by Maria Arnt
He let out a long, mournful sigh. “I don’t know why. Personality flaw? Something I missed, some spark of evil that festered and grew over the centuries? As to what happens, in that situation it is the Master’s responsibility to destroy them, to ensure they no longer present such a danger to the world.”
Tanya could tell from the way he spoke that he had done it before, and it had deeply hurt him. She wondered who it had been. “Is that kind of what we’re going to do?”
“More or less,” he agreed. “We as a people have become irresponsible. Someone needs to take responsibility, and I have decided that it must be me.”
For one strange moment, she truly admired him. That was one hell of a task to take on! Then she remembered that this task entailed killing millions of his own people. She thought of Stalin, of what she’d learned in history class. But they’re vampires, she made herself remember. They should be killed.
After a long moment, she asked, “If that happens to me, if I go bonkers, you have to promise to kill me.”
His gaze cut up to look at her from wherever he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Tatiana, I—”
“Promise me,” she insisted.
She could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “All right,” he said. “I promise. But I do not think that will happen,” he added quickly.
If only she could believe him.
Eventually, Tatiana’s head began to hurt from all the smells, so they adjourned to the training room for some more Tai Chi. Seth showed her the opening for the Wu family form, and she caught on quickly.
“So when do I get to learn real martial arts?” she asked, repeating the opening once more.
He chuckled. “Tai Chi is a martial art. This opening sequence has no martial application, it is designed to help you focus and enter the correct meditative state. The very next move is a block, then a strike, then another block, and so on and so forth.”
“Okay, teach me the block,” she suggested.
His eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “I will teach it to you when you have a good grasp on the opening.”
“I got it, see?” She repeated the steps, much faster than they were intended to be done.
“Slower!” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not meant to be done quickly!”
She scowled. “Why not? My opponents won’t be moving in slow motion, why should I?”
“Doing it slowly allows you to make sure you’re doing it correctly. Doing it repeatedly builds muscle memory so that when you do fight, you can do it quickly, but with precision,” he explained.
Letting out a huff of exasperation, she did it again, only slightly too fast.
“Better. Now do it five thousand times,” he instructed.
“Five thousand?” she gaped.
“I should make it ten thousand if we’re being traditional, but so far you have been exceptionally quick on the uptake,” he reasoned.
Tatiana didn’t have anything to say to that, obviously torn between being complimented and irritated.
“Now, it should take you ten seconds to complete the moves, so we’ll say you’re done in about four hours, yes?” he glanced at his watch; there were about five hours left before sunrise. Perfect.
She just stood there, staring at him. After a moment, she seemed to make a decision. “This is stupid,” she said, and walked out of the training room.
“Fair enough,” he said, and left with her, smothering his anger under a mask of calm.
“What?” she frowned, watching him gather his keys and wallet from the bowl next to his favorite chair.
“If you don’t want to uphold your end of our bargain, I won’t need to keep mine either,” he smiled. “Which is good, because I’m hungry,” he lied. He wasn’t, but he knew his words and the sharp smile would get the message across.
Her jaw dropped a little. “You... absolute...bastard. You’re a fucking monster, you know that?”
Seth tutted. “Language, Tatiana,” he scolded, throwing fuel on the fire.
It was all the urging she needed. She flew at him, kicking and punching and scratching, but none of her strikes could land. He dodged her effortlessly, staying one step ahead as she grew more and more enraged.
“Augh! I hate you!” she screamed.
“Good!” he shouted back. “Use that! Let that hatred make you stronger!”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Darth Vader?” she demanded, pausing to catch her breath.
“Actually, I believe it was the emperor who said that,” he countered calmly, not even slightly winded.
She seemed insulted by this, and struck at him again. This time, she managed to grab hold of his shirt sleeve. He could have pulled away, but it was one of his favorite Arrow shirts, and he would hate for it to rip. Instead, he switched from dodging to grappling, grabbing her by the hair and forcing her head back.
Yelling in pain and anger, she tried to scratch at his face, but he caught both of her hands in his free one easily. Next, she tried to knee him in the groin, so he took her down to the ground, pinning her on her stomach. She continued to struggle for a few moments before realizing the futility of it and going limp in his hands. He knew this was a trick, and she would spring loose as soon as he let go, so he did not. Even when she started to cry.
“I hate you,” she sobbed again.
He swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she spat.
“I rarely jest, and you will learn to address me with respect,” he growled, an ounce of control slipping into his voice.
Tatiana was silent a moment, clearly unable to think of anything respectful to say.
“Well?” he pulled her head so she would look him in the eye.
“You’re threatening to go on a killing spree unless I dance like a puppet for you,” she said through clenched teeth. “You f—” her throat spasmed to keep her from saying the obscenity.
He raised his eyebrows, and she sighed.
“If you do not do as I say, people will die,” he pointed out. “Millions of people. It makes no difference if I kill them myself or someone else does; unless you learn very quickly how to fight properly, they will die, Tatiana,” he hissed in her ear.
That, finally, got her attention. She stopped trying to wriggle out of his grasp.
“God, why can’t you just say that? Why do you have to be such a manipulative...” she struggled to find a word the compulsion he had placed her under would allow her to say, “...tyrant,” she finished.
Seth was grudgingly impressed with her choice of words. He let her go, backing away both physically and mentally. “The point needed to be made,” he said simply.
She sighed. “Yeah, well, I’m just frustrated, okay?” Shoving a hand through her hair, she winced at her sore scalp. She gave him a long, scathing look, and then began to trudge back toward the training room.
After a moment spent collecting himself, he followed. She was doing the opening, slowly, repeatedly. Her anger was still apparent in the stiff way she held herself, the jerkiness of her motions, but he knew the repetition would smooth that out.
Perhaps it would help if she had something to look forward to, he wondered. “I will show you the entire form, just once,” he announced.
To his surprise, she finished the set of steps she was on before she stopped. “Okay,” she said, not quite excited, but less belligerent.
He chose a spot in the middle of the large room, where he would have plenty of working space. Slowly, he moved through the form he had done thousands and thousands of times. Even now, millennia after he had done it the first time, he learned something new each time. It was not something one ever stopped learning, he knew.
When he was done, he turned to face Tatiana and was more than a little pleased to see her wide-eyed wonder.
“That was... beautiful,” she breathed.
He smiled. “I am impatient to see you do it,” he admitted. “But it must be done correctly.”
Seth watched her do it a couple times, assessing her form. “I will check on you every so often,” he warned her. “Please call for me if you have any questions.”
She nodded slightly, her concentration already focused on the task at hand.
It was not until he reached his study that he allowed himself to collapse, shaking, onto the chaise lounge. His eyes lifted to the image of Nephthys above the mantle, and he silently begged her for strength.
Exhausted, physically and emotionally, Tanya dragged herself back up to her room.
Five thousand repetitions.
She had lost count somewhere around two thousand, seven hundred. Stopped thinking. Just did it again, and again, and again, until she wasn’t even aware she was moving.
Then, when she was done, there had been more tiny bottles of annoying smells.
She flopped down onto the bed, and just lay there a moment. Slowly, she realized that something seemed off, but she couldn’t name what. It took a moment for her to sort out the scents she remembered from what she was actually smelling—her room smelled different, but not wrong. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to focus on the exercise she’d been doing half the damn night.
Lilacs. Nana. Her eyes flew open, and she looked around. It was as if her great aunt had walked through the room not five minutes before. On her vanity, she spotted something new: a small gold case with a jeweled enamel cover. Hurrying over, she traced the lines of a floral pattern in blues and greens. It looked Egyptian, she thought. Seth. Opening it, she found a pale, waxy substance that smelled exactly like lilacs. Not in an overpowering, cloying way, but just as Nana’s house had smelled when she picked a few branches and put them in a jar on the kitchen counter.
Closing it again, she wrapped her fingers around it and remembered Seth’s stupid lecture.
Scent is a powerful tool, Tatiana. It can tell us what has happened, who has come and gone, what the weather will do. It is the most immediate trigger of memory and can remind us of our loved ones long after they have gone. He knew. Part of her felt like she should be angry; Seth had pulled another of his creeper stunts, and she had already had about as much of those as she could take. But it smelled so much like Nana, and it almost, almost seemed like he was trying to apologize to her.
He’s probably just trying to manipulate you again, Tanya, she told herself.
Opening a drawer, she tucked the case—which was probably a priceless artifact, she realized—into a well-protected corner. No sense in throwing it out just to spite him, she reasoned.
13
Wiggling the key carefully, Seth persuaded the door of his museum office to unlock. When he finally got it open, he nearly tripped over the pile of papers and envelopes that had been slipped under his door. With a sigh, he surveyed the additional pile of neglected correspondence on his desk.
He had asked that all of his mail be forwarded to his small studio apartment, which was much closer to Tatiana. It took twenty minutes to pop by and check his mailbox there, and still, he only went every few days, after the first month when he couldn’t go at all.
But that request had only applied to letters which were destined for his mailbox and not the less formal notes that now littered his cramped office. He bent to collect them, hoping he could be on his way quickly. Even though Tatiana wouldn’t wake for another eight hours, he would still rather sort through all this mess in his study, where she was comfortingly close by. And if she continued to cooperate with her Tai Chi lessons as she had last night, he might actually have time to work while she was awake, too.
“Professor Walker!” The surprised voice of a colleague came from the hallway.
Damn. Why didn’t I shut the door? The Field Museum’s offices were located in a basement labyrinth of hallways that he could usually navigate to his advantage and avoid talkative colleagues. But today he was distracted, in a rush to get back to Tatiana.
“Dr. Freeman, how are you?” Seth forced a smile and turned around to face the intruder.
“A good sight better than you, I’d guess,” the portly man said, sobering as he took in his colleague’s appearance.
Seth knew how he looked: rumpled suit, unwashed hair, and dark circles under his eyes. It was a carefully crafted image that he cultivated in order to support his excuse for being away from work for so long: a guest lecture trip to Honduras, where he had contracted a rather nasty tropical parasite.
“Yes, well, my doctor reassures me it will probably be out of my system in another week or so,” he reassured Dr. Freeman. “It’s the side effects that really bother me.”
Dr. Freeman, he knew, was a squeamish sort of man, despite his work with fungi. He waved his hand to stall the conversation. “I’m sure, no need to go into details. I see you’ve come to get your letters. Is there anything else you need while you’re here?”
“I think this should do it,” Seth finished stuffing all the various loose items into his briefcase and just barely got it shut. “Although if you would please encourage people to put their notes in my mailbox and not under my door, I would appreciate it.”
He frowned. “Are you planning on staying gone for much longer?”
Seth let out a long sigh. “I may, yes. The travel, as well as the illness, have taken a toll on me, I’m afraid. I’m not as young as I look.” He smirked. “I have been discussing a more extended leave of absence with the curator.”
Dr. Freeman nodded. “Well, you take care of your health, Professor. I’m sure we can do without you for a while. The mummies aren’t going anywhere, thank heavens,” he chuckled.
With a weak smile, Seth chuckled along.
After a quick shower and change at the studio apartment, Seth went to his favorite bench at 57th Street Beach. It was an old haunt of his, and far enough away from Museum Campus that he wasn’t afraid of being spotted by another coworker.
Aside from that, it was where he traditionally conducted this sort of business, and it was far more important to keep up appearances here than it was at the museum. Usually, he enjoyed waiting here: the sun shining on the water, the breeze against his face. But today he found himself tapping his fingers against his knee.
Every minute away from Tatiana dragged at him. Even though he could feel, at his core, that she was safe and sleeping and not at all in danger, it went against his every fiber to leave her alone for so long. But he had responsibilities beyond her, and it would not do to neglect them too long.
Eventually, someone came, but not who he expected. A young man came jogging down the path and stopped to catch his breath.
“May I share the bench?” he asked, his words deliberate and not from gasping for air.
Seth raised his eyebrows. “It is open to be shared.”
The jogger nodded and sat on the very edge of the bench, facing away from Seth. “You are most gracious. Master Wilde sends his regards.”
“And why does Wilde send an emissary and not come himself? He was the one who requested an audience,” Seth pointed out.
“I’m afraid Master Wilde wasn’t fond of the timing. He still avoids daylight, if possible.” The jogger bent to tie his shoelace.
Seth rolled his eyes. This is what came of turning actors and poets—a mistake he had never made himself. “Well, then, let’s hear his petition.”
The jogger quickly outlined what Wilde wanted—apparently it was a matter of territorial dispute, and his backing would be necessary for the issue to be solved without a great deal of bloodshed. Seth did not take long to deliberate his actions: although eccentric, Wilde was of the same mind as him when it came to the rapid expansion of their kind. He would give his blessing, for what it was worth, and a very clearly delineated amount of monetary support. No sense throwing his cash in the furnace, after all. It was a stopgap measure, but it would hold long enough for his plans for Tatiana to come about.
If s
he would cooperate, of course.
He dismissed the emissary without the traditional mark to prove he’d received the message—to the young jogger’s relief—and debated if he should wait any longer for any unscheduled petitioners. Fortunately, a young lady strolling by dropped a letter which contained a friendly note from Johnny Volpino, the local claim holder, and as such he needn’t worry about offending anyone else by leaving.
Which was good, because the sun was beginning to hang low in the sky. He took a deep breath and smiled. Soon, Tatiana would be awake.
The next few days, Tatiana remained remarkably compliant. She was still sullen with Seth, but she applied herself to her training with a reasonable degree of patience. He could tell it took much effort for her, so he reserved his comments to neutral corrections and the occasional praise.
It was not the camaraderie he had hoped for, but neither was it the petulant opposition she seemed given to. The most difficult part was finding ways to occupy his time while she was awake, for if he stayed too long in the same room as her, she became irritated.
However, he had quite a lot of reading to catch up on, as he had been following her more often than usual in the last year or so, in order to ascertain the best time to make his move. It was difficult to focus with the scent of her always present, but he at least wanted to give her the impression that he had something better to do.
On the seventh night since she arose, he was sitting on the couch pretending to read and actually listening to her go through the next move he had taught her, when she stopped. He buried his nose in the book and looked up over the edge of it when she walked out the door.
To his surprise, she wasn’t looking at him. He had expected her to ask one of her frequent questions, but instead she was headed towards the kitchen.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Just taking a break.” Pausing, the turned to face him. “Is that okay?” she growled through clenched teeth.
“Of course,” he said, and went back to reading. He listened to her fumble around in the kitchen and heard her turning on the sink. Perhaps she was retrieving a wet washcloth to wipe her brow, he reasoned. The kitchen was far closer than the bathroom.
