by Isis Rushdan
The amulet resting on her breastbone gleamed in the misty reflection. The unearthly chain sat just beneath her skin as if it was a diseased artery, wings entrenched in her skin.
From the moment she and Cyrus had touched, tasted one another, there would always be this, darkness and death.
Her mind drifted, lost in a cascade of memories. Ruthless mercenaries with lethal energy weapons. The car tumbling down a slope. Her screams filling her ears. Battle-guard of Sekhem ripping through steel to kill her. Broken bodies. A dank warehouse. The cruel yet beautiful one-eyed Lysandra. Her best friend, Evan Wade, corrupted by jealousy, gone mad. Two bullets tearing through her gut.
Now this. She raised her fingers to touch the amulet around her neck. The cursed charm burrowed deeper.
She didn’t flinch or get gooseflesh. Her sorrow shifted to hatred as she finally saw through the veil of deceit.
Throwing on a terry cloth robe, she went into the bedroom.
“Our child lived through the car accident,” she said to Cyrus. The shimmering sapphire eyes of the Sekhem warrior who had tried to kill her two weeks ago flashed in her mind. “Our baby even survived after I was shot twice.” She pulled wet hair out from the back of the robe. “It’s the necklace from Seshata.”
In a fluid motion she almost missed, he was off the bed and on his feet. “We’ll leave for House Aten tomorrow.”
She walked onto the balcony. Her gaze swept the panoramic urban view. Arabic chanting boomed from speakers across the city.
“Do you pray?” She stared out at the maze of buildings. He had such faith in the Creator, yet she didn’t know the answer.
Cyrus stood beside her. “No. I believe the Creator acts according to its will, not mine. I also believe I have a choice in my actions and the course of my life.”
“Do you believe if someone prays that the Creator listens?”
His brow furrowed as he drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”
“I made a bargain with the Creator.” She didn’t want to look at Cyrus, see his eyes. “It didn’t turn out the way I expected, but I have to keep my end of the deal.”
“You can’t make deals with the Creator.”
She gripped the railing and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You don’t believe your Creator would honor a sacrifice?”
He raked back ink-black hair with both hands. “You don’t even believe. You’re not making any sense.”
Defiant, dark waves swung forward. In another week the shadow of hair on his face would grow into a full beard, but she wouldn’t be there to see it.
“I’m going to House Aten without you.”
“No. I won’t let you.” Fierce possessiveness, a desperate need to protect resounded in the timbre of his voice, causing her to doubt her decision.
Then she thought of her sworn vow to the Creator and of her promise to Abbadon. “I have to let you go…back to Herut to stand before your Council.”
Icy shards rained through their merged energy stream.
He shook his head. “You will not go to Aten without me. I forbid it.”
“I’m not a child or servant you can command.” She kept her voice soft.
“You can’t stop me from going with you.”
She faced him and stroked the stubble of his cheek. “I finally understand what Abbadon has been trying to teach me.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t think of Abbadon or heed anything he’s said. Redemption is all that matters to him. He’d sacrifice our happiness if it meant no other Kindred had to endure his suffering.”
“What do you mean? Abbadon doesn’t have blood rage or the dark veil. He was inoculated when his energy stream merged with his kabashem’s.”
Cyrus lowered his eyes. “There is a dark side to having a kabashem beyond what you know. There is a yearning that grows and takes hold of your soul. I’m just now beginning to understand it myself. It’s not just for the body. It’s also for the nourishment from our mate’s pool of energy. Once parted like he is from Kasmira, the ache can be enough to drive one mad or to seek the release of death. It can only be tempered by the healing harmony of the collective stream, but it will never cease until they are reunited.”
He took a deep breath. “Abbadon believes having a kabashem is the worst part of our curse. It’s his greatest hope that redemption won’t only free our people from the torments of blood rage and the dark veil, but also bless future generations with a complete soul, intact and untainted.”
Her mind reeled. Poor Abbadon. Although finding her soul mate hadn’t led to happily-ever-after, she couldn’t imagine life without Cyrus.
“Be that as it may, it has no bearing on my decision.”
“Your decision?” He released her and stepped back, heaving a disgusted sigh.
Dull, unrelenting pain, his pain, his loss, his misery, pelted her. She trembled from the force of it. Grasping the balcony, she looked away in a desperate effort to maintain her composure. If she could erase his suffering and endure the misery for them both, she would.
“I lost a baby too…but I could not—would not—bear to lose you.” His voice was a fractured shadow.
She closed her eyes. Arabic intonations from the speakers echoed around them. Five times a day, prayers were lifted up to the heavens, carried on the wings of faith. He was right, the seeds of her belief in the Creator hadn’t sprouted roots, but she had faith in their love.
And she wouldn’t tear his heart asunder by allowing him to go to Aten without permission from his Council. Kindred politics were complicated by honor and shame. She knew enough to protect him and House Herut from disgrace.
“I’ve seen the way they look at us, the warriors. The way they look at you. With all their hearts they love you.” She swallowed back tears. “They’re willing to die for us. I thought it was simply because they believed you were the key to redemption, but they do it for the love they bear for you. They’ll love you until the end of your days, unless you come with me to Aten like this. It’s hard enough to think my selfishness would be the cause of their heartbreak. I couldn’t imagine the hundreds or thousands back at Herut awaiting your return.”
“They await us.”
“The Council won’t grant us permission to go to Aten, you said as much yourself. Will the cursed necklace change their minds?”
He lowered his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. “They’ll figure out another way to get it off. They’d do anything to ensure the redeemer is born. They may not let us go to Aten, but they will find a way to remove it.”
She was only thirty and might live to be 1200 years old, but she didn’t have the time to wait on the Council of his House to figure out a solution to her dire circumstances. Not when she already had one.
“It’s a matter they could deliberate over for years. I can’t wait that long! I can barely stand to have you touch me, wanting you while dreading making love to you with this wretched thing on me.” She stifled a sob. “When you go back without me, the Triumvirate will have no choice but to send you to Aten so you can bring me to them safely. The stakes are higher, but the rules are the same. House Herut would suffer irreparable political damage if you go with me without their permission. You would carry their shame in your heart forever. Don’t you see? It’s the only way.”
With a bleak face, he turned from her. His lack of a retort was the only proof she needed.
She was right. She wouldn’t force him to choose between her and Herut. And she wouldn’t be the reason for House Herut’s downfall.
They would have to travel separate paths, but only for a short while, she hoped.
Chapter Seven
The call to House Aten to arrange transportation for Serenity had been easy.
Explaining to his warriors that only one guard would be allowed to accompany her and choosing Spero for the task had been even easier.
Watching his kabashem pack in preparation to leave him had nearly torn out his heart.
They pulled into one
of the piers in Rabat, and the sense of foreboding niggled deeper.
His mate had only allowed him to make love to her once since they were married. And after their loss—she barely tolerated his touch.
This was the only way. She had to go. No one at Herut would be able to remove the accursed necklace, only someone loyal to House Aten.
Seshata hadn’t offered an invitation. She had demanded an audience.
Walking down the pier, Cyrus carried Serenity’s bag while she clutched her parka.
“You knew you were leaving before we spoke about it.” Cyrus handed her the backpack purchased in the souk that she had crammed with everything she truly wanted.
Serenity grabbed the smooth leather straps and put it on. “I wasn’t thinking clearly when we bought this.”
“Convenient you have it now.”
She looked away out at the calm, murky water. The stench of fish swamped his nose.
“At least take your crossbow.” House Aten wasn’t foolish enough to incite war by violating rules of civil conduct toward a guest, honored or of noble blood, and his sealed mate was both. Yet he longed for her to have more than Spero—despite his centuries of training—and her ingenium for protection.
“A crossbow will do me little good in Aten’s house of heka. Besides, I’ll have Spero.”
His warrior was skilled, but he was one against a House full of mages and battle-guard. “I wish they would’ve agreed to let us send Ptolemy as well.” The difference between one and two warriors would’ve only eased the alien sense of helplessness plaguing him.
Something glinted below the surface of the still water. The shiny, silver tower of a submarine jutted out. The vessel coasted along the pier and stopped in front of them. A chill ran through his veins, every muscle tensed.
He couldn’t shake the feeling her decision might be a mistake, but he couldn’t argue against her logic. Once he stood before his Council, they’d have no choice but concession. Their separation would force the Council to send him after her for the sake of redemption.
Yet this desperate, all-consuming love he had for Serenity knew nothing of logic.
He stared at the symbol of House Aten emblazoned on the side of the submarine. A mark of one of the Fallen, Aten, with a cobra in the center.
A spike of dread sent his mind spinning that he might never see his kabashem again. “Reconsider.”
Shaking, she stepped back and grasped his hand. “I can’t.”
The lid of the tower opened. A young male followed by a female climbed out and descended a ladder down to the pier. They wore light gray outfits, an odd hybrid of hospital scrubs and a military uniform. Their pant legs were tucked into flat, velvet boots of the same shade. They stood on the edge of the pier looking back at the tower, waiting.
A male emerged, long, flaming red hair a banner behind him, and descended the ladder. Cyrus had seen him before at the last great Pesedjet when the Councils of all three Houses met.
The male approached with the refined grace of an ancient. He was old, definitely more than seven or eight hundred years. Magic radiated from him, spilling brilliance across his aura. The other two followed several paces behind the mage, walking in step.
Serenity gripped Cyrus’s forearm. “Maybe we can get one of them to take off the necklace.”
He met her terrified gaze with understanding.
The male with flowing hair the color of fire bowed. “I am Vainamoinen.” An icy smile cut his face. “High Priestess Seshata is delighted to receive Lady Serenity and one guard, as agreed to allay any concerns.”
“We’re glad you were able to get here so quickly.” Cyrus extended his hand.
Vainamoinen looked down, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. A handshake was not traditional amongst Kindred, but he took Cyrus’s hand in greeting. “We were conducting a training mission in the Mediterranean. Fortune smiles upon us.”
When Vainamoinen tried to end the handshake, Cyrus held on to him, turning the mage’s hand to reveal a tattoo of two flaming circles forming an infinity symbol, the brand of a high mage chosen to serve.
“Remove the enchanted amulet from my kabashem’s neck,” Cyrus said.
Vainamoinen smiled. All coldness and ice. “That’s not possible.”
Cyrus tightened his grip, wiping the grin from Vainamoinen’s face.
“I’m not permitted to rescind a gift presented by my mistress,” the mage said through gritted teeth.
Permission be damned. There were 19 bones in the hand. He’d break each one, slowly, painfully, and even throw in the eight in the wrist to make the point clear.
Cyrus increased the pressure. Ligaments popped, tendons snapped. He squeezed, stopping short of cracking bone. Vainamoinen’s features twisted.
“A mage with a crushed hand is like a three-legged dog. Even after it’s healed it’s never the same. Joints and bones don’t align quite right.”
The male grunted in pain, but his eyes lacked fear.
“No matter what you do to me or any of my crew, my mistress would do far worse if I disobeyed. You may cut off my hands, but she would pluck out my eyes and rip out my tongue. Only the High Priestess Seshata or High Priest Tholitis may remove it.”
Tempted to crush bone, Cyrus let him go, wondering why he hadn’t defended himself with magic. “We have a healer who can—”
“We have our own healer aboard. Good fortune most certainly favors you today, for my mistress was adamant no harm was to befall either of you on my watch,” Vainamoinen said through a venomous grin, rubbing his hand.
Flames as if conjured from the pit of hell danced in his eyes. A second later the fire was gone.
“We have a long journey. We should leave now if we’re to reach House Aten by daybreak.” Vainamoinen spun on his heels and walked back to the sub.
Serenity threw her arms around Cyrus, burying her face in his chest and clinging to him. “I can’t make love to you. I can’t enjoy the feel of you holding me. Not as long as this cursed amulet poisons my womb. Forgive me, but I have to do this.”
“I know.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “I’ll come for you. I swear it.” He tightened his embrace, unable to let her go.
When Spero stepped forward, Serenity pulled away and followed Vainamoinen to the gleaming submarine. Her energy stream quivered as the connection between them broke.
His life force dimmed as he curled his hands into fists.
Her curly, brown hair streamed in a breeze behind her as she ascended the ladder. She glanced at him once. Her striking violet eyes glistened with tears, then she disappeared inside the submarine with Spero.
The sparkling silver sub pulled from port and slowly submerged as it carried half of all that he was away.
Transfixed, he stood barely breathing while his heart splintered.
Chapter Eight
As Serenity stepped inside the heart of the submarine, a cool breeze washed over her. “That almost feels like fresh air.”
“The High Priestess had us upgrade the ventilation system,” Vainamoinen said. “She does not wish to be reminded we’re underwater.”
“Why doesn’t she just fly?”
“The immortals have a…fear of flying.”
If one could regenerate and the process was excruciating, recovery from a plane crash might be something none of the immortals were willing to endure.
Vainamoinen led her toward the back of the vessel, denying her a glimpse of the whole thing. He led them past several closed doors, each had an image of a person killing a snake in a different way and an inscription in hieroglyphics ran down the center. The sterile corridor, only wide enough for two people, didn’t have a speck of dirt, like it was scrubbed several times a day.
At the end of the walkway, Vainamoinen stopped by a door with an Egyptian goddess, wings tilted up and a crown on her head, carved on the front. It must’ve been Aset.
When he opened the door, she walked into the stunning room befitting a goddess, treading lightly on the si
lky snow white animal fur spread across the floor.
“The High Priestess wanted you to use her personal quarters.” The well-appointed chamber had a double size bed, an elegant writing table, two cushioned chairs and a small table with a tray of food. “I have separate quarters for your guard.”
Spero stepped forward protectively.
“There’s plenty of room. Spero and I will stay together.” Serenity gestured for Spero to enter. No telling what magical horrors lurked behind any of the doors on this sub. Spero stayed with her, end of discussion.
“As you wish. We’ll reach our private port in Iceland in fourteen hours where you will disembark. You have personal facilities in here. If you require anything else, pick up the phone on the desk to reach me.”
He closed the door and she heard it lock.
Raising an eyebrow at Spero, Serenity removed her backpack. She sat on the edge of a chair and gazed at the tray of ripe fruit, too perfect, too tantalizing. Something about it repulsed her.
All of the furniture had rounded corners and adequate space between the pieces. A well thought out necessity to avoid the pain that came from tripping or bumping into anything if the story that the immortals could only feel emptiness or pain at an agonizingly heightened level, was true. The soft lighting coaxed her to relax. The food on the table meant to entice. Then she glanced at the locked door.
“Don’t eat anything.”
Spero unstrapped his sword and sat. “Are you sure this was the best course of action?”
“No.” But she couldn’t think of a better alternative. She’d have no peace of mind until the damn necklace was off.
“Do you think the room is bugged?”
Her gaze darted to the numerous places where a bug could’ve been planted. She hadn’t considered the possibility, but from the looks of things she nodded.
During the journey to Iceland, she read her paperback copy of The Thorn Birds while Spero meditated.
When the door was unlocked, Vainamoinen awaited them in the corridor. “I trust your stay was comfortable.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“A car is waiting on the dock to take you to House Aten.”