The antechamber, more of an extrawide part of the tunnel, didn’t have much to it. It was small, the remnant of mining activity. A vein of ore might have been dug out, and this and the adjoining cave were what was left. The old rails ran straight through, out the other side. I couldn’t guess how deep underground this was. Air must have been coming in from somewhere, because I was still breathing. It smelled musty, like chalk and silt, but not stale. The walls shimmered, and in some places had rounded mounds of colored rock, places where the water seeped through and deposited minerals in strange colors, patterns, and pencil-thin baby stalactites. I had no interest in touching the walls more than I had to, leery of the silver there.
I went down the short tunnel into the ritual chamber, picking up the lantern there to study the room and its details better.
In a panicked moment, I wondered if the circle and star on the floor had been drawn in blood. I didn’t smell blood, but I was starting to not trust my senses. After kneeling and studying the markings, I saw they were black, thick, and opaque—ink or paint of some kind. Decisive, indelible. Dozens of symbols marked the floor and walls, their shapes and shadows bending strangely in the light as I brought the lantern close and moved it across. I recognized some of them in the most general sense—there were zodiac signs, Greek letters, Roman numerals, shapes that might have been Egyptian hieroglyphs, words in what I thought was Hebrew. I didn’t know what any of it actually meant, except that they were Western in origin—Judeo-Christian, Greco-Roman. Medieval alchemical stuff. Whoever did this—the woman magician?—must have taken hours to draw it all.
Amelia would have known what all this meant. A pang of homesickness struck, along with gratitude that my friends weren’t here and in danger. I could be rescued, or I could break out on my own. I didn’t need to share the whole experience. I had a sudden, horrible thought: Tom wasn’t here, they hadn’t captured him. But maybe they’d killed him instead, and that was why the cavalry hadn’t come yet. Tears fell; I brushed them away. I’d get out of this, I would. Tom was fine, everyone was fine, everything was fine.
Continuing my circuit of the room, I found objects hanging from spikes driven into the walls at five places, corresponding with the points of the star on the floor. Amulets, talismans, whatever. They looked antique, with that worn and aged patina that very old items had. Again, I recognized some of them in the most general sense—a Maltese cross, an ankh. But I couldn’t have said where they came from or what they meant, and if they meant anything in relation to each other.
I raised the lantern, trying to make out the cave’s ceiling, but it was too high for the light to reach. A black depth, that was all.
This was a hodgepodge of symbols and ritual, from Europe and the Middle East. If I had to guess, I’d say this was all done by an overactive history student playing at magic. They’d stand around wearing black velveteen cloaks, speaking in pig latin. But the four of them had looked so deadly serious.
Having seen what real rituals, real power could do, I was not feeling good about what rituals they might be performing here. Especially since they seemed to think they needed me to continue whatever the hell it was they were doing.
The outer door scraped against the stone floor again. I thought of hiding, but where would I go?
I went back through the tunnel to the antechamber, faced the door, and waited. I still had the lantern in hand. Maybe I could use it as a weapon.
The werewolf and were-lion entered; I smelled them before I saw them. The door scraped again, shutting this time. Probably not locked. If I could overpower them both, I might have a way out. What were the odds? I set down the lantern.
They emerged from the tunnel into the chamber. We stared at each other. It was like none of us knew what to say.
“I don’t suppose if I asked nicely you would let me go,” I said finally. My voice scratched, my throat aching from all the shouting and dehydration. So much for sounding tough. At least with my clothes on I had an easier time standing tall and showing my dominance. Perceived dominance.
“It’s daylight,” the werewolf said, gesturing backward to some theoretical exit. “Kumarbis is asleep.”
I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Did that mean I could go? Would they really let me go? “Kumarbis—the vampire?” I asked.
The woman, the were-lion, nodded. “This is our chance to explain this to you—”
“About time,” I muttered.
They moved forward, reaching to me—and I took a step back. They looked like attackers, coming to finish me off at last.
“Please, don’t be frightened,” the were-lion said. Her voice was light, beautiful. If we were having coffee in a hip bistro I could have listened to her all day long. But we weren’t. “We’re not going to hurt you.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said. I itched, I had to move, so I started pacing back and forth along the back wall of the chamber, my bare feet scraping on cool stone. Rapid steps, my hands opening and closing into fists.
The two of them moved closer together, flinching back from me. I must have looked pretty crazy. But I had to let Wolf bleed out a little, or I’d scream. So I paced.
“I’m sorry about this. We’re both sorry,” the man said. He had a crisp accent that I couldn’t place. “Does that help?”
“Only if you let me go now.”
“We can’t do that.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“If you’ll stop, sit and be calm, I’ll explain,” he said. He sounded oh so rational. I didn’t trust him, how could I? March six steps, turn, march six steps, glaring at them the whole time.
“Please,” she said in that melodic voice.
Their body language shifted; they turned away from me, lowered their gazes—not showing submission, but not offering a challenge. Giving me room.
I slowed. We have to run …
Not yet, not when they were between us and the door. Finally, I stopped. “How the hell do you deal with all the silver?”
It had started to feel like bugs crawling on my skin. I kept looking over my shoulder and checking myself for open wounds. I couldn’t tell what was paranoia and what I ought to be truly worried about.
The man said, “Most of the silver here isn’t pure. It’s ore, at a low purity, or it would have been taken out decades ago. The rock here won’t hurt you, unless you eat it or rub it into an open wound.”
Somehow, this was less comforting than it should have been. “I can still feel it.”
“You just have to ignore it,” he said.
So not helpful. “But why? Why put yourselves through this?” Why put me through this …
“Protection,” he said. “It’s a magical defense.”
Against what? Was that supposed to make me feel better? My questions were starting to turn circular. “Okay. Fine. But what about … what did you do to Tom?” Their confused expressions made my stomach drop. “The other werewolf who was with me. My packmate, Tom.”
The woman got it first and nodded. “We left him behind. We didn’t hurt him, he’s fine.”
I wasn’t sure I believed her, but what choice did I have? “Okay. Now, explain the rest of it. What’s going on here?”
They glanced at each other, a secret communication between two people on very familiar terms. They were together, I didn’t have a doubt. That line about dogs and cats living together surfaced again, briefly. They made their silent bargain, drew their mental straws. The werewolf was the one who spoke.
“There’s a great evil, a powerful adversary—”
“Let me guess: the vampire Gaius Albinus, known as Dux Bellorum or Roman.”
He only showed the mildest shock. I’d already announced that I knew of the ambitious, globe-trotting vampire. He probably wouldn’t believe how much I knew.
“Yes.”
“And what does that vampire—Kumarbis—have to do with Dux Bellorum? What does any of this have to do with him? What’s going on here?” I bet I could ask that q
uestion a hundred times and never get a straight answer.
The werewolf drew a breath and spoke slowly, as if searching for words. As if he’d never really had to explain this before. “Kumarbis has the knowledge to destroy Dux Bellorum. Zora has the power, the spell. But she needs five people to work her magic—the right five.”
The right people, representing different aspects of the supernatural. I’d spent enough time around this sort of thing that it almost made sense.
I chuckled; it was the only way I had to insult them. “You’re probably thinking I should be flattered. You’ve kidnapped me, humiliated me, but it’s to save the world so of course it’s all right.”
He raised his hand in a calming gesture and shook his head. Was he actually blushing? Embarrassed? “I wouldn’t ask you to think that this is all right. I only ask for your understanding—”
My voice shook with anger. “This is not how you go about earning someone’s understanding.”
The were-lion jumped in. “Kumarbis believes if you know too much before the time of the ritual, your mind will close. You won’t become a true avatar. You must let the spirit of your predecessor fill you. You can’t force it.”
“Avatar, what do you mean, avatar?”
“We’re more than just the right people,” the man said. “We’re avatars—representatives of the divine. That’s why Kumarbis needs us. It has to be us, the five of us, and no one else.”
Avatars of the divine, figures from very ancient stories. There was a kind of power in that, I supposed. Symbolic, if nothing else. This all felt like a terrible joke.
“Do you really believe that?” I asked. “You can’t believe it, or you wouldn’t be here explaining it to me. Apologizing to me.” Because that was what they were doing, essentially.
They didn’t answer.
If I was behind the microphone at my studio, and I’d gotten a call during the show explaining this in as serious a tone—I wasn’t sure how I’d respond. It would depend on my mood. I might have humored him, picked at his explanation, pounced on details, encouraged him to dig himself deeper. I might have mocked him outright and then hung up on him. I might have just felt sorry for him.
I wanted to pretend like I was hosting my show, so I could rake them over the coals of my sarcasm. But for all the time I’d spent unconscious over the last day or so, I was too tired. Not to mention my life was pretty much in their hands. Best not make them too angry.
I sighed. “Can you at least tell me your names?”
The werewolf nodded. “I am Enkidu. She is Sakhmet.”
Oh, give me a … “That’s what he called you—those aren’t really your names.”
“They are now,” he said. “We are their avatars. We speak for them.”
“And you are Regina Luporum,” said the were-lion.
“I’m Kitty,” I said. “I will always be Kitty. Katherine Norville, Kitty.”
“Kumarbis is hoping to convince you otherwise.” His tone didn’t invite doubt that Kumarbis would succeed.
“Kumarbis—is that his name, or is he supposed to be an avatar, too? I’ve never even heard of any Kumarbis—”
The werewolf hurried to explain. “Kumarbis is a god of the Hittites, a father-god, a source of power.”
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered. “This is crazy.”
“It isn’t all crazy,” said the werewolf, Enkidu. “I believe that Dux Bellorum is evil and means the world ill. And I believe Kumarbis and Zora have the power to defeat him, and that they need us to do so. Does anything else matter?”
A million other things mattered, but I was at a loss for words. I didn’t know how to argue his beliefs, his dogma.
“Truly, we mean you no harm. Please believe that,” said the woman. Sakhmet, I supposed I had to call her.
I curled my lip and growled.
“We’ll let you rest now,” she added. Her partner nodded, and together they turned back to the doorway. Too late, I realized this was my chance, and it was vanishing. I ran, head down and legs working, carrying me across the room and to the door in seconds. But they were lycanthropes, too, and they were ready. And not drugged, sleep deprived, dehydrated, and nervous. They slipped out and shut the door behind them, just as I crashed into it.
Wouldn’t do me any good, but I pounded on the wood and screamed after them anyway. Wordless shouts of denial. Probably a lot of curse words, or maybe just a lot of noise. Then I sank to the floor, curling up on myself, my forehead resting against the wood, because I was getting really tired of this.
I hugged myself, grateful to have my sweater back. Like I could burrow up inside of it and have some bit of comfort. If I buried my nose in the fibers and took a deep breath, I imagined I could smell a hint of home, and Ben. Which somehow made the situation worse, because I couldn’t think of a way to get out of this. Except to stay close to the door and wait for my chance to fight my way out.
Chapter 10
AFTER THAT, I started telling myself stories.
The research I’d been doing for my book, all the stories I’d been reading and analyzing, flooded out of my hindbrain and to the front of my memory. The Epic of Gilgamesh was one of my favorites. Not Kumarbis’s version. The ancient Sumerian tale is famous for being one of the first articulate, literary, and, most important, recorded stories in human civilization. Like most of the stories coming out of the first 90 percent of human civilization, this one’s about a mighty king who is part divine and can do no wrong. Except he’s also arrogant and oppressive, and the gods decide to create another person who will be a match for him and take him down a peg: Enkidu.
Enkidu was the reason this was one of my favorite stories. He was a wild man who lived in the mountains, clothed in fur like one of the beasts, drinking with them at the water holes, and generally representing all that was natural and uncivilized about humanity. He also had a habit of rescuing animals and sabotaging hunters’ traps, so one of the hunters brought a temple prostitute into the mountains to seduce Enkidu and lure him into civilization. That’s right—sex soothed the savage beast. She also taught him about language and clothing, and brought him to the city, hoping that he could stop Gilgamesh’s dominance. As expected, Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought, and then, seeing in the other a true equal, became fast friends. Maybe even lovers, depending on the interpretation you agreed with. They went off and had many fine adventures, battling monsters, hunting for treasure, angering the gods, all that good stuff.
The Epic of Gilgamesh does not end well. Another common trait of epics. There’s a price for all that glory, and it’s usually loss. Heartbreaking, unendurable loss. Enkidu dies a slow, terrible death, not in battle, but by the whim of the gods. Gilgamesh is inconsolable. I wonder if this says something about civilization in opposition to humanity’s wild roots: the wild cannot survive. If I were to take the analysis further, from a purely literary, symbolic standpoint, I’d say that lycanthropy isn’t a curse—it’s a reminder of what humanity used to be. Of what we lost. We used to be able to talk to wolves. And now we fear them as monsters or worship them as paragons.
Enkidu’s strength came from the opposite source of Gilgamesh’s strength—one was wild and the other was a king, one preferred mountains and the other preferred cities. But the world needed both to be in balance. Together, they were unstoppable. The metaphor was appealing to a werewolf like me.
Enkidu, if he had been a real person, must have been a Rex Luporum.
My friend TJ—one of the first werewolves I ever met, one of the ones who found me after the attack that infected me and helped bring me into the Denver pack, the one who held me and comforted me during my first full-moon night of Change—used to tell me that lycanthropy could be a strength, if I knew how to use it. If I accepted and controlled it rather than fought against it. This was hard to remember sometimes when I thought of all I had lost because of being a werewolf. When the full moon approached and blood lust rose up in me and I wanted to rip off my clothes, howl at the sky, and fl
ee into wilderness, never to return. But I had gained so much by being a werewolf. My career, my life, my friends. My husband. It could be a strength. Wolves weren’t monsters—they were hunters, careful and intelligent. They stalked with great patience, and defended their packs with ferocity. That was the strength I chose. Enkidu’s strength. Enkidu, both man and beast, the first such being to cross from the wilderness and choose civilization over the wild. He did it, the stories said, for love. Or at least lust. Translations could be tricky sometimes. He was one of the characters from myth and legend I classified as maybe a werewolf, and I looked up to him.
Now I thought how dare this man, this kidnapper, call himself Enkidu. What did he know about the ancient hero? What made him think he could claim such a legacy for himself?
I fell asleep again. Sleep was easier, so while my mind was a shivering wreck, my body took over, and I curled up on the hard ground, rigid with tension.
When I heard voices, I wasn’t sure if they were real or if I was dreaming them. This whole situation felt dreamlike. The lines were starting to blur.
“We can’t keep tranking her,” said a male voice. Enkidu, I supposed I had to call him. He was on the other side of the door, a little way down the tunnel.
A woman whose voice was less familiar spoke. “How else can we control her until the spirit enters her?” She spoke quickly, nervously. The magician—had to be. Zora—Zoroaster. The hubris.
The frustration in Enkidu’s voice was plain. “And what if it doesn’t? She’s too strong to just give in to your … your brainwashing. That’s the whole point of recruiting her!”
“I need more time.”
“She will not wait quietly. She’ll find a way to break free, I tell you.”
“Which is why we have to use the tranquilizers—”
“Talk to her. If we could just explain—”
“No! Then she’ll never truly understand.”
I really was awake, I decided. I tried to focus, wishing I still had that sandwich. And the water. If I played along, I bet they’d feed me. I wondered when they’d think of bribing me with food. And I didn’t mean slaughtered rodents that would bring Wolf charging forward.
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