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  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction,

  the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons or events is

  coincidental.

  Copyright 2020 – Ana Calin

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Mister Dark (Dangerous Warlocks, #1)

  CHAPTER I – DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  CHAPTER II – GOOD GIRL

  CHAPTER III – TEMPTATION

  CHAPTER IV – BONDAGE

  CHAPTER V – WINNER TAKES IT ALL

  Kiss someone

  who makes you

  feel their magic

  in your bones,

  who makes you wonder

  how can someone

  who looks like

  witchcraft

  at midnight

  taste so holy

  ___

  Nikita Gill

  CHAPTER I – DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

  Izzy

  I hit the hospital reception counter, mad with worry.

  “Izzy Fabienne, here to see Sam Nolan. I’m family,” I lie.

  The receptionist types in the name, her black curls a frizzy mess. Her bronze skin is tinged livid, and dark circles hang under her eyes.

  “His daughter?”

  My cheeks heat up.

  “His... sister-in-law.”

  The woman looks up from under her tattooed eyebrows. There’s suspicion even in the way she chews her gum. I guess I’m not the only student with a crush that came to see the famous Professor Nolan with a story like that.

  “Sorry, he’s been put in isolation. No visits.”

  “Please, it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “I understand your distress sweetheart, but he’s just been transferred to the severe cases wing. Access restricted.”

  I lean over the counter with my fists balled tightly.

  “Listen, in his Demons Walking and The Paraworld, both NYC-Non-Fic-Team bestsellers,” I stress, raising a finger, “Sam Nolan predicted this mind-eating disease. That was before it hit the first bay area in the East. He also predicted it would spread to the rest of the world.” My eyes drop to her nametag. “Shauna, he may be the only person who can make sense of what’s happening out there. Please, let me talk to him.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “I’ll tell you what I can do, sweetheart. I can invite you to take a seat. A doctor will come talk to you soon—if you hand me your ID so I can verify that you’re related to the patient.”

  “Like I said, I’m his sister-in-law,” I say as I dig for my ID in my backpack. My fingers sink in the goo-like remains of a banana, smearing the tablet sheath, pens and books by the time I manage to fish out my wallet. “We have different names, so I’m not sure how you can check—”

  “His wife’s sister?”

  “Yes,” I lie again.

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Nolan had French roots. Fabienne—” She inspects my ID closely. “That is French, isn’t it?”

  “From my father’s side.” That part is true. And I hope that Astrid Nolan’s past prancing on the catwalks of Paris will be enough background for her to back me up on this.

  Astrid doesn’t know that I’m tragically and hopelessly in love with her husband—a secret I’ll take to the grave—,and she took a liking to me. She actually encouraged Sam to keep me as an intern after my one-month contract ended. The fact that I can never compete with her despite being much younger might have played a part, too. Most of Sam’s other admirers are loud and sexy, while I’m quiet, willowy, and never get out of baggy clothes.

  I’ll never compare to Astrid, tall and imposing as she is, blonde, and intimidating like a Scandinavian goddess. She was once a world-class model, and now she’s a highflying media mogul in her own right. A strikingly beautiful one, with a prominent bone structure that marks her strong character. Add the pit bulls she keeps as pets, and you have the full package power woman.

  I drop in a seat by the window, running my hand through my hair, a mouse-brown mop as I see it reflected against the pane. It frames a thin, milky-white face, and falls down to skinny shoulders. It’s getting dark outside, lights flick on in here, so I can see myself as clearly as I would in a mirror. My blue irises are so pale they could scare off a ghost, and the black eyeliner enhances the effect. It wasn’t my intention to look like an EMO teenager, but without the make-up I’d probably scare the shit out of people if they ran into me at night.

  “Izzy, you’re here.”

  I jump to my feet as Astrid Nolan prances over to me. Her porcelain face is tight, her green eyes focused. She crumples up her visitor’s scrubs, stopping in front of me without making a move to hug or shake hands. I fidget, not knowing what to do with my hands, and clear my throat.

  “You managed to see him?”

  “Thankfully, before they took him in isolation.”

  “Was that really necessary? I mean, it’s not like he’s contagious or anything.”

  “A number of people in the community lost their minds the exact same way, Izzy, and doctors still don’t know how it’s passed on. Better safe than sorry.”

  “But if it was contagious, I would have it. You would have it. Your dog sitter would have it. We’ve been close to him for months.”

  “We don’t know how it’s transmitted, and why only certain people are more sensitive to it than others. What we do know is that the disease started to ravage Sam’s body, too, not just his mind. His brain scans, they’re—” She pinches the bridge of her nose, as if keeping herself from breaking down. “Until we understand this disease spreads we have to take strict measures.”

  “Astrid, isolation isn’t right for him. If we want to help him—”

  “That’s the thing, Izzy, we can’t help him,” she snaps. “His brain looks like a shriveled nut. Until we know more, we have to take precautions, make sure he doesn’t harm himself or others.”

  Her words feel like slaps, but I can’t not challenge them. “That doesn’t change the fact that he knew what would happen. He predicted this exact scenario—high-profile people losing their minds, at first isolated cases, but soon—”

  “Of course he knew, on a subconscious level he sensed he had the disease in him, and he foresaw its natural development.” She towers over me, but I’m too mad to cower back this time. “Now here’s what you’re going to do.” She pokes my chest with her finger, marking her words. Every jab at my sternum makes me want to hit her, but I lock my lips together, and manage to keep my shit together. “You’re gonna go home, and let this go. Sam’s in isolation, which is the best thing for him. I don’t want you poking around the matter anymore. If you do, I will make sure that you leave it alone. Do I make myself clear?”

  No way. I can’t let this go. During my internship, Sam and I became close. He trusted me. He charged me with things that mattered to him, that he reserved for special people that he kept close. He had me research historical archives for information on fallen angels, ranks of demons, alleged historical immortals such as the Count of Saint Germain. Things that a high-class scholar like him had no business being interested in, if he wanted to keep public respect. He trusted me with his secrets.

  And I have a debt of honor to that now—or so I choose to think. A shrink would say that it’s the only way I can feel special to Professor Nolan, but I gues
s that’s the way it is.

  Anyway, all I ever got from my research was little more than legends, children’s stories and peasants’ tales, but Sam pored over them like a man with an obsession. Soon there was little left of the History Between Fact and Legend professor that I lost my head for during my first term on campus. I had fallen in love with his genius, his intelligent brown eyes, the frizzy halo around his head, and those tweed suits that fit him so well. There was eloquence even in the way he moved, and his voice was a kind caress. I think it was his voice that I fell in love with first.

  But I wasn’t the only student with a crush on Sam, even though I was the only one whose feelings were tragic. He often said he loved my sharp mind, but it was still the curvaceous girls that got his attention, even though he tried to hide it. A girl permanently in a dark mood and baggy clothes like me obviously wasn’t his type. I know for a fact he never cheated on Astrid, because he loved and respected her, but his eye often slipped, and envy choked me every time I caught it. I wished it had been me he scanned from the corner of his eye like that.

  But I came to terms with the fact that I’d never have Sam. However, I did have access to his vast, fascinating mind. I absorbed knowledge from him like a sponge, always thirsty for more.

  He opened my eyes to the true history behind the mainstream misconceptions. At only nineteen, I knew things that I could have been locked up for. I tune out Astrid’s orders and instructions. No matter what she says, I have to help Sam. I owe it to him.

  Izzy

  I USE SAM’S SPARE KEY, and let myself into his study. It’s in the basement of his house, but with direct access from the garage, so the dog sitter doesn’t know I’m here. Astrid stayed back at the hospital to talk to the doctors, which should give me a window of at least half an hour before she’s back, if not an hour.

  The shelves look ransacked, with books lying open on the floor. He underlined paragraphs in his madness, clearly trying to put something together during the past few weeks, when the disease got so bad that he locked himself away. I point my flashlight to the far wall, and find the chalkboard full of a madman’s ramblings, jagged lines connecting the words and sentences as if to construct some mystical sense.

  One sentence stands out, thickened on top of all the others—When the orphan raises war, she shall spear the dark’s core.

  I shake my head, fighting away tears. I remember him repeating that one like a mantra for days before he locked himself away. He rambled something about a prophecy, but he’d completely lost it by then.

  I turn the flashlight to his desk, the light pooling over a clutter of books and papers. Sam’s favorite pen lies askew over an open book like a barrier.

  I touch brittle paper carefully, recognizing the book. It was precious to Sam, very much so. The War on Warlocks, an exceptionally rare item about the witch hunt that happened here, in Heresia Oaks, in the 1600s. Three warlocks were prosecuted—Lucius, Zayne, and Zillard. They’d been tortured in vile ways that I could never bring myself to read about in detail.

  Sam had won the book in an auction, bidding against his open rival, Professor Gustav Melvin, my second favorite professor on campus, and a personality at least as eccentric as Sam Nolan. Professor Melvin is over seventy years old, with the air of a sage, and I think Sam secretly envied him for all his knowledge and wisdom. The old sage is the one person I would contact right now if not for one thing that draws my attention when I remove the pen and turn the brittle page.

  The drawing of an old wooden church from the puritan era.

  Wait.

  I bend over the drawing.

  I know this place.

  Floorboards groan above my head, and my throat constricts in panic. Shit. If Astrid finds me here, she won’t listen to reasons, she’ll be mad as hell. I should get out immediately, but I can’t let go. My curiosity is inflamed. If I could only remember where I saw this church before.

  The floorboards whine again, and anxiety shoots through me. But the need to get to the bottom of this is overwhelming. I do the first thing that comes to mind, namely rip the drawing from the book. It tears a bit of my heart along with it, desecrating a priceless document like this, but I need time to study the drawing, and remember where I know it from.

  I escape into the garage the instant before the door opens from the house, light licking the ground just behind my feet. I close the door quietly, then scurry towards the rolling garage door. I stumble over a bucket, a rake and a broom, grunting ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ with each misstep, and causing a clamor that could wake a half deaf man.

  I hit the button that opens the rolling door, but the damn thing is so slow there’s no way I won’t get caught. Barking comes from the house, and a woman yells instructions.

  The dog sitter. She’s set Astrid’s dogs on the intruder, and they won’t stop just because they know my scent. Astrid has her pit bulls trained to follow orders, no matter if it’s their own mother they have to tear apart.

  I keep punching the button, looking desperately behind me, barking and powerful paws approaching dangerously fast. I can’t wait for the rolling door to open. I throw myself on my stomach and crawl under it, the dogs almost on me. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and I jump to my feet faster than a human should be capable of. I run like crazy, not looking back. I can hear the dogs chasing me, aware they’re quickly catching up. I turn left and jump over a fence into a neighboring yard.

  It’s completely dark already, and lights from the TV flicker through the window, but the neighbor’s dogs are awake. They bark angrily, saliva hanging like slimy cobweb from their fangs, their leashes straining against the poles they’re precariously fastened to. The adrenaline gives me both energy and speed to move forward. I jump from yard to yard, my clothes catching on the fences. By the time I reach the main road I look like I’ve barely escaped a fight with a wolf. The dogs are still after me, and nobody in their right mind would give me a ride now. They’d probably swerve around me and call 911 from their cars.

  My only chance is to throw myself in front of a car, waving my arms. The driver flashes the headlights, tires screeching. For a moment there, I’m sure this was it.

  Izzy

  AND YET, HALF AN HOUR later, I’m still alive. The car came to a halt just an inch away from my knees.

  The woman behind the wheel was so happy she didn’t kill me that she offered a lift to wherever I wanted without asking too many questions.

  I thank her, and get out of her car. Needles shoot through my swollen wrist as I push the door back shut, watching the worry in the woman’s face. She lowers the window and asks me again if I’m fine, I confirm, even though it would be obvious from a fucking plane that I’m not.

  But my detective instincts are on fire, or maybe it’s my feelings for Sam that keep me going. Maybe it was those feelings, mixed with the adrenaline, that made the memory of where I saw the old church pop into my mind just as my battered body scrambled into the woman’s car.

  It was in a slide show during one of Sam’s first seminars. The church just outside of town, at the edge of a forest where witches were hung during the Salem witch hunting. The phenomenon of witch hunting was more widely spread across the country than people think, and more than just a town or two were affected. But the interesting thing about the hunts here, in Heresia Oaks, is that it was male witches that they not only hung, but also tortured before that.

  Three warlocks.

  Lucius, Zayne, and Zillard.

  Scaffolding surrounds the old church’s silhouette, looming like a monstrous structure in the night. The air is crisp, and chills go through me, but not just from the cold. It’s the fact that I’m alone, in the dark, standing at the edge of an allegedly haunted forest, and intending to walk into a church that hasn’t been used in years. My body aches, my clothes are torn apart from the dogs chase, and I’m scared, but I can’t let go. Besides, I don’t really have a place to go, considering Astrid’s warnings. She warned me to stay away from this business,
or she’d take measures. She’s influential enough to do it, and I know she’ll fuck me up without remorse when I show my face in town again.

  But my thirst for answers is stronger than fear of Astrid or the forest. Astrid was covering something up, and I have a strong feeling it had to do with this place.

  Twigs crack under my feet as I make my way through the shrubbery and overgrowth towards the church, thinking about Sam and the fine selection of people who came down with the same insanity. I wonder whether their brains turned into dried out nuts, too. Why is it only prominent people—high-profile intellectuals, politicians, even Hollywood stars and CEOs that get affected? Why are they being taken into isolation, their connection to the outside world cut off completely, and why doesn’t Astrid want me investigating this? Why doesn’t she want anyone looking into it?

  I walk under the scaffolding and push the church door open. It creaks eerily, raising goose bumps along my arms, but my feet keep moving. One particular memory from my childhood comes back to me, namely that I wanted to become a detective when I grew up. I guess the way things went down at Sam’s house sets the record straight about my potential, and yet the sick excitement I feel as I walk deeper down the nave tells me I’m either a born investigator, or a complete idiot.

  Reason tells me to just go, and contact Professor Melvin tomorrow. He’ll have more valuable stuff to say about this place than I could possibly discover on my own in the middle of the night, but I can’t fight this pull.

  Draught sweeps through the church as I stop in front of the altar.

  A round structure made of twigs marks the entrance, fletched together in a way that makes it resemble a crown of thorns. As if walking into the altar would take one right through the passions of Christ.

  My skin crawls, but my instincts are still strong. They assure me the only answer I need is in there, all I have to do is walk through.

  But there’s something about the structure that freezes the blood in my veins. Maybe the pain and suffering it evokes? Or is it something else, even more mystical? Or more related to me than to Jesus?