by Jasmine Walt
“You want me,” he said. “Admit it.”
I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut more tightly. I was angry—no, pissed—at him. I needed to hold onto that emotion.
“Admit it,” he whispered, so close I could feel his breath on my face. My eyes popped open and my heart skipped a beat . . . or three. Not amber, but golden, blazing eyes trapped me. I’d never seen his eyes so light, and I suddenly realized that was what I’d remembered when I first awoke in the hospital—the memory of glorious, golden fire. I must have come to briefly while he’d been transporting me to the hospital and looked into his eyes . . . and felt safe. Staring into those eyes now, I involuntarily wet my lips.
Marcus’s fingers slid down my neck to trace my collarbones, then traveled back up to tangle in my hair. A tingling trail burned along my skin, invisibly marking every place he touched. He tightened his grasp, preventing me from turning away. It was unnecessary; I was completely lost, a captive held in the prison of his eyes.
I inhaled softly, my breath catching. One moment, he was staring at me—into me—the next, his lips were parting mine. I gasped at the bruising intensity of the kiss. His tongue delved into my mouth, teasing mine out expertly. His arm dropped to my waist, pulling me against him so ardently that I had to stand on my tiptoes to remain tethered to the ground. Something about the jarring movement shook my brain awake, and I pushed against his bare chest. Until that gesture, I hadn’t noticed that my traitorous hands were fondling his muscles. I’m angry, remember! I reminded myself.
“Marcus . . .” I whispered, more than a trace of warning contained in that one word.
As he released his death grip on my hair, I maneuvered myself away from him, retreating through my open bedroom door. I didn’t know why or how, but being too close to him tended to cloud my judgment until I could only make decisions based on the overwhelming desire I felt around him. It was like he naturally emitted an aphrodisiac designed specifically for me, and I craved it when we were apart. But it went beyond lust, beyond desire . . . I felt good around him—safe and whole and at peace. I shook my head, trying to dispel my clearly delusional emotions.
How I’d ever thought he was a plain old human was beyond me. I guess we only see what we want to see . . . what we expect to see . . .
“Lex—”
“I can’t trust you,” I interrupted. “I have no idea who you really are.” I spun around. Marcus was standing in the doorway just a few steps away. “You’re Nejeret, and you’ve been watching me since before we met at the café, obviously. How long, Marcus? How long have you been spying on me?”
Anger and frustration flashed across Marcus’s face so briefly that I almost missed it. And then, abruptly, his clothes changed. No longer in sneakers and basketball shorts, he wore tailored black trousers and a silver-gray button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms.
“Hey! How’d you—” I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not distracting me that easily. How long have you been watching me?”
He sighed melodramatically, like I was the one being difficult, when in reality, everything was so obviously his fault.
“Since August,” he finally said.
He’s been watching me for five whole months? “Why?” I spat.
“Because Alex requested it of me,” he responded in kind. “Believe me, Lex, I had much better things to do than watch over a woman who was unlikely to even manifest.”
“Well, I did manifest, didn’t I?” I briefly wondered if sticking out my tongue would help get my point across. Then, I remembered where my tongue had just been and blushed. Damn him!
“Yes,” he purred and stalked toward me, his eyes devouring my every inch. “You are manifesting quite nicely.”
“Stop right there!” I screeched, holding my hand up as I backed away from him.
Marcus stopped, but he didn’t look happy about it.
“Alex . . . as in Alexander? My grandpa asked you to keep an eye on me?” I clarified, my voice too high. I’d only known that Alexander had asked Heru, a member of the Council of Seven, to watch over me . . . not Marcus.
“Yes,” Marcus said.
A sudden, nauseating thought occurred to me. “And the excavation . . . you didn’t really need me to figure out the riddle on the tablet to find the entrance to the temple, did you? You could just look in the At.” I took a deep breath, ignoring Marcus’s slowly shaking head. “Did you just offer me a position on the excavation because of Alexander, too?”
“No!” he hissed. “We couldn’t find the entrance because the At has been manipulated . . . we can’t find any of the echoes relating to it. Damn it, Lex, I wanted you on my team because you’re good at what you do, unbelievably good for someone so young, but also because”—he shook his head, like he couldn’t quite find the words to say what he meant—“you started manifesting. You started manifesting and you know nothing of our people . . . of our customs. Nobody expected you to manifest, so you were never trained in our ways. Other Nejerets will be participating in the excavation. I wanted to give you the chance to interact with others of our kind—to learn all that it means to be Nejeret.”
“If you wanted me to learn what it means to be Nejeret, why didn’t you just explain what was going on with me?” I sounded so bitchy, I nearly cringed. Instead, I barreled on. “Were you toying with me? Was it fun for you to—”
Marcus turned away abruptly, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. “No, Lex, it wasn’t fun for me. Just like it wasn’t fun finding that piece of shit forcing himself on you.” He spared a moment to glare at Mike’s frozen body. “I’d grown somewhat fond of you over the months. I disliked seeing you struggle so much, seeing you in such pain. But it was against the rules for me to tell you of our people, of your heritage. In rare cases like yours, where the Nejeret knows absolutely nothing about his or her heritage, only the nearest Nejeret in your direct line is allowed to explain. I had to wait for Alex.”
“Rules! Why are we running around following the rules of some ‘council’ that doesn’t even meet anymore?” Suddenly so exasperated that I had to move, I slipped around Marcus and out of the room. I paced from the bedroom door to the kitchen and back again, over and over.
“Not the Council’s rules—my grandfather’s,” Marcus said when he finally emerged from my bedroom.
I waved my hand dismissively. “And we should follow your grandfather’s rules because . . . ?” That time I did cringe at my snotty, juvenile tone.
“Because, Little Ivanov, he’s the Great Father,” Marcus said quietly from right behind me.
The Great Father, Nuin, from whom we all descend . . . is Marcus’s grandfather? I halted mid-stride, only a few steps from the fridge. I could hear Marcus’s footsteps as he approached behind me.
“Who are you?” I whispered to the fridge. I just . . . I couldn’t face him.
“I’m the grandson of Nuin,” he said, his voice hard. “I’m a member of the Council of Seven, and I’m older than you can imagine.” He was silent for a few moments, the sound of his breathing the only thing I could hear over my pounding heart. Finally, softly, he said, “I’m also the man who didn’t let you die.”
Hanging my head in shame, I started to apologize. “Marcus, I’m—” My words halted in mid-sentence as his second statement registered. I whirled to face him. “There’s no ‘Marcus’ on the Council.”
He took a step closer, and I stepped back. “True. But I have many names,” he explained, his eyes willing me to comprehend. “You know who I am, Lex. Think about it.”
Set. Heru. Moses. Sid. Dedwen. Shangdi. Ivan. He definitely wasn’t Ivan, my great-grandpa . . . not after the kiss.
Set. Heru. Moses. Sid. Dedwen. Shangdi. He definitely wasn’t Dedwen or Shangdi, based on their mythological descriptions—one was a Nubian god, the other a Chinese deity.
Set. Heru. Moses. Sid. Marcus Bahur. Marcus Bahur. Marcus. Bahur.
Bahur.
I suddenly felt like the world’s biggest idiot.<
br />
Marcus took another step toward me, and I backed into the refrigerator. I halted his forward progress with a smile. “Bahur,” I said. “‘Of Heru.’ Clever, Marcus . . . or should I say, Heru?” Heru—commonly known as Horus—was the fierce Egyptian god of kingship and war, whose beautiful eyes had led to one of the most famous ancient Egyptian symbols—the Wedjat, otherwise known as the “Eye of Horus.” Marcus, who had kissed me, was Heru. It was . . . impossible, but then a lot of impossible things had been happening lately.
When I said his true name, he cringed. Shaking his head, he explained, “I hate the way that name sounds on these lips.” He brushed his thumb across my bottom lip for emphasis. “You say ‘Heru’ like you’re talking about a god . . . someone untouchable . . . unknowable. But when you say ‘Marcus,’ you’re talking about a man. A man can be known . . . touched.”
With my palms pressed against the cool refrigerator door, I said, “Marcus.” I was surprised by the sultriness in my voice.
“Mmm . . . yes, Lex. I do so love the way you say that name . . . my name . . . the way it rises from your tongue,” Marcus remarked, raising his arms to press his hands against the freezer door on either side of my head. His arms flexed, and he leaned closer.
“Marcus,” I whispered.
He bent his neck, bringing his lips inches from mine. The muscles and tendons of his neck formed thick cords as he hovered, letting his quickened breath mix with mine. It was tantalizing . . . empowering . . . tormenting.
“Marcus . . . I don’t . . . I . . . I need . . .” I forced myself to look at Mike and then the wounded version of myself. “I need time.” Which was something I doubted a man as tantalizing and intimidating as Marcus would be willing to give me.
“Ah . . . but Lex, we are Nejeret. We have an eternity. By the time our courtship is through, you’ll beg me to take you to bed,” he whispered near my ear before leaning back, keeping a hair’s breadth between us from head to toe. “And even then, I may make you wait.”
Every molecule of air disappeared from my lungs, and all of my blood set a direct route to my groin, spilling heat and tension through my lower abdomen. I was nothing but desire for the man in front of me . . . the god. Without thought, I closed the minuscule distance between us, softly brushing my lips against his. I savored his deliciously spicy scent.
Instantly, Marcus shifted forward, pressing me more firmly against the fridge. “Marcus,” I breathed, and it was the last thing I said for several long, glorious seconds.
“Lex, you should know,” he said, kissing the sensitive skin beneath my ear, “that what happens in the At isn’t real. These aren’t our actual bodies. This isn’t actually happening . . . and we’ve never really kissed.” I could feel him grin. “I think I’ll make you wait for the real thing . . . maybe for days . . . maybe for weeks.”
I whimpered.
Gently, he kissed me one last time. He was teasing me. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispered.
In a flicker of color, I was sitting on my couch with Thora curled up in my lap. Leaning the back of my head against the couch, I sighed.
16
Do & Don’t
I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found Marcus lounging outside the entrance to my building the following morning . . . shouldn’t have been, but was. He leaned with his back against the building’s worn bricks, staring up into a sky that was almost perfectly clear. The stark contrast of his very short, very dark hair and long, black eyelashes against the rich golden hues of his skin and eyes was even more striking in the early morning sunlight. As usual, he was impeccably dressed in slate-gray, tailored slacks and a black wool coat, and over it all, he wore confidence like he’d invented it. He embodied what almost every man wanted to be, and who almost every woman wanted to be with.
“Where’s the photographer?” I asked as I exited the building.
His enthralling gaze locked onto me, and with the faintest shift in facial muscles, his jaw became more chiseled, his lower lip more luscious. He was so goddamn good at being irresistible, it was preposterous.
Slinking down several concrete steps, I closed the distance between us. I’d dressed carefully, picking out a snug, boat-neck, crimson sweater and my most flattering jeans paired with dark leather boots that nearly reached my knees. With my second-favorite coat, a hip-length, forest-green pea coat, my ensemble emphasized the few curves my slender body actually had.
From the way Marcus’s eyes narrowed as I approached, I could tell my clothing choice was having the desired effect. I wanted him to crave me so badly that he’d forgo his ridiculous claim that nothing would happen between us for days, or even weeks. I wanted—no, I needed—his real, physical lips to press against mine, his hands to caress me in a moment of uncontrollable passion. I needed evidence that whatever was happening between us was real. I needed something in my life to feel real.
Mimicking his pose, I leaned against the brick wall beside him, our wool sleeves nearly touching.
“The way we look—it’s just part of being Nejeret,” Marcus said silkily.
I cocked my head, watching him watch me.
“We change more in the year after we manifest than in the rest of our long lives. And then we are forever altered . . . not human . . . other.” He sounded slightly disgusted. Does he not like being Nejeret?
“I don’t care,” I said, hoping to dispel his suddenly glum mood. “If I were a photographer, I’d beg you to be my model.” Admittedly, part of me was trying to provoke him, trying to get him to loosen his rigid control. I was hoping to reduce days or weeks to seconds or minutes.
Rotating abruptly, Marcus planted his hands on either side of me and blocked the outside world with his body. Somehow, not an inch of him was touching me. I wanted to growl in frustration.
“What will change about you, Little Ivanov?” he whispered. Apparently, he’d taken a liking to manipulating my grandfather’s surname into his own pet name for me. The cage of flesh and bone was redundant; Marcus’s penetrating gaze—again more gold than amber—pinned me in place better than any physical restraints possibly could. “Why can’t I keep you just as you are?”
“Maybe I won’t change,” I said softly.
He chuckled, causing goose bumps to pebble my skin. “You’ve already started—your eyes have deviated so far from normal human coloring that you’ll have to start wearing contacts soon.”
“Is that what you do?” I asked. Usually his eyes were a rich, black-rimmed amber color, but today they paled to liquid gold. When he nodded, I said, “But not always.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “No, not always.”
I reached my right hand up and traced the sharp contours around his eye, from brow to cheekbone. “I like you better like this . . . au naturel . . .”
He smirked, raising a single eyebrow.
“So, um . . . what were your big changes?” I asked, running my fingers along his jaw. I couldn’t imagine a single piece of him different than it was at that moment.
“It’s hard to describe . . . maybe I’ll take you back sometime, let you decide,” he said.
I was about to tell him that I might just peek into the past on my own, that maybe I didn’t need him to guide me around the At, but he leaned down, inching his mouth past my lips, chin, jaw. Never touching. Speech evaded me. With his nose barely skimming the skin beneath my ear, he inhaled. The noise he made upon exhaling was rough and animalistic, both satisfied and laden with unfulfilled need. Again, I could feel the blood rushing to my belly and lower, moistening and swelling certain sensitive parts in preparation for what my body wanted . . . for what I wanted.
“Time to go, Lex,” he said, his voice barely audible, and entwined the fingers of one hand with mine. He pulled me away from the wall, and hand in hand, we headed toward Denny Hall and the work that awaited us.
After hours of phone calls and emails arranging interviews with potential field school students, I finally left The Pit and stepped outsid
e to stretch my legs. I found it slightly amusing that I’d done nothing remotely archaeological for the past two days—not since deciphering the riddle at the end of Senenmut’s tablet and possibly discovering the secret temple entrance—and instead was helping Dominic arrange the field school logistics. Interviewing, selecting, and prepping the students who would be the rough equivalent of his slaves for several months was apparently too menial a task for Marcus.
“Help Dom,” Marcus had told me as we’d arrived that morning.
“But . . . shouldn’t I be using my deciphering skills? What happened to ‘your job is to uncover Hatchepsut’s many secrets, Ms. Larson’?” I’d asked him, doing a fair job of imitating his confident tone and complex accent.
He’d chuckled. “You’ve already advanced us greatly with the tablet. Now I need you to help Dominic.”
“If you say so, boss,” I’d teased before joining Dominic at the far end of the room. Marcus had disappeared from The Pit shortly thereafter and I hadn’t seen him since.
Early in the afternoon, I left the warmth of Denny Hall, intending to take a walk despite the weeping sky. Once outside, I made it about twenty feet. Just as I was nearing the building’s southwest corner, the sound of two very angry voices stopped me in my tracks—Marcus and Neffe.
Unabashedly, I slinked closer to the smooth, gray stone wall, inching toward the corner and the argument.
“You are unbelievable!” Neffe shouted in exasperation. “I cast my lot with you . . . put my trust in you for how many years? And now—now—you want to risk it all for some . . . some . . .”
“As I said, child, this is none of your concern,” Marcus growled.
“Child? Me? She is the child! Why her, huh? After so long, why her? At least tell me that!” Neffe yelled.
In a tone so cold I could almost feel the weak rain turning to icy needles, Marcus warned, “You forget yourself, girl.”
“I forget nothing!” Neffe hissed right before she barreled around the corner . . . straight into me.