I Am an Invisible Stalker (Guardians #2)

Chapter 1

Eliza's POV

The moment I open my eyes I know he is dead. I've seen enough bodies to tell the difference between a living and a deceased human. But no matter how much I wish to be the one wrapped in the fruity scent of death, I'm as always left behind. I'm the only one not allowed to leave.

The old man lying on the adjustable hospital bed, on the other hand, is that lucky. There is no turning back for him. But while the lower half of his body is covered with a pale white hospital sheet, his upper torso dressed in a pair of black silk pajamas is left exposed to the private hospital room he's surrounded by. This is a shame, because if anything his upper body should be hidden and not only his stinky feet. No one needs to see the deep wrinkles carved into his face and the pointy white hair that makes him look like he's been permanently electrocuted.

No matter where I look, however, there is no clue revealing the cause of his death.

I'm about to step forward to peek underneath the sheet when the twist of a shadow catches my attention. For the first time since I opened my eyes, I look up from the bed. Before I register what my eyes land on, I jump a wide step back.

"Holy shit!"

Across the bed stands a woman in her middle thirties with her open palms pressed against each other in a praying position. She is wrapped in nothing but black clothes, which matches the mood of the cloudy autumn day peeking through the window behind her. But instead of having her eyes closed in silent prayer, the woman has her unblinking eyes focused on me.

"Seriously?" I press my hand against my chest to steady my thumping heart. "Can you be any creepier? For a moment I thought I was faced with Death itself."

The woman—Xenia—rolls her eyes. "Very funny, Eliza." She intertwines her fingers and then extends her arms high above her head, producing a shivering sound of snapping shoulder joints. "If I'm Death then what are you? A yellow canary?"

Despite it being over two months since I last looked into a mirror, I know exactly what Xenia is eying. From the top of my curly black hair, which is bound into a loose bun; across my mustard-colored long-sleeved shirt, my black jeans, to my dark brown ankle boots with a thick four-inch heel. The same clothes I have been wearing for the past nine years.

"I'm more of a bee than a canary," I say and turn back to the deceased old man lying between us. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure. One moment he was rasping for air and the next he flat-lined. My best guess is a stroke."

The moment she utters the word flat-lined I finally realize that something has been missing since the moment I opened my eyes. No uninterrupted beep has been alerting everyone to the stillness of the patient's heart.

Only then do I notice that while the old man has a tacky florescent lighter clasped in his right hand, his left hand is lying lifelessly at his side. More importantly, the finger clip to check his pulse—the one even I know is supposed to be clasped to one of his fingers—is lying two inches further down the bed.

A second after I notice this, I also realize that something else is missing—two very specific humans.

"How come we're in here?" I look back up to Xenia.

"If you mean our charges, mine went to the bathroom half an hour ago, so I'm guessing she's chatting up some fellow doctors. Yours is over there."

I follow the direction Xenia inclines her head in, which leads my eyes all the way across the private hospital room. On a beige leather armchair sits a fifteen-year-old girl. She has her legs perched in a crossed position, while the rest of her upper body is bent over the armchair's side. In this position, all that I'm able to see is the top of her brown hair with blonde highlights and the pink flower hairpin clasped on the right side of her head.