The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1) Read online

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 by Eva García Sáenz

  English translation copyright © 2014 by Lilit Žekulin Thwaites

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  The Immortal Collection was first published in 2012 by La Esfera De Los Libros, S.L., as La saga de los longevos: La vieja familia. Translated from Spanish by Lilit Žekulin Thwaites. Published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2014.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  ISBN-13: 9781477849798

  ISBN-10: 1477849793

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013913057

  To my parents.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE IAGO

  ADRIANA

  PART 1

  1 ADRIANA

  2 IAGO

  3 ADRIANA

  4 IAGO

  5 IAGO

  6 ADRIANA

  7 IAGO

  8 IAGO

  9 ADRIANA

  10 IAGO

  11 IAGO

  12 IAGO

  13 ADRIANA

  14 ADRIANA

  15 ADRIANA

  16 IAGO

  17 IAGO

  18 ADRIANA

  19 IAGO

  20 ADRIANA

  PART 2

  21 IAGO

  22 ADRIANA

  23 IAGO

  24 IAGO

  25 IAGO

  26 ADRIANA

  27 IAGO

  28 IAGO

  29 ADRIANA

  30 ADRIANA

  31 IAGO

  32 ADRIANA

  33 IAGO

  34 IAGO

  35 ADRIANA

  36 ADRIANA

  37 ADRIANA

  38 IAGO

  39 IAGO

  40 ADRIANA

  41 ADRIANA

  42 IAGO

  43 IAGO

  PART 3

  44 IAGO

  45 ADRIANA

  46 ADRIANA

  47 ADRIANA

  48 ADRIANA

  49 ADRIANA

  50 IAGO

  51 ADRIANA

  52 IAGO

  53 IAGO

  54 ADRIANA

  55 ADRIANA

  56 IAGO

  57 ADRIANA

  58 ADRIANA

  59 IAGO

  60 ADRIANA

  61 IAGO

  62 IAGO

  63 IAGO

  64 ADRIANA

  65 IAGO

  66 ADRIANA

  67 ADRIANA

  68 IAGO

  69 ADRIANA

  70 ADRIANA

  71 IAGO

  72 ADRIANA

  73 ADRIANA

  74 IAGO

  75 IAGO

  76 IAGO

  77 ADRIANA

  78 ADRIANA

  EPILOGUE ADRIANA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MONTHS ACCORDING TO THE CELTIC CALENDAR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  “We are whatever time we have remaining.”

  —José Manuel Caballero Bonald

  PROLOGUE

  IAGO

  Venus Day, the twenty-first day of the month of Nion, 10,310 SB (since my birth)

  Friday, March 9, 2012

  The deadly sensation of water swamping my nasal passages, filling my mouth, and flooding my throat on its way to my lungs roused me. The white surface was slippery beneath my feet. In desperation, I grabbed hold of both sides of the deep tub and hauled myself to the surface.

  Air.

  Luckily, air was my salvation. I coughed like an old man. Then I pulled myself upright and, totally nude, stood while the water that had almost killed me ran down my back.

  Calm down, I commanded myself.

  I looked around, searching for points of reference. All I could see were papers scattered across the floor and, through the open window, lazy seagulls and boats with triangular sails. In the distance the breaking dawn was tracing the hazy silhouette of a city. The scene looked peaceful, and that disturbed me even more—who trusts tranquility? I had dozed off in a damn bath as my memory escaped from the room.

  That was when I heard music and jumped out of the tub—less carefully than I should have—to locate the source of the sound. A small, black, shiny device twitched on top of the bed in a spacious room I did not recognize. I grabbed it and fiddled with it, not really knowing what to do. Two pictograms were engraved on the device, one red, the other green. It did not seem dangerous, so I decided to experiment with the object. Touching the red pictogram silenced the music.

  The green one, then, I thought to myself.

  “How did it go, Son?” asked a barely audible voice.

  “I recognize your voice,” I replied, holding the device closer to my ear in a movement so instinctive it surprised me.

  “Damn it, it’s happened again,” whispered the voice. “Listen, Son, it’s vital that you retain the facts I’m going to give you. You’ve had an amnesia attack, and right now I’m guessing you’re on your own in a hotel in San Francisco, on the other side of the ocean.”

  “You are my father?”

  “Yes, I’m your father. Your name is Urko, but it will be more useful if you remember that right now you’re called Iago del Castillo. We were both born near Santander, in what is now known as Spain, several millennia ago. We call ourselves longevos, Ancients, or the long-lived, because despite dating back to the Stone Age, neither you nor I—nor your two siblings—seems to have ever aged beyond thirty years. But as we’re the only ones of our kind, we periodically have to change our location and identity so our secret won’t be exposed.”

  I am not a gullible person—quite the contrary—but my head, my instincts, and my gut feeling all suggested that what he had just said was true. He paused to assure himself that I was following his words, and then he continued.

  “Note that I said we’re longevos, not immortals. If they shoot you, you’ll shuffle off this mortal coil just like anyone else.”

  “I have no idea what ‘shoot’ means, I do not understand the bit about a coil, and I have no recollection of any other person.”

  “It’s worse than I thought,” he muttered impotently. “You were trying to get your hands on some confidential material linked to our investigation.”

  “For whom do I work?” I wanted to know as I hunted around the room for my belongings.

  “We work for ourselves. This may not mean much to you now, but our goal is to isolate the rare gene that makes us longevos. Your siblings, Lyra and Nagorno, are obsessed with having children who won’t age. Unlike them, you and I have in fact occasionally produced longevo offspring. But you and I have also experienced the grief that came when those offspring died as a result of their own mistakes. Your siblings still don’t understand all this.”

  “So why are you and I involved in this matter?”

  “Make no mistake, Lyra an
d Nagorno are our family and we’re willing to sacrifice a great deal for them. It’s just that they’re wrong. Your brother and sister have experienced their own traumas, and they haven’t gotten over them yet.” With the voice of someone still trying to convince himself, he added, “They’ll see reason . . . one day.

  “At this stage, they have confidence in your brainpower. You, in turn, count on being able to make Lyra change her mind. Her most recent family died a few years ago in an accident, and she doesn’t want to have to live through that difficult experience again; in fact, she didn’t want to go on living at all. You are buying time in the hope of convincing her, and in the meantime we are sabotaging the investigation. Your brother, Nagorno . . .” He sighed. “Well, he’s another matter altogether. I always insist that you leave him to me. I just hope that you listen to me on this occasion.”

  “My brainpower,” I repeated, not understanding. I’d stalled at that point in the conversation. The rest was a dense fog.

  “Yes, you are the brains of the family. And that, in part, is your curse. If it weren’t for your brain, this wouldn’t be happening to you.”

  “And what exactly is happening to me?”

  “Your brain is overloaded and needs to reboot.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  “I know, I know. Your brain stores too much data. You won’t stop accumulating knowledge, devoting yourself to acquiring degrees. I’m always warning you about the danger that brings with it, but you ignore me. You have your own ways of coping; you think you can look after yourself perfectly well. That has always been your way, ever since you were a member of your first clan—so independent and self-sufficient.

  “But you’ve experienced these shutdowns more frequently in the last few centuries, so I want us to spend as much time together as a normal family as we can. It’s more difficult for us to deal with it if you’re on your own; one mistake can lead to your death or to revealing what we are to the world. When you get back to Santander—”

  “Fine,” I said, cutting him off. “I believe I understand your summary. Now give me some practical details.”

  “Good. Now you’re starting to sound like Iago.”

  “Father . . .” I said impatiently. Did he always ramble so much?

  “It’s all right, I’m getting to the point. And call me Héctor, my current name. We’re in the twenty-first century of the Christian era, ten thousand three hundred ten solar cycles since your birth. The language spoken where you are is English, and the currency is the dollar. You should have a leather wallet somewhere full of plastic cards and documentation with your picture on it. Don’t throw them away. Hand over any of the plastic cards when you need to eat or to pay for your accommodation, reproduce the scribble you find on the back of them, and then wait until they give the card back to you.”

  I listened to him in silence while I opened the wardrobe and put on the first piece of clothing I found.

  “Look, to be absolutely safe, I ought to come and get you, but that would mean almost twenty-four hours’ flying time. Your brother and I will organize your return ticket from here. It’s not the best idea for you to spend a few days on your own, but before you come back here you need to reintegrate yourself into the twenty-first century. You sound too anachronistic.

  “So I want you to look for a machine called a television—it’s like a large, dark picture, but without any image. It may be attached to the wall or on top of a piece of furniture.”

  “Yes, I see it. What should I do with it?”

  “It’s a teller of tales. It will bring you up-to-date on the present, but for that to happen you have to gain access to it.”

  “Is there a code? Do I have to say a particular phrase or recite a mantra?”

  “No, you have to activate the remote control. The sooner you reacquire this century’s jargon, the better. The remote looks like the cell phone you’re using to talk with me.”

  “Yes, I found it. The remote was next to the terevision.”

  “Television,” he corrected me.

  “Television,” I repeated. “And now what should I do?”

  “Press down with your finger on the button that says Power.”

  I obeyed his instructions, and the black surface transformed into a field of cut grass. Some warriors with oversized shoulders and white helmets were running and banging into each other. Oddly, though, their weapons were hidden. Even so, the fight looked grueling as they chased an oval object up and down the field of battle, possibly the head of one of their chieftains. I described the scene as best I could to my father.

  “You’re watching American football on a sports channel. It’s folklore, a tribal performance. Change the channel.”

  “What?”

  “Press a number, any number.”

  I continued to describe all the scenes, one by one. My father seemed to be a patient man, although he did eventually have to end the call to get on with his work. I spent the rest of the morning watching television until the music that announced my father’s presence played again, and I informed him of my progress.

  “How do I acquire food? There was food in the room, and I ate it, but if I don’t eat more I’ll become weak in a few days.”

  “That won’t happen. Call room service—I’ll tell you how in a minute—and ask them to bring you the same food as yesterday. But put on some clothes first. I’m sure you’re not wearing anything, given your mania for going about stark-naked when you’re on your own.”

  “Not quite. I’m wearing undergarments with a symbol over my genitals. Does that mean I belong to a brotherhood of some sort?”

  “No, it means you’re a preppy—that’s a social class—and sufficiently privileged to buy underwear that costs a hundred dollars an item.”

  “Thanks for the information. Should I let women know this fact?”

  “Women will know it before you drop your trousers, believe me. But I wouldn’t pursue the pleasures in life until you’re back here and totally reintegrated.”

  “Do I have a wife in Santander?”

  “You haven’t had one for more than a century. I would assume that the last one you had is dead by now.”

  “Any children?”

  “Hundreds, but all dead. You once had a son who was an Ancient, Gunnar. He was born into the Viking culture in AD 800, but he died in the Battle of Kinsale four hundred years ago. Since then, as far as I’m aware, you’ve refused to have any more.”

  “So, I’m an ascetic?”

  “You’re what today’s society calls ‘allergic to compromise.’ ”

  “Allergic to compromise,” I repeated. “Is that another social group?”

  “Yes, a fairly large one, but you don’t usually declare yourselves as such. Don’t worry about that right now. Stay away from that sort of a relationship with anyone until you’ve caught the plane and made it home.”

  I spent the rest of the day reacquainting myself with today’s world via the television and occasionally going out onto my balcony to observe life passing by in my strange present. When night fell, I risked going down to the restaurant, constantly under my father’s tutelage, to make a firsthand assessment of daily life in the twenty-first century.

  “Ask for water if you’re thirsty, and avoid the hotel bar.”

  “What bar?”

  “The tavern.”

  “Why? Isn’t it a good idea for me to keep acquiring some of the local practices?”

  “It is, but stay well clear of all alcoholic drinks, especially Irish whiskey.”

  “Is there anything in particular I should know about that?”

  “We’ll go into details when you get back, if you haven’t remembered of your own accord by then. Just promise me that you’ll avoid it.”

  “I will,” I agreed, feeling a little uncomfortable nevertheless. Not to be lord and
master of my own past was disturbing.

  I know I woke up late the next morning, because my empty stomach made a point of reminding me that it was time to eat something. Then I heard the rhythmic sound of knuckles knocking on the door. I assumed it would be one of the hotel servants, so when an immaculately dressed young man greeted me after I opened it, I repeated my order of the previous day: “Bring me a continental breakfast, if you’d be so kind.”

  The individual curled up the corners of his mouth into a contemptuous smile, and the whiplash of his husky voice split open my worst memories.

  “Hi, Brother. You might not remember right now, but you were my slave when I was born,” he said by way of a greeting.

  Those words started to open the floodgates of my memory, and I loathed that man and everything he had done to me with the same blind hatred of our earliest days. I suppressed the urge to retch, and common sense prevented me from grabbing his head and smashing it against the sterile white wall of the hotel corridor. I know now that I probably would have died too: Nagorno, that cursed horseman of the steppes, remained undefeated after almost three thousand years. He was, to put it simply, lethal. I wouldn’t have been able to finish him off this time, either.

  “You say you’re my brother?” I asked him warily, not yet inviting him to come in.

  “I am indeed,” he replied, easing himself through the narrow gap between my body and the doorframe.

  That was when I noticed that he carried his left arm bent at the elbow. The angle didn’t vary when he swung it around behind him to slip past me into the room. I instantly recognized the injury—I’d seen it before, though I couldn’t place either the country or the battle.

  “And you weren’t in Europe with the rest of the family?”

  “Father said this has been your most serious breakdown, so I’ve come to get you. There’s a flight home in a couple of hours. Let’s go.”

  I studied him carefully. He wore a tailored suit and a bow tie. We shared the black color of our hair, but that was where the similarities ended. His eyes were as dark as a tunnel with no exit, while I was conscious that mine were almost transparently blue. I towered over him and felt considerably older. Despite my reservations about him, there was not one iota of hostility in his gestures. I tried to reconcile the meaning of his words with the disagreeable feeling his presence inspired in me, but there was such a divergence between them that I abandoned the effort.