The Rebel of Time by Craig Andrew Mooney

Author:Craig Andrew Mooney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-03T10:14:21+00:00

19

THE SUITED MAN

He was there. How was he there? Doran’s eyes flitted in the direction of Zander.

‘Best not to wake him,’ the suited man said. ‘I would prefer to keep this to just the two of us.’ His voice was smooth and precise, every word carefully chosen and delivered. He crossed his legs and smoothed down his trousers with the long, bony hands which had been plaguing Doran’s nightmare only moments before.

He smiled again, though somehow this put Doran even less at ease.

Doran had yet to find his voice, so instead decided to analyse the man before him. For that’s what he was, wasn’t he? He wasn’t some spectre or monster; simply a man. So why did Doran feel so haunted by him?

The longer he looked, the clearer the answer became. The suited man also remained silent, apparently content to wait for Doran to make the next move. He just sat there, staring at him, perfectly relaxed. The green eyes didn’t move or display any urgency. But it was more than that. The closest parallel Doran could think of was of a lion, patiently lying in the grasslands, waiting for an antelope to run by.

He had two prominent scars, the first starting at his chin and running down his neck, spoiling an otherwise flawless raven-black beard. The beard looked as if it had been chiselled rather than grown, like someone had wrapped a shadowy mask around his jaw and mouth.

The second pencil-thin scar also disrupted the man’s face, separating his left eyebrow into two and finishing underneath the eye itself.

His hair was combed backwards into a dark brown quiff, sprinkled with grey. He looked in his early forties but, truthfully, Doran found his age hard to pinpoint. It was as though his features had been cobbled together, each part stolen from a different period in someone’s life.

However, the most intriguing thing was the man’s skin – a ghostly white with green veins faintly visible, most prominently on his neck.

‘How did you get in here?’ Doran asked, the question erupting from his mouth, surprising even himself.

The suited man chuckled. ‘Of course that’s your first question. Not who I am. Not why I am following you. No, no. Of course. You’re like me. You have a desire to understand how things work.’

Doran’s brow furrowed. ‘Who are you?’

The suited man raised a long, skeletal index finger and wagged it, tutting. ‘That’s two questions. Which one would you like me to answer first?’

He was enjoying himself, Doran could tell. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated, keeping his voice as even as possible.

‘I’ve had many names,’ the suited man said with a wave of his hand. ‘You can call me Samael.’

‘Samael?’

‘Yes. Your second question?’

It was as if he were playing a game, only Doran was unsure what the rules were. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘Oh, that part is easy,’ Samael said, clasping his hands together and resting them on his knee as though about to launch into an amusing anecdote. ‘I’m not really here.’

‘Am I still dreaming?’

‘No, you are quite awake, and rest assured I’m quite real.

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