A Name in the Dark Read online

  A NAME

  IN THE

  DARK

  ◊

  G. S. FORTIS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Gilmar Fortis II

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].

  First paperback edition April 2020

  Book cover design by Natasha MacKenzie

  Images © Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-7344909-1-6 (ebook - mobi)

  www.gsfortis.com

  For Taliesa

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this book was a long and difficult journey. Were it not for the support of my friends and family, I could not have completed it.

  Thank you to those who read the first draft and provided their notes and encouragement, including Amy and Doug De La Piedra, Barbara and Frank Lin, Amy and Jeff Seastone, as well as Mischa Livingstone, Kara Rosella and Taliesa.

  Special thanks to those who helped me take the book across the finish line. I’m especially grateful to Susan DeFreitas, the wonderful editor whose insight provided focus to the story, and to the team at Red Adept Editing—Sarah Carleton and Virge B.—who helped me refine my writing.

  I am also very appreciative of Lorna Reid, who designed the book’s wonderful interior, and Natasha MacKenzie, who created this beautiful cover.

  Finally, I would love to express my gratitude to the city of Los Angeles. At times it’s been a love-hate relationship, but you have provided a home for me, for Darcy, and for her band of misfits.

  Chapter 1

  ____◊____

  BEING A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR sucks. There was a time when I thought I would work from my own office, helping people with answers, and making enough money to cover rent.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Some detective I am.

  Angry muffled voices bleed through cinderblock walls—the fruits of my latest endeavor. To kill time until the argument is over, I sit on my bedroom floor, trimming my split ends with craft scissors. My caseload isn’t steady enough to allow me to pay the bills or lease an office, especially with the high rents in Los Angeles. I guess a twenty-six-year-old doesn’t exactly project the kind of experience people want when a marriage or lawsuit is on the line and they’re shopping for a detective.

  Granted, this latest job was personal and off the books. For the past two months, my roommate, Paige, has been dating a loser. She met Brock at a Vitamin Shoppe, and they bonded over their mutual passion for health supplements. He’s a personal trainer—six foot four, two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle, and an absolute idiot. That’s not my opinion. This guy literally believes the earth is flat.

  It was no surprise that Paige fell for him. In most respects, she is an incredibly intelligent woman. However, when it comes to men, her romantic compass is about as reliable as an online horoscope.

  It’s fair to say I didn’t like Brock from the moment I met him. It wasn’t just because he put more effort into his looks than any woman I’d ever met or because his favorite—and only—conversation topic was working out. That alone would have neatly placed him in the same category as Paige’s previous boyfriends, a parade of unworthy but ultimately harmless morons.

  But Brock was different. He never invited Paige to his place. They could only go out on weeknights. He was invisible on social media. He was hiding something.

  When I tried to talk to Paige about it, she didn’t see it. That’s Paige for you—blinded by love. Since work was “light”—nonexistent—I decided to snoop into Brock’s past. My unsolicited and unwanted research led me to find out what he was hiding: a wife and infant daughter in Glendale.

  I knew Paige was going to be devastated, but she was my best friend and needed to hear the truth. The news absolutely crushed her. I spent the afternoon pulling her out of her cocoon of grief and offering her a shoulder to cry on. Finally, she called Brock over to our loft. She was going to end it.

  And here we are now, in hour two of “ending it.”

  The argument intensifies, and I peer at the sliding loft door that separates my room from the living room. As the yelling moves, my eyes drift over my travel posters of Los Angeles and the vintage metal lockers I use as a wardrobe.

  Paige’s voice rises as she rattles off a list of expletives describing how she feels about her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend. Part of me wants to be out there as moral support and backup. Then again, I’ve caused enough damage.

  I put the scissors down and give my hair a break. They were just causing more damage anyway. I find a new way to distract myself with some leisure reading, The Egyptian Book of the Dead. A girl can never be too informed on ancient burial practices, and I need to do a bit of research anyway.

  “Asshole!” Paige shouts from the next room. The text is too dense to read with all the screaming, so I close the hardcover volume and return it to a stack against my wall. There are piles of books all around my bedroom, like tiny skyscrapers forming a miniature metropolis.

  The yelling escalates again. Paige roars, “Get out!”

  Finally, we’re coming to the end. I stare at the cold concrete that separates us. As footsteps resonate through the wall, I imagine Brock lumbering to the front door, his tail between his legs, saying goodbye forever.

  “I’m not leaving!” Brock shouts.

  I deflate.

  Paige yells for him to leave. Again, he says no. A door slams. Something crashes. A table? Something breaks. Glass? Someone screams… Paige.

  I’m instantly at the door, yanking it open. The heavy oak glides along its reinforced track and disappears into the wall. I barge into the living room, my hand sweeping the curtain of straight, black hair from my face.

  Our entry table lies on the floor next to the front door. Next to it is our glass lamp, now shattered. Paige struggles to push Brock out, but he’s too big. Her long blond hair obscures her normally beautiful face, which is puffy, red, and streaked with mascara.

  This is a stark contrast to the girl I know. Paige is athletic and one of the strongest women I know. She works out every day and has the physique of an Olympian. But she’s no match for the behemoth standing in her way. Brock’s bulging biceps stretch the fabric of
his sleeves as he grapples with her smaller frame. He pushes Paige back by her flailing arms, refusing to leave the apartment.

  Paige turns to me, eyes wide as if suddenly remembering I’ve been in my room the whole time. “Oh shit, Darcy!” She rips herself away from Brock and runs to me. “I’m sorry!”

  That fact that she’s apologizing to me infuriates me more.

  Brock’s eyes follow Paige. “You!” he shouts, his face shaking with anger. “This is all your fault, isn’t it?”

  “Please, Darcy, don’t,” Paige implores, focusing only on me.

  I ignore Paige and direct my comment to the guy behind her. “My fault? I’m not the one who cheated on his wife and lied!”

  Paige places herself between Brock and me and gently pulls my face to look directly at her. “He’s leaving,” she assures me in a shaky voice. “Look at me. I’ll get him out of here. Just… stay calm. It’s fine.” She whirls around to face Brock as he approaches. “You need to go.”

  This isn’t a plea like earlier. This is a warning.

  He charges toward us and easily pushes Paige aside. I stand my ground. My blood boils, and I clench my fists so I don’t lash out.

  His steroid-swollen head cranes down toward my five-foot, three-inch frame. “I always hated your yellow eyes.” Yeah, that’s the best insult he can muster right now. The first time he saw my eyes, he couldn’t look away. He called them “freaky” at the time. My irises aren’t just some faded-hazel hue but a deep, vivid, unnatural yellow.

  An alert on my smartwatch goes off. Paige’s eyes widen in alarm. This is the first warning and means my heart rate has hit one hundred sixty beats per minutes. I take a deep breath, remembering what Paige said. Stay calm.

  My fists relax. “Leave.”

  He jams his finger into my chest, pushing me back. I stumble back from the forcefulness but keep my balance. “Don’t tell me what to do, bitch.”

  Paige is at my side in an instant, an arm around my shoulders. “Darcy?” She grabs my wrist and looks at my smartwatch, trying to read the electrocardiogram on the display. My pulse is elevated but still in the safe range.

  “I’m calm.” Though I’m speaking to Paige, my attention remains on Brock. “Just go home to your wife, Brock.” Then for good measure, I add, “Bitch.”

  Brock takes two quick steps forward and pushes me with all his might. I fly and crash into the wall behind me. My head slams against the concrete, and I slump to the ground. I rub the back of my head. My hand comes away red with sticky fresh blood.

  And I am no longer calm. The secondary alarm on my watch chimes. My heart rate has now spiked to one hundred ninety BPM.

  “Oh… shit,” Paige mutters.

  I rise, practically levitating from my seated position. Brock stands defiantly as I march toward him. My hand shoots up and grabs him by the throat. He tries desperately to knock my hand away, but he can’t. Panic rapidly spreads across his face. He must realize there aren’t enough metabolic steroids in his system to compete with my strength—my now-unnatural strength.

  My mouth opens, but the voice that speaks isn’t mine. It’s a deep guttural inhuman sound from someplace dark and unholy. “I told you to go.”

  I have heard this voice many times, but Brock has not. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s confused and very much afraid. He stares into my eyes—my glowing yellow eyes.

  The room starts to shake and rumble. Poster frames clatter against the walls. Wind swirls.

  Paige races past me and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone with Brock. The wind intensifies. Papers spin in a circle around the room. Objects slide off tables. My hand remains clenched around Brock’s throat.

  “What the hell?” he chokes.

  Paige emerges from the bathroom, shaking a pharmacy vial and dumping the contents into her open palm. Bless her soul—she marches through the routine like we’ve practiced so many times before. She shoves three pills in my mouth then clamps down my jaw as if giving medicine to a dog. Her grip is strong, and she keeps my head still.

  “Chew!” she orders.

  I’m in enough control to bite the tablets and taste the bitter chalk as it starts to dissolve. I tuck the crumbs under my tongue. Then Paige releases my jaw and gets to work peeling my fingers off Brock’s neck. The clock is ticking. My mouth tingles as my body slowly absorbs the medicine.

  “Darcy!” Paige shouts. “You have to let go!”

  I let go. Brock crumbles to the ground, gasping for air.

  “Run!” she orders.

  Brock remains still, unable to take his eyes off me—a deer in my headlights. Paige yanks Brock to his feet. This time, he doesn’t resist as she pushes him across the room and to the door.

  “What the hell is happening?” he rasps.

  With a final push, Paige shoves Brock through the doorway and into the hall.

  “What is she?” he asks as she slams the door in his face.

  I watch all this unfold as I try my best to delay the inevitable. I hold my breath. My body stands frozen.

  But my heart rate increases. It’s only a matter of time at this point. Seconds.

  Paige whirls to face me with a look of trepidation. “Shit.” She sprints toward me, buries her shoulder into my midsection, and lifts me off my feet. Without slowing, she carries me across the living room.

  Light as a feather, stiff as a board, I think.

  Paige shot puts me through my bedroom door. I fly backward. The air pressure in my bedroom increases as I sail in slow motion. It’s as if I’m suddenly caught in a vacuum. My ears plug, and sounds become muffled.

  Paige grabs my loft door and slides it shut. The sound of the iron-hook slamming into place—locking me inside—echoes in my ears.

  I land on the floor hard. I catch sight of my books and clothes rising around me and freezing in midair. Then I close my eyes and pass out.

  Chapter 2

  ____◊____

  I GUESS I SHOULD explain how I came to be who I am. Or what I am.

  I grew up in Malbrook, Pennsylvania. The town is a popular destination for tourists looking to spend time in Stone Lake, a giant reservoir in what used to be an old limestone quarry. It’s a quaint little town with a rich history, family-owned shops, and good Christian people. It’s also the most sinfully dull place you could possibly imagine.

  My father, Benjamin Caine, owned a small mechanic shop in town. He was well-liked and had a reputation for knocking twenty percent off his advertised prices, which were for the tourists. He taught me everything I know about cars. His weekend hobby was fixing up barn finds and reselling them. Some days, I would help him clean an old engine block or rebuild carburetors. Other times, I might go with him on drives to hunt for obscure and authentic parts.

  For better or worse, this was the only way we could communicate. It wasn’t that he was cold or uncaring, but he did suffer from an overdeveloped masculinity. He was competitive with other men, only cared about things he considered “manly,” and buried his insecurities in silence. Don’t get me wrong—I loved my dad. He just didn’t have the programming to engage with an adolescent girl, even his own daughter.

  My mother, Alice Caine, née Gatlin, spent her whole life in Malbrook. She was popular in high school, the kind of girl whose pretty face won her beauty pageants, student elections, and the attention of everyone around her. After graduation, she continued to cultivate her popularity by volunteering with the local clubs, heading the boosters, and hosting monthly dinner parties.

  My mother named me Darcy after her favorite character in her favorite book, Pride and Prejudice. At least, that was what she would tell people. I was never quite convinced she read the thing. She often said giving me a literary name would help guide me in school—as if that would work better than taking an active interest in my life.

  Now, to be fair, both my parents loved me… in their own ways. They just didn’t love me as much as they loved my big brothe
r. Bennet was the pride and joy of the family. Two years older than me, he was the kind of kid you knew was destined for great things in life and not just because he inherited my father’s masculinity and my mother’s charisma. People recognized it the moment he walked onto a baseball diamond.

  That kid could throw. When he would wind up, a hush would settle over the stands. His arm moved so fast you could hear it whipping through the air. By the time he was a freshman in high school, he was throwing eighty-five-mile-an-hour fastballs for the varsity team.

  My parents attended every game, even the ones out of the county. My mother was an intimidating force on the high school booster club, and in her first year as president, she set a record for fundraising. My father had been managing Bennet’s career since middle school, befriending and inviting scouts and recruiters to see the next Nolan Ryan.

  So I did what most young teens do when overshadowed by an older sibling—I rebelled. It will be no surprise to anyone who knows me that I went through a pretty serious goth phase. I’m talking black lipstick, nose ring, and dark clothes. Okay, so that last part hasn’t changed much. My best friend was a girl named Vivien Lemaire. Whereas I dipped my toe in goth culture, Vivien was all in. She wore leather corsets, was pierced from head to toe, and sported a purple pixie cut.

  Vivien was also the Svengali who introduced me to the occult. Together we read tarot cards, used spirit boards, and studied astrology. She was a self-proclaimed Wiccan and taught me to how to chant. We would spend many hours in the deep Pennsylvania woods at a place called the Witching Well or Wishing Well, depending on who you asked. The well was a circle of granite stones no more than a foot high that surrounded a trickling hot spring. Local legend said the Shawnee tribe originally built it as a place to worship the Great Spirit. Because the Shawnee believed the Great Spirit was a goddess called Our Grandmother, this magical spot allegedly became a mecca for witches in Colonial America. They would come here to worship, practice, and pray. And that was what Vivien and I would do—practice our chants, pledge ourselves to the Triple Goddess, and pray for our deepest, darkest desires.