 
THE THRONE OF OLYMPUS

By

Peter Jessop
Part One

"The Empty Crown"

COPYRIGHT 2011/2014 PETER JESSOP

Smashwords Edition

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_The Throne of Olympus_ is a modern-day reworking of the Greek mythological tales of Zeus and his battle against the Titans. The protagonists in this passion-fuelled saga are members of two rival, international banking dynasties - the Villon Family in Europe and the Ravenscroft Family in the U.S.A. These families began to amass their fortunes during the reign of Elizabeth I and, over the ensuing centuries, their vast power influenced kings, presidents and dictators, shaping world history in the process. In the early 1900s, another distinguished family would become a key player in the story about to unfold - the Zhukovsky Family in St. Petersburg.

# Chapter 1

## "Birth of the Titans"

" _In the beginning there was darkness and chaos. Turning and twisting in the swirls of chaos, Ouranos embraced Gaia, who opened to him and grew fertile. Out of chaos came order. In time, Gaia gave birth to Kronos, the mightiest of all the Titans. And for a long time the Titans lived happily and at peace."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

St. Petersburg, Russia, 1916

The bells of the Peter and Paul Cathedral strike the midnight hour. The majestic four hundred foot golden spire with its angel holding a cross glints in the evening sky above the city of St. Petersburg; a silent guardian watching over the inhabitants. The city is covered in a blanket of snow, the many church spires pierce through the misty shroud like spears. The famous Russian city was at peace, it seemed as if nothing was stirring, its citizens tightly snugged in their warm beds, despite the growing unrest and the hush talks of revolution that was slowly gripping the country.

Yet not all were in slumber.

In an upper bed chamber of the baroque white-and-azure winter palace of the Russian tsars within the Palace Square, the central city square of St. Petersburg itself; two naked bodies coupled. They are the seventeen year old Masha Zhukovsky ( _Gaia),_ and her new husband, the twenty-five year old Olivier Villon _(Ouranos)_. A radiant and highly intelligent woman, Masha is committed to honouring the heritage of the Zhukovsky family, the most powerful family in all of the Russian Empire, with centuries of history and breeding behind her. Yet for all her education and background Masha was unskilled in the ways of love making, still a virgin, she fights through the pain of penetration. The man between her thighs has had plenty of women, many from the great houses of nobility and royalty of Europe, and yet still his love making is not gentle, but brutal and forced. And yet Masha embraces it all, however painful, her pale blue eyes are filled with emotions of pleasure, anguish, ecstasy, tears and joy; for the joining of the Zhukovsky and Villon families was an event to celebrate, for Masha knew that the amalgamation of these two powerhouses of European society would ensure the future of her dynasty.

Olivier ravishes his bride, his hands grip and tug at her long jet black hair, his mouth covering her white porcelain like skin; he devoured her, wanting to taste every inch of her beautiful young hour glass shaped figure. Ruthless and tyrannical, Olivier is a man singularly lacking in compassion, and whose sole aim is to increase the family fortune in accordance with the goals of the Illuminati. And the alliance of the Villon and Zhukovsky dynasties was just one more step towards 'The Work of Ages'. Olivier was born to believe that the Villon family has a sovereign right to rule. A conviction he had instilled in him from the moment he could crawl. Although a fit and dashing looking man, there was still a sickly paleness to his appearance and the blue and white eyes didn't help. Heterochromia, or, two different coloured eyes is caused by genetics, injury or disease, but as far as the Villon's go it is a genetic trait that appears every so often in a generation. Many have speculated it is a side effect of past in-breeding.

Masha moans, whether in pain or pleasure, Olivier doesn't care. Her cries simply make him harder and wanting her even more, spreading her legs wider apart he thrusts his manhood deeper into her; no gentleness or slowness, no respect for it being her first time, her deflowering was simply another notch on Olivier's belt. Her nervous, tense and quivering body just added fuel to the fire. Masha didn't know how much more she could take; Olivier was intent on making his wife remember their wedding night for the rest of her life. This was an arranged marriage of diplomacy not love, but as far as Olivier was concerned he would take his pleasure, to him, work is the meat of life, pleasure, the dessert; and this dish was as sweet as they came.

For Masha's part however, she would endure - the Russian way, for she was a Zhukovsky. _A net will catch more fish than a pole_ , her babushka use to always tell her. Masha wraps her arms and legs more tightly around Olivier, her teeth finding his neck, marking him, the love bite causes Olivier to explode inside of her, from tonight the world would be laid at her feet.

Berlin, Germany, 1932

Masha sits patiently in the outer office of Ernst Gruber, CEO of one of the biggest banks in all of Germany. The reception was grand and gothic in nature, statues of two Tectonic Knights stood silently watching in the corners behind the receptionist's desk; a large black marble counter with a leather top and carved pillars on either side.

_As usual the Germans did everything big_ ; Masha contemplates silently; even the blonde receptionist typing away behind that monstrosity of a desk, looks tiny in comparison. For all its imposing features and expensive works of art Bank Gruber was a dreary and cheerless place to be.

Masha felt a kick inside her stomach; she quickly places one of her gloved hands on her swollen belly, her unborn baby was in a feisty mood this morning.

"Almost time," she whispers lovingly to the person growing inside her.

It has been a difficult eight months; this pregnancy was proving to be just as complicated as all the others. In the years following her marriage Masha has carried three children, one lived for a year, the other, two years, and the third, was still born. The last birth almost claimed Masha's life. And the doctors were not hopeful about the current one, they didn't rate the chances of success for both baby and mother very highly. But Masha was willing to run the gauntlet, the future was still up for grabs and it could go either way, their lineage must go on. Besides, she knew better, this child was strong, a real fighter, she could feel his strength within her. She knew that it was a boy and she knew that his name would be Christophe, and that he would be a giant among mortals. Masha had no fear about this baby dying and also had no doubt that she would be there when he claimed the prize of ultimate power. All her hopes rested on her unborn child's shoulders, and to her, hope was the anchor of the soul.

Masha opens her purse and removes her cosmetic mirror; she flips it open to touch up her features. She is still very attractive at thirty-three years of age having blossomed into the stunning woman that was always apparent during her youth. Immaculately attired she always wore the best of everything, the finest brands of clothes, shoes, hats, jewellery, she put high value on her looks and appearance, even pregnant she could still turn heads at a fashion soiree. Masha finishes brushing her cheeks and looks to the tall grandfather clock, she has been waiting for over an hour, but it was well worth the wait. She could hear the muffled voices of Ernst Gruber and her husband, Olivier, emanating from behind the closed office door.

Although Masha hated the Germans for their stance against Russia in the Great War, the former empire of the Kaiser was now perhaps the best chance for getting rid of the Bolsheviks who have so devastated her country and family. The Zhukovsky's had lost almost everything after the revolution, their lands, their estates, their power. Even the Villon's took a pounding with the fall of Russia, their Eastern holdings lost to the communists. It was a bitter pill to swallow; the loss of her parents and sisters at the hands of an unlawful firing squad was the hardest injustice of all. The fact that she and Olivier were in France at the time was the only thing that saved their own lives.

Masha is suddenly filled with a torrent of memories from her past, images swell up like a flood; of her lovely sisters, Nina and Catherine, their woodland Dacca, grand balls in the winter, the men just as fine in their suits and uniforms as their gowned counterparts.

This time was ingrained in Masha's memories.

As if it was yesterday.

Masha's childhood was not filled with love in the traditional sense, but it was overflowing with warmth and she or her sisters never wanted for anything. They were never spanked or beaten despite the fact that their father was a strict disciplinarian, but he was a shrewd man and could get his way by sweet talking anyone.

Masha loved him dearly.

Her father truly had a way with words and knew how to use them in manipulating others to do his bidding; a trait that rubbed off greatly on Masha. Then of course there was the royal court with its intrigues and plots, but what Masha recalls most are the many wonderful summers spent with the Romanov's. Masha has very fond memories of these times and the friendship and love she had for the tsars' children was almost as deep as that of her own family. But now all are gone, all dead, and yet for all the Bolsheviks homicidal reign, Masha knew that the real blame lay at the feet of those that backed Lenin and his butchers – the House of Ravenscroft.

Masha feels the hatred building up inside of her at such thoughts and yet revenge was sweeter than honey, it will take time but in the end she will have it: _after all the tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut by the scythe_ , she adamantly tells herself. This brings a slight smile to her face.

Masha's thoughts of retribution are soon interrupted by the arrival of a small black haired moustache man in a grey suit that seems to hang to loosely on his small frame. The man is accompanied by two black uniformed bodyguards, the red swastika armband and death head's insignia on their collar clearly marking them as the elite SS Leibstandarte; their impassive expressions speaking volumes about their loyalty to the fuehrer. Masha stands as Adolf Hitler crosses to her and bows taking her hand and kissing it.

"Fraulein, you look well," Hitler proffers.

"Thank you Herr Hitler."

"Please, Adolf, no formalities amongst friends", Hitler is all charm; "I trust everything is going well with your pregnancy?"

"Splendidly," Masha responds. Although this man could be all smiles Masha could see the astuteness - or madness - lurking behind those pale charismatic eyes.

"Children always brighten up a home," Hitler informs her as if this were maxim.

"I'm sure this one will."

"Truth be told, if I were not wedded to the Deutschland, I would like nothing more than to have many children."

"Perhaps someday you will."

"I fear not, but then the German people are my children."

"I have no doubt," Masha says with a respectful demeanour.

"Yes, well, you and your husband must come to Berchtesgaden, we'll make a weekend of it," Hitler suggests.

"That would be lovely."

"Good, well, I would like nothing more than to chat the day away with one so lovely as you, but I must not keep your husband waiting any longer, matters of state." With that, Hitler clicks his heels, gives a slight bow of the head and opens the door to Ernst Gruber's office. Masha catches a brief glimpse of the fuehrer greeting Olivier before the door shuts behind him.

_They say you need a long spoon to sup with the devil, but in this partnership, who was the devil?_ Masha didn't have an answer to her question.

Chateau Villon, France, 1936

Château de Villon is over five hundred years old and has been owned by the Villon's for two hundred of those years. A former hunting lodge it is a most impressive building with its distinct French Renaissance architecture that blends traditional medieval forms with classic Italian structures. Aged and moss covered gargoyles sit high upon their roosts while a black wrought iron fence encircles the property.

The Villon family crest is boldly emblazoned above the gate. The extensive grounds surrounding the château slope away on all sides making the structure visual to the eye no matter where you were on the estate; the owners leaving no doubt as to who is the king of the castle.

But it is the back gardens that concern us today and the birthday party of the four year old Christophe Villon _(Kronos)_. A large munificent spread has been laid out on one table, while another is filled with wrapped and unwrapped presents, the wrapping paper and ribbons is a kaleidoscope of colour. A dozen other children, all from other aristocrat families are in attendance with their parents or nannies, including the Archbishop of Paris. A string quartet plays 'pop goes the weasel' and other nursery rhymes. A clown juggles tennis balls with the aid of a ballerina, while 'Andre The Magnificent' performs magic tricks, and 'Belle' the African elephant gives rides while a small carousel also offers rides of a different kind, on wooden horses and unicorns. The trappings of wealth allow no expense to be spared.

The young Christophe sits at the main table with his mother, and Masha is never far from his side, hovering over him like a lioness protecting her cub. Christophe had been a sickly baby for the first two years of his life and while Masha had no doubt that he would survive; there have been many sleepless nights and restless days for her. But in the last couple of years Christophe has come along in leaps and bounds, thanks in no small part to Masha. She watched over him like a Hawke, making sure he wanted for nothing whether that is medical or educational needs; she has no intention for Christophe to grow up indolent, but rather to grow up indomitable. Masha affectingly ruffles her son's black hair, even at age four he was a handsome lad and showed signs of taking after his mother's side of the family, which sat well with Masha as she fervently hopes that he will not inherit any of the many mental illness' that have plagued the Villon's over the centuries. Masha again ruffles Christophe's hair and follows up with a loving hug.

"Happy birthday my little titan." Masha kisses Christophe on the cheek while a servant brings out the birthday cake. As the children begin to sing happy birthday Masha's eyes go to Olivier, who is more preoccupied with chatting up the Lady Jezebel de Payne, than to sing happy birthday to his own son.

_No great conquest:_ Masha thinks quietly, as the Lady Jezebel would spread her legs for anyone. Masha dismisses her husband's infidelity, when you marry a French man you also married his mistresses'.

"Make a wish," she prompts Christophe.

Christophe smiles at his mother before blowing out the candles.

Chateau Villon, 1938

Christophe's rumpus room was a large one on the second floor towards the front of the house.

The wallpaper was covered in images of lollies and clowns. The room has many old toys passed down through the generations. There were dolls dressed in Victorian garb, toy soldiers, cowboys and Indians, a broken rocking horse that has seen better days and of course an assortment of building blocks and toy metal cars. But it was one of the newer items that occupied Christophe's attention on this cold wet and wintery day, and that was the bright red fire engine. He's only had the toy for a year and he still enjoyed playing with it, at the moment he was in the middle of putting out a fire at the doll house. It was proving a most difficult task, as there were dolls trapped inside, and so Christophe has called upon the soldiers to aid him, but it also seems that he might need the assistance of the cowboys and Indians.

"This is going to be close," he mumbles quietly to his pet Cocker Spaniel, Rufus, who lies lazily nearby uninterested in what his master is engaged in.

Christophe's six year old imagination was taking him away from his drab surroundings, transporting him to a real house on fire with real soldiers desperately battling the flames to try and save the residents trapped inside the burning building. An innocent child with a loving mother and a distant father, but no troubles, caught up in his imaginary play world, but that world like his innocence was about to end with a thud.

CRAASSHH!

The play room door fly's open and a terrified servant stumbles in with a bloodied head and cut cheek. The old man falls only a few feet in front of a shocked Christophe.

"Young master - help me - please help me," the man begs of Christophe, "it wasn't my fault."

The cause of the man's terror enters the room. Olivier Villon stands in the doorway with murder in his eyes and a riding crop in his hand. "Mercy _monsieur_ , mercy," the servant yelps at Olivier.

" _Saltimbanque_ – thief – I'll have your hide," Olivier says with great malice. He raises his riding crop and begins laying into the poor servant. Five hard strokes he deals out. The first and second hit the shoulders, the third and forth the back, and the fifth the buttocks. The elderly servant who has been with the family for many years continues to beg for clemency. This only causes Olivier to strike out a few more times. A drop of the servant's blood flicks onto Christophe's petrified face. It is only then that Olivier realises that his son is in the room. " _Mon Dieu!_ " The father curses as he grabs the cowering servant by his belt and drags him whimpering out of the room away from the eyes of his son. As Olivier goes to close the door he looks to Christophe.

"Someday you will understand the need for punishment and discipline," he tells Christophe obdurately before shutting the door behind him. Christophe is silent as he stares blankly at the closed door clutching a tin soldier, listening to the rapidly fading sound of the servant being dragged away to his fate.

The next two years were a nightmare for the young master and it was only going to get worse.

Chateau Villon, 1940

The eight year old Christophe Villon lies awake in his large four posted black mahogany bed trying to shut out the distressing sounds of the violent argument that was taking place in the corridor beyond his room.

Christophe's green eyes are almost filled with tears; his whole body is shaking beneath the blankets. The dying embers in the fireplace give an eerie orangey glow to the darken room, adding to the air of palpable gloom hanging over the House of Villon. But no matter how hard he tries Christophe cannot block out the tempest raging on the landing beyond the closed door.

"This is your entire fault," a belligerent Olivier shouts out, as he slaps the beauteous Masha with great force across the face, sending her crashing to the floor. "You said to fund him," he rages, "you said he would invade Russia and overthrow the Bolsheviks."

Olivier, now fifty years of age, towers over his thirty-seven year old wife like a giant, with nostrils flaring and his multi-coloured eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, he vents all his anger at Masha; the well known Villon insanity clearly evident beneath the rage.

Nearby the pet Cocker Spaniel, Rufus, crouches in fear under a small side table while all around them the walls of the wide corridor are festooned with family portraits of the Villons from the last two hundred years, looking down in mute judgement.

Olivier feels their eyes boring into him.

"And now what, the little shit decided to invade Poland, Holland has fallen and now his army is marching on France. And this is just the _hors d'oeuvre_." Olivier hurls these facts at Masha as if they were accusations against her. But Masha, holding her red cheek, stands and looks at her husband with a great calmness belying the situation; as her Babushka said: _anyone who angers you conquers you._

" _Cest la guerre_ ... such are the fortunes of war," she states.

"We will lose much of our fortune in this war and the cursed Ravenscrofts will once again capitalise," Olivier informs her, rolling his eyes in contempt. "I can almost see their hand in this. I should never have listened to you bitch, I should never have funded that _carbotin_ , who may yet deliver the _coup de grace_."

"Hitler may yet serve our purpose, out of chaos comes order," Masha tries a different approach.

"Whatever order may now come out of this maelstrom, I can assure you that the former glory of the Zhukovskys will not be rekindled in Russia," Olivier tells her with some relish.

The last statement from Olivier strikes a chord deep within Masha's being that she can't let go without replying. "You act as if I put a gun to your head. As if I made you sign the cheques."

"Whore!" Olivier retaliates by smashing a nearby vase to the floor and then grabbing his wife violently by the throat and pushing her hard up against the wall. "Don't try and come the innocent with me. I know you too well." Olivier's spittle splashes Masha's cheeks – she doesn't flinch.

"We all saw the madness behind those eyes, the same that is now behind yours," Masha says in defiance. "And yet we flocked to him like moths to a flame and yet in the end what is he, nothing, just another pawn in the great work. We've tasted the bitterness of misfortune before, it's nothing new, but revenge is a sweeter taste to the pallet. After all the world has always acted on the principle that one good kick deserves another, has it not?"

"Revenge is like biting the dog because the dog bites you. It does not serve the greater goal and the goal is paramount," Olivier prattles off these words as if they were gospel.

"And what of the Ravenscrofts? What of their betrayal?" She asks. "What else other than revenge has motivated you all these years...and me?" She adds bitterly.

"I'm a Villon damn you not some scrapper," he screeches. His hand taking a stronger grip on her throat.

Masha stands her ground.

"What were the Villons but peasants who dragged themselves out of the mud and shit," she scoffs, "who stole, coerce and cheated their way to riches while the Zhukovskys raised tsars to the throne and sat by their right hand."

"You spout nothing but poisonous lies. The Zhukovskys are nothing more than Gypsies; we Villons can trace our lineage back to the first kings of France. We were conquering armies while your kind was still scratching their arses."

"The truth is often violated by falsehood." Masha says these words with no sign of fear, in fact she stares Olivier down, daring him to hurt her.

"A curse on the day that the Villons entwined with the Zhukovskys," he tells her loathsomely. He lets her go and walks off in anger, lashing out in spitefulness at the Cocker Spaniel with his foot. The animal yelps in pain before falling silent.

Meanwhile; a deathly silence fills Christophe's bedroom, a tomblike stillness. Christophe strains to hear something – anything – but there is nothing. It's as if the curtain has come down upon the show and the actors have left the stage. The young Christophe begins to wonder whether the argument is over. He wordlessly prays for it to be finished and not just intermission.

Christophe has grown to hate and despise his father over the last couple of years. In that time he has suffered several beatings at the hands of Olivier Villon. The first and by far the worse was a year ago when Olivier took his son Grouse hunting. Olivier was hell bent on getting a rifle into his seven year old son's hands, determined to teach him how to kill. "Death is part of life and when you've taken life you appreciate and cherish yours all the more for it." Olivier had told Christophe with a strong conviction. The day in fact started out alright, a bright sunny morning, but it soon deteriorated with the coming of the bad weather. Olivier snapped when Christophe cracked the wooden butt of the rifle, after he accidently dropped it on some rocks. Several slaps on the backside followed each one harder and more sadistic than the previous. The tears flowed unabatedly and the comfort came later in the arms of his mother, whom he truly adored. But even so Christophe still has a child's love for his father.

Christophe is quickly brought out of his musings by the opening of his bedroom door. He lets out a start, but this soon fades when he sees his mother entering the room holding an elegant looking lit candelabra. Masha slowly closes the door and crosses the room to her son's bed like some apparition from the netherworld. The light from the candles flickers over Christophe's face revealing the un-easy expression upon it.

"You're shivering," Masha observes with genuine concern. She puts the candelabra down on the bedside table and moves to the smouldering fire place to stoke the embers with an iron poker bringing the flames back to life. The light from the flickering fire causes shadowy shapes to dance across the walls of the darkened room. Masha goes back to her son, sits on the bed and cuddles him. Christophe relishes the warmth of his mother's bosom.

"Why is papa so angry?" Christophe asks still on edge.

"He has a lot on his mind."

"He hurts you," Christophe states.

Masha gives a slight grin before answering. "Never be afraid of a barking dog, only be afraid of a silent one."

"I hate him," he speaks in a hushed tone.

"You must never show your hatred to your papa," Masha eagerly tells him, "you must bury it deep down inside until it is time to use it. Do you understand?" Masha looks deeply into the eyes of her son until he silently nods in agreement. "That's my little titan."

"But why is papa so mad all the time?"

"Because there is no honour among thieves, and even less among _boyars_."

"What are they?"

"Nobles, Christophe, nobles," she informs him with a slight ting of bitterness.

"But aren't we nobles?"

"Yes we are, but you must always remember that you hail from two of the noblest bloodlines in all of history, families that have been at the very heart and centre of European society for centuries."

"Does that mean we're special?"

"Oh yes, indeed we are Christophe, indeed we are."

"Tell me mama, please," an excited Christophe asks. The presence, warmth and kindness of his mother quickly chase away the dark thoughts that only moments ago were gripping his being.

"Alright," she tells him.

Christophe makes himself more comfortable, settling in for a bedtime story.

"Take your papa's family, the Villons," Masha begins, "they claim descent from the Merovingians, the very first warrior kings of France."

"Really?"

"Yes - why they use to cut off the heads of their enemies in battle and strap them to their saddles and spears as trophies. They were conquerors, Christophe, they had no fear, and they took this land by sword, fire and blood, and became the true founders of the Franks. It's also claimed that these kings were descended from an even more ancient and holier bloodline, but one now lost in the mists of time."

Christophe's head is suddenly filled with images of warriors on horseback riding across an inhospitable landscape from the Dark Ages; the horses hot breathe clearly evident in his mind's eye, as are the severed heads dangling from their saddles.

"Legend, myth or fact, the truth is now lost. But what is certain," she continues, "is that the House of Villon truly came to its glory in the year 1761 when three brothers started Banque Villon in the city of Paris and the beginning of something wonderful. The names of these men, your ancestors, were Alphonse, Rene and Philippe and before long they had set up a grand plan. Rene, the second eldest quickly established a branch of Banque Villon in Venice, while Philippe, the youngest of them all, went to the great city of London to open a branch there."

"Is that how we became rich?"

Masha smiles lovingly at her son's unbridled enthusiasm. "Yes my sweet, wealth to rival Solomon. Before long the brothers Villon had married into the wealthy aristocratic families of these cities firming their standing in society and making the House of Villon bankers to kings, queens, and the nobility; why even Rome herself used Banque Villon thus making it one of the most powerful banking dynasties in Europe. It was also at this time that Philippe wrote a letter to his brothers, in this very house, in which he made the statement: _'it matters little who is in power, for he who controls the finances controls the country.'"_ Masha looks earnestly at Christophe as she utters this statement.

"You must remember those words, you must never forget them," she urges "for they have become the family dictum. Do you understand?"

"I think so...money is power," Christophe says.

"Yes, but true power doesn't lie in having money, true power lies in those that control it. He who dances must pay the fiddler and even the most high born will grovel for a penny."

"What happened next mama, please tell me," Christophe prompts. Masha gives her son another cuddle. The love between them is unmistakably evident.

"Well, the true _coup de main_ came after the great battle of Waterloo."

"Waterloo," Christophe interrupts, "that's where Emperor Napoleon was beaten by General Wellington."

"Yes and it was during the Napoleonic wars that the Villon's demonstrated the true extant of its control. From Paris it funded Napoleon's campaign, while from London it supplied loans to the governments that financed Wellington's army in Portugal, Spain and eventually France." Masha grins to herself. "Left wing, right wing, same bird."

"And the battle of Waterloo, what happened there?" Christophe excitedly asks, wanting to know more.

"As French and English blood was being spilt," Masha goes on "as Wellington watched in triumph as victory was in his grasp, another pair of eyes keenly observed proceedings, one Louis Villon, grandson of Philippe, who was standing by Wellington's side. And when it was obvious that the English were going to win, do you know what Louis did?"

"No, what?"

"He ran away."

"Huh?"

"He ran as if the devil were at his very heels. He raced back to the Paris stock exchange keeping one step ahead of the news that Napoleon had been defeated. And when he reached the market do you know what he did?" Masha leaves her son hanging.

"What? What did he do mama?"

"He lied. He told everyone that Napoleon, having secured victory, was at that very moment marching on Paris. In the ensuing panic that followed, many investors instantly sold their shares at a fraction of the real market value to the only willing buyer."

"Banque Villon," Christophe almost shouts.

"By the time the news of Napoleon's actual defeat finally reached Paris, the House of Villon had become the premier banking family in all of Europe. But even this was only the entree, as a few years earlier Michel Villon, Rene's eldest son, founded the cabal known as the Illumnati. Its members, who came from the most powerful British and European families, set out a charter for a new world order that would involve the creation of a single economy, banking system and in turn, a single government. It would become known amongst the few as 'The Work of Ages' – the definitive goal being the centralisation of global power. To be achieved covertly, by any means necessary. Their first point of business in fact was to help nurture the French revolution and we have been striving towards 'The Work of Ages' ever since."

Christophe's head is now filled with images of secret meetings in the dead of night, secret societies meeting in the shadows, forming plans, scheming and manipulating the world, and for one so young, Christophe finds the notion exhilarating. "Michel Villon must have been a great man."

"Yes he was," Masha assures him, "but greatness, my love, lies not in being strong, but in the right use of strength. Whenever an opportunity presents itself to further your goals, take it, don't hesitate, strike, but strike when the moment is right and strike to kill."

"Is that why papa is so angry because someone has attacked him?"

"The Villon's may be a powerful family but we do have enemies."

"Who?"

"The House of Ravenscroft," Masha replies rancorously. "And you must know of them because you will have dealings with them in the future, and it is a wise person who knows their enemies."

"Were they part of the Illumnati?"

"Not at first, but later on, yes. But before the Ravenscrofts and the Villons there was the Zhukovskys, the other half of your sacred bloodline, the most important of them all. Little is known of my family until the reign of Ivan the Terrible in the fifteenth century. It was in the final years of this tyrants rule, that a Vladimir Zhukovsky firmly established our family's presence at the Russian court. For you see Vladimir, who dabbled in alchemy and the other mystery arts, was the only person capable of calming Ivan the Terrible during his fits of madness, with his potions and poultices. When the tsar struck and killed his own son in anger it was Vladimir who gave administrations to the ruler's madness. But with the death of his only heir his royal house became extinct three years later with his own demise."

"After Ivan the Terrible's death their followed interregnum so chaotic and homicidal that even by comparison with Ivan's reign is was called 'The Time of Troubles'. The tussle for control of Muscovy was played out murderously in the corridors of the Kremlin, and soon beyond its walls as the leading families of the _boyars_ , including the Zhukovsky's, fought for control of the throne of Russia. But out of chaos comes order – _nosus ohdc seclorum._ And finally it was Mikhail Romanov who was elected as the new tsar, and for the next three hundred years his dynasty would rule mother Russia."

"But always guided by the Zhukovskys, who became the real power within the Kremlin. ' _Jure divino'_ , is our motto, it means: 'By Divine Right'. Over the following centuries our family would maintain a close alliance with all the nobility of Europe. Oh Christophe, there has never been a more august and stately family than the Zhukovskys, why at one time, a Peter Zhukovsky was the lover of Catherine the Great. We were the envy of all, so much so that it was in 1880 that the Zhukovsky and Villon families formed an alliance in business and eventually in marriage when your papa married me." Masha is filled with pride at the history of her family, but no sooner is overcome with sadness and then anger.

"What's wrong mama?" Christophe asks sensing his mother's sudden change in mood.

"It's a hard winter when one wolf eats another," she says despondently.

"Mama?"

"The war changed everything," Masha replies and falls silent as painful memories fill her mind. Christophe reaches out and places a tender hand upon her arm.

"Why do we have wars?"

After several long moments Masha looks at Christophe with tear filled eyes. "The one thing you can say about war is that there is profit in it." Masha fights back the tears. "At the outbreak of World War I the Illumnati families recognised a double opportunity. The chance to make vast sums of money by funding all factions involved in the conflict and more importantly, it would significantly further our long-term goal. But it was Ulysses Ravenscroft, a most ruthless individual, who would seize the moment to pursue his personal quest to reduce the boundaries of the Villon Empire. By this time Ulysses was a dying man, but still bitterly clinging to life with all his will and vile. And as the saying goes, a wounded animal is far more dangerous, and as our attention was focused elsewhere he struck by withholding Kremlin funding in favour of financing Lenin and the revolutionaries."

"With the overthrow of the royal family and the ascendancy of the Bolsheviks, the Zhukovsky family lost both its powerful position and its great wealth. This also resulted in huge losses for the Villon's, whose own fortune would be further reduced by the collapse of the Prussian German Empire at the end of the war. Of course the power and assets of the Ravenscrofts increased tenfold, but at the forfeit of my family. Along with Romanov blood, Zhukovsky blood stained the earth of mother Russia, my beautiful sisters, your aunties, my parents, your grandparents, all murdered." Masha goes quiet as she slowly wipes away her tears.

Christophe waits quietly, for his mother's grief is overpowering.

"Don't cry mama."

Slowly, ever so gradually, the sadness in Masha's eyes is replaced by a cold fury.

"Many things, both good and bad have been done in the name of our family, and the Ravenscrofts and all the others. But the one constant that we all adhered to was the completion of 'The Work of Ages', but the Ravenscrofts changed all that by their betrayal. It became obvious that they wanted to be on top when the great work is complete. Your father went mad and declared war on them, and this war has been raging ever since. Sides were taken; the Villon and their allies on one side while the Ravenscrofts and their allies on the other. And to the victor will go the ultimate prize of global control." Masha again stops and takes a hard long look at her son. "The Ravenscrofts must never be allowed to win my little titan, never."

"Papa won't let them."

"No Christophe, your father won't beat them. The task will fall to you; you will be the one who crushes them and restores the House of Zhukovsky to its former glory. You shall avenge the injustice done to us," Masha resolutely tells her son.

"Yes mama."

"And Christophe."

"Yes."

"Trust no one outside our own family." Masha's words are final. Christophe nods in understanding, the weight of over four hundred years of Zhukovsky and Villon history bear down upon his tiny shoulders.

Masha tenderly pats her son's head. "Now take your thoughts to bed with you, the morning is wiser than the evening."

Masha kisses her son goodnight.

# Chapter 2

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England, 1946

A solemn Christophe Villon, now fourteen years of age, stands in the grand library of Grimstone Manor, staring blankly out the bay window at the distant moor. Grimstone is the English home of the Villon family, bordering the Fox Tor Mire, the most notorious of Dartmoor's mires and bogs. A former sixteenth century fortified manor-house it still retained some of its fortified gateway and watchtowers which were once fitted with arrow or gun loops for added protection. Its old walls having bore witness to many nefarious deeds, plots and murders over the ensuing centuries. From here a new society for the United Kingdom was helped along, a capitalist economy dedicated to the ever increasing production of goods and services that in the monumental years of Queen Victoria would see Britain drop its protective policies for the lure of free trade and the growing success of industrial capitalism.

Grimstone is just one of the many properties owned by the Villon's in Britain, but out of them all the Villon's have had an almost spiritual and deep-rooted connection with Grimstone;

Christophe Villon is no exception. As France fell to the Nazis Olivier, Masha and Christophe escaped to England and spent the years of the war at Grimstone. Christophe fell instantly in love with the place and the Fox Tor Mire.

The mire presents many different faces, one is a landscape shrouded in thick impenetrable mists that hide the dark, and liquid peat stained pools. Another is that of a quiet tranquil place where herds of ponies and cattle contentedly graze upon the lush vegetation and although it is true in winter time that good sense dictates that the area is best avoided, but in summer time it can be a truly magical place. A location that Christophe had an instant infinity with and as the world burned in the fires of World War II, the young Christophe wandered the moors seeking out its nooks and crannies and secret paths, always drawn to its darker side which grabbed his attention, with its lore and legends that have attached themselves to the moor; for instance on the southern edge stands a lonely granite cross which marks the spot where Childe the Hunter perished, and not far from this spot lies an ancient Bronze Age tomb known as 'The Gold Box', that was said at one time to have contained an incredible treasure. And of course there are the many folk who have reported seeing the flickering flame of a Jack O Lantern, which lures the unwary traveller into a deep, bottomless part of the mire. This story was Christophe's favourite; folklore has it that this eerie light is the restless soul of a convict from Princetown Prison who floundered into the mire whilst making his escape, only to be sucked to his death in the perfidious bogs. The moor has an array of sights, sounds and colours depending on the time of day or night.

It is a virtual symphony of nature in which Christophe could immerse himself in whatever his mood.

Which in the last few years have been bleak and perhaps that more than anything else is why the young Villon has been drawn to the more sinister tales of the mire.

As far as Christophe was concerned the story of the Jack O Lantern was real enough. During one of his first visits to the mire Christophe became hopelessly lost. Disoriented and afraid he stumbled like a blind man through the moor almost coming to grief in the bogs on several occasions. As an unearthly fog descended upon the land, Christophe, crying and tired, fell to the ground, abandoning all hope of ever being found alive. It was then that a dull green ball of light appeared in the mist, hovering several feet away from Christophe. Where it came from or what it was he didn't know and didn't care. He simply got to his feet and began following the luminous incandescent light, until finally it led him safely out of the mire before vanishing into thin air.

To this day Christophe hasn't been able to offer any rational explanation as to what happened that day, nor has he forgotten that when the spirits of the moor came to his rescue and saved his life. Christophe came to believe that they were marking him for something greater. Olivier also didn't forget, for upon Christophe's late arrival back at the manor house, he received a severe thrashing from his maniacal father. There was never ever a chance to reason with Olivier Villon when the madness took him.

Christophe still hated his father, but he had learnt much since they have been here and Olivier if nothing else was intent on teaching his son the family business. The first year they were here was bad, it seemed that the Villon's might actually lose everything and Olivier's insanity didn't help matters. His fits of temper became unbearable, taking his rage out on everybody. The only safe haven in Christophe's life was of course his mother. Masha comforted and protected him, shielding her son from his own father, even sacrificing her own safety both physically and emotionally from the thunderstorm that was Olivier Villon; and this even more so than his own cuts and bruises made him loath his old man all the more.

Hate became a close ally for Christophe.

He will never forget the frightful day he found his mother on her hands and knees in the bathroom, her dress torn, bruises upon her arms and back, a bloodied lip, all the result of his father's malice. Filled with an unbridled anger at what his father had done, and although only thirteen at the time, Christophe would have taken a clever to his father's skull then and there, but for Masha. She talked her son down, as only she could, urging him to bide his time, telling him that she could handle her husband for a few more years yet. From that time on, Masha seemed to take refuge in the manor's large Victorian style greenhouse amongst the plants, many of which were poisonous; fauna that she has cultivated over her married life, the place has become a sanctuary to her.

But it is truly darkest before the dawn and with war there is always profit and deals to be made and Olivier succeeded greatly in both; through corruption, blackmail, and his business savvy, he managed to hold onto their European assets and increase their holdings in the United Kingdom. And now with the end of the war there was much rebuilding to be done and profit to be made.

_Money talks_ : Christophe solemnly thinks as a quote from the author, Henry Fielding, that his father often used, pops into his thoughts: _'Money will say more in one moment than the most eloquent lover can in years'_. This is perhaps the most important doctrine that Christophe has come to understand. A lesson that the young master Villon was seeing before his very eyes right at this moment.

"Preposterous! Your percentage rate is exorbitant," a flustered Duke Albert Carlisle says to the vulture sitting behind the antique Edwardian desk. "You'll bankrupt me."

"My dear Duke, you're already bankrupt," a jovial Olivier replies.

Christophe turns from the window and stares at the two men gathered in the tome infested library, the smell of musty old books prevalent in the air. As for tension, the atmosphere was thick with it.

Duke Albert Carlisle was a portly and pompous gentleman in his seventies who hailed from Kent. At one time the Carlisle family had extensive lands and titles and a high standing in parliament, but like so many others perched on high, had fallen on hard times and now came begging cap in hand seeking exigency assistance.

The unsympathetic Olivier looks more like a cat playing with an injured bird before killing it, than a business man.

Olivier has grown very gaunt and wiry in the last few years, the skin on his face becoming so stretched that it appears as if his protruding cheekbones would break through the skin at any moment.

"Please Olivier, be reasonable."

"I'm always reasonable Albert."

"But at this rate I will never be able to pay it back," the Duke says in all honesty, "please, for old times' sake, give me a break. Let's not forget how much business I've thrown your way in the last couple of years."

"I haven't forgotten and I do appreciate it. But business is business and you chose the wrong government contracts my dear Duke, you made very poor business decisions and as such you now find yourself in this compromised position," Olivier says in a phlegmatic tone of voice.

"But my family name, my property, my holdings, I could lose it all if I don't meet my obligations by the end of the month. Hell man, my family has been on these lands since William of Orange for god's sake." Albert's words are full of extreme anxiety.

"The two greatest tests of character are wealth and poverty."

"What?"

"I too have lost greatly in this war," Olivier informs him, "I have stood on the abyss and gazed into the mouth of the beast, smelt its vile breath of utter destruction, and yet I'm still here, not by hand outs but by my own wits and skill. So if my rates are too high for you then I'm sure that someone of your stature must have many survival skills they can call upon. The Devil dances in an empty pocket."

"You bastard, you really don't give a shit do you," the Duke says bitterly, "we stick together, that's the way it has always been, if the ruling class cannot work together then what hope is there for any of us. Please Olivier won't you reconsider your offer, after all you come from the same pedigree, the same stock as me."

Olivier is silent and gives no indication of what he is thinking.

"Do you want me to beg," the Duke offers, "is that it?" Albert drops to his knees. He looks pleadingly at Olivier, like some pariah on the street. "You're my last vestige of hope."

Stillness falls over the room, an uneasy calm that is anything but serene. Olivier Villon stares at his fallen prey, his two-coloured eyes filled with triumph. He gives a wry grin and goes in for the kill.

"Perhaps my rates were a bit harsh, so please, get up and I'll tell you what I'll do."

Duke Albert Carlisle slowly stands, his old knees creaking and snapping as he does so, ready to await judgement.

"I'll bring the rate down by five percent but in return I shall want the Haywood and Beckon mills, as well as you ancestral home as collateral to be signed over to me at the first default of repayment."

"But that will give you plenary powers over my greatest assets."

The Duke's protests fall on deaf ears.

He has lost, and to the victor goes the spoils.

"You act as if you are already indigent, this loan will allow you to meet your obligations and fulfil your contracts with the war department. The rebuilding process in Germany is the promise land to one such as you. Do not worry; these are mere formalities for the lawyers, and with the coin you'll have coming in, why you'll have this repaid within twelve months tops." Olivier is composed and reassuring in his words as he shakes the Duke's hand. "Let's shake on it."

"Yes alright," he agrees happily, as if Olivier has just cast some spell over him.

"Good, I'll have the contracts drawn up and sent to you within the next twenty-four hours."

"Very well, but you drive a hard bargain Villon," he shoots his conqueror a look before striding out of the room as fast as humanly possible.

Seconds after the door is shut Olivier makes his way back to his desk, sits back down and looks to his son.

"Why did you let him off the hook like that? He would have given you his soul and at that rate Banque Villon will make hardly a profit worth spending," Christophe argues.

"Within six months I will have his property and his business for I know for a fact that those so called plump contracts with the war department will fall through and when they do I will seize everything that he owns. He will then come crawling back to me and at that time, if I wish, he will do anything I ask of him, let us not forget that he still has some pull within cabinet. You must always know the field of battle Christophe and you must be able to interpret and predict every move your opponent will make."

Christophe nods slowly, silently admiring the cunning of Olivier Villon, the father he hates with a passion.

"There's always profit to be gained from another's weakness," he tells his son and heir.

This is advice that Christophe will never forget.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England, 1948

Jenny Collingwood straddles the naked body beneath her. The buxom twenty-eight year old chambermaid rides the sixteen year old Christophe like a bucking bronco. The full moon shone through the young master's bedroom illuminating their naked sweat covered forms. Jenny has been with Christophe for two hours now having come to his room as the clock struck ten. The maid knew that this was Christophe's first time with a woman and at the start it was blatantly obvious, as he was all thumbs, as he helped her undress tearing her stocking and frilly white knickers that men always liked to see her in. But then when he finally did get on top of her and between her he was finished in less than a minute, the erotic excitement and tension too much for him to sustain for any great length of time. But this was a good thing because with the build up in his mind out of the way they could now go slow and Jenny could truly begin teaching Christophe the pleasures of the flesh.

Christophe's hands clutch the two large breasts above his face in joyous rapture. The night was turning into more than he could have ever imagined. The many things that Jenny has shown him with her mouth and other parts of her anatomy have simply taken his breath away, and in return Christophe learns what he could do to please a woman. And now Jenny was riding him to exhaustion, even with the stamina of youth on his side, she was still giving him a run for his money. And as much as Christophe was enjoying himself, Jenny wasn't faking anything. The touch of one so young and virile was intoxicating. And there was no doubt that Christophe would be a better lover than his father, she could see to that.

Olivier had bedded Jenny several times, the old devil having a penchant for servants. Many the times has a servant girl been sent packing in the middle of the night carrying more than her luggage, but Jenny was careful, she always took the proper precautions. Jenny knew that this night with the young master was always going to happen ever since he first laid eyes on her, and unlike the old Villon, Christophe always managed a kind word and a gently touch of her short curly red hair, and as usual a benevolent comment or innocent touch soon led to a stolen kiss in the pantry or laundry. Each kiss promising something more as the excitement level increased until Christophe had finally invited Jenny to his room.

The bed creaks and rattles as Jenny readily receives the pleasures of her young lover, and Christophe, partook in the scrumptious carnal smorgasbord laid bare before him. This was just one more reason for Christophe to fall in love with Grimstone Manor.

The midday sun tries to break through the grey clouds that hid the sky from those below. However the drab weather fails to dampen Masha's spirits. She sits by the old weather worn table in the greenhouse of Grimstone Manor, tending to her plants. The building was filled with an exotic variety of fauna from around the globe: tropical wild flowers of the Pacific; carnivorous fly traps from the jungles of South America; Black Orchids and the Black Lotus from Asia; the place was a potpourri of the more unusual plants of the world.

The greenhouse itself dates back to the eighteen-fifties with many of the original panes of glass still in place, although most of these were cracked or stained with the yellow tinge of time. Yet for Masha, her favourite part of the building was a small section at the rear that contains the poisonous plants.

She delicately trims the Ongaonga – or Urtica ferox – which contained a nasty surprise for the uninitiated; just the slightest touch could result in a painful sting that can last for days. But this was just one of many varieties of the toxic plant life that Masha took an interest in; why there was Aconitum – more commonly known as Wolfsbane or Monkshood – whose poison can cause digestive upsets; and Foxglove – or Digitalis purpurea – the leaves, seeds and flowers of the plant contain cardiac or glycosides which causes an irregular heartbeat when taken; then there was Deadly Nightshade – Atropa belladonna – which was especially fatal bringing on nausea, muscle twitches and paralysis. Masha couldn't help but envy how something as beautiful as a plant could be so deadly. But she also knew that it wasn't just plants that could kill but also fruit, like an apple, or more precisely the seeds, which housed cyanogenic glycosides, of course the amount found in a single apple won't kill a person; but it was possible to ingest enough seeds to provide a fatal dose.

Masha's love for these silent killers stems from her upbringing in Russia, where the use of poison was the most favoured method of assassinating ones enemies. A technique that the Zhukovsky family had always employed ever since the time of Vladimir Zhukovsky; where during the so called period known as 'The Time of Troubles' it wasn't an uncommon sight for a whole party of dinner guests to end up dead by meals end. Even Masha's late father was part of the group that assassinated the mad monk Rasputin in 1916; and it was Masha's Babushka that instilled the knowledge of these plants in her granddaughter. Emphasizing the need to know such things as their family's enemies wouldn't hesitate to use such devices.

So Masha learnt all about the toxicology of plants.

She was the pinnacle of a good student.

There was none better.

This knowledge has already come in handy - as she has been slowly poisoning Olivier for the last six months. Not giving him enough dosage to kill him - not yet - just enough to weaken him and to help control his fits of temper and the Villon madness. The disease of the mind that was becoming more ubiquitous in her beloved with each passing day. But Masha wasn't going to get rid of Olivier just yet as there were still a few more years to go before the son could take the mantle from the father.

"You wanted to see me mam," the gentle sounding voice of Jenny Collingwood breaks Masha's musings. Jenny's mistress turns from her gardening to take in the sight of the young chambermaid.

"Did you do as I instructed?

"Yes mam."

"How did it go?"

"The young master was very pleasing," Jenny says with a slight blushing of the cheeks. "He has much to learn of course."

"Good, you shall continue the affair with my son until he leaves for Eden," Masha informs Jenny as if she were telling her to do something as mundane as the washing. "And remember, our arrangement and your compensation must be kept secret."

"Yes mam, I understand."

"That'll be all," Masha dismisses the servant.

"Yes mam," Jenny nods and turns to leave.

"Oh one other thing."

"Yes mam?"

"You won't be getting anymore visits from my husband as it seems his libido is not what it used to be."

"Yes mam, very good," Jenny says with relief.

Masha gets back to her work and her thoughts. Jenny exits the greenhouse with her new instructions.

Masha was going to make sure that Christophe wanted for nothing, including sex; she would have her son know all the pleasures of life and not just its anguish.

_Dessert and reward seldom keep company_ , she ponders to herself.

Eden College, Scotland, 1952

The smell of cannabis hung thickly in the air of House Agamemnon in the dormitory of Eden College outside of Inverness in the shadow of the Monadhliath Mountains. It was way past the witching hour as the four reefers sat by the dying fire passing around the smoking drug filled pipe. The student quartet were all from the elite of aristocratic society; Jacob Flavell, whose family founded Gulf Oil; Marcus Kirkland, who hails from the wealthy Kirkland Diamond Co.; Julius Froberger, who descends from the royal Froberger dynasty of the former Hungarian Austrian Empire; and Christophe Villon.

Christophe inhales the contents of the pipe, letting the drug take hold of his body and soul; he has tried opium but found the intoxicating effect of hashish more to his predilection. He looks at the rest of the gang, all quiet, all caught up in their own drug induced imaginings. Out of them all Christophe was closest to Julius, mainly because he fancies his younger sister, Sophia; but that aside he did have a genuine fondness for this stuck up prince.

The room begins to sway and fade away around Christophe. He leans back in the creaky old leather covered chair and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift. Barely twenty years of age Christophe has grown into a good looking young man, not handsome or dashing, thin in body, his childhood curls have gone and were now replaced with a short back and sides, and he was in the process of growing a Vandyke beard; his disposition was still morose and he was prone to mood swings at the drop of a hat, but they have become lesser of late.

His time at Eden altered him immensely, away from his dictatorial father; Christophe has really started to break out of his sullenness nature. Not knowing for his sporting prowess Christophe even joined the polo team and much to his surprise found out that he likes the sport and in no time was made captain of the team. On top of this he found he also has a great passion for the sport of kings and chess. The other thing that was a godsend for him was becoming part of the Agamemnon fraternity, he bonded well with the others and through them his social life has taken off. The school has many balls and dinners throughout the year and Christophe soon gained a reputation as a ladies' man, even though he hadn't yet bedded any women of good breeding, he has had his fair share of the local lasses.

Eden College was a place where the elite sent their male children to have the finishing touches put on them as future leaders and captains of industry; and although the college did have a good academic reputation it was quite lapse in matters of discipline. Just as long as the students attended class and kept up with their studies, what transpired after school hours the headmasters would turn a blind eye.

After all they knew who they were dealing with and no one wanted to lose their livelihood.

Although Christophe was no longer under the shadow of the autocratic Olivier Villon day in and day out, he still saw his father, but now it was mainly at Banque Villon in the Temple District of London. For the last six months Christophe has spent time between Eden College and the family business learning the finer points of the day to day running of the most powerful bank in Europe. He learnt all about loans, rates, stocks, bonds, how to spot a good investment and how to capitalise on a bad one, or on someone else's' misfortune. Olivier was an excellent teacher and Christophe an ardent student showing great erudition. Although Christophe discovers much during this time he still reviles his father, who was now decrypted and sickly, his pale corpse like skin un-nerving to those who were not use to it. And then there was the madness – the Villon insanity – that was now always present.

Christophe found himself thinking quite a bit about the mental illness that has been stalking his family throughout the ages, wondering whether he in turn will get it, wondering if the maw of madness engulfing his father would also take him. Christophe didn't fear this notion, he wasn't afraid of anything, not even the fact that his father would probably be dead soon and that he would have to take over the running of Banque Villon – _the road of fear is the shortest route to defeat_ – his mother would tell him.

So he dealt with it, just as he deals with the bizarre and sometimes insane behaviour of his father, learning all he can before the old bastard kicks the bucket. But amongst everything else Olivier Villon would always emphasise 'The Work of Ages'. Like his mother, he would stress to his son that he must never lose sight of the bigger picture.

The Illumnati may be fractured into different factions but all were still vying for the supreme prize; and above all Olivier would tell his son about his deep-seated hatred and rage towards the Ravenscrofts.

"Ravenscroft," Christophe whispers the name.

He opens his eyes, his mind fogged from the hemp.

He looks at his friends who have now all passed out around him.

"Ravenscroft," he mumbles again. The name was like a curse, a disease that has been uttered throughout his entire life like some bogeyman.

But until tonight it has only been a name, for it was only a few hours ago, at the "Blood Sports", that he finally met a Ravenscroft in the flesh and had a face to go with the name - Henry Ravenscroft.

It would be a name that Christophe would come to loathe.

# Chapter 3

Henry Ravenscroft was born in 1932, the same year as Christophe Villon, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

The Ravenscrofts, next to the Kennedy's, are the closest thing to American royalty there has ever been. The family was so ingrained in the history of the United States and the bricks and mortar that built it. ' _Nunc aut nunquam'_ – 'Now or never' has been the family's catch-cry since the first Ravenscroft set foot on American soil.

The Ravenscroft family arrived in the New World from England as part of the famed Virginia Company, which was established in Greenwich in 1604 by a group of leading politicians, businessmen, merchants, manufacturers and bankers, in anticipation of the imminent influx of Europeans into North America. The company had the seal of approval of both Queen Elisabeth I and her successor, King James I. Initially, the Ravenscrofts were solely involved in the tobacco trade, having acquired a large plantation prior to their arrival in America. By 1687 their enterprise became one of the most successful in the New World. Over the next hundred years they amassed a considerable fortune, becoming unrivalled tobacco lords which enabled them to purchase many a land title, and when honest methods failed there was always the alternative, most of the land was annex and stolen from the various native Indian tribes, especially during the French Indian war; and the Ravenscrofts were never above helping support a massacre; to them someone's gain was always somebody's loss.

In 1750, William Ravenscroft married Miriam Jacobs, whose grandfather, Reuben, had helped established The Bank of England. Her father, Samuel Jacobs, had recently set up his own bank in New York City – 'Bank of New England'. After his marriage to Miriam, William went to work for his father-in-law and would eventually become the bank's president on the death of Samuel in 1765. Meanwhile; Michael Ravenscroft and his cousin, Robert, not content simply to run the tobacco plantations expanded and diversified the family's business interests, branching out into many different fields of industry.

In the War of Independence the Ravenscrofts gave their full support to the Founding Fathers and were instrumental in the creation of the United States. For much of the war, William's son, Joseph, was an adjutant to George Washington; and throughout his presidency, as well as Jefferson's, was a valued confidant. It was also during this time that the Ravenscrofts helped the fledging United States Government obtain loans from the European countries. Over the ensuing decades Ravenscroft power and influence became second to none. The family also dabbled covertly in the opium trade which only added to the family treasury. During the time of the American Civil War the Ravenscrofts became the largest supplier to the U.S. Army 'Union' forces, and when 'called upon' by President Abraham Lincoln to "save their Union" from the ready to invade European powers of Britain and France, helped finance the 1863-1864 Russian Fleet Expedition to North America, striking a deal with the Kremlin and the Zhukovsky's, and thus protecting the country from British troops poised to invade to retake their former colonies.

By the end of the American Civil War, the family's already considerable wealth had almost doubled, as a result of the various government contracts granted to the family by the Lincoln administration in return for substantial loans. Not long after the end of the war it became apparent to the Villon's and the European elite that the Ravenscrofts were a power to be reckoned with and so the Villon and Ravenscroft families forged an alliance, thus bringing the latter into the ranks of the Illuminati. Filled with new vigour the Ravenscrofts stoked the fires of industry in the land of the free, giving birth to an industrial revolution, the likes of which having never been seen before; and all the while nudging here and there to bring about 'The Work of Ages'.

Then in 1889, Ulysses Ravenscroft, perhaps the greatest and far seeing of all the Ravenscrofts, created the _crème de la crème_ when he merged all the family's diverse enterprises, including its banking interests into a single entity, registered as 'Ravenscroft Holdings'.

In that same year and in celebration, Ulysses, bought a vast estate in the Hamptons and began construction on 'Avalon', a spectacular residence for the kings of Ravenscroft, a palace to rival Xanadu.

This abode of the elite would become world renowned, with an east, west and north wing running off the main building, filled with priceless artworks, sculptures and antiques; an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, a small private zoo, built by Ulysses as a wedding anniversary gift for his beloved wife, Mirabel. The menagerie at one time or another consisted of lions, a tiger, wolves, two elephants, hyenas and a black rhinoceros. Like her husband, Mirabel Ravenscroft, had a love of Africa, and is well remembered in the family for putting down a charging bull elephant with a single shot to the head during one of their many safaris. Upon her death, Ulysses ordered the construction of a man-made lake on the property with an island in the middle, where he interned her remains, to always be known as the lady of the lake. Before his own death Ulysses bought up much of the surrounding properties, having the houses torn down and forests planted, thus enlarging the size and mystique of 'Avalon' even more.

But perhaps the family's most significant achievement was accomplished by Ulysses Ravenscroft in 1913, when he and fellow members of a banking consortium, met on Jekyll Island Georgia, and help set up the Federal Reserve Bank. Now, by being the prime source of loans to the government, these bankers were now in a position to manipulate American interest rates to their own advantage. The coffers overflowed and 'The Work of Ages' continued to be shaped and sculptured. No American President since has been able to make a move on the economy without the support of the Ravenscroft family.

Something President Roosevelt found out to his detriment.

In 1933 the Ravenscroft family got entangled in a secret plot to overthrow the elected government of the United States. In that summer, shortly after Roosevelt's "First 100 Days," America's richest businessmen were in a panic. It was clear that Roosevelt intended to conduct a massive redistribution of wealth from the rich to the poor. Roosevelt had to be stopped at all costs. The answer was a military coup. It was to be secretly financed and organized by some of America's richest and most famous names. The plotters attempted to recruit General George Cooper to lead the coup. They selected him because he was a World War I war hero who was popular with the troops. They felt his good reputation was important to make the troops feel confident that they were doing the right thing by overthrowing a democratically elected president.

What the businessmen proposed was dramatic: they wanted General Cooper to deliver an ultimatum to the President. Roosevelt would pretend to become sick and incapacitated from his polio, and allow a newly created cabinet officer, a "Secretary of General Affairs," to run things in his stead. The secretary, of course, would be carrying out the orders of Wall Street. If the President refused, then General Cooper would force him out with an army of 500,000 war veterans from the American Legion. The idea was to replace Roosevelt's 'New Deal' with a fascist government. Many businessmen, including the Ravenscrofts, who at this time were under the charge of Charles Ravenscroft, openly admired fascism, as someone like Mussolini, had also used a strong hand to deal with the labour unions, put out social unrest, and got the economy working again, albeit by the point of a gun.

The plot fell apart however when Cooper went public, he was a patriot of the people and not the elite. The general revealed the details of the coup before the McCormack-Dickstein Committee, which would later become the notorious House Un-American Activities Committee.

The Committee heard the testimony of Cooper, but failed to call in any of the coup leaders for questioning. In fact, the Committee whitewashed the public version of its final report, deleting the names of the powerful people involved whose reputations they sought to protect.

The Ravenscrofts and Wall Street had undue influence in Congress, and their control of the media ensued that the story wouldn't be picked up. The powers-that-be managed to spin the story as nothing more than rumours and hearsay.

The reach of the Illumnati was far indeed.

As was the influence of the Ravenscrofts.

And their allies.

Like his European counterpart Christophe Villon; the responsibility and family history will always weigh heavily on the shoulders of Henry Ravenscroft. But unlike Christophe, Henry grew up with the love of two parents; and although public affection was never forthcoming from his father, Charles Ravenscroft would still spend real quality time with his son. Although Henry's father was a complete polar opposite to Christophe's, the one thing that Charles and Olivier didn't differ on was the importance of 'The Work of Ages'.

"We must try and conduct ourselves with civility, even when dealing with our rivals," Charles would tell his son. "Because business and what we're striving for must always take precedence and whether we like it or not we still have to do some business with the Villons and their allies, just as they must do trade with us and our allies. But never trust them, never compromise, for many things are worse than defeat, and compromise is one of them."

By the time Henry reached adulthood he would become a dashing figure, athletic, with movie star good looks, immense charm, who's overriding concern would always be 'The Work of Ages' and his intention to establish the Ravenscroft family as the major power behind the new order.

Like his father, Henry attended the same Ivy League private schools, growing up to realise that he could just about buy and sell anybody. He hung out with the children of the other Ivy League families; the Pringles; the Morgans; the Weirs; and the Campbells. He played tennis, got drunk, got two teenage girls pregnant, and fell in and out of love at the drop of a tennis racket; he cruised through life and school, always just doing enough to get by. The worries of the world through the thirties and forties didn't concern or touch him. He knew what his destiny was before it came knocking, what his goal was, his future was planned out, he accepted it and embraced it, in fact he couldn't wait to be finished with his adolescence, to him life was a cup to be filled and not drained.

Henry's mother, Adelaide Ravenscroft, a most elegant and distinguished lady, with a strong religious conviction, who hailed from the robber baron family of Ashcroft, who were descended from the royal house of Stuart; died tragically in a car accident in 1947. This was the bleakest day of Henry's young life. His first taste of bitterness, but before her death Adelaide instilled in her son a sense of duty and family.

"The trouble with the world is that so many people who stand up for their rights fall down miserably on their duties," Adelaide told Henry a week before the accident, adding that, "the greatest institution in the world is your family."

Henry received her message loud and clear, duty to the family must always come first.

Her sudden passing was a great loss to Henry, but he had the embrace of his two older sisters, Margaret and Rosemary to find solace and comfort within. The passing of their beloved mother cemented a greater bond of love between the siblings that was lacking while she was alive.

In time Henry would come to the belief that death, like money, was just another commodity to be traded in.

The Skull Society, Yale University, New England, 1951

The nineteen year old Henry Ravenscroft lies naked in a raised coffin in the ill-lit circular chamber known as 'The Tomb' located in the black windowless mausoleum across from the campus grounds of Yale University. All around the edge of the marble chamber stood black robed figures holding flaming torches and chanting – "To serve is to obey – to obey is to serve – to serve is to obey – to obey is to serve". Behind them on granite shelves were a selection of various human and animal skulls.

A red robed figure, the Magus, comes up to Henry holding a human skull filled with a sticky crimson liquid. Henry instantly recognizes the skull as the one he dug up last night from the Fairchild Cemetery. It belonged to John Collins, a notorious murderer from the eighteenth century. Images from the previous night's endeavour flash through Henry's mind – the climbing of the fence – the tearing of his jacket – the drizzle of rain – the shovel turning over the earth – the adrenalin rush – and the thud and crack as the shovel struck the rotten coffin and the blackened bones within.

Henry lifts his head as the skull is placed to his lips and the warm liquid is poured into his mouth. The wine was meant to symbolize the blood of the slain and although Henry was quite sure it was only wine there was nonetheless a coppery under taste that could be construe as a dash of blood.

It was all part of the initiation.

His father, Charles, went through the same ceremony, and in fact his father is most famous amongst the Order for raiding the grave of Apache leader, Geronimo, at Fort Still in Oklahoma, and stealing the Native American Chief's skull and bringing it back to the Skull headquarters to be used in their dark ceremonies.

The society is run with the strictest secrecy; its history is a mystery to the outside world. The organisation was introduced into the US in 1832 as Chapter 322 of a German secret society – the Illumnati. Initiates are selected by bloodline and go on to serve the Illuminati in politics, business, banking, media, education, intelligence agencies, and the military. Fear and the threat of blackmail are weapons the society wields to keep its members in check. This was one of two secret societies, apart from the Illumnati that Henry will join in his lifetime, the other of course being Freemasonry.

As Henry drains the remainder of the skulls contents he begins to feel somnolent as the chanting in the room increases in tempo – "To serve is to obey – to obey is to serve – to serve is to obey – to obey is to serve – in life and death – in death and life – in life and death – in death and life." Over and over again the words build into a crescendo within Henry's altered state of mind, realising that for better or worse he was now wedded to the Illumnati and the fulfilment of the grand design. Henry's body was filled with euphoria at such a union and whether it was the excitement or the potion, Henry finds himself with the biggest and strongest hard on he has ever known.

As the chanting increases and the smell of incense fill his nostrils Henry grabs a hold of his erection and begins stroking it.

"To serve is to obey – to obey is to serve – to serve is to obey – to obey is to serve – in life and in death – in death and in life – in life and death – in death and in life," Henry joins in the dark mantra. His stroking picks up exponentially in time with the words of this most wicked prayer and everlasting oath.

Dunedoo Castle, Scotland, 1952

The black bear slashes its razor sharp claws at the ferocious snorting boar. The wild pig stabs its blood covered tusks at the large bear in retaliation. The two animals were in a monumental struggle to the death. The beasts' growl and snarl at each other. Both creatures were bloodied and tired and although each has mortal wounds, it was still difficult to choose which one would come out the winner

The crowd cheers them on.

This contest was held in the underground arena of the ancient Dunedoo Castle in the Grampian Mountains of Scotland. The arena was a circular pit, fifteen feet wide by fifteen feet deep. The chamber was in fact the old dungeons that have been converted long ago. Electric bulbs line the stone walls where once stood burning torches. Yet there were still remnants of its past, a few rusted torture implements here and there, a few manacle rings still embedded in the walls and an old black cast iron candle-lit chandelier still hung above the blood pit.

The atmosphere was thick with smoke and bloodlust.

And the smell of tobacco, sweat, blood and spilled alcohol was a potent mix for the nose.

There were about fifty men and a few ladies standing around the banisters that circled the ring. All were well dressed and from affluent backgrounds. This violent, brutal, cruel and secret competition was known as the "Blood Sports". It was first introduced into the United Kingdom in the mid fifteen hundreds. It was a spectator sport for royalty and barons, held at The Tower of London amongst other locations. It was mostly fought between different animals from around the world, but on occasion it was man versus beast. Although band over a hundred and sixty years ago, the activity just went underground, becoming a sport for the elite both regal and rich alike.

The bear cries out in pain and anger as the boar's tusk slices deep into the bear's underbelly spilling out blood and guts. The bear tears off one of the pig's ears and viciously rips off part of its bottom jaw. The squeal of anguish from the boar fills the room.

Those gathered roar and shout approval at these poor pathetic creatures.

Many of the spectators have a look of unbridled pleasure and ecstasy upon their faces while some appear to even be slavering at the anticipation of the kill. Amongst the throng are Christophe and his buddies, Jacob Flavell, Marcus Kirkland, and Julius Froberger, attired in their Eden Collage uniforms.

"What strength!" Yells Marcus.

"I'll raise you an extra thousand that the bear dies first," Jacob offers to any takers.

"You're on," Christophe accepts with glee.

The death match reaches its climax. In a final flurry of claws and fur the black bear from the wilds of the Carpathian Mountains of Romania brings down his opponent with two huge and powerful strikes that opens up the pig's jugular. The boar staggers and then stumbles to the straw covered floor in a shower of blood. Its four legs shake impulsively before dying.

The room erupts.

People applaud, cheer, and slap backs at the contest they have just witnessed.

A kind of euphoria grips the room.

The bear stands insolently on its hind legs and lets out a final defiant guttural roar before it too crashes dead to the ground with an almighty thud.

This last show of might sends all those gathered into an even more state of frenzy behaviour as glasses of champagne and tankards of ale are passed around by tuxedo clad waiters.

"Never bet on the little guy Flavell," Christophe tells Jacob with elation, "size is everything."

"Fuck you Villon; you have the devil's luck," Jacob says despondently.

"You should have brought you lucky rabbit's foot," Julius informs his friend.

"Trust in the rabbit's foot if you must my friend," Christophe adds, as he slaps Jacob on the shoulder in jest, "just remember it wasn't lucky for the rabbit."

This brings laughter all around. "Come on, let's get a drink," Marcus recommends. His suggestion is eagerly agreed upon.

The group make their way to the waiter, and as they do, Julius notices someone on the other side of the arena. He quickly taps Christophe on the shoulder.

"Over there – Henry Ravenscroft," he informs Christophe with excitement

The name stops Christophe dead in his tracks. A chill runs up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He slowly and methodically turns and gazes across the pit to the person that Julius is pointing out, finally putting a face to a name that has been haunting him – Henry Ravenscroft.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, they visited my father the other day," Julius tells him with certainty.

Henry Ravenscroft was in Britain with his father, who was here on business. When Charles was invited to the "Blood Sports", not his first, he brought Henry along for the show. Henry stares down absently at the dead animals in the pit below while workers were busily dragging the defeated out of the arena through an iron portcullis. At first Henry watched the start of the battle with enthusiasm and great excitement. But as it dragged on he started to feel sorry, not for the animals, but for the people who got so wound-up over such a non sporting event, to him, the "Blood Sports" were nothing more than a slaughter house.

"Penny for your thoughts," a supple sounding voice reaches Henry's ears.

Henry comes out of his silent musings and looks at the young uniformed man standing next to him holding two tankards of ale.

"Drink?" Christophe proffers one of the cups.

"Thanks," Henry says politely accepting the offering.

"I hear from your accent that you're from the States."

"That's correct."

"So what did you think of the entertainment?"

"Boring."

"Really."

"There's no sport in it," Henry goes on, "just two dumb beasts going at it."

"Perhaps a little to bloody for your liking?" Christophe asks with a slight dash of smugness.

"No," Henry tells him non-plus, "I just prefer different sports."

"The kind that pits one man against another?"

"Yes," Henry says, not failing to pick up on the almost challenging undertone of the question.

"Man versus man, the deadliest, cunning and cruellest of all creatures that God ever put on the face of the earth. Now that's a contest I would eagerly like to take up with the right combatant," Christophe expounds. He then takes a long sip of his draught, all the while never taking his reptilian like eyes off of Henry.

"Yes, well, good luck with that," Henry responds a little on edge.

"Oh, I was rather hoping that perhaps you might be interested in a little contest with me, mono on mono as they say," Christophe is as amiable as they come.

"Perhaps next trip."

"He who hesitates is lost."

The two men stare at one another, each trying to size the other up. Henry is not quite sure what to make of this person. Christophe on the other hand knows exactly what to make of Henry Ravenscroft.

"It might be interesting at that," Henry breaks the moment, "but like I said, perhaps next trip. Now if you'll excuse me, I must re-join my father and his colleagues." Henry puts the tankard down and holds out his hand in farewell. "By the way, my name is Henry."

Christophe greedily takes Henry's hand like a spider swallowing a fly.

"And you may call me Christophe, Christophe Villon."

Henry is almost struck dumb by this revelation. "Villon, um, you say," Henry says extemporaneously. The two men stare down each other. Henry slowly withdraws his hand from Christophe's grasp. Like his adversary Henry also now has a face to the Villon name.

"Keep your eye on the ball Ravenscroft," Christophe spouts a sporting euphuism. A slightly shaken Henry slowly begins to back away. He was not prepared for this unexpected meeting.

"I'll be seeing you," Henry replies tentatively as he turns his back on his new found nemesis and walks off.

Christophe watches his retreating enemy, and although it was only a brief encounter, he knows all too well that they will meet many more times on the battlefield.

"Blessed be our enemies," the Villon speaks in a hush tone.

# Chapter 4

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England 1953

Olivier is in a foul mood. He sits in the library drinking Scotch Whiskey; he is on the second bottle. The pain in his head was getting worse. In fact he looks like a corpse. The skin on his face so far stretched now, that you can clearly see the contours of his skull beneath the flesh. His once lush and thick black crop of hair now reaches down to the shoulders, thin and dry, with a multitude of grey streaks running through it. While his two coloured eyes are so bloodshot that they appear completely red, like some demon from the gates of hell.

And on top of it all was the madness.

The Villon curse.

The pounding inside Olivier's head is like a hammer striking an anvil. It started out as nothing more than a slight throbbing but as the day progressed it became more pronounce and more excruciating. The painkillers stopped working several hours ago at which time he turned to the Black Douglas. Olivier was shot both mentally and physically. The last few days have been a nightmare. He can literally feel his brain swelling up within his cranium, as if it would burst through at any moment. He knew that his trouble stemmed from the disease that haunted the Villon family line; the so called Villon curse, a mental illness that has yet to be fully diagnosed.

"Curse... _Mes coquilles_...and damnation," Olivier says lugubriously.

He doesn't need any bloody quack to tell him what's wrong. Keeping the Villon bloodline pure is to blame and the trouble with a limited gene pool. Although the practice of keeping it all in the family was never a norm, it had been dispense with around the eighteen hundreds; the heritage of interbreeding still lingers however, surfacing its head every so often. Occasionally a child would be born with the royal disease – Haemophilia or the 'jawline'. The most famous was Pierre Villon, born in 1826, in Austria, who had the most pronounced case of 'jawline' on record; a jaw so large and deformed that he was unable to chew. The poor bugger was also impotent and retarded who ended up falling to his death on Mount Schneeberg while butterfly collecting.

At least Olivier has escaped these genetic traits. But what he has is probably the worst of the lot, an affliction of the brain that sent one mad. The last relation to have it was Antoinette Villon who went insane back in 1876, and ended up being locked away for the final years of her tragic young life. The only consolation, Olivier assures himself, is that if he has it then it has probably bypassed his son, Christophe.

The use of incest dated back to the Pharaohs of ancient Egypt, to the legends of the gods Osiris and his wife and sister Isis; and like these god kings of old the practise continued down the ages, through the royal and noble houses in an attempt to keep the bloodline pure and untainted. Among royal families, intermarriage was viewed as the best means of preserving or expanding a particular dynasty's power and influence. For the Villon's and Zhukovsky's arrange marriages were still part of the scenery and would always be so. Although there were plenty of Villon bastards in the world, people who have no idea of their heritage unless they could prove useful in one field or another. Then they would be welcomed into the fold, not acknowledge publically, but privately, and within a short span of time would find themselves in positions of power; as long as they were willing to do the bidding of their masters.

Olivier drains the contents of his glass and hastily pours another. His throat felt parched, it has for a few days now and no matter how much, or what he drank, he couldn't seem to quench his thirst.

It was a bitter pill for Olivier to swallow, the fact that his time on earth was limited. But as sick as he was Olivier knew that he still has to continue, he still has to soldier on, as there was so much more to be done. The balance of power between the warring factions was now delicately poised, neither side has the advantage but that could quickly change if the wrong course or decision was chosen now. Even though he knew that he would not be around to see the great work completed he was resolute in his determination to hang onto his life as long as humanly possible.

"Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost," Olivier tells the fates in defiance. He raises his cup to his lips, and as he does his hand begins shaking profusely. He tries to steady it but can't, he grabs it with his free hand and slowly brings the shaking to a stop. He has an iron will which he knew could see him through for a few more years – _it had to._

However someone else has other ideas.

"My love," a graceful voice calls.

Olivier fixes his gaze on Masha entering the room. At fifty-four years of age she hadn't lost any of her looks, if anything she appears ten years younger than her real age, even with the few wrinkles that were barely discernible upon her face. For a brief moment Olivier imagines that his wife was a witch with the power of eternal youth. But this thought only lasts a second before he sees through the illusion and beholds the 'she-bitch' that he married.

"Another curse," he mumbles beneath his breath.

Of all the arranged marriages why did I have to get saddled with her?

He thinks silently with a curse.

Olivier has never felt any real love towards his wife in all the years that they have been together. If anything he has come to despise here more and more, especially in the last few years. He could always see the detestation in her eyes every time she looks at him.

"I came to see how you were; lunch has been ready for over an hour now," Masha speaks in a kindly manner, as she crosses the wooden floor to her husband.

"As if you care," he spits at her, "I've still got fight in me."

"I know that."

Masha takes in the abhorred and lubricious creature before her eyes. Although you couldn't tell from the outside with her placid expression, on the inside, however, a storm of anger and hatred rages with a spattering of revulsion at being in the mere presence of this man.

The two can no longer be civil with one another.

"You're _persona non grata_ ," Olivier tells her, "I'm not dead yet _fille de joie_."

"Oh, but I think you are," she tells him with not a single trace of emotion in her voice or on her features. " _Finiita la commedia_ – the comedy is over."

Olivier looks more intently at her trying to ascertain what she means. A sudden realisation dawns on him as his eyes little by little move from his wife to the glass of whiskey in his hand. He then notices that the colour of the liquid seems slightly different. "You bitch," he utters softly.

"Cut down the tree that you're able to," she says enigmatically.

_How long has she been poisoning me?_ Is the thought that races through Olivier's tormented mind, but before he can respond the shaking that was in his hand a few moments ago returns, only this time it moves up his arm, onto his shoulder and into his chest. From there it races down his side, thigh and leg.

"Damn you!"

Olivier curses and lurches forward towards his assailant. Masha easily steps aside. Olivier grabs the desk spilling its contents onto the floor.

"Curse you."

He knocks over the lamp in anger, smashing it onto the floor. He grabs a paperweight and tries to hurl it at Masha, but he hasn't the strength. Masha gives a sardonic grin. The pain is now tearing through the right side of his body.

"Don't worry my love, this won't kill you," she informs him with a cold steely stare.

He staggers towards her, dragging his leg like some Frankenstein monster from a horror movie. "I'll kill you."

"Not this time."

"Yes," he croaks.

But as he speaks these words the right side of his face droops like melting plastic as the stroke takes its toll. Olivier gurgles before crashing to the floor. But even so his hatred and rage drives him on. With his one good hand he begins to crawl and wiggle towards Masha like a wounded animal. She doesn't move, nor does she show any sign of concern or compassion.

She waits.

Using the last of his strength, Olivier finally reaches Masha. He tugs fruitlessly at her leg. He tries to pull himself up. _"Lacrymae...rerum,"_ he mutters - "the taste of things," before collapsing at her feet, not dead, but not alive.

His reign is over.

Another Zhukovsky triumphs over their enemy.

Masha slowly bends down in victory and whispers in his ear. "Every seed knows its time."

The heavy rain slashes sideways across the estate. Dark clouds hang heavily over Grimstone. Flashes of fork lightening illuminate the manor house. Thunder crackles like Thor's hammer over the landscape. Wind howls around the corners of the building like the mournful sound of a Banshee.

A titan lay dying.

The Silver Phantom Rolls Royce drives up the long driveway to the front doors. A servant waits on the steps holding a large black umbrella. He comes up to the car as it stops and opens the backdoor holding the umbrella over the head of the passenger as they alight from the vehicle. Christophe pulls the collars of his coat more tightly around his neck, to break the sting of the chilly wind. He hurriedly makes his way indoors.

On entering the imposing entrance hall of Grimstone Manor, Christophe instantly feels a heaviness bearing down on the place. One could sense the impending doom. Christophe removes his coat, gloves and Stetson hat, handing them to another nameless servant that has been waiting inside. He is about to ask where his mother is but is halted by the sight of her coming down the grand staircase; a bellow of thunder heralding her entrance.

"Mama."

"My son."

Mother and son embrace. Masha kisses her son fondly on the forehead. Christophe takes her hands in his and kisses them affectingly.

"I came as soon as I could...is he?" Christophe can't finish the question.

"Come, the doctor is waiting."

With her arm around his waist, Masha silently leads Christophe up the stairs. Three days after his 21st birthday, Christophe is about to receive his present.

The walk for Christophe along the corridors towards his father's room was akin to the final march a condemned man takes to the gallows. Mother and son didn't utter a word as they walk past the many portraits of the Villon and Zhukovsky families. Christophe could almost feel their eyes staring at him, boring into his very soul. Outside, the storm continues its fury – the howling wind cries like some demented demon wanting desperately to get in; and the flashes of lightning give the illusion of the portraits eyes moving.

It has been two days since his father fell ill, Christophe didn't come right away as he didn't feel like it, he took his time hoping that perhaps the monster that was his old man would expire before he has to see him.

_No such luck_ , Christophe thinks, _the old bastard wasn't going to go easy_.

Masha and Christophe reach the double doors at the end of the corridor that lead into Olivier's bed chamber. Doctor Victor Oswald, the Villon personal physician, sits by the door going over some medical notes. He is a small, bespectacled, bald headed toad of a man, who has attended to the family's medical needs for more than forty years. Now in his late sixties, all Doctor Oswald was looking forward to is his retirement.

"Ah, Mrs Villon, Master Christophe," Oswald says as he stands to greet them.

"How is he doctor?" Masha enquires.

Doctor Oswald is quiet a moment as he removes his granny glasses to clean them. "I'm afraid there's been no change."

Christophe is silent as he listens to the doctor's assessment.

"As I told your mother young Christophe, your father has suffered a stroke down the right side of his body and while it is a severe one your father is showing remarkable fighting strength. It's still too early to say what his chances are of getting through this as there are many other complications and factors that may yet a rise, and there's no doubt that the next twenty-four hours are critical."

"What are you saying Doctor Oswald? Christophe asks.

"All I'm saying, mind you, not promising, is that if he does get through these next few days, although it would take some time, there's no reason why Olivier will not make a full recovery, though he may never be quite himself again. Your father has quite the strength of will in him."

This is not the scenario that either of them desires and although she doesn't show any expression of unhappiness or elation for that matter, Christophe can still see the displeasure in his mother's eyes at this news. All both of them yearned for was to be released once and for all from Olivier's stifling tyrannical control.

"Thank you doctor, Christophe and I will pray for him."

"Yes, well, I must make some phone calls, with your permission?"

"Of course," Masha replies.

As Doctor Oswald grabs his notes and goes to leave; he turns to Christophe and speaks. "Your father's heavily sedated, but you can see him for a few minutes, what he needs now is rest." With that the doctor takes his notes and heads off.

Long moments of stillness pass outside the bed chamber of Olivier Villon between mother and son. The two simply stare at one another. Each caught up in their own separate thoughts, and yet each is thinking the same thing.

Finally, with the sound of crashing thunder, Masha breaks the silence. "It is time."

Christophe doesn't reply, there is no need, he knows what must be done. He has known since he was eight years old that this moment would arrive. That night all those years ago when his mother urged him to bury his hatred for his father deep down inside until it was time to use it – and that time was now.

Masha places a hand on the brass handle and opens one of the doors. She stands aside allowing her son to enter the death chamber. Their eyes meet one last time before he crosses the threshold.

The door closes behind him.

Christophe stands alone in the opulent master bedroom of Grimstone Manor. The room was ill-lit, only one of the bedside French art-deco table lamps was on; the lamp was that of a nude woman wearing a draped skirt, holding an illuminated Daum glass vase, with a classic short bob haircut with jewelled headband, typical of the roaring twenties. The red gold trimmed drapes were pulled shut across the huge Tudor bay windows blocking out the tempest raging outside, although the rumble of thunder seems to be gaining in strength.

Olivier Villon lay beneath the thick covers of the four posted bed, the curtains of the bed drawn closed, but the outline of his shape was clearly visible. Christophe stands a moment to gather his strength. The sound of his father's rasping breathing fills the room despite the noise of the storm.

Christophe makes his way in some trepidation across the room to the bed. He pauses only a moment before parting the curtains.

Although heavily sedated, Olivier is lying awake and is mentally alert.

"Papa."

Olivier looks up at Christophe with his sagging stroke ridden face.

"How do you feel?"

Olivier splutters, trying to answer, salvia rolling down his cheek as he tries to move his jaw to speak.

"Doctor Oswald seems to think that you might make a full recovery," Christophe tells him with no enthusiasm. Having now seen his father, all of Christophe's trepidation and nerves instantly vanish, to be replaced by a crystal clear clarity of thought – _the king is dead_ – _long live the king_.

Olivier again tries to utter something, but it is no good, his vocal chords are non functional, and all that comes out is a guttural combination of gargling grunts. Olivier wants nothing more than to tell someone, anyone, what Masha has done to him.

A loud crack of thunder shakes the room – followed by another and yet another all rolling in on top of each other. The last thunder strike is followed by a bright flash of lightning which plunges Grimstone Manor into darkness.

"There goes the power," Christophe mumbles. He turns and makes his way to the window where he opens the drapes to try and let some light into the room. "That's better."

Olivier looks at the silhouette form of his son standing in front of the window. He watches as the shape walks gradually back towards the bed with purpose. He tries to speak but again it's nothing but gibberish. A flash of lightning suddenly illuminates the room and in that split second of a flicker Olivier sees Christophe standing by the side of the bed with a murderous look in his eyes.

Christophe stares down at the decrypted human being that is his father. He looks him up and down contemplating the frailty of the flesh. He doesn't see his dad before him, the man who gave him life, all he sees now is an empty husk, broken and withered, just waiting to be crushed beneath his heel.

"For all your power and wealth, for everything you've achieved, in the end someone so feared, so mighty, ends up a feeble minded cripple," Christophe tells his old man with a great deal of delight and callousness. "Do you have any idea how much I despise you, how much I hate you, how much I once loved you." A solitary tear runs down Christophe's cheek and drops onto Olivier's face.

Olivier looks at his son and becomes aware of Christophe's immediate intention.

"But now your time is over. What you have failed to achieve in your life I will succeed in. I will crush the Ravenscrofts; I will restore the stolen wealth and honour of the Zhukovskys, I will raise my mother up above all others. Under my reign, on my watch, I shall make the House of Villon the centre of the universe and I will bring 'The Work of Ages' to fruition and claim the prize. And I will kill anyone that stands in my way."

Father and son's eyes meet and in that moment, with great effort on his part, Olivier summons up all his strength and willpower, and finds his voice. "I see my death in your eyes. Then hear my prophesy...someday you will see your death in your son's eyes."

This causes Christophe to pause, but only for a moment.

"Just make sure you're worthy of the throne you are about to claim," Olivier spits out.

Without another word Christophe calmly reaches over his father and takes a hold of the spare pillow. He then kisses his father tenderly goodbye on the forehead.

"I will."

Christophe places the pillow over Olivier Villon's face and smothers him to death, committing patricide without any emotion or feeling.

A great hammer of thunder shatters the moment and a bright blaze of lightning lights up the room befitting the end of a tyrant and the beginning of another.

# Chapter 5

Milan, Italy, 1956

Milan in July was teaming with American tourists. The city was abuzz with summer activities. The markets and shops were doing a roaring trade this year. The 50's was turning out to be a prosperous decade for Europe. The continent seemed to be finally leaving the catastrophic years of World War II behind. Since the end of the war Milan has witnessed a rapid post-war economic growth – the "economic-miracle" has also seen a large wave of internal immigration, the re-construction of most of its destroyed buildings and factories. The capital was once more becoming a Mecca for fashion and design, commerce, industry, music, sport, literature and the arts.

Henry Ravenscroft sits on a cafe terrace drinking his wine. Immaculately dressed in his crisp looking white casual attire, with a yellow jumper around his shoulders, Henry admires the vista, looking out upon the sun drenched Piazzo del Duomo, the city's central square, surrounded by several important buildings; such as the Galleria Vittorio Emannele II, the Royal Palace, and of course the grand and gothic Milan Cathedral, the fourth largest church in the world and soon to be the site of the high society wedding of the year.

"Final day of freedom, hey Henry, guess there will be no more crumpet for you," George Walker Jr. announces with relish delight.

"The good old days are over," Alan Weir adds.

"It isn't the good old days Henry fears he'll miss when he marries – it's the good old nights," Aidan Morgan ribs good naturedly.

"You guys have got to start coming up with better lines," Henry informs them.

"I'll drink to that," Julius Froberger chimes in, raising his glass of red vino and follows this up with another slice of Grana Padano from the platter of scrumptious and expensive Italian cheeses that range from Gorgonzola to Caciocvallo Podolico. The others follow suit on both accounts.

Life certainly was unpredictable for Julius Froberger, only a few years ago he was great friends with Christophe Villon, but the courtship and pending marriage of Henry Ravenscroft to his sister changed everything. As was the norm amongst all the elite, the family comes first, and the alliance between the Ravenscroft and the Frobergers took precedence over everything else, including friendships. At least Julius has come to like Henry, even more so than Christophe, whom he last saw two years ago. There was no way that he could be acquaintances with both men as the rift between the families was bigger than the Grand Canyon, and there was no sign of that chasm ever being breached.

"A toast, to Henry and Sophia, may they know eternal happiness and joy," Julius offers sincerely. The rest second, third and fourth the motion as they all take up their glasses.

"Thanks," Henry replies. He and his four friends have been sitting at the cafe all afternoon, enjoying the wine, cheese, fruit and anti-pasta on offer, celebrating Henry's final day of freedom as a bachelor.

Apart from Julius, Henry has known these people most of his life. George Walker Jr., Henry's best man, was also his best friend; George's father was a high ranking executive in 'Ravenscroft Holdings' and close confidant of Charles Ravenscroft. George never appears to take life too seriously, a likeable rogue he was more eager to party than work, an attitude that has caused his family some grief over the years.

Alan Weir hails from Texas, whose family have the second largest oil company in the country, and although the Weirs like to put on airs about their Texan heritage, they are in fact an old eastern Ivy League family.

"God I think I've had too much piss," Aidan announces with a burp and a loud fart. "Phew – the cookies are just coming out of the oven, come get them why they're hot," he adds grossly. Aidan Morgan's family, like the Ravenscrofts, have also been part of American society for centuries; Morgan Bank & Loan has grown to be one of the top five banks in the U.S. and eighth in the world. As befitting his overweight physique and gluttonies behaviour, and his problem of sweating profusely, Aidan was always the joker of the pack.

"I declare, I've never met anyone more proud of their bodily functions than you, Morgan," Julius states, waving his hand to try and disperse the foul smelling odour. Henry has only known Julius Froberger for a short time, but in that period he has come to like the guy, even though he was once good friends with Christophe Villon, and because of that Henry always feels a slight distrust towards him. Someone who can change loyalties so quickly was always to be wary of, although on the plus side Julius offered a better insight into the workings of Christophe Villon, which Henry finds invaluable.

The summer season has been a busy one for Henry, he and Sophia have been doing the high society circuit; from Lisbon to Paris to Niece; from Nice to Morocco to Vienna, Florence and now Milan; an endless cavalcade of dinners, balls, social gatherings, opera, ballet, shopping, yachting, water-skiing, tennis, and in general the breaking of every deadly sin known to man or God. There were of course the sex soirees, of which the Venetian upper-class is the European masters of, having been holding them for centuries. Henry and the others have attended quite a few of them. And of course there was always the younger offering of flesh for those inclined; something Henry stayed away from, although the same couldn't be said about Aidan.

The summer season could become tedious on occasion, but the lifestyle of the rich and richer has to be maintained, and it was always a wonderful opportunity to negotiate deals over a gin and tonic, as well as make and break alliances between the entree and dessert cart. For Henry the tour this year was by far the best, not only was he getting married, but at only twenty-four years of age he was to become the youngest deputy chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. Henry has come to love the world of banking and the world of money but more importantly the power that it brings to those that have it in abundance. His destiny has begun, in time he would take over from his father as head of 'Ravenscroft Holdings', and he could now begin to help shape and mould the world and 'The Work of Ages' into something glorious.

"Speaking about nuptials, how are things progressing with Samantha Fairchild?" Julius asks George.

"You might as well declare that matter otiose," George moans apathetically.

"Why, from your boasting the sex has been great. I thought you two were hitting it off?" Henry states.

"We are...we were..." George says, "but father and mother don't want it to mount to anything more than a romp in the hay."

"But the Fairchild's are good stock," Henry adds "their wealth is not to be sneezed at."

"Apparently I can do better."

"Do you want me to have a word to my old man? He has plenty of pull over your father?" Henry offers.

"No thanks, I appreciate it. Not to worry, she was starting to get on my nerves anyway," George says in a manner of voice that suggests this matter is closed.

"They've still got their eye on Jenifer Austin, haven't they?" Aidan asks.

"Yeah...and I can't stand the bitch," George bitterly announces. "She's like a fucking octopus, always so God damn clingy. When we're together all I want to do is to be away from her. So what if her old man is a senator and her uncle's sits on the Supreme Court, big deal, doesn't mean I have to marry her."

"What are her feelings towards you like?"

"She's like a fucking puppy, Henry, no matter how harsh you treat them; they'll always keep coming back wagging their tail, with those dumb sad eyes."

"I know how you feel buddy, but family always comes first," Henry reminds him. "It's just like buying cattle, always looking for the best stock. Um, no offense intended towards Sophia, Julius," Henry adds quickly.

"Look who you're talking to, us Frobergers have been doing this since the dawn of time," Julius says nonchalantly. "It's always been about alliances, what marriage will better enhance your family's wealth, titles, lands, romance and love doesn't come into the equation. That's where you're lucky Henry, as you and Sophia have genuine feelings for one another."

"Yeah," Henry confirms.

"So don't worry yourself if you end up marrying Jenifer Austin," he tells George, "it's just business. And just because you marry her and bed her doesn't mean you have to be monogamous. Hell, my grandfather had a dozen mistresses. Just as long as you produce an heir, in the end that's all that matters, the survival and continuation of the family line."

"God that's depressing," Aidan says as he gulps down some red wine spilling most of it down his chin.

"God has nothing to do with it," Julius adds.

"It's reality though," Alan says.

"A small enough piece of reality to put up with," Henry says, "I mean just look out there." Henry indicates the people in the square. "Look at them all, going about their business, believing that they have a choice in how to live their lives not realising how much a prisoner they really are. How enslaved they are to the commodities that we peddle, and how the future policies that we'll be making, will set the agenda for their country's economy - and ergo their lives. We're princes my friends, soon to be crowned kings and one day masters of the universe and to do so we'll always need a queen."

"Do you believe that 'The Work of Ages' can truly come to fruition?" Julius questions. "I mean look at Europe for example, a country split between communism and capitalism, filled with nationalism, too many isms to count. The old institutions of divine right to rule by royalty swept aside like cobwebs during spring cleaning. And we all know that a united Europe is one of the elements needed to achieve the work but as history has shown us a United States of Europe – a union – has always been as elusive as the wind. Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler, they all failed and they had mighty armies to back them up. Europe is too divided to be one." Julius words are said with passion and filled with great insight.

"All that is true," Henry concurs, "but a European Union won't be obtained by the sword, and although it will take many more years, in the end it will come into existence by the stroke of a pen, as will 'The Work of Ages". Henry's words have an oracular ring to them. "Mark my words Julius, the global dream will be fulfilled and the Frobergers will be right alongside us."

Julius falls silent and contemplative. He considers Henry's last statement, and for the first time Julius comes to realise why his father chose to align with the Ravenscrofts and not the Villons. In Henry, Julius sees strength and foresight, where as in Christophe, while there is also strength and foresight, there is also a tinge of madness and unpredictability.

_It was going to be an interesting war_.

"I'll also drink to that," Julius announces, "and to the alliance between our two houses and the continuing procreation of our family lines."

Henry clinks his glass with Julius.

"Well, thankfully I've got two brothers so there's no pressure on me to maintain the Morgan gene pool. With a bit of luck I'll escape the hangman's noose all together. As far as I'm concerned marriage is a case of two people agreeing to change each other's habits. And as for romance, well, it's like a game of chess, one false move and you're mated. As for love, it's just a little word that people make big." Aidan's take on matters, as usual, is very colourful.

"Aidan's right, this conversation is getting depressing," George points out. "We're here to celebrate Henry's joining with Sophia, not my problems. So let's fucking do that shall we," he raises his glass in a toast. "Here's to your happiness my friend."

The others join in.

Meanwhile; why her fiancé was busy toasting the coming new order, Sophia Froberger ( _Rhea_ ), was busy trying on her wedding dress in a luxury suite at the Hotel Grande. Sophia stands in front of the full length mirror in the elegant and traditional white gown, around her lie open boxes and scattered tissue paper as two female attendants and the couturier, Jacque Dauphin, zealously make last minute adjustments. Dauphin delicately fixes the veil to Sophia's hair while the attendants see to the silky lace trimmed train.

Sophia Froberger was a beautiful, young and vibrant twenty-three year old woman, elegant with a touch of class, all stemming from her regal background. Her long jet black hair set off her subtle and sublime facial features and even the flowing wedding gown couldn't hide her shapely figure, she just had sensuality and a _je ne sais quoi_ about her that just captivated and ensnarled men. Sophia was a princess without a kingdom.

" _Magnfico_...a _grande dame_ you're madam," Dauphin proclaims in a decidedly un-masculine voice.

"Do you really think so?" Sophia asks.

" _Qui_ Madame, the angels weep at your beauty; you could be a _grande amoureuse_ if you so desire. This is one of my finest creations," Dauphin says removing a kerchief from his sleeve to wipe away a tear of joy.

Sophia admires the gown in the mirror. "It's beautiful," she tells him.

" _Qui_."

"You've outdone yourself this time Dauphin."

It has taken months to find the right dress for her, weeks of designs going back and forth between her and Jacque Dauphin, and even when the look was agreed upon, then came the choice of material, colour, the bouquet, and then the actual dressmaking process. It seemed at times the dress would actually take longer than the planning of the wedding and reception. But Sophia didn't care, this was her day, her special occasion, and she was going to look magnificent no matter what. It has been a long time between drinks since the Frobergers have had a truly royal wedding to celebrate.

The Froberger dynasty of Austria dates back six hundred years to the time of Rudolf of Hapsburg, a German king, who defeated the Bohemians in 1282 and gave the provinces of Austria and Styria to his sons. The Frobergers fought against the Teutonic king but in defeat swore fealty and forever cemented an alliance with the House of Hapsburg. From this time on the Frobergers gradually expanded their power and wealth by marriages with the Spanish and other royal families. By the end of the fifteenth century they had many domains that stretched all over Europe.

With the Turkish threat from 1529 to 1683 the Frobergers set out to secure their territories in central Europe, however, in the process the family line was almost wiped out by the Turkish onslaught. In 1683 during the second siege of Vienna, Juliet Froberger was abducted by the Turks and spent the remainder of her years as a concubine in the Harem of the Sultan, bearing him several children; a fact kept quiet by the family for many years.

That is until 1888 when an Ahmet Hamid appeared in Vienna from Constantinople claiming direct descent from Lady Juliet Froberger, with the documents to prove it. The scandal that followed caused much concern for the Frobergers and only went away along with a large sum of money.

After the final defeat of the Turks in 1683, the Frobergers power was mainly confined to their hereditary lands.

During the eight year Austrian war of succession from 1740 to 1748 the Frobergers under the leadership of Ferdinand Froberger III, backed Austria's enlightened queen, Maria Theresa, who eventually, after much bloodshed, claimed the throne and who became a boon companion to the Frobergers; adding a much needed boost to their coffers. Although years of stability followed, Austria, like the rest of Europe, was profoundly affected by the French Revolution and the war with Napoleon. By the end of this period the Frobergers had lost much, and although still retained wealth and power, it was the beginning of the end of the dynasty. With the revolution of 1848 and the foundation of the dual monarchy in 1867, the decline of the House of Froberger went hand in hand with the decline of the Austrian Empire.

As Europe neared the First World War, the Frobergers, like Austria aligned themselves with Germany, but by 1914 an imperial decadence had set in amongst the ruling elite of Austria, and by the end of the war the Frobergers had lost virtually everything, their wealth, their power, their land, all they really had were their titles.

But the Frobergers weren't just focused on politics and power, far from it; the Frobergers were always considered great patrons of the arts, contributing much to the nurturing of Austrian artists and composers. In fact, Maximilian Froberger, a gifted musician in his own right, had piano lessons from Mozart and who in later life often lent Beethoven money to keep him working in Vienna. Maximilian's son, Albert, often frequented the brothels with Franz Schubert, the greatest melodist the world has ever know, and was by Schubert's side the night before he died of syphilis in 1828. So distraught by the loss of his friend, and the end of such a musical genius, it was all too much for Albert to bear; so two week later he put a musket in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The Froberger Academy for the Musical Arts was set up two years later by Maximilian in honour of Albert's love of music.

Whether it was helping musicians, artists or architects, the Frobergers were always considered the greatest patrons of the Austrian arts and Maximilian was by far the most popular of them all. During a visit to Spain in 1820, he met and had his portrait painted by Goya. He was also one of the pall bearers at Beethoven's funeral, and when Maximilian died in 1837, the whole city of Vienna turned out to watch his funeral procession go by. This time was considered the golden age in the history of the Froberger dynasty, not for fame, wealth or glory, but for the support they gave to great artists and thinkers, people who had a real affect on the world for the better.

But by the 1920s the golden age was long faded. The Froberger fortune was non-existent; their land holdings were consumed in the fires of war and if not for their Vienna apartment they would have literally been on skid row. Alistair Froberger, Sophia's father, became the head of the Froberger dynasty in 1926, and with the help of Sophia's mother, Christina, set about reviving the family fortune. But with the great depression only came more heartache and the Frobergers only got by on the charity of fellow aristocratic families.

It was a truly miserable period by the time Christina gave birth to Sophia in 1933. Alistair and Christina would have four children and all of them, bar Sophia, would die of influenza before the decade of the 1930s was over.

With the death of every child Alistair's heart grew colder and the determination to keep his family line alive became an obsession. But no matter how hard they tried Christina couldn't conceive anymore children and although there were still a few cousins around, the most purebred of the family line, for the moment, ended with Sophia. This only added to Alistair's fear and anxiety making him more distant to his wife and daughter. Then in 1938 two miracles happened that changed everything. Firstly, Alistair's lost seven year old nephew, Julius came to live with them; Alistair had thought the child dead along with his decease younger brother, Heinrich, who had gone to England to try his luck there. This was welcome news and within weeks Julius was officially adopted by Alistair and Christina, meaning that not only did Sophia now have a brother, the Frobergers also had a male heir to carry on the name.

The second miracle to occur that same year was the annexation of Austria by Hitler. With the Anschluss and the Nazis in power, business picked up. The couple of small textile companies Alistair had shares in suddenly found they were filling huge orders for Wehrmacht uniforms. Coupled with his secret society contacts, Alistair in no time found himself hob-knobbing with the _crème al la crème_ of the Nazi elite, industrialists, bankers, including Olivier Villon. And although the Frobergers at one time were part of the founding members of the Illumnati and committed to 'The Work of Ages', their involvement fell by the wayside over the years as world events overtook them. But it was at this time Albert vigorously renewed the Frobergers commitment to the great work.

Over the next few years the fortunes of the Frobergers increased immensely. Alistair soon found himself acquaintances with Herman Goering, who was a frequent visitor to their home, and who often played and teased a young Sophia with lollipops. As the German war machine smashed Europe, Alistair began the collection and re-distribution of confiscated works of art for Goering, obtaining a sizeable commission in the process. The Frobergers were once more patrons of the arts, but for all the wrong reasons.

Long before the war turned against the Nazis, Alistair could see the writing on the wall, he knew full well that Germany would be defeated just as they were in the First World War, and Alistair wasn't going to allow the Froberger fortune to be diminished again. Alistair also knew what the Nazis were doing to the Jews in Poland and what the consequences for all of Germany would be, as well as for those that supported him, when the truth came out. So Alistair secretly sold his shares in the textile companies, moved all their illegally obtained money into their Swiss bank accounts, as well as moving his family to Switzerland; and for all intense and purposes gave the outward appearances of cutting all ties with Germany.

After the defeat of Hitler the Frobergers reputation was intact, they had showered with the devil and came out clean. There was always speculation but there was never any proof, and if there ever was, certain factions on behalf of the Illumnati made sure it never saw the light of day.

Sophia of course grew up not knowing anything of her father's despicable dealings with the Nazis. Only in her later teenage years did she start putting two and two together. Even then she overlooked it, as far as she was concerned her father wasn't the only person of stature that jumped into bed with Hitler; there were many others that did far, far worse deeds that steal a few paintings.

"I think the hem could come up a wee snippet," Dauphin suggests.

"No," Sophia tells him, "it's perfect; we don't need to alter anything."

Sophia continues to admire herself in the mirror as Dauphin "ums" and "ahs" before conceding that Sophia is right.

"Hand me the bouquet will you."

Dauphin claps his hands indicating for one of his attendants to bring the item.

" _Au grand seirieux_ ... my greatest work," Dauphin decries as if making an announcement to the world.

Sophia takes the beautiful blue and white coloured bouquet and holds it in front of her adding the final _piere de resistance_.

"Truly a work of art," an all too familiar voice utters from the doorway.

Sophia looks in the mirror and her heart skips a beat. She espies the reflection of Christophe Villon standing in the bedroom doorway. Sophia turns and looks at him.

"I would've knocked but I wasn't sure of my welcome," Christophe stands patiently in the doorway, elegantly dressed in a black suit, holding a bowler hat and wooden cane with an ivory handle carved in the shape of a lion's head. He looks Sophia up and down admiring her beauty, giving her a look that borders on lubricious.

"Christophe," Sophia quickly regains her composure, "Monsieur Dauphin, would you be so kind as to leave us."

" _Qui_ ," Dauphin says, snapping his hands and ushering his attendants out of the suite, " _au revoir_ ," he says to Christophe as he exits in haste.

Moments later Sophia and Christophe are all alone.

"It's good to see you."

"Too bad it isn't under better circumstances," Christophe tells her. He enters the room putting his hat and cane on a nearby chair.

Sophia's heart is racing. She looks once more upon the face of her former lover.

"How I've missed you."

"That part of our lives is over."

"It will never be over, no matter what our families wish," he informs her.

Sophia first met Christophe when she was eighteen after her brother Julius brought Christophe home from Eden Collage for the summer break. Sophia was instantly swept off her feet by Christophe who came across so strong and sure of himself. They didn't become lovers until a year later and then the brief affair only lasted a few months until her father put a stop to it. But in that time Sophia gave apart of herself to Christophe, a piece that she could never take back.

"Yes it is over," she affirms. "We were young and foolish."

"We're still young," he counters.

"But not foolish."

"Can you truly say you don't feel anything for me anymore?" Christophe probes.

"I will always have feelings for you Christophe," she says uneasily, "why...why did you come?"

"To see you," he says in a melodious tone.

"I've gotten over you," she says, more to convince herself than him.

"I don't believe that."

"I'm marrying Henry Ravenscroft and this will be the last time we will ever see each other again."

The name of Henry Ravenscroft stabs at Christophe's heart like a knife.

"Do you love him?" Christophe questions as he slowly moves closer towards her.

"Yes...at first I was just doing it for my father but now...he loves me and I him," but there is a slight hesitance in her tone.

"Then why are you trembling?"

"You've taken me by surprise. Besides your mother didn't want us to be married just as much as my father; and like me you would never go against her wishes."

"True enough, I owe mama everything. I'm actually to marry soon myself," he announces while taking a hold of Sophia's hands that are still clasping the bouquet.

"Oh - who?" Sophia asks, desperately wanting to move away from this man, but secretly not wishing to.

"That's not important," Christophe says. He slickly tosses the bouquet away and brings Sophia's hands to his mouth and kisses them.

"Please don't," Sophia begs, her bottom lip trembling.

"As you said, after today we shall never see one another again, and so I have come to say _adieu._ " Christophe again kisses her hand, only this time his lips linger for several moments that seem like an eternity for Sophia.

"Please...no," her plea is almost a moan of desire.

"Whatever you feel for Henry Ravenscroft he will never touch you the way that I do."

Christophe pulls Sophia closer, pressing himself up against her, feeling the beating of her racing heart upon his chest as he crushes his lips upon hers. Sophia wants to resist, she even attempts to push away, but there is no real effort in her endeavour. Instead the touch of Christophe's lips against hers once more ignites the past hunger and passion of their former liaison. All the buried feelings of lust and desire that she has for this man at one time, burst asunder like a dam, drowning Sophia in a torrent of pleasures. She gives herself over to the joys of the flesh. Christophe smothers the bride in kisses. He leads her backwards towards the double bed. Sophia's hands begin undoing Christophe's belt as she is pushed down onto the mattress. His hands deftly lift up her dress to the waist and his face moves in between her thighs. Sophia parts her legs wider. Christophe's fingers unclip her white suspenders stretched against her pale legs and remove her panties. He then enters her as a simple farewell turns into unbridled sex.

# Chapter 6

Milan Cathedral hadn't witnessed an event like this in a long time. The wedding of Sophia Froberger to Henry Ravenscroft has all the pageantry associated with a royal one. The bride arrives in an open air carriage pulled by four magnificent white stallions. Sophia was resplendent in her gown and looks every bit the royal princess. Her entourage of bride maids, all of whom were extremely attractive, still paled in comparison to her. Sophia's father, Alistair, in a top hat and tails looks the definitive picture of a lord, with colourful badges emblazoned across his chest indicating the many orders the Frobergers belong to; including the Knights of St. John and the Order of the Garter and Bath. Armed guards in traditional Austrian military uniforms line the footpath leading to the cathedral entrance, where white glove and suited ushers stand on either side of the Gothic doorways.

The interior of the church considered to be one of the most remarkable, largest and richest in the world, was just as impressive as the exterior with its huge number of monuments.

Its splendid five naves, five isles, all crossed by a transept and its three glorious altars designed by the legendary Pellegrino Pellegrni. A small red bulb in the dome above the apses marks the spot where one of the nails reputable to be from the crucifixion of Christ has been placed, and today many people would comment on how it seems to be shining brighter than usual. But not as dazzling as the sunlight streaming through the famous stain glass windows, bathing the inside in a rainbow of colours.

It seems that even a higher force was smiling down on this union.

The cathedral is filled to capacity with a who's who of the rich from bankers to oil tycoons and royalty. The famed choir of St. Augustus Monastery are providing the songs of praise for the day; while Cardinal Giovanni Montini from the Vatican is performing the ceremony itself, indicating the strong ties between the Holy See and these families. Henry Ravenscroft stands at the altar with his best man George Walker, the latter still feeling the effects of yesterday's binging of booze and food. Henry on the other hand doesn't show any signs of a hangover, much to the condemnation of his best man.

The organ strikes up the wedding march as the bride enters the cathedral. Rose petals are tossed in front of Sophia by the young flower girl. Father and daughter slowly walk down the aisle. Although Sophia shows no signs of nerves, this was far from the truth; in fact she was grateful for the veil that obscured her face. She has been in a fret all morning over her recent fling with Christophe. The sex with Christophe had been fast and furious as both parties were filled with an animalistic lust that overpowered all sense. She could still feel his body against hers, his lips crushing hers; she could still taste and smell him. This both excites and appals her. She was now imagining that every eye that was looking at her in this holy place knew what she had done.

It was all she could do to prevent from collapsing to the floor in a heap.

A half an hour after Christophe had zipped up his fly and said his final goodbye, Sophia had felt terrible. She knew she has made a mistake. She prayed that it wouldn't come back to haunt her. It was only sheer luck that no one had seen them. Only an hour later her bride maids had come to her hotel suite, where they found her having a bath. It would be one of three baths she would take throughout the night and morning in an attempt to make herself feel clean. But no matter how hard she scrubbed between her legs she knew that he was inside of her.

Sophia suddenly feels sick.

As she drew closer to the altar she couldn't help but see the look in Henry's eyes and this only made her feel worse. She knew that he loves her it was so evident in the way that he gazes at her now. The most unpleasant thing was that she loves him to, which made her act with Christophe all the more stupid. Her romance to Henry started out slow, having first met Henry at a dinner party in Paris, during a business trip he took to Europe with his father, Charles. It was a couple of months since she had broken up with Christophe and her father at this juncture was looking to forge stronger ties with the House of Ravenscroft, and although there wasn't any pressure from her family to marry Henry, however, when the two started to see one another, there was no complaints.

Henry took Sophia's breath away during their first meeting, with his movie star good looks, charm and charismatic nature, which piqued Sophia's interest from the get-go. When Sophia came to America, with her mother, Christina, for a holiday, although truth be told it was more of away to put distance between herself and Christophe, Henry took it upon himself to show Sophia a good time, having also been smitten with her during their first encounter. In no time at all the two began seeing more and more of one another and during this four week vacation Sophia and Henry fell in love.

A long courtship followed for many months until one December night Henry took Sophia on a private cruise, for a truly romantic champagne dinner where he proposed to her, with the twinkling lights of New York City in the background. She said yes, an engagement was officially announced, and a year later here they were about to tie the knot.

The organist brings the wedding march to a conclusion. Sophia reaches the altar and takes Henry's hand. The couple turn and face Cardinal Montini. A hush descends upon the amphitheatre as the man of the cloth begins the ceremony.

"We are gathered today in the sight of God and in the presence of these witnesses to join together Henry Michael Ravenscroft and Sophia Isabella Theresa Froberger in holy matrimony. In the beginning, marriage was instituted by God, a union which was and is to be revered and honoured by all peoples. They therefore do not join together light-heartedly, or unadvisedly; but thoughtfully, happily, and in the fear of God. We share the joy of Sophia and Henry, who now come together in love of God and one another; uniting two hearts and lives, blending all interests, sympathies, and hopes."

Sophia barely hears the words. Her mind still stuck upon the events that transpired yesterday. For the life of her she just can't get Christophe out of her head. Even now she can still see the look on his face as he had sex with her and in this memory she suddenly realises what the difference in her relationship with Christophe and Henry is. Christophe had sex with her while Henry made love. All this time she has been confusing and interpreting her feelings for Christophe as something more substantial, when in reality all it is was lust. While this revelation doesn't negate yesterday's sordid liaison, it does mean that Sophia can finally begin to purge once and for all her feelings for Christophe Villon.

"And now," Cardinal Montini's words reach Sophia's ears, "Henry and Sophia, do you take each other as husband and wife, to respect and uphold one another as joint heirs of the grace of life?"

"We do," Henry and Sophia speak in unison.

"Who gives consent for this woman to be married to this man?" The Cardinal asks.

"Her mother and I do," the father of the bride responds.

"It is important," the Cardinal continues, "for us to realise that a marriage of two people really involves the joining of two families. Within these two families there is a great variety and abundance of resources for support and encouragement. The parents of the Bride and Groom join together in pledging support for Henry and Sophia."

Although wearing delicately embroiled lace gloves, Sophia could feel the warmth and strength in her soon to be husband's grip, telling her that no matter what happens in their lives she will always find safety with this man. In time Sophia knows that she will be able to forget and blot out the stain of Christophe completely. She gently squeezes Henry's hand who returns in kind.

Sophia re-focuses her attention on Cardinal Montini as he begins talking about the meaning of marriage. Telling those gathered about the sacredness of marriage, how it is one of the world's oldest institutions and that while man fell, marriage has never fallen. He enthuses how Jesus honoured and sanctified the wedding in Cana with his presence and performing his first miracle when turning water into wine; giving a clear mandate that all who enter marriage should do so with the anticipation that this is a life-long commitment. "They two shall be one".

Sophia feels the weight and meaning behind every word taking it all to heart, silently vowing to herself that she will honour and respect this age old tradition and that from this day forth she will dedicate herself completely to her new family.

The family is everything.

"Henry and Sophia have chosen rings to be the symbols of their marriage covenant," Cardinal Montini announces, as the page boy delivers up the gold wedding bands on a red velvet cushion. "The ring, made of precious and enduring metal, gold, is an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual bond which unites their hearts in a love which has no end."

Henry places the ring on Sophia's finger and speaks. "I, Henry Michael Ravenscroft, take you, Sophia Isabella Theresa Froberger, to be my wife; and promise before God and these witnesses to be your loving and faithful husband; in plenty and in want; in joy and in sorrow; in sickness and in health; as long as we both shall live."

Sophia places her ring on Henry's finger and says. "I Sophia Isabella Theresa Froberger take you, Henry Michael Ravenscroft, to be my husband; and I promise before God and all who are present here to be your loving and faithful wife; as long as our lives shall last. I will serve you with tenderness and respect, and encourage you to develop God's gifts within you." Sophia makes sure that her words are clear and pronounced for all to hear.

Cardinal Montini turns to Henry and asks. "Do you, Henry, take this woman Sophia, to be your wife, according to God's holy decree; do you promise to be to her a loving and loyal husband, to cherish and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, to be faithful only to her as long as you both shall live?"

"I do."

Cardinal Montini turns to Sophia and asks of her the same question. "Do you, Sophia, take this man Henry, to be your husband, according to God's holy decree; do you promise to be to him a loving and loyal wife, to cherish and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, to be faithful only to him as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Sophia replies with eagerness almost cutting off the Cardinal before he has a chance to finish.

"And now having pledged your love for, and loyalty to each other, and having sealed the pledge with the marriage rings, I do, by the authority vested in me as a servant in the church of Jesus Christ, pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together let no man put asunder. You may kiss the bride," Cardinal Montini prompts Henry with a smile.

Henry lifts the veil and kisses his wife.

Cardinal Montini looks to the audience holding up his arms. "Ladies and gentlemen, it gives us great pleasure to introduce to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Henry and Sophia Ravenscroft."

The recessional music starts up and the St. Augustus choir begin singing the praises of this unification to the heavens.

Henry and Sophia turn and begin to make their way back down the aisle. All those in the church stand to watch the newlyweds. This includes Christophe, who is decidedly not one of the invited wedding guests, but who nonetheless snuck in towards the end of the ceremony and stood in one of the far corners, hidden from prying eyes. He watches agitatedly as Sophia leaves the building with his enemy, all the time knowing that he is not done with this day yet.

Champagne and caviar flow at the lavish reception that takes place at the palazzo belonging to Count Alfonso Tomacelli; a celebrated wine maker and cheese merchant and long time associate of the Frobergers. The Tomacelli label has won many awards and always took pride of place upon the tables of the great dictators, Hitler, Franco and Mussolini.

His past fascists association is something that the boisterous Alfonso doesn't always like to brag about; although on special occasions he has been known to don his old black shirt uniform. The entertainment is provided by the famous stage and screen entertainer Mickey Stanton, who riles all with his magical vocal tones, as he sings his latest chart topper, 'My Baby'; backed up on stage by Timmy Manuela and his big band orchestra. Bodies sway to and fro around the dance floor beneath a large canopy.

The bride and groom sit at the main table enjoying the entertainment, food, drink and company, although George Walker was once again hitting the booze like there was no tomorrow, along with Aidan Morgan. A light bulb flashes - a photographer snaps a picture of the happy couple. A superlative decorated seven tier wedding cake stands in front of the table like a metropolis building. And as well as a celebration the occasion is also a valuable opportunity for cousins to reunite and share gossip, for old business associates to meet, exchange thoughts - and conspire.

"So what are your thoughts on this Dusseldorf shin-dig at the Hugenberg Hotel in November?" Peter Weir, Alan's old man, enquires of Charles Ravenscroft.

"We need to start meeting on a regular basis, how else are we to keep on top of matters, the world is becoming a lot smaller and a summit like this will allow us to do just that," Charles enthuses. "In time we should also be able to invite leaders and candidates to make sure their policies are in line with our own."

Charles, now in his late fifties, stands with Peter Weir in a corner of the palazzo drinking and smoking cigars.

"I don't know Charlie boy," says Peter in his false Texan accent, "there's a lot of friction amongst the ranks at the moment and getting us all together just now might not be such a good idea."

"Olivier Villon is dead and buried," Charles states emphatically.

"But his young pup ain't any different."

"We can't let our personal animosities get in the way of the work, all will be invited, whether they attend or want to send representatives will be up to the individual. Think of it Peter, this way we can set the global agenda for the whole world, make sure everyone is on the same page regardless of how we feel about one another," Charles tells his friend sagaciously.

"I hear you Charlie boy, but you don't put the fox in the chicken coop."

"The Villons, Lascelles, MacKinnons, the Fairchilds and all the rest will have to come along because a house divided is not going to achieve the end result."

"True enough, but as far as I can see it's going to come down to who has the best poker face, for you know, as well as I do, that secretly, in the background we will be plotting and scheming behind one another's backs," Peter's words have a ring of truth to them.

"All wars end at the peace table," Charles replies.

"U-hoo sweet-cakes," a female voice calls out, "I've been looking all over for you," Mandy Collins finishes, as she comes up to Charles giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"I told you not to call me that," Charles rebukes.

Mandy Collins was the latest in a long line of younger woman that Charles has been seeing over the years since the death of his wife. The blonde twenty-two year old was dancing in the chorus line of a Broadway show when she was spotted by Charles, who has a fetish for long legs, and Mandy's were outstanding.

"I wouldn't let your enemies know your secret identity sweet-cakes," Peter jibes mischievously.

"Oh shut up," Charles fires back as Mandy gives him a cuddle.

Meanwhile; on the other side of the palazzo, Cardinal Montini is in the midst of an important discussion with George Walker Sr. and Lord Redman.

"C'mon on Cardinal," George Sr. drawls, "you boys in Rome own more property in the States than the God damn government. All I'm saying is that we can manage a lot more than what you're given us."

"Please, Mr. Walker, this is not the place to discuss such matters, and besides I am merely a humble servant in the service of Christ," Cardinal Montini replies in all modesty.

"And I'm Tinker Bell," George Sr. counters.

"Whatever you say."

"Cardinal Montini," Lord Redman begins, "we are all aware of your standing within the Vatican, with both his holiness and the purse strings, and no doubt God himself, all we're asking is for a bigger cut of the pie."

"I fear you assign me too much influence," the Cardinal tells them with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

"Son-of-bitch - sorry Cardinal," George Sr. adds.

"You're forgiven my son."

"Look Cardinal, if you don't want us to increase your property portfolio then at least let us handle more of your banking outside the U.S."

"Lord Redman, you know our policy has always been for our European finances to be handled by European banks. I know there is much animosity and rivalry between the Villon factions and yourself, but there is no need for jealousy. Your cut of our American pie is substantial and will only increase in the coming years, his holiness is extremely happy with the gains you have made for us. But the Vatican will not take sides, and let's not forget that we all want the same thing, for you financial and political, for us religious and spiritual. In the end gentlemen, harmony with God is the way to paradise," Cardinal Montini falls silent and moves off leaving Lord Redman and George Walker Sr. to stare blankly at one another.

"How the hell do you negotiate with someone who has God on their team?" George Sr. asks.

"Get God's opposite on yours," Lord Redman suggests.

Near the band, Julius Froberger is drinking and chatting away with three of Sophia's bridesmaids, Adriana, Lucia, and Rosalina, all of whom are Julius' cousins.

"Isn't he dreamy?" Lucia, the youngest of the lot utters as she makes goggle eyes up at Mickey Stanton.

"If you go to bed with him papa will skin you alive," Rosalina reminds her younger sibling.

"Oh papa always says that and he hasn't done it yet."

"I swear the lot of you are a bunch on nymphomaniacs," Julius announces, swilling down more champagne.

"As if you're not," Adriana speaks, "Juliet and Annemarie still boast highly of your night in Salzburg. And let's not forget your other, more taboo tastes shall we say."

"I see I have spies in my midst," Julius says raising an eyebrow.

"Oh Julius, we love you no matter what," Adriana follows up her words with a cuddle and kiss on the cheek.

"True, I am very loveable; it's a burden I have to bear," Julius boasts with a silly smile and in a roguish manner that never fails to make his cousins giggle like school girls.

"At least you've still got your pompous ego," Rosalina jests.

"And you my dears have still got your beauty, looks and bitchiness," Julius jokes, as he stops a passing waiter carrying a bottle of champagne.

And so the merriment and frivolities continue throughout the evening as more gossip, banter and scheming flows as freely as the champagne. All eyes were on the bride and groom as they did the bridal waltz and cut the wedding cake. Everybody commenting on what a beautiful and wonderful couple they make. Although there was nothing but praise for Henry and Sophia, the same couldn't be said about the best man's speech. George Walker Jr. starts out alright but he soon gets into one too many crude jokes about the groom and the wedding night, not to mention the honeymoon.

"Henry will know the honeymoon is over when everything Sophia says, and cooks, disagrees with him." Then there was the reading out of the telegrams of which George Jr. added his own impeccable slant – "To the groom: Congratulations Henry. It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Signed, Mary, Teresa, Wendy, Karen, Julie, Barbara, Estelle and Agatha." And of course – "Marriage is a great teacher, it teaches you loyalty, forbearance, self-restraint, meekness, and a great many other qualities you wouldn't need if you had remained single." This was one of the more popular parts of his routine. Suffice to say George Walker Sr. wasn't too impressed and no doubt he would give his son what for the next day when he sobered up.

Charles Ravenscroft continues to be ill at ease every time Mandy Collins opens her mouth, as did anyone else the young starlet spoke to. Lucia catches the bridal bouquet and the eye of Mickey Stanton. Even after the bride and groom leave for the bridal chamber the celebrations lingers on. Julius gets drunk and was joined by Aidan Morgan and Alan Weir, the three ending up on stage singing 'Show Me the Way to Go Home' and a side slapping 'Knees up Mother Brown'. It was around this time that Cardinal Montini left for Rome and misses out on seeing the ridiculous sight of an inebriated Count Alfonso donning his black shirt uniform, which by now was way too small for his expanding waistline. Many a tear is shed by the Count as he reminisces about the good old days before the war.

All in all the wedding reception of Henry Ravenscroft and Sophia Froberger turns out to be a glorious and memorable occasion, one that wouldn't be soon forgotten by all those gathered.

The naked, spent and sweat covered bodies of Mr. and Mrs Ravenscroft laid sprawled across the king size bed of the wedding suite of the Hotel Grande, clothes and blankets strewn on the plush carpet floor. A warm summer night's breezes blows through the open window causing the curtains to gently undulate. The occasional noise of a passing pedestrian and barking dog filter up from the street below.

But all Sophia could hear was Henry's contented breathing as he slept peacefully alongside of her. It had been a long day for both of them by the time they reach the bridal chamber. The lovemaking only lasted just over an hour but it was a most enjoyable experience for both parties. Sophia was extra enthusiastic with her hands and mouth getting Henry to come several times while he took her in several positions. It was the groom who tired first and quickly fell into a serene slumber.

The bride couldn't sleep.

Sophia can't shake the feeling that Christophe Villon's seed was taking hold inside of her. She couldn't explain why she thinks this other than the fact that she just knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was true.

She knows in her heart of hearts that she will give birth to Christophe's child. The thought terrifies her. Part of the reason behind her extra fervour in bed was to get Henry to fill her as many times as possible. In nine months time he must believe beyond all doubt that the baby is his – and so must she. As far as Sophia was concerned no one must suspect and no one must ever know the truth. Sophia would not only blot out the memory of her former lover but also the fact that her first born was his son. She knew it would be difficult but the Frobergers have always been strong willed and so would she. Her baby was destined to rule as a Ravenscroft and by no other name.

Sophia turns to Henry and puts her arm around his shoulder, pulling herself closer to him, wrapping her leg over his, squeezing her flesh against his, wanting to merge her body and soul wholly with his.

"By no other name," she mutters softly into her sleeping husband's ear.

As Sophia and Henry slept as one, Julius sat naked on the side of the worn double bed in a matchbox size one bedroom apartment near the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. He has his hands on the side of his temples trying in vain to stop the pounding within. Behind him, lying on his stomach sleeps a man in the nude; it is the young waiter from the reception.

"Shit," Julius mumbles as he slowly stands up, his penis red and sore from the pounding he gave earlier, his anus wasn't much better. He has a look down at the muscular and tone body in the bed. It didn't take much to persuade the young stud to leave the reception with him, just a couple of drinks and fifty American dollars. They took a taxi back to the guy's place and continued with the party.

"What a night," he sighs. He looks out the window at the blue/grey light that prevails just before sunrise. He shakes his head before crossing to the tiny bathroom. He turns on the tap and splashes cold water on his face and the back of his neck. He towels off and enters the quaint living room and kitchenette. He stumbles towards the patched sofa and flops down. Julius' eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. He grabs a nearby packet of cigarettes and lights up, eagerly inhaling the nicotine. A few puffs go some way to relieving the pain, but no matter what, he was going to suffer for the next twenty-four hours.

"Shit," he grumbles again to himself. Only this time he gets an answer.

"Oh my," a voice says. The lamp on the other side of the room is suddenly switched on to reveal Christophe sitting quietly in the chair. At first Julius doubts his eyes, thinking that he must be dreaming, but then realising unfortunately that he is in fact awake. "This is a sordid little mess."

"Christophe - what the hell?" Julius almost squeals. His eyes quickly dart to the open bedroom door but the waiter is still fast asleep.

"Your _petit ami_ is quite the stallion."

"No it's not what it..." Julius stops short of completing the sentence knowing how foolish it would be.

"Seems," Christophe finishes for him, " _qui s'excuse s'accuse_ ," Christophe slowly shakes his head. "I truly had no idea your tastes involved Adam over Eve. You must have really enjoyed shower time at Eden, all that young uncovered flesh," Christophe's tone is neutral as is his unreadable features. _No matter how hard you try you could never ascertain what Christophe was thinking from his face, unless he wanted you to_ ; Julius always thought this to be one of his former friend's greatest assets.

"How did you get here?" Julius asks, slowly getting his initial shock under control.

"The how is not important as the why," Christophe cryptically responds.

"What do you want?"

"You're in a parlous situation my friend."

"Blackmail - is that it?" Julius' agitated state growing by the second.

"I don't care if you bugger every choir boy in town," Christophe informs Julius with a slight wicked looking smirk of the lip.

"Then what do you want?" Julius asks in trepidation, fearing the answer.

"Nothing for the moment. Although I do expect you to pass on certain information to me every now and again, and then in time, and it maybe many years from now, when you are high in his counsel, I will call upon you to betray Henry Ravenscroft," Christophe suddenly leans forward in the chair and stares directly into Julius' eyes, "and you will do it or I will let the world know that you are no true Froberger, that you're nothing more than a whore's little bastard."

Julius' body goes cold.

"And I do have the documents to prove it," Christophe adds, "you should know how resourceful I am by now."

Julius doesn't know how to answer. He thought he had buried the past. Heinrich Froberger had been a constant visitor of his mother and in time got her pregnant with Julius. Of course Heinrich wanted nothing to do with his bastard. He had his own young son and wife to deal with, and on top of this his business prospects weren't going too well. He continued to see Julius' mother on a semi-regular basis, but always in his eyes Julius didn't exist. Julius' mother developed lung cancer and only had weeks to live when Heinrich, his wife and his legitimate son were killed in a house fire; Julius' mum hit upon the notion of putting Julius forward as Heinrich Froberger's true son.

"Your mother certainly covered all the bases and you played your part to perfection," Christophe's words intrude like an un-wanted guess into Julius' thoughts. "No doubt if Alistair and Christina Froberger were not so desperate for a male heir, and had the war not come, I'm sure they may have researched your past more thoroughly."

"What you say is true but I have been a good son to them and Heinrich was my father. And I have truly come to love and respect Alistair and Christina, and Sophia has been a wonderful sister to me," Julius offers in his defence.

"I know, and for a while you were a good friend. But your life as heir to the Froberger dynasty can continue. I do not want to cause Sophia undue tragedy or grief, you may not believe it Julius but I do still have strong feelings for her...even love." Christophe's words have a ring of sincerity to them, _but even the devil can quote scripture for his own purpose_ , Julius muses.

"I won't...I can't do this," Julius' protests, but there is no strength behind his words.

"The choice is yours," Christophe tells him bluntly, "as is the future of the Froberger dynasty. But I have no doubt that you will make the correct decision in the end. I always liked you Julius and I know you won't disappoint me. _Adieu_."

Julius sits mutely while Christophe leaves the apartment.

Moments tick by.

Julius tells himself that he won't do it – yet all along knowing that he will. For what other option does he have?

Later that day as the Orient Express sped towards the English Channel; Christophe sits in his luxury berth contemplating the future. He may have lost Sophia, and the Ravenscroft are no doubt gloating at their victory, but one loss battle is not the war and in the end he shall have the last laugh. _Victory is given to the last man standing_. Christophe turns his head and stares impassively out the window and as the scenery rushes by something inside of him dies. Perhaps if he still had Sophia things might have been different, he did genuinely love her, but with her loss, he also lost the capacity for love and compassion. He has known and felt the true meaning of cruelty most of his life and he now intended to inflict that same viciousness on all those that opposed him.

# Chapter 7

1957, nine months later

Henry Ravenscroft stands impatiently in the bare hospital waiting room with his father. Charles was sitting, with his feet up on another chair, puffing away on a thick Cuban cigar, unperturbed by the situation. Henry on the other hand was pacing back and forth like a man waiting to be sentence by a judge. Henry's sisters, Margaret and Rosemary were also present, both having become quite close to Sophia over the last few months.

"You'll wear a hole in the floor," Rosemary tells her younger brother.

"It's been ages."

"Giving birth takes time you know," Margaret says.

"So I gather," Henry replies sarcastically. Margaret is the oldest of the lot at age thirty, while Rosemary is twenty-eight. Both are attractive and elegant women, although Margaret is definitely the more gentile of the two, yet her slightly hook nose blemishes her looks.

"I remember how difficult it was when I gave birth to Alyssa," Margaret refers about her one year old daughter, "I thought the trial would never end."

Both Margaret and Rosemary are married, although Rosemary has no children, and is in the process of going through a messy divorce from Jonathan Whitmore III. While Margaret's marriage to her husband, Martin Rockwell, isn't much better. There has been a lot of yelling and fighting recently, and although living under the same roof, the two are living in separate rooms and virtually separate lives as well.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about; I didn't have any concern over you three," Charles offers his thoughts through a cloud of smoke. "You all just popped out."

"Father, please," Margaret says in a scolding tone of voice.

"I'm just telling the truth, you my dear were the quickest of the lot," Charles retaliates back with.

"I don't know how mother put up with you, honestly," Margaret states with no malice intent.

"Hell of a woman your mother was, hell of a woman," Charles says with both a fondness and sadness at her memory.

"Why haven't we heard anything?" Henry's asks.

"Give it time," Rosemary tells him firmly.

"The nurse was only in here a half hour ago, and she said everything was going alright," Margaret adds, trying to reassure her brother.

"You think so?"

"Of course, silly," Rosemary says, "soon you're going to be a father."

This last comment makes Henry stop to think. "Shit."

"Well, what did you think was going to happen?"

"No I mean...shit," Henry looks at his sister with a stupid expression.

"Poor Henry, I don't know what Sophia is going to do with you," Rosemary crosses to her brother and gives him an amorous hug.

Sophia screams. The covered faces of the attending doctor, nurses and mid-wife were a blur. The pethidine has made Sophia a little delirious but it didn't seem to be helping at all with the pain.

This baby was showing who was boss.

Sophia had checked into the private St. Mary's Freemason Hospital in Long Island twenty-four hours ago. At midnight her water broke. She has been in labour for eight hours since. The birth was proving to be a long and arduous one.

"Push, Mrs Ravenscroft, push," Doctor Steins encourages from between her stirrup legs.

"I am!" Sophia screeches as her flushed and sweat covered face contorts as she pushes. _It was like trying to pass a bowling ball_. Sophia could feel the baby's head squeezing itself out through her pelvis ever so slowly.

"I can see the ears Mrs Ravenscroft...keep going...you're doing great," Doctor Steins holds his hand out as the nurse gives him the forceps.

"Come on Sophia, just like we practised," Joan, the mid-wife says, holding Sophia's hand. "You're about to become a mum."

"I'd rather be elsewhere," Sophia proclaims between deep gulps of air.

She continues to push feeling as if she is going to burst at the seams. She wishes for it to be over, not knowing how much more she can take. Sophia has been accustomed to pain before, having broken her foot in two places when she was thirteen, but compared to this that was like cracking a nail. Sophia has never felt such agony as this, and suddenly she feels a burning anger at the man who done this to her. A white hot rage that she didn't know she possessed, a fury that seems to just burst from the deepest recesses of her being, filling her whole body like some drug.

Sophia harnesses this force.

And pushes.

And pushes.

The veins on her forehead bulge, her eyes close, her face crinkles up like a piece of screwed up paper as she bears down with all her might. White dots of light appear before her closed eyes. She almost passes out from the strain.

But she doesn't.

Instead she feels the heavy weight empty from her belly sliding out between her legs and into the arms of the waiting Doctor Steins, like a catcher at a baseball game.

Sophia exhales long and loud.

The ordeal was over.

She was a mother.

She hears the sound of flesh being slapped followed by the distinctive noise of a new born baby's cry. Sophia looks up as Joan hands her a tiny person.

"It's a boy, Sophia, you have a son," the mid-wife announces with joy.

Sophia looks at her son.

"So tiny," she says overcome with a multitude of emotions. The tiny infant garbs his mother's finger with surprising strength. In this moment of connection between mother and son Sophia realises that this person will change the world. And although she feels a ground swell of love towards her baby she can't fail to see Christophe Villon in his deep blue eyes.

She quickly buries the thought deep down in her consciousness, firmly telling herself that this is Henry Ravenscrofts son.

"What will you call him?" Doctor Steins enquires of the new mother as he sets about removing the placenta.

Sophia is silent a moment before answering.

"Zane," she says kissing his forehead, "Zane Ravenscroft."

And so it was that Zane _(Zeus)_ Ravenscroft came into the world; without fanfare or adulation, without the accompaniment of wise men, or the heralding trumpets of angels. But such has always been the way of great men, good or evil, but by the time they leave the world their names are never forgotten.

A short time later Henry stands in front of the maternity ward window looking in at his new born son, who is resting comfortably in the small crib. Henry is filled with a flood of emotions, but mostly with pride, a gratification at not only having a healthy baby, but also of Sophia for giving him a boy. Henry taps gently on the glass prompting the baby Zane to look up at him. Henry wasn't sure what kind of father he would be; only that he was determined to try and be the best he could.

A few days later in the Temple District of London in the president's office of Banque Villon, Christophe sits in his Chesterfield leather chair reading 'The Times' newspaper. The head office of Banque Villon was a former stronghold of the Knights Templar. The window of Christophe's office looks out upon Temple Church. Although the Temple District of central London is noted as one of the main legal districts of the capital and a notable centre for English law, both historically and in the present; it has also been the home of Banque Villon for the last two hundred years. There is much power and influence asserted on the world from this tiny conclave.

The walls and decor of Christophe's office reek with history, and one could be forgiven for thinking that they were still in Medieval times on entering the room; from the masonry walls covered in two tapestries, one depicting life at the Royal Court, the other shows the burning at the stake of Jaques de Molay, the last Grand Master of the Templar Order; a couple of weapons of combat compromising of two swords and two shields; to the carved depictions on the ancient and blackened fireplace of the splayed cross of the Templars. There is also a large portrait of the three brothers Villon - Alphonse, Rene and Philippe – the founders of the banking empire; however this painting is of the brothers in later life and all are wearing their Masonic garb. But the most striking ornament in the room is the polished shining full body armour of a knight from the Middle-Ages that stands in the corner like a silent guardian.

The room smelt of ancient times.

Christophe's eyes keenly scan the society page of the newspaper, especially the brief story announcing the recent birth of Zane to Henry and Sophia Ravenscroft. Christophe lowers the paper and stares into thin air with an expression of knowing upon his face. Although he can never be sure that Zane is his son, he contemplates the possibility and wonders how he might be able to exploit this prospect to his advantage. Whatever the case may be Christophe realises that he will have another Ravenscroft to deal with in the years ahead. But first he must battle the father with all the cunning and duplicity he can muster, once he has been victorious then he can set about conquering the son.

Nothing and nobody was going to stand in his way.

# Chapter 8

Avalon, Hamptons, 1964

Shaka stares at the boy through the bars of his enclosure. The boy has deep blue eyes, blonde locks of hair, and was an extremely beautiful and handsome young kid who would one day become a great breaker of women's hearts. Shaka licks his chops and shakes his malty mane. Shaka was a mangy, long in the tooth lion from the Serengeti Plains, and the last surviving animal of Avalon's private zoo.

"Why do you stare at him so much?" The nine year old Alyssa asks of the eight year old Zane.

"He's still defiant even after all these years of captivity," Zane tells his cousin. He continues to look at this once proud and mighty beast, at one time a king amongst its pride, and now a prisoner of man. Zane has always felt a connection to this animal from the first day he ever laid eyes upon it. And from then on he would come and stare at this regal creature, sometimes for as long as an hour, and for its part, Shaka would also gaze back. It was as if each party was waiting for the other to blink first.

"Come on, let's go, I've never liked this place," Alyssa urges.

The private zoo of Avalon fell into disrepair a long time ago. The other cages lay empty, their bars rusting away, all the animals but Shaka long gone. Zane's grandfather, Charles Ravenscroft, hadn't bothered to upkeep the place for very long after the death of his wife. Over the years all the other animals were given away to circuses, zoos, or died, all except Shaka, which no one wanted. So, Pieter Kruger, the Afrikaner vet and park ranger of the zoo, now in his seventies, was kept on to look after this one inhabitant.

"What do you reckon he's thinking about?"

"Lunch," Alyssa replies.

"No really?"

"Eating you, what else."

"I wonder if he remembers what it was like to be free," Zane's asks in curiosity.

"He's just a stupid animal," Alyssa says, quickly becoming bored. "Come on let's go somewhere else."

"Pieter told me that there were tribes in Africa who would test their strength as warriors by facing a lion without weapons, imagine that."

"I'll imagine hitting you in a minute, now let's go," Alyssa moves off, dragging Zane by the arm. Before long the two have left through the missing gates of the Ravenscroft zoo and in no time were racing across the open grounds of Avalon.

The vast estate of Avalon was Zane's playground. Although the Ravenscrofts owned a number of housing and apartment properties in Virginia, Rhode Island, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Washington, New York City as well as extensive farmland in Patagonia and Brazil; Avalon was where Zane spent his youth. From the time he could crawl he was always wandering off. In point of fact, he was so eager as a baby he would attempt to walk before he could crawl. The Ravenscroft land was Zane's own kingdom, he spent hours exploring the forest, the lake, and he loves the water, spending ages in the pool house. His greatest friend during these early years is his cousin Alyssa. Her mother, his Aunt Margaret, had moved back to Avalon two years ago after Sophia's mental breakdown.

Zane was only six at the time Sophia's mind snapped.

When Sophia had brought Zane home from the hospital everything was fine. Sophia was a loving, caring and doting mother; in fact she seemed to relish this new aspect of her life. Even her looks seemed to become more beautiful if that was possible and Henry fell more in love with his wife during this period. The two spent a lot of time together with their son. For a while everything was cream and honey.

But then something changed.

Sophia became more sullen, moody and withdrawn. She began fighting with everyone over the most trivial of matters; even Margaret and Rosemary who had become close friends of Sophia felt the full force of her rage, an anger that was so out of character. Doctors were called but they could find no physical ailment to explain her radical behaviour. Over a period of several weeks Sophia became more introverted until one day in September 1962 when she attempted suicide.

At 5.45 PM on a Saturday Sophia retired to the ensuite bathroom, had her maid run a hot bath, she then dismissed her maid, stripped off, got into the tub, where she remained for over a half an hour washing herself. Then at 6.15 PM she took a pair of scissors and slit her wrists. She would have died had it not been for Zane who found her, and although only six years of age he raised the alarm. As fate would have it, Doctor Steins, was actually at Avalon having been attending to Charles Ravenscroft's gout. He was hastily summoned to Sophia and saved her life.

Soon after this incident it was decided that Sophia needed psychiatric help and so she was sent away to an exclusive sanatorium in the Rocky Mountains of Boulder Colorado, where she spent seven months getting better. During this time the care of Zane fell to his aunties. Rosemary was already living at Avalon after finalising her divorce and Margaret moved back with Alyssa a year earlier unable to live with her husband anymore. Officially the two hadn't separated, unofficially however was a different kettle of fish, Margaret and Martin Rockwell had decided not to seek a divorce as both had a deep sense of duty to their families, an obligation that both parties intended to abide by – just not together.

Aunt Rosemary and Aunt Margaret became surrogate mothers to Zane. Even Sophia was comforted in the knowledge that two people she counted dearly as true friends were helping to take care of her son. During this year of upheaval for the Ravenscrofts, Henry spent less time with his son, focusing more on work as he began to take greater control in the day to day running of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. Charles' health had been declining in recent times and the pressures of running such a vast enterprise were beginning to take its toll and so he began to rely more heavily than ever on his son Henry.

Zane loves his aunties almost as much as his parents.

Rosemary was somewhat of a nymphomaniac, taking many lovers both young and old; very much to the disapproval of Margaret. For two sisters so close, in many ways they were poles apart, but the one thing they agreed upon was to shield Zane from the turmoils surrounding him. It was Aunt Rosemary who first shows Zane the wonders of Avalon, pointing out all the places that she and her siblings use to play when they were Zane's age. And this was how Zane came to know of 'Diktean Cave' within a small cluster of rocks in the estate's forest, a place that became Zane's own 'fortress of solitude'. Here he would escape from the dramas of life.

When Sophia finally returned to Avalon, appearing to be completely healed, Rosemary and Margaret still took an active role in Zane's life. Sophia set about picking up her life where she left it before the breakdown, and apart from looking a little older, it was as if nothing had happened and that she had only been gone a few days, let alone several months. Normality set back into Avalon. Yet Zane could sense a subtle difference in his mother, the closeness that they had before her illness wasn't there anymore.

"Come on slow poke!" Alyssa yells as she enters the maze, Zane right on her heels. Zane was growing into an extremely athletic person. He follows Alyssa through the maze, her long raven black hair and red ribbons flapping behind her in her wake; the sweet smell of her lemon blossom perfume filling Zane's senses. They race on. Zane could easily catch her, but he always let her win as she derives such joy from winning. And he didn't mind as he secretly liked looking at Alyssa, slowly beginning to notice her in different ways other than a good friend.

The labyrinth is filled with many dead ends and around nearly every corner was a carved bush in the shape of an animal. The topiary of the Ravenscroft Maze was exquisite and world renowned amongst the gardening and horticulture fraternity. Alyssa and Zane ran past a variety of birds including the mythical phoenix, the maze was in fact over flowing with creatures of legend; there is the griffin; the centaur; pan playing his flute; but the greatest of them all lay at the very heart of the warren and that was the Minotaur. Shaped from a golden Yew shrub, the Minotaur stands over seven feet high and has been guardian of its domain for more than forty years.

"Beat ya!" Alyssa squeals in delight upon reaching the centre of the maze first.

"You always do," Zane tells her between breathes. Both collapse to the carpet of green grass, the July sun shining down upon them. It was turning out to be one of the best summers ever for the two cousins.

"Let's come here every summer for the rest of our lives," Alyssa tells Zane.

"Even when we're as old as Grandpa."

"Yes, let's make a pact."

"Alright."

"Of course we need to seal it somehow," Alyssa states, "after all if we don't it wouldn't be a proper pact, now would it."

"I guess not," Zane thinks a moment before suggesting, "what about blood?"

"Yuck," Alyssa turns her nose up at such an abhorrent suggestion. The persiflage conversation continues with a number of other possibilities proposed, the last being a secret oath.

"Well, if you don't like the oath then I'm out of ideas," Zane throws up his arms a little flustered.

"You give up too easily."

"And you can't make up your mind."

"How about sealing it with a kiss?" Alyssa asks in a teasing manner.

Zane's heart skips a beat.

"Well, to kiss your cousin, that's something you wouldn't want to tell anybody," Alyssa adds.

"I guess not." Zane's voice has a slight quiver to it. He swallows as Alyssa draws closer to him until their faces are only inches apart.

"With this kiss we agree to make this our secret place until we die," Alyssa speaks the words softly as she closes her eyes and waits for Zane to touch her lips. He gives her a brief peck on the lips.

"You call that a kiss," Alyssa accuses. Zane doesn't know what to say. So Alyssa plants another kiss that lasts for several seconds. "There, that wasn't so bad."

"No," is all he says.

"Race ya!" Alyssa yells as she jumps to her feet like a coiled spring and dashes off once more.

"Girls," Zane proclaims shrugging his shoulders as he gets to his feet and runs after her.

The Avalon mansion of the Ravenscrofts is a beautiful home filled with exquisite works of art from all around the globe – paintings, statuary and the like. The grand dining hall is no exception. The twenty seated dining table with its gold colour chairs designed by the great Lewis Armadale, is the centre piece of the room. Around the walls is a number of dining hall drawer tables including several elaborate gothic tracery splat chairs by Chippendale. There is a large fireplace, just one of many throughout the dwelling.

A great crystal chandelier illuminates the meal.

Seated at the head of the table is Henry Ravenscroft, also present is Sophia, Margaret, Rosemary, Julius Froberger and Alyssa and Zane. The silvery cutlery sparkles in the light. The adults at the table are all well attired in suits and evening dresses. The main course was a roast lamb with all the trimmings. The conversation was Spartan except between Henry and Julius who were doing most of the talking.

"The potential profit in Vietnam is massive," Julius declares, "this war will bring in millions to the military industrial complex, both legally and illegally. The greatest thing to occur has been the divide of the country into North and South. I'm telling you Henry, a war there will drag on for years. Jungle warfare is one of the hardest environments to fight in, and the Pentagon knows this, why even General Quigley told me himself they don't know how best to approach this conflict."

"Then I take it you recommend the loan of twenty million to Macfarlane Industries?" Henry enquires. Ever since the unexpected death of George Walker Jr. from a brain aneurism three years ago, Henry has come to rely more and more on Julius' counsel, the two having become quite close.

"Hell yes, I'd also go ahead and purchase the remainder of Todd Pharmaceutical, I mean, as well as supplying the bullets to the military we can also supply the medicine to patch the soldiers up," Julius says in a perspicuous manner.

Henry quietly wonders to himself how he came to treat death so casual - _as if it were just another commodity_. But the thought doesn't last long – such thoughts never do.

"Must we always talk business at the dinner table?" Rosemary questions as she puts another roasted potato into her mouth.

"You know as well as I do that there has always been profit to be made out of war."

"Perhaps, but there are other things to discuss, you know," Margaret proffers.

"Exactly, like the upcoming Kingdom Benefit," Rosemary adds.

"Oh well, that's different, I'll just put business on hold while we decide what is suitable attire to wear next Friday," Henry says in a loud and mocking tone. "What say you Julius, I thought my poker dot bowtie would go well with my navy blue Yale blazer."

"Very fetching," Julius notes.

"You're impossible," Margaret proclaims, "I don't know how you put up with him Sophia."

"I think it's been more the other way around lately," Sophia says giving her husband a grateful smile.

"Still, I think we can chatter about something other than the family business for a change," Margaret continues and quickly begins talking about the forthcoming Kingdom Charity Benefit, not about the cause of helping the needy, but rather gossiping about who will be there and with whom.

As for Zane and Alyssa they took no interest in the table conversation. They were too busy laughing and giggling at one another, silently sharing a secret amongst them. None of the adults pay any attention to the children, except Sophia, although she has been silent throughout most of the dinner, her mind was constantly in thought and her eyes were always looking at her son. No matter how hard she tries not to, she could always see the face of Zane's father in her son's eyes. It wasn't this fact that tipped her over the edge; rather it was the knowledge that someone else might know the truth.

The first black lotus flower came soon after Zane's sixth birthday, how it got into Avalon, let alone into her son's bedroom, wasn't as important as who sent it. As soon as Sophia laid eyes upon it she instantly knew that it had come from the greenhouse of Grimstone Manor; one of Masha Zhukovsky's collections of exotic fauna, but more importantly it was Christophe Villon's favourite plant.

Sophia remembers the time when Christophe took her to see it and how he spoke about its wonders and function in the plant kingdom and of its deadly properties. So the moment Sophia saw the lotus flower lying on Zane's pillow she knew who sent it and the message behind it. Christophe Villon was a man of duplicity, who turns things to his advantage; the lotus was both a threat to her son and acknowledgment of whose Zane's true father was.

But this was only the first of six lotus flowers that she found. Each one was like a knife stabbing into her heart. She desperately tried to find out who had snuck them in, but to no avail. She constantly told herself that Christophe couldn't know for certainty that Zane was his son and that these flowers were just away to undermine her. Yet still it played upon her mind day and night, driving her to the point of madness.

She started keeping to herself, almost biting the head off of anyone who tried to get near her and find out what was wrong. A chasm grew between her and Henry and she loathed herself for it. The years following Zane's birth were wonderful, she and Henry spent many hours together with one another and Zane. Sophia had buried the past and accepted Zane as their child, as Henry's son and heir. Sophia and Henry wanted to have another child but no matter how hard they tried Sophia couldn't conceive; even the doctors said there was no medical reason for it. Even so they still held out hope and continued to try, and in the meantime they had Zane to cherish and love, to nurture and groom into a man.

All was going well until the first flower came.

It might as well have been a bomb.

For all the damage it caused.

And Sophia was the main casualty.

This churned up the past like a tractor ploughing a field. Sophia began reliving her sordid incident in the suite at the Hotel Grande on the eve of her wedding. The look of exultant pleasure upon Christophe's face as he took her played over and over again in her mind's eye; and the feel of his manhood between her legs now felt more like a writhing snake rather than something to derive enjoyment from. It was at this time that a thought, a notion, an idea, formed in her cluttered and tormented mind. The way to solve all her problems and fears was to take her own life, in doing so, she figured, that no one then would ever be able to know the truth. Once this scheme took a hold of her conscious mind she quickly realised that this was her best and only option of protecting Zane's future.

It took her some time to build up the courage to go through with it, her main concern was the pain she would no doubt feel, but when the scissors was cutting into her flesh she felt no pain, even when she immersed her wrists into the warm water so the blood would not congeal, she felt no pain. As the water in the bath tub slowly turned red she closed her eyes and drifted off, still feeling no pain. However, hours later when she opened her eyes, she felt pain, she also found herself still alive, and it seemed that she wasn't fated to leave the world just yet.

Sophia welcomed the idea of going to the sanatorium, she saw it as away to escape and if she wasn't meant to die then she needed time to regather her strength and willpower. But this presented another problem as the psychiatrists' set about trying to find the root of her problem that pushed her into trying to take her own life. Sophia could never tell them the truth. So she fabricated problems, making up stories about her marriage and over emphasizing the heartache she felt at not being able to have any more children; stating that if something were to happen to Zane how there would be no direct heir to carry on the family line. The head shrinks brought the story hook, line and sinker.

When they had to be, the Frobergers were great liars.

By the time Sophia returned to Avalon even she had convinced herself on a conscious level that her problems stemmed from those she had told the doctors and that she was now cured and well on the road to recovery. And although everything seemed to be back to normal Sophia kept a distance between herself and Zane, not out of hate or spite, but more as a defence mechanism against the lurking demons of her past. No one seemed to notice this subtle change, except Zane, and he didn't say anything; and any sense of loss between mother and son, that Zane felt, Sophia was comforted in the knowledge that he would find it in his aunties, who love him just as much as she did. In her mind this was the only way to put in the ground once and for her sin of lust and betrayal.

That evening, after dinner, the Ravenscrofts sit in the drawing room listening to young Alyssa play the piano. This tiny figure, compared to the grand Steinway, plays an astonishing rendition of Mozart's Piano Sonata No 10 in C Major. Alyssa has been having lessons since she was five years old and has demonstrated a real natural talent for the piano. Margaret has high hopes for her daughter becoming a concert pianist. Zane appears to be more captivated by the music than anyone else. He sits on the floor at the feet of Sophia and his aunties, who sat quietly, listening and sipping their after dinner coffee. Henry and Julius, smoking cigars and drinking cognac, sit out on the terrace enjoying both the music within and the warm summer evening without. The chorus of the chirping crickets seemed to merge somehow with the melody of the music.

"So, Henry, how are things with you and Sophia?" Julius asks glancing at his sister through the open glass doorway.

"Not bad. The doctors have assured me that they got to the heart of her troubles," Henry says in a hushed tone.

"I must say she does seem herself again. It's as if nothing happened."

"I'm thankful for that at least. This has been one hell of a tough year, with both Sophia and my father's health problems," Henry says taking a sip of his high quality French brandy.

"Yeah, well, life will always lick you if you don't fight back," Julius joins Henry in drinking the cognac. His eyes once more move to Sophia, his thoughts on those damn lotus flowers that Christophe blackmailed him to sneak into Avalon, he doesn't know how or why, but he is sure that his sister's mental breakdown had something to do with it. In the years following Henry and Sophia's wedding Julius barely heard from Christophe, only on a couple of occasions did he have to give information about certain Ravenscroft business dealings, and then it was nothing too big, or anything to worry about, but the lotus flowers was something else. He knew Christophe was playing at some game, he just didn't know what.

Julius felt like Judas, a snake in the grass and the thought of any betrayal, no matter how insignificant, weighs heavily on his conscience. But what choice did he have, Christophe was holding all the cards. He had become great friends with Henry, especially since the death of George Walker Jr., and although there was no suspicion or doubt about how he died, Julius still couldn't help but wonder whether Christophe Villon had something to do with it. He still can't get those bloody poisonous plants of Masha Zhukovsky out of his head; he recalls her telling him once, during a visit to Grimstone, how there were so many ways to kill a person without anyone the wiser. Julius knew that he was probably letting his imagination get the better of him, but the one thing that George Walker Jr.'s death did do was pave the way for Julius to take a more active role in the Ravenscroft business, and to become even more ingratiated with Henry.

So far Christophe hadn't demanded anything serious of Julius to do, and that more than anything else was his greatest fear; the day Christophe Villon asks him to do something that will have far more graver consequences than a mental breakdown. Julius prays for that day to never come, but he often wonders what he will do when that day does arrive, for surely it must.

In the clutter filled attic in the east wing of the Avalon mansion, Zane and Alyssa tell one another ghost stories. "Slowly the severed hand inches its way up the steps towards his sister's bedroom, its fingernails scratching on the wooden floor as it pulls itself ever closer to its destination. Finally, reaching the closed door, it knocks, and knocks. The footsteps of a child are heard coming to the door from within. The door opens, the little girl peers out into the darkness and then the severed hand of her brother leaps up and grabs her around the neck," Zane suddenly raises his hand towards Alyssa who cries out in fright. "And takes her life in revenge."

"Don't do that," Alyssa says breathing heavily.

Zane laughs in joy at her fright and moments later Alyssa joins in the laughter.

"The look on your face."

"Alright, alright, you got me - again," she admits.

Zane smiles with joy.

It was well after midnight and the telling of these stories has become a regular ritual for them. They stole away into the attic of the east wing as it was always the most deserted part of the mansion, here amongst the old trunks, boxes, dust covered bric-a-brac and the cobwebs, Zane and Alyssa revile in the notion of trying to see who could scare the other the most.

"I think you won tonight," Alyssa tells Zane by the flickering light of a half melted candle.

"I always beat you."

"That's because I let you."

"Yeah, right, sure you do," Zane says derisively.

"Alright, but don't get too full of yourself, there's plenty of nights left before the summer is over, so you just watch yourself," Alyssa tells him in no uncertain manner.

"If you say so."

"You'll see, anyway, why don't we ever tell a nice story for a change?"

"You mean stories for little girls," Zane mocks.

"No you idiot," she says whacking him in the arm for good measure.

"What then?"

"I know a story that my nanny use to tell me, it's all about a cruel and mean king who ended up becoming the wisest of all kings that ever lived."

"That sounds boring."

"No it's not – and besides I'm going to tell it anyway, so there," she finishes by poking out her tongue.

"This better be good, that's all I can say."

"Be quiet and listen. Now, the king's name was Alfred and he lived in a land long lost to the world. He had many servants and a beautiful queen and they lived in an enchanted palace, all of which King Alfred didn't appreciate. For all he cared for was power and gold, and dominion over all the land and the surrounding lands beyond his own. He sent vast armies out to conquer all those that stood in his way. Many people were killed, but the king grew rich, all the while unaware of the misery around him, blinded by his greed he couldn't see how much his subjects hated him, but more importantly he forgot how much his queen loved him and how much he once loved her. He had forgotten and in doing so he lost her to a broken heart."

"As soon as the king learned of this news, something inside of him changed, the jewels and gold ceased to sparkle as a great emptiness filled him, a great sorrow as he realised what he had truly lost. Something more precious than any treasure, a love lost that he would never find again. King Alfred grew melancholy and as he mourned his queen he made a solemn and binding promise, he vowed to change his ways and to make his kingdom a land of love, beauty and happiness. He gave most of his once precious gold away to his subjects, all but a small amount which he kept to build a statue of his queen so that he would never forget again what the most important thing in life was. And from that day forth King Alfred became the wisest of the wise, ruling his people and land in justice and with love." Alyssa looks to Zane who is silent a moment before answering.

"That wasn't too bad I suppose," he almost begrudgingly tells her, not wanting to fully admit how much he likes the story, "I still think the severed hand was better."

Alyssa smiles warmly. "My dear, dear Zane, I wonder if there's any hope for you. Don't you think it's wonderful how King Alfred changed his ways and became a wiser king who ruled over his people with kindness?"

"I guess."

"And how he mourned the loss of his queen?"

"I knew you'd like that part."

"And building that statue, in honour of her love and memory, it's just so tragic, so divine, and so noble," Alyssa says melodramatically.

Zane can't help but stare enraptured at his cousin, a vibrant soul filled with innocence and unconditional love; and although he doesn't realise it yet, in all the years to come in his life, he will never again feel a love as deep and binding as what he has in this moment in time.

As the children told ghost stories in the attic Sophia prepares for bed. She sits at the vanity in the large ensuite bath room of the master bedroom, in the west wing, removing her make-up. There are in fact two ensuite bath rooms, one for her, and one for Henry, apart from the standard amenities there is a manicurist chair in one and a barber's chair in the other, as usual no expense was spared in the construction of Avalon.

Sophia rubs off her lipstick, her eyes look at the empty bathtub through the many mirrors and an image of herself sitting in the white tub slitting her wrists flashes through her mind. Her breath catches, panic rises, but only for a moment. She quickly gets it all under control thinking just how stupid she was, she vows never to let Christophe get the better of her ever again.

There is a slight tap on the open door. Sophia sees Henry's reflection standing in the doorway, bare chested, wearing only in his silky black pyjama bottoms. "I just came to see if you were alright. You were very quiet at dinner tonight."

"Just tired."

"Oh," Henry says a little disappointed by the answer, "well, I'll see you in the morning."

"Wait," Sophia calls out as Henry turns to leave, "don't go."

Henry looks at his wife; they have been sleeping separately since her return, Sophia telling him that she needed more time.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes...I'm sure," she stops what she is doing, stands and turns around, looking very desirable in her short black negligee. Henry crosses to his wife, they embrace and kiss.

"But let's go slow okay?"

"Whatever you want," he tells her warmly.

The morning sun shines brightly on 'Diktean Cave'. It promises to be another glorious and scorching day. Zane and Alyssa have been up since the crack of dawn, just like all children on holidays that never want to waste a moment of them. They made their way through the small forest of pine, elm and oak trees to the cave which was an up-cropping of five rocks and one bigger rock that gave the impression of a hand thrusting up out of the ground. The cave itself was only about twelve feet long by ten foot wide and only came to a height of seven feet; but to children and their imagination it was more like a cavernous underworld filled with denizens and strange creatures of the dark.

Zane and Alyssa spent many hours here, out of all the nooks and crannies of Avalon this cave, along with the heart of the maze, were their most magical places of all. There were a few supplies in the cave, a medium suitcase containing lollies, potato chips, Twinkie-bars, soda, and a few 'Superman' and 'Archie' comics; all the essentials that any kid would need. Zane and Alyssa would have many a feast here, away from the prying eyes of their parents.

For Zane, today was a special day, he has something to show Alyssa, but there wasn't much time as Aunt Rosemary has promise to take them to the beach this morning. For Alyssa's part she was beside herself with curiosity at what Zane was up to.

"Don't be silly," she exclaims as Zane attempts to put a blindfold on her.

"Like I said it's a surprise," he protests.

"I promise to keep my eyes shut, honest. Otherwise I'll trip over or something and then none of us will get to go to the beach," Alyssa argues.

"You won't fall, I won't let you, and you do trust me don't you?"

"I'll always trust you Zane you know that."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Oh alright," Alyssa relents, "but if I hurt myself I'm going to punch you hard."

"Fair enough," Zane says. He places the handkerchief around his cousin's eyes.

Alyssa takes Zane's hand. He slowly leads her away from the cave to a thick, old and gnarled oak tree. The tree has stood for who knows how long, withstanding the seasons and the progress of man, a silent guardian of the forest and 'Diktean Cave'.

"We're here," Zane informs Alyssa. He removes the blindfold. Alyssa looks excitedly around until her eyes rest upon the carving in the tree; a simple heart shape with 'Z loves A' carved deep into its trunk by Zane.

"I carved it deep, took me ages."

Alyssa walks over to the engraving and puts her hand upon it. "You know, a hundred years after we're gone this will still be here, a declaration to stand the test of time."

Zane is now voiceless, unsure whether Alyssa likes it or not. But his concerns are unfounded as the girl he confesses his love to, quickly spins around and embraces him giving him a quick peck on the cheek. It is all he can do to stop from blushing.

"It's wonderful," she begins, "however, it's still my right to set a challenge for my-would-be suitor."

"Huh?" Zane questions with open mouth.

"You'll catch flies," she teases. Zane hastily closes his mouth. "So, do you think you're up to the challenge?"

"There's nothing I can't do," he boasts.

"Well then," Alyssa thinks for a moment before coming up with a wonderful idea, "bring me some honey, from the beehive over there." She points to the hive that a colony of bees has made in the hollowed log of a fallen tree nearby.

"Are you nuts?"

"I thought there was nothing you couldn't do?"

"Yeah but I'll get stung."

"Not if you're careful, besides it'll be a true test of courage, for the person you profess to love," Alyssa's lays down her challenge. Zane thinks the matter through before rushing in like most other people would, a trait he already has and will always have. He remembers Pieter Kruger, the game keeper, telling him a story once about how the Masi tribe in Kenya gathers honey without disturbing the bees; the trick was not to swat the bees away – but just let them be.

_Easier said than done,_ he thinks.

"Alright, honey it is," Zane announces. He walks towards the hive, Alyssa a few steps behind. As they get closer Alyssa stops while Zane continues.

"Don't make a sound," he pleads softly.

"Good luck," she replies before falling silent, suddenly thinking _that perhaps this wasn't such a great idea._

But it was too late.

Zane's concentration now is on the bees. He steadily draws closer to their hive. The buzzing symphony of bees hard at work fills the hot summer morning. A few of the insects begin flying around Zane's head, checking out this intruder into their midst. Zane remains perfectly still, not flapping his hands as this would cause them to sting, and it won't just be one sting, he would have the whole colony after him. A few bees land on his face and start crawling around. It takes all of his will and nerve not to flinch or even blink. Sweat trickles down his face. The sensation of the little legs on his flesh sends goose bumps racing all over his body.

Alyssa holds her breath.

The initial recon of bees sensing no immediate danger buzz off and Zane moves the last few steps to the log. He bends down and picks up a fallen stick from the ground. He then meticulously inserts the stick into the log. A whole heap of bees suddenly begin swarming and buzzing around him.

Alyssa gasps. But Zane doesn't flinch.

He gradually plunges the stick into the honeycomb snapping some of it off. The buzzing noise grows more intense as the colony sense an attack and still Zane doesn't panic. Instead he slowly withdraws the tool as hundreds of the angry insects fly, dive and land on him, but not one of them stings him. Instinctively and in an act of defiance, Zane breaks off a piece of the honeycomb and puts into his mouth. The crunchy and sweet sensation rushes through his whole body and in that moment Zane suddenly feels more alive than he has ever felt before in his whole young life. In fact he feels invincible.

Alyssa's eyes are riveted on Zane, her feet nailed to the ground, she can barely believe her eyes as she watches Zane turn and move away from the swarm which retreats back into the log. Moments later a triumphant and seemingly nonplussed Zane stands in front of the stunned Alyssa holding some honeycomb.

"Did I pass your challenge?" He enquires handing her the sweet delicacy he risked life and limb to retrieve. Alyssa takes the offering and slowly smiles. Zane's face lights up at this reaction.

"My brave knight...next time I'll have to set a harder test."

"Next time?" He almost shouts.

"Just kidding," Alyssa smiles. Zane scratches his head in bemusement.

"I'll never understand you."

"Then understand this...my heart belongs to you now," Alyssa's words are not vainglorious but rather sincere and heartfelt. A silent and special moment passes between boy and girl as a bond and connection is formed, one that they both sense will last a lifetime.

But it's not meant to be.

As Alyssa breaks off a piece of the honeycomb in her mouth the bees strike. What causes them to suddenly leave their hive and attack who can say, perhaps some secret trigger unknown to humans. Whatever the case may be – the swarm zeroes in on Alyssa.

She screeches in terror.

"Run Alyssa run!" Zane yells desperately.

Alyssa panics.

She tries to move but the thick mass of buzzing terror assaults her on all sides. Perhaps she could survive one or two stings – but not hundreds. Zane attempts to swat the bees away but it's like trying to stop a flood with a single sandbag. The attack only lasts seconds. When it is over Alyssa lies unmoving on the ground her head, face, legs and arms covered in bee stings. While Zane stands next to her without a scratch.

The Ravenscroft family chapel was as quiet as a tomb. It has seen many a Ravenscroft baptism and death over the years; and it was now witnessing another. The quaint chapel with its stain glass windows and religious statues lay off the north wing, all but one of its half-a-dozen pews were empty. Dressed in a long black dress, brimmed hat and black veil, sits Margaret, in mourning. Alongside of her sits a gravitas looking Zane, and alongside of him is his Aunt Rosemary, also in black. In front of the altar stood a small white coffin, too small as far as those gathered were concern, there was a wreath of flowers a top it and Alyssa's name engraved on a small gold plaque upon the lid.

Aunties and nephew have stayed after the funeral service to say their final farewells. Margaret has taken the death of her beloved daughter extremely hard. Not one for showing emotion, she seems to have gone into a deep shock on hearing the tragic news, unable to cope with the loss, she was heavily sedated for a couple of days and even now she was still half out of it from the medication. Her only consolation was Rosemary and Zane; the three have been virtually inseparable since Alyssa's demise, each finding comfort from the other.

Zane stares at the box containing his cousin, unable to believe that she was no longer here, no more would he see her beautiful smile, no more would he hear her musical laughter, no more to smell her lemon blossom perfume and no more to be in her enchanted presence. The cold hand of death has claimed his sweet Alyssa and still he couldn't find a reason as to why. _Why did this happen? Why her and not him? How come he wasn't stung to death?_ Such questions have been playing over and over again in Zane's mind. He has hardly spoken a word or shed a tear since her death, like his aunty he too was in a state of shock, unable to yet accept the fact that she was gone and that he would never see her again.

"She's not really gone as long as we always remember her," his Aunt Rosemary says softly, her words sounding hollow to Zane's ears. "Eternal rest give unto her O Lord," the priest's earlier words still echoing in Zane's head, "And let perpetual light shine upon her, may she rest in peace ... Amen." Even these words from a holy man gave him no comfort or reassurance. All Zane felt right now was nothing, a great big empty space in his gut as if a part of him had been ripped out and was now missing.

Suddenly the image of Alyssa lying dead at his feet quickly flashes before his eyes and at the same time he feels something touching his left hand. His eyes look down and see the hand of his Aunt Margaret holding his. This simple gesture moves him deeply causing the build up of sadness inside of him to break forth along with a torrent of tears. Zane sobs uncontrollably. Margaret pulls him to her and cradles him as she too begins crying. As aunty and nephew shed tears at their loss, Zane's other aunty puts a hand on his back and gently rubs. Through stinging tears the healing process could finally commence.

The days and weeks following Alyssa's funeral were ones of melancholy. Zane wanders the estate visiting all the places that they use to play and hang out at. The Minotaur at the heart of the maze, a place that they both cherished, where they made the pact to come every year for the rest of their lives, now seems haunted, full of ghostly memories. Even 'Diktean Cave' once a refuge for Zane, was now seen by him as a defiled sanctuary, the birthplace of Alyssa's death. Zane would often come to the very spot where she died, the bees having been removed after the incident, and stand quietly and un-moving, thinking, always thinking – _why her and not him?_

As the summer of 1964 drew to a close in a way so too did Zane's childhood, with Alyssa's passing all thoughts of childish behaviour, on Zane's behalf, died with her, the undiscriminating force that took Alyssa from him also stole the innocence of his youth. During this period of time Zane would do a lot of growing up. But perhaps the hardest thing of all to endure was watching his aunties, mother, and the maids cleaning out Alyssa's bedroom. For Margaret, this process of packing up her daughter's belongings seems to go a long way to helping her come to terms with what has occurred, many tears and memories were shed between all those gathered. The strong bond between Zane and his aunties grew even more durable, in particular that of Zane and his Aunt Margaret, who spent many hours at night talking about her beloved daughter with him, and Zane to her about his memories of her daughter, his cousin, his buddy; but never would he tell about his love and their secret pact, for that knowledge was for Zane and no one else.

Zane also receives solace in the arms of his mother, but still he could feel the distance that has sprung up between mother and son since her attempted suicide. But Zane didn't mind, for he knew that his mother loves him and that she has her own problems to deal with and no matter what came he would always be her son. Nothing could ever sever that bond.

A few nights later Zane lies in his bed, a cool breeze blowing through the open window, his Aunt Margaret sits on the edge of the bed talking to him. "Well, I guess I better let you get to sleep, I've been gas bagging long enough tonight."

"That's alright, I'm not very tired."

"My dear boy you're a treasure. Letting an old woman waffle on like this," Margaret tells her nephew, affectingly patting his head.

"You're not as old as Grandpa you know."

"Not yet," she says with a smile, "anyway, it's time you got some sleep." Margaret kisses Zane on the forehead and stands.

"Aunt Margaret."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Do you believe in destiny?"

Margaret is taken aback by this seemingly out-of-the-blue question. "Why on earth are you asking a question like that?"

"I've been wondering about something," Zane tells her, unsure how to proceed.

"Wondering about what?" Margaret prompts gently.

"Why - why Alyssa died and I didn't?" The question is left hanging in the air waiting for an answer, a reply that Margaret is not sure she can give.

"I don't know why," she simply says, "do you believe that because you're alive that you have some unfilled destiny?"

"If not then why? Why is she dead and I'm not, is it just dumb luck?"

"I'd like to think that we make our own destiny, our own choices, otherwise it would suggest that someone else makes them for us."

"Is that what you believe?"

"Honestly, I don't know how to answer your question Zane," Margaret tells him frankly. "However, if there is such a thing as destiny then surely it comes to those who seek it. You and I have been born into a privileged life in which there is no lack of want or of materialistic items, but look at what we have lost. Right now I would give up the whole bloody family fortune to have my Alyssa back, wouldn't you? But that's not going to happen. And by its very nature, the fact that you've been born a Ravenscroft means that you will one day rule an empire, you will govern industries and your decisions will affect many people, both rich and poor. And if that's not a destiny then I don't know what is. And you will have everybody trying to tell you what to do, your grandpa, your father, your mother, business associates, advisers, societies, share holders, but remember it's still in your hands Zane, it will always be in your hands."

The words of his aunty penetrate deep into his psyche.

Two hours after she has left him Zane is still wide awake, thinking about destiny and his future. Before tonight he never ever really considered what he would be doing. He knew that when he was older he would go and work with his father and help bring into being this 'Work of Ages' that he heard his father and Julius talk about. His Grandad has mentioned it to him on a number of occasions. But he never gave any serious thought to the notion that it might actually be him that brings it about. He knew that in the next few years his father would tell him all about it and lay out everything that he will have to do. Henry and Sophia have wanted Zane to have a childhood without the concerns of the family business, that would all come soon enough, but Alyssa's death has changed everything. If Zane was to become some great leader of men, then he would need to be strong.

"Test by trial," he mutters softly in the dark, suddenly thinking that the taking of the honey from the beehive was a test of strength, of courage, a trial to test his mettle; one in which he passed because he was still alive.

Zane mulls over this new train of thought. He then hears the distant sound of the lion, Shaka, roaring. He hadn't visited the zoo since the death of Alyssa. Zane sits up in bed and listens. Shaka continues to roar, but somehow it sounds different to anything that Zane has heard before, it almost sounds like an elegy. Zane quickly pushes the covers off of him and gets out of bed. He doesn't know why but he senses that the lion is calling to him. He crosses to the window and sticks his head out. Shaka's definite roar has a plaintive tone to it.

Without hesitation Zane climbs out the window and scrambles down the drainpipe, showing absolutely no fear of slipping and breaking his neck. On reaching the ground he quickly begins to run bare foot towards the zoo. A full moon and a cloudless night illuminate his path.

Several minutes later Zane arrives in front of Shaka's cage.

The old lion sits on its manmade mound waiting. Zane notices how much older Shaka looks since last he laid eyes upon him. He overheard Pieter Kruger talking to his grandfather a couple of weeks ago about how Shaka wasn't eating very much lately, the gamekeeper surmised that the feline was nearing death, after all Shaka was nearly thirty years old, an extremely long life for any big game cat, wild or in captivity. Zane gazes upon the animal. He can clearly see the rigours of age upon this creature; apart from that there was a strange look in the lion's eyes, something akin to a challenge.

The question was whether Zane was up to it.

The longer Zane continues to stare at the beast the more he knew what he must do, what Shaka expected of him. It was as if boy and animal have a psychic connection.

Zane slips out of his pyjamas. He stands naked, like a Masi warrior, before the king of the jungle. He then purposefully walks the few paces between him and the cage and begins scaling up the ten foot high bars.

Shaka waits patiently on the other side.

Zane reaches the top and carefully eases himself over the rusted barbwire. He scrambles down and in no time at all is upon Shaka's territory. He waits. Shaka lets out a low guttural growl. Zane moves several steps forward and stops. Shaka stands up and moves steadily towards him until there is only a foot between them. Zane feels the lion's hot and smelly breath upon his face. He also feels the sheer power and strength of the animal, knowing full well that one snap of its jaw or a single swipe of its claws would kill him, even at his full height the animal still towers over the boy.

Time seems to stand still as Shaka and Zane lock eyes.

A silent message for them alone passes between the two.

Shaka, the old king, then drops to his belly and carefully lays his head at Zane's grass stained feet, the new king, and lets out one final breath of life before passing away; age finally getting the better of him. But before it dies it was as if the beast was passing on, not only the torch, but also its power and strength. It was a strange sensation for Zane, standing stark naked beneath the full moon, with the corpse of a once mighty lion at his feet.

For the first time since Alyssa's death Zane suddenly felt alive again. Destiny may await him, but it would be by his own hand what he made of it.

This he promises to himself.

# Chapter 9

Avalon, Hamptons, 1967

The swimmer slices through the water. His breathing synchronised with each stoke of his arms. He has been at it for a full hour, swimming up and down the length of the pool. He enjoys the water – he enjoys the feeling of freedom it gives him – he relishes the feel of his muscles aching – it makes him feel alive. At eleven years of age, Zane Ravenscroft, was always testing his ability, pushing himself that little bit further in whatever he did.

He spends many hours a week at the pool house. Entirely enclosed within glass panels, and re-enforced for added strength, the structure allowed ample light in no matter what time of year. Steam rose off the water of the heated pool as the wintery landscape outside peers in. He was usually the only person who ever came here, but today, Zane wasn't alone. His father and grandfather sit on the cushioned reclining sun chairs having a heated debate.

"We can't trust them," Henry states emphatically.

"Don't you think I know that?" Charles responds in a weak voice, looking very pale, thin, and growing weaker all the time, the cancer eating away his gut, all knew that he didn't have long left to live.

Six months they had given him – he survived eight so far.

Despite his frailty there was still strength behind Charles' eyes. Like countless others before him he has led this family through decades of strife, war, tragedy, upheaval and profit, and even with death knocking on the door there was still much to be done.

"Then why father?"

"Why? 'The Work of Ages' what else?

"And we will achieve it – but not with the Villons," Henry pleads, "I don't care how much he seems to have changed over the last few years, I still don't trust him. He undermined us in Palestine, didn't he: and let's not forget the Stavros deal, we took a thrashing on that?"

"All for profit, we've done the same and more, it's always been about increasing your wealth, your titles, your land, and it always will be," Charles says with a spark of the old fire in his voice. "But the great work has remained constant for all of us. I thought I would live to see it come to fruition, huh, more chance of Hell freezing over first, the world is more divided now than ever before and how much of that is due to our in-fighting? Only united will we ever fully stand a chance of achieving what we've been working towards for centuries."

"I hear what you're saying father, I do. But Christophe Villon cannot be trusted, he is a solipsist, a snake, and if we invite him fully into our house, surely he will slit our throats why we sleep. Much better to cut the head off the snake and get rid of the opposition and then take the spoils." Henry's words are very clinical.

"You've grown very hard this last year."

"I've had to toughen my skin; you know that better than anybody else," he replies with a tinge of remorse.

"I know you'll do the family proud," Charles says to his son in a reconciliation tone of voice. "Just don't let this hatred of past injustices, that you had nothing to do with, consume and destroy you." Charles looks deeply into Henry's eyes trying to stress the importance of this message to his son.

"I will father," Henry says, before leaving, whether he got the message or not, who could say.

Zane, still in the water, his arms resting on the edge of the pool, watches as his father walks away. There has always been a gap between Henry and his father since the death of his mother. Zane's gaze then rests upon his grandfather. He sees a broken, old and dying man, and for all his power and wealth, who at the end of his life only remembers the regrets, the lost opportunities. In this moment Zane's heart goes out to his grandfather, he feels a great sorrow and pity for him, deep down hoping that he won't make the same mistakes, that he will realise what is important in the end; a strange thought for an eleven year old – but Zane Ravenscroft was not destined to be an ordinary person.

Three weeks later Charles Ravenscroft was dead.

New York City, 1968

The Metro Opera House was filled to capacity, a sea of black suits, glistening diamonds, white pearls and glamorous dresses. On stage Madama Butterfly takes the sword from her father's sheath and sings the words of the inscription on it – 'Death with honour rather than life with dishonour.' The music soars; Butterfly retreats behind a screen and plunges the sword into her own throat.

Zane hated opera.

To him it is just a bunch of fat people romping on stage spouting words that no one understood, as far as opera was concerned you either got it straight away and fell in love with it – or you didn't – Zane was the latter; he sits, dressed up like a penguin in one of the boxes with his mother, Sophia. She demanded that her son accompany her to this current season of Puccini operas, insisting that he know of the more cultured side of the world.

Although he would much prefer swimming or going to the football, he does like spending time with his mother, but he silently questions her decision of attending this particular opera giving its themes and the fact that the lead commits suicide in the end. As Madama Butterfly dies on stage, Zane watches his mother intently, wondering what was going through her mind, for surely this must bring up the memories of her own attempted suicide.

Sophia shows no emotion, she enjoys Puccini; she loves this opera ever since the first time she saw it as a girl. Sophia looks on as Butterfly takes her own life, by her own hand, but in truth she didn't, it was Pinkerton, her former lover, that really kills her, loving her, giving her a baby and promising to return to her, all the while being married and with no intention to do so. Sophia saw herself as Butterfly, but a butterfly that survives her former lover, who forced her to try and take her own life, but who lived to tell the tale. And it made her stronger; it made her relationship with Henry greater and more solid than it was before. She has put it all behind her and she has won. She was well on the way to becoming the matriarch of the Ravenscroft family, a role she has been groomed all her life for, a role that she was going to put her heart and soul into. Sophia grins as the audience applauds, many with tears in their eyes, but not Sophia.

Later; Sophia and Zane are sitting down to dinner in one of the exclusive private parlour like dining rooms of the famed French restaurant Jour de Fete, an exclusive establishment that caters only for those with a certain amount of zeroes behind the numbers in their bank account. The room was lavishly decked out like the palace of Versailles, red drapes hung around the room, statutes of nymphs stood in the corners, a gold clock, beneath a glass dome, rested on the mantle above the marble fireplace, and there was even a settee in one corner to relax in after the meal. Jour de Fete went out of their way to make the gastronomy an experience that the diner would never forget.

Mother and son have just started on the _hours d'oeuvre_ , a mouth watering green lentil and spinach soup with Cilantro Yogurt. Sophia has brought Zane here after the opera in celebration of his recent twelfth birthday.

"You must savour your food Zane, not wolf it down like a pig at the trough. Remember, soup should be seen and not heard," Sophia chides her son for his table manners and slurping. "You must learn about these things, good food, good wine, fine dining, etiquette, the arts, they are important to know. They might seem trivial and boring, but believe me when I tell you that the circles that you will be moving in, this knowledge, these skills will be an asset," she emphasizes.

"Why mother?"

"You will be doing business with kings, queens, as well as crooks, and as such you must be able to adapt to any circumstance, any situation, and any dinner or function that you may find yourself in. Breeding is everything Zane, how you present yourself to friends and foes will dictate how in turn they will treat you."

"I see."

"Good, and never reveal your true feelings to those that would do you harm, always keep them guessing, keep them off guard, let them wonder what you are feeling, what you are planning, for if they discover your true feelings, your weakness, they will exploit it. But if you keep them out you will be able to exploit there's. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I think so."

"Very good."

"Mother, did you use to know Christophe Villon?" Zane's direct question sends an icy chill down his mother's spine.

"Why do you ask?" Sophia enquires, keeping her emotions in check.

"It's just that I hear father talking about him now and again."

"And?"

"And I was just wondering if he is as bad as everyone says?"

"Yes," Sophia says, "he is a very bad man. If you ever get to have dealings with him, be very, very careful, for you will not find a more cunning and devious opponent. The Villon family is a stain that should be wiped clean." Sophia's words are filled with malice, and yet Zane senses something else in his mother's voice, a slight undertone of loss. "Now, eat your food Zane."

"Yes mother."

Aspen, Colorado, 1969

The sledge skims across the snow. The sun glare almost blinding Zane, even through his snow goggles. Laying face down, he flies down the hill like a bullet, willing himself to go faster and faster. The surrounding environment rushing pass him in a blur. Oblivious to the breakneck speed he is travelling, Zane loves every moment of it. He leans his weight to the left steering the sledge around a small protruding rock. But in doing so he hits a small snow ridge and launches himself several feet into the air before coming back to earth and continuing on down the slope.

He lets out a cry of joy at the thrill of it all.

As Zane grows older the compulsion to always test himself – to push himself to the limit – grew with him. Whenever he felt the talons of fear reaching out to him and touching the back of his neck – he welcomed it. To him, even at only fourteen years of age, the function of fear was only to warn him of danger, and not to make him afraid to face it.

"Come on...come on...come on...," he tells the small piece of wood beneath his body, as if this would make it go faster.

Having no fear is one thing, and having common sense is another; it is only as the ski lodge starts looming into view that Zane suddenly realises that he probably won't be able to stop in time. He also figures that if he jumps off the sledge he'll probably break several bones, but that may be preferable to killing himself against the chalet wall. He begins to feel those grasping fingers of fear at the nape of his neck.

He quickly sticks his gloved hands into the snow and his feet.

Snow shoots out in front and behind him like a fountain as he attempts to halt his momentum.

The ski lodge grows nearer. Having reach the more populated bottom part of the slope several skiers are forced to leap out of the path of the snow bullet express. Zane doesn't hear their shouts of anger or notice their raised fists, all his attention is focused on the looming wall before him.

He begins to slow.

But is it in time.

He slows and slows.

But the lodge doesn't decrease in size.

Zane doesn't close his eyes or flinch as the wall of the lodge is almost upon him.

But with only a few feet to spare, he finally comes to a halt.

Zane catches his breath. He slowly, and a little unsteadily gets to his feet. He lifts up his tinted goggles and looks back up the slope at his path of destruction. Several nearby skiers are shaking their heads and giving him looks of cold disdain.

Zane smiles triumphantly.

Margaret and Rosemary sit on the deck overlooking the ski slopes, all rugged up and drinking a nice hot cup of coco. They have come to Aspen for a week of skiing, although neither really skied, even though it has become somewhat of a tradition amongst them to spend a few days every year at some exclusive snow resort in the world. Rosemary has been taking private lessons from Brad, a twenty something, blonde hair, blue eyed and ripped ski instructor. However the lessons never seemed to leave the bedroom and were more of a horizontal than vertical nature.

"Yuck...my coco's gone cold," Margaret complains. She removes a small metal flask of gin from her coat pocket, opens the lid and proceeds to pour some of it into the coco. "Now that's more like it," she announces, taking another sip.

"Coco, marshmallows and gin, you're becoming a booze hound, you know that," Rosemary tells her sister.

"We all have our little vices, Rose; you were certainly making enough noise last night to wake the dead."

"Brad's a young man; he has a lot of energy to burn off," Rosemary replies with a wry grin.

"It's positively indecent; these young bulls will be the death of you."

"We all have our little vices, Margaret."

"Yes, but couldn't you show a little more discretion. After all, we do have to have dinner with the Longdons, and you know how Emily loves to gossip."

"Emily Longdon is a bitch," Rosemary says with annoyance, "she only gossips because she's not getting any. Wilfred hasn't been able to get it up in years."

"Really?" Margaret asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes."

"And you know this, how?"

"Jenny Overton, his mistress told me. In explicit detail I might add."

"Well now, that is interesting." Margaret's lips almost water at the anticipation of having this knowledge in her armoury against Emily Longdon.

"Aunty Margaret, Aunty Rose," Zane calls out as he comes running up to them, his clothes wet from the snow.

"Zane, you're soaking," Margaret decries.

"It's nothing," he tells her.

"Did you have fun?" Rosemary enquires.

"Oh yes - the best time. Did you see me coming down the slope so fast?"

"You'll break your neck is what you'll do," Rosemary chides him.

"No I won't."

"Of course not, Zane's special," Margaret tells no one in particular. Zane gives her a warm and grateful smile. "Now, why don't you go inside and warm yourself, and then send the waiter out, my coco needs topping up."

"Don't you mean the bar tender?" Rosemary teases.

Zane smiles sheepishly at his aunties.

The large lounge of the ski lodge was crowded with guests eating and drinking, the air filled with general chit-chat; about the skiing, the weather and who was doing what to whom. The exclusive Alpine Lodge Hotel was a Mecca for the rich and famous. As Zane crosses the plush rugs covering the polished pine floors, he sees a few famous faces from TV and the movies; including Anne Hutton, whose alleged affair with a Philadelphia senator was still making the headlines. She was talking to news anchorman, Jerry Brighton, no doubt filling him in on her latest exploits; insuring that she gets more publicity. Jerry, while appearing keen, seems more interested in admiring Anne's breasts, than what she has to say. But to a fourteen year old all of this was of little interest, and as Zane makes his way to the large stone fireplace, his thoughts were centred on his recent death defying ride down the slopes and how quickly he could get back out there to do it all over again.

The fire crackles and pops. Zane removes his gloves to warm his cold hands. The heat felt good; _there was nothing worse than cold fingers_ as far as Zane was concerned. He plans to warm himself up and then get back out there. He was quite sure that he could go faster next time.

"You look positively frozen, dear boy," the voice of an elderly woman reaches his ears.

Zane turns in the direction the voice comes from, and sees an elegant lady sitting in one of the large lounge chairs situated by the fire, staring at him. Zane assumes she was in her fifties or sixties, although her face seems to suggest otherwise; refined, smooth and beautiful, it has an almost ageless quality to it. One could be forgiven for believing that they were looking at a much younger woman, if not for the discernible wrinkles on her hands and around the base of her neck. And although rugged up, Zane could still see that she has a stunning figure beneath the layers of clothes.

"Yes - I suppose," Zane replies, rubbing his hands together.

"I've always liked the snow, the coldness, the chill in the air, the cleanness of it." Her voice has a melodious tone to it.

"I guess that's one way of looking at it," Zane says feeling drawn to this stranger somehow.

"I saw you out there on the slopes. My, how fast you were going. I have to confess that I feared for your safety. You should be more careful or you might get hurt and that would be a shame for one so young."

"Oh, I was in no danger," he reassures her.

"No, why do you say that?" The question is direct and to the point, but spoken with a politeness in such a way that could only come from years of proper upbringing. Although something in the back of Zane's mind screams at him to fear this person, he still couldn't help but be compelled to speak to her.

"I don't know exactly," he begins, "I just feel..."

"Invulnerable," she says for him.

"Something like that."

"I see."

"I'm not afraid of danger and I won't let fear beat me," he blurts out.

"Well, there are all kinds of dangers, young man. And we never know when one will trip us up. We do not care of what we have, but we cry when it's lost, and so, you should be more cautious." A slight smirk cracks the right corner of her lip and in that instant Zane feels as if he is looking at pure evil – a malice directed straight at him. Yet he still felt a connection with this person somehow.

"May I see your hands?" She asks, more as a demand rather than a question, but still her manner is polite and reserved.

Before his brain can register what he was doing, Zane holds out his hands towards this strange, almost apparition of a person. Zane feels the coldness in her hands and the fingers of fear at the back of his neck.

"Yes, such strong hands," she tells him as she admires them, turning them palms up, "the hands of a creator. You have a destiny before you, but the road is a perilous one, filled with many cracks and deep crevices. I see enemies all around you ready to strike you down."

Zane stares at his hands trying to see what she sees. He then looks up into her face and sees bitterness and hatred behind her eyes. He quickly removes his hands from hers. There is an uncomfortable silence between the two. It is only broken by the arrival of the lady's Chauffeur.

"Excuse me madam, but it's time to go," the grey uniformed dressed Chauffeur says, standing at attention as he addresses her. The lady raises her hand. The Chauffeur nods and moves off.

"Time for me to go," she says, standing up, while at the same time placing her hand on top of a muted Zane's head. "Perhaps we'll meet again someday...master Ravenscroft." The old woman gives Zane a final look of contemplation before leaving.

Zane watches her depart, all the time not realising that she spoke his name, let alone how she knew who he was.

The lady gets into the back of the waiting limousine, the Chauffeur holding the door open for her. Closing the door, he quickly jumps in behind the wheel and moments later the black car pulls away from the Alpine Lodge Hotel.

"Doctor Schutzbar is expecting you madam," the Chauffeur informs her through the vehicle's intercom system.

"Thank you," she says. She stares out at the winter landscape passing by the window. She was literally shaking inside at being so close to Zane Ravenscroft. Thinking to herself; _how easy she could have reached out and twisted his neck_. But that deed wasn't destined for her – it was meant for another.

"Patience...persistence...a drop of water hollows out a stone," the lady says. Masha Villon -Zhukovsky, sits back content with the day's work.

Avalon, Hamptons, 1971

Shyla Moorcroft couldn't get Zane Ravenscroft out of her mind.

She wanted him.

It was as simple as that.

Despite the age gap, or the fact that she was his private tutor, she intends to have him and unless her instincts were off; and they never were, he wants her just as much. She couldn't put her finger on exactly why she felt so drawn to him, other than there was just an aura, a magnetism to him that pulls her towards him. She couldn't even say when she first felt this force other than somewhere between Byron and Hemingway. She has never had an affair with a student before. There were prior opportunities, but she never felt the urge to pursue them. They didn't interest her. But now she couldn't wait to sample such forbidden fruit.

Shyla was hired just over two weeks ago. Zane's parents felt that their son needed to round off more of his classical education and so she was engaged to teach him over the summer break. They had flown her out from San Francisco and put her up in one of the guest rooms on the Avalon estate; which were actually more like a small apartment. Shyla's area of expertise was English Literature and Philosophy. At thirty-eight years of age she has been a private teacher to the children of the rich for the last ten years. Before that she had taught at several private and public schools in both America and Europe and had gotten into the world of tutoring through making various contacts, also the pay was so much better. She wasn't getting any younger and she needed to take care of her future.

Although wearing glasses since she was seventeen, Shyla was always attractive and even entering her middle-years could still manage to turn heads. Her figure was sightly plump in places but was considered more pear shape than round. Her brown eyes were set off by her brunette shoulder length hair that she always wore up in a bun at the back; there were now a few silver hairs around the temples, but they only added an air of worldliness to her appearance. To many who knew her, Shyla was considered to be a spinster, although she has had several boyfriends over the ensuing years she has never married or settled down into a really permanent relationship. The closest she came was Randolph Hunter, whom she met fifteen years ago when she briefly worked as an assistant librarian in New York City. He was a junior architect in a major construction firm who had grand dreams and would spend many hours in the library studying. Shyla fell for him in a big way, until she found out he was already married; a slight detail he chose to keep to himself.

"I still don't see the point in Voltaire?" Zane bemoans from behind the desk in the two tier Ravenscroft library.

"He is considered to be the father of French Enlightenment, he was one of the most prolific writers, producing works in almost every literary form including plays, poetry, novels, essays, historical and scientific works, not to mention the 20,000 letters he wrote. Just like you couldn't have literature without Shakespeare, likewise there is no philosophy without Voltaire. And let's not forget that he also used many of his works to criticize intolerance and religious dogma." As she rants on Shyla finally notices the cheeky grin on her pupil's face. "Damnit all Zane, I don't like it when you do that."

"You're so easy to rile up when it comes to Voltaire and Shakespeare," Zane informs her with a hint of smugness.

"Let's not start on Shakespeare again, shall we."

"Yes Miss Moorcroft," Zane agrees in a polite manner but with a mellifluous under tone.

"Alright, back to Mr. Voltaire."

Zane moves his eyes back down onto the open page of the book in front of him. But only for a second, before his gaze averts back to his tutor. He watches her make notes from several thick tomes.

He smiles.

Zane had fallen in love with Miss Moorcroft the first day he laid eyes upon her. And it wasn't just the regular school boy crush on his teacher, he felt genuine feelings of love, although many times he questions himself whether he was in fact confusing love with lust. The matters of the heart were still new to him.

Zane was quickly growing into a strong, athletic and handsome young man, who was already displaying maturity beyond his years. He has already lost his virginity fourteen months ago to Marie Carlton and her sister Josephine. The Carlton family was new money and Henry Ravenscroft had cemented close ties with them in recent years and had invited them to Avalon for a week. The Carlton's daughters were the same age as Zane and they hit it off straight away. The sex with them, Zane knew was lust, as well as the excitement of doing something naughty for the first time; but the feelings for Marie and Josephine were different to the way he felt about Miss Moorcroft. Sure, he feels a stirring in his groin every time he got close to her and smelt her perfume, but there was something more to it and he knew she felt the same way.

Shyla could feel Zane's eyes upon her. She didn't look up – she dare not. She wants to avoid what was going to happen, but she didn't think she could. She felt as if she were about to betray a trust given to her by Zane's parents, who have put great stock in her abilities and who have shown genuine kindness towards her, even opening up their home for her. In desperation Shyla turns to Voltaire and Byron for an answer – _"Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination"_ – _"There is no constant like that of the heart,"_ she runs these quotes through her mind several times over before coming to the conclusion that whatever was going to occur, the current situation couldn't continue.

"Love is blind," Shyla mutters to herself in a sotto voice.

Shyla gets up from her desk, straightens her plaid skirt, and crosses towards Zane. He stands as she reaches him, even at sixteen he was already six foot and was several inches taller than her. Nothing is spoken. The two look at one another, each one's heart beating just as fast as the other. Giving into temptation, Shyla pulls Zane in close and plants on him a lingering kiss.

When their lips finally part Shyla looks directly into her young lover's eyes. "We've got to be very careful, you understand?"

"Yes," Zane answers quietly.

"This affair must remain a secret," she continues, "no one can know. And when I say it's over, that's it, no argument, no questions. Agreed?"

Zane is only quiet a moment before promptly answering in the affirmative.

"Oh my beautiful Zane – love is always ready to make excuses," she tells him as they embrace amorously.

The illicit liaison lasts another four weeks.

Zane and Shyla's affair was made all the more easier by Henry and Sophia's decision to go to Europe and the Mediterranean for the summer, both were keen to go this year as it had been several years since they last done the international social circuit. Zane's aunts also went which pretty much left all of Avalon to Zane and Shyla. As for the servants and security, they were no trouble as Zane knew their routines back to front.

Their days together were spent studying. Shyla sets about instilling a love of literature into Zane.

She would read to him from Voltaire, Byron, Dickens, and Hemmingway and of course Shakespeare; the bard's sonnets one of her favourite works of all. For Zane's part, he shows a genuine interest in the subject matter and for the rest of his life would always have a perennial love of these works. The two also spent their time swimming and taking long walks around the vast grounds of the estate. Zane showing his teacher the many sights of Avalon, but he would never take her to those special spots that he and Alyssa had shared; somehow he felt that would be a betrayal to her memory.

While the days were filled with fun and joy, it was the nights that hold the greatest delights and pleasures for both of them. Of the twenty-eight days of the affair it would be twenty-one nights that teacher and student would sleep together; twenty-one blissful nights of carnal satisfaction and indulgence. And Shyla Moorcroft is well versed in the art of lovemaking and the joy of sex; and how she came to know the things she did, Zane didn't care, as he got an education in the use of the hands, the mouth, the lips and the many varied positions from frontal, to inversion, to rear entry to standing. Every night his teacher gives her student a new menu, a new appetizer, main course and dessert; and Zane has a healthy appetite.

When the meal was over Zane would lie in Shyla's arms until the first rays of the morning sun crept in through the curtains. But in those wee hours before he would have to leave, he and Shyla would speak in quiet tones to each other, the way lovers have always done. They would express their feelings for one another, their fears, their hopes, their dreams. For Zane this period was naturally the best time of his young life and for Shyla it was also a glorious coupling that she will never forget. But all good things must come to an end, and although both were reluctant to call it quits, both also knew that their time in the sun had to end.

"I'll never forget you," Zane whispers to her in the darkness. His head lay upon Shyla's chest, the softness of her breasts a comforting feeling.

"In time you will find someone to give your heart and soul to," she assures him.

"And love?" He adds.

"Love is such a little word: people make it big. And yet it's more easily demonstrated than defined, of all human passions it's the strongest, it quickens all the senses – except perhaps common sense. Poets have written about it, philosophers have debated it, and men and women have lived and killed for it. But you must never shut it out Zane, because life without love is not worth living...even when it hurts you."

"It hurts now," Zane confesses, "I love you without a doubt." Zane looks up at Shyla who looks back at him and although it was hard to see one another's eyes in the dark, the expressions of love on their faces were undeniable.

"And I love you," she tells him, "God help me but I do love you so much."

"But it cannot be?" He asks in false hope, already knowing the answer.

"No, your folks return tomorrow and my tenure finishes. I'll never forget you and I don't care if what we've done is considered wrong or a crime for that matter, and if it is then I think I would gladly pay the penalty."

"But..."

"No buts, no questions remember. You've got your whole life ahead of you and I will become just one more traveller you met along the way." As Shyla speaks the words she feels her heart breaking. But for as wrong as this relationship has been, and she knows it has, she also knows that Zane has left a mark on her that she will have for the rest of her life; and that in some way she too has shown him a glimpse of life that he has not yet seen.

"Thank you," he says. He snuggles closer to her, failing to see the tears in Shyla's eyes.

The next day teacher and student say goodbye with a simple handshake. Henry and Sophia stood nearby overjoyed at the positive reports Miss Moorcroft has given them about the vast improvement to their son's studies. As the chauffeur driven limousine pulls away from the front steps of Avalon, Zane watches with a deep sadness at Shyla's departure. She has shown him love and poetry and that despite all the cruelness there is in the world, there was also kindness and compassion. He would never see her again, even years later when he tried to find her; it's as if from this day on Shyla Moorcroft ceased to exist. And Zane would also never know of the son he had given her, Robert _(Perseus),_ whose own life would also impact greatly on the world.

New York City, 1972

The Christmas party at the Ravenscroft Centre was always a popular bash. It has been a tradition amongst the rich and powerful for more than twenty years and had become a permanent fixture of the city. It always kicks off with a speech from the mayor about the year that has passed and the one ahead; about the growth of the city and the generosity of its benefactors; especially the Ravenscrofts, a family that has been a part of the city for more than a hundred years, who helped finance many of the city's landmark buildings. Even the land for the United Nations building was donated by the Ravenscrofts; in fact it was actually a former cattle slaughter yard.

Once the general bullshitting and the lighting of the Christmas tree were out of the way, the evening gave over to frivolity. Amidst the champagne and beluga caviar, amongst the music and dancing, between the flirting and boasting, the smiles and grins: lurked a simmering pool of toxicity. Many of those gathered hated or despised one another. There was always a business deal or transaction that didn't go in their favour and there victors always utilised these occasions to flaunt their triumphs. But of course there was always someone who simply adored these events, who thrived on the carcasses of war, who revelled in the misfortune of others. However, it was hard to pick out the sharks amongst all the other sharks in the room, and yet it would be a skill that Zane will have to learn, discerning the predators from the prey.

"What a frivolous lot we are my dear boy," Margaret complains to her nephew. Zane smiles, his aunty was in fine fiddle tonight. There was nothing like a social event to bring Margaret Ravenscroft to life. Her running commentary on the ins and outs of those gathered was full of sarcasm, retorts, derogatory, the occasional compliment, but they were extremely rare and far and few in between.

"To this day I still don't know how you get this information and gossip on everybody?" Sophia queries her sister-in-law.

"Sources, you'd be amazed at how many little birds there are who like to come and sing on my shoulder. These so called masters of the universe, these captains of industry believe so strongly in their power, in their secrets and their little boy clubs, when all along their most treasured secrets are being spilt over tea and scones by those they consider weak and stupid." Margret speaks with a legitimacy that can only stem from years of practise.

"Oh, Margaret, you do make speeches," Sophia replies.

"I just like to hear the sound of my own voice, Sophia, you know that."

"We all do."

"But always remember, Zane, to keep your greatest secrets to yourself; don't share them with anyone unless it is absolutely necessary and there is no other option; otherwise they will become known, I can guarantee that."

Margaret's words of warning ring true and strike deep into both Zane and Sophia's minds and their own little secrets.

"Yes, Zane, Margaret is right, guard them well - always," Sophia tells her son in all seriousness.

Zane knew exactly what they were talking about; even a young man like himself already has several deep secrets that he intended to take to the grave with him. And yet he wonders: _how many more are yet to come_.

Zane has been standing between his mother and his aunty most of the evening. For most of the night he has felt like a piece of meat on display in a butcher's shop. Dressed to the max in a tuxedo, Zane struck an imposing figure, even though he felt the bowtie was slowly strangling him. He knew that there were hundreds more of such functions to come in his life ahead and he silently dreaded them. But tonight has been a particular worrisome one. Ever since his arrival he has been introduced to potential mates. There was no mention of such talk, but Zane knew all too well what his mother was up to. Jessica Weir, daughter of Alan Weir, one of Zane's father's oldest friends, was the first cab off of the rank. Then came Felicia Derrek; Dianna Chambers; Nina Ivar; Tiffany Waldo; Valentina Garibaldi; Melissa Cartwright; and of course Marie and Josephine Carlton; whom Zane has already gotten to know intimately in more ways than one.

Sophia's idea of course was to get her son interested in good breeding stock. Many of the potentials have distinguished pedigree, tracing their bloodlines back to the royal houses of Europe and ancient Egypt, some claim. Zane has always known that when he did marry, to whomever that may be, she would have to come from the correct bloodline. This was a point that he could not deviate from, in theory she didn't have to come from a rich or famous family, providing her genealogy was up to scratch, but whatever the case may be he intends to make the choice himself and not have it forced upon him. All the young girls being brought before him were beautiful and would continue to blossom into very desirable women but matters of the heart and love had been open to him by Shyla Moorcroft; and if he could at all help it, he wasn't going to get stuck with someone that he didn't love.

The recent memory of his former tutor brings a sudden smile to Zane's face and a feeling of warmth, love and safety; and quickly all the women gathered before him, a smorgasbord to appeal to any glutton, paled into insignificance compared to Miss Moorcroft.

"And what pray tell are you smiling at?" Sophia enquires of her grinning son.

"Just how much I love you and aunty," he says brightly giving each a loving peck on the cheek.

"This one's going to have a way with the ladies, Sophia."

"Yes...I know."

Zane Ravenscroft knew that he was going to be his own man no matter what.

# Chapter 10

NCAA Championships, 1976

The blades parry and thrust. The two opponents drew back before locking swords once more. Both men use an Epee sword, a blade designed for thrusting; each one trying to get through the other's defence, to lay the tip of their blade upon the body of their adversary.

The twenty-one year old Zane, representing Harvard University, eyed through the mesh mask every move or twitch his combatant made. His concentration and focus was second to none. Zane does an _Appel_ move; by stamping his front foot to the ground to produce a sound to try and startle his opponent. But the student from Cambridge is up to the challenge and quickly does an advance-lunge. Zane retreats, his footwork sublime, but it is a feint and he quickly counter-attacks with a _Prise de Fer_ – "Taking the Blade"; attempting to control his opponent's weapon, forcing him into a _Croise_ – steering the opposition's weapon into the high line; who hurriedly counters this with a Semicircular Parry.

The two combatants retreat.

They eye one another.

It was proving a fine contest. The fencers were demonstrating all the grace and style of an Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone cinematic duel.

The winner would take the championship trophy.

The swordsman from Cambridge lunges at Zane. Thrusting his sword like an arrow at Zane's chest who counters with a _Beat_ – a sharp controlled blow to the middle of his opponent's blade, knocking it aside and presenting him with an opening. Zane doesn't hesitate, he moves into a _Glide,_ his blade sliding down his opponent's sword towards the open chest. The Cambridge fencer quickly takes several steps back just managing to get his chest away from the incoming projectile. Now it was Zane's turn to be vulnerable. Having over extended himself, and not finding his mark, his left side was wide open. He desperately tries to correct his momentum by moving into a _Passato-sotto_ position, an evasive action in which he drops his left hand to the floor and lowers his body under the oncoming blade. He can feel the cold steel almost touching the back of his neck, but it doesn't, and as the blade passes mere centremetres above, Zane in one fluid movement straightens his sword arm and strikes his opponent on the side of his ribs.

The crowd in the auditorium erupts as Zane wins the men's fencing category of the NCAA Championships.

The silver 911 Porsche Coupe speeds down the Boston city street. Zane sits behind the wheel; his trophy on the passenger seat next to him. The song "Daddy Cool" by Boney M blasts from the car radio. Zane can't stop smiling. All his hard work has paid off – he won. Fencing was one of the first sporting activities he signed up for when he began at Harvard University. For nearly four years he had been striving for this day and now that it has finally arrived he felt like celebrating.

He spun the wheel, the tyres squealed as they hugged the corner beautifully. Zane put his foot down on the accelerator. The car straightens up and shoots down the street like a bullet, white smoke filling the early evening air. Whether it was fencing or driving Zane would always push himself; it was just part of his nature now.

Zane's smile broadens.

As he tears up the bitumen he thinks back over the last four years and the many trials he has overcome, even though he came from such a privileged background, the winning of this trophy was something he had done all on his own.

Even the mere fact that he decided to go to Harvard rather than Yale, like his father, grandfather and great grandfather, had been a massive bone of contention amongst father and son. He can still vividly recall that day at Avalon when he announced to Henry his intentions.

"The hell you are!" Was Henry's reply across the breakfast table.

"My mind is made up father."

"What's brought this on?" Sophia asks, attempting to mitigate the situation.

"I don't care – this isn't his decision," Henry says adamantly.

"Please, Henry, let Zane talk. Now, why have you decided to do this Zane?

"I intend to be my own man."

"What rubbish, of course you're your own man."

"No I'm not father. For most of my life I will be running 'Ravenscroft Holdings' and it's a challenge that I'm looking forward to, helping to create what our family has been striving for so long to achieve. But for the next few years I want to start doing some things on my own, and going to a university that isn't obligated to the Ravenscrofts is one of them."

"This is nonsense. You have obligations now, and not just to the family. There is much more to consider now and much more yet you have to learn." Henry likes giving peremptory instructions to his son.

"And I intend to learn it all father, have no fear. There will never be any better teacher than you. But I need some independence now, otherwise how else am I suppose to lead, if everything is done for me. I love and respect you father, but this is just something I have to do." Zane's words are sincere and not spoken in a perfunctory manner.

And so it was that Zane went off to Harvard University to do a degree in business and economics. Oh there were many more arguments between father and son, but in the end Zane got what he wanted. And if truth be told, Henry was quietly very proud of his son, taking such a stance over something he knew his father would not approve of, but he respected the decision and it gave him great confidence in the future leader of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'.

Zane has revelled in the last few years, not only in athletics but also academically, and although his time at university was drawing to a close he was now ready more than ever to take on the tasks that lay ahead. But of course that didn't mean he would have to stop partying.

A short time later Zane brings the Porsche to a skidding halt outside Harvard University. He hops out as if there his legs were springs. He races across the tranquil lawns to the Malkin Athletic Centre. The "MAC" serves as both the university's primary recreation facility and as a satellite location for several varsity sports. He sees several cheerleaders standing out the front, chatting away like clucking hens, having just finished practise. Although they were all very attractive looking in their short outfits and pompoms, Zane was only interested in Mary Donnell, head cheerleader for the Harvard Crimson football team.

"Mary!" Zane calls out.

Mary, blonde, blue eyes, dimple cheeks, with peaches and cream complexion and a body to die for, comes up to Zane and hugs him.

"I just heard, congratulations, I wish I was there," Mary enthuses with a kiss.

"That's alright; I'll describe it all to you. Oh Mary you should have seen me, all my moves just came together. I was like a bloody Samurai."

"Then this calls for a celebration."

"Definitely."

"There's a party over at Delta Capra, some of the other girls are going," Mary informs him, "should we go?"

"Anywhere there's a celebration," Zane responds with equal enthusiasm.

The frat party was in full swing by the time Zane and Mary arrive. Kegs of beer were running dry just as fast as they were opened. The floor was becoming littered with chips, cans, cigarette butts and pizza boxes. The distinct smell of cannabis hung in the air. "Play That Funky Music" by Wild Cherry roars from the stereo. Party goers dance wherever there was room, including the tables. The boys of Delta Capra knew how to throw a shindig.

The sculling contest was drawing a lot of attention as usual. Jimmy McKay, quarterback for the Harvard Crimson's was leading the charge. Zane became good friends with Jimmy, after trying out for the gridiron team, and not making it. It was an unusual friendship, giving the different worlds they hail from. Jimmy was from Indiana, here at Harvard on an athletic scholarship, the McKay's have no money to speak of and in point of fact Zane could probably buy and sell Jimmy's entire family. And although Jimmy would never be valedictorian, he defiantly has athletic ability, with an arm that could throw the ball like a missile; but above all he was always a lot of fun.

"Ravenscroft!" McKay shouts above the noise, "I heard the good news man – way to go."

"Thanks buddy."

Jimmy makes his way over to his friend, beer stains down the front of his jersey.

"You should wear a bib," Zane teases.

"Coach Anderson said to go have some fun. Besides, with your victory it's a double celebration," Jimmy ends his sentence with a loud burp, "man – that was a 7.5 on the Richter scale."

"Your disgusting man, you know that," Zane eagerly tells him swatting away the smell from the jock's breath.

"I got a new one for you."

"Please not another one of your lame sexual jokes," Zane almost begs.

"Shut up and listen," Jimmy smiles, "an erection is like the Theory of Relativity; the more you think about it the harder it gets." Jimmy's goofy smile turns into a rapturous laugh. Even Zane can't help but grin. "See, I gotcha man – gotcha, and then there's this one, Zane: sex is hereditary, if your parents never had it, chances are you won't." Jimmy once more laughs out loud at his own joke.

"Jesus, Jimmy, where are you getting these from?"

"I've been studying buddy, reading books and stuff at the library."

"Jimmy, you don't even know where the library is."

"Yes I do, ever since I found out it's a great place to pick up cute nerdy babes," Jimmy says in earnest.

"I should have guessed," Zane smiles at his friend. The two have gotten into quite a few scrapes and adventures in the last couple of years; but they always managed to get out by their wits and the skin of their teeth. Jimmy had come to Zane's aid many a time and Zane had always helped Jimmy with his studies, and together they made a pretty good team.

"Listen man, I'm going to get stinking drunk, so can you please give me a lift later, making sure I make my flight?" Jimmy asks of Zane.

"No worries, buddy, just make sure you win."

"You can count on it," Jimmy tells Zane, high fiving him, before making his way back to the sculling contest.

"I see Jim's at it again," Mary comments. She hands Zane an open can of ice cold beer.

"He'll drink them all under the table. Still, I really do like that big jug head." Zane doesn't have too many true friends, but of those he did, Jimmy was number one.

"Cheers," Mary taps her can against Zane's.

"Here's mud in your eye," Zane knocks back the beer.

Zane had been seeing Mary Donnell for several months now. Mary came from an old Ivy League family who made their fortune in shipping, lost it, and re-made it bootlegging during prohibition. Zane came across Mary at a Harvard versus Yale football match, she was leading the cheer for Crimson, and Zane instantly felt an attraction for her after seeing her do the splits. It was Jimmy who introduced them. Mary wasn't your stereotypical dumb blonde, she was at Harvard to learn, her parents were pushing her to get a degree in corporate law, and much like Zane she really had no other choice other than to follow her family's wishes.

But Mary has a real wild streak to her nature.

A trait that Zane enjoys very much.

Zane, not one for monogamy, likes to play the field, he has a healthy sexual appetite, he was becoming a great lover and there was never any shortage of women. Zane has a magnetism to him that drew in the fairer sex. So it was with much joy when he met Mary who was all for an open relationship, she really did subscribe to free love and wasn't looking for a serious commitment. In fact Zane enjoyed the many ménage a trios with Mary and her best friend Cindy Watson; just the mere thought of him being between these two beauties, was enough to get Zane as hard as a log.

"Where's Cindy tonight?" Zane enquires.

"Sorry lover boy, she's visiting her folks, it's just you and me - unless we find someone else."

It was only a couple of hours after they arrive at the fraternity house before Zane and Mary found themselves in one of the upstairs bedrooms having sex, with one of Mary's fellow cheerleaders, Jenny Carmichael, a brunette with a body almost as good as Mary's; yes indeed, Zane was enjoying his time at Harvard.

The fact that there were other students in the room passed out, or making love, only adds to the excitement. Mary always gave great head, and with Jenny joining in, Zane was in paradise; and as Zane came over their faces he felt more than just a pleasurable sensation, he felt like a king. He feels as if there was nothing he couldn't achieve.

Several hours later, Zane drove Jimmy McKay to the airport. He was still thinking about the fantastic day he has had; first winning the tournament, and then making love to two beautiful women.

Life was good for Zane Ravenscroft.

Jimmy is slumped in the passenger seat, reeking of beer, half asleep and half awake. It took Zane nearly an hour to get him into the car. As it was, they would be pushing it to make Jimmy's 5:30 AM flight to Indiana. Zane suggested catching a later flight, but Jimmy was adamant, his family were expecting him, they were planning a big family shindig, and the guest of honour couldn't be late.

Zane looks at the time, it was nearly five, and thinks _with a bit of luck, and horse power, they will be able make the flight on time._

Zane increases the speed of his 911.

He wound down the window, to feel the fresh air on his face, to help keep him awake, he managed to grab a couple hours of sleep, snuggled warmly between Mary and Jenny, but still, he could feel the fatigue filling his body. He shakes his head, silently telling himself _that he'll grab a coffee at the airport or maybe even crash there for a few hours._

Zane was due to catch up with his Aunt Margaret tonight, and that was something he was looking forward to, he hadn't seen her in a while, and he couldn't wait to get caught up on all the gossip that she no doubt wanted to tell him.

Thinking of his aunty, brought Zane back to reality, and what was to be the next phase of his life: 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. Henry has insisted that as soon as Zane finished university, he was to begin working with him; Zane knew that it would take a few more years of grooming and polishing, before he was ready to take over the reins. But Henry wants his son to be well and truly ready when that day arrives, unlike him who had that responsibility thrust upon him sooner than intended.

Zane couldn't help but notice the toll of running such an empire has taken on his father, just like his grandfather. Although Henry was still fit and healthy, having always taken great care of his body, the mental strain was something else all together. But that pressure came with the territory, it was all part of the job description; it was all part of being a leader of men.

"The business of a leader is to turn weakness into strength, obstacles into stepping stones, and disasters into triumph." These were the last words Joseph Ravenscroft had said to Zane, a week before he passed away. Zane thinks often about what his grandfather told him, and although Zane's life was already mapped out in many respects, it was still open to how he leads that life and what he does with it. There of course was 'The Work of Ages' which had been at the heart of the elite families for centuries, something Zane's father believes could be achieved in about another twenty years. Zane wasn't as optimistic as that, but there didn't seem to be much doubt that he would be around when it finally came to pass; of course there were many factors yet to be accomplished before they could crack open the champagne.

Zane is suddenly filled with a strange sensation, something he thought he had overcome - fear, cold bloody fear. He explores this feeling, wondering where it came from. _Fear of failure? Fear of not being up to the challenge, of not being able to reach the ultimate prize?_ Or was it something else, something yet unseen, lurking in the darkness, waiting in the shadows to pounce. Zane thought that he was ready for whatever lay ahead, he had already proven himself on the sporting battlefield; but he has not yet shown his mettle on perhaps the greatest battlefield of them all: the world of money.

Zane begins to wonder whether he was truly ready for it; a world filled with greed, hatred, hunger and no honour, no medals of valour, no sportsmanship, no rules of engagement; a realm where the winner took all and there were no ribbons for second place. It was one thing to be on the mat, crossing swords with your opponent, able to see and predict what his next move is, to counter it. But in the world he was about to walk in, you didn't see your opponent before they struck, their attack was always hidden, they would shake your hand with their right, while the left stabbed you in the back. He had seen and heard what his grandfather had gone through and what his own father had to deal with today – the exact same things that he would be dealing with in the future.

"When you bury the hatchet, make sure it's in your enemy's back." This was one of Aunt Margaret's favourite sayings. She had been stressing to Zane for years that he must always be aware of those around you that would do you harm. Thinking of his aunt's words brings a warm smile to Zane's face. He might have enemies out there but he also had some good allies.

So, whatever happens he will be ready.

Zane feels very confident of this fact.

But when you least expect it that's usually when the mat is pulled out from under your feet.

There was no outward sign that there was something a matter with the car. Zane thought he sensed the brakes a bit loose, the steering wheel a bit wobbly, but in his distracted state-of-mind he hadn't been paying attention. After all he had the car serviced only a week ago and the mechanic gave it a clean bill of health and he had felt nothing wrong with it yesterday. So it was with real surprise to Zane, when he takes the turn off for the Boston Logan International Airport, and finds out that he has no brakes.

The car spins around the curve, the back fish tailing over into the oncoming lane and the early morning traffic. Zane attempts to compensate, and it seems for a moment that he would straighten up the back end of the 911. That is until he was blinded by the lights of an approaching van which slams head on into the side of the Porsche 911 coupe.

# Chapter 11

The House of Villon, 1956 - 1976

Four months after Sophia Froberger marries Henry Ravenscroft in Milan Italy; Christophe Villon weds Juliana McClain-Vasa, from the noble Scottish and Swedish houses of McClain and Vasa. The McClain clan were one of the oldest families in Scotland with a bloody history; they fought in the armies of King Alexander and of Robert The Bruce, for that country's independence, demonstrating great valour at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314. Sir Joseph McClain, who was knighted by The Bruce on the battlefield, was one of the knights chosen to accompany Robert The Bruce's heart to the Holy Land, after his death, in 1330, along with Sir James Douglas; Sir William Sinclair; Sir Robert and Sir Walter Logan; Sir William Keith; Sir Alan Cathcart; and Sir Seymour Loccard; all of whom met their demise bravely at the end of a Saracen sword at Zebas de Ardales outside the city of Seville.

The McClain fortunes in land and status fluctuated over the ensuing centuries as alliances were hard made, but easily broken. There didn't seem to be a year go by that a McClain, of some description, didn't die a horrible and blood-thirsty death in battle. In 1745 the McLains sided with the Jacobites, aligning themselves with Bonnie Prince Charles in his attempt to regain the throne. It was Douglas "Mad" McClain who led the charge at the enemy's cannons at the Battle of Culloden and was reported to be the first one to have his head blown off by a cannon ball; it is also reputed that his last words to his men were: "Don't lose your heads".

With the defeat of Charles' army many of the McClains were rounded up with the other clans and taken back to London to face brutal executions. Thomas McClain, Douglas' younger brother, was hanged, disembowelled and his head placed on the railings at Temple Bar; an account from Jacob Cooper, an assistant for the Justice, stated that Douglas McClain had a smile on his face even after being beheaded.

But not all the heads of the McClains ended up as decorations on a pike; Ronald McClain, eldest brother of Douglas and Thomas, survived Culloden, minus an arm, and accompanied Prince Charles back to France and exile. Spending a few years in France, Ronald, finally struck out for Sweden, forming a partnership with August Vasa, a fur and timber merchant.

August was descended from the great Gustav Vasa, 'Lion of the North', who led the national uprising in 1523 against the Danish, driving them from the country and being elected king; thus founding the Vasa dynasty which ruled Sweden until 1751. Ronald eventually married Emily Vasa, youngest sister of August, forever joining the McClain and Vasa families together. In the following decades the Vasa-McClain Trading Co. became one of Europe's greatest merchant companies, in time acquiring a small fleet of clipper ships and establishing trade routes into Africa, India and America.

Unlike the McClains of the past, McClain-Vasa managed to avoid entanglements in the many European wars that followed, instead concentrating on creating greater profits for the family; and despite the historical tensions between Russia and Sweden, they were able to strike up many a trade deal with the tsars and the Zhukovsky's. With the birth of modern Sweden and the domination of industrial development, the House of McClain-Vasa, along with the country went from strength to strength. After World War II, Vincent McClain-Vasa returned to the United Kingdom and in lengthy court proceedings managed to claim back some of the McClain ancestral land. Making his home in both Edinburgh and Stockholm, Vincent set about establishing the next chapter of the McClain-Vasa family. He had married Duchess Sarah Haakon, from Norway, in 1931; a union that gave birth to one son, Eric, and two daughters, Matilda and Juliana.

Juliana was born two years after her sister in 1933; a quiet and reserve child, she grew up in a world of luxury and private schools. Shielded from the everyday realities of the outside world, Juliana would be considered a pampered child, and while this is true she certainly didn't hide herself away from the troubles of the world as she grew into a strikingly beautiful woman with delicate and porcelain like features. Although not having too many interests in life, her two great passions were reading and classical music; in particular Mendelssohn and Chopin; her favourite piece of music was the overture for "A Midsummer Night's Dream". She simply adored the four slow chords for woodwinds that set up the magical moonlit scene; the music transporting her away from this world to another. Juliana's father didn't appreciate his daughter's love of music; Vincent was a practical man, all business, all work and no play. Thankfully Juliana's mother encouraged her daughter's interest. In many ways Juliana was not cut out to be the daughter of a wealthy and royal family, nor the wife of a Villon; she is a gentle soul and in reality would be more at home working in a library.

She had just turned twenty-one when she was introduced to Christophe Villon. Juliana was well aware that her father wanted her to marry into the Villon family. Masha Zhukovsky-Villon had kept up strong ties with the McLain-Vasa family, and despite the communist takeover of Russia, the Vasa-McClain Trading Co. had kept its dealings in the Soviet Union, thus giving Masha an inlet into her former homeland. Juliana didn't like Christophe at first, she found him moody and self centred, but as they spent more time together she came to believe that Christophe's melancholy was due to his sad upbringing; and always one to feel an empathy to others and to help them out, Juliana opened her heart to him, sure that she could bring some happiness and love into his life.

She couldn't have made a worse mistake.

Christophe's sadness was due to the loss of Sophia Froberger to Henry Ravenscroft, he didn't want to marry anyone else, especially this wisp of a girl called Juliana; but his mother wanted this marriage, and Christophe would never disobey her, she had been the one constant in his life, the one strength he could always count on, the one person who would never betray him.

"Why do I have to marry her?" Christophe asks in an almost shock tone of voice when Masha had first suggested it.

They were sitting in the sun room of Grimstone Manor, their regular sit down to afternoon tea and scones had suddenly taken a nasty turn.

"She hails from good stock;" Masha speaks as if she were talking about cattle, "the joining of our house to theirs will greatly increase our power in Eastern Europe and Asia."

"I might as well go down to the stock yard, it would be cheaper."

"Please, control yourself," Masha says in a quiet but firm manner.

"But mama, she is so vacuous a person. We have nothing in common. Surely there must be somebody else?"

"Yes, well, Sophia Froberger is no longer available, and it's about time you put that little slut behind you."

Christophe looks with a stunned expression at his mother as if he had just been slapped across the face.

"What else," Masha continues, "do you call someone who gave you up, tossed you away for a Ravenscroft?" She almost chokes on the last word. "Oh I know you cared for her, but I think if you examine your feelings more thoroughly you'll see that it was lust and not love."

"How can you say that?"

"It's a truism if ever there was one. Don't forget who you are and where you come from, and stop acting like some moonstruck maid, you're a Villon and a Zhukovsky, by God." Masha's words penetrate deep into her son's psyche.

"There might have been lust between us, but for me there was also love. And now, she is with him and that thought more than any other is a harsh burden to bear. And not to be the one to possess her - it weighs heavily on me."

Seeing the pain in her son's voice, Masha reaches out and embraces him to her bosom as if he were still a child. "In time my love you will possess everything that has been stolen from us, and in the meantime you shall take everything from the Ravenscrofts bit by bit until they kneel at your feet bloodied, broken and beaten, but we must be careful, and we must be shrewd, this alliance is just another step along the road to victory. You don't have to love this woman, but she will give you heirs and her family will give us greater strength against our enemies." Masha's words are both soothing and yet there is a cold detachment to them.

"Alright mama we'll do it your way."

The wedding of Juliana McClain-Vasa and Christophe Villon took place in a small chapel on the McClain ancestral home in Scotland. Rose Chapel dated back to the fourteenth century, its walls and pillars exquisitely carved by master masons, filled with Masonic and Templar symbolisms. Unlike the more joyous ceremony of Henry and Sophia, this marriage was steeped in the ancient traditions of the highlands and the Celts. Amongst the more standard vows were also uttered prays in Gaelic to the ancient Celtic kings and blessings upon the union of two holy and royal families _. "If there is righteousness in the heart, there will be beauty in the character. If there is beauty in the character, there will be harmony in the home. If there is harmony in the home, there will be order in the nation. If there is order in the nation, there will be peace in the world. So let it be."_ The Priest utters an ancient Scottish blessing. As man and woman became husband and wife the silence outside is broken by the clear loud sounds of bagpipes, heralding the beginning of something special and the joining of two noble clans.

The wedding night was spent in the recently refurbished McClain castle. A Medieval style feast was held in the Great Hall. Afterwards Christophe and Juliana spent the night in the lord's chamber. Throughout their engagement Christophe had played his part to perfection, being both charming and attentive to Juliana, who had shown nothing but kindness to him. She believed more than ever that their union would be a happy one.

Yet when she took Christophe inside her for the first time she realised that perhaps she has made a terrible mistake. There was no warmth in the lovemaking, it was just cold lust. And although she couldn't be completely certain, she could swear that she heard him mutter the name Sophia as he lay with her.

In the first few months of their marriage, Juliana put her doubts aside, telling herself that they were still getting to know each other, but no matter how much she tries to convince herself otherwise, the warmth and love she desperately looks for in her husband, didn't appear. By the time she woke up it was too late, she couldn't leave him as the Villon's now had a sizeable chunk of her family's business holdings, and any divorce would be catastrophic for her family; furthermore she was pregnant with the first of their three children. For better or worse Juliana was trapped in a loveless marriage.

From the years 1956 to 1960 three children were born to Christophe and Juliana. The first was Edmonde Jacques Yuri Villon ( _Hades_ ); the second was Sebastian Christophe Michael Villon ( _Poseidon_ ); and the youngest was Eleanor Marion Louise Villon ( _Hera_ ). While Christophe saw the fathering of his children as a duty so as to keep the Villon family line going, Juliana, although seeing it the same way, only with a difference, she would give her kids love, for she knew they would not find it with Christophe. She may not feel the emotion with her husband but she was determined her children would feel it with their mother. But the actual conceiving of the children wasn't always done with consent.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England, September 1959

A heavy rain pelts Grimstone Manor. A bleak storm has settled in upon the moor. Night engulfed the land. The full moon is unable to pierce through the black clouds. A perfect evening for the powers of evil to be exultant. Only a few lights blaze in the windows, one showing the figure of Christophe staring out the large bay window of the library, an empty glass in his hand and a half empty bottle of whiskey nearby. Christophe often stood at this window to stare out at the moor, enjoying its solitude. But tonight he could barely see beyond the light emanating from the library, the covering of darkness was thick.

The miserable weather mirrors Christophe's mood. It has been a bad week. A multimillion dollar business deal had gone sour. Worse of all 'Ravenscroft Holdings' was involved. For weeks he has been negotiating the takeover of Bank West only to have the U.S. Congress veto the deal, influenced by the Federal Reserve and its deputy chairman: Henry Ravenscroft.

"Damn him to hell." The curse is spoken softly but still the words seem to shatter the silence of the room. The last couple of years Christophe had been plotting and undermining the Ravenscrofts whenever possible and still there was not much to show for his efforts. It was time for Christophe to change tactics. _The best way to undercut any business or body for that matter...was from within_. Christophe knows he will have to really start using all his cunning and guile over the ensuing years. It was time to begin removing a few pieces from the chessboard. The thought brings a sardonic grin to his lips. But it is quickly over taken by an image of Sophia making love to Henry Ravenscroft.

"Damnit...damn 'em...damn her."

Christophe pours another drink and swallows the burning liquid down his gullet in one foul swoop.

He quickly pours another. He feels a slight throbbing in his temple, no doubt from the booze, but he has been feeling it off and on over the last few weeks and although he tries not to give it much thought, he couldn't help but wonder whether it was the beginning of the cursed Villon madness.

"Surely not yet?" He questions to himself. And just as quickly dismisses the notion. _If he were to get it, it would not be now, that will be something he will have later in life to look forward to_. In the meantime there was too much work left to be done.

Yet again he sees the image of his lost Sophia in the arms of his enemy and he is suddenly filled with rage and anger. But beneath the torment he feels a stirring in his loins as the delicious and delectable memories of fucking Sophia come flooding back like a dam bursting its banks. His senses are abruptly filled with the taste of her lips, her breasts and that most delightful part of her of all. He desperately wants her but he could never have her now. She was gone. He sculls the glass of whiskey in an attempt to blot out these feelings as the bulge in his pants begins to throb.

Juliana has just slipped into her nightie and was about to get into bed when Christophe enters the master bedroom.

"I was just about to turn in," Juliana tells him. He doesn't answer; instead he just stares mutely at her. "Well, I'm going to bed." Julian turns her back on him to turn down the quilt. She has grown use to her husband's silence; it seems that they rarely spoke to each other these days. She felt his breath on the back of her neck first, followed by the unmistakable smell of whiskey, he was reeking of it. She goes to turn back around but instead finds herself flung face down onto the bed. Her shock quickly turns to fear when her arms are roughly pulled back behind her.

"Christophe please," she pleads. Her eyes go wide as she sees Christophe's fingers removing the cord from the bed curtain and feels her hands being tied up. "Christophe...not like this...please... no."

Her protests go unheard.

"Shut up," he roars at her.

Julian wants to cry out but doesn't.

She feels her nightie lifted up over her hips. Her shoulder lengthy silky blonde hair is grabbed like the reins of a horse. She wants to scream but she doesn't want the servants to know of this, or her family, or her two little babies in the nursery that is only a couple of rooms away. Tears well up in her eyes. Christophe spreads her legs and inserts himself brutally inside of her from behind. The pain of the violation shatters her body. As the momentum of his thrusting grows faster and faster, Juliana, burries her face deep into the blanket, trying not to yell or call out, praying for it to be over quickly; but her prayers will not be answered, for Christophe is in no hurry.

As Christophe pounds his wife like a dog in heat he feels no sympathy for her. What he does feel are all the injustices he believes done to him; the loss of Sophia; the killing of his father; the Ravenscrofts; the Zhukovsky's and the bloody Villon curse. The pain in his head was now like the beating of a drum. He thinks his brain is about to explode. And yet all the hurt, all the hatred and anger was quickly overwhelmed by the sexual pleasure he felt at dominating totally and completely another.

Before this night was over Christophe Villon will rape his wife several times. And in thus a manner was his daughter, Eleanor, conceived.

Paris, 1962

Julius Froberger was a bundle of nerves as he stood atop the Eiffel Tower. Even though it was a warm and sunny afternoon, the wind at this height had a chilly bite to it. He stands near the viewing binoculars waiting; a few tourists stare out at the city of light, admiring the sights. Julius' eyes however, were looking in the opposite direction at the man approaching him, with that familiar casual stride of his, as if he were taking a friendly stroll in the park.

"Hello Julius," Christophe says with a smile that rivals the Cheshire Cat.

Julius was on holiday in the South of France when he got a call from his former friend. He had already passed on a couple of bits of minor information about the Ravenscrofts business dealings in the past couple of years; nothing major, and he was sure this would be the same, but that didn't stop him from being filled with a sense of foreboding.

"I've always like the view from up here," Christophe says as he looks out, "it makes you feel like a god, staring down at the insects crawling on the surface of the earth below. What fools these mortals are." He turns and looks at Julius, his eyes almost scintillating. "You look pale; I trust you aren't coming down with a nasty bug. You know what they say, if you don't have your health, you don't have anything. Take what happened to poor George Walker Jr., such a tragedy, so sudden. That's why you must always look after yourself."

"Thanks for the concern, but I'm fine." Julius' disquietude begins to increase. George Walker Jr's recent death of heart disease surprised everyone, giving his young age, although cardiac conditions did run in the Walker family. Julius sincerely hopes that Christophe was just messing with his head; he excelled at these types of games.

"A gift to help cheer you up," Christophe grins once more. He hands Julius a medium sized square flat box with a red ribbon on it. The carton was similar to the ones you receive from a dress shop. Julius slowly opens the lid, almost expecting something to jump out at him; instead he sees several black lotus flowers wrapped in tissue paper.

"I'll send you more as you need them," he tells a bemused looking Julius.

"Need them...for what?"

"A present from a secret admirer."

"For whom?" Julius questions.

Several weeks later Christophe was playing chess with Lord Rutherglen in the exclusive Phoenix Club in London when he receives the news of Sophia's attempted suicide. At first he felt sad and guilty, but it only lasts a moment or two... _after all she was still alive,_ not the result he was after but it will do. The sudden thought of what surely must be Henry Ravenscroft's dismay at what has happened to his wife, actually warms the cockles of his heart.

He orders another gin and tonic before returning his attention back to the game. As he studies the board a quote from the great German chess master, Emanuel Lasker pops into his head: " _In chess, as played by masters, chance is practically eliminated._ " Christophe smiles to himself, the game was just about to get a lot more interesting; _undermine the foundations and the walls will come tumbling down_.

"Check," he announces with glee to his opponent.

"Dash it all you're good," Lord Rutherglen bemoans.

Christophe grins.

Hugenberger meeting, Madrid, Spain, 1967

The tenth meeting of the Hugenberger was drawing to a close. The Hugenbergers were so named after the first gathering back in 1957 at the Hugenberger Hotel in Dusseldorf Germany. It has become a regular occurrence, a yearly meeting at an expensive hotel in a different city every year. Considered a think tank, the meetings were never reported by the media; set up by the banking and royal families, it was used as an opportunity to discuss and plan financial strategies. The first couple of years it was mainly only the heads of the central banks of the west that attended; but it has now grown into so much more than a mere blueprint for setting fiscal policy. The elite have begun inviting selected politicians and political advisers, finance ministers, ambassadors, captains of industry, executives, media owners, military, religious, world leaders and educationalists. Over a three day period these people would meet to decide the future of the world, dictating the policies and agendas that countries should take both internally and internationally. All designed to covertly bring about 'The Work of Ages'.

Christophe Villon sits on the balcony of the ambassador suite of the palatial Hotel Medina next to an ill looking Charles Ravenscroft. Christophe hadn't attended any of the meetings for the first five years, although he had representatives appear for him, making sure that Banque Villon's interests were looked after. And regardless of the bad blood between the two families, in the end the great work always came first...well in theory anyway.

"I spoke to the PM on the dog and bone and he'll be addressing the House tomorrow," Gordon Baxter, a political adviser for the British Government, says as he sits between the two financial giants.

"Good, we have to get this Eastern European policy right, the sabre rattling is starting to get too intense," Charles says in a scratchy voice.

"At least we can all agree on that," Christophe adds.

"Yes," Charles concurs, followed by a poisonous sounding cough.

"You sound terrible," Christophe adds, shooting Charles a look of fake concern.

"I'll be fine."

But Charles' appearance says otherwise.

Christophe knew full well that the cancer was eating away Charles' stomach and that he was certain that the current head of the Ravenscrofts family would be dead before the year was up, and that his son, Henry, would be in charge by Christmas. Christophe has taken the last couple of days to make reconciliatory advances between them. It was all a ruse of course; it was all Christophe could do to stop himself from strangling the old bastard, just being in the same room as a Ravenscroft made him nauseous; _but needs must when the devil drives_.

"Well, I best be off, or I'll miss my flight," Gordon says. He excuses himself, making his way pass the two bodyguards as he exits the room.

"What a fucking toad of a man," Christophe announces after Gordon has left.

"And weak willed - the best kind of patsy," Charles replies, "by the way; I intend to talk to Henry about what we've spoken about."

"That's all I ask."

"Yes, well, don't get your hopes up, my boy's got a stubborn streak to him, and it'll take time to put the past forty years behind us - if at all," Charles tells Christophe in a torpor manner. He was starting to feel very tired and it wasn't from lack of sleep.

"There's no general rule without some exception."

"And a waterfall begins with a single drop, right."

Christophe smiles inwardly, _undermine the foundations and the walls will fall_ , the thought again races through his mind. His scheming was going well, in no time he would have the Ravenscrofts uncertain about his true motives, keeping them guessing about whether he is sincere or not; divide and conquer as the Roman maxim went. For the first time in many years Christophe felt good, he knew that he would win, and as far as he was concerned there isn't a Ravenscroft alive who could best him.

1969

Masha sits comfortably in first class on the British Airways jet thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. Her trip to Colorado to see Doctor Schutzbar has been fruitful, and her treatment would continue in his Swiss clinic. The therapy has already shown positive results. Now at seventy years of age, Masha still only looks as if she were in her fifties and her figure was still there, although these days it was helped by a specially designed form-fitting, flesh-coloured foundation garment that kept everything in just the right place. She has always taken care of herself and has always been in good health, but being healthy on the inside was completely different to looking healthy on the outside. Although she could afford to receive the best medical attention money could buy, age came to everyone. She may not be able to halt father time but she was damn well going to fight him.

Her battle wasn't going to be waged just through plastic surgery alone, her wealth and position gave her access to more radical and cutting edge technology. Doctor Schutzbar was the leading expert in the radical and uncharted world of gene therapy. Much of his research fell out of the jurisdiction of the medical establishment. The good doctor began his research in the concentration camps and had been brought into the U.S. under 'Operation Paperclip', which involved the smuggling of Nazi scientists into America to work for the government against the growing threat of the Soviet Union. In no time at all Doctor Schutzbar found himself setting up a clinic in America and Europe, and receiving the patronage of many wealthy and influential people; including Masha who had contributed considerable funds to his research.

Masha is determined to continue on living for a long time to come, and her will to achieve this was fierce. She wasn't going through this pain just to keep her looks, but rather for her need for revenge and retribution. The fact that she has just met the young master Ravenscroft by chance was unexpected, but in that brief encounter she saw two things, first, she saw a fearlessness in him that she admires, a strength that will make him a worthy advisory in time; secondly, for a moment she thought she saw the look of her son in him. And slowly a question forms in her mind, a question whose possible answer led to a startling revelation, a startling possibility: _could Zane Ravenscroft be a Villon!_

She suppose it was possible however unlikely; and even if it were true she could never prove it, and she dare not broach the subject with Christophe, who was beginning to demonstrate signs of irrational behaviour like his father. But in the end whether Zane is a Villon or not, he's been brought up a Ravenscroft and therefore will seek the demise of the opposition.

Masha was unexpectedly gripped with fear.

And a sudden sensation that young Zane would be their greatest threat, an obstacle to the ultimate prize and an impediment to her vengeance. The more she thinks about him, the more she comes to believe that perhaps it would be better if he were taken out of the picture all together.

"Something to think about," she says in a sotto voice.

In the meantime Masha has other concerns, troubles closer to home: namely her daughter-in-law. Juliana has suffered greatly at the hands of her son and now, finally, she was actually contemplating leaving him, a fact she confided to Masha only a week ago. Masha was a close confidant of Juliana, in fact her only avenue to talk to about her feelings of grief. Masha had of course cultivated this relationship after the obvious troubles within their marriage. She hoped and prayed that they would have grown closer together in time, but it wasn't to be; no matter how many quiet words she had with her son. Just talking about his wife to him brought such anger to his eyes, he sired three children, he obeyed his mother's wishes, and now as far as he was concerned he had done his duty.

Masha hasn't regretted for a moment forcing this marriage on her son, the extra power and strength they have gained in the last few years has proven her correct. She couldn't allow their marriage to officially be over, that would show weakness, a sign of disunity in the ranks, an opportunity for the enemy. Masha has gotten a promise from Juliana not to do anything until she got back; the only reason that she was showing some backbone now was due to the recent death of her father and the ill health of her mother. Juliana was of the opinion that when her mother was gone that she would no longer have to fulfil her obligations.

"I've had enough," Juliana had told Masha only last week.

Masha was in the greenhouse attending to her Venus Flytraps, delicately feeding them dead bugs, when a distressed Juliana came to her.

"I'm so miserable, there's nothing for me here," Juliana goes on with.

"What about the children?" Masha asks. "Do you really think you could leave them?"

"They would come with me."

"There's no guarantee of that."

"What do you mean?" Julian questions. "No court of law would give your son custody; you know that, not after what he's done."

"I put no faith in the law, Juliana; you know full well that Christophe will throw the full weight of his resources at you," Masha says in that quiet and firm tone of hers, knowing full well that the loss of the children is the best card she can play.

"You could speak to him; surely we can work something out."

"Perhaps."

"He doesn't care for them. Only yesterday he took the strap to Edmonde, I thought he was going to flay him alive," Juliana's voice breaks and tears soon follow. Masha gently takes her daughter-in-law into her arms to sooth her. "I don't know what else to do?" The despair in Juliana's voice is clearly evident.

"Don't worry about it, we'll work something out, together you and I, we'll find a solution. You just have to give me a little more time."

"Alright," Juliana sniffles, "but I'm afraid of what he will do, his temper is getting worse."

Turbulence buffeting the plane brings Masha's thoughts back to the present. She still hadn't figured out what to do, but come what may there was no way in hell that she would allow this marriage to end, or even consider the possibility of losing the grandchildren – _it just wasn't going to happen_.

"Till death do you part."

The only question for Masha now became how far she would have to go to keep the family intact.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Juliana kisses Eleanor goodnight. She has just finished reading to her; even at age nine her daughter still likes her mother to tell her a story before bedtime. Juliana didn't mind, she enjoys it, she has always encouraged her children to read, and out of them all Eleanor had proven the most receptive.

"Sweet dreams," Juliana whispers lovingly patting her daughter's head, and giving her another kiss. She turns off the bedside lamp and goes to leave.

"Mummy," Eleanor's sweet sounding voice reaches her mother's ears.

"You should be asleep," Juliana turns back to her daughter.

"Are you okay?"

The question, asked with such innocence, leaves Juliana mute.

"I know you're sad mummy."

"Hey, what kind of talk is that?" Juliana finding her voice at last. "Mummy's not sad; I've got you and your brothers, mummy's very happy sweetheart." The words almost choke in her mouth, but she has gotten good over the years at keeping up appearances in front of the children.

"Then why do you cry so much?" Eleanor questions. Juliana looks more intently at her daughter, seeing the intelligence behind those deep blue eyes, in many ways Eleanor has always seemed to be older than her years; she was definitely smarter than her brothers.

"My, you're just full of questions tonight, aren't you?" Juliana says. "But I tell you what, you stop worrying your pretty little head over such things, I'm alright and everything is going to be fine. Now get some sleep," Juliana gives Eleanor another kiss, only this one seems to linger longer than the previous; something Eleanor will always remember.

Eleanor watches her mother quietly exits her room pulling the door shut behind her. It is the last time she would ever see her again.

On the other side of the closed door Juliana struggles to fight back the tears. She has to keep her strength for the task ahead. If she didn't leave now then there would only be one other way that she could escape. She has thought about it a lot lately, but has always dismissed the idea of taking her own life.

Gathering her composure, Eleanor makes her way down the corridor. A deathly quiet pervades the household, outside not even a night bird could be heard in the darkness. It has been a tough couple of days; Masha arrived back yesterday and that same night Juliana had informed her mother-in-law that she was leaving; and that she was going to take the children with her and that she would fight tooth and nail for them. Masha had tried to convince her not to do anything rash, to give her more time to handle things, but Juliana was out of time. She recalls the look on Masha's face when she told her that if either she or Christophe wanted to try and stop her she would notify the police and bring abuse charges against her husband.

"Just let me take the children, without Christophe knowing, and then we can work something out," she had pleaded to Masha.

"This isn't the way, Juliana," Masha replied.

But Julian wouldn't hear of it.

"You've always been a friend to me and I've looked upon you as another mother, and I'm begging you to help me and in my heart of hearts I know you will. I'm running out of options and each day I'm becoming more desperate."

In the end, Masha agreed, almost too quickly for Juliana's liking. But this day had gone by and nothing was said. Christophe was leaving for London in the morning and he hadn't mentioned anything. He would be gone for several days during which time Juliana intended to leave Grimstone forever. As she reached one of the guest rooms, which she had moved into several months ago, much to Christophe's liking; who like his father was now taking the servant girls into his bed, and having his wife out of the way was a blessing; she is filled with a sudden heaviness of the heart as she wonders _whether she could ever really escape_. Even if she got away _, how far would Christophe take this and if things went bad for him what would he be willing to do to stop her?_ She knew only full well the horrors he was capable of inflicting.

Juliana once more feels herself falling into depression. She shuts the bedroom door behind her and plops down on the bed, overwhelmed with the weight of her burdens pressing down upon her. Despair gives way to sadness and the unhappiness gives way to utter hopelessness. The strength she has built up seems to melt away and she now wonders if she could actually go through with it and that perhaps she should consider another way out.

Juliana's body was discovered the next morning, lying face down in a pool of blood on the garden pavement beneath her window. In time the coroner would rule it a freak accident; Juliana having tripped on the rug while going to close the window and accidently stumbled out of it and plunged to her death. The fact that the judge and the police commissioner were well and truly in the pockets of the Villon's meant that a verdict of suicide would never be arrived at. And so the story was accepted; but amongst the servants of Grimstone they quietly whispered that Juliana had in fact been murdered. They of course had no proof, only the word of one of the chamber maids who, having spent most of that night in bed with the master claimed that when she was leaving, and going down the back stairs, she observed Masha leaving Juliana's room. Although the gossip never went beyond the servants, in the weeks that followed many found themselves dismissed from the employ of the Villons; and as for the young chambermaid, she was brought up on charges of theft and spent five years in jail, always claiming that she had been framed. And in one of those quirky coincidences, a year after being release from prison, the chamber maid was killed while crossing a road in a hit and run, the driver of the car was never found.

1970 - 1976

Whether murder, accident, or suicide, Christophe didn't show any interest one way or the other; in the weeks after his wife's death he celebrated; one less problem in his life. For many months he started going to the notorious swinger parties of London; the get-togethers put on for the rich and famous, a celebration of decadence. The gatherings were fuelled by drugs, sex and alcohol and Christophe dabbled in them all, although he was no tyro at this game, and it was at this time that he has a brief dalliance with a certain ageing Princess, well known for her deviant appetites. Christophe lost himself in this world of decay for a brief time, forgetting the world around him, letting himself disregard family and duty, instead succumbing to the pleasures of the senses; sex was always a powerful tool to be used amongst the elite, both for themselves and to control others.

With his needs satisfied and his thirst quenched, Christophe returns to the world of high finance, revitalized and reborn, his mind once more in a perspicacious state. Those around him notice immediately a new hunger in him, a desire to scale even greater heights. In the next few years Christophe steers Banque Villon into a better position of power, filling the coffers to overflowing, putting the bank into a posture for post Vietnam War, striking deals overtly and covertly with certain factions and governments within the Australasian region, as well as investing heavily in the technology industries. A recent futures report from the 'Thand Organisation', commissioned by the Hugenbergers, indicated the rapid growth potential in this field over the next twenty years.

All the while he continues to make peace with his enemies, lulling them into a false sense of security, although Henry Ravenscroft was proving a hard man to convert, but Christophe didn't mind, he would remove him from the board when the time was right; and the clandestine reports showed that he has Henry second guessing himself about the motives of Banque Villon.

In point of fact Christophe begins to focus his attention more towards Zane, not directly, but he did keep tabs on him, getting updates from his spies. Christophe knew, that Zane, being the only child to Henry and Sophia, the only direct heir to the throne of the Ravenscroft kingdom, meant that if he were removed from the game, it would be a great body blow to the opposition. And so the idea of killing Zane begins to formulate in his mind, planted there by his mother, Masha, of course; _it would have to be done delicately, there could be no suspicion of foul play, this one would definitely have to look like an accident_.

But Christophe was hesitant, he knew that Zane would have to be dealt with at some time, but he would prefer to take Henry out first, then the son, he felt that it was more sporting that way, more challenging, and Christophe simply adores a challenge that tested him.

"All good things," he would tell himself whenever the notion of assassinating Zane pops into his head, "come to those ..."

# Chapter 12

St. Vincent's Hospital, Boston, 1976

Zane is in pain.

He should be dead. He knows he is damn lucky to be alive. He lies on the bed in the private room of St. Vincent's hospital. It was four days since the car accident. Zane had suffered a broken left hand shoulder and arm, a fractured left tibia, several crack vertebrates and a heavy concussion to the side of the head. He was expected to spend the next seven to eight months in therapy.

Aunt Margaret was the first to see him; having been in town to visit him when the accident happened; and once out of surgery had stayed by his side throughout the day and night. She feared that she would lose him, a thought that sent her cold, the death of Zane she couldn't bear, he had become like a son to her; and never one for prayer, Margaret nonetheless offered up several.

"Oh my boy, you scared the living daylights out of me," she says in tears when Zane finally came to, "if anything happens to you - I would die. You mean so much to me."

"I'm sorry," he tells her in a crack and dry voice.

"You know how much I love you, don't you."

"I know." If he was honest; he probably loved his aunt more than his mother.

The main reason Zane survived the deadly accident was Jimmy McKay, who took the full brunt of the oncoming van acting like an air bag for Zane. The emergency workers took over an hour to cut Zane from the wreckage and in that time as he floated in and out of consciousness the one thing he would never forget was Jimmy McKay's severed head in his lap. The quarterback was killed instantly on impact, covering Zane in a shower of his crimson blood.

Zane felt an overwhelming sadness at the thought of his dead friend, whose life was cut short, while he still breathed. Once more he had survived by the skin of his teeth, cheating the grim reaper out of its prize, outwitting the devil of one more soul. Even in his medicated state Zane couldn't help but wonder about providence, a protective force – God or nature – overseeing his life. And if that was the case then surely he did have a destiny.

But there was something else lurking at the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch, a thought dangling just out of arms reach – was his Porsche 911 sabotaged? It appears that the accident was caused by the brake fluid hose snapping off, nothing suspicious, just one of those unexpected things that do occur; of course the speed Zane was travelling at didn't help the situation. But the one thing that bugged Zane the most was the fact that he only had the car serviced a week ago and it had gotten a clean bill of health. He also reasons that it's possible that the mechanic was negligent in his job, and it's also not unheard of for a brand new hose to come loose in a car engine.

Still his doubts remain unconfirmed one way or the other.

Ignoring the pain throughout his broken body, Zane continues his train of thought. _If it was just an accident, so be it, but if it wasn't, the question then becomes who? Who would do such a thing?_ And the answer is obvious – _the enemies of his family_ – and although there is no doubt there are many, the only ones bold enough would be the Villons; using a third party - but still they would have given the orders.

"Shit," he mumbles to no one in particular.

He realises there is no proof and that he might just be letting his imagination getting the better of him. But whatever the case may be, Zane decides that's it's better to assume the worse, which leads him to contemplate the future. If they attacked him now then surely they will try again sometime. Even if the next attempt is years away he will have to start being more on guard, avoiding the opposition's parry and disrobement; which in fencing terms refers to a reaction to the opponent's attempt to entrap, beat, press or take the blade. Zane realises that he'll have to start treating the whole thing like a fencing match, which, fortunately, he is a champion at. All he needs now is to know who the challenger is, but he already knows the answer even before thinking the question. But first he needs to get his mind, body and spirit well; then he can advance onto the front foot and take the fight to the foe.

Zane begins to feel himself drifting off, his mind becoming befuddled and drowsy from the pain medication. He closes his eyes and lets the soothing embrace of sleep overtake him. It was time for rest and recuperation.

# Chapter 13

Alexandria, Virginia, 1980

A clear night covers Washington's Grand Lodge atop Shuter's Hill near King Street and the Old Town district.

Tonight, a king in waiting was been initiated.

The George Washington National Memorial is a place dedicated to the memory of George Washington, the first president of the United States, and a Mason. The great tower of the lodge is fashioned after the Lighthouse of Alexandria in ancient Egypt, in part because of the common names of both cities and the Masonic interest in great buildings of the ancient world. There are ten floors from basement to the top; only select rooms are used for the public guided tour. The fourth, fifth, seventh, eighth and ninth are all furnished by Masonic appendant bodies, in particular the York Rite, Shrine, Grotto, and Tall Cedars of Lebanon. The First Floor contains three large, distinct areas: the Shrine Rooms, Assembly Hall, and Dining Rooms.

But it is the Assembly Hall, with its green granite columns eighteen feet tall, and the striking dioramas around the room depicting scenes from the life of George Washington, that is the centre of attention for the moment. Gathered in the hall, dressed in their Masonic outfits is a small but distinguished group of fellow Masons, including several world leaders, two kings, three ex and one current President, as well as several major power brokers. They are all enjoying a quiet drink in celebration of Zane Ravenscroft's ascension into the Rite of 33rd Degree Freemasonry; the highest, publically known, level of attainment within the order. In prominent attendance are both Henry Ravenscroft and Christophe Villon, both high ranking members of the Masonic Council, who must, in these hallowed halls, conceal their personal animosity.

Zane, at twenty-five years of age, has become the handsome, dashing, debonair and charismatic man he was always destined to be. His striking features and personality always drew the attention of others on entering a room. The last five years have been filled with trial, error and triumphs; after recovering from his car accident; he then took his place alongside his father at 'Ravenscroft Holdings', where he began to excel at the business of high finance, also coming to terms with the diverse resources of the company. Even though he had grown up amongst such wealth that only others could ever dream of; he too was amazed at the full extent of their empire. He had a few stumbles along the way, and no doubt there would be many more, but he always got to his feet, dusted himself off, and got on with the job, working his way through the problems.

As he has, and always would do.

And now here he is, taking his place amongst the other titans.

He was a little nervous during the opening ceremony as the Master of the Lodge; known as the Most Puissant Sovereign Grand Master, asks the puissant Lieutenant Grand Commander: "From when came you?" To which came the answer: "From the cradle, passing through life towards our common lot-the grave." And so the lodge was opened. The Master of the Lodge then orders the Grand Marshal to prepare the candidate. At which point Zane is divested of his shoes and clothed in a black robe, giving a lighted candle in his right hand; then with a black rope around his neck, he is led like a helpless animal to the council chamber.

Upon entering the chamber he is received by the image of a skeleton, someone actually attired in a skeleton suit. Zane was then told: "Your head is uncovered, your feet bare to remind you that you must ever be prepared to assist brethren in need, and free from the yoke of repression, which is symbolised by the black cable tow around your neck."

Zane is led around the room, conducted by two men with swords, as the degree was performed. Instructions and signs were given and the beliefs of the Masons were emphasised; light, wisdom, tolerance, freedom and courage. Upon the altar were four books, the Bible, the Koran, the Book of the Law, and the Hindu Scriptures; placed there to remind the candidate that Masonry recognizes and adopts none of the religions of the world.

At the end of the ceremony Zane swears an oath, giving utter and true allegiance to the Supreme Council of the 33rd Degree, above all others. Zane is then handed a chalice, containing wine. He holds the cup before his lips and utters: "May this wine I now drink become a deadly poison to me, as the Hemlock juice drunk by Socrates, should I ever knowingly or willingly violate my oath." He drinks the wine and the person dressed like a skeleton steps out of the shadows and throws his arms around him saying: "May these cold arms forever encircle you should you ever knowingly or willingly violate your oath."

"Amen," Zane replies.

_But now it was over_ , Zane thinks, as he stands in the Assembly Hall, soaking up the atmosphere. He looks at the small gathering realising just how much power was in this room, not the politicians, they were just lackeys, but the others, king makers all of them, and now Zane was one of them. He observes his father talking to the President, no doubt passing on vital advice on how to proceed with certain matters of state. Zane has become a lot closer to his father in the past couple of years since they have been working side by side, shoulder to shoulder, so to speak, wheeling and dealing. And Zane has come to love the power they could wield. It was like a drug, and addiction, starting out as nothing more than an indulgence, a pleasure to be savoured; but over time it grew and took hold on you until you wanted nothing else, it was a temptation hard to refuse and Zane had to fight it on many occasions.

It would be so easy to embrace it fully and completely like a lover that you can't get enough of, but Zane has other ideas, he wants to keep his eye on the whole picture, there was just too much at stake to be blinded by power and greed.

"Welcome to the brotherhood Mr. Ravenscroft," the hushed voice of Christophe touches his ear.

Zane turns in the direction the greeting comes from and beholds the man reputed to be the enemy of his family. One could easily be fooled by his lithe appearance and his apparent quiet nature, but they would be mistaken, for beneath the surface was a volcano ready to erupt. If you dare look deep enough into Christophe's Villon's eyes, you could see it, along with the lurking beast staring back out at you. This man chills Zane to the very bone.

"Thank you," Zane replies politely.

"No need, we're all brothers here," Christophe says, placing the left hand over his heart, giving the sign of the order, "God and my right."

"God and my right," Zane utters the sacred motto.

"Come, let us embrace." Before Zane can move or refuse, Christophe puts his arms around him and kisses him on either cheek. It is all Zane can do not to recoil in disgust. The image of the skeleton embracing him earlier pops back into his head like an unwanted visitor. It is a great relief to Zane when the embrace ends.

"There, that wasn't too bitter a _hors d'oeuvre_ for the pallet," Christophe gives a politicians grin. Zane is sure that he is looking at pure malice, a wolf in sheep's clothing, _after all even the devil can quote scripture for his purpose._

"Do you have any idea how wonderful it is to see you here tonight, upon this hallowed ground, taking your place amongst the immortals, the rulers of humanity," Christophe's hushed tone seems to vibrate throughout the hall. "It was only a few years ago that you were almost killed in that terrible car accident, but providence saved you, and here you are."

Another chill grips Zane's body as he suddenly realises that he could be standing next to the man who tried to kill him. His accident was still considered to be just that – an accident – no foul play or other cause responsible; and yet Zane still has his doubts. _Parry and thrust_ – _parry and thrust_ ; the fencing moves begin to turn over in Zane's mind.

"It would have been such a tragedy for us all had you been killed. I myself would have shed a tear at your passing. Instead I raised a glass when I heard the good news that you would live. By the way, I sent flowers, did you receive them?" Christophe asks in all sincerity.

"I don't recall," Zane replies, unsure of himself; which wasn't a part of his nature, but this man has him fending off the blade that would strike him. Zane desperately needs to change the engagement. But Christophe, being the master chess player that he is, is always two moves ahead.

"Oh well, I'll make sure to send some for your next birthday, we have some lovely lilies in the greenhouse at Grimstone at the moment. By the way, how's your mother, I hope she is well and in good health these days."

"She's fine, thank you," again Zane is almost lost for words. It was as if Christophe were casting a spell over him, taking away all his wits and senses.

"We use to know each other when we were very young and foolish. Oh, the things we did. But my, she was beautiful – and still is," he quickly adds, "but back then she was a vision, a goddess to be worshipped. But the hand of age does tap all of us on the shoulder, does it not. Beauty and dreams fade with age. Cherish your youth young Zane, for you are only young once, after that you merely think you are."

Zane now doesn't know what to make of this man before him. He can see the evil intent in him, and yet there is also a genuine sadness, as if he lost a part of himself a long time ago, that he wants desperately to find once more, but knows that he never will. Zane begins to feel sorry for him, and although he didn't know why, he suddenly and unexpectedly feels a strange connection to him and empathy for him. But such feelings are momentarily as Christophe quickly puts his mask back on.

"Please, forgive my _mauvaise_ moment."

"That's quite alright."

"You don't say much, do you, or is it just me? Believe me young Ravenscroft when I tell you that the devil is not as black as his painted to be. The past deeds of our families do not have to dictate our future," Christophe tells Zane in a neutral manner.

Zane is more confused than ever.

"Is everything alright here?" The strong voice of Henry Ravenscroft breaks the spell.

"Yes," Christophe speaks up, "young Zane and I were just getting to know one another better."

"Yes," Zane adds overjoyed at the life line thrown to him by his father.

"A most auspicious night Henry is it not."

"It is at that."

The animosity between these two men is clearly visible. But in this place they would be civil to one another. To many, it actually seems that the hostilities between the two noble houses might actually end, as Christophe has been making overtures of reconciliation in the last few years.

But that had taken a sever beaten at last year's Hugenberger meeting in Dublin, in which Henry and Christophe had a major falling out over their involvement in the Middle-East, in particular Russia's recent invasion of Afghanistan. Although Zane wasn't present he had heard how old wounds were opened, as a simple discussion on policy making quickly deteriorated into a virtual slanging match that almost came to physical blows.

It seems that there was still a long way to go before there could be peace between the Villon's and Ravenscroft's. The continuing hostilities among the two factions was now beginning to cause real concern amongst the other families, as old alliances were being broken and new ones formed, as all concerned try to hitch their wagon to what they hope would be the winning team. New battlelines were being drawn, the troops were being marshalled, and everyone was holding their collected breath. They all knew that the situation would have to be resolved sooner or later for the greater good. The question now became how much collateral damage would be done in the resolution of the conflict.

"Anyway," Christophe continues, "it was so good to finally meet you Zane. I trust our future dealings will be as pleasant, and not as turbid as the past."

"That remains to be seen," Henry tells Christophe with barely contained contempt. He then turns his attention to his son. "Come, Zane, it's time."

"Yes it is," Christophe adds knowingly.

# Chapter 14

'The Work of Ages'

Castle Wolfen, Bavaria, 1789

Michel Villon stood beneath the flickering candle chandelier in the middle of the Great Hall of Castle Wolfen, high up in the Bavarian Alps. Seated at the tables around him were seven other men, all dressed in finery and all exuding power, authority and regality. The remnant of a scrumptious feast is still present in front of them. A large log burns brightly and with intensity within the blackened, long and deep fireplace. Outside a bitter snow grips the countryside and around the corners of the castle the wind howls like a Banshee.

"A toast!" Michel shouts with a fire in his belly and a light in his eye. "To 'The Work of Ages' and its beginning." The Villon raises his gold goblet and leads the others in a glorious toast for all those concerned.

"Tonight," he continues as wine drips down his chin, "we commence the start of a wonderful dream and a design, a work, breathtaking in its scope, the like of which has never been attempted before, apart from Alexander and Caesar; but where they failed, we will succeed. We eight dedicate ourselves and our bloodlines to the creation of a new order, of a world under one rule, one currency. We shall achieve this by any means necessary, through covert or overt means, through revolutions, war, religion, education, and above all economics. The journey will not be a short one, let's make no mistake, the road will be long, arduous and there will be much travail."

He grins wickedly.

"But others will join us along the way, at the moment we are but eight families, but in time we shall obtain the sacred number – thirteen bloodlines to rule the world. We're the shepherds who will herd the flock into the corral, into the slaughterhouse and they will go willingly. There is much chaos, anarchy and decadence in the world, all tools that we can exploit to our advantage, but out of chaos comes order, out of order comes the illuminated ones." Michel raises his arms to indicate all those gathered before him, their mouths almost watering at the taste of his words. "I give you the Illumnati!"

They all stand in unison to toast the birth of the Illumnati and 'The Work of Ages'. Michel is breathing heavily as he stares intently at each person gathered in the hall. "And now we cement our pact and woe to any who attempts to obstruct the work of the gods on earth."

At the end of this speech a naked peasant girl from one of the nearby villages is wheeled into the Great Hall, by two black hooded ruffians, on a wooden trolley, her feet and arms secured by leather bindings. She is barely seventeen or eighteen and is not fully conscious having been drugged, a small blessing to be sure.

Michel turns to the sacrifice and without hesitation or seemingly a moment's thought of regret or sorrow, he takes a two-bladed ruby encrusted dagger and plunges it into the girl's chest. But in her dazed state-of-mind she doesn't scream or cry out, and only lets out a soft moan while her life ebbs away. Then one by one, the other members of the newly created Illumnati come up to the trolley and each take their turn of plunging the dagger into the ritual sacrifice, sanctifying, in their own unbalanced minds, 'The Work of Ages', thereby locking themselves and their future descendants into the great work and the dark force behind it.

# Chapter 15

The Temple of Ages, Alexandria, Virginia, 1980

As if mirroring the original ceremony that took place nearly two hundred years ago, Zane finds himself in a similar proceeding. An hour after becoming a 33rd degree Mason, Zane was brought to The Temple of Ages, located in a nondescript building a mere stone's throw away from The George Washington National Memorial.

Zane kneels, head bowed, in a torch lit room whose ceiling is covered in stars and whose walls are painted with Illumnati symbols, from the pyramid to the all Seeing Eye as well as written prayers in hieroglyphs from ancient Egypt and Sumeria. Around him stand thirteen figures, all holding a single candle, the heads of the Illumnati families, their faces hidden by hooded red robes. Although Zane knows their identities, the public doesn't, it is a closely guarded secret. The ceremony was now more for tradition than anything else, although there was still a seriousness to it and to the commitment Zane was about to make; a commitment that once made could never be broken. Also, he doesn't know which ones they are, only that one of them is his father, Henry Ravenscroft, and another is Christophe Villon.

"Zane Ravenscroft," one of the hooded figures begins speaking, "you come before the sacred council of thirteen, and do you come by your own will?"

"Yes," Zane replies in a crystal clear voice.

"Then, by your own will, do you swear your allegiance to this council?"

"Without doubt or hesitation."

"Then, by your own will do you swear yourself and the resources of your family to the creation of 'The Work of Ages'?"

"My life and my bloodline do swear."

"Then contemplate now in silence at what you have pledged and consider all the ramifications should you succeed or fail, and the darkness that shall engulf you should you betray the sacred work."

One by one the thirteen robed figures snuff out their candles plunging the room and Zane into darkness.

Later that night, Christophe sits silently and deep in thought, aboard the luxury Villon private jet as it flies back across the Atlantic to England. Sitting on his gin and tonic, Christophe was in two minds; on the one hand he deeply respected the traditions and ceremonies of the Illumnati and what they stood for; and yet on the other hand, it was the height of hypocrisy, as those involved were mortal enemies. The noble bloodlines have taken sides, for or against the Villons or the Ravenscrofts, it didn't matter, whoever comes out on top would be the one to complete 'The Work of Ages', and that overrode everything – _but not revenge_.

As far as Christophe was concerned the Villons have a score to settle with the Ravenscrofts, a debt that could only be wiped clean by blood. A showdown was fast approaching and 'The Work of Ages' would only come to ultimate fruition when either the Ravenscrofts or the Villons were destroyed. Although great strides have been made in the last decade towards the final goal, in reality until this conflict is resolved it will only remain an elusive dream.

By the time the jet reaches the coastline of the United Kingdom, Christophe, has already formulated his next move in the great game of the elite.

While Christophe Villon was figuring out his next move, Zane lies fully awake on the king size bed of his hotel suite; unable to fall asleep as the night's proceedings were still churning over in his head. He was on such a high he almost felt like a god. There was no doubt now in his mind that his feet have been set firmly along the path of his destiny. He knew now that he was the one ordained to achieve everything that they have been striving and fighting for. The only thing that can prevent it from happening is their own stupidness, their own self destruction. The bad blood between the families was their greatest obstacle to overcome.

So Zane began thinking about ways of achieving this, ways without bloodshed, without a war.

"There has to be away," he calls out in the darkness, thinking to himself _that if there is away_ , _he will have to find it_ , and if not, _then he must be prepared to do what is necessary._

There was much planning for Zane to do.

As Niccolo Machiavelli said: " _War should be the only study of a prince. He should consider peace only as a breathing-time, which gives him leisure to contrive, and furnishes as ability to execute, military plans._ "

Zane begins to think like a general.

" _And thus, out of hatred born of cruelty, did Kronos strike down his father, Ouranos. Claiming rule over the Titans, Kronos took Rhea as his prize and their coupling did bring Zeus into the world."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

# Chapter 16

## "Rise of the Titans"

" _All the while unaware of Zeus, Kronos continued to rule over the Titans with an iron fist, smiting all who dare oppose him. And in like manner, he would display great brutality towards his children, Hera, Hades and Poseidon."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

Eleanor Villon, 1969 - 1983

Christmas 1969 was a miserable one for the nine year old Eleanor. Juliana, had only been dead a short time, and the loss of her dearly beloved mother, was still a hard burden to tolerate and endure. Her father seemed to be spending more and more time in London these days and was of no help, leaving his children in the care of their nanny and grandmother.

Masha has been a great comfort to the children since the death of their mother, especially Eleanor; even now their grandmother sits quietly and impassively in the corner of their play room reading a book, while Eleanor and her brothers played. Edmonde, the oldest, at age twelve, had suffered the most at the hands of their father, he has felt the belt several times, and still all he wanted was to please his father...they all did. Sebastian, the middle child at age eleven, was the most introverted of them all, keeping his thoughts and inner most feelings to himself. Eleanor loved her brothers; something Juliana instilled in them all, telling them that in the end they would have to depend on each other.

"Isn't it about time you gave up playing with that toy?" Edmonde's condescending voice breaks the silence.

"It was papa's favourite toy and he gave it to me," Sebastian tells his eldest brother.

"But it's falling to bits."

It's true the little red fire engine has seen better days, most of the red paint had gone, as had the front wheels and the ladder had snapped off long ago; but none of that mattered to Sebastian, for this broken toy is the only real present his father has given him out of some sense of true love.

"By the time you finish with it there's going to be nothing left," Edmonde continues.

"Leave me alone," Sebastian whines.

"He's not doing any harm," Eleanor comes to the defence of her brother.

"Just stick to your dolls Eleanor," Edmonde tells his sister.

"You stick to your dolls," Eleanor replies.

"I don't play with dolls."

"Well...you should," she informs him.

"Are you looking for a smack?" Edmonde threatens.

"Babushka," Eleanor calls to her grandmother in fright.

"Edmonde, that's enough." The quiet but authoritarian voice of Masha has the desired effect.

"Yes Babushka," Edmonde falls silent. The eldest of the Villon children has a cruel streak and bully element to him, a legacy of his father's treatment.

"Alright I think that's enough play time, why don't you all go and get ready for bed," Masha informs them, in no mood for disagreements. One by one the children put their toys away, kiss their grandmother on the cheek, and leave for their respective bedrooms.

A short time later; Eleanor was all snuggled up in her bed, looking at the picture of her mother that she kept on her bedside table. She cries and feels sad as she looks at her mother's beautiful face. She can still remember the last time she saw her mum, that night when she tucked her into bed after reading to her. How Eleanor loved having those stories read to her, and yet since that night when Juliana took her life, Eleanor hasn't picked up a book. It reminds her too much of what she has lost. But as the stinging tears roll down her cheeks she makes a silent promise to herself not to give up reading or music, the two things, other than her children, that her mother loved most.

A multitude of memories of her mother suddenly fill Eleanor's head; she could almost feel the touch of her mother brushing her blonde hair every night; telling her how much she loves her; sharing a chocolate treat on those nights when Eleanor had trouble sleeping; the rapturous joy of being tickled and the loving warmth of being held in her mother's arms, knowing at that moment that nothing could harm her. Then there was the funeral, cold, gloomy, a church filled with adults in black she did not know, and then standing at a graveside as the adults tossed handfuls of dirt on top of the coffin. But the memory that Eleanor remembers most is of that final kiss Juliana gave her, a kiss that lingered longer than any of the others. She could still feel the phantom lips of her mother upon her cheek.

"Why?" She whispers in the dark, trying to understand why her mother was gone. She had overheard some of the servants gossiping about Juliana's death, saying something about how it wasn't an accident. Eleanor didn't know what they were talking about. All she knew was that she had lost her mother and she couldn't understand why her mother would leave them like that.

A week later on New Year's Eve she pops the question to her grandmother.

They were sitting by the fire in her grandmother's bedroom listening to the BBC on the radio as it counted down towards midnight. Edmonde and Sebastian have decided to stay in their rooms after the two had been bickering all day. To Eleanor, Masha's bedroom always seems uninviting somehow; it was almost like being in a museum looking at objects from history. Masha still possesses the big four posted bed that her husband, Eleanor's grandfather had passed away in, and most of the other furniture was still from that era. Of course the most prized possessions in the room were the two intricately carved and jewelled Faberge Eggs and the decorative Russian Matryoskia dolls that stand atop the mantle of the fireplace, reminders of Masha's homeland and what she has lost.

Eleanor never feels fully at ease in this room.

Masha was silent for several long, drawn out moments after her granddaughter has asked her why her mother had been taken away from her. "Your mother was very sad inside." But even after she had said this Masha could see that this reply would not satisfy Eleanor.

"People die; it's the way of life. Your mother's death was an unfortunate accident."

"Then why was she sad?"

"Sometimes adults become sick inside, not physically, I'm referring more to inside their heads, and they don't always tell anybody about it and so the illness grows along with the sadness until it becomes too much for them to handle. And that's what happened to your mother. In the end she couldn't...and so she left us."

"But I overheard some of the servants talking about how mama's death wasn't an accident," Eleanor says.

"You shouldn't listen to tattle tails," Masha replies with a raised eyebrow. "All you have to understand is that your mother loved you and your brothers very much. She would have gone on if she could have, but she was tired and now she is at rest."

Masha opens her arms and indicates for Eleanor to come to her. She does, climbing up into her grandmother's lap and embrace. "Oh you're getting so big," Masha says as she gives her a kiss, "but I love you so much."

"And I love you Babushka."

"But tell me child, which servants exactly did you overhear talking?"

And so 1969 gave way to 1970 and for the next few months Eleanor would continue to cry herself to sleep every night. Eventually the tears stopped and the feeling of pain and loss grew less, but the sadness would never go away, it would always be there, as would the memory of her mother's last kiss.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England, 1972

In 1973 at aged thirteen, Eleanor, like her brothers, was bundled off to boarding school. She came aware of this while eavesdropping on a conversation between her father and grandmother. Eleanor was playing outside the greenhouse one afternoon and was able to hear everything that was spoken through a cracked pane of glass.

"I don't have time for this mama," Christophe says impatiently.

"Then you must make time," Masha responds while snipping dead leaves from her Angel's Trumpet – _Brugmansia_ plant; Masha is quite fond of this plant, the leaves of which contain both scopolamine and atropine – often fatal to the human digestive system.

"You're better with her than I am."

"I'm an old woman and Eleanor needs to spend some time with her father. Remember, Christophe, these are the future of the Villon line." Masha, as usual, cuts to the heart of the matter.

"I sired them for God's sake, what more do you want from me?"

"To start taking responsibility, they need guidance more than the strap. They are the future, if you should fall," she says in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Then you've lost faith in me," Christophe accuses.

"Never," Masha reassures him, "but there is still a long way to go before we can claim the prize, perhaps years. You will need help and remember what I once told you?"

Christophe hasn't forgotten: "Trust no one but family."

"Exactly, do not cut the bough you're sitting on."

"You're right as usual and I'll do what you say." Christophe almost capitulates. "But I'll send her to boarding school at the end of the year."

"I thought we agreed to wait another two years."

"The boys have gone and she can go to. She can get the correct education and when they're home I can spend fatherly time with them. On this my mind will not be altered mama," Christophe emphatically tells her.

"As you wish." Masha knows exactly how far to push her son and how far not to.

"Don't worry mama; my children will know their place."

Eleanor cries silently after hearing the tone of her father's voice.

Christophe spent the next day with his daughter. He took her for a walk upon the moor. It has been quite a while since he last strolled upon the mire. He had almost forgotten how good it always felt. The smell, the sights and the sounds were always intoxicating to him; he had even given consideration to being buried here, like the Saxon kings of old, an idea that appeals to him more than rotting away in some stone mausoleum. He also contemplates the notion of erecting a stone monument with just a single word on it – Villon – and that in a thousand years when people come upon it they will think they are reading the name of a god.

Christophe was getting so caught up in his own musings of apotheosis that he almost forgets that Eleanor was with him. He looks down at her, dressed in her warm red coat and hood, her muddy red gum boots sloshing through the muck, a small speck of mud on the tip of her nose, a most heart warming and cute sight for any parent. But not for Christophe, he always felt a little uneasy around his daughter; because no matter how many times he looks at her he would always see Juliana's face; and that always made him angry. By rights he should be seeing Sophia's face in that of his daughter's; _instead of that she bitch he was force to marry_. The only good thing was that she was _now rotting away in the ground, food for the maggots and worms_.

The more he thinks of his ex wife the angrier he becomes. He almost regrets not killing her himself; and now that she was dead, he felt cheated somehow. He suddenly recalls the moment that he took his father's life and how good it felt snuffing out the life spark of another. It is then that a sudden and crazy notion occurs to him; he supposes it could be the Villon madness taking hold, but whatever it is, he begins to contemplate killing his daughter. He reasons _that killing Eleanor would just be like killing Juliana and that would no doubt brighten up his day; and it would be so easy to do; he could just let her drown in a bog._

Eleanor, like Christophe, also likes the moor, although she could do without the foul smelling odours that waft up from the pit bogs. She was enjoying her time with her father. Even though they have barely spoken since they began the walk, she was just happy to be with him, and even happier that he wasn't growling. She was also considering telling her dad how much she loves him; she knew he had been cruel to her mother, but she theorised, in her young mind, that this may have been because people were cruel to him when he was a kid; and that perhaps telling her papa that she loves him would help.

But a child, like animals, has the unique ability to pick up on the bad and good emotions of others, and the longer she walks side by side with her father the more she began to feel an evil force encroaching on her. She finally realises that this menace was emanating from her own father.

Eleanor becomes quite scared.

She knows that something bad was about to happen. Perhaps it would just be a smack, even though she hasn't done anything wrong; although her father never needed a reason to hit his children. As the feeling of danger increases, Eleanor didn't dare look up at her father, although she could sense his eyes staring down at her. Instead, she slowly takes off one of her mittens and gently takes a hold of her father's hand.

Christophe's insane thoughts of murder evaporate at the loving, gentle and unexpected touch of his daughter's hand. It was as if he could suddenly see after being blind. He shakes his head to clear it, and although he didn't know why, he smiles down at his daughter who finally looks up at him and returns in kind. Then, in a gesture that Eleanor will remember the rest of her life, Christophe grabs her around the waist and hoists her up onto his shoulders, making a little girl feel like she was on top of the world and that her father truly did love her.

The next day Christophe fled to London.

1973 - 1976

Eleanor spent the next five years at The Sabine Mont-Florina International Boarding School for young girls in Switzerland; and a further one year after that at The Gonneville School of Etiquette, a Parisian finishing school for ladies. Of course in the holidays she came back to Grimstone to be with her family. Naturally, as the years went by she grew to dread these family reunions; but she kept going back as her grandmother had drilled into her and her siblings, the importance of the family; and she did enjoy seeing babushka, as well as her father.

### The Sabine Mont-Florina International School is one of the oldest and most expensive boarding schools in Switzerland, dating back to 1879 and only has a roster of sixty students. The three storey building has the look of an alpine lodge and is a haven of peace and calm, perched on a cliff overlooking the spectacular beauty of Montreaux, located on the shores of beautiful Lake Geneva in the canton of Vaud surrounded by pristine Alpine mountains. With its outdoor tennis courts, walkways and recreational areas, the students have an environment to rival any five star hotels. The school offers many curriculums including high school programs, finishing programs and languages of finishing. It also has a recognized and reputable drama society.

The first year was the hardest for Eleanor. In the beginning she felt so lost and not really capable of mixing with the other students her age; and as for the older ones, all they were interested in was playing jokes on the newbie's: or "egg heads" as they nicknamed them. Then, of course, there was Miss Gambetta, the head mistress, a tough as nails, take no prisoners type, who ran a taught ship to rival Captain Bligh. The "Iron Lady" the students call her behind her back, and it was an apt title. She never smiled, never laughed, always wore long skirts, always wore her hair up, the white streaks on either side prompting Alice Baker to call her "the bride of Frankenstein", which didn't go down too well with Miss Gambetta when she found out and Alice Baker soon found herself suspended. At fifty-seven years of age, Miss Gambetta had been looking after girl students for more than thirty years, teaching them not only to be perfect hostesses, but also making sure they acquire sound, recognized qualifications to deal successfully with their professional and personal responsibilities; but above all no one ever wanted to get on her bad side.

Her bite was indeed worse than her bark.

But as much as the students hated the "Iron Lady" they adored Marina Brander; a bright and vivacious teacher with a heart of gold who loves teaching; English literary and art histories were her specialities. At twenty-seven years of age she still knew how to have fun with her students and in time would become someone that Eleanor had the greatest respect for. During Eleanor's first week at Sabine, it was Marina that comforted her when she came across her crying late at night in her dormitory room. Miss Brander spent the next several nights talking with Eleanor, helping her feel more at ease in this strange new environment that a little frightened girl found herself in.

But it is always darkest before the dawn and slowly Eleanor found her feet and the time spent at boarding school would be some of the happiest memories of her youth. She would find a love for acting here; as well as her best friend, Loretta Sweet, and have her first sexual experience with that friend; and of course she would find out all about boys during a Roman holiday; and as for her academic achievements, she would finish at the top of her class, as well as learning how to speak German, Italian, Greek and Latin, on top of her French of course.

The Sabine Mont-Florina School, Switzerland, 1975

"I don't want your anger, I want your respect." The 15 year old Eleanor says with great remorse.

"How can I respect someone who has betrayed me?" Loretta Sweet shoots back angrily.

"But I love you," Eleanor pleads.

"And I despise you" Loretta says emphatically as she storms off.

"Alright, that was excellent," Miss Brander says from the front of stage.

The two students and teacher stand on the stage of the schools small auditorium, rehearsing a play.

"But remember girls to project your voice more. The patrons in the back row must be able to hear you just as well as those in the front."

"Alright Miss," Eleanor agrees.

"Do you think we'll be ready in time?" Loretta enquires.

"The curtain will go up no matter what," Miss Brander assures them, "now, you better get moving or you'll be late for language class, and you know how that stresses out Miss Clairvell."

"We will, don't worry," Eleanor tells her.

"Good, I'll see you on Friday, then."

Miss Brander sets about picking up her papers as Eleanor and Loretta grab their stuff and leave.

Loretta Sweet only arrived at Sabine six months ago, but she and Eleanor have become the best of friends. Loretta hails from Upper State New York in America; her family has been in politics for decades and there has always been a Sweet in congress since the end of World War I. Loretta was the same age as Eleanor with a similar personality and the same sorts of experiences; Loretta had also lost her mother at a young age and was estranged from her father, but she always has a smile on her face and doesn't seem to let anything get her down. Her long red hair, tall legs and slim body gave the appearance of a passive individual, but she has a temper which popped out from time to time when provoked.

"I think I'm getting stage fright," Loretta confides to her friend as they walk down the corridor in haste.

"You'll be fine; it's me who'll forget their lines," Eleanor states over dramatically.

"Well, with overacting like that no one will be looking at me."

"Shut up," Eleanor says, giving her friend a slight whack on the arm.

"Anyway, we'll practice more tonight after dinner."

"I can't, I've still got that essay on Shelley due."

"Haven't you done that yet?"

"No."

"Okay, okay, I'll help you tonight," Loretta offers.

"Thanks."

"Don't be, if you fail I'll have no one else to copy off of in class."

This brings a big smile to Eleanor's face as the best of friends enter Miss Clairvell's language class.

The calm waters of Lake Geneva twinkle in the afternoon sunlight, a gentle alpine breeze sweeps across the water to the grassy bank where Eleanor, Loretta and Nikki Mitsotakis, sit after their picnic lunch. Loretta and Nikki lay on the soft bed of grass as Eleanor reads to them from Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem "The Lady of Shalott":

"Willows whiten, aspens quiver;

Little breezes dusk and shiver;

Thro' the wave that runs forever;

By the island in the river;

Flowing down to Camelot;

Four gray walls, and four gray towers;

Overlook a space of flowers;

And the silent isle imbowers"

The Lady of Shalott."

As Eleanor's musical like quality voice fills the ears of Loretta, she can't help but stare. She saw such intelligence and beauty in her friend's eyes. And lately she has begun to wonder what it would be like to kiss Eleanor's lips, which have an erotic lusciousness to them. Loretta didn't have any lesbian intentions, and wasn't looking to have affairs with the fairer sex. She has already been with a boy and liked it; also she and Eleanor were always talking about boys and even flirting with some of the local lads, and yet she felt an attraction to her friend; and if she isn't mistaken, that appeal was mutual.

Loretta's infatuation continues to grow with every sweet sounding word that comes out of Eleanor's mouth. However, Loretta's taboo thoughts are interrupted by Nikki passing her a can of coke. Loretta smiles quietly and accepts the offering.

Nikki Mitsotakis was a year older than Eleanor and Loretta, a real Mediterranean beauty, dark skin, black hair and brown eyes; who has a mischievous streak to her nature. Her father was Stavros Mitsotakis, a Greek tycoon who owns 'Atlas Shipping Co', currently one of the largest shipping companies in the world, whose major shareholder was Banque Villon.

Both Eleanor and Loretta had taken an instant liking to Nikki.

"There she weaves by night and day;

A magic with colours gay;

She has heard a whisper say;

A curse is on her if she stay;

To look down to Camelot;

She knows not what the curse may be;

And so she weaveth steadily;

And little other care hath she;

The Lady of Shallot."

Loretta's eyes once more find themselves drawn to Eleanor and again feelings of desire surface.

Eleanor and Loretta take a bow. The small audience of students and teachers clap with enthusiasm at the performance they have just witnessed. The two girls under the guidance of Miss Brander have done a performance of the award winning play of J. P. Johnson's "Reap the Wind"; Loretta playing the role of Harry Glum and Eleanor the part of Sissy Stark. It was all part of talent week at Sabine; every night there was a different performance to show off the students artistic talents; tomorrow night is a rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan's "H.M.S Pinafore"; followed by the Sabine String Quartet; but tonight was all about Eleanor Villon and Loretta Sweet.

"We killed them," Eleanor enthuses to Loretta as they come off stage.

"We sure did. But they love you," Loretta responds, giving Eleanor a congratulatory kiss on the cheek, just a peck that seems to linger.

"Well done ladies." Miss Brander, waiting off stage, tells them. "You both have such a talent for the stage and I definitely feel that it would be a shame to waste it. If you decide to pursue it, it's a grand profession. I'm so proud of both of you." Miss Brander gives both her students a great big hug. "Now go and take another bow, your fans await."

Eleanor and Loretta, holding hands, go back out on stage for a curtain call.

Salzburg, Austria, 1976

Eleanor, Loretta and several other students from the Sabine Mont-Florina International School sit in the Steintheatre (Rock Theatre): watching a performance of Mozart's opera "The Marriage of Figaro". The theatre located in the parks of the beautiful Hellbrunn Palace, is a semi-natural open-air theatre, and the oldest in the city. The glorious music reaches up into the night sky as if it were trying to reach the heavens themselves. A dozen students from the school have come to the city on the banks of the Salzach River for the famed Salzburg Festival.

The trip coincides with Eleanor's sixteenth birthday, which was more a sombre occasion than a joyous one due to the fact that it fell so close to the anniversary of her mother's death.

But even so, Eleanor has been enjoying herself immensely. She loves travelling and has spent the last couple of days wandering around the streets of Salzburg, her, Loretta and Nikki. Miss Brander always places a lot of trust in her students that they would always behave themselves. The trio had been everywhere in the Old Town and beyond, exploring the Salzburg Cathedral and wandering the grounds of Hohensalzburg Castle and the Palace of Mirabell with its wide gardens full of blooming flowers and the fountain made famous by a movie involving a singing governess and seven children.

The birthplace and residence of Mozart was also on the itinerary as was St. Peter's Cemetery; the Nonnberg Abbey; and the Residenz Palace. The giggling trio, that Miss Brander has nicknamed them, also enjoy the many pastries, strudels and desserts that the bakers of Salzburg offer up in abundance. It has been one fun trip for Eleanor, and now she was listening to one of the most famous operas of all time performed in the birthplace of the composer. Eleanor has grown to love classical music, in particular the operas of Mozart; just like her mother. But for all the fun she has been having, Eleanor hadn't forgotten to light a candle for her deceased mother in Salzburg Cathedral. But whenever a dark cloud would settle in upon her, she always has Loretta to chase away the darkness.

Eleanor was quite fond of her best friend, a fondness that has been developing into something more than just friendship. Both girls were growing into young ladies and along with this change came puberty and sexual desires which they had finally given into last night, exploring the pleasures that they could give one another. Both were nervous, but that passed and was quickly replaced by an overwhelming hunger of passion as they began to kiss and touch one another. As memories of the previous night's frolics fill Eleanor's mind, the one that remains strongest is the taste of cinnamon lip gloss that Loretta wore, a flavour that added an extra bit of spice to the whole experience.

Eleanor slowly reaches out and takes a hold of Loretta's hand, who responds with a gentle squeeze.

Over the next six months as Eleanor's time at Sabine drew to a close, she and Loretta continue to indulge in their love affair. But both knew that it was just a phase of experimentation they were going through, even though each has genuine feelings of affection for the other.

When it was finally time to leave Eleanor felt sadness; she and Loretta agreed to keep in touch, and giving who their families were they would no doubt be mingling in the same circles on occasion, however, Eleanor knew that the next time she saw her friend their lives would be very different and she couldn't help but wonder whether she would look back at this time as a missed opportunity for true happiness.

Rome, 1977

The "Villa La Cupola" suite within the exclusive Excel Hotel has all things Roman and excessive; a cupola, that is entirely hand-frescoed, a Pompeii-style Jacuzzi, stained glass windows depicting mythological figures such as Romulus and Remas, Mithras and other ancient Roman deities. The suite itself covers 6000 square feet and has an additional 1,468 square feet of balconies and terraces; including a terraced study and living room panelled in Italian walnut. There is also a private kitchen and a mosaic-tile-covered dining room which features an antique glass chandelier, well in excess of half a million dollars.

And as for the private wine cabinet, well, wine connoisseurs would weep at the selection on offer. The views are nothing to sneeze at either as the hotel is within a short radius of Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, and Via Candiotti, Piazza de Spagna and the Borghese Collage and museum.

"Your grades are excellent and I'm more than pleased with all you have accomplished, God knows it's more than your worthless brothers." Christophe is availing himself whole heartily of the cabinets wine selection, as he preaches to his almost seventeen year old daughter. "So tell me why you persist in pursuing this acting shit?"

"Papa, it's no shit, and I'm really enjoying it," Eleanor protests.

"But your academic achievement is second-to-none and I can see a great future for you within Banque Villon," Christophe announces with a smidgen of pride, a rare treat indeed for him.

"But I've never saw myself as a banker," she tells him in a slightly raised tone of voice.

"Don't raise you tone to me young lady." Christophe turns on his daughter after pouring himself an extra large Chardonnay. "I haven't spent all this money, giving you the best fucking education just so you can go piss it up on the wall."

"But I'm seventeen."

"Almost and hopefully you will get some sense by then."

Eleanor falls silent, she knew better than to pursue a topic too far with her father, especially when he was against it. She has come to the eternal city for a brief Roman holiday before leaving to attend the Gonneville School of Etiquette in Paris. Eleanor now turns her attention to her grandmother, who is also present in the room, quietly reading a fashion magazine. As always Masha looks beautiful, fashionably dressed in her original Giovanni designed black slacks and red turtleneck jumper; and her face is as ageless as ever.

"Babushka?" Eleanor asks timidly.

"Your father's right sweetheart, you're a lady with breeding and up-bringing, plus you're a Villon and not some performing gypsy. However, continuing with acting lessons I feel would be beneficial for the girl, Christophe, in helping her elocution. She certainly seems to have found her voice," Masha adds with a warm smile directed at her granddaughter.

"If you insist, fine, but lessons only, as a career it is forbidden, understand young lady?" Christophe's tone is finite. In point-of-fact Christophe loathes the idea of his daughter having any interest in reading, music or any of the bloody arts as it reminds him of his wife.

"Yes papa," Eleanor says meekly, thinking to herself: _one step at a time_.

"Good," Masha says, "now maybe we can enjoy our holiday."

"As if," Christophe quips, "I've still got your inept grandsons to deal with."

"They are fine young men, Christophe."

"That's not the reports I've heard."

With only a handful of days left to go in her holiday, Eleanor spends the next couple of days on her own, sightseeing.

It was her first time in Rome and she wanted to soak up as much of the atmosphere as possible, both the old Rome and the new.

Eleanor has grown to enjoy travelling and it was a past time she intends to keep up.

_It was one thing to try and rule the world but quite another to see it for yourself_.

"All in good time," she utters quietly.

With her head filled with thoughts of visiting exotic locations, Eleanor strolls up to Trevi Fountain, a place made famous by the song and movie "Three Coins in a Fountain". The midday sun was blazing down upon the plaza as tourists and lovers jostled for a view, photos, or to toss a coin or two into the clear waters, whose bottom glistens with copper and silver, and to make a wish to find love, joy and happiness. Eleanor knew it was foolish, but she too tosses a coin into the fountain anyway, knowing full well that the coins would be collected later by city workers; _dreams taken away_. But it is the romantic notion that prompts the wishes to be made.

" _Signora_ ," a male voice reaches the ears of Eleanor through the crowd.

She turns and sees a long black curly haired, dark skin, handsome young Italian man in his early twenties, staring at her with his deep set green eyes. He is wearing a casual white shirt and light white cotton pants and loafers; the shirt is open and reveals his hairless flat chest and muscular body; this is the first thing Eleanor notices.

" _Foto signora_?" He asks holding up his Nikon.

" _Si,_ " she replies, quickly averting her eyes up to his face. Eleanor reaches out for the camera to take the man's photo.

" _No_ ," he waves her away, " _signora prendere la taa foto_?"

"Why...um... _perche_?" Eleanor enquires as to why he wants to take her photo.

" _Tanta bellezza deve essere catturato,_ " he replies with a flirtatious grin. Eleanor can't help but smile back. With her knowledge of Italian she understands perfectly well what he said – "Such beauty deserves to be captured."

" _Si_ ," she answers in the affirmative, unable to refuse such a romantic gesture from an incredibly handsome man.

And so it was that Eleanor met Angelo Alfieri and has her first sexual encounter with the opposite sex. They spent the next couple of days together. Angelo showed Eleanor his city, from the cafes to the palaces. A chance encounter blossoms into a holiday romance. And on the second night he invites her back to his place. A tiny one bedroom apartment overlooking a small piazza in a back lane; the other rooms in the building were filled with struggling artists and musicians. Angelo himself was studying photography. The walls of his room were festooned with black and white pictures of half-dressed and naked woman he has photographed. His speciality was the erotic.

Eleanor felt butterflies in her stomach as she sat on the patched sofa amongst this sea of nakedness. It was silly; _after all she was the daughter of Christophe Villon, and she could buy and sell this young man_ , but still she felt nervous. Even more so when Angelo puts his arms around her and drew her lips to his. The kiss was long and wonderful. At first she keeps her lips shut, taking in Angelo's musky cologne and the taste of his sweat, but slowly as his lips began to crush her's, she opens up her mouth and lets his tongue in. Feelings of joy, pleasure and lust start to overwhelm her senses like an incoming tide that couldn't be held back. The touch of Angelo's hand upon her breast sent electric shockwaves throughout her body and her heart racing, while his other hand slowly lifts up her skirt and sought out new territory.

But it wasn't all one way, Eleanor and Loretta had taught each other much, and Eleanor, derives a lot of pleasure from touching and exploring her lover's body. She ran her hands all over his chest, seeking out his biceps, triceps, sinews and muscles. She felt like a sculptor bringing a work of art to life. And when it came time to slip the condom onto his throbbing penis, she enthusiastically grasps it and eagerly took him inside of her. The rapturous feeling as she felt him enter her and the touch of his naked body against her's was almost overpowering.

She finds herself holding her breath and having to force herself to take in air.

Eleanor's first sexual encounter with a man lasts many hours as youth had a lot of energy to burn. And although feelings of love were present and promises were made to keep in touch, when it came time for Eleanor to leave a few days later for Paris, they both knew they would not see one another again. But for her, the city of Rome would always hold a special place in her heart, a brief encounter in which she found love, pleasure and joy, proving that sometimes wishes do come true.

1978 - 1983

Eleanor kept up her acting lessons at the Gonneville School of Etiquette in Paris. In fact it was while at the Cafe Marie that she met and has a brief affair with Jacque Lambert, a young director fresh out of film school, with a burning desire to set the world on fire with his movies; all of which he hadn't made yet. During their short time together Eleanor would meet with Jacque and his Bohemian friends to talk about the craft of filmmaking. Their debates could become quite heated as the discussion turned from art house films to commercial and the future direction of cinema; especially since the whole world was gripped in "Star Wars" fever.

Eleanor was not shy in putting her two cents in, she has a voice and she wasn't afraid to speak her mind when she wanted to, though she could never muster the same nerve to protest against her father. And perhaps that is why she never reveals her true identity to Jacques; she has learned from experience that many people wanted to be her friend just to get at her money - a trait particular to struggling artists. While she felt bad at this deceit at the same time she was secretly enjoying being perceived as one of the gang, just another struggling actress trying to make it.

Her charade came to an end when she bumps in Jacques while shopping on Avenue Montaigne, the most expensive street in Paris; it was one third of the so called "Golden Triangle" that consisted of the avenues Montaigne, Champs-Elysees and Georges V. Jacques has come for a job interview of all things, and although Eleanor may have been able to explain away the many shopping bags with the names of some of the most expensive shops in Paris written on them, talking her way out of the accompanying chauffeur and Masha, who had come to visit, was impossible. Jacques took the deception to heart and after calling Eleanor every cursed name under the sun, storms out of her life refusing to have anything more to do with her. And so Eleanor's second love affair came to an abrupt end.

Worse though was the fact that the whole sordid affair had been witnessed by Masha, who from this time on decides to take a more active role in Eleanor's world. She didn't mind who's bed her granddaughter jumps in and out of, but she definitely minds whose wedding bed she got into. So Masha began to spend more time with Eleanor, buying a house in the expensive suburb of Neuilly, just outside of Paris; just to keep a more watchful eye on her mischievous granddaughter.

As her time grew to an end at the Gonneville School of Etiquette Eleanor knew that any dreams she harboured of becoming an actress would remain just that; the only way she could pursue this endeavour was to go against her father and grandmother and if she did do that it would involve cutting off all ties with them and she wasn't prepared for that. Also, she actually fears what her father might do to her if she disobeyed him in such a manner, she was quite certain that he was capable of doing anything and she didn't want to find out what.

So she settles into the life of a Villon.

She began by taking an active interest in the many Villon charity organisations, many of which were to do with the arts, she also began treading the ground of the rich and the elite, attending balls and dinners and functions, being the perfect hostess and lady when required. She also begins to learn more about the world of banking and high finance; and although she didn't have an official job with Banque Villon, she does spend much of her time there; even helping to set up the modern new offices of Banque Villon in London's financial district; although Christophe still kept his office in the Temple District, refusing to give up the history and tradition associated with it. And although he would never - or could never admit it, Christophe was quietly proud of his daughter; in fact he was amazed that one of his children was actually demonstrating some business savvy.

The other thing Eleanor dabbled in, was travel, she went to the different countries and cities of the world, keeping at least this one promise to herself; enjoying the sunset over the Taj Mahal and the sunrise over the Pyramids. Eleanor also took several lovers, most from the different lands she visited, but all were casual flings. The two most serious relationships during this period were with Bob Phillips and Tony Bell; two dashing CEO's who had made "Forbes' Magazine" Top 300 Rich List; and both approved by Masha.

But these men did nothing for Eleanor's heart; in fact she found them boring. But she dates them for Masha's sake. But the relationships would never go anywhere. That is until December 1983, at age 23, while visiting New York City when she met the multi-millionaire building developer, Jonathan Miller, twenty years her senior. There was no sparks between the two; in fact Eleanor was only staying with the Millers in their Manhattan apartment building, as Jonathan was a close associate of her father's. No, the real sparks occurred when Eleanor attends the high society surrealist ball held by Helena Haushofer; an event she was meant to go to with the Millers, but who have to pull out at the last moment to tend to a family crisis that had arisen. So Eleanor, not one to miss out on a good party, went alone, and in doing so would set in motion events that would reshape and shatter the Villon and Ravenscroft families forever.

# Chapter 17

Edmonde Villon, 1969 - 1983

The beating lasted a good five to ten minutes. Or rather the discipline, as his father called it. Whatever name you gave it, Edmonde hated it. Christopher always used the strap on his oldest son; a twelve inch long thick frayed piece of leather that has been in the family for generations. Edmonde cried. But in time he learned to control the tears...and the pain.

"Someday you will understand the need for punishment and discipline," Christopher would always tell his eldest afterwards; the same words his father, Olivier, use to tell him. Then, for good measure, he would give another couple of lashings, before leaving.

Edmonde felt the sting, the pain, and the numbness that always came later.

He hated it.

Eden College, Scotland, 1973

Edmonde comes awake from his nightmares and memories. He sits bolt upright, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. Disorientated and unsure of his surroundings, panic sets in, until he realises where he is. His eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness of the dormitory room as he throws off the soaked covered sheets and gets out of bed, the coldness of the wooden floor against his feet gives him a sense of reality.

"Bloody hell," he mutters softly, not wanting to wake his roommate, Charlie Berry, who lies asleep in his bed nearby snoring his brains out. Edmonde crosses to the bathroom, switching on the light and shutting the door behind him. He quickly runs the tap and placing his hands beneath the water begins splashing it onto his face, the chilliness feels good against his sweaty skin. He then clears the dryness of his throat, turns the tap off and looks up at his reflection in the mirror. Even though he was now seventeen years of age, he still has flashbacks of his childhood, always returning to him like a bad penny. Sometimes he swore he could still hear the sound and the feel of the strap hitting his flesh.

Edmonde feels real anger and hatred, all the resentment that he has bottled up suddenly returns to him like an unwelcomed guest. He felt like taking his anger out on someone, like he use to do to his younger brother, Sebastian; something that he now feels sorry about.

_Just one more regret to chalk up to the acts of discipline that his father dealt him_. Although he knows that it is his imagination, he still can't help but feel the stinging sensation in the palm of his hand from the leather strap, even though it was almost three years ago now that he last felt its bite.

He wonders if he will ever be rid of the bad memories.

His mother, Juliana, would often intervene, and on many occasions would get her husband to stop, but more often than not she would feel the backhand of Christophe Villon. When it was over his mother would comfort him, offering words of love and kindness, but such sympathy couldn't penetrate the trenchant power of the beatings. And yet despite all that Edmonde still loves his father, just like his brother and sister he too would always look for a kind word or praise from the old man; their father has such a hold over them. Edmonde truly doubts that they would ever be rid of it.

When his mother died Edmonde showed little emotion, in fact he resented her, thinking her a coward for leaving them in such a manner. Even though babushka told him that his mother's death was an accident, Edmonde couldn't help but think that his mother took her own life to escape the tyranny of his father, and in doing so left her children to their own fate. A coward's act as far as Edmonde was concerned. He knew it was wrong to think such a thing, but he couldn't help it, that's just the way he felt about it. He did love his mother but he couldn't forgive her for the way she left them.

Feeling a sudden chill, Edmonde grabs a towel and begins drying his face. There was no mistaking that he was a Villon, he has the same brow and bone structure as Christophe, his thin chiselled chin was more bone than muscle, although he was more wiry than his father, with a thicker set of black hair, pale blue eyes with a small brown mark in the left eye, a common enough defect. Although Edmonde use to think _that it meant that he was someone special, a sign he had been touched by God_ , at least that's what his mother would tell him, a silly notion that Christophe soon beat out of him.

Edmonde reckons that it was around three or four in the morning and that he still has time to get in another couple of hours of sleep, although he doubted he would be able to get back to the world of slumber now. But he was going to give it a try. Taking a final look at himself in the mirror, Edmonde can't help but wonder what the future holds for him – other than going to work for his father; there didn't seem any other real options on the table for him.

With that depressing thought, he turns off the light and goes back to bed.

Edmonde kicks the soccer ball to Charlie Berry, who dodges around his opponent with some fancy footwork and then lines up to have a corner shot at goal. Edmonde cheers as he watches the ball sail into the back of the net. He runs up to his friend and hugs him as the rest of the Edenfield players join in. The score was two/one in Eden's favour, with only two minutes of play left in the final half. It was always a great feeling to beat the boys from Edgerton College.

"What a match," Charlie says in the showers afterwards. Steam fills the change rooms. The guys from Eden College clean up after the game.

"About time we turned things around," Edmonde adds as he soaps his body.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink."

"You took the words right out of my mouth," Edmonde replies in agreement.

"Then let's get the hell outta here," Charlie tells him.

An hour later Charlie and Edmonde sit in their room knocking back some beers. Charlie Berry was Irish, his father, Darcy, hails from the slums of Belfast, who came to London in the late fifties, and made his fortune opening and running several strip clubs. That's the official version; unofficially Charlie's father has connections with the underworld and the IRA. Edmonde only learned of these nefarious dealings when he became good friends with Charlie.

"You still coming to London this weekend?" Charlie asks.

"You bet I'm really looking forward to meeting your father."

"You'll like my da, everyone does, and he's a real character. Just don't get on his bad side."

"Don't worry I know what that's like," Edmonde informs him with some authority in the matter.

"Your da sounds like a real bastard," Charlie says matter-of-factly.

"I know," Edmonde agrees, although he can't help but feel some pain at his father being mentioned in this way. But he dismisses it. Charlie was his friend and didn't mean anything by it; he was simply stating a fact. Charlie always spoke his mind and that's one of the things Edmonde envied about him. Not only was Charlie Dacre William Berry eight months Edmonde's senior, but was also a lot older in the head as well; his father, a brawler from the wrong side of the tracks, made good, passed on all his streetwise knowledge to his only son. Charlie didn't have the pedigree of the other students at Eden, but his father did have the funds and contacts, through his business dealings, to make sure that his son got the proper education, so he would be able to mix it with the high and mighty in their ivory towers and their world of wealth.

Charlie became friends with Edmonde after punching him in the nose, brought on after the Villon made a derogative comment about him. When called for Charlie has a temper to match his curly ginger head of hair. The two probably would have remained enemies if Edmonde hadn't apologised for what he said. Something that took Charlie completely by surprise, for he would never expect a Villon to make such a gesture, and a sincere one at that. Charlie was good at reading people and he could see that this guy was genuine in his apology, and he could also see that Edmonde didn't have a lot of friends. He seemed to be just as much an outsider as Charlie was and that more than anything else cemented their friendship.

"We'll leave Friday after lunch. You're in for one hell of a treat "Eddy Boy" - that's a promise mate - one hell of a treat."

"How many women does your dad have working for him?" Edmonde enquires with some eagerness.

"A dozen or so, more than enough for you laddy."

"Well, it better be as good as you've cracked it up to be."

"Hey, when have I ever steered you wrong?" Charlie asks with an innocent face.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Edmonde responds.

Charlie smirks, a smile brimming with mischievousness.

The "Pussy Club" was one of the most notorious and famous strip clubs in London's Soho district. A neon wonderland filled with smoke, lights, mirrors and flesh; it boasts some of the best strippers from all over Europe, even one from behind the iron curtain: Olga the "Red" Russian, although according to Charlie she wasn't a real redhead, how he knew this he refused to elaborate on. The establishment was the crowning achievement of Darcy Berry's life in the club business. Of course the "Pussy Club" like the other venues before it gave him legitimacy taking attention away from his less than legal business dealings.

Darcy Berry was in his fifties, a big bear of a man, as tough as they come, with the scars to prove it. Growing up on the streets of Belfast Darcy quickly learned how to take care of himself; he was recruited into the IRA before he was nineteen and spent several years with the organisation, mostly helping them acquire weapons and money. During this time he also made many connections with criminals both small and big time, both in the United Kingdom and abroad. He spent two years in jail for beating to death a "grass" – snitch, he would have done more time but it could never be fully disproven that he wasn't acting in self defence. Once back on the outside he then spent several weeks in hospital after receiving twelve stab wounds to the lower abdomen and back as payback. The blades severed a couple of arteries and punctured his kidney, resulting in half of the right one being removed. But Darcy's fighting spirit shone through and he recovered proving the old adage 'The luck of the Irish'.

Darcy decided that it was time to get out of Ireland for greener pastures. But not one to ever leave unfinished business behind, he secretly killed the two men that put him in hospital, burying their bodies in the cement foundations of a new office building that was going up in the centre of Belfast. With that grudge out of the way he crossed the Irish Sea and went to work for the Crawford brothers, Mark and Anthony, acquaintances he had already made earlier. The Crawfords ran most of the prostitution, gambling and drug rackets of London, as well as a protection service for businesses, whether they required it or not. Starting out as a bag man he soon worked his way up the organisation and when the Crawford brothers were busted and sentence to twenty-seven years hard time, Darcy took over their rackets. Two years later he opened his first club, which was followed by four others before finally opening the doors to the "Pussy Club"; by this time he had become a significant player in the underworld.

"Charlie boy," Darcy calls out as his son and Edmonde enter the premise. It was just after six and the joint was just beginning to come to life, although even at this early hour there was already plenty of female flesh on offering. Something that Edmonde didn't fail to notice.

"Da," Charlie calls back. He comes up to his father and shakes his hand.

"Look at yer, yea a big lad when you're out like an arses's tool," Darcy ribs his son good naturedly in his thick Gaelic accent.

"Ma always said you were a gowl," Charlie fires back at him.

"Ah I've missed you lad," Darcy smiles broadly, "how's the world of higher education? Yer haven't been acting like a gimp have you? I'll clock you one if yer have."

"No da, nothing to be ashamed of. By the way this is Edmonde."

"Please to me you Mr. Berry," Edmonde says politely.

"Ed lad, I've met your da a few times."

"Oh really."

"He frequents my place from time to time, mostly for the skanks. We do some business."

Edmonde is both surprised and not surprised at this news. Nothing about Christophe Villon can really astonish him anymore.

"Well, yer lads must be peckish, come out back and get a bite to eat. Then afterwards maybe something a little tastier...like Sheryl or Courtney," Darcy says in a lecherous manner as he points out two scantily clad strippers making their way up on stage. "Wud ya a de barbs on yer wawn – dersh a sight for the wank bank alright," Mr. Berry adds in his colourful Irish slang.

Edmonde decides then and there that he likes Charlie's father.

London, 1974

It was at a dinner party at Darcy Berry's apartment that Edmonde met Maria Lucia Garcia. Darcy was hosting the evening after the conclusion of a successful deal with the Garcia crime family from New York City. Maria was the niece of Salvador Garcia; she spoke very little English, having only arrived recently from Sicily; with silky black hair, deep green eyes, luscious lips and long model like legs with a stunning figure to match, Maria took one's breath away; and she was only seventeen. Edmonde couldn't take his eyes off of her; she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

It wasn't until after dessert that Edmonde manages to strike up a conversation with this Sicilian goddess. He was standing outside on the small balcony, taking in the lights of London when Maria joins him for some fresh air.

" _Per fervore_... _non mi si disturba?_ " Maria says in Italian. Thankfully Edmonde, like his sister, Eleanor, knew Italian, although it wasn't one of his stronger points.

"No, you're not disturbing me – _vorrei godera della compagnia_ ," Edmonde tells her that he would enjoy the company.

" _Grazie_ \- thank you." Maria looks out upon the view letting the cool evening breeze wash over her body. Her head held high the wind blows back her hair and her red dress seductively close to the contours of her body. This image is like something out of a movie that imprints itself on Edmonde's psyche, a vision he will never forget.

"You were...how do you say...quiet at dinner?" Marie questions in her broken English.

"I had other things on my mind."

"Like me."

"Um – yes – no – I mean...shit."

" _Non ho la mente_ ," she expresses quietly.

"You don't?" Edmonde almost squeaks.

Maria laughs at his awkwardness, a laugh that lights up her face and only further enchants Edmonde.

"You're beautiful," Edmonde blurts out.

"You always...this bold?" She asks as she turns and looks at this young man.

"No," Edmonde replies sincerely.

" _Vorrei sapere che alcuni di piu_ ," she says with an air of mystery, telling Edmonde that she would like to get to know him better.

Edmonde's heart skips a beat. "How long will you be in England?"

"It is hard to say...few weeks...I attend finish school."

"That's wonderful."

"Yes... _meravigliosa_ ," Maria agrees as an instant connection is struck up between the two.

"I must show you around then."

"I would like that."

"So would I."

"Maria!" A booming voice breaks the moment. Salvador Garcia stands in the balcony doorway with an eagle eye. "Come, we're leaving."

"Yes _zio_ ," Maria says in complete obedience.

"Signore Villon," Salvador acknowledges, his eyes lingering on Edmonde, as he and Maria leave. Edmonde knew the look; Salvador Garcia wants him to have nothing to do with his niece.

Later on as the evening was coming to an end, Darcy took Edmonde aside to have a quiet word to him. "A word to the wise Ed lad, be careful, some fruit have a bitter aftertaste." Darcy was of course referring to Maria, but more importantly to her family. "I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, you're no gimp Ed, don't become one over a whore's meld."

Edmonde was a little hurt by these words, but he didn't show it. He has become quite fond of Charlie's father, spending many weekends over the last twelve months with him; during which time he came to have an epiphany about the seedier side of life and its dark under currents.

"I'll be careful," he assures Mr. Berry.

"Aye, you do that laddy."

Edmonde appreciates Darcy's concern, but he was more than smitten with Maria and he intends to see her again no matter what.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Edmonde stands in front of his father. The wood in the fireplace of the library crackles and pops from the burning flames and heat. Christophe stands upright in front of the fire like some devil at the entrance to Dante's inferno. The room was ill-lit as evening descends upon Grimstone, the shadows seemingly reaching out towards Edmonde, as if wanting to strangle him. Edmonde loathes this room that has too many bad memories – too many beatings; but he has been summoned, or at least that's how he thinks of it when his father requests to speak with him.

And Edmonde always obeys like the good soldier.

Christophe was in a foul mood.

"Think boy about the people you're getting involved with? You're spending far too much time with this Mr. Berry and his associates. Criminals have their place amongst the great work, but they're nothing more than underlings and we do not join them." Christophe was on fire; his temper often increases with the pain in his head.

"Father, you have nothing to concern yourself about, I'm not planning a career in the criminal profession," Edmonde says with a touch of smugness.

"I'm still big enough to beat the shit out of you boy – don't give me cheek," Christophe responds in a fury, his nostrils flaring, at such insolence. This outburst makes Edmonde feel like a little boy again, it is all he can do to stop shaking.

"I'm sorry father it's just."

"What?"

"You know I wouldn't do anything to harm our family. I haven't forgotten what you and babushka have taught me," Edmonde counters with, hoping that this will help dispel his father's anger.

"Out of your brother and sister you have the most potential to become the most cunning, Edmonde," Christophe's tone instantly changes from hot to cold, "and the most devious. I see it in those eyes; I also see hatred and anger."

"No father," Edmonde objects, but his words sound hollow.

"It's quite alright to hate your father Edmonde, God knows I loathed mine. But never under estimate me and never think that you will get the best of me. But above all never hurt the family or what we strive to achieve. For that is punishment by death, it would be the same as betraying your country."

"I never would father, and that's the honest truth. All I've ever wanted to do is please you." Edmonde's declaration is not perfunctory.

Christophe stares at his eldest child for several long drawn out moments, a handful of seconds that seems like an eternity for Edmonde. "We shall see," he says barely above a whisper. And with that Christophe crosses to the intricately handcrafted wooden drink cabinet and tops up his glass of vodka. He has only begun drinking the stuff recently when he discovered, out of all the spirits that vodka actually helped kill the pain in his head.

_Booze and yelling_ , a lethal combination Edmonde thinks quietly. He has seen his father at this cabinet many times before; carved in the shape of an elephant standing on its hind legs, with real ivory tasks, its trunk raised high in the air, its ears flung outward, always gave Edmonde the impression of charging. He knew that it came from India, but how it got here, or who actually brought it he doesn't know; only that it has always been in this room and is very old, just like everything else in Grimstone. During the many sessions with his father and the belt, Edmonde often imagined this wooden creature coming to life and stomping his bastard of a father to death.

"Now," Christophe's voice shatters Edmonde's fantasies, "if you intend to continue your association with the criminal world, rather than the more upstanding world of us bankers," Edmonde can't tell whether his father was kidding or not about that last comment, "then you must be very cautious. Remember we're at war and we must utilise every means and resource at our disposal, and that includes the less savoury biscuits."

"You're not going to forbid me?" Edmonde almost shouts.

"No. I know your talents, just like I know the capabilities of your brother and sister and where best to use them. But if you continue down this path then always keep a distance and never do the dirty work yourself, and above all have a fall guy if matters should get a little out of hand. We may like to think that we control the system as much as we want but human nature always has an element of unpredictably."

Edmonde is not quite sure what to say, let alone make sense out of what his father has just told him, before now he hadn't really taken seriously any considerations of pursuing this kind of life. At the moment his thoughts were only of Maria.

"However," Christophe adds, "I forbid you to consider any notions of marriage to this Maria Garcia."

"Huh?"

"Don't take me for a fool; I know everything that goes on in my children's lives. The one thing I will never allow is the pollution of our bloodline, especially not from a dago goat herder from some backwater little island." Christophe's words are full of malice.

"But father..."

"This law is gospel," Christophe interrupts, "there is no middle ground," he bluntly adds as he comes up to his son putting his face directly in front of Edmonde's, his eyes filled with cold savagery. "Bed her, fuck her, screw her, sow your wild oats, but when it comes to who you marry, I and your grandmother have the final say."

Edmonde is stunned and full of rage, he wants to lash out, strike this monster standing before him, but he stays his hand fearing the consequences of such an action.

His father waits patiently for a reply.

"As you wish father," Edmonde says without protest.

His answer satisfies Christophe. "Cheer up, I married someone I didn't love and look what I got out of it, three loving and adoring children." This time the sarcasm in Christophe's voice is unmistakeable.

The mocking words stick in Edmonde's craw.

London

The "Beatnik" cafe was, like the name suggests, a former Beatnik coffee shop from the 50's, located in a cellar just off of Red Lantern Lane Way in Earl's Court. The poets have long gone and the place was now a hangout for the hippy generation, although their time too was coming to an end. But for the moment it was the 'far out' place to be if you had long hair and beads, or were an ex-pat from Australia. The establishment is run by Bob Howard, an Aussie who came to the old dart a decade ago seeking fame and fortune in the theatre, none of which he achieved. "A bunch of poofter fucking wankers", was one of Bob's more colourful colloquialisms when talking about the people who run the theatre business.

Edmonde has a look around, it was still early evening and the place was just starting to fill up, by 10 PM however, it would be standing room only. He sits with Maria at their regular corner table, the incense candle burning its aromatic fragrance giving a false sense of harmony in their lives.

"It'll be alright," he tells her, "we'll think of something."

"It cannot be," Maria deplores.

"We love each other and that's all that matters." Edmonde is shocked by these words, but more so because they are the truth.

" _II mio amore_ ," Maria says, "my heart is full of joy at these words of yours." Maria leans across the table and kisses him. It is not their first kiss but it is the kiss that will seal their fate, like many star cross lovers throughout history.

"I won't lose you."

"My uncle has found out – may Saint Maria bless us – _egli uccidermi_ ," Maria adds with genuine fear. "What we do, my heart is yours and I want to be with you. But he will not allow that."

"I'll talk to him," Edmonde suggests.

"No, you do not know him, his _temperare_...crazy, we're Sicilians,"Maria says in some distraught. She gets up from the table and crosses to the ladies room.

Edmonde can't believe it, he comes from one of the most powerful and riches families in the world and he still can't be with the woman he loves. The last few weeks have been some of the happiest times of his young life. He adores Maria; the time they spent together was a joy, when he was with her he didn't care about anything else, his family, 'The Work of Ages', as far as he was concerned the whole world could go to hell; all he wanted was to be with her – to marry her. But neither of their families would hear of it and now that Maria's uncle has found out about her relationship, matters were going from bad to worse. They had kept their liaison a secret, as Maria wanted it that way knowing full well the reaction such a union would cause with her family.

It seems, to Edmonde, that the only way to make this work was for both of them to defy their families. Edmonde felt like he could actually do it, that he could finally be he's own man. But even if he did find the courage to stare down Christophe Villon, he doubts that Maria would be able to do the same to her uncle, who had taken guardianship over his niece after the death of her father seven years ago, and controlled her life ever since. Salvador Garcia has already warned Edmonde, in a roundabout way, to keep his paws off of his niece as she was meant for someone else. As this memory surfaces Edmonde berates himself thinking that if he were any kind of man he would have stood up and put Salvador in his place, after all Edmonde was a Villon. But he didn't, just like he has never been able to do to his father or anyone else for that matter. _Nothing cripples a person more than fear_.

"Shit," he mumbles in despair.

Ever since his most recent conversation with his father, Edmonde has entertained the idea of breaking it off with Maria, but it was never a serious contemplation. The instant he saw her stunning face and her wonderful beaming smile, he knew that he wanted none other. She made the other women around him seem obsolete. And although he may not have as much experience with women than his friend Charlie, he knew the difference between the strippers and prostitutes that Mr. Berry had gotten for them both and the goddess from the shores of a distant island - that's how Edmonde imagines her. He knew more than anything else, that this is what he wanted. He was eighteen years old and ready to make his appearance on the world stage and he needed Maria by his side and that's all there was to it.

By the time Maria returns to their table Edmonde has decided that the best thing for them both was to get away for a few days and let things cool off. Maria agrees, although deep down they knew that this would never happen; he was a Villon and she a Garcia, and both had tyrannical patriarchs as head of their clans.

But they were genuinely in love and couldn't see anything else.

From the "Beatnik" cafe they went to Bob Howard's apartment, which was only a block away; Bob had said they could use it anytime they wanted and at the moment Bob was shacked up with a Pakistani lady in her fifties, who taught yoga and was into the guru, Sai Baba, although she hadn't yet fully converted Bob to the path of light and love. Bob Howard's place was a small two bedroom flat with a kitchenette and lounge all in one that sat directly above a dry cleaners store and pinball parlour. It wasn't the Hilton or a Holiday Inn for that matter, but to Maria and Edmonde it was paradise.

They spent a week in the shoe box.

Without the pressures or dramas of their respective families, the place became their little nirvana, where they could be alone and explore the delicious delights that awaited them, yet for all the time they had spent together they have never consummated their relationship. For Maria, it was the first time, for Edmonde, although he has already had several "Skanks", as Mr. Berry calls them, with Maria it also felt like the very first time for him. Maria fully clothed was beautiful, unclothed she was stunning, there was no flaw to her body, her slightly sun browned skin only adds to the exotic flavour of her persona; Edmonde was in awe at the sight of his goddess. He almost felt that he was unworthy to touch her, to be in her presence, that he should be bringing her gifts of worship. Instead he brought himself and his coarse physique, but to the virginal Maria, who has been forced to live a sheltered life, it was forbidden fruit, and once she has a taste of it she wanted more. But in those seven days and six nights, unaware of the storm surrounding them, Edmonde Villon and Maria Garcia did more than just consummated their bond, they cemented their love for one another in the fires of their passion which would consume them and have serious repercussions for many more people; like the ripples from a stone dropping into the water that spread and become tsunamis.

On the seventh day as Edmonde and Maria sat down for breakfast the world found them.

"Let's just go, get out of England," Edmonde tells Maria, across the small linoleum table, its surface worn and full of gaps. Maria sits in her robe that is slightly open revealing a portion of one of her luscious white breasts.

"Where would we go my _amore_?"

"It doesn't matter as long as we're together."

Maria's heart is touched deeply by this declaration and the look of longing in her lover's eyes. " _Il mio amore dolce_ ", Maria declares, "my heart is yours, but I do not know what to say?"

"Say nothing, we'll just hop on a plane and go, we'll just elope and let our families deal with it."

"You mean?" Maria can't finish the question.

"Marry me Maria," Edmonde finishes for her. His words are simple, uncomplicated and genuine. Maria is speechless; she doesn't know what to say, although she wants to say yes, she doesn't get a chance for there is a sudden and loud banging at the door.

The couple look at one another in silence as the first knock is quickly followed by an even louder wrap at the door. "Ed lad, you fucking well in there mate." Edmonde breathes a sigh of relief at the sound of Charlie Berry's voice.

"It's alright," Edmonde hastily reassures Maria. He stands and crosses to the door, unlocking the chain and letting his friend in.

"Bloody hell mate, I've been looking everywhere for you. Do you have any idea what's going on?" Charlie lets fly without catching his breath. He then notices Maria, looking a little embarrass, she gets up from the table tying her robe. "Oh...hi Maria."

"Charlie," she says, "I'll go change." Maria hastily makes her way to the bedroom.

"Well, you certainly know how to stir the shit," Charlie announces to his friend.

A short time later Edmonde and a now dressed Maria sit on the dog-eared leather sofa as Charlie brings them up to speed on what's been going on. "Your uncle's gone crazy Maria, crazy; he came to the club looking for you, threatening my da and anyone else who stood in his way, which went down like a fart in the chapel as far as my da was concerned – no one does that in his place."

"Oh no," Maria bemoans.

Maria shoots Edmonde a look of concern.

"I thought for sure there was going to be blood, but after some yelling and some, colourful language, let's say, da got your uncle to calm down. But I don't know how long it will last, shit, I thought we Irish were nutters, but you Sicilians' are on a whole other plane of craziness."

"So why did you come Charlie?" Edmonde says not liking one word of what he's been told.

"Are you daft?" Charlie asks in disbelief, "If Salvador Garcia doesn't see his niece soon there's going to be blood Ed, a lot of blood."

"It doesn't matter. We're not going back," Edmonde declares adamantly.

"Ed, don't think with your balls, think with your head."

"I am thinking Charlie, everything you said will blow over in time, Maria and I just have to get away, that's all."

"No."

Edmonde turns to Maria, unsure of what he just heard.

"No Edmonde", she continues, "it will not blow over."

"Yes it will, we just need to be strong."

"By running away?" Maria's words bring Edmonde up short. "I know my family, if they do not see me, there will be blood."

"Maria - no."

"Yes _amore_. It's time I stood up to my uncle; he can no longer run my life. I'm not afraid anymore. And my answer to you is _si_ \- I will marry you and I will tell my uncle so. I love you, nothing else matters, _si_ , your words."

"Maria's right Ed, I wish you two nothing but the best – as does my da, but you need to get a handle on this now."

Charlie's words finally register on Edmonde. "Okay," he agrees, knowing full well that running away was wishful thinking, a wonderful dream why it lasted. "Do you want me to come with you?" Edmonde asks Maria.

"No," she states, "wait for my call - don't worry I know how to handle my uncle."

"We will be together."

" _Si_ ," Maria gently takes Edmonde's face into his hands and kisses him.

In the years to come Edmonde would do terrible things, but throughout it all he would always remember this moment and the sweet taste of Maria's lips upon his.

Edmonde sits all alone in the "Beatnik" cafe, the place not yet open for the day, but Bob Howard has given Edmonde a key telling him that he was more than welcome any time. And today Edmonde was glad of that favour, for today he was in mourning – Maria was dead. She has been murdered; her throat slit open from ear to ear by her uncle, Salvador Garcia, an honour killing – an _Omerta_ – a popular code of honour common in areas of Southern Italy. She has been brutally killed for disgracing and dishonouring her uncle and her family name, for her liaison with Edmonde.

When Edmonde was told of the news, only a day ago, he felt shock and then numbness, a sensation that has stayed with him, he knew that this was one of the stages people went through when suffering a loss; shock, numbness, sadness, despair; emotions Edmonde has gone through before with the death of his mother, Juliana, an event that he still hadn't fully recovered from, and now it was Maria, who had been so cruelly snatched away from him.

It was only three days ago that they parted, only three days ago that Maria told Edmonde to wait for her telephone call, a call that never came, only a handful of days ago that they kissed goodbye, that they declared their undying love to one another promising that they would be together.

But it was never to be.

Edmonde's mind couldn't comprehend that he would never see her, never touch her and never feel the sweet taste of her lips ever again. His numbness began to turn into regret, thinking that he should never have let her go, that he should have insisted that she come with him. But Edmonde has always vacillated over every decision throughout his entire young life. More than anything right now, he wishes that he could be more like his father, a cold hearted son-of-a-bitch - but he wasn't - not yet anyway.

He has been sitting at his and Maria's favourite table for the last three hours, going over and over again in his mind's eye, the events that led to this tragedy and how he could have prevented it. But all he could see was Maria's face, and all he could imagine was how she must have looked with her throat slit from ear to ear. This picture overpowers everything else and slowly a light within Edmonde went out, the spark of goodness that was lit by his mother was distinguished, he almost lost it once before with her death, but now with the demise of Maria, someone else he truly loved, it was finally snuffed out. And in this vigil of the dead that Edmonde has been holding, something uncurled inside the R-complex of his brain, that reptilian part of us that houses and plays an important role in aggressive behaviour, territoriality, ritualism and establishment of hierarchies, a place where anger, hatred and cold bloodiness resides within all of us; a dwelling where revenge lives and breathes. And in this home the words of his father call out to him: "Someday you will understand the need for punishment and discipline."

Edmonde finally understood.

It was just after noon when Darcy Berry enters the cafe and comes up to the solemn looking Edmonde.

"Ed lad, there you are. You are harder to find than an honest man in Whitehall," Darcy says in his larrikin manner. "Jesus but you've got a face like a smacked arse," Darcy adds as he sits down opposite. "No use moping around here, I'm sorry about your girl, but I did try to warn you. That fucking Salvador Garcia, all fur coat and no knickers, that's someone who needs a bad batting to put a few manners on him."

Edmonde is silent; even Mr. Berry's colourful language fails to penetrate the stone wall that has been erected in front of his face.

"Look lad, how 'bout you come out to dinner with me and Charlie, we'll get pissed and forget this whole shite, what do you say?"

"What about Maria's uncle?" Edmonde enquires.

"What about him, he's off tomorrow, fucking waste of time doing business with him anyway."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it, end of story, what do you expect lad, justice?"

"No, not justice, punishment, I want him dead." On the surface Edmonde's words seem calmly spoken, but beneath lurks malicious intent.

"Fuck me sideways lad – are you fucking crazy." Mr. Berry's words are far fuller of emotion. "Get over it will you, this is their family business not yours."

"Mr. Berry," Edmonde begins, "I like you and have the greatest respect for you and everything you have achieved, and I consider Charlie to be my best friend. But I'm a Villon, you know my father, you know my family, you know full well what we're capable of doing."

"Aye, I do."

"Now, I may not have the same power as my father does at the moment, but in time I will, and if you fail to help me now, I swear to you that when I do have that power I will destroy you." Edmonde pauses for a few moments to allow what he has just said to sink in.

For Mr. Berry's part he is strangely silent.

"However," Edmonde continues, "if you do help me, then I'll swear to you here and now, Mr. Berry, that you'll have my full support and resources and over time we will expand your little fiefdom into a kingdom. And please don't make the mistake of taking me lightly, the lad you've known for the last year is gone forever."

Mr. Berry is quiet and contemplative. He stares at this young man in front of him, weighing up his words and judging whether the coldness he sees in those eyes is genuine or not. As far as he is concerned they are, but above all else he can also see how he has been handed a golden opportunity. "If you do this lad, you could bloody well end up starting a war."

"That, Mr. Berry, is something my family has always been good at."

"Perhaps, but are you truly ready for the repercussions?" Mr. Berry asks him in a tone of warning.

Several hours later Salvador Garcia finds himself bound and gagged in a wooden chair, at a secret location, in a Spartan room with very little furnishings. It was dark and mouldy smelling, the blinds were drawn across the sole window, only allowing a thin slither of moonlight in. The Mafiosi's face is bloodied and bruised, his left eye swollen shut from the recent beating at the hands of Mr. Berry's thugs.

Salvador knew that he was a dead man but he wasn't about to show these dogs fear. He has been left unattended for the last hour or so, fighting back the dread and anxiety that was building up within him. Tired and soar all over, and knowing that his fate was sealed; Salvador was nonetheless surprised when Edmonde Villon enters the room holding a stiletto knife. Salvador Garcia tries desperately to curse at this whelp through the gag but all that came out is muffled noises. Edmonde barely looks at the man who murdered Maria, instead he crosses quickly to the chair in the centre of the room and without hesitating for a moment; he brings the slender tapered blade up and slashes it twice across Salvador Garcia's neck opening up his jugular. Blood splashes across Edmonde's cheek and onto his lips, the coppery taste filling his mouth. Then, still without uttering a word, he turns on his heels and exits the room with the sound of Salvador Garcia's gargling death rattle ringing in his ears - it is sweet music to Edmonde.

1975 - 1983

The death of Salvador Garcia sparked a brief but bloody underworld war across the Atlantic that even reached into the mafia heartland of Sicily, resulting in the deaths of twenty-seven people, five of which were innocent bystanders.

But when the smoke cleared the power of the Garcia family was at an end. In the final analysis they couldn't compete with the seemingly unending coffers of money that Darcy Berry's organisation suddenly had at their disposal. But it was more than just retribution that was dealt out during the years of 1975 and 1977, word also spread amongst the villainous of a new player on the scene, an anonymous benefactor behind Darcy Berry, a very powerful individual who in time would become the unofficial king of the underworld.

Edmonde Villon found his calling and his feet were firmly set upon the path that would eventually lead him to the heights of criminal power much to the detriment of many people both guilty and innocent.

# Chapter 18

Sebastian Villon, 1969 \- 1983

The Greek island of Idas, 1983

Nikki Mitsotakis lay asleep upon the large double bed in front of the ocean as the sun was just beginning to rise in the east. The crystal clear blue waters were still and silent, giving the appearance of a shiny pane of glass. And while his bride slept, Sebastian Villon, naked as the day he was born stands at the balcony railing of their honeymoon suite gazing out upon the Aegean Sea. The fragrant spring breeze felt good upon his flesh. He wasn't afraid of anyone seeing his nude body as there were only five suites on the small and exclusive resort island of Idas.

Sebastian's thoughts were on lost civilisations; according to archaeologists there were over two hundred sunken cities and ports beneath the waters of the Mediterranean, ancient empires swallowed up by the ocean or destroyed by volcanos and earthquakes. Empires whose hand stretched from one ocean to the other; the Greeks, the Persians, the Romans, all led by great men who shaped and forged the world around them, Cyrus, Alexander, Caesar, all at one time engulfing the civilisations of western Asia and creating one gigantic dominion. Sebastian yearns to create such an empire of his own, but in reality he knew that he would only be a small part of the Villon Empire. But still the future was unwritten and who knows what he could achieve in the years to come. He had already made a good start.

At the request of his father Sebastian had taken a senior executive position in 'Atlas Shipping Co.' after Banque Villon acquired forty percent of the company from Stavros Mitsotakis, now his father-in-law. True he wasn't yet CEO of the company, but that was just a matter of time before he was, as Stavros was not a well man and with any luck should be dead within the next twelve months, which would pave the way for Sebastian's ascension into the top job; a job that Sebastian now wants more than anything else. At first he resisted the notion of taking up a position in a shipping company but he soon came to see the potential of the opportunity that was given to him.

The 'Atlas Shipping Co.' had run aground in the financial waters of debt, slipping from being one of the top shipping lines in the world to one of the bottom. But with the intervention of Banque Villon the company was thrown a lifeline.

And Sebastian intends for it to be saved and not drowned. His goal was to turn 'Atlas Shipping Co.' into the leading logistics company in the entire world, not just using ships, but planes, railways, trucks; crisscrossing the globe expanding the reach of the Villon Empire and opening up limitless possibilities to what sort of goods could be shipped. But to achieve it he would have to become CEO, at which point he could take controlling interest of the company, just as his father, Christophe Villon, intended. But even though 'Atlas Shipping Co.' would just be another cog in the Villon engine, to Sebastian it would be all his, an empire of his own.

After taking the position Sebastian's next job was marrying Nikki Mitsotakis, a task made easier by the fact that Nikki was friends with Sebastian's sister, Eleanor, having gone to the same Swiss boarding school together, but more importantly Stavros Mitsotakis saw the wisdom of joining his family with the Villons. Thankfully the Mitsotakis' had the right pedigree, being cousins of Prince George of Denmark, who reigned as George 1 of Greece until his assassination in 1913. But the Mitsotakis family went way back into Greece's history with their family first emerging on the public arena during the war of independence of 1821 – 1827 against the Turks, an uprising that was answered with savage repression and would have ended if not for the intervention of the British, French and Russian fleets who destroyed the Turkish and Egyptian fleets at Navarino in 1827. When Greece was fully independent by 1832, the Mitsotakis family were considered heroes for their actions against the Turks. In the decades that ensured the fortunes of the family, like so many others, rose and fell with the fortunes of the country.

During World War I the Mitsotakis' again fought the Turks achieving glory upon the battlefield, but a few years later the family was almost wiped out in 1921 during the fatal launch of Greece's own war against Turkey, to claim more territory. When the second World War rolled around, Stavros' father, Alastor, fought in the resistance movement against their German occupiers, becoming known as 'The Eagle of Vengeance', while his uncle on the other hand, Nikolaos, Alastor's brother, went to work for the Germans and became a Captain in the SS, a secret that the family has always managed to maintain. Both brothers survived the war but the animosity between them continued unabated until 1952 when Alastor stabbed his brother to death at the funeral of their mother. This action tore the family apart, sides were drawn and a family feud erupted which saw not only Alastor being gun down while on the toilet but also the death of several cousins until finally the blood vengeance had been sated. As for Stavros, he was sent to America to be educated and on returning to Greece took control of the family assets, which consisted of some property and a few fishing boats, including a couple of rusting cargo ships. But Stavros quickly began to turn the family fortune around by selling and buying property and setting up a small company – 'Atlas Shipping Co.' which at the outset had only two ships, but quickly expanded and over time grew into one of the leading shipping lines of the world.

All in all Sebastian was happy with his wife, Nikki was a beauty, and has a fiery temper which he liked, and he quickly discovered that she was a tiger beneath the sheets; although he has no intention of being monogamous; he already had his eye on his new secretary. Sebastian of course has had many women and not all of them hookers; he found early on that money could buy anything and that a string of pearls or diamond earrings got you further than dinner or flowers ever did. Which was fine with him as he always seem to have problems with the opposite sex and had spent many hours with his head shrink being told so, but he had money and that always got him what he wanted. "Composition for lack of love", his $560 dollar an hour psychiatrist told him and that perhaps he should try and actually find some.

A notion that Sebastian scoffed at.

There was no love in the Villon family – just business.

As the morning sun crept higher Sebastian begins to think about the four significant moments in his life to date that have helped to shape him into the person he has become. He can put his finger on each of them, one after the other.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England, 1969

On the night of the death of Juliana Villon, an eleven year old Sebastian was wandering the grounds of Grimstone Manor. It was a regular occurrence for the kid to sneak outside after everyone was asleep; he found the night air comforting and the music of the night soothing to his ears. He also had trouble sleeping, mainly due to nerves, a trait that would always stay with him, but these night time jaunts have the effect of soothing his anxieties. High anxieties brought on by his father and his older brother who liked nothing more than giving him hell on earth.

The one thing about the surrounding moor that always astounded Sebastian was how far sound travelled. Noises from miles away would reach the alert ear, especially at night when the human world was locked in stillness and sleep. Recognising these sounds became a game to Sebastian; the hoot of the owl, the mournful sound of a cow, the neighing of a lost pony that had wandered into the bogs, the sweet cry of the nightingale, the chilling howl of a bloodhound, and the eerie sound of the bogs themselves as the foul smelling odours from deep below burst to the surface, like some creature emerging from the depths of the underworld to roam the land bringing horror and destruction to all those that got in its path. Sebastian got to know all these sounds to the point where they were like old friends to him, so naturally when a new noise intruded upon his nocturnal symphony, he became curious.

It was a thud that he heard, _like the foot of a bog monster_ , his imagination whispered softly to him. His curiosity getting the better of him he went to investigate, silently praying that it wasn't his father looking for him. But of course to discover his father would have been preferable than the horrific sight of seeing his mother's splattered body, lying face down on the wet concrete, a pattern of blood scattered around her head like some halo or a crown, but not filled with light, but rather a black oozing oily like substance that seemed to be creeping ever outwards. Juliana's head and neck had been grotesquely twisted on impact, almost being completely turned around, her dead eyes looking in Sebastian's direction, lifeless eyes, frozen and looking as if they were filled with surprise.

But while this traumatic memory would stay with Sebastian for the rest of his life, it was something else that he saw that night which haunted him even more. It was only a glimpse, so quick that to be honest with himself he couldn't actually say that he saw anything at all. Over the years he convinced himself that he didn't see it, slowly wiping it from his memory, but still it was always there, just beneath the surface of his memories waiting to pounce. For on that night, after finding the body of his mother, Sebastian happened to look up at the open window where she had just fallen from and in that instant he swore that he saw Masha – his beloved babushka standing at the window looking down with an expression of great satisfaction upon her face and then Masha's eyes saw him.

Sebastian fell back into the shadows, hoping that he hadn't been discovered, and when he looked again he saw no one standing at the window, and because it was only a flash, he thought that _he had imagined the whole thing_ – at least that's what he told himself.

Nevertheless he ran back to his room and hid beneath the blankets and waited. The night drew on and no one came until the body was discovered in the morning.

In the days following his mother's death Sebastian, like his brother and sister, were comforted by their grandmother, who had always treated them nice and lovingly. And when babushka took the young Sebastian in her arms, he couldn't help but feel like the fly caught in the web of the spider. "You must be brave," she spoke softly to him, "you must be strong, our family has suffered a great loss and we mustn't let this tragic accident destroy what we have, you mustn't let it destroy you Sebastian." Her words sent chills down his spine. "And never forget," she added, "that I will always be keeping a careful eye on you because you are special and precious to me."

And Masha was true to her word.

Sebastian tried to avoid her but somehow, even in a place as big as Grimstone, she would always manage to find him and give him a loving hug and kiss for no apparent reason. And when he cried she would comfort him. And tell him stories. One story in particular has always stuck in his head, how they began talking about it he can't recall, for they rarely talked about religion, only that she told him this particular story a few months after Juliana's death, as he sat in the greenhouse watching Masha groom her school of poisonous plants.

"In the story of Judas, who betrayed Jesus, it says in the New Testament how Judas kissed Jesus on the lips to point him out to his captors, but this is a falsehood, for you see Judas didn't kiss his former master in order to identify him, rather he kissed him because he was giving him what has become known as 'the kiss off' or the 'kiss of death', a term commonly used amongst the mafia families of the world. But its origins date back to the ancient Phoenicians and Cainites. You see there is a particular deadly scorpion in those regions that has two stingers on its tail and when someone was stung it left a mark on the skin that looked like lips and hence the phrase 'kiss off' meaning that you were going to die. Do you understand what I'm telling you Sebastian?"

Sebastian was mute, not sure how to answer. He didn't need to.

"Even amongst the closest families," she continued, "one can always be given 'the kiss off', never forget that Sebastian as long as you live. And always remember that things aren't always the way they seem."

He didn't.

As Sebastian grew up he convinced himself that his dear grandmother could never be involved in the death of his mother. It was an abhorrent notion, after all _what threat could his mother have been_ , she would never be given 'the kiss off' as she was so gentle, loving and could never hurt a fly. But one thing he didn't doubt was that the good of the family always came first and the other thing he had no qualms about was that if any member of the family was a genuine threat, then they would be taken care of one way or the other. This was one of the earliest lessons that Sebastian ever learned.

Masha was a good teacher.

Nice, France, 1973

The catamaran slices through the waters of Nice. Sea spray whips into Sebastian's face and body. The fifteen year old hangs precariously in the air as the speeding craft tilts on its starboard side.

He loves every minute of it

The boat begins to drop back down. "Port!" shouts the fifty-two year old man that is alongside of Sebastian. Hearing the words Sebastian quickly moves to the other side of the catamaran as the starboard side drops and the port side rises. "That's the ticket!" The older man shouts at Sebastian.

"Let's go faster!" Sebastian urges.

In answer the skipper steers the boat further into the wind. Instantly the catamaran picks up speed. Sebastian lets the sea breeze engulf him. It was a beautiful sunny day on the French Riviera. The harbour was dotted with yachts and sails. A bikini clad woman zooms past them on water skis, giving a wave to them as the speedboat passed.

"Gotta get me some of that!" The other man says.

"You always do uncle!"

Erik McClain-Vasa was Juliana's older brother and the dark sheep of the family. Narcissistic and a womaniser, Eric loves the good things in life, including gambling, losing millions at the various casinos of the world, as well as winning millions. His playboy lifestyle and constant scandals irritated his father and led to his estrangement from the family and being cut off from a lot of the family's wealth. But Erik didn't mine, he has made more than enough money to live on for a dozen lifetimes over. Not close to his sisters, including Sebastian's mother, Eric didn't see much of his nephews and niece as they grew up. But all that changed a year ago when Sebastian was sent to 'The De Molay' private boarding school in Paris where during a social function he was reunited with his lost uncle.

"Let's head in!"

"No- not yet!"

"Sorry - but it's almost cocktail hour!"

"But uncle!"

"Too much of a good thing is bad for you as I like to never say!" Erik smiles broadly at his nephew and laughs rigorously as he begins to tack.

Forty minutes later the catamaran is moored at the crowded Lympia port and ten minutes after that Erik is in the members bar of the yacht club knocking back a tequila sunrise while Sebastian is sitting on a lemon squash. The bar was filled with the wealthy. Everywhere you look was money. It practically oozed out of the pores of those gathered as they talked about their latest acquisitions or their newly purchased big toys. "Always make time for pleasure, Sebastian," Erik once told him, "you come from a wealthy family, make sure you spend some of it on fun."

Sebastian looks at his uncle who was already busy chatting up the Lady Lysette Rothman, an attractive woman in her mid-forties and heir to the Rothman tobacco fortune. _Uncle Erik knew how to pick them_ , Sebastian thinks. He has grown extremely close to his uncle in the last few months and that is something he will forever be grateful for, as his uncle was the one who introduced him to sailing and a general love for the water. Two things his uncle was passionate about. Erik had already sailed around the world once and was planning a second trip soon, a voyage that Sebastian would love to go on. But his father wouldn't allow it. Christophe already had misgivings about his son hanging out with Erik as it was. But Sebastian didn't mind, Erik has already shown him the wonders of the sea, above and below.

Sebastian's first scuba dive was like a dream as he entered the underwater realm of the sea. From the moment he swam through his first coral reef Sebastian felt completely at home beneath the water, enthralled by the multitude of colours and strange looking life, and above all the feeling of weightlessness. He felt as if he could go on forever just swimming on and on, and he most likely would have if he weren't relying on oxygen to breath.

The other element that appeals to him greatly was that down there he was away from all the pressures and stress from the world above. Since that initial dive he has swam with manta rays, sharks and dolphins, not to mention the myriad of other marine life he has come in contact with in the kingdom beneath the sea. Sebastian knows that this love he now has for the water will stay with him for the rest of his life.

Although Sebastian's father wouldn't hear of him going sailing around the world with his uncle, Christophe Villon has no way of stopping his son from going beneath the water; and as for a trip around the world in a sailing boat, Sebastian already made a secret pact with himself that one day when he was older he would do this on his own. Thinking of his father suddenly brought back the recent incident between Erik and Christophe. It was a week ago in this very club when Christophe accused Erik of having too much influence over his son.

"His grades are already slipping, his spending far too much time out on the water with you," Christophe had told his brother-in-law.

"I'm not holding a gun to his head; for God's sake the kid is enjoying himself, why don't you let him have some fun," Erik counters.

"He can have all the fun he wants when he's of age, until then he will do what I tell him, and that means finishing his education."

"And I have no doubt he will but you have got to let the kid have room to breathe and express himself."

"Don't you assume to tell me how to raise my children," Christophe says adamantly.

"Why not, you're obliviously doing a hopeless job. If you had your way children should be seen but not spoken, right? God almighty you're as bad as my father, doing this, doing that, rules and regulations. He was also filled with turpitude," Erik says now getting very hot under the collar.

"You're one to talk, Erik, cutting yourself off from your family, your sister, because you didn't have the stomach for what was expected of you. You were always more interested in yourself and getting your thrills rather than doing your duty to the family."

"The family comes first and all that rot - give me a break," Erik mocks.

And so the argument had continued, like two bucks locking horns, neither willing to give in, almost coming to blows at one point, until Christophe had finally had enough and left, telling Sebastian that he expected him back in Paris in a week.

"Know your enemies and know yourself, and you can fight a hundred battles without disaster," Erik told Sebastian afterwards, quoting the military philosophy of the great Sun Tsu.

Christophe was right to fear Erik's influence over his son; Sebastian has really grown to admire his uncle. But it wasn't to last; five months later Erik McClain-Vasa was dead, drowned at sea, his yacht sunk off the coast of Cape Horn during a squall. This was a devastating blow to Sebastian, but he would never forget the lesson his uncle taught him about how life was meant to be enjoyed once in a while and of course Sebastian would always be grateful to him for introducing him to sailing and the world beneath the ocean.

Mauritius, 1976

The switchblade gleams in the moonlight mere inches from Sebastian's throat. "I'll cut your balls off," the voice hisses at him in the dark.

He tries to move but another pair of hands held him firm from behind, the arms going beneath his armpits and around the back of his neck. "You sick bastard," the voice hisses again. Sebastian could just make out the face of the fair skinned African man in front of him, obviously a mix of African, French and Indian, _like his sister_ , Sebastian thinks. He had been jumped on the winding path while making his way back to his beach front bungalow and dragged kicking into the surrounding bush, his mouth gagged by a large hand. He was then slammed up hard against a coconut tree where a second assailant grasped him from behind.

Sebastian knew fear.

He knew that he was mere seconds from death.

And it was all his fault.

This was payback for the raping of Celeste Dion, a seventeen year old bartender and resident of the Republic of Mauritius.

Sebastian's eyes go wide as he feels the tip of the blade prick his skin near the jugular. A thin warm trickle of blood runs down his neck. Sebastian's panic grows. He tries to break free but he is held firm. He then feels the uncomfortable sensation of the blade as it is place between his legs and up against his vital organ. "Please", he whimpers.

He has just turned eighteen and had come to the island of Mauritius for a holiday after the end of the school year, where he planned to do some scuba diving and soak up the sun. He had come with a couple of friends, Bertrand Leveque and Ian Clarkson. They had only been in the country for three days when they went to a seafront bar where Celeste was working, a voluptuous young lady with long black hair and the most piercing blue eyes that you could stare into forever and get lost. Her light coco brown skin shone like silk. She wore a tight fitting t-shirt that did little to cover her breasts. Sebastian was instantly smitten by her. He struck up a conversation and there seemed to be some chemistry there. So he came back to the bar every night for the rest of the week until finally Celeste agreed to let him take her home.

Sebastian had been drinking and was quite drunk as he walked Celeste home. When he attempted to kiss her and she pushed him away, he snapped, rejection was never something he appreciated. Celeste struggled but her small form was never a match for Sebastian, who was just over six foot tall, having shot up dramatically in the last couple of years. He pushed her into a nearby alley, smothering her cries for help, threatening to kill her if she didn't shut up. He tore away her clothes and amongst the garbage and rats he raped her. The whole disgusting crime only took a few minutes but lives were changed forever on that night.

Two nights later Celeste's brother was seeking revenge.

"Please don't," Sebastian begs as his pants are roughly pulled down, followed by his underwear. He yelps in pain as the cold steel blade is pushed up against his balls.

"How does it feel scum?" The voice of Celeste's brother asks. "You'll never touch another girl again you pig."

"Wait...I'm sorry..."

"I bet you are now."

Sebastian pleads. "I wasn't thinking -I swear - I didn't mean to hurt her." But his cries fall on deaf ears.

"Hold him tighter," the enraged brother tells his accomplice. Sebastian feels the man behind him take a stronger grip on him. Sebastian shits himself. The watery brown liquid shoots down his legs as he loses all control of his bowels. Moments later he pisses himself.

The man behind him curses at the stink. "Just hold him." The brother responds with greater anger.

"Wait – I'll pay you," Sebastian offers in desperation.

And amidst the stink, sweat and pain, Sebastian sees a look in Celeste's brother's eyes, a look of greed. He removes the knife a couple of inches away.

Silence follows.

Sebastian makes an offer. "Three thousand Francs...just leave me alone." The offer is greeted with more silence. "Four – five thousand Francs." The second offer is also greeted by muted response.

The brother then moves the knife up until it is in front of Sebastian's tear filled eyes. "What is your cock worth? What is the life of my sister worth?"

"Ten thousand Francs - that's what I got on me back in my room."

The deal was struck. The offer accepted. The castration didn't happen. But Sebastian was punched several times in the stomach and the face for good measure, before his attackers took the money and left, warning him to leave the island ASAP.

Sebastian spent the next hour lying in the bath letting the warm water of the shower run as he cleaned his body and bathed his bruises. In point of fact his legs were too rubbery to stand. The shock of what happened to him, what could have happened to him sets in. His whole body shakes as he downs another small bottle of whiskey from the mini-bar, the fifth one so far. He realises just how close he came to singing soprano – how close he came to death. He knows full well that his life was only saved by greed and the power of money.

It was a lesson he would never forget. Money could buy anything, even life and death _. It not only changes hands – it changes people_. For all his anger and outrage at what had occurred to his sister, in the end her brother was satisfied by a mere few thousand Francs. Sebastian could have given him a lot more, which only reinforced Sebastian's view that everyone has a price when it came to cold hard cash.

As Sebastian thought more upon this point he began to feel better as money is something that he had plenty of.

Athens, Greece, 1981

"Welcome to Athens, Sebastian," booms the voice of Stavros Mitsotakis. Sebastian's future father-in-law is a big bear of a man with wild curly black hair that is now filled with silver and white streaks, his teeth smiling at him from a face with more cracks in it than a run down highway. "I'm so pleased to meet you." Stavros puts out his giant hairy hand and shakes Sebastian's crushing it in a strong manly grip. "Let me get a good look at you."

Stavros takes in the sight of his new vice president. Sebastian, now twenty-three years of age, has the look of a surfer about him; even though he was immaculately attired in a Carlotta original business suit, his black hair that has turned sandy blonde from the salt of the sea, hung down below the shoulders in a ponytail. He has also grown a van dyke beard and wore a shark tooth medallion around his neck, adding to the image of a beachcomber. The two men stood for several moments looking at each other.

They stand in the lavish office of Stavros Mitsotakis and the 'Atlas Shipping Co.' The room was large and wide open with alabaster spiral columns along the walls, statues of antiquities between each one, a long black marble obelisk shaped desk sat several feet in front of the open balcony that had a spectacular view of the city and the Acropolis in the background, the birthplace of western democracy. A shiny silver sculpture of the Atlantean king, Atlas, holding the world up on his shoulders was the centrepiece of the room.

The whole place was like some ancient Greek temple, but with all the modern connivances. Sebastian finds himself thinking how he could easily get to like this office, but of course that would have to wait.

"Let me say up front that I am glad you're here," Stavros says breaking the silence.

"Thank you."

"We all know that you got this position because of your father and my stupidity in recent years in financial matters. But that said I bear no hard feelings about you being here. Your father assures me that you're more than competent to handle the position."

"I appreciate you saying that sir."

"Please, call me Stavros, no formalities. Come I have drinks on the balcony for us." Stavros leads his new assistant out onto the balcony and into the warm Mediterranean afternoon. Between two white marble chairs refreshments wait for them on a table.

"So how do you like Greece?" Stavros enquires while pouring two small glasses of Ouzo.

"Just fine, the oceans and beaches are wonderful," Sebastian enthuses.

"Yes, I understand you have a penchant for the sea."

"A bit too much according to my father."

"Yes, well, we all need our hobbies and little vices." Stavros hands Sebastian his drink. "Oompa," the shipping tycoon says before drinking. "Ah, that hits the spot." Stavros pours another. "It's good you have a love of the ocean and ships, considering where you're now working."

"Yes, it is a bonus."

"But tell me truthfully; are you really glad to be here?" Stavros' question is direct and to the point.

Truth be told, Sebastian hated the idea when his father informed him of his plans for him, he can still recall the debate that went on between them. Although debate wasn't really the word as no matter what Sebastian argued Christophe was always going to get his way in the end. It took Sebastian a little time to see the bigger picture of why his father had sent him here, to play his part in the grand design. But when he did Sebastian quickly warmed to the idea. Also it meant him being away from his father and of course there was always the sailing.

"Believe it or not, but I'm actually looking forward to helping you get the 'Atlas Shipping Co.' on its feet and back on top where it belongs," Sebastian's reply is genuine and sincere.

It pleases Stavros immensely. "Good, good, I want more than anything to get this company back up again. I built this business with my own hands starting out with two rust buckets and ending up with three hundred and half a dozen other shipping companies. I will be honest with you Sebastian; the last couple of years have been hard, both financially and physically. I've had my health issues, I know I still look vigorous, but I haven't been a well man for a while and I so desperately want to ensure that my daughters have a secured future for the rest of their lives."

Sebastian is a little touched by Stavros' honesty but also sees a golden opportunity. "I understand exactly how you feel. But I have no doubt that together; you and I can get this old tub sea worthy once more." Sebastian tosses in a nautical term for good measure, knowing full well how to handle the situation, and it has the desired effect.

"I like you Sebastian, I like the way you talk, honest and straight forward. I freely admit I was hesitant when your father recommended you, but I see now that he was a lot wiser than me."

"If nothing else, my father is certainly wise."

"Excellent, now tell me what are your ideas for 'Atlas Shipping'?"

And so Sebastian spent the afternoon with Stavros outlining his plans for getting his company out of the whirlpool it was stuck in. Stavros was so impressed that he insisted Sebastian come home with him for dinner that night, where upon he met Stavros' three daughters, including Nikki.

The Greek island of Idas, 1983

Sebastian spent the best part of a year courting Nikki until she finally agreed to marry him. During that time the Mitsotakis family fell in love with him. Sebastian had learnt how to put on the charm when required; his uncle showed him that. He worked his way into the fold by becoming very close to Nikki's father and mother, everything he did was geared towards his plan of taking over the 'Atlas Shipping Co.', to create his own little empire. And wedding Nikki was part of the equation. He even loves her in his own way, although he never had any intention of staying faithful to her, but that would have to wait till a bit later, right now it was more important for him to be the good son-in-law so that when Stavros Mitsotakis dies he will be there to step in.

"All good things..." he whispers.

As the sun continues to creep up out of the ocean Sebastian brings his thoughts about his past to a close. Rather, concentrating on the future, his future and what he was going to create. His kingdom might not rival the great conquerors of the past but it will nonetheless be a substantial one, he would make sure of that. And there was still a war to be won, still many enemies of the Villons to be slain.

As he thinks about what is still yet to come he finds his manhood coming alive, waking up with the morning rays of the sun. Without further word or contemplation, he turns, and make his way back into the room and the naked woman lying beneath the white satin sheet.

# Chapter 19

The Haushofer Estate, Rhode Island, New York, December 1983

The Haushofer surrealist ball was to be the highlight of the high society social calendar of the year, held on the large Haushofer estate in Rhode Island. Helena Haushofer is renowned for the uniqueness of her parties and balls and this one isn't to be any exception. The guests were required in black tie and long dresses with surrealist heads. Her parties were legendary and took on such an importance that the Baroness Schroder of Belgium once threatened to commit suicide if not invited.

Many in the know knew this not to be a jest.

Then there was her now mythical Stardust Ball in Paris several years ago where a certain European Prince, strip naked, drank champagne from her shoe and declared his undying love for her asking for her hand in marriage in front of everyone. Helena turned the proposal down but the Prince continued to pursue her.

Helena Haushofer was in her late forties, not unattractive but by no means a stunner and of course heiress to the Haushofer-Fabien chemical empire whose roots were founded in Germany before the Second World War. The company was reputed to have supplied many of the lethal chemicals for the concentration camps of Nazi Germany, although nothing was ever officially proven.

Helena was a socialite animal who has no head for business and was only interested in the pleasurable pursuits of life. She attended to every minute detail in her life and also her entertaining, a vain, stupid and materialistic person; she was nevertheless adored by many. She was the perfect hostess with all the qualities associated with it. She has a great passion for the arts and was forever in search of new talent and new figures in art, literature, and dance, to promote and exhibit to the world. Many a struggling artist, male and female, found their first break beneath the sheets of Helena Haushofer's bed.

For this evening the estate was floodlit with moving orange lights to stimulate the impression that everything was on fire. The grand staircase in the entrance way leading up into the ballroom was lined with servants whose faces were painted as different animals, dogs, cats, lions, tigers, leopards and snakes. Black and red ribbons stream down from the ceiling above, forcing the guests to pass through a kind of labyrinth made of cobwebs. Any guest that got lost was steered to the ballroom by one of the attending servants.

Eleanor Villon was led into the main room by one of the cat face servants; having to attend the ball at the last moment by herself after the Millers had pulled out.

The ballroom is filled with guests all wearing long dresses and black suits and some form of head dress associated with the surrealist theme of the event. Replicating the works of the great artists of surrealism; Salvador Dali, Joan Miro, Rene Magritte. The industrialist Alex Henderson wore a painted golden face and wig with four little hands sticking out the side and top of the hair; while Keira Haddonfield also wore a yellow painted face with one blacked out eye and a large hat with just the frame and no fabric. But that was nothing compared to Lady De Roth who wore a stunning silver dress and a full head covering mask of a ram with large antler like horns that had golden earrings hanging off the top; then there was April Schaffer who wore a hat that was a still life representation of fruit on a platter; and then of course came Helena Haushofer in her fetching Giovanni original black trim dress and head dress which depicted giant weeping tears made of real diamonds.

As for Eleanor, she was attired in a long and slinky white satin dress that showed off her figure in all the right places, and while she didn't paint her face she did wear a hat depicting the face of a clock with human arms instead of the standard arms of a regular time piece. She didn't like the hat but it was given to her by Mrs Miller as Eleanor didn't have anything of her own to wear and there wasn't time to get something made up. The walls of the ballroom were festooned with multi-coloured replica paintings of the great surrealists; Dali's "The Persistence of Memory"; de Chirico's "The Red Tower"; Tanguy's "Indefinite Divisibility", to name but a few, and all connected by painted swirls and wiggling lines going in all directions. A small four piece band dressed in pink coloured cupid outfits and masks played the accompanying score to this bizarre event. Champagne was readily flowing and many of the guests were already showing signs of intoxication.

Eleanor took a glass of champagne from an attending servant with the painted face of a lion when she was greeted by the hostess herself. "Eleanor my dear, you look simply lovely."

"Nice to see you again, Lady Haushofer," Eleanor replies.

Helena Haushofer greets her with a kiss on the cheek. "Please call me Helen...I must say I just adore your hat. So tell me, honestly, what do you think of my soirée of the surreal?"

"It'll be the talk of the circuit as always."

"You so know how to stroke my ego. Aren't the costumes divine?" Helena enthuses. "But I just have to tell you that you have no idea how much effort it was to put this together. Not to mention the criticism I copped from that gutter rat Alicia Keyes – I mean did you read her article? She called my last party perfunctory, there's nothing carless or half-hearted about my soirées. I guess it's true that you can't cast pearls before swine. And she is so mendacious."

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean."

"I know you do dear, breeding is everything. By the way how's your grandmother?"

"Fine as always."

"I swear she'll outlive the whole lot of us."

"I'm inclined to agree with you."

"I just wish I knew the secret to her youth."

"I know - it's amazing how youthful she still looks and as always is filled with such energy. She is always on the get-go doing something or rather."

"And you father, how is that old pirate? I rarely see him at my parties anymore."

Eleanor shrugs. "You know my father, nose to the grindstone as usual."

"Well I suppose he's got a lot on his mind at the moment. But still you must tell him to come to my New Year's Eve bash it's going to be simply divine. Everyone will be there. But first I have to get through this one." Helena catches her breath, but only for a second. "Ah well, come on there's plenty of people I want to introduce you to. It always pays to advertise," Helena announces. She takes Eleanor's arm in her's and leads her into the fray.

Eleanor didn't know Helena Haushofer all that well. She has only met her a handful of times over the last few years and has never really gotten to know her intimately. Her father wasn't a fan, although he has attended several of her parties and balls over the years especially after the death of Juliana, but they have since had some kind of falling out. And although Eleanor couldn't prove it she was pretty sure that Helena and her father had been lovers at one time. Her grandmother on the other hand hated Helena Haushofer, mainly due to her family's involvement with the Nazis during the war and the fact that the Haushofer family made quite a bit of profit off of the rape of Russia by the German army. But even with that history Masha has attended several of Helena Haushofer's functions over the years as it has become a sort of status symbol amongst the elite and wealthy to be invited to a Helena extravaganza.

_There may well be no honour among thieves_ , Eleanor thinks, but when it comes to keeping up appearances the Villons like all the others will swallow their pride and put on a smile, but always the bickering and backstabbing continued - just not as much at public events.

"It's so good to see you again Eleanor," enthuses Melvyn Carrington.

"Yes it's been a while."

"Nonsense – you've forgotten me already...we danced the night away at the Sanders masquerade ball last Christmas."

"Oh yes – of course," Eleanor recovers her initial forgetfulness without breaking stride, she has been taught well, "it must be the make-up." She points out the black and white face paint covering Melvyn's features.

"Do you like it? I was at a complete loss for weeks what to come as."

"Don't be so melodramatic Melvyn," Helena scolds him, "you're such a queen when it comes to fashion."

"Clothes do not make the man my dear," he boasts.

"Particularly in your case," Helena parries.

"Oh my, well I've just been dying to tell you how lovely that material in the dress you were wearing last Friday was...I wonder if the style will ever come back."

"You bitch."

Melvyn blows Helena a kiss. "Love you too sweetie."

And so the bantering would continue throughout the night. Helena Haushofer and Melvyn Harrington loved and thrived on such sniping, each trying to get the better pot shot in. Eleanor has seen it all before in party after party. Enemies and friends alike always trying to get one up on the other through gossip or put downs and boasting of course. And even though there are many who doubt their ability, there are few who have any misgivings about their importance. Secretly Eleanor enjoyed seeing such dramas played out. And she knew that she will have to get use to them a lot more as she becomes a hostess at her own future events. She has already been involved in three grand charity balls and several small dinner parties over the last couple of years all of which were of varying successes.

But she was getting better all the time. Her grandmother was a fantastic teacher and Eleanor knew exactly how much there was to learn from someone like Helena Haushofer. A person who had the uncanny knack of throwing the greatest parties and who could also have her enemies eating out of her hand by the night's end. Bitter and sweat was Helena Haushofer and you never could tell which one would be fed to you. But her admirers didn't mind as long as they were given something to nibble on.

"Come Eleanor, you must meet Cindy Faraday, she's such a bitch," Helena declares vehemently. She steers Eleanor away from the solipsist Melvyn Carrington.

Eleanor silently wonders who else she might bump into amongst this lethal cocktail of friend and foe alike.

One of those friends or foes was Zane Ravenscroft. He had come to the ball wearing his black suit and tie, but upon his head he wore a top hat and mask consisting of three dissimilar faces, two on the side and one on the back, with his own face making four. Each of the false faces wore a different expression, sad, happy and blank. The mask has been loaned to him for the occasion, actually designed by the famous Gustavo himself. No doubt the head piece cost a small fortune, and even though it was designed by a world renowned artist, in truth Zane still felt ridiculous. But he realised early on that he would be attending balls like this for the rest of his life. They were just part of the world that he moved in and as much as he would like to shirk this responsibility, it was part and parcel of the territory that he was looking to reign over.

So Zane made the most of it, enjoying the functions as much as possible, after all he loved a good time just as much as the next person, plus there was plenty of delectable flesh on offer. It had already been a big year with his indoctrination into the highest levels of the Masons and his acceptance by the Illumnati and his embracing of their goals and doctrine – 'The Work of Ages'. Already that plan was moving further ahead with the beginning of the lifting of tariffs and trade barriers around the world. Zane and his father have been in high powered meetings all week with various executives of the central banks discussing these various issues. By the end of the week Zane was feeling exhausted but at the same time invigorated by all they were achieving. Profits were up and costs were down.

So Zane thinks that he deserves a bit of down time.

A bit of fun.

A bit of pleasure.

A bit of crumpet.

His roving eye has already zeroed in on two potential possibilities to go home with tonight; Jessica Nord and Stella Moore, both young and both attractive. Out of the duo Zane preferred Stella, as she was obviously the hottest and more desirable of the two, and he did actually enjoy her recent film "The Sunflower", even though Zane thought most actors and actresses were vain and self centred, but then again he wasn't looking for a permanent relationship.

So he introduced himself. Using his charm, wit and charismatic nature he soon has the actress interested in him. He had found one of the best ways of picking up women was to just talk to them as individuals. Of course when many found out who he was they were more than willing to jump into bed with him. But he preferred it this way, more of a challenge, sometimes you scored and sometimes you didn't, but for Zane, when it came to scoring with women, he has always had a good batting average. Everything was proceeding along nicely; Zane was feigning his interest in the art of cinema and acting, knowing full well that by the night's end he would get into Stella Moore's pants.

"It's amazing how many people take me for being conceited," Stella was telling him.

"What do critics know?" Zane assure her.

"Exactly, I mean I'm not conceited, although you understand I have every right to be."

"Of course."

"You seem to know exactly what I'm feeling, it's amazing."

"You express yourself so well, how can anyone not fail to understand you," he tells her with all the slickness of a used car salesman - yes, _everything is proceeding as planned_ , he thinks to himself, as he undresses her in his mind.

That was until he saw her.

He knew straight away who she was, although they have never met personally. The first thing he noticed about Eleanor Villon were her eyes, but more so the beauty and intelligence that laid behind those eyes. He actually felt a lump in his throat and a strange stirring deep down inside. It almost seemed like a yearning. He couldn't stop staring at her. It was as if he had never beheld a woman like this before. It seems as if a power beyond his understanding drew him to her, like lightening being drawn to metal. He was riveted by her and he didn't know why. He hadn't the foggiest idea, not a clue as to why he felt like this. He began to wonder whether it was due to the fact of who she was - the daughter of his family's greatest enemy. But that notion didn't feel right to him, this was something else.

This felt more like desire.

He had only ever encountered one Villon so far in his entire life and that of course was Christophe, and that meeting had left him cold and weary. But this felt different somehow. He has to meet her, he thinks to himself. He knew straight away that this was probably a bad idea. It was crazy, it made no sense, and yet it made plenty of sense at the same time. After all why shouldn't he, this was a chance meeting, nothing more. It wasn't as if he planned this to happen. Perhaps it was providence, that cosmic force he had felt looking out for him all his life that now presented him with this opportunity.

_An opportunity to do what_ \- he questions.

_To gather information_ \- came the silent reply.

_Besides, it was always good to get a feel for your enemy_. To know your opponent's ability, their strengths and weaknesses, was the number one rule of fencing, it was half the battle of winning. And there was a war going on. As his old fencing instructor use to say: "It is possible to learn more from an enemy things we can't learn from a friend."

At least that's what he tells himself as he approaches her.

Eleanor was on the dance floor with Jonathan Brady, Helena Haushofer's newest artistic discovery in the making, when Zane Ravenscroft tapped her on the shoulder to cut in. She also knew straight away who he is, and even with all her upbringing and etiquette lessons, Eleanor Villon found herself at a complete loss for words. Standing before her, bold and upright, was the son of her father and grandmother's greatest enemy.

This meeting was the last thing she ever expected. She didn't know what to do. She has no idea what to say. She knows she should say something, or at least rebuke him, but she remains mute. Struck dumb as if she were suddenly paralysed. She tries desperately to regather her senses.

"May I?" He asks in a warm and soothing tone of voice that seems to penetrate into the very essence of her soul.

She nods.

She wants to run, to flee into the night. She wishes that she had never come to this blasted party.

But the instant her hands touch his something strange, wonderful and scary occurs. She has never felt such a thing before. As they begin to sway to the music they both feel a spark, a connection to the other that goes beyond mere words and ideology. Even though they are sworn enemies and complete strangers, the moment their flesh touches it was as if they had always known each other, had always belonged to one another, and had always loved one another.

For Eleanor, she felt completely at ease.

For Zane, it felt completely right.

For the rest of the world it felt completely wrong.

Ignoring the many curious and surprised stares from several of those gathered, Eleanor and Zane dance together and in this moment, their world, their families didn't exist, in this time it was just them and the world of the Villons and Ravenscrofts would never be the same ever again. The balance of power was about to be tipped in favour of one of the factions, and as for the war, it was about to heat up. And not even the greatest prophetic seer or the Oracle at Delphi could foresee the shattering events that were soon to follow.

# Chapter 20

The Bahamas

Three days later Eleanor was driving in a red Mustang convertible along the coast of Nassau with Zane, the warm afternoon tropical sun beating down upon her large white brim hat and the cool ocean breeze whipping her flowered pattern scarf behind her. The clear blue water of the Bahamas stretched out before them as the road they were driving on snaked along the coast.

"It's not much further," Zane informs her.

Eleanor nods. She looks at Zane through her large black rimmed sunglasses. Taking in his chiselled face, his deep blue eyes, his blonde hair and athletic build.

_God damnit why does he have to be so beautiful_ , Eleanor thinks.

Zane turns his head for a second and smiles at her.

She can't help but smile back, a slight sensation of arousal stirring in her body. It is something that she has been having regularly since the Haushofer ball. But amidst the pleasant feelings, of which Eleanor was afraid to explore too deeply, was also turmoil. What was she doing here? Why did she agree to come? These were just two of the questions racing through her mind after agreeing to come on this trip with Zane Ravenscroft.

She whispers. "Madness."

"What was that?" Zane asks.

"Nothing."

"This business at the plantation shouldn't take too long," he tells here with an air of confidence as he steers the car around a tight bend in the road.

It was the following day after the Surrealist Ball that Zane had telephoned her and asked if she wanted to spend a few days in the Bahamas. "I have to go down there to sort out a labour dispute at one of our plantations and well, I know it's Christmas but the Bahamas is always beautiful this time of year and we can catch the Junkanoo and anyway, I thought you might like to come." Eleanor agreed almost immediately, even though she usually spent Christmas at Grimstone Manor, but this year her brothers were arriving later than usual and as long as she was back for New Year's Eve, there wouldn't be a problem.

So that night Eleanor flew down to the Bahamas and a day later met up with Zane, all the time thinking how Babushka would be having a fit if she knew, let alone her father, who would probably shoot her. Eleanor still couldn't put her finger on exactly why she agreed to come, other than it just felt right. All her instincts told her to go, they should have said otherwise but they didn't; she just prayed that she wasn't walking down a primrose path, all nice and pretty flowers to walk on until you fell into a dark pit at the end of it.

Last night Eleanor and Zane had a wonderful dinner at a local seafood joint on the beach, nothing fancy that would rate a star in the 'Michelin Red Guide', but the food was fresh and the lobster was just to die for. Even the small calypso band that played nearby was good and Eleanor actually found herself toe tapping to the rhythmic beat. The conversation was polite and cordial, speaking about nothing in particular, but they got on well together, each enjoying the other's company. Then, as they were tucking into their battered banana and ice-cream dessert, Eleanor finally broached the topic that was no doubt on both their minds.

"So why are we doing this?"

"I have no idea."

"Neither do I," Eleanor concurs.

"I know there's no logical sense to it but ever since I saw you the other night I just felt this urge to want to be near you." Zane gives voice to exactly what Eleanor has been thinking.

"If papa could see us now, he'd have an epileptic fit."

"So would my old man," Zane readily agrees, "God only knows what he would say to this."

"Well, it's a good thing neither of them is here. God I feel like a runaway teenager. This is so unlike me," Eleanor chides herself.

"Look, Eleanor, I honestly don't know where this is going - if anywhere," Zane's words trail off.

"Then perhaps that's where we should leave it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean we should just finish our dessert, have our coffee and say our goodbyes."

"That would probably be the smart thing to do."

"It would at that, because this can only lead to trouble."

"Is that what you want then?" Zane asks.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

"Well then, we're here now so why don't we just make the most of it and enjoy these next few days."

"Alright."

Zane smiles warmly. "Good."

Eleanor's heart skips a beat at the look Zane gives her. "But we must be careful, if anyone should see us."

"Once I get this business over at the plantation tomorrow we can then go to Delgada Key, just off of Andros, for a couple of days, it's secluded, no one will see us," he reassures her.

"Okay," she says, "but this better not turn out to be another Romeo and Juliet type of scenario, because I have no intention of killing myself over you," she adds jokingly.

"Fair enough," he replies with a mischievous grin, "because I wasn't planning on doing that either."

After dessert and coffee the rest of the evening was spent listening to the Calypso band followed by a little dancing. After which they said goodnight until tomorrow.

The memory of last night's dinner runs through Zane's mind as he drives the car along the road. _The universe has a wicked sense of humour_ , he thinks to himself, for how else do you reconcile the fact that a Ravenscroft and a Villon are in the same car together if not by some higher force at play. At first Zane kept telling himself over and over that the only reason he had invited her was to gain a greater insight into her father, to get an advantage over the opposition; a Preparation move as they called it in fencing, in which you endeavour to take the opposition's blade out of line in order to provoke an action. But last night he realised just how much he was fooling himself, he actually wanted her, to have her, to be with her, it was the strangest notion but he couldn't help feeling as if she has always been a part of his life somehow. And no matter how much he tries to persuade himself otherwise there was no mistaking the attraction that they have for one another, lurking beneath the surface like some monster from the deep just waiting to engulf them in its jaws.

"Oh hell," Zane says quietly. He turns up the car radio trying to think about anything else other than the beautiful woman sitting next to him.

The Mustang convertible turns off the beach road and through the rusted iron gates of 'The Bahamas Inc. Banana Co.' The plantation was the second largest in the Bahamas and actually dated back more than a hundred years. As the car drove up the long sandy pot-holed driveway towards the main office, Eleanor couldn't help but notice the fact that there were no workers in the fields – no doubt the reason that Zane was here.

"Here we are," he announces. The car comes to a halt. Within moments a middle-age balding man in white casual pants and shirt comes out of the office towards the car. This is Carlos Santiago, manger of the plantation.

"Mr. Ravenscroft it's so good to see you at last."

Immediately Eleanor didn't like this man, to her he oozed of corruption.

"But not in the best of circumstance," Zane replies. He gets out of the car to greet their host.

Zane spent the next two hours thrashing out the labour disputes plaguing the business. Eleanor hung around for a little while but eventually excused herself to take a stroll.

She had seen enough of how Zane was handling the situation; straight to the point, quickly zeroing in on the core problem which in this case was management. She couldn't help but smile at Mr. Santiago's stunned mullet expression when Zane informed him that 'Ravenscroft Holdings' has decided to put in a manager to help with the running of the business, someone who was more of a creative thinker in terms of production. A proposal that Mr. Santiago was less than enthusiastic about, but his protest fell on deaf ears, he would go along with the plan or be without a business. Zane also informs the ashen face manager that a representative from the 'Bahamas Loan & Savings Bank', a subsidiary of 'Ravenscroft Holdings' would be by tomorrow with the paperwork. With that business out of the way Zane then set about solving the problems that would get the workers back on the job.

As Eleanor wandered aimlessly around the property her thoughts were naturally of Zane. She has seen how sure and forceful he was when it came to business. But at the same time she saw how well he was at being sympathetic to the other person's point of view. He had so effortlessly put Mr. Santiago in his place and then just as easily dispelled any fears he had concerning his welfare both monetarily and personally. _Zane Ravenscroft was a very accomplished individual and a handsome one_ , Eleanor thinks. And the complete opposite to what she thought he would be like.

Eleanor recalls the many times that Babushka spoke of the Ravenscrofts, how her words were filled with vile, venom and distain; how that the House of Ravenscroft had to be crushed at all costs, so that their family would be avenged for the injustices wrought against them. The way that her grandmother and father carried on you would think that every single Ravenscroft had a horn and tail, and no doubt some of them did, the elite, including her own family have done terrible things, but that aside, she couldn't see Zane in the same light. After all, like herself, they were a different generation and surely the crimes that had been done between their families were more in the past than the present. And no matter their differences they were all working for the same goal.

Eleanor then found herself wondering if that perhaps she and Zane could somehow bring their two families together - to reconcile their differences and breach the chasm that existed between them. But as soon as she thought of the idea she dismisses it immediately. She knew that Babushka and her papa would never hear of such a thing. And she had no doubt that Zane's parents would be the same way. There was a war on, she had been working in 'Banque Villon' long enough to see that first hand. Still, it gave her pause to think.

Eleanor eventually finds herself on an outcropping of a beach at the very fringe of the plantation. She makes her way down to the edge of the water that was gently lapping the shoreline, removes her sandals and soaks her hot feet. The salt water felt refreshing against her skin as did the warm breeze blowing in off the calm and blue ocean. The cool shade of a nearby coconut tree also felt fine. Eleanor takes in the post card vista contemplating how her world of wealth and power seems so far away at this very moment. And as she does so she is overcome by a sense of melancholy in regards to how her life has turned out, all the opportunities and dreams she has been force to give up. Eleanor feels that this is probably how her mother felt before she took her own life, sad and feeling all alone. Her mother too had given up much for the sake of the family name, and in the end it proved too much for her to handle.

For the first time Eleanor could understand why her mother would take her own life.

Thinking of her mother brings a tear to Eleanor's eye. She wipes it away telling herself that she couldn't allow what happened to her mother happen to her. She must take control of her life. Her destiny wasn't yet written - there was still time; time enough to make the right choices for her no matter what the consequences... _and let the chips fall as they may_.

Eleanor felt the presence of Zane rather than hearing him arrive at the beach. She turns and looks at him filled with an over powering sense of desire and lust.

Zane had left the administration building of the 'The Bahamas Banana Inc. Co.' glad to have sorted out the problems without too much trouble. Carlos Santiago would have to be watched closely as Zane was sure he was fiddling the books. He made a mental note to let the new assistant manger know of his suspicions. People might not think so but growing bananas was big business, an industry that employed thousands, and yet only a few made real money out of it.

Feeling hot and a little exhausted Zane had looked around for Eleanor. He eventually espies her in the distance walking towards the blue of the ocean. He follows suit. He had found it a little hard to concentrate on the business at hand with Eleanor around; she kept coming into his thoughts, distracting him from the task at hand. He felt a desire for her slowly build up inside of him all morning. He assumed it was lust - _after all you can't have real and genuine feelings of love for someone you just met can you? That only happened in the movies didn't it?_ It was just one more question without an answer. He has many questions and was determined to find the answers to them no matter what. A foolish notion considering that she was a Villon, but then again, he tells himself, _only the foolish and the dead never change their opinions._

Zane reaches the edge of the small beach where Eleanor stood looking out at the sea, and comes to a halt. As she takes in the ocean view he takes in a view of another kind, one even more enchanting. The soft breeze tugs at Eleanor's yellow and red sarong revealing her gorgeous legs. A sight that Zane finds very appealing. He drank in the beauty of her body, the curves of a luscious figure. He hadn't felt such wanting as this, for many years, not since Shyla Moorcroft, but this thing he felt for Eleanor Villon was different, stronger. All he knew at this moment was how much he wants her. Then, just as he was contemplating how to achieve this she turns and looks into his eyes. And he sees in those smouldering eyes just how much she wants him. Without saying another word the two walk to one another, embrace and kiss passionately. A charge of erotic electricity surges through their bodies at the meeting of their lips.

"This is crazy," he mumbles.

"I know," she replies. Her lips are crushed beneath his.

Zane and Eleanor kiss more passionately. They fall to their knees, their legs trembling threatening to give out beneath them. Their hands begin reaching for each other's body. Fingers desperately wanting to undo the other's clothes, flesh desperately wanting to feel the touch of the other. Zane's hand easily removes the sarong with a single pull at the knot. While Eleanor's fingers rip the buttons off Zane's shirt to get at the wondrous delights beneath. The two bodies collapse to the sand and embrace and entangle themselves more intimately as the scions of mortal enemies, brother and sister unbeknown to themselves, with the same father but different mothers, give into the almighty power of desire and the weakness of the flesh.

Eleanor was flying. In a De Havilland DHC-3 floatplane. Her pilot was Zane. Another surprise to add to all the other ones concerning Zane. In point-of-fact Zane has been taking flying lessons off and on for the last few years; he just didn't make the knowledge available to most people. Zane was taking Eleanor to Delgada Key, but along the way he thought he would take the scenic route. He flew the aircraft around the many tranquil islands, cays and islets of the Bahamas. They flew out to Freeport, Mt. Alvernia, then over San Salvador, Rum and Samna Cay and then onto Delgada Key. The ocean stretching out to the horizon, the curvature of the earth clearly visible in the afternoon sun, it was a breathtaking sight. Eleanor has flown more times than she could count, but nothing like this - there was so much freedom - like a bird flying on high.

Throughout the flight both were quiet, enjoying the peacefulness of the journey and the presence of each other's company. After their frolic on the beach, Zane and Eleanor returned to the hotel, collected their belongings and headed for Delgada Key. Eleanor of course was expecting to get there by boat, but this was ten times better. The two hadn't said much in the last few hours, both caught up in their own thoughts and ponderings. In fact Eleanor felt that they didn't need to discuss what had happened for they have done nothing wrong.

As twilight descends upon the Bahamas and the sun sank into the ocean, Zane brought the seaplane into a landing at Delgada Key. Touchdown was a bit bumpy but a safe one. Zane has a deft touch.

"All in one piece?" Zane enquires.

"Yes - this is wonderful, thank you."

Zane steers the plane over to a small pier. "All part of service mam."

Delgada Key was as a secluded place as you could ever fine. The small island is actually owned by the Ravenscrofts. It was obtained back in the 1920'a by Ulysses Ravenscroft from the British as payment for some debts outstanding. Nothing much was ever done with the place until after the Second World War when Charles Ravenscroft decided to build a holiday retreat for his wife Adelaide. After her death Delgada Key was rarely used and what was built was destroyed in Hurricane Harold in 1960 and it was only in the last few years that Henry renovated the place to be either sold or developed into an exclusive resort, a decision yet to be made one way or the other.

At the moment there was only one property on the island, a luxurious bungalow with a wide opened living, dining, and kitchenette and bedroom area. The large four posted bed was on a raised level with a large ocean view window. In fact there were three different tiers to the bungalow, each a few feet high but none the same height. The premise was immaculately maintained by a local elderly couple who kept an eye on the place when it wasn't in use. They also kept the bar and pantry well stocked so that there would always been plenty of supplies in case of short notice...like today.

"This is lovely," Eleanor exclaims.

"I come here sometimes just to get away from all the crap you have to deal with, you know what I mean?"

"Oh yes," Eleanor says knowingly.

"You hungry?" Zane asks.

"Starving."

"Then why don't you get settled and I'll rustle us up some food. But I've got to warn you up front that cooking is not my strong point."

"I'll risk it."

"Man, you're a dare devil," he tells her with a roguish grin that just melts her heart. "Alright then, one Salmonella infested omelette coming right up."

Later; after dinner and a chilled bottle of Dom Perpignan, Zane and Eleanor retire to the bed and spend a lustful night in each other's arms.

The love birds spent the next three days on Delgada Key sunbaking, snorkelling, swimming with playful dolphins and parasailing, a sport that Eleanor has never tried before and although she was scared, and needed a lot of coaxing, once up in the air with Zane behind the wheel of the speedboat, her fear turns to exhilaration as the adrenalin pumped through her veins. She has no control over the parachute and was at the complete mercy of the wind and the man behind the wheel. The landing however is a bit rough but she loves it nonetheless, she was overjoyed at all the new experiences that Zane was introducing her to. In fact, this was fast becoming the best Christmas Eleanor has ever had. Usually the holiday's were a sombre affair for her, mainly due to the death of her mother at that time, so to be having such joy at this time of the year was literally a new experience for her. This Christmas there was no dismal feelings of melancholy.

While their days were spent doing all the standard sporting activities associated with a tropical paradise, the evenings were spent taking walks along the moonlit shores of Delgada Key and later cuddling in front of a roaring fire on the sandy beach as the soothing sound of the ocean fills the air. To Eleanor it was perfect. She has travelled to many parts of the world both exotic and beautiful but somehow this little island in the Bahamas out shone them all. And that was because of Zane. All those other places she went to she went alone. And all the men she has had have been nothing compared to Zane.

Eleanor was falling in love if she wasn't there already.

Zane knew that he was in love with her and not just because of their nights spent together in one another's arms, which felt so perfect; their lovemaking so great as they matched up their needs and preferences in the bed room, learning to understand and respond to each other's wants; but his feelings went beyond the sexual, he has learned to differentiate between lust and love and that is exactly what he was feeling every time he looks at her, touches her, kisses her, loves her, _yes love_ , he tells himself, that ticklish sensation around the heart that can't be scratched. There was such familiarity to her that it was almost scary, but at the same time glorious.

Zane looks up into the night sky and wonders how he could ever let her go and he was sure that Eleanor was thinking the same thing.

The loud and colourful Junkanoo was in full swing in the streets of Nassau. Fire eaters twirl their flaming batons as they breathe fire into the night air, groups of people in colourful costumes, big masks, feathers, stilts, elaborate floats and music bands dance, sing and jive their way down the jam packed street. The word "Junkanoo" was derived from an African slave master named "John Canoe" in the 17th century when slaves were not allowed much freedom and so would hide in the bushes, where they would dance and make music wearing various costumes that they made from paint and leaves. The festival was a celebration of this freedom, held every year on Boxing Day.

The Mardi Gras and celebrations would go on late into the night and into the early hours of the dawn.

The parade wound down Bay Street pass the Cay Hotel, a small double storey colonial building that catered more for backpackers than the rich. But on this night two children from what are arguably the wealthiest families in the world occupied the corner room overlooking the street on the second floor. This was Zane and Eleanor's last night together and they have decided to spend it in a place where they would never be recognised. Both would have preferred to have stayed on the island but Eleanor's flight left early in the morning.

In the darkened room Zane's hands softly massage Eleanor's naked oiled body as the music and singing filters up from the street below through the open shutters of the window. Eleanor has been tense and a little tired and Zane was in the process of giving her a full body massage, awakening her desires. His hands move up and down her legs, ankles, shoulders, back, buttocks, in long and slow strokes. When he was done with the back he turned her over and begins on the front, his hands again giving long and sensual strokes up and down her shoulders, breasts, thighs, legs and ankles, covering all the erogenous zones.

If this was to be their last night together then Zane wanted it to be special. He knew how to please a woman, he has been well taught and has had plenty of practise. He was a phenomenal lover, full of vigour, vitality and fire and yet his touch was as gentle as a feather.

"God I feel great," Eleanor says almost in a groan only to be hushed by Zane as his arms slip underneath her, his fingers clasping together basket style under the small of her back. He then slowly lifts her up allowing her head to fall back gracefully. Eleanor moans as this full body lift brings an explosion of oxygen-enriched blood into her head, the final act of the erotic massage that brings Eleanor's body and senses fully awake.

"Close your eyes," he whispers. Eleanor does so, completely and utterly at ease in his hands.

Zane, not breaking contact, lifts her up a second and third time, and with her eyes shut Eleanor experiences the lifts as a single uninterrupted movement during which she floats up and down into space. When it is done Eleanor reaches up and pulls Zane down to her. "Love me."

He does so.

To the rhythmic sound and beat of the Junkanoo.

Sometime later the words: "I love you", are spoken by both parties in hushed tones as the hour of their departure rapidly approaches.

# Chapter 21

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

The drive down to Dartmoor from London was a blessing to Eleanor. The trip gave her time to think. She didn't often make the long drive herself but this time as 1983 was drawing to a close she welcomes the solitude of the trip. She takes the long way down along the rugged and rocky coast, stopping off at Torquay and then Totnes along the way, before heading towards Dartmoor, anything that would extend her arrival time at Grimstone.

The weather was wet and cold and snow was in the air. Eleanor never minds the cold, although at the moment she still felt the heat of the Bahamas.

And even though the tropical sun was lovely and warm, the heat generated from her recent dalliance with Zane was like the heat of an atomic explosion. She couldn't stop thinking about him and about their time together and whether there could be any future for them. But the harsh reality was that if she wanted to be with him she would have to defy her father and she could well imagine the resulting effect of doing such a travesty. So she tries to put the last few days behind her as a wonderful and enjoyable and pleasurable experience both physically and mentally... _and sexually damnit_ , she tells herself. But hastily adds _it can be nothing more_.

But the heart wants what the heart wants and it always overrides the brain, the rationality and sense of a person. But how else does one find true happiness other than following the calling of their heart. Even though that calling will cause great hardship, anger, sorrow and condemnation amongst those she loves. Such thoughts and doubts have plagued her to the point of madness ever since she left the Bahamas. On Delgada Key there was no right or wrong, only the bliss of two people loving one another and everything else seemed blessed in the world. But that facade faded the moment she left and kept on dissipating every mile she drew closer to Grimstone Manor and her family.

Eleanor has been contemplating telling her father and her grandmother about her and Zane. She has also been building up the nerve ever since she had gotten in the car. She was fully prepared for the consequences, to let the chips fall as they may. But this too was a facade that fled into the pouring rain at the sight of the black iron gates of Grimstone. Eleanor suddenly felt as if she was entering a Charlotte Bronte novel as she drove up the long winding foreboding looking driveway. Eleanor steers the car onward, coming to a halt near the steps of the front door. She cuts the engine and looks up at the ominous granite walls of her childhood home. She wishes that she was anywhere else other than here. She wishes she was still with Zane.

As she sat in the car gathering her thoughts, building up the strength to go inside, she listens to the rain pelt down upon the roof and suddenly recalls something her mother told her when she was seven: "It's beginning to rain, can you hear it - can you hear the voice of the father in the sound of the rain." Eleanor was not a religious person, none of her family were, but her mother, Juliana was different, she actually had a belief in God – the creator – and that's what she meant, the sound of God's voice was in the rain.

So Eleanor listens trying to see if she could discern anything, to see if she could hear a voice in the drops of the rain.

Ten minutes later she went inside.

New York City

Zane sat at the back of the yacht nursing his glass of champagne and looking out at the lights of Manhattan in the distance. The rest of the guests were fully into the celebrations, even though the New Year was still a few hours away but that wasn't stopping the drinking, carousing and frolicking. The million dollar yacht was jammed to capacity, no doubt with more bodies than there were lifeboats or life jackets. Several young ladies have already removed their tops as an impromptu wet bra contest was taking place. And Zane wasn't the least bit interested. Not in this party - not in the naked flesh on offer - or the free booze. His thoughts were on Eleanor and nothing else.

The owner of the boat, Theodore Stanton, who was an old friend of Zane's aunt Margaret, was busy chatting in Zane's ear; droning on about his portfolio, while at the same time trying to pump Zane for any stock tips or insider information.

Zane had tuned out several minutes ago and was relieved when Theodore is called away by the captain of the yacht. Zane finishes his drink and grabs another from a passing waiter. Zane wasn't in the partying mood. He had gotten back into New York last night and had decided to spend it with his aunty, who he hadn't seen for a few weeks. He should have gone to Avalon but Zane just didn't feel like facing his father and mother at the moment. Just like another person across the Atlantic, his thoughts were still on the Bahamas.

Even though it has been a few days since they parted company Zane could still smell her, the odour of her hair, her perfume, her clothes, and then there was the taste of Eleanor that somehow still lingered on his lips. All this combined with the recent memories of their time together created an intoxicating elixir that brought his senses alive and kept the passion and desire for her burning within. And that one word summed up how he was feeling; Zane has never felt such passion like this, passion that has just intensified even more since he kissed her goodbye. Zane accepted that the way he felt about this person was crazy, insane and mad, that he has lost his mind, let alone the rest of his good sense, but be that as it may, all normal standards of judgement cease to operate for those in love.

And this more than anything else amazes him.

That and the fact she is a Villon.

An obvious explanation of course was that love does indeed blind the sufferer to all else around them. But no matter how much he argues with himself, Zane knew the truth of the matter; he couldn't just let her go. But what else was there to do? Now wasn't the time to be bringing up this matter to his father, who was busy putting together the Middle-East deal, and something like this would be more than a minor distraction. _But then again_ , Zane thinks, _when will there ever be an appropriate time_. He knows that it is a stupid idea, that he and Eleanor hadn't made any commitment and that pursuing this would only bring chaos to both their lives. Zane actually hoped that after he and Eleanor had parted ways that these strong feelings and emotions would go away; dissipate like vapour in the wind. But they hadn't. And all day he had been silently telling himself that perhaps he just needed to give it more time for these feelings to go away and that he just has to open his eyes to the reality of the situation.

"This can't be," he grumbles.

But then an unbidden memory pops into his head, a quote from Shakespeare's "Mid Summer Night's Dream" that Shyla Moorcroft once said to him: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind".

Zane curses and grabs another drink knowing that alcohol; can also render a person blind, if only for a short while.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Eleanor, Sebastian, Edmonde, Masha and Christophe Villon were sitting down to a New Years Eve dinner. The setting was the dining hall at Grimstone Manor. Christophe sits at one end of the table eagerly tucking into his roasted duck and vegetables, with plenty of vodka on the side.

Eleanor's father looks a mess with his unkempt hair and dishevelled appearance. Eleanor's grandmother told here earlier that her father hadn't been well, and although it wasn't mentioned, she guessed it was her father's mind and this dreaded Villon curse that stalked the family like a hungry wolf. As for the ever youthful Masha, she sits at the other end of the long table nibbling at her meal. Now at eighty-four years of age, the medical treatments and carefully balanced diet containing all the essential ingredients she has undergone to retard the aging process has paid off, there was not much elasticity to her skin and the normal deterioration in vigour and age-related complaints were also not visible, or at least she didn't show it.

There wasn't a lot of cheer around the table, the Villon children sat on the side quietly eating their meal with the odd chit-chat between bites. Sebastian didn't bring his new wife, Nikki, who had decided to spend New Year's back in Greece with her family, something Eleanor regretted as she felt she could really use the company of her former school friend, to help her through these turbid waters that were her family.

"I'm getting good reports on you Sebastian," Christophe announces out of the blue.

Sebastian is caught off guard at this sudden compliment. "Thank you - the company is really starting to pick up now."

"But not quick enough, the stocks are still low; you have to try harder before the next quarterly reports," Christophe says pointedly. He drains his glass of vodka and instantly has it replaced by the attending butler, Gerald, who has been with them for more than twenty years now.

"I think Sebastian is doing a sterling job, dear, and his new wife is so gorgeous," Masha quietly but firmly intervenes with, always playing the adjudicator between her son and her grandchildren.

"Yes, yes, it was a relief when you finally got hitched, I must confess I was worried about you for a while there boy. Thought you might be going all queer," Christophe says to his youngest boy.

"Yes well, I surprised myself," Sebastian responds almost feebly.

Eleanor comes to his rescue. "Well, I agree with babushka, Nikki is a wonderful woman, you're very lucky."

Sebastian gives his sister a slight smile of gratitude. The siblings weren't close at the best of times and have slowly drifted apart as they grew older. But in truth that really began after the death of their mother.

"I'm doing my best papa. And Mr. Mitsotakis' illness hasn't helped matters any," Sebastian says meekly and without any real forcefulness behind his words.

"All the more reason not to take your eye off the ball as the greater opportunity is about to befall you." Christophe's words of analysis are clinical. But he didn't care as the pain in his head was really bad tonight. And he could feel the growing madness on the fringe of his consciences, lurking in the shadows like a thief in the night, waiting to pounce and snatch away the last of his sanity. Although still only fifty-one years of age Christophe often wonders just exactly how much time he really had left before the abyss engulfs his senses.

"You should give Sebastian more credit, like all of us we're doing our best."

Edmonde's words ring hollow to Christophe's ears. "Huh, look who decides to speak. Does this mean I'm going be whacked?"

"Papa - please," Edmonde protests.

"Don't even let me get started on you my boy; you're travelling a very hazardous path of late."

"You worry too much."

"Of course you fool," Christophe replies abruptly, "you are becoming too well known. Need I remind you that covertness and not covertness is the key to rule. The true slave is the one that doesn't even know there a slave." Christophe takes another drink knowing full well that his words are probably falling on deaf ears.

Edmonde puts down his knife and fork. "I know papa. I'm not a child anymore."

"You've yet to demonstrate to me anything that suggests otherwise and in point of fact I don't think you know – none of you know." Christophe's voice rises in anger.

"Christophe," Masha interjects, "please let us at least be civil to one another."

"Don't worry mama," Christophe tells her, "I'm not going to go into a blind rage of madness. I'm not quite ready for the asylum just yet. But they must never lose sight of what we are trying to achieve, what is at stake. Our enemies have made moves against us and none of you have done a blasted thing about it. Are you even aware of what's been going on?"

"Of course we do," Eleanor says, clearly worried about the redness in her father's pale cheeks and the vein popping out on his forehead.

"Do you really," he continues, "only last week did the Mercantile Clearing House strike a partnership with Bank Savoy, a European subsidiary of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. For crying out loud we have been in business with the Mercantile Clearing House for over thirty years and now at the drop of a hat they are sleeping with the enemy. And for such a crime they should be shot."

Christophe's words send an icy cold shiver down Eleanor's spine; he could just as well be talking about her.

"We will prevail," Masha insists, "to rule is our perennial right."

"We will only triumph if drastic measures are taken. Henry Ravenscroft," the mere mention of the name sticks in Christophe's craw, "has already made overtures to Jordan and now Israel. If this continues we'll lose the high ground and there will be the devil to pay. We must strike and strike hard and with that in mind I may need to call on all of you, so don't any of you dare let me down. For just as there is a hell waiting for us all in the afterlife, I can create a greater one right here on earth, make no mistake. I intend to be victorious in this war and I warn you now that I will not hesitate in crushing all those that get in the way. Keep your eye on the prize, lest the Ravenscrofts seize it." Christophe's words are no idle threats; even Masha can feel the anger emanating from her son. But that is nothing compared to the icy stare that he gives all his children, a look that won't settle for anything else other than utter obedience, a look of barely contained madness.

_So much for a Happy New year_ , Eleanor thinks silently to herself, her stomach filled with gut wrenching fear.

New York City

Zane staggers to the breakfast table a little after midday at the start of 1984. Dishevelled and raggedly looking like something the cat dragged in. It had been a late night of boozing and he was now feeling the consequences of his actions.

"The higher you get in the evening, the lower you feel in the morning." Aunt Margret's words of wisdom, although softly spoken, are still like a jack hammer to Zane's delicate condition.

"Please, Aunty Margret, not now," Zane moans

Aunt Margaret places a glass of water and two aspirins down on the table in front of him. "Pity the poor drunkard who started out to get mellow, then he got ripe, and ended up rotten."

"Show mercy," Zane begs as he swallows the aspirin. "And could you please turn off the sun." As far as Zane was concerned the sun was shining too brightly into Aunt Margret's Park Avenue apartment.

"As your grandpa use to always say: 'one drink is just right, two are too many, and three are not enough' – and just look where that got him."

"It was New Year's what else are you suppose to do. Besides let's not forget what happened New Years 1979."

"Yes, well, that was all your Aunt Rosemary's fault, thank you very much."

"That's not what she says," Zane teases, even with the freight train rambling through his head.

Aunt Margret tosses in the towel. "Very well, here ends the lesson."

"Thank you." Zane tries to focus his thoughts. "By the way where is Aunt Rosemary, I think I remember seeing her last night?"

"No doubt still with her latest conquest. I declare, she'll have a man in her bed until we put her in the ground. Her libido just won't quit."

"What about you, anyone special in your life at the moment?"

"Just you my darling, just you." Aunt Margret gives her nephew a loving tap on his unsteady hand. "Now, how about a nice strong cup of black coffee, it'll help."

"I doubt it, but what the hell."

"It won't be as nice as Giselle's but I'm afraid she's gone shopping," Margret adds while she sets about boiling the electric kettle.

"How is she, I think I also remember her helping me into bed this morning?" Zane enquires. Giselle has been Margaret's Woman Friday since Zane was knee high to a grasshopper.

"She's fine, but I worry about her, she is getting on in years, and I simply don't know what I'll do when she's gone."

"There's plenty of life left in her yet, don't worry about those things. There's nothing we can do about it anyway."

"Well, I can see the alcohol hasn't burnt out all your brain cells."

"I'm sure I lost a few last night though," Zane announces painfully while rubbing his temples.

"I have to say dear, you were really hitting the sauce last night, is something the matter?"

It always amazes Zane how easily his aunty could switch from one topic to another without a break in the conversational stream.

"Is it a woman?" Margret quizzes. She pours the coffee and brings it to Zane and sits herself back down, waiting patiently for a reply.

"I don't think I'm in any kind of condition to talk about it. Well, that would make any sense anyway."

"That certainly tells me that you have strong feelings for this person." It is rare for anything to slip under Margaret Ravenscroft's radar. After all this is a person who has ferreted out more gossip than a tabloid magazine.

"I really don't want to discuss it."

"Is she beautiful?"

"Yes," he answers immediately, and with deep set emotion. For all his covert abilities Zane has never been able to say no to his aunty.

A brief silence follows.

"I can read you like a book Zane; I can see that you are having some sort of inner turmoil. You know you can tell me anything, we've never had secrets between us."

"But this must stay one Aunt Margret because I don't think anything will come of it."

"I see," Margret replies without argument or disappointment at not being told.

Zane can't help but feel guilty. "I'm sorry it's just that...it's complicated."

"A secret is the only thing that circulates more rapidly than money, and they always reveal themselves. Now you tell me that nothing will come of this woman you love."

Zane interjects. "I didn't say anything about love."

"Of course you didn't."

Zane shrugs his shoulders. "I can never keep anything from you no matter what, anybody else, not a problem, but you; you know me too well."

"I've always considered you like a son and not a nephew, you know that, and you know how much I love you and how special I think you are."

"I know."

"But do you also recollect long ago when I told you that you were destined to be a ruler of men, a true leader amongst the sheeple and that particular destiny was inevitable and could not be altered."

Zane silently nods.

"But I also told you how you live and act in that life, when all is said and done, is entirely up to you and no one else and that includes who you love and who you don't. Our family is full of traditions, rules, regulations, dos and don'ts, and while we're a great family, we're also stupid. We always give up what we truly want for the good of the family and that more often than not includes happiness. We marry more out of policy and alliances all for the good of the family, I know this, because it's what I did. I never ever loved your uncle, it was all politics. But you know this just as well as I do. Your parents, God bless them, want you to marry this person or that individual but rarely someone you ever truly love unless that person will further the agenda. Don't let that happen to you Zane if you can prevent it. Because I can guarantee you that in the years ahead you will be asked to do questionable things in the name of our family and it will be easy to lose your soul, to lose yourself in this task. So if you can find true happiness with someone amongst it all then don't hesitate. Some sacrifices are too high."

Zane is quiet and contemplative of his aunt's words, words that come straight from the heart - words of experience. He gazes at her for several more moments that seem to go on forever. "Even if it'll be a political shit storm?"

"Even if, never forget, that revolution every now and then is a good thing, for how else will we ever have change."

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

"The Ravenscrofts are nothing more than murderers, cold blooded killers." Masha's words are calm but filled with an underlying and boiling hatred.

"But what happened to you was long ago," Eleanor suggests.

"Not long enough," Masha almost spits out, "my sisters didn't deserve such a bloody fate - nor the rest of my family. It was a betrayal that can never be forgiven."

"Never is a long time."

Eleanor was sitting in the sun room with her grandmother having afternoon tea and scones; while at the same time, across the Atlantic, Zane was contemplating giving up booze for life.

The day was gray and overcast and there was barely any sign of the sun, creating gloominess that hung over the room like a thick blanket. Eleanor had an unrestful night. She had seen in the New Year with her brothers, babushka and her father, before trotting off to bed sometime after one. And even though she was tired sleep eluded her. Her thoughts were on many things, the mental health of her father, the coming manoeuvres against the Ravenscrofts and of course Zane. She knew it was silly to think so, but Eleanor almost felt like a traitor having slept, literally, with the enemy. The dawn hadn't brought anymore respite to her troubled brow, so she stayed in bed until midday before finally rousing herself and joining Masha for her regular afternoon tea and scones; where Eleanor has broached the topic of her feelings towards the Ravenscrofts with her grandmother.

If she hoped to see a more favourable response, Masha's controlled vehemence towards them quickly shattered any notion of a possible reconciliation, a topic that Eleanor wouldn't dream of bringing up now.

"Why do you ask such questions?"

Eleanor responds quickly, hopefully not too quickly. "I was just thinking about what papa said last night about not taking our eye off the enemy, that's all. I just thought that if we constantly keep fighting how we will ever achieve what we all want."

"When the Ravenscrofts are crushed we will achieve it. We will never vacillate in this, never surrender." The look of steel determination in Masha's eyes is unwavering.

"I was just wondering if there were perhaps alternatives."

"You might think that a peace treaty of sorts could be worked out between us," Masha continues, not quite ready to drop the matter, "but I tell you now, and you can write this on the wall, they will smile, shake our hands, make peace and then they will strike like the hidden snake beneath the rock."

"Yes, there are snakes beneath the rocks but not beneath them all. Surely there must be some middle ground."

"Don't forget that it wasn't the Villons or the Zhukovsky's that started this feud but the Ravenscrofts," Masha points out the obvious.

"I know babushka, but that was one man long ago."

"They're all the same. All people are judged by their deeds and not their words. And let's not forget what else has been done since Ulysses Ravenscroft's treasonous actions."

"Yes babushka," Eleanor says in agreement realising that her grandmother, like a leopard, will never change its spots. And that there was no way in hell that she could bring up her recent liaison with Zane Ravenscroft. She had been hoping to sound out the possibility with her grandmother.

"Why do you bring such questions?" Masha asks.

"Like I said, I was just wondering about alternatives to getting what we want," she says to Masha hoping that she is not reading anything more into her words, but with her grandmother you could never tell what she was thinking when she has on her poker face, that stony facade of breeding that had been perfected over centuries. "And I was also worried about papa's health; he doesn't seem to be the best," Eleanor adds trusting that this will put Masha off any scent she may have picked up.

"Your papa is just overworked; you know what he is like. He just needs to rest more." Although Masha's words are reassuring, her expression says otherwise

"You're concerned about him," Eleanor prompts.

"He will be fine."

"You don't think it has anything to do with his mentality, do you?"

"Your papa isn't mad and don't you think otherwise," Masha raises her voice to her granddaughter.

"I'm sorry babushka," Eleanor hastily adds, "I was just concerned."

"I know you are dear, but you needn't be." And with that Masha closes the subject as she pours them both a fresh cup of tea. But two doubts have now been raised in Masha's mind; the first of course was the mental health of her son, but the second concerned Eleanor. Masha knew that her granddaughter was fishing for something but she didn't know what. So she makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on Eleanor.

Christophe writhes in pain on the large double bed. It was late afternoon and he had retired to his chambers for a nap as the pain in his head was quite severe. The room was dark and ominous, the drapes drawn tightly shut to keep out the daylight and not a single light in the room was turned on. Christophe found the darkness to be a comfort and to help get rid of the pain in his head when it was pounding.

And right now it was deafening.

But it was slowly becoming less and less as the darkness embraces the pain.

He knew they all thought he was going mad, losing his mental faculties to the curse that roamed the cerebrum corridors of the Villon mind - but he wasn't there yet. Christophe was more attuned now than ever before in regards to the events taking place in the world around him and what must be done. It was time to bring the House of Ravenscroft to its knees; time for the Villons to begin their final approach to the throne that awaited the victor; time to launch his attack, an attack that he has to do because he did not think that his children were up to the task. Even Eleanor, who had shown the greatest potential, seems different and distracted somehow. Christophe knew that it would always fall to him. It was inevitable, from the instant that he suffocated his father. He was the only one who has the strength to do what has to be done.

He had waited and bided his time, but no more, for anymore delay would bring upon him defeat. _Time is what we want the most, and what we use the worst_ , he thinks. As far as he was concerned it was already the eleventh hour, the missiles were flying, and the time to strike was now or never, the heavens were in alignment and it was time to play the ace up his sleeve.

"Time enough," he calls out, "time enough- time enough - before the mouth of madness embraced me."

# Chapter 22

New York City

Julius Froberger watches naked from beneath the dishevelled sheets of the bed as Jade, the Asian tranny hooker got dress. "Same time next week?" Jade enquires as she does up her short black leather skirt.

"But of course," Julius replies in contentment. He has been meeting with Jade off and on for the last six months in his Gramercy Park townhouse. And as for Jade, as far as Julius was concerned, she was the most beautiful creature, sexier than any man or woman, he had laid eyes on, with a body whose curves were all in the right places, but it was in the sack that she really rocked. The thousand dollars a visit was well worth the price. Julius' sexual orientation has definitely branched out into the more exotic and taboo in recent times.

Jade finishes dressing. "Well, I better go," she announces. She comes up and kisses her trick on the lips, a long and passionate one at that. "I think that perhaps you've still got plenty left in the tank," she teases.

"Maybe I'll call you sooner."

"I'll come running, you know that." She gives him another quicker kiss goodbye and then leaves Julius, who is desperately trying to prevent the hard on from coming, a battle he will always lose. Still he closes his eyes recalling the recent pleasure he felt as his hand slips beneath the sheets and his legs.

"You'll go blind," a voice calls out a couple of minutes later.

Julius' eyes snap open. He knows that voice.

"Christophe," he exclaims.

"If you're occupied I can come back later. But tell me, how long does it take for you to toss off?" Christophe's smiles wickedly. Julius goes to get up but is halted by a wave from his former friend. "Please, I've just had breakfast."

Julius sits back down. "What are you doing here? What do you want?" But as soon as he asks the questions Julius already knows the answer. The day he has always dreaded has finally arrived.

"It's time to pay the ferry man."

"Christophe please - I'm begging you."

"It's only information I require Julius, simple information that will keep all your little secrets safe and sound." Christophe's words sound like the hissing of a snake as he emphases the S's more than usual.

"What kind of information?" Julius asks hesitantly.

Christophe slowly walks up to the bed and sits himself down like some spirit from the past that has come to visit with a warning. "I need a detailed itinerary of Henry Ravenscroft's coming Middle-East trip - nothing more - nothing less."

"Please don't make me do this - we were friends once," Julius pleads.

"A friendship that you easily threw away for the sake of you family. Oh wait, I'm sorry. You're not a true Froberger are you? What will you sister say?" Christophe is like a cat toying with a mouse before killing it.

"Damn you...damn you to hell," Julius utters just above a whisper, "why do you want this information? What do you intend to do?"

"So many questions - questions you already have answers for. But I tell you what, you do this one little thing for me now and I promise that you will never hear from me again. I will consider your obligations fulfilled. But defy me now and your precious family name that you honour so much will be dragged through the mud and the scandals that will follow will finish what little standing the Frobergers still have in high society, once the truth about you and your true heritage becomes public knowledge." Christophe's words are cold and calculating.

To add insult to injury Christophe reaches out and touches Julius' cheek - turning his face towards him. The cold touch on Julius' cheek is like the leathery skin of a snake. "So what's it to be Julius? It's not that hard a decision surely. Your life will go on, your desires will be fulfilled, and you will be free to pursue that which you want the most."

Christophe's eyes are hypnotic as they stare into Julius'. "What choice do I have?" He responds despondently.

"See that wasn't so hard. Betrayal is easy. Judas jacked Jesus with a single kiss," Christophe adds as he leans in and kisses Julius briefly on the lips. "Bless you. Your deed will be rewarded tenfold."

Ravenscroft Tower, New York City

"What fools people are," Henry Ravenscrofts words ring out across the presidential office of 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. The head of the dynasty stands by the window staring down at the city and its subjects. Henry always felt like a god every time he stood here gazing at the world below. And for some reason it always brought out the prose in him.

"We're not gods' father."

"A mere formality," he responds with a grin. He turns to face Zane.

Ravenscroft Tower was the 21st tallest building in America and the 16th in New York City with fifty-five floors and a height just over nine hundred feet. There were of course many kinds of businesses leasing out the lower floors but the top five floors were allotted to 'Ravenscroft Holdings'. Although an impressive sight and architectural marvel, construction has already commenced a week ago on the new Ravenscroft Tower which was destined to dwarf them all. But for the time being Henry's office was spacious with all the modern-cons. There were two paintings on the wall by Rembrandt and Picasso, both just a tiny part of the Ravenscroft Art Collection, a portion of which was open to visitors on the second floor. The new premise will of course house a more extensive collection. There were many treasures still locked away in the Ravenscroft vaults just waiting to see the light of day.

"What the hell is wrong with you, you've been bloody moping around all day. I don't need another bloody stick in the mud, you know that."

Henry's scolding tone irritates Zane to no end.

"All I'm saying is that surely there is another way, a different path we can take to achieve 'The Work of Ages', one that's more agreeable to the masses."

"We've already had this conversation," Henry replies in frustration.

"Yes, but a new order based on true equality, true justice, true freedom, and true tolerance and free trade can work even better than this fascist notion of complete control. I mean why can't there be a world government with representatives of every nation as well as the World Bank that sets monetary policy and global interest rates but fairly and sympathetically. Do we really need to enslave the world to get what we want?"

"They're already slaves, ever since the 'Articles of Incorporation'," Henry counters.

Henry was of course referring to the 'Articles of Incorporation' bill that was passed by congress in 1917 allowing for statures and acts and for churches and charities to get tax breaks amongst other things; a piece of paper that is suppose to govern the behaviour of business in the United States and Canada but which was now going global. But in actuality it basically states that corporations have more rights than individuals.

Like an idol it was worshipped and adored. Which has allowed CEO's over the years to virtually do what they wanted to make money, and if anyone wanted to sue them, they couldn't as they would have to go after the corporation itself and it had rights and protection.

"The agenda is set, and it can't be altered now - the machine is running," Henry continues in a tone full of exuberance.

"But how much more money and power do we truly need?" Zane questions.

"The beast is hungry and it must be fed," Henry states emphatically as if this explained everything.

_Perhaps it was_ , Zane thinks, globalisation was nothing more than a giant, greedy machine, a monster swallowing up all before it constantly needing sustenance at the expense of morals and human rights.

Zane can see that his argument is getting nowhere but that's never stopped him before. "I still say this path is not necessarily the best one."

"Look, trade barriers are being removed, countries are signing more and more agreements, getting ever more into debt and there is no doubting that we're about to enter the next phase of the great work. The 80's is truly going to be the decade of the banks, we are set to make more wealth and grab greater control than ever before. Debt, my boy, is a wonderful thing when you're holding the papers on the farm and profits have never been better." Henry opens his arms as if to embrace his son.

"But do you really think that in the end we can create a totalitarian one-government that replaces sovereign nation's states? I mean people will rebel against such open tyranny, history has shown us this. But a new order that embraces the good angels of humanity would be welcomed with open arms and we would still be achieving what we've strived for. I mean, a scenario where every country gets to vote democratically into a world government is surely a better alternative." Zane words are just as passionate as Henry's.

"Nonsense!" Henry exclaims. "In your scenario people would want to be equal with us when they must always be beneath us. There have always been leaders and followers, kings and serfs, the sheep can't think for themselves and they must never be allowed to."

"I know what you're saying father but that way just seems the harder and jagged path to tread."

"And you genuinely feel that by going this way we will never obtain the prize?"

"Yes. Surely it's not wrong to be open to alternatives."

"I knew I was too liberal with your education," Henry bemoans, "but that's beside the point. We are going to do this no matter the cost; it is our heritage, our duty and our divine right to rule and conquer. The barbarians are always at the gate and never forget that there are more of them than us so we must always be vigilant on our watch. We keep the system going and we'll always have control. But at some point in the future we may need to collapse that system in order to bring about our goals. Now, you believe that we are going to have a hard time achieving this new order? well, I'll admit nothing comes easy, but if we don't get it one way we'll get it another."

"What do you mean?" Zane asks already knowing the response.

"I mean even if we have to unleash the most bloody of turmoil and savagery upon the world where nations will be constrained to fight to the point of complete physical, moral, spiritual and economical exhaustion, and in the end disillusioned, the citizens of the world will look to whomever can prevent such calamities from ever happening again. We give them the problem, get the reaction, and offer the solution; one government, one army, one economy."

"A world war?"

Henry's eyes are almost scintillating. "That's over simplifying it, but let's never forget that war has always been profitable and they really don't take much effort to start, after all my boy, human nature is not difficult to understand." Zane sees the sinister gleam in his father's eye and wonders exactly when his old man became so narrow minded. "Now, you've really got to learn to put these silly humanitarian sensibilities behind you."

Zane can't help but smile at this suggestion. "As oppose to your autocratic vision?"

"No matter how you look at it, it's still the same vision. And you Zane will be at the very heart of it."

"If you say so."

"I do. Now, while I appreciate these father son chats, we won't achieve any order if we don't get down to the business of blocking Christopher Villon's machinations." The mere mention of the Villon name instantly conjures up the image of Eleanor's face to Zane's mind. She is still constantly in his thoughts. "That's why while I'm in Israel I need you in Zurich locking down the Strauss investment deal."

"Yes father, but do you really feel that securing the support of this minister will further our needs. He's just one man."

"Zarkoff is more than just a minister, he has great influence in the cabinet and his support carries more weight than any other's. Look at the bigger picture, the more influence we have in the Holy City the greater weight we'll have with the other Arab countries especially the Saudi's, we must play all sides and have a stake in all resources, never forget that."

"I guess," Zane says his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

"God damnit Zane would you come back to reality!" His father's voice rises in tenor. "And stop day dreaming with the pixies. For crying out loud I need you focused and in the zone, is that too much to ask?"

"No," Zane responds a little put out by his father's chastising tone.

"Good." Henry moves closer to his son. "Look we've almost got him; once we get these deals locked away Christophe Villon's position is going to be a lot more precarious. He'll be forced to pull in his horns and reassess his options. He'll come to heel." The look of zeal and anticipation on Henry's features is frightening.

But Zane is more cautious. "Are you sure you've got all the bases covered? Christophe has always been a slippery customer to keep down." Zane still has vivid memories of his car accident and the possibility that someone tampered with his brakes. There was never any proof but his suspicions had always fallen on Christophe Villon – Eleanor's father. That notion disturbs him more than anything else.

"True, he's always been a sly one and dangerous. But his weaker now than ever before and from what I hear his mental faculties are failing making him very unstable. His irrational and his decisions of late reflect that. I tell you the time to strike is now; the momentum is all with us."

But Zane was not quite as cocksure as Henry. During his recent time with Eleanor, she gave no indication that her father was unwell, but then again they didn't really talk too much about their folks. And if Christophe Villon was truly mentally ill Zane can't help but wonder how Eleanor is coping with that? His heart and sympathy instantly go out to her.

"Perhaps," Zane says.

"I'm sure of it," Henry adds.

Still, Zane couldn't shake the feeling of disquietude that lurks at the back of his mind, like an itch that couldn't be scratched.

Or a sixth sense.

He couldn't explain it. He has no reason for it. But it was there. And just as in fencing, Zane knew never to underestimate your opponent, especially when they seemed in a weakened position, because more often than not they were always feinting.

Any further musings were abruptly interrupted by the intercom buzzing and the announcement from the secretary that Sophia was here. And even before Henry could utter a reply the office door opens ushering in Sophia Ravenscroft.

Now fifty years of age Sophia Froberger-Ravenscroft was as beautiful and elegant as ever and her dress sense as always was savvy. Despite her maturing years she was always attired in the best and most fashionable outfits and today was no exception, her knee-high red skirt, white blouse and red jacket with shoulder pads the size of a 747's wings, looks as if it came right off the catwalk.

"There you are darling", Sophia proclaims to Zane, "it's about time you showed up."

"Mother," Zane replies. He gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"Where have you been hiding? It seems you spend more time with your Aunt Margaret than you do with your own mother."

"That's not true."

"Oh yes it is, but I still love you."

"You look well?"

"And you need a shave," she says referring to his two day growth, "you look like something the cat dragged in."

Zane almost thinks that his mother was ready to take out her handkerchief, wet it, and rub his face. But Sophia was never that hands on. "I'll see to it."

"You do that, I didn't raise you to be no raggin-muffin."

"Stop your fussing woman," Henry interjects.

"A mother has a right to fuss over her only son."

Zane couldn't help but feel love towards his mother. It seems that nothing fazed her as she began to take on more and more the mantle of family matriarch, a role that she will relish in, of which Zane has no doubt of.

Having finished with her son Sophia eagerly starts in on her husband. "As for you Henry, it's time for lunch. We have a lot to work out before you leave, there's the Harlington benefit for one, and that's just the beginning."

"I've got work to do. I can't make it today," Henry protests. But there is no real power behind his statement. He has already conceded the battle knowing full well that this is one fight that he can never win. "But," he adds, "I'll work around it."

"I knew you would," Sophia says with a smile as innocent as a bubs', "as for you Zane, make sure you're at dinner tonight or there'll be hell to pay."

"I'll be there I promise."

"Wisdom is a wonderful trait, Zane; thank God you've been blessed with it," Henry says philosophically as he is led out of the office like a prized bull by Sophia.

# Chapter 23

Covent Garden, London

The Royal Opera House is filled to capacity as the mainly upper-class watch enthralled by the performance of Swan Lake by the renowned Bolshoi Ballet. Amongst the gathering is Christophe, who sits with Masha in a box adjacent to that, accommodating the Russian Ambassador and his family. Christophe was never a fan of men and women in tights prancing around the stage, but Masha was, her family had always been great patrons of the arts and with the slowly thawing of tensions between the East and the West opportunities have opened up for Masha giving her inroads back into the motherland.

Christophe found his attention wanning. He only agreed to be here because of his mother who insisted that he come as there were appearances to be maintained. A side of being a blueblood that Christophe has never fully liked. But with the events that were soon to take place, being seen in public was a good move, so Christophe grins and bears it. Instead of watching swans dance across the pond Christophe turns his attention to the women in the audience to see if there was anyone worth pursuing. He saw the usual ugly dressed stuck up crumpets and princesses that have gotten to appeal less sexually to him as he has gotten older. But then, as he is about to give up, his roving eye lights upon the Ambassador's enchanting twenty year old daughter, Rayisa. Who at that exact moment happens to glance in his direction, their eyes meet prompting an ever so slight smile from her lips.

"A truly magnificent performance so far," Masha proclaims to the Russian Ambassador a half hour later during the interval over a glass of champagne.

"Indeed, Anechka's interpretation as the princess is always..." he looks for an appropriate word.

"Enchanting," Masha offers.

"Yes, indeed enchanting," the burly ambassador concurs in his thick Russian accent. His daughter, Rayisa, standing quietly nearby.

"By the way," Masha changes topics, "have you considered what we spoke about earlier?"

"Yes, you can come to Russia when you want, you will be most welcomed," the Ambassador assures her.

"I must admit that I so yearn to see the homeland again," Masha replies with a slight hint of melancholy in her voice.

"Russia is changing and the Zhukovsky name is no longer reviled. There are many who still feel that Russia's future lies in its past," the Ambassador says adding, "every seed knows its time." This last phrase is spoken in Russian.

"Indeed," Masha replies warmly.

Christophe then makes his way through the crowd to his mother returning from the men's room.

"Ah, there you are, I was about to send out a search party to find you," Masha tells him.

"Too much drink and not one strong bladder amongst the lot," Christophe remarks. The Ambassador gives a short loud laugh in appreciation of such a comment.

"Oh, by the way Christophe I believe you've already met Mr. Alenko."

"But of course," the Ambassador says, "but I do not believe you have met my youngest daughter," the Ambassador turns to his daughter, "Rayisa I would like you to meet a very important gentlemen – Mr. Christophe Villon."

"A pleasure to meet you sir," Rayisa's sweet and innocent sounding voice says to him.

Christophe reaches out to take her offered hand and kisses it. "Charmed."

Several nights later as a ferocious thunderstorm lashes the city of London, Christophe lay between Rayisa's luscious thighs. The thunderstorm outside echoing the wild passion taking place within the luxury apartment. Christophe had wasted no time in pursuing his next conquest, who didn't stand a chance, as she was swept away by the charm and sophistication that Christophe could project when required, despite the madness and cruelty that was never far away. It only took a couple of expensive dinners and some diamond shopping at Harrods to get the Russian Ambassador's daughter beneath the sheets.

Christophe's body wasn't what it used to be and although the leanness was still there, it was more bony and scrawny now. But his sexual appetite was still as vivacious as ever especially when he had a beautiful young woman to play with. Even Rayisa's youthfulness was having difficulty keeping up with Christophe's almost manic lovemaking. The Villon men have always been rough lovers and Christophe was no exception. He pounds Rayisa with a vengeance, the few cries of pain she lets out only adds to his vigour. He covets the gorgeous alabaster coloured body, smothering and crushing it beneath his spidery frame. His shadow projected on the wall from the storm was like some Lovecraftan demonic creature from the pits of ancient times.

To her credit Rayisa went along with all that was being done to her. Although several times she thought that he would rupture something inside her vagina as he penetrated her so deeply with his erect penis that was more like a sword, sharp and pointy, than something made of flesh and blood. But her orgasms were many and like nothing she had ever felt before. She was wet and flowing constantly as Christophe drills her. Her body quivering from the rapturous ecstasy. Even more so when her older lover bit her neck leaving several love bites behind. But it wasn't all one way, Christophe got Rayisa to dig her fingers deep into his bare back, the sensation was like claws ripping his flesh apart, the pain only adding to the pleasure. As the storm outside grew in intensity so too did Christophe. As the lightening illuminated the darkness Christophe drove his shaft ever faster and more frantic into Rayisa.

He considered himself a god bestowing his precious seed unto a mortal woman who worshipped him because of the gifts and jewels he heaped upon her and although she may think that there was more to come, she would learn otherwise. When he was done with her he would discard her like so many others before. But right now he planted his seed deep into her fertile womb. Crying out in triumph as a thunderclap rattled the windows. But he wasn't done yet, the night was still young and he has more favours to give to the beautiful young creature beneath him.

New York City

The long black limousine drove through the night along the road towards the airfield, the car's headlights reflecting off of the glistening wet surface of the black bitumen. The stoic chauffeur concentrated on the road ahead' while Henry and Zane Ravenscroft sat around in the back chatting amongst themselves and to Julius who was also present.

"Just make damn sure I get those figures by tomorrow night the latest," Henry tells Julius.

"I will, don't worry," Julius says. Although outwardly he appears calm and collective, inwardly was another matter, in fact Julius thought he would throw up before this ride was over. He felt a sense of doom crushing down upon him. "Don't go," he blurts out.

"What are you going on about?" Henry questions.

"I mean you don't need to do this," Julius hastily adds, "let me go instead, I know the brief as well as you and we would be far better served by having you back here."

"Thanks Julius, I appreciate it, but this is something I have to handle myself. Besides you know the rush I get when I put a deal to bed personally."

"Yeah...I know what you mean."

Zane can't help but notice a look of apprehension on his uncle's face. "Are you okay uncle Jules?"

"What – yes – fine - fine...I'm just tired, haven't been sleeping much lately," Julius says, which was true enough. He rubs his head in an attempt to hide his expression from Zane's probing eyes. But what he said was true anyway; he hasn't been sleeping at all since Christophe came calling.

"You should take some time off," Zane suggests.

"Zane's right," Henry chimes in, "how about when I get back we head down to Miami and do some deep sea fishing, it's been ages since we did that last. What do you say, still game?"

"Yeah, that'd be great," Julius responds.

"Good, it's all set then." Henry gives thumbs up to his brother-in-law which only serves in making Julius feel even worse than what he already does.

Henry and Julius had become good friends over the ensuing years and the one thing that Julius likes about Henry was the fact that he never judged him, even though he knew about Julius' unusual sexual preferences, that didn't matter as far as Henry Ravenscroft was concerned. He liked Julius for who he was, warts and all. If only he truly knew how weak willed Julius Froberger really was.

Twenty minutes later the limousine arrives at the Ashton Private Airfield. The car drives through the gates, across the tarmac to the hangar housing the Ravenscroft private jets. There are two sleek looking leer jets, fuelled and ready, waiting just outside the hangar doors. The car comes to a halt and the chauffeur opens the door letting the passengers out. A few words are spoken amongst the trio before Henry makes his way to one of the jets while Zane makes his way to the other.

Julius stands by the vehicle door watching as Zane gets on the plane that will take him to Zurich, while Henry gets onto the one that will take him to the Middle-East and into whatever unknown scheme Christophe Villon has in store for him.

"Everyone has their price," Julius whispers feeling sick deep down in the pit of his stomach.

The next move in the great game was about to take place.

When both men had entered the aircraft, and were out-of-sight, Julius walks around to the other side of the car and throws up. The pungent smell of his vomit causing him to up chuck a second and third time until all he could do was dry heave.

St. Moritz, Switzerland

Zane Ravenscroft, stands in his hotel suite at twilight, staring out the large windows at the snow covered Swiss Alps.

The sight was breathtaking.

The hotel Agon was one of the most exclusive and wealthy resorts in all of St. Moritz. Nestled in the bosom of the Alps it has a price tag of six thousand dollars per night. With its five star accommodations, world class cuisine, spas, masseurs, gymnasium and its large heated indoor Olympic size pool with spectacular views of the Alps, made the Agon the destination of choice for those who could afford it.

"Penny for your thoughts," a woman's voice says.

Zane turns and looks at the sight of the alluring Eleanor sitting in her short red negligee by the glass enclosed fireplace, pouring champagne from the chilled bottle. A silver ice bucket, tray and glass bowl containing red, luscious strawberries stood nearby. Zane soaks in her beauty.

"Just thinking."

"About what?" She asks proffering a glass of champagne.

"You," he says with a warm smile. He crosses to her and takes the offering. "Here's to you," he says in way of a toast.

"To us," she interjects.

They drink.

"Come sit by the fire," Eleanor suggests, "have some fruit. It didn't harm Adam, did it?" She says with a mischievous grin.

Zane does what he is told. The sweet taste of the strawberry only enhances the flavour of the sparkling wine. He then reaches across and kisses her deep and meaningful on the lips as they fall back onto the scattering of cushions upon the shag pile carpet. He pulls her in close his hand reaching beneath her negligee.

"I can think of worst reasons than this to get thrown out of paradise," he mumbles as he covers her with his lips.

Later; the naked bodies of Zane Ravenscroft and Eleanor Villon lay entangled in one another's arms in silence; the only sound their quiet breathing and the occasional pop and crackle of the fire. Their lovemaking had been slow and tender until both were fulfilled and spent. Zane relished the warmth of his lover's body against his own. He hadn't plan on meeting Eleanor at St. Moritz, but once he touched down in Zurich he contacted her and suggested they meet. It could only be for twenty-four hours as he had to be back in Zurich tomorrow to finalise the investment deal. But even an hour with her was worth the trouble.

Eleanor also enjoys the touch of Zane's body against her own. She rests her head upon his tone and muscled chest, embraced in the arms of her lover she felt safe and secure in the knowledge that he would protect her. His warmth radiated off of him enveloping her. She felt no cold, just warmth. The last time she felt such a sensation as this was with her first love, Loretta Sweet, from school, but that seemed a lifetime ago now. She lost that love but she couldn't lose this one.

"It's time," she utters gently.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"Time to take the world by the throat and make it give us what we want. These brief days, hours, minutes, moments in time that we have together are not enough and I'm sure they're not enough for you."

Eleanor turns her head in yearning and looks deep into Zane's eyes. "You've crept into my heart and stolen it you bastard, love doesn't consist of holding hands, it consists of holding hearts. I want to be with you Zane no matter the consequences. When I leave here tomorrow I'm going to tell my father about us."

Zane sees no deception in her eyes only love and truth. "And I'll do the same. I'll tell them that I'm in love and that I'm going to marry you."

Eleanor can barely believe her ears. "You want to marry me?"

"Yes, I've never been surer about anything in my whole life. I need you - I want you forever."

"Then have me," she says.

Jerusalem, Israel

Henry Ravenscroft took in the night air as he walked back from the restaurant to his hotel that was just a couple of blocks away. There was a slight chill in the evening air but nothing to warrant wearing anything more than a light coat. It has been a good day - a great day, he thinks, the meeting with Zarkoff had gone better than expected. 'Ravenscroft Holdings' interests in the Middle-East were about to get a whole lot better. The thought of all that money and the debt that would be incurred sends a shiver of excitement through his entire body.

There was no better or intoxicating feeling in Henry's opinion than that which was felt after the successful closing of a deal. To him it was almost as good as making love to a beautiful woman and in some cases it was even better. In fact, courting a woman and then getting her into bed was very much the same as closing a business deal. You started off with the introductions, the chit-chat, the pick-up lines, the dinners, and the flowers, the words of love, and then the sex and the cementing of the relationship. If only Zarkoff was a woman, Henry muses, he could combine the two.

Henry smiles, contemplating business and love. But he could never do that to Sophia, despite all their ups and downs throughout their marriage he has never cheated on her. He could have if he wanted to, many times in fact, but he could never bring himself to do it. His body and being may belong to the Ravenscroft dynasty and the great 'Work of Ages' but his heart belonged to one person, one individual, one woman, his wife.

"Who would have thought such a thing?" Henry asks himself, given his playboy image as a young man.

Henry begins to increase his steps as he suddenly has an urge to call Sophia, for no other reason than to say hi. As far as he was concerned this was a good day, he was on such a high that he sent his bodyguard, Bruno, on ahead, who wasn't feeling well, besides, Henry felt like stretching his legs. The street was deserted as the hotel came into view. Henry's thoughts were on Sophia as he steps off the curb to cross the road, and so he didn't see the large, well built man, in a long black leather coat, step out of a shop doorway only a few feet behind him. The last image Henry beheld as the six inch switchblade was plunged into his chest from behind was the facade of his hotel. And the last thought in his mind as he fell backwards onto the cold ground was of Sophia.

The last thing he felt as his life ebbed away was his killer rummaging through his coat for his wallet and the last words he heard was a message from the mouth of his murderer that is whispered into his ear. "Christophe Villon says hello."

With those words and the sudden realisation who has done this to him, Henry Ravenscroft, a powerful and wealthy man, a king maker, gives up the ghost, dying not in glory or surrounded by opulence, but rather in a dirty gutter on a cold street in the Holy City of Jerusalem.

The king of the Ravenscroft's was dead and a new ruler was about to emerge.

But would he be up to the challenge.

Zurich, Switzerland

Zane Ravenscroft had just returned from St. Moritz, had just said goodbye to Eleanor only a few hours ago, and had just entered the foyer of his hotel when he received the news about the death of his father. The Concierge had given him a message to call the U.S. Embassy in Israel. He spoke to the Ambassador personally who had informed him of the tragic news concerning the murder of Henry Ravenscroft.

Zane thanked the Ambassador and informed him that he would leave straight away for Israel. Zane was in shock. He couldn't believe that his father was dead. He felt no emotion just numbness. He began to tick off the things he has to do in his head; contact his mother, or better still his aunt, she could be there when the news was broken to Sophia; notify his uncle and 'Ravenscroft Holdings' to make sure there was no panic; release a statement to the press, the Ambassador had assured him that the media hadn't been notified and that he could keep the story from breaking for another twenty-four hours; funeral arrangements; and he had to retrieve his father's body.

He should be crying, Zane thinks, but quickly tells himself that would have to wait until later, there was too much to be done. He also knows that their enemies will no doubt take advantage of the situation and Zane wasn't about to let that happen.

Eleanor sat comfortably in first class on her way back to England. She always enjoys travelling and simply adores doing it in style. To her flying first class was the only way to go. She had a simply marvellous meal of salmon in honey and orange sauce and was now washing it down with a glass of Pinot Noir, a classic paring with salmon. Eleanor felt contented; wealth had its privileges'.

But although the fish and wine were making her all warm and cosy inside, the butterflies that have been fluttering inside her stomach every mile she grew closer to home, and her father, began to stir once more. She was completely unaware of the tragic events that were unfolding elsewhere. All Eleanor knew right now was that she was returning to Grimstone to tell her father and grandmother once and for all that she loves Zane and was going to marry him.

She has made her mind up and nothing was going to sway her from her conviction.

She has found the man she wanted to be with and no one, not ever her father or grandmother, would stop her.

As silly as it sounds she has her love and passion for Zane as a shield and she was certain that as long as she wrapped that cloak of protection around herself nothing could penetrate it. Still, Eleanor thinks, she wasn't looking forward to the shit storm that she was about to start.

"Stewardess," she calls out holding up her empty glass, "another please." She needed all the Dutch Courage she could muster.

Jerusalem, Israel

Zane sits in the backseat of the U.S. Embassy car along with the Ambassador, Alfred Redcliffe, and the Israeli Chief of Police, Aaron Segal. They were en-route to the city morgue and the grim business of official identification. "Again, let me offer my sincere condolence on this most tragic of circumstances," Ambassador Redcliffe drones on, "I can only imagine how you must be feeling at this time."

_Like hell you do_ , Zane thinks, but says. "Thank you. Any leads on the guy that did this?"

"Not as much as we would hope. But let me assure you I've got all possible resources dedicated to apprehending this person," the Police Chief informs him.

Already Zane didn't like him. "Well, anything you need, more men, money, let me know, I'm sure Mr. Zarkoff has already spoken to you."

"Yes...he has," Aaron Segal says, his tone slightly put out.

"I can assure you Mr. Ravenscroft that all local resources are being utilised, including my office," the Ambassador says seeking desperately to reassure Zane. Ambassador Redcliffe had already received a phone call from the White House and no doubt he didn't want to get another one.

"And you're sure this was just a mugging?" Zane asks, also anxious to get an angle on what happened to his father.

"Yes sir," the Police Chief says a little too quickly for Zane's liking, but he could be misreading his intent, "a robbery gone terribly wrong, your father's wallet, watch and rings were all taken. Also we have had a number of such muggings recently in the area."

"And you did nothing about it," Zane snaps.

"Our manpower isn't unlimited," Aaron Segal fires back, "your father shouldn't have been out by himself."

"His bodyguard, is recovering from his bout of food poisoning, you'll be able to speak with him tomorrow," the Ambassador says with too much eagerness. "Once we get this nasty bit of business out of the way," he continues, "you can come back to the embassy and get a complete and full briefing on the crime," Ambassador Redcliffe tells him.

Zane hadn't slept since St. Moritz and he was starting to feel it. The numbness he felt over the death of his father was now giving way to despair and tiredness. He knew he had to get some sleep soon or he was going to be of no help to anybody. But that would have to wait a few more hours. He has to find out exactly what occurred. He has begun thinking whether in fact his father had been assassinated, but what he has been told, and all the evidence at the moment was pointing to nothing more than a robbery gone wrong. As horrible as it may sound, Zane hopes that's all it was, because if it wasn't he had no idea what his next move would be.

Ten minutes later they arrive at the morgue.

The city morgue was a sterile and clinical building. The smell of antiseptic fills the air and beneath that, barely noticeable was another underlying odour...the smell of death. Zane picks up on it straight away. Being early morning the building was virtually deserted, a few orderlies went about their routine and a cleaner mops the corridor that the three men were walking down. They were making their way to the room at the end of the hallway where Henry Ravenscroft's corpse laid waiting.

There was a middle-age man, with unkempt hair, in a white medical coat waiting by the door; this was the Coronary, who looks as if he has just jumped out of bed. No doubt he too was feeling the pressure from above regarding the handling of the body of such an important person.

Alongside of him stands a uniform police office on guard duty. Introductions were made but Zane hardly acknowledge the doctor, he has been steeling himself for the sight he was about to see.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Eleanor let the warm water wash over her naked body as she stood beneath the shower. She has just finished a late breakfast in bed and was now doing her ablutions before going downstairs to the library to talk to her father and give him the good news about the upcoming nuptials of his daughter and Zane Ravenscroft. Eleanor can't help but laugh at such a ridiculous thought. After today she would more likely be going to a funeral than a wedding because she was pretty sure that this news would do her father in as well as babushka.

Eleanor turns off the water and steps out of the old porcelain tub and stands in front of the basin towelling herself down. She looks at her reflection in the mirror and suddenly she felt all her strength leaving her, draining away like the water down a plug hole, she felt weak and thought that her legs were about to give out on her.

She felt herself shaking.

She wonders if she could actually do this.

But before the doubts could take a hold she pushes them away, locking them up in a box deep within her mind and throwing away the key. She steadies the nerves and reinforces her resolve. She regathers her strength. She stands more upright, telling herself that she was a Villon - a Zhukovsky - and they didn't cower for anyone.

She was going to do this no matter what.

Jerusalem, Israel

The covered body of Henry Ravenscroft lay on the solid metal slab in the centre of the autopsy room. There were no other corpses present but there were a number of marked name tags on the metal drawers on the side wall. The smell of death in this room was strong. Zane was giving some Vicks vapour rub to put under his nose. Once this was done the Coronary pulls back the sheet so Zane could officially identify the body. The first thing he notices is the peaceful expression on his father's pale dead face. It almost appears as if he were sleeping. His eyes were closed but not completely, there was a thin slit between the eyelids revealing his glazed and dead eyes.

Zane begins to slowly nod his head in recognition when he hears the shock gasps coming from the Coronary and Police Chief, who have accompanied him into the room. He then notices the gaping hole; about five to six inches wide in his father's chest, at first Zane assumes it was the entry point of the knife wound, but that was further down the torso and only appeared as a thin slit. Furthermore, it seemed that Henry Ravenscroft's heart has been removed and stolen while the body rested in the morgue.

Zane suddenly feels the cold hand of fear around his neck.

Amongst the following commotion Zane's worst fears were confirmed, his father had been assassinated and the removal of the heart was a sign, an acknowledgment of the fact. It was a message that Zane knew all about. The removal of the heart from a defeated enemy has great occult significance for those in the know. With the heart removed the body of the deceased could never be at rest as it was in complete. This was a practice that dated back to the crusades of medieval times. And Zane knew exactly who was responsible for the deed, even without any more proof; there was only one person who would dare to take them on.

Grimstone Manor, Dartmoor, England

Sitting at his desk in the library, Christophe contemplates the medium sized silver box in front of him and smiles. He could almost hear the sound of his dead enemy's heart beating from within. This was a trophy of war worth keeping. The bastard was dead and Christophe couldn't be happier. He would have to find a special place for his prize, a location where he could take it out and look at it from time to time. This day has been a long time coming as far as Christophe was concerned and he intended to savour it again and again.

He felt like his ancestors of old, the Kings of the Francs, who carried the decapitated heads of their enemies' on the saddles of their horses, the display of a conqueror for all to see. Christophe remembers fondly the tales Masha use to tell him as a child. He didn't have the head of Henry Ravenscroft but he did have the heart and that was enough, he knew well the significance attached to it. He hopes that the son-of-a-bitch that was Henry Ravenscroft was burning in the fires of hell. Revenge was indeed an enjoyable dish to eat; with this death Christophe felt that he has restored some of the honour to his family and avenged some of the injustice done to them as well. But above all he has dealt out payback to the man who had stolen the only women that he truly loved.

Christophe wonders how Sophia must be feeling right about now - no doubt crying, bawling her eyes out at the lost of her husband. This idea gives him great pleasure. He prays that she suffers something terrible; that the grief and melancholy sends her into a deep depression, and maybe, just maybe, she will decide to try and take her own life again, only this time she would be successful at it. Christophe ponders whether he should send her some black lotus flowers. But first there were other matters to attend to. With the demise of Henry Ravenscroft the field of battle will change and a few of the other families who supported the Ravenscrofts will waiver and that will be all that Christophe needs to secure their allegiance.

Christophe's hands reach out and grasp the silver box to his chest, he then stands, makes his way to the centre of the room and begins to dance. He swirls around in a waltz macabre whether from sheer joy or utter madness, who can say. He was triumphant and he felt like celebrating. In his ears he heard the sound of sweet music playing, urging him to dance on and on, faster and faster. While in his mind he saw the faces of all the Villons that came before him. Over two centuries of faces that helped forged this great family. They stood around the room cheering and applauding the one who would go down in history as the greatest of them all. But amongst the merriment and the phantom celebrants stood the scrawny figure of one Olivier Villon – Christophe's father.

The son stops to stare at this ghost of his past.

The spectre raises a bony figure at his son.

"You're dead...I killed you," Christophe says in panic.

But the ghost of his father doesn't flinch as he utters the words he spoke before Christophe killed him – "Someday you will see your death in your son's eyes."

"No," Christophe shouts. He turns away from the spectre. "Nothing will kill my joy today," he tells himself vehemently. He quickly turns back around and sees that the room is empty, the ghosts are all gone, if they were ever there to begin with.

Christophe smiles. "You're nothing but dust father."

There is a knock at the door. It is Eleanor. Christophe deftly takes the box and puts it in the middle drawer of the desk, locking it with the key that he then secures in his top jacket pocket.

"Papa, may I speak with you?" Eleanor enquires on entering the library.

"But of course my dear, you know I always have time for you," Christophe announces with enthusiasm instantly dismissing the sight of his dead father as temporary insanity.

Eleanor takes in her father, who strangely enough, seems to be in a good mood. She smiles inwardly thinking to herself that she has picked the right moment to announce her news. Still, the butterflies in her stomach begin to churn, but before they could take flight she marches up to the desk and tells Christophe about Zane; how they have been secretly seeing one another and how they have grown quite fond of each other.

"We love each other papa," she finishes with.

She is greeted by silence. A heavy and crushing wall of quietness. She feels the weight of it bearing down upon her. She tries desperately to read her father's expression – but she couldn't. It was as stony as ever. But then she notices his right eye begin to twitch, ever so slowly. A few moments pass before the anger erupts.

Eleanor feels the full wrath of her father. He viciously backhands her across the face. She cries out and crumbles to the floor. She sees the contents of the desk being swept off by Christophe as he stands and makes his way quickly towards her. She tries to back up but he is upon her in an instant, his face only inches away from her own. "You bitch!" He screams, spittle splashing onto her face. "You fucking whore!" He rages on. Eleanor has never seen this kind of anger in her father before. She was gripped in the jaws of terror. "If you ever see that bastard again I will fucking kill you!" He rages on. His hand reaches for the nearby fallen envelope knife opener. He then places it against her exposed throat.

"Papa...please..." Eleanor begs.

Christophe just stares at her. His eyes cold and unfeeling and yet they were on fire. Then slowly he quietly utters three words, each one packed with great malice. "Don't...defy...me." He abruptly drops the knife and storms out of the room leaving Eleanor sobbing prostrate on the floor.

" _Thus, though born out of lust, did Zeus and Hera come to fall in love. Enraged by the affair, Kronos did unleash his wrath against Hera and the usurper Zeus, who greatly coveted his throne."_

(From the myths of ancient Greece)

This ends the first volume in The Throne of Olympus trilogy.
