At times, Juana suspected that Erasmus had a gift similar to hers. He always seemed to know what others were thinking—except her.
Erasmus was packing his things. Tomorrow he would travel to the capital to begin his trial. Naturally, Juana had offered to accompany him and act as his defense, but she had already caused enough trouble. Besides, he already had a lawyer. It was unusual for a case like his to include legal counsel, but Erasmus knew how to navigate that world of intrigue, and he knew a little about everyone.
His student always came to visit him, even if only for a few hours. Sometimes she brought him snacks, sweets, or clean clothes. But today she wore an expression difficult to describe. She seemed worried, troubled. Perhaps he should have been more transparent with her from the beginning, so she wouldn’t be so concerned—but the rumors had already spread too far, and things had become complicated.
"May I ask you something, maestro?"
Her formality was odd, though not entirely out of place, as she always fluctuated between formal and casual language with him. Perhaps it was because their relationship, while close, wasn’t quite familial, but neither was it purely professional.
Erasmus replied with the usual affection in his voice. He wanted to give her something familiar to hold onto.
"Of course, mi niña."
Juana took a deep breath. The way she moved her eyes betrayed her effort to organize her thoughts before speaking.
"I don’t want to seem reckless. You know I admire you greatly, but a comment reached me that planted a certain doubt in my mind I think is important to clear up."
Erasmus looked intrigued. He wrinkled his nose, signaling her to continue. That gesture was very much his own—he used it like a question or a pointer.
"Are you my biological father?" Juana finally asked, forcing herself to make eye contact.
Erasmus couldn’t help himself—he let out a loud laugh. His laugh was hoarse and strong; he laughed with his whole body. His stomach expanded with every movement of his diaphragm.
What amused him was, first, that Juana and he looked nothing alike physically—they only shared a white birthmark. And second, that Erasmus had never been interested in women, at least not enough to have a daughter by blood.
Juana didn’t understand what was so funny; she had asked a completely serious question. Once again, she felt she was being treated like a child.
"What’s so funny?"
Erasmus wiped away tears. It had been a long time since he’d laughed like that.
"Who told you I was your father?"
"Doctor Márquez," Juana replied, expressionless.
"I thought you didn’t trust the doctor."
"Don’t try to change the subject."
Erasmus turned serious.
"No, Juana. I don’t know who your father is. In fact, I doubt anyone does."
Juana let her shoulders drop, relieved—though a part of her had hoped Erasmus might be her father. Her whole life, she had felt certain she belonged somewhere else, that her parents were waiting for her somewhere. Imagining the possibility that Erasmus was her father allowed her to reconcile her current life with the mysteries of her origin.
"What about my mother?"
Erasmus sighed. Of all the secrets he kept, that was one of the most painful.
"When you feel ready, ask someone at the convent about a nun named Imelda."
But before the young woman could ask more questions, a third character entered the scene.
The man was elegantly dressed, like an academic. His hair was short and deeply black, and he wore a thick mustache. Juana noticed he bore a certain resemblance to Erasmus, though she couldn’t place exactly what it was. Perhaps it was the scent—they both had the same azhar smell.
"You’re late," said Erasmus.
"I’m doing you a favor," replied the stranger. "The least you could do is greet me."
Erasmus lowered his head with a mischievous smile and gave the man a friendly slap on the back.
"Still arrogant as ever. Sit down, don’t waste more of my time."
The familiarity between the two men was odd. It seemed they had long been used to treating each other that way.
The stranger looked over at Juana, who was dressed in her gambeson and linen trousers. The room was dim; Erasmus always tried to give Juana the comfort of darkness wherever they met.
"Who’s the boy?"
Erasmus glanced sideways at Juana. With her hair so short, she reminded him of when she had been just a baby. Back then, the white birthmark had covered her head down to her chest, and where her scar now was, there had been a cleft that connected her mouth to her left nostril. He found it fascinating how that small, fragile creature had become the person standing before him.
"She’s your niece," Erasmus replied.
The man looked at Juana with disbelief and allowed himself a joke.
"I didn’t know you’d left… those inclinations behind."
"HA!" Erasmus let out a single, loud laugh. "Some things never change."
His dark-ringed eyes, drooping eyelids, the start of his hairline, the shape of his chin—yes, Juana finally understood. They were brothers.
Erasmus’s brother looked back at Juana. He had forgotten that this whole time she had been watching him silently from the shadows.
"My apologies," said her newly declared uncle, who was rather absent-minded. He finally saw fit to introduce himself properly.
"My name is Francisco Domingo Zúñiga Ortiz. I will be Erasmus’s lawyer during his hearing. But you can call me Domingo—you owe me no formality."
"Juana Expósito."
They exchanged a brief handshake—a bit clumsy, as Juana wasn’t good at gauging the force of her greetings. Domingo discreetly wiped the sensation of her hand from his. He looked uncomfortable. He sweated more than Erasmus and Juana combined, even though the room was cooler than the outside. He often took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead and neck, then tucked it back into his pocket. He couldn’t stop moving. If it wasn’t the handkerchief, he was smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead or grooming his mustache. It was surprising they were brothers—Domingo’s fidgety demeanor was nothing like Erasmus’s calm and playful personality.
Erasmus explained the events of the past few weeks, and Domingo took rapid notes in a small pocket-sized notebook with thin white pages—a true luxury.
When Domingo asked whether they had any suspicions or theories about who might have been involved in the theft, Juana interrupted.
"The one who goes by the name Doctor Márquez behaves far too suspiciously. Yesterday, during my unfortunate argument with the abbot, I discovered several things that might interest you."
The two men looked at her, giving her their full attention. Erasmus in particular looked somewhat worried. However, even his quick imagination could not anticipate the trouble Juana had gotten herself into on his behalf in recent days.
"First, I discovered that the doctor was hired in exchange for vials of some so-called medicine meant to treat a condition I’m unfamiliar with. And second, I learned that the abbot has a relationship with whoever hired him, since he went to complain about delayed payments."
"I think this confirms some of the suspicions I already had," Erasmus said, intrigued and concerned. "How did you come to these conclusions?"
"Well, a few days ago, I decided to follow him early in the morning. I saw him receive a box from a porter who, after delivering it, left heading east out of town."
"And then?"
"Then I tracked down the inn where he’s been staying—it wasn’t hard, since there aren’t many."
"How did you find out about the vials?"
Juana looked nervous—she really didn’t want to answer that, as it would reveal the lengths of her stubbornness.
"Juana, what did you do?"
"It’s possible…" Juana began, staring at the floor, "…that I convinced the innkeeper to let me into the doctor’s room while he was out."
"And how exactly did you convince him?"
The exorcist didn’t respond. She looked blankly and expressionlessly at Erasmus. When he scolded her, she tended to become even more expressionless than usual—perhaps as a way to hide her guilt or possible anger if her actions were found to be wrong. But her voice didn’t lie—all her emotion escaped through it.
"Have you been selling things from the convent at the market? Is that why you were punished?"
"It was only once," Juana protested. "I was punished for something else."
Though Erasmus had the patience of a saint, he was starting to lose it with Juana.
"Why were you punished?"
"I thought the doctor had hurt someone. I chased him through the market and… caused some damage."
Erasmus took a deep breath and massaged his temples. Domingo was more uncomfortable than ever. He felt out of place in this argument and yet knew it was important to listen—every detail could be useful in Erasmus’s defense.
"When did all this happen?" Erasmus asked, wrinkling his nose ever so slightly.
"The thing with the abbot was Saturday. The vial was Friday. The market was Thursday."
"You got into all this trouble in just three days?"
"I must remind you that everything I’ve done has been for you."
"I never asked for your help."
Juana’s face flushed with emotion. Tears of rage—or perhaps shame—ran down her cheeks. Erasmus, her mentor and now self-declared father, was the only one who understood her—he had to understand her. Juana didn’t understand why he was acting so harshly if she had acted in good faith.
When he saw Juana lower her head into the shadows to hide her spoiled-child tears, Erasmus grew more frustrated.
"Juana, I’m an old man. I haven’t told you much about my past, but you must suspect many things. I’ve seen the worst parts of humanity, and I wish I could tell you it’s a problem of a couple bad people, but no, evil is in all of us as we are accomplices in daily horrific crimes. Specially us"
He said while gesturing towards him and her.
Domingo didn’t look at Erasmus—his gaze was fixed on his shoes. Something in his half-brother’s speech had unsettled him. Maybe he was thinking as well on the crimes he was coerced in by the society they lived in.
“I found a way…to fight back. But it hasn’t been without a cost Juana”.
“I’m ready to take that risk,
"Free will is a treasure. The greatest gift God gave us is the freedom to act. Don’t take that freedom from me, Juana. This fight was never yours."
Juana had decided long ago that she would not listen. Her feelings were like a massive fire, burning out of control and consuming all reason. Her self-determination had always been a double-edged sword—and now she had more to lose than ever.
"In that case, we’ll see whose will is stronger—yours or mine."
And with that, Juana left the cell. She would take justice into her own hands.
Erasmus tried to stop her, but Domingo gestured that it would be useless.
Erasmus buried his face in his hands—perhaps his calm and stoic exterior was also a mask to hide all the pain he carried inside. That night, the brave priest cried. He had cried many nights in his youth, but now as an old man, he rarely allowed himself that.
If someone had asked him the reason for his tears at that moment, he wouldn’t have known what to answer. He wished he could be like Juana and cry freely, without that vulnerability seeming out of place.
He was tired, he wished he could be vulnerable with Juana without her running away to cause more trouble. There was many things he wished to tell her, to explain her. Was his insistence on hiding things from her the root of these escapades? His aparent stoicism had always been rewarded throughout his life, but it presented as an obstacle when connecting with Juana. Both of them had a problem expressing their emotions in a way. Juana was always inexpensive unless she was overwhelmed, and resorted to impulsive actions. He, on the other hand, was so used to people having ulterior motives, he didn’t understand social interactions with some kind of transaction. And frankly he didn’t know what Juana wanted from all of this.
Domingo stayed still in the darkness. He had agreed to represent Erasmus at the trial as a kind of apology for the harm his family had caused him in the past—but at that moment, he realized Erasmus didn’t need a lawyer. He needed a brother.
The two men remained in the dark for a good while, saying nothing. A fatalism, a nearly comforting misery, hung between them.
Meanwhile, Juana returned to the scene of one of her most recent crimes: Doctor Márquez’s inn.
She didn’t even need to go looking for him in his room. He lay sprawled over one of the tables in the tavern, lazily toying with the last half-empty bottle of medicine he had left.
He was so numb, so apathetic, that he barely noticed when Juana’s sword swept aside his cloak.
"Get up, scoundrel—we are to face each other in a duel!" Juana declared, heroically exalted, as if she were the protagonist of some epic ballad.
"You have profaned the peace of my community and robbed my father of his freedom—and for that, you deserve to meet death by my hand."
"Leave me alone," the doctor replied. "Can’t you see I’m about to meet death’s sweet breath anyway, without pompous and unnecessary spectacles?"
The tavern patrons turned their attention to the theatrical scene. It was such a strange and dramatic situation that the guests took it as a game, and soon began to whistle and shout, cheering on both opponents to defend their honor.
But the innkeeper wasn’t about to let a couple of eccentrics stage their vulgar visions in his establishment.
"Oh no! No duels here. If you’ve got something to settle, it’ll have to be outside my tavern."
Although Juana was probably taller than the man and far better equipped and trained, she didn’t want to test her luck. She looked at him like a scolded child and then turned to the frail man clinging to his vial of medicine as if it were a rosary.
"Doctor, you and I shall meet tomorrow at noon on the road to the Abbey. There we shall finally settle our differences."
The man looked at her through his smoked glasses. His eyes appeared tiny and irritated. Resigned, he answered:
"I don’t suppose I have the luxury of refusing, do I?"
Juana simply glared at him with hatred. That was answer enough.
"Then so be it," he said, stretching like a drowsy cat. "Until then, my dear."
Márquez extended his hand as a parting gesture to seal the deal, but Juana gave him one last look full of resentment and walked out of the building, making every floorboard tremble under her weight.
The crowd was euphoric, but Márquez didn’t share their excitement.
Click below to read the second chapter of Furta Sacra
Chapter 2 of Furta Sacra
Trigger warnings: none
It was midday, but sunlight had yet to reach Juana’s cell. She had neglected her morning duties, absorbed in her experiment. The young woman was trying to force a vision—she needed to prove that her abilities were necessary for the case.
Since an early age, Juana had possessed a special talent. She could see what was near and, at the same time, what was far away, things hidden by chests, mountains, and bodies of water. This did not only apply to spatial matters, but also to temporal ones, although the latter were much rarer.
Over the years, Juana had developed a kind of myopia. She learned to function better in the present, but in exchange, she sacrificed what had made her special for so long. The golden child had become silver. Juana looked back with bitterness on those days when she could constantly have visions and was praised for her gift. Now, as an adult, she had brief moments of clairvoyance, only to see them vanish for months.
Unfortunately, these periods of “myopia” were growing longer and longer. She feared she might never have another vision in her life.
All the windows were covered, all the candles extinguished. She had discovered that where light didn’t blind her, it was easier to see far. She wanted to find what had been taken from the crypt, but it was still too soon.
To practice, she had devised a game that had once seemed clever to her. She deposited two gold coins into a pouch and then shook it. Next, she tried to guess the result: whether both had landed the same way up, or if both would show different faces. She had made a chart where she recorded her predictions and whether they were correct.
At first, she was excited because she had a streak of correct predictions. However, upon analyzing her results more closely, she noticed a pattern: in most of her correct predictions, she had guessed that the coins would fall showing different faces.
Then she reasoned more carefully. When she tossed the coins, there were four possible combinations: both heads, both tails, one heads and one tails, or one tails and one heads. But since the order in which the coins fell was irrelevant to her, those last two combinations represented the same case: that the coins would fall differently. This meant there was a 50% chance they would fall that way. That’s why she had a higher chance of guessing correctly when she bet on the coins falling differently.
Now she understood why games of chance were so frowned upon. There was no intervention from God. But if chance wasn’t God, then what was it? Were there events that lay outside the divine plan?
Her head ached from trying so hard to predict results. She brought her hand to her face and noticed how thick blood was dripping from her nose, covering the scar that joined her upper lip. It wasn’t the first time this had happened when she exerted herself like this.
There was a knock at the door. Surely it was the Mother Superior—she must have noticed the neglect of her duties. Juana rushed to hide the coins. She had broken her vow of poverty to obtain them.
She remembered the chain of events that had led her to that situation.
At dawn, while everyone else slept, she stole several fragrant herbs from the garden. She remembered the local market she used to visit with other sisters to buy kitchen ingredients. There, she had seen an herbalist. She decided to exchange the aromatic stalks for money.
She arrived at the market early in the morning, just as the stalls were being set up. She wondered whether the vendor she was looking for had arrived. To her surprise, she found her right there, on the main street, as if she had been waiting for her. Juana pulled out the herbs and bluntly asked, “How much would you give me for this?”
The old woman looked her up and down, then examined what she was being offered. She made a face—those wilted herbs wouldn’t be good even for soup. She shot Juana a look as if she could see through her helmet.
No, more precisely, as if she could see through her muscles, her bones.
With a single glance, she seemed to understand even those things Juana herself didn’t know about herself. A shiver ran across the young woman’s skin.
“Nothing,” the woman replied. “You offer nothing that interests me.”
Juana sighed under the metal covering. She was about to thank her and leave when she heard the old woman say:
“Or wait… let me see your face, girl.”
The young woman obeyed and removed her helmet. The old woman examined her face. Juana bore a birthmark that covered most of her head and drained pigment from all surrounding tissue. Her short and translucent hair recalled the bristles of pigs or the spines of certain fruits.
“I’ll give you whatever you want if you give me one of your white locks.”
“Deal.”
Saying this, Juana cut one of the stubborn hairs that grew straight from her scalp using the gardening scissors she kept on her belt.
She knew her hair would likely be used for some pagan ritual and that by cooperating she would be committing heresy. But there was no time—this was all for Erasmus’s sake.
In a single day, she had stolen, neglected her duties at the convent, broken her vow of poverty, and committed heresy.
There was no way she would let the Mother Superior see the coins without reporting it.
“Juana?”
She heard Erasmus’s voice. She felt immense relief knowing she didn’t have to hide.
“You may come in.”
“Juana, what happened? They called me because you’ve been in your cell all day and haven’t answered anyone.”
“I’m… fine. I was just praying and lost track of time.”
Erasmus looked at her skeptically; he knew this was a lie—there were still traces of blood on her face.
“I hope this isn’t because of what happened yesterday in the crypts…”
Juana broke the scant eye contact she had been maintaining, a silent admission of guilt. Erasmus sighed.
“Come, put on some trousers and boots. We’re going to train.”
The exorcist obeyed her mentor’s orders. She didn’t even bother putting on a fresh tunic. Erasmus lent her a hat and a cloak, and they rode out of the convent.
The sky looked ablaze with sunset. Sunset? She thought it was midday. So much time in darkness had scrambled her sense of time.
There, halfway up the hill, they dismounted. Erasmus tossed a rapier to his student. She caught it somewhat apathetically.
“En garde!” exclaimed Erasmus.
Though approaching the winter of his life, Erasmus still held the energy and grace of a young man. With two moves, he made his student retreat. Juana huffed—it was clear she wasn’t in a good mood.
The mentor tried to draw more moves from his student, but she limited herself to defensive responses, dodging his attacks.
They went on like this for a while. Erasmus had no intention of simply winning the duel nor of letting her win. The temperature dropped, Venus appeared on the horizon, and the birds gave their last calls in farewell. Exhausted, Juana made her first offensive move of the evening. It was impulsive and uncalculated, but delivered with such force that it had to have some effect.
At last, Erasmus gave her the gift of defeat. Dodging Juana’s move with elegance, he raised his arm and landed a thrust to her chest, proclaiming:
“Touché!”
Juana raised her eyebrows in surprise. She made a grimace that resembled a smile and fell to her knees.
She wasn’t a good nun, nor a good seer, and even less a good disciple. Blood once again streamed from her nostrils. She wanted to cry again.
“You don’t have to do all this for me,” said Erasmus. “You don’t have to hurt yourself—I’ll find a solution.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Juana tried to explain. She knew, deep down, she was doing it for herself—she needed to prove to herself that she was enough.
They let the silence bloom as night finally fell. There was nothing more to say.
Ferrante needs to eat and drink on his own, independent of Roberto
Ferrante has limited control over the neck, arms and legs of Roberto. He gets absolute control when Roberto has fallen asleep and contorts Roberto's body to walk in four legs.
Roberto has a character arc by taking care of Ferrante and learning to take care of others.
Read the first chapter of his story below.
Chapter 1 of "Un hombre pegado a un perro":
Heliocentric theory
Trigger warnings:
Alcoholism, Depression, Body-horror
The room spun around his bed like he had imagined the sun spun around the Earth.
He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. This would be the last time he’d wake up seeing the wooden planks of any ceiling. He felt awful—his throat was itchy, his stomach more than upset. The noonday heat intensified the smell of crushed bedbugs.
Like an anchor, he lowered his leg until he could feel the recognizable floor. The world seemed to return to its static place. He would drift no more. He was suffering the worst hangover.
He had dreamed he was playing a beautiful melody on the violin in a grand theater; all the guests were black dogs who rewarded his performance with howls and barks. The dream struck him as odd, but he liked the melody. He found his dusty and out-of-tune guitar in the corner of the room. Without getting out of bed, he fished the guitar from the floor and kept drifting in his bed for a while as he tuned the instrument.
There was a knock at the door.
“Roberto, are you there? Don Luis came, says you haven’t shown up at the shop in a week. Have you been drinking?”
Ignoring Doña Faya, Roberto kept trying to remember the melody, but the more he tried to summon it, the blurrier it became.
Doña Faya could hear the notes of his guitar clearly through the door.
“Roberto, if you don’t come out of that room this instant, I’ll raise your rent!”
That was all it took for Roberto to poke his head out of the room.
“No need, Doña Faya. Let me put on some trousers and I’ll be right down.”
Doña Faya gave him a look of anger, disappointment, and plea all in one. “Just go to work,” she said.
Ashamed, Roberto grabbed the pants scattered on the floor and a pair of boots covered in dried mud. He gave his guitar one last look—he’d need to buy new strings.
He ran downstairs, saw Doña Faya behind the inn counter mending a hat that belonged to her absent daughter. Roberto took his hat and kissed Doña Faya on the cheek goodbye. “I’ll be back by dusk,” he said.
“Bring something to eat for later,” replied the matriarch.
The heat was unbearable. He was sure, if he peaked, the fountain in the square would be boiling. He took a look, unfortunately it wasn't. Inspired, he splashed his face with water before heading to the store. He still felt the effects of the hangover, his throat itched terribly, and the thirst was killing him.
Maybe he could stop by the tavern just for a bit of wine to regain strength—and after that, he’d apologize to his boss for the absence.
He entered the tavern and sat in the darkest corner to avoid being seen. He didn’t want any colleague ratting him out. He ordered a glass and some olives. He thought of Dafne—no matter how much time passed, he still thought of her. What if she and her brother had shipwrecked on their way to the Americas? Or if her brother had turned out to be a bad husband, a violent man? Why hadn’t they written even one letter?
Roberto’s tab grew longer. The glasses became pints, the pints bottles, the bottles gallons. He was finally numbed from the outside world; everything sounded distant.
And among those distant conversations, he heard two strangers speaking about him.
“Sad story, Roberto’s. Came from a lost village with his brother to find work, then he falls in love with a girl, and the girl runs away with the brother even though they were engaged. Now he lives with the mother-in-law who only suffers from her only daughter’s absence. Empty nest.”
“What a strange situation. He’s probably sleeping with the old woman—looks like a degenerate. That’s why she puts up with him.”
He heard laughter. He was getting very angry. He wanted to fight but wisely chose to avoid the shame. He left less than half of what he owed and ran out before they could notice.
Roberto ran and ran until he didn’t know where he was. Just fields, tall grass. Even though it was getting late, the heat was hellish. He looked at the sky, clear and pale blue was the celestial sphere.
He imagined what would happen if the Earth spun around the sun, as some heretics claimed. Since the Earth was all water, and water always flowed toward the center, he imagined the whole Earth and everything on it falling toward the sun in arcs. He imagined himself drowning in that pale blue, that reddish blue. Falling to his end.
His apocalyptic daydreams were interrupted by a dog biting his pants. A black dog like the audience in last night’s dream. It had a youthful energy but clearly wasn’t a common dog—probably one of those mixed with mountain wolves. Roberto cursed not having brought a stick. He mimed throwing a stone, but the canine didn’t flinch. The more attention he gave it, the more it played. Eventually, Roberto let it follow him.
It was night now, the effects of the alcohol fading a little. Roberto lay beside the road, took off his boots, and stared at the sky again. The dog lay next to him, watching over him. He felt satisfied knowing someone else was watching over him. He thought of Doña Faya—how she had taken him and his brother in as her own when they came to work for her, how she had always been there after Dafne left during his melancholic episodes. Maybe this was just another melancholic episode, another crisis to overcome. But he didn’t want to keep surviving crises, making to-do lists to avoid thinking about things that only harmed him. He wanted to fall.
But if he let himself fall, what would happen to Doña Faya? Would he leave her mourning both her daughter and ex-son-in-law? Guilt ate at him. He was the cause of that poor woman’s sorrow.
He had to change, to do something about it. He had promised to come back with food—what would he bring her?
He saw a ranch across the field. In the dark, he saw chickens roosting in a small tree. He’d have to steal one. Roberto crossed the thorny fence. It smelled of horse manure. He walked carefully to avoid stepping on a snake, since it was night and he’d left his boots behind. He reached the tree. In his drunken state, he tried to climb it by hugging the trunk, guessing which branches would bear his weight.
He chose the chicken on the lowest branch, but when he reached for it, the bird awoke and fluttered away.
Roberto fell sideways into the muddy ground and chased the noise of the fleeing bird. The other chickens were squawking now. In the darkness, he finally felt the feathery back and grabbed it by the crop—but something else was pulling. That damn dog wanted to keep playing. The chickens were in a frenzy now at the dog’s presence.
Roberto whispered, “Stop! Let go!” while struggling to get the chicken from its jaws.
Then he sensed someone else.
He looked up and saw the silhouette of a woman with long hair, holding a huge staff, smelling of tobacco and chestnuts. “A witch,” he thought. Before he could apologize or make up an excuse, her staff struck his head.
He woke up hours later, lying on his back at the town fountain. It was still dawn. He didn’t remember how he got there. He heard a dog drinking water—the sound echoed in his skull. It was coming from him. He felt his neck. He was in a very awkward position. A wet snout, then a tongue licked his hand. Above that, two eyes, two ears.
It took him time to understand.
The witch had fused him, back-to-back, with the stray dog.
Their human form lies dormant within the more monstrous form that only arises with extreme stress or hunger
Vampirism in this world is pretty similar to anemia; some scholars even associate it with endometritis, as it presents itself with serious period cramps.
Click below to read chapter 4 of Furta Sacra
Trigger warnings: none
Chapter 4
Two figures argued in the shadows.
"Do you really trust the doctor?" asked Juana.
Erasmus studied his student’s expression. Despite the years he had spent with her, he still couldn’t fully decipher her face. She tended to be more expressive the more intense her emotions were, but outside of that, there wasn’t much difference between her face and the face of her helmet.
"No, not really," Erasmus replied honestly. "But, well, you have to admit he knows how to spin a good speech."
His student remained silent. Her hair briefly shimmered in the sunlight, like fields of white wheat. Erasmus also had a white birthmark on his head, only smaller and hidden by the collar of his garments.
On the other side of the wall they were leaning against, the investigation was underway. The tension was unbearable like the heat of that summer.
If Doctor Márquez found Erasmus guilty, he could be punished by the Holy Inquisition. There was too much to lose, yet Erasmus didn’t seem disturbed; on the contrary, he faced the situation with a stoicism worthy of admiration.
On the other hand, Juana wasn’t ready to leave that battle unresolved. Without a word, she left her master leaning against the wall and entered the temple.
“I’ve had a good life after all,” Erasmus thought.
Inside the church, Doctor Márquez appeared to be strolling through the central hall. He admired the frescoes, the delicate work of the stonemasons, the way the soot from the candles stained the walls.
He had just come from visiting the crypts. Each step of his echoed in the temple with a cheerful "tac, tac, tac."
Those worn riding boots had a curious detail: despite their age, they sounded brand new.
Three nails had been hammered into each heel to create that effect. And although at first the nun interpreted this as an act of vanity, she would later learn it had a much more complex and terrible origin.
"I have evidence that may interest you," said her self-declared rival, cutting straight to the point.
The doctor lowered his tinted glasses and looked her in the eye. The forced eye contact made her flinch. How she wished at that moment she still had her helmet on.
The stranger adjusted his glasses before replying, “Good day to you too, sister,” feigning injury at her lack of greeting.
The exorcist kept her face blank. Today, she felt more in control. The investigator from Rome turned his back, showing no intention of listening; he seemed to have already made his decision. Juana had mentally prepared for such a gesture and even worse.
"I found a feather in the crypts."
The statement seemed to pique the investigator’s interest, as he actually turned around.
"A hat feather, perhaps?"
"No, no, it’s much smaller and darker. Like that of a crow."
"A writing quill? Perhaps like the ones your dear father uses?"
Doctor Márquez usually smiled with all his teeth, big as kernels of corn, and he laughed with his eyes. It wasn’t an unpleasant expression, even though in this context he was mocking Juana. It seemed he couldn’t take anything seriously.
"No, let me show you," Juana pulled the feather from her armor. It was delicate and small, no bigger than a thumb.
Though his eyes were hidden by the dark glasses and she couldn’t confirm her suspicions, the exorcist thought she caught a glimpse of horror on Doctor Márquez’s face before it quickly returned to its relaxed composure.
"It doesn’t seem like something that should be in a sacred place," he stated. "I’ll take care of investigating this thoroughly."
He tried to take the feather, but the nun snatched it away with nervous protectiveness. The doctor simply sighed, reestablishing steady eye contact.
How Juana hated looking people in the eyes. Without the glasses, it would have been unbearable. She looked down at her feet, her riding boots, the tesserae on the church floor.
"What other evidence have you found?"
"The crypts…" she couldn’t concentrate. Even though she stood a full head taller than the doctor, she felt as small as a mouse. “…someone very strong must have opened them."
"Someone with a sanguine temperament, surely—passionate, ruled by impulse, a slave to emotion," the doctor began. "Perhaps someone like you?"
"What are you trying to insinuate?"
"I’m not trying to insinuate anything. I’m simply curious about what drives you to defend Father Erasmus so fervently."
"I care deeply for Father Erasmus. I believe his ideological positions are more in line with Biblical teachings."
"Is that the only reason? What exactly do you gain by protecting Father Erasmus?"
"Can’t I act out of goodwill?"
"No one acts out of goodwill except saints."
Doctor Márquez looked her over from head to toe. He found the game entertaining; it was like a duel—or better yet, a dance between two people seeking dominance over the other. Márquez enjoyed this. He disliked the false courtesies of a society built on masters and vassals, and whenever he had the chance, he liked to make people uncomfortable.
"Do you know what I think of you, if I may be so bold?"
Juana merely swallowed hard; now her nervousness was visible on her face. Her nose had gone red.
"What?" she replied, with barely concealed anger.
"I think you're doing all this out of pride. You're far too vain and expect to be rewarded for your intellect."
The nun’s demeanor changed completely. She felt a shame that filled her chest. Just like the herb seller at the market, the doctor had seen right through her.
Doctor Márquez continued his reprimand.
"Perhaps you’re too young to understand, too pampered, but men like me got where we are through our own work, not by diminishing others. You have a sanguine nature leaning toward choleric—an excess of yellow bile, surely due to the warm, dry climate of this region. If you asked for my advice, I’d recommend finding more productive hobbies than bothering a humble doctor."
There was silence for a few moments. The exorcist didn’t seem inclined to follow the physician’s prescription and let the argument end there.
She sighed, brought her hand to her face and then to the back of her skull. The feeling of the fine hairs at her nape brushing against her gauntlet brought a moment of calm.
"Well, I think it’s only fair I be honest with you too." The shame had been replaced by anger again, who did he think he was, acting like he knew more about her than she did herself?
The doctor looked interested, raising a brow. He had struck a nerve in the nun.
"I think you’re a fraud who read Aristotle once and now makes a living sweet-talking people into hiring you. And judging by your accent, you don’t even know where Rome is."
That remark struck a real blow—the mocking smile vanished from the doctor’s face. His expression turned completely serious.
"What is this? A contest of superficialities? Because if so, my dear sister, let me tell you—I gladly concede the grand prize to you. I’m an empiricist, a man forged in the real world, not some girl handed a few dusty codices on a silver platter."
Juana wanted to say something—anything—but she couldn’t. Exploding now would only confirm his diagnosis of her temperament.
"Good day," said the investigator, and left the church, leaving Juana alone in the hall.
More of Juana. The more I write about her, the more she cries. It wasn't an attribute I had originally planned for her, but when you are writing, they kind of get a life of their own.
The story is set in a fantasy XVII Spain. Juana is a nun that has acquired the privilege of form part of a fictional group within the church called the exorcists. They are basically monster hunters, but they don't do much because there aren't any monsters anymore.
One day, the remains of the patron saint of the region are stolen. This sets a chain of events that brings to light the internal secrets and conspiracies of the abbey.
Here's a snippet of the first chapter. It's in Spanish.
(As this is the first chapter it's pretty rough)
La joven estaba harta, se sentía frustrada. Fue a buscar al padre Erasmus en la biblioteca .
Olía a libros viejos. Vio a su tutor leyendo y escribiendo completamente absorto en su labor.
Erasmus solo se percató de la presencia de Juana cuando sintió la madera chillar de la larga banca donde yacía sentado.
—¡Juana! ¿Qué pasó, mi niña? ¿No deberías estar en clase?
Juana no respondió. Erasmus siempre le hablaba con cariño. Sabía que algo estaba mal, oyó una inhalación como de aquel que quiere intentar que la mucosa excesiva no escape de su nariz.
—¿Estás llorando?
Juana se acercó más al hombro de Erasmus. Parecía un animal herido.
Le enternecía y a la vez preocupaba las actitudes infantiles que aún poseía Juana siendo una mujer adulta. Quizás no debería consentirla tanto, era aún demasiado frágil, demasiado sensible.
Apartando la cobertura de metal que le cubría el rostro, notó que eran ciertas sus sospechas, Juana tenía la cara roja por las lágrimas incesantes que rodaban por sus mejillas.
—Ay, mi niña…—dijo Erasmus —¿Qué pasó?
Juana no dijo nada, recostó su cabeza en el regazo de Erasmus buscando consuelo. La banca volvió a rechinar por el peso de Juana .
Con una paciencia de santo, Erasmus comenzó a quitarle el casco y la armadura de malla que le cubría la cabeza. Comenzó a peinar con sus curtidas manos los mechones de cabello blanquecino como lo hacía cuando era niña.
—No te has estado lavando bien la cabeza —comentó Erasmus al notar los grasientos mechones de su alumna.
Juana se rió un poco ante el comentario. Se sentía un poco patética siendo tan grande y a la vez comportándose como una niña.
Permanecieron en silencio así un buen rato, hasta que Erasmus hizo un movimiento indicándole a su alumna que se incorporase y le dejara seguir trabajando.
—¿Qué estás escribiendo? —preguntó.
Erasmus, habiendo visto la sensibilidad de Juana, no quiso hablar de la guerra y de la esclavitud, simplemente se limitó a decir:
—Estoy escribiendo una carta sobre lo justo y lo injusto.
A Juana le pareció extremadamente condescendiente esta respuesta, resopló de indignación y se volvió a acostar sobre la banca.
La oscuridad de la biblioteca era reconfortante. Cerró los ojos, intentando alcanzar un nivel de concentración que pudiera purificar sus pensamientos de tanto enojo.
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