Seti's Heart

by Kiernan Kelly

  And the wind searched.

  It slipped into the tiniest crevices, slammed against solid walls until it found—or made—cracks through which to enter. Every room within each building, every rooftop and basement was touched by the powerful gusts. Every vehicle, every office, every restaurant was scrutinized by the gale.

  At Jason’s apartment, police radios crackled to life, spurring the officers to temporarily abandon their investigation, racing to the street in response to the unexpected hurricane-force winds.

  In the public library, books were blown from the shelves, newspapers torn and scattered. Shelves toppled under the might of the storm.

  In the Guggenheim, precious canvases flapped against the walls or were ripped free, sent flying. Sculptures fell clattering to the ground. Alarms sounded but went unheard under the monstrous roar of the wind.

  On Broadway, a million light bulbs burst in a rain of glittering glass as the wind tore them free from the marquees. Posters were ripped from the walls, shredded and sent flying through the streets. Heavy velvet stage curtains blew and twisted as if they weighed no more than gauze.

  On Wall Street, the pits in the stock exchange were covered in a snowstorm of paper. In the banks, the snow was green as the wind whipped money from the tellers’ drawers, sending it sailing through the lobbies.

  In the Fulton Fish Market, the fresh tuna and cod that lay on beds of ice swam through the air as the wind overturned the carts and booths.

  Chinatown saw its vendors’ wares scattered, exotic spices and teas blowing through the streets.

  Open-air cafés were stripped of their linens, cups and saucers smashing on the pavement. Newsstands were plucked bare, papers and magazines torn free and sent spiraling into the sky.

  In the Garment District, bolts of silks and cotton were sent unfurling across the sidewalks, and racks of designer clothing overturned.

  In the penthouse of the Wilder Executive Tower, the wind paused. It swirled and eddied over the thick carpeting, caressing the mahogany desk and the old man who sat slack-jawed behind it. Picking up a trace scent of the one its master had bade it find, the wind withdrew.

  Across the city, the wind suddenly died. Garbage and airborne debris crashed to the ground, suddenly bereft of the strong, unseen arms that had held it aloft. All across Manhattan, people dodged a rain of wreckage that fell to splatter across the pavement. In the absence of the wind’s thunderous voice, the silence in the streets was deafening.

  A single whistling breeze blew back to the apartment house where Seti waited on the ledge like a flesh-and-blood gargoyle. Caressing his cheek, it imparted the knowledge it had gleaned from its visit to the Wilder Executive Tower.

  His face hardened with determination as Seti again called to wind. This time it bore Seti up from the ledge into the air. As if he rode an invisible chariot, his wind horses charged forward, bearing him west, high over the streets of the city.

  Arriving at the black tower where Logan’s scent had been caught, Seti faced the windows that looked into the penthouse, hovering in the air seventy-two stories above the ground. Within, he could see two men, one old, with the look of shock etched onto his face. The other was lying in a heap on the floor, unmoving.

  Logan was nowhere to be seen.

  Raising his hands palms up, Seti concentrated. Above the city, black clouds gathered, belly-heavy with rain. Thunder boomed, reverberating in Seti’s bones.

  Then the atmosphere crackled, sending tendrils of electricity rippling over his skin as a bolt of lightning answered Seti’s command. It speared down from the clouds to hit the window of the penthouse. The bolt didn’t smash the glass—it melted it, five thousand degrees Fahrenheit of concentrated heat reducing the tempered glass to its original liquid form. The glass fell in a sheet, dripping down the side of the skyscraper, quickly cooling into a layer of pseudo-ice.

  The wind carried Seti forward and deposited him neatly inside the penthouse. Three steps brought him to the desk, where the old man blinked looking up at him, an expression of awe replacing the shock on his face.

  “Seti? You have come to me at last!” the old man said. His face broke into a satisfied grin.

  “I’ve come for Logan. Where is he? Speak quickly, old man, or your next breath will be your last,” Seti growled. His fingers curled into tight fists, the warrior in him wanting to smash the answer out of the old man. He restrained himself by the barest of margins. Likely as not, one blow would kill the old man, and Seti would never learn of Logan’s location.

  “Tell me first,” Wilder said, either too arrogant or too stupid to realize that Seti hung on to his control by the slimmest of threads, in no mood to barter. “Tell me what I need to know to become immortal. Give me a sample of your blood, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “You will tell me now!” Seti thundered, slamming both fists down on top of the enormous mahogany desk that separated him from Wilder. The wood trembled, a yawning crack snaking across the burnished top.

  Wilder jumped, falling back into his seat. He stared at the cracked desk, then slowly looked up at Seti. His face quickly lost its superior expression, dissolving into a look of pure fear. “I… I don’t know where he is,” he squeaked.

  Seti balled his fists, ready to pound some sense into Wilder, even if it killed the old man. By that point, he was beyond caring. His temper broke free of the restraints with which he had kept it chained, and he was again the fearsome warrior-king of ancient Egypt. Wilder must have seen his own murder shining in Seti’s eyes, because his tongue loosened, and he began to babble.

  “He was here. Logan was, but then he left. Or rather, he was taken. Whisked away by a god with the head of a crocodile. Setekh would be my guess. He said you were his. Where he took Logan is beyond me. Really, I swear it!” Wilder cried, flinching away from Seti.

  Seti clenched his teeth, scowling fiercely. “Setekh,” he hissed, spinning around and addressing the empty office. “Have you not plagued my life enough? Have I not paid for my crimes a thousand—nay, five thousand times over?” He turned his rage-blackened visage on Wilder. “When this is over and I have reclaimed the one who is mine, I shall return, old man. You have brought pain to my House. I vow to return the favor.”

  He turned away, stalking to the far wall of the penthouse where Wilder’s collection of antique weapons hung. He ripped a bejeweled dagger off the wall. Holding it up to the light, he ran the pad of his thumb over its lethal blade. A bright red line of blood welled up.

  There was only one way Seti knew of to follow Setekh to his palace in the Underworld.

  Picturing Logan in his mind, Seti gripped the hilt with both hands. He raised it high over his head. After his lips shaped a silent prayer, he plunged the dagger down in an arc, deep into his heart.

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHITE-HOT PAIN clouded Seti’s vision, an agonizing red fog drifting in from the edges, blinding him, driving him to his knees. When it finally cleared, he was no longer in Wilder’s office.

  With one quick stroke of a bejeweled dagger, Seti had proven that he was not what Ethan Wilder had thought him to be. Seti was mortal, and now he was good and truly dead.

  Wilder’s dagger was gone. No wound marred his chest; no blood stained his skin. He knew his corporeal form lay crumpled on the floor of Wilder’s office, still and lifeless. Seti had passed through the Veil, the power of death giving solidity to his ka.

  All around him for as far as he could see, wind rippled a vast, bleak grassland of tall, withered brown stalks. Foul and hot, the wind that blew here did not remember him. It blew against his skin with the indifferent brush of a stranger. Above him stretched a strange bloodred sky in which bloated black thunderheads loomed. The air felt oily, heavy, the stench of death thick upon it.

  The Underworld.

  His threats to Wilder had been empty ones. There would be no return to life for Seti again, and worse, he knew that because he had been less than pure while alive, his ka would weigh heavy against Os
iris’s feather. He was doomed. Ammut would eat his soul, and Seti would never see Paradise.

  So be it, he thought. His death was far overdue anyway. He should have made this final journey five thousand years ago. Seti set his jaw. He would complete the mission he had set for himself and then accept his fate.

  Logan was not dead. He had been brought to the Underworld before his time, taken with his life force still intact. For Logan, the return to life was yet a possibility, and Seti was determined to see to it that he was sent back to where he belonged.

  “Welcome, traveler. Here begins your journey to your destiny. I am the Guardian of the Veil.” A voice spoke that was so deep it seemed to reach the marrow of Seti’s bones as well as his ears, drawing Seti out of his thoughts.

  Nearby, a tall, muscular creature clad in the royal apron and headdress of the ancient pharaohs had appeared. His nemes, the headdress of royalty, was of linen and held back from his forehead by a wide gold band. Wrapped snugly around his waist, his shendyt, the traditional Egyptian apron, was accordion pleated in the style of the kings and as white as snow. Both made a startling contrast to the creature’s smooth blue-black skin.

  “Anubis…,” Seti breathed, inclining his head to the black jackal-headed god who stood before him. “I humbly beg your help.”

  “As do all who pass through the Veil from life into death,” Anubis rumbled, a trace of humor threading his voice. “But I may only guide you. You alone must show the courage and strength to survive the journey.”

  “I fear nothing,” Seti replied, lifting his chin defiantly. His eyes met those of Anubis, unflinching, although the god’s eyes glowed red, sparking with otherworldly power. “Great Anubis, there is in your demesne one who does not belong here, stolen by Setekh while his flesh was warm and his heart still beating. I followed him, seeking to return him to the mortal realm. I would travel to the palace of Setekh, rather than that of Osiris.”

  Anubis nodded. “I am aware of this spark of life in the Valley of Death. I scented his life force the moment he passed through the Veil.” Anubis leaned close to Seti, his canine nose delicately sniffing the air. “I will allow this. You are strong. I can smell the blood of kings that runs in your veins. Be strong, Seti. For you. For him.”

  Again Seti inclined his head, crossing his arms over his chest in supplication to the god. “I am ready.”

  “The dagger with which you ended your life is returned to you,” Anubis declared. He held out his hand, the ornamental dagger resting on his palm, its blade stained with Seti’s blood.

  “I am in your debt, my lord,” Seti said. Not for the first time since he’d awoken, Seti wished he had his old, familiar weapons—his scimitar, wickedly sharp and curved, and his bow and arrows. The dagger was as a child’s toy compared to them, but it would have to suffice. He was grateful that Anubis had granted him any weapon at all.

  “Follow the river,” Anubis said, waving his hand. The tall brown grass parted, showing Seti a glimpse of a river of blood winding through the fields in the distance. “Its waters will lead you to the palace of Setekh. Be ever watchful. The creatures of the Underworld are everywhere, and they are always hungry.”

  “My thanks, my lord,” Seti said. Gripping the haft of the dagger tightly in his right hand, he took off at a trot through the grass in the direction of the river.

  LOGAN’S SCREAM was still pouring out of his throat at full volume when the world tipped away. When it finally stopped spinning, Logan blinked in confusion, finding himself standing in the middle of a spacious white room with high ceilings and beautiful symmetric arches.

  Beneath his feet, the gleaming marble floors were covered in thick woven rush mats. The fragrant air tickled his nose with the exotic scents of sandalwood and myrrh. Alabaster walls were decorated with richly colored paintings and carved hieroglyphics. Absently, his mind began to translate them as his eyes wandered over the engraved images, although some of the figures were unfamiliar to him.

  One panel bore Setekh, the god of chaos and disorder, and his brother, Osiris, locked in battle. The next panel pictured Setekh again, strewing pieces of his brother’s body to the four winds. In a third panel, Setekh was portrayed eating what appeared to be Osiris’s penis—literally, and sans the rest of him.

  Gruesome, Logan thought. There’s some nice brotherly love going on there. A sound caught his attention, and he turned. At the head of the room was a raised dais, flanked by life-sized statues of the god of the earth, Geb, and his wife, goddess of the sky, Nut. Between them was a throne that would have been the envy of any king in history. Solid gold, accented with strips of creamy ivory, the throne was inlaid with precious gems. Emeralds, diamonds, and rubies, some the size of ostrich eggs, sparkled in the light of the torches that lit the room.

  Seated on the throne was a statue of Setekh in all his crocodilian glory.

  At least Logan thought it was a statue, until it moved.

  “How pathetic humans are,” Setekh said, waving a hand at Logan. “Weak. Fragile. Breakable. The reek of mortality clings to your skin.”

  “How did I get here?” Logan sputtered, eyes wide as he stared at the monstrous form of the god who had cursed Seti.

  “So, you are Seti’s new plaything,” Setekh continued, as if Logan hadn’t spoken. Logan could feel the oily touch of Setekh’s gaze as it crawled over his body, and shivered. “You are not much to look at. Mayhap you have other talents that are not obvious to the naked eye. Show me your hidden gifts, and perhaps I will allow you to live a while longer.”

  Jaws full of long, sharp yellowish teeth parted in a parody of a grin as Setekh moved aside his loincloth, baring a penis that was thick, fully erect, and as big around and as long as Logan’s forearm.

  “Um, I’d rather not,” Logan said, backing up. “Where in hell did you take me? For that matter, why did you take me? I have nothing you’d want!” A fist of fear wrapped itself tightly around Logan’s heart, squeezing. If this was a nightmare, then it was the most realistic one Logan had ever experienced. He could actually smell Setekh’s hot, rank breath and feel the cold that emanated from him in waves.

  “I want because Seti has,” Setekh replied. “He deserves nothing, and nothing is all I will allow him! You belong to me now. And when he comes for you, I will destroy him!”

  “What did he ever do to you? He’s only human. You’re a fucking god, for God’s sake!” Logan yelled, anger masking his fear. His muscles tensed to the point of snapping as instinct readied his body for fight or flight. Flight being Logan’s first choice. “Wasn’t cursing him to five thousand years of being buried alive enough?”

  Setekh bolted from his chair, his penis bobbing obscenely. “He dishonored me! He dared carry my name and abuse my gifts!” His roar thrummed in Logan’s bones, making his teeth chatter. “He deserves nothing but pain and endless sorrow for his disrespect and ingratitude!” Setekh stamped a foot that caused a small tremor to ripple through the palace.

  Logan’s eyes grew round at the godly tantrum Setekh was throwing—he was acting like a toddler denied his own way. Logan half expected Setekh to throw himself on the floor, kicking and screaming and banging his fists, holding his breath until he turned blue. Gulping, Logan wondered who in the universe was big enough and strong enough to give this particular monstrous infant a time-out.

  “What makes you think Seti will follow me? How could he, even if he wanted to? This is the Underworld, isn’t it? It’s not as if the Afterlife has an off-ramp on the interstate.” Logan’s eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape route. Turning, he spotted an archway behind him that opened onto an endless sea of grass.

  Turning on his heel even as Setekh’s mouth opened to reply, Logan made a dash for the doorway. Running full tilt toward the threshold, he hit what felt like an invisible, immovable stone wall. He fell backward and landed hard on the rush mats, the wind knocked out of him.

  Setekh’s laugh was as grating in Logan’s ears as broken glass. “Foolish human, yo
u are most amusing. Surely you do not think you can escape me?”

  Logan groaned, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He scrambled backward as Setekh took a step toward him. “Seti won’t follow me. You’re wasting your time!” he shouted. “Stay away from me!”

  Logan cringed as Setekh stalked forward, looming over him. One large clawed hand reached for him, thick fingers encircling Logan’s throat. Logan’s hands pounded at the fist that choked the breath from him and lifted him bodily from the floor. He hung suspended in the air, feet kicking ineffectually at Setekh’s hard body. Gray spots floated in from the corners of his vision as his lungs labored to breathe.

  “You belong to Seti. He claimed you—I can smell his seed on you. He will come to reclaim what he believes to be his.” Setekh’s eyes sparked malevolently, narrowing to slits. His long, slimy black tongue lapped along the side of Logan’s face. “And when he does, your flesh will fill my belly.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE GOING had grown more difficult when Seti reached the river. The ground near the banks of the stinking water was a slurry of thick black mud that sucked at the soles of his feet, slowing his progress.

  Cloying, the air near the river was thick with the stench of death and clouds of small biting insects. They swarmed around Seti’s face, irritating his eyes and nose. The smallest of the Underworld’s predators, the mosquitoes and gnats were the first to taste Seti’s blood. Swatting at them did little good—there were too many. For every one that Seti brushed from his skin, there were thousands more to take its place.

  Seti drew heavily now on his warrior training, his mind racing backward through the millennia to the time when he had ruled the sands of Egypt.

  For a moment he saw himself in his inner eye, a youth whose chin was barely dusted with fuzz, naked save for a penis sheath and armed with a simple wooden staff. He faced his father on the golden sands of the training arena, a man whose body bore the scars of countless battles. Kindness had been banished from his father’s eyes. Instead there was only the fierce expression of a warrior who would take no prisoners.