A dark forest of no return, the massive acreage edged his property. The Darkwood was a no-man’s-land that was principally Faery, but as well, a place for all breeds to congregate. It provided respite for those who could not walk amongst humans. A wayside stop for those paranormals traveling this realm that wished to take a breath before meeting the challenge of humans.
No humans dared enter the forest, for rumors told it was haunted and that the former residents of Blade’s property—the original 1910 mansion had been razed—had killed themselves after hearing voices tell them to cut out their hearts.
Great rumor, Blade thought. It helped him maintain his privacy. It wasn’t at all true. But it worked for him. Though he respected the boundaries of the Darkwood and only entered it with a certain reverence and much caution. Even then, he only stayed so long as his comfort level allowed.
Rumors told that people went into the Darkwood and they never came out. Deer, squirrels and wildlife? They didn’t exist within the dark thickness of evil that formed the murky wood.
Blade smirked as a squirrel scampered past him, its goal, the stream. And at that reminder that all was not as it seemed—or was rumored to be—he let down his shoulders and knelt on a mossy stone, pressing his fingers into the thick, verdant frosting. For the moment, he connected with it all. The grass, stones and trees. All creatures small and large whose heartbeats he could sense. The atoms that formed his body were the same atoms that formed nature, the very air, earth and flora.
How blessed was he?
You are alive. You have survived. Move on, yes?
He was trying.
While principally considered vampire, Blade had also his mother’s faery genetics coursing within his system. His black wings were not so faery-like, and the leathery edges were serrated and sharp, as if demonic. He didn’t mention his faery side to others. It was his dark beast, which craved unnatural tastes, such as demon blood, that others knew about—if they knew at all.
Blade honored all of nature’s creatures, including those breeds considered monsters by humans who would believe in myth. And yet, he hated demons. That a part of him looked similar to the creatures disturbed him. His wings shamed him and defined him as different. And different amongst the varied species was not always a saving grace.
Such a difference had attracted cruelty to his life.
He’d kept to himself over the past year. To the point that his brothers and sister had begun to call him a hermit. The quiet one.
He’d always been quiet. More in tune with nature than with what was going on with the human realm. The cruelty that his difference had attracted? He’d suffered torture a year ago. And following that, he had hidden away. Not wanting to show his face, his scars, to anyone. Not wanting to put himself out in a world that could attack at any moment.
For if attacked, he would retaliate.
He didn’t wish to harm others. Unless it was necessary.
He’d almost mastered the hermit role until last month when an old man filling his rusty 1970s Ford at the gas station had asked him if he’d any carpentry skills. Reluctantly, Blade had nodded and stepped outside his self-imposed prison of comfort. He’d been helping the elderly with small projects in and about their homes for a couple weeks now, and...it did feel good.
Life was beginning to look up.
At the sound of something heavy lighting onto the moss behind him Blade tilted his head. He smelled no odor out of the usual, yet his skin prickled. He should be able to pick up most scents. He rose to his six-feet-four-inch height, and with a stealthy twist, turned to stare into the cold white irises of a man with equally pale skin.
From the Darkwood? Most likely. The man looked human, save for the diagonal scars over each temple, which resembled gills, but no breath opened and closed the slashes. His brows were as black as his hair and clothing, which blended him into the night. His pale face, neck and hands were the only things remarkable; the pinpoint blue glow that seemed to radiate from around his irises especially stood out on his face.
“Blade Saint-Pierre,” the man said in tones that slithered with a sharp silver edge. “I am Sim.”
“What are you?” Blade asked, stepping up closer and thrusting back his shoulders. He unfurled his wings and they stretched out boldly behind him.
“Nothing so spectacular as a winged vampire,” the man said with a glance to take in the imposing wingspan. “I have an offer for you.”
Blade inhaled through his nostrils, frustrated that he couldn’t scent the man. Which meant he was not one of the many species he could instinctually sniff out. But for every breed with which he was familiar, there were so many more he could not scent.
The curiosity wasn’t demon. That scent always put up Blade’s hackles. And that small detail was the only thing that stopped Blade from sweeping forward a wingtip and slashing it across the stranger’s long pale neck.
“I can move much faster than your feeble mortal realm allows you,” the man warned, seeming to sense Blade’s defensive thoughts. “You do not know me, but trust me, you’ve no reason to fear or consider me enemy. In fact, what I want of you will give you such satisfaction that your faery will delight in the riches.”
“I don’t need money,” Blade countered. “You know nothing about me.”
“Not monetary riches but rather such that feeds your very soul. I know you crave demon blood, fanged one.”
Blade’s fingers twitched for the knife he’d left back home. He’d not revealed to anyone his insistent craving for demonic blood. It had developed during the torture a year ago. His family members would be appalled to learn of his new habit. For a man without a vast network of friends, their opinion meant everything to him.
He remained before the scentless curiosity, willing to hear him out.
“The demonic ranks are growing in the area,” Sim stated, clasping his pale hands before him. “I want you to annihilate them.”
Blade chuckled.
“You laugh as defense, vampire. Foolishly so. You have the desire to do as I request. I know you have been humiliated and crushed by the mimicus denizen. I offer you the chance to bring them all down. Cleanse this realm of the demons who dare to tread amongst humans before their denizens populate into rages.”
A denizen was a group of demons, much like a vampire tribe. When their numbers increased or the denizens joined forces they were termed a rage, vast quantities of the merciless bastards.
The man was playing it dramatically, and that made Blade wonder if he was mentally unbalanced, or if it was just his manner. It wasn’t every day he met a dark stranger in a haunted woods who asked him to slay denizens.
But he did have one thing right—beyond the insistent craving for demon blood, even more fiercely, Blade craved vengeance.
But he was no assassin. Not without good reason.
And he had begun to step toward the light. To do good. He strived to avoid making the same mistake twice.
“No,” Blade stated simply. He folded down his wings and took a step back off the mossy rock, putting himself a head below Sim’s stance. “The way to redemption is not through violence.”
“It doesn’t concern you that the demons will soon take over? They will torment humans and paranormals alike.”
“Where’s your proof? I’ve lived here all my life. There are demons who live amongst us, sure. But not in numbers so great as a rage.”
“You’ll simply have to trust I know of what I speak.”
“I do not blindly offer something so valuable as my trust.” And Blade walked around the man and into the woods. “Get off my property!” he called back.
“The Darkwood belongs to no man.” He heard the quiet reply. “You will change your mind. I can wait. But not for long.”
Blade started to run. Flapping his wings, he soared up from the ground. He dodged a ghostly wraith that lived within the forest, but which would never leave.
Kill all the demons? Sounded like a dream. But Blade was trying to turn his life around and be less violent. And he could do it.
If he could get beyond the need for revenge.
One week later...
Zenia parked the olive-green Chevy truck at the end of the block where she’d been hit by the bus. Hopping out, she skipped across the grassy road verge to the sidewalk. A wind-strewn newspaper lay on the ground, and she recognized the faded ad she’d seen a week earlier. A pharmaceutical ad touted something called Zenia. A word she’d liked so much she’d taken it as her name. It conveyed mystery. Just like her.
Which was about the only thing she did know about herself. That she was a mystery. The term used to describe her condition was amnesia, and she had it. And it had started in this neighborhood.
The street and houses were quaint. A smooth, narrow sidewalk stretched before neat yards, and most of those yards were fenced with white pickets. Bright yellow marigolds, pink-and-white roses and orange zinnias bloomed in profusion. Butterflies and bees fluttered from bloom to bloom.
