Daywalker ~ The Beginning: A Dark Fantasy Short Story Page 4

  “The hows?” I echoed. I would’ve said more, but I was kind of tired of being insulted.

  “Yes, Lacy, the hows? How will I go about draining your remaining essence? How much pain will you endure? How long will it take you to die? How long will I allow you to live before I start the process? The hows.”

  It hit me then: This jerk wasn’t just stuck-up and self-absorbed; he was sadistic. And he got off on my humiliation and fear. He was toying with me on purpose, enjoying my stupidity and insecurity. I tugged frantically at the chain until my arm grew tired, and then I finally gave up and let it hang by the wrist. I wanted to sit down. Lie down. Hell, I think I just wanted to die and get it over with. But if that were the case—if I had to die—then I wanted to do it on my terms.

  Not his.

  six

  I was bound by both wrists and ankles, spread out in nothing but my underwear across the nightwalker’s bed. It had only been a few hours since he captured me, and he had already decided to do the deed.

  Kill me, that is.

  Well, technically, drain my essence so he could walk in the sun, work on his tan, or whatever. I can’t tell you how much I resented all of this.

  As he made his way through all the careful steps of his ritual—washing me, rubbing scented oils into my skin, and drawing strange symbols all over my chest in some weird black ink—I couldn’t help but flash back through my short life, rethink important decisions, and take major inventory of my choices. I wished I had spent a little more time living and a little less time learning.

  I mean, while graduating early had been cool, maybe I should’ve traveled the world before going to college. And while the self-defense class had been great for toning and endurance, what I wouldn’t give to have all those long, sweaty days back. In the end, it’s not like the class had helped when it really mattered. I obviously sucked at self-defense.

  I suddenly thought of my teacher Mike and how disappointed he would be that I went down so easily—that the nightwalker had made such easy work of my capture. In fact, I bet he would be downright—

  Mike!

  Oh…my…gosh.

  Mike was also known as Mr. Q, which was short for his hideously long name: Michael Renzo Jovani Quintessenza.

  My teacher.

  No way. Could Mr. Q actually be the teacher?

  My daywalking teacher? The Quintessence?

  My mind was racing a million miles a minute, suddenly trying to remember every lesson he had every taught me. Heck, every word he had ever spoken. No wonder that damn self-defense class was so weird…and eclectic.

  I stirred on the bed. The nightwalker stopped his ministrations and stared at me. Oh no, I thought, I hope he isn’t reading my thoughts. One inquisitive look in his eyes told me he wasn’t. He was too busy concentrating on preparing his little lamb for the slaughter.

  Good.

  Prepare on, idiot…and take a whole lot of time, please.

  Mike-Mike-Mike…back to Mr. Q.

  What did you teach me?

  I took a deep breath and concentrated: Mr. Q taught us to center. He taught us to plan several moves ahead. He taught us to count backwards from five to one in ancient Greek in order to activate our nous, which is kind of like a cosmic mind, before going into battle.

  Going into battle? Now that I thought about it, that was a strange way to put it. Of course, Mr. Q had always been a bit strange, so maybe it meant nothing. But then, what suburban female goes into battle? We might get into catfights or the back seats of cars with stupid boys, but battles?

  And why in the world did we count in ancient Greek of all things? Instead of, say, Chinese?

  A new surge of energy filled me as I remembered the relentless repetition of those three principles: center, plan, count out loud. “I have to use the bathroom,” I said, all of a sudden, breaking Demon Spawn’s concentration.

  He scowled. “Where you are going soon, it won’t matter, Miss Logan.”

  “Now,” I said in the most insistent tone I could muster. “As in, right now.”

  If looks could kill, the guy’s eyes would have put me six feet under. “Hold it!” he snarled.

  “I can’t,” I argued, half-afraid he was going to do the bite, slithery-tongue, centipede thing again. Oh please, God, give me one small break. Just one. “If you don’t untie me and let me pee, all of your hard work cleaning and oiling me is going to go to waste. I swear, I’m going to wet myself in just about ten seconds. Nine. Eight—”

  He howled.

  Literally howled.

  I mean, really? I already knew he was the devil: was all that really necessary?

  He ripped my arms free from the chains and clasped a strong hand around my throat. “If I have to, I can still absorb your essence as your soul leaves your body—in death. So don’t try anything stupid.”

  Whoa, was this guy ticked off at me, or what? Besides, stupid was a relative term.

  Okay, okay, relax, I told myself.

  Center.

  I imagined a stone wall being built around me in a perfect circle, and then I imagined glowing light shining through the top. As the light entered my body, I let it become my center.

  Now plan.

  Since he had my throat in his slimy hand, action one would be easy: feel for the pinky finger, grab hold, and pull back until it breaks. Unless nightwalkers were immune to pain, this would force him to release my throat. Action two: go for the jugular and slam it hard and fast. Action three: kick for the groin and don’t stop once I connect. In other words, stomp the family jewels into dust. And if he’s still coming after all that, then bash a heavy object over his head.

  In any event, the final action was crystal-clear: Run!

  I rubbed my hands together where the shackles had bit into my skin and glanced at my ankles from around his big hand. “My feet,” I gritted through clinched teeth, struggling for air.

  He growled beneath his breath and then, still holding my throat firmly in his hand, sat me up so he could reach my ankles. I watched while he made quick work of the shackles. And then, just like that, my arms and legs were free.

  It was time to count.

  “Ena, thio, tria, tessera, pente.” I spoke each word clearly out loud, and then I went for his hand to grasp his pinky, but it wasn’t even necessary—

  The nightwalker had already released my throat.

  In fact, he had flown backward from the bed, his eyes open wide in something like shock and horror. He had morphed into the shape of a man-sized dragon.

  Holy cow. What was I supposed to do now?

  A sixth sense swept over me, and I looked down. There was an ancient dagger in my right hand. A crude image of the sun was carved into the hilt, and it fit in my palm like it had been made just for me. I jumped to my feet, crouched into an offensive position, and clutched the dagger at my side, all the while glaring at the dragon.

  He breathed a wicked stream of fire at me, but it hit my imaginary wall and burned around the sides like a golden halo surrounding my body. I stared at it, but only for a second.

  The image gave me confidence.

  “I guess I found my teacher after all, jackass,” I said, raising my chin and sneering at him with all the contempt I’d been keeping bottled up.

  He lunged, and I plunged the dagger upward into his chest. But I didn’t stop there. I twisted the blade as I leapt onto his back. Whoa! I was riding him like a bucking bronco, and he screeched a horrible sound, full of fury and rage.

  Good. How do you like me now, creepy man?

  His tail curled around me from behind, cast me from my perch, and sent me flying across the room. I smashed into a stone wall, shoulder first, and felt something break. I screamed in agony, clutching my arm, but when I reached up to examine my injuries, I felt my bones readjusting on their own. They were healing at record speed. I had to admit: This was amazing.

  I could still feel the golden light all around me, and I gathered it to my core. Re-centered, so to speak.


  The dragon stumbled forward, and I lunged right at him, this time without the dagger. The way I saw it, he was already badly wounded, so he couldn’t put up much of a fight. I grabbed his supernatural neck and twisted with everything I had. The thing turned like a bottle top, snapping as it rotated…effortlessly.

  As the dragon drew his last breaths, I stood over him, panting. I marveled at my incredible strength and basked in the radiant health that was suddenly flowing through my body.

  No more C-word here.

  I could just tell.

  And then, just as easily as the thing had appeared that first day in my office, the dead nightwalker turned back into human form.

  His beautiful face was peaceful in death—although I doubt he was.

  Funny, I thought. I’d always heard that a daywalker was a vampire who had the ability to walk in the sun, but now I knew the truth: That kind of stuff was just for fairytales and gothic novels. A daywalker was just a normal person: a boy or girl born every one hundred years with incredible, kick-ass powers that came from…who knows…maybe the Greek Gods Pantheon.

  A daywalker was a human who could kill a nightwalker.

  I chuckled as I thought about starting my own twelve-step program when I got home. “Hi, my name is Lacy Logan, and I’m a daywalker.”

  And then a much more serious thought crossed my mind.

  If there are many, many more out there…

  Then is it really over?

  A Note from the Author

  This six-chapter short story was previously released under my alternate pen name, JC Stone, in March, 2012. In order to offer it to my existing Dark Fantasy readers, it has been re-released as a Tessa Dawn Short. For those familiar with my other work, Daywalker is a slightly-lighter yarn, written for a younger audience. For those who would like to check out the Blood Curse Series (my darker, full-length vampire novels), please visit my website at:

  www.TessaDawn.com