Page 19 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
This village of perfect immortals was not the heaven Tim had imagined. It was his personal hell—a troll in the land of Barbie and Ken dolls.
"Would you like to join me for a drink?" Thomas asked.
"That's the best offer I got today."
Thomas chuckled. "I would think that the prospect of immortality would be a better offer than a drink."
"A drink isn't going to kill me, and it's going to calm my nerves. Can't say that about the transition Andrew told me about."
"True that," Thomas agreed.
Andrew had been telling Tim bits and pieces about immortals and gods throughout the drive to Tim's place and then to this hidden village. He'd told him how some other immortals called Doomers wanted the immortals Andrew was with dead, but after a while, it had all become one big salad in Tim's mind. All he could think about was the upcoming induction ceremony that sounded like something from a horror movie.
"So, on a scale of one to ten, how likely am I to die during my transition?" Tim asked.
"We've never lost a Dormant during transition, so I would say very low."
"That's what Kian said." Tim shuffled after the guy into the living room. "But you all have that look. You know, the one people get when they're trying not to mention that your fly is open or you have spinach in your teeth."
"I assure you, your fly is closed, and your teeth are clean."
Tim snorted. "Smartass. You know what I mean."
Thomas leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. The guy was massive—not just tall but built like someone who bench-pressed cars for fun. Tim tried not to feel like a hobbit in comparison. A pudgy, balding hobbit who hated to walk, let alone bench press anything.
"The transition can be difficult," Thomas said. "Some Dormants lose consciousness for days or even weeks, and the older you are while undergoing it, the tougher it gets. But you'll have the best care possible. Our doctors have plenty of experience with transitions by now, and they will take good care of you." He flashed that beautiful smile again. "Instead of focusing on how difficult it will be, focus on all the benefits you will reap. You'll improve in every way you can imagine."
Andrew had improved, that was true, but he'd been a good-looking guy before his transition. Tim still couldn't believe he'd fallen for Andrew's explanation that a Swiss spa was responsible for all the changes he'd undergone, including growing taller by what looked like two inches. Spinal realignment, he'd said, and Tim had believed him.
What a fool he'd been.
Still, he had no illusions about becoming a model after his transition. Remodeling a shack wasn't going to turn it into a mansion, no matter how much was invested into fixing it. The only way to make it look good was to demolish it and start over from scratch, but they were not talking about rebirth and reincarnation. They were discussing ways to improve on what was already there.
"Unless this transition comes with a complete body reconstruction, I'm still going to look like the 'before' picture in a fitness ad."
Thomas laughed. "Chances are that you will look like the after picture, but it won't come without putting in the work."
"Yeah, well," Tim muttered. "I'm starting from a deficit, and I'm not good at setting goals and sticking to them. My idea of exercise is walking from the couch to the fridge."
Thomas laughed, and he didn't try to counter the self-deprecating statement, which Tim appreciated in a twisted way. At least the guy was honest.
Tomorrow was the big day, his induction ceremony, and after hearing what was involved, Tim had hoped that Andrew would volunteer to be his inducer, but he hadn't exactly jumped at the opportunity, claiming that it required a precision he hadn't mastered yet. Translation—he didn't want to put his mouth on Tim's neck, and he couldn't even blame him.
Tim wouldn't have wanted to bite his wobbly neck either.
Andrew didn't like him, but that was fine. He preferred to be feared rather than pitied. Anyone talking shit about him found lovely caricatures of themselves tacked to every surface in the building. His personal favorite was Jenkins from accounting, whom he drew as a weasel in a suit, counting pennies while the building burned around him.
Thomas pushed away from the counter and walked over to the bar. "What's your pleasure?" He opened the glass doors to reveal quite a collection of fine whiskeys.
"Holy shit," Tim breathed. "Is that a Macallan?"
"Aged thirty years." Thomas pulled out the bottle and poured two generous measures.
Tim accepted the glass reverently. "This stuff costs more than my car."
Thomas lifted an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that you are being paid well by the government and doubling that with all the private commissions you are accepting."
"Yeah, but I don't like spending my money. I'm a hoarder. My car is a twenty-year-old Honda Civic."
