Two Polluted Black-Heart Romances

by Kevin James Breaux

  It was that book she carefully thumbed through now. She was looking for something—a time when she was alive—a time when she was human—a time when she was in danger.

  Moselle sat in the forecourt gardens of Mentuhotep’s mortuary temple, with one of her most favorite people, the pharaoh’s secondary wife, Kawit.

  Kawit, a beautiful Nubian, was a priestess of the Goddess Hathor. Moselle enjoyed her teachings, their talks, and the time they spent together in the gardens. The reason for Moselle’s visit today was so her father could advise Mentuhotep on the building of another granary. It would be a long discussion her father had said, but Moselle did not mind—not until Vizier Amenemhet I arrived.

  Long a political opponent of Moselle’s father, Vizier Amenemhet I, stood against the building of another granary, especially its proposed location outside the mortuary temple. But that was none of Moselle’s concern. Her worries lay with Amenemhet’s other endeavors.

  “He still seeks to make you one of his brides,” Kawit whispered to Moselle as the vizier approached.

  “And my father still works to promise me to one of the children of the king’s beloved wife,” she whispered back.

  “I would have you joined with one of my sons.”

  Moselle flashed a smile at her friend. “And have me call you mother?”

  “Not the worst fate.”

  “Not at all.”

  Kawit sighed. “This man—I fear his presence will wilt the newly planted tamarisk.”

  “I only wish my roots were as strong as theirs.”

  As Amenemhet approached the women, his gaze was solely upon Moselle. She looked away. His lecherous eyes—the way they molested her made her feel sick.

  “The king’s ornament seated beside this vizier’s future one. A sight that only the gods should be allowed to see.”

  “Amenemhet, your business lies inside the temple.” Kawit pointed.

  “It does,” he agreed. “But how could a man pass by two goddesses without paying them proper respect.”

  “Proper respect?” Kawit repeated. “Is that what I read in your eyes? For it seems they do to this woman that which your hands cannot.”

  Amenemhet’s smile faded with Kawit’s words, but before he could speak he was interrupted by another.

  “Master?”

  A pale slave came to Amenemhet’s side. The man was unlike any Moselle had ever seen. What distant land did he come from? After he whispered to his master, the man took a step back and stood statue still. It was not long until two of Kawit’s slaves, joined by three guards, entered the gardens.

  “There are reports that thieves have slipped into the forecourt. We must get you to safety,” the lead guard announced to Kawit.

  “Moselle, come with me, you will—”

  “My men and I will see that she is safe,” Amenemhet interrupted.

  “Kawit, I—”

  “You best hurry, Priestess,” Amenemhet said. “Thieves have been known to become assassins when treasures cannot be found.”

  Moselle stood slowly, searching for a way to escape as Kawit was guided off to the temple. When Kawit was gone, Amenemhet turned and faced Moselle; his enormous smile, and the way he licked his lips gave away his salacious intentions.

  “W-where did you get this slave, Vizier?”

  “He was a spoil of war. They call his kind Romans.”

  “Romans… I’ve never heard of such people.”

  Moselle backed away. She knew of a passage, a tunnel that lead to an unfinished tomb; it was through the Bab el-Hosan4. Moselle reminded herself of its location with a slow glance over her shoulder. If I distract him long enough, I could reach it.

  “Hold her,” Amenemhet ordered his slave.

  It had happened so fast. Before she knew it the pale slave had grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down to the bench she stood near.

  “Moselle Abdul Aziz Al Ghurair of Thebes,” Amenemhet said.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “You will agree to be my bride.”

  “My father—” Moselle began.

  Amenemhet interrupted, “Shows me insolence when he should show me respect.”

  “He will never accept this.”

  “You leave me no other option.” Amenemhet nodded to his guard. “Hold her tight, Roman.” The words hardly out of his mouth, the vizier worked to release himself from his tunic.

  “What are you doing?” Moselle gasped.

  “If you will not be my bride, then you will be my holy virgin…my sacred—”

  “My father—”

  “Your father will do nothing! He is not here, and if he were all he would be able to do is stand and watch as you stroke and warm my tip within your wet mouth.”

  Moselle tried to look away, but the slave had gripped her chin and kept her face forward.

  “Give my master everything or die on this spot.” The slave squeezed her arms until the pain pulsated down her limbs.

  “Yes, I want it all.” Amenemhet placed his hands on his hips. “And I will have it all. You, Moselle, could have had it all too. My wealth. My fame. My children. You could have sat by my side as I ruled.”

  “The reign of Mentuhotep is long from over.”

  “We shall see. Today, I will have your mouth. Tomorrow your breasts. The day after that I will claim your—”

  “Stop.”

  “Stop?”

  “I surrender to your will, great Vizier.”

  “Good. Bring me pleasure. Do it well, this task, and I will not make you do the same for my dirty slave.”

  Moselle opened her mouth but did not look down at Amenemhet’s dangling manhood. She could not gaze upon it. Not now. Not ever. She’d rather die first, but that was not how she was raised.

  “Yes, Moselle Abdul Aziz Al Ghurair, it is long past time your family has had to pay.” Amenemhet leaned his head back to the sky. “You are mine now.”

  Moselle slowly raised to Amenemhet’s penis.

  Snatch it, bend it down, pull it to the ground as hard as possible. Show him what it means to be the daughter of Anmet.

  “Vizier! Vizier!” Guards shouted as they rushed from the limestone walls to the entrance of the gardens. “The bandits have been sighted! We have orders to escort you and the advisor’s daughter inside the temple immediately.”

  He quickly hid himself back under his tunic and turned to face the guards. “Whose orders?”

  “Kawit’s.”

  Moselle heard Amenemhet grunt. Kawit, her dear friend, had once again come to her defense, and she could not wait to thank her. She pushed against the pale slave’s grip and waved to the guards.

  “Quickly, I think I hear the bandits approach,” she said.

  “Yes, inside,” one guard added. “Everyone. Quickly.”

  Moselle gazed back at Amenemhet one last time before running toward the temple. He fumed; his face was as red as the setting sun.

  The gods have granted you luck during these dangerous times, Moselle, she thought. Do not squander it.

  When Moselle turned the page, she found a rough sketch made of jagged lines. It was hard to tell what it was, so she ran her finger over it, as if it could be defined by touch. A map maybe? She moved to the next page and found another drawing, this one much more clear. It was of a staff: Amenemhet I’s was sceptre.

  “That’s it.” Moselle jumped from her bed. “Where did I put it?”

  She ran out of her bedroom and encountered two guards, one of whom spoke the moment she appeared. “What is wrong, mistress?”

  “The staff—where did I put it?”

  “It remains in the kitchen, mistress.”

  Moselle nodded and then dashed down the stairs where she encountered her front door guards.

  “Mistress, is something wrong?”

  “No,” Moselle answered, casting her eyes into the living room, where Jackson slept.

  “Can we—”

  “Speak softer.”

  “Sorry, mistress,�
�� the guard replied. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

  Moselle eyes did not leave Jackson. “No, I am only going to the kitchen.”

  “I cleaned the car he borrowed and discovered women’s clothing in the trunk.”

  “Yes, the clothing belongs to Sabrina.”

  “While on guard tonight, I watched him remove and then try to hide a pair of women’s underwear from his pocket.”

  “What?” Moselle turned to face the guard. “Why would he have women’s underwear?”

  “I am not certain,” the guard replied. “Would you like me to take his cell phone?”

  “Why would I want you to do that?”

  “To check who he called while he was gone. To see if there are any texts or voice mail messages about you or anything else important to current matters.”

  “Well…” Moselle had not thought of that before. “That might be a good idea. Yes. Please do.”

  “Anything you wish, mistress.”

  Moselle gazed at Jackson a moment longer. He seemed at peace. She considered ordering him to bed, but then she recalled why she had come downstairs to begin with.

  “You will excuse me.”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  She dashed off to the kitchen, her bare feet slapping across the hard floor. When she reached the kitchen, the scepter was right where she’d left it, resting atop the table. She wrapped her fingers around the center of its shaft and lifted it gently.

  “Now to match this with the drawings.”

  She held the staff in front of her face and shook her head, bewildered. If I am right… How could this have ended up in my care?

  Moselle ascended the main stairs consumed by her own thoughts. When she reached her room, her head guard arrived from his rounds.

  “It is late, mistress. Do you need assistance with your wrappings?”

  “No, thank you. I will not be sleeping tonight.”

  “Your rest—”

  “I will be fine. The life force I consumed from that boy will sustain me for days.”

  “Very well.”

  Moselle stepped into her room and locked the door. “No more interruptions tonight, understood? I have much to ponder.”

  * * *

  4 From the eastern part of the forecourt, an opening called the Bab el-Hosan (‘Gate of the Horseman’) leads to an underground passage and an unfinished tomb or cenotaph containing a seated statue of the king.

  Wake Up

  Jackson woke up slowly. Something had brushed against his leg, but he kept his tired eyes closed. Probably one of Moselle’s cats, he thought. But then he felt a hand run up his thigh and heard Moselle’s voice emerge like a soft hiss.

  “Eyes closed, lover. Relax. Let me take care of you.”

  “You don’t have to, Moselle—”

  “I want to.”

  Jackson’s belt was unbuckled and his pants were quickly unbuttoned. Before he knew it they were down and his cock was deep in Moselle’s mouth.

  “Oh, that’s warm.”

  Her tongue worked his tip before she spoke again. “I just drank some hot tea.”

  “I like it.”

  “Then you’ll love this.”

  He felt her body slide up his legs some before her head tilted, and she shoved him into her throat.

  “Fuck, Moss.” Jackson flinched. “Careful, you’ll choke.”

  She withdrew him slowly; it felt like her tongue had wrapped itself around his shaft twice. He thought he might release already, so he opened his eyes and prepared to warn her.

  “Moss, I…” Jackson did not finish his words.

  There, where he had imagined Moselle, was a giant snake, poised to swallow him whole, cock first. He screamed and jerked his limbs, but he was pinned under its weight.

  “Get off me!”

  “You’re mine,” the snake said in Moselle’s voice.

  “No!”

  Jackson mustered all his strength and kicked as hard as he could.

  THUMP!

  He was suddenly on the ground, wedged between Moselle’s couch and coffee table. His legs were wrapped to the waist in a blanket. He reached down; his pants were still on, his manhood where it belonged.

  The room was bright with the glow of the rising sun. He jumped to his feet and opened the curtains. He had seen Moselle’s snakes hide in the shadows before. Not this time, he thought.

  One of her guards entered the room. He looked annoyed. “What is wrong, man?”

  “Was there a big freaking snake in here while I slept?”

  “No.”

  “I—”

  “I’ve been standing guard by the door for hours. And yes, I have been watching you sleep. You were rolling around mumbling just before I left to get you this,” the guard said as he presented Jackson a mug of steaming coffee.

  “Then it was a dream?”

  “More like a nightmare.”

  Jackson took the coffee, said thanks, and then humphed. “Nightmares. Great.”

  “Do you have many?” the guard asked.

  “Nightmare or dreams?”

  The guard simply nodded in response.

  “I used to have a lot of nightmares when I was younger. Aliens, falling, war, Godzilla…” he said and then took a drink. “I guess I outgrew them. Wow, bitter…and kinda thick. Let me guess, homemade? Moselle grows the coffee beans herself?”

  “You humans are fortunate. Dreams are like visions and visions—”

  “You’re an elemental right?” Jackson interrupted. “You don’t dream?”

  “Golem.”

  “You’re a golem. What the hell is a golem?” he grumbled.

  “Golems are created, cursed, and controlled.”

  “Sounds like golems are slaves then,” he concluded.

  The guard drew Jackson’s attention to Moselle as she descended the stairs and then walked to the front door, where another guard was positioned. She whispered something to the man, and he left for the kitchen and was quickly replaced by another.

  “Jackson.” Moselle flashed him a smile when she finally stepped into the room. “Are you bothering my guards?”

  She was already dressed for the day—leather pants and a form-fitting top.

  “I just woke up.” Jackson held up and pointed to his mug. “Your guard brought me some very bitter black coffee.”

  Moselle walked around him. And on the third pass she asked, “Did you sleep well? Down here all alone?”

  “Well…”

  “Sleep is good.” She smiled. “But the day is new. Why don’t you go upstairs and run a bath? I will join you momentarily.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, to help you bathe. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

  “It does. But you look like you’re ready to go. Is there someplace you need to be?”

  Moselle walked around him again, only to stop and lock eyes with him. “There is.”

  There was a coldness in her gaze that made him shiver.

  “To be honest, I had a really weird dream. A hot shower will really help clear my head. Okay?”

  “That is acceptable.”

  “Great.”

  Jackson walked around Moselle to the stairs. He passed the very spot where she had killed the pizza guy—killed him, right in front of me. He tried not to look down as he passed it, but he knew the drop of his eyes gave away his thoughts.

  “Things to do,” Moselle said. “Call out, if you need something. Scream if you must. My guards will hear you if I do not.”

  “Yeah… Okay…” Jackson ran up the stairs.

  Shake Up

  Moselle watched Jackson sprint the full length of the staircase. He’s afraid of me now. She wanted to cry. Her home, her guards, even her relationship: all had suffered. Mindless panic, childish fears—Moselle was ashamed of herself for feeling such things. Weakness was not a trait of her family.

  “Damn the wraiths. Damn them to Duat,” she whispered under her breath.

  “Mistress?” one of the f
ront door guards asked. “Did you say something?”

  “Nothing.”

  What was it my father used to say? His daily affirmation—I am the master of my own fate.

  Once Jackson was out of earshot, her head guard emerged from the sarcophagus room, a look of distaste on his face.

  “You welcomed him into your home, your bed, and he chose to sleep down here on the couch like some transient. Such an act of disrespect—”

  “I hope he slept well at least.”

  “He suffered from nightmares.”

  Moselle nodded and then looked at the guard who had been speaking to Jackson earlier. “Did you manage to retrieve his phone while he slept?”

  “Yes, mistress,” the guard replied. “The only call was to a number listed as ‘Mom.’”

  “He no doubt called his mother to tell her he was out of the hospital and recovering well.”

  “Watching you feed clearly bothered him,” the head guard added.

  “I know.”

  “So much so that he fled from here, fled you, immediately afterward.”

  Moselle held back her emotions. “I know.”

  “Why waste another minute on this human?” her guard asked. “Let me rid you of him…permanently. You know that is what your father would advise.”

  “I am not my father. You know that.” Moselle’s voice rose. “Great Horus himself seeks—”

  “Great Horus…or you, mistress?” the head guard interrupted.

  “You—you’re dismissed.”

  The lead guard grumbled as he walked off. Moselle held her head up high and stared at his back until he was gone; she refused to let him see her in another moment of weakness.

  I am the master of my own fate.

  But she knew that was not true. Her thoughts returned to ones that had plagued her all night.

  Could the hospital collapse and the earthquake both have been produced by the wraiths in an effort to destroy Sabrina and all whom she was in contact with? It seemed possible and impossible at the same time.

  She rubbed her temples as she walked across the hall and entered the antiquities room. She ran her hand down the smooth side of her sarcophagus. So odd, this thing, the very coffin where I was entombed. It gives me the most consolation in my troubled times.