by Angie Martin
Her smile relaxed me. “I don’t know what it is,” I said. “I should be freaked out right now. I should be yelling and screaming for my release. But, something is telling me I’m safe here, in this complex, with you and Garrett. Even with Mr. Smith.”
“You are safe in here. Out there, it’s much harder to survive, but these walls afford us so much protection.”
“Why? Why am I not freaking out?”
“It’s the mark.” Her hand reached for the back of her neck. “There’s something about it that instills calmness inside of us. It makes us know where we belong. Who we belong with.” She raised her hands on either side of her and glanced at our surroundings. “This is home, for all of us. These people are our family.”
Like warm fingers caressing my neck, the mark made itself known for the first time that day. It seemed like its own entity. Alive. As if it shot dopamine direct into my system, my anxiety faded, and a fog floated through my brain. The strange high forced my lips into a smile, and I relaxed into the couch cushions.
“It’s the best feeling, isn’t it?” Keira asked. “The mark gives us the ability to handle situations that would drive others over the brink. But, we need it, with all that we deal with.”
“What do we deal with?”
“I know there’s a lot to learn still, but let’s take it slow today. You don’t have all the time in the world, like I did. I learned everything over a few months’ time, but I’m a night stalker. There are lots of us. There’s only one chronicler for each complex. Makes your job just a bit more important and gives you less time to ease into this, but you can at least take today to rest and get used to being here.”
“Sounds like my luck,” I said, only half-joking.
“You know, when I first came here, my life was a mess. Parents divorced and constantly battling, even though us kids were all adults. Didn’t really speak to my siblings. My sister spent more time in jail than out, and my brother was a scam artist turned motivational speaker who had changed his last name and made up a different family background for his traveling act. I worked nights at a truck stop diner, telling myself every tip I earned was savings for college, even though I was barely making rent.” She laughed. “But, at least the diner served awesome milkshakes.”
“Never underestimate the power of a chocolate milkshake,” I said, and we both broke into brief laughter. “How did you get here?” I asked when the chuckling ceased.
“My journey was a lot easier than yours. Garrett’s mom showed up at the diner one day, told me the itching in the back of my head wasn’t only in my mind. Something about her… It was easy to leave my old life behind. Nothing chasing us or anything like what you went through.”
I noted her word choice of “nothing” versus “nobody.” Author’s habit. Always dissecting words used around me, searching out that hidden meaning.
“Faking my death didn’t mean much to me,” she said, “but I understand how hard it would be for those with family who cares.”
My parents would be devastated at news of my death, especially Dad. I could only imagine how Liz would react. My books in progress would go… unfinished. Every artist’s nightmare, having an incomplete work. I should have run for the nearest door. How could I trust that my life was even in danger, that something was after me? Everything at the hotel could have been staged, and these people were experiencing a mass delusion.
Yet, the mark on the back of my neck was real. Something was happening in this place, to me, and I had overwhelming, instinctual knowledge that Keira was right. That as soon as I found out what exactly this place was and discovered my part in it, I wouldn’t want to leave.
“I know you said to take it slow today,” I said, “but I want to know more.”
“Are you sure? We can take the time today you need to—”
“No,” I said, hopping up from the couch. “I need to know. I need to understand.”
“Okay,” she said, rising from the couch. “Let’s go to the fourth floor.”
Chapter Nine
T he humming started as soon as the elevator doors opened to the fourth floor.
At first, I thought my ears deceived me, but slowly, the humming increased in intensity despite the volume remaining soft. It tugged on something deep inside me – my soul, possibly. The strong magnet pulled me down the tiled hallway with no furnishings on the walls until Keira and I stood in front of an ornate wooden door. I ran my fingertips over the carvings, various symbols, and letters I didn’t recognize, despite them seeming familiar.
“What is this place?” I asked with no intentions of receiving an answer.
“Can you read them?” Keira asked from beside me.
I jerked my head to look at her. “I don’t even know what they are. How could I read them?”
“You’ll be able to decipher them soon enough, along with all the old languages.”
“Old languages?”
“Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Enochian. I’m sure I’m missing a few there.”
“Hieroglyphics?” I asked in a joking tone.
She snapped her fingers. “Yup, that, too.”
I let out a laugh at the insanity of it all. “I barely passed Spanish my first year of high school. Foreign languages are not my thing, let alone strange symbols and things like Latin. I mean, I don’t even know what Enochian is.”
“An occult language that John Dee and Edward Kelley brought into play back in the 1500s. Some believe it’s the lost language of angels because that’s what Dee and Kelley said, but in 1832, The Order discovered that…” She waved her hand and smiled. “You know what, not important right now. You’ll learn all this soon enough.”
“And, let me guess. It will all start making sense.”
“Okay, maybe I say that a little too much, but it’s true.” She reached into her front left jean pocket and pulled out an iron key with some of the same symbols from the door on it. “This key opens this door. It’s your key and yours alone. This is the only copy, so you need to guard it. No one – not from this complex or from another one or anyone else – is to have this key, even if they ask for it.”
She held it out to me to take, but I hesitated. “Why do you have it then?”
“We all have our roles here. One of mine is acting as Keeper of the Key during any… transitional periods between chroniclers. But, now that you’re here, it’s yours. Not even I can ask for it back.”
I stared at her for a moment before asking, “Is there always a chronicler here at the complex?”
“Yes, other than the times that a new one is called up.”
Dread knotted my stomach, but I asked the question anyway. “What happened to the last chronicler?”
A shadow crossed her eyes, and she averted her gaze. “Our… lifestyle… well, it doesn’t really guarantee us long lives.”
“She died?”
“He,” Keira said. “He died ten days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. A heavy silence lingered in the air for a long moment, clouded over by her revelation of my predecessor’s fate.
My thoughts punched me in the gut. Predecessor. Less than twenty-four hours since I met Mr. Smith and I was already so far down the road of accepting the situation, just as Keira had predicted. Whatever this place was, whatever a chronicler did, I didn’t see any way I could just walk out. Not knowing someone died.
I snatched the key from her outstretched hand before logic had its way with me and I changed my mind. No turning back, I thought as I pushed the key into the hole above the doorknob. The lock clanked as it unlatched, and the door creaked open on its own accord. Stale, pent-up air blustered through the cracks and shoved itself down my throat until it rested in the deepest crevices of my lungs.
A shift – both audible and physical – racked my bones, while the hum melded with my mind. Symbiotic energy whistled through the air, flowing from my body to whatever was in the room and back again. This place… I knew this place. It knew me.
And, though I di
dn’t understand why, nothing in the world could tear me away from it now.
I shoved open the door and stepped over the threshold. The hum embraced me and encouraged me to wander deeper into the darkened room, but I turned instead to look at Keira. She remained in the hallway, watching me.
“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That’s your domain in there. No one else goes in but you. Well, except for Spencer.”
Of course, he has access, I thought. “What’s in the room?”
“A few thousand years of chronicles.” She grinned and peeked around me as if she were a child sneaking a glance into a forbidden room. “Every bit of this complex’s history is in there, along with everything you’ll need to know to help us accomplish our missions.”
“Ahhhh,” I said, finally getting it. “Chronicler. My job is to keep a record of everything the night stalkers do.”
“Along with helping us with research. There’s so much information contained in there, but you can sift through it like no one else. As a chronicler, you’re plugged into it because of your mark.”
“The humming,” I said.
She leaned over, and in a confidential tone asked, “It started? I hear it’s the coolest experience to hear the chronicles communicating with you.”
“Is that what it is?” I chuckled at her excitement. “It’s a little overwhelming right now. Not sure how to process it yet.”
“From what I understand, it will become second nature for you. It dims down when you’re not near the room, and you’ll be able to ignore it when you need to.”
I turned back around and stared down the short hallway leading to a dark room. “What do I do when I’m in there? Where do I start?”
“It will come to you,” Keira said, “just like everything else.”
Though her footsteps retreated from me, I didn’t glance back or say “goodbye.” My mind focused on the room and the humming that wrapped itself around me in a comforting embrace. Even if I thought the events at my hotel were staged, I couldn’t argue with the mark or the hum. If everyone in the complex was brainwashed into believing, then I was now counted among them.
Several steps forward, and I closed the door behind me, shutting myself inside the dark room. I palmed the key and pushed it down into the front pocket of my jeans. Another two steps and fluorescent lights flickered on overhead, revealing the contents of the room: books.
I moved into the inner sanctum of the room and rotated a few times. Thousands of books littered the shelving on the walls, not just on my floor, but two floors above me. The three spiral staircases climbing to the next levels made me smile. It was as if the room had been built around the antique fixtures. Along the walls, ancient sconces lit the way, and I imagined chroniclers of old using dim candlelight to read the volumes of information. I could almost see them seated at carved desks as they recorded even more volumes, most likely with feathered pens.
The thoughts filled me with wonder beyond anything else I’d experienced.
I was home.
Not knowing what came next, I lowered my eyelids and inhaled the centuries of history. The humming silenced itself, and I instantly missed the sound. I moistened my lips and let two words roll out in a whisper.
“Blood seekers.”
The humming startled my eyes open, and a smile crossed my face. I followed the crescendo of the hum to a bookshelf in the back of an annex. My fingers tickled the spines of books until the hum reached the highest of pitches. I pulled the book off the shelf and examined the worn leather binding. “Conquisitor Sanguinis et Mortis.”
My mind translated the Latin with no effort: “Seekers of Blood and Death.”
“Oh… I can read it.” My hushed statement filled the air around me, and I took the book back to one of the wooden desks. Time for me to learn all about those things Mr. Smith had said were chasing me in my suite. I brushed dust off the front cover and cracked it open.
Chapter Ten
A fter hours of sitting in the wooden chair, poring over every chronicle that spoke to me and fascinated by the marvels of the texts, I came to one conclusion: These people weren’t crazy.
They were absolutely, completely, and most definitely certifiable.
If half – only half –the things I’d read about were true, why the hell would any of them ever want to get out of bed in the morning? Let alone, rush into battle with creatures and otherworldly monsters that could slash and maim and eat and bludgeon and do all kinds of horrible things to night stalkers before killing them?
Yet, I knew everything in the chronicles to be true. All the paranormal happenings – my mark, the humming, reading a foreign language, my insanely calm nature at the situation – reinforced that knowledge in me. My fear should have consumed me in that moment, but the mark kept me level-headed. It reminded me that because the chronicles were true, something had to be done about it.
That was where the night stalkers came in. To stop the horrid things creeping around in shadows. To save the innocents out there who had no idea such things existed. And, to protect future generations from as many of those things as possible. My job was to document it all, to ensure that future chroniclers and night stalkers had all the information they needed to perform their duties and not get themselves killed. Hopefully.
I stretched my hands over my head, then in front of me. My neck cracked as it rotated. Closing the book on the desk, the fourth one I had read in a row, I stared at the cover. Older than the rest, the foreign language on the front translated in front of my eyes, just like the rest of the words in each book. Like a pixelated puzzle revealing itself, the letters would appear in their original language, then unscramble until I saw the English version. My brain became faster at deciphering the more I read, but the concept still overwhelmed my limited, human capacities of logic and reason.
The door to the library opened, startling me out of my chair. Keira had said no one could enter there except for me. And, Mr. Smith.
My head shook and mouth scowled as he entered the main part of the library, but I didn’t speak.
He walked over to the desk, grabbed the book I was reading, and looked at the cover. Without comment, he tossed it back on the desk. “Keira wants to know if you’re ready to eat.”
Having deprived myself of food all day, a soft groan erupted from my stomach.
“She says you haven’t eaten anything today,” he said. “You have to keep your strength up at all times. You never know when we’ll have to leave, and I can’t have you lagging behind because you’re on a diet, or whatever.”
The man clearly had no idea how to speak to anyone, especially women. “I’m not on a diet,” I said, seething as I rose from my chair. “And, I’ll eat when I’m damned good and ready.” Another growl filled the space between us, and I grasped my stomach as warmth crawled across my cheeks. “I just so happen to be ready now,” I said a little quieter, trying to save a little bit of dignity.
Picking up the book, I whirled around and re-shelved it. When I returned to the table, Mr. Smith waited for me. He started for the door without a word, but then whipped around halfway there. “Just so you know,” he said, his finger up in the air, “I’m not happy about you being here.”
“Really? I thought you were this welcoming with everyone. Always showing off your lovely disposition.”
He grunted.
“So, what is it about me? Is it because I’m a woman? Are you threatened by—”
“You’ve been here for just over twelve hours. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and with the reckless behavior you demonstrated last night, you’re likely to get someone killed. You have no business trying to be a chronicler.”
“If I understood correctly, the mark chose me, so there’s nothing for me to ‘try.’” I clasped my hands together. “Oh, I get it. The last chronicler was your boyfriend, and now you’re taking your loss out on me.”
Darkness crossed in front of his eyes and cinched his feat
ures – and I wanted to take back everything I had said. I opened my mouth to apologize, but he stopped me.
“He was my brother.” He left the room, leaving me drowning in regret.
Damn your mouth, I thought, my heart breaking for not only him, but the others in the complex who lost a friend and colleague. I had gone way too far. The man had lost his brother just over a week earlier, and I was the replacement. I realized it wouldn’t have mattered who had been next in line for the job; Mr. Smith would be just as angry, and he had every right to that rage.
I don’t know how long I sat in that stiff, uncomfortable chair before Keira’s voice called down the hall. The thought of staying in the library forever crossed my mind, since no one else could enter, but then I remembered they could just send Mr. Smith back in to retrieve me. Then again, maybe I could have stayed there until I died, and then he would happily retrieve my rotting corpse, just so I wasn’t around to speak another cruel word to him. There would be a new chronicler, they would get along great, and I’d be in a much better place.
My rumbling stomach won out over my internal protests, and I sulked down the hall and out the door. I didn’t say a word to Keira as I locked up the library and pocketed the key.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I started down the hallway with her, toward the elevator. “I did something really stupid.”
“Given that Spence came back up all sour, I’d say you two had it out again.”
“No, it’s my fault.” I halted and waited for her to turn around. “He riled me up again, and I let him get to me, and I said the dumbest thing about the last chronicler, and then he told me it was his brother, and I think I should just go back home now, even if one of those blood seekers finds me and kills me, and—”
She stepped toward me and rested her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, honey, stop. Whatever transpired, it’s okay. Look, Spence has been really screwed up since his brother died. He’ll be screwed up for a long while. Anyone would. He’s not really hostile toward you, he just doesn’t know how to express his anger at losing his brother.”