Whoa, I thought. So this is what Agnes was talking about. After a few minutes, the spell had waned enough for me to be able to stand up, albeit shakily. I still felt depleted of energy, but I could feel my strength slowly returning with each passing minute.
Quinn continued to sleep soundly, and I paused momentarily to look at his healed body. I reached down with the intent to re-button his shirt, but I gently caressed his chest and stomach muscles with my fingers instead. I traced the faint line of hair that led from his chest down to just below his navel. I couldn’t help myself. Watching him the past couple of days, letting my hands hover just above his body, healing him—it had been too much. I couldn’t resist this stolen moment to indulge myself. I closed my eyes and inhaled. His scent was intoxicating—and oddly comforting and familiar at the same time.
Maybe Quinn’s memory of me wasn’t the only link to my past. Maybe somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I remembered him too. I wondered how we knew each other. Were we friends? Were we something else … something more? I pictured us kissing. I imagined what it would feel like to have his hands on my body. A ripple of electricity slowly made its way from my head to my toes, leaving a warm tingling sensation in its wake.
I snapped out of my fantasy. I couldn’t go there. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by some silly fantasy. Quinn was in real danger, and it was my job to make sure that he survived unscathed. Where my Shepherd had failed, I would succeed. No Servant was going to end Thayer McQuinn Harrison’s life while I was still able to walk the Earth.
I quickly re-buttoned his shirt and re-bandaged his head wound in an attempt to mask all signs of my meddling—well, almost all signs; there was no way to hide his quick recovery. I looked at my watch to discover it was just after one in the morning in Chicago. I had a few minutes to check back in with Peter to see if he had learned anything from the Council. I turned around and began to walk out of Quinn’s bedroom.
“Evie,” Quinn mumbled.
I froze in the middle of the room. I didn’t dare breathe or make a sound. I was terrified to look over my shoulder for fear that he would be awake and staring at me. My only saving grace was that the room was nearly pitch black. Maybe, just maybe, he couldn’t see me. I crossed my fingers and slowly turned my head around just enough to glance at Quinn in his bed. He was still sleeping. I threw my head back and sighed silently in relief as I felt the tension slowly drain from my body.
I had been given a fortuitous break, one that would not likely be repeated. I phased out of sight. I knew I should leave, but I stood there watching Quinn. Evie—his voice was echoing in my head; my name never sounded better—or more fitting. My mind was overflowing with intrigue and excitement as one thought ran laps through my head at record speed: Quinn was dreaming about me.
* * *
“Having a little fun with your sheep, Bo Peep?” Peter asked as soon as I materialized in the Archives.
“I don’t quite know what you’re talking about,” I said, caught off guard. Was Peter referring to the fact that I had healed Quinn? Or was he referring to my stolen caresses over Quinn’s body and the thoughts that followed? I suddenly dreaded the idea of coming here. I sped up the pace of my thoughts, hoping they would sound jumbled to the other Shepherds now privy to the secrets in my mind. Still, I feared my thoughts weren’t running through my mind fast enough. I swallowed hard and looked at Peter anxiously.
Peter didn’t bother to return my eye contact. He was preoccupied with the various files and books scattered about on one of the reading tables. Maybe he wasn’t listening to my thoughts. Maybe he had no idea what I had just done.
“Be careful when you heal,” Peter said telepathically. He stopped shuffling though the papers in front of him long enough to glance up at me briefly. “It’s considered a grey area, although some Shepherds still believe it’s a clear violation of the Rules.”
“Oh, so you were paying attention,” I mumbled out loud, dropping my head slightly and clasping my hands behind my back like a child being scolded. “Well,” I continued telepathically, “I just thought that ... I mean, since it was my fault that he got injured, I thought the least I could do was ease some of his suffering.”
“I know. Just be aware that some of our kind would not view your actions as acts of kindness.” He took a deep breath. “And you should also know that I wouldn’t be the only one listening in on our conversation right now if I had stopped blocking and shielding thoughts for you.”
“But … I thought … you said …,” I stammered. “You told me that you’d stop blocking and shielding thoughts for me once my training was over … that you had to stop because it was some sort of … ethical violation or something.” It suddenly dawned on me that the only thoughts I was hearing were my own. That was, until Peter replied.
“Yes, that’s true. However, since your training was cut short so abruptly, you never completed your education. You have yet to learn how to telepathically block and shield thoughts. Technically, one could argue that your training isn’t over. So I suppose I am still permitted to help you with this part of being a Shepherd—that is, until you learn how to do it on your own.”
“And when will that be?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, this time out loud. “But I suspect it won’t be for quite some time. First, we have to get a handle on your assignment.” Peter shook his head from side to side slowly and sighed. “I’m still baffled by the chain of events that led you here—led you to him.” He wrinkled his forehead and began flipping through the pages of a book. I couldn’t hear what he was thinking, and I just assumed he was deliberately preventing me from eavesdropping.
“Eve, I spoke with the Council,” he announced.
“And?” I asked anxiously.
“The Council members have questions of their own about your assignment. It would appear that whatever is happening is not their sole doing. I can’t even be sure this is the work of the Servants alone. It seems more likely that this is the result of some stronger force.”
“The Order of the Realms?”
“Perhaps.”
“But why?”
“I wish I knew. The Sisters are working arduously to identify exactly which part of Mr. Harrison’s fate has been manipulated, but it is a very difficult task. Your charge’s destiny continues to shift even now. To be quite honest, I’m not sure what will happen next. It’s almost as though whoever is doing this is staying one step ahead of us, preempting our moves. Once you were assigned to protect Thayer Harrison, the First Incident reared its head so quickly we almost couldn’t catch it in time.
“Eve,” Peter said urgently. “What does your watch say? How long until the Second Incident?”
“Nothing—it’s blank,” I responded as I looked down at my watch.
“What do you mean ‘it’s blank’? That’s not possible!” Peter exclaimed as he walked over to me, grabbed my left wrist, and pulled it towards him. He looked at the Incident Timer on my watch and then at me. A dumbfounded expression crossed his face. Peter dropped my wrist, ran over to one of the books laid out on the table, and frantically started flipping through pages again.
“That doesn’t make any sense. The dates of next Incidents are always indicated—even if they aren’t scheduled to occur for several months—or years even. This is very unsettling, indeed.” Peter tossed one book aside and grabbed another.
“Eve, it’s time you go back and watch your charge carefully,” he directed, his head still buried in the pages of a book. “Do not leave his side unless absolutely necessary. I’ll come to you once I have some answers.”
“How will you find me?” I asked. Peter must have heard the apprehension in my voice because he tore himself away from the book and looked up at me.
“Eve, don’t worry,” he said in a calmer tone of voice. “As your mentor, I can find you almost as easily as you can find Mr. Harrison. And as your mentor, it is my job to keep you out of out of harm’s way. Okay?” He smiled at me reassuringl
y.
“Okay,” I replied.
“Peter?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being my mentor, for being there for me—and,” I threw in telepathically, “for finding that loophole … you know, to continue to shield and block thoughts on my behalf. If I haven’t said it before, I really do appreciate it.” I walked over and hugged him.
“Don’t mention it,” Peter responded as he accepted my embrace. I swore I could feel a rapid pounding like a drum in his chest. Oddly enough, it was as if his inner rhythm didn’t mirror the ticking of the Time Keeper. It was as if his pulse had a beat all its own.
* * *
Quinn was still sleeping when I returned to the loft.
Good, I haven’t missed it. I was more than a little curious to see his reaction when he woke up and realized he felt better.
When Quinn’s alarm went off fifteen minutes later, he instinctively swung his left arm around and shut it off without hesitation. Yet, rather than let his arm drop back down onto the mattress, he stopped short, holding his arm up in midair.
No way! I thought. He couldn’t still be in pain, could he? Maybe I didn’t heal him as well as I thought I had.
Quinn rotated his arm around in the air, testing it. He reached across with his right hand and poked around the left side of his rib cage. Then he cautiously sat up in his bed, reached up towards his left temple, and removed the gauze pad that I’d so carefully replaced last night. He gently touched his forehead and realized that it, too, had healed considerably.
The look on his face was priceless. He looked both confused and relieved, sitting there wondering how he had healed so quickly. I giggled to myself. This was definitely the amusing part of my job, of my new existence, even if I had taken an unnecessary risk for the reward. I figured that as long as Quinn didn’t see or hear me again, everything would work out just fine. My identity would remain a secret.
For one thing, I was confident he wouldn’t mention either his miraculous recovery or his “vision” of me to anyone. I mean, how could he? No one would believe him. Moreover, there would be no way for Quinn to make sense of the events over the past couple days, and there had been no other witnesses to help him rationalize what had happened. Aside from the food delivery guy, Quinn hadn’t talked to or seen anyone. No one else could verify the state of his injuries as the weekend had progressed. Not to mention, he spent most of the last two days semi-conscious, thanks to a healthy dose of codeine.
Knowing what I now knew about the human mind and what it was capable of doing to shelter itself from the strangely inexplicable, I was led back to my original theory: Quinn would chalk up recent events to a side effect of the painkillers he was taking and let the whole thing go. Eventually, this would all be repressed somewhere deep within his mind, not to be pondered, questioned, or revisited again.
Besides, it felt good to do good—to be able to heal injuries inflicted at the hands of someone else. Without warning, my mind ached with a twinge of sadness. I wasn’t sure why, but I suspected it had something to do with how I’d ended up a Shepherd. I still didn’t know the details of what happened to me and why my Shepherd was unable to save me. Peter had said it had all happened so fast. Maybe my Shepherd couldn’t prevent the car accident. Maybe my injuries were so extensive, I couldn’t be healed in time.
Quinn got out of bed and walked over to the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He removed his shirt and examined his torso in the mirror. He poked around some more with his hands and then twisted and turned his body this way and that. When he was convinced his ribs had healed, he examined the extent to which the wound on his forehead had healed. It was easy to see Quinn was more than just a little baffled. Nonetheless, he went on with his morning and got ready for work.
I remembered Peter’s orders not to leave Quinn’s side unless absolutely necessary. And, although Peter’s words would seem to justify my desire to peek at Quinn while he was in the shower, I resisted temptation and gave him his privacy until after he was dressed. When he emerged from his bedroom, he was wearing a sky-blue Oxford with white pin stripes, black suit pants, and dress socks. The light blue color of his shirt only made his gem-colored eyes look more brilliant. He put on his suit jacket, which was hanging in his coat closet, and black leather loafers. I was taken aback by how professional he looked. Somehow, he seemed different—older and more serious than I had expected. That I had any expectations of how Quinn should look was odd in and of itself considering I didn’t know him. But something was definitely off—like he wasn’t supposed to look quite this … grown up.
Within a matter of minutes, Quinn scooped up his laptop and a stack of documents, stuffed them in his computer bag, and shoved his wallet, phone, and keys into his pockets. One last glance in the hallway mirror to tuck his wet hair behind his ears, one last minute to examine the new bandage on his forehead, and he was out the door.
I followed Quinn down the stairs and out onto the street where he walked into a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts and ordered a coffee and two chocolate-frosted doughnuts before hopping into a cab and heading downtown to work.
Having spent the majority of my assignment in the solitude of a quiet hospital room and his apartment, I was immediately taken aback by the sounds and sights of the city as everyone scrambled to get where they were supposed to go. Honking horns, screeching brakes, the El overhead, conversations, music, and footsteps—tons of footsteps—it was deafening.
Not to mention the overwhelming amount of visual stimuli that bombarded me at every turn. A sea of people, cars, taxis, and buses, each one vying to carve out their own little space in the morning madness. Most everyone was wearing unremarkably drab or benign colors, but every so often the beiges, greys and blacks were punctuated with splashes of color worn by a few pedestrians.
And the auras that emanated off of people—it was a sight to behold. It was hard to explain, but like humans’ clothes, most of the auras were indistinctively similar. Once in awhile, however, a more unique signature would stand out from the crowd. I didn’t see anything that matched Peter’s description of a demon. I also didn’t see anything that would resemble a guardian angel, although I really had no idea what one was supposed to “look” like.
17. The Daily Grind
Quinn was a summer intern at Hamil and Mueller, a high-end boutique firm that specialized in financial planning and wealth management—at least that’s what the firm’s promotional materials boasted. Quinn shared an office with another summer intern, a goofy-looking blond guy, who seemed to be about the same age as Quinn. From the nameplates outside the office door, I discovered that his office mate’s name was Kyle Williams. And from the few personal items they had on their desks, I surmised that Kyle was recruited from the University of Michigan because the school logo was emblazoned on his mouse pad. Quinn’s mouse pad had Indiana University’s logo printed on it.
Huh, I thought, so my human was recruited from IU—good to know.
Their office was nice, but fairly plain. Two desks sat side-by-side, each complete with a large flat-screen computer monitor and an ergonomically correct keyboard. Quinn and Kyle connected their laptops to their respective desktop components. In front of each desk were leather-bound chairs for visitors. A worn, navy-blue, polyester-tweed loveseat sat on the opposite end of the office. The only picture was a framed copy of Vincent van Gogh’s “The Starry Night.” Quinn was fortunate in that his desk was closer to the two large office windows that faced east towards Lake Michigan.
Kyle bombarded Quinn with a never-ending stream of questions about the particulars of his head injury. It was obvious that Quinn was uncomfortable talking about the incident, but Kyle was relentless; he was not going to let this go until he pumped Quinn for every last detail.
Someone was unwittingly kind enough to dial Kyle’s extension, saving Quinn from recounting the mugging blow-by-blow. Clearly, whoever was on the other end of the line was so
meone of apparent significance to Kyle because he looked at the caller ID, cleared his throat and straightened his posture before picking up the receiver. Quinn snickered a bit under his breath when he saw Kyle’s little performance. Kyle’s conversation consisted of several “Yes, sir’s” and “Of course’s” before he said he’d be right there.
“Well, got to go,” Kyle said as he grabbed a legal pad and pen and stood up to leave. “Mueller just called; he has a big project for me,” he noted smugly. Quinn just rolled his eyes in response, but Kyle didn’t see.
“Hey, want to grab lunch later?” Kyle asked as he was almost out the door.
“Um, I’ll see. I know Jones wants a status update at the end of the day on a research project I’m doing for him, so I was planning to work through lunch today.”
“Oh, okay.” Kyle sounded disappointed. “Well, I’ll check back in with you later to see if you’ve changed your mind.”
“Sounds good.” Quinn’s voice was sincere, but he shook his head, seemingly annoyed, as soon as Kyle walked out of the office.
So Quinn was not a fan of Kyle. That made two of us. I got a bad vibe off of him. His heat signature told me all I needed to know—I wouldn’t trust Kyle as far as I could throw him—which was saying a lot considering how far I actually could throw him.
And despite his assurances that he wouldn’t tell anyone about Quinn’s mishap, I knew there was no way he would keep his mouth shut. Sure enough, not fifteen minutes had passed before all sorts of people were stopping by Quinn’s desk to see how he was feeling—and more importantly, to hear him rehash the details of his attack. I couldn’t believe how morbidly curious humans were about traumatic events; it was truly appalling. I couldn’t have been like that when I was alive, could I? Considering I couldn’t remember my life, however, all I could do was hope for the best. By lunch, Quinn must have told the story to twenty different people.
“I should have just sent out a freaking memo—it would have been quicker,” Quinn muttered under his breath when the last tag-team left his office.
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