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Chosen Ch. 01

By: Lisette80



I stand; waiting, shivering despite the heat, my stomach in knots. It is the Day of Choosing in the village. All women of age, not committed to a man are presented. All women, regardless of age, are presented. Those of us that are pure have no idea what to expect. No one is allowed at the presentation unless you are of age. And no one speaks of it. I look at the five girls behind me, with the same anxious eyes that I have. From inside the tent, we hear murmers, whispers, and small whimpers from the girl who went in first. This year, there are 7 of us who came of age. There is also 1 woman who had been already chosen 3 summers ago, but her man had been killed hunting. She could be re-presented because of this. There was also 1 who had her purity taken by a hunter from another village. He had been killed for this - the king doesn't stand for the innocence to be taken. She can also be presented. There are 9 of us for tonight's presentation. Only the 7 of us that are new have to wait in line to be examined for purity. And we have no idea what to expect....

"NEXT!"

I step inside the tent of the high priestess. My eyes adjust to the dim lights. I see her, standing by a large stone table, filling a bowl. Next to the table is the king and one of his attendants. She is completely nude. I quickly look at the floor. 

"Pure?" The king questions. I nod meekly. I glance up, and notice his coverings are moved to the side, revealing a large, thick shaft. I again stare at the floor. 

His attendant comes to me. "Sheath please." She holds out a hand. I nervously let the fabric fall from my body. My face burns, I squeeze my eyes closed. She takes my sheath and places it by the door. "Please sit on the table."

I walk over and sit on the edge. The priestess looks at me and smiles. "I'm going to explain to you the duties of the day. Please listen closely; you need to fulfill them correctly if you are chosen by a man."

I nod slowly, squeezing my legs together and my arms in front of me, hoping to hide my private areas. 

She continues, "You will first be checked for purity. This is your only chance to tell the king if it has already been taken. If I find it is gone, you will be taken to the king's brothel. That is your punishment for allowing your purity to be taken. If you are pure, you will receive a pink anklet to wear to the presentation. This symbolizes your purity. Are you ready to begin?" I nod meekly, my stomach turning as I realize the king and attendant will be watching my test. 

"Very well. Please lay back, head here." She motions to the other edge. As I move into place, my most private area is directly in the king's view. My cheeks burn in shame. The priestess stands next to my drawn up knees. "First, I will show you your position for the presentation. This will also be how I check your purity." She takes my arms and gently moves them directly over my head, and tells me to clasp them together. The view of my breasts makes me swallow hard. They are pushed up and together, and in plain view. She then takes my knees and separates them. Widely. I feel the breeze on my most private area, knowing its right in front of the king. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the tears are hidden. She dips her finger into the bowl, stirring and coating it in oil. She places her other hand on my knee. The oiled finger is at my passage, moving slowly. The tears are falling, but I don't make a sound. She slowly slides her finger inside, gently, twirling it. 

"She is pure" she tells the king, and takes her finger out of me. "The king will confirm." My heart leaps out of my throat. What? He's going to do that to me? I hear movement, the sound of the oil splashing. I open my eyes to see him standing between my legs. The priestess places a hand on each of my knees, opening them wide. He takes his finger and slides it into me. I inhale sharply; his finger is much larger. He nods at the priestess, his finger still inside me.

She attaches the pink anklet. My purity is confirmed. I look back at the king, his finger still inside me. He is staring at his hand, his other fingers lightly moving through my pubic hair. He looks at his attendant. "You will remove this hair in preparation." He slowly slides his finger out of me, and she comes in to view. She begins shaving my hair, and I'm horrified. I try not to breathe, fearing she would cut me. The king moves to my side, inspecting my body. He dips his hands in the bowl, covering them in oil. 

He begins with my breasts. He kneads them, squeezes them, rolls my nipples. I close my eyes, tears falling. He moves to my stomach, my thighs, down my legs. All the while, I hear the sound of my pubic hair being removed. He moves back to my breasts, continuing massage. 

The attendant stands, and places the sharp blade on the table. She washes away the residue. The breeze on my sensitive area is much stronger. The king demands I stand. I comply. His attendant lays on the table, assuming the position I was in

"This is how you will be presented. All single men will be able to see you, to touch you, to decide who he wants as a mate. They are permitted to enter you, so long as its one finger, they are dipped in oil, and your purity remains intact. Taking a woman's purity at the presentation is punishable. With death. Do you understand?" 

I nodded and swallowed hard. Enter me? All men would see me spread out this way? My eyes filled with tears. 

"Once the presentation is over, all chosen women will be brought to the commitment ceremony. Your purity will be taken. By me. I will demonstrate." He placed his hand in the bowl, coating it in oil. He rubbed his shaft until it was slick. He grabbed his servant's legs, spread them wide and pushed himself into her. 

I nearly fainted. How could I take that much? Surely he would split me in two? I watched as he pumped in an out of her. Her breasts jiggled, her breathing became rapid. He looked and me and said, "It will be painful. But it will not last." He pulled his shaft from her, and she got off the table.

He walked to me, and I averted my eyes. "You will then be committed to your man. You will kneel." I sank to my knees. He took my chin and raised it. "This is how. Open your mouth." I complied. He thrust his oily thick shaft into my mouth. My eyes watered, I choked. He placed his hands on either side of my head, holding me in place. He began to move in and out of my mouth. My tears, spit, and oil were running down my face and on to my breasts

I felt one hand move away, and opened my eyes. His attendant was next to him. He took him free hand and began massaging her breasts, the way he did to mine. He moved down her body, and finally slid his i fingers into her moist opening. He continued thrusting in my mouth, and I heard the wet squishing sounds of his hand inside her. I was burning with humiliation.

He twitched and moaned, and filled my mouth with his seed. I gagged, and he pushed me away. He pulled his hand from his attendant and waved her back to the chair. He pulled me to my feet.

"Please bathe yourself in the stream with the others. You will be presented with them. I hope you will be chosen." He turned away. 

The priestess handed me my sheath, and led me to the back door. "Go, my dear. Clean up. You want to look your best for the presentation. After all girls have been prepared, I will bring you back in here for the presentation. 

She smiled and nudged me out the door. I stepped into the bright sun, and heard the splashing of the stream. I walked over and stepped inside, cleaning myself of the oil and filth. I locked eyes with the girl who had been in before me. We nodded in agreement, knowing we couldn't speak of what happened. And what was going to happen.....

To be continued.

Chosen Ch. 01



I'm not crazy, and I'm not making it up. I don't expect anyone to believe me. But I have to type this, even though I know I'm not supposed to; maybe it's happened to someone before. I can't be the only one. 

My name is Adrienne, and I'm twenty four years old. I live alone in California and I used to do data entry for a large firm. The art major didn't work out. I make extra money on the side doing photo shoots and little bits of modelling, for local advertisers. Some of it's... risqué. Not quite porn but.... I mean data entry jobs are getting harder to find. I don't like the modelling work but there are a couple of guys who can always work me into their projects if I ask nicely. But each time they come through, the job is a little more... I don't want to do porn.

I have a small apartment in a poorer part of town. It's not that bad. The people in the neighborhood are pretty decent and they watch out for me. I invested in an extra lock on my door and the windows are barred; it's an old building, but built when the town was better off, so it's nicer than it might have been.

My boyfriend took a job in Texas. I already know it's not going to work out. Maybe it was never going to, but already he's not calling as often. I have friends, mostly people from school; and I see them on weekends. My family is out East. 

I'm kind of a neat freak. My apartment is super-organized; my friends laugh at it. The apartment is full of nooks and little places to store things, shelves and bookcases from the days when people built all that into their rooms, and I have art projects from school on display and things from my boyfriend's archeological projects; arrowheads, some pottery and carved onyx from Mexico. I mean I had to do something with the bookshelves; I don't have that many actual books.

So it jumped out at me when I saw a book on a shelf that I hadn't put there. 

It was Wednesday, April sixteenth. I remember because it was the morning after the lunar eclipse, which I hadn't known about beforehand; it kind of creeped me out when I looked out the window that night. Things were dark and red; I decided I didn't like it and went to bed a little early. 

The next morning I dragged myself into the living room and made coffee, and saw the book and inkwell.

I stared at them. No one had been over last night and they definitely weren't mine. I walked over. The inkwell had ink in it, a strange rusty-brown liquid. I sniffed at it. It had a faint, sharp smell. 

They were old – the inkwell was pottery and looked right at home with some of my boyfriend's finds from Europe. The book was nothing like I'd ever seen before – a thick leather cover, worn in many places, and the back cover was stiff and looked like it had been burned. It had rough cut pages that were dusky yellow with age. There was a title that had once been done in gilt, but it was worn off and just a few flecks remained. I turned it over in my hands; it was heavy and dusty, but well stitched, not falling apart.

Had my boyfriend been by? That wasn't possible. He was on a future oil site in Texas, digging around for Indian stuff. And he didn't have a key anymore.

I opened the book at random. The page was blank. I frowned, and flipped backwards. All blank.

Until the first page. There were a few words, in dark reddish-brown, formal, ornate, handwritten lettering, at the top of the page:

You have been chosen.

I stared at it. What the hell?

Some kind of prank, right? One of my friends thought the art and antiques were weird, probably, and had snuck this in here. Somehow. Except I'd dusted these shelves two days ago and this hadn't been there and no one had been over since...

Seriously, what was going on? Kristen, maybe. She had a weird sense of humor. But how?

Well, if it was Kristen, I'd play her weird little game. There wasn't a pen with the inkwell, but I grabbed a regular pen from my purse and scribbled below the words:

Yay! Did I win a cruise?

My writing looked clumsy and uneven compared to the ornate print above it. People don't write like that anymore. I mean people don't write anymore at all, they type. 

I shook my head, and pulled out my phone and texted Kristen. Did you leave a book here?

She responded almost instantly. Book? Like paper? No. I have a Kindle. Why would I bring a book over there?

I just... frowned, and put the book back on the shelf. Weirdest prank ever. But I had to get to work.

+++

At work I got selected for a trial project – they were trying out new software. It became apparent very quickly that the new software existed to automate my job, and once they had it working, a bunch of us were going to be unemployed. I wasn't exactly shocked; I'd seen this before. I mean, I'm not stupid. Naïve, maybe, but not stupid. I knew career change was inevitable. I just didn't like the most likely option for my next career. Maybe I could learn to write software; they seem to be the guys that get to take everyone else's jobs away. 

Lunch was depressing. I made sure all my coworkers knew about the trial project and what it meant.

By three o'clock the software and I – by which I mean the software – had done three days of work. The guy in charge was very pleased, and told me I could have the rest of the day off while they made some final adjustments.

Yeah. I walked out in a funk. I've learned something: when your job gets easy, it's never a good thing. The timing couldn't have been worse; my finances were in a decline. Bob, my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, had been helping out on food and car maintenance more than I realized. 

I hiked down the walkway and over the bridge towards the parking lot, which was across the highway. The parking lot had always struck me as a noir art project, a concrete example of negative space – it was cracked, faded asphalt, surrounded by decaying chain link fence and razor wire, but the exit to the access road no longer had a gate, so the razor wire didn't accomplish anything positive. There were weeds and broken glass and oil stains, and a faded aluminum sign that said "Parking for Employees for Metracorp ONLY", which wasn't the name of the current company. If you were trying to convey the sense that the people who parked there weren't important, it would have been hard to do better. The crowning touch was the small arrangement of flowerpots along one edge of the lot; someone had tried to bring color here once, but the plants were long dead and two of the flower pots were broken; another had rusted out. Flower pots that can rust – what a clever design. 

I turned left and walked along the edge of the lot, listening to cars fly by on the highway just a few feet away. People going places, doing important things. I spotted my car and turned towards it, sighing.

I don't know exactly what happened, since I was walking away, but there was a bang, a screech, and the sudden blowing of truck horns, terrifyingly loud and sudden – and a horrific crashing, tearing noise, followed by a series of smashes and horns blowing. I looked behind me, saw a jack-knifing truck crashing through the fence towards me, I screamed, stumbled, crashed to the ground-

Broken glass, everywhere, and hot metal scraping over my leg. More crashes and the scream of tortured metal, but that was back on the highway. It look me a long time – I guess, I was confused and stunned – to sort out what had happened. 

I'd run between two cars, tripped, and the truck had rolled over me. The two cars I'd been between had been smashed almost flat but between them they'd kept the truck from crushing me as well. There was glass everywhere and my leg was going to bruise but except for a cut on the back of my hand I seemed to be... fine?

I smelled gas, and looked down. A spreading puddle. Fuck, gas – bad, that's bad – 

I got up and ran. A few seconds behind me, there was a quiet foosh, and the space I'd been in caught fire. It didn't burn as fast or furiously as it did in the movies.

On the highway there was a pileup of damage. I couldn't be here, I had to leave, people were dying here. I bolted for my car, staggered into it, left... the access road dumped me on to the highway, downstream of the accident.

Looking behind me, I'd clearly been on the edge of a horrific pileup. Holy shit – the truck driver. The cab had been smashed and I hadn't seen anyone get out, and then a fire... Go back? I'd have to loop around and there'd be that traffic jam. No, call the police! But even as I reached for my phone, I could see the flashing lights in the mirror, off in the distance.

I put the phone down, and shook. I shouldn't even be alive. If the metal had twisted differently I wouldn't be. If I hadn't tripped and fallen flat I wouldn't be. If I hadn't noticed the gas I wouldn't be. Holy shit. 

I was still shaking when I got to my apartment. If anything, worse. I sat on the sofa, took off my shoes – I have to do this when I get to my apartment, I don't know why – and tried not to think too much. 

That didn't work. I need to talk to someone. Calling Bob didn't even occur to me. I needed Kristen.

As I reached for the phone, it rang. I jolted like a wire had just shocked me, and with a shaking hand I picked it up. "Yes?"

"Adrienne Smith? This is Will Canu, from work."

"Uh... yes, Mr. Canu. It's ok, I'm fine."

"Ah... what?"

"Aren't you calling about the accident?"

"Oh the highway? No. Why, were you involved in it?"

"I was in the parking lot when it happened."

"Were you hurt at all?"

"Nothing serious. I'm fine." I'd be bruised when the smashed car door had banged my leg, and there was the small cut on my hand, but given what could have happened...

"Oh. Good! I'm glad to hear it."

"Thanks. Um, why are you calling then?"

Wait. Canu. He was in HR. Oh no...

"Um, bad news, Miss Smith. You're being laid off. I'm sure you understand about the pressures the company is under as regards profitability. Steps had to be taken. I need to ask you to stop by at ten tomorrow for the exit interview. You'll get two additional weeks of pay, as the law requires, of course. You can have any questions answered then. Sorry to tell you over the phone, but the announcement had to be made today and we couldn't reach you in the office."

"It's ok, Mr Canu. It's not exactly unexpected."

"I'm glad you're ok, Miss Smith. You'll speak to a Miss Vultari tomorrow. Good night."

I thumbed Hang Up, and stared at the phone, blankly. Two more weeks of income. I wasn't going to be able to make rent. I went numb, and now I didn't even want to call Kristen. Somehow the two shocks were just... too much. I sat there. I didn't even cry.

After a time I got up. I was unemployed now. Lots of free time, might as well find something to do. Maybe I'd dust the apartment.

That was when I started crying.

+++

When I was done, I made dinner, and ate. I was in so, so much trouble now. I had no idea what to do.

Moodily, my eye fell on the mysterious book. And the even more mysterious inkwell with the extremely mysterious ink. 

How had it even gotten here?

I walked over to it, and picked it up. Heavy. Old. I sat down and opened to the first page again.

You have been chosen.

༓

Raise the third floorboard from the east wall in your bedroom.

Wait... what? I'd written in this book this morning. My writing was gone, and this was added. Who had been in my apartment when I was away?

I put the book down. Suddenly I was afraid of it. No one could have been in here and no one could have erased what I'd written so neatly. This wasn't even possible.

The accident. I'd survived. That wasn't possible either. I stared at the book. None of this was possible.

A floorboard? Like, a plank in the floor? My bedroom had a carpet. Well, no, it was a wall to wall rug, more like. It had come with the apartment and I'd lifted it and looked underneath and the wooden floor had not been in great shape and I'd left the rug alone after that.

I was shaking again. 

East wall. How did I know which way east was? I mean I live in a city, the streets are twisty, I wasn't ever a girl scout or anything... wait. Sun rises in the east. Doesn't it? It shone in my bedroom window in the morning. So that was east, right? 

I found myself walking up the old, narrow stairs to my bedroom. Shaking. Confused.

I went to the window, looked out. Late afternoon sun behind me, casting shadows over the city, with the spires of the financial district the only bright points. I looked down, and rolled back the rug. Old wooden planks, badly sanded, stained. Pry up the third one? What did that mean? Third from the east. Um... one, two, three. Ok. It's a long narrow plank. How would I- oh. It's a little warped. Raised just a little and with a small gap. I have a screwdriver somewhere, I could pry at it...

I froze. How could anyone know about this? It had to be Bob, right? What the fuck, not many people had been in this bedroom but he had, he's the only one that could know...

I called him. 

"Addy! What's up, girl."

In the background I heard pounding noises.

"Where are you?"

"What? Sweetheart, you know where I am. On site a bunch of miles from Lubbock. Don't mind the banging, they're putting up temporary housing for the drilling crew. You calling because you miss my voice?"

"I... "

What was I going to say? I got a book and it's creeping me out?

"Yeah. I just had a bad day is all. Traffic accident. I'm fine, it was just a really close call."

"Oh, baby. You need to be careful. But you're ok?"

"Yeah."

In the background, I heard a female voice. The phone instantly muted. I stared at it. After a moment he spoke again. "Sorry babe. I need to get back to this. One of the surveys has gotten messed up-"

In the background, a faint giggle. 

"Yeah, ok. I have to go too. Bye."

Yeah. I hit Hang Up. No tears this time; everything was happening the way I knew it would. Except the book. 

Numbly, I got a screwdriver, realized it was the plus kind and not good for prying, and got a kitchen knife instead. It wasn't good for prying either, but the board had shrunk a little over the years and it wasn't too difficult to pry up.

There was space underneath. A couple feet away, there was something in the space, a small brown package wrapped up in coarse twine. Covered with dust.

I picked it up. The twine disintegrated. The wrapping was leather, old but not too stiff. It was bigger than my hand, but not much. In a dream, I unfolded the wrapping. 

A pearl necklace spilled into my hand.

I'd never seen one like it; the pearls were big, and it was at least eighteen inches long. The clasp looked like gold. There was a note with it, folded, yellowed.

I opened it, expecting rust-brown ink, but it was a blue-black, very feminine somehow, and faded. 

My dear love,
I cannot accept this. You know that very well. It is extravagant beyond words and even if it was appropriate, when could I ever wear it? He already suspects, and he would ruin me in a moment if he learned of you. He is here this week, so I will write this note now and mail it back to you as soon as he is gone. Oh Brian, you cannot, cannot do this. He is not a gentle man and even though he does not care about me, he would not forbear to beat me, and I cannot bear to think of what cruel and furious revenge he'd have against you

I stopped reading because I was shaking so badly I couldn't make out the words. There had been a murder in the building, a very long time ago. A woman, strangled and stabbed. That was all anyone knew and the landlord had joked that it might have even happened in the space where my apartment was.

I looked at the date on the letter. July, 1899. No envelope. No wax. It hadn't been mailed. Of course it hadn't. Because he'd found out about her infidelity, and he'd killed her, without ever knowing about the loose floorboard. 

But the book knew about the floorboard.

I looked at the pearls.

It knew I needed money.

Shaking, I curled up on the floor and let myself slide into a shocked stupor.

+++

I had an exit interview to get through.

I'd never met Miss Vultari before and I guessed she'd been flown in for the exit interviews. She covered my severance quickly and efficiently and in fifteen minutes I had a small stack of paperwork. She also tried to dock me for the two hours off yesterday, but I objected and told her I'd been given that that time off by my supervisor. She called to check, and dropped it. Then she finished up with a surprise.

"I understand that you were in the parking lot when the traffic accident on the highway happened."

"Yes, I was. I was lucky to get away with a bruise and a cut, to be honest. It was horrific."

"The company wishes me to inform you that the parking lot fence conforms to local construction codes."

"In other words the company's not at fault for the fact that a truck rolled through an unmaintained fence and crushed several cars flat, and very nearly me. Is it also not responsible for the broken glass and slippery oil spills that were already in the parking lot?" I'm not stupid and she shouldn't have tried to gyp me out of two hours of pay.

She nodded to herself. "I see... I've been authorized to offer you ten thousand dollars in exchange for a written promise that you will not pursue any legal action against the company now or in future, and will not discuss what happened with anyone not authorized by the company. I have the form right here."

I looked it over. I could describe what happened to the police, period. Family members were explicitly excluded. That just made me madder.

I handed it back. "Fifteen thousand. I have to get my car repainted." Maybe she knew that was bullshit and maybe she didn't.

"I can't authorize that. Will you accept twelve thousand? Repainting cars doesn't cost that much."

"Did you happen to notice the rusting flower pots along the walkway? Good thing no one ever got tetanus." 

"Those are gone now."

"I have an art background. I photographed the lot as part of an art project a year or so ago. I think I still have the photo..."

"So you plan to sue the company?"

"I didn't say that. I said I wanted fifteen thousand dollars."

"That's above my cutoff. You'd have to go to court to get it." She looked around, and lowered her voice. "I'm authorized to pay out up to thirteen thousand. You shouldn't know that but I'll sign the check for you here and now if you take it. It's the best you can do. Court outcomes can be random, and it's not like you can start a suit for free."

"Fifteen. I'm the only one that got hurt. I'm the one the company is worried about. The other claims are just for damage to cars, right? And the cars in that lot aren't worth thirteen thousand. C'mon, I'm not stupid, Miss Vultari. You've been given a budget to spend to make this go away. The people with the damaged cars aren't going to get much more than their cars were worth. You can go a little higher with me."

"You weren't actually hurt."

"See this cut on my hand? I have a side job doing modelling. I won't be working this week because it's easier to hire someone else than to worry about five extra minutes in photoshop to make this go away."

"You certainly seem to know your way around corporate insurance claims," she said, a little bitterly.

"Oh, does your bonus get smaller if you have to pay out more?"

She reddened. "My remuneration isn't up for discussion. But with the prospect of an additional claim for lost work time, I will make it fifteen thousand. But the payout won't be for six weeks, because I have to get it cleared and believe me it will be a fight. Can you afford to wait that long? It's only a two thousand dollar difference."

"Only two thousand dollars. Those are nice earrings, by the way. Diamonds, right?"




Chosen Ch. 01



Silently she wrote a note on the form, and handed it back to me. Standard variable expense had been struck out and replaced with Fifteen thousand requested; complex legal circumstances, C. Vultari.

I signed, she photocopied and handed me a copy, and I walked out. My next stop was a jewelry store downtown. 

+++

"Yes, miss?"

"I'd like a... piece, appraised."

"Of course."

I handed over an old jewelry box. 

"We'd be happy to-"

He froze, staring into the box. After a moment, he looked at me. Then he looked down and ran a fingernail, slowly over one of the pearls.

"...assist you," he said. "Could you give me a moment?"

He stepped aside, took out a jeweler's loop, and took a look under a bright light. Then he measured one of the pearls, shook his head in bemusement, and reached for his phone.

"James, it's Mark. I know it's your day off but can you step around? There's a necklace I'd like you to see.... No, you'll have to do that. But trip A at least, and 17 millimeters uniform, white with rose overtone, triple silk knot, twenty inches... no. See you soon."

He looked over at me. "Miss, my associate is going to stop by to assess this on the spot. Can you spare twenty minutes? Would you like coffee? Please make yourself comfortable."

His associate was there in ten, and lost no time with the necklace.

"Miss..." he said, finally. "Did you inherit this?"

"Yes." What else was I going to say?

"Sorry for your loss. I'm James, by the way." He held out his hand.

I liked him. Touch of grey, keen blue eyes, tall. I shook his hand. "Adrienne."

"Well. These are 17 millimeter Tahitian, I'm certain, and I don't think they were cultured, though an x-ray will be required to prove that. They are as nearly flawless as I've seen. It would take time to do an exact rating and measurement, but I would expect four As in every category. A piece like this would have an asking price of at least five, perhaps six figures. From the clasp I'm going to surmise it was made in the Victorian era. This was a glorious necklace even in its day, but these days it's unheard of to see these outside of estates and private collections. I'd need time to make a proper assessment, if you wish to sell, but even without knowing more I can conservatively promise you at least forty thousand dollars."

"Oh." I was stunned. Forty thousand dollars was over a year's salary for me. I'd have time to learn a better job skill.

"You'll certainly want to get a second assessment, even if you don't plan to sell it. The insurance companies will insist."

"I, um, expect to sell it." 

"We will be very happy to accommodate you in that."

+++

I got a call that afternoon. An x-ray showed that all of the pearls were uncultured. They offered me sixty five thousand. I got a second assessment the same day, for sixty two thousand. I sold for sixty five thousand. 

Later that afternoon Ms. Vultari called to let me know that under the circumstances, the company had seen fit to immediately direct deposit fifteen thousand dollars without any fuss. She sounded surprised. I wasn't.

I paid my rent, settled some debts, and still had over two year's salary in my bank account.

I opened the book, wrote "Thank you." in pencil, and closed it.



Chosen Ch. 02



My name is Alan. Just Alan. I am a collector of fine and unusual antiquities and rarities. I also have a fine disregard for the law, so the nature of my collection is not openly discussed. It would be of interest to the police of several countries, some of whom have shown enough interest in my career that I find it necessary to choose my travel routes carefully.

Something has happened that drives me to take up laptop and write a carefully vague account of my recent adventure. As I type this I am flying, en route to America, having decided that Europe is a little too warm a climate for my health. Or as Americans put it in their crime novels, The Heat Is On.

The woman in the seat next to me is squirming, and flushed. She doesn't know what's gotten into her. I do. If I wasn't interested in keeping a low profile at the moment, I'd engage her in conversation, and flirt with her a little. But this is not the time to draw attention to myself.

+++

I'll pick up my story a week ago. I was in Spain, on an Austrian visa. (I'm not Austrian, but a visa is only a piece of paper and paper can say whatever you want it to say. It is never wise to trust a piece of paper, and European authorities are slowly coming to accepting this fact; another reason I am moving to America. Paper documents will never go out of style there.)

Spain has pretty countryside and a long and dark political and religious history, which means it is stuffed full of historical artifacts. That's what conflict does: it creates history, which in turn creates a regular sandstorm of valuable items and intrigues associated with them. If it isn't the sword of so-and-so, it's the last incense burner of Bishop thus-and-such, who unfortunately died from the fumes because someone who wanted his job added something unwholesome to the incense. (Yes, that happened.)

In the countryside there is a small monastery, dedicated to some minor saint, with a relic of minor interest to historians. Or rather it did have it, just a week ago. You'd think with all the teaching done about Original Sin and greed and various acquisitive vices, that churches would take guarding their treasures more seriously. 

The job I was hired to do – I often work on commission – involved plucking a star sapphire from a statue in the narthex of the church. The sapphire was said to be in possession of the virgin Mary at one point. The claim is false; the church officially rejected the claim in the 1700's, and so have reputable historians; but ideas can have a long, long lifespan, and Mariologists have kept the story alive. I did my homework on the job and know that the gem was "brought back in the Crusades" by someone who never actually got as far as the middle east, and did a lot of gem trading in Greece instead; the stone is probably of Tanzanian origin. But it is large at 20 carat, and a beautiful rich blue, with a trace of gold in the star pattern. Someone was willing to pay 14,000 USD for it; a low fee for me, but also a simple job. 

The old lock, mounted into the ancient oak of the door, succumbed in under an hour to 50ml of hydrofluoric acid. Picking it would have been much more satisfying, but would have involved me staying by the church door, on camera, for several minutes; and picking old locks can't be done silently. Squirting the acid required a few seconds and made less noise. When I got back an hour later, the oak was rotted, and prying the lock out was easy and quick. 

I freed the gem from its golden mounting in under a minute. And while I was in there...

The church held a sanctuary lamp, the standard red glass lamp you see in the front of many churches. It's been a standard feature in Catholic churches since the early 300's. There is tradition behind these lamps; they are kept burning year around, except for a day preceding Easter. In these more modern times it's typically an electric light, but oil lamps still exist in older monasteries.

This lamp was different. It was lit by a candle; and while the monastery didn't advertise the fact, they kept it going year around, including the days Easter. Candles being more bother, and more expensive than oil, and much more expensive than LED lights, the choice was a curious one. I did some research, and found a confused tale of a candle that "had acted curiously and was confined to the monastery for study," which is the kind of writing that grabs my attention. 

In short, I reached up with a candle snuffer, freed the lantern from its ceiling hook, and carried it out, pausing the blow out the candle at the door. It proved stubborn and took a lot of blowing to go out.

+++

I was full of energy that night, and I decided to walk back to my hotel room with my backpack slung over one shoulder. Abandoning the rental car at this point wasn't a problem; I was planning to do it in the morning anyway. 

The full moon hung brilliantly in the southern sky. In a few hours I'd read that there would be a lunar eclipse, but not visible from here. That was a pity because stealing something during an eclipse was somehow appealing. Stealing a candle, I thought, would be especially funny. I whistled, cheerfully, wondering what would happen in the morning when the church was opened. They'd probably notice the missing lamp before they noticed the stone was gone. 

The hotel was ahead; it was not a busy place, and I was a little surprised to come upon someone on the patio as I crossed it towards the door. I apparently surprised her as well. Her head turned suddenly; the outside lights were turned low, so she was mostly lit by the moon. Pretty, I thought. Very pretty, actually, with a figure her sheath dress showed off well. Her face was ringed by blonde hair; I doubted she was local.

"Hola," I said, conversationally. She tilted her head.

"Not a very convincing accent," she said in accented English. My guess wandered between German and Austrian, and settled on Austrian.

"Ist das besser?" I tried. She laughed.

"If anything, worse. Maybe you shouldn't have tried to give it an Austrian accent. Do you usually wear dark clothing and sneak up on girls at night?"

"I can't have been sneaking, with the whistling I was doing."

"Ah, that was you. It echoed strangely. Sound does in these twisted streets at night."

I settled my backpack lightly on a patio table, and maintained a respectful distance, but my eyes raked her. I have met women who claimed to be offended by this, but I've never met one who meant it. She didn't react; used to it, I assumed.

"And you? Lying in wait for men to walk innocently by? It seems suspicious. Perhaps even wicked."

"Never. I'm only out to look at the moon. I am innocence itself."

"Hmm. I find myself in part hoping that's not at all true, and in part hoping that it is. Either could be fascinating."

She blushed, but smiled. "Do you flirt with every Austrian you meet?"

"Only the females."

"So narrow. I've been known to flirt with both. Innocently, of course."

"I could not conceive of you flirting any other way. Can I get you a drink?"

"The bar is closed. It is a very sleepy town in some ways. It is after midnight, you know, so now it is Wednesday of holy week."

"It would be a shame to allow an ancient convention to prevent you from having a glass of the local Sangria."

"I only drink Sangria when I'm dancing," she said, smiling. "But if I said I wanted some, what would you do? Do you have a bottle in your room, and you hope to lure my innocent self there?"

"You wouldn't be lured so easily. And I don't. But if I can produce a pitcher of Sangria in five minutes, will you share it with me?"

"Hm. Perhaps. But I will put conditions on it. You must not go to your room, and it must be ice cold. Can you still deliver?"

I bowed to her. Then I took out a lighter and lit the candle on the table in front of her. "You'll need this light in a moment. Now time me."

She looked at me bemusedly, then looked at her watch.

I faded back into the darkness. First stop, a low light built into the garden near the patio. A flick of a tool and the lens was off, a twist of a gloved hand and the bulb was out. Then I pushed foil into the socket, and screwed the bulb back in. There was a sparking noise and instantly, all the lights on the patio went dark. So did some of the lights inside the first floor of the hotel. 

I heard my nameless friend gasp, but I ignored it and went immediately to the door to the kitchen. The lock fell to my lockpicks in just a few seconds, and then I was inside. There was a camera pointing right at the door, and I waved to it – whoever had designed their security had not understood that you don't put cameras on the same circuit breakers as anything outside.

I moved quickly; the hotel staff at the desk would have noticed lights going out, and would eventually find the breaker panel, which was just down the hall from the kitchen. 

A pitcher, red wine, vodka, orange juice, a lemon and a knife, cherries, a packet of sugar. Ice. Two glasses. I had mixed the liquids and gathered everything onto a tray when I heard the footsteps and saw the glow of a flashlight. I slipped through the door, thoughtfully relocked it, and made my way to the woman.

"Time?"

"Four minutes, eleven seconds."

"Giving me just enough time to chop and stir."

I handed her her glass at the 4 minutes and fifty one second mark, according to her watch. Eyes never leaving my face, she sipped it, and chuckled softly. "Vodka or gin?"

"Vodka. I don't like gin."

"I think you must have designs on my innocence."

"I absolutely do."

"Then I had better confess, I don't have any left."

"Me either, as I probably just proved. Alan, by the way." I sipped my drink.

"Sophie. I also must mention that I have a roommate."

"I... do not." I reached over and ran the back of my hand, very lightly, over her arm. "And if you do have any innocence left... I will take it from you."

She licked her lips, lightly and quickly. "Will you?"

"Oh yes."

"I think you must have done that to women many times before. Did they struggle much?"

"Some did... but they succumbed in the end."

She licked her lips again, and then shifted in her chair. "I was only on the patio because my roommate snores," she said. "And I really am very fond of the moon..."

My hand slid up over her shoulder, and then behind her neck. I drew her into a slow, light, teasing kiss. She didn't kiss back, but she didn't protest or draw away. I kissed deeper and more insistently, and after a moment, she made a soft noise, and kissed, her mouth slowly opening under mine. 

My hands slipped to her sides, and I stroked the sides of her breasts, then her back. We left our chairs, and I pressed her against the length of me, cupping her ass, then gripping it. I was stone hard, and she pressed against me there, shifting slowly, kissing eagerly now.

"I'm... not actually like this," she murmured. "But for once I don't care. But my moon gazing?"

"I promise you, at one point I will make you stare at the moon... while I ravish you."

She shivered against me. I broke the embrace, blew out the candle, and lead her to my room.

+++

I dumped my bag on the floor, took Sophia by the throat and pressed her against the wall, on her tiptoes. Then I kissed her again, slowly and opened mouthed. Her hands came up and stroked my back, but I caught her hand, and pressed her wrists against the wall, crossed over her head. Her kisses became wet and sensual, and she moaned, softly. 

I bit down on her lower lip, and her hips tilted up and ground, slowly and seductively against my cock. I was swollen and rigid and her movement made me burn for her.

I snarled against her lips and reached behind her, undoing the hook and then pulling down on the zipper. She whimpered in sudden alarm, but I ignored it and untied the knot at the back of her neck, and the dress fell away, pooling at her feet. There was no bra, and my hand cupped a firm, rounded breast. The nipple pressed against my palm, and she moaned again. My hand closed around the nipple, and toyed with it, slowly and cruelly. 

"Please," she whispered against my mouth. "I want to touch you."

"Not until I've taken the last of your innocence."

I slid my belt from my pants, lowered her hands and crossed them behind her back, and looped the belt around them. That made her moan like an animal, and her eyes burned up at me, reflecting the light of the moon.

I kissed her mouth, and then the tops of her breasts, until she arched, raising her nipples in a silent begging. But I only sucked them gently, and then, holding her tight against the wall, licked my way slowly down her belly. When I got to the panties, I pulled them suddenly down to her knees. She cried out, softly. I licked her just above the clit as my finger stroked her slit, gently, over and over. When her panting and squirming became uncontrollable, I licked directly on her clit and slid my finger inside her – but then immediately got up, stepped away, and removed everything from the waist down.

She stared at my upthrust cock, then raised her eyes to my face, but then sank back down to my cock. I stroked it, slowly, and then held the precum on my fingers against her mouth to lick. When her eyes came to mine again, I took her by the shoulders, stepped her out of her pooled dress, and lowered her to her knees, and her mouth slid helplessly against the head of my cock. I took my belt, still looped around her wrists, and used it to force her tighter against me, feeling her nipples against my thighs. Her tongue danced across the back of my cock, frantically. I was shaking.

"I'm going to take you from behind, over the bed, with your wrists caught like that. Your hair, hands and hips are mine to grab. I won't be gentle."

"Be as rough as you wish," she whispered. "Tonight I need to feel my body used." She pressed her lips against the back of my cock, sucking and licking and moaning.

That was the end of my self control. My precum marked her cheeks and her nipples pressed against my thighs, and all I could think of was taking. I reached down for her hair and forcefully led her to the bed. In high heels, and with her panties still around her calves, I gripped her wrists behind her back and sank myself into her. She cried out, but I forced in again. She was slippery and tight and I pounded her, driving the breath from her body. She could not thrust back or move away, and I took her as I pleased. She sobbed, squeezing down over and over, thrashing on the bed.

But it wasn't enough; she had a pretty face and I wanted to see it. I pulled her back, freed her arms and brought her to the floor. When I pushed in again her legs came up and stroked me, and her hands gripped my hair, pulling herself up to kiss and lick my mouth. 

Her frantic kisses were intoxicating. I pounded in again, and again, and slowly she arched, tightening, whimpering "Yes, on fuck yes... no mercy, force me to- fuck! Yes! Yes! Oh yes!"

She thrashed, coming; I gripped her hair tightly and forced her head back against the floor, knowing I was going to come and loving the feeling of pinning her down when I did. As I came, I cursed and snarled, and then pulled out and let the final spurt jet over her belly and breasts. She convulsed, wanting to see it but unable to because of the grip in her hair. Panting, I took some on a finger and made her smell it, then lick it clean.

Her body was still shaking. I fingered her, licking her throat and neck until she began to arch again, and then I bit down where her shoulder and neck met. I squeezed and massaged her breasts as she came again.

She didn't seem able to stop, and in the end I slid my fingers out of her. She rolled against me, quivering in shock.

"What is in the Sangria?" she whispered, dazedly. "I have never come like that. You were ruthless and I still want more."

"I did promise you the moon."

She giggled, sort of, nuzzled against me, burrowing, finally free to pet me. Her hands found my cock, and rubbed it between her palms, then licked the tip of it. "Then you want too far, because now I see stars," she murmured. "You... smell good and taste good. Your skin, your cock. I guess it's true about a woman needing a man to smell right. It's better than wine."

Her hands worshipped my cock, and oddly I thought of the candle I'd stolen, a thick off-white pillar that burned-

She moaned suddenly. I'd hardened against her lips, suddenly and firmly. She looked up at me, eyes wide. "You are an animal."

I chuckled, darkly. I was surprised at my sudden sexual invulnerability, but she was beautiful and she was willing. And a gentleman must keep his promises. 

I sat up, took her by the hand and lead her to the window. Riding mid-sky the moon glowed, the color of a melting beeswax candle. I opened the window and pushed her in front of it, so she was framed by it, from just below the waist up, facing out. She whimpered nervously, embarrassed, but my hand slid over her ass and then a finger speared into her. The other gripped her hair, forcing her to look up at the moon. Her horrified gasp melted into a very different sound. "Masturbate," I whispered. 

Uncertainly, her hand slid over her belly, and then lower. Suddenly she caught fire, staring upwards mesmerized, masturbating, penetrated over and over by two fingers, and feeling my hard cock slide suggestively against her ass. 

"Oh fuck, no, please..."

"You will come for me, again, like this, and then I will make you please my cock."

"Oh fuck," she whispered. "What's wrong with me, I just want more, I've never wanted it so much before, this is- please, I want your cock again."

"First you come, here, where people can see you. Then I pound you with my cock."

"Then – touch my breasts – my nipples – I need just that little bit of pain- make me understand you will never show mercy-"

I grabbed both breasts, pulling and squeezing and twisting, as she masturbated frantically and stared at the moon. Just as she began to come, I whispered "I'm going to fuck you all night," and bit her neck again. When she was done sobbing and gasping – the twisted echoes of her cries coming back to shame her, which only increased her pleasure – I dragged her to the floor, made her kneel over me, facing me, and got my cock inside her.

"Please me."

"I'm dizzy-"

"Please me now."

"Oh fuck you're perfect," she whimpered, and moved for me, hips sliding back and forth, pussy sucking at my again rigid cock. My fingers traced her breast, neck and face as she worked me, and then she kissed and licked my mouth in the hottest, sluttiest most eager way I could imagine. "Let me have your come, I love the sound you make, I love the feel of it; look at me, adoring at your phallic shrine, I'm your worshipper and slutty slave tonight-"

Shuddering, I gushed up inside her. She arched, stretching, bringing her nipple up against my lips, and I jetted again, and then collapsed backwards to the floor. She rolled forward and curled up on top of me.

Time passed.

"Some people lie in bed after sex," she murmured.

"I always tell the truth after sex," I murmured back. She took a moment to find the pun – she was fluent in English but that didn't mean she thought in it - and then giggled.

"And in the spirit of truth, are you gone tomorrow?"

"Yes. Though you are hot enough and pleasing enough that I'm having a fantasy about kidnapping you."

"You did seem to be interested in restraining and positioning me... kidnapping my body and making it your prisoner..."

Prisoner, prison, justice, theft, gem, candle-

She moaned, softly, curling tighter against me.

Candle, burning, guttering-

Her hand slipped over my cock, and she stroked it slowly. I hardened, and she gave a small whimper. "How? I've never met a man who could come back for more like this."




Chosen Ch. 02



Neither had I. But I imagined the candle again, burning, wax trickling down the side; I imagined dripping wax on her skin-

She was licking my chest, and her hand moved up and down the length of my cock; her leg stroked mine, suggestively. 

-fucking her with the end of the candle-

She shuddered, rolled onto her hands and knees, staring at my impossibly rigid cock. I'd been good for two hard fuckings, back to back, a couple of times, with the right woman. But nothing like this.

I pictured her body, dancing in the flame of the candle. She gasped and began masturbating, eyes wide, lips parted, staring at my cock, and then she kissed and licked it, begging...

It wasn't possible. But I didn't argue. I fucked her from behind, and she sobbed and shuddered, and arched...

"Don't come," I snarled.

"Please! Please you don't understand, I need to! I can't stop myself, I can't!"

I imagined her trying to blow out the candle, but it wouldn't go out-

Thrashing, she came over and over, masturbating and writhing around my cock. I didn't let myself come, but I could have. I didn't pull out until she was collapsed on the floor, still twitching spasmodically.

More time passed.

"I s-should visit patios more often," she whispered softly. "Or drink more Sangria, or worship the moon, or... no, it's simpler if I just let you kidnap me. Because it's none of those things; somehow it's you. No wonder you said the women resisted but succumbed in the end. You make me hot, molten; I'm soft, moldable wax to be shaped by your hands..."

I gathered her up, and carried her to the bed. My mind was racing.

A candle with unusual properties, to be kept in a monastery. But it could not be the same candle. The candle had been mentioned twelve hundred years ago; even unburned, they don't last forever. And the candle had been burning when I found it, just recently lit, from the look of it.

I stroked her body, slowly. She shivered. "How do you do it? You're handsome but I've actually had prettier. You know how to touch and command a body but this is something more. I'm imagining opening my legs, and my belly tightens even now. Your hands make me burn, and melt."

"Magic," I said. 

Except... I wasn't kidding.

I have my long history of stealing artifacts, and there are many legends that spring up about items like that. They are all false; the only point in the legends is to make the items more expensive to buyers. I was as cynical as it got when it came to claims of miraculous cups or swords that would only kill in the hands of a virgin. And if a tenth of the curses surrounding historic artifacts were true, I'd have been dead ten times over by now.

But that candle-

"Please no more," she moaned. "Whatever you do, let me rest now. I'm not going to be able to walk tomorrow."

I kissed her, softly. She smiled against my mouth, and stroked my hair. "Maybe I haven't had prettier," she murmured. "You get more handsome by the second..."

"That's the sangria talking."

"You didn't leave me time to drink much of it. Tell me honestly, did you drug it?"

"There's no drug that makes a woman feel what you felt."

"If there ever is, I want it. You release the animal in me."

I kissed her again, slowly.

"No affection," she murmured. "Only sex. Affection is dangerous. Just fuck me, over and over..."

I chuckled, and kissed her nipple.

"Mmm, your mouth.... I liked that you teased my clit with it, but didn't try to get me to come that way. You only made me want, and then it had to be your cock, your hard, demanding cock..."

She was getting worked up again. This was crazy.

I kissed her belly, got up, and under the excuse of a drink of water, moved the bag containing the lantern to the bathroom, as far from the bed as possible. Holding the bag, I felt energetic, alive, powerful.

I took the lantern out, and on a curious whim, lit the candle. Immediately, relaxation filled me. I suddenly felt well and truly sated.

I returned to the bed. I found Sophia asleep, with the most relaxed of smiles on her face. Sated to exhaustion.

Not possible. But what else made sense? They kept it burning, all the time. Or this happened. But didn't it melt?

I went back to the bathroom, wincing a little at how sore I already was. I watched the candle for a bit.

The wax wasn't being consumed. Whatever had happened to this candle, the laws of physics no longer applied. How had they kept this secret – and why?

++++++

"Adrienne, please. I can maybe do the deal with someone else but you really are perfect for this shoot. The customer went through everyone in my portfolio and demanded you. The cover of Jane made you must-have."

I sighed, bitterly and deliberately, into the phone. For months I'd been going to Steve to get modelling work. When things had been tight, I'd done little bits of more risqué work. Book covers – that was my mostly naked torso and hair on the cover of Jane In Chains – ads for phone sex, clubwear... some weeks I'd been reduced to begging him for work. Now that I didn't need the money, suddenly he had no lack of projects.

I'd quietly liked the book cover work, though I'd never admit that to him. I'm of mixed Northern Spanish and Austrian descent, naturally blonde and fair skinned, and when the makeup artist was done I'd looked in a mirror and seen a living embodiment of the noble born Englishwoman, Jane. But the pretty bodice was mostly ripped off for the photos, making it a very, very topless shot. The other model's hand had cupped my breast from underneath, and he had a... nice hand. My nipples had liked it, anyway, especially when he stroked his thumb over them a few times. The photographer had been very successful in capturing my embarrassed and obvious arousal, which is why I'd pushed for the shots where my face was turned away. The resulting cover was a very hot, very coy girl being ruthlessly seduced by a man with a muscled chest and long, dark hair - and a dismissive, cold smile. I still get chills when I see it.

But it was also a limit.

"Steven... you know I don't do nude. You want to put me in a bikini and lean me against a car, fine. But you've been pushing to get me into porn for a year."

"This isn't porn. No one's asking for penetration. You're not giving any hand jobs."

"Naked, entwined with two naked guys, and wrapped in chains? What the hell else do you call it?"

"I call it profitable and the customer calls it art. I can't tell you his name, but he's rich, he'll be in the studio and his work is very, very highly regarded in Japan. Yes, it's exploitative as hell, but these aren't pussy shots, babe."

"But you want my face in them."

"Your face fascinated him. You do wide-eyed innocence really well. He was entranced. Look... I think it's just possible that he's doing this just to meet you. He's spending quite a lot for the privilege. Isn't that flattering?"

"It's closer to creepy. He wants to meet me, he can meet me with my clothing on, over dinner. What he's doing is not that different than buying my services as a whore."

"Baby, that's part of the fantasy. Every man who rents models for ads or art is making you his whore, in his mind. You've felt the sexual tension in the air when you actually meet the customers."

"Yeah, and it's disturbing, not hot. Look... I don't need the money right now and I don't care who he is, I don't curl up with two strange naked guys on camera. No means no. Listen, I have to go. I'll still do modelling, but clothed only. Talk to you later."

"Sigh. Bye."

I'm free, I thought. The book had freed me from so many things. And I could never explain it to anyone.

I stared at the book, from across the room. The last time I opened it, there hadn't been any new text, and my Thank You was still there. But I could not believe that it had appeared in my life only to get me out of my financial difficulties. There would be more messages; there had to be. It was an awful lot of pages, for two sentences.

The eeriest part was that I could never prove to anyone that this book was anything other than a collection of pages. Magic – or something – was loose in the world, and I couldn't prove it to a soul.

I had been chosen. What did that mean? Chosen for what? Had anyone else been chosen? Had this book appeared in other lives? Where there other books? What happened to those chosen? Why had no one ever heard of this before? That was the frightening question. What if anyone with one of these books came to a bad and sudden end? 

Why would a book mean anyone harm?

But for that matter, why would a book care about anyone, either way? It's not what books do.

But I couldn't exactly manage to be frightened. It was a book. If it was scary I'd put it in the trash and never have to think about it again.

Unless it reappeared on my bookshelf.

Ok... that was a slightly scary thought.

"You're not a... bad book, are you?"

The book did not reply.

I turned on the computer. I was researching careers, because if I knew anything, I knew I was done with data entry. 

Massage Therapist. I like working with my hands. I don't mind people and I'm not put off by the elderly, who need massages for legitimate medical reasons. But they don't make more than I did in my last job. 

Tattoo artist. Wait, what? One hundred dollars an hour? Seriously? Sheesh, for that kind of money and the chance to inflict a little pain on guys trying to act all macho... And it took two years to learn the skill. I could do that. 

Whispering. What? I looked up.

Silence.

I shivered. Nothing in here should be whispering. Especially not books.

I walked over to it. The whispering had been faint, echoey, and I couldn't say for certain where it had come from. But the book needed to be checked, now. I opened it.

You have been chosen.

(-)

Add a drop of your blood to the ink.

My Thank You was gone. So was the hint about the floorboard. Instead... this.

Blood? I started shaking.

"Hello? Is someone... here? Was that you, whispering? Why do you want blood? Who are you?"

Silence.

"That's just... creepy. Really, really creepy. Frightening. I can't do that."

Could I? I was eighty thousand dollars richer and all it was asking for a drop of blood. On the other hand... blood? Blood and magic have been linked in legends for centuries, right? And the ink was kind of a rusty brown... was it blood, somehow? Wait, if I mixed in my blood was I then somehow part of the book?

Did that mean I could talk to... whoever it was that wrote in it?

I shook myself and closed the book, and backed away. I had to talk to someone about this. This had just gone from unbelievable to frightening. What if it had been after my blood from the beginning, and the money had just been a way to get me to trust it?

"I... refuse."

Sudden whispering. 

I shrieked and bolted from the room.

+++

It was an hour before I crept out of the bedroom, and timidly approached the book again. I opened it, trembling.

You have been chosen.

(-)

Add a drop of your blood to the ink. You must.
You will.

"No. Please. I don't understand. I don't know what happens."

Silence.

The book was male, I decided. If it had nothing to say, it just stopped talking. That wasn't fair.

Maybe the book was something alive. Maybe it needed a drop of blood as food.

One drop wasn't much.

Was "You will" a threat? It could find pearl necklaces, maybe stop trucks from crushing me. What if it got... angry with me?

"Please. Just tell me if something bad happens. I don't know what you are! Tell me something. Tell me anything!"

I closed the book, and opened it. No change. 

"You are asking me to trust you. But you have to speak to me. It's why girls don't trust guys, they don't talk. Without words, how do you know who anyone is?"

Nothing.

"Please."

Nothing. I was losing an argument to a book.

I was about to give in, but my hands were shaking and I decided I had to talk to someone, no matter how crazy it made me look. Ellen had studied both history and religion in college. And then gone on to do completely unrelated involving lab work for some genetics lab involving fruit flies, which shows you that all that stuff counselors feed you in high school about careers and education is garbage. Of course I suspected that Ellen had slept with the interviewer for the lab job; maybe that's the kind of career advice they just can't give you in high school. 

She'd be at work. I texted her.

Hey, you around?

The dots, and then. Hey sweetie. How's the book thing going?

I stared at my phone. What the fuck?

I hit call. She dropped the call and texted back: 2 min.

How did she know about the book thing? I hadn't told anyone. Not a soul. How? Was she in on some kind of prank? 

The phone rang, and I picked up.

"Sorry sweets, I had to euth a bunch of mutant bugs and the vent fan gets pretty loud. What's up?"

"You mentioned a book..."

"Yeah. How is it going? Did you ever figure out who sent it to you?"

We were having a conversation about something that hadn't happened. 

"El... is this some sort of weird prank?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"How did you know about the book?"

"I only know what you told me last week. You sound pretty shook up, what's going on?"

"I-" I closed my eyes. I didn't know what was going on and I needed someone to make sense.

"El... I have no memory of asking you about this book. It just showed up on my bookshelf a few days ago. I don't know how it got here and I don't remember talking to anyone about it, not you, not anyone."

"Sweetheart," she said. "That's... not what you said happened. You got the book in the mail, with no return address, and you called me and sent me a picture. It was just a few days ago, how can you not remember?"

"Do you still have the picture?"

"Probably, let me look... huh, no, I must have deleted it."

If I'd taken a picture it would still be on my phone, I was horrible at deleting things. I opened the folder. There was no picture of a book.

I checked the call log. And gasped. I'd called Ellen last Thursday. 

"Sweets... what's going on?"

"I don't know. Something's really wrong. Tell me what I told you when I called you."

"Um... ok. Book in the mail, no return address but a postmark from Madrid. It looked really old. You opened it up and it was full of pages of writing in a language you didn't know. I guessed Spanish from some of what you sounded out. You decided your boyfriend had it sent to you but you had no idea why. You were mad at him and decided not to ask him about it. How can you possibly not remember? Did you party that weekend?"

"C-can you stop by tonight?"

"Um. I have a date."

"Ellen... please. Something's going on. Something weird."

"Alright. This sounds like an official sisterhood emergency and you're worrying me. I'll swing by for a half hour right after work. I can't stay long though. I'm not blowing this guy off."

"Thanks. See you then."

I hung up, and took a picture of the book. I looked at the picture. It was fine. I looked in the folder of pictures. It was there. 

I tried to remember getting a package. I couldn't.

I started shaking.

+++

She walked in at 5:30 on the dot. She hugged me – she hugged everyone, public private, girl, guy, didn't matter – and looked at the book on the table. "Hey sweetie. Yeah, that's the book you showed me. Now, seriously, you don't remember talking to me about it?"

"I don't, I swear. The phone says we talked but I don't remember it. I don't remember getting a package. I've been freaking out because it just showed up on my bookcase and I didn't know how it got there."

"You put it there. You told me you were going to dust everything and then put it on the shelf and wait to ask Bob about it. You said it came with ink in a plastic vial, and you mentioned the inkwell. You... have there been other things you've been forgetting?"

"I don't know! I don't think so."

"Alright. I'm kinda concerned about you. I'd think it was some weird prank if you weren't so shaken up. Did you fall and hit your head or anything?"

"No, but... there was that horrific traffic accident..."

"You were in that?"

"Not exactly. I was walking nearby. I ducked and almost got hit by a truck."

"Ha, that's it. You probably banged your head and got a concussion. I think it's possible for that to happen even when you don't feel pain. Still, sweetie, check with a doctor, ok? Because... wait. You were sounding kind of rattled even before the confusion over what we talked about."

"Uh... yeah. Could you look at the book for me? It kind of... creeps me out, I guess..."

"It's just an old book. I'll take a picture of the text, and I know a guy who can maybe translate the Spanish or whatever, even if it's old."

"Yeah, about that..."

She sat and opened the book.

"...see, I don't remember seeing any Spanish, just that little bit of writing in English that I really don't underst- um... Ellen?"

She was sitting, immobile. I looked at her face. It was motionless, staring at the page. 

I looked at the page. It was a blur of shifting symbols and I was immediately dizzy, and I closed my eyes and wobbled.

"Oh... oh no... Ellen..." I knelt down and waved a hand in front of her face.

She just sat there, her grip on the book slowly loosening.

I grabbed the book, closed it, and put it under the table. "Ellen? Ellen!"

"Wait... what?" She looked up, vague and disoriented. "Sheesh. Adrienne. That was the weirdest thing. I just totally spaced. Literally, like I have no idea what I was just saying. I know this guy gets to me but I didn't know it was this bad! And... wow. Wow am I horny. I'm going on a date tonight and I'm like... yeah. I hope he can't tell."

I had to get her out of here before something else happened.

"I guess it depends on what you're wearing."

"Hehe. Maybe I should... I mean he and I have only made out, and he's got that down. I could see dressing a little hot this evening, seeing what he thinks of that... shit! I was just going to stop by and check up on you after your accident, but I really have to get out of here and get ready. Wish me luck tonight!"

"Get crunched, babe."

We did the hug, and she fled.

I stared at the book.

It could hypnotize people. And make them forget things. And it had done it to me, and now Ellen. Hypnosis? Really? What else could it do with that? Ellen had suddenly been horny out of her mind; no way would her boyfriend not notice.

"Tell me what this is about," I said. "Tell me what you are doing. Please."

I opened it.

You have been chosen.

(-)

Add a drop of your blood to the ink. 
Never show this to anyone. 
Take the job. 
Obey my words.

"I saw what happened to Ellen. You could hypnotize me and make me give you the drop of blood. Couldn't you. Or can you only make people forget things? But you made Ellen crazy horny. How am I supposed to trust words that just appear? You're magic. You're the scariest thing I ever met and that's saying something after a truck nearly killed me. I don't know what you want me for. Please, I need... you can make whatever you appear on the page, I saw the writing change for Ellen. I know you must be able to understand me. So you could answer me right now if you wanted to! I know you helped me, but why? Please! I always half believed in magic, deep down, maybe everyone does. But you... this... I don't know what blood means, but it must mean something. Blood oaths, pacts, sacrifices, don't you understand how terrified I am?"

I closed the book, and opened it. No change.

"Please," I whispered, weakly. "I don't know what will happen. I'll become... part of something, won't I. What am I being chosen for? What do you mean by my words? Are you a person? What are you? Why did you come here? You're just adding more and more commands. You're pushing me." I giggled, suddenly and nervously. "Didn't your mother teach you to say please?"




Chosen Ch. 02



Suddenly there was faint, whispering sound all around me, not words that I could make out, but somehow they had meaning – I bolted to the bedroom again.

+++

I peered out of the doorway to my bedroom. The book was sitting where I'd left it. I didn't hear any whispering.

There was a sewing needle in my hand, and a bottle of alcohol. I wasn't even trying to understand my feelings, which was probably good because there were an awful lot of them.

What had tipped the decision was the thought that maybe it needed blood to live, and I was starving it. 

"Anything scary happens and I'll start going to church," I told the book.

"One drop," I told it. "That's all you're getting. And you better appreciate this. No more whispering."

"So just remember," I chided it. "You're my guest and I expect you to behave. No making the bed move or any of that shit. No scary creatures coming out of widescreen TVs. Especially since I don't own one, ok? Um... and no... no, I'm not even going to mention that one. Leave my mirrors alone. I mean it."

"And," I added. "I'm going to invest in a paper shredder. So you just-"

Whispering. I fled back into the bedroom and slammed the door tight.

+++

I peeked out, ten minutes later.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just... you're the first book that's ever asked for my blood. I mean I don't even know your name. The gilt was scraped off. Can't tell a book by its cover, I guess. Except Jane in Chains, that one pretty much said it all. That was me, you know."

I wasn't really sane at the moment. I knew that.

"So let's just... do this. This thing. Let's do this thing. Just... be a good book, ok? I've read a lot of bad books. With worse endings. You know all about that I bet. But you get to write the ending, don't you. Please don't let this be the worst mistake of my life, ok? Pretty please. Nice book. You've been generous, so I owe you, I get that, ok? Feeding time. Don't bite the hand that bleeds for you."

I stepped out, with the needle and alcohol. Slowly and carefully, I collected the inkwell, and sat down with the book. I looked at the page, hoping the demands had changed, but the words were the same, written in ink that looked like it had been there and unchanged for centuries. I wiped down my thumb and the needle with alcohol. Cold, clean.

I pricked my thumb. A drop of blood welled up immediately. Blood is so warm and dark and rich; I'd been fascinated in school by that New York artist who painted in blood and water...

This seemed like a good time for a significant statement. 

"Um... here goes. Play nice."

Maybe, I reflected, I'm not good a significant statements.

I let the drop fall into the inkwell.

I'd expected... green hissing vapor, blue eerie glows, susurrate sounds, maybe a sudden vision. But nothing happened. The blood sat on the surface of the ink for a moment, and then sank into it, dispersing, leaving only a faint star pattern of warmer red on the rusty brown surface. I swirled the container gently, and it vanished.

I looked at the book.

You have been chosen.

(-)

Never show this to anyone. 
Take the job. 
Obey my words.

(-)(-)

You are Adriana.
You are mine.

"Oh... oh, shit," I whispered, softly.



Chosen Ch. 03



I'm not sure where to begin. I am travelling at the moment and I need to be careful, because I've deserted my position with the U.S. Navy and I don't know if, or when, I will return to duty. Dereliction of duty is something I take seriously, though not as seriously as the Navy is going to when they find me. I'm writing this because an account of what's going on and why I made the decisions I did is going to be important when my hearing happens. But I should have been writing this from the beginning. Some of it is fuzzy now.

My story starts at Guantanamo. The base has a reputation now, thanks to the prisons, but I was not involved in that and people forget that it's a naval base with a long history unrelated to detention. While relations with the rest of Cuba aren't great, it's an important base, and a stop for a lot of ships patrolling South America; it's part of drug interdiction efforts, as well as a meeting place for foreign dignitaries who would rather not be seen visiting America. I can't talk about who comes and goes there, but some of it is eye-opening. A lot of different flags have sailed in and out. 

As a Petty Officer (Second class) I do a lot of problem solving, being just far enough up the chain to have real responsibilities, but not far enough up the chain to avoid real work. I joined the Navy because I love ships; it look a few years to come to grips with the fact that Navy personnel are on shore quite a lot, and ships are mostly things that sit in the water nearby. But I've gone out of my way to keep my feet wet. And that means I've been around a lot of visiting ships and boats, as support crew for meetings and for logistical execution. (If that sounds to you like I move a lot of boxes and crates between boats, you get a gold star.)

The Lua, out of Portugal and visiting Cuba en route from the Port of Coquimbo, was an older ship that had clearly been a lot of places and seen a lot of wind and tide. But she was beautifully maintained; some captains will find any excuse to polish and paint, and I love to see that. I got invited aboard when my passable Spanish and few words of Portuguese got me points with the captain, and when I Indicated I'd trade a tour of his ship for some good Cuban rum. 

We settled on the bridge, and while drinking on duty isn't the wisest move, I nursed a cup full of rum while the captain showed a more in-depth, old-world sailor's familiarity with the contents of the old blue-green "cleaning solution #6" bottle I used to transport distilled substances in these situations. His English was much better than my Spanish – you don't find much command crew on larger vessels with international work who don't speak passable English – and we got along fine.

"Is a lot of your crew in port?"

"Hell no. Strict orders to keep them aboard until our passenger has his meetings. Apparently someone doesn't want any incidents on base while he's around. My crew would behave – but rules are rules."

"Small crew then?" No one likes to run a ship with minimum crew, but I hadn't seen that many people on board.

"The smallest I can use to keep her going. It's hard to find sailors willing to run older ships. We're not military, we just contract to them... so we scramble for good crew just like everyone else." He smiled mirthlessly. "I offer ten percent above the usual pay and I still have trouble signing crew."

He took another pull of the rum, and looked me over. "You're not keeping up your end of the drinking, amigo. Don't make me do all the lifting."

"I'm on duty. And this rum is no Havana Club, it's locally made and it has a kick."

"I am noticing that," he nodded. "But you need to get a little more into you if I'm going to shanghai you."

"Heh. You have a nice boat, I'd hate to see it full fathom five. The USS John Finn's not far away and I'm sure her captain would like to try out her capabilities on a pirate."

"No, they'd never know I had you. You ran off with a local girl."

"Hell I did. The Cubans laid a minefield around the base, just so all their women wouldn't sleep with Americans and get themselves a baby and a new nationality. I'm not saying we never visit up and down the coast," I smirked, patting the bottle of cleaning solution, "but meeting the women for anything long term isn't as easy as that."

"Sounds like you're a true Navy boy."

I gave him a Take Your Gay Navy Sex Jokes Elsewhere look, and he laughed. "You'd like this boat, amigo. She's not modern, but we get interesting jobs and we can go anywhere. It's not all Portugal navy contracts. And it's not all legal..."

"Is that why you sail with a small crew?"

"No. Not by choice. Like I said, it's hard to get good people..."

We'd been drinking for a half hour. My cup was half empty and I felt a trace of lightheadedness. He'd taken down half the bottle and he didn't look even slightly affected. But he stared out the glass at the water's light chop, and added "...especially when the ship is haunted."

"Is it." Haunted ship stories are as old as navies are, and before them, cargo ships. In the Navy you'll sometimes find someone to tell them to new recruits, and the ones who fall for it become the butt of jokes for months. Maybe when boats were made of wood, and creaked in the night, and wind whistled in the rigging, the stories had a place. Modern ships are metal and in the large ones you never realize you're at sea unless you go up on deck, which there's rarely reason to do. Bottom line, my new amigo had marked me for a chump.

"Si. Not ghosts and spirits. Just a curse. Count my crew and you'll find we're at minimum crew... less one. We had a disappearance off Brazil."

"You know, I'm not that drunk."

He looked at me, expressionlessly. And nodded, reached back and opened a locked drawer. He pulled out a form and slapped it down in front of me. "You read Portuguese?"

"Not well." I can read Spanish, which means sometimes I can get lucky with Portuguese. But this wasn't that hard to make out. It was a missing persons report, signed by the captain, two weeks ago. Stapled to it was a fax confirmation.

I looked up at him. "Light wind, moderate swell, fifty miles off the coast?"

"What it doesn't say is that it was a suicide. He left a note. I don't have it; I mailed it to his wife. Didn't think the police needed to know, eh? No one's business but him and his."

"So you had a depressed guy on board. Being at sea can be dull; he had too much time to think."

"Twelfth loss in twenty years. I'm the fourth captain in that time. The owners have tried to cover it up with a name change and different paint, but the stories still get out among the sailors."

"What did she used to be called?"

"The Sino."

"I haven't heard the stories. How did all the men die?"

"Disappeared overboard, every one. They were never found. Some left notes, others nothing. And ten of twelve happened after a storm." He sipped more rum.

"After a storm? Not during? And why would any modern ship sail through a storm?"

"The day after, or the day after that. They were not large storms, and it's a big enough ship to handle a little weather. Sometimes deliveries have to be on time, si? And there are some customers you don't want angry. But you can see how the stories would start. It's said it started happening after a newlywed couple drowned in a storm, they were washed overboard... that is untrue. It has never been a passenger vessel except on rare trips like this one, when people prefer to move without announcing their business and destination."

"So if not newlyweds, what is the basis of this curse?"

He looked at me. "You think I am telling a story. In stories the reason for the curse is always known, it is why the story gets told. It's because of the ancient mummies shipped from Cairo, or the Irish saint who was killed on board, or the ship that sailed too near the dark, unmarked island... but this is not a story, senhor. There is no known reason for the curse. There are only twelve dead people, all believed suicides." He chuckled mirthlessly. "Sign on and I will give you one hundred and twenty five percent of rate."

"Sorry, I still have a commitment to the United States Navy. I assume you ruled out foul play?"

"The meaning of this I do not know."

"Murder."

"Ah. Over twenty years? None of the crew is from the beginning. And the ship has been gone over by inspectors, looking for secret compartments, leaking gasses, drugs in the cargo. Nothing was found. Welcome to the mystery, senhor... but I do not think the mystery will last much longer. The insurance company is how you say spooked by this, and they will find an excuse to raise the rates eventually. That will finish this boat."

"That will be a sad day. She's a beautiful thing."

"Yes, I keep her scrubbed down. All the captains have, it's become a tradition. Modern boats, they just apply paint, but she is kept enameled where I can, and we've kept up the brass everywhere. A bitch to clean, but a pretty bitch after polished and oiled in the sun."

"I've done my share of polishing brass."

"It's good to be captain. I have crew for that. One hundred and thirty percent, amigo? Since you know how to polish brass."

"Still can't do it. But I'll take that look around now."

Walking the ship was definitely odd. It was almost museum-piece pretty and the paint job reminded me more of a well done old fashioned merry-go-round than a cargo ship, but the crew was as small as I'd thought. Navy ships being tight on breathing space with all hands aboard, this was startling.

When the area around a fuel intake gleams, you know the captain is a stickler. I wondered how many toothbrushes they went through, keeping it spotless.

We paused in the shade of the superstructure for another drink, against my better judgment. I'm a lightweight when it comes to booze and the second cupful had me noticeably lightheaded. I grabbed the railing and looked up to assess how dizzy I was getting.

"Unusual bells," I said, peering up at them.

"Si. The ship doesn't have one bell, it has five. I don't know why. The one at the bottom is a regular ship bell, and we ring it at the usual times. The three above you can see are smaller and thicker and the one above that is smaller still. Only the bottom one actually rings – you can see the pull cord. The others are stuffed with something to mute them."

Clinging to the railing, I looked more closely. They were the only thing not spotless above deck, on account of being mounted 12 feet up and out of reach, on a pipe curved into an S. "Hellava thing, four extra bells and up there and useless like that. What were they thinking?"

"Ask the first captain, I was told he put it in. I left them alone. It's not like we use the bell for much anyway."

"Wouldn't be hard to rig lines to them so you could ring them all. Maybe they're tuned. That little bell though... really needs polish." I frowned. "Never was all that good as getting a good polish out of brass. I lack the patience I guess."

"I don't think rigging them to ring is a good idea... they've been there silent for a long time. Cuál ha sido será... who knows if there is a reason for these things, eh? The ship has enough mysteries."

Occam's razor, I thought. Two mysteries in the same place are probably related.

"So here is an idea," I said. "People go overboard after storms. What happens after storms? On a pretty ship like this, clean up. Salt spray gets into things, brass needs to be wiped down. Someone looks around with a polishing cloth in their hand and they see the bells. They fetch a ladder, the boat hits a swell and the ladder goes down. Over goes the man."

"A poor theory, senhor. Suicide notes in some cases as I said. And even if a man could topple from that height and go over, the ladder would stay on deck. We'd know."

It was probably just the rum, but I was curious. "Mind if I take a look?"

He shrugged, and whistled. A man popped around the corner immediately.

"Andres, uma escada."

A moment later a paint-speckled ladder was dragged and leaned against the superstructure. I climbed, slowly, frowning a little at the effect of the rum. 

Ten feet up, I regarded my footing. My theory had indeed been a poor one; a fall from here wouldn't send me overboard even in rough weather. And no one would stay up here to polish the bells anyway; they could all be unhooked and carried down.

The ships's bell was a good few years old, but nothing like ancient. It had Sino engraved on it, and a date that matched the age of the boat. They hadn't bothered to replace it in the name change.

"What is Sino, in English?" I called down.

"Bell," the captain said. "So I suppose the original owner just liked bells. They ward off evil spirits you know." He chuckled, wryly. "Or not so much it seems..."

The three above it looked identical, and perhaps not any older. They were unmarked. I tapped one with a fingernail to get an idea of pitch, and then did the same for the ship's bell. I was no musical expert but I didn't think the bells had been chosen for their harmony. 

The bell above that...

It was clearly brass, but it was reddish, and old. Very old. It had been cast, and the casting marks were still visible. It was small, more the size you'd use as a hand bell than anything else. Faintly engraved near the rim was lettering, which I struggled to make out. rrepenti. There may have been more but it was obliterated, a victim of the years of salt spray it had taken by facing the breeze.

"What is rrepenti?"

"That is not Portuguese. But it is very like arrepender-se. Repent."

Oh. It had probably been arrepentirse, Spanish for the same word.

"It's Spanish I think. What is a Spanish bell doing on a Portuguese ship?"

He chuckled. "That must be why it doesn't get to ring."

An attempt had been made to polish it, maybe several attempts. But never a complete job or anything close. Someone had rubbed some of the corrosion off the bottom of the bell and then, apparently, hung the bell back up, work unfinished. I tilted it; there was a thick piece of leather fitted inside; the bell would not ring unless it was removed. It looked very old. The clapper was also brass.

I was dizzy up here. On a whim I unhooked the bell and carried it down.

"What are you doing, amigo."

"I want a better look and it's not a very steady ladder."

"Or maybe not a very steady sailor? You don't handle the rum well, amigo."

I settled against the warm metal of the superstructure, and fished the leather from inside the bell; it was stiff, curled into place, and hooked on a projection inside the bell. When I got it out it broke in half, weak from salt and age.

I rubbed a fingernail over the corrosion at the base of the bell. The rest of the letters of arrepentirse became dimly visible, but there was no other markings. It was quite heavy for the size, but it was hardly larger than my fist. A hole in the top hinted that it might once have had a wooden handle, like a hand bell. A thin bar of brass across the inside supported the clapper.

"Now this just doesn't make sense. A little bell like this? You wouldn't hear it far in fog and it wouldn't wake anyone up, you probably couldn't even hear it below decks. Why bother?"

I stuck my pinky in the hole and dangled the bell that way. He put his hand around it.

"Senhor that bell hasn't been rung in years. Decades. Could be centuries. Nothing good comes of... waking things that sleep so long, you understand? Tudo o que foi... Old things deserve respect, and maybe expect it-"

"Now who isn't handling the rum well. It's a bell."

He took it off my finger, and wrapped his fingers inside it. The bell made a muted, metallic noise. "Oh," he said. "I remember now... the first captain... remember this was twenty years ago and he was old, almost seventy I think. He'd sailed with the Navy and his first job was to find and stop pirates in the Mediterranean. I remember now. He wanted only the purest, the most loyal, and most virtuous for his crew, believing that God would favor the virtuous over any pirate. That is why this was here. The sailors had to repent and confess their sins publically before he'd sign them. I wonder if he rang the bell to start the confessions."

He looked at the bell, uneasily. "I have too many sins to confess, I would never have made his crew. He'd have gotten bored after the first hour of my litany, yes? Maybe not yours, you are too young to have sinned much. I think this bell is best filled with rags and put back where it was..."

He moved to the ladder and began to climb. The bell made this awkward, and he was not very steady either, so without thinking he put his pinky in the mounting hole as I had done, using his other four fingers to grasp the ladder. 

He slipped trying to step up, and the bell rang.

It was a very resonant bell, and surprisingly loud for the size. The frequency was complicated, perhaps due to the corrosion, and for a moment I imagined I heard wind noises or whispering in the pitch of it.

The captain settled on the deck, staring at the ringing bell. His hand twitched, and it rang again, louder and purer.

"I... drink too much," he said, softly. "Once I swore I would never drink at sea, only in port. For a few years, yes. But then after the first disappearance on my watch... it started to go too far. There was a woman... in Lisbon. Waitress... so young. Too young for me. But she brought me drink after drink and soon enough I realized she was not charging me, and soon after that I had her in my lap. I look her away with me, but at the last moment, in my room, she started crying, she'd changed her mind, she did not want to be a whore... I was furious. I slapped her across the face, she struggled... I was drunk and angry, I did not want to hear no. I forced her, she hit her head on furniture... there was no blood and I thought she'd be ok, but she wouldn't wake. I panicked, there was a dock nearby... I forced alcohol into her, filled her purse with coins, went to my ship and got an old flashlight with a dead bulb, and some oil. I made it look like the flashlight had died and she'd slipped in the darkness in some oil at the water's edge, just another whore on her way to a boat. I was at sea before she was found, and I swore I would never drink again, but I just drank more. I have not thought of her for years, but oh God, she was little more than a child..."

"I don't think..."

But he was not listening to me. His hand twitched again.

The bell rang.

"I ran guns. South America. Guns in, drugs out... we changed flags and ran silent and no one ever proved it was us... so much money. I could have given it up but I have a taste for Caribbean whores and they put up with rough treatment when you pay them enough... it was all about the girl in Lisbon. Deep down I knew it, I would slap them around the same way... eventually that was not enough and I found the wife of a fat mayor in the Dominican Republic... I bought her interest, and then taught her to crawl, beg, do drugs. When she fought me I blackmailed her, and never had to buy her gifts again... in the end she told her husband, he divorced her, there was scandal. She's poor now, ruined. I never had to care. I could have given her money but felt that would just tie me to her for longer, and I was done with her..."

The bell rang.

"I framed a partner, in a shipping company, before I was captain. We exported drugs hidden in oriental vases; but I realized we'd be caught in the end, drug enforcement was getting tighter, the Americans will not leave it alone... the paperwork made it look like his work, not mine. He didn't know anything, now he's in an American jail. He has family. I ruined them..."

I stared at him; he continued to stare at the bell.




Chosen Ch. 03



"So many sins. I-"

I suddenly slapped at the bell. It fell off his finger, bounced twice, and rolled to my feet. He gave a wail and fell to his knees, and then began to crawl towards the water.

I pulled him to his feet. He stared sightlessly part me, struggling, whispering "I will be baptized, I will be clean..."

I slapped him across the face, three times, as hard as I could. He shuddered and then, slowly, looked at me.

"What was I saying? Oh mãe de Deus, what have I said?"

"Find a priest," I told him. "Tell him everything. Do it now – no, wait. Sail for another port. Don't do it on an American base."

"I have never been a churchgoer-"

"Really? I would never have guessed. I would become one now, senhor."

"That bell..."

I picked it up, very carefully, sliding my fingers around the clapper. "You won't ever see it again. Hand me the bottle."

He did, and I emptied it overboard. "Never drink again. Settle money on the people you ruined. What you can do to make penance for running drugs and guns I don't know, but pray the priests have an idea."

He stared at the bell in my hand. "What is that thing? How does it-?"

"I don't know. But it's obvious what happened, isn't it? It killed twelve people and just now nearly a thirteenth. What sort of twisted thing it is I don't know, but you were right, waking it was a bad idea. Get me some packing waste and tape. Now, senhor!"

He moved off, shocked sober. I stared at the bell.

"So," I whispered. "My crazy Spanish grandfather was right after all. There is magic loose in the world."

+++

I crammed the bell full of packing peanuts, and wrapped tape over the bottom.

"So you will just take it?" he said.

"It's not safe here. I have a friend in the Navy who knows a lot about ships and historical artifacts. He'll think I'm crazy, but I will show it to him. I'll send you his address later, you'll need to send copies of the death reports, or he'll never believe me."

"I do not know what to say, amigo."

"Vaya con Dios might be a start. No, sorry, that's Spanish, not Portuguese... I'm doing you a favor because I like your boat. But need to get right with whatever power in the universe is angry at you for the things you've done, and fated you to own this bell."

"And does that same fate make you take the bell now? What have you just signed up for?"

"I have no idea. But it can't be a bad idea to get it to people in my country who can bury it on a shelf in a museum, where it can't do harm and will never see daylight again."

"I hope you are right, senhor. And... sim, vai com Deus."

+++

From: Fermin----------@us.navy.mil
To: Mike----------@us.navy.mil

Michael, I know it's been a few years, but you are the only instructor I had who I think can even begin to make sense of this. I swear I'm not pulling your leg. I've come into possession of a bell from a ship, but it's unusual. It's very old for one thing and it's not a proper ship's bell for another. I've cleaned it up and the pictures are attached. You can see the engraving, in Spanish. 

The bell comes with a story, of a captain who made new sailors confess their sins before they could sail with him. But where the story gets stranger – twelve suicides in twenty years, all drownings, on a ship variously named the Lua and the Sino. All of them are thought to have cleaned or rung this bell, and died a day or two later.

So far, crazy folklore. But now I tell you what I saw. The captain (Portuguese) took the bell down and rang it, and was suddenly mesmerized. He confessed all his sins, and tried to throw himself into the water. I can't tell you how frightening it was to see, it was otherworldly. I snapped him out of it and took the bell away. I'm not shitting you.

Do you want it? -F

+++

To: Fermin----------@us.navy.mil
From: Mike----------@us.navy.mil

From anyone else I'd take this as a stupid prank. From you, I'll suspend judgment. It's not the strangest tale of heard, but yours has you as an eye witness, so I will do you the courtesy of not laughing.

Having said that, what you experienced was the power of suggestion. An old man with regrets, he'd probably been drinking and reminiscing, and then he gets told to arrepentirse. You're a sympathetic enough fellow so he unburdens on you. His remorse pours out and then he acts irrationally, convinced the bell is making him do things. Some people are very suggestible.

The multiple suicides – I doubt this. Sailors sometimes have reasons to vanish and twenty years is a long time. 

But I did you the courtesy of looking over the pictures. It's not a ship's bell and even from the picture I can see it's not modern or naval brass. What you have, in fact, is an old Spanish church hand bell, cast in calamine brass. They were used to drive away spirits, call to worship, and in excommunications. Yours could easily be over 400 years old. Why it hasn't rotted away on a ship I don't know. It may be worth something – I will check with a collector I know in Europe, he might have an opinion. Those bells used to be commissioned by the larger churches and a pious catholic captain could easily have inherited one. I will do a little research – I know someone - but I don't expect to learn anything.

+++

I dialed... to my surprise he answered immediately.

"Alan speaking. Hello, Michael."

"Hello, Alan. It would be odd if someone else had answered your phone."

"You never know. It has been a long time. Still doing time in the Navy? Your timing is curious. I just landed in America. As in I'm collecting my luggage just now."

I chuckled a little. If Alan was in America, the cops were probably combing Europe for him.

"Enjoying our... cooler climate?"

"Immensely. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I have a research request and it's a little odd. Perhaps a lot odd."

"And so I came immediately to mind."

"Well, yes. It's a religious artifact, Spanish, old."

"Really. Can you give me a minute to settle?"

I heard him murmur softly, and then a faint and very feminine giggle. Knowing Alan, I just smiled. There were some thumps and some background airport noise, and then the faint whine of a laptop. I sent him an email.

"These airport wi-fis are rather annoying... there. Tell me what you have."

"I don't have it, one of my old students does. But I have pictures, which I've just forwarded."

"I see it. Yes... It's a church bell, cast... Spanish, but it's a generic casting technique and so it is hard to date. The engraving was done by hand. The hole at the top would have taken a wooden handle. It's not a notable item, except for the fine condition. Very fine actually... Where was it found?"

"On the deck of a ship in the Caribbean for a good number of years. The ship is out of Portugal."

"No, Michael, that cannot be right. It's clearly calamine brass. It's a reasonably corrosion resistant metal, but sea water will always win in the end. Is your friend reliable?"

"I'd have said among the most reliable, but the tale he told about it is wild."

"Ah, now you are truly capturing my interest. But I am not alone at the moment-" I heard another giggle, closer and louder "-and I very much need to settle into my hotel. Can you give me wild but brief details now, and we will talk more later?"

"Brief details are all I have. People who ring the bell commit suicide, by drowning. The original captain of the boat was a pirate hunter and is thought to have made his crew confess their sins before they could sail, and the bell is thought to have been involved."

"Ah, a classic story. The bell weighs purity and punishes the unrepentant. You had better not send it to me, because I have never repented of anything in my life..." 

Again, the nearby giggle. I just shook my head, and tried not to feed his immense ego by chuckling. 

He murmured something and then said "I will do the digging for you. I- hm. Now this is curious. My notes a bell engraved like that would have been used for excommunication, but the ringing of a bell for that purpose was only done in the middle ages and not much after. 1600 would be the very latest date I would assign it, and 1400 would make more sense. But a small bell over five hundred years old in that pristine condition, it's just not poss-"

He paused.

"Michael, I feel I need to do real research. This is... a curious find you have made, and I do not want to make wild guesses. I'll be in contact. Please wait for me to call you, I am, ah, keeping a low profile, I'm sure you understand."

"Of course. Thanks."

I hung up and frowned. He'd sounded kind of rattled there by the end; that was not like him.

+++

Alan again. 

I settled in the hotel and the sweet woman I met on the plane provided me with amusement for a few hours, and the candle proved itself just as effective in America as it did in Spain. I sent her away without lighting the candle; she found it hard to leave and I found it hard to insist, but I wanted to make sure it was possible. It would be odd if I had to end every date by lighting a candle, after all.

A candle that would not melt, and now a bell that would not rot away. Both from Spain, perhaps. Both from the 1300 or 1400s. Both church items. 

And the bell would have been used in excommunications... This was far beyond the realm of coincidence.

I lit the candle and showed it the picture of the bell. "Old friend, perhaps? Amigos, long lost brothers?"

There was no response. 

+++

It took a lot of digging. Spanish records from 1350 are not easy to come by and so much of it is fabricated history; Spanish clerics of the era had not fully grasped that it was Truth, not Inventiveness, that would set them free. But I was not dealing with the mundane, and somehow, somehow I felt certain that clues had been left. If only I knew where to look. 

Two in the morning, three, four. I opened the window for fresh air. The time zone change had already stretched the day, and I was stretching it more. A reference to magic in a private letter; a mention of a confession gone horribly wrong in a cardinal's account to his superiors. A priest defrocked because of improper conduct a year later. Dates began to cluster: 1374, 1402, 1387. A letter of condemnation, unusually harsh, from Cordoba, decrying "the exploration of forbidden mysteries". Deaths, and people not given the rite of burial. A tiny church burned in Antequera, 1391, and not rebuilt.

Spain in the middle ages had been wild, and I knew many tales, but this...

Five in the morning, six. I was cold and shaking and I'd run out of leads. But I knew the scent of legend, and the candle burning behind me made shadows of my hands as I typed and read. A library in a small church in Sevilla had been burned in 1453, in a sketchy tale which bore a perhaps not coincidental resemblance to Eco's The Name of the Rose. The priest on watch had refused to talk, and was not punished...

I thought I knew why.

The sun rose. I stared at my collected notes.

I was going to have to go back to Spain. What I needed now wasn't online. I'd face arrest if I was caught...

"So, senor Candle. You are here, and I know where senor Bell is. So tell me... who has the Book... and why?"

It flickered, disturbed by a breath of wind from the east. I shook my head, closed the window and drapes, and attempted to sleep.



Chosen Ch. 04



"The bell, and book and the candle all have this in common. They speak, they do not listen. The bell rings, the candle has a tongue of flame, the book is made of words. They call, they enlighten, they instruct and demand and declaim, but they do not bargain. It is not coincidence that all were used in the pronouncement of excommunication. The bell is rung, and falls silent; the candle is extinguished; the book is closed with a snap. You will no longer be called to worship, shown the light or taught words of holiness. Excommunication is the final warning; it is as far as the Church can go in announcing your damnation. 

"The ritual was meant to be terrifying in its symbolism and finality. There was no answer to excommunication. There was no bargaining, there was no further human interaction or help, no further teaching or pleading or exhortation. The only choices left were a full and public repentance, or the prospect of eternal damnation. The church would intervene for you no more, and you were denied the Eucharist.

"It is not in the nature of believers to turn their backs on the fallen, since they are fallen themselves and dare not judge. Excommunication was and is rare. Except for a spike in activity in the 14th and 15th century, the incidence has roughly tracked the population of Catholics. Nonetheless, some excommunications have been overtly political."

I closed the web page, there was nothing here I didn't know. I checked my email again. I had contacted, as discreetly as I could, four experts in Spanish medieval history. No replies. They'd probably all heard of Alan St. Laurent, the slightly too-well known thief of antiquities. 

The Catholic religion was known for the way it tended to dissolve into mysticism and syncretism, and there were always rumors of magic in the mythology that tended to accrete in the dustier corners of the faith. But excommunication was the one ritual that contained none of that taint. The bell, candle and book were pure showmanship, designed to convince a sometimes illiterate population that something was happening. Eventually that particular set of symbols had been abandoned; there had never been anything essential about them. The next day the candle would be on an altar somewhere, the book would be back in service in a priest's devotionals and the bell would be ringing the start of mass. They weren't magic. 

Except, apparently, once. Just once, the impossible had happened.

I watched the candle, quietly burning. The church I'd taken it from had reported the theft of the gem I'd taken -- which only upped the gem's value to certain collectors -- and hadn't said a word about the candle. Because the candle was a secret, a mystery, and could never be discussed. That was, I thought, very Catholic of them, but it was making my research hard.

A book might keep its secrets on a shelf and a bell can be put somewhere where it doesn't have to be rung, but a candle that doesn't want to go out, and makes you burn instead when it does... that is not something a person can stay unaware of. Of the three items -- because I knew the book must still exist -- I had the one that made it impossibly obvious that magic existed. It had been hidden in plain sight because there was no other way to hide it.

Why would a candle used in excommunication become a sexual object? People weren't excommunicated for sexual sins. The bell's reputed power made sense; the candle's didn't. 

The book, I thought. The book could explain everything, that was certainly its role. But how do you find a book?

I was out of options. Sighing softly, I began to arrange forged papers, and planned my itinerary back to Spain.

But before I left, I needed that bell.

From: Alan.....@..... To: Mike----------@us.navy.mil

Michael,

This will sound incomprehensible, but your friend with the bell has stumbled on something significant. I would take his account seriously. No, I have not gone mad. 

I am going back to Spain to learn more -- and I need to take the bell with me. I do not expect to sell it and if I do you will get half the proceeds, but I will tell you that for once I am acting as a historian, not a trading agent. You must understand that I'm wanted there for some trifling matters which nonetheless could lead to arrest, so I'm not heading back lightly. It is that important.

Can you get the bell delivered to me? I'll send you a shipping address separately.

+++

From: Mike----------@us.navy.mil To: Alan.....@.....

You are being very mysterious.

+++

From: Alan.....@..... To: Mike----------@us.navy.mil

Not I, but the world. I'd explain but you'd think I've finally gone crazy. I can only tell you that the bell is the second item in a set, and I already have the first. There is a third and I am already certain it is going to be found, if it hasn't already. The item I already have also has curious properties -- I suppose that's the sanest way to put it, but there is nothing sane about this affair. There is more in heaven and earth... 

+++

From: Mike----------@us.navy.mil To: Alan.....@.....

It frightens me that you of all people is talking about heaven. Are you very certain you want this bell? Given the alleged power of bringing people to judgment... Alan old friend you have of a certainty offended against the God of the Catholics more times that you can even count. Not that I believe a word of all this; it just shocks me that you and my level headed student both seem to. 

The two of you have unsettled me. I will get the bell sent to you. 

Whatever you're mixed up in, please be careful. The world would be a less colorful place without Alan, historian-turned-thief and sinner lose in it.

+++

The phone call from Michael was disturbing. I'd turned to him because I'd been so rattled by what I'd seen the bell do; I'd been counting on his calm, no-nonsense approach to life to settle me down. But he'd talked to someone about it and now he sounded more rattled than I did. He was adamant that I had to ship the bell to an address in New York City, immediately.

It sounded like a good idea to me. The less time I had it, the safer I was.

"Fermin," the gruff postal officer said to me with a nod. "Another rum delivery to your parents?"

"Yes sir." Off duty he was James and a poker friend, rank forgotten, but on duty he was always Sir and always all business. I handed him the box.

"Very w- wait. This is not your parent's address and this doesn't weigh the right amount."

It figured, I thought grimly. James may have been in his 60s but he was far sharper than most, and his memory for things was why he had so many good nights at the poker table. And of course he handled packages all day long. I'd hoped I'd gotten the weight of the bell and some sand to match the weight of a bottle; they'd come out the same on my scale. But he was better than a scale.

He looked at me, blue eyes narrowing. Then without another word he picked up a box cutter.

"Don't," I said. "I guess I mixed up the packages."

"Hell you did," he said, slicing. "What the- Fermin. This is prohibited material."

"It's a bell. How is that prohibited?"

"We're on Cuban soil. Mailing things from here to the US falls under special rules. You should know that. Objects of value, including historical artifacts -- those don't go in or out. An old Spanish bell? You aren't shipping this anywhere."

"We're the US Navy! Since when do we need Cuban permission to do anything?"

"Lower your voice, we've got locals working in the back. And you're not shipping on Navy business, so the usual laws apply." He lifted the bell to take a closer look, and to my horror the paper I'd wadded into it fell out. "What the hell, lad, you stole a church bell?"

Before I could stop him, he rang it.

I snatched it out of his hand, but he continued to stare at it, silently. Frantically I wadded paper back into it. 

"I'll be right back," he said. "I... need a word with our customs liaison. You better leave, lad."

"James," I said sickly, but he turned and went through the door behind him.

I should have jumped the counter and grabbed him, instead of stuffing the bell back in the box in a panic. Besides, not James, I thought, he was arrow straight, he'd surely have nothing to repent of-

The sound of the shot, and the soft thump, and then the screams...Even now I can't get those sounds out of my head.

In the confusion I slipped out, shaking.

This bell couldn't be allowed into anyone else's hands. I couldn't ship it. I was going to have to take it myself. And as busy as the base was at the moment, with some foreign dignitary visiting... I wouldn't be getting any extended leave this week.

I realized I was going to have to go AWOL. It meant stealing a local sailboat -- making off with a Navy boat was out of the question; I'd be caught inside a half hour. I'd sail to Haiti, a long but possible one day trip. In Haiti. I'd have no problem as a travelling American missionary, and a flight from Port Au Prince to New York under would be easy enough to arrange with a bribe. The risky part would be landing at JFK airport; by then they might have some nice Navy personnel with nice paperwork and a special car waiting for me. Yeah. (It's a rule in the military: when they're being nice to you, you are very, very screwed.)

I'd have to arrange a task that took me off base for at least a day, so my absence would not be noted at first. 

I'd be caught in the end, of course, but if I could deliver the bell, and then self-reported at Lakehurst in New Jersey... I had no idea what story I'd tell them. If I reported in within three days the penalties would be unpleasant but not severe. I had a sterling record. Maybe that would count for something.

The penalties didn't matter. For whatever reason I'd taken on this job, and I'd see it through.

+++

You are Adriana. You are mine. 

"Oh... oh, shit," I whispered, softly. I pressed my fingers together, but the blood had already stopped. I started at the page, shaking.

It began to blur, sifting...

"Adriana."

I was hearing a voice, a soft whisper. 

But not all around me. It was inside me.

"What... who are you," I whispered, shuddering.

"You will remember in time," the whisper replied. I can't describe things like pitch and timbre. It was all in my head. But it was human, and male. Very male.

"Don't... don't make me forget again. Please. This hypnosis. Please."

"No more forgetting. You are mine now, mine at last."

"I don't und-"

"There is not much time. This with the blood will not last long."

"Wait. You're speaking Spanish? How do I understand-"

"You will always understand me. I will always understand you. But there is not much time like this, so listen-"

"I'll just prick my finger again-"

"No. If I allowed that again you would never stop. I will tell you when. I will tell you all things, until the day we meet. And then you won't need to be told anything anymore. You will have to travel. But for now close your eyes, there is something I need you to feel."

My eyes slid closed, obediently. "Are... are you still here?"

"Yes. Be silent. Feel."

For a moment, nothing....

Then warmth, suffusing me.

"I-"

"Silence!"

Warmth, and shivering, but the shivering was fear. And then...

My lips parted, my back arched, my body sifted into a kneeling position on the floor, my head went back...

Hands... touching me. His. Powerful hands, the kind you obey out of awe, not fear. I could not open my eyes, I could not see, it was not his will that I saw him, but it was his will that I be touched. My thighs parted before his hands got to them because I knew he would not be gentle if he had to part them himself. But he was gentle with my breasts, always... except sometimes with the nipples...

A finger entered, violated me, but no, I'd wanted this; and then his lips on mine, and I could not breathe. In the distance I heard a bell, calling to Mass; we would not be attending. He needed me here, now, hidden among the olive vines of the ancient orchard, in this blazing heat. We'd been apart for too long, they'd tried to keep us apart but he'd sworn they would never succeed, and my mouth moved frantically on his. His lips still tasted of the orange he'd stolen from the grove we'd snuck though. He liked to steal what was not his, and now that included me. I was his, he gave me no choice, but then I'd never asked for one, not since that first rough kiss. His mouth, kissing, tasting me, demanding more...

The world spun, and then I was back in my apartment, panting, on the edge of an orgasm and sprawled on the floor like a toy, suddenly cast aside. Moaning, I reached for the needle again, but my eyes opened and I saw what was written.

You have been chosen.

**

Never show this to anyone. Take the job. Obey my words.

**

You are Adriana. You are mine.

Bleed only when I ask, or you will never stop. You cannot live then, so I must live now. You will travel soon. Ring ring, Adriana.

I stared at the words. Ring?

The phone rang. 

I shivered; I'd seen the Matrix, and as scary as that scene was on screen, it was so much more intense in real life.

It rang again and I picked it up. "Ring ring, Adrienne speaking, Hi Steve," I said, voice shaking.

(Why did it - he - call me Adriana?)

"Uh, yeah, hello to you too. Ok, now I'm begging, ok? He's offering more money."

"Then... yes... for two hundred and seventy five per hour, two hour minimum."

That got me a shocked silence. I smiled.

"Baby-"

"I'm not your baby, Steve."

"Sweetheart... there are a lot of porn models making less. These are stills, not full video and blowjobs."

"Maybe you shouldn't have told me he was well regarded. That means rich."

"Rich doesn't mean stupid. You got about half that for the cover work."

"But he wants me, doesn't he. Look, I'm not cutting into your profit, I know you'll just pass the cost to him."

He hesitated. "You'll get paid for set time only."

"No, you'll pay for the time I spend with your markup artists and all the rest. But I won't charge you for time I spent talking to the customer. I'm not a whore."

"Addy, when word gets out -- and it might -- you won't land more contracts. There's names for girls that act like this."

"Principled? Dignified?"

"You know you're up past the range for fetish work, right? No one does anything dignified for those kinds of rates. My last solo masturbator got one hundred dollars and she faked her fucking orgasm."

"Well, I won't be faking any orgasms, seeing as I won't be having any sex."

"At those rates he's going to demand--"

"No pussy shots. No penetration. No masturbation. No video, strictly stills. And absolutely no re-release. He and I get digital copies and I will be checking online for years, and if it shows up anywhere you and he will regret it. No copies for you."

"Shit, Addy! I'm going to tell him exactly what you're demanding and honestly I think you just blew a good contract for both of us. I hope you're happy, ice bitch."

I put down the phone, and closed and reopened the book. The words hadn't changed. I was still shivering. 

Travel? Where was I going to travel? And why?

I put the needle and alcohol on a small plate by the book. Maybe he'd ask for more blood soon. I stared at the book. 

Olive grove? Where had that strange fantasy even come from? It had been intoxicating, intense...

I jolted when the phone rang again. I'd been sitting there, daydreaming, for half an hour. Sheesh.

It was Steven again, and I picked up.

"Sweetheart... Um... I'm very sorry for what I said. Honestly I am."

"He accepted the offer, didn't he."

"Um..."

"Yeah?"

"You're to get three hundred an hour. He liked your attitude, he says he's tired of subbie little Asian sluts and likes that you have backbone as well as tits. His words, not mine. It will be a two day shoot, maybe longer if he has more ideas. On location. He'll pay airfare for you, me, and my team, by which he means Marcia. He wants us there in three weeks. He was vague about the return date."

"Wait. He wants us where?"

"Córdoba. Spain."

+++

I broke up with my boyfriend, over the phone. I felt nothing. There was just so much else going on, and we'd both moved on, seemingly effortlessly. I remembered my first boyfriend in high school; it had lasted six weeks, we hadn't even gone all the way, and I'd cried my eyes out for a week afterwards.

I hung up the phone and wondered vaguely about dinner. 

A two day shoot, six hours in front of the camera, plus an hour of makeup and costuming. Three hundred an hour... Something over four thousand dollars. 

I looked at the book, shivering. "I'm... going to Spain with you," I said softly. "You made it happen. It's almost like you're... kidnapping me."

There were strange half memories... I whimpered, suddenly.

"And it's not the first time you have... is it..."

Suddenly I heard the whispers, and I could not make out the words, but this time they did not frighten me. I felt warmth, and arousal... and I fell asleep, smiling softly, amidst his whispers.



Chosen Ch. 05



I'm a Navy sailor, not a master spy. My paperwork had Fermin Ramos on it and I didn't have the slightest idea how to get paperwork that said anything else. I was taking on a crazy amount of risk.

The trip to Haiti had been chancy, but the weather had cooperated and the small fiberglass hulled sailboat, pushed along by a motor as long as the fuel had held out, had done what I'd hoped it would do – avoid notice. I had the sense to reserve a little fuel for docking – I'm passably competent with a sail boat but no expert, and landing at a pier in strong wind is not easy. I didn't want to damage the boat, seeing as it was not mine.

I left one hundred dollars in a baggie attached to the throttle. Odds weren't great that either the boat or the cash would find their way back to the original owner – Haiti is a poor country and known for theft – but my conscience didn't know what else to do. 

Another fifty dollars attracted the attention of a taxi – more accurately one of the blindingly colorful tap-tap buses that scour Haiti looking for anything wanting to be taken anywhere. I discovered that my skill at Spanish was almost useless here – Haitian borrows more from French than anything – but I managed to get across that I needed to be at the Port Au Prince airport. The driver nodded. Then I made the universal hand motion for driving and a thumbs up, the universal pantomime for sleep and a thumbs down. He nodded no and made a thumbs down. I'd apparently overestimated the poverty here; he wasn't giving up sleep for fifty dollars.

I offered another thirty. He hesitated, and then got on the 1970s style two way radio in the cab. A few minutes of swift conversation passed, and he gave me the thumbs up. 

I climbed into the back of the little passenger space and he took off. There was no room to stand – there was barely room to sit - and the roads were rough. I was jostled and had to brace myself to keep my head from banging into the low ceiling.

He stopped once after thirty minutes to pick someone up; they went in the tiny cab in front with him. A driver for the nighttime, I realized.

He found smoother road and I slept, hard. The boat trip had not allowed much sleep. 

When I woke, there were three other passengers in the back, all locals. (White people without significant knowledge of Haitian culture are generally advised to avoid taking tap-taps.)

The biggest of the locals was very curious about me. When he saw I was awake, he took out and slowly unfolded a knife. The other two completely ignored us.

"You missionary?" The accent was thick but understandable. It didn't matter, because the knife spoke clearly.

My knowledge of Haiti was scarce, but I knew that the Haitian people have one of two views on white missionaries. Most love them; they are rich people (by Haitian standards, almost everyone else is) bringing badly needed aid. But it was still okay to steal from them, because they were so very rich. The other view was from vodou practitioners. They hated the missionaries; violence wasn't unheard of and kidnapping for ransom was nearly a national pastime with them. The Navy had been clear about it – if you don't have family in Haiti, don't go there. 

I didn't know enough to know what I was facing, but the knife set the tone. I was at the very least going to be robbed.

I had the bell in the duffle bag at my feet. It occurred to me that I could unwrap it and hand it to him. He'd certainly ring it, and my problem would be solved.

I started to bend towards my bag. But something in me suddenly rebelled at the idea. 

I would not kill him. Not that way at least. 

I nodded assent to his question, and he shifted his grip on the knife, which told me as much as I ever needed to know. My fist shot forward without warning and my other hand engaged his wrist, slamming his knife hand against the tap-tap's low ceiling.

His head snapped back against the wall of the tap-tap and the knife clattered from his hand. He'd probably expected a turn-the-other-cheek attitude instead of a Navy response. I got the knife before he could recover, folded it and put it in my shirt pocket. 

He shook his head and snarled. But before he could try anything stupid, one of the other passengers opened a knife and pressed it against his ribs. "Out," he said.

My assailant banged on the metal wall twice, the signal for the driver to stop. He got out with a helpful push from the other two passengers. Once we were underway again, I flung the knife out the back.

Apparently not keeping the knife got me points with the other knife-wielding passenger. "You go to Port Au Prince?" he said, in very rough English.

I nodded yes.

"Long drive. You sleep," he said. "I make sure you get there. Bondye beni."

+++

My missing paperwork for the entrance to Haiti didn't even raise an eyebrow at the airport. I got an email off to "Alan", my contact in New York, and was in the air forty minutes later. This didn't mean I was home and dry – if I was going to be apprehended for dereliction of duty (and by now they had to know I'd deserted) it would be at the airport in New York, not here.

I slept again – for real this time – on the flight.

My arrival in New York was utterly anti-climactic. No nice Navy personnel, no unusual questions... I met my contact in the arrival lounge, handed him the package, and he handed me an envelope with a small pile of hundred dollar bills. I hadn't lost money on the trip. 

He excused himself – he had a flight to catch.

I shrugged and got a taxi to the nearest naval base, the Naval Weapons Station in New Jersey. I'd been gone for four days but the Navy could only prove I was derelict for three of them, which meant I'd only be busted in rank, perhaps not imprisoned. Maybe.

Just over an hour and a half later I was dropped off at the gate, and I showed my id to the guard. "Reporting in," I said grimly. They'd have my name; by now every naval base in the world did. 

The guard did a brief check. "Head down to the FFSC. Down the road on your left. Enjoy the hike."

"That's it?"

He looked at my insignia. "What the hell, you expected a limo? Get out of here."

I hiked, befuddled. 

I checked in at the orientation center. I was told my transfer had gone through just a few hours before I arrived and they hadn't expected me so soon, but the paperwork was in order and they'd have lodging opened up for me within an hour. "You're not here long," he said. "Just six months. So the accommodations will be a little less than your rank usually gets you. We're crowded these days."

I just stared at him.

"Oh," he said. "And... Sorry to hear about your parents. I hope they pull through."

"Thanks," I said, woodenly. My parents were fine and I certainly hadn't requested a transfer. Had Michael arranged this – somehow? But that wasn't possible. Arranging transfers took time and transferring out of Guantanamo was a big deal. And he hadn't even known when I was arriving; I'd had no interest in leaving a paper trail with Navy personnel.

"Enjoy your stay," he said. He handed me a base map with my future lodgings circled. 

I nodded and hiked out again. When I settled I sent Michael an email, asking if he'd arranged all this.

He replied immediately. He knew nothing about it and swore blind that he'd mentioned my proposed travel to no one but Alan.

I looked around at my new accommodations, and shivered a little. My reckless journey had turned wreckless. There'd be no hearing, no fuss...

Bondye beni, my Haitian all-volunteer guard had said, on the bus. On a whim I opened a translation page, and got the spelling right on the second try. 

God bless.

I shivered a little harder.

***

"Mister... Laurel. We'd like a word." A badge got flashed.

I looked around the airport arrival lounge. There was no compelling reason for security to have taken an interest in me at this time. The flight to Spain had gone smoothly. My paperwork was in order, however dishonest it was.

"What? I'm sorry, but what is this about?" There were two of them, both armed. I wasn't going anywhere they didn't want me to go.

"Apologies, Mister... Laurel." The other said. His Spanish accent turned the vowels rich. "We require you to follow us please."

I had the candle in my carry-on. I'd finally learned the secret of travelling with it – if I ignored women, if I showed the self-control of a saint and meditated on purer things, the candle could be carried extinguished, without turning me into a lusting animal. It was not an easy thing to do, and it brought home to me just how much of a woman watcher I'd become. One of the stewardesses on the plane had inadvertently become my own personal demon on the flight.

The last thing I wanted now more interaction with people. Being pure was exhausting, and Spanish airports, like everything else in Spain, were full of attractive women. I wanted to get to a hotel room, alone.

One of the guards unholstered his gun, and gestured with it. That's just bad manners anywhere, but it got his point across.

"Not without an explanation," I said, politely but firmly. I had to know what I was dealing with. They were both airport security, which meant they were fully authorized to arrest, and Spain was a little less permissive than the US when it came to rights of the accused. 

It wasn't a country I would have returned to anytime soon, if it wasn't for the somehow-urgent business I was involved in.

"You are accused of being accessory to a crime. Come quietly. Now."

Accessory to a crime? I was generally the primary perpetrator - that's how I earned my commissions. That probably meant this was about the heist six years ago, in England... someone had died in that heist and it was not a set of charges I wanted to face. But it was almost impossible that anyone had me on that. 

I raised an eyebrow at him. He was a clichéd tough cop - mirrored glasses, a face that was principally there to support a jutting jaw, and lips that had never in his lifetime smiled. My experience with these sorts suggested he was everything his face indicated. A raised eyebrow was as far as I'd go with him.

"Yes, officer. I'm sure this is some kind of mixup."

He gestured again and I walked, bag slung over my shoulder. An unmarked door opened to his key, and he waited for me to enter. Not a conversationalist.

Three men were inside the small room – two obvious officer types at a table, and to my surprise, a priest. Worse, a priest whose face I recognized, from his papers on Spanish history. 

The two officers escorted me in and looked prepared to settle, but one of the officers in front of me looked up. "Martinez, Alandro, thank you... back to patrolling for you. This is CNI business now."

The door closed behind me. The officers smiled pleasantly at me. I smiled awkwardly back, just another confused but honest traveler.

CNI was the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia, the Spanish CIA. I didn't understand how they could be involved in anything I'd ever done, but clearly they were, which meant I was in an impossible amount of trouble.

"Mister Alan Saint Laurent. Please have a seat."

"Ah, no, I see the confusion now," I said, and pointed a thumb at my chest. "Alvin Santiago Laurel. Something about the last name... people get it wrong all the time."

"Please have a seat and do not waste our time."

I was screwed. I had the bell and the candle and here was a priest with the background needed to identify them as antiquities. There was an outstanding warrant for my arrest in Spain for Alan Saint Laurent, antiquities thief. Between the two there was no way I'd be able to convince anyone I wasn't a man in need of an extended interaction with the Spanish judicial system.

I sat, smiling pleasantly. The priest appeared to be meditating. The officers sat back; one pushed a folder my way as he did. Warrant for arrest, my picture, some photographs of artifacts I'd trafficked in. They had more on me than I'd thought.

"It will make for a long stay in Spain," he said.

"You won't make any of it stick," I replied, calmly. 

"They will," said the priest, looking up at me abruptly. He had piercing grey eyes and thick grey hair, and in his sudden intensity he looked a lot less like the academic theologian I vaguely knew him as. "Don't be a fool, Mister Saint Laurent. This is the end of the road... unless you cooperate."

"Cooperate?"

He leaned forward, hands coming together, fingers steepling. "Where is the book, Senor Alan Saint Laurent."

+++

So much, I thought, for being the only one alive who knew about the bell, book and candle. 

"I honestly do not know," I told the priest. "You are Doctor Jose Estrella, aren't you? If anyone knew I'd hoped it would be you."

"You know," he said. "You must. You would not have returned to Spain risking conviction if you didn't have two and know where the third was. Your plan was to recover and leave before you were noticed."

"If I knew where the book was, Father, I would not have come myself. I'd have sent someone to recover it and bring it to me."

"Don't Father me," he said. "You're not anything like a practicing Catholic, and if you were, you'd be up for excommunication yourself, for your many crimes against the church."

"Theft gets you excommunicated these days? Standards have slipped."

"Theft of the Genevieve relics justifies a heavier hand."

"That wasn't me," I lied. Well, not lied. Exaggerated. I hadn't done the snatch, but I'd organized and fenced. "But excommunicate away. It's not really an effective threat against me."

He closed his eyes. "Don't be a child. Your disdain for the faith isn't in doubt. We're not bargaining, I'm just trying to impress on you how seriously we take this. When the candle went missing we knew who and we suspected why. When it didn't show up on the market, we knew the why for certain. You're collecting a set."

"Theft of a candle? Sorry, no idea about that." If he thought I'd somehow forgotten about the two curiously silent officers in the room, he was mistaken.

He sighed, eyes still closed. "Officers, please go. Don't go far."

They departed. I raised an eyebrow at him. He opened his eyes and raised one back.

"The confessional is open," he said, a bit wearily.

"You don't have that much time today," I said. "But if this conversation can actually be covered by confessional privilege..." 

"There's no part of the faith you're afraid to twist to your advantage, is there, Saint Laurent."

"Not really. Oddly I have respect for the institution as a whole, but you and I know that most relics are historically invalid. The only value is in cash. I'm just accessing trapped economic potential."

"And damaging the faith of some. Symbols don't have to be historically valid to be effective."

"Faith that fragile is no concern of mine. So about that confessional privilege..."

"Sí, granted. You've already figured out that to the church, recovery of the candle and bell are more important than having you prosecuted. Which is saying something. Confess all, my wayward son."

I opened my shoulder bag and took out a thin box. The flip of a catch, a twist of my wrist, and I had the candle unrolled from the silk I'd wrapped it in. "You'll find it anyway. So yes, I have the bell and candle... Speaking as one historian to another, if you touch that I'll punch you in the face," I added pleasantly.

"I have no desire to touch it, knowing what I know about it. Desire for women is a burden I'm still hoping to get beyond."

I eyed his grey hair critically. His face turned sour. "I'm not as old as I look. And on that topic... at least one legend states the candle causes accelerated aging in those who, ah, use it. So take a good look at me; you could see it in a mirror tomorrow."

I rolled the candle back up again. "I don't know where the book is. And that I will swear before God. The bell was found in the Caribbean. The book could be anywhere in the world. I came here to research where it came from, hoping to learn where it went to. So now what? I'm of no use to you. You take the candle and bell and turn me over to the police? Or the CNI?"

"The two that just left aren't officers. Just actors. We knew you were coming and we just freed you from airport security."

I stared at him. "You impersonated the CNI? A priest condones this?"

"Consider it an act of mercy. You'd have gotten at least twenty years if we hadn't intervened. You have an ethical problem with this?"

"No. In fact I suddenly feel like we can do business. So what do I get, instead of twenty years?"

"My help. In exchange for which, the set of... artifacts is returned to the church and buried again, as was meant to be."

I shook my head. "No. Whatever these artifacts are, whatever this is about, I intend to see it through."

"By which you mean sell them to the church, or the highest bidder."

I hesitated. "No."

"No, señor?"

I paused, gathering my thoughts. He waited.

"No. Understand me, I'm everything you think I am. I've stolen for years. I'd sell Jesus's crown of thorns if I could find it. But this... the candle and the bell both have... what else can you call it? Power. Suddenly the things I made light of, there is something more to them than I thought. I need to understand. What's behind these items? What makes them powerful? Not God, given what this candle does, but something. All my life I thought I was dealing in historical frauds and trinkets. Maybe I wasn't."

"You mostly were. We have some idea what thefts you've been involved in, though we can't prove most of it. Not much had true historical relevance. Your recent gem heist... The Blessed Mary never owned that gem. We've been trying to quash that rumor for about three hundred years. But the book, bell and candle are different. Not perhaps sacred, but they are still real in their power. Real, and dangerous. And they must be buried again, separated, lost."

"Why? What happens otherwise?"

"I don't know. I think no one living does. But the notes we have are very, very clear. They must remain separate, but intact."

"And your notes are from...?"

"An anonymous Dominican priest in 1398, somewhere around Cordoba. He gave the bell to a lay priest with instructions to bring it to the coast and get it on a ship. Tradition said it went to Africa and it was hoped it was lost there."

"You're being very helpful," I said. "So now for the big question. How did these three objects gain their powers?"

"We don't know," Jose said. "Records were destroyed. I've collected as much as I think can be found. From the questions you've been asking local historians, you're edging towards the same knowledge, or at least you're on the same path I took."

"I've gotten nowhere," I said honestly. "A story of magic. Two churches burned, clearly in an attempt to destroy records that someone in the church was protecting and someone else wanted lost. Priests sworn to secrecy and refusing to talk, one even under torture. And this is over fifty years, it is not some minor scandal being covered up, it is something that scared a generation of priests. And then, silence. The problem, whatever it was, was solved. By sending the bell and presumably the book far away, and hiding the candle in a church where it could never be found. But what there is no trace of, is the event when these three ordinary church items become extraordinary."

He looked at me, somberly. "You care very much about this."

"Care? Alan Saint Laurent cares for nothing and no one. But I have to understand. You and I know the biggest secret in the world – there is such a thing as magic."

He shook his head. "Not like that. Not spells and invoking demons and things like that. This is nothing like that."




Chosen Ch. 05



"I'm not interested in the theory. Just the facts, about what happened."

"So Alan Saint Laurent is a historian, over and above being a thief?"

"Only a historian would know your whole body of work," I said, smiling crookedly.

"Or an unusually dedicated thief."

"There is no way I can convince you I'm doing this to understand, is there."

"You've already convinced me of that, Alan. As you said, you wouldn't have risked coming back for money. What you need to convince me of now is that, having satisfied your curiosity and found the three items, greed won't return and dictate your next move."

"Dishonesty has dictated the moves of the church on this issue for a few centuries. Don't judge a simple thief so harshly."

"No, a desire to stop whatever madness these items caused is what dictated our moves. So it is you who need not to judge. What do the Americans say... back atcha."

I shook my head. "I won't debate this. Tell me the rest of what you know."

"Very well. They were used in an excommunication – one that was not recorded, or more likely the records were lost afterwards. I don't think I can impress on you what it takes to convince a priest to lose records of an excommunication. It means it can never be lifted, for one thing."

"So someone did something unforgivable?"

"There's only one unforgivable sin in all of Christian theology, and I doubt that comes into play here. This wasn't about a sin, Alan. No priest would allow the records to be lost in such a case. It has to have been political."

"Tsk. Political excommunications. The hate crime of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries."

"Tsk indeed. So, the details we know. A public excommunication that somehow went horribly wrong. The candle was dashed to the ground – and kept burning. The bell was rung – and made no sound. The book was dropped instead of being slammed shut, and fell open to a passage on forgiveness. One of the priests was stuck blind and died that way two years later. The crowd that formed to watch the spectacle of a bad man castigated, fled in terror."

"So you are saying the will of heaven opposed an excommunication?"

"Excommunication is a human ritual, Alan. Heaven doesn't care. The fate of a man doesn't hang on the word of the church, as much as the church has sometimes thought otherwise."

"Well, something makes that bell do what it does. And if it isn't heaven-"

"And what does the bell do, in your experience?"

"It forces people to confess their sins."

"Hm. That would be a convenient timesaver in the confessional booth..."

"Then they commit suicide."

"Oh. Not so convenient. And you carry this bell?"

"Filled with modelling clay and wrapped in very thick cloth."

He paused. "Nonetheless, I'm impressed. You are taking a real risk. You must expect real reward."

"I've been over this," I snapped. "For once I'm not chasing the payoff. I just want to know what this is. I feel... led, driven-"

"Called?"

I frowned. "That's not the right word. Heaven doesn't call men like me."

"Heaven does what it wants. Worse than you have been canonized. Better than you have died unrepentant. You are perhaps the one man who could have brought these items to Spain with a desire to unite them with the book. Perhaps you really are called, chosen to do this work."

"If you think I'm called to do that by heaven, why are you trying to stop me?"

"You could also be a greedy lunatic willing to risk tampering with the unknown for profit. Past actions make that the better guess. And the notes we have say the items must be kept separate. So you and I will find the book, and then I will make sure the items are scattered, this time with no records kept."

"And if that's contrary to the will of God, father?"

"Then I'll fail. It's not a sin to be wrong. But for now the best evidence says people died over these items. A candle that makes men want to rut like an animal is not an item the world needs, there is already pornography for that. The bell, you say, forces confession and death, but forced confession is not true repentance. I can't even imagine what horrors a book could unleash, given the power of words in general. Every source I know says they must not be together. For all we know, Alan, that bag you carry is the most dangerous thing in the world."

"The bell's in checked luggage. I didn't think it was wise to keep them close together for a long time."

"Then we need to collect your luggage, it will have arrived by now. But before we do..."

He reached under the table, and lifted a bag. From inside it he pulled a heavy metal bracelet and a key. I stared at him in disbelief.

"An ankle monitor? Are you out of your mind? Do you think for one second I'm going to consent to being tracked by-"

Next he pulled out a gun, and flipped the safety off. I was surprised at how steady it looked in his hand.

"I see Catholicism hasn't changed much since the middle ages," I grated.

He had the grace to wince a little. "These are extreme circumstances, Alan."

"You don't have the balls to pull the trigger on an unrepentant sinner. I'd go straight to hell."

"Unfortunately for both of us, you are quite wrong. And I'm pointing at your right shoulder with a small caliber handgun. You won't die. A child couldn't miss at this range, and I'm a marksman..." 

He slid the bracelet over to me. Cursing softly (but not profanely), I stood, moved to the side, knelt, and locked the tracker around my ankle. A small LED on the key blinked green. He immediately engaged the safety on the gun and put it away.

I snarled at him. "Give me one reason I shouldn't jump you, bash you over the head with your own gun, unlock the tracker and leave."

"You won't. I know three reasons why. One is in your backpack."

I opened my mouth to snap back a reply, but he stood calmly and gestured towards the door. I paused, angry and irresolute for a moment. He gestured again.

"If there's anything I hate," I gritted, "it's when the church is actually right about anything."

He escorted me out.

+++

Packing was going slowly. I re-read the restrictions on what could be taken on a plane, and shook my head. I mean I know we live in a dangerous world but having to buy tiny plastic bottles just because I wanted perfume on a long flight...

Only two bikinis, I decided. Cordoba wasn't on a beach. But I decided I was going to allow myself a little more... freedom, in Spain. I looked good in a bikini, and... I wondered if the legends of macho Spaniards were true. I found myself hoping so. The males I'd been around... they were pushy for sex, but it was, I didn't know... slimy somehow. Not macho. Sort of whiny, in some ways... 

I dithered, packing makeup. I was finally able to be fussy about brands, and had bought a real makeup kit for myself. It really did go on better and the results made the cost worthwhile. I was done buying makeup at Walmart. But the kit took up too much room in the suitcase, so I was picking and choosing. I ended up doing my eyelashes for no good reason.

Clearly, I needed a break. I wandered to the living room, and ran through a training routine. The Victoria Secret training workouts were proving to be harder than they looked, but even after a week I was starting to see some results. The one I'd chosen was basically a martial arts routine, and I was developing a mean uppercut punch. At least I thought I was; I had no idea what would happen if I ever punched someone.

"Ka-cha! Down you go, creepster! I am Adrienne the puncher-person! Um, boxer. Yeah. Ker-pow!"

I was going to Spain because a book had arranged it. And that seemed ok to me now. 

"Za-pow! Take that former employer!"

I switched to kick-boxing moves. I was sweating in no time, so I pushed harder. "Ooh! Ex-boyfriend in the nuts! Smush that too-small cock! Ker-blooey!"

Ker-blooey? Ok, time to stop. Loss of blood to the brain here.

I crashed into a chair, panting, blood singing, my sports bra and boxers damp and my hair a tangled mess. Then I cursed (softly - the book was nearby) and got up for the post workout stretches. Ugh.

Blood. Book.

I wasn't supposed to until asked.

I opened the book. No new words. I closed it.

What happened if I didn't wait?

It had warned me I'd get addicted. But that wasn't going to happen...

The needle and alcohol were right there. 

Yeah. I mean, the book liked me, right? It had saved my life and it was taking me to Spain. We were friends. How risky could it be?

The little voice in the back of my head was saying something, but I couldn't hear it over the rush of the workout and the sudden curiosity. 

I collapsed into a kneel at the table, and picked up the alcohol before the voice in my head got any louder. Two seconds later there was a drop of blood in the ink, and I picked up the book and closed my eyes.

Things blurred...

Elena ran to me, dusty from her stint in the tower. "Adriana! That's him! He's coming! Hide, crazy girl!"

Hide? She was the crazy one. This was the one man I'd never hide from.

He was galloping across the plain, just a dusty plume in the distance, but the flashes of crimson in the lead of the dust gave him away. I knew his colors. Red leather for his outfit, and the red bandanna around his forehead, torn from my dress two years ago...

"He's being followed," Juan said, from up in the tower. He had that device made of crystal and brass and it let him see at distances; his grandfather had been a sailor and it had been stolen from the lands to the east, along the coast. "Three horsemen I think."

Elena tugged at me. "Adriana, please. Listen to me. Hide! He's bad. You know this! He'll think nothing of snatching you!"

Please yes, I thought. Snatch me. Take me. Take me away from Elena's mewling and the endless fawning of boys in this town. I hate it here, I hate having been sent here, I have hated everything since they took me away from you. Fly, horse, fly. I need what you carry.

Elena grabbed my wrist. A swift elbow to the soft spot just below her ribs fixed that, and I stepped away from her. 

He found me. There was justice in this world, after all.

"Fool," she gasped. "A life on the run! That's all you'll ever have with him! And only the saints know what humiliations he has in store for you in the night!"

The saints perhaps did not know, I mused. But I know them all. Unless he has thought of new ones. 

"Juan," I called up. "You claim to care for me."

"You know I do."

"Then I need your help. He and I must escape. Help me. Help it happen."

He paused. "You ask a hard and very dangerous thing."

"I ask only what I desperately need. Please Juan. If he stops for me they may catch him. I can't be his undoing again. Please!"

"Why," sobbed Elena. "You are well off here, safe, sheltered. Men here want you. Why are you throwing all this away. You've lived in peace here for two years. Why, Adriana, why?"

"I lived here only because I didn't know which way to run," I snapped at her. "I felt no peace. To hell with your peace and well off and sheltered. No, don't touch me again! He taught me how to hit and I will hit you where it hurts! Juan?"

"Everyone will suspect I helped you," he sighed, loudly. "Adriana, you bring such troubles. But very well, and may God's will be done. You never belonged here and the wiser of us knew it."

I bent over the horse trough, and in the still water checked that my face was at least clean. There'd be no time for prettying, but I could at least wash my face if needed. It wasn't. 

I heard the creaking of a ballista. "Elena!" he snapped. "Come up here. When they come looking for me you will delay them."

"Don't make me a part of this," she cried.

I straightened and slapped her. "Do as he says if you want to grow old enough to gain his wisdom!"

Sobbing, she staggered towards the tower. "You make me part of murder!"

"I'll be aiming for the horses," he snapped, panting now. I heard more creaking. "But that still could get me hung if I'm caught, so come up here now!"

I stood up straighter, and raised my arms to the heavens. He'd at least know who to ride towards. "Come for me," I whispered. "They'll call it kidnapping but they could not be more wrong."

There was a blurring again. And a voice. Angry, deep, male, echoing in my head.

"You dare!"

My blood ran abruptly cold. The voice growled again.

"I told you not to do this, Adriana!"

I was shaking. But I spoke.

"I have to know more."

"In time you will know everything!"

"In your time. But this is my time. I have to choose what is best for me."

"You've always been a little too prone to that," his voice rumbled.

"You kidnapped her, didn't you. What choices did she make?"

"I only kidnapped you once. What you saw was no kidnapping. Adriana you must not do this! This with the blood is untrustworthy and dangerous. You must trust me!"

To him, I was her. And I could nor shake off the conviction he was right. I didn't know what it meant, but I was already close to believing.

"Did I ever trust you? Or was I just that girl I saw, reckless and crazy in love?"

"You are still that girl as you prove with that needle!"

"I-"

But suddenly I was on my living room floor again, shaking. I didn't know whether the vision had collapsed by itself or he'd thrown me from it.

I didn't know how that girl I'd see could have been me – speaking Spanish, more willful and petulant than I'd ever been (wasn't she?) – but I'd seen her face in the water, and it was my face she wore.

I opened the book, still shaking.

All the previous words were gone, and only two were added:

Trust me.



Chosen Ch. 06



Working with Juan was something of a trial.

 "Alan, may I ask what you are thinking you are doing with that torch and those tanks of gas?"

 I closed the jeep door and frowned at Juan's shadowy figure, standing against the crumbled wall in the darkness.

 "We have to get in somehow, don't we? The door is reinforced with iron and the lock will be corroded shut, but some work with a cutting torch and chisel should get us through."

 "This is still technically church property-"

 "We have to get in somehow, padre, and I don't think you'd do well climbing over the wall."

 He sighed, softly. "You don't understand. This is church property and I am a historian with the backing of the church. The lock was badly corroded – which is why I had it removed three hours ago..." He held up a piece of paper. "...with permission from the archdiocese."

 "Oh."

 +++

 The small walled enclosure was badly crumbled, and climbing in would not have been that daunting for me, but it was the sort of thing I was used to. Once inside, a quick survey with flashlights told me others had not found it daunting either – there were remnants of a picnic and several empty bottles of wine near the remains of a campfire. I picked up a bottle: cheap stuff, with a date two years ago. 

 "Young lovers can't resist a secluded spot," Juan said. "Though I'm not sure how anyone would convince a girl to climb down that crumbled wall."

 I chuckled. "Padre, it's more than likely she dared him to come here and offered herself as a prize if he got her in."

 He shook his head. "Unchaste creatures."

 "You have noooo idea. Is that why the church kept it locked all this time? To discourage lovers?"

 "No. It's just not safe. Crumbling stone everywhere... there's no interest in architecture this ruined and there are better examples of the building style all over Spain. It was just never important enough to unlock."

 "The stone has held up pretty well, for seven hundred years. Wasn't there a big earthquake here in the sixteen hundreds?"

 "Sixteen forty seven. But a good distance east of here." He ran the flashlight beam over the church and single outbuilding, both freestanding within the enclosing wall. "Both buildings burned. Whoever did the torching was desperate and didn't know where the records were."

 "Setting fires takes time. Wouldn't some priest or friar grabbed the records at the first sign of trouble and escaped the flames with them?"

 He swept his flashlight around the enclosing wall. "In some places yes. But this is fully walled with only one way out, and the people who came to do the burning would have been numerous enough to prevent escape. By legend, no one who lived here survived the fire, which means, of course, that anyone trying to escape was pitched back into the flames."

 "Nice. How many lived here?"

 "The records don't say. This isn't a large site. Less than thirty, certainly."

 "So scarcely a large enough population to justify building the enclosing wall."

 Juan shook his head, but in the darkness I only knew this because of the faint rustle of cloth. "You're thinking politically, not ecclesiastically. In the church, walls are built to protect and concentrate knowledge, not protect people. Or sometimes to keep secrets." He shifted the flashlight. "The smaller building was a library. It was separate from the church, so it was a place where information was kept that was not of theological importance – profane writings, science, things of some value but not things of God. An excommunication gone wrong... the people of the time would have thought it was evidence of the power of darkness, opposing the will of the church. So an account of the event would have gone in there. But if we are right, this place was attacked to destroy that very record. And someone here wanted the record protected. So I'd assume it was removed and hidden in the church itself, before or during the attack."

 "Instead of being taken far away?"

 "Only if they had enough warning. Even then... whatever the secret was, they didn't want it getting loose. Maybe better to let it be destroyed than risk it on the open road? A priest would trust in the provision of stone and prayer long before he'd trust strangers on the road, or maybe even a priest in some other library. Thirteen ninety one ... It was not a time of trust and cooperation. The church itself was divided. Spain was rarely so bloody."

 "Brilliant reasoning... which does us no good, since both buildings were burned. Who attacked this place?"

 "History doesn't say."

 "Just to know who is driving – what a help it would be," I sighed.

 "Alan Saint Laurent is fond of old, obscure progressive rock," Juan commented. "Who would guess such a thing."

 "Not that obscure. And it's not as unlikely as a priest who knows there is such a thing as magic and keeps it secret from the world."

 "I don't believe in magic. I believe in mysteries and Divine power, and powers that are not so Divine. That some mysteries and powers might have a physical form... it is not inconceivable to me."

 I walked towards the church. The door wasn't inset, and being exposed to the elements for a few centuries left it rotted. When I pushed on it, it crumbled. Inside, the once-wooden floor had rotted entirely away and there was greenery growing in many spots. The ceiling had been destroyed in the fire, and the stone walls were sagging and leaning at points.

 Moonlight peeked over a wall, but the light was very dim. I swept it with a flashlight, but the additional light didn't make me feel more confident.

 "The fire weakened the foundation and took off the roof. Centuries of rains have made things worse." I said. "This really is unsafe. I'm surprised the walls held up this long."

 "Then let's stop and think before going inside. Pick the best areas to explore in case it all collapses, and we can't finish."

 I nodded. "The book had to have been here at one time. My guess is it somehow recorded the events that caused all this; it somehow remembers things. I am making a leap of faith here, padre. I am believing that God, or an angel, or whatever you believe in that dispenses powers, wanted the memory of events preserved, and that is what the book has become. A memory. And if some such being wanted that, the book must still exist."

 "For you that must be quite a leap of faith, indeed."

 "I'd never believe it if I didn't own a candle as old as this building. Things have been preserved that cannot have survived on their own. So the book must still exist. It exists even though someone politically powerful enough to do all this burning, wanted it destroyed very badly. Who? You said the excommunication was political. Were the political leaders of the day strong enough to run around and destroy churches?"

 "I'd have said no, but..." he shrugged, gesturing at the ruins.

 "There was a church burned in Seville, sixty years later. So the book survived this, went there, and someone tried later."

 Juan nodded. "Perhaps. But sixty years is a long time. Assume someone powerful did something politically inconvenient to the church. He's unjustly excommunicated. The excommunication somehow goes awry, creating these... three artifacts, but some rumors still get out. This church is later burned to hide the evidence of his wrongdoing, and my best guess is that it happened perhaps ten years after the excommunication."

 "So many guesses."

 He nodded. "I know. It's a stretch, but I can believe all that is possible. But the Seville fire happened sixty years later. Whoever he was, he was dead by then. He'd have been at least ninety. People did not live that long in those times, not often anyway. And yet the account of his sins still mattered enough to burn another church. That's where the theory fails for me. Political events can seem terribly important at the time. But they rarely are to the next generation."

 "So the Seville fire was unrelated?"

 "I am not certain. The tale there is different. Not everyone died; very few did. But two church burnings in southern Spain... it's not that common that anyone tries it, let alone succeeds. I smell some connection."

 I shook my head. "But we're still making crazy assumptions. Maybe the Seville fire was set to destroy evidence of the bell, book and candle. People might have starting investigating rumors of magic... I ran across a letter that condemned the investigation of forbidden mysteries. An account of where the book and bell were sent to might have become dangerous."

 "I am having trouble accepting the church would burn an entire library to destroy a few of its own records. Libraries are nothing today, but in these years they were important and serious undertakings, a labor spanning decades of collecting and organizing. Say what you want about the church, but it preserved knowledge when the rest of Europe was chaos. But still what you say is true. We know nothing. All we have are guesses."

 I sighed, and looked over the floor of the church, now an irregular tangle of half-starved greenery.

 "Place needs a gardener."

 He nodded, settling against a wall carefully. "The climbing vines are jasmine. You can smell traces of it. Those vines can be rough on stone walls, over time. Most of the rest is Esparto grass. The larger plants by the puddle are Cistus."

 "Botany expert?"

 "No. But I visit ruins a lot, and I keep a garden. The grass gets into everything."

 "And it doesn't grow in sandy soil or strong sun?"

 "It doesn't mind either of those. Why?"

 "Look at this bare spot just in front of us. Isn't this the north side of the narthex? With the roof gone the sun would have beaten down strongest here."

 "You're a little turned around. North is more to the left. And the grass is very hardy..."

 "So why is that spot bare? I don't see anything else this barren."

 He paused. "Because... the soil is shallow there. Know your New Testament, Alan. That which has no root, withers in the sun." He stepped in and knelt. "Shallow in a square area, so there must be stone underneath – but there was never a pillar here. Help me dig!"

 There was very little digging to do. We brushed back a thin coating of soil and found a stone support with a flat top. "Oh. It's just a pillar support, after all," I said.

 "No. Look at the other pillar supports. They are raised a good twenty centimeters above this one. This would have been below the level of the wooden floor. It was meant to look like one, to be certain..." He dug around the side of the support. "Look! Just an inch down, a crack... give me your crowbar!"

 Mineral deposits had formed in the crack, and it took us a few minutes to work the stone top free. Underneath was a tiny chamber, with a book inside.

 "Found you!" I said, reaching in.

 Juan slapped my hand aside. "That was never used in an excommunication, Alan. They are public rituals, done in front of crowds. The book would be sizeable, not this tiny thing. And after all this time I'm certain it's very fragile. I am no expert but I clearly know more about handling old books than you seem to. Allow me."

 From his pocket he took out a square of leather, and few small pieces of wood, a pair of white gloves, and tweezers. In a few moments he donned the gloves and assembled the wood into a small book stand, then carefully placed the book on the stand, and opened it with tweezers.

 "It's just a hymnal," he said in disappointment.

 "Perhaps it's a code!"

 He looked at me and rolled his eyes. "You watch too much drama. Spare me your badly written modern 'historical' mysteries. The Freemasons were never planning to rule the world, no one ever wrote a message in code in a piece of music, and the Voynich manuscripts were not given to us by aliens. Do you need clarity on any other conspiracy theory? I promise you, as a Catholic historian, I know them all."

 "So the Da Vinci Code wasn't real?"

 "My vows as a priest prevent me from beating you with this crowbar."

 I looked at the book. "Then why-"

 "Wait. What have we here? A few pages in the middle that are not hymns."

 I crowded in, but the discolored old writing was in Spanish, and not modern Spanish. I chuckled at my impatience. "Perhaps I'll let you translate."

 "That might be best. So. It starts out with an apology to God for resorting to the deception of hiding his writing in a book of hymns. I like him already. He has respect for the sacred and a disdain for lies... this is grim reading. He stumbled on a book he was not meant to find, in the library. It contained... this is hard to translate. No, he simply didn't know how to say it. 'A confusion of ever shifting letters that said one thing and whispered another, and then I awoke with unclear memories.'"

 "Meaning?"

 "I don't know. I'd have assumed a dream, but he goes on. The book told him men were coming to destroy both books and men, and the book needed to be sent away, with as many men as possible. A book that can predict the future? Now that is a terrible thought."

 "Could be useful at the casinos. And a huge help with the babes. And then what happened?"

 "He tried to persuade the head priest to move men and books, and was laughed at. The library had been founded by the order of the pope himself... I wonder if he meant Clement seven or Boniface nine? Anyway. They had no intention of deserting a library founded by a pope just because of a dream had by a young priest. He stresses over and over that he had no authority and could not get himself believed. In the end he smuggled the book out himself. No! He doesn't say where he took it to! By all the saints, why?"

 "Is that it?"

 "No. The last entry is rather terrible. There's a group of horsemen advancing on the church from the northwest, and he knows they are coming to kill. Sacred mother! The marauders are of the church, he gives the name of the priest leading them! We can forget this squabble between church and state we'd come up with, Alan. This was internal to the church... He commits this account of his actions to this hiding place and his soul to God, and will go out and take up arms with the rest... and there it ends. A few blank pages and then more hymns."

 He folded the book into the leather he'd brought, crossed himself, and got up.

 "We've done well, Alan. We can leave." Grunting, he pushed the heavy stone plug back into place. It settled with an echoing thump.

 "I think there is far more searching to be done. They built one hiding place, there could be others. We can split up-"

 Behind me there was another thump, much louder. I swung the flashlight around – that large chunk of stone had not been there before...

 "Run!" we both screamed, and bolted through the doorway.

 We had a few seconds to spare, but not many. Three more stones fell, and then a large mass... and then the stone over the doorway collapsed suddenly into ruin. The collapse slowly cascaded until a quarter of the building was spilled over the ground.

 "Exploration is over. I believe we've been invited to leave," Juan said. Shaking a little, I nodded.

 "All this for nothing though," I said. "We find a book, but it is useless."

 "Always the thief you are Alan, and never the historian. We got something of great value." He gingerly patted the pocket that held the tiny book. "In this is the name of the priest that wanted the book we seek destroyed. Finally we have a name to research. That could be of more value than maps and gems."

 More stone collapsed behind us. We exited quickly through the arch of the enclosing wall, before it got similar ideas.

 +++

 I looked in the mirror. Every time I did, I remembered the girl looking into the water... and seeing my face.

 "I'm me. My name is Adrienne. I am not an Adriana."

 The last twenty four hours had not been... good. My sleep had been punctuated by disturbing dreams, of being chased by angry men shouting at me in ways I didn't understand. During the day I'd had weird moments of... they were like blackouts. I'd just come to, in a different room, with nothing in my head and ten minutes gone. After one of them, the kitchen had been left a mess. I was nowhere near the book, so I wasn't having visions.

 "I live now. What happened long ago isn't anything to do with me."

 I was afraid to go out; a blackout as I was driving would be a disaster.

 "I... books can't be magic, I'm hallucinating... books can't talk. It's just a dream. But I can't wake up? I..."

 My fingertips touched my face.

 "This is her face not mine. Mine is... underneath...?"

 The phone rang. 

 Phones were too... easy. Anyone can talk to anyone, anywhere. So much would have been different if I'd had a phone.

 Wait, that made no sense...

 My fingernails caressed my cheeks.

 Ring. With a confused half sob, I answered it. "Ring ring, Adri- uh, hello?"

 "Addy, have you signed that paperwork yet? The insurance company is on my ass."

 I was going to Spain. Someone wanted me photographed, naked, in chains. Chains, why was that familiar? "Steve. Sorry, no. I don't have a printer here, you shouldn't have emailed them-"

 "For Pete's sake! Addy, this is the biggest job of your career, can you please get on this?"

 I bridled. "If it was so fucking important you could have driven over with the papers! I'm what, ten miles away? But since that's not your style I'll hike down to the library and get them printed!"

 I punched End Call, snarled at the phone, and wandered out to the living room. I fished a thumb drive out of my purse, copied the paperwork with a skill that belied too many years in front of a computer, and fussed around for a pair of shoes. The library was only three blocks away, I hoped I wouldn't black out on the way. 

 Maybe I needed a doctor. No. Doctors were bad. Leeches.

 I gave a little half-sob again. Something was very wrong. But I needed to get to the library. It was important. The library was very important...

 I grabbed the thumb drive and walked out, leaving the book behind. Maybe the blackouts would stop if I got away from it.

 +++

 Libraries are surreal places.

 All those printed books. Why? The internet knows everything, and any e-book reader can hold a thousand books in a space thinner than one single printed one. A vast collection of printed material, and no way to search it? Why bother? I know there are people who love the feel of pages, the smell of old books... I knew that because I'd read about people like that in a story on my e-reader. How did research and learning ever happen when everything was on paper? And once upon a time even books had been rare. No wonder the dark ages had been so... dark.

Profound, I thought. Dark is dark. And water is wet, too.

 I paid the small fee to have my paperwork printed, and signed and faxed it. I generally didn't have other reasons to come here. They had a section with computers, mostly deserted. A newspaper rack; who reads newspapers anymore? A little music and video library. Those were becoming irrelevant too... everything was online.

 This place really didn't need to exist. Overwhelming walls of books, mostly out of date... things that people once believed were true, or once found entertaining. Really, who even reads anymore? Some of my friends stuck to videos. 

 I could read and write; the priest had insisted I learn. I was an exception. The other children there had not been taught. They'd laughed at me, or pitied me, for having to learn. But I was proud of my skills. I was not ignorant.

 Wait... what? 

 I wandered the shelves. How much of what was printed here was lies? People in authority, writing things down they knew weren't true. Genealogies. I knew now...

 My eyes snapped open. I was at a desk, staring at nothing. Fists clenched.




Chosen Ch. 06



"Miss?"

 I looked over. Older women, gray hair, concerned eyes. Librarian.

 "Yes?"

 "Are you... ok?"

 "Um... just a headache."

 "It's just that you were muttering arder and fuego, over and over."

 "I'm sorry... was I? I don't know what those words mean."

 That got me a disbelieving look. "I'm sorry, miss... I need to ask you to leave."

 "It's just... I have a headache. I just-"

 Her eyes narrowed. I wasn't being asked to leave, I was being told to. Something in me bridled, but I bit my lip and held back what I was going to say next.

 "Let me show you out," she said, firmly. Right, I was in a public library. They were used to homeless people coming in, some with issues. The call to the police would be next if I made a fuss.

 "Yes. Thank you."

 Once outside I did a web search on arder and fuego. 

 No wonder she'd escorted me out. I'd been muttering about burning things.

 +++

 Juan and I sat huddled in his tiny office.

 I'd always imagined, when reading his essays, that he had a large, open office in a university in Madrid. Shelves lined with books everywhere. Several diplomas over his desk. Large windows, nearly floor to ceiling. 

 Reality was less impressive. His office was in Seville, and measured perhaps ten feet by eight, with a low ceiling and one small casement window. There were a few bookshelves, of some cheap metal, sagging. The light was an old incandescent bulb at his desk. The light switch in the wall was a very old pushbutton style, and did not work.

 "Here," he said, pointing to the screen. "de Morillo. His name is a problem because it matches the name of a priest later involved in the Inquisition, so there's a lot of false leads to weed out."

 "Inquisition. A descendant of his was involved in the inquisition?"

 "You've perhaps forgotten that Catholic priests do not marry?"

 "Doesn't rule out descendants."

 "You're very amusing. We have reason to believe he attacked a library and killed perhaps thirty people. Let's not assume he was also a villain in all other ways."

 "Marrying would not precisely make him a villain, Catholic teaching aside."

 "I won't debate that. But there are rules to follow and he would be expected to follow them. A priest knows what he can expect when he signs up."

 "Unlimited altar-boys?"

 He stared at me. He wasn't amused.

 "So," he said, turning back to the monitor. "Here's a list of priests with that name. Unfortunately rather long."

 "The church has records of every priest ever?"

 "It tries. Some of course get lost, but ordination is after all a big deal... so this weeds out anyone ordained before 1320 or after 1391. Still quite a few. I think it's probably safe to rule out anything outside of Iberia, but I'm not sure. The church was in flux..."

 "That still leaves thirty eight people."

 "Seventy. This other list here is for people of uncertain dates and locations. But a priest well known enough to be recognized on sight, leading an armed band... I'm going to assume he was not a question mark in some list. Let's remove those, and the ones who died before age 25, they were unlikely to lead much. So... thirty five."

 "And now?"

 "Now we let the computer search every reference to this name, and we manually compare it all to these thirty five records."

 A few hours crawled by. I nodded to midnight, but it didn't look back.

 "This," I said sleepily, two hours later. "Look at this."

 He did. "Juanito de Morillo. Ordained 1371 in Seville. Expert swordsman. Awarded an honorary sword by a nobleman in Seville in 1389. Which nobleman and why...? It doesn't say. Now that is unusual. And look here, he travelled, unspecified journeys to the north and east..."

 "Missions for the church, or for his noble family friend?"

 "It would be useful to know. But we don't. And... it doesn't say when he died."

 "A swordsman might run into unrecorded trouble."

 "But burial was a big deal, Alan. The Americans say Never Leave A Man Behind. But the church had it first. People sent into all the world, and sometimes they didn't come back alive – but much was done to bring them back in any case. Unless he fell into a ravine, someone buried him. He was a man of letters – none of your illiterate priests came out of Seville – with a pretty sword. Somewhere there was a record..."

 Juan sighed. "...And somewhere that record was lost, something the middle ages was good at. I'm reading too much into a missing death record. We know so little I am grasping for straws. So. This is the man that attacked a church to burn a magical book, for lack of a better term. I'm certain of that now. And he was friends with a noble family. And they rewarded him for his travels."

 "Or not. Look at these dates. He travelled early. He was awarded the sword over seventeen years later. Very likely unrelated."

 "Alright. Assume that. So, he did some impressive local service. Guarding the nobles in a volatile time? But you don't hire a priest for that. But then, you don't hire a priest in general. Historical research, sometimes; doctoring perhaps, occasional scientific investigation, genealogy research... usually priests do what priests do and don't have a lot of spare time."

 "Hm. He founded an orphanage."

 "Wait, really?"

 I pointed.

 "Yes, here in Seville, on his return from northern Spain... so why a mission to northern Spain? They were a separate land, the people to the north. Celts and Goths... blonde and fair skinned people, with their own language. Oh. Of course! It was missionary work, pure and simple. Church Latin wasn't well accepted by the Leonese speakers to the north. Someone had to go straighten their theology out, since of course it would be de facto wrong if they didn't speak Latin. Forgive my cynicism. But that must be it. The century matches up, it was a busy time for missions. It fits well. A new priest intent on proving himself to God and man by travelling and teaching. And the swordsmanship would have come in handy on such a journey."

 "This is quite a renaissance man we've invented," I said, "assuming you'll forgive the mixed metaphor. Swordsman, missionary, presumably becomes fluent in two languages when most people barely managed one, travels a couple years at least, returns, founds an orphanage, eventually gets the favorable attention of a noble house, and then burns a library. Not quite saint material, but still a full life."

 "It's surprising he's not a little better known," Juan mused. "He must have been very humble..."

 "And had a will of iron. As someone who's travelled to foreign lands, I know what it's like."

 "Hm?"

 "Swordsman, adventurer...and he travels to a land full of exotic blonde women, all that temptation, but he does nothing but teach for two years..."

 Juan looked at me, strangely. I paused, frowning...

 "And... he returns... to found... an orphanage. Because men of action are all about... child care?" I said, slowly. "Right. Of course. And the dates line up. I see it now."

 "What do you see?"

 "I see a hot-headed, bright and impetuous young man, off to make his mark in the clerical world – but instead he finds some exotic blonde that he's never seen the likes of before. He's foreign to them as well, perhaps handsome, dark, skilled, literate, daring... one or two years later... he finds he has a baby and his missions work is at an end. He returns in shame... with an 'orphan.'"

 "You have made this swashbuckling hero of ours rather dark."

 "Only if I'm right about what happened to the mother. She would have talked, no woman can hold her tongue about family, but to him it is his shame... so he puts an end to that talking. But who could kill a baby, their own child? A failed missionary, fornicator and perhaps even murderer, he returns home to repent – or at least to cloud his sins with distance and time. The orphanage grows out of the fact that the child needs care and he will not name her as his own. His claims as to her birth are accepted, and his sins are forgotten."

 "You think like a thief and a scoundrel, Alan."

 "Suitable, since I am both. But you may be thinking too much like a priest. You seem a decent man, Juan, but not everyone is like you."

 "Christians are forgiven, not perfect," he said, nodding. "But your Juanito de Morillo would need a lot of forgiveness."

 "I hear it's available in extra-large quantities at any altar. But if he's burning librarians nearly thirty years later, I don't think he found it."

 Juan leaned back and closed his eyes. "These late nights... I'm not twenty anymore. The eyes get tired... So on the flimsiest of evidence, we have painted a very bad priest. But we don't know why he gets an award... or why he's burning a library and putting people to death."

 "He is a man with a secret to keep. I don't have the... mindset to understand this. His secret about his daughter. How bad is it really, if it's discovered?"

 Juan opened one eye at me. "Are you serious? A man goes to bring Christ to the lost and instead fornicates up a baby. Fornication means nothing to people now, but it's a betrayal of oath and trust in his day. He's made the word Christian stink to the people he claimed to want to save. He is at the very least no longer a priest, and that is a long way to fall. And all that is assuming he did not murder the young woman. The millstone is of a certainty around this man's neck."

 "So the secret must be kept. But why burn that library? Was his secret there somehow?"

 "Use your own idea, Alan. The book was there. You said you guessed it was some sort of preserved memory. But a memory of what or who? Perhaps it somehow knew of his sins."

 "Then in our series of wild leaps, we've accounted for the burnt library as well. That just leaves a sword."

 "Perhaps it would help to see the sword. Weren't they engraved?"

 I nodded. "Some were, but often only with the family name that gave them, the recipient's name, and the date. It would not be much help, even if it survived." I sighed. "Crazy speculation, all of it. No proof of anything."

 "...Said the thief that traded in legends. We don't have to prove anything. We just need to follow whatever tenuous strands we can possibly find and hope they lead to more strands, until at last the web is charted and something is seen at the center."

 I web searched. Nothing about de Morillo and a sword came up. 

 "For perhaps seventeen years he does nothing history speaks of, and then he gets a sword from someone. It's just such an... ironic gift for a priest, you know?"

 "But an expensive one. Not a gift you get for running an orphanage, certainly."

 "What happened to people in orphanages?"

 "In the middle ages, rarely anything wonderful. Girls were married off when possible. Without a dowry, that wasn't always easy. Boys could end up as little more than slave labor. It was better than starving, but maybe not by much."

 "Girls were married off as children?"

 "No. Legends of child marriage are exaggerated. The catholic church raised the effective marriage age over the centuries, in Europe. Economics also played a role. In hard times, people married later. Late thirteen hundreds, Spain... late teens and even early twenties weren't uncommon. It varied – England was much lower. But out of an orphanage, if a girl caught someone's eye, it might very well be on the younger side."

 "Like seventeen?"

 "Where are you going, Alan."

 "Nice girl you got there, de Morrilo. Of an age to marry and all, and very pretty. Unusual blonde hair. So you're the guy who gets to decide who gets her? Perhaps an expensive gift will make you consider sending her to my bed..."

 "You really hate priests, don't you, Alan."

 "I really don't. But this one burned a library and killed a bunch of people. He's on the naughty list. Look, it makes sense. This is what I mean by the dates fitting together. Priest brings home a daughter as an orphan. Seventeen years later she's exotic, blonde, hot. Our nobleman has suspicious about the girl's origin. Maybe there's family resemblance showing. So he says to the priest: give me the girl and you get the advantages of the friendship of my house, and the honor of a gift. She'll at least be well off. If you don't, word gets out that she's your child. The gift of a sword is an ironic choice for a priest, but maybe he knows de Morrilo's not really much of a priest and the irony is intentional. It explains why the reason for the gift isn't recorded."

 "You're being disturbing."

 "I might also be right..."

 "That's why it's disturbing."

 +++

 With shaking hands I pricked my finger, and let the blood fall into the cup. I left the book closed.

 "You have to talk to me."

 Silence.

 "You have to talk to me now."

 Silence.

 "I said NOW!"

 Whispers, all around me. Shaking, I opened the book.

 I heard his voice. "I told you not to do this!"

 "Something's wrong with me. I need your help."

 "Nothing would be wrong if you had listened to me."

 "Are you sure?"

 "...No."

 "I am Adrienne. At least I was. Who are you?"

 "Lucio. A thief. But the name will not help you. History does not remember me. People have seen to that. You among them."

 "Who am I now?"

 "That has become complicated. You have become complicated."

 "I'm not Adriana."

 "Yes, you are."

 "I need to be Adrienne. I live in this time. She cannot be here."

 "You and she are the same person. But the memories should not have been mixed together like this."

 "You have to help me."

 "I can't magically undo what you have done."

 "Who am I really?"

 "You would say Adrienne. I would say Adriana. They mean the same thing. You are mine. You are my beautiful darkness. "

 "Why? Why am I yours?"

 "You would have no other. Neither would I."

 "We were very much in love?"

 "Like no others."

 "How does this... end? Will I be a book, too?"

 He chuckled. "I don't think so. But if you were it would be half love poetry, half erotica. And all in capital letters."

 "Lucio... you have to help me. Adriana's memories... everything is jumbled."

 "That is not truly Adriana. That is only how I remember you, it is not the same thing as who you really are. It is not quite right, so it does not quite... fit. I know it is causing you confusion. You will settle that confusion soon. You have a very... strong personality."

 "Why did I see a vision of her?"

 "You forced it from me ... it's complicated. Everything is complicated. You are very curious about yourself in the past, so you pull my memories from me."

 "You have been a book for hundreds of years?"

 "Yes. I have been making things possible. You will be fine, Adriana. I have not come this far to fail. You are in the world again, and that is all that matters."

 "I've been in the world for over twenty years. Why didn't you show up sooner?"

 "I had to find you. And if I'd found you as a child ... this with the blood would have gone very wrong. We would not have met so young. They kept you locked away and they had nothing I wanted to steal, until you came of age."

 "Did we marry?"

 "We would have. We did not have that chance."

 I fell silent. So did he.

 "I'm frightened," I said, softly. "You've turned my world upside down."

 "Not for the first time. Or the last. I promise."

 "If you turn it upside down, and then do it again, does it come out right side up?"

 "There is the Adriana I remember, always full of impossible questions."

 "What is going to happen?"

 "We will be together. How I do not know. You are going to Spain to help find the answers. I rescued you a few times... now you will rescue me. Adriana... I know you are frightened, but please wait and do not bleed again. Save it for when it is needed, because I don't know how many times it will work, and no one alive today can answer that question for me. When you get to Spain, use Adriana's memories... don't call for me again."

 My eyes opened slowly, and I looked around at my apartment. I had the strong sense I was seeing it for one of the last times, ever.

 "Adriana," I whispered to myself. "You are going to have to behave. I need to get to Spain. Just... sleep until you are needed, ok? I don't have room for both of us in this brain of mine."

 And in the back of my mind I heard a whisper - soft, feminine, urgent. "I will sleep now. Please, hurry? Godspeed."

 I sat, shaking. It wasn't a good thing, to be hearing all these voices, I decided. How did I know if I was even sane anymore? Is this why magic was forgotten, and thought to be evil? Because it drove you insane? What if I was hallucinating all this?

Godspeed. I knew what it meant, but it also the name of a painting. I had a print of it on my bedroom wall...

 I ran upstairs, and looked at it, hanging on the east wall of my room – just over the place I'd found a package, under the floorboards. A romanticized medieval scene, painted by Leighton around 1899; his The Accolade was better known but I'd always liked this one more. A woman tying a sash round the arm of a departing soldier, called to battle... it was her vow that they'd be together again. She was red-blonde, willowy, sad and serious; he looked at her so lovingly...

 I burst into tears.