Page 2 of The Immortal’s Mark

In the next instant, the world shifts, and I step through the rip.

Warm air greets me, brushing across my face as if welcoming me to the bustling oasis. Tall palm fronds rustle overhead. Voices swirl through the air, dozens of conversations blending into a lively hum.

I grit my teeth.

I forgot how loud the mortal world can be. The noise is a stark contrast to the quiet mansion.

Seeking respite from the bustling crowd of middle-aged women gawking at the bubbling fountain before them, I follow the familiar path past the duck pond and the statue honoring Lord Byron. I reach the quaint café adjacent to the children’s library and take a seat with my back facing the other café’s patrons.

My gaze wanders across the park, watching families stroll beneath the trees and tourists stop to photograph the scenery.

When a waiter approaches, I order a medium-roast coffee before returning my attention to the life unfolding around me, pointedly ignoring the whispers from the women seated on the patio behind me.

I’m not immune to admiration.

Creator knows, I’ve indulged in my share of dalliances, but they never meant anything. All they provided was a brief respite from centuries of loneliness—of watching one of my brothers thrive with the love of his life while the other pines after his.

There are times I am desperate to be ordinary, when I revel in the illusion that I am a normal male with normal desires.

But today is not that kind of day.

No amount of flirtation could distract me from the persistent ache of discontent spreading through my chest.

If anything, the sensation grows stronger with every passing second.

So, I ignore the admiring murmurs behind me and focus on the conversations drifting through the park.

Families debate their sightseeing plans. A couple argues quietly about where to eat dinner. A young boy loudly complains about how boring the garden tour is.

I don’t suppress a smile.

I cannot blame him.

Even as an adult, I find the gardens rather unremarkable. Personally, I would prefer a museum or an ancient temple.

Still, I’d hoped the fresh air would calm the unease inside me.

It does not.

I drain half of my coffee in minutes.

The waiter reappears. “Refill, sir?”

“No, thank you.” My soul remains unsettled. I need to move—to search for a different method of reprieve before I claw my skin.

He leaves with a nod, and a blur of blue dances into my line of sight.

My eyes snap to the movement.

A slender blonde wanders down the path in front of the café. Her pale blue skirt shifts on the breeze, drawing attention to long, tan legs. Her golden ponytail sways as she bends forward to admire a bush of blooming flowers.

She’s lovely.

But it isn’t her beauty that holds my attention.

No, it’s the pull.

The powerful, undeniable force slams into my chest, stealing the air from my lungs and sending my heart into a violent rhythm that bruises my sternum.