Bound by Time

BOUND BY TIME

Copyright © 2014 A.D. Trosper

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Published by

Silver Spirit Publishing

ISBN-13: 978-0615986753

ISBN-10: 0615986757

Throughout
Bound by Time
I used many things from actual history and there were a few times I stretched or reshaped it just a bit to fit my needs.

There really was a Saint Januarius; he died as a martyr at the hands of the Romans in 305 A.D.

A woman named Eusebia really did collect vials of his blood. This blood is kept in the principal chapel of Naples, Italy and there really is a festival every year where the blood goes from solid form to liquid form and is brought out of the chapel for the people to see.

Where I deviated from history is making Januarius and Eusebia channels. In actual history, Eusebia only collected two vials of blood. I changed that to five vials for the purpose of this story.

The principal chapel of Naples is indeed built on the ruins of an older chapel that in turn was built on the foundation of yet an older one. The chapel was partly destroyed in 1456 during an earthquake. Whether or not there was ever a round stained glass window in it during this time I don’t know. I installed it for the purpose of this story.

Additionally, regarding stained glass windows; the oldest recorded stained glass windows are indeed in Germany though they didn’t quite date back far enough for this story. So I stretched their history back a little ways in order to have the window where I needed it at the time I needed it to be there.

There are quite a few little islands in the web of land and waterways east of Savannah, Georgia on the coast. However, none of them are the island depicted in this book. I looked at several of the islands before beginning the story, but none quite suited my needs. So I made one up and plopped it down there.

The church they visit in Wichita, KS does not exist to my knowledge; although there are several there. I visited and fell in love with one in another town, but it wasn’t a town that would work well for the story. So I picked that church up and plopped it down on a random, unnamed corner in Wichita.

Joan of Arc (also referred to as La Pucelle both in this book and in history) of course did exist. However, as far as I know, she was not a channel, nor was the man who killed her possessed by a demon, although given his actions it’s entirely possible he was.

Poveglia Island does exist, as did many of the events depicted there during the brief mention of it within this book. However, whether or not there was ever a stained glass window there, or whether a demon had any hand in those events, is unknown to me. I added those in for the purpose of this story.

When Damien informed me he spoke Latin, I was at a loss. When I told him I didn’t know Latin, he told me that was my problem and I had better figure it out. I turned to Maria at AllExperts, a woman who is an expert in Latin language and literature, who received her PhD from Genova University in Italy and has over 25 years experience in teaching. She was kind enough to translate the various phrases for me. I found out during the process that Latin is a very precise language and online translators are often wrong because of this. The way something is said changes depending on who you are addressing and how. I give Maria many thanks for her help.

S
he was too young to be there. Yet she stood at the front of the crowd, drawn to the man’s death. The mix of people screaming vile curses intermingled with the weeping of those already mourning him. The sounds surrounded her, enveloped her. The man, however, knelt perfectly still in the face of his own death—his eyes locked with unwavering calm on his executioner.

The blow came swift and hard. The man glowed golden-white just before his head separated from his body, and blood sprayed across the paving stones.

She watched, her insides churning, as the head rolled a short distance and came to a rest. Its empty eyes regarded the crowd. Blood seeped across the pavement. She tried to step back into the throng as the warm wetness began to pool against her bare feet. Her thin arms pushed at the people behind her in vain. She no longer wanted to see this, had to get away.

A strange clinking sound echoed against the stones. Reluctantly, she looked back. A woman draped in robes knelt next to the headless body. Her hands held glass vials, and she carefully filled them with the dead man’s blood as smoky darkness seeped from his body in tiny tendrils.

She watched, frozen. The woman looked up and made eye contact with her. The blood was for her, though she didn’t know how she knew this. Finally, a small break opened in the crowd, enough to allow her petite form through. She ran through the streets. Her heart pounded as strains of dark laughter followed her.