by Jasmine Walt
I refused to turn around.
“Be my daughter, my true daughter. Join my family in purpose as well as blood. You and I, we can do great things together,” he cooed.
“No,” I said. “We really can’t.”
“Join me. Obtain the ankh-At for me. Obey me,” he urged.
“Never going to happen,” I told him as I watched the other Set, the one from millennia past, argue with the golden-skinned man.
“I’ll destroy your precious state of Washington,” Set said.
“And then I’ll never obey you. Not ever. I’ll have nothing left to lose,” I told him. Oh God . . . what if he really does it?
His hand latched around the back of my neck, squeezing so hard he forced my spine to arch. “You think that? I am not so sure.”
Suddenly, Set was in front of me. He backhanded me, hitting the left side of my face, and I sprawled onto the ground on hands and knees, spitting blood and saliva. I’d never been hit before, not really. The shock almost overwhelmed the pain . . . for about a second.
Kicking me in the gut, he said, “Take a look, Daughter. See exactly what it is you have to lose.”
I was suddenly crouched on hands and knees in my canvas tent, gasping for breath. The world was dead silent around me . . . too silent.
Did Set sent me back to my body? How’d I get back to my tent? I groaned. God, I hurt . . . Taking a deep, painful breath, I called out, “Marcus? Dom? Vali? Sandra?”
Dead silence.
I pushed myself up to my feet and swiped my swelling mouth with the back of my hand. It came away smeared with blood.
“Hello! Anyone?” I called, passing through the wide-open doorway and into the dry heat of Deir el-Bahri.
In the glaring midday sun, I hadn’t noticed the debris piled on the ground in front of my little doorway. I tripped, stumbling several steps before sprawling out on hands and knees again. My palms were quickly becoming badly scraped, with sharp little rocks slicing into my flesh.
“Damn it,” I grumbled, looking behind me to see what I’d tripped over.
It was Dominic. My Dominic.
“Oh no! No, no no! Dom? Dom!” I scrambled the few feet to his motionless body. “Help!” I yelled. “Someone! HELP!”
Even if the greatest doctor who’d ever lived had heard, it wouldn’t have mattered. Dominic’s open eyes were vacant, his face white and bloodless. I reached out, but snatched my hand back almost instantly. I couldn’t bear to touch him.
Jerkily, I crawled to Marcus’s tent. But after a quick peek through the open doorway, I knew it was empty.
Slowing down my panicked brain, I forced myself to remember where I’d been before I’d entered the At . . . before I’d encountered Set. At the tables under the canopy, eating breakfast with Marcus, Dominic, and Neffe.
Standing, I raced through the middle of camp. When I reached the west edge and saw what lay just beyond one of the tents along the perimeter, I skidded to a halt. It was another person. Familiar chestnut-brown hair fanned over the fine bones of a feminine, middle-aged face. Her arm was outstretched, fingers reaching toward the crumpled body of a stocky man.
Crouching at the woman’s side, I extended a shaking hand toward her to brush the hair from her face, but stopped short. There was no question. I thought maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe it just looked like her. Maybe it was someone else, some other nameless woman. Someone else’s mom. Not mine.
“NOOOOO!” I wailed, pounding the earth with my bloodied palms. I reached for her, needing to feel her in my arms. I had to let her know I was there for her, even if it was too late, but my hands were stopped short . . . by something . . . by nothing . . . by At.
The realization that I was in an echo hit me soundly in the chest. I sat back, taking in my surroundings. Questions swarmed my brain, buzzing, humming, flapping. Is it real? What kind of echo is it? Is it the past? Did something awful happen right after I entered the At? Or is it the future? But why would my parents be here? I remembered Alexander once telling me that temporary, false echoes were allowed for training purposes. Is it a false echo? Did Set fabricate this place? Can he even do that? Marcus had told me that Set was the most talented manipulator of At, so I figured if anyone could create such a detailed, horrific false echo, it was him.
Terrified, I fled from the echo . . . or I tried to. After a brief jarring sensation, I ended up right back where I’d been—on the ground before my dead mother. I couldn’t leave the echo. Somehow, Set was keeping me there. I was in a cage composed of At . . . his cage.
“Lex? There you are! Are you all right?” I spun on my knees at Marcus’s voice. Marcus. Sanctuary. Haven.
“Marcus! Thank—”
My words were cut short by the splattering of warm wetness on my face. Blood welled out of a hole in Marcus’s forehead, and he fell to his knees.
All realization that I was in a fabricated echo evaporated. Marcus, my Marcus, lay dead in front of me. His blood was pooling on the ground, inching toward my splayed fingers.
“NO!” I screamed. Keening, ancient and instinctual, I rocked on my knees beside the body of the man I loved. My essence simmered down to one thing—despair.
Anything but him. Anyone but him.
“Ah, daughter, I should have known,” Set said with satisfaction, then winked. “Got you.”
Minutes, hours, days later, I trembled beside another bloodied, dead Marcus. How many? Why?
“Just do what I say. Obey me, and I won’t kill him again,” Set explained for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
Because if I obey you, mankind will be destroyed, you bastard! My perpetually bloody mouth opened in a grim smile, and I spat out some pinkish saliva. Splatters landed on his designer shoes. “Maybe I just like the sound of your voice when you’re pissy,” I cooed.
“You little whore,” he howled, kicking me in the abdomen. I curled into the fetal position, but it didn’t stop him. Aiming for my back and legs, Set kicked me until I could no longer think. There was only pain.
Sometime later, I heard the voice of an angel. “Lex . . . why are you on the ground?” It was Marcus, again.
I needed him . . . to hold me . . . to tell me everything would be okay . . . to remind me to survive. I needed him to remind me why I should want to survive.
“Don’t look at him,” Set commanded.
Right, I thought. If I look at him, he dies. If I disobey you, he dies. Against my every instinct, my every desire, I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Lex . . . Little Ivanov, come here,” Marcus said, sounding worried.
“Tell him you hate him. Tell him he means nothing to you,” Set ordered.
But I love him . . . he means everything to me. “NO!”
A gunshot. The heavy sound of a body hitting the ground. Both had become so familiar that they were like my heartbeat and the whoosh of air slipping in and out of my lungs.
Again.
And again.
And again. Forever.
“Lex . . . why won’t you look at me?” Marcus asked, sounding heartbroken.
Because I can’t. Because you’ll die. I can’t watch you die, not again.
“Please Lex, tell me what’s wrong. I’ll do anything . . . I love you!” Marcus exclaimed.
“Tell him you hate him. Tell him he means nothing to you,” Set ordered.
With a deep, horrified breath, I croaked, “Marcus, I hate you. You mean nothing to me.”
“Now look at him,” Set directed.
I turned, and nearly fell to my knees. Marcus, in all of his masculine glory, was weeping.
“Why, Lex?” Marcus asked, his golden eyes burning accusation into mine.
“I . . . I . . . can’t,” I gasped.
“Touching, really,” Set said urbanely. “Now come give Daddy a kiss. And make it count.”
“Never!” I hissed and watched a bullet tunnel through Marcus’s skull.
Closing my eyes, I bowed my hea
d at the death of my latest Marcus. I never wanted to watch him die again. I would trade the world for him. It was what Set wanted, for me to be willing to trade something for the world . . . for there to be some price high enough to buy my obedience . . . for me to make that decision on instinct, every time. He’d succeeded.
“I’ll give you some time to think,” Set said before vanishing.
But I didn’t need time to think—he’d broken me. He’d won. Anything for Marcus. The world for Marcus.
I would obey.
28
Marcus
If anyone even mentioned the solstice or the Nothingness again, Marcus was going to lose it. He gripped the edge of his desk with both hands, waiting for his daughter or one of the men sitting on either side of her to speak. His head was throbbing, and his hands would have been shaking if not for their death grip on the desk. Bonding withdrawals. If he didn’t get them under control soon, the withdrawals would be the death of him. Literally.
Neffe opened her mouth, took a deep breath, and exhaled loudly. “This is ridiculous! The solstice is in a w—”
“I don’t care!” Marcus shouted, flipping his desk over as his rage and pain converged within him, erupting outward. Various pens, papers, and books went flying. He was sick of talking about things that didn’t matter. Finding her ba was all that mattered.
Marcus didn’t care that his refusal to leave his tent and its priceless occupant for more than a few minutes forced his people to come to him whenever they needed to speak with him. He was used to people coming to him. He didn’t care that everyone treated him like he had lost most of his mental faculties. He didn’t care about the excavation or the Nothingness or the destruction of the goddamn world.
Nothing mattered but the woman lying in At-qed on his cot—their cot. She’d been like that for nearly three months. He’d never heard of anyone remaining in the suspended physical state for so long, and he couldn’t help but imagine every passing second damaging her body. Theoretically, she could survive for years in At-qed without food or water. Theoretically, to her body, only a few hours had passed. Theoretically, if she woke at that moment, she would feel like she’d taken a several-hour nap. Theoretically.
Apparently unperturbed by his outburst, Neffe brushed a few stray papers off her lap. “We have to do something,” she grumbled, looking to Alexander and Dominic for support.
Marcus glared at her for a long time before looking away, unable to bear the weight of her pitying expression. He couldn’t stand to look at anyone for more than a few seconds—they all felt sorry for him, and he hated them for it. They were wasting their energy worrying about him when they should have been finding a way to help her. Lex.
“Find her,” he growled. “That’s doing something.”
“And if she’s not anywhere? If she can’t be found? If she’s just gone?” Neffe asked, and Alexander and Dominic held their breath. Marcus’s volatility became more dangerous each day that passed without Lex’s ba returning to her body.
It was the pain, and not just emotional devastation at the possibility of losing her forever, but the tormenting, ever-increasing physical pain of bonding withdrawals. Unlike kicking a regular addiction, Marcus’s need—his craving—for her bonding pheromones would only get worse. Only two things could stop the pain—Lex returning to her body and becoming one with him in the most intimate of acts, or his death.
Standing, Marcus strode the few paces into the tent’s second room and sat beside Lex on the edge of the wide cot. She lay on her back, slender and pale and, as far as his eyes could tell, healthy. Neffe examined her every day to make sure nothing was amiss, and he washed her every night so she would be comfortable.
Gazing down at her, Marcus ran his fingers along the silken strands of mahogany hair that splayed across the off-white pillowcase. She looked so peaceful with her eyes closed and lips barely parted . . . so unlike her usual, focused expression. Marcus imagined her face with a faint line between her eyebrows and her eyes narrowed in thought . . . or accusation . . . or determination. He closed his eyes for a long moment, swallowing his rising despair.
Gently, he brushed his thumb across her soft, rosy lips, again trying to press them together, but she refused to keep her mouth closed. He traced his fingers over her chin, down the steep slope to her slender neck, and lower, until his palm rested over her heart . . . and he waited. A minute. Two. Three. Thud-THUMP.
He tried to speak twice before he could form the words. His mouth was too dry, his throat constricted. “If she’s gone,” he said hoarsely, “then nothing matters anymore.”
Marcus heard a rustle of fabric as Neffe stood. “Father—”
“Leave me,” he said quietly. “Dom, you stay.”
He didn’t look behind him to watch Neffe and Alexander’s hasty exit, but the scuffle of shoe soles on canvas and the brief burst of less stagnant air told him that they had left. It would be . . . difficult, what he was about to do . . . difficult and cruel, but also necessary.
“Come here,” Marcus said to the only other conscious person in the tent. Dom had been his right hand, functioning as his protégé for centuries, and Marcus trusted few above him. What he was about to do might destroy everything between them.
The Frenchman moved instantly, stopping at the head of the cot. He stared down at Lex’s porcelain face, his pale, sharp features etched with longing.
Slowly, Marcus slid his hand down the shallow valley between her black linen-covered breasts, letting it settle in the curve of her waist. “She’s perfect, is she not?”
The choking sound that escaped from Dominic’s throat confirmed his suspicions—Dominic was in love with Lex . . . with his Lex. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, but it was what he needed to hear. “What would you do to bring her back?” Marcus asked, deceptively calm.
“Anything,” Dominic whispered, his accent heavier than usual.
“Why can’t you find her?”
“I’ve told you—”
“Tell me again,” Marcus ordered.
Exhaling his frustration, Dominic explained, “Every time I get a sense of where he’s holding her in the At, it’s as though I’m blocked by a wall. I can’t get through. I can’t even see what’s on the other side. I’m just not strong enough.”
“So what would make you stronger?” Marcus asked.
“More of Set in my veins—sharing half of his DNA just isn’t enough” Dominic said caustically. “It’s like there’s a scale I can’t quite tip enough in my favor to break through.”
Marcus turned his head abruptly, focusing on the man standing beside him. “And if I could increase it? If you entered the At joined with someone who could tip the ratio of Set DNA in your favor?”
“Hypotheticals get us nowhere,” Dominic responded.
“It’s not hypothetical.”
Dominic shook his head slowly. “But that would mean . . . Dieu! Set reproduced with his own human offspring?” His severe features twisted in disgust.
Marcus nodded, equally appalled. It was one of the most horrific crimes their people could commit, but for once, he was glad of his ancient, misguided friend’s heinous faults. Set having reproduced with his own carrier daughter might very well save Lex.
“Only once, that I know of,” Marcus said.
Dominic was suddenly alert, displaying the razor-sharp intensity that had drawn Marcus to him when they first met centuries ago. “Who? Where?”
Marcus looked back down at Lex, flexing his fingers into her tantalizingly soft flesh. “She’s here,” he rasped. “With her mother.”
“With her mother?” Dominic asked, clearly surprised. Only the very young still had mothers, since Nejerettes couldn’t bear children. Every Nejeret’s mother was a human carrier. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“She hasn’t manifested yet.”
“You would force her?” Dominic asked, horrified.
“Without an ounce of hesitation or remorse. But the question is, will you?�
� Marcus asked.
It was a horrible, dreadful thing to ask of Dominic. Forcing any Nejeret to manifest by thrusting them into the At essentially froze the Nejeret’s body at its current state of physical maturity. If the Nejeret or Nejerette were too young, he or she would die. If the Nejeret or Nejerette survived, his or her body would remain perpetually on the cusp of adulthood. In terms of Nejeret crimes, forcing someone to manifest was second only to incestuous procreation with your own human offspring—but it wasn’t as bad. It was acceptable—it had to be. For Lex.
Dominic only hesitated for a moment before answering. “Yes, I’ll do it . . . for Lex. How old is the girl?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re certain she’ll manifest . . . that she’s truly Nejerette?” Dominic asked. If she weren’t, attempting to force manifestation would be a death sentence.
Marcus nodded. “She’s already showing the signs of pre-manifestation.”
“Who?”
“Katarina Dubois, Gen’s daughter.”
“Merde! I didn’t realize Gen was . . . how did you discover she’s Set’s daughter?” Dominic asked with morbid curiosity.
“I had her DNA tested as soon as I learned Set had impregnated her. Had to know if she was an Ivanov,” Marcus said. “She wasn’t.”
“I see. Get the child to agree, and I’ll do it.” Dominic looked nauseated as he spoke. “Get her to agree, and we can find Lex.”
“Done,” Marcus said, rising from the cot. “Wait here.” He strode from the tent with an undeniable purpose. The ache in his head spread throughout his body as he walked. It was always worse when he moved.
“Sir?” a man chirped from Marcus’s right as he marched through the camp.
“No.”
“But—”
Marcus thrust his arm out, effectively clotheslining the Nejeret. Less than a minute later, he reached Genevieve and Kat’s tent and ducked through the small doorway.
“Marcus!” Genevieve exclaimed, rising from her seat. The desk in front of her was filled with empty and half-empty bottles. She’d continued her role as purveyor of the mystical and occult—mostly rubbish—as soon as they’d set up camp. “I still haven’t found anything that can draw her back to her body,” she said.