Chapter Eleven

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Marcus held the glass door to a Lower East Side high-rise open for Abigail to enter, a gallant display not lost to his plaguing frustration. And a heavy frustration it was. The night had gotten off to a late start, due to waking at too late an hour, and it soured his mood. Equally distressing were Abigail's trailing steps. They forced him to slow to a brisk walk when a jog would have been preferred, and that irritated him.

He let his head fall back onto the door. The list was far too long to accomplish in the carelessly abbreviated night. How would he ever manage to collect them all? He sighed, accepting that even if his night had started at its normal hour, the frustration would remain. Even if Abigail's steps were to match his own, it would do little to alleviate the displeasure of his mind. Marcus tried not to think of the reasons for his aggravation, but to a masochistic degree, he replayed Abigail's words over and over in his thoughts, further spiraling him into fouler depths. There was nothing that could silence her revelation from earlier in the night.

'...striking blue eyes and blond hair.'

His pulse quickened. Looking out into the night in a manner that with each second grew to a habit, one of looming paranoia, Marcus saw nothing. The cold night strummed on with its damp coat of fallen rain. Sleepless dwellers and passing cars misted past in ignorance.

A wave of relief swayed Marcus. There was no one there. But as all natural things go, the waves receded. And with their natural sway back home, they dragged reprieve back into the deep black ocean, leaving him stranded in the cold sand, with nothing but his own ignorance as company. He could no longer deny it. This blond haired man, this collector of Abigail's past, was out there somewhere, waiting. He would reappear, but when?

Abigail passed Marcus and entered the building. Abandoning his grim thoughts, he turned to enter behind her when-

"Wait!" called a frail voice.

Marcus gritted his teeth and stopped. A stout woman with far too many groceries than she could manage approached him. Her hat barely sat atop her silver curls and she struggled to hasten her steps. When she reached the door, the exasperated woman lifted her head to Marcus with a grateful smile.

Marcus held the door open with his foot. "Allow me, madam," he offered, taking the bags from her carefully, accepting that there were some things that not even vexations could wither.

"Thank heavens you were there. It would have taken me forever to get my keys out with all those bags, and it's freezing out there. Aren't you cold?" She gave his coatless frame a curious look as he fell into step beside her. Not in the mood for conversation, Marcus feigned a smile in hopes of hiding his mood. But knowing he'd failed, he turned away.

Reaching the elevator, Marcus focused straight ahead on the reflection of his somber figure in the stainless steel doors. He shut his eyes and struggled to concentrate. All the murmurs of surrounding conversations fell away, as did the scent of peonies coming from the bouquet in the old lady's bag. Instead, he fixated on the cycle of his breath, hoping.

After mere seconds, he clenched his fists around the bags with a curse. For the life of him he could not focus on the life-source of his next charge, another matter of great frustration. He had managed to trace the dying soul to that building with much difficulty, but after that, nothing.

For the first time in a century, moving his mind into the unknown darkness of his closed eyes was impossible. Marcus found himself unable to navigate the millions of stars that shone bright and steady with life. There were the fading ones of whose time would come soon, yes, but in the midst of them all, there should have been his star, his flaming star.

Straining, Marcus swam in the shallow darkness that stretched far into a never-ending distance. The stars shifted all around, creating a sea of glittering waves before him. Slowly, they settled and formed one image. Marcus blinked his eyes open and shook his head.

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