House Adamastor could rise to become the most eminent of the Houses, but we haven’t. The Houses at the top are constantly jockeying for resources, for power. Even in the Tuat, during my short sojourn there, I’d been witness to three attempted coups between the larger players. Granted, we’d kept to ourselves, largely ignored save by those seeking knowledge, but it had still been frightening to know that even there, the Inkarna were apt to play games, sometimes sending their brethren howling into Sea of Nun’s limbo for goodness knew how long. No one emerges from that unscathed. The lapping waters too easily swallow the unwary.
A war in Heaven, only not in the terms average humans would understand. And all the time, those who returned would bring back first-hand knowledge, developments in psychology and science to refine the ones observing…
This all becomes too much, distracting me from the matter at hand. The Book of Ammit must lie hidden a while longer, until such time as we would need it. It brings the question to mind that makes me wonder how many in Per Ankh are aware of its existence or hold the knowledge to wield the power scribed on stone.
I don’t want to know, not now.
Nothing is permanent in Per Ankh. That’s the rub. We hold dreams and memories, but each time one of our kind Ascends, he or she takes something with them, diminishing those who remain behind to continue the cycle of death and rebirth. What lies beyond Ascension only those masters know, and they’re certainly not telling us anything. We whisper of them among each other in awe. The world of matter and the realm of the Tuat are polar opposites, the one existing because of the other, what lies beyond exists only in conjecture.
With a shake of my head, I push all these meanderings as far back as possible. Now. This is important, this is my burden until such time someone follows to lift it.
At first it is difficult to still my mind, to find that inferno within and make the soul-fires flare. It doesn’t matter whether I close my eyes. The darkness here is absolute.
It begins with a faint susurration at the edge of my hearing, my skin tingling and the sense of the ground opening beneath me, and my physical self tumbling end over end. The words come to my lips unbidden, words of binding, of forgetfulness. Aset, Mistress of Magic, will turn the eye of the casual viewer, make them grope farther, overlooking this unimportant slot that leads nowhere, holding nothing of interest. After all, she turned Set’s murderous eye when she hid the child Harwer in the papyrus beds of the Nile Delta.
She comes to me, crowned with stars, caresses my face and presses cool lips to mine. In her eyes shines the light of distant constellations and the sweet scent of the lotus offers succour. A soft light illumines her skin, the many braids of her hair falling to her shoulders in a rush.
The vision cuts off abruptly, the pressure in my loins unfamiliar and, somehow, frightening. But my limbs are leaden, and I would like nothing more than to close my eyes and rest my head against the rock.
“Ash?” Marlise’s voice reaches me as though from a distance, shaky.
“I’m coming,” I tell her, stifling a groan as I shift around. Perhaps it is a good thing she is here. I’d rather sleep, but this would only result in a slow slide into death.
The woman meets me halfway, her skin feverish compared to the tomblike chill clinging to me. I stagger into her embrace and, for once, she is the one who lends me strength. The Mistress of Magic’s features blur in my mind over the memory of Marlise.
“Aset!”
“What did you call me?” Marlise’s voice is muffled as she speaks against my chest.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I’ve called her by the wrong name. “Caught up in the moment.”
“I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I want to go home.” She sounds like a little girl lost.
“So’m I, babe.” Is that something Ashton would say?
“Can we go?”
I look over my shoulder, to where I’ve come from, but it’s a futile gesture. “Sure.” My bones ache and we stagger out, back to the mouth of the cavern.
The clouds have pulled away completely, such is the capriciousness of Cape winters. On any other night I may have been enthralled by the view but now all I can dream of is a warm bed and sleep—dreamless rest.
While we were driven during our ascent by wind and falling rain, the descent is hell as we battle gravity and a slope made slippery. By the time we reach the stairs, we’ve slid and fallen so many times I’ve lost track. Marlise takes this abuse stoically, but whenever either of us loses our footing, her hand clenches my arm. All sense of intelligible thought is lost in the slow placement of the next step, the pause before we shakily put our weight down.
Neither of are shivering but I’ve not claimed my jacket back from Marlise. I can no longer feel my extremities and, a few times, stray tears trace their way down my cheeks. Ashton wouldn’t cry, but then I’m not the bastard he was. Shame at my earlier uncharitable thoughts toward Marlise makes me overly protective of her now, her silent agony a beacon during this ordeal.
It is almost with a complete sense of disbelief that we reach the car. While Marlise fumbles in her pocket for her keys, I look back up at the mountain, bathed as it is in the glow from the streetlights that lend it an eerie orange tint.
Keys jingle and Marlise says, “Thank fuck. I thought I’d lost these.”
If I’d been glad to get into the car earlier this afternoon when Marlise had collected me in Simon’s Town, I’m doubly grateful now when the Toyota starts. We have to wait for the engine to warm first before the blessed hot air from the heater strips the cold from us.
Marlise looks tiny huddled in my jacket, her curls now wet rats’ tails dangling on either side of her face, her hair band lost somewhere during our misadventure. What bothers me is that she doesn’t look at me and keeps her gaze firmly on the road. I can’t tell whether she’s angry. Whatever connection we had on the mountain has fled and, judging by the way her lips are set in a thin line, her state of mind can’t be all that happy.
“Can I buy you coffee or something to eat along the way?” I suggest. As if in answer to my suggestion, my stomach rumbles.
“I just want to go home. There’s food there. My parents are probably freaking out that I’ve missed supper.” Not we. That’s bad.
“I’m sorry, okay?”
“You’re always sorry, Ash. I…don’t know what to think anymore. I need to sleep. We can talk about what just happened tom—”
She hits the brakes, hard, and if I hadn’t been wearing my safety belt, I’d have gone through the windscreen. As it is, I’m jerked hard against the restraints.
“Shit!” she screams as the car slews diagonally along Boyes Drive. Tyres squeal.
Not that it would make any difference, I hold my hands up to protect myself, expecting the connection with something solid, but the car skids to a halt, half turned on the wrong side of the road. I open my eyes gingerly, a metallic taste in my mouth. I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek, which throbs dully.
But that’s not what scares the living bejezus out of me. Ashton, the cause of our almost-accident, stands in the middle of the road. In this dim light he glows, almost ethereal. He raises a hand, like he’s greeting us, before he dissolves like snowflakes.
“We’ve got to do something about him,” I manage to say.
Marlise doesn’t answer. Even in the low light of the console, which gives everything inside the car a greenish cast, I can see her knuckles are white. Her teeth chatter.
“Marlise. Are you okay?”
“I’m. Not. Okay.”
“Can you drive or must I call for a taxi?” I place a hand on her shoulder.
She jerks away from me and fixes me with a glare that would kill me ten times over.
“Marlise,” I begin as calmly. “We’re sitting on the wrong side of the road. If a car comes ’round that corner fast, they’re going to hit us.”
This snaps her out of her inaction, and she starts the car with an angry twist of the key in the ignition. With a squeal
, the Toyota returns to the correct lane. I just pray we make it back home safely.
Chapter 10
We Gotta do Something about That Ghost
We don’t stir from the bed until noon on Wednesday. Sometime during the early hours of the morning, Marlise forgets she is furious with me, because when I wake, she’s snuggled into the crook of my arm, her hand stolen beneath my t-shirt to lie palm down on my chest. Warm breath tickles the underside of my chin.
I can’t say this situation is wholly unpleasant, though any discomforting thoughts of the other things I could be doing with this woman are somewhat dulled by the polarised hurt seeping all the way to my very heart. Bruising had already bloomed all over my legs and arms in the hot shower I’d had when we arrived at two this morning. My skin is a latticework of scratches and, in some places, abrasions. Marlise hasn’t fared much better. What a pair of invalids we make.
Thankfully no one has enquired about our status today, no phone calls from the main house or concerned queries on the cell phone. They probably think we’re dead drunk or something. Somehow I’ll have to haul this body out of bed tomorrow and go to work, but I’m not going to dwell on that just yet. This situation with Ashton’s ghost cannot continue in this fashion. Someone’s going to get hurt. I don’t so much mind if it’s me catching the fallout, but Marlise didn’t do anything to deserve this, other than love the wrong man.
I’ve yet to see how much money Leonora gave me. Tomorrow I will enquire about renting a room in Sunrise Lodge. It’s the least I can do to offer Marlise a degree of sanity and, it can be hoped, safety. I’ll deal with the troublesome Ashton, one way or another.
In the meanwhile, I need to look for Christopher van Vuuren, online at least. A man who has so much say in such a massive company can’t go about invisible. It’s too convenient. Catherine van Vuuren must be his daughter. Treachery has an ugly smell. Can all of House Adamastor even be trusted? What of Meritiset? I hope she’s all right and not caught up in the mess, or that the others I was close to, beautiful souls such as Ptahotep and Thothmes, are not in any danger.
Careful, so as not to disturb her, I ease Marlise off me, pausing when she mumbles incoherent words. I’m of two minds as to what I should do about her. Logic suggests I should cut myself out of her life completely, but I don’t know if that will be enough to keep her safe. Then, there’s the possibility she may well prove an invaluable ally if I continue initiating her in the mysteries.
That thought doesn’t rest easy. Richard had made it quite clear what was at stake when he started my initiation, though at first he’d been a little sneaky about it. Just meditation exercises, my foot. Leonora, of course, had been a different matter entirely. I’d seen something in her, some desire to be loved, and she’d been very receptive to my suggestions, although I’d first taken her on as a librarian’s assistant. She’d been eased into the whole Inkarna business, while Marlise, on the other hand, has been dumped headfirst through no choice of her own.
My stomach rumbles, but I ignore the physical discomfort of hunger. The sandwich and coffee for which I was able to make Marlise stop last night barely touched sides, but waking her now is not an option. She needs the rest more than I do, or at least the way I look at it I owe her the rest, especially since she’s skipping her classes today. I’m sure as hell not going into the main house looking like I’ve been attacked by a pack of wild animals.
After relieving myself and splashing water on my face—I try not to look at the haggard mess staring back at me in the mirror—I power up Marlise’s laptop. If anything, I should use this quiet time for research, uninterrupted because I won’t have her hanging over my shoulder watching which pages I open. It’s not easy thinking when someone tsks over my shoulder when I keep using the drop-down menus on these stupid machines instead of knowing the shortcuts. I’ll gain my proficiency in good time.
The internet is still a source of wonder to me, a vast Akashic library of sorts. The problem isn’t the information. It’s rather being able to sift through the vast quantities of rubbish and dead ends to find the gems.
First I look up Maverick Enterprises. The website is slick, all cool whites and blues. The organisation appears to be a holding company for a number of interests, mostly medical development, information systems and military research. Typical House Montu. Everything they do is geared toward warfare. I’d bet there are a bunch of departments not listed on this site.
They have branches in Cape Town, Joburg, Durban and Port Elizabeth, with a satellite office in Bloemfontein, like a canker spread through the country. It makes sense that they’d control the road, ports and air. A cold shiver of foreboding passes through me. I’m uncomfortably reminded of the way a strangler fig will use its host for support until its roots strangle its victim.
Under the image gallery I pick up a number of corporate social responsibility events in which Christopher van Vuuren has made a public appearance. In his mid-forties, he looks exactly like the kind of man I wouldn’t want to meet: tall and broad about the chest and shoulders. In most of the photographs he’s wearing chinos and a golf shirt emblazoned with the Maverick falcon logo. His dark blond hair is kept cropped close to his skull, military style, but his light blue eyes give the appearance of dancing with merriment. He’s always smiling when he knows the camera is pointed in his direction. Christopher is everyone’s favourite uncle. Maybe it’s just typical House territoriality that’s coming to the fore, but this entire company and its people reek to the high heavens of House Montu. If Maverick Enterprises isn’t House Montu, then the sky isn’t blue.
Images show Van Vuuren shaking hands with Nelson Mandela, donating oversized cheques to children’s homes and digging the foundations for RDP housing and medical clinics in townships. He’s a people’s man. He’s always at all the glittering events, hob-knobbing with the top brass from the ANC and the DA, always cheerful.
In all the right places at the right time, my nasty little voice informs me.
His life is charmed, it would appear: head of the rugby team, eight A’s for matric, two years’ military service and a masters degree in civil engineering. And, another thought chills me. Catherine van Vuuren, if she is his daughter, was who I’d be right now. This would have placed me right in the heart of House Montu affairs, if they are indeed behind Maverick Enterprises. The falcon head logo is so obvious it burns me but, unless I can uncover definite proof, this could also be happy coincidence that an ancient falcon-headed Neter associated with warfare can be echoed in a logo chosen by this company.
Is it coincidence? I don’t think so.
Am I paranoid? Better paranoid than dead.
Would House Adamastor knowingly place one of its own in the lion’s den without first informing the individual? Especially someone who’s been a wife and a glorified librarian having tea parties before she popped off? The council had been adamant, so sure of the decision, but no one had informed me of any particular dangers. What’s going on?
Nausea sends out its questing tentacles and I’m so not hungry anymore.
The search engine delivers numerous other links related to this illustrious man and his projects. The Opulent Living magazine website shows an exclusive gated neighbourhood Van Vuuren developed in Noordhoek: his flagship enterprise, he calls it. Kakapo Mountain Estate is set in the natural amphitheatre formed by the mountain slopes in the area. The properties are priced way out of the range of mere mortals, offering security in these troubled times for discerning homeowners wishing for privacy. Advertising spin. I grimace while reading.
In an interview Van Vuuren states his confidence in his work as he, personally, has chosen to reside here. Gotcha! There’s a photograph of him with his family, a beautiful blond trophy wife, ex-super model, of course, and their daughter, who isn’t mentioned by name.
I can find only the one image of her, taken two years ago when she would have been six years old. She is the picture of innocence, with cherubic features. White-blond hair hangs in twin braid
s, making her look like Pippi Longstocking. This would have been me. The thought makes my breath catch.
Who are you, Catherine van Vuuren? Who are you really?
Someone has stolen my life, and I intend to find out who the thief is. Of course it’s not like anyone’s making it easy for me.
Marlise stirs and mutters, and I close the browser windows and go to her side.
“Hey.” I take her hand in mind. “How’re you feeling?”
She blinks up at me sleepily, but her features are relaxed. None of last night’s anger remains. “Like I’ve been out all night partying.”
“Thank you.”
She wets her lips, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “It sucks, Ash. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stay mad with you. Not like the old days.”
I have to laugh at this. “I can only try, hey?”
“What are we going to do about the ghost?” She says ghost so quietly it’s almost a whisper.
With a groan I allow myself to collapse next to her, breathing in the comforting scent of the linen, her lingering sweetness. “I honestly don’t know. I’d thought to destroy him, but that’s just going to make me as bad as the people who’ve messed everything up. I don’t want to wield such power. Trouble is—I can.”
“That’s the thing from last night, isn’t it? That thing you buried. So, what are we going to do? He almost killed us both last night, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ll be honest I’ve never had to deal with angry ghosts before. In theory, I could come up with some sort of binding, but it would be better for all of us if we could somehow convince him to let go of this existence, and I’m beginning to come to the horrid suspicion that he’s somehow tied to me.” It makes sense. I’d need to sever his ties with the Kha. But how will this impact on my current state?
“Then why don’t you?”
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