by Jory Strong
Addai remained.
He waited for the hate that had once festered to come. For the rage that had been his daily companion to return. Remembered well the consuming fury that had led him to the Djinn Abijah and the betrayal of the brother he now watched taking pleasure.
Thousands of years of being enslaved and at the mercy of humans had seemed a fair price for Tir to pay for what he’d done. But as Addai saw Araña and his brother making love, it was anticipation that stirred inside him, not to join them on the bed but to have once again what they had now.
His cock hardened as another scene overlaid the one in front of him. As a different woman took Araña’s place and black feathers became the snowy white of his own wings.
Soft, teasing laughter replaced murmurs and Addai’s heart swelled, ached, as in his mind he looked into the face of a woman who had been dead before the birth of Jesus of Nazareth and Mohammed and a thousand other prophets and saints.
Sajia. A single instance of indecision had cost him the one whose soul completed his own.
He’d found her alone, drawing water from a village well in preparation of leaving as the rest of her family packed their trade goods onto camels. Djinn. Long-ago enemy. Sloe-eyed and gentle-spirited. He’d been hers from the instant she became aware of his presence.
Her fear had ripped through him. Shredding his sense of purpose as she backed away from him, water jugs shattering as they fell from trembling fingers.
How could he kill her? How could he see her enslaved, her will bent to that of the human priests who were given the captive Djinn?
He couldn’t. Not when he wanted to possess her himself.
In the desert they’d become lovers. Husband and wife, mates, though his fear of becoming Fallen had kept him from saying the binding words, from tying his fate to hers and irrevocably making this world his own.
Addai’s chest grew tight, his throat constricting against tears as he remembered the last time he’d seen her. The kiss they’d shared before he lifted her onto the back of a camel and watched her go, heat rising in shimmering waves off the sand as the caravan headed toward the distant mountains.
They went not to trade, but at the calling of the Djinn by The Prince who ruled them.
He’d fought the urge to go after her, not yet ready to say the necessary words so the gathered Djinn would accept him among them as ally and not enemy. He’d turned away, but even so, some part of her spirit already lived in him.
He’d felt the moment of her death. It was a searing blaze of pain across his soul. A chasm of emptiness that filled with terrible rage and hate when he went to the place where her body lay among others in a scene of devastation.
Tents burned and goats bleated in terror.
Camels ran through the encampment, freed from hobbles and ropes.
Angels bound captured Djinn in sigil-inscribed shackles or urns.
And amidst the carnage Tir stood with blood on his hands, thinking himself righteous. Glorious in victory.
A flash of movement, the rush of power over his skin brought Addai back to the present. To the sight of Tir in front of him, sword held ready, Araña only a step behind him with her knives.
“What brings you here?” Tir asked.
Addai’s smile was as sharp as the weapon in his brother’s hand. “The priest, Ursu. He continues to hunt for the healer in the hopes she will lead him to you. It’s time you paid him a visit to show him you are now beyond his reach, and to make him cease his attempts to have Rebekka found and brought to the Church.”
“Kill him?” The question held the anticipation of pure pleasure.
“No. His life still serves us.”
The sword in Tir’s hand disappeared, returned to the cold pocket of light and air that was its sheath. “I’ll ask again in the future.”
Addai looked to Araña, his gaze lingering on the spider-shaped mark riding her shoulder, proclaiming the nature of her Djinn soul and the House she was called to. “Neither you nor Tir may directly help the healer now. But she might have need of your boat. Will you leave it in Oakland for a while?”
“It can remain there for as long as it’s needed.”
Addai bowed slightly in acknowledgment, his attention returning to Tir. “Speak with Ursu.”
“Should I strike a deal with Rimmon for Rebekka’s protection while she’s on the Constellation?”
“No. Let your previous bargain stand. Only the boat is to be guarded. When the time is right, the healer can learn she has access to it, and that the threat presented by the Church is over. I’ll let you know when that time arrives. You can serve as messenger since you are familiar to her and to the werelion Levi.”
“I’ll leave now.”
Addai’s gaze dropped to the tattoolike spider above Tir’s heart, the mark he’d gained by having the courage to speak the forbidden incantation and willingly bind himself to Araña. For an instant the past reached into the present, bringing with it memories of a different mark, a different choice. But the festering hate, the rage that had once accompanied those memories didn’t come. Only anticipation filled Addai, and a desire hot enough to burn through eternity.
Iyar en Batrael, the most powerful of the Raven House, had gone to the fiery birthplace of the Djinn and called Sajia’s name. After thousands of years she was reborn. And though she would hold no memories of their life together, soon she would be returned to him. His to love and possess.
“It is good to have you back among us, brother,” Addai said, clasping Tir to him before letting go of his corporeal form, along with the past.
Closure
OAKLAND. There’d been nothing to explain the sense of anticipation, the exhilaration and hope that filled him when he first heard mention of this city.
Shackled, sold like an animal, he couldn’t have predicted he would find freedom here—love—and with it redemption, a purpose other than vengeance and retribution.
Araña. Her name was a joyous shout in his soul, her body sweet pleasure and carnal torment.
Thinking about her made him harden. Being away from her was a scraping of sharp edges against his skin, a piercing of his heart, though with the binding of their spirits and the sharing of breath, Tir knew she lived and was safe.
He stood in front of the church. It was a huge, elaborate affair, a testament to wealth and power as much as to faith.
With his memory restored he could remember the very beginnings of it, all the iterations and deviations it had taken. The different directions it had gone off in. Splitting and splitting again in seemingly endless repetitions.
There’d never been only one belief, one interpretation of the creator’s words and signs. The being they called God was unknowable to the creatures he’d fashioned from mud and breathed his spirit into. Just as he was often unknowable to his first sons and daughters, angels created from light and divine essence.
Tir climbed the steps. He passed through an arched doorway carved with images of his kind and entered the sanctuary. Even the Fallen could get this far, though their pleas for forgiveness weren’t answered.
Inside, the air was cool and scented by candles. A handful of old men and women knelt on velvet-lined benches, heads bowed in prayer.
He walked by them, closing his mind to their entreaties and emotions though he felt the sudden race of their hearts as, deep within, they recognized him despite the human appearance he wore.
At the doorway leading into the private part of the church there were wards in place. Ancient protections against demons. Against Satan—The Usurper—the tester of human souls. And though the humans no longer remembered what the sigils meant, there were symbols carved there to protect against the wrath of the Djinn. Tir passed through the doorway without resistance or fear, moving farther into the church.
A young priest emerged from an office. He startled at the sight of Tir, started to frown but paled instead with the realization that the strap across Tir’s bare chest held a sheath with a machete in it.
Tir let a portion of his humanity fall away, used the voice that had once commanded legions and caused men to prostrate themselves before him. “I am here to see Father Ursu. You will take me to him.”
The priest complied, his heartbeat thunder in Tir’s mind. He turned and led the way, escorting Tir first through the areas set aside for the everyday work of the church and then into the domain of those who ruled it.
Utilitarian furniture gave way to antiques. Pastoral art gave way to glorious paintings done by masters dead long before The Last War.
“This is his office,” the young priest said, stopping before a closed door, licking his lips and nervously backing away.
Tir read the priest’s intention to call the guards. It mattered little. By the time they arrived the business with Ursu would be done.
In the interest of creating as little a ripple as possible for any of his kind to discover and question, Tir spoke in soothing tones, stripping away the priest’s worry by saying, “Father Ursu will come to no harm at my hands this day. Leave in peace.”
Calmness settled over the young priest. He turned from Tir, his attention going to the papers in his hands as he retraced his steps.
Tir waited only a moment before entering the suite Ursu commanded. Two men turned, one with a port-wine stain marking his face, the other wearing black robes woven of the finest material.
Ursu stopped in midsentence, his gaze going immediately to Tir’s bared arms, searching for and not finding the tattoos that had once covered them. “If you could excuse me for a moment, Graham,” he said, dismissing his companion.
“I’ll wait out in the hallway.”
The man slipped from the room, seemingly unbothered by the sight of Tir and the machete he carried.
Fear poured off the priest, measuring both his devotion and the heavy weight of the deeds he carried on his soul in serving his faith. His spirit trembled like a living thing trying to escape the presence of one who could see and judge it unworthy.
Tir had thought the priest would cower, praying for mercy and pleading his case. Instead Ursu remained standing, waiting, stirring memories to life of the thousands of years Tir had spent in the hands of men like this one.
The desire for vengeance rose inside him, a dark, cold temptation that had Tir lifting his hand to call his sword.
Don’t, Araña said, a part of her with him always. Finish the task Addai set before you and come back to me.
Images accompanied her command, a carnal tangle of male and female, of wings and flesh, that came on a hot desert wind of desire and burned away thoughts of the past.
Tir met the priest’s eyes. “My hand is stayed from striking you down. But see that I am now beyond your reach. Know that if you continue to search for the healer Rebekka or cause any harm to befall her, nothing will save you from my wrath, and it will not be a paradise your soul is delivered to.”
Nine
REBEKKA entered The Iberá’s study and saw the book she’d stolen the pages from pushed to the corner of his desk. Guilt threatened to seep in with the sight of it.
She suppressed it. Just as she resisted the urge to touch the amulet she’d received in payment for them. The last time she was in this room she was a prisoner soon to be turned over to the Church.
The Iberá looked up from his work. “You’ve had a chance to rest and consider my offer. Is your answer the same?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. As promised, I have arranged for a driver and escort to take you across the Barrens. Should I have them wait and bring you back before sunset?”
A shiver passed through her with memories of the urchin and the rat. Until she was sure the amulet would protect her, she couldn’t go back to the brothel.
Once there she wouldn’t dare leave again. Twice now there’d been an attempt to capture her.
“No, they can return as soon as they leave me at the trailhead. I’m not sure how long I’ll remain at my mother’s house. As part of their religious duties, the men and women of the Fellowship come to Oakland. I can accompany them across the Barrens.”
“Very well.” His gaze shifted to her right as Enzo entered the room with another man, both of them wearing the uniform of a guardsman.
The Iberá said, “Captain Orst, this is Rebekka. She’s a gifted healer. Should you ever be in a position to offer aid to her, I hope you will do so.”
“Consider it done.”
The guard captain studied Rebekka as if committing her features to memory. She did the same to him.
“Is transportation still required?” Enzo asked the patriarch.
“Yes. Please see Rebekka off. Captain Orst and I will wait until you return before discussing anything of importance.”
Enzo gestured for Rebekka to precede him through the door. She went.
They left the main house and entered the section of the estate reserved for the private militia. One sedan and two jeeps stood ready.
Flags with the Iberá crest fluttered on the antennas. Drivers and armed men waited next to the vehicles. They straightened, standing at attention with Enzo’s approach.
Rebekka opened the front passenger door before she could be placed in the back, and got into the car. After a brief word from Enzo, the driver slid in as the other men took their positions on the jeeps, machine guns gripped in their hands.
Engines roared to life. The gates of the estate swung open and as they passed through them, a small, internal voice whispered to Rebekka, telling her this could be part of her everyday world if she accepted The Iberá’s offer.
She gave in to the fantasy. Instead of thinking about going to the Fellowship in order to find out whether or not her father was a demon, she imagined a life where she was making rounds, visiting clients.
It was sweet temptation, a balm of comfort. But it couldn’t stand against reality when a short time later they encountered a blockade manned by guardsmen.
The three vehicles slowed to a stop. Rebekka’s heart pounded and her palms grew damp. In her mind’s eye she saw herself ordered from the sedan and taken into custody, then turned over to the man bearing the birthmark on his face.
With the guard in turmoil, there had to be factions supported by the vice lords, just as there were other factions being supported by the Church. She couldn’t be sure whether or not the vice lords who’d profited from the maze were hunting her. She wasn’t prepared to believe the threat the Church presented was over, regardless of Father Ursu’s claim to Enzo. The priest had been willing to go to great lengths to capture Tir, and not just in order to see the Iberá patriarch healed.
One of the guardsmen positioned at the blockade approached the sedan. Rebekka fought the urge to bolt from the vehicle and run for her life.
Next to her the driver rolled down his window. “What’s going on?” he asked when the guardsman reached them.
“A pocket of plague was discovered by a patrol.”
Dread filled Rebekka in a cold wave of horror. She couldn’t suppress a small cry as her hand went to the amulet.
The guardsman glanced at her and offered a reassuring smile. “No need to be alarmed, ma’am. We come across these from time to time. There are men in the guard trained to handle it. The threat has already been isolated and contained.”
He turned his attention back to the driver. “It’s safe enough if you stay on this road and don’t turn into the affected area. I’d recommend you detour though. What’s up ahead isn’t a sight for a civilian. The men are in the cleanup stage.”
More than anything Rebekka wanted to take the detour. The descriptions from the healer’s journal had already lent themselves to nightmares containing vivid images of plague.
She wanted to believe what lay ahead had nothing to do with her. To pretend it would never have
anything to do with her.
She couldn’t.
She needed to see for herself. She needed to know. “Was the plague carried by rats?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. But like I said, there’s no reason for you to be alarmed. It’s been taken care of.”
“We’ll go straight through then,” Rebekka said, half hoping the driver wouldn’t have to do as she directed.
The guardsman looked to the driver for confirmation. The driver nodded.
“All right,” the guardsman said, stepping back and indicating with a wave to the other men stationed at the barricade that the Iberá vehicles could pass through.
The lead jeep moved forward. The sedan followed, and, in its wake, the second jeep.
The ruins of several skyscrapers blocked their view until they reached the end of them. Then Rebekka saw smoke billowing upward and another blockade, this one at the mouth of a street to the left.
A guardsman motioned them to keep moving, though he didn’t protest when the jeep slowed to a crawl to allow the militiamen to see what was going on. The sedan followed suit.
Rebekka’s hand pressed hard to the hidden amulet as they reached the barricade. She looked, her eyes going immediately to the pallets where corpses burned.
There might be five bodies, or seven. There was no way to count them or to know if they’d been dead when they were discovered, or killed by the guard to prevent the spread of disease.
Smoke escaped through the windows and cracks of a partially collapsed building near the pallets. A man stepped from it.
He was covered from head to foot in an enclosed hazard suit and carrying something Rebekka thought of as a modified flamethrower. Backing out behind him was another man, this one sweeping fire back and forth, burning every square inch.
Other men were visible doing the same. While still others stood with rifles at the ready, prepared to shoot anything trying to escape.
Rebekka’s fingers curled around the amulet. Her chest tightened as she remembered the rat in the alleyway between the brothels.
