The Shadow Grove Chronicles - Book II: Dark Artifact

PROLOGUE

Moonlight glistened off the freshly fallen blanket of powdered snow. The night was quiet around the Winnetka Heights neighborhood in southeastern Dallas. Christmas lights could be seen all over the neighborhood of old historic houses, porches lit with warm variegated light that drowned out the soft blue from Luna at full. Most of the houses’ windows were unilluminated, their owners having either left for vacation in warmer climates or gone off to Christmas parties in a different part of town.

One house was not festively decked out with strings of multi-colored LEDs or garish lawn decorations.It was an old home, designed like an old plantation house with fluted wooden columns holding a balcony above the wide covered porch facade. It’s white paint was brilliant in the moonlight reflected off the snow. Behind the house ran a service alley where numerous trash cans sat waiting for the morning pickup.

A white sedan slowly cruised its way down the neglected concrete pavement of the alley and stopped directly behind the antique, unadorned home. Stepping from the driver’s seat, a small man with medium build quietly crunched the snow beneath a pair of white sneakers. He was dressed in white from head to toe, including a white balaclava, obscuring his face with the exception of his small dark brown eyes.

He jumped the chain link fence that lined the alleyway, the gate being locked, and carefully made his way up the backyard to the french double doors that lead into a solarium attached to the house. He reached inside his thick padded jacket and pulled out a cylindrical device, twisting its end. An LED at the top of the device began to flash faster and faster in his hand, until it emitted a blinding light that filled the yard and the yards of the neighboring houses. All lights in a three block radius went out, plunging the area into sudden darkness, the only exception being the moon casting its pale light.

Putting the device back into his jacket, he pulled out a small kit, dropped to one knee and began to pick the locks that safeguarded the home. Most people feel secure buying locks, they trust them, but all they are is a deterrent. With patience, a standard five-pin cylinder lock can be bypassed with just a simple bobby pin bent appropriately. With skill and the right tools, even high security locks with specially shaped pins that “prevent” picking, can and will be picked by someone determined to enter. Short of automatic tracking turrets that will fire at anything within a certain range and an unlimited supply of ammo, no building is one-hundred percent impregnable.

The small man had the door open in a matter of thirty seconds, the owner not opting to have extra security to prevent intrusion. Childsplay, the would be thief thought to himself. Once inside, He made his way further into the house. It was odd, not seeing a tree grace the living room of the large house as he passed by on his way to the stairs. It didn’t matter though. He wasn’t here to gawk at Christmas decorations. There was a job to do.

Upstairs, he peeked through the open bedroom doors leading to immaculately made beds. With the exception of the clear sight of dust all over the dressers, they looked like they belonged to a bed and breakfast. At the end of the hall, there was a closed and heavily locked door, Latin inscriptions painted on its surface. Just like the outside doors, he got the locks picked. Even the combination padlock was no match to the seasoned pro. On the other side of the door was a well appointed home office, with a heavy wooden desk sitting in front of the windows so the diffuse northern light could splash across its surface.

On the wall opposite of the windows was a heavy bookcase that spanned the length of the room. The white-clad thief stepped closer to the shelves, his eyes locked on a small glass display case resting there. It wasn’t the only display case on the shelves, but it was one of the most heavily decorated. Curling letters that he didn’t recognize looked as if they were sand etched into the glass. Inside the case, was a simple looking double-edged knife with a leather sheath, its wooden grip stained black.

If he had been a good student and gone to college this might have given him pause. Instead he had been a middle school drop out and barely comfortable with English, Spanish being his milk tongue. He could only recognise the painted words on the door as Latin. These foreign letters were just that, foreign to him and only letters. He was completely clueless as to the esoteric warning they posed as to the malevolent danger contained within.

He pulled the case down from the unit and set it on the desk, kneeling in front of it so He could see the lock clearly. It wasn’t a cylinder lock like the others so far but an old fashioned lever lock. He pulled out of the pick case just a single instrument and slid it into the keyhole. Momentarily the tumblers were lined up and the latch clicked open. He opened the lid and carefully lifted the dagger out of the case, stuffing it into the inside pocket of his thick white jacket.

With his primary purpose filled, he took a better look around the room trying to find anything else that could be fenced at a high price. Nothing in the room glittered, or looked valuable to his eye. He left the room, leaving the door wide open. Once back down the stairs, he panicked as headlights shone in through the downstairs windows. He bolted out the backdoor and ran to his car, leaving long strides in the snowfall. He tore out of the alley at high speed once in the driver’s seat and started the engine.

He pulled the balaclava off his head, trying to catch his breath, sweat starting to drip from his olive skinned forehead.and black hair. Once he passed out of Winnetka Heights and into Oak Cliff, he slowed down to avoid attracting attention from any cops in the area. He pulled into the Hampton Station parking lot and turned on the dome lights before pulling out the knife to get a better look at the prize he was paid so handsomely to collect earlier that week. As soon as he handed the item over, He was told that he would receive double what he had already been given.

“Why so much for such a simple thing?”

He turned it over in his hands, examining the sheath. It was unadorned, as plain as the case that held it had been intricate. He pulled the knife out, the pitted and battered blade was dark with ancient rust. It was a good ten inches long, not that it could ever cut anything, the edge dulled with time. Uninteresting to the thief, he slid it back into the leather scabbard with a soft thunk.

“I hope that gringo shows up soon…”

He didn’t have to wait long. About ten minutes after he pulled into the empty lot, a black SUV parked right beside him, a tall gentleman in a dark business suit and a trenchcoat exited and slipped into the passenger seat of the white sedan. His white hair was cut close to his scalp and cold, piercing eyes stared out of a half-lidded gaze.

“Is that it?” His voice was deep, but soft.

“Yeah, this is it, bossmang. You got the lettuce?”

The tall gentleman reached into his trench coat with his gloved hand, causing the smaller man to flinch. He raised his other hand, open and with fingers splayed, to show his benign intentions. Out came two thick stacks of crisp one-hundred dollar bills banded in dark yellow paper.

“This should cover it.”

The thief reached out and carefully took the money. He flipped through it, to get a horseback estimation of it’s worth and to make sure that the stacks weren’t loaded with waste paper. It was all there, he guessed, all twenty grand. It went into the same inner pocket that the dagger was held just a few minutes earlier.

“I gotta ask, man, what’s so special about that piece of junk?”

“It’s better if you didn’t know. Just know that it’s really old, and really valuable.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s been nice doing business with you. If you ever need my services again, you know who to call.”

“Don’t worry. I will, Manuel.”

The tall man got out of the car and got back into his own, pulling out into the dark cold night.

“Crazy fucker. Whatever…”

He too pulled out of the lot, just as he saw a couple of squad cars fly up Hampton Street on their way to a call, sirens on and blue lights flashing.

“There’s my jam,” he said to himself just as he turned in the opposite direction.

He made his way back to Pleasant Grove, one of the rowdier neighborhoods in Dallas and pulled into the parking lot of the house he and a couple of his friends rented. The windows were dark, his friends asleep. He locked the deadbolt behind him and tip-toed through the house trying not to wake his room mates. He made his way to his own room, closing the door behind him and got undressed, dropping his jacket and clothes to the floor, before slipping into his own soft bed and drifted off after a job well paid.

***

“Manuel!” There was a knock on his door. “Yo, man! Get your ass up! Breakfast! Manuel! Manuel?”

There was a slow creak as the bedroom door opened.

“Yo, Manny, you good?”

Manuel’s room mate entered the room and looked around, seeing the white clothes on the floor. His jaw dropped when his eyes crossed over the bed. Manuel was laying there, eyes open and mouth frozen in a silent scream. The sheets and pillows around him had been stained a deep crimson, his throat had been slit.

“Manuel!!!”