In Her Name

by Esther Mitchell

  "Are you okay?"

  She smiled wanly, unable to muster the energy for more. She couldn't tell him what was wrong. He'd override her desire to finish this mission and send her back to Syria, post-haste. No, she had long since decided she couldn't tell Matthew about her power struggles with the demon. She could feel it already, its evil battering her day and night. Especially at night. It was strongest then, and she fought for her very life in her sleep, getting very little actual rest. Only when Matthew held her in his arms did she truly sleep, unmolested by the demon's torments. But Matthew acted the guardsman, always alert for trouble, which left little time for him to be by her side. Lack of true rest made her weary and it became more difficult to fend off the attacks. So far, she managed to cover the evidence well enough with long sleeves and her camouflaged shirt buttoned high and tight around her neck. However, with each step she took closer to Nineveh, the demon's presence grew stronger and she grew weaker.

  She looked up from her musing to find Matthew kneeling beside her, his face a mask of concern and his eyes roiling with fear.

  "Manara?" He touched her cheek gently. "Are you okay?"

  She forced herself to nod, though every pore of her being resisted lying to him. "I will be all right, Matthew. Just get me to my temple."

  He nodded and the soft kiss he brushed over Manara's lips flooded her with sweet, revitalizing energy. She sighed and offered her lips for more. He might have obliged, had a hand not fallen heavily on his shoulder just then as a deep voice behind him announced, "Now see here! We'll have none of that, lad!"

  Matt spun to face his assailant, gun raised, even as Manara laughed weakly.

  "You are a shade late to preserve my honor, Mr. Talladay," she informed him lightly, and watched Matthew visibly relax when he saw his men.

  Trevor Watkins grinned at her, a flash of white in the darkness. "I'm sure the boss has been doing a fine job of that."

  "Enough," Matthew growled good-naturedly. She ducked her head to hide her smile. Matthew was a man of deep emotions, and because he feared them, he kept them locked away. "Why don't you two report in properly, instead of making snide remarks? What did you learn?"

  Peter Talladay grinned and Manara knew he, too, saw through Matthew's gruff manner. He was clearly pleased to see they patched up their differences, and the acceptance radiating from the taller man soothed her fears. Then, as her vision wavered, she thought she saw new grimness in Peter's eyes. His words confirmed her fears; he had uncovered another of her secrets.

  "I dug up Lazarus while I was having a look about. Looks like the lass was right. Lazarus says there's a group of radical extremists camped near the ruins of Nineveh. Quite a group, and growing by the day according to Lazarus. From what he's heard, even the Iraqi government keeps a careful eye on our friends in al-Ashid. Apparently, even Saddam thinks these lads are casting a little short of the pond." He cast a thoughtful eye at Manara and then looked back to Matthew. "There's more, but I don't think now's the time or place for it."

  Matt's heart sank as he watched Talladay's troubled gaze shift again to Manara. What was it? Why was he the only one who didn't feel the need to censor his words around Manara? He had no secrets from her, anymore. Matt looked at the woman, his own gaze thoughtful.

  "Wonder if there've been others like that herdsman?" He watched her blanch, and Talladay's expression grow confused. Quickly, Matt filled the two men in on what he and Manara found. Trevor let out a low whistle as Matt finished.

  "Damn, man, that's not even terrorist activity. That's just plain sick!"

  "I think we all agree on that," Pete said quietly. "The question is, why? CIA never claimed al-Mawsil was more demented than the average terrorist. Even Hitler left his victims in one piece."

  "Ra'id al-Mawsil is not Hitler. Nor is he any longer in control of his own thoughts or actions," Manara spoke up, her gaze downcast. When her gaze lifted again, frightened tears filled her dark eyes. "We must hurry now. Our time is almost gone." The terrified look she favored him with raised gooseflesh on Matt's body. "Soon, even I will be powerless to stop this madness."

  With that, Manara slumped to the ground, her eyes closed. Matt's heart lodged in his throat as he dropped to his knees beside her and felt for signs of life. The rise and fall of her breathing reassured him and he sat back on his heels, frowning as he studied her. He didn't like this. The woman who was so indomitable in Syria became a fragile, dying blossom the nearer they came to Nineveh. He was tempted to turn back, take her back to where she was that strong, capable woman again. It wouldn't do any good. He already knew Manara would hold him to his promise. She had no idea how precious she was to him. As a single tear slipped from her shimmering lashes, he knew that, whatever lay ahead of them, he could not fail Manara. He couldn't bear to lose her now.

  "There's something you should know, Matt," Pete spoke in a murmur near him, drawing Matt's attention.

  "What is it?"

  "About the lass... Lazarus told me something of her. I mentioned she'd saved us in Lebanon and brought us to Iraq."

  The fist of fear closed around Matt's heart as he recalled J.R.'s warning. "And? What did Lazarus tell you?"

  Pete's gaze rested on the unconscious woman, his gray eyes troubled. "He said she moves in circles many people can't. That she was the protégé of Percy Lannard and that she went a little crackers after Lannard was killed. Lazarus said she even came to him, threatened to expose him if he didn't help her get into al-Ashid."

  Matt started, turning to study Pete sharply as he rasped, "She wanted into that mess?"

  Peter nodded. "Lazarus said she was hell-bent on revenge. He tried to talk her out of it, but she was having none of that. Said she'd get in one way or another and she'd kill al-Mawsil if it was the last thing she did." He laid a hand on Matt's shoulder companionably. "I'm sorry, Matt. I thought you should know."

  Matt swallowed hard as his gaze rested on Manara's unconscious, muttering form. Finally, he understood the look he saw in her eyes and her need for this journey, and its end. Before, he assumed it was misplaced zeal, even a little bit of crazy superstition. Now, he saw the woman underneath her controlled façade, and she was a terrified, guilt-ridden girl, unable to reconcile her own actions, or her survival, with the horrors she witnessed in Syria. Hunted by her only family, she was a pariah to most of her world and she felt that as keenly as a knife to her heart. Tears stung his eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to cradle her against him and promise her nothing would ever hurt her again. Unfortunately, he couldn't make that promise. He long ago learned life was pain. Only Manara seemed to ease his pain, to give him any hope, and he was powerless to offer her the same.

  "I know why she did that," he admitted hoarsely to his friend. "It's not what you think. She wasn't in love with Lannard. When he was killed, she returned to Syria to find her home and her mother destroyed. She lost everything in one fell swoop. I'm not surprised she wanted to kill al-Mawsil. I would have, too."

  Pete studied Matt for a moment and then, nodding slowly, muttered, "I'll say a prayer for the lass, then. Aye, and for us all, if we face that lot in the morning."

  *****

  She had lost her way. She struggled through suffocating darkness. A high-pitched squeal echoed in her ears, driving her closer to madness with every step she took.

  Silence fell, leaving her even more disoriented, and Manara sucked in a deep breath to contain her sob of fear. She searched for something in this blackness; only she could not remember what it was, and now the stillness closed in.

  "Poor little girl," purred a silky voice from the shadows. "You know you can't escape me and you know you can't free him. You know all this, and yet you still keep getting in my way. You're going to die, you know. You'll die, and for what? Nothing. Your precious Warrior-King already belongs to me."

  "No." She fought the darkness as it closed around her. "I will free him."

  A sinister laugh echoed through the space and she felt ancient spells shackling he
r. "You are a sacrificial lamb; nothing more. What makes you think he even cares?"

  As gold eyes gleamed from the shadows, a scream escaped her lips and she knew she was about to die.

  *****

  "Manara!" Matt shook the woman in his arms, trying to rouse her. He'd been patrolling the perimeter when he heard her cry out, the fear in her scream shooting bolts of pure terror through him. Trevor patrolled the perimeter now and Pete crouched near the fire, alert to be of assistance if needed, but his gray gaze trained on the flames to give the couple privacy.

  "Manara, wake up," Matt tried again, fear clutching in his belly. "C'mon, sweetheart."

  She stirred and relief hit him like a punch in the gut. Matt sank to the cool sand. With a quiet murmur in what he assumed was Sumerian, she turned into his embrace and he started as her hand came to rest at his waist.

  "Sweetheart," he warned against her ear, so only she could hear. "We're not alone."

  Her deep gray eyes blinked open and her soft, sleepy beauty caused his breath to stall somewhere around his lungs. He wanted to kiss her, to melt away her pain and fear with his lips. After a long moment, he finally remembered how to breathe. Raising a hand, he stroked her dark head gently. "Are you okay? You screamed in your sleep."

  "Matthew," she murmured as she burrowed against him. "It was terrible. The demon... It knows who I am. It knows I am coming." She clutched his shirtfront in her gloved hands, her eyes filled with terrified tears. "And there is another danger. One I cannot fight; one which wants your life-blood." Her hands tightened convulsively. "I sensed the bloodlust and it... it was terrible, Matthew!"

  "Shh." He rocked her, pressing soft kisses to her hair. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. I can protect myself."

  She sighed. "I am so weary."

  "Sleep." He shifted her weight against him so she lay more comfortably in his arms. "I'll be right here. I promise."

  Her eyelids flutter closed and his throat tightened. She was so beautiful and precious to him. So why did he have the feeling he was about to deliver her into the hands of death? It was a feeling, and a future, Matt would gladly sell whatever was left of his soul to prevent.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Something was wrong. Drastically. Matt frowned as he watched Manara's slow, weary steps. Ever since the night on the ridge when they last made love, her health slipped steadily away. Now she was tense, withdrawn and moody. Whenever he touched her, she looked ready to burst into tears, and she avoided him whenever she could, agony and uncertainty burning in her deep, smoky gaze. Lately, Matt's dreams were haunted with images of her dead, battered to a pulp and gushing fountains of blood.

  His nightmares weren't far from the truth, Matt decided as he glanced at Manara again. She'd taken to wearing gloves and long sleeves, even in the heat of the day, but he still caught glimpses of flesh so discolored by bruises it was agony just to see. He hated to think of the pain she endured, but he hesitated to broach the subject again. The last time he mentioned her nightmares, she closed down and refused to speak to or look at him for the rest of the day. He couldn't risk that again. Not now. They were only hours away from the ruins of Nineveh and he needed her cooperation. To that end, he held his fears inside and tried not to notice how every step caused Manara pain.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her sway dangerously and tensed to be of assistance should she need it. As she took another step, Manara stumbled and only Matt's quick reflexes stopped her from plummeting headfirst down the uneven embankment. A pained cry tore from her as his arms caught her and he saw the tracks of tears course her face.

  Matt's heart broke as he eased the woman to the soft earth with infinite gentleness and called out to his men.

  "Pete! Trevor! Help me here!"

  Manara lulled in semi-consciousness now, her eyes glazed and unfocused and the pupils dilated. As Talladay and Watkins rushed to help, Matt carefully eased gloves and over-shirt from Manara and his stomach convulsed in bone-chilling terror.

  Manara's hands and arms were nearly black with bruises, the discolored patches broken only by the browns of scabbed slashes and the scarlet seeping of fresh wounds. The cuts were remarkably clean and uninfected, but Matt imagined a woman of Manara's obvious medical knowledge would know to keep the cuts washed and covered. Was that why she wore the sleeves and gloves? Deep inside, Matt knew it wasn't the only reason.

  Talladay whistled quietly through his teeth as he dropped down on Manara's other side, gazing at her arms, then up at Matt's pallid features.

  "What d'you suppose the lass has been up to, Matt? How'd she come by these?"

  Matt shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Pete. They've got to be recent. She's been covering up like this since we regrouped, but I saw some of the slashes on her hands before. They just appeared while she was asleep. She's been having terrible nightmares..."

  Talladay's gaze sharpened. "Think it's self-mutilation?"

  Matt blanched, remembering how the cuts opened, as if by magic, across the backs of her hands.

  "No," he answered, quietly but firmly. "I... I watched them appear. They just opened up while she was struggling in some nightmare. I don't think she's been hiding them out of shame either. There's got to be another reason."

  "What other reason could there be, Matt?" Trevor hunkered at Manara's feet. "This doesn't look like anything healthy."

  "She said a demon..." Matt began quietly and then trailed off, shaking his head. "No, that's just superstition, a bunch of legends she keeps talking about. There's got to be a logical explanation."

  "Maybe not." Talladay studied Manara's face with a pensive look. "Sinead believed in Faeries to her dying day. Swore she heard Bean Si wailin' the night before Da and Paddy died. Superstition can be a powerful thing if you believe in it, and even more so when it terrifies."

  Matt frowned down at Manara's muttering, semi-conscious form. "Yeah, maybe, but we're never going to know if she doesn't wake up."

  The three mercenaries and their unconscious charge stayed put that night, camped along the bank of the Tigris River. It wasn't the most secure spot, Matt knew, but he wouldn't risk moving Manara any further. He sat next to the small fire Pete built and cradled Manara in his lap as uneasiness and fear ate at him. This was the first time since he was strapped down in Rachel's basement that he felt helpless before the unknown. All he knew was something bled the life from the woman he loved.

  "Fight, Manara," he pleaded against her ear for what had to be the hundredth time. His head rested against hers as if through physical contact he could somehow pour his strength, his life, into her. "Come on, sweetheart. You can fight this."

  "M...Ma...thew." That single word seemed to take a supreme act of will power, but it filled Matt with newfound hope. She could hear him! Wherever she was, whatever held her under, she could hear him.

  "That's it, sweetheart," he murmured. "Follow the sound of my voice. Come back to me, Manara. Please. I can't do this without you, remember?"

  The flicker of a smile touched her parched lips.

  "I...re...member," she managed, and Matt nearly choked, torn between laughter and tears.

  "You've got to come back, sweetheart." He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and then placed it on his chest, where his heart pounded hard in fear. "What would I do without you?"

  "G-get int-to t-trouble," she murmured, that faint smile back on her lips. As Matt watched with bated breath, her dark eyes slowly opened to look up at him, brimming with grateful tears and emotions Matt was afraid to hope for.

  "Welcome back." He stroked dark hair away from her face and managed a tremulous smile for her sake, even though the paramedic in him knew she was still far from well. Touching his fingers to the tear streaks on her cheek, he softly teased, "Where've you been all my life, beautiful?"

  "Right... here." Her voice was husky with disuse as she flattened her hand over his heart. Matt's hard-won control nearly shattered at the soft, certain look in her eyes, and he gathered her close
r, swallowing back tears of joy and fear.

  "What's happening to you, Manara?"

  "We... are... close."

  "Yeah, I know. We've got just a few hours left to go."

  "What... date?"

  He blinked at her. "The date?" She nodded. "April fifteenth. Why?"

  Manara's eyes filled with panic, and she struggled to rise. "Have... to... keep... going. Reach... t-temple... bef-fore..."

  Fear for her safety roused protective anger. She was still too weak, too fragile. He'd be damned if he was letting her go racing off into the darkness now.

  "Like hell you are, sweetheart. You look like George Foreman's been using you as a punching bag." He softened as she gave him a confused, pained look. "You need to rest, right now. Rest and heal."

  She shook her head. "No... time."

  Damn, but she was hardheaded and persistent. It was part of what he loved about her, but it drove him nuts at times. Like now. Swallowing his annoyance, he forced a lopsided grin. "Since when are you on a time table?"

  She gave him a dark look, and struggled against his restraining grasp. She was stronger than she appeared, Matt discovered with relief as she twisted in his arms. "Let me go."

  Biting back a smile at her furious tenacity, Matt tightened his grip and pulled her gently back against him to murmur in her ear, "Where would you go, and how would you get there alone, Manara? How can you reclaim anything like this? Remember the goatherd."

  She froze in his arms and the color drained from her face. Silently, Matt cursed himself for bringing that painful subject back up. He twined a strand of her glorious dark hair around his finger. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But Manara, you can't sneak past these guys we're up against. Especially not if you're right about al-Mawsil. They'll be watching for you."

  "Matthew," she turned to face him, her expression unyielding, "I have always been on a 'time table,' as you called it. I must reclaim the temple by the Festival of Ishtar, in exactly seven days. If it is opened by anyone except Ishtar's servants before that day, the demon held within will be released and much more difficult to halt. Death and destruction will rule Mesopotamia if we fail. Should that happen, my life will be forfeit. I will be the demon's first sacrifice in three millennia."