Anew: Book One: Awakened

by Litton, Josie

  Hollis grins, or at least he shows his teeth which for him is pretty much the same thing. “Touchdown,” he says.

  I nod. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Somebody got the HPF assholes into the Institute and the odds are good that it was the technician. Now we’ve just got to figure out how they met up with him in the first place.

  “Start with the casinos,” I say. “I want social networks of every employee and anyone else linked to those locations parsed down to the smallest detail. Somewhere in all that is somebody with a connection to the HPF.”

  “It’ll take awhile,” he cautions.

  “Just so long as we get the answer before anyone else does.”

  It’s only a matter of time now. The techniques for plotting social networks to expose terrorist connections were pioneered toward the end of the twentieth century, primarily during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’ve been constantly refined ever since.

  The quantum computers I have at my disposal will already be crunching through virtually infinite amounts of data to make sense of it in a way that would take humans months or longer. But in the end it will come down to our intuition, our grasp of which results have real significance, and our willingness to act.

  I step aside to call Edward with an update. The fact that he offered no pushback when I told him that I was taking Amelia to Pinnacle House racked up a lot of points in his favor.

  He adds a few more when he says, “I want to be there when you question those HPF fuckers. We find out where they've been getting their money, it will lead us to whoever’s really behind all this, no matter how cleverly they think they’ve covered their tracks.”

  “Fair enough.” Ordinarily, I’d never include anyone from outside but I know Edward. He won’t like what has to happen anymore than I will but he won’t lose any sleep over it either.

  When I get off the link, Hollis says, “It’ll be several hours at least before we’re operational.” He drops his voice a notch. “Whatever’s riding you, now’s the time to put it to rest.”

  I hesitate but there’s no point denying what we both know is true. My head is not where it needs to be. That has to change and fast.

  A big part of me knows that I should just keep my distance from Amelia. But there will be all too much time for that once the HPF is no longer a danger to her. Before then, I don’t want her last memory to be of my threatening her yet again and making her feel like a prisoner.

  The plain, sobering truth is that I don’t want her to think badly of me after everything is said and done, and I’m no longer in her life. On a slightly better note, I need for her to know that she truly is safe and that she's going to stay that way.

  I tell myself that if I can accomplish that much, I’ll be able to let the rest go.

  I’m not a total dumbass; on some level I know that’s a crock. But I don’t let that stop me. When a man is as intent on making a fool of himself as I am, nothing better get in his way.

  With a nod to Hollis, I leave the operations floor.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Amelia

  Gab leaves me at the entrance to the apartment. After prowling around aimlessly for a few minutes, I stop and look out over the city.

  A golden dusk is falling, casting shadows that soften the corners of the buildings far below. To the south, ships still come and go in the harbor. A few stars are already visible low in the eastern sky.

  By any measure, the view is spectacular but I scarcely notice it. All my thoughts are of Ian.

  Figure out what the problem is.

  That’s easy enough.

  “I have to know that you’re safe from any danger… including me.”

  I am safe in Pinnacle House, nothing can reach me there. But safe from Ian? How do I convince him that he won’t harm me when I don’t even understand the source of his fear?

  I’m only now beginning to realize what a complex man he is. He projects a seemingly effortless aura of authority that can be reassuring or intimidating depending on the circumstances. Yet beneath that are dark shadows and a sense of vulnerability that make me ache for the man he is and even more, for the boy he was.

  The wounds he carries can’t be fresh; their effects run too deep. Something happened to him early in life. I am certain that it involved his father but beyond that I’m mired in frustrating ignorance.

  I’m struggling with that, searching desperately for an answer, as I turn back to the room. My gaze falls on a set of double doors that I haven’t noticed before.

  Opening them, I find myself on the threshold of a long, high-ceilinged gallery. Directly across from me is a matching set of doors that must lead to other parts of the penthouse floor where Gab indicated there were rooms for receptions and other company functions.

  To the far left and right, floor-to-ceiling glass walls look out over the expansive view. In between, the space is filled with elegantly displayed paintings and sculptures.

  The presence of such treasures is a welcome surprise. While I have a working knowledge of art, this is the first time I’ve been able to see so much of it for myself.

  Along one side of the gallery is a series of photographs. Those in sepia must be among the earliest ever taken, depicting as they do scenes from the American Civil War. Others in black-and-white show the upheaval of the world wars as well as endless local conflicts, sometimes flaring into broader regional struggles, that continue to the present day.

  I quickly see that the theme is the same for all--the death of youth embodied by men and women across two centuries yet united in the overwhelming sense of needless tragedy and loss.

  Nearby is an oil painting of men wading through water toward a beach where bombs are exploding. The stark heroism of their action, moving toward rather than away from deadly danger, is striking in its power.

  Something about how the men stand in relation to one another makes it clear that they aren’t motivated in that moment by thoughts of country or flag. Instead, they are supporting one another at the most basic human level, a true band of brothers united by courage and sacrifice. The same is also true in a holographic work that shows soldiers on patrol in a narrow street, taking fire from adjacent buildings yet continuing nonetheless to advance.

  In none of the works do I get any sense of the so-called glory of war, no hint of triumphalism. There is only courageous honesty and a certain forlorn pride in the sacrifices made for ideals that, however elusive they may be, are still the best hope of humanity.

  Thinking of Ian, of what he has confronted, my throat tightens. I turn away toward the other side of the gallery.

  At once, the mood changes. A voluptuous Renoir nude hangs beside a Gauguin depiction of Tahitian women bathing. Nearby is a vibrant, provocative portrait of a nude woman by Francoise Nielly.

  As I walk along slowly, I come upon a medieval triptych depicting scenes from the Garden of Eden, a Caravaggio portrait of a young woman clutching a sprig of jasmine that I recall has been used as a symbol for eroticism, and a series of preliminary sketches for Botticelli’s exquisite “Birth of Venus.” I cannot begin to imagine what the sketches alone are worth.

  I’m impressed that Ian is a discerning, if eclectic collector. Despite the myriad styles, the pieces all work together, expressing the effort of artists over the centuries to illuminate the beauty and complexity of the human condition.

  I can’t help but notice that there is also a frankly sensual aspect to the works. A nude by the contemporary artist Yasmin DeNiro makes me blush, so obvious is the woman’s arousal as she lies stretched out on a chaise longue, one arm extended invitingly to the lover we can imagine standing just beyond the edge of the canvas. Or perhaps it is the viewer she is beckoning to; it’s impossible to tell.

  I’ve just turned away from her when my eye falls on what appears to be an abstract sculpture hanging on a nearby wall. I approach it, tilting my head this way and that, convinced that it reminds me of something yet unable to decide what it--

  What….?
No, that can’t be right. I can’t be looking at a life-size and very detailed representation of the female genitalia displayed between spread thighs.

  Apparently, I can be. The highly polished metal--bronze, I think--of the thighs and the plumb outer labia contrasts vividly with the bright copper inner labia, almost frond-like in their rippled folds. Between them the exposed clit and vulva are exactingly rendered, the clit even more highly polished than the rest, clearly engorged while below it the vulva gleams wetly.

  The overall effect is so precise as to leave no doubt that the work was cast from a living model.

  Who was she, the woman who lay on a table, her legs spread and raised, holding herself immobile despite being teased to obvious arousal. How did she respond as warm, liquid wax was poured over her sex, hardening into a mold for molten metal? How long did she remain encased like that until the wax was pulled away?

  Did she come when it was or perhaps just afterward? At her hands? Or the artist’s?

  A wave of heat makes the muscles in my groin clench even as I remind myself that I have awakened in a world steeped in sensuality, whether for the indulgence of the wealthy and privileged, or as a means of diverting and controlling everyone else. The works in the gallery can hardly be considered extreme in a culture where even the opera is X-rated.

  Yet they still have a capacity to shock me.

  On a pedestal nearby is the nude torso of a woman rendered in great detail. The smooth stone is a sharp contrast to the deceptively softer texture of the natural jute ropes that tightly bind her breasts into engorged cones before extending across her hips to her crotch where they are drawn tightly along her inner labia, her clit protruding between them.

  Looking at the ropes, I can’t help but squirm. They would certainly be uncomfortable but the sense of pressure there, of being bound--

  I glance away quickly only to confront a collage that dominates the opposite wall. It is comprised of a vast array of ominous looking implements--leather flails in a variety of colors and textures, wooden paddles, cuffs both metal and leather, whips of various lengths, steel clamps attached to chains, and--my blush deepens--riding crops are all arranged in a circular pattern within a large wooden wheel. The wheel of fortune, perhaps? Abruptly, my remark in the Rolls prompted by the allure of Ian’s riding boots comes back to haunt me.

  I’m staring at the collage, struggling to come to terms with what it contains--and the implications of it--when the sound of a throat being cleared freezes me in place. I only just manage to turn my head before I instantly wish for the floor to open and swallow me.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Ian

  Amelia isn’t in the apartment. I confirm that within minutes of arriving. I can contact security and have them locate her but before I do, I notice that the doors to the gallery are ajar.

  Crap.

  With hindsight, I should have kept the gallery off the list of areas she can access. Now that she’s there I don’t know whether to be apprehensive or intrigued.

  I slip through the doors and spot her almost at once. Her head is tilted to one side, lips softly parted and her eyes-- Her eyes are wide and dark, filled, I assume, with shock. She looks so damn beautiful in a way I can hardly fathom. An innocent in a world that left innocence behind long ago.

  My feelings for her threaten to overwhelm me. She fills me with raw lust that’s equaled only by the driving need to cherish and protect her. I want to possess her completely and at the same time crush anything that could cause her the slightest harm.

  Without some way to reconcile such contradictory urges, I’m knocked off balance and left struggling to cope with a situation unlike any I’ve ever encountered before.

  Before I can get mired in the emotions that provokes, I clear my throat. Softly, not wanting to startle her, I say, “The collage is by Iago Reyes. It’s one of a series he created in the years just before he entered a Buddhist monastery.”

  She stiffens at the sound of my voice and shoots me a quick glance before looking anywhere but at me.

  “He became a monk?” Her voice is a little high. She’s blushing fiercely.

  “An acolyte, for awhile. He’s back in the world and working again.”

  I swear that I can smell the soft, alluring scent of her skin even across the distance separating us. That isn’t possible but sense memories of her threaten to overwhelm me--the warm, silken smoothness of her thighs parting for my hands, the elegant arch of her back, her breathy moans as she starts to come--

  My skin prickles as though a storm is building, charging the air with electricity.

  Instead of heeding the warning, I ask, “What do you think of the piece?”

  She tries to shrug but doesn’t quite pull it off. “It’s very provocative.”

  “Because of what it consists of?” I assume that’s what she means but as always with Amelia, I’m in for a surprise.

  She stares at the collage, studying it carefully. “Partly but he’s reduced everything to shape and color, stripped of function. And he’s arranged it all like the seeds in a sunflower, spirals within spirals, using the harmony of nature to create unexpected beauty.”

  I wait, impressed that she’s able to see past the superficial so readily and at the same time knowing that I shouldn’t be. From that first night when she challenged me by quoting Clauswitz, I’ve had no doubts about her intelligence or her perceptiveness.

  As she continues studying the collage, I let my eyes roam over her. She stands with the poise of a dancer, her body perfectly straight yet fluid, as though ready in an instant to spring into motion. As much as I resent Sergei, I can understand why she wants, even needs, the instruction he can provide.

  The thought rankles but it also reminds me of her interest in martial arts which, predictably enough, makes me think of training her and presto--

  What was that Amelia said about me being predictable? My cock sure as hell is. I ignore what’s going on in my jeans and force myself to focus on assuring her that she’s safe.

  Still staring at the collage, she asks, “Is Reyes asking us to question our assumptions about these objects? To see them in a different context?”

  That she is even open to such a possibility stirs me more than I want to admit.

  Carefully, I say, “Much of Reyes’ work is about questioning the idea that pain is always ugly and only pleasure can be beautiful. He thinks the truth is more complex and he wants us to make our own decisions about that.”

  She turns her head suddenly and meets my gaze. “Is that why you acquired the piece? Because it suggests that sensuality isn’t simplistic?”

  I acquired the piece because the first time I saw it, in a gallery in Milan, it cracked the darkness inside me just enough to admit a tiny ray of light where before there had been none. And because the artist turned out to be a sharp, witty guy about my own age who was himself no stranger to wrestling with demons.

  But I’m not ready to tell her that. I’m especially not ready to mention that over arak seeped from copper stills heated with twisted vine wood, aged in clay amphorae, and poured from a bottle as darkly blue as the sky in the moments before the last light fades, Reyes and his wife gave me a glimpse of possibilities that I dismissed at the time but haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since Amelia came into my life.

  Rather than answer her directly, I say, “Reyes’ work is an excellent investment. After he withdrew to the monastery, the value of his pieces went through the roof.”

  For an instant, she looks disappointed, leaving me to wonder if she knows I am not being entirely--or even mostly--honest.

  Doubling down, I add, “This collection is as much about making money as anything else.”

  “Is it?” She raises a brow and gestures toward the far end of the gallery where a trio of statues is displayed. “What about those?”

  Oh, yeah, those. I accepted them on loan as a favor to the artist, who will benefit from the visibility that an exhibition at Pinnacle House confers
but they won’t be staying.

  The three statues are life-size as well as remarkably lifelike. Each depicts the same tall, slim young woman. Her hair is honey blonde, her eyes a cool shade of gray, her skin as pale and smooth as porcelain. In all three renditions, she is almost entirely nude.

  In stark contrast to her pale skin, red ropes bind her slender arms behind her and constrict her full breasts. On her long, lithe legs, she wears red thigh-top stockings and ballet stiletto boots that arch the foot and force the toes on point. A red leather collar is fastened snugly around her neck.

  In each of the poses, she is further bound with red rope in positions that render her helpless and fully expose her sex--bent at the barre in a plié, suspended in a grand jeté, and standing on one leg, the other stretched straight up alongside her.

  Yet despite all this, she gazes at the viewer serenely. Her beautiful features are composed, her hair neatly arranged in a coil at the back of her head, her body enduring the demands placed upon it without apparent strain or effort. From the first time I saw her, I’ve thought that she looks like a ballerina in bondage.

  “Who is she?” Amelia asks. She turns, meeting my eyes. “Do you know?”

  “The artist, Karla Larson. The statues are self-portraits.”

  I wait as she processes this, glancing back at the trio. “She’s very daring, isn’t she?”

  Yet another Amelia surprise. No expression of shock or disgust. Just going right to the heart of exactly how Karla is even though she’s never met the woman. What she lacks in experience, she more than makes up for with an understanding of human nature that I have to conclude must be innately her own even if I don’t understand how that’s possible.

  “She’s certainly forthright about some of the darker aspects of sensuality,” I say.

  Amelia hesitates. I can see that something is bothering her after all. Finally, she asks, “Are you…friends?”

  She’s jealous? A little flicker of satisfaction darts through me but it’s swamped by bewilderment. I have to remember that while she has knowledge, she has no memories to compare to what has happened between us. No way of knowing how rare it is. Maybe that’s just as well, all things considered.