Static Reflections: Book 1 of The Mortal Guard Series

Prologue

This book is dedicated to anyone who ever thought they couldn't accomplish their goals. I've been there. I believe in you. You can do it. It' s not too late.

Prologue

Solomon Gordon had already been awake for about five minutes. For some reason, his mind was racing as he soaked in the memories of the other Solomon Gordons, talking to all types of people, walking through hallways, one of them eating a hearty meal, another crying silently on his bed. His eyes darted back and forth under the black blindfold tightly wrapped around his head and he exhaled soft breaths onto the pillow his cheek was pressed against.

The man was only wearing boxers and the blindfold, resting atop his bed in his special residence, which would be identical to all the other Solomons. His mind was an infinite conduit for memories that weren't his body's but were his. They were Solomon Gordon's memories.

It wasn't a hive-mind situation, even though it could feel that way at times. The other Solomons couldn't control his body and he couldn't control theirs. They could send messages to each other, but they sparingly did unless it was for business purposes only.

Solomon was many, but Solomon was alone.

This particular Solomon had just woken up for the day, as it was almost his turn to switch places with one of the Doubles already on the field.

That was how things were in the Mortal Guard for him and the others. They were on a shift system where if one Solomon was sleeping, the other was wide awake, helping run the Disaster Sect: The Mortal Guard's emergency clean-up crew and disaster prevention. Their job was to make sure that no mortal ever found out about the Other Side—the world of the supernatural. If the Disaster Sect failed, it could mean utter chaos for the Earth.

Solomon sat up, his vision pitch dark until he brought his hands up, using his claws to work the knot of his blindfold, fiddling with it for a few moments before pulling it from his head and tossing it on his dresser for the next night. The man sighed, rubbing his face. "Okay."

He got up, walked across the dark blue carpeted floor into the bathroom, urinated groggily, and stepped in front of the mirror, where he had a good look at himself.

Standing before him was a forty-six-year-old black-footed ferret male with bags under his eyes. His round ears sat atop his small head and he observed the way his dark mask spilled from the top of his head and seemingly ran down his face, clashing with the white fur that covered the rest of it. He blinked and furrowed his brows, looking closer at his cheek.

Solomon brought his black finger up carefully, touching the tear that had darkened his white fur. He hadn't even realized it had fallen, but he knew that was lingering emotion from the Solomon that was crying on his bed just a few rooms over. Now, Solomon could feel every other Solomon wipe their black and white faces.

The Disaster Sect Leader bit his lip, staring in the mirror and letting his intrusive thoughts win over.

He allowed himself to wonder if he was the original or just another copy that would pass when the original did, which he found unfair. Even though none of them knew if they were the original, what they did know was that he was still alive, at least. Solomon considered walking out of the room down the hall to the crying Solomon's room and trying to form some sort of friendship with himself. He understood the pain.

They were all feeling it.

'No, I'm fine,' he heard in his head. 'It'll pass.'

'Okay,' he answered the voice telepathically, nodding. "Okay."

Then, his mind wandered again and he thought of Raquelle. He imagined her golden fur, her soft blue eyes, her ridiculous laugh, and lying in their bed with its creme-colored sheets side-by-side as she complained about his snoring. He could never quite figure out how to curb it. He pictured their hands together, fingers laced and silver bands bonding them together in a sacred promise.