The Otherling Read online

  The Otherling

  Heather M. Walker

  ISBN 978-1-936556-79-3

  Published 2016

  Published by Black Velvet Seductions Publishing at Smashwords

  The Otherling Copyright 2016 Heather M. Walker

  Cover design Copyright 2016 R. J. Savage

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters in this book are completely fictional. They exist only in the imagination of the author. Any similarity to any actual person or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my mother, Linda Walker, for all her help during the time I was writing this book. She was my first ever fan, and encouraged me to complete this book. Thank you for supporting me, and for all the advice you gave me chapter by chapter. Thanks so much to my husband, Billy Watts, for being a wonderful partner, for loving me and believing in me, and giving me the time and space to write. Thank you for being my best friend, my confidant, and for always having my back, especially when it comes to my writing. I thank you for being a wonderful partner and for supporting me every step of the way. To Jennifer Walker, for helping me with the pacing of the story, and for inspiring me to come up with Bubo the owl. Thanks to my sweet daughter, Makaylah, for knowing when it was time to do edits and giving me the time to do them. I know it was hard not to talk or play with me so I could work. You are a good girl and have always been supportive and excited to see me as a published author. To my friend and fellow writer, the tech guru David Schowalter, for helping me with edits and for the endless reformatting you helped me with in the creation of this book. Thank you for sharing your deeply felt, amazingly written poetry in High School, it has always helped to inspire me. To Lisa Gatzen, my first editor, thank you. Your criticism, encouragement, and eye for detail helped my writing become better, and I learned a lot from you in the process. To Laurie Sanders, my wonderful and patient editor from Black Velvet Seductions, I give you my deepest respect and appreciation. Your intense interactions with me to work towards polishing my work and making it blossom into its best form was a lot of fun, even though it was hard work. You’ve opened up a world within the story as we worked together to make it something deeper, and I have learned so much about editing, revision and story crafting through you. I simply couldn’t have made it into what it has become without you. To my friend, Colette Barrett, for never letting me give up, and for believing in my dream of writing this book, and for always cheering me on, thank you! Many thanks to my publisher, Richard Savage, for his vision and passion for my story, and for the help in creating my cover art, and the professional and friendly support with the publication process. I couldn’t have done it without you guys!!

  For Makaylah

  I would also like to dedicate this book to anyone who has been ridiculed, or made to feel lesser than they are, due to bullying. Being torn down by others for your religion, sexuality, race, culture, appearance or for any reason at all, is not okay, and it is not your fault. Don’t ever be ashamed of the special, unique person you are, no matter what others say. It takes courage to show your true self while others are trying to put out your light. Never try to please others who try to make you conform to whatever they think you should be. You are the only one in the world who can ever be you, so do it with all your heart, and sing the song only you can sing. Don’t let anyone else write your story, because you are special, and you are sacred. Shine on, beautiful souls!

  Prologue

  Deep in the infernal glow of Hell’s belly, the Old Ones began to stir. Called forth out of a dreamless slumber by a growing sense of tension, where they had remained undisturbed for millennia, they awakened. Languidly they spread their scarred, battered wings and stretched their crooked limbs as their ancient eyes began to open. A growing sense of tension and unease began as a subtle stirring in the air and rose until it permeated Hell, down to the chambers in which they had slept undisturbed for millennia. Anger at being disturbed rose like bile in their throats. Ancient mouths filled with rows of hooked fangs yawned and snarled. Yet the Wise Ones knew, it had been no creature of Hell that had summoned them, no foolish mortal in the land of the Above that had recited age old incantations of beckoning. Things in the land of the Above were changing, shifting the balance of Good and Evil towards the powers of the Light. Narrowing newly opened eyes, the daemons concentrated and followed the signature of energy to its source in the world of mortals. The hideous ones smelled this change with flared nostrils, letting it fill their rotten lungs until it burst forth into their minds with a certain knowing.

  A woman, innocent and naive, young and beautiful, unaware of the part she would play in the war to come. She would be easy enough prey, as the pure ones always were. There was no true need to worry; what match would she be for beings such as they?

  She was enough of a threat to have awakened them, the oldest beings of diabolical renown, granted reprieve from the sufferings and tedious happenings of Hell. How this could be was unknown, and caused a commotion of growls as the Old Ones ascended from their sulfurous tombs. With growing blood lust, the need to destroy and devour filled them with powerful, hateful energy, filling their bones and sinews with the raw need to spill blood and ravage souls.

  Having been newly born from the encrusted pits of Hell, they rose to their full heights, and shook off the filth in which they had slept for millennia. The sense of urgency washed over them, filling them with the need to act now before the powers of Good became absolute.

  A figure stood among them, guiding them in the awakening. His long red hair spilled past his shoulders in a wave of crimson, flowing out around him as though it were dancing in some unseen tide of water. His wings were huge and mighty, far larger and more magnificent than any of the beings which stood before him.

  “Rise my children,” He spoke, his eyes on fire, his voice both beautiful and terrible. “Your time to awaken has come. In the land of the Above, she grows in her powers, she can no longer be ignored. Destroy her and the one who will protect her, in any manner which you deem fit. For if you do not, the powers of the Darkness will lose its foothold on the mortal world, perhaps irrevocably. Arise and go forth, unleash your fury!”

  With war cries, screams and growls they answered him, heads thrown back on terrible necks, great, clawed hands beating on scaled and rotted chests. One by one they opened the great expanses of their leathery wings, ready to burst forth from Hell and contaminate the world of the Above.

  Smiling, the figure stood proudly in the chamber of Hell which had held the oldest, most monstrous of his children.

  It was time for war.

  Chapter One

  Catharsis, The journal of Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge

  Friday, August 5th

  Today is the kind of day that slowly eats me alive. One of those where irritations gnaw at my nerves like parasites, with vicious smiles and blinking, glittering eyes that peer straight into my soul and see every sin I have ever committed. The kind of day where I am once again reminded of the circle of nothingness I tread in, living the same day over and over without respite, without change, without fail. On
days like this, I get stuck in my own head, trapped in the morbidity that breeds there, like some stinking, rotting macabre thing, repulsive and yet endlessly fascinating. Thoughts spin and twirl and dance in the shadows of my consciousness, flitting about as if trying to dart out of my direct line of sight, teasing me with flailing limbs and gnashing teeth that sit in mouths speaking words I can’t even begin to fathom. Thoughts that lure me in, daring me to dance with them, to become lost in their world and partake of things which would stain me inextricably, should I be so haphazard in my judgment. I have seen where these dances lead; to the corners of my sanity. These morbid, hateful thoughts lick the gashes inflicted by this morose mental ballet, and then reopen the lips of my wounds, for no other reason than to see the blood run again.

  Today, I am reminded again that I am not like others and never will be. Not that I would want to be so dense, so lost in my own flesh that I could never see the spirit and sparks of divinity, both dark and light, which dwell within. Yet, some days I wish I did not know such things; that I was not privy to my own past and the things I’ve learned, most by outright suffering. There are days when I wish I could be bathed clean of the darkness that hides inside me, allowing me to forget the things I’ve done, things I’ve been forced to do, before finally walking away. No, that’s not entirely correct. I can’t walk away from this thing, any more than I could outrun my own shadow. It is part of me, though I hide it well. Not that I have to hide the darkness from these silly, flesh beasts that call themselves human. They tend to reason away what they don’t understand, as if logic alone, however unlikely, is some sort of sacred balm to the inexplicable. I could make my eyes burn in their sockets and melt down my cheeks, and they would shake their heads and clear their throats nervously and say, “It’s the heat you know; what I saw simply cannot be.” Turning back to me they would smile uncertainly, silently begging me to agree with them, and then that would be that, the whole thing never to be thought of again. How easy, how simple, to think in such a way. Self-delusion, I suppose, is preferable to opening the mind and pontificating upon such things.

  I digress. Suffice to say it was one of those days I am not fond of, when the dark, inky questions that reside in my secret places rear themselves for contemplation. I am not given to deep wells of emotion, but the anger that ignited in my chest today was slow to burn out and haunted me quite thoroughly. Not that anyone noticed and not that I was about to share this fact. What would be the point? Those that don’t already outright fear me, regard me as something of an anomaly anyway, so why give them more fodder for gossip and self-indulgent, meaningless ruminations? That I even walk among them is something I’ve been questioning, more and more, as of late. I am not ready to get into that, however; not just yet.

  I am not altogether certain why I am even penning this, other than for some form of catharsis to exercise this demon of anger burning in me. I have kept this inside me for far too long. Everyone, even those like me (and I am not the only one, oh no, not by far!), need some form of release, and so here I am, black and gold Waterman pen pressed to parchment, trying to get the ghosts out of my head.

  My name is Professor Sebastian James Bainbridge. At least it has been my name for long enough that it doesn’t sound foreign to me any longer. As to my name before that, well, we’ll get to that, won’t we?

  I work at the University of Doltree, Georgia, teaching World Religions and philosophical musings to undergraduate students who, more often than not, are wayward souls that don’t seem to care about or understand anything I am trying to teach them. It is far more likely that they’re more concerned with sex, parties, and other irrelevant drivel that, ten years from now, won’t matter one iota. Ah, youth. Perhaps I only envy them, yes? I wonder what it’s like to be so carefree; to just simply not know. Sometimes I want to shake them; to burn sense into them with the sheer force of my will alone. It has been many years since I have had a remarkable pupil. Someone with the courage to question me, to argue some sort of point or another, or to care, even remotely about the polytheistic principals of Hinduism or the Five Pillars of Islam. I am resigned to this fact, realizing that most students see my course as some form of extracurricular escape and not something to be taken seriously.

  Though previously I bemoaned my life’s redundancy, I did not mean my teachings and my classroom. I was speaking more of the way I live my life among these…people. Trying to be like them, or at least convince them (or myself) that I am more like them. It is tiring. I do find comfort in my classroom, in the feel and smell of ink on old pages, of words written long ago from the voices of men and women that were the finest minds of their time, of any time. I find peace in my routine, in the padded arms of knowledge, in the questions of the soul, in ancient rites and prayers and stories. It is the one thing I do enjoy, despite the dewy eyed uncaring youths.

  I did not expect the administration to upend my peaceful routine. Beginning next week, when classes start for the year once more, I will no longer be teaching my classes alone. I am to have a young woman as an assistant, and a barely post pubescent one at that! An “expert in occultism”, I am told. Mrs. Tanner, the Chancellor, put it this way: “Your students are not engaged in your teaching, Sebastian, and attendance and enrollment are suffering. This is an attempt to garner more interest in the subject, and for your class.” I fought the urge to curse the brown wiry hair off of her head right then; to grab the silly rainbow glasses she wore on the thin perch of her nose and toss them across the room, for no other reason than to see the shock on her face, and to release the anger that had kindled itself in my chest, the same anger that, like a phantom, had been clinging to me tenaciously throughout the day. Instead, I composed myself and folded my hands in my lap.

  “I assure you, I am more than capable of introducing occultism into the curriculum,” I told her, in a way I hoped was both calm and convincing. “There is no need to force upon me another person who will most likely end up in my way. It would be unfair to this new teacher, to put him in such a position.”

  There was a brief twinkle in Mrs. Tanner’s eyes, then, “You mean to put her in such a position.” She paused to let this sink in before she continued. “I am afraid it has already been done, Sebastian. She starts next week. Her name is Annaleah Grace, and she will be here tomorrow to meet you and take a tour of her new campus. I expect you to be gracious.”

  I closed my mouth at this. Gracious indeed! “Of course, Mrs. Tanner,” I said. What else could I have said? The outrage was there, like a hot coal, but I refused to lose my dignity. It seemed I had little choice in the matter, so what would be the point of showing her the enormity of my displeasure? I am not in the habit of making myself into an ass.

  I’m glad I that I took up my pen. Writing seems to have calmed my nerves considerably, though I’m no happier with the situation. Perhaps, going forward, it would suit me to keep this journal of sorts, lest I uncharacteristically, in my infernal fury, hex the tongue out of someone’s mouth.

  I wonder about this Annaleah Grace. I was told she is young, a mere baby of twenty-three. What could she know? How could she possibly add anything of use or interest to my classes that I myself could not, were I given a chance? Ah, such speculation is futile. There is nothing to be done about it now. Tomorrow I meet her.

  I am not entirely sure that I will not give her a hard time.

  ~SJB

  Chapter Two

  The Untethering

  Annaleah drifted comfortably in the space between consciousness and sleep, her mind gently shifting from the significance of tomorrow's meeting to more fanciful, whimsical things. Muted lights flickered beneath her lids, forming images that flowed from one pattern into another, a kaleidoscope of movement and color.

  As her breathing slowed and deepened, she felt her focus become more internalized. Leaving the sensations of her body behind, ethereal pictures danced before her, pulling her further into unconsciousness. As the world of dreams began to take shape, she felt a peculiar awa
reness that she was weightless, as if she were floating through the ether towards whatever land her dreams would deliver her to. It was a calm, peaceful experience, one she let herself be transported into without effort or concern. She was no stranger to meditation, and that was what this felt the most like to her; a wonderful, serene meditation where a profound order was reached. Chaos seemed like a distant notion, discord like a rumor yet to be proven. Here, in this perfect microcosm of serenity, her impression of weightlessness increased. It deepened into a feeling of floating, an untethering from all that was not incorporeal. It felt like being released, a freedom which brought a budding elation.

  The jubilation was something she fully embraced, wanting more. Seldom had she felt so liberated, so in the moment, so close to something unfathomable and paradisiacal.

  Then, something cool, hard and flat pressed against her cheek. It was sudden and unexpected, and it startled her into opening her eyes. Confusion gave way to fear, as she tried to understand what was going on. Was she was pressed against...the ceiling? How could that be? She wanted to turn over to see if it was true, and as the thought was formed, she found herself turning over, without conscious effort.

  She looked down and there she lay on the bed below, her long blonde hair pooled out over her azure pillow. Her creamy skin looked supple and spectral as the moonlight filtered in from the open curtains. Her lips were parted slightly as she slept, her expression placid. Emanating from her midriff was a shining silver cord, which snaked its way upwards to her astral form, connecting them both together.