Consequences (22 page)

Walking through the crowd that throbs in and
out of the club, I am hit by a wave of euphoria. A beautiful woman
with dark hair, yellow eyes, and a hypnotic, deep voice is standing
on top of the stage, spinning with the music. She comes to the
point of the chorus, and the entire club starts jumping up and down
with the beat. I can feel their energy vibrate through my feet and
rise up to my shoulders. Letting my feet move, I allow the beat to
take me over. With my hair brushing back and forth across my back,
and then around my arms, I raise my hands into the air, and arch my
back just a little more to allow the pulsing music and crowd soak
even deeper into my chest.

I can sense the floor is solid under my feet,
and as people brush by their emotions only add to my exhilaration.
I start spinning with the mesmerizing singer, listening to the
rhythm of the clapping and the pounding of feet … then I feel hands
gently caress my waist.

I turn to find a young man wearing a crisp,
white shirt and dark slacks, looking at me with the strangest
expression. His eyes are a dark chocolate brown … large, full of
mysteries, and questions. He runs his fingers up my arms as I
continue to dance, but the emotions and thoughts that come from his
contact are innocent and quizzical. He is trying to decide if I am
real. He bites his bottom lip and looks at me with something that
might have been mistaken for lust, if I hadn’t already read his
intentions. He just wants to dance … with an angel? Oh no, I
materialized in front of him … how could I be so bloody idiotic.
And, I was doing so well controlling my hold on the veil!

As the song finishes and a new one starts, he
reaches up and gently pulls a strand of my hair away from my face.
I am sweaty … oh lord! I hate this part of being human. This song
is slower and starts with the lute and a piano. The singer takes on
a smooth, sweet tone, and the people around us start holding each
other close and swaying back and forth. I look back at my new
friend, to find that he has put out his hands for me to take. I
tentatively rest my fingers in his palms, and he gently pulls me
close … still there is nothing, but innocent curiosity flavored
with astonishment. Plunging deeper into his feelings, past the
surface astonishment, I can feel … fear. Well, of course he would
be afraid; I just materialized out of thin air. I can’t help but to
be inquisitive about this boy, who sees someone appear in front of
him, and ignores his fear in order to respond with curiosity.

When he starts whispering softly in my ear,
it is a broken mixture of Greek and English. His voice is very rich
for someone so young; and I like to listen to it, even though, to
my ears his words are muddled. Oddly, though, the thoughts that are
forming with the words he speaks are not only Greek, but clear
English with a British accent. He must have picked up on my
confusion because he pauses to think before he speaks again.

“Do all angels not wear shoes?”

I look down at my feet and nod … “I never
seem to have shoes when I need them.” I try to smile, but it forms
crookedly on my face.

He laughs at my awkwardness, then holds me a
little closer letting me place my feet on top of his shoes. “I do
not want you to be stepped on.”

“Thank you … but, I really should be
leaving.” I focus on the gentle sway of the music, and knowing I
can’t do any more damage, I let myself drift back into the mist. As
a parting gift I gently stroke his cheek, and then stand back and
watch his expression.

At first he wears a mask of shock, and then
to my surprise he starts to laugh. I scrutinize him, uneasy with my
own wonder over this man.

He speaks to the air around him “If you are
still here … will you walk with me?”

Concentrating on the solidity of my
fingertips, I touch his hand to say, I will indeed follow him. He
nods, turns, and walks confidently through the crowd and out onto
the street.

We are in the heart of Athens; the city is
nestled in a valley, the east and west are noticeably higher and
the coast lies to the south. I noticed all the diversity of the
terrain and immensity of the city as I flew in from the southwest.
While I follow the mysterious young man through the streets, I
realize we are heading north; although, I have no idea where he is
taking me in particular. If I am as clever as I pretend to be … at
that moment, I should have remembered Cass's warning about
dangerous humans, but I follow the intriguing man nonetheless.

Weaving through the streets, we pass cafes
and patio restaurants. The smell of the food makes my mouth water,
and I think about becoming solid just long enough to taste one of
the delicious items sitting on the patrons’ plates. The music never
fades, it just moves smoothly from one business to another: local
classic, to dance, to blues, and then back to classic. The richness
of the atmosphere, the sound of laughter, whistling, singing,
talking … the aroma of food and bodies, give the air a spicy,
bitter flavor that I can taste. When I bring my attention back to
my guide, who is expertly moving through the crowd of people, he
nonchalantly greets friends on the patios as we pass, and my head
starts to feel woozy. I am thoroughly intoxicated by the intensity
of the contentment and friendly emotions around me.

He turns toward a café that is set on a busy
corner; quite a few of the people sitting at the small, round
tables look up, wave, and holler something at him. He moves quickly
past them, smiling and waving in return as he strides into the
storage area toward the back. I cautiously follow him into the
confined space. He turns to face me; with a sly grin, he reaches
out precisely to where I am standing, almost viciously, swiping his
hand through my body.

“You … you can see me?” I am stunned, talking
to myself as much as to him.

“Yes, I can see you … and hear you. I’ve
never met one of you who could return to this world with such ease.
You don’t seem to be as conceited as the others I have met either …
so I will offer you one warning: get out of my city, or I will be
forced to tell the Symboulio about you.” His demeanor isn’t hostile
and his emotions are still primarily inquisitive, but I can tell he
has no problem following through on the threat.

However, what kind of threat is it? “I will
leave, yes; but please, first tell me who the Symboulio are?”

His eyes harden and he studies me very
closely for a moment, and then shrugs. “You are very unusual … you
know that. I realize your kind doesn’t think that the human portion
of Symboulio is much of a threat, but I would think the Timoro
would scare you into compliance.”

“I’m sorry; I still don’t understand who you
are talking about.” I study his eyes as closely as he has studied
mine.

“You don’t, do you? You’re English, or were
English, right? I can hear it a little in your accent. We have
sects there, how could you not know who we are?” A new emotion
creeps into his voice as he speaks … uncertainty. He has been
curious, but always confident, up until now. Distracted for a
moment, I think about how that really is a very good question … why
don't I know about them. Again, my blotchy memory takes me back to
my Uncle's farm, and my reason adds this new question to the list
of peculiarities about my family's past.

His questions are rhetorical as he ignores my
thoughtful expression, and continues as though he is reading an
instruction manual. “I am a seer; there are others with different
abilities, too … but mostly the Symboulio recruits Seers. Usually
the talent runs in a family line, so they keep a close eye on
members or particular relatives." If my Uncle Edward did in fact
possess an ethereal talent … then he must have known about this
group of people. Why, was I never told? Why was I allowed to
believe I was alone … a freak?

Wrenched away from my irritation, I feel
something strong flow out of the Symboulio agent, as he begins to
discuss his own family. "My father, aunt, and both of my cousins
were members. The council, the Symboulio, took me away when I was
very young. We are to watch your kind, and keep you from
endangering humans. When one of you comes into a city with so many
people, such as Athens … we call in the Symboulio hunters, and the
Timoro, to remove the problem. The Timoro are like you; and they
are very efficient at dispatching troublemakers.”

The more he speaks, the more apparent his
accent becomes … also English. I would have pointed that out, but I
was concentrating on his emotions and thoughts. When he mentioned
his family, I sensed … grief. And when he said “Symboulio hunters”,
another acute spasm overwhelmed his words … anger, intense anger. I
look into his eyes, slowly and gently lifting my fingers to his
cheek. The pain strikes me almost immediately, and then the words
flow through our contact.

“They killed them … they killed them all.” I
can feel his emotions trying to overtake my mind. His fear, pain,
and sadness, threaten to become my own, but then a remembrance of
Zuvan’s calm comes to my mind and I simply don’t let what I am
sensing assault me. I feel sympathetic, and understand his pain, as
if it was my own; but I don’t let it weaken my reasoning. I am
relieved to confirm that I can control my reaction, without taking
away anything from my grasp of the brutality in his feelings.

I focus and press further into his fear and
sorrow. I can’t bring up any mental images, and have to fight the
intensity the entire time ... I am definitely better suited to read
Ho Thanatos.

I know this rage; I felt it while England was
at war. The same sensation was there inside unnecessary deaths of
those that I cared about. It was inside the battered minds of
strangers, drawn together by tragedy. The irrational surrendering
of life, to an enemy that tries to take away everything … I lost my
human life to a time of fear. But is his anger and fear towards Ho
Thanatos, or the Symboulio? I gently ask the question, and boldly
hold eye contact until his gaze shifts to the floor.

Replying, “Both … I guess.” He shrugs his
shoulders and almost looks like a heartbroken child being scolded
for dropping his lollipop.

“What happened to you?”

When he looks back up at me, his eyes, and
voice, have turned hard. “The Symboulio took me away from my mother
when I was three, and shipped me to a private boarding school
outside London. My cousins were sent to France. When I returned to
Greece at fourteen, I found that both of my parents had passed away
without notification or explanation. At first, I moved in with my
aunt here, in Athens, and we were joined by my cousins a year
later. The Symboulio were a constant influence in our lives, not a
day went by when we weren’t following my aunt out on one kind of
assignment, or another. As seers we were to watch your kind from
afar and report back if we noticed any unusual behavior. When I was
about eighteen my aunt called in the Symboulio over a young female,
much like yourself, who had unfortunately found herself in Athens.
The young one had settled into the middle of a festival, surrounded
by people. We watched as she absorbed a glowing aura off every
human that she touched.

My aunt became sick, ranting about ‘not
another one.’ She ran off, and when she returned she had three
Timoro following her. They were wearing dark cloaks to hide their
shape, and if it wasn’t for the fact that they drifted a foot off
the ground, and passed through solid objects, I would not have
recognized them as your kind.”

“Was that the first time you had ever seen
them?” I don’t have to read his feelings to understand the terror
inside his memory of the Timoro.

“We were taught about them in school, and I
remember my father using them as a nighttime ghost story to scare
me. Seeing them for myself … well, they were beautiful, but at the
same time bloody horrifying. Yes, that was the first time I saw
them. And I watched, petrified, as they ripped apart the lovely
young one … but instead of blood, she hemorrhaged light. Energy
poured out of the cracks in her exquisite flesh: the brilliant
blues, violets, and greens … I watched as she faded from our sight.
And then, I retched all over the sodding ground.” He snickers
bitterly and spits on the floor.

I focus on the fear, the overwhelming
bitterness … and lift them away just enough to sense the guilt.
“What happen after you witnessed her … death?”

“My aunt sent us home, and then she escorted
the Timoro back to their meeting place. I hid until I was sure my
aunt and the monsters were gone, and then I returned to the
festival. I was curious as to what the young one was inflicting on
the people … what was she doing that would have earned her a death
sentence?"

"My hands were shaking when I reached the
spot where she had disappeared. The people milling around me made
the air feel stiff and corrosive. My breath caught in my throat and
my heart started to jump, as I found the couple I watched the young
one touch. They were talking about the odd sensation they had
experienced a few minutes earlier. I was sure they were going to
say that she was sucking their life away, how they felt terribly
ill … but, that wasn’t it. They said that they were sure, something
about the exact spot where I was standing, could make you feel,
extremely content. They were trying to convince their friends to
ask me to move so they could experience the elation …where
something made you forget about all your worries. For just a small
moment in life, they were blessed with the understanding of pure
peace. They thought that they had witnessed a miracle.” I watch as
a tear rolls down his face, and I can feel his heart breaking.

He continues with a forced tone to his voice.
I think he knows that I am curious about why he is telling me so
much …but I don’t ask. For whatever reason he needs me; he needs to
tell his story, to attempt to remove this weight from his
chest.