The Wild Rites Saga Omnibus 01 to 04

by Anna McIlwraith

  Kahotep gently took hold of her chin and turned her to face him. His eyes were enormous, worried, wary.

  “I’ve upset you, I know, but is there something else? You almost stepped right off the edge.” She could see the effort it cost him not to ask about the ritual, about her power still being dormant. For some bizarre reason, she found it touching.

  “It’s nothing. I’m just…it’s nothing.” She couldn’t find the words to tell him about Fern. She didn’t know if she could handle hearing it out loud, herself. She’d gone far longer than this without speaking to him, touching his mind — it must be something about the shielding magic, or whatever it was. It’d wear off soon, and he’d be here, and then everything would be fine.

  Kahotep arched a brow as she shook herself, literally, but he said nothing. He took the guttering torch from her hand and slipped past her onto the ledge, walking around to the left, where the ledge broadened out into a large, crescent shaped chamber with a vaulted ceiling and large statues standing sentinel to the far left and right.

  Emma ventured after him. The ledge was in fact quite wide — if she hadn’t been hurtling blindly down the passageway toward the opening to the chamber, she would have been perfectly safe. Kahotep touched the embers of the small torch to several larger ones, and light filled the chamber, illuminating the bubbling, frothing surface of the pool, and the mineral-laden rock shelf that had been carved out of the earth to provide access to the water. The rock glittered with deposits of ore and other precious metals, but here as elsewhere in the temple it was the walls that were the most spectacular — except, maybe, for the sentinel statues.

  “Who are they?” Emma stopped in front of the first statue; it stood around eight feet high, its round, feminine body sculpted into thick, blocky muscles and wide hips and breasts. The face was proud, blank, the eyes seeing into nothingness.

  Kahotep came to stand behind her. “This is Nephthys, queen of the underworld, daughter and consort to Anubis.”

  “Daughter and consort?” Ew.

  Kahotep blinked sagely at her. “It is not as it sounds. The gods have many incarnations, many faces — it’s hard to explain.” He frowned. “In one sense, Nephthys is the wife of Anubis, but in another sense, his daughter, but not at the same time. The gods are not as we are; they do not have mothers, fathers. They are not born of bodies, to claim the physical lineage of blood and genetic matter.”

  “Then how can Nephthys be his daughter?” Was this even supposed to make sense?

  Kahotep seemed unconcerned by the conundrum. “The word describes a spiritual relationship, an articulation of power we do not otherwise have words for. The gods are not human. You cannot take the myths and scriptures at face value.”

  “Okay.” She’d have to ask Telly about it sometime — if she ever had enough guts. “Isn’t Nephthys the goddess that Nathifa follows?”

  “Yes, Nathifa’s chosen deity. Once, the jackals were proud to have an army of Nephthys’s warriors; battle queens, priestesses of war.” His voice darkened. “They defended our kingdom against the growing tide of humanity, the explorers and the raiders who sought the secrets of the desert with more and more determination over the centuries. But when Khai came to power, he slaughtered all, save for six.”

  “What?” Emma turned to him. He looked down at her, eyes sad.

  “When my mother… Before Khai took the throne, the sisterhood of Nephthys boasted thirty three warriors. Nathifa had eleven sisters. All were part of the sisterhood. None survive.”

  Emma bit her lip before she said something tactless. No wonder the girl had issues — Emma would be stark raving nuts if she were her.

  Kahotep circled Emma with his arm and drew her away. “Here,” he said, sadness emptying out of his voice. “This is the god you would know as Osiris. He is the son of the light, the son and consort of Isis.” The god’s features and physique were stylized, severe, blocky, his bare chest adorned only by an amulet symbolizing — as far as Emma knew — the sun.

  Kahotep reached past her and touched two fingers to the amulet.

  Emma moved away from the protection of Kahotep’s arm — she was pretty sure there was nothing to be frightened of in this peaceful place, except maybe herself if she continued trying to throw herself off ledges.

  “Anubis and Isis were the gods in the garden,” she said. “And Nephthys and Osiris are the gods here in this temple, and they’re related. So is this temple, what, dedicated to a certain cult or —”

  Kahotep laughed. It wasn’t a mean sound, just unexpected. “We jackals do not have such a proliferation of gods as did the ancient human peoples of the Nile. Most of their gods can be traced back to elemental pairings or groups which stem from the prehistoric ancestry of our gods. The rest — well, some are demons, or deified kings and queens, or other, lesser known beings.”

  Emma cocked her head at him. “You were going to be a priest, weren’t you? Before.” Before his mother and father died. Before Khai killed off every living female heir to the throne.

  He turned away, the line of his shoulders stiff. “I was only thirteen.” His hands flexed, curling into fists, and then relaxing. “But I loved the stories of the gods. Loved this place. If things had been different — but they were not.” He stayed there, silent, staring at the walls with their intricate hieroglyphics and colorful paintings, arms crossed over his chest, looking comfortable and lost in thought despite the fact that he was still buck naked. Well, except for his hair, which covered one half of his body like a cloak.

  She wanted to ask him about his parents — his mother, who Nathifa had seemed so loyal to — but all of a sudden she wasn’t feeling very well. Probably the steam, the claustrophobia, the gnawing ache at the back of her mind every time she reached for Fern and got radio silence.

  Kahotep spoke, voice husky in the humid air. “My father thought that the caller of the blood was the prophesied mortal incarnation of Isis.” He turned around, doe eyes falling unerringly on her. “Isis is the great creatrix, the giver and maker of life itself. Hers is the primal essence which flows through us all; my father theorized that the caller of the blood would be forged of that same essence, and as such, how could she be other than the goddess herself? There are legends that speak of the goddess walking in human form — before my father, no one equated them with the prophecy of the caller of the blood.” Emma could see his fingers tightening on his biceps, see his body trembling with the effort of staying where he was and not startling her.

  “That sounds, uhm…improbable.”

  Kahotep shrugged. “If the essence of Isis, our creator, is the essence of the caller of the blood, then I can believe nothing other than that my people will be healed if I pledge my life, my blood, my body and soul to you.” His eyes flashed a bright amber-green before settling back to deep, solid brown again. His cheekbones stood out against the smooth skin of his cheeks. “Can you blame me for asking you to consider it?”

  Emma took a deep, steadying breath. She was feeling slightly dizzy, but there was a hot, clean anger sweeping through her, fortifying her. She felt calm. She walked up to Kahotep, putting her body as close to his naked one as she could stand, tilting her head back to look him in the eyes. He wasn’t much taller than she, but if she didn’t lift her chin, she’d be staring at his throat, and it just wouldn’t have the same effect.

  “I do not blame you, Kahotep.” Her voice was rock steady. “But you are talking about taking my body, my life.” She paused. “You are talking about using me to save your people. Using my body when you love someone else. Where I come from, Kahotep, that’s a big deal.” She took a step back, and he jerked as if slapped, but his eyes stayed on hers.

  “If you ask me again,” she said very slowly, “I will go mad. Do you understand? I will just flat lose my mind.” She looked away from him, blinking and staring at the wall of unintelligible hieroglyphics and paintings, willing the tears not to fall.

  “I’m sorry.” Kahotep made no such effort: he wept o
penly, silently, face expressionless.

  Emma blinked again. The hieroglyphics…

  Before she realized she was doing it, she spoke aloud.

  “Only the dark can call the light.” Her head swam; her tongue felt as though it belonged to someone else. She lifted her head to look at Kahotep, and the effort made her breath catch.

  He stared back at her with wet cheeks and eyes that showed their whites. “Only the dark can call the light,” he echoed. “It’s a line of ancient scripture repeated throughout the writings in this chamber, and all the chambers of the temple.” He frowned, uncrossing his arms, looking lost and fragile. “You can read it?”

  “No.” Emma shook her head and regretted it. Instant migraine. Ouch.

  Kahotep’s expression was unreadable. He glanced up at the wall. “These scriptures tell us of the most ancient and well known decree of the gods: that the darkness exists to balance the light, that Anubis and Nephthys rule the underworld, the realm of the dead, while Isis and Osiris govern the land of the living. All has its place, but when those who would disrupt the balance invoke the power of death, then the consequence is pestilence and death itself. Balance can only be restored by the power of the light — and I have prayed for the power of the light.” Kahotep’s voice went rough and broken. “I have prayed for the darkness that can call the light, prayed for a hundred years. I thought that this — the pledge, the sacrifice, giving up Nathifa — might finally be darkness enough for the light of Isis to come to me.” He made a harsh, animal sound. “But you have all but rejected the pledge. I have failed. I have prayed and offered all that I hold dear, and still it is not enough.”

  His features contorted with anguish for a moment, until he noticed Emma swaying where she stood.

  “Emma?”

  She tried to focus on him and a wave of nausea hit her, followed closely by a set of heart palpitations and the urge to scream hysterically. What the hell was happening to her? Her head was full of white, infuriating emptiness, but somewhere on the edges of her consciousness, there were voices — two of them. One was chanting something in a beautiful, melodic language Emma knew she shouldn’t understand — only the dark can call the light only the dark can call the light — and the other was chanting Fern’s name, over and over and over again.

  Her legs gave out, and the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was the blank, implacable stone face of the goddess Nephthys.

  27

  Fern’s mental scream jolted Emma back into her body, and her eyes flew open just in time to glimpse him standing above her, pale and naked in the instant before his limbs turned black and his body contorted and a black-brown tarantula the size of a small bus exploded out of the white light of the change.

  Emma was staring right at him and her eyes burned as she watched the beast take shape, Fern’s form sucked like a shadow into the light only to unfurl again, bigger, faster, stronger, the sound of displaced air like the beating of wings as all eight of his legs came down around her and his body filled the round chamber. She heard shouts, animal screams, Telly’s voice, and somewhere white light strobed against the walls of the temple.

  She sat up.

  Kahotep was in jackal form, golden, black streaked fur standing up all over his body as he backed away from Fern, lips peeled back in a silent terrified snarl. Two jaguars stalked toward him, and two smaller cats followed — the maidens and the guards.

  FERN! She reached for his mind, clawing at it, and met a boiling sea of fear, rage, love, hate —

  NEVER HURT HER AGAIN. The tarantula reared, its forelegs brushing the ceiling, back legs bending — impossibly delicate — two of the side legs reaching out to brace against the wall. Fern’s fat, bristling abdomen and narrow segmented undercarriage were only a foot away from her face. NEVER NEVER NEVER NEVER — Fern’s mind flooded hers with red, murderous obsession — he hissed —

  Somebody touched Emma’s arm. She tore her eyes from Fern — Telly lay, stomach flat to the ground, hand stretched out to her. His eyes were wide and white, sandy hair whipping about his face.

  “Control your spider, Emma, before he kills the prince.” Warm air, redolent with the scent of dust and dying grass, the taste of Telly’s magic, gusted against Emma’s face. “I’m trying,” he said, “But I can’t command him. He’s yours.” Telly’s hand closed around hers, warm, solid, strong.

  The tips of Fern’s legs scraped against stone as he tensed to leap. Emma reached out and laced her fingers around one, gritting her teeth against the involuntary shudder that ran through her as she gripped, the feel of the coarse, prickly hairs, the weird solidity of the exoskeleton, the velvet of the skin beneath the guard hairs. She emptied her mind of everything except a calm she didn’t feel, and shoved her will into Fern.

  Stop.

  He stopped. His mind melted into hers, pliant, roaring like a waterfall — nothing but the blind reflexive instinct of the tarantula, and the inescapable compulsion to do as she asked.

  Change.

  He did. Heat seared Emma’s hand, but before she even had time to draw breath to scream, the cool human flesh of Fern’s ankle replaced the burning magic of the change, and she was looking up the long, perfect line of his pale leg. Past his bony, jutting hip, his concave stomach, the widening vee of his chest and broad, bony shoulders.

  His face was longer than it should be, and his eyes were whiteless orbs, but the look on his face was human. He fell to the ground and yanked her into his arms.

  I saw you. You looked — you were lying there — I thought — gods, how stupid, I’d have known if you were dead.

  Emma made a choking sound as his collar bone dug into her throat. Kahotep didn’t try to hurt me. I think it was the ‘Enam-Vesh; I felt dizzy, sick, then I passed out. All I could think about was — I just couldn’t reach you.

  Fern loosened his hold enough to look into her eyes. The huge blackness in his was fading, whites returning, making him look human again. I know, he said. It happened to me too. I should have realized that was what was wrong with you, but… But there was no memory of feeling sick or dizzy in his mind: there had only been growing, maddening fury and razor edged terror.

  “Sorry guys, but we need to know what happened here, or Andres and the maidens are going to flay Kahotep alive, and that’s going to be hard to explain to the rest of the jackals.” Telly crouched down beside them, and the fact that he was fully clothed reminded Emma that Fern was not — and she was sprawled across his lap. Cheeks flaming, she untangled herself and stood with a hand on Fern’s shoulder for support — her legs were still wobbly.

  “Felani!” One of the ocelots flicked its small, rounded ears in Emma’s direction. “He wasn’t going to hurt me. He didn’t do anything to me. Stand down, okay?”

  Neither of the jaguars paid her any mind, but the ocelot who had responded to her voice stopped, turned its delicate head, fixed Emma with molten black rimmed eyes and then flashed with a dainty snap of white light into Felani. Naked, the maiden was the perfect woman in miniature, all tawny bronzed skin and round, muscular curves; Emma was quite sure her own reflection in the mirror would never, ever be good enough again.

  Felani put her fists on her luscious hips, coppery hair swinging with indignation. “What do you mean, stand down? He stole you away, and we come upon you unconscious, maybe dead! I don’t care what he did or did not do, he deserves to die for the fright he gave me alone.” The maiden’s voice grew thick and spicy with her native accent, as it always did when she was distressed.

  She stalked over and lifted her small fingers to Emma’s face, gripping her chin and tilting it this way and that. “You do not look harmed, but I do not think Fern will ever recover his sanity,” she said, despite that Fern at present looked quite sane. “You really want us to leave him be?” She glanced over her shoulder at Kahotep, who was surrounded by the three cats.

  “Yes. He’ll explain when he’s in human form, I promise.”

  Felani heaved a long suffering s
igh. “Not even a good scratch, just for kicks?”

  Emma shook her head solemnly, smothering laughter with a hand over her mouth.

  “Very well. Tarissa, Andres, Ichtaca, back away. Emma’s orders. She means it!”

  The ocelot turned and padded to Felani’s side, rubbing its velvety head against Emma’s hand; the bigger jaguar coughed, shook its head, and backed away, but the smaller jaguar remained frozen in place, its gold-green eyes intent upon Kahotep.

  The jackal snarled wetly. The jaguar rumbled in response. Felani made a strangled little yowl of frustration and stomped over to them.

  “Ichtaca, stand down.” Her voice was deep and full, her shoulders hunched forward, her legs and arms stiff, challenge and threat in every line of her little body. Emma marveled — Ichtaca had to outweigh her by over a hundred pounds, but the jaguar turned its head, laid its ears flat, and slunk away, tail whipping back and forth. The ocelots might be physical lightweights, but they were ancients — Felani outranked most of the jaguars even on a bad day.

  Light flashed to Emma’s left as Andres took human form again, looking like some Aztec statue carved of amber in the leaping torchlight. His long black hair hung in his face, damp with sweat. He winked at Emma, smirking as he walked over to where Ichtaca was pacing. Physically, the man looked like a god, and he knew it.

  Kahotep took the hint and changed. He stayed where he was, backed up against the wall near the statue of Osiris, eyeing everyone warily. His gaze lit on Emma.

  “I swear I did nothing to harm you. I don’t understand — one moment you were looking faint, and then you quoted the scripture, and then you fell.” He opened his mouth, shut it again, shook his head.

  “That’s when these guys came in, right?”