Codename: Alexander

By Kaylee Dolat

You know those shadows you see out of the corner of your eye? The ones that disappear when you turn to look at them? You have always made excuses for that creeping unease you felt. The whole I must be seeing things speech. Maybe your friends laugh at you when you mention it. They laugh and say you have a wild imagination or claim you are paranoid. What if I told you it was not your imagination? What if I told you there was a whole world out there that goes unseen by most?

My name is Alexander, and this is the story of my life

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512752670

Kaylee Dolat

Kaylee currently resides in Wyoming. Inspired to write by many of her favorite authors, she likes to see the story in everything.

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Copyright © 2016 Kaylee Dolat.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5266-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5268-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5267-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016913213

WestBow Press rev. date: 08/29/2016

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THANK YOU TO THE WONDERFUL people that made this happen. My cover artist for bringing my idea to life, my editor for keeping me on track, and most importantly, my mom who made it all happen.

CHAPTER ONE

YOU KNOW THOSE SHADOWS YOU see out of the corner of your eye - the ones that disappear when you turn to look at them? You have always made excuses for that creeping unease you felt. The whole I-must-be-seeing-things speech. Maybe your friends laugh at you when you mention it and say you have a wild imagination or claim you are paranoid. What if I told you it was not your imagination? What if I told you there was a whole world out there that goes unseen by most?

For me, it is a harsh reality.

My name is Alexander. My parents did not know it at the time, but it means protector of mankind in Greek, ironic seeing as how I have grown into that name.

Let me slow down. I know I must be going too fast for you. It all started a year ago. The shadow at the corner of my vision kept getting stronger and showing up more often. Sometimes they even made it into my dreams. Do you understand how weird that is?

What am I saying? Of course you do. Otherwise you would not dare read this. Once you know what I am about to tell you, you cannot go back. I bet half of you just sighed and decided to close the book. That is fine. Stay in your happy world of ignorance and normal high school activities. Those that brave the words I am about to tell, I will warn you right now, you might not like all that you read. You can also never go back.

For you see, I am a demon hunter.

Before you stop and roll your eyes, you have not heard my story. All those other myths and tales? Those will seem like a walk in the park compared to what I have to say. If you feel ready for that, then by all means, continue. Just know that this is no fairy tale.

It started a year ago. I was walking down the hallway of my high school. I was not very popular, since I had just moved to the city. At the time, my dad was in the military. However, I will not get into details; it would not be good if the wrong person got a hold of this.

I am sure you can see the numerous possibilities. Honestly, I still struggle with my lot.

Ever since I moved to this tiny city, I have been miserable. Cheyenne may be the capitol of Wyoming, but it isn’t exactly a large city. The only time it really seems active is around Cheyenne Frontier Days. When we moved here, I elected for public school versus private school. That was a stupid decision.

Shortly after settling in, I began to see things. I became jumpy and easily irritated. No one wanted to be my friend, and I did not blame them. The only positive quality I possess is that I am athletic. That is only thanks to having a military father who insisted on getting me involved in manly activities. It is one of the reasons I am an excellent hunter.

Those skills have come in handy. You would not believe the problems we have here: drugs, sex, lies, witchcraft, to name a few. All of it the perfect atmosphere for the little demons.

Are there big demons? I am sure you just asked yourself that eerie question. The answer is yes, but I cannot speak or write their names. To do so invites them, and I am not that stupid.

There are three types of demons as far as I have discovered. The ones at the very bottom are what I call feeders. They live off of sin you are already committing. Let us say you gamble willingly; you could have a demon of addiction on your back. Laziness? How about a demon of sloth?

The second class is an instigator. After they are allowed in your life, they cause problems. Sometimes it is not just you that they affect, but those around you. They can be tied to you but turn around and run loose on occasion. I find that they are clingy little creatures that love to encourage sin and crimes all around you.

Then, there are the Princes. No, I am not talking about cute little fairy tale princes that will kiss you awake. I’m talking about the bad, ugly demons that rule over cities. They choose where to send troops and when. These guys are bad news, and it is no joke. Take a good look at the city you live in. Are there any reoccurring themes? Yeah, well, those guys are the problem.

Now that I have explained, it will be a little easier to follow my story. So, where was I? Oh, right-one year ago….

CHAPTER TWO

HEY, ALEXANDER! HURRY OR YOU will be late for class! one of the teachers at my school called as I rushed through the hallway. My backpack was still over my shoulder, and I tried not to hit people with it. I tried my best to keep it from slamming into unsuspecting students, but I was more focused on the shapes I was once again seeing out of the corner of my eye.

I burst into the classroom just as my name was called for roll call. Here, I mumbled as I took my seat. English class was the first class of the day, and I was excited. I set my bag at my feet and pulled out a notebook and pen as I glanced at the chalkboard. The same boring assignments that were a part of everyday life as a high school student met my eyes. There was a blur of movement beside me, and I could see a classmate hunched over her desk. For a moment, I thought I saw a dark shape on her back. Before I could take a closer look, my attention was redirected towards the front of the room.

As I turned my head toward the front of the room, I could hear the crackling that preceded morning announcements. Good morning, students. Today is…. I tuned out the routine announcements. Honestly, I did not care that today’s lunch was ravioli. Nor did I care that it was a Monday morning with partly cloudy skies.

Relief crossed my features as well as that of my classmates as the droning announcements ceased. Mrs. Lyman, moved to stand in front of the blackboard. I really like her; she has a way of making this class fun. Every assignment she gives turns out to be an adventure.

Mrs. Lyman scrawled a few words on the blackboard. Personally, I do not understand why she still uses a blackboard when everyone uses a Smart board these days. It is not like she is old either. She is actually a new teacher, almost fresh out of college. My attention turned back to the words, and I surprised when I saw they read short-story. We just finished our unit on how to write a paragraph, and we leap to story writing? I could tell the rest of the class was just as confused as I was, but it seemed to do nothing to deter her.

Good morning, class. I can see that many of you are surprised by the new assignment. Mrs. Lyman said as she looked out over the class.

One of the girls at the front of the class raised her hand, and I had to roll my eyes. This girl was the definition of an over-achiever. She enrolled in all the clubs she could and still managed to keep her grades up. Her name is Kathleen, but it might as well be Hermione. Oh, please tell me you have read Harry Potter. Whatever-the point is that this girl is obnoxious. Mrs. Lyman, may I ask what the requirements are? Kathleen asked.

Everyone in class groaned and ran a hand over his or her face. No one wanted to hear the details. Only Kathleen seemed excited about this project.

Patience, Mrs. Lyman replied, although I could tell from the smile on her face she was pleased someone was excited for this assignment. Now, I know for those of you that have read the syllabus, you are confused as to why we have this new unit. She shrugged as she realized Kathleen seemed to have been the only one that had read it. No one in the room was in the least bit surprised by this, given our classmate’s track record. There is a scholarship opportunity available, but part of the requirement is writing a short story. Now, they are specifically asking for a work of fiction with enough truth to make it believable. Mrs. Lyman paused, and my interest was piqued. A scholarship could take me so very far, and for it to involve writing was even better.

I love to write. Being a single child as well as a military brat made every move much harder for me than for others. Other families with multiple children who kept each other company during a move were a strange, but beautiful thing to me. So writing kind of became my thing. My annoyance grew as I realized my direct competition would be Kathleen. I felt a twinge of discomfort between my shoulder blades before a shadow flickered in my peripheral vision.

My annoyance dissipated as if it had never been, and I shook my head as Mrs. Lyman continued. There are only three scholarship amounts being awarded between our school, and the rest of the high schools in the city, so I will be helping those that need it. To help those of you that wish to enter, I am making this a class assignment. Only a few groans met her words, and I was surprised. Her next words, however, caught me off guard. Oh, also-the story that wins first place could become eligible for publication.

Publication? Did I honestly just hear what I thought I heard? I had to guess by the surprised murmurs in my class that I had. Now, everyone suddenly wanted to see if they had what it took to make it as far as a publisher. Oh no you don’t, I thought, this one is mine. I caught Kathleen’s gaze, and her eyes widened as she recognized I would be her competition. Despite our differences, we lived right down the street from one another.

We took the same bus to school, we sat rows from one another, and we usually shared the same table at lunch. Why? I am sure you are asking why I disliked her so much. It isn’t that I didn’t like her. It is because we were both military brats, both intelligent, and we both knew what happened to so-called friends once our military parents received orders. Civilian kids just never understood us. It is such a shame.

Kathleen nodded to me, a smile on her face, and I narrowed my eyes. We both saw the same thing in each other, something that tried to drive us together and threatened to tear us apart all at once.

We were both outsiders here.

We are both competitive.

We are both survivors.

Mrs. Lyman cleared her throat, effectively ending the other conversations in the room. Let us continue, She moved back to the blackboard, her familiar scrawl appearing in waves. Requirements for this short story are simple. They want a fiction that is believable. Any genre will do. Confusion rippled through the room and my teacher continued without the need to turn around. For now write it down and I will explain later. Now, they want a short story that is capable of being expanded into a novel should the opportunity arise. Ten to thirty pages of Times New Roman in twelve point font is the formatting requirement, she said as she turned around and set her hands on her desk.

Kathleen was writing notes almost as furiously as I was and we both ignored the groans coming from our classmates. What did they know of hard work? None of them had to transfer from different schools multiple times. None of them had to make up weeks of assignments in days because they transferred halfway through the school year and missed that much school. On one hand I envied them-on the other, I pitied them, this flaw of theirs. Oh could I ever use it to my advantage. Kathleen’s eyes once again found mine, and for once I looked at her as an ally. Most of the military brats that moved here were either younger or sent to Central High School. I did not know many others that went to East like I did.

Now, the first thing I want is for everyone to write down their homework assignments, Mrs. Lyman said. As I looked up at her, I realized I had already written down everything she had put on the board. Everyone has to brainstorm at least five ideas that sound appealing to them to use. Students, I would suggest sticking to what you know to make it easier for you. Also, make sure they are ideas you can be creative with, this is supposed to be fiction. She smiled as a hand was raised and she shook her head at the boy. "Oh, no. Christopher, I am not giving you the easy way out. If you don’t know what it is, then look it up yourself."

Christopher pouted and I knew he would turn to me for the answer. He is about the closest thing to a friend I have made here in Cheyenne. Our teacher looked out over the class, sensing our hesitation to get started. For those of you that wish to enter the contest, stop by my desk for a flier before you leave. Otherwise, just work on your homework assignment. Mrs. Lyman looked genuinely excited as she looked over the class. I knew why, too. Our teacher had been published recently and I knew she was happy to see who would step up to grab a flier.

Not everyone knew she was published. Mrs. Lyman used a pen name, as in a fake name so no one knew it was really her. How do I know it’s her book? The first edition is framed and hanging on the wall. I see her glance at it in pride when she thinks no one can see her. So, it is really no surprise to me about her excitement over this scholarship contest.

The bell rang for the next class and everyone hastily stood to pack. I knew I was going to apply for the scholarship. We were all being forced to do the assignment anyway and I had a few stories that might have been perfect for the assignment. Alexander, Mrs. Lyman’s voice made me pause as I was picking up the flier, I already prepared a packet for you. She handed me a packet she pulled from her drawer. I looked inside the manila envelope to see the official entry forms, a few pens, a notebook, and the informational flier I had picked up.

How did you know? I asked as I carefully slid it into my backpack. My eyes had not failed to notice my name carefully written in a beautiful cursive on the outside of the manila envelope.

A good teacher learns how to recognize talent and little details amongst her students, Mrs. Lyman replied as she reached into her desk and retrieved another envelope. She leaned passed me with arm extended. Here, Kathleen. There are only three scholarships available and if I could bet, I would bet both of you will place. Just don’t lose heart. Her eyes looked at the clock and she laughed. Now, hurry up or you will both be late for second period.

I nearly bumped into Kathleen as I turned around to run out the door. Irritatingly enough, Kathleen and I both shared the next class as well. Worse than that, our assigned seats were next to each other. Miss Kelly; she insists we call her that, is a very picky woman. She is aged, the opposite of Mrs. Lyman. Where the English teacher is young, gentle and full of laughter, the Math teacher is old, harsh, and cannot often be found without a frown. Being late to her class was an easy way to get you in trouble and no one wanted that.

My mom raised me to be a gentleman, so despite my fear of being late to Math class, I allowed Kathleen to rush in front of me. The girl was relentless, effortlessly dodging people as she rushed out the door. I rolled my eyes. No one ever dared mess with her. She not only tutored the other kids in our grade, but tutored the seniors as well. In fact, she was the reason our football team was still playing. Without her, half of our team would have been on academic probation.

Annoying.

The good thing is that since she has moved here, I have noticed a drop in bullying. I rushed after her, knowing she was effortlessly clearing a path through the other kids that I could use. Too bad she did not seem to recognize the power she held.

Okay, so maybe I am not the gentleman my mom taught me to be all the time. Honestly, can you blame me? These halls are crowded and stuffy. And there goes Kathleen going through them as if unbothered by it all. I finally made it into the math wing of the school and slid into the class room just as the bell rang. I was really thankful for the ten minute break between classes.

I managed to find my seat just as Miss Kelly turned to face the class, and begin roll call. I took out the notebook for class, dreading the next hour and a half of math. Yes, that is what I said-hour and a half. The principal decided a few years ago, before I moved here, to make our days ‘block’ scheduled. I will explain-instead of one day with just a forty-five minute time slot for each class-eight or so in all, and we have alternate days. It’s something that I am used to since all the Dodd’s use it now.

What is a Dodd’s?

Chill out, I know I have a lot to explain. It comes with the territory. A Dodd’s is a Department of Defense Dependents School. It’s pretty much a school for military brats. Now, as I was saying, alternate days means we have two different days that alternate between each other. Ours are called blue days and black days. Ha-ha, and yes, black and blue really are our school colors. Anyways, this means instead of eight classes a day, we have four. Well, four plus lunch. That also means instead of forty-five minute classes we have hour and thirty minute classes.

Miss Kelly was already using her squeaky expo marker on the Smart board and I opened my notebook up to a new page for the day. I reached into my backpack and groaned as I remembered I had left my math textbook at home. The bench like table I shared had someone at the other end I knew would share. I took my time pulling out my calculator and pencils, dreading what I was about to do.

I turned towards the person at the end of the shared desk, hating the fact I forgot the book. Kathleen, I whispered, noticing the pause in her note taking. She had heard me. Dread filled me as those steely blue-green eyes focused on me. For a moment, I wondered if this girl would snap at me for interrupting. Her gaze was questioning, and I took it as a sign to continue. I forgot my math book. Before I could finish my question, the book was pushed to sit between us.

Relief filled me, and I turned back towards the front of the classroom. How could I have suspected Kathleen of being mean? Everyone knew she was a sweet girl. Lately, others have been taking advantage of that.

I struggled to pay attention to the algebra lesson being taught in Miss Kelly’s dull, monotone voice. My thoughts kept wandering towards the manila envelope in my backpack, and I wondered if I should risk taking it out. The algebra lesson was boring me anyway, and I knew I could always get help from my mom if I did not understand the homework. The homework assignment was already written in the upper right-hand corner of the board. I quickly scrawled the page numbers in my notebook and looked at the book in the center of the table.

I noticed in surprise that not even Kathleen was working on the math assignments. In fact, her math notebook already had half of the homework done, and she was bent over a notebook I had never seen before. My eyes narrowed in thought until I spotted a familiar manila envelope under the notebook. It seemed to me she was already working on her short-story assignment. The page she was writing on had ideas scribbled and brain-stormed.

Kathleen looked up as she took a moment to think. She must have sensed me watching because the next thing I knew, her gaze was piercing me. I turned away quickly and grabbed the notebook out of my own manila envelope. Where Kathleen’s was an emerald green, my notebook was a deep blue, my favorite color. I secretly wondered if Mrs. Lyman had remembered this from one of our assignments. As an ice-breaker, she had given us the task of writing a paragraph about ourselves.

Alexander, are you even paying attention? Miss Kelly’s voice asked. Her question sent a chill up my spine, and I looked up at the Smart board. I had not realized she had begun putting examples on the board. I nodded silently, ignoring some of the wide-eyed glances from my classmates. Then by all means, please answer this question.

Nerves hit me, causing butterflies in my stomach. Math was not at all my best subject, and her way of solving for x always threw me off. I opened my notebook, pretending to solve for the question. I would just give her a guess. That should pacify her. A piece of paper slid into my view, the math book hiding the fact that Kathleen had just given me the answer. X is equal to eight. I said aloud as I looked up from my notebook.

Miss Kelly’s eyes narrowed and I sensed she did not believe I had just answered the question. You’re correct. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, and everyone let out a sigh of relief as she turned back towards the smart board. For a moment I thought I saw her look at me with glowing red eyes. I swallowed hard, and then silently laughed at how silly I was acting. Her eyes were not red, obviously!

I took Kathleen’s sheet of paper where the answer was written and scrawled back a Thank you before turning my attention back to my notebook. I attempted to pay closer attention to Miss Kelly’s lecture but found it difficult as her dull voice drifted through one ear and out the other. A flash of white brought my attention back to the note.

Kathleen had actually risked Miss Kelly’s wrath and responded to my thank you. Not a problem. Military brats like us need to stick together. Besides, you never expect anything from me. I was surprised by the words she had written on the page, and I felt guilty quickly afterwards. She was right, we should be sticking together.

Here I was, thinking the worst of her when I should have been a person she could come to for help. My mom had been trying to encourage a friendship between us for weeks. Maybe mom had recognized my need for a friend that understood me. The only reason Christopher and I were close is because we not only went to the same school, but also the same church. Unfortunately, he was not a military brat so he did not understand me as well as he could.

I did not lie earlier when I said he was the closest thing I had to a friend here in Cheyenne, but I suppose you would only understand what I mean if you were a military brat. I need to forget my loneliness and get back to the story. My point is that Kathleen was right. We should be more than scholarly