The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1)

by K. T. Tomb

He stopped in mid-step, thinking he’d heard a noise from somewhere. He listened, but the sound did not repeat. The old house often made settling noises. This had sounded...different. He let it go.

  His spacious three-bedroom home was modestly decorated. He had custom-made mahogany bookshelves running the entire length of one wall, and most of another. His furniture was designed for easy access to his library of over ten thousand books; it was filled with mostly obscure historical works, with the occasional Crichton and Michener thrown in for lazy days.

  He thought his home was too cozy, with muted lamps and dark paneling. He loved coming home, but he also loved to be abroad. He could only stay cooped up for so long.

  Just a handful of women had been entertained here. They rarely came back, and he suspected it was because his heart just wasn’t into it. Few women intrigued him enough to pursue them.

  The home had cost a fortune, but he had inherited a lot of money from his grandfather and he made a good salary as a professor at Pepperdine University in Malibu, a school tolerant of his radical views toward history and religion.

  It was 12:30 a.m., and the woman hadn’t shown up again. He had half-expected her to make a grand appearance at the bar across the street from University of Long Beach. No such luck. He knew he should go to bed, because he was tired. That damn woman at the lecture had been determined to make a fool of him. He should have probably kept his mouth shut, but he’d noticed more and more of late that he was able to speak from his heart and he knew the reason why.

  The dreams were recurring more often, and had become more vivid. Something was happening to him, but he didn’t know what. In his kitchen, he poured himself a soda water. His stomach was upset, because of either too much drinking or too much thinking. He sipped from the glass, staring out his bay window. The ocean was black. The tide was in and the foaming whitecaps glowed in the moonlight. In the distance, he saw the gleaming lights of an oil rig. The sound of the crashing waves reached him clearly and distinctly through his partially open window. He stood there, listening to the soothing waves, feeling the faint ocean breeze mingled with the scent of brine. He imagined himself being carried off on a wave, letting the ocean swallow him whole as he drifted down. He would be at peace with himself; the dreams would be gone forever.

  He opened his eyes. His window was now wide open.

  He looked around the kitchen. There was nothing out of place, no indication that someone had entered his house, other than the noise earlier and the open window.

  He thought back to the noise and was sure it had come from his artist’s studio below. The studio also doubled as his workout room. It was heavily equipped with all types of martial arts weaponry.

  He set aside his glass carefully and removed his shoes. He walked across the bare wood floor in his dress socks, careful of the telltale squeaking boards he had not yet repaired.

  He didn’t grab a weapon, preferring to keep his hands free, which could be weapons enough if he had to use them.

  The studio loft was accessed by a wide stairway that led off from his living room. At the head of the stairs, he looked down. There was nothing to see. The stairs disappeared into darkness and there was clearly no light coming from below. His eyes were already well adjusted to the night, so he carefully stepped down, keeping away from the middle of the stairs and the many potential squeaks.

  * * *

  Jessima IL Eve was comfortable in the dark. After her many years on this earth, her eyes had grown accustomed to even the darkest rooms, or caves.

  She stood in the center of what appeared to be a combined martial arts studio and artist’s loft, covered with both deadly weapons and paintings of every shape and size. Try as she might, even she couldn’t make out the details of the paintings, although they appeared to depict vegetation or forests. She often wondered if her ability to see in the dark was a side effect of the healing oil. After all, it had given her so much already.

  After spending so much time on Earth, she often wondered if she had truly lived. She thought that there should be more to her life than the parameters that had been set for it, eons ago.

  As always, she tucked those feelings away. They were far too dangerous to ponder.

  Besides, she had yet to find something to live for, other than her chosen task.

  She had left the colloquium quickly. The time had not been right to meet Knight and she suspected he would look for her. It had become quite evident to her that he had been aware of her presence, although she had no idea how. Perhaps he was attracted to all women. She had always known she intrigued men, but then again, perhaps they thought she was a freak.

  Knight did not look like a man who thought that way. He looked like a man who was trying to remember and trying to recognize. As if he had known her, or known she was coming.

  Perhaps, she thought, as she tore herself away from a painting that seemed to show a burning sun over a forest, he has the second sight as well. Humans had it as well. There had been many such prophets who possessed it. He didn’t look like a prophet, but that didn’t matter.

  She thought, You are a curious man, Evan Knight.

  She had his address, of course. She had researched the man thoroughly and had followed him home the day before. The previous night, she had scouted out his house and had determined that he would leave an upper window open. Scaling great heights with her bare hands came naturally to her, as it did to all the Daughters.

  Fixing dead batteries didn’t. Apparently, her rental car was not all it was cracked up to be. She had walked until she found a store that carried the vehicle’s battery. She installed it herself, having long ago familiarized herself with automobiles, although she didn’t own one herself. The Daughters usually shared a collection of communal jeeps.

  She had gotten a late start and was unsure of when Knight would arrive home. She had been relieved to see that his beach house was still empty. She wanted to peruse it first, to get to know the man even better.

  As soon as she had scampered up the ocean-facing wall, she had heard his garage door rising. Sure enough, the window had been unlocked and it wasn’t until she had ducked down the flight of stairs and into the studio, stepping on a creaking floorboard that could have awakened the dead, that she realized she had left the window open.

  She knew that Daughters were never meant to be cat burglars. They were warriors.

  She waited in his artist’s studio, certain that she would be discovered, yet feeling a thrill of excitement. After all, this was why she was here. She had hoped to learn more of the man. The idea of searching his home for clues to his psyche had sent shivers of excitement through her. Maybe she did have the heart of a cat burglar.

  The noise from upstairs had ceased. She had heard him come in, plop his keys in a metallic bowl and head straight to the kitchen. The refrigerator door had opened and then silence. She checked her watch, and the glow of it seemingly lit up the entire studio, although that may have been her imagination. Mother Daughter always told her that she had too vivid an imagination.

  She closed her eyes and centered herself, finding the balance within and around herself. She could see the walls of the studio room in her mind, covered in both paintings and weaponry. She pushed out further from the room and up the flight of stairs. Expanding her consciousness was a trick taught to the Daughters at a young age, before any of them drank of the healing oil. Before their aging was placed on eternal hold.

  Now, in her mind, she could see feet descending the stairs. Just the socks. She looked up, and saw the man. Evan Knight. He was weaponless, but alert. Calm and breathing normally, but ready for a fight.

  She would give him a fight.

  After all, it wouldn’t hurt to test the mettle of the man who was destined to save the world.

  She turned and gripped the handle of a straight single-edged sword, adrenalin rushing through her veins, and the taste of battle filling her. She pulled up her black hood, masking her hair and face.

  Prepare yourself, Doct
or.

  * * *

  He heard a noise. The whisper of metal.

  Well, that was to be expected. You didn’t get trapped in a room full of weapons without using one in your defense.

  He slid his hand along the teak wall for balance. His stocking feet stepped lightly along the far edge of the stairs.

  Be ready for anything, he thought.

  He wasn’t worried about a possible gun, because otherwise, the burglar wouldn’t have needed the sword.

  As he had been taught in his countless martial arts classes, he knew he should prepare for the unexpected. He could almost feel a presence in his studio. A presence that seemed to be waiting for him.

  Expect the unexpected.

  The wide stairway opened up to his studio. There was no door. The stairway simply deposited him into the lower room. His foot reached for the second to last step. He paused.

  He heard breathing and something else. Not footsteps. Something was coming at him.

  He reached around the corner and flipped on the light switch. A pale yellow light filled the large room, highlighting his extensive collection of Eastern and Western weapons, not to mention his amateur artwork depicting his dream visions of Eden. Flying through the air, finishing with a back flip, was a lean black-robed figure. One of his own swords was in the figure’s hands.

  Knight dropped backward, flat against the stairs. The edge of the sword sunk deep into the beam of the arched doorway. His assailant flew by overhead and up the stairs, leaving the sword where it was. Knight assumed his attacker was going to make a break for it. He pushed himself up and forward, but was surprised as hell to see the figure diving back down the stairs toward him.

  This time, he had no choice but to defend himself. The full weight of the attacker’s body landed on him, but Knight was rarely one to be caught off-balance. As he landed, he used their momentum to throw the black-robed figure well away from his body.

  The figure shrieked in frustration. It was a much higher-pitched shriek than he would have anticipated. In one swift motion, the figure rolled once and was on its feet, hands raised in the guarded position. The hood stayed in place. Thanks to the fact that the lights were dimmed, he had no clue as to his attacker’s gender. He sensed they were about the same height, although Knight was broader. Still a lanky and formidable opponent.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  There was no response, nor did he really expect one. They circled each other in the center of his studio, about ten feet apart, moving slowly. Both were weaponless. He stepped past his current, unfinished painting, which depicted an arched stone bridge that crossed over water and into paradise. It was based on a recent dream of his, one which was particularly vivid.

  The intruder made no sound, not even the whisper of feet on his hardwood floor. The prowler was wearing an unusual form-fitting shoe, which appeared and disappeared with each sideways step beneath the hem of the robe. Like a true fighter, his opponent never left the guarded position. The hands were loose and partially raised, ready to defend or attack. The attacker’s feet never crossed, thus staying perfectly balanced.

  Knight knew he was up against a professional fighter.

  Well, he was no slouch. If it was a fight this assailant wanted, then it was a fight he would deliver. This was, after all his home. He would defend it with all the formidable skills he had acquired over his life.

  “Fine,” he said. “Have it your way.”

  He removed his old suit jacket and tossed it in a far corner. He advanced confidently, with short steps. Now, they were both within striking range. His fists were raised, head lowered, while looking out from under his eyebrows. He liked quick jabs. A quick jab done right could instantly break a nose.

  He tested the waters, lashing out with his left hand. The movement was cobra quick. In one smooth motion, he got off a punch, turning his fist slightly to the inside, while protecting his face as he jabbed. As in all fighting techniques, most offensive moves opened oneself up to a retaliatory strike. Turning his wrist enabled Knight to use his own striking arm to guard his face. It was a movement that now came completely naturally to him, after years of practice, and he was often quick enough to land on even the best sparring partners.

  He hit air, missing completely. His opponent stepped back smoothly, with no counterattack. The hood stayed in place, face in shadows. He felt as if he were fighting the grim reaper.

  He tried another jab, the punch blurring out and back.

  Another miss.

  They circled. His adversary had been there one moment and gone the next, as if reading his mind. He had no explanation. The easiest way to tell a jab was coming was by a slight flexing in the shoulder. No flexing was noticeable. He was at a loss. Usually a jab would hit something, anything. A shoulder or an arm, at least.

  Don’t get reckless, he told himself.

  The Reaper, as he thought of his opponent, continued to circle, perfectly willing to allow him to look stupid. Well, it was time for something bigger. Time to push this. Time to end this.

  He jabbed again, snapping out and in, knowing perfectly well he was probably going to miss, which he did. He then tried a combination punch. As soon as his left returned to guard his face, he lashed out with his right hand. It was a perfectly executed combination, but one which netted him nothing.

  The Reaper slipped the jab like a true pro and bobbed and weaved under his hard right, eluding him like Ali in his prime.

  The Reaper never lost his balance or his nerve. He was never shaken.

  Hell, Knight was even a little impressed.

  Knight was not without his own tricks. His movement was explosive. He dropped to the ground and swept his right leg. The Reaper jumped easily, avoiding the leg, but Knight had brought his left leg up, which had followed the right. It was a tricky move which was designed to catch even the most elusive opponent off-guard and that’s what it did.

  He caught the intruder hard in the chin. Knight flipped over onto his stomach, swinging his right leg back and completely toppling the person in black, who landed on a shoulder. Before Knight could put himself in a position to continue the attack, the intruder rolled twice to the left and arched easily to quick and sure feet.

  The hood never moved. As Knight was wondering how the hell it managed to stay in place, the intruder had apparently had enough. In a flurry of fists and feet, Knight was under a severe attack. He stepped back, deftly avoiding the barrage. He used his arm to block the powerful blows. He was backed up to the opposite side of the studio and up against one of his larger paintings that depicted a panoramic view of paradise. He ducked, just as a fist went through it completely.

  Although his paintings were not for sale, they were designed really to create a lasting impression of his dreams to be studied later; they still took considerable time and they deserved at least a little respect. He was not especially gifted as an artist, but he wasn’t that bad.

  He looked at the hole in his artwork. “Now, I’m pissed!”

  * * *

  The man was surprisingly skilled. He had developed considerable fighting skills for his mere thirty-plus years. Unfortunately for him, she’d had centuries to hone her skills. Not to mention she was certain that the healing oil had given her an uncanny ability to portend one’s opponent’s moves. It was uncanny and certainly unfair for Knight, but he seemed to be doing just fine avoiding her as well.

  She removed her fist from his painting and for a brief second, allowed herself to really see it. What she saw made her gasp.

  It was the Garden. A bird’s eye view of it. It was as if this male had somehow piloted a small aircraft over it, or flew over in a hot air balloon. The rendition of it was a little sloppy, but the scene was obvious. Rising through the canopy, like a nuclear mushroom cloud, was the tree—

  The force of his kick, which landed squarely on her right hip, sent her reeling sideways across the studio. She skittered across the polished workout floor like a crab out of control. The blow had been
powerful and well-placed. Although not designed to be lethal, it was meant to get her attention and it had.

  Had she not been perfectly fit and not been the lethal fighting machine she was born to be, she would have been down for the count.

  Yes, that’s all I am, she thought scornfully, as she picked herself up quickly. I am not woman. Not human. I am a Guardian. I will be to the ends of the earth, or the end of my days, whichever comes first.

  She saw how dangerous this male could be and she was impressed. She saw now the look in his eye. He had calm fury. Seeing the painting had been a shock, of course. She should have known better than to let her guard down and it would have cost her her life if he had wanted to fatally wound her. The kick had been designed to show his power, his skill, and even his mercy.

  I am an intruder in his home, she thought. I attacked him and yet he shows me enough mercy to keep me alive.

  Then again, he could be just toying with her, but she doubted it. He did not seem to take any particular pleasure from the pain he inflicted.

  She wasn’t done with him yet. The man had landed a lucky blow in her moment of weakness, her moment of shock. He would not be so lucky the next time. Plus, she was still not convinced that Evan Knight was the chosen one. How could she believe in him, how could she put her faith in this man, if she did not respect him?

  She turned and reached up on the wall behind her. She was familiar with the scythe-like weapons. Japanese Kamas were designed to be held in each hand and used with skill. Luckily, she knew how to use them with skill.

  She turned to him and held each Kama by the handle. She did not bother to demonstrate her skill with common male posturing. She simply raised them and held them ready for battle. He would know her skill soon enough.

  * * *

  After he had landed one of his better kicks, his opponent had gasped. A very clear gasp that cut through the strange solitude of their fighting.

  It had sounded like a woman’s gasp.