Sophia and the Stone of Tikvah: The Time Has Come

By Bonnie Hart

Our story begins in Corvallis, Oregon where we meet Sophia Quinn, a college student at Oregon State University who is about to be swept up in a world no one knew existed. Only her four best friends will understand as they too are carried away into another world.
When the group arrive in Greece for a college trip, the world is transformed forever. A breathtaking love story, magical creatures and the true birth of the ancient vampire all pull Sophia into a hidden world where she is once again thrust into the hallows of her powerful and holy ancestry. She carries a secret even she doesn't fully understand. In this hidden world there are those sent to destroy her while others are sent to protect.
Here we meet the Ambrosians who have safeguarded God's children from the evils of the Phithians, set out to destroy mankind. This concealed war of good and evil that has been underway since the dawn of time is now at the feet Sophia. A heroin's journey to find the courage to follow her destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667887340

Book preview

Chapter 1

Inquisitions

Present day, on the hidden Island of Tartarus

It had been years since Eshar had left the confines of the dark cave he’d come to call home. Now, all he seemed to do was wait—wait for his damned prophecies to finally come true. Soon, he thought, it would all be over at last. The end was near; he swore he could feel it. Holding the ornate gold cross necklace in his hands, he let his fingers glide over the diamonds until they rested on the blood-colored ruby in the center of it. Thinking back, Eshar remembered all the lost souls that had been consumed by his convictions and the blind faith that steadfastly assured him that his prophecies would come to fruition. Those wayward souls had been willing to die for the cause, it was a pity they had always turned out to be so disappointingly weak. Over the years his mortal minions had valiantly tried to do what he required of them, but they inevitably failed, cracking under the pressure.

Tomás de Torquemada had been different. He alone seemed to have the backbone required to do what really needed to be done. He had even been willing to enter the priesthood, agreeing that there was no better way to exact Eshar’s revenge than by using the Church to do it. Holding the cursed relic in his increasingly tighter grip, Eshar became lost in his memories and the feelings of hatred that he could no longer escape.

Castile, Spain 1485. In the depths of the Spanish inquisition

Do you confess? drawled the Grand Inquisitor, as if he were having a perfectly perfunctory conversation with one of his constituents. The accused twisted out an agonized retort, scarcely recognizable as the Lord’s Prayer.

Not good enough, he thought with cruel glee.

Do you confess? he asked again, this time sounding neither bored nor perfunctory. The placid cruelty was in sharp contrast to the prisoner’s anguished cries and he only paused long enough to enjoy the sound of the victim’s agony. Very well, he intoned, growing closer. A pair of sadistic, glowing eyes came into view as the prisoner refused to answer once more. The final stretch was next, and Tomás was impatient. Stretch him farther, he plainly demanded as if he were ordering more hot water for his tea. More than anything, Tomás prided himself on efficiency. He wanted the job done cleanly and quickly; mercy only brought his productivity down.

Tomás’s ears perked up at the sound of the frail young man’s ligaments popping and his muscles tearing; it was a familiar and almost comforting sound to him by now.

Now he’ll confess, he thought, they always do.

Do. You. Confess? he boomed; his voice so firm it overrode the prisoner’s screams.

It had been days of continuous torture and yet the prisoner refused to break. The inquisitors were new and still lacked the necessary conviction. With stubborn prisoners such as this the Grand Inquisitor was always summoned to provide a demonstration. When Tomás de Torquemada had finally arrived, the other inquisitors realized they had underestimated their leader. It took less than two minutes with Tomás for the accused to break. His deep-set eyes were overshadowed by his thick and heavy brow, which hid his perpetually exhausted visage. Tomás had lost his ability to rest when he exchanged his humanity for power. He was left with the insanity his omnipresent waking hours presented to him.

Yes! the broken man howled. His face became muddled as his capillaries burst from the stress. His body quivered as he wept and prayed.

Tomás smiled upon realizing that he had broken him so completely. The rest of the proceedings were standard and held nothing of interest. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I condemn you Tomás intoned dutifully before kissing the heavy cross around his neck and holding it to his heart.

He had commissioned this ornate and heavy cross to honor his liege, Eshar. The cross had a piercing chain that often drew blood from his neck. He wore it always. It was as dear and as intrinsic to him as his own limbs. The cross itself was inlaid with the whitest diamonds to signify the cleansing of the world’s unclean heretics. The center, a brilliantly red ruby, is what he cherished the most. It was a constant reminder that the blood on his hands was sacred, a necessary sacrifice to accomplish what had been asked of him. Eshar, his Master and surrogate father in many ways, had always told him that blood could wash away pain and transgressions. More importantly, it could also wash away the ungodliness of heretics.

Let it be known that this man, this false ‘converso’, has confessed to heresy. He looked down at the confessor thoughtfully before continuing, This criminal, according to papal law, is to be burned alive at the stake. Tomás often had to stifle his amusement when the confessors were surprised upon hearing their fate. Did they think they would go free once they confessed their crimes? Did they think they would not be punished?

May God have mercy on— the heavy dungeon door slammed abruptly, interrupting Tomás.

A young priest had stormed into the interrogation, his face a ghostly white. Your Grace, he stammered, you have a visitor.

Tomás glowered at the priest. He hated to be interrupted, especially during an interrogation. He walked slowly toward the priest, never averting his angry gaze. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper, but his disgust with the man before him was crystal clear.

Who, pray tell, is such an important visitor that it justifies the interruption of God’s work? he growled.

He’s here, your Grace, the priest paused, he said you would know—.

—Yes, say no more, he interrupted, trying to smother his shock and anticipation as he realized Eshar had come to visit him here.

Tomás made no attempt to explain and rushed out of the dungeon, the doors slamming upon his exit. He swiftly sped by other rooms, his heavy robe dragging on the ground with a rustle. Some of those rooms were occupied with the living doomed, others with the tormented ghosts of recent confessors. Each room was filled with demonic instruments, all splattered with dried blood and the reek of rotten flesh. When he arrived at his chambers, Tomás was out of breath. His chest heaved his heavy golden cross about, causing the ruby to cast a hellish glow on his chamber door. Upon entering, he was greeted by the otherworldly loftiness of his beloved master. Tomás bowed immediately to Eshar, the one responsible for all Tomás’s success in cleansing the world of the Unholy.

Master, to what do I owe the honor of your presence? Tomás asked without raising his head.

Smiling, Eshar answered, You have been working hard Tomás. I thought a visit might do you some good.

Tomás had always tried to decipher Eshar’s odd accent but could never seem to place it. Some vague Mediterranean hybrid he had always assumed, or perhaps Italian. Relieved, Tomás exhaled, swallowed, and righted himself. Well, Master, it is always good to see you, he purred excitedly.

You are doing good work, Tomás. You should know your reputation is spreading, just as we’d planned, Eshar’s emerald eyes filled with pride as he said this. You should also know, my boy, that there is a rumor he paused, making sure he had Tomás’ full attention, that you are getting out of hand. Eshar slowly stood up from the wooden chair he was seated in and moved toward his minion to reassure him. Of course, I know that you are only doing what is necessary, but you must be careful. The Pope becomes nervous when he is disliked. It is vital that you do not lose his favor and relinquish your power as Grand Inquisitor. He stared at Tomás commandingly, his luminous emerald eyes now a penetrating deep yellow.

Tomás knew exactly what Eshar was talking about. The Pope had actually been against the Spanish Inquisition from the start. It had been Queen Isabella who forced the issue and she did so with Ferdinand, not the Pope. Since Tomás had been the Queen’s Confessor, his plan to instigate the Inquisition in Spain had been easy to pull off. Fortunately for him, Isabella was quite persuasive when it came to the King.

Eshar brushed past Tomás as he opened the door to leave only turning to deliver his last words of warning. And Tomás…

Yes, Master? Tomas bowed his head subserviently.

Do not disappoint me.

By the time Tomás looked up, Eshar was gone.

Yes, Eshar had many memories, and the majority of them were seeped in disappointment and regret. Tomás had ultimately failed him by allowing Pope Alexander IV to appoint four assistant Inquisitors to rein in his mission. For this, he was punished in a karmic fashion. As his ligaments popped and his muscles tore, Eshar knew that this was nothing compared to what Tomás would soon endure after having been administered a healthy dose of Phithian Venom. As his final act of damnation Eshar had ripped the cross from his prodigal son’s neck and abandoned him, writhing in agony, to the care of some monks who marveled at his mysterious and ghastly illness.

Eshar laid the bloodstained cross necklace back in its box, amidst the rest of his collection. It rested next to Eshar’s prized copy of Hitler’s Mein Kampf, dictated to Hitler directly by Eshar. Another failure, he thought ruefully. All his carefully orchestrated wars, plagues, and dictatorships had come to naught. No more would he try to be clever and subtle. He had no patience left and this final attempt would work, even if it killed him. He refused to sit here in his red cushioned Venetian chair again, forced to plot yet another plan that would fail. This time was different. There would be no failing and no disappointments, only vengeance at last.

Chapter 2

The Mundanities before the Madness

Autumn in the small town of Corvallis, Oregon was a vibrant sea of color. My window had a flawless view of the nearby park, which was brimming with aspen trees whose leaves would soon litter the ground like smudges on an oil painting. The deep crimson reds, honey oranges, and sunlit yellows were a brief reprieve from the melancholy and ever-present clouds of a Pacific Northwest winter. I related to this somber moody weather, as so much of my life had felt tinged with grey.

Regardless of the dim winters, Oregon State University had its benefits—among them, great friends and football. I had never been particularly popular in high school and making friends had been perpetually difficult. Papou, my Greek grandfather, had always been a solid and loving presence in my life and would often remind me that true friendship can take a lifetime to find. Still, my childhood had been a lonely and confusing time as I strained to hold back the pain I had endured.

I had been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety when I was young. My mother was never around—she was an opera singer by trade and as a result, she was always gallivanting all over the world and didn’t get home much. Years went by before I finally realized I’d been truly abandoned. I started to think there was something wrong with me. I consequently sunk into a quicksand of depression. I was so tired of feeling so much all the time. Sleeping became my only relief. I was grateful to have my beautiful white German Shepherd and best friend, Plato, by my side through it all. God knows his white fur had been drenched in its share of my tears over the years.

From afar, my mother would force me to see every psychiatrist and therapist specializing in bipolar disorder, ADHD, and depression on the West Coast. After a summer of three months at a psychiatric rehabilitation center, not much had changed.

One afternoon during visiting hours, my Papou gave me a necklace I had worn most of my life, an amulet really. The stone was a beautiful blue, a well-worn lapis lazuli stone that I thought I’d lost years ago. He put it around my neck and said to always keep it on because, like the Evil Eye pins every Greek/American child grows up with to keep away ‘evil’, the stone would protect me. But he looked at me with his kind eyes and told me that this stone would not only remind me to never lose hope but that the rare amulet actually contained magic. I laughed at the idea, but he was sweet to try. However, it did calm me down but only because it reminded me of Papou. He was the magic.

In time, magic or no magic, I somehow started to feel better. My mother thought I had been miraculously healed. I suppose in a way I was. No one had been there for me like my Papou had. Unconditional love can work miracles I suppose. Everyone needs that one person who loves them even when they don’t love themselves. I rejoined life again and soon came into my own. An alien feeling of optimism had been planted and rooted.

Now that I was in college, I intended to nurture that optimism in my new environment. Of course, hindsight is 20/20 and what was about to happen would change my life and inevitably make me break the oath I had made to myself.

Despite the newfound optimism, I had sort of expected to live a solitary existence when I finally got to college. No one was more surprised than I was when I met four friends that would become like family and make me feel spectacularly normal.

It was my freshman year at OSU, and I was sitting in French class. I remember this girl wandering in and looking as out of place as I did. With her coiled black hair and glowing dark brown skin, Julie Ochieng was a gentle spirit who radiated insecurity. She too desired an escape from her chaotic family life. In fact, we had that in common. Together we had begun to build what would be a solid group of friends.

As luck would have it, there was another girl in that class who drove both Julie and I crazy. Tracy was a beautiful red-haired diva, key word: diva. She had a nasally complaining tone to her voice that was occasionally akin to a screeching cat. Her French pronunciation was even more painful. The guttural ‘r’ just seemed to elude her mouth altogether. I remember the day her frustration got the better of her. She closed her book, gathered her things, and left the class. Julie and I could tell she was losing it so we followed her and discovered her crying in the corridor. We talked over coffee, found her surprisingly real under the facade, and have been friends with her ever since. Academic inspired breakdowns have a real knack for bringing people together. Finally, it felt like how high school was supposed to feel like with ‘real’ friends. Together, we were goofy, dramatic, and slightly immature as a pack. I’m both happy and mortified to report that not much has changed.

That same month luck stepped in again when James Sugiuda, came to talk to my Papou about some unfinished notes and articles regarding my stepfather’s life. A beloved professor at Oregon State University, Aiden Quinn married my mom when I was still an infant. The years I spent with him were the happiest of my life, and nothing has ever been the same since he passed. In his tenure, he’d written several history books that ended up on the mandatory reading list for history majors around the world. A sort of celebrity in Corvallis, he was revered, and James was determined to continue his unfinished research.

Julie and Tracy were over visiting me when James appeared on our doorstep with his best friend David. He was so respectful and charming that Papou, in typical Greek fashion, insisted they both stay for dinner. It didn't take long for Plato to welcome the guys by jumping on them. David instinctively dropped to the ground to wrestle with him, and I knew then that they were good people. Plato always was an excellent judge of character. If he didn't like you, he let you know. It also helped that Julie was instantly charmed by James, and the five of us had some pretty great chemistry. My first real friend group had formed without much effort on my part.

James’s friend David was a star player on the OSU football team. He was bold, reckless, and sarcastic as hell. He had an aura that most girls struggled to resist. In fact, I don’t recall ever seeing him without a girlfriend of the week on his arm. Standing strong at six foot four, he had sandy blonde hair and intense emerald green eyes that were impossible to miss. Despite his many charms, I only had brotherly affection for him. It wasn’t personal, I’d never felt about anyone the way Julie felt for James or Tracy felt for her latest crush.

James was the antithesis of his friend. He had a sweet and calming nature and a tall and lanky physique. His longish jet-black hair didn’t manage to hide his kind eyes or his killer bone structure. James rarely talked about his family, and curiosity eventually led Julie to Google his surname. It turned out his family was anything but ordinary. In fact, he was a descendent of Japanese Samurai royalty. Humble and artistic, James was content reading history books and playing guitar and didn’t want anyone to think he was special. He played in a band which definitely ensured he was popular too, but to his credit he never took himself too seriously. Over the last year Julia made it her job to be at every concert and every jam session he played in. Though James was appreciative, he hadn’t ever noticed or reciprocated her flirtations. Julie finally decided enough was enough, although getting to that point took nearly the entire year she had spent chasing after him. Regardless, a plan was in place: she was finally going to let him know her true feelings at the Neskowin beach bonfire that evening after the game.

The university parking lots were wild with banners and game day fever, reaching a level of excitement that can only be reached when playing our rival, the University of Oregon. Julie and Tracy dressed up in the staple orange and black colors for the game. The plan was to meet up at 2:30 and go to the game from Tracy’s dorm—stopping briefly at David’s fraternity to load up his car for the beach.

The anxiety riddled texts from Julie started early that morning, and by the time we gathered to dress for the game she was a mess. Despite her incredible beauty (she reminded me of Lupita Nyong’o personally) she was still very insecure. Like James, she was statuesque in frame, but she had an unfortunate lack of grace. It was like watching Bambi learning how to walk every time she stumbled down the stairs in the library, making her blush and duck a lot to avoid stares.

Sophie, does this shirt look stupid? Julie questioned, nervous as always.

They all look good Jules. Besides I’m pretty sure you already tried that one on ten shirts ago I replied firmly but kindly.

Ugh, I’m just so nervous about tonight and the whole James thing. What if he just laughs at me? she said, looking worried, I don’t think I can handle that kind of rejection.

It’ll be fine, I consoled, he’d be an idiot not to fall for you. Here, let me put your eye make-up on. I hoped switching the subject would soothe her nerves.

As I had hoped, Julie calmed down once I started putting her make-up on. Though she did jerk her head every time she heard an alert on her phone.

Julie, you need to stop moving unless you want me to put eyeliner on your eyeball I warned her.

Taking in a much-needed deep breath, she calmed down. The calm façade was about to be tested, however, as the tell-tale sound of fingernails tapping on the door indicated Tracy had arrived. She was just in time to work on Julie’s hair and probably tell her she chose the wrong shirt. Tracy had a brash way of informing those around her of their apparent fashion faux pas. Julie and I loved her despite her pretentious qualities and appreciated her well-hidden character.

I opened the door to find an unexpectedly cheerful Tracy grinning from ear to ear. Tracy’s red hair and light freckles on her nose boasted of Irish heritage, her pale skin looked translucent against her delicate Celtic features and flamboyant green eyes.

Hello, ladies! She looked toward Julie, today is the big day!! Tracy announced with a singsong inflection. Nice job on the make-up Sophia, she noted, clearly overlooking the botched job I did on Julie’s eyeliner.

Thanks, I said, taking the compliment with a slight grain of salt.

Nice shirt Jules, Tracy was acting much too sweet—something was up.

So, Tracy, what’s up with you? I tried to make my inquiry sound casual.

Oh, not much, she said with gleeful obfuscation, an awkward silence followed.

O.k. I can’t wait to tell you guys. I just got a call from my mom, she paused for more drama, which was such a Tracy thing to do. Julie and I restlessly waited.

I’m going! Tracy announced.

Going where?, I inquired impatiently.

To Greece with you guys!

Oh my God, Tracy, that’s awesome! Julie squealed while jumping about like a nine-year-old girl going to her first slumber party. After football season we were