Key of Solomon: Relic Defenders, Book 1

by Cassiel Knight

  She kept her surprise hidden and stepped forward. Calloused fingers brushed against his smooth ones as she accepted the grimoire. His eyes widened. She, too, felt the slight pulse of energy. So, Solomon retained some of his magic. Taking her hand back, she stepped away and swung up on to her stallion. She pulled his dark head around. Putting heels to hide, she sent the horse galloping after the cart.

  The protection of the Vessel was her onus. Her burden. Her responsibility. Her right hand curled protectively around the slight bulge at her hips. And those of her line. She must not, would not, fail. The lives of the human race depended on the protection of the Vessel.

  No matter the temptations. No matter the evil that stalked her even now.

  Lexi sat up with a gasp, and her eyes popped open. God, what a dream. Though she hadn’t moved, her heart raced, hulking in her throat instead of resting comfortably within her chest. The damn dream had felt so real. Desert heat and pungent scents lingered on her skin and in her nose. She shivered. Even her tongue seemed to scrape grit from her lips. She half lifted from the cushions then fell back into the soft depths. The room did a slow spin before settling. Damn, just what had happened last night?

  The last thing she recalled with any degree of clarity was the confrontation with Howard and the mysterious McKay. Everything after that wouldn’t materialize. The harder she tried to grab the images, the faster they slipped away.

  Her gaze swept the room, and her eyes widened. Where the hell was she? Certainly, not in her clean, if messy, apartment. Had she, somehow, ended up in a hotel? On second thought, not a hotel. Not with the gorgeous beige, olive and red chobi sirjand Oriental rug glittering on the floor like a jewel. And certainly not with the abundance of historical relics of various shapes, sizes and materials spread about the room as if the owner simply tossed them there. An archeologist’s paradise. The kind of stuff she’d expect to see in a museum. Someone had fantastic, and expensive, taste.

  Definitely not her sparse, economically efficient apartment.

  She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. The light coverlet over her shoulders drifted to the priceless rug. She tugged at the bottom of her tank lowering it over her stomach. At least she still had on her street clothes. Wrinkled and twisted, but still there. Her battered backpack rested on the floor near where her head had been.

  “Hello,” she called out. Her voice didn’t so much echo as fall flat. Hollow.

  Praying the woozy sensation had dissipated, she stood. Her gaze shifted about the room, wandering over an item and then moving on. Until she saw the objects sitting on the wide marble shelf over the big ass fireplace. Excitement pushed her to the antique mantel.

  Every inch of the warm ochre and beige marble was covered with Canopic jars, small funerary vases used by ancient Egyptians to guard the viscera of mummified corpses. The lid of each vase depicted a representative god’s head, one of the four sons of Horus. Each god guarded a particular organ. Baboon-headed Hapy guarded the lungs, Kebehsenuef, the falcon, protected the intestines, Duamutef watched over the stomach and Imsety defended the liver.

  Her fingers itched to trace the outline of each god’s head, the smoothness of the alabaster, the speckled granite, the pitted limestone and cold bronze. All begged to be touched. Admired. Coveted. No way were these tourist souvenirs.

  “Damn, Lexi, what the hell are you doing?” she muttered. Sure, the collection was fantastic, but she didn’t belong here.

  Wherever here was.

  Time to go. She looked around the room. Blinked a couple of times. Then looked again. Where the hell was the door? Nothing that looked like an exit, not even a window. Just walls covered in priceless archeological treasures.

  “Hey! Where’s the damn door?”

  Nothing. No sounds of people moving about beyond the walls. Just that same weird echo bouncing her words back to her. Her searching gaze passed over the large executive type desk sitting near one wall and stopped.

  She cocked her head. Strange. The rock lying on the ornate desk covered with scrolls screamed look at me. The lump of stone, dark gray, about seven inches in length and two inches in diameter rested on a pile of paper. Hmm. An ornamental rock. Like the ones avid gardeners actually pay money for to put in their gardens. Smooth looking, a few silver flecks scattered about the surface. Pretty, but still a rock.

  She poked the surface then snatched her finger back, curling it into her palm. Good grief. Instead of hard, cold stone, her fingertip encountered malleable, warm softness. A stress ball of some type? She pushed harder.

  “Watch it, sister!” the rock rumbled. “I bruise easily.”

  Lexi let out a startled yelp and froze. Crap! Her gaze swept the room, coming to rest on the rock. “Did the freaking rock just speak to me?”

  “Listen, doll. I’m not a rock,” a snow-tread-on-road crunchy voice replied. “And in case you feel compelled to insult me more, I’m not ordinary or common, either.” The rock twitched, shivered and a pair of silver eyes peeped out from the surface. And blinked.

  Holy shit, the thing was alive.

  “You a defender? Hmm,” the rock continued, his rough tone now sounding petulant. “Definitely a looker. Not too bright though. Imagine. Mistaking me for a rock.”

  The hunk of stone did a vibrating thing then changed. Into a little figure, still dark gray, still silver eyed, but in miniature human form. A miniature human form wearing a jet black and white striped double-breasted suit complete with black and white wing tip shoes and a black fedora with a white band.

  She took another half step backward. “I’m dreaming, right?” she mumbled. “I have to be because there’s no way I’m standing here watching a rock turn into a faery.”

  The faery man put his hands on his hips. “Listen, doll, as I said, I’m not a rock. And I’m not a faery. I’m a shapeshifter.” His low grating rumble suggested he was annoyed.

  “What the hell difference does that make?” Lexi slapped a hand over her mouth. Damn it. Was she really talking to a rock?

  The faery, er, shapeshifter made an exasperated sound, which sounded suspiciously like a raspberry. He opened his mouth to speak. Oh, hell no.

  “Never mind. My dream,” she interrupted with a wave of her hand. No way was she going to argue with a figment of her imagination. “Well, at least my location makes sense,” she continued, her eyes tracking around the room. “Sort of.”

  She looked down at the shapeshifter. His head was cocked, reminding her of a puppy listening to a human talk.

  “Why do you think you’re dreaming?” he asked.

  Lexi grunted. “I have to be. I’m in a room that could showcase Archeological Objects R Us and talking to a rock.”

  “I told you, I’m not a rock.”

  “Fine, shapeshifter, whatever. Still not real.”

  The pseudo-rock snorted. “I’m as real as you are.”

  “Whatever,” she said again then looked about the room. “How do I get out of here?”

  Might as well see how far her dream world went. If she could talk to a rock, she could certainly ask it how to leave.

  “You get out of here when the boss says you can.”

  “The boss?”

  The shapeshifter, the height of an Elmo doll with a much leaner figure, sans the red fur, walked over to one of the rolled up scrolls and kicked the parchment to the side. “Yeah, the boss.” His tone sounded distant, distracted. He bent over, peered at the writing, scowled then continued, “He runs things around here. If he wants you to stay, you stay.”

  Had she entered a mob movie? “All right, Al Capone. Where’s your boss?”

  The little, er, man snorted. “For a gorgeous dame, you have quite a mouth.” He glanced up at her, his expression expectant. “By the way, the name is Rocky.”

  “How original.”

  Rocky shrugged, seemingly unoffended by her sarcastic comment. “My real name can’t be pronounced by humans. The boss gave me this one.”

  “Cute.” Lexi slid into th
e executive high back chair in front of the desk. This put her within a foot or two of Rocky.

  She eyed him. He now scanned a smaller scroll lying flat, his mouth moving as he read. Dark hair, gray skin and silver eyes. Her dream mind had certainly fashioned an interesting character.

  “Excuse me, um, Rocky.”

  Lexi had to call his name twice to get his attention from the scroll. He looked up, one tiny eyebrow raised. “So, back to me leaving.”

  “I told you,” he said. “You can’t leave until Mikos allows you to.”

  “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Who’s Mikos?”

  Rocky walked over until to stand within inches of Lexi’s nose. It was all she could do to not move away. If the mutated landscape ornament tried to bite her nose, she was going to squash him.

  “The boss. He’s an an—” His cheeks flushed. “He’s a sorcerer.”

  Lexi laughed. “Right. A sorcerer.” She watched too many movies if her subconscious had such ideas tucked away.

  Rocky screwed up his face in indignation and opened his mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say evaporated. He shut his mouth and cocked his head.

  “Gotta go.” A popping sound and Rocky blinked out of existence.

  Poof. One minute there; the next not. For a moment, Lexi didn’t move and stared at the empty spot.

  She knuckled her eyes and stared again. Still gone. Lifting the corner of one of the scrolls, she peered underneath. Nope, he wasn’t there. Not even as a freaking rock. She twisted at the waist, looked under the desk then jerked upright. The little bastard had simply disappeared.

  A soft click, the sound of a door opening, came from behind her. Lexi lurched to her feet. On the way up, her knee slammed into the underneath of the heavy wooden desk. “Shit!” Pain stabbed her knee followed by a tingling sensation. She staggered backward and knocked into the chair with the back of her heel. Damn it!

  She bent over, vigorously rubbing the abused spot then glanced up and froze. What a picture she must make. Ass in the air, rubbing her knee and her mouth hanging open like a large-mouth bass. So what. All she could think was one word. Wow. Her imagination deserved a standing ovation.

  The man standing in front of the wall wasn’t GQ handsome like copper-haired, perfectly featured Jackson McKay. No way would this man be mistaken for a pretty boy. His rugged features had too much strength. And way too much arrogance in the stubborn set of his square chin.

  From beneath his long-sleeve navy turtleneck and blue jeans, power fairly screamed from his pores. Inky hair gleamed in the soft lights, the wavy thickness begging to be touched. A whisper of a beard etched his strong jaw. Broad shoulders completed the picture. Everything about the man seemed bigger. Imposing. Confident.

  And familiar. Very familiar.

  Lexi straightened and reversed a half step. Something clicked, and a memory ripped through her mind. Her hands reached out for support, grabbing onto the back of a large side chair. Fingertips dug into the velvet. She’d seen him. At Blush.

  The night she…died.

  A migraine crashed into existence, wiping out all thoughts of her banged knee and heel. She clutched at her chest—the spot over her heart. A cold shiver traveled down her spine, pooling at the base. She remembered. The shot. The punch of the bullet into her chest, shredding skin and splintering bone. Tearing straight into her heart. She’d died.

  Died.

  Lexi sucked in a deep breath and held it. With trembling fingers, she lifted the bottom hem of her red T-shirt. A quick scan showed unmarked skin. She pawed her fingers across the smooth surface. Not a single mark. Or scar. No blood stained her skin or her T-shirt. Not a damn sign that anything had happened. Just an expanse of olive flesh that mocked the vivid memory stealing her breath away.

  She exhaled in a rush. Impossible. Yet she distinctly remembered the shot. Make that shots. And dying. The agony. The ice cold. Finally, the lack of feeling. Of anything.

  Lexi lifted her gaze to meet the dark eyes of the man standing before her. Except him. She remembered him.

  And his wings. Big, dark.

  Real?

  “I’m pleased you’re awake,” he said. His even tone matched the flat expression on his face as if he didn’t realize the import of what happened. Of what she’d seen.

  “Who—,” her throat clenched cutting her off. She swallowed heavily and began again, “Who the hell are you?”

  He bent in a half bow. A slight smile pulled at the corners of his lips when he looked up. “My name is Mikos Tyomni.”

  His voice, low and whisky smooth, eased through her body. A shudder started at her toes and worked its way up to her fingertips. When goose bumps lifted the hair on her arms, she glanced down. Sonofabitch. Where had those come from?

  “How are you feeling?” he continued.

  “How do you think I feel?” Lexi shoved aside her mimic of a statute. “I don’t know where I am. I think I died and somehow I can talk to a rock, and…” She froze, her tirade trailing off.

  Too many impressions whirled through her mind. The migraine bore down hard, pressing in like a vice over her skull. She’d died, come back to life, woke up in a strange room, talked to a rock and now the poster boy for power and charisma cocked his head at her, his expression fascinated as if he could almost hear her jumble of confused thoughts.

  He moved toward her. His seemingly stalking pace struck another familiar chord. She sucked in a hiss. This can’t be real. He can’t be real. If he was real then so was her death.

  After making sure the desk remained between her and the man, Lexi looked wildly around the room. Could she reach the wall filled with a wide assortment of blades and medieval weapons? Not likely.

  Moving on, her darting gaze caught a flash of silver from the corner of her eye. She lunged and snatched up a metal letter opener. What a freaking cliché. Still, when she pointed it at him, he stopped.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

  Uh, huh. “You were there. In the audience.” She swallowed again. “Outside.”

  He nodded, his face shuttered. Not a dream. Not going insane. Something else entirely. Confusion tightened her dry throat. Like a broken record, she kept going back to her vision. She’d seen the wings. Hadn’t she?

  “Will you please put down the letter opener?” he continued.

  “When you tell me what happened to me. And why I’m here.” She gestured around the room. “Wherever here is.”

  “You are in my home and are perfectly safe. If I wanted you harmed, I would have already done so.” He jerked his head at the couch. “While you were sleeping.”

  Damn, he had her there. She set down the letter opener but kept her fingers close. “Fine. It’s down. Now talk.”

  “As to what happened. You died.”

  Her head snapped back, and her hand flew to her throat. “How is that even possible?” she whispered.

  “You wear the amulet.”

  Her fingers slid down to cover the pendant. “This?”

  He nodded. “It saved your life.”

  Holy crap.

  “You are a defender,” he continued when she didn’t say anything further, “descended from an ancient line of hereditary champions charged by the Light with the protection of the human race against the powers of darkness. I’ve been assigned to help you fulfill your destiny.”

  At his words, Lexi’s whole defensive posture deflated like a popped balloon. Good god. She had a destiny? She barely had a life.

  “Right—,” she dragged out the syllables. “And what destiny is that?”

  Okay, so her voice sounded patronizing. Not her problem. At the sight of the muscle ticking in his jaw, he’d obviously noted the same.

  “I am speaking the truth, Alexandria Michaela Thermopolis Harrison.”

  She felt her mouth drop open. With an audible snap, she forced it closed. Jesus. He knew her full name. She barely remembered her own freakishly long name. To hear it spoken aloud by a stranger went beyond surprise
. It took a great leap into fucking unbelievable.

  She didn’t use her complete name. Ever. Besides its humungous length, the words were just letters strung together. No meaning. Like her parents’ names. Just letters typed neatly on her birth certificate. Sierra Beauregard and Alexander Thermopolis Harrison.

  They hadn’t even been married. All the couple bequeathed her was a single photograph and a cumbersome name. All she had left of the people who’d brought her into this world.

  “Don’t call me that. It’s my name, but I don’t use it.”

  “Your parents told you nothing of your heritage?”

  A surprising amount of pain swept through Lexi at the matter-of-fact statement and the compassion in his gaze. She clenched her hands into fists, willing the sense of loss to go away. To remain buried where it had been for over twenty years.

  “Listen, buddy, my parents died when I was five. I have the name they gave me, that’s all.” She flipped her hands upward. “Why the hell I’m even telling you this much I have no idea.”

  Meeting his look straight on, she scowled. “You have the wrong woman.”

  Mikos matched her stare, his eyes narrowed. In thought or anger? She couldn’t tell. A careful step to the left, barely a breath of movement, put her closer to the place she’d seen him enter. She didn’t see a door, but he had to come in somehow.

  “I do not think so,” he replied. “You are the woman I seek.”

  “Right. Sure I am.” A half grin stretched her lips. Aside from her supposed death she—didn’t even know how to explain that—the only thing that came to mind is that Mikos Tyomni was obviously off his medication.

  “Listen, can I call someone for you? A nurse, maybe?”

  Mikos’ brows dropped into a frown. “I am sorry, Alexandria. The transmission of knowledge from your parents would have made this transition easier.”

  She ignored his confusion, focusing on his use of that freaking name for the second damn time. “Stop calling me Alexandria. If you have to use a name, call me Lexi.”

  He bent his head. “Very well. Lexi.”

  For a moment, her anger faded. She liked the way her name rolled off his tongue. Even the harsh X dripped from his mouth like honey. Thick and sweet, with a sensual bite.