The Chosen

sliced veins. Time immemorial, his pondering persisted. All of history wears the same face. Good and evil are only masks which change like the seasons. The designs scarcely matter. It was all the same in the end. Heaven or hell. Abstinence or pleasure.

Denial or truth.

The Factotum chose truth. It was his own god which beckoned him now, with providence, with truth.

What a wondrous acknowledgement!

“The balm,” he instructed. “Calm her down; she’s terrified.”

Zyra knelt and opened the tiny hand-blown bottle. The bottle looked ancient. She dribbled several drops of the warm leahroot oil onto the gagged woman’s bare abdomen, then gingerly massaged it into her skin. She did this with great care, caressing the slippery oil over the plush belly, breasts, and legs. A pleasant, cinnamony fragrance rose up with the woman’s body heat. The fervid squirming began to wind down, then abated altogether when Zyra gently rubbed a few more drops between the abductee’s legs. Now the strained face relaxed, and her eyes—previously pried open by sheer terror—narrowed against the seeping repose of the balm.

“There,” the Factotum whispered. “That’s better.”

And it was. Everything was better. The Factotum felt becalmed in his surmise of the future. The silence, now, hung about his baldhead like a halo, or a static tiara as he lent a final, smiling gaze to his acolytes. “Take the corpse up,” he instructed Lemi, then, to Zyra, “And take her down.” His gaze seemed radiant on them. He thought of them as his children.

“Soon,” he added, “it will be time to begin.”

— | — | —

^{CHAPTER TWELVE}

Vera slowly closed her bedroom door, noticing the unopened bottle of Grand Marnier on the antique nightstand. Below it lay a one white rose, a snifter, and a little note:

Dear Ms. Abbot,

I hope that your first day at The Inn proved a rewarding one, and one of countless such days. I’m indebted to you for the expertise that you have so enthusiastically brought to this endeavor, and I’m delighted as well as proud to have you as one of my staff.

Sincerely,

Feldspar

What a lovely gesture, and how fitting. The day had been long and hard, and Vera knew that they would all be like that; a nightcap right now was what she needed. She uncorked the bottle and poured herself a drink, twirling the pretty liquor around in the wide glass to let it aerate. But why the rose? she wondered. It had been plucked of its thorns. She took it to the veranda doors with her drink. Certainly Feldspar was not making a romantic gesture—the rose was just an appreciative token. Still, she contemplated this, and herself. It seemed almost bizarre to her. Despite Feldspar’s clipped, businesslike demeanor and squat looks, she felt remotely attracted to him. Is he married? she wondered. Is he involved? Somehow, she didn’t think so; she couldn’t picture it. And why am I thinking about this anyway? What did she foresee? A potential relationship with him? An affair? Ridiculous, she scoffed. Besides, she knew full well that the biggest mistake a manager can make was getting involved with people she works with. Still, the notion tickled her.

Maybe I’m just horny, she flightily considered. The day and all its work was over now. This fact cleared her head, and left her to ruminate her own life outside of work. What did Paul think of her leaving? What was he doing now? This she could only wonder about for a moment until the awful imagery returned, and the wretched scene she’d walked right into. Even the thought of his name gave her a quick shock. I hope I never see that cheating, lying, demented son of a bitch ever again, came the bitter words.

But it made her feel naive, embarrassed. How long had she been fooled by him? How