Dark Works: The Lamp Series, #2

By jason cunningham

Book 2 of The Lamp Series 

Dark Works begins one year after the closing events of The Lamp. Violet is now attending college and trying her best to fit into her strange new world. Levi has begun training a young protégé who may be harboring a dark secret. But just when things begin falling into a nice groove, the signs -- familiar signs -- begin to appear. Are the Shadow Lurkers still active? Has K.S. gone silent for good? Long-held secrets will be revealed as Violet's past comes back to haunt her, threatening a promising new relationship. Questions will be answered, and lives will be lost. 

Reading Order: 
The Lamp (Book One) 
Dark Works (Book Two) 
Society of Light (Book Three) 
Falling Embers (Book Four)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phantom Fiction
• Release date: May 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513085074

Book preview

Preface

The Lamp Series is chronological. Please read the books in order for the fullest experience.

Books in this series:

The Lamp (Book 1)

Dark Works (Book 2)

Society of Light (Book 3)

Falling Embers (Book 4)

• PROLOGUE •

NAKED LIGHT BULBS DOTTED THE low ceiling of the underground cellar as shadows roamed across a thirty-foot cracked brick wall. The air was stale and dry. Muted sounds of distant techno music filtered into the room from somewhere above ground, thick notes of distorted bass pressing in through the roof and reverberating off the walls. It was a pernicious and hypnotic melody, pulsating throughout the room as if it were being played to frighten an enemy. A death march to the gallows.

Tall figures, barely distinguishable from the dim shadows, lurched toward a shivering but ambivalent man whose arms were bound to the chair in which he sat. He didn’t struggle or speak, but his efforts to appear calm were betrayed by his trembling limbs and the sweat drenching his brow.

The dark ones encircled the young man, who looked no more than twenty-five years old. His defiant eyes swept across his captors, letting them know that he would not be intimidated. Despite the cool temperature of the cellar, puddles of perspiration dripped from the man’s scratched forehead, stinging his bloodshot eyes. He clenched his jaw and tensed bruised facial muscles, blinking away the moisture with great effort. The taste of blood remained on his tongue — metallic, slightly sweet.

The one called Dev stepped forward, his cloak and hood mercifully covering his face. Those ropes binding the man to his chair were no longer important. Running away wasn’t an option for him now, even with his limbs free.

The tormentor leaned forward, bringing himself closer to his victim, and then dropped a torn comic book to the dingy floor between the man’s feet. Dev’s arched cheekbones rose ever so slightly, eyes clamped onto his victim like locking pliers.

The bound man glanced down for only a moment, his gaze cautiously returning to Dev. No need to look further; he knew what it was.

This is your work? Dev asked in a deep throttle.

The man kept his silence, still defiant and unrepentant — yet clearly unnerved by this haunting figure standing before him. Dev produced a long knife from underneath his cloak and tilted the edge so that his victim could see his own reflection in it. Flames were etched along the knife’s heel, along with some kind of Gaelic script running along the edge.

Highlighting that script were the faded remnants of spent blood. Some other victim, some other night. Dev hadn’t bothered to even wipe it clean — just another notch in the belt. Another grave warning to whomever sat in front of him for questioning: Resist and your blood will be added to the rest.

The shivering man grew intensely alert to the sights and smells around him: vision hyper-focused, pupils dilated as nervous energy rattled his body. Now unable to disguise his fear, a flood of memories poured into his mind unrestrained. Thoughts of his family, his fiancée and their now unlikely future. In what manner would she find him? Would it drive her to insanity? She was so young and he loved her so much. He wondered if all this was worth it.

For a moment, he considered caving in — perhaps even joining them, if such a thing would be offered. The pressure felt like it was crushing him. His spirit clawed and fought the temptation.

Do you think this means anything? Dev asked as his shoe found the comic, symbolically stepping on its cover. Bowing to Salem?

You will, the man said in a low voice that sounded hoarse from screaming through a torture session. He sensed that the end was near.

This is fiction, dear boy.

You will lose, the young man said in cracked pitch. All of you.

They tell me you once wore the robe.

No response was offered. Dev kicked the chair’s leg to gain the man’s attention.

Change your mind?

Yes, the man answered. Did you?

Salem is a defunct nation, Dev corrected, his voice a guttural boom. You’ll do well to read your history, as that scavenger colony was blotted off the map many thousand years ago. The bones of its former king are resting under a hundred feet of dirt. They are not sending you messages.

The bound man simply stared into the pale eyes under that hood, his voice now a high tremble. I know what I know. You will lose.

Dev straightened his large frame, apparently having grown a couple of inches since he entered the room. Dear boy, you are surely a dullard. Will this false king now come to your rescue? Do you really expect him to lead you and your friends back to Salem as this fiction implies?

No, he won’t, the bound man answered with a gulp. I think he’s planning to bring Salem here.

Dev shuddered at those words, as if they made him want to retch.

Right. Of course. Well, it is a fortuitous event that you are not speaking to Tenebris right now. Dev’s eyes flash across his blade. He would have your tongue for that.

Even Tenebris… the man gargled, choking the words out as if talking underwater. Even he will lose.

Dev turned sharply in anger, slicing the man’s head off his shoulders. A frightful energy descended upon the group and they backed away from the tall man. His power had grown before their own eyes and it was never safe to get too close to him — especially during one of his moods.

Do we agree that what happened here was needed? he asked the group.

We agree, they said in concert.

Then it’s settled, Dev said as the knife disappeared under his robe. Find every copy you can, and burn them all.

* * *

TEN YEARS LATER Dev’s right cheek would lie pressed against wet asphalt as chaotic violence tore the city apart all around him. He died with his eyes open, a witness to the very plan he’d helped set in motion. Only this part — the dying part — was not supposed to happen. He had underestimated the mousey teenage girl with the lion’s heart. And as a result, death came for him too, though he’d once thought himself to be immortal. But a crafty pickpocket and two bullets had stolen his chance.

Mere hours after a blazing lantern shot an atomic bomb’s worth of concentrated light across downtown, a group of figures moving in the shadows surrounded Dev’s lifeless form. One of them drew near to the body, bending down to eye level. The streets were now empty, only a few bodies left unaccounted for. A multitude of faint sirens screamed in the distance.

The figure at Dev’s side extended a hand to close the eyes of his fallen comrade. He then stood and turned toward the others, all of whom lowered their heads in respect. In submission. The one called Tenebris tightened his hood and lurched angrily toward the others, who quickly parted to allow him passage.

Dev’s body had fallen to the ground a seed of perdition. And that seed would soon grow into something much darker than itself.

It was only a matter of time now.

Chapter 1

VIOLET DASHED THROUGH THE courtyard, a tattered backpack bobbing against her numb back, the straps cutting into her shoulders as she ran. The gloomy skies spit rain as howling wind swept through the trees, propelling her forward. Great stone buildings rose up around the circular greenway: Gothic structures, strung together and wrapped by forest.

The girl stiff-armed an entry door without breaking stride. She caught her reflection in a giant display case and saw streaking mascara and wet hair. She looked downright pitiful.

As usual.

Her hand shot up and tried to fluff the straight raven-and-purple mop that blanketed her head. She hustled toward room 301 with slippery shoes, squeaking like windshield wipers on high speed.

Violet burst through double doors and into a quiet stadium classroom filled with sixty-five students, all turning their collective gaze to the back of the room where she now stood, drenched from the storm. And late.

Professor Higby lifted an eyebrow. He stood on stage at the bottom of the classroom in a tweed coat, crossing his arms. His taunting eyes followed the girl as she made her way down a few rows and found an empty seat.

Normalcy having returned to the classroom, Professor Higby cleared his throat. Very well then.

Some hollow laughter echoed from the back of the room. Violet slouched in her chair, using a hand to shield her face from any stares. Nothing to see here folks, just move along.

The professor clicked a button in his hand. We will now turn our attention to the projector screen. Would someone please dim the lights?

A couple of freshmen jockeyed with one another to find the light switch, each attempting to earn some points with the old man. The bustling stopped and the room grew dark.

A white rectangle shown from the front, silent photos passing in five-second intervals. The Professor’s dark form could be seen below the screen, his powerful voice extending to the back of the room. Folklore of the ancients. Timeless and shrouded in mystery. These were the theater of excitement and a means of knowledge to those of long ago.

Violet gazed at the screen, entranced in the visuals. Paintings of angelic beings that seemed to pop from the screen and sparkling cities of majestic color, drawn with great care. Her imagination was held captive as each passing image flashed upon the screen. Some of the paintings were muted and quietly serene, while others were hellish and creepy. But they all grabbed the young girl’s attention.

What we, today, consider fine art was once a rich tradition of mythology to our ancestors. Those primitive minds, who sought to understand things like the rising and setting of the sun, came up with stories to explain what they deemed a mystery. We, of course, know better today. But this shouldn’t tarnish these great artistic works of antiquity. While naive in nature, this folklore yet provides a richness to our tradition and still inspires the imagination.

Violet jerked forward, narrowing her gaze. On the screen, she saw a drawing of a man in a black hood, fire dancing in his palm. The figure looked familiar. Too familiar. Then the image was quickly replaced by a hillside landscape.

Professor Higby!

Students turned. The professor stopped clicking. Yes, who is that?

Violet felt blood flushing her embarrassed face, but the darkness gave her mousy voice confidence. I’m sorry, sir, can you back up one slide?

Silence filled the vast classroom. The professor’s form stood still.

Someone get the lights.

Uh oh.

Violet slouched deeper into her seat. Light suddenly filled the room, stinging her eyes. She blinked a few times to regain her vision, and was sorry she did. Professor Higby and several students were looking up in her direction.

Young lady, how many times do you intend to interrupt my class today?

Violet felt three inches tall. Crap. Why didn’t I just keep my friggin’ mouth shut?

Sorry, she apologized. I was just curious about the last slide.

Professor Higby simply stared at her.

It just seemed different than the others… Her voice trailed off.

To whom am I speaking?

Um, well, it’s Violet. My name’s Violet.

Are you a student here?

Yes, sir.

Are you sure?

Violet tilted her head, confused.

Young lady, I’m asking if you are sure that you are a student here.

Yes, she said, growing agitated. I transferred from Mr. Chipman’s—

Come down here, please. I can’t hear you.

Violet got up, now unable to hide her blushing face. Time to transfer again. She took a shallow breath, nearly tripped over someone’s leg, and slowly made her way down the steps until she stood in front of the professor, whose presence towered over her.

May I see your student ID?

Look, she said, I go here. I’m not making it up.

May I see your student ID?

Violet sighed, her face burning. She felt like running out of the room, or maybe even socking him. She fished around in her pocket and pulled out a laminated card.

Professor Higby took it from her hand and carefully examined it. Violet, he repeated.

Yes, sir.

Do you enjoy history?

She shrugged. Until now.

The professor almost cracked a smile. But he didn’t. Tell me, how were your grades in high school, Miss Violet? Did you receive good marks?

Violet sensed that the old man was trying to make an example out of her early in the school year, but she resented being called out. It was beyond embarrassing. So much for making friends now.

I… she stammered. I didn’t really go to high school, per se.

Professor Higby widened his bespeckled gaze in astonishment. Come again? You do realize, Miss Violet, that you are standing in a university classroom, yes?

She nodded.

And yet you never attended high school. You must be extremely gifted, young lady.

His sarcasm had a bite to it. Violet avoided looking at him. She glanced around the room, saw that all eyes were focused on her. The other students were loving this. She felt like crying. Or, again, socking him.

I have a friend named Levi who’s pretty smart. He helped me study and get my equivalency diploma.

She gulped. The Professor moved his head to the side, intercepting her nervous gaze. They locked eyes. If you wish to see the previous slides, you will find them in your textbook. We went over that at the beginning of class. I’d encourage you to be on time from now on.

Now Violet seriously wanted to just melt away.

Take your seat, Miss Violet.

* * *

The weekend arrived not a moment too soon. Violet spread open the curtains, allowing daylight to bathe the small dorm room. Soft particles of dust danced in front of a single-paned window which looked out over a gorgeous courtyard of verdant grass. Thick trees rose tall in the distance, with another building of brick and moss beyond them.

It was a peaceful view, one that Violet looked forward to seeing each day when she woke up. She smiled and soaked it in, the mid-morning sun warming her face. After the nightmare she’d been though only a year ago, this seemed like a perfect reward — a fresh start, new beginnings.

She no longer missed the streets, especially after having found a true family with the boxer and his new wife. Stealing watches and living in warehouses were not her idea of the good life anyway, although the freedom wasn’t bad. And her friends, whose lives were tragically taken by the man in the hood, would no longer require her thievery skills to fill their bellies. They were, she hoped, in a much better place where hunger and fear were not the norm. So she put that old life to rest, and buried the person she was. That girl would no longer be needed.

Violet set off on foot, finally giving herself a tour of the giant campus. After three weeks of classes, and catching up on her studies, she hadn’t even seen the cafeteria. Instant noodles eventually do get old. Time to venture out among the living.

A group of students chucked frisbees in the courtyard as others milled about on the various walkways, most of whom were curiously gazing down at their phones while bumping past, and into, one another. It was a haze of movement, intoxicating, and Violet loved it. She was among her own. Now she was just a regular student, like all the others.

Ornate brick buildings rose up over the campus and a bell tower loomed just outside the expansive courtyard. Violet found herself caught up in the scenery and slammed into a bike