Crimson Midnight (A New Adult Dark Urban Fantasy Series) (The Crimson Series Book 1) (2 page)

“Stop, dad, please. I love your
cooking and I love you…so much.  This isn’t about that, this is about me.  I
need
to do this.” 

There was a moment of tense silence
as Rose stared at her father who in turn stared at the duvet cover.  She could
sense his pain, his turmoil. The emotions a mother would have felt at her one
and only offspring leaving the nest. The emotions only her father could have
because he had raised her single-handed.  She didn’t need a psychology degree
to understand what was going on here.

“Dad?” She sat on the bed beside
him and enveloped his slight frame in a fierce hug.  “I’ll come and visit
often. I promise.”

“Yeah?”  He looked at her
sceptically, his eyes slightly red-rimmed from lack of sleep.

“Defo and when I do, we’re getting
a takeaway!”

He smiled and glanced at his watch.
“You better get moving if you’re going to be ready to leave on time.”

“All ready.” She indicated her one
suitcase.

“Okay, I’ll take this downstairs.”
He patted the case, and then looked at her quizzically. “Are you not taking
your guitar?” 

Rose shook her head. “I couldn’t
bear it if it got damaged. Besides, if I get the urge to play, I’ll just have
to come home wont I?”

The guitar had been a tenth birthday
present from her dad, something she’d worked hard to master, and one of her
most prized possessions. No, the guitar belonged here, something more to come
home too. 

Her dad nodded slowly, his eyes
soft as if looking into the past. He sighed before turning and heading toward
the door.  When Rose made no move to follow, he stopped, raising an enquiring
eyebrow.

“I have something I need to do
first,” she said. 

Her father hesitated for a moment
longer. “You sure?”

She nodded and with a soft click, he
closed the door behind him as he left.

Rose didn’t do this often, it
always proved too upsetting. But, she couldn’t leave until she had. She exited
her room and turned left on the landing, heading for the end of the corridor,
past her father’s room and the small bathroom he used. She came to a halt
outside the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor.  She grasped the handle
and turned it quickly, pushing open the door before she could change her mind.

Stepping into the room, she was
struck, as she always was, by the cheerful brightness of its décor. Bright
marigold walls decorated with large landscape scenes beautifully painted.  Her
eyes travelled to the silent and still figure of the painter which lay, lightly
covered by a bright pink duvet, on the king-sized bed. 

“Mum, it’s me.”

There was no response from the
tiny, frail, figure of her mother. 

Rose perched gingerly on the edge
of the bed, her hand going out to stroke the blonde hair so much like her own.
“Oh, mum, if only…” She took a deep, angry breath.

This wasn’t a time for wishing and
hoping. Miracles did happen sometimes. But when you had spent the best part of twenty-one
years praying for a miracle and hoping for sparks of recognition in the face
you knew would love you if only it could, it was only an insanely optimistic
person that would still hold out. Rose was many things, but above all she was a
realist and she knew that if her mother was going to recover she would have
done so.  She reached for her mother’s hand, clasping it in her own. She
noticed that the skin on and around her mother’s inner wrist was once again
blistered and sore.

“You’ve been scratching at it again
haven’t you, mum?”  She reached for the salve on the bedside table and began to
apply it to the affected area.

“What is it anyway?” She studied
the intricate tattoo, which blazed against its bed of red-raw skin and jerked back
as she felt fingers caress her cheek.  Her mother was looking at her, really
looking at her, her eyes blazing with intelligence and fire.

“Mum?” 

“Rose, you must beware the shining
stranger.”  She said the words clearly and succinctly, her face no longer
slack, her eyes no longer dazed and unfocused.

“Mum…you’re here…you’re back…” Hope
bloomed within her.

Her mother smiled, her eyes taking
on a dreamy look as she stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You shine, you shine so
bright.”  Her eyes travelled over Rose’s face as if devouring her image.

“Dad!”  She couldn’t bring herself
to tear her gaze away from her mother’s face, as if that simple connection
would serve to keep her anchored in the here and now, would stop her from
slipping away from reality.

There followed the thud of heavy
footfalls and the door swung open. Her dad barrelled into the room “Rose? What
happened?” 

“It’s mum! Look!”  Rose’s gaze
flicked to her father then back to her mother and her heart sank.  In her excitement,
she had failed to feel the tender fingers slip away from her cheek. And now, as
she looked into the face of the woman that had given her life, she saw only an
empty vessel, the eyes devoid of emotion and the face slack.

“I…she spoke to me, she reached out
for me!”  Tears of frustration and anger sprang to her eyes, frustration that
she hadn’t been able to prolong the moment, and anger for believing that she
had the power to do so.

“Rose, come on.”  Her father gently
pulled her to her feet and away from the bed.

“No!  I swear she spoke! She looked
right at me!” Her hands were balled into angry fists at her sides, the urge to
shake the now prone body of her mother so strong that she didn’t trust herself
not to satisfy it.

Her father’s eyes filled with
sadness. “Rose, you know this happens from time to time and you also know it
never lasts.” 

He was right, her mother did
exhibit odd moments of lucidity. And she had done so throughout her illness. 
All her life, Rose had lived for those moments too few, and far between. It was
all she had ever had of her mother, a mother who had been in this unexplained
mental coma even before she had been born, eating and sleeping as if on
autopilot. Rose had spent hours laying beside this figure that represented everything
maternal, arranging her hands so they’d lay on her forehead in an eternal
caress.  In those days, there had been optimism in her heart, a hope that her
mother would return to them. The attack had killed that hope. Because in the
aftermath as she’d been beside her mother, her own frame wracked with sobs,
needing to feel her mother’s arms around her so badly it was a physical ache,
all she had received was silence.  Her hope had died and where there had once
been anger at God, Fate, or whatever force had allowed this to happen to her
mother, there was now a small kernel of anger at her mother for allowing it to
happen, for not fighting to remain, for giving up so easily.

She knew better than anyone what
the lucid moments could be like. Sparking hope and excitement and then snuffing
it out like a candle flame. But this had been different. It had felt different,
more vivid more urgent. Her mother had been ablaze with life for those few
precious moments.

“No…was different…it was…” Was it? 
Now taking in her mother’s vacant form, she began to doubt her experience of a
few moments ago.  Could she have read more into the lucid episode than there
had actually been? She unfurled her hands, rubbing at the crescent-shaped nail
marks on her palms and allowed her father to gently lead her out of the room. 

“What did she say?”  He asked
unable to hide the desperation in his eyes.  These moments meant just as much
to him as they did to her. After all, he had known her mother before the
illness had taken her mind. She couldn’t imagine how hard it must be for him
living like this, living with the memory of the woman he used to love and
nursing her body each day, hoping and praying that she might return to him.

Rose shook her head to clear it.
“I…I don’t know. Something about shining people.”

Her father frowned in confusion and
Rose shrugged, suddenly tired with the whole thing.

“It wasn’t so much what she said
but more the expression in her eyes when she said it. They were so…alive,
intelligent. I’ve never seen her look like that.”

Her father smiled. “She was the
most passionate woman I had ever met, so determined and so focused.”

“Hello? Anybody home?”

“Shit. Faye.”  Rose rushed to the
top of the stairs. “Be down in a sec!”

“Go on, you better get loaded up.” 
Her dad was back to his usual efficient self as he shooed her down the stairs,
his way of saying the topic was closed, at least for now.

Faye took a sip from her hip flask,
screwed on the lid and threw it into the back seat. “Okay, all loaded. You
ready to go?” she asked.  She was practically bouncing with excitement in the
driver’s seat of her hot-pink BMW Z3.

Rose eyed the flask meaningfully.

Faye looked shocked at the
intimation. “It’s prune juice! If you don’t believe me take a sip.  I would
never-”

“Okay, okay. I believe you.” Rose
held up her hands.

“Rose?” Her father’s hands settled
on her shoulders and she turned to give him a quick hug.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get to
Flo’s. Promise.” 

“Do that.”  He smiled, reaching up
to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “You’re going to do great, hun. I
can feel it.”

“Come on, we’re gonna miss the
train. You’ll be back in a few weeks anyway.”  Faye moaned eager to be on the
move, her fingers drumming a techno rhythm on the steering wheel.

“You sure your dad will pick up the
car from the station?”  Rose asked sliding into the passenger seat.

Faye gave her a what-do-you-think
look.

“I guess so then.” Rose chuckled. 
Faye’s relationship with her father was a completely new issue. Let’s just say
daddy was too busy with his business to shower his little girl with any
emotional support. Hence, the expensive gifts she frequently received.

“You sure you want to do this?”
Rose asked Faye for the zillionth time.

“You couldn’t tempt me away with a
bunch of hot men swimming in a chocolate lake… well, maybe.” 

When Faye had learned of Rose’s
escape plan, she had immediately included herself.  Faye had pointed out that
girls with wealthy daddies could do what they wanted, and right now she wanted
to go and live in London.  “Slumming it,” she’d said. She’d rented a room with
some students.  She claimed it was research for the book she was going to write
later in life.

“Okay then, what are we waiting
for? Let’s ZOOM!”

As they pulled away from the cottage,
Rose craned her neck, waving madly until they turned out of the driveway and
she could no longer see the solitary figure of her father. Only then did she
turn to Faye.  “So, prune juice?”

Faye kept her eyes fixed firmly on
the road shrugging one slender shoulder.  “Hey, a girl’s got to stay regular.”

Rose laughed. “Seriously?”

Faye
grinned.  “At least I can say with total honesty that
I
am not full of
shit.”

2.

THE RETREAT

His nose told him that rain was on
the way.  The unmistakable metallic scent hung heavy on the air.  He paused to
look up at the night sky. Black clouds swirled and writhed against inky
blue-black. The bright glow of the moon was obscured by the shadow of a storm
moving in and further shadows crawled across the land blanketing the hills and
forest surrounding him.

He liked the rain, he liked the
darkness, and he liked that he could sense that the heavens were preparing to
put on a thrilling display of thunder and lightning very soon.

He padded stealthily through the
undergrowth, instinctively avoiding the bracken and twigs that may alert his
pursuer to his whereabouts.  His lithe, lean, golden body, despite its bulk,
was as graceful as a panther on the prowl.  He paused, his long pointed ears
twitching. Lifting his muzzle to the night air, he inhaled.  His eyes widened,
he should have been more careful.  The scent hit him suddenly with full force.
The other wolf must have been up wind for his scent to elude him, but the wind
had shifted and…he whirred around just in time to catch the full weight of the
other wolf as it barrelled into him, knocking him backwards.  He was pinned
against a tree by the larger, bulkier wolf, its claws pressing painfully
against his chest.  He snapped and growled in anger. His green eyes, ringed
with silver, flashed dangerously. The larger wolf brought his dark muzzle
closer, baring his razor sharp fangs, his dark eyes full of menace and the
promise of pain.

He knew he had been bested, he
couldn’t wriggle free of his opponents hold, he knew he should lower his gaze,
should bare his throat, show his submission. But his other nature fought
against the beast inside and he held the huge wolf’s gaze.  The larger wolf
growled in warning.

The sound of twigs snapping as the
ground all but shook, accompanied by a growl more akin to a roar, and the
dark-brown wolf was suddenly ripped off him.  A wolf with fur the colour of the
darkest night slammed into him.  They tumbled to the forest floor together
rolling head over hind. 

He pulled himself away from the
tree, wincing as he shook his golden fur. He let out an involuntary whine as a
sharp pain lanced through his side.

The fucker’s actually caused
damage
!

He moved cautiously toward the two
larger wolves, the brown one now pinned under the blue-black one’s huge paws. 
Their gazes were locked on each other in a battle of wills.  The seconds seemed
to drag by during which he was joined by two others. They moved to stand at his
sides, flanking him. The wolf on his right chuffed, nodding his blonde head
toward the two wolves suspended in a struggle for dominance.  He shook his head
in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.  The wolf on his left lowered his chestnut body
to the ground, laying his head on his paws, his eyes mere slits. They may be in
for a long wait. 

But just then the standoff was
broken.  The pinned wolf averted his gaze, baring his throat.  There was a
tense silence as the blue-black wolf lowered his huge muzzle, bringing his
fangs mere inches from the proffered throat. He held himself there for a moment
as if contemplating his next move. Then, in one fluid motion, he leapt off his
captive. The brown wolf came slowly to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger
and resentment. The blue-black wolf turned his back on him, signalling that the
other wolf did not threaten him.  He disappeared into the trees.  After a moment,
the others followed.

The slate cottage, in a secluded
area of The Black Mountains in Wales, was the perfect retreat for the
werewolves. It was custom built in a remote spot by the Alpha’s great-
grandfather.  It was an ideal spot, which allowed the pack to change and run in
the vast and predominately isolated surroundings at night.

Beyond the entrance hallway, and
the first door on the left, an open log fire was burning brightly in the living
room. Brown leather sofas, oak shelves and cabinets, bulging with books of all
genres, filled the living room. A thick brown carpet lay across the floor,
immaculate and well-kept due to a strict no-shoes-indoors-policy upheld by all.
But even the warm and comforting radiance of the cottage could do little to
dispel the tension between the four men as they entered its haven.

Roman was the first to break the
silence “You know what, Harold, you’re a fucking dick! What the fuck were you
doing attacking me!  I think you broke one of my ribs!”

“Ah, poor baby, got spooked by the
big bad wolf did you?” Harold drawled sarcastically. “Quit whining. You’re a
fucking werewolf. You’re supposed to be hard. Besides, its healed hasn’t it?”

Roman growled low in his throat,
taking a step toward him.

“Come on you two, cool it down.”
Kris stepped between them placing a hand on Roman’s chest, his eyes pleading
for peace. Roman exhaled shaking off his anger. 

Kris turned to Harold, his pack
mate and his housemate, his blue eyes shadowed with concern, “I think what Roman
was trying to say is that you went against the rules.  You’re supposed to evade
the Beta, not attack your fellow pack mates.”

Harold leaned against the doorframe.
To a casual observer his posture was that of someone at ease, but to the
trained eye, he was a snake coiled to strike, lulling his prey into a false
sense of security before delivering the fatal blow.  His arms were crossed
across his chest, the material on the sleeves pulled taunt by the bulky biceps
underneath.  The man was built like a tank and he knew it. His skin was dusky,
the result of frequent trips to the tanning salon, and his eyes were dark coals
of derision as he looked over Kris’s head at Roman.

“It’s a stupid fucking game– forgive
me if I tried to spice things up a bit.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but you had
no idea I was stalking you did you?” He directed the question to Roman.  “If
this was the real world I would have had you, little boy, but lucky for you the
Beta saved your hide.”  He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I don’t know about
you lot but I don’t like the idea of hiding while our Beta plays hunt the
minions. I mean, how the hell does that benefit us?”  He’d pushed himself away
from the doorframe, all attempts at feigning relaxed-casual out the window. 
His hands were fisted at his sides.

“It’s just a bloody game!” Damon
said. His brown eyes flashed with annoyance. “For goodness sake can we just
take a reality check?”  He glared at Harold. “
You
need to rein it in.
You do not go up against the Beta unless you have the nerve to back it up.  You
do not antagonise the system; it’s there for a reason. And you do not attack
your pack mates for no reason apart from the fact that you’re bored.” 

Harold’s eyes narrowed, a vein
pulsing in his jaw as he struggled to control his temper.

“Come on, man, what is wrong with
you?” Kris asked softly. “You know we’re right. Roman could have been really
hurt. We’re supposed to be here to learn, not kill each other.” 

Harold could be an arsehole. Kris
knew that better than anyone did. He lived with him. But he also knew that the
pack meant everything to Harold. He embraced his nature and maybe that was what
made him so wild and uncontrollable.  Whereas the others balanced beast and
man, listening more to their human side, Harold mostly did the opposite.  In
Kris’s eyes that didn’t make him bad, just misunderstood.

As for Harold’s issues with Raven,
their Beta, well, he couldn’t quite get his head around that.

Roman shook his head as if fed up
with the whole mess. “You need to learn some respect. Going up against me?
Well, that’s fine, but not the Beta. You need to get it through your thick
skull that the Alpha has made his decision and frankly the only one that has a
problem with it is you.”

Harold took a menacing step toward
him. “That’s because I have the best interests of the pack at heart, not some
overrated notion of political correctness.  His kind isn’t fit to be a Beta.
Heck, not even pack. I know it and the Alpha knows it despite his attempt to
exercise equality. But a pack doesn’t work on those principles and one day soon
he will slip up and you’ll all know it.”

“And what if he does? You gonna
stand there and crow I told you so?” Roman had taken a step toward Harold, his
fuse re-lit, leaving only a couple of feet between them. And a couple of feet
weren’t nearly enough distance between two angry beasts.  The air rippled with
the promise of violence.

“Er…guys…” Kris tried to slip
between them but was sent flying into the wall as Harold’s hand shot out
lightning-quick, hitting him squarely in the chest. Kris let out a shocked cry
before he sagged to the floor clutching his aching diaphragm.

“Stay out of this midge; this is
between me and the lamb.” Harold’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he
turned his attention back to Roman. “You wanna play, little boy?” He taunted in
a voice low and menacing.

“Fuck, yeah!” Roman lunged, and
then crumpled to the floor as a wave of emotion assaulted his senses, regret
and disappointment, sharp, poignant, and bittersweet. He felt the answering
ache in his heart and struggled to breathe through the pain.  Around him, the
others were similarly engaged in their own personal battles for emotional
equilibrium. 

The wave passed as suddenly as it
had hit and there was a collective inhalation as the four men sucked in deep
breaths of sweet air.

They came to their feet one by one,
turning to face their Beta. 

Raven stood in the doorway of the
living room. His arms were crossed across his wide chest, his eyes like pieces
of silver flint as he regarded his pack. Nothing of the pain he felt could be
detected in his demeanour but the wolves inside them knew different. They had
felt it, the full force of his turmoil, the unique bond they all shared.  It
was a testament to his ingrained sense of fair play and his sense of
responsibility that it had been regret, and disappointment they had experienced
rather than wrath.

In Raven’s inner world the buck
always stopped with him and so if the pack was in discord it was a reflection
of his leadership.  The blast of emotion had been his way of communicating this
to his pack, better than words could ever do.

“Shit, Raven. I’m so sorry.” Roman
shook his head as if to clear it. “I just…I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s not you, Roman.” Damon jerked
his head in Harold’s direction. “It’s him.” One of the youngest in the pack,
and the same age as Raven, Damon had proven to be the most insightful and the
most honest, sometimes brutally so. “He needs to get a grip and step into the
21
^st
century. We are no longer living in the Dark Ages,” he
finished, shooting daggers in Harold’s direction.

Allowing his hands to drop to his
sides, Raven walked toward Harold until they were almost nose to nose, his gaze
glacial. “I don’t care what your opinions are but they are yours to have.
However, I will remind you for the last time that this is not a democracy. I am
the Beta, what I say goes.” He paused, his eyes pinning Harold where he stood.
He waited.  After a moment, Harold nodded his head once, a jerky stiff movement
as if his brain was struggling to issue the required command to his neck
muscles. 

Raven took a step back, releasing
him from eye contact. He made to turn away but then paused as if another
thought had occurred to him. He turned to face Harold again, his voice casual
as he delivered him next line. “If you try a stunt like that again, I promise
you I
will
rip your throat out.”

Harold’s eyes widened just a
fraction but he held his ground. 

His expression dead pan, Raven
turned away from the group heading toward the lounge. “What you all standing
around for? Dinner isn’t going to cook itself.”

At twenty-one years of age, Raven was
the youngest Beta in the history of the werewolves. But having proven himself
as a warrior and an academic, with a strong dominant nature, he had been the
natural choice. The decision had been met with much chagrin and protest from
the some of the other packs. His age was an issue, true, but more than that was
his sexual orientation. As the only openly gay werewolf, he had drawn a lot of
attention and derision.  Dominance wasn’t a trait associated with a gay wolf. 
Raven knew that in another time, in another place, he would have been forced
into a lone wolf existence, existing outside the pack or even worse, torn to
shreds by the pack, seen as an anomaly, a liability.  The beast within each
member of the pack would treat him as a virus to be purged from the entity that
is the pack.  Thank God, things were different, thank God he was dominant, and
thank God for Richard, their Alpha.

The modernisation of the pack and
their shift into urban areas had come a century ago. As the rapid development
of technology made humans bolder, less afraid and less likely to read into
superstition, the werewolves’ habitats were encroached upon, and destroyed,
making way for human developments, factories and houses, supermarkets and
leisure complexes. The fear of discovery was too strong, too much of a risk. 
The best course of action was to live in plain sight, to mimic the humans, to
work alongside them, trade with them and in doing so survive. This decision had
its price. The price for survival was a loss of the old ways, the old power and
a leaching away of the beast within.

For this reason to attempt to keep
the beast alive, for without it they would fade, the pack was ordered to attend
a retreat twice a year. Every six months, the active members of the pack had to
leave the pack territory in London and head to the retreat for two weeks of activity,
which required them to be in wolf form each day to hone their skills and
senses. Although they could change at will, they were required to change once a
month in order to maintain their individual bonds with their beast. The rule
also served another more preventative measure. Too long in the human form could
result in an involuntary shift, where the beast took over completely leaving
the human side powerless to control it. Bloody rampages were the upshot of this
scenario.  By completing the retreat and running wild, the active pack members
also fed sanity into the beasts of their civilian pack members– those who had
embraced a more human and civilian existence, through a consciousness that
could only be described as magical. Their dedication kept the whole pack alive.
In a world where technology and industrial revolution had taken over, the magic
that surrounded the werewolves of old had all but been lost, and the natural
dangers the pack may have faced had all but been eliminated.  The urban
werewolf therefore needed to retreat back to nature, back to itself and its
instincts or face losing himself. The retreat provided the release that the
wolf inside needed to survive, to function.