“No!” she mumbled, her cheeks pushed together by his rough palms.
“What are you doing to her?” Alex demanded, throwing herself toward the slab. Each time, the shackle caught on her ankle and she fell back to the floor.
Natalia, leaning heavily against the wall, kicked her into stillness without a second thought. “Silence,” she challenged, smirking down at Alex when she scowled in objection.
“Don’t t…touch her!” Claire yelled, hearing the struggle behind her.
Natalia tore her pleasant face away from Alex’s glare, fixing instead on Claire’s back. “Do not worry yourself, My Lady,” she said, as she’d been directed to address her. “They are here merely as…insurance.”
Mainyu whispered something under his breath, his eyes going black with the buzzing mass inside of him. Claire fought against him, her efforts in vain against his otherworldly strength. She didn’t see him when his jaw dropped, the buzzing black oozing off his tongue like a snake. She did, however, see the snake-like mass crawl up her arm and try, fruitlessly, to force entrance through her mouth.
Groaning in objection, she pursed her lips, viciously shaking her head.
Finding no sanctuary through her lips, the buzzing snake split in two, slithering up into her nostrils.
“No!” Claire said, squeezing her eyes shut. Her nose burned as she inhaled quickly, her breaths becoming slow and even. The seconds ticked on without change.
When they reopened, the depths of her eyes were completely black, her touch with reality broken. She remembered.
Chapter Twenty-Three
629 B.C.
The sun was just beginning to set beneath the sand dunes when Ziba swept through the temple toward the shrine to Kurshid, the Persian goddess of the sun. A small smile was fixed upon her face, as was common for the young woman. Since her arrival in the temple at seven years old, Ziba was accustomed to a life of luxury in her gilded cage. She was never without food, like others in the city may have been, her clothes were always immaculate and silk, and she had a relationship with the gods that others could only dream of.
It was a life she loved, but frequently found to be…just the slightest bit…lacking.
Ziba had been born in a faraway village to parents who had been frightened of her. The color of her hair was foreign to the dark-haired Persians, and when she had been born with a cluster of sunlight-blonde curls, her parents had immediately kept her hidden from the world. It wasn’t until her sister, Shireen, left to join the temple six years later that it was made clear that Ziba’s only place was with the gods. When she first stepped into that great building, rumors of her peculiar appearance spread like wildfire across the desert. It didn’t take long before everyone believed she was the human incarnate of the sun goddess herself.
Now that she had turned fourteen and was beginning to experience her first taste of womanhood just like every other girl her age, Ziba was beginning to realize how unhappy she was in the temple. Most women in the village were married at this age, whenever they too became women.
It wouldn’t be difficult for her to find a husband, too.
At one time she had been the most sought after woman in most of Persia for her beauty and high standing with the Gods. Unfortunately, a priestess could not marry, lest she wanted to be punished to the full extent of the law, as a lighter consequence. Eternal damnation would be sure to follow. She was supposed to have dedicated herself entirely to the Gods for the entirety of her life. It wasn’t a bad life, just not one she would have chosen if she had known the conditions of it.
In a perfect world she would have wanted a man who loved her; no, she wanted a man who worshiped her like she worshiped Kurshid. Except, it was not a perfect world, and men like that just did not exist. She envied the families she saw passing the temple each day, though she knew they envied her. She wore white silk and gold jewelry like the other priestesses, a symbol of her status, and her only work consisted of praying from dawn until dusk. She led a charmed life, an unwanted life, in her gilded cage.
She knelt before the altar to the goddess and pressed her forehead to the cool floor. “I pray to you, Almighty Kurshid, to give me wisdom and guide me through this time in my life where I fear I may stray. For I am now and always will be your loyal servant,” she prayed under her breath in Old Persian.
With her head bowed, she kept her hands pressed together and her eyes squeezed shut. It was normally silent in the temple, so, with her eyes shut, she could easily hear the quiet sobs echo through the building. Her eyes shot open immediately and searched the room, only to find a man’s shaking figure at the shrine to Sraosa, the god of the afterlife. From behind, all she could see was black armor and robes, as the top of his body was bent over his knee.
Even without seeing his face, she knew who it was. “Lord Bomani?” Ziba whispered once she was close enough. She placed one delicate hand on his shoulder in a sorry attempt at comfort. “Whatever ails you?”
Furiously, he wiped at the tears she knew were falling down his face and spun around, throwing her hand away from him with a fervor that sent her staggering back. Though it was slightly reddened and moist from crying, Ziba had to stifle her gasp at the face she had never seen so close before. Lord Bomani, of the Persian army, was quite famous, almost as famous as she, and she had seen him wander the roads of the village, but he had never entered this temple. He was a brute of a man, exceptionally muscled and well over average height, with wavy, brown, shoulder-length hair around a deeply tanned face, the norm in Persia. His bloodshot eyes were light brown like the desert sand but as cold as ice. His chin and jaw, along with his upper lip, were dusted with hair.
“It is none of your concern what ails me,” he snarled.
She was unaccustomed to be spoken to in such a way, but she knew he was correct. She bowed her head respectfully and murmured a quiet, “My sincerest apologies, my Lord. It was not my place,” as she took slow, measured steps backward.
While her head was bowed, she heard his sharp intake of breath and a loud thump. When she lifted her sky blue eyes, another one of her oddities, she found the great Lord Bomani, bowing to her on the floor.
“It is I who should be apologizing, Lady Ziba, I did not know it was you!” he cried, his voice muffled slightly against the floor. “Forgive me, your holiness. I did not know.”
“Please, sir, rise,” she pleaded. “You are forgiven.”
“I cannot. I may as well have insulted the goddess Kurshid, herself, for screaming at her holiest servant, the Lady Ziba,” he lifted his eyes to stare up at her reproachfully.
“You are forgiven, sir. I frightened you and it was not my place to ask questions. Now please, rise,” she said, this time a bit more forcefully. Reluctantly, he did as he was told and curiously searched her with his eyes.
“Well, Lady Ziba, I see that all of the stories about you are true,” he offered a small smile.
“What stories?” she inquired skeptically.
“You are, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in Persia.”
Her face flamed, but she could not bring herself to reprimand him for his flattery. After all, this was exactly what she had wanted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Please, my name is Bomani. Address me as such,” he demanded kindly.
“It would not be proper of me to do so, sir!” Ziba cried.
“When there is no one around to hear it, My Lady, how can you deny me this? Please?” he beseeched.
After a moment to ponder his words, she nodded. “Alright, Bomani. But if we are to be acting in such a way, then you are to call me, Ziba.”
He took her small hand in his very large one and gave it a light squeeze. He placed a kiss in her palm and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ziba.”
“Likewise, Bomani,” she gasped through the sudden obstruction in her throat. Inconspicuously, she attempted to clear it, but it did not help. In fact, she might have made it worse. The man before her smirked, clearly aware of his effect on he
r. “Are you well, Bomani?” she inquired, unable to meet his eyes again.
His sharp intake of breath in answer told her she should not have asked. Timidly, she looked to his face, waiting for an answer. But, Bomani didn’t look like he would ever speak. With glassy eyes and a face that was obviously contorted by grief, his head whipped to the side, away from her prying gaze.
With movements that were not her own, Ziba cupped his face in her hands and felt a pleasant chill travel up her fingers. She gasped, drawing the attention of some nearby patrons but she was far too reluctant to break contact with the man standing before her to look. Bomani’s startled gaze met hers, and she knew without a doubt that he had felt it too. She stared up into his eyes while he gazed into hers with an indecipherable passion hidden behind his deep brown orbs.
Unfortunately, reality set in quickly.
“Lady Ziba,” a cold, familiar voice hissed behind her.
Ziba swiftly and unceremoniously let her arms fall to her sides as she spun to meet the even gaze of her sister. Shireen’s dark hair was pulled up and away from her face in a large, gold diadem, as was expected for the High Priestess, but it only served to highlight her blazing green eyes. Ziba had always known her older sister to be a tranquil creature, so it came as quite a shock when she found evident rage in Shireen’s face.
Ziba stepped back, only to find that she had flattened herself against Lord Bomani’s chest. “Shireen.”
“What is going on here, priestess?”
Ziba could not think of any way to cover up her indecency. “Bomani…I mean L…Lord Bomani…”
Bomani fell to his knees behind her. “My apologies, High Priestess. I distracted the Lady Ziba.”
“Did you, my Lord?” Shireen asked with a predatory grin. “Surely Ziba had some part in your little…tryst?”
Bomani rose to his feet, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “It was hardly a tryst, my Lady. This priestess was attempting to console me over the death of my brother.”
Ziba masked her shock well, but Shireen looked visibly embarrassed. “My apologies, my Lord. And my condolences. Lord Fehrer was a good man and a great warrior.”
“Thank you, High Priestess.”
Shireen pursed her lips as she scrutinized Ziba’s face, but she gave each of them a curt nod before she swept gracefully out of the room.
Ziba kept her hands folded tightly behind her, anticipating and preventing another mishap. She turned back to Bomani when she was sure Shireen was gone. “I am very sorry for your loss, my Lord.”
“What happened to calling me Bomani?” he inquired; the mirth on his face did not meet his eyes.
Ziba scowled at the floor. “I think it would better, sir, if we kept to formalities.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Lord Bomani,” she found his face again.
“Yes, my Lady?”
“Tell me about your brother?” she pleaded. He bit the inside of his cheek and wordlessly shook his head. “Please?”
Taking a moment to ponder her question, he offered his hand to her. “Come with me.”
“Sir, I cannot leave the temple!” she whispered, warily appraising his hand.
“Then somewhere we can be alone?” he beseeched.
“Sir!” she gasped, just a little too loudly. She slapped a hand over her mouth. Recovering enough to lower her voice, she searched the faces of anyone who might have caught interest. “I cannot risk such an improper thing being seen. If Shireen were to find us…”
“My Lady, I bear you no ill will. I only wish to tell you what you have asked for.”
The girl knew that nothing good could possibly come from following Bomani, a man she had met only a few minutes prior, but, for some strange reason, she trusted him. And so, it was without any further reservations that she took Bomani’s hand and led him into the corridors deep within the temple, away from any prying eyes.
When she passed the final window and arrived at the darkened sanctuary, she dropped Bomani’s hand and began lighting the candles around the small niche in the wall. “Please, my Lord, take a seat,” she gestured grandly to the single wooden bench against the wall.
“Thank you…Ziba,” he muttered as he took a seat.
“My Lord…”
He narrowed his eyes at her harmlessly. “I will tell you nothing, Ziba, if we continue in this manner.”
They glared at each other, waiting for the other to break. Ziba sighed. “If you insist, my l…Bomani.”
He grinned. “Thank you.”
When he did not delve into an explanation, she said, “Do not keep me waiting another moment, Bomani. I will surely be missed.”
“My apologies,” he took a deep breath. “My brother, Fehrer, was killed in battle this past month. It was a way he would have wanted to go, Ziba, and I am happy that he was able to die in a blaze of glory and in the protection of people he loved, but…but…” His eyes brimmed with tears and he shook with the effort to hold them back.
Ziba rubbed her hand along his back. “Bomani?”
“But I cannot accept that when I know that I will never be happy again without him!” he bellowed. “He will never fight by my side again. I will never see him again. I do not know what to do without him.”
Then, the giant of a man broke into sobs.
Ziba pulled her hand back from his massive shoulder and let it fall in her lap. “Bomani.”
He seemed unable to hear her, or, merely, unable to respond.
“Bomani,” she repeated, hoping he could hear her over his monster-like wails. “Sraosa will keep your brother safe and watch over him until you meet again. Life is only fleeting. You will meet again.”
His sobs died down slowly after that. “Thank you, Ziba…thank you for trying to help.”
She stood. “It was no trouble, Bomani. And…I know that Fehrer has everything he could possibly wish for now. He received the greatest honor a warrior can desire, and now he watches over you in a world much better than our own.”
His bloodshot eyes burned into her face for a short second. Suddenly, she found herself pressed into the material of his armor, forced to inhale the pleasant odor of his neck.
She loved the feeling of his embrace as he held her. All too soon, however, he jerked away from her. She stifled her disappointment enough to smile up at him.
“I am glad to have helped, Bo—”
She was silenced when an almost painful force impacted her face. She couldn’t move, held in place by some unseen strength around her neck and waist. Her eyes blinked open, only to find herself pulled flush against Bomani.
His lips were moving over her bruised lips, and she didn’t know how to react, other than to push him away with the hands she had placed on his chest.
He staggered back shamefully, letting his eyes fall to the floor. “M—my apologies, my lady. I did not…I was not…”
Ziba let her fingertips prod her sore lips. A kiss. Bomani had kissed her…Bomani had desired her. She had finally gotten a taste of the other side of life that she had wished for so badly.
There were so many things that could go wrong, so many people that could catch them, and they could be stoned if they were found.
But she had wanted this so badly.
“Bomani,” she said, halting the stammering mess that the great hero, Lord Bomani, had become.
“I should not have,” he finally mumbled.
“Bomani!”
He couldn’t meet her eyes after what he had done, so she closed the distance between them herself.
Ziba kissed him back.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Northern France; June 30th, 2012
Meanwhile, Kierlan and James searched the banks of the River Seine for any sign of the missing girls.
“Check the water, they couldn’t have gotten far!” James ordered, throwing himself to the ground. When searching under the car proved useless, he stood, running in any direction they could have gone.
Kierlan turned away from the da
rk depths of the waters before him, knowing there was no way in hell he was jumping in there. His eyes fell on Taran first, seated in the passenger’s seat with his legs hanging out the door. He was the picture of ease, twiddling his thumbs while he sat bent over his knees, a smile fixed across his face for the first time since Kierlan had first seen him.
Narrowing his eyes, Kierlan strode toward the car, cracking his knuckles.
Taran didn’t see it coming when Kierlan grasped the front of his shirt, heaving him viciously from the car and off his feet. Suddenly, his back hit the back door, the cold leeching through the fabric of his borrowed shirt. “What the hell—?!” he growled, his pleasant demeanor falling away. The larger man glowered down at him, melting away the last of Taran’s rage as well.
Guilt shone behind Taran’s wide eyes as they ogled up at the thief.
“You know where they are!” Kierlan accused, turning the full force of his rage onto the man in his grasp.
Taran said nothing, shaking him off.
Kierlan let him fall to the ground, running his hands over his shaved head while he fought off the urge to throttle the assassin. “Why?” he bellowed.
James abruptly ran back into view. “What’s going on?”
“He knows where they are,” Kierlan said, shoving Taran into the car.
Taran shook his head vehemently. “I don’t. I don’t know where they are, that’s why I sent them in the first place.”
“What?!” James bellowed.
“Sent them?” Kierlan said. “You sent two teenage girls into a situation where they’d have no way to protect themselves?”
“They wanted to go!” he insisted, narrowly avoiding a punch in the face.
Kierlan’s fist hit the metal of the car. “Of course they thought they did! That doesn’t mean we should let them run into a dangerous situation!”
“You have no idea what you’ve done—!” James roared, crossing his arms. His palms tingled with the promise of blue lightning, a feeling difficult to suppress, especially when he was so angry.
Taran rolled his eyes. “Of course I do! It’s all you talk about. Some things are just more important!”
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