Echo Prophecy

by Lindsey Fairleigh

  I, of course, blushed furiously at the implication that he would one day be making me breakfast … likely after I’d spent the night tangled with him in bed. I’d never been a big blusher, and it was becoming an irritating habit.

  Like the flip of a switch, Marcus’s face blanked and he explained, “My man, Carlisle, is preparing everything tonight. His food is as good as any I’ve ever eaten … which is saying something. Besides, I thought we’d need the privacy”—his lips quirked, but his face remained expressionless—“for your questions, of course.”

  I raised my eyebrows at his veiled presumptions. Before I could comment, a man—Carlisle—entered the room carrying two small plates. He definitely wasn’t the seasoned, older gentleman I’d expected for someone Marcus regarded as such a talented chef. After Marcus introduced us, Carlisle set the plates in front of us and retreated through a door that I assumed led to the kitchen.

  “Carlisle is different than I’d expected,” I remarked. I had to admit, the man was exceptionally talented, at least from a presentation standpoint. He’d turned a salad into a minimalistic composition of edible art. Taking a small bite, I noted that the little bundle of color on my plate was at least as delicious as it was beautiful, with sliced heirloom beets, apple, and pickled fennel, all lightly glazed with a tangy vinaigrette.

  Marcus chuckled as he chewed. “Don’t let his appearance fool you.”

  “What do you … he’s Nejeret?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “And he serves you?” I asked doubtfully. “Doesn’t he need to do Nejeret things?”

  With another chuckle, Marcus clarified, “He works for me, Lex. We are born Nejeret, like humans are born human or cats are born cats. It’s not our occupation. Nejeret is what we are, but we decide what we do.”

  “Oh,” I said, a little abashed at my assumption. “So Carlisle is a personal chef?”

  Nodding, Marcus finished his bite. “In a way, yes. We all find something we excel at, something we enjoy more than anything else. Call it our …” He paused, thinking. “Our passion. For Carlisle, it’s the culinary arts … and organizing—things, people, you name it, he can whip it into working shape.”

  I was quiet for a few minutes, contemplating Marcus’s words while I finished my salad. “And you?” I finally asked, leaning in with interest. “What’s your passion?”

  Marcus waited for Carlisle to switch out our plates before answering. Instead of a mini salad, I now had two delicately flavored fish tacos, blessedly more substantial than the previous course. I started eating, not-so-patiently waiting for Marcus’s response.

  “I’m a fighter … a warrior,” he eventually said. “Lex, you know I’m on the Council. Well, my role there is militaristic. I’m our people’s general. It’s what I’m good at … and what I enjoy.” His serious tone implied something graver than his words alone suggested … something I had yet to grasp.

  Slowly, I shook my head, feeling a crease appear between my eyebrows.

  “Damn it, Lex,” Marcus said with surprising ferocity, and I flinched imperceptibly. “You must understand this!” He held my eyes, his demanding stare boring into me. “Strategy and death, that’s what I am. It’s what I’ve been for millennia.”

  Is he trying to scare me off? He was a fool if he was, and Marcus was no fool. The embodiment of tranquility, I said, “That’s very interesting.”

  “Interesting?” He looked baffled.

  “Yeah, Marcus … interesting. You hurt people.” Like you hurt Mike, I thought. “You kill people.” I glanced down at my plate, considering how best to say what I felt. “I get it, and, um … I’m okay with it.” At least I was fairly certain that I was. How many battles has he fought? How many wars has he been a part of? Were they human wars, or other, unknown-to-me Nejeret wars? How much death has he caused? “Exactly how old are you, anyway?”

  Caught off guard by my question, Marcus’s domineering presence evaporated.

  While I waited for his response, I ate … everything. Carlisle was a genius. Marcus took his time, eating and watching me, not speaking.

  “Okay,” I said, realizing he wasn’t going to answer. “So, Heru … Horus. Is the god named after you or you after him?” I asked, using a less direct tactic. It would at least give me an over-under. Please say you’re named after the god, I thought. Please tell me you’re under five thousand years old.

  “Are you sure you want to know? The truth is the truth, but you cannot unknow it.” After reading my silence as acquiescence, he looked into my eyes and answered my question. “I inspired the myths.”

  My stomach dropped. “Oh my God,” I said, at a loss for real, meaningful words.

  If he inspired the Heru myths, then he had to be at least five thousand years old, give or take a millennia or two. The world had changed so much in that time, civilizations had risen and fallen, thousands of wars had been fought. Had he been involved in most of them? All of them? How could a relationship between us ever work? How could I ever be enough for a man who’d walked the earth for more than five millennia? I shook my head back and forth, staring at him with eyes wide from both shock and awe. “You … you’re … my God …”

  “Carlisle!” Marcus called out. “Bring wine with the next course.”

  Numb, I looked down at the suddenly full plate before me. A plump filet of beef tempted me with its promised deliciousness. But … Marcus is older than Alexander, older than the Egyptian civilization. How many people has he killed? How many women has he slept with? How many has he loved? How many children has he fathered? How many …

  Marcus said nothing else for a long time, other than telling Carlisle to leave the bottle while I worked through my questions. I demolished the steak and wine with an intensity usually reserved for kneading bread or beating the crap out of someone.

  And suddenly, unexpectedly, I decided that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that my life so far had been a blink in comparison to his or that he might grow bored of me in another blink. I wouldn’t let my self-doubt get in the way of knowing the man who’d inspired one of ancient Egypt’s most beloved and fearsome gods. I wanted to know Heru. I wanted to know Marcus. I wanted to know him.

  “Okay,” I said. “What else?”

  For a moment, I thought he might ignore me, staring as he was at his empty plate. “Josh, Dominic, and Neffe are Nejeret. They know that you are too.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly.

  He held his breath for a moment. “And Neffe is my daughter.” He sounded resolute in his defeat, like with that statement I would run for the hills, shunning him, his excavation, and our people as I fled.

  I thought about Marcus’s age and Neffe’s status as a Nejerette, and a horrid, cold feeling seeped into my spine. “What’s Neffe’s full name, Marcus?”

  “Neferure.”

  “Neferure,” I repeated. “As in …”

  “Hatchepsut’s daughter, yes,” he finished for me.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. Neferure, the daughter of the famous female pharaoh, had disappeared from historical record as a young woman. Her mummy had never been found, though a tomb had been constructed for her. Well, I guess that explains the mystery of the missing princess, I thought.

  Marcus refilled our wine glasses, emptying the bottle between us, but remained quiet.

  “The others, are they your kids too?”

  “Josh and Dominic?” When I nodded, he said, “No.”

  “Carlisle?” I asked.

  “No. Carlisle is only a few centuries old, and I haven’t fathered a child in over a thousand years,” Marcus explained.

  Our plates were replaced twice more and a second bottle of wine had been brought out while I processed the information.

  Finally, Marcus said, “You must have other questions, Lex. Now is the time to ask them.” It was the understatement of the century—I had other questions like stray dogs had fleas.

  “What are your talents? Obviously you can cloak yourself, or whatever the c
orrect terminology is, but do you have any others?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  For the briefest moment, Marcus looked offended, but the dark emotion quickly melted into amusement. “You should know, Lex, that asking a Nejeret about his talents is akin to asking a woman how many men she’s bedded. So, how many men have you bedded?”

  I waved his question away. “But Alexander didn’t mind,” I explained. “I … I don’t need to know everything … it’s okay. I’m sorry if that was rude.” I looked down at my hands, which were resting on my lap, wondering if there was any way to hide my sudden shame.

  “Lex,” Marcus said, his tone like honey dripping onto white-hot coals. “I’m not offended. If I were weak or had no talents, I might be, but I am neither of those things. Just be mindful in the future of whom you ask that question, okay?”

  After a weak nod, I raised my eyes to meet his.

  He smiled genuinely. “My main talents are that I’m a manipulator, which includes the cloak you witnessed, and a tracker, so I can follow another’s ba as it journeys through the At.” His gaze turned sharp, and he said, “Quid pro quo, Little Ivanov … have you discovered any talents yet?”

  “Yeah. I’m a finder, and to some degree, I’m a seer,” I responded nonchalantly. Inside I was bubbling, eager for his approval.

  For the first time, Marcus was visibly stunned. “I hope you realize how unusual it is for one of our kind to discover so many talents within a few weeks of manifesting.”

  “Sure, I guess,” I said, when in reality, I hadn’t realized it, even with Alexander’s proud, grandfatherly reaction to my skills. Taking a sip from my recently refilled wine glass, I bolstered my nerve. I’d overstepped one huge boundary already, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to jump over a few more. “Alexander was able to test me for the finding talent. Can you do the same with me, for manipulating and tracking?”

  Marcus looked into my eyes, his black-rimmed gold meeting my sienna, as he silently struggled with something. He licked his lips before speaking, an unusual display of nerves. “For tracking, yes, but there’s no need to test for manipulating.”

  “Why not? You don’t think it’s possible?” I asked, feeling slighted. “You know, I might surprise you.”

  “Evidently.” He took a long, deep breath through his nose. “There’s no need to test you for the manipulating talent because we already know you can do it.”

  “What?” I asked, my mouth open in surprise.

  Patiently, he explained, “You lifted my cloak in the echo. Only a manipulator—someone who could alter the very fabric of the At—could achieve such a feat.”

  “Oh. Um … sorry for getting snippy,” I apologized.

  “Don’t be. I like you when you’re snippy.” And with that simple phrase, the business side of our conversation evaporated.

  “Do you live here alone?” I asked, glancing around at the un-Marcus-like decor.

  “Carlisle stays here, as does Neffe,” he replied cautiously, reminding me of his three-thousand-five-hundred-year-old daughter … who seemed to despise me.

  “Is that normal for you and Neffe? Does she also live with you in Oxford?” Before he could answer, a thought occurred to me and I added, “Are you really a visiting professor from Oxford, or is that just a cover for being Nejeret?”

  Smiling, Marcus said, “It’s not just a cover. I enjoy it, though I rarely actually teach humans. There are quite a few Nejerets at Oxford, and I focus my attention on them … helping them get the degrees they need to do what they want to do in the human world. And thankfully, no, I don’t usually cohabitate with my daughter. I love her dearly, but after millennia, we’d slaughter each other if we spent too much time together. We’re only sharing this little house now because of its convenient location near campus. And truthfully, we almost never occupy it at the same time. My line has another, much larger compound on Bainbridge Island. Neffe prefers it, and she finds the daily ferry rides calming.”

  I made a very unladylike snort, thinking Neffe could use a little more calming. Hesitantly, I asked, “Is there, well … is there a particular reason why she’s so hostile toward me?”

  Marcus’s slow, silky smile was half the answer. “She’s worried I won’t be able to focus on my work.”

  “But it’s just an excavation … how is that at all interesting when you lived through the time period you’re uncovering?”

  His raised eyebrows and pursed lips seemed to say, “Come on, Lex, I expected more from you. Think about it!”

  Several puzzle pieces suddenly snapped into place: Nuin—father of Nejeret-kind—as Nun, Hatchepsut and Marcus, the mention of Set and Nuin on Senenmut’s tablet, a Nejeret excavation surrounding a secret temple that had been hidden by someone manipulating the At, the Nothingness in the future At. I slapped my forehead. “Oh my God! How could I be so blind? This whole excavation is about the solstice, isn’t it? It’s about trying to stop the Nothingness from taking over the possible futures in the At. You think there’s something in Senenmut’s secret temple that can prevent it?”

  Reading the subtle approval in Marcus’s eyes, I thought back on the tablet I’d deciphered. Senenmut had written that Nun’s power—creation—was locked away in the secret temple. “Marcus!” I exclaimed breathily. “Are you telling me that Nun’s—Nuin’s—power is a real thing … that it’s really in there?”

  He nodded, one slight, sharp movement.

  “Oh, well that’s just … just …”

  “Crazy? Impossible? Terrifying?” Marcus offered. “Yes, I quite agree. And what makes it even worse is that we don’t really know what this ‘power’ is. I knew him, Lex. I spent time with him, and he never seemed anything but the strongest of us all.” He looked around, shaking his head with frustration, or possibly disbelief. “I’ve spent millennia wondering what his mysterious power might be, and”—he laughed bitterly—“I just don’t know.”

  While I processed Marcus’s revelations, Carlisle brought out dessert—two small plates and a tray containing a variety of delicate confections. He added a clear, dainty bottle of Tocay to the table for good measure. Marcus poured a few inches of the dessert wine into each of our glasses. It was the color of golden raisins.

  I popped a bite-sized fruit tart—lemon custard contained in flaky, buttery crust and topped with a blueberry, raspberry, and strawberry slice—into my mouth. It was heavenly. Swallowing, I studied my wine glass, then looked at Marcus. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk for nefarious purposes, Professor Bahur,” I said, purposely diverting our conversation to a lighter subject. After all of the delicious food and wine, I was hardly in the best state of mind to contemplate such serious matters as mysterious powers and the impending Nothingness.

  Marcus licked a bit of chocolate filling from a tiny cream puff off the tip of his thumb. “But Ms. Larson, what would possibly make you think you know better?”

  “Because you won’t make it that easy,” I said, completely unsure of my words.

  “Perhaps,” he purred. “And perhaps not.” He leaned forward as if he might whisper some forbidden secret, and I suddenly felt his fingertips tracing the top of my boot. His thumb played tenderly with the back of my knee.

  Closing my eyes, I shuddered involuntarily. His gentle touch sent bolts of electricity along my nerves. I couldn’t believe the sensations he was eliciting simply by touching my knee. Deliberately, he inched his hand up the bare skin of my outer thigh, pausing halfway up. My heart felt like it had been relocated to my groin, and with each pump, like it might explode. My breaths became shorter, quicker, my lungs tightening every time I inhaled.

  “But only if you beg,” Marcus whispered. His words from when we’d been in the echo together resounded in my head. By the time our courtship is through, you’ll beg me to take you to bed. “Will you do it now? So soon?” he asked. “So easily?”

  My eyes shot open, then narrowed to slits. “You’ll have to try harder, Marcus,” I said softly.<
br />
  His smile was roguish as he whispered, “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that.” He withdrew his hand.

  I rearranged my skirt and crossed my legs, emphasizing my decision. It was possible that, one day, I would beg. But one day, I decided, so would he.

  “It’s late. I should get you home,” Marcus said, taking another sip of the golden dessert wine before standing.

  “Can we walk?” I asked, accepting his offered hand. I wanted to extend my time with him, and the cool, night air sounded refreshing.

  “It’s snowing!” he objected.

  “Exactly.”

  “Can you walk that far in those boots … and in the snow?” he asked suspiciously. He led the way back to the front door, collecting my coat from a closet along the way.

  “Seriously, Marcus, it’s not that far. Besides, I was a ballet dancer growing up—I’ve done a lot more in far less comfortable shoes.”

  I could feel his eyes examining every inch of my body, devouring my every movement as I shrugged into my coat. “Ballet, hmmm?” One side of his mouth turned up in a sly grin. “That explains so much.”

  “Like what?”

  “Wear these,” he said, handing me some fur-lined, black leather gloves and wrapping the softest scarf I’d ever felt around my neck. “The way you walk, the way you move … just the way you are. You’re graceful … it’s very appealing.”

  “Hmm …” I mused. Finding out what attracted him to me gave me confidence, and equally important, power. Marcus had been using his enigmatic and unavoidable sex appeal to manipulate me since our first unofficial meeting at the bar. The scales were beginning to even out … at least a little.

  Marcus pulled my hair out from the charcoal-gray scarf and arranged it on my shoulders.

  “Whose are these?” I asked, holding up my gloved hands and touching the scarf.

  “Neffe’s,” he informed me.

  “Oh … maybe I shouldn’t wear them.” I began to pull the gloves off, but Marcus stopped me.