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I can see the rage on her tired features. She deals out blows without even thinking about it, and she takes some too. But there's nothing fair about the fight: there are two of them. Two well-built, well-trained churchmen against a young woman barely thicker than a toothpick.
“Reinforcements are on the way!”
Reinforcements?
It doesn't help the situation. What does “reinforcements” mean? Two men? Ten men? Twenty?
She dodges a blow and, in one agile move, leaps over a body lying on an autopsy table.
My body.
It's obvious. I know it. No, I feel it as surely as if I were looking in a mirror.
As the monk moves around the table, she slips her hands into her pockets, as if to taunt him. Her eyes sparkle with rage and provocation. Yet she doesn't utter a word. She's wild, she's free. No god on Earth can impose his will on her, least of all one of his usurped representatives. That's what I admire about her. What I love, in addition to her sumptuous curves.
She grabs an object from a nearby shelf and throws it with all her might. Her pursuer deflects it with his broad arm. It falls without causing any damage other than the anger of the cleric, who pounces on her without further ado.
She pushes the cart with vigor, before running in the opposite direction. But she didn't count on the second monk, who intercepts her and holds her captive with his muscular arms.
“I've got her!”
“Ember!” she calls, her cry muffled by the grip that immobilizes her.
Fatal error.
He touched her.
He defiled Believ.
My Believ.
I'm going to kill him.
Despite these horrific murders, I've adopted a simple routine of moving every two weeks or so, according to my dreams and intuitions. Last night, however, I was contacted through a letter left under my hotel room door. Although I inspected the corridor, I couldn't see by which charitable soul it had been deposited. And despite my insistent requests, the manager stubbornly refused to allow me to view the surveillance cameras. Come to think of it, it's not even certain that they were ever connected to the recording system.
Who the hell knows I'm here? Obviously, I haven't told anyone, not even Christy. It's got to be a Brotherhood thing, that's all I can think of.
So, I carefully opened the missive and discovered its contents: an alarming newspaper article about a new, unexplained epidemic. The journalist points out, not without a good dose of pathos, that like the previous ones, this disease is totally unknown and there is no known cure, so the list of those who have succumbed to it is growing impressively. It appears to have set a record for mortality in the blink of an eye. Hardly reassuring.
As I was inspecting the envelope, a small piece of paper fell out.
It was a sort of Post-it note, on which was written an address and a surname. A very subtle way of assigning me my next mission.
So I left the hotel, without much regret given the mediocre quality of the facilities and service—at the same time, I couldn't reasonably expect high standards, given the state of my finances—and decided to head east.
The target is nowhere near, and the journey seems interminable. My serenity has left me for good. I'm worried for my friend; for myself too. The feeling of being followed or observed never leaves me. It's probably not just a feeling, in fact... I thought Christy was paranoid until I was confronted with a slew of sacrifices: why shouldn't I be the next victim of these godless lunatics?
Eltz's journal
23
Believ
“Don't let go!”
I struggle as best I can, gesticulating despite the grip tightening on my chest. How come all the monks in this abbey are bodybuilders? What's happened to the paunchy, flabby brothers we see on TV?
“Let go of me!”
