Hell 194c3a

© A. A. Ron 2020

ISBN: 978-1-09834-135-0 eBook ISBN: 978-1-09834-136-7

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contents

Chapter One:

Tied to the Dream

Chapter Two:

Awakening

Chapter Three:

Leech-Craft

Chapter Four:

Days of Darkness

Chapter Five:

An Old Friend

Chapter Six:

Death at Sea

Chapter Seven:

Dear Daughter

Chapter Eight:

Falconhead Lane

Chapter Nine:

The Black Rose

Chapter Ten:

The Tree of Life

Chapter Eleven:

A World Without Pity

Chapter Twelve:

Solstice

Chapter Thirteen:

Netzach

Chapter Fourteen:

Necropolis

Chapter Fifteen:

Symposium

Chapter One:

Tied to the Dream

Funny , she thought to herself, how one can never being born . Arguably the most important event in one’s life, lost to us. The blinding flash of light, first breath of new life, and the shattering of placental peace, cast off… forgotten.

She adjusted her pose to give the people another view of her nearly nude body, eliciting mutterings of amazement from the assembled throng. Feigning detachment, she surreptitiously eyed the crowd; mostly filthy peasants still stained from their labors afield, but near the back looked to be several wealthy landowners quietly conversing amongst themselves. The same crowd every night. Though the faces may be different, after awhile they all blurred into one another.

There are those who believe that we choose our lives before we are born. Select our bodies and dull trappings of personality and put them on like a mask to hide a divine spark within. If she had chosen this body, this mask, the reason was now well beyond her grasp, for up until now it had brought her naught but sorrow. During these times of public humiliation and shame her mind would wander, a half ed snatch of a song, as if from a dream, becoming her mantra...

In the womb we are knit into the tapestry.

Memories wiped clean. Tied to the dream.

So the Lord can know what it’s like to be.

One particularly brave man reached out a tentative hand to touch her, only to be met with a fierce blow from her father’s stave.

“No touch! Look!”

The man retreated to the rear of the crowd like a whipped dog. Not many men would willingly confront her father. Standing over two meters, he towered over the lion’s share of humanity. Carrying himself at twenty five stone, with a bushy, black beard and cold, dark eyes, Yurgis Stannek was a monster… a nightmarish ogre from the grimmest of faery tales. It was clear he was becoming more agitated by the minute.

“Show over now. GO!”

The rabble slowly filed out of the patchwork tent, content to return to their daily toils in the fields; the endless drudgery of their pointless existence. They all thought her a freak, an unfortunate denizen of the shadowy realm on the far side of the dividing line that separates men from animals. In a bid to reassure themselves of their own tentative humanity, they surrendered good coin, or bartered what little they possessed of any value, for the chance to gawk at her, slack-jawed and ignorant. There had to be more to herself than that, or at least she hoped there must be.

The painted girl pulled on her old, threadbare robe while her father herded the stragglers out, wincing at a yelp of pain as one of the local children earned a sharp crack on the leg for his sluggishness. In an effort to avoid him, she made a half-hearted attempt to sneak away, but his booming voice pierced her back like an arrow, causing her to flinch involuntarily.

“Tatiana!”

Reluctantly, she turned to face him, “Yes Papa?”

“You make good money today, I am proud.”

“Thank you Papa.” Her voice, barely more than a whisper.

“One man pay with this. Here, for you,” into her outstretched hand he spilled a fine chain of silver, decorated with a cross. “You wear tonight, yes?”

“Yes Papa.” Dread filling her heart.

“Then go to wagon and await my return. I have business to attend before evening meal.”

Remaining silent, she bowed her head subserviently, thankful for this momentary reprieve. Stepping out of the tent into the waning light of late afternoon, the vast Russian steppe spread out before her in a panoramic view. As mud squished between her toes she silently cursed this place, despite its overwhelming beauty. The mud was an everywhere, ever-present nuisance on this trip. What had begun as the promise of a four month tour excruciatingly stretched out to the better part of a year as the roads became a churning miasma of muck. If not for her father’s prodigious strength they would probably still be stuck outside of Minsk.

Several performers from the troupe curtly nodded to her as she squelched along the path between the tents, but she paid them no heed. Yurgis strictly forbade her from associating with anyone they traveled with. Her one chance at socializing denied her. The beauty of real human , lost.

At the head of the column their ramshackle wagon stood against the sky, at once imposing, yet pitiful. It had been built with two storeys, and though that left it all the more treacherous in this swampy terrain, she was forever grateful because it afforded her a private room. A haven away from her brutish patriarch and the prying eyes of the masses. The aging pack horses that labored day after day drawing it were her only friends. Her favorite, Poto, nickered as she approached.

The old stallion, in the autumn of his life, remained unbroken, retaining a last measure of the strength and vitality that once marked him a king among horses. Though his once magnificent coat had faded to dirty off-white, and his mane had turned a stringy, mangy gray, his hooves were un-split, his eyes clear. She’d known him her whole life, ever since she could . It was on him she first learned to ride. In their younger days they’d even performed an acrobatic equestrian act together. Now those recollections of better times only served to depress her as she tightly hugged his sinewy neck.

“Oh Poto, would that I were an animal like you. There is no malice in you, and though your life is constant labor you bear it all with good natured simplicity. While I am filled with hatred, sadness, and fear which I cannot escape, even in my labors.”

As she gently stroked his muzzle, losing herself in those watery, black eyes, her own began welling with tears. This had become a regular occurrence in her life of late, tearfully confiding in a dumb animal who couldn’t possibly understand her. But, she had to confide in someone; had to relieve the crushing burden of

her sadness, if only for a moment. He was the sole companion to which she could turn, silently listening without judgment.

Saying her goodbyes to Poto and his daughters, Rosa and Sera, she climbed the three wooden steps, worked the latch and entered. A wave of stale tobacco and sour sweat enveloped her, smells strongly associated with her father. He occupied the lower level of the wagon, the chamber of her torture. Holding her breath in a well practiced ritual, she hurriedly ascended the ladder on the wall, retreating to the paltry portion of the planet allotted solely to her…

The meanest part of her misery always seemed to melt away whenever she entered her room. In all the world it was only here that she felt even the slightest modicum of contentment. Walls lined with shelves, crowded with tiny treasures and keepsakes, reminders of her journeys and all that she’d seen. Capstones for the fragile structure that held her few happy memories.

Her hand absent-mindedly caressed the leather bindings of her books, recounting innumerable hours lost in their pages. The promise of even the briefest escape from this grievous life kept her returning to these same beloved stories, year after year, until they occupied the largest portion of her mind. Tales of trolls and giants, wizards and sorceresses, captive princesses and evil kings; knights in shining armor…

An illustrated picture postcard of the Crystal Palace, hawked for pennies at a country fair, framed by a peacock feather and an especially perfect pinecone. Empty bottles of various snake-oil remedies meticulously arranged among colorful agates gathered on the shores of the mediteranean. Tin soldiers and animal figurines standing watch over a belt buckle shaped like a falcon, perched upon a bear’s tooth nesting within a small pouch of rice thrown at the wedding of their pyromancer. Charms, totems, reminders that she’d ever lived at all; that there had been something before all this. Her intricate mechanical nightingale evoked bittersweet memories, while a minute silver box quietly contained the

few pieces of jewelry she owned. Her father was forever giving her gifts to placate his conscience over the monstrous acts he performed on her…

Even here, her sanctuary, his scent intruded. Striking a match, she lit some incense to drive his stench from the room, then wound the key on the ornate Egyptian music box she loved so much. Its tinkling melody filled the room as she disrobed, going to stand before her greatest possession.

The full length mirror dominated the small space, it’s silver frame painstakingly wrought with roses and leaves. Her father had purchased it for her in Romania, and it was into its depths that she fell every chance she got. Gazing upon her body as she had so many times before, greedily taking it all in, once again struck anew by her unique beauty.

The cryptic runes which adorned nearly every inch of her…

Papa claimed she’d been born this way. With alien writing covering the entirety of her body. Eyelids, palms, even the soles of her feet, practically no part of her was free of this strange malady. She was not completely covered however, amidst the thousands of complex marks upon her skin, each a half centimeter square, there were thirty five blank spaces where her corpse-white flesh showed through. It was these gaps that puzzled her the most, were they the full stops between sentences? Or was she incomplete? The spaces intended for symbols that were missing?

With no answers apparent, the only thing left to fall back on was childish fantasy. Often imagining it to be an ancient, forgotten language which, if deciphered, would reveal the secrets of the Universe. Such were the foolish dreams of a naïve young girl. So far, no one had even been able to identify it, let alone translate it; furthermore, if it was indeed a form of writing it stood to

reason that there would be repetition of characters, but each mark upon her was unique.

Stranger still were the vivid bursts of color that proceeded up the front of her at fixed intervals. These symbols were wholly unlike the small, tight script that decorated the rest of her body. They were much larger, possessing an altogether rounder shape. Each one bold black upon a field of a different color, contained within a perfectly circular border resembling a blooming flower.

There were seven in total, beginning in red at the crook where her skinny legs came together, just above her womanly parts. If she stretched out her thumb and forefinger she could walk her fingers up her body, touching each one in turn; her womb, stomach, heart, throat, forehead, and terminating on her crown in an intensely violet latticework of staring eyes. Thankfully, her long brown hair covered them, they always gave her a chill. Leaning closer to the mirror, she examined the one she couldn’t readily hide. A stylized number three resting within a deep blue burst on her forehead, between and slightly above her brow, which made her appear as if she had three eyes…

She turned to the side, sucking in her stomach then letting it relax, she was so thin, almost unhealthily so. Then she pushed up on her budding breasts and let them fall. Maybe two summers separated her from being a woman-grown, and she dreaded it, for the older she got, the worse his... attentions became. Yellow bruises bloomed beneath her markings, memories of recent beatings. Mostly he knew how to hit without leaving evidence, yet, even when he did, her body tended to hide it.

Many of the folk who witnessed her mistook her markings for tattoos, which was how she came by not only her nickname, Tat, but also her stage title, The Painted Girl. But she’d had them ever since she was a small child, barely old enough to notice them and realize that she was different. Never did they fade or distort, as normal tattoos would, instead growing in proportion with her body. Besides, not

even Yurgis would stoop so low as to tattoo a baby. After years of doubt and wonder, she’d come to accept that she had indeed been born like this, and continually fantasized that her condition presaged an innate power that could one day free her from this wretched existence…

The smell of sandalwood and the last jangling notes of her music box brought her out of her reverie. Papa would be returning soon and she had to dress and prepare for dinner at once.

At one end of her room, just below the window facing out the rear of the wagon, was her clothing chest. Hand carved and quite beautiful, it once belonged to her mother, or so she’d been told. Looking upon it provoked the usual wave of melancholy; according to Yurgis, Mother died giving birth to her. No memory, not even a fragment, remained.

“Why did you have to die and leave me with him?” Tears came to her eyes then, as small sobs racked her slender frame. The well-oiled lock snapped open under her graceful fingers and she chose a simple, woolen dress which she pulled over her head. Then she selected a pair of shoes with little silver buckles and put them on. Again she stood before the mirror. Gathering her long hair back in a tail, she fastened the silver chain around her neck...

From below there came a commotion, signaling her father’s return.

“TAT!!!” He bellowed. He’d obviously been drinking.

“Coming Papa.” She called, mounting the ladder. The sickly caress of his greedy eyes upon her, a palpable sensation as she descended. As she reached the floor,

one huge hand clasped around her neck, the other traveling up her leg, under the dress. Her air supply choked off, barely able to issue a pathetic plea. “Please papa, not now... not when I have to face the others.”

His face pressed close to her ear, breath reeking of vodka. “After all I do for you, gifts I give, you think to deny me? Man who raised and protected? Spoiled child, I should leave you to wolves.”

Though her heart soared at this empty threat, there was no hope of that. No escape, ever.

“I’m sorry Papa, I am a spoiled child. I don’t deserve all this. Only, I beg you… please not now.”

“Yurgis loves his little Tat.”

She shivered in disgust, “I love you too Papa.” In this state it was always best to debase herself and agree with him, for which she was rewarded. The pressure around her neck slackened and he removed his hand from under her skirt.

“Very well, later you will pay, yes?”

“Alright, Papa.”

With a lightning-fast motion he lashed out, striking her across the face with an

open palm that felt hard as stone. Blood began to drip from her nose.

“Then clean up and come to fire.” With that he turned his back and stormed out the door, calling out terse orders to anyone foolish enough to get in his way.

She collapsed in a huddle. If there was a God, how could He allow this? Was there no mercy for a tortured, innocent soul in this world? Once again she contemplated taking her own life. Her poor wrists, shamefully bearing the jagged scars that betrayed her last unsuccessful attempt. The memory of the beating she received that day would stay with her forever, nothing could change that. Still, she would’ve committed the deed gladly tenfold if not for the one thought which gave her pause...

What if I end up in hell?

Lacking any first-hand information, only cryptic words heard spoken in hushed tones describing a place where sinners endure eternal torment in a lake of molten fire. Even if her sins were involuntary, forced upon her, it was said that all sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord. Further evidence of the boundless cruelty of the creator and the complete lack of justice extant in His accursed creation. She desired an end to suffering, not to trade it for the possible promise of burning for all eternity. Having no other choice, she grudgingly gathered herself up, wiped her nose, and stepped out the door to meet the troupe.

All eyes averted as she stepped into the firelight, though not before casting fleeting glimpses of sympathy. Despite traveling with these people for years, her shame and their fear of Yurgis kept an impenetrable barrier between her and the others. Though she suspected they all knew what was happening, none dared help her and risk jeopardizing not only their position within the group, but their very lives as well. She couldn’t blame them, but deep in her hardened heart, she

did.

A goat, a gift from a local landowner, roasted on a spit over the great bonfire. Through the flames Yurgis appeared, loudly laughing and talking with those around him. To the side she could see Mikel tuning up his kobza. Nearby, as always, was Betha with her violin, and Ob with his drum and foot bells.

Mikel looked up from his instrument and their eyes locked for a brief moment before she turned away. He’d ed the troupe not two seasons past, and despite the two of them being nearly of an age, he was already an accomplished musician; however, being the youngest and newest member of their band, he was not always mindful of the insurmountable wall between them. Sometimes he would risk her father’s wrath and speak to her. She never replied, despite desperately wishing to. This made it awkward when they performed together, for he surely thought her icy and aloof, unattainable in her attitudes. While, in actuality, she thought him quite handsome, and his playing had helped her through many hard times. Lately she caught him glancing her way more and more. It could never be; Yurgis would kill him if he so much as touched her. Stealing another glance at him, both pleased and dismayed to find his eyes had never left her…

“Tat come sit!” Her father cried.

She drifted in a trance-like state to her place at his right. Wooden pallets laid over the mud, a cushion prepared for her. Once seated, a bottle of vodka thrust into her hands. Drinking deeply, she grimaced at the familiar burn. Alcohol was the one thing that made life slightly more bearable. More importantly, if she drank enough, she would not what he would do to her this night…

The music began and the drinking continued in earnest. Spirits raising,

conversation deafening, culminating in the raucous, party-like atmosphere which accompanied all their nightly meals.

After about thirty minutes of increasingly drunken revelry, Yurgis clapped his mighty hands for silence and stood, addressing the troupe.

“Comrades, we have reason to rejoice. Our tour of Russia is nearly ended, and well worth our while. Much gold and silver we have gained, yes? We have performed for every noble from here to Moscow, even Czar himself, earning much respect and honor.” Yells of approval erupting from the back. “We are now a day’s ride from Warsaw where we put on finest show yet. Comrades, SKOAL!”

Amidst a chorus of shouts and hollering, everyone drank, including Tat. The edges of reality were becoming fuzzy, and for a moment she was able to forget how miserable she was. The band struck up a rousing tarantella.

A hand grazed her shoulder, startling her. Ulma, the pyromancer’s wife. She’d been with the troop a dozen years or more, beginning first as a follower, a hanger-on. In some miserable village, in some forgotten corner of the world, she’d thrown her lot in with them, convinced of a better life, or at least a more interesting one. Years of menial tasks had worn away her youthful patina, but in marriage she’d achieved a measure of respect. Now tasked with feeding their ever-growing family, as well as managing the sizable army of wives, paramours and hopefuls that saw to the less glamorous aspects of running a traveling show. She delivered a plate of roast goat with boiled potatoes and cabbage before scurrying back to the scullery...

Staring into the blaze as she began to eat, consuming the food as the flames consumed the wood. Perhaps our souls are like fires, burning alive, she mused,

immolating our youth, devouring food to warm our bones. The vodka, like fire in her stomach, it’s liquid properties seeking to quench the terrible inferno that raged in her heart.

Once she finished her meal, she returned to the bottle, arching her back and tipping it straight up as the dregs gurgled down her throat. When at last Yurgis nudged her with his elbow, she was pleasantly drunk.

“Tatiana, you dance for us, yes?”

She nodded, secretly pleased by his request, only feeling at peace, truly herself, when she was dancing. Rising, a little wobbly at first, she took her place near the fire on a patch of dry ground. At the edge of her peripheral vision, Mikel, gazing intently at her.

The music started, launching her into a flare of practiced ion. All thoughts gone, people gone, just her, the music, the movement. Pure mechanical, mathematical grace. Her markings flashed in the burning light as the music flowed like a stream over the drumbeat as if over rocks in a riverbed.

She leapt and spun as the song neared its climax, rose and fell with it’s undulating waves. Euphoria gripping her, sweat beading on her brow. This was the feeling she sought, immersed in something distinctly separate from herself, abandoning her troubled mind to something deep, real and true.

Harnessing her momentum she folded her arms, going into a tight spin, skirt flaring out, the world around her blurring with motion. A new move she’d been working on secretly. A surprise she’d been saving for Warsaw, but couldn’t resist

the temptation to reveal. Being more than a little drunk, after four revolutions she nearly stumbled. Kicking out of it in a swift recovery, she managed a halfway graceful leap as the song wound down. Ultimately coming to rest as the tune faded out.

For a moment everyone breathed hard through the silence, then as one burst into a fit of cheering and praise, none louder than her father. Tat returned to her place beside him, taking up a fresh bottle as the last light of sunset spread its colors across the darkling sky…

Chapter Two:

Awakening

She awakened to a dawn that was black and bruised, perfectly matching her mood. A hangover settled upon her brow like a crown. She heaved a heavy sigh and turned over, drawing the covers tighter around her, and sought to retreat into dreams. Rain pattered on the roof in a soothing wash of white noise. The caravan would be moving on today.

Already she could hear activity outside as tents collapsed and people went about the business of breaking camp. Small staccato bursts of chatter interspersed with her father’s baritone barks. Tat was glad she had no responsibilities to the actions taking place. This sense of disconnection carried her to the edge of sleep, but the cruel, gray morning light reflected in her mirror and shone upon her face. Most traveling days she never left the warm confines of her bed, suspended between lucid sleep and unconscious wake.

Slipping into the dream, slowly, silently; Yurgis stood beside her at the edge of a cliff, while thousands of meters below a wooded landscape stretched off into soft, inviting nothingness...

He pushed her over.

Down she fell, the ground rushing up to meet her.

Upon impact, her sleeping body jerked with a spasm. Upon her brow, a film of cold sweat, her stomach threatening to void its contents all over her bed. Hurriedly grabbing her chamber pot, she emptied her guts into it, the pungent

smell of goat meat, vodka, and bile making her retch with redoubled effort. Eventually trickling down to dry heaves, fatigued muscles clenching in paroxysms of pain. A thin line of spittle stretched from her lower lip to the rim of the pot and she wiped it away in disgust.

Searching her memory of last night, everything after the dance was blank, empty space, lost time, familiar pains being the only betraying sign of what occured. A groan escaped her as she sat up, performing her morning ritual. Whipping her old quilt and sheets back, scanning for traces. Not really knowing what she was looking for, she methodically checked herself. All she knew was what she’d overheard, that when a woman was deflowered, she bled. Relief at the sight of clean bedclothes calmed her heart; he always disdained her womb, with it’s illustrated opening, preferring to violate her in… other ways.

He made no secret of his plans to auction off her maidenhead to the highest bidder, be it a marriage bond or otherwise. It was one of his favorite empty threats to throw in her face when she resisted him. That one day he would sell her to one who treated her far worse. That his greed was greater than his desire, she was eternally grateful. Though in her own eyes she may be ruined beyond any hope of salvation, her virginity remained intact, her last vestige of any form of goodness or purity in the eyes of others. If that was taken from her, what would be left to keep her from utter despair?

The wagon chose this moment to shudder and jolt into forward motion, exacerbating her nausea, tersely jostled from side to side. At least they were on their way. Another step forward in this grim death march; another day in this endless nightmare her life had become…

With no small difficulty, she staggered to the window where she dumped the chamber pot out; the satisfying slap as the vomit hit the mud, both substances remarkably close to the same consistency. Then she made her morning toilet which followed out the window. She hoped at least one of her fellow performers

would accidently step in it. A petty, insignificant act of vengeance for their cowardice and neglect.

And the rain continued to fall.

Dropping onto her clothing chest, she settled her back against the wall, ively observing the countryside rolling past her open window. Endless fields where peasant families labored for their master’s gain, wasting entire generations tending vast tracts of potatoes and grain, no better than slaves. Toiling away lifetimes with no hope of anything better. And in the distance, towering over all, the Carpathian mountains loomed like the backbone of the world, bearing silent witness to the injustice of human civilization.

The cool, fresh air was a balm in her lungs, slowly pacifying the sickness that roiled in her guts, headache even beginning to abate somewhat. Drifting up from the column of wagons, faint songs and snatches of singing... traveling music. At this rate they would hopefully reach Warsaw by nightfall.

Abandoning herself to unwelcome intrusions of memory, images of the past few months of the tour drifted through her mind with pleasant, yet tainted, nostalgia. Especially their days in Moscow which, under different circumstances, could’ve been counted among the best days of her life. Springtime in that city was unrivaled in its splendor. The flowering trees, the exotic buildings, the wonderful people who treated her like a queen. The wealth of brothels meant that he had elsewhere to go to fulfill his sick desires, and the night they performed for Czar Nicholas was a night that would forever live in her heart.

The royal chamber orchestra had ed their little band and she’d danced to the finest music in all the world. Her spine still tingled when she thought of the ovation, the applause, the undivided attention of the unattainable ruling class. It

was like a dream come true after all the years of parading her pearls before swine.

Truly they’d never put on a better show. Everyone outdid themselves; sword swallowers, mentalists, and acrobats alike, executing daring feats of unequaled dexterity and skill. Never one to be upstaged, Yurgis himself had wrestled and subdued a fully grown bear brought in from His Majesty’s menagerie.

Then, the moment all would . The one she could never forget. Strapped to the wooden wheel, limbs spread wide, as Yurgis exhibited his mastery of throwing knives. Not an act they performed often, rarely failing to leave the crowd breathless. He never missed, or at least she’d never seen any prior evidence to the contrary. Once, he hit a running deer in the eye at twenty meters…

Thunk!

Even the recollected echo of a knife burying itself in wood centimeters from her ear induced her body to jerk involuntarily. The ones near the head were the worst, and Yurgis always waited til she was upside down...

Thunk!

This time convulsing into a ball, drawing her knees up and hiding her face, quailing at the sound which haunted her nightmares…

He’d nicked her ear, but only just. The crowd gasped collectively, thrilling at the sight of blood, the spectacle of primal danger...

After the main show was over, all the aristocracy in the province came to ire her bodily miracle, a master tattooist claimed she was the greatest wonder he’d ever beheld. The Czar himself even expressed an interest in keeping Tat in his court, but Yurgis wouldn’t hear of it, breaking her heart and crushing her fragile spirit once again.

Tempered by a lifetime spent wandering faery tale castles and fantasy kingdoms, wistful images grew out of her imagination, depicting what it might’ve been like, living at the royal court. To attain what they take for granted, that which she most desired. Unfettered Existence in a wondrous reality of power and privilege, free from fear and constant threat of physical abuse.

I am unworthy of such a life…

Her hand strayed to her throat, surprised to discover the silver cross still about her neck. It swung between her breasts for she still hadn’t bothered to dress. Reaching behind, she undid the clasp, examining the man Jesus engraved on the tiny crucifix, head bowed in death. Though the religion that formed around him was largely a mystery, the suffering of Christ was known to her, often likened to her own suffering. Such a wellspring of strength he contained, was there such a well within herself?

In Yurgis’ mind God was a delusion maintained by those without sufficient personal power to take the reins of their destiny in their own hands. Choosing instead to place them in the care of a fictional creator, a jealous, angry father figure. In that respect, Yurgis was her god, an unassailable punisher who controlled her fate.

The feelings in her heart told her he must be wrong. The Universe was too far reaching and complex to be an accident. The clockwork paths of planets, the unsolvable riddle of existence. Sun and rain that gave rise to plants, plants that nourished animals, animals that fed and served humans; there had to be a plan. As a symphony needs a conductor, the Universe must need God.

Forsaking the unknowable, she delved further back, to a time before all this. When she was a child, Papa had been good to her, and she’d thrived upon the attention lavished upon her wherever she went. In those days she’d parade before the crowd stark naked in that shameless way of innocent children. Nothing to fear, for her giant father was there to protect her; always enough food and a warm place to sleep. Often she would climb into his bed on cold winter nights. He drank much less back then, and would tell her harrowing stories of growing up in London, and his adventures as a thief and treasure hunter.

As the years ed, things changed. The carefully laid architecture of her childhood fantasies toppled down around her as he began to drink progressively more and more. The beatings began, quickly escalating in violence and duration. Then, on the day of her first monthly blood, he took her...

Ever present at the forefront of her mind, the recollection of that day still inspired revulsion. Like a gangrenous wound that refuses to heal, growing more infected by the day, poisoning any new flesh that tries to grow in. Once finished, he broke down and cried, words burning into her mind as if spoken today.

Tatiana, you are abomination. Should have been killed on day you entered world. Now... I am accomplice to your corruption.

The words mystified her then, but infuriated her now.

Abomination. Corruption.

What had he meant? It was doubtful she’d ever discover the answer. Since that dark day, her life bitterly decayed into this endless procession of unbearable agony.

She shook off these worthless ruminations and checked the position of the sun. Still early morning, the caravan would not be stopping for lunch for five or six more hours, and the rain was starting to come down harder. Closing and bolting the shutter, she perused her bookshelf, beloved stories beckoning like old friends, settling on a treasured collection of Italian poetry. Though unable to understand Italian, she found joy in the words, making up her own meanings as she went along.

Was the writing upon her a poem? She wondered. An epic verse extolling the virtues of the Universe? Was she a living Odyssey? King Arthur’s lady of the lake? Come and see, a living, breathing being, decorated in the glory of fate. When she was idle her thoughts tended to rhyme. Maybe she could be a poetess herself one day.

The lumpy mattress creaked as she flopped on her bed, opening the book to a well worn, oft read page. L’Infinito by Giacomo Leopardi. She began to recite aloud, trying to emulate as best she could the smooth, flowing vernacular she recalled from her short stay in Rome, a lifetime ago.

“Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,

e questa siepe, che da tanta parte

dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude.

Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati

spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani

silenzi, e profondissima quïete

io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco

il cor non si spaura. E come il vento

odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello

infinito silenzio a questa voce

vo comparando; e mi sovvien l’eterno,

e le morte stagioni, e la presente

e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa

immensità s’annega il pensier mio:

e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare…”

Her voice died in the stillness of the room. This poem always excited her in ways she couldn’t describe, the way the words rolled off the tongue. She wondered what it was about… it had to be something beautiful.

Replacing the volume on her shelf, she returned to bed, allowing the gentle rocking motion to comfort her. Presently, sliding down the slippery slope and into the arms of sleep. Dreaming again, though no longer the well-known nightmares of falling or fighting. This was much more bizarre, yet paradoxically, somehow more familiar...

An impressive chamber. Walls of sandstone, windowless, opulently decorated with thick, hand-woven tapestries of baroque design. Arrayed all about her, a sea of red velvet pillows displaying royally elaborate, gold-thread embroidery, upon which she reclined in great comfort. Warm light emanating from curious red stone lamps. Muted shock at seeing her skin free of markings, a blank canvas meeting her gaze, prompting the sudden realization…

‘I’m dreaming’

And with a rush, waking consciousness flowed in, possessing her, something she’d never before experienced in a dream. Able to move and act according to her will, she quit her place of comfort, pacing the room, studying the objects it contained. To her puzzlement, nothing she looked at held still, once observed, objects would melt and mutate until they were unrecognizable, as if her dreaming mind had only the most tenuous grip on this place.

Richly detailed tapestries depicting extraordinary events and battles billowed and stretched. Woven baskets of exotic fruits, none of which she could recognize, pulsing and beating like disembodied hearts. Books printed on paper thin sheets of crystal and emerald, pliant and malleable in her hands. A music box exactly like the one in her room caught her attention, but when the key was turned the tune came out a nonsense conglomeration of sounds. Holding her hand up in front of her face, the fingers slowly grew into veins as her hand became an oak leaf…

“Your Grace, it is time.”

Startled, she spun to face a tall red-skinned woman, bare from the waist up, with the head of a panther. A predatory look crouched in her large feline eyes, and a swishing tail peeking around from behind. Her muscular arms were encircled in golden snake bracelets and at her throat, where her midnight-black panther fur gave way to pendulous breasts, an elaborately jeweled necklace nestled. A lump in the pit of Tat’s stomach signaled fear, resistance to her presence.

“Come, my dear, it would not do to keep him waiting.” A paw, replete with claws, beckoned menacingly. Propelled against her will, the pair exited the room.

They emerged into a long, narrow corridor, lit by stone lamps in wall sconces. Following along, Tat kept her eyes on the tail. Although its owner’s every move was graceful and stealthy, the tail twitched and jerked, as if possessing a mind of its own, seeming to belie an inner agitation the creature was hiding from her.

Turning her attention to her surroundings, continually marvelling at the skill with which this place was wrought. Titanic slabs of impeccably quarried limestone set together so perfectly a knife’s blade couldn’t penetrate the seams. The wondrous workmanship, foreign even to her who’d navigated a fair amount of the construction of the civilized world.

After many turns, descending numerous staircases, traversing galleries, antechambers, and enclosed plazas, they entered into what seemed a much older ward of the complex. Carved runes and pictograms decorated the walls in neat, organized lines. Many of the symbols were recognizable as marks from her own body, causing a thrill of excitement to rise up her spine, delicious arcs of energy seeming to ripple the flesh...

They came upon a colossal door with a malevolent, staring eye inscribed at its center. Two guards with the heads of wolves crossed their spears to bar their way.

“We are here to see the god, at his request.” The words were spoken in a clear, authoritative voice. The guards raised their spears and, though their lupine eyes glowed with pride, humbly bowed their heads in deference, allowing them to approach the portal. A complex gesture and several mysterious words compelled the door to swing inward on unseen hinges.

A cavernous space stretched out before them; so vast the walls and ceiling were lost in darkness. A narrow, lighted path led into the gloom, weaving betwixt

titanic pillars. A mounting sense of alarm pulled at the edges of her mind, once again a prisoner of the dream, feet tracing the path of their own accord. In the distance, a terraced dais led up to a monolithic altar. Kneeling before it appeared to be a man with his back turned to them, but the scale was all wrong, he couldn’t possibly be that large. The closer they came the more her disbelief grew, even kneeling he appeared taller than her father, three meters at least…

At last they came to a halt before the dais. The all-encoming silence broken by a shrill cry...

“My great and powerful lord! I have done as you commanded!”

At first, nothing happened, all remained still. Then he rose up to his full height, somewhere near six meters, and turned.

If Tat could’ve screamed she would’ve. Instead, staring in mute awe at the most terrifyingly beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

The head of a falcon, eyes burning with a fierce animal intelligence, inspired blind panic in her. All thoughts of escape rendered futile as that awesome gaze pinned her to the spot. Red skin, stretched taut over a well muscled frame, contrasting with the sky blue of his falcon feathers, fringed in black, fading to pure white around the beak and eyes. Brandishing a staff topped with an eye resting within a blazing sun, he spoke with the voice of eternity.

“Leave us.”

To Tat’s horror her guide turned to go, obviously meaning to abandon her to this monster! Anxiously reaching out to grab her arm, she was brusquely rebuffed.

“This is no time to lose courage.” The creature hissed, slinking back the way they had come. Tat watched her go with a feeling of deepening dread as the door closed behind her with an ominous rumble.

They were alone.

For long moments they stood in perfect silence. Him, seemingly looking into the depths of her soul, her, too frightened to move; the delicate dance of predator and prey. Then his gaze softened.

“Fear not. Today you come to your destiny.”

He extended a hand as large as her torso, and reluctantly she drew near. Tearing her ephemeral garments away, he swept her up, placing her nude upon the altar where, despite her most ardent efforts, an invisible force held her immobile.

The Falcon-god struck up a chant in a guttural language. As if only waiting for this signal, a group of hooded monks approached the altar, surrounding it, leering down at her. Taking up the chant, white light began to emanate from the deity’s upraised palms. As one, the monks produced knives, cutting deeply into their arms, severing the arteries as litres of blood drained into a trough that circumscribed the edges of the altar. The chant intensified as the blood coagulated into lines, like vile worms, creeping from the trough onto the face of the altar from every side, all on a path to converge where she lay.

Prostrate and powerless, she was forced to suffer their agonizingly slow progress. Upon reaching her, they crawled onto her body, their touch moist and sharp, then burrowed into it. Presently her skin was alive with writhing lines, spiraling, contorting, crawling up the length of her until she was nearly covered.

The chant changed tone, taking on the trappings of an incantation, infusing her body with light. Like metal filings drawn to a lodestone, the lines straightened and adjusted, forming runes. Wracked with exquisite pain, she let out a scream, feeling she was falling… falling…

Suddenly she was wide awake and falling. There was just enough time to think, The wagon tipped, before violently smashing to the ground. The heavy bed frame fell, striking her head, the impact robbing her of breath and leaving her fighting to remain conscious. Her precious mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, showering her with shards, wounding her in a dozen places as she desperately sought to free herself.

Her treasures lay scattered, broken, beloved books sinking into the mud that was already seeping through the cracks. Trapped under the bed, wedged tight in a corner, she struggled with all her remaining strength, to no avail.

“HELP!!!” She screamed.

A muddy boot kicked in the latched window, splintering the wood. Expecting her father, she was surprised to see Mikel wriggle through the opening.

“Tatiana! Where are you?” He whispered hoarsely.

“I’m here! Under the bed!”

He put his shoulder to the frame, straining to free her…

“It’s stuck in the corner!” Tat’s claustrophobia driving her near to hysteria.

Mikel crossed to the other side, bracing his back against the wall, then using his legs he was finally able to move the frame enough to allow her to crawl, bloody, naked and covered in mud, from beneath. Wrapping her in the old quilt, he helped her crawl through the window into the pouring rain. The wreck lay on its side at the bottom of a small embankment.

“Can you walk?” He asked with urgency.

She was still a little bewildered, “I… think so.”

“Well, let us run from here, while the demon is otherwise occupied!” He took her hand, leading her around the corner and behind an adjacent wagon. All at once she realized what he meant. He wanted to take her away, to liberate her from Yurgis. Didn’t he realize that there was no escape? He would track them down, and then he would kill Mikel and reclaim her. She ed the last time she tried to run…

Planting her feet, “Wait…”

Before she could say more he pulled her to him, kissing her hard, stopping the words in her throat. It was so sudden she didn’t even have time to resist. Her face flushed hot, her body melting against his.

My first kiss...

After several seconds he released her, breathing heavily.

“Tatiana, I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you dance. Your otherworldly beauty has bewitched me, and it kills me to know what that horrible man does to you. Come with me now and we can make a life together, going where we please, performing for our meals. Maybe poor, but rich in love!”

For a moment she was sorely tempted to follow him, then reality crashed down around her. “Mikel, you don’t understand, he will find us wherever we go and he will kill you…”

“I’m not afraid of him!”

You should be.

She sighed heavily, “Why did the wagon tip?”

“I think one of the horses took a bad step, broke a leg, drawing it over the edge.”

Poto!

In a split-second decision she yanked her hand free of his and ran to the front of the column where the entire troupe had gathered in a crowd. She elbowed her way to the front in time to see Yurgis bash Poto’s head in with the blunt end of the splitting-maul.

A spray of blood speckled across her face.

Something broke inside of her; with an agonized cry, she fell upon the horse, hugging its neck. Someone sought to pull her away and she shoved them off.

“How could you do such a thing? You murdering, raping bastard!” Her voice breaking, growing to a shrill shriek.

“Horse with broken leg is dead weight we can’t afford to carry.” Her father calmly replied, the fire in his eyes betraying an horrific anger at her impertinence.

“He was my friend.” She sobbed, no longer caring that she was making a scene. All the others stood by, waiting to see how this drama would unfold. In the back stood Mikel, his face wearing a pained expression.

“Now is meat for all of us.” Yurgis replied, seizing Tat by the wrist.

“NO!” She screamed, wrenching out of his iron grip.

White-hot waves of energy, flowing up her spine, causing her to shiver involuntarily…

“I’m... never... going... anywhere... with... you... again.”

It was becoming difficult to speak, energy building at a frightening rate, welling up in her heart until she feared it might burst. Consumed by a fire from within her own body, her markings began squirming and writhing upon her skin as if alive, the seven symbols running up the front of her commencing to glow with an eerie white light.

Everyone drew nearer to witness this new wonder. As Yurgis made a move to grab her, she voiced an ear splitting cry, dredged up from the deepest depths of her being…

And she exploded.

Chapter Three:

Leech-Craft

The blackness stretched into infinity. No differentiation between herself and the void. All was one. No thoughts, no cares, total disconnection to all she was. There being no motivation to act, nothing was done. Endless relaxation and a slow sinking into oblivion. A place deeper than dreams, devoid of existence; emptiness without end.

Thus she existed for a seeming eternity. Until, by tiny degrees, a rudimentary consciousness returned. A gradual drifting out of perpetual darkness into a semilucid state. The clear impression that death lay below, and there was still work to be done. Treading dark water, breath locked in her lungs, struggling against this inexorable current that sought to bear her down into eternal nothingness…

I can’t go now. It can’t end this way… not like this.

Straining with all her might, she began to make headway. Somewhere above was a hazy light, beckoning as she pressed nearer, its radiance expanding as it hovered just out of reach; closer and closer until…

She opened her eyes, but they refused to focus. Inhaling the sour antiseptic smell of a sickroom, dry mouth, tasting of blood. After blinking several times, clarity returned. A white room, gauze curtains draped around her. Several clear tubes ran from under a blood-spotted bandage on her arm up to a trio of liquid filled bags hanging from a metal stand. One other bed, presently unoccupied. Afternoon sunlight poured through the high windows, illuminating dust motes lazily drifting through. This must be a hospital.

But how did she get here?

The last thing she could recall was Yurgis killing Poto. What happened next? Where were the others? Where was her father?

Her body was distressingly numb, no strength in her emaciated limbs. For several minutes she struggled, utterly failing to move any part of her body save her head, which she could weakly turn about on a sore neck. Presented with no other choice, she forced herself to calm down, settling in to wait.

A short time later, footsteps in the hall, her father’s voice.

“I no care about money, my daughter must live!”

“You have to realize Mr. Stannek, your daughter is in a deep coma. She has suffered massive trauma to the brain and nervous system. She may never recover…”

“Bullshit!” Yurgis was getting angry. “She is my daughter, she is special, she is strong. You bring her back to me or it is you who pay, yes?”

For a moment she was struck by how much her father appeared to care for her when he thought she wasn‘t listening. Then, realizing the actual reasons for his concern, she felt physically ill.

The doctor was nonplussed, “Alright Mr. Stannek, we are, of course, doing all we can, the rest is up to her.” Through clenched eyelids she saw Yurgis deliberately draw the hunting knife perpetually sheathed at his belt, cleaning his nails in a menacing way.

“You do more, yes? Or maybe you no wake up either.”

“There is no reason for threats, if you persist in this manner I will have to alert the constabulary.” The smaller man nervously stammered as he fled the room.

Yurgis sighed, the rush of air deflating his massive frame. She wished he would go away, she didn’t want to face him. To her chagrin he sheathed the knife and wandered over, dropping onto the bedside chair with a heavy thud; still, she feigned sleep…

He remained silent for several minutes.

“You’ve been listening, wicked girl. I know you’re awake… I hear difference in breathing. You have much to answer for, now wake up or I cut till you scream.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, “Hello, papa.” She grated through a dry throat.

“Ha! I knew,” Yurgis sneered. “Too much a coward to take greatest adventure into death. After all trouble you cause, death too good for you, yes?”

What was he talking about? She had no idea, but his ominous statements and furious expression did not bode well.

“Water.” She pleaded.

Yurgis thrust the canteen at her. Upon seeing there was no way she could move, he grudgingly held it to her mouth, pouring far too hastily. She coughed and sputtered as most of the liquid went down the wrong tube. He poured again, slower this time, and she was able to slake her thirst. The cool liquid, like life itself, flowed into the parched desert of her body. She drank until the canteen was empty.

“Now we talk, yes?” Yurgis’ voice, thick with the threat of violence, chilled her. “Or more precisely I talk and you listen. You must be wondering where you are. This, dear Daughter, Intra Muros, best hospital in Warsaw. You’ve been asleep more than fortnight.”

She was shocked. That long… asleep? Unbelievable. It seemed but a moment or two since… her mind could supply no memory of those last seconds.

What had happened to her?

“Where are the others?”

As if waiting for her interruption, Yurgis rounded on her, ratcheting up the

intensity, “The others, dear Daughter? Don’t you recall fruits of your evil? Outcome of corruption?!”

“Papa, what are you…”

“DEAD!!!” Yurgis shouted, achieving maximum hostility. “All of them, dead by your hand. By your evil, bitch magic!”

Grabbing her by the throat, he bodily hoisted her out of bed and into the air. Having lost a substantial amount of her already meager weight, her lifeless body flailed like a rag doll as he shook her in a rage, all the time shouting into her face as her head lolled at an awkward angle.

“Have you any idea how long it took to assemble troupe? Years! Finest acrobats, musicians, fortune tellers, and illusionists in world. My friends all. Now, nothing more than dirt in ground. Food for worms!”

All the time his voice had been steadily rising, and finally his shouts summoned several nurses who were duly horrified at the scene taking place. Showing exceptional courage in the line of duty, they ed the fray, seeking to pry them apart. After a brief struggle, they succeeded, her father was a monster, not a fool…

She was returned to bed as Yurgis began to calm down. One brave woman even squared up to him, demanding that he leave the hospital until he could comport himself in a civilized manner. Tat cringed as he prepared to launch into a fresh tirade, then thought better of it. Meanwhile, the other nurse fawned over her, removing the feeding tubes from her arms, tucking her in, propping her up on a

pillow and making sure she was comfortable before rushing off to fetch the doctor.

Yurgis turned to go, then turned back and addressed her, wide eyes full of fury, “Rest well, dear Daughter, recover your strength. I shall return to collect you in ten days. I’ve arrangements to make, yes?” Then, without taking his eyes off her, he thrust his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a number of gold coins. Holding out his hand, he let them roll through his fingers, each one striking the tiled floor with a sharp sound that brought to mind ringing bells, signifying deadly portents.

“I want her ready for travel in ten days.” He stated in an icy voice, stalking out of the room.

“What a brute of a man.” Murmured the brave nurse.

They brought her a hot meal, the first she’d had in weeks, feeding her like a baby since she was incapable of caring for herself. Basic cabbage soup, but the small sips of savory broth promptly awakened the dormant taste receptors on a tongue that felt like sandpaper in her mouth. Though her bruised throat made swallowing painful, she was able to find simple contentment in the meal.

Irma, her attending orderly, was a small, mousy woman studiously entering a drab middle age. Her body, plump, her movements, deliberate, gentle. Fair, lightbrown hair done up in a bun under a white nurse’s hat. Laugh-lines around eyes the color of stormy skies. They talked some, mostly inconsequential things, before the conversation turned serious.

“You know, Tatiana, I’ve taken care of you nearly every night for several weeks,

and often found myself wondering who you were, what you were like. I’ve never seen anyone like you. I started hoping we would have the chance to meet.”

These comments made Tat feel awkward and uncomfortable. “You must be disappointed.” She muttered.

Irma frowned at this self-deprecation, “I don’t know what I expected. My intuition is rarely wrong, that comes with the job, but it’s almost like you aren’t really here at all. Like this present you is but a shadow. Like there’s another girl inside you trying to break free. I know I haven’t known you long, but that’s the impression I get.”

Tat sighed and remained silent, effectively ending the conversation. Was there another girl inside her? The person she might’ve become given love and an environment in which to thrive? Was this pathetic, downtrodden creature truly all she could ever hope to be?

Irma collected her dishes, leaving as a short, spectacled doctor with thin, graying hair and thick eyebrows shuffled in.

“Hello Tatiana, I’m Doctor Rheinhardt, how are we feeling?” He spoke good English with a slight eastern European accent.

“I have a headache, and my throat hurts, and I can’t move.” She complained.

“Well, that is to be expected,” he tipped her chin back so he could examine the

freshly bruised skin where Yurgis had throttled her. “To be perfectly honest, most of the staff here had resigned themselves to the fact that you would never wake up.”

This casual ission startled her, “Why is that?”

“Well, in my experience it is exceedingly rare for a person in a traumatic braininjury induced coma to ever recover. You’re an extremely lucky girl. When you arrived here, upon examination, you appeared to display symptoms concordant with one who has been struck by lightning.”

“Lightning?” She asked incredulously.

“The top of your head was burned, as well as the bottoms of your feet, marking the place where the bolt entered your body, and exited into the earth, completing the circuit. The fact that it was raining the day you were brought in lends this hypothesis even more credence. What do you ?”

“Not much, truly. There was an accident. My horse broke a leg in the mud and papa… murdered him. I getting angry, then… nothing, until I awoke here.”

“Well, I guess we may never know what happened to you, so now we must focus on your recovery. The combination of muscle atrophy and massive overload of the nervous system has left your body partially paralyzed, temporarily of course, with a few days of physical therapy, I predict that your motor skills should return virtually unimpaired. Now I am going to run a few basic tests, make sure everything is operating as it should.”

Loosening her hospital gown, he listened to her heart, the cold metal of his stethoscope making her shiver and squeal. He then sat her up and placed it on her back, having her breath deeply. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he turned her so that her legs dangled over the edge of the bed and, using a small pointed hammer, lightly tapped below her knee. Her leg jerked spastically, independent of her control. He then repeated the process with the other leg.

“Your reflexes are working fine, confirming my diagnosis that this paralysis is indeed temporary. We’ll have you up and about in no time.”

Laying her back down, he used a cap-lighter to check the dilation of her pupils as she stared unblinking into the tiny, dancing flame. Producing a syringe, she was forced to turn away as he took a blood sample. The sight of blood, especially her own, always disgusted her.

“Okay, Tatiana, everything appears to be in order. For now, try to sleep, I’ll be back this evening to check up on you. If you need anything, one of our nurses will be making rounds every half hour. Alright?” He smiled, patting her knee reassuringly.

“Thank you Doctor.”

He got up to go, then hesitated, “Oh, one more thing. I am interested in your… condition. Your markings appear to be tattoos, albeit I have never seen any so meticulous yet seemingly meaningless. They also lack all the telltale signs of subcutaneous ink. Your father refused to discuss them, except to say that they were not artificial. With your permission, I’d like to run a few tests…”

She immediately turned away from him, “No.”

The doctor appeared flummoxed, “If this is a naturally occurring condition, it would be the first of its kind ever recorded in the annals of science, you’ve a duty to submit yourself for the betterment of the knowledge of mankind.”

She sighed in exasperation, “I said no!”

“Okay, okay please calm down, I won’t do anything you don’t authorize me to do.” With a scowl of disappointment he shuffled out of the room, stiffly closing the door behind him.

Once he was gone, she tried her best to will her limbs to move, succeeding only in the barest wiggling of her fingers and toes, exhausting herself in the process. Her body had become a prison. To one who had spent her life honing the art of movement and grace, this was overwhelmingly depressing.

Worse than that, the thought of what her father would do to her when he returned terrified her to no end; that was the true reason she’d refused the doctor’s offer. Yurgis made it clear to her from an early age that she was never to allow any kind of medical examination. In fact, this was the first time she’d ever been in a proper hospital, and she had no desire to make things worse for herself than they already were…

Alone with her thoughts, unable to stop obsessing about what she’d done, all she’d lost. The whole troupe, dead… how could that be? The girl who had never

hurt anyone, now responsible for the deaths of over forty people; men, women and children. Yurgis had to be lying. Yet, even if he wasn’t, in the depths of her heart she couldn’t bring herself to feel much sympathy for them. For those who knew her torment and stood idly by for years while she suffered…

It wasn’t until thoughts of Mikel that the wave of guilt both sought and feared crested over the bulwark of her apathy. Kind, handsome Mikel, gone forever. If only she’d run away with him, everything might be different, everyone might still be alive. Strange that one decision could have such diametrically opposed consequences. The thing that bothered her most was why her father hadn’t died? He was as close as the others and, in truth, the only one she wished death upon.

Her mirror, books, clothes, the hand-carved chest which was all she had of her mother, all the little treasures that in her mind defined her as a person, were gone. Most of all, she missed her little music box with the beautiful melody in which she could lose herself for a few fleeting moments. All those objects. All that tied her to that reality of hatred and sorrow, had ceased to exist except in her mind. The life she knew was dead. That life she’d felt powerless to change had, in one cataclysmic moment, been unequivocally altered; if not by her conscious will, then at least by her own subconscious intent.

The idea that she contained such power began to thrill her. Growing up consumed by the fantastic worlds of Merlin, Baba Yaga and countless other wizards and sorceresses, lusting after the arcane power they commanded; so often imagining discovering such power within herself. Of course, she knew that those were merely stories. Though, what else could this be? He’d even referred to it as her evil bitch magic.

The ability to kill with a thought… if it could be harnessed, controlled, she would no longer be a helpless victim. She could retake the reins of her destiny. These thoughts sparked a willful determination that her father would never harm her again.

The day ended with the application of leeches to her body. Doctor Rheinhardt claimed it was to drain off diseased humors, but Tat wasn’t so sure. One thing she was sure about was that it was one of the most traumatic experiences she’d ever endured. She would’ve suffered her father’s touch a thousand times rather than go through this.

The tiny creatures, growing fat off her blood, disgusted her to the point she had to fight to keep her first meal down. If she could’ve moved, she’d have ripped them off and stomped them to a pulp. They made her think of the worm-like lines in her dream of the Falcon-god, being unable to resist as they burrowed into her body.

The leeches were removed by a nurse wielding long tongs. Fattened parasites placed in sterile jars to await the next patient victim. Tat was fed another bowl of watery cabbage soup and allowed to drift off to sleep.

Sometime in the night her door abruptly opened, a group of orderlies wheeling a gurney into the room. The man upon it, if indeed it was a man for the entire form was shrouded in filthy bandages, groaned softly. She’d come across people like this before, huddled in dingy alleyways, and immediately assumed the worst.

Leper.

The man was transferred to the opposite bed, curtain drawn. Several minutes later an unfamiliar physician entered, and what he was carrying sent chills down her spine…

It was a hacksaw.

When he saw that she was awake he approached her, speaking softly in what she assumed was Polish.

“Przepraszam za to, że to pilne, że będzie tu tylko na dzisiaj, znajdziemy dla niego miejsce w godzinach porannych.”

Leaving her mystified, he disappeared behind the partition as several oil lamps sparked to life, casting long, imposing shadows upon the fabric which separated them. She strained her ears to make out any of what was said, but it was all a garbled mish-mash of random sounds to her.

“Infekcja jest zaawansowana…”

“Że nogi będą musiały spaść…”

“Włóż to do ust, żeby nie ugryzł się w język…”

“Nie ma lekarstwa, nie wiem, dlaczego przeszkadza…”

“Wiesz kim są jego rodzice…”

Then came a sickening, scraping sound as the sharp teeth of the saw bit into flesh and bone, accompanied by a cry of ultimate suffering and mortal anguish. An errant artery spurted blood before being sutured shut.

Panic washed over her, the feeling she was going to be ill. A spike of adrenaline wound her nerves tight, heart hammering in her chest. Desperately needing to get away, she focused all her strength toward the simple task of sitting up. Despite a herculean effort, she barely made it halfway before collapsing back to the bed, hyperventilating. In the end all she could do was lie there, listening in horror, as the gory scene played out.

Hours later she still couldn’t sleep, even though the leper was snoring contentedly under heavy sedation. She felt dirty, as she always did, in the wake of her attack. Her traumatic upbringing had damaged her in some intangible way, certain situations could set her off in fits of extreme distress. Recently, it seemed to be getting worse; sometimes it was so bad she believed death was upon her...

The door softly creaked open and Irma entered on her nightly rounds. Dressed all in white and carrying a candle, she appeared as a ghostly apparition in the gloomy room. She was surprised to find her patient awake.

“Are you okay Tatiana?” She whispered, tucking in her sheets.

“No! I’m alone and scared and there’s a leper in here and I think they cut off his legs…” Agitated, nearly in tears, weakly pawing at the nurse’s smock. Irma kneeled at her bedside, gently stroking her hair.

“Shhhh, Shhhh, everything is alright. Oh you poor thing, wait here, I’ll get you

something to help you sleep.”

She exited the room, returning after several minutes with a syringe. Demonstrating practiced skill, she located a vein under her markings and punctured the skin, slowly depressing the plunger...

Instant, unimaginable pleasure. Concentrated sunlight flowing through her veins.

“What is this?” She asked dreamily.

“A little morphine to make you sleep and take away any pain,” she finished istering the drug, swabbing alcohol over the spot. “Not a word of this to the doctor now.”

“Thank… you… Irmmm…”

Tat was floating on a cloud, intense euphoria coming over her, deadening the perception of her surroundings. All her earlier anxiety melted away into deep relaxation. This was incredible. Never before had she felt anything like this, never knew such a feeling was even possible. And in this moment, she never wanted to feel anything else ever again. Warm and comfortable and safe and tired, like she could sleep forever…

She jerked awake with a slight spasm, the last remnants of the morphine still tingling throughout her body; she definitely needed more of that. Coming back

to reality was like putting on a wet coat of weary depression. Drab, grey light illuminated the ugly room, rain pattering against leaden windows.

Testing her muscles, she found she could open and close her hands with relatively little trouble, though couldn’t quite lift her arms yet. This infuriated her because of the persistent itch on her nose.

“Dzień dobry.”

Tat froze, she hadn’t noticed the Leper was still in the room. Turning her head, she saw him sitting in a wheelchair, looking forlornly out the window. His left leg ended in a bandaged stump just below the knee, a bloody patch barely seeping through the snow-white gauze.

The stigma against lepers was even worse than that of gypsies; they were cursed by God, and she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Remaining silent, she looked away, hoping he would leave her alone.

“Czy mówisz po polsku?”

Still she held her tongue.

“Parlez-vous français?”

She recognized that, it was French.

“Sind Sie Deutscher?”

German? She realized then that he was cycling through languages, trying to find out which one she spoke. He began to intrigue her. In her experience, lepers were dirty, unlearned, transients.

“России, возможно?”

This was getting ridiculous, how many languages did he speak? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? she had no desire to talk to him…

“Do you speak English, perhaps?”

Out of reflex she turned to look at him.

“Ahh, you understood that. So you are English then. You’re a long way away from home; quite beautiful as well.”

Again she turned away from him.

“Oh, I understand, leper, outcast, unclean. You think you are too good to talk to me, that my illness makes me less of a person, or maybe even that I’m cursed by God or some such nonsense.” He wheeled his chair over to her bed, the fetid

stink of decay accompanying him. She turned to look him in the face, he obviously had no nose under his bandages. His eyes however were fierce and intelligent, full of life and vigor. He confidently met her gaze and his confrontational demeanor softened.

“Or is that it at all? Maybe you’re hiding something. A deep guilt or shame over something you’ve done. I have seen enough sadness in my time to recognize it anywhere, and I see it painfully etched all over your face.” He reached out a hand and grabbed her wrist, turning it over, revealing her scars. In a flash of fury she snatched her hand away from him and clutched it to her bosom.

“Don’t ever touch me!” She shouted, struggling to rise, desperately needing to get away. Managing to prop herself up on one arm, she tottered precariously before overbalancing and falling from her bed, striking hard the cold tile floor face-first. Both unable and unwilling to rise, she remained there, faintly sobbing.

“I know how you must feel, the weight of the world is far too much for such slender shoulders. You feel as though there’s nothing left to live for, life is unending misery. You’d rather take your chances with the great beyond.” He wheeled his chair around to the other side of the bed where she lay.

“You know nothing about me!” She shot back. Pitifully writhing on the floor in an attempt to climb back to the warm confines of her bed.

“True, nothing concrete, though I am not without my wits and can deduce several things that have a high probability of truth. Firstly, the fact you are in this room alone means either you or your parents have money, judging by your age I’d say it was your parents. Since I know most of the legitimately rich families in Europe, and none of them can claim to possess a child of your rare appearance, I am guessing they came by this money illegitimately.

“Secondly, the bruises on your neck appear to be from a strong, male pair of hands. That, coupled with the scars on your wrists and an aversion to being touched, leads me to believe you were physically or sexually abused, most likely by your father, or an uncle.

“Thirdly, and this is purely conjecture on my part, the fact that you speak English so far away from any Anglican country. And, pardon me for saying, your frankly freakish appearance, suggests to me that you may have been part of a circus or traveling show. How am I doing so far?”

Somewhere in the middle of his assessment she stopped crying, becoming still, listening in disbelief as he guessed correctly about everything. Who was this man? He had penetrated all of her defenses in seconds, her shame laid bare. There was nothing left to hide, it was liberating, in a way.

Rolling onto her side, so as not to have to look at him, a glint of light on metal behind the wheel of her bed caught her attention. She reached out and retrieved a gold coin. Thick and heavy in her hand, it was a Russian Imperial, worth fifteen rubles. It must have rolled under here when Yurgis dropped all those coins the day before.

“It’s all true.” She whispered.

“Pardon?” The leper smugly inquired.

“It’s all true.” She said again, louder so he could hear.

“Here, let me help you.” He extended a bandaged hand to her. She regarded it disdainfully.

“You can’t spread leprosy by simple , it requires through blood.” He assured her.

Hesitantly, she reached out and took his hand, hoisted painfully up on shaky knees. She leaned heavily upon him, rolling back onto the bed with a grunt, gratefully sliding under the covers, drawing them up to her chin. She furtively slipped the gold coin under her pillow. This exertion left her trembling and drained of energy.

“Who are you?” She asked warily.

The man chuckled sadly, “Well, once I was Izaak Oginski, professor of logic, doctorate in abnormal psychology, world traveler and one-time prodigal son of a powerful family of royal lineage. Now, I am but a leper, cursed by God, shunned by all save my mother, who paid for me to have this rotten leg removed, thus placing us in common company.”

“How did it happen?”

“Ask me again later if you get the chance. I don’t have much time and I would talk of more important things. Listen, I too considered taking my own life when my illness began to escalate. Then I discovered something that helped me endure, gave me strength to face my fate.” He paused.

“Well, what was it?” Tat asked impatiently.

“No matter how bad you think you have it, there’s someone out there who has it a hundred times worse. Allow me to elucidate. Compared to a normal person you’ve had it pretty rough, abused, forced to act contrary to your nature, exhibited like an exotic animal. Now look at me, at least your limbs aren’t rotting off of your body. Compared to this, your life’s a holiday.” The look in his eyes, needing her to understand, requiring it...

She’d never thought about it that way before. In that respect she was blessed beyond belief, a healthy body, an otherworldly appearance many thought strikingly beautiful, able to earn money without labor, without toil. Looking at it like that, she had no reason at all to be depressed about anything. Unfortunate that this simple understanding couldn’t change the fact that she still labored under the crushing weight of abject despair.

“Well then, who has it worse than you? Who do you think of and thank God you aren’t them?” She asked, half sarcastically.

“A good question. Have you ever heard of Joseph Merrick?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you are familiar with his more widely known moniker, Elephant Man. He lived in London and, in fact, only recently ed away. The poor man was afflicted with a horrible malady that caused his body to grow twisted protrusions

of bone which contorted and distorted his form until he was horrifying in appearance. I once had the honor of interviewing him, an article for a particularly spurious publication, The Psychology of a Monster. Such rubbish.”

In Tat’s mind cavorted visions of the childhood storybook monsters that lurked in the shadows. Some terrifying Grendel, or Bandersnatch...

“So hideous he couldn’t leave the hospital unless he covered his entire head and torso with a burlap sack, to avoid upsetting people. So deformed that he couldn’t even lie down or he would asphyxiate; he had to sleep sitting up.

“He scraped together a paltry sum exhibiting himself around the continent, something the two of you have in common, before a crooked manager robbed him of every cent,” he wheeled his chair over to his bedside table. “Here, I have this picture of him, his obituary from the Times. I keep it with me always.” He returned with an old clipping and handed it to her.

Even forewarned, nothing could’ve prepared her. It didn’t look real, it couldn’t be real. Though dressed in a suit, that was where all vestiges of humanity ended. A fresh horror to populate her nightmares...

“How awful!” She moaned.

“Indeed, whenever I feel depressed I look at this picture and him as a man, with hopes and dreams like any other. I appreciate what a challenge his life must’ve been. Then my own troubles don’t seem so hard. At least before my life ended, and this bleak existence began, I was in perfect health, enjoying the pinnacle of physical and intellectual joy.”

The door opened, interrupting their conversation. Doctor Rheinhardt entered, followed by a man Tat hadn’t seen before. Tall and thin, bordering on gaunt. Sandy blonde hair and moustache, close cropped against an irregular skull.

“Mr. Oginski you leave that poor girl alone, she has suffered enough,” Rheinhardt chastised him. “Come along, a bed has opened up in the chronic incurables wing.”

Retrieving his meager possessions, Izaak handed her a folded piece of paper before wheeling his chair towards the door.

“What is this?” She asked.

“Just something to help you when the pain gets to be too much.”

She unfolded the rough sheet of foolscap and read the neatly printed lines.

Tis true my form is something odd

But blaming me, is blaming God

Could I create myself anew

I would not fail in pleasing you.

“I apologize for that Tatiana, I hope he didn’t upset you too much.”

“No, he was alright.” Tat replied with grudging iration. The things he told her made a lot of sense, and she surprisingly found herself hoping to talk with him again.

“Good, now this is Doctor Kopec, he will be overseeing your physical therapy. So if you are ready, I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.”

For the next three hours Tat was put through a taxing battery of exercises focusing on her arms and upper body. After thoroughly massaging her muscles, Kopec physically manipulated her ts, putting them through their full range of motion. The extended period of inactivity had left her muscles tight and knotted, resulting in excruciatingly painful cramps. The doctor, immune to her acute agony, remained largely stone-faced and silent, speaking only to issue terse instructions.

To begin, a porous ball which she had to squeeze to build up her grip. After each repetition, Kopec would count aloud in his grating, monotone voice. If her grip was too weak, he would recount the same number until she compressed the ball to his satisfaction. Harsh and relentless in his authority, only after completing one hundred with each hand did he allow her to rest, by that time trembling with fatigue.

As a reward, she was transferred to a wheelchair and moved to the table by the window where Kopec dumped out a number of wooden blocks. These had to be picked up and placed in a basket, alternating hands each time as he stood over her, hawk-like, stopwatch ticking away. Thus ensued ten minutes of struggling and frustration. Repeatedly fumbling with the blocks, inevitably knocking them to the floor with clumsy movements. When she eventually finished, instead of the praise she expected, the blocks were promptly scattered again upon the table and she had to start anew.

The second time was exponentially harder than the first, as impatience and frustration had increased two-fold. Added to this was the discovery of a growing animosity toward Doctor Kopec. His rare comments were often mean spirited and derogatory, and he never wasted two words of encouragement when one of derision would do. By the time the last block dropped into the basket she felt like screaming; the muscles in her arms were on fire. Something akin to the pins and needles when a limb falls asleep due to poor circulation, greatly magnified.

More than anything, she wanted to quit, forging ahead by sheer willpower alone. If she failed, it would mean that he won somehow, even though this wasn’t a competition and their aims were identical. The whole ordeal was taking on the dynamics of a power struggle. She suspected his attitude was a persona, used to spurn his patients on to greater efforts, yet that didn’t make him any more likeable in her eyes.

Her discipline was soon rewarded, each successive round becoming easier. After the thirtieth cycle her discomfort was minimal, completing the task in under a half a minute.

Next the beds were moved and she was made to push her wheelchair in a continuous circle. Every ten revolutions she was allowed two minutes to rest, while Kopec kneaded her muscles. After fifty laps, sweating profusely, arms on fire, yet ecstatic at having regained full control of at least part of her body again.

“That will be all for today, tomorrow we work on your legs and get you walking again.”

“Okay.” She mumbled, irritated at Kopec’s emotionless monotone, glad to be rid of him.

Alone again, nothing to do but wait impatiently for Irma to make her rounds. The desire for morphine was so strong, so seductive, that her devious mind was already formulating lies and excuses. Concocting methods of manipulating the kind-hearted woman in order to obtain what she wanted. If all else failed, the gold Imperial…

When the door did finally open, dismay at the sight of an unfamiliar woman wheeling in the lunch cart. She remained silent as the plump nurse delivered her meal. Thick, split-pea soup with chunks of ham, and a generous slab of dark rye bread.

“Here you are, young lady, make sure you eat it all, or you’ll never regain your strength.” She chirped.

Good, she spoke English. Trying to sound nonchalant, Tat tried to ply her for information. She knew if she raised suspicion, her potential supply could evaporate.

“Thank you ma’am. Where is Irma, my normal nurse?”

“Probably at home asleep. She works the night shift. Can’t expect her to work twenty-four hours a day.”

“Dammit!” Tat swore under her breath.

“What was that dear?”

“Umm… nothing, a cough. Thank you ma’am.”

“You don’t have to call me ma’am, my name is Kaja.” A hollow smile, wheeling the cart out without waiting for a reply.

Ravenously hungry, she made short work of the soup, tearing off thick chunks of bread to scoop up the savory stew. Cleaning out the bowl with the last scrap of rye, she heaved a sigh and belched, savoring the feeling of a full stomach; though even the comfort of satiation wasn’t enough to mask her annoyance at having to wait another six hours for Irma to return.

To the time she decided to drag herself into her wheelchair and venture out of her room in order to explore the hospital. Getting into the chair posed little trouble. Getting out the door proved more difficult than she’d anticipated, being bolted to a spring so it would automatically close. Two minutes of pushing, cajoling and adjusting ensued before she was able to struggle to freedom...

She immediately regretted it.

The torch lit hallway was packed with the sick and dying, lying on mats or propped against the filthy walls. Many appearing to be suffering from Cholera. The final stages of terminal syphilis were evident as well, unfortunate souls transfigured into leering idiots as malignant parasites devoured the brain. The smell was beyond awful, like a blight or plague that infected the senses. The rough stone walls, streaked with grime, while blood and other viscous fluids spattered the floor. It resembled something out of a nightmare. A Hieronymus Bosch painting of Dante’s hell, come to life.

Spending most of her life performing, she was used to being the center of attention, but this was different. These eyes were not looking upon her with wonder, lust or disbelief. These were not the eyes of ignorance. No, this was anger, true hatred, burning with inhuman malevolence. A cloud of doom descended upon her as she slowly began to push her chair down the hall. These horrifically ugly souls, full of bitterness and lost hope, resented her presence, some heavenly angel cast down into their cursed sphere. Time ground to a halt as every eye turned to feast.

It was too much, they looked ready to tear her apart; survival instinct took hold. A sharp squeak as the chair whipped around, rubber wheels losing purchase in puddles of blood as she sped back to her door as fast as she could, certain they could sense her fear.

The spring mechanism on the door effortlessly defeated her. In the ensuing melee the chair tipped, spilling her to the ground. In an attempt to right the chair and regain her seat, a decrepit crone caught hold of one wheel, seeking to wrest it away from her. Three jagged teeth piercing swollen, gray gums. Bloodshot eyes wide with violent dementia.

The silent hallway came alive. Wailing, taunting, catcalling her in a hundred

dead languages as she wrestled for control. Filthy hands, reaching out, pulling, groping at the flimsy hospital gown she wore; faces twisting into grotesque imitations of tragicomedy masques. Visions flashed before her, people becoming demons, viciously tormenting her on a final, fiery descent into madness…

The vision intensified, stranding her in an altogether worse reality; struggling to extricate herself from the diseased clutches of wretched humanity. Smothered under a pile of putrid bodies as hands came from everywhere. Frantic screams, curtailed as she was forced to bite down on probing fingers. Cries muffled, suffocating beneath a mountain of vile flesh…

Then, in the blink of an eye, it was over.

She was free.

Scrambling to her knees, she abandoned the wheelchair, grasping instead for the door handle and collapsing inside the room. The last thing she saw was the crone’s rotten maw, gaping triumphantly in laughter as the door creaked shut. Breathing heavily, heart racing, relishing a moment of stillness, she sought to regain control of herself. Instead, bursting into tears, saying silent thanks for the precious privacy her father’s ill-gotten gold bought her…

“Good evening, Tatiana, how are you feeling today? Irma asked cheerfully as she entered, bearing fresh linens.

After all she’d been through, she was in no mood to be civil, getting right to the point, “Irma, I need morphine.”

A curious look, “Tatiana, that was to help you sleep, I daren’t give you more. Are you in pain? Should I summon the Doctor?”

All the obsessively constructed reasons and excuses earlier concocted went out the window in favor of the direct approach. “No, it’s… you have no idea what I’ve been through today, I need another shot… please.” Doing her best to sound vulnerable, pathetic, seeking to engage the nurse’s natural sympathy.

“I don’t know…”

She was vacillating, now was her chance. For the past several hours the Russian Imperial, clenched in her sweaty fist, awaited this moment. Uncurling her fingers, she held it up for Irma to see.

“This is worth fifteen rubles. There is more where this came from if you give me what I want.”

Her bluff worked, the nurse eyeing the coin with obvious avarice, “Fifteen rubles is more than I earn in a week.” She breathed.

“Please, Irma.” Tat begged.

Several tense seconds of hesitation, then the coin was snatched away, bitten to ascertain authenticity, and slipped into a smock.

“I’ll be back soon.” She whispered.

“Thank you Irma.”

She sank into the bed as every nerve in her body sang with pleasure. Even better than the first time. Eyes closed, she rode the initial rush like horse-shaped fire; all worldly cares bleeding away, leaving her empty, yet at the same time full to bursting with blissful sensation.

After the meteoric rise it leveled out. Curled into a fetal position, shivering in physical ecstasy. Forgotten were leeches, lepers, the horrible despair which lay beyond her door. Gone as well, thoughts of what she would do when she had to leave the hospital in Yurgis’ charge. Nothing else mattered but this moment, this wonderful feeling…

The moment dragged on, indefinite in duration, balanced on the knife edge of perfection. Into this fleeting paradise intruded the rough physical sensation of being shaken; something outside herself demanded attention. Stretching like a cat, she cracked one eye open.

Doctor Rheinhardt stood over her bed.

Even this was not enough to perturb her overwhelming sense of well-being. “Oh, hi Doctor.” She purred.

“Hello Tatiana, feeling good are we?”

“Oh yes, wonderful.” She whispered, almost nodding off.

Rheinhardt shook her again, turning her head to face him, snapping his fingers to get her attention. “I know about the deal you made with your nurse.”

This got through to her and she became a little more alert, “Please don’t punish her, it’s all my fault.”

“Don’t be silly, she came to me before she even gave you the shot. I approved it. I even let her keep the coin.”

“What? Why?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, pensive face outlined in moonlight. “Tatiana, I am not an evil man, albeit I am driven to make a lasting impression on the world. A legacy that will live beyond me. To be ed as more than a simple surgeon in a backwater hospital. Now, if I were to, for the sake of argument, discover a previously unknown disease or condition, that legacy would be assured. Why, I could even win the Nobel prize in physiology or medicine.”

Even through the haze of euphoria, Tat could tell where this was going. “Get to the point Doctor.”

Rheinhardt produced a sheaf of documents, “These are patient consent forms, allowing me to study your condition. Sign them and I’ll see to it you have as much morphine as you could ever want.”

“Where’s a pen.” She demanded.

The hours flew by, as they tend to do when one approaches something akin to happiness. Rheinhardt was true to his word and she had injections whenever she requested. After a chemically blissful morning of skin samples, X-rays, cell cultures and endless questions she was once again visited by Doctor Kopec.

Three monotonous hours later she was once more rendered capable of bipedal locomotion and allowed to take her first faltering steps outside her room. Lost in euphoria, she obliviously danced down the immaculately clean, empty hallway. Leaning heavily on handrails, she descended several flights of stairs, exiting hospital proper to explore the grounds.

A high wrought-iron fence circumnavigated the campus, making escape quite impossible, though in truth escape was the last thing on her mind. Sunlight, delicious on her skin after so long indoors, the smell of fresh air, nearly magical. Approaching the fence, she sat upon a stone bench, ively observing the bustling street in the brief moments when she could muster anything resembling attention.

Outside the gates life went on as usual. Heavy laden wagons, trundling along picturesque streets, heading to market. Shepherds driving their flocks. People in fancy dress hurrying about their errands so as to have time for their social duties. Tat loved to watch the people, peacefully going about their business. Cities always attracted her. In stark contrast to the enforced servitude of the agricultural wilderness, in a city she felt like the common people retained more control over

their lives. She imagined being one of them; a dull, humdrum life sounded just right, as long as it was a life she chose...

In a moment of clarity, she noticed an enormous black man observing her from afar. Taller than her father, though about as wide. At first she couldn’t tell if he was real or an hallucination, so incongruous was his presence. He wore the outlandish dress of his homeland, either Africa or India, she wasn’t sure which; brightly colored tunic and tros which covered every inch of him, and an odd cylindrical hat. She caught glimpses of him maybe seven times, always managing to vanish once she became aware of him. No small feat considering his appearance.

The troubling thing was that he wore an expression like he knew her, surprised to see her and trying to attract her attention. This made her supremely uncomfortable, though not enough to deter her from returning every morning.

One day she was seated at the fence as usual when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, Tatiana.”

She turned to see Izaak, rolling his wheelchair up to rest beside her. In her druginduced fog, quite happy to see him.

“Hi, Izaak.” Her far-away eyes practically looking through him.

“I thought you would be long gone from this place by now.”

“Soon… soon.” She intoned. Though precisely when, no clear idea, the days all seemed to flow together of late.

“Do you recall, you asked me how I became a leper?” His voice, tinged with concern.

“Mmmmm.” Tat replied, drool forming at the corner of her mouth.

Izaak reached out and shook her shoulder, “Tatiana, pay attention, this is important.”

Tat shook her head to clear it, “Sorry, yes I , how did it happen?” Already nodding off…

“I was a professor at the Royal Academy of Arts and Sciences in the Netherlands. One summer I took a sabbatical, traveling to the far east with several colleagues. Shanghai. After a particularly sordid bacchanalia of, shall we say, Dionysian proportions, I awoke in an Opium den in the dark heart of the city, having unknowingly purchased a month’s worth of the black tar. Do you know what happens in those places?”

“No.”

“Filthy rat warrens where addicts smoke their lives away, attended to by employees of the den. I spent three weeks chasing the dragon down that

disgusting hole, and in the end the two things I came out with were a crippling opiate addiction… and leprosy.”

Tat winced.

“You do know that morphine and opium come from the same place, don’t you? I can see you making the same mistakes I made so long ago. It is a difficult road to come back from, one that even I haven’t yet overcome. Please, don’t do this to yourself, you’re better than this.”

Inevitably, the dreaded day came, her father appeared with two horses to take her away. She was wholly unprepared for it. After her second morning shot, Rheinhardt poked his head in, announcing that Yurgis was at the gates demanding her release. If anything could’ve brought her down quicker she never wanted to encounter it.

What was she to do? Once she left the hospital, that was it, no morphine; she couldn’t take that. Though, what did she expect? To remain in the hospital forever? Already her body was demanding another shot…

Several minutes later, Rheinhardt returned with a travel pack. “Your father gave me this to give to you, it has clothes and boots,” he sat next to her on the bed. “You have done me a great service Tatiana, and I have repaid you terribly. You undoubtedly will suffer from Soldier’s Disease, a strong physical dependence to opiates, experiencing debilitating pain as your body reverts to functioning without morphine. As I told you before, I am not an evil man, I regret my actions. In the bottom of this pack I have secreted a substantial amount of concentrated laudanum tincture to help wean you off of your addiction. Take one swallow when the pain becomes unbearable. Good luck to you, I’ll see you soon.” He rose, shuffling out the door.

Dressing slowly, dreading the immanent moment she was once again alone with her father. The clothes fit well enough, a flannel button-up shirt and men’s canvas tros, but the boots were tight and stiff; they would need a good deal of breaking in. Taking a last look around the room, she shouldered her pack, leaving it forever.

Exiting the hospital, her worst fears materialized. There lurked Yurgis, fuming at the gates, the staff having effectively barred him from entering. Waving goodbye to Rheinhardt who’d come to see her off, she experienced a pang of regret at missing the opportunity to bid Irma farewell. A little upset that Izaak hadn’t come after all. The note he’d given her was nowhere to be found, a pity, it was something she would’ve liked to keep. Something to him by.

“Good to see you well again, dear Daughter.” That oily voice, wriggling in her ears like maggots. Her blatant refusal to acknowledge him in any way went unpunished for the moment as he ed her the reins of a young, dappled mare. Mounting up, they set off down the road, her tentative questions cut off with a terse gesture.

“No talk until outside city.”

For a moment she contemplated breaking the horse into a full gallop, attempting escape, but her father was a much better rider and would have no problem catching her. Instead they leisurely cantered out of town toward a bleak future. In the shadows of an alley she thought she might’ve caught a last, fleeting glimpse of the mysterious man who’d shown such interest in her…

That evening when they stopped to make camp, the silence still lay heavy

between them; neither she nor Yurgis seemed inclined to break it. The morphine was long gone, a dull, aching pain radiating from her bones. She’d been getting upwards of ten shots a day for the last week in the hospital. Who could’ve known the price of such pleasure was this creeping agony. The laudanum called out to her, occupying every second of her mental attention, but it had to wait until Yurgis fell asleep. It was all she could do to conceal her growing discomfort from her father, she couldn’t risk him discovering it.

While she gathered wood for a fire, never straying out of sight, he unpacked a meager meal of hardtack and dried meats. She built up the kindling, arranging twigs and moss into a pyramid structure like she’d seen him do a thousand times before. All their essential gear was laid out on a wide stump, but when she reached for the lighter, Yurgis caught her wrist, bending it backwards, forcing her to her knees. Fixing her with his cruel gaze he abruptly snapped his fingers…

The kindling burst into flame!

Her blood ran cold, a shudder escaping her. Never before had she witnessed such an act. He seemed to be telling her that she wasn’t the only one who commanded power beyond mortals. His hardened hand left angry red imprints on her skin as he released her, piggish eyes daring her to respond. Not a word was spoken as food was distributed, the silence unbroken save the click and chirp of birdsong. It wasn’t until the meal was finished that Yurgis chose to speak.

“So we are equal now, yes? We have both ruined each other’s lives, now we both have nothing.” He was affecting his boisterous happy voice, appearing to be in good spirits, though Tat could sense the deadly currents of violence that flowed beneath the surface of his manic expressions.

Her thoughts cautioned her to proceed with care, a wrong word now would provoke him into massive hostility. In her eyes nothing could ever make them equal, not even the death of the entire troupe. Several times she attempted to speak, each time assessing a new tactic. In the end she chose the simple path.

“What happened papa? What did I do?”

A great frown beetled his brow, he’d been hoping for resistance, defiance, something he could fight against. This sad acquiescence stole the wind from his sails. He stood and stretched, ridding himself of the cramps of the road; bent backwards and several mighty cracks pierced the night. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time, graying hair and beard, bloodshot eyes, missing teeth. Though Yurgis fancied himself unassailable, even invincible at times, in all the ways that mattered, he was still a man, same as any other.

And no man lives forever...

He returned to his seat by the fire, speaking in the slow, measured tones of one recalling events under hypnosis, “All day, travel was good. Break camp, make good time. I knew we’d make Warsaw on schedule. Then, Poto take bad step. I try to hold course as wagon went over edge, but Poto break leg in mud. My first thought was to put horse out of misery. Horses spend nearly entire life on feet, so broken leg is death sentence. You were not only one who loved horse. I had him before I had you.”

A sickly feeling of guilt descended upon her. Yurgis rarely opened up to her like this, and it was much easier to hate him when he was an unfeeling demon.

“Then you are there, crying and making trouble for all. Your... marks... start to move, glow. I try to grab you and great wave burst forth and you collapsed. Ones nearest, consumed in flash of light. Others less fortunate, broken, bloody, begging for death.

“First thing, I went to retrieve gold. Wagons on fire, let them burn. Then I saw to my comrades. Most already dead, those that persisted, I helped to make same.”

Again Tat was amazed by the brutal simplicity of this man.

“I spread fire to rest of wagons, burned bodies to appear target of outlaws. Then, I gather you up, ride thirty kilometers to hospital. Purchase room in boarding house and wait for you to wake. Now we are here.” He fell silent, his story done.

Without thinking, Tat stupidly asked the one question that had been on her mind since awakening in the hospital.

“Why didn’t you die too?”

A sharp glance, a glint of evil returning to his gaze. “Oh, would like that wouldn’t you? No more Yurgis to care for you, to protect. Well that is one wish that must remain unfulfilled, dear Daughter, for I am a difficult man to kill,” he winked sardonically at her. “Better ones than you have tried and failed. I am not without protection.”

The moment he rose, she knew violence was coming. She’d known him long

enough to recognize the signs. Fear flooded her, conditioned by the tinkle of a buckle, the sizzle of leather sliding through canvas belt loops…

“You are nothing before me.”

If she was going to do something, now was the time. But what? The process of summoning her magic was a mystery. Her only plan being to trust it to arise when needed. Whereas before she was enveloped in a torrential flow, now, barely a trickle.

Spurred on by this seeming denial of his superiority, Yurgis advanced menacingly. A final decision, fight or flight; she turned and bolted. Being still weakened however, catching her was a simple feat.

Forced to strip down in the middle of the forest clearing, hands roughly tied. Like the deadly bite of a leather snake, the belt sang through the air raising welts upon her prone body, the buckle, bruising down to the bone. Having learned as a child that no amount of tears or screams could induce mercy, she suffered in stoic silence. All she could do was curl into a ball and endure. He’d become a vicious fiend, bent on her destruction.

She could sense that he was losing steam, blows falling less often, immediacy and power waning. Far from a reprieve, this slackening only signaled the approach of her real punishment. The inevitable act of true physical dominance he lorded over her. Unable to resist as she lay prostrate on the rough-hewn stump, crying out in agony as he mounted her, piercing her womb. This was it, the moment she’d dreaded her entire life. In a supreme act of will, she drew a shallow breath and held it, tensing every muscle until falling unconscious, freed from being forced to experience the worst moment of her life.

Chapter Four:

Days of Darkness

Again the days flew past in a blur, but not in a good way; her spirit was broken. The brief respite and small contentment she experienced during her stay at the hospital, dashed in a torrent of despair.

After all these years, he’d done it, desecrated the one thing she valued most in the world, her purity. With no more fanfare than a pig to the slaughter. Now she was ruined, a common whore. Worse, in fact, because even whores had a choice and were paid for their services. What man would want her now? More to point, how could she ever bring herself to suffer a man’s touch willingly?

The oft dreamt-of day Yurgis found someone willing to marry her and take her away from him, in exchange for a great deal of gold, would now never come to . Condemned to remain with her father until he died, or he killed her. She went about the motions of being alive, all the while, dead inside.

The one thing she retained from her former life was the silver crucifix on its chain with the tiny savior, suffering eternally. Although it did not give her strength, it sapped the smallest part of her misery. For the first time in her life, she began to pray. Not for revenge or deliverance, she prayed for her death. Even if she managed to escape from Yurgis, there was no longer any will to live. The shame was too great; she was a worthless thing, lifeless and hollow.

When attempting to summon anger toward her father, it eluded her. She couldn’t even cry. Tied into the saddle due to her refusal to mount up, hovering between shame and a sickening apathy, ceasing to speak, refusing to eat or drink unless force fed.

Every day she suffered through debilitating withdrawal pains, and each night when they stopped to camp he used her mercilessly as she faded deeper into the depths of her mind. There was precious little solace to be found in the laudanum, which paled in comparison to her beloved morphine. Far from erasing her fears in rapturous waves, repeated consumption barely served to dull the pain and get her to normal.

This desolate condition lay in stark contrast to the beautiful lands they travelled. The surrounding countryside, proudly garbed in the full-bloom of early summer. The small folk enjoying an uneasy peace, spanning an indeterminate period between the end of the last war and the beginning of the next...

Traversing endless, pastoral farmlands which had once been battlefields, crops tended by suspicious serfs, retired soldiers, who watched them warily as they ed. One cold glare from Yurgis, usually enough to send them scurrying back to their plots, leaving them to wonder about the great bear of a man, and the skinny painted girl. Other than the odd traveler on the road, no one paid them much mind. The world went about its business, but she was oblivious to all of it. If the world was dying and all she had to do to save it was lift a finger, she wasn’t sure she could… or would.

During these terrible days, the one thing her mind kept returning to was her dream of the Falcon-god. Increasingly, she came to believe that the key to her purpose and impossible salvation lie in the terrifying beauty of that predatory gaze. The scene replayed endlessly in her head, seeking to keep the shame at bay; but in the night, as she lay awake looking at the stars, it surrounded her like a dense, cloying fog, nearly suffocating her in bouts of anxiety and self-loathing. Dropping into shallow, troubled sleep, demons pursued her through the swamps of her nightmares, faces of those who had died, those she had killed, melting until all that remained were grinning skulls.

Death was a constant companion through these days of darkness and travel. A deep longing for it as others long for the embrace of a lover. To go into its arms and be shut of the world forever. The one thought that almost allowed her to cry. This was what hitting bottom felt like, she could sink no lower aside from the endless embrace of death.

After nearly a week of seemingly aimless wandering, Tat built up the courage to speak. She couldn’t say for sure what roused her from her catatonic trance, surely not a lessening of her crippling anguish...

“Where are we going?”

If Yurgis was surprised to hear her speak after so long, he didn’t show it. “That crooked doctor told me of great meeting, symposium he called it, to take place at Oxford University near London. All greatest minds in world will be attending.”

“Why do you care about that?” Tat asked dismally.

Yurgis shot her a venomous look, obviously picking up on her subtle jab. “Where intelligent men gather, there is money to be made. Also, there is one in London I must consult. I tire of barbaric lands, time to return to civilization, yes?”

He was not being truthful with her. She’d known him long enough to recognize when he was concealing something. It didn’t matter, she would find out in time what his true intentions were. Under normal circumstances his explanation would’ve provided her a pale semblance of excitement; she had always wanted to see London. Yet, under this stifling blanket of lethargy, nothing could reach

her. So they galloped on, wrapped in sorrow. Not even the gentle beast she rode could provide her comfort. It only made her think of Poto...

For days they’d been following the Vistula river, running roughly westward out of Poland and into Prussia. On the eighth day, after a tense crossing through a heavily guarded border checkpoint, they came to a village on a well-worn trading route. Many nights of sleeping on the hard ground had left them weary, so Yurgis decided that they would take a room at a local Inn.

It was raining when the horses rode onto the muddy main drag. Like many settlements in that part of Europe, the stone buildings and thatched roofs looked unchanged for a century or more. The wind, carrying the foul odor of the local tannery, upset her stomach as they entered the village square. The repetitive strike of hammer on metal pierced the air as they trotted by the open yard of the blacksmith’s forge where a swarthy man eyed them vigilantly...

Cooper, tailor, general store, virtually indistinguishable from any other village she’d seen in her life. The consummate miser, Yurgis eschewed several plainly upper class lodgings before arriving at the Journeys Rest, a respectable, if slightly run down, Inn. Tat sat slumped in the saddle, oblivious to the curious looks she was no doubt subjected to, while Yurgis went in to inquire about room and board for them and their mounts.

Eight days without morphine. Intolerable pain, a blunt ache like the bones themselves were crying out for succor. Her supply of laudanum was dangerously low, not much more than a swallow or two, and she was saving it until she really needed it. Despite Rheinhardt’s onition to take one drink at a time, she’d practically guzzled it in her eagerness to kill the pain and pulverize her beleaguered consciousness into drugged oblivion.

Presently he emerged, leading the horses to a small, attached stable at the rear of the building. There he untied Tat and she dismounted. He then led her inside, meekly following like the submissive beast of burden she’d become.

The room was dominated by a massive hearth at one end where a buxom woman was roasting a pig. The commons had a homey feeling, smelling strongly of cigars and pipe tobacco, with fresh rushes laid on the floor to soak up spilled ale. Long, wooden tables occupied by a great many travelers and locals, there to drink away the cares of a hard day. Many heads turned to spy them as they entered, the giant bear of a man and the skinny, painted girl. Conversation faltered briefly, then resumed.

They approached the counter where the grinning owner was drawing pints of beer from enormous barrels. When his eyes beheld Tat, his smile faded as he crossed himself. This was the reaction she’d expected. Suspicion and superstition were absolute in these lands, and her outlandish looks never failed to raise the ire of simple, god-fearing folk. Many claimed her as the spawn of the Devil, which in her estimation, was not far from the truth.

“A hot bath for my daughter, now.” He growled. The owner looked as if he might balk, before the expression on Yurgis’ face inspired him to relent.

“As you wish sir, I have a room prepared for you, up the stairs, last door on the left. I’ll have my wife draw your… daughter a bath.” His exotic accent was one Tat had encountered only one other time.

He was an Irishman.

Yurgis turned to her, “Go, bathe yourself. Come meet me here after.”

Without replying, she gathered up their packs and ascended the stairs. A darkened hallway, lit by a single taper in a glass lantern hanging from the ceiling. Four pairs of doors lined the hall.

Last one on the left...

The room was spartanly furnished, two single beds, a small night table bearing a thick, tallow candle on an iron plate, and a wooden tub set in the corner for bathing. A grimy window overlooked the backyard of the inn. Sneezing thrice in quick succession from stale, musty air, Tat dropped the packs in the nearest corner and opened the window. A fresh breeze caressed her face as she leaned out and looked down. A drop of seven meters onto hard packed earth. Too high to escape, not high enough to ensure death should she leap. The most she could hope for would be a broken leg, which would put her even more at her father’s mercy…

“Excuse me, lass?”

Startled, she pulled her head in, banging it sharply on the lintel of the window sash. She’d neglected to close the door behind her, and the Innkeeper’s wife had entered bearing water for her bath. With her was presumably her own daughter, also carrying a bucket; the girl looked to be about the same age as herself. As the pair openly stared, they were visually taken aback.

“My God, who would do this to a girl so young.” Muttered the mother whilst the daughter looked on in wide-eyed curiosity. The woman had obviously mistaken

her markings for tattoos. For the first time in days, Tat spoke, trying her best to sound haughty and confident; ending up sounding like exactly what she was, a poor, lost girl with a broken spirit.

“No one did anything to me, I was born like this. Now please, fill the bath and begone with you, I have no desire for company.”

The woman made no reply, but in her eyes shone a deep sympathy which disgusted Tat. Mother and daughter crossed to the tub and dumped their buckets in. They made many trips, far more, in her opinion, than the modest tub should necessitate. She kept her back to them so her shame would remain hidden.

When at last the tub was filled, she peeled off her travel sodden clothes and stepped in. The hot water felt exquisite as she sighed, closing her eyes and allowing her bruised muscles to relax. She let her mind drift…

She came to, a particularly disturbing notion intruding upon her placidly morbid thoughts. Here she was, alone, in a tub filled with water. If she desired to, she could end it all right now. Drown herself and cease this unendurable heartache for good.

Entranced by the surface of the water, little ripples distorting her body beneath. Summoning all the courage she could muster, she thrust her head under. Quickly, the oxygen in her lungs depleted as she prepared to take that final breath...

Something prevented her; a memory, an image of the Falcon-god’s burning, golden eyes. Nearly out of air, iron bands tightening around her chest…

And still those eyes pierced her soul…

With a stifled cry, she broke the surface of the water sobbing, tears slightly warmer than the water dripping off her face. A dam burst, no longer structurally able to contain that which it held back. The courage it took to affect her own demise, even unsuccessful, was enough to raise her from apathy to grief and it poured out of her in unchecked waves.

For five straight minutes she wailed and railed against the injustices of the world. A damning indictment against a God who’d forgotten her. When at last she’d depleted her pent-up store of misery, instead of feeling better, somehow she felt worse, again failing at taking her own life due to sheer cowardice.

She pulled the plug, rising out of the water to let herself drip-dry before the open window. Evidently, today was not her day to die. She felt compelled to recite her favorite poem, L’infinito, the words coming easily from memory, and it helped calm her down…

“What are you doing?”

Tat, again startled by a voice behind her, scrambled for something with which to cover herself, stripping the quilt from the bed to obscure her nudity.

“You can’t just walk in here! Get out!” She cried.

It was the Innkeeper’s daughter, she must have quietly slipped in while she was reciting.

The door’s hinges must be kept well oiled…

Mortified, the girl covered her face with her hands, her voice a melodious, lilting brogue, “Sorry, I was downstairs servin’ and your father gave me a silver piece to come see what was takin’ you so long. Please forgive me, I wasn’t going to enter but I heard you speakin’ strangely so I came in.”

“I wasn’t speaking strangely, I was reciting a poem in Italian,” even through her annoyance, Tat still felt the need to justify her actions. “It helps me relax.”

The girl, seemingly forgetting her embarrassment, sat down on the bed, a bundle of excitement. “Are you from Italy? I’ve never seen anyone like you, you’re so beautiful, you must be. I’ve always wanted to go. Anywhere really... but Mother says I’m needed here. My name is Ciara, my family is from Ireland. My grandparents moved here and opened this inn when the dark times came. I was born here and I’ve never been anywhere else…”

She hesitated before continuing, absent-mindedly twining a lock of her curly black hair around her finger.

“Sorry, Mother says I’m an awful chatterbox. I’ve been trying to change, really I have. In fact, the other day…”

Tat’s irritation began to soften as the girl carried on a one-sided conversation. Insipidly vapid though she may be, in her own way she was also quite charming, possessing an endearing, childlike innocence. This was the first time she’d spoken with a girl her own age in many years, surprised to find she was scared to death. Those flashing blue eyes, hypnotic, and that musical accent made it so easy to listen…

“Well?” Ciara asked.

The spell was broken, “What?”

“I asked your name.”

“Oh, it’s Tatiana.”

“How lovely, it reminds me of Talia, my Mother’s name…” Here she stopped, leaning in, muttering in a conspiratorial whisper, “I must warn you, The Innkeeper doesn’t trust you or your dad, says you’re heathen gypsies. Tread carefully.”

Cryptic warning delivered, Ciara sat back, resuming her conversational tone, “Will you be staying long? You must meet my friends, Karina and Beata, they’re blacksmith’s daughters, they’ll simply adore you...”

“Somehow I don’t think we will be staying more than one night,” their eyes fully met for the first time, lingering until Tat looked away shamefully, plunging them

into awkward silence. “If you don’t mind, I have to dress and meet my father.”

The girl frowned, obviously crestfallen, “Alright, I should be gettin’ back down there anyway. Let’s talk later okay?” With a wistful backward glance, Ciara flounced out of the room.

Tat shut and locked the door and sat on the bed, rummaging through her rucksack for her least filthy clothes. All of a sudden a wave of sadness washed over her and she felt like crying again.

That could’ve been me. She thought to herself.

If only she’d been born in a different place, a different time, a different life. She could’ve been an innkeeper’s daughter. A pretty little chatterbox with nary a care in the world. Rather than what she was; a broken, tortured soul; a prisoner of lust and deceit; the Devil’s whore. Hanging her head in her hands, her shoulders jerked with silent sobs.

She reluctantly dressed. All she wanted to do was climb into bed and sleep off this terrible sickness, but the last thing she needed was for Yurgis to come looking for her. Before leaving the room, she took off the silver cross she wore and threw it out the window, vowing to forsake God forever.

As she descended to the commons, the tables were nearly filled to capacity, the smell of roast pig making her mouth water. Yurgis, waved her over. As she sat down he pushed a trencher of food at her.

Even in her foul mood she had to it, the fare was wonderful. The pork, perfectly seasoned, crispy on the outside, moist and succulent within. Dripping with fat in a salty gravy of onions, turnips, and potatoes. Accompanying the meal, freshly baked bread with apple butter. Truly one of the best meals in recent memory, certainly better than anything she’d eaten since leaving the hospital.

She drank from her tankard, surprised to find it contained barley wine. Draining it in one long drink, Yurgis ordered her another which suffered a similar fate.

A burly man, whom she recognized as the blacksmith, engaged her father in idle conversation, ordering them all several rounds while she ate and drank in silence. The spirits in the room were raising, conversation deafening. A group of musicians sat upon the hearth playing rousing drinking songs. The atmosphere in the room reminded her of nightly meals shared with the troupe, triggering many old memories.

The music, however, was quite different. Striking in its instrumentation, accordion, clarinet, classical guitar and tambourine. Gone was the staccato strumming of Mikel’s kobza, the silky caress of Betha’s violin, the driving pulse of Ob’s doumbek. The accents of the beat structure were also unfamiliar; nevertheless, it was infectious and she found herself tapping her foot, imagining how she would dance to such a song…

Ciara was there, moving between the tables, clearing away dishes and empty glasses, deftly avoiding errant, grabbing hands, even trading bawdy remarks with the regular customers. Every so often she’d look over at Tat and smile, sometimes making a funny face or other exaggerated gesture. She was surprised to discover a growing affinity towards the girl. What would it be like to have a friend like that?

Meanwhile, drinks kept coming. The wine was strong, almost strong enough to fill the painful void within her. She was well into her sixth round when Yurgis nudged her.

“This is good, yes?”

Tat raised her eyes to meet his grinning countenance, something breaking inside her. As much as she wished to loathe him, she was drunk enough that a smile cracked the hard contours of her face.

“Yes papa, it’s wonderful.”

An epiphany came. Despite her failed attempt earlier, she would die by her own hand; it was the only path to redemption. Until such time, why not make an effort to enjoy every moment of life left to her? If there was no future, there were no consequences. Meaning there was nothing stopping her from doing anything she wanted, besides fear.

Making the choice to die unchained her from the stone of her guilt. Like the Christ, sin would be paid for with a life. If right and wrong were merely semantic constructs of the mind, as one of her old books on philosophy was so fond of stating, then if one could forget their mind they would be free. She drained the last dregs of her tankard…

The music was approaching fever-pitch. Intense, syncopated interplay between guitar and accordion forming a throbbing backdrop for the creamy, dulcet tones of the clarinet. Choosing to act on her newfound freedom, brashly giving in to her impulses, she began removing her clothes, neatly folding them on the bench

beside her. This odd behavior eliciting confused looks from the nearest patrons. Down to her underwear, she vaulted up onto the table. The room recoiled into stunned silence, everyone’s attention glued to her. She addressed the musicians with a single harsh command.

“Play…”

Never before had she danced with such reckless abandon. Liberated from life in the knowledge of her imminent death. When one has nothing left to lose, all they can do is give it away. She kicked over glasses, skirting the very fringes of madness. In her mind, every eye was upon her; men gaping in open lust, women blushing with scandal and jealousy, though everyone clapped to the beat. From somewhere far away, Ciara, cheering her on…

As the song neared it’s climax, she knew she wouldn’t any of this in the morning. She’d been drinking far too long not to know when she was lost in time. Her dance was getting sloppy, and she wasn’t paying enough attention to her surroundings. Foolishly attempting a spin, weight shifting, overbalancing, slipping, falling end over end, down, down, down…

Again with the Falcon-god, leading her down a dim ageway. Her markings, complete except for the gaps, same as she knew them from her waking life. In a cozy chamber, she was approached by a group of women with the heads of lizards who first undressed, then carefully arranged her on a massive pile of luxurious, feather-filled cushions. A ritual blade was bared, cutting deeply, yet painlessly, into her palm, collecting a pint of blood in a small basin.

A strikingly beautiful human woman entered. Pale skin under a light dusting of freckles, green eyes and fiery, red hair. Her outline seemed sharper, contrasting against the soft, liquid tones of the dream. Almost seeming to glow, she crackled

with energy in a way that distinguished her from the lizard women, or even the Falcon-god himself, as if the rest of the dream faded into a fog, the Red Woman alone remaining in perfect focus.

In her wake, an entourage of stewards swept in bearing paints, brushes and an enormous canvas and easel, swiftly setting up before being driven from the room by one impatient gesture.

The artist approached and knelt before her, subtly adjusting her pose. Right elbow anchored, head resting in her hand, chin tilted back, hair spread wildly over. Left arm extended along the contour of a pillow, accentuating gravity’s effect on the curve and hang of her breasts; left leg bent sensuously at the knee. Candles placed at key points around her bathed her body in dancing shadow.

All the while her attention never wavered from the Red Woman for an instant. Something about her seemed strikingly familiar.

Like they’d known each other forever…

A small quantity of her blood was poured into each of the seven root colors. Great care was taken in mixing the tertiary hues upon her palette. She then proceeded to render Tat’s portrait in quick, practiced strokes, every few seconds peeking around the edge of the canvas to ascertain the curve of a line, the depth of a shadow. The Falcon-god, looking on in approval while the lizard-women sat in meditation, softly chanting.

After what seemed like hours, the Red Woman laid aside her brush.

It was a masterpiece; an idealized approximation of her, life-sized and perfect in every way. Recalling the renaissance-era portraits seen in the museums of her childhood. As she looked upon it, before her very eyes, her face began to distort and change...

Transforming into a falcon’s head...

Still nude, she was marched down another long age, this one with an impossibly bright light at its end. As the light grew nearer so did her apprehension. The Falcon-god turned his predatory, golden eyes on her, only intensifying her distress. Bedeviled by delirious anxiety.

Emerging from the tunnel, a vast plain spread out before them with seven massive pyramids towering over all. Strange machines arcing across the sky, resembling flying chariots or wagons, as below, a fierce battle raged. True humans fighting against hybrids, the two armies waging a bloody and brutal battle, with the tides of war locked in an apparent stalemate.

The Falcon-god raised his arms, uttering a raptor-call that split the heavens. The battle ground to a halt, human and animal alike turning to face them, subjecting her to the creepy caress of a million pairs of eyes...

“My people, it is done. The cause of battle is ended, before you, stands the one who will deliver us unto the promised land. Return us to PARADISE!!!”

As one, soldiers fell to their knees, worshipping her as a goddess. Supplicant

voices rising to an unbearable din, this cacophony ed by the Falcon-god’s own preternaturally loud call.

Without warning, the sun dimmed, as if something was blocking it out. Chanting intensified until the sun was fully eclipsed, save for a penumbra of fire scathing the land in an ambient red glow. The ground abruptly receded from under her feet as an unseen embrace seized her, levitating her into the air.

Through the gathering dark, she witnessed blood lines emerging from the hearts of all assembled. Nightmarish worms tunneling through the air. She couldn’t scream, though not for a lack of trying, even as they burrowed into her, completing her markings, filling in the gaps…

As the final rune manifested, terrible light enveloped her as a luminous beam shot forth from her crown, piercing the sky. The Earth itself shuddered and groaned, rolling over in its sleep. Pyramids crumbled as a mighty upheaval rent the land. Violent fissures, spewing forth rivers of molten stone. Hysterical multitudes swallowed in bottomless chasms…

She awoke, unable to breathe, cold steel pressed to her throat, a heavy body pinning her down. Confused and disoriented, tightly closing her eyes against a debilitating headache...

Where was she?

The last thing she ed was eating dinner, what happened? A flash burst out in the dark as a match was struck, a candle lit. They were in their room at the inn. Before her loomed the masked face of a heavy-set man.

“Hey, she’s awake.” The voice bearing an unmistakable Irish accent...

“Well, cut her throat then. This guy’s loaded, I saw him flashing gold imperials in the commons.” Heavy German accent.

Painfully straining her eyes, she could barely make out another man with a knife to Yurgis’ throat.

Rapidly mounting waves of energy rushing up her spine…

“Wait, you said there wouldn’t be any killing.” The man restraining her stammered.

“They’re filthy gypsies. No one will miss them. We can’t have them running to the police. Now, cut her throat!”

Still the man hesitated, obvious fear in his eyes. It was the Innkeeper, Ciara’s father.

Arcs of energy, growing stronger, already nearing the breaking point. Body, going numb as unbridled power overloaded her senses…

“Alright, ya bastard, we searched your packs, where’d you hide the gold? You

have til the count of three before we make you watch your precious daughter bleed to death!” Confident that Yurgis would submit.

“One…”

Her markings began to crawl.

“Two…”

Not now, please, not now…

“Thr…”

“I won’t do it Heinz.” The Innkeeper spoke up, dropping the knife. This caused the other man to take his eyes off his mark. Yurgis took advantage of this momentary distraction. Striking like a cobra, he seized the man’s windpipe, crushing it in one swift movement. Heinz fell to the ground clutching his throat sputtering, struggling to breathe...

In a blinding flash of light, she released with a shuddering convulsion.

The Innkeeper burst into flames, eyes rupturing in their sockets. His overtaxed heart exploded, spraying her with boiling hot blood as his flesh cooked, melting off the bones, showering her in entrails and gore. Fighting to maintain consciousness, the smell of charred and blackened meat caused her to become

violently ill; emptying her guts all over the bed, she frantically struggled to extricate herself from the embrace of the flaming revenant..

Yurgis sprang from his cot, lifting the smoldering corpse and throwing it to the floor. Smothering the dying flames with a blanket, leaving it covering what was left of the body like a shroud. He hurriedly began to dress.

“Come Tatiana, that was Innkeeper and Blacksmith. We must escape. Cannot afford to be caught now.”

With no time to wash up, Tat dressed in her old travel clothes, numb with shock, half-drunk and covered in unspeakable offal. Her father pried up a floorboard in the corner and retrieved a gunny sack, heavy with gold, which he stowed away in his shoulder-satchel.

The Blacksmith, still clinging to life, breath gurgling through lungfuls of blood. Yurgis pulled his hunting knife and slit his throat, wiping the blade clean on the man’s woolen sweater before sheathing it.

“No gold for you, it is you who dies tonight, yes?”

They gathered their belongings, fleeing the inn as the unlucky thief bled out.

Under cover of darkness they saddled the horses and galloped away, the memory of the melting man still haunting her. It was easier now to accept that she had indeed killed the troupe. Having witnessed her power firsthand, she no longer

wished to master it.

Sweet, innocent Ciara, what would become of her? And the Blacksmith’s daughters, whose names she couldn’t even . Two families irrevocably destroyed. She was a monster. If she thought she was depressed before, that was nothing compared to the black cloud that settled upon her in that pre-dawn flight.

Near sunrise they sought shelter at the edge of a forest several hundred meters back from the road. Posting up on a wooded ridge afforded them a good view of any potential threat. After securing the horses deeper within, they hunkered down to wait.

Around noon a posse of horsemen rode by, consisting of several peace officers and a small mob of angry townspeople, clearly looking for them.

“We must remain hidden. If caught, will be hangman’s tree for us. I have no intention of dying here.”

The thought of death held no fear for Tat, but her personal view of redemption dictated she die by her own hand. Any other death was unacceptable. This alone kept her from betraying their position. After several minutes, the posse split up, ostensibly to cover more ground, disappearing from view. As Tat started to rise, Yurgis sharply pulled her again to the ground.

“Stupid girl, this is obvious trick to draw us out. We wait for one hour.” He whispered, pulling out a map and studying it intently.

Time ed with a slow, grinding tension as they both lay perfectly still. In stark contrast to her physical immobility, Tat’s mind practically bubbled with activity; desperately seeking to reconcile how she had always viewed herself, an innocent victim, with the drug addicted murderer she had now become. Part of her sought to maintain her innocence by rationalizing that killing the Innkeeper was done in self-defense, but that was untrue. He’d dropped the knife, he was unarmed. But, she couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop the destructive power that resided within her, it wasn’t her fault. Even as part of her attempted to escape blame, another much larger and vehemently vocal part resolutely condemned her.

I deserve everything that’s happened to me, I deserve to be in hell.

Thus she was trapped in an endless cycle of mental self-destruction, made all the worse by the continuing agony of Soldier’s Disease. How long would this damned pain last?

A sharp crack as a branch snapped behind them, causing Yurgis to leap to his feet.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!”

A uniformed peace officer, barely more than a boy, stood about three meters away, training a rifle on them. Yurgis stopped, knife halfway out of its sheath. He must have located them from their tracks, then circled around to attack their exposed flank.

The officer continued in a fiercely authoritative tone, “You stand accused of the murders of Ronan Devine and Friedrich Heinz, throw down your weapons and

yield!”

Tat glanced at her father, wondering what he would do. Always unpredictable, she couldn’t see him submitting; This was going to end badly...

To her surprise, he glibly unfurled his silver tongue, “There has been mistake, officer, they were attempting to rob us, we acted in self-defense.”

He took a single step forward and the officer fired his rifle, striking the earth mere centimeters from his boot, stopping him in his tracks. Working the bolt, he reloaded. Tat knew that the sound of the shot would surely bring the man’s comrades. For better or worse this had to end now.

“That is for the court to decide, though the innocent rarely flee the scene of a crime. Now get on the ground!”

She could tell that Yurgis wasn’t about to comply, “We are simple gypsies, there is no justice in your courts for us…”

Her father then employed one of his most devious tricks. He glanced sharply to the left, as if something startled him. This caused the officer to reflexively look away, a fatal mistake. Faster than the eye could see Yurgis drew his knife and threw…

To his credit, the surprised lawman still managed to get a shot off, striking Yurgis in the thigh, but her father’s aim was true as ever, the knife sinking to the

hilt in the man’s right eye, ending him.

Tat froze up inside, dread blossoming in the pit of her stomach. There was no going back now. Before, there was a chance they might have been acquitted of murder, but this was the slaying of an officer of the law in cold blood.

Yurgis retrieved his knife, drawing it out with a sick, chunking sound, then the dead man’s rifle, which he slung over his shoulder. A cursory search of the corpse yielded a cache of ammunition. He also took the man’s handcuffs and key.

“Come, we must go now!” Seizing her hand, he began to pull her through the forest to where they’d left the horses.

“But you’re bleeding.” She protested.

“We worry about that later, I live through much worse.”

They located their mounts, saddling up and kicking them into a gallop, weaving between the trees. Everything was happening so fast she had no time to get her thoughts in order, all she could do was blindly follow her father headlong into destruction.

They reached the edge of the forest undetected. Before them lay open prairie, divided neatly in two by train tracks. Yurgis grabbed her horse’s reins, pulling her closer to him.

“There has been change of plans.” He began…

“That’s an understatement.” Tat interrupted, at the end of her rope in the midst of a massive panic attack.

“Silence, you stupid girl. Now, according to map, these tracks lead straight to our destination. So, we wait here until train es. Board it.”

“How do we do that? There is no station, it won’t stop for us.”

“We ride horses alongside of train, jump on.”

Tat was aghast, “Are you mad?! That is the stupidest…” Yurgis slapped her hard across the face, ceasing her protestations.

“Be ready when I give signal.”

They heard it long before they saw it, a long, lonely whistle drifting on the breeze. Presently its vibration could be felt through the ground. It crested the horizon, speeding towards them, long and thin and belching black smoke like some demonic snake.

Yurgis tensed up, pointing into the distance, “Just over ridge is river gorge. Have

to be on train before it reaches bridge. Get ready!”

Tat was beside herself in fear, having once witnessed the aftermath of a man cut in half attempting to board a train in a similar manner…

“GO!” He shouted.

Simultaneously they whipped their mounts into a headlong gallop, perpendicular to the tracks, timed to rendezvous with the speeding train. About twenty meters out, the massive locomotive tore past them. Banking their horses left, now running parallel, Yurgis on the inside, Tat on his left, they sidled up alongside. The train was going slightly faster than they were so they would have one shot at this. The horses as well were tiring, they couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

Two sealed cars ed them before an open hay-car approached. Yurgis threw their packs aboard and leaned out, grasping one of the steel rungs of the ladder adjacent to the open bay door. Swinging his leg over, he executed a precise leap out of the stirrup, landing square on the platform. His horse, now rider-less, dropped back and Tat moved into position.

The train was now too far ahead for her to use the ladder for an easy boarding, she would have to jump. She swung her leg over and braced it on the saddle, working her way into a crouching position, ready to leap. She ed performing a trick like this with Poto, standing on the saddle while he trotted in a circle. Here, the stakes were much higher.

Yurgis held out his hands, ready to catch her. Though nearly paralyzed with fear, she gathered her strength and leapt...

At the exact moment she pushed off, her horse veered away sharply to avoid a railway sign marking the edge of the canyon...

She fell short.

Yurgis lunged, barely catching hold of her hand as she swung perilously close to the killing wheels.

The train left solid ground behind, hurtling across the skeletal structure of the railway bridge. She was now suspended above a vast emptiness, the river hundreds of meters below. Her hand, slick with sweat, slipping out of his…

“Help me! She screamed.

“Give me other hand!” Yurgis yelled.

Her other arm was flailing wildly, she extended it towards him…

That was when her hand slipped out of his and she fell.

The feeling of gravity’s pull coupled with extreme vertigo caused her stomach to lurch. Wind rushing by her ears drowned her screams as she plummeted towards the rocks below, the ground rushing up to meet her. After all this time, her

recurring nightmare, coming true.

This is it.

In those last seconds, an inexplicable joy infused her, an incomprehensible happiness at her impending demise. Her body clenched in sudden seizure as her vision doubled, clearly seeing herself asleep on the train, but this was no dream… this was reality. The vision intensified, both possibilities achieving equal probability before reality inevitably overthrew fantasy; spreading her arms to embrace her beloved death, violently breaking upon the canyon floor.

Chapter Five:

An Old Friend

She awoke with a gasp, the night landscape flying by accompanied by the clickety-clack of wheels as the train carried them ever closer to their destination. It had been three days since their boarding and she had the same nightmare every time she went to sleep. A variation of the same dream she always had, about Yurgis pushing her off a cliff. Strange that now he was attempting to save her, and she was happy to fall…

In reality, boarding had gone off without a hitch, she’d jumped and Yurgis caught her easily. There hadn’t even been a bridge. Why was she having these dreams? What was it about falling? If she had to guess, it probably had something to do with her constant feelings of helplessness and impending doom...

“What’s wrong?” Yurgis inquired, voice sluggish with sleep. They slept handcuffed together, in case she got any ideas of escape, and the slightest movement would wake him.

“I had another nightmare.”

“Hmmmph.” Yurgis gruntingly scoffed, rolling over and going back to sleep, twisting her arm into an uncomfortable position.

Sleep would come no more this night, her mind was too full of fear. All she could do was wait, wonder and worry what was to become of her…

“Tat!”

She jerked awake to the light of day; seems she’d been able to drop off for a few hours of blessedly dreamless slumber before dawn after all. She yawned and stretched, before realizing that they were still handcuffed together.

“What is it?” She asked groggily.

Yurgis, deathly pale, visibly sweating. “You must help me,” he said, unlocking the cuffs, leaning against a hay bale. “I need you to get bullet out of leg, infection, setting in.” He unsheathed his knife, holding it out to her hilt first. “Dig it out.”

She recoiled in horror, “Can’t you do it yourself?”

He chuckled weakly, “No, I am too fat, I cannot get close enough to see. You must do it.”

Deep down, she’d known this was coming. He hadn’t spoken of his gunshot wound in days, and it was only a matter of time before poison seeped into his blood. Her hands were shaking as she took the knife from him. Yurgis never let anyone touch his knife, the situation must be dire. Laying her hand on his forehead, feeling the heat of fever.

Plunge the blade into his throat.

He wasn’t paying attention, would never expect it; but she was better than that, she wasn’t like him, wasn’t a murderer. Never would she willingly lower herself to his level, no matter how much he deserved it... or how much she wanted to.

Making a hard decision, she retrieved her bag, digging all the way down to the bottom. The canteen containing the last of her laudanum. Hesitating, she gazed at it longingly, knowing that when it was gone, there would be no more. Oh well, she’d be dead soon enough anyway. If Izaak could endure the horrors of leprosy, what was a little temporary discomfort. Each day the pain was becoming slightly more manageable. The real problem was the mental obsession. Even when the pain was entirely gone, that would remain with her for the rest of her life.

She thrust the canteen at Yurgis, “Drink this.”

“What is it?” He asked suspiciously.

“Laudanum, a painkiller made from opium.”

“I know what laudanum is,” he growled. “Where did you get it.”

“Don’t ask, just be glad I have it.” A risky response. To her surprise, he acquiesced, unscrewing the lid and emptying the contents into his mouth.

Two minutes later he was ready. Unbuckling his leather belt, pulling it free of its loops, recalling all the times he’d used it to beat her, especially the last... She

folded it in half and put it into his mouth, wondering why she was bothering to help this terrible man at all, then took up the knife.

All the times she’d witnessed field surgery on the road with the troupe, why hadn’t she paid more attention? Angling the blade, she first cut off his pant leg, exposing the wound. The skin around it was a dangerous looking yellowish-red, dried blood crusted over all black. She would have to reopen the hole in his leg.

“Do you have any Vodka in your packs?”

Yurgis nodded, “Is in leather satchel.”

Digging in the satchel, she located the bottle, then in a side pouch she discovered Yurgis’ lighter. There was still remnants of the officer’s blood on the blade, so she wiped it off as best she could, held it in the lighter’s flame for two minutes, then poured a little vodka on it, hoping that was good enough to sterilize it for what she had to do. Before setting down the bottle, she took a long drink to prepare herself for this grisly task; if Yurgis objected, he chose to bide his time.

“Ready?” She asked nervously.

“Get it over with.” He said, biting down on the leather belt once again. His eyes closed, breathing slowed, muscles of his face going totally slack.

The first cut, a foul-smelling mixture of blood and pus oozing out around the blade. No reaction from Yurgis, he remained unchanged, as if sleeping. Another

hesitant incision, marking an X. Her breathing, harsh and ragged through her mouth to avoid the smell.

Steeling herself for the next step of this macabre procedure, she pressed down at the edges of the wound, expelling as much of the infected liquid as she could. If Yurgis felt anything, he didn’t show it, his breath slow and steady as ever. Even when she doused the area with Vodka, nothing, not even the slightest betrayal of discomfort. Using scraps of fabric cut from his pant leg, she wiped the area clean.

Now for the hard part. Since the bullet hadn’t exited the back of his thigh, it was obvious that it had struck bone. It should be at the bottom of the hole, next to the femur. Drawing a deep breath, she slid the blade down into the wound, watching all the time for any reaction from Yurgis.

What now? Listen for the sound of the metal blade hitting lead? The din of the train made that impossible. How was she supposed to know when she found it? She poked around for a minute or two, trying to locate the slug by feel alone, presently encountering some resistance. That had to be it, but try as she might, it wouldn’t budge, the blade kept slipping. He was losing a lot of blood, and she was growing frustrated...

Without thinking twice, she abandoned the knife, sticking her long, graceful index finger into the hole. It was slick and wet and disgusting, though she was successful in locating the bullet. It had worked its way around to the side of the bone, the reason she couldn’t pry it out with the knife. Forcing her thumb into the wound as well, she sought to grip the slippery slug. Time after time, failure, unable to find purchase.

She wanted to give up, it defeat, with any luck he’d bleed out and she’d be

done with him. Plunging into the wound one final time, scratching and pinching with all her strength, at last withdrawing her fingers with the bloody lump pinched deftly between thumb and forefinger. Yurgis opened his eyes to see it before she threw it out the open door.

“Thank you, dear Daughter.”

It was strange to hear him use that term in a heartfelt way, usually uttering it solely as an insult, and in that moment almost seeing the man she grew up with, the father she once loved…

“Where did you put those rifle cartridges?”

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a small box of bullets.

One by one, using the tip of the knife, she pried the casing and lead tip apart, dumping the tiny amount of gunpowder into the lesion. After a dozen bullets, a thick dusting of powder covered the wound. She ignited the lighter and lit the powder. It sparked and sizzled as it burned its way into the hole, cauterizing, purifying as it went. This time Yurgis betrayed a sign of pain, a single sharp intake of breath. Liberally pouring more vodka over the wound, grimacing as she took another long drink for herself before cutting up one of his shirts and binding his leg as best she could.

“I’ve done all I can, you’re going to need real medical attention soon.”

“Don’t ever tell me what to do.” He grumbled, no real fire behind it.

Two days later they arrived in Danzig, an ancient shipping port on the Baltic sea. It was late afternoon when the train reached the outskirts, cutting its speed before entering the city proper. Yurgis was convinced that the authorities would immediately descend upon the train once it stopped, so they leapt off well outside the city limits.

For the last day and a half, he’d sat silent and immobile, appearing to sleep. Almost as if he were in a trance. He didn’t respond to her in any way, so in the end she’d left him alone, it being well worth it to her not to have to deal with him. Then, an hour before they arrived, he suddenly came to life, sinister and wicked as ever, fever gone and without the slightest limp in his step. Despite her half-hearted protests, he stripped off his bandages. His wound, now fully healed, a coin-shaped scar the sole betraying sign. If he could do that, had he ever needed her help in the first place? Was it all a sick game to him? An act of manipulation?

Once off the train, they set about finding a spot to hide until nightfall. They hunkered down on a densely wooded hilltop several kilometers from the furthest outlying settlements. The brilliant colors of sunset, fading from a tumbling sky, rendered the sprawling metropolis a fathomless sea of tiny lights, twinkling up at her. If only they’d come to this beautiful place under better circumstances. For her this was a familiar view of a city, from the outskirts, the fringes; forever on the outside and eternally ing through.

Under cover of midnight, they circumvented the city, creeping into town out of the desolate stretch of Baltic shoreline to the northeast. When Danzig was originally built, centuries ago she figured, it was a castle town with thick walls encircling the city. Over the years, the town spread beyond their protection, yet those medieval ramparts still stood, every gate patrolled like clockwork. Their target was a sewer access drain at the port which would lead them into the center

of the affluent district, deep within the old city walls. The first trick was getting there.

For one so large, her father was remarkably stealthy, boots treading silently on the scuffed cobblestones. Sticking to the shadows, alleys and doorways, lingering until the way was clear before sprinting across dimly-lit roads and plazas. They needn’t have been so concerned though, barely a soul stirred on the barren streets, and many of the gaslights had been extinguished for the night, providing plenty of cover as they made their way to the docks.

As with practically all of the large shipping ports she’d visited in her lifetime, Danzig’s harbor was bustling, even at this late hour. The raucous commotion of sailors on shore leave, drinking and whoring; stevedores loading and unloading freight, shipwrights making repairs. Muted snatches of music presaged a rowdy atmosphere of gaiety languishing in the salty tang of the sea air. In Tat’s experience, police didn’t come to these areas unless expressly summoned, meaning the going would be significantly easier. Two more degenerates in the den of iniquity, heads down, steps swift.

As they went, Yurgis appeared distracted, casting about as if searching for something. Tat kept her eyes focused on the ground at her feet, not paying him any mind, she had enough to worry about already. ing the darkened maw of a warehouse he apparently found what he was looking for. He sharply grabbed her wrist, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

“Keep going straight, do not run.”

Oh no...

He released her, already gone when she turned to reason with him; there was no stopping this. Turning back to the road, she continued along the dock, her stride longer and increasingly immediate, knowing exactly what his plan was. Before ing the next pier he reed her, chuckling under his breath. Ten as he draped his arm across her shoulders to shield her, she braced herself for what she knew was coming.

Any second now...

Even prepared as she was, the sheer violence of the explosion shocked and startled her, causing her heart to skip and skitter. She spun to see a pillar of flames engulf the warehouse before Yurgis seized her, pulling her along. Pandemonium broke out as hordes of people poured into the streets, rushing past them, heading to the scene. Heeding that primal, human urge to live vicariously through tragedy. Alarm bells went up, sending their shrill tintinnabulation into the night. Quite soon they were practically alone on the dock.

Port fires were one of Yurgis’ favorite acts of subterfuge. Instantly focusing all of a city’s resources and police-presence on a single point, and leaving one largely free to do anything one wanted. The harbor being of paramount importance to the economic life of any port town, it was also the easiest place to come across large shipments of kerosene or gunpowder…

Locating the access drain was easy, they simply followed the smell. The closer they came, the stronger the stench, until she saw it, breaking the seawall like a decayed, rotten throat, ready to swallow them whole. Built slightly below the high water mark on the surrounding pylons, the entire system relied on the changing of the tides to carry refuse out to sea. It seemed their timing was impeccable. Being the nadir of the cycle, all that obstructed their entry was an iron grate secured by a rusty padlock. Such things were merely a momentary distraction to men like her father.

Somewhere along the pier, Yurgis had obtained a lantern. Now, as they stood ready to enter the foul tunnel, he lit it, causing dozens of rats to scurry away. Tat wasn’t scared of rats per se, but she knew they carried all manner of deadly maladies, and one bite could mean a painful, meaningless demise. She was thankful for her leather boots and men’s canvas tros, this wasn’t a place to enter in a dress.

As a final precaution, Yurgis took two of her makeshift bandages, producing a vial of strong, lemon-scented oil, liberally applying it to the fabric.

“Good thief always plans ahead,” he whispered, handing her one of the strips. “Tie over nose and mouth.”

Tat gratefully did as she was told, the acrid scent of lemon replacing the fetid stink of human waste. While it didn’t block it out completely, it cut through enough so that she could breathe without heaving. Satisfied that all was in order, Yurgis picked the lock on the iron grating and they entered.

She kept her attention glued to her father’s back, not wishing to acknowledge her surroundings in any way. How had it come to this? Less than a year before she’d performed for the Czar of Russia, one of the most powerful men in the world, had even been offered a place at the royal court. Now forced to skulk through abhorrent refuse. The lantern illuminated but a paltry space immediately surrounding them, leaving her blissfully ignorant of the abundant horror of what lay just beyond the lights’ timid reach.

Alongside the mire of filth lay narrow walkways on either side. They mostly kept to the left, turning down side tunnels, crossing rickety bridges spanning the

central canal, doubling back to continue their way through this gothic labyrinth of brick and shit. Tat fervently wished she’d succeeded in drowning back at the inn, thus sparing herself from all this.

Stopping only to reapply the oil when their masks dried out, they eventually reached the egress they sought. Iron rungs climbing up a long shaft, devoid of light. By her reckoning they’d come nearly two kilometers, yet exactly how long they’d been down here was a mystery to her. Long enough for the tide to send its insistent tendrils seeping into the trenches...

Yurgis disappeared up the shaft, light spilling in as he slightly lifted the manhole cover while Tat wrung her hands impatiently below. Abruptly he dropped the heavy iron disc, crouching down on the ladder. Apparently the coast was not clear. After waiting and listening for an interminable amount of time, Yurgis again raised the cover. This time he found more favorable conditions and heaved it to the side, motioning for her to him as he disappeared topside.

Even with the larger part of the police force gathered at the port, they still remained cautious, if they were caught now, it would become blatantly obvious who was responsible. Another crime to add to the growing tally. Over the tops of the houses, a great plume of black smoke rose from the docks. She hoped no one else had died to allow her continued freedom.

The houses here resembled diminutive castles themselves, with walled gardens and towering spires. This overt opulence a marked contrast to what lay merely meters below. After navigating a coiled tangle of narrow lanes and alleyways, they came to a large manse nestled in a back corner against the city wall.

The garden wall, seemingly constructed more for aesthetic purposes over any actual intent of deterrent, proved little more than a minor inconvenience as they

vaulted into an overgrown garden. Their masks, now unnecessary, were folded up and stowed. Yurgis led the way, visibly relaxing as he sauntered around to the front door.

Taking hold of the heavy brass ring, he knocked in a precise pattern, then waited. No lights shone in the windows, the door remaining stubbornly unanswered. Betraying a growing frustration, he knocked again, louder this time...

“I thought you were dead, Yurgis Stannek.” A gruff voice came from behind, startling them both.

A small man crept out of the bushes and removed the cover from his lantern, bathing them in light. Stout, bald pate with graying fringe and round spectacles, moustache waxed into neat curls.

“So it is you the police are after. I should have known. As soon as I heard the detonation, I somehow knew you had returned.”

Yurgis approached and threw his arms around him in a crushing bearhug. This was the first time she’d ever seen him embrace anyone; the first time she’d witnessed him touch anyone without violence. The man dropped his lantern, enthusiastically reciprocating.

“Dobra! You old devil, like old times, yes? Remind you of anything?”

“Are you referring to Sevastopol? Or maybe Alexandria, or any of the other

dozen ports we used that old trick.” Both men burst out laughing.

Tat was happy to be left out of this little reunion, more than a little concerned that their carrying-on would bring unwanted attention to bear upon them. But she knew better than to speak, knew her place; silently waiting, trying to make herself unnoticeable. In due time they calmed down, Dobra retrieving his lantern, coming to his senses.

“If you’ve sought me out after so many years, you truly must be in trouble old friend, come now, let us get off the streets.”

Moments later, seated in Dobra’s elegant sitting room, Yurgis poured a glass of wine for her, and something considerably stronger for the two of them. Tat curled up in a large recliner, struggling to stay awake. She hadn’t slept in the last thirty six hours. After the initial pleasantries, Yurgis explained the situation they were in, and what they required of him.

“We need to secure age on ship heading to England, you will help us, yes?”

“You waste no time my friend. I don’t see you in nearly twenty years and you show up unannounced, at the witching hour, demanding my help, leaving a trail of death and destruction in your wake? I can see that time hasn’t changed you one bit.” Both he and Yurgis shared a hearty laugh at this.

Dobra continued, “If you wanted to get on a ship, you should’ve thought of that before you set fire to the port, there will be increased security for days. Of course I will help you, but... back to England? There can only be one thing you are seeking there.” For the first time he glanced in her direction, acknowledging

her presence…

“Enough! You overstep your bounds Dobra.” In the blink of an eye, his mood escalated from relaxed to murderous.

Tat perked up momentarily.

This man knew something.

Fear bled all the color from Dobra’s expression, his role devolving from gracious host to humble servant. “My sincerest apologies. Tomorrow I shall make the necessary inquiries about departing ships. You must be tired, let me show you to your rooms.”

Yurgis drained his glass in a single swallow.

Dobra was a widower, all his children grown, so there were plenty of extra rooms. Tat had one all to herself. The bedsprings sighed under her as she flopped down on the bed, relishing a little privacy after the nightmare of communal living on the road. For the first time in days she fully relaxed, absentmindedly acclimating herself to the room. It’s former occupant had clearly been a daughter, as evinced by the presence of several large wardrobes, garish floral wallpaper, and an elaborate mirrored dressing table taking up most of the far wall.

The hoary scent of makeup and faded perfume clung to the polished wood of the

vanity. Likewise exotic, the stranger’s face that gazed back at her from the depths of the darkened mirror. Her eyes had taken on a dark, sunken appearance, mouth turned down at the corners into a perpetual frown. Reading between the lines of her markings, her ribs showed alarmingly; she’d been two weeks out of the hospital, and hadn’t been eating at all well. Her heavy eyelids drooped and slid closed, head sagging as she snapped awake. The hours were catching up with her, she couldn’t stay awake any longer. Leaving her clothes in an unkempt trail on the floor, asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow...

Birdsong wafting in on beams of late morning sunshine wrenched her from shallow sleep fraught with nightmares. Her sickness was nearly gone. The crippling pain, once so overwhelming, had all but subsided, it’s existence capitulating unto an insistent itching. The cravings were as strong as ever though; she unrealistically wondered if Dobra kept any morphine in the house. She needed it...

Even more than death.

Her ts cracked as she lazily stretched, reveling in the warmth, comfort and safety of this unfamiliar bed. Though she was loath to quit it, after several minutes she rose and dressed, cringing at the smell of her grimy clothes. Poking her head out of the door, she could detect no sound, the house seemed empty. Evidently Dobra had already left to make inquiries.

A hollow gurgle in her stomach drove her into the hall, descending the carpeted stairs in bare feet. Pushing through the door to the kitchen, taken aback by the presence of a strange man, eating peaches out of a can with a fork.

“Ahh, look who is finally awake, yes?” He chided her.

It was her father.

He’d shaved his head and beard, donning a pair of Dobra’s spectacles. He’d become a different person. Never in her life had she seen him without his beard and long hair. Not wishing to give him the satisfaction of her surprise, she chose to ignore the change.

“I’m hungry.” She said.

He made no reply, vaguely gesturing for her to have at it.

Sick to death of dried meats, dried fruits and hardtack biscuits, the staples of trail fare, she raided the cupboards, devouring anything she found. Four portions of cold beef stew directly from the can, several spicy, cured sausages, and a large portion of a ripe, gouda cheese wheel from the pantry. Never once deigning to acknowledge her father in any way. After gorging herself, she retreated to her room, crawling back into bed to sleep as long as she was allowed.

Rudely awoken by a pounding at her door. It was Yurgis, dressed in one of Dobra’s bathing robes, toting a large, overflowing laundry basket.

“There is washtub in cellar, make use of it.”

He thrust the basket into her arms as he stalked off.

She sighed angrily. On top of everything else, he now expected her to do the washing up?

In the troupe there had always been camp hangers-on, little better than servants, who took care of menial tasks. Wives or paramours of the performers, hopeful souls eager to prove themselves and earn a place in the show. There was never a shortage of help, they were forever leaving towns with more people than they’d arrived with. She couldn’t recall ever engaging in any physical labor in her entire life. In the end the thought of fresh, clean clothes was too alluring to disregard. So, she piled her own dirty laundry on top, lugging it down to the cellar while Yurgis lounged, generously sampling Dobra’s extensive liquor cabinet…

The basement was extensive, running nearly the entire length of the house. A cramped warren of twisting corridors and rooms. The smell of sawdust permeated the dry air, it appeared that Dobra was in the midst of renovating it into a wine cellar. Many of the structural walls had been scaled back, leaving raw, load-bearing studs exposed. Lumber, tools, and partially-built racks, haphazardly strewn about.

In the corner nearest the steps, the pot-bellied furnace was stoked with a roaring fire, heating a large kettle of water, obviously meant to be used for the laundry; at least Yurgis had done that.

Setting down the basket, she dragged the washtub closer to the fire, pulling down the board and paddle from their hooks on the wall. Judging by the billows of steam the water was beginning to boil. She didn’t want it too hot so she grabbed the pot to lift it, gasping as the metal seared her hands.

Not off to a good start.

Working the handle on the old pump, the cool stream of water flowed over her poor hands until the worst of the pain was past. Turning back to the task at hand, she noticed a pair of oven mitts hanging next to the furnace and cursed under her breath.

The pot was so heavy that nearly a quarter of it spilled before she was able to upend it into the tub, scalding her feet as well. She didn’t care, wanting only to get this over and done. The clothes were so filthy, an oily sheen formed on the water’s surface as she dumped them in. That didn’t seem right, something was missing.

Soap.

Of course, how stupid of her, trying to wash clothes without soap. She overturned the crusty box of detergent, liberally dumping it in. How did this work? Was she supposed to leave them to soak or start straight away? The water was far too hot to be putting her hands into. As a compromise, she collected several liters of cold water in the kettle, adding it to the tub.

She tested the water, still hot, but manageable. A sense of accomplishment grew within her. Yurgis was forever calling her stupid girl, but she was pretty smart, she could handle this. Kneeling by the washboard she fished one of her travelstained shirts from the water. Wadding it up, she forced it down the rough surface of the board, barking a layer of skin from her knuckle in the process. This time she swore aloud, stomping in a circle as she sucked the blood from the scrape. What else could possibly go wrong? She briefly considered giving up, but the thought of her punishment should she fail was more than sufficient to compel her to return to the tub.

Eventually she got the hang of it and began to make headway. Figuring out the proper technique for agitating the washboard. Puzzling her way through operating the wringer; locating a box of clothes pins so she could hang the wash to dry on the long lines strung up amidst the rafters. This wasn’t so hard after all.

The task was nearly done when the door at the top of the steps creaked slowly open, sending shivers down her spine. Even with her back to the door, she knew it was him. The slow, inevitable thump of his feet on the stairs drawing ever closer.

Don’t look! Her mind cried, as if by not looking, she could somehow erase him from existence...

Her stomach clenched into a knot, heart racing; he was coming for her. She wanted to scream, fight, run, anything other than what she always did, which was grit her teeth and endure, mutely allowing this vile man to have his way with her. His presence was a palpable thing, directly behind her. Still she wouldn’t look, eyes squeezed shut, practically shuddering in abject fear. His hot breath revoltingly caressed the nape of her neck, practically feeling those hateful, hurtful hands upon her body. Several anxious seconds ed as she braced herself…

“Hello down there? Yurgis? I’m back and we have much to discuss.”

Dobra had returned!

Without a word, the footsteps slowly retreated as he ascended the steps, slamming the door behind him. Breathing a massive sigh of relief at this unexpected reprieve, silently thanking Dobra before breaking down in tears. How much longer did she have to suffer? How many more times must her fragile soul be assaulted by this inexhaustible font of evil? What manner of entertainment was this vengeful and uncaring God deriving from her misery? Putting aside these torpid thoughts, she finished the last few garments, sneaking up the stairs in hopes of overhearing their conversation.

“Enough! Tell me what you’ve learned.” Yurgis was highly annoyed. His friend had returned at the worst possible time.

She lurked in a hallway off the main living area. Out of sight, but well within earshot of Dobra and her father, reclining on the massive leather couches, each nursing a large snifter of brandy.

Dobra was excited, “First off I did a little poking around at the port and, according to my sources, the whole incident has been attributed to an incompetent longshoreman who was drunk last night and can’t recall where he left his lantern. He has since been arrested and charged with felony criminal negligence.”

Yurgis laughed, “What a damned fool, though I am thankful for his ignorance. For your information, I stole lantern.”

Dobra took this news in stride, “Indeed, as I expected. Good to see your supernatural luck has not deserted you.”

“Good thief always plans ahead.”

“Truer words are seldom spoken, my friend. I have also spent a good deal of my influence seeking to ascertain your fugitive status with the local police.”

“My you have been busy.” Said Yurgis, feigning disinterest.

“While the authorities are alerted that two very distinctive fugitives may be seeking age out of the country, they still haven’t figured out who you are, which is lucky for you. If they do, be prepared for a great deal more pursuit. As of now the authorities aren’t too concerned. Now that you’ve shaved, I don’t think anyone will recognize you.

“The real problem is… her. Word has gotten around about the gruesome way that innkeeper was killed and unfortunately a great many people witnessed her dancing nude in the commons and have given detailed descriptions. As such you can’t openly board a ship, we will have to think of another plan.”

What were they talking about? Dancing nude? She hadn’t… Wait, she had blacked out that night. Is that what she did? Her face burned with shame; Yurgis was right, she was a stupid girl. She thought of Ciara, and about adding insult to injury.

“Wasn’t nude, she had on smallclothes.” Yurgis retorted.

Thank goodness, she thought to herself.

“Be that as it may,” Dobra continued, “You know how stories get twisted. Everyone saw her, gave descriptions, a few even uttering the word witchcraft. I am sure you can appreciate the ramifications of such an accusation. There is no way she will be able to go anywhere undisguised.”

“Enough, what about ships? When can we be away?”

“There is a steam freighter leaving for London the day after tomorrow. It will take a great deal of work to get you on it.”

There it was. Two fleeting days before she was to be cast once again into the unknown. She’d better cherish this brief moment of relative safety…

That evening, feeling renewed confidence in his ability to avoid capture, Yurgis left her in Dobra’s care, going out to make preparations for their trip. At least, that’s what he claimed. It was all too plain to her what he was really up to. Dobra’s earlier interruption had to have left him extremely frustrated, and no matter how much power her father held over him, no man wants an old friend to know that he regularly violates his own daughter. He was off to the brothels...

Dobra made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with her. Banished to the living room, nervously fretting while he prepared dinner. She had to break through his shell; this could be her only chance to question him, to find out what her father was planning.

Dinner consisted of a thick corned beef and cabbage stew, with rosemary

sourdough rolls. They ate in silence while she tried to think of a way to break the ice. Nothing too direct, a certain amount of subterfuge was required...

“So, how do you know my father?” She asked.

Dobra tensed up, hesitating, as if wondering how much to tell her, or if he should respond to her at all. He put down his spoon, studying her carefully.

“Well, let’s see, there was once a time when most of Europe knew and feared the name Yurgis Stannek, how much do you already know about him?”

Success! How she responded now would determine everything.

“I know he was… is… an accomplished thief. He used to tell me stories.” A safe answer, whatever association these two men shared, it was rooted in crime, that much at least was obvious.

Dobra twirled his moustache, “Aye, that he was. In fact I was once a trusted accomplice of his. I was probably involved in most of those stories. He’s never mentioned me?”

She shook her head, this was better than she’d hoped for. “I’m sorry, I was a child, I can’t .”

“No matter. We pulled jobs all over Europe, India and the Far East as well,” his

eyes grew distant with nostalgia. “Oh, those were the days.”

Keep him talking.

“When was the last time you saw each other?”

“Oh, that would have been nearly two decades ago, around the time you were born. I have thought him dead all these years.”

This answer threw an emotional wrench into the logical machine of her thought, causing her to deviate from her script, “Around the time I was born? So you knew my mother then?”

Under his spectacles, Dobra’s eyes widened in sudden shock, as if he knew he’d made a mistake. “What? No, never met the woman, Yurgis’ private life was just that, private. He didn’t let any of us get that close to him.” He refused to meet her eyes.

Back off, her mind cautioned, but she couldn’t, he was concealing something...

“Please, the only thing I’ve ever known about her is that she’s dead. If you know anything, no matter how trivial, for God’s sake tell me!” She hadn’t intended it, this growing agitation.

Dobra remained cool, “Believe me, if I knew anything about your mother, I

would tell you. Though I may have been a thief at one time, I am now an honest man.” This time their eyes locked, sensing a resolution in him that badgered her into dropping the issue.

They resumed their meal in uncomfortable silence. She’d failed, the ice now twice as thick. Well, nothing left to lose now...

“On the night we arrived you said that there was one thing my father was seeking in London, and then you looked at me. What is he planning? What is the one thing he seeks?”

Dobra shook his head, flustered, “I’m sorry, young lady, if I were to answer such a question and your father found out, it would surely mean my death. Suffice to say that there is more afoot here than you are aware of… much… much more.”

The front door burst open, and Yurgis swept into the room in the middle of an angry rant about something or other. Dobra gave her a look that clearly stated that their conversation was meant to be kept strictly secret, and went to greet him. She finished her soup and snuck up to her room, avoiding notice.

Several hours later, as she was preparing for bed, the mirror called out to her, demanding attention. Shyly letting her still-damp clothes puddle on the floor, she stood nude before it, once-again vainly enamored at the inexplicable beauty of her mortal shell. She would not be in possession of this body for much longer, this could be her last chance to probe its mysteries.

The longest time was spent examining the seven symbols that ran up the front of her. Rendered in vibrant color, while the rest of her markings were a uniform

black. Each one a different color, a symbol within what looked to be an exotic flower...

“They’re called chakras, you know.”

She whirled, shocked to see Dobra in the open doorway. She hadn’t heard him enter. Again someone had walked in on her at her most vulnerable; this was getting ridiculous. She blushed, concealing as much of herself as she could with arms and hands before realizing what he was saying.

“Wait, you can read my marks?” Stunned, nobody had ever been able to tell her the least bit about them. “What do they say? How do you know them? Please tell me!”

“Shhhhhh,” Dobra hissed, closing the door softly behind him, seemingly unaffected by the sight which greeted him. “Your father is asleep. I am taking a great risk even speaking to you. I feel I owe you something after denying you any answers at dinner. Before we begin however, you must promise me you will never reveal this conversation, he must never know I told you anything.”

An eager nod, barely able to control her excitement.

He eyed her severely over the top of his spectacles, driving home the importance of her promise. “To answer your first question, no, I cannot read your marks. I don’t believe they are a language, nor meant to be read, however these seven symbols and colors are known to me...”

Here he paused, deep-set blue eyes searching her face, “Not to change the subject... I see the look of death in your eyes, my child. A deep longing for the embrace of the void. Has Yurgis truly done so wrong by you?”

She turned away, shame overcoming her. Terrified of revealing what she’d been through, what his friend had done to her. Despite this she found herself giving an honest answer, shame overcome by an immediate need to confide in someone.

“I loathe him. That… thing… is pure evil. He has defiled me... ruined me. To the point that death is my singular hope of salvation.” Tearing up, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“My God,” Dobra whispered, removing his spectacles, massaging the bridge of his nose. “You poor girl. I suspected as much. As a father of two girls myself, I assure you that I am horrified. And, while I can’t defy Yurgis, know that I am your ally. All I can say is, hold on, try to endure; every cloud has a silver lining, and no bad deed goes unpunished.”

This meant nothing to her. In her reality things got steadily worse as evil prospered. She tried to say as much with her eyes, her words having failed her.

An awkward silence ensued, dissipating as Dobra cleared his throat, changing the subject, “Well now, let’s get to it.” He turned the wick up on the oil lamp, taking a seat at the vanity where she stood by the mirror. She didn’t feel comfortable being nude around him, ally or not. Enduring it solely for the sake of knowledge.

“Now to begin, these symbols are in the Sanskrit language of ancient India,

which in turn was ed down from an even older civilization. Many people believe it to be a holy language, the vibration of the words themselves containing the power to affect consciousness.

“Humans possess seven chakras, confluences of energy, each located at, and governing, the body’s main systems. Aside from this function, they also act as binding agents, anchoring the intangible spirit to the corporeal flesh. Are you with me so far?”

“I think so... but why on earth would I be born with ancient Indian symbols on my body?”

“I don’t purport to know that, my aim is to enlighten you to their meanings, it is up to you to discover the wherefor. Now, let’s start at the beginning.” He said, indicating the crook where her skinny legs came together. Her face flushed in embarrassment, while Dobra betrayed no discomfort whatsoever.

“I apologize, I’ve utterly lost my manners. I was married for thirty years, raised two wonderful daughters, I am no stranger to the female body. By all means, get dressed.”

Tat hesitated, if she dressed now, it would waste precious seconds; and if it meant gaining knowledge of her markings, she didn’t want any of them obscured or hidden, no chance of forgotten or missed information. Lastly, any false step, any creaking floorboard, could rouse Yurgis. She wasn’t moving from this spot...

“I’m alright, it helps me to understand if I can see what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, but let’s at least face the mirror.”

She turned away, seeing them both neatly framed. Now he could gesture towards or indicate any part of her anatomy in their reflection. She found that it made her feel better. Like she could objectively view herself as a different person...

“Now we don’t have much time, Yurgis could awaken at any moment, so I am going to make this as quick as possible.

“The first is named Muladhara. Literally translating as root base or root . It’s also known as the earth chakra. Its symbol is a downward facing number three with a tail, its color is red. In addition to facilitating the body’s elimination of waste, it also aids in balance, survival instinct, and connectedness to the earth.

“Above that is Swadhisthana, one’s own abode, though can also be translated to mean sweetness. It is the chakra most misused by humanity, for it governs sexuality, as well as interpersonal relationships, intimacy, and reproduction; hence its placement in the same position as the female womb. It’s color is orange, its related element is water.

“So we have survival, and reproduction, two chief concerns among humans. Now, we move on to Manipura, the city of jewels. Its element is fire, its color yellow. It is located at the stomach, the body’s personal furnace, burning fuel to produce energy. It regulates sense of self, will power, and autonomy, as well as the more... visceral aspects of destiny.

“Now, these first three chakras are related to the absolute needs of tangible existence. Ninety percent of people spend their entire lives drawing upon these three alone. They oversee the primitive, the animal, the purely physical experience. Everything that comes after are centers of spiritual experience, and as such are ignored outright by the vast majority. This is an important delineation to make, between the physical and the spiritual; you are aware of the difference?”

At first she wasn’t even aware that she’d been asked a question, content to let him lecture her like a school teacher. He spoke well, she even found herself understanding much of what he said. Did she truly know the difference between the two? She thought of hell, of heaven, and all the things one cannot see. Most of all, however, she thought of Poto…

“More or less.” She bluffed, eager for him to resume his explanation.

“Somehow I am not convinced, though I am sure you will understand in time. Once a soul is set on the path, it will seek out increasingly complex states of comprehension. Anyway back to the matter at hand.

“The first of these truly spiritual centers is Anahata, the heart chakra,” he gestured toward the mirror where the vividly verdant symbol bloomed between her breasts. “Notice how it resembles a water jug. In most people it is left empty and wanting. When full, it provides access to universal comion and unconditional Love.

“Now, in this regard, Swadhisthana, the chakra that oversees relationships, is far below Anahata. This is not the relatively shallow, superficial love of man for woman. What the world thinks of as love is largely a misguided mix of lust, societal programming, and fear of being alone, which is why so many

relationships are unhappy ones. This true, unconditional Love stems directly from divine grace and is felt for everyone and everything in creation. Arising from Paramatma, God itself, seated in the hearts of all beings.”

Here she interrupted, “Does God exist?”

Dobra took his time answering, “I fear that is something everyone must figure out for themselves. If I gave you a definitive answer you wouldn’t have earned it, thus it would have no meaning or value to you. So all I will say is that, if it does exist, it is not as you imagine it.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” She pouted.

“Who ever said the Universe had to make sense?” Dobra asked mischievously. “Now, no more interruptions, we still have three more to go and I am nervous of Yurgis waking up and finding me telling forbidden secrets to his naked daughter. That would not end well for me.

“At the throat we have Vishuddha, meaning to purify. As you can see, it’s color is a deep, royal blue. Now, this chakra is misunderstood as well. Its main function is to regulate the faculty of communication. Quite a mundane thing to some, for the ability to converse has been greatly underestimated. Gossip, pleasantries, idle banter, empty words. This is not what is meant by true communication. When you speak you are converting formless ideas into tangible, conscious vibrations… It is far too deep to get into now, so we will have to move on.

“Ajna, or the third eye, is roughly translated as to see, or to know. While the

regular eyes see only the mundane world, Ajna, the mind’s eye, comprehends a higher reality. It governs intuition, and is directly connected with the mind. Farseeing and direct-knowing, so-called mystic abilities are bestowed with the mastery of this chakra,” he leaned closer to the mirror, studying her reflection. “It is especially striking on you. I dare say I’ve never seen such a perfect Ajna symbol.

“That brings us to Sahasrara, the crown chakra, the center of enlightenment, Doorway to the Universe.”

She parted her hair so he could get a better view.

“Ahh yes, I have seen this before, the hundred-fold lotus holding an eye within each petal. It is a symbol of supreme spiritual awareness and connection. When this center is awakened, one transcends the limits of time and space. The spirit merges with the Infinite, and the veil of this reality is lifted, never to be regained.”

Dobra fell silent, his lecture concluded.

Wow, she thought.

It was too much information to take in. She had fantasized many explanations about her markings during her life. This resembled none of them. Yet, while it was nice to know what they were, it brought her no closer to knowing why.

“Dobra, do the colors themselves signify anything?”

“Interesting that you ask. You’ve seen a rainbow before, yes?”

Tat was puzzled, “Of course.”

“Have you ever noticed the order of the colors?”

“Well… no, not really.”

“Okay, seems you get a little physics lesson as well,” Dobra smiled. “The spectrum of visible light, all the colors that the human eye can , can be located on a scale according to the vibration, or wavelength, of the light. The lowest color on the scale is red, then orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet; the same as in a rainbow, the same as in your marks. Each different chakra is an exponential increase in energy, as with light.”

Much of this last, went straight over Tat’s head. She’d never had any formal schooling and all this talk of wavelengths, and exponential increases in energy only served to confuse her.

“You still haven’t told me how you know all this.”

Dobra chuckled before answering, “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. I’ve said too much already.” He was getting nervous.

“Please, Dobra, I have to know.” She begged.

Dobra hesitated so long, she thought he might refuse, then he dropped his voice to a whisper, “Yurgis and I did a job in India that I am not proud of and shall not discuss. While I was there I became fascinated with the Hindu religion. It was then that I learned about chakras.”

“Is my father a Wizard?”

“Why on earth would you ask that?” He replied, a strange expression on his face.

“I saw him light a fire without flint or steel by snapping his fingers, like magic. And in our travels, he was shot in the leg. He healed in twenty hours. It isn’t natural. I have done… things, as well.”

Dobra sat in thought for long moments before answering, “Tatiana, while there are many secret, mystical things in this world, I can tell you in complete honesty that magic, and wizards, don’t exist.”

He cut off her imioned protests with a raised hand.

“If it exists, it’s not as you imagine it.” Repeating the same line he used earlier, still making no sense to her. Again, she started to protest as Dobra stood and started for the door.

“I’ll reveal no more tonight, I have already said far too much for my comfort. I will leave you with this. I have feigned a reason for Yurgis to accompany me on an errand tomorrow. You are to remain locked in your room. I have hidden a key under the floorboards by the door here,” he indicated the spot with his foot. “What you do with this knowledge is entirely up to you, though you must that free will does not mean freedom from consequences. Whatever you choose, be sure to search my room first, third door on the left. There is something waiting there for you.” He quietly closed the door and locked it, leaving her no chance to question him further.

The next day, after they’d left, she slowly counted to a thousand, then pried up the floorboard, earning several nasty splinters. Lacking any real tools, this took the better part of an hour.

Why couldn’t he have just given me the key?

Giddy with thoughts of escape, she emerged from her room carrying everything she owned in a rucksack and shoulder bag. Absentmindedly locking the door behind her, she descended the stairs, heading for the front door, and freedom. Here she paused, her hand on the knob, as Dobra’s words came back to her...

“Free will doesn’t mean freedom from consequences.” She breathed.

In her haste to be away, she hadn’t considered what would come of her actions. When she was discovered missing, Yurgis would naturally assume his old friend had a hand in it, and her father had a long history of making those who betrayed him disappear. Dobra obviously knew this, why would he take this risk? Last night he claimed he would never defy him. And when and why had he hidden

that key anyway? What was really going on here?

Beyond that, she was a wanted criminal, there was no way she’d be able to avoid detection for long, never having had to fend for herself before. Being caught, tried and hung, beheaded, or whatever this country did to execute its murderers wasn’t a pleasing prospect. If she was going to be checking out, it was going to be on her ; her hand slipped off the knob...

Dobra’s room. Something was waiting for her. As much as she hated to do it, she turned her back on freedom, climbing the stairs to the master bedroom. Though it was locked, luckily her key opened that as well.

It was a large, orderly room, if a bit musty, containing a four post bed, an expansive writing desk, a chest of drawers, and bookshelves lining every wall. If she wasn’t going to escape, she’d best be back in her room before they returned. Which, for all she knew, could be any time; where was the object he’d intended her to find?

Without any idea what she was looking for, she began methodically searching. Stripping off the bedclothes, checking between the mattress and box-spring, opening all the drawers in the bureau. This turned up naught but several halffinished letters. The crowded writing desk as well yielded nothing of interest besides a collection of leather-bound ledgers stocked with meticulous lines of meaningless numbers.

Left with no clear alternative, she started scanning the bookshelves, searching for the slightest clue. The vast majority of the volumes were in foreign languages, she could be missing something important and never even know it. Twenty minutes wasted, flipping through randomly selected tomes, growing evermore anxious by the second.

Then, almost by chance, something caught her eye.

A gap in a bottom shelf corner, once noticed, glaring as a missing tooth. A book had been pushed back out of sight. She got down on her hands and knees, reaching in and pulling it out. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the title; it was the same book of Italian poetry she’d had since she was a child. Her puzzlement turned to shock as she realized it wasn’t just the same title, it was her copy! The cover was even damaged where it had fallen into the mud!

How? This made absolutely no sense.

The only possible explanation was that Yurgis had to have salvaged it and brought it with him. But how did Dobra acquire it? How would he know it was hers? Whatever the truth may be, there was no doubt that this was what he meant for her to find. There had to be something more here.

She numbly thumbed through it, and sure enough, as she reached L’infinito, something fluttered to her feet. She knelt to retrieve a torn photograph, yellowed with age. It showed two men she identified as Dobra and Yurgis standing before an actual pyramid, its bold outline stark against the sky. Her father was holding something...

It was her as a baby.

She looked to be no more than several days old, even in black and white her markings were plainly visible. The photo was ripped so she couldn’t tell who, if

anyone, accompanied them. On the back, penned in fresh ink, it read, The four of us, on that day. There were three in the picture, counting herself, who was the missing person from the photo? It was an intriguing mystery.

As she studied the old picture, the front door burst open, Yurgis’ booming voice breaking the silence. She hadn’t expected them so soon, either they’d finished their business early, or he’d suspected something and forced them to return; she suspected it was the latter. If discovered outside of her room it would be bad, not only for her, but for Dobra as well; she had to act fast.

Emerging from the master bedroom, she spied them pouring drinks in the living room below. The floor plan was open, so she would be clearly visible to them as she crept along the second floor towards her room. Holding her breath, she went for it, staying low, stepping lightly, hoping her father wouldn’t glance upwards...

Creeeeeaaaaaak.

A loose floorboard turned her blood to ice water in her veins. Dobra looked up, seeing her an instant before she dropped to her stomach. Why hadn’t she crawled in the first place?

“What was that?” Yurgis demanded.

“I am sure it was simply Tatiana moving around in her room. How about a shot, I have several wonderful imported Tequilas…” Dobra was attempting to buy her time. She pensively shimmied a meter or two on her stomach. Her door was around the corner and down a hallway. Between here and there was the landing for the stairs, If they ascended, it would be all over.

To her horror, Yurgis was not so easily reasoned with, “You think I am idiot? That came from nowhere near her room!” The sound of glass breaking, her father stomping towards the stairs. She had one chance, as soon as his back turned towards her she scrambled forward, grabbing the nearest door handle, diving inside as he reached the second floor.

It turned out to be a closet. Sweating profusely amongst a press of winter coats and croquet mallets, she strained to detect them continuing down the hall to her room. The bangs and rattles as he sought to force the door were audible even here, her ruse had worked. Though grateful for the utter serendipity that had caused her to lock her door behind her, she now had to figure out how to get there with her father prowling around.

Luckily, Dobra was still working to give her an opening, “See Yurgis, the door is still locked, she’s probably asleep. Leave the girl alone and let’s have our drinks.”

Please, please, please, she repeated to herself, willing Dobra’s trick to work.

“Where is key? Open this door, NOW!” Yurgis was having none of it. All she could do was sit tight and hope that Dobra could buy her a minute at least.

“Of course Yurgis, the key is downstairs, come with me and have your drink while I fetch it, she isn’t going anywhere.” The barest tremble of fear in the edges of his voice.

Her heart stopped in the time it took for him to respond... “If she’s not in room when I open door, will be bad for you.”

Their footfalls sounded on the steps and Tat gripped the knob with slippery hands, ready to make a break for it.

“Okay now, where was that key?” Dobra was obviously giving her a sign that it was okay now to make her move. Taking a deep breath and swallowing through a dry throat, she cracked the door open and stepped out. Dobra couldn’t stall for long, as she turned the corner the sound of their steps once again approached.

Groping in her pocket for the key, hands so slippery it fell from her fingers to the carpet. She frantically bent to pick it up, forcing it into the lock as they mounted the stairs; opening the door and slipping inside as the top of Yurgis’ head appeared.

Silently shutting the door, she dropped her packs back in the corner before realizing that she’d forgotten to relock the door! She dove across the room, turning her key in the lock at the same moment Dobra inserted his key from the other side, forcing her own out of the lock, dropping soundlessly to the carpeted floor. Lacking the time to pick it up she stepped on it, dragging her foot away from the door, coming to a standing posture in the middle of the room as the door opened.

“Oh, you’re back,” she said breathlessly. “What news of our age to London?” Trying her best to appear relaxed and innocent.

Though Yurgis appeared suspicious at first, he gradually calmed down when all

appeared to be in order. Dobra wore an expression of extreme relief. It was touching that he would hazard so much to help her. She didn’t even want to think of how this would’ve ended had she taken the front door to freedom. Now she had to make sure she didn’t move and reveal the key…

“All is prepared. Dobra has arranged for us to be packed in crates like cargo. Has bribed someone to let us out once we are underway. It’s like they say, no laws at sea, yes?”

Tat, being extremely claustrophobic, was not particularly thrilled by this plan.

“Many documents had to be forged,” he put his arm around Dobra. “Same as I him, a man of action, yes?” They did a little dance that ended with an elaborate handshake, then burst into laughter. They turned to go and Yurgis called back, “Early to sleep, dear Daughter, tomorrow we leave for London and our grand fortunes.”

As soon as she was alone she heaved a massive sigh, collapsing on the bed. Her hands were shaking.

That was too close.

Pulling out the picture she sacrificed her one chance at freedom to obtain, she studied it closely. The pyramids perfectly resembled the ones from her dreams, what was the significance? Another piece of the puzzle, serving to raise more questions than it answered. She tucked it deep in her bag and spent the rest of the day trying to calm herself, drifting in and out of troubled slumber. Brought on by her failure to escape, deep-seated feelings of shame returned; just as she failed at

everything in her life. Refusing dinner, she spent a sleepless night with frayed nerves and regret in her heart.

She was still awake early the next morning, trembling as she listened to the banging of hammers. Presently, a knock came at her door.

“Come Tatiana, it’s time.” Dobra called.

She was not ready for this. A branching spider web of possible paths she could’ve taken stretched out before her clenched eyes; another decision made, another reality she’d chosen. Now it was time to face the consequences. Taking much more time than necessary, she packed up her gear, descending the stairs to find two freshly assembled crates awaiting them.

Yurgis waved her over, “There is food in kitchen, eat now for we have no way of knowing when is next meal,” a crooked smile playing upon his lips. “Oh, and if you have to shit…”

There was fresh fruit, vegetables and sweet rolls laid out on the table and she helped herself. She was not looking forward to this at all. Ever since she was a child, tight spaces terrified her. No rational reason, it was just how she was made. If it was connected to a traumatic incident during her childhood, that memory was lost to time.

After stalling as much as she could, the dreaded hour arrived; no more excuses. Dobra helped her into the smaller crate, hands at her sides, stiff as a board. It had been lined with straw, barely big enough for her. Packs stowed at her feet left her no room to maneuver whatsoever. The last sight she beheld was her father’s

leering face as the top was laid on and nailed in place.

It felt like a coffin.

Right away anxiety gave way to panic. Breath quickening, her body started to squirm, exacerbating her discomfort. Then she was hoisted into the air, roughly carried into the crowded street. Sound came from all sides at once, though the slats fit together too tightly for her to see anything. Her disorientation worsened as razor-sharp shafts of sunlight flayed her eyes with rectangular intensity.

She was loaded onto a cart which bumped and jostled the last few kilometers to the docks. It was all she could do to keep from screaming as her crate sat for what felt like an eternity, awaiting customs inspection. After several minutes she heard voices approach...

“Alright, what have we here?”

“Priceless antiques and works of art bound for the court of the prince of Wales, sir.”

“Well, I suppose I better take a look then.”

She gasped, adrenaline flowing, heart rate increasing ten-fold; was she about to be discovered?

“I wouldn’t if I were you, sir, the manifest says that the cargo is too valuable to be disturbed, see? Here’s the official seal of the monarchy.”

“Oh, well everything appears to be in order, hurry up and get it onboard, we have three hundred more to inspect before lunch.”

“Right away sir!”

She was lifted again, carried up a gangplank and into the ship. Then came a moment of free fall followed immediately by a tremendous jolt as she was disdainfully tossed into the hold. The last vestiges of light, extinguished as she was buried under a mountain of freight.

There was no way of knowing how long she lay in that wretched pine box in the belly of a steamship. In her agitated state, time stretched out, minutes becoming hours, hours becoming days. This time was spent first demanding... then begging... finally screaming to be let out, maniacally beating and scratching at the lid of the crate until her hands were bruised and bloody.

To make matters worse, the constant rolling and undulating of the ship induced in her a terrible sickness. This being her first time on the ocean, this had never occurred to her as a possibility. There was barely enough room to turn her head so she didn’t choke as she vomited. The smell was awful, the sting of bile burning her nose. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it was slowly coagulating into her hair, causing her scalp to itch. This was utter agony, if there was a hell, this was it. A lake of fire didn’t frighten her half so much as being shut up in this box, unable to move.

In her more lucid moments, recollections. Sitting around the fire with the troupe, the telling of ghost tales; in particular, ones in which people were buried alive. These were always the stories that scared her the most. She couldn’t help imagining that she lay six feet under, slowly running out of air, forgotten by everyone. Thoughts like these would cause her to hyperventilate until her vision first tunneled, then fell dark altogether...

The fifth time she ed out, she awoke to the squealing of nails being pulled. Her heart leapt.

She was about to get out!

As the lid was raised, Tat practically burst into the gloomy hold, combing the vomit out of her hair with palsied fingers.

“Welcome aboard.”

Dobra.

Having been granted a reprieve from a fate worse than death, she nearly embraced him before ing that she was a disgusting mess. Anyway, he’d already moved on, directing several men in exhuming her father’s crate.

His old friend’s presence came as a surprise to Yurgis as well.

“Dobra? What are you doing here?”

“Quiet!” Dobra spat, “You think I spent the last two decades doing nothing? I am the captain of this ship. That’s how it was so easy to forge fake shipping orders to get you on board. I have been known to take on, shall we say, questionable cargo, from time to time.”

“Ahh, a smuggler, you continue to impress with your resourcefulness… old friend.”

“I kept it a secret in case things didn’t go well. Come, now isn’t the time for talk, we have to get you to a cabin unseen. Though this is mainly a freight run, there are seventeen other engers.”

The accommodations were only slightly less cramped than her recently vacated crate. Two narrow, bunk style beds built into the bulkhead, barely leaving room for a table and two rickety chairs. No windows.

“In two or three days you can leave your cabin, we’ll be in international waters. Until then, relax, I’ll send food down later.” Dobra left, curtly shutting the door behind him.

She climbed onto the upper cot with a sigh, sea-sickness getting worse by the minute. This was almost as bad as her body’s never-ending demand for her beloved morphine…

“Quite a journey so far, eh, dear Daughter?”

She did not respond, turning away to try and get to sleep. Incredibly, Yurgis left her alone.

Chapter Six:

Death at Sea

Tatiana Stannek stood at the railing and gazed into the deep, dark water of the Oresund Strait. Placid, glass-smooth, seemingly only disturbed by their wake; it lulled, hypnotized, a fathomless shadow calling out to the darkness within her. A means to an end…

They were three days out of Danzig. Three horrific days trapped in that room with him. The tentative truce that had sprung up between them in the face of a common enemy had collapsed, and she bore many fresh bruises and emotional scars. Thankfully, much of that time was lost to her, staying heavily drunk off the prodigious supply of vodka Yurgis had procured for the trip.

She felt weak as she hung there, limply propped against the railing on wobbly knees. They were fed ably well, yet she’d failed to keep anything down, her stomach rebelling against the constant motion of the waves. When Dobra at last decided to release them from captivity, the room stank of bile… as well as fluids far more sinister.

She’d begged to be allowed to go above deck to breathe fresh air. Dobra consented on the condition that she wear a heavy, black, woolen robe with a hood, like a monk’s cassock. It was slightly too big, covering her from head to toe; hands lost in the sleeves, face lost in shadow. To avoid unnecessary suspicion, he also cautioned them to avoid being seen together outside their cabin, which suited her fine.

She set out to find the deck, feeling the steam engines rumble as she ventured down corridors of drab, grey metal. In a way, the gentle rocking recalled

melancholy memories of her little wagon room, softly swaying as she fell asleep to the sound of hoofbeats. In other ways, it was wholly different; while then it soothed her, here it was pure torture.

Now that she was here, the fresh sea air was doing precious little good. The knots in her stomach, refusing to relent. With great effort she tore her eyes away from oblivion’s lure, looking to the fractured coastline.

Norway? Sweden?

She didn’t know and, truth be told, she didn’t care. Beauty no longer held any reality for her, could no longer affect her. Merely touching then falling away, like rain off a raven’s feathers.

During their confinement Yurgis had outlined their journey on his maps, and she’d forced herself to commit it to memory. She’d repeat it in her head to occupy her thoughts, seeking to stem the endless flow of poisonous vitriol which occupied her waking mind.

Beginning in the Baltic Sea, along the north coast of Poland. Then through the Oresund Strait into Kattegat Bay, skirting the Netherlands; after which they would navigate Skagerrak Strait into the North Sea and onward to England.

Tat had no intention of making it that far. In fact, she didn’t think she’d make it one more second. There was no will left within her to resist the siren-call of the water. Deliverance was at hand.

She pulled out the photograph of Yurgis, Dobra, and a helpless infant that was completely ignorant of what life had planned for it. Lamenting for a moment that so many questions would remain forever unanswered. She held it aloft and let the wind take it, whipping over her shoulder and out of sight. There was nothing in her past she cared to know, and the future held no hope for her. Now was the time, she would not fail again…

Her left foot mounted the middle crossbar of the railing, the metal ringing hollow with an air of finality. She stepped up and looked down, a six meter drop into icy water. Spreading her arms, testing the heavy fabric of the cassock, it would drag her down like a stone. There was nobody else on deck; no one to come to her aid. Taking one final look at the sun, sky and the lonely fjords, she drew a long breath, letting her last words fall from her lips into the void of an uncaring Universe.

“I’m coming mother.”

The impact knocked all the air out of her lungs, frigid water closing around her like a vise. At first, she struggled against the shock of being plunged into the freezing strait, forcing herself to let momentum carry her down. Looking up, she could barely make out the dappled, refracted rays of the sun, before they were blotted out by the massive leviathan plying the waters above.

Now past the point of no return. Even if she wished to, she couldn’t make it back to the surface. Her body seized and jerked as she opened her lungs to the sea, momentarily filled with the ultimate fear of death. Then, she relaxed, everything fading to black…

There was a face. A pretty face, covered in runes. It felt that somehow, It should know this face, yet It could not recognize this beautiful dead girl at all. Could

muster no feeling whatsoever, save pure objective detachment. The corpse floated so serenely, hair entangled with bits of seaweed drifting on invisible currents. A deep sadness etched on her features. It tried but could not fathom what a corporeal being had to be so sad about. Soon enough this mortal tranquility lost interest and It moved away.

Feeling an approaching presence as a high frequency drone, It witnessed a great structure of light, recognized immediately and welcomed with a swelling of joy, drawn upward and inward.

Being was absorbed by the light, instantaneously transported to the surface of the moon, looking down upon Earth in all its splendor. The Light accompanied, as One, resting in silence. Bearing witness to the majestic, clockwork precision of the celestial bodies. Such a serene scene of permanence and perfection; a true testament to the all-encoming order of the Infinite Unknowable.

The Sun, impossibly distant, after a life spanning ten million eons, finally fused the last of its fuel and began to die, one by one swallowing up her children. First Mercury, then Venus, and ultimately Earth, irrevocably scorched, melted down, atoms dispersed without mercy, without eulogy. Every human achievement, every dream, every manifestation of life that ever existed, eradicated beyond memory in a nuclear furnace. As the bloated gas-giant’s death throes consumed them, Light merged with the nova in painlessly divine splendor…

It awoke to primordial emptiness. Lack of substance, so all-encoming that it existed separately from the paradigm of form. Antithesis to the absence of everything.

The presence of Nothing.

Through the simple act of observation, nothing and everything became one, inseparable. A great rift was born…

“Where am I?”

Before the beginning.

“Who are you?”

There is only One here.

“Who am I?”

I am that I am.

From this rift erupted the advent of form. Everything arising from nothing, expelled into the vacuum of space at the speed of light. Destined only to be drawn together and crushed down to nothingness once again. Thus the Universe was born and died a thousand times, a cyclical motion resembling breath. One existed, outside time, free of the veil, bathed in the intrinsic bliss of the eternal instant. Eons ed as seconds, seconds as eons, until It once again beheld the perfection of Earth reborn…

Resting within Light, propelled through space at fantastic speeds. Planets ing until the solar system faded into obscurity. Countless stars, many with children of their own, resolving into a galaxy, spiraling into infinity. That too, dwarfed as One sped outwards to the End of All. A hundred billion other galaxies ed and the entirety of creation was viewed as a single point of light suspended in darkness without end. It knew this light, had felt Its presence before. Ri to shine like the sun…

The sun burned her eyes as a massive weight pressed down upon her with crushing force. Retching up a liter of seawater, she once more drew life into her lungs with a mighty gasp. The shock was incredible, and for a moment her mind was blank, unable to grasp the fact that she was, in fact, alive.

Over her loomed a huge, grinning, black face. At first she didn’t recognize him; it wasn’t until noticing his colorful tunic and odd hat that she tensed involuntarily. It was him, the man who had watched her from the crowd when she was at the hospital in Warsaw.

He spoke with a thick accent, “Happy Birthday, little one, today you are born anew,” he pressed a small parcel into her hands. “And here are my gifts to you.”

With that, he was away, leaving her confused, struggling to order her thoughts. She scanned the deck, still empty. Again she’d inexplicably failed at ending her agony.

“Why couldn’t he have let me die?!”

She’d been so close. Her attention turned to the objects in her hand, his gifts to

her. One was the photo of Yurgis and Dobra. The other sent shivers down her spine, and a chill through her heart…

It was the silver chain and crucifix she’d thrown away at Journey’s Rest...

“He’s following me.” She whispered, immediately fearful.

What did this strange man want with her? Why did he care whether she lived or died? The thought of him sneaking around, salvaging her things, watching without her knowledge, filled her with disgust.

Her first instinct was to throw the chain overboard, but something stayed her hand. Instead, she lowered her hood, slipping the chain over her head. As soon as the cross touched her skin she collapsed to the deck, weeping. She couldn’t control it, this massive outpouring of sadness and frustration. All she wanted was to die peacefully, a comfort continually denied. Was fate playing a cruel joke on her?

It seemed she was doomed to endure this mortal coil. He would undoubtedly foil any further attempt she made to take her life. As much as this upset her, there was an urgent need to seek this man out; to discover his true intentions. What mystified her most was how he’d managed to retrieve her body; she was at least two meters under when she relinquished hold of her life. If her recollection could be trusted his clothes weren’t even wet. Then, there was the matter of her miraculous resurrection…

Her tears trailed off, leaving her calm and dejected. All the details of her death were lost to her. No memory remained of what occurred, save a vague feeling of

peace soon smashed upon the rocks of grief. If she thought hard she could almost catch a glimpse of a fragment, like a half-forgotten dream that hovers beyond the edge of recall. A light in the darkness?

Several of her fellow travelers chose this moment to venture onto the deck to take in the view, paying little attention to the dripping wet girl who furtively donned her hood and fled back to the interior of the ship.

Where was she going? Not back to their cabin, of that much she was certain. She had to speak to Dobra, maybe he had information on who this mysterious man was.

The ship was enormous; she’d spent over half her life in villages that weren’t as large. How could she ever hope to find anyone who wished to remain hidden? Lost in her thoughts, she wandered aimlessly for what seemed like kilometers without encountering a soul, always wary that Yurgis could be lurking around the next corner…

Peeking through the porthole on her tip-toes, she spied Dobra and Yurgis. They were arguing. Their words couldn’t reach her out here, but neither one appeared to be backing down. From the look on her father’s face, she could tell he was on the brink of violence. She circled around to the rear of the wheelhouse where she found a floor-level port for water drainage; she pressed one eye close and listened.

“How dare you betray me Dobra, if you weren’t captain, I would kill you where you stand!”

“What was I supposed to do? You left her in my care, I asked an innocent question and I got an answer I wasn’t prepared for.”

“Now you judge me? You think you are better than Yurgis, yes? You think you know what is best for her?”

“Well, under the circumstances, yes, I think I do know what’s best for her… to stay far away from you! Because, unlike her, I know what you’re planning, and it’s unnatural. The man I once knew would never become involved in such a plot. What happened to you old friend? When did you abandon your humanity?”

He was actually standing up for her. No one had ever done that before. Well, once… but she didn’t like to think about that. How much more of this flagrant insubordination would her father would take before he snapped? Never before had she heard anyone speak to him like this.

Yurgis laughed, never a good sign. “You think you know what I am planning? You know nothing! My plans run deeper and farther than you could imagine. Do you not how hard we worked to achieve this? It has now gone too far, there is no turning back.”

Dobra was unfazed, “I am not now, nor have I ever been proud of my role in all this. I have spent years repenting, while you have barreled headlong down the road to madness. You have become a monster, old friend.” As soon as the words left his lips, she knew that was too far, he had pushed too hard.

Yurgis closed his eyes, forming a complex gesture with his hands. A shiver ascended her spine, skin rippling with gooseflesh as the air sparked with unseen

energy. With an ear-splitting crack, like gunfire at close range, her father vanished. Instantly reconstituting directly behind Dobra, cold steel pressed to his throat.

The smaller man didn’t seem that surprised, nor did he resist, at once conceding the argument to Yurgis; making calm, placating motions with his hands. She jumped up, racing to the wheelhouse door. Dobra wasn’t going to die defending her, not if she had anything to say about it...

She charged in, startling them both.

“Please, let him go Papachka.” She implored, slowly approaching, hands visibly empty, hoping that her childhood name for him would help diffuse his anger.

Far from de-escalating the situation, her presence seemed to renew the fight in him. “And now you are here. How long you been listening, little bitch? Long enough to think you know what’s going on? You go behind my back, telling secrets to swine, thinking he could protect you? He is nothing!” Firmly pressing the knife against Dobra’s throat, a thin trail of blood trickled down his neck.

She was now close enough to reach out and touch her father, which she did, softly caressing his stubbly cheek.

“Yes papa, he is nothing. Please, let’s return to our cabin.” She then gave him her best approximation of a seductive gaze, attempting to manipulate him with her feminine wiles, succeeding only at making herself feel dirty and pathetic.

Yurgis saw through her ploy. He roughly pushed Dobra to the ground, and in one fluid movement cocked his arm and punched her in the face. She dropped like a wet sack of flour, left eye rapidly swelling as Yurgis sheathed his knife, standing over her.

“You think to control me? Both of you? Well, conspire all you want, nothing can change course. Nothing!” As Yurgis exited, he called back to Dobra, “Getting slow old man. Stay out of my business!” Then he slammed the door and stalked away.

Dobra helped her up and ushered her to a comfortable chair. “That was a foolish thing to do, Tatiana.”

Still dazed and reeling from the devastating right-cross she’d taken, crying and sniffling. “You stood up for me. Against him… I couldn’t let you face that alone.” Her voice cracking with a heartbreaking vulnerability which disgusted her.

He lightly probed her swollen eye, eliciting a sharp sting and a wince. “Well then you have more bravery than common sense.” He dropped his gruff exterior, “I am so sorry Tatiana. I had no idea he was so far gone.”

She reached out for him and he held her, cautiously at first, then tightening his embrace as she began to cry harder. No doubt recalling all the times he’d comforted his own daughters. Feeling safe and ed, the way hugging a father should feel, she slowly calmed down. Only when she pulled away did he notice her wet robe.

“You’re soaking wet, what happened?”

“I got splashed by a wave.” She replied, refusing to meet his eyes. Dobra scanned the calm horizon, raising an eyebrow, but saying no more.

Sobering up, she recalled her reason for coming here in the first place, “What can you tell me about the African man with the thick accent onboard the ship? Dressed in bright, colorful clothes.”

Dobra looked bemused, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Just tell me!” She yelled, quite uncharacteristically, not at all in the mood to play games.

“Well, I’d love to, Tatiana. However there is no one aboard this ship matching that description.”

She was taken aback. Of all the responses she imagined, this was not one of them.

“But, I saw him, surely you’ve seen him. He was on the deck today!” Agitation growing within her.

“Please, calm yourself child, I was present at embarkation, and I saw every one of my engers, and no such man was among them.”

“Well, maybe he was smuggled aboard, like we were.”

“Not under my protection, he wasn’t, and that is the only way anyone gets on my ship illegally.” He looked so serious, Tat decided to abandon the issue.

“My apologies Dobra.”

“None needed, I just hope you are okay. Sea sickness affects everyone differently, I’ve even heard of elaborate hallucinations. Just in case, I’ll have my crew keep an eye out. If there is a strange man onboard, I’d like to find him too, okay?” He reached out and patted her knee reassuringly. His smile was infectious, she couldn’t help returning it.

“Okay, thank you, I’ll be going now.” As she started to rise, her unsteady knees gave out beneath her. Dobra caught her, returning her to the chair.

“Sit a while longer, until your head clears.”

He went back to steering the ship which had drifted perilously close to shore during the whole ordeal. Despite his back being turned towards her, his voice reached her in a tense whisper.

“Did you find it?”

She knew he meant the photograph, “Yes.”

“Good, keep it safely hidden and don’t lose it. If Yurgis finds it, it will cost me my life,” she touched the picture in the pocket of her robe. “I regret I cannot tell you anything about it. I made a promise I cannot break.”

“Dobra, what is going to happen to me? What is he planning?!” She pleaded, desperate for answers.

His face twisted into a confluence of conflicting emotions. For a moment she thought he might tell her. In the end fear won out.

“I am sorry Tatiana, I have reached the limits of what I am willing to do to aid you. You must fight this battle alone. Where you are going, I cannot follow.”

Though this frustrated her to no end, it was true; this was between her and Yurgis. She couldn’t ask anyone else to risk their life for her, not after all the death she’d caused.

“You’re right Dobra, it is my battle… and it’s one I intend to win.”

Why did she say that? It certainly wasn’t how she felt. Her father was an invincible opponent whose evil knew no bounds. Even though the words felt hollow, they served to ignite a fire within her, however faint, and she resolutely exited the wheelhouse.

As much as she wished to avoid it, she knew she had to make a last trip to that hateful room. If she was being forced to endure this terrible life, she would find a safer place to sleep. That necessitated fetching her gear, and perhaps a blanket.

The layout of the ship was quickly becoming familiar to her, and she was able to find her way back to their room without difficulty or incident. Though, in her heart, each step she took towards that place brought her closer to despair as her mind obsessively confronted her fragmented recollection of the last three days…

Her swollen eye, pulsating with pain, brought her back to grim reality. Compared to many of the punishments meted out by his hands, she’d gotten off relatively easy. Next time she might not be so lucky; she had to find refuge.

Approaching cautiously, she knelt and listened. Unless the situation demanded it, Yurgis was not normally a quiet man; if he was in there she would know straight away. Detecting no break in the silence, she reached up to turn the knob before noticing the door was slightly ajar, lock and door jamb damaged like it had been kicked in. Pushing gently, it swung open...

The room was in shambles. Someone had broken in and ransacked the place. It had already been trashed from the drunken debauchery of their captivity, now it was truly destroyed. All the furnishings were broken apart, the mattresses, pulled off the bunks and slit open, the lock on the foot locker that held the bulk of their possessions, smashed. They had obviously been looking for something.

Her first thought was of the Dark Man. What could she have that he would want? Was it Yurgis’ gold? That made no sense, why the effort to keep her alive if all he sought was coin?

She cautiously ventured into the room, stepping gingerly to avoid shards of broken glass. Through a hazy flash of lost time, she received a vision of Yurgis shattering an empty vodka bottle on the edge of the table, threatening her with the jagged end as she cowered naked in the corner.

Her stomach, already uneasy, twisted and rankled at the smell in the room, causing her to double over, heaving and gagging. Thankfully her guts were already quite empty. Several moments of agonized concentration and the worst of her nausea ed.

She noticed a large stain on the carpet and knelt down to examine it… blood. Her broken memory offered no explanation as to its origin. Reaching down, pressing her fingers to the stain, they came away tacky. It was fresh, not more than an hour old by her reckoning.

Something was wrong here.

Recoiling, instantly alarmed, like how prey must feel moments before the predator’s strike, she rushed to the locker in a state of severe agitation, throwing open the top. All her possessions, emptied out of her pack and strewn about the floor. Gathering up as much as could be easily found, she stuffed it all into her bag, certain that any second whoever did this would return to finish the job.

The relative silence of the cabin was pierced by the unmistakable sound of gunshots coming from somewhere close by, startling her so badly she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Run! Her instincts commanded.

She’d already turned towards the door before her mind had a chance to intercede. They’re shooting out there, stay here where they’ve already searched. Yurgis is obviously their target anyway!

After a moment’s hesitation, she crawled under the lower bunk, pulling her pack after her to further block herself from view.

For a tense forty minutes, she cowered, a bundle of unwavering attention. After the initial flurry of gunfire, no more shots were heard. Was Yurgis dead? Had the authorities caught up with them? Or was her father the one firing? He didn’t possess a gun as far as she knew, having left the dead lawman’s looted rifle at Dobra’s to be properly disposed of, but she had no doubt in his ability to obtain one. Or maybe it was her mysterious savior. Her mind wrestled with the possibilities.

Just as she decided to quit her hiding spot, she heard voices in the hallway.

“Check the room again, she has to be around here somewhere.”

“Yes sir!”

She froze as someone entered. All she could see was a pair of jackboots slowly pace the room. She was a sitting duck…

Please, please, please, please, she repeated in her mind, trying to wish him

away. Holding her breath as he stood directly before the bed, so close she could’ve touched him…

After ten breathless seconds, the boots, shined with unmistakable military precision, moved back towards the door and she breathed a silent sigh.

“She isn’t in there sir.”

“Did you check under the bed, corporal?”

“No, sir.”

No! She’d been so close to avoiding detection.

A face appeared at the crack.

“She’s here! Hey, I got her!”

Lashing out like a wounded animal in its den, kicking savagely as the man attempted to lay hands on her. In the end it took three stout men to drag out and subdue her, forced onto her stomach, hands behind her back and handcuffed. A bony knee on the back of her neck, grinding her face into the filthy carpet as she gasped for breath.

She was forcibly escorted to a cabin on the lower decks and left there with an armed guard at the door. Before leaving they unlocked one of her cuffs, securing her to the radiator. There was no way she could escape. All there was to do was sit upon the floor, head in her hands, fearing what was to become of her.

The way she saw it, there were two scenarios as to how this could play out. Either Yurgis had been captured as well and they would be taken back to Prussia to stand trial, or she was being used as bait to lure Yurgis out; in which case he would kill them all to get to her. How had the authorities even known they were onboard?

After ten minutes the door opened and Dobra stepped in, face bearing a tense grimace. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“You betrayed us!” She emphatically accused him.

Dobra seemed flustered, “No, I betrayed him. He can’t be allowed to achieve his goals. There is a fair sight more at stake here than you realize. I made a deal, in return for my assistance in apprehending the infamous Yurgis Stannek, you are to be exonerated of any wrongdoing and released into my custody…”

“That’s only if we succeed in apprehending the infamous Yurgis Stannek,” a portly man in an officious dress-uniform swept into the room, interrupting Dobra. “If not, she hangs for certain. And that is looking increasingly likely as the man in question has eluded us quite masterfully.”

“Dammit Lieutenant, stop scaring her. He has to be somewhere on the ship, he wouldn’t leave the girl.” Dobra replied.

The officer knelt down, seizing the chain around her neck. Roughly pulling it over her head, he let it dangle before her face, the cross slowly swaying like a hypnotist’s pendulum.

“Possession of stolen goods. This alone could get you six years.”

“That wasn’t stolen!” She shot back.

The officer squeaked out a smarmy chuckle, “Nicholas the second, I believe the two of you have met, has been rather put out since this little treasure disappeared from the Summer Palace in Moscow. Seems it has been in the family for nearly a thousand years. As I recall, a substantial portion of the treasury went missing around the same time as well.” He fixed her with a hawkish glare.

Oh no.

Her lips sealed shut, any thought of reply, abandoned. Now was not the time for words, now was the time for silence and ignorance. This wasn’t at all about the murders as she’d originally suspected. Seems the police knew far more than she gave them credit for. That must’ve been what they were looking for in their cabin. The officer stuffed the chain in his pocket and stood, dusting off his white-gloved hands.

“One way or another, he will stand trial. The Czar is seeking to extradite Yurgis back to Russia for execution. Now as to where you stand, we cannot let you go. However, if you cooperate with us in the arrest and agree to testify against him, I

will personally petition the court for leniency.”

Dobra stepped in, “That wasn’t our agreement, she was to be released, can’t you see she’s suffered enough? She’s a pawn in all this, without blame.”

“You are in no position to demand anything, Smuggler, you will be lucky if you get out of this without a noose around your neck as well.”

The smuggler grunted in frustration, holding his tongue.

He turned back to her, “Think it over, we have a legendary criminal to catch.” Driving Dobra before him, the pair exited the room, locking her in once again.

She cursed under her breath, they weren’t giving her much of a choice. Either hang, or testify against her father, which was as good as a death sentence anyway. Not only did she have complete confidence in his ability to elude capture, but also zero confidence in any prisons ability to hold him.

Despite her reticence, she had to it it would be liberating to play a part in bringing him to justice. If she could overcome her shame and take the stand, looking squarely in the eyes of the man who had brutalized her more times than she could count. Condemning him to death with her detailed testimony of his heinous crimes…

Suddenly, something was wrong. It came upon her with frightening speed, like a fog over her senses. Her heart rate rapidly increased for no apparent reason,

making her light headed. Her first thought was that they’d drugged her somehow. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, the edges of her vision darkening as she seemed to retreat down a long tunnel. In the end she could fight it no longer, forced to capitulate unto the abyss of unconsciousness…

A darkened room, lit by a fire from a massive hearth. Seated directly before her at a heavy work table sat a woman Tat immediately recognized. In their previous encounter, she’d been richly attired and immaculately clean, the consummate artist; now dressed in grimy work clothes, red hair restrained in a severe braid, pale skin streaked with grease as she tinkered with a complex-looking piece of machinery.

As if realizing that she wasn’t alone, she abruptly stopped, raising her head and looking about, vibrant green eyes coming to rest on Tat.

“You’re not supposed to be here, my dear.”

To her surprise, she found herself answering, “I don’t even know where here is.”

Instead of replying, the Red Woman raised her hand and in a swirling rush of light they were transported to the shore of a vast inland sea, a tiny dock jutted out into the murky water to which a little rowboat was moored.

“Where are we?”

“The lower astral plane, where all dreaming minds go.”

“So I am dreaming then?”

“Dreams can be useful tools, but when they consume a life, one becomes trapped in a prison of their own devising. In the end all that is required is to wake up.”

“What?”

“Wake up…”

Tat snapped back to reality, nearly stumbling in the act of taking a step…

She was in the hallway.

Looking down she could see one remaining cuff still on her wrist. The chain had been violently snapped, one warped and broken link still dangling. How in the world did she get out here? Moments before she’d been chained up in a locked and guarded room.

She uncurled the painfully clenched fingers of her other hand, bewildered at the sight of the silver crucifix and chain. She slipped it over her head, tucking it into her cassock with a profound sigh of relief. When it touched her skin she could’ve sworn it hummed with a barely perceivable warmth...

Peering out of a porthole and judging by the water level, she reckoned she was on one of the lower decks. Though what truly surprised her was the approaching sunset; several hours had ed! Unsettled, she turned back, hoping to retrace her steps. Venturing down the hall, paying close attention, searching for any clue as to what was going on.

Rounding the first corner, she nearly tripped over the officious lieutenant who had threatened her. His head was twisted nearly all the way around, neck, horrifically broken. She cried out, recoiling with such force that she fell backwards onto the ground. Could she have done this? In her heart of hearts she didn’t think it possible, although her possession of the silver crucifix seemed sufficiently damning evidence. She doubled over, fighting off a wave of nausea.

A scuffling sound behind caused Tat to whirl, stealing a glimpse of colorful fabric disappearing around a corner.

It was him, the Dark Man...

She took off running in the direction he went, intent on tracking him down. Rounding corner after corner, catching only the barest hint of his shadow. After several more blind turns, it became obvious that she’d lost the trail. How was he so fast?

Judging by the intensifying rumble and vibration, she guessed that the engine room was close by. She emerged through a port into a central corridor, discovering four more dead bodies. They hadn’t been dead long, the flies just beginning to discover them. Their harsh buzzing set her nerves on edge. Spent bullet casings littered the deck, but each of the officer’s throats were cut. This had to be Yurgis’ doing.

She stepped lightly to avoid disturbing the dead, extreme shock managing to hold her chaotic emotional equilibrium in check. So much blood, its iron-tinged scent triggering another bout of nausea; it was amazing how much of the ruddy ichor a body contained. Looking upon their faces, frozen in time into grim death masks, she thought of their families. The people waiting for them to come home. Wives and children, doomed to wait forever. Such overwhelming sadness at seeing their pathetic shells vacated, all potential lost.

A troubling feeling washed over her, resembling deja vu at first, then intensifying dramatically...

She’d been here before.

Well, not here exactly, more of a mirror image, a situation, from a forgotten nightmare. Her ears began buzzing, vision blurring as the hallway faded altogether. In its place, a cave tunnel, torch lit, strewn with dead. All appeared empirically real, down to the damp smell of underworld lichen.

Highly disoriented, she continued down the hall, uncontrollably slipping back and forth between what she assumed was reality, and these hallucinatory visions. The only constant being the sense of dread that hung over her. A small, nagging voice that asserted that she already knew how this story ended, and it would not be happily ever after…

This was it. After all these years, the fear, stress and anxiety had finally broken her mind, she was going insane. First, she blacked out without even having a drink, now she was seeing visions. Squeezing her eyes shut, hoping against hope that she could will herself back to sanity, that she could force these

uncomfortable feelings back down into the depths of herself.

She opened her eyes, cautiously optimistic as normality appeared to be restored. It was strange to be considering a hallway full of corpses normal, but at the moment she had to cling to whatever she could. Continuing down the hall, stepping over the body of a young man, his face tranquil in death…

His eyes opened, impossibly wide, as he grabbed her leg.

“Wake up!”

She screamed and jerked. Directly before her stood a door, hanging slightly ajar, marked with an ominous brass nameplate.

‘Boiler Room’

She spun around, dazed. Another blackout? Or was she still dreaming? Taking a deep breath she sought to ascertain if she was truly awake. Everything seemed normal. She reached down and pinched herself, shuddering as she felt nothing. She clamped down harder, digging with her nails, still nothing...

What was happening to her?

Though every fiber of her being resisted, she reached out, grasping the cool handle of the boiler room door, pulling it open. A wave of hot air escaped,

wafting over her, bringing with it the smell of burning coal, and the unmistakable sound of her father shouting over the loud clang of metal on metal. She ducked her head and stepped through.

Upon entering, madness returned, visions once more overlaying reality, both speaking of a place of fire and darkness. Several more steps and the boiler room faded completely, leaving her creeping through a cavernous temple. It all appeared so real. Again she reached down to pinch herself, gasping as pain radiated from the spot.

This was too much. She turned to run back the way she came before the sound of Dobra shouting brought her to her senses. She couldn’t abandon him in his hour of need.

Descending a marble staircase, or was it wrought iron? Impossible to tell at this point. Crouching behind a bank of pipes that, in another world, were part of a ship’s steam engine, here transmuted into the fittings of a colossal pipe organ; so complete was the illusion that she could even hear its haunting melody as she peered through at the scene taking place.

The hearth, boiler, was stoked and raging. Her father stood with his back to her, towering over Dobra, on his knees, bleeding profusely from a dozen stab wounds. More than anyone could survive. Suffering a debilitating deluge of guilt that he was fighting for her while she hid away like a coward, she found herself unable to move, an indefinable magnetism conspiring to hold her frozen to the spot.

Dobra seemed confused, touching his wounds, scoffing when his hands came away coated in blood. He tried to speak, coughing as flecks of red spattered the deck.

“It wasn’t supposed to end this way.” He rasped.

“You are wrong, this is only way it ever ends; only reward traitor receives is death.”

“Where did we… cough… go wrong?”

“I grow tired of this pointless romantic bullshit, yes? A shame you won’t live to see all our planning bear fruit.”

Dobra smirked, “That is where you are wrong… cough… old friend.” And with speed and agility surprising for a dead man, the revenant lurched to its feet, thrusting a dagger directly towards Yurgis’ throat...

In one flowing movement her father sidestepped, grabbing the wrist, wrenching the arm behind the back and driving the knife all the way through the back of the neck until it pierced the throat. An anguished cry escaped her dry, cracked lips, inaudible over the machinery.

The corpse turned directly toward her as its light went dim, expressionless face barely a meter from her own as it messily bled out. She wanted to scream as her heart sank. Such was the fate of everyone who’d ever tried to help her.

Unable to turn away, visions reemerged, again overwhelming reality. The dead man’s face changing, features liquefying, shifting, rearranging until an entirely

different visage gaped, lifelessly, back at her... unrecognizable…

No, wait, she knew that face, but from where?

Her ears began buzzing…

Yurgis yanked the knife free, the body dropping to the deck, stone dead. “Goodbye, old friend,” he spoke the words with bitter sarcasm. “Somehow always knew I would end up killing you.”

He gathered up the still-warm husk, hoisting it above his head, ready to throw it in the furnace. The power binding her chose this moment to relinquish its hold, and she found her legs, bursting from her hiding place.

“No!” She screamed, pushing him with all her might.

Though he barely budged, it was enough to send the body tumbling to the ground, neck bent at an unnatural angle. Yurgis turned to face her. In that moment, he too changed…

This time there was no confusion, recognition came immediately. The buzzing in her ears grew to a sustained high-pitched note that caused her to crumple, clutching her head in anguish, vision darkening, forcibly removed from conscious control as if brusquely shouldered aside…

Chapter Seven:

Dear Daughter

After descending the gangplank, upon placing her feet on dry land, the girl wasn’t prepared for how strange it would feel. Her body had grown accustomed to the constant rolling and undulating, in its own fashion, and her first exploratory steps were shaky and awkward. They were among the first off the boat, and she was determined to wait, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious man who had dogged her across half the world. Yurgis took her hand, starting to pull her along, but she resisted.

“What is wrong you wicked girl? Come, we have far to go before day is done.”

She had to think of a lie fast, “Please, I want to say goodbye to Dobra.”

Yurgis frowned, “Is captain, last off ship always.”

“Please da, he was kind to me, and I may never see him again, allow me to bid him farewell.” Yurgis looked through her with an annoyed expression. Inside she cringed, but outwardly she stood firm. He would never strike her, that just wasn’t the kind of man he was. Predictably, he relented, and they took up post on a stack of nearby crates.

(Is this real?)

Even overcast and drizzling, the docks were bustling with activity. Everywhere

she looked, people were laboring. Freight, unloaded and put on wagons, engers rushing to their destinations.

(Define real.)

Keeping silent was difficult. Her habit of talking incessantly always got her into trouble, but she had to find out more about father’s plans. As she watched people file off the ship, she struck up what she hoped sounded like casual conversation.

“I the stories you told me as a child of your adventures in this city.” Receiving no reply, she turned to face her father.

There was a faraway look in his glazed eyes, as if experiencing a particularly intense memory. “Those were great times, my daughter, I was a man to be feared, respected. No treasure was safe from me. I was a master of this city, duke of its twisted streets, lord of its sewers and alleyways. Much has changed since I was here last, I change too, yes? City is ripe for my return.”

(Is this really happening, or is this a dream?)

She’d seldom heard her father speak so eloquently. He seemed to be becoming younger and more vital before her eyes…

“So, after all this we are turning to a life of crime?”

At this Yurgis burst into great, rumbling peals of laughter, startling her, “Crime, dear Daughter? No, I have much bigger plans. First step is symposium. Let’s say certain people need to be made aware of your existence.”

(In an infinite Universe all possibilities exist.)

This was the first she had heard of the real reason they were here, “How do I fit into your plans then?”

“That is not for you to know, you stay silent and do as I command.” He spoke with an air of finality, signaling the end of that particular line of questioning.

The girl continued to watch the river of humanity drift by. No sign of him yet. From where they sat, all the exits were clearly visible. He could not leave the ship without ing through her field of vision.

She tried a different tactic, “So what’s our first move then?” Her lilting brogue, sounding especially musical.

“You mean other than sitting here for no purpose? We must find lodging, and I know a boarding house where we will be most welcome.” Laughing under his breath.

(Is this particular possibility extant in my Universe?)

With great effort, she grew silent, focusing her attention on the crowd, absentmindedly twining a lock of hair around her little finger. Eventually everyone was off the ship, and Dobra came waddling down the plank. The fatman had eluded her yet again; he must have found a good hiding place somewhere onboard.

After what he did in the boiler room...

She ran over to Dobra, embracing him, “Thank you uncail, I shall never forget you.” He nervously looked to her father before returning her embrace.

“Nor I you, young lady. You be careful in this city and, God willing, we will meet again.”

(Through the agency of causality, this cell has been… excised from perceived reality.)

As Dobra turned to go he tersely whispered, “Watch Yurgis. He is up to no good, and , nothing is as you imagine it.” Then he was away, shouting orders to various crewmen.

His words unnerved her. Again she ed what he’d said on their first night in his house, something about Yurgis being after only one thing. Whatever was going on here, she was intrinsically involved. Excitement boiled in the pit of her stomach, a queasy anticipation at what was coming next. She reached up to her neck, clutching the silver cross...

(Why are you showing this to me?)

“Come Ciara, we waste time.” Yurgis said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her through the crowd, the sea of people parting before her massive ship of a father. She still wore the heavy monk’s cassock and so was hidden from view, for which she was grateful; she didn’t think she could take the curious stares of strangers at the moment.

(No one is showing you anything, there is only One here…)

Bearing a striking resemblance to the phases of the moon, a single closed eye cracked open, the perfect aspect of a waning crescent; slowly widening to a waxing gibbous as the orb contained within rolled lazily in its orbit. As light filtered through the aperture, consciousness returned and she shuddered, letting out a groan, feeling the pulse and thud of a massive headache.

She welcomed the pain, at least she could tell with absolute certainty that she was, at last, truly awake. To make sure, she pinched herself and grimaced. Content that all was as well as it would ever be, she raised her head and looked around.

They were in a large rowboat, presumably one of the lifeboats she’d noticed lining the edges of the steamship. She was laid out in the prow, sheltered from exposure by a canvas tarpaulin. Seated with his back to her was Yurgis, rowing furiously, shirtless under the mid-summer sun, his skin, slick with sweat, crimson with sunburn. Glancing down by her feet, their bags, and on top, tucked in its leather sheath...

Yurgis’ knife…

Her breath caught in her throat as she briefly considered going for it. Did she think she could grab the knife, draw it, and still have time to mount anything but the most paltry offensive before he annihilated her? Judging on how stiff and painful her body felt, she didn’t like her chances. Perhaps she could surreptitiously obtain it for later use.

Making an extremely risky decision, she cautiously stretched out a bare foot, hooking a toe in one of the sheath’s belt-loops, all the while keeping her eyes focused on Yurgis. She needn’t’ve been so worried, her father was thoroughly absorbed in his task. So much so that it made her notice how fast they were going. Scarcely breathing, she carefully lifted the knife and pulled her foot under the hem of the cassock she still wore. Then it was a simple thing to pull her arm out of the sleeve and reach down, retrieving the blade.

Okay, she had a weapon, now what? She needed a plan, running through several scenarios in her mind. She could rise, hoping that his stubborn pride gave him confidence enough that he wouldn’t deign to notice, then stab him in the back as many times as she could manage before he destroyed her; which, by her reckoning, could be anywhere between zero and one. Or, she could reach around and slit his throat, she was reasonably sure that would get the job done, ultimately discarding that thought as it gave him far too much reaction time.

She could bide her time and wait for an… intimate moment… then slit him from root to stem. Stomach wounds were nearly always fatal in her experience. This idea too she abandoned for it left ample time for Yurgis to notice the absence of his most treasured possession. No, whatever she was going to do, it had to be now.

Her hands were sweaty as she removed the leather sheath and pushed her arm back into her sleeve blade first, leaving it partially concealed in the loose fabric.

Now or never, she told herself.

Bracing her free arm against the deck, she worked her feet up under her, almost losing balance as the small craft bobbed and dipped on a choppy sea. If Yurgis took any notice of her, his actions didn’t betray it. The knife felt good in her hands, almost familiar, perfectly weighted. She raised it over her head, preparing to drive it home…

What are you doing? You aren’t a murderer.

This isn’t murder, this is self defense.

The brief moment it took to justify her actions proved to be her undoing. She adjusted the knife and the blade caught the sun, the reflection twinkling off the water at the edge of Yurgis’ peripheral vision.

Instantly dropping the oars, he dove over the opposite bench into the aft, his bulk rocking the boat so violently that she lost her footing and fell, knife skittering away on the wet deck. The ensuing scuffle saw them both go for the blade, knocking it further away. In the heat of battle she scratched, bit and kicked with a ferocity which surprised even her. Anything to keep him from gaining the upper hand. At the same time he seemed to be trying to avoid hurting her, keeping his full strength in check. Ordinarily she stood no chance against him, now the sheer force of her rage making them nearly an even match.

In a miraculous turn of events, she somehow came up with the blade, swinging hard and fast, slicing into Yurgis’ cheek. He stepped back to retreat, falling backwards over the bench, raising his hands in surrender.

Nearly blinded by bloodlust and fury, Tat let loose a primal scream originating in the depths of her being, as if seeking, once and for all, to banish all memory of a lifetime spent in silence. Coiling her muscles to spring, she hesitated, seeing something which froze her where she stood.

Her father, Yurgis Stannek, was crying…

Something wasn’t right; this man wasn’t her father. Now that she had the chance to look him in the eyes it was plain. It wasn’t a matter of appearance, this imposter surely looked the part. Something about his bearing, no, the very foundation of his being, was fundamentally altered. She lowered the knife, but not completely.

“You killed Dobra!” She flung the accusation as hard as she could, seeking to imbue her words with killing force.

A strange look clouded his features, and he lowered his hands, but not completely.

“Tatiana?” His voice, thick with emotion, uncharacteristically cracked in such a way that it insinuated a second question, left unspoken…

Is that really you?

“Who else would it be? Now, who are you? You are not my father…”

Before she could finish he sprang to his feet, causing her to flinch away from an oncoming attack, baffled to see him laughing, face beaming with what she could only describe as… joy...

“Thank God!” He cried, slowly approaching, empty hands raised as if he would embrace her. For a moment, he struggled to speak, as if too many words were trying to escape his mouth at the same time. He took a breath, calming himself.

“Please, my daughter, put down knife, I will not harm you. Please, we have no way of knowing how much time we have.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. Her mind was scrambling to get a handle on the situation. The way she saw it there were two clear explanations. Either Yurgis was seeking to manipulate her through the most masterful character-acting she’d ever witnessed, or she should put down the knife. Panic gripped her heart with clammy, insistent hands…

“What are you talking about?” She demanded, brandishing the knife anew, reserving judgment until she had more information.

Yurgis wiped the tears from his eyes and sighed, “I must tell you something.

Something that will come as great shock to you, please, try to stay calm.”

Far from remaining calm, Tat was becoming more agitated by the moment, and through it all the venomously cynical part of her mind couldn’t help reacting in anticipation, wondering how Yurgis would talk himself out of this.

He tried several times, stuttering and stopping before getting any words out. Frustrated, he threw up his hands and looked to the heavens.

“God give me strength, this never gets any easier. Tatiana, my dear daughter… you’re sick…” The weary, careworn look on his face, startling her. Shaken down to her core, she remained coiled and ready, refusing to relax.

“It’s, your mind, yes?” He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing in a rush, “Tatiana, there are at least three other people living inside you. People you are completely unaware of. One of these people has done many bad things…”

“No.” Tat whispered, incredulously

“Until three months ago you were in care of sanitarium in Moscow.”

“No!” Tat’s breath caught in her throat and she choked a little, flashes of institutional scenes lingering in the disused corners of her mind before being violently expelled. This was ridiculous, she possessed a clear and contiguous memory stretching all the way back to childhood. She’d never even set foot in a proper hospital before Warsaw, let alone a sanitarium.

“You’re lying!” She shouted, anger flaring, “You’re trying to confuse me into submitting to you so you can keep me under your thumb, your own private whore, free of charge!” She spoke with a confident belligerence, even though she was becoming less sure of herself by the moment.

Yurgis winced, otherwise unaffected by her outburst, pressing on in a calm, even voice, “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. Please, listen to me. Does the name Oginski sound familiar to you? Izaak?”

The blood froze in her veins as the bottom dropped out of her world. Her stomach clenched as she felt she was falling…

“How do you know that name?” A hint of danger entering her voice.

“Your caretaker at sanitarium, Dr. Izaak Oginski. You were three years in his care as he searched for way to heal you. In the end, tragically unsuccessful.”

“What are you saying?” Tat demanded, dreading the answer.

“What do you think is going on here? Why do you think we are being pursued? Tatiana, there is demon living inside you. It took his life, murdered him! As it always claimed it would. Now, in guilt, your mind sees him everywhere.”

Tat had heard enough, she scoffed, “No! We are being pursued because you looted the Czar’s treasury!” She no longer gave any credence to Yurgis’

deception. He was trying to sidestep all blame and place the burden of their situation solely upon her. “You’ve killed too, the blacksmith? That poor police officer? Dobra for God’s sake! They’re after both of us!”

“Tatiana, listen to yourself. Robbing the Czar? This is child’s fantasy, yes? Which easier to believe, that your father is legendary thief with evil, magic powers? Or that you are mentally ill girl who created false memories to mask great pain?” He spoke with the weary resignation of one who has had to explain the same thing many times. “No doctor has been able to offer us hope. That is why we travel to England. To find someone who can help you.”

For a moment, Tat entertained the notion that Yurgis’ story was true. The fact that they were indeed traveling to England meant that even in her alleged illusory world, truth filtered through...

“I suppose next you will tell me that I yet retain my purity, and that all the horrible things I know to be true never came to .”

Yurgis gasped, his face falling. Looking down, he endeavored to avoid her accusatory gaze. When he finally did reply, he spoke haltingly, forced to pause to fight back tears, face burning with emotion.

“All of this is my fault… A moment of weakness… I missed your mother so much… and I saw so much of her in you…” His voice hitched, like he could begin sobbing at any moment. Then he got hold of himself, took another deep breath and looked up, meeting her eyes.

“I did unforgivable thing to you, my dear daughter, and I pay for it every day. I

am so sorry. It is because of me that you are suffering. Only through great trauma can mind be sundered so irrevocably, yes? I am speaking doctor’s words when I say that sole reason you even exist is to partition terrible memory from other selves, so you’re forced to relive eternally. A victim personality, forever creating external enemy to shift focus away from fractured mind.”

I am so sorry

Hearing those words come out of Yurgis’ mouth gave her a chill. How she’d longed for this moment, unfortunate she was so on edge, unable to properly savor it.

She had to think. Either he was lying or telling the truth, though even if he was lying, he was still itting to forcing himself upon her, even apologizing. He could’ve denied it all, attributing it to her so-called victim personality.

“Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

“I have, many, many times. Every time I recognize you are present I tell you. You never , sometimes it last couple days, sometimes only hours. Each of girls inside you create unbroken chain of memory, no knowledge of others. Any attempt to reconcile lead to extreme… uh... cognitive dissonance, again doctor’s words, offending information erased, forgotten.”

Tat remained skeptical, though the more she conversed with this man who resembled her father in appearance only, the harder it was to maintain that attitude. In the last five minutes, he had spoken more words to her than in the last five months. If this was all an act, well then bravo, for it was complete and

perfect.

She imagined the Yurgis she knew, sitting and stewing over her unconscious body as he rowed, planning this; ‘When she wakes up, I’ll convince her she’s insane.’ This was absurd, for Yurgis had no need of lies or subterfuge with her when simple physical domination would suffice, also seeming a bit high concept for one of his base appetites. This simple observation did more to convince her of the severity of the situation than any words he spoke.

She sat down, placing the knife on the bench, making sure to keep it close at hand should she need it, massaging her temples in hopes it would relieve this headache. Yurgis shifted his weight and she reflexively reached for the knife as he stepped over the bench to take a seat opposite her. He remained silent, apparently content to wait as long as it took for her to come to with the situation.

Her thoughts split into two factions, each arguing it’s point with near-maniacal fervor. The larger part of her insisted that her memories were correct and that this was an elaborate, though ittedly improbable, act meant to plunge her into mental torment, cause her to doubt herself and keep her cowed and controlled.

Against this stance was arrayed the cold voice of logic, asserting that the idea was ridiculous and if she carefully weighed the evidence the truth would be uncovered. One voice demanded immediate action, the other requested calm collection…

Yurgis stirred, “I love you more than anything, my precious daughter.”

Tat could feel the sting of tears spring to her eyes, emotion seeking to overwhelm her. For a moment she almost gave in to it, wanting to believe his words; even going so far as to reach out to embrace her hated enemy before coming to her senses. This was the man who itted to defiling her! Was she so weak that she must abandon the moral high-ground and forgive such a man? Like a whipped dog forever looking up in adoration to it’s abusive master? She recoiled away from his expectant arms.

“No, I need to think.”

Yurgis appeared hurt, but also respectful of her wishes. “Of course, Tatiana. Is foolish of me to expect you to welcome with open arms when your mind has made monster of me. I’ve done too many times to ever hope for that. Is enough that you’re here and calm. Most times this ends with you experiencing psychotic episode and attacking me…”

Tat retreated to the aft, deep in thought as the boat sat relatively motionless in the undulating tide. She scanned the shore, searching for any sign of inhabitants. What she was looking for was a way out of this, a third choice that didn’t involve capitulation or violence. She was disappointed to see that the land rose directly from the sea in nearly vertical cliffs, heavily forested; no one would live out here. They presently occupied one of the lonely places of the world, isolated. There was only herself to rely on.

She bent her mind to the task at hand, reluctantly giving that part of herself that championed logic a chance to unravel this mess, while her staunchly defended memories stewed in a murderous morass. She returned to her two root assumptions. Was he lying? Or was he telling the truth?

If he was lying, what did he stand to gain? Yurgis never did anything that didn’t

directly benefit him in one way or another. She racked her brain and could come up with nothing. As far as she could see there was nothing to be gained from this charade. Not only would he have to commit to this character and story he created out of thin air, fundamentally altering their relationship, it also meant he was abandoning any fear-based control he held over her. Which in this case was considerable, for without the threat of violence, she saw no reason whatsoever to obey this man. Was he hoping to transmute her hatred of him into love? The Yurgis she knew would never, ever do such a thing.

Also, he claimed that she would soon forget that any of this ever happened which, if he was lying, she wouldn’t. Leading back to the fact that he would be tying himself to this lie with more conviction than the dubious rewards could conceivably warrant. Still, she was understandably unwilling to discount this scenario, when faced with its alternative...

With a feeling of dread she forced herself to seriously consider the possibility that he might be telling the truth, and she was possessed by spirits of people she had no knowledge of. She had to it, it did go a long way toward explaining what had happened to her on the ship. How she’d gotten out of the handcuffs in the locked room, the hallucinations and blackouts; however for every question that it answered, two more were created.

She thought of Izaak the leper, had that truly all been in her mind? He had given her the note with the poem on it, that was real. Then she ed that it had disappeared from its hiding spot when she went to retrieve it.

She thought of something, “I clearly Dr. Rheinhardt acknowledging Izaak when I was in the hospital in Warsaw. Are you saying that I imagined that?”

Yurgis answered without hesitation, “Your mind is fully capable of creating any memory to maintain the truth of delusions. Do you anyone touching him?”

Tat tried, but besides herself, nobody had attempted to touch him, she had assumed it was because he was a leper.

“Who are these other people inside me?”

Yurgis appeared frightened, “No, never again will I answer that question.” Then, in a whisper that sounded frankly terrified, “She awakens if I do.”

“Who is she? Tell me!”

If Yurgis replied, it was inaudible, but Tat clearly saw him mouth the words...

The Destroyer

After that he firmly refused to reveal anything more, saying that it would surely lead to violence. He could be stalling for time to make up more lies, but she didn’t believe that. She again lost herself in thought, trying to figure this all out, ultimately getting nowhere.

Glancing at Yurgis, she saw he had his head bowed and appeared to be deep in prayer, holding a rosary. It was such an incongruous sight that she found herself

staring in spite of herself.

My God, He isn’t lying.

Without realizing it, she reached up and clutched the tiny silver cross hanging around her neck, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger as if she could summon the spirit of Christ like a bottled djinn out of one of her storybooks…

In this moment of absolute vulnerability and lost confusion, her mind seized the opportunity to supplant logic, bombarding her with her most painful and damaging memories. Flooding her with feelings of guilt and shame; pummeling her into a state of wretched despair. She couldn’t accept this, she wouldn’t. Any thought of trying to unravel this tangled web of deceit was discarded as she glanced down at the twisted scars on her wrists, then at the razor-sharp knife in her hands…

The moment she made a move to harm herself, Yurgis rushed her, pinning her to the deck like he expected this and was already prepared. He gripped her slender wrist, forcing it against the edge of the boat until the knife fell from her hand and slid into the deep, black water, vanishing forever.

“No, please. I can’t take this… I don’t want to live anymore!” She screamed, back in her father’s room in the old wagon, sobbing and struggling mightily under his massive weight as he beat and violated her…

Her father was crying too, “No, I’ll never give up on you, you’re all I have left. I love you!”

They remained like that for several minutes until Tat began to relax and her heavy breathing slowed, heartbeat returning to normal. Yurgis, sensing this change in her, relaxed himself, though neither seemed inclined to speak.

In the end, he broke the silence, “Most times this ends with you attacking me,” the words tempered with the heartbreaking sadness of a man utterly devoid of hope. “This is only other way it ever ends…”

Chapter Eight:

Falconhead Lane

For a long time after coming to, Tat lay still without moving. Wherever she was, it was full dark, but judging from her rolling stomach and the overwhelming smell of the sea, they hadn’t made it far. Her head throbbed with a blinding headache, made worse by the anxious tension which permeated her. She must’ve been dreaming again, of what she was at a loss to say. Even now the last remnants were vanishing over the horizon of her mind like the northern end of a southbound train. Winking out of existence to wherever it was that forgotten dreams go.

She lay under a blanket or tarp, and she threw it back and sat up. It was a hazy night, and she could now smell smoke in the air, mingled with the tangy brine of the sea.

They were on a large rowboat, probably one of the lifeboats that had lined the edges of the ship, why weren’t they still onboard? What had happened after… after… In response to her request for information, the throbbing in her skull promptly redoubled, a millstone grinding her brain to pulp. Near mid-ship Yurgis sat at the oarlocks, furiously rowing.

“What happened?” Tat called out to him.

He made no reply, gave no sign that he heard her at all, working the oars like a man possessed. He appeared seized by an urgent desperation to put as much distance between them and any possible pursuit as quickly as was humanly possible; more machine than man…

She stood up in the prow, beholding through the night’s inky blackness the flaming wreckage of what had once been a steamship, sending it’s infernal towers of red and orange arcing across the sky. Tiny cinders fell all around her like black snow, staining her face and hands. For a moment this scene of beautiful destruction held her transfixed, mind blank. Then she ed.

Dobra was dead.

She couldn’t say how she knew, her damaged memory could supply no evidence ing such an assumption, but even so, she could feel it, deep down. Even stranger than this unfounded certainty was the startling discovery that she felt nothing. Neither sadness, anger, nor even guilt, which was both a blessing and a curse, for while emotions were painful, this consuming emptiness was far worse.

Turning back to her father, still oblivious to her presence, she received a shock. His skin, slick and shiny with sweat, appeared to be peeling away alarmingly. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care as he rowed ceaselessly onward, corded muscles flexing and relaxing like clockwork. He reminded her of a lizard shedding its skin in preparation for a new phase of growth…

She reached out to touch him, to break this strange spell, then gasped, recoiling. He was burning up! It was like touching a stove. It was then that she caught the smell, like sulfur mixed with putrid, rotting flesh, emanating from him. It was so strong she immediately bent over the side as what little remained in her guts came gushing out.

She remained there, one hand trailing in the water, until regaining control of her rebellious stomach. Deeply disturbed, she crawled back to her makeshift

tarpaulin bed, collapsing from fatigue. He couldn’t keep this up forever, she would wait it out. They had bigger problems to worry about; their packs were gone…

Not everything was gone, however; she still retained her own meager treasures. The silver cross twisted about her neck, tangled up in her hair, and the photograph, still concealed in the hidden pocket she’d sewn into the hem of her cassock; other than that, they had nothing. Yurgis’ knife even appeared to be missing, for it was no longer clipped to his belt. They would need to put ashore before long to get supplies. She couldn’t the last time she’d eaten, and the weakness she felt attested to that fact.

Tat wondered if they were still being pursued, or if they would be declared dead when authorities discovered the scuttled wreckage. Not likely with their luck. No part of this journey had been easy, why should it start now? Any second she expected to hear alarm bells and shouts of determined men with rifles bearing down on them. Such was her fear that despite extreme exhaustion, she was wound tight, nearly shaking.

She lay back, trying to relax and mitigate the unbearable pressure in her head. The only sounds were the murmur of the waves breaking against their little boat and Yurgis’ steady breathing as the oars relentlessly pushed them forward. Was he planning on rowing all the way to England? That was madness, tomorrow they would hopefully beach and abandon this thrice-damned boat in favor of a more terrestrial mode of transportation...

As the sun set on the second day, it was becoming abundantly clear that they would not be stopping. For the last fifty hours Yurgis hadn’t ceased rowing for even an instant as far as she could tell, and his continued metamorphosis troubled her immensely...

At first it appeared as if he was rotting, wasting away, cracked skin withering to dust. But when nearly half of his porcine body vanished overnight, replaced with lean muscle; spotty, wrinkled skin peeling back, revealing smooth, pale flesh beneath, Tat recognized what was happening.

He was growing younger by the minute.

There was no longer any gray in his short hair, nor any in his stubbly beard either. His cloudy eyes cleared up, becoming once-again hard as steel, and when the last crust of dead skin fell away, his face emerged, free of the ravages of time. He now appeared no older than thirty.

Aside from this unnatural evolution, nothing broke the unending monotony. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in at least three days, almost certainly more, and was starting to accept the real possibility of starving to death. The horrible emptiness that troubled her following the death of Dobra had intensified, eating her from the inside out like termites in an old, dead tree.

There was no way of knowing how far they’d come, it must be several hundred kilometers or more by now. If they ed any towns or ports where she might’ve called for help, she was oblivious. She now lacked the will to even rise…

On the third day madness returned, though brought on by a true mental affliction or hallucinations stemming from dehydration was unclear. It began when Tat mustered the strength to peer over the edge of the boat for the first time in two days, and saw the man walking on the sea…

He was about a hundred meters out, much too far for her to make out any details of his appearance. He appeared to be pursuing them, long stride full of purpose. The sight of him filled Tat with fear, and she ducked her head out of sight. Shaking uncontrollably, faint waves of electric sensation beginning to trickle up her spine…

“He’s not there, you’re dreaming, or starving, or both…” Tat whispered uncertainly. Even so, she couldn’t bring herself to look again, crouched out of sight against the gunwale, shivering like a coward. She briefly considered returning to her heap on the deck and forgetting she ever saw him; suddenly perplexed by an overwhelming urge to steal another glimpse. With great difficulty she overcame her instincts, raising her head until her eyes barely peered over the rim.

He was much closer this time, about ten meters, and Tat could see him clearly. He appeared to be of Persian extraction, swarthy, golden skin and unkempt black hair like sheep’s wool. He wore a homespun tunic of simple design, devoid of color or ornament. His bare feet never touched the water, treading an invisible path slightly above. With each step he took, he drew closer, despite Yurgis’ demonic efforts.

This time instead of fear, she was filled with an inexplicable excitement, though tempered with alarming dismay as the electric sensations intensified, pushing her ever nearer to the inevitable breaking point. As if in answer, a barely perceptible light began to emanate from his body, compounding the delicious feeling of lightning flowing in her veins. Even at this distance, Tat could feel power radiating off him.

Oh god, it’s happening again…

Presently he stood before her, his expressionless face placidly beautiful. As if it had never known fear or suffering or lack. Portraying an emptiness wholly unlike the black pit voraciously spreading within her.

Transfixed by this awesome presence, she experienced a deep desire for his touch, more than anything in this world. As he lifted a hand to touch her face, she could no longer contain the wild energy within, straining at its bonds with apocalyptic urgency. Though no words ed between them, an understanding beyond language filled her as his fingers brushed her forehead, making the barest .

A strangled cry escaped as her accumulated store of energy was tapped in one titanic burst. Collapsing under the extreme pressure of the release, the world shattered around her. In the span of a single heartbeat, raging flames encroached on all sides with unimaginable violence, blistering heat enveloping her in suffocating waves.

The little boat now traversed a sea of fire.

Shying away from the inferno, Tat crawled back from the prow, choking from smoke inhalation. She frantically spun, looking to her father. Yurgis had stopped rowing. He sat unmoving with his back to her, slumped between discarded oars. Something about seeing him so still inspired terror as she advanced on him in a state of pure panic, mind blank. She clutched his shoulder, intent on waking him from his stupor.

Then she saw his face…

His eyes were gone. Bloody holes teeming with maggots gaped back at her…

She screamed, stepping back and tripping over the bench seat, skin searing on the scalding deck, hitting her head hard enough to disorient her. Pain consumed her world. If she couldn’t get up now, she never would again...

Seeking desperately to regain her feet, she weakly rolled about until, without warning, Yurgis came to life. He gave voice to a ragged shout, rising in pitch and volume until it became a sustained, piercing shriek, arms raised in fervent supplication to hell itself. Tat covered her ears, kicking her feet until she succeeded in backing herself against the gunwale where she struggled into an upright position, trying to get as far away from him as possible.

Meanwhile, Yurgis was undergoing an even more sinister transformation. His new, young skin was melting, sloughing off, slopping onto the deck where it sizzled and cooked. Macabre fascination captured her attention, she could not look away; if she was to die, a foregone conclusion at this point, she was determined that the last sight her eyes would behold would be the gruesome spectacle of her enemy, decomposing before her eyes.

Then, something truly repulsive made her wish she’d turned away. As his flesh melted, it revealed what looked to be shiny, black carapace beneath. With a sickening burst, his arms ripped away as four long, chitinous limbs tore through his torso, arching and flexing like insect legs. His teeth fell out as his lower jaw dropped off. Finally, the sagging meat of his face split, revealing a head of nightmarish proportions. Equal parts insect and reptile…

All of a sudden, she tripped, landing face down in the mud. She came up sputtering, wiping her face in confusion as her father seized her hand.

“Come along, wicked girl, we have far yet to go!” Yurgis barked, yanking her to her feet.

Tat spun in a daze, wildly looking everywhere at once. They stood in the middle of a crowded street, an ocean of people flowing by. An endless cityscape spreading around her like a festering, open wound.

“Where are we?! She shouted, shocked and overcome by the terror of seeing her father turn into a demon not ten seconds past.

Yurgis snorted in derision, “What? We are in London, where else would we be?” Turning away he pulled her after him, but she resisted.

“How did I get here?!” She pleaded, close to hysterics.

Yurgis wasn’t having any of it, he stepped close and slapped her hard across the face, ceasing her protestations. If any of the ing people saw, or objected, they let their objections go unvoiced.

“You stupid girl, we got off boat not one hour ago! Now stay silent and follow.” He growled under his breath, trying to avoid making a further scene. Again turning away from her, she meekly allowed herself to be strung along in his wake.

They left the docks behind, turning onto a busy avenue. As Tat calmed down,

she came to the realization that something was very wrong with her. Large portions of her memory were missing, blacked out, swallowed in a gaping void. She couldn’t recall things that she should, and clearly ed things that never happened. In the absence of truth, falsity flooded in; a cascade of jumbled, non-sequential images and feelings devoid of context. Though she still knew her name, that certainty didn’t extend to much else.

He said they’d just got off the boat, but which one? The lifeboat? In which case Dobra, and a great many others, were dead. Or the steamship? A frenetic timeline, broken and foggy.

Yurgis’ transformation was complete, that much at least had been real. He still wore his old clothes, which now hung limply off his muscular frame. She was both surprised and disgusted when her traitorous mind declared him handsome.

Finding it virtually impossible to think, over-stimulated as she was by the sights and smells that inundated her senses, she resolutely abandoned her troubled thoughts. Consciously choosing to distance herself from fallacious recollections that sought to discredit her existence. There would be time later to figure this all out. It was all she could do to focus on the present, she had to be on her toes.

It was slowly beginning to sink in, she was really here. London, the city she’d longed to visit since she was a child. After all she’d been through, they’d actually arrived. Overcoming all odds, even to the point of transcending death itself, she stood as proof of the malignantly sadistic nature of fate.

The first thing she noticed was that, as a city, it fell far short of her longcherished expectations. The air was thick with the terrible stench of human and industrial waste, and all around them loomed dilapidated, soot-stained buildings. Horse drawn carts choked the filthy streets, while monolithic factories pumped

the sky full of black smoke. The fabled Thames, resembling nothing more than an open sewer, while crowding every doorway and alley, throngs of impoverished homeless entreated them, begging for merciful charity as they ed. Wherever she looked, a churning cauldron of dissonance and distress.

“How can people live like this?” Though she tried, she couldn’t disguise the acidic despair that tinged her voice.

“You’d be surprised what one can get used to,” he replied, giving her an evil wink. “Is much better than last time I was here, years ago. Back then, every house had cesspit that would overflow, leaving streets half meter deep in fetid muck. Death from cholera everywhere. At night, evil air that could overcome and kill a man in seconds. Now, look around you, streets mostly clean, smell come from last houses left to convert to sewer system.” Fitting with his character, her father seemed to be genuinely pleased to be back in this disgusting wreck of a city.

Tat was repulsed. This was supposed to be the greatest metropolis on earth. The shining capital of the empire and western civilization itself. How had it become so tainted? So corrupted? Growing up traveling in eastern Europe, no stranger to harsh conditions, never had she seen so many people packed so close together. Every step they took was destroying her long-held visions of a beautiful, perfect city of learning and culture.

Despite the odor, she was ravenously hungry, empty stomach shrunken and cramped.

“Can we please get something to eat?” Tat begged.

“Hmmph, very well. There is place I . I know owner, if still alive.”

They came to an exotically fragrant shoppe that served Indian cuisine. Upon entering it appeared to be under new management, run by a young man who did not have the honor of knowing the baba Yurgis mentioned. Having never had Indian food before, the smell inspired cautious optimism, and the art on the walls reflected a mysterious simplicity which intrigued her.

Dobra had revealed that he and Yurgis had pulled jobs in India. Of all the stories he’d told her when she was young, none involved that strange land. Her intuition told her that something happened there, an incident which held relevance to her present situation. Despite her better judgment, she had to take advantage of his benign mood and ask a few exploratory questions.

Once they were seated in a secluded booth, she began cautiously.

“Why are there so many Indian restaurants here?” This seemed innocuous enough for an opening inquiry, seeing as they’d ed at least three others on their short walk here.

Her father’s newly acquired youth seemed to imbue him with a certain largesse, and he answered her almost enthusiastically. “When Colonial British Raj come to power in India, people of England exposed to foreign culture, yes? Like any competent empire, once a people are conquered, they are assimilated, and their cooking became popular, cheap and easy, not to mention delicious… unlike most English food.” He added as an after-thought.

Their meal arrived, interrupting her interrogation; unidentified meat, sautéed in

spices, floating in a thick yellow curry tasting strongly of coconut. Saffron rice and steamed vegetables accompanied the meal, and Tat mixed everything together into the provided bowl. Because of the run-down condition of the shoppe, she was pleasantly surprised to find the food exceeded her ittedly low expectations.

Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t eaten in days, but she couldn’t ever enjoying a meal more. Almost as if her long absence from nourishment endowed her senses with a keen edge, a fuller appreciation of taste and texture that made every bite a burst of pleasurable sensation. She made no attempt to pace herself, shoveling the savory fare into her mouth as fast as etiquette would allow, not stopping until she scraped up the last of the heavenly sauce with her spoon. After a seconds thought, she licked the bowl clean before settling back in her chair with a belch.

Yurgis, showing a rare bit of restraint, was still in the middle of his meal. He met her observing gaze with a disturbing half-smile that caused her skin to crawl. If she meant to ply him for information, now was the time.

“Dobra mentioned that you two spent time in India, what was it like?”

At this, Yurgis dropped his fork. It clattered loudly on his plate, causing the other patrons to briefly glance in their direction before returning to their meals. His face bore a complex expression, appearing at once frightened and furious. He snatched her hand, squeezing with all his strength, hurting her.

“What did he say? What did that traitor tell you? Do not lie to me or I will know, and it will be bad for you. Think carefully, what did he say?”

“Nothing, Papa, he told me nothing!” Squirming in her seat, futilely struggling to extricate her hand from her father’s grip.

“You are lying. Tell me what he said.” Fist tightening like an iron vise, she feared her delicate fingers would be crushed.

“He told me you two pulled a job he wasn’t proud of, and that he turned to the Hindu religion to atone,” she tried to leave it there, but Yurgis rotated her wrist bending it back painfully, forcing the truth from her. “He also told me about chakras, and pointed them out on my body, that’s it, I swear.”

Yurgis dropped her hand, apparently satisfied, cursing under his breath, “Come along, we are leaving.” He paid, letting a single gold coin drop to the table, stalking out of the shop with Tat in tow.

A fatal misstep, she’d severely misjudged Yurgis’ reaction. Whatever occurred in that far-off land was evidently a great deal more important than she’d heretofore suspected. Obviously it was connected with her somehow, something he wished to hide, otherwise, why would he become so angry? All the clues were there, if only she were smarter she might be able to piece together this mystery. A heavy sadness washed over her, unable to banish the thought that, even in death, she’d betrayed Dobra’s trust by revealing their conversation. Another failure to add to the growing tally…

As he pulled her down the street, she reflected on the changes she was observing in her father. There was a rangy, lethal aspect to his character that had developed in the wake of his transformation; something about him had become more sinister. The man had always exuded an aura of general licentiousness, now moving into a specialized malignance which knew no bounds.

After several kilometers of ramshackle shoppes and dirty alleys, they left the waterfront behind, entering into a nicer area of the city. They turned onto a broad avenue, ing beneath an archway bearing the name Whitechapel.

A soaring, gothic cathedral loomed before them, thrusting its towers into the sky as if straining to be nearer to God. They cut across a crowded greensward, skirting an enormous fountain marking the entrance to a sprawling outdoor market plaza.

Finally Tat began to feel a little more at ease. Much of her life had been spent in places such as these, where shouting merchant’s hawked their wares to ers by. Several such misguided souls began to accost them before seeing something in the prospective customer’s eyes that made them think better of it. Absorbed in the familiar sights and sounds, Tat eagerly unburdened herself of her troubled thoughts.

Apparently back in his old stomping grounds, Yurgis’ dark mood lifted and he began pointing out buildings and landmarks of his youth.

“My fence lived above that butcher shop, and there, that’s alley where I cut my first purse.” This sudden jocularity unnerved her even more than his earlier rancor. There seemed a manic aspect to it, a feeling of calm before the storm…

“Ahh, here we are, yes?”

Here turned out to be a long, dark tunnel built into the brick facade of a

tumbledown textile mill. Emblazoned across the zenith, a street sign signified with a cryptic moniker...

Falconhead Ln.

A dissociative rush of images and associations from her dreams bombarded her. Pyramids, paints, and the predatory gaze of the Falcon-god. Fiery red hair dissolving into sky blue feathers, fading to pure white around the beak and eyes. Another piece of the puzzle? Or mere coincidence?

Despite the fanciful name, Falconhead Lane was more of a dingy backstreet opening onto a cul-de-sac filled with positively ancient four-storey townhouses, each with its own walled garden. Yurgis led her to one particularly decrepit edifice. The door was solid iron with a slot located at eye level. Beneath that was a stylized bird head, pitted from rust, clutching a knocker in its beak. A shiver of energy upon seeing it, this was too much to be a coincidence.

Yurgis grasped the ring in his enormous hand and thunderously knocked in a precise pattern, three quick, three slow, three quick. After what seemed like an eternity, the rusty slot slid back with a shrill note and a pair of enigmatic eyes gazed out at them. They widened perceptibly upon spying Yurgis, then jumped to her. Tat sank into the folds of her cassock, keeping her face in shadow.

“Yes? What do you want?” A dusky female voice inquired.

“I’m looking for Esion Seldeen, owner of this establishment, I am old friend.” The slot slid noisily shut. Instantly they heard the turning of many locks. It seemed they were to be granted ittance...

However, when the door was violently kicked open, she was forced to dodge out of the way as a flower pot, hurled at an incredible speed, struck her father a glancing blow on the head and shattered, instantly followed by an enraged woman erupting from the doorway. Leaping onto the back of a stunned and staggering Yurgis, using all her weight to bodily wrestle him to the ground, she straddled him, raining furious blows down upon his face and neck. The continuous flow of vitriolic language that spilled forth from her was delivered in an unfamiliar tongue, but could only be the foulest curses and epithets.

Somewhere along the line, the crazed harpy lapsed into English, “Bastard! How dare you show your face around here, you worm! You take the best years of my life, then abandon me to become a spinster managing my father’s boarding house?!”

Tat had never seen anyone assault her father. This foolish woman was g her own death warrant. But, it would be a lie if she said it wasn’t immensely cathartic seeing him on the receiving end of physical violence.

To her astonishment, a far cry from the murderous rage she’d expected, Yurgis was laughing and sputtering through a bloody mouth.

“Ah, Maria you always were a fiery one. I see little has changed.”

She sprang off Yurgis, redirecting her feminine fury toward Tat, “And who’s this then? Your new plaything? Some foreign slut you’ll use up and abandon, like me?”

She seized Tat’s arms and began to shake her while shouting curses. Escape was out of the question, her bony hands channeled the implacable strength of falcon talons. Mute with fear, all she could do was shake her head emphatically, denying all she was being accused of.

Then her hood fell off...

With a sudden gasp all the fight left Maria. She recoiled, releasing her from the angry embrace, standing there, staring in breathless amazement. Several stunned seconds ed, as Tat studied Maria’s face. It was clear that this woman had once been beautiful, but her days of girlish glory had long ago receded into the stark shadow of late middle age. Cruel wrinkles pinched her perfect skin, eyes resembling sunken pits of regret.

Yurgis regained his feet, brushing himself off, using his kerchief to wipe the blood from his brow. “This is my daughter, Tatiana. Tat, this is Maria Seldeen, daughter of my greatest friend.”

“Is that all I ever was to you?” Maria growled, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to take her eyes off of Tat.

Yurgis shrugged half-heartedly while Maria looked like she might start crying at any moment. With obvious difficulty, she pulled herself together. Banished was the scorned woman, replaced with the world-weary hostess.

“Well, you must be tired. Come in, rest and be welcome.” She surprised Tat by resolutely taking her hand and leading her into the house, Yurgis following closely behind.

The crowded entry chamber opened onto a dreary front room populated with overstuffed chairs and sofas. A thick patina of dust covered nearly everything. In seeming rebellion against the midsummer sunshine, all the shades were drawn, lending a creepy atmosphere to the musty room, which the flickering firelight from the central hearth did nothing to dispel. The combined effect of the silence, the dust and the eerie firelight invited comparisons to venturing into an undisturbed tomb, a place where something died long ago. It seemed that while this might’ve once been a popular meeting place, it had since fallen on hard times.

Now that her eyes were adjusting to the dim interior, she received an unexpected pang of homesickness. Arrayed upon every flat surface, Maria’s hoard of small treasures, painfully reminiscent of her little wagon room, sat quietly gathering dust; antiques, keepsakes, memories. Teacups and thimbles, collectible plates and stamps, ceramic figurines, paper flowers and candy hearts. The accumulated detritus of a life. Her eyes picked out a beautiful crystal menagerie, briefly wondering what cherished recollection it represented for her.

These musings were interrupted by the distinct feeling that she was being watched. It set her nerves on end, this aura of unseen observation. wandering through an archway into a disused parlor, she shivered, confronted with the source of her discomfort.

Maria’s prodigious doll collection immediately struck her as deeply disturbing. Countless pairs of painted, glass, and button eyes stared unblinking into the gloom, seeming to follow her wherever she went. Thousands of little girls, trapped in this lonely house, forgotten by the world. The sound of Yurgis’ voice, raised in impatience, brought her back to the moment at hand. With great relief, she turned her back, breaking away from this prison for pitiful simulacra...

“Where is your father? Where is Esion?”

Maria was several moments in answering, “Father died four years ago. Since then I have not taken in a single customer. Seems fitting that you are the first.” Maria did not look at him as she spoke, the venom in her voice, unmistakable.

Yurgis snorted in disbelief, “Esion Seldeen, dead? I don’t believe for a second.”

“Tis true…” Maria trailed off before continuing. “You know, he called for you on his deathbed. You were always his favorite.”

Tat sought to make herself unnoticeable, listening carefully as she curled up in a cracked leather recliner.

“You lie, I’d sooner believe news of my own death, where is grave?”

“You know where it is!” She shot back in anger.

Yurgis grew quiet, and when he did speak it was with a voice that cracked with unfamiliar emotion.

“Show my daughter to her room, you and I have things to discuss.” Dropping onto one of the antediluvian sofas, a cloud of dust puffing out.

Maria did not respond, instead retrieving a candelabra which she brashly lit in the fire. Offering her hand, Tat took it, following her up the stairs. The woman clutched her hand tightly, leading the way down a murky hallway. Judging by the way she kept glancing back, it was easy to conclude that Maria wished to speak to her, but something held her back. For a moment she considered breaking the ice herself, deciding it far easier to remain silent.

Rounding a corner, they ascended a second staircase to the third floor. As below, all the shades were drawn, and with naught but three candles for light, most of the hall was lost in darkness. Their age kicked up so much dust that Tat sneezed thrice in quick succession.

Near the back of the house they came to a set of double doors.

“Here we are, home sweet home…”

The line rang hollow, like an echo from a brighter past. Maria swept inside, lighting several more candles, eschewing the drawn blinds, revealing an expansive master bedroom dominated by a four-post bed complete with arched canopy and crimson, velvet curtains.

After the harrowing day she’d had, a nap sounded wonderful. Looking to Maria for permission, she kicked off her boots and climbed in. It was a feather mattress, by far the softest thing she’d ever laid upon.

Maria leaned over and kissed her cheek, causing Tat to flinch involuntarily. “Sleep now, child, I’ll be back to check on you later.” She glided out of the room, followed by the clearly audible tic and tumble of a key turning in a lock.

She was sleepy, but it was imperative to investigate her surroundings first. Blowing out the candles, she pulled the blinds and wan sunlight streamed into the room. It was then that she noticed the bars. It had been impossible to tell from the outside, but all her windows were barred, like a prison. In the back of Tat’s mind this troubled her, but she was so overwhelmingly relieved to have a measure of safety and sanity again that she gave up and accepted it.

The view was uninspiring to say the least. The side window faced a sooty, brick wall, while the far one overlooked the overgrown backyard of the house, enclosed on all sides by similarly sooty, brick walls. Quickly losing interest in these drab glimpses into an unwelcoming reality, she turned her attention back to the room.

Above the fireplace hung a portrait done in the style of the old masters. The subject, a powerful man in the prime of his life, rendered so realistically that he took on a life of his own, making her quite uncomfortable. He looked dangerous, in the same way her father was dangerous, but the eyes bespoke a gentleness not present in Yurgis’ character. She looked closer, was this Esion Seldeen? No, it couldn’t be, even a cursory glance told her this picture was perhaps centuries old; it must be an ancestor.

The longer she studied his face, angular nearly to the point of gaunt, the more she noticed a growing unease, no, more of an agitation, coming over her. Though she tried to look away, the intensity of his gaze held her transfixed. The feeling growing so powerful she feared she would faint. It took all her will and determination to break this spell, which she achieved by reaching up and turning the portrait to face the wall.

As she crossed to the other side of the room, ostensibly to get away from the unnerving picture, she ired the intricate patterns on the magnificent Persian

rug that stretched from wall to wall. Digging her toes into the thick, woollen weave elicited visions of aged artisans, bent over their primitive looms for hundreds of hours to produce a piece of this magnitude.

From the look of it, the antique furnishings appeared to be from the last century, displaying master craftsmanship in the elaborate carvings and scrollwork. An ornate writing desk sat in the far corner, would they be here long enough for her to use it? She searched around for writing utensils, the myriad tiny drawers empty except for an old key…

It looked like it had seen extensive use, the brass burnished to a shine from many turnings. Since she had no idea what such a mystery key might unlock, she was tempted to leave it, but a nagging suspicion wouldn’t allow her. She reached behind her neck, unclasped the silver chain and threaded the key onto it, where it hung next to Christ against her bare skin.

The towering armoire was likewise bare, save for a few stray mothballs. She took off the heavy robe and hung it up, followed by the rest of her clothes. Again drawing the blinds, she rolled naked into the soft bed, feeling like she was falling asleep on a cloud. She loosed the curtains and pulled the heavy folds of the duvet over her head, drawing it tight around her body.

Sleep refused to come; the bed was too soft. All her life she’d slept on a lumpy mattress stuffed with horsehair, her body was ill prepared for such comfort. She tossed and turned for a long hour until her back began to hurt. With an annoyed sigh, she stripped the pillows, sheets and quilt off the bed and onto the floor. Within minutes of laying down on the thick, woolen carpet, she was dropping off…

Crawling through a parched, burning desert with numerous vultures circling

overhead. A hundred meters distant, an oasis beckoned, but no matter how far she crawled, it remained stubbornly fixed to the horizon. A mirage... no respite, only delusion. Unable to drag her desiccated husk any further, she collapsed, rolling onto her back with arms outstretched, staring unblinking into a pestilent sun.

The vultures wheeled, spiraled down and settled around her, picking apart her body. Screeching as they fought over the tastiest bits of her exposed viscera. Consumed with revulsion, she tried to strike out at them, but her arms refused to cooperate. No matter how much the pitiless scavengers devoured, she would not die; eaten alive, until only bones remained...

In the shape of a cross.

Upon waking, the room was dark, and it took her a moment to where she was. It was an all too familiar feeling, seeing as how she’d awakened in many strange places of late. The events of the past several weeks closed in on her. Things were moving fast now, the future a nebulous shadow hanging over her.

What troubled her more were the things she couldn’t recall. After emerging from her coffin-like crate aboard the ship, her recollection lapsed into shadow and illusion, becoming more incomprehensible with each ing hour. How had they gotten from the lifeboat to England? Had they ever, in fact, boarded a lifeboat at all?

These traitorous memories blatantly contradicted one another. The days she spent holed up in the wheelhouse with Dobra as he told sailor stories. Finding sanctuary in Yurgis’ empty crate in the hold. Talking with the Dark Man…

None of that ever happened.

Or did it?

It was no use, the more she traversed the labyrinthine corridors of her mind, the more lost she became. With a growing dismay she delved back into her past, searching for anything concrete. A long-suppressed memory struggled to surface; the time she had tried to run…

He had been a little older, her first love, the musician, Izaak…

There was a crash, followed by the sound of an intense argument. Maria and Yurgis were warring over something she couldn’t quite make out. It soon became crystal clear as the angry shouting slowed, abruptly changing tone. The next sound she heard was a rhythmic thumping she knew all too well. It was the sound of the physical act of love, but whereas in her experience solely a one sided affair, now sounding like two scavengers fighting over a fresh carcass. Guttural howls and growls issuing from both, inevitably reaching a climax with united cries of ion. Tat, sickened with disgust, lay hard through the ensuing silence.

For the next hour or so she drifted in and out of shallow, uneasy sleep. At one point snapping awake, discerning the sound of diminutive, feminine steps. She tensed up at the tic and tumble of a key turned in a lock, and Maria entered. She did not appear surprised by the empty bed, instead approaching the spot where she lay.

“Tatiana, are you awake? Can I talk with you?”

“I… I guess so.” She nervously stammered.

Maria lay down, putting her arms around her, enfolding her in an intimate embrace. Confused as to why this woman was getting so close to her, Tat tried her best to relax. Breathing in her smell triggered something deep within. Feelings of warmth and safety, unmoored and floating free of any associated recollection. Maria began speaking in a voice thick with emotion, her erudite, British accent cracking at the seams.

“I first met Yurgis when I was a girl, younger than you are now. He was nineteen, a Ukrainian immigrant, living on the streets, stealing to survive. His parents both died of cholera shortly after arriving, you see.” This was the first time she’d ever heard anyone mention her paternal grandparents.

“I grew up rich and spoiled. I never wanted for anything. My parents ran this boarding house, which was a front for the largest thieves guild in the empire. Though my father, Esion, detested the word thief. He saw what he did in a much grander light, preferring the title of Adventurer, or Treasure Hunter. This place was constantly filled with guests from all over the world, as well as regulars who were in the crew.

“In the spring of my sixteenth year, Mother was killed on a job in South America. You see, my parents always worked together, though that’s not the story I’m trying to tell, another time perhaps. Walking back from St. Mary’s where her funeral was held, a filthy scoundrel tried to pick Father’s pocket. You must understand, Esion had nothing but contempt for street thieves, taking great pleasure in turning them over to the authorities. However, when he caught Yurgis attempting to lift his purse, he must have seen something in him, some grand

potential, because he took him into our home. Taught him the ways of the guild, and of the Paths of Power…”

Those last words caught Tat’s attention and she took mental note of the emphasis she placed on them.

Maria continued, “Perhaps, with mother dead, he realized that he would never sire a son to carry on his legacy. Whatever the reason, I, being a foolish young girl, fell in love with him. Not straight away, mind you, it took awhile for me to overcome my ingrained class prejudices. As well it took awhile for him to overcome his troubled life growing up on the streets. A little soap and water didn’t hurt either.

“My father was a powerful man, ruthless and unyielding, yet uncorrupted. He grew to love Yurgis as I did, the son he never had, and together we spent many happy years here. We also traveled the world searching for artifacts of ever greater mystery and power. For over ten years we existed thus. Then, on a trip to Egypt, everything changed.”

Here Maria paused and took several deep breaths, as if steeling herself for what was coming next.

“I discovered that I was with child.”

Tat became instantly alert, her heart pounding as adrenaline flooded her system.

“What are you saying?” She asked, stunned.

Again Maria took three deep breaths... “Tatiana, you were that child… I am your mother.”

Chapter Nine:

The Black Rose

“T atiana, breakfast!”

The strident call pierced through the veil and roused her from her first truly restful sleep in months. She sighed, stretching contentedly, surprised to be alone. Maria must have risen sometime in the night without waking her. The smell of cooking bacon wafted up from the kitchen below. All at once the events of the night before came back to her.

She had a mother…

This revelation had broken her, shattered the thinly veiled barrier of sanity she desperately sought to maintain. Inspired the frenetic outpouring of a lifetime of desperation and longing. The endless parade of guilt and shame kept bottled up inside. At first the tears burned with sadness, but through some bitter alchemy, the saltiness of her tears was transmuted into something almost unbearably sweet…

To her credit, Maria did her best to comfort her, shushing, cooing, kissing her forehead. For the most part she remained strong, though her composure eventually collapsed when expressing the desire that they become a family again. Together they shared those strange, sweet tears, both having regained something thought lost forever, until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, emotionally exhausted.

She folded up the blankets, placing them back on the bed, noticing that Maria

had laid out a beautiful blue dress for her to wear. She held it up and shook it out. Knowing nothing about expensive clothing, in her mind it resembled something a woman of noble birth might wear to a summer ball. The faery tale gown of a prisoner princess.

Beside the dress, a scrawled note lay atop a collection of complicated underclothes, full of laces, clips and assorted fasteners she was clueless how to operate. She picked up the note, scanning it distractedly.

My Treasure, This dress belonged to me when I was a girl, it should be about your size. If you need assistance with the undergarments, I’ll be happy to help you. No selfrespecting woman should have to go around naked under her clothes! Maria... Mother.

A thin smile curled her lip, a terse chuckle escaping her upon reading the final words. She hadn’t laughed in years, and even though the joke wasn’t especially funny, she was feeling generous and cherished any sign of her mother’s personality.

This levity was short lived as her thoughts turned unexpectedly ugly at the prospect of this new life. Puzzled to find that she was dreading the moment when she had to descend the stairs and face the two of them.

Maria wanted them to be a family, but that was impossible. After everything Yurgis had done, she could never forgive him. The idea that Maria could, after he abandoned her, even absconding with their newly born child, gave her serious cause for concern. And then there were Yurgis’ reasons for all this, which she

could not divine. Surely he wasn’t interested in settling into a domestic rut.

She shook her head, why was she always so negative? This should be the happiest day of her life. If this was what she’d always wanted, why then did she feel so awful?

Instead of getting dressed, she went to the armoire and retrieved the torn photograph, looking it over carefully. Upon close scrutiny, she noticed a tiny detail she’d missed. Whoever was standing next to Yurgis must’ve had their arm around his back, because there was a hand on his shoulder; a hand that could only belong to a woman…

It stood to reason that Maria would be the missing person from the other half of the picture. She mentioned being in Egypt so that checked out. Furthermore, it seemed natural for new parents to be photographed with their child.

Yet, if Maria was indeed there, then that meant that Dobra had lied to her when he claimed not to have known her mother, why would he do that?

Then it dawned on her, the significance of Dobra’s words.

He had to have known that Maria was in England, so when Yurgis made it clear he meant to return… This must be the one thing he was seeking, to reunite them. But why? For what purpose?

“Tatiana?”

Maria’s hesitant voice came from the doorway. This time Tat remained unruffled, she’d expected Maria to come when she didn’t respond to her summons, and by now she was used to people walking in on her. She slyly slid the photo between the mattress and box spring, not yet ready to give her trust fully.

“Good morning… Mother.” The word felt strange on her tongue, and she hoped her fears and doubts weren’t betrayed by her quivering voice.

Maria tentatively approached, “Why, you’re not even dressed yet, you’re in big trouble, young lady!” She mock-chastised with a curt laugh before becoming serious. “Is everything alright?”

Tat tried to laugh it off, and failed, “I’m a little nervous.”

Maria sat next to her on the bed, putting an arm around her shoulders, drawing her near, “Of course you are, darling. To be perfectly honest, I’m scared too. Scared that that too much time has ed and we missed our chance for any meaningful connection. Scared that you won’t ever love me. I couldn’t sleep at all last night, such was my fear.”

Tat felt her icy heart melt a little. “Oh mother, I think it will take time. Until last night I’ve spent my entire life laboring under the lie that you died bringing me into this world. It’s going to take a bit of adjustment.” She hoped that calling attention to Yurgis’ deceit would inspire anger, rousing her mother’s protective instincts. Tat desperately needed Maria on her side.

It appeared to work as Maria rose from the bed and stood before her, hands gently placed on her shoulders, as their eyes met. “Your father has done many terrible things, and believe me, if I have my way he will be made to answer for all of them. I know not why he took you from me, but now that you’re back, I have no intention of letting go again. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this. I will endure anything to keep you near me.”

Tat was swept up in an embrace so tight, she could scarcely draw breath.

“Now let’s get you dressed, my treasure.”

Yurgis was reading the Times when Maria and Tat entered the dining room, a half-eaten mound of eggs, bacon and potatoes sitting before him. He appeared agitated by something he saw in the paper, so she sat down without a word, not wishing to risk provoking him as Maria pushed through the side door to the kitchen. All the shades were up, itting the early morning sunshine as well as giving the seeming impression that the house itself, so long held in stasis, had once again reed the flow of time, looking to the future with cautious hope for perhaps the first time in years.

Having never worn a corset before, Tat was supremely uncomfortable. The feeling of being bound, restricted, unable to breathe freely, it all reminded her of being buried alive. She wondered why anyone would ever submit to this. A frustrated grunt escaped her as she squirmed in her chair, seeking a position which would alleviate her discomfort.

Yurgis slammed down the paper in disgust, “Maria! More Coffee!” He shouted.

Her mother glided into the room, a coffee pot in one hand and a plate of food in the other. “No need to shout, love,” she said, serving Tat her breakfast before refilling his mug. “And no reading at the table.” She added, deftly snatching the newspaper and folding it up under her arm. Expecting protest, amazed when he said nothing, simply returning to his food.

Tat began to eat, never taking her eyes off Yurgis. Filling her gaze with as much hatred as she could muster, wanting to make a scene, to confront him about his heinous deception, to force him to explain his actions. Several times she almost spoke, thinking better of it each time, not yet willing to face the consequences of such an action. So, she sat there, brimming with odium, as she sought to burn a hole through him with her eyes.

Yurgis glanced up and their gaze locked as Maria sat down to her own plate. Normally, Tat would’ve looked away immediately. This time, standing her ground, trying to say with her eyes all the things that her voice, caged within her breast, could not. Wordless communication ed between them, as it only can between mortal enemies. He seemed to be daring her to do it, inviting her to defy him and see where it got her…

Maria, oblivious to this silent power struggle, reached out, covering Tat’s hand with her own. “Did you sleep well, darling?”

Tat did not reply, barely heard the question. Far from breaking the tension, her inquiry only intensified it. As if Maria was butting in on their unfinished business.

Yurgis’ lips curled into a snarl, “You have something to say, dear Daughter?”

For a moment, she almost did; almost succeeded in freeing her voice from its self-imposed prison. So hard did she struggle that her face twisted into a grotesque scowl before she surrendered, breaking eye- and looking down at her now unappetizing breakfast.

“No.” She whispered.

Yurgis sat back with a satisfied smile, “Well then, answer your mother.”

“Yes, mother.” She managed.

Maria smiled, squeezing her hand. Her eyes, seeming to say, I know this is hard. Be strong, we will get through this.

Crisis temporarily averted, everyone returned to their respective meals, an awkward silence settling over the table. It had been ages since Tat had eaten bacon, and she’d almost forgotten how good it was. She had to fight the urge to gorge herself as she usually did. Choosing instead to nibble the fatty edges, savoring every bite. She did not wish to appear ill-mannered and provincial in front of Maria.

“Yurgis, I have to go to market today, the cupboards are woefully understocked now that I am cooking for three, and I’d like to take Tatiana…”

“No.” Yurgis denied her request, even as Tat perked up at the possibility of spending time with her mother at such a mundane task. “She is not to leave

house.”

Maria, instantly incensed, turned on him, “So, what? You expect to keep her locked up here like a common prisoner? Yurgis, she is our daughter! Yours and mine, even though you seem to forget that, and I don’t need to ask your permission to take my daughter to market!”

From here the argument escalated. Tat tried to block it out, pretending she wasn’t even here. In her heart, she knew she probably shouldn’t leave the house. After all, the police were still after them.

No they aren’t…

Yes they are…

It was happening again. She clutched her head as it began to throb, made worse by the fierce argument thundering around her. The competing memory lines still refused to integrate; it was like having an itch you couldn’t reach, or a bit of food painfully wedged between your teeth. Something you couldn’t ignore, yet could do nothing about. If anything, the false timeline seemed to grow stronger, like it could overwhelm her at any moment. With all the yelling, she couldn’t concentrate, beginning to hyperventilate, the corset tightening around her like a fanatical embrace.

Hurtful words filled up her world. Accumulating in her mind, and building to a dense cacophony that threatened to destroy what was left of her precarious rationality. When Yurgis threw his plate against the wall, shattering the fine china, she could endure no more. She stood up and ran from the dining room.

“Tatiana!” She heard them yell after her in unison.

Tat crossed the living room, suffering under the gaze of ever-watchful painted, glass and button eyes. Heading for the staircase and the sanctuary of her room; this corset had to come off now. She’d mounted the stairs when from behind her came a sound that froze her in her tracks…

It was a knock at the door. Three short, three long, three short.

Time seemed to stop around her, an intense feeling of fear blossoming in the pit of her stomach. Turning back to the door, there was Maria and Yurgis frozen in the dining room archway. Looking remarkably the same as she felt. For a moment, nobody made a move, even to breathe. Then it came again.

Tap, tap, tap. Knock. Knock. Knock, tap, tap, tap.

“Expecting someone?” Yurgis quietly accused Maria.

She didn’t respond.

“That is our special knock.” He added.

“Well then, perhaps you should answer it.” She coldly replied.

Yurgis began to approach the door. Tat took this opportunity to sprint up the steps to the landing where she crouched, peering between the posts in the banister. Rummaging in the umbrella stand, he retrieved a deadly looking broadsword which he brandished in one hand, the other fiddling with the locks. As he turned the final deadbolt, he kicked the door open…

Nobody was there.

From this vantage point, she could see something on the doorstep, unable to quite make it out.

“Shit!” Yurgis cursed.

He stepped out momentarily and returned bearing a small box, which he set down on an end table, and a letter, which he slit open with the edge of the sword before returning it to its place in the umbrella stand.

He read for several seconds, then crumpled the letter and threw it at Maria. “This is your doing!”

Her mother calmly un-crumpled the paper and read it aloud.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Yannek. I believe you have something that belongs to us. The Aurum Solis does not forget, and our reach is long. Think hard on this, for next time we will not ask so nicely,” Maria paused, looking up

before concluding, “Severin Laquatis.”

“Those fucking alchemists!” Yurgis was livid. “You told them we were here!” He seized Maria by the shoulders, shaking her violently before she was able to wrench herself free of his grasp.

“Tell me, when would I have done that? When I was fucking you?! When I was consoling our daughter, whom you have irrevocably traumatized?! You idiot, they’ve kept a watch on the house since Esion died, knowing you would be back!”

Tat was out of her depth, having no idea what was going on. She was able to gather that her father’s old enemies were keen to reclaim stolen property. Even knowing what little she did of his history, that was hardly surprising.

What was surprising was that Maria didn’t seem to fear Yurgis at all, perfectly willing to butt heads like rutting mountain goats. A shy smile curled her lips when she called him an idiot, then the thought of how she’d violently attacked him the day before split her mouth into a grin. At long last, someone who could protect her, whom her father couldn’t easily dispose of.

They both appeared to be settling down, though they were far from calm. “Do you still have it? The Phi…”

Yurgis cut her off, “Of course! That is not something one gets rid of.”

“It was Esion’s sincere wish that we work together with the alchemists. Our aims are not so different.”

“Judas! You would have me betray first tenant…”

“Yurgis, that was years ago. It’s time to move on!”

He did not reply. Retrieving the box, he untied the twine and removed the lid. When he held its contents up to the light, a shiver ran up her spine.

It was a black rose…

A profound sense of relief infused her as she ripped at the laces of the corset, drawing it up over her head and throwing it to the ground. Her heart was hammering, something about the scene she’d witnessed had profoundly affected her. Once again pulling on her dress, she ferreted her photograph out of its hiding place, tucking it into a fold at her waist. They had not followed her up the stairs, so she was not locked in. Swallowing her fear, she cracked the door, pressing one eye close.

Nobody in the hall, no sound from below. If Yurgis and Maria were fighting, they were keeping it down. Then again, she was on the third floor, how much sound could reach her up here? It was only a matter of time before one of them came up here to imprison her once more, and she didn’t plan on waiting around until that happened. It wasn’t that she entertained any grand fantasies of escape, merely desiring to break out of her submissive role, to rebel in a small way against what she saw as an unacceptable situation; she ventured out into the hall.

Though she had no conscious idea where she was going, her feet made it plain that they knew exactly where they were headed. Swiftly making their way to the opposite end of the house, they halted before the door to the attic. How she instinctively knew this was, like many things of late, a complete mystery to her. Without even trying the knob, she pulled out the brass key she’d discovered the day before, inserting it in the lock and turning until she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the deadbolt gave way. Without hesitation, she entered, taking the shallow steps two at a time, leaving the door open so Mother could find her…

The attic was a cavernous, open space, running the length of the house. The pitched roof arched overhead, rafters looming barely a meter above. It appeared, at one time, to have been a large bedroom, a fact attested to by the ornate, kingsized bed at one end. That must’ve been long ago, for now the only thing that slumbered here was the past. The room was piled high with boxes and crates, most likely filled with sentimental junk deemed too precious to abandon.

Set in the far wall that faced the front of the house was a circular window wider than her arms could reach. Stepping close, she could barely see over the surrounding buildings and was treated to a far-reaching view of the city. From way up here it was almost possible to forget the disappointment she’d felt traversing it at street-level. Though the belching smokestacks served as a constant reminder of the fallacy of expectations. She looked down at the street below…

If you got a running start, this window would shatter easily. It’s not the fall that hurts…

“It’s when you hit the ground.”

She shook her head to clear it; why wouldn’t these thoughts leave her alone? There was now something to live for, someone who truly cared about her. Killing herself should be the last thing on her mind, though old habits seem to die hard.

From far below, indistinct yelling and the slamming of a door. Yurgis suddenly appeared, striding purposefully away from the house. She briefly wondered where he was going before realizing that she didn’t care, just glad that he was gone. Maria would be coming for her shortly.

With no small difficulty, she turned from the window, drifting over towards the bed, noticing that the covers were disturbed at one spot, as if someone sat here often. On the nightstand, a curious, leather-bound volume ignited her curiosity. Upon opening it, she discovered that it was a photo album.

She reached into the folds of her dress for her photograph. The edges of her picture were scalloped in such a way that they matched perfectly the ones in the album. This alone was not enough to be certain, but it was a distinct possibility that the same camera was used.

She scanned the first few pages, looking for anything or anyone she recognized, disappointed to find only unfamiliar people and places. Many of the pictures featured a stoic, middle aged woman in the late stages of pregnancy. Was this her grandmother?

Eventually these gave way to what must be baby pictures of her mother. One in particular gave her pause, a swaddled and bonneted Maria, held in the arms of an older man. This had to be her father, Tat’s grandfather, Esion Seldeen. The

family resemblance was strong. The eyes, practically piercing the page, reminded her of the painting in her room.

Again, she had the unsettling feeling of being on the verge of becoming lost in those eyes, like she stood at the edge of a precipice and all it would take to send her over was the slightest push. Yet, she wanted that fall, desired it intensely...

She turned the page.

Moving on, the photographs were arranged in chronological order, telling a kind of story. Here was her mother, age five, on her first day of school. Then a few pages later, at her tenth birthday party, surrounded by smiling children. Here, at thirteen, mounted on a horse, grinning so wide Tat could almost count every one of her teeth. Such a happy, vivacious child.

Even though she knew it was coming, the first picture of Maria and Yurgis caught her totally off guard, forcing her to blink back tears. They stood in full sunshine, framed by the sky, his long black hair pulled back under a bowler, his suit, impeccably tailored. Her mother, no older than twenty, resplendent in a dazzling green gown, nestled in his arms as they gazed into each other’s eyes. She looked closer, examining this forgotten moment in time. Yurgis seemed to be going in for a kiss while her mother had one hand on his chest, leaning slightly back, mouth open in laughter, as if flirtatiously playing hard to get. Even though the picture was static, there was a kinetic excitement to it; the way they looked at each other, as if they were the only two people in all the world.

The more she looked at it, the worse she felt. Here were two people in the grip of ion, two wandering souls who had found in each other a reason to shine. What cruel fate could cause such a perfect love to sour? What had happened?

Me… I happened.

The tears she’d been fighting won their freedom, dripping onto the page. On top of all her other sins, that she had destroyed something this beautiful, this pure, was truly unforgivable. These two knew nothing of what life held in store for them, all they knew was each other, the righteousness of their love. To discover that she was the sole linchpin upon which this whole terrible future hung, plunged her into a depression deeper than any she’d ever known. All she could do was weep, for her birth was the death of love.

It’s not the fall that hurts…

So wrapped up was she in her misery that she didn’t notice Maria until she sat down on the bed beside her.

“I had hoped to find you here.” She said.

Tat was trying so hard to keep from sobbing that she couldn’t reply.

“What’s wrong, my treasure?” Maria asked, reaching out and tenderly rubbing her back.

It was too much, the dam burst and Tat began to blubber.

“Before I came… there was happiness… love once bloomed where now there is only darkness.” Though she meant it to sound serious, the unintentional rhyme made it seem like the melodramatic poetess residing within her had formed the first stanza of her epic tragedy. She buried her head in Maria’s lap and cried while she stroked her hair.

Her mother closed the photo album, placing it again on the end table. “Tatiana, I’m not going to lie and say I understand what you’re going through. I want you to , none of this is your fault. Happiness did not end when you came, why, the day I first held you in my arms was the happiest day of my life.”

Tat looked up, sniffling, “Truly?” She asked.

Maria gave her a smile so wide that Tat could count every one of her teeth. “Of course, my treasure. There is no feeling on earth that I could liken it to, holding this tiny life within for so long, nurturing it, and then one day there you are, perfect in every way,” Maria kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry my treasure, I wish I could spend the rest of the day telling you just how much you mean to me. Unfortunately your father won’t be gone forever, and we have important errands to run.”

“Oh, Mother, I’m afraid I don’t much feel like going to market now.”

“Wonderful… because we aren’t going to market…”

When they emerged some twenty minutes later, a coach-and-four awaited them. The horses stamped and pulled at the reins, eager to be off, breath clouding in the chilly morning air. Climbing into the coach, Tat, having once more retreated

into the baggy folds of her monk’s cassock, said silent thanks that she would be spared the intrusive eyes of ersby. The thought of the inquisitive stares of strangers was too much to bear, and though there was the distinct possibility that she might not be a fugitive, best not take any chances. Maria rattled off an address to the driver and they were away.

Tat looked out through the lace curtains as the sea of humanity parted to grudgingly allow their age. It gave her a heady feeling of power to be able to observe people from the safety of the coach, hidden from view. Maria settled down on the seat opposite her and unslung the leather satchel she carried, placing it by her feet; she had refused to divulge its contents. The destination and nature of their errand was likewise kept secret. Tat’s curiosity was piqued.

Her mother seemed distracted as she nervously fidgeted with her watch, they were obviously doing something of which Yurgis would definitely not approve. Turning away from the grim reality glimpsed through the window, Tat finally voiced the question that had haunted her for her entire life.

“Mother,” even now the word sounded strange to her. She wondered if it would ever feel natural. “Was I really born this way?” She asked, indicating her illustrated skin.

Maria turned to face her, spending several seconds contemplating the question. Then she crossed over and sat next to her, draping an arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.

“Yes, my treasure, when you came out of me you were nearly black, so tightly coiled were your markings. I was shocked, to say the least, and Yurgis was furious. He demanded to know if I’d been trolling the bazaars at night, picking up African merchants.”

Both Maria and Tat laughed at this. It felt good to laugh; for so long her spirit had been shackled and confined, now it was time for her to abandon the past and let it learn to shine once again. In spite of her aversion to being touched, she found she was enjoying the close intimacy developing between them. Even going so far as to reach down, taking Maria’s hand in her own, tracing the deep tracks in her palm with her finger.

“But, why? What caused me to be born as I am? This isn’t natural. What can it all mean?”

Maria breathed a contented sigh, “Who can say? Not everything has a meaning. Some things just are. Would that be so terrible? Just to be, for the sake of yourself?

This time it was Tat’s turn to contemplate a question. “I suppose not,” she’d intended to leave it at that before words began pouring out of her. “Then again, whatever this is that’s wrong with me has profoundly affected my whole life. To find out now that it has no meaning, no purpose, would invalidate my entire existence in a way. All my suffering would’ve been for naught.” She tried to recall the last time she’d strung so many words together at once and had trouble.

Maria drew her closer still, stroking her hair as Tat laid her head on her shoulder, absentmindedly looking out the window as the coach trundled across London Bridge.

“Some meanings are known only to God, my treasure.”

Tat lifted her head, “Mother, does God really exist?”

At this Maria laughed, her voice sounding like spun silver shot through with molten gold.

“My dear, if I knew that, I might alleviate all the suffering in this world. In truth, nobody knows if it exists or not. That is a question everyone must figure out for themselves.”

Tat wasn’t satisfied, Dobra had avoided her question in remarkably the same fashion. She pressed the issue.

“Well, what’s the answer for you, what do you think?”

Maria lifted her arm from Tat’s shoulders, sliding back on the seat so they could better face each other.

“I’ll tell you a little story my father told me when I first questioned him about God. He said that our hearts and minds are like a mighty tree, and our spirit is a young squirrel at play within its branches, never stopping, forever looking and exploring; however, within this tree is another. A creature so old and wise, that it existed long before the tree itself grew out of the seeds it had once gathered together. And, if we can calm the restless squirrel of the spirit, to sit in the presence of this wise, old animal. We might know God, and eternal peace.”

Tat couldn’t grasp the full meaning of this analogy, so she filed it away for later

rumination, deciding not to question further. For a while after that, they sat in comfortable silence, until nearly rocked to sleep by the gentle motion of the coach.

“I am about to betray your father.” Maria blurted out.

This ission caught her off guard, “In what way?” She asked suspiciously. It wasn’t as if she harbored any feelings of loyalty to that beast, but not even Maria could reasonably expect to escape his retribution. Of all the people who had tried, none were still living.

Her mother chose not to reply to her question, “I want you to know that, whatever happens, I am doing all of this for you… for us. There is a woman I must consult before going through with this, that is where we are headed now. There are going to be people there who will be very excited to meet you.”

“Ohhhhh! I hate meeting new people.” Tat whined.

“These are the best people I know, I would willingly place my life in their hands. Time is coming when I may have to,” she added cryptically. “Just be yourself, and , you don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to. I would prefer you don’t say much of anything, though of course, I leave that to your discretion.”

Chapter Ten:

The Tree of Life

They arrived at an old brownstone in a particularly unsavory neighborhood in the south of the city. The building immediately struck Tat as odd, but it was several seconds before she realized that its oddness stemmed from the fact that it was devoid of windows; not a single opening marred the monolithic brick façade save the front entrance. The building was enormous, four or five storeys if she had to guess, though without windows for reference it was impossible to say for sure. They disembarked, Maria handing the driver a five pound note.

The driver gave a long, low whistle. “Take your time, milady,” he drawled, climbing down from his seat and patting one of the horses. “We’ll be ‘ere when you need us.” After a decidedly lecherous wink, he affected an impressive swagger, approaching a clutch of giggling women in a nearby doorway from which raucous laughter issued.

Tat furtively scanned the crowded street. Even this far south of the river, the rampant filth and lawlessness one witnessed in ports and waterfronts had spread like an infection. People scurried like cockroaches while buildings, stained by decades of rain and soot, towered all around, making her feel claustrophobic as they pressed close on all sides. Who could they possibly be meeting with in this squalid district?

A smartly attired doorman emerged and addressed them, “Ahh, Madam Seldeen, it has been quite a while since you’ve graced us with your presence. I trust there is no problem?”

His skin was the color of a polished chestnut; tall, well muscled and lean, with a

mean look to him that clashed with his fine suit. He did not strike her as a man one wanted to cross if they valued their life.

Her mother took her hand, protectively pulling her close. “That remains to be seen, Grayson. It is the reason for my visit today,” she then exchanged her gracious greeting voice for a hoarse whisper. “I would speak with Kether, is she available?”

In response, Grayson slid open the hatch of the tiny spy-hole, quietly spoke to someone within, and the door was promptly unlocked. It appeared that he trusted Maria so implicitly that he didn’t even need to inquire as to the identity of her shy companion. He ushered them inside.

“For a scion of the first tenant, Kether is always available…”

They entered a darkened chamber where a slight, bespectacled man with extraordinary mutton chops sat securely behind a solid metal counter that ran the entire length of the room, surmounted by a cage of steel bars. On the wall behind him were four identical clocks, each bafflingly displaying different times, hours apart. He greeted her mother as he would an old friend.

“Why, Maria! We ‘aven’t seen you in… well gotta be bout a year now I reckon. Lovely to see you again ma’am.”

“Hello Arthyr, I apologize for my long absence. I have been meaning to come around more often. Today I fear it is business of the utmost importance that has brought me.”

“Oh dear, well I’ll it you directly, anything to check?”

“No, I require this for my meeting with Kether.” She opened the satchel, displaying its contents to the man.

“And who is your companion today?” He asked, turning his istrative attention to Tat.

Maria briefly hesitated, “…Would you believe me if I told you it was my daughter?” She queried in a sly tone.

The man gave her an odd look, then laughed, a little nervously, “Knowing you, not at all, I’m afraid, but your point is well taken,” and, taking up a quill, he signed the guestbook with a flourish. “Maria Seldeen and mysterious friend, at twelve-sixteen and nine seconds.” Then, satisfied that all was well, he turned and operated a large crank on the wall which unbarred the massive iron door at the other end of the chamber.

“Welcome to the Tree of Life.”

Tat was well-impressed with the security of this place. Even if someone of nefarious purposes did manage to get past the imposing doorman, Grayson, she recalled, they would have no recourse unless Arthyr opened the way from within his enclosure. Even if they threatened him with guns, he could duck behind the counter, and if they did succeed in shooting him, they couldn’t reach the crank. It seemed like a fool-proof system. What manner of establishment would require

such stringent precautions?

Beyond the doorway, they ed into a long hallway echoing with the sound of Liszt, or Mozart; one of those frumpy classical composers. Tat had always harbored a strong aversion to symphonic music. It seemed to possess a sterile, intellectual bent that ran counter to her fundamental aesthetics. This was not music that spontaneously sprang from the heart, but from the brain, with its logic and reason and its cold, calculated poly-rhythms. From what she could hear it sounded like a cello, flute, and maybe a harp?

As they reached the main hall, they were confronted with the source of the offending music; three women sat playing their instruments at the foot of a fullygrown tree that reached up four storeys, its topmost branches nearly brushing a massive skylight. Each successive floor had a circular balcony that ran the entire circumference, looking down on this cylindrical, atrium-like room. Staring in muted wonder, she saw now from whence this place derived its name.

Feeling out of her depth, Tat hung back in the hall, trying to make herself unnoticeable as Maria brashly entered. There was an instant commotion as the music ceased, the ladies laying aside their instruments and crowding around, effusively greeting her. Her mother fervently returned their greetings, embracing each of them in turn in a blatantly motherly fashion which left Tat feeling more than a little jealous.

“Lady Seldeen, we thought you’d forsaken us.” This was spoken in a thick Scottish accent by the flautist, a slight, pale wisp of a girl with long black hair who appeared no older than twenty.

“Oh, Hod, you know I could never do that, you girls are like family to me.”

The apparent leader of the group spoke up in the restrained tones of a proper English lady, “Well, tell us, what has kept you away for so long? What adventures have so occupied your attention that you would neglect your family?”

The first thing Tat noticed about this impossibly beautiful creature were the positively enormous breasts that nearly spilled over the top of the tightly-laced bodice that bound her. Then her eyes wandered up to a cherubic face, framed by a glorious cascade of sun-yellow curls. As if aware of being observed, the woman turned, their eyes locking for a split-second before Tat gasped, looking down, sinking into the depths of her hood, feeling her face redden.

“Who is that?” She demanded, before Maria could respond to her original question.

Maria beckoned, “My treasure, don’t hide in the shadows, there is nothing to fear here.”

Reluctantly, Tat ventured into the room, being careful to keep the hem of her hood covering her eyes, cutting the world in half, rendering people nothing more than pairs of disembodied legs. Her exotic appearance was going to cause a scene, so she was putting it off as long as she could.

Maria introduced her to the legs, which drew slightly nearer in curiosity.

“Ladies, this will come as a shock to you all. This… is my daughter… Tatiana.”

The reaction was immediate as all three women began talking at once. Their voices amalgamating into a cacophony of birdsong.

“You’ve never mentioned a daughter…”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I don’t believe it…”

“Why does she keep her face covered?”

Tat steadfastly refused to look up and meet their eyes, keeping her gaze firmly affixed to the sun-baked flagstones. Maria let all their questions go unanswered.

“Please, girls, she is quite shy, and with good reason. There will be plenty of time for proper introductions later. We must see Kether.”

This caused the three to excitedly whisper among themselves for several seconds before the buxom leader again spoke.

“She is currently in communion with the supernals in Chesed, upon Briah,” her words striking Tat as being mostly nonsense. “And will be for the next thirtyseven minutes and forty seconds, thirty nine, thirty eight…”

It was at this point that Tat noticed the large grandfather clock that they were all facing. It was a remarkable, functional work of art, nearly twice as large as any she had ever seen. Recalling the clocks in the entry chamber, it was easy to surmise that whatever was going on here was of an obsessively punctual nature. She looked around, marveling at three other identical clocks marking the cardinal directions of the room, each displaying a different time…

She continued, “Twould be a heinous thing to interrupt, unless, of course, you insist…” Almost sounding as if she wanted her to insist.

Maria didn’t miss a beat, “I do…”

“Very well, but she must remain here,” she replied, obviously referring to Tat. “It is now the tide of Ain Soph, and only known allies may enter the Tree.” Tat was quite confused by all this, what was this place?

After a moment’s hesitation, Maria agreed.

“Good... Yesod.”

“Yes?” Her elfin features lighting up under an unruly nest of brown locks.

“Take her up to Chesed by the route Tau, Samekh, Yod. The world, temperance, and the hermit.”

The harpist nodded resolutely, “Please come with me, milady.”

Maria leaned close to Tat and whispered, “I will send for you to us presently, relax and be yourself. Surely they will love you as I do.” She punctuated this terse farewell with a quick kiss on her forehead.

“Don’t leave me with them… please.” She begged, grasping for a hand, her mother already pulling away.

Then she was gone, the silence so thick it was nearly a tangible thing. Somewhere Tat could hear the muffled sound of running water.

“Hod, please leave us, I would talk with… Tatiana, alone. Go find Netzach and tell her what has happened here.”

“But Tiphareth…”

“Hod… go.”

The smaller woman stamped her foot and spun on her heel, a flare of skirts and petticoats, exiting the chamber in a huff.

“So, Lady Maria has been hiding a daughter for all these years. Where has she

been keeping you?”

Tat remained silent, not yet sure about the woman’s motives.

“Don’t talk much, do you? The others will never forgive me if I waste this chance, Tatiana Seldeen…”

“Stannek.” Tat croaked

“Pardon?”

“My name, is Tatiana Stannek.” She replied with a little more confidence.

The woman, Tiphareth, sat down on one of the finely upholstered chairs that furnished the space, effecting a spread-legged posture both provocative, yet relaxed; she was clearly a cello player.

“No, it’s not. Anyone born into Esion’s family is a Seldeen, regardless of paternity,” she spoke playfully, her voice in many ways resembling that of her chosen instrument. “He built this place you know, designed it himself, bequeathed it in perpetuity to those who came before us, as well as to those who will come after…”

“What is this place?” Tat asked, hoping to shift the topic of discussion away from herself.

“As Maria said, there will be time for such things later. I am more interested in knowing how and why you have come to us, now of all times. There has been quite a bit of nervous tension flowing through the astral of late, portents of significant events. We’ve all been on edge for weeks. Now you show up, unannounced, and presented as the direct heir of the Seldeen line. Who are you?” Visibly flustered, Tiphareth stood and approached. “Remove your hood.” She commanded.

Having no plausible reason to refuse, Tat complied, dropping the hood and meeting her eyes.

The look of surprise and confusion on Tiphareth’s angelic face was wellapparent.

“Amazing,” she breathed. “Are those Tattoos?”

Tat felt a grim satisfaction as she answered, “No, this is the way I was born.”

For a moment she could see that Tiphareth was unsure whether she was joking or not.

“Truthfully?”

“Yes, ask Maria if you don’t believe me.”

“Everywhere? All over your body?’’

“More or less.”

“Hmm, now that’s something I’d like to see,” she muttered. “I recognize the Ajna, but the rest, what is it? It’s not Sanskrit, what are these other symbols?”

Tat felt her hopes fall. She’d momentarily held an unfounded certainty that this woman would recognize her markings. “I was hoping you could tell me. I know of the Chakras, though no one I’ve ever met could tell me anything about the rest.”

In response, Tiphareth bent her face close to Tat’s own, invading her personal space with a familiarity that unnerved her. She was almost hard to look upon, such was her perfection, as those wide eyes probed and examined.

Tat put up her hood as Tiphareth appeared to reach a decision. Grabbing her hand, she brusquely pulled her through the same door Maria had so recently entered.

“Malkuth, where is Geburah?”

This room was largely empty except for a raven-haired woman seated behind a long mahogany desk bearing a large ledger open to laboriously hand-drawn charts and tables. Her toothsome features spoke of strong Russian stock, and she

had on heavy black eye makeup. Behind her were floor to ceiling shelves of baskets containing what appeared to be all manner of herbs, gemstones and metals. The air was fragrant with pungent incense.

She crossed her arms, pouting in mock petulance, “Hello, Tiphareth, nice to see you as well.”

Her escort sighed, “I apologize, dear one, no time for manners. This is Tatiana Seldeen… Maria’s daughter…” She trailed off, letting the news sink in.

“Maria has no children,” Malkuth replied, glancing distractedly in Tat’s direction. “It is accepted fact that Esion’s house dies with her.”

“Be that as it may, she was presented to me as such and I have as yet no real evidence to the contrary,” she addressed Tat. “Show her.”

She took down her hood, submitting herself to another stark appraisal.

The shock was short-lived, all too soon those dark eyes narrowed in suspicion; she was not impressed.

“I am to believe that this tattooed slip of a girl is a Seldeen? Looks more like she escaped from a cirkus.”

Tat winced as a hot burst of anger threatened to escape her. She felt a hand on

her shoulder, and turned to see Tiphareth subtly shake her head.

Not now, not here.

“I know you did not mean to insult the alleged progeny of our founder and patron, God rest his soul. I make no claim as to the parentage of this girl, I will say that these are not tattoos, this is a naturally occurring condition.”

Something in her tone, or perhaps those bewitching eyes, was enough, not to convince, but to at least plant a seed of doubt. Malkuth inclined her head in thought, wrestling with the implications.

“I think you can now appreciate why we must reach Geburah at once.”

After a further moments vacillation, Malkuth glanced at her wall clock, then began flipping through her desk ledger.

“Let’s see, twelve-twenty six, on the tenth of June…” This was news to Tat, who had not known the proper date for months. “She is in preparation for a solstice ritual in Chokmah. It begins in eleven minutes,” she turned and rummaged through the baskets. “Here, you will need seven quartz to traverse Shin, two lapis for Mem, and finally, five garnets for Cheth.”

She placed the crystals on the counter, and Tiphareth sorted them into a small hand bag with many pockets. Tat let this all happen without comment, mystified as to what was being decided here.

“Thanks, Mal.” Tiphareth said.

“Hurry, and don’t forget, the pillar of synthesis is meeting this evening at eight thirty-two in your sephiroth.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She replied.

The chamber beyond contained an altar, a tableau of esoteric diagrams drawn on the floor with chalk, and seven candle stands each with seven candles. Sheets of delicate silk in all colors hung on ringed rails high up on the walls so that the room could be fully adorned in any color desired by pulling the sheets up over the rail. Flipping them like the pages of a book until the desired color was displayed, which was presently a deep, royal blue. The hazy air smelt of an incense unfamiliar to Tat; reminiscent of Myrrh, but spicier. Three doors led out of the room.

“Beyond here I ask that you do not speak. Follow my lead, quickly now,” Tiphareth chose the left-most door. “Hold these in your left hand and think pure thoughts.” Tat took the quartz crystals as they ed through the door.

There it was, the dreaded sensation. Faint waves of energy insistently rippling up her spine as they mounted the steps. Not nearly enough to awaken her dormant power, but still troubling all the same. Dozens of candles burned within small shrines set in the walls. The curved stair was rather narrow and upon the outer wall was painted a large mural she recognized at once as coming from the Tarot. Tat received a shock as memories of her old life with the troupe emerged for the first time in weeks. Recalling the cruel fate of the fortune teller, Zayda. This was a mistake, as it led her directly back to Yurgis…

“Pure thoughts! You mustn’t poison the energy of this place!” Tiphareth snapped, either through amazing coincidence, or simple telepathy, correctly identifying her inner turmoil. Tat shook her head and tried to focus on maintaining a semblance of purity, with precious little success.

The mural was of Judgment…

The next chamber closely resembled the first, the fabric curtains arranged so the room glowed orange in the flickering candlelight. Five doors exited from this room at irregular intervals, proclaiming the architecture of this building to be somewhat eccentric to say the least.

Tiphareth wasted no time choosing the far left door once again. “Here, give me those quartz and take these Lapis. We are now ascending the pillar of Severity. As such, guard your mind against indulgences, keep it fixed upon divine splendor.” Tat tried to do as she was told, fast growing weary of the strange, nonsensical rules of this place.

This stairwell was graced with a prodigious mural of the Hanged Man. Hung upside down with one leg crossed, his inverted face ed within centimeters of her own as they ascended. At one point she swore his enigmatic smile transformed into a falcon’s beak. She gasped, doing a double-take, earning a reproachful glare from Tiphareth; nothing was amiss. They reached the landing and switched back, ing again the mural of the martyr. This time she watched closely for any change, and was disappointed...

The waves were growing much stronger now, taking on unfamiliar, almost sexual, characteristics. Causing a not-altogether unpleasant sensation of heat to

radiate from her womb. Simultaneously arousing yet profoundly uncomfortable.

Upon reaching the next chamber, Tat began to fear for Tiphareth’s safety. The pulses, which had seemed so innocuous moments before, multiplied tenfold, eminently overwhelming; knees shaking as every nerve ending in her body swelled to bursting. Unable to speak, as no amount of effort could overcome the force which silenced her.

As if this wasn’t already terrible enough, her traitorous mind visited her with especially troubling visions of the Innkeeper, Ronan Devine, melting in her arms. So vivid she could practically smell the burning flesh. For the thousandth time she silently begged forgiveness of his son, Izaak…

“Okay, only one more to go.” Tiphareth reached out to take the lapis…

“Don’t touch me!”

The words ripped out of her throat like barbed wire a moment too late. As their hands touched, the entire Universe erupted out of her in a brutally orgasmic rush. Breath caught in her breast as she dropped to her knees, shuddering with wave after wave of intense pleasure.

This is almost as good as morphine.

As she abandoned herself to these sinful sensations, her mind’s eye dwelt only upon death, tragedy, and discord. This was surely the path to Hell, paved with

gold. When at last it faded, Tat opened her eyes, looking to Tiphareth, fearing the worst.

To her tremendous relief, the discharge had not destroyed her. She was backed up against the wall, and from the look on her face, it was quite obvious they’d shared a similar experience. An enormous grin spread from ear to ear as she bit her lower lip, skin seeming to glow in the low light.

Tat was mortified, “Are you alright? I’m so sorry…”

Small, cooing sounds escaped her as she sensuously caressed the full length of herself, hands lingering on her ample chest. “Mmm, Tatiana, that was incredible,” she continued to spasm as the final bursts of pleasure ran their course. “I underestimated you, twould seem you possess… significant ability. We should definitely keep you around.” She purred, breathing heavily, bosom heaving. Tat turned away in embarrassment, face flushing hot with shame.

It took several seconds for Tiphareth to regain her composure. “Well, I was certainly not prepared for that,” a mischievous smile curling her lips as she stretched and yawned like a cat in a sunbeam. “Best feeling in the world if you ask me.”

Tat still couldn’t look her in the eyes, such was the humiliation she felt. “You’re lucky, the last person who felt this power died a horrible death.” She confessed.

Tiphareth hesitated, as if seeing Tat in a different, altogether more sinister, light. “To one untrained in the higher mysteries, such a jolt could surely prove fatal. I’ve been dealing in large quantities of Auric for most of my life. However, I

will say that if that was my time to go… I would’ve died a happy woman.” She confessed, laughing, trying desperately to lighten the dark tone this ordeal had taken on. “Are you alright, love? Can we continue?”

Now that the flash-burn of pleasure had faded to a smoldering coal, Tat found she felt fine physically. Better, in fact, than she had in a long, long while. Mentally however she was a complete wreck of frayed nerves and mixed emotions. Here was a person who had taken the unchecked brunt of her ability and came through unscathed. What were these higher mysteries of which she spoke?

“I, umm… I’m fine now.” She awkwardly replied.

Presently they stood atop of the final staircase as Tiphareth knocked at the door in a precise pattern, one, three, one. The mural of the Chariot looming above.

“You’re early.” A dusky voice intoned from within.

The door opened, revealing a fully nude woman. Lithe and well-muscled, curly auburn hair reaching to her waist. She shrieked at the sight of them, scrambling to retrieve her robe and tying it shut. Tat averted her eyes, but not soon enough; why were there so many women here? All possessed of unearthly beauty…

“Tippy, what are you doing here? My focus will be arriving any moment. I thought you were him! Go away!” She started to slam the door before being blocked by a strategically placed foot.

“It’s Tiphareth. I come in my capacity as the child, the king and the sacrificed God…”

“I have four minutes…”

“I am escorting the heir of Esion Seldeen.”

This finally got through to her, “And I, Geburah, in my potency of the sphere of Mars as warrior and scholar, receive thee.” Parroting the words with more than a little exasperation, she stepped back from the door.

They entered a chamber resplendent in verdant grass-green, made all the more vibrant by candles placed in jars of green glass. The air, cloying with strong pine-smelling incense from a brazier near the altar.

“Maria is here, talking to Kether as we speak. This is her daughter, Tatiana…”

“Daughter?!” Geburah interrupted. Evidently Maria had done a flawless job keeping her existence hidden from everyone.

“I was surprised as well, seems she is more skilled at keeping secrets than we thought. The reason I brought her to you is because her skin is covered with symbols I’ve never before encountered and cannot identify. Furthermore, she claims these markings are naturally occurring,” pausing for dramatic effect. “Take that old robe off so Geburah can see.” She commanded.

Tat reluctantly reached down and grasped the hem of the robe, drawing it up and over her head. Instead of surprise, Tat saw a scholar’s thirst for knowledge light up Geburah’s face. Without a word she went to work.

“Pull up the sleeves.” She curtly requested.

Tat did as she was bid.

“And the skirt.”

She coyly showed as much of her legs as she dared, clad as they were in uncomfortable stockings and garters.

“Are all the Chakras present, other than Ajna and Vishuddha?”

“They’re all there,” Tat replied, adding their names from memory so as to not appear totally ignorant. “Anahata, Manipura…”

“You don’t need to recite. I am well aware of their names.” Geburah brusquely cut her off.

For nearly a minute, no one spoke as Geburah, deep in thought, gave Tat a thorough once over, stopping short of asking her to strip down on the spot.

Finally Tiphareth broke the silence, “Tatiana is rather adept at channeling… She rang my bell at the threshold of Atziluth…”

Don’t tell her!

Tat gasped as her heart lurched, unable to believe what she was hearing. She would never reveal such things to anyone. As if she wasn’t already disgraced enough, It was all she could do to refrain from running from the room. She shot Tiphareth a glare, who reciprocated with a naughty smirk.

Geburah snorted derisively, “You’d ring your own bell five times a day if you could find the time.”

“Only because you aren’t there to do it for me,” they both laughed at this, before returning the conversation to the question at hand. “What d’you think? Recognize anything?”

“Not at all, and it’s maddening,” she paused, failing to catch Tat’s gaze. “It’s not often that I am presented with a question I have no answer to. Though wellversed in all known writing and numerical systems from the ancient to the contemporary, this is a complete mystery to me.”

“What about the primitive cuneiform of the lunar cult of Lugh-as-sun-hero?” Tiphareth proposed.

“Wow, Tippy, so you have been doing the reading I suggested,” her voice cutting

in a sarcastic tone. “I suspected as much at first, but it’s not correlating, and the fact that I can find no duplicate characters is strange indeed…” She trailed off, then came back, “Tatiana, there is a great convention of science and learning taking place next month from the twentieth to the twenty-seventh at Oxford University, my old alma mater. If anyone can identify this script, that would be the place to find them.”

“The Symposium!” Tat perked up as she realized what Geburah was talking about. Up until now she had forgotten all about it. “That’s the whole reason I’m here, in London.” At least if Yurgis was to be believed, she was forced to remind herself.

Geburah clasped her hands in a warm gesture. “Wonderful. Many of the girls, myself included, will be in attendance as well. I will be giving several lectures on Pagan Deities and Their Continued Relevance in an Emerging Industrial Society.”

Not to be outdone, Tiphareth chimed in, “I’ll be teaching a class on Musical Theory as it Relates to Universal Cosmology.”

Geburah ignored the interjection, “Don’t mind her, she’s just mad because she went to Cambridge…”

“Why you cheeky slag…”

They both laughed at this in-joke that went over Tat’s head.

“Anyway, I look forward in anticipation to discovering the truth about you,” Geburah said as Tat adjusted her dress in disappointment, again donning her robe. “Okay, are we done here? I have…”

But Tiphareth wasn’t quite through, “Gebbi, I believe she may be the cause of the unrest we have all witnessed in Yetzirah of late, the fulfillment of the archetype of the High Priestess…”

The air of levity between the two women turned unexpectedly serious. Geburah looked grim, “Cutting to the chase eh? Well, you of all people would be the authority on that Tippy, having personally communed with Freyja herself. I can see that she’s special, but a true physical incarnation of Da’ath?”

Tat was fed up with being talked over in this cryptic manner. “What are you talking about? What is Da’ath?” She demanded

Both women looked at her with something akin to fear in their eyes.

“The portal in the Abyss.” Tiphareth began.

“The light in the darkness.” Geburah continued.

“The Gate.” They ominously finished together.

“Terribly sorry, am I interrupting something?”

All three spun to see a shirtless man, lurking in the doorway.

“No, they were just leaving.” Geburah said, forcefully herding them out an adjacent door. As it swung closed Tat saw her untying her robe…

Alone again in the dim stairwell, Tiphareth almost put her hand on Tat’s shoulder, before thinking better of it, “I must apologize, I thought for sure Gebbi would have the answer. Between you and me though, if she can’t help you, I cannot conceive of one who can.” After delivering this devastating assessment, she adopted an upbeat, bubbly persona. “It’s wonderful that you will be in attendance at Oxford, hopefully we will be seeing a good deal more of you in the weeks to come.”

Great. Tat thought sarcastically to herself.

They descended the stairwell in silence, the mural of the Lovers seeming to mock their age…

The chamber below, festively decked in bright yellow, clashed with Tat’s blue mood. She counted nine doors; apparently, through a feat of inconceivable architectural genius, this chamber directly connected with all the others.

Tiphareth went from wall to wall, changing the décor from canary yellow to a deep crimson, then dropped onto a low couch. “What an eventful day, and not even one o’clock,” she motioned for Tat to be seated, as she lit an oil lamp, supplementing the meager candlelight. “We can talk freely here, this is my

sephiroth, my sanctuary. You can take that robe off, nobody is judging you here. I am sure you have questions, I will do my best to answer them before you are summoned before Kether.”

After removing her robe, she took a seat, a bundle of frazzled nerves. She had so many questions she didn’t know where to begin. Finally she settled on the broadest, “What is this place? what do you do here?”

“This is an establishment of singular importance, built specifically for the enabling and working of high-level ritual magicks.”

“Magic?” Tat asked, trying her best to sound skeptical, but inside she was gripped with excitement; could these women help her to understand her power after all?

“Not like what you’re thinking, we are not witches or any such nonsense. Ever heard of Qabalah? Hermetic Alchemy?” She spoke sarcastically, as if it was a foregone conclusion.

The single word Tat recognized was the last. “Alchemy? Like the Aurum Solis?” She recalled the name from the letter Yurgis had received that morning.

“We do have ties to that paltry organization, though we are largely independent, due in part to our grant from the crown. And frankly, the workings we perform here are far more efficacious.” She boasted, draping one leg over the sofa arm and kicking off her shoes.

“What is Alchemy?”

This question was met with shock, “Are you joking? Or is this a test?” The questioning look on Tat’s face was answer enough. “You are the daughter of Maria Seldeen, granddaughter of Esion himself,” Tiphareth scoffed, unbelieving. “Have you been taught nothing?”

Instead of meekly apologizing, Tat felt anger rise within her, “I have not led the sort of life you’re imagining. Until yesterday I’d never even met my mother, never even knew she still lived! So, no, I’m sorry, I don’t know what Alchemy is.”

“Wait, you met Maria yesterday? Who is your father?”

“Just answer the damned question.” Tat growled.

Tiphareth lay back with a frustrated sigh, “You want the long answer or the short?”

“I guess the short.”

“Turning lead into gold, is what the history books would have you believe. This is a metaphor meant to appeal to mankind’s intrinsic greed, thereby attracting those who need its teachings most. The true aim of Alchemy is the perfection of the soul. In the beginning, all souls are as lead; base, largely worthless. Through a torturous process, that lead may be transmuted into the noble gold of the

earthly manifestation of divinity.”

Too confusing, Tat decided, changing the subject.

“Who is Kether?”

“She is the best of us, the shining jewel in the crown, our leader, if you will.” She spoke these words without the slightest trace of jealousy.

“Tell me about the magic you perform here.”

“Alright, but to one with no prior knowledge this may be hard to follow so I’ll start slow. In Qabalistic philosophy there is a structure known as the Tree of Life, a pattern of ten nodes called sephiroths, connected by twenty two paths. These nodes represent archetypal energy fields upon the way of return from the physical to the source. The pattern as a whole representing the energetic path of divinity as it descends into physicality in an unbroken continuity through the four worlds.”

“I’m afraid you’ve already lost me.”

Tiphareth reached into her discarded gem-bag, pulling out a sheet of folded paper. She rose and approached where Tat was seated, squeezing in next to her on the settee.

“This is a diagram of the tree, it should help you get a better idea.”

As she leaned close, her breasts brushed against Tat’s arm. Whether the was deliberate or accidental was impossible to say. She was so close that Tat could smell her hair. It was so unexpectedly intoxicating that she pulled back, scooting away slightly and focusing her attention on the paper. Only pure thoughts...

She saw an arrangement of ten circles, three triangular groupings organized into three columns with one lonely circle at the bottom. They were all connected by lines denoted by numbers and strange letters, Hebrew, maybe.

“Now, know that this building is a near-exact approximation of this diagram built in three dimensional space, the four floors representing the four worlds and hallways and staircases ing all the chambers. My spiritual sisters and I, ten in number, each take our name from one of these sephirah based on the archetypes we correspond with,” starting from the bottom she touched each in turn. “Malkuth, Yesod, Hod, Netzach, Tiphareth, Geburah, Chesed, Binah, Chokmah and Kether.”

“How does any of this help you do magic?” Tat was losing her patience.

“Settle down, I can’t very well explain a thousand-year old esoteric thought system in five hundred words or less, can I? I shouldn’t even be telling you any of this, it is not my place to educate you, but after what you did for me… I’d like to return the favor.” She laid a hand on Tat’s knee.

She stiffened, scared to death. Was Tiphareth trying to seduce her? Instantly

seized with the impulse to run, to get as far away as she could; this was unnatural, a perversion. With a fair amount of difficulty, she overrode this primitive flight instinct and forced herself to calm down. Trying her best to act casually, she demurely brushed the hand away under the guise of adjusting her robe; she needed more information.

“I’m sorry, please go on, I won’t interrupt again.”

If Tiphareth ed the rejection, she didn’t show it, drawing slightly closer to Tat, closing the gap left by her earlier withdrawal.

“This physical world all around us is named Assiah, it consists of everything you have ever seen, heard, smelled, tasted and touched. But, there is another world immediately beyond the physical, known as Yetzirah, the astral plane. It is where we go when we dream. There, human thoughts and intentions have great creative power, and semi-permanent structures and channels can be constructed by those with sufficient energy and will. Using these structures, one can make with the world of Briah, the realm of archetypes.”

Tat remained silent, allowing her to go on. Her soft, musical voice, painting a fantastic picture of a hitherto unknown reality, worming its way into her mind…

“Over the millennia, human dedication to, and worship of, various Gods and Goddesses coalesced into substantial thought-structures in Briah. If enough people devote enough thought-energy over a long enough period of time, these structures become imbued with Auric flowing directly from the highest world of Atziluth, where resides the unlimited potency of Divine Mind. This endows these god-forms with a rude, inorganic consciousness, a distinct existence, separate from the humans who created and maintained them.”

The hand found its way back onto her knee, and began to wander… at the same time, another reached up, brushing her hair back behind her ear…

Her heart was racing.

“Our purpose here is to mentally construct astral temples and channels through which we may and treat with these autonomous god-forms, thereby gaining access to the very font of creation itself. To achieve this we harness the most potent force at our disposal. Human sexual energy.”

She leaned close, kissing the hollow of Tat’s throat.

With those three little words, it all fell into place. The rundown neighborhood, the high security, lack of windows, Geburah’s focus, and the distinctly sexual nature of the energies running through this place…

“You’re whores!” She cried, breaking the spell, pulling away and standing up.

Tiphareth managed a laugh, though her face bore an expression of hurt frustration. “Well, you certainly don’t mince words, beautiful one. Now that you’ve figured it out, please, regale me with your condemnations and puritanical beliefs. Tell me how I’ve offended your delicate modesty. Tis nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Tiphareth’s complete, unrepentant lack of shame was shocking. Tat was at a loss

as she felt her outrage fizzle and turn back upon herself. Who was she to judge this woman? At least she was clear about who and what she was. Tat instantly regretted her outburst.

“I apologize. I was out of line. Please forgive me.”

“For what? Telling it like it is? We… I… allow men, and yes, women as well, to ravage my fair body for monetary recompense. But, something far more important than their money is received in the process. When two people couple, their auras merge and there is an ungoverned exchange of Auric, the universal creation-force. Normally, during the undisciplined act of sexual intercourse this precious resource is wasted, or worse, used to feed the fires of the ego. We’ve developed our ability to gather it together and repurpose it to more… creative ends. Everybody benefits.”

“I’m afraid I do not share your positive associations with the physical act of love.” Tat replied, disgusted.

“The physical act of love? Are you for real?” Tiphareth asked, giggling. “Was I ever so innocent?”

Tat didn’t much care to be made fun of, though now was certainly not the time to reveal the substantial reasons behind her hatred of her own sexuality; she remained silent.

Tiphareth must’ve sensed she’d offended her, “I’m sorry Tatiana, sometimes I forget the feelings of others. It’s a defense mechanism. The fact is, you helped me feel something today. Something incredible, something I’ve never

experienced before, and I’ve realized now that I don’t want to settle for anything less ever again…”

A crash startled them both as Hod and Yesod practically tumbled into the room. Hod was upset, pale cheeks flushed with color. “Here you are. We’ve been looking all over for you and of course we find you here, keeping her all to yourself.”

“What can I say? Guilty as charged. A shame you had to come along and ruin all my fun.” Tiphareth playfully countered, coquettishly licking her lips.

It was timid Yesod who spoke up, “Now be nice, you two. Anyway, we’ve kept Kether and Maria waiting for nearly ten minutes, which is nine minutes too long. Tatiana, please accompany us if you will.”

“You stay.” Hod commanded, as Tiphareth lay back on the settee with a sigh.

They ascended the highest floor by means of a massive spiral stair that directly linked Tiphareth’s chamber with Atziluth. Flanked by Hod and Yesod, acutely ashamed and confused, sure that they knew what Tiphareth had tried to do, afraid that they would think she herself was like that. The mural of the high priestess on her throne betwixt the twin pillars of good and evil seemed to judge her, and find her wanting...

“I’d like to personally apologize for Tiphareth’s actions. We’re not all like her… that aggressive, I mean.” Hod’s doe-eyed expression, seeking to hold her attention.

Yesod’s evaluation was a little more academic, “You must forgive her. Though she is a wonderful person with a good heart, her sphere is that of the archetype of beauty, and I fear she sometimes unknowingly slips into its qliphoth, vanity and desire.”

Here Hod once again took up the dialogue, “The last thing we want to do is frighten you or drive you away. You are Seldeen, and as such we owe you more than we can ever repay.”

“Did either of you know my grandfather?” Tat asked, desperate to change the subject.

“I had the honor of meeting him on several occasions,” Yesod replied. “I replaced the previous Yesod about four years ago, three months before Esion died.”

“I’ve only been here for two years. I never got to know him.” Hod lamented.

“Well, Hod, that is something we have in common,” Tat flashed her a forced smile which was enthusiastically returned. “What was he like, Yesod?”

She lit up, pleased to have something to add, “If I had to say, I’d describe him as a king without a crown... no that’s not quite correct. A king that needed no crown. The most amazing, yet frightening, person in the world,” there was a dreamy look in Yesod’s eye as she ed him. “Anywhere he went he was the center of attention, practically radiating power and elegance. The thing I

about him most were his eyes. When he looked at you, it was like he could see into your soul, like there was nothing you could hide from him.”

Tat would surely agree about those eyes. Having only seen them in a grainy photograph, she could only guess what it must have been like to have that piercing gaze trained upon you.

“Netzach would be the one to ask, though, she knew him best.”

Tat could almost feel Hod stiffen. “Netzach scares me.” She said, her voice barely rising above a whisper, as if afraid she might be overheard.

“She’s my own sister, by blood, and she scares me.” Yesod replied.

Before Tat could inquire further, she continued, “Something awful has befallen her, she’s… changed. We fear she’s been possessed by a pernicious spirit from the lower astral. It’s a danger we all face. Yetzirah is teeming with inorganic beings with nothing better to do than to waylay the unfortunate traveler. Having no corporeal forms of their own, they are all eager to experience the earthly delights of Assiah, the carnal pleasures of the flesh...”

Tat couldn’t believe her ears. She’d always denounced tales of demonic possession as pure fantasy.

“Is there any way to help her?” She inquired.

Yesod was fast-becoming distressed speaking of her sister’s affliction, “Everything we’ve tried thus far has failed. The worst part is, ever since her change, she’s never been more powerful, and she exhibits a voracious sexual appetite that makes her, shall we say, popular with her foci. You will see what I mean when you meet her. She is not dangerous per se, just, abrasively eccentric.”

“Ha! She bit me during a ritual!” Hod exclaimed, pulling at her dress, revealing an unsettling ring of bite marks where her slender neck met her shoulder. They were quite deep, the skin scabbed over where blood had been drawn. “And she raked my back bloody with her damn nails! I swear, she’s like a wild animal.”

They were stopped on the landing below the final approach to Kether’s sephirah. Four pairs of women’s shoes were arranged on a small rug, one pair Tat recognized as belonging to her mother.

“Please remove your shoes, they are not allowed in the Most High.” Yesod requested, making no sign of removing her own.

“Are you two not coming with me?” Tat asked.

“Whatever happens in there is between you and the Supernals,” Hod said from behind her. “While we would love to stay, we have… other duties to attend to.” And with that they each embraced her in turn and descended the steps. Just before ing out of sight, Hod turned back.

“You’re very beautiful, by the way…”

Tat blushed as she watched them disappear around the curve of the stair. In spite of herself, she liked them; she found herself hoping for the chance to get to know them better. It had been so long since she’d had what could be considered a real friend.

Removing her boots as she was bid, placing them next to Maria’s, she climbed the last few stairs, filled with trepidation. Her trembling hand reached out, but before she could knock the door was opened, causing her to shield her eyes as stark daylight flooded forth into the candlelit gloom.

“Welcome, Tatiana Seldeen.”

The woman who greeted her was unlike any Tat had ever seen before. Though still young, not yet thirty, her hair was a blonde so sallow it approached pure white, falling to her shoulders in loose waves like a heavy dusting of new fallen snow; skin so clear and pale that it contrasted not at all with the spotless white gown she wore. It wasn’t until Tat looked her in the eyes, colorless save for a delicate tinge of light pink, that it dawned on her that she was what people referred to as an albino. For several seconds she was stunned, struggling to find words.

“Kether?” She finally managed.

In response, this magnificent woman inclined her head and stepped aside, allowing Tat to enter.

She could see why shoes were not allowed. This sephiroth, much like it’s namesake, was arrayed in brilliant white. Walls, carpet, furnishings, everything was devoid of color, save for the delicate blue of the sky arcing above the rooms vaulted glass ceiling, made all the more dazzling by comparison.

Maria was seated around a table with two other women. One with the long, straight black hair and almond-shaped eyes of the Far East. The other with a shaven head and skin like the deepest night. Neither looked particularly pleased to see her.

Her mother rose, embracing her.

“Are you okay, my treasure? They said something happened to you.”

“I’m fine, mother, really.” Tat replied, her embarrassment softened by the fact that Maria had no knowledge of her abilities, and couldn’t have known what occurred.

“Tell me what happened.” Concern evident on her face.

“Tatiana channeled an incredible amount of Auric directly from Atziluth, and, lacking the proper grounding, discharged it into Assiah,” Kether circled around, taking a seat between the two other women, who continued to eye her warily in silence. “A rare feat, not unheard of, but extremely dangerous.”

Maria and Tat took their seats opposite the three Supernals as Kether made the

introductions.

“My left hand is Chokmah, representing the pillar of mercy, in the sphere of wisdom,” the dark-skinned beauty nodded without speaking, her smoldering coal-black eyes never straying. “And my right, Binah, head of the pillar of severity, archetype of understanding.”

Unlike her counterpart, Binah had much to say, “She shouldn’t be here. She has proven herself to be far too dangerous. It will take months to undo the damage she caused here today. And what of the harbinger? We have all seen what her coming shall bring…”

At this, Chokmah spoke up, “What we have seen could be interpreted any number of ways. If we send her away, we could be wasting a singular opportunity. She could lead us to new realms of knowledge in the advancement of our art…” Her careful English, colored with a heavy accent that sounded vaguely French.

“At what cost? She’s already nearly killed Tiphareth.” Binah shot back.

Kether appeared content to allow them to argue, compelling Tat to try and defend herself, “I didn’t nearly kill her, she was… just…” She stumbled over the words, not wanting to reveal the truth of what happened. “She said she handles large amounts of... Auric all the time.” Maria put her hand on Tat’s, shaking her head, counseling her to silence.

Before Binah could redirect her anger, Kether responded to her outburst.

“I fear Tiphareth was a little untruthful with you. The bulk of the energy you released was absorbed into the Tree of Life itself.” She then became distracted, looking off into the distance before closing her eyes. “Can you not feel it? How it thirsts? For nearly seventy years, generations of women have been constructing and strengthening this building’s astral structure. Feeding it with vast amounts of Auric. It now has its own subtle consciousness, after a fact, an independent existence in the realm of dreams. A character in our stories. It is all that saved Tiphareth.”

Binah seized the opportunity to press her point, “Which is why we should have nothing to do with her. There are too many variables, have you all forgotten Netzach? We need to see to our own before we hazard everything, chasing knowledge we haven’t earned. That is the way of greed,” her face, a visage of frustrated sadness. “And I fear it could bring our destruction…”

Kether sat a moment in silence, mulling over what her right hand had told her. “Thank you Binah, your point is duly noted. What counsel do you suggest Chokmah?” Kether asked.

The woman trained her dark eyes on Tat. “It is not a question of sending her away or not. She is a daughter of the Seldeen line, and as such has no place here, nor do I believe she would desire one if it was offered. It is obvious that she is ignorant of how to control the Auric she unwittingly acquires, it would be unconscionable to let her remain a danger to the world.”

After this, everyone settled into silence, Kether appearing deep in thought. Tat was confused, what was being decided here? Was she to be imprisoned in this place to keep her from hurting anyone else? Is that why she’d been brought here? She looked to her mother, seeing no trace of malice in her expression. Maria rummaged in her purse and handed Tat a handkerchief, indicating that she

had something on her neck. She wiped her throat, seeing the red smudge of Tiphareth’s lipstick…

Kether emerged from her deliberations, “I have reached a decision, Chokmah, Binah, you may take your leave.” Without comment, the Supernals left the table, exiting the room. Tat was glad to see them go, feeling the heavy yoke of judgment lift from her shoulders. Kether put her at ease somehow, maybe it was down to the fact that they both possessed such outlandish appearances; she felt that the White-Woman would understand what it was like to be ogled, stared at, judged based on her appearance.

“Tatiana, what do you think about all this? What happened here today, I mean.”

Tat was caught off guard, lacking a clear response. So many had died as a result of her power, yet the path it had forged had led her here, reunited with a mother thought long dead; away from that hateful, hurtful reality of Yurgis, the troupe and her little wagon room…

As if in confession, she turned a sorrowful face away from Maria.

“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened of what I am capable of. I live in constant fear. People have died by my hand, so many people, because of this ability I possess.” The look of sudden confusion on Maria’s face was heartbreaking. “If I had any control over this power, I would lock it away and see that it was never used again.”

Kether showed no outward emotion at Tat’s answer. “A noble intention, but what if you had to destroy something to protect something you love? Your abilities are

a part of you, inextricable from your destiny. Would you be the one among billions with the will to defy destiny?” When Tat struggled to respond, Kether chuckled. “These are rhetorical questions, not requiring a reply. It would do you good to search your soul for the answers though. Nature rarely produces something so specific if there is no larger purpose at work. Maria?”

“Yes?” All life had drained from her voice.

“I am sorry to ask this of you, do you think I could have a private word with your daughter?”

Maria hesitated before turning to her, “Is that alright with you, my treasure?”

Tat nodded.

“Okay, I’ll be just outside the door, it’ll give me time to think.” Maria gathered up her leather satchel and left, Tat watching her go with faint apprehension.

“Tatiana, I truly wish I could give you all the answers you seek. Though I am the appointed leader of this place, that does not mean I am either the smartest, a distinction held by Geburah, or the most beautiful, as is Tiphareth. I just happen to be the most fit to head the pillar of synthesis. I do not purport to know what your purpose is, or why you possess these gifts. Your markings are as much a mystery to me as they are to you.”

Tat was rather disappointed, and made no effort to hide it. “I appreciate the

honesty.”

“Speaking of Geburah, she mentioned Da’ath to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Like I said, this place has an independent existence in Yetzirah, all that happens within its boundaries has an analogue there. If I center my awareness in my subconscious, I can subjectively experience everything that occurs within these walls.”

Tat made a connection, “So when I released all that... Auric…”

“Oh yes, I felt it too, every bit as strongly as you and Tiphareth,” she laughed, a cold, crystalline sound. “In fact, we all did. Being attuned to this house, we have all established links to its astral form, have all channeled our sexual energy into it. So, when it received such a surplus, it simply reversed the flow, dissipating the excess among its agents in Assiah.”

Tat blushed mightily at the thought of every woman here experiencing such earth-shattering pleasure, with her being the cause of it all. No wonder Binah was so angry, she probably felt violated. Shame buried her as she recalled the color in Hod’s cheeks when she burst in on her and Tiphareth…

“There is no cause for embarrassment. After all the tension around here, it was exactly what we all needed, I can assure you. However, on the topic of

Da’ath…”

“The doorway in the Abyss. The light in the darkness.”

“Good, you do pay attention. As powerful thoughts can create in Yetzirah, powerful realities can cause disturbances, like signposts, that those who work in the astral can detect. Your journey here has cut a swath of dissonance such as none of us have ever seen.

“Da’ath, the eleventh sephiroth, located in the abyss separating the supernals from the triune of virtue. It is the source of the dark night of the soul that every spiritual aspirant experiences before emerging into the light of divinity. It has no connective paths, and no objective reality on the Tree though its importance cannot be overstated. For when the male aspect animus impregnates the female anima, it is Da’ath, the gate, that births the holy genius. The advent of the divine archetype on Earth.”

Tat shivered, this was going too fast. “And, you think I am the physical embodiment of this Da’ath?”

“I don’t claim it as truth. Though Tiphareth surely believes it to be so.”

After what Yurgis put her through, the thought of allowing any man to even touch her, let alone impregnate her, was almost too much to bear. “Well, no one is going to be impregnating me if I have anything to say about it.”

Kether laughed, though Tat was unaware of having made a joke. “Of course, of course, your life is your own, you are surely the one who will subjugate the wheel of karma,” seemingly out of nowhere, she produced a deck of tarot cards. “Would you allow me to do a reading on you? Satisfy my curiosity?”

A flash of memory. Zayda, eyes bulging as strong, male hands tightened around her neck…

“I have precious little faith in the ability of simple cards to reveal the future.” Fear gripping her.

Kether began to shuffle. “Oh, I don’t use them to divine the future, more as a way to get clear about the present. To get information surrounding you and the general direction you are heading to determine the steps we will take. Here, shuffle these seven times, then cut seven times.”

The cards were oversized and, despite her long fingers, unwieldy in her shaky hands, and she fumbled the deck, spilling the cards all over the floor.

An overturned table, the ground littered with cards.

She apologized, gathering them up, trying to suppress the feelings welling up inside her. After several more attempts, she finally succeeded in sufficiently shuffling them, handing the deck back to Kether.

“Okay, I will be using the Celtic Cross, so first I shall place a sigil card to

represent you,” she flipped through the deck. “Ahh, here we are, the queen of pentacles,” she placed the card in the middle of the table, facing Tat. “Now we will begin. This first card is what covers her, the root of the matter.” She turned the top card of the deck.

The five of Wands, upside down, showing five children fighting amongst themselves with large sticks.

“Strife, competition, trickery. Wands are related to the consuming energies of fire, here weighed down by leaden, Saturnian influences. She is embroiled in the fight for her life. The fact that it is reversed shows that this battle is of increased significance.

“This is that which crosses her, impedes her from resolving this struggle.” She turned the next card, laying it across the first.

It was the Devil.

Tat shuddered, the grinning demon depicted on the card even resembled Yurgis...

Kether drew a sharp breath.

“Paralytic fear, fatality, unscrupulous obsessions and whisperings of secret plans. Capricorn in earth, unlucky. She is either strong enough to create her own world, or is crushed by the world of another.”

Now a memory of a dead woman’s body, lying on the floor of a wagon...

“This is that which is beneath her, within her subconscious. That which she can use.” She turned the next card, placing it beneath the queen’s feet. It showed an angel blessing a couple.

“The Lovers, reversed. Contradiction and instability, failure, hard choices. It depicts Adam and Eve before the Tree of the knowledge of good and evil, wrapped in the biblical snake of temptation. There is no love in this card, division and duality. Air, sword, Mars influence. I fear you’ve not had an easy life…”

Tat remained silent, awaiting the next card.

“This is that which crowns her, that which her subconscious aspires to attain. She turned.

The Hanged Man. Tat grimaced as Kether smiled.

“Finally, a bit of good news. The hanged man is never a card of ill-omen, see his halo? His beatific expression? He is hung from a living tree, Yggdrasil, the world-ash, rooted in the underworld yet which also s the heavens. Wisdom, sacrifice, trials, water, Isis, Neptune influence. A card of great strength and fortune. I interpret this as her subconscious saying, ‘bring it on.’”

“Well, I wish it would stop already.” Tat muttered.

Ignoring her comments, Kether continued, “This is that which is behind her, events of the past that have a bearing on the present.” She turned…

From the picture alone, Tat knew it couldn’t be good. A woman, sitting up in bed, weeping as if newly awakening from a nightmare, behind her, nine horizontal swords crossed the card.

Kether looked grim, “Mars in Gemini,” she paused, drawing a deep breath. “Utter desolation, deception, failure and death. I will not lie, this is not looking good, The one positive I can point to is that this is all in the past, she has survived. This next card will show that which is ahead of her. Pointing to possible events in the future if this present path is followed to its end. Surely things will be looking up…”

The Ten of Swords. A dead body lay face down in a pool of blood, as ten standing swords pierced its back.

Tat laughed, not because it was funny, mainly because it was all she could do to defend her weary soul from this onslaught of misery awaiting her. Had she not suffered enough?

“I know this looks bad. Sol in Gemini… pain, loss, imprisonment for a girl or wife, victory for a soldier at war. The energies of air represented by swords at its most disruptive. It can also be interpreted as advantage or success, but as it is built on air, these are fleeting and transient. It is more often associated with failure, insanity and death. It seems that the trials your subconscious desires will be yours in droves.”

Wonderful, Tat thought to herself. The part about insanity especially unnerved her. She was growing increasingly troubled about her conflicting memories. Was she slowly succumbing to this creeping madness? To be locked away in a filthy sanitarium? Is that what was meant by imprisonment for a girl?

“Turn the cards. Let’s get this over with.” Growing more depressed by the second.

“This is how she sees herself…”

The Moon reversed.

“Let’s see, Jupiterian influence in Pisces, the sum of the watery energy of cups and the fiery aspect of wands. That which is hidden, intrinsically female. That which is past and soon to come. That which is yet to be born, intangible and unreal. Instability, darkness, deception.”

Tat felt like she wanted to cry, “How much more must I endure?” Despite her earlier skepticism, this reading was getting to her.

A little girl, standing in the rain, peeking between legs as she spied Atlas digging Zayda’s grave…

“I am sorry, Tatiana, I had no idea it would turn out like this…”

“You could’ve asked!” She snapped.

“Do you want me to stop?” Kether’s look of pity and sympathy spurned Tat on. If she couldn’t take this, was there any hope of surviving the trials yet to come?

“Please, continue, these cards aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know.” Her tone, bitterly sarcastic as she fought to suppress these false memories that even now came with frightening speed and clarity.

Kether looked like she might put an end to it herself, then she turned the next card. “This is the state of her house, her surrounding environment.”

The Ten of Wands. A man, overburdened by an armful of unwieldy branches.

“The desert, oppression, violence. Saturn in Sagittarius…” She visibly lost the will to continue. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Turn it.” Tat demanded.

“There is no need, I understand…”

Tat felt a flare of anger, tears threatening, not far behind. “You understand nothing of what I have endured! Hardships I’ve suffered. A father who beats

me… forces himself upon me! I’ve been tortured to such an extent that I will most likely never be able to function in the world. What do you understand about that? Your own screams echoing in your head, sweeping away all thought until all you’re left with is shrill, piercing devastation!”

She covered her face, trying to keep from crying, ashamed that she’d revealed so much to someone she’d just met. Why was she so quick to anger? She’d never been like this before…

Kether’s soft voice somehow reached her, “You’re right, Tatiana, I don’t understand what it’s like to have a father like that… for me, it was an uncle.”

For a moment, Tat was unsure she heard correctly. Looking up, meeting those colorless eyes, perceiving a deep sadness not evident before. Here was a kindred spirit, one who did understand.

“Kether, I…”

“These are her hopes and fears.” Turning the next card.

The Eight of Wands, reversed.

“Interesting, a preponderance of fire energy. Mercury in Sagittarius. Love, jealousy, internal or domestic dispute. Fruitful emotions, especially associated with maternal matters. From the direction the cards are going, it’s clear you desire discord between your father and mother to bring the two of you closer

together. You want Maria to save you from him.”

“More than anything in this world.” Tat itted truthfully.

“And I truly hope this comes to . Any resource I command is to be placed at your disposal. All of us will help you in any way we can.”

Can you kill my father?

“Thank you, Kether, I apologize for treating you so shamefully. I don’t always deal well with others. I’m sure you understand.”

Even in the full sunlight of midday, her smile lit up the room; pale, pursed lips drawn into adorable dimples. It still couldn’t melt the ice in her voice.

“This card represents her possible outcomes.”

The High Priestess, reversed…

Upon ing Maria, they descended to the ground floor. To Tat’s relief, Tiphareth was conspicuously absent when they ed through her sephiroth. She didn’t want to have to face her again, especially in the company of her mother.

They were shown to a drab, cramped space on the first floor, off the main solarium. Two velvet upholstered settees, a low table bearing a simple vase of flowers and not much else. It could only be described as a waiting room, though what they were waiting for wasn’t immediately clear. Surely their business here was concluded. She sat down, Maria taking the seat opposite.

“What happened? What did Kether say?” The door had barely shut and already Maria was prying.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She whined. The events of the day were piling up in her mind, and the fact that they idled here, when Yurgis could return at any moment to find them missing, set her nerves on edge. “What are we waiting for?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Maria replied in a voice thick with mockpetulance. Was that how she sounded?

Her first impulse was to argue, fight back, protect the justifications for her actions. She had nearly succeeded in summoning a string of hurtful words...

This is not who you are.

The thought came, clear and strong, halting her anger in its tracks. This was her mother, the woman she’d mourned and sanctified her entire life, how could she even dream of acting this way?

“I…”

The door opened, an unfamiliar voice cutting her off. “Maria, I’ve returned with Laquatus, If you are ready I will take you to him.”

Tat, her back to the door, couldn’t see the woman who spoke with an accent unlike any she’d ever heard. Despite her curiosity, she did not deign to turn and look, not wishing to meet anyone else.

She did recognize the name, though it took her a moment to place it. The letter they’d received from the Aurum Solis, hadn’t it been signed by a man with that name? What was it? Then it came to her, Severin Laquatis. How could she forget an impressive moniker like that? In her mind’s eye it conjured up an image of an imposing figure of mystical power. An alchemist…

Her mother gave her a look that spoke of frustration at this interruption of their conversation, “We’ll talk about this later, for now please remain here, my treasure, this won’t take a moment.” And, shouldering her bag with its mysterious contents, she exited the room, leaving Tat alone with her thoughts.

There was precious little time for rumination however. No sooner had the door latched than Tat was startled by a scraping sound behind her. She jumped up and spun to see a wall sliding away, revealing Binah, the supernal who had so recently spoken against her. She carried a single candle in her hands, and a look of mischief on her face.

“Quickly, come with me!” She whispered, turning back into the age.

Tat didn’t know what to think. “Where are we going?”

Her face once again appeared at the opening, “We’re going to spy on your mother, where else?”

“Why would you take me along?”

“Kether has decreed that nothing that transpires within these walls is to be kept from you if it can be reasonably revealed. Now come on, you don’t want to miss this.”

After a moment’s indecision, Tat ducked her head and stepped into the age as Binah slid the back into place and set off down the narrow space betwixt the walls. Their footfalls disturbed a thick layer of dust and Tat sneezed thrice in quick succession as she followed. This secret way must be seldom used. She wondered why this woman, who had denounced her with flagrant prejudice, was now assisting her, Kether’s orders or no.

“I thought you hated me.” Tat accused.

“It was a role I was required to play, a kind of devil’s advocate,” Binah replied, descending a set of treacherous steps and rounding a corner. “By necessity we started out on the wrong foot. As Kether’s right hand, I am the embodiment of severity, and as such it’s my duty to elucidate a viewpoint couched in skepticism. While Chokmah comes from the opposite. Kether then synthesizes the two positions into a rational course of action. It’s how we make all decisions that

affect the Tree.”

They ascended another staircase and the corridor curved. Tat could hear running water, they were now skirting the solarium.

“So if that was an act, then you don’t hate me?” Unused to uttering so direct a question, Tat felt immediately at odds with herself.

Binah took it in stride, “Well, I don’t know you yet, all I can say is that I’m excited at the prospects you represent. The ritual magick we perform here, though far from ineffectual, is nothing compared to what you did here today. Kether played it off, but if you were up for canonization, I daresay it could be accepted as your miracle. Giving ten women an orgasm without even touching them.” She laughed, a bright sound in the gloomy corridor as Tat tried to hide in her hood, sorry she asked...

After navigating another descending stair, they came to a hatch in the wall. Binah promptly halted and turned to her, sticking out her hand.

“Ashikaga, Kaori.” A hopeful look in her exotic eyes.

Tat was confused, “What?”

“It’s my real name. I’m introducing myself to you, maybe we can start again?”

Tat took her slender hand, the grip, strong as any man’s. “Oh, I’m sorry. Tatiana… Seldeen.” She said, trying the name on for size.

“Wonderful to meet you,” a moment of genuine warmth ed between them before she continued. “Now Maria knows that I’m watching for the purpose of security and documentation, but she doesn’t know you will be watching. It will be left up to you to tell her… or not. They are meeting on the other side of this wall, so once I open this hatch, we must both remain silent.”

Producing a small notepad and pencil, she blew out her candle before unlocking the hatch, which swung open to reveal a grated opening. Beyond lay a room identical to the one she’d so recently left.

The view was from floor level, the opening apparently disguised as a vent. A potted plant blocked their clear view of the chamber, further obfuscating their presence. They both drew close, practically cheek to cheek, peering into the room.

Around the edge of the pot, Tat could see a man’s shoes, manically tapping as he sat facing away from them. Maria had yet to arrive. He nervously whistled a few bars of tuneless melody before breaking off…

“Calm down Severin, you are in control.”

His voice wavered ever so slightly as he spoke the affirmation to himself. He certainly didn’t sound like the imposing figure Tat imagined him to be. Glancing down, she noticed that Binah was transcribing everything he said in a shorthand code.

A moment later Maria entered, heeled shoes stepping into view from the left. Before she could utter a word, the man was on his feet.

“What is the meaning of this Maria? Why are we meeting here?!” His soft British accent straining to attain something resembling righteous anger.

“Kether suggested our conference take place on neutral ground.” Her mother remained cool, walking past him and sitting down.

“Neutral ground? This place your father built? Which espouses his beliefs? The indubitable seat of his influence? I fail to follow her reasoning. More likely it’s so we may be observed.”

Tat tensed at his deduction, afraid that they would be discovered. Sensing that she was about to dart, Kaori took hold of her arm, motioning for quiet.

“I am sure we are, Kether knows all that happens within these walls. It is so you behave yourself.”

“Pah,” he scoffed, taking the seat opposite her. “You injure me, my lady, I would never…” His patronizing tone then softened into something resembling real concern. “Has he hurt you?”

“No, but that’s not for a lack of trying.” Her mother also dropped her icy attitude. She sounded vulnerable, tired. “He has… changed, and not for the

better…”

“This is too dangerous. If anything were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself.”

“I can handle Yurgis, don’t worry about me. You’re the one who needs to be worrying. What were you thinking sending a black rose to my home? Why do you seek to wake the sleeping lion?”

“I believe the organization I represent invested an exorbitant amount of money in your family’s excavations in Egypt. I would be remiss in wasting this opportunity to seek returns on that investment.” Lapsing again into a businesslike tone. The earlier warmth in his voice, though not vanishing entirely, muting nonetheless.

“You can do so without picking fights. I can assure you, he has it, your damned Philosopher’s Stone…”

Kaori breathed in hard through her nose as if in disbelief, scribbling mechanically. It was a term Tat had never heard before.

“That is good news indeed, have you seen it?”

“I am sure he has it hidden away somewhere, he is not a stupid man… Here.” She threw the leather satchel over to him. He caught it, checking inside.

“What is this?”

“It’s what he’s come back for, he’s been searching for it ever since he arrived. Consider it a bargaining chip in your civil negotiations. Tell him Esion delivered it to you for safekeeping. Having had my daughter returned to me, I have no wish for fighting.”

Tat was instantly alert. The one thing he seeks!

“Ahh, yes, this mysterious daughter. I should like to meet her at some point, seems improper for a girl not to know the man who should’ve been her father.”

“Severin, we’ve gone through this.”

“What was that man thinking anyway, taking a pregnant woman to the bloody desert to dig for God knows what? It’s a miracle you didn’t miscarry.”

“It was my choice to go.”

“Yes, and a damned foolish one at that.”

“This jealousy does not become you, Severin. I chose him, that’s in the past and cannot be changed.”

“Yet you would openly defy him?” He paused momentarily. “I understand now, you would pit us against one another, competing for you, like we always have.”

“Severin, it’s what he wants…”

He threw the satchel disdainfully on the ground. “Well, you’re what I want! You’re all I’ve ever wanted, and now that I finally have you, am I going to lose you to him… again?” Tat was frankly shocked at the unexpected turn this meeting had taken. From the look on her face, Kaori was equally intrigued.

Maria’s reply was incredulous, “A bold statement, but we both know it’s money you’re in love with. Same as it’s always been, and while I’m glad we finally had our time, you will never have access to my family’s wealth. Now that my treasure has been returned to me, I have begun the process of having her installed as my legitimate heir.”

There were several moments of silence, as if Severin lacked a ready response to this particular piece of information. “That means…”

“It means keeping Yurgis busy until said process can be completed. When the largest real estate empire in the kingdom is at stake, careful consideration is needed.”

Tat looked up as Kaori’s eyes widened. At the moment, this news about a possible inheritance was deemed insignificant compared to the revelation that Maria was romantically entangled with her father’s enemy. A sinking feeling in her gut prophesied that this would end badly for all involved.

“So, I’m to be your diversion then? Is that it?”

“Oh, shut up and kiss me goodbye.”

In the end, Severin Laquatus did as he was told, their shoes meeting in the center of the room.

On the ride home, for the most part, silence prevailed. So much had happened, and Tat was already exhausted. She drowsed, periodically jarred awake by the occasional pothole. Maria seemed understandably hesitant to subject her to further questioning, and Tat was perfectly content to leave the past undisturbed; however, information such as was revealed this day could never be forgotten. It was clear something had changed between them, the affection in her mother’s eyes, so plain even this morning, was now tempered with a healthy fear of the unknown.

Back once again on the north bank, Tat decided to come clean.

“Binah took me to spy on your meeting with Severin,” she kept her eyes down, preparing for the worst. “I heard everything.”

Maria sighed, “I’m glad. I would keep no secrets from you, my treasure. I didn’t want him to see you, our meeting was emasculating enough for him.”

Tat had been inwardly assured of terrible wrath, for her confession to be met

with this loving attitude, surprised and emboldened her.

“Do you mean that? About not keeping any secrets from me?” She asked.

“Of course.”

Time to test the limits, “What was in the bag? What did you give to him? You claimed it was the one thing my father seeks.”

“I will tell you if you insist, though I have a good reason for keeping it from you. Do you trust me?”

For a second, Tat almost did insist, then backed down, opting for an alternate line of inquiry. “Can you at least tell me this reason?”

“I can, and will, but not here. I’ll tell you when we’re safely back at home, okay?”

Tat sat back on the seat in disappointment. Realizing that she wasn’t about to get any useful information, she changed the subject. “Do you love him?” She asked. “Severin I mean.”

Again, Maria sighed, a sound like waves breaking on the loneliest beach in the world. “That’s not such an easy question to answer. I’ve known him since we were children. Our parents were colleagues. He was the first boy I ever kissed.

We were nine, on holiday in Ibiza,” she chuckled at the memory, looking distractedly out the window. “I have love for him, though I’m not in love with him. There was never any all-consuming desire between us, only a bleak, upperclass, politely understated British rut, if that makes any sense. Conversely, I have precious little love for your father, yet we once shared such intense, overwhelming ion that even its far off echoes hold me, still.” She turned toward her, hollow eyes, filled with longing. “D’you understand?”

Did she understand? Would she ever love? After the horrors she’d suffered at the hands of her father, she thought it unlikely. It was much too late for her, she was damaged beyond repair. It was doubtful she even retained the capacity to love anymore.

“I think so,” was all she said.

Chapter Eleven:

A World Without Pity

After the relative excitement of her first days in London, things calmed down. The age of time promptly settling into the kind of banal equilibrium that leaves one feeling bored and restless. At first she was grateful for this period of rest, but as the hours spent locked in her room piled up, she began to wish something would happen.

One thing that did happen, to her great relief, was the fictitious timeline that had plagued her so over the last week finally subsided, as if taken over and subjugated by that which she knew to be true. Now that it had surrendered mental dominance, and she no longer felt in danger of being consumed, it could be examined with a clear mind.

The main bulk of the false memories she’d held at arm’s length. On one hand not wishing to lend them credence by acknowledging their presence; on the other because the reality they described was so enticing that to accept them meant abandoning her self.

The idea was preposterous.

That she had always lived here…

In an attempt to rationalize her imprisonment, fearing a resurgence of the madness that had taken hold of her onboard the ship, she consoled herself that it was probably for the best that she be locked away. Anything to avoid upsetting her newfound mental stability.

After hearing Yesod speak of her sister Netzach, Tat reassessed her position on demons and possession. Desiring, and rightly so in her opinion, to err on the side of caution. Had her mortal shell become the vessel for an inorganic consciousness? Had it somehow broken the handcuffs and escaped her cell, killing indiscriminately as it went? It went a long way toward a possible explanation, but also required a fairly large suspension of disbelief that wasn’t prudent to commit to at this point. She would have to wait until she met Netzach before she could decide one way or another.

During these idle times she thought constantly about her experiences at the Tree of Life. The idea of the four worlds, archetypes and god-forms. It all seemed so ludicrous, like a faery tale. Though she knew the Universe must be an endlessly complex system, even when confronted with people actively exploring that complexity, it was still hard to accept.

Most of all, she found her thoughts returning to Tiphareth. She couldn’t help it, despite her best efforts; those eyes, that knowing smile. She still felt wretched over the way she’d acted, judging her, calling her a whore. Such a hurtful word, nobody deserves that. She cringed in shame every time she thought of that moment, which was about a hundred times a day, the result being the resolve to apologize properly if ever they met again…

At Tat’s request, in order to the time and at least provide the illusion of contentment, Maria provided her with writing utensils and paper. She’d thought to try her hand at poetry, the overflowing wastebasket filled with crumpled sheets covered in puerile drivel standing as testament to her complete and utter failure. All she knew was misery, and for her to write about it only reinforced the black moods her cabin fever invariably brought about.

After nearly two weeks of this solitary confinement, the bulwarks that held this

boring reality together were unexpectedly removed, and the resulting change couldn’t have been more of a shock. It began when Maria and Yurgis had their worst fight yet.

At the time she neither knew nor cared what it was about, they fought nearly every night; still, she could tell this was especially heated, awakening several times to the sound of breaking glass. The next morning, Maria visited her, several layers of makeup poorly concealing a black eye, to inform her that her door was now to remain unlocked…

A new routine soon revealed itself. Each morning, after an interminable breakfast, Yurgis would leave for the rest of the day on secretive errands, never explaining where he was going or what he was about. Oftentimes not returning til the small hours of the morning, if at all. While he was gone, she pretty much had the run of the house.

The majority of her waking hours were now spent in the company of Maria. Doing everything, nothing, questioning, healing, making up for lost time. In turn, she had the pleasure of seeing the depressed spinster her mother had become returned to life. Her eyes, once sunken and dark, now shone with a fierce light. Those gaunt cheeks, once again full and rosy. Wonderfully intelligent, bawdy, mysterious, Maria was everything she could ever hope for in a mother.

Tat too was timidly returning to life, attempting to put her wounds behind her. Even, at times, approaching a small measure of happiness, though shame and apathy were never far away, crouched and circling the edges of her consciousness like packs of wild beasts held at bay with a dying torch…

To her consternation, Maria even began to encourage her to venture out, alone,

into the city. Every time she thought about leaving, her heart would palpitate and a debilitating fear would overcome her. Due in no small part to the fact that there was the distinct possibility she could be immediately arrested, tried for murder, and executed.

This reluctance to leave the house would not long be tolerated. Her mother, it turned out, was a very busy woman, and simply couldn’t stay home all the time. Since neither she nor Yurgis expressly trusted her to remain home alone unsecured, she was forced to accompany her on daily errands, against her will. Such was the compromise she was expected to endure in return for an unlocked door.

Daily trips to the market, meetings with banks and business partners, lunches at the nicest restaurants. Tat suffered through it all with crippling bouts of anxiety. Often rendered incapable of speaking at all, which became painfully awkward to all involved; several times even refusing to exit the carriage they’d arrived in. She couldn’t help it, the disparity between her past and this present was too great, something inside prevented her from moving on.

This supposed reticence to accept her new life was a constant disappointment to Maria, which led invariably to increased tension on their burgeoning relationship. It broke Tat’s heart that she couldn’t be all her mother wanted her to be. She deserved a daughter capable of living up to her expectations, not this pale, frail, frightened creature.

The one comfort she had was her Cassock, it’s oversized hood blocking out the world. Her mother couldn’t stand it, denouncing it as unfit for one of her station. In a ploy to be rid of her daughter’s embarrassing garment, she’d even taken her to an expensive boutique, choosing for her an entirely new wardrobe of dresses, frocks and gowns which now hung, mostly unworn, in her cavernous armoire. She couldn’t bring herself to wear any of them, doing so only under protest.

One day, after breakfast, as Tat sat at her desk trying in vain to summon even one aesthetically pleasing or inspiring couplet, Maria knocked and entered.

“How is the writing going, my treasure?”

“Awful, as usual.” She replied in sullen frustration.

Maria approached, reading over her shoulder. “Birth, the death of love, I struggle to rise above, hands that drag me down, into a sea of mediocrity, I drown…”

Tat immediately crumpled up the sheet, throwing it vaguely towards the pile.

“Mother! Don’t read it!”

Maria laughed, “Why ever not, my treasure? It’s perfectly fine, sure it’s a little dark, but any kind of writing can find an audience if the author writes with conviction. Don’t get so discouraged. Do you think every great writer started out great? Of course not, they had to work at it, sometimes for years, before their first works were ready for publication. Try to recognize that your writing will improve with time, these first works are a necessary step in the learning process.”

Maria always seemed to know the right words to say, and Tat relaxed a little. Her next words, however, caused her to tense up again.

“I want you to go to the market and buy a liter of milk.” She held out a ten pound note. Considering that a liter of milk could be had for mere pennies, this was an exorbitant sum of money. “You may keep the rest.”

Though Maria had made several half-hearted attempts to cajole her out of the house of late, this was the most direct approach she’d taken. Leaving the house with Maria, in a carriage, was one thing. To walk the streets alone? Tat began to feel one of her attacks coming on.

“Mother, we’ve been over this…”

“Tatiana, you can’t keep doing this to yourself! I’ve pored over backlogs of newspapers from all corners of Europe, and I can find no mention whatsoever of these murders you claim to have committed. Nothing about that Innkeeper…”

“Ronan Devine,” Tat interjected. “You think I would make something like that up? Mother, the man literally melted in my arms. I saw his burning skeleton!”

“Calm down, my treasure, I’m not saying that. I’m telling you that I can find nothing about it in any of the papers, which would normally revel in such gory details. How do you explain that?”

Tat was at a loss, a half-hearted, “I don’t know,” was the best she could do.

“Tatiana, this last year alone the profits on businesses and properties held by this

family… Your family,” she added for emphasis, “Topped a quarter of a million pounds. The work it takes ministering to such an empire is no small task. It requires a person strong of will, decisive, quick to take action. If you are to someday succeed me, you will need to become such a person. That is why I have been taking you to these meetings, so you can begin to learn what will be expected of you. You cannot remain here, hiding out from the world forever, my treasure.” Again, she insistently held out the note, which Tat received with a resigned sigh.

“Whole or skimmed?”

Moments later she was unceremoniously shooed out the front door, which promptly closed behind her. The clicking sound of locks caused her to turn in sudden anger and kick the door, hurting her foot. She now understood that a door that opens outward, can not easily be kicked inward.

The slot slid open, “You’ll be fine, go straight to Smyth’s, he’s already expecting you… and don’t speak to anyone.” This she added almost as an afterthought before the slot closed. No amount of effort on her part would induce it to open again.

Tat fondled the paper bill, deep in the pocket of her robe. Though Maria had predictably balked, Tat stood firm, refusing to leave the house unless wrapped in the obscuring folds of her cassock. At least now that it was freshly laundered, it no longer bore the stink of the sea. It made her feel safe, concealed and it reminded her of Dobra...

Her first hurdle, the crowds of homeless lining the tunnel that led into Falconhead lane, seeking shelter from the light rain. Many times as they ed by in their private coach, Mother onished her to ignore them, to remain

oblivious to their plight. Looking up at the bars on the windows of their house, Tat came to the realization that it was less like a prison, her first impression, and more like a bank vault.

Recalling what Maria had said earlier, about the profits of their businesses reaching nearly a million pounds, she couldn’t help feeling disgusted. Why did they need so much when others had so little? Shouldn’t they give as much of it away as they could? Shouldn’t they do what they could to ease the burdens of those suffering from this society-imposed torture that plagued the city?

An idea came to her then which she couldn’t ignore. Overcoming inertia, she resolutely set out to accomplish her assigned task. Her mind, bubbling with possibilities.

“Please miss, spare a copper coin? Tis all I ask.”

“Me ‘usband died and they repossessed the ‘ouse.”

“I lost me arm in a factory accident and can’t work.”

“My child is sick…”

“Please!”

“Have mercy!”

It broke Tat’s heart anew every time she came into with the hopeless, heartless world these discarded souls occupied. The circumstances may all be different, yet they boiled down to the same thing. This was truly a world without pity. An infernal machine that mercilessly drove one along until, through incompetence, bad luck, or sheer exhaustion, they could no longer keep pace. Then they were ground up and thrown away, left to eke out a miserable existence in whatever manner they could. It made no difference to the world, as there was always a crowded queue clamoring for the opportunity to take up the slack. All full of misguided hope and foolish, idealistic dreams. Was this the world that God intended? As if by reflex, she reached up and rubbed the cross about her neck.

All her life she’d seen it, the rich trampling the poor. Never before had she possessed the means to do anything about it. Now was a different story. As it stood, there was presently nothing she could do for them, having but a single ten pound note. So she ed by, doing her best to keep her face hidden, offering a silent apology to each soul that accosted her, and a promise to return later…

The little bell rang as she entered Smyth’s. It was only a right turn onto the high street and half a kilometer down, at the eastern edge of the market plaza. Though as she walked, keeping her eyes on her feet and nowhere else, it felt like thrice that. Maria had brought her here several times recently so, if far from comfortable, at least she was in familiar surroundings. The musty old store took the term general to new heights, offering everything from canned goods and sundries to clothing, medicines, and home furnishings. The proprietor, a short, rotund man in his late forties, son of the recently deceased, eponymous Mr. Smyth, greeted her effusively.

“Good morning, miss Seldeen, why yes, a lovely morning indeed. How is your dear old mum?”

The few other customers present at this early hour quietly glanced in her direction. Though due to simple human curiosity, or because he’d uttered the name Seldeen, she was unsure. Tat had soon discovered that her new name was instantly recognizable to many and, to her chagrin, made her somewhat of a celebrated personage. Either way, she kept her head down as she approached the counter. For a moment it appeared she wasn’t going to be able to respond. Only through heroic effort succeeding in coaxing her voice from its cage.

“Mother is well, thank you, she sent me to pick up a liter of milk.” It was still a struggle to push her words above a whisper.

“Of course, of course, she mentioned you would be coming in, I have it all ready for you, that’ll be eight p.” He placed a paper bag on the counter.

Tat handed him the crumpled ten pound note.

Smyth whistled as he flattened out the bill on the edge of the counter. “‘Aven’t seen one of these in bloody ages, don’t ‘ave enough in the to break it. I’ll need to get in the safe, one moment.” He disappeared through the curtain behind him into the back room where, according to Maria, he stored an impressive array of firearms available for sale to those with the proper credentials...

While she waited, Tat wandered down the counter to the opposite end of the store, making sure to give the other patrons a wide berth, looking about with mild interest. Here he kept the outdoor gear and hunting paraphernalia. Glancing into a glass case, something caught her eye, and held it. So entranced was she that when Smyth approached with her change, she had him immediately ring it up as well.

She left the store with a liter of milk in a paper bag under one arm, and a brand new, razor sharp hunting knife concealed in the loose folds of her robe…

As she strolled down the crowded street, she managed to break her eyes away from the cobblestone walk, peeking curiously into storefront windows advertising all manner of fulfilling possessions. Buying the knife had awakened something in her. The revelation that nothing was out of reach, any and all of the things she saw could be hers if she willed it. This was an utterly foreign concept to her, there having never been a time in her life when she’d even touched money, let alone had an opportunity to spend it unchecked. A strange hunger reared, disconcertingly strong, within her, overpowering her nagging desire to return home straight away.

She caught herself short, about to enter an antique shop to inquire about the beautiful music box in the window; a pang of guilt as she ed the promise she’d made to those poor people, and to herself. Clearly seeing how easily one could get caught up in materialistic folly, squandering all one’s money in incrementally improving their own life, until nothing was left for those who really needed it. That was not going to be her reality. She wouldn’t allow it. Letting the doorknob slip from her grip, she turned back to the street, her next destination already set in mind…

“Hello, miss Seldeen, how can I help you today?” The bank manager asked. Moustache stiffly waxed, dapper in a well-tailored suit.

She was at their local branch of Barings bank, which handled the s for a large portion of the Seldeen empire. Maria had made it a point to introduce her to the manager, so when she came in, she was immediately shown to his office. It had been quite a trek to get here, several kilometers at least. It was easy to misjudge distances whilst riding in a carriage.

Her foot tapped out a nervous rhythm as sweat beaded on her brow. She wasn’t used to dealing with banks, and everything about the whole operation intimidated her. In fact, she was so wary that she’d stood outside the stately brick building for nearly ten minutes, arguing with herself before summoning courage enough to enter. In her mind, the bank, at its most basic and abstract core, represented everything in the world she had no experience with. A malevolent agent of the inescapably necessary evil which was human society.

“I’m sorry to bother you, it’s nothing really…”

“Nonsense, we at Barings are proud to have served your family for over sixty years. There is no request so trivial as to not warrant our complete attention.”

He was firmly entrenched in his customer service persona. No self respecting man could ever be so smarmy or ingratiating of his own volition. Mother had recounted the story about how this bank had lost nearly half a million pounds of their money in a debilitating financial crash not ten years past. No wonder they took pains to be extra courteous. She placed her small fold of bills on his desk. After buying the milk and the knife, she was pleased to discover she’d spent half a pound.

“I’d like this converted to coins, please.”

“Of course, what denominations would you like? Farthings, ha’pence, pence, groats, guineas, florins, shillings, crowns…” He trailed off, waiting for an answer.

The entire concept of the divisions of the pound was a mystery to her. There

were antiquated coins in use since the middle ages alongside ones conceived and minted this year. She decided to keep it simple.

“Pence please.”

“Are you quite sure? There are two-and-ten pence in a shilling, twenty shillings a pound, t’would make twelve score pence a pound. A grand total of…” He paused, counting her change and doing a little mental arithmetic. “Two thousand two hundred eighty pence. Is that correct?”

That was far too many, “I’ll take it in shillings please.” She said, with all the confidence she could muster.

The manager smiled, “Of course, miss Seldeen.”

The small, cloth sack was surprisingly heavy in her pocket as she rushed back towards home. The paper bag Smyth had given her had started to rip so she discarded it, clutching the glass bottle of milk under her arm. An unfamiliar, giddy feeling fluttered in her stomach. A feeling she eventually attributed to a small, almost insignificant, pride. For the first time in memory, she felt proud of herself, a keen sense of the rightness of what she planned to do.

Before she’d even made it halfway home, such was her excitement, she eagerly pulled out the bag of coins and began to distribute them indiscriminately, giving one coin each to anyone who asked. When it was discovered that the coins she handed out were sterling, she drew a crowd. Empty hands coming from everywhere, waiting expectantly for her to judge them worthy of her charity, to validate their suffering. She handed out coins as fast as she could, and still they

came. She began to think this might not have been such a good idea after all…

Word that someone was giving away free money quickly spread up the street. In the span of a heartbeat, from every conceivable direction they came; the young, the old, the infirm, the destitute, the hopeless, the angry, the downtrodden. In seconds an alleyway infantry was conscripted and fast converging on her.

Judging by the weight of the bag, she still had well over half her coins left, but even then it was never going to be near enough. Those closest to her were begging for more, while those who ed the clutch at the rear began to fight and push to get to her. The respectful distance earlier observed by the crowd disappeared as the newcomers shoved harder. How could she ever hope to fill this gaping maw of poverty that yawned, insatiably, before her?

She was rapidly losing control of the situation. In her mind it had all gone so differently, a meaningful exchange of charity and gratitude; as if by helping them, she could help herself. Now, flaunting the folly of expectations, things were turning ugly. True human nature was rearing its ugly head.

Fist fights were breaking out, the crowd now pushing so hard she was being crushed. The bottle of milk, wrenched from her arms, shattered on the street as desperate hands groped her, tearing at her robe.

Without warning, someone from behind attempted to strike her on the head, glancing off and hitting her shoulder. As if waiting for this signal, more blows began to rain down upon her, each hoping to claim the spoils for themselves. Clutching the remaining coins, she folded to her knees in a fetal position, protecting herself as best she could. Her earlier pride forgotten, replaced with the sickening heat of self-preservation.

When she collapsed, Those closest fell on top of her as the crowd continued to constrict, thus they ed her in struggling for their lives. Everyone was shouting at once and Tat was so disoriented she could barely tell which way was up, hardly able to breathe under the crush of bodies…

Then, through the din of the mob, the sound of a pistol shot rang out. Her heart sank, she’d only wished to alleviate a bit of suffering, now people were probably going to die for her ill-advised attempt at generosity. After another shot, the crowd dispersed enough so that those at the center were able to regain their footing and scramble away. A strong, male hand roughly grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Stay back!” He shouted at the advancing line.

He was a rakish looking man in his late twenties, brandishing a smoking revolver. The crowd grudgingly backed away. Assaulting a young woman was one thing, few desired to face an armed man over a pitiful bag of coins, sterling or no.

She succeeded in drawing her knife, making several mock-slashes at empty air, warning anyone with any fight left in them not to get too near. She stuck close as he led the way, striking out indiscriminately with the butt of his gun at anyone within range. Luckily, she seemed to be largely uninjured, barring a bit of heavy bruising. They’d begun to make headway before they were forced to stop short as several police officers rounded the corner, blocking the retreat to home, causing her heart to leap into her throat.

“Can you run?” He asked.

In response, she hiked up the hem of her robe and showed him just how fast she could run, darting into a nearby alley that promptly branched off into a veritable spider’s web of twisting paths and lanes. The sight of those uniforms scared her far more than the mob ever could. Dodging and weaving through cramped ages at a full sprint, her only thought to avoid capture.

From behind came the unmistakable sound of pursuit. Her adrenaline ignited, causing her legs to pump even faster as she leapt and spun. Turning into a narrow offshoot, she came up against a dead end. Halting momentarily, nearly despairing before locating a gap between two buildings wide enough for her to shimmy through.

On the other side she stopped to catch her breath, ducking into a doorway, figuring she was safe for the moment. Those police had looked rather portly and the chances they were still tailing her were quite slim. Then she heard the scuffling sound of someone following through the age and nearly bolted.

“It’s alright, it’s me.”

It was the man who’d helped her. She relaxed, but not completely…

He sauntered over and leaned against the wall next to her, bending over, hands on his knees. She pulled her hood down over her eyes, turning slightly away.

“That was a damn foolish thing to do.” He said between breaths.

She surprised herself by replying, “I see that now,” was all she said on the matter. “Thank you for helping me. I really must be getting home.” She continued curtly, wary of his motives. She still held the small cloth bag in an iron grip, after a moment’s vacillation she thrust it at him. “Here, it isn’t much, but it’s all I have.”

The man gave the bag one disdainful look and laughed.

“Those coins are what got you into trouble in the first place, I think you should keep them to yourself, don’t you?”

His offhand refusal of money was immediately suspicious, no one did anything for purely altruistic reasons. She tensed up at the thought of what he could possibly want in return…

“It’s all I have to offer you as a reward.” She insisted, again offering the coins.

“Be that as it may, I don’t want it.”

“Well…” Tat stammered.

“If you wish to reward me, why don’t you start with your name? Mine’s Jack.”

Now that she had time to look at him, he didn’t seem like the type of person she should be telling her name to. His skin had the swarthy tone of a continental European of Mediterranean extraction; Italian or Greek if she had to venture a guess. He wore a newsboy cap low on his brow, a shabby suit, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. In short, he looked like a criminal. Despite all this, he still appeared devilishly handsome…

She couldn’t say why she gave the name she did, it sort of slipped out, “Ciara.”

“Oh, an Irish girl eh?” He snickered. “Lose our accent did we?”

“I… was born here,” the lie came easily, much more so than it should have. “If not for a reward, why did you help me? What is it you want?”

Jack laughed again, “I know what you’re thinking, and you can relax, that’s the furthest thing from my mind. I’m no ripper. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a nice person either, but I already got three birds on my back, one even claiming to be carrying me child. I don’t need a fourth. Especially not one young as you.”

Though Tat was relieved she wasn’t going to have to fight for her life a second time today, her small, feminine vanity was still inexplicably stung by his offhand dismissal.

“You didn’t answer my question.” She pressed.

What was he after?

He breathed an annoyed sigh as he started to roll a cigarette. “Can’t people do things because they feel like it? Everybody’s gotta have an agenda?”

He offered the cigarette to her. She hesitated before accepting, and his offered light. She didn’t smoke often, and this simple act worked wonders at calming her down. He rolled one for himself and for a moment they smoked in companionable silence.

“I was like them once, you know, those wretched sods you were tryin’ ta help,” he took a long drag before qualifying his statement. “Well, not always. Used to belong to a tidy, middle-class family. Tea-time, lamb on Sunday, you get the picture. That all ended when those bastards at Barings folded,” his tone conveying pure hatred. “From then on it was the all too familiar story. Bank repossesses the house, you burn through any goodwill you’ve built up with your neighbors, then you’re on the streets. Mum and Dad didn’t last the first winter, leaving me and my little sister alone. We made it three more years together, before the consumption took her. She would’ve been about your age…”

“I’m so sorry.” Tat muttered, unsure why he was confiding in a stranger, figuring the least she could do would be to offer a sympathetic ear.

After blowing several smoke rings, he continued, “To be quite honest, I was originally going to rob you. I saw you come out of Barings and followed. It’s something I do often, I like to think of it as reclaiming what’s rightfully mine. My family’s future those cunts pissed away.”

Tat remained silent, how did one respond to that?

“But, when I saw what you were doing, frankly I couldn’t believe it. My faith in humanity has been dead for so long, it was hard for me to comprehend. I couldn’t help thinking if someone like you had come along, Susan, my sister, might still be alive,” he took the last drag off his cigarette, stamping it out with his heel. “Well, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing, okay? There’s not a lot of opportunity to do good in my line of work, and it weighs heavily on my conscience.”

“Did you shoot anyone back there?” Tat asked.

Jack shook his head, “No, fired into the air, to scare them.”

“I’m relieved…”

“Well, if you must be getting home, at least allow me to walk you, t’would be a shame for you to get into more trouble. Where is it you live?”

“Falconhead lane, off the high street, back near where you found me.”

“Well, we can’t go back the same way, then.”

They set out in the opposite direction from whence they’d come, crossing a busy intersection before descending a stair and turning onto an unpaved road that bordered parkland. Here the foot traffic was noticeably lighter. As they entered the park the rain stopped, clouds parting, allowing a sliver of sunlight to shine

through and cast a wan rainbow over the eastern reaches of the city.

“I think you might want to take off that robe,” Jack suggested. “The police could be looking for someone wearing one remarkably similar to it.”

Though convinced by his words, it was still extremely difficult for her to relinquish her one source of comfort. The police were also probably looking for someone whose face was covered with tattoos anyway, so either way she was in trouble.

Whether due to his earlier confidence, or stemming from a subconscious desire for him to see her, in the end she relented, removing her robe and rolling it up under her arm. Beneath it she wore her old travel clothes; boots, canvas tros and rough, flannel shirt, which made her stand out all the more among the sea of suits, skirts, and drab overcoats.

Soon the questions would come. Already people were doing double takes as they ed. Several times she attempted to catch his eye, trying to bait him out. What was going on with her? She didn’t want people asking questions, yet got annoyed when they didn’t?

Forgetting about that for a moment, she took in her surroundings. It was so nice to be amongst trees again. She hadn’t even known that there was a park so close to her house. Up till now the few trees she’d encountered since coming to this dirty, sinister city appeared sickly and weak. Well, all except the massive oak in the Tree of Life. For a fleeting moment they were just two people, walking in a park in June.

Tat was baffled, she’d been sure that when she took off the robe the questions would begin. Once again forced to explain her markings, defend herself, justify her existence, but Jack said not a single word about her odd appearance. Even after several minutes of casual conversation, he carried on as if nothing was amiss. It was such a departure from her normal experience that it piqued her curiosity. So much so that she finally brought it up herself.

“I wear the robe so that I can hide my face. Not everyone is so accepting.”

Jack shrugged, “In my line of work, I encounter more facial tattoos than one might expect. I learned a long time ago to stay out of other people’s business. Today was a fluke, that’s all.”

Tat bit her tongue, on the verge of correcting him as to the origin of her markings. Better to let him believe they’re tattoos.

“Just what is your line of work anyway?” She asked.

Several seconds ed before she received a reply. “Let’s say I’m a purchasing agent. I locate and obtain certain... products, for interested buyers.”

Tat was intrigued, “What kind of products?” She asked.

Jack was cryptically noncommittal in his reply, “Oh, pretty much anything under the sun…”

Tat’s mind was instantly drawn to her one true desire. “Morphine?” She suggested hopefully.

Jack looked at her with a glint of mischief in his eye, “Are you joking? Never touch the stuff.”

Tat was crestfallen, and more than a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I thought…”

“I only deal in heroin, which is much stronger…”

Maria was waiting, pacing the porch, when she arrived home. At the sight of her, a look of obvious relief ed across her face, promptly followed by a fearsome scowl.

“Do you have any idea how long you’ve been gone, young lady? It’s six o’clock! I’ve been scared to death! I know I said I wanted you to get out into the city, I envisioned you taking it a little slower.”

That was her cue.

“I’m sorry mother, after I left the store I lost track of time at the shops, I went to the bank, and did you know there is a lovely park over there?” She performed her well-rehearsed story in character, trying to come off as innocent and naïve as possible. Entwining enough of the truth so that it didn’t feel so much like lying.

As a diversion, she chose the optimal moment to hand over the replacement milk she’d bought minutes before with the last of her money. All the while, trembling with anticipation at the thought of her other purchase, strapped to her inner thigh with a length of packing tape…

Maria took the milk, appearing immediately suspicious.

“Why’s it still cold then?”

“What?” Tat asked lamely, unprepared for questions.

“Mr. Smythe said you were in the store seven hours ago. Kindly enlighten me as to how this milk stayed cold?”

For a moment Tat was caught in her lie before realizing she could simply tell the truth, if only partially. She played it up for dramatic effect, even going so far as to attempt to summon a few false tears.

“Oh… I’m so sorry, I accidentally dropped it on the ground and it broke. I bought this one at a different store on my way home.”

Maria smiled, apparently satisfied, “Alright, alright, I was just frightened that something had happened to you. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m actually quite proud of you, come here.”

Her mother embraced her tightly. It was so wonderful knowing that someone truly cared about her. It felt terrible deceiving her, and even worse considering the truth that deception concealed. They walked into the house, locking the door behind them.

“Dinner’s almost ready, my treasure, go take that old thing off, and please, put on a dress, for me?” She put on the mock puppy dog eyes she so often adopted when trying to coerce her into doing something contrary to her nature.

Tat had to smile, as she did every time.

“Of course, Mother… I know I’ve been difficult these past few days. It’s just that this life is so new to me. I’m doing my best to adapt. Please, give me a little time.”

Now she spoke from her heart, no deceptions. All the same, she was glad to have an excuse to scurry up the two flights of stairs to her room. As soon as the door closed behind her she removed her robe and delicately freed the package Jack had so carefully wrapped up for her. It’s contents were of singular significance. A small box containing a length of rubber surgical tubing, three glass syringes with extra needles, and, most importantly, four grams of powdered heroin…

He’d taken her back to his flat. Explained to her about how it had to be carefully measured, mixed with a little water, and cooked. He showed her how to do it, tying the hose around her arm to bring out the vein. Then, she’d received a taste of heaven, the remnants of which were still lazily coursing through her body. He surely hadn’t been lying about it being stronger than morphine. Without warning the hunger awakened in full force. All she needed now was a silver spoon…

Already she wanted more. It was pure torture knowing she had to wait. A deep breath stiffened her resolve, she couldn’t be stupid about this. This could absolutely not be allowed to turn into a repeat of her situation in the hospital. Small doses, late at night when nothing was expected of her. Just enough to provide the solace she sought while remaining functional in her mother’s eyes. Thanks to her performance this past week, the bar was understandably low.

Poring over the scantily furnished room, obsessing over where she could possibly hide it. Not between the mattress and box spring, that was too obvious. The armoire could work, it was full of brand-new dresses after all. Throwing open the doors, she pushed through to the back; no, far too shallow. Pulling out as simple a dress as she could find to wear to dinner, she resumed her search...

There.

A grate in the baseboard caught her attention. Surely it led to the heating ducts, which in turn connected to the ancient furnace in the cellar. Using her knife, it took less than a minute to unscrew the cover and sequester her precious package in the shadowy recesses of the vent; the perfect spot. Carefully, she replaced the grate, feeling very clever indeed.

Content that her tracks were covered, she got out of her clothes, into her dress, and almost out of the room before realizing she still had her boots on. Her mother would not appreciate that at all. After kicking them off, she selected a pair of shoes with delicate, little silver buckles and put them on. Before leaving, she checked her reflection, hoping her markings could disguise the guilt clearly written on her face.

Maria was setting the table when Tat glided into the dining room, taking her customary seat, the smell of roast lamb already making her mouth water. The

lack of a place setting before the empty seat at the head of the table meant that, as usual, Yurgis wouldn’t be ing them for dinner. First thing, she scanned the table for any spoons. No luck, naught but forks and knives this evening. She let her frustration go, there would be a chance later. As they sat and ate, ing the time in idle conversation, Tat found it impossible to focus, her mind possessed by a dogged, relentless determination to satiate a manner of hunger that no amount of food could quell.

“So, how much of your money do you have left?”

She froze, a forkful of peas hovering halfway from her plate to her mouth. Of course they all fell off as she debated whether to lie or tell the truth.

“None, I spent it all.” Honesty truly was the best policy.

Maria was perplexed, “Ten pounds? What on earth did you spend it on? You weren’t carrying any bags when you arrived home.”

The truth had brought her this far, no reason to stop now. “I gave it to the poor. We have more than we can ever use.”

“Tatiana! What did I tell you? You show charity once and they’ll come to expect it, they’ll crowd around the door night and day. We don’t need or want that kind of attention. Do you understand?”

The last traces of heroin, burning in her bloodstream, made her bold.

“What I understand is that for a fleeting moment I was able to do something that made me content with being alive. For the first time in forever, I felt good about myself. Can’t I have that? Isn’t that feeling worth ten pounds when stacked against the millions?” She’d meant it to be about the charity, realizing halfway through she was referring to something altogether different.

Maria backed down, looking sheepish indeed, “I see your point. I must apologize, this life is new to me as well. If you wish to engage in charity I won’t stop you. Just, please, don’t lead them home. We have much to hide, and I’ve no interest in running a free lunch counter. Okay, my treasure?”

“Of course… Mother, can I have a spoon?” Blurting it out in hopes her shocked brain could concoct a suitable excuse on the spot.

Maria was justifiably confused, “Whatever for dear?”

“Umm… these darn peas won’t stay on my fork.” A masterstroke!

Her mother chuckled, “Okay, I’ll get you one.” As she began to get up, Tat literally sprang out of her chair.

“No! Mother, you sit, I’m perfectly capable of getting my own spoon.”

Without waiting for a reply she ed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. Opening the drawer which held the cutlery, she grabbed a large silver

table spoon, trying to figure out how she could secret it away without Maria noticing its absence after she finished her meal. She wrestled with the problem for several seconds before her scheming mind assured her that she could take two and hide one now, which she did, stuffing it into the bodice of her dress.

Tat sat back down to her meal, loading up her spoon with peas.

“Oh, you received a letter today.”

She wasn’t prepared for that. “Really, from who?”

“It’s from the post office box that serves the Tree of Life.”

Tat coughed a little as she took a drink of milk. What could it be about? Who was it from?

“Where is it?” She asked.

“Oh, I put it over on the end table where I put all the mail.”

Tat wandered over and rifled through the pile until she found an impressive looking letter, sealed with wax imprinted with the sigil of a tree; the names and addresses all done in beautiful calligraphy. Unsheathing the small dagger that hung on its wall peg for just this purpose, she slit the letter open.

There were two pieces of paper inside, a large sheet and a small scrap, she unfolded the former and read it aloud.

“Miss Tatiana Seldeen, you are cordially invited to share in the Tree of Life’s sixtieth annual summer solstice celebration. us for this ancient ritual to ensure the profundity of the coming harvest. Dinner, dancing and debauchery to ensue. Sunset Saturday till sunrise Sunday June twentieth and twenty first.”

That was four days away!

“Ahh the solstice ritual, There was a time when I used to go every year, it’s quite the party.” Maria’s eyes, cloudy with nostalgia.

Tat, having never been to a real party before, felt uneasy. “So you’re going too?” She asked hopefully.

Her mother arched an eyebrow, “I didn’t receive an invitation. The meaning is clear. You’re the Seldeen now. You must go and represent the family.”

Tat didn’t like the sound of that, it was already enough pressure to be around a roomful of strangers, now she was expected to represent the state of Esion’s house? That was an impossible pair of shoes to fill. She pulled out the smaller scrap of paper and unfolded it. It was a single sentence; she did not read it aloud…

Please come, I promise to behave myself.

Tiphareth

Chapter Twelve:

Solstice

No matter how deeply she dreamed, the pleasure penetrated, saturated, giving the indistinct sensory impression that she cavorted in a sea of crushed, red velvet during her nightly sojourns into the astral. This was a welcome side-effect, perfectly counterbalanced against the fact that her dreams had become increasingly sinister of late. Vividly brutal nightmares from which she would awaken drenched in cold sweat; tonight was no exception.

She lay upon a hospital gurney, wheeled down a decrepit ageway by a cadre of shadowy figures sporting dirty hospital gowns and gruesome animal masks. Somehow she knew that they were all of her old troupe. People she’d slain. The one in the wolf mask, her first love, the musician… his name wouldn’t come…

Through the warm folds of apathetic, drug-induced contentment blanketing her, she noted that her left arm was bloated and black. The swelling was such that the skin had split in several places, oozing a foul mixture of tainted blood and pus.

She was wheeled into a draconian operating theater, seats filled with masked degenerates languishing in a veritable orgy of decadence and immorality, none of which alarmed her in the least. A clear thought germinated in the primitive synapses which represented her dreaming mind.

Render unto Caesar…

The surgeon arrived, falcon mask framed by a curly cascade of crimson. Her

appearance coincided with the descending of a formless cloud of reproach and vague doom, thoroughly permeating her dream consciousness. A feral nurse fitted her arm with a tourniquet, cranking it tight as the bone saw was readied…

She blessedly felt no pain as the blade bit into her necrotic flesh, swiftly making its way to bone. At the sight of blood there was renewed attention from the audience, a rowdy reveling in the unsavory violence of surgery. The blood which flowed forth however was not red, but a sickly, black treacle which floated upon the air, as if in open defiance of gravity.

As the last vestiges of ragged muscle parted and her arm came free, she remained unable to muster even the slightest bit of concern. Even as the truncated stump vomited forth a thousand leeches, their worm-like bodies stretching out, quivering, like questing tendrils searching out tender prey…

A shocking pain, like a wasp sting, dispersed the grisly episode in a sharp intake of breath, wrenching her from the arms of morpheus. The second thing that intruded on this serene scene of repose was her Mother, pounding on the door and shouting.

“Open this door, this instant young lady! Can you hear me?! Tatiana!”

She threw back her blanket, discovering the source of the pain which had so rudely awakened her. Such was the all-encoming pleasure, such was the limitless depth of her abandon to it, that she’d nodded off before even removing the needle from her arm. Must’ve rolled over in her sleep, jabbing it into a nerve.

Suddenly, the gravity of the situation dispelled any lingering contentment. Her

works were spread out all over the floor, her mother at the gates of her kingdom, demanding ittance. Looking to the door, where she’d knowingly wedged her desk chair under the knobs, effectively barring any ingress. She’d felt wickedly clever when the thought occurred to her; if she was to be shut away, it was going to be on her …

There was a fierce rattling as Maria sought to force the door, the chair holding firm. “Tatiana! Do I have to get your Father up here?”

The effect of her words was immediate and two-fold. It got her up and moving, and elicited a verbal response. “Just a moment Mother, I’m not decent!” She called, gathering up the incriminating evidence, wrapping it in her sheets, which she then stuffed under the bed.

“Oh, thank God!” Maria exclaimed, obviously relieved. “I thought for a moment you…” She trailed off, before her anger promptly resurfaced. “Why is this door barred?! This is unacceptable!”

Tat untied the rubber surgical tubing, wincing at the feeling of pins and needles as blood once again flowed, “I am nearly a woman-grown, Mother, I am entitled to a little privacy!” She spoke haughtily, annoyed at what she saw as an infringement upon the already severely limited freedoms she was allowed.

“I will not argue with you through a door, young lady!” Came the muffled retort.

Scanning the room to make sure that all was in order, Tat threw on her old, comfortable traveling clothes and pulled away the chair.

As soon as the door opened Maria scoffed, “Oh no you don’t. Put on a nice dress, the blue one, and be quick about it,” she examined her pocket watch. “We are going to be late if you don’t hurry.”

“Late for what?” Tat asked, quite unenthusiastically.

“Late for what she asks,” Maria threw her hands up. “Have you forgotten that it’s your big day? The solstice is tonight, we have to get you fitted for your gown…”

The seamstress stretched her measuring tape taught across Tat’s slight breasts as she reddened in embarrassment. The plump, middle-aged woman scribbled down her measurements in chalk on a scrap of fabric as Maria reclined on a low couch nearby. The initial warm greeting between the two older women soon lapsed into tired, listless conversation, exacerbating the awkwardness of the situation, mainly concerning her plain figure and the best ways to enhance, accentuate or otherwise obscure it.

Tat shifted her weight impatiently, seeking to alleviate the true cause of her discomfort. Her bowels hadn’t moved in days, leaving her feeling bloated and disgusting. She reached up to scratch the persistent itch that was even now spreading across her body like wildfire…

“For God’s sake, be still, or this will take all day.” The seamstress chastised her as if she was a child.

Tat’s temper flared. For the first time in a long while, she had to bite her lip to remain silent. Who did this lowly servant woman think she was? She was an heiress. They were paying her to do a job, she could damn well shut up and do it…

Finally, her annoyance spilled over, “Mother, what is the nature of the present association between our family and the Tree of Life? Is this indicative of the types of businesses we extort our fortune from?” She paused, the word whorehouses already on her lips. “Brothels?”

Her mother sat up, seemingly pleased to see her daughter taking more of an interest in matters which concerned her. “I can tell by your tone that you don’t approve,” Maria smirked. “I heard what you did, called Tiphareth a whore to her face,” shaking her head in disbelief. “While I must it you’re a braver woman than I, it’s obvious you aren’t appreciating the larger context here. Firstly, though the building was built and the organization chartered and founded by my father, he never collected as much as a single pound of profit from the proceeds. A tradition I’ve held to since his death.”

Tat was taken aback, “Truly?” She asked as the measuring tape snaked all the way up the inside of her leg, coaxing from her a slight gasp.

“Not a single, solitary shilling. It was created as a trust, with the women who practice there as its sole beneficiaries.”

“I, guess I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple. Every woman who has ever lived and worked within those

walls, owns a part of the Tree. All the money goes into a special that provides for the needs of not only the present residents, but all past residents as well. They practice under a ten-year agreement, from ages twenty to thirty, with part of their earnings set aside. When the ten years are up, property is purchased in their name, wherever they desire, they receive a generous monthly stipend, and are taken care of for the rest of their lives.”

This caught Tat off guard. She wondered if it was worth ten years as a whore for such a reward. “But to have to let strange men do that to you…”

“Wait, Tatiana, do you think they would let just anyone in there?” Maria seemed genuinely surprised at her ignorance.

“They don’t?” Tat asked, legitimately interested.

“Of course not.” She paused, switching gears. “Let me ask you a question, how many whores do you think can request an audience with the Queen at a moment’s notice?”

Tat was confused, “I don’t see what you mean.”

“I mean, if Tiphareth so wished, she could march up to the gates of Buckingham Palace, gain ittance, and be granted a meeting with the supreme ruler of the British empire with startlingly few questions asked. The Tree of Life is an officially recognized occult society and counts the royal family among its contracts.”

“You don’t mean… the Queen…” Tat stammered, momentarily scandalized.

Maria laughed, “Oh heavens no, the royal family provides ample subsidies in the name of the advancement of the occult sciences. My point is, they would never allow a stranger anywhere near the Tree. The foci are hand picked by each girl from a long waiting list of noble-born aspirants who are then trained in the higher arts. Each focus, once chosen, pays into this trust, kind of like a subscription fee, fifty pounds a month. Far more than the common man could ever hope to afford. Each sephirah has ten foci, each contributing six hundred pounds a year, well, you can see how that can add up…”

All this time, the seamstress had remained silent. Now she spoke up, her measuring completed, “Enough to buy me a bloody mansion in the West End, with enough left over to live like royalty for the rest of my days.”

In response to Tat’s astonishment, Maria chuckled. “Yes, my treasure, Meryl here is a past resident of the Tree. Maybe you should address your concerns to her… You were Malkuth, were you not?”

Meryl straightened up, cracking her back.

“Indeed I was, lady Maria, thank you for ing. Sphere of Earth, representative of Assiah. Seventy five to eighty five, those were wonderful years…”

Tat quelled her surprise at this sudden development. “But what if they weren’t good years? What if you found you hated it? Would they let you leave?”

“Of course dearie, no one is kept against their will. There is always a large pool of suitable replacements, hoping against hope for such an eventuality.”

“What if someone did leave early, what would happen to the money they’d earned, their share of the Tree? Are they denied?” Tat was relentless, wishing to somehow cast a denigrating light on what, to these two women at least, was viewed as a universally wholesome and uplifting experience.

As Maria started to reply, Meryl held up a bethimbled finger, “I understand your misgivings. Let me tell you a little story that may put your concerns to rest.

“During my third year there, one of our sisters, Chesed was her sephiroth, though her real name was Sally Braun, desired to leave. A fact she kept wellhidden from the rest of us, for a time. You see, above all else, she feared poverty, having aging parents to care for. So she almost felt like it was her duty to remain, even as the extreme mental stress of Yetziratic construction took its toll on her worried mind.”

“It is ittedly a perilous life,” Maria interjected. “And of course it’s not for everybody. But the chance it offers is singular. An opportunity to expand Mankind’s knowledge of the Universe and to push the boundaries of human consciousness itself…”

Meryl continued as if Maria had never spoken, “It was her first year. She held on for seven months, growing wearier and more desperate by the day. Looking back it was a miracle she wasn’t occupied.”

Now it was Tat’s turn to interrupt, “Occupied?”

“Possessed. There is much out there that loves to prey on a weakened mind. But that is neither here nor there. The point is, she had a mental breakdown, crying and begging us to let her leave. As if we were keeping her. In truth, her own fears were all that kept her.

“In the end, she was compensated for the full year, six thousand pounds, and we all chipped in and provided her full pensioner’s benefits. Her parents lived in relative luxury til their dying days, then laid to rest in a modest crypt in Highgate...”

Here Maria broke in again, “My god! Noon already? I believe it’s high time we were back to business,” she rose and approached, armed with a bolt of verdant silk. “I was thinking maybe a nice forest green for the color, gathered in at the waist, with a low neckline to accentuate and complement the symbols on her neck and chest…”

Tat sat on the edge of her bed fidgeting, her anxiety inversely proportional to the fast sinking sun’s proximity to the horizon. In her trembling hand she impatiently held the spoon over a dancing candle flame, waiting for the contents to cook. Again and again, she’d told herself that she wouldn’t, she mustn’t, but deep down she knew she couldn’t face what she had to face without it.

Her attention wandered to the two syringes on the nightstand. Ready, waiting, filled with the promise of no more pain. She figured three should be enough to get her through the entire night in a state of numb ecstasy. She had no idea what to expect, though the invitation mentioned debauchery, and she felt that this kind of behavior fell squarely under that heading.

Finally, all the bubbles had popped, leaving a smooth, even surface. She pulled the plunger on the remaining syringe, drawing the thin, brown liquid into the chamber, making doubly sure to leave no trace behind. Satisfied, she blew out the candle and sheathed the needles with small pieces of cork, scavenged from a discarded wine bottle.

Gathering up her precious treasures, she carefully, yet tightly, wrapped them in a bit of stiff cloth, tied it with string, and placed them in the exquisite, beaded handbag her mother had given her to mark the occasion. They rested beside her knife, a billfold containing ten pounds in small denominations, and her invitation. She didn’t know what normal women carried in their handbags, but she was sure she was well outside that demographic.

She took a shallow breath, feeling the constrictive grip of her corset. Her mother had made several concessions, sadly this was one point on which she would not budge. Replacing the spoon, and her rapidly dwindling supply, in its hiding place, she screwed the back on. Once all was put to rights, she stood before her mirror one last time before leaving.

Maria had braided her hair. It hung loosely coiled in a bun on top of her head, interwoven with sprigs of holly and fragrant lavender which encircled her head like a crown, framing the exotic Ajna on her forehead. Mother had also wanted her to wear makeup, but with her illustrated skin anything more would seem garish, though even her markings couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes…

The dress was beautiful. Meryl had truly outdone herself, making Tat feel even worse about the nasty things she thought about her earlier. It certainly was unconventional, a vibrant green, with a plunging neckline that left a large portion of her chest bare. Showing off her markings, blazing with the matching green Anahata symbol, fading to royal blue Vishuddha at her throat. The hated corset

pushed her breasts upwards and inwards, forcing them to cleave together in an ittedly desirable, yet frightfully uncomfortable way. This brought her to the main cause of her uneasiness.

There will be men there tonight.

She knew all too well what men wanted from women. Knew it was something she was patently unwilling to surrender. How could she, after the life she’d led? After what he had done to her...

Furthermore, these men would all know who she was, what family she was from, which was sure to make her the center of attention; a prize worth competing for. Like a piece of meat, about to be thrown to a pack of hungry dogs. She didn’t feel good about it. Taking a last look at a face she barely recognized anymore, she shouldered her handbag and blew out the candles, heading downstairs before being called.

Maria must have heard her descending, for she was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she reached the landing.

“There she is. My treasure, my beautiful daughter,” her eyes were shining, like she was on the verge of tears. “You look absolutely perfect,” she dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her dress. “Damn, I told myself I wouldn’t cry.”

Tat looked away, trying to keep from tearing up herself. A painful lump forming in her throat as she saw the blatant adoration upon her mother’s face. When she reached the bottom of the stairs Maria embraced her tightly.

“I love you…” She whispered.

Tat was momentarily stunned, hearing those words for the first time was almost too much; she didn’t deserve this. Her already strained tear ducts finally overflowed.

“I… love you too…” The words came hard, forced out. Like she said them because she was expected too, rather than from a true, heartfelt desire to return her affections. The idea of love was proving too abstract a concept in her experience of the world to be able to discern if she meant it or not; but she could tell that she wished she meant it, and that would have to be enough… for now.

“Come, I wish to take a photograph so we can this moment forever.” Tat acquiesced, remaining silent, content to allow her mother this moment unspoiled. It seemed the least she could do.

She produced a small camera and tripod, the lettering on the box loudly proclaiming, The Blair Tourograph Co. Boston, Mass. Could this be the same camera that had taken her photograph so long ago?

Maria led her to the front door, sniffing away the last of her tears. “It will have to be on the porch, this flash powder produces quite a lot of smoke, I’m afraid.”

Her carriage was just arriving when they emerged from the house. Maria was mounting the camera on the tripod as their usual driver pulled up, spryly hopping from his seat. Tat was glad to see him, he had overcome her initial poor

estimation, and she was slowly coming around to the small man’s obvious charms.

“Oy, miss Seldeen, taking a photograph are we.”

“Oh, hello Harold. Yes, it’s an important occasion so I thought…”

“Please, allow me, if the occasion is so special I’d think only a picture of the two of you would do.”

“I don’t know, this is practically an antique, do you even know how to work one of these?” An uneasy reticence shaping her words.

Harold’s laughter was loud and boisterous, “Madame I am offended, how many years have I been driving for you, and your father and dear mum before? I’m no bleedin’ north country idiot, I attended Dartford G, do I know how to work a bloody camera. You give me that flash and get up there.”

Maria nervously relented, taking her place beside Tat as Harold tapped out the powder.

She whispered in her ear, “The flash is going to be bright, don’t look into the light, and don’t blink. You could smile, but only if you want to.” A matronly arm draped around her shoulders protectively.

“Okay, all ready? Five, four, three, two, one!”

The flash was much brighter than she expected, she looked directly into the light, blinking reflexively.

But at least she was smiling…

The flash remained burned into her eyes for a long time as the carriage trundled through the uneven streets, blooming in red against the black of her closed eyelids. She sat in near complete darkness, having untied and drawn the stiff, woolen curtains; she desired privacy. Why was she so scared? Her heart was skipping in her chest, her stomach, clenched like a fist. An earnest attempt at a deep breath was promptly stifled by her corset.

Her mischievous mind focused on the contents of her handbag.

Might have a little now, enough to calm down…

No, she didn’t want to show up to an unknown situation in such a state, better to keep her wits about her until she was familiar with her surroundings. Or at least until she established whether such behavior would be tolerated. So much was being expected of her, she didn’t wish to make a bad impression.

In her mind, she began obsessively acting out possible reactions to imagined scenarios she might encounter. The thought that she may have to verbally joust with men who viewed themselves suitors, and her as just another prize to be

won, exhausted her. Silence wouldn’t suffice, she better get her story straight.

In a flash of understanding, she realized that there was no reason to worry about anything. She could be anyone she wanted tonight. Nobody knew her, she could make up anything she wished; any story under the sun could become her life. Her celebrated lineage meant that most people were already predisposed to like her, or at least feel inferior to her, no matter who she was. It was they who had to worry about impressing her.

How liberating, these thoughts. She spent a few moments thinking up fantastical lies she might tell, before noticing the fading imprint of the flash on her eyelids intensifying. Blooming and taking on subconscious shapes as if drawing upon an external light.

She opened her eyes to see an ominous red glow creeping in through the slit where the curtains came together. An avalanche of fear swept her up in its reckless intensity, every muscle tight, shallow breath buried alive in a whalebone coffin. It was nearly night, and a radiance such as this was surely not the work of any gaslight, too constant, too solid. Adding to her distress was the sudden realization that they were no longer moving…

The way she felt then, no force on Earth could compel her to pull back those curtains. Even despite that, she found herself reaching out a palsied hand.

Nooooooooo! Her mind cried out, boggled at this inconceivable mutiny. The hand continued its ill-advised path in open defiance of her wishes, ratcheting up the tension as it first clawed, then clutched the starched fabric, thrusting it roughly aside…

She screamed.

Seven great pyramids loomed over all, bathed in the ambient, bloody glow of an eclipsed sun. The city as she knew it, crumbling, torn asunder by a mighty cataclysm. Bedlam reigned as the sea of wretched humanity sought to escape the rivers of encroaching magma, thrown up from the depths of great fissures that rent the earth. Banker or beggar, none were spared the caress of pyroclastic vortices, stripping flesh from bone with devastating efficiency.

Falling back from the window, hyperventilating uncontrollably as desperate faces, human and animal, pressed against the glass. Bloodshot eyes, impossibly wide with terror and agony, begging for her to save them. She was their last hope…

“No! I cannot save you, leave me alone!” She cried.

Ignorant of her pleas, the terrible light continued to radiate, infusing the cabin with waves of inevitable, soul devouring despair. She could feel herself surrendering to it, giving herself over to the light of destruction. Even as grotesque faces crowded the windows on both sides, desperate fists banging at the cruel doors of fate; screaming as they succumbed, trampled and consumed by molten stone.

“This isn’t happening!” She cried, writhing about on the floor of the carriage. “This can’t be happening!” Her terrified logic, failing utterly in the face of the empirical horror before her.

A flailing hand chanced to connect with her handbag and she seized it. Initially

intending on extracting her knife for a sinister purpose, she instead drew forth her small pack of syringes…

“Help us, please!” The face of a wolf, handsome grey fur blackened to charred, carbon filaments.

She fumbled with the twine, the simple knot nearly defeating her. Separating one from the rest, not even taking the time to bother locating a vein, she jabbed it straight into the one she couldn’t possibly miss, the jugular, jamming the plunger down in one forceful spurt. Her eyes squeezed shut as the artificial bliss came on, a tidal wave of pleasure sweeping away all before it. Struggling to breathe against the intensity of the rush, she clawed at her dress, shrugging out of her sleeves and forcing it down around her waist; tearing at the laces of her corset as she writhed about in muddled euphoria. With a final, frustrated wrench she was able to wriggle free, flinging it away in disgust. Unbound at last, she lay still, breathing deeply, lazily caressing herself as the light receded…

“Umm, miss?”

She couldn’t have replied even had she wished to.

“Miss, uhh, we’ve arrived, milady.”

At this point, he must’ve opened the door and seen the state she was in, because when he spoke again his voice was tight with surprise and concern.

“Oh, Shite! Not tonight, oh please, not this. Miss?! Can you hear me?!” He climbed into the coach, an indistinct shape hovering at the edge of her vision. Responding was out of the question, all she could muster was an incomprehensible string of vowels as a thin line of drool escaped the corner of her mouth.

“Well, you’re not dead, thank fucking God, that’s something I guess. Wait, what’s this…” He gently pulled the needle out of her neck, the sting causing her to wince.

“’Eroin! Well I’ll be, never would’ve guessed. You should’ve told me, we could’ve had a right proper party, not this rubbish. It’s a relief really, I thought you were fucking deceased.”

Tat came around enough that her mind thought it could make a go at explaining itself. “Youdonunderstand I, I, I, the city, burning, there was this wooooolffffff.” Trailing off into a shuddering sigh.

“Alright, alright, whatever you say girl, I’m not paid to judge. I’m also not paid to babysit. Put yer fucking tits away and get in there, no way I’m wasting my whole evening tending to some drugged up tart, no matter who your mum is.”

“Inavitoitn, plseae.” The thick, garbled baritone demanded her scattered attention.

“What?” She asked, struggling to remain awake and upright.

“Invitation, please.”

Grayson swam into focus, looking none too accommodating. He held out a calloused hand with an air of impatience.

It took a moment for her mind to process his request, and another for her body to obey her commands. Reaching for her handbag, her hand chanced to grasp at empty air...

It was gone!

Had she left it in the coach? She spun back to the road, but Harold was nowhere to be seen. After she’d put herself back together, he’d practically pushed her out onto the street with the vague promise that he would meet her here in the morning. The soft, dull planes of her mind, momentarily flayed by the sharpened blades of anxiety…

Grayson was not amused, “Christ, if you’re looking for your purse it’s on the bloody ground.”

Sure enough, there it was, lying on the street where she’d dropped it. This night was off to a smashing start, she stood a good chance of dying from embarrassment before its end. Sheepishly retrieving her bag, she fumbled with the catch that held it closed. Such a simple device, still it eluded her clumsy fingers. In frustration, she sought to force it, twisting every which way, so that when it popped open she was holding the bag upside down, spilling it’s contents for all to see.

Despite his confrontational demeanor, Grayson laughed tersely as she bent to gather her meager belongings, as if resigned to the fact that he was dealing with an idiot. She straightened up, handing over the crumpled invitation.

He gave it a perfunctory once over, eyeing her reproachfully. “Getting an early start of it, miss Seldeen?”

“I, I, I,” she stammered, in no condition to explain herself.

“If there is one positive outcome to Esion’s death, it’s that he never lived to see what’s become of his line,” he sneered, his face a stern mask of disapproval. “You dishonor his memory by entering this place, such as you are.”

Seeping through the cracks in her opioid armor, she could feel the heat of shame infuse her, even as she groped for the words with which to defend her actions. None were forthcoming. She wanted this to be over; she never should’ve agreed to this.

Grayson shook his head at her seeming unrepentance.

“Also, we do not allow weapons of any kind inside. I’ll have that knife, you may reclaim it when you leave.”

She almost refused, but then she imagined the possible consequences that could be levied against such a refusal and meekly acquiesced; handing over the blade

which he tucked into his jacket as the door was opened. As she made a move to enter, he barred her ingress with an outstretched arm.

“And please, think before you act. Try not to sully your grandfather’s name any more this night.” With that she was allowed to enter, bearing the brunt of his considerable displeasure in silence…

The first thing she noticed as she entered the antechamber was that the enormous vault door that sealed the Tree of Life was ajar. Nobody greeted her from behind the bars, the long desk sat empty. Tat chalked it up to the festivities, couldn’t very well be opening and closing such a massive door all night. Without another thought, she stepped through into the hall that led to the Atrium.

She let her hand trail along the brickwork as she made her way, mainly to steady herself on her feet; she was far higher than she’d ever been. Though she’d purposefully made these doses a little larger than what she was accustomed to, this was too much. As she walked, she was slowly melting into a puddle on the floor. Or at least that’s what it felt like, every few steps stopping to adjust her posture and reassert control over her sagging musculature. All she wanted to do was sleep...

As she oozed into the Atrium, her shoes trodding upon a thick carpet of rose petals, such a wondrous sight greeted her that even through the layers of cynicism and existential dread encircling her spirit, she could not help becoming thoroughly enchanted. Frozen in time, staring in childlike awe.

Venerable and imposing was the tree itself, bedecked in a gloriously dense array of paper streamers, colored lights and ornaments. Appearing as a primordial pagan monolith, a tireless sentinel standing watch over the proceedings. Banners arrayed in all the colors of the rainbow leapt over the balconies streaming down

the full height of the room, softly undulating on an undetectable breeze. Though only crepe paper, an atmosphere of ancient, esoteric mystery, and the dancing light of a thousand candles, succeeded in transmuting them into something almost magical...

“This is a day, I was told would never come.”

The voice, intruding as it did upon this solitary and idyllic scene, caused Tat to gasp in fright. She jerked around to discover Arthyr seated in one of the leather armchairs. His white shirt and tie, smartly tucked into a pinstripe vest, serving to draw attention to his slight frame. During her first visit to the tree, he’d made no impression on her whatsoever, except maybe that of a timid cleric, sitting behind bars. Now she could feel a menacing presence exuding from him.

“What, nothin’t’say?” He slurred, fixing her with a cockeyed stare that spoke of jealously guarded malice.

For the third time this night, Tat found herself at a loss for words. Partially because he was right, she didn’t have anything to say, though mostly because she couldn’t recall what he’d said to begin with.

He looked away, draining the last dregs of an especially fragrant gin and tonic. “This is the day I realized that the man I trusted more than anyone in this world… betrayed me… betrayed all of us.”

Tat began to slowly back away, not wishing to be caught up in the ravings of a drunk. Looking for an exit.

“I still the day they returned from Egypt...” He shook his head slowly, sadly, before fixing her with an accusatory glare. “You’re supposed to be dead! Stillborn!”

The mention of Egypt intrigued her. Perhaps these particular ramblings were worth getting caught up in.

“I sometimes wish with all my heart that were true.” She confessed, with all the conviction she could muster.

He heaved a deep sigh, deprived of any reaction that would justify his smoldering anger. “Don’t misunderstand me, the fact that you live means we did not fail as I’ve been led to believe. The sacrifices we made. The sacrifices I’ve had to live with for twenty years... not in vain.” He looked up, their eyes meeting. “Someone died so that you could live, someone I cared about.”

“I never asked to be born.” Tat bowed her head in shame, hoping to placate him. They weren’t the last to die so that she could live, but they might’ve been the first, “Who was it?”

“So I take it he’s back as well, your… father… I mean. Not dead as Esion and Maria claimed?” He asked, ignoring her question.

“Yes.” She answered, surprised at this turn.

“Shit!” He shouted, lurching to his feet.

Tat braced herself for an attack, but he headed back toward the tunnel that led to the antechamber, disappearing down the corridor with a string of profanity that grew quieter as he went, until the faint echoes faded as the vault door shut. Again alone in the ephemeral faery world of the Atrium.

The confrontation had shaken her, left her feeling defeated in an indefinable way. Something happened in Egypt when she was born, an event unforeseen, unintended. Thinking about her torn photograph, she tried to connect it with these men, Arthyr and Grayson, as well as to whatever might’ve occurred in India between Dobra and her father; was there a common thread? Or was she grasping at shadows? One thing was clear, nobody here was ever supposed to know about her…

A spate of muffled laughter, resonating from a stone archway, drew her attention back to the present. Noticing that the candles formed an implied path directly to the arch, she made her way to a grand set of stairs, descending into the earth. There would be time to sort this all out later, for now she had more pressing business to attend to.

The gravity of the coming evening was catching up with her, helping to ground her somewhat. The fact that she was heading down was a little confusing, she had assumed they would be ascending into the upper rooms, the sephirah. Recalling what occurred the last time she climbed those stairs, it was a welcome confusion.

Becoming lazily self-conscious, she checked her dress, adjusting it so she was covered and presentable. With the hated corset abandoned forever, and every nerve ending in her body ablaze with these beautiful sensations, it felt as if she

was nude, enveloped only in an abstract cloud of fine, warm mist. She wondered what kind of figure she would cut in the minds of others. How would she explain her markings? Might it be easier to claim them as tattoos?

With focus once again placed squarely upon the ominous spectacle bearing down on her, there came the awakening of her traitorous mind, seeking to drag her down into the boggy swamp of anxieties and hang-ups that permeated her sober consciousness. Mostly she remained unperturbed, no small feat even considering the sheer amount of heroin coursing through her veins. The one thought that broke through and caused her stomach to flutter with unexpected apprehension was that somewhere below, Tiphareth waited…

As if summoned by her thoughts, snatches of music wafted up to her. The hesitant meanderings of a baroque aria. The strident, sonorous notes of her cello, especially prominent now that her newly apprehensive ears were actively picking them out. Reserved and sophisticated to someone of more discerning tastes, she supposed, yet sounding to her like exactly what it was, music written by dead people.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, mixing with the music she could now hear the unmistakable sound of the beginnings of a celebration. The sharp clink of glass on glass, flat bursts of nervous laughter rising above the general, oceanic, whitenoise chorus of a hundred simultaneous conversations.

The urge to flee came upon her, unbidden and unwanted, generating dozens of false excuses that would exempt her from having to walk through those doors. Ducking into an alcove, she fought a pitched battle with her rebellious feelings.

There’s no reason for this, be calm, things are going to be fine.

After a minute or two, though the protests never actually ceased, she was able to quiet her mind and body enough to allow her to get on with it…

“Presenting! Miss Tatiana Seldeen of the house Seldeen, granddaughter of our illustrious founder!”

Tat had been wholly unprepared for an introduction when she handed over her invitation to the tall man at the door. The plan was to enter quietly, keeping to the fringes until she located someone she knew. As it was, when she entered the door, she was met with thunderous applause, and the full attention of all assembled.

She froze, unable to believe her eyes...

The male eyes which gazed back at her were not human at all, instead possessing the vertical-slit pupils of the predacious, peering out from animalistic faces; the doomed menagerie of her visions, now assembled in their most decadent finery. Somehow even more disturbing, the women all looked like her, every centimeter of visible flesh covered in arcane markings and symbols. As she gazed helplessly into the collected killing maws of the animal kingdom, those nearest began to approach.

“No!” She shouted, every muscle tensing as her flight response triggered. In the blink of an eye she shifted her weight, spun on her heel and took off, breaking into a run. From close behind came the sound of pursuit.

“Tatianaaaaa wait!”

Any agency she maintained in such a decision was relinquished upon the discovery that running in her current state bore an uncanny resemblance to running in nightmares. Struggling so hard, failing to make any significant headway, like moving through quicksand. This proved too formidable an obstacle to overcome, as legs the consistency of rubber became swiftly entangled in her voluminous petticoats. Sent sprawling to the ground in a jarring somersault, the thick carpet gracing her chin with a painful friction burn as she skidded to a halt. Before she could regain her feet, pursuit caught up with her.

“Are you okay? Whatever is the matter? Here, let me help you up.”

It was Kaori, Binah, fair skin alive with markings in the torchlight.

“It’s happening again.” Tat babbled incoherently, refusing to look directly at her, pulling away, desperate to continue her flight.

“What? What’s happening? Talk to me.”

“Sometimes I see things that aren’t there.” Tat regretted telling the truth, painfully aware of how stupid it sounded.

Binah laughed, “Is that all? Why, that’s all we do around here. What is it that has frightened you so?”

“I see… humans with the heads of animals... and you’re covered in markings, like me.”

Binah was silent for several seconds. “Are you joking with me? Nobody told you?”

“I say, is she alright?” A man ventured out into the hall, in his hands he held the severed head of a lion…

It was a mask.

“Everything’s fine, we won’t be a moment.” Binah called out.

“Told me what?” Tat asked, suspicious.

“Well… it’s tradition for the men to wear masks, but it was Tippy’s idea really, to have all the women decorate their skin with runes and glyphs from dead languages. You know, so that you wouldn’t feel so out of place. Her and Geburah worked it out, so you’ll have to ask them what any of this gibberish means,” she stretched out her arms, presenting them for inspection. “Now come on, I sense you need a drink...”

At first she was touched at the lengths to which they’d gone to make her feel comfortable. Then her mind interceded, casting Tiphareth’s motives in a more sinister light. In reality what she’d done was neutralize the one thing about her that was unique and interesting; took the one thing that gave her life meaning

and dispersed it among the masses. A last lingering thought tormented her as she allowed Binah to escort her back to the party.

When everyone is special, nobody is…

The crowd cheered her again, twice as loud, as she made her entrance for the second time, clinging weakly to Binah’s arm. It was disconcerting that when confronted with the full scope of the room, the first place her eyes settled was upon her. Flanked by Hod and Yesod upon the dais where the musicians performed, Tiphareth refused to observe her arrival, pointedly looking away as though under the guise of some form of trance-like musical detachment.

Refocusing her attention, struggling to experience the normal emotions attendant upon being cheered by a crowd, Tat gave them a limp wave and all was forgiven; the assemblage parted to it them. Casting her eyes downward, they made their way through the loose knit crowd to the improvised bar. Dreading the initial interaction, the jovial greeting, the prying questions.

It was a conceit to imagine she could represent anything, the Seldeen name, the future of a storied empire, even an acceptable level of functional sanity. This time everything had turned out alright, but it couldn’t last. Her visions of the city, destroyed, humans with the heads of animals, dying horribly. This was no coincidence, there had to be some connection, some correlation. It was painfully clear that she could no longer trust herself. How could she if at any moment reality itself could be subverted by this creeping madness? And to know that in the blink of an eye, all these people could be dead, with sole responsibility laid at her feet. She shouldn’t be here, she was too dangerous, too unstable...

She was a weapon.

Tat couldn’t bear to look at the men in their animal masks, who so far were thankfully giving her a wide berth. More than that she wanted to keep her traitorous eyes well away from Tiphareth. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the Cellist was the sole woman present whose skin was unspoiled by markings. This gave credence to Tat’s suspicions, and smacked of Tiphareth seeking to reclaim any advantage she may have relinquished at their last meeting. As if to say, ‘look at me, now it is I who am different and unique, and you are like everyone else.’ Punishment for calling her a whore. Binah was like a rock at her side, as if sensing that her companion needed a little extra .

Despite all prudence and restraint, Tat’s eyes darted up as they ed the nearest point to the stage. The subject of this ill advised glance remained oblivious to her presence, head down, hair falling in her eyes, breast glistening with a delicate patina of sweat as she bowed her cello. The visceral lurch of the deeper bass notes rumbled in the pit of her stomach, entraining a murmuring heart to dance to an altogether different beat. Both Hod and Yesod smiled when they saw her, Hod even managing a wave between notes. Tiphareth alone steadfastly refused to look up…

The bartender poured her vodka long and garnished it with a lime wedge. Tat drained it in a single gulp, placing it again upon the bar.

“Another.” She demanded, causing Binah to chuckle as she reservedly sipped her white wine.

“Of course.” He replied, pouring a little longer this time…

This glass suffered a similar fate, burning its way into her guts with well

ed intensity. If she wasn’t careful this could get out of hand. Placing her glass on the bar, she signalled for a third, but before he could pour, they were interrupted.

“Make that two.”

The woman standing at her side was familiar to Tat, dark hair and eyes, dusky skin laying under tight lines of russian script. It was one of the sephirah, though her name was elusive...

“Malkuth.” Tat could detect a considerable chill in Binah’s voice as she greeted her.

“Supernal,” the tall Russian returned the greeting with an equal amount of enthusiasm before turning her attention to Tat. “And good evening to you Seldeen, our guest of honor,” voice dripping with sarcasm. “Might I you? Nobody will drink vodka with me, they all prefer this disgusting grape water.” Gesturing vaguely with thinly veiled contempt, while Binah ignored her, focusing her attention elsewhere.

Malkuth’s attitude immediately rubbed Tat the wrong way. Now she ed... that remark about her escaping from a cirkus. Even though it may’ve been accurate, it still hurt.

Refusing to rise to such baiting, Tat simply nodded, gesturing for the bartender to pour a second glass. He poured them two doubles and set the bottle down, going to help other guests. Once his attention was occupied, Malkuth promptly picked up the bottle, emptying it into their glasses, filling them both nearly to the

brim.

“What are you trying to do Malkuth?” Binah asked. “Tatiana, you don’t have to drink that.”

“Is quite alright, Supernal. We are two strong women enjoying a stiff drink. Right Seldeen?”

The alcohol was already beginning to work on her. A further muddying of her already turbulent thoughts; an easing of inhibitions. Something about the way this loathsome woman said Seldeen, voice steeped in contempt. Though somewhere deep down Tat knew she shouldn’t, she found herself reaching for it. Knowing she wouldn’t stop until it was gone. This at least was one battle she was assured of winning...

“Of course.” She replied.

“Skoal.” Malkuth toasted. They clinked glasses and drank.

Closing her eyes, she held her breath, arched her back and opened her throat, allowing the volatile liquid to flow. Memories came rushing back, all the bottles she’d finished in remarkably the same fashion; all those nights around the fire; all those years in hell. As the final swallow gurgled down her throat, her performance climaxed by slamming the empty glass upside down on the bar.

It took Malkuth a moment longer to finish her own drink before it too found its

way to the bar. The slight grimace as she wiped her mouth and coughed spoke volumes. It was clear that her plan had backfired on her.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” She fairly gasped, trying to maintain her haughty attitude.

“Moscow,” Tat replied. Adding in a taunting cadence, “The Czar’s palace.”

Let her chew on that.

It produced the desired effect. Malkuth, face twisted in anger, drew close, whispering in her ear, “You see my markings? They are cursing your name, sharpening my intent to expel you from my reality. You may have her fooled, but I know you are no Seldeen. You sow seeds of sorrow wherever you go. I love this place and everyone in it, and I will seek to protect them from you till my dying breath. I am not alone in heeding the portents of the pariah.” She finished cryptically before turning her back, melting once again into the crowd.

“I apologize for her,” Binah said, once more reasserting her presence. “Things are, shall we say, complicated at the Tree of Life at the moment.”

“I understand.” Tat mumbled. Another thing she understood was that she had about fifteen minutes before the full effects of that last drink hit her. She’d eaten a substantial lunch after leaving the seamstress, reasonably sure she wouldn’t black out, but…

“Though I can’t say I’m not pleased that you sent her off with her tail between her legs, Tatiana, are you going to be okay? That was a lot of liquor. If you feel you are going to be sick, tell me.”

“I can handle myself.” Tat said, louder than she’d intended, with mounting, alcohol-fueled confidence.

“I’d expect no less of a Seldeen.”

Tat turned as another familiar face, covered in unfamiliar runes, swam out of the crowd. This time she was able to place it with a name, Geburah, the scholar. Her gown, a deep magenta decorated with intricate ruffles, hung upon her in such a way that Tat couldn’t help being reminded of their first meeting. She swept into their presence like a queen, embracing Binah and Tat in turn.

“I’m so glad you could make it. Here, let me look at you for a moment,” tersely scanning Tat’s skin for several seconds, comparing runes meticulously etched upon her own. “Well, it’s a pale comparison to the real thing, I tried to draw from memory and select a script with the closest resemblance. These particular symbols predate Sumerian, however they lack the level of sophistication of your markings. I won’t bore you with particulars unless you desire me to. We all wished to give you a feeling of belonging. We are all the same, as above, so below.”

“I suppose.” Tat replied, too shy to give voice to her suspicions. An awkward silence descended, as if they expected her to go on, but the music and alcohol were conspiring to work their primordial magic upon her. Causing her hips to sway in time, her attention to waver...

Geburah turned to Binah, “When are we to expect Kether?”

A silver pocket watch was consulted, “Another hour at least.”

“And Netzach?”

Without warning, Tat broke away, wandering into the crowd, seeking to heed an urge older than time itself. She was nothing if not a creature of habit, and after consuming as much vodka as she had, there was only one thing she wanted to do. Although this was not the kind of music she’d choose to dance to, this compulsion would not be denied.

It began slowly, this trickle which would become a torrent, as if unsure how much control over her body she still commanded. Simple, graceful movements mirroring the soft, gliding aria. The vodka seemed to have tempered the heroin, rendering physical exertion virtually effortless. Eyes closed, unheeding of the crowd, gently brushing people aside to carve out a space for her to work her own particular brand of magic.

As her confidence grew, her vocabulary of movement expanded, informed by a foggy recollection of childhood ballet lessons. Ironically, she recalled hating it then as well. Though she could reproduce a reasonable approximation, she fervently wished they would play faster, and with any trace of goddamn feeling. How her heart would soar to hear Tiphareth reproduce the breakneck rhythm of Izaak’s kobza. This music was fit only for a mausoleum...

Even with eyes closed, she could tell people were watching her. Conversation faltered, their attentions caressing her, fueling a deeply buried streak of

exhibitionism. This focus, in turn, inspired her to respond with renewed fervor in her explorations. There was, however, only one for whom she danced, only one who provided the impetus for this exhibition. All her life, up until now, that one had always been herself. Tonight, for the first time, she found herself dancing for another; was she watching?

Awakening from her reverie, open eyes locking with hers in an instant of perfect synchronicity. Brown touching blue like a rebellious rainbow, caring naught for wavelength or amplitude. Fighting against instinct, a fight made infinitely easier through her truly heroic intake of vodka, Tat did not look away. Instead, holding Tiphareth in thrall as she continued to dance, now with a barely perceptible quickening of movement.

There came a hesitant response as the musicians sped up to push her along. It was a start, though not nearly fast enough. With a grand, sweeping gesture Tat assumed the role of conductor, increasing tempo instructed by an everconstricting ouroboros she traced in the aether with a rigid finger. Yesod was the first to alter her part, reducing and simplifying to a few chords of melody, while Hod responded by playing even more notes on her flute, filling in the spaces left by the harp’s withdrawal.

Their gaze still locked, Tat relentlessly pushed, pouring energy into them with her movements. Surprisingly, she felt no resistance from Tiphareth, united in a singular purpose, each seeking desperately to impress the other. Faster and faster as she began to clap to the rhythm she heard in her head, pushing them along as something altogether different was created. The musicians briefly faltered, adjusting to the promise of this emerging creation. Fumbling through the last few bars before the soulless dirge fully transformed into a whirling dervish.

Of necessity they broke as Tat burst into her old patterns and steps, leaping and spinning with practiced ion. The audience now clapping along, their shouts threatening to drown out the music altogether. Then Tiphareth

surprised her by pushing the tempo faster still, her bow moving with all the speed and precision of the drive piston on a steam locomotive, forcing her to the limits of her drug addled endurance. Tat knew she couldn’t keep this up for much longer, forcing herself to push on, unwilling to succumb to weakness…

The song sputtered and died as Tiphareth abruptly laid aside her cello and rose from her seat, attention focused above their heads, across the room toward the entrance. When Tat looked she could barely make out a furor of confusion centering around a handsome wolf...

The cellist fled the stage without a backward glance, leaving Yesod and an increasingly nervous Hod to carry on without her. They attempted to start up another song, scarcely making it two bars before Hod too left the stage, leaving a confused Yesod to courageously soldier on.

The crowd converged, eager to show their appreciation with applause and cheers. Tat tried to back away from this encroaching tide of humanity, mindful of the last time her misplaced acts of charity attracted a crowd so large, promptly colliding with Geburrah in whose arms she collapsed as the last of her endurance gave out. Binah took her other arm and together they guided her to a chair and gave her a cup of water, busying themselves with deflecting those who tried to approach her.

Now that it was over and Tat had a chance to sit and catch her breath, she realized how drunk she already was. Her hair had come undone, hanging messily in her eyes, and to her horror she had to adjust her neckline to cover an accidentally exposed nipple. As a test, she looked at the floor and closed her eyes, feeling the world tilt and spin on its axis. She was going to be sick...

An unexpected hand laid on her shoulder brought her immediately to her senses,

it was Hod, looking quite nervous indeed.

“Tatiana, you need to come with me now! This is important.” She whispered hoarsely, pulling at her, trying to get her up out of her seat. Wide eyes setting pale cheeks aflame with a ruddy glow.

“Hod, not now, Tatiana is tired,” Binah hovered over them like a concerned matron. “I’m sure this can wait til later…”

“No, it CAN’T wait til later!” Hod exploded, showing what Tat suspected was an uncharacteristic confidence. This probably had something to do with why Tiphareth left in such a hurry…

“Hod,” Geburrah began…

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” lurching to her feet, holding the back of the chair to maintain her balance. “Let’s go.”

Tat surrendered to Hod’s quick step, allowing herself to be led like a child to yet another descending staircase at the back of the room. When it became apparent that she couldn’t navigate the stairs on her own, Hod drew close, draping Tat’s arm over her shoulder. No words ed between them as she leaned heavily upon her on the way down to the lowest floor, far below street level, nestled securely in the embrace of the Earth where the sephirah’s private chambers were located. Her head slumped against Hod’s shoulder, where it took note of the slight smear of ink in the marks snaking up her slender neck. Flowing around the scar where she’d been bitten by Netzach...

“Here we are, my cell,” Hod whispered, a sad smile below pale, watery blue eyes. “Come quickly and keep quiet, I’ve something to show you.” As she opened the door, Tat caught a glimpse of her back. Crisscrossed with deep scratches, resembling the map of a fantasy kingdom where there were no happy endings.

As she entered the cozy chamber, Hod lit a candle and Tat was nearly moved to tears by a feeling of homesickness so potent she was all but transported to her little wagon room. Hod’s shelves were crowded with books and treasures in much the same way. Colorful rugs and wall hangings softened the stone walls, while a threadbare quilt described a sagging bed both solitary and expansive. In the far corner, a half-finished canvas proclaimed its occupant to be an artist as well as a musician. She inhaled, the strong scent of incense poorly masking an unpleasant undercurrent of... ammonia, maybe?

Letting a hand trail over the worn leather bindings of her books invoked a keenly bittersweet sense of loss. She perused several titles, none of which were familiar to her. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Esoteric teachings of the Piscean Age, The Hermetic and Alchemical Writings of Paracelsus the Great. An impressively thick tome entitled The Secret Doctrine by someone named H.P. Blavatsky appeared brand new, as if it had yet to be read...

The older girl wasted no time, pulling armloads of books off the shelf, carefully stacking them on the floor. Tat was confused, just what was it she was here to see?

“Ummmm...”

“Shh!” Hod cut her off, one finger pressed to her lips. As if in answer, she silently slid the empty bookcase aside, revealing a tiny hole in the masonry, glowing with light. “Now is not the time for talking, now is the time for watching and listening.”

Was everyone in this weird place spying on each other?

Tat brought one eye close and peered through. The narrow slice of room was rather messy. Clothes lay crumpled, heaped on the bed, abandoned on the floor, hung from the backs of chairs. Empty wine bottles crowded the corners. Inclining her head slightly to the left offered another angle of the room, and there, seated with her back to her, was Tiphareth.

Perched before her elaborate vanity, vainly gazing into the mirror as she brushed her lustrous hair, so close Tat could clearly see the furious expression in her reflection. A voyeuristic thrill caused her to nearly recoil in shame, yet she couldn’t look away. Several moments ed before the door opened, the handsome wolf making his entrance.

Without taking her eyes off her own reflection, Tiphareth lit two cigarettes, handing one to her visitor. “Explain to me why we are doing this now of all times?” The annoyance in her voice, plainly evident. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. And take that damn thing off.”

As the wolf mask came off, Tat was forced to suppress a surprised gasp of recognition...

It’s Jack! What is he doing here?

He spun a chair around, dumping a pile of clothes to the floor before sitting, body language confidently declaring who was in charge of the situation. “I’ve been out of town, had to cut business short to get back for this.”

“I almost wish you hadn’t bothered. Well, is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Her voice taking a marked accusatory tone.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Kindly inform me why she’s obviously on the pin! Pupils so tight it’s a wonder she can see at all!”

“I don’t know why you’d automatically assume that I had anything to…”

“I told you to follow her, not supply her!”

This time Tat did gasp slightly under her breath. The thought that Jack might’ve been purposefully following her at Tiphareth’s behest had never once crossed her mind...

He rose from the chair in indignation, “Hey, she came out and asked me. Morphine for Christ’s sake!”

Tiphareth remained seated, however her own indignation rose to meet him. “I seem to specifically telling you not to her in any way!”

“There were… extenuating circumstances.” Jack sank back onto the chair in resignation, no longer in control.

Tiphareth waited a moment for him to continue before impatience got the best of her. “Well then, regale me! If my desires mean naught to you, I think I deserve an explanation at least.”

“Susan…”

“Enough, what have you learned?”

Jack sighed, “Well, not much that you hadn’t already deduced. She is cripplingly shy, hardly ever leaves that big, old house, and when she does it’s always in the company of Maria, always in a private coach. Except once...”

“The time you blatantly disobeyed me.”

“Will you let me finish? I learned more on that one day than in all the rest combined.”

Tiphareth made no reply but for a twirling motion of her fingers, signaling for him to get on with it as she turned once again towards the mirror to fix her

makeup.

“She’s generous to a fault. Would you believe she went among the poor handing out shillings? Ten pound worth! if I hadn’t intervened they would’ve ripped her apart.”

Tat’s face grew red and hot, stomach churning with nausea as she listened to them talk about her. It was all she could do to pay attention, the sensation of spinning was more pronounced now.

She was definitely going to be sick...

“So you played the white knight? How enchanting.”

“I figured if she was so important for you to set me on her, you’d want her back in one piece.”

Again, the dismissive carry on gesture.

“She was cagey, fretful, I could tell she thought I was some kinda rapist.”

“And she wouldn’t’ve been far off in my estimation.”

Tiphareth’s jibe, delivered with mock-venom, was brushed aside without response. “Wouldn’t give me her real name, though she did accept a cigarette. She’s extremely self-conscious of her appearance, but also fiercely protective of it. Low self esteem I reckon. Views those markings both as the reason she feels outcast from society, yet also as the one thing which gives her life meaning.”

“Are you projecting again, or do these wild suppositions have any basis in reality?”

“Well, she said so, not in so many words of course, when she came back to my flat.”

Tiphareth rounded on him, “What?!”

“Well I wasn’t going to supply her there on the street was I? And you can relax, I was a perfect gentleman. Anyway, she bought quite a lot but, this was ing strange, had to be shown how to shoot it. As I was giving her the business, I noticed evidence of past abuse. Now, this is only a guess, but someone had to be shooting her up, her tracks were clean, leading me to suspect she’s spent time in hospital. And you and I both know there’s only one manner of hospital that keeps their patients drugged in such a manner. A sanitarium…”

Tiphareth turned to him, eyes wide, “Now that you mention it, she let slip that she’d only recently met Maria. Where has she been her entire life? Did she say anything else?”

“She rambled just a bit before shutting tight. Mentioned her father, I think that’s what triggered it, wouldn’t give me nothing after that.”

“...And just who is this mysterious father?” Tiphareth mused, biting her lip in concentration.

Tat silently prayed that she’d never have to find out…

It was impressive to her how close Jack had come to the truth. He’d certainly paid a lot more attention than she realized at the time. Though, of course she’d never been in a filthy sanitarium, never set foot in a proper hospital at all before Warsaw...

“Aside from all that, she seems kind, intelligent, generous. Socially awkward, as if she’s spent a lot of time away from people. Suspicious yes, but that comes with the kind of isolation I suspect she’s been subjected to. The main thing I got is that I can sense no malice in her.”

Without waiting for a reply, Jack approached Tiphareth from behind. Reaching around, he abruptly yanked her dress down, baring her ample chest. Shocked by this sudden exposure, Tat was again moved to look away. This time heeding the impulse, only to surrender to temptation seconds later...

Pale, pink nipples immediately called to mind wide, frightened eyes, as if shocked at this sudden liberation from their silky confinement. Tiphareth squealed as Jack’s questing hands snaked around from behind, finding easy purchase in the hot, loose flesh. Those magnificent orbs, bobbing and jiggling as she put up a playful struggle, only served to remind Tat of the inadequacy of her own meagre teats.

“What are we doing?” Tiphareth breathed.

“I figure we can have a little ritual of our own.” He replied, kissing the hollow of her throat.

Tiphareth pulled away with a terse laugh, pulling up her dress, once more imprisoning her impressive bosom. “Sorry love, tonight I am saving my full potency for only one...”

“Well, we should probably be getting back,” Hod’s voice, betraying a certain reluctance. “Binah is probably wondering where we are.”

In response Tat dropped onto the large bed, laying back, sinking into the musty down comforter as the room spun about, blurring with motion.

“Please, a little longer? I feel so safe here.” She pleaded, focusing on trying to soothe the oceanic currents in her stomach.

“Of course! We do have all night after all, and dinner’s not for two hours yet.” Something childlike in Hod’s tone, a mixture of pleasure and excitement. The bedsprings sighed as she dropped down next to her.

For a moment, Tat lay there, breathing deeply, eyes closed, wishing Hod would leave her be. This proved to be a fool’s hope, as she was soon disturbed by the unexpected sensation of sudden pressure upon her stomach accompanied by a scrabbling of tiny claws. She opened her eyes, gazing into two wide-eyed,

curious, feline faces.

“This is Nephesh and Ruach, Nephie and Roo for short.”

Tat sat up, cradling the precious kittens in her arms as they mewed and stretched, purring all the while. Their soft fur rippled under her fingers, Nephesh, all black save for a white patch on his face, Ruach, a calico. It was impossible to the last time she’d held something so utterly helpless, finding it cathartic. Ungracefully tumbling from her arms onto the bed, they gamboled and pounced after a bit of string that Hod dangled above their heads.

“I need to change their litter, that’s what you’re smelling. We’re not supposed to keep animals, but I found them in a storm drain two weeks past and I couldn’t bear to leave them,” her voice flushed with powerful emotion. “Such innocent souls need protection from the horrors of this Universe,” Hod stared intently at her, pausing for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue. “Tatiana, I need help. There’s nowhere I can turn and I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.” Any trace of youthful exuberance drained from her voice, leaving her downtrodden and defeated.

Tat looked away, ostensibly toward the exit and a way out of this situation. How could she ever hope to help another when she couldn’t even help herself? Still, was she so heartless as to turn away from a kitten caught in a storm drain?

“If you’re not happy, then leave, there’s nothing holding you here,” Tat said, recalling her earlier conversation with Meryl. “They’ll probably even give you your pension and…”

“I’m not leaving,” Hod flatly stated, standing up and fidgeting for a moment. “This is my home. I could never turn my back on the Tree… or my sisters…” She added after a moment. “But events cannot be allowed to continue on their present course. I have received… visions, from the Astral. We all have, directly concerning you and what you represent.”

Tat despaired. This was way more responsibility than she was ready for, especially in her inebriated state. She was beginning to regret not leaving when she had the chance.

“And just what do I represent?”

Hod returned to the bed, taking Tat’s hand in her own while Nephie and Roo continued to purr and play between them. “I have seen you, in my visions, as a holy angel, an avenging archetype, descended into Assiah. Sent to deliver me… us, from darkness.”

“I’m no angel I fear…”

“It’s Netzach,” Hod interrupted, stabbing towards the heart of the matter. “Or more precisely, the thing inside her. The Beast,” eyes growing wide and frightened. “It is corrupting the energies of this place, and it’s going to kill me. This I’ve seen.” This last spoken in a tremulant whisper, barely audible.

Tat could only sit in stunned silence.

“Can’t you feel it? The oppressive weight hanging over everything?”

Deprived of any response, she sighed loudly.

“I suppose not,” taking a moment to visibly calm herself. “My role here is to preside over the sphere of thought, while it is the duty of Netzach to manifest and maintain the sphere of emotion. If the relationship between the two is harmonious, the Tree flourishes along the path of the Tower. But this… thing, is poisoning the well of emotion we all draw from. It’s turning us against each other, against ourselves. It’s upsetting the entire balance of the Tree, threatening to destroy everything generations of women have worked for.”

Tat had heard enough, this was getting way out of hand. “Why not go to Kether? or Binah? Why does it have to be me?”

“You’ve seen how they treat me, like a child, not as an equal, because I happen to be the youngest. Kether has already made up her mind to let this run its course. I think she wants to study it, find out what it knows. She assumes we can resist its corrupting influences. I know we can’t, not anymore.” Squeezing her hand tightly, trembling in fear.

Tat wasn’t about to get roped into vanquishing any demons, reclaiming her hand from Hod’s grasp. “I can’t help anyone. I’m worthless, powerless, I can’t even…”

“Shhh.” Tat was silenced by a firm finger gently lighting upon her lips. “Be mindful of what you say, words have the power to shape reality. You are more powerful than you realize. We’ve all felt it...”

A smile hooked one corner of her mouth, eyes closed.

Tat shivered as an electric jolt ascended her spine. Almost like Hod reached out and touched her without moving.

“Stop.” Tat demanded.

But Hod didn’t stop. Again the phantom caress, stronger this time, like someone tickling her shadow with a feather...

“It’s like coming upon a roaring bonfire in the middle of the darkest, coldest night in all creation,” Hod breathed, leaning in towards her. “And we all just want to draw close…”

Tat doubled over and vomited.

Chapter Thirteen:

Netzach

“W hat’s the Astral like?” Tat asked, throbbing head cradled in Hod’s lap.

Hod stroked her messy hair, speaking in a voice thick with whimsical wonder, “It’s like a dream we can all share, an ocean teeming with all the deepest thoughts and wishes of mankind. A place where nothing exists, where everything exists, all at once.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Tat whispered, struggling to stay awake.

“It can be,” Hod’s voice, falling, losing the element of wistful enchantment, like a beautiful bird brought low by a hunters arrow. “It can also be quite the opposite.”

Tat thought again of the fate of Netzach. “Where is she now? I mean, if the Beast has taken over her body.”

“I won’t pretend to know, maybe she’s trapped in the oubliette of her own mind, or maybe she wanders the Astral, a wayward traveler, forever searching for the way home...”

Tat shivered, contemplating fates worse than death. “I’m sorry I ruined your carpet.” Apologizing for the dozenth time, face flushing hot.

Hod chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, I would do anything for you, anything you ask. You’re my angel.” Sensing the awkwardness of her statement, she demurely amended, “And if you haven’t noticed, it already smells bad in here, if anything this is an improvement.”

They shared a forced laugh at this joke, failing to break the tension of expectancy that hung in the air.

Tat used her fingers to comb out the last of her ruined braids, little sprigs of holly falling to the moist carpet. Now that her stomach was rid of all that alcohol, she felt a good deal better, though her euphoric high was leveling out into a sluggish, sleepy stupor. Her body began to pine for the next shot. The only reason she’d raised her head at all was to look for her handbag…

“Are you ready to go back now, Tatiana? We’ve been gone for over thirty minutes.”

There it was, sitting on the chair, calling to her…

“Tatiana?”

With great difficulty, Tat broke her gaze, returning her attention to Hod. Seeing the look of hopeful iration in her eyes gave her the realization that she couldn’t let her down, couldn’t divulge the darkness and ravenous hunger that drove her; the longing for death that carried her along like a boat on a tempestuous sea.

After all, she was now an angel…

“I’m ready, I think.”

The stairs proved little challenge this time, and she was able to refuse Hod’s offered arm; however, the thought of all that waited at the top was enough to inspire her to take them slowly. Supernals, demons, not to mention Tiphareth at her full potency. For obvious reasons, this thought troubled her the most. She’d been, if not prepared, at least resigned to fending off masculine advances, now she had to worry about women as well? Regardless, it was out of the question. It was wrong for two women to lie together, the mere thought of it repulsed her…

“So, when we get back, we’ll have twenty three minutes before Netzach’s commencement,” Hod startled Tat out of her musings, bringing her back to the horrifying reality that they were about to do battle with a demon. “Kether, in all her wisdom, has decided to allow the Beast to perform a ritual of its own devising. None of us know what it’s planning, so I don’t expect you to do anything yet. Just try and get a feel for your adversary. But, if anything does happen, I stand ready to back you up.”

Tat looked at Hod, practically glowing, bubbling over with excitement. And why not? According to her visions, all her problems were about to be solved. For Tat however, the problems were just beginning.

“But, what am I supposed to do?”

“You’ll know when the choice is made, the Universe tends to work that way...”

Reaching the top of the stairs, Tat paused a moment before the doors. As she turned to respond, her escort was nowhere to be seen. As if she up and vanished into thin air.

Alone on the stairs...

Her gut clenched in familiar fear as an inevitable dread wrapped itself around her. Pushing into the room, she promptly chilled to the bone…

All the guests were dead. Slaughtered like the animals they resembled.

The painted girl idled a moment before slowly making her way into the abattoir that the rousing celebration had become. Senses drinking in every last gory detail. The sight of gallons of blood coating the floor in a treacherous mire, strewn with organs and entrails. The smell of cooked meat, cloying and sick. The heavy, ominous silence where once laughter and revelry had reigned. Coming at last to stand, open mouthed, in the center of the room, aghast at the macabre spectacle of flesh melted from blackened bones.

They’d fallen where they stood, limbs akimbo, piled atop one another, faces frozen forever into grim death masques. How was she remaining so calm? She reached inside herself, searching for feeling, for anything, finding naught but a bottomless chasm yawning precipitously within, devoid of any recognizable human erratum...

They all deserved what they got.

Among the innumerable dead, she began to discern the minute details that marked the bodies of those she’d known. There was the broken body of Malkuth, identifiable only by the scraps of unburnt fabric clinging wetly to the corpse. There, Binah and Geburrah, collapsed in a pitiful pile. There was, however, only one for whom she searched.

The all-encoming silence was deafening, closing in around her all at once as she began to scan around, looking for her with cool detachment...

There!

A shock of singed blonde hair caught her eye, at the bottom of a heap of dead near the stage. Tat began to dig, tearing through sodden fabric, desiccated meat and crumbling bones to get to her, displaying no more emotion than a threshing machine at harvest. Heaving off the last of the bodies she uncovered Tiphareth, or her head at least, cradled in the arms of a handsome wolf, fur blackened to charred carbon filaments…

She screamed then, a piercing wail that split the silent hall. The black chasm within her recoiled, sealing shut with a rush of human empathy that exploded out of her in an ear splitting shriek.

“Tatiana! What’s wrong?”

Jerking away from a sudden hand laid on her shoulder, she spun around to see Binah, looking worried and concerned.

“What?!” Tat cried, whirling about to see that she’d attracted the attention of the nameless, anonymous crowd, many looking at her as if she were quite mad, screaming at the top of her lungs in the middle of the celebration.

It had all been a vision.

“Everyone was dead. All of you!” Pointing as she made the accusation, leveling her finger at the crowd en mass as she slowly turned back to Binah, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course you should. Calm yourself child, nothing is amiss.”

“No, I’m leaving. Now.”

Forgive me Hod, I’m no angel...

“Tatiana, after the sun is down, the one door in or out is sealed. Nobody leaves until tomorrow morning.”

This news had the immediate effect of igniting her claustrophobia. The simple fact that she couldn’t leave, even though there was plenty of space, turned this entire building into a coffin.

She started to pull away.

“Geburah will you help me please?” Binah called for assistance as Tat ran through the doors for the second time that evening. If she was being forced to stay, she had to have another shot. Taking the stairs up two at a time, back toward the Atrium, handbag already in her hands. No fumbling with the catch this time…

Slumped against the wall of the tunnel leading to the vault door, breathing deep, feeling everything wash away. The spent needle slipped through her fingers to the cobblestones below and she kicked it into the undergrowth surrounding the Tree, shivering as it tinkled across the flagstones. Sooner or later they would come for her, Binah, Geburah, maybe even Kether, but that ceased to matter for the moment.

Dropping into one of the leather chairs, Tat let her head tip back onto the low headrest, seeking to banish the grisly spectacle freshly burned into her memory. How much more could she take? How much longer must she be tortured to earn her freedom?

Two hands slipped over her eyes from behind.

“Guess who.” Tiphareth whispered in her ear.

Tat tensed up, unprepared for this confrontation, letting the question by unanswered.

“Having a rough night?”

The empathy in her voice was such that it coaxed a reply from sealed lips, “You have no idea.”

Tiphareth uncovered her eyes, hands lightly caressing her cheeks, drifting along the delicate curve of her throat, down to gently massage her shoulders. Tat began to pull away, finding herself drawn gently, yet firmly, back into her seat.

“Just relax. You’re so tense, a stiff breeze could cause you to crumble.” Her voice, like her kneading fingers, at once insistent yet benign.

Against all instinct, Tat did as she was told, melting again into the chair, suffering Tiphareth’s ministrations with all the apprehension of an antelope under the watchful eyes of a lioness.

“I don’t like to be touched.” She mumbled, feeling the muscles of her shoulders reluctantly slacken. Realizing then that she was tensing nearly every muscle in her body, and had been for most of her life...

“I understand and respect that. And this isn’t about me touching you. It’s about you being soothed in a time of pain, and touch is the way I know best,” her soft, clear voice, tiptoeing in through her ears to massage her mind. “Something happened to you just now, you saw something.”

Tat was finding it nearly impossible to remain awake as Tiphareth deftly untied a lifetime of knots deep within her aching muscles. “Yes,” she breathed. “Everyone was dead, you, Jack, Binah, everyone. All my fault. But, more than that… this city is doomed… I’ve seen it… consumed by fire, reclaimed by the Earth.” She was rambling now.

She felt Tiphareth shudder through the tantalizing point of between them, “Who are you?” She asked, her patrician voice betraying a morbid curiosity.

“I don’t know.” Tat whispered.

Silence persisted for a time, in which Tat was pretty sure she nodded off for a moment, for when she came to, Tiphareth was seated across from her. Their knees nearly touching, her eyes, intently gazing.

“What’s it like? Heroin, I mean.”

It’s the only thing that makes me want to go on living.

She almost said it; her first impulse. Loath to it, even to herself, but the thought that she stayed alive for Maria, or any imagined hope for her new life, was eclipsed by the simple fact that if she was dead, she would never feel this again. Somehow she’d allowed it to worm its way inside her until the hunger was now all she was.

Instead of answering, she jumped to a conclusion. “You knew I was watching.

You and Jack, I mean.”

Tiphareth hesitated, a pensive furrowing of an angelic brow.

“Of course I knew. Hod is nothing if not thoroughly transparent in her motives. I’d planned on telling you tonight anyway, but I never could resist a bit of role play.” Her smile shone forth as genuine. Dripping with mischief, yet ostensibly free of cunning or guile.

“Jack saved me, in more ways than one. If anything, I should be thanking you.”

“I want you to know, I meant no harm. It was mainly for your own protection. You’ve come to concern me a great deal.”

Tat nodded, marshalling her courage for what was surely coming next. Might as well cut to the chase, it was doubtful she’d ever be able to muster more bravery than right now…

“You’re going to try to seduce me tonight.” Tat accused, suppressed heart rate jumping.

“Oh, how direct, I like that. I make no secret about it, but you say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is, it’s unnatural.”

Tiphareth laughed, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No darling, sex, in all its forms, is the most natural thing under the sun. What is unnatural is this era’s all too human tendency to equate that which is pleasurable with that which is evil.”

Tat hadn’t expected an argument. Forced to think fast, knowing that running out of excuses would be tantamount to an ission of defeat. Instead of an intelligent counterpoint, bigotry was all she could grasp.

“I mean, for a woman to lie with another woman is wrong, a perversion.”

This time, instead of laughter, her words were met with a sombre, almost hurt expression. “Oh, Tatiana. Perversion?” She heaved a heavy sigh, “I can tell someone has hurt you. Filled you with poisonous words, thoughts and feelings.”

As she spoke, Tiphareth slowly leaned forward in her chair to the point that Tat feared she’d fall out of her dress. Reflexively glancing down, for the briefest instant she wavered, wondering how it would feel, their two bodies pressed together in carnal lust…

No, it will never be, it mustn’t.

Shaking off these traitorous thoughts. Raising her eyes once again, Tiphareth wore a triumphant smirk, as if knowing that all was going according to plan.

She continued to press, her voice taking on the sweetness of honey, “I could help you forget all that. Don’t let your natural fears, or even worse, parental or societal programming, keep us from experiencing what could be the greatest night of our lives. I truly believe that, united, we could move the very foundations of heaven and Earth. I meant it when I said I never wanted to feel anything else ever again. The Auric you channeled into me that day is what I imagine heroin is to you. But, unlike heroin, it only took one shot to hook me.” She paused, letting that sink in. A wandering hand, once again finding itself alighted upon Tat’s knee.

Tat examined her metaphor. Taking it literally, by her rejection, she was denying this beautiful creature the one thing she lived for. She suddenly understood Tiphareth infinitely better.

“I’m sorry I called you a whore,” she began.

“I accept your apology...”

“But there’s no way anything is ever going to happen between us.” Tat tried her best to exude confidence, pretty sure she failed miserably.

Tiphareth’s smirk grew into a toothy grin.

“Whatever you say, Seldeen. I am a patient creature, and do so love a good chase. Though to be honest, I am usually pursued, rather than pursuant. Know that I am quite adept at creating my own reality, and I always get what I want. Through thought, word and deed; through ritual, dream and intent; summoned by candle, by book, and by bell, I have marked you. You belong to me now.”

Tiphareth’s soliloquy gave Tat butterflies in her stomach. The final line sending chills up her spine, as the blatant honesty in her voice transformed a rather sinister statement into a seeming promise of shelter and protection…

“I thought you were going to behave yourself tonight.” Tat muttered.

“This is me behaving myself.” Tiphareth purred.

Before Tat could reply, the four great clocks came to life in a maelstrom of ringing bells, startling them both and bringing Tiphareth to her feet. For several seconds, cacophony reigned, before winding down and subsiding.

“Damn! It’s time. Well, are you ready to go back? Netzach will be making her entrance before long and Hod will be ever so disappointed if you miss it.” Voice tinged with a covetous edge.

“Tiphareth, what am I getting myself into? Hod thinks I’m an… an angel, sent to save you all from a demon.”

“Oh, believe me I know, she’s been quite vocal about it. I can see how her visions could be interpreted that way. Especially since she’s in a state of such close association with the inorganic consciousness inside Netzach; however, I fear that interpretation has been tainted by childhood fantasy and abandonment issues.”

“Have you, as well, had visions about me?” Tat asked with great embarrassment. What was she doing? This should be the least of her concerns at the moment.

“I have, though I do not wish to discuss them now.” Tiphareth demurred, busying herself with a shoe strap.

“You would keep such secrets from me?” Tat queried, affecting the voice of innocence.

Tiphareth frowned, marring her perfect features. She obviously didn’t appreciate being manipulated in this fashion, acquiescing only under protest.

“In you, I’ve seen the advent of the destroyer. Though the destroyer of what hasn’t been made clear. Destruction isn’t always a bad thing, such as the removal of barriers or obstacles, a clearing away of old paradigms so the new can unfold. But your talk of death and the city consumed certainly hasn’t laid my mind to rest.”

“Do you have any idea what my visions might mean?” Tat implored.

“It’s far too soon to say, and unfortunately we have precious little time to discuss such matters at the moment. If I had to venture a guess, I suspect the being inside Netzach can sense your presence here and is using its etheric nature to exert psychic pressure upon you, which is manifesting in your consciousness as visions of death and destruction. The two of you are connected somehow, and it fears you, that much is clear. In fact, after you left here last, it spent all night retracing our path through the tree in a state of extreme agitation, sniffing you out, banishing all traces of your aura from the Tree’s astral structure.”

A chill enveloped Tat, real fear sinking its tendrils into her bones. “I can’t do this, I…”

In response, Tiphareth reached out her hand. When Tat took it she was yanked to her feet and into a crushing embrace.

“My darling, I will never allow you to come to harm while there is a single breath of life in my body. This is the promise I make to you, I will always protect you.”

The raucous fanfare that greeted her previous entrance was this time conspicuously absent. A restless air of anticipation hung over the subdued crowd, which had gathered in a throng at the far end of the hall. Indeed the only one to notice them enter was Hod, pacing nervously at the rear of the press like a frightened animal.

Likewise, the close physical proximity cultivated by Tiphareth on their descent was similarly abandoned, abruptly drifting apart as they approached. Tat was of two minds, at once relieved at her departure, yet experiencing a pang of something she identified as misguided jealousy as she saw her fall in with Malkuth with a familiar clutch and a deep kiss...

“Is everything alright?” Hod asked as Tat ed her and Yesod, moving into the crowd to obtain a better vantage point for the coming spectacle. Through the crush of bodies she could spy an elaborate altar, decorated with skulls and bones of many small animals, surrounded by seven braziers...

“Ask me when this is over.” Tat mumbled, fear intensifying.

“She’ll be here any moment now, god my heart is fit to burst.” Yesod, visibly shaking, sprightly features transfigured by grief. Hod tenderly encircled her, all the while keeping her eyes on Tat.

“It’s alright, Yessi, our angel is here…” She consoled.

Before Tat could interject, she was startled by a rough hand on her shoulder. Turning around to see Jack, wolf mask pushed back on his head, a large glass of red wine in his hand. Judging from the stains around his lips, he’d already drank his fill.

“Fancy seeing you here innit?” While his words were slightly slurred, his eyes were still sharp. “I owe you an apology, milady. I was not entirely truthful with you. But, like dear mum used to say, withholding the truth is not a lie. She only wanted to know more about you.”

Tat searched her feelings. Should she feign anger at this imagined betrayal? It hardly seemed to matter at this point. “I know. You have nothing to apologize for… you saved me, Jack,” ing her primary desire, she moved a little closer to him. “I’m running low…” She whispered.

Before Jack could answer, a flare of light burst out in the gloom, alarming the crowd as one by one the seven braziers that surrounded the altar erupted to life, giving off dense clouds of pungent incense. Tat craned her neck, failing to see anyone in the vicinity who could’ve lit them. The people around her began to murmur uneasily as the fragrant smoke wove it’s ethereal tendrils among them,

lending an atmosphere of theatrical mystery to the proceedings.

Yesod appeared to be on the verge of flight, wringing her hands, weeping silently as Hod sought to comfort her in vain, “If you truly are an angel, as Hod says, then stay close to me, I’ll have need of you.” Her hoarse plea echoing her sinking hopes.

It was then that the main doors opened with a long creak, and Tat got her first glimpse of a Demon…

Her mask was a deer skull, complete with an impressive rack of antlers alight with a spectral, blue flame. The authenticity of the skull corroborated by bits of flesh and viscera still clinging to the bleached bone. She wore no clothing but a skirt of braided grass about her pendulous hips. Across her naked shoulders was slung a live goat, bleating out what seemed futile cries for help. At the sight of her, Yesod let out a strangled sob, burying her face in Hod’s shoulder.

After perching on the threshold, frozen in observation, for nearly a minute, the creature brazenly strode into the room, the crowd parting to allow age to the altar. As misfortune would have it, that part left them standing directly in her path. Compelled to step back quite abruptly as she ed, heedless of her sister’s anguish.

Tat could feel the power radiating off her, what the sephirah referred to as Auric, manifested as the puckering of gooseflesh simultaneously over the entirety of her body. The stench of a defiled grave followed her in a dense aura, punctuated with a distinctly chemical aroma arising from whatever was applied to the antlers to cause them to burn so blue. Several fat, black flies buzzed purposefully in her wake, brushing against Tat’s face with a fluttering of disgusting wings. Though she courageously sought to steal a glimpse of the eyes deep within the

darkened sockets of the skull, she was denied.

After her age, the congregation knit together once more, and Tatiana could hear Jack, quietly conversing with another man directly behind them.

“Boy, love to have a piece of that, eh?”

His companion was nonplussed, “Are you mad? I’ll never understand what you see in that… woman. She’s gone wrong I tell you. Why, I ‘eard a rumor she was caught out at the Runciter farm not two weeks past… coupling with the ‘orses…”

Tat shuddered, trying to ignore them. Even amidst the gravity of the moment, the conjured image inspired a deep disgust in her. Jack, however, was not similarly dissuaded.

“You ever seen a woman couple with an ‘orse before? S’bloody brilliant…”

Yesod lifted her head in anger, “That’s my sister Jack! Elizabeth is still in there somewhere and I’ll not have you speak that way about her!”

Jack sheepishly hung his head at this upbraiding. “My god, I’m sorry, Miriam, I got carried away. Tis the wine talking…”

“My name is Yesod now.” She replied with a glare, hinting at a deep, unspoken

history between them. As Jack excused himself and made his way back to the bar, they all refocused their attention on Netzach as she began the ritual in earnest.

After relieving herself of her burden, she secured it to an iron ring set in the ground by way of a length of rope. Approaching the altar, she removed the skull mask, placing it atop the myriad bones, crowning the macabre shrine in distinctly pagan splendour. Turning back to her captive audience, treating them to a glimpse of eyes altogether devoid of humanity. A shocking realization washed over her; Netzach and Yesod were not merely sisters...

They were identical twins.

The corrupted sephirah began a slow circuit around the terrible tabernacle, marking the cardinal directions with complex gestures and incoherently mumbled words.

“She’s setting up the cross… wards. She means to attempt a manifestation!” Yesod observed, stress causing her voice to crack in disbelief.

“The Beast reeks of death.” Hod added.

“It has entered Nigredo, the first stage of alchemical enlightenment. The symbolic death evinced as a marked abandoning of entrainment with the ineluctable modality of the physical. The spirit and body must be consumed by oblivion, impurities expunged before entering the blinding resurrection of Albedo.”

Though Tat fathomed only a fraction of the words Yesod was saying, it was clear that it was helping her to speak. To attempt to comprehend her sister’s condition by quantifying it with words and concepts she could understand.

Circumnavigation complete, Netzach knelt by the goat, whispering into its floppy ear, placating the tiny beast. With one hand she reached up and grasped a chitinous horn, while the other slipped behind her back, unsheathing a silver dagger secreted beneath her skirt.

She’s going to kill the goat!

With mounting concern Tat looked around at the rapt crowd, was nobody going to stop her? From the look of it, no one had any intention of stopping anything. The faces she searched all bore similar expressions of curious anticipation. She cast about for even one person willing to stand up to this monster.

There was Binah and Geburah, watching intently, sipping from their wine glasses as if this was perfectly normal. There, Tiphareth and Malkuth, stifling laughter over a shared joke. Why, even Hod and Yesod appeared content to let an innocent creature die, or at least unable to stop it. Was she herself going to stand aside and let this happen?

In the end, she did, and she hated herself for it. The knife flashed once, blood cascading from the slit throat. Tat choked in shock at the sight of Netzach wrenching the head back and drinking deeply from the wound. Oblivious as the viscous liquid streamed down her torso, coating her breasts in sticky, red ichor.

As the poor creature faded into death, Netzach laid the pathetic carcass at the foot of the altar, where the remaining blood pooled around her feet. As she dipped her fingers, using the vital fluid to mark her body with blasphemous sigils, a guttural eight syllable chant was begun and sustained. The voice issuing forth was not the host’s true voice, but a sepulchral, animal sonance completely unlike any tongue spoken by civilized humanity.

“Uruku alal idimmu, uruku alal idimmu…”

The vibrations of her unearthly ululations had an immediate effect on the people. Those nearest stepped back out of obvious fear. While those at the back stepped forward out of a misguided inquisitiveness. The end effect being a general tightening and cleaving together. Bodies closed around Tat in the darkness, fanning the flames of her already colossal anxiety.

She was now pressed up against Yesod who forthwith turned and seized her, “If you are an angel, I beg of you, stop this. Bring my sister back to me!”

“Shhhh, shhhh, all will be well, Kether and Chokmah are monitoring Yetzirah.” Hod assured her.

Through the thickening haze of incense, Netzach was becoming hard to see, squatting prostrate before the altar, intensifying the chant over the body of the sacrifice.

“Uruku alal idimmu! Uruku alal idimmu!”

with a sickening crack the Beast broke one of the long, ribbed horns free of its moorings, holding it up to the altar, as if for a blessing. Tat was caught off guard by the sheer strength required to accomplish such a feat, how could she ever hope to vanquish such a creature?

Dipping her hand once again she coated the horn in blood, rubbing it sensuously between her breasts in a primitive mockery of seduction as she lay down before the altar; head resting upon her sacrifice as she spread her legs…

At this point Yesod could take no more, breaking away from Hod’s arms, pushing through the press without regard. Hod started to follow her, then changed her mind, burying her face in her hands.

Tat refused to look, but judging from the moans and heavy breathing that punctuated the continuing chant, it was obvious what she was doing with the horn. A deep feeling of revulsion settled over her. A feeling made all the worse when she realized that even if poor Elizabeth did manage to reclaim her body, the stigma upon her would be insurmountable, there was no coming back from this...

Cries of pleasure echoed through the hall as Netzach approached the climax of this lewd performance. Ringing in her ears, to be recalled only in nightmares, the chant grew to a shriek.

“URUKU ALAL IDIMMUUUUUU!”

An inexplicably powerful, hot sulphur wind blew through the hall, snuffing out every light save the spectral, blue emanation of the burning antlers. Plunging the

gathering into near complete darkness. She could feel the crowd stiffen in fear, torn between two extremes as many voices rang out in the gloom. Jostled and nearly thrown to the ground as the crowd shifted on its feet, ing her own voice to the hellish chorus of confusion.

Then she saw it.

Saw wasn’t the best word. Something was definitely there, a shapeless, amorphous presence, but it wasn’t intrinsically visible, solely perceivable through it’s displacement of the thick clouds of smoke. The overall impression was of something enormous straining at the bonds of reality, seeking to enter the world from outside…

An oppressive pressure enveloped her, manifesting as a harsh buzzing in her ears. As if a swarm of locusts sought to make a home inside her skull. The stench of brimstone, clogging her lungs, burning her eyes as she did battle with the worst fear of her life.

Abruptly the main doors were thrown wide, a blinding arc of pure, white light bathing the room as Kether, terrible in her wrath, arrived, fashionably late.

“That will be quite enough of that.” She said, calm and reserved as ever.

When the light fell upon Netzach, the Beast screamed as if experiencing physical pain. Hiding behind the altar, cowering in apparent fear, far more animal than human. Robbed of the trappings of ritual and mystery, it appeared weak, almost pathetic. It was an odd juxtaposition, seeing a creature of darkness, dragged out into the light.

Though it was nearly impossible to look at her, Tat was astonished to find that the light seemed to emanate directly from Kether herself. For a split second before that fantastic radiance departed, Tat saw the apparent dimensions of the invading entity thrown into stark relief. It was something she was never going to forget...

After the light faded, Kether drew herself up to her full height, and promptly collapsed, saved only by Chokmah’s quick reflexes. There was an audible collective gasp and those closest rushed to offer aid. After a tense moment she was able to regain her feet, advancing on the altar.

“I’m going to go find Yessi. Go to Kether.” Hod said, giving Tat a quick hug before departing.

All around her, people were dispersing, many laughing in that queer, human way people do in order to protect their fragile minds from the ultimate terror of an impersonal Universe. Candles and torches were lit and a concerted effort was made to return the gathering to its former, festive mood.

As she approached the altar, all the sephirah, save Hod and Yesod, were present and ed for. It was her first time seeing them all together, and it was a truly impressive sight. As if when assembled, they became much more than the sum of their parts.

Tat hung back, trying to stay unnoticed as Kether and Chokmah succeeded in calming Netzach down. An old threadbare robe was placed about her shoulders to cover her nakedness, and everyone relaxed, an apparent crisis averted. Seeing her for the first time under somewhat normal circumstances, movements

appearing slow and deliberate, almost insect-like as she faced her sisters, awaiting judgment.

“Tatiana, be not afraid, come here.”

As Kether called out to her, all the sephirah turned to look, parting so she could approach. Under their scrutinous gaze, Tat felt the urge to flee rise within her. Upon seeing Netzach’s face twisted in an unnerving fusion of terror and rage, that urge became nearly insurmountable. As if sensing this, Binah, Malkuth and Geburah moved to block her retreat, while Tiphareth took her arm, politely escorting her into battle.

“Do not fear darling, this is the reason you’re here,” Tiphareth whispered. “Kether wants you two to meet. It will not harm you, especially with all of us here.”

These words meant nothing to Tat, absolutely convinced she was being marched to her doom. Netzach was now well aware of her presence, clearly agitated, fixing her with an unrepentant glare.

“That is simply not the way an organic lifeform comports herself publicwise,” Kether lectured, as if to a child. “You are here for one reason, and if you can’t treat the body of our sister with care and respect, you will be exorcised with extreme prejudice, is that what you desire?”

Netzach did not reply, her eyes never wavering in the intense appraisal of her adversary. As Tat neared, Kether threw up her hands in exasperation. “I can see there is no use in employing logic when speaking to an animal.”

At this point there was a small commotion as Hod and Yesod returned to the group. Yesod, having mastered her emotions, appeared grim yet determined. Turning back to Netzach, it was uncanny how much they resembled one another…

The attack came with such fury and violence that Tat was caught totally off guard; in the span of an instant, forced to fight for her life amidst a whirlwind of teeth and nails. They hit the ground hard, Tat gasping for lost breath as she futilely sought to protect herself.

A hemorrhage of memory, discovered under a bed and flushed out, kicking and screaming, triggered a burst of adrenaline and she ed the fight with redoubled acrimony. Giving nearly as good as she got, she suffered a nasty scratch and a shallow bite on her collarbone before Malkuth and Tiphareth managed to pry them apart; Netzach kicking and spitting like something feral, wild. A string of glottal language issued forth as she was finally restrained with the help of Binah and Geburah.

Hod and Yesod rushed to Tat’s side. Dazed and breathless from the assault, it was a moment or two before she was able to regain her feet. Yesod interposed herself between them in case Netzach wrestled free.

“Are you okay, Tatiana?” Kether asked. “I failed to prepare for that as a possible outcome. Never did I think it would go so far as to attack you. I sincerely apologize.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned away. “Gebbi, what is it saying?”

Geburah looked annoyed, as if restraining a wild, shouting demon was one thing,

but to comprehend its foul vernacular as well? “It’s archaic… sounds like a mother tongue linking Sumerian and Phoenician, I can only get one word out of ten. Tis surely no blessing though.”

As if seeking to make the interpreter’s job easier, the Beast lapsed into broken English, its preternaturally deep voice grinding like a millstone in her mind...

“Listen carefully vessel for Eater of Worlds! I have seen your coming, portents surcease of endless aeons. I know you, Asherah Shekinah! Returned from labyrinth of time! Preying upon prayers!”

Preying upon prayers...

“Girls, get her out of here, now!” Kether snapped.

Before they could carry out the order, Netzach, in one swift movement, extricated herself from their grasp, and with head held high, marched out of the room, decisively slamming the door behind her.

After a moment Chokmah broke the relieved silence, “Did everyone hear that?” She sounded stunned, and judging by the looks Tat was getting, she wasn’t alone.

Vessel for the Eater of Worlds.

“Just like an inorganic being, full of lies, deceit and bullshit.” Kether was having none of it. “Pay her no heed Seldeen, the ramblings of an alien mind. Now let’s get back, it’s nearly dinn…”

Before she could leave, her way was blocked by a tearfully confrontational Yesod. “This has to end Kether, one way or another. I can’t take this anymore.”

“I know Yesod, I am truly sorry for all that’s happened.”

“Sorry? Sorry won’t bring Elizabeth back. Sorry won’t restore her lost humanity… Apologies cannot return that which is lost. Only one thing can do that.”

For a moment, Kether stood tall, defiant, before a coughing fit crumpled her over in pain. Tat took note of the sympathetic looks she received, even the anger in Yesod’s eyes softened momentarily. Something was wrong with her...

She recovered herself, wiping away a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth.

“Fulfillment of the contract.” Kether whispered.

Dinner was to be served in the adjacent dining chamber across the main hall. The extent of the underground architecture of the Tree of life continued to impress Tat, there seemed no end to the warren of chambers cradled beneath the busy London streets. To think that her Grandfather designed and built this

place… even the long shadow he cast from beyond the grave was intimidating.

The great double doors were thrown wide and the guests began to casually make their way into the dining hall in twos and threes amidst a torrent of garrulous chatter. As she filed toward the door, escorted by no less than five sephirah, Tiphareth, Hod, Yesod, Binah and Geburah all refusing to leave her side, Tat reflected on the turn this night had taken relative to her expectations. The fears she’d held so close, now as nothing to her. Nobody in the nameless, faceless crowd had even acknowledged her existence, let alone approached her. True, she’d been fairly occupied since her arrival, but nobody would even meet her eyes. Surely for the best, yet still puzzling.

Long oak tables ran the length of the candlelit room, already heavy-laden with a prodigious banquet. Never before had Tat beheld such an opulent spread. Not even the Czar’s Palace had boasted a meal this extravagant. The rich smell of a dozen roasted geese inspired Tat’s stomach to clench with nausea. A shame that eating was the last thing on her mind at the moment. The guests swarmed the room, the bench style seating beginning to fill as her group made their way towards the head of the room where the sephirah occupied their own table.

As they approached, Kether and Chokmah stopped them. “I’m sorry Tatiana, we must preserve the energy balance at the table, the place settings have been meticulously worked out. I’m afraid you must eat with the other guests.”

Hod was the first to respond, with outrage, “No!”

The rest of her coterie were quick to follow suit, with Geburah alone being the voice of reason. “Why can’t she take Chesed’s Seat?”

“Well, she’s not Chesed, is she?” Chokmah shot back.

Tat wondered who they were talking about, she thought she’d met all the sephirah…

“Who’s Chesed?” She demanded.

“Usually one of us, but we don’t have a Chesed right now.” Hod answered.

Tiphareth broke in drawing attention back to herself, “She fulfilled her obligations before Hod arrived. We sent for a replacement, but she died en route from America. A pity, I so adore Americans.” Draining her wine glass.

“Now we have another replacement coming all the way from Jaipur, I can’t wait to meet her…” Hod interjected, trying to keep the pendulum of conversation from swinging back to her rival.

Decisively, Tiphareth took Tat’s arm in hers. “Kether, if Tatiana sits with the other guests... then so do we.” Tat caught Malkuth rolling her eyes at this. Kether paused, clearly at a loss at this sudden mutiny. That was all the approval Tiphareth needed and they brushed past her.

“Okay, but she must sit only in Chesed’s seat. They are clearly marked…” Kether, reluctant to relinquish her authority, called after them.

Tiphareth located her own seat, marked with the girl’s names on tiny cards, then checked those next to her. “Well this won’t do at all.” She muttered, taking the one to her left and throwing it to the ground, pulling out the chair for her. As Tat claimed her seat, she glanced down and saw the name on the card was Netzach. Hod was next to break the rules, picking up Malkuth’s card and throwing it into the air, taking the seat next to Tat with a mischievous grin.

From the head of the table, Kether voiced her displeasure, “No, girls, now really…” Giving up after seeing that nobody was listening. Defeated, she wandered off to help coordinate seating for the increasingly rowdy crowd. Malkuth took the seat directly across from Tat, marked Chesed, while Binah, Chokmah, Geburah and Yesod filled out the table in more or less their prescribed seats; banishing the absent Netzach to the foot of the table, opposite Kether, as far from the rest of them as possible.

“Are you sure you’re okay Tatiana?” Hod asked.

Was she okay? Pain was little more than an abstract concept to her at the moment, vaguely troubling were the bite marks on her shoulder, otherwise no complaints.

“Yes, I’m fine, a little shaken up…”

“Of course she’s fine,” Malkuth interrupted. “After all, she’s an angel,” she continued in a bitingly sarcastic tone before dropping her voice. “An angel of death…”

Tiphareth loudly cleared her throat and Malkuth grudgingly backed off, ing

Chokmah and Geburah’s conversation. She leaned over and whispered in Tat’s ear behind an obscuring hand.

“A lovely creature is she not? A vision of perfection. There are men who would kill to possess her, who have in fact, but she’s all mine. And up until quite recently, I was all hers. She has seen you as one who will plunder all that she has built, all that we have achieved. She feels threatened by you... and with good reason.” As Tat listened with mounting unease, Malkuth kept shooting her glances fraught with hostility, as if knowing she’d already lost.

“I’m so sorry Hod, some angel I turned out to be.” Tat muttered, feeling acutely ashamed by Malkuth’s words, desperate to break the tension and divert Tiphareth’s attention.

“Tatiana stop,” Hod firmly rebuked her. “You did great, you faced her and fought her. In hindsight, it was nearly an optimal outcome, given the situation.”

“But not truly optimal, or the Beast would’ve been banished.” Yesod said from her seat at Malkuth’s right. A solemn mood smothering their end of the table.

Tiphareth sighed, keeping her voice down, “Did we really think it would be so easy? No, the contract must be fulfilled.”

“What contract?” Tat asked, this was the second time she’d heard it mentioned.

All conversation at the table stopped, as if she’d asked the wrong question at the

worst time.

“Well, should we tell her?” Tiphareth asked.

Chokmah piped up, “Absolutely not! Kether is too close, she’ll hear.”

“Well, let her hear,” Malkuth harshly whispered. “She already knows the story.”

“I agree, I want the truth to be spoken here. If only for my own conscience.” Yesod seconded, offering nothing further. Here Malkuth again took up the thread.

“Kether is to blame for all of this...”

“Malkuth, stop. I’m the closest to her, if it must be told, let me begin,” Chokmah commanded, addressing Tat for the first time since their first meeting. “First you must understand why she did what she did. Try not to judge her too harshly. Kether is not long for this world… we… found a lump in her breast.” Her piercing, coal-black eyes, clouding with sorrow. An awkward silence descended over them and, as one, they all turned to look to where Kether was directing foot traffic to the last few available seats. “Someone else can tell the rest.” Chokmah said, tears welling up in her eyes.

A fragment of memory surfaced then, interrupting Tat’s immediate reaction to this terrible news.

No matter how bad you think you have it...

“Needless to say, when we found out we all wanted to do whatever we could to find a way to help her defeat death itself, but she went too far,” Geburah spoke up for the first time. “Yetzirah is teeming with all manner of beings, representing the entire spectrum of morality and motivation.”

When she looked up to ascertain that Kether was still occupied, Binah jumped in. “Long story short, she encountered a consciousness that claimed knowledge of how to cure all known human maladies.”

Tat was astounded, “And she believed that?”

Malkuth let out a terse laugh, “Thank you, Seldeen, thank you,” she said, giving a petite clap. “Yes, she believed it. But the Beast had , it’s help did not come cheaply.”

With mounting horror, Tat began to understand what was going on here. “So she offered up Netzach…”

“No, you don’t understand, not just Netzach, she offered up us all,” Yesod said, eager to take up the narrative herself, dying to deliver the final piece of evidence to rest the prosecution’s case. “Whoever it was strong enough to take. We all work in Yetzirah everyday, it could’ve been any one of us, even you Chokmah. She entered into the contract willingly, it could have a real body in Assiah, to do with as it pleases, in return for the cure.”

“But, what if Kether dies?” Tat asked.

“Then so dies the Beast, and so dies Netzach.” Malkuth finished.

Presently, all the guests were seated and Kether returned to the dais to address the assemblage.

“Friends, family, foci… allow me to begin this solstice invocation with a fervent apology for that shameful display exhibited earlier…”

At this point, as if on cue, the doors were thrown open and a freshly washed and dressed Netzach crept into the room, causing Kether to falter into silence. The crowd began to murmur as the Beast made her way to her seat at the foot of their table, glaring all the while. As the loathsome creature ed behind, Tat shuddered deeply, fearing a renewed offensive, but the attack never came. She claimed her seat and immediately began to eat. Digging into the dishes nearest her with bare hands and a voracious appetite, oblivious to the fact that everyone else was waiting for Kether to finish before commencing the feast.

Kether cleared her throat and continued, “We here at the Tree of Life do not condone such disgusting behavior. At least… not in public.”

There was a ripple of laughter at this. Tat was astonished both by Kether’s ability to employ levity despite the gravity of the situation, and the crowd’s eagerness to laugh off the near-manifestation of a malicious, alien entity. Had she truly seen anything? Or had it been another vision, lacking any grounding in reality?

“I’ve never been any good at these things, those of you who attend year after year can attest to that. So, in the spirit of expedience, since I’m sure your mouths are watering as much as mine, I’ll offer a short prayer and be done with it.”

She paused, during which the only sounds that could be heard was the rattle of plates and the smacking of lips as Netzach continued to wallow in gluttony.

“I hereby invoke the four elements. Violet is the Air of Aries, rising from the raging yellow fires of Leo. Quenched by the blue-green waters of Scorpio, all returning to the Orange band of earth in Taurus.”

Kether was then ed by the rest of the sephirah, chanting in unison, many voices coalescing into one.

“Ol sonuf vaorsagi goho iad balata. Elexarpeh. Co-mananu. Tabitom. Zodekara eku zodekare, od zodameranu. Odo kikle qaa piape piamoel od vaoan.”

Eyes closed, Tat could literally feel the words break over her. Vibrations raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck, leading her nearly to the gates of slumber. Then, far too soon, it was ended. The spell broken, Kether continued on alone.

“I invoke ye angels of the celestial spheres whose dwelling lies within the invisible. Ye are the guardians of the gates of the Universe, be ye also guardians of this mystic sphere. Keep far removed the evil, the unbalanced. Strengthen and inspire us so that we may preserve unsullied this abode of the mysteries of the eternal archetype. Holy art thou, lord of the Universe. Holy art thou whom nature hath not formed. Holy art thou, vast and mighty one. Lord of light, and of darkness. Adonai Elohim Tetragrammaton…”

“Tatiana, wake up.”

She snapped awake as Hod gently shook her shoulder, summoning her away from a dream of falling. After the meal had begun in earnest and the excitement of fighting had faded, she’d found it impossible to remain awake.

“You’re sure you’re not hungry?” Hod asked, brandishing a large gravy boat as she dressed up her second, or third, plate.

“Hod, leave her alone, she’s told you several times now.” Tiphareth scolded as she daintily picked her way through an enormous salad. All through the meal, those two had been vying for her attention, needling each other with verbal jabs of varying wit and malice. It was obvious that they both physically desired her, yet Tat remained repulsed. In fact, even the sheer mechanics of such an act mystified her. She began to fervently wish for a way out of all this...

“Angel is too holy to break bread with lowly mortals such as we…” Malkuth was relentless, never missing an opportunity to vent her venom at being supplanted. It was all so tiresome, Tat wanted none of this. The whole night had been a disaster, and the worst part was that her last shot had been broken in her tussle with Netzach. That meant she had a day’s worth left hidden in her room. She had to talk to Jack…

“If you want, you could go down and sleep in my room.”

“Hod, nobody wants to sleep in your foul nest. We can all smell it, those animals

you have imprisoned down there.” Tiphareth saw right through her.

“Oh, and she’d rest much easier in yours? There’s not even any room to lie down amid the squalor and refuse. A sty fit only for pigs.”

“You would know, farm girl, you’ve probably lain with them all your life. Pigs, I mean.” Continued wine consumption displaying startling prowess at loosening tongues...

Amidst Malkuth’s derisive laughter, Hod drained her glass, wiping her lips on the back of her sleeve.

“At least I don’t fuck my brother.” She muttered...

“What did you say?” Tiphareth’s voice was calm and collected, but the threat it held was unfathomably deep.

“I think you heard me.” Hod practically whispered, appearing to instantly regret her actions.

Tat, astonished, looked at Tiphareth, wondering at the truth of such a statement. Their eyes met, and for a split second she saw past the veneer of womanly confidence to the mortified girl within. But, just as quickly, the moment ed, and her unrepentant attitude ed the battle.

“He’s my half brother, we came from different wombs.” She itted.

“But of common seed…” Hod spat, doubling down on her judgmental stance.

Tat couldn’t believe what she was hearing, she looked to the others for help. Kether’s end of the table was embroiled in a deep philosophical debate, while Yesod busied herself cleaning her sister’s filthy face with a napkin in a tender gesture. Meanwhile, Malkuth looked on, wearing a hateful grin.

Surprisingly, Tiphareth took the high ground, a tactic of which Tat did not think her capable. “It’s true. I’ve never sought to hide it, and for you to bring it out now and throw it in my face is truly despicable, Hod. The Auric I receive from him is unique in its potency. The Auric of unconditional love. Since we were children, he’s always been there for me. We’ve only ever had each other. Our parents died, Emily. We lived on the streets... for years. He kept me alive, cared for me, put me through school. Together we clawed our way out of utter destitution. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him, or him for me. As long as there are no children, I see nothing wrong. It hurts no one, least of all you.”

Something about Tiphareth’s confession sounded familiar, then she made the connection. Jack had told a remarkably similar tale of him and his sister, and while Tat had been spying on the two of them, he’d called her by a certain name…

“You’re Susan!” Tat interrupted.

Tiphareth sighed, extending her hand in mock greeting. “Susannah Cabbot, a pleasure to meet you, miss Seldeen.”

No sooner had their hands touched than the air was broken by an explosion, accompanied by an enormous shattering that shook the building, stunning the gathering into shocked and expectant silence. The sound of falling glass that followed was deafening in scope. Tat was wrenched from the bosom of languorous torpor into a state of supreme agitation. A single thought leapt to the forefront of her mind, and it instantly terrified her…

Yurgis.

One and all looked to Kether, who was already on her feet, signaling for attention.

“Everyone, remain calm, nobody move. Arthyr and Grayson are well-equipped to handle the situation. Any interference on our part will only obstruct them.”

She made her way towards the doors quickly yet carefully, fear plainly showing in her constrained movements. Several burly men were conscripted to assist her in lowering the thick wooden planks into their brackets, barring any entrance.

“What’s happened?” Hod asked no one in particular.

“Sounds like the skylight in the Atrium shattered.” Geburah replied.

“But how? Why?” Tiphareth, seeking to understand this tragedy without knowing that the real tragedy was still to come; practically upon them.

“Papa…” was all Tat said.

That was when the knock came at the door. The now-familiar pattern...

Three short, three long, three short.

Kether visibly relaxed, while Tat experienced a diametrically opposed effect, each impact winding her tighter and tighter as her worst fears were realized. Yurgis’ secret knock was not one well kept, not here at least. It made sense when she realized it most likely originated with Esion and was in common practice among his circle.

If she could’ve cried out, she would’ve. As was always the case, her father’s presence, even imagined, rendered her effectively mute as Kether raised the bar and peeked her head out. She immediately recoiled, screaming as she was jerked out of the room. Before those nearest could even rise, she appeared again, this time with a pistol held to her throat.

“Nobody move! I come for what’s mine!”

Yurgis Stannek lurched into view, his hostage’s delicate, white hair gathered in a granite fist as he jerked her head back and drove her before him. “Anybody obstructs me will die! I did not come here tonight to kill, but stand ready. Sit down all of you!”

As one, everyone obeyed his command, including the sephirah, though she could see Yesod having trouble restraining Netzach, whose eyes were wide in Terror. He was heading for their table. Tat, terrified beyond the capacity for words, slumped down in her chair, drawing her knees up against her chest. This feeling was familiar to her, she was being hunted…

“Sir, I don’t know who you are, but we have nothing of yours, I can assure…” Kether argued before being silenced by a jab to the throat from the gun barrel. Captor and captive as one mounted the dais and approached the head of the table where he released Kether back into her seat, keeping his pistol cocked and ready. Then his horrible gaze fell upon where she cowered.

“Tatiana, come.”

To her surprise, Tiphareth leapt to her defense. “You say you come for that which is yours. You don’t own her, she doesn’t belong to you.” Tat couldn’t help recall her tender words from earlier; she couldn’t belong to Yurgis, for she already belonged to her…

In lieu of an answer Yurgis took aim and fired, shattering Tiphareth’s full glass, spraying them all with wine and fine glass shards, eliciting startled screams.

“I take what’s mine, now, or this one dies.” The pistol again took Kether into its sights.

“Do it, she’s as good as dead already!”

Yesod spoke up before Malkuth seized her, forcing her back into her seat. This meant that she was no longer restraining the frenzied Netzach who bounded onto the massive table, sprinting full speed towards Yurgis with murder in her eye and an inhuman cry upon her lips.

Yurgis watched her rapid approach, chuckling in genuine amusement, as ever unperturbed. At the table’s head she leapt to attack. Yurgis caught her with a crippling left cross to the face that sounded like an axe felling a tree, knocking her out of the air and into a pitiful pile, unmoving on the floor.

“Anybody else?” Yurgis gleefully asked.

Tat felt Tiphareth tug at her sleeve. She gestured over her shoulder with a nod and Tat looked to see Jack, as yet unnoticed by Yurgis, taking aim with his own pistol, waiting for the signal. Evidently waiting for her to give the signal. In response to Tiphareth’s questioning eyes, Tat shook her head an emphatic no, that would only lead to much more death. She’d had enough.

She found her voice, “Okay… Father, I’m coming.”

She rose from her seat, clutching her tiny handbag as the sephirah around her muttered in astonishment at this familial reveal. Tiphareth caught her hand as she left her chair.

“I’ll come for you, be prepared.”

“Please don’t.” Tat rebuked, reclaiming her hand and marching out of the room without a backwards glance, Yurgis trailing close behind.

The Atrium had again been transformed, though still eerily conforming with her present state of mind. He had indeed circumvented the building’s formidable security by shattering the skylight. Any lingering atmosphere of wonder now lay in ruins, the beautiful streamers and decorations, sodden by the driving rain. Lethal shards of glass lay in wait amidst the carpet of trampled rose petals; this dismal metamorphosis presided over by the sputtering steam of a thousand dead candles. Her eyes chanced to fall upon the crumpled form of Arthyr, luckily still breathing, who had obviously come in when he heard Yurgis’ entrance and paid the price for it.

As they ed through the great iron door they practically had to step over the body of Grayson. Unlike his compatriot, he wasn’t breathing, mainly due to the fact that his throat was cut so deeply his head was nearly severed. What was her father thinking? Did he think he could get away with this? Openly invading an occult institution recognized by the crown? This was audacious even by his standards. Either due to shock or desensitization, The corpse held no fear as she saw the hilt of her knife sticking out of the inner jacket pocket.

As Yurgis poked his head out to ascertain the clarity of the coast, she retrieved the blade, tucking it into her handbag. Four whispered words were Grayson’s only requiem...

“I’ll have this back.”

For the previous two weeks, her father had been, for all intents and purposes, absent from her life, off on mysterious errands. Her mother offered no explanation, and Tat hadn’t asked, content to bask in a blissful reality in which

he didn’t exist; just Mother and her and lovely heroin. Now, with the heavy actuality of his presence again at her back as they galloped into the rain soaked night, the crushing weight of his encroachment into that reality was too much to bear.

No words ed between them until they were back on the North Bank, where Yurgis slowed to a trot. As she began to piece together how Yurgis had tracked her down, a heavy guilt descended over her.

“Did you hurt her?” She asked, fearing for Maria.

“Not badly, lesson had to be learned. She sent you into nest of vipers. Those bitches seek to use you for evil ends.”

More lies. She was reasonably sure that her mother would never harm her in any way. So confident was she in Maria’s protection that she pushed further, “Why did you kill Grayson and not Arthyr?”

“You think me stupid? I killed no one. Gray was already gone when I came.”

This struck her as truth, as it wasn’t like him to deny himself credit for the removal of his enemies.

That only left Arthyr.

“All your life I seek to protect…”

“I don’t need you to protect me from the world!” Tat cried, no longer fearing any physical retribution and furious over his blatant refusal to not exist.

Yurgis laughed, “Is that what you think is about, dear Daughter? That has never been my aim. I am protecting world from you!”

Chapter Fourteen:

Necropolis

Mother, By the time you read this I will be Dead...

Disgusted, she crumpled the sheet of paper like so many before it, throwing it into her wastebasket in frustration. This had been so much simpler when nobody cared about her. When there was nobody who would miss her when she was gone. Now she felt the need to explain herself, as if a well written suicide note could somehow soften the blow for a mother she’d never known. Someone who loved her…

The overflowing wastebasket radiated an atmosphere of grim severity as she fondled her knife, honed to a razor’s edge. She’d been at it for days now, feverish writing, beginning as a way to take her mind off the debilitating torment of soldier’s disease, slowly degenerating into this macabre exercise. If she was to create one thing that would live on after she was gone, she wanted it to be a grand indictment of the human condition, a powerful rejection of the forces of evil. Yet, she continually found herself lacking in the execution of such lofty intentions; prose bordering on that thin line between childish and mentally deficient.

Uncrumpling one of her more promising failures, again disappointed at its petty juvenility.

...I’ve been locked in here for two weeks!...

As if a simple list of grievances was any substitute for a true ing of a human lifetime lived in fear and apathy.

...My room had been searched!...

If she’d had any idea that Yurgis had already located her hiding spot behind the vent, she might’ve put up more of a fight rather than feebly allowing him to escort her from the Tree of Life unopposed. In truth, she’d been relieved that her wish for a reprieve from the loaded crosshairs of sexual conquest had been granted. While the added incentive of being able to shoot up, then curl up in her warm bed seemed an irresistible prospect.

...But that was a story, and I know not all stories have happy endings...

Tiphareth never came for her. For perhaps the thousandth time in the intervening weeks, Tat imagined how that night might’ve turned out without her Father’s intervention. Her mind, against her wishes, obsessively poring over every detail in primal mimicry of adolescent fantasy, which was all her stunted emotional machinery could muster.

...Are you aware there are at least two grown women actively trying to fuck me?...

She read those words many times, continually astonished at the depth of dismay that had caused her to commit such a foul ission to paper. And to a paper she expected her own mother to read no less; the pulpy harbinger of her imminent demise.

As much as the idea consciously repelled her, something about such aberrance must intrigue her on a visceral level, because she’d been unable to forget it. It haunted her during sleepless nights. Her mind, falling into the old hypothetical game.

Given the choice, who would she prefer?

Taking a hard look at her feelings she could honestly say she felt closer to Hod, yet somehow above her, as if the youngest sephirah was something resembling a known quantity; while Tiphareth possessed a distinct feeling of depthless mystery bolstered by a brash, unrepentant confidence wholly absent in her rival.

Far from discouraging her, as was clearly Hod’s intention, the revelation of Tiphareth’s quasi-incestual relationship with Jack stirred something deep within. Her brain, constantly bombarding her with images of the two of them locked in carnal entanglement. There was a desecrated purity about it, a brother and sister knowing each other so well, no secrets, no boundaries…

With a sigh, she once again relegated the spindled sheet to the bottomless bin of rejection and sorrow. Rising from her desk, she gazed through the barred windows into the finite section of drab, midnight sky arcing over their overgrown back garden. For the first time, conceiving of heaven as a prison.

Yurgis must have finished with his mysterious errands, for he was now a perpetual presence in the house. He delivered her one meal a day, and searched her room without warning or provocation. It was only through acts of desperate cunning and luck bordering on the realm of divine providence that she retained possession of her knife. She hadn’t seen Maria since returning from the Tree of

Life, though she still heard them fighting every night.

The Symposium was two days away. Where she would be exposed to the world, for good or ill. Yurgis took constant pains to remind her, cryptically alluding to the sinister finale of an endgame she was not privy to. In truth, she’d had so much on her mind of late that the impending conference lacked any concrete reality. Existing in her consciousness as another nebulous future event she probably wouldn’t live to see.

Tiphareth had said that many of the sephirah were going to be in attendance; were they planning something? Is that why she hadn’t come for her? It was all she had to cling to.

Gathering up the scattered, crumpled remnants of what promised to be her last battle on earth, Tat took the wastebasket to the fireplace to burn the evidence of her intentions. The one superfluous luxury she was allowed was a single lit candle, which she carefully used to transmute her sorrow unto ashes. As the paper burned, dispersing her foul rhetoric into heat and light, she stared into the flames, mind blessedly blank, until they died. Stamping out the last glowing embers with a merciless boot, a small sprinkle of falling soot broke her attention.

A precipitous impulse came to her, causing her to duck her head and step into the fireplace. Gingerly, she probed the depths of the flue, sneezing as decades of sticky, black powder buildup cascaded down upon her. Coughing as the cloud settled around her, she wiped her eyes, looking up the chimney to see, to her astonishment, an unobstructed path to the starry night sky. A path large enough that one of her slight build could conceivably ascend…

A sudden, faint knock at her door scared her half to death. It was the middle of the night and she’d been confident of privacy. Her initial thoughts were of her

unsecured knife before she calmed down; Yurgis never knocked when he invaded her kingdom…

“Mother?”

Maria’s voice came back to her in a husky whisper, sounding anxious and defeated. “My treasure, I don’t have much time so I need you to listen carefully. Can you do that for me?”

“Are you okay? Has he…”

“Tatiana! That doesn’t matter, I need you to listen now.”

“Okay.” She acquiesced.

“Tomorrow eve, I am to accompany Yurgis. I fear this may be the last time you will see me alive.”

“What!?”

“Enough. That’s a worst case scenario, it might not come to that. Either way, he has moved you beyond my reach, so I am here to impart to you my final gift,” a thick manilla envelope emerged from the crack under the door. “You never had a proper birth certificate, there you will find all the documents necessary to identify you as the direct heiress of the Seldeen empire. All that your grandfather

has built. Those documents alone are not enough however. You will need to obtain my will, which is secured in a safety deposit box at Barings, now commit these numbers to memory…”

For a long time after her mother had gone, for perhaps the final time, Tat sat by the door clutching the envelope to her chest, crying. Though for her mother or for herself wasn’t immediately clear. She couldn’t do this, didn’t her mother see that? Couldn’t she sense that her troubled daughter had little time left herself? All her life Tat had secretly wished for a life of riches and power, but that was as far as it could ever go, a secret wish, fated to remain forever unfulfilled. This simple sheaf of papers could never impart upon her the will to carry through on such a promise. She opened the envelope and pulled out her official certificate of birth, shocked by the name Maria had filled in...

Ciara Magdalena Seldeen.

In a flash of ferocious anger, Tat rose, meaning to throw the papers in the fire, her mind a whirlwind of vehement denials.

Thiswasn’therthatwasn’thernameshedidn’tknowthisgirlatall...

She didn’t exist.

Her inexplicable fury at Maria’s impertinence intensified. As if willfully summoned, all at once it consumed her, the dreaded, familiar sensation of electricity ascending her spine in delicious waves.

Overcome and incapacitated by the strength of the attack, she stumbled as she approached the hearth, kicking over the rennaisance painting that had so offended her in it’s uncanny resemblance to her grandfather. On her knees before it, her gaze locked with that of the painted man, now long dead. Before her eyes, the portrait began to subtly change. Obvious paint strokes softening, fading before disappearing altogether to reveal impossible detail; as if the canvas was slowly becoming a window. The antiquated drawing room background fell away as the space within the frame expanded to limitless depth. The man now stood on an unfamiliar city street in front of a camera shop. As the horror dawned upon her that she looked into a pair of living eyes, a deep recognition suffused her being.

Izaak Oginski!

Accompanying this certainty came a high-pitched buzzing in her ears that pierced her brain like an ice pick, causing her to slump to the ground, holding her head in agony until darkness claimed her…

Upon collapsing again into something resembling consciousness, an ephemeral cityscape, born of ghostly light and color, stretched out endlessly before her. Floating lazily like a cloud, ominous peaks and shadowy, indistinct structures breaking the monotonous facade of this dreamlike metropolis seemingly without meaning, without reason. The entire effect resembled a child’s drawing of a city rendered in watercolor, out of focus and much too bright.

As she drifted, the aether surrounding her crackled with unseen electricity. Fed by mighty bolts of lightning that struck out silently from a tumultuous sky, momentarily casting their revealing light on the further reaches. Most of the buildings she ed were featureless hulks, hardly there at all, barely maintaining grip on whatever meagre existence they clung to in this desolate place. Here and there, others shone brighter, with more focus, evidently maintained by more vigilant caretakers…

Crossing a formless bridge over a gorgeous aquatic mist, she caught sight of a grand cathedral, emanating a blue aura brighter than any she’d seen thus far. Perfectly focused and real, though possessing a fantastical architecture that could in no way exist in accordance with the laws of physics. Gossamer thin stairwells connecting soaring towers that scraped the turbulent firmament like hands reaching for heaven...

Stay Back! Who are you? A ghostly light accosted her, vaguely feminine in form.

Her inability to reply inspired this specter to proceed as if she was a threat, appearing to gather up and weave together strands of the pure light this strange place was created of. These strands solidified into an arcane symbol, which in turn summoned an irresistible force that pushed her back, like an invisible wall had sprung up between them. She was expelled several meters before the ward reached its limit. Not knowing what she was doing, she reached out and a shudder vibrated throughout her formless existence...

The ward shattered, discorporating once again into light.

The apparition before her recoiled first in fright. Then, growing curious, focussed its existence, becoming more distinct; taking on more human characteristics. Even before the face formed, Tat recognized her.

It was Tiphareth.

Tatiana? is that you? She approached cautiously, her luminous body,

breathtakingly beautiful.

She had a vague desire to reply, yet no matter how hard she tried, her voice remained hidden away.

Tatiana? Oh, I get it, you’re dreaming. I’m impressed, not many dreaming minds can fully manifest here, and the ease with which you circumvented my ward… you are certainly full of surprises. Her lips did not move, the words seemingly arising from nothing within Tat’s mind. I’ve been calling out to you, you know, hoping you would find this place. Here, let me help you.

Tiphareth raised a luminous hand. One swift strike on her shoulder and Tat awoke in her dream, her waking consciousness flowing into her dream body.

How did you do that?

Nothing to it, a little jolt of Auric in the right place is enough to waken our little dreamer.

So we are dreaming then?

Not quite. You’re dreaming, I’m working. Well, my body is laying in post-coital trance in the arms of my focus, while the important part of me works here.

With her newfound clarity, Tat put it together, So this is the Astral? Yetzirah?

Yes, a representation assembled by your perception. I am performing daily upkeep on our temple to Freyja. Do you like it? She asked, indicating the cathedral. 100 rooms, each with detailed egregorical minutiae, is a monumental task to achieve, and even harder to maintain.

Again Tat looked upon the imposing edifice, it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, putting the vaunted faery tale castles of her childhood imagination to shame.

Did you build it yourself?

Tiphareth laughed, God no, it’s been an ongoing project for the last thirty years, we all work to maintain it. Freyja is a fickle archetype, her worship is in decay so she is dying a slow death. This temple, and several other lesser structures around the world, are all she has left, all that ties her rudimentary consciousness to existence. Ironically, this is what makes her such an attractive prospect for our research. When an archetype is facing extinction, they begin to hunger for Auric, and since we are the main source providing it to them they are more tractable to meeting with us. Versus another archetype whose worship is still prevalent in the world, who receives more than enough without stooping to deal directly with mortals.

So you’re saying you’ve met her? Tat was incredulous, but at the same time quite interested.

When I first started here, she barely ever showed herself, though I could sense her presence within the temple at times. Now I hear her footsteps almost every night. She and I have developed a unique bond. Would you like to meet her?

Can I? I mean, would that be safe? I have a way of destroying beautiful things…

It should be fine, there’s a courtyard near the pinnacle where she spends most of her time. If we maintain a respectful distance, I imagine whatever Auric you channel will be swiftly consumed. We just need to make an adjustment so you will be able to perceive her. Archetypes exist here only as a shadow exists in the waking world. Again Tat was on the receiving end of a swift strike, this time against her midsection.

The entire world around her shifted. What before had seemed at least semi-solid was rendered into nothing more than pulsating strands of light, lacking any analogue to reality. Tiphareth as well changed from a recognizable caricature of herself to something resembling an oblong ovoid of pure light, an egg. A long, silver cord connected to her plexus trailed down and through the indistinct ground, disappearing into the unfathomable darkness below.

Wait… that’s… not right... Tiphareth’s thought voice coming through, simultaneously confounded and confused.

What? What’s wrong.

Your… cord… that’s not right at all… it’s supposed to connect our Yetziric manifestations to our bodies, but…

Tat then took notice of her own cord. While Tiphareth’s hung down loosely, indicating that they were perhaps somewhere above the physical world, her own

ascended upward, stretched taut, fading from existence a meter above their heads.

It resembled a noose…

What does that mean? Tat asked, growing increasingly anxious.

I can’t even begin to guess, I’ve never seen anything like this. Tiphareth itted, reaching out for Tat’s cord, her luminous egg, radiating curiosity…

As she touched it, there came the gut wrenching call of the cosmic leviathan, the sound of a Universe ending. A wave of limitless force buckled the world around them until it shattered in a vicious cataract, tearing the fabric of Yetzirah with divine violence. A titanic shipwreck, inexorably drawn down into the bosom of quiddity, the psychic ocean constituted of the human imagination.

Where the temple of a dying archetype once stood, naught but a gaping maw of darkness remained. The frayed ends, even now, knitting together, seeking to heal this grievous wound. In one fleeting instant, thirty years of sustained effort reduced to its constituent elements and scattered amongst the stars. She stood alone in the ragged void left in its wake. Only, she wasn’t alone. Towering over her, he stood, magnificent plumage sky blue, fringed in black, fading to pure white around the beak and those terrible eyes…

The Falcon-god.

A long, harsh scream escaped her throat as she returned to herself, standing naked in a cage of shadows as the murky emanation of pre-dawn light snaked through the bars on her windows.

What had she done?

In her hands she held her knife, the blade, similarly nude. Her room was in shambles, the feather mattress hemorrhaging down from dozens of slashes, her wardrobe full of dresses, dragged out and cut to ribbons, all the furniture overturned and broken. The sole thing left untouched being the portrait, which once again occupied its place of honor above the mantle. On the ground, a single sheet of paper bore a single sentence parsed in a flowing script utterly unlike her spiky chicken scratch.

I don’t know who you are, but you will not take what is mine without a fight.

Ciara Magdalena Seldeen

She heard the sound of vague rumbling below, her cry having definitely awakened Yurgis. She had only moments before his imminent arrival. Sheathing her knife and stuffing it up the flue at the back of the fireplace, she crumpled the note, retreating to the furthest corner of her room to cower like a whipped dog to await his arrival. Walking across the carpet, her bare toes encountered scattered clumps of hair. Puzzled, she instinctively reached up to brush her own hair back behind her ear and paused, shocked. As the door behind her burst open, she was standing before the mirror.

“Tatiana, what have you done to self?”

She looked foreign, alien even. Like something not of this world. The latticework of eyes that encircled her head appeared like a crown. Rarely had she seen them, being usually covered by her hair, but now they stared back at her, blazing with the light of awareness. Those scholars were certainly in for a shock, she decided.

Whatever had occurred during her time in Yetzirah had left her perfectly bald, head shaved down to the skin. Her scalp was covered in deep nicks and gouges where an unstable hand had wielded her knife. Truly unsettling, however, was that her entire body had been likewise shorn. Even down to the fine, wiry hair that only a few years before had begun to spring up around her womanly parts, at the crook where her skinny legs came together. Running her hand over the newly smooth skin, she had to suppress a flush of sinful arousal.

She recounted the chakra names as told to her by Izaak. Repeating them like a mantra. “Muladhara, Swadhisthana, Manipura, Anahata, Vishuddha, Ajna, Sahasrara.” She spoke the names and touched them each in turn. This made her think of him. Where was he now? Probably home in Danzig, or out captaining his ship on the high seas. Wherever he was, she wished him safety as she slipped the silver cross about her neck, preparing to follow Yurgis and Maria into the city.

She wore the old travel-stained clothes received from Yurgis when leaving the hospital in Warsaw, a seeming lifetime ago. Over this she pulled her old cassock. The irony not lost upon her that the clothes she arrived in were now all she had left. Collecting the shredded corpses of her dresses she’d tied them end to end, resulting in a rope nearly four meters long. It wouldn’t hold, but she didn’t need it to, all she needed was a few meters leeway before she dropped. At least they were finally being put to good use. As a final precaution, she fashioned a makeshift shroud out of her queen sized bed sheets, so as to not become even more filthy as she shimmied up the chimney. Trying it on, she appeared as a child’s drawing of a ghost...

That evening Yurgis delivered her dinner as usual, leaving her to eat with her hands since she wasn’t to be trusted with utensils of any kind. As soon as his key turned in her lock, she started up. Back against the bricks, legs stretched out before her, balancing with her hands as she worked her way up. The flue, caked with decades of soot, rained down as she made her ascent. Though it choked her lungs and clouded her vision, it also provided a rough surface for her feet and hands to cling to, and her lithe frame fit up the age easily. Before she knew it, she was standing on the roof looking down at the front stoop, hoping for several minutes before their departure.

She paced the edge, searching for an anchor point for her rope. Peering down at the cobblestones below, a heavy feeling of vertigo came over her, dropping from here would break her. Moving to the back of the house she tied off around the parlor chimney and tossed over, her rope dangling a full four meters above the tallest back garden bushes. Though she had fallen from greater distances before, it hadn’t left her in any condition to give chase, she had to be careful. Discarding her bedsheet robe, she started down.

Right away she could feel the rope giving, the fabric drawing tight, all the knots clamping down. A sharp, ripping noise, barely audible above the general din of the surrounding city.

Please hold, a few more seconds…

With a final, cataclysmic tear, she was dropped into space, an unwilling victim of gravity’s lawful whims, a rag doll thrown by a petulant child. The familiar feeling of falling, filling her with fear and frustration as her nightmares once again came true; as they always did.

Crashing into the tall hedge on her back, her foot caught a thick branch, wrenching her into a spin that sent her tumbling through sharp leaves and thorns before dropping her nearly head first on the hard packed earth. For several seconds she didn’t move, stunned from the impact and concerned something might be broken. She was thankful for the cassock, it’s thick woolen weave, for the most part, protecting her from the brunt of the Holly hedge’s wrath.

She gingerly rose, carefully testing her ankle before putting her full weight on it. A slight gasp, indicative of a light sprain; nothing she couldn’t deal with. Taking great pains to remain silent, she climbed the wrought iron gate. Dropping to the uneven cobblestones, she sidled along the side of the house, crouching expectantly in the shadows thrown by the impending sunset.

The wait wasn’t long. Presently the front door opened and Maria and Yurgis ventured out into the gloaming. To her relief they hadn’t hired a carriage, instead striking out on foot, exiting Falconhead lane and turning starboard along the high street. Keeping her steps light, she trailed them at a safe distance, ducking into doorways or alleys to avoid detection. People on the street eyed her warily, but their looks and thoughts didn’t concern her, she only had eyes for her quarry.

Yurgis was clever, taking a convoluted and circuitous route to their destination, doubling back through deserted alleys and bustling plazas, but Tat was determined. Her failure could mean Maria’s death, and she was adamant in her pursuit to avoid such an outcome; a noble goal which sharpened her resolve and heightened her senses, allowing her to tail them the whole way undetected.

Ultimately they reached a lichyard in a part of the city she’d never been to. Yurgis and Maria entered a copse of trees to shield them from view as they jumped the fence. Tat waited a full minute then followed suit, wincing as she touched down on the soft, spongy ground.

She inhaled the damp, rotting smell of death and pressed on, picking a meandering path between the headstones. The ancient graveyard seemed endless, growing organically over the centuries, with each new death, into a labyrinthine mess of memory and regret. The pair was nowhere to be seen. They could’ve gone any number of different ways.

Her steps quickened their pace, the first pangs of despair coming over her. Row upon row of crypts and monuments ed in a frantic rush, fear welling up in her, exacerbated by the terrifying atmosphere of this ghastly necropolis. Alone in the vault of night, a reluctant tourist in the city of the dead.

Needing time to regroup, she forced herself to pause upon a headstone to think. What was her plan? She had no idea how to get home, no money to hire a carriage, and the chance of finding them was becoming unlikelier by the moment. Every second she tarried here only left her further from their trail. It wasn’t fair, she’d done so well, how had they eluded her? How could she lose them when she’d been so close? Depression threatened to bog her down into a mire of tears, prompting a surge of anger.

No, I won’t let these feelings control me. Mother needs my help.

Shaking off destructive emotions, she set off once again, following her first instincts. ing through a stone archway, she entered into an older, more affluent ward, resplendent in statuary ranging from grotesque gargoyles to heavenly angels, with every form of plinth, monument and memorial in between. The night sounds of rustling leaves and crickets faded into the far off commotion of the world of the living, against whose shores this vast sea of death broke in waves of impending doom.

Her hard-won resolution was cracking again, threatening panic. She couldn’t

take anymore, they’d lost her. Turning away from her path, she struck out to seek an exit to this madness. After several random turns, the faint sound of stone scraping against stone pricked up her ears, dispelling her fears and once again putting her on the scent.

Peering around a corner, the barest glimpse of Maria disappearing into a tomb. The name upon the door was Roberts, confusing Tat. What was Yurgis seeking here, and why did he require the presence of her mother? Her question was answered a moment later as she spied the neighboring tomb. An impressive mausoleum bearing the familiar moniker, Seldeen.

They’d left the door open a crack, enough for her to squeeze through. A brief moment of hesitation, the sinking feeling that this was the point of no return, before darting inside. The darkness within was complete. She hadn’t thought to bring a candle, no way to light it even if she had. Feeling her way along the wall with her hands, the scuff of a boot on the marble floor told her heightened senses she wasn’t alone. Silently ducking behind the stone casket as Yurgis struck a match, lighting a lantern in the adjacent chamber.

“You close door?” Even whispering, his voice reverberated off the stone walls.

Tat searched her mother’s face for any sign of emotion, any indication as to the threat level impinged on her precarious existence.

“No, it’s too heavy, close it yourself.” She gave nothing, a stone mask, her countenance.

With an annoyed grunt, Yurgis reentered the room, heaving the great stone door

shut, less than a meter from where Tat quailed, scarcely breathing.

That was too close, she thought.

There was no way she would be able to open that door, effectively trapping her in here with them. Returning to Maria, Yurgis pulled back a heavy tarpaulin, letting light into the tomb. Together they descended into a hole cut in the marble floor of the vault, from whence golden torchlight emanated.

Her heart was beating like a rabbit’s. It took a concerted effort to still her heavy breathing and calm down. There was naught to fear but physical punishment and solitary confinement. Yurgis would never kill her, and if it meant her mother’s survival, she would endure hell itself.

No more death.

She made the silent pledge to herself, almost believing that it was in her power to uphold; seeing in her mind’s eye those who weren’t so lucky...

Crawling on her hands and knees through the dust and the spiders, she peeked warily over the edge. It descended about two meters then struck perpendicular. The torchlight was coming from further down that shaft. Taking a deep breath, steeling herself, she crawled into the hole.

The tunnel was large enough for her to stand fully upright. So this was what her father had been doing all those days and nights he was gone. It was no small job

to move this much earth. Why? For what reason? Her mother’s voice, raised in anger, spurned her on towards a bend in the tunnel, where she chanced a quick peek around the edge.

Beyond a rough portal chipped out of the stone wall of the neighboring tomb, her parents stood before a large sarcophagus. The final resting place of her grandfather, Esion Seldeen. Why they hadn’t gone through the door of his sepulcher was a mystery to her. Why all the subterfuge, all the work digging a tunnel? Though they had their backs to her, their voices were clearly audible.

Yurgis was agitated, “Open it!” He demanded.

“But, Yurgis, I...” stammered Maria, fear beginning to creep into her words.

“Don’t toy with me woman, this crypt is rigged with enough dynamite to level whole city block. I know this casket is triggering mechanism as well as door, I also know that you know how to disarm, yes?”

“Please…”

“SILENCE!” Roared Yurgis, striking Maria across the face. Tat cursed him under her breath as her mother’s heartbreaking sobs echoed down the tunnel to her.

“Either you open it now, or I break your legs, then you open it now, yes?”

“Why must you desecrate my father’s resting place? He treated you like a son!” Maria moaned.

“Because he’s not in there. You know it, I know it. Esion Seldeen can never die… he is immortal.”

What?! Tat couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

At this Maria stopped sobbing, suddenly serious. “How did you know? He told you?”

“Of course he did. He told me in Egypt, day she came into this world. He also told me to steal her away, showed me how to draw out and feed upon her potent, virginal Auric, storing it up to sustain life. The same way he fed off yours.”

A flush of emotion threatened to sweep her away. There it was, the awful truth behind what had become of the father she’d loved. It all seemed so obvious now, in light of all she’d learned at the Tree.

When two people couple, their auras merge and there is an ungoverned exchange of Auric, the universal life force. Tiphareth’s words coming back to her, casting their revealing light on hidden truths.

All her life she’d thought him merely an evil, molesting cur, remaining ignorant of the twisted, symbiotic relationship that tied them to one another from the day of her birth. The rape, the abuse, the cold calculation required to devour a spirit

to stave off death. Worse yet, to delude himself into believing righteous reasoning for his actions.

I am protecting world from you.

While she could discern a certain level of semantic truth behind it, in light of recent events, it was all becoming so clear to her. He’d always known of her abilities, and to keep them at bay, he’d become a monster. Draining as much of her life force as he could to keep her power from manifesting, but his plan had backfired.

Vessel for the eater of worlds...

When she’d murdered the troupe, he must’ve realized that he couldn’t suppress her any longer, and decided to bring her back to Esion. He painted himself the valiant savior, but there was no forgiving this, no tragic-hero loophole to escape retribution. She’d not thought it humanly possible, but her hatred of him intensified a hundred fold in that moment.

Maria was positively livid, “How dare you! My father is a great man. I gave freely of my Auric to sustain him. To take it by force? You are a demon and a base monster, nothing more than you’ve ever been, a petty thief. How could you do that to our daughter?”

Yurgis began to laugh, echoing in the tiny chamber, feeding back into itself, becoming a terrible pandemonium. Tat covered her ears, nearly bolting at the sound.

“Why continue these games, Maria? Have you forgotten? Playing loving Matriarch is part ill suited for you. You know that creature is neither your daughter… nor mine.”

Nothing could’ve prepared Tat for what Yurgis just said. In her mind echoed a scream that could’ve crumbled mountains. She slumped to the floor of the tunnel in shock, in the space of a split second, utterly destroyed inside

Yurgis was not her father!

She thought of her nightmare the first night in Maria’s house, of being eaten alive by vultures. Then of the changes she’d seen in not only Yurgis, but Maria as well, seeming to become younger, more vital. She was being consumed, eaten alive...

Who was she? Where were her real parents? Where did she come from? If she wasn’t a Seldeen, why go through all the trouble of having her declared as heiress? Questions assaulted her mind, overwhelming her feeling of relief that she was, in fact, not related to Yurgis at all. She continued to listen.

“No, Yurgis, nor have I forgotten how you’ve forced me to pretend to be that poor girl’s mother in order to bring her back from death’s door, working to mitigate the damage you’ve done. This is too dangerous, she is too dangerous. I regret that I ever went along with this plan.”

“But you did. You know that immortality appeals to you as much as I. To have

what He has. She is only one who can bestow it. In entire world there is no other, will never be another.”

“Fine! Yes, I do desire immortality, of course I do, and I know that my father is not in the coffin. Why then must I open it?”

“Esion told me many secrets, except one. The final step to stave off death forever. Closing Mortal Gap. He told me that once manifested, I was to bring her to him, he would reveal. This coffin is only lead I have, I believe answer we seek is inside.”

Maria was silent for several seconds. “Okay,” she replied, and taking the crowbar, began to chip away at the mortar sealing the sarcophagus, the clang of metal on stone ringing in Tat’s ears.

She still couldn’t process it. The obsession he maintained, his unflagging stoicism in tending such vast reservoirs of evil. The patience with which he’d meted out acts meant to draw out her life force to fuel this sick desire for everlasting life. All the sadness, hatred and guilt she’d ever felt had fed the flames of his madness. The worst part was that Maria, who she now realized she’d been growing to love, was an accomplice in this devouring of her spirit. Even if she had been largely unwilling, this betrayal was almost worse than Yurgis’ for she fed off this burgeoning love and affection…

All sin is equal in the eyes of the Lord.

She had to get away; away from these people who meant nothing to her, who sought to end her life to prolong theirs. She had to find her real parents, or at

least find out what happened to them, to discover where she belonged. Above all, unravel the mystery as to why and how she could be such a danger to the world. Yurgis had said that she alone in all the world could grant immortality. Did she contain such potential? The power to grant life as well as snatch it away? Up until now she’d delivered naught but death and destruction. He’d always known what she was, and she was forever ignorant.

Izaak had spoken truly, nothing was as she imagined it.

Once she’d finished disarming the traps, she and Yurgis heaved the lid off. He removed a sheet of parchment rolled into a tight tube, which he unfurled and read. Several seconds later he laughed.

“Perfect. The plan does not change. We go ahead with symposium tomorrow.”

Tat could take no more, she’d heard enough. Her will to help Maria abandoned, no longer caring if she was discovered, she sprang up, racing back down the tunnel. Scrambling up and out of the hole, closely followed by the sound of pursuit. Back in the main chamber, she threw herself against the heavy door with all the strength her slight frame could muster. It would not budge. Thrusting at it in dismay, trying in vain to summon her powers, she struggled to understand how she could threaten the safety of the entire world yet be defeated by a door? It was too late, Yurgis crawled out of the hole, confronting her, crowbar in hand.

A smile twisted his thin lips as their eyes met.

“Caught in trap like rat, yes? I thought you might be foolish enough to follow...” He swung the steel bar in a deadly arc. She attempted to dodge, but he

anticipated her movements, striking her a direct blow on the temple.

The world went dark.

Chapter Fifteen:

Symposium

“S o, no more secrets, yes? All cards are on table.”

Tat refused to acknowledge him in any way. She was sure there were still many more secrets between them.

“Oh, silent treatment, you were always good at that, dear Daughter.”

“Don’t call me that!” She shouted, wincing as her brain throbbed.

Still refusing to look him in the eye, instead she concentrated her attention on the countryside blazing past the train window, eyes failing to focus on anything. It gave her a feeling of being out of control, like a desperate recklessness threatened to consume her. The blow she’d received the night before had done some serious damage, muddling her thoughts, clouding her vision and causing her ears to ring; it made her nauseous.

“Come now Tatiana, I am the only father you have ever known. I protected you, provided for you, made sure you wanted for nothing.”

“Nothing except a life with loving parents who weren’t trying to dominate and devour me.”

Tightly bound at the wrists and ankles, arms behind her back, she lay prostrate on the bench seat. Thirty minutes out from Oxford, barreling headlong toward whatever twisted destiny masterminded by this devil who continued to call himself her father. Revelations of the night before, festering in her mind, more wounds that would never heal.

“Where’s Maria?” She demanded.

“Maria’s part in play is over. I have other tasks for her to perform. It’s you and me Tatiana, like always been. Time drawing near when you will repay all kindness I have shown.”

“Kindness?!” Choking on the word as if it were a curse.

She’d always been incapable of speaking back to Yurgis. An insurmountable mental block prevented her from protecting herself with words. But now, in the damaged, simplistic clarity of her concussed state, consequences lost all meaning. He would never destroy her, he needed her. That was all the assurance she needed to finally find her voice...

“You are the blackest scum ever to bubble forth from the gates of hell. A rotten sickness that topples godly empires. A wretched, vile worm tunneling through bloody shit. You, sir, are the putrid, infected sore on the ass of a syphilitic whore!”

She’d never used language like this, even in the privacy of her own thoughts; now issuing from her mouth seemingly of its own accord.

“You speak of kindness? What has your kindness wrought except to destroy the soul of a defenseless child. Annihilate her belief in the goodness of humanity, and cast her into a pit of apathy and ruin. You’ve made of me an empty shell, a worthless husk of a person, dreaming only of death. Mark my words Yurgis Stannek, until that death comes, I will expend all my will seeing to it that I repay your kindness in full!”

She wanted to say more, a lot more, but the grinding pressure in her skull compelled her to let it go, lest her head explode. The tirade had taken all her energy, leaving her physically and emotionally drained. All she could do was close her eyes and await the beating she was sure would come...

But, somehow it didn’t. Several minutes ed in tense silence, and when she opened her eyes, what she saw perplexed her. There seemed to be a war taking place within him, as if uncertain about which path to take. By turns, bewildered and malignant, terrified and furious.

Then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. An evil grin pinched the corners of his mouth. “Brave to speak thusly to me. Father you once loved.”

“The man I loved is dead. Now, only you remain.”

“I could destroy you with mere thought.” Danger entering his voice.

“Then do it!” Tat cried, calling his bluff. “End my torment, this pathetic existence in a godless Universe,” growing bold, she went for the one thing that

could truly reach him. “The one chance at your precious immortality! Do it! Destroy it! Can’t you see that death is what I want?!”

Her gamble paid off. Yurgis sat back, relaxing, abandoning his burgeoning anger. “Not yet, dear Daughter, your part in this epic farce is just beginning,” He chuckled, a dark, evil sound, finding humor in a hidden joke, unknown to her. “I’m feeling generous, I reward you for honesty and bravery, yes? Ask of me any three questions and I will answer them as truthfully as able. Be warned... you may not like answers.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, this hadn’t been it. Caught completely off guard, it took a second to process what exactly it was he was offering. It had to be a trick. Yurgis always did have a silver tongue, even despite his broken english. This had to be a ploy to manipulate her with more lies. A snort of contempt escaped her, questions already formulating in her groggy brain. What did she want to know? The fate of her parents? How to kill an immortal? Only a fool would ask that.

“I’ll need a moment to think about it.”

“Very well, I have to piss anyway. When I return, have questions ready.” He exited the cabin, locking the door behind him.

Instead of using this time constructively, to think critically on this opportunity she’d been presented, she began to struggle at her bonds in futility. The ropes steadfastly refused to loosen, chafing and bruising as she lay on her side, writhing. As her body thrashed about, frustration mounting, the silver cross about her neck slipped out of her cassock.

It lay on the seat before her eyes, catching the morning light, seeking to remind her of something. Calming down, purposefully growing still, she ceased her bodily protest. A moment later, for perhaps the first time in her life, she sincerely offered a prayer for guidance.

“God, I don’t know if you exist or not, and if you do, it’s clear you care not for the suffering of mere mortals. But… I want to believe. To believe that death is not the end. That we cannot be adrift on an ocean of chaos. That true mercy exists in this heartless world. All about me I strain to see your hand at work, in the blooming of a flower, the changing of the seasons. I don’t know if you can hear me, maybe I’m only talking to myself, but if you’re out there, please, lend me strength. Allow me to rise above my tormentors. Help me deliver them to justice. Then, let this nightmare end... let me die… let me know you...”

Her supplication ended with a long sigh as she formed a final magic word, purported to endow all earnest prayers with divine potency...

“Amen.”

The click-clack of the train, its long, lonesome whistle. Beneath it all, a barely discernible high pitched hum she would sometimes notice in times of silence. It soothed her, the last lingering traces of adrenaline from her outburst, fading away until all was stillness.

Yurgis chose this moment to return. “I see you’re ready to behave in a civilized manner. Have you prepared questions?”

“Who and where are my real parents?”

“Technically that’s two questions, but I allow it. Honestly, I’ve no idea who real parents were. Never met, never saw. As to where, I can tell with absolute certainty that they are long dead. Somewhere in Egypt, if have to guess.”

“Did you kill them?”

“Is that your second question? Because it’s useless one. Never saw them, nor could I have.”

Tat thought a moment before proceeding. While he purported to be truthful in his answers, he was in no mood to elaborate, she had to get to the point. How to get the answer she desired in a single question... “How did I end up in your possession?” Instantly, she regretted her short-sightedness.

Yurgis picked up on this, appearing annoyed. “We stole you from one who acquired you through illicit means, Esion, Dobra, Maria, and I. Then, I was tasked with neutralizing you.”

“Who did you steal me from? Did they know my parents…”

“You stupid girl! Wasting opportunity asking about what cannot help you, no bearing on present situation. I suggest you think little harder on final question.”

Okay, Tat thought, lets see how he handles this.

“How can I harness my abilities?”

Yurgis sighed, looking vaguely disappointed. “Better, but answer will not save you.”

“Tell me!”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “Everything you are is universal law, like electricity, gravity, all adheres to rules, yes? Law can never be broken. Everything that exists, obeys. Your configuration is result of conscious manipulation of impossibly specific codices that govern Universe. In truth, anyone can do what you do, main difference being you accomplish in moments what normally takes years. Only question of time and Will

“Faculty of magic extremely hard to develop. Is why mass of humanity dismiss as fiction. That coven of whores at Tree merely play at power, far removed from true hierarchy. Takes decades, lifetimes, of precise mental exercise, ritual, intent. Even then, must have blessing of Witness, or all is lost. For you to harness would take years you don’t have, a Will you shall never acquire, I have seen to that. Now is like infant trying to wrestle and subdue wild bear, yes? You only succeeded in waking power at all through freak, wild burst in accordance with Will of Witness.”

Never before had his broken english conveyed such intelligence, such command of complicated concepts. It was a sobering glimpse of what he truly was; a theatrical monster pulling aside the mask to reveal the twisted actor behind the facade.

“What is this witness you speak of?” Tat pleaded, desperate for more information.

“Enough! I answer three questions in honesty, no more. A pity, could have gained real knowledge rather than satisfying morbid curiosity about people long dead, events that never come to . Truly wasted experience, yes?”

Tat struggled into a sitting position, sullenly staring out the window, refusing to rise to his baiting again. Knowing she had to conserve her energy for whatever lay ahead. Already she could see the outlying villages surrounding the thriving city that had sprung up in the shadow of the university, pastoral paradise giving way to the unnatural angles of human habitation. They ed the last miles to the city center in silence.

All she could think about was what other questions she should’ve asked. What was in the satchel that Maria had risked her life to place beyond his reach? What was written on the parchment he retrieved from that sarcophagus? Anything about Esion Seldeen…

What do her markings mean?

Thinking back to the portrait that hung in her room, the one she’d assumed was an ancestor, the light of new evidence, illuminating the truth that it must be Esion himself, several centuries younger. What would life be like for an immortal? Having to change your identity every century to protect your secret. How many bloodlines had he sired? How many families had he been forced to abandon? Who could ever want that?

For her it would be a nightmare. To forever guess at the nature of reality from behind the veil of life. It must be different for those with strength sufficient to create their own realities. Powerful enough to crush the realities of others; to those who don’t care how many lives they ruin. If she did succeed in mastering her own abilities, would she end up like that?

At the station, Yurgis untied her on the express condition that she behave herself. As usual, waiting until the last enger ed before disembarking. The platform was teeming with people. Tat raised her hood to hide from them, the woolen fabric scratchy against her freshly shaven head. In her mind she imagined Tiphareth and Geburah were somewhere nearby, keeping watch for her, planning. Maybe Jack had already seen them and headed off to tell his sister that she’d arrived. It seemed impossible to think that they would simply forget about her, or about Yurgis’ invasion of their sanctuary. There had to be a reckoning.

“Hello, Yannek…”

The familiar voice pierced her back like an arrow, causing her to stiffen involuntarily. Her hand, caught in the swiftly tightening vise of her father’s fist.

“So, fucking alchemist finally shows himself.”

Though her father refused to turn, she couldn’t help but cast a backward glance to catch her first proper glimpse of Severin Laquatus; her appraisal was not kind. Surprisingly short, weak chinned and balding under a respectfully doffed top hat. This was her father’s nemesis? He resembled nothing so much as a chartered ant. In truth, his only impressive aspect was a dazzling sapphire cape,

secured at the throat with an enormous, jeweled brooch. This finery contrasted laughably with a shabby suit and muddy brown shoes.

“Come now Yannek, is that any way to greet an old friend, a business partner?”

“Say what you came to say.” He stiffened at her side, a taut spring of tightly coiled violence, radiating hateful heat. If this slight, unimpressive man wasn’t careful, this could end badly.

As if oblivious to the danger he was in, Severin continued in his dismissively flippant tone, “Why do you despise me so, I’ve never given cause for such disrespect. If anything I should be the one heaping scorn upon you. You, who spoiled my plans, usurped my rightful place in the Seldeen line, defiled and abused the only woman I will ever love.” Despite his cool demeanor, he was growing agitated. He took a moment to visibly marshall his feelings before continuing.

“You have something that belongs to me, that is a well-known fact, but one you may not be aware of is that I possess something you want. Something Esion himself entrusted to me on his deathbed… Something you’ve been looking for...”

This got Yurgis’ attention. He slowly turned to face him, dragging her around by the arm. Severin held the leather satchel by the strap, dangling it before her father like bait to a trap she couldn’t conceive of. Did this fool have any idea who he was dealing with? A look of avarice crept over her father’s face, a flush of greed writ large on his features.

“You realize, I could just kill you and take it,” taking a menacing step forward, seizing the satchel from shaky hands and throwing back the flap. “Is empty, do you take me for fool?!”

“Of course not, even though you seem to assume you’re dealing with one. I would never offer up something so precious without insurance. I have left it in the capable hands of the Aurum Solis compound here in the city. If anything happens to me they are under orders to destroy it.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Yurgis growled, throwing the satchel to the ground, utilizing every tainted virtue at his disposal to restrain himself.

“I would and will, Yannek. I propose a civilized trade between gentlemen. I want only what was promised. I want the Philosopher’s Stone. If you do not produce it by the end of the day, I can’t be held responsible for what may happen. I’ll be watching and waiting.”

With that, the alchemist spun on his heel, cape spreading impressively about him as he marched off the platform, swallowed by the swirling multitudes.

Amidst the milling crowd, they boarded a coach for the short ride to the university itself. Watching people from the window, time began to compress upon her, memories of her time in hospital fusing with recollections of coach rides with her moth… with Maria. Watching from the gates of Intra Muros as the world burned; sitting at her side, injecting merciful god into her veins...

Evidently, some of the greatest minds on earth had assembled here in celebration of knowledge. Perhaps one of these learned sages held the key to her secrets.

Hope was all she had to cling to since Yurgis wasn’t about to betray what he knew. What was he planning? Her unease only grew, fear forming a lump in her stomach as the coach glided through the iron gates of Oxford.

If she’d retained any capacity for enchantment, it surely would’ve been provoked by the beauty which met her inquisitive stare. The impression was of a faery tale castle city, clothed in verdant, creeping ivy. Soaring towers stood sentinel over wide open lawns, meticulously manicured. Watched over judiciously by opulent statuary of august personages, whose accomplishments guided the realms of men since the ages of antiquity. The shining, perfect beacon of learning and civilization she’d always envisioned. A precious ivory tower, frozen in time, growing out of the dross of unchecked progress.

Upon stepping from the carriage, a familiar face emerged out of the crowd, a studious, bespectacled face Tat had never expected to see again...

“You’re late, I’ve been waiting for hours. I received your telegram, I expected you last night.”

“There were… complications, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, nevermind that now. Hello Tatiana, I’m so happy you’ve made it, ecstatic. I trust you are well?”

Rheinhardt.

The backwater surgeon with delusions of grandeur. The architect of her salvation, of her prison. It spoke volumes of her present state of mind that the first though she had was to wonder if he’d brought any morphine…

“ deal, I want for her, largest crowd.”

“There should be no problem there. I arrived nearly a month ago, drumming up interest in Tatiana, availing myself of the university’s facilities in preparing my paper on her condition for publication. Everyone is aware that I will be presenting a singular case of a hitherto unknown human mutation.”

Once she’d made the connection, his presence here was less surprising. He’d been the one to tell Yurgis about this event to begin with. He was being used, a tool her father was manipulating, his desire for notoriety leveraged in order to get her the most exposure possible. This was all part of the plan, but to what end?

After ing at a reception desk, a task made infinitely easier due to Rheinhardt’s oversight, she was given a number and a nametag. Once the istrative gauntlet was properly navigated, he handed a sheaf of papers to Yurgis.

“I’ve taken the liberty of g her up for two exhibitions, the first being functional mutations in human anatomy. It begins in ninety minutes in the Sheldonian. That will be the big one, though her appearance in tomorrow’s dissertation on forgotten scripts of the ancient world should draw decent numbers as well. I have to go prepare now, so please show those papers to the attendant.”

Overstimulated by the indulgent atmosphere of opulence, class and refinement that enveloped her, she followed along mutely as they were conducted through the hallowed halls to a classroom being used as a staging area. As Tat walked through the door, she froze in shock before Yurgis pushed her in. Horror bloomed within her as she looked everywhere at once.

Roughly forty people huddled in the room, though, try as she may, she had difficulty thinking of these blasphemous creations as people. Many were harshly deformed. Pinheads born without brains, geeks covered in hair; tortured souls missing limbs, extra limbs, skin sloughing off, every possible affliction of the human form seemed evident in this grotesque menagerie.

And she was one of them.

So this was what was meant by functional mutations in human anatomy. It was no better than a cirkus sideshow. A parade of exploitation. Wasn’t there any sense of decency in the world? Was everything to be used? Taken for granted?

The classroom was built in ascending tiers, so that every student could have a clear view, an equal opportunity. What would it be like to attend school here? To bask in the rewarding culmination of a scholarly journey, instead of simply being exhibited as a freak. No students were present this day, just harsh lessons on caste and equality. The meaning was clear, this was a place where her presence was tolerated, not accepted. She didn’t belong here any more than the wretched beings that surrounded her.

Yurgis made his way up the risers to the vacant back corner and dropped off to sleep, leaving Tat alone in the crowded room. Scared half to death, she crouched near him, resting on her haunches, back against the wall. Her scratchy, woolen hood cutting the world in half, blocking out the existential dread that assaulted

her wherever her gaze had the misfortune to fall. Retreating into the depths of her cassock, she refused to make eye with anyone, ignoring the inquisitive calls clearly directed at her, stemming from the fact that she was the only one fully covered, hiding herself from view.

The only one ashamed.

In their minds she was sure that made her worse off than any of them. It summoned memories of Izaak, his words about there always being someone who had it worse. If she could provide that feeling to these unfortunate souls, all the while ensuring that she could remain aloof, seperate from them, then so be it.

Sleep had almost succeeded in rescuing her from this waking nightmare when she was roused by the smallest, most adorable voice she’d ever heard.

“Hey there, what’s wrong with you?”

Tat looked up to see the tiniest person she’d ever beheld. Well-shy of a meter, even taking into her high heeled doll shoes, with cropped brown hair and a checkered blue and white gingham dress...

“C’mon now, cat getcher tongue? What’s your divine mistake? It’s okay, you can tell me. You don’t need to hide.”

Tat’s frustration intensified, she wasn’t like them, couldn’t they see that? Well she would show them. As her hood fell the diminutive dame smiled radiantly.

“Lord a mercy girl, you are bee-you-tee-full. We had a painted girl in the last show we traveled with, who did your work?”

“They’re not Tattoos,” Tat replied. “I was born this way.”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed in mirth as she winked conspiratorily. “Weren’t we all dear, weren’t we all. My name’s Penny. Princess Penny they call me, and this here’s my husband Titan, fattest man who ever lived.” She waved her arm in the direction of a mountain of a man. Tat estimated him to be at least forty or fifty stone. Next to him even Yurgis at his most corpulent would’ve paled in comparison. Titan smiled at her, revealing a mouth-full of crooked teeth.

“Howdy ma’am, pleasure to make yer ‘quaintance...”

“Don’t pay him no mind, he’s got cotton where his brain should be. Anyway, we came all the way from America for this. What’s yer name and whereya from?”

Never in all her travels had she come across anyone from America before. Her accent was so strange and thick she had trouble understanding the words, but there was no denying her disarming charm.

“I’m Tatiana, I... don’t know where I’m from, kind of everywhere I guess… Egypt? I’ve spent my life traveling.”

“Circus huh? Yeah, we’re from the circus too. Traveled all over America, and

Canada. Hell, I even got to sit in President Harrison’s lap.”

Tat chuckled at this, picturing an absurd scene in her mind.

“Aw, there’s that smile. Don’t mind my sayin, you don’t look like yer none too happy most of the time.”

After deciphering her maze of double negatives, Tat began to feel a grudging respect for the dwarf. Either Penny had exceptional powers of observation, or Tat was doing an exceptionally poor job of hiding her grief. Even so, she wasn’t about to confide in a complete stranger.

“I think it’s wrong for these... people... to be exploited like this.”

“These people?!” She cried. “Dear, these are your people. You’re here, same as us, no different. Sure, maybe you’re a sight prettier’n most, but in one way or another, we all chose to be here. It’s a choice we make everyday. You can accept and embrace who and what you are, or live a life of denial and sorrow. Look around you, most of these people couldn’t survive if they weren’t being exploited like you call it. We’ve been given a great gift, the ability to earn a living simply by existing. By providing a line that separates them from us. Us freaks are a proud folk, proud to be different. We say to ourselves, here I am, if looking at me makes you feel better about yourself, then great, cause looking at you toiling your life away sho nuff makes me feel better about myself.”

Of course she was right. Though, she couldn’t help but think that Penny was a bit biased, she had all her limbs and a somewhat normal shape. She might feel differently if she were the man with no arms or legs rolling a cigarette with his

lips over by the window...

“Thanks, Penny, I’ll think about what you said.”

“Alright, no need to thank me, just keep smilin that purty smile and everything will turn out okay, you’ll see.”

Somehow, Tat wasn’t so sure.

Penny moved away, striking up a conversation with a pair of Siamese twins in the opposite corner. Tat was about to raise her hood and get back to attempting to sleep, when she realized there was nothing stopping her from getting up and walking out of here. Yurgis was fast asleep, and it wasn’t like there were guards or anything, everyone was there voluntarily. Rising on shaky knees, she started down the shallow stairs for the door, doing her best to act like nothing was amiss.

“Where are you going? It’s almost time.”

Don’t roam the halls. You might frighten the normals...

Her heart jumped into her throat as the attendant addressed her. She furtively checked over her shoulder to ascertain that Yurgis was still asleep.

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“Oh, of course, it’s down the hall on the left.”

Tat nodded her thanks, so far so good. Pushing open the door, she stopped short, nearly jumping out of her skin, confronted by Yurgis himself.

“Where do you think you’re going, dear Daughter?” He inquired menacingly.

“But… how? You were asleep in the corner.”

“I still am.”

Thrusting her head back into the room, a mounting sense of panic at seeing him unmoved from his spot, snoring contentedly. By the time she turned back, his phantom had vanished, but even with the way now clear, no amount of effort could compel her to take another step. He exercised complete control over her, even in his sleep. How could she ever hope to deliver such a fiend to justice? Defeated, she skulked back into the room, reclaiming her spot to his left, hating him intensely.

After a time, sleep came, and with it a familiar scene. Once again she and Yurgis stood at the edge of a cliff and, like always, he pushed her over.

This time she caught the edge of the cliff, holding on with all her might. Yurgis’ looked down upon her, face infused with crackling energy, manifested as radiating light. Then, before her eyes, he began to change. Hair growing longer,

brow softening, nose sharpening, mouth becoming thin and drawn. It was now the face of the immortal, Esion Seldeen, leering monstrously down at her. His leather boot stepped on her fingers, grinding them into the rock until she lost her grip and fell. When she broke upon the ground, she jerked awake, Yurgis looming over her.

“Come. Is time.”

The room was empty, they were the last ones out. She silently followed him out of the room. The others were assembled in a single file line, while those without the use of their legs were sequestered in wheelchairs or lying upon gurneys. At the head of the line, the uniformed attendant finished up his instructions and they headed out, this forced march dredging up visions of her first dream of the Falcon-god. What a spectacle they must appear, this procession of human misery...

Exiting the building, they crossed a large quad filled with people rushing everywhere at once. Tat kept a surreptitious lookout for Jack, Tiphareth or any of the sephirah, but the sea of faces yielded nothing familiar. They had to be out there somewhere, watching, waiting, looking for her. And, if Rheinhardt had been as diligent in spreading her legend as he claimed, there was little chance of them missing her.

Across the commons stood the commencement hall, the Sheldonian theater. The university had existed for so long that many of the buildings displayed wildly divergent architecture, depending on prevailing trends at the time. The auditorium appeared to represent neo-classical romanism, with its titanic pillars, columns, and great domed roof. It was truly an imposing structure.

Eschewing the main entrance, they were led around the back and ushered

through a side door into a backstage area. Only those participating in the exhibition were allowed, meaning Yurgis had to go round the front of the house to the rest of the audience. Feeling alone, abandoned, surrounded by the dregs of humanity, Tat sought solace in the words of a dwarf.

In one way or another, we’ve all chosen to be here.

What choice did she have? At every turn she’d been coerced against her will, a pawn in a game she couldn’t comprehend. Any agency in her own destiny, denied, given over to a monster who outmaneuvered her at every turn. Could things have turned out differently? From the front of the line, Princess Penny waved to her, and she couldn’t help but return it. It would be quite a while before her turn came, situated as she was at the end of the line.

She was the finale...

The show began in earnest with an opening address delivered by some scholarly ponce that droned on far too long. The audience’s impatience was palpable. After an interminable wait, Penny’s name was finally called. She strode out onto the stage like royalty, accompanied by thunderous applause.

The format was well-structured, yet simple. First the introduction of the presenter, usually the assigned physician who’d done the preliminary entrance examination, though a few had brought along their personal doctors. Tat figured herself among this minority; no way would Rheinhardt let anyone else take credit for his great discovery.

Then came the part the crowd liked best, judging by the raucous fanfare that

greeted every new subject, the introduction of the specimen itself. Only when order was restored did the presentation begin, the handler elucidating the nature and provenance of the mutation, what is currently known about the affliction, as well as treatments, management and possible preventive measures for the future.

Though she tried to wait patiently while the line slowly dwindled, anxiety grew with each ing moment. The presentations averaged between ten to twenty minutes, meaning it would be over three hours before she was next in line. The crowd was becoming restless, by the sound of them. Well, she would give them something to ...

“For our final presentation of the night, I call to the stage Jormund Rheinhardt, resident general practitioner and head of surgery at Intra Muros, Warsaw. Alumnus of Jagiellonian University.” Amidst a ripple of tepid applause, Rhienhardt approached the podium.

“Thank you director and good evening lords and ladies. I know it’s been a long night, though I assure you we have saved the best for last,” he cleared his throat, pausing for dramatic effect. “In my long and storied career in medicine, I thought I had seen it all. The aftermath of war, the ravages of infection, famine, disease and death. I thought nothing could unnerve me, nothing could get under my skin. I was wrong. Four months ago I was confronted with a true miracle. A case, unique in the annals of medicine. Unique, I believe, amongst the recorded history of the human race.”

Tat rolled her eyes at his bombastic rhetoric, get on with it already...

“Twenty sixth, March of this year. A young girl was delivered to my hospital in an unresponsive state displaying symptoms concurrent with being struck by a bolt of lightning. In my care she lapsed into a deep coma, minimal life signs,

zero response to external stimuli, displaying all the classic symptoms of somatic brain death. This coma lasted twenty nine days before she recovered, the single time in my thirty years I had ever seen someone recover from such a state. However that is not why I bring her before you today. That is not the miracle of which I speak. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, it is my honor to present Tatiana Stannek.”

That was her cue. Swallowing through a dry throat, she suppressed the butterflies in her stomach and walked onstage to the same ovation accorded her fellow freaks.

The lights were blinding. It took her eyes a moment to adjust before she perceived a room of exquisite beauty, packed from wall to wall with the most important people in the world. Her heart froze in her chest, never before had she performed for an audience so large. Small gatherings of provincial villagers, revolving groups in the bigger cities, fifty to a hundred people at a time. Before her stretched a sea of people a thousand strong, fading into darkness in the recesses of the hall. The floor area looked to be standing room only, with seating reserved for the upper echelons and the balcony. She couldn’t do this, there were too many. She was on the verge of bolting when Rheinhardt approached her, linking his arm in hers, barring any escape.

“Hello Tatiana, would you stand there please.” he said, indicating a spot marked on the stage in gaffers tape. The breathless curiosity exuding from the audience was nearly a palpable thing. Her monks robe had their imaginations running wild; anything could be underneath. The nervous silence was suddenly broken by a chorus of feminine voices calling out a jubilant greeting.

“Whooooo Tatianaaaaaa!!!”

Her eyes were drawn to the front row of the balcony where she saw Tiphareth, Binah and Geburrah emphatically waving. Even despite her grave misgivings, Tat found a genuine smile spread across her face as she awkwardly raised a hand in response. Their presence lifted a great weight from her already heavy heart, imparting the courage to face the crowd. They’d come for her after all. All the players were present for the climax of her story. How would all this play out?

Rheinhardt returned to the podium, eager to begin.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present Tatiana, who has a condition hitherto unknown to medical science. A condition whose nomenclature I have designated as Rheinhardt’s Pictus Tergum. Roughly translated from the Latin as illustrated skin. Ninety eight percent of her epidermis is covered in precise markings that appear to employ intentional order and rational logic. At first glance I assumed them to be tattoos, as any right-thinking man of science would; however, after careful examination of skin samples, I was forced to conclude that to be an impossibility. The samples from the markings themselves contained a high concentration of melanin, the main pigment found in freckles. Her skin is generating these symbols naturally. No traces of ink, no scar tissue indicating the trauma of body modification. This is a legitimate phenomenon I have no theory to explain.”

He trailed off and the moment of relative silence was all Tiphareth needed to make her wishes known.

“Take it off!” She cried.

They had waited long enough. Tat reached down and grasped the hem of her robe, drawing it up over her head and off...

Exposing her fully nude body.

Besides her cross on its silver chain, the robe was all she’d been wearing. Those assembled drew a collective gasp, though she couldn’t tell if it stemmed from her condition, or the fact they were confronted with a stark naked girl on the stage.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, all she could do was tremble like a frightened rabbit. Even Rheinhardt himself appeared shocked into silence. She had a choice to make. Either she could accept herself and embrace who she was, or live a life of denial and sorrow. It was time, if not now, then when? She’d chosen to be here, she would hide no longer. Despite there being no music, she began to dance, falling into her old steps with practiced ion.

Rheinhardt recovered his professional demeanor, carrying on like this was normal, coldly describing her condition in sterile medical . Surely pleased that such a scandal could only draw more attention to his discovery.

As she danced, Tat gazed out across the crowd, the sea of faces blending into one amorphous mass, briefly locking eyes with Tiphareth, whom she could tell was blushing even from here. From the depths of this featureless landscape, one incredible countenance emerged quite distinctly, demanding her undivided attention.

The palest, most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Hair as red as smoldering winter fire, emerald green eyes so bright that their touch overwhelmed her to the point that she ceased dancing, coming to stand dumbfounded in the center of the stage. The mysterious woman wore a disconcerting half-smile that Tat

recognized from somewhere...

“Look while you can, fools! Before you stands one who will destroy world!” It was Yurgis. All heads turned toward him, including hers. When she turned back, trying to locate the Red Woman again, she’d vanished, nowhere to be seen.

Yurgis mounted the stage, wrestling the microphone from a confused and irate Rheinhardt before pushing him to the ground, ceasing his protests with a well placed boot in the stomach.

“Don’t be deceived, she may look innocent, beautiful, but she is Antichrist! Come to visit death and destruction upon all!”

What was Yurgis doing?

Her first instinct was to run, but before she could translate instinct into action she found herself seized, as if by invisible hands, and bodily hoisted into the air. She cried out as her arms were forced outward in a crucifixion pose, mirroring the cross she bore about her neck. People began rising from their seats. Either in fear, beginning to retreat, or in inquisitive wonder, looking on in shocked astonishment at the spectacle taking place. Over the rising commotion of the crowd, she could hear Tiphareth screaming something she couldn’t understand.

In a jarring wave of dissociation, her corporeal form opened to the Universe, every nerve singing with frightening bursts of Auric. More than she’d ever experienced, like Yurgis was channeling it into her, forcing it upon her. It was like being torn apart, the agony of burning alive obliterating any lingering rationality as the runes on her skin came alive, squirming and crawling over the

length of her naked body. Even through the incapacitating aura of energy rendering conscious thought all but impossible, Yurgis’ plan became clear to her. He meant to awaken the full extent of her power here...

And she would kill all of these people.

It was mounting much faster than anticipated. Already the breaking point was bearing down upon her, how much more could she take? Mere seconds away from becoming the most feared monster the world had ever known. Electric lights began to flicker, one by one exploding in their sockets. The main spotlight shattered, bursting into flames as vast arcs of energy flowed out of Sahasrara…

A pistol shot rang out over the din of the crowd, striking Yurgis in the chest, inciting panic among the audience as they flooded toward the exits. With her last act of autonomous will, Tat looked to the balcony where Geburrah was wrestling with Tiphareth over a smoking gun, but it was far too late, these people were all doomed...

Three huge explosions shook the building, fire and flying debris engulfing the fleeing crowd with unimaginable violence. She barely had time to think, That didn’t come from me, before she was thrown to the ground and the great domed roof began to collapse. Yurgis, clutching his bloody wound, staggered and fell from the stage where he was first crushed by the massive crystal chandelier, then buried under mountains of debris along with a great many others...

Fire inundated the building as hysterical people bent on self-preservation trampled one another in their haste to escape the collapsing auditorium. Masonry that had stood for three hundred years crumbled under the stress, gravity transforming the simple stone into deadly ammunition. Death and destruction rained down indiscriminately.

Even now, her first thought was of Tiphareth and the others. Quickly scanning the balcony, she caught no sign of them. Her frantic search was concluded seconds later when the sagging outer wall buckled the ancient timbers of the balcony, splintering the s as hundreds of tons of wood and masonry plummeted all around her.

There was nothing she could do for her friends, it was every woman for themselves now. She gathered her wits and fled the stage, intent on making her way to the back door. The backstage hallway had become an inferno, acrid smoke filling her lungs. Retreat wasn’t an option, as rubble now blocked any escape route away from the fire. Having no other choice, she plunged headlong into hell itself.

Falling to her hands and knees, she crawled, desperately attempting to get away from the fire, Yurgis, everything. The smoke was too thick, she was coughing so hard she couldn’t tell where she was going. She collapsed, struggling to breathe, fire blistering her skin. This was it, after all this time her beloved death was at her side, reaching for her...

As if to refute this long cherished union, a wet, black hood was drawn over her head. Strong arms lifting her up, slinging her across broad shoulders...

It’s Jack, he’s come for me.

Throughout the ensuing flight her nude body was licked by innumerable tongues of encroaching flame. It was difficult not to struggle as the heat became unbearable, completely helpless and vulnerable. If she lived through this, she was going to be in such pain that she’ll wish she hadn’t.

With a last titanic heave, Jack kicked open the door and she felt the relatively icy caress of cool air, they were outside. She only prayed that Tiphareth and the others had fared as well. The thought that they might be dead terrified her.

Even though they had to be safely out of harm’s way by now, he didn’t set her down. Instead, he broke into a run, carrying her away. Though this confused her, if there was one person she trusted implicitly, it was Jack. He must be taking her to an agreed upon safehouse to meet up with the others. He might’ve even brought some heroin…

Then, it sank in for the first time.

Yurgis is dead...

The thought didn’t seem real to her. In one instant, the entire world changed forever. She realized then that for one brief moment, she’d been in the presence of true Justice, and it cared even less for human suffering than an uncaring, absentee god. Such a pathetic end to his monstrous, vain efforts to attain immortality; such a fitting end for a thief.

For about half a kilometer she was roughly carried into the pastoral countryside, up hill and down dale. She knew something was wrong when she was deposited on a soft seat, presumably a carriage. She began to scream and resist and the hood was taken from her head.

“Be calm, little one. All will be well.”

It wasn’t Jack...

“Of course, it’s you.” She said, no longer surprised at anything.

The Dark Man.

The enigmatic figure who’d dogged her across half the world, rescuing her from certain death twice now, threw her cassock over her, then shut and locked the carriage door, leaving her in complete darkness...

Then the horses burst into motion.

Musician, Author, Artist. A. A. Ron is a renaissance man in every sense of the word. Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, he calls Seattle his home, where he creates psychedelic art, experimental rock music and of course literary works. When not in the act of creation, he is eating burritos and working far too much.