by Karen Dales
My Dearest Gwyn,
I am so terribly sorry that we must part, but our lives are now divided by what we are. Know that though I cannot be in your life as you learn to walk a mortal path you will never want for money. Your cards are your own and will continue to be so, even down to your future generations, which I pray will be many.
May the Blessing of God be with you always,
Father Paul Notus.
Neatly folding the note back into quarters, he carefully placed it back into his wallet. Numb from shock, he exited the condo with the certainty that he would never see Notus again.
The wind whipped the ends of his hair to smack against his back. Normally he would tuck his long hair into his coat before climbing onto his motorcycle but this time he did not care. It was better to be reminded of his past physical torture than to feel the ache in his heart and the desolation of his spirit. Still he rode on, the racing bike constantly bucking for greater speed which forced him to concentrate more on the manipulation of the machine. It would be exhilarating if not for the undercurrent of speculation of what would happen if he gave the bike full throttle.
He did not know where he was going and nor did he care. It was the feel of the machine beneath his body and the flickering lights sparsely illuminating retreating landscapes that kept the solid ball in his chest from exploding. Therefore a sliver of surprise wiggled to dull the numbness of his heart when he found that he was almost back at Dr. Bowen’s home. He did not know how long he had ridden but as he drove up to her house he was met with darkness. Shutting down the Y2K, he walked it up the drive and kicked the stand to allow the motorcycle to stand on its own beside Dr. Bowen’s Honda.
Removing the helmet, he gazed at the house he had believed he would not see again. The time bomb in his chest lurched and he grasped at the leather seat in an effort to diffuse the sudden emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Willing away the tears that threatened to overflow, he released his grip and took a deep shuddering breath.
The house appeared foreboding as did the lack of colours the streetlight tossed everything into. The absence of colour and texture forced him to turn away. He could not enter this place. This was not his home. His home had always been with Notus and now the man who had always been more than a father to him for generations had turned his back on him, casting him out.
The knot in his chest expanded and he gasped. Try as he may he could not squash the bubbling emotions as the solid reality hit home with a devastating blow.
Notus had abandoned him!
The monk had turned his back, calling him an accident!
His legs failed to keep him upright and he slumped to the pavement as a light rain began to fall, slicking the tarmac and mingling with his tears.
Everything was gone.
Even the sense of who he was was gone. Notus had told him so.
No longer Chosen, he was no longer the Angel.
Jeanie was taken from him. Despite the years that pain remained as a dull ache. Now Notus had refused him and left him because he was mortal.
Sobs tore through him. He did not ask for this. Had he known that chasing the Vampire onto the roof would have resulted in his current state he would have gladly given that bastard his sword. Did not Notus realize, after all these years that to him, being Chosen was a blessing and not a curse? Had the monk never seen it?
The cold rain fell heavier as he wept.
Slumped on the driveway, he could not feel the chill seeping into his mortal flesh nor the rivulets running down his neck to soak his chest, shoulders and back.
Everything was lost.
Without a thought he sat cross legged, elbows propped on his thighs and hung his head in the palms of his hands. Despite the veil of his hair his tears mingled with the rain. This time he did not have any friends, no father figure, no one.
He wept until all that was left was a hollow where the ball had been in his chest. Lifting his face to the falling rain he closed his eyes as the water washed away his tears. Breathing in a deep sigh he felt the emptiness burn through him. There was no chance to become Chosen again. Even if he flew back to Europe, without Notus’ protection, his life, mortal or not, would be forfeit. No Chosen would Choose him knowing that his differences would instantly target that individual, and him, for Destruction. It was only his usefulness as the Angel that kept him alive. Now that too was gone he had no doubt that someone, someone like Hugo, would take the opportunity to kill him. Then again being mortal and having knowledge of the Chosen was a death sentence. Of course he could go to England, but he doubted Fernando and Bridget could do anything more to protect him. As Master and Mistress of the Chosen of Britain they had pushed the limits with their acceptance of his differences. It would not be so this time.
The unbidden thought of staying in North America nearly made him laugh. That would surely be a death sentence. There was no doubt that the Vampires knew the Angel was in their midst and it was just a matter of time before one or more found him and exacted their revenge. He doubted that a quick death would be afforded to him. Then again they did not know that he was now mortal so it might be a quick death.
It was amazing how being mortal brought the inevitable thoughts of his own demise.
Lowering his head back into his hands, the tears all washed away, the wet chill made him shudder. He was back to where he was before his run in with the monk all those centuries ago. This time his sword was taken away.
His sword.
Geraint’s sword.
The idea that it was now in the hands of Vampires twisted his guts. He knew the police were working to return his possession but he doubted they would be successful. They did not know what they were dealing with.
A sudden overwhelming need to feel the weight of the blade and to touch the ancient metal filled him, making him gasp. The sword, carefully cared for and used with reverence and respect held the last remains of his previous existence. The cloak clasp had finally succumbed to the ravages of time, having broken and fallen in a battlefield during the Great War. Now all he desired was to hold what had been given to him that connected him to a past where he was loved and cared for. New tears threatened to spill so he closed his eyes. He would have his sword back, the rest did not matter, not even his life, he told the gaping hole in his heart.
Chapter XXII
It was not a sound that woke Elizabeth, though the pattering of rain on the roof made her feel cozy under her comforter. It was a sensation of unease, as if something was terribly wrong, that nibbled at her subconscious and made staying in bed uncomfortable. Turning over she glanced at the red glowing numbers on her alarm clock and frowned. A quarter to three in the morning glared back at her. Lying onto her back, Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to settle back into sleep but to no avail. The uneasiness filled her until she threw back the covers with a groan. Something felt wrong and she had to find out what it was.
Slipping on her indigo terrycloth robe over her nude form, Elizabeth went to her window that overlooked the front yard. From her viewpoint she could see the back end of her car and beside it, the distinctive tail of a motorcycle. Her frown deepened.
Exiting the master bedroom Elizabeth carefully navigated the dark hallway past the circular opening in the centre of the second floor that housed the stairs to the first floor. Hand running on the railing that protected one from falling below; she paused at Vee’s slightly ajar door. Opening it enough to peek in, she was relieved to find Vee asleep in her daybed, a menagerie of stuffed animals and wall posters keeping watch. Carefully closing the door, Elizabeth continued past one of the landings that were stacked full bookshelves, past another spare bedroom, and came to stand before the guestroom. The soft glow from the nightlight in the large bathroom that ran perpendicular to the guestroom was enough to show that no occupant was within.
She stepped away from the empty room, following her growing unease down the dark stairs. Alighting from the hardwood stairs to stand in the foyer, the conjoined living and
dining rooms to her right and the front entrance in front of her, it was clear to Elizabeth that no one untoward was in her home. Instead of heading back up the stairs to climb back into bed, she frowned as her intuition beckoned her to the front door. It was still unlocked. Her frown deepened as she opened the dark oaken door and shivered as a blast of cold damp air flowed over and around her. Even in the dark she could see the rain easing to a fine mist, yet from her position she could not get a full view of the driveway. Damning herself for not donning her slippers, Elizabeth stepped out onto the concrete veranda, a shock of cold stinging her feet.
The cool breeze caressed her legs, evoking gooseflesh, and she pulled the robe tighter in an effort to keep the gentle wind from stealing precious heat. A few more steps, two down concrete stairs, dampened her feet and moistened her body. She knew she was an idiot to come out here in the middle of the night but she never dismissed her intuition, no matter the form it came in.
Past the garage wall she halted, blinking incredulously at the sight before her. There, on the ground beside the motorcycle, her houseguest sat, drenched through, oblivious to her presence. She took a step towards his hunched form and spoke his name. She did not need to see his eyes as he glared up at her, his misery arrested her until he lowered his head, shoulders slumping further. There was no doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that things with Paul had not gone as the young man had hoped. At times like these she hated her intuition.
Taking the steps towards him, Elizabeth crouched down, running her hand through damp brown locks. “Come on, let’s get you inside where it’s warm and dry.”
She placed her hand on his arm and he looked up at her with a nod. Rising to his full height, he shrugged off her assistance as she too stood. Dishevelled white hair partially obscured his morose features as she gazed up at him.
“Why didn’t you come inside?” asked Elizabeth, trying to catch his eyes with hers. “The door was unlocked.”
Fine white brows furrowed until a darker expression took over his young face. Elizabeth’s gut plummeted and for the life of her could not fathom his reaction until realization hit. He must think I knew from the start that Paul wouldn’t have him back, she thought. “I left the door open in case you needed to come back to get your belongings.” The half truth came easily. She did not want to add to his misery.
His eyes fastened onto hers for a brief moment. “Then you weren’t expecting me?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.
She shook her head, afraid to be caught in a lie. “Let’s go inside.” She took his chilled hand in hers. “We’ll catch our deaths if we stay out here any longer.”
Turning back towards the house she knew he followed. What disturbed her was hearing him mumble, “Would that be so.”
Lying on her back, staring up at the plaster ceiling above her bed, Elizabeth failed to recover a lost night of sleep, the night’s events running over in her mind in a continuous loop. There was something intriguing about the tall pale young man and it was not just his incredible good looks. When he left her home earlier that evening there was something of the man she had gotten used to before his accident.
Before he was quiet – though that did not change – there was a solid inner strength she had never before seen in someone so young coupled with an emotional detachment bordering on coldness. Elizabeth had only seen the like when her ex-husband’s brother came back from an extended tour of duty in the Middle East. Since her guest’s accident Elizabeth had witnessed a gamut of emotions from the man, and none of them ever evoked a smile, only a frown. The tip of the iceberg was seeing him on the ground before his motorcycle. There had been no question that he had been crying. That evidence alone shook her and pulled on her heartstrings.
A deep sigh escaped her as she rolled onto her side, away from the glowing red numbers. She did not need to be reminded that morning was soon approaching, yet maybe that would be better than having her mind stuck on her guest. She could not deny that she found him attractive and nor could she turn a blind eye to the fact that he was much younger than she. His current emotionality had only enhanced her attraction.
Annoyed at her insomnia Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbow, grabbed her pillow with her free hand and punched the down filled case until it was an imaginary shape that would clear her mind and allow her to sleep. Flopping back down, she realized that she was irritated. No, more than that, she was angry at Paul for throwing the boy out, especially in a foreign country. If only she knew what was going on between the two of them then maybe she could do something to help.
Groaning at her stupidity, she rubbed her long fingers across her face. Meddling always turned bad for the meddler. No, she would not get in the middle but she had to do something to help. Whatever had gone on between the two of them she would not deal with, but having Gwyn as her house guest and in obvious distress, Elizabeth knew she could, at least, try and help him. After all, it was her fault that his sword was stolen.
Decision made, and resigning herself that sleep had completely eluded her, Elizabeth flung off her bedcovers and slipped back into the robe. This time she put on her fuzzy purple bunny slippers before exiting the room. Tea and paperwork would make a nice early breakfast as she padded towards the staircase.
Poised to assay the steps Elizabeth halted at the sound of a groan of pain coming from the guestroom. Mouth twisting in self-rebuke, Elizabeth shook her head and damned herself for a soft hearted fool. Quietly she walked to the guestroom, her slippers shushing over the broadloom, to find the door open. Fleeting moonlight cast short lived shadows across the room, mingling dark and light to give birth to silvers that illuminated before dying, only to be reborn in a midnight cycle of creation and destruction.
An exclamation followed by a whimper drew Elizabeth into the room, her heart hammering in her ears. There was no doubt in her mind that her guest was in the throes of a nasty nightmare. Intent to wake him from whatever gripped him, Elizabeth, shocked, stopped still, her hand flying to cover her opened mouth.
In the fleeting moonlight, snaking up and down his back in a tangled mass of silver, thick scars ran riot leaving no flesh untouched, his long white hair splayed against the bands. A shift of shadow turned her attention to his right arm that curled around his head, his face turned away and buried in the pillow. A rope of a scar slid from his shoulder to disappear into the crook of his elbow, marring the strong supple musculature and giving rise to a multitude of silver lines across his pale forearm. Elizabeth’s gorge rose at the sight of the wide banded scar encircling his wrist and the raised white blossom in the center of the band. There was absolutely no doubt that he had been viciously tortured.
Swallowing the bile that threatened to overflow, Elizabeth’s heart ached as tears threatened to spill. She could not imagine how anyone could do this to another being. A wisp of a thought entered her mind and she shook it away. No. She knew Paul well enough by now to know that he would never raise a hand to another. Working side by side for hours at a time and for several weeks could not hide the true measure of a man, yet doubt still lingered. Oh, the pain he must have endured, and probably at such a young age from the sight of the scars. Tears trickled down her face. It explained so much, and yet, created so many more questions.
A shuddering breath and a whimper made her jump. The nightmare was still upon him. Without a second thought she placed her hand on his cool shoulder and gave a shake. She had to save him from more pain. It was enough. With a gasp, he rolled over onto his back, eyes wide before freezing over as the dream left his vision and recognition seeped in.
Desiring to dispel the anger tightening his pale features, Elizabeth blurted, “You were having a nightmare.”
The tension leaked out of him and he lowered his eyes. “You saw.”
It was not so much of an accusation, rather a statement of fact. Elizabeth nodded. Glancing at the covers, she noticed they came to his midriff and for the second time she witnessed the scar on his breast, this time matched with the healing r
ed of the lightning burn on his left shoulder. His every line was softly sculpted, long and lean. Her mind screamed at her that he was more of an age with her daughter and yet she could not deny the attraction she felt towards the young man. When her eyes found his face again, dejection turned his eyes away as he sat up, the comforter pooling in his lap. Sweeping the stray locks from his face, Elizabeth noticed his left forearm and wrist bore similar silver disfigurements as his right.
“May I sit?” she asked, her voice but a whisper to her ears.
He gestured with an open hand but did not meet her eyes. Accepting the invitation, Elizabeth sunk down on the mattress, keenly aware that he did not move when her hip rested against his covered leg.
“What do you want, Dr. Bowen?” he asked, sounding very tired.
“Elizabeth,” she implored with a sigh. “I’ve asked you many times to call me Elizabeth. Why won’t you?” It had always bothered her that he would not use her given name, she just did not realize how much.
Abashed, he met her gaze before lowering his eyes. There was enough of a wash of moonlight to catch his eyes, momentarily bringing out their crimson. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he sighed. “It’s easier.”
“Easier? How?” Not understanding, Elizabeth shook her head. Then it dawned on her as brilliant as the new moonbeam that illuminated his egregious scars. “You rarely use anyone’s name. You do it to keep yourself apart from everyone so you cannot be hurt again,” she blurted without thinking.
