Forgotten in Darkness

by Zoe Forward

  When they hauled him from the Cartagena church into this shithole, blood loss, sleep deprivation, and starvation had him too weak to put up much of a fight. They scoffed when he swore the blood on his clothes was his. The fact his wounds appeared as little more than superficial cuts by the time they examined him hadn’t helped his case. Had he divulged that most of the blood belonged to a daemon, he would have bought himself a one-way visit to the loco ward.

  Perhaps they had discovered the woman’s body nearby, and presumed he murdered her. Inadvertently, perhaps he had.

  No. She’s not dead.

  His chest clamped tight. Memory of her in past lifetimes flooded his brain, inciting a hotbed of contradictory desires. He needed to kiss his way from the delicate arch of her instep to the last freckle on the bridge of her nose. He wished to wrap her tight in his arms where the heat of her body could reassure him she lived.

  And he must kill her.

  But the thought of hurting her shredded his soul. If that daemon had harmed her…Stop. Such thoughts needed to move into a dark corner. This time, this life he must strike first, before she conjured some new way to take him out of the world.

  Recall of her beaded nipples and that low-cut shirt of soft transparent cloth had him groaning as blood beelined for his groin. He clenched his teeth. Do not think about her.

  Telling himself that only worsened the situation. Incarcerated in this small room, his mind was his worst enemy. His torturer.

  A vision of her furious green gaze when he let her fall and almost hit the floor had his lips twitching upwards. The hard-on worsened. With a curse, he halted his trek. Do not dwell on such thoughts. Learn to hate her. Otherwise, he would never be able to do what he must. Surely, this desire for her reflected nothing more than a combination of the gods’ meddling and their shared curse.

  He threw himself into push-ups at a brutal pace in an effort to shut down his mind.

  It failed.

  How long had it been since he last saw her? Two hundred twenty-three years, his annoying mind chimed in like it had a calendar where he’d been ticking off the days.

  That time had been spent imprisoned in the hellpit that was the Middle Realm. This purgatory zone rested on either side of the road blessed human souls walked on their post-death journey to be judged by the god of the afterlife, Osiris.

  He jumped up and wiped at his mouth, a habit needed hourly to remove sandy accumulates in that godsforsaken desert hell he’d just escaped. With pleasure, he twisted the handle of the dripping faucet. Cool liquid bathed his hands. Pure luxury. He splashed his face and drank. The water tasted earthy and had a foul mineral odor, not that he cared.

  He glanced up at the flickering light bulb and marveled at the changes in this world. No candles. Automatic glass-covered lights. In the brief moments he’d seen of the outside world before imprisonment, the differences left him unsure he could maneuver alone. Even so, he would escape. Confinement was far worse than fear of the unknown.

  He appreciated the bulb’s dim sputter. It cast more light than anything in that land of ever-present darkness where he’d been trapped. Only a sporadic red moon had lit his way through the endless sandy mountains populated by nightmare-worthy reptiles in addition to daemons and the occasional lost human soul. But he had mastered the art of moving in darkness.

  His traitorous mind moved back to the woman in the church. Was it her? His body had apparently decided so. When reincarnated, she remembered nothing of him or previous lives until he nudged her mind into recall, which meant right now she had no memory of him. He had purposefully not mental-nudged out of fear the daemon might attack during the several minutes required to assimilate previous life memory.

  What a misconceived plan. Now he didn’t know if she lived or had drowned.

  If that was her, she lives, his brain screamed. He slapped his hand against the wall when panic squeezed his chest to the point he could barely move air. “She is alive,” he said aloud. Were she dead, he wouldn’t be debating this. Their curse mandated they each die by the other’s hand, not by inadvertent daemon attack. And once one was dead, the other swiftly followed.

  He would find that woman.

  First step: escape. That required strength. The lacerations on his back from the daemon’s strike a few weeks ago weren’t healing. The evil shit had spit on him before he sent it back to the Middle Realm, ensuring the gashes would fester, like the one on his side that had been burning for over a hundred years. It would become a new chronic pain and an infuriating power drain.

  Dakar’s captors feared his strength, which, although paltry in his mind, was still stronger than a handful of men. To restrain him, his captors had discovered three to four guards were needed. They resorted to hitting him with a device that shot lightning bolts. That hurt and ultimately drained him. Overhearing their conversation after their most recent success at subduing him, he discovered they suspected he was more than just a man.

  He laughed softly to himself. If they only knew.

  ****

  Hours later, muffled voices halted in front of Dakar’s cell. Shadows registered in the door’s small window. He called forth seichim, the mystical energy endowed to each magus that enhanced perception, and boosted strength and concentration. With its power flooding his body, he could hear the conversation between two men and a woman.

  A man’s low mesmerizing voice said, “El hombre peligroso de quien usted habla, esta ahi adentro?” Is the dangerous one you spoke of in there?

  No one replied.

  The questioner prompted impatiently, “Está ahí?” Is he in there?

  “Sí,” said a gritty voice Dakar recognized as that belonging to the guard who most frequently “handled” him.

  The questioner drawled in English, “Must’ve come on a little strong. I’m a bit off today.”

  The woman laughed. “Or he’s gay and, like every person on the planet, other than me, he wants to jump your bones.”

  “Could be. Who could resist this? I mean, come on, my stylist did an amazing highlight job this time, but that guy has no chance. Not with that B.O.”

  A key sounded in the lock of his cell, but it didn’t complete the one-eighty turn needed to unlock. The guard asked, “Seguro que quiere ir en paz? Él está loco.” He made a gesture by his forehead that Dakar could see through his window.

  “What’d he say, Christian?” the woman asked.

  “Wants to know if you’re sure about going in alone. This guy is crazy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

  Christian put his face to the small window, but Dakar saw little more than a shadow through the dirty glass. “I don’t have a good feeling. Let me go in there with you.”

  “I can handle this,” she said confidently.

  “It’s my job to make sure you don’t get hurt. I can’t let you do this alone. I mean, who knows what’s going on in this guy’s head after a few weeks in that locker.”

  “You need to trust me.” Her tone broadcasted calm, but Dakar detected anxiety.

  “If the bastard so much as crowds your bubble, you yell. Ashor is gonna kick my ass into the next life for this. I still say it’s wrong that he doesn’t know you’re doing this without him.” With unease lacing his tone, he added, “You won’t tell him about this going-in-alone thing, will you?”

  “He doesn’t need to know. This is my job now, isn’t it?”

  The door scraped along the floor as the guard pulled it open. The guard had a death grip on his gun, which he held in the hand opposite that opening the door. “Párese contra la pared. Se mueve y le disparo.”

  “Stand against the wall. Move and I shoot.” The tall blond Dakar assumed was Christian quietly interpreted the guard’s command for the woman.

  Dakar moved into the shadows and chuckled at the guard whose hand shook. As if the gun would stop him, if he chose to charge.

  The guard’s gaze slid to the woman. Her nose scrunched as she stepped into the cell. Yeah, he bet it smelle
d rank in here. She jumped when the door slammed shut.

  Dakar asked, “Quién es usted?” Who are you? He detected the subtle buzz of preternatural energy from her. Distrust took a seat front and center.

  “Do you speak English? French was my language in school and, honestly, I can’t remember it very well. Spanish is truly beyond me.” She shrugged. Despite high-heeled black boots, the top of her head barely reached his chest. A thick dark braid ended at the top of her skintight black pants. The current fashion for women must be to dress like men. The style left little to the imagination, not that he was complaining. Pretty, but not for him.

  “Are they sending whores now? Dark-haired witches are not my type.” He crossed his thick forearms over his chest, hoping she’d read nonchalance. But it was a farce. He was as tightly coiled as a loaded spring. “Not interested.”

  “I’m not a prostitute. And I most certainly am not a witch.” Her pale multi-colored eyes widened. Odd, mesmerizing blue-green eyes.

  Was she trying to enthrall him with her gaze? Like hell she wasn’t a witch. He scrutinized her in the silent dead space that yawned between them. Finally, he drawled out, “Then, what might you require of me?”

  “I’m here to…Crap, I’ve never done this before. How would you like to become an immortal warrior for the gods? The Egyptian gods. Okay, that sounds crazy. But they’re real.” She paused, waiting for him to reply.

  Shock that they’d send a woman to recruit him back into the Scimitars left him speechless.

  She pressed on. “You’d have to fight some rather nasty creatures that stink, but not more than this place does. You’ll probably get hurt, but I can take care of that. The nightmares and emotional scarring, however…well, none of you guys are into psychotherapy, which trust me would help alleviate post-traumatic stress.” She stopped the verbal vomit and wrung her hands for a few seconds. “I can tell I’m not doing a very good job here. Sounds like a super-crappy deal. I’m not a salesman. And the gods were not exactly clear on how I was supposed to do this.”

  He almost smiled at her vulnerability, but alarm sang in his brain. With all the changes in this modern world, perhaps this was an elaborate black-magik sorcerer ruse. He’d never heard of the akhrian or Scimitar sacred healer being a woman. In a blur of motion, he pinned her to the wall by a hand to her sternum. Not crushing, but hostile. He touched no other part of her, careful to avoid contact. His body rejected feminine touch from anyone other than one who shared his curse.

  A blue glow emanated from beneath her shirt. With his free hand, he pulled the Anukrati amulet from its cover. In the center the stylized triangle symbol of the magi glowed cerulean blue. It was the same symbol each magus had magically tattooed on his chest at the time of his indoctrination into service by the Egyptian gods.

  “You are the akhrian?” he whooshed out, stunned. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be forced back into the same old duties. Into the pointless and continuous cycle of death. His death and that of the woman he was cursed to love for all time. And the deaths of friends who had given their lives on countless occasions to protect him. Then, there was the pain of not just physical injury, but also the emotional heartbreak from constantly losing those closest. For millennia, he’d accepted that as his life. Now, he felt the gods had cheated him…tricked him into the Middle Realm. And, therefore, violated his vows. He wanted a different life, one that allowed for more than two weeks of bliss mixed into hundreds of years of pain and death.

  He leaned close to her ear, allowing his dark facial hair to brush against her face. “How about you tell that treacherous goddess to leave me alone. She released me from that hell for who knows what reason. I refuse to be her slave any longer.”

  She reached up with her left hand to pull down his torn shirt, exposing the tattoo on his chest. “Thank the gods that you already know what’s going on. I haven’t been at this very long. I’m with Ashor. Wait, you don’t know him as Ashor. I’m Asten’s senariai.”

  Asten? The Prime magus sent his wife on her own to recruit? Not a chance in hell. Especially not that particular magus. Overprotective was his middle name, not that any of them let their bonded woman go into unknown, potentially dangerous situations alone. Especially never alone with an unfamiliar male. In a small room.

  She gasped as if he applied too much pressure on her chest.

  Dakar lightened his restraint, but kept her pressed to the wall. “The gods mucked this one up. A woman as akhrian and senariai? You put yourself at unacceptable risk being here. If they lose you, they lose their leader and healer. I have no quarrel with Asten, er, Ashor. But I suspect he will not like hearing about you in here. With me.”

  “Are you going to keep me pinned against this wall? Or are we going to talk?”

  Dakar didn’t move, stuck in indecision.

  She said, “Since you seem to know what I am and why I’m here, make your decision. Come with me and help us, or I swear I’ll gut you from your scrotum to your heart and send you back to whatever hell you just got out of.”

  A sharp blade pierced his scrotum. His respect for her shot up several notches. “You think you could do it?” Leaning close again he said, “I dare you to try.”

  She twisted the knife. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

  “I refuse to make a new vow to that deceitful goddess.”

  “Seems to me if you remember the last time you vowed, then it’s still in effect. So, no need for you to go through the swearing-in ceremony again.”

  “I am no longer a Scimitar.”

  “Your tattoo argues differently. We need your help. There are only seven magi right now. And they’re a mess. Ethan can’t find his gifted power. Two of the others can’t figure out how to use their abilities. Javen got voted off active duty since he’s too close to the Turn, but now he’s become a chain-smoking drug addict that keeps picking fights with the other guys. Eric’s so worried about his family, now that he has a newborn, that he has trouble focusing on fights. So, that leaves Ashor and Christian as the only truly functional ones of the bunch. We need you.”

  That did sound desperate. There should be ten of them, well, eleven, but that last magus the gods would never resurrect. “I assume Ashor is still in charge.”

  She nodded.

  He sighed and shook his head. “They’d fare better without me.”

  “Is that your final decision?” She pressed the knife.

  His scrotum burned. Did she really think he’d be swayed by pain?

  “They would each give their life for you and you know it. If the goddess deceived you, then it was her fault or that of one of the other gods, not one of the guys. This is a difficult time. Please, come with me.”

  The healer’s bravado was little more than farce. Fear came off her in waves. Despite his threat, hurting her was against his code. He had never hurt a woman in all his centuries of existence, although this time, this life, he would make an exception for Shaiani. Or die trying. He stepped away from the healer. “You need to work on that recruitment speech.”

  Her face flushed. “It sucked, didn’t it?”

  He genuinely liked this healer. “Not very inspiring. I have received a lot of those speeches, but yours was by far the most entertaining.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t have time to prep it out in my mind, and then I rambled. So, you’ve been around a while?” She waved at his shirt. “That’s a style that went out over a hundred years ago.”

  His cheeks burned. At first opportunity, he would discard the clothes. “Please accept my apology if I harmed you. I will accompany you, but I would like to reclaim my blade, if possible. They confiscated it when I was incarcerated.”

  She knocked on the door. “We’re ready to leave.” She caught his wrist as he moved away and did a magical quick-heal on his scrotum.

  He swallowed a gasp. She’d shot a soothing sensation into him prior to healing. None of the previous akhrians had cared about comfort. None would’ve been concerned about that small abrasion
she’d caused. He mumbled, “Thank you.” And followed her into the bright hallway.

  ****

  Accented voices gibbered around Shay. In Spanish. Her hazy mind couldn’t decide if it wanted to be awake or keep on dreaming. Fantasy was so much better, especially when the star turned her knees to jelly with his strong hard profile and glittering gold eyes. And that smile…

  “Some guy just dumped her off? And left thousands to cover the cost of her care?” a man asked disdainfully.

  A woman replied, “Sure did. Strangest thing. He ordered we give her the care she needed. Then disappeared. Never saw him again. No one has checked on her or ever come looking.”

  “She was left here? Don’t get me wrong, this is an okay facility. But why not transfer her to Cali or Bogota?”

  The woman snort-laughed. “Dr. Fernandez, you know this place would never let that kind of cash out of its sight.”

  “You’re spending this much on a coma patient that might never wake up? For cosmetic surgery?”

  “It’s but a drop in the hat cost-wise for what that guy paid.”

  “Is she ready?” Dr. Fernandez asked, using a super-shit-in-charge tone.

  Bright light pierced Shay’s retinas. Oh my God…she could see! Through a haze she identified people in doctor masks and blue head caps surrounded her.

  Pricking pain blasted through her head. Someone had pushed a stick through her eyeball! “Stop,” she rasped out. She pushed upwards. And screamed. She thrashed, connecting with a metal tray. A clatter of metal objects hit the floor.

  “Hold her down!” the doctor yelled. “Goddamned redheads and their resistance to anesthesia. I thought you said she was comatose.”

  Arms restrained her. She bucked and pushed at them. Someone vice-clamped her forearm while a burning pain traveled from her wrist to shoulder. First came calm...and the realization she could speak! And then she returned to dreamland.

  Chapter Three

  The Sanctum, Hashishin Headquarters

  Asheville, North Carolina