The Survivors: Point of Origin (book 2)

Prologue

November 2
Suceava, Bukovina, Romania

People were staring.

The tall man towered over everyone else as he entered the café. His slick, black-walnut hair hung straight from his pale temples and fell in line with his jawbone. There were deep lines etched into his skin, which looked very much like someone had slashed lines out of wax to create his face. His skin had the sheen of wax, too, and his eyes were a glassy obsidian color. He wore a thick mink coat over a crisp black business suit. Only, somehow, his appearance was still youthful. His presence was so outwardly cold and intimidating that it visibly rattled the patrons of the small café. No one dared look him in the eye.

He took a seat at the table where Sam was waiting for him, reading a newspaper.

"Four thousand years on this planet, and you still can't manage to tell time," Sam said, neither meeting the newcomer's eyes nor putting down the newspaper.

"Come now, Sam, you know better than that. I can tell it. I just don't abide by it," he joked, his smile refulgent despite his severe appearance.

"That's fair. You abide by nothing. Did you do this, by the way?" Sam asked, flipping to the headline of the London Times. 

"A subway bombing?" he asked incredulously. "What on earth do you think I am?"

"A question I ask myself every day," Sam said with a sigh.

The man took the paper from Sam's hands and set it on the table, then leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his stomach. His movements were stiff, and his eyes, menacing. "You don't look British. Have you always had that accent? Or did you pick it up along the way?"

"I'm sorry I don't look the part. My mother is from India, but I was born in London. I even went to Oxford for a few years before control became an issue," Sam said. "And I'm not you. I haven't spent my life moving around and taking on a new persona whenever I feel like it."

The harrowing man across the table did not. "You neglect to acknowledge that adapting new personas is more a requirement than a whim when you're immortal," he said coolly. He was tired of small talk. He switched to Greek, which he sensed no one in the café would understand, preferring a certain privacy. "So you think you've found them?" He was careful not to let his excitement betray him.

"Not all of them. I've found one," Sam said quietly, switching languages to match.

Sam's companion scoffed at this, creasing his brow. The lines on his face became so deep, it looked like his skin had cracked. "Impossible. They'd all be in one place. I made it clear they had to remain together."

"What makes you think they listened to you?" Sam asked defiantly, overstepping bounds. "They didn't stay where you told them to go, did they? If they had, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Sam's friend considered this. "How do you know this is the one I am looking for?"

"She's not a witch, not a vampire, not a shape-shifter — but she's immortal, a mind-reader, superhuman...yet not invincible. And, my god, she's got your hair and skin," Sam recounted almost nostalgically.

Sam's sentiment made the man uncomfortable. He loathed emotion of any kind. So he ignored it. "How do you know she's not invincible?" he asked. "Did you test it?" he asked, his eyes glinting.

"I did, in fact," Sam smiled. "But she also has scars." "None of them have had scars. It would be impossible."

"And yet I saw them," Sam said coolly.

He was doubtful. "A beating heart?"

Sam looked away from him. "No."

He sighed. "They have had beating hearts."

"Not all of them! Not the ones who had changed already," Sam argued. "But you said she wasn't a vampire or a shape-shifter. By definition, she hasn't changed!" he hissed.

"I think it's worth tracking," Sam said quietly, carefully.

He narrowed his eyes, penetrating Sam's light eyes with his own gaze. "Fine. Get on it. I'm sure you can handle this promptly, right?" Sam deflected his gaze.

"You know where to find me when you've got her. I'll be waiting," he said. He was clearly angry that Sam seemed so confident when he was so doubtful.

Sam was hurt that he didn't want to stay. "Are you going there now? It's madness. They'll still be celebrating!" Sam said.

"Are you questioning my judgment?" he said. Sam said nothing. He rose to his feet. "I hope you're not wrong," he said flatly. It was a threat. "I'm not," Sam said quietly. The tall man walked out the door and into the icy streets of Suceava.