Alpha Of Mortal Flesh (Darkmourn Universe Book 3), page 1
ALPHA OF MORTAL FLESH
Darkmourn Universe
BEN ALDERSON
Copyright © 2023 by Ben Alderson
The right of Ben Alderson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Art by Marosar Art
To my mother, my warrior. Who faced pure evil and survived it.
CONTENTS
Content Warning
1. 25 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
4. 101 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
13. 4 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
21. 3 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
27. 3 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
32. 3 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
38. 3 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
46. 3 YEARS BEFORE
Chapter 47
Also by Ben Alderson
CONTENT WARNING
Please be aware this novel contains scenes or themes which readers may be triggered by. This book deals with the topic of domestic abuse, gaslighting, physical abuse, mental abuse, control.
Other content warnings are as followed:
Toxic relationships, murder, loss of family members, death, abuse, manipulation, anger, grief/grieving, depression, profanity, adult scenes, adult themes, blood/gore, mentions of suicide.
1
25 YEARS BEFORE
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Warm droplets of blood fell across my upturned face. If I closed my eyes, it would have been like looking up into a storm cloud as it unleashed an abundance of rain. But this wasn’t rain. Rain was not sticky. Rain did not tack in my eyelashes. Rain did not taste like old copper coins.
I pinched my eyes closed, flinching with every drip that splashed against my skin.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I couldn’t look away. Mumma’s eyes were wide and all-seeing above me. Her face was squashed into the floorboard that separated us. Dead eyes peered through the gap, bloodshot and discoloured.
Mumma had such pretty eyes, even when they sang of death.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I clamped my hand over my mouth. My mind commanded me to scream, but I couldn’t. The dead would hear me. Just as I could hear them sucking, slurping. Pappa would have slapped the back of my hand if I ate like that. Smacking one’s lips whilst chewing loudly on a meal, it was not good manners. The dead didn’t care what noises they made. They had no manners when draining their prey.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
As Mumma’s blood dribbled through my little hands and spread across my lips, I couldn’t help but ponder why the dead craved blood with such desperation. The copper tang was vile. My stomach cramped, and I felt as though I would be sick. I wished to spit it out and scream and scream. But I couldn’t. No. No.
As I stared deep into Mumma’s eyes, I remembered what she said as she hid me beneath the floor. Keep quiet, Eamon, don’t make a sound.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My skin itched where her blood spread. I wanted to scratch at my face and rub away the gore, but it was the only thing smothering my scent from the vampires. My hair was drenched by it; my eyes were blinded by it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Where were the Crimson Guard? They would come. They should come and save us.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The blood ran dry by the time the vampires finished drinking from my parent’s corpses. So much time passed that the blood no longer bothered me. I was frozen to the spot, looking up through the gap in the floorboards as they creaked with the monsters’ movement.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
One of them boasted about the taste of Mumma’s blood. Fresh peach, it said. The other thought Pappa tasted like vintage wine. I thought they would leave, but they didn’t. They were in no rush. No one was coming for them. I recognised the familiar sound of a chair scratching against the floor as they took a seat. Whilst I was hidden beneath the floorboards, covered in Mumma’s blood, the monsters sat at our family table and laughed with full bellies.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
They laughed.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
They sang.
Drip. Drip.
I had been hiding for so long, I felt as though my body would never break free of this position. Spiders welcomed me into their domain, crawling over my bare feet and blood-coated face. I used to hate spiders. Now they were my only comfort.
Drip. Drip.
The monsters leave, not because the Crimson Guard had come for them, but because dawn had arrived. With the light of day, it ushered them out of my home. Mumma watched me. Her skin looked blue. I used to think she had pretty eyes, but now the whites were grey, and the blue looked like it bled out from their circles.
Drip. Drip.
Light spilled in from above. I lifted my hands before my face. They were not red as expected. It looked as though I dipped my hands in rust. The blood had dried to a flaking brown stain. The Crimson Guard were still not here.
Drip. Drip.
Night came again. Sick covered my chest and face, mixing with Mumma’s dried blood.
Drip.
Three times, the world above the floorboards had brightened with daylight. It was on the fourth day when my saviours came. They came when there was nothing left to save.
Drip.
I hated them.
Drip.
Vampires. The Crimson Guard.
Drip.
They were all monsters.
Drip.
I hated them.
Drip.
I…
I…
2
I do love you, Rhory Coleman.
It’s strange how such words hurt far greater than the physical pain left in their wake.
Eamon always seemed shocked when he spoke them to me. His piercing sky-blue eyes would glisten with tears of regret. He would look from his hands to the part of my body he’d chosen to mark during his blackout of rage, and whimper as though he was the one with a body riddled with pain. For such a towering broad man, in those moments he was more akin to a child looking between their favourite broken toy and the hands that tore it in two. I recognised remorse; I thought. If only for a moment, which made the bitter taste of fault hard to swallow.
He never said sorry. No. It seemed Eamon could not allow such a dirty phrase to grace his lips.
All of Darkmourn would tell me how kind he was. Which made the understanding of why he acted with such ferocity towards me confusing. Kindness caused bruises, broke bones and drew blood.
I couldn’t pick up bread from the bakery in town without being told how wonderful Eamon was. Even during my frequent visits to the local medic, they’d remind me about the many great things Eamon had done for them. It was those encounters I found most difficult to hear when I was forced to lie about how two of my fingers even became shattered in the first place.
That is one nasty bruise you’ve got, Jameson would say, pointing his finger towards my swollen eye.
I would smile and exhale the lie with such ease, one would have thought it was rehearsed. The door picked a fight with me and won.
Jameson would tut, smile and dismiss it. And no matter how many times I visited, or how many aliments I collected across my body, he never questioned me. No matter how ridiculous and fictitious the excuses became.
Of course, it was Eamon who left those marks, but I couldn’t ever say that. Not out loud. And it wasn’t because I was scared about what he would do to me. The days of fearing him were long gone. It was what others would say. And how I would be looked at, like a crazed fool, for even suggesting Eamon Coleman had such a capacity for evil.
No one would ever believe Darkmourn’s leader of the Crimson Guard—the man tasked to protect every living creature from the monsters of the world—was that very thing to me.
My monster.
My devil.
My husband.
But he loves me, I reminded my reflection. Which made sense, because love had only ever caused me pain.
My fingers had only recently healed, making my movements awkward as I tied the velvet laces of my scarlet cloak around my neck. The splint and cloth bindings had been removed days ago, and I couldn’t ignore how skeletal they looked. Thin from the lack of use, like the fictional description of a witch’s finger. Fitting, I thought.
The thick band of iron and gold spun around my emaciated finger. I hardly spared it a thought before my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach. There was a time looking at the ring filled my chest with breath, and my mind with the wonders of a future with the man I loved.
Now, it simply reminded me of the harsh truth of my reality.
“You must be looking forward to getting some fresh air, Rhory.”
I turned my back on the scratched glass mirror to regard Mildred, who stood in the foyer before me. Mildred had been in my life for as long as I could remember. The Coleman residence wouldn’t have been the same without her stout, hunched body shuffling across the waxed oak floors. She was part of the furniture, as Father used to explain. Which I always disliked, because Mildred was far more than that. She was, to me, the soul of this house with its countless rooms all empty as the next.
I almost folded in on myself at seeing her again.
“Eamon called you back?” I asked, not meaning for my voice to sound as relieved as it did.
“He did indeed,” she replied with a smile that tugged the wrinkled corners of her mouth upwards. One thing about Mildred, she had been old for the twenty-seven years of my life. She had the same nest of wiry, grey hair and a face that bore more resemblance to the surface of a melted candle.
“Poor soul!” She rushed towards me, waddling like a duck on two of the same feet. “Bed bound for all those days. I almost demanded to be let back in so I could care for you myself! But, of course, that would not have been necessary since your darling husband has kept you fed, bathed, and rested. Lovely man, that Eamon. You are very lucky to have him.”
I allowed Mildred to fuss over me, not stopping her as she reached towards the poppy-red curl of my hair that fell before my eye. With a motherly brush of her finger, which smelled of pine oil and lemon, she moved it out of the way.
At least I knew what excuse Eamon had spread about my imprisonment whilst my fingers had healed. It had been a long while since he blamed my absence on an upset stomach. Mostly because when he hurt me, the damage was easily concealed. This last time was a lapse in his judgement, one he would likely not allow again.
Or would he?
“Never mind that,” I said, lifting my fingers to her shoulders. They felt like dough in my hands. I wanted her to envelop me in her arms so I could melt into the safety of her motherly aura. “I’m glad you are back. How about I fetch you a tea before you start, and you can update me on all the books you have devoured during your time off?”
It was Mildred who had encouraged my love of reading. From when I was a child, she had smuggled books past my mother, and we had discussed the stories in great detail. Reading was an escape, one that we both thirsted for.
Mildred waved me off, pushing me with unseen strength towards the main doors at the end of the shadowed foyer. “Go, Rhory, get going with you. Your skin looks as pale as death itself; some sun might do you well. Bring some of that lovely glow back to those cheeks of yours. If you would wish to entertain an old woman, you can do so tomorrow. But today, I would be happier knowing you were out of this house.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, almost expecting she would go back on her word.
“I’d rather you were not under my feet whilst I caught up on weeks’ worth of neglected dust since I last stepped foot inside this house.” She drew the feather duster from her belt, unsheathing it like a sword. With a great swing, she clobbered my arm with its soft end. If she noticed me flinch, she didn’t mention it.
“Go, go, go.”
My back thumped against the door. The chill of the autumn breeze slipped through the cracks, tickling across the back of my neck as though seducing me with the promise of the outside.
“Will you stay for supper?” I asked, hopeful. Please say yes, please say yes.
Mildred pulled a face, one that would’ve been best carved into the expression of a statue in mid-contemplation. “Dearest, I have a feeling I’ll be cleaning from now until sunrise tomorrow. Although Eamon wouldn’t allow that, would he? Darling man, the moment he walks in that door, he will relieve me of my duties. Such a caring soul.”
I shook my head, the same pesky curl of red hair falling back into place over my eye. “Indeed.”
A cloud passed behind Mildred’s honey-coloured eyes. For a moment, her brows furrowed in wonder, searching for something that my face must have given away without me realising.
“Is something bothering you?” she enquired, eyes trailing me from head to foot. “If you are still feeling under the weather, I could see you back in bed, and then I’ll rustle up some soup for you.”
From the pits of my belly, I dredged up a mask to adorn. One that eradicated weakness. An expression which oozed—I am fine—in abundance. “And what, I leave the patrons of St. Myrinn without a visit from me? How could I possibly deprive them of my presence? After the past couple of weeks, I am surprised the infirmary has stayed afloat without me.”
Mildred’s face cracked into a smile. “Only if you’re sure. If Eamon thought I sent you on your way whilst still unwell, he would have my guts for garters. He cares greatly for you, you know.”
I took Mildred in my arms before she had another moment to contemplate the wince that shattered my mask of strength in two. There would’ve been a time, years ago, that I buried my face in her forest of silver hair and inhaled the scents that clung to her. I was far too tall for that now. So, I rested my chin atop her head and held on tight.
“It’s just so good to have you back,” I said.
“Oh, my darling.” She expelled a breath, her concern melting away like butter on a hot spoon. “I’ve missed you too.”
Over her shoulder, in the distance of my home’s entrance, sat the tall-standing mirror. I caught my reflection in it. Wide, unblinking eyes stared back at me, with a mouth drawn tight, all exposed by the golden glow which encompassed my hands.
Light spilled beneath my splayed fingers as though I held onto a star. A shard of sunlight grasped in my very palm. The magic was cold, like dipping my hands into the bottom of a frozen lake. But there was nothing painful about the light. It was peace. An emotion that reminded me of the sensation of snow falling upon my upturned face. The brushing of flakes as they tickled across my skin, before melting and leaving the icy kiss as a physical memory.
My power didn’t always feel like this. Sometimes it pained me. Stung like the needle of a bee. Burned like the wick of a flame on skin. Shattered like finger bones beneath a hammer—
“Go on, get out of my sight, sappy fool,” Mildred cried, pulling away suddenly, drawing me from the sudden, horrific memory.
The magic spluttered, winked and died out, all before she would’ve noticed anything was amiss.
“Don’t tire yourself out too quickly. A woman of your age shouldn’t be overdoing herself,” I said, gripping the brass knob of the door with a firm hand. I forgot, for a moment, of my aching fingers. It shot a stab of pain up my arm. I drew blood as I bit down on my tongue to stop myself from yelping. It made hiding my pain easy when Mildred whacked me with her feather duster once again.
“Cheeky boy.” I heard the mellow laugh in her tone. “If you were any younger, I would’ve made you eat soap for such a remark.”
