Inkarna

by Nerine Dorman

  For a moment I suspect this won’t work, but the security guard nods. A nasty, wriggly pain begins in the back of my sinuses and I pray I’m not overtaxing my abilities.

  “You… Have an appointment with Mr Van Vuuren,” the man parrots.

  “Correct. You don’t need to call him. He is expecting me. You will forget I was ever here.”

  “I will forget…”

  “What are the directions to his house?”

  “Twenty-two Protea Drive.”

  “Go make yourself tea.”

  The man shuffles around, a sleepwalker.

  Smiling grimly to myself, I continue through the pedestrian entrance. The smile becomes a grimace when my head throbs at the release of energy and, when I wipe at what feels like moisture from my right nostril, there’s a light smear of blood. Not a lot, but enough to warn me to go slow.

  “You gotta teach me to do that,” Ash remarks.

  “I’m sure you’ll pick up tips,” I say. “But you’ve got work to do now. We can talk about some sort of reward if we survive this encounter.”

  He doesn’t reply, but I can feel his keen anticipation. He flashes me a vision of Marlise writhing beneath me, my cock hard as I thrust into her.

  Annoyed, I push that thought away. “You need to scout ahead. I need an idea where Protea Drive is situated.” Now’s not the time to worry about Ashton’s escape biting me in the rear. I have something he wants. I loosen the connection between us, pushing the old Ashton Kennedy from the Kha. He releases with a soft sigh, and I’m alone in my mind. A gust hits me at that precise moment, bringing with it cold moisture from the low-hanging clouds.

  The pictures I remember from the website about Kakapo Estate suggest the Van Vuurens live near the top. There were tall date palms in that photograph, and I scan the area. Right on the mark, the trees are a few blocks farther. The estate is rather lovely, I have to admit. All the roads are cobbled in uniform grey, the terraced gardens perfectly manicured and consisting mostly of a collection of indigenous cone bushes, heaths, pincushions and proteas interspersed with a few silver trees nodding in the wind. The houses are all large, built mostly in a mock Cape Dutch style with its characteristic white gables, only the majority of them are double-storey, with far more plate glass windows than a traditional architect would allow.

  Such cars that I do see parked in driveways are the usual gamut of expensive German brands. Of course I don’t want anyone taking note of my walking along their roads, so I wrap my Kha in a sense of I’m not here—it’s only a quirk of the light. It’s one of the first real uses of daimonic power House Adamastor teaches. How best to convince one’s enemies there’s no threat? The threat simply is not there.

  This doesn’t fool the dogs. I get barked at by a range of breeds, from Huskies to Great Danes. Once or twice puzzled owners emerge to squint out over their yards, but by then I’m already past.

  “You need to take a right quite soon,” Ashton whispers.

  I follow his directions. It would appear that the increase in elevation also results in houses that are far more splendid than their brethren downslope. Number twenty-two is built on three successive tiers, with imposing Grecian columns on its veranda and a king’s ransom in quiver trees out front that I assume must have been freighted in from the arid Northern Cape. How they survive our wet Western Cape winters is beyond me.

  The property also has a six-foot wall topped with spikes. Despite its situation in a secure, gated neighbourhood, Christopher van Vuuren is security conscious to anal proportions. I pause for a few minutes, making the effort to draw harder on my daimonic self. No one must see me now, and it is difficult maintaining this level of concentration for long.

  “Is there anyone inside?” I ask Ashton quietly.

  For a moment I think he won’t answer, and I worry at the obvious absence of his regard, that prickling sensation I have when I feel I’m being watched but can’t see the observer. My palms are damp and I wipe them on my jeans.

  Just when I’m about to try my hand at breaking and entering blindly, Ashton’s clammy awareness brushes up against mine and I have to repress a shudder. “There’s a forty-something-ish woman who’s working on a computer in her study. She’s writing something while listening to some classical crap. That’s a window to the left from where you’re standing. Other than that, there’s a young girl in a playroom at the back of the house. I wouldn’t worry about the black woman in the maid’s quarters. She’s watching soaps. Looks like she’s off duty. Cleaning staff.”

  “No sign of Christopher?” I project an image of the father.

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. I need you to remain aware of the comings and goings. If you see that man, or anyone else, for that matter, warn me.”

  “What makes you think the girl will talk to you?”

  “If she’s Inkarna, she will.” At least I hope she’s Inkarna.

  Ashton’s presence evaporates, leaving me once again on my own. It’s quite simple breaking into the pedestrian gate. The lock snicks open at the slightest prompt. We never used to be able to do this so easily in the past with purely mechanical access points. Maintaining a strong sense of not-being-here, I dash up the stairs, taking great pains to tread lightly. I may be all-but-invisible to those who are aware, but any incidental sounds I make will definitely be audible. People don’t know to look for me unless they have some clue I’m there.

  The back area of the house is paved in smooth yellow travertine, and is more a narrow passage, because the residence is very much cut into the mountainside. A thick bank of ferns spills over into this area. The back door is unlocked—so much for all the precautions—and it doesn’t take much effort to prompt the security gate to click open.

  I’m clearly in a joint scullery and laundry area, all the appliances matching in darkened stainless steel hues, giving me the impression that I’ve just dropped into some sort of space-age setting. The adjoining kitchen is larger than Marlise’s bedroom and bathroom combined, all the surfaces finished with black granite and equally intimidating fridges, ovens and microwaves, if I consider the humble stove-top ovens Lizzie used in the 1960s.

  “Down this passage,” Ashton prompts when I exit the kitchen. “Her door’s open. I suggest knocking.”

  One of Mahler’s symphonies wafts up from the stairs leading down to what I assume to be the living areas, where Catherine’s mom is surfing the net or chatting online. What the hell am I going to say to an eight-year-old girl without scaring her half to death? Should I find some way to incapacitate her and carry her out? What if Catherine isn’t Inkarna?

  And if she is? What then? What if she’s not House Adamastor but House Montu?

  I’ve gone all cold, my stomach churning so much I don’t know if I want to go take a shit or vomit, what with the cold sweat trickling down my brow and no doubt making my t-shirt’s armpits damp while I hesitate outside the girl’s door.

  In the end, Catherine is the one who forces my hand. “Is that you, Cynthia?” she calls out, her voice girlish and sweet, which sends another cold spike of terror down my spine. How on earth will she react to seeing a guy framed in the door leading to her playroom? I’m not Lizzie, not some mild old granny who looks harmless, but isn’t.

  I steel myself then step into the doorway, affecting nonchalance by leaning against the frame. “Catherine van Vuuren, do you care to explain why I didn’t reincarnate in your Kha five years ago?” I may as well take the proverbial bull by the horns.

  For an eight-year-old, she’s remarkably young-looking, her white-blond hair cut into a sharp-pointed bob framing a heart-shaped face. Eyes the same hue as cut emeralds return my stare, a few golden freckles sprinkled across her cheeks.

  Her mouth drops open for exactly a moment before she regains her composure and draws herself up from the heavy leather-bound tome she’s reading while sitting cross-legged on a scattering of multi-coloured cushions—bright, cheerful colours contrasting with the sombre tones of her clothing.
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  “Neffie?”

  That one word slices right through me and I drop to my knees. Only Meritiset called me by that shortening of my Ren.

  “Merry? What’s happened?”

  We stare at each other for an eternity of silence. Catherine’s eyes go all glazed for a moment, as though the memories are too much, until she speaks. “There was a complication…”

  My chest tight, I rise to my feet on shaky knees. “What sort of complication?”

  Her gaze is pitying. “House Montu…” she whispers. Something’s wrong.

  An arm snakes around my neck and I am thrown against the wall, all the breath knocked out of me. Bright sparks fill my field of vision.

  “Nefretkheperi!” Ashton yells.

  “Wha—” I croak. For some reason I’m lying on the floor, the carpet gritty with sand pressing into my cheek.

  “I’m so sorry, I misjudged…” He flashes me an image of the supposed maid rising, as if to a silent summons, and stalking out her room. “I didn’t realise until…” Until she was almost upon me.

  Glancing up, I look into the face of the black woman I think Ash mentioned earlier. She’s no cleaning lady or cook. Her hair is braided and falls medusa-like to her shoulders and her eyes are far too alert. For her size she packs a considerable amount of strength. My daimonic self crackles, questing outward to meet my assailant’s signature: initiate. Thank goodness only an initiate.

  The only problem is I’m at her mercy because she kicks me the moment I try to rise, hard, making it all but impossible to draw breath or think straight.

  “Wha—ooof!” Another crack to the ribs has me curled into a foetal position.

  Dimly I’m aware of Catherine rising, small pink sneakers padding on the floor until she stands by my face. “Oh, Neffie, you disappoint me.”

  “What. Is…”

  “I underestimated you all along. Anyone else would have had the good sense to stay hidden.”

  “I need to know what’s going on.” I claw at reality through the haze of pain. Something warm and sticky tickles my left nostril and drips salt into my mouth.

  She kneels before me to peer into my eyes, her expression so innocent I want to curl up and die from my stupidity. The betrayal’s wound has yet to register fully, a rusty blade that will still be twisted again and again. “Oh, my dear Neffie, don’t you know? Haven’t you been paying any attention? But I must thank you. The current initiate has proved most wily.” Her smile is chilling.

  She doesn’t know Leonora’s identity, that Leonora is full Inkarna. It’s incredibly difficult to not let my relief show. “What have you done?”

  Catherine sighs, her expression that of studied boredom. She stands and snaps her fingers. “Get him to his feet, Cynthia. Keep him from making any trouble.”

  The black woman hauls me into a standing position. Still dazed, I lean against the wall, watching the pint-sized terror study me.

  “How unfortunate. I’d at least have considered that you’d choose a more appropriate Kha.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” I say through gritted teeth. “You try five years drowning in the Sea of Nun and you take what you get.”

  “I should have had you cast deeper. No matter. I must thank you for this opportunity to cut all House Adamastor’s games short. Where is The Book of Ammit?”

  Talk of cutting to the chase. I keep my expression neutral. “The book of what?”

  The child flies at me so quickly I don’t have a chance to flinch. In fact, Cynthia braces me so I take the full brunt of the girl’s punch, straight to the groin. The pain blossoms from my loins upward, making it impossible to breathe as I double up in an attempt to contain the agony.

  Cynthia chuckles then says something in her native tongue that sounds vaguely insulting.

  “Ash, what the fuck?” I manage beneath my breath. He’s betrayed me in all this as well. What if he’s in cahoots with Catherine? I’ve been foolish trusting anyone in House matters.

  “Talk kak, idiot,” he replies. “Double-crossing lying bitch.” His hatred for the girl surprises me with its intensity, a wave of pure loathing that washes over the room from a point directly above my crown.

  “Then do something,” I say quietly.

  “What are you muttering about, Neffie?” The cold, calculated cruelty in Catherine’s voice stuns me.

  “You’ve betrayed the House.”

  “Which House?”

  A flood of memories assails me, of times Meritiset told me of her life with Siptah during Elizabeth’s reign, of meeting Dr John Dee and getting to grips with his angelic script, of moonlit trysts, of madrigals and magick with a K.

  I wasn’t Siptah’s first love. That much I discovered when I passed through the Black Gate into Per Ankh the first time. It always struck me as odd that Meritiset had taken my arrival so calmly, without any rancour for having been his partner during the twentieth century. I’d thought I could name her friend.

  “What did you do with Siptah?” This turn in questioning from her is surprising. She had ample opportunity to ask me this in Per Ankh. Why did she hide behind a mask of sisterhood then?

  Cynthia’s fingers maintain their squeeze on those pressure points, and I struggle to speak. “I didn’t do anything with Siptah. Why bother with this now when we established that I was not guilty of any crime when I appeared before the council in Per Ankh?” That meeting had been so tense. For a long time I’d thought I’d be outcast, forced to wander the Tuat without a place of safety, at the mercy of the bigger Houses who could enslave me.

  Still doubled over, I look up into her face. We’re at eye level. There’s nothing young or girlish about her expression now. Slowly I straighten, Cynthia moving to accommodate my motion. Please let them not aim for further physical damage. The way Cynthia has my arms pinned back at an unnatural angle suggests she could snap bones with little effort. The buzz of power through her tells me she’s on the verge of coming into being as a full-blown Inkarna.

  “The Book of Ammit the Devourer, Nef. I don’t believe you don’t know where it is. Siptah knew, and he’s gone. Where has your other initiate been hiding these past few years?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I say. “I couldn’t find her.”

  “You’re lying. You always were a useless liar.” She nods at Cynthia.

  “Asssh,” I hiss as Cynthia digs a finger into a fresh pressure point that sends a blaze of agony spilling from my arm down to my feet. What’s keeping the spook? I can’t think straight for the pain, and if I can’t gain my composure I can’t gather my daimonic self enough to lash out.

  As if on cue, the lights start flickering and a subtle hum begins right on the edge of my hearing. The temperature in the room plunges so quickly my breath mists before my face.

  Catherine twists her head this way and that, craning to see something that, technically speaking, isn’t truly there.

  “You’re going to owe me for this, motherfucker,” Ash says. “This is going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

  Cynthia’s death grip on me doesn’t slacken and she does something horrid with her daimonic powers. Half-cocked as she is, she sends short bursts of static through me. I can only compare it to being electrocuted—once, twice, three times, until I’m bent at the waist again, a terrible whining starting; building with intense pressure in my skull. It’s impossible figuring out whether Ashton is responsible for some of this phenomenon or if it’s Cynthia’s special brand of torture.

  Catherine gives a small scream, beating at me with her fists, striking indiscriminately at my bowed head, chest and arms. “Make it stop! Make it stop!” A waft of her panic reaches me through the haze. I need to run, get the hell out of here.

  That’s the problem of starting out young: the insecurities, of not having grown into one’s full powers. Granted, it’s been hellishly uncomfortable coming into Inkarna powers in an already-adult body, but a child’s would mature with the fresh Akh. I don’t want to know how powerful Catherine w
ill be by the time she reaches her majority.

  The stench of ozone fills the air and fresh blood trickles down my nose. Ashton’s drawing on my daimonic self to fuel his slowly growing vortex of power centred round me. The power coils, a deliberate movement building the dawning horror of the coming release.

  “Ashton, n—” He’s going to blow himself into shreds of aether.

  As if with the explosion of a small thermonuclear device, I’m flung across the room, Cynthia’s fingers sliding from contact.

  “Run!” Ashton wails at me. He sounds very far away. “You don’t have much ti—”

  Like a drunkard I stumble out of the room, away from the prone bodies of Catherine and Cynthia. Whatever psychic attack Ashton orchestrated, I was at its epicentre and, although dazed, I’m perfectly capable of escape, though my limbs don’t quite obey my intentions. My ears ring and I fight against the double vision swamping my eyes.

  A woman calls from downstairs as I dash down the passage. I don’t stop to find out how dangerous Mrs Van Vuuren is. Mercifully the back door is open, the security gate swinging on its hinges. I pelt down the back of the house the down the terraced stairs to the front gate. Without bothering with my daimonic powers, I spend a handful of agonising seconds looking for the gate’s release button, which I eventually find on a pillar near the exit.

  The barrier clicks open and I run, hardly caring who sees me at this point in my mad rush out. Please, oh, please, let Marlise be there when I get out of this benighted place. The neighbourhood canines don’t even have a chance to register my passing as my boots thud hard on the cobbles. The insane yammering starts after the fact, while my breath sears pure fire through my lungs. Any moment now my Kha will just seize up and I’ll collapse like so much meat on the cobblestones.

  It’s only when I reach the main access control point that I slow, my lungs contracting painfully with each inhalation. With great effort I draw upon my I’m-not-here state and, even while I walk, I’m not certain whether my ruse will function, not after the massive expenditure of earlier.