A soft cough refocused her attention. She gestured to Khefar. “Bale, Rinna, this is Khefar, also known as Kevin Lambert. Bale is head of a banaranjan clan here in Atlanta,” she explained. “But he works with everyone in the preternatural community to help them get acclimated to the city and find homes and jobs that suit their particular talents. His information network is nearly as vast as Demoz’s is.”
“But much more altruistic,” Bale interjected.
Khefar shook their hands. “Banaranjans were a force to be reckoned with during the time of the Ottoman Empire. Your reputation as fierce fighters is well known and well earned.”
“Thank you,” Bale said, with a sharp inclination of his head. “The reputation of the eternal warrior who dies to fight another day is also well-known. We heard of how you helped Kira back in October. How long do you plan to stay in our fair city?”
“As long as necessary.”
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation, Kira watched the two men do the testosterone display that males do no matter their species. She caught Rinna’s gaze, and the other woman lifted her gaze skyward for both of them.
“So … what brings you out tonight?” Kira asked, deciding not to comment on the display.
“Money,” Bale answered. “With so many generous donors here tonight, I figured it would behoove me to approach the hybrids among them to donate to our own community outreach programs.”
“How many hybrids are here tonight?” Khefar asked. His tone sounded idle, but Kira knew he was considering potential threats as he stepped back, settling his hand at the small of her back.
“There are hybrids everywhere,” Rinna answered, “in plain sight, from bartenders to guests.”
“Like I said, I doubt we’ll have any trouble tonight,” Kira said. “If anything, people will be sizing each other up in different ways, the same way humans do.”
“But tonight is all about pharaohs and fund-raising. And with that, we’ll get to our business so you can get to yours.”
The banaranjans left. Khefar’s hand tightened at her back. “Were you involved with him?”
She frowned at him. “Why would you ask me a question like that?”
“A man doesn’t look at a woman the way that man looked at you unless he wanted to see you naked or already has.”
Kira dropped a hand to her hip. “First of all, did you happen to see the woman he’s with? Second, you have no reason to be jealous. Third, did you see the woman he’s with?”
“You’re as hot as she is,” Khefar told her, making the declaration in his no-nonsense tone. “Does that mean that you used to have a thing with him?”
Khefar was jealous. No outright denial, no letting the subject go. Maybe giving her the bracelet was his way of staking a claim. The thought was as disturbing as it was flattering. “How much do you know about banaranjans?”
“I know the clans were partly responsible for the Ottoman Empire stretching as far as it did. They are fierce fighters, matched only by Vlad Dracul in ruthlessness.”
She pursed her lips as she considered his words. “Did you fight with them, or against them?”
It took him a moment to admit, “I was among those who were alongside Sultan Mehmed II as he rode victorious into Constantinople.”
Of course he had been present at the fall of Constantinople. “I’ve seen a couple of depictions of that historic moment, painted by a Frenchman named Constant.” She folded her arms. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you convinced the artist to paint you in.”
“I met him when I was in Morocco, having left America after the States’ War.” Khefar shrugged. “He wanted a vivid representation of that day. I gave it to him.”
She gaped at him. “When I ask for details you brush me off, saying you can’t remember! What am I going to have to do to get you to come up off of these stories? Seriously, dude—if you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”
“I’m a fighter, not a talker. Besides, we were talking about your close personal relationship with that banaranjan and what you know about them.”
“Banaranjans are notoriously clannish and disdainful of any perceived weaknesses,” Kira said, “and they consider humans weak. They’re also adrenaline junkies and night flyers. They mate on the fly, and by that I mean several dozen stories above street level, ending with a climactic freefall. Anyone who’s not banaranjan or has their own wings would have to be suicidal to consider mating with one of them. And if you call me suicidal, I’m going to stab you and watch you bleed all over that pretty tux.”
“I don’t think you’re suicidal,” he said, the unspoken word anymore hanging in the air between them.
“Bale and I have a close professional relationship. We share a vested interest in the hybrid community coexisting peacefully with the human one. And did you forget the whole touching thing?”
Dark jealousy fled his face, chased off by contrition. “I did forget. I’m sorry. Perhaps next time you could introduce me as if I’m more than some random guy you know.”
“How should I introduce you?” she wondered, surprised.
“I’m sure you’ll come up with something if you put your mind to it.”
“Fine. I’ll think of something. In the meantime, do you think you could try to be civil? I have to work with these people.”
“Interesting. Most Chasers seemed programmed to work alone, except for their handlers, of course.”
“Yeah, well, since I consider myself to have been without a handler for longer than I’ve had one, I figure learning how to get along with the hybrid community means fewer Shadowlings I have to kill, which in turn means less paperwork I have to deal with at Gilead East.”
“Kira? Kira Solomon!”
She turned to see a thin blond-haired man in wire-rimmed glasses approaching her. He was the manager of the edutainment portion of the show, Bruce Hammond. “Be nice,” Kira muttered.
“You mean me, or yourself?” Khefar muttered back.
“Both. Follow my lead, okay?” She pasted on a smile. “Mr. Hammond, it’s good to see you again.” She extended a gloved hand, belatedly turning it from a blocking move to a greeting. Hammond had the limpest handshake she’d ever had the misfortune to experience. Better to suffer through a handshake behind the security of her gloves than the consequences of one misaligned air kiss. “Kevin, this is Bruce Hammond. Mr. Hammond, this is my partner, Kevin Lambert. Mr. Hammond is the production manager for the show and exhibit.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lambert,” the manager said, shaking Khefar’s hand. “I didn’t realize Kira was involved with someone.”
“Kira’s a firm believer in discretion being the better part of valor,” Khefar said, extricating himself from the other man’s lifeless grip. He gave Kira a veiled look. “You wouldn’t believe the things she keeps close to the vest.”
“When she wears a vest, that is,” the basso profundo voice of Demoz pronounced as he joined them. Instead of the traditional black tie that Hammond wore, or the spike of gold that Khefar had added to his tux, the rotund club owner was all in black: bowler hat; silk shirt; custom-made, black shadow-striped suit; and black tourmaline studs for cuff links, earrings, and tie pin.
Kira wasn’t all that surprised to see Demoz at the fund-raiser. It was a prime information-gathering event featuring the who’s who of Atlanta’s up-and-comings and already-theres, and the psychic vampire was the premier information broker in the preternatural community, if not the city. What did surprise her was that he’d bought his assistant, Yessara, and it looked very much like they were on a date.
The peace angel was resplendent in a silvery gray slip dress and opal jewelry that accentuated her ethereal beauty. Her normally peaceful demeanor seemed even more blissful. Given the way Yessara had her small hand tucked into the crook of Demoz’s massive arm and the addled expression the psychic vampire wore, Kira had a good idea of where the bliss stemmed from.
“Mr. Hammond, I believe you alread
y know Mr. Demoz, one of our city’s entertainment moguls,” Kira said, making introductions. “And this lovely woman is his assistant, Yessara.”
“So many beautiful women in this city,” Hammond exclaimed, bending low over Yessara’s hand. “I think I need to move here permanently!”
“Beware, Mr. Hammond,” Demoz said smoothly. “It would be wise to remember that every rose has its thorns.”
Hammond tugged on his tie, suddenly and completely uncomfortable. “Quite right.”
Kira decided to rescue the poor man. “Mr. Hammond, there’s the mayor. I believe you’ve already met the professor he’s talking to.”
“Indeed, indeed. I’ll go over and introduce myself. I hope to see you all when the tour begins.” He scurried away.
Demoz took a deep breath. “Thank you, Kira, for clearing the desperation from the air. It has an over-ripeness to it that is not to my taste.”
“He was simply trying to be nice,” Yessara said in her softly rolling voice. “There was no ill intent in his words or actions, my dear.”
“He’s harmless,” Kira added, waving her hand in dismissal. Truthfully, she felt she was able to breathe better with the too-slick manager away chatting up other guests. “It’s just his way of working the room.”
Demoz made a gallant attempt to erase his irritation, due, no doubt, to Yessara’s touch on his arm. A blocked psychic vampire had no defense against a peace angel. “Still, we’ve already made a sizable donation tonight. There was no need to fawn.”
“It’s an instinctive reaction,” Khefar explained, “especially when in the presence of such beauty as we are.”
Demoz looked from Kira to Khefar and back again. Then a smile split the inky blackness of his face. “I’d say dating agrees with you, Kira Solomon.”
“I could say the same about you, Demoz,” Kira retorted, unable to hide her delight. She had no idea why the psychic vampire and the peace angel had decided to move their relationship from strictly professional to personal, but she was truly glad for them. With Demoz being born of Shadow and Yessara being an agent of Light, their successful relationship could prove that both sides could get along if they tried. “I’m glad you guys decided to step it up a notch. It’s about time you allow her to have some influence on you.”
“You have no idea the influence she’s had on me,” Demoz said softly. “And no one ‘allows’ Yessara to do anything.”
The lady in question merely smiled one of her beatific smiles, dark curls shining in the bright lights as she inclined her head. “I am as I am, and I am content,” she said in the sweetest of tones. “Do you not agree, Kira Solomon?”
Kira had no idea what Yessara meant, but found herself nodding anyway. “Of course. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” The other woman beamed, and despite having her extrasense dialed up to the thickness of a shield, Kira almost smiled in pure puppy-like pleasure. It was a direct effect of being in the presence of a peace angel. From what Kira understood, the Light hybrids were related to guardian angels, but they deflected negative emotions from everyone instead of protecting a specific individual.
Of course, those negative emotions needed to go somewhere after a peace angel had siphoned them off. They could absorb them, of course, but it was so much easier to pass turbulent emotions off to someone used to partaking of them, like a psychic vampire.
Where sanguinarian vampires fed on blood, Demoz’s kind fed on emotions, the stronger the better. Usually, Demoz partook from the people who visited his club, an industrial Goth rock complex that catered to Light and Shadow, using a massive slab of clear quartz as a booster. On the very few occasions that Kira had seen him away from the club, the information broker usually wore Herkimer diamonds. The black tourmalines signified he was not only not feeding, but he was blocking outside emotions altogether.
“Are you well, Demoz?” Kira asked. He may have been born of Shadow, but Demoz had done a lot of good in the community. Many truces and agreements had been negotiated inside the neutral territory of his club. Atlanta needed him. Heck, the Universal Balance needed him.
“As well as one can be out of their element, Shadowchaser,” he replied. “As Yessara says, I am as I am. What about you? Certainly this isn’t your usual environment or attire, though I must say the dress suits you.”
“Don’t forget the heels,” she said, showing off the black stilettos that looked far better than they felt. “Hard to be comfortable in something like this with all of these touchy-feely people around. I’d much rather be in my steel-toed boots and cargo pants. But as you said, I am as I am. This event was a good excuse to dress up. The money raised tonight will enable a lot of our local museums to make upgrades.”
“Then, it’s good we have a sizable crowd here tonight,” Demoz observed. “Quite a different clientele than those who visit my club.”
“Most of the DMZ’s regular patrons don’t have the two hundred and fifty dollars a ticket in loose change to come to an event like this,” Kira pointed out. “Or the altruism.”
“You’d be surprised, Kira Solomon, what people would give when there’s a benefit to be had.”
Kira was about to question him further when Khefar touched her arm. “Looks like we’re about to get to the main event,” he said, and then pointed.
Hammond tapped on a microphone near the main bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for opening your hearts—and your wallets—to our exhibition.” The audience tittered with polite laughter. “Your generous donations will go directly to your city’s local museums and cultural outreach programs, so thank you.”
The crowd applauded. “Now, I know most of you came to be seen and to drink the free booze. But if you would care for a little culture with your liquor, I would like to invite you to stick around.”
Hammond’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper as he raised his glass high. “So eat, drink, and be merry. For tonight, we journey through the Egyptian underworld!”
Chap†er 5
Naturally the first exhibit hall houses the gift shop,” Hammond told the throng gathered around him as he led them through the first room. “No journey through the underworld would be complete without a souvenir to remember it by.”
“Of course not,” Khefar mumbled. “Gods forbid we forgo a trinket made in China to mark our trip through ancient Egypt.”
Kira coughed to smother her laughter. Hammond gamely ignored them, making his way through to the second hall. “The second exhibit hall contains original pieces and reproductions of famous artifacts from this mysterious and magical culture. Some of the artifacts have been loaned from various museums and collections around the world, thanks in large part to the hard work and connections of Kira Solomon.”
Kira acknowledged the polite applause with a dip of her head, and then gestured for Hammond to continue. She’d worked her butt off to acquire a cross section of examples of the funerary texts of ancient Egypt, drawing on all of her professional contacts and even calling in a favor here and there. The effort had paid off, and she’d managed to obtain enough for a good representation of the history of funerary texts. Everything from engraved chunks of tomb walls, known as the Pyramid Texts, dating back to the Old Kingdom; to wooden fragments from the Middle Kingdom, Coffin Texts; to photos and remnants of papyri from the New Kingdom and the Saite period, all carefully mounted and secured beneath glass displays. They’d also brought in examples of mummification equipment, burial artifacts such as shabti, shawabti, and ushabti funerary figurines, and canopic jars of exquisite beauty and detail.
Hammond guided his group farther into the cavernous hall. “Aside from these ancient literary relics, you’ll also see a replica of the most famous version of the Book of the Dead. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Papyrus of Ani as it would have looked shortly after it was created.”
He gestured, and lights slowly grew in brightness along a set of wall panels covered in maroon cloth. The attendees gasped in appreciation as a true-to-size reproduc
tion of Ani’s funerary papyrus came into view—all seventy-eight feet of it.
Intrigued, Kira stepped closer to examine the reproductions of Ani and his wife making offerings to the sun god, the Weighing of the Heart ceremony, and ending with the vignette with the goddesses Tawaret and Hathor in their animal forms, watching over Ani’s tomb in the western cliffs. She’d seen pictures in books and online, even seen sections of the original papyrus in the British Museum, but never had a chance to see it like this.
The Book of Going Forth by Day as it was meant to be viewed was breathtaking. The replica stretched the length of the wall and looked to be made of actual papyrus, like many of the gilded souvenir papers sold in gift shops around the world. This one, however, hummed with power. It felt benign, though, crafted by an artist gifted to the point of unconsciously imbuing his work with magic.
“As some of you may be aware, we’ve reproduced every exact detail of the original, which is currently housed at the British Museum,” Hammond explained. “Small insets below the book describe some of the texts and illustrations and offer translations of the hieroglyphs. For those who don’t know, the Book of the Dead is a collection of spells, organized into ‘chapters,’ that enable the dead to make their way past traps, riddles, and deadly encounters. The book contains passwords and spells that are supposed to be spoken aloud before you are allowed to pass to the next stage, and other spells that help the deceased move about in the land of the living.”
He gestured them forward, stopping before massive golden velvet curtains hanging from the rafters. “There were nearly two hundred spells that could be used in a Book of the Dead, but not every spell went into every book. However, by the time of the Third Intermediate Period some standardization began to occur, including selling ready-made books that simply needed the deceased’s name added.”
Hammond seemed to realize that he’d entered lecturing mode. He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me—teachers never stop teaching!”
Shadow Fall Page 4