HEIRS OF TIME (CASTE BOOK 2) SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter 19

“So, if I understood correctly, your best friends are humans?!” Pia said, laughing.

“Well, yes.”

“Me too! My parents blame themselves for agreeing to let me go to college. They had a home education, like almost all castes. But I wanted to discover the world!”

“A human raised my mother. She hung out with them all her youth. My father wanted me to immerse myself in the real world.”

“The real world?! Yes, that’s probably true. My favourite thing is student parties. That said, I was too drunk to remember the last one. It’s still better than caste balls!”

“You’ve never attended a ball at Mortain castle. When my mother and Carmichael are there, it’s well worth a look.”

“I heard about them. It seems that the last one ended in an orgy!”

“Uh, no... not quite.”

“Let me believe it, please. I hope one day I’ll have the opportunity to attend one with Simon.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened if Connor had his way.”

She looked surprised and leaned back in her chair, her arms embracing the armrests.

“He’s pissing me off with his mania for power,” she sighed.

“Tell me about it!”

“Up there, that’s all they think about. Three years ago, Carmichael gave them the desire to rebel against him, but it seems he hasn’t yet understood. Well, I have to go! See you tomorrow, Izzy!”

She left, leaving me in sight of the stranger in the cell opposite. I waved at him, letting him know I was ready for a workout. He smiled and took off his t-shirt.

For several days, we set up this ritual. From several metres away, I imitated his movements, and he made signs to me when I had to correct them. He went towards his basin, where his toiletries were, and took a rubber band to tie his long brown hair. I noticed that he had trimmed the hair on his face to keep only a thin three-day beard, marking the shape of his square jaw a little more. He must have caught my gaze because he sent me a smile. Then he gave a thumbs up, signifying it was time to begin. I carried out each of the movements he ordered. An hour later, in a sweat, I thanked him with a thumbs-up before going to wash. He did the same.

I turned my back, pulled my pyjama bottoms down and rolled them into a ball, also removing the top and throwing it in the same place. I dreamed of a shower and couldn’t stop thinking about it while I ran the washcloth over my body. I blocked the stopper of the sink and let the water run. I soaked my hair and washed it with shampoo found in the toilet bag, between a razor, tweezers and a hairbrush. I took it and untangled my heavy blond hair. I stood in profile facing the wall, and my gaze went to my left, to the next cell.

He was still naked, facing his mirror, although he had finished bathing. His wet hair fell to the middle of his back. He turned around, facing me. He looked surprised, not expecting me to be watching him. I bit my lip. A warm breath seized my spine. He almost turned away, but after a moment of hesitation, he decided not to. A delicious feeling of panic crossed my chest. I had nothing on me and presented myself to him like Eve before Adam. Except for our cells weren’t a paradise. I walked towards the window, my cheeks flushing with so much audacity. He seemed to think for a moment, then stepped forward.

Face to face, close to the wall, we each examined the body of the other. His wet hair plastered against his still damp chest. His breathing was rapid. Every muscle in his body vibrated. A fine black fleece covered his pectorals and ended in a band up to his navel and, a little lower... My gaze went down to this place, and I parted my lips, letting out a sigh when I discovered the visible effect the contemplation of my body provoked. I then looked up, and his intense gaze confirmed my impressions. His eyes lingered on my chest, and then they dropped lower. I couldn’t help but use my hand to hide the most intimate part of my body. My cheeks burned on my face, the blood pounded in my veins, and the urge to break the wall to reach him became unbearable. Overwhelmed by the turn the situation took, I let out a small laugh and finally freed my hand, letting him admire my curves without any hindrance. When his dark eyes lifted, they locked onto mine. His hand rested on the glass, and his mouth emitted a few silent words. I read on his lips: “You are magnificent”. I smiled and, facing him, hoping that he could understand, said: “You are divine”.

He laughed, and I imitated him. Damn, what was happening to me? I was there, naked, in front of a stranger, living the most erotic moment of my life.

We stayed in this position for a long time until fatigue returned. So, like him, I slipped into bed naked, my eyes locked with his. I fell asleep without having read a line of Carmichael’s memoirs.

The next day, I got up before him and put on my white pyjamas. Thinking back to the night before, I ran my fingers over my lips, the image of his naked body ingrained in my mind. His sleeping face was a splendour. His peaceful features and symmetrical eyebrows gave the impression that he wasn’t real. He was so handsome. I sighed, fighting the urge to touch him and then clenched my fists, realizing I was going crazy! I picked up Carmichael’s diary, hoping to tear myself away from my lustful thoughts. I wasn’t disappointed.

Carmichael’s Journal No. 26, 1792

“I died. And I had come back, the pain of my slow resurrection still very present. My father wants me to return, but I can’t. So I isolated myself. I’m building a little chalet in the Highlands. I’m almost done. But the images of my death constantly return to me. I can still feel the flames tearing at my skin and that searing pain gripping all my limbs. It’s still so vivid in my mind that I sometimes scream in my sleep. And, sometimes, even when I’m awake. I see Blake again, the fire consuming him. I didn’t think and threw myself into the furnace, hoping to go fast enough to pull him out. But I couldn’t, and I died. When I woke up, my father punched me in the face. I still feel the effects on my jaw. I made a mistake, and I’m not the same anymore. Nothingness inhabits my body and my mind. I’m dead inside, even though my powers have never been greater. I’m so powerful that I scare myself. The effect I have on women has grown. Who am I really? What keeps me here? If it weren’t for my sister, I would have nothing but a dried-up heart.

A movement in the corridor tore me from this reading. Carmichael’s words were so disjointed from what I had read before. I felt his dismay, his wounds, and I hurt for him. I thought back to what Connor had told me about this power of projection. I couldn’t dwell more on these reflections because several armed men appeared in front of the glass wall. Suddenly, the armoured glass rose. The noise caused by the mechanism was so deafening I covered my ears, no longer used to anything but silence. I jumped up. My neighbour imitated me, as the same phenomenon happened in his cell.

A man holding a Kalashnikov signalled us with his weapon to follow him. The eleven others, as armed as he, posted themselves at the corner of the walls.

I walked barefoot, hesitantly. The stranger imitated me, his eyes plunging into mine. His worry was on his face. I wanted to talk to him.

“I…”

“Shut up!” one of the men cried. “Proceed to the end of the hallway.”

I’m silent. The stranger never took his eyes off me and approached within a few centimetres from me. I had to raise my head to meet his gaze. One of the men hit him in the back with the butt of his gun, telling him to move on. My bunker mate barely blinked and didn’t take his eyes off mine. Then, with a nod, he invited me to comply. So, side by side, we walked along the corridor. An armoured door lifted and disappeared into the ceiling, revealing another corridor. At the end was an elevator. The stranger and I stood at the back of the cabin, surrounded by the men, their weapons pointed at us. One of them pressed the only button on the wall and started the climb.

During the long minutes of our ascent, I looked back at the stranger. He clenched his jaw, obviously struggling with the urge to do battle with his enemies. He must have noticed me watching because he looked down at me. We would both be confronted with some obscure intentions of which we knew nothing. When the doors opened, we arrived in a vast, windowless space. More than a hundred castes stood there, staring at us as soon as we entered. The walls, devoid of any ornament, were made of reinforced concrete. A gigantic ceiling, supported by dozens of columns, housed a multitude of chandeliers. Sofas were placed everywhere, and braziers blazed in every corner of the room. Many castes were sitting at tables, having a drink, playing cards, and talking, but when we crossed this room, everyone got up to see us. Our progress took us to the middle of the large room. A door opened in the distance, and an old grey-haired man stood at the threshold.

“So, that’s them?”

“Connor forbade anyone to see them!” cried Pia, rushing to my right.

“Shut up!” shouted the man. “Jorgen, hold your daughter!”

“Come on, Pia,” her father said softly.

She gave me an apologetic look and had to follow him. I gave her a thin smile, wanting to tell her that she had to obey and that her gesture had touched me deeply.

“Bring them here,” ordered the old man.

His guards grabbed our arms and pulled for us to follow. We walked the distance to the door, the stranger slowing his steps to keep me at his level.

Behind the door was a small living room. A large desk stood under a window, and the light it cast immediately caught our eyes. Natural light! It was so pleasant to see the outside world again. A snow-covered park stretched out in the distance. The wind stirred the tops of the fir trees, and snowflakes spread all around. Blissful and fascinated by this spectacle, I forgot the old man.

“You look like your mother,” he said before turning to my neighbour.

“And you; if I had known before, everything could have been different. It’s a shame…”

He didn’t finish his sentence and turned back to me.

“You would have pleased my son. He liked little blonds with big tits.”

His men laughed, and the old man grinned. He sank back in his seat, rubbing his hands behind his back, which must have pained him. He wore a cream sweater over jeans and expensive loafers.

“But we’ll never know, will we?” he continued. “Since he’s dead.”

My face showed my incomprehension.

“You don’t know, of course,” he said in his sharp Nordic accent.

The man got up and went to stand near the window.

“My son died almost forty years ago,” continued the old man, “under the rubble of a mountain. Your mother buried him there. My eyes are now dry, and only my hatred remains. Your mother fled to the United States under the protection of Connor. He should have regained power then but didn’t listen to me. If he knew… He would never have brought you here.”

The old man remained near his window without moving.

“I saw what I wanted to see. Take them back to their cells.”