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chasing-classics · 4 years

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Tell Me You Still Want It- Coco Cruz x Reader (Smut)

Pairing: Johnny ‘’Coco’’ Cruz x Reader

Warning(s): Smut, angst, language, unprotected sex

Summary: After your breakup, you and Coco are feeling bitter. Everything changes one night during a party, where the reason why you two broke up is revealed. Smut ensues.

You set down the bottles of beers for the boys, ignoring the wolf whistles and feeling of several eyes on you. The club was holding some sort of celebration, for what you didn’t know. What you did know is Bishop asked if you could help EZ with bartending and setting up, given the amount of people who currently flooded the clubhouse and yard. The fact that it was the middle of July and the night air was hot and humid didn’t make things any more enjoyable. You were left with the decision to either wear a tank top and shorts or die of heatstroke. You questioned if the latter would’ve been better as one of the prospects from another charter whistled at you.

‘’Fucking savages,’’ you scoffed, earning a deep chuckle from EZ.

‘’He’s pissed, you know,’’ EZ grinned, nodding his head over to the direction of the pool table.

You glanced, seeing Coco nervously tap his foot, going through his pack of cigarettes as his hawkish eyes zeroed in on you. You shook your head, the corners of your mouth turning up slightly. ‘’It’s not his place to be pissed. He ended things, I’m just doing what I get paid to do,’’ you replied, wiping down the counter and ensuring your station looked presentable.

‘’He loves you, y/n. He’s just going through things,’’ EZ offered, taking the clean shot glasses out.

You shrugged his words off. ‘’Should’ve thought of that before he pissed away three years of our lives.’’ EZ wisely didn’t say anything. He just placed a comforting hand on your shoulder and patted you before leaving to get more cases of beer.

‘’Hey mami, can I get three shots for my sponsor and his brothers?’’ a prospect called to you.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, biting down on your lip to prevent yourself from telling the youngblood to go fuck himself. You opted to just force a smile, throwing your hair back and turning around to get more shot glasses. You could feel his eyes on your backside when you bent down and it was then you really missed Coco. Had you two still been together, none of this shit would fly. Despite him not being the most muscular of the Mayans, he made up for it with his temper and his ability to land a punch to anyone’s face before they even knew what hit them, literally.

‘’Here you go,’’ you handed the guy his shots, visibly cringing when his hand brushed against yours.

‘’Goddamn you’re fucking beautiful,’’ his eyes lingered on your chest. It took everything in you not to deck him. Your eyes briefly glanced in Coco’s direction, only for you to become crestfallen when one of Vicky’s girls sat down beside him, him lighting her cigarette as her tits were practically pushed against his face. You ignored the feeling of your heart breaking in your chest as you glanced at the prospect who was now clearly imagining what you looked like with your clothes off. He wasn’t bad looking, you quickly decided. And if Coco could be friendly with the blonde-haired bimbo, you could afford to let a prospect between your legs for one night.

You smiled, leaning across the counter as your eyes traced the numerous tattoos on his arms. ‘’You don’t give up easily, do you?’’ He had one dimple, you quickly noticed as he grinned at you. He was handsome enough.

‘’It’s not everyday I meet a fine ass woman like yourself, querida,’’ he shrugged. You smirked at his cheesiness. ‘’So? What do I need to do to convince you to let me in those panties of yours?’’ He was blunt, awkwardly blunt, but you respected his straightforward attitude to a certain extent. You leaned in further, your breasts pushed up teasingly much to the prospect’s delight. He leaned in slightly as well, to the point you could smell the mix of beer and cologne on him.

‘’Bold of you to assume I’m wearing panties,’’ you whispered in his ear, eyes zeroing in on Coco once more. You smirked when you saw he was already staring, clenching his beer in his hand. You slowly licked the side of the prospect’s neck, tracing the tattoo that was embedded in the tan skin, closing your eyes in triumph when you heard a bottle break and the sound of the chair scraping against the floor.

The poor prospect didn’t even know what hit him. Hell, you nearly got whiplash as the prospect was shoved to the floor and Coco dragged you to his dorm. The door slammed shut and you winced at thee way the entire room seemed to shake from the noise. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as your ex glared heatedly at you.

‘’Take off your fucking clothes, or I rip them off,’’ Johnny seethed.

Stupidly, you scoffed in disbelief. You weren’t able to take one step forward when he shoved you backwards onto the bed. In flash, the side of your face was pressed down into the mattress. You weren’t scared until you felt the blade of Coco’s pocketknife at your lower back.

‘’J-Johnny don’t-!’’ you yelped when he tore the flimsy top, leaving your back exposed.

The humid air from earlier suddenly became ice cold as you laid beneath your ex-boyfriend, who you could feel burning your exposed skin into his memory. Specifically, the elegant lettering on your lower back that served as a constant reminder that you were undeniably his. You shivered as his rough hands traced his name on your skin, shifting a little due to your nipples hardening. His hands were quick to yank down your shorts and the growl that left his lips was not lost on you; you hadn’t been lying to the prospect about not wearing panties tonight.

‘’Fucking slut,’’ Coco growled, one hand tangling itself in your hair while the other busied itself with loosening his belt.

‘’Johnny,’’ you whimpered, half-heartedly attempting to close your legs to preserve some modesty. Those efforts were in vain when Coco shoved one leg between yours and roughly grinded his jean-covered knee against your crotch.

‘’You were gonna let that fucking prospect, that fucking puto, into my pussy,’’ he hissed in your ear as his belt buckle clinked in the background.

‘’We broke up, Johnny,’’ you managed to bite out.

‘’Yeah, we had a break, only for you to move on not even a week later,’’ he abruptly stopped his movements, allowing you to turn your head so you could maintain eye contact with him.

‘’What did you expect me to do, Coco? God, you’re such a hypocrite! You had some fake blonde on your lap the entire night and you expect me wait around like some bitch in heat for you? Fuck that and fuck you Johnny Cruz. You ended shit, you did this,’’ you all but roared, now standing up in all your glory and staring him down.

Coco gulped, his brows furrowed and a look of pain crossed those dark eyes of his. His muscles tensed for a second, only for him to shakily exhale as he looked down at you.

‘’I ended shit because I panicked,’’ he huffed, the anger slowly evaporating.

‘’Panicked over what?’’ you asked, shoulders still tense in case his temper flared up again.

‘’I saw the test, y/n. I know,’’ Coco sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

Your eyes bugged out and the air momentarily left your lungs for a split second.

‘’Why didn’t you tell me you thought you were pregnant?’’ Johnny asked and the look in his eyes devastated you.

It was your turn to sigh, sitting back down on the bed, not even caring that you were still completely naked. You looked back up at your Old Man.

‘’I figured kids weren’t an option with you. We already have Leticia, and you never hid the fact that you didn’t want more kids. When I was late, I panicked. But when it came out negative I figured there wasn’t anything to tell you. I figured you’d just be relieved, and I. . .I wasn’t, Johnny,’’ you tried to keep your voice calm, despite the last bit hitting a nerve within you.

You loved Letty like she was your own flesh and blood. You loved her father more than life itself. In the beginning of your relationship, you were confident that life with just the three of you would be more than enough. However, when Adelita became pregnant and you spent more time with the children of Los Olvidados, specifically when you saw how Coco was with Minnie, your heart ached for a baby with the man you loved. You’d be lying if you had said you were relieved when the test came out ‘’negative’’; you had been heartbroken.

Johnny knelt down so that he was looking up at you, his rough but strong hand cupping your cheek.

‘’You wanted a baby with me?’’ he asked in the softest voice he could manage.

Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes as you slowly nodded your head. ‘’I love you Johnny. I thought I’d be fine not having kids, but everything changed. I wanted to have a baby with you. But I knew. . .I-I knew you wouldn’t want-,’’ you sniffled as your words trailed off.

Coco was quick to wrap his arms around your nude body. ‘’I’m so sorry, nena. I was just so angry, I thought you were hiding shit, I’m sorry,’’ he whispered into your hair. His words immediately calmed you, soothing the emotional wounds that he had left. You felt him kiss the top of your head. You each pulled away to look up into each other’s eyes. His eyes analyzed you carefully, his thumb stroking your bottom lip.

‘’You’re mine, querida. I fucking love you so much. Nothing would make me happier than seeing you having my kid,’’ his words shocked your entire being, but in the best way possible.

‘’Tell me you still want it,’’ his voice sent shivers down to your core.

His other hand traveled up your side and cupped your right breast, fingers playing with your nipple.

‘’I want it,’’ you whispered as your own hands began to take off his cut.

His lips pressed slow kisses across your jawline before turning their attention to your lips. ‘’No. Tell me exactly what you want, mami,’’ he whispered as his hand gently held the back of your head as the other’s teasing of your nipple became rougher. You let out short, breathy pants as his hand left your breast and made itself comfortable between your legs.

‘’J-Johnny,’’ you whimpered as two of his long digits suddenly entered you and began a brutal pace.

‘’Say it, mi amor. I’ll give it to you,’’ he grunted, licking the side of your neck as his fingers thrusted in and out of your tight canal. The sound of his fingers pounding away at you bounced off the walls.

‘’I want to have your baby, please Johnny. I need you inside me,’’ you cried, holding onto his shoulders as your pussy clenched around his digits.

You practically sobbed when he pulled his hand away from you, but it was quickly silenced as Coco made you taste yourself when he shoved his fingers in your mouth. You could see the primal desire in his eyes and your pussy was drenched at the though of what he was going to do to you.

‘’I want you kneeling, hands holding onto the headboard,’’ he whispered in your ear, smacking your ass cheek to get you to hurry.

In any other instance you would’ve sucked him off, but the week and a half of no sex left both of you desperate for one another. Your heart raced in your chest as you got into position for your Old Man, feeling extremely vulnerable despite having been with him for the past three years. This was different. Despite the roughness and almost sinfulness of it all, you knew this was different. You loved Johnny with all of your heart, and this was his way of giving everything to you, his way of letting you know he loved and believed in the two of you enough to bring that love into the world in human form.

‘’You ready, nena?’’ his voice brought you out of your thoughts.

‘’Don’t make me wait any longer, papi,’’ you whispered, your entire body heating up as his hands gripped your hips and you felt the tip of his cock at your entrance.

Your body lurched forward as he slammed his entire length up into you while dragging your hips down. He filled you entirely with that first thrust and your cries only spurred him on. No matter how many times Coco took you or how roughly he did so, you were always so tight around his member. His thick manhood nearly pulled your body with him as he thrusted his hips wildly. You held onto the metal headboard for dear life, your lips parted as you moaned and whimpered.

‘’Can’t fucking wait to fill you up,’’ Coco grunted as one hand encircled your neck. Not enough to choke you, but enough to feel the way he sent your pulse racing as he fucked into you.

Coco watched the way his angry cock disappeared into your tight folds, the way he stretched your core and how soaking wet you were. He watched the tattoo of his name on your lower back and how perfect you looked taking him. He imagined how you’d look carrying his kid, breasts full and heavy and looking like a goddess. He had never wanted anything more in his life, and he knew you were the only woman he could ever want that with.

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his breath hitting your skin as his thrusts sped up. The hand on your hip made its’ way to your core and his index finger began rubbing at your sensitive clit.

‘’Papi,’’ you moaned, hanging your head as it became all too much to bare. You felt so full, it was almost too much. Your tits bounced with every thrust and the way you were kneeling allowed him to hit the deepest parts of you. His hold on your throat tightened slightly as he pounded away at you. You heard him groan behind you, causing you to shiver.

‘’Cum for me, mi amor,’’ he whispered, jaw clenched as he kept his own release at bay. His eyes rapidly alternating between the way your ass bounced from his cock to the sight of your cunt tightening around his dick.

Your release hit you like a freight train and you convulsed against Coco. You were still dazed and lost in the waves of your release when Coco moved you so that you were now laying on your back, legs tossed over his shoulders as he chased his own release. All you could do was stare up at him as he fucked you, jaw in his firm but loving hand, whimpering at the way his skin slapped against yours.

‘’Fuck, take it baby. Take it,’’ he growled, pressing a hand to your lower abdomen as his cock twitched from inside you. The combination of your needy expression, the way your pussy gripped him, and the thought of him knocking you up is what did it. You both gasped when his release filled your sore pussy, tears of ecstasy rolling down your flushed cheeks. You moaned as the warmth of Coco’s cum spread inside of you, sating your pussy.

Coco panted, pressing his forehead against your own, slowly thrusting inside you so that you milked him of his cum. He kissed you softly, your hands lazily rubbing up and down his back.

‘’I love you, y/n. I’m not good at this whole love shit, but I know I love you. I’m not leaving,’’ his voice pulled you from your thoughts, the two of you still intertwined and his dick still inside of you.

‘’I love you too, Johnny, I want this.’’ He nodded his head, meeting your eyes. The tiniest of smiles on his face.

‘’They say if I hit it from the back we’ll have a boy,’’ he smirked, your cheeks burning when you felt him slowly begin to harden.

‘’Johnny!’’ you yelped as he began pulling you to lay face down.

‘’My bad.’’

#coco cruz x reader #johnny cruz #Mayans MC #johnny coco cruz #mayans mc smut #coco cruz imagine #coco cruz smut #richard cabral #Smut #mayans fx

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theheartsmistakes · 4 years

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The Last Night Part IV

(Author’s Notes: Does anyone even read this part? I’m going to pretend like you all do... Hello everyone! Here is the next installment of my Jordelia fan-fiction based on the characters created by the amazing Cassandra Clare in her trilogy Chain of Gold. This is really turning into what the cool kids call a “slow burn”. I never intended it to have such an extensive plot, but this quarantine is really bring forth my imagination. Anyway, if you enjoyed this please give it a like, reblog, comment, or feel free to just pop in and say hi. As always, thank you for reading! Happy and safe quarantine to you all. P.S. I have added an original character “Martin” for the selfish reason that I didn’t want to kill Cyril. Please forgive the inconsistency.)

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Part IV

“Maybe he should lie down?”

“I don’t need to lie down, mother,” said James, not unkindly, but with a bit of annoyance. “He’s removing a bracelet, not my arm.”

“If you don’t remain still,” said Magnus, his dark eyebrows glistened with flecks of glitter when he arched them, “it might well be.”

Magnus stood in front of James in the center of the Institute library with James’s hand suspended between them while the warlock focused his attention on the seemingly inconsequential silver band that adorned James’s wrist. If one were looking from afar without any context at all it might appear comical. Flecks of blue light danced from Magnus’s fingertips causing the silver to rattle against James’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or if the bracelet had begun to glow. No. It was most certainly glowing and hot. It rattled and spun until it became so hot that James ripped his arm away on instinct.

Magnus looked up, resigned and slightly paled. “It’s a much more powerful spell than I initially realized.”

“How do you mean?” Will asked from where he sat on the desk under the arched stain glass window cut and stained to look like the angel Raziel rising up to the heavens. Rain hit the glass as thunder crackled against the Institute’s walls rattling the crystal chandelier above them. “Will it come off?”

“It’s the strangest thing.” Magnus picked up James’s wrist again. “An absolute work of genius, actually. It’s as if it’s alive and it’s fighting against my magic.”

“Well I’ve had quite enough.” Lucie stood up from the floor where she had been petting Church in long, absentminded strokes. The cat gave a placid meow when she’d stopped. She smoothed out her dress and walked towards the door. “There seems to be only one thing left to do.”

“What’s that?” Matthew asked from where he stood in front of the door, blocking her way. He seemed more steady than his usual self. His hand wasn’t twitching where it held the door frame; his eyes remained focused and clear. They had all wondered what brought on his sudden sobriety. It seemed after one conversation with her father and he’d dropped the sauce like one of his waist coats that he deemed “out of style”. Will had that effect on people. It was best not to question it.

“I’m going to collect Grace Blackthorn and drag her here so that she can ask James to remove the bracelet her-bloody-self.” Lucie came to a stop in front of Matthew. It may have been the shadows cast across his face, but Matthew almost appeared afraid.

“No, Lucie, we aren’t sure what Grace is capable of,” said Tessa. “You said only moments ago that she confessed the truth about the bracelet, but you failed to think to bring her here to remove it?”

Lucie’s mouth opened in defense, but closed as if she forgot what she intended to say. She turned back to Matthew with a quizzical grimace. “Why didn’t we bring Grace back with us?”

“She—“ Matthew raised a pale eyebrow. “I must say I don’t recall.”

Lucie turned her back against the wall and crossed her arms over chest. Heat radiated to her face despite the chill that surrounded the room. Anxiety prickled underneath her skin like the desire to run as far and as fast as she could.

It’d been a whole day since she last spoke to Cordelia. They’d stood in the foray of her Aunt Cecily’s home after having walked in on her brother ravishing Grace Blackthorn against a wall. It was not an image that would soon evaporate from her memories. A blind rage filled her so suddenly that she feared she might have blacked out for a moment. When she came to, the walls behind James and Grace started to ripple and crease as translucent figures emerged from the atrocious paisley wallpaper. Their fleshless hands reached for the disentangled couple when Cordelia wrapped her hand around Lucie’s wrist and the door closed between them.

No one had seen anything. Not even her brother whose eyes were fastened on Cordelia. No one knew the dark depths to which her power could reach— not even herself.

“I know you’re upset, darling,” said Tessa, from beside her daughter now, “but have faith that Magnus can remove the bracelet and we will figure this all out.”

“We don’t have time for faith and waiting.” Lucie dropped her arms back to her sides. “Cordelia is on her way to Idris and after what James did, she’s likely to rune her room with wards not even the Angel himself can get through.”

James grimaced. Good, she thought. He deserves to be in pain.

“That doesn’t sound like Cordelia to me,” said Tessa and pressed a hand to Lucie’s cheek. “You’re warm darling, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine.” Lucie insisted. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment I think I’ll pop into the kitchen for a glass of water while I have faith and wait.”

Tessa looked resigned. “Maybe someone should go with you.”

“It’s only down the hall,” said Lucie, skirting past her mother towards the now empty doorway. Matthew stood beside James, an arm around his shoulder, as the two of them studied the bracelet. Matthew said something in James’s ear that brought a small smile to her brother’s face. Whatever they had fought about only days ago, it seemed not to matter now. Or if it did, other things took precedence at the moment.

Tears stung her eyes as she turned from the scene and exited the room.

The framed pictures on the hallway walls rattled with the thunder. Lucie stopped to readjust one that had tilted slightly of her sitting in a deep purple velvet arm chair studying a book. She secretly hated the likeness— not because it didn’t capture her respectfully— but because of the memory of it. She had to sit for nearly four hours listening to the artist drone on about his holiday in the Americas while her brother clashed swords with Matthew in the training room next door.

“Chin up, dear.” Bridget would say from time to time. “You’ll look like a potato.”

Lucie left the photo off center and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. To her relief, it was empty. Bridget was probably in her room reading or minding the Institute’s many chores. The kitchen always smelt like rosemary, freshly baked loaves, and exotic spices. It was heavenly and had an instant calming effect on Lucie. Memories of being a child and helping Bridget beat dough with her tiny fists until she was covered in flour from her mess of mousy brown curls to her apron came to mind. What she wouldn’t give to have a mound of dough to beat now.

Lucie walked around the center island, covered in a thin layer of flour, to the cupboard that housed the glassware and pulled a cup from the shelf. The pitcher of cold water sat beside the sink; she filled her cup to the brim and took a sip when a slight chill brushed against the exposed skin on the back of her neck.

“Not now, Jessamine.” Lucie stared down into her reflection in the cup. The soft wispy hair around her face stood out in delicate curls she’d inherited from her father. A leaf sat tucked behind her ear. The coal she’d lined her eyes with had run making her eyes appear wide and fatigued.

“Should I return later then?”

The cup fell from her hands and shattered at her feet, but she hardly seemed to notice. She spun around and faced the voice. “Jesse.”

A smile curved at the corner of his mouth. His straight black hair fell against his pale skin and swept across his green eyes that studied her from across the room.

“Where have you been?” The shattered glass crushed under her shoes as she moved forward to meet him. An uncontrollable desire to grab him around the shoulders and collapse into him made it difficult for her to breath evenly. She knew she couldn’t; that it wasn’t possible anymore, but reality rarely dissolved desire.

“Tracking my fugitive mother,” said Jesse, his lips curled over his teeth. “I thought how hard could it possibly be to find a woman who still chooses to wear an enormous Victorian bird hat? Well, it turns out that it’s extremely difficult. If you needed me why didn’t you summon me sooner?”

Lucie averted her eyes to the ink stain marks on her fingers. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

After commanding him against his will to take her to James, she’d made a promise not only to him, but to herself to never command him to do anything again. That included summoning him to her even when she longed to just hear his voice.

“It’s alright, Lucie.” Jesse stepped towards her but stopped. “Why did you summon me now?”

She looked up aghast. “I didn’t.”

“I heard you,” said Jesse, his expression softened. “It was faint but I heard you.”

Lucie shook her head. “Jesse, I promise you that I did not, or if I had, I hadn’t meant to.”

Jesse opened his mouth to reply when he looked to the kitchen doors. “Someone’s coming.”

Lucie waited for the doors to swing open to reveal her mother, or father, or Matthew coming to retrieve her after being gone for too long. The air in front of the door rippled, like heat rising on pavement, until the form of a man materialized out of the haze. He was dressed in a rain soaked driver’s uniform, but his back was bent out of shape and his right leg curved out at an unnatural angle.

“Martin?” Lucie balked, recognizing the man that has driven her carriage since she was a child.

Lucie and Jesse both moved towards the ghost from either side of the room. The water that dripped from his coat splashed onto the floor and instantly dissolved into mist.

“What’s happened to you?” Lucie demanded.

Martin looked between them as if he wasn’t all together sure how he’d come to be standing in front of them. “I was told by others that you would be able to see me; that you would be able to help.” He looked down at his hands. “I feel so strange. Everything and nothing at the same time.”

“Martin?” Tears sprang to her eyes as she realized that he was dead; a ghost standing in her kitchen as he had all of her life. Always casually slipping in to steal a fresh biscuit behind Bridget’s back with only crumbs and Lucie’s giggles left to give him away. He would listen to her stories on long drives and praise her for her prose. He’d laugh in all the right places and made her promise to sign a copy of her first published work, so he could keep it on his mantle. “What happened to you?”

“I was taking Mr. and Miss Carstairs to the London Portal when we were attacked.”

“Cordelia.” Lucie rushed forward. “Where is Cordelia?”

“I don’t know—“ Martin’s body began to flicker and wain, “I don’t have much time. I’m not supposed to be here, you see, but I fear something terrible may have happened. Something truly, truly terrible.”

Lucie burst through the library doors, the hem of her dress wet from her cup of water and her face noticeably pale.

The previous occupants of the room where joined by three more: Christopher stood beside Magnus surveying the bracelet and Thomas towered next to Matthew. Anna Lightwood was holding Church like a baby beside the fireplace. They all looked to her as she entered.

“It’s Cordelia.” Lucie shouted, her hand gripped the wall to keep her stable. “She’s been attacked.”

The room fell silent except for the small yet noticeable ting of metal hitting stone. Lucie’s eyes, along with everyone else’s, looked down at James’s feet where the bracelet now rested half on the toe of his boot and half on the floor.

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wolfpawn · 4 years

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Hiding In Plain Sight, Chapter 3

Story Summary - Imagine coming from a line of nobility or royalty and being in an arranged marriage with Loki in an attempt to strengthen your kingdom / alliance with Asgard. You’re not entirely on board with the idea but figured that the best you could do was to get to know your fiancé. You form an agreement with Frigga for you to pose as Loki’s personal servant for a few months so you can get to know who Loki really is – beyond the veil of his responsibility to the Asgardian throne, behind all the masks he wears when facing the public, to really know who Loki is behind closed doors as you slowly fall for each other. How long will you keep up the ruse with the God of Lies?

Chapter Summary - Raven has to deal with impolite Aesir socialites and insulting comments.

Previous Chapter

Tags - @peppermint-j @alexakeyloveloki @cateyes315 @laserpente @bravotheroyalfool @teylacarter91 @heavenly1927

@myblissfulparadise - it won’t let me tag you.

Request if you wish to be tagged

Raven had been sorting a few things while Loki was bathing. She thought little of it though she felt he needed some salts to alleviate his obvious muscle aches. There was some at the very back of the cabinet that contained other bathing items he liked. It was unopened and clearly there for a considerable time but the great thing about salts, she knew, was the older, the better. She forewent the usual bubbling mixtures and scents and just used them and a splash of lavender. Any pain Loki was feeling would soon evaporate with that.

Less than ten minutes after Loki entered the bath, the door to his rooms opened and a woman entered. For a moment, both women looked at each other in surprise.

“Can I…?” Raven was about to ask the clearly well-bred and wealthy young woman as to if she could assist her in any manner.

“What are you doing here?” The woman demanded.

There was a millisecond in which Raven thought the woman knew who she was with the conviction in which she spoke. “I…”

“Get out, servant.” Raven stood still. “Are you deaf?”

“I’m thankful to say that I am not but I am afraid that I cannot fulfil to your request. I am in the employ of Prince Loki and only he or another more senior member of the Aesir royal family or my own superiors can demand such of me.” Raven smiled brightly.

“I dare say Mother Dearest brought you in to get him used to Light Elves before that pompous twit comes. Norns, Loki was right, you all do look so dull and dim.” The woman snarled at her.

Raven felt as though she had taken a hit to her very being at the comments the woman was making. Not that she herself was making them, as clearly, she was anything but a nice creature but that they were the regurgitated words of Loki. To hear that he thought so little of those he knew nothing of hurt her deeply. “Opinions on appearances are very much open to debate as it is at the discretion of each individual to find someone attractive or not. Now, can I assist you with anything or are you merely here to make a nuisance of yourself?”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner, you filthy…Where are you going?”

“I have duties to do for His Highness. I don’t have time for this.”

“Do you have any idea who I am?”

“As you are not the Princess of Alfheim, I can’t imagine that it is overly important as to who you are as you are not to be the Prince’s wife so safe in that knowledge, I really could not care less as to who you are.” Raven thought over the few other duties that would need doing while Loki was bathing to take her mind over the more obvious situation as to what this particularly unpleasant woman was doing in the rooms of the man who would be called her husband. Neither she nor Loki were required to be virgins on their marrying and as they were at an age where she expected him to at the very least have past girlfriends, overall, she did not feel she should be offended if he was not one since that would have been hypocritical but with the knowledge that he was soon to be married, she would have hoped that he would show her some modicum of respect and not sleep around or worse, have a mistress through their engagement, even if they had yet to stand together on it. With the agreement signed, everything else was merely pageantry to what was declared. It hurt her if she was honest.

“That dim twit, she will have to get used to me because I will be here when she arrives and while she may wear the tiaras and have her pretty dresses, I will have Loki’s interest.” The nameless woman sneered joyously. “I will have Loki deal with you.”

“I am shaking in my shoes.” Raven had an issue with sarcasm. Her father always warned her of that but his reprimands were never as strong as he would have liked them to be as she was the only girl amongst four sons. She could not best her brothers in rough and tumble play but her wit was as swift as theirs.

“You will rue the day you met me.”

It took everything in Raven’s power to not state that she did so already for nothing more than the inconvenience if nothing else.

“Useless Light Elves, Loki was right about you all.” With that final statement and still without a name, the woman departed.

Raven worked aggressively through her frustration at what the woman had just said. How she referenced Light Elves in general and her in particular. She worked aggressively at how the woman’s thoughts echoed Loki’s and she worked angrily at the hurt of it all. The fact that this horrible creature would be the man she would have to marry broke her heart. He saw Light Elves as beneath him. She had seen herself that there was something in his features on reference to her in their earlier discussions that told her he had no time for her.

When he exited his bathing rooms, she snapped and spat those words at him, her wounded ego, her pride in herself, her people, all of it hurt by the man standing in front of her and his horrid partner. She stormed out with no real plan of what she was going to do, she just needed to get away. Part of her wanted to go to Frigga and tell her what she found out and hope the monarch would call it off. Part of her did not even want to waste time doing that. But where would she go? Her parents would not accept her reasons as valid enough to break a pact with Asgard. Mistresses were not as commonplace in the modern era but they did exist. She would be told to get on with it. Give him a son or two and bear whatever came. A mistress was not a wife, they would not hold the standing she would. Something so inconsequential would not be worth the risk of breaking the pact. To do that would be spitting in the face of the most powerful of the realms. It would make enemies of many long-time allies. She stopped and sighed. Thinking of it like that, she knew there was nothing she could do. She could not fail Alfheim like that, her happiness did not supersede her realm.

“Sweetheart?” Raven turned to see Frigga behind her. Seeing the turmoil in her face, Frigga excused her ladies. “Raven, what is wrong?”

Raven had learnt over the years to hold a stoic exterior, even if her heart was breaking but the kind manner in which the Allmother questioned her blatantly unhappy wellbeing caused her to hiccup for a moment before inhaling deeply and raising her head. “Just homesickness, Allmother. Nothing more.” she smiled.

The look Frigga gave her told her that the older woman did not buy her explanation in the slightest but the Allmother knew from her appearance that Raven would not allow the wall she was hiding her woes behind down. “Understandable. It can be very overwhelming to come to a new realm, I understand.” The way Frigga stood beside her told Raven that she wished for her to walk with her. At that moment, she would rather boil her own foot off but she knew she could not decline so taking another deep breath to steady her breathing, she walked along just a step or two behind the monarch as a sign of her being of lower standing.

“I take it you have met my son in one of his more sombre moods.”

“Sombre?”

“He and his brother are prone to skirmishes. When only brute strength is involved, Thor wins more often. I saw my sons wrestle in the training grounds, as well as Thor’s less than honourable tactic that gave him the win. I know Loki feels cheated at such times leading to him becoming less than happy with things.”

“He did seem somewhat peeved on his return to his rooms, yes but he did not share his thoughts with me. Though he seemed to appreciate my being concerned for him having leaves and twigs in his hair and muck on his face.”

Frigga gave a small smile. “He needs someone to show him some care and compassion. He is missing such in his life now.”

It took everything in her arsenal for Raven to not show her anger and disgust at the thought of caring for someone that was so horribly cruel about her. If she had known before she showed her concern about how Loki felt about Ljósáfar, she would have gone to the training grounds to cheer on Thor herself. Instead of voicing her disdain, she merely nodded and continued to walk with Frigga.

They walked for a time, speaking of different matters, Frigga trying to make Raven feel more comfortable on Asgard, not aware of her real issue. When they turned a corner to come face to face with a startled and confused looking Loki, both women ceased talking.

“Mother.” He bowed dutifully to his mother. “I hope I am not interrupting anything?” he looked between the women as he spoke.

Internally, Raven scoffed to herself. She knew what he was not saying, he very much hoped he was interrupting something, going by the way he was looking at her as if trying to see if her features would tell if she had regurgitated what had been said to her not too long before in his rooms. She kept her face emotionless and maintained eye contact, causing him to raise a brow.

“I was merely speaking with your maid as she was saying that she misses Alfheim.” Frigga looked around at Raven who nodded slightly. “She looked like she needed a friendly ear.”

Loki looked at Raven again with slight remorse in his face but also fear that she would reveal his less than acceptable words on her realm to his mother. “I can only imagine.” There was no denying the disgust in her face as she turned to no longer face him, her disdain blatant. “I am sorry to come at such a time, however, I do require her again.”

Raven watched Loki’s demeanour around his mother. It was polite, but not a false one, something she could very much believe him to use commonly, but there was clear respect and love for her. She had to commend that to herself. A lot of men had little or no time for their mothers, but Loki clearly adored his.

“Of course.” Frigga nodded. “But as she is new to your employment and she is somewhat dealing with her change in circumstance, do not be overly harsh on her.”

“I am never harsh with my maid.” Loki looked appalled at his mother.

Again, Raven forced words to remain unsaid. She wanted to reveal herself and indeed his words, but she failed to do so and remained silent. With a slight nod, she put her head down as a maid could be expected to do and followed behind Loki after he bid farewell to his mother and walked back to the palace, dreading whatever it was he would say.

#loki fic #chapter 3 #Hiding in Plain Sight #wolfpawn

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slbp-holiday-exchange-blog · 7 years

Text

Little Princess (Nobunaga x MC) SLBP Gift Exchange.

For @yoosungshoodie

Summary: To save Rose from the fires and ashes of Honnoji. Nobunaga drove his blade into the flesh of abdomen , ripping her skin fathersdemning her to a quick and sudden death. What Lord of Fools didn’t know, someone was inside of her.

_____

“I’m not coming home for New Years, mom!” her fingers wrapped around her carbon black smartphone, exasperated with her mother’s condescending voice. Something annoying was about to come out of her mouth and Rose braced for the impact of her scathing words.

Sighing she walked around around her Tokyo Apartment to where her 12 month old daughter sat on her Pom Pom Purin mat engrossed by kids show on NHK.

“Your family has not seen you in a while! We’d like to see Erika!” blasted through the speaker.

“No you mean you want to show off Erika then discuss for hours that she didn’t come from my body!” she sat down on the sofa in front of the tv.

*Squeal*

Erika’s steel grey eyes glittered hearing her mama’s voice so close, she turned herself around, mouth opened in a smile of pure joy, holding her tiny palms out, hoping to be picked up. Bouncing up and down she pouted while Rose balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder. “Pom Pooooooom.” she cried happily turned her head slightly cuddling into her mom’s warm body, she closed her tiny eyes finding comfort as she snuggled closer.

“Mama.” she cooed.

“I’m here sweetie.” Her baby’s features were so different from her own.

“Is that Erika?!” her mother’s blood boiling tone evaporated in a snap. High pitched and cheery you’d swear her mother was now running through a sunny field on the back of a unicorn. “Let me speak to her!”

“She isn’t going to….”

“Hi shweetie how are you? How are you?” ignoring her her mother launched into a high pitched babble of nonsensical baby talk. Rose never understood why having an adopted baby was a stigma.

When she first saw Erika she melted. Who j sang to her and told her stories. The baby just settle her head on her shoulder, thumb in mouth she listened to tales of princesses and emperors. Rose couldn’t wait till she was older to read books to her and they both could get lost in adventures once again. Erika was hers nobody could K that and nobody would take her away from her mama bear.

“There’s so many needy kids in this country. They need love too. Like her.” her eyes glistened for a minute. A show called With Father came on while her mother talked to her daughter. Usually it was for fathers and their babies to do exercises together and suddenly her lingering sadness grew bigger and bigger, the anxiety spreading to her entire body.

Erika had no father to raise her, to play with her, to protect her. Rose wasn’t exactly lucky in love. If she were single it may have been easier but a lot of men who expressed interest in her didn’t want women who j had a child. Changing the channel then closing her eyes the scent of baby powder and fabric softener comforted her. “You’re more important than them all. I’ll protect you like a father too” she whispered.

“This country is under threat, look what North Korea did to our country last week and you insist on sitting there and doing nothing?”

A crisp, determined voice fueled by anger entered their living room from the television. She changed it to a political channel it seems.

4 eyes shot open that word bringing her back from her little world. “Dada!” her cheeks puffed out in joy, eyes sparkling. Squirming out of her grasp Rose put her down. She crawled to the TV and sat in front of it.

“Dada! Dada!”

The phone slipped from Rose’s grasp with her mother still babbling. Grey eyes and dark red hair swept back into a modern style, perfectly fitting black suit hugged his body giving her a good idea of what his body must be like underneath but it also gave him every ounce of power and respect he deserved. He spoke with determination and courage. The passion in his voice for his country drew her in. She felt like he was speaking to her, like she was one of these citizens he needed to protect, she would let him protect her if needed.

Him and Erika shared the same features even when she pouted when she didn’t want her milk, resembled the angry face of this man.

Erika was too young to know if someone was her father. Someone who never held her given the time she was brought in. Did this man abandon her? Did he have her out of wedlock and knowing it would ruin his political career give her up? The adoption agency told her they had no record of her parents. Confusion infiltrated Rose. This wasn’t normal what was the connection?

“Saborou Oda” she murmured

“Dada!” her daughter squealed again.

_____

“According to a recent study done by Waseda it was confirmed that the wife of the warlord Oda Nobunaga was indeed pregnant upon her death.”

Saborou’s fists clenched at the words. Guilt attacked him in this cold amphitheatre raising his pores and angering him even further. He nearly smashed his fist into the chair in front of him. Usually he enjoyed sitting in on conferences about his country. It was a way to see the perspective of what he’d done from an outsider’s point of view.

“ I killed them.” he whispered hoarsely. “I promised her divine rule. I promised her a better world but I’m the one who lives on now to see my failures.” He put the arm he just hit the chair with over his eyes. “And the baby…why? Why did that little one chose me as their father? Why did it choose a time when I was hated and betrayed?”

Maybe they had seen his anguish from heaven and told the gods they wanted to go to him to make him happy. “I promised them the world but they got ashes and death.”

His wife he wanted to save if only he had known. “Was the baby a boy or a girl?” As cruel as it was to have a baby in that time, he couldn’t bear to love them. A son he’d have to raise to be the head of the clan, to murder, to plot to prepare him to be betrayed like he was. A daughter would be a bargaining chip to bring in alliances. Neither he could love properly back then but now, could he?

The former lord thought he could see himself with a daughter. Her face squealing in delight as he tickled her,teased her and kissed her cheeks warmed the Lord’s heart. He read somewhere that daughters were more attached to their than sons. He pouted thinking of having a son that would give his mother more attention than him.

Sighing to himself he listened to the speaker while going over his speech for a later event.

—–

Erika sat playing with her toys as her mother chatted away with Sakurako at their old workplace. Rose was hesitant to bring up what happened with Erika and the politician.

“She’s so cute.” her friend beamed looking at the little girl, quietly focused on her work. “How’s motherhood?”

“Tough but I can handle it.” she smiled at her daughter. “I can do anything for her.”

“Don’t you want to raise her with someone?”

“Not this again.” She sighed. “I’m fine on my own. I don’t need a man to help me.”

A hollow emptiness crawled within her. “I do not depend on a guy. I can take care of myself financially but it would be nice to have company.” She felt as if she lied to her friend but what could she do?

“Ah!” a sharp pain burned her skin from the birthmark on her abdomen. It started off slight before eclipsing into a searing pain that burnt her vision and sent the world reeling, her head spin as she struggled to gain a grip on the table.

“What’s happening?!”

“Rose!” she heard her friend scream the pains anchored her body to the ground where she collapsed. She felt like one hundred arrows pierced her skin giving away to the feeling of flames eating her from the inside.

“Erika…she..can’t see me like this.” She breathed holding her pained flesh. “Hold on dear hold on.” Sakurako rushed to get ice.

Erika stopped her playing to look at her. Curiosity bubbled in her grey eyes. It was as if the baby could tell something was wrong to her mom but she didn’t know what.

Sakurako came back with ice and flustered as she was began compressing the birthmark. She felt her strength weakening as she sat there on the floor, the world turning black by the minute.

She swore she heard Erika cry out for her father again like that day.

———–

The politician entered the small establishment because he liked their sweets and melon soda the best. It was one habit that did not leave him since those days of the past.

He entered for sweets instead he saw a commotion. One woman frantically applied medical care to another who seemed to have fainted.

“Tch you’re doing it wrong.” he grimaced about to go help. “Dada.” a little voice greeted him. He looked down to see a pillow cheeked cherub at his feet. Some unknown force nearly knocked him over. She raised her hands to be picked up but he staggered back.

“You…”

The baby had his eyes and his hair, and when she saw he wasn’t going to pick her up, her face scrunched into a sulk in the exact same manner. Deep in his heart he knew her.

“Please help.” he heard someone cry to him. Turning to the other women, he realised who the fainted one was. He recognised the scar that was hurting her. “Move out of the way wench!” he shouted to a stunned Sakurako. Grasping his wife’s head, he moved her into a position that was better for her. Trailing softly his fingertips he traced her scar from left to right with featherlight touches.

“Don’t you dare die before me.” Flames surrounded her, arrows protruding from her back. In a haze like dream, she looked down to see a blade in her body. “What are you doing?!” she screamed no words coming from her mouth, the heat licking at her skin. Her pain was terrible, heat, arrows, blades, how was she still alive?

“No..” she cried. The things sticking out of her back secured her death, the little one inside of her had no chance of surviving if she, the mother was fading from this world. “Hanae…” he whispered. White robe bearing a similar wound as he shifted her body in the most comfortable way possible against him. She couldn’t feel his bodily warmth but god could she feel the blood.

Gazing up she met sad, gunmetal eyes and dark red hair.

Instantly Rose’s eyes flew open, the pain instantly disappeared. She breathed in ragged breaths sucking air in and out. Looking into his grey eyes, she saw Erika waddle up next to the man grasping his expensive looking black suit.

“Erika..” she gasped weakly to get her to move away from the fabric but the man wrapped his arm around the baby, pulling her close and kissed her pillow like cheeks. “Your mom is ok now.” From over Erika’s little head he glanced at her.

Rose knew him. Why had she not recognized him before? Why was everything clicking now? Why did she have to be with Sakurako now when all she wanted to do was throw herself in his arms and never let him go.

“My..lord.”

“Hanae.” he responded. “Is it still that?” reaching up to stroke her cheek.

“It’s Rose now, milord.”

“Suits you.” he whispered “Pretty but thorny and stubborn! How dare you hide yourself from me for so long, my foolish little flower. I thought if I could make a fool of myself on

T.V somehow you’d find me. Took you long enough.” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry.”

“How dare you keep my baby a secret?”

“ I didn’t know…if I had known I wouldn’t have gone into the temple.”

“Foolish girl.” grabbing her head, he held it against him for a while before pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. “Foolish, foolish girl.” he whispered.

“Who is her father?” he demanded. Nobunaga needed to know the fool who was lucky enough to get the reborn soul of his child. It killed him to know another man gave his wife their child.

“She’s adopted.”

He didn’t know what was worse what he thought about another man or cowards giving up his little princess. It didn’t matter how, fixing Erika’s hair. “How dare you dress her in rags?!”

“Those are from Ribbon Hakka and Ma Mere excuse you!”

“She deserves Burberry and D&G!”

“That’s going too far!”

“Nothing is too far for my princess. Isn’t that right?” he cooed pressing his cheek against the baby who babbled happily.

“Dada!” she responded.

“You will come with me. You have centuries of making up to do! As for me.” he trailed off. “I killed her. I need to make it up to her. I will be the best father she will ever have!”

“You’re a politician! Having a child out of nowhere will cause a scandal!”

“It doesn’t matter.” gently he held out his hand to her get up. Taking Erika into his arms.

“We’re a family again.”

#2017slbpholidayexchange #oda nobunaga #nobunaga #slbp nobunaga #samurai love ballad party #slbp #submission

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imagineclaireandjamie · 7 years

Text

Chain of Command: Part 7.

Anonymous said: More COC please? I am tempted to add a K to that in the hope of a super smutty chapter.

Part 6: HERE.

Claire sat facing the long mirror, her tight curls spread around her shoulders. Mama Crook and Ellen had been up early preening her to within an inch of her life, scrubbing every inch of dirt from her skin before washing and drying her hair. Flowers sat through the cloud of brown that cascaded around her shoulders. Ellen had lovingly picked the blooms from her spring garden in an effort to make Claire as spectacular as possible.

If she hoped to hide her ever expanding midriff though, she was going to be disappointed.

Her dress, although very well hiked in, still showed the soft swell of her belly and Claire was a little paranoid that the guests were going to guess why the wedding had been pushed so quickly - exposing her to the whole of Lallybroch.

“Dinna fash, lass,” Ellen cooed from the corner as she prepared Claire something warm to drink. “Whatever they think, they can all keep quiet for yer special day. Jamie wouldna marry you if he didna wish it and all of the tenants ken this well. Yer condition won’t affect that.” Claire blushed, the pink hue spreading over her half hidden face as she turned away from her mother-in-law-to-be. “How do you know for sure?”

“I’m the laird’s lady, Claire. I’ve grown wi’ these folk. If we’ve agreed to it, then they’ll ken it’s no’ for show, aye?”

Claire nodded, the petals of the soft summer arrangement wilting a little as she tried to still herself without ruining the display.

“He loves ye something fierce, Claire,” Ellen added, her tone softening as she watched Claire’s blush increase. “He’d fight for ye if he thought that’s what he’d have to do to convince ye of it. So dinna doubt him. Anything else, weel…” she sighed and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, “...that can go hang, ken?”

“Yes,” Claire mumbled, her heart picking up pace as she imagined what kind of morning Jamie was having with his da. His uncle Murtagh had ridden in for the special occasion, leaving his post with clan MacKenzie - one of the bordering clans - to see his godson on this special morning. She knew he’d been waiting patiently for Murtagh to arrive and so wanted to take her time getting ready to allow him a moment with the man. But now, with Ellen’s words coursing through her, she wanted to be close to him more than ever.

“Are ye ready, Claire?” Ellen said, sensing Claire’s growing agitation. “I think we can start to make our way down now.” Looking out of the window, Ellen could see the large gathering of people, Jamie, Murtagh and Brian at the helm of them. She could only see the top of her son’s head but from that view alone she could see a similar eagerness to him. Too long he’d been kept from Claire’s side and now, bound as they were to one another, he obviously didn’t wish to wait a moment longer to be close to her...officially.

“Yes, yes...I am.” Steeling her nerves, butterflies gathering in her tummy as she felt the bairn push gently against her womb, Claire pushed herself from the dressing table and straightened out her skirts. “Is he there?”

“Aye, he is at that. Just ye wait until ye see the lad,” Mrs Crook said proudly from the doorway as she slid her way inside. “Brian sent me up for ye both, he says they’re ready for ye.”

Without a father to agree a dowry, Mama Crook had stepped in as a ‘liaison’ between Brian, Ellen, Jamie and Claire, though she knew she needn’t worry for Claire’s safety. It had, however, made Claire feel slightly less nervous about her impending nuptials, knowing that she had someone looking after her best interests. Mrs Crook had ensured that Claire knew all the facts and had helped her to understand that - although a usual requirement of a bride before her wedding - in this case certain formal arrangements would not be necessary.

Taking Claire by the arm, Mama Crook led her behind Ellen as they made their way downstairs. Having elected to marry in the courtyard of Lallybroch had meant that Claire could stay in the big house and had not been expected to travel the few miles to the small kirkyard that lay beyond the hill to the west. It had been something she and Jamie had both wanted and Brian and Ellen had gone to extra lengths to ensure that it happened correctly.

“It’s alright, Claire,” Mama Crook soothed, her free hand coming across to stroke Claire’s arm gently as they made their way closer to the front door. “Yer shaking like a leaf, lass. Just take some deep breaths. Dinna work yersel’ up.”

Claire could feel it, the extra energy in her that was suddenly building the closer she got to Jamie and she tried to quash the urge to bolt out of the door and rush straight into his arms. She felt jubilant. Buoyant in the knowledge that within an hour or so she could settle into the life she’d dreamed about since she’d fallen for Jamie all of those years ago.

“Claire,” Ellen lay her hand against Claire’s back as Mrs Crook held her solidly in the doorway. “Claire,” she repeated, seeing the vacant expression solidify on Claire’s face as she finally caught a glimpse of Jamie through the crowds of onlookers. “One step at a time, my girl,” she whispered, bringing her mouth as close to Claire’s ear as she could without spooking her. “He willna go anywhere.”

Breathing in once through her nose and out through her mouth, Claire nodded, her eyes steadfastly fixed to Jamie as he crooked his neck trying to catch a glimpse of her. He smiled and her heart raced, the usually steady beat running a little out of time as blue eyes met whisky.

He could see her.

His tongue peeked out from behind his lips as he blinked slowly.

She could see him, too.

The greens of his dress kilt swished in the breeze as their eyes locked on one another and time seemed to stand still.

“Please,” Claire begged, her tone airy and light as she tugged on Mama Crook’s arm once more, “can we? Please?”

Understanding the rush, Ellen nodded to Mrs Crook and the three ladies began their journey across the courtyard much to Claire’s immediate relief.

Conversation - inane chatter that had ebbed and flowed through the congregation as they awaited the service - abruptly ceased as soon as they heard the crunch of footsteps headed towards them. Everyone turned, taking Claire in as Mrs Crook and Ellen Fraser escorted her through them and down a narrowly left aisle that led towards Jamie, Brian and Murtagh.

If she’d still had any lingering doubts that the residents of Broch Tuarach were going to be scandalised and incensed by her *situation* they would have evaporated in a second upon seeing their faces as they watched her slow ascent along the walkway that separated the guests. They were all awestruck and none of them seemed to be paying attention to her slight bump.

“Claire,” Jamie whispered, his eyes wide and unblinking as Claire was brought to stand at his side. Mama Crook took her hand and laid it over his before leaning over to kiss her brow softly. She said nothing as she patted Jamie on the shoulder and shimmied to the side away from the lovestruck pair.

“J-Jamie,” Claire stuttered, her palms sweating as Jamie clenching his fingers around hers. The prickle of heat brought Claire to her senses as she took one unconscious step forwards, bending her arms so that they rested neatly between herself and Jamie.

The priest coughed, the clearing of his throat making Claire jump a little as she looked briefly to the side and then straight back to Jamie once more.

“Are ye ready?” He asked, his deep, booming voice echoing through the bustling courtyard even though the priest hadn’t spoken very loudly.

Claire nodded.

“Aye,” Jamie said, bowing his head a little to Claire as he smiled a small, comforting smile. “Ne’er any doubt, sir.”

-- --- --

The ceremony seemed to pass in a blur from then on out and Jamie, sweat dripping from his brow in the unusual midday Scottish heat, couldn’t help but be happy about it. The sooner they both said their vows, the sooner he could abscond with his blushing bride.

Closing the door on the rowdy party below, Jamie peeled off his dress jacket and hung it over the small chair that sat by the vanity in the corner - the same vanity where Claire had been getting dressed only hours before.

Perched on the bed, Claire had her back to Jamie as she tugged at the laces of her bodice.

“I just had a thought,” she mused, her tone quiet and reverent, “since you discovered I was pregnant, you haven’t really seen me. Have you?”

“Nay,” Jamie answered, his fingers stopping as he ceased unbuttoning his shirt for just a moment. “I wished for it, Claire,” he whispered, an intense longing in his voice, “but I didna know whether it was the right thing to ask or no’. But now..” He paused for just a moment, his knees going weak at the prospect of seeing her nude and round with his child, “now yer my wife and I think it proper to be able to see ye as ye are, aye?”

Claire dipped her head, the flowers falling around her as they drooped, flopped and slipped from her curls. Silently she slipped her shift from her shoulders, discarding her bodice in the process and sat, patiently waiting for Jamie to make his move.

“Yes. I think it proper. Do you want to come and look?”

Needing no further invitation, Jamie quickly shook off his boots off and took four long strides along the side of the bed until he could see Claire’s profile from where she sat.

She was glorious. Still not too large, but enough that she looked radiantly pregnant. “Dhia, Claire,” he murmured, his voice catching on the words as he stumbled the last few steps towards her, fell to his knees and wrapped one large hand around her middle. “My wife; my Claire, ye are a miracle.”

Allowing the tears to drip down her face, Claire hiccuped as she reached forward, her fingers tangling in Jamie’s tied back hair as she pulled it free of its binding. “Do you really think so? Even though I hid it for so long?”

“That’s in the past,” Jamie interjected, not willing to dwell on things long since forgotten. “What matters now, Claire Fraser,” he said, love and understanding filling his words as his palm ran soothing circles over her abdomen, “is that we look towards our future...together.”

#Anonymous #ask #;Mod MBD #Chain of Command #jamie x claire #Laird Jamie #Maid Claire

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creativitytoexplore · 4 years

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The Library by John Boeschen https://ift.tt/2VN45ew John Boeschen bends time and reality in this mysterious adventure story about a beaten down truck-stop girl who, during the coronavirus lockdown, spontaneously hitches a ride with a charming rebel called James Dean.

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"Goddammit, Siri, stop daydreamin'. I toldcha to flip the sign to 'closed.'" Niall Mac Loughlin follows his outburst with a sharp slap to the side of his daughter's face, the slap loud as a slammed door. Mac Loughlin's an angry man. Some might say his 'I'm bigger, tougher than you' attitude stems from his short stature and scrawny frame, the man standing 5'3" on his toes, no more than 145 lbs with a growler of Guinness clutched in his stubby fingers.

That's part of it, his anger, but not all of it. Mac Loughlin brought a deep-seated anger with him when he immigrated from Northern Ireland during the Troubles. An Irish Catholic Nationalist, his hate for Protestant Unionists never left him, followed him to the States. Why he left his native country and settled in Cortez, Colorado, that's a piece missing from this story. Siri's not the source of Mac Loughlin's anger, not tonight, anyway. She's simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, a convenient - and frequent - outlet for her father's outbursts. What's raised the man's ire this Easter Sunday is megachurch pastor Adrian Baker's evangelical gathering down the road in Shiprock, New Mexico. "Freakin' Protestants pulling their 'we're better'n you, know better'n you' bull," is Mac Loughlin's take on the churchgoers. "Jamming themselves together in that field when that virus is rampaging, passin' the bug around like it's holy communion. Damned if I'm gonna let any of 'em stop here, give 'em food and drink, watch the smug bastards leave with full stomachs for that devil's tent." Mac Loughlin's truck stop sits close to Route 491, a major stretch of road for commercial trucks, short and long haul. Hungry and thirsty truckers are his bread and butter, other travelers not so much. Truth to tell, Protestants passing by his truck stop on their way to the revival aren't likely to stop, grab a snack. The stop's battered plasterboard siding, chipped paint, cracked windows, and faded 'Mac Loughlin Diner' hand-painted on a sheet of 4'x8' plywood stuck in the diner's dirt turnout are more deterrent than come-hither.

Mac Loughlin's anger's building, thoughts of those smug Protestants stoking his fire. A '67 Camaro pulling onto the rutted turnout adds fuel to the flames, the Irishman's forehead throbbing. Watching the driver scoot out of the car, saunter over to the diner, reach for the doorknob below the 'Open During Lockdown' sign's too much for the Irishman. A loud slap to the side of his daughter's face punctuates Mac Loughlin's, "Goddammit, Siri, stop daydreamin'. I toldcha to flip the sign to 'closed.'" Siri drops to the floor, whines, knows better than to cry out. Crying out brings on more abuse, always has. She has the bruises to prove it. The Camaro driver pulls the diner's door open. Hears Siri's whine. Looks down, sees her crumpled on the floor. Looks up, sees the girl's father, fists clinched, veins throbbing on his forehead. Looks back down on Siri. "What have we here?" he says. Siri says nothing, knows better. Mac Loughlin's speechless, too. Stares at the fellow, a young guy, white t-shirt under a dark leather jacket, blue jeans, cuffs turned up, high-topped black Keds sneakers. The Irishman takes in the clothes, thinks nothing of them. The kid's posture, the look on his face, that's another matter. The fellow's leaning his shoulder against the open doorframe, legs crossed below the knees, body canted at a slight angle. Casual. Confident. Calm. The expression on his face in sync with the rest of his body. Altogether confusing given the situation. Mac Loughlin, flustered, says, "Diner's closed," and points past the fellow to his parked car. The fellow says nothing, looks down at his Keds, a slight upturning at the corners of his mouth, a smile, hard to see, but it's there. Siri's lying next to his sneakers, hasn't moved, looks up. He reaches down a hand. Siri's an introvert, keeps her thoughts private, works things out in her head, takes her time, doesn't rush to judgment. Has to in this family. So she's surprised when, without thinking, she whispers a soft, "ok," reaches up, and grasps the stranger's outstretched hand. The two of them, Siri and the stranger, stand together in the open doorway. Neither speaks, their hands still clasped. Mac Loughlin's caught off guard, dumbstruck. Faces them, confused. What's happened - is happening - doesn't fit, isn't right, not how his life's supposed to turn. Strangest of all, his anger's evaporated, no throbbing veins in his forehead. Their standoff's short lived, Mac Loughlin standing in the diner, his feet on the long shadows of Siri and the stranger at the open door, the sun low in the sky behind them. Without a "Who the devil're you?" or a "Whaddya think you're doin'?" from the Irishman, Siri and the stranger turn, walk out to the Camaro and drive off. "Mother Mary!" mutters Mac Loughlin. Bewildered, he shuffles to the drawer in the counter below the cash register, finds his long-neglected rosary, begins the litany, worries his fingers over the beads, somehow knows for a fact Siri's not coming back.

JD can't help glancing at the young woman sitting next to him in the Camaro. He should pay more attention to the road, Easter Sunday traffic heavier than usual, what with the big gathering in Shiprock, but he can't help himself. Asleep before the Camaro pulls out of the truck stop's parking lot, the woman looks peaceful. Not at all like the jumble JD saw cringing, hurt, on the diner's floor. Her only movement a flicker of closed eyelids. "Could be dreaming," JD thinks. His next thought is, "Beautiful." Long brunette hair woven into two intricate braids, one draped across a high cheekbone, the other braid hidden between her slender back and the seat. Flawless white skin offsets arched eyebrows and long lashes, both as dark and lush as her braided hair. Only physical sign of her father's rage is a light bruising on one cheek and a smear of red lipstick on the right side of her chin. Ten minutes down the road, her eyelids flutter open, brown eyes flecked with gold. They make a full circuit, take in the car, latch onto the shiny stainless steel tachometer, speed, fuel, water temperature, oil pressure, and voltmeter gauges. She's never seen anything like them. Never been in a car with tuck-n-roll leather seats, tinted windows, either. End of circuit, she looks at JD, his hands relaxed on a polished wood steering wheel, the wheel a pleasing laminate of light and dark woods. JD turns his head to her, smiles. "You're awake." She's silent, working out in her head what she wants to say, knows she should be worried, maybe frightened, in a strange car with a strange man. But she's neither worried nor frightened. "This is strangely f-familiar," she says, a slight stutter on her lips, her reply 1.5 miles in the making. "Uh huh," nods JD, "like you've seen it all before, maybe in your dreams. Right?" Another miles-long pause, then, "Dreams and s-s-sometimes just feelings when I'm awake, like things have happened before. Like I'm doing whatever it is all over again." "I heard the old man call you Siri," a sudden detour in their conversation. "Did I hear right?" Adjusting herself in the bucket seat, getting comfortable, "You did. But my real name's Siobhán. That old man's my father. H-h-he calls me Siri after that computer program, 'Siri, do this. Siri do that.' He treats me like a servant, always telling me to do this, to do that. Never stops." JD knows some of this already, has those moments of deja vu, too. Vague recollections. But he doesn't know everything. "Just you and your father in the diner?" No hesitation now. "My mom works there, co-cooks the food, stays in the kitchen. I'm out front, take the orders, bus the counter and tables." A car behind the Camaro honks to pass. JD, in no hurry to reach Shiprock, slows, waves the car on, the opposing lane on the two-lane highway clear. Doesn't take much effort to see the wisdom of the old man keeping Siri out front, thinks JD. The only reason truckers would stop at a grubby diner like that would be to see her. "Do you think your father's gonna come after us, give chase tonight?" The answer to that should be obvious, but, "I don't know," Siri says. "Maybe." But JD knows. He asked his question knowing. Despite Niall Mac Loughlin's daughter being the draw that keeps the truck stop open for business, the old man's not coming, no one's coming after them. JD knows this for a fact. He's seen it all before, dreamt about it. Siri's looking out the tinted passenger window, at the passing landscape, the Camaro's long shadow on the barren countryside staying even with them. Not turning her head, "What's your na-name?" "JD." Siri pauses. She's thinking, considers the possibilities. Settles on, "Like J-a-y D-e-e?" spelling it out. "Nope," says JD. "JD as in JD. Two letters, initials." He knows what Siri's going to ask next, so he tells her, "JD stands for James Dean." Turning her head sideways, glancing up to the left, her lips pressed together in a straight line, a signature tell that she's concentrating, "Your name's James Dean? Isn't that the name of someone famous?" "No and yes." No reason to pretend he's someone he's not, JD's straight with Siri. "The name on my birth certificate's Myron Carp. My dad's choice, Myron's a family name. But my mother fancies JD. She's called me JD from the start, short for James Dean, a teenage heart throb, a movie star, my mother's heart throb. When she was a teen. She's why I'm JD."

On a normal day, the drive from Cortez to Shiprock takes less than an hour. Today, it's closer to two hours, with the faithful flocking to pastor Adrian Baker's evangelical super Easter Sunday. Not quite bumper to bumper, but close enough. JD lets as many of the flock pass as he can, the Camaro dropping further back in the steady stream. "How come you're letting all those people go by?" Siri wonders out loud. "I bet you could pass all of 'em," eyeing the gearshift poking out of the center hump separating the driver and passenger seats. The shiny metal knob topping the short post hasn't been pushed past second gear, the numbers engraved in the knob zigzagging from 1 to 4. JD answers Siri with a James Dean heart-throb smile, strokes the smooth surface of the gearshift knob with the palm of his hand. "Yeah, I could. I really could. Rebuilt this car from a wreck my dad got for me. Started working on it in high school, in auto shop, finished it at home after graduation. If things work out, I'm gonna take her on the race circuit." Siri's impressed. Pulled out of middle school six years before to do 24/7 in the truck stop - a high school diploma would be something, really something. And JD has one, thinks Siri, a high school diploma! These thoughts she keeps to herself, doesn't want JD to think she's warming to him, that there's an attraction. Another thought veers toward intimacy, a feeling that the two of them once were quite intimate, maybe in another time, a different world. But now is now, and you have to keep your distance with strangers, even ones with heart-throb smiles.

Shiprock sits at the crossroads of US Route 64 and US Route 491, a key junction for tourists on their way to Four Corners, Mesa Verde, and the Grand Canyon. A local rock formation, whose name the town bears, draws crowds as well. This Easter Sunday, the crowds have come for pastor Baker's evangelical extravaganza, the location easy to find, bright search lights sweeping the sky from the grounds. Baker and his team have pitched a massive white tent on the grounds where the Annual Northern Navajo Fair is held. Some would later claim (falsely) the tent was as big as a Marriott Hotel. Tent size aside, the grounds are lit up like a carnival, strings of colored lights leading from the entrance along a sawdust-covered path to the tent. Stationed along the path, vendors hawk postcards, religious artifacts, trinkets, pamphlets, food and drink. The smell of hot buttered popcorn is heavy in the air. Past the last vendor at the end of the path, a two-story-tall photo of Baker's son, Revelation, stares down at the crowd, identical photos flanking both sides of the tent's columned entrance. Inside the tent, a praise and worship band warms up the crowd. A mile in all directions from the fairgrounds, streets and parking lots are jammed with cars. A late comer, JD parks the Camaro in a dark, empty side street far from the festivities. He and Siri sit in the car, watch the last of the sunset's glow fade from yellow to orange to red to violet to purple. Siri feels uncomfortable. Doesn't like the dark. She'd feel better if it weren't so dark. She sits up in her seat, tense. "Can you turn on the car light, please?" She hears JD turning toward her, the worn sound of his leather jacket rubbing against the seat back, hopes he's reaching for the interior light switch. But he doesn't turn on the light, says, "It's better if we keep the car dark, not let anyone see in. There's nothing to be afraid of." Siri's been locked in a small, dark closet at the truck stop more than once, knows there's a lot to be afraid of. "Please," she begs, "turn the light on!" JD knows where events are taking them, their destination. He's absolutely sure of himself. He may not be familiar with all the particulars, the details, but he's got the general direction of events down on an easy-to-read map in his head, a mind map. This particular moment, light on or light off, doesn't ring any alarm bells, isn't critical to the journey's success. That's what his gut's telling him, and his gut has yet to mislead him. "Sure," he says and reaches up to flick the overhead light on. "I don't want you to be spooked, especially when there's nothing to be afraid of." JD smiles, a pause. "You ok now?" She nods her head, relaxes back into the seat. "How come we're here? Are you an evangelical? You don't seem like one, but my father thought you were. He didn't say it, but I knew that's what he was th-thinking." "No," grins JD, "I'm not evangelical. My father is, believes with a passion the prosperity gospel guys like Adrian Baker preach. Took me to a buncha revival meetings when I was a kid, my dad did, but I didn't take to it, what they were saying." Her head against the seat, her eyes closed, Siri repeats her question, "Why are we here?" A whisper. JD unbuckles his seatbelt, surprises Siri with, "I've got an errand to run. I'll only be gone a little while, be back before you know it. You'll have your answer then." Without another word, he steps out of the car, locks the doors, and heads off to the fair grounds. He doesn't look back. Siri's not ok with that, the suddenness of it. Her feelings for JD turn from warmth to confusion, uncertainty. In her mind, JD's sudden departure's no different than her father locking her in a dark closet, no reason or warning given. Her immediate response, then as now, is to fall asleep and escape the reality of the moment.

A bump in the road jolts Siri awake. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, combing fingers through her long hair - her braids have unravelled - and sitting up straight, she looks refreshed, happy. Looking over to JD, whose focus is on the road, the pavement racing past the Camaro's headlight beams, she says without prompting, "I just had the best dream. It was like real, like it wasn't a dream at all. I'm up on stage in the Cortez high school auditorium surrounded by all the senior kids in our graduating class. The entire room's filled with balloons and bunting strung everywhere." Siri pauses to collect her thoughts, hoping JD'll jump in, show some interest, encourage her to tell more. She attributes the long silence that follows to him concentrating on the narrow, dark road. Avoiding potholes like the one that bounced her awake. With uncharacteristic excitement in her voice that even surprises her, she says, "The school principal's handing out diplomas. When he hands me mine, he says, 'Congratulations, Siri, we're so proud of you. You're going to do great in college.' Cheers come from the audience. My parents are there, too, clapping. I've never felt so good about myself... and it's so real, like that dream's a memory of a real time in my life." JD nods his head, smiles, then turns more serious, his smile gone. "You asked why we were in Shiprock. That's why," he says looking into the rear view mirror. Siri follows his gaze, looks into the mirror. Draped over the backseat is the sleeve and shoulder of a white sweater, the rest of the sweater outside hers and the mirror's field of view. She wonders why she hadn't notice the sweater before. "Did you get that s-sweater when you went into Shiprock?" she asks. JD's answer is to adjust the mirror so she can see more of the sweater. When she sees it, her shocked look erases the excitement that had just lit up her face. "Siri," says JD, "this is Revelation."

Seeing the shock on her face, JD says, "Revelation's the son of pastor Adrian Baker." Siri stares into the rear view mirror at Revelation. A young man, early 20s, straight straw brown hair touching the tip of his shoulders, brushing against the white sweater. Aquiline nose, ears hidden under his hair. Most striking are his eyes. Sky blue, maybe set a wee bit too close together. Striking as they are, Siri can't see anything in them, nothing behind them. A vacant stare. "Revelation's autistic," says JD. "When he's spoken to, he acts as if he can't hear. He doesn't speak but for one exception." JD explains the one exception is the capstone to Adrian Baker's evangelical megachurch. If Siri's the main draw to her father's truck stop, the same's true for Revelation, the main draw to his father's packed revivals. "Revelation's a healer, that's his role in the church. Baker gives his sermon, the band plays, songs are sung, dancers perform, then Revelation comes out on stage." The crowds know to go silent. They're anxious to hear Revelation speak, the one exception to his silence. Once Revelation's on stage, Baker randomly draws names from a large wire drum, the names submitted by church members before the revival starts. The chosen few, each in their turn, stand in front of Revelation who speaks a torrent of unintelligible words at them, his words healing them of their troubles. Baker says his son's speaking in tongues. "Revelation gave a special encore performance tonight," says JD. "First time he's done an encore." After the final healing, Adrian Baker announced his son would protect all of the revival's faithful, deliver them from the virus. The tent exploded with shouts and swaying bodies. According to JD, Revelation faced the packed tent from center stage, waited a long 30 seconds for quiet, then directed a barrage of his strange words at them. The excited crowd leaped to their feet shouting 'Revelation!' 'Revelation!' 'Revelation!' The tent charged with excitement, prosperity collection plates passed around, folks encouraged to give, Baker reminding the assembled Believers over the loudspeaker that 'God gives and God receives. Give generously, and God will repay you with generosity.' Siri cranks the passenger door window down, leans her head halfway out, lets the slipstream of cool night air rushing past the Camaro wash over her face. Her long hair cracks the whip behind her, her eyes water, her open mouth sucks the wind deep into her lungs, the air expelled with equal force on the outbreath. Pulling back inside the car, refreshed by the storm of wind, she asks a simple question, "Why is he in the backseat?" "Revelation's the key to Baker's prosperity gospel. Baker's faithful see him as God's miracle worker. My father does, too." Siri looks at JD, curious how his father fits into this. JD scrunches his eyes shut, grimaces. "Revelation's the reason my father's hooked on Baker's gospel, why he's a Believer, why he gives so much when the prosperity plates come round, the reason why he has so much credit card debt, the reason why..." JD pauses mid-stream, out of breath from his outburst. Siri takes advantage of the pause, repeats her question. "Why is Revelation in the backseat?" As if he hasn't heard Siri's question, "I'm not going down the path my dad's trapped on. He's done everything we've been taught to admire, family, work, church, and look where it's got him. The norms we're taught? It's all a shell game for suckers." Siri's never been close to the things people like JD have been taught to admire. She's been locked away in the truck stop, her father treating her like a slave, yelling at her, her mother quiet in the tiny kitchen. That was her life until this afternoon.

Siri's quiet, processing the unfamiliar, trying to piece together what JD's saying. What it means to her. "It's a shell game," repeats JD. "You can opt out of the game, move on. That's what I'm doing, what we're doing, moving on. Revelation's what put my father on his path, now Revelation's gonna be our way off that path." He pauses, waits for Siri to ask her question again, but she doesn't. He's not sure she's listening, but she is, listening and thinking. "Revelation's the key to the church's wealth, an investment that just keeps on giving. Adrian Baker will do anything to protect his son. Anything. Now that we have Revelation, Adrian Baker's going to give generously to get his son back." JD's words break into Siri's thoughts. Takes her breath away. Wide-eyed, "What have y-you done, JD!" What JD did was walk Revelation away from the revival, from the back of the tent where he routinely goes after his healing sessions. Simple as that. Baker's son is docile, nonviolent; he walked away without a fuss. Siri asks JD about security, surely there'd be security guards protecting Revelation. Not this evening, the virus had hospitalized half the rent-a-guards, leaving few feet-on-the-ground to maintain the regular rotation. Same for the surveillance cameras, not enough eyes to monitor them. "You've k-k-kidnapped Revelation!" "Not kidnapped, Siri. Borrowed." JD left a note on a prosperity collection plate saying as much. 'Borrowed your son' the meat of it. In the giving mayhem immediately after Revelation protected the crowd from the virus, JD walked into the tent, invisible as an angel, and laid the note in the plate. "Kidnapping's a crime, JD. The police are going to catch us, a-arrest us, put us in jail." "Not gonna happen. No more than I'm gonna get sick with the virus. That's not how this is gonna play out. I know it for a fact."

Looking at the Camaro's gas gauge, JD figures they can make the 90-minute drive to Gallup, New Mexico, without stopping. Might even be able to get there quicker, traffic at a minimum on the highway. Baker's faithful are still minutes behind, the revival's parking lot full. Despite widespread flaunting of the region's virus lockdown, few locals have taken to the highway. Only traffic's the occasional truck, commercial vehicles transporting food and medical supplies deemed essential, the lockdown waived for them. Siri breaks a 10-minute, 7-mile silence. "I still don't understand. No matter what you think, this is wrong, taking Revelation." JD waits, expecting Siri to voice more of her concerns. When she doesn't, "I told you, playing by arbitrary rules of right and wrong is bogus, it's a dead-end road. If you're concerned about Revelation, don't be. He'll be home in a matter of days, no worse for being away. I'm not gonna treat him the way your father treated you. I promise." If JD expects his words to put Siri at ease, they don't. Her "What's driving you, JD?" comes across laced with tension, her voice higher pitched, 'you' nearly a shout. "Seriously? I don't know. It's like an irresistible force out there, somewhere in the universe, leading me down this path. I have to follow." Looking over at Siri, "That make sense?" A commotion from the backseat interrupts her answer. She and JD jump, nearly crack their heads together leaning in close to the rear view mirror to see what's happening. The mirror's angled so JD can see Revelation. The angle wrong for Siri, she turns half way round in her seat, sees what JD sees. Revelation's facing the empty seat next to him, waving his arms, speaking gibberish. Adrian Baker would say, 'Speaking in tongues.' JD slows the car, pulls off the road onto a narrow dirt shoulder. The two watch from the front seat, Revelation not letting up. "What's he doing?" says Siri. "Is he having a fit? A seizure?" Not taking his eyes off the backseat, "Don't think so. This is how he acts at the revivals. How he behaved tonight protecting the crowd from the virus. Gibbering and waving his arms." "Do you think he's protecting us?" JD considers the possibility, watches Revelation. "Far as I know, he only acts this way at revivals. My guess is what we're seeing isn't about healing or protecting. Something else is going on." Something else is going on.

JD's been on Route 491 after leaving his home in Monticello, Utah, since mid-afternoon. He'll stay on 491 till he reaches Gallup, New Mexico, later tonight. The number of this 200-mile stretch of road he's traveling on hasn't always been 491. When it was first named, the number was 666. Route 666. According to the Book of Revelation 13:18, 'Let him who has understanding calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man: His number is 666.' Linked to the 'number of the beast' by locals, Route 666 came to be known by other names: The Devil's Highway, Satan's Highway, The Highway to Hell. The road's accumulated a wiki-rich history of weird happenings, paranormal phenomena, ghosts, disappearances, strange accidents, and the like. In 2003, after heavy lobbying from local governments and citizen groups, the Department of Transportation changed the highway's official designation to Route 491. Sitting next to Revelation in the backseat of the Camaro, and only seen by Revelation, is a disheveled man in a stained trench coat.

"My name's Bob," the man introduces himself to Revelation. For all outward appearances, Revelation is autistic, his social communication and interaction skills lacking. Inside's a different story. Inside, Revelation's a good listener, converses well, is eager to socialize, go places, problem solve. To reach that Revelation, you have to go deep, find his core, speak the right words. Bob knows how to do that. But you'd never know it looking at the fellow. His outward appearance, like Revelation's, is deceptive. Messed up hair, cheeks covered in a heavy five o'clock shadow, a worn and stained trench coat over a ratty sweater, patched trousers, scuffed shoes, dirt and grease under his fingernails. He could be a character on a TV series. Waving his arms and speaking gibberish on the outside, on the inside Revelation says, a touch of fright in his voice, "Are you a devil, Bob?" "Definitely not." "What are you, then?" "I'm an angel." "An angel? Why are you here, Bob?" "It's my job. I'm your guardian angel." Revelation's eyes go wide. "I have a guardian angel?" "You do," says Bob. Not missing a beat, "Does everyone have a guardian angel?" "No, not everyone." Revelation's curiosity aroused, "Who gets to have a guardian angel?" The conversation continues, touches on many subjects, Siri and JD hearing none of it, only aware of Revelation's outward gestures and nonsense words. The rhythms and patterns - pauses and gestures - of an intelligent conversation are evident in the backseat but not recognized from the front seat.

The 90-minute drive to Gallup goes by quickly, Revelation and Bob in deep conversation, Siri and JD sharing their concerns with one another, listening to the radio when they fall into lapses of quiet. Ten minutes outside Gallup, the radio picks up a local station, the nightshift DJ spinning virtual platters. The song playing is the Eagle's 'James Dean.'

Little James Dean up on the screen Wonderin' who he might be Along came a Spyder and picked up a rider Took him down the road to eternity

"Cool," says JD. "My mother's teenage heart-throb, my namesake. Too bad he died so young." "How'd he die?" says Siri. "Car crash," says JD. "Ohh." The news follows the last of 'James Dean.' Local news first, then national. An update on the virus says the national lockdown appears to be working. The economy's in a sorry state, but far fewer lives are lost than computer models have predicted. The media and a who's who of big shots have praised the president for her quick and decisive response to the virus. "Well, that's good news!" smiles JD. "You mean about the steps the president took, her quick action?" "Yeah, that's good news," says JD, "but even better is there's no news about Revelation. No police alerts. I told you nothing's gonna happen." Siri's silent, doesn't comment, hasn't yet come to grips with the day's events. JD stops for gas on the outskirts of Gallup. Pee breaks and snacks in the station's tiny market. On a hunch, a gut feeling, he buys a cheese sandwich and Reece's Pieces chocolate peanut butter cups for Revelation. In the car, Revelation offers the sandwich to Bob, who only chuckles. The chocolate peanut butter cups Revelation keeps for himself. His favorite. How Siri's father, Niall Mac Loughlin, found his way from Northern Ireland to Cortez, Colorado, is a chunk missing from this story. Another chunk goes missing after Gallup, the long drive to the story's destination. What is known is that Bob vanishes after JD leaves Route 491, Revelation reverts to his autistic ways, Siri falls into a troubled sleep, and the Camaro comes within a mile of the intersection where the actor James Dean died in a car crash.

Siri's the first of the three to wake. She stretches, brushes her hand against JD's shoulder, JD asleep in the driver's seat, his head resting on the steering wheel. Revelation's in the backseat. Siri's not sure he's asleep, but his eyes are closed. When she fell asleep last night, they had just left Gallup. Looking out the car window now, she doesn't recognize what she sees. A large body of water surrounded by mountains and hills, low-slung and high. Nestled below and close to the water, an unbroken run of cities, shopping centers, concrete, and asphalt. She thinks she might be looking at Houston, a big city in Texas. She's never been there, but has seen photos in magazines. She's sure about the water, but not the mountains and hills. Her body stiff, she opens the passenger door, stretches her legs out of the Camaro, wiggles her toes in the pleasantly cool morning air. Her body waking up, Siri follows her legs outside, stands next to the car. The Camaro's parked atop a bluff, a small sandy beach below, tiny lazy waves rolling ashore. The beach is empty, no one there. Turning a slow 360 degrees, Siri sees a shallow hillside packed with quaint homes, dormer windows, peaked rooftops. Another quarter turn, a huge multistoried building, crenellated roof, slits for windows, the building and grounds surrounded by a high chainlink fence. Siri sees JD standing by his open door when she finishes her 360. She hadn't heard his door open, but there he is. A low-key "Good morning" aimed his way, then a more direct, "Where are we? Is this Houston?" "No, we're not in Houston. We're in Marin County." Siri looks puzzled. "Is Marin County in Texas?" "No, Marin's not in Texas. We're in California." Siri goes from puzzled to shocked. "California! You drove all the way to C-California last night?" "Straight through, drove all night and most of this morning," says JD, dark sleep sacks cradling his eyes. "Hardly a car on the road." He turns his gaze on the huge building behind the chainlink fence, knows Siri was just looking at it. Figuring she'd be curious about it, he says, "Do you know what the building over there is?" She is curious, shrugs her shoulders, says, "A manufacturing plant of s-some sort?" Not waiting a heartbeat, "That's San Quentin State Prison. Home to the meanest bunch of criminals you wouldn't wanna meet."

Siri keeps a straight face, emotionless. In the time it takes her to respond, she thinks through what's happened, about JD's cocksure attitude in this whole sequence of events, his knowing she's upset about 'borrowing' Revelation and her fear of arrest. If he expects a panicked reaction from her, he's going to be disappointed. In a calm voice, no stutter, "Has the virus shut down the prison, emptied it? Guards and prisoners?" JD's surprised, didn't get the reaction he thought he would. Siri seems to have turned a corner, seems more confident this morning. "The prison is empty, no prisoners, no guards. No threat to us. But it's not the virus. Bad money management's why it's an empty building." The prison complex was shuttered years before, prisoners moved to other facilities in the state. The county acquired the land for a transportation hub, including community center, park, sports fields, low-cost housing. "County pensions, and several poorly thought out investments, broke the bank for the transportation hub. Where the money to restart the project's gonna come from, no one knows." Siri now notices the neglected landscaping, faded paint on houses, weeds poking up through cracked sidewalks. "How do you know this?" JD nods his head back over toward Mt. Tamalpais' East Peak, Marin's much photographed mountain. "My dad's brother lives in Kentfield at the base of the mountain. My dad and uncle stay in touch, pass along local gossip. Marin's a rich county, and my dad loves it when the rich have money worries, takes some comfort in knowing he's not alone with his troubles. Uncle Jimmy keeps him happy with his stories." Poor her entire life, Siri'd like to hear some of those stories. But not now. "What're we doing next? And don't tell me 'later.' I want to hear it now." "I'm going grocery shopping, pick up some supplies. I shouldn't be gone long. You stay here with Revelation, keep him close. Spend some time on the beach, get some sun. No one's gonna bother you, no one's gonna come. Marin takes the lockdown seriously, no one leaves their home except for necessary shopping, emergencies, maybe a walk around the block." With that said, he's gone, heading for the nearest grocery store, a Trader Joe's in a nearby shopping center.

No arm waving, no speaking in tongues when he wakes, Revelation's docile, easy to manage. Siri's not sure he slept much, but his energy level suggests eight hours of sleep. Where she goes, he has no problem following. The main entrance to the prison is less than a quarter mile down the narrow, weed-sprung, faded asphalt road they drove in on. Day before yesterday, she would've scoffed at the idea of getting close to the old prison. Not today. She and Revelation walk toward the locked main gate, pass staff housing on their right, a small post office and crafts store on their left. Behind the store, San Francisco Bay stretches south. The craft store is on the public side of the prison entrance. A sidewalk in front of the store leads to a guard shack and passageway to the prison complex. The passage is padlocked. Siri stops before she reaches the guard shack, cups her hands around her face and peers through a dusty store window. Inside hang paintings, watercolor and oil, some childlike, others sophisticated. A hand-lettered sign on a wrinkled sheet of white paper tacked to a wall lists sale prices for the prisoner-created art, some pieces selling for a few dollars, others for hundreds. Siri laughs to herself, wonders what her art will sell for when she's in prison. Siri woke up this morning full of confidence, sure of herself. She doesn't know why, just knows the confidence feels good. She's tempted to climb over the locked gates, explore the empty prison, but decides not to. She has Revelation to look after, doesn't want any harm to come to him. Besides, she'll be seeing the inside of a prison, somewhere, soon enough.

JD finds Siri and Revelation on the beach, their bare feet touching the waterline, the tide creeping in, lapping against their toes. He lugs the groceries he bought down to the beach, makes two trips up and down a steep, 15-step wood staircase. When he's finished with the last load, Siri says, "What'd you get?" Sitting down next to them, kicking his shoes off - Siri notices for the first time he's not wearing socks - and letting a splash of bay lick his toes, "Enough supplies for a couple days... I suppose we could push it to three or four if need be." Revelation looks up, the sound of a jet plane tugging at his attention, the plane on its landing approach to San Francisco International Airport. Few planes are in the air, the virus keeping passengers away, plane cabins breeding grounds for infection. JD and Siri follow Revelation's gaze, share the same thought, wonder which airline logo's painted on the plane's fuselage. More than a handful of companies are spiraling toward bankruptcy, companies big and small. The virus doesn't play favorites. Turning away from the plane overhead, Siri stares at JD, her voice full of confidence, "Tell me what you're up to. I wanna hear details. I mean it!" The look she gives him could be a look exchanged between an old married couple. JD shifts his weight, scrunches his butt deeper into the sand. "Revelation's Adrian Baker's bread basket, what keeps his church in the black. Baker will do anything we want to get his son back." Siri interrupts JD. "I know that. You've already told me. What I want to know is what do you... do we... want?" JD leans back on his elbows, looks up to where the plane was, speaks slowly, sounds as if he's making stuff up on the fly. He's not. "Baker's wife, Loretta, features in his revivals, always standing at his side or close by when he sermonizes. She's there to be seen. She's good looking, a bit too much makeup to my liking, too much hair, too, but that's not what draws the looks. It's her necklace." Siri's following, but the warmth of the sand on her bare calves and feet is sweetly distracting. The word 'necklace' snaps her back to attention, catches her off guard, the word not remotely what she expected to hear. "Necklace?" "The center piece of her necklace is a 4.5 foot long iron nail," says JD. "Baker says the nail is one used to nail Jesus to the cross. Forensic tests confirm the nail dates from the time of his execution. To Baker and his followers, that nail is a holy relic." "And?" says Siri. "And," says JD, "this iron nail is worth a fortune to a few incredibly wealthy collectors of early Christian relics. That Jesus' name is tied to the nail makes it literally priceless. In auction, an opening bid of $10,000,000 wouldn't scare off any of these wealthy bidders. Fact is, a few of them could bid the price up to astronomical heights and not blink an eye." Siri's skeptical. "Ok. Suppose Baker agrees to the exchange..." "Oh, he will!" says JD. "I can guarantee that." "Ok, suppose Baker does agree to the exchange," Siri repeats. "Where can you hold an auction that won't attract the authorities? The second the auction's made public, the only folks who'll show up will be police." JD has an answer for that, of course he does. "It'll be an invitation-only auction. And it won't be held in public. It'll be on the Internet's dark web. The whole thing'll be done anonymously, nobody'll know anyone's real identity." Siri's not familiar with the Internet, has no idea what the dark web is. She works full time in an out-of-the-way truck stop, her father doesn't let her out of the diner to socialize. She doesn't even have a cell phone. What she knows, she's picked up from newspapers left on the diner's tables and from eavesdropping on trucker conversations. "How do you know about this dark web?" she asks. "Computer club when I was in high school," he says. "A couple of us got together, did some digging, investigating, and found our way in. I know enough about navigating the dark web to find interested buyers and set up the auction." Siri thought she'd had a handle on the past 24 hours, understood where events were taking them. Now she's not so sure. "What's next?" said without much confidence. JD points east across the bay's open water, "We're going boating."

Tucked into the weedy crotch where hillside meets beach sits a long, broad-beamed wood boat covered by a waterproof tarp. "Revelation and I looked under the tarp while we were waiting for you," Siri says. "I've never seen a real canoe before." "Kayak," says JD. "It's a kayak, not a canoe." Siri runs her eyes over the kayak, says, "What're those three holes for?" The holes are more or less evenly distributed along the boat's length, each one big enough for a person to slip through. "The holes are cockpits, where people sit to paddle the kayak. Three people can paddle this kayak at the same time. Each paddler has a separate cockpit." Siri eyeballs the cockpits again, this time with new understanding. "The three of us are going out on the bay in that kayak, aren't we?" She sounds excited, the same excitement she felt thinking about climbing over the padlocked fence into the prison. Only this time it'll be more than thinking, it'll be doing. "Yup," says JD, the three of us are going for a paddle on the bay." Siri wants to know more. "Are we 'borrowing' this kayak?" a straight forward question, no concern in her voice. JD nods his head, "Yeah, we are. But it's not what you might be thinking. The boat belongs to Uncle Jimmy. It's his fishing boat. He's kept it here since even before the prison closed down." Fact is, you could leave your wallet on the beach, and no one would steal it. Not something you'd want to get caught doing next to a maximum security prison. That caution, the fear of being caught, clung to the beach, a life sentence, lawless behavior unheard of here. "You knew this kayak was here, didn't you? This was always the destination, driving all the way from Gallup." Siri pauses, rolls her eyes, says, "You knew all the way from Cortez!" "All the way from Monticello," adds JD. "I don't know where it came from, or how it got into my head, but the basic roadmap for this detour in my life came fully formed. I didn't know ahead of time all the particulars I'd meet along the way, but the general map has panned out. No wrong turns, no dead ends." Siri believes him, wonders if she was on the fully formed roadmap or just a particular that happened along the way. JD doesn't say.

JD waits till the last of the ebbing current slows before pushing off the beach. He wants to paddle across the bay to Red Rock island at slack, little or no currents to deal with. Uncle Jimmy's left multiple dry clothes in the triple kayak, clothes to change into after fishing. JD assembles one outfit from a wool sweater and a long pair of pants, gives them to Siri who's still wearing her short halter-topped waitressing uniform. He and Revelation are already dressed warm enough, don't need any of uncle Jimmy's clothes. Jimmy keeps two extra life vests plus his own in the boat for paddling guests. Each of the three wear an uncle Jimmy life vest for the crossing today. They also wear spray skirts, the top part of the skirt snug around their torso, the bottom stretched tight across the cockpit. The skirt keeps water from filling the boat. JD sits in the stern cockpit, Siri in the front, the front paddler most in need of a spray skirt, the front more susceptible to a soaking. Siri's lucky on the crossing, no significant bay spray to soak her. Both JD and Siri have paddles, Siri surprisingly an efficient, tireless paddler, this her first time in a kayak. JD gives her a minute of instruction on the beach, and that's all she needs. Revelation's in the middle cockpit, no paddle. He's his calm, docile self, shows no emotion or concern. Times are the bay can be wild, big winds, big waves, fast currents. Those are times of concern. Not today, the bay meek, mostly asleep. Uncle Jimmy's paddled the triple in big water, never had a serious concern, his boat bombproof in raucous conditions. JD has kayak fished with his father on Lloyd's Lake near Monticello, knows how to handle a kayak. He and his father visited uncle Jimmy one summer to fish on the bay in this same triple. JD is comfortable, secure in his skills. Red Rock's a three-mile paddle, an hour, give or take. A straight shot, JD navigates the boat close to and parallel with the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, the bridge spanning the bay between Marin County and Contra Costa County. Red Rock's a quarter mile south of the bridge near the Contra Costa end.

Red Rock is six acres of rocky upheaval with a distinctive Jurassic look and feel to it. The small island's namesake red is a property of chert, the rock's main ingredient. Uncle Jimmy has claimed Red Rock as his fishing camp, but not because of its color or its Jurassic look and feel. Red Rock is the only privately owned island in San Francisco Bay. The owners have tried for years to sell it for development, but have given up, moved on. The three counties that claim parts of the island can't agree on anything, so nothing happens. The island's main inhabitants are seagulls and the occasional Canadian Goose. Except for Uncle Jimmy and a small handful of local, wayward kayakers, few people visit the island. Hasn't always been that way, the absence of people. At the turn of the Nineteenth Century, various groups of miners came to the island looking for manganese, the mineral an important component of steel and an additive in glass making. The manganese they found was of poor quality and little value. Mining operations ceased, the miners left, but the tunnels they dug stayed. Uncle Jimmy claimed one of those tunnels for a fishing hideout. Cut through solid red rock, the tunnel was built to last, weather any storm, as bombproof as his triple in bad water. In his tunnel sanctuary, Jimmy had stashed all the gear he'd need for a week-long fishing gig in the bay. Dried food, water grogged with a spot of rum to keep it from spoiling, a battery-powered coffee pot, solar-charged Luci lights, a sleeping cot, table and chair. In a dark corner is a small composting toilet.

JD lands the kayak on a pebbly beach fronting the tunnel entrance, the entrance above the high tideline, near the base of a high rock cliff. He leads Siri and Revelation down a dim passage to his uncle's sanctuary, the passage 3.5' wide, 6.5' high, the fellow who carved it out of solid rock a big guy. Siri runs her hands along the cold stone walls, is amazed how smooth they are. In her mind's eye, the tunnel is rather elegant, the hard red walls, a gentle curve separating the walls from the arched ceiling. "Wow!" she says when they reach Uncle Jimmy's room. "Yeah," says JD. Revelation hasn't made a sound since Gallup. "Why are we here?" a frequent question, but one Siri asks, not because she's upset, but because she's a particular who's integrated herself into JD's master plan, become part of it. "We're here to wait while I paddle back, set up what we talked about at San Quentin. Once I know the nail's on its way, I'll come for Revelation, make the exchange, then do the auction." JD lays this out without elaborating, gives no specifics, which Siri's fine with. The two have become a modern day Bonnie and Clyde. "How long before you come back for Revelation?" "No more'n two or three days." JD says a few last words to Siri, they hug, then he leaves. He's a mile into his paddle back to San Quentin when Revelation becomes agitated, waves his arms, starts shouting in tongues. Siri tries to calm him, tries to get him to look at her, listen to her. Revelation's not going to look at her, not going to listen to her. He's focusing his attention on Bob, who's standing next to him, a surprise. Revelation's telling Bob he doesn't want to be in the tunnel, doesn't like what's happening. Bob listens, tells Revelation not to fret, not to be afraid, he'll watch over him, make things right. He's Revelation's guardian angel, after all. Revelation, satisfied, settles down, sits on the cold, smooth rock floor next to Bob, his guardian angel. Siri, aware of none of this, breathes a sigh of relief when Revelation settles down. She sits on the cot to think, thinking, what she does best.

Conditions on the bay haven't changed. No big wind, no big water. Only difference is the sun's set, the night dark, moonless. JD paddles close to the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, the bridge as close as you can get to following a straight line to San Quentin. Times past, the bridge's high-pressure sodium-vapor lamps spread a bright orange glow 50 yards over the water on either side of the bridge. Lights have been off for some time, kept off, since the county had its money troubles. Those lights might've helped. Freighters, tankers, and cargo carriers navigating the bay's shipping channels are hard to see from the low vantage point of a kayak. The big boats' bow lights are too high up, too far back to be seen. The hum of their big engines, when they're near a bridge, are swallowed up by the sound of bridge traffic, almost impossible to hear. A monster cargo carrier, 900 feet long and 150 feet wide, is in the shipping channel, traveling at 10 knots and about to cross under the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. The lack of lights and the scanty but noisy bridge traffic take their toll tonight, the northbound freighter t-boning the westbound kayak. The kayak breaks in half, and JD is pulled under the long boat's hull, his fate sealed. This wasn't part of the path JD was following. The freighter continues north, unaware of what's just happened. Also unaware are Siri and Revelation who...

"Bob? May I call you Bob?" says the Librarian, interrupting Bob's reading. Bob - his name a rough translation of a long string of bits and pieces rendered into a soft whirring sound in a cloud bubble - stops reading, looks away from the pop-up book in front of him, looks sheepishly up at the Librarian. "Ma'am," nods. "Bob," She repeats, "we need to talk." Bob and the Librarian are thoughts, some might say dreams. They're two of many thoughts, their numbers vast, all part of a Collective Conscience, the Library. The Library has a singular purpose: for eons, She's probed the universe for the remains of destroyed worlds, her most sought after worlds populated with self-aware life forms that reason, think, and problem solve. From the remains of those worlds, pieces to a giant puzzle, She assembles exact copies of every element of that world into pop-up books, the books currently numbering in the millions. Open a book and the world it contains jumps out, pops up with a complete taxonomy and living history, from beginning to end. Digging down through the chapters, books read like a full-length movie, describe in detail the macro and the micro, from weather systems to electrons circling atomic nuclei. An unintended, but intriguing, consequence of a pop-up book's attention to realism: copies of life forms self-aware in their original world also are self-aware, but they're not aware their world is a copy, that they inhabit a pop-up book.

Of destroyed worlds, the most difficult to render into pop-up books are those that have been atomized into incalculably small particles and flickers of energy. These remnants are magnitudes of order smaller than the more common clouds of dust and cinders left behind by colliding galaxies and supernovas. The force responsible for this level of destruction the Library identifies as the Destructinator. The few pages Bob's been reading - pages describing 24 hours in the life of JD, Siri, and Revelation - tell a short story of a Destructinator-obliterated world, third planet from a small star in the long-ago Milky Way Galaxy. "Bob," says the Librarian, "you're an apprentice Reader, is that right?" "Yes, Ma'am. I just started." "Is this your first reading test?" "It is, Ma'am." The Librarian looks favorably at Bob, says, "The section you've been tested on is a tough read. You've read better than most beginning apprentices." Bob beams, knows the Librarian doesn't do praise lightly. "You're aware of Reader Etiquette, correct?" Following Reader Etiquette is crucial to generating pop-up books that accurately describe destroyed worlds. Without Reader Etiquette, books become filled with errors, details lost. "Yes, Ma'am, practicing Reader Etiquette was part of my entry-level training." The Librarian nods, smiles. "That's as it should be. Of course, practicing in a classroom's one thing, reading an actual book's another." "I understand," says Bob. "Let's take a look at your reading. Think of this review as part of your continuing education." "Yes, Ma'am." Bob's excited about the attention the Librarian's giving him, the prospect of learning from Her much better than from a second-level instructor. Worlds, no matter how thoroughly destroyed, leave behind a whole suite of metadata, their entire histories encoded in subatomic particles and energy fields. The Library's challenge is tracking down that metadata, no matter how far and wide the data have been dispersed into the cosmos. Perfected over eons of trial and error, the Library's sophisticated search engine finds and decodes widely scattered metadata quickly, searches wrapped up within a minimum of lightyears. Collected data come in bits and pieces, large and small. In the Reader's job description, one important task is to read between words, fill in small gaps left by missing or not-yet-decoded data.

The Librarian opens Bob's test booklet, thumbs through the pages he's just read. "I like how you've filled in all the small bits of data we've yet to gather, the gauges in JD's Camaro, his palm on the engraved Hurst gearshift knob, Siri's braids unraveling while she slept, the high ceiling in the manganese mine shaft... reading so many small details into the story keeps it in sync with the pattern of history we're decoding." Bob beams. "I'm also impressed," says the Librarian, "you didn't take liberties with the story's larger pieces of missing data. The details of Niall Mac Loughlin's immigration to Cortez, for example. Or JD's all night drive from Gallup to Marin. The temptation's great to fill in those big gaps, I know. It's a common weakness with Readers." The counterpart to this weakness is another, ignoring or glossing over big data gaps that demand attention. An incident famous in the Library, one taught to all apprentices, involves a novice reading an early first version of the pop-up book Bob's test booklet is based on. The apprentice, perhaps in a rush, ignores the immense data gap separating dinosaurs and humans, putting the two together in the same story. The harm, the suffering, inflicted on humans in that early version of the book is immense. The mistake is corrected in a future reading, but the harm couldn't be undone, all readings archived in the Library, all archives live and available for review. Not causing harm reading a book is critical for the Library's publishing enterprise, an essential part of her Reader Etiquette. The Librarian's not frowning, but Bob senses a change.

"You inserted yourself into the story, Bob. You do know that runs counter to Reader Etiquette. Yes?" Bob nods as answer. He steels himself for what's bound to come next. "The path JD followed, the kidnapping, the ransom? A harmful path not supported by the data!" That last in a raised voice, the Librarian's look worrisome. "That wasn't JD's path, was it? It was yours." Bob says nothing. "What metadata prompted you to take JD in that direction?" Bob hesitates, knows the Librarian's not going to like his answer. "Movies, Ma'am. The search engine found reams of metadata that decoded into movies. Really quite exciting, movies. I thought an adventure would read well." Read cautiously, metadata from movies, newscasts, podcasts, videos, books, newspapers, magazines, social media, surveillance footage, satellite imagery, academic papers, patents, art, music, theater, and such can help a book read true. Bob's aware he did not read cautiously. "Inserting yourself changed the course of events, moved the story off track, away from what the data say actually happened." The Librarian pauses, considers. "Now, about that angel, the one with your name?" The Librarian chuckles to herself, keeps her amusement private. "My search engine hasn't found any data encoded with angel." Looking at Bob, "What data did you find encoded with angel?" Bob answers very carefully. "I found lots of references to angels in books, movies, social media. Data like that." "No primary data sources?" "No, Ma'am." The Librarian continues Her critique of Bob's reading. "You turned to other data I know aren't primary. Wasn't just the angel. Loretta Baker's necklace is data substantiated, but not the iron nail. Primary data indicates the man Jesus was tied with cord to a cross, not nailed. Ghosts and other unsubstantiated phenomena were never associated with Route 491, which never was numbered 666. Shall I go on?" "No, Ma'am" says Bob. "I understand."

Readers aren't the sole source of bending the realism of pop-up books toward fiction. A bug in the publishing division of the Library plays a role, as well. The bug, ever elusive, lets readings of the same story by different readers leak into one another, potentially contaminating the story. Given that millions of readers can be reading the same book for millennia, the contamination can have unexpected, sometimes dire, consequences. Siri's lucid dreaming is a result of data leaks from one reading to another, from an accurate reading of her life to one that's not. So is the sense of familiarity she and JD share. JD's sense of deja vu, knowing the outcome of future events? The Library's publishing bug. The Library's aware of other bug-related phenomena that distort a pop-up book's reality, phenomena not supported by recovered metadata. Multiple timelines, parallel universes, multiple personalities in a single host, UFO abductions, ghosts, monsters, magic, reincarnation, time travel... all can change the course of a story. "I don't mean to be hard on you, Bob, but it's important we adhere to Reader Etiquette. Follow the rules. Any harm or confusion we read into our books is not okay." "I understand, Ma'am." The Librarian knows that to be true. Wrapping up her critique of Bob's test, she gives him the actual story to read, the story supported by metadata.

In brief, JD and Siri are high school sweethearts, their affair conducted over a distance, Monticello to Cortez. Both graduate high school, Siri waitressing part time in her father's truck stop, both attending community college. They intend to marry, but Siri's Catholic father says no, no Protestants in his family. Siri and JD elope on Easter Sunday, drive past Shiprock, don't stop for the revival, drive all night from Gallup to Los Angeles, then to Marin County. The two are wed by a justice of the peace, spend some honeymoon time with JD's uncle Jimmy, the highlight of their honeymoon kayak fishing on San Francisco Bay. Curious about the couple, Bob reads ahead. Neither Siri nor JD contract the virus, the pandemic subsides, they have a daughter, Alexa. Six months later, the virus makes a comeback, but it's mutated, infects only males with excessive testosterone. Siri's father, Niall Mac Loughlin, and pastor Adrian Baker die along with 93% of the world's aggressive males. JD's infected, doesn't succumb to the virus, but has life-long respiratory issues. Fascinated, Bob reads to the end of the pop-up book, adheres to Reader Etiquette. Male aggression no longer a force to be reckoned with, conflict of all forms is relegated to the back burner, has little bearing on world affairs. No surprise, women assume roles of influence, Alexa among the first to put in place new standards of peace and equity. The world enters its seventh decade of this new order when the pop-up book abruptly ends, the world it documents a casualty of the Destructinator. In the eons the Library tracked the Destructinator's wake of wreckage, there was a single instance when their search engine suffered an overload of information, crashed, had to be rebooted. At the same moment, the Library, the entire Collective Conscience, suffered a massive migraine that lingered a lightyear, then lifted. Collective thoughts agreed the Library had come too close to the Destructinator and that She should avoid close encounters at all cost. Before Bob can close the pop-up book, take stock of what he's learned, he's slammed with a blinding headache, the Library goes dark, all thoughts gone, forgotten.

#FICTION on the WEB short stories

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