Ep. 5: Devil Dogs
Dark as Dawn, Bright as Night, a novel
DARK AS DAWN, BRIGHT AS NIGHT is a dark fantasy novel serialized in seventeen episodes. This is Episode Five.
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Previously: Blythe makes Ten an offer, and otherwordly visitors pursue Mae.
Up ahead: Ten follows Blythe to the edge of Hesper’s land. When he makes his way on alone, he’s surprised by what he finds there.
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TEN
I made the deal with Blythe.
Of course I did.
It’s what I’d been searching for at the end of a forest trail, the bottom of a bottle.
Atonement.
A way to pay for what I’d done to the only people I’ve ever loved.
What Blythe proposed was more than a penance; it was a way to save Mae. Maybe not from what had killed her, but at least from what was keeping her from finding peace.
After that meeting with Mae, I stayed on in Blythe’s studio, and she explained her plans to me through the night and into the next morning, growing vibrant and sharp once more as the rising sun warmed her.
To me, the whole plot she described seemed unnecessarily complicated. And I was wary of trusting her completely.
Blythe never mentioned it, but I kept hearing Mae’s last words: Be careful. It couldn’t have been just a coincidence that Blythe cut her off at that moment. And the way Mae had looked at Blythe. Glowing eyes or not, I knew suspicion when I saw it.
No, I wouldn’t leave things up to Blythe. I’d use her plan to get close to Hesper Wright, but then I would find my own way of ending things, of setting Mae free.
I think about potential scenarios as I walk back to the house. It was a gloomy midday by the time I left Blythe’s studio, the autumn sun setting the red and gold leaves afire.
Blythe’s plan involved negotiation, bartering. Too much diplomacy for me. I am a man of action, of shows of force, and fights with blood and pounding fists. I was good at killing. I’m good at it still, but apparently killing Hesper isn’t a simple matter.
She’s akin to an ageless demon, having given up what Blythe called her ‘bounds,’ the things tying her to this world, long ago. That was what I was supposed to offer. New bounds, bestowed by Blythe herself. A new name, blood, and passion that would tie her to the Dawn. She’d be born again among their kind, as powerful as any of the Dawn’s highest echelons.
“And why would making her more powerful help you destroy her?” I had wondered.
“Because,” Blythe told me, “without bounds tying her to a world, whether it be this one, the Dawn, or some other place entirely, Hesper is adrift, unmoored to any place, and thus not limited to any laws but her own.
“By accepting this exchange, she’ll become more powerful, yes, but she will also cede a large part of herself to the Dawn, enough so that the Light could then exert its considerable force in bringing her to heel.”
“She wouldn’t see the implications?” I asked.
“She will, but she won’t care,” Blythe replied. “It’s all that she’s ever wanted, to belong. Now she’ll belong to the Dawn. Once upon a time, in her part of the world, there was no greater honor. That’s not something easily forgotten. Even after all these centuries,. The punishment awaiting her may be harsh, but the honor of becoming part of the Dawn will outweigh any lingering reluctance.”
“You assume a lot about her.”
“Oh, these are not idyl suppositions. I have known her for a long, long time.”
I couldn’t help rolling my eyes when Blythe had finished explaining all this. Despite all that I’d seen, the stuff she was spouting still seemed ridiculous, and I had pushed her for a more straightforward solution. I told her many times that I wasn’t the man for what she had in mind.
“But a man like you would do anything to save his daughter,” she said. “That is exactly what I need.”
The sky is an angry blue-black bruise as I round the corner to my house, a brisk breeze lifting the lapel of my jacket and sending a chill down my neck. I duck my head against the wind and quicken my pace, anxious, I realize, to see if Mae will be there when I get back.
It’s true. I would do anything for Mae. Will do anything.
I offer Hesper the bounds of the Dawn, she releases Mae’s shade.
But as Blythe emphasized time and again during our long talk, the Dawn and the Dusk are beholden to a balance, to keeping the flow of souls and shades in harmony.
It looks different for each side. The Dawn’s mornrills are choked with souls because Hesper is creating too many shades. The Dusk is woven of shades. Pull one loose and the fabric of the Wright’s realm loosens. Pull too many and it unravels. So Hesper holds tightly to her shades. That’s where I come in, taking Mae’s place and pulling tight the loosened thread.
I understand the plan, more of less. But I remain apprehensive.
It isn’t that I mind dying. It occurred to me that I’ve lived like a shadow of my former self for years now. Becoming one now meant saving Mae from a long, lonely eternity.
But I don’t trust Blythe. I have only her guarantee that she would cross Mae once the Wright released her shade. Without trust, her guarantee is flimsy. I need to stay vigilant. Question everything, and if necessary, find my own way of defeating Hesper and setting Mae free.
I turn into the driveway, taking a glance into the front window, half expecting to see Mae’s beacon eyes staring back at me, but the panes are black. I bound up the stairs and through the door, shutting it behind me and flipping on the light.
No Mae.
I wait a breath and then another, expecting her to appear. Nothing. I sit down on the couch, finding the curve I’ve made there after so many nights drunk in front of the TV. I relax into it but remain attentive, looking for the slightest shift in the darkness filling the dusty corners.
Nothing.
I stay that way for a long time. The clock on the side table ticks its metronome beat. But she stays away. I try to tell myself it’s been as overwhelming for her as it has been for me, but still, as the evening drags on and becomes the dead of night and she still hasn’t come, I’m disappointed.
Even if we couldn’t talk, it’d have been enough just to look at her, to be in her presence again after so long. I can’t help but think she didn’t like what she saw there in Blythe’s studio—the sad wreck her dad had become.
“Fucking disgusting,” I say out loud. And I am. Disgusting, contemptible, a ruin. I’ve been wandering too long, aimless, lost. But that’s changing. I have hope now, a chance to fight, to make things right. A chance to prove to Mae that I am worthy of her love. The next time she saw me, I would be a better man.
***
I sleep fitfully, a part of me waiting for Mae to show. She doesn’t, but that’s okay, because Blythe and I are leaving today. We’re wasting no time. I shove some stale chips in my mouth and wash them down with a can of warm beer. Breakfast of champions.
I pull up to Blythe’s studio on my bike. My Harley glows sapphire blue in the morning sun. I’ve been riding since before I got my driver’s license. My mom had an old, crappy motorcycle covered in dust in the back of our garage, leftover from god-knows-what former life she’d lived.
I’d fixed it up and buzzed around our neighborhood, frightening little kids and old ladies. A terror my mom had called me. And I was, but I didn’t care. I liked the freedom, the speed, the image. All of it. So today I left the car at home. I wanted to take the bike on my last drive.
I knocked on Blythe’s studio door, her paintings winking like gemstones in the front window. Looking at them was like looking at the world through Blythe’s eyes. And the dark things hovering in the corners or along the edges of her scenes, the souls or shades or whatever, they weren’t out of place. They were right where she wanted them.
I’d been the hunter enough times in my life to recognize bloodthirst for what it was, no matter if it was dressed up in glowing oils on fancy canvases. And those ghosts were prey before a practiced predator. I took a good hard look at them just to remind me who I was dealing with. I’d need to stay on my guard.
Blythe opens the door, steps through, and locks it behind her. She turns around, opens her mouth to start issuing orders, but then pauses when she catches sight of my bike behind me.
“I can drive us, you know,” dangling a key fob in front of my face.
“Nah, I’m good. The weather’s nice. I’d prefer to ride.”
She smirks at me but nods, then flicks her fingers over to another key on her chain.
“Remember where I saw you out in the woods?” she asks. “We’re headed in that direction. I expect you know the way. I’ll signal to you when it’s time to turn off the main road.”
“Got it.”
“My place is pretty remote, and the road isn’t much more than a dirt track, so hopefully you know how to drive that thing.” She juts her chin over at my ride.
“Don’t worry, I got it,” I say, and swing a leg over the seat.
She cocks an eyebrow, lifts the corner of a mouth.
“We’re going to look cute driving down the highway together,” she says, striding off around the corner of her studio. I stare blankly after her, not sure what to make of that last comment until I hear the telltale rumble of a bike, and she backs out on a vintage Indian, matte black. She tosses me a glance over her shoulder, and I give her a little nod. Rebel kids and ancient hunters of the dead have the same taste in rides. Who knew?
We take off, the combined noise of our bikes obnoxiously loud on the suburban side streets, until we merge into the constant roar of the freeway. It’s one of those glorious late autumn days in the Pacific Northwest, the air golden and crisp, the sky an impossible crystalline blue. I’m riding to my death, but it doesn’t seem so bad like this. I’ve seen worse send offs, God knows.
It’s the weekend, so we miss most of the traffic that would be crowding the lanes south of Seattle, and it seems like no time before we hit the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, its tall white columns sparkling in the afternoon sun. We cut up north across the Kitsap Peninsula and then cross the long, flat, floating Hood Canal bridge, reaching Highway 101 and the Olympic Peninsula on the far side.
Blythe leads the way, only occasionally throwing a glance back my way. She knows I’ll be there. It’s too late to back out now. It was too late when I first caught sight of Mae, a ghost made of smoke, eyes like fire. Maybe Blythe does have the right man, because what she said is true. A man like me would do anything to save his daughter.
Somewhere after the highway turns south, Blythe signals for me to slow down. Hidden among the towering evergreens is a small dirt road, unmarked and shaded by the fir boughs hanging thick overhead.
We turn down it and bump along the rough track, Blythe maneuvering her bike expertly, me close behind, following her lead. An endless sea of trunks stretches off in both directions around us.
If it wasn’t for the odometer and the built-in compass, it’d be easy to lose track of distance and direction. The perpetual gloom created by the thick overstory makes time feel a little fuzzy too. The effect is like traveling into a different world. The kind of place where the things Blythe told me about seem not only possible but entirely probable.
Five miles later, we merge onto a smaller, darker path. This one’s not much more than a single track, but at least it’s flat and relatively smooth. Another few minutes and the line of trees ahead lightens and a haze of sunshine filters in among the thick growth.
We reach the tree line and burst out of the forest shadows onto a grassy meadow, dotted with late-blooming foxgloves. At its far edge is a little cabin, rustic but snug, and beyond that, the meadow meets a sudden cliff edge that drops dramatically to the shore of a lake below.
We bump through the tall grass then cut the engines in front of the cabin. Blythe swings one long leg over the saddle of her bike and takes off her helmet. Her chestnut hair catches the late afternoon sun, a necklace at her throat shines, seeming to capture her reflected light.
I realize I’m staring, and look away quickly, but not before she catches my eye and raises a perfect brow. Damn it. I mean she’s gorgeous, it’s true, but I know what lies beneath that flawless exterior. Nothing but a cold predator. I just haven’t quite decided if I’m her prey or her weapon. Either way, I remind myself not to trust her.
“This is my cabin,” Blythe says. “I set up here whenever I’m not in the studio. I keep an eye on the Wright’s activities. And I’m more likely to catch some errant souls the closer I am to her. But I never stay long. She makes me ill. Even this close I can feel Hesper. Her presence is like a miasma poisoning the air.”
Now I’m off the bike too and following her around the corner of the cabin. I don’t mean to gasp, but when I catch sight of the building across the long turquoise lake, I’m actually stunned by its unexpectedness, its incredible beauty.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Hesper’s house,” Blythe says, following my gaze.
It’s an imposing structure. A two-story wall of glass faces the water framed by a cantilevered roof in cedar. More glass-faceted walls face the west and east, while the back end of the house disappears into the craggy outcropping of the mountain just behind it.
“Nice place,” I mumble, still surprised to see something so luxurious and modern in the middle of nowhere.
“Hesper’s a blight on this world,” Blythe replies, “but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t learned a few things here across the centuries. A sense of style being one of them.”
“And a way to bankroll it, apparently,” I add.
“The ghost-making business is profitable. Your kind seem to have a horror of the grave and are willing to part with serious money to avoid it.”
“Capturing ghosts not as lucrative?”
Blythe presses her lips into a thin smile, but her eyes grow a degree or two colder.
“Even my servants would have scoffed at the best this backwards world can offer. This cabin, like my studio, serves its purpose until I can return. Everything I have here is nothing but a means to an end.”
“Right,” I say, trying and failing to keep the edge out of my voice. “Well, let’s help expedite your departure, shall we? Take me to Hesper.”
***
“This is where I leave you,” Blythe says as the narrow footpath we’ve been hiking along opens onto needle-strewn earth, the smaller trunks of newer growth forest standing like sentinels in the growing darkness.
I look her way, surprised by the quaver in her voice. She’s pale, her face drawn, the same wasted appearance she had after summoning Mae, maybe worse.
“You really think making Hesper stronger is the best way forward?” I ask. “Because, honestly, you’re not looking too good as it is and we haven’t even gotten to her house yet.”
“In your world I’m weak,” she says on a sigh, bracing herself against a tree. “It’s part of my punishment to experience this place without any of the protections that the Dawn normally affords. As a warden, I’m defenseless. Things are different at home. There the Wright will be little more than a stain in that great glowing place, a smudge to be wiped clean.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” I mutter, and then fall silent, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to manage my growing sense of doom. “And why can’t we just walk up to her front door? She sees clients, right? I doubt she makes them march through the woods first.”
“That way is impassable unless you have an appointment. Otherwise she’s woven her shades into a forest wall. Nobody would know there’s a road there, and even if they did they wouldn’t be able to get by.”
“And I’m guessing we’re not on her calendar. Fine,” I say and gaze off into the woods ahead of us. “But who’s to say that this way isn’t guarded either?”
“Oh, it is. But the lake and the mountain make this a tough spot to get to unless you come through my property. I have my own protections built into the landscape there. When I get this far along the trail, I’m not much of a threat as you can see.”
She sweeps a dismissive hand across herself and sags a little more into the tree she’s been bracing against to remain upright.
“That leaves whatever guests I might invite to travel this way, which have been few and far between. The protections she has here are less intense. But it’s always a good idea to go in prepared. Here, take these.”
She lets a pack slide off her shoulder that she’s been carrying since retrieving it from her cabin before we left.
“They’re a little old fashioned, but they’ve served me well.”
I loosen the leather drawstring at the top and let the thick canvas fall away. Inside are two identical blades, scythe-like with a wicked curve, attached to smooth handles in some kind of hardwood.
I pick one up and examine it in the fading light. The edge of the blade catches the orange glow of the low-hanging sun, making it glow like fire for a moment. I heft the other into my free hand and give them an experimental swing, first with my right, sweeping down, then with my left, pulling up and across. The movement feels good. It’s been a while since I’ve held a weapon, and never one like these.
“Nicely balanced,” I say, giving first one and then the other a flip. I run a gentle finger along an edge. “Sharp too.”
Blythe nods then indicates the pack with a poke of her chin. “There’s a holster for them in there too.”
I run a hand down inside the canvas and come out with the leather holster. I slip it over my head and arms then adjust the buckles for a snug fit.
“There are metal catches in the back with pressure releases,” Blythe says. “Reach back and lift up at the right angle and the blades come free. Do the opposite, and they snap back into place.”
It takes me a few tries, but then I get the right angle to tug the blades free. Replacing them is a little trickier, but I soon figure that out too. Blythe watches me, her pale face unreadable. After I’m able to successfully draw the blades and replace them several times in a row she pushes herself off the tree and clears her throat.
“It’s getting dark,” she says. “Best get going. Remember what to do?”
I look at her. With the golden glow of her skin gone, her predatory vibes muted, she looks vulnerable, and I wonder if maybe I should put the blades to use and kill her while I have a chance. Eliminate threats. That’s what I was trained for, and that’s what she is, no mistake about that.
But without her I’m also totally adrift in this upside-down world of ghosts, and Dawns, and an as-yet-unknown shade maker. She’s my only guide, whether I trust her or not, and I need to find my way. Mae’s eternity depends on it.
“Yep,” I say. “Get in, stay alive, make the offer, report back to you.”
Blythe nods. “We’ll figure out the mechanics of delivering the new bounds after she accepts. Your job is to make sure she does.”
I start off for the woods, but before I’m two steps in, Blythe calls my name again. I turn and she’s looking right at me, the cold force of her gaze as yet unchanged by her closeness to the Wright.
“You’re a brave man, Ten,” she says. “A rare soul. This will all work out.”
I turn and continue walking, that ancient instinct of self-preservation coiling my stomach into knots so that I’m wound tight like a snake ready to strike.
It will all work out.
Sure.
For one predator or another.
***
Not five minutes later I’m surrounded by trees, the horizon line lost to pine needles. The faint splash of water on rocks tells me the lake is to my right. Glimpses of craggy rock on my left. Good. Still headed in the right direction.
I’m on guard, listening hard. The gloom beneath the branches is thick, the air dense with the moist tang of sap and the loam of a forest floor that never fully dries. I move like a ghost. The soft ground absorbs my footsteps; the coming night wraps me in shadow.
And once more I realize that my world and the one I’ll be joining aren’t so different. I’ve lived this way for years, made my decisions, lived this long death. I’m ready for it. But Mae never was. She was never meant to be a part of this endless night. Just like she was never meant for the ordinariness of our regular world either.
I think of Blythe and what she’s told me of the Dawn. A bright place, but cruel. Would Mae be happier there? It’s a thought that hadn’t fully formed for me until that moment. If I rescue her from the Wright’s dark world would Blythe’s be any better?
I know what my gut says and it makes my footfalls slow, my conviction waver. Mae deserved more than what Helena and I had given her, what her short life had dealt her. Of that, I was certain. We’d find a way. Forge our own path if necessary. For now, I renew my pace, redouble my resolve. The only path now is forward.
The murk among the conifers grows more intense. The sun must have fully set although I doubt its rays ever reach here even in the height of summer. I keep striding, marking off the distance in my mind’s eye. I should be through the trees soon where the light will be better. The Wright’s house would be just a scramble up a stony slope, steep but short. I’m not looking forward to dropping in on her unannounced, but now there is no other choice.
Hope she doesn’t mind surprises.
My ankle twists on an exposed root and only the sturdiness of my boots keeps it from rolling too far and ending my impromptu incursion before it’s even begun. As it is, I stumble a bit and have to catch myself, one hand on the ground, to keep from falling to my knees. I take a breath. Exhale.
Then a rustling just before my fingers catches my eye. I watch thinking it’s some insect, a snake maybe, because whatever it is seems pretty big as it pushes the thick blanket of dead needles into a miniature haystack.
But then it keeps growing, this lump in the ground. Too big. My mind is sounding a warning. Get up, get going. But my body doesn’t comply. C’mon, get up, move. Now! And then a great gaping maw explodes out of the remaining needles, all too-sharp teeth in a red-ridged mouth, a curled, black tongue.
I fall back and push away from those snapping jaws with my heels as the rest of the thing struggles out of the ground. Some kind of dog I think, but it’s a twisted version with thin milky skin over a tumescent body. Sharp claws extend from scabrous paws and scramble at the dirt as it drags itself further out of the ground.
It doesn’t have eyes, I realize, just that sickly skin extending in fibrous ribbons over depressions in its skull on either side of a long muzzle. But it knows where I am, its black nose taking in great drags of the air. It turns its head toward me, then throws it back and howls, long and terrible, into the gathering darkness.
More lumps form in the ground. Too many. I’m running then, stumbling over the uneven ground, driving myself forward. Another root catches my toe and I go flying, hit the ground hard and roll to a stop.
The monster is on top of me in an instant. I push my forearm into its sinewy neck, trying desperately to keep its snapping jaws away from my neck. With my other hand, I reach back, fumbling for the handle of a scythe. I find it, but the beast has me pinned at an odd angle, and I can’t get it to release. I keep trying, anxious to get away before the rest of its brethren climb out of the dirt.
Finally, I hear the snick of the mechanism releasing, and draw the blade up and out over my shoulder, then down hard, straight across the creature’s snout. I see the sheen of bone before black blood wells up through the wound. The thing howls again and staggers back, giving me the opening I need to push off the ground.
Then I’m running again. Harder and faster than I have in a long time. I can feel my lungs burning, my heart hammering, and still, they’re right on top of me, to either side. Seven, maybe eight, of the horrific things, with the same snapping jaws and long, powerful legs, the muscles nearly visible through the paperwhite skin.
One of them leaps and drags its claws down my side. I cry out in pain, and take a wild swing with the scythe but it sweeps through empty air. Another snaps at my leg, only just missing my achilles. I reach back for the other scythe. It releases and now I’m swinging both of the blades wildly.
Two break away from the rest and sprint ahead just as we burst through the tree line and into the twilit strip of rocky beach at the foot of the cliff face. The beasts pull up and stop me in my tracks. I see the one on the right is the one I struck earlier.
Blood still oozes in obsidian waves from the wound. I’m surrounded now, and the monstrous pack is closing in on me. I hold my blades out, one gripped tightly in each fist. But I know I’m outmatched.
I hear the scramble of rocks behind me as one leaps forward, I turn and cut down, opening a gash in its haunch. It whimpers and backs away. Another lunges forward and knocks me to the ground, one scythe slipping from my grip. Then they’re all rushing in. I flail, swinging my remaining blade for all I’m worth. One good hit and a smaller beast crumples. But another takes its place, tearing at my legs and sides. I’ve managed to keep them off my neck, but I know it’s over. There are just too many of them.
A bad strike and my remaining scythe is gone, ripped from my hands by powerful jaws. One of them is over me, its demon blood drenching my shirt. It rears back ready to make the kill. But then a whistle in the night, high and long, breaks through the chaos of snarls and yips. The creatures back off, and I’m left, panting, on the beach.
I roll onto my knees, wincing as the sharp rocks of the little strip of sand slice into the wounds the dog-things have made. It’s dark now, and what light there is comes from a distant moon.
The beasts’ sides heave, the mist of their breath clouding the air. But through the darkness and the haze, I can see a cascade of white-blonde hair, the gleam of dark eyes in a pale face. And then the warm rasp of a voice in the cold night.
“Next time you might want to make an appointment.”
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