Page 48 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
He arched a brow. "For my herbs?"
The question held layers she wasn't comfortable addressing yet. He knew why he'd been elevated, what was expected of him. But neither of them seemed ready to acknowledge that particular elephant in the garden.
"Among other things," she said. "Like your ability to carry on an intelligent conversation. It's been a long time since we've had someone new to talk with who can bring fresh perspectives."
"I'm not sure how fresh my perspectives are."
She studied him more closely, trying to gauge his age. His face was unlined, his hair thick and without a single gray strand, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of years beyond his apparent youth. It was the same look that she saw in the mirror and reflected in the eyes of her companions.
Since he was human, the only explanation for the ancient wisdom in his eyes could be his profession. A shaman could connect to other realities, communicate with spirits, and have a spiritual depth that other humans did not possess.
"How long have you been practicing your craft?" she asked.
"Long enough to know that the more I learn, the less I understand." He smiled wryly. "That's the shaman's answer. The practical answer is that I've been studying herbs and healing for most of my adult life."
"What about the spiritual part of your craft? Is that something you learned or something you were born to?"
"Both, I think. The inclination was always there but learning how to channel it usefully took time and many mistakes along the way."
"We all make mistakes," Tamira said softly. "The blessing and curse of immortality is that we have to live with them forever."
"Do you see it as more of a blessing or a curse?"
The question was gently asked, but it struck at the heart of her existence. She'd answered it in different ways over the millennia, her response shifting with her mood and circumstances. Today, sitting in the artificial light with an interesting new companion, the answer felt more complex than usual.
"My answer tends to change according to my mood."
"Fair enough." He shifted on the bench, and she caught another whiff of his clean scent.
"Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?" she asked.
"I was told I was expected to."
"Told, not invited?"
His smile turned rueful. "Lord Navuh's instructions were communicated clearly."
She squared her shoulders. "I'm inviting you now. Would you join us for dinner, Shaman Elias?"
He bowed his head. "I am delighted to accept your invitation, Lady Tamira."
16
TIM
The first thing Tim noticed was the beeping. Steady, rhythmic, annoyingly persistent. Like an alarm clock that wouldn't shut up no matter how many times he hit snooze. The second thing he noticed was that his mouth felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton balls that had been marinating in gym socks.
He tried to open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. After what felt like an eternity of struggle, he managed to crack them open just enough to be assaulted by fluorescent lighting that stabbed directly into his brain.
"Fuck," he croaked, or tried to. What came out sounded more like a dying frog's last gasp.
His body felt wrong. Not just tired or sore, but fundamentally different in ways his foggy brain couldn't quite process. There were things attached to him—wires, tubes, various medical apparatus that suggested he was in significantly worse shape than a simple hangover would warrant.
Memory returned in fragments. The gym. Magnus towering over him like some Nordic god of war. The pathetic excuse for wrestling moves he'd attempted. And then fangs, sinking into his neck with a sharp, searing pain that had immediately morphed into a euphoric trip better than any he had ever experienced, including the ones he'd soared on after the mushroom parties in art school.
The induction ceremony.
Right. He'd done it. He'd actually been bitten by an immortal vampire Viking right in the neck. And now he was...what? Transitioning?
