A Grimoire Dark Read online

  A Grimoire Dark

  D.S. Quinton

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  More Books by D.S. Quinton

  About the Author

  Prologue

  In 1722, a great hurricane struck the city of New Orleans, the largest slave trading port in the South, destroying most of the city. Ships capsized or were thrown to splinters, sending the unfortunate to a watery grave. The dead were many and bodies were found for weeks: wedged in trees, buried in mud, under piles of debris dumped into swamps. For days after, bodies washed onto beaches and beckoned the living to them. The names of the people were lost to history, but the souls remained.

  In 1788, the Great New Orleans Fire raged and destroyed over eight-hundred and fifty buildings on Good Friday. The poor areas built of wood and thatched roofs burned and the dead were many. Piles of ash containing wood and bone were scooped together and thrown to the swamps or plowed under the soft rotting soil. The wind moaned agony and the agony coated the fragile things; leaves of the mighty Eucalyptus, once silent and soft, rattled like fragile bones; false voices called out in the night, begging eternal rest. The names of the people were lost to history, but the souls remained.

  In 1849, the Mississippi River breached a levee north of New Orleans. The city remained under water from May to late June. Coffins and bones emerged from the low, water-logged soil and floated the streets, disturbing the living, but reminding the dead of what they once had. The remains were reburied without ceremony, sometimes stacked three bodies deep with a layer of rock on top to weigh them down. The bodies were mixed and lost to history, but the souls remained.

  The agony of the souls was cast upon the wind and the wind became their voice. The sensitive people heard the moans of the dead late at night and in their dreams, and soon, in an effort to quiet them, Spirit Hunters emerged. The Spirit Hunters, through some ability cursed upon them by the stars, were able to hear the spirits and, in some cases, coax them back to a state of eternal sleep. But not all souls yearned to sleep. Some souls, once awakened, would never rest and wandered the streets moaning their vengeance.

  The Spirit Hunters learned through the years powerful magic, that if used with discretion, could tame or trick the spirits and put them to rest. The risk to the Spirit Hunter was the wielding of the great and terrible power, for it changed their own soul each time it was used. To protect themselves from unnatural outcomes, the Spirit Hunters hid the magic, and made it secret. Long years passed where the wandering souls were quiet, and the Spirit Hunters were all but forgotten.

  Then, in 1963, a book was found wrapped in cloth, bound by twine, covered in burlap, tied with rope, in a hidden alcove, behind a false wall in a den, crowded with bric-a-brac, in an ancient home on a dead-end street, in the old section of New Orleans.

  The book was thought destroyed or lost to the ages; some believed it never existed at all, or that it was not what was said of it, but that was their undoing. Obtaining a clear description of the book—to avoid it completely—was a fool’s errand as it was designed for deceit; hiding its true nature.

  Upon discovery of the book, a most unfortunate thing happened; someone read from it. And the spirits moaned that the dead would be many.

  Chapter 1

  A Dark Void

  Hello? Is someone there?

  * * *

  Anyone?

  * * *

  Oh dear, what has become of me?

  * * *

  Whoever’s there come close please. I cannot see and can utter but a whisper. My throat is so dry.

  * * *

  Hear how my voice quivers?

  * * *

  Where are you good soul? Alas, have pity and don’t leave me here all alone.

  * * *

  I fear I am lost in the darkness; a terrible void of some type.

  * * *

  It is a cold place in which I have found myself; utterly without warmth or light. I dare not reach out for fear of what I might find—or, that I might find nothing at all.

  * * *

  Oh! Dreadful, dreadful state of mind! My heart is nearly bursting from my chest. I’m sure it will falter any second now!

  * * *

  What terrible thing could I have done to be cast into this abysmal place?

  * * *

  Hello?

  * * *

  What was that sound? A rustling of the wind?

  * * *

  Are you still there or do my ears deceive me?

  * * *

  Oh, how the mind plays tricks!

  * * *

  Come closer still please. I fear this dreadful place in which I have found myself and feel that I am fading; fading almost out of existence! Oh! the horror!

  * * *

  There’s that sound again. Did you hear it?

  * * *

  It’s as of leaves rustling across a thicket.

  * * *

  Oh, what a wretched state I am in! Dead! Dead I am sure! —if this is not Hades, then very nearly!

  * * *

  Are you the specter from my nightmares? The spirit who has haunted my mind? The one who cast me down?

  * * *

  Nay, I feel not the evil presence I… the presence I felt long ago.

  * * *

  I pray you will help me?

  * * *

  How I came to this state is beyond the capacity of my mind to recall, and what a wretched company you have found. I assure you—well, I believe—that I was not always like this. The actual state of my being—before the state in which you find me now—was quite sane I’m sure. Yes, I feel as if I was quite sane… but alas… something dreadful happened to me. I cannot recall it, but I am—

  * * *

  Why, there it is again. Did you hear it? A gentle rustling sound. A sound quite like that of leaves or of… parchment.

  * * *

  Yes, of course. That must be it. I believe I understand now.

  * * *


  I’m sorry, I cannot recall the events exactly, my mind is quite muddled. In fact, I fear you suspect the ramblings of a madman, quite incoherent, but… a peculiar feeling gnaws at my soul, there is something...

  * * *

  Despite my wretched state, I have a yearning to portray to you what I can, so the same terrible fate does befall you. Excuse me, does not befall you.

  * * *

  Yes, now that I state it, I am quite sure the telling of my tale is what is needed. I feel this to be true in the marrow of my bones, as if my life utterly depended on it.

  * * *

  However, I feel that my constitution is feeble and that I may not last the night. If the most terrible fate should befall me while we’re on our… journey, I beg of you to soldier on.

  * * *

  But how would that be possible you ask? Soldier on with a voice lost to the winds of time and the void of death?

  * * *

  Yes, soldier on you must, for this voice is now upon the wind, and now that the words have been spoken, it must continue.

  * * *

  It’s fate you see. Once the words are spoken, even just a whisper, the wind hears them and carries them on to their destination and will carry you along if you just listen and speak the words. But that is the key you understand, you must speak the words the wind gives you, for it is the only way.

  * * *

  Are you close? Are you comfortable?

  * * *

  Thank you.

  * * *

  As I recall, it all began with an unholy rain.

  Chapter 2

  March 1963, Friday

  A cold March rain began to fall on New Orleans, the Crescent City, wrapping it in a shroud of fog. It was a long, slow rain that drizzled and dropped its way down rooflines, into moss-filled gutters and eventually out to the streets.

  At night, the rain formed a ghostly fog that hung like specters drifting through the streets, inspecting the living for any trace of humanity they chose to leave behind.

  In the morning, the rain harnessed the smells of the previous night and hung them in low, wet clouds to be sampled by people who scuttered by. Sometimes the rain cleansed the city, most times not.

  The following night, the rain drizzled on.

  By the fifth night, the old gutters were filled and overflowing, dangling from roofs where the downspouts had clogged. Moss grew everywhere in the Crescent City and straining gutters were common, but when the Live Oaks began creaking their waterlogged limbs, people began to talk.

  By the tenth night a heavy stench hung about the city. Not the common humanity on high stench that was so common in the tourist areas; that could be washed away with hose and broom. By the tenth night the city gave up hints to its long and violent past; the stench was of death and the first of many bones floated to the surface of the low, soft soil.

  Del absently fluffed at her tight curly hair as she watched the droplets follow a lazy, miniature stream down the window of the cab. She fingered the scar that ran up the right side of her neck and under her ear. Her jaw muscles tightened reflexively.

  The view of the city was blurry through the raindrops and gave it an otherworldly feel, as if it were a watercolor painting, or old photo of the city that used to exist, hidden just beyond the real one. That city existed in her mind as a city in black and white—as an old photo would portray—dead and rotting, but somehow lingering on.

  She chewed at a broken nail and tapped a worn sneaker against the floor. “Can’t you go around?” she said. “What about Brouchard street up on the right? Is that open? I’m going to be late.”

  “Sorry miss,” the cabbie said, “dis infernal rain got all da lights a blinkin’. Ev’rbody got all switched up. Ain’t nothin’ can be done but wait out da jam.”

  She heaved a sigh and sank into the lumpy seat. Fidgeting with her bandeau-style headband, she looked at the half-empty sidewalk. She could have made better time on her bike, but the cake wouldn’t have survived her backpack.

  Looking at her watch, she realized she only had a few minutes left and still had several blocks to go.

  “Forget it,” she said, looking at the meter. “I’ll get out here.”

  She quietly dug through her pockets and felt a tinge of panic as she searched for coins. The cabbie watched her through the mirror.

  She carefully counted out fifty-five cents for the ride, then added a dime at the last minute. She handed him sixty-five cents and smiled weakly at his face in the mirror.

  She had no idea a cab ride was so expensive and vowed to plan better next time. She knew she couldn’t afford such luxuries considering she had just started her first real job and was saving money for a house—although she had no idea what a house would cost—but the rain hadn’t let up and she was late. It was important to get this package to the party on time and intact, so she had chosen the cab.

  Del didn’t go in much for birthday parties. Growing up most of her life in an orphanage, they were painful reminders of another year of not being wanted, of being passed over and generally being considered non-existent.

  She had watched people for years through the windows of the St. Augustine orphanage where she had lived, hustling by with bags and boxes–some wrapped, but usually not. She guessed most items were household or work items, but occasionally she glimpsed the telltale signs of a pending party; a handful of balloons was obvious, or a brightly wrapped package, but they rarely had balloons or packages in the orphanage.

  Over the years she had learned to tune those images out almost as soon as she saw them. It was an innate survival mechanism she had—defocus the image until it obscured into oblivion—that way it could have been a dream. The memory reel of her life so far had many obscured images like this.

  Grabbing the carefully wrapped gift and small cake she stepped out into the blanket of fog before the driver could inch to the curb.

  Hopscotching over the uneven cobblestones of the street, she easily avoided the larger puddles and any hidden items they may contain, cleared the curb and began winding her way down the sidewalk.

  Her worn jean jacket did little against the cold mist and despite being a youthful eighteen, she shivered as she bent her head against the rogue gusts of wind.

  The heavy fog-rain formed large droplets of water on her light-brown face and freckled nose. She ignored the drops as she ran up to the corner, turned right on Brouchard and cut through the next alley, coming out near the corner of the St. Augustine Church.

  The orphanage, built in 1843, two years after the church’s inception, served the poor and destitute of this part of the city. Maybe the location was the reason Del never had any real attempts at adoption—Who was looking for another Creole girl anyway, especially from this part of town? —or, maybe it was the fact that people seemed to be able to read her thoughts as if they were written on her face.

  “Attitude girl! Straighten up and lose it.” Sister Eulalie—the Mother Superior—would say as she grabbed a handful of her wild black hair and yanked her head up before the prospects walked through. “And lose the devil eyes.”

  Del would chew every nail those nights, dreaming of the day she would finally be rid of Sister Eulalie and the St. Augustine orphanage.

  As she passed a streaked window that looked into the side waiting room, she saw a small flat face pressed against it, nose pushed flat, tongue lolling against the cold pane, eyes searching the sidewalk, and knew she was late.

  Through the small windows of the double-doors, Del spied Josephine Soble sitting at the reception desk buffing her nails in secret. Del knew the desk well—and Josephine’s habit—because she had spent much of her time there the last year.

  When Del left, the task was assigned to Josephine, who seemed to despise this chore the least: pretending to care about the people who wandered into the orphanage, ensure they signed in correctly and see that they didn’t steal any brats from the back.

  Josephine did this happily because the alternative was to actual
ly play with the brats in the back, and Del knew there was no greater punishment for her—well, only one.

  The secrecy of the nail buffing was due to the nuns incessant preaching about the sin of vanity; one which Josephine relished in as often as possible as far as Del could tell.