by Jasmine Walt
“And that would be as what?” I fumed.
He answered without hesitation. “The first thing you think of upon waking and the last upon falling asleep. The man you call out to in times of unbearable pain and desperate pleasure, and the man who will do anything to keep you alive,” he professed, his black-rimmed gold eyes burning through my anger.
“Oh,” I said softly.
“I tried for two months, but I . . . I had to return,” he said, sounding desperate. Marcus was evidently unused to being ruled by emotion. How had I sauntered into his world and ripped apart his rigid control and unfailing logic? What made me so special? I honestly didn’t understand why I had such an effect on him. But, I was glad I did.
“Heru will set his heart on her,” I said quietly, quoting Nuin’s prophecy.
Marcus released me, bowing his head and turning away to face the window once more. “So they told you. I made them swear not to. Who disobeyed me?”
“Does it really matter . . . if they did it for me? The person responsible is sworn to me now, not just you,” I reminded him, hoping to spare Neffe whatever punishment her father might want to dole out.
Grudgingly, Marcus said, “Fine. It is done.”
I hesitated, then spoke, picking my words carefully. “I understand why you left, Marcus, I really do. It was a clever idea. Idiotic, but clever.”
“What are you saying?” he asked, his voice rough. He continued to stare out the window.
“Just that I understand why you did it . . . why you tried to work around Nuin’s prophecy. But you need to understand something.” I glared at the back of his head. “You hurt me!” At my words, or maybe at the harsh anger laced through them, he bowed his head lower. “The way you spoke to me in front of the others,” I continued, “and then you left and I . . . it felt like you took a part of me with you . . . an essential part.”
Without warning, he turned and knelt before me.
I said nothing, unable to form any sounds when faced with such a proud man kneeling at my feet. I desperately wanted to touch him, and I had to consciously stop my hands from reaching out.
Holding my gaze with eyes blazing like golden suns, Marcus spoke. “I live to serve, Meswett. My life is yours, Meswett, may you live forever.”
I inhaled sharply. I’d heard those words dozens of times from all my guards and had accepted every offering, but hearing them from Marcus disgusted me.
Falling to my knees, I stared at him—his eyes were liquid, molten, and challenging. “I do not accept your service or your life, Nejeret. I refuse to be the Meswett to you.”
He gazed at me, an unfathomable mixture of emotions altering his expression—widening his eyes, tensing his jaw, parting his lips. Heat and desire burned in his eyes, and I thought he might ravish me right then and there. I wanted him to. I wanted an excuse to experience every carnal thing he’d learned in his thousands of years, and beyond that, to be as close to him as possible, both physically and emotionally. Desperately, I wanted him to take the decision out of my hands. But Marcus was a master of control and desire . . . and anticipation.
He rose and moved away so quickly that I almost fell forward. When I regained my balance, he was once again staring out the window.
Holding my head high, I stood but didn’t approach him. “Why return now?” I asked. Why did losing the trial bring you back to me?
Fists clenching, he explained, “That little piece of shit had his hands all over you . . . he had his tongue shoved in your mouth, his hand up your skirt. I can’t stand the idea of him getting near you again. Just knowing he has those memories, that he can recall the feel of your most intimate parts at will, makes me want to rip out his throat.” He paused, then added, “Which I may still do.”
I approached him cautiously, hoping to avoid triggering the rage that boiled just beneath his surface. Gently touching his shoulder, I swallowed my pride and said, “Marcus . . . I’m glad you’re back.”
Marcus sighed, regaining his control. “As am I.”
I let my hand slip down his arm and rest in the crook of his elbow. “Come on, there’s a huge banquet downstairs to celebrate the end of the trial. I think they’re all just happy we don’t have to go out in public en masse for a while. We really do draw the attention of the humans . . . they must think we’re a pack of day-walking vampires or something . . .”
Shaking his head, Marcus almost smiled. “Yes, I’ll come down to your little feast. I have news to share with everyone. Besides”—he gazed down at me in a way that made me want to melt into his arms—“I’ll use any excuse to touch you for a few more minutes.” He was studying me intently. “You’ve changed,” he said, a note of sadness in his voice.
“Not where it matters,” I told him softly, earning a faint smile.
Arms linked, we made our way downstairs, acquiring Vali and two more bodyguards along the way. When we entered the dining hall—what could easily have been classified as the most tasteful of ballrooms—the Nejerets filling it slowly fell into an eerie hush.
Marcus gazed around the room, his expression haughty. He was Heru, the falcon god, patriarch of one of the most powerful Nejeret familial lines. When he entered any room he commanded the attention of everyone present, and like a celestial body, his gravitational pull required everyone to remain aware of him hours later. Over a hundred pairs of Nejeret eyes were locked on him, riveted.
Releasing his arm, I stepped back a few paces.
“My family and friends, I greet you! And I thank you from the bottom of my heart”—he touched his right hand to his chest—“for taking such good care of the Meswett in my absence. I assure you, it is my intention to never leave her side again.”
Echoing the emotion in my chest, an enthusiastic cheer roared throughout the room for a few moments. They all knew the prophecy, and they knew what it meant for Marcus to make such a claim.
“I have news to share with all of you. My time away was split between Kemet and Firenze,” he stated, earning hushed speculation from nearly everyone. That he’d spent time in Kemet, the ancient name for Egypt, indicated he’d been doing something related to the upcoming excavation. Firenze—Florence, Italy—I’d recently learned, was the auspicious location of Ivan’s headquarters and therefore the international center for his familial line—for my ancestral line. Was Marcus visiting Ivan?
“I met with many officials in our ancient homeland,” Marcus continued, “and am pleased to announce that the excavation has been moved up. We will depart on the twenty-second of March.”
I glanced at Dominic and Neffe just in time to see them exchange a look of shared angst and frustration. Everything, from the field school participants to the housing and travel arrangements, was set up for a departure date roughly two months later than the one just announced. Marcus, who didn’t care to dirty himself with such menial tasks, would no doubt leave the tireless job of logistical rearrangement to Dominic and Neffe. They were going to be a joy to work with for the next week.
“My second piece of news,” Marcus said to the quieting crowd, “regards this most recent unpleasantness. The six remaining members of the Council of Seven have met to pass sentence on the Set-cult member, Mike Hernandez. As you can all imagine, Ivan was quite distraught about the human’s actions toward the Meswett, his great-granddaughter. He felt the human justice system would likely fail our most important sister in her time of need. In anticipation of their failure, we found him guilty and sentenced him—”
“The tyranny of the Council and their false prophecy will end with the Meswett’s death!” a man shouted from the back of the room.
Gasps erupted throughout the cavernous space as men and women turned to search the back of the dining hall for the speaker.
Marcus’s body slammed into mine, knocking me to the marble floor, just as three explosive cracks sounded in quick succession. I lay on my back, something warm and wet spreading across my torso. Is it blood? Am I bleeding? Marcus’s ashen face was inches from mine, hi
s black pupils constricting until his eyes were more golden than I’d ever seen them.
“I’ve got him!” a woman shouted in the erupting cacophony. She sounded distant and hollow, like she was speaking through a tin can phone.
“Will you accept . . . my life now, Little Ivanov?” Marcus rasped through bloodstained lips. “I give it . . . to you . . . gladly.” He rested his head on my shoulder and fell still.
“No!” I shrieked. “NO! I won’t accept it! I don’t want it! NO! Take it back!” I shouted, repeating variations of the same words over and over again. Why didn’t I tell him how I felt? Why am I so stubborn? I’m always so stupidly stubborn!
Is he dying? Is he dead? NO!
Hands were on me, gentle and firm, and four pairs of concerned eyes stared down at me from familiar faces . . . alive faces. But none of them was the right face. Why wasn’t Marcus looking at me the way they were? Why wasn’t he looking at me at all? Why was he just lying on top of me, unmoving?
Dominic asked me something, but his words didn’t make any sense. They were meaningless . . . everything was meaningless without him. Why isn’t he moving?
At my blank stare, Dominic growled, “Was she hit? Neffe! Did any bullets hit her?!”
“I don’t know! There’s so much blood . . . I think it’s all from my father. We need to move him,” she replied. “Now!”
Marcus’s body was rolled off mine and Neffe’s precise hands began examining every inch of my body. I stared at Marcus’s blood-smeared face, at his vacant eyes, while Neffe searched me for bullet holes that weren’t there. She was focusing on the wrong body—she needed to be working on him—a realization that snapped me out of my shock.
I pushed her hands away. “I’m fine! Help him! HELP HIM! If he dies . . . If he dies . . .”
Somehow, Neffe read the desperation in my eyes, a desperation verging on insanity. Her resolve hardened, and she spun on her knees. “Vali! Pick him up—carefully!” she ordered, pressing a wad of cloth napkins against her father’s punctured, bleeding chest while the huge, blond man lifted him off the floor.
I followed as they took Marcus’s body to a nearby room, one I’d yet to explore. I was surprised to find a well-stocked home clinic. I might have wondered what the hell it was doing in the main house of the Heru compound, but all I could think about was Marcus. He can’t die. He’s lived for thousands of years . . . he can’t die!
“Carlisle, find the three oldest Nejerets here and begin drawing their blood,” Neffe ordered. “We need to transfuse.”
“Take mine, please,” I begged.
Quietly, Dominic explained, “His body needs stronger blood . . . more mature blood. The older the Nejeret, the more developed their regenerative abilities. I’m sorry, Lex, but you can’t help him.” Until Dominic spoke, I hadn’t noticed his arm around my waist keeping me standing.
“Don’t we need a doctor?” I asked, watching Neffe cut off her father’s shirt.
“Neffe has more medical degrees than any other living being, Nejeret or otherwise. She’s the best,” Dominic informed me.
I watched Carlisle herd in his three chosen, ancient blood donors, one of which was Sandra. I hadn’t known she was among the oldest of Marcus’s line. “What about their blood types? What if they have the wrong kind?” I asked, panic and fear thick in my voice. “We might kill him!”
“Start the transfusion,” Neffe told another Nejerette I didn’t recognize. “He’s AB positive—a universal receiver,” she explained as she cut an impossibly deep incision down the center of Marcus’s chest. Blood, thick and incredibly dark, welled up and over the edges of the incision, and not once did Marcus flinch.
Because Marcus was dead.
22
Age & Wisdom
Neffe revived Marcus three times before he finally stabilized. One of the bullets had pierced his heart, the other two his left lung—it had taken her fifteen minutes to repair the wounds enough that his vital organs would mend themselves properly. Once she’d cracked his sternum open, I had to look away.
“He’ll live, I’m positive,” Neffe told me as she shamelessly peeled off her bloody clothes in the center of the home clinic. I hit Dominic’s arm with the back of my hand for his equally shameless ogling.
“What? I’ve seen it all before . . . several times,” he replied, his thin lips curling up into a sly, close-mouthed smile.
Neffe rolled her eyes and shrugged. “Sometimes I get lonely.” She motioned for me to follow her into the attached bathroom, where she stepped into the shower. Marcus’s blood was all over her, even in her hair. I, on the other hand, only had it on my shirt.
Shutting the door, I asked, “So, what happens now?” I hopped up and perched beside the sink on the white tile counter.
From beyond a fogged glass door, Neffe explained, “Now he regenerates. It could take him up to twenty-four hours to heal enough to regain consciousness. All of his body’s energy is currently going toward repairing his vital organs. We’ll move him up to his suite, and if you’d like, you can stay with him there. I just assumed that once he returned, the two of you would start sharing a bed . . .”
“Neffe . . . he’s your dad!” I exclaimed. “How can you even think about that?”
She laughed, and the sound reverberated in the increasingly steamy, confined space. “You should ask around about his reputation.” She paused. “Actually, maybe you shouldn’t. Anyway, he’ll look different for a while—noticeably thinner and possibly sickly or older. His body will be focused entirely on healing what it needs to survive, not on remaining young or robust,” she explained. “But don’t worry, he’ll be the old Heru—Marcus—in no time. One of the perks of being so ridiculously ancient.”
After my mini-coma, I’d lost weight and appeared sickly, and I’d only been out for a handful of hours. Marcus, on the other, had actually died . . . several times. How different will he look?
After listening to the shower run for a long moment, I asked the question that had been troubling me since I became certain of Marcus’s recovery. “Neffe, what about the guy who shot him?”
“Ah, yes. He is, by his own stupid announcement, guilty of attempting to assassinate the Meswett and nearly murdering a member of the Council of Seven. We don’t kill our kind easily, but he’ll be executed . . . after he’s interrogated, of course. We must discover the other traitors behind the attack. Do you approve?”
“Yes,” I hissed, surprised by the venom the single word could contain. I wanted to tear the shooter apart with my bare hands.
“Wonderful,” Neffe said, shutting off the water and stepping out of the shower. I tried to ignore her perfect, curvaceous body while she toweled off, but it wasn’t easy. I frowned, knowing I would never have curves like hers.
Unhurried, Neffe slipped into a soft white robe. “Now, I have many things to do for the excavation if we truly are to leave next Friday. You should go upstairs and change, then go to my father. Sit with him. Your presence will bring him comfort.”
I did as she suggested, winding my way through hallways, stairwells, and corridors, Vali leading and Sandra trailing behind me. I stopped by my own rooms just long enough to exchange my bloody silk blouse for a plain black T-shirt and to wipe the crusted blood off my stomach before heading to the suite next door—Marcus’s suite. The two guards at the door instantly let me inside, offering supportive smiles.
Thanking them, I slipped through Marcus’s sitting room without a single glance around me—I needed to see Marcus, not what he owned. But, holy crap, I was terrified. Will I even recognize him?
“How is he?” I asked Dominic, who was standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom.
“He’s healing,” my half-brother said, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “He’s . . . did Neffe explain that he would look different for a while?”
“Yeah. Thanks, by the way, for everything you did. I probably would have collapsed if you hadn’t kept me standing.”
Dominic lifte
d his hand, and with gentle fingers, tilted my face up so he could see it better. “It was nothing.” A faint smile softened his sharp, pale features. “Someday I’ll tell you of our father. I’ll tell you of his treatment of my mother and of me. Then, I think, you’ll understand why I would do anything for you, the one prophesied to cause his destruction.” Or the world’s. Dominic’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but before I could voice my doubts, he dropped his hand and said, “I’ll leave you two to your happy reunion.” He left me in the doorway and sat in the furthest armchair.
With an apprehensive sigh, I walked into Marcus’s bedroom. It took me several breaths to fully comprehend that the middle-aged man lying under the covers in the enormous, four-poster bed was Marcus.
As I approached the bed, I took note of all the little changes to his face. His hair was salt and pepper instead of jet black, and there were faint wrinkles on his brow, at the corners of his eyes, and around his mouth. Some of the precision of his bone structure had been softened. I let out a shaky laugh, thinking it was so typical of Marcus that he would look like a dapper older gentleman instead of someone suffering from a chronic illness, which had been my body’s reaction to using regeneration to heal.
I grasped his nearest hand, wrapping both of mine around it. “I will never accept your life in exchange for mine,” I whispered vehemently. “Do you understand me, Marcus? I refuse to live in a world where you don’t exist.”
I laid my forehead on the bed between my arms. To an observer I probably looked like a woman deep in prayer. If I were, it was to a very old, very proud man, who had once been considered a god. There, lying in supplication to Marcus or Heru—whoever he was—I fell asleep. Thankfully, I didn’t dream.