CHAPTER_11
The book that contained Baka's self-report of his human life struck an emotional chord with Heaven. Her imagination formed images in her mind of the mountain cabin he described and the children he left behind. She could almost see them. Reading between the lines she felt she could sense the pain Baka felt at the loss of a wife and offspring he treasured.
He talked openly about the gratitude he felt toward the monks who gave him a chance at a life that very few people in those times could enjoy. He talked openly to the keepers of the record about his feelings for his family and how it haunted him constantly, the not knowing how his children had fared without him to provide for them and protect them.
Following a reference made to his work at the monastery at Cozio, she opened a large "coffee table" size art book. There were several photos of paintings owned by the Romanian Cultural Heritage Museum in Bucharest along with a couple of photos of murals from the old monastery at Cozio. The latter were faded and in need of cleaning or restoration, but the images were plain enough to imagine what they must have looked like six hundred years ago.
She turned the page. Of its own accord her hand reached out to touch the photocopy of the image there. A stab of emotion caused tears to form inexplicably then rush to fall from her eyes. She moved quickly to keep them from landing on the glossy, color paper. What she saw before her was the same image that had flashed in her mind earlier when she had imagined Baka painting in his former life as a human. A chestnut haired madonna seated, but watching over children. Déjà vu.
Strange. She wasn't the type to get overly emotional about art. It was something she could take or leave. Her own apartment had exactly two wall hangings. They were framed posters that she knew would qualify as funky or quirky, but didn't think anyone was in danger of mistaking them for art. But these paintings were different.
It wasn't just that they were beautiful, which they were. It was that she could see the beauty of the painter's soul recorded for posterity, for as long as books such as this survived. The enormity of the injustice that had been done to Istvan Baka, of all people, was beginning to seep into her spirit and settle around her like a pall of mourning. This is the man you've been punishing.
She felt like she could almost see Istvan Baka coming through the door of the mountain cabin with a heart stopping smile and a generous embrace intended for a very lucky woman who melted into him and sighed his name. She wished she was that woman.
When the light from the window above began to fade and indicate the day was slipping away, Heaven turned on the overhead lights and began to read about what happened to Istvan Baka after he was taken into custody by Black Swan.
There were many entries regarding Baka's interaction with his guards after he was transferred to his permanent "home" at the converted Romanian fortress.
As the decades went by she followed his metamorphosis to accomplished musician and well-educated man. Observers were always impressed by the intensity of discipline he exhibited when approaching any task. The reports were in general agreement. They spoke of him as being mild tempered and interested in them personally. He was always sad. He never smiled. He rarely slept and was always busy painting, playing music, writing books. Writing books?
Oddly enough she was aware of the popular vampire romance series by Valerie de Stygian, but had no idea that the reclusive author and Baka were one and the same. Heaven was more than surprised.
She immediately pulled her intelliphone from her sweater pocket, purchased the entire series in cyberspace and had the books transferred to the e-tablet presently sitting on the kitchen bar in her apartment. She gathered up the books on the floor, taking one last, long look at the art photos, carefully put them away, turned off the lights and left the way she'd come.
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CHAPTER_12
Elora pulled on the scarlet sweater that was made big enough to fit over her stomach and reached for the gray scarf. It didn't exactly match, but who was going to care? Not Ram or Blackie or the wolves or the trees. Ram was wearing a blue, knit shirt that made his eyes sparkle and pop. For a second she felt resentful that he got to look so good while she was so huge and felt like she was lumbering about.
"I have to go check on the house if we're goin' to have any chance of movin' in before the baby comes, but I do no' like leavin' you here. Does no' feel right. Why do you no' just come with me? I'm thinkin' two weeks is close enough to time that we should be movin' near the clinic. I could have us packed up in an hour."
The baby was to be delivered at The Order's clinic at headquarters. If Elora showed up for treatment at any non-Order medical facility, a lot of questions would be raised about her unusual constitution. Since The Order wasn't prepared to publicly reveal the presence of a visitor from another dimension and all that implies, that left few options for delivery sites.
Simon had given her a deadline. She could live her life away from Edinburgh up to a date pinpointed by the Order doctor, who was ecstatic to be acting as obstetrician since those services were so rarely needed. If she failed to report to Edinburgh before the deadline, she and Ram would have to pay for an emergency Whister flight should that became necessary.
Truthfully, Elora tried to suppress every thought surrounding the whole clinic thing. She'd spent enough months in a hospital room to last several lifetimes and wished her baby could be born anywhere else. Still, after nearly ten months, the state of being pregnant was getting old, tiresome, downright uncomfortable, and she was ready to turn the page.
Ram's mind wandered back to their venture into delivery planning. Dr. Nance had suggested that, as first time parents, they attend a one evening workshop on what to expect when the time came. He had arranged to get them into such an event at the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, not far from Headquarters by taxi.
Ram and Elora sat in folding chairs near the back of a gathering of about twenty couples ranging in age from teens to late forties. There were a couple of times during the presentation when Elora wished she hadn't eaten dinner beforehand. One of those was during the part when they discussed emergency procedures.
They said the chances of a first baby arriving sooner than the mother could get to the hospital were very slim, but in the interest of precaution, they mentioned a few tips including an admonition that the baby's cord should not be cut by amateurs. The doctor giving the lecture said to keep the placenta together being careful not to puncture it, wrap it up and bring it to the hospital still attached to the baby where medical experts would safely detach the cord and tie it off. The idea of carrying placenta around on the outside of her body almost caused Elora to lose the crab cakes she had eaten for dinner. The ones she now wished she had never seen.
The lecture part of the evening gave way to movie time. They began with a video of a typical, normal, vaginal delivery, explaining each step in very clinical terms as if they wanted to be sure no one confused the images with p**n . No chance of that.
Elora was riveted, no doubt putting herself in the place of the poor woman experiencing the very worst sort of privacy invasion, when she realized the air was growing warmer on her left side where Ram was sitting. About the same time she also realized that he was taking deeper breaths.
She jerked her head toward her mate. Even in the darkened room, she could see that he had lost color from his face. She grabbed his elbow and brought him to his feet in one motion as she stood up. He was going to have to walk on his own because carrying him might get their photo splashed on the front cover of the National Inquirer. The tagline would read, "Alien effortlessly carries her two hundred twenty pound husband to the safety of fresh air."
"Come on." They stepped over people to get out of the room then Elora rushed him along to get him outside where it was cooler and less crowded. "Rammel," she said as they hurried toward the door, "Do not hyperventilate! Try to slow your breathing."
He made a peculiar sound like a strangled snarl.
When she reached an exit, she slammed through the double doors to a courtyard and then stopped. Ram bent over and put his hands on his knees while he worked at steadying his breathing. Elora stood next to him rubbing his back in a soothing, circular motion. After a couple of minutes his breathing grew regular and he stood up looking just a little dazed. When he felt good enough to walk, they made their way to the street, where Elora hailed a cab. She'd gotten pretty good at it since he'd first taught her on a date in New York last Yuletide.
As they were climbing in she said, "Let's go to the pub and get a ginger ale. It'll settle our stomachs and be good for what 'ails' us."