Seventh Key
Once, not long after the Romans crucified a prophet and kindled a religious revolution, a handful of woman refugees arrived in Southern Gaul. Their leadership revived an ancient tradition of priestesses, spreading good news and wisdom while guarding against the rise of patriarchal fears, in hopes that their descendents would survive and someday save the world.
I regained consciousness slowly. For a while, I hung in grayness, almost able to believe this was only a nightmare.
Then I tasted the very real gag in my mouth--folded silk against my tongue--and I knew better. Fear hit me, the reality of my situation almost too awful to face through the disorientation of the drugs. Yet despite the temptation to drift back into that painless place, even my addled brain knew there was one precious thing that made facing reality worth any price.
I concentrated on finding my hands. I had trouble with even that, through the haze. Fingers. I had fingers, right?
Pretty basic thought processes for someone with a Ph.D., but a struggle. A memory of baby talk flirted with me: Are those your fingers? Whose fingers are those...?
No, Maggi. Concent ... read full excerpt from: Seventh Key ebook
