Aidan’s features contract farther, hardening. So I shrug my shoulders to my ears, raising my palms up in surrender.
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