“That would be really fun,” she said, nodding her head in agreement. “I even have some other books you could use.”
Aaron was in complete and utter shock. The girl of his dreams had agreed to help him with his paper, and actually seemed to be excited about doing it. He had no idea what to say next, afraid that if he opened his mouth to speak, something completely stupid would spill out and he’d ruin everything.
Vilma was silent also, nervously looking at the books on the table then back to him. She glanced at her watch.
“Well, I have to catch the bus,” the girl said, walking toward the doorway. “Maybe we can talk some more about your paper in school Monday—you will be in school Monday, won’t you?” She smirked.
He couldn’t believe it. She actually noticed that he was absent today. Maybe there was something to what she had said to her friends yesterday. Maybe she actually did think he was cute.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “All day in fact.”
She laughed and gave him a small wave as she stepped out of the room. “I’ll see you Monday, Aaron. Have a good weekend.”
He could do nothing but stand there, numbed with disbelief. It was almost enough to make him forget all about the disturbing dreams, his strange new linguistic skills, and the cryptic ramblings of a crazy old man.
Almost.
CHAPTER FOUR
Samuel Chia lay upon his bed, twisted in sheets of the finest silk, and dreamed of flying. Of all that was lost to him, he missed that the most.
It was not true sleep by human standards, but it was a way for him to remember a time precious to him, the time before his fall.
Sam rolled onto his back and opened his eyes to the new day. He did not need to check a clock to tell him the hour; he knew it to be precisely eight A.M., for that was when he wished to rise.
He lay quietly and listened to the sounds of Hong Kong outside and far below his penthouse apartment. If he so wished, he could listen in on the conversations of the city’s inhabitants as they lived out their drastically short existences. But today he had little interest.
Sam rose from his bed and padded naked across the mahogany floor to stand in front of the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. A Chinese junk, its sails unfurled, caught his attention as it cruised gracefully across the emerald green water of Victoria Bay. He had lived in many places in his long life on this planet, but none brought him as much solace as this place. China spoke to him. It told him that everything would be all right, and on most days, he believed that to be true.
He pressed his forehead against the thick glass and allowed himself to feel the cold of its surface. His naked skin responded with prickled gooseflesh, and although he reveled in the human experience, everyday he longed for what he once had, for what was lost when he refused to take a side in the Great War.
His head still pressed against the window, Sam opened his eyes and gazed at the panorama before him.
Yes, he longed for the glory that was once his, but each day this place—this wondrous sight sought to seduce him with its vitality. A distraction that sometimes made it easier to accept his fate.
Sometimes.
Sam was slipping into his black silk robe, enjoying the sensation upon his pale, sculpted flesh, when the phone began to chirp.
He knew who was calling. Not from any innate psychic ability, but because she called each morning at this very time.
Joyce Woo was the human woman he allowed to manage his various business affairs, including his nightclubs, casinos, and restaurants.
Sam strolled from the bedroom to the chrome-and-tile kitchen and let the machine pick up. He decided to play a little game—to see if he could guess the problems she was calling to report. What trivial piece of nonsense would she choose to annoy him with this time? he wondered: an unexpected shortage of truffles at his French restaurant perhaps, or the local constabulary requiring increased compensation for their lack of interest in certain illicit activities performed at his clubs, or maybe she was finally calling to confess that she’d been skimming off the top of his earnings for the last nine months.
Sam popped a cork on a bottle of Dom Perignon and drank from it as he listened to the message.
“Good morning, Mr. Chia. This is Joyce,” said a woman’s voice in Cantonese.
He toasted the incoming call with the bottle.
“There was an incident at the Pearl Club last night that may require you to speak with the chief of police. I can give you more details when you come into the office this morning, but I wanted you to be aware.”
He could hear her turn the page of a pad of paper where she had written her notes.
“And be reminded that you have a two o’clock conference with the zoning committee about the Pier Road project.”
Believing that she had finished, he walked through the kitchen, bottle in hand, toward the bathroom. But she began to speak again. He paused in the hall to listen.
“Oh yes,” she said, “an old friend of yours—a Mr. Verchiel, stopped by the office this morning. He said he will only be in town for a short time and hoped the two of you could get together.”
“Verchiel,” he whispered. The bottle dropped from his hand to the floor, shattering and spilling the expensive contents onto the black and white tiles.
“He said that he will be in touch,” Joyce said from the machine. “There are a few other items, but we can discuss them when you get here. Good morning, sir.”
The line disconnected and still he didn’t move.
Verchiel.
Sam Chia bounded to his bedroom and threw open the doors of the heavy wooden armoire. He shed his robe and pulled out clothes. There would be no time for a shower today and he would not be going into the office.
He had to leave Hong Kong. It was as simple as that. If Verchiel had found him, then there was no doubt that the Powers had come to China. And if that were the case, then none of his ilk was safe.
Sam finished buttoning his white cotton shirt and began to tuck its tails inside his pants. He cinched the brown leather belt around his waist.
He thought briefly about contacting the others, to warn them of the Powers’ presence, but decided against it for it was likely already too late.
He slipped his bare, delicate feet into a pair of Italian loafers and donned a navy blue sports jacket.
He would go to Europe; France would suffice. He would stay in Paris until Verchiel and his dogs left China. Joyce could manage his affairs until he returned.
Sam placed his billfold inside his coat pocket and picked up the phone to summon his driver. He would go to the airport, charter a plane, and contact Joyce once in flight.
“Are you going out, Samchia?” asked a voice from somewhere in the room.
Startled, Sam dropped the phone and spun around to face the voice.
“How disappointing,” said the man in the gray trench coat standing in the living room in front of the sixty-inch digital television. “After we’ve spent all this time searching for you.”
There was a small, dirty child with him who pressed its unwashed face against the smoothness of the television screen and licked eagerly at his reflection.
“I’m sorry, do you prefer being called by your monkey name—Samuel Chia?” Verchiel asked as he slid his hands inside his coat pockets and began to slowly advance toward him. The child followed, heeling obediently at his side.
“What do you want?” Sam asked as the man approached.
Verchiel’s dark eyes roamed about the luxurious living quarters taking in every extravagant detail.
“Did you think that these would hide you from me?” he asked, pointing to a series of arcane symbols painted on the penthouse walls. To the human eye they appeared as decoration, but in actuality, they were much more than that.