The Iron Doors

By W.K. Chadi

When she is seven years old, Dalia learns she has the ability to read minds. When she is nine years old, her enemies learn this factso they kidnap her. When she is twenty-two, they realize how dangerous she has becomeand they kill her.

But because shes a Zetia member of a mysterious race with even more mysterious powersshe survives her death, only to find that the days she has stolen have their own price. With no small amount of horror, she comes to realize her love for Alexander, the same man who had taken her to her death.

For her safety, she is sent to Buthayna, a world akin to Eden and impervious to evil; there she discovers shes the Promised One. She is told that in order to fulfill her destiny, she has to be wholebut this esoteric message only serves to confuse her. Although she has been told the answers she needs are buried within her own memories, they are hidden behind unbreakable iron doors in her mind, and even she does not know how to open them.

When Alexander ultimately finds her, she understands why she has always feared him. He killed her once but will he kill her again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462024162

W.K. Chadi

Wisam Kabalan Chadi was born in Lebanon and emigrated from the war-torn country to Canada as a child. She graduated from the University of Calgary with a BA in political science and now lives in Edmonton with her husband and four young sons.

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The Iron Doors

W. K. Chadi

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Iron Doors

Copyright © 2011 W. K. Chadi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-2170-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1918-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2416-2 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 07/05/2011

Contents

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

Prologue

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

Disclaimer

Reincarnation has been defined as the soul returning to a newborn body. This return is not immediate, believed to occur 1000 to 1500 years after the death of one’s body. Many faiths adhere to this principle, and to some is a central tenet, while many others vehemently deny its existence. Although the basic premise of reincarnation is the same for those who observe its actuality, religions, as well as individuals outside of established dogmata, may define it differently. The timeline is not completely agreed upon, neither is the form for the returning essence. Some strongly advocate a returning soul only returns as human, while others purport the animal kingdom as a whole as potential hosts. However, one constant is the absolute return at infancy.

It is not the author’s intention for the fundamental theme of The Iron Doors to be defined as reincarnation, nor is it her intension for The Iron Doors to be defined as anything other than a work of pure fiction.

My boys, always.

Acknowledgements

A great big thank you to my husband, a wonderful man who put up with so much while I was writing this book. Thank you, Jamel, for keeping the boys busy while I was busy.

My boys, Sine, Ali, Sid, and Noah, who constantly asked if I was done my homework, thank you for your patience. Yes, I am now done my homework…until The Iron Bridge, anyways.

My brother, Sama, thank you for letting me bounce my ideas off of you, and most of all, thank you for not running away when I repeatedly stopped you from talking because I only wanted to talk about The Iron Doors. Well, it’s your turn to talk.

Samia, Nidaa, and Nedra, a heartfelt thanks to three women who never doubted me, even when I doubted myself. I thoroughly appreciate your unwavering interest in my project.

And my mother, Sarah; I owe you this book. Thank you for your encouragement.

Prologue

The iron bars soldered to the Gothic frame reflected eerily as the December moon flooded the cement floor, breaking and stretching in rows of ghastly shadows. Evil thickened the musty air with its presence, but did little in deterring him. On the contrary, Abraham thought, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing the desolate attic, he couldn’t think of a more ideal location for his future to unfold – what better place than his oldest and dearest friend’s home from the past. He wasn’t one to feel with others, but acknowledged the slight tinge of empathy then quickly dismissed it. His friend had become soft around the child, but he had taken it upon himself to keep his friend’s emotions in check.

Rain storming angrily against the castle caught his attention, sending him a few paces from the water splattering through the decrepit window’s panes that had shattered over time. With every torrential gust came a blast of warm air howling into the room, but failed to temper the icy chill seeping through the cement walls. Here, he recalled, a soul had been held for centuries, even when the owner of the soul had never died. It was as if the walls had sucked its hostage into their pores and held him, then angered once forcibly released.

So many years he had waited, and all were a mere breath away. Had they broken her will? He couldn’t be sure, but they’d had enough time to plant every possible seed of doubt in her mind, and most importantly, they had implanted the image of hell.

Her freedom is my kingdom, he whispered, then rested on the makeshift cot constructed of a slat of wood atop a densely packed rectangle of straw. As he had done often times before, he wondered how an apparatus that felt more like a torture device was once considered a bed. Well, he supposed, since someone had slept on it for years, who was he to criticize. Hearing his associate’s hurried steps, he slowly rose before clasping his hands behind his back, turning to the wide-open iron doors.

Don’t blow your lid, the man uttered between breaths, tossing his drenched umbrella aside. I can explain.

He watched the six-foot man inhale deeply, bend his torso nearly touching his toes, then rest his hands on his knees. Seeing the tardy man’s mocha skin glisten with perspiration, he believed it more from mental strain than physical exertion. He liked the look of his comrade – long and lean and built like a thoroughbred, but with the heart of a lion. Slightly temperamental, stylistically crude, and imperfect in vernacular, he never expected much from his young associate’s tender years – even if a few of those years were of unnatural age. However, apart from the man’s numerous flaws, he couldn’t deny the young soul’s undying loyalty to the Brotherhood. But, his brethren’s impetuousness would ultimately be his downfall; the young one’s defective existence in itself would eventually squeeze the young man out of his due rewards. So be it, he murmured, giving his associate time to regain his breath.

Moving only his eyes, he followed the man who seemed to center himself rather quickly, standing and making his way to the window. He couldn’t help but chuckle when the young brethren winced while uttering a string of expletives once his foot caught the edge of the solid mass of straw. Although the man flung his arm flippantly, Abraham wasn’t about to take offense from an individual so far beneath him; a man needing to remove his black leather gloves and briskly rub his hands together, then hold his palms to the window fanning in the night’s warm air was clearly not ready, nor deserving of the prominence awaiting them.

I thought by now your skin would’ve thickened, he said. Or are you trying to put distance between us?

How can you be so relaxed in this hellhole?

Dropping his arms to his sides, he tilted his head at the man’s mindless whisking of moisture from his brow, then frowned once his brethren crudely dried his hands down his trousers. It wouldn’t kill you to show some grace while in the company of others. Don’t you have a handkerchief?

A hanky? The man chuckled. Oh, wait, I don’t have it with me because I used it to wipe my pig’s ass!

Lazily blinking his eyes, he shook his head. Your reasons for making me wait?

I got held up.

One can assume as much. By what forces of nature were you justified?

I thought I found her. Man…I was so sure it was her.

An understandable mistake. He slid one hand in his pocket and with the other, casually waved two fingers dismissively. Your absence from the estate is to blame for your ignorance.

What the hell does that mean, Abraham? My absence is because of your stupid orders! Do you think I like living where you’ve made me live? Don’t you think I’d rather be in the estate than having to wake up to pigs every goddamned morning?

And?

And what?

What did you do with this girl?

I bought her a coffee, of course. And while she bawled, I said, ‘oops, sorry, my mistake…please don’t cry…you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about…you wouldn’t know about the light and who it entered…please forgive me and go home now.’ What the hell do you think I did, Abraham? I killed her!

Where did this happen?

In Calgary.

Contemplating another brush with luck he hadn’t counted on, he paced for a moment, then looked up. How long ago did you kill her? And when he didn’t get the immediate response he commanded, How…long…ago? he bitterly repeated. A week, a day, mere hours? How long?

What’s the point when it happened? She’s useless to us anyway; I tore her limb from limb.

Block me if you like, but I can still read your tawny eyes. He walked closer to the man, tilted his head. Appease me.

You got me, the man said with a sneer. "I guess it’d be wiser to appease an old man oozing hate from every inch of his stunted body, than to pretend he had a sense of humor. Well, since I knew we needed a body and since hers was as good as any…let’s just say she’s on ice."

I said when! he shouted, his hands trembling with anger.

Jeez, old man, you’re going to have a stroke if you keep yelling like that. I shot her at exactly, the man paused, held his wrist to his eyes, 5:07 A.M., Thursday, December 16, 2010. Happy?

He wondered if his smile could be seen beneath his thick mustache, then decided he didn’t care. Yes, that makes me very happy. You’ve done us a great service, and on behalf of the Brothers, you included of course, I thank you.

"You’re thanking me on my own behalf? That’s crap! How dare you treat me like an outsider? The man put his hands at his waist, leaned over him. You know, old man, I don’t think I like…no, I know I don’t like the way you talk to me. I’m not another one of your stooges. I’m here and they’re not, which means I’m way more important than those buffoons.

Come, come, young one, don’t look so distressed.

"I don’t know if distressed is the word. I’m teetering somewhere between resentment and an all-time high of hate."

I haven’t the time or desire to deal with another of your infamous tantrums. Noticing the flash of anger in the man’s eyes, Abraham smiled. Do you remember exactly where the body is?

Really? Do you have a mirror handy? I wanna see if I have idiot written all over my face.

Your attitude’s passed tiresome long ago. It would be sensible on your part to remember to whom you are speaking. The body?

I left it just behind Forest Lawn High school, a few blocks off International Avenue. I stashed her under heaps of snow north of the building.

The boy?

The boy’s here.

And the woman?

I have her.

"Marvelous! In light of your exemplary behavior, and since you’ve proven you stand far above the Hippocratic Oath you’d sworn to, I believe your association is much more vital to the Brotherhood than the others. Given that you’ve taken care of one, only two tasks remain, and both must be executed in precisely two days. I need you to be in Europe tomorrow, then in Calgary for the woman’s switch."

Although the man nodded subordinately, the smile slowly stretching the young brethren’s lips was of mocking. Sure, old man, sure. I’ll see this to the end, but I promise you, you’ll get what’s coming to you.

I’m counting on that.

You’re playing me for a fool, Abraham. You’re telling me what I already know.

He chuckled, walked to the door. You know only what I wish for you to know.

ONE

Television was man’s greatest invention. It entertained and enlightened, instructed kids on what number to call if they needed to talk, and told everyone how to get their clothes their whitest. But for Dalia, man’s greatest invention was her stepping-stone into the realms of insanity.

Many months ago she plugged in and turned on the small black and white set she was given, and had yet to turn it off. The batteries in the remote died shortly thereafter, and although she was supplied with new ones she’d had little reason to change them. And because she never made the journey from her cot to the set to change the channel, the same program has now been playing for several months. Initially, she had wished she had chosen a movie channel when she had decided on her new approach, but in hindsight, she couldn’t have chosen wiser.

The station was local and privately funded, and from what the station aired it was clear the public hadn’t dug too deeply into their pockets. Depending on the season, it either played idle scenes of a fire crackling or of fish in an aquarium, or of kids on toboggans gliding down hills of snow. Occasionally the program threw her off slightly when a beautiful scene of a pumpkin patch aired directly after children on snow; after all, pumpkins symbolized autumn and fall harvests, full moons and Halloween. And all preceded winter.

At the very bottom and right of the screen blinked the time and displayed the day’s weather, as well as the week’s forecast – next week will be cold with a chance of flurries. Just above the local forecast and below the aquarium was a live feed running daily highlights of top world stories, while occasionally summing up the last few months in history. And because of that wonderful oversight she had made all those months ago, she now knew so much.

The United States of America elected their first Black president, hurricane Katrina that devastated New Orleans in 2005 was in the news again because of people refusing to leave their trailers, and WHO announced that the swine flu, later known as H1N1, had officially risen to the ranks of pandemic. She learned what tsunami meant, Canada voted conservative, and Heath Ledger, who had already died, won as best supporting actor. Air France Flight 447 crashed, killing 228 people, the general public was alerted again when another woman went missing, but the mass hysteria associated with the Shredder was downplayed by the authorities since they had many, many leads, and the Arab world faced another invasion. A devastating earthquake near Port-au-Prince killed 230,000 Haitian’s in the sixth deadliest earthquake on record, Michael Jackson died, and Paris Hilton was a finalist for the coveted title as People’s Choice recipient in the best hair and makeup category. And because of that set, she knew it was December, she knew she was in Toronto, she knew she was now twenty-two years old – and held captive for thirteen years. But she didn’t really need the set to know she had been there a while.

She had grown so much in the last few years that her legs jutted well beyond the end of her cot, leaving her feet bared to just above her ankles. But today on her feet was a brand new pair of woolen socks she had found under her door a few nights prior. Raising her leg, she admired her gift and smiled at the joy she had felt the moment she had found respite for her perpetually cold feet; she smiled at how something so small had made her beam.

The men’s tailored shirt no longer touching her knees, and the one she wore most often, was another reminder of how long she had been there. At one point, the white button-down shirt was crisp and new, and she could still feel the weight of the sleeves resting heavily on her wrists from the many folds she needed to pleat in order for her hands to poke through. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, this shirt was special and one she took particular care of.

Before gratefully, albeit silently, accepting the television set, she had lost track of the days long before and from the windowless walls around her, she had no way of knowing if it was day or night. She didn’t know what month she was in or what year, and had all but forgotten her age. She didn’t know how long she had been there and had forgotten the names of her childhood friends, but locked in her mind were snippets of a day she will forever remember.

It was on a Friday when she was kidnapped by the Brothers. What began as an innocent sway on a playground swing turned into a nightmare she was yet to wake from. And it was on that crisp autumn morning that an emotional shift stirred deep within, whispering an unidentified truth, a soft coo serenading her soul, congratulating it on having finally been found. She was nine then, and how she was to understand that new awakening accompanying her kidnapping was impossible at best. Until today, she still struggles with the esoteric message.

The cell she was forced to accept as her new home was miserably small and isolated, and when she eased back, resting her head on the wall behind, she was quickly reminded how easily her cot sank in the middle. To the left of her was a washroom with a doorless standup shower, and a sink that often doubled as a laundry basin. Directly ahead was the most treasured of all her convicted possessions – five slats of oak nailed together into a makeshift bookcase crammed with novels and tomes that gaily transported her to the joyous worlds of dreamy words or strict academia. And it held the television set. Sadly, an abandoned writing desk she had since outgrown sat in a corner in its own despondent state of loneliness. To the right was a wooden nightstand with four deep drawers that served as her dresser for the used clothing she took extra care of, and atop the nightstand was a lamp always turned on – it was once her only source of light. But for a few cracks in the grimly colored cement walls, they were otherwise bare.

She hated those walls that left her empty and feeling as though she had been alone for far more years than she had been alive. For as long as she had been there, the door had never been opened, and if it wasn’t for the little doggy-door at the bottom, the door would have been no more than an extension of the walls. When she was much younger, she hated the soul-destroying little opening that made her feel no different from a caged inconsequential animal, and thinking back of the many times she tried to crawl through, she shook her head. Over the years, however, she had come to like the not so demoralizing little door, and appreciate it for what it offered.

Daily deliveries of meals and orange juice were just as impersonal and indifferent as the cell she occupied. Although she knew they fed her more for their benefit than hers, she never went a day without nourishment. Through the opening at the bottom of her door, a tray would be perfunctorily slid through as she stood back and eagerly waited. They were never her favorite foods, but any food that didn’t include pork, lamb, okra, or Creole seasoned anything was always good food. But what she had come to value most about the slot was for entirely different reasons.

A habitual tightening in her chest brought whatever joy a captive can expect when it signaled the approach of a person she sensed well before he reached her door. Although the delight was brief, she always welcomed the momentary release from her gloom and enthusiastically, almost impatiently at times, awaited his arrival. He never spoke, but she knew his silent visit was to lavish her with books and clothing, and she always sensed he was just as eager to give as she was to receive. However, she often wondered why the person who had given her so much over the years, wasn’t the one who had given her the television set.

For all the years she had been there she had never seen another person, but a few months ago was introduced to children on snow and black and white fish, but even the children never spoke to her – the volume was preset to mute. Languishing as a hostage was hell in itself, but it was the solitude in her mind that brought the most suffering; to survive her miserable existence, she had to be normal, a flawed, benign, and impassive human being without the incredible ability to read minds. She had to concentrate all her efforts on repressing memories of her past – ignoring thoughts of a carefree childhood she longed for. She had to shut out any recollections of the love and security that had long since eluded her; just simple monotonous memories were all she could allow the Brothers to see.

She was forced to endure daily inquisitions blasted through her head, accompanied by a blinding light filling her cell. For years, the constant barrage of ridiculous and inanely terrifying questions often sent her into a trembling huddle where she stood, or into a cowering crouch in a corner where she would ball her body tightly and scream for freedom. Despite her tremulous fear during those miserably long years, she had given her interrogators the truest and simplest of answers. Before she learnt to silently melt into her mind, she had told them all she knew of her life with her parents, only leaving out the parts of her abilities. That was the only part she lied about then, and the only part she continues to lie about.

She vowed never to revisit what had consumed her in the years prior and only concentrate on her present, but it was her present that was most troubling. They searched her mind daily for memories of a time she no longer aged, and if that wasn’t terrifying in itself they constantly posed a bizarre question she had no way of answering. Frankly, she thought with a slight shake of her head, she never truly understood the question in order to answer it. Because she was forewarned, she hadn’t entered her captors’ minds in hopes of finding out what they were after, and until now, she hadn’t the slightest inclination. Often times she wondered if the Brothers were a devil-worshiping cult, or aliens from out of space who would soon perform excruciating mind-numbing experiments on her. And as ridiculous as those were, those were the only two sane explanations she came up with.

Thinking back, she now knew the precise moment her life begun down the treacherous road leading to her captivity, and, hopefully, her eventual death. She was seven. It was then when she had first seen into her friend’s mind. She had shared her bizarre experience with her parents, but recalling how dismissively they had assured her she was normal but merely gifted, she rolled her eyes at how grossly inaccurate the explanation had been.

Initially, she reveled in that wonderful gift upon discovering her ability to manipulate others’ behaviors; all she had to do was simply implant her thoughts in their minds. With great concentration, she was able to hear her parents in her mind whereby they would be fully aware of her thoughts as well. Just before her eighth birthday, she discovered that her ‘gift’ transcended hearing and knowing unspoken words. She found she was able to put a face to a voice she heard, and almost always the image was exact to the minutest of details. Whilst listening to the radio in her father’s car, she had closed her eyes and concentrated on the ballad, suddenly seeing the performance live in her mind, herself at the concert, front row and center. Her friends had teased her about her overly active imagination, but it was much more than her mind making belief. It was real. What she saw in her mind was real. She could have the most sought after seats to any sold out show, and all she had to do was simply hear the lyrics for her mind to transport her to the venue. She even began appreciating opera at a very young age, no matter how unintelligible it was.

Incredibly, and some time later, she was able to hear and see her parents in her mind without them having the faintest clue what she was thinking. Upon realizing their inability to penetrate her thoughts, her parents joyfully informed her she had developed the awesome advantage of blocking others like her from her mind.

How strange. Whilst her friends received accolades on their academic achievements, she had been praised for some foreign ethereal ability to close her mind. But her joy had been short lived when she understood it was that defined and unwelcome gift that would ultimately lead her to today.

A slow shiver ran up her spine, but she firmly reminded herself that despite all her uncertainties, she had to persuade the Brothers she wasn’t able to read minds – she wasn’t a Zeti. And once she convinced them of her feeble humanity, they would eventually send her to her death. And that was precisely what she was counting on; death would be her only escape if they believed her charade. All she had to do was keep control of her mind. Fade. Move into emptiness.

But how does one do that? How does one willingly feign madness when that madness ultimately translated to death? That carnal fear was strong and had overridden her attempts for years, and despite the numerous reminders to her mind that she wouldn’t actually die, she still couldn’t conceivably understand how that could be.

Her father had explained this to her.

He had cautioned of the big bad men, the strangers lying in wait to take little girls like her. Her father had said she might be taken by strangers, men he called the Brothers, and warned if they took her, they would undoubtedly dig deep into her memories. He stressed how vital it would be for her to keep them out, block, insisting she only show them simple memories, not those of her reading minds – ‘No unspoken words and thoughts.’

People like us have a special name, her father had said, Zeti. And such extraordinary people can only die a certain way, with a special weapon called The Three Points. Any form of normal death allows a Zeti continuance, except this. This weapon, Dalia, ensures the absolute demise of a Zeti by targeting the three points of Zeti existence; one point kills the body, one point kills the powers, and the final point releases the soul. He spoke of a metamorphosis without elaborating, only assuring her a Zeti who died by any means other than the Three Points then became a Human-Zeti.

Being only a child then, she struggled to understand what that could have possibly meant when she couldn’t comprehend the intangible concept of death itself. That was when uncertainty had crawled into her head, slowly developing an unrelenting voice telling her she was more than simply gifted; to only die a certain way was unnatural and perhaps not really human at all. Naturally, her father had said she was too young to understand and the day would come when all would be clear.

It was two days before the Brothers took her that her father had given her the most important information she would need to survive. If the Brothers took you, you have to be as human as possible and come to a point of emptiness in your mind. But you must do that slowly. They may release you, but if they keep you more than three years they will not free you. You have to convince them you have no powers at all, that you are normal. And whatever you do, sweetheart, don’t try to enter their thoughts. They’ll know; they’ll see you the instant you enter their minds. And if you try to escape, they’ll know.

She remembered the horror she felt when she had begged her father not to let them take her; she hadn’t the slightest understanding what it meant to go empty in her mind. Her father must have recognized the depth of her fear when he had warmly cradled her, smoothing down her short spiked hair. He then held her face in his hands, looked pointedly into her eyes. Listen to me, Dalia, trust me when I tell you this, you won’t die.

Sleep had eluded her from the horrid things she would see the instant she closed her eyes. It was at that precise moment in her young life when she forgot how to dream – that was the moment she stopped seeing the image of a green-eyed little boy she never knew, but one she looked forward to seeing in her mind.

Home had always been her place of safety, and became even more so then. The mere thought of leaving her secure haven terrified her, but her father had insisted she continue living no differently than her friends, that she remained as human as her peers. She had gone to school that fateful day, and that was the last time she had seen her parents.

In the face of the gains she had made, she turned to the ceiling and grinned. There was a time she believed she had gone empty in her mind – certain she had successfully crossed into oblivion when no more rational thoughts existed – but when the next wave of questions pierced her brain, she knew from her reaction she hadn’t. It took years for her to grasp what her father meant, then credited the glorious television once finally understanding.

A short while after receiving her television set, she realized the station existed on rote, repeating the same thoughts until fading into static, then into soft noise of emptiness. She incorporated the same ritualistic characteristics by slowly exhibiting behaviors, or lack thereof, of a girl lost, by sitting on her cot and staring blankly at the television set. Months ago, she stopped showing the Brothers memories of her parents or her school days, or anything other than situations that were entertaining, subjectively anecdotal, and completely imaginary. Having read so many books as though getting a full education, she began purposefully showing them what she had read, and what she showed them in her mind changed as her library changed. Then she began giving less and less until eventually giving nothing.

For a good while she was Dorothy in the Land of Oz, then a student of math, English, social, and science. Matriculating from her academic pursuits, she went on to become the lead astrophysicist in NASA. Her favorite was the time she was Rodion from Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and until now, she was still amused by Milo’s confusion when he had no clue who she was supposed to be. She had even befuddled Milo when she was simply Alice in Alice’s amazing and weird Wonderland. Poor neurotic Milo, the sucker must’ve been raised in a cave.

Thoughts of Milo were entertaining, but remembering he was one of the men who had heartlessly snatched her from her school’s playground, she found little humor in her mind. Releasing the stale air from her lungs, she reached for the worn flannel blanket neatly folded at the foot of her cot and pulled it to her chin, angrily kicking the other end in place. Although she had never had the sordid pleasure of meeting her kidnappers in person, she had images of them in her mind from the first instance she had heard their voices.

Knowing Milo was the lead conductor of her daily questioning sessions, she also knew Sebastian, Abdullah, Kai, and Abraham took part, but only at times. She had heard the names of Catskil and Michael, but because she had never heard their voices, the men remained faceless in her mind. The Brothers’ assistant, Oos, had never spoken directly to her, but she had heard his unthreatening voice and had a clear image of his handsome young face. Milo and Abdullah often argued about a man named Alexander, one they referred to as the Brother’s executioner and keeper of the Three Points – and the only other man who filled her heart with blinding fear. She was grateful to have never heard Alexander speak; she could only imagine how grotesquely hideous an executioner must be. And Kai had only questioned her once when they had first brought her there, leaving no lasting impression.

Sebastian’s voice suggested him to be quite old, but she saw him as a distinguished man of seventy or eighty, who stood tall and confident. She saw him handsomely bald with a goatee, and fair in appearance. Always dressed in a three-piece suit, Sebastian spoke with a courteous English accent, perfectly reflecting his wisdom.

Abdullah was the antithesis of Sebastian. Her impression was of a much younger man with sky-blue eyes and light-brown hair, almost blonde, who always dressed in denims and polo shirts. She smiled at the playful kindness she envisioned in his face, but wondered how he had allowed his kindness to be tainted. Characteristically, Abdullah was lighthearted and easy-going, and on many occasions had coincidently made