Forgotten in Darkness

by Zoe Forward

  “Head honcho at the Sanctum. Leader of the Hashishins.”

  “You mean Djoser?”

  “No. Calls himself Terek Nadir. Real freaky guy. I mean his eyes…they went all black.”

  “He’s a daemon possessing a human body. Fortune may have smiled upon you today. You can thank your bochnori for that.”

  “A daemon? They can possess? Was that thing you fought in Cartagena a daemon?”

  “Yes. One of the gods must be watching over you to have escaped a daemon twice. They are deadly. Djoser, in particular.”

  “What did you just do with that flame thing? You have a flamethrower hiding in your back pocket? What kind of idiot plays with a flamethrower?” She shifted and winced. “At least you got better clothes this time. No more pirate shirt.”

  Dakar didn’t answer. He leaned close to scrutinize the tattoo, careful not to touch her. It blinked at him in the shape of the falcon. Ever so subtly it nodded its head as if agreeable to him assisting her.

  Her face blanched. He recognized the signs of impending unconsciousness. She may have a bochnori for protection, but she didn’t have the regenerative ability of a magus.

  “Do not fall asleep,” he requested softly.

  “I’ll try. But…so light-headed.”

  He bunched the corner of her shirt over the hole and wiped blood away for closer look. The purple darkening of the skin around the wound suggested the blade had been poisoned. He put her hand on top of the bunched up shirt and ordered, “Our time is limited before they will be upon us. Hold pressure on the wound. We must slow the bleeding.”

  The newest Hashishin poisons were probably capable of faster fatality on humans than the last time he’d been here. But would they work on her? Was their curse in effect yet? His heart beat painfully fast and sweat trickled down his back. You can’t die…not until you remember me!

  How he wished Dr. Kira had tagged along for this trip. He shot a quick prayer to the gods, entreating they lock Shaiani to this world until he could get her to the healer, even though he doubted they cared for him beyond their entertainment.

  Dakar yanked the cell phone from his coat pocket. He hit a few buttons and cursed, frustrated he couldn’t get the sequence right. He barely remembered what the cantankerous Javen had instructed when introducing him to the device. Eventually he keyed in the right string of numbers, and put the phone to his ear. He gave his location to Khyan.

  As he leaned in to check the wound one more time, his shirt gaped open. She placed her fingers against the stylized scimitar blades inked on his chest.

  “Where’d you get that tattoo?” She startled him by lifting the untucked hem of his T-shirt to look at his ribs and sighed as if relieved.

  Dakar eyed her suspiciously. How could she recognize the Scimitar emblem, but not know it?

  Come on. Remember me, he thought loudly to her.

  Nothing. He held back a frustrated string of curses that might terrify her.

  She had to be his Shaiani. This close he wanted to remove her shirt. To look if her tattoo was there. The shenu just below her right breast.

  Shay pulled out a pendant dangling from her neck, and turned the emblem for his inspection. In its dead center was an exact copy of the symbol on his chest.

  A magus pendant?

  Denial roared in his mind. That pendant signaled she already belonged to another magus. She was taken, soul-bound to another and off-limits. Five magi gave this symbolic necklace. He and his brother were not in that group.

  In an icy tone, he snarled, “To whom do you belong?” Whom do I need to kill?

  “I don’t belong to anyone. Not anymore. Who are you? What’s going on? Why were you fighting that daemon-thing in Cartagena before it nearly killed me?” She moaned and grabbed her side.

  “Did your magus die? How have you survived?”

  “Magus? Whoa…think I’m delirious from blood loss—that’s what my Ph.D. is about. You probably didn’t even say magus, did you?”

  “Who gifted you the pendant?”

  “Feel dizzy.” She didn’t answer his question as she fell back against a throw pillow.

  Gently, he brushed the hair from her eyes. “Stay awake, sesen. You shall make it through this.”

  She glanced up at him, disoriented. “Sesen? As in lotus flower?”

  “Yes. You speak Egyptian?” he asked distractedly as he wiped blood away from the wound on her side to look at it again. The purpled area had tripled since last inspection, and a band of skin directly around the knife entry had darkened to black. Bad sign. Lethal poison. For once, he hoped her protected from death by their curse. Only his strike could take her from this world.

  “What’s your name? I’d like to stop calling you sexy gladiator man in my head. I think I just said that aloud. Disregard that.”

  He smiled. “Dakar.”

  “Dakar,” she said slowly and returned his smile. “Like in the dream. Don’t let them kill me when I pass out.”

  He ran his hand along the smooth skin of her right cheek. “I swear I will allow no other to kill you.” That privilege is mine and mine alone.

  She mumbled, “Dakar. You must be the Dakar. That child said to tell you—” Shay’s eyelids drifted shut.

  “What?” Dakar mumbled in confusion. He shook her gently. “A child?” She didn’t respond.

  She had a child? Was it the child of whatever magus she belonged to? At the thought of another man touching her and making her grow round with child, spikes of jealous rage pierced his mind. They’d never been granted time enough together for a child. He’d watched all the others gifted with at least one or two children over the centuries. In general, the gods granted very few children, but it did happen from time to time. Never to him.

  Something deep shifted in his gut. A child. Her child. Their child. A little one with wild red curls and a menace to all. He wanted it.

  Djoser had denied them this future when he cursed them. Now he would spend eternity hunting the fucker only to be able to do no more than send him back to the Middle Realm. Highly unrewarding since he kept getting resummoned.

  He punched his fist into a sofa arm, cutting a deep hole that exposed the cheap stuffing. He looked upwards. “Will it ever be enough? You bonded us together. I had no choice but to claim her when I found her in the beginning. How was I to know Djoser would get pissed off?”

  Dakar shook her again, but couldn’t rouse her. Blood soaked the bunched-up shirt. To the bochnori he requested, “Keep her in this world until I can get her to the akhrian.”

  It nodded at him.

  This uncertainty over her identity had to end. He reached for her shirt, momentarily hesitant, unsure if he should violate her privacy. Fuck that. He needed to know.

  He lifted her shirt and bra. And there it sat, just below her spectacular left breast. The shenu. Thank the gods. He laid a light kiss on the mark. Most would pass it over as a small red circular birthmark sitting atop a straight line. To him it was the ancient Egyptian symbol of eternity. He bore an exact copy just south of his right nipple. The symbol of their shared curse. Locked together in lust, hate, and death.

  He brushed a few stray hairs from her face, receiving such astonishing pleasure from the act. His need for this woman was unbelievably complex, and so much more than physical.

  Damn it, he’d really missed her. He longed for her inner warmth and ultimate feminine essence. In the past he’d basked in her vibrancy and genuine adoration for the few days when her love ruled. How he craved the intimacy that came from their shared history—the good and the bad, and both of them remembering where they’d left off last time.

  Ah, gods, did he want her. It was a madness that bordered on feral. His body burned for her, even in this weakened state. Somehow it knew she would survive, and in a day or two she’d be ready to move on to the next phase of their dance toward death.

  This time, however, would be different. He would resist her. If he took even a small taste, he’d fail. And he had to su
cceed. For both of them.

  ****

  The Great Palace at Mennefer, 2798 B.C.

  Dakar and the shadows of the frescoed hallway blended as if one. He had not entered the palace in centuries, since he’d been a royal guard. Yet its opulence still disgusted him, pointing out the stark disparity between the haves and have-nots. The majority of Egyptians were in the have-not category.

  He ducked behind a massive column to avoid a group of shaven-headed priests who escorted the Syrian prince and his entourage. The prince had arrived several days ago, no doubt here in a desperate attempt to soothe the border crisis caused by a wayward daemon’s killing spree. Of course, the prince remained clueless that an evil spirit had caused the chaos. The Syrians misinterpreted the mass killing as a covert attack by Djoser’s forces. He bet that the Pharaoh loved the way that worked out in his favor. In a roundabout way, Djoser was responsible for the attack, but he probably had not meant for the daemon he summoned to wander so far afield.

  He turned sharp left down a faience-tiled corridor that led underground, to the first lower level. He sought the second lower level where he’d find the torture chambers. And Khyan.

  Unfortunately, he had to pass the guest quarters going this way. Besides the Syrian dignitaries, there was a huge party from Edfu. He rolled his eyes and slid into the shadows of a column when three women and four men exited a luxurious suite. Only one room beyond this before he could descend the secret stairwell. Only three stairwells existed to the lowest level. Reaching either of the other stairwells would have involved a battle with Djoser’s army. Not ideal.

  After the group passed, he listened for a full minute and called upon seichim to assess for others. There was but one person in the chamber. Female. Hopefully a slave. She should disregard him, given that he was dressed as a temple guard. Now was his chance.

  He noiselessly neared the door, went to slide past, but froze. His lungs ceased to move air.

  An exquisitely formed woman climbed from a bathing pool. Long dark wet hair plastered itself to her olive skin all the way down to her waist. Water dripped from every curvaceous angle.

  He whooshed out, “Nek.” Fuck. The bomb echoed around the stone chamber.

  Feminine green eyes flared wide. She sputtered and immediately covered herself. The flimsy cloth she wrapped around her wet body saturated instantly, becoming transparent. Her erect nipples strained against the fabric.

  He spun around with his left hand over his eyes. His other hand collided with an oversized alabaster vase, and went through its side. A shard ripped a deep laceration into his forearm. The pain pitched him off balance—not that he needed any help with that thanks to her. He fell onto his ass. A second shard impaled his landing palm. His black head and neck covering fell off, revealing his unforgettable streaky black hair. And the tattoos he must conceal.

  As he rolled onto his back, she scampered to him. “Oh, my. You are bleeding everywhere.” Her small white teeth tugged at her lower lip.

  “Tell me something I do not know.” With another curse, he brought his right palm and forearm up to assess its damage. Great. The shard had impaled his sword hand. He, who could kill three daemons with one hand tied behind his back, had been felled by a damned vase.

  She used a bath cloth to swipe at the blood. “Who are you?”

  “Please be careful not to hurt yourself.” He waved his good hand at all the stone fragments.

  “I will be fine.” She smiled.

  As her clean scent invaded his nostrils, everything in his brain stilled. He studied her face—the smooth skin, the full mouth, and long dark lashes—but it was her eyes that intrigued him most. Emerald green. Had he ever seen eyes that color? That meant her dark hair might be auburn. A prized combination rare amongst Egyptian women. If found on a man, he too was prized until his later teens when he would be sacrificed to Osiris due to a ridiculous superstition.

  Deliberately, he allowed his gaze to drift over her damp body, barely camouflaged by the bath towel. A blush spread from her cheeks to her chest.

  Oh, hell. He needed to get his mind off all that skin, the lush curves, and her pouty lower lip.

  Apparently, she too decided she needed to focus on business and started wrapping his arm and hand in bath cloths. At every skin-to-skin touch, his body throbbed and jerked with need. When finished, she glanced up, her pupils dilated and lids droopy.

  A powerful sexual hunger, the likes of which he’d never experienced, filled every crevice in his brain and squeezed his body, driving out all civilized thought. And every ounce of determination to rescue his brother.

  His body went electric as if waking up for the first time ever. His mind and soul agreed she was the one. His senariai.

  He’d waited several centuries and now…now? Come on, he thought to the gods.

  Talk about bad timing. Gods help him, but he didn’t want to deal with this—not in the middle of such a huge crisis. He needed to be sane, to keep his mind under control. He swore softly under his breath. She could NOT be the one. Simply not possible.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes to shut out that kiss-me pout. He had a mission, and nothing, no one got in the way of that.

  Her breath hissed out as if she’d been denying the attraction he had already accepted.

  His eyelids popped open. She leaned in.

  Desire thudded through him—raw and so strong he felt gut-punched. He pulled her head to his to bring the temptation of her soft lips closer. He stroked his tongue over her puffy lower lip, tasting the hint of her. His body reacted with a brutal force, swelling his groin further.

  Dakar had never felt need such as this. He struggled to keep his hands gentle. To keep the touch of his mouth tender when visions of what he wanted to do to her demanded a level of roughness he feared would terrify her. Based on the tentative movement of her lips, he suspected her unfamiliar with a man’s touch. His heart somersaulted.

  Then she pulled away, her eyes wide. He sat up. She swallowed hard, blinking up at him with a combo of nervous apprehension and shaken desire. Her hands trembled where they remained on his shoulders.

  She gripped the back of his head and slowly pulled him to her lips. Timidly, she pressed her tongue against his mouth. Her body leaned into his.

  Startled at first by her boldness, he took the reins. She made a small breathy sound. He savored the feel of her body pressed into his. He couldn’t wait another minute, drawing her closer, his mouth tangling with hers. His hand stroked down her body. She shuddered in answering pleasure with a hitch in her breath as he caressed her thigh. Although naturally bold and sensual, she was shy in an untutored way. Something dark and possessive flared to life, knowing he would be her first. Her only, if he had his way.

  He pulled her into his lap. His breath strangled in his lungs, his shaft so hard, now pressed against her soft butt, that he thought he’d explode. He needed her radiance to pour over him and push out the darkness of the kem-seki. Every instinct urged him to have her now.

  You have to stop this madness. This cannot happen here. Not now.

  Control was his code, his mantra, and few—actually nothing, no woman, no person, no daemon—had ever shaken it. Until this. Until her. He trembled with need. And it terrified him. He pulled away from her lips and whispered softly, “We cannot do this here.”

  “What?” She blinked at him, disoriented. Lips puffy, cheeks blazing red. “Who are you?”

  “Dakarai.”

  “What is that mark on your cheek and neck?” Her hand traced one of the intricate sigils placed by akhrian healing.

  She cannot be allowed to read the marks. Turn away from her fingers. Leave, he ordered himself. But was unable to move as her single finger traced the marks on his skin. He wanted her to know. To read them.

  She gasped and whispered, “Those are god marks. Be you a priest or temple guard?”

  Lie to her. Do your duty. “No. I am not a priest. I do not work in a temple.”

  She rolled awa
y from him onto her butt and whispered again, “Your eyes. They swirl. What are you?”

  “I am but a man. Think you I am more?”

  “Are you one of them? Have you the mark on your chest?”

  How did she know about that? He remained mute, unable to lie to her. Trapped by her guileless curiosity.

  Her hand pulled his dark shirt low, revealing his magus mark beneath his menat.

  She traced a single finger over the top of the tattoo, awe obvious in her gaze. “You are one of them. Are you not?”

  “One of who?”

  Breathlessly she murmured, “Magi.”

  “This is a mess.” He gripped her hands in one of his. “May I have your name?”

  Her green gaze held his. “Shaiani.”

  “Shaiani, I am what you think. But you and I, we…who are you? You speak like a highborn. Why are you here? Why are you alone in this chamber? Where are your guards?”

  “None would dare injure me here. In the palace.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I am to marry the Pharaoh in three days. We pledge today.”

  Like hell you will. Dark possession flared to life. Never would he allow that demented shit, Djoser, to taint her. He choked out, “Did you choose this union? Does your heart favor him?”

  She frowned. “’Tis an arranged affair. I have yet to meet him. I know not if I favor him. But he is the Pharaoh.” Said like an obedient subject of the kingdom. Most accepted his omnipotence, deeming the pharaoh to be one step beneath a god.

  Dakar grabbed his head covering and started rewrapping. Khyan. Had to get to him. Get him out of here. And then he’d deal with her.

  He bowed to her before starting to push upwards. “I thank you for your kind care and apologize for disturbing your bath.”

  Her face blanched. Breathlessly she asked, “Where do you go?” And into his mind, her voice blasted, You would leave me?

  Now he knew her to be the one. Telepathy.

  Her eyes darted around the chamber wildly, like a caged bird.

  He couldn’t leave her like this.

  Panicked.