In Her Name

by Esther Mitchell

  The Beretta was safe in its holster at his hip, the survival knife strapped to his left thigh. A few moments into his search, he uncovered his M-16 leaning against the back of a low wooden chair along with his field survival kit containing Meals Ready to Eat -- or MREs -- and two canteens. A little searching produced some rope, a spare set of clothes and a set of three hand-held radio units that looked capable of withstanding miles of desert travel. Shrugging into the now full rucksack, he slung the M-16 over his shoulder and hurried for the hospice.

  Navigating the shadows to avoid detection by Manara's armed patrols, he came to a stop along the side of the hospital tent. The sounds of shuffling and the occasional cough or snore broke the silence, indicating all was calm within the hospice.

  Silently counting out the space and number of beds between the door and his men, he moved cautiously to where he knew they were. Using his survival knife, he cut a slit long enough for a man to crawl through in the tent wall. Instantly, a wall of warm, sickly air hit him in the face. Drawing a shallow breath of cleaner air, he stuck his head in through the slit and saw Talladay and Watkins sitting fully dressed and alert on their pallets. Each had a pack and their weapons, telling Matt either the two mercenaries planned a breakout for some time or the women hadn't seen the need in taking their gear away.

  "C'mon," he hissed at them, jerking his head behind him. "We need to get out of here, ASAP." To Talladay's somber, confused look, he murmured, "I'll explain why later."

  Under the cover of night, the three mercenaries made good time. Watkins and Talladay exchanged questioning glances as they crossed the Iraqi border, but remained silent until Matt finally called a halt two hours later, when they cleared the crumbled remains of a village. Matt dropped to the floor in one of the abandoned buildings in agonized exhaustion.

  "You do realize we're now in a very bad place to be when you're an American?" Watkins broke the silence with a hushed whisper.

  Matt nodded, panting to stave off the pain in his gut as he rubbed his burning right leg. Damn, he was on fire! He hoped he hadn't done himself more of an injury, but he'd had little choice. He had to get away.

  "Yeah," he answered Trevor in a rasping mutter. "I know. We're continuing on."

  "To where, man? Why? We're dead, remember?"

  "Yeah, and that's exactly what our mark thinks, too. We've got a chance to take him out now that we didn't have before. He won't be expecting us like he obviously was in Sidon."

  Watkins was silent for a long moment, and then sighed heavily. "Okay, man. You've never been wrong about this shit before. I'll take first watch."

  With that, he moved away to guard the doorway. Glancing after him before turning back to Matt, Talladay shifted over closer to his commander.

  "Why are we really out here, Matt? You never cut out like that."

  "I told you--"

  "Bollocks!" Talladay swore vehemently, his expression unyielding. "You know as well as I that one more day'd not make a difference and you're in no shape, yet." His eyes narrowed then. "What're you runnin' from, lad?"

  Matt shook his head, his expression bleak.

  "I can't tell you, Pete. I can't tell anyone."

  Talladay's gaze rested speculatively on him, before the Irishman shook his head with a sad frown. "After all you've seen and been through, that pretty little lass terrified the good sense God gave a flea out of you. Was it because you didn't like the truth, or because you never even bothered to ask for it?"

  "I..." Matt stopped, turning to face Peter. "What are you saying, Pete?"

  Talladay's answering smile was bleak, and Matt's gut churned as he realized he wasn't fooling Peter. They both knew his blind fear of the supernatural brought him racing into the open desert on a wounded leg. Talladay confirmed it with a muttered, "If you have to ask me that, then I already have my answer."

  *****

  Dove-gray eyes narrowed in smug glee as the woman stared into the flame-lit surface of her blooded mirror.

  "It's working," she crowed in glee, to herself. This was too good! "Just as I planned."

  "You might want to be watching that, Rachel. Talking to yourself leads to no end of trouble."

  Black Widow's head snapped up at the unexpected and unwelcome voice. Her eyes narrowed at this intruder to her territory. "Who the hell let you in here?"

  Joy O'Bannon, Europe's Red Widow, crossed the room in a cocky stride Black Widow hated. What right did Joy have to be this arrogant? She was, by far, the youngest Widow at a mere forty-nine years of age. The condescending smile on her face irked Rachel even more. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she considered ramming Joy's Jimmy Choos down her smug little throat.

  "Don't look at me like that, Rachel." Red Widow's Irish brogue dripped with disdain. "You've been playing on my turf. That has to stop."

  Black Widow laughed. Joy's arrogance would be the tramp's downfall. No one in the Brotherhood knew just how much power Rachel tapped into. Sure, the Widows all knew she was the Host, but not one of them suspected what she could really do, Host or not.

  Yes, she made a slight error twenty years ago when she let Matthew Raleigh slip through her fingers. Still, the bond of blood kept him on a tether, and the lessons she taught him would stick with any impressionable boy. No one knew the power she had over him. Over the years, she saw how much his escape taught him to flee what he didn't understand.

  Precisely the effect she wanted.

  She licked her lips and tasted the shadow of familiar blood, tinged with fear and pain. "You have no idea the power about to be unleashed."

  The other woman sneered as she stalked closer, to plant her hands firmly on the table where Rachel sat. "And you have no idea who you're messing with. Ireland is mine and so is Burn Cleary. Steer clear or you'll regret it."

  Black Widow loosed a small, dark laugh. "Don't threaten me, Joy. I'm the Host."

  They glared at one another for a long moment before Red Widow pushed away from the table with a low oath. "You're supposed to stay off my turf."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

  "You've got that brainless toad, Gordon McGuire, eating out of your hand. He's come unhinged, you know. Completely crackers. Now I'll have to deal with him before he mucks everything up."

  Apparently, Gordon was doing exactly what she intended -- distracting Joy. Only... "So, what are you doing here?"

  Red Widow's eyes narrowed. "I hear tell you're after the Philosopher's Stone."

  Rachel sat back, a cold smile curving up her lips. Joy had no idea. "Now who's crazy? I don't chase myths. I'll leave that to you."

  "We don't work in Africa or the Middle East. The Brotherhood has treaties."

  "Which is where the Brotherhood fucked up," Rachel shot back, getting bored with Joy's objections. "This is the source of all our power."

  "It's too dangerous. You've put us all at risk." Red Widow scowled as she paced the room. "Lord Onuris made a bargain with the demoniacs of the region. Break that bargain and the truce will be off."

  "It's worth it."

  Red Widow turned, her gaze intense. "You have a reason to be here."

  She was right, of course, as much as it galled Rachel to admit that. She did have a reason to be here, tied to the Philosopher's Stone -- part of the magic guarding the Temple of the Stars. However, her immediate reason was much more flesh-and-blood.

  Matthew Raleigh.

  From the moment she first laid eyes on young Matthew Raleigh, the demon Rachel hosted knew he must never learn of the existence of Ali-Antos and Aermórnosa. He and his kind must not set foot within the Temple of the Stars, or all Onuris' plans would fall apart. Then Joyanne Raleigh uncovered the first of the keys to the five Temples at a dig site in Greece, and nearly succeeded in reuniting her son with his destiny. John and Joyanne Raleigh had to die, and Black Widow saw to the task herself. Then she taught young Matthew the meaning of fear until he fled. Which was good, though unexpected. He feared the supernatural now. If he feared the Sumerian, he'd neve
r discover the truth and his power would be hers. If he fled now, he would forever run from his redemption.

  She leaned back, studying her adversary. Joy O'Bannon belonged to the newer generation of Widows. She hadn't yet begun to show the ravages the power they wielded caused.

  Their pact as potential hosts of Onuris' demonic concubine gave them immense power, but stole their beauty over time. However, there were ways to cheat those ravages. True power and beauty lay in the blood. Blood sustained youth and vigor. It could even restore power. The blood of an animal wasn't nearly as potent as human blood and a child's blood provided more lasting effects than an adult's, particularly if that child held any Para or Legacy ability.

  Joy hadn't learned that secret yet. Nor had she learned about the Musir of Aermórnosa, or the power their blood could provide. That was a secret held only by the current Host of Satmet. Rachel licked her lips hungrily. There was one man's blood that could sustain her beauty and youth for all eternity. She already had a taste of that blood, and she wanted more. She would have it. As long as he continued to flee his redemption, Matthew Raleigh ran straight into her trap.

  Chapter Twelve

  He is gone.

  Even before she stepped inside her tent, Manara knew she wouldn't find Matthew Raleigh there. She didn't question how or why -- that he was gone was telling enough. Righting an overturned table on her way through the clutter, she sank to the cushioned bed in defeat and fell back to stare up at the swaying ceiling as hot tears burned her cheeks.

  All those years of dreams, her lifetime of prayers, and this was what she received. Her future stretched before her, a hungry void that threatened to suck her spirit dry. Her life was empty, barren, and meaningless. Sargon would never return to the temple, and she would end her days bathed in her own blood as evil scourged the land she loved and killed the people she cherished.

  I should have told him. The words were a painful, stark reality, too late to change. She swallowed back a sob as she recalled the lies, the evasions, and the way his eyes clouded more with each answer she denied him. She should have told him everything. She should have told him about Ashurbanipal, about her part in his being here in the desert, every shameful secret. She should have pleaded for his aid if it came down to that. But maybe...

  Manara launched herself upright, hope flooding through her. Maybe he wasn't the one, after all. Maybe it was her own wishing, her own desires that declared him the Chosen One. Surely, bountiful Ishtar would not let Her Chosen One walk away now -- not when they were so close to a danger that could destroy them all.

  Walk away. Manara snorted a bitter laugh as she gazed around at the mess of strewn clothing and overturned furniture. Matthew Thomas Raleigh had not walked away. If this mess was any indication, he had run -- as if all the Galla of the Underworld were nipping at his heels. The question was, why?

  Her chin rose defiantly. Why he left no longer mattered. Her time dwindled. Without Matthew to aid her, she had a lot more preparations to make. She didn't have time to feel sorry for herself or to pine for any man -- let alone one who clearly couldn't stand the sight of her any longer.

  Rising, Manara reached for the ornate wooden trunk she never traveled without. From around her neck she drew her medallion of station and fit it into the circular metal indentation on the box's clasp. Giving it a quarter turn, she smiled grimly as an internal latch clicked. She looped the necklace back over her head, lifted the lid, and drew out a neatly folded uniform in the tans and browns of desert camouflage and a man's desert headdress. Donning the uniform, she pulled out another, longer case with a hooked latch. Flicking the latch up, she opened this box as well. Inside were her weapons and a survival pack. She would need both to survive the desert and be in any shape to do battle when she arrived.

  Manara slung the pack over her shoulders and turned, weapons in hand, just as Shahdi burst into the tent.

  "Mukarramma! The mercenaries! They are... gone?" Shahdi's voice died off in an uncertain sound as her eyes ran over Manara's outfit.

  "I am heading for the temple now, Shahdi. Tell the others I will send word when it is safe. If you do not hear from me, or I do not return, before the summer sun has reached its apex, then all is lost. If that happens, you must all return to your homes, or what is left of them, and hide your faith from the Sodalitas Arachaena. Shahdi," she grasped her friend's shoulders, squeezing to emphasize her next words, "What I am giving you is a command from Ishtar Herself. If I cannot free the temple before the Festival Day, those lives not yet lost must be spared. She will choose another to serve in my place."

  Shahdi swallowed hard, nodding under Manara's steady gaze. "It will be as Ishtar commands, Mukarramma. We will pray for your safe return."

  Manara's eyes narrowed as she turned and stepped from her tent to face the Iraqi border.

  "Pray for the ones who would destroy us," she muttered. From the bleeding source of her soul, she cried, Please let him forgive me!

  A pained sigh escaped Manara. Beyond the ache of her heart, she could admit she was afraid. She had a terrible feeling her own prayer came far too late to be granted. If only she knew why the Goddess saw fit to punish her.

  *****

  Matt sat up, automatically sighting his weapon as the sound of pouring water reached his ears. They were five days' hard journey by foot from the Iraqi border and deep in the open desert. Yesterday evening's scouting turned up no oases in the area either. That meant... he moved to wake Talladay and Watkins, gesturing for silence as they sat up.

  How many? Talladay mouthed, his gaze sweeping the darkness around them before returning to Matt, who shrugged in response.

  Water. He signaled. Close. Eyes up?

  Talladay angled his weapon up and in the direction Matt indicated and nodded grimly. Matt licked his lips nervously as he edged toward the top of the wash where they hid. If there was more than one, they were screwed. They couldn't afford to have a fire fight here in the desert. The sound would carry and they'd probably call down whatever Iraqi patrol was out there.

  As he drew closer, Matt heard the soft wicker of a horse, swiftly silenced with an equally soft, if sharp, command. He froze in his tracks, his brow furrowing. Iraqi soldiers didn't ride horses and few nomads did either, preferring the hardier and less expensive camels for desert crossings. Whoever was over there didn't want to draw any more attention than the mercenaries, which meant trouble. Thumbing off the safety on his M-16, Matt willed his breathing silent and tried to ignore the loud pounding of his pulse in his ears.

  Cautiously, the mercenary eased his head over the crest of the culvert and quickly eyeballed the area before sinking down behind cover again. His blood turned to ice. Only carefully honed battle reflexes kept his breathing shallow and his mind clear as he slid back down under cover and nodded grimly to his friends. They had a confirmed bogey. Desert cammies, a keffiyeh wrapped desert-fashion over the head, and a bandolier strapped over one shoulder, their neighbor was definitely not out on a peaceful jaunt. Silently, Matt motioned his team to split up and fan out to provide cover. He would go in and maybe they wouldn't have to fire a shot.

  This was it, Matt realized, his heartbeat kicking up as he moved stealthily toward his target. This was what he lived for, what he did best. If they were lucky and did their job right, they'd have a live prisoner capable of feeding them whatever information they needed to find Ra'id al-Mawsil. If not, they'd still have one less terrorist. It was a win-win situation. His kind of odds, Matt decided with dark humor.

  Weapon at the ready, he crawled out of the wash, his gaze never leaving his opponent. As he crept closer he watched for the moment his enemy realized he wasn't alone. If the other man was aware Matt was there, he gave no sign of it as Matt edged up behind him. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Matt jabbed the muzzle of his M-16 between the much-shorter man's thin shoulders.

  "Don't make a sound," he warned in Arabic. "You will turn around very slowly and not make any sudden moves, or I'll shoot you."


  The slight form stiffened, and he heard a quiet gasp he would swear was relief. Hands raised, the Arab turned slowly toward him, revealing a smooth, beautiful face that most certainly didn't belong to any man. Matt nearly dropped his weapon in shock as he stared down into familiar gray eyes and a face he knew better than his own. Predictably, his heart tripped over itself and his tongue clogged his throat, making breathing difficult and speech impossible. The memory of holding her, kissing her, was too strong to resist. Joy surged through him that she was here, before ice poured over him as he recalled what sent him running away from her. This woman was a she-devil, a sadistic Jezebel sent to tempt men out of their souls. With a dark scowl, he ruthlessly suppressed all emotion and grasped her upper arm in one hand, keeping the gun against her side even though he surreptitiously flipped the safety back on.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing out here?" He snarled, his breath fanning her face in a hot growl.

  Her delicate chin lifted, her gray eyes flashed defiantly. "Doing what I must for my people. What right do you have to question me?"

  His grip tightened, bringing pained tears to her eyes as he lifted the muzzle of the gun into her line of sight.

  "Don't think I won't use this, lady," he warned darkly. "You and your people can go to blazes for all I care! As long as I'm holding the gun, I am the one in charge. Now, get moving." With that, he unceremoniously prodded her back toward the wash, aware every step he took was one step closer to either Hell or his salvation. With a scowl, he knew his money was on Hell.

  *****

  Manara stumbled and winced as Matthew's strong grip bruised her upper arm even as he kept her upright. She glanced back in surprise, but the unyielding expression on his face sank her heart to the deepest pit of Ereshkigal's Underworld. What happened to the gentle man who made her feel so wonderful?