Evanescence (Black Rose #1) Read online

  Evanescence

  Book I

  R.J. Rogue

  2016® R.J. Rogue

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to publisher at [email protected]

  GenZPublishing.org

  Aberdeen, NJ

  ISBN: 978-0692634264

  To my mother, who told me to dream.

  To my father, who told me to make it happen.

  To my friends, who believed…

  Contents

  Chapter One: Dreamer

  Chapter Two: Crushing

  Chapter Three: Hiccups

  Chapter Four: Changing

  Chapter Five: The Visitor

  Chapter Six: Hunger

  Chapter Seven: Nightmare

  Chapter Eight: Second Impression

  Chapter Nine: Missing

  Chapter Ten: The Suspect

  Chapter Eleven: A Lasting Impression

  Chapter Twelve: Sharing

  Chapter Thirteen: Sweet Dreams

  Chapter Fourteen: Reborn

  Chapter Fifteen: Reunion

  Chapter Sixteen: The Truth

  Chapter Seventeen: Evanescence

  Chapter Eighteen: Lost and Found

  Chapter Nineteen: Bianca

  Chapter Twenty: Mike

  Chapter Twenty-One: Awakening

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Secrets

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Bonding

  Chapter Twenty-Four: History

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Immortal

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Fading from Deception

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Destiny Fulfilled

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Day Dreamer

  Chapter One: Dreamer

  “She hasn't told you, has she, Evan? She hasn't told you what you really are.”

  I am alone. Standing below gray clouds looking down from a cliff. The violent waves below are a disservice to my comfort, and this lump in my throat is as bitter as medicine. Goosebumps spread across my skin, not caused by wind, but from fear. I will not jump into the water below. I will not kill myself. I am strong.

  Thunder rumbles, and a heavy presence falls upon me: the kind of heaviness like someone standing over your shoulder. I turn to face the consequence. Doors. They are my only exit from this cliff and the falling sky. Its blood colored body has no handles, no chips or cracks in its wood, no house, nor dwelling. Nothing but the moss-filled forest behind them.

  The doors open and a blinding light escapes. As my legs command to step forward, I fight to stand still and frown at their disobedience. I walk, unable to see what is before me, the same trait darkness itself possesses. The doors slam behind me, and for a moment, all is still and quiet. I continue to walk, and when my surroundings become visible, I stop.

  A red carpet is beneath me. It runs throughout a vast lobby. The marble ceiling is high, and golden chandeliers hang above. A gray fountain of cherubs splashing buckets of water are centered beneath them. The walls are murals of Heaven like the Sistine Chapel, and not far from where I stand is a golden-railed staircase which leads to a second floor. I find a smile, but then that fragment of fear I was sure I defeated returns to the pit of my stomach. Why does this place look familiar?

  “Tag, you're it!” yells a little girl when she touches my leg.

  I chase her as she runs in her white dress. Her giggles echo through the long halls and opened doors. We run through empty rooms then back to the lobby and up the staircase. Her golden-blonde head full of hair dances with each step she takes and when we reach the top, I hear a piano playing and wonder who else is here. I stop, listen, and hope to find the sound, better yet the musician behind the keynote, but no luck.

  “Evan,” she calls, now standing in a doorway.

  How does she know my name? I recognize her but can't remember from where or when. She stands patient and peaceful, but when she smiles, I flinch. Her smile is rich in white fangs, two that are much larger and longer than the others. Like a vampire, I think to myself. Again, my legs disobey as I meet her at the door.

  We walk into a dining room. Sitting at a white-clothed table is a group of four. Each face is pale and familiar, like hers. A silver platter rests in the center of the table and before I can find words, one of them stands.

  “Be polite,” the man says as his eyebrows form wrinkles above his nose. “We have been waiting for you long enough. Why don't you have a seat?”

  His sharp tuxedo could cut a finger by the touch and his gelled salt and pepper hair matches. His eyes, however, are not as welcoming as his appearance. The red around his pupils are piercing and burn with hatred. A look I am foreign to receiving.

  “Well, --”

  I begin to respond, but a chair pushes beneath me before I accept his invitation. In what felt like a second, I am sitting on the opposite side of the table, next to the little girl, facing the doorway which is now closed. My eyes search for answers, but do not find them over their glare. They clock my chest with each breath I take and my lungs won't gather the amount oxygen I need to remain calm and comfortable.

  “See? We don't bite now do we, Evan?” The man says with a smile.

  They join in a sudden hysterical laughter as I sit silent, still, and afraid. I dry my hands across my lap, but almost immediately they moisten again. He too knows my name and he too has a mouthful of fangs like the little girl, only his are larger. The boy across from me has yet to move an inch. One of his eyes stares behind black strands of hair. Each breath he takes blows the hair away from his lips exposing his bottom row of fangs; hundreds, sharp, and glossed of saliva.

  “On this special night,” says the man in the tuxedo. “My son shall become one with his destiny. A destiny in which he will accept and fulfill. To become who he was born to be.”

  The boy continues to stare. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and try to keep myself from shaking.

  “He will die,” he continues. “And from his own ashes he will be reborn like a phoenix bird to be reunited with this family who loves him so.”

  “Are you alright?” asks the man with long black hair interrupting. “You don't look so well.”

  I want to respond, but I feel like choking. He too has fangs. Ready to take a bite and hopefully, not of me.

  “I'm fine. Just a bit…hot,” I say.

  I don't see, but hear him smile.

  “But it's cold outside for your kind, yes?” he asks leaning across the table. I gulp. My lie did not succeed.

  “Shhh…” says the woman. “Have some respect. This night is of great importance to this family.”

  “Indeed it is. My apologies,” he says to her bowing his head. “Continue, brother.”

  “Yes, as I was saying,” the man continues. “Let us move forward and prepare the way for my son. We have been waiting much longer than anticipated and so tonight, the wait shall be no more.”

  They are vampires, but a figment of me wants to stick to popular belief that vampires do not exist. Their existence goes as far as myths, books, and movies. Another part of me is trying to piece together where I have seen them. Sometime long ago.

  “It is the final hour,” he says removing the lid. “We shall eat to stay strong and unified. We are timeless on the timeline. Leave not a drop for immortality is a privilege. Not a right.”

  Their eyes widen and their lips peel back exposing mouthfuls of fangs. They hiss and begin to rise from their chairs. My heart pounds against my chest and a drop of sweat slides down the bridge of my nose. Afraid of what is to com
e, I stand and shout which may also be my last.

  “Stop!”

  They turn to me and hiss. Frightened, I fall back into my chair, its legs snap from beneath me, and the back of my head dashes the cemented wall. I shatter like glass and blurry vision leaves me defenseless. Everything is cloudy like being underwater without goggles. Almost like a dream. The thought crosses my mind and becomes salvation. Yes! A dream! I am asleep, imagining all of this. These people. This place. It is all just --.

  “A dream?!” the man yells. His nose is just a lips distance away from mine. He shakes his head.

  “This is no dream, Evan. This is far more than that.”

  I want to run for the door, but apart from not being able to see, I’m sure he would catch me. He steps away and a head full of blonde hair appears. Her small hands press over my eyes. After a few moments, she removes them and I can see.

  “Why aren't you eating, Evan?” she asks. “You have to eat. You have to or everyone will be sad again. Remember? Remember what daddy said would happen if you don't eat?”

  “Remember what?” I ask as I rub the back of my head where the wall connected. "What are you talking about?"

  Tears sit on her bed of eyelashes. Her face blushes.

  “Who's going to play with me? I never sleep alone,” she says. “Who's going to protect me?”

  “Wait. I don't understand?” I say sitting up. “What do you mean? Where am I and who are you people?”

  “You won't believe me,” she responds. Her face hugs the floor.

  “Yes, I will,” I say placing my hands gently on her shoulders. “Tell me.”

  A bang on the table frightens us. Eyes hover above me; angered, frustrated, and impatient. The man in the tuxedo has his fists clenched, but his expression is disappointed. He takes a step to the side of his chair, his eyes not leaving mine.

  “Daddy, no! Evan, will do it right this time! Don’t make him go!” yells the little girl as she wraps herself around my arm. “Evan, daddy's gonna...”

  “Silence, child!” he yells as the dining room doors slam open from a strong wind. The suction pulls me beneath the table and towards the door.

  “What’s happening?” I ask her.

  “I won't let you go, Evan!”

  The wind’s suction becomes stronger. Darkness awaits. Everyone besides the little girl steps away from the table and the table and chairs are sucked into the black hole.

  “Stop! What are you doing?!” I beg.

  The wind pulls me to the doorway and try to stop myself with my feet, but fail. The suction is fierce and unforgiving, and the little girl's grip is weak. I cling onto the wood with one hand as she hangs onto my other.

  “Evan, you can't go! Stay with me!” she yells.

  My body lifts from the floor and I try to hold on. My shoes leave my feet and are swallowed.

  “I can't!”

  “Since you can't cooperate, Evan, you have to leave!” the man yells. “I told you what would happen! I told you!”

  “Don't make him go!” the girl yells. “Give him another chance!”

  “No more chances! He's had far too many already!”

  The room falls silent. The suction continues and the girl hangs onto my hand, fighting her tears.

  “Someday, Evan, you will change,” he says. “Someday, you will come looking for answers. Someday, you will come home.”

  I fail to hold on any longer and fall into the darkness. The little girl extends her hand out to me with tears flowing down her cheeks. The others watch and wait.

  “Goodbye, Evan,” they all say.

  “We’ll meet again,” says the man. “When the time comes, it will be you who shall find us.”

  “Evan!” I hear the little girl cry. “Come back! Evan!”

  ~

  “Evan! Evan!” I hear my mother's voice. “Wake up. I'm here.”

  I gasp for air, rising to a sit. I am in bed and my mother sits at my side.

  “I'm okay,” I say breathless.

  “Yes,” she says. “You are safe.”

  I take a deep breath and lay my head back. My pillow is damp from sweat.

  My mother looks around the room, a heavy thought crosses her face before she speaks.

  “Were they in your nightmare, Evan?”

  I knew that question was coming. The conversation is more like a script between us by now.

  “No,” I shake my head. “They weren't.”

  She exhales deeply.

  “You haven't been getting much sleep lately,” she says caressing my cheek. “You scream throughout the night. You have bags under your eyes. You—”

  “I'm fine,” I say. “Really.”

  She stares. My lie did not succeed.

  “You weren't one of them this time -- were you?”

  “Mom, please. Don't do this.”

  “Do what, Evan?”

  I shrug.

  “Worry so much.”

  She presses her lips together.

  “You can't tell a mother not to worry about her child.”

  She leans forward and kisses my forehead. Her long brown hair touches the sides of my face.

  “Be sure to write it down as soon as you can.”

  “Mom.”

  “Please?” she asks, though I know it is not a question.

  I nod.

  Ever since I was a child, when something happened, ‘write it down, Evan.’ If I've had a bad day, ‘write it down, Evan.’ ‘Oh? You haven't written at all today? Write, Evan.’ I have notebooks on top of notebooks, journals on top of journals covering almost every day and aspect of my life and don't let me miss an entry and she find out about it.

  I remember when I forgot to write about the day I graduated from middle school. She was upset for weeks and was adamant about how important it is that I write every day. It wasn't that I didn't find my middle school graduation important. It just slipped my mind from all the festivities that had taken place afterwards. Now, I can never forget that day because of her.

  I guess I can't blame her. She's mom and the only family I have. She always says “It’s me and you against the world, Evan.” I do have a father, but he left us long before I can remember. I can't remember his face, his voice, or how he dresses. I've tried searching for him before. Such a dreadful failure. His name is Kaius Macrae. An interesting name if I do say so myself. I barely have any matching physical qualities with my mother besides peach skin, but she says I resemble my him; short brown hair, lean, and acorn eyes full of ambition. I've always had an infinite number of questions about him and my childhood, but my mother never wanted to answer any of my questions. I just wanted to learn more about myself through him I guess. Over time, I stopped asking.

  “I love you. Try to get some rest before school, okay?” She rises from the bed.

  “Okay, I love you too mom.”

  She gave in easily this time and closes the door. I listen as her footsteps become faint. I clasp my hands behind my head thinking about the nightmare. I've always had terrible ones as a child and for the past few weeks, they have returned. There have been times, like tonight, when it is difficult to determine if I am asleep or awake and unlike other nightmares in my past, this nightmare felt the most realistic. It was like one big déjà vu. And those people, if that's what they are, are always in them.

  I reach under my bed and grab my composition notebook. I will do as I was told and write it down; however, that nightmare will be difficult to forget. When I dot the last period, I place the notebook and pen on the nightstand and close my eyes. Who or what are those people? Why are they in my dreams? Why do they look so familiar?

  Chapter Two: Crushing

  I can't stand sunlight. My mother would joke and say, like a vampire. I rise from my bed and tuck my notebook into my book bag. My room has bins of notebooks filled with poetry, short stories, and screenplays that I've written since childhood. The walls of my room are covered in my artwork and I have a few portraits of famous works. My favorite? Salvador
Dali's Persistence of Memory. There's something about those melting clocks. I also have an easel for painting, a small coffee maker for those 4:00 am writing muse sessions, and a small desk covered in book outlines, crumbled papers of poor ideas, and books by some of my favorite writers like Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe, and C.S. Lewis.

  I love all forms of art. I remember my mother taking me to the Munson-Williams Proctor Arts Institute when I was younger and I would stare painting after painting. I also remember her reading me poems and going to Shakespearean plays. “What a genius,” is how she describes him. Before I knew it, I was creating my own works of art. Not to say I am as good as Shakespeare, but I must be exceptionally well to receive the recognition I have achieved from the awards I’ve received in poetry, short story, and art contests. One day, I'll hopefully write a novel, but life is a novel in itself.

  “Evan?” she calls from downstairs. “You awake?!”

  “Yes. I'll be down in a sec'!”

  "If you'd like a ride to school, you better hurry!"

  After the daily bathroom regimen, I get dressed wearing my black casual shoes and glasses. I sling my book bag over my back and head downstairs. My mother is in the kitchen dressed in her white work clothes and name tag which reads, Sarah Foster. Her and dad was never married.

  “Took you long enough, sleepyhead,” she says before kissing my cheek. “Good morning. Breakfast is right there on the counter. I'll have to leave now to make this delivery. I waited as long as I could.”

  “It's alright. I can take my bike,” I say. "No biggie'."

  “Be careful on that bike,” she says putting her lunch into a shopping bag. She then grabs the orange juice from the fridge.

  "Thanks for the breakfast. Hope you didn’t get any blood on my food.”

  I take a bite into a Morning Star veggie sausage biscuit. She smirks and pours a glass of orange juice, then slides it in front of me.

  “Well, Mr. Vegetarian, my job does pay the bills around here," she says smirking. "I'm surprised you haven't turned into a vampire by now."