Disclaimer: They are not mine, they are NOT mine, they are SO not mine! Sigh.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to Lady T for filling in for me, for putting up with my oddities and for going above and beyond the call of duty. The girl is a saint! ; )
Logan sat down, cracked his knuckles and carefully began untying the string to the book. He'd been told that at least two people had recently opened and read the book, but you couldn't tell by the look of it. The age-old cat-gut string uncoiled reluctantly, maintaining its tight curls as he unwound it 6, 7, 8 revolutions. With every movement, the smell of the book became a bit stronger.
Gently, his large, strong hands opened the soft old cover, exposing the book inside. To his surprise, it wasn't an ordinary book, but instead the opening page simply said "My Journal" in a woman's flowing longhand. The page was unlined and, although it appeared to have been white at one time, it was now a drab, golden brown. Water stains from years gone by had left darker brown blotches and either rot or bugs over the years had left the edges of the pages flaky and dry, crumbling slightly more with every new touch.
Logan poured another glass of Scotch, holding the journal open gently with his other hand. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the book again. The smell of lilac had become a bit stronger since he had opened the leather cover.
Glancing up at the clock, he frowned and carefully turned the page. "Well he said to make this my top priority."
He definitely wasn't going to be working tomorrow. He chuckled, sniffed loudly, and began reading, sipping his drink slowly as he did.
October 29th, 1887
I purchased you today at Ember's Book Store on Barberry Street. The reasons for choosing you were three-fold. The first being your size should make you fairly easy to conceal. Secondly, I was attracted to your soft leather cover. I love the fragrance of new leather. It's such a masculine smell and reminds me of -- well, that's neither here nor there. Thirdly, and most importantly, I have come to understand the urgent need to record on paper the events I have been, heretofore, so reluctant to put into writing.
In regards to the last, I feel I must give you some manner of explanation as to my desperate need to burden you with even the most intimate details of the last several months of my life. I have never been one who felt the need to share such information and, until recently, I was perfectly willing to go to my grave being the only human aware of the past events that I hold so dear to my heart.
But this last month has been filled with unimaginable changes, most for the good, and I have been busy with so many distractions... I find that I have something occupying my mind from the moment I awake, to the moment my head hits my pillow.
It is only when I am alone in my bed, that I have time to remember, and remember I do -- every night, without fail -- but a fear, no, a gnawing dread has been growing deep within me for several weeks now. What fear is this, you may ask, that has me so firmly clutched in its' grasp that I am willing to risk everything to share this dark and dangerous story with you?
In those hours of the night when I am alone and free to remember, I have realized that the small details are already becoming hazy. On several occasions, I have even questioned my own memory completely. I hear my mind quietly urging, "Surely it was all a dream -- How could it have been real when everything I know to be true tells me that it is impossible?"
This cannot happen! I will not allow my own fading memories, nor the inevitable changes in my life, to rob me of my most precious memories!
This is the decision that I have reached, and I did not come to it lightly. I will not rest until every moment, every incident that occurred is recorded here, in you. While the memories are still clear, I will write every detail, every word and then, and only then, will it be possible to retain them for a lifetime. That is my goal and this is the beginning.
X~O~X
Logan frowned, eased one hand carefully to the center of the book and poured another glass of Scotch with the other. He was intrigued, to say the least. The woman wrote with a passion and urgency that drew the reader into her world, her time. Logan couldn't wait to find out what "dark and dangerous" story she was going to tell. He turned to the page eagerly.
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