Page 1 of The Shadowed Oracle
Prologue
Karis Endolinn had never consideredhow he might die. Where he hailed from, contemplating the end wasn’t practical, and those he kept in company with deemed it weak. He was raised in the shadow of kings and warriors, philosophers and wielders, all of whom were remembered for their dedication to living without fear.
It was not Karis’s aim, however, to be remembered.
He’d lived a long life, and in those three hundred years, his only objective was to leave everyone he’d befriended, mentored and loved, with the tools to finish what he’d started.
Following the Sight, the Mother and her gifts, he laid the path out for them in the only way he could. The series of steps that all started here, tonight, in a small, moonlit clearing amidst the thick woods of San Bruno, California, Earth.
It all began… with his end.
Dirt crunched beneath his boots. The sound of wind-rustled branches hummed in his ears, brushing his grey-blonde hair over his shoulders. The smell of earthy, spicy cedarwood he’d come to love permeated the air. He felt euphoric. Happy, even. But he did not show it.
The hooded figure stalking behind him, wielding the knife that would kill him, could not see Karis express anything but stoicism. Couldn’t sense his relief. Couldn’t glean how desperately tired he was, and how he so longed for rest. The visions were clear on this need to remain neutral. He’d have to present himself as emotionless as possible, unwavering as the knife came down on him.
He came to a stop, poised himself as best he could, straining to stand on those exhausted feet. Then Karis Endolinn—storied Oracle of Hydor, leader of the exiled and friend of humanity—recited the poetry of his ancestors one last time.
“In unrest, I find my beloved Ealis wayward in the fight for dominion. Those souls gifted everlasting life have, in time, coveted death. Praised it. Hungered for it. Blessed Viator will be envied, hunted, but not worshipped. For true power now lies in the reforging of oneself as a God. And to become truly immortal, one must rule in the afterlife…”
The hooded figure stepped forward, pulling out a gold-hilted steel blade. It was lightweight but shook slightly in the trembling hand of the assailant, who was not a trained killer of legends, only ordered to be there, to follow Karis, to put him down quickly.
“… Lest we forget to rejoice in the Mother’s love, for it is a blessing to be held at all.”
The weapon raised high in the air, hung motionless for a moment, glinting in the starlight before driving down into Karis’s back for the fatal, promised blow.
“Forgive me,” Karis muttered, and fell to his knees.
Chapter One
The first ofthe four strange messages read: “Someone is following you.”
It was early in the morning and Ingrid Lourdes was just waking up, sipping her coffee at her kitchen table. The words appeared fuzzy to her unadjusted eyes so she squinted, focusing, then felt nothing but annoyance once the unsaved number became clear.
The only anonymous messages came from her co-workers at The Boneyard, a restaurant and bar she’d worked at and managed for the past three years. Ingrid’s phone was connected to the shift scheduling message board and she’d get every bit of information sent straight to her. Almost always, it was some young recent-hire trying to get out of their shift, spinning all kinds of absurd stories to do so.
A fire at their apartment complex. Stolen car. Broken down car. Sick Grandma. Sick dog. And, of course, the most popular—they were sick themselves. Which was apparently unrelated to the drunken photos they’d posted the night before at two in the morning.
She’d heard them all.
Yet, this story was a new one. Someone following them. Surely that was the meaning. She never thought “you” was in reference to her. Just another typo from an apathetic kid. A kid who was brazenly claiming they had a stalker.
It would have been admirable, she thought, lying to that extent to get out of work, if it weren’t so insensitive.
Ingrid continued to guzzle her coffee, fully expecting one of the hostesses—with frantically bad grammar and plenty of exclamation marks—to follow up with a novel-length text about a shadowy figure outside their home. But nothing came. The ominous message sat inconspicuously on her phone all day, not spared a second thought.
There were so many explanations of what it might be or who it might be from, Ingrid didn’t bother investigating.
Her day went on like it usually did. Co-workers bickered and stirred up new gossip. Nasty patrons demanded that their food be sent back. Men flirted with her, becoming more persistent with each drink. Old regulars discussed the most gruesome story in that week’s news. And at least once, some furious and unfamiliar face asked to speak to a manager, then quickly became angrier when Ingrid informed them with a small smirk, “Iamthe manager.”
On and on this went. No different from the day before, nor different from what would happen tomorrow. The rare occasions she’d break from this cycle was to go to the gun range, the library to read those antiquated books she found so much comfort in, or to the tattoo parlor for a rare touch-up on days she needed a more painful distraction.
Ingrid needed distraction. The more monotonous the better. That’s what kept her going, kept her sane. She worked as much as she did so she wouldn’t have to subject herself to the silence, instead reveling in the noise of the bar until it was time to closedown, divvy out the tips, turn off the lights, and make her way back home. Back to a much different, far more terrifying chaos.
One look at her apartment—consisting only of a couch, a small TV she used as a white noise machine, and of course, a bed—and one could deduce whoever lived there wasn’t expecting to stay long. Unsentimental, some might think. A habitual traveler, another would guess. But the truth was a combination of coping mechanisms and bad habits picked up from a childhood spent on the move.
One of the few things Ingrid could remember about her earliest years… was running. From what, or who, Ingrid never knew. Her father never told her. He never told her much ofanything, she had to admit to herself. So in those wide open blank spaces, a five-year-old Ingrid filled them with the one thing she was most familiar with. Her nightmares.
When the sun went down and the eerie quiet felt louder than any crowd, that was when the horror began. When the silence wasn’t silent at all, and felt more like a black brick wall closing in on her. A wall so tall she couldn’t see the top, and so close that she was sure the oxygen would run out any minute.
