For Centuries More

by Ethan Johnson

  FOR CENTURIES MORE (Purity Trilogy, Book Two)

  Copyright © 2019 by Ethan Johnson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To access the author’s complete catalog, please visit:

  http://officialethanjohnson.com

  Book and Cover design by Ethan Johnson

  Cover photo: Nathan Dumlao

  FOR CENTURIES MORE

  ETHAN JOHNSON

  PROLOGUE: JUSTICE AT NINEVEH

  The morning sun crept along the plains of Nineveh, dispelling the blanket of night, and bringing the parched landscape into view. The city walls stood proudly against the cloudless sky, cutting an imposing profile over any who approached. The damaged gate was freshly repaired, and twice as many guards stood on the ramparts, keeping a steady watch on the horizon for the return of Tobias and his armies.

  Sunlight crawled along the interior of the city, giving a golden pallor to the structures that still stood, and signaling the start of another work day for the slaves tasked with repairing the damage from months before. Guards, engineers, and other minders directed the movements of the slaves to their work assignments, and in short order, the damage eroded a little further, as stones and other rubble were hauled away and replaced with new construction.

  Light poked through a thin vertical slit in a high wall, striking a long-haired woman in the eye, rousing her awake. She held up her hand and squinted. She rolled onto her side and looked at her cell door while scrunching her nose as bits of straw irritated her cheek. Her breakfast, such as it was, had been slid through a small opening that had been cut into the door. She cursed and crawled to the bowl, shooing flies away from the gruel that lined the bottom, and little more. Justice in Nineveh was swift and terrible, to her recollection. It was not common practice to starve prisoners to death slowly.

  She gulped down her gruel and curled her lips in disgust as she tried to keep it down. She wiped her mouth with her forearm, as always. She set the bowl down beside the door and sat on the floor with her back against the opposite wall. Moments later, she heard footsteps approach the cell door and come to an abrupt halt. A bolt was thrown aside, the cutout was opened, and the bowl removed. It was replaced with a small earthen vessel. The cutout door slammed shut, and the bolt was thrown once more. The woman sighed and rose from the floor. She picked up the vessel carefully by the sides and set it down in the center of her nearly empty cell. She lifted her prison dress and squatted over the vessel.

  “The king did not treat his slaves in this way,” she said, in hopes a guard was near. She heard no reply and completed her morning ritual. She carefully carried the vessel back to the cell door and set it down gently.

  She took her seat once more and closed her eyes. There was nothing to see in her cell except for her straw bedding and a vessel full of waste. She ignored the scent and concentrated on taking deep breaths. She had made a connection with a strange man the day before who spoke a strange language and arrived naked outside of the city gates. She felt herself walk through the gates and approach the man, lured by his intense desire for her. He was a welcome distraction from the monotony of her cell. She felt the sensations of touching him, of being undressed by him, and being impressed with his tenacity and forthrightness in taking from her all that he desired.

  This is the way of Nineveh, she told him, which stoked the flames of his lust even more. After they enjoyed their virtual pleasures, he vanished, and as she sat in her dirty cell, she heard him call to her across time and space: Inanna.

  She smiled to herself and licked her lips. He was a stranger to her, but she had a way of making strangers into useful servants in due time. Tobias was one such stranger. He was convinced that they were brother and sister, but they only met as adults. She told him a story about being stolen from their parents at a young age and sold into slavery, and Tobias developed false memories of the sister he once knew and loved. So blind was his love and affection for her that he took no notice that she shared the same name as the venerated Inanna: Goddess of love, beauty, sex, fertility, and war, to name just a few. She never refused credit for these attributes, as worshippers conferred status and power. More for her, less for the deserving, which suited her nicely.

  Inanna’s legend had run deep, but now, as she ruminated in her cell, talk of a single god was spreading slowly and inexorably across the land. Her name was becoming mere homage, at present. Few knew Inanna yet lived and walked the Earth in a mortal guise.

  To that end, she was content to maintain the charade of a condemned woman confined to a small cell awaiting execution for the murder of the king. She could escape at will, and no mortal could stop her. But Inanna was more cunning, and content to let corruptible men serve her purposes. The strange man who summoned from beyond the city gates appeared to be her next mark.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and sent a message across time and space to her exotic visitor: Death comes quickly.

  She sent instructions for her deliverance. As she completed the transmission, her concentration was broken by the sound of a heavy bar being lifted from her cell door and guards marching into her cell. Two guards bent over and lifted her from the cell floor. The captain of the guard smiled as she was dragged from the cell. “Death has come today,” he said, with an air of satisfaction. He looked down and saw a tipped earthen pot leaking waste onto his sandaled foot.

  Inanna was dragged roughly down the steps, out of the prison, across the city yard, and through a city gate, which was open just wide enough for the phalanx of guards to pass through. She tried to walk, but the guards moved too quickly for her to do much more than bring one leg forward, only to have it swept lamely behind her. The city walls grew smaller over her shoulder as she was led to a bare patch of dirt and dropped onto her back.

  The captain of the guard stood over her. “You are the concubine that sent the king down to his death beside the River Tigris. You showed no mercy to our beloved king, as you now shall receive none. Your death shall be slow and painful. I extend only this small kindness: you shall die outdoors, but unaided by all who pass. This shall be done.”

  He took two steps back, and a helmeted guard stepped forward and ran her through with a spear. He began to remove it, and the captain waved him off.

  “We shall give you a new spear. This one shall mark her bones, should I ever wish to give her a proper burial. It may at least remind us where justice was done, in the name of our king.”

  “In the name of the king,” repeated the guards.

  Inanna coughed and spat. She struggled to remove the spear, but the pain was too great as she tried in vain to pull upward on the wooden shaft. The sun hung directly overhead, and she felt her skin burn as she laid in the dirt. The guards marched away in a group. The captain of the guard smiled over her as she suffered.

  “Justice is done.”

  Inanna groaned and panted as she bled. She put on a show for the captain and any who passed of her immense suffering and impending doom. When she was completely alone, she slowed her breathing and closed her eyes, searching across time and space for the stranger who desired her.

  CHAPTER 1: JAMMED

  Gracie tip-toed on her roller skate stoppers, looking for daylight. Three ample women decked out in full green and yellow derby gear clutched each other’s forearms and made a triangular pattern that she m
ight have appreciated from the stands, but now, here at track level, were just plain pissing her off. She heard screams from the crowd egging her on, but she couldn’t break the deadlock. Fortunately, their jammer was having her own special set of problems with Gracie’s teammates. If she could just find a way past the herd, Gracie would be declared lead jammer and rake in some points. In the interim, she took an elbow to the ribs.

  The crowd booed when the closest ref didn’t call the penalty. It didn’t matter if anything actually warranted a penalty… they were rabid fans and looking for any advantage, and quick to point out slights real and imagined. Especially imagined. Gracie growled and tried spinning around the largest defender. She toed the out of bounds line but managed to stay just inside it and ducked down, looking for another opportunity. She saw a yellow star on a green helmet bob up from between two of her own defenders and she felt a blast of adrenaline surge through her. Instead of picking away at the defenders, looking for a weak point, she looked down at the track and gave the trio a big grin. Their single-minded focus on keeping her hemmed in meant that they weren’t paying enough attention to their footwork. Gracie let herself drift back a step or two.

  The least confident of the three clicked her skate wheels against her teammate’s skate, and she dropped to one knee. Gracie seized the initiative and jumped over her back, landing squarely on her chunky skate wheels and smiling broadly as the closest referee held up his thumb and index finger. She waved to the cheering crowd as the PA announcer said the magic words: Blazin’ Gracie is your leaaaaaad jammer! Another ref gave her a stern glare and shook a warning finger as if to say, the crowds may enjoy that, but that’s how the collection skate gets passed around. Gracie smiled and shrugged.

  After the jam, Gracie skated to the bench and the team captain gave her double high-fives. “That’s rookie of the year stuff right there, Grace,” she beamed. Gracie nodded and scanned the crowd for familiar faces, then took her seat on the bench. She felt an elbow nudge her ribs, and her teammate Rosie Cheex nodded toward the track. Gracie nodded back and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Come on, Nina!” Rosie smiled approvingly.

  Gracie felt a thrill as the fans seated directly behind her started up a chant just for her: “Grac-ie! Grac-ie!” Gracie smiled, and wanted to turn around to soak up the adulation but thought better of it. Rosie was always going on about how the Downtown Dolls were a team, and no one skater was the show. Gracie cheered on her teammates, showing how supportive she could be when she wasn’t on the track. She felt someone shake her shoulder. She turned to Rosie, who gave her a puzzled look. She looked to her left and was shocked to see a familiar face. Trixie winked and bit her lip. “That was amazing.”

  Gracie felt her cheeks burn. “You’re amazing.” She leaned over and kissed Trixie full on the lips, inviting catcalls from the stands.

  Something dribbled down her chin. “What the hell?”

  Gracie sat up as a woman in street clothes held a bottle of water inches away from her mouth. “Ready for more water? Stay still, we’re still checking you out.”

  Gracie blinked. “What?”

  Miss Beretta, the team captain of the Downtown Dolls crouched down to her right. “Now do you get why we don’t do idiotic stunts like that? If all you did was get knocked out, you’re as lucky as you are stupid.”

  Patty Cakes was stretching out her right side, grimacing as she tried to work through the pain. Gracie dimly recalled seeing her trip on a loose skate lace and jumping over her. She made it, right? Her signature move was ready for prime time… well, once she made the roster for one of the four competitive squads. This was her chance to show it off and dazzle the Meat Squad.

  Miss Beretta waved somebody over from the side of the rink, who clutched a cell phone close to his Downtown Dolls shirt. “Let’s see the replay. Grace, can you sit up?”

  Gracie groaned, but managed to prop herself up on her elbows. The acne-faced assistant held the phone screen at an angle and pressed the play button. Gracie skated up to Patty, who fell flat on her stomach. Gracie rolled into her side, tried to pull her legs up into a jump, fell forward, screamed, managed to pirouette a half-turn, and came down hard on her back, knocking the wind out of her. Apparently, per the video, she passed out seconds later, amid yelps and gasps from her fellow Meaters.

  Gracie slid onto her back and groaned.

  “Yeah, and the best part is, you wouldn’t be lead jammer. If the blocker goes down without your involvement, you hang back.” Miss Beretta extended her hand and helped Gracie up from the floor. “Sit out practice for the rest of the night. We don’t need any trips to the hospital, huh?”

  Gracie skated painfully to a bench and plopped down. She pulled off her helmet and slammed it down beside her.

  CHAPTER 2: DAMAGES

  In Martha Morris’s estimation, the Morris Family was a well-oiled machine: Jacqueline was always busy and living in New York, Marc was busy and living in Chicago, and up until a few months ago, Agnes was quiet and living at home, as was Gracie, minus the quiet. Now three out of the four kids were living in Chicago and rarely checking in, which suited Martha fine. It was strange to have the nest empty at last, but she and her husband got used to it. He had his own bathroom, which Martha very much enjoyed. She would sooner take out a second or third mortgage for that perk alone, if it kept any of the kids from moving back home.

  She had hoped to be thinking that purely hypothetically when she opened an ominous-looking letter from a law office in Chicago. The letter was short but packed a punch. Mother sat on the sofa mechanically as she read and re-read its contents, then she reached for the phone handset on the coffee table and dialed Marc’s cell number.

  As she inhaled to lay into him, she was instead greeted with a series of shrill beeps and an electronic message: The number you have reached… has been disconnected. No further information is available. Please check the number you are dialing and try again.

  Martha put on a pair of reading glasses and pressed the phone keys one at a time, slowly and deliberately. After a moment, the shrill beeps sounded again. Martha disconnected the call. “Hmph.” She began to dial Jacqueline’s cell number, then aborted the attempt. She’s probably busy, she assumed. She sighed and looked at the letter once more, then she wandered off to the kitchen to look at a new phone number scrawled on a piece of scrap paper affixed to the refrigerator with a ladybug magnet. She dialed the number and waited. The phone rang.

  “Hello, this is Agnes Morris speaking.”

  “Agnes? It’s your mother.”

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Agnes, honey, have you spoken to your brother lately?”

  The was a pause on the line. “Not lately, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  Another pause. “I have not. Why?”

  “He’s being sued. Something about his apartment burning down. His landlord claims that he was negligent and left a candle burning, or something. Have you heard anything about this? Is he okay?”

  Martha heard static on the line, which may have been Agnes breathing into the receiver. “I haven’t… heard… anything, no. Gracie might have… they usually talk once a week, as I recall.”

  “Is she home?”

  “No, Mother. She’s out for the evening.”

  “Out doing what?”

  “She didn’t tell me. I think she made some new friends and they’re downtown tonight.”

  “Oh.” Martha glanced at the letter in her left hand. “Well, that’s good. Glad to hear she’s getting out and meeting people. How are you?”

  “I’m well, Mother. I have some solid leads on a job. I’m hoping I can get a yes by next Friday.”

  “That sounds good. I’m sure Gracie would appreciate the help with the rent.”

  “We’re getting by okay.”

  “Well, don’t keep your standards too high. It’s a blessing that your sister makes enough for the two of you, but you need to pitch in too, and I don’t mean by
doing all the housework.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Well, if you hear from your brother, have him call me right away.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay then. Goodbye, Agnes.”

  “Goodbye, Mother. I lo— “

  Martha terminated the call. She set the phone handset on the kitchen island and made her way to the TV room. Her husband was stretched out on a leather recliner, snoring loudly. Martha sighed, rolled her eyes, and set the letter on his lap.

  CHAPTER 3: SMOTHERED

  Agnes set the phone handset back in its cradle and frowned. She had expected there would be some sort of fallout from Marc’s apartment fire, but more of his personal affairs were apparently beginning to unravel. She hadn’t returned to the warehouse where she encountered Inanna and the mysterious factory that once housed piles of clay bricks, which were transformed into gold bars by Marc’s traveling companion: a man she only knew as Tobias.

  Image had been putting her through intensive training and information sessions. It had taken her years to come close to filling a single spiral notebook with notes, now she was starting a fifth, and going strong. These days, Image was especially focused on “the illusion of privacy” as it applied to physical reality. We were all conditioned, she said, to accept a baseline concept either by way of Santa Claus, or God. We assigned this ability externally to a single person or entity and didn’t consider that we were using this as shorthand for a much larger, fundamental truth: nothing could truly be hidden from anyone else. We conditioned ourselves and each other, she said, to discourage any lines of inquiry into this truth. We would entertain ourselves with stories about mind-readers, for example, then tell each other that it was just fiction and play-acting. Conversely, we told each other of impenetrable fortresses or secret bases, like Fort Knox or Area 51, then conditioned each other to believe that such places could never be breached.