Dark lord of the night, p.1
Dark Lord of the Night, page 1
Dark Lord of the Night
Dark Destinies, Book 2
S.K. Ryder
Dark Lord of the Night
Dark Destinies, Book 2
Copyright © 2024 by S.K. Ryder
Ancient Hunger
A Dark Destinies Tale
Copyright © 2019 by S.K. Ryder
Published by Hidden Worlds Press
Cover design by 100 Covers
All rights reserved.
No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or manual, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, contact the author.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or deceased), places, or events is coincidental.
1st edition: October 2017
2nd edition: January 2024
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9893855-3-9
eBook ISBN: 979-8-9893855-2-2
hiddenworldspress.com
Contents
1. The Oracle
2. A Hunger Like No Other
3. Night Rituals
4. Ulterior Motives
5. It Begins
6. Another Way
7. Blind Spots
8. Trouble You So
9. Thanksgiving
10. A Matter of Trust
11. You Belong to Me
12. Leap of Faith
13. Enough
14. Emotionally Charged
15. Hidden Things
16. Walk Into Hell
17. Lost and Found
18. The Key
19. SOL
20. Ancient Blood
21. Lonely Old Man
22. Fear
23. Seeking Connection
24. Hunter’s Lair
25. The Key and The Lock
26. Phantoms
27. Edge of Night Eternal
28. Dinner with John
29. Choices
30. One Last Day
31. Definitely No Vampires
32. Remember
33. Gambling Men
34. Shambling Bears
35. Would-Be Assistants
36. Winging It
37. The Evening’s Business
38. Monsters
39. O-Negative
40. Gifts of the Afterlife
41. Gray Reality
42. Forever Change
43. Dark Lord
44. World of Night
Bonus: Ancient Hunger
Excerpt: Dark Reign of Forever
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by S.K. Ryder
1
The Oracle
From the moment Dominique Marchant crawled out of the dune at sunset, Serge, already up and waiting for him, had been on a cheerful, prattling roll. Tonight, they would hunt together as that rarest of all blood-drinker social structures, a team. The only question that remained was where.
Until it wasn’t.
“Blood-child, I crave the flavors of Miami. The spices are unmatched on this side of the continent, and we haven’t been there in…in…” Serge’s enthusiastic chatter faded away. As did the mood of light-hearted anticipation.
Dominique didn’t need to look to know his friend and mentor had gone statue-still behind him. He could almost feel those glassy eyes drill holes into his skull. Though he pretended not to notice, the back of his neck crawled. Instead, he finished releasing the lock on the shed behind the beach cottage he shared with the human Cassidy, the feline Eddie, and, sometimes, the maybe-clairvoyant vampire Serge.
“Miami is too far tonight. I don’t want to be gone that long,” Dominique said, hanging up the lock on a hook just inside the door. “There should be plenty of Latin flavors in Fort Lauderdale for you.” Please let this be it, he thought, already knowing it wasn’t, and determined not to let his friend’s eccentricities derail him. As hollowed out by hunger as he was, he had little patience left.
Dominique scanned the shed’s dark interior. The usual smells of engine grease and dank brine hung in the air. No signs of human intrusion, no trace of hunters. But there was a small, new pile of sand in one corner where something had dug under the edge of the sheet metal wall. Tiny tracks led away from the excavation, and a soft clicking noise came from underneath the cover fastened over his motorcycle—a cover that now sported a new hole. “Merde.”
The cover came off in a whoosh, revealing the sleek, black BMW bike beneath, along with a passenger. The crab, half the size of his hand, reared up on the seat, pincers extended and open, ready to inflict damage…or reach for the handlebars. Any other night, he might have laughed. Picking up the creature by its carapace, he handed it to Serge who had traipsed in after him. “Take this outside and be quick. We need to be on our way.”
Serge didn’t move.
Dominique reluctantly looked up from inspecting the bike for additional hitchhikers. There he was, the madman he hadn’t seen in months, frozen still and staring at him with glistening round eyes while the crab mountaineered up his ragged shirtsleeve. Serge was lost in his visions, seeing what only he could see: Dominique’s immediate future supposedly, his ultimate fate maybe, chaos most certainly. Hard to know, really. Serge never explained himself in terms that made sense.
No, you are not doing this to me, vieux fou. Not tonight. With a determined flick of his wrist, Dominique zipped up his black leather jacket, then snatched up the helmet and wedged it over his head. Grabbing the handlebars, he collapsed the kickstand. “Fort Lauderdale, then?”
The would-be oracle blinked his great brown eyes as if waking from a dream, but his child-like exuberance was gone, replaced by fatalistic gloom. The crab, now on his shoulder, explored the tangled curls springing around his broad face. “Yes,” Serge said quietly and shuffled his bare feet out the door. “It’s time you were gone, blood-child.”
Dominique’s turn to pause. Serge never passed up an opportunity to ride—or “surf”—the back of the bike. Whatever Serge had seen or imagined just now rattled him into a quiet daze that was, if possible, even more unsettling than the wide-eyed stare.
No, I don’t have time for this, Dominique admonished himself and resolutely pushed the bike outside. “I’m hungry, old fool. Don’t play your games with me tonight.”
“Games,” Serge murmured and retrieved the crab from inside his shirt collar. “It’s the night for them, yes.” His bushy brows bunched together. “And hunger, too. Like no other.”
“What—”
“Go and see what will be.” He gave the agitated crab a pat. It promptly whacked his grubby finger. Serge didn’t seem to notice. “I will be busy here with this little one.”
“There is not much blood in that,” Dominique said, trying for a far lighter tone than he felt. Serge just looked at him.
This was bad. Beyond bad. Serge, three hundred years old and onetime pirate, was many things—quietly fatalistic wasn’t one of them. Dominique gave only the most grudging credence to his friend’s powers of clairvoyance, but right now, if not for the hunger raking his gut, he would have been tempted to put the bike back in the shed and crawl into Cassidy’s arms. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “What did you see?”
“What do I ever see?”
Dominique shook his head. Riddles, of course. “My ‘destiny’ awaits again? Is that it? And you don’t want to ‘meddle’ with ‘what must be?’ So, you will stay here and play with the crab?”
This, at last, brought the familiar gab-toothed smile. “See? You know all.” The crab in question was now clamped onto the side of his hand. Serge pulled it off and studied the waving pincers. “She will need some persuading, this one.”
Cursing below his breath, Dominique straddled the bike and pulled on his gloves. Why did he bother? Why did he let the unhinged babbling get under his skin like this? Nothing good ever came from that. “You will be the end of me.”
“No, blood-child, no end for you. A beginning,” Serge intoned solemnly.
This was more than Serge had ever shared about his supposed glimpses into the future, which had an unnerving way of coming to pass in twisted, inconvenient, and often perilous ways. Dominique was reluctantly reassured by the positive spin on this one. At least until Serge spoke again.
“If you are strong enough, blood-child. Only if you are strong enough.”
2
A Hunger Like No Other
Over the past few months, Dominique had let the officers patrolling the southern-most portion of I-95 pull him over without protest. Then, once he was face-to-face with them, he convinced them that a motorcycle pushing two hundred miles per hour was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a glitch in their radar units, a trick of the light in their eyes.
Which was why he remained unchallenged now, twenty minutes after leaving the cottage, as he hunched over the bullet-shaped bike and pushed the engine until it screamed. He darted through traffic, hurtled between semis, and left other bikers swerving in his wake. The occasional fool even tried to race him, which never ended well for the fool.
The ghost of anxiety, however, had no trouble keeping up.
Dominique muttered curses into his helmet. Of course, he would do “what will be.” In fact, what must be tonight was for him to feed on terror to appease the beast that defined his e
But with Serge, “what will be” was never that obvious, and cold foreboding soaked the November night. The faster he could conclude his business and return to Cassidy’s arms, the better.
He took the next available exit ramp.
Within moments, new tension rode his shoulders. This was still well north of the urban jungles of Fort Lauderdale, his intended hunting ground tonight. Would that stop whatever disaster supposedly awaited him? Or put him squarely in its path?
And would he be “strong enough?”
“Idiot,” he cursed, trying to shake Serge’s words out of his skull. He had to focus on the hunt. Everything else, lunatic blood-drinkers included, would have to wait.
The exit deposited him into a neighborhood far past its prime. Fissured sidewalks, squalid apartments, shuttered retailers, and a dingy strip club lined the street, the last blasting a palpitating beat from a speaker. Three prostitutes plied their trade on one corner while a junkie huddled on the other. Farther down, a dealer conferenced with the driver of a gleaming Mercedes sedan.
In his chest, the beast slithered awake. Add one hungry vampire to this cauldron of debauchery.
He stopped long enough to pull off his helmet and set it in the compartment beneath the shotgun seat. To locate the perfect meal, he needed to see, smell, and hear without obstructions. He also shook out his overgrown ebony hair. This softened the sharp lines of his face and the lean cut of his body, lending him an air of pampered vulnerability—or bait.
A group of young men, heavily inked with gang insignia, loitered by a convenience store. Dominique felt their callous eyes on him as he passed, assessing him and his ride, his black motorcycle leathers and silver-studded boots, cataloging him as friend, foe, or mark. He slowed to see if they would climb into their tricked-out Chevy and follow him. They didn’t. No matter; there would be others in less public places.
At the end of a cul-de-sac, he swung through the parking lot of a two-story motel. I boarded several windows, others lit up bright. A handful of cars occupied the lot, some of them pricey and therefore promising indicators of the type of prey he favored.
“Hey, you look like someone who wants to party,” a youngish male voice called out to him.
Dominique pulled up in front of a tall, skinny man with cornrow hair and bright eyes. A too baggy and too well-worn, black jacket—reeking of noxious substances—hung off the man’s narrow shoulders. A sizable diamond stud sparkled in one ear. “I do,” Dominique confirmed as he assessed the stranger’s thin craw. Not much more blood than Serge’s crab, but an acceptable appetizer.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, my man. We’ve got it all right here.” “All” included a long list of synthetic and prescription intoxicants which he rattled off at a brisk clip, concluding with a wave at the motel behind him, “And, of course, only the classiest girls.”
Dominique cocked his head, focusing on the muffled sounds of a struggle in one of the upstairs rooms.
Misinterpreting the lack of reaction, the dealing pimp elaborated. “We also cater to a wide variety of specialized interests. Just let me know what you’re looking for.”
A scream emerged from the upstairs ruckus. Female. Frightened. Too muted for anyone but Dominique to hear.
“Merde.” He parked the motorcycle. Catching the pimp’s attention, he laced his voice with persuasion and ordered him to not leave the bike’s side. If he couldn’t afford the time to secure it, he could at least post a guard.
Seconds later, he knocked at the door concealing the altercation. The barest whisper of blood shimmered in the night, but the door opened before he realized the disastrous implication.
He almost didn’t notice the doughy white man standing before him, wearing a straw sombrero, cowboy boots, barrel belly—and nothing else. The stink of lust was drowned out by the metallic tang of blood and fear, and the man’s demands for an explanation faded beneath his hammering heartbeat.
A ravenous frenzy shrieked in Dominique’s head. The only thing he could do was the last thing he wanted to do—stand still. Perfectly still.
As long as he stood still, no one would die.
“Did you hear me? Get lost. I paid for the full hour,” the barrel belly said.
Yes, Dominique should get lost. The faster the better. But that girl on the bed could not. She was sprawled face down and naked, her wrists bound behind her back. Blood welled from a gash and coated her buttocks. She turned her head toward the door, and he saw blood smearing her face as well. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, if that, and she reeked of fear.
Sweet, irresistible fear.
His control slipped as the beast reared up. His vision shifted, making the blood glitter and her veins glow through her earthy-blue aura. A gaping maw of hunger opened in his gut.
The girl’s voice shook in bumpy English and rapid Spanish as she begged for help from the vampire, who craved only to tear open her jugular.
Barrel belly laughed. “She’s worth every penny. You go tell Dex.”
Dominique put his hand out to stop the door slamming on him and closed his eyes. “Aidez-moi, mon amour,” he whispered. Conjuring Cassidy in his mind, he focused on the memory of her absolute faith in him. If he did the unthinkable here, he could never face her again. And without her, he was nothing more than a bloodthirsty, youngling vampire. Without her, he had no tether to humanity and no reason to care about the lives he may or may not take.
Without Cassidy…Dominique was lost.
What he did here now would determine the rest of his existence, whether this was centuries—or hours.
The beast retreated. His vision normalized. He looked up and edged his voice with compulsion. “Your hour is up. Now shut up and sit down.”
Outrage colored the naked man’s puffy face. His mouth worked, opening and closing like a goldfish, but he remained obediently silent as he staggered backward and dropped. Missing the chair he aimed for, he crashed to the floor with a grunt and a fart. The sombrero slipped forward to cover his eyes.
Dominique cut the girl’s hands free with the bloodied knife lying beside her. When he inhaled to speak, he concentrated on the other smells in the room—mildew and dried vomit—while hunger pulled at his veins.
“Do you have a safe place to go?” he asked in Spanish, his tone terse.
She nodded, shaking and sniffling with relief. “Mi tía.”
“Get dressed.”
While she pulled on a Lycra sheath dress that struggled to cover her bottom, he located her client’s wallet and removed the handful of hundreds it contained. These he handed to the girl. She clutched the money to her breast, together with a faux fur bolero jacket and her faux leather purse.
“Go to your aunt.” Pitching his voice into its most persuasive form, he added, “Whatever your reason for being here, it no longer exists. You will never come back. You never saw me.”
Her eyes became unfocused as they slid away from him, not seeing him, forgetting him. Without a word, she left, taking the temptation with her.
Barrel belly hoisted his bulk off the floor. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Where do you get off telling me what to do and then give away my money on top of it?” He flung the sombrero on the bed. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
Dominique inhaled deeply, feeding on the outrage as much as he would feed on the fear and the blood.
The blood. The air was thick with the girl’s blood.
“You are a man with a blood fetish?” he ventured without quite facing his imminent meal.
“Hey, I paid Dex plenty for something special,” the man insisted, stabbing a finger toward him. He looked ridiculous wearing nothing but boots, but he behaved as though dressed in a suit and tie. “Dex is gonna hear about this, you little fuck. You’re messing with his best customer. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”
Dominique’s vampire senses surged. A raw, brutal need seized his body from his extending canines all the way down to his toes.
