Deathspell

  Praise for USA Today Bestselling Author Peter Dawes

  “The thing that amazes me about Dawes writing style is that it never gets lazy. He paints a vivid picture in your mind and never lets up whether it be describing some sexy bits or the intricate fight scenes. His struggle with the duality of his own personality reminded me often of Dorian Gray and this similarity made me enjoy the character of Flynn even more.”

  Author Jessica Fortunato

  THE SIN COLLECTOR

  “Peter Dawes has a very concise writing style, but also a very beautiful one. He can describe things in perfect detail without going too far overboard and boring readers. It’s a tough balancing act, but he’s able to keep up the suspense during the many fight scenes while at the same time giving readers a good picture of what’s going on.”

  Carrie Slager

  THE MAD REVIEWER

  “Peter has a confident style that's easy and comfortable to read, but also poetic and detailed enough to really draw you into his personality and his tale. Yes, it's a story of a vampire! But more than that, it's a story of humanity lost, found, and the shades of gray between. Everyone's got their quirks, their ways of being, and draw their own moral lines. ”

  Heather Watson

  THE DROWNED

  “Dawes knows the classic vampire archetype and uses it to craft a tale that manages to be both timeless and refreshing at the same time. Flynn is, in many ways, the quintessential vampire. He's a ruthless, heartless, soulless killing machine ... but there's still something endearing about him. Even while he's sinking deeper and deeper into depravity, one can't help but wonder whether or not there will be a chance for redemption and whether or not there is some hidden truth that will alter our understanding of the situation.”

  Thomas Winship

  VAEMPIRES: REVOLUTION

  Novels and Stories

  by Peter Dawes

  Deathspell

  The Vampire Flynn

  Eyes of the Seer

  Rebirth of the Seer

  Fate of the Seer

  A Vampire’s Game

  Short Stories

  Lost Highway

  (Nocturnal Embers, an Anthology)

  All Fall Down

  Turn About is Fair Play

  (Red Phone Box, a story cycle)

  More from Crimson Melodies…

  crimsonmelodies.com

  1st Edition Release April 2015

  by

  Peter Dawes

  CRIMSON MELODIES PUBLISHING

  Digital Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit crimsonmelodies.com to find out where you can purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Crimson Melodies Ebook

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Peter Dawes

  Edited by J.R. Wesley

  All rights reserved, including the right to

  reproduce this book or portions thereof in

  any form whatsoever, without permission

  in writing from the publisher.

  www.crimsonmelodies.com

  contact@crimsonmelodies.com

  Front Cover Design © 2015 by Crimson Melodies Publishing

  Front Cover Image iStock.com/Choreograph

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  “The one certainty in tiger tracks is:

  follow them long enough

  and you will eventually arrive at a tiger,

  unless the tiger arrives at you first.”

  - John Vaillan

  Prologue

  The cold had been enough to force men indoors when night fell, but did not yet bear the chill of winter. I recall drifting out of the room we occupied, listless from the tedium of watching my father unpack. Wood creaked beneath my feet, well-worn from the hundreds of travelers who had come and gone from this establishment. My eyes cast downward, I mused on how many of the impressions had been left by us through the years, thoughtful for a boy of fourteen years, or perhaps, too idle to entertain more frivolous notions.

  A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth. My hand slid down the bannister, the sound of Father’s cough still echoing in my ears after being a constant presence for the last week. The toll of travel had been harder on him as of late, and while his suggestion I fetch us food had been an obvious distraction, I knew better than to argue against it even if we had plenty of trail rations left from our trip. The main hall beneath came into view the further I descended the stairs, until I found myself immersed in a lively crowd.

  Fire crackled in the hearth. Men gathered at tables conducted private conversations, sparing me the occasional glance when I meandered past. Oil lamps flickered, casting shadows on the wall and giving the area added warmth. I allowed my gaze to drift from one thing to the next while bypassing the main collection of benches and customers in favor of heading toward a long counter, made from the same wood apparent elsewhere. As the innkeeper looked up, he gave me a polite smile.

  Old John is what the regulars called him, and if he possessed any other names I was not aware of them. While he bore less in the way of height than some men, he made up for it in sheer girth, not all of which could be attributed to the size of his belly. In contrast to the lithe young man I had begun growing into, Old John was arguably three times my weight, with arms larger than the size of my waist, or such is how it appeared to me. I exchanged his smile, a request for food dancing across my tongue and about to be birthed if not for the sound of the front doors opening.

  I had reached the counter and slid up onto one of the stools as they walked in –two men, both similarly dressed, donned in cloaks dyed crimson with hoods they lowered while lingering by the door. Both men dark-haired and lean, the taller of the two leaned over to whisper in his cohort’s ear, garnering a nod in response before he strode toward the back of the building. His shorter compatriot headed in my direction, parting ways in a manner that made me think more of the constables than idle travelers. It only made me more curious, the onset of hunger dismissed as something more interesting stole my attention.

  I remained silent as the stranger settled in beside me, falling into that ritual boys observe when adults overshadow them with their more pressing concerns. “Can I help ye with anythin’?” Old John asked, both palms resting on the polished wood, while my eyes fell from the sight of the men out of respect. I folded my hands on my lap to keep them still.

  “We’re looking for a man. He might’ve just come into town,” he said. I remember thinking this hooded man spoke proper English, just like my father had taught me. It stuck out, as I had become accustomed to the people we met being anything but eloquent, and caused me to take another glance at the crimson cloak. I furrowed my brow at the
emblem embroidered on it – a flame within a circle, as though the man bore some stake in nobility. I didn’t care for the air that surrounded him, however. Father had told me to avoid men who bore any hint of danger, and rarely did business with them himself.

  Which made what passed through his lips next all the more bizarre to hear.

  “Richard Hardi,” the stranger said, raising an eyebrow at Old John. “Does the name sound familiar?”

  At first, I failed to register it. Something told me I should look up and so I did, but it wasn’t until Father’s name echoed in my mind that I glanced at Old John with a wide-eyed expression. My gaze shot to the stranger when I felt the weight of his stare, and as our eyes met, my throat turned dry, speech stopped up in my throat. Taking a longer, deeper look at the man, I felt the rest of the room melt away, even if only for a moment.

  There I sat, all of fourteen years to this man’s twenty-four? Twenty-five? It was hard to gage solely by regarding him. He still bore the benefit of youth, but the gravity of his gaze suggested someone much older than he appeared. Father often had people calling after him, especially in the towns we frequented, but his warning replayed in my mind as our stalemate continued. ‘Men who make your blood run cold are often doing the devil’s work.’ The fact that this man had me frozen with shock, desperate to run away, seemed to add credence to my father’s superstition.

  “Lad?” The innkeeper cleared his throat, knocking me out of my trance. My sights jumped to the innkeeper in time to see him frown, his expression attempting to admonish while conveying something else. I couldn’t quite tell what. “Do you have manners, or do I need to tell your Pa to remind ye of ‘em?”

  “I…” My voice sounded odd as it passed through my lips. I forced myself to stop and attempt speech again. “I’m s-sorry, sir,” I said, fighting the compulsion to glance back at the stranger.

  “Aye, as ye should be.” John nodded, his eyes narrowing while he reached for a cup. Pouring it full of ale, he thrust it at me and waved me away. “Now, take this up to him and be gone so I can finish business with my other customers.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said on automatic, taking the drink and motioning away with it. My movements all seemed to be directed by a force outside myself, including the compulsion to lower from the stool and walk back in the direction of the stairs. I felt an issuance of protest within the recesses of my mind – I had come downstairs for food, it said, not for ale – and yet pressed forward on instinct. Both hands clutched onto the cup, as a lifeline and out of fear that I might drop it any moment. Halfway across the room, I chose that moment to turn my head and glance over my shoulder. What I saw defied all understanding.

  Old John and the stranger stared at each other, but something was wrong about the expression on the innkeeper’s face. His eyes looked panicked, his face turning red like something had lodged in his throat. The cloaked man’s lips curled in a twisted grin, his gloved palm pointed upward. He closed his fingers and the invisible assault against John intensified, forcing a gasp from his mouth until a sickening crunch preceded him toppling to the ground.

  The mug fell from my hands, its contents splashing across the floor.

  My feet scampered for the stairs, hand gripping onto the banister while I raced toward the second floor. In my periphery, I saw the man walk away from the counter and paled when his voice echoed through the dining hall. “He’s here,” he shouted. “And he’s got his whelp with him.”

  Clenching my eyes shut through the final stairs, I opened them only while rounding the corner and sprinting down the long corridor before me. As I reached the end of the hall, I held out a hand and pushed against the door, slamming it open and forcing it shut just as quickly. Air passed through my lips and into my lungs in gulps, taken and expelled fast enough for me to feel lightheaded.

  “Christian?”

  The tall, slender man to whom I bore a striking resemblance furrowed his brow at me. Whatever bewildered look must have been on my face, it was enough for Richard Hardi to sober instantly. “Christian, what is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  My hands shook as I pushed away from the door and pointed at it. “Father, there’s men here. One of them killed Old John,” I said. Swallowing down a rush of fear, I tried to compose myself enough to explain. “T-they have red cloaks and the one who killed Old John said your name. I don’t know who they are, but they… he… he just killed him. Just by looking at him.”

  His gaze shot from my face to the door while a short coughing fit assailed him. I watched him process my words, his expression paling. “God, not now,” he said. “Not again.” The sound of footfalls in the hallway spurred him into action. He composed himself enough to hobble to the other side of the room, reaching for a chair and sliding it back to barricade the door.

  I blinked, bewildered. “Father, what are you doing?”

  “We haven’t the time for me to explain, Christian. We need to get you out of here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  My father ignored me, shuffling to the trunk yet half unpacked. He plucked a linen bag out from inside before he started tossing the remainder of its contents onto the bed. “I want you to get to your brother’s house. Do you hear me? Run as fast as you can and tell him what happened. He’ll keep you safe.”

  “What about you?”

  My question went unanswered. A change of clothing, length of rope, and my good cloak found their way into the bag before he moved onto the next trunk. I furrowed my brow as he swung it open – it was my father’s personal belongings and while he always demanded to keep the trunk with him, he very rarely unpacked it. I fumbled for words while he pulled out a cylindrical case made of bronze, encrusted with gemstones.

  He slid it into the sack and tightened the strings to shut it. “Take this,” he said.

  “Take –” I jumped as the sound of an adjacent door being kicked in sounded down the hall. My father tossed the bag at me and reached back into the trunk, pulling out a sheathed sword. Another banging noise echoed, this one making even my father startle. He closed the distance between us and reached around my waist, securing the sword into place. I shook my head the moment he pulled away. “Father, please tell me what’s happening.”

  “I can’t, son.” The noises were coming closer. The look in my father’s eyes turned deadly serious. He clutched me by my shoulders, leaning close to place a kiss on my forehead before pulling away. “Run. Hide. Sleep in the trees and tie yourself to a branch if you have to. Find your brother, but make sure you’re not followed.”

  Tears stung at my eyes. “Father, please, I don’t understand. Some man hurt Old John and now you’re –”

  “Yes, I know. I’m not making any sense. We all have a past, my son. One day you’ll understand this.” Our eyes met and in the two beats which passed, an expression crossed my father’s face I’d never seen before. His hand drifted to a simple gold chain he’d worn around his neck for as long as I could remember, a medallion hanging from it which bore an interlinking series of triangles engraved on a small oval. Before another thought could be spared, he lifted it over his head and secured it around my neck. “Don’t ever take this off. It’ll keep you safe.”

  I shook my head, fighting a losing battle against the urge to shed more tears. “Please, don’t make me leave you.”

  A final banging noise directed both of our attentions away. The footsteps sounded close to the room and then stopped, forcing a moment of tense silence my father finally broke. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed and a wheeze accompanied the next breath he exhaled. “Out the window with you right now. I demand it,” he said, twisting me around by my shoulder. I faced the window, still clutching dumbly onto the bag given to me by my father and stumbling forward once he gave me a push.

  My fingers fumbled with the latch for the window shutters. They kicked open once their tether was loosened, a strong gust of wind entering the room and extinguishing two of the candles which had kept the area lit only sec
onds before. The night looked pitch black with neither a star, nor the moon visible in the horizon and yet, he expected me to be able to find my way out of the village. I glanced back at him, pleading with my eyes.

  His mouth opened, but a loud bang at the door interrupted him. We both jumped, and Father coughed with vigor as the chair flew forward and the taller of the cloaked men emerged into the room. His lips curled in the unholiest of grins when his eyes and my father’s met, his voice bearing an accent I didn’t recognize. “There you are,” he said. “You’ve been a hard man to find, Richard.”

  “You would’ve done well not to try,” my father said as the strange man closed the distance between them. The light which Father’s recent illness had stolen returned to his eyes briefly, one hand reaching inside his cloak and emerging with a blade. He lunged forward and plunged the knife into the man’s chest in one swift motion, forcing the other man to stumble backward. This seemed to be all the reassurance my father needed to turn his back on our attacker. “Now, Christian. Out the window!”

  I climbed onto the ledge, following the instruction on instinct as another cough assailed him. He struggled to regroup, doubled over, a thin strand of red-tinged spit hanging from his mouth that he wiped with his sleeve as his breaths came in wheezes. I motioned to jump back into the room, but froze when the man my father had stabbed recovered, pulling the dagger out and dropping it to the ground. Pain racked his expression, but didn’t prevent him from drawing his sword.

  The events which followed played in slow motion.

  My mind cried out, a scream of warning stuck in my throat I struggled to produce while knowing it was too late. The armed man thrust his weapon forward, running my father through until the blade protruded from his chest, coated in blood. “You missed,” he said, whispering harshly into my father’s ear.