by Isis Rushdan
“With humans?”
He nodded. “I believe so.”
“Why were they destroyed?”
“They had grown vain and full of hubris, and wanted to be gods themselves. They had done wicked things to subjugate the other creatures of the earth.”
The idea stirred a vague memory, nothing solid, only dust in her mind. Fragments of an intriguing tale her father had once told about mystical beings.
“Nefertiti consulted three of her most trusted priests, Ravich, Seshata and Tholitis on what to do with the beings. The priests offered to give them the status of gods in exchange for knowledge, promising thousands would worship them. They taught Nefertiti and her priests about heka or magic, and helped them create a spell of immortality.”
She chuckled, nearly choking on a swallow of food. “Nefertiti and her priests became immortal? Never growing old and living forever?”
“Nefertiti and her three priests never grow old and as it seems may never die.” His gaze didn’t waver.
She raised her eyebrows, willing to go along with the story, but not yet a believer.
“The beings were worshiped as gods, but their hunger for power was insatiable. They had great monuments erected in their image and human sacrifices as tributes. They provoked the Creator’s wrath once more and were punished.”
The first time her father had told her the tale of the mystical beings, he’d cut a Mobius strip down the middle. Instead of two separate pieces, it became one long strip with two full twists. He’d told her after it was split, it had become something different. “Their punishment the second time was worse than death, wasn’t it?”
“They were engulfed in fire. Their bodies burned, but weren’t consumed. Once the flames died out, thirteen female and thirteen male bodies remained—they became the Fallen.”
This was the story her father had told. Not fiction. The truth of it echoed in her soul.
“Each pair was marked, their powers divided,” Cyrus continued, “but they were also tormented with the affliction of blood rage and the dark veil until their souls could be redeemed.”
“Spero said we were Blessed, capable of ending the suffering.”
“To be Blessed means we are the re-embodiment of a Fallen pair, the reincarnation of one of the original beings who fell from grace and was split.”
Her fork slipped from her hand and clattered on the plate. She smoothed her hair back as her mind tussled with the farfetched idea of reincarnation.
Cyrus finished his glass of wine and poured more. “The Creator declared only the re-embodiment of a Fallen pair could break the curse.”
“How?”
A shaky smile danced on his lips as he fiddled with his large hands, running a long finger across a gold ring with a green seal where a wedding band would rest, and his self-assured exterior cracked. He opened his mouth to speak.
“You better not tell me it’s complicated,” she said, wagging a finger.
“The Blessed union has to overcome tribulations, daring to sacrifice for the greater good. Ultimately, we have to reunify the split soul of the Fallen, restoring what was severed.”
“That was a mouthful, yet, I’m still unclear.”
He went for more wine, but the bottle was empty. “Shall we take a walk?”
They strolled outside through the courtyard. The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, but the cool breeze refreshed her.
Wind rustling the autumn leaves masked the silence between them. The back of her hand brushed his arm. Their fingers gravitated toward each other and locked together as they entered the woods. A little innocent hand-holding. Friends could hold hands.
“It’s rare to be Blessed, to have a mark of the Fallen like us, and even more extraordinary to have a kabashem.”
“I thought everyone has a kabashem.”
He gave a rueful chuckle. “Think of a soul as everlasting energy harnessed in the shell of a body. Kabashem are two halves of one soul, separated into different bodies. Before you were born, your energy existed somewhere in another plane.”
“Heaven?” she asked, trying to wrap her mind around the concept.
“If you want to call it that, but it has many names to us. While you were pure energy in that other plane, without a physical form here, you still existed. I had a kabashem, just not here where I could connect with you. For those of us who are Blessed, it’s been rare for both halves of a soul to exist in this plane with a physical form at the same time. Besides us, there’ve only been three other Blessed couples. All died in unfortunate accidents.”
“Good thing Blessed couples are rare. Sounds more like a curse.”
The light in Cyrus’s face shifted and a shadow fell on his features. Her heart throbbed at having killed the enthusiasm in his eyes. His lips parted slightly and she waited for him to speak, but he only gaped at her.
She squeezed his hand. “What is it?”
“To have a mark of the Fallen is a blessing. Ordeal is often a price one must pay for being special, but it doesn’t outweigh the reward.”
An image of her father shooting himself flashed in her mind. “I know all about ordeal and paying for every good thing that comes along.” She pulled her hand from his.
He was perfect, like his house and explanation of soul mates. People should come with price tags or warning labels so a person could make a fair choice. Every beautiful, precious thing in her life had come at a price. If she chose to take a leap into the unknown with this incredible man, how much would she have to give? “What’s the reward in being Blessed among your people if they only end up dying some horrible death?”
He clutched her hand and stroked her hair. “Hope and redemption are worth everything.”
His fingers tightened around hers, but her body craved a more intimate connection, and the burgeoning ache inside of her worsened. The depth of familiarity tugging at her was akin to that of a long lost love, not someone she just met, but no matter how many times she silently repeated stranger, her gut drove her to embrace him as someone who belonged in her life.
They circled back toward the house, and the scent of citrus saturated the air. Her thoughts clung to her father, the sound of his laughter. How his smile lit up his rich brown face, brightening the gloomiest day. Her mother’s smile burned through, scorching the pleasant reminiscence. Her mother had smelled of sweet roses and spicy ginger, her skin—soft ivory like marshmallows.
Woe hit her and her skin grew hot as if set aflame. How she hated that woman.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said, straining to keep her voice light.
“Then why are you so sad and angry?”
She stopped. “How do you know that? You were very specific.”
Cyrus released a sigh. “Kabashem are connected in a way that allows us to sense what the other is feeling. Sometimes we misinterpret the experience and think it’s our own emotion rather than our partner’s, but it usually happens gradually, after being together for many years.”
“I’ve picked up glimmers of your feelings. Can you feel my emotions clearly?”
“Only when they’re very intense.”
“I’ve been on an intense roller coaster ride since I met you.”
He nodded and curled his arm around her shoulder as they meandered into the house. “Would you like a cognac?”
A strong drink sounded perfect. “Sure.”
They strolled up to his room and Cyrus lit a fire. The amber light cast a romantic glow.
She sat on the leather sofa and curled her legs under her. The four-poster bed peeked from the cracked door of the adjoining room. She tore her gaze from the lavish bed and refocused on her questions. “Whatever happened to the immortals?”
“Nefertiti had all monuments of the ancient beings torn down and any record of their existence stricken from the library. Then she and her priests left Egypt, taking the transformed beings with them.”
He poured two glasses of golden liquid.
“They travelled for a few years, before settling in Rekhem, which you know as Petra in Jordan today. They built a city in the sandstone cliffs.”
The way he moved, fluid and smooth, was so sensuous. His stately sophistication was fitting of royalty, yet somehow complemented the warrior in him.
“Is that where everyone else is today?”
Cyrus laughed, stirring butterflies in her stomach. “We’re somewhat scattered now, split over the price of redemption.” He sat next to her and handed her a glass. “It’s said that once the curse is lifted, we’ll be stripped of our preternatural powers as the cost for salvation.”
“First the Creator destroyed the ancients,” she said, weaving her thoughts together. “The ones who survived made the same mistakes again. Now, the only way to save our kind is to give it all up, no more powers, no ingeniums.” The word sounded strange on her tongue.
He extended his arm behind her across the sofa. “Hubris and a lust for more power seem to be Kindred’s fatal flaws. Even though the scope of suffering has increased exponentially, to the point of decimating our species, the magnitude of our gifts has also grown. As though the degree of temptation—”
“Has risen in tandem with the punishment?”
His brow furrowed and she wondered if she’d finished his thought or jumped to a mistaken conclusion.
“Precisely,” he said.
Smiling, she took a sip from her glass. Pleased it lacked the bitterness she’d expected, she licked her bottom lip. “This is good.”
“Clashing ideologies over redemption divided us. From the ashes of our unity three Houses rose. House Sekhem opposes salvation, embracing the suffering so they can keep their gifts. The immortals formed House Aten. They practice heka, magic, but keep to themselves.” He set his glass down on the table. “Those of my House, Herut, believe in practicing spiritual purity, only mating with one’s kabashem and striving for redemption—no matter the cost.”
Sliding his hand up her thigh, he kissed her neck. “I’ve waited so long.”
His touch captivated, each stroke possessing more of her. And he’d waited, not touching another, spiritual purity—only mating with one’s kabashem. Her heart swelled at the idea that he hadn’t shared himself with anyone else in this special, sacred way, unlike her. But she couldn’t do this, no matter how much she wanted to. Could she?
His kisses deepened, turning to nibbles and licks. She squirmed, needing him to stop, but wanting him to continue.
Delicious tendrils of desire swirled through her. He crushed his mouth against hers, and her fractured restraint crumbled. She craved more, more of Cyrus, more of the heat and elation that bloomed whenever they touched. Then he broke away, leaving her breathless and unhinged.
He held his face so close she could lick him. He lingered, eyes closed, his breath flowing past her parted lips. She exhaled, and he caught her breath, drawing it out of her. Pulses of current rippling inside her intensified. A charge built around them until the air crackled.
She opened her eyes. Thin strands of blue-white electricity streamed between them. She gasped, jerking away. “What was that?”
His eyes were bright with surprise. “I think it was you, love. For those of the Psi class, powers manifest in different ways, a range of degrees. Do you remember the blue-white sparks when I touched you the night we met?”
“I did that?”
“You’ll probably have to focus when you use your power in minor ways to realize what you’re doing.”
It was too hard to focus on anything besides him. That perfectly symmetrical face, only a few lines from worry—a rugged sexiness she found irresistible.
“How old are you?” She guessed no more than thirty-five.
He draped his arm across the back of the sofa. “I’m two hundred and forty-six years old,” he said, eyeing her expectantly. “We have the gift of longevity, but we’re not immortal.”
She strained to keep shock from surfacing to her face. The idea of turning thirty made her cringe. Two hundred and forty-six? “How long do we live?”
“Depends. For those who have connected with their kabashem, it’s not uncommon to reach twelve hundred years.”
She mused what the ebb and flow of time would feel like over a millennium? The concept was beyond her grasp. Living to a hundred seemed a feat.
“The dark veil and sangre saevitas have ensured the rest will be lucky to see three hundred years,” he said.
“You all look so young. How old are the others?”
“Talus is thirty-eight, Cassian is thirty-six, and Abbadon is four hundred and twelve.”
“What?” She straightened. “They’re both older than me? Why do I look so old?”
He failed miserably at suppressing a laugh. “You barely look twenty-five.”
“But if I’m like you, why don’t I look younger? They look like teenagers.”
“You’ve been away from the collective stream of energy for too long. Your aging will slow now that we’re together. I’m just glad we found you before…”
She cradled her glass. “Before what?”
“Before you tried to harm yourself. Warriors are typically afflicted with blood rage. For some reason we endure longer, before getting sick. Jude, the one we euthanized earlier, was my age. The dark veil has been known to strike those of the Psi class in a more unpredictable manner, overcoming those at a much earlier age.”
The idea of hurting herself had crawled into her mind more than once, laying self-destructive eggs that hatched every time she changed foster homes or lost a friend, but Evan had stopped the cycle of darkness. She tensed, muscles tightening at the thought of him.
He took her glass and set it on the coffee table. “It’s been an immense struggle to endure without you. The decades pass so slowly.” His thumb glided over her lips.
She squeezed her knees together, suppressing the impulse to suckle his finger.
Those perfect lips, well-defined and strong, screamed for her. He planted his mouth on hers, tongue delving deeper. Sweet yearning swept through, leaving her powerless to resist.
He lifted her onto his lap. With eager delight, she straddled him, spreading her thighs wide. As he curled his fingers through her hair, she plunged her tongue into his hungry mouth. Heat vibrated in vicious waves, and she ached to give in to it.
His growing erection poked at her moistening sex through her jeans. She rocked her pelvis back and forth. Warmth flooded her groin as she pressed down on the rising bulge between his legs. She groped for the effortless control she was used to with Evan.
Evan. She stiffened, the shame of her actions choking her. He’d been the only man she’d ever kissed, and he was still the only man she’d ever been with intimately. And she’d never been tempted to betray him. She’d never even been interested in sex…until Cyrus.
She would’ve knocked down small children or a brick wall to have Cyrus deep inside of her, but her conscience demanded she stop. Evan was family. She wanted Cyrus more than anything in the world, but she wouldn’t betray Evan like this.
Cyrus flipped Serenity onto her back on the sofa. He pressed his body against her delicate frame, hoping he wasn’t too heavy. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to bring her pleasure, hours of delightful, sweaty pleasure.
Her body grew taut as a guitar string. Any sense of her emotions now a whisper in the wind, pale and indistinct. Running his tongue from her neck to earlobe, he licked her fragrant skin, eliciting a moan from her. She still wanted him, but something was wrong.
He nibbled her bottom lip and licked her top. She tasted like sun-ripened berries.
Her mouth snapped shut to form a tight line and she closed her eyes. “I’ve never been with anyone…besides Evan. I love him.”
The words slapped him in the face, the sting spreading to his chest, sweeping lower.
“Not the way a wife should love a husband, I realize that now, but he’s family. I have to talk to him. Explain things before I can…”
&n
bsp; He sat up, dizzy, pained.
Her eyes fluttered open. “He deserves—”
“Stop.” He couldn’t bear to hear another word.
He’d sent the human across an ocean, rescued her from sadistic mercenaries and proved, without question, she was Kindred, and still she thought of Evan. And how she loved him.
“You had a life before me.” A fist gripped his heart and squeezed. “There’s no need to explain.” He glanced at the engagement ring on her hand and struggled to breathe.
“Cyrus.” She reached for his arm.
He jumped to his feet, picking up his glass and chugged the cognac. A minor setback, he told himself. When he did take her to his bed, he would bring her such pleasure, generate such heat it would incinerate all memories of the human.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.
She shrugged, looking disoriented. “I love purple, but I guess blue is my favorite.”
“I have something to show you.” He led her down the hall to the room next door. “You’re mistress of this domain.” His fingers traced the pattern of her birthmark on the back of her neck. “This house is yours.” He turned the knob and opened the door.
She waltzed in and faced floor to ceiling windows with long, silk drapes. A plush, cream-colored area rug extended out from underneath a king-size bed, which had a blue duvet stitched with colorful flowers and deep green vines.
“This is your room,” he said.
“I thought you said the whole house was mine,” she said, grinning at him.
He smiled. “I wanted you to have a space you could make your own.”
She ran her hand along the curved back of a gold Schiaparelli sofa, accented with pillows in cream and peacock blue. It anchored a sitting area similar to his. She’d admired one a week ago in a Taylor designs showroom. He hoped it pleased her.
Red satin bows adorned an easel, a stack of canvas and a drawing table, arranged in a row. He had the floors redone in ebony hardwood, figuring an artist who used charcoal like she did would prefer it, no worry of stains. She opened a storage unit and examined oil paints and brushes. Talus had done an excellent job stocking it.