Page 5 of Whispers of Torment

Nathan couldn’t give a shit about politics. “Look,” he wanted to say. “I’ve seen Washington’s inauguration. One is as good as another.”

But he was too distraught to speak.

In theory…he knew what he was doing. The phenomenon known among immortals as the Calling had him in its grip, and he was drowning with the need to find her. The woman in his dream had made a gasping sound and bound their souls. He was frantic to find her. A fine tremor, like a hissing teapot, had begun in his core.

With their souls bound, glimpses of her slammed him, though he continued to see through the keyhole of his dream. He saw the sun glinting red on her mahogany hair and slender fingers twisting a rope of pearls at her throat.

The passenger beside him groaned loudly and went off on another rant. Nathan’s fists clenched against the urge to smash the tablet on the floor.

He swallowed the anger, turned his face to the window and thought of her.

She was out there.

And she was his future.

If not for his elite group of immortal friends, he would be floundering with the Calling. If not for them, he would be mad with the Visions and paralyzed with this damned shaking that accompanied them.

Yes, thank God he had friends. After admiring his artwork for a century, the group of immortals sought him, realizing he was immortal too. He had never searched for others of his kind. After all, what would he look for? Tattoos? Many modern people had tattoos. What would he say? “Excuse me, but did you have that tattooed on your chest, or did it appear around the time you realized you can’t die?”

His new friends invited Nathan to join them, and he had for a time. But he couldn’t bear to be parted from his granite and chisels for long.

Dante was the unspoken leader of the group, and he was in Spain when Christopher Columbus asked King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella for funding. He manned the helm of one of those ships, and his immortal tattoo of inky waves reflected his love of the sea.

Dante’s mate, Maria, an olive-skinned beauty and ancient Mayan, had tattoos of jaguars running down her arms. Each tattoo was unique to the immortal and in individual locations. Nathan’s filled his torso with a dark blue, zigzagging, lightning bolt pattern.

But Maria possessed one other tattoo on her left breast over her heart. This was a medallion of dark red. When Dante had explained it to Nathan, he had drawn aside the lace of her bodice to expose an imprint of his blood which ran in her veins, connecting them for eternity.

He dropped his face into his hands and spent a quiet moment ‘tracking’ her. The sight of the shell of her ear stopped his breathing. The pale, slender column of her throat stopped his heart. The sight of her lower lip being crushed between her teeth and mesmerizingly released drowned him with desire. He stared from the miniature window at the sun slanting through the grey sky and wondered about her eyes. He longed to stare into the eyes of his woman and see her need for him.

Though his body ached from the constant rolling tremors, he had never known such elation. In over two hundred years of Walking the earth, he had never felt this alive. Not even his precious granite and carving tools gave him such satisfaction.

As the hatch of the jet sealed shut and the craft hummed to life, Nathan closed his eyes. One hundred and fifty sweaty, angry passengers faded. The pilot’s droning monologue faded. His seat partner faded. And there was only her.

* * *

Nathan moved through the airport, his long legs eating up the concourse. He had no luggage, no possessions except the wallet and cell phone which had been in his jeans when he awoke from the Calling.

He paused at a newsstand to purchase a book and some gum before boarding another flight. He would bury himself in a hardbound art book. Hundreds of them filled the shelves of the study in his Vermont home, centuries of accumulation.

He had spent his childhood in that home, returned to it after his rebirth to find his elderly parents dead and the caretakers run off. He had never left again. By embracing the idiosyncrasies of an artist and turning reclusive, he gave mortals the perception that he aged. No soul set eyes upon Nathan Halbrook, famous sculptor, and years had passed before Nathan would emerge as the son who had inherited the little country estate as well as the masterful talent.

The humble stone farmhouse backed up against the very mountains from which he had been born into immortality. He loved the dry creaking of the floorboards and the sun streaming through the tiny windows. He loved the fresh green scent of the farmland. And he loved walking.

To see another farmhouse in the distance and watch the smoke from the chimney crawling into the sky made him feel a part of society and life without being a participant.

And walking packed his head with ideas. Nature communicated with him, whispering for him to see the features of the monuments he carved—angels and serene women who stood guard over the dead—in the frost on a pane of glass. The tree branches inspired their hair, and the flow of their draperies reflected a rippling creek. Manipulating the rock until it appeared to be soft was an illusion which had made him famous.

The entire farm was a trick of the eye. Technology did not appear to touch it. The barn brimmed with old farm implements, the house bulged with antiques. For the first time, Nathan worried about bringing a woman into his world. How would she perceive his beloved home?

If she didn’t like it, he could find the will to leave. He would follow her anywhere. To the top of Mt. Fuji, to the sands of Egypt. Even into the dark unknown of the future. Imprinting was not foolproof, as Dante had shown him. A member of their group had attempted to imprint an immortal woman after receiving The Calling, and he had accidently killed her. Dante had witnessed this one other time on the sugar plantations. The immortal that had killed his mate had gone mad and begged for death.

Nathan’s palms grew damp at the thought. What would he do? But no, they had already begun the process, and he would not, could not, entertain the idea of another outcome.

He flipped the pages of the art book, avoiding the gaze of the woman seated next to him. She crowded him slightly with her long legs, her body angled toward him. Not only was he disinterested now, he had never been interested.

After watching so many of his mortal friends die, he had shrouded his heart. It became granite, too, and could admit no person, not at that level.

The years slipped by in solitude so quiet and earthen, it created a tickling in his ears that made him want to scream or laugh aloud just to part its heaviness. And it weighted him to a world he did not ask for.

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