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Part 4 of 6

We live in a world where emotions can lift people from their sorrows as easily as drown them within. They cause you to strive for something better or hold you back, wielding control both unmeasurable and unmistakable. But what if, for some, emotions held a tangible power, if they could use the emotions of the world for their own benefit? What is the chance that someone would abuse that gift?

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Chapter 10 - Terror

“We can’t let Heather take the chance.” Brennus said, restating his view in case no one heard him the first ten times.

Halloween morning found them in the lounge beyond Tess’s apartment, now converted into a war room. Analysts occupied the kitchen, while others handled communication with Diva and Boii agents in the field. Agents who appeared in the moment as police and left no memories amongst those with whom they spoke.

Still Ken felt all alone.

The prior night, after receiving the rose and message, Tess proved unwilling to trust a cab. Instead the two made their way to a late night pizzeria, which did a brisk after bar close business. While Ken ordered two slices of whatever, she started making calls. One of which led to a car ride home, two untouched slices of pizza left behind.

Back at Tess’s apartment, they answered Ilina's barrage of questions. Did you notice who left the rose? Did anybody seem suspicious? Do you go to school with an Eric? Remember any Erics? But they didn’t and couldn’t remember anything of help. By this point the prior night’s short sleep, combined with the stress and fear inundating his mind since the end of the party, left Ken wiped out. Ilina finally gave up and ordered him to use Tess’s spare room.

After a fitful sleep that barely refreshed, he now sat, wearing sweatshirt and sweats, logoed with his temporary university’s markings, arms wrapped around legs in an armchair while Brennus presented his case and Ilina offered counter arguments. Although the responses from the normally confident woman lacked conviction.

Ken asked, “Is there a Debra or Sarah among your thirty eight candidates, Ilina?”

“Yes, one of each. Unfortunately, they are among those who seemed the most unlikely choices and are no longer under our watch. I’ve dispatched teams to track them down, but...”

“...this Eric probably chose those names as a distraction, neither will prove his real target if not me. He will go after one of the other choices or someone you don’t even know about. Then again, maybe that’s what he wants us to think. Arrrg, I’m suddenly feeling sympathy for Vizzini from Princess Bride. There’s no way to protect them all, even if we know where they are, is there?”

“No, we don’t have the resources with the needed skills.”

“Besides he wants Heather? Me?”

“That is our belief,” said one of the analysts, a brunette in glasses who looked like Hollywood’s template for the pretty but smart girl.

Ilina asked, “Are you sure it is not misdirection, Leeza?”

“Misdirection is a distinct possibility, but as Heather said, until we know more, determining this Eric’s exact plan is a no-win exercise.”

“Has the name Eric led anywhere helpful?” Brice asked.

“It is middling popular name in the US, but that still leaves hundreds of thousands men who use it as there first or second name. Besides, we all know how well magic users hide their tracks. Right now our data miners are excluding those too young or too whatever, but that takes time.”

“And how do we know if it’s an alias or his real name?”

“Exactly, which is why I can’t wait to get my hands on the Melon Ball’s surveillance videos. We’ve already obtained it, now we just need it delivered.”

Utilizing the pathways available, a thumb drive arrived posthaste. Soon Leeza’s team watched each each camera’s video, the files opened on different computers, the best shot of their prior night’s table also displaying on the flat screen TV of the sitting room. After fast forwarding to their last visit to the table before the rose appeared, Ken and his party watched the video in double time.

When the two of them appeared on the screen Ken could hardly believe his eyes. Since the transformation, his daily allotment in front of mirrors seemed much greater than required by his old self, so he knew he looked like Heather, that he inhabited the body of the girl in the sexy wizard costume. Yet seeing her smile, the glow of happiness and health, a gloriously alive presence who belonged within that energetic crowd, he struggled to believe the memories did not number amongst those Gary implanted.

It made him regret life choices made long before he ever met Ilina Borisova. Did he really need to hide from the world? Why shrink away from all contact out of fear that some would be negative? How could he forgot the non-magical rewards of joy?

And joy is what he remembered feeling for most of the prior night. Which may explain why he felt so angry that this Eric asshole tarnished the experience.

“Slow it down,” Brice said, his command pulling Ken’s attention back to the video.

No need for him to point out the man who grabbed his attention. Probably because the man’s demeanor somehow differentiated him from the wealthy dilettantes and their friends. True, he wore a costume, but he walked with a purpose that set him apart, even more than the servers. Not that it left him ignored, men stepped aside from respect and women followed with their eyes.

All along Ken unconsciously thought of him as a loser, not this confident, powerful man. It made the killer’s actions seem even worse, to reap when unnecessary.

Near their table he stopped and looked around. Not in a furtive manner, just curious until he spotted what he sought. The camera from which they would watch his approach. A smile, neither cruel nor overly pleased, appeared beneath his mask as he flicked his wrist and the rose appeared. A parlor trick to those who saw it in the moment, but something else to those in the lounge the next day. True magic, semi-powerful magic to precisely teleport something so delicate into his hand.

“Fucking Zorro,” Ash said, venom in his voice.

As perfect a costume for a villain on Halloween Eve as for a wealthy Spaniard hiding his identity from corrupt officials in colonial California. The mask worked surprisingly well to hide his face and the gloves ensured no finger prints.

Turning from the camera he placed the rose and its note upon the table and, with the same saunter, he moved out of the camera’s view.

Ilina said, “Find the rest of the footage of Zorro.”

While the analysts compiled the footage, Brice asked, “Why would he show himself? It makes no sense.”

Ken needed no explanation, though Leeza offered one to those who listened. Five or so years earlier, he found himself on an A&E true crime kick and remembered how often serial killers taunted the police. They wanted to show their brilliance and prove they controlled the situation. For a moment, this mundane action made him feel better. Until he realized the killer did control the situation.

It took about fifteen minutes to gather all the film that featured Zorro, from his arrival in a cab, until his departure in the same fashion. Of course he used two cab companies with separate dispatches, further splitting their dwindling resources ordered to follow up with both places. But even more they needed to search for a platinum blonde, whose Emma Frost costume pushed Tess’s in second place during the costume contest and who left the nightclub with Zorro.

Those searches underway, they watched Zorro’s entire appearance, cut together from multiple cameras, over and over in the hope he would give something more away. They could guess at his height and his weight, 6’1” and 200 lbs, but the hat left them unsure if he wore a wig and the mask hid most of his face.

“I think that’s a real sword.”

“What does that matter, Ash?” Ilina asked.

“Ever walked through a crowded room with a sword at your waist?”

“No.”

“It’s a real nuisance, if you don’t know what you’re doing. It bangs into people, tables, chairs, what have you. But he’s having no problem, which makes me think he once lived with a sword on his belt. What era do you guys think the sword is from?”

“The hilt doesn’t look like it belongs on a sword that Don Diego de la Vega or his alter ego would use.” Brice said. “What do you think, Bren, you’re the collector?”

Jolted from his brooding, Brennus asked the operator to zoom in, studied the image, and said, “Definitely not a fencing rapier. Nor does it look like a saber, so guessing something used by a foot soldier. And since we’re in the States, I would guess the U.S. model 1850. Not the 1860, which used a different shape for its grip and pommel. I hope it has a CS marking on it?”

Leeza asked, ““Which means?”

“Confederate States. With the size of the US army in the 1850s, odds are this dickhead wore the sword during the American Civil War. And since we fought for the Union during that war, I hope he fought for the Confederates. I don’t like killing someone I may have fought beside, particularly if it was for a good cause.”

“Kill him?” Tess asked. “I think he deserves more than that.”

“He does. But dead is done, while revenge places you on this dickhead’s path.”

Brice said, “Having walked it for centuries in the past, I can tell it’s a terrible place that saps your soul. Better to bring it to a clean end.”

“Well first we need to catch him,” Ilina said. “And if your guess about the sword is correct, then he is older, smarter, and probably more powerful than we suspected. Leeza, will...”

“...that make my job even harder? Actually, you know, maybe not. With more data points it may be possible to spot a trend. And maybe he was not as smart or able when young.”

“You may want to talk to my family, we already spread across the United States by the time of the Civil War.” Ken said.

“If necessary.”

Politer than a blatant refusal, but the same result. Damn secrecy, magic users would not even give it up for the common good, in this case to save his life. It made Ken feel tired beyond a lack of sleep, more-so he felt his years. For the first time he felt old. Nor did the rest of the morning and early afternoon bring any succor.

Yet with speed that would stun most police forces, Ilina's agents tracked down the two cab drivers, both who remembered Zorro, though the second mostly because of Emma Frost, and told them Zorro came from and returned to the downtown Westin. There they learned he checked in the evening prior, dressed already in his costume, used the name Donald Diego, booked the room for two nights, and left the building, sight unseen, that morning.

While those back at the base checked into the obviously fake id and credit card, a Boii’s triad joined the Diva agents at the hotel to visit Eric’s room. However, they only found the blond, hungover and still in bed, who remembered little about her night’s lover other than his rocking her world.

Ken said, “He’s playing us. Burning out our resources while we chase shadows.”

“What else are we supposed to do?” Ilina asked.

“I guess I need to play along, continue as the bait.”

Nobody jumped in to argue, proving they all thought the same thing. Instead they looked towards Brennus, frustration on his face as reality warred with wishes.

“Damn, I hate it, but can’t think of anything else. However, I’m going as your date.”

“That goes without saying,” Ken said, unbothered that the second date of his life, the first not driven by Heather, involved the same man. The same strong, scary, good man. “And Tess, maybe you can go with Ash?”

Ash said, “Thanks Heather, make me out as a charity case. For your edification, I not only understand the meaning of certain big words, but am housebroken, can now use utensils, and know all the steps to the newest dances, as long as they are either the Lindy Hop or the Electric Boogaloo.”

Tess said, “Those will definitely be a real hit at a university dance, but I’d love to see you two in costumes”

“Can we go as musketeers?”

“Doesn't really match our costumes. Why do you want to dress like a musketeer, Ash?”

Brice asked, “He has this theory about how musketeers started the whole women digging a man in uniform phenomena?”

“How else do you explain how you ended up with Duchess Daphne? Besides, it will allow us to wear swords, which means, if given a chance, we can skewer this fucker's heart."

"And you speak such fluent French." Tess said, “But it is rather late to be picky, just rent a costume that fits.”

“We keep hundreds of years of uniforms and clothing stored away at Pythia’s Retreat, all maintained by the constructs as if we wear them every day.”

Brennus said, “And since it takes some time to get to the Retreat, Ash and I better head out so we’re back in time. Ilina, watch over Heather until I’m back.”

“Of course.”

Their departure coincided with a general lull in activity, the analysts busily working away on their magically enhanced computers and network. In the quiet, Ken allowed himself to think only of sleep rather than his alternative problems. Soon he could barely keep his eyes closed.

“Heather, why don’t cross back and try to get some sleep?” Ilina asked. “I’m sure you can use Tess’s spare room again?”

Tess offered her agreement in answer, “Go for it”

“Thank you for the offer, Tess. But I was wondering if I could use Heather’s, I mean my bed? I prefer a firmer mattress.” Ken asked.

This request, which Ilina almost denied, took some time to arrange. First Tess, along with a couple of her sisters checked Heather’s apartment for recently cast magic. Today, like every other time since she helped Heather rent in this building, she sought the creation of a new door, which required so much energy a skilled magic user would notice it weeks later. Even to use a door left lingering effects.

With nothing discovered, Ken and the two Diva agents walked from Tess’s to Heather’s. Trying to ignore the agents, who dragged chairs into the bedroom while he changed, Ken attempted to fall asleep in the bed Heather’s grandma bought her when she left home.

However no sooner did he lay down than he felt himself falling, accompanied by a shouted, “Heather!”

Not the first time he dreamed of falling. When his father forced pretend death upon him, he found it too common. Something that surprised none he knew who studied dream theory, as they said such dreams occurred because of a loss of control over his own life. This understanding once helped him take most of that control back into his own hands, something not given up until he involved himself in this insanity.

But never before did he dream of falling while awake nor land on an airbag that collapsed beneath his weight, the sound of air escaping from side baffles and the smell of rubber assaulting his nose. Eyes open, he the bottom of Heather’s bed above him, a trap door magicked into his mattress and secured against his Diva watcher. She could only stare in dismay.

For a moment Ken felt awe at the man’s preparedness. Then came the terror, as a figure wearing a gas mask appeared and sprayed a mist into his face, which pushed him into unconsciousness.

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Chapter 11 - Weak

Upon regaining consciousness Ken found no reason to delve into memory, he immediately remembered falling into danger. Yet that did not make him ready to face it. So he kept his eyes closed, relying on other sensations to tell him how deep the depth of the current danger.

No pain! That offered a spark of hope, dashed when he realized his tormentor might want him awake for that.

But some discomfort. A potential headache from the knockout gas niggled away in the back of his brain. It left him exasperated by bright sunlight sprayed across his eyelids, sunlight without warmth. Not surprising, they always expected Eric used a pocket world for his twisted enjoyment.

At least the bed met his and Amanda’s firmness expectations. Not that it meant he felt particularly comfortable, a restriction about his torso saw to that. Careful to not allow his blankets to ripple and signal his awareness, he let a hand creep up to feel the reinforced satin of a sleeping corset through his nightgown. Of course Zorro would like a bit of kink, though at the moment Ken felt no other restraints.

That gave him just enough confidence to consider opening his eyes. But first he listened for someone’s breath, footsteps, anything. Hearing nothing and unable to bear more suspense he gave in.

Whoever decorated the room liked the colour blue. An old fashioned, sky blue quilt matched the canopy overhead, onto which a cartoon-like sun and clouds were skillfully embroidered. A dark blue wallpaper, accented by small, golden fleurs-de-lis covered the walls in harmony with curtains, thick and heavy like the you rarely see anymore, and the cushions of the antique chairs scattered about the room. Even on the large table against wall at the foot of his bed Ken noticed the markings on the ceramic toiletries, which brought to mind the blue of the Williams’ Royal Doulton china.

Everywhere else he saw a dark, stained wood. The furniture, frames of the two windows, three doors, and even the floor. Although a Persian carpet of blue, gold, and red spread out around the bed.

In general the room struck him as something out of the past. A link that usually caused Ken the desire to explore, but today he only wished for escape. So with a thought towards his cousin, ‘Dalton don’t fail me now or I’ll haunt you until the day you die’, he cast the beacon spell. And nothing happened. How could it when he could not access any magic?

Not unusual for a pocket world to control access to external magical energy. But what about...he raised right hand to an ear and left to neck. The first found stud instead of golden rings and the latter felt nothing. Devastating, terrifying, but ridiculous as well. Of course Zorro would take away his jewelry, the number one foci for both male and female magic users. Comically stupid for them to allow such a simple thing to foil their plan. Only his captor would offer him the needed energy, because Ken suspected he shared the world only with constructs.

Nothing left but exploration.

Foiled in his attempt to roll out of bed by the corset, Ken slid over and swung his legs over the side. Ignoring slippers, the lucite soles appearing forlorn without marabou feathers, he looked out a window. It offered a view of mostly grass, as far as he could see, broken only by a gravel driveway that circled a garden and stretched outwards almost as if it offered escape. The scene only lacked gardeners caring for lawn and garden, but while magic created, it did not allow growth or death.

Through the nearest door he found a bathroom, its modern decor at odds with the antiquey feel of the bedroom. While using the facilities, Ken looked over at the mirror and realized though he could see most of his torso, the end of his loose braid hung out of sight. Apparently long hair went with heels and a corset.

Thinking of which. Ken moved to the mirror, lifted the short nightgown to examine and untie the corset lacing. The reach proved no problem, his body’s flexibility allowed a good grip on the knot, but it fended off all attempts to untie. This led him to search the vanity, which contained brand new tubes, jars, and boxes of everything he remembered Heather purchasing for her own vanity, but did not contain anything to help with the knot.

Returned to the bedroom, he checked the next door and found a walk in closet full of dresses straight from Gone with the Wind. Therefore, when he opened the last door, a sitting room in which waited a construct, he felt no surprise she was a light skinned though black construct, dressed almost like Mammy in the movie.

“Miss Amelia, your breakfast is on the table.”

Her appearance made him remember constructs made good watchdogs. Single minded in fulfilling their assignments, usually stronger than a comparable person, unable to feel pain, and immune to magical tampering, prison worlds used them as guard rogue magicians. With this knowledge and with hunger pangs making their presence known, Ken settled down at the table to eat the oatmeal, fruit, and milk.

Fed and assisted from the sleeping corset, Ken returned to the bathroom to bathe and plan escape. He succeeded at the first, but failed at the second. Beck, he learned the construct’s name from how she referred to herself, firmly quelled any hint at rebellion while she dressed him to exacting standards.

Again a mix of the new and old. Only Ken’s dress matched the fashion of the era, though probably of recent construction, based on how well it fit. In colour, the silk of the dress made him think of celeste, the turquoise blue of the Bianchi Rekord bicycle he owned in the early 80s. The skirts used decorative pleats to ensure they hung smoothly over petticoats that offered width without the insanity of hoops, though their length required heels nearly as high as the trashy slippers. A ruffled neckline left his shoulders and arms mostly bare, while the bodice followed the not quite suffocating boning of another corset. His waist further accented by a wide, sapphire ribbon wrapped twice about and tied it in a pretty bow at the back

In truth, dressing went faster than curling his twice lengthened hair. Which Beck tied into a ponytail with more sapphire coloured ribbon.

Rather elaborate costuming for murder. Though if Zorro kept his victims imprisoned for a year, hopefully he held off mistreating them until the final act. Apparently a shapeless orange jumpsuit would not do and Ken could not deny his inherited form looked rather spectacular in the get up. At least when standing still, walking in the skirt, shoes, and floppy brimmed hat left him less than graceful.

Ken guessed past victims experienced similar problems, since the construct turned into a drill sergeant. Lessons that did not leave him moving as elegant or ladylike as he looked, but at least he would not fall flat on his face.

A belief he questioned when released from the rooms into a hallway that lead to a wide staircase to the first floor of the house. Fortunately the wide tread and a low riser of the stairs, combined with a hand on the banister and the other managing his skirts, allowed him to slowly descend without accident. Another construct waited for him, an older man who dressed in fine quality clothes and watched the descent with pride in his eyes.

“Ahhh, Amelia, if only your mother was alive to see you. You’re beautiful.”

The triviality of Ken’s discomfort around constructs suddenly paled in comparison to a fear of those who created them. Yet while he expected they might provide more welcome company than his captor, he knew not to confuse them with good company. Better to view them as amusement parks guides, specifically those in a haunted house, tasked with ensuring visitors did not walk through forbidden doors.

So how to respond? With no desire to return pleasantries, Ken settled upon the question at the forefront of his mind. “What is going to happen to me?”

As expected, he did not receive an answer, but like pressing any key in an old school MUD, the question initiated the next bit of dialog.

“Amelia, though your beau will understand the delay when he sees you, we should hurry.”

With no magical sword, hunk of cheese, or skin of wine in sight to help on his adventure against that beau, Ken followed the man outside to a cabriolet harnessed to a horse no more real than his companion. Helped aboard, they soon trotted along the driveway, Amelia’s make believe father chattering away about neighbors and crops. It almost made him seem real.

Content to let the man, for that is how Ken found himself thinking of his companion, carry the conversation; he asked himself some silent questions. Why the Antebellum period? Did his kidnapper actually live during the time? He guessed so, which boosted the number of Zorro’s transformations across the years and once more implied the man’s power. And what role did Amelia play in his life? Why would he still seek repeated revenge, one hundred and fifty plus years later. Incomprehensible in the moment, but answers would surely come. Would they come in time? A question that struck too close to his barely controlled fears, best to ignore it for the moment. Maybe the world through which they traveled would offer a clue.

The road traveled along a bay as they passed three other estates, the carriage traveling towards a forest in the distance. Before reaching the trees, they came upon a yard with multiple stone warehouses and wooden piers, with a sign at the entrance that read Hambley Piers. They turned at the next entrance, a three story house made from the same stone. Unlike the prior plantations, Ken found it reminded him of a country manor in England. Somehow more functional, less frivolous.

Yet frivolity existed in the yard at its front, the colours of the flowers competing with the dresses of the female constructs who strolled along its manicured paths. Into this gathering Amelia’s father ventured and curiosity made Ken follow.

To give Zorro his due, Ken recognized the skill and effort that went into creating the world in general and this scene specifically. Almost seventy five constructs moved about, seemingly at random. Each time a pair or group came together a different conversation would ensue. Sometimes they discussed similar topics as his guide’s soliloquy during the carriage ride, but two other topics took predominance. The bombardment, surrender, and potential aftermath of Fort Sumter and the relationship between Eric Hambley and Amelia Walker.

This last made him a focal point for these groupings, guests asking him about the big announcement. Not that his actual answers mattered, be it his stating the Eric had kidnapped he or that Eric had tasked me with procuring him the prettiest sheep I can find. They always just smiled and said they could not wait to hear the announcement.

It seemed the only way to escape these encounters was to ensconce himself in a group of girls, created to appear near Heather and, probably, Amelia’s age. Probably not Zorro’s favourite people in real life, because no other constructs appeared more vain or inane; an attitude that worked like a force field to keep all, except the surprisingly non-African American servants, away. Amongst them, Ken almost felt himself. Old hat for him to disappear into his own mind when in the midst of the popular.

He found himself thinking that he now knw what it would feel like to fall through a looking glass. It made him wonder if he walked into the forest, would he find a mad hatter hosting a more entertaining tea party. However, before temptation led him in that direction, the vain and inane grew quiet.

Impossible not to recognize that walk. Or the smiling lips, the sturdy jaw as the man came closer. The size, the build, the masculinity as obvious in period wear as in Zorro’s costume. Less handsome than all the Boiis Ken met, but like them he wore an aura of health and strength that left him more handsome, to his Heather enhanced criteria, than the boys at the Halloween Eve party. And definitely more real than the almost pretty construct at his side.

“My dearest Amelia, you are radiant enough to seem a new person.” Eric, for who else could it be, said, ignoring what his words implied he gestured to his companion. “Please allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Barnabus Hambley, who is visiting from the old country. Barnabus, my lovely fiancé, Miss Amelia Walker.”

“Enchanted, Amelia.” Barnabus said, with a bow and in an accent that made the most vain and the second most inane simper. Ken just stared.

“Barnabus, be a good fellow and keep the rest of these ladies company, while I speak with my intended.”

Ken ignored the offered arm, but he did follow alongside. Unworried about who may overhear, he asked, “Who are you? Really?

“Most usually ask what I am going to do to them? Or where am I?”

“I know the answers to those.”

“Not surprising. You should also know it does not matter who I pretend I am in the real world, instead let me say that first, last, and always I am Eric Hambley. Now I would ask the same of you.”

“Your prisoner and intended victim.”

“No, my intended victim is Heather Theis, you are not her. Who are you really? You’re not going to answer are you? This is twice in a row, a curious man would wonder about his opponents. While a confident man would realise it does not matter.”

“Which are you?” Ken asked, as expected.

“I am not yet sure. Probably a bit of both. After all, I am curious who will end my game, while confidant someone will. Maybe your allies? But will they be in time for your benefit. You know about the time limit?”

“So it’s a game to you? And you still intend to play it out to the end, despite knowing you are now hunted.”

“That does not matter. Only the game matters for the two of us. And for a game to be enjoyed, its rules must be followed. Why else set up the board if not for enjoyment.” Eric said with a smile.

And like the one captured at the Melon Ball, the smile held no rancor. In fact it held no depth of feeling, nor did the man himself. He offered nothing for his magic using prisoner.

Unlike what Ken towards his magic using captor. For Eric surely benefited from Ken’s fear.

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Chapter 12 - Relieved

Even terror can diminish when not properly stoked. In time, the boredom of captivity, surrounded only by constructs while his captor remained absent, took the edge off Ken’s fear. Did not, could not, make it disappear, but on the fifth night of captivity Ken fell asleep naturally, not because fear siphoned away the energy needed to stay conscious.

In large part, he knew this resulted from creature comfort. Real misery for a prisoner is stunted by good food, hot water, and clean clothes. In comparison to the PoWs who Stallone or Norris would rescue, he felt like a princess locked away in a world of solitary gloom. Though even the gloom existed for a short time, just before fake dark. Rather than a bamboo cage, his prison encompassed a county sized world. Instead of hunger, he tried to fight off ennui. And in lieu of rags, he wore dresses of the finest materials.

True the corset annoyed him at times. Usually when first getting dressed, but Beck never attempted to squeeze him in half. Besides, Ken’s transformed body belonged to a dancer used to discomfort, not someone who felt a pea placed under her mattress.

But what a tedious existence. Wake up, eat, dress, kill time, eat, take a nap, kill time, eat, kill time, and try to fall asleep in order to prepare for the next go around. Every day the same thing. Only his previous life as a loner saved Ken from the oppressive monotony. Frequent walks expelled some of his nervous energy and the discovery of a library helped keep his mind active.

Though, since the books consisted mostly of treatises written by early thinkers instead of stories, it led to dry reading. Some of those, particularly the ones that served as progenitors to the areas of Ken’s interests and studies, drew his attention, but he tried to focus on an area he always before ignored, philosophy and its children, psychology and psychiatry. With a case study holding him hostage, he regretted past dismissals of these schools as fake science.

This left Ken with partial, always dangerous, knowledge gained mostly from popular culture. Such as the spree of watching crime documentaries in which he remembered talking heads who referred to Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy as either psychopaths or sociopaths. He did not know the difference or if a difference existed, but he remembered the traits those talking heads attributed to them; charming, intelligent liars who felt little empathy or emotion towards their fellow humans. Nor could he forget their successful run as serial killers.

Like Eric Hambley.

Did that explain why he felt nothing from the man during their first meeting? Instead of a reaper, which disgusted Ken as a magic user, was Eric as psychopath, which dismayed Ken as a person? Which of the two did he need to fear more?

And would a difference help in any way?

Yet the thought offered Ken a research task. Even if the books held nothing to help, at least it provided a purposeful way to kill time. And for a time it worked

Every morning he walked around the plantation, then after lunch read in the library. Both more enjoyable activities than his evenings spent playing The Mansion of Happiness: An Instructive Moral and Entertaining Amusement, a old fashioned board game both in morality and amusement, with Amelia’s stand in father. So passed the first sixteen days of captivity, Ken falling asleep the last of those nights reading the passions section of David Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature.

“Miss Amelia, are you still abed? And on your big day?’

The big day could only reference one thing, as announced at the party on his first day, the wedding of Amelia Walker to Eric Hambley. A wave of confused despair crashed in to wash away the sleep.

Once outside of his morning shower, shivering the whole time no matter how hot he ran the water, Ken took even less of a role in dressing than normal. For a time he stared blankly into the mirror in front of which he sat. Not until Beck finished with his hair, swept into a voluminous bun on the back of his head and covered with a floor length veil of beaded lace, did thought return.

Admittedly, since it manifested within his head as a planning scene from an 80s television show, complete with a jean jacket wearing, big haired version of Heather sitting across from him, not the most rational thought. Personality splitting in the scene allowed Ken to play the lunkhead male. Someone who could intellectualize the concept of rape, understand it as a horrible thing, particularly after Ilina's raw sharing, but who never lived life with it as a constant fear. Neither his upbringing nor imprisonment required him to move it from a bogeyman into real possibility. Even with Heather’s memories, and she learned all those lessons he missed, he could not internalize it; her memories held a lesser impact upon him than her experiences.

Ken said, “This is the chance we’ve been waiting for. If he has any emotions, you sleeping with him will bring them out.”

Heather stared in disbelief and asked, “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“He’s the only one who can provide us the energy needed to cast the beacon spell.”

“I won’t do it.”

“But...”

“I won’t do it. It’s your plan, you do it.”

Ken said, “Well I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve watched enough, I think you can figure it out.”

“But I’m a guy.”

“Yeah right.”

“How else are we going distil anything from him? I suppose we could do something to make him mad, but he may get violent. And I’m not ashamed to admit life as a chicken shit hurts less.”

Sharing all thoughts, they reached the same conclusion at the same moment. In a mind with two personalities, it is easy to create a third. They both turned to that third, the sidekick whose eyes widened upon realizing what they expected.

“Me? You can’t be serious.”

“Well you’re the one who got us into this mess.” Heather said, rather unfairly.

“I’m not even here, I’m just your imagination.”

“And I’m not?”

“Good enough for me.” Ken said.

Amelia came awake with a literal “Ooomph”, as the laces of the corset tugged tighter than normal. So for her first words, she said, “Beck, it is too tight.”

“Not today, Dearie. We want your beautiful dress to fit perfectly.”

Entire hoards of wannabe princesses would shriek yes for the dress. Similar to the veil, beautifully beaded white lace covered the sweetheart bodice and the front panel of the skirts. While the rest of the silken skirts draped in the tiers of a cathedral train.

Such a waste to get dressed so prettily for a fake wedding to her kidnapper.

Days in heels and period dresses, even with Ken in control, meant the dress’s train did not hinder Amelia on the stairs. The same could not be said for the fancy, four wheel carriage, which required make believe Dad’s assistance to enter and exit when they reached a little country church; inside of which waited Eric, dressed in a uniform of a Second Lieutenant of the Confederate Army.

Thinking positively, Amelia realized Brennus would not need to feel uncomfortable about killing him. Though at the moment Eric seemed completely in control during the wedding shamerony.

When it finished, she felt the ring, rather than Eric’s rather chaste kiss, burn like a brand. Yet Amelia found some truth lurked in the old belief about the connection between the ring finger and heart. Though instead of love, she discovered a sense of self, different than her predecessors. Braver than Ken, more knowledgeable than Heather. They may not trust themselves nor her, to this task, but she believed in herself. She knew, though she may not succeed, fate did not demand she failed.

While they stood in front of the church, waiting upon a photographer with his historically accurate camera, Amelia felt herself grow stronger. Strength she needed not to punch any of the watching yahoos who shouted to hurry so Eric could get his new bride with baby before joining his unit.

Yet she did not completely dampen her anger. One part of her plan, hardly considered before she acted upon it, involved not caring about what Eric could reap from her. Why worry about it when, from the beginning, he already held a stronger position. Better to attempt to turn it to her advantage. If she proved an honest spendthrift of her emotions, it may create an environment for him to spend some of his.

If he felt any.

Amelia suspected he may. Like a rod with a fish nibbling on a the end of the line, she sensed something in the smile on his face. Did it seem less plastic than before? Did it hold a hint of amusement? Is that all he could feel?

But before she set the hook, he asked, “So Amelia, a choice for you. Shall we do the whole thing, supper and all? Or bring this affair to an end?””

“I will not grow braver the longer we delay.”

Understanding the message, Eric guided her the crown into the carriage. Then, while avoiding stepping on her skirts, he climbed aboard to sit across from Amelia.

“Take us home Stuart.” Eric said,

With a flick the reins, the carriage left the church grounds. Unsurprised when they traveled past the Walker Plantation, Amelia still felt a moment of wistfulness that caused her to turn and look at it. “Worry not, my dear, Beck waits for you at Hambley Manor, now a free woman. My family did not keep slaves.”

Amelia asked, “They realized it is easier to exploit the poor than owning them?”

“Only a happy coincidence, I assure you. It was due to the business we did with family back in Britain. They considered themselves quite the humanitarians, who judged their wayward cousins in the New World based on the laws of the old one. And since my parents were easily influenced by the judgment of others, it also explained why they insisted I join the Provisional Army. We needed to show support for of our neighbors who supplied us with the cotton that made both us and our cousins rich. I also learned, much later, that maybe they did not truly like me.”

Quiet civility accompanied them for the rest of the ride to Hambley Manor. Neither insults or threats exchanged, not a single word spoken, barely a glance shared

However, when the carriage rolled to a stop and Eric helped her down, all of Amelia’s nerves returned. Particularly as he continued to hold her hand. Just short of possessive, yet with strength ready for exertion when needed. Forsaking the option of attempting to pull away, she considered another insult. But while the last did not register, she mostly feared triggering his anger, which may prove fatal.

On the third floor they walked through a suite of rooms into a bedroom. Its neutral colours and large size offering a more mature environment than the blue rooms she’d previously used and suddenly missed. Letting go of her hand, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room, Eric took a seat in the one chair. When he twirled his finger. Amelia felt another burst of anger, even as she followed his direction. Yet upon the heels of her reaction she sensed a spark of amusement from her captor. Not enough to offer immediate benefit, but the hoped for something.

“You are as beautiful as your namesake on her wedding day. Probably more-so, especially since that pretty dress does not use a hoop skirt, which I always thought, much like a skunk’s raised tail, existed to keep a man at a distance. Still, it must be uncomfortable, maybe you should remove it?”

“What if I don’t want to remove it?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I’ll wait, until I decide, in greater comfort than you.” Eric said, relaxing even further.

It almost seemed he expected a little rebellion and Amelia obliged. First she found his boundaries, as her attempts to sit on the bed or leave the room resulted in a warning cough and head shake. So she explored, finding her clothing, transported from the Walker Plantation, in a closet and chest of drawers. Next, another bathroom to meet her modern sensibilities. All the while she felt his eyes upon her. In an attempt to distract herself from his gaze, she looked out the window towards Hambley Piers to the sea beyond, and asked, “Where are the ships?”

“They never held my interest when this world was real, they’re beyond my imagination now it is less real. In fact, though the sea seems to stretch to the horizon, it marks one edge of my little world. Right at the end of the docks, so watch you don’t bump your cute nose if you go exploring.”

Silence returned. She tried to ignore him, while he watched her every movement. Yet when he moved Amelia’s eyes immediately tracked towards him as he opened the cupboard, beside his chair, and removed a bottle of water. Smiling his shallow smile, he drank. When he emptied the bottle, he stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Escape! But to where? Did he want her to run? Did he like to chase?

Probably.

No, best to stay, where Ken’s plan might work. Though she questioned her ability to follow through with it.

When Eric returned he showed no surprise to find her standing in the same spot, instead he resumed his seat. A hunter as happy to wait as to chase. His prey struggling as nature filled her thoughts with the recent sounds of the flushing of a toilet.

“Can you get Beck? I need help me out of this dress.”

“With your able fingered husband eagerly ready to help?”

Inevitably Amelia reached the next fork on her treacherous path as she offered her back. Eric needed no further prompt to stand and approach, his hands neither shaky nor clammy as they brushed the skin of her upper back to undo the first few buttons, which molded the bodice to her torso. Able to now manage on her own, she stepped away from him. But only a few steps before she turned to watch him as she reached behind to finish undoing the tiny, silk covered buttons.

A act that drew Eric’s eyes to her breasts as they pressed against the front of the dress and stripped away some of his control. Instinctively Amelia took it as her own, then sought more. Through the gap, at the back of her dress, she unsnapped a button and unzipped a zipper, which caused her petticoats to puddle on the ground. Stepping closer and from them she watched Eric’s eyes widen as she slowly shimmied her dress into a second silken puddle.

Unable to stop himself, he moved backward, to allow his gaze to explore all of her seductively clad figure. A sign, maybe not quite of weakness, but enough to offer the incentive to take one more step towards him, before she turned and brazenly bent to pick up the dress and petticoats. An intake of breath and leaked emotion, which she pulled into the gold and diamond brand on her finger, accompanied her as she swayed towards the closet. Not until they hung from hangers did Amelia turn to her captor.

Yet one more weapon remained in her newly tapped feminine arsenal. No longer the seductress, she smiled a helpless, cutesy smile as she embarrassedly pointed at the bathroom door. When he slowly looked to where she pointed, Amelia scampered through and closed the door.

If not for the nearby vanity, she may have crumpled to the floor. The act, successfully performed, left her drained. However, the energy already captured made her think she could take more, maybe enough to cast a beacon spell. With this in mind Amelia performed her business and stopped in front of the mirror to banish any small imperfection.

Taking as deep of breath as her corset allowed, Amelia returned to the bedroom.

“Let’s get you ready for bed, Dearie.”

Surprised to find Beck, rather than Eric, Amelia accepted the increasingly normal ministrations before she climbed into bed. Then she waited. And waited some more. But the door remained closed and she remained alone.

Trapped between the dueling emotions of Heather’s relief and Ken’s frustration, confusion kept her awake. Not until she decided she agreed with Heather’s feelings did sleep arrive.