5- Hespah

It hurt. The drugs were wearing off, and Hespah was starting to feel the incredible pain on her heavily-bandaged face. She groaned and slowly opened her eyes, only to find that she wasn’t alone. Shit. A pair of long, thin, dark legs were neatly crossed in her direct line of vision. She knew those legs. Fuck. Hespah struggled to get up, but she was still too weak and groggy from the anesthesia. The legs uncrossed and stood up, and suddenly a pair of long, lean arms were lifting her shoulders. Hespah snarled and tried to fight.

"Calm down, I’m not hurting you."

Suddenly the hands were no longer touching her. Hespah stopped struggling and looked around. Nadina had propped her up in a sitting position in the bed, the pillows stacked up comfortably behind her.

"I haven’t come to attack you," Nadina assured her as she smoothed down her light-grey skirt-suit and settled back into the chair by the bed, "I’m here to ask your advice."

"Bullshit." When had anyone ever come to her for advice? And Nadina of all people . . . She was pretty sure this bitch couldn’t stand her. Was this some prank M’boku had thought up? No– the last she’d heard, he wasn’t anywhere near ready to awaken.

Nadina brushed some invisible lint off of her expensive-looking grey jacket and folded her perfectly-manicured hands in her lap. "You know, I had heard a rumor that you were having some work done," she said with a smile, "but I didn’t think it could be true. Good for you!"

"Go fuck yourself."

Nadina laughed. "Glad to know you’ll still be the same old Hespah under the new face."

"You gonna tell me what this is about?"

Nadina frowned like a fashion model trying to make a serious face. "Yes," she said gravely, "I have a problem." She waved a hand toward the recliner in the opposite corner of the room. "That is M’boku."

Hespah gasped. A child, about three years old, was curled up with a blanket and a toy and sleeping soundly against the arm of the chair. "Why the hell didn’t I sense him?"

Nadina shook her head. "You wouldn’t, not yet. He hasn’t awakened. Right now he answers to John."

Hespah blinked. She turned back to Nadina. "You lost your mind?"

Nadina pursed her lips. "His carrier was a cocaine addict, and her live-in boyfriend was abusing him. I had no choice but to take him."

Hespah looked back at the boy. He was cute. Close-cropped mouse-brown hair, long brown eyelashes, a sweet little heart shaped mouth, and a light sprinkling of freckles across his chubby little cheeks. She’d never seen M’boku as a child before. Of course, when he fully awakened and came into his true self, he’d be the same pain-in-the-ass that she remembered all too well.

Nadina slid gracefully out of her chair to kneel on the floor beside Hespah’s bed. "Hespah, please help me," she begged, grasping Hespah’s hand, "I don’t know what to do."

Hespah sighed. It was true that M’boku was a sick little bastard with no loyalty for anyone but himself, but she had never had any real personal problem with Nadina, except that she was always so fucking prim and proper that Hespah always felt like the bitch was judging her. But she knew Nadina did her best to keep that ass-hole in check. "What options do you have?" she asked.

Nadina shook her head. She looked like she was going to cry. "I can’t leave him at an institution. Interpol has pictures of him everywhere. It seems they want to give him to the carrier’s dead-beat ex-husband. I’m not going to let that happen."

"You’re keeping him?"

"I don’t know what else to do. I don’t have any friends on the outside that I can trust with him . . . And I know he doesn’t have any allies on the inside who might know anyone either. I thought maybe, since you’ve had more experience than any of us, you might know what I should do?"

Hespah thought about it. There had been times in the past when circumstances had forced her to have close contact with Shepetheleh for an extended period of time before he awakened. But never more than a year or two. These days she didn’t even really have to worry about it because he’d been awakening sooner and sooner every time. But M’boku was still a very young soul. He shouldn’t awaken for another twelve to fifteen years. "You know the risks?" she asked.

"I’ve met Finbar before. It’s pitiful. No matter how many times Helwyn is reborn, her mind is never fully recovered. She’s stuck at a five-year-old level and Finbar must deal with the fact that it’s his fault that she’s damaged."

Hespah grunted. She’d known Helwyn before that incident. It was a real loss for their entire community. "Could be worse. Ever heard of Manglar?"

Nadina nodded slowly. "Shepetheleh’s maker. I heard Manglar awakened too soon and it made him insane."

"Yeah. Killed his own guardian."

"I heard about that. And of course when Shubat died, Manglar’s soul was no longer anchored to this world, and he couldn’t return." Nadina shuddered. "So that really did happen?"

Hespah nodded. It wasn’t something she liked to think about. The idea of being trapped in an eternal cycle of death and pain, as your soul continuously tries to reincarnate itself on a dead world . . . Well, it was something she would never let Shepetheleh experience, not if she could help it.

Nadina looked uncertain as she watched her master sleep. "How great is the risk? Will it definitely happen, if I stay with him? Or is it just a small chance?"

Hespah shrugged. "Hell if I know," she replied. "Maybe nothing will happen." She thought about it. "What I’ve seen, I’d say it’s maybe fifty-fifty he awakens early. If he does, then maybe a one-in-five chance he goes nuts. Might be just slightly more nuts than usual, might be total apeshit crazy. If it’s apeshit, then I’d say probably two percent chance he goes suicidal and kills you."

Nadina sighed. "Normally those odds would sound really good, only . . ."

Hespah nodded. She knew exactly what Nadina was thinking. We don’t gamble with their precious lives. Still, if she were in Nadina’s position, she wasn’t sure what she would end up doing.

Nadina stood up. "Well, thank you for your time, Hespah. Just talking things through with you . . . I feel like now I’ll be able to figure it all out. Somehow you’ve made me feel a lot better." She scooped up M’boku, blanket and all, and made her way to the door. As she was leaving she turned and smiled at Hespah. "Oh, and . . . good luck with your surgeries."

Hespah opened her mouth to spit out a retort, but stopped when she realized Nadina was being sincere. "I– ah . . . thanks. And . . . good luck to you too."

4- Xerondar

The lecture was on theoretical cosmology, and where to draw the line between scientific conjecture and science fiction. It had always been a fascinating topic for Xerondar, and the guest lecturer was a Dr. William Carroll, who until now had been known as a recluse who only published his research online and never made any kind of public appearance. Xerondar had been looking forward to attending this lecture for weeks. He’d arrived early to ensure a good seat in the third row and was just pulling out his notebook and his tape-recorder when a sudden wave of dizziness forced him down into his seat.

Andi, the blonde finance major from his Saturday study group, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey X, are you okay?" she asked with overly-affected concern.

"I’m fine," he assured her. "Just got a little dizzy for a moment."

"Are you sure?" she pressed, "What have you eaten today?"

Her question made him think. No, he hadn’t eaten anything that morning. There had been a strange jittery feeling in his stomach and he hadn’t felt hungry. Butterflies in the stomach . . . sudden dizziness. . . . Could it be? No, it was too soon to tell. It could just be nerves or stress. He’d hardly been sleeping at all lately. He wouldn’t get his hopes up.

"You have to think about it that long?" Andi laughed. "Geez, there’s your problem!" she decided, nudging him playfully. "How about after this we go get something to eat? My treat?"

Xerondar glanced at her. "Sure," he said, "But I’ll pay for myself."

Her face contorted into an exaggerated pout, obviously intended to look cute. "Oh, come on," she whined, "You never let me do anything for you."

Xerondar grimaced. He was going to have to do something about her. Xerondar didn’t date, but he always had several female classmates and acquaintances that he was on friendly terms with. Sadly, they were rarely interested keeping things that way. And while letting them down gently was something he had become quite skilled at over the years, he was almost never able to retain those friendships afterward.

The dean was making the introductions now, listing Dr. Carroll’s qualifications and achievements and expressing her enthusiasm and gratitude that such a great man would choose this campus as the setting for his debut as a public lecturer.

Xerondar still felt somewhat dizzy and the ringing in his ears made it difficult for him to concentrate on the dean’s words. He somehow managed to remember to turn on his tape recorder before the end of her speech.

Then the man himself took the stage. A middle-aged, overweight man with a beard and glasses who seemed very uncomfortable in his suit approached the podium and stuttered over his greeting. He smiled and apologized, confessing his inexperience with public speaking, and made a joke about it. The audience laughed politely and he began his lecture, accompanied by a series of pictures projected on the screen behind him that illustrated his speech beautifully.

The jittery feeling in his stomach was gradually becoming more violent, and Xerondar began to feel a slight prickling on his skin. He gasped and shuddered as a chill ran down the back of his neck. This couldn’t possibly be from lack of sleep . . . it had to be . . . No. He wouldn’t give in to false hope. He needed to be sure.

Everyone laughed again. He had missed the joke. Up on the screen were two nearly-identical pictures side-by-side, one a new image from the latest advancement in telescope technology, the other a still from an old episode of Star Trek. Xerondar smiled. He’d have to remember that. He knew someone who would get a real kick out of it.

Then he felt it. The push. It was like being hit by giant sandbag. And that initial push was followed by a pulling sensation, as if he were underwater with a strong current sweeping over him, nudging and tugging him in the direction it wanted to go.

Suddenly nothing else mattered. Xerondar jumped out of his chair and grabbed his bag, leaving the recorder and the notebook behind as he bolted for the door.

A huge part of him wanted to just run with the current, but he knew that would be impractical these days. There had been a time, long ago, when he would have just started running. Once he had even done it in bare feet, letting this feeling pull him along, ignoring the pain in his eagerness to reach his destination. But the world was different now. He rushed back to his apartment and hurriedly packed his few belongings into his car, then after a quick stop at the gas station for food, water, and a tank of gas, he started driving. East. She was pulling him east. He wasn’t sure how far, but he’d know it when he arrived.

　

3- Nadina

"Yes," the young man behind the counter said as he peered at his computer screen. "We do have a double-occupancy room available on the first floor, just two doors down from the west entrance. Would that suit your needs, miss?"

Nadina smiled politely and nodded. "Perfectly," she said. Honestly, it was better than she had expected. Coming to a nice hotel like this without a reservation and asking for a ground floor room close to an outside door . . . well, she actually wouldn’t have been surprised if the guy had laughed in her face.

"Very well. And do you have an Honors Rewards membership with us?"

"No, I don’t. Actually, I’d like to pay the room up-front, in cash, if I may."

He flashed her a queer look, then pasted the friendly customer-service smile back onto his face and said, "Of course. . . ."

"If I incur any additional expenses during my stay, I’ll pay them in the morning when I check out."

It took just a few more minutes to settle her business at the front desk, then she rushed back out to her car. She glanced into the backseat first, reassuring herself that her precious passenger was sleeping safely and comfortably in his car-seat, then she drove around to the west entrance. It had been agonizing, leaving him in the car, but she knew she couldn’t risk bringing him into the hotel lobby with her. Even if he somehow managed to sleep through it, people would notice and remember a tall woman as dark black as she was, carrying a little white child. Not that it was any big deal these days, but still, people would remember them if asked about it.

Nadina carefully unfastened the buckles on his car-seat so as not to wake him, and gently carried him to the room and laid him on a bed. Then she quickly went back out to bring their bags in, loading her duffel bag, his backpack, and the four plastic shopping bags all onto her arms at once so as to make one trip. She felt uneasy leaving him alone for another moment, even if she knew he was sleeping securely in the room.

Once back in the room, she emptied the shopping bags and neatly arranged her purchases around the room, in the precise order and locations in which she would need them. Then she went and got the water running in the bathtub, making sure to test the temperature properly. She paused a moment to gaze at his sweet sleeping face, and reached to pet his messy, dirty ash-brown hair. Then she peeled off his stretched-out, grungy long-john style pajamas and tossed them into the wastebasket. She also threw away his over-saturated diaper before she scooped him gently into her arms and began softly singing him awake.

He slowly opened his beautiful hazel-green eyes and looked at her curiously. "Want my Mummy?" he asked.

Nadina smiled sadly at him. "She’s not here, my love. But I am with you." As expected, he didn’t cry or fuss at this news. Even at this young age, he seemed to instinctively accept Nadina’s presence as something comforting and safe. "It’s time for your bath now," she told him as she carried him to the tub.

"No," he argued. "No bath."

"Hush, now. You’re all dirty and you need a bath."

He didn’t argue any more. He just looked up at her with trusting eyes and allowed her to set him down gently into the water. Nadina wanted to cry as she ran the soapy washcloth over his battered little body, but she kept her fake smile on and kept humming her happy little bath-time song. Her heart broke with every bruise, every cut, every scar. This tiny body was barely three years old, and it had been beaten this badly. She hated herself for letting this happen. She had failed to protect him. While she had worried over the dangers of approaching him before the proper time, he had been hurt and she had not been there to help him.

When he was clean, she patted him dry with a fluffy hotel towel and put him in a fresh diaper. "Three years old and still in diapers," she clucked. "We need to get you potty-trained."

Next she sat him on the counter by the sink and turned him to face the mirror, draping the towel over his shoulders. "How about a haircut?" she asked as she picked up the comb and scissors she had laid within reach. "I promise I’ll make it look nice." She cut it very short, then sat him at the small table with a bowl of fruit and a cup of milk. While he ate she got herself changed and turned down one of the beds.

Nadina cleaned up his hands and face when he was done, then gathered him into her arms and playfully rubbed her nose against his, making him giggle. "Now why don’t we put some medicine on your boo-boos?" She laid him on the bed, and then lovingly treated every wound with antiseptic and bandages, and a magic kiss to make it better. When it seemed his entire body had been smeared with soothing creams and ointments and covered in bandages, she dressed him in the soft cotton pajamas that she had bought for him and snuggled into the bed beside him.

"From now on, I will always be with you," she promised as she planted a soft kiss on an undamaged portion of his forehead, "I will always protect you."

2- Jack

"You should at least meet her, Jaga-ji. She comes from a very good family– "

"Yeah, mum, I’m sure she’s a great girl, but I’ve already said I’m not going to any more of these meetings!"

"I am only trying to help you . . ."

"I know. But you have to remember things are different for me and T.J."

"But it’s so hard for you to find a nice girl with your kind of work. Maybe if you were a doctor like Tinkoo . . ."

"Mum, we’ve been over this . . ."

"But I just think– "

"Look, mum, I’m working right now. I’ll call you later." Jack snapped his phone shut and scowled at Detective Inspector Collins, who sat in the driver’s seat obviously trying to suppress a laugh. "Let’s go then, shall we?" Jack hopped out of the car and jogged around to help the 7-month pregnant homicide specialist out of her side, but she had already gotten out and slammed her door before he could reach her.

"Such a gentleman, Jack," she chided as she marched across the street to the dilapidated little building.

A police barrier had already been set up, and a small crowd of busybodies had gathered to watch the officers coming and going, as if it were a film set and not a crime scene. A young constable came trotting over to greet them. "Good god, Collins, are you ever going to take leave? You look like a balloon!"

"Piss off, Dan," Inspector Collins replied with a smile. She turned to make the introductions. "Jack, this is Constable Dan Walker. We’ve worked together several times. Dan, this is my friend, Detective Chief Inspector Jack Bannerjee, our rep from the Kidnap Unit."

Dan offered his hand with grim politeness. "Right. You’re here about the kid." He glanced nervously toward the door of the roped-off second-story flat. "Ah . . . I’m not sure how much you’ll need to see . . . It’s a bit gruesome in there. . . ."

Jack blinked. For an officer in Collins’s unit to say something was "gruesome" . . . Just how bad was it? He cleared his throat. "I’ll need to take a look around, then I’ll be wanting to interview some of the neighbors."

Collins clapped her hands together. "Well then, let’s go have a look!"

The first body was in the kitchen. Two officers wearing paper aprons and plastic gloves were taking pictures of her. The woman was skeletally thin and very pale, dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and her undergarments.

One of the paper-aprons crossed over to where Jack and Collins were standing. "Ever seen one like this, Collins?" he asked. "It’s got Boyd and me scratching our heads."

Jack looked over the body again. She was covered in scrapes and bruises. "Looks like she tried to fight," he observed.

"No," paper-apron replied. "The bruises and scars are too old to be related to the murder. Looks to me like she’s been beaten regularly for years. Probably by the fellow in the bedroom."

Jack nodded. He really wasn’t used to all of this murder business, although he had worked on a few kidnappings that had ended badly. Still, his stomach wasn’t quite strong enough to just calmly look over a corpse like this.

Collins squinted at the body. "Any clue how they managed to do this?"

The other fellow put down his camera. "We can’t quite figure it out. Even if several guys worked together, it would take an impossible amount of strength to turn it like that."

Jack frowned and looked once more at the woman on the floor. "Oh my god . . ." he muttered. At first glance he had assumed she was lying on her back, but on closer inspection he saw that only her head was facing up; the rest of her body was facing down.

Detective Inspector Collins stepped carefully around the corpse and stared down at her. "It’s amazing, isn’t it?"

"Indeed," Dan said softly, "I thought this kind of thing only happened in films." He turned to Jack. "Our guy was somehow able to turn a human head completely backward, without using any restraints."

"What?"

Paper-apron indicated the woman’s arms and shoulders. "With that kind of force, any restraints used on the body would have left marks, even if it were done post-mortem. But there are no marks. And without restraints, the body would have turned with the head, so twisting the neck to this degree would be impossible. We have no idea how it was achieved."

Jack gritted his teeth and looked up at Collins. "I assume this is the mother?"

She nodded. "Ms. Carrie Andrews. She lived here with her boyfriend, Avery Spencer, and her son– "

"John Andrews, age three," Jack finished for her.

Dan clapped him on the shoulder. "Are you ready to see the other one?"

Jack and Collins followed the constable toward a back bedroom. There were even more officers in paper aprons rushing in and out of that room. One of them handed a few plastic-wrapped bundles to Dan, and he pulled the two detectives aside into a small washroom. "You’ll need to wear these when we go in there," he explained as he handed a bundle to each of them and began opening one for himself. Inside was a paper apron, a hair net, two pair of plastic gloves, a paper face mask, and a pair of disposable shoe-covers.

Jack glanced at Collins, who was calmly wrapping the apron around her pregnant belly. "I’ve been told the second victim looks quite different from the first," she explained. Once they were all properly covered, Dan led them into the bedroom.

Jack fought back the urge to vomit the moment they entered the room. Everything was covered in blood. A tall, thin man was tied to the bedposts. His clothes, skin, and hair were caked with dried blood. The bedsheets were soaked; the walls, floor, and furniture were thoroughly splattered. As he tried to look away, Jack noted that even the ceiling had blood on it.

One of the people in the room wore a different sort of disposable outfit from the rest, and this woman came away from the corpse to greet them as they came in. "Detective Inspector Collins," she said with a nod at Collins, then she turned to Jack and nodded to him as well. "I’ve never had the pleasure of working with you," she stated politely, "but I assume you’re Detective Chief Inspector Bannerjee, from the Kidnap Unit? I’m Dr. Theresa Lovett, Specialized Crime. I’ve been examining the bodies so we can develop a profile of our murderer."

Collins placed one hand on her belly and took a deep breath as she looked around the room, then at the figure on the bed. "Tell me about this one, Tee."

Dr. Lovett grimaced and led the two detectives to the bed. "This one’s also very unusual, but in a different way," she said. " It seems the killer specifically aimed for major arteries, which shows a better-than-average knowledge of human physiology. . . ."

"And would also explain the massive amount of blood in this room," Collins added.

"Yes, the wounds seem to have been strategically inflicted to create the heaviest possible arterial spray. Either the killer had some reason to want this man to watch himself bleed to death in the most dramatic way possible, or– more likely– the killer has a psychological affinity for blood."

Collins frowned. "A blood fetish . . . Do you really think it could be a sexual killing?"

Dr. Lovett tilted her head as if unsure. "At this point I can’t say for sure, but as only the male victim was killed in this manner, I do believe it’s very likely." She glanced apologetically at Jack. It was obvious to all that the missing child, if he weren’t already dead, would likely be dead before he could be found.

Jack cleared his throat. He needed something useful, something that would lead him to this psychopath as quickly as possible. "Do we have a murder weapon?" he asked, hoping he was using the correct terminology.

Dr. Lovett gave him an odd look, then said, "That’s the part that has us really baffled." She gestured to another officer, who handed her a small plastic bag with a label on it. "Every wound on his body has one of these embedded in it. They vary slightly in size, but they’re basically all the same." She held the bag up to show the object to the two detectives.

"What is that?" Jack asked as he peered at the small metal object.

Collins gasped. "That’s a calligraphy pen tip!" she exclaimed. "My sister uses them for her scrapbooks."

Dr. Lovett squinted at the bag again. "A pen tip?"

"Right. It’s the sort where you put different size tips on your pen to make different size writing, and you dip it in a little jar of ink."

Dr. Lovett frowned. "That would explain how these were imbedded so deeply into the wounds. The tip simply slides on and off of the pen?"

"Yes."

Jack stared at the little blood-stained pen tip. " So he would have had to stop after each blow to attach another tip to his pen. He really took his time, didn’t he?"

Collins blinked. "Which would indicate that either he really enjoyed what he was doing, or he truly hated the victim. Though I’m inclined to think this is a sexually-driven killing with a randomly-chosen victim, we can’t rule out the possibility that the killer knew the victims personally and wanted to make them suffer for non-psychosexual reasons. We should investigate anyone connected to them, especially to this man here."

Jack nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. "Certainly we should interview anyone who might know this couple or their son, and we’ll need to look out for any of them who might use calligraphy pens. Murder isn’t my specialization, but I would assume that if he murders with a calligraphy pen, he probably writes with one as well."

Dr. Lovett handed the evidence bag back to the other officer. "I think that’s a logical assumption," she agreed, "You might also take note of anyone with a high level of education, especially in the medical field. And judging from the methods that were used here, I would say this person is the sort to remain outwardly calm under pressure– likely someone who is very organized and meticulous, who likes to make a detailed plan and follow it."

Collins nodded her agreement as she looked around the room. "And probably is also in very good physical condition. However it was done, it must have required a great deal of strength to turn that head around." She turned to Jack. "I’ll need to talk to Dr. Lovett a bit longer. Do you need to see anything else in the flat?"

Jack glanced at Dan. "If someone could direct me to the boy’s bedroom, I’d like to have a look. And then I’ll be wanting to speak with the neighbors and any other witnesses we might already have."

1- Xerondar

"Xeron– " Nira stopped, her eyes widening as her hand slipped out of his to cover her mouth, and she was taken over once again by that wracking cough. Xerondar watched her gasping and hacking, her whole body convulsing as her shaky hands tried to cover her pale, sweaty face. Finally it calmed down again, and after a few wet, raspy breaths she glanced up at him apologetically as she wiped at the corners of her mouth. He tried not to look at the blood. The red smeared on her trembling fingers, smudged across her colorless lips. He willed himself not to think about the stray droplet on her chin, or the red and brown speckles that stained the collar of her housecoat, the ends of her sleeves– even the bit of her sweat-soaked nightgown that he could see poking out at her throat had a few small red-brown spots on it. Thinking about it just made him feel angry, and helpless, and weak. It has always been this way, a voice in the back of his mind reminded him as he watched his own hand reach for another handkerchief to dab at her chin and wipe at her fingers, You can protect her from steel and fire, you can hide her from her enemies, heal her wounds and guard her happiness. But in the end no matter how well you defend her, there always comes something like this, against which there is no way for you to fight, which steals her away from you. He looked away and forced his face into a pleasant, comforting smile for her. Yes, this had happened countless times before. But this time it was too soon. It had only been seventeen years, and it was already time to say good-bye? She had only recently regained her memories, only been her true self for little more than three years, and now. . . .


Xerondar felt slightly disoriented as he adjusted to his surroundings. A dark room, a firm bed, the soft breeze from the ceiling fan tickling his bare skin. The bedsheet had somehow tied itself in an elaborate knot around his ankles. The pillow was wet. He rubbed his face and glanced at the clock. 3:14am. After lying awake for nearly five hours, he’d slept maybe twenty minutes. And in that twenty minutes, of course he would have to have that dream. He flipped his pillow over to the dry side and let out a grumbling sigh as buried his face in the cool cotton pillowcase. It was going to be another one of those nights. Perhaps a glass of milk? He made an attempt to gracefully roll out of bed and get up, but his legs were still impossibly tangled in the sheets and before he could free them he found himself lying face-down on the floor, one foot still ensnared on the bed. Xerondar laughed quietly at himself. After all this time, he could still occasionally exhibit this kind of goofy human clumsiness.

He padded into the kitchen and poured some milk into a paper cup, then crossed to the other end of his tiny efficiency apartment and sank into his overstuffed armchair. He took a sip, then tilted his head back and closed his eyes. This in-between time was torture. And this time seemed even longer than usual. Eighty-six years now since she last died. "Still I wait . . ." he sighed.

He glanced around at his sparse apartment. He’d learned to keep his home bare, his possessions minimal. For the past eighty-six years he’d been living in a constant state of transition, always ready to leave everything at a moment’s notice. His apartment was leased on a month-to-month basis, all of his important papers and his laptop were in a backpack by the door. He kept all of his clothes in a suitcase in his bedroom. Everything he owned fit into the trunk of his car. The two pieces of furniture he’d bought– his bed and his armchair– he’d gotten cheap at a going-out-of-business sale, and he would leave them here when he left.

There was one exception to his spartan lifestyle. His eyes came to rest on the old steamtrunk beside his chair. In there was his personal library. Xerondar donated most of the books he read to libraries, schools, and used book shops when he was finished with them, but there were a few that he loved enough to keep, to try to take with him. Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy shared that trunk with Plato and Sun Tsu. Preserved in its own glass tube was a faded old skin on which was written an ancient copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh, alongside several other similar-looking tubes which contained literary treasures that scholars and collectors all over the world would be willing to kill for if they knew he had them. He’d been building his collection nearly his entire life. He popped open one compartment of the trunk and absently ran a finger down the spine of an old leather-bound copy of Voltaire’s Candide.

That’s right. His life wasn’t completely consumed with waiting for her return. If it were, he’d probably have gone insane long ago. He kept himself busy enough. He picked up new hobbies, as well as keeping with several of his old ones. He tried to stay connected with the world as much as possible. He kept up with current events, modern technology, the latest trends and fads . . . these were all useful and important.

Still, sometimes he would get depressed. For days he’d do nothing but lie in one place, not eating, not sleeping, not really even thinking. Just the vague whisper of a question in his mind: Why is it taking so long? His only comfort during those times was the fact that he was still there. Lungs still breathing, heart still beating. If she were truly never coming back, he would be dead. But the depression never lasted longer than a week or two. Eventually the despair would begin to clear away and he would remember once again that when she does return, he must be ready for her.

He trained his body daily to keep it strong, flexible, agile. He enrolled in classes for whichever martial art was currently in fashion, and took it upon himself to master each one. Back in the 1980's he’d dusted off his old karate skills, ten years later it was tae kwon do, and now he was going four times a week to a place downtown that specialized in krav maga. And of course, he always kept up with his old favorites, Hindi kalarippayattu and Persian varzesh-e-baustani.

And it wasn’t only his body that he trained. His mind, too, must have regular exercise. Every few years he picked a college or a university and studied something new. Right now he was a computer programming major at UCLA. He’d studied computers before, in the early nineties, but technology was changing so fast that he felt another round of courses would be a good idea. As for his financial state, well . . . he did sell the occasional essay or research paper, and sometimes he won cash prizes in martial arts competitions, but most of his income came from corporate investments and real estate.

All of this kept him occupied, ate up his overabundance of spare time, and for the most part he had fun with this kind of lifestyle, but in the end it was all for the same purpose. He did it all for her. When she returned, he would be strong, well-educated, capable, and secure. He would be able to take care of her in every possible way. It was what drove him, and also what kept him awake at night.

Xerondar drained the last of his milk and set the empty paper cup on top of the trunk beside him. He arched his back and stretched, then let out a big sigh as he rubbed his stubbly face and ran a hand through his dark, shoulder-length curls. He was slightly chilly in this air-conditioned room, wearing only his cotton boxers, but he suddenly felt too lazy to do anything about it. He nestled back in his chair and closed his eyes, and his last conscious thoughts were of smiling eyes, girlish laughter, oaths kept, and words thought but never spoken.