Alexi scooped up the girl and carried her into the house, and Persephone wanted to be her more than anything in the world. The vision faded. The house lay empty about her.
“Laws of the mortal world, as your laws are different than that which governs me,” Persephone prayed, “be with me now. Show me the ways in which I may serve you, you, my dark-haired destiny. You are Phoenix and he is you. I see you. I see me. Come to me.”
Still in pain and exhausted, she curled tighter into a ball, clutching the ring made from her tears.
The next thing she knew, she was roused to a bright day by carriages clattering outside. She glided to the window to see a family arriving, their carriages laden with trunks and parcels. A tall, distinguished man with dark features disembarked from the first carriage and helped a similarly striking woman down. They looked familiar …
A black-haired youth descended from the second carriage, an adolescent garbed in dark clothes suited to someone much older. He turned before the goddess could see and assisted a young lady exiting the vehicle. Surely she was the daughter of the fine couple from the first carriage; their striking grace and compelling airs were all of a piece.
The girl of eighteen stared up at the estate, the expression on her thin face shifting from stern to enthralled. Hiking up her layered gray skirts, she darted toward the front stoop, her boots clipped upon the flagstones. The boy turned to follow.
A sound tore from Persephone’s throat, a gasp of gratefulness, joy, and hope. Birds in the garden began to sing.
“It’s you,” she breathed. Her heart was in her throat. He had come to her, just as she had begged last night. “Dear one, it’s you…”
Of course, it would not do for the family to arrive to find her. Not in her present form. She glided swiftly up the banister to watch from above and shifted her robes to make herself invisible.
“Alexi,” the girl called as the two ran into the house and began quickly exploring the downstairs rooms, “there’s a grand study on this side; Father will be so pleased. There are so many shelves! Father can’t use them all for his books alone, so surely there’s room for your collection, too. And your desk.”
“I should hope so,” Alexi replied. Neither he nor his sister spoke with even the light German accent of their parents, meaning they’d been in England for some time; the goddess remembered the Liminal showing their move years prior. Why hadn’t Persephone found him before now?
She watched as he poked his head into each downstairs room and glanced out the bay window below the stairs, moving with purpose and determination. He was a born Leader. Persephone desperately wanted his dark eyes to find hers, for him to know her for who she was, to love her as she loved him, but she would not interfere. Not until she could be certain the time was right.
The young man turned to address the man at the door. “Quite satisfactory, Father. A good choice of property, indeed.” His quiet mother gave a slight smile and slid her arm into her husband’s.
“As it shall be yours one day, I suppose it ought to meet with your approval, young master,” his father said. “I hope it stands up to your keen inspection.”
Alexi turned to the stairs. “You’d best be at my heels to pick a room, Alexandra, else I’ll choose a closet for you.”
The girl shrieked with an excited giggle, darting up the stairs. “Wait for me!” She paused at the top to look down. “Oh, Alexi! Just look at the foyer, why, it’s large enough to dance in. I’ll teach you to waltz.”
Alexi stared at her with disdain. “I’m going to be an academic. What need have I for dancing?”
“You will thank me for it one day, you mark my words,” Alexandra declared. When Alexi shrugged and turned away, she chased him down the hall.
Persephone moved out of sight, gliding onto a balcony, where she let the sun blend her body with the sky. She watched fondly as brother and sister moved through the rooms and stared out the windows. Her breath caught when Alexi’s dark eyes once gazed right through her. Perhaps it was wistfulness that made her see longing in those intelligent eyes, a particular longing for the future. A new life was indeed about to begin for the Rychman family, whether they knew it or not. She would keep the others ignorant, but perhaps Alexi could know …
A loud beating of wings drew Alexi’s attention to the ravens alighting on the tree beside her. A squawk sounded at Persephone’s ear; one large, regal raven stared at her, its black eyes oddly sentient. Persephone reached out her hand.
“Hello, herald,” she murmured as the bird leaned toward her fingertips. “Shall you help us? We’ve much to do to knit a new family together.”
The bird gave a rasping cry.
The wind picked up, and a patch of plumage on the raven’s breast burned a sudden, shocking blue. The surprising sight sent a rush of powerful, intoxicating hope through Persephone’s slender body. Suddenly she was more certain than ever that sometime very soon Alexi Rychman would indeed become Leader.
Persephone entered the house again, taking care to remain unseen, and drifted back to the parlor, where she found a familiar figure: Alexi’s grandmother.
The woman cocked her head to the side as if sensing something.
She then spoke in rapid Russian. “When will you make him a Leader? I’ve demanded your attention.”
Persephone felt her heart leap into her throat as she realized the woman was addressing her directly.
The powerful old woman continued, “I know who you are. He told me about the light changes, the floral scent with a sour undercurrent. Something jarring. Pomegranate, yes? I know you are here even if I cannot see you.”
The goddess hesitated only for a moment, then slid her robe from her head and became visible.
“Hello,” she said. “This is most unexpected.”
Alexi’s grandmother’s almost smiled—a corner of her mouth twisted in amusement. “Yes, you are likely only known to a select few. A special six.”
Persephone gasped. Alexi hadn’t been taken yet, so he couldn’t know any of this. He couldn’t have told anyone anything. How did this uninitiated commoner know the secrets of—
“It was Dmitri Sergeyevna, in Moscow, who told me about you. He was a brilliant Leader, was he not? Did he not save your life, once?” Persephone gaped at her. “I know. The Guard is not supposed to share the Grand Work with any uninitiated, and I was not a member of that Moscow Guard.
“But I loved Dmitri more than life itself. I could not have him. Not by your decree but by that of my country. I, Katarina Novodevichy, was born high class; Dmitri Sergeyevna, a stable boy. But the Grand Work made that stable boy into a king, and I will forever worship you for it.”
Katarina’s eyes misted, and for a moment she was far away. “Dmitri and I loved each other since childhood. The night before I was forced to marry the aristocrat I never loved, I presented myself to him. I prayed for a child to come from that sacred night together, a testament to true love foiled by imprisoning society. And a child did. Irina, Alexi’s mother. My husband never knew, and neither did Dmitri.
“It was best that way; it would have killed him to be away from her, and he had his Work. Irina was and remains a gentle but frightened creature; she inherited none of her father’s strength. But now I have a grandson. Such a boy—he is magnificent and you know it. So, when will it happen? The Phoenix is now his birthright.”
Persephone stood, stunned. “Soon,” she finally said. “I believe it will happen soon.”
“Good. Then I can rest in peace. I live only for the moment my grandson inherits his glory, and then these weary bones can rest. Dmitri will come for me, and our spirits will not pass on but instead travel the world in eternal adventure, together at last. I’ve seen to it Alexi will be well provided for, but it’s up to you to make sure my firebird ascends his throne.”
She walked away, leaving Persephone to contemplate the wonderful webs that certain mortals could spin. Apparently even gods could be drawn into them.
* * *
; Ibrahim was pulled from a disturbing treatise on industrialization as Ahmed shot up from the chair in which he’d been dozing. The library in the Apollo wing of Athens was where Ibrahim was most comfortable, surrounded by books, and the colleagues took near constant refuge there.
“The dream again? The war in the ground?”
“No.” Ahmed shook his head. “I could hardly see anything, but the word ‘betrayal’ kept echoing in my mind, over and over again, like some thunderous bell. I fear there is a veritable battalion of betrayals ahead, and I don’t know what that means. Do the bells of dread toll for us or for the goddess? What does Intuition tell you?”
“My feelings are muddy, though they concur with your visions. But for which of us, I cannot say.”
“Then it must not be about us. It’s about the future.” Ahmed paused. “Often those with gifts see more of others than themselves. All we can do is share our prophecies and dreams. The great mysteries must use us as they will.”
Ibrahim shook his head, baffled by Ahmed’s genuine acceptance of their state. “You see such horrors, and yet you remain the most joyful soul I’ve ever known. How can you welcome such visions and remain so unscarred?”
Ahmed shrugged. “One must meet Darkness with joy. It lessens his power. That is the simplest element of my Heart-shaped gift, which I do not question. I lead a simpler existence for that. You could make the same choice.”
Ibrahim chuckled.
“What?” Ahmed asked. “What is it? Did I say something amusing?”
“I’m just … I am not built as you.” Ibrahim shook his head. “But I am very glad to know you, Ahmed. The world is better because you are in it.”
Ahmed’s smile was radiant. “True friendship is life’s greatest commission. That, and true love. You have allowed yourself the former, and I am honored—blessed by it, even. But now you must allow yourself the latter. You don’t have far to look.”
Ibrahim quickly turned the tables. This was disquieting territory. “Your commission, surely, is Verena. It’s obvious. You’re sickening together.”
Ahmed looked taken aback, but when Ibrahim offered a slight smile, he gave a joyous laugh. “Yes, she is heaven!”
Then they mused, as they often did, on beautiful women. Ahmed waxed rhapsodic on Verena, but Ibrahim spoke in vague terms, theorizing about hypothetical females, lest Ahmed force him into speaking about someone he was far too frightened to admit he adored.
* * *
Persephone finished placing her blood on yet another seal. She knew better than to linger, so she went right to the Liminal edge, certain it would whisk her away to safely heal. After the last journey, she trusted it like never before. At that gorgeous proscenium, she found she had company.
“Aodhan. I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you keeping safe?”
“I don’t stray far from the Liminal. Darkness and his minions don’t like it here, I’ve noticed.”
“They don’t understand this place. They fear it, and we must keep them fearing it.”
Aodhan nodded, dazed. “I keep staring into this void, and sometimes I glimpse an image. I think it wants to tell me something…”
“Ask it.” Persephone gestured, the motion casting the light of her colors ahead of her like ripples through a still stream. “Ask the Liminal what it wants you to see. It listens closely to those who were mortal.”
Obedient, Aodhan said, “Tell me. Show me what you need me to see.”
Apparently a request was all that was needed. A scene leaped to life; the clock above the proscenium remained still, meaning mortal time remained unchanged.
“Where is that?” Aodhan breathed, staring at a massive, sprawling, sparkling, shifting city.
“Welcome to London,” Persephone replied, glancing at the Liminal clock for confirmation. “It is the current mortal year, 1867.”
From her experience, it looked like morning on the crowded docks of the Thames. An overfilled boat tumbled passengers out onto the landing, and the Liminal focused upon a specific disembarking family. From their clothing, they appeared without much means. The father’s face was hard, the mother’s aglow with excitement and fear. Their daughter glanced around in unabashed wonder.
“Oh,” Aodhan breathed, staring. The adolescent, her hair in a golden braid down her back, was broad-shouldered and sturdy, with fair skin and an engaging face. When she smiled, she was radiant. “Why, she’s so much like my Brigid,” he murmured, a tear rolling down his phantom cheek.
“Who was Brigid?” Persephone asked.
“A lass from the village. She wasn’t Guard. I … I saw her nearly every market day, from when I was a wee lad into my old age. She was such a good woman, a right saint. I was too afraid that she’d think the Grand Work was witchcraft to ever say more than a few words to her. But, oh, how she’d talk to me. And how her eyes would smile. That smile.” He pointed at the young woman whose eyes were still drinking in London. “She never married, Brigid. She never did. I wonder…”
The girl seemed to stare right at him, her rich green-hazel eyes sparkling. Both Aodhan and Persephone caught their breath. For the goddess, it was much like her encounter with Katarina Novodevichy and Alexi. Was this girl, too, fated for something special?
Aodhan exhaled, a soft, amazed sound. His hand lifted, glowing with a Healer’s light.
“The circle is complete” came a distinct whisper. “They are now assembled. It is time.”
Persephone’s shifting color drained until she was as ghostly as Aodhan.
“I know that voice,” Aodhan said.
“It’s the Muse—your Muse, the Healer.” Persephone choked. Her hues returned as she began to wring her hands, unsure whether to be excited or worried.
“But it never speaks…” Aodhan said slowly. “Only in death do they speak, or during…”
“The changing of the Guard. It’s happening again, now, in London.”
“But didn’t you recently take a set in Cairo?”
“Yes, and transported them to London to help prepare—”
“We cannot ask our current hosts to relinquish their beloved Cairo” came the Muse’s breathy explanation. “Their hesitancy shows in their Work and the Balance suffers for it as they do. We require those who call London home, in their hearts and until their end of days, and you, Our Lady, you don’t have much time…”
Floating into view was the hazy, incredible form of the healing Muse, all starlight and music, glimmer and spirit. When the being floated across the Liminal threshold, the great wind that always signaled a new taking began to blow. It turned toward Persephone. “Are you coming, my Lady?”
Persephone swallowed. “Of course.”
Aodhan stammered. “B-but this is—”
“Unprecedented,” Persephone and the Healer Muse chorused.
“What of this girl?” Aodhan asked the Muse, reaching out a desperate, glowing hand toward those bustling docks beyond. “What do you intend for her?”
“She will be a Healer like you,” the glorious form replied. “She will need your help. She is too young, but she will do. They are all too young, but they all must do.” The Muse turned to Persephone. “Especially your new pet, my Lady.”
It laughed, a tinkling sound. “Come. I’m the first to go. Your Phoenix will be reeling, but we will soon begin and he’ll have no choice but to follow.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
The day began much like the day they were possessed, the day they were made the Guard. An uneasy day where the wind was restless. Beatrice knew what the odd wind was, but she couldn’t be sure what it was up to. They had already been found, she and her companions. What was that force looking for now?
It wasn’t the Pull that drew her to Westminster Bridge. Not exactly. It was pain. What had begun like a familiar beating of wings in her veins had become a bird struggling, panicking to get out. Their Muses were rebelling.
Ibrahim and Verena stood at the crest of the bridge, having felt the Pull befor
e her.
“The lack of our native soul is taking its toll, surely. Just like Ibrahim said,” Verena suggested quietly, mournfully. She stared at Beatrice, puzzled. “And yet for you this is your native soil. Do you feel the pain I feel in my veins?”
Beatrice stared at her, then at silent Ibrahim, who appeared nauseated with worry. “I don’t denounce my heritage, but Cairo is my home,” she replied. “Yes, there is a fire inside me, a pain I’ve never felt. The sensation of our possession but in reverse.”
Verena whimpered. “Are our gifts faltering? Perhaps none of this was meant to be.”
“It’s what I was afraid it would be,” Ibrahim said.
Beatrice shrugged. “None of this has proven predictable. Even our Lady couldn’t be sure what event would beget what. All we know is that something is about to change.”
“Where, then, is she? Where is our Lady?” Verena asked.
The others of the Guard appeared, drawn by the same call. Verena’s uneasy query was answered. Light swept over them. The goddess had arrived.
“Something is about to happen,” she said, looking overwhelmed and excited.
“Why, thank you,” Ibrahim muttered. “I’d never have guessed.”
“We are in an unprecedented age,” Persephone went on. “A prophecy is at hand!”
There was an explosion of light, familiar, warm—their Lady’s light. Then they realized it was a different light, one they’d never actually seen, though it had once overtaken them, unawares. The six stared at the glow, absorbing the sight of what had possessed them, what had only moments ago been inside them, shimmering iridescence, now … outside, having peeled away.
Beatrice felt the phoenix fire rip from her veins and stumbled forward onto Ibrahim’s outstretched arm. She saw her companions wince or recoil as the Muses, vaguely humanoid forms, were torn free from their bodies.
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