Mother of Darkness: The Eyes of The Sun, #3

By Christina McMullen

With the Eclipse project disbanded and the government still keeping secrets, the former hunters are co-opted into the outreach effort aimed at convincing the mods to change their ways. Lucy Soriano is pleased that the focus has shifted from killing vampires to saving them, but soon learns that some of the hunters are having a harder time transitioning than others. Even worse, the organization is thrown into chaos when an unknown enemy begins targeting vampires and making threats against the hunters, and Lucy finds herself inexplicably suffering from a mysterious illness.
Piecing together the puzzle out of false leads and whispered rumors just leaves Lucy with more questions than answers. Is the government behind the attacks or are The Eyes of The Sun once again on the rise? Or is New Orleans in danger of falling to a new and unknown power? But most importantly, will Lucy survive long enough to discover the truth?

Piecing together the puzzle out of false leads and whispered rumors just leaves Lucy with more questions than answers. Is the government behind the attacks or are The Eyes of The Sun once again on the rise? Or is New Orleans in danger of falling to a new and unknown power? But most importantly, will Lucy survive long enough to discover the truth?

Mother of Darkness is the final book in the series The Eyes of The Sun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christina McMullen
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781393988212

Christina McMullen

Christina McMullen is a science fiction and fantasy author who dreams of flying cars, electric sheep, and one day having the means to adopt all of the world's rescue dogs. When she isn't writing, Christina enjoys travel, vegan cooking, modern and classical art (she fancies herself to be a somewhat competent artist as well as author), and of course, reading. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

GEORGE SHIFTED HIS weight from one leg to the other and cast a nervous glance around the darkened cemetery. Despite knowing that he was the most dangerous creature currently haunting the graveyard, the general state of hopeless neglect, that never seemed to get any better regardless of community cleanup efforts, set him on edge. He checked his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. His mysterious benefactor had told him to meet her at three thirty and it was now three forty-eight. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and was about to check the instructions once again when he heard the sharp, staccato sound of footsteps approaching.

Is it done? An ancient voice carried across the narrow alley moments before a shrouded figure stepped out of the shadows.

Yes, mistress, George replied, bowing his head and keeping his eyes lowered to the glass strewn path until he felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder. Lifting his head, he met a pair of cold blue eyes, the only feature not covered by her black cloak, and stepped back, caught off guard. He could have sworn the last time he saw her they had been a deep shade of green. Of course, he could have been mistaken. It was only the second time she had appeared without her entire face obscured by a black mask. If she noticed his confusion, she did not let on.

And you have proof that you were successful?

I do, George replied. I administered the serum to the copy and observed the effects over the course of one week before administering the same dose to the subject in the same manner.

And what manner was that? she asked.

I put it in their coffee. Neither noticed.

You are sure of this?

I am, he replied confidently. Both were more than willing to preach to me at length about the virtues of their bloodless lifestyle.

Her eyes narrowed. Very good, George. You have been most useful and I thank you. If you would please turn around and kneel before the monument.

Mistress? George hesitated. The unusual request set off a warning in his mind.

I grow impatient, George. The monument, please.

Swallowing the feeling of foreboding, George turned and sank to his knees in front of the gray stone, noting the worn engraving on the plaque, no longer legible after years of neglect. George wondered why humans put such value in honoring their dead, knowing that in such a short period of time, they too would be forgotten. Seconds later, all thoughts of the man entombed in the monument fled, as George felt something cold and metal against the back of his neck.

M-mistress?

Be quiet! she barked harshly. For your efforts I shall spare your suffering and make this a quick death.

Mistress, please! George cried out. I have been useful! I can b-be useful still! Give me another job. Give me something to do to prove that I am loyal!

The dark figure let out a low chuckle. I have no more need for you, George. You have served me well, but you are not pure. You have lived like the swine, something that should be disgraceful even to someone born of a low station such as yourself. Consider your death to be my gift to you.

No! Please! George begged one last time, but his words were lost in the sound of the gunshot that echoed through the still cemetery. The woman then knelt, as George’s body slumped in front of the grave, and rolled him onto his back. Unrolling the canvas she carried, she draped it over his body like a funeral shroud. Surveying her handiwork, she smiled and stood up.

And then there was one. Surely you’ll solve the puzzle this time, won’t you, Conroy? I’m looking forward to the next stage of this game.

LUCY, HAVE YOU SEEN my wallet? Andre’s voice called down to me from the second floor landing.

Did you check the pants you were wearing last night? I called back, wincing as the stabbing pain intensified behind my right eyeball.

I had only come in from my shift fifteen minutes ago and all I wanted to do was crawl in bed and sleep for days, but like most mornings, I had to put those plans on hold until Ben was off to school. I kicked off my boots and felt blindly for the slippers that I always left by the back door, groaning as my foot landed on something plush and slightly damp. Following the trail of wool and stuffing strewn about the kitchen floor, I found Monster, our black lab mix puppy, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like the sole of a slipper in the laundry room.

As I bent down to grab what was left of the shoe, the headache that had been building steadily all night suddenly erupted with such force that I was temporarily blinded by a flash of light before my vision went completely black. I fell sideways, bracing my back against the cool metal of the washing machine as I waited for my natural defenses to kick in and make it stop. Instead of subsiding, the pain grew worse, amplifying my senses to the point where every slight movement, sound, or scent became a roaring cacophony of physical torture. Seconds later, though it felt like an eternity, the pain receded until all that was left was the dull throbbing behind my eye and a strange aching in my abdomen, as if I’d pulled a muscle.

A cold, wet nose nudged its way between my head and my hands. I moved sideways just in time to avoid having the side of my face attacked with sloppy puppy kisses. Monster stared at me with curiosity, his too long tail wagging so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if his whole back end lifted off the ground. Whether he was concerned for my health or just happy that I was hanging out on the floor with him, I couldn’t tell, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. I was comforted by his presence, so I gave him a mess of puppy scrubs and a kiss on his tiny head before hauling myself back up and into the chaos that had become our weekday mornings.

Not that I minded this kind of chaos. Whether it was Ben trying to sneak the cat to school in his backpack or the dog getting underfoot and chewing up the furniture, our morning adventures made me feel normal in a way that I had forgotten was possible. Given how completely screwed up everything else was, the fact that Andre and I had been able to set up a functioning and safe household was nothing short of a miracle.

I entered the kitchen just as Ben was trudging down the back stairs.

Morning, kiddo!

M-morning, he yawned back, blinking several times as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight that streamed through the many windows. It had been the feature that sold me on the house, but at that moment, I was totally with Ben, the sun just seemed a little too bright. Of course, I was also still nursing a dull headache.

What do you want for breakfast?

I got that covered.

I turned around and saw Isaac, my father, on the other side of the screen door, carrying a box from the Mexican restaurant down the street.

Alright! Breakfast tacos! Ben was suddenly wide-awake and running around me to hold the door open for him. Did you get salsa?

Extra, dad replied, setting the box on the table before turning to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. How’s my girl?

Cranky and ready to hit the sack, I said with a smile. What brings you all the way out here? Not that I mind, especially when you come bearing gifts of food.

Another one, he said with a deep sigh. Body and a message this time, he added quietly so that Ben wouldn’t hear.

I grimaced. When the government shut down the Eclipse project, we thought that everyone involved in the mass killing of vampire clans had either been killed or gone into hiding. But over the last few weeks, vampires had been turning up dead all over the city. Suspiciously, every one of the corpses showed up in places where they were likely to be found by one of our agents.

Did the vandalized grave belong to anyone of note? I asked. That was another infuriating curveball. Some of the bodies had been found near the graves of some of New Orleans’ most notorious figures. Nearly every corpse also carried some small object or message that was clearly meant to be a clue in some sick game. Evan had every available mind working on finding out what these clues meant, but so far, we had no leads.

No one I’ve heard of, but I’m sending it off to the big brains as we speak, he said and drew his phone from his pocket, squinting to read the name from the picture on the screen. Horace Con- Coneero? I can’t make out the last few letters.

Conneauroix? Andre asked from where he had stopped on the stairs, gripping the banister and looking ashen. Horace Conneauroix was my great-great grandfather. The name was Americanized to Conroy. He’s buried in Metairie Cemetery.

I set my breakfast down on the table, suddenly feeling ill and not very hungry. Luckily, Ben had taken advantage of our preoccupation and had slipped on a set of headphones to watch videos on his tablet. It was behavior that both Andre and I tried to discourage at the dinner table, but I pretended not to notice. The first ten years of his life were spent as a prisoner at Blackthorn Plantation, where he was hunted by Bluebeard’s sadistic guests. Of all the children who had been rescued, Ben seemed to have the most difficulty adjusting to normal life, which was the biggest factor in our decision to adopt him. He was only just beginning to believe that he was truly safe after the horrible life he had been subjected to and Andre and I did our best to make sure we didn’t talk about the organization’s current problems while he was around.

Well, I said quietly, at least we now know that the clues have definitely been intended for us.

Does Evan know about this? Andre asked.

I just sent it to him. I suppose I’d better get over there and see what else... he trailed off as his phone rang. It’s Evan, he said and answered the phone.

I glanced over at Andre, who had come over and stood next to me. I can take Ben to school if you want to go over there.

I might, he said, running his hands through his hair. Let’s see what Evan says.

I busied myself by double-checking that Ben’s homework was in his school bag and sweeping up the remains of my slippers rather than listen to one side of my father and Evan’s conversation. I still had a dull headache and as I bent to dump the contents of the dustpan into the trash, I noticed that the waves of nausea had returned. This was alarming, considering that I don’t get sick. Sure, I’ve thrown up from nerves or extreme pain a few times, but thanks to my father’s genetics, I’ve never suffered from a virus or infection.

I slipped quietly up the stairs and into the bathroom that was farthest from the kitchen. If I was going to get sick, the last thing I needed was for everyone to hear it in detail. Fortunately, the nausea subsided, but my forehead was cold and clammy to the touch. A glance in the mirror showed that my skin had a waxy sheen and the bags under my eyes were dark, as if I had been up for days. I splashed some cold water onto my face, which helped me look a little less like a corpse, and headed back downstairs.

You okay? Andre asked with a frown.

I’m fine, I said with a weak smile. I guess I’m just a little more exhausted than I thought.

I’m sorry to hear that, my father said, because Evan has requested that I drag you back to headquarters.

Me? I looked over at Andre cautiously. I thought he’d want to talk to Andre, considering, you know, his family is involved.

Apparently there was another clue found last night that Evan thinks falls into your area of expertise.

It’s fine, Andre said. I’ll take Ben to school and call Evan a little later. Though I’m sure we’ll both receive official reports soon enough. Just don’t let him keep you up too much longer.

Ten minutes later, I was riding back to headquarters with my father, wondering what Evan could have possibly received that would require my expertise, and still feeling as though I’d been run over.

Dad, do you have any idea what the flu feels like?

No more than you do, he replied. Why, is Ben sick?

No. Actually, I’m not feeling too hot. I know vampires generally don’t get sick and I’ve never been sick before, but it’s not impossible. I don’t know if something like West Nile or Bird Flu might be strong enough to affect me.

I doubt even super viruses can do much to us, he replied thoughtfully, frowning slightly as he thought about it. What exactly do you think is wrong with you?

I’m not sure, but just before you showed up I got a killer headache and I felt like I was going to throw up. The headache is gone now, but every time we hit a bump, my stomach heaves a bit.

He didn’t respond right away other than a slight nod, but I could tell he was thinking about something from his expression. It was the same one I used when I knew something, but I didn’t know how to approach the subject without it coming out of my mouth wrong.

You know, Lucy, he started cautiously. "It is possible that you aren’t sick. There are other reasons you might be feeling nauseous."

Such as?

Well, he looked uncomfortable, yet he was smiling.

Oh my god. You aren’t implying that I could be... I couldn’t even say the word out loud.

Look, I don’t want to pry into that part of your life, Lucy, but what you are describing sounds a lot like morning sickness.

That’s impossible! I mean yes, the possibility is there, but to be honest, Andre and I have barely seen each other in the last month, let alone... I left the sentiment implied, not wanting to discuss my sex life with my father. I’ll talk to Abe.

Chapter 2

WHEN WE REACHED EVAN’S office, it was not immediately clear as to why he asked for me instead of Andre. Holly and Mike, EJC’s two security officers, were standing in front of the conference table, blocking my view. But when they noticed us, they moved aside and I was able to draw a fairly logical conclusion.

In college, I had respected my grandmother’s wishes to major in law, but my heart had never been in it. I’d always dreamed of a career in art history and managed to fill as many of my elective hours with as many art and architecture classes as I was allowed. One of the more interesting classes I ever took was a study of art related criminology, in which we learned not only why art was stolen and what professionals looked for to determine forgeries, but also signs of stolen art.

Lying in the middle of the table was an oil painting that had obviously been stolen, though not very carefully. The edges of the canvas were rough, suggesting that whoever had cut it out of the frame had done so in a hurry, meaning that this painting hadn’t been intended for the black market. Not surprising, as I didn’t immediately recognize it as a Picasso, Rembrandt, or similarly coveted artist. The subject matter was striking in that it seemed familiar, however it stirred up feelings of discomfort that I couldn’t put my finger on.

The picture depicted a nude woman sitting at a dressing table, brushing out her long blond hair. It wasn’t until I noticed the macabre scene reflected in the mirror that I realized where I had seen the painting before.

Oh my god, I blurted, instinctively turning away from the image.

Disturbing, isn’t it? Evan commented. I can’t find a single report of a stolen painting that matches this description. I was hoping you might be able to pull from your art history and help us identify it.

Oh, I know what this is, I said with a shudder. It won’t be reported missing because it was supposed to have been destroyed almost one hundred years ago, along with most of the others in the series.

Are you sure it’s not just similar to something else? Maybe by the same artist? Evan pressed.

Positive. The day I learned about the life and art of Erwin Arthur is one I won’t forget. Do a search for his name and the ‘Lucy’ series.

I turned back to the painting while the others gathered around Evan’s computer or pulled out their own phones. Erwin Arthur was a New England portrait artist who gained popularity at the beginning of the twentieth century. He was an average painter whose portraits were not exceptionally realistic, but he would hide symbols and clues about the lives and personalities of his subjects throughout his art. His works were highly regarded conversation pieces that the rich would commission simply for the novelty of having what amounted to a glorified Where’s Waldo painting hanging over the mantel.

In 1912, he was commissioned to do a portrait of Lucy Havre-Courtney, the wife of a wealthy Boston banker. Arthur immediately began an unhealthy infatuation with the woman that ended in her murder and his suicide more than a decade later, in 1923. When his studio was searched, police found journal entries depicting Arthur’s descent into madness, evidence that he had been stalking and terrorizing the woman who had made clear that she wanted nothing to do with him. They also found dozens of portraits he had done of Lucy, each with his trademarked hidden clues, and each clue more disturbing than the last.

The painting in Evan’s office was titled, ‘Lucy Will Die First,’ and it was the last thing Arthur ever painted. Not long after it was finished, he murdered Lucy and then took his own life. In the portrait’s mirror, Lucy’s arm hangs limp, her hairbrush fallen to the ground, and a disembodied male arm pulls a straight razor across her throat. I remember my professor mentioning that many historians theorized that Arthur may have tortured and killed other women in order to capture the realistic disfigurement of expression caused by terror. Daring another glance at the horrific scene in the mirror, I could believe it.

All of the paintings were thought to have been destroyed at the request of the victim’s family, but in the sixties, a man who had been one of the police officers responsible for carrying out the destruction admitted to keeping three of the less horrific portraits, as well as Erwin Arthur’s journal. All items had been sent to a private museum in New York, but last I had heard, they were kept because of their historical significance and were never hung in the gallery. This painting was not one of them.

There were several stifled expressions of disgust and horror as the others read the wiki entry on Arthur. I had had the same reaction when I learned this in school, yet despite my instinctive revulsion, I still felt a guilty sense of excitement over being able to study a piece that was thought to have been lost.

Well, that’s officially the creepiest thing I’ve read today, Holly said with an apologetic look. I can see why you didn’t want to just tell us about it.

I don’t like it one bit, my father added. Unlike the other clues, this one seems to be a direct threat against you, Lucy.

I’m inclined to agree with Isaac, Evan said. I think it might be a good idea to keep you close to the city center, or maybe reassign your partner.

As soon as I recognized the painting, I had been anticipating this argument. Fortunately, I was ready with a rebuttal.

Now hang on a minute. Don’t start going into over-protective parent mode on me, I said to my father before turning back to Evan. I think it’s safe to say that I haven’t exactly been your ‘secret’ weapon since the first night I hit the streets. Sure, the ES, Daughters, and all other vampire groups know about me and yes, they’ve all been after me in one capacity or another for a long time now. Nothing has changed. I don’t intend to hide now just because someone sent us a picture of a woman who was murdered a century ago who also happens to share my rather common name. Besides, I’m not the only one these threats have been leveled at. Wasn’t the body found last night hanging over the vandalized grave of your great grandfather?

That it was, Evan admitted. I’ve suspected that most, if not all, of these were intended to be threats against us. Though if that’s the case, some are rather vague.

How do we know these other clues aren’t each intended for a different person? I asked, gesturing to the array of odd objects on the table.

I was thinking the exact same thing just a second ago, Mike added, coming over to the table and picking up the first item that was found: an ornate broach in the shape of a Celtic knot. It had been found on the body of a dead vampire about a month ago. When I say on the body, I mean jabbed into the center of the forehead, which we would have had to have been idiots not to notice. Johnny mentioned that this particular design was familiar because his grandmother had them all over her house. It’s supposed to be lucky, like a horseshoe over the doorway.

Um, oddly enough, it’s apparently called a Dara knot, Holly noted, showing us a picture of a similar symbol on her phone. So it might be meant for her.

I think the name might be a coincidence, my father said, picking up the next item, a small figurine of a Minotaur. Found this one next, didn’t we? Hugh’s nickname in the military was The Bull.

And the next was bloody ballet slippers, I added, my heart sinking to my stomach. Saba was a dancer when she was attacked. They’re going in order of recruitment.

I admit that our records have been compromised in the past, but some of this information is personal. We certainly don’t have a file on the décor of Johnny’s grandmother’s house, Evan remarked with a frown. Though the next one fits, he added, indicating the Vietnam era dog tags. Dennis, the next hunter to be recruited, had fought in Vietnam. But the next one has me stumped. Carlos was Hispanic and this is clearly a Greek coin.

The four of us exchanged uncomfortable glances, having understood what Evan missed. Finally, my father cleared his throat. Ancient Greeks put a piece of silver under the tongue of the dead as payment for passage to the underworld. Carlos had been killed just a few months earlier during the raid on Bluebeard’s compound. A heavy silence hung in the office until Evan spoke again.

Michelle was recruited next. This one was the guy in the Tigers mascot costume, right? I know for a fact that she never went to LSU. In fact, I don’t think she went to college at all.

Black belts in the martial arts she studies are called tigers, I piped up, remembering that Michelle had mentioned this while she was teaching me some attacks during my training. Who was next? I asked, picking up the ring that had creeped me out since we found it. It was a delicately detailed snake who was swallowing its own tail.

Miles, Evan said. But we, well he and I, had already assumed that there was significance behind this one. Evan’s remark earned him a collective confused look from all of us. This was one of the symbols used by the branch of military he worked for prior to joining us. The finality of the statement made it clear that this was all of the information that we were going to get out of Evan about the mystery of Miles’ military involvement. The next item was a small crown, the meaning of which became clear as soon as I learned that Edgar was recruited next. Edgar’s teen years were spent running with a gang called the Kings before turning to the military to straighten his life out.

Following that was a miniature cornhusk doll, which baffled me, but everyone else immediately recognized it because Lance had played football in Nebraska prior to his brief military career. When I asked what football had to do with dolls, several eyes were rolled at me, as if I should have known there was a football team named after corn. Lou had been recruited next, and it was well known that she could trace her ancestry back to the famous Lafitte pirate family, so the corpse found behind the Blacksmith Pub, wearing a cheap eye patch, was easy. But the next object, a small marble pyramid, was baffling.

Um, so is Andre a member of the Illuminati? I asked Evan, who chuckled in response.

Not exactly. Andre’s paternal grandparents were Egyptian. Garnier was the name they chose when they became French citizens, Evan explained. I didn't know this, but it did explain the striking contrast between Andre's dark features and Evan's blonde hair and blue eyes.

Well now, that just leaves this little guy, said Mike, pointing to a figurine of a pirate. Rather rude, don't you think?

It took me a moment to figure out why the pirate, meant for Jordan, was supposed to be rude. After all, he was Lou’s nephew. But when I noticed the peg leg, I couldn't help but laugh. Sorry, I said sheepishly, "It is rude, but Jordan would probably think it's hilarious." Jordan wore a prosthetic leg after losing most of his to a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. I hadn't known this for the first six months that we worked together and finding out had been a surprise, especially considering that he was one of the more agile members of the team. It certainly didn’t stop him from beating my time on the obstacle course every single time we trained together.

And obviously, the painting is Lucy, so that's the last of the original hunters, followed by our fearless leader, tying the pieces together, Mike noted. I'm guessing whoever is doing this is trying to scare us by showing that they know who we are, but we don't know them.

And that they have access not only to classified government information, but personal stuff as well, Holly added.

"Maybe it is the government, I suggested. Maybe it's a cheap scare tactic meant to make us think we are being watched."

I think everyone in the government knows better than to try scare tactics against me, Evan said with a frown. But given the order in which the message was delivered, I think I can shed some light onto the mysterious nature of these threats.

He moved over to the wall and switched on the large monitor. The pictures my father had taken of the crime scene earlier that morning appeared. A body hung from a low tree branch, its feet grazing the top of the crypt. Scrawled across the marble, in red paint, at least I hoped it was paint, were the words, Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it. It was a tired cliché that I probably saw crop up in my Facebook feed at least once a week, but somehow, seeing it in the context of a threat breathed new and terrifying life into the quote.

There’s a reason my grandfather had our family name Americanized, Evan told us. "My great grandfather, Horace Conneauroix, had been a notorious gangster and land shark who ran afoul with a rival group of equally despicable characters. Unfortunately for Horace, the head of the rival organization, coincidentally also a descendant of the infamous Lafitte brotherhood, had stronger political connections, making him nearly untouchable. But that never stopped Horace from trying to gain the upper hand. At one point, he had the bright idea to hire away his rival’s second in command. Turns