Gift of Gold

did you get chosen as a subject?”
    “The researchers routinely tested all students and faculty, looking for subjects who showed hints of paranormal talent. I agreed to be tested because I was curious, myself. As I said, in the beginning, all I could do was pick up a faint sense of awareness when I was given something to touch that had a violent history and that dated from an era to which I’m attuned. But as the testing continued, my ability got stronger.”
    “You think the testing process was honing it and developing it?”
    “That was the only explanation anyone could think of. It caused quite a furor in the department. I started getting nervous because I could feel something very strange was starting to happen every time I ran through a test. But no one cared about my concerns. Every researcher in sight wanted a piece of me. I was the most important thing to hit the lab since they’d bought their first bunch of white mice. As things progressed I had about as much say in the research being done on me as the mice did.”
    “That would have irritated me severely,” Verity avowed feelingly.
    “I was irritated, all right. In fact, I raised hell a few times. But I always came back for more. I couldn’t resist. I started losing sleep and missing meals and classes. My social life was almost nonexistent. I admit that at that point, I was as fascinated as everyone else was. I wanted to know what was going on. More than that, I wanted to learn how to master this weird ability I had. Hell, it was part of me. I had a vested interest in finding out what it was all about.”
    “What do you mean, master it?”
    “You have to understand, Verity. The stronger my gift or curse or whatever you want to call it got, the less control I had over it. It began to feel as if the past was just waiting out there beyond a fragile barrier.”
    “Waiting?”
    “Waiting to pounce on me or swamp me or possess me. I sensed that all it needed was an access route, a way through the barrier.”
    “Do you get this reaction from just any old object?”
    “No. I have a special affinity for a period that ranges from the fourteenth to the sixteenth century.”
    “The height of the Renaissance,” Verity mused.
    Jonas shrugged. “Objects from that era hold the strongest attraction for me. I suppose I was always attracted to that time period. Hell, I chose it as a major in college and then concentrated on it in grad school for some reason. There was nothing in my upbringing that predisposed me to be intrigued by that time period. But the talent, whatever it is, isn’t limited to that time zone. I could sense the authenticity of those dueling pistols of your father’s, for instance, and they’re nearly two centuries younger. But anything out of the prime time zone feels a lot weaker and has a lot less impact on me. I can handle my reactions to objects from other historical periods. It’s only stuff from the Renaissance that’s really dangerous.”
    “Can you sense things about contemporary objects?” Verity asked, deeply curious despite her doubts.
    “The eighteenth century is about my limit. I’ve never had any particular sensations from modem objects. Thank God.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Just think of how many objects there are lying around today that I’m liable to run into that might trigger the talent. Guns, knives, cars that had been in accidents, you name it. The list is endless. The object has to have been associated with violence, but that limitation still covers a lot of territory.
    “Yes, I can see that.”
    “The testing got more dangerous. More and more often it seemed that every time I picked up an object that carried a load of old, violent emotion, I was carving out an access route, making it stronger and more defined. For a long while I was arrogant enough to think I could control it and whatever tried to come through it. But gradually I realized I was in danger of being completely overwhelmed. And if that happened…” He broke off abruptly. “One day it did happen.”
    Verity watched him for a moment. Whatever the reality of the situation, there was no doubt that Jonas believed everything he was telling her. Something had gone very wrong back at Vincent College; something that had shaped the past five years of his life.
    “You say you were in danger of being overwhelmed. What would that mean to you?” she asked quietly. Unwillingly she remembered the corridor in her mind. “Did it feel as if