Dreams and Shadows (The Aylosian Chronicles Book 1) by Jeffrey Collyer

number twelve of the ground clock.
    The shoulder-length hair that caressed her face was darker than his – a soft black – and her matching dark and penetrating eyes seemed to draw him into her soul. Her dress was of the darkest blue; the shaped upper half comprising subtle silver brocade shapes. It flared slightly at the waist and ended just below her knees, where the tops of her black boots were hidden. If he had dwelt on these things, he would have thought it an old-fashioned dress, but he was captivated by her face. Her mouth was slightly upturned at the sides, a gentle smile tenderly radiating a warmth across the short distance that separated them.
    She was possibly in her early forties, and as he stared, mesmerised by her, the memory of the bee, frozen in the air between two beautiful blue flowers, came to mind. He was flooded with emotion, forgetting to breathe until his body forced him and he took a quick gulp of air.
    It was then that something caught the corner of his vision, and he involuntarily turned his head towards it. His sense of wonder was replaced in an instant with horror, as he saw the blonde-haired man – perhaps ten years his senior – raise his right arm towards the woman, his finger on the trigger of a pistol. There was a determination in his bright blue eyes, and Michael somehow knew that there would be no hesitation.
    It all happened at once: the man pressed his finger, Michael screamed “No!” , and behind him and out of sight the clock on the Guildhall tower struck twelve.
    The panic that enveloped him was beyond anything he had before felt, his legs unconsciously moving him as quickly as they could towards this woman who had somehow imprinted herself upon his soul.
    Everything moved in slow motion: he glanced at the armed stranger and saw the powder exit the barrel of the pistol, saw the bullet emerge from its chamber. He looked back at the woman, whose gaze had remained on him: her face frozen in that beatific smile. His legs were moving slowly, but were somehow outpacing the bullet that appeared to crawl through the air towards her. The gunman was half the distance from her than Michael had been, and it was nothing but absurd to think that he could race a bullet, but he didn’t think about such things as he willed his legs to speed their progress through the morass of air that lay between them; implored the same air to slow the deadly projectile.
    His desperation prevented him from wonder at the impossible as he closed the gap on the woman, the bullet slowing further. Sweat started to fall from his face as the nausea built within him, but he forced his way through the final steps.
    As he reached the woman – the bullet mere inches from her forehead – he caught her in his arms, spinning around as they fell, so that she he would cushion her fall.
    As the back of his head hit the pavement, a sharp pain shot through his skull, and the world around erupted. Next to him, men were shouting, and he could hear screams coming from all directions. The bile in his stomach forced its way up his throat, and releasing the woman he rolled onto his side and violently threw up, his head pounding as if being repeatedly struck with a hammer.
    The pain in his skull was still intense when he finished being sick, and he lay back down with his arms around his head to block out the light and sounds that aggravated it. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but as the pain started to ease, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He could just make out the sirens of the police cars and ambulance as he slowly opened his eyes. Kneeling before him was a man, perhaps in his early fifties.
    He wore a concerned look on his face that turned to relief when he saw an awareness return to Michael’s eyes. “How are you feeling, young man?” he asked in a deep voice.
    Michael groaned and replied, “My head is killing me.” The thought of the woman restored a degree of alertness, however, and he quickly added, “The