Terence West - Until The Stars Grow Cold

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UNTIL THE STARS GROW COLD

By

Terence West

Contents

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

PART TWO

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

PART THREE

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Until the Stars Grow Cold

Terence West

Until the Stars Grow Cold

Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc. of Markham Ontario, Canada.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without

the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

Double Dragon eBooks

PO Box 54016 1-5762 Highway 7 East

Markham, Ontario L3P 7Y4 Canada

http://double-dragon-ebooks.com

http://double-dragon-publishing.com

Layout and Cover Illustration by Deron Douglas

www.derondouglas.com

ISBN-10: 1-55404-382-4

ISBN-13: 978-1-55404-382-8

First Edition August 28, 2006

Also Available as a Large Type Paperback

Now Available as paperback and hard cover

A Celebration of Cover Art: 2001 to 2006

Five Years of Cover Art

[Companion calendars also available]

www.double-dragon-ebooks.com

www.derondouglas.com

Dedication

To Shannon, Rich, and Donna

They made sure I was still around to finish this novel.

Thank you. I owe you three my life.

PART ONE

The darkness is patient.

Its time would come again.

The darkness is all consuming.

A drop in a pond, the darkness spreads out, quickly diffusing. Unseen currents of emotion carry

the globule deeper into the clear water as it undulates and transforms. Reaching out with tendrils of

anger, regret, and desire, the darkness begins to vanish.

Hiding in plain sight.

The darkness is patient.

It will be until the stars grow cold.

Chapter One

^ »

Hell found him.

Skittering across the floorboards with bare feet, Thomas hit his knees and rolled toward his

bed. He pushed his diminutive frame into the space almost too tiny for him and quickly pulled

down the covers to hide his location. Kicking old toys, books, and discarded hobbies out of the

way, he pressed up against the wall and pulled his knees up to his chest. This was it. He had

fled into a literal corner with no means of escape. If they came now, there would be nowhere to

go. This was his punishment. He knew why. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks while he did

his best to stifle the sobs that so desperately wanted free. He had watched them die and did

nothing.

After all, Thomas was only twelve years old.

Taking a long, deep breath, he held it and became very quiet. The house was silent. It had

transformed from a loving home to a tomb. He couldn’t hear them, but that didn’t mean they

weren’t close. Peering between two clear Tupperware containers that held his multicolored

Legos and Tinker Toys, he stared intently at the open door across from his bed. It was dark in

the house, except for the nightlight his mother had installed in the hallway for him. The tiny

light cast long shadows across his doorway from the grandfather clock that stood outside his

room. It had never worked in his lifetime, but his mom always referred to it as an

heirloom—she would have it repaired someday. It seemed like a moot point now. He heard the

scuffle of shoes on the stairs outside. His heart thumped and jumped in his chest. He feared it

was loud enough for them to hear it. Crossing his hands over his chest, he tried to muffle the

sound pounding in his ears. He watched the door intently.

“Where are you, little one?”

The voice was light and playful as if this were some horrible game. And Thomas knew it

was, to them.

“Why don’t you come out? It wasn’t nice to run away like that.”

He pushed himself further into the corner, the darkness enveloping him. He had seen his

mother, father, and sisters die tonight at the monsters’ hands. He would not willingly suffer the

same fate. He had been assured—many times—that monsters didn’t exist and yet here he was,

hiding from his nightmares become reality. Anger began to well up deep within his heart.

Those who had hurt his family would be made to suffer…he would see to it. His tiny, innocent

heart was suddenly engulfed in flame as it became a furnace of hatred. Holding his hand in

front of his face, he balled his fingers and squeezed until the fragile, still developing tendons

and muscles popped and cracked in protest. His tears, no longer salty and distressed, were now

drops of raw venom rolling down his face.

You can kill them all.

In his anger, he heard a voice whispering to him from the blackness that surrounded him.

It was as familiar as an old friend. It was deep and gravely, as if a normal, human voice had

been dropped several octaves and scarred with the coarsest sandpaper. He shut his eyes tightly

and gritted his teeth. He had heard this voice many, many times in his life, and only through

an act of sheer willpower was he able to ignore it. Each time it reappeared, it somehow became

more persuasive.

Use your gifts. You can make them pay.

Yet this time, he didn’t want to ignore it. The voice was right. He could seek his revenge on

those horrible creatures, and every act of evil they wrought on his family would be returned in

kind. He lowered his hand to the floor and started to pull himself toward the edge—

Yes…the fire that burns in you now, use it to make them suffer for what they have done to you.

Unleash your true potential!

He stopped. Biting his lower lip, he withdrew his hand and scooted back into the corner.

His heart grew cold once again as the flames were snuffed by guilt and promises

made—promises now growing cold in the family room below. He would not betray the

memory of his mother and father this way. He had long ago assured them that he would not

unleash his gifts in anger. He owed that much to them. There was another way.

The sound of scuffing against the hard wood silenced his internal struggle. Glancing out

between the semi-clear containers that surrounded him, he saw a pair of dirty, black boots

appear outside his bedroom door. The nearest one had a dark discoloration on the toe. He

knew instantly what it was. Several streaks ran down from the blotch to the thick rubber sole.

It was his family’s blood. The sight both sickened and infuriated him. He felt nausea hit his

stomach like a clenched fist and a spark ignite in his heart again.

They should be made to pay. You have the power. Use it!

He watched the boots turn to face his position. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a

slow breath to calm his nerves. This wasn’t the way, he reminded himself. Only his self-restraint

could save him now. This was, after all, his fault. He had tempted the fates after his parents

warned him not to and called down the very wrath of Hell to his doorstep. He was to blame.

He would not attain salvation this way. But without his parent’s guidance…he frowned.

Perhaps there was no salvation at all.

The boots took a step into his room and paused. Another step. Then another. They were

practically on top of him now. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest again. His eyes

were wide and unblinking staring at the silver eyelets on the shoes before him. The thick, black

laces fell down over the sides and pooled around the soles. Just above the tongue, he could see

the hem of the black leather pants stuffed messily inside. His eyes wandered to the glistening

spot on the toe of the boot. He tried to avert his eyes but couldn’t. It was all he could see.

That is your family’s life spilled so recklessly on that shoe.

He clapped his hands over his ears. He would not listen to the voice. It was the voice’s fault

he was here—that they were here. He should not have listened. Not ever.

They enjoyed killing your mother, hearing her scream. And your sisters…

He clenched his eyes closed and doubled over into a fetal position.

They will kill you, too, if you don’t act… You can make them suffer!

The voice was overwhelming in his head as if it were screaming at him. His stomach was in

knots as he tried to ignore it, bile crept up his esophagus and washed like waves burning the

back of his throat. His fists were balls of rage digging into his temples as his body shuddered. It

was too much. He couldn’t—

KILL THEM! NOW!

Throwing his hands forward, a burst of unseen energy grabbed everything around him and

flung it immediately toward his attacker. Before he could comprehend the first motion, he was

already on his feet and moving forward. The small flame in his heart blossomed into a

full-blown nuclear furnace. The heat shot out from his heart along the pathways of his veins

and arteries to every centimeter of his body. The creature that had killed his family was digging

itself out from beneath the rubble he had just created. He stared at the monster’s golden eyes

and took a step forward. Lifting his right hand palm up, energy stretched out from his body

and lifted the vampire into the air. It shrieked in protest and struggled to break free of the

invisible grip, but to no avail. Anger and hatred smoldered in the eyes of the young boy. Lifting

his free hand, he sent out another wave of energy that started to choke the vampire. As he

slowly closed his hand, he could see the creature’s pale flesh compressing and collapsing in.

The twelve year old boy was gone, leaving only raw rage in its place. Releasing his invisible

grip on the vampire’s throat, he stared into the monster’s golden eyes. “Why?” he hissed.

Not expecting an answer, the boy lowered his hand and dug an invisible tendril into the

vampire’s chest. Clenching his hand into a fist, he concentrated the tendril into a solid ball

around the vampire’s heart. With a smirk on his face, he stared at his family’s killer.

Do it.

Opening his hand in one fluid motion, the ball of energy he had created instantly expanded

inside the vampire’s chest cavity. The creature’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. His

chest exploded open, completely eviscerating him. Arms, legs, and body parts were thrown

haphazardly around the room. A red haze of blood began to slowly settle around him as it fell.

The second vampire appeared in the room, drawn by his companion’s screams of agony.

He charged inside faster than the human eye could follow. But the boy snapped his head

around and stared right at the vampire as if he were running in slow motion. Lifting his hands

again, he snatched the creature and flung him hard into the ceiling. The vampire careened into

the drywall with a crunch of bone and wood. Before he could recover, Thomas pulled the

creature back and began to jackhammer him into the wall. As the studs gave beneath the

repeated assaults, he slung the vampire against the floor instead.

Pinning him down, Thomas spotted the implement of the creature’s destruction. The boy

ripped a six inch piece of wood from the wall and floated it in midair above the shrieking

vampire. Rolling the creature onto its back, he brought the makeshift stake up to eye level so

the vampire could see it.

“We were just doing what we were told,” the vampire pleaded. “We weren’t supposed to

hurt you—”

Kill him now!

There was no mercy to be found here tonight, only swift retribution. Moving the stake

down the vampire’s chest, he sent it straight into the creature’s heart. Releasing his grip, he

watched as blue flames erupted from the newly created wound. As the fire quickly spread

across the vampire’s body, he shrieked and screamed in agony as he was reduced to ash.

Good, very good. You are powerful.

Amidst the red mist and glowing embers, Thomas fell back to the hard floorboards; his

body completely exhausted. Every ounce of energy he had in his young frame had been

expelled in that one moment. He had nothing left. His eyes slowly rolled back into his head as

he lost consciousness.

A dark figure stood in his doorway. This wasn’t one of the killers, but another who had

arrived moments too late. Snapping his scythe shut, he slid it into the pocket of his faded

brown trench coat. Moving tentatively into the small room, he knelt down next to the boy and

cautiously pressed his fingertips to the child’s throat. Detecting a pulse, he slid his hands under

the twelve year old and lifted the boy from the floor. Turning, he headed toward the stairs at

the end of the hall, but didn’t stop. There was nothing left here but death. He didn’t know

what this boy’s future held, but it wasn’t to be found here.

He folded the boy into his coat, left the house behind and vanished into the night.

***

She was in Heaven.

She leaned back in her office chair and rested her head against it. Her blonde hair spilled

around her shoulders as she felt a smile grow wide across her slender face. Taking a deep

breath into her lungs, she felt like screaming. Her first instinct was to jump up from her desk

and charge through the halls yelling to anyone and everyone, but she was more restrained than

that. She was a professional now. To do so would be unbefitting her stature. Lifting her hands

from the armrests, she balled up her fists and held her arms up like an Olympian finishing a

flawless routine.

Grabbing her mouse, she quickly hit the print command on her browser to capture the

moment. Carefully watching the screen to make sure it didn’t change—and to make sure she

wasn’t imagining it—she heard her printer sputter and whir to life behind her. She spun in her

seat and watched the white sheet of paper slowly being churned out by the old ink jet. Inch by

inch, it completed the image captured from her screen. She snatched the page and held it in

her hands, careful not to bend or crinkle it. This was for framing. She wanted to remember this

moment forever.

She was no longer an executive assistant—she was now a best selling author.

Carefully tracing her finger around the rectangular cover image of her book on the page,

she looked at the blue emblazoned number next to it: one. This was the New York Times Best

Seller’s List, the most prestigious list in all of noveldom, and her book was sitting at the very

top. She had no doubt the Today Show or Oprah’s people would be knocking on her door for

an interview in no time. Leno and Letterman would certainly not be too far behind. Why stop

there? she thought with a smile, a book tour, the talk show circuit…they were all in her grasp

now.

She wanted to rush into her boss’ office and shove the paper in his face. He told her that

she had been wasting her time. He felt she should focus on a more realistic goal. How she had

enjoyed showing him the large advance check that Penguin Putnam had given her for the

novel. How she had loved taking time off to travel to New York with her agent to meet with

her new publisher. How she had relished telling him stories of five-star restaurants, limousines,

and nights spent in the Jacuzzi in her private hotel suite sipping champagne. This would be the

icing on the cake—one final nail in his coffin.

She had come back to the company out of some misguided sense of loyalty. In a time when

she should have been thinking about her next project—both her agent and publisher were

pressuring her for a sequel—she still came into work every morning, made coffee, answered

the phone and took messages. She had been here for nearly ten years after all. Maybe it was

more a sense of fear that kept her here than loyalty. This was only the second job in her life,

and now on the verge of twenty-nine years old, she was becoming complacent, comfortable.

A smirk appeared on her face. That was all about to change.

She was quitting today.

Her new profession as an author stretched out in front of her. Her first novel—her first

attempt to even write a full-length book—had been sold to a major publishing house and was

now sitting at the top of the best seller’s list. The future was bright for her. Her mind spun with

possibilities.

Carefully minimizing the browser window, she opened up her word processor. Clicking

the “file” button at the top of the screen, she scrolled down to the open command and clicked

once. This day had been a long time coming. She had spent many hours thinking about

it…dreaming about it. It wasn’t that she was unhappy here—it just wasn’t what she wanted to

do with her life. Bringing a man who claimed to be her “superior” coffee every morning wasn’t

her idea of a life—she merely existed. She would not just exist. She had too much to offer, too

much to experience. Scrolling through the files in her documents folder, she came to the one

she was looking for. Highlighting the file, she clicked the open button beneath it.

As she waited for the file to load, she lifted the paper from her desk and stared at her cover

again. She already knew every detail of it, yet she couldn’t take her eyes away. The cover,

designed by one of the publisher’s top artists, had been sent to her as a gift. It hung in a

beautiful frame on the wall of her home office, just above her computer. It was less of a display

piece and more of a reminder to her that she had done it. She had set goals and worked hard to

achieve them. It was better than any trophy or medal. It was hers.

Her requested document appeared on the screen. She scanned over it one more time but

she knew exactly what it said. She had spent almost as much time crafting this two paragraph

letter than she did the entire first draft of her novel. She had poured over every sentence, every

word, to ensure it was exactly what she wanted to convey. She wanted her feelings to be

abundantly clear and her thoughts concise. She wanted to turn in this letter so often, but the

time hadn’t been right. Her conditions hadn’t yet been met. She looked at the printed page one

final time and took a slow breath. Everything was in order.

She had made a promise to herself almost four years ago: she would quit her day job and

become a full-time writer if a) her novel was purchased by a major publisher (check), b) it was

released in both hard cover and paperback formats (check), and c) she made the New York

Times Best Seller’s List (check). Of course, when she made this promise, she had been setting

partially unrealistic goals. She was afraid to throw away this steady paycheck that paid for her

apartment and food in favor of a much more unreliable career. But here she was.

She printed the letter.

Grabbing a small box from beneath her desk, she started to place her meager possessions

inside. She didn’t need to answer phones anymore, or tolerate the smell of burnt coffee at two

in the afternoon. She had her next novel to work on. Pulling the letter free of the printer, she

placed it on her desk and retrieved a pen from her drawer. Holding the tip just above the page,

she hesitated. Her hand was shaking. Lowering the tip of the pen to the paper, she took

another quick breath to steady herself. Her hand started to move and suddenly, her flowery

signature was finished. There was no turning back now.

Lifting the resignation from her desk, along with her personal belongings, she walked out

from behind it and headed toward the hallway that connected the rest of the office to the

lobby. A lone light was on in the back of the building. It was her employer working late—a

rare occurrence. Usually he already had in a full round of golf by now and was drinking with

his friends in the clubhouse. Many times, she had picked him up and driven him home while

he was three-sheets-to-the-wind. And more than a few times, she had brushed off his

awkward, clumsy, inebriated advances.

She knocked gently on his open office door. “Mr. Sullivan? George?”

George Sullivan looked up from his desk through tired eyes. His dark suit jacket was slung

over the back of his chair while his tie was hanging undone from his collar. He was a

middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard and blue eyes that burned with the intensity of

someone who had gone from the bottom and clawed his way to the top. He wasn’t necessarily

a bad man, she just wanted more than this. “What is it, Katherine?” he asked softly.

Katherine Sharp wasn’t sure what to say. Her first instinct was to laugh out loud, stuff the

best seller’s list in his face, then climb on his fancy black desk and dance gleefully. She

assumed that wouldn’t be proper. She took a step into his office. “I’m resigning.” She handed

him her letter.

Accepting the letter, he leaned back in his chair and started to read it. He motioned for her

to sit down in one of the two chairs in front of his massive desk.

She remained standing.

He looked up from the letter. “You’re not even going to give me two week’s notice to find a

replacement?”

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “no.”

He placed the letter on his desk and rubbed his chin. “Okay. Can I ask what brought this

on?”

The urge to show him the list reappeared. She stuffed it down into her chest. “A new

opportunity has arisen.”

Sullivan nodded. “I understand.” He stood and walked around his desk. “You’ve been a

valuable employee for the past nine years and you’ll be missed. I’m sad to see you go, Kat.”

“Thank you,” she said slowly—a twinge of guilt in her voice. She took a step back and

started to turn toward the door.

“Wait,” Sullivan said quickly and turned back to his desk. Opening the top drawer, he

produced a copy of her novel and a pen. “Can you sign my copy?”

Kat’s eyes grew wide. “You read it?”

Sullivan nodded. “It’s good.”

She accepted the paperback and pen and stood looking at the man before her. This was the

same person who scoffed at her dream of becoming a novelist—the same man who told her

that she had no chance of getting published. She understood in that moment. He knew she

was talented…he just didn’t want to lose her. He had come to depend on her not only in

business, but in life as well. She was probably as close to being a wife as Sullivan would ever

get.

Opening the cover, she looked at the crease lines along the spine and the ragged, dog-eared

corners. He had indeed read the book, and it looked as if he had spent some time pouring over

it. Flipping to the title page, she signed her name below the byline. Closing the book, she

passed it back to its owner. “Thank you.”

Sullivan smiled as he accepted the book. “I think that’s my line.”

Kat laughed out loud. Setting her box on the mammoth desk, she rushed forward and

wrapped her arms around Sullivan’s chest and hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you, boss.” It was

a term of affection more than of submissiveness.

As he returned the embrace, Sullivan smiled. “Me, too. I wish you the best of luck in your

new career.”

“Thank you,” she said into his shoulder.

Pulling free, Kat brushed her blonde hair over her shoulders, lifted her cardboard box, and

turned away. Walking back into the darkened office, she felt a weight lifted from her

shoulders. She was no longer a receptionist and executive assistant, she was now a professional

author. It felt good to say it. She was free to live her dreams now. Stopping in the lobby, she

looked at her desk one final time. With a smirk, she snatched a stack of post it notes and

deposited them in her box. Sullivan could afford more.

Pushing through the double glass doors, she felt the cool night air touch her alabaster skin.

She looked up at the full moon in the sky above her and the stars glittering around it. They

were shining for her tonight. The fog was starting to roll in, but she wouldn’t let that get her

down. Everything in the world was perfect.

Turning, she headed down the empty sidewalk. She almost felt like skipping. Her

apartment was only three blocks from here. She liked to walk in the mornings and at night. It

gave her time to clear her head and imagine all the wonderful and gruesome things she would

do to her characters when she arrived home and sat down in front of her computer. She

wondered for a moment if the book truly warranted a sequel, or if she should start a

completely new manuscript. She smiled. Didn’t matter right now.

Terence West - Until The Stars Grow Cold

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