Clan Novel Setite: Book 4 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Kathleen Ryan

  “And I want to apologize for Raphael. He’s not a bad guy, once you get to know him, but he resents the boss telling you the Asp’s names. The boss thinks—and I think, because I…well, I was watching you over the security system—that you knew the difference between the brothers. Raf doesn’t believe it; he’s too used to walking around as Angelo and feeling superior because of it. He doesn’t know how to act around you, so he’s playing the heavy. It’ll wear off, I think. Gabe’ll bring him around, anyway.”

  Elizabeth murmured, “You talk as if I’m going to be here a long time.”

  Thompson flushed a little. “I don’t really know,” he answered. His mouth twitched as if he’d tasted something rotten in the chocolate. “We’re waiting for something on the outside to blow over. The boss is afraid if we let you go now you’d be killed by…”

  “Killed by what?” Her voice was hard.

  “Things,” he finished inadequately. “Other people like him, but different; other things; a whole army of things tearing up the eastern seaboard. You saw the reports of riots in Atlanta, in D.C.? They’re in the thick of it.”

  She said nothing, and Thompson could feel doubt pouring out of her.

  “Look, Liz. You’ll admit that he exists, I hope. If he exists, not breathing, not dying, what else is out there?”

  “What else is out there?”

  “The invisible man. Those six-packs. The late-late-late-show. I wish I didn’t know,” said Thompson, with such finality, with such weariness, that she let the matter rest. He freshened their mugs and took a sip. Minutes went by, and in each one, Ron nearly spoke. In each one, he thought better of it. After a dozen false starts, the words spilled out.

  “About him, Liz.”

  “What about him?”

  “About the two of you…don’t look at me like that.” Elizabeth’s jaw had clamped shut. She was clearly unwilling even to listen to this. Damn, he thought. He’s really under her skin. He took a long breath and prepared to risk deeper waters for Hesha’s sake.

  “Please, Elizabeth. I’m not blind. You’re in love with him.”

  She almost laughed. “No. No, I’m not. I don’t know him. You can’t love someone you don’t know.” She set her jaw again. Her lips were abnormally pale and thin. “You can’t love someone who locks you up,” she said. “Someone who lies to you; someone who spies on you constantly; someone whose hired…guards…throw you around in the name of your own safety—and please don’t be offended if I admit I still don’t believe in the ‘things’ you say are waiting for me to set foot out there.”

  “No offense taken.” He struggled to come up with more, and said, “But it sounds like you’re working awfully hard to convince somebody.”

  “You,” she insisted. “You’re the one with the theory.

  “Sure. But you don’t have to convince me. You could just say no and stop the conversation. But you’re willing—you’re eager to keep talking about him, because you really did give a damn, and now he’s hurt you. So you want to talk. Therefore—I don’t believe you. I don’t believe him when he denies it, either,” he said, and realized that that, at least, was true.

  “I’ve been married twice, Liz. I know the symptoms.” He slouched back in his chair. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. Hesha will not come to see you. You think he scares you? You scare the hell out of him,” said Thompson, crossing his fingers to ward off thunderbolts. Her eyes dropped—she believed that—God help her, thought Ron. And God forgive me.

  “Now, if you don’t care, or you can’t get past the shock, or you’re as scared as he is, you can stay here in this room for as long as the danger lasts, if that’s what you really want. And then he’ll send you home to New York, and you’ll never see him again. But while you wait, each of you will know that the other is just on the other side of the wall—until he can’t stand it and finds an excuse to run even farther away from you.” Thompson, staggered by the size of the lie, foundered and reached for cliché. “I know it isn’t fair that you have to make the next move.” That was better. “What’s wrong here is his…fault…because of what he is. But I can’t go in there and talk to him like this. So I’m in here. And…I’m asking you.” He shook his head. “Because I like you both.” He played nervously with his empty coffee cup, and he sounded anything but sure. “Go see him. Talk to him. Maybe even let him try to explain.”

  Thompson checked his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to go now. Raf’ll be looking for me.” He looked over to her, but Liz had her eyes fixed firmly on the carpet. “Please, at least think about what I said. And don’t…well, I’d rather you didn’t tell the boss I was in here, meddling in his…personal…life…” He picked up the tray and took it out with him. After a few moments the lock clicked to and the sound of shifting barricades came from behind the door.

  “Report.”

  “Miss Dimitros went for a walk this afternoon,” said Thompson. “The Asp stopped her short of the interior fence and encouraged her to come back.”

  Hesha turned from his security chief to look at Raphael. “Encouraged,” he said evenly.

  “Yeah.” Raphael sounded slightly defensive even to himself. “I brought her back. And I handed her off to Ron. And then,” he said, seeing a way out of his employer’s uncomfortable attention, “they disappeared into her room for an hour.”

  Hesha focused his cool regard on Thompson again. “Into her room?”

  “I wanted a look at her arrangements.” Ron folded back the cover of his notebook. “The barricade, sir. You can hear her moving it around from the outside, even over the system microphones. As it turned out, she’s constructed it from the cabinet fronts of Vegel’s storage shelves. I have a sketch here—really, it’s no more complicated a construction than a house of cards, but it’s reasonably effective and—”

  “Resourceful,” murmured Hesha, glancing at the piece of paper. He handed it back.

  “It didn’t take you an hour to look at her room, Ron,” interjected the Asp. “What else was going on in there?” Thompson ignored Raphael’s leer and managed—by slow and careful folding of the sketch as he put it away—not to have to look Hesha directly in the eye, either. “After Raf’s ‘encouragement,’” he began, “I thought she needed a little normality.” Ron flicked up the next page of his notebook and met his employer’s eyes calmly. “A little metaphorical hand-holding. We had a nice, long talk, sir. Just consider the cage gilded.”

  Hesha took a long time to speak. “Very well. Other business?”

  Elizabeth walked toward Hesha’s study.

  From the far end of the basement, there came a faint click. Hesha stood in the open doorway.

  She held herself together, crossing the space between them at a slow pace that (she prayed) betrayed none of the anxiety she felt. “Good evening, Hesha,” she said, taking his favorite greeting away from him. “I was hoping you would be in tonight. Do you have a few minutes to spare me?”

  Her host stepped aside and invited her in with a gesture.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Actually, if you don’t mind…” She pointed with a careless hand toward her own room. “I was thinking of a slightly more private discussion.”

  Hesha didn’t move. “I can override the system, if you wish.”

  Her upper lip twitched. “But I would have no way of telling whether you really did or not.”

  His sleek black head inclined toward her. “Very well, then, if you feel safer there.”

  “Marginally.”

  When both were seated, Elizabeth smiled as broadly as she could and extended her right hand. “Hello,” she said. Hesha took his cue and shook with her. “My name is Elizabeth Dimitros. I was born in Brooklyn; I’ve lived in New York most of my life. I make my money restoring art for an antique gallery. I’m studying for my doctorate in an incredibly obscure field. I’m single and I’m twenty-nine and I’m not enjoying that very much.” She finished with a shrug she’d inherited from her father; flourishing, Greek, and involving the en
tire arm.

  “Twenty-eight,” Hesha put in. “Twenty-eight until September.”

  “Strike three,” murmured Elizabeth.

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve never told you my age, let alone my birthday. Not Thompson or the twins, either.” A little of her smile disappeared. “I suppose Amy might have mentioned it, but she didn’t, did she?”

  “No.”

  “So you know me,” she said deliberately, “very well. And I know nothing—nothing, really—about you.” She took a deep breath. “And I was wondering if you would care to introduce yourself.” Elizabeth swallowed a nervous, choking reflex. “Please.”

  Hesha put his hands together and gave an odd half-bow with his head and shoulders. “My name is Hesha, truly; it is a milk name that my mother gave me. I have many others. Ruhadze I took from a friend of mine after his death; he had no sons and I wanted to honor his memory. I have been Hesha Abn Yusuf, Hesha Washington, Hesha Abraham….

  “I was born between the First and Second Cataracts, in Nubia, that is now Sudan, in a village that no longer exists because of the Aswan Dam, to a people who are disappearing, to a religion that was not supposed to have survived. I have traveled in North Africa, in India, in Europe, and in America. I made my money in antiques, but my current holdings are diverse. I spend most of my time studying old languages and cultures; I try to keep buried dangers from being uncovered by the wrong hands. I am a bachelor by nature,” he stressed. “I am considerably older than I look; and until this summer I enjoyed my life a great deal.”

  “Until this summer,” Elizabeth said evenly.

  “At solstice, one of the most terrible dangers I sought to confine was exposed. I have no idea who wields it now. At solstice, Erich Vegel, who was my partner and my only…friend,” Hesha said, “accepted an invitation to a gala and kept a business appointment there on my behalf. He was killed that night or very soon after, I believe. It is possible that he fell into the hands of our enemies. It is possible that our business associates set him up; that people I trusted are now a threat. At solstice, a night-war started for control of the East Coast. At solstice, I met you. Since then,” he said, holding up a finger for each transgression, “you have brought Kettridge back into my circle, disordered my house, invaded my sanctuary, and nearly caused the death of my servant Thompson.” With four fingers up, he began another list, in identical tones, and folded down one finger for each item. “You have also discovered how to remove the white eye from the statue, located one of the two missing stones, extracted the ring from Vegel’s boulder, and revealed weaknesses in our security system without actually killing anyone under my protection.” He finished with his hand closed again.

  Elizabeth ventured, “I’m sorry about your friend. And I don’t know anything about your danger or your war,” she said seriously. Her stomach tightened in painful knots. “As for the last…are you trying to say we’re even? Because I don’t understand you.” She reached for the fist he still held in the air between them. “There’s more to this situation than four for four.” Her hand closed over his, and Hesha allowed it to remain.

  “No. You are correct. I have taken things away. Your liberty and your safety, for example—and I will remain in your debt until such time as I return them to you.” His voice, distant and formal, fell on her like ice water, but his eyes found hers and were smoldering hot.

  They sat in silence for a long time.

  Without words, Hesha opened the hand Elizabeth held. He reached for her other hand, and they went on sitting, saying nothing. The knots in Elizabeth’s stomach vanished and were replaced by butterflies—not the ordinary breed born of fear or hope or past loves, but rabid butterflies that hurt and tore her at the same time she felt wonderful. Warm waves of contentment washed down her neck and shoulders to battle with a dreadful chill in her spine. She hoped he would speak. She was terrified of what he might say.

  Hesha’s hands held the mortal’s lightly. His index fingers supported her wrists; he was enraptured by the rhythm of her heartbeat. Pleasant music, he thought. He waited patiently while the tempo changed. The matter could not be rushed…when the time was right, he brought out the words he had ready.

  “Elizabeth,” said the Setite softly, gazing into her eyes. “Don’t ask me questions,” he hesitated for a finely calculated second, “unless you’re absolutely certain,” again, a pause, “that you want the answers.” He brought her hands together and brushed the knuckles lightly with his lips; he dropped them gently into her lap.

  “I have a great deal of work to do tonight,” said Hesha, rising. “But I would like to see you tomorrow. If you would care to work on the papyrus tomorrow at ten o’clock.?” She nodded gravely, and with as solemn a countenance he slipped through the barricade and away.

  Hesha stared at the bag of blood waiting in his apartment.

  “Thompson,” he said loudly, into the empty air.

  A circuit opened. “Sir.”

  “Have my car ready.”

  “Your car, sir?”

  “Unless you particularly desire to watch me hunt, you will prepare my personal car instead of the chauffeur model.”

  “Your car, sir,” said Thompson, quickly.

  The intercom died with a click.

  Tuesday, 13 July 1999, 12:31 PM

  Laurel Ridge Farm

  Columbia, Maryland

  Footsteps on the stairs stopped Ron where he stood in the kitchen.

  Elizabeth reached the top and found him staring at her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey, Liz.” Thompson answered. “Are you all right?”

  “No. But what am I going to do about it?” Thompson kept quiet. “Any chance you could help me put my room back together?” Elizabeth looked up at him, wistfully. “I’m having trouble with the larger doors; I can’t hold them up and stick the pins in the hinges at the same time.”

  “Sure.”

  “You talked to him?”

  She nodded.

  “Ron…I suppose I should have said this sooner…but thanks.” She paused, and Thompson was struck by a fleeting resemblance to his master in the girl’s face. “For the advice. And for getting the Asp off my back the other day. And…for pulling me out of there. The snake pit. Someday, Ron, explain to me why there’s a room full of snakes in this house. Just not today. Thank you,” she finished lamely, “for saving my life.” She looked up at him. “God, that sounds so inadequate when you actually come out and say it, doesn’t it?”

  Thompson smiled and shook his head, but said nothing. He reached for the empty bottle. Tuesday, he thought. By Tuesday, she will have thanked you for saving her life.’ Damn him.

  Raphael rounded the corner from the elevator and slouched against the bunker wall. “What’re you doing, Ron?”

  “Agency reports. According to these jokers, Kettridge was in St. Louis, Philly, and Memphis yesterday. Damn kids. Wouldn’t recognize their own mothers in a line-up.”

  The Asp poured sympathy into his voice. “You need a drink, Ron.”

  “I have a drink. And I’m not downing any of that paint-stripper you call booze,” Ron said, until he saw the bottle Rafael was offering. “Holy shit. Where’d you get that?”

  “Present from the boss. For bringing our girl back without breaking her.” He shrugged. “I figure I owe you some; I’d probably have at least torn something if you hadn’t stepped in.” Raphael set a tumbler on the console and filled it with a generous double.

  Thompson took a sip, nodded thanks, then picked up his reports again. The Asp plopped himself down in the spare chair and watched the screens. On the center monitor, Elizabeth and Hesha worked at the papyrus table. The sound was turned off, but the sitting figures seemed to be talking companionably enough.

  “So.” Raphael refilled his own glass contentedly. “Everything back to normal, hey, Ron?”

  Elizabeth sighed and put Vegel’s notes neatly aside. The manuscript was defeating her. She scooted her chair a foot or two fa
rther down the scroll to a more heavily illustrated portion.

  “Tired?” Hesha asked.

  “Frustrated.” Liz plucked a scrap of vaguely red-tinged papyrus from the side of the table. There was a small black line running across the edge…which failed to match the section she thought it would. “I had such a lucky run on this last Friday.”

  Her host continued working without comment.

  “How old are you, Hesha?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.

  “Thirty-three, I think. Perhaps thirty-four,” said the Setite, meeting her gaze with an amused, puzzled expression. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Not counting the years since I failed to die, of course.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  His face hardened. “You want the truth?” Elizabeth nodded. “It may have been 1700 CE; I often suspect that it was earlier. The old calendars don’t match each other very well.” He watched her. “You’re not surprised?”

  “No. I was ready for that one; you’ve dropped enough hints.” Liz took up her tongs again, and found a match for the red shard. “Your grandfather’s North African household goods from the fifteenth century.” She smiled at his reflection in the table. “What does this papyrus say?”

  “You think I can read this?”

  She laughed. “Yes.” She matched two more red pieces together.

  His black eyes flickered up at her. “Truth? This is a temple copy of a folk tale about Nepthys. The picture you’re working on shows her leaving her brother Set’s court, the court of Upper Egypt, to visit their married siblings Osiris and Isis in Lower Egypt. This piece—” he drew her attention to an assembled section—”is a prayer, and this—” another sound fragment—”is a recipe for incense to propitiate the goddess.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth reached for Vegel’s notes and a new piece of paper. She copied down the symbols for the four deities and the two courts and started a search through the scraps for the names.