He was wise enough and sufficiently experienced to know that intuition was the highest form of knowledge and should never be ignored. He hoped that a walk in the cool mountain air would clear his troubled mind.īy the time Deucalion circled the property and arrived at the entrance to the abbey church, he understood that his suspicion arose not from deductive reasoning but instead from intuition. He’d left his quarters in the guest wing because he was plagued by a suspicion that seemed irrational but that he couldn’t shake. Previously, he had been comfortable as a visitor in French, Italian, Spanish, Peruvian, and Tibetan monasteries. As the first-and, he believed, the sole surviving-creation of Victor Frankenstein, he belonged nowhere in this world, yet he did not feel like an outsider at St. Deucalion considered consulting her, but she didn’t know the full truth of him, which she would need to know in order to understand his problem.Ĭenturies old but young in spirit, born not of man and woman, but instead constructed from the bodies of dead felons and animated by strange lightning, Deucalion was most at home in monasteries. Most of the windows were dark, although lights glowed in Sister Angela’s office on the ground floor.

According to Sister Angela, the mother superior, the most commonly reported dream of her young charges was of flying under their own power, high above the school, the abbey, the church, the forest. Bartholomew’s School, where orphans with physical and developmental disabilities flew in their sleep, while Benedictine nuns watched over them. He carried no weapon because he feared nothing in the forest, nothing in the night, nothing on Earth.Īlthough he was unusually tall, muscled, and powerful, his physical strength was not the source of his confidence and fortitude. He needed no lamplight to guide him and he would have needed none even deep in the blackness of the mountain woods.įrom time to time, he heard sounds of unknown origin issuing from among the towering pines, but they inspired no anxiety. Where patches of lawn were bleached by recent cold, the dead grass resembled ice in the lunar chill.Īt two o’clock in the morning, Deucalion walked the perimeter of the seven-acre property, following the edge of the encircling forest. With the hiss of an artist’s airbrush, it seemed to blow the pale moonlight like a mist of paint across the slate roofs of the church and abbey, across the higher windows, and down the limestone walls. The October wind came down from the stars.

Lost souls koontz novel