Tainted By Darkness

Tainted By Darkness

  J T Chapman

  © 2012, J T Chapman

  Published by KittenPress

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Table of contents

  Tainted By Darkness

  In The Name Of Love

  A Song For The Ferryman

  Inked

  Fallen Star

  Trapped

  Retribution

  Resurrection

  A Mother’s Love

  Tainted By Darkness

  They gather in the dark: those who did not traverse to face their judgement when their mortal shells expired. It is within these darkest regions that the veil to the mortal realm is weakest.

  Sentinels stand at each of the seven gates, commanded by the gods to guard against the spirits that try to break out of Akasha.

  But there are some who manage.

  Many come seeking closure, demanding retribution for wrongs done onto them by their mortal brethren. No longer visible, they collate shadows, merging with the darkness to assume corporeal form that allows them to move among you, yet remain hidden; at least until it’s too late to do anything more than beg for mercy.

  For darkness taints even the purest of souls.

  In The Name Of Love

  Sometimes, we must do terrible things in the name of love.

  I watch her sleep, my little love, her arm curled around that flaming dog in an embrace I wish she could share with me. The veil between our realms will not permit it, nor will it allow her to see me. Perhaps that's a blessing for I am no longer the man she once called Dad.

  The blast that took my life also scarred me in death, disfigured me beyond recognition. I glance at the photo on her bedside table; the one Laura took of Sophie and me together the day before I left for Afghanistan. She looked so happy; we both did.

  No amount of training could have prepared me for that day, the day I heard the click and felt the sand move beneath my foot. They say your life flashes before your eyes, but I can assure that's not what happens - at least not in my case.

  The sand rose in slow motion around me. I watched with sadistic fascination as my boot disintegrated, the flesh flayed from my limb. I felt everything. Every molecule of skin and tissue as it broke away. The flames that followed the burst of sand seemed to stop before they engulfed me completely. Their heat seared as they flickered and licked at my skin. From their depths appeared a horned creature with breath hotter than Hell itself.

  "So young," it said. "Your one desire is within my power to grant, if you wish it, but it comes at a price. Are you willing to serve me in exchange?"

  "Anything!" The word left my throat in an agonised scream. I felt almost detached from it, as if someone else had said it.

  How could I have known the deal I made with the creature would guarantee my eternal damnation?

  Flames spewed from the creature's mouth with its triumphant roar, swallowing me and bathing me in blistering agony once more.

  When I opened my eyes, I stood at the sandy roadside devoid of my army issue clothing. My comrades rose to their feet from where the blast had thrown them, and they stared through me to the ground behind. I turned, following their line of sight. In the bottom of the crater left by the road mine, sat a limb, a left hand. It wasn't mine; mine was still attached to my arm. I searched the faces of those left alive to determine whose it was. They were all accounted for.

  "Jesus," Bill rasped, sweeping the helmet off his head. "Where's the new kid?"

  His words confused me. I'm known as the new kid and I was standing right in front of him by this point. He moved forward, straight through me, and I felt his body heat. It wasn't unpleasant, a little uncomfortable perhaps, but not something I would go out of my way to avoid. I know he felt something too, because he looked around with a frown creasing his forehead, then shook his head as if to clear away an unwelcome thought. He used a rag to pick something up from the ground beside a few nearby boulders, wiped it, studied it for a few seconds and tucked it into his breast pocket.

  "Someone want to retrieve the kid's hand? Looks like that's all that's left of him," Bill asked as he patted the pocket he placed the item into. "Apart from his dog tags."

  The enormity of what I'd agreed to became apparent within a matter of moments. The creature appeared beside Raz and made a gun shape with its hand, pointing it at his head.

  It showed its teeth with a fiery grin as it spoke. "I don't care how you get it, but I want this one's soul."

  "What?" I stuttered. "Not Raz, please. He's my friend."

  "Was your friend, you mean. Would you rather collect another soul, one a little closer to home, perhaps?"

  With a snap of its claw-like fingers, we stood at the edge of a road. My road. Outside my neighbour's home. The street looked different than I remembered, the moon seemed unnaturally big and the colour of everything muted with tones of amber. Reasoning dictated that it was the sudden change from bright desert sun to the overcast late evening of a town several hundred miles away that affected my vision.

  Two burley men stood tall at the entrance as if on sentry duty. The creature motioned me forward with a wave of its hand.

  "Oh God, no, I can't. They went through too much when Becca disappeared last year. Please..."

  "As much as I like to hear you beg, I'm afraid we have a deal and you will fulfil our bargain."

  It strode toward the gate, the sentinels dropping to one knee as it passed. I couldn't help but follow it; each of my footsteps mirrored those taken by the creature against my will.

  The house was an exact replica of my home a few doors along, bar the colour of the walls. The photos of Becca had been taken down since my last visit; they used to grace every square inch of wall and counter space. Everything looked so bare and neglected.

  Footsteps padding along the upper floor rang eerily loud in the otherwise quiet house, alerting us to a presence. Little Christine, who was the same age as Sophie, came barrelling down the stairs in nothing but her nightgown. She stopped at the front door and turned to look straight at us.

  "Becca?" Christine asked. I could hear the hope in her voice.

  The creature waved.

  "No," I said with conviction. "I will not hurt a child."

  "Children's souls are not for harvesting. Come."

  We left Christine sitting on the bottom step, staring wistfully at the front door. It was as we reached the top of the stairs that I heard her for the first time in over a year. Hiccupping sobs, interspersed with whimpers, drew me to the door that used to be Becca's room. Cowering in the corner of the bare room was Becca - or an apparition of her - the bruising and scarring as evident on her skin as mine was. I touched her outstretched hand and she showed me what happened the night she disappeared in a replay of events that, had I been alive, would have made me vomit.

  Something inside me snapped. I didn't hesitate a second longer in seeking out the woman I had trusted to watch over my angel while Laura and I were working. With great pleasure, I eased my spectre-hand between her ribs as she slept, and felt the utmost satisfaction as her eyes opened wide the moment I applied pressure to her heart.

  "That wasn't so hard, now was it?" Becca said from the doorway.

  It was a strange thing for her to say and as I turned to look at her, she morphed into the creature. Its chuckles at my horrified expression when I r
ealised that it had tricked me, deepened in timbre until I felt them rather than heard them.

  It moved to the bedside as, what I can only describe as smoke, rose from Natalie's open mouth. It closed its eyes and inhaled the essence of her life force with a moan of unadulterated pleasure. Curiosity got the better of me and I couldn't help myself, I needed to get a closer look. The creature grabbed me by the back of my neck and held me so my face hovered over Natalie's. I refused to inhale - I didn't need to breathe after all - but when its claws jabbed into my lower jaw, the pain made me gasp.

  One taste of the sweet nectar was all I needed.

  I inhaled deeply. The first thing I felt was warmth spreading in tendrils from my chest out to my limbs. It was a similar sensation to the one I had when Bill walked through me, yet at the same time it felt different, it made me feel alive. I, too, moaned as sensation after sensation flooded my nervous system; every pleasure point titillated and teased to ecstasy. The creature flung me away much too soon.

  Once it had finished breathing her in, it turned to me with a satisfied smile. There were no flames to accompany its sigh of relief, nor did its eyes glow the way they had; they looked more glazed as if the creature were high.

  Sharp, yellowed claws held my jaw in a vice like grip. "Exhale," it demanded.

  As I did as it instructed, it placed its mouth over mine and took the warmth from me in a kiss. A kiss of death.

  "Our deal," it said, "is cemented. You may give one essence to your daughter a week, but only after you give me three. Her illness will not return as long as you feed her life from your breath."

  With my agreement to its terms, my choice of target was no longer limited to people the creature wanted, I was allowed to choose mine for myself; for my daughter. I didn't think about the names on the creature's list as people, more as a means to an end. No longer did I consider who they were or what impact their death would have on others around them. I took their lives and fed the demon their souls.

  My choices were a different matter. I discovered early on in my new career that the souls of bad people - murders, rapists, child molesters - were tainted with darkness. A bitter aftertaste, laced with violence, as it entered my being. It appeared to affect Sophie's emotions too and she became irritable at the drop of a hat. The day the new kitten reappeared with a broken neck was the day I realized how badly tarnished her own soul had become. That was when my targets changed.

  Instead of the killer, I stole life from the victims. I sought out the evangelists and God-fearing people. In the dead of night, I'd stalk the streets and deprive the homeless of their warmth; drunken revellers would lose their footing and fall from high places; businessmen would suffer heart attacks; drug addicts would overdose; firemen would get trapped in burning buildings and soldiers would step on land mines.

  I watch her sleep, my little love, her arm curled around our dog in an embrace I wish she could share with me. The veil between our realms will not permit it, nor will it allow her to see me. Perhaps that's a blessing for I am no longer the man she once called Dad. I am a killer of the innocent, a gatherer of souls and determined to give nothing but the best to my daughter.

  Sometimes, we must do terrible things in the name of love.

  Back to start

  A Song for the Ferryman

  They fear me, fear my kind; I guess they have good reason.

  Don't get me wrong, it has nothing to do with how we look. The idea that we're ugly as sin with pallid skin and rotten teeth is a rather insulting misconception. I've been told that I'm very pretty and have always had plenty of male attention. No, if we could be distinguished by our everyday appearance, I fear they would find a way to end our existence. It has been the way of man to destroy the things that he does not understand, or those things he fears, since the very beginning.

  I clearly remember the first time my song was torn from me. It was the day after my eighteenth birthday. I was standing in a queue at the supermarket and the guy in front had just set his basket on the conveyer belt. He turned his head and smiled flirtatiously at the girl working the till, but there was something strange about his eyes; they looked dull and empty. I think the term lifeless best describes how they were.

  What sounded like a beautiful melody to my ears was nothing short of an ear-splitting screech to those who stood nearby. The bloke in front turned to face me and gave me this petrified look. I'd never seen anything like it before; as if his fear was so deep he couldn't move; couldn't as much as blink. He knew what I was before I did.

  My hand flew to my face to cover my mouth in an attempt to stifle the song. It worked to a degree, as he was able to pull his gaze from mine, and had enough presence of mind to get as far away from me as quickly as possible. He didn't notice the car that swerved to avoid the child who'd slipped her hand from her mother's grasp. Nor did he notice the figure standing opposite.

  Dressed in black, from his motorcycle helmet to his biker boots, the figure watched it all unfold. He raised a hand and wiggled his fingers at me in greeting. I couldn't see his face through the visor, but I got the impression he was laughing at me; laughing at my inability to stop not just my song, but also the chain of events. To any onlooker, he appeared to be just like everyone else who watched - a hapless witness to the accident that took the young man's life.

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, but I still heard the thud of metal on flesh intermingled with the sound of skidding tyres. I opened them at the exact moment his head met the concrete pavement after he was tossed into the air from the impact with the car. Blood leached and pooled beneath his head almost instantly.

  Screams filled the air and muffled the one battling to leave my mouth as, unseen to any but the figure and me, pale-blue mist rose from the deceased's mouth in a steady flow - his soul departing from its shell. I was torn between letting my song free to lift the veil between the realms as my grandmother had described, and holding it back for fear of discovery. The hesitation cost me my first charge as the figure held a clear, fist-sized globe in front of him. The mist seemed drawn to it, filling the globe in seconds.

  He turned and walked into the gathering crowd, lost to my sight among the throng of ogling sadists. While the gore distracted everyone, I too, hurried away.

  Grandma was distraught when I told her. "No, that's not right. The Keening shouldn't have started until after the death. We sing to lift the veil so the Ferryman can guide it to the afterlife, what you described sounds more like a warning of an imminent death. Something we don't do."

  "So why did it start before then?"

  "I'm not sure, but your Aunt Siobhan mentioned something similar happening a few years ago. Start packing some of your things, I'll ring and let her know you're coming."

  I didn't argue, you don't disagree with Grandma and not feel her wrath. After the day I'd had, Grandma's anger was not something I needed.

  She sent me to live with Aunt Siobhan in the country. Primarily to learn some control of the wail, but also to find out why my song started before the guy had actually died. Predicting the death of random strangers is not something I wanted to have happen in public ever again.

  During my stay with Aunt Siobhan, she taught me how to control the volume of my song. "We must never stop it," she told me with such conviction that I wondered if she had tried at some point. "The soul will be lost if we do."

  This was something Grandma had never told me. "What do you mean by lost?"

  "Our job is to see that the souls cross over with the Ferryman. If it doesn't pass through the veil, it's lost. Reaper will come and claim it."

  "How do we know who's going die where, and when? We'd need to know if we're to be in the right place at the right time."

  She went to the bookcase and withdrew a large tattered book from the middle shelf. Opening it at a random page, she set it on my lap and pointed at the script. "We have a list. Dates, times and places appear almost every day, giving us 24 hours’ notice of where we need to be."

  I ex
amined the text. "But it doesn't say who?"

  "No, dear, the powers-that-be stopped telling us who, when someone tried to interfere with fate." She threw me glance that said she hadn't meant to say that.

  "I thought fate was destined."

  "As did I," she replied with a resigned smile. "I have a feeling that fate hasn't finished with them yet."

  "Why would anyone interfere with it?"

  She shrugged. "They felt it wasn't the named soul's time."

  "So, what did they do? Warn the person?"

  "No." Her hesitation spoke volumes and only added to my suspicion that she was hiding something.

  "What then?" She wouldn't answer. I followed her around the cottage as she made herself busy trying to avoid my questions. "Will your telling me change the outcome?"

  "I guess not," she finally relented.

  "Then why won't you tell me?"

  "Fine. She refused to call the Ferryman to take the soul. I can't say as I blame her for doing it. If I were put in her position, I'd have likely done the same." She paused and swallowed audibly. I could tell that what she was about to say was difficult for her to reveal. "Your mother loved you too much to let you go when she'd only had you for a few days. She made a deal with Reaper to take another in your place when he eventually showed up to do his bit. Fate was incredibly angry with both of them." Again, she paused. It gave me time to process the information.

  I was supposed to die as a baby.

  "There was no one there to guide your mother to the other side. Reaper took her. To where, I don't know."

  The shock must have left me dumbfounded, because the only thing I could think to ask was, "What was the deal?"

  Aunt Siobhan looked confused by my question for a second. "I'm afraid I don't know. I guess only Reaper would."

  "What does Reaper look like?"

  It was as if she read my mind. "You can't go asking him! For pity's sake, Niamh, he's a monster. He'll take your soul as quick as look at you. Dead or not."

  I realised, if I wanted answers, I'd have to change tactics. "Please, Aunt Siobhan, what does he look like?" I pleaded. "He killed my mother, what if he comes after me now that I've come into Keening? I'm bound to run into to him at some point."

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Promise me you won't approach him?"

  I nodded.

  "He'll be dressed completely in black."

  "That could describe half the country."

  "His face will be covered. No one has ever seen his face."

  I had no choice but to believe that she was telling me all she knew. I changed the subject. "So, how do you know all this anyway? If there was no one there, how do you know she even made a deal?"

  "I didn't say no one was there, only that there was no guide."

  "You're being evasive again."

  "You're too sharp for your own good. Your dad heard it all. He was trapped in the car after the accident that should have killed you. He was able to tell us in the hospital before he died from his injuries."

  By the end of the summer, we were no closer to the answer of why the keening started before the guy at the supermarket died and Aunt Siobhan felt that she'd nothing more to teach me. It was time to put everything into practice. I was dreading going home to the city and the newly delivered appointment book.

  The first few weeks were easy going. Each of the appointments allocated to me were in the hospital - people who knew they were dying. I'd hang about outside the door to the room as the dying's family would gather to say their farewells, and I'd sing so softly it would be barely audible to my own ears as they passed away.

  One elderly gentleman had no family to gather around his deathbed, so I did. He had a smile on his lips as I entered and an air of acceptance that his time had come. Patting the bed, he indicated for me sit; he then removed his oxygen mask and took my hand in his as he closed his eyes. With the first note of my song, a figure appeared at the other side of the bed. He wasn't what I expected at all. He was much younger and wore jeans with a plain, white T-shirt - very James Dean. His dark hair stuck up at all angles, giving the impression that he couldn't give a toss what he looked like or what others thought of him. As he stretched his arm across the bed to offer me his hand, I noticed a tattoo of a jagged circle on his wrist.

  "Hi, it's good to finally meet you. I'm Charon, otherwise known as Ferryman."

  "Niamh," I replied, releasing the old man's hand to shake Charon's.

  The mist rose from the dead man's mouth, coalescing beside Charon as a human shape. It placed its spectre hand in Charon's.

  "You're doing great. Can't stop to chat, but if you fancy it sometime, just pop over. I'm always around."

  "Wait, what do you mean pop over?"

  He blinked back only long enough to say, "Lift the veil and walk."

  To say I was confused would be an understatement, because only the dead can pass through the veil.

  On my way home that night, Casper, my little, silver Renault Clio, sputtered in a perfectly timed reminder that it needs fuel to keep going. I pulled into the 24-hour filling station, grateful that I actually remembered to bring my purse this time - the last embarrassing episode consisted of me realising my error after I put petrol in. The lad behind the counter barely glanced in my direction before he hit the button to activate the pump. I'd no sooner set foot inside the door of the shop to pay for it, when the Keening started.

  "You okay, Miss?" the attendant shouted with obvious concern.

  I couldn't talk. With my hand covering my mouth, I fought to get control of the song, but I couldn't. The attendant rushed to my side and ushered me towards the counter.

  He was there. Reaper. He appeared out of nowhere and leant one elbow on the counter, looking very relaxed. My eyes widened and I shot a glance at the attendant to see if he saw him too. The attendant - Mark, his nametag read - walked past him. He may even have walked through him. Mark pushed me into a seat and handed me a tissue as the till beeped to signify a new customer at the pump. He reached across the counter and hit the button without looking.

  Two men walked by the window on their way inside. I stuffed the tissue into my mouth when the wail got louder.

  Reaper was laughing so hard his shoulders shook.

  I knew what was coming next. I had to warn him, but all that happened when I managed to spit out the tissue was a scream. "Watch!" Not that Mark could have deciphered it; the screamed warning was so high pitched, a dog would have had trouble hearing it.

  One of the men pulled a gun from behind his back and pointed it at Mark. "Empty the till!" he demanded. He then spun and pointed the gun at me. "Shut the fuck up."

  Believe me, I would if I could, I thought in despair. For an entirely different reason.

  The till sprung open and Mark stepped to his left, his hand searching the shelf under the counter. My fist went into my mouth - instead of a tissue this time - to muffle the song. Reaper pulled another of those clear orbs from his jacket pocket and moved to stand beside me. I knew the moment Mark saw him; his lifeless eyes widened in fear. The gun Mark was searching for hit the floor with a clatter, the noise spooked the first guy - the one who held the gun - and he pulled the trigger.

  I wasn't quick enough in closing my eyes; the image of Mark's brains running in streaks down the wall will remain in my memory for eternity.

  Reaper waved in farewell after the orb had filled with Mark's essence. This was my chance to ask him about the deal, about my mother. I reached for his arm to stop him from leaving. The instant my hand touched him, the filling station and the robbers vanished. In its place was an old ruin, its walls bare brick, the roof missing.

  It took me too long to find my bearings; Reaper was out through a gap in one of the walls and gone from sight before it registered that I'd passed through the veil. Something scurried on the edge of my peripheral vision; it was too big to be a cat and moved too stealthily to be a dog. With thoughts of half-starved, predatory animals lurking in the shadow
s, I hurried from the ruin in pursuit of him.

  Outside was bitterly cold. I tucked my tingling fingers into my palm and let my jacket sleeves fall low to cover my fists. A stream of fog left my mouth with each breath as I followed the sound of footsteps ahead. The layout of the buildings looked familiar. They resembled the real thing on the other side of the veil, yet they were strange. It was like looking at a movie set for an apocalyptic scene - dilapidated looking buildings in dire need of more than just a coat of paint. Every now again I'd catch sight of a small cloud of fogged breath from the shadows of the buildings as I passed. I half expected a partially rotten corpse to start chasing after me. My pace quickened. Reaper seemed to remain beyond the range of clear visibility though, no matter how quickly I walked. It may have been due the layer of freezing fog, clinging like a shroud to the dirt road that partially obscured him.

  So intent was I on keeping up with Reaper that I didn't realise someone was behind me until their hand grabbed my arm and spun me around. Charon grinned at me.

  "Hey, you made it!" he said with zeal. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

  I stole a glance over my shoulder - all trace of Reaper was gone. "Damn," I swore. "I've lost him."

  Charon frowned. "Lost who?"

  "Reaper. I need to talk to him."

  He shook his head slowly as he said, "You won't find him these parts, Reaper never comes into town. Maybe I can help?" His eagerness to assist was as evident as his grin.

  "Can you tell me where he does hang out?"

  With a deep sigh of resignation, Charon took my hand in his. Warmth flooded through me as our bare flesh met. "I can show you, but I can't go in. Neither should you."

  "Why?"

  Charon gasped. "Are you serious? No one leaves Reapers realm. Didn't anyone tell you the rules when they sent you back?" He took my confused expression to mean that I'd no idea what he was talking about. "How long ago did you die? You do know that you died at some point, right?"

  I nodded. "I think so. I was a baby when it happened and only found out about it a month ago. How did you know?"

  "We carry the crown." He raised our joined hands to show me the tattoo on his wrist. "You have one on the back of your neck." He paused in thought for a second. "Is that why you need to speak with Reaper? To find out why you were sent back?"

  "No, I sort of know why. He made a deal with my mother and took her soul instead of mine. I want to know what happened to her."

  His piteous expression said more than his words. "I'll take you to the edge of his realm and no further."

  He left me at the edge of a dense, pine forest, just beyond the boundary dictated by the layer of pine needles and wilted fern detritus, with the adage to be careful.

  I stood there, chilled to the bone without the heat generated by Charon, and stared at the thick foliage. For the first time, I wondered what I hoped to achieve by going in. If Charon's warning was anything to go by, I must have been out of my mind to even consider it.

  Find the girl, whispered a voice on the breeze. Come into the trees and see.

  "It's too dark," I replied, looking all around for the source of the voice. There was a sense of urgency, a feeling of desperation to the words that I couldn't deny.

  Use your eyes. Look, and you will see. Come closer... Closer.

  I took a step, then another, straining my eyes against the utter blackness. There! I saw something - a light - moving between the trunks.

  Hurry! Follow your eyes, they do not lie. Find her.

  The insistence in the tone drove me forward. I don't know why, but I felt compelled to chase the light. I ran along the dirt trail, stumbling over fallen branches and rocks. Going deeper, chasing the glow.

  Suddenly, I stopped.

  Go back, Niamh, said a different voice - a woman's voice - but I knew it was too late. I was lost in the depths of Reaper's realm.

  I don't know how long I wondered in the darkness, listening to the voices alternately begging for me to stay and urging me to go. Reaper found me slumped on a massive rock, shivering and exhausted.

  "Looky here," he said with an excited lilt to his words. "My little prodigy actually managed to find her way here. I was beginning to think you didn't have it in you."

  Instead of the biker gear he wore on the two occasions we'd met before, this time he dressed as I would expect to see the reaper dress. He wore a long, black, hooded cloak that covered his head and hid his face from view. This was the reaper we all knew and loathed.

  My teeth were chattering, making it difficult to talk. "Ww...what deal?" I cut straight to the point, no use trying to waste my breath on pleasantries. "Ww...where's Mm Mumum?"

  "Ah, well, your mother's soul just wasn't enough to risk the wrath of Fate. Don't get me wrong, I took it anyway. It's floating around here somewhere. Don't worry, your mother's safe from the Ollphéist as long as you work with me. She won't be far away. Fate bound her to the blood stone, the rock you're sitting on, when she found out what we'd done. She also bound you to me as my helper, my little assistant. I'm excited by the prospect of what we can achieve together."

  "Ww...work?"

  "Oh, yes indeed, work. You're my little prodigy, as I said. A true Ban Sidhe, not the diluted version of the generations before you. Thanks to your mother's melding, your job is to select the souls for me to collect. I must say, your two choices so far have been rather excellent, perfectly messy. I do hope you intend to carry on as you started." He touched the back of his hand to my forehead, moving on to my cheek. I didn't have the energy to move away from his touch. "You're freezing. Why are you sitting here in the cold, freezing your ass off anyway? Go home and call for me when you pick the next one. I don't want to influence your choice, but could we maybe have a girl next?"

  "Can't. Dd...don't know h...how. Hh...home."

  "Sing, my dear. Do what you do best and sing."

  I must confess that the prospect of bringing death to random strangers at any time or place was not something I wanted to do. To have my Ban Sidhe self randomly pick someone to die - their soul in exchange for mine - was disturbing enough that I did try to take my life. And failed miserably. It would seem that I can't die a second time.

  Plenty of practice over the years means I have learned how to stop it if I choose, but for my mother's sake, I continue. I can't leave her to the beast, despite what she unwittingly destined me to become. The worrying part now is perhaps my lack of feeling when I choose the next victim. I don't care whether you are bad or good, Catholic, or heathen, if my song decides you're the one, there will be no escape.

  Fear me. Not for what I am, but for what I bring: death.

  I hear them cry in the dead of night;

  The lost, the damned, the taken.

  Spirits that dwell within the mists that time has long forgotten.

  Marked for death by a cruel twist of Fate,

  Souls of the innocent I must take.

  Hear my song, you cannot outrun the wail of the true Ban Sidhe.

  Back to start

  Inked

  As the needle makes its last stroke on the creamy flesh of her hip, I wipe the remains of my lifeblood from skin that is forever stained with the darkness of my soul. Our pact is complete; she is mine for the price of fame. I watch her leave, the tinkle from the bell over the door a final farewell to the last of my living customers for the day.

  New Orleans is panning out to be more lucrative than I first thought when I moved here a century or so ago. Not only do I have a reliable yeild for the foreseeable future, but the vessels serve for entertainment while I wait to collect on our bargain.

  Tonight's harvest is perhaps the most enjoyable of them all. I’ve waited many years to collect on the bargain Christophe made with me. He was so easily corrupted. A good boy, by today's definition, tempted by lust and bought for the price of a lover's kiss. He should have asked for more, but who am I to argue over the cost one man places on his soul. Too bad that kiss cost the girl her life.
br />   Drugs, alcohol abuse, theft, assault are all on his long list of misdemeanours. Tonight will see him commit his best crime yet and is the one that secures both his fate and the fate of his soon-to-be victim. However, his death will be by my hand and mine alone.

  I walk quickly, the chill of the November air doesn't affect me as it does the homeless bum who sleeps in the alleyway beside my shop. I hear him coughing from the shadows as I pass by.

  "Please," he begs the café owner. "You're tossing it out anyway. What difference does it make if I eat it?"

  His tone stops me; the sound of his pleading implying a perfect opportunity has presented itself. The café door slams in his face and I see his silhouette slump back against the wall dejectedly.

  "Hungry?" I ask as I approach, producing a wallet from my breast pocket.

  He nods, eyes widening with interest when I pull a twenty from the depths of the black leather. "I haven't eaten in three days. Please, Sir."

  Waving the bill in front of his face, he follows the movement with his eyes. I can see him salivate. "What's it worth to you?"

  He blinks. "Anything, I'll do anything for a decent meal. Please!"

  "Will you sell your soul old man?" Christophe may have to wait. If the gleam of greed I see shimmering in the homeless bum’s aura is anything to go by, he may prove to be useful. “Do we have a deal?”

  He reaches for the money, snatching it from my grasp to hold it tight against his chest.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” I reply to his anguished grunt when he realises the note is still in my hand. “Follow me, there’s a little matter of a contract to sign.”

  Call me sentimental if you must, but I can’t in good conscience let a man, suffering as a consequence of a society that predominantly serves me, sell me his soul for so little. “Do you ever play the lottery, John?” I ask, withdrawing a vial of my lifeblood from the fridge.

  His eyes are transfixed on the mists swirling violently inside the vial. He makes no comment.

  After I wipe the remnants from his weathered skin, which is now stained with the darkness of my soul, I pass him his price, adding, “Buy yourself a lottery ticket this week. I have a feeling your luck is about to change.”

  Glancing at my watch, I realise I still have time to catch Christophe tonight if I take the Harley. I’m still a street away when I hear it again; a song so compelling I can’t help but seek its owner. Excitement mounts as I approach the garage and someone inside is waving a gun in the attendants face.

  She’s there too, the girl from the mall, I can feel her presence.

  I laugh when I spot her huddled in a corner with her fist in her mouth, trying to stifle the melody that sends shivers of delight throughout my being.

  I’m relieved when Christophe’s deed is done and the victim’s soul is secure within the orb. I need to leave before I give in to her temptation. It’s as I leave, that I see the mark upon her flesh; the mark of those sent back to the mortal realm.

  It’s been eighteen years since I made the bargain with the Ban Sidhe to take her soul in exchange for the baby’s, upsetting Fate as a consequence. Would Fate be so cruel as to bind her to me, not just as my protégée? A companion sent to torment me after so long in solitude?

  A more beautiful creature I have never seen in my long existence. She captivates me. Tempts me. Makes me want what I can never have. I am Reaper - otherwise known as Death - one glance at my true features will banish both of us to the void that is Akasha.

  Back to start

  Fallen Star

  Dean's words hit me like a slap to the face. He may have uttered them several months ago, but their enormity had only just registered.

  We are not alone.

  Considering we were standing in the middle of a packed banquet hall, serving refreshments to a crowd dressed in their finest suits and flowing gowns at the time, I thought it obvious we weren't alone. I'm thankful we weren't, the phrase, "Not if you were the last man on earth" would be appropriate as far as Dean was concerned.

  His disappearance came as no surprise to those of us who knew him. I've lost count of the amount of times he'd vanish into thin air, only to turn up a month or so later with tales of some big adventure or other. There was never any proof to back up his claims either. No holiday snaps, no video footage; nothing. Well there was this one time he brought home a plaster cast of a huge footprint that he pronounced was not left by Bigfoot as the place he purchased it from wanted people to believe, but in actual fact was made by a creature that followed him back from his travels. His tales were entertaining if nothing else.

  What did come as a shock was his body turning up the sewers. They had me identify the body. As his closest friend - I'm still not one hundred percent sure what they were implying by that - and neighbour, I had to go downtown and take a look.

  They warned me it wouldn't be pretty, but he stank. Seriously, gag-worthy rank. I don't think anyone can fully prepare themselves for something like that. Even through the Olbus infused tissue the usher gave me, I could smell him before they slid open the compartment. His skin was paper-white and his eye lids sunken deep into their sockets as if there was nothing behind them. The flesh on his upper torso was so shrivelled, the tattoo on his left pectoral looked more like a raisin than the small skull it was. At the base of his throat was the wound I had to assume killed him. A stark, bruised ring of pierced flesh stood out from the paleness like a neon sign. The contrasting purple reminded me of the first hickey I ever had, it too had sat swollen and bruised.

  It was Dean.

  The part after them covering up the body is a bit of a blur. I've a vague recollection of a detective saying something about a heavy caseload and getting to it eventually, but the next thing I know I'm sat in McDonald's with a steaming-hot coffee and a small, taped package sitting on the table in front of me. The girl behind the counter shot me an apprehensive look when I asked for a plastic knife to slice the tape. I've no idea why, it's not like I could do any damage to life or property with a piece of flimsy plastic.

  It contained some of his belongings, the stuff he must have had on him when they found him: two sets of keys, a pocket notebook and a flashlight. I knew one set of keys were for the apartment - mine were identical except for the key fob - I had no idea what the other set belonged to. I idly flicked back and forth through the notebook, paying little attention to the content until I noticed the hastily sketched map with the word Ypsilon written across it. He'd mentioned the mountain a few times before and I wondered, for the first time since I'd known him, if his stories weren't complete bullshit after all.

  Jasper arrived at Dean's place within ten minutes of my call. I told him my wild theory, and for some reason he didn't balk at the suggestion that we search Dean's place for clues to what he'd been up to on his trips away. The first curious thing we found was a title deed to land on Ypsilon. Bank statements showing large withdrawals of cash we didn't know he had, combined with receipts that Jasper said looked like excavation plant hire for a company in the same area that the deed was for, we figured he must have been digging for something on the property.

  "What if it's gold? Or diamonds?" Jasper asked with excitement. "Maybe that's where the money came from. He's discovered some untapped resource and been keeping it all for himself."

  "Anything is possible," I agreed. "It must have been something valuable if he was killed for it."

  He paced the distance between the door and the window, deep in thought. "If we bring Chuck with us for muscle, we can split it three ways."

  I had no interest in the potential wealth, I wanted to know what happened to Dean. "Agreed."