by Karen Dales
The sensation widened his eyes and deepened his disbelief. It was not possible!
The second paramedical mumbled an “excuse me” as he took the boy’s other hand, a long needle connected to an I.V. bag. It dawned on Notus a fraction too late what the medic’s intention was. His order for the man to stop came too late.
The needle pierced into the back of the boy’s pale hand, the bracers having been removed and laid on the ground. Three pairs of eyes grew in horror as black tendrils serpentined through the vein viper fast, branching up into the vessels. Notus could not believe what he witnessed. Never before had the boy had such a sudden onset from even a small piece of iron. He watched the toxic spider weave a disjointed web, sending the boy into convulsions.
Having dealt with these attacks early on in the boy’s healing from the Vampire’s tortures, Notus threw himself over the boy in an attempt to still him before he could do damage.
“Take it out!” he cried.
The medics scurried to follow protocol. One brought out a syringe filled with a clear chemical.
His declaration ignored, Notus angrily yelled, “He’s having a reaction to the iron. Take out the I.V.!”
“It’s surgical steel,” snapped the one with the syringe. “He can’t react to it.”
Gritting his teeth, Notus Pushed, “Take the I.V. out now!”
Dropping the syringe, the medic grabbed his patient’s arm and took out the two inch needle. Within a few moments the black tendrils broke apart and began to fade, taking the paroxysms with it. Carefully, Notus sat up, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, listening to the boy’s ragged breath.
Everything was wrong. The boy should have woken up by now. Instead he lay on the concrete, his white hair splayed in soggy ropes around his pale face. What was most disconcerting was that Notus felt nothing, absolutely nothing, from the boy. No pain. No emotion. No thought. The implications drove him to his feet at the same moment the boy was lifted onto the gurney.
They should not be taking him to the hospital. He should stop them and take the boy home for his eventual quick recovery. Against all reason, Notus allowed the paramedics to take his son.
A hand alighted on his arm and he turned to peer up into Elizabeth’s worried blue eyes. “They’ll let you ride with him,” she said softly. “I’m finished speaking to the police, for now. We’ll follow.”
Numb, Notus could only nod. He followed the paramedics to the ambulance, its lights flashing blue and white. Somewhere in the back of his mind he noticed it had stopped raining.
Chapter XIV
The stark white hall lined with the occasional occupied gurney and sporadic plastic moulded chairs echoed voices that called out in pain or in stern directives from medical personnel. Underlying the cries were the shushed voices from those across the hall, hidden by drapes concealing patients under care in bed sized cubicles and the machines that monitored them. In a blue plastic chair Notus sat, elbows on his knees, resting his chin in his hands, fingers covering his mouth and nose. To any passers-by he appeared the concerned family member. Little did they know how right and how wrong they were.
Notus watched a gurney, carrying a motor vehicle accident victim, wheel past. Blood splattered across the young girl’s damaged face and chest. Cuts oozed their precious liquid, staining the sheets and blankets that failed to keep her shocked body warm. Frantic emergency crews ran along, their expert hands already at work. It had been a very long time since Notus had been around such a strong scent of fresh blood. He also realized, too late, that he had not fed as efficiently as he had thought. Trying not to inhale too deeply, the monk watched the unconscious girl be whisked down the hall. Her sporadic and failing heartbeat called to him to follow. Releasing a shuddering breath, Notus closed his eyes in prayer both for the young woman and for the boy who lay in the bed curtained off across the hall.
It should not be like this. Everything was going wrong. He witnessed the shocked expressions on the nurses’ faces; one so shaken that tears fell from her eyes. He knew what upset them and had the boy been awake he would have been ashamed into anger. Notus tried to ignore the scents of blood, pain and fear. What he could not ignore was the evidence placed before him, no matter how unbelievable it seemed.
A hand alighted on his shoulder and he glanced up at Elizabeth and Vee. Taking the cup of coffee she offered, Notus sat back. Her presence was strangely comforting.
“Any word?” she asked, sitting in the vacant seat beside him.
Vee slid down the wall to sit on the floor beside her mother, her knees bent to act as a table for her cup of steaming liquid. Her gaze fell onto a spot in the middle of the floor, a sad frown on her face. It was clear to Notus that the girl was well versed with waiting in hospitals. He also noticed that they had taken the time to clean up their faces, but they were far from perfect.
Notus shook his head; his brown and silver hair fell into his eyes only to be brushed back by hand.
Elizabeth accepted the news with a nod and sipped her coffee.
The three of them sat there in silent concern. It was when Notus watched a doctor and nurse enter into the draped cubical the boy lay in that the monk sat up in expectation. Several more minutes slowly ticked by until the doctor left the boy, the nurse closing the drapes behind them and pointed towards the monk. The doctor nodded and walked across the hall. The nurse walked down the hall to enter into another curtained off cubical.
“Mr. Nathaniel?”
Notus placed the untouched coffee on the floor and stood up to greet the man, slipping his hand into doctor’s dark hand.
“I’m Dr. Thompson,” he introduced. His voice held the hint of the Islands in it, as did his dark skin and nearly black eyes. “Your son has a concussion, some bruises and a burn on his right shoulder. He is a very lucky young man to have survived not only a lightning strike, but a fall from the roof of a building. From what I was told, he slid most of the way off of the side of the ROM’s Crystal.”
“Will he be released soon?” asked Notus
Dr. Thompson shook his head. “He hasn’t awakened yet. We’re going to keep him under observation until he does.”
Notus frowned at the news and sat down. He could Push the doctor to release the boy, but at what cost? If he was wrong about what he suspected – and by God he wished it so – then he could reconstruct the doctor’s memories if necessary. The other aspects, such as the medical records would be trickier to deal with, but placing Dr. Thompson under control would help ensure the records’ destruction.
Dr. Thompson glanced at the two women beside his patient’s father. “Mr. Nathaniel, may I have a word in private with you?”
The question surprised the monk and he nodded. He had a feeling what was coming. Turning to Elizabeth he did not need to say a word. With a pat on his knee, she stood. “I think it’s time for me to take Vee home. Please let me know how things go.”
Notus nodded and watched Elizabeth and her daughter walk down the hall. When they were far enough away, he motioned for Dr. Thompson to take the vacant seat. “What is it, doctor?”
Dr. Thompson frowned, trying to find the right words. “I’ve been a doctor for over twenty years and I’ve never met a patient like your son.”
“He is unique.” A sad smile lifted Notus lips and was rewarded with a nod.
“We managed to get an I.V. line into him. It was difficult. I’ve never seen anyone who had such a reaction to surgical steel before. I’d like to run some tests, with your permission, of course.”
The request was not what the monk expected. It was out of the question and he told the doctor, reinforcing it with the Push.
“The other issue I’d like to ask, and if you do not wish to discuss it, I’ll respect that,” stumbled Dr. Thompson, his eyes lowering.
Ah, here we come to it, thought Notus.
“It was a shock to see such scars on him.” Dr. Thomson shook his head, obviously disturbed by what he witnessed on the boy. He did not need to verbalize
what was clearly written on his face.
Notus sighed and hoped what he had to say would be accepted as truth. “The boy is unique, Dr. Thompson, and for some people that gives them license to believe they have ownership to do what they will because of those differences.”
Brown eyes widened in understanding. “But those scars – it is clear what someone did to him.”
Notus sadly nodded, remembering the boy’s slow recovery. “One hundred and fifty, even two hundred years ago, on this continent, your people were treated similarly just because of the colour of their skin. Differences are differences. For many that is enough to dehumanize another.”
Dr. Thompson sighed shakily, clearly disturbed. “He must have been young.”
“Younger, yes,” nodded the monk, sadly.
A couple of orderlies walked up to the cubicle and pulled the drapes back, exposing the boy’s unconscious form on the bed. A tube provided oxygen to his nose, electrodes monitoring his heart connected to the machine behind him and an I.V. was hanging on the opposite side. The scar on his chest paled in comparison to the ones that covered his arms, especially the right. The sight of the boy in such a state yanked at the monk’s heart.
“We’re moving him to a private room,” mentioned the doctor. “It’s better for all concerned. You have a couple of minutes before they take him up.”
Notus stood and watched the doctor stand and walk away, presumably to his next patient, before crossing the hall to stand by the boy’s bedside. Placing a hand on the boy’s upper arm, he frowned at the warmth and leaned in so that his forehead pressed against the side of his son’s. The intoxicating blood scent arising from the boy tightened his gut.
Please answer me, he called, closing his eyes against the tears that threatened to spill. He doubted that he would ever hear his boy’s thoughts again. Pulling back, he ran his fingers through his son’s long white locks, noting the dampness. He did not know whether to be elated for his son or to be devastated for him. All Notus knew was that a hole was rendered in his heart at the impossible truth – his boy was now mortal.
Chapter XV
Rose held the sword across both hands as she waited for Brian to input the code that would open the back door to The Veil and the steep stairwell that led to their Dominus. Brian’s coterie – five Vampires of various ages – animatedly talked behind her, victory filling their elation. She heard the Angel’s Chooser’s name mentioned a couple of times and how it would have been so easy to finally kill him had they not left when they did. Rose frowned and gazed at the sword.
It was familiar to her, but she could not place it. The photo in the newspaper article Corbie had shown her paled in comparison to the gleaming steel lying on her hands. What was even more disconcerting was that the Angel had been in the exhibit when they stole the sword. If it had not been for that mortal girl there was no doubt in Rose’s mind that she and Brian would be dead.
Flickers of memory caused her to frown. She had tried not to glance at the Angel as she worked to free the sword from its case, but her eyes kept alighting upon his predatory features. Each time she had to yank her gaze away lest she become ensnared by his pale beauty. Terry was as beautiful as an angel but what had stood in front of Brian as she shattered the case was an angel. A knot had wound itself around her belly at the sight of him, tugging her to remember something she knew was important.
“Let’s go,” ordered Brian, taking her by the arm.
Reverie broken, Rose looked up at Brian. He was always stoic, as if emotions never played a part of who he was. Deciding that it was not worth the fight, right now, she followed Brian and his coterie down the dark steps, through the candlelit parlour and its gruesome artwork, to halt in Corbie’s white office.
Corbie sat in his usual place behind his desk, his hair dishevelled. His dark attention did not move to his new guests, but stayed fixated upon the man standing in the centre of the room. All of the anger permeating through the office came from Corbie. The stranger appeared annoyed, but otherwise undisturbed.
Brian quickly walked over to take up his guardian pose next to his master, eliciting a raised brown brow from the guest. Corbie glanced up at his second and Brian ordered his coterie out of the room.
“Not you, Rose,” snapped Corbie as she turned to leave.
Turning back to face her Dominus, Rose swallowed. Taking the steps further into the office, she gently placed the Angel’s sword onto the desk. “I did what you asked.”
Corbie nodded satisfactorily, sparing a glance at the sword.
The dark haired man in the charcoal business suit scowled as he walked over to examine the sword. Rose backed away from him. She had never seen the man before, but his presence filled the room, even to the point of making Corbie appear small. Rose thought it better than to venture her master’s permission to turn Terry.
The stranger picked up the sword, turning it this way and that, before placing it back on the desk with an expletive. “I’m saying this one last time, Corvus Valerius Tertius. Leave him alone.”
Roses’ eyes widened at the revelation of Corbie’s true name. Glancing at Brian, it was clear by his frown that he knew; causing Rose to wonder what was their real relationship.
Both had retained their mortal birth names. That in itself was enough evidence of their age. Vampires, upon their birth, were now bestowed new names, their Dominus or Mistresses Domina ensuring the break from the past was complete. It also allowed for that Dominus or Domina complete control over the development of the new Vampire, moulding him or her without reflections of the past life imposing upon the new. Many new Vampires’ memories tended to be a mystery and their original names were a key to them. Rose knew her name was not the one bestowed upon her by mortal parents. It was a gift given by Corbie and she treasured it. Whoever she had been as a mortal was left behind in the shredded coffin at the bottom of a filled in grave half a world away.
“It’s too late for that,” snapped Corbie, leaning his elbows on the desk so as to hunch over them.
“It is never too late,” replied the stranger. Weariness slouched his slim shoulders. “You need not walk the path Bastia set upon all those centuries ago, Corvus. You can choose another way.”
“You sound like one of them,” spat Rose’s Dominus. His shoulders shook in contained rage.
The stranger released a sigh and shook his head, ignoring the threatening pose of the Vampire. “You are playing with fire. Bastia did the same and now she is ashes in the wind.”
Corbie bristled at the mention of his Domina’s demise. “That fate will not befall me. I have…insurances.”
The stranger turned to face Rose, a scowl on his handsome face. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties. In the suit he could easily pass for older, Rose noted. His nearly black hair was gelled back from a broad face. Large dark eyes rimmed with long lashes were striking, taking away from a nose that was a shade too large for his face. A full generous mouth made Rose wonder what it would feel like to have them on her neck as he fed off of her.
The thought was jarring and she took a step back from the man who measured her own height.
“Insurances,” repeated the stranger, his eyes locking onto hers but clearly his words were for Corbie. “It’s often better to provide a reason not to require insurance.” He turned to face Corbie once more. “You play a dangerous game, Corvus. Do not make it necessary for me to intervene. The Angel is mine. Leave him alone.”
Without waiting for a reply from Corbie, the stranger turned and strode past Rose. In that brief moment of passing, his eyes caught hers, sending a shiver of guilt down her back. She did not know why he would look at her in that manner, but as soon as he was through the exit and the door closed her anger surged to replace the unwanted emotion.
“Who was that?” she snapped. Striding over to place her hands on the desk, she glared at Corbie.
He matched her anger with a sardonic smile. “That, my dear little flower, was Thanatos.”
Chapte
r XVI
Notus’ hand lingered over the light switch before allowing his arm to fall. The darkness was preferable to the light of truth. Stepping into the confines of the condo, he closed the door, locking it with a click. Every movement was slow, methodical, as if he had to think to make his body move. That was not the case. The monk walked in a stupor, allowing his body to navigate mundanity on its own as he tried to process the impossible.
A red blinking light caught his attention and he shuffled to the answering machine that sat on the black leather sofa’s glass end table. The boy had insisted on getting one. It was supposedly easier than the ones that local telephone service providers offered. The boy had shown him countless times but his finger hesitated, unsure of which button to press, before pressing the black playback button.
Fernando’s gruff tones filled the room. “God damn it! Pick up … I need to speak with you – now! …Fine. Call me as soon as you get this.” A click was followed by a beep, plunging the room into deafening silence.
Picking up the receiver, Notus dialled the number from rote. He knew to whom Fernando wished to speak. Instead the boy lay in a private hospital room hooked up to monitors and tubes.
“Hello?” said the feminine voice on the other end.
Notus inhaled sharply, wondering at the intelligence of calling the Master and Mistress of the British Chosen. He was about to hang up when he heard Bridget call his name. He lifted the reliever back to his ear.
“Paul? What happened? What’s wrong?” Worry brought out her slight French accent, combining with her South London accent.
Shutting his eyes in pain, he could not speak the words. To do so would shed more than a million suns upon a truth too difficult to bear. He heard a muffled argument on the other end and the phone was passed.
