Infinitas 1 - Warriors of Faith (2 page)

Walk Alone

Chapter 2

Light drizzle fell like fine particles onto the ground, covering him in a layer of dampness in next to no time.
Heavy clouds hung in the sky and weighed heavily on his mood.
What else could he expect on an ordinary day in March? Even in Paris, a rotten rainy day was and remained a rotten rainy day.

Armed with an old umbrella and warm clothes, Sara strolled along the Seine on the
Île de la Cité towards Notre Dame.
She had been in Paris for 14 days now and she’d taken the same walk every day.
From her apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, located between the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, she walked towards Pont Neuf, over to the Île de la Cité towards Notre Dame and then back, over the Pont L. Philippe.
Walking the same way made her feel safer and more secure.
The same sense of security that she felt in the strange, foreign apartment she’d been staying in since her arrival.
Although she’d never been inside the rooms before, she’d had a strange sense of familiarity from the moment she’d walked through the door – as if a guardian angel were there protecting her. Maybe it was just the feeling of something unknown and secret that she could really feel and enjoy here in Paris.
It was different in Seattle, where everyone knew her face; where she stood night after night on stage in the spotlight at the popular city theater.
No, here in Paris she didn’t have to worry about people approaching her for an autograph while shopping. Here, she was safe from the people who were constantly disturbing her inner peace and who maybe, could even see through her to the person she really was.

As every day, a painter was sitting under his umbrella in front of the main entrance to Notre Dame.
He was holding a sketchpad on his knee and his fingers were blackened with charcoal.
He smiled as he saw Sara approaching from a distance.
He found himself here every day as well, to sketch the church and the surroundings.
Sara smiled at him shyly and thought a moment about whether or not to speak to him.
She really wanted to take a closer look at his sketches, but the next moment she found herself just walking past him.

»It’s not really a nice day for a walk, is it?« The question snapped her back from her thoughts. She stopped, still unsure what to do. Then she turned around, smiled and looking at the sky, said, »Well, it isn’t really a nice day to paint either. «

The painter shook his head, »No, you are right about that. I should concentrate on other projects. Would you be interested in modeling for me?«

Sara’s eyes widened in surprise.

»Of course, I only mean your portrait.
There’s a little Bistro not too far from here. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and in return you let me paint your portrait. What do you think, Mademoiselle?«

Sara looked at him. She thought he looked friendly. He was young, mid to late twenties. He had dark hair, brown eyes and a little goatee. He was tall, but didn’t really look very strong. He had long fingers and an open, expressive face, which made Sara smile.

»Is that how you usually pay your models, Monsieur...?«

»I’m Philippe,« he said as he reached out to shake her hand.

»
Enchanté
.«

She shook his hand hesitantly. »Sara,« she said in return.

»Madame or Mademoiselle?«

She smiled charmingly at him. »Just call me Sara.«

»Okay, Sara. How about that coffee? Are you coming or do you want to stand here in the pouring rain?«

The Bistro was busy, but they managed to find a small table in the back corner. The warm coffee smelled delicious, yet Sara was hardly interested in hers.

Philippe rested his chin on his hands and watched her closely while stirring his coffee.

Sara was tall for a woman, but most obvious was her long curly red hair, which fell softly around her face.

Her green eyes sparkled like emeralds.
Philippe couldn’t resist her beauty and charm.

»Your accent is sweet. Where are you from? My guess is the States,« he said answering the question himself.

»That’s right. I’ve been in Paris two weeks now.«

»And what are you doing here? Are you studying at the Sorbonne?«

Sara shook her head and her curls brushed softly against her cheeks.
»No, I’m not studying. I’m here on vacation. I just wanted to get away and relax a little.«

Philippe raised his eyebrows inquisitively. »Vacation in March?« he asked reaching for his sketchpad and charcoal pencil.

»Yes,« she nodded. »Why not? And what do you do, if I may ask, when you aren’t painting in the rain?«

He looked at her attractively and took a sip of his coffee.

»I study Art History and in my free time to earn a little money, I paint portraits, mostly for tourists. How long will you be in Paris?«

Sara shrugged her shoulders. »I don’t know exactly. Probably two months.«

»That’s a long vacation.«

»I guess that depends on how long one plans on living.«

Sara took another sip of her coffee and held the warm cup between her hands.

»Where do you live? The US is a big place. New York? Washington?«

»No, I’m from the Pacific Northwest. Seattle.«

Philippe nodded, not looking up from his sketchpad. »And where are you staying here? I assume you aren’t staying in a hotel.«

Sara took a moment before she answered his question. »No, I’m doing a house swap for two months – I organized it on the Internet. I’m living in his apartment in Paris and he’s living in my house in Seattle.«

»He? You mean, you don’t even know the man who’s living in your house?«

»No, not really.«

»And you aren’t afraid that something might happen? That’s pretty brave. «

Philippe continued to talk without looking up at Sara.

»Why should I be afraid? He’s just a boring guy, who works at a museum. He’s an American, too, working here in Paris and is in Seattle for two months on business. Plus, I have someone looking after my house to make sure everything’s okay while I’m gone.«

Philippe looked up from his drawing.

»You’re saying you swapped a house for an apartment?«

Sara laughed out loud. »It’s just for two months. And the quarter I’m living in is beautiful. The owner has very good taste. I think it was a really good deal.«

Sara didn’t like where this was going and squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.

»Shit, I guess that’s what matters. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hassle you about it. That’s one of my negative qualities – I talk too much. I hope you can forgive me.«

He reached over the table and touched her hand and gave her a friendly, trusting glance.

»Oh, brother,« Sara sighed. »I can hardly resist that look of yours, but I have to go! Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.«
She gave him a look of regret.

»You know where you can find me, Sara.«

She nodded. »Salut, Philippe! And thanks for the coffee.«

She’d already disappeared out of the Bistro before he could react.

He stayed at the table for a little while longer so that he could finish the portrait in his sketchbook and then glanced down at the table. She had hardly touched her coffee.

Sara stomped angrily back to her apartment. She was mad at herself for telling Philippe so much personal information.
He was a stranger and she was usually so careful with people she didn’t know.
She hadn’t been thinking.
Maybe it was because it had felt so good to just be a tourist and not a star for once.

Maybe it was also because of Philippe’s beautiful eyes, his seductive smile and his open personality.
She’d sensed his honesty when he reached out and touched her.
No hint of aggression or secrecy.
Still she wanted to stop the conversation from going any further. She had already said enough and wanted to protect herself from saying too much.

The rain was slowly beginning to stop as Sara ran towards her apartment on the Rue de Rivoli.

Philippe was still thinking about the drawing.
Sara was really beautiful.

Her long, light red curls framed her soft oval face perfectly.
Her sweet little nose was inconsistent with her high cheekbones and raspberry lips.
Her skin was pale, yet radiant and perfect.
Her beauty fascinated Philippe.
If only he had been able to sketch a little more than her face! He slowly ran his index finger down her neck on the paper. It was absolutely clear to him that she was much too beautiful to only to be painted.

Forever

Chapter 3

Channing quickly ran across the empty hospital parking lot.
He was surprised how easy it was to leave the building without being seen.

It had taken him a few minutes to get himself together after seeing his reflection in the mirror. Only after he’d caught his breath and his pulse had slowed down, had the fangs disappeared and the dark gray color returned to his eyes.
The uncontrolled reaction of his body had freaked Channing out and even his quick recovery was something, which made him doubt his own power of judgment.

What the hell had even happened? Why couldn’t he remember anything important? Everyday things seemed natural to him, like shaving, using the elevator or calling a taxi, but the important things, like names, addresses, facts about his life, had totally disappeared from his memory, as if someone had pressed the delete key.

The most important thing for Channing was to get away from here as quickly as possible. He had no idea where to go, but they were sure to find out what he had become if he stuck around in the hospital, which definitely would not be wise.
He had to find that out for himself first, and then he would be in the position to answer other people’s questions.

He had found a suitcase full of clothes and a laptop in the little cabinet in his room.
The clothes were mostly black pants, white shirts and gray turtlenecks.
Practically everything had been tailor made by exclusive French designers.

Channing got dressed quickly, threw on a dark coat, packed his things together and entered the hallway to get out of the building as fast as possible without being seen.
He was careful not to bump into any of the nurses.
It was too dangerous for him here.
Unthinkable what would happen if someone discovered his fangs or his indestructibility.

First he had to find some answers and he was sure he wouldn’t be able to find them in the hospital.
As he grabbed his little suitcase, he noticed the United Airlines boarding pass and attached luggage tag with his name and address on it.
He didn’t recognize the address, but at least it was a place to start.

He ran towards a waiting taxi and told the driver to take him to North Beach.

The address that he had was located at the end of a small street, nestled on a bay. It led up a hill away from the other houses in the neighborhood near the beach.
The house was surrounded by a wall, which made it almost impossible to see anything beyond it.
A slice of moon hung in the sky and illuminated the water in the bay in a silver glow.
On the beach in the distance you could see huge tree stumps, which had washed ashore, like sleeping giants guarding the shore on this clear night.

The green, wooden house was set partly on top of a large garage, which was built halfway into the hill. The white garage door was so large that there must have been enough space for at least four cars. The black roof shingles loomed in the darkness and Channing could tell that house was a two-story with a wrap-around porch. He stood in front of the house for a minute trying to decide what to do, as the taxi drove away in the distance.
Everything was dark, no lights were on anywhere in the house, and all the blinds were closed on the upstairs windows.
A little driveway led around the house to the side entrance partly hidden behind some ivy.
Determined, Channing walked up the four steps to the side door.
On a whim he checked above the door for a key and found what he was looking for – a small gold key which fit perfectly into the lock.
He entered the house hesitantly, although his instincts told him that the house was empty.
It wasn’t even necessary for him to turn on the light because even though it was pitch dark, he could see everything clearly as if it were broad daylight.

He walked through the kitchen and entered the living room via a small hallway.
Near the front door were the stairs, which led up to the second floor and down to the basement, most likely to the garage.
He looked around the room hoping to see something he recognized.
Disappointingly, there was nothing to tell him that he had been in this house before. Yet an inner voice kept telling him that he had been.
As he stood there in the hallway and put down his bag and coat, he had the strong feeling that he belonged here. Out of habit he turned on the light and began to slowly look around the living room.
Everything in the room clearly carried the handwriting of a woman. His wife? Was this the house he lived in with his family?
Channing looked down at his hands. He was wearing a small silver signet ring, but that didn’t mean anything really.

Fresh white drapes were hanging in several of the windows and gave the room a light airy and friendly atmosphere.
Next to the windows in front, facing out to the street was an old piano, on top of which there were several framed photographs.
Most of them were of a woman with blazing curly red hair, which fell over her shoulders.
She was breathtakingly beautiful with a pale complexion like porcelain.
Her eyes were stormy, ocean green, her nose small and her lips full and sensuous like ripe raspberries.

Although Channing had no memory of this woman, at that moment he wished that he knew her.
A soft sound of contentment emerged from his throat and he cold feel his pulse accelerating. The next picture was of the same person, but seemed to be over 100 years old. The woman was looking sternly out into the distance and her somber, dark clothes seemed to be from an age long past.
She was the spitting image of the woman with the long red hair, who was most likely her grandmother.
Another picture was of the young woman and a man, who had exactly the same features only black hair.
He was 20 years old at the most and without a doubt, her brother.
He had the same smile and the same proud stance.

When Channing took a closer look at the picture, he had the same sensation that there was a bond between them – it was the same feeling he’d had when he’d come out of the coma in the hospital.
At that moment, he felt a light draft like a breeze on a summer day and looked around, but no one was there.

The bedroom was upstairs and to Channing’s surprise, there was an envelope with his name on it hanging on one of the doors.
He took the envelope and read the note inside.

›Hello, Mr. McArthur! This is your room. I hope that you feel comfortable in my house and I wish you a successful few weeks here in Seattle!‹
It was signed S. Keane.

Channing pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room had a masculine touch. It was somewhat bare with a dresser and a large bed made of ebony, dark green silken wallpaper and black velvet curtains hanging in front of a single window.
He put his things down on the bed and pulled open the curtains to see the view of the ocean. It was possible to see part of the bay.
He rested his arms on the window frame and gazed out into the darkness for a few minutes.

The uncertainty was driving him crazy.
He needed some answers, fast. Okay, he had found out what had happened to him, but that was only a small piece of the puzzle.
What had happened to his body?
Who was the woman who owned this house? He didn’t have a single answer to any of these questions.
Furiously, he slammed his fist against the window frame so hard that the glass pane rattled.

The adjoining bathroom was modern and Channing began to unpack his things. He wasn’t sure where to go, so it just seemed like a good idea to stay here.
The fact that his name was on the door must have meant something.
While putting away his personal items, his razor fell out onto his hand. He took another look at his cheek, where he had cut himself earlier.
He musingly looked at the razor and in a split second he made a cut along the inside of his arm with the blade.
Slowly and carefully he carved into his skin.

Dark blood spilled out of the wound and as the smell caught his nose, all his animal instincts were instantly activated.
He could feel energy flowing through his body and the fangs in his mouth began to grow.
A deep growl emerged from deep within his chest and the desire to let it out of this throat was overpowering.
The cut that he’d made wasn’t very deep and as if possessed, the edges rose up and the wound slowly began to close by itself.

Channing gave into the urge and screamed out desperately – strangely feeling both helpless and powerful at the same time. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the edge of the bathtub.
If he hadn’t seen it with this own eyes…

He slowly began to doubt his own sanity. Stuff like this only happened in the movies, or he’d read about such things in books, but it was always fiction – everything made up.
Suddenly he was gasping for air and he needed to get out of the house.
He ran down the stairs to the first floor and burst through the front door into the open air.
Without thinking he took the little path, which led to the cliffs and when he reached the end, he stopped.
He stood there with his fists clenched tightly looking down at the dark water.

It was freezing, but he couldn’t feel the cold at all.
The cliff stood high above the ocean and it seemed to be the only thing in his way in order to leave all these unfathomable things behind him.
He tore at this hair and exhaled, his breath rising towards the sky in tiny puffs.

»You won’t do it.«

»What do I even want?« He was talking to himself now, a sign that he was clearly losing his mind.

»That’s not what I meant.«
A dark shadow emerged from the even darker night.
He’d been sitting on a large rock near the edge of the cliff.

»You won’t be able to kill yourself, unless you somehow manage to cut off your own head.
It won’t work so don’t even try to jump.
I don’t feel like fishing your ass out of the cold water, before someone else does.«

Channing looked the man in the eyes and saw that he was dead serious.
His face looked so familiar. He had seen it earlier on one of the photos on the piano.
Out here though, in a black sweater, cargo pants and black combat boots, he looked older than in the picture. Most intimidating about him, however, were the two swords he was wearing on his back.

»Leave me alone. You have no idea what I’m going through. Just stay away from me! I’ll hurt you.«

Channing hissed at him angrily.

A faint smile appeared on the young man’s lips.

»Oh man, I’m shaking in my shoes. You’re the one who should be afraid! Oh, never mind. I’m Shia. Let’s go back to the house before someone sees us.«

He touched Channing lightly on the shoulder and walked away toward the house. Channing followed him silently, watching the swords reflect the moonlight.

»You could have used the front door – it’s never locked,« explained Shia, climbing the stairs.

»You were watching me?« Channing looked at him surprised.

»No, not intentionally. I was inside the house when you came in,« he said curtly.

Okay, he hadn’t been imagining things then.

»Why are you watching me? What do you know about me? I don’t understand anything anymore and I need some answers!«

Channing was restlessly pacing back and forth in the living room.
Shia took his weapons from their sheath and carefully placed them out of the way.
He also removed a belt and took off a knife, which had been fastened to his upper arm.

»Why do you have so many weapons? Are you expecting World War Three?« asked Channing both tauntingly and frustrated.

»You shouldn’t comment about things you don’t know anything about!
So get rid of the arrogant tone, okay!« Shia was looking right at him and you could see in his eyes that he meant every word he said.

Channing began pacing back and forth in the room again, running his hands through his long hair.

»Okay, sorry! Today hasn’t been the greatest day, and if this is the first of more to come, I don’t want to know what the rest will be like.«
He tried to calm himself down and leaned against the wall.
Alert, he watched Shia carefully lay out his weapons on the dinner table.

»Whose house is this?« Channing asked, trying again to get some answers.

»Sara’s.«

This name meant absolutely nothing to Channing. »Is that the woman in the picture?« He looked over at the piano.

»Yeah, that’s Sara.«

»Is she ... is she my wife?«

Shia shook his head. »No, she’s my sister and the woman you swapped your apartment with in Paris for two months.«

Now the name S. Keane made some sense.

Shia had sat down at the dinner table and was meticulously cleaning his swords.

»I can’t remember doing that at all.«