No Shelter from Darkness

Copyright 2013 Mark D. Evans

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Cover Design by Greg Simanson

Edited by Steven Luna

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

PRINT ISBN 978-1-62015-139-6

EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-113-6

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2013940452

For Mum.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

It's taken roughly fourteen years, give or take a day or two, for this book to be actualized. Unsurprisingly, then, a fair few people have been involved in one way or another during its manifestation. From opinions and feedback to simple yet powerful words of encouragement, I value it all. I thank every one of you so very much, and I truly appreciate all that you have done.

In particular …

At Booktrope Editions I'd like to thank cool kids Katherine Sears for saying “yes”, Greg Simanson for the cover and badass Jesse James Freeman for pulling it all together. I was blown away with the efficiency of my book manager, Wendy Logsdon. With you in the gang I really feel I have the best team I could ask for. And that team would not be complete without Steven Luna. I consider myself very fortunate to have you as my editor; your approach, style and decisions were exactly what I had hoped for, but more than that, you're still speaking to me after all the silly questions.

Special thanks goes to Tracey Frazier, who got my foot in the door with the cool kids in the first place. Without you I wouldn't be writing these acknowledgements.

From along the way, a few mentions are deserved …

Kelli Coxhead was the first person subjected to my idea, encouraging me to talk about it and organically develop it (and all it took was
meeting you on the other side of the world and supplying you with wine). Andy Cavill was the first person
ever
to read anything of the book and give me the confidence I needed to carry on (especially after I dramatically threw the manuscript out the window, literally). Lyndsey McAdam and Fraser Knight both helped, probably without even knowing it. Sofia Hericson and Nuno Rocha went above and beyond, treating me like family when I had nowhere else to go.

Assa Nguyen was there when it mattered most. You supported me and encouraged me with your love and enthusiasm and I'll never forget it.

And finally, an extra special thank-you goes to my beta reader, Shelly Squire. You are of course so much more than a beta reader. You read my raw prose and kept a subjective head on, giving me the honest feedback I needed, and you helped me out with ideas and problem areas. You helped me get the book into its best shape before I could even think about submitting it to the publishing world. It has changed so much since that third draft you read, and a lot of those changes—especially the major ones—are thanks to you. With that and all the other help you've given me since, you've made the book better, and in turn you've made the writer better.

Thank you, Sis.

PROLOGUE

AS IF IN SLOW MOTION,
the large hand of the station clock swept to its next interval. Dr. Jorge Ortega was sure his imagination was to blame for its mechanical clunk, which nevertheless made the movement sound arduous. It also made the speed with which the sun sank into the horizon seem blistering in contrast, taking its leave earlier every day as the winter approached its darkest depth.

But the rapidly dying light was only one of the doctor's worries. His eyes darted from one face to another, the busying station making the job of spotting a stranger almost impossible. His coat blocked most of the chill and his body heat had warmed the wooden slats of the bench on which he sat, and yet his shivers persisted. He looked to his left, toward the entrance, and then to his right, down the platform filling with eager travelers. The wall behind him negated his need to check in that direction, yet the desire to do so never waned. There was no gap between the wall and the bench, no one could squeeze in and sneak up, but Jorge had never been as on-edge as he was now.

It had been almost a week since he'd received the telegram from his old friend and colleague, Nurse Dominquez. He had lived through her harrowing ordeal in the two minutes it had taken him to read it. His first instinct was to visit her, but his training had kicked in, and he knew there was only one right thing to do: flee. After blowing the dust from his leather satchel that squeaked from underuse, he'd caught the first train out of Madrid. Traveling at night when timetables allowed, catching forty winks here and there during the day, he'd zigzagged down the country. At every stop he hunted down a public
phone, and when the operator informed him his call couldn't be connected, he had no choice but to catch the next train and try again.

He'd made it all the way to Valencia.

The boarding time of the evening train he was booked on still seemed so distant. Jorge stared into the space between passengers for someone—or something—to stand out. The vapor of his breath reminded him to rub his hands together, before his eyes returned to the clock like a nervous tic. He figured there'd be no harm in trying that call once more. Picking up the satchel from between his feet, he went over to the row of phones at the side of the concourse, lifted a receiver and gave the number to the operator. Waiting with what had become a nervous and futile hope, but a hope all the same, he jumped and fumbled in his pockets for
pesetas
when he was put through.

At the sound of the voice on the other end of the line, Jorge sighed and his tense shoulders relaxed. He had yet to deliver the important news, but already a great weight had been lifted as he offered pleasantries. But his sense of urgency hadn't completely disappeared. Moving the conversation on, he relayed to his friend the highlights of the nurse's telegram; how a mysterious young woman had aggressively interrogated two other nurses and a priest before getting to her. It was a line of witnesses, and Jorge was determined that the line would end with him.

Standing on the concourse of Estacio del Nord with the earpiece to the side of his head, Jorge casually turned on the spot. His scheduled train was preparing to leave from the platform running parallel to the concourse, across two sets of unused rail tracks. He watched, as what would be his fellow passengers hugged loved ones and boarded carriages. Replying to a question his friend on the phone had asked, he instantly stopped mid-sentence, and his body stiffened.

Amongst the bustling passengers over on his platform was a breathing statue—a young woman with olive skin and black hair, standing motionless. Her exotic beauty was undeniable, even from this distance. And although she was too far away for Jorge to discern the color of her eyes, he knew they were staring straight at him. For a moment, the whole station seemed silent while people blurred between them. He felt the prickling of a cold sweat breaking out over his brow and down his back.

“She's here,” he said coolly. He waited. “She's as the nurse described. Young, dark and beautiful. She's staring right at me.” He paused for the response. “I'm thinking me staring back isn't helping my situation …

“Like her I imagine …

“Yes.” He turned back into the booth and switched to his accented English. “Take care of yourself, old friend. And take care of the girl.”

Jorge replaced the earpiece and spun around but knew before his gaze had settled that the woman would be gone. She lurked somewhere among those people, and Jorge knew she was coming for him. The outcome may have been inevitable, but he wasn't about to make it easy for her. Picking up his leather satchel, he began to walk down the concourse and away from the entrance, onto the nearest platform. The imminent departure of his train was no longer of concern. What
was
of concern were the hundreds of people in this very public place. He had to get away from them; he had to get her away from them.

Hurriedly weaving in between people going about their own business, Jorge kept glancing over his shoulder but never caught sight of the exotic woman he knew was following. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard a commotion. Men and women were gasping at something, and when he looked back through the sparse crowd, he saw the stranger cross the tracks and leap up to the platform. She was no more than fifty yards behind him.

Jorge ran. The further down the platform he got, the fewer people there were to dodge. He knew the stranger would be faster than him, but he was hoping his head start would afford him enough time to get away from these civilians and find some kind of defensive position. It was clear now, all the way to the end of the platform, and he broke into a sprint. Glancing back, he saw the woman clear the last of the stragglers before breaking into a sprint of her own. She was less than forty yards back, with black hair and furls of dress flowing in her wake.