Dare Me Read online

  Dare Me

  The Demonology Series

  Book One

  By

  Felicity Brandon

  Copyright © 2020 by Felicity Brandon

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. The author does not condone, nor endorse any of the acts in this book.

  First edition June 2020

  Cover design by Eris Adderly.

  Editing by Personal Touch Editing.

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  “If I got rid of my demons, I’d lose my angels.”

  — Tennessee Williams

  Prologue

  Raif

  Who am I?

  Or, perhaps, the question would better be served with what am I?

  I am, like hope, eternal, but I do not bring light, love, or inspiration.

  I cannot be destroyed, though many have tried. The best they can conjure are charms to repel me, cast me aside, and suppress me, but none has ever succeeded in their ultimate endeavor.

  It is as mortals sometimes have said—evil never dies.

  And I am an ancient evil.

  Cast out of the light so long ago, my memory scarcely remembers the look of it, and one cannot miss what they barely recall.

  Instead, the darkness became my friend.

  It filled the voids the light should have consumed, shielding me where there was no illumination. It guarded me, guided me, showing me the depths I would need to sink to fulfill my destiny. And I will fulfill it—maybe I have done so already. For so many centuries, I have scrabbled in the shadows, observing the mortal coil. Some others of my kind prefer to remain in their dominions, lauding their considerable power over the souls who have descended to them, but not I. Such a crude display of supremacy holds little interest to me—once you have crushed one soul, it is much the same as destroying the next. I prefer to stay among the mortals, lurking in the darkness… waiting.

  I wait, I watch, and I listen, for I have all the time eternity has to offer, and while I have been cast from the light, I am not a monster.

  Or maybe, I should say, I am not only a monster.

  I have pity and compassion for the humans I survey. I feel their losses deeply and revel in their achievements as though they were my own. Unlike the deities, so many of them cling to, I am here with them, among them—as if I was one of them.

  I understand better than their idols.

  It would be churlish of me to pretend my will is noble. I feel the mortals’ pain, yet do not flinch at it; quite the reverse—I encourage it. Their suffering gives me strength. Each loss provides levity, and in their desperation, they often seek the things they do not comprehend. They pray, asking for comfort, solace, and miracles. I see them on their knees, witness their hopelessness, and I, too, look toward the sky.

  Where are their gods now?

  Why have they forsaken them in their hour of need?

  I want to tell them a truth I learned many centuries ago. Their God does not care about their plight, he’s not listening while he looks the other way. All manner of diabolical things are possible when the light hides behind the clouds—when God leaves them to their fate. He worries not for the child they have lost or the long agony of their terminal illness. He has always concerned himself with the plight of humanity, but never with the detail.

  That’s where I live—in the detail.

  In each painful breath of the dying man. In each empty room of the lonely. That’s my domain.

  It’s where I’m strong.

  It’s where I am needed.

  In those excruciating moments, when hope is all but lost, I am there.

  I am there for the grieving parent, holding their hand in the darkness.

  I am there for the dying patient, mopping their brow.

  I am there for the desperate and deserted, giving them purpose.

  When the light flees, I offer the everlasting, enveloping succor of the dark.

  I was around, with others of my kind, through all the ages of man.

  I watched his battles, glorying in his populist hedonism. I rallied the inquisitors in Spain in 1478. I was the executioner when the sword fell at the neck of Queen Anne Boleyn in England in 1536, and I gathered the shadows in Salem in 1693, when so many innocents were lost. I even stood at the side of the Fuhrer in 1942, basking in everything he achieved. In all of human achievement, I’m certain of one thing, and one thing alone. Every time I thought the species could sink no lower, it surprised me in its deft efficiency to do just that—to find new ways to destroy itself.

  It was just as cruel as I, and it managed this feat alone—without the support of my kind. Those of us who gathered were merely there to watch, to offer men the chance to do the right thing, and to smile as he inevitably sought the alternative. The easy way almost always being more enticing than the right one.

  As man plummeted, he left legions of the lost, the lonely and the abandoned souls without purpose, without hope. In their desolation, they looked for alternatives, for a place to seek solace. They looked to me and to the gifts I could bestow, and they took them, those frantic and despairing folk with nothing left to lose. When hope was abandoned, they accepted what I had to give.

  They fell back to their knees, and they worshiped me.

  Knowing I would always be with them.

  That the darkness would never leave.

  For as it is certain that night follows day—there is no denying this rhythm—I shall be there for them, offering so much and expecting so little in return.

  All they must do is obey.

  Surrender.

  When the time is right, presenting me with that which I seek above all other things—their soul, the very essence of who they are, that which makes them human.

  That is what I desire.

  That is what I lust over.

  Now to pause.

  My name is Raif, or that is the name you shall come to know me by, though I go by many others.

  You know what I am, or at least, you think you do.

  If I declare myself evil, you shall judge me, yet I welcome it. The morally self-righteous always have the furthest to fall, and I do so relish watching them hurtle to their fate.

  The extent to which I, the demon, am the villain in this piece remains to be seen. Only the passage of time shall tell, time and the reactions of the mortal at the center of this fray. This is one I have been watching for a long time. I have seen the rebellion of her youth, the addiction, and abusive relationships. I have witnessed her cling to false idols—men who neither had the will nor the capacity to understand her. I saw the way her peers shut her out, banishing her as she looked for ways to survive. I surveyed her depression when fate came to pluck those solutions away and the way she sunk even lower after her mother passed on.

  I have been with her through all of those things, and even when the light of day tried to cower me, I extended my empathy. I, of all creatures, know what it is to be ostracized for merely being what I am. I know the burn of searing judgment, although I no longer fear it. Her sorrow was so sweet, her anguish compelling. The more she suffered, the closer I became, until one day, it
seemed we almost fused, our connection stronger than any I had known for centuries.

  That’s when I knew I had to possess her.

  I needed this tiny human to be entirely mine.

  The resolution brought clarity, yet still, the task was not easily completed.

  Whatever you have read, whatever you think you know about my kind, whatever power we possess, there is no simple way to take a mortal. A human soul must be given by choice, not taken by force—it must be offered. So, you understand the quandary of the demon—so much strength, yet we are bound by the wills of tiny mortals.

  The will to give themselves up to something greater.

  The will to succumb.

  Chapter One

  Sara

  I threw the brush down, its fine bristles landing against the wooden floorboards, sending paint flying in just about every direction.

  “Screw it!”

  Tears burned in my eyes as I neared the easel, surveying my latest so-called work of art. If that’s what anyone could label it. Hot despondency burned in my chest at the sight. Painting was the one thing I had left—the only good thing in the world since Mum had died—and now, I couldn’t even do that.

  What the hell was wrong with me? Was I to be stuck in this awful rut forever?

  Inhaling, I seized the canvas from the easel and cast it aside. Whatever was to become of me, there was no way I was accepting work of that caliber. I could do better—much better. I’d been painting since I was six years old, and once upon a time, I was good. I’d won awards for the landscapes and still lifes, dreaming of becoming a professional artist one day and earning my living doing what I loved.

  But that was a long time ago, before James, before Mum—before I lost everything.

  There was only my art now. It was no longer my happy place, but my only place, and unless I could create something worth selling, it was going to be the latest thing I lost.

  Producing two or three pieces a month, which most studios turned up their noses at, just wasn’t cutting it anymore. I’d survived on what little savings I had after James left, but most of that had to be used for Mum’s funeral. She hadn’t always been much of a mother, but she deserved that much, some dignity in death, and I’d paid to make sure she had it. It had been the right thing to do, even though I had to beg, borrow, and steal to cover the rent on my miniscule studio flat that month. Even though the idea of a meal was a veritable luxury, I gave those things up for her, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  “That’s all very laudable,” I muttered under my breath as I prepared the next canvas. “But it’s not getting you anywhere, is it, Sara?”

  Scowling, I wandered to the window and surveyed the world outside. Living on the second floor of a Victorian townhouse afforded a decent view, but today, the sky was gray and overcast, matching my mood to perfection. I sighed, balancing on the edge of the window ledge. My studio apartment had never been grandiose, but recently, it had started to seem like a prison. There were only two main rooms—this, the largest, which coupled as the living, dining, and kitchen area, as well as my workspace, and my bedroom, which was a smaller, darker space, not suited to artistic creation. There was also a tiny bathroom, but with no windows and a serious damp problem, it wasn’t somewhere I chose to be for very long.

  The reality was, this room had become the center of my entire universe.

  I worked in it, ate in it, and if there was any time or money for relaxation, that happened here as well.

  “Christ.” I half snorted, kicking the old canvas away. “How did it come to this? No wonder James didn’t stick around. No wonder no one ever stays.”

  A bubble of pain formed inside, erupting in my chest as I pulled in a shaky breath.

  Nobody ever stayed.

  That was the truth of it.

  That was the way my life had always been—after numerous failed relationships, I had no money, no real friends, and now, I’d lost Mum. I had to face it—my life was going nowhere fast. Tears formed as the realization burgeoned.

  I was a failed artist, living in a crappy apartment with no hope and no prospects of things changing, but they needed to. They needed to turn around… and fast.

  A loud knock at the door interrupted my miserable musings, and I spun toward it, suddenly uncertain.

  Who the hell was that?

  I never had guests, and apart from my lecherous landlord, Cody, few even knew I existed. Oh God, Cody… My belly churned at the idea of the overweight proprietor. He’d always been rather too eager to dominate my personal space, but once upon a time, I’d had James here to protect me. These days, I was on my own.

  The knock came again, and my heart pounded in response as I silently slid across the floor and secured the small chain into place—not that it offered much of a defense. The door, like the walls, was paper-thin, and no doubt, Cody could barge through it if he really wanted to.

  “Who’s there?” I tried to sound upbeat but cringed at the deflated tone that escaped my lips.

  “It’s Cody.” His voice was gruff. “Open up!”

  Anxiety pinballed around my body. “What’s up? I paid the rent on time, didn’t I?”

  It was supposed to be a joke—I knew all too well when I had paid since my ability to eat had dramatically diminished from that day on—yet even those words sounded flat.

  “Just open the door. We need to talk.”

  Slowly, I pulled back the door to find Cody on the threshold. At six feet in height and a hundred pounds overweight, he was an intimidating man, and as he shoved his face in the gap between the wall and the door, I recoiled out of instinct.

  “Why is the chain on?” His fat face screwed into a scowl.

  “I always leave it on.”

  That was a lie, but based on Cody’s impromptu visit, perhaps it should become the truth.

  “Well, take it off,” he ordered. “I wanna come in.”

  Nausea rose in my tummy at the thought of him coming inside. Not only would he be virtually impossible to get rid of once he was past the threshold, but I didn’t want company. I was reconciled to wallow in my own self-pity—alone. Then there was the issue of what sort of company Cody would be. He might be hugely overweight, but I’d lost strength since decent meals had become a luxury, and there was no denying the threat he posed.

  “Why?” I managed to force the word out. “I’m busy.”

  Cody laughed, a dark sound that seemed to echo around the walls of the crappy room. “Busy doing what, darling?” he asked as his gaze narrowed. “We both know you never leave the damn place.”

  I shuddered at his words. The only way he could know my whereabouts was if he’d been watching me, keeping track of my routines and when I left the building. My right hand trembled at the thought, and I forced it to my side, out of his line of sight.

  “That’s none of your damn business.” Anger pulsed inside my veins, dissipating the fear and revulsion Cody produced. How dare he watch me! How dare he come here demanding to be let in. Who the hell did he think he was? I’d been a tenant long enough to know my rights, and he couldn’t just turn up unannounced. If he wanted to talk, he could give me notice—just like every other landlord.

  “You’ll have to come back another time. Give me a call, and we’ll fix a day.”

  His expression darkened. “Who do you think you’re talking to, missy?” He rammed his weight into the door, reaching for me with one fat arm, but I skipped away, my gaze darting to the tiny metal chain which prevented his entry—my last line of resistance.

  “Let. Me. In.” Cody slammed into the door, each new word accentuated by a fresh attempt to get inside.

  Panic flooded my brain as I assessed my limited options. If the chain snapped, I didn’t stand a chance, and his insistence to gain entry did little to reassure me about his nefarious intent.

  “Stop it!” I screeched, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. I hadn’t been able to pay the bill for months, but presumably, emergency calls would still
connect.

  “I’m calling the cops unless you leave me alone.”

  His face squeezed into the gap. “You wouldn’t fucking dare,” he sneered. “I own this building, darling. You wouldn’t dare bring the law here.”

  But I did dare, my fingers already summoning the phone to life even as I stood there. Even though my hands were trembling, I would call for help—whatever the asshole said.

  “I’ll call them, Cody. I know my rights, and you’re not allowed in here without giving me notice.”

  “You little bitch!” His face distorted into a cruel, mocking expression. “After everything I’ve done for you, leasing you this place on a shoestring and making concessions when you couldn’t pay on time—this is how you repay me?”

  I stumbled backward, my digit hovering over the call button. He was right about my punctuality. Recently, payments had become a problem, but I learned early on to prioritize my rent. I didn’t want Cody here.

  I didn’t want him anywhere near me.

  “Just go!” I was nearly shouting, hoping someone would hear me, but of course, it was the middle of the day, and most normal people were at their places of work. Only I was tragic enough to work out of my apartment.

  “Just go now, and I won’t call them.”

  Cody’s hand withdrew, and the next thing I knew, it crashed down against the outside of the door. I jumped in spite of myself, loathing my reactions almost as much as I despised the way his lips curled in response.

  “I’m getting into this apartment,” he snarled. “And if I have to break down this door to do it, guess who’ll be paying for it in next month’s rent?”

  “Please, no!” I panted, looking frantically around for something to defend myself with, but aside from my easel and the kitchen knife, there was nothing. “Please, just go!”

  The atmosphere shifted as I implored him to see reason, morphing from my usual melancholy to one of genuine dread. I didn’t know why Cody was here, but I had a fair idea, and it wasn’t for anything positive. The man had no respect—for himself or others—and other female tenants had warned me he had shown a propensity for showering unwanted attention their way. If I had the money, I’d have moved. As it was, I was stuck here, with an odious landlord to boot.