by Isis Rushdan
“I like the sound of French best. Would you talk dirty to me in French?”
“Tell you all the ways I want to have you in French?”
She nodded as she began to fade.
“I’d do anything that pleases you.”
She awoke to the sound of whispering. Above her, the olive-colored silk of the tent draped in delicate folds. Soft gray light of early dawn poked in from somewhere. She sat up to see Cyrus take a white ceramic pitcher from someone.
In his full glory, sans clothing, Cyrus poured water in a basin on a table off to the side. She stumbled out of bed, her brain a muddle of stones rolling around. Her inner thighs and abdominal muscles ached. As she staggered to him, their lovemaking from the middle of the night came back in a warm rush.
“The water’s hot,” he said as he washed his face.
“That tobacco clubbed me over the head.”
He laughed heartily. “That’s because you drank wine instead of eating food.”
“Ah, yes. When will my metabolism speed up so I won’t be hampered by human inconveniences like hangovers?”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t already, but I’ve never known any Kindred raised away from the collective before you.”
“The perks of being advenuati just keep on coming.”
He moved to the side, giving her access to the basin. “Carin should look at you.”
Being healed every time she got a headache or a scratch was unnecessary. “What I need is to get over this jetlag and hangover with a nice long run.” She splashed water on her face.
He pressed his chest to her back, groin against her buttocks.
A shiver of desire licked her whole body. A warm tongue stroked her shoulder. His cock sprang to life, hitting her lower back.
She spread her legs and arched her back, raising her ass. A strong, rough hand glided up her inner thigh. He massaged her leg in long, deep strokes, drawing closer to her moistening heat. His thumb caressed her clit and she grinded her rear against his stiff cock. She spread her legs wider, mewling.
A thick finger answered her needful call, plunging inside her warmth. Oh, the sweetness of it. She rocked against his hand and a second finger entered her. His tongue, his fingers, his cock, even the sight of him brought such pleasure.
She braced on the dresser and grinded her sex on his hand, longing for more of him. He roped an arm around her waist and hiked her hips farther back.
The breath left her mouth and she opened her eyes. She stared at their reflection in the mirror, loving the look of their skin tones pressed together, honey and cream.
He pushed all of her hair to one side then tilted her head.
The bewitched chain wormed into her skin. The wings of the amulet beat in a frenetic flutter before hooking into her flesh. She shuddered all over and recoiled. He let her hair fall back around her throat. His hands pulled away, leaving her wet and shivering.
This vile enchantment was now between them. Whenever she thought of the necklace, she could barely entertain being intimate with her kabashem. The man she loved more than life itself. But for a moment, she’d been able to forget.
“There’s something I want you to see,” he said, voice gravelly with unquenched need. “We should hurry. It won’t wait for us.”
The abrupt feel of his body leaving hers combined with his energy stream pulling away made her breath catch in her throat. Her moist sex throbbed. She couldn’t understand how the yearning could grow stronger.
He tugged on jeans and disappeared outside barefoot without a shirt.
After brushing her teeth, she dressed quickly. Morning twilight painted the sky a deep lilac. She found Cyrus, rolled up mat under his arm, talking to his vadeletor Micah.
When she went to his side, Cyrus handed her the mat and scooped her in his arms. The familiar whoosh of his wings unfurling made her heart sing. Her splendid man that could turn into a glorious angel at will.
He ascended slowly, cradling her protectively with such tender care she was in no danger of falling. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cool cheek.
Crisp mountain air and a brisk flight in her husband’s arms was just what she needed to awaken her senses. The vast snow-capped mountains stretched all the way to cinnamon sand dunes. Cyrus touched down somewhere in the Sahara Desert.
He led her farther out into the sea of sand. House Sekhem called home somewhere in this same desert. Her husband had chosen the destination because it was where he’d experienced his Whitescape, but the irony that they honeymooned in Sekhem’s backyard made her appreciate this precious time more.
At the peak of one reddish-brown mound, he unrolled the wicker mat and sat.
When she lowered beside him, he lifted her and set her between his legs. Their connected energy streams surged with the ebb and flow of ocean waves.
The sun peeked above the horizon, piercing the sky with rays of lemon yellow. They watched the sun rise, painting the sky in heartrending beauty, a fine blend of orange and peach, tawny gossamer clouds.
“No matter what may happen, we’ll always have this.” His velvet voice stroked her soul. “The memory will never tarnish nor fade—like my love for you.”
But in the world of Kindred she knew all too well how memories could be entirely rewritten.
Cramps pinched at her insides. Despite the cool breeze, feverish warmth kissed her skin. She strained to dismiss the discomfort, to hide it from him. He enfolded her in his arms, and she clutched his chiseled biceps, vowing to stay grounded in his unyielding strength, in his unwavering love and the incomparable beauty of the moment.
Chapter Four
“This city is known as the pearl of the south,” Cyrus said as they entered Marrakech. The place where he had his Whitescape on the day she’d been born.
“How long will we stay?”
“Two nights.” He caressed her thigh. “I’m sorry it won’t be longer.”
“Stop apologizing.”
Marrakech was intoxicating, shrouded in smoke and mystery. The drivers let them out at the old part of the city which was surrounded by twelfth century walls. Accompanied by the armed warriors sworn to protect them, they meandered down shaded labyrinthine alleys rich with the fragrance of orange blossoms and the bite of ammonia. They passed weathered pink buildings and made their way to the Saadian tombs for a tour of Moorish architecture.
The vitality of the markets or souks pulled her gaze in every direction. The smell of pungent spices—turmeric, coriander and cinnamon—wafted over them as snake charmers made her eyes dance along with the cobras. Drummers, speeding motorbikes, jugglers, faith healers seeking alms, and fierce haggling were at every turn.
After a long day of walking, the last prayer of the day boomed across speakers throughout the city. Her weary feet were thankful when they arrived at their hotel, a grand Riad with twenty-five suites all booked for them. Their luxurious suite had sumptuous rooms, antique furniture and a bathroom that resembled a roman temple. Their luggage had already been delivered and her travel case of toiletries unpacked.
A steaming hot bath waited with scented oils and rose petals, but she needed a minute to herself. A drum pounded in her head and nausea coiled in her stomach.
“I’m going to hop in the shower and scrub off before our bath.”
“Excellent idea.” Cyrus pulled his top over his head.
“Give me ten minutes. Then join me. Okay?”
He stared at her, hands on his waist, expression hiding his thoughts, but his gaze probed as if he was searching for an answer to a question. “I’ll go get us some wine and food for you to nibble on,” he said. “You need to eat.”
At the thought of consuming anything, she wanted to heave, but tugged on a smile and nodded. Once he left, she finished undressing and picked up one of the long, white kaftans that had been laid out on the bed. The airy cotton fabric was light and refreshing against her skin.
As she walked to the bathroom, she rubbed her lower abdomen, hoping
to will away her mounting discomfort. How odd, she normally didn’t cramp, and not for two days. Her face was still warm as if she had a fever, but that wasn’t possible.
Kindred never got sick aside from the afflictions of the curse.
Whisking away beads of perspiration from her forehead, she grabbed the toothpaste and shampoo. A searing pain lanced her insides and she doubled over. Resting on the edge of the sink, she hauled in shaky breaths. Sweat rolled down her temple.
White-hot pain pierced her, wrenching a gasp from her lips.
A serrated knife ripped through her belly, pelvis and deep between her legs. She crumpled to her knees, dropping toiletries to the floor. Her stomach and womb contracted, squeezing her insides in a scorching iron fist that stole her breath.
She crawled to the toilet and vomited.
Cyrus knocked on the door. “Are you all right?”
Crimson soaked the middle of her white kaftan. At first she didn’t understand and then the spot widened, streaks of scarlet streamed down her leg. She was bleeding.
Another contraction throttled her and she screamed.
Cyrus opened the door. He gaped in horror, frozen.
“Carin,” she mumbled.
He disappeared and time stood still.
Cruel pain cranked higher. Her insides twisted into tight coils—unending torture—not a second of relief. Her breathless screams shifted to gasps as she writhed in a puddle of blood. Blinding agony pulled her undertow and effaced everything.
“Get out.” Carin’s voice—a distant familiar sound in the wake of unbearable pain.
The door closed. Carin touched Serenity’s forehead, another hand on her abdomen.
“Oh dear, Creator…no. Lady Serenity,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”
Serenity’s heart clenched. Tears leaked from her eyes, trickling into her ears. Tremors seized her as sizzling claws flayed her open and gutted her womb.
Chapter Five
Once Carin had cleaned Serenity, Cyrus dressed her in fresh clothes and tucked his kabashem into bed to rest. She was healed, but hovered somewhere between consciousness and catatonia.
He sat beside her. At a loss for words, he stroked her hair, but she recoiled from his touch, turning away, and curled into a tight ball.
Grief welled in his chest. As he stood, he bit it back down, choosing to focus on the fire of his burning anger. Anger over the loss of something he didn’t even know he had.
He went into the hall where Carin waited and closed the door. “I don’t understand.”
“The pregnancy wasn’t far along. I’ve no idea what caused the loss.”
Answers wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t bring back the child he was sworn to have to break the curse and save Kindred from extinction. Wouldn’t ease his kabashem’s suffering. Or his own. But he needed answers.
“You’ve healed her several times. Why didn’t you feel the child?”
“So early in a pregnancy it’s hard to detect the fetus. The energy of the child can mimic the mother’s.”
“But why? Kindred don’t…”
Kindred didn’t miscarry. Conception had grown difficult over the years for many, exacerbating their dwindling numbers, but Kindred never miscarried.
“She’s very strong. I don’t see a reason.”
He’d failed Herut and all those counting on him.
More importantly, he’d failed to protect his wife.
A corrosive surge of guilt and rage lashed up, and he punched a wall, plunging his fist through plaster and concrete.
Chapter Six
Serenity rolled toward a window. Amber light filtered through drawn curtains. A door closed. Cyrus climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around her. She wanted his hands and mouth to erase the pain Carin couldn’t take away. She wanted to scream, to cry. But no sound stirred in her throat and she couldn’t bear to touch him.
Light faded. Dusk fell.
Cyrus left the room and returned with a tray of food he set on the nightstand. He nestled his face in her hair and held her, but there was no comfort in the haven of his arms.
Dawn came.
A knock at the door jarred her from the slipstream of darkness. Cyrus got up.
“Shall we stay another day?” Spero asked.
Serenity threw back the covers and put her feet on the cool tiles. “I want to leave. Now.” She walked into the bathroom and stopped, staring at the floor where she’d lost her child—a bloody, congealed glob—Cyrus’s child.
In a rush, she gathered her things and packed.
Marrakech disappeared behind them in a cloud of sand and dirt. After an hour, maybe more, maybe less, they were in Fez.
Cyrus steered her as they wandered through a blur of streets, a shrine and some mosque.
They went someplace where hundreds of swarming birds mottled the sky. The fluttering muddle of life overhead blotted out the sun. The riotous sound of flapping wings grated her ears.
She longed for oblivion.
They toured a landscaped garden. Her gaze washed over thriving blossoms on evergreen bushes. All she could see was the withered bud her body had expelled like a foreign agent on the floor of a hotel bathroom.
She glanced about absently, looking for something, uncertain what it was.
“What do you need? The restroom?” Cyrus asked.
She nodded, thankful he knew when she didn’t have the words.
Carin led her to the toilets. She went into a stall, closed the door and sat on the closed lid. What had she done wrong? Besides neglect to eat, smoke a hookah and have two glasses of wine. Two full goblets of wine!
She’d killed their child with reckless behavior. The second she knew something was wrong she should’ve told Carin.
Hot tears streamed down her face.
Cyrus wanted ten kids, maybe more. She couldn’t even give him one.
She came from a corrupted gene pool where females left their children unprotected, the way her own mother had abandoned her.
Her womb had been full and she didn’t even know it. Now she was only full of grief for the loss of a child she didn’t know her heart wanted. She slid onto her knees.
Salty heartache overflowed from her eyes, but she couldn’t sob. Her chest heaved, but there was no sound.
Carin pushed the stall door open and knelt in the doorway.
Had she forgotten to lock it?
Sorrow swept over Serenity like high tide, submerging her soul in darkness. Bitter coldness crystallized her core, seeped down her legs, swept up her chest. Her lungs and throat constricted until she gasped.
A prickling sensation slithered through her skin. Her energy stream churned as she exhaled, emitting a shimmering burst of golden light.
The stalls shook, metal rattled and tiles fell from the walls.
Tears spilled from Carin’s eyes.
With another surge of sorrow, Serenity released a second wave of glittering dusty gold energy.
Pipes in the bathroom ruptured. Water gushed from toilets, sinks, cracks in the walls.
Serenity and Carin emerged from the restroom, sopping wet. Attendants rushed by them, clamoring in Arabic, headed for the disaster area.
Cyrus didn’t look surprised. He merely stared with woeful eyes. “The vehicles are a fifteen minute walk through the souk. It’ll take thirty minutes for them to drive around. I thought the fresh air would do you some good. I didn’t anticipate this.”
Unfazed by her drenched clothing, she shrugged.
She drifted behind Cyrus through the lobby into the garish glare of the sun. Her body was no longer heavy, full of death. She could breathe without wanting to weep, but she felt hollow.
In the maze of the souk, a couple of men tried to entice them to enter their stores. A guy selling fruit attempted to shove an orange into her hand, but one of the vadeletori, Ptolemy, stepped between them, throwing the man a menacing look that made him cower.
A stand with leather goods caught her eye. She stopped in front of the v
endor’s table and glanced at the satchels and backpacks. Her fingers trailed across the smooth leather of a bag with sturdy straps.
When she was first put into foster care, she had no possessions besides the clothes she wore. The little she remembered of her parents tormented her daily.
A gentle woman whose name she couldn’t remember had bought her pretty outfits and stuffed animals. Each item was a badge of love, proof she was wanted by someone, even if her mother had thrown her away.
Then one day she was told she had to leave. Her trophies of love were packed in two suitcases, far more than her parents had left behind.
Upon consignment to her fourth new home, she had one suitcase and a single bear. When it was time to move again, she stuffed everything in her school backpack. She couldn’t control which home she was sent to or what type of foster parent she’d get, but strength came with the ability to carry her own things without assistance. Someone could pilfer what was in her backpack once she arrived, but while it was on her back, hands free, she was independent, capable of handling whatever came next.
The vendor uttered something in French, dragging her back to the present, and handed her a different bag. The backpack had several outer pockets and a cavernous inner compartment she could pack her whole life in. Other than Cyrus, she didn’t need much.
“Do you want it?” Cyrus asked, touching her shoulder.
She nodded, not knowing why, only that she needed the bag.
He spoke to the man in Arabic. A moment later, Spero handed him cash. The purchase was made and they headed to the cars. Ptolemy tried to carry the bag for her, but she clutched it to her chest.
They checked into a new Riad. The air in their suite was stale. Cyrus opened the balcony doors and a breeze swept through.
In the bathroom, she removed her clothes. They flopped to the floor in a sodden heap. She sat underneath the spray of hot water in the shower. Knees tucked to her chest, she rocked back and forth.
Once the water turned cold, she stood, stretching her stiff legs. Steam filled the bathroom. She used a towel to wipe the mirror.
Her mother’s eyes—sharp violet—shone back.
