Page 54 of Dark Shadow of Guilt

Though some would say it was his malady talking, Praevus didn’t care. His desires were the natural outgrowth of his personal evolution. He was superior. As an Immortal in Vast, he had been common, ordinary. Nothing set him apart, neither his job nor his personality nor his looks.

Since arriving at the cabin, he had tried to rein in his wandering thoughts but found doing so difficult. For days now, he lacked focus, disappearing into black holes on occasion. He was restless, jittery.

When he leaned his head back on the sofa cushion, he struggled to remember how he had gotten into such a mess.

Praevus was handsome. But so was every Immortal. Though not timid, he lacked the charisma to win over others with clever conversation or amusing antics. He supposed some thought him boring.

He was one of many assistant librarians in Vast’s Hall of Time, where the great histories were kept. His job in the acquisitions section was to gather new records of their people, cataloging and shelving them. Once Immortals invented new techniques for storing millennia of documents, his task was to convert ancient and new chronicles to digital format. Though Praevus enjoyed the undertakings, they did not contribute to his individual growth.

When he felt himself withering away, he applied to be the documentarian. The position was one of status. The Immortal who held it was important, an attendee at all court functions and the recorder of significant occurrences in Vast. Though he interviewed with the OC, the job went to someone else. The re-named Scribe was a preening, insufferable male with few literary skills. His writing was flowery and effusive. Adjectives were Scribe’s preferred parts of speech, sprinkled liberally throughout his compositions and lacking merit. But the OneCreator favored the Immortal. It was the only reason for his appointment. Praevus was a superior writer, as shown by his journals.

Of course, since his journals recorded his evolving thoughts and desires, he had not shown them to the OC during the interview. Thus, the ruler of Vast was unaware of his expert writing skills.

The slight ate away at Praevus for centuries. His daily duties at the Hall of Time continued to be completed with his usual skill, but gnawing envy took its toll. Whenever he cataloged a current document from Scribe, his anger roared to the surface.

His growing interests dominated his thoughts. At first, they seemed touched with genius. Later, they appeared deliciously wicked. At night, he lay abed, searching through his mind, examining his new-found abilities, wondering what he might do with them. He pictured a female laughing at his quips. After she flirted with him over a meal, he would take her to his bed, where he would continue to invade her brain, to crush her will.

He began testing his newly acquired skills on fellow assistant librarians or patrons. Nothing they could detect. He entered their heads, buried a thought, and scampered out. He planted small commands.Get lunch early. Leave for the bathroom now. Take out such-and-such book from the shelf.With these successes, he moved to more delicate commands.Ask me how my morning is going. Compliment me on my choice of shirts. Offer to pour me another cup of coffee.The experiments lent excitement to an otherwise tedious day.

Each week, Praevus extended the boundary of his skills. His mission was to stretch his abilities. With each test, he mined deeper, never using the same Immortals for his investigations. No. He was clever.

Called into Librarian’s office on the main floor of the complex, Praevus was advised his work was slipping. He was cautioned to take care.

For a century thereafter, he controlled his urges. But when ennui again enervated him, he returned to what gave him joy. He was, however, not so careful this time. He did forego practicing on Immortals in the library, instead turning to strangers. A passerby on the street. A neighbor. A fellow customer in a coffee shop.

Though Praevus was aware he grew too bold, he could not stop himself. He did not want to stop. He was having too much fun.

Delicious.

Practice became more frequent.

One day, he tangled his invisible fingers in Elise’s mind. A court favorite of the OneCreator, she collapsed. She was unconscious, and Praevus realized he had gone too far. She would not recover from his invasion for, perhaps, a century. Her circuitry was fried, her memories stolen, and her ability to think obliterated. Praevus was fatigued, but ... he recounted the ecstasy of digging through her mind.

Mouthwatering. Fulfilling.

While she was unconscious, nearly brain-dead, Praevus swiped his hands over the female’s eyes, closing them. Since she had provided him joy, he laid her gently on the ground, tucking her lilac gown around her. He stood, prepared to fly home to enjoy the aftereffects. Then, the black-winged assassin blocked his path. “Dominion, I can explain,” he said.

The Feard glared at him with his one frightening eye.

“I found Elise like this and was going for help,” he explained.

The assassin drew a sword from a sheath on his back. “You have been judged by the OneCreator who sentences you to Angor.”

“No. You misunderstand the situation.”

“I think not, Praevus.”

He snapped out his wings to take flight. Before he rose, Dominion sped toward him, lobbing off an entire wing.

When he tried to fly using only a single wing, he wobbled, his feet stumbling. An impassive Dom watched Praevus’s dilemma, judging him. “Stupid.”

The assassin manifested a net, throwing it over Praevus’s head. He was caught and lifted into the air.

Dominion carted him off like a trapped bird. Reaching a particular spot in Angor, the assassin cut the netting, allowing Praevus to fall into Angor. When he hit the ground, his bones fractured. Henchmen scooped him up and dumped him in a filthy alley. He lay there in pain, healing with no assistance.

He was a Scourge, his white eyes those of a Mind Rat. With no escape, he was punished and tormented like others. Though he requested work in Angor’s Library of Beginnings and Endings, Harmony denied his request. Instead, he was assigned a menial job, one beneath his status, cleaning up and washing dishes in a cafe managed by the trustee Serita.

His undeserved incarceration continued until Serita offered him a deal. He accepted. Who would not choose her proposal over the repeated assaults on his mind and body at the Ordeals?

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