The Calling. James Frey

      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.

      A trap? he wonders.

      He takes a tentative step forward.

      He can make out features on three of the others. One girl looks Middle Eastern, maybe Persian. She has fine, copper skin; thick black hair; a hooked nose; and high cheeks. A boy—and he is undoubtedly young—is tanned and has round cheeks. His face is locked in a grimace. A tall girl has short-cropped red hair and freckles and lips so thin and pale they are practically nonexistent. She looks like she’s dreaming of rainbows and kittens, not the end of the world.

      He takes another step, drawn to the pile of Players like a moth to a flame.

       You are late.

      The voice is in Marcus’s head, like the voice of his thoughts, only it’s not the voice of his thoughts.

      Marcus begins to say he’s sorry, but before the words can pass his lips, the voice comes again.

       It is not preferable, but it is acceptable.

      The voice is pleasant, deep, neither male nor female.

      “You can hear—”

       I can hear your thoughts.

      “I’d prefer to speak.”

       Fine.

       The others did too.

       Except for one.

      “Why are they wrapped up like that?”

       So I can take them.

      “You need me to put on one of those things too?” Marcus is impatient. His lateness makes it worse.

       Yes.

      “Okay. Where do I go?”

       Here.

      “Where?” Marcus sees nothing. He blinks—a routine, taken-for-granted, split-second blink—and when he opens his eyes, floating before him is one of the silvery shrouds. He can see faint markings in gold, green, and black on the inside of the cloth. He recognizes some of the characters—Arabic, Chinese, Minoan, Grecian, Egyptian, Mesoamerican, Sanskrit—but many are unknown. Some must belong to the other Players. Some must belong to whoever is speaking to him. “Where are you?” he asks as he takes the shroud.

       Here.

      “Where?” The cloth has substance but is virtually weightless, and it’s cold, freezing cold.

       Everywhere.

      “What do I do?”

       Put it on, Marcus Loxias Megalos. Time, as you understand it, is of the essence.

      He pulls the shroud over his shoulders, and it’s like stepping out of a sauna and into Antarctica. The sensation is shocking, and would be debilitating if not for the pair of unseen hands wrapping a blindfold around his head. As soon as the blindfold is in place, Marcus falls into an immediate slumber. It’s so deep that he can’t feel his body. There’s no cold or heat. There’s no pain or pleasure. He is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It’s