The Dark Reign: The Edgewater Chronicles, #2

By Greg Cmiel

A homicidal vice principal was only the beginning.

The darkness that polluted VP Weavers' mind, driving him to madness, has infected another—someone more adept, cunning, and practiced in wielding the black magic. The Dark Queen—who now stands unveiled and proclaims her reign of terror has begun.

 

Can twelve-year-old friends Nikola and Lizzy face this murderous new threat without the wisdom of a fallen ally?

With little time to mourn and put their lives back together, they must conceive a strategy to defeat the invading darkness.

 

Can the Legion of Sorrow arrive in time?

Will the prophecies that intertwine Nikola and Lizzy be proven true, and is confiding in family enough to challenge this monstrous evil?

 

Buy The Dark Reign today to discover the answers!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Cmiel
• Release date: Sep 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393748700

Book preview

1

Gone Forever

Dmitry. Wasn’t. Supposed. To. Die.

He was supposed to be here for Nikola and Lizzy. Forever and ever.

Dmitry had failed them.

No. That wasn’t fair. Dmitry had died protecting their lives—and now that Weaver was gone, Dmitry could finally rest.

Nikola brushed back the curtain at his bedroom window and peered at the twilight horizon outside—indigo muted by thick clouds that veiled a crescent moon. His vision swam, and he swayed in place, catching himself on the windowsill. The crazy events of the past few days had physically and mentally exhausted him… or had it been months? Living for so long in Dmitry’s construct had warped Nikola’s sense of time, and nothing seemed the same here on the other side. Everything moved so slowly. The ticking of the clock that hung over Nikola’s desk seemed more like a funeral march—all too appropriate considering the passing of Dmitry Leonid Dragos from this world.

Nikola’s lip quivered as he pictured Dmitry’s kind eyes and warm smile. He bit his lip to make the quivering stop. When that didn’t work, he clenched his fist instead and punched the wall. His knuckles left a shallow depression. He dropped his arms to his side.

A freezing rain pattered against the glass, and a neighbor’s dog barked to be let back inside. A faint rumble drifted in from the living room, where Uncle Marko snored away on the couch. Nikola wished he could sleep that soundly—but he had such a jumble of thoughts clouding his mind, he doubted sleep would ever come.

Nikola let go of the curtain, turned away from the window, and paced back and forth on the tattered rug next to his bed. He stumbled over a box of art supplies stored underneath that jutted out and blocked his path. He thought to shove the box aside with his foot and continue his pacing… but the sight of the box brought a sudden inspiration. There was something he just had to do.

Nikola bent down to caress the decorated surface of the lid. The box was a kind of time machine; he’d been adding doodles to the cover since he was five years old. Along one edge, tiny stick figure knights on horseback chased a fire-breathing dragon. A crudely-drawn Spider-Man hung upside down from a web in one corner; beside him, a leering gargoyle perched on a rooftop—Nikola’s latest addition before all this craziness began. Nikola squinted at the gargoyle—a creature from a dream he’d had just a few short months ago. Looking at it now, he realized how much it looked like a Vassallus. That’s weird, he thought.

Nikola placed the box on his bed, wedged a finger under the cover on either side, and lifted it—placing the lid beside the box. He removed his drawing pad and battered old pencil case. He sat down and leaned against the bed frame, perching the drawing pad on his legs and gripping the stubby pencil between his fingers.

Nikola imagined Dmitry’s face—his thick, unruly gray hair and his wild, wiry eyebrows that would shoot up when he was surprised or angry. He put pencil to paper and began to draw, quickly laying out the oval that would be Dmitry’s face, the long line that would become his hawk-like nose, and the almond ovals that would be his fiery eyes.

Nikola sketched the fedora Dmitry always wore. Slowly, he added details and shading that lent a realism to the image. His hand skittered across the page, faster and faster. The edge of his palm smudged the drawing a little, but he didn’t care—getting the expression right was all that mattered. He had to bring Dmitry back to life, if only for a moment—even if it was just on paper.

Plop. A tear fell from Nikola’s eye and dropped to the page, landing on Dmitry’s cheek. Gravity dragged the salty tear downward; it flowed across the drawing, mixing with the soft graphite and bleeding down the page. Another tear fell with a gentle tap, and Nikola’s whole body began to shake. The pencil lines wavered. Finally, with a cry of anguish, he threw the drawing pad against the wall, wrapped his arms around his chest, and let the sobs come.

Oh, dear Dmitry!

He was gone forever. Nikola’s heart had broken in half, and he knew that it would probably never be whole again. There had been too much death in his young life. Mama, Grandma, and now Dmitry? It was just too much to bear.

Nikola slumped to the cold floor. He shivered, reached up to pull the blanket down off his bed, and cocooned it around his body. Nikola lay that way for a long time, unable to stop himself from replaying the moment Dmitry had passed beyond this veil. He steeled his thoughts and tried to think of something else. Anything else.

After many hours, sleep finally overtook his racing mind. His dreams were restless and uneasy.

2

The Wrong Eyes

Dim sunlight cut a swath across Nikola’s face as he lay curled on the floor. He opened one eye just a little and squinted into the beam, gazing around the room in confusion—trying to figure out where he was and why he was on the floor. With a sideways glance, he spotted his art pad propped against the far wall—the drawing he’d done of Dmitry was visible. Dmitry’s image stared at Nikola with a lifeless gaze. The smell of coffee drifted into his bedroom through the thin gap under the door.

Nikola pushed himself up on one elbow and stretched for the drawing pad. He could just touch the page, but he was too far away to grab hold—so he scuttled along the rug, got a grip, and pulled it toward himself.

Nikola peered at his creation. His mentor peered back, but the expression wasn’t exactly right. Dmitry’s face looked sad and lonely, when Nikola had been going for strong and determined. Nikola picked up the pencil on the floor beside him and jabbed the eraser at the eyes on the page, erasing them and starting again.

The door swung open. Uncle Marko stood in the doorframe, with a steaming coffee cup in his hand. His eyes tracked from the bed and down to the floor. He blinked in surprise at Nikola, who clutched his drawing pad to his chest to hide the contents.

You sleep on floor all night? Uncle Marko asked.

Nikola nodded.

Seem strange to me, you would sleep on floor, Uncle Marko said. He took a sip of his coffee.

Nikola shrugged. I was drawing last night, he said. I guess I just was too tired to get up, so I slept here.

Hmmm, Uncle Marko rumbled. What is drawing?

Nikola didn’t want to show his uncle what he’d done—the missing eyes looked weird—but he did. No more secrets, he thought. Nikola held out the drawing pad.

Uncle Marko cradled the coffee cup with both hands and squatted beside Nikola to get a better look.

Hmmm, he began. Is Dmitry fellow, right? Why are eyes missing? Uncle Marko reached out a hand to touch the erased surface of the paper.

Nikola rolled his shoulders and brushed the bits of eraser from the drawing. They weren’t right, he said. Dmitry looked sad when he was supposed to look brave or something. Now he just looks blind.

He was brave man, wasn’t he, Nikola? Uncle Marko sat down on the floor beside his nephew.

Nikola raised his chin slightly and nodded.

I wish for more time to know him, Uncle Marko said. Does not seem right to know him so little. He save my life, and your life too. His voice cracked a little, but he covered it with a cough.

Nikola put pencil to paper and began to draw again, as Uncle Marko watched over his shoulder. He sketched quickly, gliding the pencil across the face to create the ebony tangle of lines that would allow Dmitry to see once again. Nikola scrunched up his face as he struggled with the drawing. When he was done, he held it at arm’s length and admired his work.

Still not exactly right, Nikola sighed. But at least he doesn’t seem sad anymore. Or… maybe less sad, anyway. He set the pad down on the floor. Of course, maybe it’s just right. Dmitry did always look a little bit sad. Or lonely.

I think it looks great, Nikola, Uncle Marko told him quietly. You are very talented artist. Nikola’s uncle hugged him close.

Pfft. Nikola blew air through his lips. I draw mostly comics, and not always very good. I’m okay, but I’m no artist. He put the notepad and pencils back into the box and shoved it far under the bed. Nikola wondered if he would ever pull that box out again. Drawing comics seems silly now, with everything that’s happened.

Uncle Marko shook his head. No, I think you keep drawing, he said. "Is important to have outlet to express feelings in head. Yes?

Nikola shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about drawing anymore. What time does Papa come home tomorrow? Nikola said.

I pick him up at airport, Uncle Marko said. Six o’ clock in the morning. You want to come with?

That early? Nikola made a face, sniffing at a sulfur smell that drifted into his room. "Sure, I’ll go with you, but you may have to splash me with cold water to wake me. I am not a morning person. Nikola scrunched up his nose. What’s that smell?"

Uncle Marko stood up and stretched his back, towering over his nephew like a great tree. Coffee sloshed from his cup and dripped on the floor. He dabbed at it with his sock. Boiled eggs. I make us breakfast—sausage, too. Come, eat. He reached down to grip Nikola’s hand and rocketed him to his feet.

Nikola frowned, unsure if the sick feeling he felt deep in his gut left any room for breakfast. He was also anxious to face his papa, having no clue how he would begin to explain everything that had happened. There is so much to tell Papa, Nikola sighed. I can hardly keep it all straight in my head. I feel sick about keeping it from him… and you.

"Don’t worry, dijete, Uncle Marko began. I understand a bit better, now. Your papa will grump at first, of course. He is hothead sometimes—you know this—but he will come around. I was there, too. We will make him understand. When he was a boy, your papa used to believe in forest spirits—fairytales and such. Really! Took him a long time to let go, maybe about your age. And now… He shrugged. Maybe not so farfetched, eh?"

Nikola nodded hopefully. What forest spirits?

Eat first, Uncle Marko suggested. Tell stories later.

3

What Would Dmitry Do?

Acold wind blew down from the north. The biting wind ruffled Nikola’s hair and found its way under his collar. He shivered, lamenting that he’d only grabbed a thin warm-up jacket on the way out, after telling Uncle Marko he needed some air and wanted to talk to Lizzy. The bitter wind was like a slap in the face, and Nikola almost went back inside to dig around in the closet and find something warmer. He didn’t and began to jog instead. As soon as he reached Lizzy’s house, he knocked on the door—but no one answered.

A few lazy snowflakes drifted down from the sky, dotting the concrete steps and melting in an instant. He huffed warm air into his hands and slapped them together, then knocked again. No answer. Voices from behind the house drifted toward him on the breeze. Shouted voices. Lizzy’s voice. Nikola began to run.

As Nikola rounded the corner, he spied the lake. He saw whitecaps on the gray water, and a man near the shore, waving his arms. Nikola leaped a scrub of bushes that bordered the house and landed hard, nearly tumbling to the ground.

Lizzy startled at Nikola’s sudden appearance—she stood near the waterline, with her hands on hips and her eyes wide. As Grandpa spun to see what his granddaughter was gaping at, he recognized Nikola, smiled, and waved him over.

I heard yelling! Nikola gasped. He gulped air as his heart raced. Is something wrong?

Lizzy shook her head. Her eyes were shadowed by a baseball hat pulled down tight over her short auburn hair. No, she said. I was just calling to Grandpa. She held out something in her hand. Look—I found another piece of that fulgurite from when we first met Dmitry here. Back when he drove the Vassallus away and into the lake.

Nikola took the jagged shard of super-heated sand and brought it close to his face, studying the odd angles and texture. It looks like coral, doesn’t it? he said.

Nikola imagined Dmitry standing along the water’s edge, battling the Vassallus as they marched across the lake, intent on snatching him and Lizzy from the sand and dragging them down to the dark depths. Their emerald