The Calling

Nothing.

He waits.

His eyes are heavy. His chin is in his hand. His elbow is on his knee.

There’s nothing, no one.

He can’t fight sleep anymore.

He’s been up for over 27 hours.

And just like that, he is out.

35.2980, 25.1632

MARCUS LOXIAS MEGALOS (#ulink_a50d613d-f662-5f55-9fd6-2e17996ea0ef)

Big Wild Goose Pagoda, Xi’an, China

Up, up, up.

Marcus checks his watch.

Keep going up.

12:10 a.m.

He’s late.

Up.

How could he have been so stupid?

Up.

He should have stayed within walking distance, not at a hotel in the walled part of the city.

Up.

Not have-to-take-a-taxi distance.

Up, up.

A taxi that hit another taxi, which plowed into a couple standing on the side of the road eating fried persimmon cakes out of a red plastic bag. Both died on the spot. And Marcus’s driver took the damn cakes to boot.

Up.

His heart beating hard, beating hard.

Going up.

Finally he stops. He faces a low door at the top of the Big Wild Goose Pagoda. Etched on the door is the word ROBO. Is it really this easy? Seems it is.

No one’s seen him, or if someone has, they haven’t called Marcus out. Maybe the guards have been bribed. Maybe they have been bribed by one of Them.

It’s about to begin. Provided he didn’t miss it by being—he looks again—11 minutes late and counting.

How stupid of him to be late.

Marcus puts his hand on the door. The other Players have already arrived. They must have.

He pushes it in.

A narrow wooden staircase is behind the door. Marcus draws his bronze knife from a sheath under his pant leg. He enters and closes the door. It’s dark. The staircase goes up half a flight and makes a turn.

His heart beats harder.

His clothing soaks up sweat.

Marcus is the son of Knossos. A child of the Great Goddess. A Freeborn. An ancestral Witness to the Breath of Fire.

He is the Minoan.

He squeezes the hilt of his knife. It’s adorned with glyphs understood only by him and the man who taught him. All the others who understood are dead.

The old stairs creak. The wind outside whistles over the roof tiles. The smell of smoke, from the crater, wafts over and through the still-standing Big Wild Goose Pagoda. The stairs end.

Marcus is at the edge of a small room. It is shrouded in darkness, and he can barely make out any details. There is no movement.

He breathes.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

“Anyone there?”

Nothing.

He fishes in his pocket for a Bic lighter.

Flick flick flick.

A weak flame ignites.

His heart skips a beat.

Stacked at the far end of the room like logs are the Players. Each is wrapped in a silver shroud and blindfolded with a simple black cloth. Though it is hot and stuffy, he can see their breath on the air, as if it’s winter.