Of Visions & Secrets (Tenebris: An Occult Romance Book 1), page 1
OF VISIONS & SECRETS
TENEBRIS: AN OCCULT ROMANCE, BOOK ONE
KATHRYN ANN KINGSLEY
Copyright © 2022 by Kathryn Ann Kingsley
ASIN: B09VY59XZD
ISBN: 9798824517309
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. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
A Warning
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
For More by me…
Follow Me!
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all my wonderful readers, thank you for inspiring me to keep going. It’s your presence, your discourse, and your emails & messages, that fill the tank to keep me going.
(No, not just your tears as has been implied, although those are tasty.)
To Lori, my tireless editor, who keeps me on my toes and is always there to cheer me on. It’s been three years since our first book series together, and it amazes me how much I’ve learned and continue to learn. Even if I do fall into word ruts and try to use “little” approximately eighty-three times on a page.
To Kristin, who started the game of “teach Kat to actually write, since she’s too stubborn to stop” about fifteen years ago and is still trying to get me to use lay/lie correctly. It’ll happen someday; today is not that day.
To my pets, who are just as disruptive as they are helpful.
To my husband, who is just as disruptive as he is helpful.
I couldn’t do it without all of you.
A WARNING
Dear wonderful readers,
This series touches on subjects including psychosis, the instability of our realities, and murder. It has a happy ending at the end of the series, but it may be a bumpy ride getting there. All sexual content is consensual.
But as this series is heavily influenced by Lovecraftian styles of horror, I must warn you that there will be tentacles. I promise I’ll keep it classy.
Y’know. Classy tentacles.
You’ve been warned.
CHAPTER ONE
Emma would like to have told anyone who had stopped her, as she dangled from the bottom of the rusty iron fire escape, that this was the first time she’d ever broken into someone’s home.
She’d like to have said that.
It’d have been a lie.
To be fair, this was all the doorman’s fault. If he had just believed her and let her into the building, she wouldn’t be stuck outside in the back alley in a cold April drizzle. She kicked her foot, trying to get it up over her head.
It was harder than she thought it’d be.
She kicked again, trying to hook her toe on the bar over her. Swing and a miss. She sighed through the strap of her bag that she held clenched between her teeth. Swing and a miss. She hung there limply for a moment, shutting her eyes.
Emma was having a night. The ride on the streetcar to the hotel had been crowded as everyone was eager to either go home or to one of the jazz clubs in the city, or to crawl into whatever local speakeasy they preferred. She had talked to the doorman hours ago, and when he had turned her down, she knew she had to wait a while until she could try to sneak in.
And so she waited. For hours. Outside. In the rain. Watching the streetcars go by.
This was entirely the doorman’s fault. If he hadn’t argued with her, everything would be fine! But no. Of course not. Blah-blah-blah, “you don’t look like a twin,” and here she was. The metal dug into her hand, and she shifted her grip only to find the rusty bits were pointy just about everywhere.
She could have pulled down the fire escape ladder and gone up that way, but she was trying to be as quiet as possible. And the sound of that whole thing coming down would be certain to wake up everyone in all the surrounding buildings.
So, here she was.
Dangling.
From a fire escape.
Like a total moron.
This time, she decided to swing, hoping the momentum would help her kick up and over the rung she was hanging from, and allow her to squeeze between the gap in the bars of the railing. That was her hope, anyway. If she failed, she’d probably fall and smash her head on the cobblestones some ten feet beneath her.
No, I’ll hit the garbage can I used to jump up here, first. Then I’ll smash my head on the cobblestones.
What a way to die.
Anyway.
Back, forth, back, forth, back—she kicked as hard as she could. This time, she managed to get her feet onto the bars. It took a lot of wriggling, a lot of squirming, and a lot of muffled swears into the strap in her mouth, but she finally, finally got there!
Pulling the bag from her mouth, she let out a puff of air and looked down at her poor, red palms. They were going to hurt later. But hey, she was lying on her back on the fire escape, and not splattered all over the cobblestones or nursing a broken ankle, so she’d take it.
She was one step closer to finding Elliot. “If you aren’t dead, I’m going to murder you,” she murmured as she wiped her palms off on her riding pants. She had changed from her far-less-taboo skirt into her trousers in the alley, having absolutely zero desire to deal with the extra fabric wrapping around her face as she tried to flip upside down. The last thing she needed at two in the morning was to get arrested for cross-dressing. Not that she didn’t understand the appeal. Truth be told, she much preferred pants to skirts and dresses, but society dictated she wore otherwise. Stupid men, always getting the rational options.
It was much easier to get away with wearing pants while she was overseas. Everybody cared less as to whether or not she was adhering to social norms when she was riding a camel through the desert or a horse through the jungle.
Stupid men, getting to wear pants.
Oh, well.
Hefting herself up to her feet, she let out a sigh and slung her bag over her shoulder. She only felt a little proud of herself for making it up onto the fire escape. Step one had been to get into the building, so she hadn’t even completed that much yet.
Step One—get into the building.
Step Two—break into Elliot’s apartment.
Step Three—beat his drugged-up ass halfway to Kingdom Come for disappearing and scaring the shit out of her and the rest of their family.
Step One had proven to be a bit more difficult than anticipated, which gave her little hope for the next phase of the operation. Looking up at the iron fire escape stairs, she pondered her next step. Find someone who had an open window who either wasn’t home or was asleep. Hopefully. Maybe. It was a drizzly April night, and although the air was warm-ish, it still had a chill to it that probably meant nobody was sleeping with their window open.
Then she’d have to go to the roof and hope the roof stairs were unlocked.
But she was getting ahead of herself.
She started up the winding scaffolding of the stairs, walking as quietly as possible. It was easy to make noise on the metal structure, and the last thing she wanted was the police to show up and question her.
The first few floors had proven useless. No open windows. She had zero interest in trying to jimmy any of them open or shattering any glass. That was a step too far. Entering was one thing, breaking was another. It was on the sixth floor—of course it had to be the sixth—when she finally saw it.
An open window.
Ten feet away from the fire escape.
Shit.
She went all the way up to the last floor, the tenth, to see if she had any other options. No. And no, the roof stairs weren’t unlocked.
Double shit.
With a heavy sigh, she shut her eyes and braced herself for what she had to do. She put her hand over her face. “I’m going to murder you, Elliot.”
Heading back to the sixth floor, she eyed the open window with wary distrust. No, it wasn’t an illusion. It was, in fact, open. The lights were all off inside, hopefully meaning the renters were asleep or not home. The decorative pattern of the brick wall would give her some handholds along the way. There was a ledge that ran to the window from the fire escape. It was deep—probably a foot or more—but it was still a fucking ledge.
Looking down the six stories, she let out a small whine. She really, really didn’t want to have to do this. But she didn’t know a
Taking off her shoes and stockings, she tucked them into her bag and slung it over her shoulder so that it was behind her. She wanted as much grip on the stone as she possibly could. The air was moist, and it left a thin sheen of water on everything. And water meant slippery. Cautiously, she slung a leg over the railing, then the other. She was on the ledge. Next came the harder part—letting go of the railing.
Pressing herself to the wall, she grabbed one of the protruding decorative bricks that was just slightly over her head. Letting out a breath, she used it to swear at her brother, and she began to shuffle along the ledge.
One foot at a time.
Don’t look down.
One foot at a time.
Don’t look down.
One foot at a—
Her foot slipped on the damp ledge, and she gripped the brick surface as hard as she could. It had only slid an inch, nowhere near the edge of the building, but it still sent her heart racing, pounding in her ears and drowning out the sound of the wind rushing through the alley.
She swore at her brother some more.
Once she could breathe again, she opened her eyes and resumed her sad, slow, pathetic shuffle along the ledge.
One foot at a time.
Don’t look down.
This was just like that time in the tropics when she had to cross that rotted-out rope bridge. Totally the same thing. That had ended great, hadn’t it? So this would be great. Everything was great.
One foot at a time.
Don’t look down.
“I hate you, Elliot.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she reached the open window. Suddenly, she realized that the shuffle along the ledge was only half the scary problem. Even though the window was inset, and she could use the jamb to wedge herself there…she still had to wiggle the window all the way open and slip inside.
“I hate you so much.” She pressed her shoulder to one side of the jamb, using it as a balance point, and began to carefully lift the window, trying very, very hard not to let her weight shift backward.
The mental image of the window popping out in her hands, sending her falling into the alley, played through her head so viscerally that she had to stop for a moment. She pressed her forehead against the top pane of glass and struggled to slow her breathing.
Not now.
Not now.
Please, not now.
The images cleared after a moment, and she could focus again. The window was up high enough that she could squeeze through, but she still had to…lie down, or get her legs in there, or something.
Maybe if she sat or knelt, she could just roll in there?
This was a physics problem she hadn’t anticipated. The shuffle on the ledge was supposed to be the challenge, not figuring out how to get in the damn window without falling once she had reached it.
Holding on to the window as tightly as she could without risking making her vision a reality, she slowly knelt on the ledge, one knee at a time. Grabbing hold of the bottom of the frame on the inside of the apartment, Emma carefully, very carefully, one inch at a time, slung her legs into the dark abode within.
She slid, far less gracefully than she’d like to admit to anyone who asked, into the room and crumpled quietly to the ground. The fear caught up with her. It surged through her, lighting every nerve of her body on fire. She took a slow, deep breath.
She had done a lot of stupid things in her life. Squeezing into tiny caves, traversing ancient tombs, crossing raging rivers with jagged rocks on rotted-out bridges, sailed through storms, hunted dangerous and wild animals. But that had been up there with the dumbest choices of her life.
So far.
She was only twenty-two, she supposed. Plenty of time to make dumber choices. Until one kills me. Poppa had always lectured her about how she needed to stop putting herself in dangerous situations for the thrill of it. And to be fair, this time it hadn’t been just for the rush and the way it made her body feel electric. She was on a mission this time.
Even if the feeling of the fear leaving her made her shudder. And she was just a little disappointed. But now wasn’t the time to debate whether or not she had enjoyed that a little more than she should have.
Namely, because she was sitting on the floor in someone’s apartment, having snuck in through an open window. The place was tastefully decorated—actually, lavishly, with all the new trends in furniture and decor. The wallpaper was patterned in geometric, straight lines and shapes, all foiled in shiny metallic silver. It glinted, even in the dim ambient light that came from the city outside. Arnsmouth never was truly dark, even at two in the morning.
Silently, she stood and shuffled out of her riding pants and back into her skirt. Finding a woman standing in their living room in the middle of the night was one thing. Finding a woman who was cross-dressing in the middle of their living room was another. Both would wind up with a telephone call to the police, but one was decidedly weirder than the other. Tugging her stockings back up her legs, she clipped them onto her garters.
She kept her shoes off, however. She wanted to be as quiet as she could. It felt exceedingly stupid, having to re-dress while having illegally entered someone’s home, but…standards.
Padding through the apartment, she was glad for their carpets and relatively new constructed floors. Nothing squeaked or creaked as she made her way toward the front door. It didn’t seem like anyone was home, but she certainly wasn’t going to go peering into the bedrooms to find out.
Reaching the door, she slowly turned the lock. Wincing as it clicked open, she waited for a noise from behind her. Nothing. She let out the breath she was holding. They would hopefully just believe they had forgotten to lock the door that night. Opening the door, she peeked out into the hallway.
Empty. The overhead lights were burning dimly in their geometric lighting fixtures. The building wasn’t a cheap place to live. She wouldn’t expect anything else from Elliot. Looking up and down the hallway once more, she slipped out the door and silently shut it behind her.
Step One—get inside the building. Check.
Putting her shoes back on—just in case she passed someone in the hallway—she set about her next mission.
Step Two—break into Elliot’s apartment.
Hopefully, that’d be a lot easier than step one. Straightening her clothes and smoothing out her chin-length, curly hair as best as it ever smoothed out, she grinned to herself in triumph as she strode down the hallway, her bag over her shoulder, ready to take on whatever came next.
I’m going to find you, and then I’m going to murder you myself, Elliot Mather.
He watched as the blood dripped from his knife. In the dim light of the city streets, it glinted in crimson and deep shades of vermillion. But where it didn’t shine, the viscous liquid looked almost black in the darkness. And the darkness hungered for it.
The body that had fallen at his feet was already gone. Vanished before it even hit the ground. He hoped it kept his infestation fed…for a little while. The blood on his pocketknife was fascinating to watch as it formed a droplet and fell to the cobblestones whose mortar had just run with the substance. But it was gone now.
Gone without a trace.
With a sigh, he wiped the blade with his handkerchief. The pale cotton fabric turned mottled with blood. He only purchased the cheapest pocket squares that he could find for this exact reason. He went through far too many to keep nice ones.
I suppose I should have some quality ones in reserve.
Now was not the time to debate the merits of keeping silk handkerchiefs for special occasions, yet the errant thought entered his mind, regardless. Once the blade was suitably clean, he flicked it shut and slipped it back into his coat pocket.
