Noir: A Crimson Shadow Novel Read online

  REVIEWS

  "Very well written and perfectly paced the author has given us a great read and a skilfully developed character in Xander. I will say that this type of story about supernatural powers and the struggle for personal control and self-discipline has been done many times before but this is one of the few times where I actually bought it."

  ~Christoph Fischer (Top Amazon Reviewer)

  "A MUST read!! This book will leaving you wanting more of Xander Stryker and his adventures."

  ~Jenny Bynum (Black Words-White Page)

  “One of the best books I've read in a long time. This writer has the ability to be far reaching and very famous. His writing style is a new revelation in horror. You never know what is going to happen next, and just when you think you've got it figured out it throws you for a loop.”

  ~Anita Harris (Amazon)

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  REVIEWS

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY NATHAN SQUIERS:

  NOIR

  A CRIMSON SHADOW NOVEL

  FOREWORD

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY NATHAN SQUIERS:

  A HOWL AT THE MOON

  *THE FIGHTER

  *SCARLET RISING

  CURTAIN CALL: A DEATH METAL NOVEL

  CRIMSON METAL (A CRIMSON SHADOW/DEATH METAL CROSSOVER)

  *A prequel to Scarlet Night (by Megan J. Parker)

  NOIR

  A CRIMSON SHADOW NOVEL

  NATHAN SQUIERS

  Published by

  Literary Dark Duo Publishibg

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Nathan Squiers

  Cover art by Rebecca Frank Art

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  To all my friends and family who kept me alive and writing to see Xander’s origins to the end so that I could find my start.

  To all my colleagues and supporters who make every day a gem.

  And to anybody out there who, like Xander, needs a reason of their own.

  FOREWORD

  I was fifteen when I first started the Crimson Shadow series. At that time, nearly half of my present lifetime ago, it was something much, much different. A great deal of the foundation has stayed true since its early conception, but, by the same token, much has been changed, as well. One thing from the get-go has remained constant, however:

  Crimson Shadow was therapeutic.

  When I first sat down to write what this book has since become, it wasn’t meant to be a book at all. It was, in all actuality, something that was meant to be much shorter and much more final—one last little nugget of grim fiction to serve as an obscure “farewell” from a hurting mind that was too wrapped-up in self-loathing to even write a suicide letter about itself. That “creative suicide letter” became a short story, which grew into something built almost entirely on curiosity, and, finally, I found myself hooked. I wanted to write Xander’s story; to make him a success where I was certain I was not. And so Xander’s story grew, blossomed, and turned into something much more than I’d ever anticipated.

  But what I truly could never have anticipated was how I was impacted by placing that last line on the last page.

  “… all that he needed to live for at that moment.”

  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I was cured by the process of writing this book—I’m a fiction author, not a liar (no matter what it might say on my Twitter profile)—but I think it’s fair to say that something clicked in me in the process of writing this book that changed how I’d approach my depression for the rest of my life. At that time, writing was my reason. Finishing Xander’s story was all that I needed to live for prior to completing the book, then, after that, I found myself with new goals: most specifically writing more. This was, of course, before I’d gotten a single book published, before I’d shared my words and before there were readers impacted in varying degrees by Xander’s journey. I’d find myself with more reasons when that time was upon me. And, just like that, a corny little line that jumped into my head as I found myself wrapping up a tolling project became a sort of eternal truth:

  I had a lot of reasons to live.

  And that, along with the love and support of great friends and family and readers, has kept me going.

  Since that time, which now seems strangely distant to me, I’ve carried on with Xander Stryker’s journey. I’ve tackled my own issues of anger and loneliness and love by forcing them upon an outwardly-tough-yet-inwardly-struggling character and seeing how he’d handled him. Strange as it might sound, he’s taught me a lot about myself. I can only hope that, along with the obvious entertainment, readers have found a bit of themselves in these stories, as well.

  Upon completion of the seventh (and final) book of the Crimson Shadow series, my wife and writing colleague, Megan J. Parker, decided to cycle back to the beginning and give the series an overhaul—make it all feel fresh and, most importantly, whole. This book, like all the others, has gotten a fresh polish and been given a few additional chapters that build upon its story. I won’t spit on my old work and say that this is a better book, but I will say that it’s a far more complete book.

  That being the case, I hope you find it a more satisfying book.

  Thank you for reading and allowing me the chance to do what I’ve always dreamed of doing.

  And, as always, stay gnarly.

  Nathan Squiers

  “Sometimes the most profound of awakenings

  come wrapped in the quietest of moments.”

  ~Stephen Crane (1871-1900)

  Feeling suicidal?

  Don’t ever stop fighting. Choose life.

  CALL the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255

  OR

  TEXT “CONNECT” to 741741

  “…there is always one more thing to live for.”

  PROLOGUE

  Forbidden Paints on a Wicked Canvas

  Art is perfect in its imperfection. It lies in the momentary beauty it inspires and goes on to try to improve and get ne
arer to perfection. Perfection, however, is not possible, and if it were ever reached, art would become meaningless. Despite this, there lays, in each and every artist, a single piece that will sum up and define all that the artist could be. This single piece is so filled with the passion of the artist that no work to follow could compare. When one stumbles upon that piece of work, it is safe to say it would be time to retire, but for some, whose sole purpose is to create, the very purpose for living has been achieved. When this happens, the artist passes on and lives forever in what they’ve left behind.

  It was painting that interested Elizabeth; painting and painting alone. Her family had long ago opened an art shop and her mother, who had taken on the business, had introduced her daughter to the wonders of art and the joy to be had in creating when she was barely old enough to hold a crayon. Despite difficult times and the death of her father, Elizabeth grew up knowing that, no matter how bad things got, she would always have her art. Painting quickly became an obsession that drew all of her attention away from the outside world. She rarely interacted with others at school; seeing social interaction as tedious and, more often than not, lacking in the affection and beauty that she craved.

  Her reclusiveness confused many as she was well spoken and very beautiful. Her eyes, since birth, had shone with a shade of blue that could only exist in tropical waters and her hair was shoulder-length strands of amber that curled only slightly at the ends. Her figure was sleek and graceful, and she had long since been endowed in ways that other girls hated her for.

  Subjects introduced to her in school meant little to her though some argued that they could inspire her art, and that new perspectives of the world would benefit her creativity. When this happened Elizabeth would merely shrug and tell them that the world she painted was not the one they lived in.

  In this regard, she was correct. All that appeared on her canvases were of creatures that none had witnessed in everyday life. Scenes depicting shadowed figures hunched over people frozen in the grips of fear decorated with specs of red from corner to corner would often send shudders down the spines of all who looked upon them.

  Elizabeth, however, found the images she depicted beautiful.

  And while the fruits of her labor were far from ordinary, the oddest thing about her work, by far, was the intimacy she put into it. Not only would figures be painted in minute detail, but names, histories and personalities would be assigned to each and every figure. In most cases, people saw this as merely a sign of both awesome talent mixed with spectacular creativity, but when she had unveiled her most recent work showing an entire assembly with hundreds of beings seated before a red cloaked figure atop a pedestal and each were individually named and described, people started to become nervous. And while the hushed murmurs of the audience troubled and concerned her mother, Elizabeth found their discomfort nothing short of amusing. The thought that she could bring out such chaos in the minds of her peers made her appreciate the piece all the more.

  After all, she didn't paint for approval.

  She painted because she had to; because she had been chosen to see.

  Elizabeth was most certainly talented, but she occasionally felt guilty for accepting praise for being creative, especially since the images were not from her imagination.

  Or, rather, she didn't believe they did.

  Each and every night she would close her eyes and open her senses and let the images come to her. And come they would! Without fail her nights would be filled with scenes of impossible beings who drank blood or took life through touch or even a glance; beings who ran through the wilderness and changed shape at will; beings who cried out silently through misty, gaping mouths.

  Such wicked creatures.

  Such vivid images.

  Such a beautiful, inhuman world.

  In the morning, when Elizabeth awoke, a notebook near her bed would be scribbled upon, detailing the scenes of her dreams as well as all that she needed to know of the figure she would put to canvas. Then, when the school day ended, she would run off to her mom’s store, where she would collect all of the supplies she needed for the evening’s project. She was partial to watercolors, which worked best to depict her subjects in the ghostly detail that she preferred, though she understood that the beings were more complex than simple spirits. From time-to-time, however, oil-based paints proved to work better, allowing her to bring out the deep, rich colors and textures needed to emphasize the world from her dreams.

  Once she had the supplies she needed, Elizabeth would hurry home to begin her newest project. First, the desired image would be lightly sketched on the canvas and then a pastel outline would be used to emphasize the design and give it shape for her to fill later. From there, the paints were prepared and Elizabeth's true mastery came into play. The technique she used to bring her art to life depended on the image, but most of the time she used circular brush strokes, feeling that the effect it had in the end and adding a more realistic dimension to the work of art The hours would tick by unnoticed, and Elizabeth—undeterred by physical demands for food or rest—would not allow herself to eat or sleep until she had reached a previously determined point; only then would the paints and brushes be set down and the burden of reality would be allowed to return to her. When at last the piece was complete and the workspace had been cleaned and organized for her next project, she would open her mind to further inspiration and slip into the inspiration for her next masterpiece.

  It was on a Thursday night in the midst of a mid-November chill—the pelting sound of heavy, semi-frozen rain drops accosting her bedroom window—when Elizabeth awoke in a sweat-drenched hysteria; the chaos from her dreams breaking free from her sleep-filled mind with an ear-piercing shriek. Though awake, the images continued to flash in her mind, the visions of torture and suffering burning in her mind like an out-of-control wildfire that no force could snuff. Having been awakened by the ruckus, her mother burst through the door, clutching an old cast-iron lamp as a makeshift weapon. When a brief scan of the room clarified that the screams had not been in response to an intruder, the makeshift bludgeon was abandoned at the door and she hurried to her daughter's bedside and knelt beside her, trying desperately to calm the panic-stricken teen. Though the images had begun to fade from her mind, Elizabeth could not bring herself to silence the fearful screams, pained howls and hysterical laughter that mingled in a single, insanity-driven symphony. It took nearly fifteen minutes until her eyes stopped dancing about in her skull with unconscious REM spasms, and her mother held her for the same length of time thereafter.

  Though her mother was reluctant to leave her side, Elizabeth was insistent and, when she was finally alone she, with a still-quivering hand, picked up her notebook and began writing of Xander Stryker. Nearly a dozen pages were filled with rough sketches and notes on the young man-turned-vampire she had seen in her sleep.

  She needed to paint him; more than any other dream-induced subject she had ever painted she needed to paint him.

  The hours of the night passed by unnoticed as more and more notes were laid down or even made on the person who still burned in her mind. Such a tortured past; such pain and suffering; such power!

  Who was he?

  Why such raw energy in this one subject above all the thousands of others?

  What did it all mean?

  And, most of all, how could she possibly depict him properly?

  Elizabeth's mother called up to her to get ready early the next morning as she always did, and Elizabeth, having never gone back to sleep, gave a scornful sigh at the knowledge that her note-taking had to end then. Nevertheless, a plan had been formulated and, though still in the early stages, it was a beautiful plan—a beautifully-despicable plan. A despicable plan that made her shudder at her deepest core and drove her to hate herself over concocting it. But none of that mattered. Not anymore.

  The image had to be shared.

  No matter what the cost—to herself or to others—she had to paint Xander.

 
The bus ride to school was uneventful, and with her head still buzzing with her thoughts Elizabeth barely registered the trip. It wasn't until the doors opened to let her and her peers exit that she realized they'd reached their destination and, once again resentful at being interrupted by life and its demands, exited and followed the human herd into the building as the first bell rang. It took four tries to get her locker combination right, her mind unable to pull up the proper sequence as she absently spun the dial to-and-fro. Still glaring at the lock, she suddenly became aware that she was not alone at her locker and looked up at Adam. Realizing he'd been calling her name, she blushed and forced a ditzy smile towards him and giggled, gesturing to the lock and hoping he'd understand. His own goofy smirk told her that he'd bought the act and gave up on opening the locker so that she could turn to face him. Adam had, on multiple occasions, expressed an interest in her and, despite her continued rejections, had never stopped trying. He'd even gone so far as to act interested in her paintings when publically unveiled, though she knew full-well he had not one artistic bone in his bulky body. His smile widened as she stuck her chest out—giving him a glimpse of her assets in the hope of enticing him further. It worked. Gazing at her with renewed excitement and a glimmer of hope at her apparent change of heart, Elizabeth was certain she heard his heart skip a beat when she invited him to come over to her house after school.

  Whether Adam’s apparent interest in her work was authentic or if it was just a way of getting her to notice him was a mystery that she didn't much care to solve. Still, real or not, it served Elizabeth as a means of baiting her hook when she offered to show him her studio. If he wasn't eager before, he certainly was after Elizabeth confessed with a playful curl in her lip that her "studio" was also her bedroom, and the two set up their plans to meet after school let out.