Chapter 1: Prologue
California
San Bernardino
The Crown Vic announced itself with a tired rumble before it came into view, turning off the rain-slicked street into the hospital's concrete canyon.
A 2005 Police Interceptor, the kind that looked less parked and more temporarily stationed. Its dark blue paint was dull under the sodium-vapor lights, hiding a spiderweb of cracks on the bumper.
Moldris didn't so much park as dock it in a far corner of the lot, away from the newer, brighter cars—as if its grim aura might depress their resale value.
The engine coughed and fell silent. For a moment, he just sat in the tomb-quiet cabin, the only sounds the ping of cooling metal and the distant wail of an ambulance.
The seat held the permanent imprint of his shoulders. The air carried the ghost of a hundred bad coffees, mingled with the sharper tang of the oxygen tank he'd ferried for Ariana last week.
In the rearview mirror, the back seat was a dark void. He sometimes caught himself glancing there out of habit, half-expecting a witness, an informant, a perp. Now it just held a crumpled fast-food bag and Ariana's folded wheelchair blanket. A hollowed-out patrol car for a hollowed-out mission.
He grabbed the worn leather satchel from the passenger seat—the one stuffed with her latest insurance denial letters and a library book on celestial mythology she'd asked for—and stepped out into the damp night.
The heavy door shut with a solid, fiscal thud, a sound that said this vehicle would outlive you and your problems. He headed for the bright, indifferent doors of Mercy General ICU, the Crown Vic sitting sentinel behind him.
He passed through the glass doors into a waiting room where people bubbled with anticipation or sat silent in grief. Moldris didn't know where he belonged. He wasn't anticipating. He wasn't grieving. He was just... him.
He signed in at the counter for the chatty nurse—no directions needed; he knew Ariana's ward by heart. After all, it was practically her home now. And tonight... he sighed.
The corridors were a maze he unraveled easily, thanks to years as a detective. The smells hit him: medication's bite, disinfectant's sting, the faintly sweet hum of an oxygen concentrator trailing his nose.
He reached Room 321 and paused at the door handle, resolve flickering. Then he heaved a breath, twisted it, and pushed inside.
A white nine-by-twelve-foot rectangle. A central pendant light. One high, narrow window. A modular bedside table held a plastic pitcher, a stack of paper cups, and a tablet displaying live vitals.
An oxygen concentrator, IV pole, and wheeled monitoring cart were arranged with precise, utilitarian spacing, all wired to the frail feminine form on the bed—a victim of cystic fibrosis—draped in the violet woolen quilt he'd given her years ago.
He pulled up a stool and sat at her side, his warm hands enveloping hers. They jolted her weak, pale eyes awake. She gazed at him with a fragile smile, but he could tell she was happy.
"Guess what?"
He reached for the satchel, pulling out the book with playful flair and covering his face with it. A Descent into Celestial Mythology. "I finally got it—the one you wanted." He flipped the pages. "Want me to read?"
Ariana didn't answer. Instead, she placed her cold hands over his, as if to calm him. "You haven't rested all day, have you? You've been working. Bags under your eyes..."
Moldris went silent, his hollowed eyes staring at the book, absent. "You don't need to come every day, Moldris. The nurses are friendly. Competent."
He trailed off, forcing a sad smile. "I'm okay with it, Ariana. Really okay." He patted her frail thigh. "To your big brother, it's no big deal. The world's best detective." He bragged playfully, tilting his eyes to hers. She rolled them. "Your words, not mine."
She heaved a little—irregular enough to dart his worried gaze to her chest.
"I'm okay, Moldris." Her frail voice cut through. "And I was just a kid back then. Now I think there are a lotbetter than you."
"Huh." He teased. "I'm better than Sherlock Holmes—a fictional character. How's that for factual?"
"Says you," she replied with a light cough. He half-rose toward the door, but her hand stopped him. "I'm okay, Moldris." Her eyes searched his. "You visited the cemetery today, didn't you?"
He darted his gaze to the window, surveying the white beyond. "I did. Had a lot to tell them. Figured I'd drop by."
"Oh? What'd they say this time?" She strained her neck slightly, interest framing her black hair against her pale skin.
"The usual. Guess they're doing alright." A pause. "Maybe better than me." He mouthed the last part to himself. His phone vibrated in his pocket—the casual one, a persistent buzz. He ignored it.
"You're still haunted by those nightmares."
It buzzed again, louder. She must have heard.
"I've been suppressing them with meds. Psychiatrist says trauma takes time to die." He clasped his forehead. "Still on probation."
It buzzed once more, insistent. Her worried eyes locked on him. "Aren't you going to check? Might be important."
"Or it could be those layabout friends calling for a drink." He yawned, stretching. Guess he'd sleep here tonight.
"And if it's not...?"
Her persistence—and the ringing—won. "Bet it's them."
He fished out the phone, unlocked it with a simple swipe. The home screen bloomed: a vibrant young girl with clear green eyes and a healthy smile, squatting with a cute brown cat in her hands. His gaze lingered, catching the sad resemblance to the frail girl beside him.
He tapped the notification. An urgent email. His eyes widened.
[Your requested item has been successfully delivered to Mr. Moldris Connors.
St. Mercy ICU...
1852 W. Highland Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92405...
Please ensure timely item pickup for safety.]
He scrolled. More of the same. But he hadn't ordered anything. And even if he had, it would've gone to their stucco bungalow, not here. A prank from friends? No—they didn't know his real-time spot. Tracked by an enemy? Being a detective came with those.
Cold sweat beaded on his face. Ariana's worried glance caught it.
"Moldris...? Everything okay?" Her palms framed his, saying more than words.
He heaved, confusion fading into a cool smile—a perfect facade. "I'm good. Just a delivery." He framed her hands back, rose from the stool. "Gotta pick it up. Be right back." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead—one he hoped would dispel her suspicions. She was perceptive.
"Okay..." As he reached the door, her weak whisper halted him. "Be safe, Moldris. Promise me..it's just a delivery."
His shoulders slumped. He swung the door open, flashing that cool smile. "I promise I'll be Back before you know it."
The door clicked shut, locking her in. His smile faded to stern seriousness as he crossed the corridors.
Fuck.Had they trailed him? If so, Ariana wasn't safe. Infiltrated the hospital? His eyes darted to the figures in the waiting room. Could one be them? Or was it really a delivery—a bomb? Why alert him? His form crossed the glass entrance of the two-story building.
Hand whisking to his waist holster, he drew his dark pistol. He descended the steps to the parking lot slowly, cautiously—eyes flagging left, right. Night cloaked his vision; he had to stay sharp.
His phone chimed again. Pistol in one hand, he dimmed the screen with the other to avoid flashing his position. He ducked behind a car.
Another email.
[Delivery successful.
Item right beside you.
Thanks for using our services, Moldris Connors.]
He barely finished before his eyes darted sideways. This thing knew his location, his name—he always used aliases for deliveries. A shiver ran through him. Adjusting position, his booted foot nudged a small, enveloped parcel shaped like a book.
This?
Coast clear. He lowered the gun, free hand reaching for it. Could be a bomb. Or just a book. Heart thumping, he tore the wrapping. Through the darkness, it gleamed: smooth, like obsidian glass. No title. No author. Just black.
He flicked on his flashlight, angling it away—should any enemy trace the beam, it wouldn't lead to him. The pages were yellowish, parched ancient paper. Who still used that in this era? Information mattered more.
The message, in elegant italics under "Prologue," read:
[I've watched you, Moldris Connors...
For years. Countless dawns and sunsets.
I was the only one reading your story.
Your life seemed boring—a day in repeat, stuck in a stagnant loop.
A sad beginning. A dull context.
I hope with this, you can craft for yourself...
A perfect ending.
Sincerely wish you the best, Moldris Connors.]
A cold waltz through him—dizzying, unnatural. A prank? Childish if so. His hands turned the page. Page I.
Blank. At first. Then, as if by some invisible hand, words in italics formed, writing themselves.
Entranced, he read aloud:
"In a world of steam and machinery...
In an age of deities and truths...
Who can achieve the extraordinary?"
His words collapsed into a daze. A cacophony erupted in his mind,the huge clank of a bell tower, the distant hum of a steam train, the clatter of carriages, the tap of walking canes.
He shut his eyes, trying to refocus. The sounds swelled to a high-speed crescendo. What the hell...? Supernatural? Ariana—she'd be waiting. He had to go back.
He forced his eyes open. The sounds died. But the February night was gone. Instead, there was the brightness of a flickering gaslight,and a distant twilight.
And on a table before his before his smaller frame..was the Black Book
Author's note:This is my first book,gotta say I'm a fan of LOTM,just wanna write something like it,I hope for your support.
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