Shadow Knight Saga: The Shadowlands

Chapter Four

Across town, a shadowy figure floated through the emerald courtyard as he rounded the darkened Gothic revival masterpiece located on the only bend on Broadway. Silent as death, he crept along the stone and brick wall. The locked doors along the back silently swung opened for him and he slipped inside, the doors closing behind him.

Quickly he hurried down the long stone corridor; he has less than an hour before the doors unlock and business resumes at the bicentennial church. At the end of the corridor, a gray brick wall marked its end but to the trained eye of the mysterious man, he sees what's truly hidden behind it. He pulled his gloves off, pressed one hand against the cold stone and gently pushed. The stone effortlessly pushed inward and a large portion of the wall moved away, revealing a hidden passageway. He ducked inside and the stone door silently closed behind him. Only the original architect and builders knew the hidden passageway exists, and it hadn't been used in nearly two hundred years, but nothing is hidden from his eyes.

He took the stairs two at a time, pulling his cloak off as he went; it will get very hot very quickly in the windowless room. There was lightness in his step and a sense of contentment that put him at ease, something that has eluded him for years.

The small room is nothing more than four ten-foot tall walls and a roof, but it is home for the moment and more than he expected to find in NYC. He made a small nest out of blankets and robes he procured from the church his first night there—velvet is the best to stretch out naked on, in his opinion, and Catholics love velvet—and over the past few weeks he's managed to set up a functional living area with jugs of water, clean linens, a basin to wash himself with, and a small collection of non-perishable food items he's pilfered in his nightly excursion into the city: chips, candy bars, bottles of tea, rice cakes, bread, peanut butter and cocoa hazelnut spread.

He took his uniform of the night off, laying each piece out on the stone floor so they can air out from the sweat causing patrol. The Indian summer is making it exceptionally difficult to stay dry; tonight he'll take a dip in one of the many fountains in the area to wash up in since his patrolling attire is starting to get a bit ripe. He spun on his heels and fell forward to the floor, catching himself and started doing pushups; exercise is his idea of a relaxing activity.

The man is tall and slight in build but muscular; each muscle group is perfectly defined and honed beyond his years. His medium complexion is closer to brown than olive from the summer sun and is smooth, nearly flawless, aside from a faint white outline, a birthmark his mother called it, of a sideways teardrop on the front of his hip. When he was younger, his hair was much darker than it is today, having changed from chocolate brown to light brown streaked with ashy blond and gold. The change in its color upsets him because he lost a piece of his mother—her hair color—and it appears that everything of her is being taken away from him. First her and now what physical characteristics he had of hers. He fears that it's only a matter of time before it's merely a stranger looking back at him in the mirror.

"I do desire we be better strangers," he said, quoting Shakespeare, effortlessly completing two hundred pushups, then rolled to his back and quickly flipped from his back to his feet. He slipped his underwear off and kicked them across the room before flopping down on the pile of sacramental cloths and robes naked—he embraces nudity during the long, hot days of summer—and made himself comfortable.

Contently he sighed as the unfamiliar sense of contentment continued to embrace his mind, and he welcomed the new, silent companion. "What an interesting man," he mumbled under his breath, looking up at the dark ceiling. He has no one to talk to other than himself and he's okay with that. It comes with the life. "He's nearly as good as I am," he mused, though he knew that the master surpassed him tenfold. "But to walk into a blatant trap like that?" he asked aloud, pulling his hand through his choppy hair. "That was a rookie mistake. And talking to the disgusting little creature, what was that all about? Seriously, this master makes no damn sense! Am I doing this wrong?" he wondered, comparing his style to that of the mysterious master that is apparently more versed in the world of demons and creatures only found in fairytales and nightmares than he is.