Silver Light (Alexis Silver Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  Start Reading

  About the Author

  More Books from Curiosity Quills Press

  Full Table of Contents

  Book Cover

  Title Page

  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

  Closing

  Matthew Cox

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  © 2017 J.R. Rain & Matthew S. Cox

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  Cover Art by Eugene Teplitsky

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  ISBN 978-1-94809-924-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-197637-549-1 (paperback)

  Start Reading

  About the Author

  More Books from Curiosity Quills Press

  Full Table of Contents

  Ocean is more ancient than the mountains, and freighted with the memories and the dreams of Time.

  – H.P. Lovecraft

  omfortable can mean many things. In the sense that I’m crouching in the weeds with a rock jabbing me in the ass, I’m not comfortable in a physical sense. On a metaphysical level, I am, but it’s taken over a century for me to get here.

  Pine trees filled with the steady susurrus of insects and the chirp of birds surround me. A chorus of cheers and howls goes up from the group of nineteen-to-twentysomethings in the campground I’ve been watching for the past few hours. Despite the ratio of girls to boys basically one-to-one, the predominant activities going on so far have been drinking, pot-smoking, sleeping, and the occasional pill or three.

  My camera sits against my chest on a strap, half-hidden behind my long, black hair. Normally, I prefer skirts or dresses, but neither are good choices for deep woods hiking. Since my objective has turned out to be rather boring, I lose a few minutes observing a caterpillar inching across my right shoe. I’m wearing one of those ‘not-quite-a-boot-but-not-quite-a-sneaker’ hiking deals.

  The one in the green shirt looks delicious, says Licinia, her voice in my mind still tinted with a Latin accent. Not Latin as in Hispanic, Latin as in Ancient Rome. She pronounces her name like ‘Lee cheen-ia.’ Licinia Neratius took her last breath in 52 A.D. I tried coming up with a short nickname, but ‘leech’ wouldn’t work, and ‘Lee’ sounds wrong too. ‘Chinny’ made her growl. So much for nicknames.

  Delicious? Do you mean that sexually or literally? I grin. The man in question is about twenty-two, short black hair and clean-shaven. He has the look of an Italian bodybuilder who’s recently decided to give up and go live the slacker lifestyle.

  Licinia laughs in the back of my thoughts. Oh, either, I suppose. But I am fond of his looks. If we ate him, we couldn’t enjoy him again.

  Too bad the poor guy’s taken so much of whatever he’s on that he’s tasting color. Probably LSD. The whole campsite before me is full-on 1960s chic. Their attempt is admirable if not a bit off. Some of the decorations are from the early-mid 70s. Still, points for trying to bring back hippie culture. We’re in the woods a couple miles southeast of Monroe, Washington. I figure it’s an old, abandoned campground these kids found and made their own. Aside from a mixture of barely-functioning vans and a pickup truck, they’ve got a few trailers and an RV. They even built an outhouse from plywood.

  The reason for my being here sits on a green and white folding chair, his bare feet up on a tree stump while he lazily tends a tiny, rectangular grill where a colony of turkey hotdogs progresses from completely inedible to merely repulsive. Worse than the rock jabbing me in the ass, the smell of that ‘food’ is making me regret taking this job. Of course, when a panicked father shows up at my office rambling on about his missing boy, it gets my attention. Licinia’s as well.

  Kyle Brennan, age nineteen, missing for two weeks. Though, to hear his father tell the story, it sounded more like a seven-year-old gone missing from his bed in the middle of the night. Overbearing dad, I get that. No wonder the kid wound up toking his brains out in the woods. I wish one of them would light up again. That smelled better than those atrocious fake hotdogs.

  Licinia chuckles. After all, she, better than anyone, knows that I had long since lost my taste for conventional food. I mean, I can eat it all right, but those particular wieners don’t even rate as food.

  A girl somewhere between eighteen and twenty-four is curled up beside him, her head in his lap, her straight brown hair long enough to touch the ground. I could take their photo, and someone would mistake it as a still from a documentary on the sixties. Hell, given the scenery, the photo would make a decent album cover for 60s music. Except for the smartphones a few of them have out. In fact, I do take pictures―several dozen. Mr. Brennan hired me to find his ‘missing little boy.’ I have to show him proof I did something.

  Amazing how small those things have become, says Licinia. I remember the first ones filled entire rooms.

  Those were computers, not phones, but I suppose the difference is minimal these days. I mentally agree with her while picking at some beef jerky unearthed from the pocket of my green Army jacket. I don’t remember the name of the man who gave the coat to me, but I do recall it had been worn by a soldier in Korea during the war. It’s in good shape as it doesn’t leave my closet often. I don’t get cold, but I’m quite pale. The jacket helps me blend into the woods.

  So much for daddy’s little boy. Licinia laughs. That man was obnoxious. Talks about this kid like he’s still small enough to require someone to wipe his ass for him. No wonder the boy’s out here. He’s old enough to make his own choices.

  Yeah. A hobbledehoy out of his father’s shadow.

  You’re showing your age again, dear.

  I roll my eyes. She’s one to talk.

  A gossamer sigh slides across the back of my brain, giving me a momentary shiver. I do regret the effect my presence has had on you.

  I know. It’s all right.

  At first, I hadn’t expected to care, but you’re a lot like I was. Licinia again, speaking inside my head. My Dark Mistress, as I think of her.

  Dark soul sister?

  I smile. Something like that. We’ve been together long enough; in fact, she’s more family than anyone else has ever been to me except my mother, but she’s long dead. People who are aware of the world beyond the understanding of society refer to Licinia’s kind as Dark Masters, but if you overlook her meddling with black magic thousands of years ago, she’s not a bad person.

  W
hy thank you, dear. Her need to smile manifests on my face.

  You know I might’ve been a little rattled early on, but I’ve come to think of you like the sister I never had. Besides. I’d have been dead otherwise.

  Yes. Our combined smiles fade to a somber downcast gaze. But your soul’s path is different now. And that’s my doing.

  I nod. A hawk soaring overhead catches my eye. He’s mesmerizing in his slow, effortless glide against the deep blue, cloudless sky. Crunching intrudes from the camp as the guy in the green shirt walks over to the grill and takes one of the atrocity-dogs. I can’t bear to watch him eat it, and that’s saying something.

  Because of me, you’re cut off from the cycle of reincarnation. Your soul has come to reside wholly within your body, severed from the universe.

  We’ve talked about this already, of course. It’s not as if I remember any of my past lives, nor would any of my future selves have any memory of my current incarnation as Alexis Silver. Why should I be upset about lives I don’t remember or future selves that won’t remember me? Becoming part of The Creator doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, right? Does any trace of my personality remain, or is it like oblivion?

  I don’t know.

  Of course not. Your existence is based on your not wanting to find out.

  I grin, and she laughs. Whatever magic she enacted back when Tiberius ruled Rome has sent her soul into the Void. Lucky me, I get to be her vessel.

  You know I’ve come to regret that.

  I wasn’t being sarcastic. I do consider myself lucky I didn’t die.

  Pragmatic.

  Her guilt is weak but palpable. I suppose I should feel honored that an entity others call a ‘Dark Master’ actually feels remorse on my behalf.

  You should.

  I take a deep breath of forest air, trying not to cough on pot smoke. Green Shirt scarfs down his third turkey-dog. He stands motionless, his expression suggesting he’s lost in a deep, philosophical wandering, pondering some esoteric truth. Two seconds later, he opens his mouth and lets off a belch so loud that birds scatter out of the trees. It echoes over the campsite, which falls silent.

  Kyle starts a slow clap. One by one, the other kids join in. Green Shirt bows like a grateful gold-medal winner. Ugh. Those hot dogs smell much worse on a belch. The trace, though minute from this distance, makes me cringe. Being able to detect human scents well enough to identify individual people is damn handy. Gagging on hot dog burps from fifty yards, not so much.

  The girl by Kyle’s side yawns, stands, and stretches before stooping to kiss him on the lips. I snap a few more photos, getting two nice, clean shots of her face. We almost make eye contact; I’m sure the girl feels something watching her. In that second, I plunge into the deep, cerulean ocean of her thoughts. At this distance, I get mostly outward feelings and emotions. My abilities don’t work as well on women, unless they’re attracted to me. But this girl loves Kyle. A pure kind of love, like the one I had for my first husband that made me do something stupid and get married young.

  Sorry.

  Why are you apologizing? You know he died before I, umm… met you.

  Kyle’s girlfriend takes the giant fork from him and pokes the turkey dogs. Bleh! Those things don’t even smell like real meat. I’m going to need a fresh octopus to purge the disgust out of my senses. Maybe a squid, instead; octopi are a bit slimy.

  I’m confident these kids are a bunch of harmless slackers. Kyle’s nineteen. If he wants to waste his time out here in the woods, it’s his time to waste. I back away from the campground until enough trees block me from sight. None of them notice me. Not that it would make a difference if I’m seen, but old habits die hard, and I’d prefer to remain anonymous. If Kyle’s father wants to tell him he hired a private investigator to find him, that’s his business. Leave me out of it. I figure in a couple weeks, Kyle will be as poor as Job’s turkey and go home. Or maybe he’ll venture out of the campsite and look for gainful employment.

  They might take up farming.

  I laugh aloud, startling a squirrel so bad, the poor thing runs headfirst into a tree and knocks itself senseless. Fortunately, I’d parked my Jeep Rubicon far enough from the campsite that I don’t think any of the kids heard me. Then again, I could pass for one of their group. I’ve been twenty-five for over a century, and people tell me I look more like twenty.

  With that thought stuck in my head, I hop in my Rubi and start the drive home, grinning at my nickname for the Jeep. It’s a lustrous dark red, which makes the name a pun, too.

  I’ve got a nice place in Medina right on the water.

  I suppose most people would consider the property expensive, but after so many years, I’ve gathered a comfortable nest egg. I wasn’t born into wealth―far from it. I grew up poor to the point of not having shoes until around the time I hit fourteen. As a small girl, most of my dresses had been flour sacks in a former life. Fortunately, I’d been an only child, so my mother didn’t need to break her back too much to support us. I never knew my father. Mom never talked about him much, though around my mid-teens, she admitted he’d left as soon as she’d told him I was on the way. She’d been afraid I’d internalize it as a child and think something had been wrong with me, but I didn’t take it personally. He couldn’t have abandoned me because he had no idea who I was, merely ‘a baby coming.’

  Anyway, if a person sticks around long enough, eventually money finds them. I had a knack for marrying up, though only my first husband had been a marriage in any legal sense, and my only one while still a mortal. The last two had both deemed it fair to set me up for ‘life’ when we parted ways. Immortal businessmen have more money than God, and both had been surprisingly happy to give me a nice chunk of it. Patrick Foster had been my first supernatural husband, a werewolf. I think he loved me at one point, but whether due to his canine nature or something more human, he couldn’t keep it in his pants.

  For most of the 80s, I considered myself ‘married’ to a vampire by the name of Manfred Worley. I’d met him in London in 1930 or so, but I didn’t know it at the time. He remembered me when we bumped into each other in Southern California when I’d been living in San Diego. I think he’s still there. Unlike Patrick, Manfred turned out to view me as a curiosity, no actual love involved―but the sex wasn’t bad. After the magic ran out of our relationship, he remained friendly, and added to my fortune when we decided to part ways.

  I have dozens of bank accounts around the world, enough that my money makes money. I don’t have to work, but I enjoy it. Sitting around all day staring at paintings would drive me insane, so the private investigator thing keeps me from winding up in a padded fish tank.

  My house is still somewhat modest for the area. Even in this part of the city, I could’ve afforded more, but I only need so much room, being alone. I like nice things, specifically art. Much of my wall space goes toward displaying a veritable showcase of modern, postmodern, and classic paintings―heavy on the avant garde. Some of them are pretty weird and dark, and many bloody. That’s got to be Licinia’s influence. I’d always been on the squeamish side. As a child, I’d been the first girl standing on a chair to get away from the giant bug, and I think I did faint once at the sight of blood when I’d been around nine. Mom had nicked herself with a kitchen knife.

  With a beautiful home, a beautiful view, a collection of beautiful art that would rival any museum ―art that I most certainly didn’t donate to the local thrift shops―one might think I would be content. But isn’t that the thing about life? Who is ever content? I’ll tell you who, people who are six feet under. Contentment equals death, of that I have no doubt. Want a long and rewarding life? Never let the life force stop flowing, never stop creating, never stop giving back, never stop living.

  Unless, of course, a person happens to be immortal.

  Then it doesn’t matter what the hell one does. Except, even in my immortality, I have things I need to do. For instance, I can’t stray far from salt water. Yes, the ocean. Why
, I don’t know, but Licinia’s nature demands it. That, as well as darker, bloodier requirements. Fresh meat, preferably of the male type. Though, I am fortunate in that my Dark Mistress is able to set the craving for human flesh aside. Fish, sea life, and sometimes beef scratch that itch. My human side never accepted the idea of eating people, so I’m grateful she lets me slide there. That, and tearing a guy open to eat his heart and internal organs tends to get on the nerves of the local cops.

  Anyway, I decided to buy this house even though it was on the low end of my budget. Mind you, they don’t build ‘basic’ homes with an oceanfront location around here, so I settled on something the locals call ‘midrange.’

  One good thing about the property is thick trees on both sides. My neighbors can’t see much, which suits me fine. Since I’ve spent all day in the damn woods, that inner part of me craves the ocean.

  After leaving my clothes on the back steps, I run faster than I have in quite a while for the shore. Fast enough that my hair whips behind me, my boobs bounce, and maybe some other parts as well. Licinia thinks my ass is small, but I guess beauty standards aren’t quite what they were two millennia ago.

  I fly over my lawn and down the small private pier before leaping in a graceful dive. Lake Washington, silver to my eyes, shimmers before me.

  Soon, I’ll feel alive again. I’ll be whole.

  Complete.

  antanabe’s is my favorite place in the world. Okay, back up a touch. Other than the ocean, it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s a sushi restaurant in downtown Medina on the upper end of casual. As far as I know, it’s not a chain, and the sixty-something guy behind the Hoshizaki case owns it. Whether or not his name is Wantanabe, I’m not sure, but the sushi here is superb. I stop by often enough that they give me random samples of things to try out. Today, it’s a flower of whitefish drenched in sriracha sauce and dusted with tobiko. There’s a decent crowd at a few minutes past noon, plus the owner’s standing right next to me awaiting my opinion, so I maintain decorum and use the chopsticks instead of my bare hands.