Blood Possession (46 page)
As the next stroke of the lash fell into the same exact groove as the previous one, Nachari inadvertently bit his tongue:
Great celestial gods
, how much more could he endure? Day after endless day. Knowing his body would regenerate again and again only to prepare him for more torture.
Unable to withstand another moment of his torment, Nachari chose to take the only way out available to him…however temporary. Indeed, it was an escape he had taken one hundred times before. He threw back his head, his glorious mane of thick, raven hair spilling around his face and shoulders in wild waves of blood-crusted locks, and slammed his forehead against the stone.
The pain was indescribably profound.
Literally and figuratively stunning.
And then—mercifully—he collapsed against the stone, and the entire underworld went black.
Deanna Dubois knelt on her living room floor in deep concentration, rocking back and forth on her heels as she stared at the new set of drawings in front of her. She sighed in frustration and more than a little trepidation. The only reason she could call these drawings
new
was because she had drawn them last night—as opposed to the night before…
Or the night before that.
There was nothing new about her disturbing, ever-growing obsession.
She twirled a thick lock of ash-brown hair around her finger, noticing a particularly stark amber highlight, before turning back to the paintings.
Dear God, what was wrong with her?
She needed help.
And it was getting harder and harder to deny it.
She reached for the thin, light-weight computer beside her, drew it on top of her lap, and used the mouse to enlarge the webpage she had opened—and left open—almost two weeks ago: Psychiatric Clinics in New Orleans.
Just pick one, Deanna
, she told herself.
You need help!
She glanced once again at the pictures before her and tried to see them in a new light, maybe, with an eye for self-analysis—it was time for some serious introspection. Setting the laptop aside, she laid the drawings out in order—sort of like a progressively animated comic strip—and then sat back and studied them.
On the far left was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, a tall, incredibly well-built Adonis with deep green eyes and a face so utterly perfect she wasn’t sure God could actually create such a being—let alone endow her with the ability to draw it. His hair was unnaturally thick and silky, and there was a strange air of confidence swirling around him even in the drawing—not quite arrogance, but definitely pride—a regal-like quality. He was simply breathtaking. Actually, more than that: He was arresting…almost disturbing in his appeal.
The next sequence of drawings was more benign, and she drew them the same every time: pine trees, rock outcroppings, skies filled with dark, mottled clouds, and endless miles of forest. Nothing especially interesting or disturbing there. They reminded her of pictures she had seen of Colorado.
She turned to the next drawing, the one immediately to the right of the last forest picture, and she shivered. In this frame, the ground had opened up beneath the handsome man, and he was falling into a dark, endless hole…being sucked into some evil netherworld. The hands that were reaching up to grab him were skeletal and demonic; and, of course, this is where the metaphorical comic strip began to deteriorate and her own mental health came into question: In the subsequent set of photos—the largest sequence that she drew night after night—the ungodly beautiful male was depicted in all kinds of horrific scenarios and positions being tortured.
And by
tortured
, she meant hideously tormented in ways that no stable human being could possibly come up with—let alone draw in such brutal detail—unless that artistically disturbed woman was seriously going insane.
She rubbed her face with her palms as if she could scrub away the anxiety and stared apprehensively at the farthest picture to the right. Something in her gut turned over as her eyes connected with the images…
It was as if it were real.
As if it were happening right now.
As if, right this second, the man was lying face-down against a cold stone, bound by four heavy lengths of chain, with diamonds—of all things—embedded in the links. And God almighty, was he writhing in pain as his flesh was literally torn from his body by a spiked lash. Yet never—not even once in all of her drawings—did the guy beg his tormentors for mercy. For lack of a better term, he took it like a man.
A man forged from iron.
Whoever her phantom captive was, he clearly had the heart of a lion.
Deanna reached out and swept the drawings into a haphazard pile, purposefully disturbing the order in a desperate attempt to erase the madness that had become her nighttime—and more and more often, daytime—obsession.
“Who are you?” she whispered, pleading with heaven-knows-what for just a moment’s peace. “And why are you haunting me?”
One of the earlier-sequenced drawings seemed to rise to the top as if it were trying to answer her question by floating above all the other images…speaking in some cryptic, metaphysical way. “It’s just random, Deanna,” she reassured herself. “From the way you messed them up… You are not
that
crazy!”
She
emphasized the last five words while momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. And then she began tapping the back of her foot nervously against the floor in a frenetic, repetitive rhythm as she cringed. “What’s wrong with me…what’s wrong with me…
what’s wrong with me
?”
She continued to stare at the most prominent drawing.
“Fine,” she finally spat, reaching for the picture and lifting it up to study it more closely. “I’ll bite. Show me some great hidden meaning, then.” Shaking her head, she whispered, “Show me just how psychotic I am so they can lock me away…forever.”
As she turned the drawing over and over, observing it at different angles, she began to notice a strange pattern in the sky: There was something hidden within the shadows of the dark clouds…the ones that loomed ominously over the forested valley—the place from which the man always fell into the black hole. And the hidden pattern wasn’t something Deanna had added to the picture; rather, it was a deliberate omission—white space that remained empty, uncovered by pencil marks.
An outline emerged in the absence of color.
Frowning, Deanna leapt up from the floor and went to get her magnifying glass in order to take a closer look. As she held the drawing beneath the lens, she bent way over to study the vacant space…and froze.
What in the world?
The spaces were letters.
And the letters spelled very distinct words.
Wondering if she wasn’t about to open Pandora’s box—and whether or not she might be better off leaving well enough alone—Deanna reached for her pencil and flipped over another drawing in order to transcribe the letters on the back, one at a time…
DARK-MOON-VALE-CLINIC.
She sat back and stared at the words, and then she picked up the magnifying glass and verified each one a second time, making sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. Yep, that’s what they said all right: Dark Moon Vale Clinic.
She set down the magnifying glass and shrugged. At least they hadn’t spelled out Sybil or Three Faces of Eve. At least they hadn’t spelled out
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum
over and over and over: “All work and no play makes Deanna a very dull girl,” she whispered, shivering at the inappropriate reference to
The Shining
—a terrifying book written by Stephen King in the 1970s that was later made into a movie. That was later remade at a remote Colorado hotel…
Near the Rocky Mountain National Park…
Just outside the Roosevelt National
Forest
.
Deanna swallowed a lump in her throat, set the magnifying glass aside, and slowly reached for her laptop again. This time, she ignored the intimidating list of local psychoanalysts in favor of trying a different search: Colorado Clinics. When she didn’t find the one from her drawings, she began to breathe easier.
Okay, this is good. The clinic isn’t real.
Even as she thought it, an uneasy feeling grew in her belly, and she continued to try various word combinations in the search engine, absently seeking to discern whether or not the
place
was real, even if the clinic wasn’t.
And there it was.
Right beneath Mountain Hotels and Accommodations:
Dark Moon Vale Lodge
.
Damnit!
she thought, her trepidation growing. It was time to research the place in depth.
Despite some frantic voice screaming deep within the recesses of her mind,
Stop! Don’t go any further. This is one of those forks in the road—one of those ominous moments in life from which there is no turning back—don’t do it!
she was helpless to stop herself.
Because something far deeper within her, something far more fundamental and compelling than fear, was spurring her on—inexplicably drawing her to the suffering male in her sketches. To the haunted eyes of that masculine figure.
And nothing in this world—or the next—was going to keep her from solving the mystery…if, in fact, it could be solved.
Even as Deanna clicked on the link and prepared to read further, she already knew she was headed for Colorado: She was going to Dark Moon Vale.
Somewhere…the victim in her drawings did exist. And she was going to find him even if it killed her.
If she had harbored even the slightest doubt before, it was now completely gone: Deanna Dubois was absolutely—
certifiably
—insane.
About The Author
Tessa Dawn grew up in Colorado where she developed a deep affinity for the Rocky Mountains. After graduating with a degree in psychology, she worked for several years in criminal justice and mental health before returning to get her Masters Degree in Nonprofit Management.
Tessa began writing as a child and composed her first full-length novel at the age of eleven. By the time she graduated high-school, she had a banker’s box full of short-stories and books. Since then, she has published works as diverse as poetry, greeting cards, workbooks for kids with autism, and academic curricula. The Blood Curse Series marks her long-desired return to her creative-writing roots and her first foray into the Dark Fantasy world of vampire fiction.
Tessa currently lives in the suburbs with her two children and “one very crazy cat” but hopes to someday move to the country where she can own horses and a German Shepherd.
Writing is her bliss.
Books in the Blood Curse Series
(In order of publication)
Blood Destiny
Blood Awakening
Blood Possession
Blood Shadows (Coming Soon…)
If you would like to receive notice of future releases,
please go to the Blood Curse Series Website
www.TessaDawn.Com
Table of Contents
