Killers Amongst Us: Dark dynasty, #1

By Alaska Walters

There is a tale that history doesn't want you to know... one where murder is the prime entertainment. When Santa set out to create a superior breed of beings, the end result was a society of supremely honed weapons of war. What he created was something the world didn't see coming. He did not, however, expect them to escape, unleashing their powers onto the world before they were perfected. Santa had a wicked plan for his children, and let me tell you, you have never seen an orphanage like this one. Thirty years later, his escaped children are coming to find him, and he, them. What have they been up to in the meantime? You will have to wait and see... With a hint of pure devilish enjoyment and faces sharper than thorns, the world was going to get more than they bargained for... After all, he created immortal beings, and they were dead set on pulling the biggest murder rampage in history.

 

★★★★★ "Killers Amongst Us" is set between 1940s and 1970s time. I can't exactly say what's the plot on which it is based on since it would reveal the whole thing BUT what I can say that it was a psychological thriller which really doesn't prepare you on what to come. I really enjoyed reading this. And just a few pages in and I read this "I have memories of being young, the only one in my family with auburn hair. I would get up to mischief often and my parents would punish me, telling me I was wicked. I remember this one instance, I hurt my brother; not unusual for me, yet this time he stopped breathing. I felt wickedness running through my body, enjoying the sensation."

And this really gave me a shiver. I stopped reading for a bit and just gawked at it. The sentence was written so flippantly yet surged with such strong words, oh man. I really liked how the dark humor was added which just adjoin to the thriller. I'll just add a small part of blurb to let in what this book was about "When Santa set out to create a superior breed of beings, the end result was a society of supremely honed weapons of war. What he created, was something the world didn't see coming. He did not, however, expect them to escape, unleashing their powers onto the world before they were perfected. Santa had a wicked plan for his children, and let me tell you, you have never seen an orphanage like this one." From the very first pages, it would grip you. "Are we evil?" I asked. To which he replied, "We were made evil, baby." It's interesting and keeps you on edge. After reading a few chapters, we would be able to connect all the characters which were- once again -very creatively made. The experiments, super humans are not something which isn't a possibility I think instead it's something that there's a high chance of happening somewhere. I liked the fact that the author didn't just add witch powers or vampires (I have no problems with supernatural unrealistic creatures as well, mind you ) or something instead gave a realistic approach to the story which was- gotta admit - horrifying but not unfeasible. It really got me thinking as there's always a possibility of what was written to be true. "Our dynasty. Our home. Our blood. "Overall this was a fast read which you would most definitely finish within less than an hour and would keep thinking about it in a loop- well I did. I have no idea how the author got this concept on her mind! It was amazing and fresh honestly. I loved the cover and it perfectly depicts what the readers would get once they start the book. AND I'm really excited to read more about them. The last chapter got me thinking, is this really over after all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winter Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393753988

Book preview

Chapter 1

1955

Damion

Sweet, quiet Mary did not know she was prey. She was laughing  her bell-like tinkling laugh, for the last time I can assure you,  as I pulled her by her soft small hand. We were just playing, Mary and I, friends since childhood, taking a path through the forest, one step at a time over the crunching leaves, even as the sun was setting and blackness was taking over  the dim light. Each inch of terrain sounded like we were stepping on broken glass, and I could feel the rubble  under my black saddle shoes. Mary dropped my hand and pulled her cardigan tighter across her chest. The temperature was falling as quickly as the sun and  a soft breeze whipped the tendrils of her hair across her pale face.

We probably should have stuck to the road this close to dark, Mary sounded a bit nervous. She must have felt the change in me. I was finding it hard to keep playing along with the levity of earlier. I was concealed in the night with my very first victim, carefully chosen and long awaited. It was difficult for me to hold off–just a few steps more, deeper into the trees.

We reached a small grove of trees grouped together in a tight  circle. I had chosen this spot weeks ago while planning this special occasion. I liked to think of it as the loss of my virginity. Thinking about this now brought a tight smile to my lips. I took Mary’s hands and pulled her into the circle, her back against a tree. Yes, I had killed before, but not in the way I’d dreamt of. Not like I was about to. The others felt like trial runs, practice like a kitten learning to hunt through its seemingly adorable play. I did think of myself as being rather cat-like: cats were merciless killing machines and yes, so I’ve realized, am I.

Damion! What are you up to? her voice was a soft whisper. I wondered if she thought I was being romantic? In my own way, the answer would be yes. I leaned in, my face close to her own.

Mary, I’m glad you came here with me today.

Mary smiled, her eyes dropping, lashes fluttering.

I continued, There is something I have been dying to tell you. And yes that pun was intended.

She lifted her head back up, confused entering her eyes and what I sensed was a tinge of fear. I chuckled lightly at my own little joke  and  looked her dead in the eyes.

Pun? She chuckled nervously.

I watched the evening breeze  whip delicate strands  of her hair, enjoying the little dance they did. I swept the tendrils away from her face and saw a change in her pupils. I spoke to her with the voice of a lover, seductive and low. My already deep voice sounded raspy in my controlled excitement.

Well Mary, I slid my hand from hers and slowly let it trail  up her chest. When I reached her swan-like neck, my strong fingers lightly stroked. She closed her eyes, like a lover preparing to be kissed. At that moment, my fingers tightened around her throat, closing roughly. Her eyes flew open.  I pressed my thumb hard into the base of her throat. She was scared.  I bent her neck so her hair dangled to the side, revealing the long patch of  her pale, clean skin. She gulped against my hand; her eyes wild.

I killed them, I confessed. It was me all along. And you know what?  I’m just getting started.

I heard her breath catch. She  was frozen under my hand, her body stiff, crushed between me and the tree trunk. She was like a fragile bird who understood their hollow frail little legs and silken feathers could not free her. She knew it was over.

I continued the words I had so longed to share, to speak aloud.

One by one, everybody in this dire little town will die by my hand. . . and now,  it is your turn. I slid my knife  from its hidden place in my coat pocket and brought it to her throat in one swift motion. I ran it up and down her neck twice then  I lashed the knife into  her warm skin which melted open  like butter, and held still enjoying every last drop of crimson blood that streamed down her warm milky skin and onto the forest  floor of  crisp dead autumn leaves. Mary let out a scream when the knife sunk in with her last breaths as  I took her life away. I dropped her lifeless form to the ground, watching her flowing  blood bleed out into the quickening dark leaving a dark syrup over the dead leaves.  My shadow lingered over her dead body, the shape of a demon.

There were rumors around this town, the town of Broome, that I was a monster. The gossip was not a new phenomenon and no one suspected that I, a mere teen, was the killer the town was looking for. The whispered slander on my person predated the murders by years.  Ever since my parents had adopted me, when I was very young, barely more than a toddler,  I had been seen as different– more rambunctious than the other children, harder to contain. But that was just me as a growing boy. Maybe the heat caused  a stir in me, I always felt that I was meant for the cold. I could remember almost nothing from before, but the soaring heat here in Broome  felt unnatural and I could never bear the sun’s rays on my skin. However, while I was never comfortable in the heat, the  one thing I knew for certain was that I did have something dark inside that couldn’t be tamed; that the hushed gossip had validity.  As a very young boy, newly part of the family, I tried to  make my parents proud, just like any other kid. However  once I reached my teenage years, I realised it was of no use. I was different, and that’s just how it was going to be. I had no remorse.

The truth is that nothing could take away the feeling of putting a knife to my victim’s skin;  silver blade slicing through warm soft dough-like skin, warm blood splashing down my hand like  pouring rain. I was in ecstasy.

The feeling was more than satisfying, it was necessary,  it felt as essential and nourishing as food and drink. Perhaps more so.  You would think the inevitable  scream of my kill  would give me pause, trigger my empathy,  or perhaps even give me some sort of excitement. Yet, it's quite different to that actually. In fact, it's as if the screams are muted. The world becomes silent and moves in slow motion and nothing and no one exists but me and my prey. Their heartbeat would slow, finally stop, and then it would only be me–renewed, empowered, vibrating with wholeness, sated, on top of the world.

Killing was not just my drug, but my reason for being. I have been doing it for three years at this point and  still haven't been caught.  I crave it, I crave the  warmth it gives me and the closeness to my victim. I crave the intimacy of the kill.

To the outsider, I am just a normal human being, going about life, as any other  would in this little  Australian town, which was more of a village really, that I grew up in.  My community is  very small  and conservative. I was born in the year of 1940, or so I was told. Apparently there are no records. I was adopted  at a young age, though my parents would never tell me anything more than  that, or perhaps they did not know more. I know my mother longed for a son and I was delivered one Christmas from an orphanage. Probably no questions were asked. In Broome, children were expected to be on their best  behaviour and not speak unless spoken to. Most families in our community had  many children, yet my family just had two: my brother and I. He came after me, my  adopted mother not barren after all. They would come to regret their rash decision regarding bringing me here soon enough.

Growing up, I had a group of five friends, plus me. We were all children of church families  and therefore the expectations were even higher and more strict for us. When we got together  to play we would tell each other secrets and stories that our parents would be  appalled to know; mischievous ideas we played up in our minds, such as, ‘what if  Satan ruled the earth, rather than God’ and ‘what would happen if we were ever  to run away from this town’ and ‘was it true there were witches deep in the forest.. We shared ghost stories in the dark like all children before us. While we took turns telling our stories, trying to make them as terrifying as our limited imaginations and experience could provide, mine were liked the best. I was the one who was called up to spill a really scary one, Damion... make us shriek!’ The pleasure would be all mine. It was the first time I realized that seeing fear in others’ eyes was titillating and I worked hard developing my craft to bring chills and even tears to young hearts.

I have memories of being young and realizing that I was the only one in my family  with auburn hair. I would get into bits of trouble often, small things, regular boyhood antics, just little pranks,  and my parents would punish me hard, telling me I was wicked. They were the type of parents who enforced memorizing Bible verses, did not spare the rod, and promoted kneeling on rock salt in the corner. Once,  I hurt my brother. Hurting him was not unusual for me. I did little things and had learned how to inflict pain without leaving bruises so his complaints could not be proven. He had taken in a pregnant stray dog once, and I had drowned her and all of the puppies. He knew it was me. My parents likely suspected. Again, there was no proof. I was good at hiding behind an innocent saint-like expression and flatly denying  the acquisitions without becoming defensive. My brother began to pee the bed in his sleep and was punished by my mother for adding to her workload. No one realized his regressions was the result of my torture. This time I hurt him, however, I went a bit too far and  he stopped breathing and his lips were blue-tinged. It was then I  felt the first taste of stepping into my silent world.  Bringing my little brother so close to death filled me with some kind of feeling like joy or excitement or satisfaction, I didn’t have the words then to describe my feelings.  I only knew had ever felt so right.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wanted to do it again. I craved knowing if I would feel the same sensations again. I wondered if I could make it last longer before death intervened?

By the time my parents found him he was, in fact,  dead. They were horrified and grief-stricken and  punished me with lashes from a leather whip and forced me to endure regular meetings  with the church priest. I begged for their forgiveness, crying to them that it was an accident, tears falling from my big eyes down my choir boy cheeks.  I pleaded and I guess somehow I managed to play on their heart strings.  Although they acted to me as though I were the evilest of all evil, they kept me, and created a lie to try and cover up what I had done. There were whispers throughout the town, however. Their story was flimsy and my brother had often told his friends how I treated him. After this death, these same boys told their parents the tales