Eternity

Text copyright © 2011 by Laury Falter

All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author or the publisher.

First Edition: August 2011

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-0-615-53342-1

For Babs – whose endearing love and astonishing insight in to this story made it possible to be written.

And thanks to my husband, Brian, for his fortitude and understanding during the many late nights it took to finish this novel.

And thanks also to Jill for her honest and motivational reviews.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

London, England, 1350 AD

Night was arriving quickly now. The shadows were creeping longer, like gnarled fingers reaching for each other and intertwining across the city. Dampness clung throughout the narrow cobblestone streets, aided by a thick fog that had begun to roll in from the River Thames. Along the streets, windows were now lit with flickering yellow candles warding off the darkness and the cold. In the distance, harsh coughs mingled with the howls of loved ones lost to the mysterious condition overtaking London.

As I turned the corner, my feet scuffed across the stones making a noise that I knew was too loud. I kept the flap of my cloak tightly wound to me, doing my best to minimize my appearance. I was just five feet tall but even at that height I was too conspicuous. Ducking lower, I kept moving. My eyes scanned the buildings ahead of me, and as best I could, behind and to the sides. I hadn’t seen them yet but there were still a few streets to go before I reached my destination.

A howl rose above the rooftops and I stopped. It was a sound familiar to me and it caused the hair at the back of my neck to stand up. My hands began to shake and small beads of perspiration rose up from my brow.

It was close. Very close.

I began to run, paying special attention to quieting my footsteps as I made my way through the labyrinth of London’s corridors.

The street that would take me to safety was only a few yards away and then my skin prickled worse on the back of my neck, the hair there standing straight out now.

Glancing up I found it perched on the roof of the building ahead. What appeared to be claws dug into the edge, its body cocooned in thick, black wings. Its head was tilted down so that it could watch me better.

I didn’t stop this time. My pace became a sprint and suddenly the gas lamps dimly lighting each side of the street blended in to one and the moist air on my exposed face collected and fell like raindrops down my cheeks.

The thing gave a brief shudder – a sign of excitement at the prospect of murder – and unraveled its broad wings. With a single pump, the wings lifted it into the night sky. It hovered for only a moment and then dove towards the earth, towards me. It made no sound other than the wind whistling over its fluttering wings.

We were now on a collision course unless one turned and fled the other direction. This, I knew, would not happen.

Fleeing, at this point, was not an option. I leaned forward, the balls of my feet barely touching the ground as I increased my speed.

I looked at my attacker, watching as a wicked smile of stained, jagged teeth stretched beneath its gleaming, eager eyes. My own eyes were now narrowed, mustering every conceivable prowess I had in me. I would need it.

The collision never came.

From a side street emerged a movement so blindingly fast it was indistinguishable. The winged being and my defender slammed into a building wall, becoming a mesh of entangled limbs, crumbling brick dislodging from the force.

“Eran,” I screamed, though it came out a whisper.

“Stay…back…Magdalene,” he struggled to warn me.

Without thought, I tore the cloak from my shoulders and joined the fight.

CHAPTER ONE: THE ARRIVAL

New Orleans, Louisiana, 660 Years Later

The day before school started I woke up to a quiet house.

This is good, I thought. Easier to sneak out.

I slipped out of bed and quietly walked across my room to the closet, opening it to a row of T-shirts and jeans. I’d never given much thought to what I wore and today was no different. Everything I owned was made of cotton and denim so I pulled out a Cottage Cheese Band T-shirt, the closest one to me, and a pair of jeans. After dressing, I picked up the only pair of shoes I owned – black leather biker boots with steel tips – and headed for the door.

Passing by my standing mirror, I caught sight of my reflection and paused.

Standing at just five feet, my image barely filled the frame. But what I lacked in height, I made up for in other areas. I’ve been told that I look like an oversized fairy and, to be honest, I could vaguely see the resemblance. With a long mop of curly cocoa-colored hair falling to my hips, a slim waist, rather meager legs, and super-sized hazelnut eyes I fit that description fairly accurately. I just wished I had wings…to help make my escape a little easier.

Opening my door, I cautiously peered outside. Still no sound. Good. I slipped out into the hallway and crept passed the only other door on the way to the stairs.

In the dim light of the second floor, I stared at it, partly hoping for it to open and partly hoping it remained shut.

Behind that door was my guardian, Eran Talor; someone who had dedicated his life to protecting me and had proven already that he would go to extremes to do it. He’d risked his life more times than I knew in order to keep me from taking my last breath. More than that, he was also my one true love, my best friend, my eternal confidant, the reason for me to fight for that last breath. Therein lays the problem and why I was torn between the door opening or staying shut.

That door wasn’t the only thing separating Eran and me.

It was also Eran.

As my guardian he made it clear that he would not allow himself the luxury of intimacy with me. His responsibility as my guardian came first. He’d explained in a way that left no room for argument that while he loved me unconditionally and without end that love would not distract him from his sole purpose in keeping me safe.

I disagreed wholeheartedly and had not been able to shake the disappointment that – to him - our love was a distraction.

Because of this disagreement and because my entire being ached at the sight of him, I was doing my best to avoid him – which hurt me as much as it frustrated him.

So as I crept down the stairs, I avoided the floorboards I knew to be loose. This was a challenge. Living in a historic Victorian house on Magazine Street in New Orleans meant that the house was old and therefore – it creaked.

While I loved the house, I did not like the fact that it was Eran’s accomplice in notifying him when I was leaving.

To my surprise, I landed at the base of the staircase without a sound and quickly made my way to the kitchen.

That was where my sneaking out ended.

From inside the kitchen, a hearty Irish voice asked, “Whatdoya call that mess?” It belonged to Rufus, a giant, heavily tattooed man who always reminded me of a Viking warrior with a secret sensitive side.

His answer was a mere sigh and it came from Felix, another housemate. Felix was the exact opposite of Rufus – bony, flighty, and as vibrant as his bright, rust-colored hair. A moment later, as if not wanting to be outdone, Felix replied haughtily, “Licorice mayonnaise, if you must know. Widely liked in Europe until the eighteenth century.”

“Couldnta been that widely liked…if they stopped usin’ it.”

I entered the kitchen to find Felix’s already thin lips pinched closed. He was clearly trying to prevent an argument but I strongly doubted it would help.

The moment he saw me his mood changed. Drawing in a sharp breath, he exclaimed, “Good morning, Mags!” Clearly he was using me as a change of subject. “Are you leaving for Jackson’s Square so soon?”

I hesitated in answering. They sided with Eran so any mention that I was leaving would be their cue to wake him. “It’s seven o’clock in the morning, Felix.”

“Right,” he nodded, his entire body shaking as he furiously whipped his licorice mayonnaise. “Right…” It looked as if he wanted to say more but didn’t know how to phrase it. So it was Rufus, who didn’t follow social etiquette, who asked the question.

“Tryin’ to get outta here ‘fore Eran is up?”

I considered these people my family, having parents who passed on at the time of my birth and an aunt who took her photography more seriously than she did me as my only known blood relatives. Yet, if there was any question who my housemates were more loyal to, this little spat that Eran and I were going through made it clear.

Because of this, I ignored Rufus – even though I knew my silence would be a declarative ‘yes’. There was really no way around the truth. Not that I cared to lie. I never understood the need to. I was going to do what I wanted regardless of their opinion. It was just easier for me if I kept them questioning.

“Smells good,” I replied instead.

He nodded, understanding I wouldn’t give myself up. As a peace gesture, he scooped his scrambled eggs on to a plate and set it in front of me before turning to stroll back to the stove and remake them for himself. He narrowly missed Felix, who was now approaching me with a suspicious grin. I couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if the two were to collide. Since Felix reminded me of a scarecrow and Rufus resembled an ox there shouldn’t have been any guessing who would be left standing.

Felix reached me and quickly slopped a dollop of pinkish congealed glob next to my eggs. “Just try it.”

I stared at it warily. Felix had built a reputation for his interesting culinary skills so I wasn’t surprised that it was the licorice mayonnaise he’d been mixing before I’d entered the kitchen. Curiously, I dabbed my fork into it.

Something made me wonder whether they were using their food to keep me here until Eran woke up.

“It’s meant to eat, Maggie, not to stab,” said Ezra, entering the kitchen. As a robust swarthy woman and the oldest member of the house, she brought with her an air of authority. She patted my shoulder passing by me to pour a cup of coffee – of which I knew was the fourth cup so far today.

“Morning Ezra,” I replied. Felix beamed a smile at her and Rufus simply gave her a gruff nod.

“Good morning, dear friends,” she said pleasantly, inhaling the aroma of her steaming coffee and smiling to herself. “What a beautiful one it is too. I see we are all up early, with the exception of Eran.”

As if on cue, the three of them looked in my direction.

“What?” I said shrugging, knowing full well they were questioning what I thought of that and whether I’d make another attempt to leave before he was ready.

In truth, I could leave whenever I wanted. Ezra watched over me while my aunt, whom I typically live with, toured Europe on a photography excursion while I spent my senior year in New Orleans. So, Ezra and I had an unspoken appreciation for the fact that she (nor Rufus nor Felix) had any right to enforce rules. Yet, she knew that I respected her and wouldn't overstep my bounds by blatantly ignoring her wishes. If she asked me directly to wait for Eran I would have, but I think she’d avoided that request simply because she didn’t want to interfere. She was letting Eran and I work it out, which I appreciated.