Steve assured Sara he was fine walking the remainder of his journey back to The Truth as the transparent object that had transported them halfway around the world dissipated into the apparent nothingness from which it had originally formed. An ancient tree, the ring of box hedges surrounding it, and enough earth to hold and nourish their roots all rose from the ground atop what turned out to be the roof of a gigantic freight elevator emerging with a rumble shaking the ground beneath their feet.
Sara explained that the tree and box hedge weren't part of an ingenious camouflage to hide access to the caverns below from The Faith but resulted from centuries of disuse. Just as with ancient cities, things erode and disintegrate back into the dirt from which they came, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, then things grew in the resulting soil, and what was left was lost beneath. She said, "That's what happens over time," nostalgically remembering the colossal tree as a sapling long before she became aware of all that existed below. Some groundskeeper planted the box hedges centuries after that job had been her father's, and someone or something had tended them since, none with any notion of what nature hid buried beneath them.
Claire's and Sara's possessions began floating through the elevator doors as if carried in the arms of invisible dock workers, with the rest stacked neatly on the ground, awaiting their turn. Sara could tell Claire was fretting about their things, especially her art, and promised, "We'll hang your paintings around the house, and I'll create another studio for you. In fact," Sara paused a moment, allowing her imagination to work, then nodded with satisfaction and assured Claire, "You're going to love it. It has panoramic views out over the ocean and..."
"House?" Claire asked, interrupting as she turned to gaze up at the majestic, modernistic glass palace a few hundred feet beyond where they stood. To anyone seeing it for the first time, it seemed more likely to house a museum or a theatre to seat a thousand spectators.
"Yes," Sara assured her. "It's just a house."
"Like, you're just a girl?"
"Yes, like I'm just a girl," Sara insisted, recognizing the annoyance that remained in Claire's tone. "There is still a lot to explain, but I will. I promise. I'll tell you everything. I'll answer any question you have and tell you the truth."
"Like, who else you've fucked?"
Sara expelled a long breath, reminding herself to have patience, then repeated, "There are more than I can remember. I haven't lied about that. This conversation will be easier once you have a Magick Hat." That statement once again left Claire staring back at her with incomprehension. Even a Magick Hat, Sara recognized, would be more easily explained once Claire had one of her own
As Sara and Steve were about to say their goodbyes, she suddenly remembered, "No. Wait a minute if you aren't in too much of a hurry. I did promise you something."
Sara dropped her travel bags in the house's entryway, an arboretum that dwarfed the one housing Claire's studio, her old studio. Her new studio would astound her, Sara thought, smiling, and she couldn't wait to provide a guided tour. She asked Claire to stay, right there, where she was, please, she'd be back; then went in search of Sammy or whoever might be there at the house, passing directly through a wall again, just as they'd passed through the side of the object which had flown them halfway around the world, and what appeared to be the glass exterior of the house only a moment before.
It occurred to Sara that it would have been the middle of the night for Sammy when she'd inadvertently sent her distress signal. Knowing Sammy, she doubted he'd been able to return to sleep afterward and regretted any anxiety she'd caused him on a day that should be all about him, not drama she could have easily avoided if she'd only planned better.
She also hoped he would be happy to see her again, that she was home, safe and unharmed, rather than upset that she'd been away so long. She was sorry she hadn't been there that morning to wake him in a much better way than a pointless and unnecessary cry for help on his one-thousandth birthday. She hoped he'd give her a chance to make up for that. She hoped he wouldn't throw her out after showing up late with the lesbian lover she'd kept a secret for the past fifteen years. She hoped.
The first person Sara encountered was a woman she hadn't expected to find, standing in the kitchen at the rear of the house, which, as every room in her Magick structure, served whatever purpose she or Sammy imagined at any given moment. The entire configuration of the house assumed whatever form they wanted. It had taken the two of them some time to work through the confusion of friendly but dueling imaginations. A kitchen was the purpose that location in the structure had served most often, if for no other reason than being where the kitchen was located in the house that originally stood there. That was centuries ago when Sara was still a child and came to help her mother cook and clean.
More habit than tradition, Sara thought. She remembered a brewery, then a distillery, when those had been Sammy's passions of the moment - a moment being anywhere from months to decades until his curiosity turned elsewhere. Or only an instant if he suddenly changed his mind mid-transformation. There'd been recording, then art studios, when music, then painting, first became passions of Sara's own. There'd been labs of various specifications that she and Sammy often shared. And she'd once spent a decade learning to be a gourmet chef, to Sammy's benefit, or detriment, as he'd claimed, indicating his waistline, which his 'Satan Cells' would never allow to expand an inch. That had been as near to wifely as Sara believed she'd ever been or likely ever be. The room was a kitchen then, but far more commercial than the current version, which appeared to be more oriented toward entertainment, and she found strange since Sammy rarely entertained. Sara had a nostalgic moment's itch to turn it back into the commercial kitchen it had once been. Then realized, just in time, that she'd likely ruin the cake the woman was baking. It was Sammy's birthday, after all.
The woman nodded politely, then smiled, seeming to remember Sara perfectly, despite Sara having been away on her recent wanderlust for the past two and a half decades. The woman took a few hesitant steps toward Sara, then, uncertain of herself, stopped. During those past twenty-five years, she had changed more than Sara, who hadn't changed at all. She was surprised to find that the other woman had. Not that she'd aged. Both still appeared to be young women, approximately the same age, neither seeming a day older than when they'd seen one another last and never would. However, the woman was not another Immortal, like Sara, not exactly, since she was neither human nor alive but the product of Sara's imagination and one of her proudest achievements.
"Hello, Nan," Sara said, closing the gap between them and wrapping her arms around her beautiful golem. "I'm so happy to see you. When did you come home?"
Nan returned her hug with apparent relief and genuine warmth, then told Sara, "When you left, Mistress Lady asked me to see that Master Sammy wasn't lonely. She thought you would be away longer this time, and you were."
Sara smiled excitedly, and hopefully since she'd created Nan for that exact purpose, to be Sammy's companion while she was away. She hadn't wanted to continue leaving his loneliness to chance since she'd discovered that he no longer made any effort to seek the company of other women while she was away. And those who had managed to find their way to Sammy's bed over the past several centuries were only a few among the random women who periodically showed up at the gate to the estate.
Some came because they knew who Sammy was: The Descendant. Several of those Sara had learned afterward were also Immortal - primarily members of The Truth, some at the suggestion of Sara's friend Lady, as she'd suggested to Nan. Other members of The Truth came on their own, for the same purpose, to see that the Descendant was not lonely, in need of a woman's company, while Sara was off somewhere in the world again on one of her wanderlusts for who knew how long.
Others came, with no idea of Sammy's identity, his name perhaps, but not who He was in the eyes of two of the world's major religions and all their minor splitter sects. They might have heard that he was rich, which the estate made evident if they weren't already aware. And generous and good in bed, rumors based on the word of some unknown origin and grown into urban legends, even though some legends proved not to be myths.
Some came only to ask if they could see the estate. The architecture and views were said to be spectacular. Those who arrived with no premeditated agenda were the women who Sammy would more readily and unreluctantly open himself. And perhaps offer a personal tour, which, if the woman's company proved easy and enjoyable, extended to include lunch, occasionally dinner, wine, sunsets, Scotch, and long conversations. Whether he'd admit it or do anything about it, he was lonely while Sara was away, in need of a woman's company. There'd likely be more Scotch or wine. Then, if the mood was right and those long conversations turned romantic, breakfast, and perhaps, if his guest was so inclined, more than one.
No need to worry that they hadn't come prepared to stay; there were plenty of clothes for them to wear. Sara's, much of which, like Eve's when Sara first arrived, were new and never worn, and would likely fit them well enough, at least those to whom Sammy naturally found himself the most attracted. Age was not an issue. A few additional decades were a plus and proof that the women were not Immortals with unknown agendas. Healthy, fit, and pretty, not necessarily exotically beautiful, but attractive, with the allowance for those additional decades. And intelligent, a must, along with having kind eyes.
When Sara had once pressed him about what he'd done about sex while she was away, Sammy confessed that he eventually resorted to his reliable right hand. And the memory of her face. The one she wore as she came always pulled him along. Was that wrong? Was that sick? Masturbating thinking of his absent wife's face when she orgasmed. Did that bother her?
"No, Sammy," Sara had insisted, "You're a normal, healthy man with natural needs. Masturbate, imagining whoever you need to get yourself off. But, better yet, don't masturbate at all. Have sex with anyone you want, just someone. Find a woman to share your bed. Hire one. I don't care. Or visit Lady. She'll come to you if you'd like. Invite her. And, oh my, will you come. She'll blow your mind, in addition to, you know. I don't think I need to explain."
Nope. So far as Sara knew, Sammy had never once visited Lady. He had never requested her company. He had his reasons and was stubborn. Even though, unbeknownst to him, many of those women who'd randomly showed up over the years had not been random at all, whether encouraged by Lady or members of The Truth of their own volition and occasionally fooling him into allowing them to stay. Lady's recommendation, knowing Sammy's sentiments, had been to keep the fact of their Immortality to themselves. Otherwise, he was likely to be suspicious that they were either spies from The Faith or overly grateful members of The Truth - with a sense of obligation deep enough for husbands to agree that the Descendant should never spend his nights alone. If He had been receptive, The Truth would have kept His bed warm in rotation every day of His life – since they each owed their own to Him. They capitalized his pronouns as they did His title, as though He was a deity.
There were a few, Sara heard, enjoying a laugh and a glass of wine with Lady, who'd remained silent about their identities and Immortality and spent several memorable nights with the Descendant. Then they'd kept their promises to share all the intimate details with their husbands immediately upon their return. Sharing their bodies with the Descendant had become an unofficial and unacknowledged sacrament for the women of The Truth, for those few who managed to bypass His defenses, as it was a sacrament for those husbands sharing those clever wives. The tales told afterward were an aphrodisiac.
Sammy admitted to Sara that the heart of his refusal to visit Lady for sex was that he didn't want women to come to his bed or invite him to theirs out of some sense of gratitude or obligation. It was rare enough that he asked or allowed women to invite themselves to his bed at all. And then only those who he believed came of their own free will, not because they thought intercourse with the Descendent to be a sacrament or that his seed might make them Immortal.
Another urban legend, the thought of which horrified him. He hadn't been Sammy the Sperm for centuries. Still, he hadn't risen so far in his opinion of himself to believe that he'd become some semi-deity whose loins had the power to grant women Immortality. He could have easily given them that, although his loins would not have been the method he'd suggest. He'd heard the stories too but thought them unlikely. Surprisingly, none had ever thought to ask if he'd make them immortal.
Sara discovered later that some women came and went without her knowledge, which warmed her heart since that meant Sammy hadn't been alone. Then there were those sent by The Faith. Mostly women of a certain age for whom it was known Sammy had an affinity. Women the Curia had promised Immortality and the return of their youth in exchange for reporting the Descendant's activities, habits, and any pillow talk of interest. Sara had regularly returned to slide into Sammy's bed late at night to chase away women with less-than-honorable intentions. Of course, regardless of intentions, none ever stuck around when she returned.
Sara didn't check up on Sammy, as she'd asked him not to check up on her, but she had long thought it best to keep her eyes, ears, and thoughts on The Faith's activities as best she could. She assumed they were always up to something nefarious and had discovered ways to remain informed when The Faith decided to send another of their spies to visit the Descendant. Even then, Sara had mixed feelings. She had no right to chase anyone from Sammy's bed he'd invited to be there. First, he wasn't alone, and it was none of her business, except when The Faith was involved. Then she made it her business, whether she had the right or not. She abhorred the thought of anyone affiliated with The Faith being anywhere near Sammy or herself for any reason. She would protect him and herself if necessary, like the warrior princess she'd become.
Sara had no particular animosity toward the women sent by The Faith. On the contrary, she recognized them as victims. Suspicions of the fate awaiting them had grown by the century, as had Sara's loathing of The Faith. She'd long had her fill of The Curia, although she hadn't yet determined what to do about it. Or what she could. She'd at least tried to warn some of the women before they fled. But what could she tell them? "I suspect, but have no proof, that the Curia, or one of them, have been lying to you."
Then what?
"No, I expect that they will give you the Elixir of Eternal Life, as promised, whether or not there is a grand ceremony before a gathering of The Faith. I suspect not. Can you recall any Immortality ceremonies held for women? Ever? I don't believe there has been one since the Schism. But that isn't the lie that I suspect. I believe they'll give you the Sacred Fucking Kool-Aid, but privately, with only a select few members of the Curia present, perhaps only one, likely only one. That bastard. The fucking Father himself. He will give you what he's promised. He and I suspect it is mostly, if not solely, he. And he will likely even allow you to witness and experience the return of your youth.
"So, you will at least enjoy that much. But I strongly believe you will not enjoy your Immortality, or youth, forever. I don't believe you'll enjoy your new youth for long at all. How many Immortal females of The Faith do you know? Any? Perhaps a few who've not yet fully returned to their youth. Who are unwittingly on their way to the fate you'll likely share. Are there any youthful-appearing Immortal women who've been around more than a year at most? Any?"
As her thoughts returned to the present, Sara looked toward Nan expectantly, then finally asked, "Well?"
Nan shook her head in disappointment, shyly, nervously.
Damn! Sara thought, never? She thought she'd done a fine job if she had to say so herself since no one else would have known if she hadn't told them, and she defied anyone to determine that Nan wasn't a living, breathing human woman. If they cut her open, they'd discover a beating heart. Sara wondered whether Sammy was aware of that fact or Nan's identity. It had been some time since Nan had last been around, and her appearance was subtly different enough that Sammy might not have recognized her. Or, maybe, Nan reminded him of someone else from a long time ago. Of course, if he had recognized Nan, Sara doubted Sammy would be rude or unkind again, given the piece of her mind he'd received those years ago. But neither would he be receptive.
Sara wondered whether Nan's change of appearance had been Lady's suggestion. Nan could alter her appearance at will. She could morph into nearly anything she could imagine, and she did have an imagination, with a mind and will of her own. Sara believed Nan was a sentient being with the same rights as any human.
But Sammy wanted nothing to do with Nan when Sara created her to be his companion, even though she'd explained beforehand who and what Nan was. So, he'd known, he'd been aware, she hadn't deceived him, as she once had and promised she wouldn't again. She hadn't yet given Nan her name. She'd left that for Sammy to choose. But he never had. Instead, he hadn't spoken to or acknowledged Nan's presence.
Sara had been angry with him. He'd never been so rude and inconsiderate of another person, a human, who'd done nothing wrong to him. Nan had no intention other than to be kind and obedient, although the degree of her obedience would have been her own choice. She did have a will of her own. And feelings that could be hurt and had been. Sara had discovered her sitting in the gazebo, where she'd remained, without moving, for five years, paralytically depressed that she was unwanted.
Sara suggested that Nan spend some time with Lady, although Nan could go wherever she chose. But Sara thought Lady might help uplift her spirit, her soul. Did Nan have a soul? Then again, Sara wasn't sure she had one herself.
"Never?" Sara asked again, stroking Nan's cheek affectionately. She suspected Nan might be lying to her, another testament to Nan's free will and what a fine job Sara had done.
"Once," Nan finally confessed, with reluctance, "You were gone longer than before. I look different. He doesn't know. It was nice. I liked it."
"That's it? Nice? You liked it?"
Nan's eyes suddenly grew large. Seeing it, Sara wasn't sure that it was only a figure of speech, nor was she sure whether Nan's expression was one of excitement or fear. Had Nan literally enlarged her eyes as part of her emotional response?
"More than nice. Very nice," Nan admitted.
Sara tapped her foot impatiently. "Come on, Nan. Fess up. Did you come? Did Sammy make you come? I think you can do that. Can you have an orgasm? I hope so. That would be a bitch of a shortcoming on my part if not, and I will fix that. I promise."
"Yes," Nan told her, "I can. I did. Master Sammy did make me have an orgasm."
"Only one? Wait! Master Sammy? Please don't say that again. And please don't call me Mistress Sara. I get Mistress Lady. That's part of the atmosphere, part of the gig. But not here, okay?"
"Yes, sorry, Sara," Nan said carefully.
"Okay, now what's up? Maybe it's just none of my business since there are grey areas here, and you can tell me that it is none of my business if you want. But, if anything is wrong or bothering you, I might be able to tweak a few things and make them better for you. Did he make you come hard? More than once? Was it the best thing you've ever felt? Or maybe not as good as some of those you've had at Lady's, but she's a sorceress."
"Not the best. Lady is a sorceress. But it was wonderful," Nan told Sara, looking away.
"Did you make Sammy feel good too? I'm sure you did."
"Sorry," Nan told her. "He told me it was wonderful too."
"Why the hell are you sorry?" Sara queried, confused. "That's great. I'm glad. Why are you so reluctant to talk to me about Sammy? Why did you lie at first?"
"He's your husband," Nan said, still avoiding eye contact with Sara. "I don't want you to be jealous. I don't want you to be angry or hate me."
"Wait, wait, wait. Why would I be jealous? Why would I be angry or hate you? I made you, hoping that you'd make Sammy feel wonderful. I made it your choice. Mainly because Sammy would hate that it wasn't, and maybe he didn't believe that before, which was why he ignored you. But are you honestly feeling guilty that you fucked my husband?"
Nan nodded, looking at the ground, and repeated, "I'm sorry, Mistress Sara."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Sara snapped. "First, seriously, stop with the fucking Mistress and Master. And, if you had to absorb a morality, why did it need to be Sammy's?"
"Because he feels..." Nan began.
Sara raised her hand to stop her. "Look at me, please." Nan turned, looking up toward Sara reluctantly until they made eye contact. "First, I don't know why he feels the way he does. That has never made sense to me. That's something that feels broken to me that I keep trying to fix. Please don't feel whatever Sammy feels because he does." Sara slapped her hand against her own chest – hard for emphasis - and told Nan, "I'm happy you had sex with Sammy, even if it was only once. I'm happy it was wonderful for you. And I'm happy it was wonderful for him. That's the way it is supposed to be. There is nothing wrong with enjoying sex. How do people get so fucked up about that? Why?"
"You're not angry?" Nan asked. "You sound angry."
"No," Sara told her, "I'm frustrated. I don't know why sex is such a big deal that people can't just enjoy it. But I'll swear on whatever you want; I am not angry. I'm fucking thrilled. I'm fucking ecstatic! Thank you! I hope you do it again. I hope you do it a lot. I hope it is wonderful every time. I hope it is mind-blowingly fucking fantastic!"
Sara pulled her golem into a hug as Nan suddenly began to sob. Tears, Sara observed in wonderment. All she could think at the moment was, once again: 'Fuck, I did a good job.' Sara, herself, forgot for a moment that she wasn't comforting a living, breathing, and quite an emotional woman. Nan did breathe, as a practice, since it wouldn't seem natural if she didn't appear to inhale and exhale as a real woman would, nor would it if her breath didn't feel warm. But her breathing wasn't a biological necessity. Nan could sit at the bottom of the sea forever, or as long as her power supply held out, which wouldn't be until it held no more molecules to fuse or strip of their electrons, so, about as forever as the laws of physics allowed. So, Sara stood corrected. Nan was neither human nor alive, at least not biologically, but she was Immortal, as immortal as herself, which was also a recognition that she would likely have an end of her own, eventually, as all the natural things of the physical world did.
When Nan's tears finally slowed, Sara asked, "Do you know where I can find Sammy?"
"Master Sammy went for a walk."
Sara restrained her urge to correct Nan's continued use of the word 'Master.' She had more pressing issues. She quickly went back to assure herself that Claire hadn't bolted the first chance she had but found her sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor in the foyer, glaring up at her. Sara apologized again and received an obscene gesture in return. Okay, more to be dealt with later. She headed back through the house, past Nan and her baking birthday cake, toward the gazebo to see whether she'd locate Sammy.
The quickest way would have been to share that she was home and wait for his response. But, since she hadn't been there to give him a 'good morning, happy birthday, surprise blowjob,' she still preferred to surprise him in person. If he'd left for a walk but hadn't been gone too long, she might spot him on the beach and run down to make love with him in the sand, even though that was far from her favorite place to have sex. She hated getting sand in her ass and other nether regions, including her pubes - which she recalled again that she had at present. Claire preferred them the way nature intended, and she'd kept them, or at least hadn't removed them, yet. She'd honestly just forgotten them. Once again, she had more urgent concerns than whether her hoo-hah was fully furred as it had been until that first visit of the Professor.