A Dive into Darkness (Dark and Devilish #5)

Chapter 1

Whipping up a storm

JUDE

I didn’t care about Anya, or whatever had upset her this time. When we were dating, I cared about her in the same way I cared about a casual acquaintance you were drifting apart from, and now, my feelings were almost non-existent.

Unfortunately, hers were anything but.

It appears she’s still angry, even after six months have passed.

Even now, she’s found a reason to call and leave one of those messages.

There was barely any point in listening to it, not when it was all screaming and ranting, and it was usually devoid of all reason.

And yet I was listening to all of it, and none of what Anya had to say was good and little was coherent.

Admittedly, I should have handled the breakup better. I should have done the deed when at least six months earlier, but as usual, I was late in realizing she was another in a lengthy line of women who didn’t really hold my attention yet somehow ended up in my life.

It’s why I moved here.

I’d had enough of London. Of its noise, its grime, its ceaseless hustle and flow.

I’d grown weary of the bright lights and late nights, and, more than anything, I’d grown weary of the women.

They seemed to throw themselves at me, imagining they were rescuing an impoverished artist or embarking on a bohemian adventure.

I wasn’t interested in most of them. I was barely interested in the ones I dated.

Still, they hovered like moths to a flame, shielding me from others, but the breakups came with more drama than I cared for.

Every ounce of emotion, every second of heartache and anger I’d taken from those relationships, I’d poured into my books.

I could write a thousand bestsellers from what I’d learned in London.

After seven years in the city, it was clear: the excitement had faded, and the adventure had run its course.

My aunt’s illness was a convenient excuse to leave, and I’d been looking for one for quite a while by the time she got really sick.

Her cottage on the Norfolk coast was isolated and she hadn’t wanted to move, even though she knew her illness had become terminal and darker days were ahead.

I’d found a strange kind of peace with her as she grew weaker, and she taught me more about death, life and the weight of time in the few months that I’d learned in all my time partying and living a carefree existence in my apartment in the city.

When she passed, I didn’t expect her to leave the cottage to me. I didn’t expect to want to stay. Yet here I was, settled in the quiet hours of a place where time stretched and unraveled, free of the constant churn of the city.

Now, Anya is upset again. Her anger is an unwelcome disruption, screeching down the line and polluting the stillness.

I stare out the window of the house I now own, watching the bleak sea roll in.

Her voice is a blight on this peaceful place.

I cut off the voicemail, sinking back into my chair to admire the storm gathering over the waves.

Thunderclouds loom heavy, a dark mass promising chaos. Beneath them, waves rise in defiance, crashing against the shore with a ferocity that steals my breath. The sand dunes shift as the wind lashed them, long grasses bowing to a force they couldn’t withstand.

The phone rings again.

On instinct, I answer it, lifting the screen to my ear. I see Anya’s name flash before me. I know it was a mistake, but it’s one I’ve already made.

“Jude.”

She isn’t asking a question. She never does. Anya doesn’t ask for things. She demands them.

“Anya,” I reply, my voice as flat as the sea on a calm day.

“Are you finished with your little jaunt up to the coast?” Her words are sharp, clipped. I can almost picture her pacing some lavish flat in Notting Hill, nails tapping on a marble countertop. “Everyone understands you had to take care of your aunt, but honestly, Jude, this is getting ridiculous.”

I sigh, silently.

“Bonnie’s worried.” Anya’s trying a new line of attack, and it won’t work. “She’s your agent and she’s worried your reputation’s taking a hit. It’s in the pits, babe. You won’t have another bestseller if you carry on like this, so you’d better get back to London and let me help you fix it.”

I barely conceal my scoff. “And how do you intend to do that?”

I can practically hear her squeal and I curse myself for making another mistake.

I’ve given the witch hope, and now I’m going to have to do the thing I’ve been avoiding.

The thing I’ve always avoided. I’ve got to tell Anya that there is not a single goddamn chance in hell that she and I will ever get back together.

“I have connections, Jude,” she says, her tone silky smooth. “I’ll get you into every event that matters. The theaters, the premieres, the parties. We’ll make you the most talked-about author in London again.”

Her words slide over me like oil, sticky and slick with manipulation. I stare out at the waves pounding against the rocks and decide it’s time to be blunt. No more half-measures, no more dragging this out. I need to sever this thread for good.

“Anya—” I begin.

“Look, I get it, Jude,” she interrupts. “You needed time. To grieve, to sort things out. But enough is enough. I’ve waited long enough. It’s time you grew up and started taking care of your responsibilities.”

“It’s over, Anya.”

Silence floods the line and it burns.

It’s almost as if time takes a breath and doesn’t know what to do with itself. Seconds pass too slowly and my heart barely flinches, yet I’m sure that Anya’s is beating far too fast already.

“You’re not coming back?” she asks, her voice as sharp as shattered glass.

“No,” I reply. “I’m staying here, Anya. It’s over.”

She stutters, and for a moment, I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“What do you mean it’s over, Jude?”

“It’s over,” I say again, slower this time, letting the words sink in. My voice doesn’t waver. It’s flat, final, like the waves pounding against the rocks outside.

“You can’t mean that,” she whispers, but there’s a brittle edge to her voice, one that tells me she knows I do. She just doesn’t want to accept it.

“I do.” My tone sharpens. “You’ve known it for a while, Anya. I didn’t love you then, and I don’t love you now. There’s nothing left to fix.”

“You bastard,” she spits, her voice cracking. “After everything I’ve done for you. After all the time I’ve spent—”

I zone out as she starts to scream and cry, somehow managing to pull off both at the same time. I should feel sorry for her. I should at least feel something for her, especially after our eighteen-month relationship.

But the truth is that I don’t.

I didn’t feel much for her then, and I feel nothing for her now.

I stare back out the window and let her keep going. Her words blur into a cacophony of accusations and self-pity. I let her rage wash over me, watching the storm outside intensify. Lightning splits the sky, and the sea foam churned, fierce and unrelenting.

“Don’t,” I cut her off mid-tirade. “Don’t make this about you being the victim. We both know it isn’t true.”

The line goes quiet again, but I can hear her sharp breaths, uneven and ragged. A flicker of guilt stirs in my chest, but I shove it down. She deserves the truth, no matter how much it hurts. We’ve been tangled in this toxic mess for too long, and I refuse to let her pull me back in.

“This isn’t the end,” she says finally, her voice a low hiss. There’s no pleading anymore—only venom. “You think you can just disappear to that godforsaken place and leave everything behind? You’ll come crawling back, Jude. You always do.”

“No,” I reply firmly. “Not this time.”

She laughs, but it’s hollow, bitter. “We’ll see about that.”

Then the line goes dead, the silence heavier than before.

I set the phone down on the table and lean back in the chair, running a hand through my hair.

The storm outside seems to swell in response, the wind howling against the windows like a chorus of restless ghosts.

For the first time in months, as though I’ve finally severed a chain that’s been dragging me under.

But the air around me feels different now. It’s heavier and highly charged. I glance towards the window, the storm clouds churning above the sea, darker than they were before. The unease creeps in slowly, like a shadow stretching across the room. Something isn’t right.

The temperature drops in an instant, and a chill skates down my spine. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I hear it, and the noise is faint at first, barely even a whisper. A sound, low and guttural, coming from somewhere outside. It’s not the wind. It’s too deliberate, too unnatural.

I squint out the window, my heart thudding against my ribs.

It doesn’t escape my notice that my heart is beating faster now than when I was on the phone with Anya.

The tension in my chest feels different.

It’s sharper, heavier. Fear has a way of doing that, of drowning out every other sensation until you can think of nothing else.

The beach stretches out before me, empty and desolate, the waves crashing violently against the shore. But there, just beyond the dunes, something stirs.

A figure.

It’s barely visible through the sheets of rain, but it’s there.

It’s tall and standing against the wind as though it’s immune to the storm’s fury.

The rain distorts the details, blurring its edges, but I can make out a faint shimmer around it, as though the water itself refuses to touch it.

The figure seems almost like a smudge against the chaos, its darkness deeper than the night, like it doesn’t belong here.

As if it’s been carved out of something older,

A pulse of dread surges through me, primal and instinctive.

The figure tilts his head and I swear he’s looking up at the window.

Our eyes seem to meet. Or, at least, I think they do.

The storm distorts everything, but there’s a certainty in the way he holds himself.

As though he knows I’m here. Watching. My stomach twists, a sick knot of unease forming deep inside.

I blink, and the figure is gone.

The unease tightens its grip on me, and I stand, leaning closer to the window as my gaze darts around, trying to see where he went.

My breath fogs up the window and I swipe at it impatiently.

My eyes dart across the landscape, scanning every dune, every shadow, desperate to see where he’s gone.

But there’s nothing. Just the storm tearing across the beach, erasing all trace of him.

The longer I stare, the more I second-guess myself. Did I really see someone? Or is the storm playing tricks on me? Another shiver racks my body, and I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the growing dread clawing its way up my spine.

My phone buzzes again on the table, breaking the silence and jolting me back to the room. I turn to it, half-expecting Anya’s name to light up the screen. But it doesn’t.

It’s an unknown number.

The buzzing stops, and a single voicemail icon appears. My thumb hovers over it, hesitant, before I finally press play.

I know I shouldn’t answer. I know this is a mistake. But curiosity has the better of me and I pray it won’t get me killed.

For a moment, there’s only static.

The kind that crawls under your skin, which makes you want to cover your ears, even though you can’t hear anything distinct or certain.

Then, a voice—low, distorted, and unmistakably not human—whispers a single word:

“Run.”

The line goes dead, and the storm outside rages on.

But the figure I saw…

The voice on the voicemail…

It wasn’t static. And it wasn’t my imagination.

I open the photo I barely remember snapping moments ago. The figure is blurry, but it’s there. Tall, unnatural in its stillness. My stomach churns as I pinch to zoom in, the pixels distorting the shape even more.

Something about it looks wrong. Too thin, too elongated, like it doesn’t quite fit into the world around it. It belongs, but it doesn’t, almost as if it’s slipping in between two forms or caught between two places.

I stare in disbelief, trying to work out what’s wrong with the image I’m staring at.

And then I notice something else.

It’s not alone.

In the blurred corner of the screen, just barely visible, is another figure. Smaller, hunched, almost human, but not quite.

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin.

The lamp flickers again, and this time it doesn’t come back on.

I’m plunged into darkness, the storm outside the only source of light as lightning flashes against the windows. For a brief, blinding moment, the room is illuminated in stark, unnatural clarity, and I swear I see something outside.

A face.

Pale and pressed against the glass.

I stumble back with a cry, the heel of my foot catching on the edge of the rug. I hit the floor hard, my phone slipping from my hand and skittering across the wood.

The next flash of lightning shows nothing. Just the rain streaking down the window, the dunes shifting restlessly in the wind.

I push myself upright, crawling towards my phone as my pulse pounds in my ears. The rational part of me is screaming that I’m overreacting, that my mind is playing tricks on me. But the other part—the part that’s listening to the primal, ancient fear curling in my gut—knows better.

The growling sound comes again, louder now, closer.

I grab my phone, fingers fumbling as I pull up the voicemail. I hit play, my thumb trembling against the screen.

The static hums in my ears, but this time, there’s more than just the single word.

The voice, still low and guttural and distorted, speaks in broken syllables.

“Run… before it… takes you…”

My breath catches.

Before what takes me?

I don’t have time to dwell on the question because something slams into the side of the house. The entire structure shudders, and I scramble to my feet, backing away from the wall as my heart leaps into my throat.

The sound is different now. Not just growling but scratching, claws raking against wood. Claws trying to get inside.

I move without thinking, rushing into the kitchen to grab the largest knife I can find. My hand closes around the handle, the weight of it doing little to calm the panic surging through me. My heart hammers against the ribs that confine it, and my lungs burn as they struggle for air.

“Stay calm,” I whisper to myself, gripping the knife tighter. “It’s just an animal. A piece of tarp or something... or something.”

But even as I say it, I don’t believe it.

Another crash rattles the house, this time against the back door. I whirl around, holding the knife in front of me like a lifeline. The scratching intensifies, accompanied by a guttural snarl that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.