Unearthed.

Luorvas, the 8th day in the month of Nesvyn;

What occurred during the 451st year into the Seventh Epoch of Dyjian.

Arlen admired the white feathery leaves of the last aphagerodict he saw as he came to the border of where the bog stops and the Blackland begins. This time was going to be different.

As he stepped over the frayed, gray border of bog decay and debris, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He could not place why, or what kept drawing him here. He was not alone this time. Firm fingers wrapped around his wrist and tugged him back.

Sara shivered in the rain, and through the locks of her short brown hair plastered to her face, she gritted her teeth. “What did you bring me out here for? I wanted to go to the zoo, not miles outside of the city to wade through rain and mire!”

He stopped and focused on Sara’s face, filtering through his reasons. What to say? His right hand twitched. The hand cannon was right there, in the holster on his hip. Arlen shook his head. “You must not appreciate nature’s authentic beauty.” He smiled and pulled her along. “No, my dear. I brought you here in hopes of an explanation. Something that can put my mind at ease,” he said.

Her scowl softened to a frown. She planted her feet where she stood by the border and crossed her arms. “A war-psyche is more fit for your needs.”

“True. But I also wanted to confide in a friend.” He stopped and cast his glance over his shoulder, regarding her. Her arms fell to her sides, eyelids relaxed, and head canted to one side.

That is, until he nonchalantly said: “Or an old fling, whichever you are to me first.” He stopped by the side of a monumental tower that bowed over from where it stood upright on into the dirt. The sphere mounted on its far end was broken open, and like all other delicate things around the ruins, the glass was strewn about.

“I keep coming to this spot,” he said, his eyes roving over the landscape. “Like something is buried just under this.” He placed his hand on the tower’s side. It groaned. He assumed because of its being old and rusted and the metal no longer stalwart.

“Arlen, it’s just an old tower,” Sara said, her tone low and irate.

It groaned again, louder, and unprovoked. It did not sound like the groan of old, worn metal. Sara thought it sounded human. She narrowed her eyes and stepped towards the tower, and this time it yelled an indistinguishable slur of sounds. She got down on her knees and poked her head under the bow of the tower, where it rose highest from the mound of mud at its base.

Two little glowing disks of polished gold peeked up at her. She dug out some of the mound and more light flooded into the pocket under the tower’s mass. The flesh of the man she found was chalk white and his hair a tangled black mass. He was naked under the tower, thrashing wildly, his pupils constricted and unresponsive to light. There were dark, silvery blisters protruding from the surface of his stomach. They throbbed, both featuring a distinct black spot on the top, that, like the erect nipple of a nursing mother, was tight and prepared to spew.

He had been bitten by a bog ufeidan. The ufeidan coiled around his waist and legs. He could not control his movements; the venom had already made his motor skills useless. It had also forced his pupils shut. Without a second thought Sara took hold of his flailing arm and pulled.

“Help me, damn you!” she yelled.

Sara froze in place, gawking at the shifting body of the ufeidan. It poked its head up, jagged, venom injecting teeth gleaming brown and yellow in the light from its gaping maw. It shrieked. Her hands were locked around the man’s palm and his arm that he could not, for the life of him, keep still.

Arlen’s eye twitched, staring, widemouthed. An inconsolably long time had passed since he’d seen an actual ufeidan. The long, legless lizards were quite common around Dyjian, but the ones native to Malzeyur were rumored to be extinct.

His hand moved to the holster on his hip. The beast hissed, drew its mass back, lunged. Arlen pointed his gun at the brown and gray blur. Six bullets slowed the beast into a writhing, squealing, gnarled thing. The creature rolled until its bloodied head was topside down in the mud. Arlen stepped on the ufeidan’s throat, pinning it. One bullet, carefully sent through the brain of the ufeidan, killed it.

With the coils loosened, Sara had an easier time pulling the man out from under the tower and into the rain. Arlen took out a knife from his pants pocket, flipped the blade out and offered it to her. “You’re not even going to thank me for saving your life, are you?”

Arlen watched her straddle the man to hold him still. His strength was fading, quickly. His fingers twitched but he did not have the vigor to flail his arms anymore, and they laid wherever he had managed to lay them.

“We need to get him into the infirmary.” She did not take the knife. There was no sense in slicing the blisters open and draining them where he could easily end up infected out in the bog.

Arlen, with lazy eyelids and crossed arms, did little to help her. “I want my thank you —”

“Hospital.” She glared at him. “Now.”

Arlen grunted. He took out his cell phone and tapped on the glossy screen. He put it to his ear and growled a few things as the man’s breathing slowed. From swift panting gasps, the breaths he drew were getting short and shallow. His eyes slowly rolled towards his forehead, and vanished behind his fluttering eyelids.

Arlen rubbed his temple with his spare hand. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, staring down at the man. The golden-eyed man had not died yet, but Sara kept filling his lungs with her own breath, to sustain him.

When the helo arrived, its whirling blades shook the canopy as the transport hovered as low to the ground as it could get. A pair of paramedics brought a gurney down and lay it beside the weakened man, lifted him onto the stretcher, sealed an oxygen mask to his face and hoisted him up into the helo. The whole way back to Kneitun, Arlen and Sara did not share words.

As the helo passed through the curtain of water, Arlen stared out the window. He was the last one to leave the helo, after Sara and the paramedics with the man on the stretcher had vanished beyond the emergency wing doors.

Arlen bit his lower lip. The pain kept his eyes from narrowing and his face from contorting into a scowl. He never expected to find a man. He balled his fist, watching Sara.

Sara focused on the man’s face. “Everything is going to be all right. Just stay with me,” she said, pulling the dirt out of his matted hair.

The nurse pushed the IV needle into his arm. Seconds later she thrust a needle into the connector. She gradually pressed the plunger until the milky anti-venom filled the drip line. Soon the vital signs monitor began beeping at a steady pace. His breathing remained shallow, but his eyelids stopped fluttering and his muscles relaxed.

Sara donned latex gloves, a surgeon’s coat and a white mask. The nurse brought the surgical tray over and stood beside her. She took the scalpel and sliced the blisters, black-silvery blood and yellow-green pus gushed forth. She pushed on the skin around the wound, forcing more pus up.

He groaned again. The slight throbbing pain he easily endured, even the tension of pushing and squeezing around the bites. But the disinfectant burned, horribly.

Sara sighed and lifted off her mask. She bandaged him up real good, checked his IV, then smiled down at him. “Today I gave you a second chance,” she said, lifting his head to put another pillow under him. Finally she noticed Arlen, his fist pressed to his lips. She pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway.

“Another day, another life saved.” He smiled and opened his arms to embrace her. “All thanks to my dear Sara —”

“Or an old fling.” She arched her brows and pushed him aside. “It’s Career Day.”

“Yeah,” Arlen sighed.

“Put on something presentable. Jeans and a white T with a bloody hand print aren’t very dignifying.”

He looked into her piercing gaze; she was right. “So I’ll see you later tonight —”

“I want him back at eight-thirty.” She glared into his bright blue eyes.

“I’m sure you do. If Marqi’s not back by then?”

“You bring him back when I say he should be back, or — or I’ll…”

Arlen arched his brows and threw his hands up in the air. He kept his hands up, even after she huffed, pushed past him and started down the hall. “He’s my son, too.” He watched her clench her fists and keep on walking. “He’s my son, too!” He shouted after her, until she turned around the corner at the far end of the hall. Somehow, he knew she was going to make his life impossible, so long as there was a child between them.

Already, he regretted not pulling his gun on her, as he strode into the parking garage and retrieved his car. It was an antique model, with short wings and two small fins on the back end. He had to start it through the bypass, because his keys were sitting with his secretary. The ionic engines did not mutter a sound as he tilted the long, floor-mounted joystick forward and the car taxied out of the hospital’s garage.

Heavy rains constantly buffeted Kneitun, the capitol of Konstaneah. The rain never touched the city walks, and the brushed steel sheen of her buildings was just as immaculate as the day they were erected. The pristine rain collected high above and poured down all around the city. It formed a blanket of water, held at bay by technologies so profound — and yet so commonplace to the modern Konstanean — that rain was just something one expected to be there like the sheets on a bed.

Arlen gently settled his car down on the top docking pad. He pressed his hand to the scanner on the dash. A cyan light scanned him. “Shutdown.”

Thank you for choosing Alekzandryan-built engines, the car chimed.

He held his hands up as soon as he set foot in the foyer of his office. His secretary, Lellayla, stopped tapping away on the touchscreen top of her desk and looked at him. “Didn’t go well?”

“Nope!” He leaned on the counter, propping his head up on his hand. “I have no idea why I keep trying to make amends with her, Lel. I mean, wow. Control freak much? I wish I realized that sooner.”

“Then you wouldn’t have Marqisian.”

Arlen snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “You’re right.” He lingered on the counter, bobbing his finger. “I’d go back in time, to the day that Marqster was conceived. Then I’d suck him right out — itty-bitty wad of cells in a tube of woman-balloon juice. Then I’d hunt you down that day, and convince you to be his surrogate mother.”

“What if I refused?”

“I’d go back in time to the night before and he’d be yours anyway.” He grinned.

She laughed.

“So.” He started for his personal quarters, behind the inner office. “Why hadn’t you informed me that it is Career Day?”

“Because you already knew.” Lellayla slid her chair back and tucked a tablet under her arm. She followed behind him, her eyes fixed on the tablet.

“Correction: why haven’t you informed Sara not to inform me that it is Career Day?” He strode through his considerably messy office and into his room. The first thing he did was open the closet. Casual clothes were neatly folded and placed into dressers. His shoes were organized by the boxes he bought them in. The Ganton-y costumes hung on cedar coat hangars.

“Because you know she’s predisposed to tell you regardless of whether you actually know it or not.” Her voice was a ways behind him.

He tucked his dress shirt, buttoned and zipped his slacks, slipped on his coat. He had fastened most of the buttons from the collar on down when he glanced over his shoulder at Lellayla, who sat on the edge of the bed. His palms were sweaty. Today, he had to do it. He could not wait any longer. He planned the afternoon off for his son, to actually be there instead of just picking the boy up early, like the previous Career Days. But the afternoon was perfect. No one present but Arlen and Lellayla.

He had to know.

“Lel, can you come here, please? I want a second opinion.”

When she got near him, he stepped back and gently moved her to the closet’s vanity mirror. He stood behind her, reaching around to the front of her neck. He grinned as he gently pulled the thick leather band of a choker to her neck. It had small braided chains of gold that dangled down to teardrop diamonds. Nine thicker braids of sterling silver secured the centerpiece, the gaudy Ra’ol stone. Its deep amethyst turned dark burgundy towards its center; in lines of pearl, the insignia of Konstaneah lay etched.

“I’m thinking that I’m going to need a new secretary,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist as she looked wide-eyed in the mirror. He pulled her to him. “Gantoness Regnant, is a beautiful title —”

“It is an overwhelming title.” Lellayla turned and searched his eyes. “Arlen, why?”

He loosed his arms from her hips, but his hands still lay on her. Arlen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then focused on her hazel irises. “Were I not already Arch Ganton, this would be easier, being that I am a common man from coarse, mundane roots. Status, freedom and power absolute — my whole life is vanity, except that every day… that I see you… my hearts race. Lel, I can’t live without you. I’d much sooner revolt against myself and go running off with you to — anywhere — I mean screw playing King of the Castle, I love you. Always. And I wish you’d marry me. Even if it means some fancy title — it’s nothing but a title. To me, you’re Lel. And, Lel, you’ll always be to me. So… why not?”

Silence. His eyes were watery, his pulse jumped, palms sweaty. Arlen feared her saying no. He hated ‘no,’ or anything remotely resemblant of it. He did well to keep his breathing regular.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He glanced up at the closet corner, tapping his lip. He smiled broadly. “I love the sound of ‘yes’.”

She stepped forward, laying her arms on his shoulders. “Yes.”

“W-wait — what?” Arlen had the stupidest, wide-eyed look on his face. He scratched his head. After contemplating just how to hold his cool over inevitable rejection, her espousal threw him off. “I mean — yes — yes — yeah!” He wrapped his arms around her hips and lifted her clear off of her feet. Holding her tight, he twirled.

“Put me down, put me down! Down!”

“Oh, right —” Arlen sat her down on the bed. He glanced at the clock. School was almost out, Career Day almost past. Good, just the way he wanted it. Arlen had no intentions of sitting in the classroom with everyone else waiting his turn. Waiting, among contentious whispers and inquiring minds. “As this is your last day being my secretary, my final order is that you clock out, and come with me.”

“Sure thing, boss.” She smiled.

When Arlen arrived at the school, he made certain that the limousine occupied the reserved space, centered at the school’s entrance where the kids were picked up. Twenty-seven escorts were arrayed parallel to one another: thirteen in front, thirteen in back, a single escort at the head of the accompaniment. He imagined the panic of the principal, clutching his chest between his hearts as the Arch Ganton closed the limo door and strode through the front entrance.

The principle’s assistant hurried over to Arlen. “E-excuse me!” She said. Six men in black suits immediately got between her and Arlen, folding their hands in front of themselves. She reeled backwards.

Arlen stopped and looked at her. He liked to think he had that effect on people in general; that he was an astonishing sight to behold — when he wasn’t dressed as Arch Ganton. “Yeah?” he asked her.

“My — m-my — Ganton, sir. M-may I ask wh-what brings — you — here?”

“Marqisian Aylariun Malyth, what classroom is he in?”

She pointed down the hall behind him. “Homeroom th-thirty-five.”

“Thank you.” He tucked his arm under his stomach and bowed at the waist. He noticed her office mates poking their heads through the door.

Homeroom thirty-five had parents. All of whom were present and paired next to their child, except for a little blue-green eyed auburn-haired boy, who instead of listening to one of Arlen’s subordinates talk about how important organization, communication and following orders precisely is for the job, especially when he didn’t like working underneath Arlen, rested his head on his folded arms and looked on with a let down face.

“Huh.”

“Sir?” said one of the bodyguards.

“I didn’t know Ryginald had a daughter. Or that he despises me, too.” Arlen waited, listening through the door. “Well, he can find a new boss.” Finally the sound of applause filtered through the door.

“Marqisian Malyth, will you come up and tell us about your parents’ careers?” The teacher motioned for him to come up front.

Marqisian felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach as he stood in front of the teacher’s desk and faced his classmates. The faces of the parents were bright, but the kids were sneering.

“H-hi.” He barely waved, cheeks flushed. “I-I know I’ve told — a lot of you that… I’m the son of the Arch Ganton… But my —” He swallowed and looked out the window. “My — my dad is too busy to be h-here and… M-my mom works a lot as a doctor. But, I’d l-like to be a Ganton, like my d-dad when — I grow up.”

“And never show up?” A kid shouted from the back of the class.

Marqisian lowered his head. He started for his seat. Shame loomed over him. It was so heavy that he did not notice the gasps and stammering, garbled whispers.

“To the contrary! A Ganton is a man of impeccable timing; he is precisely where he needs to be, when the need calls for him. And, as opposed to running the country I’d much rather be here —”

Marqisian had almost sat down when the sound of Arlen’s voice filled the room. “Dad!” He ran across the room and threw his arms around his father, hugging him tightly.

“On behalf of my son,” said Arlen.

He smiled broadly, gazing up at him. “I thought you wouldn’t make it,” he said.

Arlen knelt down, making himself level with Marqisian. “I would rather die than let my Marqster down.” He kissed Marqisian’s forehead.

Arlen carefully contemplated what he wanted to say. No doubt there were hungry minds, what wanted to delve into sensitive information. An opportunity to openly address the head of a country without regulation of audience and press presented more problems than it did freedoms.

“I have been many things throughout my life. I understand the thinking behind the man on top always being born in a golden cradle. That’s not true. I’m poorly trained for my life’s calling. Being Arch Ganton is a walk in the park — but being a dad?” Arlen chortled.

“All the books in the world could never have prepared me for Marqisian. I mean changing diapers, and getting up four in the morning to feed this screaming, tiny half-me?” He noticed some parents smiling, chuckling. “It’s not the most relaxing career in the world. But watching Marqisian grow — seeing his first steps, first words, and now his being nine — wow…”

Arlen shook his head. He looked down at Marqisian. “Being a father has to be the most rewarding thing I have done in my life. I love it. In fact, I would unquestionably do it again. There you have it. Arlen Marqees DuShaffte, Arch Daddy.”

The hushed, small crowd looked on with awe. Arlen motioned for Marqisian to get his backpack and his homework. Just as he had arrived, the man departed with the boy jogging up to his side. Finally, the school bell rang. The parents along with their children sat there, awed, still.

Arlen poked his head in and pointed at Ryginald. “You’re fired.”

Lellayla held the limo door open.

“Lelly!” Marqisian ran up to her and hugged her tightly.

Their smiling faces brought a fragment of peace to Arlen’s mind. He lingered on the pathway to the school entrance. Seeing them hug, he only wondered if he was doing the right thing. His son watched him.

“Dad?”

Arlen looked at Marqisian. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

Arlen snorted. “Of course I am!” He was faintly trembling. Finally he got in the limo. Marqisian sat between him and Lel. The boy almost hopped out of his seat, arms waving about as he divulged the very wisdom given to him by his third grade teacher. Lellayla listened intently, questions abounded.

Arlen did not notice when they stopped. He had not said a word, and they were almost to the Embassy.

“You’re not okay, are you?” Marqi frowned, pushing into his father’s lap.

“No, not really.” He wrapped an arm around his son and ruffled Marqi’s hair. He glanced at the boy. Marqi’s brows were up. Arlen knew that look: he was expecting an answer before his bedtime. “Marqster, listen.” Arlen seated Marqisian. “I’m going to give you a choice. A big, fat, important choice.”

“O-okay,” Marqi said, anxiously.

How to explain a complex situation to a nine year old, Arlen had not the faintest idea. Arlen took a deep breath. “Marqster, do you want to live with your mom, or your dad and Lel?”

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

“I’m not trying to come between you and your mom, or be out of your life… but this is your choice, and whatever you do, I’m behind you one-hundred percent. Marqi, I just don’t want anything to do with your mom anymore.” Arlen balled his fist. His head hurt trying to keep tears from flowing over his eyelids. He could not bear the thought of Marqisian living with Sara. Because he knew what that entailed.

Marqisian smiled and leaned on Arlen’s side. “Dad, I want to live with you,” he said.

Arlen nodded. “Okay,” he sighed. He knew he should be happy. But that feeling from the Blackland followed him. As if someone was scrutinously watching his every move, all his decisions, his motifs. Yet, that man — up until the moment Sara unearthed that man, Arlen had never returned from his ventures in the Blackland feeling as he did. He reached for his cell phone. Sara needed to know Marqisian’s whereabouts tonight.

The cell was set to silent, no vibration, in her pocket. Sara kept tapping a pen to her lips. She focused on the readings of the display that tracked the man’s neural patterns. He had lain there all day as if exhausted. Yet his mind could be compared to a bee hive of activity; he wasn’t sleeping.

“Doctor Malyth,” The gerontologist knocked on the door frame. “You are going to want to see this.

Her head twitched. “Come in.”

The gerontologist stepped in. He held a tablet in his hands that displayed data from a series of DNA, scans and radiology tests. He handed the tablet to Sara.

Her brows furrowed and she gawked at the screen, sliding the graphs along with her finger. “This suggests that he’s over twelve billion years old.”

“Yep.” The Geron-nurse nodded.

“That’s impossible.” She shoved the tablet back into his hands. “He can’t be older than the outset of mankind and still be human.” She glanced back at the neural monitor. “Get the harness on him. I want to probe his brain.” She snapped her fingers. There had to be logical explanations for all this.

The nurses had fit the harness around his head when Sara entered his room. The man lay there in the bed, calm and respiring deeply. She was about to connect the harness to the Graphic Neural Exposure and Imaging Machine, when the nurse jumped back and screamed.

The man sat upright and glared into their faces. He glanced at his hands; then ripped the pads and monitor wires from his skin. The drip needle ran deep into his vein. Then, he noticed his blood. It flowed black but pooled fluorescent silver. This was wrong. His hands trembled as he palmed his arm where the IV was. His fingers were covered in his blood.

“You’re okay, calm down!” Sara pressed gauze to his arm. She looked at him oddly.

▼ Sara~ His unblinking gaze allured her. Sssara…~ He said, yet his lips did not move. Slowly he canted his head to one side. Finally I get to meet you.

She could not look away. The rings of gold swimming in bright pools of pearl — brighter than any oculars she had ever seen — captured her attention and refused to release her like a cold blooded constrictor.

▼ You’ve kept me waiting, Sara.~

“H-how do you know my —”

▼ I know a lot about you, Sara. More than anyone knows — even you.

“What do you mean you know about me!?” She clenched his arm, voice escalating.

He lifted a finger to his lips.

▼ I’m elated you want to know — but I cannot tell you here… Take me home with you.

Sara regarded him: tall, slender, and able to project his thoughts into her mind. She reached into her pocket for her pen. “How am I able to hear you?”

▼ We share a special bond, Sara. Something no other person on the face of Dyjian will have with you. Still, to prove I am not your enemy…

Hot, wet euphoria rushed through her. She gripped the rail at his bedside, crumbling to her knees, panting, her every cell tingling intensely. A sensation remarkably like an orgasm ripped all throughout her body. Any longer and Sara would be on the floor, quivering, unable to make heads or tails of the world around her.

The sensation stopped. He sat there, eerie little smile on his lips.

“Wh-who are you?”

“Yonathael,” he said. ‘And you will not regret knowing me.’

Sara signed the discharge papers. Soon she was in her car, and Yonathael was wrapped in a long coat sitting beside her. The apartment complex she resided in was not far from the hospital. With the scan of her hand and the confirmation of her voice, the door opened.

She had a small place with bleached white walls. She hung her purse on the rack by the closet and motioned for him to sit on the couch. “I want answers.” She crossed her arms.

“You should.” Yonathael sat down, peeking around at her immediate things.

“Now.” Her voice cut through the air.

But where should he begin? He laced his fingers together and placed them on his knee — crossing one leg over the other. He leaned back thoughtfully. “I am the reason Arlen kept coming to the tower. I was drawing him —”

“Impossible —”

“Let me finish.” He cleared his throat. “Drawing him, because I knew he would bring you. Your love-loathing relationship is thicker than mere actions. Arlen knows you’re too meticulously controlling to have Marqisian —”

Sara stared in disbelief. “How do you know —”

“I said: let — me — finish.” Yonathael’s stare made Sara shiver. “He knows that you would not allow yourself to get pregnant for no good reason. But Arlen can’t remember the sex that led to his son’s birth in the first place — no. He keeps seeking closure with you; subconsciously wanting to kill you — and what better place than out in the Blackland?”

Hardly anyone visited the Blackland. No matter how a body had come to know death, no one would question it. Because the onus of death deterred the living. The ruins were not natural.

“But, his most beloved treasure — Marqisian — what would the boy think? Knowing that he would have to tell his son that he shot his mother in the cursed place. So he brought you, to put you to death, on the day that my awakening came full circle. That lizard had been coiled under that tower for years, waiting for me to come back.”

“Back from what?”

Yonathael smirked. “You humans ought be grateful that you can’t be broken.” His thoughts strayed from him, an aloof gaze rolling to focus on nothing. His head bobbed, like a cat judging its prey. “I possibly deserved it.”

He dislocated his jaw, it popped, then he moved it back into place. Finally he focused on her. “I was held prisoner for a long time, Sara. I did everything my masters asked of me, only to be torn down and discarded; ripped from my proper form, alienated from my power of aelyth…” He went quiet. “What irony, the very thought, that Destiny himself can be adversely ‘destined’.”

She furrowed her brows, and sat on the couch, perplexed, that he referred to himself as Destiny. She was not sure if she understood him right. “They break you… so that you’re easier to kill?” But how does ‘Fate’ become ‘Broken’? 

“You’re smarter than I give you credit for.” He grinned. “That ufeidan was there to kill me. After it succeeded, it would have died. But you and Arlen were right on cue.” He watched her face contort into a grimace. “You’re disturbed.”

“Yeah, I am.” Her head bobbed. “This is scary.”

“As well it should be.” He said, softly, sweetly.

“I’m going to take you to the mental ward —”

“Sara, no.” He gripped her arm. “Trust me, Sara, I mean you no harm. You wanted answers.” 

“I didn’t want to know all this was —” 

“Orchestrated?”

She huffed. “Yes.”

“That’s what you humans call ‘Fate,’ is it not?” He chuckled. “You all want to believe everything happens for a reason, rejecting choice and free will. Then when someone sits down and explains it all to you, you cringe.”

She sat there quietly.

“Is there a room I can have for the night?”

“Marqi’s room.” She pointed at the stairs. “First door on the right.”

He got up. “Thank you, Sara.” He bowed, then headed for the room.

The deadbolt on the door was operable only from the outside. The room was empty, as if no one lived there. The white sheets on the bed were pressed to perfection, the windows barred and in the closet the clothes were meticulously arrayed. Not a toy to be seen, exactly the way Yonathael expected it. Straps were hidden under the bed and the only thing that looked out of place was a necklace dangling from the ceiling that featured the talons of a Kyusoa’s foot.

Yonathael drew the covers back and laid down. He wasn’t trying to go to sleep, even after he heard Sara turn off the tele, headed down the hall past his room and shut the door to her own.