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  Dark Shadow

  Darkhaven Saga: Book Six

  Danielle Rose

  This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

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  Copyright © 2021 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Original Cover Design by Wicked by Design

  Cover Redesign by Waterhouse Press

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  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Acknowledgments

  Continue the Darkhaven Saga with

  Also by Danielle Rose

  About Danielle Rose

  For the readers—

  Because without you,

  there never would have been a sixth book.

  Chapter One

  It has been one month since we lost Amicia and Will, and ever since that night, there has been a shadow haunting me. It waits in the darkness, striking only when I take my first deep inhalation after weeks of holding my breath. It slithers like a snake, coiling its body around my torso, smothering me until I can bear it no more. It likes my pain, and the sick part is that I do too. The pain lets me know I am still alive.

  I fall to the ground, my knees sinking into the freshly thawed earth. The wet tundra makes a squishing sound as I drop, and I squirm against the sensation. My jeans become moist where I meet the land, and as I shift in place, I make a greater mess of things. I continue to burrow, mud seeping at the forefront of my flesh, and I cringe.

  I try to ignore all of these things, even though the sound of the earth’s protest irritates my senses because I am not here to listen to the earth. I am here to see him. Will must capture my full attention, and I dare never to take it away from him.

  I sigh, my breath coming in weak puffs as I try to calm my rapid heart. It burns in my chest, and my eyes sting from his loss. Even though many days have passed since he died in my arms, the pain never lessens. I imagine it never will. In the short time I knew Will, he made a mark on my heart. I feel his presence everywhere now, and it is a brutal reminder that he will never return.

  “It has been four weeks,” I whisper. “But I still visit every day since…since—”

  A sharp breath bursts through me, but with it, I find no reprieve from my emotions. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to cast out the memories that haunt me day after day. This never works, but I try again and again. Eventually, I will wake, and I will accept that Will has found the peace he so desperately sought. But today is not that day.

  I wonder if he knows I am here. Witches believe in Summerland. Humans believe in Heaven. But what did Will believe in? He was neither witch nor human. Not really, anyway. Is there a place for a witch-turned-vampire-turned-human creature? And if there is, can he sense my presence from wherever he is now, wherever that place might be?

  These questions, and many more, have consumed my thoughts for weeks. I never ask them aloud because we lost her too. While there might be a place for Will’s tortured soul to rest, vampires most certainly believe there is not such a place for the undead. It would be heartless for me to search for reprieve in my comrades now that Amicia is gone. Her death is a heavy burden as well, and it tortures me so.

  “I had another dream,” I say softly. I stare at the ground, focusing on the murky granules of dirt that blend into mud. I sink deeper into the abyss.

  Every night, in my dreams, I discover a million different ways I could have saved them. Each time, I do something differently, and that something is all it takes to come out heroes. I wake sooner. I fight harder. I remain stronger. I am less scared, less worried, less…broken. I fight my grandmother’s air magic, and when it no longer pins me in place, the weight is lifted from my shoulders and I am no longer frozen. I become an asset, not a hindrance, to my friends.

  Since both chose to sacrifice themselves for…me, I have relived that nightmare—the night they died, Will in my arms and Amicia right before my eyes—endless times. I think this is my personal hell—to live the worst moment of my life, to experience my most regretful actions, over and over again, looping round and round. Slowly, I am losing my mind to this madness, but I do not complain to the others. I deserve to be tortured by their deaths.

  “This time, I morphed into some kind of superhero. Crazy costume and everything. My power was invisibility…” My mind must be grasping at straws. I lost creativity long ago—maybe on the seventh or eighth night, when I could still contemplate battle plans. Now, when I save them, I use outlandish methods, but they always seem to work. Until I open my eyes. At night, I close them, and my friends are here, with me, safe and sound. Then morning comes, and I wake. It is a cruel cycle.

  Picking at a leaf that has long since dried out due to the harsh winter months, I sit back, resting my bottom on the heels of my boots. I feel the fabric of my jeans dampening from the wet cobblestone path I walked down to reach their graves. But it does not bother me. Instead, I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of nature. Before that night, Will told me to cherish the days I had, and this is the time of day when I remember to do that. During the minutes I sit with him, I pretend everything is okay.

  With my eyes still closed, I pay attention to my surroundings. Winter has made way for spring. The air is warmer. The trees have buds. Early flowers bloom, spilling sweet aromas in the air. I sniffle when I think about how Will is never going to experience this again, and the fragrance tickles my nose. It smells sweet, like perfume, but I also smell Will. The pungent odor of his death is all around me, reminding me day after day that I failed him.

  When bodies decay, they smell a lot like flowers. Tissue liquefies, releasing a startling sweet scent, like a bouquet of flowers that now molds and dies because I forgot to water it. By no means does it smell good. It just smells…different. I guess it does not smell like what I thought rotting flesh would smell like. For some reason, this brings me peace because I know part of him is still here with me. Granted, it is not the part I wanted. I would choose to keep his soul safe over his decaying body.

  I open my eyes and stare at the headstones. They are perched side by side. Both are made of granite so dark they seem black, with etchings to honor those we lost. There are others beside and beyond these two because Amicia and Will are not the only vampires we lost that night, but I rarely look at the others. I never mourn their deaths. I regret their sacrifice, but I can only offer so much of my heart to the dead. Will and Amicia have consumed all that I am.

  They are markers in time to remind us of what happened that night. Yes, we lost loved ones, but these tombstones are here for so many other reasons. They are meant as caution, warning us about the torment a single fruitless feud causes. They stress never again to trust the witches. Holland is our only surviving mortal ally, and it will remain that way for as long as the wounds stay fresh. I suspect we may never seek aid from a daywalker again.

  The stones are arched at the top, curved and sleek, an effortless beauty—like
Amicia. They are shiny and smooth, and the parts etched with their individual names betray the lighter gray stone beneath. The small memorial cemetery is in our back garden, and the black stones blend in with the dark forest beyond the Victorian manor we call home. The moon illuminates the land, casting shadows everywhere I glance.

  I stare over my shoulder. The sight of someone lurking in one of the many stained-glass windows catches my eye. But as I peer closer, squinting slightly to focus my vision on the flash of a presence, the onlooker steps away, disappearing farther into the room beyond the glass. I blink several times to clear my gaze but see no more movement.

  The manor is three stories high, with startling peaks and striking overhangs. Carved embellishments true to the Victorian era are etched into the wood siding. The structure is truly a breathtaking sight.

  Long ago, it was painted dark, allowing the hidden home to blend more seamlessly with its surroundings. I lived all my life in Darkhaven, yet I never knew of the manor’s existence. Not until I sought refuge among the undead.

  From where I sit, I can see into the kitchen, where the corner table is vacant. Just a few weeks ago, I sat at that very table with Will and discussed my future. I was torn then, unsure if I wanted to take back what the witches stole from me. Long ago, I lived a different life. That was taken from me as well. Vampirism was thrust upon me, and in a rash decision, I gave up my mortal existence in favor of immortality.

  If I am honest, I was excited about the strength that came with being a vampire. I believed transitioning was the only way I could save both my life and the lives of the witches who were dying all around me. I had only seconds to make my choice, knowing I would forever live with the consequences of that day.

  The doorway from the kitchen leads to a small butler’s pantry, which connects to the manor’s formal dining room. Again, the room is vacant. I peer through the large stained-glass windows, seeing nothing but blurry shadows from the furniture. A fire is roaring in the fireplace, and every few seconds, I hear the crackling logs from where I sit outside.

  Opposite the dining room, the conservatory wraps around the entire length of the manor. I can only see the back half of the solarium, but the few wicker benches and wrought-iron table sets are home to no bodies. Perhaps there are vampires lingering in the front parlor or attached sitting room, but I doubt it. It is still early for the other vampires, with many of my housemates just now waking to greet the night.

  Yes, the house is eerily silent, but that is nothing new; it has been this way for weeks. Because of Amicia’s death, the vampires of this particular nest lack leadership, which they so heavily relied on before. There is a social order to vampires—a clear alpha, like a wolf pack. Now that their sire is gone, everyone is questioning every decision the hunters make.

  I miss Amicia just as much as I miss Will, but I know my pain is nothing compared to the agony the vampires feel due to her absence. When a vampire is sired, a bond is formed, a connection is made. Devotion is instantaneous. But Amicia was not my sire, and even though I hate myself for feeling this way, I am grateful every single day knowing Jasik survived that battle. If I’d lost him too…

  I shake my head, blurring the pictures that form in my mind. The sights playing on an endless loop never even happened. In my imagination, I see a different world, one where I lost everyone I cherished in one swift motion without being able to stop it. I have been torturing myself like this since that day.

  Sighing loudly, I flick the dead stem from my hand, and flurries of the ripped leaf scatter before me, landing in a heap at the base of Will’s headstone. That is as much as an offering as I brought with me today. Usually, I bring Will some form of a gift, be it a bundle of dried herbs or stones I gathered from the yard. But today, nothing. I suppose this is the first step to letting go.

  “It is supposed to get easier,” I say, but then I silently add, but does it really? Does the pain lessen? Or as the world moves on without the departed, do we just learn to live with the agony?

  I wait, almost as though I expect an actual answer. One does not come, because Will is not here anymore to share his wisdom with me. I think of all the unanswered questions I have for him, and it pains me to know I will never know the truth. There was not enough time. I know too little about his past, about the decisions he made that led him to Darkhaven, to…me. Will was supposed to hold all the answers. He was supposed to be my saving grace.

  Everything moves so fast here, and I forget to stop, to think, to breathe. I do this now, inhaling deeply through my nose and releasing that very breath through my mouth. I count to ten as I breathe in, and I hold it as long as I can before I release it again. It makes my lungs hurt to take such a long, slow breath, but the expansion of my chest smothers the pain in my heart.

  I open my eyes and stare at Will’s headstone.

  “I think we just learn to live with the pain,” I say.

  I reach forward, brushing my fingertips across Will’s memorial. As my fingertips tease from smooth stone to the scratchy etchings, I shiver. The sensation works its way through my arm, piercing my heart. My breathing tricks might release some of the hurt, but it never stays gone for long.

  “We carry it with us, but it never gets easier,” I admit. I speak so softly I am not even convinced I spoke aloud, and unfortunately, there is no one around to confirm.

  I do not bother closing the door behind me as I walk into the conservatory. Nearly an hour has passed since I left to spend time outside with Will, and the other vampires of the house are finally making their way downstairs. Some are already venturing into the solarium, and then they will make their way to Amicia’s gravesite. This is a daily ritual for us, and as we pass each other, no one looks up in greeting.

  I stare at the ground as the others shuffle past me, and my vision remains glued to the tile floor. Vampires are all around me, and in these moments, when everyone is awake and lingering in the same part of the manor, I find it almost unbearable to live among them.

  Jasik says no one blames me for what happened, but I know two deaths are at the hands of the witches—my witches, the very ones I fought so hard to protect. I wanted peace and prosperity, and I truly believed we could have that. I was naïve to think two utterly different creatures could remain friends.

  The moment the wall transforms from drywall to sliding glass doors, I turn on my heel, entering the dining room from the solarium. The tile floor becomes hardwood, and finally, I look up, knowing I am mere steps from solitude. Those who are awake are venturing outside, so this is one of those rare moments when the kitchen should be vacant.

  I maintain a schedule now around the others, keeping my distance, choosing to spend time alone or with the hunters above anyone else. Because even though no one verbally blames me for Amicia’s death, I feel their silent accusations. I see it in their eyes, and slowly, bit by bit and day by day, their pain is smothering me.

  I push open the door to the kitchen a little too forcefully, startling those who are looking for a quick meal. I choke on my breath, not expecting anyone else to be here. Shuffling to the refrigerator, I ignore my housemates, even when the itchy feeling of their gazes on my back becomes unbearable.

  I grab a blood bag, noting that our supply is running dangerously low. Those who survived our last battle needed to refuel, and we ended up drinking more blood bags in one night than we drink in a month’s time. Ever since then, no one has gone out to restock. I hate to think that the vampire who usually ventures into town to raid the hospital and blood banks is dead now, but that thought still crosses my mind.

  I make a mental note to talk to the hunters about our supply as I close the door to the refrigerator. There is a line for the microwave, so I lean against the counter, foot tapping to a silent tune. Or maybe a countdown timer. I can never tell.

  The creeping feeling of being watched makes me feel uneasy. I grow tired of waiting, so I leave the kitchen, cold blood bag in hand. I am already ripping it open with my teeth when I enter the
dining room. I stop suddenly as I watch him approach.

  “Ava,” Malik says as an informal greeting. My trainer is still in the connected sitting room, but his long legs make it easy for him to reach my side in only a few steps.

  I nod at him in greeting and begin slurping down my breakfast.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I lick my lips, darting my tongue at a crimson dribble that slides down the packaging. When supplies are dangerously low, I waste no blood.

  I shrug in response, still not meeting his gaze, but when he clears his throat, I do. Malik is frowning at me, his eyes worrisome. Like the others, he fears my reaction to what has happened.

  I think back to a conversation I had with Jasik a few days after Will’s death.

  “You are not handling this well,” Jasik says.

  “I am fine.”

  “I am worried about you,” he replies.

  I emphasized again that I was fine, even though I knew I was not. I was not prepared to admit it aloud.

  “I think it is time we move on, let it go,” Jasik says.

  At that point, I stormed out, childlike and ornery, but I did not care. I was tired of being told to get over it. To deal with it and move on. Will deserved more respect than that. He deserved to be mourned, and I would do just that.

  “It tastes better when warmed,” Malik says, as if I did not already know that. Still, I am grateful for the distraction. The hunters ground me, and without them, I would never be freed from the past’s clutch.