The Sheridan Institute Files

Chapter 1: Oliver

SPOILER ALERT:

This tale set is 5 years after the events of the Something Strange & Deadly series, and it’s not polished. In fact, I'm sharing new scenes as I write them, so STAY TUNED FOR MORE CHAPTERS! (But please forgive me any first draft roughness!)

If you haven’t read the Something Strange and Deadly series (the books are Something Strange & Deadly, A Dawn Most Wicked, A Darkness Strange & Lovely, and Strange & Ever After), then you might NOT want to read this tale first. While you can certainly still enjoy The Sheridan Institute Files, it might spoil you're reading of the original trilogy. ☺

♡ - Susan

 

CHAPTER ONE

Oliver stared at the ivy-covered brick mansion. It was autumn, and though the golden and orange leaves had yet to abandon their trees, the air had that crisp bite to it.

And Oliver’s stomach had that nervous bite to it.

His anxiety would be somewhat humorous, he supposed, were he in the mood to laugh. Instead, he was in the mood to shit his trousers.

Oliver had literally gone to the darkest corners of the earth in the past four years, and yet this scared him.

She scared him.

He huffed a breath from the side of his mouth. He could do this. Of course he could do this. What was one young woman to the horrors he had seen in Guatemala? Or Romania? Or northern Canada?

Or even the horrors he had seen with her in Paris, Marseille, and Egypt?

He could do this.

Oliver hefted his pack higher onto his back, and then—because he really couldn’t resist—he dusted off his charcoal gray suit.

And adjusted his top hat.

They weren’t the same suit or hat she’d once seen him wear. Those no longer fit since his body had grown. Developed in areas that he never would have expected. His shoulders were wider, his arms larger, and his chin wouldn’t stop growing hair. Not that a beard had anything to do with the current fit of his suit, but it was bloody infuriating.

Oliver had always found the idea of shaving daily an absurd waste of time, but that was before he’d had to deal with actual growth on his jawline. He’d given the bearded look a try (while in the jungles of Guatemala) as well as a mustache (that had been in Romania) and it really hadn’t suited him at all—though that was more a matter of comfort than any sort of vanity.

Oliver had stopped caring what he looked like. He wasn’t pretty faced anymore. The sun had done its damage—as had the bugs, the people, and simple survival. Personal hygiene had fallen by the wayside, and all that had mattered was getting out alive.

At least, despite how rough his cheeks had turned or how calloused his long fingers had become, and despite the hundreds of scars now peppering his body, at least he still had all of his teeth. In this day and age that was quite an accomplishment.

Because of all his body’s transformations, Oliver had tried his hardest to look exactly as he used to for this reunion. If he was going to surprise her, he didn’t want to then repel her.

So he’d stolen the suit and the hat (money had been nonexistent lately) and been grateful that his deft fingers hadn’t vanished along with his looks. Along with his soul.