Shadowhunter (Nephilim Quest Book 1) (31 page)

The women pressed their palms together, and when they withdrew their hands, the strings were gone.

"What was that?" I whispered to Diana.

"They are the Time Weavers - they find the path to the past, and direct the group to the correct place and time. Theirs is the hardest skill to learn, they are very rare, and so valuable they are all assigned at least one Guardian who is to be near them at all times. It seems they have to have some Nephilim blood in their family tree to be able to do that. The Nephilim themselves cannot weave through time, though. They can get in and out of buffer zone on their own, but not weave," Diana whispered in answer.

"So only people can? That's odd."

"Yes, people with Nephilim blood. Old legends tell of good Nephilim who could weave, but they were all killed in the past..."

Diana stopped talking, when others came through the gate in the air. Six people in all. When they had all entered, Jason peeked into the buffer zone and said something quietly. After a short wait three more figures stepped in from the mist. They had similar body build to Jason. Other Gatekeepers, obviously, and all were carrying what looked like short swords. One was about the same age as Jason, the others were maybe ten years older. When they had come through, Jason quickly closed the gate with a few fluid movements. He had to use some force - I could see his muscles working, and there was a clear blue halo coming from under his hands - it seemed the gate had been open for a while. The translucent scar hung in the air for a minute or two, and then it was gone.

I gazed at the six travelers with interest. Their clothes looked Victorian in style to me. The Weaver was wearing a black dress that looked rather costly. On her head she had en elaborate hat of lace, velvet, a few feathers and pleats. With her was a young man, whom I took to be a Hunter. An older man, who was also dressed in the style of a gentleman, followed them, and two servant-looking girls, and then someone I recognized. Professor Reginald Rowan - or maybe I should say Reggie, as everyone else did.

"Ah, Dana and Diana." He bowed, squeezing a book tightly under his arm. "We've found it!"

"What have you found?" Diana asked.

"This!" Professor Rowan – or Reggie – lifted the book into the air like a victory sign. "It's a religious text from a nunnery library. And it's all about angels and Watchers and such. Maybe this is our clue!"

He trotted out of the room almost chuckling to himself with glee. Diana and I stole a sideways glance at each other, and couldn't help laughing. Scholarly enthusiasm was rather a funny thing to observe.

"Was it hard to find?" Mrs. Olanda asked the rest of the group when they sat in the chairs and sighed. Obviously they had been walking a long while.

"Well it took some convincing before the nuns let us into their library." the Weaver stretched out her legs. "But a generous donation to the order made them more cooperative. Reggie pretended to be my scholar of a brother who was finally given permission to study their books – under strict observance, of course."

"Of course..." Mrs. Olanda smiled.

"You stole the book?" I asked.

"We did. The bookshelves were guarded by a railing and a gate, with a very strict looking nun as the gate keeper. Reggie slipped the book under his waistcoat when the guardian of the library went in search of some other book. In its stead he put another book of similar size, so the numbers still matched, when he returned to his pile of books. I trust we were long gone before they noticed – if they noticed at all," the man said

"Indeed," Reggie shook his head, " it seemed no one had bothered to put the books in place for quite a while – there were piles of them on the tables... Unfortunately I could not go to the shelves myself."
 

"Was that ethical? Stealing the book?" I asked.

"Strictly speaking, no. But history records show this particular nunnery burns down in... well, we can't really talk about days anymore, rather hours after our visit...Its whole library will be destroyed. So you can say we simply saved the book. The only problem was to stop Reggie from taking anything else. Everything else, to be honest. He cannot tolerate the thought of books being harmed, can you? " The well-dressed man, grinned at Reggie. Then he changed the subject. "Are you the newcomer?"
 

"Yes. I'm Dana," I extended my hand in greeting and he took it and shook it with both hands.

"Welcome! I am Dieter. What's your speciality, then?"

"We don't know yet," Diana answered on my behalf.

"Have you seen shadows with your own eyes?" Dieter asked, placing his hat on the table and ruffling his hair with his fingers. "Have to get rid of these sideburns... I look like an Elvis-impersonator..." he then commented to the mirror on the wall and sang a few bars of Love Me Tender. Jason made a face and covered his ears with his hands.

"Yes, I have seen shadows."

"So you could be a Hunter..."

"We could try weaving right now, "
 
The Weaver who had been sitting in the chair got up and faced Mrs. Olanda, "to see if she's got the knack for it."

"Shouldn't we fetch Mireille first?" the other Weaver in her black Victorian dress asked and started unbuttoning the bodice of her frock. "How women ever agreed to wearing these corsets, I'm sure I'll never understand!" she mumbled to herself. "But if you think it is wise, we could try the weaving. First I'll get rid of this horror, though... I'll be back in a minute, I want to change into something more comfortable."

She walked out of the room, working on the long row of tiny buttons on her bodice.

"Are you sure you can do this?" Mrs. Olanda asked the Weaver.

"I think so. We are experienced Weavers and have been teaching students in Mireille's classes. We will not let her go anywhere, we'll simply do a test to find out if she has the threads in her. Oh, and I am Paris, by the way," the Weaver smiled and nodded to me.

"Dana, " I answered in kind, "pleased to meet you!"

"Likewise," Paris returned the compliment. She looked like someone who had just woken up from a dream.

She was a few years older than me, my height, and a little rounder in shape. She had long auburn hair and grey eyes, and the beginnings of laugh lines around her eyes. I liked her instinctively.

"Have you any idea how time weaving works?" she asked.

"No, this was the first time I have seen it done," I admitted.

The other Weaver reappeared in comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, which made her look rather hilarious – her hair was still combed into an elaborate Victorian hairstyle.

"Anna, " she extended her hand and I shook it. "Welcome to the center."

"Dana, nice to meet you."

With the introductions done they wasted no time. Anna gave me a little embroidered velvet bag. It looked old.

"What's this?" I asked.

"It was my anchor on this journey, " Anna replied. "An anchor is an object from the time the Weaver is trying to reach. It helps you weave your way into the right time. Once you have reached it, you need to adjust your position so that you get out of the zone into the right date. That's another matter, which will be taught to you later, should you be a Weaver yourself. This particular bag was embroidered by a nun at the very nunnery we visited, and more importantly, it was made around the time we needed to visit it – before the nunnery burned down. The nuns earned extra income for themselves doing this kind of needlework. Took us a few months of second hand shopping to find the genuine thing, but it took us nicely right to the doorstep of the nunnery. No need for any extra physical travel."

I looked at the bag closer. It had a design of beautiful cross-stitched red roses and leaves, their colors slightly faded.

"What should I do with this?"
 
I asked.

"Sit still, close your eyes, and listen to the bag. Not with your ears, but with your mind. That should be enough. Tell us the impressions you get."

Though listening to an object sounded an odd thing to do, I took the bag and sat on a free chair. Diana pulled up another chair for herself and sat next to me. I closed my eyes.

At first I only felt the material of the bag, and began to feel a bit silly. I did not have any clairvoyant qualities, it seemed. I opened my mouth to say I didn't "get" anything out of the bag, and the next second it all changed.

I fell. It felt as though I was falling inside myself in a tight spin that made me nauseous. Colors exploded all about me, bright, pure colors. They wafted like smoke around me, but then I saw them condense into strings. I grabbed the string that was the most solid. It was a grey one, pure, bluish grey. I must have used my physical hands, because I felt the string tug at my skin. The other colors swirled around my wrists, but gently. Only this grey string was very tight. I heard what sounded like a whip cracking, and the next thing I knew I flew. Instinctively I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Grab her!" I heard someone yell and opened my eyes.

To my surprise I was not in the room anymore, but surrounded by grey mist much like the mist from which Kitty had appeared last night. I was alone. My sole companion was the grey string that was shining pure silver now. It flowed from my fingers and disappeared into the mist at the height of my hands.

I must have ended up in the buffer zone somehow. I had no idea where I was. I was still holding the rose-embroidered purse tightly in my hands, which were covered in grey mist. I lifted my hand closer to my eyes, and it looked like the mist was seeping through my skin, swirling around the purse, and from there solidifying into a string. An insane sight.

I turned around. Nothing physical anywhere. Only mist that was solid enough to walk on. No gate, no nothing.

I fought fear. If I had no idea where I was, and if there was no gate anywhere near, I could be lost here forever. If I found my way out, I would be in some strange place and time.

"Kitty!" My voice sounded odd, there was no echo. Well, there wouldn't be, not in the mist.

No answer. Kitty was probably in other, higher spheres. I knew I had to be on the lowest level of the buffer zone. The same level where the Immortals and shadows moved. I realized it might be wiser not to try yelling for help again.

Thankfully I had never been the panicking kind. When I met an obstacle, my mind started churning out possible solutions as it always had.

I considered the options and did the only thing that made sense. The string leaving my hands was taut, and it was clearly connected to something on its other end. That something had to be physical. So I started walking in the nothingness towards the direction the grey string was leading.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

41. Mr. Donnelly Has a Close Encounter

The sketchbook was not quite as well preserved as it had appeared at first. It had clearly travelled a long way - and for a long time - and now Mr. Donnelly understood its worn look, if the book had come through centuries into his hands. Pages were torn, some of them had had some liquid on them - perhaps wine? This had erased much of the writing. It seemed Merit had used a pencil at first, and then some kind of ink that had not survived the moisture that had fallen on the pages.
 
He could see some of the sketches, though. There were people, buildings. Women and babies. The last pages of the sketch book were beyond reading.
 

But there were a few intriquing passages left to be translated after Mr. Donnelly turned the book around. Mr. Donnelly noticed she had numbered the days from the very beginning of the book - probably in an effort to keep up with time's passing. At date 305 she wrote:

"All is well now. I got fever and they feared I might die, but I survived, much to their surprise. They took care of me and..."

Mr. Donnelly let out a sigh of relief. She had survived a fever. Hopefully it was not malaria.
 

Then many pages were missing. Day 425 told:

"Elijah, I stumbled across an incredible mystery... Those who kept an eye on us... disappeared... They were doomed to..."

Frustrating gaps in the text again. Who kept an eye on whom? Their parents? Not likely. Surely these were lovers.

"Who disappeared? Who was doomed and why?" Mr. Donnelly said out aloud.

"Doomed? What do you mean?" a sweet voice said from the doorway.

Only because he had been used to the Masters appearing and disappearing out of thin air, did Mr. Donnelly manage to keep his calm. He pulled a paper he had been scribbling on over the sketch book and turned another leaf of one of the Egyptological books, then sighed, and stood up rubbing the bridge of his nose, slipping his Moleskine inconspicuously into his pocket.

"My lady," he bowed, "I do apologize for my appearance. If I had known you were coming to visit me, I would have put on decent clothing and provided you with some refreshments."

The blonde woman in the doorway smiled a beautiful, chilling smile that did not reach her golden eyes. How different her smile had been when he had first met her in front of Westminster Abbey in 1887. She had been so sweet and fragile, and managed to lure him into a life of imprisonment in this timeless place. If only he had known... But no, he had fallen into their trap, hers and whom he had believed to be his brother - he had believed their story and trusted their promises a wonderful life as an esteemed and respected scholar. There was no mention of shadows, monstrous creatures and a threat to his own life if he did not deliver what was expected of him.

"You talked about someone being doomed. Perhaps you would clarify?"
 

"Ah yes, I was wondering why the subjects of our study were doomed," Mr. Donnelly no longer surprised himself by lying so fluently - the years had taught him to keep his emotions in check to such an extent he almost believed himself when he was lying to the Masters. "What it was that was so dangerous in what they knew that they had to be doomed for all eternity."

"Indeed," the woman observed him with those yellow eyes like a snake observing its prey, "and that is why you were hired. We expect to see results soon."