KILLING SUNLIGHT
BOOK ONE of the MORNINGSTAR DUOLOGY
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CHAPTER ONE
Out of Darkness
'When is this going to end?'
Miles of asphalt had disappeared under the wheels of his rental car. Driving from Montana to the East Coast was always a laborious task, one that left him wishing he'd flown instead. Yet, the mere thought of crowds, confinement, baggage collection, and security, the whole experience's tedium, made him lurch in displeasure. Air travel drew too much attention in the world's current social climate, and he had a secret identity to keep. Driving solo was easier.
The two-thousand-mile distance meant that he only paid visits to his final destination—the mythic Maine town of Lockwood—if he was somewhat in the area, and such occasions only arose when he had business in New York City. His business had concluded two days prior, so now he was back on the road, making the seven-hour drive north through New England. Figuring he should make the best of it—with the radio turned up and driver's seat adjusted for maximum comfort—he had settled in for the long haul.
Scenes of picturesque wilderness passed by until the next urbanised area dominated the landscape. It was nearing midnight when a flourish of woodland came into view, and the dull ache behind his eyes coaxed him to take a break. Anticipating how fresh the air between the trees would feel, he diverted from his route, parked in a desolate roadside reservation and rolled down the window to smoke. The headlights still illuminated the treeline ahead while the engine idled. Between his fingertips, a lit match lingered before the cigarette clasped between his lips, though before the flame had ignited the tobacco, his cell phone rang.
He answered with a customary greeting without registering the caller ID, only to hear a familiar, deep, and velvety voice asking, "¿Cómo va, mi hijo?"
"Oh, hi, Magnus." His tone was that of pleased recognition. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm just checking in. Are you still on your way?" He simply hummed confirmation, and Magnus continued, "Vale. So, where are you now?"
"Uh—" Paused for thought, pinching his thumb and index finger over his eyes, he recalled the place names on his map: "New Hampshire. Somewhere called… Hanover."
"You have some way to go yet. You sound tired."
"I guess I'm taking the scenic route. I don't often get the luxury of a vacation, so I figured, why not enjoy the commute." He emphasised slightly mockingly. Magnus had a vacation from his tireless work as the International Vampiric Governments' Military Coordinator booked. Truth be told, he deserved it. He'd been worked into the ground lately, what with the Coven's military's special forces, 'The Black Winter', being sent on deployments every other week.
Lately, there had been so much death that the Vampiric community had become hyper-aware of the death toll, whereas most had become desensitised. Perhaps the apocalypse was indeed upon them if a race known for its violence had started to wince in reaction to the incessant slaughter. However, this wasn't a 'war' in any traditional sense. This wasn't a country versus country conflict. No, this was a race war and not just one against another but against many.
The revelation that Mythicals existed had turned neighbour upon neighbour overnight. There had quickly come the point where it felt beyond anyone's control, especially now that racial divides felt wider than ever. It seemed that people had forgotten the meaning of peace, which made it seem even further out of reach. Nowadays, doing nothing in retaliation to the infectious hatred felt as unnatural as it was useless to stop the annihilation. Fundamentally, the IVG were grasping at straws, unsure of what to do to quell the global angst amongst its vampiric community. Honestly, any reaction seemed like a lost cause.
The quiet rolling roar of the engine ceased when he stepped out into the night. The air was crisp and refreshing. For a moment he paused, to simply enjoy how the cold wrapped about the back of his neck and filled his nose, soothing the ache behind his eyes. Though it quickly occurred to him that even though he was on a desolate road, it was still public and there was a chance he might be seen.
A Mortal reaction would've been to shiver, perhaps grasp one's upper arms while complaining under one's breath of the frigid temperature. To quickly disguise his nature, he grabbed his woollen overcoat from the backseat.
While he shrugged it on, he awkwardly held his cell phone to his ear with a shoulder, and Magnus quipped, "My holiday doesn't start for two weeks. I've work to do yet," before his voice warmed again, "but I look forward to seeing you."
"Yes, so do I, old friend," he admitted, giving sound to his smile. "It'll be good for you to see what I've been up to over here; it's been quite the project. But 'The Compound' is coming along great, and we're almost at full capacity."
"Si, we're excited to see what you've accomplished in such a sh-"
"We?" He disrupted bluntly, "Wait. You're bringing Ellis with you?"
"Of course. I don't see this as a problem. Is it?" Magnus asked innocently. All the Spaniard got by way of a reply was a defeated groan, which made him chuckle. "I will call you when we land, so send a car for us. And let me know when you get to Lockwood, si?"
"Alright, Mag', see you in two weeks."
Once the call terminated, he finally allowed himself the yawn that had been brewing at the back of his throat. His lungs barely warmed the air he exhaled. It wasn't long before the faint grey condensation was soon joined by blue-hued smoke when he lit the cigarette he'd kept wedged between his fingers. Several steady drags stretched the minutes he idled, leaning on the car's side and looking towards the treeline. Thoughts came and went with his breaths; none lingered, bar one. It was a chilly night, but not raining, pleasant enough for a stroll. Perhaps a bite to drink if he happened across an unfortunate soul.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Autumnal leaf litter crunched beneath his feet, and ferns brisked his calves. The fresh, dewy air beneath the canopy was a welcome change from the dry a/c he'd had blowing over his face all day, though there was barely a breeze to speak of. Only the distant humming flutter of moths' wings disturbed the air. All else around him was deathly quiet—a sign that daytime creatures were sleeping—save for the occasional faraway hoot of a barred owl. If he had closed his eyes, he could have homed in on the unique sounds and scents of the woodland fauna, but instead, he kept his eyes trained forward, satisfied that everything was plain, simple, and in its place. There was peace to be found in the mundane scent of the musty earth and the zesty perfume that burst from the foliage crushed underfoot. Peace, which was soon stolen by an unwelcome scent. Water. Wandering a few metres further, he found its source: a pond. Of course, he'd steer clear of it and lingered away from the shore, though he did admire how the ripples glimmered and disturbed the moonglade reflected over its surface.
Out of the murky freshwater air came something not belonging to the water nor the woods—an intensely sweet scent. It belonged to a someone rather than a something. Intense and edging on non-Mortal yet unlike any Mythical he'd ever encountered. Its peculiar placement was what piqued his curiosity the most.
Light-footed and silent, he donned the familiar guise of a hunter to stealthily traverse the undergrowth and track the scent to its origin. The hunt was short-lived. The scent gathered in might, becoming so pungent that his throat burned despite the saliva that had welled beneath his tongue. That was when he saw her. Just a glimpse before recoiling, taking cover behind a girthy pine. For now, he didn't want to reveal his position and spook the girl. Prey was always easier to catch when they were unaware.
Once he'd regained some composure, he honed his predatory instinct and halted breathing to calm his bloodlust. How easy she'd be to subdue meant the diabolical was still only a misplaced breath away. Against the soles of his shoes, his toes curled, ready to sprint, in case she intuited she was being watched and decided to flee. Now, remaining inhumanly still, he surveyed her from cover. Beneath his brow, ridged in concentration, his blue eyes deepened, thirst transforming them to a shade as black as the night sky. Inside his mind, the futile war between man and monster began.
✷✷✷
In the summer, when the days were longer, her woodland strolls were part of her everyday routine. Between wandering around the water's shore, she looked for a comfortable spot to stop and sketch or read. There, she would stay until the light was too faded to see the page or her pencil lead wore down so dull that there was no point carrying on. Fall nights had already begun to steal sunlight from her, but up until her sweater did nothing to stop her from shivering, she'd continue to retreat to the woods. Anything to escape home and pretend she had a different life, if only for a little while.
On that particular evening, one week before she was due to start her senior year of high school, she came to be sat on a flat rock nestled between the trees. In her hands, she clutched two envelopes that she had received in her school mailbox that afternoon. The first she'd been dreaming of since the second grade. Some of her classmates' parents had attended her school to discuss their careers. One of the adults left a lasting impression on the girl and incepted a dream into her ambitious mind. They were a professor of anthropology. The man, smartly dressed in a brown tweed jacket, an Aran pullover, and polished brown brogues, passionately told of his travels and all the wonderous people he'd encountered. The light in his eyes as he spoke of the rich and exotic cultures he'd immersed himself into in the pursuit of knowledge left her awestruck. To her, he'd appeared like some enigmatic travelling storyteller, a dream seller, arcane and not a real person.
Upon questioning about what she'd like to be when she grew up by her homeroom teacher a few years later, her daring idea took life from the dreamlike memory she'd harboured. Perhaps, one day, she could become a travelling academic. From then until this moment, she had chased that dream and allowed nothing else to distract her from her studies. Truly, the pursuit of knowledge had filled her otherwise bleak existence. Yet now that the pinnacle moment had come, the crisp white envelope fluttered between her fingers though no breeze moved it; her hands trembled.
It was addressed to herself. Typed onto the front: Miss K. I. Morgan and given the return address, it was from Harvard University's Admissions Office.
Years of niggling doubt bubbled up from the depths, where she continuously buried it. It threatened to spill over. Wicked internal whispers of her conflicted mind insisted that dreaming of becoming successful was too much for someone like her—someone who had forgotten how to cry at the tender age of six. Someone who never shouted or lost their temper because it was no use. Someone with no memory of what it is to be read bedtime stories or family gatherings. Although she only played trees in school plays, she never met any familiar eyes when looking into the audience. There were no outings to buy new shoes or party dresses. There were no parties, no birthday cake or candles. No playdates or sleepovers, not that she had friends to invite. Christmas happened exclusively outside her front door. Gifts were short chore lists and leftovers of more than the burnt bits. No such girl deserved big dreams. Yes, it was highly likely a rejection letter.
Postponing the shattering of her childhood dream and teenage purpose in one fell swoop, her eyes settled on the other envelope. Tilting her head in consideration, she inspected it, turning it over in her hands. It was folded from thick off-white paper, not your regular office stationery. It had no return address, and in what was clearly handwritten cursive was just her first name scrawled on the front. How casual it appeared had made her wary. Namely, because she couldn't think of a single person who might write to her on a first-name basis. The longer she gazed upon the smooth and swirling calligraphy, the more convinced she became that rejection was better; at the very least, it was familiar.
Inhale. Exhale. Braced for disappointment, she set the informal letter aside. Done clenching her fumbling fingers into a tight fist to gain composure, she reached to peel back the sealed ear to reveal her fate.
"Please, please, please..." she whispered in prayer, slipped the letter from its envelope and directed her flashlight's beam over the page.
"Dear Miss Morgan," she read aloud, "Congratu—"
Her heart skipped a beat. But not for the right reason. The unmistakable sound of a branch snapping underfoot ricocheted through the trees. Her moment of joy fractured. Her breath caught. Her heart raced. Her mind begged the question: 'Whose foot?' Wide-eyed against the darkness, she redirected her flashlight and scoped the vicinity for the creator of the disturbance.
Out of reach of the yellow beam, a black silhouette loomed in the darkness just beyond the treeline. The conclusion she dreaded materialised—a man.
People walked through these woods all the time, but this time was different. Usually, people passed by without giving her a moment's notice, but not this person. No, he was staring directly at her. Captivated and too alarmed to look away, she stared back. She didn't even look down to see the snapped branch, as thick as a two-by-four, under his foot.
The stranger emerged from the darkness into the light of a gibbous moon. Her first thought was proved: he was a man. A man with thick, dark hair, a neatly stubbled chin, and a black coat. The stranger looked immaculate and expensive in his clothes, especially against the rugged wilderness.
Any moment now, he'll walk away. Or so she thought, but he didn't. The stranger did something stranger than stop and stare; he broke their silence.
"Hello."