Protector of the Flame

by Isis Rushdan

  “But you used it the first time we met.”

  “You were standing in the middle of the dining hall, looking as lost as I feel half the time.” With a wistful look, he grazed her wrist with his thumb. “I spoke to you without really thinking. It just came out.”

  “I’m glad it did.”

  Across the hall, Caelius shifted a glance between her and Adriel. He stared unabashedly and undeterred when she met his gaze.

  They finished dinner and put their dishes on the receptacle.

  “What do you want to do this evening? You’re getting better at Senet,” he said.

  “I’d like to do some drawing, but I don’t have any art supplies.”

  “I have a pad. It’s for writing not drawing, and pencils.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll try it.”

  “Grab us a sofa,” he said, the sparkle back in his gentle eyes.

  She found an empty one by the garden. The only time they’d sat in a different area had been on entertainment night when she’d sparked speculation amongst the collective about the nature of her ingenium.

  Something about her gave them pause. Perhaps it was that she hadn’t connected to the collective stream. She didn’t want them to ease the discomfort of her separation from Cyrus. She wanted to endure the craving until she could be satiated by her kabashem.

  “Will this do?” Adriel handed her a pad and pencils.

  The pad was half the size of her usual sketchpad and had lines, but it was better than nothing. “It’ll work.”

  He tucked himself into the opposite corner of the sofa and opened a comic book.

  “What are you reading?”

  “The Walking Dead.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Humans trying to survive in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse.”

  “Hmm,” she said, trying to keep her tone nonjudgmental.

  So much appealed to her eye. She began a sketch of Soren and Mira, seated languidly on chairs, speaking in whispers, fingers interlaced.

  Tony entered the hall from the garden and purred as he passed behind their sofa. He waited for Ximena who had just finished supper. The lovely bald woman fed the black-and-white monkey on her shoulder a piece of bread and greeted the white tiger with a pat on his head.

  Serenity turned the page and began a drawing of Adriel. He had well-defined eyebrows and lush lashes, but she couldn’t get the rest of his features quite right. Half his face was covered by the comic book and whenever he peered over the top to glance at her it broke her concentration. His dancing eyes beckoned her to play.

  “May I see?” He rested the comic on his stomach.

  “I don’t like to show anyone until I’ve completely finished a drawing.”

  Nakia sashayed to their sofa and sat on the edge. She pulled the elastic band from Serenity’s hair and raked her small hands through the curls. “You shouldn’t wear so many ponytails. You’re prettier when your hair is loose.”

  “She’s right,” added Adriel, his voice suddenly husky.

  Nakia wrapped her arms around Serenity’s neck from behind. “I wish to read, but I’m bored with the stuff I already have. My dear sister, do you have any books or magazines I may borrow?”

  “Nakia—”

  “Silence, Adriel!” Nakia interjected. “I’m speaking to my sister, not to you. Interfere and you will know my wrath.”

  Adriel rolled his eyes and picked up his comic.

  “Well, do you have anything I may read?”

  “No magazines, but I have a couple of books in my backpack,” Serenity said.

  A smile lit Nakia’s face. “May I go to your room and get them now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thank you.” The young girl fluttered up the walkway with the lightness of a butterfly.

  “You mustn’t lend Nakia books.” Adriel sat up. “Caelius won’t be pleased.”

  “Why?” What could her kabashem have against reading for goodness sake?

  Adriel scooted forward and waved her closer. When she leaned in, he snatched the notepad from her hands and leapt to his feet.

  “Is this what you think I look like?”

  “Give it to me.”

  He backed away and turned the page. “You can get a tiger right and not me? You look at me every day.”

  “It’s not finished.” She tried to grab it, but he kept the pad out of reach.

  “You’re not much of an artist if this is the best you can do with me.”

  Serenity punched him lightly in the stomach. He feigned injury, holding his gut with a twisted smile, and then took off running through the garden.

  She dashed behind him, following through the maze of bushes.

  As soon as she thought she had him, he rounded a corner. They turned another bend and hit a straightaway. Without the zigzags to slow her down, she closed the distance between them.

  She clipped the corner on his heels. Adriel turned to face her, stopping at the same time. She plowed into him, and they tumbled to the ground with his arm around her waist.

  Catching her breath, she gazed down at him. His glance wavered between her eyes and heaving bosom, an inch from his face.

  “You made a spectacle of us back there,” she uttered in an uncertain voice, thrown off balance by how much she enjoyed the feel of his body against hers.

  “I merely ran. You chased. I’d say you were the one to make the spectacle.”

  His hand drifted down to her lower back. Her energy stirred, caressing the fringe of his vibrant pool. His shaft stiffened and moved against her inner thigh.

  She squirmed at the surprising feel of his erection, inadvertently brushing her leg and breasts against him.

  Heat radiated from his body as he tightened his grip, fingers fondling her hips.

  Swayed by the rapt sweetness in his eyes—defying logic and the very order of the cosmos—she wanted to kiss him. But she pushed off of him onto the grass.

  Someone snatched the notepad from Adriel’s hand. Serenity’s gaze travelled from sandaled feet up an ivory gown to Neith’s face.

  She popped up from the ground. He scurried to his feet, trying to cover his crotch. The fabric of the pants didn’t afford him modesty. His erection looked like Pinocchio’s nose after a spree of lies, only tilted toward the sky and much thicker.

  His face burned beet red. Serenity thought she might faint from mortification.

  Neith turned the pages slowly. “You have talent. Do you paint?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shall do a portrait of me.”

  “It would be an honor,” Serenity stammered.

  “Adriel, go with Nikos to the mainland tomorrow. Get whatever she’ll need,” Neith said.

  “We’re scheduled to go next—”

  “You may still go next month as scheduled,” Neith interrupted. Adriel looked down. “Aren’t you pleased? You love going to the mainland.”

  “It’s just a surprise,” he said in his neutral voice. “Thank you.”

  Neith handed Serenity the pad. “Walk with me.”

  She took it and followed the ancient beauty through the garden toward the water, suppressing the urge to glance back at Adriel.

  “Did you know Adriel wasn’t born here?” Neith asked, pulling Serenity’s full focus.

  “He said he grew up here.”

  “His parents belonged to a nomadic colony of Sekhem. When he was born and they realized he was Blessed, the colony chose to get rid of him rather than turn him over to their great House. Since he already had a kabashem, Evane, he posed a threat. His mother died getting him here. Their raft washed up on our shores with him suckling her tit. We found a note in her sackcloth, explaining her dilemma. I believe it was divine intervention he made it to us at all, much less alive.”

  Neith sat on a bench and stared at the water. Serenity sat beside her.

  “When he was three, he cured me of a stomach ache. After he healed me, I knew he was exceptional. I’ve loved all the inhabitants of m
y island, but none like Adriel.”

  The direction of the conversation had taken an unexpected, yet unsettling turn.

  “Have you met Nikos?” The ancient beauty continued to stare at the water.

  “We’ve haven’t been introduced, but he’s a warrior that works in the kitchen.”

  “My record-keepers found him, half-dead, and brought him here. He begged us to let him die. His is a tragic story. Lilly, who has since passed on to the afterlife, healed him, but not fully. She lacked the power. A scar remained over his eye.”

  Serenity thought of her two small scars on the abdomen where she had been shot. “I didn’t notice a scar on his face.”

  “Nikos was a loner, never had an interest in being a part of our collective. He wasn’t cordial to anyone. After I lectured him about manners, he stopped speaking entirely.”

  “Are we talking about the same man that works in the kitchen?” The man she saw was lively, jovial even, with Adriel anyway.

  Neith gave a slow nod. “When Adriel was ten, he nearly drowned trying to swim against the tide. Nikos saved him. Adriel healed the scar over his eye as a way to say thank you. After Nikos had been healed, he spoke again, even interacted with the collective, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was sociable. Except with Adriel. They’re good friends.”

  “The best of friends.”

  Neith folded her hands in her lap and looked at Serenity. “Has Adriel healed you in some way?”

  Her heart contracted. “Yes. What are you getting at?”

  “What did he heal?”

  “My childhood memories. He said he retained them, like they’re his own now.”

  Neith’s unworldly eyes brightened. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” The tightness in her chest deepened.

  “There is a side effect to Adriel’s ingenium. Once he heals a person, they become endeared to him. It’s a subtle, secondary power with tremendous impact. I care for all here, but Adriel’s comfort and safety comes before the others. I try to impose restrictions upon myself to limit the degree of favoritism I show him, but find my judgment skewed, compelled to please him even when I shouldn’t. Through healing, he could raise a devoted army that would die to protect him.”

  Neith studied her face. “Have you not felt it? The unnatural tether to him.”

  Ice water shot through her veins. Serenity stared at the ocean breaking on rocks. Of course she felt it, but had mistaken it for a special bond, something good.

  Not unnatural.

  “I’ve never seen it flow the other way, but Adriel is endeared to you. This is the first time it’s happened to him. I wasn’t certain if the link was familial or if its nature was amorous…until this evening.”

  Neith cupped Serenity’s chin and turned her face so their eyes met. Her velvety fingers were cool, unyielding.

  “This is no good,” she said each word slowly, enunciating every syllable as if to drill the point into her head. Neith lowered her hand to Serenity’s shoulder. “I sent for Cyrus seven days ago.”

  Excitement bubbled in her core. “Why didn’t you tell me? When will he get here?”

  “He should have already arrived. His delay troubles me.”

  “Nothing will stop him from coming if he knows I’m here.” Serenity’s energy stream stirred. “Cyrus will come for me.”

  “Yes, he will.” It was the first time strain resonated in Neith’s voice. She gazed back at the water. “Tread with care, young firebird. It would be a tragedy to burn before your time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tarquin, one of Aditya’s cousins and his new attendant, adjusted the necktie of his tux. When the male was done, Cyrus stood in front of the full-length mirror framed with a unique black bone inlay. He didn’t recognize the person staring back.

  Freshly cut hair black as basalt, eyes dark as death, wan face clean-shaven, features sharpened by lack of appetite, he was prepared for the royal dinner being held in his honor.

  For seven days the Council sat on his request to search for Serenity. The Great Historian, Neith, had sent him word his kabashem was alive, unharmed, and there was a way they could be reunited in safety if he followed her explicit instructions.

  The Council’s interference prevented him from keeping the message secret, but his expectation of expeditious support had been met with more deliberation. He was done waiting.

  He opened the door to his quarters and passed the four battle-guard warriors who had been designated as his armed escort. Although he’d heeded Abbadon’s advice, the Council thought it best to give him security for his own protection.

  “My lord, Lady Leta sent a page to see what’s keeping you. She said you’re extremely late,” one of the battle-guard said, as they followed behind him.

  Ignoring the comment, he strolled at a leisurely pace to the smallest banquet hall, where thirty from the noble families and the Council waited. According to his agenda, he was right on time for his grand entrance.

  As he entered the hall, lively chatter died. Quartz and crystal twinkled in candlelight. The highest ranking lords and ladies of Herut, dressed in their finest evening attire, sat with eyes fixed on him. Head held high, he flashed his politician’s smile, walking to the seat reserved for him.

  He sat in the middle of the table directly across from Leta. To her right was her sealed mate and kabashem, Lord Phane. To her left was her consort-misère, Dominicus, his father.

  As always since his mother’s death, his father wouldn’t even look at him. For two hundred years, Cyrus blamed himself. But tonight he was free of that guilt. Lysandra, the lover he never should have taken, murdered his mother in a fit of blood rage, but her death wasn’t his fault. Letting Lysandra live afterwards had been his grave mistake. Giving her the opportunity to kill his youngest ward, Cassian, was his true burden to bear.

  “We’ve eagerly awaited your arrival,” Leta said, her smile patient, eyes full of fiery reproach.

  “Patience shall be rewarded with thy heart’s desire.” He threw the last words she’d spoken to him in the Council’s chamber back in her face. With a raised finger, he called for a servant to fill his wine glass.

  “We’re all thrilled to have you home,” a noblewoman beside him said. “Tell us the latest from New York.” The older royals preferred the familiar, extravagant confines of the House over venturing into the outside world. And the Council preferred it that way as well, made it easier to maintain control.

  Expectant gazes shifted to him. They wanted him to regale them with tales of the hottest fashions, new artists breaking onto the scene, what type of music was now in style and juicy bits of current pop culture. They wanted him to slake their curiosity of the human world they both loved and despised. They wanted him to fall back into the fold with laughter and idle prattle.

  “My last days in New York were filled with the insatiable passion that comes with finding one’s kabashem and the darkness of death. I have much to say on both topics if it would interest you.”

  Eyelids lowered, smiles faded. Constantine, seated at one end of the table, instructed food to be brought out while Lord Orazio, at the opposite end of the table, glared at Cyrus.

  Rare Beluga caviar served over ice was set on the table along with potato blinis and a host of other accoutrements. One of his favorites.

  Once every guest had a glass of champagne, Phane rose. “To Cyrus, Blessed and most favored son of Herut.”

  Around the table glasses were lifted and the words repeated by all, except his father.

  In the sparkle of their eyes and the genuine joy on their faces, he saw it. How much they needed him. The Council was old, out of touch with the human world. They needed new, younger blood to inspire, to invigorate and to lead them into the future. The same chains of love and duty they used to keep him bound to Herut had also shackled them to an empire that they’d convinced everyone could only be ruled by Cyrus.

  He sucked back two glasses of chilled bubbly as the others ate.<
br />
  The noblewoman seated to his other side said, “Aren’t you going to eat? They had the caviar flown in especially for you when they heard you were returning.”

  “My tongue has soured and now only craves one thing, but unfortunately my kabashem isn’t here.”

  A soft blush suffused her cheeks. “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “May the delay separating you be at an end soon.”

  The withered female didn’t have the vaguest idea about the nature of the delay. Council matters stayed amongst the Council and everyone knew better than to ask unwelcomed questions.

  “The only thing keeping me from my kabashem and from breaking the curse to free all Kindred from sangre saevitas and the dark veil is the Council. Their infinite wisdom is a poor disguise for cowardice.” They feared more than anything losing him.

  A fork clattered to a gold plate. Shadows of whispers danced across the table.

  “You forget yourself, Cyrus,” a fuming Lord Orazio said.

  “On the contrary, I’ve found myself for the first time.” He stood, dropping his napkin on the table. “The Council has twenty-four hours to rescind the lockdown and open the gates.” Cyrus headed for the door.

  “Or what?” Lord Orazio challenged.

  Without turning back to look at any of them, he said, “Or I will bring this House to its knees.” He returned to his room, trailed by his escorts.

  It had taken weeks of clandestine meetings and passing secret messages to convince a handful of the younger battle-guard to aid him. He was the future of this House as designated by the Council, therefore helping him was not a betrayal of Herut, but in their best interest if they wanted a notable position of ranking in the new regime. Along with assistance from the warriors that fought beside him for years, everything was in place for him to bust through one of the reinforced exits with minimal collateral damage.

  If there was another way to prevent any collateral damage and from shaming his House further, he’d take it, but they’d given him no other choice. He picked up his smartphone and typed a coded message to Abbadon, giving the green light.

  As he was about to hit send, a light rap at his door stayed his hand. Leta waltzed in, shutting the heavy barenpetium door behind her.