A/N: Here’s a giant, ridiculous saga. Rather tentatively titled as Light and Shadow series, it’s already planned to be four novels long. Since I am writing them all concurrently, they’re not all finished nor up to their full lengths except the first one. They are more of a SSF genre, which is really my genre of choice but which has never really been seen on this account.

Added note: There are sequels to this already up. Just because some people hit the end of this one and think that’s all. The next novel is Chiaroscuro and the following one is Nocturne, currently WIP and both available via my profile.

Title: Tenebrism

Author: Alyn Drasil

Rating: overall R

Disclaimer: It’s still mine.

Warnings: swearing, m/m stuff. And unbeta-ed like always.

[Prologue]

On Halloween night, my buddies decided the best thing for us all to do was to go crawling up into the graveyard on the hill behind town, and get shit-faced. There were five of us, including me; my roommate and a couple of my usual friends and one of their friends who didn’t actually go to college anymore, but just liked to hang out with the crowd.

Two of them were both Chris, so we always called them Slayton and Law. The others were Martin my roommate and Jack, Law’s friend. Jack brought all the beer; not all of the rest of us were legal yet. We drove up there in a couple of cars and parked in the visitors parking (in hindsight, stupid—being college idiots there was a ninety percent chance we could have trashed some monument or tomb, and then they would have probably had our license plate numbers from security cameras. Luckily, that wasn’t the problem I came away with that night).

And then we all crashed up into the hills. Slayton and Law thought it was way too lame to stay in the nicely manicured areas, the rows of neat little white headstones and wilting leavings of flowers. That was the newer part of the graveyard. The older part, with gravestones so old the names and years had crumbled off and scattered to the wind, sprawled up into the hills, getting lost in crawling underbrush and untamed ivy.

There was a crypt up here, a crumbling grey building with ivy drooling down its sides and climbing into every tiny chink in the stone. The name above the doorway used V’s for U’s and therefore read PLOTINVS. There were two columns on either side of the doors, and Jack thudded the cooler down in front of one of them, on the second step down. A piece of the stone edge crumbled off.

“Hey, be careful,” I said, and Jack just threw me a lazy, partially already drunk grin.

“’S cool,” he said, “’s cool, little dude.”

“Whatever,” I said. I thought Jack was kind of a jerk. I also thought Law was kind of a jerk. He was severely good-looking and knew it, and used it as an excuse to be an undeniable asshole because he knew he could get away with it. But he and Slayton were buds pals compadres whatever, and I liked Slayton all right when he wasn’t drunk—which outside of classes wasn’t actually very often. Martin palled around with these guys though, so they were kind of my proxy friends. I didn’t branch out much. I was in graphic design and most of the other people I knew were in love with their hardware.

“Yeah, bro, it’s cool,” Martin said, appearing at my side and giving my left shoulder a punch and my right hand a beer. “Have one.”

Martin was from Hawaii and used bro and dude and man as interchangeable epithets for nearly every sentence. I was never sure if the two were dependent variables of each other. He was easy-going and relaxed and the best roommate I’d ever had.

I didn’t mind the beer. I wasn’t much of a drinker but hanging around with these guys, it was kind of a given. After I took a first swig I could tell it was some sort of cheap shit beer because Jack wouldn’t shell out for anything else. I think his job was part-timing at a gas station convenience store. He didn’t really have the highest aspirations to life.

Slayton came up, a beer in each hand, and stared up at the crypt in a sort of half-drunk, slack-jawed fascination.

“Do you think we could get in here?” he asked, in a sort of awed enthrallment. “Could we see fucking corpses?”

“Dude, they’re probably all bones and dirt by now,” Martin said, and then I tuned both of them out as I went around the back of the crypt, clutching my beer and kind of wishing I hadn’t come. This girl in my motion graphic class had last-second mentioned her Halloween party to me—I could have gone there. I hadn’t really wanted to, but maybe being trapped in some sweaty sorority house full of half-naked costumed girls would have been better than hanging out in a graveyard with a group of pretty certified losers.

I kicked back against the side of the crypt and got through almost my whole shit-ass beer before I started hearing everyone’s voices again, louder now and with slight slurring. Sounded like a rather unimportant argument. I tossed my mostly-empty beer into the bushes (okay, I was an asshole, sorry) and pushed off the wall.

I crashed around to the back of the crypt, where their voices were coming from. The first thing I saw was a tall grey monument, human-shaped. Its back was turned towards me and the crypt, and Law and Martin were front of it, half blocked by one of its arms. Martin’s arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked bored. Law was bent forward, peering at the thing. Slayton was tromping in circles around it, looking it up and down.

“Fuckin’ weird thing,” Slayton said, tinging the bottom edge of his beer off the statue’s leg. “S’not even a plaque or anything.”

“Maybe it’s just decoration, bro,” Martin said, sounding as bored as he looked. “Yanno, like an angel or something.”

“You see wings on this thing?” Slayton said. “Naw man, this is like some Lord of the Rings shit or something. Look, look—he’s wearin’ armor.”

It was—big sharp shoulder guards with studs set in them, and more ribbed sheets going a little way down the arms. The backs of the hands and wrists also had guards on them, and the legs had shin-guards, which were covering huge boots.

I started slugging my way through the underbrush, coming to stand next to Law and looking at the statue’s face. It looked kind of male. And angry. Its stone eyes were wide open and its lips drawn back slightly off grey teeth. It had another big plate of armor over its chest, and some straps over that holding it there.

“Maybe he’s guarding the masolum,” Law said.

Slayton’s laugh was more of a gurgling snort. “What the shit’s a masolum?”

“The fuckin’ crypt, asshole. He’s standing next to it, maybe he’s guarding it.” Law waved largely to the marble house next to the statue.

“Whaddo the dead people all need a guard for?” Slayton said. He slid up next to the statue and threw the arm still holding the beer around its neck. The thing had to be a foot taller than him, and Slayton hung at an awkward angle off its shoulder. He poked its rough grey cheek, while his beer clinked and scraped against the stone shoulder. “Ey you. You guardin’ the stiffs?”

I looked at Law. “The word’s mausoleum. And the statue’s not that interesting.” It wasn’t. Sure it was huge and in armor but it was just another random, morbid cemetery decoration. About twenty feet behind it I could see one of those crying, shift-wearing mother-Mary type statues. Her nose had crumbled right off her face. This armor-guy in front of us was in real good shape, though. Barely any wear.

Slayton rolled his face towards me, a ridiculous grin on his face. “Whassa matter, Al? You jealous? Statue your boyyyyfriend?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. The statue’s my boyfriend.” I rolled my eyes and snatched the beer out of his dangling hand. “Give that.”

“Someone getting some action?” Jack yelled from somewhere around the fourth and last side of the crypt.

“Shut up,” I said, while Slayton unwrapped himself from the statue and lunged at me, scrabbling for his beer. I kept him back easily with my free hand on his chest and stretching my other arm back behind me. I’m not a big guy and Slayton was twice my size, but he was drunk and uncoordinated and not up to even the smallest physical feat, such as taking back his beer. Martin swooped in behind me and relieved me of it, and Slayton dizzily took off after him, leaving me and Law staring at the statue.

Law looked at me. “You know,” he said, a little too loudly and a little too slurringly, “those fuckin’ glasses of yours are really third grade.”

“What the hell does that mean, asshole?” I snapped at him. I wore pretty basic rectangular black-frame lenses. My younger sister had told me they were a little scene-kid when I had gotten them, but didn’t know what that even meant. Even less than what Law had just said.

“It means they make you look feminine.” Law said, and then, in case I didn’t know the meaning of the word feminine, he added, “like a girl.”

“All right, what the fuck,” I said. I was used to Law being a jackass and usually I didn’t let him get on my nerves but he usually didn’t call me out like this.

“Get many girls looking like that?” Law continued, as Slayton and Martin came galumphing back up, snorting and giggling.

“Girls what? Where?” Slayton said, head snapping up and eyes widening. Then he broke down into sniggers again and threw his beer bottle (that he’d apparently gotten back from Martin) in a wide-angle at the big grey statue. It didn’t get anywhere near the thing, but I still flinched.

“Knock it off,” I said. “You gonna pay for that if you break it?”

“Oh who cares about it, it’s probably a hundred damn years old,” Slayton said. “If you love it so much why don’t you marry it.”

“And why don’t you go back to the first grade to join your insults?” I said. I jammed my hands into my pockets and felt entirely fed up with all of this. “Christ. I’m going back to the cars.”

“Oh hey, what?” Martin said, starting forward, getting his foot stuck, and falling over into a pile of leafy bushes. Slayton started guffawing.

“Hey, yeah,” Law said, and his stupid douchebag voice was like nails on a blackboard. “Hey, who wants to have Alan kiss the statue?”

“What the fuck?” I said, whirling on him. “You’re not funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Jack said, suddenly rounding the crypt, hands in his pockets and grinning at me.

“And I think you’re white trash,” I said. “So what?”

“So, I dare you to kiss the statue,” Law picked up. He was smirking a little. He probably had some really deep issues he’d have to work out someday. But right now he was just reveling in being a jerk.

“Triple…frog…dog…dare you!” Slayton called from where he was leaning, beer-logged, against the crypt.

Maybe we were all back in the first grade right now.

“If I kiss the fucking thing will you guys leave me alone?” I said. Law smirked and Slayton and Martin clapped like spastic children. “Fine.”

I lurched up to the statue, snapping tough ivy vines as I crashed through the underbrush. It was a good head and a half taller than me, but the ground was uneven and there was a swell of ground and a half-buried rock near it that put me almost on the same level.

The whole thing was stupid. And ridiculous. I wasn’t even sure why I was doing this except Law was making me insensibly angry with his stupid, aimless needling. I wasn’t sure if this was any sort of way to get back at him or prove anything but it seemed good at the moment, through the screen of the one beer I’d had.

“Whoo! Makeout!” Martin cheered from behind me. I rolled my eyes again and figured, the faster I did this, the faster they would stop thinking it was funny. Martin, especially, who seemed to think that because he was my roommate he got to manage all the action I got. Which was absolutely none, for about a year now. I suppose he thought having me kiss a male statue was hilarious. Not that the gender mattered. The thing was made of stone.

I stepped up to the statue and quickly pressed my mouth to its. I kept my hands jammed firmly in my back pockets and didn’t let any other part of my body touch it. The granite, or marble, or whatever it was, was rough and cold, but it warmed up fast. I let my mouth stay there for a five-count, which was definitely enough to satisfy everyone. Already I could hear them starting to crash around in the underbrush and giggle at each other, and knew they were loosing interest already. Good. I started to pull away.

Two hands seized my elbows. I started, thinking it was Law or somebody, being a douche. Then I realized the hands were connected to arms that were coming…well, from in front of me. Where the statue was.

So I looked up, because that certainly couldn’t be right. And was suddenly looking into a pair of bright, alive eyes, staring down into my own. The eyes blinked. The hair falling around them moved in the breeze. I felt breath that wasn’t mine on my face.

“Hey, guys,” I said, panicking on some level that was mostly subdued by the beer I’d had. “Is anyone else noticing this?”

Because if they weren’t, it meant I was either insane, or I couldn’t hold my liquor as well as I’d thought. But I didn’t think any of them were even around anymore. I could hear Martin bellowing some off-key song from somewhere beyond the crypt. The voices of the others were all spread around, none near me.

The statue—the statue—still had my arms. It had a very strong grip, because I tried to pull away and didn’t manage to move even an inch.

“Don’t—move.”

When the statue spoke—spoke—it had a raspy, deep voice, dry like an unused sponge. But it made me never want to move again. There was power in the voice, a commanding force and authority that resonated down to my bones. Now I was panicking, deeply and completely.

“Who—“ the statue rasped out, “are you?”

For a moment, I actually, truly, forgot. And then, “Alan—I’m Alan.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. The statue’s pale eyes flicked over my face in turn, searching, assessing….then it let me go. I stumbled back a step, heaving in a gasp of air.

The thing that had once been a statue straightened up before me, rolling its shoulders and stretching its neck. It was hard to tell, in the dark, but it didn’t look statue-colored any more. Meaning it wasn’t grey. The hair was definitely darker and the skin was lighter and the clothes had different gradients to them. What little light there was in the graveyard slid off the armor plates –like metal.

“Wow,” I said. “Shit, wow. Fuck, man. I, uh—guys! Hey, guys!”

The not-statue narrowed its eyes. There was a dark, spiked tattoo over the left one. The not-statue was at least half a foot taller than me, which would have been intimidating even without all the armor. But it didn’t do anything. Just looked. Then it lifted its left hand—I cringed a little bit, expecting it to smite me, or something—and pressed two fingers to its collarbone.

“E deuhana aaun,” it said, with a slight incline of its head.

“I—I—what?” I risked a glance from side to side, looking to see if anyone was noticing this. There was some crashing behind me, and I saw Martin come around from behind the crypt, stumbling through the underbrush, his eyes fixed on his feet.

“Martin,” I yelped. “Are you looking at this?”

He lifted his head. “What, dude, what?”

“The statue—the fucking statue!”

He rolled his head around, blinking. “What?”

“Are you that drunk? The statue, it’s…“ I whirled back around, gesturing madly to—

Nothing. The statue was gone. There was nothing in front of my but ivy and crushed underbrush from Slayton and Law’s previous tramping around. Beyond that everything faded into dimness and darkness and craggy old tombstones like graying teeth. Noseless mother Mary with her eyes closed. But no male, armor wearing statue. No anything.

“Fuck,” I said heavily. Had I dreamed it? Was I that drunk? I’d only had that one beer, for Christ’s sake.

Martin staggered up to me, and Slayton came up behind him.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you?” the latter asked, slinging an arm around Martin’s shoulders. Martin squawked and shoved him off, which sent Slayton stumbling, giggling and flailing, into a bush. Martin guffawed at him and nearly fell over himself, and I shook my head.

“Nothing,” I muttered. Nothing at all. I had hallucinated a statue coming to life. Although, I wasn’t quite sure if my hallucination didn’t also stretch back to all my friends daring me to kiss one. Because…there wasn’t a statue in front of me anymore, and that was pretty damn certifiable fact.

#

I did drink after that. I drank a lot. Just to solidify my theory that I had, in fact, hallucinated or imagined everything, and make me feel better about doing so. I basically sat myself next to Jack’s cooler and kept up a constant imbibing of whatever stuff he had packed along. At one point I think Slayton—Slayton—actually got worried about it, and tried to drag the cooler away. I think I might have hit him for it. It was very hard to remember. Most of the rest of the night, really.

I wasn’t actually sure how I got home. Martin and I had gone together in my car, but I sure as hell hadn’t driven it home. Martin probably had. He was a good guy, really.

But I did get home, because I woke up there, in my bed. And I woke up to someone shaking me, hard. Hands were on my shoulders and rocking me back and forth in a way that was absolutely horrible for the hangover that was already ringing through my head.

I garbled out something and thrashed my arms around, trying to fend off whoever was being this irritating this early in the morning, especially when my head was throbbing and beating and making a general mutiny on me. I knew it was early because only very pale light was pushing against my closed eyelids—that kind of pale blue-grey monochrome you get before the sun really gets up over the earth edge. The shaking didn’t stop, my head kept getting worse, and I growled and snapped my eyes open.

There was a face leaning over me; a face with ice-blue eyes and a dark tattoo over the left one. Dark hair wild was around its face and its mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line. I yelped and tried to jump backwards, forgetting I was lying down and managing only to slam my head into the wall behind me.

Hands flew down and seized my wrists, pinning me down to my bed. The face drew back a little, and I saw the glint of metal shoulder-guards and reddish-black leather.

It was the statue. The statue from the night before, the one I had thought I had dreamed coming alive. Apparently, not a dream. Because the not-statue was holding my wrists and breathing into my face and generally doing very alive and un-dream-like things. And then, it spoke.

“Alan,” the no-longer-a-statue said. “Come with me.”