The Grasp of Time: Amakai, #1

By Raven J. Demers and Robin Wood

Eila Corbin, a modern-day university student, is pulled into a fantastical future where magic and technology are at odds, and mythical beings live among the mundane. While Eila avoids the deadly hands that brought her through time, she finds help from a dwarf, a dragon, and a love that cannot return with her. The Grasp of Time is the first volume in the new-adult slipstream series, Amakai. This series contains coloring pages and invites readers to interact with the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Satyr's Garden
• Release date: Nov 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393143871

Raven J. Demers

Raven J. Demers writes speculative fiction and is the author of the Daisy After Life trilogy and co-author of the Amakai series. Xe earned a B.A. in Anthropology from the University of Washington and is a member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association. Raven lives in a forest near Seattle with xyr family.satyrsgarden.com

Book preview

Part I: Awakening

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Progression Zero

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ORDINARY WORLD

A slight, young man in a hooded sweater slipped into the foyer of an aging apartment building, behind one of its residents. No one took note of him under the fluorescent light, as he stalked up the stairs with purpose toward his destination. He counted his heartbeats to keep track of time.

Two minutes. The urgency pushed him forward.

He came to the apartment door he sought and ran his hand in front of it, feeling for the locks. Teasing the bolt from the lock's strike plate with a gesture and a thought, he heard the metal slide away. The knob turned with ease and he stepped inside.

The room appeared far smaller than he expected, no bigger than a walk-in closet with minimal furniture. Dresses hung from an open coat closet to his left, slacks and shirts lay crumpled across the floor, and a stack of books fell in on itself. A black-striped cat slept curled on a pile of dirty laundry in the corner. The cat wouldn't be disturbed by his presence.

Seventy seconds.

Heavy expectations to perform well weighed on him, like a stranger on his back. He recalled his instructions and the humorless voice who gave them. Place this under the chair. Avoid all contact. You must be away before eight hours and two minutes after midday.

He moved to the sole chair in the room and found a spot in which to wedge the milky quartz from his sweater pocket. Hope she doesn't notice this, he thought, as he fingered the slight lump it left beneath the cushion.

Fifteen seconds.

An unexpected surge of energy coalesced in the room as he bolted for the door. As an afterthought, he coaxed the latch to slide back into place, without affecting the tumblers. From the other side of the door he heard a distinct thump, as though someone rolled out of bed and onto the floor.

His heartbeat tolled its alarm.

Time's up.

From the foot of the stairs below, he heard the voices of two women growing louder, and sensed one of his own kind. He cursed silently, pulled up his hood, and ran down the stairs, throwing himself against the wall to avoid making contact with the women. The wet tile of the foyer made his exit that much easier as he propelled himself toward the street and into the rain. Within moments, he was out of their sight, moving back toward an awaiting vehicle. As he sped away from the area, he wondered why the task was necessary at all. Why one of our own?

EILA

The car's breaks squealed on impact against my leg. I tumbled, broken from knee to ankle, a pain surging white. Nearby, Jasmine screamed, Eila!

Before I could let out more than a gasp, a man's hands pulled at me, tugged, dragging me back off of the leaching cold of the asphalt. I wanted to cry out, to collapse in the arms holding me, but narrow fingers swept across my leg, as if brushing dirt.

I dared look down. No sight of bone breaking skin as expected, only a fast-welling blotch of purple and red where blood pooled beneath flesh. I glanced up and a pair of blue eyes stared at me beneath a stray lock of hair, the color of oats. The stranger's nose seemed too long and beakish, a bird's nose.

The car's engine roared and I caught a glimpse of the driver between the swish-swish of wiper blades. He possessed the same face as the man holding me, down to the full flush lips beneath the beak.

The driver regarded me with a mix of shock and scorn, and stomped on the gas, cutting through the evening traffic, headless of the danger. The first twin's arms remained wrapped around me. A breath caught in his throat, as though he meant to say something. A voice called behind us.

A woman with coiffed black hair soaking in the downpour sneered at me and hooked her elbow at the man. He offered a slight bow and straightened, returning to his companion and her proffered arm. The tall man's companion muttered under her breath as he stole a final glance back before the door closed.

I stood dazed staring back at him. I forgot to thank him.

Jasmine's rose brown face revealed concern. She gathered me up and helped me home. We held fast to one another, clutching tight to a meager saffron umbrella. Both of us laughed in giddy shock to have survived the evening's drama. My socks squished inside my shoes with each step, leg muscles aching from the impact of the car, as we walked beneath flickering orange streetlights and past ambient store windows.

Outside my building, the heavy pulse of a stereo blasted through the walls and window and out onto the street. The moment we came into the foyer, Jasmine shook out her umbrella, set it aside, and bent to check my leg. She lifted the hem of my skirt. Shh! That's going to be a nasty bruise in the morning. That car came out of nowhere.

I'll be fine. I've got something for it upstairs. Thanks for dinner, and the walk home, I said.

You're lucky it wasn't worse, Jasmine said.

I'm lucky you were there to give me a hand home.

Jasmine gave me a tight hug, as though still shaken from witnessing the hit and run. Her dark brown hair, tied up into twin puffs, brushed against my cheeks, and I breathed in the scent of Jasmine's jasmine oil, wishing for a little more time with her.

A young man in a gray, hooded sweatshirt rushed passed us, breaking up our embrace. He crashed into the wall in a dramatic display, as though fearing to touch either one of us. Leaping, a gazelle in the hall, he skittered across wet tiles out the door without a word.

We watched the interruption before Jasmine turned. Will you still be up for the study group tomorrow night?

Yes, I said, an emphatic smile plastered on my face, despite the pain. I could use some help phrasing things so Mary doesn't get on my case again. You've seen the comments she left on my recent assignments.

Yet she preaches objectivity, Jasmine said, dazzling me with round cheeks and a broad smile.

How can you objectively theorize and test human behavior?

Or culture?

Or 'define the sacred?' I repeated Kathy's words from our class earlier, and laughed.

Jasmine's mouth turned determined as she took my hand. What about Thanksgiving?

I shook my head. "Can't. My sister swears she'll be coming for the holidays, and whether she does or not, I should be with Marshall. He's so little, he won't understand if she doesn't make it, and she won't understand him if she does."

Is your nephew so strange?

No, my sister is ... too often absent.

Jasmine gave my cheek a kiss and checked her phone for the time. Oh Jeez! If I don't run, I'm going to miss my bus.

Thanks for dinner, and helping me home. It was nice to get a chance to talk outside of class.

I liked it, too. See you tomorrow?

Bright and early. Oh, and be careful out there, it's slippery.

As the foyer door closed behind Jasmine, and the sight of her receded from view, I grinned in defiance of my leg's protest. Jasmine had made the university's pace bearable, only weeks away from finals. I wanted to drown in the pools of her eyes, to sink flesh-to-flesh into her soft body and broad arms.

I shook myself, remembering the paper on Treaty Law waiting to be written, and groaned. Normally, I'd be ready to write about injustice, but I was tired, tired, tired, and ready for the quarter to be done.

Counting my blessings, I climbed the stairs, one arduous step at a time, stopping in the hall to pound on my neighbor's wall, which pulsed with repetitive bass. I've gotta study, Ronny. Can you keep it down? He pounded the wall back in irritation, but turned down the volume until the music was an ignorable buzz.

I unlocked my room's door and dropped my bag and coat under the small sink, added as an afterthought when the building had been remodeled. On the adjoining counter, I set my electric kettle to high and pulled off my soaked shoes and socks, trying to warm my toes in rabbit slippers I'd long since outgrown.

Bryony stretched and removed herself from the pile of discarded clothes, rubbing against my legs, and begging for a scratch and dinner. After tending to the cat's complaints, and rubbing bruise cream into my leg, I sat at my desk with a mug of tea. It filled the room with an enlivening, green scent, inspiring thoughts of sunlight through spring leaves.

I turned on my radio and set to the task of completing my essay, only to become distracted by email. Bryony jumped up, scattering papers as she tried to gain access to a warm lap.

Watch it! I said, but she found her spot and purred, earning her a scratch behind the ears.

The more I tried to concentrate on the screen, the less the words made sense. Everything grew dim; a weariness hung over me, leaving me lightheaded. Too many late nights and early mornings caught up with me.

Not now! I begged my tired brain.

Just as I slipped from consciousness, I thought I saw my hands and arms lose definition, fading from sight. Bryony jumped free of my lap with a disgruntled noise. Black whirls claimed me, leaving me to dream of a candlelit room, arms thick with muscle carrying me like a child, and thicker voices speaking in a language I couldn't place.

My mind vibrated, driving away all sense and fear. Behind my eyes came bursts of color—fireworks shattering all other sensations. When the colors receded, I fell deeper into sleep, the voices ebbing away on tides of nothingness.

Progression One

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PIOTR

Piotr turned the door handle to the library, shutting the wooden door behind him. In the amber glow of the lamplight, still turned low, Piotr studied the woman lying on the chaise, a heavy blanket covering her wan, naked form. He walked to the single lamp and turned the light up, causing the woman to stir.

He Marked the moment of her slow return to consciousness.

With a will, he stood by the door, hands at his sides, the lamp once more turned to its softest light. The woman, slumbering in peace, slowly roused as the lamp grew brighter of its own accord.

Piotr approached the plump woman, as she pushed herself into a sitting position, the confusion of sleep quickly replaced by the frightened features of an animal out of its environment. Instinctively, she pulled the blanket up over her ample curves to cover herself in the presence of a stranger. "Hola, Piotr said, but she blinked at him. Zdravstvuite, he tried again. Still nothing. . She tried to speak, but he overran her attempts, Bon jour. Hola. Salut. Hello. Tere. Hallo. Kholsch."

She yelled, Stop! The whites of her eyes showed as she took in the room. Who are you? Where am I?

Piotr returned to his last Mark. In a trice, he again stood at the door of the library. The light brightened the room. The woman stirred and pulled up the blanket in fear and concern. He approached her slowly again, and asked, What is your name?

The woman looked around, her chest rising and falling too rapidly. What the hell? Instead of covering herself, she pulled herself free of the blanket and leapt from the couch, screaming obscenities and threats in a panic.

Piotr sighed and returned once more to the previous Mark. This was proving wasteful. He needed to be more prudent.

She slumbered. The room brightened. She awoke and he approached her.

He said with quiet urgency, Your life is in danger. Cooperate and I will make certain you are safe.

Her eyes widened and she screamed. Loudly. Piotr winced and returned to the Mark. He considered a different approach, to ask for help, but his inspiration died there. He could never feign helplessness.

One more time.

Piotr counted the Cost these small Returns would have. Their conclave had lost two members already, one too weak to handle this girl's intrusion in their proceedings, the other, Johann, left to bear the blame and erased from history. Only the Master and Piotr recalled the lines in his face. This Mark would need to count, as he spread the Cost across the remaining acolytes. It would give Mash crow's feet and Leon gout. So long as Piotr did not show these marks, he could bear it, but new acolytes would need to be gathered. New souls to pay the toll across Time.

... And risking the Master's anger once more.

His mind turned, as it often did when thinking of the Master, to the unicorn tapestry he used as a focus when in his presence. If he looked at it the right way, the weave of the tapestry could be seen in every moment of its existence, from woolen growth on a sheep's back, to woven thread, to the work on a loom, to the assembled puzzle of threads hanging before him. In any other house, it might gather dust. This thought inspired him to be courageous.

One more Time.

Piotr approached her as she pushed herself into a sitting position, pulling up the blanket. He said, Please do not be alarmed, my name is Piotr.

She studied the room and his face. Where—?

The House of Forgotten Shadows, he answered. Piotr sat at the foot of the chaise, but made no attempt to touch her. Instead, he held his hands in his lap, his back straight. He kept his voice soothing, his features unassuming, apologetic.

It will be all right. I mean you no harm. Please let me finish. I will then answer your questions. Agreed? He allowed his practice with Marking her possible futures to create the best possible outcome for him ... and her, he supposed.

Though still visibly shaken and unsteady, she remained relatively calm. At least, she wasn't screaming this time. Piotr noted her physical form. Its soft flesh might inspire a lesser man, but I am above such things, he reminded himself. He continued.

Thank you. I am a mage. This world is different from the one you know. We mean you no harm.

We? There are more?

We were seeking a book and you were summoned by mistake. None of us will attempt to do harm to you while we assess the damage we have done. Or what to do with you. Do you understand so far?

Her mouth went a little slack, but she closed it quickly and appeared to consider his words. Her lower lip trembled. Yes. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I understand you've kidnapped me, stripped me of my clothes, and expect me to trust you. Oh, and you're insane. That about it? Knuckles white on the blanket she held, she stared at him, fierce and accusing.

Piotr held back a flash of cold anger. Instead, he offered her a smile, wicked and false. See this situation as you will. Time reveals truth. We must speak with my mentor. He will ask you to make a choice.

He produced a robe he'd not had in his hand a moment before, and she took note of it. I don't want to see your mentor. I want to go home. Let me go!

He ignored her protest and placed the robe across her lap. Dress and consider how you will conduct yourself. He stood, all traces of his consoling demeanor gone. I will return in five minutes.

Piotr left without waiting for the woman to agree or confirm. The lock clicked after the door shut behind him.

EILA

Piotr left the room, and I shuddered at the sound of the lock. A mage? Was he serious? His face proved he believed what he'd said, which sent alarms off in my head. I sniffed at the brown robe, then slipped it on—it itched—then headed to the door. It might be futile, but I turned the knob back and forth with a violent determination. I banged on the door with the heel of my hand, and attempted to kick it, but the sturdy, oak door wouldn't budge. My leg ached, and I slid down to face my prison.

Piotr. His name is Piotr. I can tell the cops ... if I ever get free.

His Russian accent was thick as kissel, the tension in his neck equally so. I'd taken in every word, or I thought I had. Sylphs danced on the edge of memory beckoning me to recall other words, other parts of a conversation both repetitive and novel.

He'd trapped me in a windowless library lit only by a single gas lamp. I swallowed down the rising fear attempting to break its way over my throat.

His name is Piotr, and he's not in charge. His manner seemed slippery, like wriggling eels. Tremors of terror wracked me from core to limbs. I folded the blanket on the jacquard-printed chaise, and went to the safety of the books.

I pulled books from crammed shelves, but was unable to pry their covers open. I stroked my finger along the pages. They felt like paper. Some looked weathered from multiple readings. Why was I naked if not to be harmed? They mistook a woman for a book? He didn't answer anything!

I threw the book across the room, yet its cover remained closed, its spine unharmed. Tying my hair up into an angry knot at the back of my neck, I stormed back to the chaise, kicking the book away from me. A thrill of fear ran through me, and I lifted the robe to see if anything had been done to me while unconscious. A cursory glance and probing fingers found nothing out of the ordinary, except...

Where's my bruise?

Where the car had hit my left leg, there remained no sign of the purple bloom, no shoots of pain when I rubbed the area with the heel of my hand.

When is he coming back? Has it been five minutes?

The door opened. I stared at Piotr, assessing him: he was taller, but not by much, with gray eyes and a strong chin. His shaved head beneath the hood of his robe looked alien to his attire. Tattoos swirled and scrolled down the sides of his face in place of sideburns and ran along the top of his forehead.

Piotr's eyes flashed over me before turning away, leaving the door wide open to the hall beyond. Are you ready?

The dimly lit hall outside the library opened into a living room filled with hand-carved furniture made of oak and mahogany. Velvet drapes concealed whatever lay beyond the windows, though my eyes scanned every detail, attempting to find a way out. Ornate objects claimed every available surface: bronze cherubs, crystal spheres, brass lamps, wooden figurines, mementos of a safari, a bristle brush, three telescopes, a whirligig, a Chinese kite made from five different colors of paper hanging from the ceiling, and a hundred other trinkets I couldn't name.

The repository created a cacophony of color and form, but I saw what mattered most: an archway leading to a foyer, and beyond, the front door. I imagined myself lurching over the end table, knocking the cherub onto the glass chessboard, upsetting the five globes until they went spinning across the floor, tripping Piotr, as I hurdled to the foyer.

Piotr hooked a long finger at me, and I hesitated, feeling a strong urge to run for the door, as if I had done it already, but another glance at Piotr, and I knew he could overpower me with ease.

Caged and cagey, I looked at the floor and walked up the stairs, keeping my eyes focused on the coiling pattern of the runner protecting the wood steps. Piotr's brown robe dusted the rug, but it made no whisper of fabric.

He led me to a great wooden door at the end of a long hall. From the other side, a thunderous voice ordered, Enter.

Piotr turned the handle and my stomach fell. Why didn't I run when I had the chance? I swallowed, took a deep breath, and held it.

Progression Two

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THE LOVER

The yellow-black bruise of a tortured sky cast shadows across a figure shrouded in gray. He lay on a convenience store roof and listened to the chatter of two flunkies in the alleyway below. Their gossip revealed two things: Their employer dealt in black market goods, and the two men sharing this information between one another weren't paid enough to keep silent.

Their gray observer rolled onto his back out of their visual range as the pod in his ear clicked once. He clenched his jaw to receive the incoming call. "Ni hao, boss," rang Delilah's voice. Whatever else she was, he mused, she was careful. Never did she use his name—any of his names—across a digital connection. Simply boss.

He tapped the ear bud thrice with a fingertip to signal he heard, but could not speak. Delilah said, You were right about the big store buyouts. Following now. Want me to keep on it?

Two taps: yes.

On it, boss. Frosts?

Two more taps.

Also, Delilah's voice edged with doubt. The Professor called. Wants to meet in seven. Location, and I quote, 'the place you watched the hail in June.'

This time he hesitated. His old friend had left him waiting; something of which he had made a habit, of late. A petty desire to forgo the meeting with the Professor surged in him, but he needed whatever information had been gathered about the local time-mage infestation. After another pattern of taps, he disconnected from the call.

Headlights shot across the alleyway, casting high shadows in the light's absence. The figure cut his way across the rooftop, taking advantage of the temporary darkness, and raced from building to building. Within six minutes, he had scaled the balconies of an apartment tower in Queen Anne, landing squarely on the west side of a roof twelve stories above the street. The Professor sat on a deck chair waiting.

False glasses reflected the streetlights, obscuring the false face beneath the hood of a tattered sweatshirt. By the ventilation shaft, he caught sight of a shadow, out of place. The Professor stood, removing his glasses. His face became younger, his eyes changed from brown to green, and a smile greeted the gray-wrapped figure. "Adronimata, he greeted his old friend with the endearment: big brother. I have something for you." His lips curled at the edges.

"Adronyata. Little brother. The shadow figure removed his hood and face covering to release a cascade of light hair, a flash of blue eyes, and a pair of angular ears. Thank you for your efforts, he said, though his tone was terser than intended. Time is not a luxury we can afford here."

Funny you should say that, said the younger, handing over a bundle of yellowed, flaking scrolls. The symbols deal with time and relativity. Glyphs, runes, hieroglyphs—all of them.

The gray shadow hefted the compressed roll of parchment, feeling its weight. I suspected as much. Did you retrieve any other information from her?

Yes. She let slip one of her hive's secrets: chronomancers work in groups because playing with time streams ages their bodies.

The blonde could not help but grin. Finally, some insight! Sharing the work will share the penalties? He scanned the skyline, feeling the weight of this information as well. Is the cost minute for minute?

The Professor-out-of-disguise chuckled. I didn't get that much from her. Sorry.

Whatever impatience the older friend felt before dissipated in light of this news. No, no. You have provided more than I could have hoped. Thank you, Llewellyn. With a small gesture, the bundle disappeared inside the fold of his gray wrappings.

They both stared out beyond the rooftop together, admiring the city view at night. Absently, Llewellyn, What does your ... He struggled for the right word.

Advisor?

That'll do, I suppose. What does it think of all this, especially asking me for assistance?

The blonde twisted his hair back up, tucking it into the cloth. He pulled the wrappings of the hood back into place, obscuring his face. "He only had general information, since manipulating time is against their ways. He expressed no opinion of me coming to you." His mouth quirked in irritation; a display he should not allow to become visible. How quickly I forget my training in his presence!

I should be so lucky, the younger one muttered, and took the cue to replace his disguise. Once the glasses returned to his nose, he aged again, and gained in girth beneath his clothes.

It is not the first time you have been of help to us, the older one reminded his friend.

Llewellyn gave a quick nod. Good enough.

The pair faced one another, the older extending his arm first. When they grasped the other's forearm, their eyes met in the unceasing city twilight. Not everything has changed between us, he thought before parting.

EILA

Wait, I said.

Piotr stayed his hand from turning the handle.

What do I call him?

We address him as 'House Master,' or simply, 'Master.' Piotr entered the room, letting the door swing wide, and motioned for me to stand by his side.

I hesitated at the doorway, fingers almost caressing the carved oak, lingering before entering the chambers incongruent with the rest of the house. Tapestries hung over limestone walls and slate floor. Every available surface supported stacks of books and objects more odd and delicate than those in the living room. An immense hearth stood as the centerpiece on the wall to my left; its flames bathed the stone room in an aureate glow.

An imposing figure stood before the fire, blocking most of the ornamentation of a weathered mantle. He wore a gray robe finer than Piotr's. The supplicant stood, head hung in obeisance. I stepped to his side, a quiver of fear running through my gut.

The Master waited with his hands clasped behind his back, staring into the fire, his face obscured beneath the hood. A pale chin poked out from beneath it to indicate someone resided within, and not a zephyr or ifrit. I sensed acknowledgement, soft as a feather stroke across my moment, before the Master spoke.

His voice came as a sonorous purr echoing from all sides. Who are you?

He didn't turn to face me, the woman his acolytes kidnapped. I clenched my fists as much in fury as fear.

Eila Corbin, I said, my hands trembling. I wrung them and took a deep breath to choke down the urge to scream or run. A lengthy silence passed, heightening my fear.

The Master said, You are in a place you should not be. In other conditions, your life would be forfeit for this trespass upon the House. His menacing voice coursed through the room, a roar of waves crashing. Whether sending you home is possible remains to be proved. The paths are out of alignment, but will return in a new cycle. Few have strength to return you as I do, and none outside this House could guarantee you safe passage.

I began to protest his callousness, as someone brought forcibly to his home by his underlings, but the words died upon my lips, as though stolen away. The moment passed without them spoken. I shouldn't have to suffer for your mistakes!

I would have said it—I thought I said it—but didn't.

As I boiled with rage, he spoke again. You have options before you.

What options? You've given me nothing but cold grief and the assurance you're the only ones who can set me free! Return me home, if you profess you can!

Again, the words almost spoken vanished, another moment passing in frustrated silence. My thoughts turned again to escape, disbelieving the implication only he could return me home. Such nonsense. How far could they have taken me in a night?

You are far from your home, he assured me with rumbling confidence. It would take a lifetime to find another to return you.

My jaw dropped open. Did he read my mind?  Thoughts of fighting my way out of the room and running for the front door played themselves out. Numerous options lay before me, but none led to freedom. I thought of my cat, my parents, my sister and nephew.

You will remain at this House until your fate is decided.

No! I screamed, this time the words fought their way through the force holding me silent. I'd thought of Marshall alone, no one to protect him or explain his mother's eccentricities. My parents did their best to raise him during her frequent absences, but no one understood him as I did.

Send me home. I can't stay here. Tears sent tendrils of heat flowing down my cheeks. Whatever the risks, let me go home. I have to get back.

Remain here. Serve the House. A path will open if you are meant to survive. Disrupt the House, and your life will be brief. He paused and turned. Fair, he said, as though it was.

A silver beard jutted from the Master's chin and hung down the front of his robe, where before it had been bare. Had I been mistaken?

The Master moved with defined grace, his immense size not prohibiting his movement. Each gesture as he stepped toward us belied elegance and poise; his eyes remained hidden.

You will not influence my House negatively with your choices, he said. It is agreed and decided you will perform actions to assist the running of this House and staff until your alignments fall into place. Then we shall know your fate.

Who agreed? I asked, planting my feet. Who decided?

He continued on, a gentle thunder, as if I hadn't spoken. In exchange the House will attempt to return you to your home. Agreed? Each word rolled smoothly across his tongue with the practiced confidence of a judge.

My words came tumbling from my lips in a jumble. It's your minions nephew that home did this to do you not it's mom their mistake take responsibility! Must service for them why school do I punishment go home!

They were the words from before, thoughts I'd held and almost said, and they came out of sequence, all at once. A cacophony of thought. The world tilted. Swaying, I reached out to steady myself and caught hold of Piotr's sleeve, causing instant revulsion at his touch.

He attempted to remove me, not help me. Once he'd worked my hands free, he directed his gaze to an old tapestry hanging on a wall behind the Master and returned to his former stillness.

They have been dealt with, the Master said plainly, having understood at least some of my lexical soup.

What the hell is happening here?

Accustomed to having a plan, I couldn't see a way out of this, when my own words and thoughts betrayed me.

Again he asked, Do you so agree?

The House Master focused on me, as I regained my footing, seeming amused to watch me flail. A flush of anger returned a modicum of my flagging strength. If I'm going to agree to this, I shall meet him as an equal.

Swallowing the taste of bile at the back of my throat, I said, Yes, I agree. My voice rang clear at last.

With a supple movement, the Master stretched out a hand to shake mine. I saw a vibrant red flash like polished scales reflecting the firelight, but when our hands met, there was nothing more than pink, sunburnt skin. His hand radiated a surprising heat. Each finger held a shimmering ring or two, and a silver band encircled his wrist. He held my hand longer than necessary, his grip warmed my skin much as the outside of an oven would. An attempt to see his face beneath the hood proved futile; the shadows clung to his features, obscuring definition.

The Master turned to Piotr. They too clasped hands. I so witness.

The solemn exchange made my gore rise and face flush.

Done, the Master said.

Confusion and sickness muddled my thoughts. I'd made a graver error, unable to recall precisely what we'd agreed to.

The Master returned to his place beside the fire, and Piotr directed me out of the room. He led me back down the stairs and showed me to a small guest room laid out with fresh linens, and a set of simple clothes folded over a desk chair. This will be your room during your stay, he said, making a small gesture.

Piotr, I said. What just happened?

Piotr's mouth hooked upward at one end, and he sniffed, a private laugh. You agreed to remain here and provide assistance to the House unless and until we are able to send you home again. Without waiting for further questions, he stepped out of the room and shut the door, leaving me to sit alone in my new cell and puzzle over recent events. No one came for me, but who was there to come? None whom I wanted to see. I examined my nun's cell; it contained a bed, desk, chair, and freestanding wardrobe. To occupy myself, I hung up the itchy, brown robe and linen shift, and folded the undergarments. Lying across the gray-blue comforter, which also irritated my skin, I considered the series of shocks I'd experienced. I wished I'd said something witty. I wished I'd tried to leave, or at least asked for a journal and pen, so I could sort out my thoughts. How did I get here? How do I get home?

Weariness settled into my limbs, and instead of planning my escape, I stared at the filtered light through the grime-covered window, before slipping into a restless sleep.

My dreams came in vivid colors. In them, I struggled against painful ropes that stretched and twisted me. A war raged all around, a battle to claim the prize. Then came a cool hand and soothing voice. A woman sang to me in an unfamiliar language, the song's words forming shapes in the air.

When I awoke, my legs ached the way they did after a long hike. Joints popped when I moved, and the room spun when I tried to sit up. Worse, I needed a bathroom, but had no idea how long it would be until someone let me out. I stood on wobbly legs and made it to the door. Steadying myself, I accidentally twisted the knob.

The door swung open. It had never been locked.

I could've left this whole time?!

A quick glance down both ends of the hall revealed no one. I decided to escape this madhouse, grabbed the robe, and headed straight for the door while tugging itchy, brown wool over me. Before I could get ten shaky steps to the foyer, a broad-shouldered man about half my height crossed my path.

Oi! About time, he said to me with a barrel-chested, Scottish baritone. You're the new one, eh? He glanced at me up and down. "Bathroom's down the hall, three doors on your left. Meet me in the kitchen when you're done. That's at the other end of the hall."

I headed in the direction he pointed and took care of one need, but had to delay my escape. If I headed for the door now, he might try to stop me or alert Piotr. In the interest of diverting their attention from my movements, I sought the kitchen.

Steam rose from a large steel pot on an ancient cast iron stove, and the watery smell of boiled newspaper filled the room, almost drowning out the rich scent of wood smoke. The small, muscular man dressed in all black from his tank top down to his leather boots, stepped onto a stool to inspect the status of the pot's noxious contents, adding to the stench. The clean cut of his hair complimented the twin braids hanging from his chin, which were tucked into the dingy apron tied around his waist. He noticed my arrival and gave me a long look.

Better, he decided, and tipped a ladle full of pulpy, gray mash into each of a dozen bowls laid out across two trays.

I guess so, I said, unsure of this man's purpose or intent. Did the House Master mean for me to work in the kitchen? There were worse things kidnappers could do, I reminded myself.

The man hopped down from his stool, and came around the counter, hefting the trays onto his thick arms. Name's Riley, he said, and his ruddy cheeks swelled into a grin. He moved deftly. He said not to rouse you. I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to wake up.

Looks like I'm holding up your schedule. I'll leave you be, I said, hoping for a chance to escape. I noted a second door in the kitchen that led outside. Riley's burden would prevent him from catching me, but I hesitated when he rumbled with laughter.

Not to worry, lass. There's naught to worry about a schedule in this house. His mahogany eyes met mine, studying me, before he headed for a doorway on my left. Let me serve this mess real quick-like, and I'll be back before you know it.

I ran to the back door, flung it wide, and lifted my foot to exit the house. Sunlight reflected dully off the concrete path below, untidy grass grew in clumps between cracks. No matter how much I pushed my muscles to reach them, I stayed put. This is a nightmare. Wake up.

Nothing changed, and the effort sent waves of exhaustion through my limbs and chest. Taking a step back relieved the discomfort. I shut the door and cried, telling myself it couldn't be real, and considered trying the front door instead. A sharp pain shot through my head.

I stared at the gruel, a steady stream of tears staining my face, and wiped my finger along the pot's edge. I cringed from the taste, and spat it out in the sink.

Are you hungry? Riley asked, startling me. I whirled around and stared warily at the pot. No, no, he exclaimed. You don't have to eat this slop if it's not to your liking.

Riley moved like a predator to the pantry. I dried my eyes, not wanting my captors to see me vulnerable. When he returned, his arms were laden with a number of packages, most of them in Japanese or Korean. He spilled them out onto the counter. What will you have then?

None of the food looked familiar, and I turned each package over, trying to discern from the images what to expect. Riley pointed to each of them explaining in quick terms; most were noodles or soy-based protein snacks.

Noodles, I said, and added a thanks, since Riley had been kind thus far, and it didn't hurt to be polite. He pulled a key on a chain from around his neck. With a wink, he swaggered over to a cupboard, climbed up on a stool, and hid what he did from view.

Before opening it he said, I don't want you trying to open this yourself; I've got a number of traps set on it, but if you need a bite, come to the pantry and wake me.

His nimble hands reached this way, tapped that, and pulled something else, as he moved items around. The packaged food within appeared far more appetizing.

Thought you might be wanting something with vegetables. There's a few I could add to one of these and we'll have ourselves some lunch, he said, and set to work cooking over the old wood-burning stove after popping in a new log to stoke the fire.

Anything I can do to help? I asked, and he tossed me a pair of zucchinis to chop.

Use my favorite knife, he said. Has a better edge.

The beloved blade boasted a worn handle and the name Betsy carved deep into the metal in an Old English script.

That's not half bad there, he said of my work.

Good, if I'm going to be working in here for a while.

Where'd you get that notion? he asked. They have enough of a cook in me. No, I think you're here for a different purpose.

The idea didn't put me at ease, and I continued chopping the other vegetables he handed me. I asked, Riley?

He stirred the stew in his pot and said over his shoulder, Aye?

"You said I'd slept a lot. How