Protector of the Flame

by Isis Rushdan

  When she opened her eyes, she sensed the connection to everyone in the room. With each inhale, she was cognizant of how she pulled energy. Her core stirred with strength and her energy pool pulsated, but there was no flow back to them. On an exhale, she pushed energy into the collective.

  “Too much,” Abbadon said. “You’re releasing more than you’re taking. The process should be unconscious as it is when you breathe.”

  As she slowed her breaths, the flow of energy followed suit. The disquietude over the necklace lingered, yet the madness to claw it from her skin at all costs had evaporated along with the stinging pain. She glanced at her chest. Carin had healed her wounds.

  “Thank you,” Serenity said to everyone.

  The soldiers left and Abbadon stood to leave.

  “Please wait.” She rose to face him. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I’ll do the right thing for Cyrus and House Herut.”

  No amount of thanks could do justice for all he’d done.

  Abbadon stepped forward and opened his arms to her. His hug was tender as if he worried he might break her.

  If her father had lived, she wondered if his embrace would’ve felt like this.

  “I care about Herut and the collective,” she said. “I’ll find a way to prove it.”

  “You and Cyrus are fortunate to have each other,” he said low in her ear. “Not many of us find our kabashem, and politics often divide the ones who do. But I do not envy the road ahead of you to save our people from the curse decimating our species.”

  His arms slipped away, foreign emotion swirled in his gunmetal blue eyes. “The sins of Kindred are great and steeped in blood. The Creator will extract a heavy toll to redeem us. Stay the course, no matter how dark things become.”

  She swallowed the cold lump forming in her throat. “I will.”

  He left as silently as he’d entered.

  In the bathroom, she stared at her distorted reflection in the broken mirror. Her skin no longer crawled. Now she almost felt foolish for her violent response. Almost.

  Blood covered her hands and ruined her dress. Skin was lodged under her nails. As she washed away the traces of her wounds, she sensed Cyrus’s churning energy stream drawing near.

  Nothing was ever simple or easy. Even their wedding day had unraveled in horror. Darkness was to follow.

  He’d known ever since the scouts of Sekhem had found them, then the immortal’s visit. Bait for his mate had been disguised as help and concern.

  The immortals had hearts as cold as stone. If they had hearts at all. And secrets that stretched to the beginning of his kind, always conjuring plots within plots. They could not be trusted.

  As he walked into the bathroom, Serenity dried her hands on a towel. “What did you find out about our gifts from Seshata?”

  “Only someone from House Aten, someone deeply loyal, can remove the items once presented. It’s a failsafe to prevent someone else from tampering with them. Normally, they only give gifts to their own, so it’s usually not a problem.”

  “Ah.”

  Seshata had given an extra incentive to pay a visit to House Aten that his mate would not be able to ignore. The immortal was forcing his hand, but he had to go to Herut and stand before his Council. He wouldn’t shame his House by going to Aten without their permission, if he could avoid it.

  Their eyes met, but neither said what they were thinking.

  “Well, my mother and grandmother were from Aten, shouldn’t that count for something? Isn’t membership passed through the bloodline?”

  “You’re advenuati. You don’t belong to any House. In your heart, your allegiance is to the human world.”

  “Not anymore.” She rested her head on his chest. “My allegiance is to you.”

  And his to her. He dreaded the day he might have to choose between his House and his kabashem for there was no choice. She mattered more than the honor of Herut, his sworn duty to break the curse, more than redemption itself.

  He lifted her chin, her eyes were solemn. Her unspoken turmoil was now controlled, but the rawness of it bit through their energy stream and stung his heart.

  “I need to shower before we leave.” She unzipped her bloodstained wedding gown.

  He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped off his shoes. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not for one second.”

  Chapter Three

  Everything gleamed in varying shades of brown, gold and cream aboard the luxurious Gulfstream jet. Curled in a puffy leather chair, she stared out the window at the indigo expanse of sky and ocean as they crossed the Atlantic. Cyrus sat across a table, watching her while drinking a cognac.

  Neither of them had spoken for hours.

  The amulet hung around her neck with the weight of a noose.

  A freakish nightmare she couldn’t escape through blood or tears. Only one thing could solve this particular problem contrived by an immortal—a visit to House Aten.

  The one place Cyrus couldn’t go without permission from his Triumvirate.

  She turned toward her kabashem and met his intense gaze.

  Fate, the universe, life had made it as clear as a slap in the face there’d be a great price for their love and their pleasure. And she was willing to pay the cost whatever it might be to have him. She extended a hand across the spotless, lacquered table.

  He slipped his fingers along her palm and clutched her wrist as he canted forward. “Nothing in this world will ever diminish our bond. Not even death.”

  Everything that mattered most was reflected in his eyes, those inhuman blue-black eyes. The same exotic color as a Black Dragon iris.

  When they touched down in Casablanca, the warm, dry air of early morning greeted them. Two chauffeurs waited in front of dark Suburbans. Serenity fingered through her hair, untangling long, rebellious curls as Cyrus spoke to the drivers in French. They seemed to have a well-established rapport. All of the warriors threw djellabas—long, loose-fitting robes—over their clothing, which provided the perfect concealment for their weapons.

  The vehicles were loaded and they were off.

  The sprawling metropolis bustled before nine in the morning. Casablanca was a peculiar mix of western modernization and old world Arabic tradition. She longed to explore this country where her kabashem had his Whitescape and knew for the first time that she existed.

  At a café nestled in the ochre walls of the Old Medina, they stopped for a breakfast of mint tea, strong Arabic coffee, a wide range of Moroccan breads with olive oil and exotic pastries. She passed on the sweets, sticking to the bread in the hopes it’d calm her upset stomach.

  Hand in hand, they strolled the crowded labyrinth streets of the Old Medina past vendors hawking goods of every variety. Warriors stayed close enough to act should the need arise, but unobtrusively at a distance. Cyrus arranged a private tour of the majestic Royal Palace, getting access to most areas off limits to the public. Having connections that spanned several human generations paid off.

  The brilliant white and soft green structure of the Hasan II Mosque was only seen from the car window on their way out of the city headed to the Atlas Mountains.

  “I wish we had more time.” Cyrus caressed her knee. “I wanted to show you the whitewashed town of Essaouira on the coast.”

  “Being with you is more than enough. I like this whirlwind approach, forces me to appreciate every second.”

  His smile did little to ease the regret in his eyes. As long as they were safe and together, they could be in a crappy motel in Timbuktu for all she cared. She clasped his hand and kissed the interlocking knots of his wedding ring.

  He stroked her hair, drawing her lips to his, and crushed her mouth in the sweetest kiss. “When things have settled—”

  “You mean when our lives are no longer in danger?”

  A slow nod brought wavy dark hair over half of his insanely gorgeous face.

  She brushed it behind his ear, suddenly filled with the urge to straddle his thick thighs and be as cl
ose as possible. Skin to skin, soul to soul, connected as one in every way.

  Then she thought about the cursed necklace around her throat and drew away.

  “I’ll bring you back to Morocco and we’ll spend as long as you like.”

  “Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. Once you accept your call to serve, I doubt we’ll be able to spend as much time as I’d like anywhere other than at House Herut.”

  He didn’t deny it, only wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

  Her temples throbbed. Dull cramps twisted in her lower abdomen. There was absolutely no way she’d allow jetlag and PMS to ruin the few precious days of their honeymoon. She rolled down the window despite the heat and dust.

  Fresh air tickled her skin, giving a burst of rejuvenation.

  Winding roads led past mountain streams and colored rock cliffs with dizzying vistas to a luxurious fortress set in the foothills.

  Cyrus helped her from the car and up the steps to the massive wooden front doors.

  The owner, wearing brightly colored silks, welcomed them with a gracious smile. Rose petals were strewn down a wide marble hall and attendants handed them cool drinks of fruit-infused water. A typical check-in would’ve been beneath Cyrus who never did anything in an ordinary manner.

  “As instructed, the entire south and west sections have been reserved for your party’s exclusive use for the evening. It’s a shame you can’t stay with us longer,” said the owner.

  “We have a very tight schedule.”

  “A pity.” The owner led them down a corridor lined with paintings worthy of showcase in a museum and outside through a garden. “The tent suites here are for your guests.” He eyed the warriors with trepidation.

  A row of eleven tents formed a half circle facing the soft golden sky as the sun set behind an awe-inspiring mountain landscape. A glimpse inside revealed luxurious accommodations complete with living room.

  “Wow, if the others get this, where are we staying?” Serenity asked.

  “We’ve created something special as requested by your husband.” The owner extended a sweeping arm toward a slope that led to a massive tent of olive green silk.

  “Thank you. Please arrange to have dinner brought down to us.”

  Motion sickness from the curving roads on the drive up had curdled her already delicate stomach. Eating much of anything was doubtful.

  “Certainly,” the owner said.

  She wrapped her hand around her kabashem’s extended arm and watched her step along the stone path to their tent. At the entrance, Cyrus held back a section of fabric.

  Inside, an Arabian Nights fairytale came to life. Soft light from candelabras, glowing votives and an ornate chandelier suffused the tent suitable for royalty. A large bed with a silk spread dominated one side of the main area, Persian rugs covered the floor, and a lounge area with plush pillows on the floor and what appeared to be a four-foot bong completed the living area.

  She spun, gaping at the magical tent.

  “Do you like it?”

  “What’s not to like? I love it. Now all I need is someplace to wash off the day’s dust.”

  He drew back yet another curtain, sly smile spreading across his savagely masculine features. Steam rose from the water of a deep soaker tub large enough for two.

  Cyrus drew her into his body and she ran her hands up his chest. He tilted her chin and closed the distance between their lips. His energy stream lapped at hers. Heat fluttered in luscious waves as his tongue entered her mouth. One of his strong hands pressed between her shoulder blades and moved up her spine, gripping the nape of her neck. The other glided down her cashmere dress and grasped her buttock. His cock stirred against her pelvis and hardened.

  Making love to him was always the sweetest escape. Even now she longed to lose herself in his muscular body, in his masculine scent. But whenever she closed her eyes, all she saw was the unearthly necklace crawling into her skin.

  She shuddered and pulled away.

  “What is it?”

  As she removed her sweater, she turned her back to him. “I just need to feel clean.”

  For a long moment he said nothing. She felt the heat of his gaze burning a hole right through her. Unease stirred in their merged stream, but she couldn’t pinpoint if it was hers alone.

  “Take your time,” he finally said before leaving.

  She climbed into the hot tub, letting her body unwind. Heavy pressure in her belly worsened and the pounding headache deepened. She lingered in the water until the smoky scent of roasted meat filled the air, making her want to retch.

  After drying off, she put on a buttery yellow kaftan she found hanging beside a mirror.

  A tray of fire-roasted food, bread, soup and wine waited on a low table near the bong and pillows. Cyrus had peeled off layers of clothing, only keeping on his pants. Chest bare and reclined on cushions, he was the most striking man she’d ever seen. His body was all sculpted lines and irresistible muscle.

  “There’s rabbit, fish and vegetables.”

  Settling in beside him, she sniffed the soup. The smell of chickpea and cumin soured her waning appetite.

  Cyrus ate straight from the platter with his hands. He even sucked juicy bits of rabbit from his fingers. He was different in this country, in their opulent tent. The weight of their lives didn’t seem so heavy on him.

  “You barely touched breakfast. I thought you’d be starving by now.”

  She pulled off a piece of fresh baked bread. “The spices aren’t appealing.”

  “You’re pallid.” He canted forward and pressed the back of his hand to her cheek and forehead.

  “I’m nauseated from the ride and have a touch of jetlag. It’s nothing serious.” She took a sip of wine, avoiding his eyes. “What’s with the bong?” Intricate gold and silver etchings curled around the decorative base and up the two-foot neck.

  “It’s not a bong.” He chuckled. “It’s a hookah used to smoke tobacco.”

  She scrunched her face at the idea of smoking.

  “The tobacco is flavored. You’ll enjoy it.”

  Once he finished eating, he fiddled with the hookah, adding burning coals atop and drawing long puffs until plumes of fragrant white smoke flowed, then handed her the pipe.

  She inhaled delicious apple-scented smoke. She thought she’d cough but didn’t. A second puff gave her an immediate head buzz.

  Smiling, he leaned back and twirled his fingers in her damp hair. “How many children do you want?”

  The truth was she could do without any. Yet, she couldn’t deny her body’s yearning to have a baby…his baby. Not that it mattered. She’d resigned to break the curse by having the child most Kindred feared enough to kill them—the redeemer. “How many do you want?”

  “As many as you’re willing to bear.”

  Kindred could have children for hundreds of years since they weren’t limited by the same physiological constraints as humans. All of the warriors with them had siblings in the double digits. An unfathomable idea for someone like her. Someone with a childhood tainted by corrupted memories, someone who’d been abandoned by her mother, someone not quite whole.

  “You’ll be a fantastic mother,” he said as if sensing her thoughts. “You only doubt it because you can’t see what I see in you. Your warmth, your beauty, your incredible strength and courage. You will love any child of ours with a full heart.”

  She tasted his lips in a soft kiss, loving him even more for the way he loved her despite how damaged she was down at the core.

  Between the warriors of Sekhem on their heels and insidious gifts from immortals, she might never have the chance to bear one child much less a herd.

  She took a deep swig of wine, relaxed on his shoulder and diverted her thoughts from the necklace and to the happier, improbable world where they might have a family.

  “How many languages do you speak?”

  “Ten. Eleven, if I count Tagalog, but I’m not fluent in it.”

  “What
’s your favorite?”

  “I like the complexity of the English language. There are so many different ways to say the same thing. But I love the sound of Russian.”

  He got up and went to one of his bags. Wisps of smoke accumulated in the basin of the hookah above the water as she exhaled a large, white plume. Cyrus sat beside her with several books in his hand.

  Shoulder to shoulder, he opened one and began to read in Russian. There was such strength in the enunciation and flow of the words, a natural choice for a fighter to love.

  She slipped in between his legs, resting her head on his chest.

  Words in Italian, Japanese, Portuguese and German rolled off his tongue sweet as nectar, making her drunk with desire. She had no idea he could make her wet simply by reading aloud.

  Her mind floated on an apple-scented cloud as his mellifluous voice caressed her ears and soul in French. She didn’t know what he was saying, but it sounded so damn sexy. She unbuttoned his jeans and slid her hand down to his crotch. His thick cock was already hard. She stroked the ridges of his shaft, dabbed the moisture from the tip, and then licked the salty fluid from her middle finger.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Your eyes are jewels in the night sky, your hair cascades like silken ripples upon the face of the ocean.” His voice was heavy with a sultry promise. “Your soul is the only star that burns for me.”

  “You’ve been reading poetry?”

  His radiant smile was answer enough.

  “With the timing of your cadence I should’ve guessed. My warrior with a poet’s heart.”

  Burning need rose up through the fruit-scented smoke clouding her mind. She stroked his cock and ran her fingers through the hair on his head as she kissed the sweetness of his mouth.

  He pulled back. “You need air.”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, tongue thick, eyelids growing heavy.

  He lifted her into his arms and carried her outside.

  She’d never seen so many stars in the sky, not even on the fateful night they lost Cassian. Beautiful Cassian.

  “French.”

  “What?” he asked.