Every Last Kiss, Final Copy, June 30, 2011

by Courtney Cole

  The whispering stopped.

  “All will be lost, Charmian.”

  I would recognize the scary man’s voice anywhere. Clutching the stone to my chest, I whirled around.

  And screamed. Because that is what a normal girl does when she finds someone in her bedroom. And I’m normal. Damn it, I’m normal.

  The man from my garage stood perched at the edge of my room, ominously out of place, like an overgrown vulture. His voluminous dark robes hung heavily around him and he stretched a gnarled, twisted hand toward me. As he moved, thick swirls of incense swirled around me and I froze.

  Unbidden thoughts sprung into my head.

  I was suddenly consumed with fear. Not for the obvious, sane reason- because a strange man was standing in my bedroom-but because it was rumored that high priests were actually cannibals.

  Where did that come from? How the hell did I know that he was a high priest?

  I wasn’t even in control of my own thoughts as unbidden memories that I didn’t even know I had rushed back to me, flooding my thoughts. Testing my sanity.

  High priests were cannibals. They ate the flesh of those they considered wise, hoping that they would gain that wisdom through ingestion. I didn’t know how true my sudden strange thoughts were, but the second they sprung to mind, it was all I could think of.

  A cannibal stood in front of me with sunken cheeks, razor thin lips and a shaved head. I shuddered and he smiled at my reaction, his thin lips stretching even thinner across his gaunt face.

  His terrifying expression was startling and my heart ricocheted wildly against my chest like a drum. The thick black kohl lining his eyes was smeared, making him seem slightly deranged as it streaked in murky rivulets down his sweaty cheeks.

  “Do not fear, Charmian. I am only here to help.”

  Why did he keep calling me Charmian?

  He reached his twisted hand out to me once again. An invitation to grasp his talon-like fingers. I took a shaky step backward. There was no way I was touching him. No. Way.

  “Take it,” he insisted. “You must. You are the only one who can help.”

  With a speed I wouldn’t have thought he possessed, he snatched my hand. And I dropped to my knees in front of him with the force of the visions that passed through me.

  A woman was curled into a ball, weeping. With thin fingers, she frantically clutched at her chest, scratching at the skin, drawing blood. In my vision, she turned her head and stared into my eyes. Cleopatra.

  I knew it just like I knew my heart was beating.

  Vivid green paint swept across her eyelids and her plump lips were stained crimson. Don’t ask me how, but I knew that the stain was from henna and the green was malachite. She wore a short white shift and delicate leather sandals on her feet, the thin straps interwoven with golden strands and wrapping around her slender calves until they tied neatly behind her knees.

  She rushed to me, her gleaming black hair as dark as a shadow.

  “Charmian, they’re coming. I can’t bear it!”

  She gestured through the open balcony doors to our left and then collapsed back into a heap, weeping inconsolably.

  Gazing over the stone railing of the balcony wall, I stared into the harbor below us. Hundreds of ships were filling the glistening harbor. Rome. Rome had descended upon us.

  How did I know that?

  But I knew. Just as I knew that Rome had been closing in on Egypt for years, a suffocating, overwhelming presence that had creshendoed every day, a presence led by Gaius Julius Caesar. Otherwise called Octavian, with a bland smile and expressionless eyes. Perfectly polite and perfunctory, but seemingly inhuman and emotionless, the adopted son of Julius Caesar methodically worked to fell Cleopatra and acquire Egypt for his own. And suddenly, instead of asking myself how I knew any of this, all I could wonder was …How had I forgotten?

  I turned from my stance at the balcony doors and caught my own image in Cleopatra’s gilded bronze mirror. I sucked in a ragged breath.

  My own jade green eyes stared back at me, framed by my long, dark hair. Those things were the same, familiar. But my body was different. It was shorter, slighter, older. Exotically beautiful. Golden skin, ancient clothing. Henna tattoos delicately curled down my arms and thick ornate golden jewelry adorned my neck and wrists. My lips were plump and my skin was perfect- not a single blemish or freckle.

  But it was me. I knew it as surely as I was breathing and the knowledge was dizzying.

  “What is happening?” I whispered desperately.

  As soon as I spoke, the visions snapped closed as though someone had slammed a book shut.

  I was once again standing in front of the old priest.

  Annen. His name is Annen.

  “Annen,” I murmured.

  He seemed pleased as he stared back, his obsidian eyes glinting.

  “Ah, you remember, my lady.”

  I gulped. He was right. I remembered. I knew him. I had known him centuries ago. Oh, Mary Mother of God. This couldn’t be happening. This is a dream. This is a dream. This is a dream.

  But it wasn’t.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Am I going crazy? How is this happening?”

  “You’re not crazy,” he assured me. “Give it a moment. Trust me, you’ve been through this hundreds of times. Focus on your bloodstone. Everything will come back to you.”

  He sat back patiently, his crooked fingers clasped in front of him as he waited and I clutched the cool stone in my fingers. The source of all of my recent problems somehow didn’t seem separate from me- it suddenly seemed a natural part of me. And I realized that it hadn’t just been given to me… it had just been returned to me. It had been mine all along.

  Annen’s ancient face swirled together as the room began to spin around me and nausea boiled in my throat. My cheeks flushed as heat washed over me. It was almost too much sensation to bear. It literally felt as though every emotion ever felt by any other human being was coursing through me right this second. The sheer force of it threw my head back.

  Fragmented images of people, places, colors and even scents assailed me and I gasped to breathe. Water, ships, horses, gold, statues, children…. So many things flew in front of my eyes in just a mere matter of minutes, puzzle pieces fitting together and then ripping apart to be replaced by new ones. It was maddening, dizzying, sickening…

  And then, abruptly, it was over. I slumped limply forward, still on my knees. This couldn’t be happening. But. It. Was.

  The magnitude of what I knew now was making me feel weak and shaky. But my mind was filled with knowledge…. Knowledge that hadn’t been there before. Knowledge that was irrefutable.

  “You have remembered who you are?” Annen probed expectantly, his black eyes missing nothing as he crossed the room to me. His claw-like fingers were suddenly gripping my arm and I flinched, not from pain but because he made me uncomfortable. High priests had always made me uncomfortable.

  I raised my head and nodded.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I know who I am.”

  I lightly fingered the bird-shaped birthmark that hovered directly over my pulse-point. Why had I not wondered about it before? It marked me for being exactly what I was. I had possessed many names over the past hundreds of years; many faces, many bodies. But my soul has always stayed the same, as well as my fate.

  I belonged to the ancient Order of the Moirae. As a Keeper, my sole mission in every life has been to protect and lead my charge, my Daedal, through the annals of time, gently guiding her into staying on the path laid out for her by the Fates.

  Because every person in life has a predetermined destiny and unfortunately, there are those who have a more difficult journey in every life. We call them the Daedal.

  A Daedal…a catalyst, a complication, a change. A Daedal changes the world in some significant way even though their very significance generally causes a tragic end to their lives. They are fated to be something great- something important, in every life. Because of that, I am
what I am. A Keeper, marked as such by the phoenix birthmark.

  And right now, I was Charmian; handmaiden, confidante and advisor to Queen Cleopatra VII, my Daedal.

  I had been raised with the queen in ancient Alexandria, running and playing with her through the ornate halls of the stone palace as we grew up. I had served her, offered her my advice and became her closest friend. And I had died with her when we were both 39 years old. I could remember every painful detail with bone-jarring clarity, just as though it was yesterday.

  I stared into the all-knowing eyes of the priest. He nodded, recognizing the realization he saw reflected in my own. The gravity of who I was settled down around me like a heavy cloak and the colors in the room started to run together.

  And then I fainted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Scorching, smoldering eyes.

  The familiarity they held mocked me as they glinted in the light, framed by lush dark lashes. A strong jaw-line led to soft lips which parted to reveal even, white teeth. And then his face was unveiled to me in its entirety, as though murky clouds in my consciousness had faded away. I gasped in recognition. He was mine.

  Hasani. The man from my dreams. Bronzed skin, brilliantly white smile, shiny black hair pulled into a leather clasp at his neck. He reached for me with strong hands, his long fingers beckoning. His was the most beautiful face I’d ever seen.

  “Come to me, my love. I’ve missed you,” he murmured in a deep, husky voice and my heart stopped.

  I sat up with a gasp, opening my eyes.

  “Hasani,” I breathed.

  “Ah, you have returned to us, Charmian,” Annen murmured smoothly. Seated across the room from me on a golden chaise, his dark robes were spread around him like a fan.

  And this was not my bedroom.

  I looked around quickly. Polished marble floors, elaborate silken draperies, onyx statues, glittering golden accents. Ebony balcony doors were open, allowing the lush, fragrant seabreeze to blow in, gently ruffling my hair. This was impossible. Utterly impossible. This was my bedroom. But not my bedroom in Pasadena. This was Charmian’s bedroom. In ancient Egypt.

  “We’re in Alexandria,” I muttered uncertainly, eyeing the priest with suspicion. “I don’t understand this. This has never happened before…”

  There was no way I should be here. This was the past, not the present. I had never moved through time before. Not ever. There was no need. My job was to ensure that my Daedal’s plan unfolded perfectly. There was never any need to return to a life, because I was very good at what I did. But my surroundings didn’t lie. I had definitely returned.

  I glanced down at my body and found it to be Charmian’s, not Macy’s. A short filmy shift cut off mid-thigh, belted by several golden cords at my waist. Confusion clouded my thoughts.

  How is this happening?

  I examined my arm. The skin was perfect and golden, buffed to a soft sheen. I knew that we had used sea salt as a scrub to attain that perfection. Glistening gold bracelets adorned my wrists, with agate and jade charms dangling from them.

  As strange as it seemed to be thrust back into it, I was still perfectly comfortable in this body because it had once been mine. It was a jolting notion.

  “I hope you will forgive me for bringing you here, Charmian.”

  Annen rose from his perch and crossed to me, sitting next to my feet.

  “I don’t understand it,” I murmured. “Why are we here? And why are you here, priest? Where is Ahmose?”

  Ahmose was my handler, an ancient Aegis priest skilled in magic. It was he who came to me during my seventeenth year in every life to present me with my bloodstone, which triggered my cycle to begin. To my knowledge, Annen was not involved with the Order or the Aegis. I had only known him here… in Alexandria. So why had he sought me out two thousand years from where we were now standing?

  As I stared at him, I knew that all of my panic and confusion was easily visible on my face. I could feel it. Annen smiled a tiny smile.

  “Charmian, surely you remember that I’m not simply a priest?” Condescending and self-assured, he stared down his long, crooked nose at me.

  “No, I don’t remember that,” I answered firmly. “My memories are coming back yet I still only remember you from the Serapis Temple. Are you part of the Aegis?”

  Annen shook his head. “No, my lady. I’m not part of the Aegis. They do so tamper with your memories, Charmian. It isn’t right.”

  Confusion clouded my thoughts and I shook my head in frustration, shaking away his words and focusing on my questions.

  “Then I don’t understand. Ahmose triggers my cycle. Where is he?”

  “Oh, he’ll be along shortly, I imagine,” Annen replied mysteriously. “But I need to speak with you first. It is of utmost importance.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got my attention,” I answered, staring at him both curiously and apprehensively. This was all new. And I didn’t like it. Something wasn’t right here. I could feel it as the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I laid my bloodstone down on the bed and turned back to face him.

  “Of course. But first, Charmian, would you like to know what happened to Hasani? I know that when you and Cleopatra barricaded yourselves in her tomb, you hadn’t heard of his fate yet. You died without knowing. Would you like to know now?”

  He stared at me with a kindly expression and my heart stopped. It was forbidden to know what happened to our loved ones. One of the many rules for Keepers. But I suddenly had the compulsive need to know what happened to Hasani. Regardless of the rules, regardless of the consequences for breaking them.

  I nodded stiffly, despite the ever-growing heavy pit in my stomach. This was wrong, wrong, wrong. But I had to know.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I would.”

  Annen held his wrinkled claw-like hand out to me once again and gritting my teeth, I grasped it. His long fingernails curled around until they scratched my palm. I shuddered, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. Because almost immediately, the visions began.

  Soldiers were marching, swords were drawn, blood was everywhere. Cleopatra was weeping, people were running. Everything was so vivid that I could smell the blood and taste the dust in the air as the people scattered. Tattered and torn warships filled the harbor and mutilated bodies lined the street. And suddenly there was Hasani, rising up in my vision like an avenging god. My heart stopped as I watched his bronzed face gleaming in the sun.

  My beautiful warrior was yelling orders to his soldiers, looking this way and that as mayhem unfolded all around them. Even surrounded by the anguish and haunting sadness of war, I couldn’t help but admire his abilities. He was a born leader… tall, fierce and commanding.

  But suddenly, out of the chaos, the top of a Roman helmet appeared behind him- silent and stealthy. Flat brown eyes were fixated on Hasani, filled with deadly intent. Every fiber of my being screamed to shout a warning, but obviously, he couldn’t hear me. My hands shook as I watched helplessly, impotent to help him.

  The Roman lunged and forcefully ran his sword through Hasani’s back. He yanked it out and sneered down as blood dripped from the blade. Hasani looked stunned as he crumpled to the ground, his beautiful dark eyes clouding over, his strong hands falling limply to his side as he dropped his iron shield. His head fell back and blood gurgled from his slack mouth, dripping from his chin to his metal chestplate in fat drops.

  Absolute horror immobilized me and I fought to breathe as I stared at his lifeless body, the body that I knew every inch of. Tears silently streamed down my cheeks and my chest was frozen, like it was wrapped with steel bands. It wouldn’t constrict or expand and I struggled to inhale.

  Once I was finally able to take a ragged breath, I reacted in the only way I knew how. I screamed, yanking my hand free from the priest’s. The moment my hand left his, the visions abruptly stopped. I drew my feet up onto my bed, hugging my knees to my chest.

  “It’s not real,” I murmured shakily, trying to convince myself
. “It’s not real.”

  “But it was real,” Annen confirmed and my heart shattered into pieces. “You can feel it. You know it was real. Just as you also know that something similar to this happens to you in every lifetime.”

  “But I’ve never seen it before,” I murmured. “Knowing it in theory and actually seeing it are two different things.”

  “Which is why the Order prevents you from knowing these things,” Annen replied, his onyx eyes glittering strangely. “There is a reason why they wipe your memories clean in every life and only let you regain specific ones- such as what you are. Knowing the other details would only make things harder for you…harder to follow through with their plans for you.”

  I glared at him. “Again, let me ask.. what is it to you? Why are you so interested in this…and in me?”

  Annen stared at me contemplatively.

  “Charmian, have you ever wondered what gives the Fates the right to control destiny?”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “Of course not. It is simply how things work. It has always been this way.”

  “But perhaps it has always been this way because we have allowed it to be so,” Annen suggested.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” I stared at him in puzzlement. “We don’t allow anything. I don’t write Fate’s plan, I just carry it out. It is what it is.”

  “Oh, Charmian. You have more power than you know… more power than they will ever let you discover. And that, my lady, is why I am here.”

  I stared at him blankly again.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because before you continue with even one more cycle, there are things you need to know about the Fates.”

  At his words, I thought about the three ancient white-haired Moirae. They were frighteningly powerful. According to ancient legend whispered from generation to generation for thousands of years, the eldest sister Clothos spun the thread of life, while Lachesis measured the length of each thread, thereby deciding how long each person would live. The youngest, Atropos, was the cutter. She determined how each person would die. I’ve only been face to face with them a handful of times and those few times were enough.