Death of Connor Sanderson: Chap 1:Part 7

Chapter One: Part 7.
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Glancing at Lester, Rufus’ perennial side-kick, Connor said, “You’d want to be this maggot’s second? Defend this scum?” His gaze darted back to bore contempt into Rufus’ brain. “But then, Marquess of Queensberry rules are not really your style. You’re more of an ambush kind of guy.” Connor smiled as the pulse that stroked over his knuckles pounded harder. “If you think you can take me, Rufus, feel free to try. I promise you, things will never be the same again...for either of us.”

Connor watched closely, primed on a hair-trigger of control, waiting for Rufus to decide their fate.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Rufus shrunk in Connor’s grasp, lowering his eyes and admitting defeat.

Connor took a deep steadying breath, and embraced a feeling of relief as the sharp blade of hunger dulled to an ache that he could wrestle with, and win.

“I don’t think you will be here much longer, Sanderson.” Rufus swallowed hard as his words grated over compressed vocal chords. “The hospital board of governors have convened, and your days are numbered. I don’t have to fight you to finish you.”

“The board? How is Uncle Cecil?” Connor’s tone dripped with sarcasm.

Rufus patted his breast pocket. “I have a letter to deliver to Sir John. You are out of favour, Sanderson.”

Connor waited for the weight of frustration at his hard earned ground being lost to press down upon him. But he found, at this moment, with the ethereal laughter that had seemingly oozed from the walls inside the morgue still ringing in his ears, he did not care. I have more pressing concerns.

He slowly released his grip, and tidied Rufus’s collar, brushing off his shoulders with a measured stroke of ivory clad fingers.

He smiled sweetly as he said, “Sir John is not a fool. Do your worst, Clare.”

Connor turned abruptly on his heel and whisked along the corridor, resuming his journey to the lecture hall. His preternatural acceleration chilled the sudden sweat of fear that blossomed on the handsome faces of Lester and Rufus as they stared into a blank space. The hair on their napes prickled as though someone walked over their grave.

Before Connor turned the corner and set his sights on the signage directing him to his mentor's teaching wing, he had already dismissed them, his mind racing on ahead.

He passed through the double doors at the end of the featureless, antiseptic-odour tainted, white-tiled corridor, and into the warm embrace of wood paneled walls and thickly carpeted floors. The gas flames in the wall-brackets were set to low, supplementing daylight which struggled through the small panes in the leaded light windows in a brave attempt to dissipate the gloom of the tastefully decorated hallway.

Hanging portraits of eminent physicians punctuated the row of large, brass-framed mirrors which made the most of every shaft of light slicing through the air, and Connor was momentarily distracted by motes of dust dancing like a snowfall of fire-flies in the bright funnel ahead as the sun rejoiced in a moment of triumph.

Putting his palm to his watch Connor considered checking the hour, but, as though an electromagnet inside his head had been activated, his hand fell away as he instinctively knew exactly where he was on the continuum of time.

I am late...

After the morning he’d had, finding Reggie and entering the lecture hall without attracting Sir John’s disapproval would be easy.

He strode carelessly forward until the sun’s rays glinted across his hair, picking out filaments of cobalt blue in the raven black sweep, casting a penetrating blaze over his concentrated expression and burning his skin. He gasped and shielded his face as a tingling sensation crawled underneath his skin. Burning like acid. What on earth? Connor blocked the sunlight with a bent arm and a twisted shoulder, moving quickly into the shade.

He froze in the awkwardly folded posture of some Machiavellian villain, imagining a blistering epidermis as fiery heat continued to sizzle over his cheekbone and his lips tightened in a grimace of pain.

He had to know. Carefully tilting his body sideways, his reflection filled the face of the mirror on the wall opposite. A network of angry, red capillaries glistened like a covering of red lace draped over his cheek. He leaned closer and rubbed a curious fingertip over the tissue. Not sore, just hard. Using his thumb, he compressed the tissue over his cheekbones in a masochistic massage over the red cotton-like threads which felt like fuse-wire buried beneath his skin.

It is barely a first degree burn, so why did it feel like Dante’s inferno? And sunburn in three seconds? For a moment his brain hit a brick wall as he shuffled through myths and legends, and did not like the one that was trying to tear the wool from his eyes.

His stubborn analytical nature came to his rescue. I shall rule out the probable...only then will I entertain the impossible. Deep down, he preferred the prospect of madness to that of being a monster.