Red Dagger Read online

  Red Dagger

  H.G. Lynch

  Published by CHBB Publishing, Inc.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Text Copyright © 2015 H.G. Lynch

  All rights reserved

  Published by Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Catherine Stovall

  Cover design by Nicola Ormerod for Vivid Designs

  Chapter One

  ** Ruairidh **

  Screams echoed around him as he sprinted into the dark hallway from his room, terror making his heart clamour in his chest. He was running as fast as he could, the hilt of his sword slick against his sweaty palm, but he already knew he was too late. He burst into his dad’s room, the sound of the door slamming against the wall as loud as a gunshot in the sudden, terrible silence. He froze in the doorway, the tip of his sword hitting the floor.

  The room was streaked with red—red everywhere. It was splashed across the walls and ceiling, smeared on the carpet and the tangled, torn bed sheets. His stomach turned over hard, bile rising in his throat, burning out the scream trying to force its way from his lips. Normally, the sight of blood, even so much of it, wouldn’t have affected him. Over the last five years of hunting monsters, he had seen much worse. But now, he was certain he was going to throw up. His head was spinning, his breathing coming quick and shallow.

  Glittering shards of glass from the shattered window lay in a puddle of blood, rain, and moonlight, the shredded curtains snapping in the wind like pale, angry spirits. Crouching on the sill, amongst jagged spears of glass, was a demon. The infernal creature had skin as black and slimy-looking as oil that gleamed wetly in the rain, reflecting the shine of the streaks of lightning that split the sky beyond it. It had a long, twisted body with long twisted limbs that ended in razor-sharp claws. Seeing Ruairidh struck still in horror, the demon’s mouth opened in a gruesome grin, showing a mouthful of jagged, yellow teeth, stained with his father’s blood.

  A roar of thunder and a blinding flare of lightning snapped him out of it, and all his training, everything his father had taught him, came flooding back. Pushing his horror and pain down deep, deep inside, he locked it away so he could deal with it later—or hopefully never. He raised his sword in one fluid motion and took a step into the room, his heart pounding with the need to slice the shimmering blade through the demon’s neck. He met the demon’s glowing hellfire eyes as it leaned forward, clinging to the window frame, and hissed at him. Then it turned and leaped out the window into the raging storm.

  With a curse, Ruairidh ran to the window, ignoring the blood he stepped in, and stared down at the ground. The demon was crouched on the grass below, its red eyes glaring up at him, teeth flashing in the rain. It didn’t think he would chase it from the second floor of the house. The long drop was dangerous, especially since he was bare-footed and carrying his sword. He could easily break a leg.

  He put one foot up on the wet sill, regardless of the shards of glass cutting into his flesh, and launched himself out the window into the night. The wind whistled past his ears as he fell straight downward, so fast his stomach lodged in his throat. He hit the ground hard, crying out in pain as the impact drove a jagged piece of glass embedded in his foot deeper.

  Still, he rolled to his feet, pausing only to yank out the shard of glass, and then started running, half-limping, after the demon as it darted across the grass and onto the empty street. Ruairidh’s heart pounded, his pulse thumping loud in his ears, the wet grass slick under his feet. The sheeting rain soaked him to the bone in seconds, his hair dripping into his eyes, making it impossible to see the shadow of the demon up ahead. He pushed it back impatiently, skidding to a halt on the gritty pavement as his eyes swiftly scanned the dark street for the demon.

  But it was gone.

  He was left shivering on the dark, empty street in the pouring rain, his feet bloody, and the sword hanging limp, shining, and unused, in his hand. He barely felt the pain as his knees connected with the hard ground, the sword falling from his grasp with a distant clang. He closed his eyes, tipping his face up to the stinging, ice-cold rain as agony ripped through his chest and he screamed to the night sky.

  *****

  I woke with a start, a scream caught halfway out of my throat. It took me a second to realise my eyes were open, and I was staring blankly at the ceiling of the pitch-dark room. I was shaking, drenched in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around me. I lay there, breathing hard, my heart thundering against my ribs, afraid to move in case it brought back the pain of that night.

  Eventually, my heart rate slowed, and I sighed. Rolling over, I hit the switch on the lamp sitting on the bedside table, and the room flooded with sickly yellow light. Dragging myself into a sitting position and leaning my back against the headboard, I listened for noises throughout the house, wondering if my screaming had woken anyone. But the house was silent beyond the bedroom door. If I’d woken anyone, they weren’t coming to check on me—over the last two months, they had gotten used to my nightmares.

  Sighing, I ran a hand over my damp forehead and looked around the room. The light had forced the shadows to retreat into the corners, under the wardrobe, behind the dresser. The plain, pale blue walls, the cream carpeting, the long curtains over the window—the room was not mine, but I’d gotten used to it since I moved in with my mother and brother. They were the only family I had left since my father—since that night.

  More like they had taken me in, as if I were a stray. I hadn’t seen them in five years, not since my parents had gotten divorced, and I had decided to go live with Dad. My mother had begged me to stay with her and Angus. She wanted me and my brother to live a normal, safe life. That was why she and Dad had separated. Mum hated the danger of the way Dad lived, as a demon hunter.

  I was born to follow in my father’s footsteps. Demon hunting was in my blood. I loved everything about the life—the fighting and weapons and, yes, the danger. Most of all, I loved the feeling I got when I killed a demon, when I wiped one of those creatures of pure evil off the face of the Earth. So I’d gone to live with my father in Ireland, to continue fighting demons, while Mum and my brother remained in Scotland to live an ordinary life.

  That was why I had waited as long as possible, almost a week, before contacting my mother to tell her what had happened, that Dad was dead. To her credit, she didn’t burst into tears over the phone. She didn’t even sound surprised. She had insisted that I come back to live with her immediately, and because I had nowhere else to go, I had.

  Layla, my mother, had been welcoming enough. She’d met me at the airport. The minute she’d caught sight of me in the crowd, she had run to me and enveloped me in a hug, murmuring about how sorry she was, how much she’d missed me, and how big I’d gotten. All the stuff I’d expected her to say. She had set me up in the guest room of the home I had lived in with both my parents for the first thirteen years of my life. Before I had left, I’d shared a room with my brother.

  Angus, though, had not been so hospitable. Since the moment Layla brought me home, my little brother had barely said a word to me. I walked into a room, Angus walked out. Mum had tried to get us to sit down together at the dinner table for a proper family supper, but as soon
as I had sat down, Angus had thrown down his cutlery and stalked away without even looking at me. I wasn’t sure exactly what my brother’s problem was. Maybe he thought it was my fault about what had happened to Dad, maybe he resented me for suddenly invading his happy, normal life with Mum. I didn’t know. I didn’t really care.

  Pulling my mind back to the present, I slid out of bed. Getting down on my hands and knees on the carpet, I reached under the bed and my hand closed around the familiar shape of my sword. I drew it out and examined it, the intricate carvings on the hilt, the Gaelic words etched around the base of the blade. I knew what it said as well as I knew my own name: As my blade is my soul.

  Rising to my feet, I lifted the sword, the light flashing off the edge of the blade. It was fairly heavy, but I’d had years of practise with it. I moved with it easily, gracefully, as if it were an extension of my arm, part of me. The sword had been a gift from my father for my ninth birthday, and I had barely been able to lift it then. Dad had taught me to use it, and I’d trained with it almost every day until I could run, jump, and slice with it. By the time Dad had taken me on my first hunt when I was eleven, I was fluid and swift with my blade.

  I remembered that first hunt so clearly. I remembered the pride on my father’s face when I’d killed my first demon, neatly decapitating it. I remembered the adrenaline and fear, the feeling of the sharp edge of the blade cutting through the demon’s neck, the bright burst of excitement and satisfaction when its head had tumbled to the ground. I remembered my father’s words to me afterward. “You were made to be a warrior, son.”

  I smiled coldly as I brandished the sword in front of me. You were right, Dad, I thought, turning the blade so it caught the light. I am a warrior. And I will avenge your death, whatever it takes.

  Chapter Two

  ** Ruairidh **

  I was banned from practising with my sword in the house, despite my protests that I was nineteen and therefore an adult. My mother had wanted to take the sword away and pack it in the attic, but I’d flatly refused. She’d asked what on Earth I could possibly need it for anymore, and I’d just stared at her, blank with disbelief and anger. Eventually, Layla had given in and let me keep my sword, but restricted me to using it outside only.

  Which was exactly where I was and what I was doing when she came striding through the glass doors into the back garden. I’d already been practising for a while, so my skin and hair was damp with sweat. The hot sunlight beating down on me from the fresh blue sky didn’t help much. But at least the breeze was cool, and the back garden was private, hidden away from the neighbours by eight foot fencing—fencing that I had spent the better part of the day before painting, at my mother’s behest.

  It didn’t look as if she’d come to thank me, though, as she crossed the grass toward me, her flip-flops slapping loudly. She was holding a piece of paper, and a stern expression. Well, as stern as Layla ever got. My mother was a beautiful woman, with long red-brown hair and wide blue eyes, but she was hardly strict. She was a florist, owned her own small business in town, and perpetually dressed in jeans and brightly coloured t-shirts—just like she was wearing now.

  So even with her best scowl on, she wasn’t precisely intimidating, and she rarely set rules. Sword-practise-outside-only rule was one of two she had set on me. The other was no fighting demons. So far, that hadn’t been a problem. But I hadn’t given up the life. I was just waiting for an opportunity to return. I had sworn I would avenge my father’s death by killing the demon who’d murdered him, and I would. Just as soon as I got back in fighting shape.

  Over my mother’s shoulder, I saw Angus slip out of the house. He took a seat in one of the metal chairs on the patio, leaning back with his arms folded, as if he was waiting for a play to start. My suspicion spiked. Whatever our mother was about to say, Angus was sure I wouldn’t like it, and he’d come to watch the show.

  Angus looked like Mum. He had the same red-brown hair and blue eyes. He even had a few freckles. I was sure the girls just loved him, and the guys at college probably all liked him. I look more like Dad, with shaggy black hair, sharp green eyes, and muscles. Girls liked me fine, but not the kind of girls Mum would ever approve of, and guys tended either to hate me on sight or fear me. Most likely, it didn’t help that I was usually carrying a weapon. If not my sword, then a couple of daggers, though I was also pretty good with a bow.

  Noticing my gaze, Angus glared at me and lifted a hand to flip me off. I couldn’t help but smile. Just one corner of my mouth twitched upward, but I saw Angus’s jaw clench in response.

  “Ruairidh,” Mum said, dragging my attention back to her.

  She stood just in front of me now, her hair shining in the sunlight as she tipped her face up toward me. She was so small, maybe 5’ 5” tops. At least that was one aspect where both Angus and I took after our father. I was 6’ 1” while Angus was a decent 5’ 11”. It was only a couple of inches difference, but I knew it bugged Angus to no end.

  Pushing my damp hair back off my forehead, I looked down at the paper my mother was holding and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “You know the Easter holidays are over next week, and Angus will go back to college,” Layla said.

  I tilted my head. Yes, I knew that. I was looking forward to it. It would be nice to be able to move about the house without feeling my brother’s glare on my back at all times, like Angus thought I would steal the DVD player if I was left alone for five minutes.

  “I’m aware,” was all I said, though.

  She eyed me speculatively for a moment and took a deep breath like someone getting ready to jump off a cliff. I suddenly had a bad feeling that I knew where this was going. I glanced at that damn piece of paper again, but I couldn’t make out anything on it.

  Then my mother said, “You will be joining Angus at Thorburn College next week, Ruairidh. And before you start arguing—”

  I’d just been opening my mouth to do exactly that, but I snapped it shut, simmering.

  “—you don’t have a choice. I’ve already signed you up at the college. You’ll be in the same course as Angus—biochemistry. I also signed you up for a part-time course in basic Maths.”

  At last, she thrust the paper at me, and I took it, trying not to rip it apart as I unfolded it impatiently. It was a letter from the college welcoming me to Thorburn Academy and informing me of my classes. There was the basic Maths. Biochem was four days a week with a whole load of lectures. I could at least sleep through those. I half-smiled at the thought, and my mother mistook the gesture for excitement—or at least acceptance.

  “See?” Layla said with enthusiasm, pointing to the letter. “According to Angus, there’s a lot of interesting stuff in Biochem. You get to use a Bunsen burner and dangerous chemicals. I think you’ll like it.”

  The words began to blur on the page in front of my eyes, meaningless garble printed in ink. I resisted the urge to crush the letter up into a ball and throw it at Angus’s head. Instead, I looked straight at my mother and said, “I’m not going.”

  Mum’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve already told you, this is non-negotiable, Ruairidh. You’re going to college, whether you like it or not. You need an education—”

  I almost threw up my hands, forgetting for a moment that I was still holding my sword. “I’m nineteen! I don’t have to go to college! I had an education! I went to school until I was sixteen, and after that, Dad taught me everything I need to know!”

  “He taught you how to fight monsters. You need to know other things, Ru. You need qualifications, so you can get a real job.”

  I crumpled the paper in my fist, anger rising in my chest. The pattern of Celtic knot-work on the handle of my sword—a pattern that matched the tattoo snaking up my right arm from wrist to shoulder—cut into the palm of my other hand. “I learned everything I needed in high school in Ireland. I’ve done exams, and passed them. Maths, English, Science. And I have a real job! I’m a demon-hunter, just like he was!”

 
; “And look what happened to him!” Mum yelled, her patience finally snapping.

  Shocked, I stumbled back, my mouth open. From the corner of my eye, I saw Angus jump, just as startled as I was. Layla made a small sound and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes shining with tears. She reached for me, but I ducked away from her touch.

  Composing my expression into blankness, so she wouldn’t see that her words had struck me like a blow to the chest, I stared at her. Her fingers trembled over his lips.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ru. But I can’t lose you too. Not again. Please,” she whispered.

  I swallowed, guilt over the tears in my mother’s eyes making it hard to breathe. It was the first time I realised that she might not have been taking Dad’s death as well as I’d thought. She was grieving, not just for what had happened to her ex-husband, but for what could have happened to her eldest son too.

  I sucked up my anger and guilt, and I nodded. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Okay, I’ll go to college.”

  Relief washed over my mother’s face, so intense that the tears spilled from her eyes. She swiped them away hastily and reached for me again. I didn’t move away this time. I let her hug me. She leaned up and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to either of you boys,” she said, her voice catching. She sniffled, let me go, and strode back into the house quickly.

  Frowning, I looked down at my sword in my hand, my throat tight with emotion. Then a shadow fell over me, dimming the gleam of the blade, and I looked up. Angus stood barely a foot away from me, his expression hard, and his blue eyes glinting with anger. For a second, I thought my brother might actually hit me.

  Instead, Angus said viciously, “You’re an arse, Ruairidh.”