“Why weren’t you sent with the others?” Carrick asked.
She picked up her glass and turned it in her fingers. “Pax can’t remember how we ended up at the reservoir, but he thinks I might. He thinks there might be some kind of plot, and that eventually he’ll get it out of me.”
“What do you think?”
She looked up and found his gaze fixed on her. Like Pax, she got the sense he’d know if she lied. “He could be right.”
“I’d never have guessed that’s what was between you. I assumed you were with him by the way he was acting. He’s very human.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “It’s confusing, isn’t it?”
The comment was directed more inwardly than at him, but he gave her a tight smile. “Very.”
Finding her mouth suddenly dry, she raised her glass to her lips.
Not water. She made a face. The fluid was thick, and very sweet. She noticed a white flower painted on the side of the glass. As she lifted it for a closer look the blossom opened, showing the interior. She set the glass down quickly, glancing at Carrick in alarm.
But the priest’s gaze was focused behind her. She turned to see two masked figures descending into the room. She didn’t need to see their faces to recognize them.
Pax sat down in the chair next to her, and Iris across from him. Iris pushed two masks across the tabletop. “You’ll stand out without these,” she said, nodding toward the patrons in the cushioned area.
Asha hadn’t noticed they were masked, but it was hardly surprising considering the distractions of their natural physiology. One woman seated under a lamp had a full set of silky, lavender-colored wings.
As she and Carrick slipped on their masks the bartender reappeared, grunting the same, “Sagrada.”
“Wine,” said Pax, and the man stumped away again.
Pax eyed their glasses. “You didn’t drink any of that?”
Asha’s heart lurched. “A little,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Lord of the flies,” muttered Iris, as her brother gave a quiet groan.
“What is it?” Asha asked, her tongue feeling too big for her mouth.
“A drug,” he said. “You’re going to feel a little strange soon, if you don’t already. Don’t drink any more.”
“I won’t.” She wasn’t sure whether she’d answered out loud.
As the other three began to murmur about what to do—something about finding Carrick a place to hide for a few days until they could figure out how to get him out of the city—her head felt like it was floating away from her body. Every time she looked at something with an organic shape—the picture on the glass, the flower lamps, the decorative metalwork above the bar—it seemed to come alive in some way. She dropped her eyes to the table, trying to focus and clear her head, and she noticed a line of black insects marching out of the flower, off the glass, and toward her folded arms.
She shoved her chair backward with a yelp.
“Virgin.” The twittering, echoing voice was not one she recognized. It came from elsewhere in the room.
Iris muttered something sharp.
“I need air,” Asha said, rising unsteadily from the table.
Pax rose beside her, holding out his arm for support. She grasped it, and her body swayed. Their forms pressed together as he kept her from falling forward. With her head resting against his chest, she couldn’t help noting the lack of difference between him and the human males of her acquaintance. There was nothing exotic or alien about the way he smelled, or the rise and fall of his breaths. Nothing strange or frightening about the low rumble in his chest that accompanied the words, “Take it slow.” In fact, everything her senses took in about him was soothing and appealing.
He slipped an arm around her waist and guided her toward the stairs. Her feet felt numb, like they were asleep, and they ascended slowly, much of her weight in the crook of his arm. The gray mantis man opened the door for them. She glanced at him on the way out, and his scowling face stretched and distorted until she had to look away.
Outside, the low-lit street spun, and she gripped Pax’s arm. She tilted her face skyward, breathing deeply. In the patch of clear sky overhead, the stars were all doubled, and they too were making lazy circles. The effect was nauseating, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
“How much did you drink?” Pax asked in a low voice.
“Just a sip,” she grumbled. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’ll soon pass. Just keep breathing.”
She listened to the noises in the street. An echo of laughter, and festive music. She breathed the warm night air in and out, nice and easy. She opened her eyes and blinked at the temple spire. As it shifted from peach to mauve, she realized she’d made a poor choice of objects to refocus her vision, and she dropped her gaze to Pax’s face. When none of his features shifted in unexpected ways, she took a deep breath, relieved.
“It’s getting better,” she sighed.
“Good. Let’s walk a little.”
As he guided her, arm still circling her waist, she said, “That’s a potent drink.”
“It’s a hallucinogen, popular with the artistic community. It’s banned, but that doesn’t stop anyone.”
“Why is it banned?”
“It’s also popular with zealots. My father believes it’s dangerous.”
She glanced again at the temple, wondering if he was referring to the sacred rebellion. “What do you think?” she asked.
He eyed her with interest, and she found the dizziness returning—a different kind of dizziness.
“I think the zealots are becoming a problem, but not because of sagrada. It’s not the type of drug that makes people violent. I don’t think there’s any real harm in it.”
She swallowed. “I beg to differ.”
Chuckling softly, Pax guided her into an alley a few doors down from the tavern. Easing her back against a rough brick wall, he said, “Rest for a few more minutes. When you feel steady we’ll go back.”
He stood up, parting their bodies, and pushed back his mask. She did the same, and his eyes settled on her face. Warmth rushed to her cheeks, and to her abdomen.
“What will you tell your father about all this?” she asked him.
“I don’t know yet. I’m pretty much making it up as I go.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I noticed. The two of you seem in over your heads.”
“At this point I’d call that an understatement.”
“I still don’t really understand why.”
He hesitated. She couldn’t make out his expression in the darkness. “Then we both have a mystery, don’t we?”
* * *
Asha dropped her gaze, murmuring, “I guess we do.”
Pax regretted his evasive answer, but what exactly was he supposed to say to her? The truth would confuse and probably frighten her. He wasn’t even sure what the truth was.
“You feel well enough to go back?” he asked.
She nodded, pushing herself free of the wall. “Inanimate objects are no longer animate. Though that’s a blurry line around here.”
He smiled. She had changed since they left the abbey. She seemed surer of herself. More grounded, and at the moment, more relaxed. But that was probably due to the sagrada.
He held out an arm to her. “Just in case.”
She threaded her hand through his arm, and he reached for her mask. As he slipped it back into place, his thumb grazed the pale flesh of her cheek. Standing this close to her, he felt the quickening of her heartbeat. The surge of blood beneath her skin.
Her body had responded to his touch. And not for the first time.
Her lips parted, and he heard the breath move through them. Every sensation was intensified in that moment, and he felt like he was the tipsy one.
He reached up, cradling the back of her neck, and she gave a quiet gasp as he nudged her to the wall. Planting a hand on either side of her head, he lowered his lips to hers. Her face lifted,
allowing him better access, and he groaned and pressed against her.
Her lips were soft, and slightly sweet from the sagrada. He ran his tongue along her lower lip, tasting the drug, and his heart slammed against the inside of his chest. She arched forward, molding her body along his, and the sound of her frantic heartbeat was drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears.
His tongue flicked lightly over her mouth until her lips parted, opening to him. He wrapped his arms around her as their tongues met.
“Friend,” called a voice from behind them.
Pax jumped and spun around.
“A word with you, if you’ll divide yourself from the lady a moment.”
THE DISCIPLE
“What do you want?” Pax snapped, angry at the interruption, and angrier still at himself for losing his head to the point someone was able to creep up on him.
“Forgive the interruption,” purred the man, whose face Pax couldn’t see due to the fact he wore both a mask and cloak. “I wanted to ask whether you’ve heard the prophecy? I’ve found that many people have questions, and often I’m able to help. I’d be happy to treat you and the lady to—”
Pax’s reply of “No, thank you” blended with Asha’s “What prophecy?”
Pax studied her. There was a large quantity of data vying for his attention, but for the moment he’d allocated all of his resources to remaining alert for trouble.
“The Ophelia Prophecy, madam,” replied the disciple.
Asha’s jaw dropped, and Pax’s eyes moved between them. He had no interest in the religious pitch that would certainly follow, but Asha’s reaction did interest him. “The Ophelia Prophecy” was a reference to something that had happened in Granada months ago. Why did it have meaning for her?
“Unfortunately,” continued the man, stepping closer to Asha, “we are on a trajectory to repeat the mistakes of our creators. It will be our downfall. The prophecy has predicted it.”
Pax reached for her arm to draw her away, and felt her muscles tighten under his hand. “We have to go,” he urged, taking a step away from the man, attempting to pull her with him.
The look she leveled at him was devoid of the softness from a moment ago. But he didn’t have time to argue with her.
“What mistakes?” asked Asha as Pax drew her more forcefully. “Let go!” she cried, tugging at her arm.
There was a bite in her tone he remembered well from questioning her, and something more. An edge of eagerness verging on panic. He didn’t like manhandling her, but she didn’t understand the potential risk. The alley was dark, but his mask was off and the stranger might recognize him. And that could go wrong in a number of ways.
“Gentle, my friend,” urged the stranger. “Is there any harm in me answering the lady’s questions?”
Pax hesitated, thinking how to extract them from the situation without drawing more unwanted attention. She was determined enough that they were bound to cause a scene if he tried to force her. Meanwhile the disciple forged on.
“You see, continuing to play God with our evolution is courting disaster. We must reach out to the oppressors, whom we have in turn oppressed, or suffer their same fate. Science is an angel of fire whose arrows will destroy us. Manufactured DNA, genetic manipulation, species exploitation … we must break from the—”
“What oppressors?” breathed Asha. Despite the steady pressure she kept on the arm he was holding, Pax could feel her trembling.
The disciple hesitated, and Pax understood his confusion. It would be an odd question coming from a Manti.
“The humans, in internment, they should be—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupted Pax, “but we don’t have time for this.” He hooked an arm around Asha’s back. “Step out of the way.”
Before they could move out of the alley, four more masked and cloaked figures blocked the entrance.
“What’ve you got there, Micah?” asked one of the newcomers.
In the split second before Pax could react, Asha suddenly dropped, diving free from his grasp.
He lunged for her, but she’d escaped in the direction of the disciple Micah, who’d whipped a knife from under his cloak. He pressed the tip against Pax’s throat.
“I’m not sure I like how you’re treating your lady, friend.”
“I’m not with him,” interrupted Asha, breathless. She moved to stand close to Micah, but her eyes locked with Pax’s. “I escaped from a Scarab today. I met this man in the tavern. He agreed to hide me, but then he brought me here.”
The knifepoint dug in a fraction. Was she trying to help him, or get his throat slit? It could easily go either way at this point.
The alley frosted over with tension. Then someone said with surprise, “Are you human?”
“I am,” she replied. “I was sent here from Sanctuary. I know Ophelia. I know about your prophecy. We might be able to help each other.”
A cold stone turned in Pax’s belly. She was escaping him. Worse than that, she just might be telling the truth.
* * *
The reawakened part of her had taken control, seizing the opportunity to abandon Pax’s protection on the hope these others might be more willing to assist her in her mission to recover her father. Not only that, she had fresh evidence it was dangerous for her to remain close to the Manti prince.
And yet as she watched him watch her, the middle of her chest tightened and ached.
The problem was this sliver of self between her abduction and her awakening—the part of her that Pax had brought to a different sort of awakening. Every decision she’d made—right up until the moment Pax revealed the true nature of Sanctuary—had been based on her belief in a lie. She was beginning to suspect even Zee had withheld information. Only Pax had been honest with her. More than that he’d lied to his father to protect her. More than that, he’d just kissed her in a way no one ever had—in a way that made her want much more than a kiss.
But somewhere in the Manti capital was her father. He was the one person about whom her feelings were still uncomplicated. Finding him trumped everything.
“We need to talk somewhere else,” muttered one of the disciples, glancing over his shoulder. A steady stream of people passed in the street beyond the alley, noisy and high-spirited.
“I’ll take her to the temple,” replied Micah.
“What about her friend?”
Micah studied Pax while Asha held her breath. Finally he said, “Make sure he’s not in a condition to follow us.”
Her gut wrenched, and her eyes jumped to Pax’s face. He gave her a subtle nod, reassuring her, which only made her feel worse. But he could take care of himself.
She held his gaze a moment, knowing if this desperate plan of hers worked she wasn’t likely to see him again. It would leave a hollow place in her. But she’d made her own choice. Had she remained with him, all her choices would have continued to be made for her.
Finally Micah said, “Come with me.”
He led her between the other disciples as they pressed forward.
* * *
The animal in Pax was awake and busy—lighting up nerve fibers, readying his muscles. His mate was walking away from him, and a living wall stood between them. He growled with impatience, at the others and at himself.
She wasn’t his mate, but she might as well have been. Since the moment of their meeting, some unconscious component of his hybrid psychology had been hard at work converting an initial chemical attraction to full-on attachment, manipulating his senses and emotions. The whole process had been accelerated by the guilt he’d felt over his lack of control. Guilt had evolved into protective impulses. All of which left him vulnerable to the woman herself—brave, determined, kind-hearted, tough. The recent addition of “passionate” to that list had sealed his fate.
Their kiss had woven together the components of attraction into a cord that was stronger than his resistance.
“Can we get on with this?” he muttered at the disciples.
A
couple of them chuckled as their cloaks slid to the damp cobblestones, forming nonreflecting pools of black at their feet.
“Didn’t mean to waste your time, friend.”
The four of them—three men and one woman—all wielded blades. He was relieved to see they were only subtly Manti: only one had an extra set of appendages, and none had forearm spikes. Light filtering from the street showed one of the men bore the same set of surgical scars as Pax. It could be that, like Pax, his mantis appendages had been weak. It wasn’t uncommon, and they could be a handicap in a fight. But sometimes motives for such alterations were more complicated. At the core of Manti society—its heart of darkness—was a loathing for transgenic organisms. Self-loathing. It was the primary reason one of his father’s advisors continuously advocated exterminating the remaining human population—so there would be no visible reference for “normal.”
One of the men stepped forward. “Best for you if you don’t put up a fight. Over quicker. Less pain.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” replied Pax.
The rest of the group ranged in a half circle, blocking the alley’s exit. A balcony hung from the house to Pax’s left, but he wouldn’t be able to hoist himself up before the leader reached him.
Picking up an undercurrent of hesitation, he goaded again: “I’m in a bit of a rush.”
The man who’d spoken lunged at him.
Pax spun in a tight circle around him, bringing his elbows down hard on the man’s back. As the disciple hit the ground, Pax jammed a boot into his ribs—and knew from the quiet snap the man was out of the fight. The attacker’s knife had skittered toward the shadowy end of the alley, and Pax retrieved it now, spinning in time to block a swing from the woman.
She recovered quickly and tried to edge around behind him. He swung at her with his blade, cutting her off. He couldn’t afford to let them surround him.
“Why the masks?” he asked the woman.
She answered with another swipe of her blade. This time it grazed his abdomen.
“Do you think you’re keeping some kind of secret?” he continued, hoping to distract her. “I know you’re from the temple.”
The Ophelia Prophecy Page 13