City lights flickered by, slowing down and speeding up dependent upon the driver’s expertise. It was when the conveyor belt of images ceased to flow past for more than a minute that he realized they had arrived at their destination.
Leaning forward, his hand was poised on the lever to open the door when it was ripped from his grasp.
The limo door opened at the expert hands of the chauffeur and the Angel looked up to see him standing at attention, black gloved hands on the door, refusing to meet his gaze. Uncertain whether the driver’s apprehension
was due to fear of his appearance, or some sense of the danger he was in, fear permeated through the mortal’s pores, spicing the blood that raced through his body.
A hand lowered on his shoulder. “You are not alright.”
Ignoring Notus’ observation, he stepped out of the car before instinct would overcome control. He witnessed blue eyes dart at him before fixating upon the monk climbing out of the car, believing if he dismissed the obvious threat it would go away. The perspiration from the man’s temples proved otherwise, as did the thudding vessel of the carotid artery.
Straightening his robes, Notus grabbed his elbow and forcibly turned the Angel. It was then that he realized how close he had been to losing control. To do so, in public, would have been a disaster.
A breath escaped him in a shuddering sigh. Notus was correct. He was not alright. He was hungry.
“Get a hold of yourself,” hissed Notus as he guided them both into a throng of event goers that lined up to enter into the Michael Lee-Chin entrance beneath the crystalline structure attached to the ROM.
Scents of perfume mingled with flowers and spices, flavouring the scent of blood that permeated off of the mortals. Placing a hand over his mouth, he closed his eyes trying to gain control.
With so many mortals, their effervescence sinking into his senses, he did not know how much more control he could muster. Every cell in his being cried out to grasp at the first unsuspecting mortal and devour them. He had made a mistake, a fatal one if he could not get a hold of himself.
He felt a cool hand encase his free hand and the grip tightened. The
sudden sensation of the monk’s flesh against his own was enough for him to draw strength. He could sense Notus’ desire for him to rein in instincts he had been trained centuries ago to over ride with willpower. Taking a gasping breath, he consciously pushed away the desires of his body for sustenance. His body would be succoured, but not until after the party, he promised himself. A few more breaths and he lowered the hand from his mouth and nose. Opening his eyes, he gazed down at his Chooser.
Thank you.
He gave Notus’ hand a squeeze before letting go.
“It won’t last long,” sighed Notus. “But it may last long enough.”
Nodding, he stepped up to the doorman holding the guest list. Notus gave their fake names and they entered into the ROM.
Colourfully decorated marketing posters lined white painted walls in the hopes to entice museum goers to pay the extra to descend to the lowest level of the building and be given the treat of seeing works on display that had not been seen in hundreds of years, if not millennia. Little did any of the guests know that standing in their midst were two individuals older than most of the exhibit, and that one of them was responsible for more than half of the scrolls and manuscripts protected in their environmentally controlled glass cases.
The ROM was a dichotomy of old and new, clashing in a way that one either loved or hated. Regardless of one’s personal tastes one thing was certain, the new addition meant greater floor space for the exhibits.
Walking past the line up on the left for the coat check, the two Chosen emerged from under the white angled ceiling and walls of the Crystal and into the spacious
Hyacinth Gloria Chen Court
that bridged the old yellow bricked building with the stark drywall of the new. The differences were always jarring to the senses.
Tonight more couches and chairs filled the court, allowing for party goers a place to relax and enjoy the cocktails before heading into the
Samuel Hall
beyond the five display pillars further into the building. There, in the long hall, boarded with medieval frescoes on the walls, modern tables dressed in white linen patterned the hardwood floor. A dais dressed with a table for the guests of honour blocked the entrance to the
Philosopher’s Walk Wing
and its ancient Eastern treasures.
Men and women costumed in middle aged garb and holding modern cocktails drifted around the great room. Their conversations mingled into a drone occasionally punctuated
by a laugh or a click of glass. Servers in page costumes and fake livery moved from group to group offering appetizers that would never have been known or tasted hundreds of years ago. Drinks as diverse as the riotous costume colours passed from servant to fake lord or lady with nary a thank you.
Stringed music floated above the murmur of conversation. It was when a young woman, not more than twenty, dressed in purple livery, came up to the Angel and Notus to offer fluted glasses of champagne that they realized they stood in shocked silence at the spectacle. Her question broke their reverie and the Angel took his eyes off the medieval menagerie to watch fear blossom across her young face. Ducking her brunette head, she scurried towards a more amenable cluster of patrons.
A deep chested chuckle swung the Angel’s attention to Notus, whose face lit up in a smile. Unable to contain his mirth at the sight, Notus erupted into peals of laughter.
Heads laden with conical hats topped with colourful veils and floppy hats stuck with fake ostrich feathers turned towards the monk. Mortal faces twisting with disgusted curiosity only encouraged the monk to laugh even harder until he was bent over and tears streamed down his face. Through the halls his laughter rang until even the music halted and all was silent except for him.
Surprised at the outburst, the Angel could only stare at the monk’s bent over form. It was their connection that explained it to him. Images of a past these mortals tried to emulate over lapped with the gaudy spectacle in front of them. The absurdity of it all hit him and he bit his lip in the successful attempt not to join his Chooser.
He was saved just in time by Dr. Bowen’s appearance.
Dressed in a long black velvet gown hemmed with silver vines, Dr. Bowen could have stood model for a portrait of
Morgan la Fay
, except her brown hair was cut into a pixie bob, exposing her long pale neck, yet covering her ears with longer hair in the front. Black eyeliner accentuated her pale blue eyes.
The silver girdle emphasized her willowy curves. Mouth suddenly dry, he tapped Notus on the shoulder
.
“Oh my dear, Elizabeth,” managed Notus as he strained for breath and brushed the tears from his eyes. “What a delightful party!”
“I’m so glad that you’re enjoying yourself,” smiled the curator. Her blue eyes still queried the true culprit
of her co-worker’s outburst.
Aware of Elizabeth’s discomfort, Notus smoothed the wrinkles from his robe. “Ah…yes…well,” he attempted. “It is that this party has brought back some old memories.”
The Angel shook his head at the statement.
His memories did not elicit such mirth. Already the murmur of renewed conversation accompanied by ethereal music filled the hall.
“I’m happy to hear that.” Dr. Bowen turned her attention up at the Angel. “And do you find the party equally enjoyable?”
He could feel Notus’ gaze, the monk’s curiosity touched his flesh evoking a shiver. Under it was concern in how he was to answer. Taking a breath, he dragged his attention away from her pale smooth neck to fix onto her wide mysterious eyes.
“We’ve just arrived, Dr. Bowen,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.
His non committal answer raised a fine brown brow and he quickly amended, “So far it has been quite impressive.”
The answer did not alleviate the sudden tension that tended to develop between them.
Dr. Bowen gave him the once over, a flicker of disapproval crossed her features before her eyes caught his. It was strangely uncomfortable to have someone match gazes with him. Most kept their eyes diverted, but after the encounter at the condo where he was forced to relinquish his sword into her care, she never backed down. In response, he adamantly refused to call her by her given name.
“I do believe that sunglasses are a modern affectation,” she said. “Why not take them off?” Her long, graceful hands lifted to remove the offending plastic.
His hands reached up to grab hers before he could be exposed. “No,” his voice harsher than intended.
He lowered her hands, only to release them when they were far away from his face.
“You’ll have to excuse the lad, my dear, but it’s better for all if he keeps his glasses on,” interjected Notus.
He Sent a thank you to the monk for the timely rescue and received a curt nod tinged with disappointment.
Unhappy with the obtuse reason, Dr. Bowen shrugged a shoulder and smiled. Taking Notus’ hand, she slipped it through hers to lead him into the Samuel Hall.
Dining tables dressed in white and accompanied by black chairs held conversing patrons patiently waiting the time when dinner would be called. The Angel turned to glance over his right shoulder as he followed, taking in the medieval suit of armour that stood behind the ancient halberd, partisan and two handed sword in one of the five display cases that marked the entrance into the Hall. It was only due to his Chosen sight that he was able to see the rampaging lion imprinted in the blade of the sword. Overhead theatre lights dressed in coloured gels aimed at the head table while florescent light illuminated the rest of the grand hall.
He followed Dr. Bowen and Notus as she turned left to proceed into the
Rotunda
, the original entrance to the ROM. Their scholarly conversation flitted to his ears only to be ignored. There was only so many times he could hear the same thing. This was their passion and he did not share it.
Past the dual staircases, one to the left and to the right, each adorned with gigantic Haida totem poles, one larger than its brother, he noticed that Dr. Bowen steered Notus to a small group of elaborately dressed men and women standing in the centre of the rotunda, conversing.
They were nearly there when a shout from above rang through the beautiful room, before thunderous feet echoed down the stairwell.
“Mom!” cried the voice again.
The teenage girl nearly crashed into him.
Placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder to prevent her from falling backwards, he drew back as her robin’s egg blue eyes widened at the sight of him.
He took in the bizarre combination of ancient and modern dress that the girl wore. A black gown similar to Dr. Bowen’s was short enough to show off fish-net black stocking legs and Doc Martins boots. Her long black hair was tied up into a mass of curls and a black headband sporting white skulls kept stray hairs from her pale face. Dark eyeliner swirled at the corners of her eyes in intricate patterns. Her ears were littered with silver rings and studs. Even her nose held a glittering ring.
A smile lit up her face and he snatched back his hand. He had also seen that smile over the ages.
“Vee, watch where you’re going.” Dr. Bowen’s voice was stern. She turned to face him, Notus beside her. “This is Paul Nathaniel and his friend, Gwyn. This is my daughter Vivianne.”
“Vee,” corrected the girl. She drew her gaze away from him just long enough to take in Notus’ robed figure with a nod before returning to smile up at him.
“Vee,” amended her mother as she came to stand beside her daughter.
Standing side by side the resemblance between mother and daughter was striking. The only clear differences were that Vee was shorter and more roundly built, giving the teen greater curves.
“How wonderful to meet you, my dear!” Notus approached the girl with a smile and took her hands in his, much to her chagrin and the Angel’s relief. “Your mother has told me much about you. You are as lovely as she said.”