Shadow of Death: Book Two of the Chosen Chronicles

by Karen Dales

  “I must go,” announced Notus, sadly, as he turned to leave. “I’ve stayed far too long. The sun will rise shortly. I’ve arranged for Elizabeth to pick you up in a couple of hours.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. He too should be able to sense dawn’s approach but the absence was yet further proof he was no longer Chosen. Then the thought struck him - Elizabeth will expect him to go out into the sun. Mortal or no, he could not do that! He had not been able to go out during the day since he was a child beaten and left for dead by other children because they thought him Fay.

  “Notus. Wait!” he cried out, but it was too late. In a blink of an eye the Chosen was gone. The only evidence of his departure was the curtain swinging as if a breeze had blown through. Staring at the beige fabric he took a shuddering breath.

  This cannot be happening.

  Chapter XIX

  Rain slithered down the window, obscuring the steel grey that enveloped the view from the hospital window. Lightening flared a spectacular display that cut across the leaded clouds before the booming thunder rattled the window. He stood there, watching the show, his hands clutching his elbows in an effort to hold himself to the reality that presented. He wanted to run from what he witnessed. He should run. He would have fled had he been Chosen. Now he was able to stand here at the window, the sun well over the horizon, even though obscured by the thick clouds. Another flash of lightning cut off his vision of the sliver of city the window allowed for and he closed his eyes, waiting for the rumble that quickly followed.

  After Notus left, he had laid there in the hospital bed too stunned and too afraid to move. Almost every cell in his body protested the truth except those that proved his mortality. For the first time in over a millennium and a half his bladder screamed at him for release. Disgusted and ashamed, he had managed to rise unassisted from the bed and use the facilities in the water closet attached to the room.

  In private, he found clothing left for him in the crude armoire across the bed, and dressed. He did not know when Dr. Bowen would come to drive him back to the condo, but it was better than standing around in hospital garb that was far too small. Now he stood in black jeans and an ebony dress shirt, the top two buttons undone to show the white surgical tape that bound the gauze pad to the burn over his shoulder. His black leather coat still hung in the closet in expectation for the time of departure. The sound of someone entering his room turned him to face an Asian orderly carrying a breakfast tray. It was clear that the young man had not expected the patient to be out of bed, nor to be so strange in appearance.

  “I’ll just leave this here,” he murmured. He placed the tray on the rolling table, turned and fled.

  A frown furrowed his pale brow. Some things never change.

  The scents arising from the tray drew him over to inspect the contents. Lifting the cover revealed runny scrambled eggs, oily sausage and over cooked chunks of potato. Despite the disgusting appearance of the food his mouth watered in anticipation. Horrified by the mortal need for sustenance he dropped the lid to cover the sight. This was not the nourishment he should crave as his body cried out for the meal denied.

  “Hospital food has a reputation for being unpalatable for a good reason.”

  He spun around to see Dr. Bowen standing in the doorway. He whould have known she was there had he still been Chosen. The lack of preternatural senses unnerved him, knocking him off his centuries old balance.

  Dr. Bowen took the few steps into the room to stand before him. He was surprised to see her in blue denim trousers and a cream coloured sweater. The casual attire transformed her appearance to that of a younger woman. She looked up at him and for the first time he realized that she never balked at meeting his gaze.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, concern filling her ice blue eyes.

  The question cut to the heart. He knew what she was really asking but the truth made him turn away to walk to the closet to grab his coat and the small suitcase that Notus had brought over earlier.

  How was he feeling?

  His hand gripped the edge of the fake wood melamine as his stomach clenched and his head swam. He felt mortal and the loss of being Chosen cut him deeper than any blade had ever done. He needed Notus. He could not continue to live like this.

  A hand alighted on his back. “I’m sorry. You must be furious with me. If I hadn’t convinced you to trust me with your sword all of this wouldn’t have happened.”

  He closed his eyes and failed to keep the shudder from his sigh. Everything that had made him who he was had been stolen that night by monsters who probably did not fully comprehend the damage they had done. An icy fear crawled up from his belly, cancelling out the hunger and thirst that cried out for mortal fulfilment. Did the Vampires know his current state? He needed to see Notus.

  “Gwyn?”

  The hand left his back and she stood beside him, staring up at him, and he knew that the silence he had left was a poor answer.

  “I’m not angry,” he replied, lowering his hand and turning to face her. “It’s not your fault.” It’s mine.

  She frowned, peering into his eyes, searching for any lie in his words until he glanced away.

  “Come on. Let’s go. We’ll stop off at Timmy’s for breakfast,” smiled Dr. Bowen. Concern still etched the corners of her eyes. “Unless, of course, you want to stay and eat that?”

  He glanced back at the table and shook his head.

  Gingerly he slipped on his coat, feeling the burn tug with the movement, and grabbing his suitcase, he followed Dr. Bowen out of the room and into a hallway bustling with activity. Teeth clenched and head down so as to allow his long white hair to veil his features; he ignored the stares and surprised exclamations as he walked towards the elevators. He did not need the senses of the Chosen to hear the comments or feel their eyes land upon him. He was almost relieved when the elevator door opened, but the sight of the nearly packed car made him nauseous. If it were not for Dr. Bowen, he would have waited for the next car or, better yet, have taken the stairs. Instead she led him into the elevator cab, their bodies pressed against each other for the few moments it took to reach ground level.

  It was only when the doors opened and they exited that he realized he had forgotten to breathe and now found himself panting for breath.

  “The car’s this way.” Dr. Bowen led him to the right, past the café that served as a refuge from the hospital food served on the upper levels and towards the back of the building. The scents wafting from the café and the coffee stand gripped his stomach and made it rumble in anticipation. Ignoring the need for food, they passed the escalators and the Admissions office to stand before the revolving door.

  Outside the rain had tapered off, but lightning still flashed high above, occasionally washing the view in momentary brilliance. Even through the heavy clouds enough sunlight filtered down to sting his eyes. Fear wound tighter with the realization that he would have to step outside, during the day, for the first time since he was a child.

  “Are you okay?” asked Dr. Bowen, sensing his trepidation. “The car is in the garage across the street. If you’re worried about getting wet, I have an umbrella, or I can bring the car here.”

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  He patted his pockets until he felt a familiar bulge and pulled out the broken and slightly melted sunglasses. He stared at them and realized there was no way they would be of any use. Walking over to the trash can he threw them in with a sigh. They had been his only pair.

  Mustering his resolve he followed Dr. Bowen through the revolving door and under the shelter the building provided. Dr. Bowen paused long enough to open the umbrella that hung from her purse strap. The black nylon offered basic protection from the rain as she stepped off the curb to cross the street. With no other recourse he followed and she lifted the umbrella higher to accommodate his height.

  Eyes burning in the subdued sunlight, they began to tear and blur. When he raised his hand to wipe his eyes he felt a t
ingling along his skin as it reddened. The sensations vanished once under the protection of the garage. Flesh and eyes relieved, his trepidation increased as he sat in the front seat of Dr. Bowen’s car.

  Uncomfortable in the small sedan, he closed his eyes as she pulled out of the parking spot and drove to exit. The sound of rain hitting metal and glass mingling with the steady beat of the wipers told him that they were outside.

  He knew he should express his appreciation that she was taking him back to the condo when after a quick ride she pulled into a street parking spot next to the police station.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” said Dr. Bowen, shifting her position to face him. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Paul, but he’s asked me to take you in.”

  Confusion crashed down, making his head swim. It did not make sense as to why Notus would want him turned over to the police. He was about to say so when Dr. Bowen realized her mistake.

  “Oh, no! You’ve got it wrong!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Paul wants you to stay at my home and I agreed to the favour.”

  “Then why have you halted here?” he ventured, squinting out the window to the building beyond. Her explanation still did not alleviate his confusion. He should go back to the condo and to Notus.

  “Detective Donaldson needs your statement regarding the events three days ago,” she replied.

  He turned to face her, their eyes connecting briefly before he leaned back with a sigh. Three days unconscious. Notus had not told him that. He stared outside the windshield and the rivulets running down the glass. What could he possibly tell the police?

  “I told Detective Donaldson I would bring you over before taking you home.”

  He closed his eyes, digesting what she was requesting of him. The silence stretched, waiting for his response and before too long Dr. Bowen spoke up. “It wasn’t just your sword they stole,” she said quietly. “They robbed the guests, hurting some of them. Vee hasn’t been able to sleep without nightmares since the incident, though she would never let on as that being the cause of her sleeplessness. If what you tell the police can put these people behind bars and get your sword back, wouldn’t that be reason enough?”

  Her pain and worry struck him. She did not know how right she was in calling them evil, nor did she fully comprehend the truth of their vile nature. If he could get his sword back it would be worth it. He nodded and heard her relief.

  “I’ll do this thing you ask if you answer me one question,” he replied.

  “What is it?”

  He opened his eyes and gazed into hers, unable to keep the frown from his face. “Did Paul say why and how long he wanted me to stay with you?”

  Her hand came to rest on his and she shook her head, sending short brown hair swaying. “No, he didn’t. He just brought over your things, including a couple of cases. I hope you don’t mind, but I peeked.”

  Pulling his hand away, he ran his fingers through his hair to spill in a white veil across his shoulders. His hands twitched and his wrists throbbed. The fact that Notus had sent over his weapons disturbed him greatly. He did not know what the monk was thinking but the allusion was there – Notus was expecting him to stay at Dr. Bowen’s for an extended period of time.

  Agitated by the revelation, he opened the car door and stepped out into the easing downpour. The daylight immediately stung his eyes, and despite the cooling effects of the rain, he could feel his skin prickling with heat. Ignoring Dr. Bowen’s rush to follow, he quickly made his way to the front doors of the white box shaped building. Once inside, the burning sensation receded, leaving his flesh tender and his eyes sore. He hated to imagine what it would be like to go out on a sunny day.

  Water dripping to form small puddles by his feet, he walked with Dr. Bowen to the front desk and had to catch himself on the edge as the world suddenly tilted sideways and the knot in his stomach tightened nauseatingly. Dr. Bowen slipped him a worried glance before returning her attention to the officer managing the desk.

  “We’re here to see Detective Donaldson,” she announced.

  The officer did not hear her, his surprised Italian eyes were caught on the strange young man before him.

  “Excuse me, uh, Officer Giglio.” Dr. Bowen snapped her fingers, reading his name badge.

  The man blinked and turned his attention to her. “How can I help you?” he asked snidely.

  “We’re here to see Detective Donaldson,” reiterated Dr. Bowen, brushing her soggy hair from her eyes.

  Officer Giglio took a moment to consider the words of the tall sultry woman before him. A sly smile forming on his thin lips betrayed his thoughts and Dr. Bowen huffed in annoyance, plainly used to such treatment. Picking up the phone beside him, the officer punched a couple of buttons.

  “You’ve got guests,” he announced into the receiver, his eyes roving up and down Dr. Bowen before placing the receiver back onto the cradle.

  It did not take long for Detective Donaldson to approach her guests. The short woman clad in a dark grey pin-stripe business suit held out her dark brown hand. “Dr. Bowen. Thank you for coming.” She turned her attention to him, her fine black brows rising beneath long neat dreadlocks that were carefully styled.

  “I appreciate you taking time out of your busy day to come over,” said the detective indicating that they should follow her to the back of the building. He ignored the gawks and stares that the police and suspects threw his way. Never to be truly used to it, he was glad when Detective Donaldson opened a metal door and allowed them all to enter the small interrogation room.

  The lights were subdued against the plain grey of the walls. In the centre a table and three chairs awaited expectantly. Off to the right, the wall exhibited a large mirror that was obviously meant for one way viewing. He took it all in, failing to keep the frown from his face.

  “Please have a seat. I’ll be right back with the file and recording device.”

  Following her invitation, his hand twitched painfully as he attempted to pull out the heavy metal chair and then everything went black.

  Hands on his arms gently settled him in the seat as he focused on his breathing to push down the sudden vertigo. He had not felt this ill since flying over the Atlantic. Sweat dampened his skin and he grimaced.

  “Maybe we should do this another time,” he heard Detective Donaldson say in a far off voice.

  “No,” he croaked, his throat parched. He closed his eyes against the spinning room and hated himself for being so weak.

  “Are you sure?” Dr. Bowen’s whisper floated close by.

  He nodded his head and instantly regretted the motion. Placing his elbows on the table, he held his head in his hands, his long white hair draping the grey tones that crept into his pale face.

  A hand took his and placed something cool in it. Sweetness wafted to his nostrils.

  “Here, drink this,” offered Dr. Bowen.

  He did not want to bring the contents to his lips but he could not deny the cries of his body. Hand shaking, Dr. Bowen assisted him. Citrus and sweetness exploded across his palate. The taste was unlike anything else he had ever had, yet it still paled against the drink of choice that had kept him alive over the ages.

  “Small sips,” she murmured.

  He slowed his gulps and followed the suggestion when the coldness reached his belly. The sensation made him wince at the strangeness. When the contents were gone he lowered the paper cup and frowned at the orange dregs. Already the orange juice was working its magic. The shaking had subsided and the room no longer spun. All that remained was the fierce hunger he had kept at bay.

  “When was the last time you had anything to eat?” asked Dr. Bowen. She offered him a small opened packet of crackers.

  He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the innocent question. How could he tell her that he had not eaten food in over fifteen hundred years? Maybe the question should have been when was the last time he had anyone to eat, and even that was a vague memory. Taking t
he offered cracker he did something he had not done since before he was Chosen – he ate mortal food.

  The salty crunchiness exploded the saliva in his mouth and he quickly consumed the cracker, ignoring the question. Once all four crackers were gone and Detective Donaldson had been kind enough to procure him more orange juice, he felt physically better though the hunger cried out for something more substantial. He hated the feeling and attempted to push it down in an effort to ignore the truth of his new state of being. The desperate need of his body for mortal food shook him more than the lack of sustenance had done.

  “Better?” inquired the detective.

  He looked across the table at her pleasant dark features, slight concern pinching her large brown eyes, and he slowly nodded.

  “Then I’d like to ask you some questions about your involvement with the robbery at the ROM.” Detective Donaldson opened the manila folder and laid it on the desk before her, pressed record on the digital recorder and lifted her pen.

  Over the next hour and a half he was riddled with questions. Why was he in the exhibit? How did he come to own the stolen sword and did he have proof that it was his? Describe what happened. Describe the two thieves as best as possible. Question after question, each seeking out minutiae for any possible evidence until finally the last question – Why did he jump? Through it all he tried to concoct believable lies in an effort to conceal an unbelievable truth, all the while wishing Notus were here to weave the web of deceit with a Push here or there. Several times Detective Donaldson stumbled him over his half truths; her dark eyes penetrating him, making him feel that she knew he lied. He knew he was a horrible liar. It was when he started to hear only half her words, making her questions disjointed and her statements obtuse that he realized that the juice and crackers had lost their efficacy.

  Detective Donaldson was in the process of asking yet another question when Dr. Bowen cut her off. “Excuse me, but are you implying that he’s a suspect?”