The Magic Number

by Natalie Gibson

  “Just ask.” Nanae’s voice startled her. “I feel you thinking about me.” All Nephilim had the ability to sense when a human was contemplating them specifically. They could also put a taboo on humans, making it impossible for them to remember details that might threaten their safety—or secrecy, which was basically the same thing as safety to Nephilim.

  Camilla closed her email account and switched off her machine. “What’s an Akhkharu?”

  “Who spoke that name to you?”

  Camilla shrugged.

  Nanae sat up and then stood. He made the bed, then sat on the edge and looked at Camilla for a long time before answering her question. “The word Akhkharu applies to any Nephilim who gives in to his hunger and turns evil. It literally means ‘He who takes life-blood from his brother.’ If one of us drinks the blood or tastes the flesh of another Nephilim, which promises relief from the constant pain of living with the Beast, then he is turned into Akhkharu. He is no longer a Guardian of mankind. Akhkharu are addicted to violence; they feed on it. They lose control over their bodies and are banished from communion with Ud and Ki.”

  Camilla didn’t speak but raised one eyebrow in question. Nanae continued, “Our father Ud is the sun, whose rays provide Nephilim energy but burn the betrayers. Our mother Ki is the earth. She provides nourishment to her children and allows us to move, or travel, through her, but she rejects Akhkharu. It causes them pain to come into contact with either. Our sister Annu, the moon, cannot hurt them with her reflected rays, but she strengthens those who have not turned and calls out the location of any Akhkharu to us if she sees one while full.”

  “Have you ever tasted the flesh of another Nephilim?” Her question was little more than a whisper.

  “Yes, long ago. A justice circle came for me. I was reduced to ash and imprisoned for my crime and have not lapsed since. I was Akhkharu but for a short time.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No, but it is best not to speak of that time.”

  Again, Camilla only offered him an eyebrow raise.

  “The turning experience is as seductively enticing as the blood of a brethren is delicious, even more delectable and addicting than yours. Once an Akhkharu experiences freedom, the Akhkharu always remembers and reminds us. The pull to betray is stronger with every time we succumb. There are only two Nephilim who have kept themselves pure, withstanding all temptation. ‘He who is Keeper of the Betrayers,’ mate to the First, and ‘He who taught us to live without blood.’”

  Camilla stood and left without a word. Nanae followed her out the door, through the hall and down the stairs. He spoke softly so that only she could hear him. “‘He who taught us to live without blood’ was the Eldest. He was first to hear Ki speak. He was first to tabalu. He was first to absorb and use the energy of Ud. He was the first to denounce killing humans. He taught us all. May I carry you?”

  Camilla stopped, smiled and signaled yes. Nanae scooped her up, cradling her to his chest, and continued on his way. His touch was tingly, not shocking as his first touches had been. She wasn’t sure if he was blocking the sensation or if she was more acclimated to it.

  “Have you ever killed?” Camilla leaned her head on his shoulder and brought one hand up to cradle his face. Her touch on his temple was light but carried healing magic.

  He nodded and meant for that to be his only answer but found himself speaking. “Many times. At first, I killed when feeding. Then I killed out of anger. I have even killed out of boredom. It has been many generations since I killed for any reason other than to protect my mother’s bloodline.” He went silent, and in his stillness of mind, he detected her magic. “What are you doing?”

  They were in the sanctuary now, and she pointed to the statue, their goal. “Preparing you to be in the presence of Their Glowing Goodness. Your mind must be cleared of dark thoughts. The door is behind the statue of Ishtar.”

  Nanae stopped in front of the solid stone carving of the tiny woman. “Nintinugga,” he said.

  Being a healer, Camilla was familiar with all the gods and goddesses of healing. She recognized the name. She shook her head. “Ishtar,” she said.

  “Camilla, I would recognize that face anywhere. I should be put to shame if I did not know my own mother.”

  Camilla was tired after being back with the Capacitors, but at the same time, her work had also left her invigorated. Her ability was not a curse, not a plague on women. She had found what it was for and had put it to good use. The storage room was packed. The influx of Capacitors from the Gish Abbay temple a month ago had plugged more women into the Texas collection facility than it had ever held before. Camilla had worked two weeks solid getting the new ones installed and cleaned of the damage the plane rides had inflicted on them. Modern technology did them harm, which was why they were normally stored deep underground. Nestled within the earth’s womb, they were shielded.

  This session had been nothing compared to all of that work, but she was still exhausted. With so many women to heal and a week’s worth of petrification to remove, she wasn’t at all shocked to find that three days and two nights had passed while she was underground. She needed sleep and food. The Capacitors could keep a body alive for long periods of time without its basic needs, so really, she didn’t need either, but she wanted both. She would settle for the first, but not for another hour. Nathalia had called a mandatory meeting.

  Nanae carried her into the meeting and was greeted with gasps and panic. He felt rather than heard Nathalia assure the women there that Camilla was no threat to their unborn as long as her Guardian was with her. Camilla seemed to take no note. Nanae was outraged that they would treat their healer thus. After seeing her with the Capacitors, he understood her better. She gave her life to those women. She sacrificed everything to give the women in this room a steady supply of power for their magics, and she deserved more than to be shunned.

  With Camilla in attendance, Nathalia started the meeting. She spoke in their heads but moved her lips as if speaking aloud, as if there was not a terrible, jagged white scar spanning her throat where her vocal cords had been ripped out. Before her disappearance a year ago, this way of communication had been difficult for both the transmitter and receiver. Now, it seemed effortless for her and was accompanied by none of the nausea that used to result from her pushing thoughts into another’s brain.

  It has come to our attention that many of you have received messages from a man calling himself Dr. Paion. Do not believe a word of it. It is, in fact, not from a single doctor, but an organization known as the Paion Fellowship. These men are cunning and greedy. They are no friends to women and direct enemies of the Daughters. Certain historical inaccuracies about both groups have been made known to me of late. Daughters of Women, called by a variety of names, have come and gone repeatedly throughout history. Clarice Lovejoy did not create our organization, but merely reestablished it and modernized it. Likewise, the Paion have leapfrogged through existence, being discovered and forgotten periodically. Every time, they have been our adversary. They will say and do anything to get what they want. They are responsible for the kidnapping, torture and murder of women with power all over the world. They steal magic, twisting it for their own evil use.

  “What do they want?” someone asked.

  They want to take the sacred Mes back from Inanna and her Daughters. They want what all men want—more. More power, more money, more control, more life.

  BRIAN SAT in his reinforced office. The only light was from his flickering computer monitor, and it gave an eerie glow to his otherwise handsome face. He had watched this feed at least a dozen times but was still no closer to deciphering it.

  It was a set of security tapes from one of their men in North Africa. They were in black-and-white and of course had no sound. The first was of a hallway. The flashing lights signaled an alarm; the building was under attack. Fully armed security troops marched in and then split up. They were manning their stations—little recesses along both sides of the
hall that held three men each. Each man had two guns aimed for the door.

  Then He came.

  One minute they were pointing at an empty passageway, the next he was there, filling the screen. He must have tabalu’d. He had to be uncorrupted Nephilim. Brian had seen an Akhkharu once and had barely made it out alive. He’d hid under a pile of body parts while his comrades were torn to bits or turned into monsters. It was obvious to him that this was no Akhkharu; he wasn’t monstrous. He was tall and muscular, and almost nude. He was wearing what could have been an unbound turban wrapped around his waist and hips. He looked like a dethroned Arkanian king, with his dark hair twisted into a haphazard knot on the top of his head and his dark beard curled into ringlets that hung down to his chest.

  He stood there, facing eighteen heavily armed and armored men. He looked completely fearless, like he was having fun even. He waited for them to make the first move. The guards opened fire. Darts struck him from every angle. They each emptied their magazines into him and then stopped. Nothing happened. Brian watched as the guards emptied their other guns with another set of darts into him. Again, nothing happened. Then all hell broke loose.

  The god-king barely paused at each alcove in the hall but left a wave of destruction in his wake. No stone remained unturned, no man untorn. He picked up one, then the other, draining them of blood in a snap. None of them had any chance. He left their limbs, heads and torsos in piles.

  It was just like the attack on Brian’s platoon. Their weapons seemed to have no effect on him, except that he seemed to get stronger with every hit. According to the doctor’s notes that came with the video, the two sets of darts were designed to bring down Nephilim and Akhkharu, respectively. This was something else entirely. Something the Paion had never seen before.

  The second video was of an observation room. The giant man-thing came in, drained an orderly, changed him into a werewolf, raped and mutilated a woman strapped to a table and then turned her into a vampire. Then he went apeshit, bouncing all over the place. He punched a hole in what looked like sixteen-inch-thick Plexiglas and pulled a man through the jagged opening, tearing off his white coat and most of his skin.

  “Lights!” Brian yelled as he switched off the recording. He’d seen enough. He didn’t know what the hell that thing was, but he knew what they had done wrong. They shouldn’t have invited the devil to their home, especially without leverage. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes. “Montana! Get in here!”

  “Yes, sir!” Montana was dressed in all-black civilian clothes, just like Brian, but they both had the look of men on duty, nonetheless. Montana stood just inside the door in parade rest, his feet shoulder width apart and his hands clasped together behind him resting at the small of his back. Brian was in charge, but Montana was his righthand man and near equal.

  Brian walked around and sat on the front edge of his desk. “Any hits on our email campaign?” He barely waited to hear Montana’s “No, sir” before he said, “I knew it was gonna be a waste of time. The bitches can’t track the emails, and no one here is stupid enough to send them anything they can put their magic paws on. Forget the women and focus on the men who live there. The Daughters like to keep their men in the dark; we’ll use that to our advantage and find an in.”

  “HERE’S THAT list you wanted. These are all the Guardians currently living here.” Maeve slid the paper across the desk to Tank. He was almost a stranger to her now. Sometime before the birth of his baby, this jovial, affectionate teddy bear who worked as the bouncer at Heaven had morphed into this seriously stern man. Maybe the stress of fatherhood was getting to him. “I’d like you to put them in your guard rotation.”

  Tank stood in front of Maeve’s desk. He was clearly agitated by her request. His right hand was in the pocket of his security jacket, and it looked like he was rubbing something. “I can’t do that, Maeve.”

  “I don’t understand. Why not?”

  “You made me head of security after”—he couldn’t bring himself to say “after Mark died.” Mark had been his friend, and they wouldn’t even tell him how he’d died—“after you closed Heaven. That means that I pick my own team, and I only work with men I know I can trust.” Tank sighed. “Maeve, I don’t know anything about these dudes. Who are they, and where did they come from?”

  Maeve had rehearsed her response with Nathalia. Telling the highest-level Daughters about the Nephilim was one thing; telling anyone else was another. Tank and the organization’s other peripheral support fell under the latter. “The Guardians are elite mercenaries on loan from other European and African Daughters. They are all highly trained and very capable. They go where they are most needed, and right now, everyone agrees that is here.” Maeve could see Tank’s anger rising. “No one is insinuating that you can’t protect us.”

  “That doesn’t tell me anything! I mean, how did they get here? They didn’t come through any gate manned by my men, yet suddenly, there are ten unidentified guests roaming around. We require everyone else to carry proper identification and this list,” he pointed at her desk, “doesn’t even include a picture! How am I supposed to protect you when I don’t have all the information?”

  Maeve took the list back, which Tank never even picked up. “I can’t get you pictures. The Guardians feel that secrecy enables them to do their jobs better.” Maeve wasn’t sure they would even show up clearly if a picture was taken. She held up her hand when Tank opened his mouth to protest. She opened the top drawer of her desk and took out a pen. “I can give you descriptions of each of them though, if it would make you feel better.”

  Tank nodded. It was better than nothing, not that the names on the list were even confirmed to be their real names.

  Maeve started writing. “They all have the same last name. Maru.”

  “Like brothers?”

  “More like we all take the name Lovejoy. It has something to do with the organization they’re all members of. Sam is the one that’s always with me and Genevieve. He’s about seven-five and beefier than the others. He has dark hair that he keeps short. He calls it roman style. Kafziel is mated to Nathalia. He’s about the same height as Sam, but he’s thinner. He looks a little like Michelangelo’s David—hair is about that length and curly. He’s very tan, and his hair is bleached by the sun. The one that’s always with Gwyneth—Alisha’s daughter with the long blond hair—goes by Turel. He has a boyish face and body, and he has long dark hair that’s usually tied back. He’s of Asian or Native American descent, hard to tell which. The healer, Raphe, you know. He helped nurse Marcie back to health.” Tank’s shoulders tensed. Maybe she shouldn’t mention Marcie’s abduction anymore. Maeve continued, “He’s very tall, very big, very tan, and has the same dirty blond-colored hair as Camilla. He’s usually with her now. The last three on the list are usually in the courtyard when the children play. They’re all tall men of African descent. The first one is Jon. He’s thinner with dreads down to the middle of his back. Zach has the darkest skin, and he shaves his hair off completely. The third is T.A. He’s stockier, and his hair is short, but he always has a different design shaved into the right side. There are some others that might come and go, but these have permission to be here all the time. They are on special guard at night.”

  Maeve folded the paper and went around the desk to Tank. She pulled him over to the chaise lounge. He stuffed the list in his back pocket before sitting down beside her. “It’s just not enough. I’m sorry. If there’s another attack, I want to have a guy I know at my back.”

  “You’re right. Hire whoever you feel is best. Maybe after a while they can prove themselves and you might change your mind, but it’s up to you. I shouldn’t have asked you to add them to your detail. I trust you. I’ve never felt more safe than when you are guarding the door. Things will settle down around here soon and we’ll get Heaven back open. I know that’s where you and Marcie want to be. How is our new little mama?”

  “She’s getting better.” Baby Sophie weighed eight pounds,
thirteen ounces at birth, and it’d been hard on Marcie. She was such a tiny woman. “The medicine Ingrid’s been making is helping. We’re both exhausted all the time, even with everyone’s help. Who woulda thought something so tiny could make so much noise?” Tank paused and attempted a smile. “We’re both anxious to get home, but we’re not ready to do this on our own yet. Marcie says that it’ll get better once Sophie is sleeping through the night.”

  Maeve stared at his coat pocket. He fumbled around for something and pulled out a pacifier. “Marcie couldn’t find Sophie’s paci. Somehow, it got stuffed in my pocket. I need to get it back to her; little one hasn’t stopped crying since Marcie discovered it was missing.” He stood and moved to leave. Maeve waved him out, smiling the whole time.

  Hopefully Maeve had bought his story. He wasn’t about to tell her what it was in his pocket that he couldn’t keep his hands off of. That was his secret. If all else failed, with it, at least he could protect his own.

  “TELL ME about her.”

  Camilla and Nanae were fifty feet below the sanctuary in the storage room. It wasn’t a normal storage room filled with grains and potatoes. This room was little more than an ancient, circular cave. The missionaries had built their mission directly over the formation because the local tribes revered the space. The Christians had, as they so often did, overlaid their holy place over an existing one, seizing the power it held. The monks had sealed up the single entrance shaft. It frightened them. The entrance was hardly big enough for a person to descend using a ladder. No one knew how the massive stones that made up the smooth level floor had been brought in.

  The Daughters had hand-excavated the natural entrance, enlarged it, and put in a manual lift that now was upgraded to a semi-modern elevator, though it lacked any electronics or modern computerized technology. The cave was used to house the Holy Capacitors, and they couldn’t abide electronics or computers. Something about them hurt the women who had traded their surface lives for this one of limited consciousness. Their sacrifice was necessary for the Daughters to continue their usefulness. The Vinculum Primo made the matches that could create the white energy and also made the pathway from those couples to the Capacitors. Abbess Maeve was the bridge or bond maker.