The Academy of Mortal Mysteries – by Pamela DuMond #4
“See?” I asked. “Progress. When I stumbled into your world in 1675, I didn't know who you were. I didn’t realize that we were supposed to be together. But I didn't need to worry because our story was already writing itself. The same will hold true for you.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Really.”
Outside, thin gray clouds drifted across the sky, blocking the sunlight that had been warming the room. A sudden chill ran through me, as if something was drawing the heat from my body. Or someone. I glanced around.
A young blond man with sharp cheekbones sat at a nearby table.
He gathered his belongings—laptop, a few books, legal pads covered with scrawling handwriting and hand-drawn symbols—and set them inside a charcoal-colored backpack.
I caught a glint of metal in his open pack: a carved metallic hilt of a dagger sunk deep in a leather sheath.
He pushed his chair back and stood. He had to be at least six feet two inches in height, muscular, built like an athlete, in his early twenties.
His eyes were crystal blue with silver metallic flecks in them.
His eyes were as chilly as those cloudy skies.
The little hairs on the back of my neck prickled, and I shivered.
“You okay?” Samuel asked, gazing down at me, concerned. “You look like someone just walked over your grave.”
“I’m fine,” I lied, rubbing my arms.
The blond turned, smiled at me, and tapped two fingers against his temple as if in a salute of acknowledgment—like we were comrades, partners in on some kind of privileged secret.
I shot him a “leave me alone” look because I wasn’t a fan of mind games.
He smirked.
Samuel noticed and frowned. “Who is that guy?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“He acts like he knows you.”
“I haven’t met him in the present and don't recognize him from my travels.”
“If he bothers you, give me the word. I'll tell him to back off.” He glared at him, scowling.
I tugged on his arm. “Leave him alone. I think he has a knife.”
As if on cue, the blond removed the sheathed dagger from his backpack and slid it into the side pocket of his jacket, the leather creaking. A moment later, he left.
“This is what I mean.” Samuel paced in front of the window. “You have all this experience that I don't because you traveled. I was just reincarnated. This is a whole new world for me.”
“But it’s not a new world. The only thing that’s new is you now know that you reincarnated,” I said. “Most people only wonder.”
Whatever games the blond was up to, he would not separate me from Samuel. I'd journeyed to the ends of the earth to save my boyfriend not all that long ago. If this idiot with his mesmerizing eyes and beautiful but cruel face thought he’d lure me away, he was one hundred percent wrong.
Samuel reached out his hand and pulled me to him. “There's a lot I don't understand yet,” he said.
“Tell me what you do remember about your incarnations?” I said It didn't dawn on me he wouldn't know more of his story —more about the time periods he’d lived in, the politics, the dangers he’d endured.
“You.” He smiled. “I remember you. Falling in love with you, feeling like you were my forever person, and snippets of conversations. But the actual times? They're a blur.”
“Wow.” I shook my head. “Do you want to know? I could give you bits and pieces of history in the incarnations where I found you.”
“Tempting,” he said. “I might take you up on that one of these days. But right now, I’m more tempted by the young woman standing in front of me.”
“Prove it,” I said, smiling up at him.
He tucked a lock of my hair behind one ear, sliding fingers down my neck as goosebumps broke out on my arms. He dragged a finger across my lips then bent his head and kissed me, softly at first. My breath came faster, my cheeks warmed.
He wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me close to him.
Cradled my face and kissed me a little harder.
I kissed him back, warmth rising within me.
“Ahem.” An older man's voice broke the moment.
We jumped, pulling away from each other. A white-haired man with reading glasses perched halfway down his nose squinted at us, his face a map of wrinkles. “We read books at the library. We don't kiss at the library. We kiss on beaches. We kiss at the movies. Sometimes we kiss?—”
“Sorry,” I said, my cheeks on fire.
“I’m not,” Samuel whispered.
I elbowed him and he laughed.
The library’s kissing police returned to the journal opened in front of him.
Samuel took my hand and led me back toward the circulation desk. The blue-haired girl with the silver nose ring glanced up as we approached.
“How can I help you today?” she asked.
I re-directed my attention to her and smiled. “We're researching time traveling. I guess you could also call it time displacement theory. Anything related to Walk-Ins.”
“As well as past lives and reincarnation,” Samuel said.
“Thought you might lead us in the right direction,” I said, “so we don’t time travel all over this library.”
“Ha,” she said and squinted at her screen. “Time travel and past lives are a veritable smorgasbord of the mystical and magical. Are you looking for myths and legends? Scientific theories? Non-fiction? Fiction?”
“Best to start with the basics," Samuel said. “Any writings about people who could travel through time, to deliver messages or … other purposes?”
“Hmm.” She tapped on her keyboard, eyebrows knitting as she scrolled.
“There are some terrific non-fiction books on both. If you want to dig deep, check the rare manuscripts collection on the third floor. We have some unusual texts that aren't digitized. I’m jotting the good ones down in terms of where you can find them. Stop back and ask if you have any more questions. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thanks!” Samuel saluted her.
“Welcome.”
CHICAGO – PRESENT DAY
Several hours had passed at our library table.
Books and journals lay scattered before us as I scribbled notes on a legal pad.
A headache gnawed at me—one that had begun the moment I locked eyes with that smirking blond stranger.
Despite all our research, I’d found nothing substantial about past lives or Walk- Ins, and not a single direct reference to Messengers, Hunters, or Seekers.
I did, however, find corroborating evidence about Walk-Ins within non-fiction books.
That term was more common. The library had a copy of Strangers Among Us: Enlightened Beings from a World to Come by Ruth Montgomery.
The author, a journalist turned psychic, used automatic writing to compile information about spiritual beings who took over human bodies during times of crisis.
Other writers believed Walk-Ins came from other-worldly dimensions.
Not all authors agreed on the nature of walk-ins. Some claimed not every being that inhabited another's body was benevolent. In her 2013 book Walk-Ins Among Us , Yvonne Perry suggested that Walk-Ins arrived from realms wherein time and space functioned differently.
Samuel was engrossed in Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss, MD.
I had read this book a few years back when I first realized I was a Messenger.
Weiss was a well-respected psychiatrist, a Yale graduate.
His patient, “Catherine,” suffered from severe anxiety.
When traditional therapies didn't help her, the doctor used hypnosis.
During a hypnotic state, Catherine recalled past lives, persons, names, and even how they died.
Subsequently, she told Weiss that she was channeling information passed through her by spiritual beings.
The more she shared these stories, the more her symptoms abated.
Weiss waited four years to publish this book, fearful he’d be labeled a quack.
Instead, he became a bestselling author.
“Find out anything interesting?” I asked, digging my knuckles into my temples, now throbbing with a blossoming headache.
“Weiss said souls find each other again and again across lifetimes.” He leaned across the desk and squeezed the tight muscles in my neck. I melted under his touch. “Some people just keep coming back to each other, whether they mean to or not. Why are your shoulders like a rock?”
“Working on a headache,” I said. “Maybe low blood sugar. I’m going to hit the café and grab something.”
“Want me to go with you?” he asked, glancing up at me, concerned.
I shook my head. “Keep reading. I’ll see you back here in ten, fifteen minutes tops.”
“Text me if you change your mind,” he said, took my hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it. “Headache be gone.”
“Headache be gone,” I said and managed to smile at him.
He smiled back, and then his focus returned to the book.
I made my way to the library’s café. It was small, simple. A narrow strip of space tucked along the side of the building, it featured clear-paned windows that overlooked the university’s grounds, rose bushes blooming.
I grabbed an organic blueberry muffin from the glass case, placed it on a small plate, paired it with a double espresso, and slid them onto a two-top table tucked against the windows.
Sunshine streamed in through a break in the clouds and I blinked, angling away to shield my eyes.
Direct light enabled the onset of migraines.
Despite the mouth-watering muffin and the jolting espresso, the headache refused to fade.
It morphed into something denser, more dangerous.
For most people, a migraine meant one or two painful days lying in bed with an icepack on their head, taking knock-you-on-your-ass drugs.
For me, a migraine signaled something stranger—an imminent time travel, the last thing I wanted to do right now.
The beautiful, cruel blond plopped into the seat across the small table from me and said, “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” His accent was thick. French.
I clasped my temples with both hands and replied, “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you're talking about.”