shadows and stones - an original fiction series of gothic, horror, dark fantasy

Strange, I thought it would feel more… different, waking up after such an ordeal. Yet I lay here in a soft warm bed, staring up at a paneled ceiling, and the sensations are the same as I when I wake in my bed at home after a restful night. I'm not at home though, and I will never be normal again; not if what I saw and heard in my dreams is true.

If it was a dream. Residue of my embrace with the woman is like a glow behind my eyes. The gentle pressure of her arms, the way they touched me the moment before she changed into a blaze of light, lingers on my sides. As if thinking about her is a summoning, an echo of laughter touches my mind while a tingle, like an electrical charge, shoots down my spine. Then it all fades away and I understand. It was real. She and I have finished; we have Become. If only I understood what that means.

Lying on my back I am aware of the softness of flannel against my skin. Someone has taken care to lay me comfortably on the bed, dressing me in my favourite nightshirt. After days, or maybe weeks, of nothing but resting on cold hard stone while wearing the same filthy clothes, I soak up the luxury of these sensations. Only the thought that it may have been that bastard Edward who dressed me mars the perfect moment. Imagining his hands touching me, his eyes seeing me undressed, makes me shudder with disgust: my first movement.

Pain erupts from the cells of my bones, muscles, and skin; even the tips of my hair are living pinpoints of agony. My vision goes black as overloaded senses try to safely channel this sudden onslaught. I think I scream, though no sound makes it through the pulses of pain inside my ears. Reflexively I go fetal, but it's a mistake. Every movement causes another explosion of agony to rip through me. If this is Becoming then I want to Un-Become, go back to being normal, or just plain die. Anything to end this pain.

"Be strong little one, it will end quickly." Someone is screaming through a concert amplifier directly into my ear. A hand touches my shoulder with the power of a sledgehammer, rocketing me with another round of torture. Instinct sends my arm shooting out to drive away this new source of pain. I feel the satisfying crunch of bone as my fist connects. Hand and voice are gone as I continue to lie in agony.

Abruptly my pain ends, as though a power switch within me has suddenly been flipped. I'm afraid to move, afraid it is only a respite, afraid any motion at all will trigger a fresh start. A minute. An hour, I'm not certain how long I remain motionless before my right leg betrays me, twitching with a muscle spasm. I wince in anticipation, but nothing happens - nothing at all. Experimentally, I move a little more: an arm, the other leg. Finally, I stretch out fully on the bed and there is no pain whatsoever. There is, however, blood on my right hand.

I study my hand in amazement, the deep rich redness of the color, the pattern made on my skin as the blood runs down towards the pristine white sheets. It's almost as though I have been blind and am only now learning to see, yet I know my vision is no more, nor less clear than it was before. Perhaps it is the absence of pain that makes everything suddenly beautiful. Then I hear someone cursing and I remember where the blood came from. I sit up and look around.

The room is exquisite. Furnished with what seem to be antiques, it has the feel of a showcase in a museum. The bed is a heavy, wooden, four-poster structure with a canopy and draperies to provide privacy above and beyond the solitude of the bedroom. To my left is a window with an inbuilt padded seat. My suitcase lays open and partially emptied on the cushion there. To my right is a disaster. A bench lays overturned and at least one of the legs appears to be newly broken. I can only hope Edward has broken something as well, since I see him sprawled across it in a decidedly ungraceful pose.

Mama would be terribly ashamed of me. She taught me to always help others, never to hurt them, but I am laughing. I can't help it, seeing him there on his back on the carpet, blood smeared across his face and dripping into his hair. It's a choice slice of revenge. Better yet, I believe I broke his nose.

"I'm pleased you find this humorous."

Sarcasm doesn't bother me at all. I keep on laughing as he rights himself and the fractured bench. The look of disgust he throws me only increases my amusement. When he grabs a nearby t-shirt to stop the blood from his nose, however, my laughter ends abruptly.

"Damn you, that's mine!"

I'm rewarded with an evil glare as he points to his own bloodstained shirt and the broken bench. "Shall we call it an even loss?"

The loss is hardly an even one since I'm pretty sure the bench and his shirt were far more expensive than my t-shirt, so I don't protest any further. Besides, I am, after all, still in his power here. Despite the fact that I am now in a comfortable room, there are no guarantees I am safe. According to the woman in my dream, his goal in starving me was to force me to Become. While that has been accomplished, it doesn't mean he isn't planning worse things. Antagonizing him further would be stupid.

Having stopped the bleeding from his nose he drops my t-shirt into a wastebasket then turns to look at me. I experience a strange visual shift, where the young man who frightened my ancestress is superimposed on Edward as he moves closer. The differences in appearances are minute, mostly just his hairstyle and modern clothing. They really are the same man. God, he must be incredibly old. Shaking my head, I dispel the double image, then I take initiative and speak first.

"So, do you make murdering young women a profession, or is it just a hobby?" My question is flippant, but I don't want him to think I am afraid.

"You are not dead."

"I would have been!"

"No. I would not have allowed it." There isn't a drop of remorse in his deep black eyes, nor in his casual tone.

"How noble."

"If you prefer."

Just what the hell is that supposed to mean? I get the feeling he wants me to ask, is playing with me. Well, I am not in the mood for games.

"What now, Edward? Do we go on as normal? Pretend nothing happened? Are you planning on telling me everything was just a hysterical dream that I've been ranting and raving in my bed for God knows how long? Maybe I caught some strange fever on the flight over and it's nearly killed me?"

"Michael."

"What?" I hate non-sequiturs.

"Edward is older, he is your mother's cousin. In this form I am Michael, his nephew."

The implication of this phrase doesn't connect immediately. When it does sink in, I get another one of those chills down my spine. 'In this form.' I remember him changing into a rabbit and a butterfly in my vision. I remember my body twisting itself until I became a wolf. Edward and Michael - completely different in every way, except that they are both the same person.

"You're telling me you live the lives of two people?"

"That is one way of looking at it." Which makes me wonder what another way would be. He doesn't give me time to ask though, instead he walks to the door and opens it, preparing to leave.

"I imagine you wish to wash and dress. I will send Melanie, the housekeeper, to show you where your things are and where to find the facilities. Afterwards, we will talk."

"Wait!" He pauses halfway through the door and looks back. I almost decide to skip the question, but I really want to know. "Was it you who dressed me?" If it was, then he owes me far more than a broken nose.

"No. Melanie."

At least he has some sense of propriety. I decide not to wait for the housekeeper. Instead I look around for myself. The bedroom is huge, equivalent to one floor of my mother's house. I could get lost just finding my toothbrush. Checking my suitcase, I see that it still contains a few personal items which Melanie, whom I presume emptied it, must have felt uncomfortable putting away. I wonder, does she know what he did to me, what I have become? Does she even know what he is? There is a gentle knock at the door.

"Come in." I call out. She opens it slowly, cautiously. Perhaps she has seen what I did to him. Perhaps she is afraid I will hurt her too.

"You don't need to worry, I won't bite." For a moment I remember the rat, then I shut the thought away. I don't need that guilt right now.

"M'lady, I have been instructed to show you your things, and the way to the bath." Her formality takes me by surprise. I am not used to having someone be so deferential.

"Just call me Eva, we Americans don't use titles."

"As you wish, Lady Eva." I give up, she is far too serious, this thin stick of a woman. I wonder if she is afraid. I study her face out of the corner of my eye, but it is awe, not fear, I see in her. It makes me feel uncomfortable again.

As she shows me around the room, and the cleverly hidden door to the bath, I gain confidence enough to ask her some of the questions that are plaguing me. I might have expected the answers would be unsatisfying.

"Melanie, do you know what he did to me?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell me?" I hold my breath, hoping but not believing she will be truthful.

"It would be better for the Master to tell you."

Her evasiveness makes me angry. Unjustly I shout at her. "He tried to kill me. He tortured me, starved me. How could you let him do that?" My anger brings results, though not what I expect.

"No! He would never have let you die, nor did he wish to bring you harm. Every pain you endured, every agony you felt, he suffered as well, as though it were his own. He would not eat until you did. No matter what I tried, he would not eat or rest or care for himself." Embarrassed, or perhaps angry at telling me more than she had intended, Melanie hurries from the room.

I prepare my bath and think about what she has said. Did Edward/Michael really feel the pain I was in? Did he really go hungry while I was starving in that tower? Or is she just making it up so I'll feel sympathy for him? With a sigh of ecstasy I slip into the huge tub of warm water.

That Melanie is a devoted servant is obvious, and that kind of devotion would lie at the drop of a hat if necessary. Or maybe she's in love with him. The thought is so funny I can't help laughing. Sure, Melanie is in love with him - like little Jane Eyre pining for her Mr. Rochester. Only in this case the age difference is really out of proportion and I doubt he reciprocates. God, how can the woman be in love with someone who isn't even human?

Does this mean I'm not human anymore? The bar of soap slips from my hands. I scrub hard and fast; the sooner I finish, the sooner I can start asking my questions and getting some answers. As I rush to dry myself, I finger the silver cross Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday.

"Oh Daddy, Oh God, please help me through this. Please make it all be alright."

Dressed in clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt, I wonder what to do next. Melanie left before telling me how I could find Edward/Michael, so I'm unsure where to go from here. Based on the size of this bedroom, the house must be huge, the sort of place where I could get easily lost. Cautiously, I open the only visible doorway. On the other side is a sitting room equally as large as the bedroom. More antique furniture sits here and there: a roll-top desk, a table, two overstuffed chairs and coffee table before the fireplace. Edward/Michael is sitting in one of the chairs, watching the blaze with unearthly focus.

"Is this also part of my room?" I'm hoping to surprise him, but he doesn't even turn to acknowledge my entry, simply nods in response, and continues his contemplation. Since he makes no other indication I settle myself in the chair opposite him. Pleased, I see a full tray of food and tea on the table between us. As yet it is untouched. Mama brought me up with good manners, but I have no intention of pouring for him. I make tea for myself, then take a sandwich for my first bite in what seems like years. Only after the sandwich is halfway eaten do I realize, I wasn't even really hungry.

Still waiting for Edward/Michael to start the conversation, I occupy myself by studying the room. A painting above the fireplace catches my attention. It is she - the girl of my vision. The sandwich is forgotten as I stare at her portrait. Whoever the artist was, he captured her likeness perfectly, choosing to portray her with a natural smile instead of a posed one. The reality of her youth strikes me more from this image than from the memories I had witnessed, and it dawns on me that she must have been my age when she died. The painting must have been done before she married, before she saw the bizarre transformations of her first fiancé; she looks so happy.

"She was an innocent." Edward/Michael startles me by following the thread of my thoughts so clearly. Now that he has spoken first I decide to begin my questions. Since we are already talking about the girl, I decide to start with her. "What was her name?"

"Amelie."

"You knew her?"

"Yes."

"You tried to marry her?"

Finally he looks at me, curiosity evident on his face. "What makes you say that?" he asks.

Mentally I smack myself. There was no way he could have known what happened to me while I was Becoming; no way of knowing that Amelie's memories had been played to me like a silent film. I should have pretended ignorance; instead I've shown him I know a great deal.

Since there is no getting past my screw-up, and I can't think of a good lie to cover it with, I tell him about what I saw, and the creature who showed it all to me. Patiently he listens, encouraging me when I falter at the more bizarre parts of the story. An excellent listener, he never once interrupts.

"I would never have guessed it had consciousness," he comments when I have finished. I don't need to ask him what he means by 'it'. Only the heritage passed down to me from Amelie fits the context of his comment.

"Is it all true then, what I saw?"

"Yes, though I admit I did not know the details of Amelie's conception."

"What was that man, some sort of demon? Are there more of them? Are you one of them? Am I?" My questions spill out in a rush. Edward/Michael gestures for me to stop.

"One at a time, please Eva."

I take a deep breath before starting again. "Ok. What was it that fathered Amelie?"

"He is a shapechanger from a race older than humankind. They are as old as the birth of the world and call themselves Shapeless."

"Do they all run around making babies with humans?"

"No, only he."

"Are you one of them? Am I?" This is the real question I need answered.

"No. We are partially human - they are not."

"Then what are we?" I am pleading, I need so badly to know and understand.

"Children. Children of a father who should have never existed, who should have never planted his seed into the womb of a woman."

"In English this time please."

He sighs, I think he is really trying, but doesn't know quite how. I fail to have sympathy for him. He should have expected this. Hadn't he asked these same questions once?

"The Shapeless were never meant to interbreed with other species, human or animal. Somehow, at some point in time, one of them found a way to do it and did it with a vengeance. Ever since then he has been casting his seed across centuries, creating a half-breed race of children, of whom you and I are two."

"Two? There are more?"

"Yes, though how many I do not know for certain."

I am silent. I need to digest this. Edward/Michael respects my need by saying no more, only pouring himself a cup of tea while he waits for me to ask my next questions. So I am no longer fully human, but what is the other half: fairy, demon, some mythical creature like that? No, I didn't sprout wings, didn't shrink or grow pointed ears when I changed. Right now I still look perfectly normal, but when I Became…

"I turned into a wolf, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"Is that what we are? Werewolves?"

"No. You took the wolf form because it was close to an image you held in your mind." Sasha, I'd been dreaming about my old dog. "It could have been anything. It can be anything." He looks at me again, and I see mischief in those eyes. "You are shapeless now, clay from which anything can be formed, so long as your mind can imagine it. You bleach your hair, don't you?"

I nod an affirmative, though I wonder how he was able to tell. My roots aren't showing yet.

"You don't have to anymore. Be blonde today, redhead tomorrow. Be short, tall, fat, slender, dark skinned, pale anything you desire, as often as you wish."

The concept frightens me. It would be so easy to lose track of who I am, if I could be anybody I wanted to with only a thought. He sees my sudden fear and nods, and I know he has felt it too. A shapeshifter, the stuff of fantasy, yet somehow the stuff of my reality. I look at my hands - are they the ones I had two days ago? Or have I already shaped them into something else unconsciously. I should be thin, horribly thin after so long starving, yet I know my body is as healthy as always. I am shaking; it is too much.

"I just want to be me,." I whisper, but he hears me and touches my hand.

"Then be you for now. You have eternity to play games of change."

"Eternity? You mean I'll never die?"

"No, not anymore."

Never die. Never grow old? What about Mama, and Aunt Marcia? They are mortal as are my friends from school. Will I watch them all grow old and die, only to go on and on myself? Fear overwhelms me. My stomach clenches and I put my hands over my face, trying to control the rising panic, quell the scream that is fighting to escape. I make my mind a blank, desperately seeking something to focus on - anything to keep from slipping over the abyss of terror before me.

"How old are you?" I blurt it out. Make him talk, make him keep telling me about himself, drive away the fear with inconsequentials until I can deal with it bit by bit.

"How old?" I've surprised him, he wasn't ready for the question. "I don't know, exactly. I think I was born some seventy or eighty years before AD 1, long before the Romans invaded Britain."

Over two thousand years? Born even before Christ? My stomach falls deeper, while the panic rises. I must keep him talking; get to something safe, somehow. "What is your real name?"

"Real name?" Surprise again, but he keeps talking. "I don't remember my earliest name anymore. I suppose you could consider Rath my real name."

"Gee, that's a real pleasant one."

"It's an anglicized version of a foreign name I was given a very long time ago."

"What about Edward, and Michael?" I am settling, with focus. He must keep talking; help me remain calm.

"Rath is not a common name, so I use what I need to in order to remain inconspicuous. My current surname is Ratheson. It suffices."

He's right. Rath is hardly common, yet it does seem to fit him, dark and glowering as he is. It works as a last name too. I feel settled now. The panic has passed. So long as I take these revelations one at a time, digest them slowly, it will not return. I will be able to remain stable.

"So what do I call you - Edward, Michael, or Rath?"

"Michael or Rath, whichever is easier for you. I am only Edward when I wear his form." It still creeps me to hear him say things like that.

"Ok, Michael, then. Did you know Amelie would die if she had a child?"

"No." He sounds genuinely sad.

"But you were there."

"I wanted to be certain she was well. I thought…" he pauses, looking uncomfortable. "I thought the pain of childbirth might push her into Becoming."

"How did you know one of her descendants would do it instead?"

"I felt it somehow, slipping into her child. I could feel it waiting. Asleep, but aware."

"Why me? Why not Amelie's daughter?"

Once again Michael looks me in the eye. For the first time I realize his nose, obviously broken earlier, has healed and shows no sign of the injury I had inflicted. I am disappointed. I had wanted him to suffer a while longer.

"Amelie was an innocent, born in an innocent age. Mankind no longer believed that gods could walk among mortals, and breed children upon them. Christianity killed the imagination, making everything that was different demonic or sinful. Had Amelie been fathered a hundred years earlier she might not have died, she might have had the capacity to understand. Her death taught me patience, taught me to wait until either disbelief became more common, or religion had weakened its grasp enough to allow faith to withstand a seeming improbability."

His expression turns thoughtful. "Your mother might have been strong enough, but she married too soon, earlier than I had thought. I wouldn't force her away from someone she very much loved, and so I waited for you."

I am stunned. My mother? Only the trick of fate which brought her and my father into love at so early an age had prevented her from enduring what I had endured, becoming what I had become? I try to imagine Mama when she was my age, going through all of this. I can't. Daddy had been with her since high school, he would have never let her get trapped.

"How do you know I wasn't in love too?"

Michael smiles. "I knew, Eva. Despite what you may think, I did not take unnecessary chances."

God, he sounds like such an arrogant prick! I look away, to the fireplace. The flames have died down to a mere glow. I make myself another cup of tea, and eat another sandwich before I'm ready to learn more.

"You said there were others like us? How many do you know of?"

"A sister, a brother, a vague sense of others I have not bothered to seek out."

Why, I wonder? Was he too busy watching me? Suddenly I am angry at what seems to me to be gross unfairness.

"So, did someone torture you to make you change?" I demand harshly.

"No, but I was born into a time of violence. A time of pagan beliefs. It was easier then, both Becoming and dealing with the experience, but not much."

"Why not just let it happen to me, why force it like this?"

Michael looks thoughtful, as though he is not certain how to answer, then he rises and takes my hand. "Come, I want to show you something."

I pull my hand away, resenting the implication that I'm a child that needs to be led. Curious as to what distraction he has planned now, I do follow, however, as Michael leads the way out of the room and down a corridor past other doors. We then cross a balcony which looks out over what I presume is the main sitting room of the house. Overhead is a vaulted ceiling supported by beams and arches of ancient wood. He's moving too fast for me to catch many details, but I get the overall impression of simplicity, despite the obvious size of the house.

Down the wing opposite mine, Michael approaches a door, knocking softly on it. A woman's voice calls from within for us to enter. Slowly as if concerned he might disturb someone, Michael opens the door.

The room is amazing. Half the size of the one I'm in, it has been painted like a garden wonderland. Every imaginable type of flower borders its walls, and what is not covered in plant life has on it a sky studded with gaily-colored birds darting about and playing. Live flowers lay strewn about everywhere on the floor and on the child-like furnishings. To one side is a bed of the white French provincial style little girls favor. Next to it sits a woman who looks vaguely familiar, though I know I have never seen her, and on the bed sits a girl, who looks around fifteen or so. Her face is a study in rapture as she stares blissfully at her hands while weaving garlands out of the flowers spread around her legs.

"Is she well, Brigid?" Michael asks the seated woman.

"Yes, Master Rath. I've just finished reading another book to her, and Father brought in fresh flowers from his cutting in the garden."

"I see that, they are lovely. Thank him for me when you see him again, will you?"

"Of course, Sir." Then she looks at me and smiles. I realize she must be related to Melanie, for the shape of the face is similar, although she is not nearly so serious. She rises, stretching out a hand in greeting.

"You must be the new Lady, a pleasure to meet you, Ma'm."

"Please," I say, taking the proffered hand and shaking it warmly, "Just call me Eva, I hate titles."

"Then I'll be Brigid to you." Again she smiles. I like this woman.

"Eva." I turn to Michael in response to his summons. He is holding the hand of the girl on the bed. She looks at neither of us, and I realize with a shock she must be autistic, or perhaps retarded, for there is no consciousness in her eyes; no recognition at all.

"This is Hannah. She is our sister."

One of us? I am stunned and look at him with disbelief, but he only nods to confirm the truth. I look to Brigid and she also nods, obviously knowing all there is to know. I ask the only question I can think of.

"How?"

"I was watching your great-grandmother when Hannah was born. She is a direct descendent of our father, as am I. After my mistake with Amelie, your ancestor, I learned patience. I decided to let nature take its course; perhaps something would happen to waken her in a more natural way. I was right, and yet it was a worse mistake than what happened with Amelie.

"I passed myself off as a distant relative of the family, so as to be closer. I often escorted Hannah to the theater or opera in town." He pauses laying a protective hand on her long chestnut hair. "We were returning one night, on foot because the stars were beautiful, and she wanted to see them. I was not being cautious; I was not prepared when we were attacked. My last memory is of looking up and showing her Cassiopeia, then I was knocked unconscious with a blow to the head.

"Though we recover much more quickly from injury than normal humans, it was too late when I awoke. Hannah sat on the ground in a pool of blood, her arms soaked all the way to the elbow. The man who attacked us had been torn apart, shredded into almost unrecognizable bits. She had been pushed into crises, forced to change in order to protect herself, but she was also an innocent child and could not live with what she had become. Since that day she has been as you see her, living within herself, where no harm can touch her."

"How long?" My voice is a whisper. I remember the woman in my vision telling me, that if I did not embrace her I would risk remaining trapped within my mind forever.

"Since 1892."

"Over a hundred years." Yet she sits on the bed like a child, having not aged a day since. There, but for the grace of God, go I…

"Do you understand now, Eva? In a world of increasing violence I could not know what would happen that might force you to change. Unless you married early and bore children, which you did not seem inclined to do, a similar accident might have befallen, and I would not have been there to help you at all.

"It was the only way I knew to control things, to make sure if you were forced to violence you would hurt nothing of consequence, and if you started to slip into yourself, perhaps I could help you."

No. It helped Itself. Whatever had been handed down to me from Amelie. It and my own will to live and - he is right - the strength which comes from living in a violent time where people are not so sheltered and innocent as they once were. Tears slip down my cheeks for Hannah. She really has lost everything in her life. At least Amelie had lived a little before dying.

"I hope you are happy, Hannah." I touch her face and she frowns slightly, only to blossom once again into a smile. Returning to her weaving, Hannah remains in her own world, myself and Michael forgotten, if we had ever been noticed. Would I have been happier, spending an eternity in a non-existent world? Maybe. I'd like to think not.

Quietly, I leave the room. Michael doesn't follow me, respecting, I think, my need to be alone. I don't return to my room, though; instead, I follow the corridor and a stairwell, eventually reaching a doorway, which leads outside. It's nighttime. Lanterns designed to resemble old gaslights illuminate an unpaved drive that leads off into the darkness beyond.

I leave the house behind me, walking until it is only a light in the distance. Immortality, shape-changing, a two thousand year old half-brother, a hundred plus year old half-sister, more strange siblings out there somewhere: I have so much to deal with suddenly. If someone had told me all of this back home in Denver I would have laughed. Denver is too real, too modern for all of these fairy tales. But this is the countryside of England, not even the sound of an airplane disturbs the night sounds. In the dim light I can barely make out my hands as I hold them before my eyes. They still look the same, but I remember them becoming paws; I remember what it felt like to turn into a wolf.

It's not really cold, but I still shudder a bit. How am I going to deal with this? How am I going to tell Mama? Should I? "Help me, God. Show me what to do?" I plead.

Here there is nothing between me and Him but the stars themselves. When I was little, Dad told me each star was the heart of an angel. Some shine brighter, he said, because they have been given more love. After that I always chose the dimmest star to send my prayers and my love to, not wanting any angel to be alone. In the open spaces of England they all seem so terribly bright that I'm hard pressed to find one in need, though eventually I do.

Then some night bird breaks my vision, soaring high above, silhouetting itself for a moment against the moon. Powerful wings grasping the wind, catching it, riding it. Dancing on the airwaves, it soars away into the darkness beyond my vision. Like a million times before I dream myself flying upon the wind too, and then it hits me, I no longer have to dream. Michael said that, whatever I wish, I can become.

Smiling, I stand and spread my arms as though they already have feathers, forgetting, at least for now, all of my doubts and worries. Without effort I feel myself changing. The wind catches me in its grasp at my first down stroke. As I let instinct carry me through the air, it dawns on me that I have my answer. There is too much joy in this, too much beauty for it to be anything but good. Through the eyes of the bird, the star I had thought dim suddenly appears bright as a beacon in the sky.

Tonight, I have Become.

episode i: journey into darkness - episode ii: tea party - episode iii: awakening
episode iv: the book of grief - episode v: paterfamilias - episode vi: breaking points
episode vii: the dark of the mind - episode viii: decisions
episode ix: momentary distractions - episode x: exorcising demons i
episode xi: porcelain visions - episode xii: the nature of jackals
episode xiii: exorcising demons ii - episode xiv: the invitation
episode xv: body & soul - episode xvi: mothering sunday
episode xvii: imbalance of power - episode xviii: interlude
episode xix: between life and death

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