Chapter Four of Twelve

I am become a stranger unto my brethren

Mark Andrew sat straight up in the bed, gasping for breath, clutching at his side. He pulled up his shirt and stared at the puckered scar there. The wound was healed, but the pain was real. His breath was coming in short gasps and the room was spinning. Before he realized where he was and that he had been dreaming, the door opened and Maxie came in, closely followed by Valentino. He blinked at them in confusion.

“Watcha lookin’ for? Fleas? Get up, dipshit!” Maxie already had the shotgun pointed at him. “Time to go.”

Valentino, still dressed in the dark suit, one eyebrow kicked up in what appeared to be detached curiosity watched dispassionately. His first thought was that Maxie must have shown her a recording of the little incident under the table, but this thought was quickly pushed aside as waves of nausea assaulted him. He leaned over the side of the bed and puked on the floor… again.

“What was that performance at my dinner table about, Mr. Ramsay? You don’t look so tough or amusing now.” She backed into the hall and shouted for one of the servants.

Mark did not answer her, and Maxie shoved him from the bed onto the floor.

Mark Andrew pushed himself up slowly, and pulled his shirt down, trying to will away the effects of the poison. Maxie yanked him brutally to his feet, and shoved him toward the door.

Valentino turned and led the way down the hall, down the back stairway, through the kitchen and outside. Mark limped along behind her, mentally kicking himself for not escaping when he had the chance. They followed a brick sidewalk along the back of the house to a set of double storm doors set at an angle against the base of the mansion. Mark’s spirits fell completely into his shoes. The basement! Of course. It was time to go to the basement. With nothing to lose, Mark turned back suddenly to face Maxie, swaying slightly on his feet. This might be the last time he had a chance to escape at all. The man was five feet behind him with the twin barrels of the shotgun pointed directly at his face. Cold sweat ran in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” the man eyed him coldly above the weapon. “Go for it.”

Valentino stopped to look at them briefly and then continued punching in a series of numbers on the keypad of the electronic locking mechanism. The lights on the box blinked and the sound of the lock disengaging echoed hollowly in the silence of the night.

Mark was no match for shotgun. He turned and froze again at the sight of the black rectangle in front of him. The cellar door reminded him of the well from his dream: dark and forbidding. The half-memory of another such place gave him a jolt. A stinking place full of people groaning in chains, torch light and rats. Hell, no doubt. And he was about to go there… again.

Reluctantly, he followed the woman into the entrance and down a flight of concrete stairs to a surprisingly bright hallway with a dark blue, tiled floor and florescent lights overhead. Their shoes clicked on the tiles, echoing through the stillness. Valentino stopped in front of one of the numerous doors and paused to unlock it with a key from her pocket. Inside the room, rows of sterile white florescent lights flickered to life, illuminating stainless steel lab tables, cabinets and an impressive array of lab equipment. Alchemy had come a long, long way from the caves and cellars of old. He caught himself on the edge of the nearest table and frowned. Alchemy. Alchemy.

“My lab.” Full of pride, Valentino waved one hand about the room. Pride was a sin. Pride was one of the seven deadly sins.

“I’m impressed,” he heard himself say. “Which way to the bloody wolfbane and bat wings?”

“Very funny, Mr. Ramsay. Maxie, would you please show our guest to the seat of honor.”

Maxie handed her the shotgun and Mark noted that she held it with professional ease in the crook of her arm.

Maxie shoved him along to another door beyond which was a much more inviting office with a large wooden desk, computer station and a high-backed leather chair. Wooden bookshelves filled with old leather-bound journals and books lined the walls. A single cherry wood armchair sat in front of the desk. This was the seat of honor. Mark was immensely relieved at not having found himself strapped onto a stainless steel table or a rack. Valentino stood behind the desk while Maxie pushed him down in the chair and attached a pair of cuffs to his wrists and the arms of the chair regrettably removing his ability to clutch his stomach.

He sat waiting for the latest cramp to pass, unable to do much more. Already, his arms and legs were growing heavier as the pain in his midsection increased to an unbearable stage and then receded. He went over the symptoms in his mind and tried to decide what type of poison was affecting him. In his fading condition he finally decided that he must have been a doctor or perhaps an executioner rather than an assassin…

Merry drifted into view and took up a position behind the desk. Her normally bright face was marred by a look of total. Mark was sweating profusely, shaking from continuous chills and, yet the room seemed unbearably hot. He could feel rivulets of perspiration running down his face and his neck, soaking his collar. Even his hands and arms gleamed with a thin sheen of water as his body seemed bent on evaporating altogether. The cool air conditioning from the vent over his head brushed his face, but he still felt as if he were in a sauna.

“Now we can make this as simple or as complicated as you like, Sir Ramsay,” Valentino spoke to him. Maxie had the gun again, but held it loosely. Mark was no longer a threat. “First of all…” she stopped talking and glanced back at the Pixie. “Merry, for Christ’s sake!” she addressed the sniffing woman beside her. Merry shifted her gaze from Mark’s face to Valentino. They were little more than blurs of movement now. “Would you please stop looking at him like that? You know what we have to do now and you know why. Straighten up.”

Merry’s brow puckered and she broke into unrestrained tears.

Valentino sighed and slid onto the desk facing him. He tried to focus on her, but his eyesight was dimming and blurring. He shifted his gaze to Merry’s face instead. A much more pleasant view if it was to be his last.

“Your brother’s apprentice shared his secrets with me before he left,” Valentino resumed her speech. “One of them was of particular interest, but unfortunately, Master, Edgard d’Brouchart, did not impart it to him in its entirety. It is Edgard d’Brouchart that I want to meet. You know where and how he can be found. Just tell me how to find Edgard d’Brouchart and I will cease bothering you.”

Mark found it very difficult to concentrate on her words. If he had not been feeling such pain in his stomach, he might have felt very good… very, very good. The poison was in the soup. She had not been joking. He tried to swallow and found even that simple action becoming difficult as well. He continued to stare at the Pixie hoping inanely that he would not drool on his shirt in front of her. She was beginning to look more and more angelic against the fuzzy haze behind her and certainly an angel would not mind if he drooled a bit, would he? She… he… it? What were angels after all? Male? Female? Did it matter?

He could no longer see the bodyguard and didn’t know if it was his failing vision or if the man had moved.

Valentino leaned into his field of vision. He blinked and drew his head back wobbly on his neck, trying to focus on her face. “You're probably wondering what is wrong with you?”

He nodded though there didn’t seem to be much of a question about it any more. He just wanted her to move so he could see Merry again. At least he could die with something pleasant in his mind.

“You know full well that I can’t kill you with poison, but I can still give it to you just for grins and giggles. Remember? We may be able to defeat death, but we will never be able to defeat suffering. I’ve already seen that you can bleed like a mortal man and you can feel pain like a mortal man. Think of the unlimited research possibilities… the list is endless… and the subject would never die… at least not permanently. Just tell me where d’Brouchart is and I’ll take up my inquiries with him, otherwise I know people who would be very interested in such a research subject.”

Mark looked at her whimsically and then winced when she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. He could feel his stomach still hurting, but it didn’t matter any more. Nothing mattered.

The heat abated suddenly and he shuddered as the sensation of being dipped in icy water started at his feet and spread up his legs, finally gripping his heart in a vice momentarily before traveling rapidly up into his throat, choking him, making it impossible to draw a breath. He took a perverse consolation in the fact that, once he was dead, he would have proved, once and for all, that Valentino was wrong about his immortality and Miss Meredith Pixie would weep over his body when they buried him. He was neither immortal nor rational. He would be dead and then she would feel foolish. He used his last few seconds of lucidity to smile at Cecile before he slumped in the chair.

“I know you are past answering me now,” Valentino continued talking to him.

He wished his ears would also stop working. Would he have to die with her voice ringing in his ears?

“This is just a little preview of what is to come. I am particularly proud of this potion. I created it to kill rats. I do hate those bastards. Don’t you?”

Her voice was finally fading. He heard Merry call his name one time before his ears popped and then there was silence, though he could still see his lap through a fog. He felt something warm fill his mouth and he thought his teeth were falling out in his lap.

“Sir! Sir!” a dirty ragamuffin’s face peered closely at him in the dim, filtered light.

He slung his head and water flew from his hair in all directions. New pain stabbed his side as he gasped for air.

“Up here. Give me your hand,” the boy spoke to him in Latin.

The urchin reached down one grubby hand and he stretched his free hand up to take it feebly, nearly pulling the scrawny boy in the water with him. The boy braced himself expertly against the rocks in front of him and strained with all his might, pulling Mark slowly up the rough wall toward the cramped opening in the side of the well. The sounds of shouts and screams echoed down the shaft from the street above. He slipped and fell back in the bloody water and the boy shifted positions to get a better grip on his arm, pulling off the armored glove in the process.

“Sancta Maria! You must come out of there,” the boy shouted at him urgently in broken French. “They will be back for your body. They’ll want to hang it over the wall and put your head on a pike pole!” The boy was from Europe. Not one of the natives of Jerusalem.

With a great groan and an even greater effort, he lifted his foot and planted it on the wall, reaching up with his other hand to grip the edge of the ledge where the boy waited frantically. The boy counted to three and he pushed up with all this strength while the child pulled on his arm. He fell into the passage on his stomach and the dagger still stuck in his side pushed deeper, causing him to scream in the boy’s face.

“Get up! Get up! Come on, Master! Sancta Maria! In the name of God, hurry!” the boy shouted in his face and tugged on him, refusing to allow him to rest. Mark struggled up on his knees and used one hand to crawl haphazardly down the dank, stone hole with the boy pushing him from behind. He could smell the stench of the dead, the newly dead and the long dead. His chain mail jingled and grated against the stone over his back. He clutched the hilt of the dagger in his hand to keep it from moving as much as possible.

The battle was lost. The city had fallen to Saladin’s warriors. The sounds of the slaughter in the streets above were fading as he moved on as quickly as he could into the ancient stone foundations of the Holy City. The dagger burned as if it were super heated. Blood ran over his hand and dripped onto the rock beneath him. He realized that the boy was no longer behind him, but pushed on as best he could. A few moments later, the boy was back, more frantic than ever.

“Hurry! Hurry! Don’t stop. The city is burning!”

Without warning, he was falling again in the darkness, deeper into the bowels of the catacombs to a lower level. He tumbled down rough steps, screaming with each bounce he took. He didn’t think he could make it to wherever they were going before the knife disemboweled him. The boy was suddenly beside him in the greenish darkness. The glow from the well’s hidden passage barely illuminated the child’s dark face. How had he come to be in the well? Who was he?

“This way,” the boy spoke perfect Latin, explaining that they would be safe in the catacombs as he pulled and tugged him.

When he heard the echoing shouts of more assassins behind them, Mark hobbled after his unlikely rescuer with one more tremendous effort. A distinctive scraping noise echoed in the passage. The boy had gone back for the weapon in the face of incredible danger and was dragging the heavy weapon along with them. Mark’s feet felt like lead in the wet boots and his armor felt as if it would crush him. He dropped the chain mail leggings and the gauntlets as he went. He had his mace, his shield and two of his three knives. He couldn’t pull off the chain mail hauberk under the tabard due to the dagger in his side. Tangled in the small loops, it actually pinned his armor to him. He stopped and leaned against the wall, gasping for air.

The boy came back, taking his arm again.

“You can’t rest here, Sir."

After a few deep breaths, Mark stumbled forward again. Soon they came to another ledge and below, in the blackness, he could hear the sound of water. He leaned against the wall again, supporting himself with one hand. There was absolutely no hope of making it down another set of stairs alive.

“I can’t,” he said simply in Latin. "Give me the sword."

The boy bobbed about him like a small monkey squinting in the dimness at the dagger’s hilt protruding from his side. Presently, the glow of a torch illuminated their surroundings. He squinted at the clever boy who was now examining the hilt of the dagger in the light of the torch. The child apparently lived in this horrid place. There were pots and blankets, leather bags and sacks strewn about the floor behind him. He jerked away from the child when he touched the knife.

“Stay still, Sir. You must be strong, Master,” the boy told him and took hold of the hilt of the knife.

Mark Andrew knew what was coming next and he knew that it was necessary if he had any hope of surviving. There would be ransoms to be had. Negotiations to be made. He steeled himself, took as deep a breath as he could, wrapped his free hand over the boy’s smaller hands and nodded to the boy. The pain was more than he could bear when the dagger came free. He instinctively took a swing at the street urchin and they went over the side of the ledge, both screaming all the way down to the cold, black water below. The icy liquid enveloped him, freezing him instantly as he breathed the water into his lungs. The world went black and then brilliantly white.

Mark snapped his eyes open. It took several moments for him to realize that he was looking into his own lap. The blood from the wound inflicted by the Saracen’s dagger stained his clothes and made him wince at the sight of so much of it. He couldn’t have much left. The smell of the gory mess was sickening.

“Bravo, Sir Ramsay,” a woman’s voice cut through his mind like a Saracen’s dagger. “Twelve minutes. Twelve Knights. Twelve Disciples. Twelve months. Twelve signs in the Zodiac. What a coincidence. What else do you do in twelves, Mr. Ramsay? Truly remarkable.”

Valentino was overjoyed. Her tone clearly indicated it.

Someone pressed a cool cloth to his forehead. He leaned his head all the way back and closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth, as the memory of what had occurred came back to him in a terrible rush. He felt much better than before, but he was hungry again incredibly enough, his stomach growled. He opened his eyes and saw the Pixie’s worried face above him. Crystal clear. It was Merry who was washing his face.

“Could I…” he said with difficulty, his mouth full of money. “Could I have a drink of water?”

“Oh, sure, why not?” Valentino answered him. “Whatever you like, Mr. Ramsay.”

The Pixie disappeared for several seconds. She came back and held a small glass of water to his lips. It tasted wonderful. He found Valentino with his eyes over the edge of the glass. He felt strangely empty, hollow and clean in spite of the mess in his lap. She was still leaning on the desk in front of him. It seemed that hours had passed since he had gone to sleep, but from the looks of things, it could not have been more than a few minutes at most, unless they were perpetrating an elaborate hoax on him. But why? Did they really expect him to believe that he had died and come back from the dead? He knew he hadn’t died. He remembered dreaming.

“Now we can talk,” she told him. She twirled a pencil on the tip of her index finger. “I really did have my doubts about you. But now I know that the immortals really exist.”

“What?!” Merry spun on her. “You mean that you didn’t know for sure? You took a chance on killing him just to prove a point?”

“So?” Valentino shrugged and then stood up slowly. “And if he had died, would it have mattered so much? Exactly what is it about him that you find so damned interesting, Merry? Are you in love with him?”

Her comments only confirmed Mark’s suspicions that the woman intended to kill him for real sooner or later. He distinctly remembered the dream about the well. He determined not to miss his next chance to leave, if one ever arrived.

Merry's angelic face was a mask of horrified disbelief as tears streamed down her cheeks. Mark focused his attention on the exchange between them. She still believed that this Anthony character was alive and he was quite convinced now that ‘poor Anthony’ was dead. Stone cold dead.

Merry realized for the first time that Cecile was not playing with a full deck. They argued and shouted at each other while Maxie stood by silently smirking. It was also quite evident that Valentino was running the show. She suddenly snapped and slapped the blond across the face. Merry shrieked in surprise and pressed her hand over the spot.

“I’m sorry! You know how I feel about you, Merry. I can’t stand the thought of…”

“I’m not in love with him!” she shouted, and then added more calmly. “It’s just… well… I didn’t know you had doubts about the immortality thing. That’s all. We’re talking about a human life, Cecile.”

“I’m sorry I slapped you, Merry. I was ninety-nine point nine per cent sure, you know? I mean it’s just human nature not to believe, like it’s human nature to be jealous,” Valentino tried to sound truly sorry, but narrowed her eyes sharply, studying the blonde's face closely. “We don't need any more of these outbursts. They are counter-productive. Is that clear, sweetheart?”

She took Merry’s hands in hers and looked into her eyes. Mark could also see that Merry was totally under the influence of the older woman, perhaps even to the point of being mortally afraid of her or even brain-washed. Merry glanced at him briefly and then smiled sickly at Valentino.

“I know,” she muttered. “I’m sorry I made you mad.”

“Take her back upstairs, Maxie.” Valentino turned to the ugly man, who quickly changed his expression to one of concern. “I can handle this. He’s not going anywhere now.”

“But I want to stay,” Merry protested.

“You don’t have the stomach for it, little girl. I don’t want you upset for no reason. You will have nightmares if I let you stay. Go on up and take a bath and… hey, make us some hot chocolate and popcorn. I’ll be up in a little while. We’ll watch a movie… or something.”

Merry sighed and turned away with Maxie following closely behind her. The ugly man looked back at him and smiled.

“Now, as I was saying, you’ve made me very happy,” Cecile told Mark as soon as they were gone. She took a seat in the high-backed leather chair and propped her feet on the desk. “No doubt, you have made Merry very happy as well or tried to. I have faith in her, Mr. Ramsay. She knows the importance of the rituals as I’m sure you do as well. Timing. The great sacrifice. The Great Work. The Great Rite. All that. But the original question still remains.”

“I don’t know anyone named d’Brouchart,” he said, but there was no confidence in his statement. He did remember the man, but that was all. He did not know exactly what d’Brouchart was other than the words ‘Grand Master’ which held no distinct meaning for him. He certainly did not know where he might be found. “Just because I did not die from your poison doesn’t mean I’m immortal. It only proves that I'm not a rat.”

“Is that a double entendre? You know, I’m beginning to like you.” She smiled at him. “I’m surprised to see you still have your sense of humor. You died all right. No pulse. No respiration. Nothing for twelve minutes. And now you sit here as if nothing happened. People don’t die for twelve minutes and then just take a breath and wake up all by themselves. Next time, I’ll hook you up to an EEG. Do a bit of scientific research on your brain. You know, make sure you’re not just comatose or something. I still have that wee little bit of doubt. I have a machine in the lab, but I’m still reading the instruction book.” She laughed. “Those things are awfully complicated. Merry could probably do it better, but she’s so squeamish sometimes. She makes me mad at her. She shouldn’t do that…” her voice trailed off before she continued “at any rate, I’ll need to know for sure, but, trust me, I believe you were dead. I don’t think anyone could survive the poison I gave you.”

“I only know what you tell me.”

“I am not an inquisitor, Sir Ramsay, and I hardly consider myself a sadistic maniac. So I really don’t want to start doing anything along those lines. This was really more than I had bargained for to be perfectly honest. I am not particularly fond of blood and guts.” She shrugged and wrinkled her nose. “It seems that no matter what I do to you, you are still going to sit there and deny everything, which is, by the way, highly commendable, but I don’t have time to waste on you. Every minute is precious to me. I have another, more civilized method I want to use. Now that I know you are immortal, I want to try the same thing with you that I used with Anthony. It worked very well on him, but he was not immortal. Not one of the great mysterious knights.”

“Really?” Mark said tiredly. He did not want to hear it. “Did your poison work on him?”

“I didn’t poison him. I used hypnosis,” she answered and then leaned back in the chair and put her hands behind her head. “Usually hypnosis does not work unless the subject is willing, but I use a method that does not require such cooperation on the part of the subject.”

“And if you do this, you will get your answers?” Mark perked up a bit. Perhaps she could convince herself of the truth. He certainly couldn’t convince her of anything.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then I suggest we get on with it,” he told her.

Maxie returned to the office and took up his stance by the door.

“Maxie,” Cecile stood up. She kept her eyes on Mark, but spoke to the guard. “Get some towels from the lab. Clean him up a bit.”

Maxie mumbled something about not being a nursemaid, but disappeared into the lab. Valentino followed him. This was not going to be pleasant. Presently, she returned with a gauze pad and a bottle. Maxie laid the shotgun on the desk and used a towel to wipe at his lap haphazardly, making a bigger mess than before.

Valentino sighed heavily and grabbed the towel from him. “Just wait over there. We’ll take care of it later.”

She poured some of the liquid from the bottle onto the pad and looked down at him. “This won’t hurt at all.”

“Famous last words,” he said as he looked down at the bloody mess in his lap. It certainly looked like blood and a great deal of it. He looked up at her again and closed his eyes. He was going to have to kill both of them if they didn’t kill him first. Valentino walked around behind him and took his hair in her hand, pulling his head back.

“You’d best make this work," he said. “I’m not in a good mood.”

“You’re very funny, Mr. Ramsay.”

She gave him one last smile and pressed the gauze pad over his nose and mouth. He resisted instinctively, but she was right, it didn’t hurt at all. Dreamless sleep came as a welcomed respite.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

“You did what?!” Valentino’s voice was shrill with rage and cut through his groggy mind like a knife. His neck hurt. Stars danced in front of his eyes when he opened them. His vision cleared and he saw the ceiling above him. Dropping his head painfully, he saw that his lap was a bit cleaner, though damp.

“You idiot! You fool!” she shrieked behind him somewhere.

He felt worse than ever and only wanted to lie down, but he was still right where he had left himself and he had no idea how much time had passed since he’d gone to sleep.

“Why? Why did you do that? I told you it was for you to use on yourself. I only gave it to you because I was afraid you would be hurt. I was afraid Merry might be hurt! Remember? I said if you get hurt, drink this.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maxie’s voice was sullen. “I remember that, but I also remember that the stuff makes you pass out cold.”

“That’s not the point,” she sputtered. “Why did you use it on him?”

“The point is that he is a lot stronger than he looked,” Maxie told her defiantly. “He had three knives on him, for God’s sake. He thought she was a prostitute trying to pick him up. He talked real bad to your little sweetheart. Real bad. You should have come up with a better plan. I couldn’t hold him. I hit him with the damned club. And he just kept coming at me. It’s like he was plum crazy. And then he got hold of her… I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. He would have killed her and me, too. If I’d let him kill me, how could I have drunk something?”

“There was no plan, you stupid shit!” Valentino was beyond angry. “I sent you out to scout for him… you know? Scout? Just have a look. See if you could spot him so we’d know he was coming for sure. I didn’t tell you to capture him. He was coming here anyway. All we had to do was wait.”

“Well, that’s not what Miss Merry told me. You two should get your shit straight. I can’t work for two screwy women at once!” Maxie’s voice lowered a bit and Mark heard something break in the lab. The crash was followed by several seconds of silence as the woman paced the floor.

“How did you do it? What exactly did you do?” Valentino seemed to have calmed down a bit. Her words were short and clipped.

“I threw it in his eyes,” Maxie explained to her. “It was the only way. I couldn’t exactly ask him to sit down for a beer and a bowl of salsa.”

“This is just great,” Valentino said resignedly.

Mark heard something grating on the tile floor. A chair? A guillotine? A casket?

“What’s done is done, Miss,” Maxie’s voice was less clear. He had moved further away. “It’ll wear off eventually.”

“You don’t know that! I don’t even know that. I don’t know what the effects are on immortals. He really doesn’t remember anything coherently. Just like he told us. I thought he was bluffing. I thought he was playing with me. I can’t believe I was wrong.”

Mark found himself nodding his head in affirmation. She was not accustomed to being wrong.

“That stuff was just half the key,” she continued. “You could have killed him for all you knew. For all we know, he might be dying right now. I mean it might take a while to work or something.”

“I’m sorry! What can I say? Besides, if he’s immortal, he’s immortal, right? How can you kill somebody’s who’s immortal?”

“Just get out of here. I have to think.”

Mark waited without moving. He did not want to wake completely. He wanted to sleep, to heal, but the pains in his neck and his back were too insistent and he was terribly angry, not to mention hungry. They had used some witch’s brew on him and Valentino might be right. He might already be dying of some insidious poison. He remembered absolutely nothing of how he had come to be with Merry and Maxie. His entire coherent world had started at the base of that damnable pecan tree.

Footsteps drew near and he heard her go around the desk. The chair squeaked as she sat down. He heard a sniffling sound and then she blew her nose. Was she crying? It hardly seemed possible. He was partially pleased to have caused the tears even at such a great expense.

“Ramsay?”

He raised his head slowly and opened his eyes. Without thinking, he tried to raise his hand to his neck and the cuff yanked it back painfully.

“Ow!”

“I’m really sorry about this,” she said and he frowned at her. “If you promise to be good, I’ll take those off.”

He nodded slowly and licked his parched lips.

A few seconds later, he sat unrestrained in the chair, alternately rubbing his neck and his wrists. He could not decide which hurt worse. There were new bruises on his wrists beneath the healing rope burns. Whatever had happened while he was asleep must have been unpleasant.

“There, that’s better, huh?” She was behind the desk again. “You really don’t know anything about anything, and I feel like such a fool.”

“What about my immortality?” he asked her. “Was that just a joke or something?”

“I was just trying to scare you,” she quipped lightly.

A lie, he was sure of it.

“It was just castor oil and ipecac syrup. I’m so sorry. I thought you were Mark Ramsay. What did you say your name was?”

“John. Then this isn’t real blood?” he asked and looked into this lap at the drying blood.

“Oh, it’s real blood, but it came from the kitchen,” she told him. “Beef liver, actually.”

“Good,” he nodded, wishing it were the truth. Liver was exactly what it had looked like and he could not imagine that he had coughed up his own liver in his lap. He didn’t think that it was anatomically possible.

“I told you I’m not sadistic. We’ll get you all cleaned up. You have to understand that a young man’s life is at stake here,” she waved one hand as she talked. “I don’t know what to do now, to be honest. I thought you had come here to kill us. Anthony is convinced that someone is after him. Someone who will stop at nothing including killing anyone trying to protect him. I mean you were driving a black car and you did have a rather wicked looking blade in the trunk. But I guess it’s just a hobby of yours, right? Collecting swords or something? You can’t blame me for protecting myself and my… family. I would tell you more, but I don’t think you want to hear it. I'll make it up to you. What will it take? How much?”

He nodded thoughtfully, buying time. She’d not mentioned his rings and the rest of the bizarre things that he had experienced and half-remembered. Her half-baked story wasn’t half-bad as stories went. There was no way this woman would ever let him go. Her conversation with the security agent had explained more than enough. At least he knew now why he couldn’t remember anything and whatever it was she wanted, she remained convinced that she had the right man.

He would have to go along with her. At least his hands were free, but he knew that if he tried to get out of the chair, he would fall on his face and he’d not heard Maxie actually leave. There was nothing else he could do at the moment. The old desire to throttle her returned with a vengeance. His breathing became more rapid and the red haze began to edge into his vision. He fought it off and tried to remain calm. If he was poisoned, agitation would only hasten the process. He knew that much.

“How about breakfast? I’m starving,” he asked hopefully, trying to sound more like a lost shoe salesman than a… what?

“Sure. Fine. Of course.” She smiled tightly at him and then looked away quickly. “Let’s get you back to your room. Get you all cleaned up. I’ll get you something to eat and then we can decide on a settlement. There’s no need to make matters worse.”

He nodded again and she helped him from the chair. Her nearness made him cringe, but he needed her help and he needed to get out of the damned chair and the damned laboratory and the damned basement. When his strength returned and his next chance came, he would not hesitate to do what should have already been done.

On the way back to his room, she told him about Anthony as he leaned on her arm. She said that he was her nephew. A college student on a trip to Europe during the Spring Break.

Mark’s legs were like rubber and his vision swam. He would have to get better to kill her. Kill her. He was amazed how easily the thought of committing murder came to mind, time and again.

She continued with her story about how the boy had become involved with a suicide cult in Europe. About how she and Merry had tried to bring him home and help him. About how the boy had told them that someone would be coming for him to either take him back or kill him.

For all he knew, some of it could have been true though he didn’t really give a damn. With tears in her eyes, she finally told him that Anthony had left them, run away. Merry had been very fond of Anthony. But what about the rest of the story? The real story. She told him that they had learned only a few things about the people in the cult, ‘international, you see’ and when Mark had come along with his ‘accent and all’, well, they had been sure that he was one of them. An awful mistake. Terrible, just terrible. And did he know of any such cults in Ireland? Ireland! He was from Scotland… wasn’t he?

“So you think this d’Brouchart fellow is the cult leader? From France, of course,” he asked her.

“Yes, of course he’s French. He’s the one I’m looking for.” Valentino nodded. “I will have my revenge. I want to find him and bring him to trial. I want justice. I want him extricated.”

“I see, but I think you mean extradited,” Mark said gravely. “That is certainly understandable.”

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Locked back inside his third floor room, he stripped off the filthy clothes, threw them in the corner and then stood in front of the mirror looking for wounds. Teeth marks. Scratches. Festering ulcers. Welts. Rashes. Discoloration. Anything that might indicate more serious conditions. Strangely enough he knew exactly what he was looking for. Other than the bruises on his wrists, there were no outward signs of injury. He felt terrible in general. He was a bit pale, though the cut above his eye was all but gone, leaving barely a trace. Should not have healed so quickly. Should have needed stitches. The only thing he could find was the old scar from the dagger in the dream. But dreams could not leave scars, could they? Was he really immortal? Had he really fought in the Holy Wars? If she was going to let him go, why had she locked his door? Why was he staring himself in the eye asking stupid questions?

When he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the Pixie was waiting for him. She had brought his breakfast, that wasn’t really breakfast. Too late for supper, too early for breakfast. And he hadn’t said his prayers. He stopped short and tucked the towel more securely about his waist. He could not imagine why he would feel embarrassed to see her there in his room, but he was. A glance at the window showed that it was still dark outside and the clock on the dresser showed half past two.

He examined the tray on the small writing desk. Another steak with oven-browned potatoes and a huge slice of chocolate cake. A bottle of red wine and a pitcher of iced tea completed the meal. Simple enough fare. No drinking during meals. No talking during meals. The company of women… The smell of the steak made his empty stomach lurch.

“How did you manage to draw the privilege?”

His brow furrowed in confusion at his own disjointed thoughts. Weird strings of words spoken by different voices, different accents. English. French. German. Italian. “Or does your Mistress know you are here?”

The vehemence in his tone made her flinch. He wanted her to go away, but he still needed information. She was dangerous.

“Don’t be angry with me, Mark.” She stood wringing her hands in agitation and her expression collapsed in disappointment. “I didn’t want them to hurt you. I tried to make them stop. Don’t you remember?”

He said nothing but pulled his bags from under the bed and took out a simple black tee shirt and a pair of black, cotton cargo pants with zippers and snaps all over them. They looked like something a burglar would wear… or an assassin? He took the clothes back to the bathroom to dress. He came back and sat in the chair beside the desk facing her, fighting off the urge to pick up the steak in both hands.

“I paid off the maid,” Merry said after a few moments, attempting a bit of humor. “Cecile is locked in the library with Mr. Petrie and Chevalier Ramos… under the rose.”

“What about your other friend, Maxie?” he asked sarcastically. He couldn’t manage to get the bitter tones out of his voice in spite of the need to make use of her insanity. He sincerely felt betrayed by the woman even though he barely knew her. But wasn’t that the way it was supposed to be? ‘The company of women is a dangerous thing.’ He picked up the wine and pushed the cork from the unlabeled bottle with his thumbs before holding it under his nose, wondering if it had more poison in it. Surely Valentino would still need to be rid of him. He could not decide whether he should drink the wine before or after eating.

“He’s asleep, I think,” she said and pulled a low footstool up near his feet. She sat down and watched while he turned up the bottle.

It didn’t taste like poison, but then it never had.

“I am sorry for what happened,” she told him. “I didn’t know she could do something like that. I mean she always talked about stuff, but I never saw her do anything like that before. It was awful.”

“Yes, it was,” he had to agree.

“She’s usually very lovable,” the Pixie’s eyes lit up.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” He almost choked on the wine. “She’s about as lovable as small pox.”

“No, really. You just don’t know her like I do. She’s really very special. If you knew her, you would like her. She’s really smart.”

“Oh, is that so?”

His anger was slowly fading, but the situation was intolerable, incredible. Now she was telling him things he really did not want to hear.

“I was glad to hear that she hadn’t really poisoned you,” she sighed. “She told me about what happened.”

“Did she tell you she had made a mistake? That I’m not who she thought I was?”

The steak was getting cold and he really needed to eat.

Merry got up and moved to his lap, laying her head on his shoulder. It was maddening to listen to her go on about Cecile. His feelings for the Pixie were an abomination. His feelings for Valentino were a sin. He could smell the chocolate cake over the scent of her cologne. Sex or chocolate? Which was worse? Which was better? Chocolate was less dangerous.

“She did.” Merry nodded her head against his chest and rubbed his stomach on the exact spot where he was slowly starving to death. “I know you’ll be leaving and I hate to see you go. I’m afraid that she’ll be very upset if she finds out what we’ve done.”

“She tells you everything, does she?” He stroked her curly hair and wrapped his left arm around her shoulders.

“Eventually,” Merry answered.

So Valentino was perpetrating the same fraud on the Pixie? That would lend a bit of credence to his idea that Merry was just a semi-innocent pawn in all this. He wanted to kiss her and at the same time, he wanted to choke some sense into her. He closed his eyes against the conflicting urges, he loved the sound of her voice, the smell of her hair, the smooth coolness of her skin and he could feel the tight muscles of her legs through the thin dress she wore and the firmly rounded bottom that was so.... He wanted to keep her, put her away somewhere safe where only he knew where she was, where only he could find her and be with her and…

The need for food was fading. He tightened his grip on her as she babbled on about how good Cecile had treated her over the years. Cecile infuriated him. Cecile stood between him and what he wanted, and what he wanted was wrong. An abomination. “Does she whisper these things in your ear while she’s making love to you?”

The woman stiffened and tried to get up. He held her easily in place. “Be still!”

She relaxed a bit and he pressed her head back down on his chest, stroking her curls, relaxing his grip a bit. After a few seconds, he took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. She closed her eyes apparently expecting a kiss. So confused, she was. So dangerous.

“Who gets on top?” he dropped her chin abruptly and asked the question in a disinterested tone instead. He had to get away from her and since he could not, he had to make her get away from him, but he didn’t really want her to get away from him. Not really.

She kicked her foot at the desk and toppled them both to the floor. He pushed the chair off him and grabbed for her foot as she crawled away from him. He pulled her back across the polished wood floor, flipped her onto her back, and pinned her beneath him. It was just so easy. Too easy. Too wrong.

He looked down at her and she glared at up at him and tried to push him off. Not like before. She was truly angry this time. It was not a game this time.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he told her.

“You really are a bastard,” she said through clenched teeth. “Get off of me.”

“You really don’t know what you want, do you?” he countered and then raised up on one knee. He released her arms and she kicked away from him.

He got up slowly, righted the chair and sat down again while she stood by the door, wringing her hands again, looking tearful and hurt. His stomach took the opportunity to attack him again.

“Didn’t she tell you that I’m dangerous?” he asked her and picked up the wine bottle again. The wine was revolting in the emptiness. Already the alcohol was warming his neck and his face.

“You’re not dangerous.” Her face changed expressions yet again, to something entirely different, as if she had just made some remarkable discovery. “You’re just uncivilized.”

“Uncivilized. Aye, that’s the word.” He nodded in agreement and smiled as anger replaced the self-recriminations. “Uncivilized.” He turned his attention on the steak and tore it apart without the advantage of a fork or a knife or a napkin. It took less than five minutes to put away the whole thing in the old style. The old style? She stood by the door unmoving and silent. He really wished she would go away. He was beginning to like her in spite of everything. She was persistent if nothing else. When he had finished the cake, he turned toward her with a quizzical look. What was she waiting for?

“She was lying wasn’t she?” Merry asked him suddenly.

“Uh, huh.” He nodded. “She was lying.”

“I told her that I had taken advantage of your weakness at the dinner table, but that we hadn’t actually… you know…” she admitted and made an apologetic face.

“Uh, huh.” He nodded again. “And what did she say to that?”

“She was mad.”

“Oh, aye. She's mad alright. She’s insane. What is she planning to do with me now?”

“I don’t know. I really am glad to hear that she was lying. It would have been… well, it would have been awful. I mean what I did and what you did, if you weren’t who I thought you were.”

“What difference would it make?”

“You just don’t understand.” She looked down at the floor.

Was she for real?

“How long have you known her?”

“A long time.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-five. How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Close to a thousand,” she supplied. “Doesn’t that make you feel weird?”

He raised one eyebrow. Perhaps the word reality had not been precise.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “It would.”

“Do you look like your mother or your father?”

“I don’t know.” He actually laughed at the question. He had no recollection of either father or mother and wondered if he had ever known them. She was totally innocent now, back to the Pixie he had made her into in his mind. “And you… who do you look like?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “My mother and father died a long time ago. I’ve seen pictures, but I don’t think I look like either of them. I was an orphan.”

“What?” He frowned. She did not have the appearance of one abandoned. He had thought she had somehow sprung full grown from the head of her father, Zeus. He shook his head. No that was not the right goddess. Who was it that had come from the sea in a seashell? Aphrodite? Venus? Weren’t they the same? But these were pagan gods and he was obliged to kill the enemies of Christ. What was he thinking? He turned up the bottle and stared at her. She was talking again, telling him some story about her childhood, but it did not interest him. He was only interested in the here and now and she was here and it was now. He stood up and set the empty bottle on the desk. Enemies of Christ? She stopped talking and stared at him.

“You would not do that again, would you?” she asked after a few seconds.

“What? Do what again?” He frowned. Something else was clouding his mind. The wine. The wine was making it hard to focus on her voice. She fidgeted with something in her hand. A key. The key. The key to his door. “You have the key and I need the key.”

“No, you do,” she said and frowned at him, missing the meaning of his words. “You have the key.”

“You would give it to me, if I wanted it,” he said and took a step toward her. She did not flinch away from him.

“I would give you whatever you want… as long as you truly want it,” she continued to look at him with a peculiar look in her clear blue eyes. “As long as you love me.”

“Love you?” He stopped. “Why would I love you? What do you know of love, lassie? Ye’re naught but a choild.”

“You tell me,” she shrugged and held up the key.

“I don’t know what love is and I asked you first.” He regained his composure.

He took another step toward her. She took a step back and leaned against the door, holding the key behind her.

“Yes, you do,” she objected.

One more step and he was in front her, holding her hands, looking down at the key. He wrapped one hand over the key in her hand and pulled her close. The key was crushed between them.

“I want the key,” he said into her hair and then kissed her forehead. “Will you give me the key?”

“I told you I would give you anything you want.” He leaned into him and he felt another overwhelming desire to take her down on the floor, right there in front of the door. Why? The key was important and he had it in his hand. “You will have to decide whether to stay or go.”

She kissed his chin and then raised up slightly, kissing his mouth. He closed his eyes and almost forgot about the key. He let go of her hands and ran his hands up her back and then down, slipping the loose dress from her shoulders. The key fell to the floor along with the light summer dress. Did she never wear anything under those gossamer gowns other than a few strings and a bit of fluff? This was much worse than before and he felt a sense of guilt as he pressed her against the door. She wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to the bed instead. The key bounced on the carpet. Surely he could find the key soon enough. In a while… and a bit. His stomach was forgotten again.

They were lying in his bed some time later when the door suddenly opened and the overhead light came on abruptly. Mark threw one arm over the Pixie and shaded his eyes against the glare. He had the distinct impression that this had never happened to him before.

“Show’s over!” Maxie announced as he picked up the key and Merry’s dress from the floor. “Come on, Chevaliere Discretion.” He used her honorary title with just the proper amount of scorn. “I should have known where to find you. Miss Cecile wants you downstairs.”

Merry sat up in the bed with the sheet clutched to her neck, frowning at the ugly man. Mark looked at him in amazement. His hatred for the man inched up another notch. Didn’t anyone ever knock in America?

“Hand over the dress,” Mark Andrew growled as he pushed himself up in the bed wearily. He should never have stopped to dally with this woman again. A little of his strength had returned after the meal, but he had spent it in amorous pursuits. How many men had been killed in just such a sorry state? It was no wonder he was required to sleep fully clothed with his boots on… He cursed himself mentally. She would certainly be the death of him and he felt that he deserved it for being so weak-willed and stupid.

“I don’t think it will fit you, dickweed.” Maxie laughed and held the dress up a little higher to look at it. “Nope. Too little, though I might say the color would go good with your hair.”

“Give her the damned dress, sir,” Mark set his jaw and raised his voice just a bit. He was hardly in any position to make demands, but he didn’t really care. If he was going to die here, it might as well be now.

Maxie raised the barrel of the shotgun and draped the dress across the barrel sight.

“Miss Cecile is waiting for you, sister.” He grinned at Merry. “Come and get it.”

Merry started out of the bed and Mark caught her arm. “Stay where you are. I’ll get it,” he told her without taking his eyes off the man with the gun. When Maxie made no further move, Mark let out a sigh and climbed out of the bed to retrieve the dress under Maxie’s appraising gaze. It didn’t seem to matter to him which of them came after it. He appreciated one just as much as the other.

Mark tossed the dress to Merry and she pulled it over her head quickly, before slipping from the bed to find her shoes. Mark Andrew stood facing the sneering man, dressed only in his intense hatred. Maxie did not flinch as Mark looked at him with deadly intent in his eyes. Merry passed behind him and he caught her arm again, pulling her back in front of him. He then kissed her long and hard while Maxie stood his ground in the open door. “I’m going to kill him for you,” Mark whispered in her ear and let her go. “Before I leave, I’m going to kill him for you.”

She looked into his eyes briefly and then backed away. Maxie snatched at her arm and flung her toward the door.

Merry disappeared through the door behind the big man and he heard her footsteps hurrying away down the hall. Maxie did not follow her immediately, but remained where he was as if he would say or do more.

“If you would care to lay your weapon aside, we could take care of this business, here and now,” Mark told him evenly. He’d never fought anyone without the benefit of some bit of clothing or armor, but if it had been good enough for the Highlanders, it was good enough for him. All he needed was a bit of blue face-paint.

Maxie seemed to consider the possibility seriously for several seconds before he found his voice again. “I would like nothing better than to wrestle with you, my friend, but I’ll have to take a raincheck on it right now.” He winked at Mark and quickly backed out the door, closing and locking it.

Mark stood frozen in the middle of the room. He was definitely going to have to kill the man. His promise to the Pixie he would keep. There was no doubt in his mind now. He placed one hand on his forehead and the other on his hip. Highlanders? Blue paint? Armor? He had to be some kind of history buff. He looked down at himself and then dropped his head. Buff, indeed. If things went well, he would regain his strength in the night and make good his escape in the morning, after killing Maxie, of course. He crawled back under the covers and was soon fast asleep.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Sometime just before dawn, a sudden summer storm broke against the house, shaking the foundations with intense lightening strikes all around the grounds. The roof groaned and the wind beat the rain against the windows. Mark Andrew awoke with a start from another nightmare about war and horses and dust and blood. He pressed his hand against his forehead and then sat up suddenly as he became aware of the fact that he was not alone.

This just could not go on! He was now afraid for Merry. The Pixie was living in a very dangerous situation and he didn’t even think she realized it. She was slowly, but surely working her way into his mind so that his every thought started and ended with her. If she continued to creep into his room, sooner or later, she was going to find herself in serious trouble. And, furthermore, regardless of his inability to remember details, he was positive that he should not be carrying on this licentious relationship with a virtual stranger. It was against everything he felt was right. He was making a big mistake and compounding it by allowing it to continue. Valentino was insane. He knew, or thought he knew what she had in mind for him, but he also felt that she might be capable of killing Merry as well. He had seen the insanity in her eyes when she had spoken to him about Merry. She was extremely jealous of the Pixie and jealousy, especially in women, was a very deadly thing. The best he could make out about the peculiar relationship they seemed to share was that Merry had somehow gained permission to seduce him and sleep with him, but it made no sense. It was almost as if Valentino had imprisoned him here as a gift for Merry in addition to extracting ancient secrets from him. Insanity. He could understand Valentino’s motivation as far as the immortality thing went. That would be an acceptable, if not logical, reason to hold him. But there was more to it than that. He seemed to be serving a two-fold purpose here and both were beyond his comprehension.

When he swung his feet to the floor, a hand gripped his shoulder. The storm had knocked out the electricity.

“Where are you going?” she whispered. Her voice was slightly hoarse. She’d been crying again and drinking as well. He could smell it on her breath. Depression complicated by the consumption of alcohol. A dangerous and often deadly combination.

“I had a nightmare.” He lay back beside her. “What are you doing here?”

“How could I stay away?”

She pressed her lips to his ear and reached under the quilt to find what she was looking for and he sighed audibly before lying down again and allowing her to slip under the cover with him. He would have to take the key this time and leave her.

The lights were out. And no emergency generator had kicked in. Maxie’s cameras would be out. Perfect.

“Where is everyone now?” He caught her hand and turned to face her.

“Sleeping,” she kissed him almost viciously and ended with a bite on his lower lip.

“Ow!” He wiped his lip and tasted blood. “What was that for?”

“I thought you liked it rough,” She laughed softly and pressed herself against him under the cover. He allowed her to push him over on his back again.

“Sometimes, maybe…” he admitted, but this was not one of them. “It depends on what you mean by it.”

She got up on her hands and knees in the bed and crawled over him. He was tired. He really wished she would go away. He wanted nothing to do with her anymore. He wanted to rest and recuperate, but there was at least one thing still interested beyond all reason and his own body betrayed his mind… again. Her actions were drunk and reckless and, apparently, it was not in his nature to take advantage of drunken women. He tried to pull her back where she belonged beside him. Just sleep it off. She leaned over him and licked his ear before biting his earlobe much too hard.

“Dammit!” he cursed and pushed her back. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Would you?” She laughed and climbed on top of him, sitting back on his legs. She leaned over him and he could feel her smooth skin on his exposed stomach as she kissed his chest and then slid her tongue all the way down his belly. While part of him was revolted by her, another part seemed quite pleased and surprised by her attentions. The pleasure was short-lived when she bit him again on the very part that was on her side.

“Stop it,” he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back up on his chest. “You’re drunk. You’d best go now.” She was making him angry. He kissed her roughly and pulled her hair when she tried to bite him again. He knew she could taste the blood in his mouth from his lip. Perhaps it was blood she wanted. Perhaps she was as bloodthirsty as her companion, Valentino, when she was drinking. Alcohol did strange things to people. He could not imagine the Pixie drinking anything other than a glass of tonic water. She didn’t seem to be the type. In fact, he could not imagine her drunk at all. But then she didn’t look like a wanton slut either, though she certainly filled that bill quite readily. An abomination! He made an abrupt effort to put his insistently interested, but injured part where it wanted to be and missed. She laughed and sat up again. She pushed down on his shoulders and he took her by the waist, trying again and she moved away. This topsy-turvy situation that she seemed to prefer was not his cup of tea. He missed the mark painfully the third time and winced. She giggled.

“That’s not funny,” he told her as she continued to giggle. The thunder crashed around the house and the rain drummed on the windows and the roof. The storm put him in mind of his home in Scotland. Where exactly was his home in Scotland? He couldn’t remember, but it seemed to him that it rained there… a lot. She leaned sideways and reached out for the bedside table almost crushing the rest of his desire from him in the process.

“Dammit!” he muttered and grabbed for the sheet as she slid off of him clumsily.

He heard the clink of a bottle and then blinked as an almost blinding flash of lightning illuminated the room. The strike was so close the thunder was almost instantaneous. The effect lent credence to the idea that God highly disapproved of what he was doing. He got only a fleeting glimpse of her in the light before it was gone, leaving white spots in front of his vision like the unexpected flash of a camera. She turned up the wine bottle and drank heavily from it in the brief moment he was able to see her. Only the line of her throat as she swallowed the bottle had been visible in black and white like a cheap French silkscreen print. She returned the bottle to the table awkwardly in the pitch darkness and then pressed her lips against his, filling his mouth with the sweet liquid, surprising him yet again. He almost choked before managing to swallow the unexpected and unolicitied drink. She pushed herself backwards and went down on him again with very cold lips and tongue, almost taking his breath away and it was his turn to get away from her. He sat up sputtering again, pushing her away.

“Dammit!” he repeated the only word he could think of. The anger returned suddenly and he grabbed her shoulders, slamming her on her back, pinning her beneath his weight. “Is it trouble you want or are you just trying to provoke me? What do you want? You want to fight?”

“I thought you would never ask,” she smacked her lips and tried to bite his chin. He thought she must be very drunk and felt almost guilty as he moved back into the proper position in which he felt was most efficient manner to finish what she had started. He closed his eyes and she wrapped her legs around his waist like a common whore. But unlike a prostitute she meant only to play with him and kept the objective just out of range, laughing and giggling.

“I don’t think you have what it takes to take what I have,” she jeered at him.

Her flippant attitude outraged him. No woman had ever treated him in such a manner. Paid or unpaid. Willing or unwilling. He got up on his knees and pushed her legs down before grabbing her hands. He shoved them under the small of her back and lifted her up, poised to make the final strike. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“You would rape an innocent maid, sir?” she asked and giggled. It suddenly occurred to him that he had heard these words before and then the voice of a man overpowered everything else. The words were spoken as if in a prayer by someone with a very deep voice, familiar, yet strange to him ‘O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.’ It almost caused him to throw her from the bed… almost, but he had gone too far to stop because of a ghostly voice in his own head.

So this was her fantasy? To be raped? But that was ridiculous. What in the world was she doing? No, no, she was drunk. There was no doubt, but it was far too late to think about it.

“Ye’re nae innocent maid, lassie,” he told her surprising even himself with the sudden appearance of a noticeable Scottish brogue. She laughed and tried once more to squirm from under him. He pulled her back and found the mark with no trouble. To his immense, but brief amazement, entry was difficult, almost painful. She continued her struggle against him with little success, protesting that he was hurting her as if everything that had just passed between them had never happened.

It was far too late for protests. She shrieked once in his ear and he clamped his hand over her mouth. He felt her body rise against him and he pushed harder. She certainly felt like an innocent maid. Vaguely he wondered how she had accomplished the illusion. He would have to ask her about it some other time. If this was some sort of game, he understood none of it and he was not about to make a habit of it.

When it was over, she scrambled from the bed without another word. No giggles. No laughter and no teasing remarks. He should have had the last laugh, but it wasn’t funny. She was searching for her clothes in the darkness, bumping into the furniture as she scrabbled around the floor. He tried to apologize to her and tell her that he felt terrible about taking advantage of her drunkenness. She sniffed and coughed and he could tell that she was crying, but she did not answer him.

He fell back on the bed and covered his face with his arms. He wondered why he had done it. To teach her a lesson? Hardly. The only lesson he could have hoped to teach her was to hate him. For gratification? Doubtful. He didn’t feel gratified in any way, shape or form. The worst thing about it was glaringly obvious. The very fact that he could do such a thing only proved that he was a criminal.

The door opened and closed and she was gone along with his latest opportunity to get the key to the door. But it was just as well. Perhaps she would not be back and he could more easily keep his vow to himself not to touch her again, though he might have preferred to accomplish it some other way. His guilt was overwhelming to the point that it consumed his mind completely and washed everything else into oblivion. Even the immediate danger of his precarious situation eluded him while he sank deeper and deeper into a black depression. He found the rest of her wine and drank it before going back to sleep.

(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))

Three miles from the ruins of Pompeii in southern Italy, in a painstakingly restored authentic Roman villa, behind a picturesque rock wall topped with cast iron fencing, a strange assemblage of men was seated on either side of a long, lacquered table in one of the sunny rooms. In the center of the table was a white disc inlaid with a blood red cross pattee trimmed in gold. The room’s double doors opened out onto the sun terrace where the bright sunshine of the beautiful summer’s day glinted off the surface of the swimming pool and sent shimmering reflections dancing across the plastered ceiling above their heads.

The Council Room was ominously quiet as the grim-faced members sat drinking wine and glancing expectantly at each other from time to time. The expressions on their faces ranged from worry to fear to anger as they waited for their leader to join them so that the meeting could get underway. Some of them drank from heavy glass goblets, while others used tankards made hammered gold or silver of varying designs. An empty burnished gold goblet of simple design sat up-side-down in front of an empty chair near the head of the table. The inverted goblet was decorated with a simple silver disc on which the letters IAAT were deeply engraved. It, like the others, was very old. A priceless relic of superb craftsmanship from days gone by.

One of the men, a smallish blond with pale blue eyes set wide apart in an equally pale face, stared forlornly at the empty chair behind the goblet. Next to him, sat a sleeping man with a head full of curly black hair; his darkly handsome face was marred by a ragged scar that ran from the top of his left cheekbone to his jaw line. The smaller man bumped him roughly when he began to snore and he sat up, blinking in feigned innocence. Two steely-faced men eyed him darkly from across the table and he shrugged apologetically before closing his eyes and resuming his nap, unaffected by their disapproval.

Presently, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed along the terrace, and they all stood in unison to await the appearance of the Grand Master. The sleepy Italian was the last to stand, pretending that he had forgotten where he was. He winked at one of the stern fellows across the table and the man scowled at him with open hostility.

At last, the imposing figure of the Templar Master dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, entered the room and stopped at the head of the table. His faded blue eyes were large and watery as if the sunlight bothered them and his head was capped by a rather untidy mop of thinning, red hair. The men standing around the table watched him apprehensively as he surveyed each of them individually as if assessing them for proper attitude. He nodded in approval and then sat in his chair causing them all to follow suit. At once, a tall, thin boy dressed in neatly pressed brown slacks and a white shirt brought a crystal decanter and filled his glass with dark red wine.

The Master drank from the goblet and clunked it loudly on the table in front of him. The meeting had been called to order almost an hour earlier by the venerable Seneschal, Philip Cambrique, Chevalier d’Orient. Now the presence of the eminent Grand Master, Edgard d’Brouchart, signaled that the meeting would get started. They had been forced to wait as always, in order that Sir d’Brouchart might impress upon them their subordinate positions.

He held out one meaty hand toward the empty chair on his left and the young man stepped forward again. He reverently picked up the empty golden goblet and presented the cup to the Master who accepted it with equal gravity. The young valet poured a bit of wine into the cup and stepped back quickly as the man up-ended the goblet in front of the empty chair, spilling the wine across the table.

A murmur erupted around the table and a muffled “No!” sounded from the far end of the long room where eleven apprentices sat in two rows of heavy, medieval-style armchairs placed against the wall. Each of these fellows, ranging in age from fifteen to fifty, was there at the beck and call of his Knight with the exception of one: Christopher Stewart had no Knight at this meeting. His Master was the reason that this unscheduled meeting had been called. The ‘no’ had inadvertently erupted from his lips, and he had received a punch in the ribs from one of the older apprentices sitting behind him. Apprentices did not speak unless spoken to in Council. He looked about the table, searching for a sympathetic face and found the formerly dozing Italian Knight gazing at him with a peculiar expression in his dark eyes.

“Sirs, Most Respected and Honored Brothers and Fellows,” d’Brouchart began his address in French. “You are all aware of the need for this assembly, the nature of our emergency and the grievous news that has reached us from abroad.”

A stilted silence greeted him.

“Brother Dambretti,” the Master turned his watery blue eyes on the Italian sitting halfway down the table on his left.

“Your Excellency,” Dambretti answered and tore his gaze away from Christopher with the hint of a smile sparkling in his dark eyes.

“What news?”

Lucio Dambretti, Chevalier l’Aigle d’Or pushed back his chair and the legs grated on the marble floor, echoing against the white marble panels covering the walls. He stood to address the assembly, glancing at each of them before beginning, indicating that his ‘news’ concerned them all. He was tall, but not too tall and dark, definitely of local stock. His black, curly hair was cut short, but not too short. A frown creased his brow and crinkled the pale scar on his left cheek.

“My news, is no news,” he said slowly in French, not his native tongue. “Brother Ramsay has not communicated with my office in over forty-eight hours.”

“What of the world?” the Master asked another question of the Knight.

“The world remains in balance, Your Grace. The wars progress and the peace negotiations continue, though without much success. A new uprising is brewing between the Musselmen on the West Bank and the settlers, but should not break for another week or so. There is nothing noteworthy to report from Persia. The Gauls, as always, deny everything and the German’s are innocent as usual. We have heard nothing from the Russians lately. My concerns lie with the Chinese, sir. I believe that our little yellow friends are practicing global feng shui, if you will and are currently investing heavily in the western colonies. What they intend is…"

At this, one of the men across the table from Sir Dambretti pounded his fist against the wood, demanding attention, effectively cutting off the Knight of the Golden Eagle’s report.

The Grand Master turned his gaze wearily on the man dressed all in black from head to toe. His face was darkly weathered and heavily lined as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors. His long hair was streaked with silver. His black eyes, deep set and somewhat sunken on either side of his long nose, burned with a smoldering fire. He locked eyes with the Grand Master for several long seconds before capitulating. The Master was not ready to hear from Konrad von Hetz, Knight of the Apocalypse, harbinger of doom and gloom. They had enough problems already.

“Hold, Brother Hetz,” d’Brouchart said in a low voice. But he was finished with the Italian whose comments had already caused a few raised eyebrows from the French Knights at the table. “I would hear from Sir Beaujold, Chevalier d’Epee, if you please, Golden Eagle. We will discuss Cathay some other time.”

Dambretti smiled tightly, nodded briefly and resumed his seat as another man stood. A tall, thin man with hazel eyes and wisps of blond hair on his balding head.

“Your Eminence.” He bowed slightly to the Master and then glanced at every other pair of eyes at the table, lingering slightly when he encountered the Italian’s steady gaze. “Pardon my bluntness, Brothers, but the Order of the Rose continues to flourish especially in America.” His expression revealed his obvious disgust at even having to pronounce the name of the order. “It seems we may have underestimated their importance by a considerable sum. That we have ignored them merely because of their androgynous structure may have been a supreme act of pride for which we will now all pay dearly. This latest development calls for urgent, mayhap drastic action, no less than an undeclared state of war.”

“Preposterous!” the exclamation, totally out of order, emanated from the Chevalier d’Epee’s right, where a very sturdy man with curling brown hair and dancing blue eyes stared up at him in dismay.

“How so, Brother Argonne?” The Master allowed the breach of protocol in light of the gravity of the situation and recognized the Order's historian. Sir Beaujold yielded the floor reluctantly to the Knight of the Throne.

“Your Grace.” The shorter man rose from his chair to address the assembly. “Historically, all such androgynous orders are but ephemeral deviations. No order permitting women as members has survived, not since the elder days and especially not in these so-called orders that are nothing more than groups of businessmen and merchants masquerading as Knights of Christ. This profane rejuvenation of the Order of the Rose is nothing more than a social club for sexual perverts and libertines. A band of false Knights dabbling in alchemy and the black arts. They worship Venus and Aphrodite while devoting themselves to licentious activities and corruption of the moral codes of our honorable Order. They are hardly a formidable foe.

"The idea of war, declared or undeclared, is ludicrous. They will fade and go the way of all pretenders given time. It is my concern, begging Brother Thomas' pardon if I may, that we are concerned with this matter at all. Begging his pardon again, I submit to you that they are of no concern. However, concerning Brother Ramsay, our concern should be centered on his redemption rather than focusing on his association with this spurious order, notwithstanding the Chinese threat, of course.”

“Of course,” the Italian muttered, but had to smile.

The Knight of the Throne, whose sole duty was recording and maintaining the Order's archives, glanced nervously at the Chevalier d’Epee who glared at him angrily, as the Ritter von Hetz’s fist pounded the surface of the table again. His adherence to the archaic method of gaining attention grated on the Master’s nerves. Of all the traditions that had fallen by the wayside, why did he always insist on retaining the most irksome ones? The Knight of the Apocalypse would not be denied.

“Brother Hetz?” The Grand Master gritted his teeth. “What have you to say?”

Sir Argonne sat down and the Knight of the Apocalypse who Sees unfolded his considerable height from the chair. He addressed the Grand Master with utmost gravity and then stared darkly around the table causing the rest of them to shift uncomfortably in their chairs.

“My Brothers,” his voice was deeper and more resonant than the Master’s. He did not speak to them in French, but in his native German, disdaining the use the common language normally reserved for Council. “Behold! He was brought forth into the presence of a female like unto the great Whore of Babylon. She has ensnared our beloved brother, the Chevalier du Morte, in her chaotic web of deceit. She has profaned his body with fornication. She has whispered the foulest heresies unto his ears, proclaiming that she is at once High Priestess as well as High Priest.” He paused and waited as another round of murmurs circled the table. When his Brothers grew quiet, he continued “She has taken knowledge of both male and female in unholy union and she has murdered one of our own. She has given our beloved alchemist the liquor of the traitorous Anthony of Sardinia and has blinded him both physically and mentally to the truth of his purpose, the obedience of his vows and the fulfillment of his duty. She has brought him unto ruin and laid claim to his immortal soul through treachery and guile. She has set herself up to be Grand Master and lusts after the Mystery of Life.”

Another murmur started and quickly rose in pitch as the Knights made louder and louder declarations of disbelief, protest and anger. The Seneschal pounded the table for order in vain until the Knight of the Apocalypse finally stepped up onto the table and raised both arms to the ceiling, throwing his head back. His long dark hair fell in strands down his back as he turned in a complete circle, causing the men to cease their babbling in fear of what might happen next. The dark Knight stopped and dropped his head forward, looking directly into the eyes of the Italian Knight before speaking. “He lives, he dies, he lives again. He lives, he dies, he lives again… for her pleasure. I am become a stranger unto my brethren. Thus saith the Lord, Behold, I will raise up evil against thee out of thine own house, and I will take thy wives before thine eyes, and give them unto thy neighbour, and he shall lie with thy wives in the sight of this sun.”

The apocalyptic Knight ended with a scriptural quote as every eye in the room widened in horror at the meaning of his words. He lowered his arms and sank down upon the table, sitting cross-legged in the center of the red cross with his arms crossed over his chest and his head down.

“I am the Knight Who Sees,” his voice trailed off as if he were going to sleep in the middle of the table. The words seemed to echo in the marble enclosure much longer than they should have. The Knight of the Apocalypse’ fervor and pronouncements always left them breathless, puzzled by his cryptic riddles and shaken by his power to instill fear into their hearts. Even unto the hearts of the immortals. But these words, with the exception of the last scripture concerning wives, were not couched in riddles or vague innuendo. These words were as clear as spring water and their meaning held a shocking revelation. They had lost their Knight of Death… to a woman, no less. The thought was inconceivable to everyone at the table with one exception.

Sir Dambretti was visibly shaken by the archaic manner in which the Apocalyptic Knight delivered his oration and the fact that the last, most enigmatic phrase seemed to be directed at him, personally. The Italian thought that von Hetz’ use of the High German language, which was very difficult to understand even for seasoned veterans, was merely an attempt to intimidate them all. Surely his grave pronouncements were a bit exaggerated and what had he, Lucio Dambretti, to do with wives? He had no wife!

“Bother Simon,” the Master’s voice softened somewhat as he addressed the youngest of the assembly when silence returned.

The small blond man who looked to be about thirty years old, stood nervously to address the group, never taking his eyes off the dark figure sitting on the table. He was Simon D’Ornan, Chevalier du Serpent, Mystic Healer, Father Confessor for the Brothers and the Master’s favorite.

“Your Excellency,” he nodded to the Master and then bowed his head politely to each of them, smiling slightly, nervously, and then returned his attention to the Master, frowning. He had prepared no statement. He said nothing further.

“Is there a chance for healing? Is it possible that our beloved Brother Ramsay is not lost to us?” d’Brouchart asked him.

“If by ‘liquor of the traitorous apprentice’, Brother Hetz means the potion of which the apprentice, Anthony, was capable of preparing, it is possible that he is lost in a manner of speaking. However, I have no firsthand knowledge from whence to draw any valid conclusions. This potion is something beyond my sphere of understanding. You would be more inclined to know of these things. Concerning Brother Ramsay, it is a most unusual circumstance. I would have to examine him in person, Your Eminence. It is unlikely that Brother Ramsay would allow it, as you all know. He is not and never has been the most amiable of Brothers among us. The very nature of his mission affects his demeanor profoundly. I believe that the weight of his office lies heavily on his soul.” Simon licked his lips and glanced at the Knight of the Apocalypse before continuing in a lower voice. “As for Brother Hetz’ prophecy, I hardly think that Brother Ramsay would engage in such… such… licentious behavior if he were in a normal frame of mind.”

“But what is normal, Brother?” Louis Champlain asked the question very quietly from across the table.

“But there may be a chance for recovery?” The Master voiced his question again, ignoring Louis’ question.

“Possibly,” d’Ornan answered gravely. “Anything is possible through God.”

“He has broken his vows!” Beaujold stood suddenly without being recognized. “He must be destroyed. He is the Knight of Death. He alone of all of us could bring about our destruction. He is Master of the Key to the Bottomless Pit, lest you all forget.”

“He is not himself,” the voice of Konrad Hetz startled them when he raised his head and then slid from the table and back into his chair.

Most of the apprentices jumped at his sudden reanimation and one of them coughed loudly. Of all the assemblages they had attended, this animated behavior on behalf of the Knights was unprecedented in the presence of the Master. They had to wonder what would happen in the Council if something of enormous proportions should occur.

“He has been evilly influenced by powers beyond his control,” von Hetz concluded. It seemed he might smile at the commotion he caused, but it was only an illusion.

“He must die!” Beaujold glared at the Apocalyptic Knight and pounded one fist on the table to emphasize each word. The nearby goblets jumped on the lacquered surface, sending the nervous valet hurrying around the table, wiping at the spilled wine that sloshed out.

“Enough!” The Grand Master stood up and the men fell silent. The Chevalier d’Epee resumed his seat angrily and the Healer sat down quickly as well, blinking rapidly, looking as if he would be ill. “The man is our Brother until proven otherwise. You will remember that, Chevalier Beaujold. If there is a chance of recovery, I want the opportunity to be had. He will be afforded the right to repent and be saved. Repent and be saved! Thus sayeth the Lord God Almighty!”

Each of the men and all of the apprentices crossed themselves and said ‘Amen’.

“Sir d’Ornan, Sir Beaujold and Sir Dambretti, you three will go to Sir Ramsay and bring him back. Tomorrow you will leave for America. You will bring back our Brother by whatever means necessary. Sir Barry will see to the needs of your journey. Chevalier d’Epee?”

Beaujold bowed his head. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

“I trust you are up to the... mission? Perhaps I should call it a crusade as, indeed, the very fiber of our Order is in jeopardy at the hands of these… infidels… you will find Chevalier Ramsay a challenge, if he is unwilling to return with you.”

“I am prepared, Your Excellency.” Beaujold raised his eyes to look into the face of the Master with just the slightest a hint of defiance.

“You had better be,” the Master said doubtfully. The man would need his courage and perhaps his arrogance, as well, if he were to encounter the Knight of Death in a foul mood. Beaujold was an expert swordsman and strategist though something of a hot-head, but he’d never gone up against Ramsay. They were, after all, usually on the same side.

Another of the Knights at the table cleared his throat. William Montague, the most recent addition to their assembly indicated his desire to speak as his discreet, British manner required. He was a quiet, reserved gentleman of about forty years of age dressed in a dark business suit. He had been an apprentice until 1944 when his master had been killed in Italy during the second Great War of the century. The Grand Master excused his strange, modern ways and beliefs, but had little faith in his untried abilities in the field. He was a good enough accountant, but had tasted little of the rigors of the battlefield.

“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Sir Montague stood up.

The Master looked at him as if he had never seen him before. He cleared his throat and spoke in perfect, well-refined English, also disdaining the French as his well-bred British upbringing demanded.

“The treasury is not what it used to be. Not that we are straitened or anything near it, but if we were to incur considerable expenses such as those recently discussed with Sir Dambretti for additional support facilities in Jerusalem and expanded operations in Bhutan and Nepal, it may well deplete our reserves in short order. I would like to expand upon one item in particular brought up by Brother Beaujold, Your Grace, and that is that Sir Ramsay does indeed keep the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone as well as the Key of Death. It has been over twenty years since he has added even one gram of gold to the account. Of course, he never lets us run short, but, as you know, we live… rather well. If anything should happen to him and the secret were to be lost… need I say more?”

Montague eyed Beaujold thoughtfully. Montague’s Master had been Beaujold’s friend as well as his Brother. They had both been present when Ramsay had dispatched Beaujold's former Master into the ether. There had been no other choice. He would never forget it, but he also would never forget the scene between Ramsay and Beaujold either. At the time, he had thought that they were going to kill each other had it not been for the intervention of Dambretti and d’Ornan. Things had never been right between them after that. Montague felt the Master’s decision to send the Knight of the Sword to bring Ramsay home was an error in judgment. He doubted seriously that Ramsay would be afforded a fair hearing if Beaujold had anything to do with it.