The Alchemist's Code: A gripping conspiracy thriller

By Martin Rua

The first in a gripping conspiracy thriller series for fans of Scott Mariani and Dan Brown.

A dark figure. A secret code. A battle between good and evil...

Years ago the Knights Templar developed a secret code. A code so secret that only one man could remember it.

The code lies in the hidden recesses of Lorenzo Aragona's memory. The alchemist has always known it, but, until he crosses paths with a beautiful but brutal Russian spy, he does not realise its significance.

In a race against the clock from Naples to Kiev, Lorenzo uncovers an ancient history involving Nazis and Freemasons, secrets and spies. He must remember the code, unlock the Baphomet and take control of The Guardian of the Threshold. The lives of the Pope, his dying wife and all of mankind are at stake and only Lorenzo has the power to save them...

What readers are saying about THE ALCHEMIST'S CODE:

'A great idea: has anybody ever imagined waking up and figuring out that their life is nothing but a fictional play? Rua describes this feeling the way all of us would imagine it. I read it in one night. Overwhelming! 5 stars because I cannot give more'

'The author masters the suspense and the reader encounters thrilling mysteries step by step, like the pieces of a puzzle'

'I did not know this author before I read The Alchemist's Code and I have to admit that he is a pleasant discovery. The story captures you from the first page and the reader can enjoy the story although it is all about mysteries, esotericism, codes, and... that's it, I'm not going to reveal anything else, just read it!'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781784977474

Martin Rua

Martin Rua is a scholar of the history of religions, specialising in freemasonry and alchemy. After a trip to Prague and Chartres he created Lorenzo Aragona, the central character in his novels, which combine adventure with esotericism.

Book preview

1

A Perfect Day

Events reconstructed by Lorenzo Aragon

Naples, December 2012

That day had begun perfectly. I’d slept like a log until the long blades of light creeping across the bedcovers had gently awakened me.

I stretched and sat up in bed, looking around myself with satisfaction. There were only a few days left until Christmas and it was bitterly cold outside, but the light on the furniture was intense and hinted at splendid weather.

It’s going to be a magnificent winter solstice.

My wife was already up, but I was still sleepy, so I slipped lazily back beneath the covers, putting off the moment I would have to abandon them for the next fourteen hours. I only got up when the familiar, bewitching scent of coffee crept treacherously into my nostrils and persuaded me to head towards the kitchen.

I found Àrtemis there and kissed her on the neck, while she was still intent on stirring the coffee in the pot.

Hello darling – sleep well?

Extremely well, I’d say. If it wasn’t for the smell of coffee, I’d have stayed buried under the covers a little longer.

My wife put her arms around me and gave me a passionate kiss, which took me by surprise. Really? And you’d stay in bed without me—?

With a single gesture she undid her robe and let it fall to the ground, then stood naked in my arms.

’Well, if you put it that way—" And I lost myself again in her black curls.

*

It seemed that winter had arrived, bringing with it a promising assortment of all its aromas, flavours and pleasures. That alone would have sufficed to put me in a good mood. For a while now, though, strange nightmares – or, better, vividly coloured dreams – had disturbed my nights, though the memory of them almost always faded upon waking.

My extreme sensitivity had made me particularly receptive to certain, let’s say, out-of-the-ordinary subconscious signals and phenomena, and in fact, many times during my forays into the world of the esoteric in search of mysterious artefacts, it had been dreams which had cast light on things which would otherwise have been difficult to understand.

In short, I’ve always had a fairly lively dream life.

In an attempt to keep my turbulent psyche a little more under control I’d started taking some pills, which I would have forgotten every morning if Àrtemis hadn’t been there to practically put them into my mouth.

You really are incorrigible, Aragona, she told me that morning, calling me by name as she did every time she wanted to tell me off, as she stopped me at the door with a glass of water and the magical tablet.

I took a sip and swallowed the pill, then grabbed my wife and kissed her passionately. I know – that’s why you love me.

She pushed me away with a mischievous smile. Away with you, art dealer, or I’ll be late for university.

Ah my Àrtemis! Her students considered her a living legend - a kind of be-skirted Indiana Jones, always ready to get her hands dirty and stir up any amount of hornets’ nests just to prove a theory. She was one of the few scholars in the world to have managed to decipher the obscure language of the ancient inhabitants of Crete, Linear A, and certainly one of the first to have been able to read it, winning the respect of her researcher colleagues around the world. Her bond with her Greek homeland had given her a kind of sixth sense for all that was Hellenic. She had made more than one luminary look a fool with her radical theories, and had inflamed the field with dozens of pioneering academic publications. She was unique, and, with her beautiful black curls and feline looks, as intense as the depths of the Aegean, as beautiful as one of the dancers of the palace of Knossos. I adored her.

I left my lovely Greek struggling with her morning preparations and before going to the car I walked to my favourite newsagent.

Good morning Fausto – the usual please.

Here you are, Mr Aragona. Have a good day.

Fausto’s friendliness always put me in a good mood, even though the dense downtown traffic, on the rare occasions that I decided to travel by car instead of taking the funicular, could plunge me into abject despair. That day, however, it seemed that everything was going for the best, and on the way to the art gallery I met very few cars and didn’t encounter a single traffic jam. Curious, it being so near Christmas.

That morning, however, I had no desire to ask myself too many questions and decided to abandon myself to the gentle caress of a perfect day.

*

Upon entering the store I found Bruno, my partner, in the thick of negotiations for the sale of a valuable Louis XVI console table. It seemed that things had got off on the right foot even as regarded business that morning. I greeted the customer, whom I knew well, and walked towards the small office that we had at the back of the shop.

After about fifteen minutes, Bruno came in with a smile. Hands on the desk, he leaned towards me and pushed his angular face, which reminded me so much of Chopin, forward. His small dark eyes stared into mine with penetrating insistence.

Hello again, partner. Apparently I’ve just set a new record for sales. I only opened half an hour ago, and Doctor Ciliento has already written the first cheque for the purchase of that console.

I’ve always said that you’re an extraordinary salesman.

Oh, I’m just a salesman, am I? Well in that case, you’re just a shopkeeper.

Thin skinned as ever, I see! Calm down, we all know that you’re also a master antiquarian with a flair for rare pieces.

Bruno nodded, a serious expression on his face. That’s better.

As well as being an extraordinary antiquarian, my friend and partner Bruno von Alten, who had inherited his name from his German father, was an extremely refined man, as well as an excellent jazz pianist. When not in the gallery, he was always rehearsing with his trio or on a stage somewhere in Europe performing. A very cool customer.

That morning he had concluded the sale of the eighteenth century console table made by the school of Jean Henri Riesener, a German who had moved to France and who became the court cabinet maker in 1774. Half of the furniture displayed at Versailles that had belonged to Marie Antoinette was his work. Bruno loved to offer his customers pieces made by German artists, a kind of little homage of his memory of his late father, who he had lost when he was twenty. He was also obsessed with the furniture of the late eighteenth century, and each time he sold a piece he went through a little performance as he acted out the pain losing it would cause him.

I, of course I had no objections to all this, so long as it didn’t interfere with the success of his negotiations. I myself felt the same attachment, moreover, to another style, which he, unrepentant snob that he was, classed as sheer vulgarity.

How on earth can you compare the style of Louis XVI with that art nouveau crap?

I shook my head and shrugged.

Your problem is that you’ve never progressed, old man. Styles change, new things happen.

I uttered those words with little conviction during our frequent spats, since I was the first to reject contemporary art and architecture. As far as I was concerned, it was all over in the thirties when Art Deco had exploded in America, and I considered Art Nouveau the highest possible synthesis of ancient and modern aesthetics. That it was my favourite style was demonstrated by the plethora of swirls, flowers, table lamps, stained glass and Guimard furniture which was my house. A house which, of course, he detested.

Bruno sat down at his desk, opened the sales ledger and simultaneously turned on the computer: he wrote everything down by hand and kept the original receipts and all important documents in a safe in his house. He viewed printers with suspicion and said he didn’t trust that infernal thing called a computer.

How many times do I have to tell you? You’re stuck in the eighteenth century! Don’t you want to keep up with the times?

"The day when your computer or printer decide to stop working, you’ll come crying to me, begging me to let you use my silly, old-fashioned notes. And at that moment I will open my most expensive bottle of fine champagne cognac and have a laugh or two."

Ok, you’re on. For my part, I’ll make an exception to the rule I’ve set myself against drinking absinthe and will toast you with a good Spanish bottle that I’ve kept aside for just this sort of thing.

Very well, concluded Bruno. Now that we have discussed liqueurs, if you don’t mind I should like to do a cross-check with you of the pieces sold, optioned and those which we are interested in.

I spread my arms in despair, groaning, But we did it yesterday.

Yesterday, we had not sold the Riesener.

*

At one, I went to lunch with Àrtemis at Donna Teresa’s Trattoria, my favourite, which was only a.few minutes from my house. I would have walked miles just to savour the dishes they served there, and although the Églantine – my antiques shop – was in the centre of town, I willingly made the trek back up to the Vomero area at lunchtime.

Mr Aragona, today we’ve got baked pasta, beans and escarole and a wonderful risotto with savoy cabbage.

When Teresa, the granddaughter of the restaurant’s legendary founder, listed the specials of the day, it was like music to my ears. It was poetry, pure gastronomic poetry.

I’ve have the risotto, said Àrtemis, anticipating my choice.

Risotto for me too, thanks Teresa.

The girl made a note and left.

So, everything ok down at the shop?

For heaven’s sake, don’t call it a shop, I said, holding up my hands as if to protect myself, "otherwise Bruno might appear and launch into one of his intolerable Teutonic harangues. The Églantine is an antique gallery."

All right, I didn’t mean to offend anybody—

I know that, darling. But, if it weren’t for Bruno—

That’s right, I know how grateful you are to him. There’s no need for me to remind you about the pile of strange objects which have been accumulating on your desk for years now.

Oh come on! I am an antiquarian, after all – it’s perfectly natural that I accumulate and conserve things. That’s how they acquire value!

Yes, yes – the same old excuse.

When Teresa brought our dishes, I put all other matters to one side and dedicated myself to making the risotto vanish, forkful by forkful. But as I was looking down, preparing to stick my fork into the creamy cabbage, something – or rather someone – at the entrance of the restaurant caught my attention.

*

I realised, in fact, that I was looking into the eyes of a beautiful blonde girl. We exchanged a look which seemed to last a long time and which made me feel immediately uncomfortable. I had the impression that she wasn’t just gazing in my direction but that she actually wanted something.

Àrtemis noticed my reaction, and turned mechanically toward the door, but the girl had already disappeared.

What is it? What did you see?

No, no – I thought I saw someone I knew, that’s all. Let’s eat, it’s nothing, I lied, preferring not to arouse her jealousy.

After lunch I accompanied Àrtemis to the university and then headed back to the Églantine. I was almost there when suddenly, that day – which until then had seemed so perfect – took an unexpected turn.

As I was driving along Via Chiatamone towards the garage where I parked my car, a scooter raced out from a building and cut in front of me. There was no way I could stop in time and I hit it head-on, throwing the driver out of the saddle.

Shit! I shouted, and jumped out of the car.

Luckily there were no other cars passing in that moment, so I ran round to see how the scooter’s driver was. I found them in front of my car, lying on the ground next to their vehicle.

Oh Christ, let him be okay! I said as I bent down – and saw that the rider was a young woman. Can you hear me? Hey, are you all right?

I lifted the visor of the helmet and straightaway the girl opened her eyes, revealing two pools of intense blue that stared back into mine. At that moment I realised that I’d seen that face before – those eyes would have been hard to forget.

The girl outside the restaurant! It’s you!

But before I could ask her anything, the girl slipped something into my jacket pocket and, with feline grace, stood up, easily lifted her scooter from the ground as though it was lighter than a bicycle and sped away before I had time to react.

I looked around me. Nobody else seemed to have noticed and so, somewhat confused, I returned to my car. Taking a few deep breaths to try and calm myself, I started the engine and set off back to the garage.

As soon he saw me, Bruno frowned. Lorenzo, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Is everything ok?

I flopped down in the chair behind my desk and told him about the accident. Bruno’s initially tense expression gradually faded, and a moment later he had regained his composure.

Thank God nothing serious had happened, I was worried. Right, back to work – come on.

I stared at him in disbelief. How can you say that nothing serious happened? I almost killed a girl, who then ran away without letting me see whether she was all right or not.

Bruno shrugged. She was probably just some idiot, Lorenzo.

Trying to put the accident out of my mind was perhaps the best thing, but first there was something I had to check.

Ah, maybe you’re right. I’m going to rinse my face.

I locked myself in the bathroom and pulled out the note that the girl had put in my pocket. It read:

See you at 18:30 in the little bar at the end of Via Parco Margherita, at the corner of Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Be there – your life depends on it.

I stood staring at the piece of paper for a few seconds, trying to organise my thoughts and figure out whether I was dreaming or whether all this was really happening. And what if that accident had all been a set-up? If all that the girl had wanted to do was give me this message? I put the piece of paper back in my pocket and left the bathroom. And found Bruno standing like a phantom outside, staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

Are you sure you’re ok, Lorenzo?

I put a hand to my chest, and let out a sigh.

Damn it, Bruno! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Of course I’m ok – really.

Yeah, you’re right… I was just worried. Put that accident out of your mind, ok?

I nodded, dazed. Of course, the best thing is just to forget about it. Everything’s fine.

Great. Listen, I have to go out for a few minutes. You’re staying here, aren’t you?

Bruno never left the shop, and wouldn’t have even if someone had started shelling the place, but by now what had seemed like a perfect day had turned into a total mess, so I decided to stop being surprised.

Ok, go ahead, no problem.

*

Bruno was gone for nearly an hour – sixty minutes during which I tried to put together the pieces of the strange experience and decide whether I should attend the appointment that the unknown girl had proposed. Should I go or not? And what could she want to tell me that was so important that my life depended on it? Of course, in recent years I’d had a fair number of adventures in the mysterious world of those esoteric disciplines that so intrigued me, often getting myself into trouble and dragging poor old Àrtemis along with me. I’d seen with my own eyes the ancient rituals still practiced by secret societies, found amulets with unknown powers and studied codes that would have been better left to rot in forgotten libraries. Recently, however, I’d decided that I’d had enough of all the trouble running so many risks in pursuit of legends and dreams had got me into. I considered myself lucky to have had a chance to peek behind the veil of appearances and to investigate the most hidden aspects of knowledge and reality. My passion for alchemy had drawn me into the fascinating world of the transmutations of minerals, thanks to hours and hours spent coughing among the fumes of the small workshop I had at home, the crazed treasure hunts I had undertaken in the company of my friend Sante – a completely crazy retired Maltese sailor with an obsession with esoteric archeology – had led me to discover mysterious artefacts and the traces of lost civilizations, and, finally, being a member of the Freemasons had introduced me to various Hermetic doctrines.

But enough was enough. Now I just wanted to live in peace for a bit and dedicate myself to my work, and especially to my wife.

The little adventure that morning, though, had brought back all the anxiety and tension that I’d experienced during those dangerous incursions into esotericism. The girl’s behaviour and especially the note she had put in my pocket had started to tickle my sixth sense.

At a loss as to what else to do, it occurred to me that I could tell everything to my close friend Oscar who, as luck would have it, was a police commissioner, and so I called his mobile. When a recorded message informed me that the user was not at that moment available, I tried calling the office directly.

The receptionist was categorical. I’m sorry, but Commissioner Franchi is out of the office at the moment. Can I take a message?

Just tell him that Lorenzo Aragona is looking for him.

That was that, then – I was going to have to decide for myself. I didn’t want to say anything about the note to anyone, not even Bruno. He would have taken me for mad if he found out that I was willing to listen to a girl who had run away after being knocked down.

To be honest, I should really have let it go. It was starting to look a lot like some kind of practical joke.

*

When Bruno returned, his angular face wore its usual aplomb, and the uncharacteristic concern which I had seen appear in his eyes had vanished.

Everything ok? Has anybody been? Anybody phoned?

I shook my head. All quiet. Apparently, when you aren’t here, nothing happens and nobody comes.

Funny – very funny.

Bruno sat down at his desk and began to make phone calls and update his files, but I couldn’t keep my agitation in check, and kept getting up and wandering around between the furniture and objects on display in the shop. I had decided that I wouldn’t go to the appointment, yet I couldn’t help but think of the accident, the girl and that phrase: ‘your life depends on it.’

In any case, once 18:15 came around, I set off for my car. I’m going home, dear partner, I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure you do too at some point.

Strange as it might seem to you, somebody does actually have to sort out the paperwork. I’ll see you tomorrow.

I got in and made my way to Piazza dei Martiri, then crossed Via dei Mille and finally took Via del Parco Margherita. I was nearing the intersection with Corso Vittorio Emanuele, when a large black SUV, which was parked on the right side of the road, suddenly pulled out in front of me and started dawdling along. After a few seconds I lost my patience and started beeping the horn, and at that point the SUV stopped altogether.

What the hell?!

The driver’s side door opened and a woman, dressed all in black with a baseball cap on her head, climbed out and strode over to my window. She leaned over and looked into my eyes.

It was the girl on the scooter. This time I didn’t even manage to open my mouth. She put a finger to her lips as though to silence me, and quickly placed another piece of paper on the dashboard before returning to her car and driving away.

I was really starting to get sick of all this.

I started the engine and, as I drove, unfolded the piece of paper and read the message.

Go into the garage to the right of the hotel Parker’s, I’ll be waiting for you there. Park next to the black SUV. Do not use your phone. Whatever happens, do not speak for any reason!

This treasure hunt was beginning to get on my nerves, but I decided to follow the new instructions: I had to talk to this girl in private and find out what the hell she wanted, so I turned into the garage, which was located a few metres from the intersection, took the ticket issued automatically by the machine at the entrance and drove inside. There at the back of the large car park, I saw the big black SUV. I pulled up next to it, turned off the engine and waited a few seconds. Then I heard the door behind me open.

I started to turn around, but a hand pressed over my mouth paralysed me, preventing me from moving or speaking, and at the same time another hand held up a mobile phone with these words on its screen:

Don’t speak, you are bugged. I do not want to hurt you. Undress completely and put on the clothes that I will put on the seat beside you.

At that point I had no choice but to follow the instructions: it occurred to me that there might well be a gun aimed at my head, and the idea didn’t exactly make me feel comfortable.

With some embarrassment, I changed quickly and waited. Another message on the phone screen gave me further instructions.

Get out of your car and get straight into the back seat of the SUV.

I did as she said, and a moment later the driver’s door opened. We can talk now. But wait a second until I’ve got out of here, she said in a deep, warm voice which betrayed a slight foreign accent.

She started the engine, drove over to the exit and put a ticket into the machine, opening the barrier, then set off at speed along Corso Vittorio Emanuele in the direction of Mergellina. The lights of the gulf to our left slipped by quickly on that cold Neapolitan night.

We don’t have much time, Mr Aragona. You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I’ve been studying your movements for weeks.

"Well it’s very kind of you to tell me that, but I should tell you that I am extremely pissed off. What is this, a kidnapping? Is it money you want? What the hell are you after?"

Nothing like that. My name is Anna Nikitovna Glyz, I’m Russian. I studied here in Italy, that’s why I speak your language. I can’t tell you much, only the few things I know, but please, take what I tell you seriously.

I tried to make out her features in the rear view mirror, but it was too dark and I could only guess at them. She must be very beautiful, though, with slightly wavy blonde hair and those wonderful blue-green eyes.

She looked into the mirror, then, without preamble, said, Your life is a lie, Mr Aragona.

I laughed.

Of course it is!

Listen to me, please – I don’t know how long I can keep them off my tail.

Keep who off your tail? Come on, shall we stop this farce?

I’m not kidding, believe me. Your life is like some kind of TV reality show. Your wife, your partner, your house, your shop. It’s all fake. They are deceiving you.

Who is deceiving me, miss? And who are you?

The SUV reached the station of Mergellina, then went on to Piazza Sannazzaro, circled round the fountain with the statue of Partenope, and returned to Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

Listen to me, I have to go. You take the wheel without getting out of the car. They’ll be suspicious, but we can still confuse them. Go back to the garage, leave this car there, pick up yours and change back into your own clothes.

Hang on a second, what do you mean, you’re going? You’re going to leave me here like this? Without any explanation?

She parked in front of Mergellina railway station and, before leaving, turned to face me. Yes, she was beautiful – an uncompromising, faultless beauty. Her face was simply perfect, with full, oval lips, defined eyebrows and a straight well-proportioned nose. For a split second I almost forgot the absurd situation in which I found myself.

Mr Aragona, is there something you have every day? I mean, something you eat, or drink every day, always at the same time?

There are several—

I mean something unusual – not coffee or your favourite drink. Think about it tonight and find a way not to eat or drink it any more. But don’t let the woman you believe is your wife find out. Behave naturally. I’ll be back.

Without giving me time to reply, she opened the door and disappeared in the direction of the station.

I sat there stunned for a few seconds, trying to take in what she had said.

Suddenly, I was seized with the feeling that all the passers-by were watching me. It couldn’t be so, I told myself. The idea that the girl could have invented everything struck me again. Maybe she’d just wanted to get rid of a stolen SUV and had come up with this bizarre way of doing it. That thought made me feel even more stressed, so I decided that the best thing to do was to take the car back to the garage as quickly as possible. I slipped into the driver’s seat and headed back to the Parker’s hotel.

Once there, I picked up my car, changed back into my own clothes and set off quickly toward home. As I drove, however, my tension only increased: how would I act with my wife? What Anna – if that actually was her name – had said would have been enough to shock anyone. How could I go home and pretend that nothing had happened? The fake accident on the scooter, the messages, swapping cars, and the phrase, Your wife, your partner, your house, your shop. It’s all fake.

I smiled.

Come on, Lorenzo – the Russian was just having a bit of fun with you.

In the meantime I had almost arrived home. I’d never been a particularly attentive driver, but that night I checked repeatedly in the rear view mirror and peered constantly about me to try and figure out if I was being followed, but I didn’t see anything, and so, taking a deep breath and shaking my head as though to free it from the memory of that strange experience, I walked in through the front door.

Àrtemis, it’s me.

Hi, replied my wife from inside. Her voice was calm.

I joined her in the kitchen and found her busily preparing Greek meatballs. Hello, darling, how are you?

I’m fine. How are you? I heard about the accident.

I went white. We hadn’t spoken all afternoon, how could she know?

The accident?

’Yes. Bruno told me that you knocked someone over this afternoon."

Ah, she’d spoken to Bruno.

Oh, it was nothing serious. A girl came shooting out into the road without looking and ran into me. But she was fine, luckily.

Art stared at me with those feline eyes of hers as though she wanted to penetrate my head. Was she trying to expose my half-truth? After a moment, she looked away and went back to preparing dinner. "Ok, just as well. I’m making biftekia, so I’ll need another half an hour."

Fine, I’m in no rush.

In the meantime, maybe you could finally have a look at that box of old junk that I put in your study a few days ago.

Yes… excellent idea.

The box was on the carpet in the study, and was full of objects accumulated over the last forty years. Àrtemis said she had put it there a few days before, but I had no memory of the fact. Among the comic books, broken watches and other useless stuff there were also some old toys which I was very fond of. Àrtemis knew how much they meant to me, so finding them there, ready to be thrown away, annoyed me.

There were soldiers with futuristic weapons and combat vehicles, transforming robots, a bag of Lego bricks and, finally, something that I had almost forgotten – something to which I had been deeply attached as a child: a toy Spider-Man with magnetic limbs.

What a joy to see it again! I thought I’d lost it.

As I looked at it, some strange kind of light flashed before my eyes, followed immediately by something like a frame from a film, filled with overlapping faces and places.

This strange vision lasted a few moments, and then, from that confused, crowded image, a single distinct figure emerged. A face that was dear to me, but that I couldn’t quite identify. Someone with the features of a serene-looking old man, who was trying to tell me something. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I was struck by a symbol that appeared and disappeared on his face, a symbol exactly like the one used in alchemy to represent common salt or verdigris. A wheel with four spokes.

I blinked quickly, the vision vanished and I found myself looking at the toy Spider-Man. I looked up and saw Àrtemis standing in the doorway, staring at me silently with a strange light in her eyes. So? How’s it going?

Fine… But there are a few things that I’d like to keep.

Oh, I was sure there would be. I put them together with the other things because I thought maybe there’d be some you didn’t want anymore. I know you’re still a kid at heart.

They’re my mementoes. Look, there’s my old Spider-Man. I thought I’d lost him.

You only had to ask me. The problem is that you’re so messy.

Yes, yes, ok. I’ll sort them out. Is dinner ready?

Another twenty minutes for the meatballs, she said, setting a dish with feta and olives on the desk, then suddenly rubbing herself against me languidly as she thrust into my mouth an olive that I had no choice but to swallow.

But I’ve brought you a snack. Do you want it, hmm? Do you want my little snack?

Well… Yes—

Her passion took me by surprise. Had I been in a different state of mind I would have certainly abandoned myself to it without hesitation, but at that moment my emotions were in turmoil. Despite having initially decided to ignore them, Anna’s words had begun to burn in my brain, together with the enigmatic symbol which flashed before my eyes, and something about the taste of the olive made me wonder if I should swallow it. But as Àrtemis’s attentions became wilder and more intense, I found I could no longer resist. She pushed me onto the sofa, and almost aggressively unbuttoned my trousers. I took my time taking off her blouse, as I tried to bring my own excitement to a peak. When she was topless, she began caressing herself in an unusual,