Wind Dancer (The Darkness Series Book 4) Read online

  WIND DANCER

  THE DARKNESS SERIES BOOK 4

  KC LUCK

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance

  to actual events, locales or persons either living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 KC Luck Media

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in

  any form whatsoever.

  07182021

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Thank you

  Also By Kc Luck

  1

  T he polished-oak ship’s wheel held steady as the

  Wind Dancer lived up to her name and cut through

  the choppy waters of the mighty Columbia River. All sails

  were hoisted as the seventy-foot schooner rode the strong

  westerly breeze, returning from Portland to the port she called

  home—Astoria. With a quick glance at her windup

  wristwatch, Meg O’Grady smiled as she noted they were

  making good time and would arrive earlier than planned. By

  now, she knew the route well, having memorized the tricky

  shipping channel so easily masked by the dark, gray waters.

  For over a month, she and her small crew made a weekly

  roundtrip voyage to what was once Oregon’s largest city. They

  provided supplies to Red Cross volunteers to distribute to the

  city’s residents and refugees. After the catastrophic solar storm

  that knocked out power worldwide, the larger cities struggled

  to maintain order. Food, medicine, and other necessities ran

  out within weeks, and with no way to replenish them, gangs

  formed, and chaos reigned. Meg recognized that her friends,

  trapped in Seattle when the event took place, were lucky to be

  alive. Only by working together and making intelligent

  choices did they escape and return to Astoria to help the

  coastal city do more than survive in the months that followed.

  The town was thriving.

  Meg had not been part of that initial beginning, arriving

  months later after her ship had been commandeered by the

  United States Army. Sailing south from Canada, the Wind

  Dancer took refuge in a small harbor up the coast. Once there,

  the military turned it into a reconnaissance vessel. Major

  Grace Hamilton was assigned to lead Meg and her crew on an

  expedition to relocate survivors in Astoria. Thinking of it,

  Meg’s green eyes twinkled. Things had not played out as the

  major intended, but she didn’t think the woman minded. Meg

  certainly did not.

  “That’s quite a happy look you have there, Captain,” Meg

  heard Jimmy, her first mate, say as he came up beside her.

  “Excited to be almost home?”

  Giving him a glance, Meg’s smile widened. “Indeed,” she

  said. “And we made great time this run. Always a plus.”

  Stepping back, she offered Jimmy the helm. “Take us into the

  harbor, please.” That was the usual custom. Meg, wearing a

  bright white shirt that set off her fiery red hair, would stand at

  the railing along the bow as they neared. All the better for the

  woman she loved, Major Grace Hamilton, to see her from the

  shore. The days apart were aggravating but inevitable. Still

  wheelchair-bound from gunshot wounds while chasing a

  dangerous criminal months before, navigating the decks and

  ladders of a ship like the Wind Dancer would be challenging

  for Grace. Not to mention, there were plenty more essential

  duties Astoria’s highest-ranking military officer needed to

  attend to over keeping Meg company. All those facts did not

  make Meg miss her less. Add in that today was Valentine’s

  Day, and the ship’s captain had all but willed the wind to blow

  harder so she could get home.

  Looking hard, Meg watched the pier for any sign of

  activity. Grace might not know she was back yet, because the

  Wind Dancer was arriving earlier than predicted. Even though

  a twenty-four-hour lookout was in place to keep the harbor

  under watch for unfamiliar ships, the message of their arrival

  may not have been delivered to the major yet. The woman was

  often in council with other members of Astoria’s leadership,

  particularly with the city manager, Jackie Scott, and her

  counterpart, Chief of Police Taylor Barnes. That they were all

  close friends certainly helped the meetings be productive, but

  they did go on for hours sometimes.

  As the minutes ticked by, Meg resigned herself that Grace

  would not be there to greet her. In the larger scheme, it wasn’t

  important, yet like most sailors, Meg leaned toward the

  superstitious. This would be the first time Grace had not

  waited for her on the dock, and a small ball of anxiety formed

  in her stomach. What if something has happened to her? she

  thought, knowing that although Astoria was stabler than most

  places, they were still in the middle of an apocalypse.

  Anything could happen.

  TAPPING the apartment door with her knuckle, Cyd Elliott

  waited patiently for the sounds of someone coming to the door.

  Although she didn’t know the occupants, there was little to

  worry about. Her appearance came across as nonthreatening.

  “You’re petite,” her mother told her every summer when they

  went to buy school clothes. “So many other girls would die to

  be your size.” Cyd never entirely bought it. She wanted to be

  tall, burly, and intimidating like a proper stone-cold butch

  should be. There had been something a bit demoralizing to

  have to buy her biker boots in the youth section, boy’s

  department naturally.

  Her time over the last three years at the California Institute

  for Women, which sounded more like a university than a

  prison in Cyd’s opinion, helped her work on her image thoug
h.

  Back then, she wore her jet-black hair stubble length and

  convinced a fellow inmate to give her a prison tattoo on her

  neck. Luckily, the woman had talent otherwise the snarling

  wolf’s head could have looked more like a neighborhood mutt.

  Cyd was immensely proud of the artwork, but for the moment,

  it was hidden by the collar of her oversized black hoodie. Her

  hair hung past her ears these days too, and with her large,

  brown eyes—what one girlfriend called ‘soulful’ years ago—

  anyone answering the door wouldn’t be alarmed. Not that it

  appeared anyone was home.

  Leaning in, Cyd pressed her ear to the door and listened.

  No noises. That usually proved to be a good sign. With a

  glance down the hall to make sure she was still alone, she

  dropped to her hands and knees and lowered her face to the

  carpet. It was impossible to see under the door, but she sniffed

  for clues too. A telltale odor assaulted her nostrils, and she

  pulled back to rest her butt on her heels. It was bad, but not the

  worst she had smelled by far. Something, or more likely,

  someone, was dead and decaying in the apartment. For Cyd,

  that was a good thing, because it translated to the place being

  unoccupied. The odds another human lived with that smell day

  after day were slim.

  Tossing another glance around, more out of habit than any

  real fear someone could be sneaking up on her, Cyd pulled her

  lockpicks from her hoodie pocket. The tools she made herself,

  once they let everyone out of prison back in June when there

  wasn’t any more food, were simple enough. More like

  something a dentist might use to scrape a patient’s teeth. In her

  deft and practiced hands, though, the thin instruments could

  make short work of a deadbolt in less than thirty-seconds,

  something she planned to prove once again as she appraised

  the current door. Before she set to work, Cyd did the one thing

  her great uncle, a crooked locksmith in his day, drilled into her

  to always do. Turn the door handle and see if it’s already open.

  She did. It was.

  Shit, she thought, biting her lip as she considered the

  situation. This could simply be good luck. Or it could be a

  trap. So far, the apartment building had been straightforward,

  and the first two apartments she broke into were empty of

  occupants but still held some items she could trade. A half

  bottle of ibuprofen. A box of mac and cheese. From the look

  of things, the residents packed a few bags and left once the

  lights went out. Smart people, in her opinion . The once

  prestigious Sea Cliff District in San Francisco, California,

  trapped against the coast by the giant, sprawling mess of the

  Golden Gate City, turned savage quickly. All the exits out of

  the city clogged immediately. Residents became trapped in an

  area with few resources beyond swaying palm trees and

  beautiful sandy beaches. Most decided to try and wait it out,

  expecting help to come. If she laid odds on things, she’d guess

  the residents of the current apartment were in that category.

  Help never came. Food ran out. Water stopped flowing

  through taps. Sewers clogged. In the end, a die-off was

  inevitable, whether from the lack of resources or, more often

  than not Cyd quickly realized, suicide.

  None of which helped her make up her mind regarding her

  current predicament. Well, do it or don’t, she thought. But just

  waiting here is a bad idea. Taking a deep breath, Cyd made up

  her mind and pulled up the bandana around her neck to cover

  her mouth and nose to help with the smell. Then, before she

  could talk herself out of it, she reached for the doorknob and

  went inside.

  ANNA SCOTT REFERRED to the page clipped to the folder in her

  hand. “One last thing. Your blood pressure is looking great,

  Mrs. Vaughn,” Anna said. “Are you walking every day like we

  talked about?”

  Mrs. Vaughn nodded her gray-haired head. “Even in the

  rain,” she said with a proud smile. “I’ve lost twelve pounds

  and I must say the headaches have gone completely.”

  Anna returned the smile. “Perfect,” she said. “Well, then I

  think that wraps up our exam for today. I’m proud of how hard

  you have been working. I know this was difficult at first.”

  Mrs. Vaughn reached and took Anna’s hand. “It was. I

  didn’t realize how much I relied on my blood pressure

  medication to feel well,” she said. “And when it ran out…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  Giving the woman’s slender hand a small squeeze, Anna

  nodded. “You’re not alone. You know there are some support

  groups in town to help people who are still adjusting?”

  “I do, Anna,” Mrs. Vaughn replied with a bit of a laugh.

  “I’d say I belonged to one, but honestly, we only rotate houses

  and play bunco.”

  Anna laughed too. “I think that may be the best therapy of

  all,” she said, helping Mrs. Vaughn from her chair to walk her

  to the door of the classroom turned hospital exam room.

  “Perhaps I’ll start going to something like that myself.”

  Opening the door, the older woman paused and turned

  back to Anna. “You’re not having trouble adjusting too, are

  you?” she asked. “Surely not with Lexi and little Joe and all

  the patients who adore you.”

  “No, of course not,” Anna answered too quickly. Realizing

  her tone was a little clipped, she forced a smile back on her

  face. “I’ll be glad when spring comes, and the sun is back out.

  I had forgotten how gray Astoria was in the winter.” For a

  moment, Anna wasn’t sure if Mrs. Vaughn would accept her

  answer, but then she nodded.

  “We have had a lot of rain this winter. I forget you were

  only back here visiting from California when everything

  happened,” she said as she walked out into the hall. “But

  remember, spring always comes, Anna. Even to Astoria.”

  Anna considered the woman’s words as she watched her

  walk away. Spring could not come soon enough. The constant

  rain and gray skies were hard, and like Mrs. Vaughn’s blood

  pressure medicine, there were no antidepressants to take if the

  gloom ran deeper than only the weather. “Well, you certainly

  look thoughtful,” Anna heard a woman say and glanced over

  to see her sister-in-law sitting in one of the waiting room

  chairs. Distracted by her patient’s comments, she hadn’t even

  noticed. Immediately, her spirits lifted. No one was more

  vivacious and full of life than the beautiful Jackie Scott.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you sitting there,” Anna apologized. “I

  was only thinking of something my patient said.” Jackie

  uncrossed her long legs and stood. Gloomy weather or

  otherwise, she was dressed elegantly in a classic red raincoat

  with matching boots. How does she always look so perfect?

  Anna thought as her friend pulled her into a hug.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Anna,” Jackie murmured. “Taylor

  went with Lexi
to get a few supplies from the depot

  warehouse, so I decided to head over here. It’s actually not

  raining for a change.”

  Anna gave Jackie a squeeze before they stepped apart.

  “Not to mention you’re not a fan of dusty old warehouses or

  manual labor?” she asked with a laugh.

  Jackie tapped her playfully on the shoulder. “That too,” she

  agreed. “Precisely.”

  2

  T aking her flashlight out of the back pocket of her

  black Levi jeans, Cyd stopped a foot inside the

  entrance of the darkened apartment and listened while she

  counted off time in her head. Only when she got to thirty-

  alligator did she shut the door and lock it behind her. It was

  time to investigate. Clicking on her light, Cyd got to work. A

  quick scan of the hall clued her in quickly this was most likely

  a single person’s home. And probably a guy. No family

  photos. No knickknacks on the sideboard, which looked like

  an IKEA special if she wasn’t mistaken. Some magazines and

  a set of keys. A dust-covered magazine at that, she thought

  with a grim smile. No one had been moving around in the

  apartment for quite a while.

  Still, she walked with a soft tread on the carpet through the

  rest of the space. The corpse sat in a well-worn leather recliner

  in the living room. Probably a man, although she couldn’t be

  entirely sure from the look of it. A suicide like she guessed,

  and it was a messy one at that. Handgun in the mouth that left

  a lot of nasty-looking mold-covered globs on the wall behind

  the chair. Cyd couldn’t care less. She’d seen way worse, and

  the fact he used a gun meant Cyd’s trip was a huge jackpot.

  Weapons of any kind traded for top value on the black market.

  She had no intention of keeping it. Her complete lack of

  experience with firearms made her nervous about carrying

  one. Odds were more likely the gun would be turned against

  her. What she carried on her body for protection consisted of a

  seven-inch switchblade and a canister of pepper spray.

  Anything more would be too clunky to have, possibly make

  noise, and slow her down. Being quiet and fleet of foot were

  her staples of survival. One thing she would keep though was

  the half-full bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label on the end

  table beside the dead guy. Although alcohol also traded well,

  Cyd didn’t mind a sip or two from time to time, and it was a