Mark of the Witch

by Maggie Shayne

But not more dangerous than Dom knew, Tomas thought.

  * * *

  I was becoming tired of being surrounded by people who saw everything as a sign, as some otherworldly message, a clue. People who blamed everything on gods or devils, and who considered praying or casting spells to be the maxed-out top of their personal responsibility. I’d forgotten for a while there just why I’d walked away from organized religion of any kind.

  Religious people were all alike. Every one of them. Leaning on crutches that were inventions of weak minds. There was a logical explanation for what was happening to me. I had only come here to rule out the illogical ones. And yeah, maybe I had also let myself be swayed by those milk-chocolate eyes and the urge to drag my fingers through that thick, dark hair.

  At least that was what I was still trying to believe. Admittedly, that meant that what was happening to me was some kind of mental breakdown, which wasn’t a much more pleasant prospect than past lives and a vengeful demon. But a little.

  Okay, maybe deep down inside I knew better, and maybe that knowing was growing bigger by the minute, but I wasn’t ready to concede.

  Not just yet. It scared me to realize how close I had come to buying into the crazy. But demons didn’t plant bombs. People did. Ordinary human dirtbags. Often in the name of religion, which was another reason I disliked it.

  We headed into another gorgeous building—the architecture on the Cornell campus was still blowing me away with every freaking building we passed—and wove through a couple of hallways and up one flight to Professor Yates’s office. He booted up his computer and looked over at Tomas.

  As Jon stepped out of the way and Dom looked on, Tomas sat down behind the desk and began tapping keys. Jonathon looked up and met my eyes. “There’s coffee—only about an hour old—if you want,” he said, nodding toward a small table in the corner.

  I went for it. Now that I was back on the juice, I got grouchy if I didn’t get enough of it. He had a few heavy mugs, white with green stripes around the tops. I filled one, searched for creamer and wondered why coffee always tasted better out of just the right kinds of mugs. Like these.

  “Mini fridge,” Jonathon said, reading my mind and nodding toward another corner.

  I was stirring the thick cream—not half-and-half, real cream, because clearly the prof knew how to live—into my mug, watching its golden swirls transform my coffee, when Tomas said, “It’s gone.”

  “What’s gone?” I asked.

  “The video of you kicking the hell out of those subway muggers without ever touching them, and screaming at them in what I think was ancient Babylonian.”

  I sighed in relief, taking a drink and knowing that any second he’d be asking for my phone, where the video was saved.

  I was licking my lips, savoring the taste of what had to be some kind of exotic blend, when blackness descended like a heavy curtain dropping faster than an ancient Babylonian witch from a cliff. I heard the cup break on the floor at my feet. A momentary feeling of utter remorse for the wasted delight washed through me as hot liquid spattered my boots. But other than that, I pretty much checked out at that point.

  * * *

  Tomas had been just about to ask Indy for her phone when suddenly she dropped her mug and stood with her arms pulled behind her back. Her feet were together, body tilted slightly forward as if she was standing on a precipice and about to fall over. And damn if there wasn’t a breeze moving her hair. Inside the office.

  He shot out of the desk chair. Everyone else in the room had frozen in place, just staring at her. She stood there, eyes closed, hair wafting in a breeze that seemed to grow stronger, lifting it higher.

  “What the hell is—”

  “Shh,” Tomas said, cutting Jon off, then gesturing to include them all in the command. And then he approached her, carefully, cautiously. “I’m here to help you,” he said softly.

  “Atta balt_ata u anāku mūt i-ta-x!”

  Tomas shot a look at Jon, who quickly scrambled back behind the desk, turned his computer around so the screen was facing outward and hit a button on the keyboard. “Babylonian,” he said. “Early period. God, this is tough. I’ve heard it spoken by linguists trying to re-create the language, but this is…this is raw. This is authentic. The accent…everything! It’s…it’s like it’s real. All right, uh, I think she’s saying, You are alive…but I am dying....”

  Tomas nodded, though he hadn’t taken his eyes off Indy for more than an instant. “You’re not dying. I’m here to help you. To save you. Can you…can you tell me your name?”

  Her eyes flashed open and met his, and the power they held hit him in the gut, nearly doubling him over. He felt its force in every part of his body, and it was intensified by the shock that her eyes were dark, dark brown, perhaps even ebony, now. Yes, black. He couldn’t distinguish the irises from the pupils. She glared at him, her hair blowing even more in the nonexistent wind, and she said “In-DEE-rah!”

  Jon peered at his computer screen, then at the girl whose image was reflected in it, its built-in camera recording her every move. “Tomas, what the hell is going on here?”

  Tomas held up a hand for silence, but Indy answered for herself, not in her own voice, but in English that seemed to be a strain for her to speak, laden with a thick accent. “He ees aboud to keel me.” She nodded toward Tomas. “To…poosh me over.” She looked down, no doubt seeing not a carpeted floor but a vast emptiness with jagged rocks at the bottom.

  “No,” Tomas said. “Not me. I won’t hurt you. I would never— I wasn’t there then.”

  “Yes, you are dere. Your hands upon my back. You are de one. You keel me den. You keel me now. You!”

  He stared at her, not knowing what to say, but she went on, the words foreign, his mind not even registering them this time until Jon whispered, “Even though I loved you.”

  And then, with a bloodcurdling scream, Indy pitched forward and fell facedown onto the floor.

  9

  I remembered it all when I awoke. Every last bit of it, in startlingly clear and vivid detail. I remembered standing on the edge of that cliff far from the city, with my sisters on either side of me. And the arrogant high priest Sindar giving orders from a safe distance. He’d stood on a tall boulder, above us all, shiny bald head painted in designs of red and black. The wind was snapping his red robes, and there was malice in his eyes. I’d hated him then. I hated him now. The emotion filled me and flowed like acid from my pores. It burned, my hate for that bastard.

  And that other man, my sister’s lover, beaten bloody, being held and forced to watch. Him, I pitied. And even admired. Even though he could barely stand upright on his own, he struggled against the bastards who held him. He’d murdered the king in his rage, trying to escape and save us. Or her, at least. Lilia.

  I knew his name, that tortured man. It was Demetrius.

  And I remembered Tomas. Not his name—that hadn’t been his name then. But it was him. There was no doubt in my mind it was him. He was a servant of the temple, as were the two men who stood behind my sisters. Apprentice priests, learning at the feet of the master. It was Tomas who had stood behind me with his hands on my back that terrifying, fateful day.

  How I knew, I could not be sure. He hadn’t looked the same. Oh, his hair was similar, dark and thick, though it had been longer then. His eyes had been darker, and closer set. They were a lighter brown now, set farther apart. They were also wiser, deeper somehow. His jawline had been harder then, his lips thinner. Today the jaw was strong but not cruel, and his lips full and thick. He did not look the same. He did not occupy the same body. And yet I knew him. Sensed him.

  Loved him.

  He’d been a young priest, obeying the commands of Sindar. Blinded by his faith? I felt his hands—hands that had once caressed me in passion—touching my back as I prepared to die. But I knew his betrayal must have broken my heart and my spirit long before my body was broken on the rocks below.

  It was so cruel!

  Tears bur
ned, squeezing their way from beneath my lashes and spilling hotly onto my face, then sliding down either side toward my ears and my pillow.

  My…pillow?

  I was in a bed. I squeezed my eyes tighter, frowning, trying to get a grip on where I had wound up—and how I’d wound up there. I’d been at Cornell with Tomas and Dom and Rayne, and we’d met that professor…Jonathon Yates. And then I’d been on the cliff about to die. In the past. Not a dream. Not a hallucination. It had been real.

  No, no, no, I don’t really believe any of that.

  Do I?

  “Indy?”

  His voice. God, his voice. No, I couldn’t bear it.

  “Indy, are you awake?”

  I blinked my eyes open and met his. A sob racked my chest, and I clapped a hand over my mouth to try to catch the sound it made before it escaped, but it was no use. My tears were streaming, my chest heaving with the power of heartbreak.

  “It’s all right,” Tomas said softly. His hand was stroking my hair, his eyes on mine, and so filled with concern and…and feeling. “It’s okay, I’m right here. Tell me what’s happening. What are you feeling? What do you remember?”

  I stared at him, searching his face, knowing that the utter heartbreak unfolding inside me was completely irrational. It made no sense. It wasn’t real. And yet the words that stumbled brokenly from my lips were, “How c-c-could you? Oh, Tomas, how could you?”

  He was apparently stunned into utter silence by my question, and he lowered his head, unable to look me in the eyes. I noticed odd things then. The darkness beyond the bedroom window, how purple-gray it was, so I couldn’t tell if it was day or night, or judge how long I’d been out. I could only tell that there was a storm building.

  “Then it’s true?” he asked softly. “What you remembered, it’s true?” His fists were clenched on his knees. “I wanted to deny it. To say you were imagining it all, but your memories haven’t lied to you yet. Indy, I can’t imagine myself, in any lifetime, ever being capable of hurting you.” He lifted his head and met my eyes again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  As a fresh flood of tears washed over my face, I turned my head toward the wall. “It was just a dream. It’s not real.”

  “It is real. And if you remember that we were lovers in that lifetime, Indy, I have to say, it explains a lot. The feelings I’ve been…wrestling with since I first set eyes on you… It’s no wonder, really. It’s—”

  “It was just a dream.” I snapped the words that time, angry at him. Angry over something that, even if it had been real, had happened thousands of years in the past. Furious. And how much freakin’ sense does that make, Indy?

  About as much as the rest of this, that’s how much.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” he told me.

  I shot him a look, let him see how pissed I was at him, no matter how illogical the feeling was. “Yeah? Well, if it wasn’t a dream, then it ought to be a very big lesson to you in what religion does for people. Blind faith. Murdering those who challenge your beliefs or break your rules. Stupid obedience to some man-made cleric who deems himself closer to God, whatever the hell God is, than you are. What kind of a weak-willed idiot would—”

  The look of absolute pain in his eyes made me lose my train of thought and bite back the rest of my words. I blinked and looked away from him. Took a breath. Swallowed hard. Started over.

  “Obviously I’m still overwrought. The dream was powerful. And it seemed very real. And my emotions are apparently convinced it was, no matter how little sense that makes. I’m feeling right now as if the man I loved murdered me. And I’m feeling as angry at you as if you really were him. I’m sorry, Tomas. You don’t deserve that.” I looked away again. “It’s all freakin’ ridiculous, but that’s what’s going on in here right now.” I patted my head as I said it, and realized I should have been patting my chest. This was all happening in my heart. My head knew better.

  “I’m sorry, Indy. I’m so very sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything. Not really.”

  He lowered his head, and I could have sworn I glimpsed a hint of moisture on one dark eyelash. “And I have to say this,” he went on. “You know as well as I do that religion isn’t evil. Religion is beautiful. Mine is. Yours is. They’re sacred paths to understanding the Divine. When individuals do ugly things in the name of their chosen faith, it says nothing about the faith. Only about the individual.”

  I lowered my head, ashamed of myself. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “Regardless of what happens here, with this quest of ours, I give you my word, my solemn oath, that I will spend the rest of this lifetime trying to make up for the horrible wrong I did to you then.”

  With an aggravated sigh, I slapped my hands down on the mattress, then pushed myself up into a sitting position. Angrily, I knuckled my eyes dry. “Don’t beat yourself up, Padre. It’s not real.”

  “Then how were you speaking perfect Babylonian?” he asked softly. “And why the hell does it feel more real than the floor under my feet right now?”

  I stared into his eyes, a snappy comment on my lips, and then forgot what I was going to say. He lifted his hand to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and drew me nearer. My eyes fell closed, and I swayed toward him as his other arm came around me, pulling me tight to his chest as his lips caught mine. He kissed me.

  I held on for dear life, clung to him, and felt a firestorm in my chest that just wouldn’t die down. I kept reasoning with myself, but my self wasn’t listening.

  It isn’t real. None of this is real. It was just a dream. Magic isn’t real, God isn’t real, religion isn’t real, witchcraft isn’t real. There are no curses, no demons, no angels, no reincarnation, no past lives, no—

  His mouth opened and closed over mine, in a gentle yet demanding rhythm that was born of nature. And my arms twined around him, palms flattening to his powerful back and clinging there as I opened to him. His tongue swept into me as if he were feeding from my mouth, like a hummingbird drawing nectar from a lily.

  Love isn’t real. No, no, no, this feeling expanding my heart like a balloon about to burst isn’t real. It can’t be....

  I clung hard, falling back onto the pillows and pulling him with me. We shifted and clung, and wound up completely in the bed. His body was stretched out on top of mine, his hips moving in a pattern as old as time. I arched mine in answer. And the answer was yes.

  There was a powerful flash of lightning that lit the entire bedroom, a crash of thunder on its heels. And Tomas stopped moving. Slowly he drew his mouth away from mine. And then his body followed, easing his delicious weight off me. He got up from the bed and stood beside it, staring down at me. I was lying there with my hair all tousled, still staring at him hungrily and longingly—willing him with whatever power lived in me to return to my bed. To my arms.

  He pushed his hands through his hair. “God, what am I doing?”

  I closed my eyes, ashamed of trying manipulative magic on him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “You? It’s not you, it’s me. You have no vows to uphold. You remember what we were to each other then. It’s no wonder you’re acting on those memories now. I don’t have that excuse. I don’t even remember what happened between us, what we felt....”

  “Part of you does.” I sat up as I spoke.

  “I’m a priest!”

  “You were then, too. Didn’t I mention that part? You were a priest, and I was a harem slave. We were both breaking the rules, Tomas.” I bit my lip, shook myself. “Or would’ve been, if it was real.”

  “Didn’t work out so well for us, did it?” he asked. “If it was real, I mean.” He shook his head slowly and turned away from me, staring at the rain that had, at some point, begun pounding down outside. It was darker than before, telling me night had fallen, and that fact startled me as it made its way into my brain. It had been morning, last I remembered.

  “I’m sorry, Indy. This can’t happen.”

  “Because h
aving sex is a big no-no, right? Worse than murdering in the name of God. Worse than betraying a woman who loved you.” I closed my eyes tight. “God, I think I’m losing my mind. None of it’s real. None of it.”

  I hugged my waist, the sheet trapped between my arms and my nightgown, lowered my head.

  Why does it feel as if it’s the most real thing in my life?

  And who the hell changed my clothes?

  Rayne. Had to be Rayne.

  “We will get through this, Indy. All of it. I’ll help you.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say…Father Tomas.”

  He nodded at the nightstand. “I had to run back out for supplies while you were sleeping. I bought you a journal. Rayne thinks it might help you to start recording your dreams as soon as you wake up.”

  I didn’t look at it, just kept my head down. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Yeah, I thought. A day’s worth of calories, a vat of coffee and a fucking bus ticket home. But aloud I only said, “No. I’m fine.”

  “I’ll go get some sleep, then.”

  “All right.”

  “Good night, Indy.” He was willing me to look at him. If I did, I thought, I would die. Every time I looked into his eyes the emotions of some make-believe other lifetime welled up in me, and I wanted to wrap myself safely in his arms and never come out. Stupid.

  And yet, he was making me look, tugging at me with his eyes, and I obeyed as if hypnotized. Lifting my head, I met those brown eyes. I love you danced on my tongue and knocked on my teeth, and I clamped my jaw to prevent the ridiculous declaration from leaping out.

  When it was safe to speak, I managed to say, “Good night, Tomas.”

  But to my own ears it had sounded just the same as the words I’d refused to say. And from the look on his face as he left me there, I think it sounded that way to him, too.

  * * *

  Tomas went to his own room and asked himself what the hell he’d been thinking to bring her here, under the same roof with him.

  He took a bracing shower, cold enough to help him regain his focus, but he couldn’t shower forever. After that he pulled on a pair of pajama pants and paced until he found himself with his arms braced against the windowsill, staring into the storm-ravaged night sky. Impulse lowered his head, long practice moved his lips. Habit, not faith. His faith was on the bench, sitting off an injury. His faith had taken a beating followed by an open-ended vacation that had begun before he’d even met the woman next door. And yet, out of habit, Tomas prayed.