Kiss of the Virgin Queen

by Sharon Buchbinder

  After the incident with Nur, he went home to Silver Spring to visit his mother, a widow since his childhood. Perhaps she could shed light on his strange transformation. The same photograph he’d seen every day of his youth had greeted him as he walked in the door. This time, however, it took his breath away. His father stood next to the Shah of Iran at the twenty-five hundred year celebration of the Persian Empire in the ancient city of Persepolis. A stone wall with raised carvings of Persian soldiers soared up to the blue sky behind them. All these years, he glanced at that photo as he came into the house. On this particular day, it was not his own features mirrored in his father’s smiling expression that caught his eye. Instead, his gaze snagged on the men above the Shah’s head. Persian men who faced one another and protected a regiment of stone soldiers.

  Men with the bodies of lions.

  He roared in shock and disbelief. His mother ran out of the kitchen into the foyer and froze when she saw her son glance between her and the photograph.

  “What is it?” She asked in Farsi. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? When were you going to let me know about—”

  “Come.” His mother motioned for him to follow her. “Let’s drink some tea.”

  Stunned at his mother’s casual manner, he stomped after the still svelte brunette his high school buddies had nick-named Mrs. Robinson because of her strong resemblance to Anne Bancroft. “Mother—”

  She put her finger to her lips, turned, and clattered mugs on the counter. “The gazebo is lovely now.” Steaming cups in hand, she led her bewildered son outside.

  Golden rays of the setting sun streamed through cracks in the thicket of wisteria giving the space a sacred aura.

  His mother pointed to a cushioned white wicker seat. “It’s not safe to talk about this in the house. There are listeners, watchers. Everywhere.”

  His breath caught in his throat. “How long have you felt this way?”

  Eyes cast down, she whispered, “Since the day you were born, my darling son.”

  Her words drove shards of guilt into his heart. Kicking himself mentally for not visiting her more often, he leaned in and spoke in a soft voice. “Mother, are you saying the American government is spying on you?”

  She laughed and nearly spit out a mouthful of tea. She caught her breath and said, “If only it were the CIA.”

  “You’re worrying me.”

  “I’m not crazy, but you should be worried. More about that later.” Her eyes darkened, and her lips thinned. “What happened to you?”

  Arta blew out a long breath and told his mother about the two incidents. She said nothing as he spoke, simply sipped and nodded to encourage him. When he finished, he said, “Your turn.”

  “You must never speak of this inside my home. People much more dangerous than the NSA or the CIA monitor this house. These assassins work for the Ayahtollah.” She gripped her cup so hard her knuckles turned white. “Your father didn’t die of a heart attack. He was stabbed with a poison-tipped dagger during a cocktail party.”

  Arta’s head spun.

  Assassins? Poison-tipped daggers?

  Stuff of Persian legends, not modern times. The gazebo, once so airy and light, closed in on Arta, choking him. He stood and began to pace like a caged lion. “Why was I never told about this?”

  “Your father said you were protected, because I was a human. You were never supposed to turn into…into…him.” She caught his hand in hers. “The’Ifrit must have triggered your change. Nothing else makes sense.”

  He stared into his mother’s eyes. “Tell me everything.”

  In a matter-of-fact voice, she shared the story of the shape shifting lions that protected the royalty of Persia for centuries, all the way back to Shirzad, a fabled lion-man companion to the great King and Prophet, Solomon. First in their half-man, half-lion forms, later in their human forms as bodyguards and trusted confidants, the shifters always guarded the throne. As physicians, they excelled in casting out demons and jinnis. His father was one of the last of the long line of shifters to care for a Persian prince. Worried about the changing political landscape in Iran, the doctor selected a human mate to protect his family and future generations.

  To the best of his mother’s knowledge, during and after the revolution, all the other lion shifters were hunted down and murdered. Even now, decades later, the fanatics listened in on her constantly. Not only was she a “dangerous” feminist, working for women’s rights in Iran, she was the wife and potentially the mother of a shape-shifting lion.

  “Neither your father nor I ever predicted you would be able to shape shift. And I certainly never expected to be forced to tell you the truth about your Persian lion family tree and your father’s death.” She reached across the table and clutched his hand. “I swear, I thought you were protected from this threat. Between your non-lion related name, your choice of psychiatry, a scorned profession among the revolutionaries, and your work for Homeland Security, I was positive you were under the radar. Safe. If the assassins ever get wind of your abilities, they’ll be after you, too. Now you must be on guard every minute, day and night, just as I have been for the last thirty years.”

  He shook his head and forced his thoughts to the present, and his relationship with Ellie. If he struggled to understand himself, how could he expect her to accept this other part of him? How would he explain it to her? Poetry leapt into his mind when he tried to talk to her. He was a scientist, a psychiatrist. He ought to be better at this sort of thing. She was a professional. Eliana would finish the assignment, wrap things up, file her report, and say good-bye. Forever.

  “Dr. Shahani,” Adalwolf interrupted his thoughts. “In your opinion, is it possible for someone to have multiple personalities?”

  Grateful for the distraction, Arta replied with care. “You mean like the book, Sybil?”

  “Yes, exactly. What if what we all witnessed in the woods was a mentally ill werewolf? One not able to distinguish between right and wrong.”

  “Multiple personality disorder doesn’t mean a person doesn’t know right from wrong. Are you going for an insanity defense ahead of a trial?”

  Adalwolf harrumphed. “Aren’t insane people entitled to use it?”

  Arta let out a long breath. “Defendants’ attorneys have the right to mount a defense to the best of their abilities. Whoever the defendant may be.”

  “Even a giant, snarling, drooling, vicious werewolf?”

  “Every monster is allowed his day in court. Trust me, there are plenty of them. My job is to assess them for the legal system.”

  Arta fell silent, thinking back on all the child abusers, rapists, and murderers who used the insanity defense. None of them, however, was possessed. A tough sell in any country, he wondered how it would play in an American court? How would he, an American trained psychiatrist with expertise in jinni possession, provide credible testimony to a jury of the possessed person’s peers? He hoped he was never involved in such a trial. A shape-shifting lion might be accused of possession, too. Then what? He knew the answer. And didn’t like it a bit. There was a reason the Romans called their entertainment zones the circus.

  Eliana called Chief Novak and told her to meet them at the ER in ten minutes.

  “I told you to take me home,” Adalwolf barked at Eliana.

  “Mr. Adalwolf, we must document your injuries, even if they are healing. We also need to swab you for DNA samples, remember?”

  “I didn’t give you consent,” he snarled. “This is false imprisonment. Kidnapping. I know my rights.”

  Before Eliana recited the USA Patriot Act, Arta jumped in. “Mr. Adalwolf, you defended Agent Solomon against someone, something, who may be responsible for the attacks on your family members. You are covered in the attacker’s DNA. The ME had DNA samples from the deceased young woman. Fetal samples are not feasible at this point. The girls are traumatized enough; they need to consider their options, give consent. And, there is a risk to the unborn
” he struggled for the right word—“child.”

  The back of Adalwolf’s neck turned bright red. “I’m a prominent man in town. It’s one thing for people to know I’m a werewolf. It’s another thing for them to see me naked.”

  It was a good thing Eliana had put her blazer over the man’s groin. He could only imagine Adalwolf’s embarrassment if he’d regained consciousness before then.

  “If I give you my trousers, will you go to the ER?”

  He growled assent.

  Arta struggled to remove his pants without pulling off his underwear, no small trick. He caught Eliana staring at him in the rearview mirror, amusement crinkling her eyes. He shook his head and shrugged. So she would see him in his boxer shorts. No biggie, right? How different was that from swim trunks? In the aftermath of nearly losing her, the confined space of the car, and her eyes darting between the road and his backseat striptease, the moment became intimate. Captain Happy Pants liked it and rose to the occasion. Eliana’s eyebrows hit her hairline. She turned a deep crimson, stared straight ahead, and the car lurched forward plunging toward the hospital, civilization, and clothes.

  Arta choked off a laugh, pretended to cough, and failed. She glared at him in the rearview mirror. In a loud explosion of coughing, he handed Adalwolf the pants over the seat. “Wear them in good health.”

  Eliana pulled into the Summertown Medical Center ER entrance with a screech and parked behind a police cruiser. Chief Novak leaped out of the unit and approached the car. “Are you okay?”

  Eliana nodded. “I’m fine. We need to get him inside.”

  Novak spotted Adalwolf in his odd assortment of rags and clothes. “What the hell?”

  Arta waved through the rear window. “Hello, Chief. If you could pull my suitcase out of the trunk and find me a shirt and a pair of slacks, I’d appreciate it.”

  The red haired woman’s eyes practically bulged out of her head.

  “This is one story I want to hear.”

  Eliana ushered Adalwolf out of her car. The man looked as if he was going wading in his borrowed trousers. At least he didn’t balk at the fit.

  Arta couldn’t imagine what the pack leader was going through. First Adalwolf denied any werewolf involvement, now with incontrovertible proof snapping in his face, the alpha wolf was already in high gear, trying to come up with a defense for the attacker. Not guilty by reason of insanity.

  You’d think he’d want to hunt the abomination down and kill it, not defend it.

  Meantime, they had to find a match for the DNA on Adalwolf’s body, no small task, even in a small town. Would they be able to get the townspeople on board? How would they convince the male residents to line up for a cheek swab?

  He tucked his shirt into his pants and strode into the ER waiting room. A cluster of nurses whispered and shook their heads. No one spared him a glance.

  Eliana came out of a hallway, her face a mask of anger.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “One of the pregnant girls miscarried.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Her jaw clenched. “No.”

  He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Tell me.”

  “She bled to death. A nurse found her on the bathroom floor.”

  A commotion erupted at the entrance to the ER, growing noisier every second. A woman with hair the color of burnished steel strode to the front of the throng.

  “I’m looking for Special Agent Eliana Solomon.” She glared at the nurses and swung her laser beam of a gaze around the room. “I know she’s here. I want her front and center. Now.”

  Arta grasped Eliana’s hand. “Who’s asking for her?”

  Eliana nodded. “That would be me.”

  The woman, blue eyes blazing, looked him up and down, then focused on Eliana. “I’m Winifred Schaeffer, wife of that horse’s ass, Mayor Schaeffer. My husband complained the most about you and how you gave him a hard time over this investigation, so I knew you were the one I wanted to talk to. He’s so wrapped up in making the town money, he’s forgotten the real reason he was elected. He’s supposed to be representing the people.” She took a deep breath.

  “Now the Adalwolf family has lost another girl. I’m here with every mother, sister, aunt, cousin, and grandmother in town. We aren’t going to put up with this macho crap one more minute. This predator can’t attack any more girls. What do you need us to do?”

  A look of astonishment wreathed Ellie’s beautiful face. She stepped forward, out of his protective grasp. He longed to pull her back, his hand suddenly cool with the absence of her warmth.

  “Chief Novak needs DNA samples from every male over the age of thirteen in this town. We need to rule suspects in or out.” She glanced back at Arta. He smiled and nodded, mentally urging her to go on. “If you really want to help us, then we need you to be our census workers, going house to house to find, enumerate, and convince men to go to the Community Center to be swabbed. Crime scene technicians will be there to maintain the chain of custody, collect, catalog, and store the samples. Can you help us?”

  Mrs. Schaeffer turned to the buzzing crowd behind her. “Ladies, it’s time to round up the troops, get their butts in here. No arguments. This is war. We will fight this monster with everything we’ve got. And we are going to win.”

  Eliana fished in her pants pocket. “Mrs. Schaeffer, I’m going to put you in charge of the volunteers. Here’s my card. I suggest you divvy up the town and assign your ladies to work in teams of two. I’m thrilled with your help. You’ll probably be more successful than uniformed officers. Call me with names and contact information as you complete sectors. We’ll organize the collections.”

  The mayor’s wife took the card, nodded, and turned to the crowd. “Come on ladies, let’s go back to my house for coffee and strategy planning. Start picking partners now, dress in sensible walking shoes…” Her voice trailed off as she led the Amazonian army out of the ER.

  Arta stepped next to Ellie.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m a little afraid for the men of the town.”

  She nodded. “Mrs. Schaeffer is a force to be reckoned with, isn’t she? Organized, resourceful, and pissed off. Her husband should watch his back. Winifred could be the next mayor.”

  Ellie’s phone played the violin solo from The Fiddler on the Roof. “My father.”

  “Hello, my little woman,” his voice boomed out of the phone.

  Arta suspected the entire ER could hear him.

  “Abba, I’m not deaf.”

  He lowered his voice a decibel, still audible to people within ten feet. “I had a bad dream. You were in terrible trouble.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You can’t fool your father. I bet you almost died.”

  She said nothing, just rolled her eyes at Arta.

  “Where are you? I need to see you, I have to tell you something.”

  “This isn’t a good time. I’m on a case.”

  “A dangerous one, right? I have to tell you something that could save your life. It’s about your ring.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jerusalem, 954 B.C.E.

  Makeda stood on a short stool in front of a tall polished bronze shield, eyed her watery image, and wished she had the obsidian mirror from her palace back home. Home. A pang shot through her. She’d been in Jerusalem so long, she wondered if the people she left behind would even remember her. She closed her eyes and thought of the highlands, rainy season, and the lush meadows surrounding the Great Lake and the Blue Nile, so different from the dry countryside of Israel. Her birds. How she missed hearing their banter as she listened to cases in the courtroom. Hoopoe was talkative, but not nearly as entertaining as the ibis and the emerald parrot when they bickered. Tears pricked her eyes.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  Her father’s voice whispered, “You must stay a virgin. You cannot be a wife and mother and a queen. You must stay focused on serving your kingdom.” But the voice of Solomon responded in her head. “She wi
ll be ruler of two nations; she will bring glory to Sheba and Israel.” Metatron, the right hand of God, led her here. She had to trust in God and follow His guidance, as Solomon did. She blinked and wiped her cheek, lest the servants see her weeping. It wouldn’t do to appear sad tonight of all nights.

  The royal seamstress stepped back and gazed at her work. “Are you happy with your wedding raiment, Queen Makeda?”

  “It is like none other. How did you fasten the pearls and gems to the material along the neckline?”

  “My son is a goldsmith. He creates the strands of gold and jewels, and I sew them to the cloth. I chose the emeralds because they go well with your eyes. I designed a different one for each of King Solomon’s wives.”

  Makeda stepped down, nodded for her handmaiden to give the woman a bag of gold, and waved the servants away. As the sun set on her life as a virgin, she needed to be alone. Her reflection stared back at her. The brass revealed her true feelings: uncertain and shaky.

  “Each of King Solomon’s wives.”

  The thought of being wife number seven-hundred and one fell heavy on Makeda’s heart. How could he call her his love match amid his harem of seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines? She understood well most of the marriages secured allies, often at Bathsheba’s urging.

  Yet not all of the women were selected by his mother. Some he chose on his own. Like her. Unable to contain his joy after disposing of the jinni and winning Makeda’s consent, Solomon had told everyone about the upcoming wedding. He insisted on having the ceremony before the next moon. He burned with desire to be with Makeda—and she with him. But marriage was not an easy road, no matter how much one’s loins smoldered. How long would it take before the glowing embers became ashes? Which woman would he turn to after an argument with Makeda? Whose breasts would console him if she fell short of his wishes on their wedding night? She had her suspicions.

  Over the past week, two of the other queens had made a point of visiting her in her separate quarters, not to welcome her into the harem, but to advise her to go home. Oh, each tried to disguise her hostility, to no avail. Their hidden barbs had pricked her heart. Some worse than others.