Watcher: Book I of The Chosen

by Roh Morgon

  “You are deep in thought, my dear, and look rather uncomfortable. Is there anything wrong?” Concern colors his voice.

  “Uh, no. Well, maybe.” I take a deep breath. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Please, feel free. You have shared much about yourself, and I have shared very little.”

  “Well, to use your words, how did you come to be this way?” I look at him half expectantly, half afraid, worried that this might be too personal a question.

  He stares intensely at me for a moment, then takes a deep breath.

  “Ah . . . well, that is a rather long story, so I will attempt to keep it brief.” His normal light tone becomes serious. I start to regret asking.

  “I was born Rusa Nicolao, or, as you would say, Nicolao Rusa, in what was then Hungary—Magyarország, as we call it. My mother was in the service of a local lord when the new king, Matthias Corvinus, stayed at the manor for several days. He was quite young, seventeen, and she was a pretty young girl of sixteen. I was born the requisite nine months later. That was in 1461.” He takes a sip of his tea.

  In 1461? That makes him nearly five hundred and fifty years old! As I do the mental math, I look up and realize he’s looking at me with his amused smile.

  “Yes, I have lived for over half a millennium. Do not be too disturbed. I felt a similar sense of disbelief when you told me you had been in this life a mere five years.” He raises his eyebrows, light dancing in his deep green eyes. Then his expression grows somber once again, and Nicolas continues.

  “I was twenty-seven when a former associate of the king came to visit. I was working in the stables at the time as an apprentice to the horsemaster. I heard that the visitor was asking about my mother, who had died when I was but three years old.” Nicolas stands and begins slowly pacing the library as he speaks.

  “He learned of me, and came to the stables late one night while I was tending an injured horse. The animal started to spook, and I turned to see a man standing at the stall entrance. He just stood there looking at me, and then said, ‘I can definitely see him in you. It is remarkable that you have escaped notice all these years.’

  “I knew to whom he was referring, as I had heard the whispers growing up that I was a king’s bastard. But as far as I was concerned, they were just rumors and of no interest to me.

  “My horse continued to shy, and with good reason, as my visitor emanated evil in its purest form. I tried to calm the beast, and when I turned back to the doorway, it was empty.

  “The next day the horsemaster, who had been like a father to me, told me that my services now belonged to someone else and to pack my things. I was shocked, as it had been a given that I would follow in his footsteps and eventually assume his position.” Nicolas takes a deep breath, and the look in his dark emerald eyes is far away.

  “I packed my meager belongings, and waited, for what I did not know. Finally, a little after nightfall, a coach pulled up to the stable. The door opened and I was told to get in. My visitor from the evening before was inside, veiled by the darkness, and regretfully, I complied.” He stops and slowly shakes his head, then continues.

  “Little did I know that was to be my last evening in my human life. We traveled hard and fast all night, but I recall being more concerned about the poor horses than I was for myself.

  “We arrived near dawn at a run-down castle somewhere in the outer reaches of Wallachia. He got out and told me to follow him. He led me inside to a room with a bed and a small table, bid me good night, and closed and locked the door.

  “So you see, I understand about rooms with no windows and locks on the door.” His quick smile is bleak, and I feel a wave of sympathy for the young innocent man he had been.

  “I had no way to mark time, but I imagine it was the next night when he came to me. I have no wish to go into details, but some weeks later I finally emerged from that room, no longer human.”

  Nicolas goes silent, and stays very still for several moments as he leans against the mantel and stares into the fire, seemingly lost in his memories. His story resonates with me—I can sense the loneliness and despair he felt, even five hundred years ago, as it mirrors my own.

  “I have not told this story to anyone in a very long time, so please bear with me.” He looks up at me with a vulnerability that he has so far kept hidden.

  I rise to stand next to him, then wrap my arms around his waist and just hold him. He turns to hold me, and I grieve for the lives and families we both had stolen from us.

  At length, he loosens his arms and gently shifts back. Looking down at me, his eyes crimson, he touches my face and steps away.

  “I promised to remain a gentleman tonight, though it is with great regret.” He smiles and tilts his head, his breathing faster than before.

  As is mine.

  “Come, let me show you my garden.” He reaches out and I take his hand.

  We walk down the steps and across the drive to an opening in the low hedge that borders the lawn. He introduces me to each living statue, calling them by name and giving me their real-life histories. Many of them are horses, bearing names like Bucephalus, the horse of Alexander the Great, or Man O’ War, the famous racehorse, his image captured in a full racing stride. Mythical horses are represented as well—a prancing unicorn, and Pegasus, his wings stretching six feet to either side. Cheiron the Centaur, half-man and half-horse, stands firing an arrow at the Minotaur, half-man and half-bull.

  Even in the waning moon, the life-sized figures stand out in sharp relief, every detail carefully sculpted in leaf and vine. They tremble and whisper in response to a gentle breeze.

  “These are unbelievable. Your gardener is amazing.” I shake my head in wonder.

  Nicolas laughs.

  “Thank you. I accept your compliment.”

  “Did you do these? This is your work?” I try to imagine him out here, clippers and shears in hand, and fail.

  “You pass your time with insignificant humans. I care for my various collections.” He smiles, a mischievous look in his eyes.

  I laugh, then shake my head again. I’ve never been in any one place long enough to build a collection of anything.

  “So, what happened after you were . . . changed. How did you end up here?” I feel braver asking him questions now, hoping his earlier willingness to answer remains.

  “Ah, well, I do not wish to dwell on the ensuing unpleasantness. But suffice it to say, my Maker had delusions of placing me on the throne as the son of the king, and under his complete control. However, he had not taken into account the rabid thirst that descends upon the newly changed, nor their other limitations, as I was evidently his first.

  “And apparently his memories of his own early years were dim, as the bloodletting he now engaged in was little different from his human life. When he realized I would not be able to maintain a human façade long enough to make usurping the throne possible, he tried to kill me.” His eyes hold a distant fire.

  “I managed to escape. I can only surmise that he did not understand the relationship between Maker and newly made, or I would be truly dead.

  “And five hundred years later, here I am, holding this unusual conversation with someone who hasn’t been on this earth fifty.” He smiles down at me teasingly, and kisses the top of my head.

  I mull over his story, the next question forming in my head.

  “So, what about being chosen and having a choice, like you said the other night?”

  I’m a bit stunned to realize it was only three nights ago. Strange, it seems like a lifetime.

  “My Maker was eventually eliminated. It was determined at that time that the process, including selection, needed to have more stringent controls to safeguard against unwanted exposure.

  “But come, enough of this talk. I have other things I would like to show you.” He smiles down at me, and taking me gently by the arm, leads me back to the house.

  We walk into the foyer and Nicolas opens the door to a room opposite tha
t of the library. It’s a music room, full of classical instruments. He ushers me in and I stop in the center and slowly take in the instruments lining the walls. Most of them are stringed, though I do see a few exotic flutelike instruments that must be from other times and cultures.

  “Do you play?” Eyebrows raised, he gestures around the room.

  “No. No, I don’t. I . . . never had the opportunity to learn.” My lack of culture embarrasses me once again.

  “Well, then, I must teach you. But not tonight. Tonight I will play for you. Please, sit.” Nicolas waves toward a sofa against the wall. He walks over to the other end of the room, opens a glass cabinet, and takes out a violin and a bow.

  “This was made for me by Stradivari in the early 1700s. It is my favorite instrument.”

  He then puts the violin up to his chin, and the most beautiful sounds I have ever heard slip softly from its strings. I sit entranced, all thoughts gone from my head as his music slowly surrounds and embraces me.

  His eyes are closed, his carefully controlled face for once relaxed and serene, and he seems as lost in the song as me. The soft notes eventually fade away to a whisper, and he stops. His eyes open, and they hold a gentle fire as he looks at me.

  Neither one of us speaks as he crosses the room and replaces the violin in the cabinet. When he returns, he reaches out to take my hand.

  “Come,” he says.

  We leave the music room and head up the stairs. My body feels like it’s vibrating, like the strings of the violin, and I walk carefully as my control begins to slip. We get to the top of the stairs and walk down a short hallway to a closed door. Nicolas turns to me and, like his music, embraces and holds me for a long moment. He then leans back, brushing the hair from my face, and gives me a gentle kiss, his lips burning like a cold fire against mine. I start to crush myself against him and his breath catches. He pulls away and eases me back.

  “I promised, and that is not something I do lightly.” His eyes are deep, smoky green, and hold a hint of their fiery red.

  Nicolas steps back and opens the door. The bedroom is luxurious, complete with its own bathroom, sitting area, dressing table, and a bed piled high in fluffy white, like the snow on my mountain. He motions me inside, but as I walk in, he stops at the doorframe.

  “It is near dawn. I had Marie prepare the room and you should find everything you need. Tomorrow I have a surprise for you. I look forward to seeing you when you arise.” His voice is warm, but strained. His eyes fix on mine a moment, his expression unreadable.

  “Good night,” he says, tipping his head, and he closes the door. His footsteps fade away.

  And I’m left staring at the closed bedroom door.

  No.

  Keeping his promise to remain a gentleman may be a sign of his honor, but at the moment I wish he were not so honorable. He’s awakened emotions and feelings within me I thought were long dead. All I can see are those green eyes staring down into my soul, and for once the hunger in my body is not for blood.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. I’ve been so immersed in him I hadn’t even realized the sun would soon be creeping over the horizon and drowning me to sleep. The helpless lethargy begins to tug at me, and I peek out the window to see the pale eastern sky and the tip of that glowing orb.

  My arms get heavier and slower as I struggle out of my clothes. My knees weaken and I barely make it to the bed in time. I crawl beneath the mountain of silky-lined softness, and snuggle into the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. Nicolas floats through my mind, and I fight to keep him there as I’m pulled down into a pool of darkness.

  április 12., csütörtök

  I am free to exist another day. I could not help myself—I kissed her before I was barely through her door, and felt her give to me, ever so slightly, like a young filly accepting her first touch.

  When I kissed her again in the shadow of her mountain, there was no resistance at all.

  She left her job tonight and I am quite pleased. She is far too superior to be wasting her time with marha. She did catch me by surprise, however. I thought she might actually tear apart that filthy waitress for touching me.

  When she agreed to accompany me home, I felt such a profound sense of relief and hope that I nearly wept. I do not know what spell this is that she has cast over me, but I cannot bear the thought of us being apart.

  She has awakened something deep within my soul, something I had long forgotten. I see it reflected in her eyes, and I want to be for her what it is she sees.

  I can only hope to keep the other part of me hidden, the part that has ruled my life these many years. I can tell that she senses it, and I must be vigilant and resolute in my efforts to prevent its escape.

  I was quite unprepared for her questions regarding my origins. Her childlike curiosity, bearing no trace of covert purpose, completely disarmed me, and I found myself spilling the tale of my Change to her as though she was my confessor.

  But there is nothing childlike in the passion I can sense running beneath her skin.

  This evening, when I kissed her again in spite of my vow to remain a gentleman, there was a willingness in her response that very nearly pushed me over the edge.

  She is asleep in the guest room now. It is taking everything I have not to go in there.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER 21

  I wake to a light footfall outside the door, followed by a quiet knock.

  “Mademoiselle? Are you awake?” Marie softly asks.

  How odd. I haven’t been woken by anyone since . . .

  Blinking, I answer, “Yes, I’m awake.”

  “Mr. Ambrus is waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Okay. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.”

  I stretch, delighting in the soft cocoon of the down mattress and comforter, and the whispering caress of the silk sheets. This is something I could get used to.

  I have no idea what time it is and regret not asking Marie. Coming out of the bathroom after a quick shower, I find a pale blue cashmere turtleneck, a light blue jacket, and black wool slacks laid out on the bed, which has been neatly made. Wow—she’s good. Quickly dressing, I comb out my hair, then open the door and head downstairs.

  Nicolas is standing in the foyer, watching me as I come down. He smiles warmly and says, “Good morning, Sunshine. You look quite lovely. How did you sleep?”

  “Very well. That’s a wonderful bed.”

  “Consider it yours. Come, let me look at you this morning.” Nicolas takes my hand as I step onto the floor, his pale green eyes searching mine. He brushes my brow with his thumb and his forehead creases momentarily, and now all I want to do is look in the mirror.

  “Do you need anything?” His tone and pensive expression are puzzling. But then I get it. It’s been four nights since I hunted, and the blue in my eyes is probably darker than he’s seen.

  I suppress a smile and shake my head.

  “No, but who do I thank for the loan of the clothing?”

  “They are yours. I asked Marie to run into the city this morning. She selected your outfit. She has excellent taste.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you.” His thoughtfulness surprises me yet again.

  “Are you ready for your surprise?” he asks, almost smirking.

  “I . . . guess . . .”

  “Good. It will require a bit of a drive, if you do not mind.” His smirk grows even more mysterious.

  “No, I don’t. I’m ready.” His buoyant mood lifts mine even higher.

  “Marie?” He looks back over his shoulder.

  Marie approaches carrying a pale blue wide-brimmed hat, light blue gloves, and sunglasses. She offers them to me. “Mademoiselle?”

  “Thank you.” I give a sidelong smile to Nicolas. His mouth quirks and he nods in return. I put on the hat and gloves, and he reaches out to tug the hat a little more securely in place.

  “And Marie?” I look over at her standing by the door. “T
hank you for your shopping expertise. Everything is beautiful and fits perfectly.”

  “You are welcome, mademoiselle,” she says demurely.

  “Shall we?” asks Nicolas. I nod and he leads me out the front door, Marie closing it behind us.

  There’s a black Mercedes limousine parked in front of my car. I look at Nicolas questioningly and he waves his hand toward it. The stocky dark-haired man I’d seen last night is standing next to the rear door, and opens it as we approach. I get in, unsure of which seat to take, and Nicolas indicates the one facing backward. He climbs in, takes the rear seat across from me, and the driver shuts the door.

  “Can I ask where we’re going?”

  Nicolas laughs. “You may ask, but I am not answering. I told you, it is a surprise.”

  I frown, and watch out the windows as we head down the driveway and through the streets. We pass a variety of luxury homes, a golf course, and a large resort hotel with signs proclaiming it as The Broadmoor, then get on the freeway heading north. Nicolas points out various landmarks and explains their history, and once again I’m entranced by my tour guide. Signs in the opposite lane recede into the distance, indicating exits for the Air Force Academy and Black Forest, which sounds intriguing. After about an hour, we pass through communities on the outskirts of Denver and soon catch another freeway heading west.

  Nicolas continues to fill me in on Colorado history, and I listen with rapt attention. I realize his stories are not necessarily from books, but from his own experiences. It must be amazing to have lived through so many historical periods. I can’t really fathom it.

  After heading west for an hour or so, we get off the freeway onto a smaller, winding highway. I watch miles of snow-covered scenery pass by, then notice Nicolas watching me.