The Bitten

by L. A. Banks

  Conflicted, but so certain . . . returning to her primordial essence with each stroke, her hard arches a call-and-response tide that had only one answer. Sudden death, his, hers, theirs, but still breathing.

  Her head in his hands, caressing it with all her dreams inside it, a promise to honor them, pebbles and grit tearing at his knees, cutting his thighs, his love a protection at her back, not one scratch would he allow, not a drop of her blood would the ground steal from him . . . but she could take it all. Her strike staggering. Pulsestopping. His mind opening so fast that it tore and issued forth every image of her that he’d ever held. An infant at her breast causing sobs with his release, unending, as hers joined his and echoed back the pleasure until he had to lift his head to stop feeding the sweet agony.

  Fangs catching the last of starlight. The road to Hell paved with good intentions. Redemption in her arms. Resurrection, whenever she wanted him . . . for however long. Dawn on the horizon, serious warning not to play with nature. Don’t stop, a refrain in her chant. His name a shuddered stanza. Hers, hard shivers down his spine when he gasped it.

  Oh, sweetness, yes, he understood promises made in passion . . . he was a man . . . knew about saying anything to keep wet flesh moving. He wasn’t mad. Been there. He felt the same way; her body was a narcotic. A flat-line overdose. The median between lust and love was thin. He could dig it. Him now chasing her arch like chasing a crack hit. Blitzed, her voice calling his name now the only way he’d remember it. Not a mild transition, undergoing sea change lodged inside her . . . needing to turn her to keep her with him forever . . . just like he needed his next breath. Trying to hold back that intent was nearly impossible. Thinking of the future without her making him almost weep. Baby . . . you just don’t know . . . Disaster imminent, brought on by blinding ejaculation seizures. Peristaltic. Involuntary, like his throbbing lunges. His promises more than that, though—a blood oath, his seed a seal, whatever she wanted—Name it, mi tresora. I’ll never leave you . . . will try my best not to hurt you. I love you. Always did.

  Common sense abandoned. Not an option. Follow the sound lines—sound wisdom from a priest. A safe house another answer to a prayer. Withdrawal from her impossible. Not yet. Vacuum-sealed hot fusion, liquefied heat. His woman limp in his arms. Pull out or die. Don’t kill her.

  Darkness, a sure sanctuary . . . like her body. The presence of her warmth beneath him a necessity. Her tremble an indelible print on his skin. Her mouth his oasis. Her sudden shudder, increasing octaves, rippling up sections of his vertebrae like standing stones. Her moans radiating from her chest into his and out through the tips of his fingers, raw energy. The wetness of her mouth, sucroselacquered blood. Her scent a stimulant that knew no tranquilizer. Muscles aching but still moving. His back her bridge to sure salvation, driving, as she dragged her nails the length of it.

  Every thrust now taking him to the vanishing point and beyond, crossing parallel lines of existence, bending to collide into an optical illusion so real, wishing he’d never left the lair . . . but unable to share even her airborne cries with another master, much less her scent—her sacred mind transmissions, never . . . wallowing in the dust on a hard roll-over, to follow the lines and make it to the safe house with his last ounce of strength to save them both, or die trying. Winner takes all, and then some. But daylight didn’t negotiate.

  Dark eyes in ebony faces shining in the breaking night looked up from the fire. White paint dotted and smeared against their skins, giving them the eerie ancestral quality of ancient spirits, all-knowing from Dreamtime.

  Language a barrier, but an intense plea in his eyes for help, a woman nearly dead draped in his arms, created universal understanding. They all knew he would drop to his knees and beg for sanctuary if he had to. They understood. No shame, it was about survival. Compassion. The human heart a treasure. At least save his woman. Please . . . for the love of God . . . get her out of the coming sun!

  An old man’s satisfied nod, walking stick pointed toward a cavern with a wry smile. Daylight be damned, he wasn’t done. Time had robbed them. He’d seal the cave and transform it for her—turn it into the lair she deserved . . . and love her through the morning. Just one more time before handing her over. Just so he could remember every inch of her when he had to let her go. She’d branded him. Did that with her eyes when they’d first met . . . no matter what he was.

  Dawn would suffocate her then burn her. Their ancient barriers to the cave were impenetrable now without their permission. He stretched out his arms, offering her body to them, and knelt on one knee. Would gladly sacrifice his own instead. Time was a thief. Take her; I’ll burn in her place. Without her there was nothing to exist for. Just give her sanctuary.

  Another nod of approval from a tribal elder. No words were needed. A dense energy lifted. He almost wept at their grace. Discreet glances returned to the business of staring into the flames and packing pipes was all that was needed to effect the territory transfer. His shoulders dropped from fatigue and relief. That’s when the old men smiled, and he could begin to see a ring of white light beneath their bright orange-yellow fire with etchings that were almost blinding. It was as though they were sitting on a blue-white platter, the diameter twelve feet, with a thickness he couldn’t judge. Its brilliance almost made it impossible to look at, the Aramaic markings were so encrypted and sacred, he dared not allow his eyes to linger upon it. Then it became so crystal clear as the elderly humans became illuminated, X-ray art marking their dark bodies—but it wasn’t paint. It was pure light. Their images blurred and in an instant he knew. These were spirits, shamen . . . rock art, living prayer lines. They were the keepers of the sixth seal. They said one word that he understood as their low harmony of chants sent embers up to the heavens from their now blue-white fire—Neteru.

  Carlos nodded with his eyes closed, his head bowed in reverence to their generosity and mercy. He brought Damali’s body to his chest and held her against him hard, stroking her hair as her arms slowly awakened to hold him when he stood. Power was relative. He was forever in their debt. Their twenty-thousand-year-old prayer lines and unshakable courage surrounded the seal. They’d also sealed this secret within his soul, but had left the choice up to him to divulge it or not. Knowledge was a heavy burden. They smiled wider as he looked down at Damali in his arms. No matter what was going on in his empire, right now, these old men ruled the world.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THROUGHOUT THE fourteen-hour journey not a Guardian had said more than the perfunctory, keeping everything to logistics before they leaned back and closed their eyes. Since they’d all been together, they had never gone anywhere as a team without Damali and without a sure plan. While flying nonstop from night into day, losing a full day at the International Date Line, with only a delay to refuel, they had remained stone-faced. Even in their sleep she could feel the weight of their broken spirits.

  Marlene appraised them quietly as their rented equipment bus lumbered behind their limo. The team, as well as the Covenant squad, seemed totally demoralized. There was no other word for it. Rider hadn’t even passed a sarcastic quip to anyone when they went to the Thomas Cook offices to convert their currency. Maybe she should have let him and Jose ship their bikes on cargo planes, as extravagant a request as that might have been. But when would they have the time to ride?

  Perhaps they could rent something when they got there for after the concert, but she really didn’t want them going off to the Blue Mountains ninety miles west of the city before the gig. There was just too much to do, and too many unknowns, to be traipsing through Sydney Harbor National Park’s wildlife.

  No. She’d been right, even though she had to admit that her decisions had been hard ones clouded by doubt. This was not going to be like Brazil. This time the guys weren’t going to get a chance to relax and enjoy the local flavor. There was no time before the mission to take a Sydney Harbor Explorer Cruise to see the scantily clad women on Sydney’s forty-beach embarrassment of riches.
After the concert they wouldn’t be going to fine restaurants like Guillaume at Bennelong or Claude’s and Tetsuya’s with new chicks on their arms, a Foster’s brew the size of an oil can, and shrimp on the barbie; this wasn’t anything close to the Brazilian job.

  Something had happened last night. Something serious, that had put a cold sweat on her body and had made Father Pat sit up and look at her across the plane aisle.

  All she’d need was for Rider and Jose to get caught up and lost in the raucous nightlife at King’s Cross. Energy from 1788, when Captain Arthur Phillip dropped anchor and turned loose a shipload of convicts from England’s overcrowded jails, was probably still making the air crackle along that stretch of real estate.

  Just like she was sure that the famed tourist attraction, the Rocks, under Sydney Harbor Bridge where the first ships came in, and the colonial Macquarie Street area, still held a significant charge—ghosts and disembodied spirits were probably there, at the very least. On a job like this, they didn’t need any additional variables. Places had power. Marlene closed her eyes.

  She’d picked the Westin Sydney because it was only blocks from a trinity zone of hallowed ground at St. Andrew’s Cathedral, the Great Synagogue, and Hyde Park. Open-land parks were good, always retained prayer lines from the native people, and all of that was a short distance to Victoria Street and Darlinghurst Road on the other side of the park where the fellas could let off a little steam.

  But she wondered now if they even needed to be near the corridor of burlesque joints, massage parlors, and video dens that ran hot after ten o’clock at night—prime time for vamps. Right now her team needed to be isolated, and not run into a minor vamp battle that could drain resources. She had to make herself relax, knowing that there were some good vibes where they were going to perform.

  The Sydney Opera House was built on a natural land formation called Bennelong Point by the Aussies, which jutted out into the bay with Sydney Cove dividing the Rocks from it. The grand theater was near plenty of open ground by the Royal Botanical Gardens and Domain Parkland, with tremendous creative energy filtering along Writer’s Walk, and just a bit beyond that was Macquarie Place, once a site of ceremonial and religious importance to Aboriginal people. The song lines remained, just like the giant obelisk did—a point from which all distances from Sydney were once measured. Interesting feng shui. Yet for all its clean, modern beauty and rich history, there was a dark underbelly to be wary of. She just hoped that Damali hadn’t fluxed and had been able to pull from the indigenous prayer lines in the area.

  However, every big city had a dark side. She tried to force herself to relax, knowing she couldn’t put her team in a protective bubble, much as she wanted to. It was a foolish thought. They weren’t destined to be blind to the dark side or protected from it, but in her heart she wished that she could, anyway. This indefinable thing that had happened, coupled with the significance of this particular mission, made her know that one, or some, of her beloved guardians might not come home this time. She knew it as sure as she knew her name, and no amount of mental bracing could bring her acceptance, no matter how many years she’d tried to prepare herself for that fact.

  They’d just have to use their best judgment until they could get a flight out. She hoped that the guys would be satisfied watching the Australian winter game, rugby. But she knew better than that. They were grown men, warriors, and not about to hide from the night.

  Marlene absently gazed at the Georgian and Victorian architecture as they passed neat suburban homes, remembering the endless streams she’d seen upon their United Airlines flight approach. She wondered if the four million residents tucked away in mundane comfort ever knew what lurked amid the branching waterways. Probably not.

  She could feel her energy dipping as they neared the hotel. None of them had been the same since Damali had left with Carlos. She peered at Big Mike. His eyes said it all; the team’s leader and daughter had abandoned him. Jose was positively bereft. She sighed silently as she glanced at J.L. and Dan. They still seemed stunned. The muscles in Rider’s jaw were working. And Shabazz . . . The man’s complexion was practically gray. She could feel his deep soul mourning; although he hadn’t said a word, it clouded his entire aura.

  She looked out the window during the traffic-impacted five-mile stretch between Kingsford-Smith International Airport, watching the billowing white-tiled sails of the Sydney Opera House come into view, renewed tension winding the muscles in her shoulders tight. Father God, where was her baby girl? This time, there was no plan. Damali hadn’t even come back to develop a strategy with them to get everyone on the same page, help come up with new weapons, or anything like that, much less perfect the show.

  All they had was this new, very-unlike-Damali song, some fleeting instructions about a rendezvous time and location, and a tape that had mysteriously shown up in the compound one night—which had freaked everybody out, including her. They were almost afraid to listen to it, and the Covenant had almost destroyed it when they tried to douse it with holy water. The message was crazy. Have faith.

  Faith . . . Marlene rolled the word around in her mind. The team was missing its crown jewel, and each member was falling away one-by-one like loose semiprecious stones in a weakened setting, grieving, losing faith, losing hope, the only thing holding them together was the crazy glue of love.

  Marlene thought about the Isis, her inner eye seeing each team member like a gemstone set in the handle of it, matched perfectly to Damali’s chakra system. She, the mother-seer, was the base chakra guide, an anchor of elder female energy to ground her young charge, guarding her sensuality and important reproductive path. Shabazz was the gut instinct one level up. Rider was her gall, her righteous indignation, covering level three. Jose . . . Marlene shook her head . . . God bless him, he was to guard her heart—the midsystem chakra divide between the primal and the divine . . . and he’d been shattered.

  Big Mike was to be Damali’s throat chakra voice guide, a man of few words, but those uttered, profound. J.L. and Dan were like the protective handle of the ancient blade, two stones of her third eye fanning out to protect her grip. But Damali was the crown chakra, the diamond at the top, which was to always be connected by the divine filament of energy that never left the Light.

  Marlene’s chest was so tight with grief that she almost sobbed. Something had happened. The four remaining Covenant brethren were supposed to represent the blood grooves along the Isis that came down to a point, which would leave a crucifix wound in an enemy, a puncture on a beast that would never seal. Their eyes were forward, their jaws set hard, but their faith was wavering. She could feel it like a dull ache in her soul. It was as though the combined teams’ human replica of Damali’s system, and of the sword that she was to become, had been broken over their Neteru’s knee—halved and traded in for what none of them could give her, and only Carlos could.

  All she could hope was that the broken blade would be reforged into something new, stronger, and that ultimately some good would come out of the ashes left in the furnace.

  He watched her sleep, grateful that her breast rose and fell with lifesustaining air. She was alive. Last night they’d come too close. Never again. Not like that.

  She looked so peaceful, serene . . . like an angel in the dark. Maybe a dark angel? He wasn’t sure. But the old men had been merciful.

  “Good evening, baby,” he murmured as she stirred and smiled at him with her eyes still closed.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “Where are we?”

  “I followed the song lines,” he said tenderly, kissing the bridge of her nose. “They opened up the safe house for us.”

  “Hmmm . . . good,” she said in a sleepy voice. “I’m so glad we’re not in the castle.”

  “So am I,” he admitted, then leaned in and kissed her. “You hungry?”

  “Yeah,” she said, covering his hand on her belly with her own. “Starved.”

  He chuckled low in his throat. “Yeah, me, too.”
/>   It was difficult to pull away from her, but every request she made, he’d honor.

  “Whatcha feel like?” he asked cautiously.

  “Water,” she murmured. “And lots of it,” she added, swallowing with difficulty. “Fruit, bread, everything . . . I’m starved.”

  He paused thoughtfully. She was human. Conflict bound him. His emotions quickly vacillated between extreme elation and the depths of disappointment. If she was human, she wouldn’t live forever. If she was a vampire, then she would, but then that meant he’d done the unthinkable in blind passion. But her human request also meant that he’d never be able to take her to the vanishing point again.

  “Okay,” he said quietly, and lit a small wall torch so she could see. “I can do that.”

  With mixed feelings, he unsealed the lair the old men had provided and left her to go find food. Not fully regenerated, he opted for the old-fashioned way, and cautiously peered out of the room, checking for danger before he proceeded. But he didn’t have to walk far. On the ground outside the door the old men had left a large bottle of spring water and a platter of fruit. “Thank you,” he whispered and collected the items.

  Returning with soft footfalls, he brought the nourishment to her side, sitting gingerly on the bed. He watched her devour the food and guzzle down the water. Guilt stabbed him as he thought about how long she’d been without the basic thing she needed to live—human sustenance.

  Then all of a sudden, she quickly leaned over the side of the bed and vomited. She panted, sweat beading her brow, and he rubbed her back, confused.

  He set the platter down very carefully on the nightstand, and stared at her as she flopped onto her back and slung an arm over her eyes. Her complexion was off; her eyes were dull. He had to get her to Marlene. Something was very wrong. She smelled . . . sweeter, lighter.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “I feel like shit.”