Into the Darkness Read online

  Into the Darkness

  Darkness Book One

  Nora Ash

  Contents

  Copyright

  Get in Touch

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Next Book

  Also by Nora Ash

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Nora Ash

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any and all likeness to trademarks, corporations or persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental.

  Get in Touch

  Sign up for Nora Ash’s newsletter to receive updates about new books You can also get in touch via Facebook, or drop by her website.

  Summary

  There are no such things as heroes.

  I went out for coffee. I came back with a nemesis.

  The city’s favorite hero, Lightning, saved me from getting gunned down, and I thought my luck was finally changing. Not only was I not dead; I also managed to snag an exclusive interview with the masked supe.

  Only, instead of job stability and internet fame, I earned the attention of every dangerous criminal in the city.

  The only thing that’ll save my life now is allowing Lightning to claim me as his pet. To offer my body in the hopes that he’ll protect me.

  But the city has it wrong. He’s not one of the good guys. And submitting to his claim will bring another darkness from the shadows. A darkness whose only goal is to take anything his archenemy possesses.

  Including me.

  Book 1 in Nora Ash’s erotic Paranormal Romance menage, Darkness. Each installment is novella length and ends in a cliffhanger.

  One

  The one good thing about living in a city that boasts a crime rate a good forty percent above the national average is that there’s always something to report on, even for a small-time blogger like myself.

  Granted, I could have done without having my late-night coffee run intercepted by an armed robbery, but at least it would give me something to write about. If I didn’t get myself shot, of course.

  My heart pounded in my throat as I pressed my cheek against the floor. From my low vantage point, I couldn’t see much other than the robbers’ boots and cargo pants, but I could hear their demands clear as day.

  “Hurry up and empty that register!” one of them snarled at the poor kid behind the counter. “Or you’ll get a head full of lead.”

  “And throw in a cappuccino,” the guy casually pointing his gun toward me and the other customers cowering on the floor added.

  Who the heck asked for a cup of coffee in the middle of a robbery? Surprise—and possibly stupidity—made me twist my neck and look up. My efforts were for nothing; he was wearing a mask, blending into the anonymous masses of wrongdoers littering the seedy underbelly of St. Anthony.

  “What are you looking at, bitch?” Mr. Cappuccino growled, and with an unpleasant drop in my stomach, I realized that the big gun was now pointed directly at my face.

  I gaped up at him like a fish on land, my brain taking a complete timeout instead of doing something useful like, I dunno, not staring at the man with the gun.

  He pulled his upper lip back in a snarl, displaying crooked yellow teeth, and I had a second’s worth of thinking stereotype much? before my brain got up to speed.

  “I’m sorry!” I gasped. The barrel seemed so dark, but I didn’t have time to look back down to the floor before the window by the door exploded.

  Both robbers spun around, whipping their guns with them to point at the figure now standing in the middle of the broken glass.

  “Fuck!”

  I craned my neck to see what had made Mr. Cappuccino’s partner shout, and couldn’t help the involuntary intake of breath when I got a closer look at the newcomer.

  Charcoal and crimson high-tech fabric covered his strong, chiseled body all the way up to his neck, and the top half of his face was covered in a similarly-colored leather mask. He was tall and lean, and his eyes glowed an unnatural blue, highlighting his perfect mouth and strong jaw. I knew that man. Hell, everyone in St. Anthony knew him.

  “Really, a coffee shop?” He folded his arms across his chest, surveying his surroundings. His gaze skimmed over my awkwardly sprawled form to the three other customers huddled somewhere behind me. “I mean, a bank or a jeweler’s, sure, but a coffee shop?”

  The robbers’ reply was to fire their weapons.

  My brain finally turned on, and I did the only reasonable thing there is to do when someone’s firing automatic guns around you—I dove for cover underneath the nearest table and saw the other customers and the poor employee do the same out of the corner of my eye. From my hiding place, I had a near-perfect view of the newcomer as he darted past the flying bullets with superhuman agility and leapt over the counter.

  Lightning was what he went by in the news and on social media, more because of his supernatural speed than actually being able to shoot lightning—though I wasn’t completely certain that some of the superhumans walking among us weren’t able to do that, too.

  I’d seen pictures and video clips of him—and a few of the other masked supers we called heroes—but I’d never been this close to one before. Despite the flying bullets and shattering furniture, I whipped out my phone and pressed “record” while I tried to creep out far enough from my protective shelter to get a decent angle, without losing a hand to stray bullets.

  It quickly became evident that Lightning was just playing with the two unlucky robbers. He dodged bullets as if they were nothing more than annoying flies, popping up behind one and then the other opponent to give him a quick smack or a light shove to make them stumble or lose their aim. After a few minutes of impressive acrobatics, he finally got down to business. He jumped on top of the counter and easily twisted his body mid-air to avoid an attack before hitting first one guy square in the jaw with a kick, and then the other in the neck. Both dropped to the floor like two sacks of potatoes, their guns clattering beside them.

  Lightning smiled and placed his hands on his narrow hips, looking oddly like a housewife who’d just finished sweeping the floor. “You can come out of your hidey-holes now, good people,” he said. “They’ll be out for…”

  The moment his eyes locked on me—and the phone I was still using to record him with—he paused, a mixture of amusement and surprise flickering in his glowing blue eyes.

  “Did you just video that? Through all the gunfire?”

  I blinked up at him. Did he just… speak to me? Me?

  I could tell I was staring mutely for an inappropriate amount of time when he smirked beneath his mask, and I felt a furious blush heat up my face.

  “Yeah-huh,” I managed to stutter.

  He easily jumped off the counter and walked toward me in a smooth, confident stride, and I have no idea how I didn’t drop my phone.

  I stared up at him, distantly aware of my mouth hanging open at being so close to a superhuman. A superhuman who was currently smiling down at my awkwardly kneeling figure half-hidden underneath a café table.

  And then it dawned on me. I had his full attention, if only for a short moment. Uploading a video of Lightning in action would boost my meager blog traffic for sure, but if I could snag an interview? That would give me so many views I might actually be able to both pay my bills and pay off some of my credit card debt!
r />   “Could I ask you a few questions?” I blurted out, opting for the direct approach rather than to risk losing my nerve.

  His smile turned impossible brighter, exposing his even, white teeth and a dimple over the left corner of his mouth. In other words, he was exactly as swoon-worthy in real life as in his pictures. “Sure thing, darling.”

  I tried to ignore my flushing cheeks and instead did my best to put on my professional persona. Not that a small-time cultural blogger like myself could be considered overly professional on the best of days, let alone while crouching on the floor in the middle of a crime scene.

  With the support of the chair I’d hidden behind, I climbed out from under the table. The top of my head still only came up to about his shoulders, but at least it was easier to aim the camera at his face now.

  “Um, thank you. So, how did you know there was a robbery taking place here?” I tried my best to compose my face into a professional mask, but judging from the heat of it, it was still beet red. “Do you hack into security systems?”

  Lightning sighed melodramatically and brushed a hand across the top of his head, still shielded by the leather mask. “And here I thought you were going to ask me about how much protein I eat every day. Or perhaps my workout routine. I didn’t take you for such a serious reporter.”

  Something about the way he emphasized “serious reporter” made me bristle. He might as well have been doing air quotes. And okay, so I wasn’t exactly employed by a big TV station… or anywhere, actually. And I knew my stuttering and blushing probably didn’t make me seem super experienced, but still. I was proud of my work. Most of the time, anyway.

  “Well, I am,” I snapped. “I am Kathryn Smith, author of the cultural blog ‘The Dark City.’ It’s not a big site, but it is serious. Now, how do you know when people are in need of a hero, Mr. Lightning? I’m sure it’s something we all would like to know.”

  “I’m sure it is, darling. I’m just not overly inclined to share. Can’t have the bad guys catching on, you see.” He offered me a cheeky wink that somehow took the edge off the blow-off. “But I think St. Anthony’s finest might be on their way now, so if you want a final question in before I gotta run, best get it out now.”

  About a million questions milled around at the forefront of my mind. There were so many things I’d fantasized about asking a superhuman, if I ever got in the position to ask one. The problem was that most of those questions were ones that everyone wanted to ask—and no one ever got the answer to. Like, “Why do you have these powers?” “What exactly can you do?” and, “what’s your real name?” Given Lightning’s less than willing attitude toward providing some chubby girl he’d just happened to save from being shot dead with details of how he’d managed to do just that, I didn’t have high hopes that he’d cave and spill his deepest secrets to my cell phone camera.

  I stared up at the masked man, willing my brain to produce a substantial question he wasn’t going to shoot down straight away.

  “Does being a vigilante with a secret identity make it hard to keep meaningful relationships?”

  A self-satisfied smile spread on my face. There. Human interest angle on what our masked heroes gave up to save us regular people. I wouldn’t be able to ask him any follow-up questions, but I could still spin it into a thorough article.

  I was in the process of silently congratulating myself for finally getting through my flustered embarrassment and presenting a professional front when Lightning flashed me a smile bright enough to rival his unnatural eyes.

  “Well, I always have time for meaningful relationships,” he drawled while letting his electric blue gaze travel up and down my disheveled figure. “Though they tend to be a bit on the short side. Why, are you offering? I do love a girl with curves.”

  My flush returned full-force.

  Clearly, he wasn’t going to give me anything other than sexual harassment and ridicule. I turned off my phone’s camera and glared up at him, letting the rush of disappointment soothe some of my embarrassment. Nothing like realizing one of your favorite heroes is a complete dick to put things into perspective.

  Lightning gave me another wink, seemingly unfazed by my glare, before glancing over his shoulders. “Ah, perhaps another time, eh? I’m needed elsewhere. Bye, darling.”

  Red smoke swept up around his taut body, consuming even his eerily shining eyes.

  And then he was gone, vanished into thin air, just like on the TV clips I’d seen of him.

  “Oh. My. God!”

  The angry voice made me flinch and look over my shoulder. I’d completely forgotten that I wasn’t alone in the shop while subjected to Lightning’s penetrating gaze and less than polite comments.

  Jennifer, my long-suffering barista, had climbed out from her hidey-hole. She was as disheveled as I was, after our involuntary time underneath the coffee shop’s furniture, but somehow she still managed to look cute as a button. I’d envied her glowing mediterranean skin tone and big smile since my first visit to the shop.

  “Did he just… did he actually sexually harass you?”

  I grimaced, relieved I wasn’t the only one who’d caught on to the true nature of our favorite “hero.” But I guess if anyone would have, it’d be Jennifer. She certainly had experience with assholes making inappropriate comments while she was working.

  She was exactly what men drooled over when they thought of ‘curvy and petite’, with round hips and perky, smallish boobs, which had caused more than one pervy customer to get thrown out of the shop. It was probably a good thing Lightning hadn’t zeroed in on her—she’d have beaten him with a broom.

  “I can’t believe him,” I seethed.

  “What are you going to do about it?” she asked, eying my phone with the offensive footage. “He shouldn’t get away with speaking to women like that, just because he’s a superhuman.”

  She had a point.

  And despite my disillusioned state, I wasn’t about to give up my footage of the guy. Even if he wasn’t the Golden Boy I’d always imagined, I could still write an article about him that would generate some traffic for my unassuming blog. A good article.

  My lips pinched as I recalled Lightning’s tone when he’d called me a serious reporter. I would show him exactly how serious I could be—as opposed to all those journalists who fawned all over him and the other vigilantes in St. Anthony.

  Two

  It is entirely possible, and perhaps even plausible, that this over reliance on what is essentially glorified vigilantes is letting us become docile. We do not question why the mayor relies on these unregulated superhumans rather than put proper policing efforts in place to combat the crime running amok in our streets. We do not question the right of this self-appointed militia to dispense the punishments they see fit.

  And who would? Every week there is a new story of citizens being saved by these masked heroes, and we turn a blind eye to their less than savory tactics or sexist remarks, because without them, we know we’re doomed.

  I am worried. I am questioning this practice.

  When will the time come that our heroes won’t be satisfied with a couple of rude remarks? What will the long-term price be?

  And why is the mayor not lifting a finger to change what is, at its core, an easily corruptible system in place for the protection of us, the citizens of St. Anthony?

  * * *

  I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. This was possibly the best work I’d done since leaving college, and I was pretty damn proud of myself. Not to mention the gratification I felt for having used my resentment with Lightning’s comments to fuel a serious and well thought-out article that could raise an important debate about the superhumans. And I’d used his smugness as a springboard.

  It wasn’t that I was in any way ungrateful for being saved from quite probably getting a face full of lead. When I thought back to lying there on the coffee shop’s cold floor, staring into the barrel of that automatic weapon, goosebumps spread across my entire body. I had
always known St. Anthony was a cesspit of crime and corruption, but going from reading about the violence to suddenly being part of the statistics was something else entirely.

  But as thankful as I was to Lightning for saving my chubby behind, his rude comments had shaken me out of my hero worship, and that gave an entirely new perspective on the way our city relied on vigilantes to protects us against the darkness on our streets. They acted above the law by taking matters into their own hands—and were praised as heroes for it, because they saved all of us who couldn’t save ourselves.

  But did that make them safe to rely on? Did they believe themselves raised above us, like the demigods we treated them as? And how long before that turned dangerous? There was no way that amount of power wouldn’t corrupt someone, and Lightning’s arrogance might just be a sign of that.

  So that was what I’d written about, to go along with the video I’d shot of him.

  It wasn’t a hateful article, like the ones written by people who wanted all superhumans locked away in concrete prisons deep underneath the Earth’s surface, but it did raise a lot of tough questions I’d been too blind to see before my encounter with Lightning.

  I got up from my desk and stretched, cringing when my back popped. I’d spent hours on that damn article, even forgetting to eat along the way, and it was now way past dinnertime.

  Feeling pretty great about myself I plodded over to the kitchen section of my open plan loft apartment to rummage around in the fridge. It was the first time in a long time that I felt like I had really done something that mattered. Sure, my blog was just one, small voice, but if I could have the epiphany I’d had from Lightning’s attitude, then maybe someone else watching the video and reading my article would also wake up from this daze of hero worship we found ourselves in. And then maybe we could start looking at what we had been missing while staring starry-eyed at the people doing the job the authorities were meant to.