by Sara King
“Pig,” she said, before he’d had a chance to catch his breath.
“You have reset your seven days—stop doing that!” he cried, gasping, his hands splaying out on the floor in front of him to maintain his balance.
Kaashifah sniffed. “Stop taunting me.” Then, raising a brow at him, she said, “Or do you need me to spend the night singing to the world of your faults?”
“That was quite enough,” the djinni growled.
She peered at him and cocked her head. “On second thought, I don’t think it was, wald il qaraqir.”
“You have reset your seven days—mercy!” he cried, panting, head hanging. “Goddess, I can only take so much of that.”
“Better than sex, you say, letch?” she asked, grinning.
“You have reset your seven days—please, Kaashifah, please. No more,” ‘Aqrab babbled to the stone floor. His shoulders had slumped against the arms that held him and his forehead all but dangled against the rock beneath him.
Kaashifah opened her mouth to call him a dozen other names, but the djinni lunged forward and slipped a hot hand around her mouth. “Please,” ‘Aqrab begged down at her, his violet eyes pleading with her. “Mercy.”
Kaashifah easily could have ripped his arm off for the gesture, but she found herself grinning. “Shakl il nahaan,” she said around his big fingers.
The djinni’s eyes widened and his body went stiff around her and boomed out the resetting of Fourthlander Law. This time, however, she felt the magic course through her, wrenching her orientation away from her, leaving her floating in a void of the Cosmos, utterly without bearings…yet with every possibility. It was exhilarating…and yet utterly terrifying. She felt like she was spinning, the world rushing around her as the magic drained back away, leaving her with a queasiness of stomach and weakness of limb that rivaled a walk through the Void.
Then the djinni slumped over her, his big body almost completely covering hers as it went limp.
Grimacing, Kaashifah pushed at his chest. “Get off of me.”
His cheek pressed to her shoulder, he said, “Nnnggaaa.”
She flopped him off of her, onto his back. The djinni stared up at the ceiling, unblinking, and for a moment, she thought she had killed him. Then she saw his chest rise, slowly, once, twice. After minutes had passed and he continued to stare at the stone above him in a daze, she hesitantly ventured, “You…feel that…spinning…every time?”
Very slowly, the djinni’s face lost its blankness and a sharp look came over his face. He let his head droop to the side, so that he was looking at her. “You felt something?”
“It felt like the universe was moving…and I was its center.”
For a long moment, the djinni merely stared at her, his pretty violet eyes wrought with a frightening intelligence. Then he merely twisted back to stare at the stone ceiling and closed his eyes. A few minutes later, she heard the low rumbles of sleep.
Because it was the first time she’d actually seen the djinni sleep, Kaashifah cocked her head at him, waiting for the joke. But, as the minutes passed, ‘Aqrab continued to snore, and Kaashifah realized he was, quite thoroughly, unconscious.
Now that was interesting. Very slowly, she crept forward, until she was sitting within arm’s-reach of the Fourth-Lander.
“‘Aqrab,” she said.
The snores continued.
Cocking her head at him, her heart beginning to pound in her throat, Kaashifah bit her lip and watched his face. Gingerly, she reached out and poked him in the arm. “‘Aqrab,” she said, louder.
The djinni slumbered on.
Kaashifah glanced over her shoulder at the exit to the cave, absurdly feeling the need to check that there was no one observing. Then, licking her lips, Kaashifah leaned forward, until she was hovering over the djinni’s rippling body, now slack with sleep. “Aqrab,” she said, into his face. The djinni never twitched. After a long moment of debate, gingerly, she reached out and touched him.
Though she’d had three thousand years to become acquainted with the male form, she’d never been this close, and she found certain things…fascinating. His chest was different, the nipples small and delicate, the flesh a glistening ebony. Biting her lip, watching for any reaction, she drew her finger across his breastbone and followed it down, dragging it across the muscles woven in beautiful knots across his abdomen.
Kaashifah had once aspired to be an artist. Long ago, in her rooms at every temple, she had once maintained an easel, a slab of stone, and a bucket of clay, waiting upon whatever mood struck her. Now, for the first time in millennia, gazing down upon this beauty, his body slack in sleep, she had the urge to paint.
She had painted the male form once. It had been a wretched thing, the arms too small, the chest too narrow, the hands too dainty. The mound of flesh at her subject’s groin had been just that—a dark, mottled blur, her imagination unable to conjure up that which the priestesses had forbidden her to gaze upon. She had used her own flesh as a reference, with added lumps.
The priestess that had found it had given it to her Sister Prima, who had, while four other sisters had held her arms and wings aside, brutally flogged her back with a radiant cat o’nine until Kaashifah was at the very verge of death, then threw the flog at her and had left her there in the courtyard, struggling with death, unable to get up to bind her wounds, as the human worshippers walked tentatively around her tattered body.
Kaashifah pulled her hand back from the djinni’s chest, biting her lip.
She had survived, but barely. When she’d crawled back to her rooms within the temple, all of her art had been destroyed. Everything she had created over millennia, every painting, every sculpture, every tapestry, everything she had made or collected for its beauty, gone.
Kaashifah lowered her head, feeling the threat of tears once more. She had thought then, in those moments of utter despair, seeing her ransacked room, her walls bare, her statues crushed, that she would fulfill the prophecy of her birthmark. She had wanted to kill them all, wanted it so bad she was trembling. Yet, before she could step outside to find her sisters, she had spotted the tiny pendant of her Lord, left upon the broken neck of a sphinx. Around it, in the powdered clay and stone of her broken treasures, she had found no footsteps, no hint of how it had gotten there.
The pendant was a gift given only to those most faithful, and the fact that she wore it the next morning had angered her sisters—and terrified them. And, while none of them would find the courage to claim she had crafted it, for years, they refused to speak to her. Estranged by her kindred, Kaashifah had turned to her sword for comfort, then. She had taken solace in it, had become it, taking on the worst of criminals, fighting the most dangerous battles, for years longing to find that fatal blow.
It was how she had become so revered amongst her kind, how she took the title of the Blade of Morning. She became the blade that lasted the night, that which still swung long after all else had fallen, still standing on the battlefield as the light of dawn rose to illuminate the destruction she’d left behind.
She, the Fury who had fought her nature at every step, in her youth, had become Fury. She had cinched that mantle around her shoulders so tight that even the whisper of her name had spurred war-criminals to suicide.
…and here she was, touching a man.
Yet, she had nothing to fear from her sisters, ever again. Her dedication to her sword had assured her of that. All Kaashifah had to fear, now, was the wrath of her Lord. And she’d never heard of her Lord flogging anyone. Kaashifah glanced at ‘Aqrab again, watching his eyelids, listening to his breathing, debating.
He is so beautiful, she thought stubbornly, that long-hidden part of her once more stirring within. She began tracing the lines of muscle and sinew with her eyes, wishing she could touch him.
And why not? a rebellious part of her demanded. He’s touched me often enough. He did it every chance he got, and her Lord had not yet struck her down for the profanity. Surely it could be no more si
nful to return the favor. And as long as there were no witnesses, what would it hurt? She was already besmirched. A few minutes of exploration would not seal her fate. Besides, he might as well have been a piece of art beneath her, not a man, so perfect was the djinni’s body.
Biting her lip and watching ‘Aqrab’s face, she gingerly reached out and traced a finger across his collarbone, memorizing the lines. Oh, to paint this, to sculpt it…
Holding her breath, she followed the flow of his limp body with her eyes.
She saw the steady rise and fall of his massive chest, saw his big hands slack, their lighter palms facing the ceiling, saw the mound of flesh beneath the thin silk of his sirwal, saw the curve of his thighs under the cloth, saw the thick muscle of his calves, the dirt between his big toes…
Gingerly, she inched closer to him and leaned against his ribs as she traced her finger back down his chest, searing the lines into memory. She allowed her hand to follow the curvature of his body, learning every ridge, every ripple, every curve. Yes, she could definitely paint this. She would enjoy painting this. She slid her finger down his abdomen, gently followed the indentation of his half-moon navel, then hesitated at the hem of his sirwal. She bit her lip, considering that thin band of silk and what it hid beneath.
“I think,” the djinni said, startling her, “Tomorrow, mon Dhi’b, you will touch me.”
When she looked, in panic, the djinni was watching her much too carefully, and his violet eyes held none of the dullness of sleep.
“If that was the touch of one who hates the male form, mon Dhi’b,” he continued, in her horrified silence, “then I am a bald and rotting leper.”
Gasping in dismay, Kaashifah threw herself away from him, scattering empty bowls and platters in her haste. The djinni sat up, slowly, to face her, his eyes much too acute with thoughtful deliberation. “You’ve had a man before, haven’t you, mon Dhi’b?”
Choking, Kaashifah felt her face flush purple. “Never,” she said, her voice strangled.
Now his face was curious. “Then why—”
Kaashifah rent a tear in the Realm and hurled herself into the Void.
Imelda knelt at the fresh cluster of graves, her knees long since having lost all feeling on the frozen ground.
A hand touched her shoulder. “Vespers, Inquisitrice.”
Imelda ignored him, staring at the six stone crosses that now shared space in the Eklutna Compound’s Cimitero di Eroe. The Cemetery of Heroes. The only place of rest that most of those of the Order would ever find, once they’d taken their vows. The cold, bitter graves seemed an insult to the memory of the lives they now sheltered. They seemed lonely and abandoned, forgotten by those who’d survived. The groundskeeper hadn’t even gotten around to clearing the fresh snow from the graves.
Before tonight, Eklutna’s Cimitero di Eroe had fourteen members, most of which had died over the three years it had taken to completely root out a nest of vampires in the quiet town of Kenai. Now, due to her own short-sighted stupidity, it had six more. In the space of a single afternoon.
On her shoulder, Jacquot’s fingers tightened, giving her strength. “They are in God’s hands, now, Inquisitrice.”
Imelda refused to take her eyes from the six stone crosses. Her migraine had narrowed her vision to a thin band in front of her, her skull feeling too big, her brain lanced with tendrils of glass. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d managed to eat. Her hands were trembling as they held the cross upon her throat, though if they shook from a lack of sleep, a lack of food, or simple grief, she wasn’t sure.
After a few more moments of hesitation, Jacquot left her, the crunch of his boots much too loud against the packed snow of the yard. She winced under the stabbing mental agony of each step until he climbed the stairs and disappeared back inside the compound, leaving her in silence once more.
She had given the orders for them to seek the wolf and her djinni. She had given the orders for them to die, knowing that they were up against something far worse than a simple wolf. Something that had pierced a shield with a boulder, then ripped them all to unrecognizable pieces. So dismantled were the bodies that the surgeons had had trouble picking out which parts belonged to who, and the priests had decided to bury them as quickly as possible, because the morticians could not preserve ragged chunks of meat.
But the worst part was the naggling little question that Father Vega had instilled in her mind. The question of whether she was hunting an angel.
And, if she was, was it a fallen angel, or a messenger of God? How could one be differentiated from the other? While common culture depicted fallen angels with bat wings, rising from the depths of Hell on waves of fire and brimstone, she could not find a single passage in the Bible that spoke of a fallen angel losing its charisma and magnetism.
Further, did Zenaida carry the talisman because she had killed an angel? Or because she was an angel? The second idea left Imelda with nausea constricting her guts, for she couldn’t picture one of God’s messengers enjoying the position of an Inquisidora, draining the magic of her foes in dribbles of crimson, rather than with the swipe of a sword.
But the alternative was…unspeakable.
Behind her, the loud crunch of snow once more sounded as someone heavy approached, and a moment later, Herr Drescher boomed, “Get off your knees, Inquisitorin. You’re coming to Vespers if I have to drag you, then we’re shoving some food down your throat. Jacquot tells me you haven’t eaten in a week.”
Imelda ignored him.
The German grunted. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then he bent down, grabbed her under the shoulders, and hefted her off of her feet, into his arms. Imelda thought about trying to object, but the motion of being swept off her feet, combined with the sounds of his boots and his breathing, left her head in agony, and she just ducked her chin to her chest and let the elder Brother carry her.
Herr Drescher settled her in a pew just as Father Lott began the evening’s prayers.
“Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen. Alleluia.”
The sound of the versicles was like hammers pounding shards of sheet-metal into her brain, and by the time it ended, Imelda was struggling just to stay conscious. As the congregation moved into the nightly five Psalms, it became a narrowing of her awareness to the wood of the pew in front of her. The Gloria Patri left her reeling. The biblical verse that followed pushed her to the very edge, her world hazy with pain, her vision contracted to a narrow strip of bench, her hunger leaving her weak, yet desperate to stay aware.
Sometime during the shuffling footsteps, the ‘amens,’ and the all-too-loud organ music of Communion, the German turned to her, a look of concern on his face. Breaking the courtesy of silence during Mass, he leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to be all right, Inquisitorin?”
The hiss of his voice shattered what was left of her control, sending shards of glass piercing her brain in stabbing blasts of agony. Herr Drescher was raising his voice to Jacquot in alarm when she felt herself lurch forward, into darkness.
Chapter 11: Unseasonable Weather
She had touched his body. Willingly. With relish. And, judging by the look of rapture on her face, had enjoyed it. Yet here she was completely ignoring him again, pretending as if he didn’t exist, refusing all hints at a bargain.
‘Aqrab was considering that as his magus floundered ahead of him through the snow, stubbornly silent as she led them through a rare wooded valley in their hike through the Alaska Range. The look of horror on her face when he’d first suggested prior escapades with the male form led him to believe her rabid denials. Yet why had she so obviously delighted in his body? Why had she traced him with such…lust?
He was about to open his mouth and ask her again when, from a clear sky, a crackling, mind-rattling boom heralded a eye-searing flash of lightning that knocked him flat on his back in
the snow.
Dazed, his ears ringing, ‘Aqrab sat up enough to see a tall young Athabascan man dressed in a shimmery gray-white robe standing serenely where the thunderbolt had struck. The man’s long ebony hair was braided into a rope, having enough length to be flipped over his shoulder and wound around his waist, then tied like a belt at his hip.
“You are trespassing,” the native man said calmly. His eyes sizzled with the color of electricity and gave off an unearthly blue glow. Looking between ‘Aqrab and the magus, who was similarly sprawled out a few feet away, the man tranquilly said, “Leave or die, gasht'ana.” With the man’s words, ‘Aqrab felt every hair on his body standing on end, as if lifted by an otherworldly source.
His magus seemed to notice it, too, because she blurted, “We seek the dragons!”
Ever so slowly, as if haste was not even within his vocabulary, the man turned to face the wolf. “There are no dragons here.”
“They’re in the mountains to the north,” his magus said. “The next set beyond yours. We are just trying to get to the Brooks Range.”
If anything, ‘Aqrab’s hair began to drift further from his skin.
With all the concern he would give a worm, the man said “Yet you come woven in shields and invisibilities.”
“We are being hunted,” the Fury snapped. “Of course we wear protections.”
‘Aqrab could feel the lightning about to strike. “Mon Dhi’b,” he interrupted carefully, watching the Athabascan man, “perhaps we should just go.” His mistress had never been good with negotiations that didn’t involve a sword.
Ever-so-slowly, the fine-boned stranger turned his electric blue stare on ‘Aqrab. “You are in the wrong Realm.” And ‘Aqrab had the very strong feeling that fact was about to be corrected—with his violent demise.
Slowly, ‘Aqrab lifted his hands to show the creature his palms. “We’re leaving. Now. Aren’t we, mon Dhi’b?”