Instinct: Revelation

By Alicia Brandt

Still haunted by the events from four years earlier when her childhood friend, Michael, was taken by an evil entity in front of her, Siena resumes life as a normal teenager back in Banff. She is smart and resilient but has one weakness: Zach Barlow, who is unsettling, exciting, and dangerous. The discovery of a letter left by her deceased grandmother sets off unprecedented events accompanied by Zach’s dark revelation that will transcend her into another world – a world that might uncover the terrible truth of what happened to Michael.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647501310

Alicia Brandt

Alicia Brandt is a surgical and emergency nurse and former university technician. She has been nursing for twenty years and working with nursing students at the university, as well as creative writing, all of which inspired her to write the Instinct Trilogy and foster her dreams into becoming a reality.

Book preview

Epilogue

About the Author

Alicia Brandt is a surgical and emergency nurse and former university technician. She has been nursing for twenty years and working with nursing students at the university, as well as creative writing, all of which inspired her to write the Instinct Trilogy and foster her dreams into becoming a reality.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my family.

Copyright Information ©

Alicia Brandt (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Brandt, Alicia

Instinct

ISBN 9781647501303 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643788586 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647501310 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900929

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

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Prologue

All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.

~ Saint Francis of Assisi ~

Santa Delmonico Convent—Sondrio, Italy: 1417

The convent dormitory was dark and quiet. Isabella Rossi lay still in her narrow wrought-iron bed, her green eyes wide, staring into the dead of night. The unrelenting winter cold penetrated through to her bones. A soft mist lingered in the air with every breath she exhaled. Light from the three-quarter moon streamed down through the high, arched windows of stained glass, reflecting off the symmetrical rows of beds that sat on the expansive floor around her.

Lying there, Isabella struggled to bring the memory of her newborn daughter’s face into focus before it faded. Clutching at any image that might still be hidden in the vault of her mind—from that horrible day when her baby had been taken from her to be raised by her parents as their own, when she’d been forced to take solemn vows of chastity and celibacy for bearing a bastard child. A familiar, cold emptiness, accompanied with deep regret and aching hurt, began to consume her as warm, salty tears welled in her eyes—a sadness she knew would never ebb.

Usually when the hurt and anguish came each night, Isabella would wish that daylight had already come and breakfast was finished, as then she would at least be busy with her work in the library. But this night would be different. This night, for better or worse, would be her last in the convent. Isabella had decided she would rather die trying to escape than live the rest of her life incarcerated in a place that had once been a sanctuary of peace but was now a haunt for demons masquerading as priests and nuns—a living hell on earth.

Beads of sweat formed across her forehead despite the frigid cold. Her thick honey-blonde curls cascaded over her pillow, surrounding her face like a golden halo. She listened. The musty room was entirely silent, except for the sound of her pulse, which pounded within her like the hooves of wild horses during a stampede. It was time to make her move. She could no longer delay. Confident that everyone else had fallen asleep, she slid one hand under her pillow. The starched sheets brushed against her skin like coarse sandpaper as she retrieved a small red-velvet satchel.

She nudged back the covers and sat upright before emptying the satchel’s contents onto her bed. On the white sheet before her lay a small, worn prayer book; a rusted skeleton key; and a flat, heavy object about the size of her palm, wrapped in a piece of worn hessian cloth.

She unwrapped the ragged cloth with the same reverence that a priest would use when preparing the elements for the Eucharist. She stared down in awe at its contents. What sort of power could a simple broken piece of stone have? she wondered. The piece of fragmented, dark stone tablet felt rough to her fingers, the inscriptions on it completely foreign to her. Her mind flashed back to the elderly, frail nun who had given it to her only the day before.

Whilst Isabella had been searching unaccompanied in the library for some literature to read to help keep her sanity, she had heard the voices of the priest and the mother superior coming toward the room. Her heart racing, she had crouched down, hiding behind one of the tall bookshelves. She heard them step into the room, their voices dark and resonant. Peering through a small space above some of the shelved books, Isabella saw the priest, the mother superior, and three sisters, all forming into a circle. She watched, straining to hear what was being said, but dared not to make a sound.

She squinted to get a better view as the priest handed the mother superior a small bundle wrapped in hessian cloth.

Put this in the chamber. It is integral to our eternal freedom, the priest said. May our wrath be felt by all those who attempt to stop us. He paused, raising his arms skyward, his eyes dark. "Infernus consurget…" he shouted in sordid, notorious pleasure, his eyes changing intermittently to a blistering red.

Isabella had held her breath in muted terror. The mother superior nodded obediently in a semi-bow to the priest as she took the bundle before he left the room. Isabella craned her neck to see the mother superior walk toward the far wall of the library as one of the smaller, frailer nuns followed her close behind. The smaller nun judiciously extracted one of the stone blocks from the wall to reveal a small alcove. Bowing her head, the nun waited as the mother superior placed the bundle inside before diligently concealing it with the heavy block.

As the four women proceeded to walk out of the library, the mother superior stopped abruptly and sniffed the air as if she were an animal sensing its prey. Isabella swallowed hard, still holding her breath. Satisfied, the mother superior left the room with the sisters close behind. Isabella listened to their footfalls fade as they descended the stone corridor. She stayed hidden and motionless until she was certain they were gone, trying to process what she had just witnessed. Feeling certain that they had departed, she stood up, peeking out from behind the bookshelves before making her way quickly toward the door, but she stopped dead in her tracks. Curious, she turned her head sideways toward the wall that concealed the small bundle. Instinct told her to get the hell out of there immediately, yet she felt compelled to see what had been hidden there.

Don’t be afraid, my child, echoed a woman’s barely audible voice from the shadows across the room.

Isabella attempted to speak but found she could not even breathe. She stood there, immobilized on the cold marble floor, petrified that she had been caught in the library without permission. Her heart pounded in her throat as her mind raced with the consequences of the punishment that would be inflicted on her. Slowly she turned her head toward the direction of the voice to see the petite, frail nun standing there, motionless and calm.

Don’t be afraid, the nun repeated, moving toward her.

The nun’s despondent eyes, recessed in the deep lines of her weathered face, reflected a long life depictive of the torment and suffering she had witnessed with fear as her only companion.

I have waited a long time for them to send someone, the nun said.

With fragile hands she cradled Isabella’s thunderstruck face.

I have turned a blind eye to the ongoing injustices, the nun continued. My mortality has been protected by the holy covenant because of my bloodline, and I have been waiting patiently for a long time. Now my prayers have finally been answered.

Her eyes had sparkled with renewed life, her expression enlightened and relieved, allowing the frantic pace of Isabella’s heart to slacken.

From the desperate expression on the nun’s face, there had been absolutely no doubt she considered Isabella their only hope for salvation.

A gasping cough came from one of the adjacent beds, breaking Isabella’s reverie, bringing her mind back to the present moment. She wrapped up the stone, placing it back inside the small satchel. She stood up, letting her worn muslin nightgown recover its folds about her, the thirteenth-century oak floor freezing cold beneath her bare feet. She opted not to put any footwear on, for fear of making a sound. Unsettling thoughts crept into her mind of what they would do to her—as well as the nun who had helped her—if she was caught trying to leave, let alone taking this sacred stone, even though she had no idea of its purpose, only that it must be protected. She shuddered, as if the movement would dispel the horrific thoughts, and focused on the task ahead.

Clutching the bag in her hand, she crept across the room toward the heavy wooden door. She turned as she reached the door, scanning the room—knowing that there would be no return. Deep, almost synchronized breathing came from the women who lay in the beds in front of her. Some flinched in their sleep as they fought the torment of the nightmares that preyed on them. A few of them had at times been indefinitely confined deep in the dark cellars of the convent, without food or water, for displaying insolence. Isabella could only imagine the dark dreams that invaded their minds every night.

Settling her hand from shaking, Isabella took the skeleton key out of the satchel, its metal smooth and cold in her grasp, before slipping it into the wrought-iron lock. Turning the key slowly, the lock clicked. Hearing no movement from the beds behind her, she took a deep breath and eased the door forward, slipping outside before closing and locking it silently behind her. She turned and stood in the long corridor of soaring walls adorned by grotesque sculptures and portraits of priests who had long since turned to dust. She blinked several times to let her eyes adjust to the surroundings, listening for any indication that someone might have heard her, but there was nothing but ominous silence. She began to move smoothly forward, sticking to the slivers of moonlight, which mirrored off the corridor walls through the narrow glass panes near the ceiling. Away from the vacant eyes of the sculptures, she found herself almost sprinting toward the internal stairwell that led to the attached bell tower. The door would be left unlocked for her—at least she hoped the sister had remembered.

An unusually frigid wind followed her as she commenced her ascent up the winding wooden stairwell, one foothold at a time. The occasional rough patch of timber pierced her bare feet, feeling like shards of splintered glass. As she reached the top and entered through the unlocked door onto the landing, a large stone gargoyle came into sight, suspended high on a wall overhead. The bell tower stretched far above the three-story convent, its ominous, dark stature looming over the sleeping village far in the valley below. Isabella found herself standing on the ancient balcony not far from the colossal cast-iron bell. She ran her hands along the top rail of the cold balustrade until she felt the fibrous texture of a rope tied in a secure knot around two of the hand-carved posts. The rope ran down alongside the bell tower wall and disappeared into the darkness beneath her. Resting her hands on the rope, she scanned the village far below until her eyes found a brightly lit cottage to the east of the convent—a beacon of freedom. She heard the faint sound of a dog barking in the distance.

Isabella swallowed. Only a few hours remained until dawn. She had to act now before they realized she was gone—along with the secret they had kept hidden in this fortress of Hell. Suddenly, from somewhere deep in the recesses of the building and her mind, she thought she heard the faint sound of a door closing. She waited, listening. There it was: the same sound again. This time she knew she was not mistaken. Inhaling a deep breath, she gripped the rope with both hands and climbed over the balustrade. She made her way down, hand over hand, keeping her feet planted against the side of the building as a guide during her descent. She clutched the rope so tight that it began to chafe, cutting into her skin. Her mind, though, stayed focused as she pushed the stinging pain away.

Finally, the frozen grass crunched beneath her bare feet as they touched the ground, jolting her senses. Without hesitation she untied the rope from her waist and ran, holding the bundle close to her chest. Her determination to live outweighed any fears that tried to penetrate her mind. She ran across patchy snow to the edge of the forest, then stopped. She turned, staring one last time back up at the brick edifice dominating the moonlit skyline—and froze in place. Standing on the bell tower balcony above, illuminated by the moon, a tall figure clad in a hooded cloak looked down in her direction. A cold sense of foreboding washed over her.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to suppress the array of emotions that ran through her body. Instinctively she dashed into the thick forest, the moonlight helping to guide her way. Her lungs screamed for more air as she broke into a panting cadence. She ran, tripping on tree roots that protruded like steel animal traps from the cold, dark earth beneath her. Bushes tore at her flesh. Her heart pounded. As she ran, her long hair flared behind her like a silk scarf, while soft wisps matted around her face from the perspiration that seeped from her body despite the icy wind. The bells of the convent tolled unexpectedly in the distance. Muffled by the snow, the dull ringing still managed to breach the icy silence to deliver a message as chilling and dire as the forest surrounding her. She did not hesitate, though, ignoring the stinging pain coursing through her body. With each new step her feet and calf muscles burned with the intensity of fire. Clutching the satchel even tighter to her chest, not looking back, she kept running.

*****

The black wind blew through the night, drawing up its primeval chill as it slid amongst the ancient vineyards and olive groves into the valley below. The terrain here had changed over the course of time that Isabella had been at the convent, and she found herself stumbling at times and nearly falling. Well over an hour had passed, and now Isabella stood still for a moment, exhausted yet grateful she had gotten this far without encountering any pursuers. She let out a loud, exhausted sigh as relief passed over her. The tension uncoiled from her stomach, and she was able to breathe easy once again. She had escaped. Still high in the alpine mountains, she pushed against the crumbling trail as cold as death, with numb and shredded feet, and began making her descent down to the village, plunging into occasional darkness as the moon dropped periodically behind the dense treetop canopies covered with snow. Almost halfway down, an intense cold mist began to roam up from the valley below, like an uneasy spirit seeking refuge and finding none. With Isabella alone in the mist and darkness, the foreboding silence added to the stillness of the night. A sudden rustling behind sent her body rigid for a moment as she scanned the surrounding forest. Someone else was there, watching her… waiting. How long had they been there? A sinister feeling rushed over her as she stopped momentarily. A deliberate taunting sound came from the right.

Turning in terror, she saw a massive silhouette step out of the darkness into the moonlight. A colossal, dark figure manifested before her, only a couple meters away, hulking over her. Inhaling deeply, she tried to conceal her mounting panic as she looked up at the giant of a man who stood there, surely over ten feet tall, studying her. His expression seemed strangely perplexed, yet the contempt in his eyes remained ruthless and wild.

We meet again, he said, his voice hoarse and ominous despite the smile that played on his lips. You are the one that they sent.

Isabella swallowed as she gazed at his dominating stature. She knew exactly who he was. The priest from the convent, only in a different form. The one known as the Grigori—whatever that meant.

What… What do you want? she said, just above a whisper.

You possess something that is not yours, he said, taking a step toward her.

I… I don’t know… what you’re talking… talking about.

Isabella tried to appear steady, and slowly retreated a step. She focused on the silvery moonlit forest encasing her, like an animal trapped, searching for direction. Scanning the trees, her feet instinctively dashed her sideways into the deeper snow, her senses intensified by adrenaline and fear. She ran as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would jump out of her chest. Her already bloodied and cut feet seared with renewed pain as she floundered and stumbled before something hard smashed into her neck and her legs went out from beneath her. Her body whipsawed violently before crashing to the ground. Her scream destroyed the silence of the night so completely, so dissonantly. She lay there in shock for a long moment before slowly pushing herself upward to stand. Her efforts were quickly met with a throbbing head rush. The ominous figure was standing next to her. His arm struck out and snatched the cerise satchel from her grasp.

Did you really think you could keep it safe in your mortal hands? he said, half smiling and shaking his head as his right hand reached into the satchel, producing the rough stone. Examining it closer, his face contorted with anger. A sudden explosion of rage erupted behind the predator’s eyes. The stone shattered in fragmented pieces as he threw it hard to the ground with fury. You think you can fool me? Where is the stone? Tell me now or you will die… just like your ancestors! he demanded.

Y-You will n-never get it. It is p-protected, she said, her voice barely audible, her head still reeling. She attempted to put her mind in a calm place, but it wouldn’t quiet for her.

Isabella recoiled as black, razor-tipped wings slowly began to unfurl behind the giant, spanning what had to be almost eight feet in width. Without warning one wing flicked forward to slash her across the face with its metal-bladed edge.

Ahh! she screamed as the fear rose from her stomach to her chest and into her throat.

She fell to her knees and held the bleeding wound with both hands, trying to contain the blood that seeped through her fingers. Even though her voice seemed mute, she had no intention of begging for mercy. With an intense fury the Grigori turned and struck again, this time with the other wing, slicing deep across the width of her chest. Blood gushed from the open wound. In a frenzied attack, his wings continued to slash her body like thousands of sharp knives, each strike penetrating deeper.

Unimaginable pain ripped through her entire being. The incoherent image of her baby daughter’s face flashed before her eyes. She lay there as a dark crescent of blood pooled around her body. The blood flowed freely down the side of her face like a river following its banks. Its warmth, mixed with silent tears, matted her golden hair. A cold, peripheral numbness quickly spread from the tips of her feet and fingers. Her eyes turned to the empty satchel lying on the ground beside her, crimson against the bleached snow, like her blood. She turned to look up at the creature’s face in disconsolate silence. His wings were still fully spanned, humming with the consistency of a mill wheel, their metal tips dripping with blood. Her blood.

His eyes glowed with fiery orange and red streaks. The moonlight emphasized his muscular chest, carved with imprinted demonic sigils.

She turned her head back toward the satchel; an accomplished, subtle smile formed on her subdued face. Electus, she whispered softly.

It was done. As the blood poured from her wounds, and her breath became more labored and raspier, her life began to ebb away. But not before one last thought registered in her brain. A final contemplation that filled her with acute terror as she died. What if her daughter didn’t find the artifact? Her expression froze in shock as she felt life leave her, felt it flood out of her in pain and blood. Her eyes rolled back as the ancient, steel dagger came toward her chest.

Chapter One

Present Day

Sixteen-year-old Siena clutched the worn leather armrests, closing her eyes as the plane ascended off the runway, letting the exhilaration and vibration flow through her body. Once the plane levelled off, she relaxed, settling into her seat for the eleven-hour flight from Banff to Milan. Outside the window, the sky looked a perfect blue, as sporadic white clouds drifted past the plane.

A couple of hours into the flight and halfway through a rerun of another old sitcom, Siena stared out the window, her eyelids grew heavy. From where she was sitting, she could see the place where it had all begun as memories buried deep in her mind since her last visit to Italy almost four years ago resurfaced and came crashing back…

The summer sun had risen early, casting extended shadows across the ancient cobble streets beyond the town square of Caiolo, Italy. With the new dawn came the anticipation and apprehension of their last day together. The carefree adolescents headed up into the mountains, as they had done so many times before during their childhood. They ran for a long while, Siena’s long, unruly, brown hair blew effortlessly in the breeze behind her. The terrain began to get uneven as they passed vineyards laden with fruit and olives, growing on the steep hillside.

After a while, they turned off a narrow dirt track that had been barely visible through the thick spruce, and began to climb even higher up the steep peak. Michael was a year older than her and knew the area with exactness only extensive childhood explorations could confer. Every farm, every step of mountain track surrounding the valley.

Come on, Siena! Hurry up or we’ll never get there.

Michael gave her a defiant grin as he looked back. Almost out of breath, she began to wonder if he actually had any idea of where he was headed this time. Visible in the distance, the bell tower of a church pierced the clear, blue sky above dense tree canopies. As they neared the top, the forest became sparser before it opened into a clearing where a church sat perched on the cliff face, isolated. They both fell to the ground in exhaustion. Siena rolled onto her side as she caught her breath. She sat up, resting her head on her hands, and stared at the stark edifice towering in front of them. The weathered gray stone brick church a testament to the skills of its century’s deceased builders. Her curious green eyes were wide with wonderment.

Michael caught her gaze. It was built in the early 1300s, he said, recalling her love of history. Are you ready to go inside?

She paused, processing the question for a long moment. But we can’t; we’re not allowed. Nona was adamant when she told us not to come here, Siena said.

A ten-foot-high chain-link fence, reinforced in several places, enclosed the church. A large sign clearly worded in bold, red letters: TENERE FUORI—Keep Out, was bolted firmly on the padlocked gate.

But I only want to show you inside. And anyway, it’s our last day together. Come with me! Michael insisted as he stood, extending a hand to help her up.

Hesitantly, she frowned, but accepted. He felt his way slowly around the fence until he found a loosened stretch of wire. Pulling the wire up with one hand, he motioned her with the other to crawl through. With resolve, she crouched, squeezing through the narrow gap to the other side, wiping the dirt off her long denim shorts and black singlet top before she held the wire up for him to follow. He managed to edge through much quicker than she had. Siena followed Michael closely behind as he ran toward the far end of the church, where a one-meter-high stone wall stood perched on the edge of a sheer cliff face. She stopped, leaning over the wall as far as she could. She lifted her feet, peering at the river that raged, coursing its way through the gorge below.

Don’t get too close, he said as he grabbed her arm, pulling her back until her feet were firmly back on the ground.

But it’s so spectacular and wild, Michael!

Come on. I know a way we can get inside and have a look. There used to be a broken window on the Eastern side that was boarded up. I’m sure we can fit through if I can just loosen a couple of boards.

Before she could reply, he sprinted off toward the other side of the church. With reluctance, she followed him past overgrown shrubs that half covered a rocky dirt path. They came to a boarded-up window, with one loose board that swung precariously in the breeze.

Siena bent down, taking off her leather, tan sandals.

Michael shook his head in disbelief. What are you doing?

It’s way too hot to be wearing any shoes. I’ll just leave them out here for now.

She laid her sandals on the ground next to the side of the window, letting out a loud sigh of relief as she stretched her toes on a sparse patch of grass.

Michael pushed the loose board sideways holding it in place, which allowed enough room for them to fit through. Inside, the temperature plummeted. Sunlight streamed through the recessed stained-glass windows that rose to the timber ceiling on both sides. She sat on a pew in the north aisle, taking in her surroundings. The sunlight enshrouded the dominating alter, its warmth and light gilded by the stained glass. A thick film of dust covered everything, including the enormous, ornate biblical figures that sat perched on white marble stands strategically placed around the church. She reflected for a silent moment. Generations of parishioners, both rich and poor had travelled the rain-washed corrugated dirt track to this place in act of religious faith. Her thoughts were disrupted when the sound of a key clanked as it turned inside the lock of the enormous, wooden front door. The sound resonated throughout the church.

They both froze. Wide-eyed, they looked at each other. Siena’s imagination conjured up a SWAT team ready to take them in and lock them up for trespassing, but she noticed Michael’s expression projected more obvious concern about being scolded by his father if he found out they were there.

Quick! Come with me, Michael whispered as he grabbed her hand, rushing her toward the side of the church before he stopped in front of a narrow, white timber door. We can hide in here.

He turned the rusted handle, his expression relieved that it was unlocked, and pushed the door inward, leading into a small room—just as they heard the front door screech open. Michael nudged the door closed behind them, while Siena’s eyes focused on their surroundings. Daylight flooded in from two massive arched windows on the far wall.

What is this place, Michael? she whispered.

It’s called the ‘Sacristy’—it’s where the priest used to prepare for Mass, he whispered.

He pointed to the cupboards and shelves that contained old books and vestments used for liturgical ceremonies. Although her family was Catholic and she had been to church many times when she was younger, Siena had never been inside a Sacristy.

Loud voices from outside drew Siena’s attention. She opened the door a crack, peering outside, her eyes wide with curiosity. Two men stood near the front of the altar facing each other, talking. One of them was colossal, standing almost ten feet tall, towering above the other. The giant’s face was concealed by the hood of his coat, which she thought was strange, considering the summer heat. The smaller man looked to have a heavy build, with short flame-red hair, but it was hard for Siena to tell which one of them had the more dominant voice. She opened the door just a little bit more to listen, but Michael quickly eased it shut.

What are you trying to do? he whispered frantically. They’ll find us if you’re not careful. Do you have any idea the trouble we’ll be in?

She looked at him unperturbed, as his