Tales from Dark 7

By Alex R. Knight III

Suit up and prepare to blast off into ten tales of tantalizing terror with Alex R. Knight III's Tales from Dark 7. From dizzying frozen heights where a sorcerer's apprentice takes part in a nightmare ritual, to the steamy depths of an underground jungle prison where inmates navigate decades of hell…from a darkened world where the dead have awakened, to the darkness that lurks on a dead world at the galaxy's edge, Tales from Dark 7 is sure to frighten you until long after sunset.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex R. Knight III
• Release date: Jul 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301580132

Alex R. Knight III

Alex R. Knight III grew up in Groveland, Massachusetts, where his earliest influences were the comic books of the 1970s, and J.R.R. Tolkien. He today resides in southern Vermont, and loves to scare the hell out of people.

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Tales from Dark 7

by

Alex R. Knight III

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Alex R. Knight III

Tales from Dark 7

Copyright © 2013 by Alex R. Knight III

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people or uploaded to any websites. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Victoria’s Place

Sharp in the Sand

Dragonhunting

Alone, Truly

After the Sun

Blood is the Question on Dark 7

A Dragon in the Window

Waiting for Friday

Consulting the Muse

From a Southern Sky

Afterword

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For Heather B. --

who let me in,

then got me out,

and never let go.

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Victoria’s Place

I was sleeping off an unusually grueling day shift -- half a dozen arrests and a major heroin bust -- when I heard the rapping at my balcony window.

In a state of thick grogginess, I peered through the dark at the digital clock. Two-thirty AM.

Not cool.

Instinctively, I reached under the pillow and retrieved my .38 revolver. Being a cop anywhere is tough, but after you’ve had a taste of these Miami streets, you are seldom short on caution if you wear a badge for a living. And even if you don’t, a piece is never a bad idea. There are a lot of hard monkeys out there.

I slid off the mattress as quietly as possible, and rolled to the floor holding the gun out in front of me. There was another succession of quick knocks on the pane glass, but I had the blinds drawn against impending morning, so I couldn’t see who might be there. The window had a sliding door leading to a concrete ledge I rarely used, and although I lived in a seventh floor apartment, standing out in the open that high up gave me the creeps. Besides, it made me a better target.

I had just helped put a few members of an infamous Venezuelan cartel in stir not four months prior, and this might’ve been one of their revenge games; creating a distraction while I groped blindly for a lamp or a door latch. Then they would storm in and ace me. Not a good way to start the day.

Padding out of the bedroom to my front door as quickly and silently as possible, I looked through the peephole. No one in view, and things sounded quiet. But that didn’t mean no one was there. In fact, it probably meant just the opposite.

Okay. If they wanted to smash down the door after getting some kind of a signal from whoever was on the ledge, theyd be doing it in an unlit, unfamiliar dwelling -- and I’d be ready for them. Maybe they all had full-auto MAC-9s out there, and could spray thirty or forty rounds across the place in seconds, but with no measure of accuracy. A few well placed shots from my snubnose could even the score quite effectively.

But if I was able to somehow incapacitate the would- be signaller beforehand, I knew I stood a better chance -- and getting the drop on them first couldn’t hurt either.

I snuck back into the bedroom and crouched at one corner of the heavy drapes. Peeking behind without moving anything, I could see a singular shadowy form lurking on the outside. Despite North Miami’s touristy glitz and glitter, the available backlighting was still not enough to see anything distinctly; perhaps because of my apartment’s elevated location which set it well above the sprawling abundance of neon and streetlamps below, perhaps because of the angle of my curtains against the glass, or perhaps because -- as is all too often the case -- Murphy’s Law just loves to impose itself on unsuspecting police officers at odd hours. It’s one of the few laws I wouldn’t mind seeing repealed.

I considered flipping on an outside light. No. That would defeat the purpose of stealth entirely. The person knocked a third time now, and sounded as if they were growing impatient. Don’t worry, I thought. You're about to get everything you’re looking for. And then some.

I had the slider lock engaged. Of course, not that you ever expect anyone to break into your place from outside when you live on the seventh floor of a building, but my theory is, if the lock’s there, use it. Speaking of which, it would be interesting to see exactly how this clown got out there in the first place. Probably just a rope -- attached to a roofpipe above the fifteenth story. If whoever this was had climbed down eight floors like that, they sure had balls, whatever else they might be lacking. I could do worse than to keep watching my step.

Holding the gun in my left hand, I began pulling a nylon cord, drawing back the drapes. The knocking began yet a fourth time, but stopped abruptly as the curtains clicked home after three large sweeps. Still entirely concealed from view along one wall, I waited, and listened intently.

A jet leaving Miami International. A car horn from the street below, followed by several drunken shouts. The roar of a diesel truck engine. Rap music thudding out its incessant bassline from a passing vehicle. But nothing that told me anything; nothing more localized.

Just as I was about to assume that the prowler had lost his nerve and retreated, the rapping began again; this time, much louder.

I thought about that. If whoever was out there intended to signal, they would’ve done so at the first sign of movement and not bothered with trying to get my attention any longer. Also, if they were acting alone, there would’ve been shots fired by now. Or an explosive device hurled through the glass to land ticking on my bedroom carpet. There was none of that. Strange stuff.

I rose and drew back from the wall. If they were armed, I could get the jump on them and still keep myself mostly out of harm’s way by leaping from cover, and firing right through the pane. After all, even if they knew I was near the slider, they had no way of knowing on which side I had hidden. And if they weren’t packing, then they were a fool, because I might just decide to shoot them anyway. When it comes to justifying use of deadly force, a cop has a lot of leeway -- and plenty of strings he can pull.

Spinning from behind bunched drapery, my .38 held out with both hands, I trained in on my target -- and stopped cold. The visibility was different without curtains to impede the refracting light.

It was a woman.

A nearly naked woman.

She jumped back, covering her mouth in obvious surprise, and I have to say I must’ve looked like quite a sight standing there in my white jockey shorts, aiming a revolver at her, my own mouth hung wide open like a stoner freak at a rock festival.

From what I could see, she was dressed in a see- through scarlet red nightgown -- nothing else. Her long black hair stirred in the night wind around a petite, sumptuous face almost eerie in its refined beauty. She sported a set of knockers that resembled a pair of plump, juicy cantelopes; begging the welcome of a strong man’s kneading hands. She struck a figure that was thoroughly arousing, but I was not in a position to be admiring her body; not yet, at any rate. Business first.

Keeping the gun trained on her, I snicked open the latch and threw the sliding door aside.

Nice night, huh? I asked sarcastically, trying to feign a certain knowledge. "Keep your hands where I can see them, and move inside. Slowly."

Giving the order, I stepped out and circled around her, keeping an eye open for foul play. I wasn’t about to be jumped and hurtled to my death by surprise, nor made into a sitting duck for sniper fire. Glancing up briefly, I could see no rope, no ladder. Only the sheer face of concrete, with a couple of stars struggling to make their presence known above it. I motioned with the .38, and she sallied inside, her hands raised to shoulder height. She had a look about her I didn’t like; a certain cockiness beneath the veneer, as if she was laughing at all this secretly. That, on top of everything else, enraged me.

Once I had the door secured with the blinds drawn again, I snapped on a lamp and dropped into a chair near a far corner, away from the window. I told her to sit down, and motioned towards the bed. She complied, never lowering her hands.

Okay, missy, I intoned menacingly. Let’s have it. You tell me what your act is. I was really pissed, but some of it was forced. She looked absolutely ravishing on that bed, and I had all I could do to fight down an embarrassing erection.

I think she sensed some of this, because she offered me a toothless, rosy-lipped grin.

Don’t be afraid. It’s only normal, she said in a raspy, sensual voice. It reminded me of crisp October leaves in a burnpile. Her dark eyes held a high, wet gleam -- like a predatory cat.

Cut the small talk. I want answers, I said, feeling smaller all the time -- in more ways than one.

My name’s Victoria. I came here for help, she replied, as if I was being inordinately mean.

Oh, is that so? What is it, you couldn’t sleep?

She made a small sound of restlessness. No, there are some men who’ve moved in where I’m staying. Bad men. They’re planning to kill me. And I think they want to kill you too.

The statement gave me pause, but it had to be a cover.

Or, this lady was just plain nuts.

What makes you think so? I asked.

They have pictures of you. Newspaper clippings, I think. I’ve seen people looking through them before. A few times they’ve mentioned your name -- Allen Renners -- but that was all I understood. They were speaking Spanish. Still, it didn’t sound as if they like you very much.

Even if she was lying, this was getting interesting.

Where is this you’re staying?

I can show you, if you’ll let me.

Okay, now we were getting somewhere. A set-up. But first, one more question -- just to see if I could tear down a bit of the facade.

How did you get up here?

Her eyes went wide for a second. It was obvious I had caught her off-balance when she didn’t respond.

I rose and went to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out my handcuffs. Stand up, turn around, hands behind you.

But I -

Just do it, I said, and put an authoritative tone in my voice that got her moving. Shrugging, she stood and did as I said.

Well go see these lovely people, I told her as I clipped on the bracelets. But if you’re not on the level with me every step of the way, you can expect to wear these right to the nearest Graybar Motel, understand?

Clearly, she retorted, with a barely concealable contempt.

Good, I answered sharply, even though the view I was getting of her smooth, firm buttocks through the Naughty Nightie she wore was giving me a regular railspike. Her fragrance was one of wilted rose petals from an ancient decanter; heady and strong.

The effect was maddening.

With effort, I turned away and started pulling on my clothes. I couldn’t see the harm now that she was cuffed, and regardless, I still had the gun.

I paused in front of the mirror to run a quick hand through my hair. Some salt mixed in with that pepper. Too much, I thought, for thirty-five. But being a cop did that to you. At least I wasn’t sporting any wrinkles yet, to boot.

Something wasn’t right. Still gazing at the mirror’s reflection, my mind reeled numbly with the events of the last several minutes. When I’d asked about her being on the balcony, she hadn’t replied. Victoria, she’d said her name was. How could she possibly --

I froze. In the mirror, I saw the bed, the chair, my nightstand...

No manacled woman.

I whirled around, pointing the .38 at anything that should move. Victoria was there. My cuffs lay in a heap on the rug, still locked. Her bare feet hovered a good six inches from the floor. Her nightgown billowed in tandem with her hair to a ghostly, unfeelable breeze. Her dark eyes brewed with the sullen dimness of thunderheads, and looked something less than human.

They looked primal.

Backing up instinctively, feeling my body temperature drop to the level of a meat locker, I shot a horrified, unbelieving glance back into the mirror.

She wasn’t reflected there.

My legs got tangled in a pair of pants I hadn’t retrieved from the floor, and I fell down hard on my can, not even noticing.

I wanted to keep this from you, she -- it said, and my face must’ve gone paste white, because I felt it flush with a sickening purge. Her tone was dark, enrapturing, and chillingly sensual. I wanted to scream, and couldn’t. But you made that impossible, didn’t you, Allen? she queried, drifting a little closer. When she smiled, I saw two long, pearl-white fangs in the cavern of her mouth; like