Shadowhunter (Nephilim Quest Book 1)

by Leena Maria

  She walked out of the room, working on the long row of tiny buttons on her bodice.

  "Are you sure you can do this?" Mrs. Olanda asked the Weaver.

  "I think so. We are experienced Weavers and have been teaching students in Mireille's classes. We will not let her go anywhere, we'll simply do a test to find out if she has the threads in her. Oh, and I am Paris, by the way," the Weaver smiled and nodded to me.

  "Dana, " I answered in kind, "pleased to meet you!"

  "Likewise," Paris returned the compliment. She looked like someone who had just woken up from a dream.

  She was a few years older than me, my height, and a little rounder in shape. She had long auburn hair and grey eyes, and the beginnings of laugh lines around her eyes. I liked her instinctively.

  "Have you any idea how time weaving works?" she asked.

  "No, this was the first time I have seen it done," I admitted.

  The other Weaver reappeared in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, which made her look rather hilarious – her hair was still combed into an elaborate Victorian hairstyle.

  "Anna, " she extended her hand and I shook it. "Welcome to the center."

  "Dana, nice to meet you."

  With the introductions done they wasted no time. Anna gave me a little embroidered velvet bag. It looked old.

  "What's this?" I asked.

  "It was my anchor on this journey, " Anna replied. "An anchor is an object from the time the Weaver is trying to reach. It helps you weave your way into the right time. Once you have reached it, you need to adjust your position so that you get out of the zone into the right date. That's another matter, which will be taught to you later, should you be a Weaver yourself. This particular bag was embroidered by a nun at the very nunnery we visited, and more importantly, it was made around the time we needed to visit it – before the nunnery burned down. The nuns earned extra income for themselves doing this kind of needlework. Took us a few months of second hand shopping to find the genuine thing, but it took us nicely right to the doorstep of the nunnery. No need for any extra physical travel."

  I looked at the bag closer. It had a design of beautiful cross-stitched red roses and leaves, their colors slightly faded.

  "What should I do with this?" I asked.

  "Sit still, close your eyes, and listen to the bag. Not with your ears, but with your mind. That should be enough. Tell us the impressions you get."

  Though listening to an object sounded an odd thing to do, I took the bag and sat on a free chair. Diana pulled up another chair for herself and sat next to me. I closed my eyes.

  At first I only felt the material of the bag, and began to feel a bit silly. I did not have any clairvoyant qualities, it seemed. I opened my mouth to say I didn't "get" anything out of the bag, and the next second it all changed.

  I fell. It felt as though I was falling inside myself in a tight spin that made me nauseous. Colors exploded all about me, bright, pure colors. They wafted like smoke around me, but then I saw them condense into strings. I grabbed the string that was the most solid. It was a grey one, pure, bluish grey. I must have used my physical hands, because I felt the string tug at my skin. The other colors swirled around my wrists, but gently. Only this grey string was very tight. I heard what sounded like a whip cracking, and the next thing I knew I flew. Instinctively I squeezed my eyes shut.

  "Grab her!" I heard someone yell and opened my eyes.

  To my surprise I was not in the room anymore, but surrounded by grey mist much like the mist from which Kitty had appeared last night. I was alone. My sole companion was the grey string that was shining pure silver now. It flowed from my fingers and disappeared into the mist at the height of my hands.

  I must have ended up in the buffer zone somehow. I had no idea where I was. I was still holding the rose-embroidered purse tightly in my hands, which were covered in grey mist. I lifted my hand closer to my eyes, and it looked like the mist was seeping through my skin, swirling around the purse, and from there solidifying into a string. An insane sight.

  I turned around. Nothing physical anywhere. Only mist that was solid enough to walk on. No gate, no nothing.

  I fought fear. If I had no idea where I was, and if there was no gate anywhere near, I could be lost here forever. If I found my way out, I would be in some strange place and time.

  "Kitty!" My voice sounded odd, there was no echo. Well, there wouldn't be, not in the mist.

  No answer. Kitty was probably in other, higher spheres. I knew I had to be on the lowest level of the buffer zone. The same level where the Immortals and shadows moved. I realized it might be wiser not to try yelling for help again.

  Thankfully I had never been the panicking kind. When I met an obstacle, my mind started churning out possible solutions as it always had.

  I considered the options and did the only thing that made sense. The string leaving my hands was taut, and it was clearly connected to something on its other end. That something had to be physical. So I started walking in the nothingness towards the direction the grey string was leading.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  41. Mr. Donnelly Has a Close Encounter

  The sketchbook was not quite as well preserved as it had appeared at first. It had clearly travelled a long way - and for a long time - and now Mr. Donnelly understood its worn look, if the book had come through centuries into his hands. Pages were torn, some of them had had some liquid on them - perhaps wine? This had erased much of the writing. It seemed Merit had used a pencil at first, and then some kind of ink that had not survived the moisture that had fallen on the pages. He could see some of the sketches, though. There were people, buildings. Women and babies. The last pages of the sketch book were beyond reading.

  But there were a few intriquing passages left to be translated after Mr. Donnelly turned the book around. Mr. Donnelly noticed she had numbered the days from the very beginning of the book - probably in an effort to keep up with time's passing. At date 305 she wrote:

  "All is well now. I got fever and they feared I might die, but I survived, much to their surprise. They took care of me and..."

  Mr. Donnelly let out a sigh of relief. She had survived a fever. Hopefully it was not malaria.

  Then many pages were missing. Day 425 told:

  "Elijah, I stumbled across an incredible mystery... Those who kept an eye on us... disappeared... They were doomed to..."

  Frustrating gaps in the text again. Who kept an eye on whom? Their parents? Not likely. Surely these were lovers.

  "Who disappeared? Who was doomed and why?" Mr. Donnelly said out aloud.

  "Doomed? What do you mean?" a sweet voice said from the doorway.

  Only because he had been used to the Masters appearing and disappearing out of thin air, did Mr. Donnelly manage to keep his calm. He pulled a paper he had been scribbling on over the sketch book and turned another leaf of one of the Egyptological books, then sighed, and stood up rubbing the bridge of his nose, slipping his Moleskine inconspicuously into his pocket.

  "My lady," he bowed, "I do apologize for my appearance. If I had known you were coming to visit me, I would have put on decent clothing and provided you with some refreshments."

  The blonde woman in the doorway smiled a beautiful, chilling smile that did not reach her golden eyes. How different her smile had been when he had first met her in front of Westminster Abbey in 1887. She had been so sweet and fragile, and managed to lure him into a life of imprisonment in this timeless place. If only he had known... But no, he had fallen into their trap, hers and whom he had believed to be his brother - he had believed their story and trusted their promises a wonderful life as an esteemed and respected scholar. There was no mention of shadows, monstrous creatures and a threat to his own life if he did not deliver what was expected of him.

  "You talked about someone being doomed. Perhaps you would clarify?"

  "Ah yes, I was wondering why the subjects of our study were doomed," Mr. Donnelly no longer surprised himself by lying so
fluently - the years had taught him to keep his emotions in check to such an extent he almost believed himself when he was lying to the Masters. "What it was that was so dangerous in what they knew that they had to be doomed for all eternity."

  "Indeed," the woman observed him with those yellow eyes like a snake observing its prey, "and that is why you were hired. We expect to see results soon."

  Mr. Donnelly bowed, his tongue suddenly dry.

  "What is that book about? Ancient Egypt?" a slight nod towards Mr.Donnelly's desk.

  "Yes indeed, my lady," Mr. Donnelly kept bowing like a cork bobbing about on water, "I expect the Egyptian legends might hide some clue. After all they are amongst the oldest in human history."

  The answer seemed to satisfy her.

  "Quite so. Do let us know what you find."

  She spoke sweetly, but Mr. Donnelly recognized the veiled threat.

  "Of course, my lady."

  She left and Mr. Donnelly's knees gave way. With a shaking hand he wiped the sweat off his brow.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  42. The Nunnery

  At first I moved like a child, or a young animal learning to walk – erect, exaggeratedly raising my foot high above the ground and then stomping it down carefully. I wasn't at all sure the surface I was walking on wouldn't give way and disappear from under my feet. I had been for a walk in fog before, but then I had had solid ground under me. Now there was only grey... something that resembled mist. It gave way slightly beneath my feet, and fear punched me in the stomach when my brain interpreted it as the ground caving in and told me that I would fall.

  The stomp made a definite sound, though, so I decided the surface was solid enough. Also I did not want to draw unwanted attention to myself, so I continued to walk as quietly as possible. I took off my shoes, and shoved them into my jacket pockets. Without them I could move almost soundlessly. The surface under my feet was not warm or cold.

  It all felt like an odd dream, and yet the surroundings were strangely familiar. But then again – if this was the zone where we ended up when we dreamed, it made sense that the place felt familiar. I just wondered why I did not lose consciousness, which I had been told happened to people who got into the buffer zone unexpectedly.

  What had happened to my hands was the thing I found hard to accept. My hands had always been ordinary, flesh and blood hands, and now suddenly they were capable of creating some kind of a misty substance that appeared from under my skin, and could actually form a solid string... That felt unreal to me. It should not have been possible. No - it was physically impossible. My mind was having a hard time accepting what my eyes were seeing.

  Still I could not explain the whole thing away as a dream, I was definitely awake.

  After a while I got used to the fog despite the unpleasant sensations of my feet sinking into the mist while walking, and of being almost blind – no solid forms to concentrate on, only the string. I kept my hands in front of me as though I was sleepwalking, but realized soon enough that there was no need for it. Even if I kept my hands to my sides, the string was as solid as ever.

  I remembered how Paris had moved her fingers, weaving the different colored strings together. I stopped and raised my hands in front of my eyes again, and did just that. Much to my surprise new, different colored strings flew out of my fingers. I felt like Spiderman – only these strings moved elegantly and slowly and did not shoot forward with lightning-speed. They did move, yes, but so slowly that my eyes could easily follow them.

  These new strings followed the direction of the first, silver-grey one. They too disappeared into the mist, and then suddenly one of them, a green one, tightened. It yanked me forward and I had a feeling I was moving faster now – it was kind of hard to tell how fast exactly, as there was no physical object to compare my speed to. It was the impression of the fog against my face that told me I was moving faster – it felt almost like a breeze now.

  Then, very fast, all the other strings got attached to something too, and every time one of them got tighter, my speed increased. Soon I could not walk anymore, but had to run – the strings were pulling me forward. My steps became longer and longer, and then the strings simply lifted me up and I flew.

  I moved my fingers some more, and the strings braided together and the speed kept on increasing. I felt the shoe in one of my pockets fall away.

  It was a curious feeling, wondering if I should be panicking or not, but finally deciding it was of no use. The strings were taking me somewhere, and somewhere was better than standing in the middle of nowhere. And once I learned to relax, this whole flying business felt like fun. The strings tugging at my hands and fingers did not hurt. It was more like someone was shaking hands with me and drawing me somewhere at the same time. Even the fog seemed to clear a bit, and a silvery glow surrounded me.

  The stop came abruptly. The strings ceased tugging me and unbraided themselves and the different colors turned from solid to misty and wrapped around my hands again. Only the silver-gray one remained.

  I realised I could see something in front of me. Cautiously I followed the string and little by little the forms in the fog grew more solid, and a small room appeared in front of me. The closer I walked, the more solid it became. When I stepped into it, the fog snapped away in an instant, and I stood inside the room in a very physical and real environment. When I turned around, I found that I was now in an enclosed room; the mist was nowhere to be seen.

  Now the question was – where was I? And when was I?

  There was a small window, and of course I went to look through it first. I saw a pretty landscape – rolling hills, some trees. The building I was in was made of grey stone. It had a high garden wall around it, and there were small buildings both inside the walled area, and outside at a distance. I saw hens in the yard, and two cows in a paddock. The sun was already well past midday, twilight was descending.

  Inside the room there was only austere looking furniture without any decorations. A bed with a coarse blanket and a pillow. A small cupboard, and a tiny table, where a worn Bible was the only object. A crucifix on the wall, and an oil lamp. No carpet on the wooden floor.

  I was in a monastery. Or a nunnery. Was it the same one where the Time Walkers had come from? It could be – even though I did not know about the laws of the buffer zone, the fact that I still held the little bag with rose embroidery that had led them to their nunnery probably meant I had come to the same place. After all, Anna had said it was her anchor to this time.

  This was likely the Victorian era, then. But which country? What language did they speak here? I didn't recall the team mentioning exactly where the nunnery was located. My eyes fell on the Bible and I opened it to see the title page. 1855 was written there. And probably I was in England.

  There was no mirror in the room, but I knew I would look very odd in my modern clothes – jeans, T-shirt and a college hoodie. Not to mention the fact I only had one shoe left.

  I opened the cupboard door – and there was a nun's outfit, neatly folded on a shelf. Desperate measures, I told myself and dressed myself in the grey outfit, listening for any approaching footsteps. There were no shoes, but there was a type of coarse, knitted socks. I put them on as well. I had no headdress, but I supposed my short hair would remind other nuns, should I meet them, of their own shorn hair. I would have to come up with some explanation about my missing headgear, if someone asked. Thankfully I had not put on any makeup while in my own time – for the obvious reason I had none with me at the Centre. It would have been difficult to explain makeup on a novice's face in a 19th Century nunnery...

  I opened the door to the room ever so slightly, just enough to see to the corridor behind it.

  No one there. I hesitated for a while, having no idea whether I should stay in the room or leave. Then I figured that if I was in the same nunnery as the Time Walker group I had seen, I might as well go and see the library. Now the question remaining was – where was it?

  I could see two stai
rways from where I was standing. One stairway looked bigger, and was situated in the middle of the corridor, probably leading down to some sort of lobby. The other, narrower stairs looked like something servants might use – the stairway was situated by the wall. I decided to go that way. I ran quickly to the stairs and listened. I heard distant singing.

  Of course - the nuns must be at some service, which explained the empty corridors. As far as I knew the monasteries and nunneries had services at odd hours round the clock.

  I tiptoed down the stairs, which was not easy - it was a typical narrow Victorian servants' staircase you had to descend almost sideways, because the steps were so narrow. I peeked round the corner. Another corridor, but this time there were bigger, more official looking doors. And one doorway nearby was open. I could see bookshelves.

  Feeling lucky, I ran to the door. Just as I was about to enter, I heard whispering voices. My woolen socks were so slippery on the well-worn floor I could not stop when I wanted to but slid right into the middle of the doorway.

  Two men were standing in the library. The fact that there were men in a nunnery would have been suspicious enough, but the fact their clothing was from my own age really alarmed me. They had not seen me yet, but as they were looking around, searching for something, they would probably see me in a matter of seconds.

  There was a bucket by the door, with a rag hanging from its side. Thankfully it did not reach the water in the bucket and seemed to be dry. I bent down and opened the rag – it was a big one, and not too dirty. I tied it quickly round my head, proper cleaning-woman-style. Then I realized the black embroidered evening bag would look rather odd in the hands of a novice – which I had to be, considering my age. I quickly turned the insides of the bag out, and found the lining was of grey cloth. If I squeezed it tightly, it would go for a rag.

  The very same moment the other one of the men turned around and saw me, I had turned sideways to them and took a step past the doorway, carrying the bucket in one hand and the "rag" in the other. I kept on walking back to the stairs I had come from, and heard slight movement from behind me. It took all my courage not to run, but I continued walking with even steps, my eyes downcast, and went back up the stairs. I heard quiet whispering, but no one came after me. My camouflage had worked.