The Lineage by Gabrielle Faust

Author:Gabrielle Faust [Faust, Gabrielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nightshade Publications
Published: 2015-05-11T03:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

8

The sound of the front door opening had echoed like a

shotgun blast through Tristan’s ears in the last hour before

sunset. With an electrocuted twitch of his head against the

wall beside where he curled at the back of Guymon’s walk-

in closet he had become aware of the world again with an

infuriating immediacy. These were the moments when his

reality and reality collided with a brute force that left him

screaming against the walls of his own psyche like an inmate

begging for reprieve or death. Trapped within his own body

he struggled against the blood that stayed him like a docile

mule until the heavenly body that turned the tides had seen fit

to rest for a time and turn its dominance over to the otherkin

that rule in its absence.

Dorian no longer felt this dominance so exquisitely.

Tristan had sensed him rise and stretch in the moments when

sunset became night, when shadows lost their meanings

against the plagues of indecent sideways cast remembrance

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of the day that had lost so much and gained so little. But there

was nothing he could do in his unwaking youth to breach the

caul that kept him from investigating the indecencies of his

Maker, whatever they might be. He could feel the impulse

of his adrenaline, the faint preoccupations of his psyche

fluttering like suicidal moths against the fog that surrounded

him, trying to console him like the calloused-handed attempts

of an abusive mother. Day would hold him until it saw fit to

release and not a moment sooner.

Limbs creaking like dry wood bending against a storm

he uncurled himself and clawed his way to the closet door.

Leaning against the molding he waited for a moment before

opening it, listening to the house as it settled into the artic

cold without the feeble sunlight to whisper its false promises

of warmth. Guymon was still absent again.

Shaking the cobwebs free of his mind as he pressed

his forehead against the painted wood he wondered where

Dorian’s strange little friend was off to now. Tristan could

not put his finger on it, but a restless itch of doubt teased

his center making his skin feel too tight against his bones

when he pondered it for too long. The psychic was guarded

and in a way that bespoke of self-preservation and paranoia

rather than a simple desire for privacy. If it concerned

Dorian he kept his doubts concealed, seemingly oblivious

to Guymon’s secretive behavior. Fixated on the promise of

severing ties with Lucifer, he could speak of nothing else

when approached.

Tristan slowly opened the closet door, peering cautiously

outside—while the only other presence he could sense in the

home was Dorian’s, on the back porch, he had begun to doubt

his own radar now that the ultimate supernatural power had

revealed just how useless it was in the detection of the Devil

himself.

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The bedroom was empty and dark, dim orange light from

the streetlamp outside barely slicing through the mini-blinds

on the far side of the bed. With silent steps he returned to

the chest where he had sat and listened to Guymon’s theory.

Leaning forward, he clasped his hands together, staring

blankly into the evening shadows as he replayed his meeting

with Lucifer. In one respect,

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