Eyes of the Seer Read online

  EYES OF THE SEER

  BOOK ONE OF THE VAMPIRE FLYNN TRILOGY

  by

  Peter Dawes

  KINDLE EDITION

  ***

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Crimson Melodies on KDP

  COVER ART BY:

  Christine Griffin

  quickreaver.deviantart.com

  EDITED BY:

  Victor Mason

  Eyes of the Seer

  Book One of the Vampire Flynn Trilogy

  Copyright © 2011 by Crimson Melodies

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook 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, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Rise of the Assassin

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Four Years Later

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Secret

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Humanity Restored

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Last Temptation

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Connect With Us Elsewhere

  Special Thanks

  Preview of Rebirth of the Seer

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  I spent the final days of my life alone, even though I did not know I was dying. Around me, the world seemed to be shifting. A cloud of darkness shrouded what had once been an ordinary existence and ripped from me everything I had known. For long hours, I would stand at work and stare at the people who passed me by as though attempting to figure out what changed and when. Little did I know what waited for me around the corner.

  Granted, the final days leading up to the earliest hours of January 20, 1983 are somewhat of a blur to me. It might have been the enchantment I was under, or the haze of realizing I lived on borrowed time without knowing how I could be certain of such a thing. I could not tell you what those final nights were like, or if anybody could sense the fact that I was fading in the background, about to cross paths with destiny. About to slip from one skin to another. I only know that night, it all reached a crescendo and set me on the path I find myself today.

  I have lived many lives by now. I have held many titles and been several people and several things already. There were years when I gazed at others with compassion latent in my stare, and years when I beheld each victim I have claimed with coldness before sending them to meet their maker. Saint and sinner; bastard, friend, and foe. So many deaths and so many rebirths. So many layers to this creature I am. This being I became.

  I am a vampire, but I have not always been. I can yet recall the days when I bore a pulse. Some memories stick out much more potently than others, but the first quarter century of my immortal existence frames the lot of them in a panorama of cause and effect. Through everything I face and have faced, I can look back upon the events which preceded me and see where I have arrived and how I have arrived there. I can see the hand of fate.

  Oh, if only I would have known.

  Back when this all began, if I could have seen the clear path to the present, I often wonder if I would have walked gracefully into the trials which followed. I would like to think so, but I know the experiences which have filled the years. The highs and lows; the moments of despair and the moments of triumph, they have made me what I am. I am vampire, yes, but I am no ordinary immortal. I still feed as one. I possess the fangs, the will, and the consuming instincts of one. The casual observer misses something very important when it comes to me, though; a very crucial feature beneath the unruly brown hair and above the crooked smile.

  Most people do not know what they should be looking for when they see me. Not many humans recognize the emerald green eyes or know of their relevance for very good reason, because unique creatures such as I do not wish for them to know. There exists an entire world underneath their noses they overlook every day and only when the supernatural falls onto their laps do they learn of its presence. I was much the same as them a few decades ago, an unsuspecting, unknowing mortal with pale blue eyes instead of the ethereal irises I now possess.

  I shall not linger any longer on riddles. Suffice to say there are many layers to this creature who inhabits this mortal coil, and yet the world around me rarely casts a second glance my way. When the council of the supernatural fashioned what would be my existence, they created a paradox; an eternal enigma.

  My name is Peter Dawes and this is my story.

  It all started with a murder.

  “He who fights monsters should look into it that he himself does not become a monster.

  When you gaze long into the Abyss, the Abyss also gazes into you.”

  - Friedrich Nietzsche

  Chapter One

  I cannot recall what caused the clarion bell to sound an alarm through my psyche, but all at once the haze shrouding my world began to lift. Time froze and an epiphany struck in all its horrible glory.

  I had completely and utterly screwed up.

  Blood covered my hands. I gazed down at the knife I held, both fixated on the sight and yet failing to see it. A thought echoed over and over that this was some twisted nightmare I would wake from, but I could not help trying to piece together facts until reality could finally set in. Recollections jumbled into a mosaic I focused hard on deciphering with wide eyes and furrowed brow. It left me naked before my own scrutiny, lost with the unpleasant reminder that my life thus far had been filled with more than a fair amount of calamity. Except this event trumped any which preceded it.

  Lifting my gaze from the weapon poised in my palm, I spied them lying there. Two people, a man and a woman. And both of them were dead.

  My knees gave out. I slid down the bedroom wall. Settling on the floor as the knife dropped from my slackened grip, I brought both hands to my head and rocked back and forth. I had walked in on her, this was true. She looked at me and screamed; yes, yes, I recalled this as well. It was when the other person shot out of bed that my memories seemed to shatter like a pane of glass. I struggled to replay the events, my head throbbing and the sensation of the knife’s hilt lingering on my skin.

  The knife. I fetched it from the kitchen. Oh God, what had I done?

  Curling up with my back to the wall, I hugged my knees and winced. The dam of shock buckled under the weight of too many images crowding in at once. Too many images, such as her calling out, “No, Peter! This isn’t what you think!” and me spitting out the words, “You selfish whore, what did you do? What did you do?!” An involuntary laugh suddenly broke the silence when I remembered the basta
rd she had been fondling. He fell to the floor, tripping over his own jeans, and barely came to a stand by the time I rushed upon him.

  Tears clouded my eyes. Hysterics burst forth from my lips. Neither convinced me I yet possessed my right mind, but did nothing to make me feel justified in what I did next either. Rather, I plunged deeper into the abyss while crimson tainted the black and white movie playing in my mind.

  He was my first victim. I did not pause to ask his name. I gave no warning of what I meant to do. Instead, I charged forward with the kitchen knife and sank it deep into his stomach. His face contorted in pain, but as he looked up at me he revealed a sight I found strangely delicious. My gaze focused on his neck. I licked my lips and slashed the blade across his throat. Whatever he had been struggling to say, the gash ensured he would speak no longer.

  My senses should have come screaming back when he hit the ground, but my lover of two years looked at me with glassy eyes and her tears were not for me. Enraged, I closed the distance between us and tore her gold chain away from her neck. The knife plunged through her chest with sickening ease and I held it there while we stared each other in the eyes. Moments ticked by as hers dimmed and became vacant. The instrument of her death slipped from her body when she crumpled to the floor.

  “I have to get out of here,” I whispered, swiping at my cheeks as recent memory converged with the present. Two dead bodies lay before me. A lifetime of remorse loomed on the horizon. My fingers left bloody tribal war paint smudges where I had touched my face, but I did not care. In fact, I was amazed when my weak knees supported my weight and allowed me to pick myself up.

  I stumbled down the hallway to her front door. The thought occurred to me that her neighbors may have heard the screams emanating from the apartment. They might be gathered outside, a lynch mob with pitchforks and torches to carry off the monster I had become. When I swung open the door, however, I saw nothing more than an empty corridor. So I trudged forward, not knowing where I intended to go yet realizing I could not stay there.

  Images assailed me again.

  I saw the look in her eyes as our gazes locked, her brain not yet dead from the lack of life-giving oxygen. “Peter... I’m sorry.” That miserable bitch. Why did she say she was sorry? Why did she rob me of a pure lover’s vengeance by staining my actions with her repentance?

  My walk became a run.

  I remembered the scowl of hate I shot her in return. “Burn in hell,” I muttered. How could I say that? Did I not realize what I had just done? Even if her love for me was cast aside with such callousness, mine for her still burned strong.

  Hysteria threatened to claim me. I dashed for the door to the outside and slammed through it, but recoiled when the cold of January rushed headlong into me. Once again, the idea of being lost – vulnerable – struck me.

  I ran toward the street, trying to escape the guilt pounding heavy through my head. The angry mob might not have been following me, but my conscience was gaining and its feet moved swifter than mine. I passed beneath awnings of upscale apartment buildings, raced across a dimly-lit park, and when a patch of Philadelphia asphalt suddenly stretched before me, I darted across it without caring one iota for the traffic.

  One car swerved, then another, but I did not remain on the street for long. The urge to disappear from view became too overwhelming for me to ignore, so I dodged down an alleyway still running from the pain threatening to tear me limb from limb. I heard its footsteps closing in. I felt its breath prickle my skin. I sensed its presence enveloping me. None of which prepared me for the abrupt way my sprint came to a halt.

  It was as though my conscience obtained corporeal form; or so I thought at the time. Ignorance converged with my own frenzied panicking and prevented me from understanding when one hand grabbed me, followed by another. I struggled wildly against the grip, screaming, “I was going to marry her! It isn't my fault! Oh God, why did she do this to me? Why did she make me kill her?!” The pair of hands kept firm grasp of me through my manic attempts to break away, and I continued shouting pleas for understanding until my attackers silenced my rant with a swift smack against my throat. Suddenly, I began to realize I was not being held back by my conscience at all.

  The second clue was even more painful.

  I felt a tongue slide against my neck milliseconds before a set of sharp teeth pierced my skin. Hollering as an afterthought, I gasped while blood ran down to my chest and mingled with the sweat already present. The lips pressed against my flesh pursed and drew inward. A sickening sucking noise resonated in my ears and the hands around me tightened.

  My eyes fluttered shut. My head bobbed. I could not see the face of my attacker, but had little desire to as my pulse became faint and my knees threatened to buckle again. Whoever held me prevented me from falling over while my brain commenced the same shut down I had witnessed when Lydia had collapsed at my feet.

  “... Lydia.” I whispered her name as though remembering it for the first time through all the chaos. It formed all the apology my dying breaths could manage before I was robbed of the chance to add any further words of remorse.

  Instead, the cool flesh of somebody's wrist touched my lips. It silenced even my thoughts and focused my fleeting attention toward a viscous liquid which ran into my mouth. The moment I tasted blood, a foreign notion stirred my senses the same way seeing the exposed throat of Lydia's lover had. A feminine voice spoke in a soothing manner. “Drink,” she said. “Take it in, Peter. Because tonight, we will fulfill your destiny.”

  I drew inward once, compelled by the woman's command. It restored enough of my strength for me to drink again, wanting more without knowing why. In fact, I became more and more ravenous with each mouthful of blood and did not realize I'd grabbed hold of her arm until a violent pulse of pain caused my fingers to tighten. My mouth lifted from her wrist so I could cry out in agony. Before I figured out what was happening, another wave of fatigue struck.

  My body slumped into a set of arms. The world drifted from my consciousness while voices spoke around me in a dissonant manner. My breaths became shallow, then ceased altogether, and I drifted to sleep.

  Little did I know, as my heart stopped its rhythmic beating, that the blood I drank belonged to a vampire.

  I had just lived my final night as a mortal.

  Chapter Two

  A voice resonated through the blackness, stretching toward me as though echoing down a long corridor. At first I could not understand what it said. Its cadence was far too dream-like and my thoughts were too fragmented to assemble the pieces. It took several moments, but eventually the voice gained volume and purpose.

  “Peter, dear,” she said. “It’s time for you to wake.”

  I struggled to ignore her as she continued trying to draw me out from void. Already, I knew something was different and there seemed to be too many alterations for my rational brain to take in all at once. Even the air about me felt changed. So, I twisted my consciousness away from the woman calling me, but her voice persisted. “Come now, young one. Rise and embrace your destiny.”

  It pushed me another step closer to the surface. As I stumbled forward, the host of strange sensations began overwhelming me, contradicting the romanticism of her words. Rather than being some pleasurable entanglement with ‘destiny’, waking brought with it nothing more than excruciating pain that threatened to strangle me. I gasped for breath, but the act of breathing stung and the air sat useless in my lungs before being exhaled noisily. Every sense and synapse in my body fired simultaneously. The initial pangs of awareness were not to be the worst of it, though. They built to a crescendo when I opened my eyes.

  The burning intensified and localized. I screamed, struggling to keep my eyes open while the light filling the room waged an assault against them. Turning my head to the side, I discovered I lay on a bed, and found myself being subjected to the scrutiny of three strangers - two men and one woman. Their piercing eyes regarded me in silence, watching me tremble, and apparently unmoved
by the sight. In turn, I studied them, knowing something about my sight had changed, but unable to place it before the agony became too much for me to bear.

  I clenched my eyes shut and flipped onto my stomach.

  “Peter, calm down.”

  My fingers clawed at the sheets. I buried my head into a pillow to block out more of the light. “Make it stop,” I said. “Fucking kill me if you have to, just make it stop.”

  “We can’t kill you, Peter.” Her voice stayed eerily calm while issuing the response. The woman who brought me into this hell in the first place walked closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “What is it that hurts, dear child?”

  “My eyes.” I moaned. “My fucking eyes are burning.”

  “Michael, turn off the lights.” The sound of fabric rustling preceded a series of footsteps pacing to the other side of the room. Tempted to furrow my brow at how distinctly I heard each action, I instead lost myself inside a flood of relief once darkness crashed over me. Still, the rest of my body continued to tremble.

  “What...” A pained breath punctuated the one word I managed. I swallowed more air and waited for something - anything - to feel familiar, but even inhaling could not provide me that comfort. I coughed out the wasted oxygen and regrouped. “What... did you do to me?”

  A hand reached forward, attempting to settle atop my head, but I flinched away. It retreated at once. “Peter, the woman said. The calm in her voice felt contagious, threatening to soothe me regardless of how little I wished to be soothed at the moment. “Don’t you remember our discussions? Do you know who I am?”

  “I don’t know who the hell I am right now.”

  “Look at me, dear. It’s alright. The lights are out now.”

  I wanted to look at her about as much as I wished to be calmed by her, but something told me I would have to face her at some point. Slowly, carefully, I pushed off the mattress and lifted my gaze toward the woman talking to me. The sight of her started an immediate debate, one I indulged while taking a moment to evaluate her.