Aris Returns
Authors: Devin Morgan
BroadLit
August 2012
Published by
BroadLit ®
14011 Ventura Blvd.
Suite 206 E
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Copyright © 2012 Devin Morgan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
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editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9859596-0-9
Produced in the United States of America.
Visit us online at
www.TruLOVEstories.com
To my beloved parents, Inez and Harold Morgan In this life, and the next.
This book could not have been completed without the recognition and patience of my
publishers and mentors, Barbara Weller and Nancy Cushing-Jones. Their insight and
expertise brought Aris and friends from a spark of my imagination to a reality with
every jot and tittle in place. For all their late night reading and slashing with
a red pen, I thank them profusely.
Thanks as well to Ayalla Dollinger and Sheri and Jake Faller for the hours spent in
conversation about my vampire world. Their insightful questions and suggestions helped
enormously to bring my characters to life.
Thank you to the entire Berman family for their love and support. Larry, you opened
the door to Wonderland for me and I am eternally grateful.
I wish to acknowledge my dear, belated friend Teri Kahan who has supported me in everything
I have done for the last twenty five years. Without her inspiration and insight, this
might just be another unfinished manuscript going to dust on a shelf in the library.
And a most sincere thank you to all my readers who have made the journey into the
Catacombs with me and discovered a whole new world of vampires.
by Devin Morgan
A
N
I
NFINITY
D
IARIES
N
OVEL
The first novel in a new series.
CHAPTER 1
S
arah yawned, stretching her neck and shoulders. Her muscles felt tight, tense from
sitting too long at her computer. It was almost midnight, the witching hour. Her business
day was filled with back-to-back sixty minute sessions, but the hard work didn’t begin
until her last client left her office. The analysis of each session consumed the rest
of Sarah’s time; the task of transposing her notes and deciphering the code each subconscious
mind spoke. She was exhausted at the end of each day but never bored. Every client
brought something unique and absorbing to their sessions. They allowed her into the
deepest, darkest part of their minds.
Her gaze drifted to the pile of newly printed books stacked neatly on the corner of
her desk. The graphics on the cover were stark and clean. “Psychosis and Past Life
Regression” by Sarah Hagan. She was proud of her work. Relentless hours of research
led her to develop her theory of practice, taking copious notes and reading volume
after volume on psychology, psychiatry, hypnotherapy and past life regression. Some
regression texts were useless, written by charlatans or people who were looking for
escapes and reasons for their unfulfilled lives. But some . . . some were written
by scientists and from them and her own client experience, she formulated her particular
hypothesis. And there it sat in book form right in front of
her eyes.
As she finished stretching, she reached to shut down her computer. She closed the
lid to her lap top, unplugged it and slipped it into her brief case. Smiling, she
gave in to her own minor obsessive compulsive tendencies, clearing her desk of paper
and pens, squaring the book stack perfectly on the corner before she reached to turn
off the small bright reading lamp.
Sarah scooted her chair away from her desk, swiveling around to look out the window
at the night skyline. She was amazed and grateful for her new found success as author.
Just last year her office was one small cramped room, part of a therapy group that
occupied a small storefront in a respectable part of town. Now her eyes swept the
bright lights of the Chicago night skyline from her office on the fortieth floor of
a building with a posh address. The soft burgundy leather furniture and dark, rich
mahogany desk and tables were so new they still smelled of the showroom.
Rising from her chair, she crossed to the window. Snowflakes danced in a light wind
coming off the lake. The air would be cold as she walked the two blocks to the subway.
She was glad she wore boots even though the weather report said no snow for two days.
Growing up in Chicago, she learned not to pay too much attention to the weather people.
She left the shades open. She placed her brief case and shoulder bag on her desk as
she slipped her arms into her black faux fur coat. She buttoned it, tying her cream
colored muffler around her neck. She twisted her shoulder length blond curls into
a bun, tucking her head inside a cozy black knitted cap. It fit snuggly over her ears.
Gathering her belongings, she stepped into the hallway. Once she locked the door,
she tucked her small hands into her lined black leather gloves.
She reached the elevator and just as she pressed the down button, her cell phone rang.
It jolted her. Her heart began to race.
Who would call at this late hour? Reaching into the pocket of her purse lining to
retrieve it, she was surprised not to find it in its designated place. Her hand dived
into the bottom of her bag and just as she touched it, the elevator chimed, the door
opened and the ringing stopped.
The elevator was empty. As she stepped in, she recognized some classical version of
an old Beatles song playing through the intercom. She opened the phone to read the
display. “Colleen Stevens. What in the world is she doing calling me at this time
of night?” She tried to get into her voice mail but the elevator and lobby of the
building were two places where she received only sporadic cell service.
She was concerned, waiting impatiently, watching each floor number register in a bright
digital green. When the elevator reached the lobby, the doors silently opened. She
hurried across the large room toward the main revolving door to the street. Snow fell
in huge, wet flakes and the wind whistled through the glass panes of the door. A shiver
ran through her body at the thought of the walk to the subway.
“Good night Miss Hagan.” The security guard gave her a smile that was overtaken by
a huge yawn.
“Night Tony. Looks cold out there.”
“It sure does. Glad I’m on inside duty tonight.”
Stepping close to the entry way, Sarah did her best to access her voice mail while
still holding her bag and brief case. With a soft sigh she gave up, placing them on
one of the bright patterned chairs arranged in an informal conversation group for
visitors. She stripped her gloves from her hands as she sat down.
“Sarah, this is Colleen. I’m at the police station trying to save the butt of one
of my parolees. I need your help so please call me as soon as you get this.”
Sarah groaned. She wanted to go straight home, but she couldn’t
ignore the call. Colleen was not only one of her first clients but also one of her
closest friends. As she unwrapped her muffler and unbuttoned her coat, she hit the
recall button.
After five long, loud rings, Colleen’s phone cut to voice mail. “Leave a message and
I’ll call you back.” Short and sweet. Exactly like Colleen.
“It’s Sarah. I’m just off work and going to the subway. If it isn’t an emergency,
call me in the morning. If it is, call me now.” She tapped the end button; made sure
the phone found its proper resting place in her purse then wrapped up preparing for
the cold wind that always whistled down Adams Street.
#
The subway platform was empty except for a young couple locked in a sweet embrace.
Sarah smiled as she stepped on the train. It had been a long time since she shared
such a tender, loving moment. After her divorce she threw herself into her work. Thinking
about other people saved her from falling into the dismal but relatively common roll
of “woman close to forty loses husband to woman hardly twenty.” Her study and work
not only saved her, but opened a door to a new realm of a rare and non-perfect science.
Past life regression possessed her. All her waking hours and dreams revolved around
times long gone. The subconscious mind amazed her. It often spoke in pictures of the
past. It was a thrill when her clients related those pictures to their present lives,
when they found the answers they were seeking.
