the human world, John had always been aware he was different . . . and the Brother had given him the “why” that evening. The flash of fangs had explained it all.
Now, naturally, there had been a shitload of anxiety that came with finding out you weren’t who or what you’d always assumed you were. But Tohr had stuck by his side, just chilling and watching TV, even though he’d been on rotation to fight and also had a pregnant shellan to look after.
Kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Coming back to reality, John pitched the remote onto the side table and it bounced around, knocking over one of the empties. As the last half inch of bourbon splashed out, he reached across and picked up a shirt to mop up the mess. Which, considering what a shambles the rest of the room was in, was like backing up a Big Mac and fries with a Diet Coke.
But whatever.
He wiped off the tabletop, lifting the bottles one by one, and then opened the little drawer to swipe across the—
Tossing his T-shirt onto the floor, he reached in and picked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn’t read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father’s.
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he opened the front cover. The pages were made of vellum and they smelled old, but the ink was still totally legible.
John thought of those notes he’d written to Trez and iAm back at Sal’s and wondered if his and his father’s handwriting were at all similar. As the entries in the diary were done in the Old Language, there was no way of knowing.
Focusing his tired eyes, he started out just examining how the characters were formed, how the ink strokes whipped about to form the symbols, how there were no mistakes or cross-outs, how even though the pages were not lined, his father had nonetheless made neat, even rows. He imagined how Darius might have bent over the pages and written by candlelight, dipping a quill pen. . . .
An odd shimmer went through John, the kind that made him wonder whether he was going to have to be sick . . . but the nausea passed as an image came to him.
A huge stone house not unlike the one they were living in now. A room kitted out with beautiful things. A hurried entry made on these pages at a desk before a grand ball.
The light of candle, warm and soft.
John shook himself and kept turning the pages. Sometime along the way he started not just measuring the lines of characters, but reading them. . . .
The color of the ink changed from black to brown when his father wrote about his first night in the warrior camp. How cold it was. How scared he was. How much he missed home.
How alone he felt.
John empathized with the male to the point where it seemed as though there was no separation between the father and the son: In spite of the many, many years and an entire continent of distance, it was as though he were in his father’s shoes.
Well, duh. He was in the exact same situation: a hostile reality with a lot of dark corners . . . and no parents to back him up now that Wellsie was dead and Tohr was a living, breathing ghost.
Hard to know when his eyelids went down and stayed there.
But at some point he fell asleep with what little he had of his father held reverently in his hands.
EIGHT
1671, SPRINGTIME, THE OLD COUNTRY
D arius materialized in a stretch of thick forest, taking form beside the entrance of a cave. As he scanned the night, he listened for any sounds worthy of notice. . . . There were deer tiptoeing around down by the quietly running stream, and the breeze whistled through the pine needles, and he could hear his own breathing. But there were no humans or lessers about.
A moment longer . . . and then he slipped beneath the overhang of rock and walked into a natural room created aeons ago. Deeper and deeper he went, the air thickening with a smell he despised: The musty dirt and cold humidity reminded him of the war camp—and
Now, naturally, there had been a shitload of anxiety that came with finding out you weren’t who or what you’d always assumed you were. But Tohr had stuck by his side, just chilling and watching TV, even though he’d been on rotation to fight and also had a pregnant shellan to look after.
Kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.
Coming back to reality, John pitched the remote onto the side table and it bounced around, knocking over one of the empties. As the last half inch of bourbon splashed out, he reached across and picked up a shirt to mop up the mess. Which, considering what a shambles the rest of the room was in, was like backing up a Big Mac and fries with a Diet Coke.
But whatever.
He wiped off the tabletop, lifting the bottles one by one, and then opened the little drawer to swipe across the—
Tossing his T-shirt onto the floor, he reached in and picked up an ancient leather-bound book.
The diary had been in his possession for about six months now, but he hadn’t read it.
It was the one thing he had of his father’s.
With nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he opened the front cover. The pages were made of vellum and they smelled old, but the ink was still totally legible.
John thought of those notes he’d written to Trez and iAm back at Sal’s and wondered if his and his father’s handwriting were at all similar. As the entries in the diary were done in the Old Language, there was no way of knowing.
Focusing his tired eyes, he started out just examining how the characters were formed, how the ink strokes whipped about to form the symbols, how there were no mistakes or cross-outs, how even though the pages were not lined, his father had nonetheless made neat, even rows. He imagined how Darius might have bent over the pages and written by candlelight, dipping a quill pen. . . .
An odd shimmer went through John, the kind that made him wonder whether he was going to have to be sick . . . but the nausea passed as an image came to him.
A huge stone house not unlike the one they were living in now. A room kitted out with beautiful things. A hurried entry made on these pages at a desk before a grand ball.
The light of candle, warm and soft.
John shook himself and kept turning the pages. Sometime along the way he started not just measuring the lines of characters, but reading them. . . .
The color of the ink changed from black to brown when his father wrote about his first night in the warrior camp. How cold it was. How scared he was. How much he missed home.
How alone he felt.
John empathized with the male to the point where it seemed as though there was no separation between the father and the son: In spite of the many, many years and an entire continent of distance, it was as though he were in his father’s shoes.
Well, duh. He was in the exact same situation: a hostile reality with a lot of dark corners . . . and no parents to back him up now that Wellsie was dead and Tohr was a living, breathing ghost.
Hard to know when his eyelids went down and stayed there.
But at some point he fell asleep with what little he had of his father held reverently in his hands.
EIGHT
1671, SPRINGTIME, THE OLD COUNTRY
D arius materialized in a stretch of thick forest, taking form beside the entrance of a cave. As he scanned the night, he listened for any sounds worthy of notice. . . . There were deer tiptoeing around down by the quietly running stream, and the breeze whistled through the pine needles, and he could hear his own breathing. But there were no humans or lessers about.
A moment longer . . . and then he slipped beneath the overhang of rock and walked into a natural room created aeons ago. Deeper and deeper he went, the air thickening with a smell he despised: The musty dirt and cold humidity reminded him of the war camp—and
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