by Raye Wagner
“The gods give no blessings,” she snapped. Her very existence proved their selfishness, and she self-consciously brushed her hand over the fur covering her abdomen. Sand fell from her matted coat to the fabric and she clenched her fists. His mistaken belief was common in this land though, as she’d overheard in the village two days ago. The man had thus far been respectful, so his question hardly seemed a good reason to turn her back on him. “What do you want?”
He drew closer, his wide-eyed gaze raking over her. His lips parted, and in a reverential tone, he declared, “By the gods, you are beautiful.”
She laughed a bark of disbelief, for no one had ever said such a thing. She questioned his sanity, but something in her chest loosened, and her feelings softened. “A pretty speech, but you have yet to answer my question. Make your request. You’ve given an offering in peace; I will return such honor.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. When he next looked at her, he’d aged with a burden of grief that etched sorrow into the lines around his eyes. “’Tis true. I’m in sore need of assistance, for I’m building my pyramid, the greatest work of my life.” His eyes lit as he spoke, and then they clouded. “But the work is slow, and . . . bandits plague my men. What I need is an army of fearless men, not a beautiful creature.”
Phaidra considered his plight. She was strong and immortal. She lacked training, but she’d been in more than one fight and always against multiple attackers. More importantly, after dozens of fights, she knew how to win. Besides, she had nothing else to do. “If you feed me, I’ll guard you and your men. Then you can finish your building.”
His mouth dropped open. “You? Guard my men?” He swallowed, but his brow furrowed as he continued, “Surely you are great and strong, but . . .”
She was used to being underestimated now. In fact, she’d found the element of surprise to be of significant benefit when it came to defense. “Do you doubt my ability?” Clearly, he did, so she issued her challenge with haughty self-assuredness. “Get your strongest men, your most fearless, and I’ll show you.”
The leader grimaced, but he issued the orders, occasionally glancing back at her while his men assembled.
Phaidra watched with interest. The chief was not well respected, his people grumbled and argued amongst themselves, while the leader gazed at his partially assembled structure. What should’ve taken only a minute or two took several, and with far more consternation than warranted. Finally, a group of six men were selected, and the others encircled a cleared area in the sand.
The man with the headdress approached her again. “O Great Cat, I’ve prepared a space for your demonstration. And fear not, I’ve told my men to not strike to kill. And while I’d hate to see you injured, I have a healer here . . . if there is a need.”
He was handsome but ignorant. Phaidra smirked at the fidgeting ruler and said, “The only ones who shall have need of your healer are those you selected.” She paused for dramatic effect, for she had no intention of killing anyone; after all, the demonstration was only a show of skill, so it was with a modicum of facetiousness that she said, “I hope your healer is skilled.”
She stepped into the ring. The six men lined up on the opposite side. Four of the men had marked expressions of distain, but the other two must’ve been more seasoned fighters, and their schooled features were a blank mask.
Two of the men charged with spears. Phaidra parried a thrust of the first and then grabbed the shaft of the weapon, pulling the man into the other using his own weight as leverage. The two crashed to the ground, and Phaidra yanked the second spear free. She spun to face the other attackers now charging her. She smacked the next man upside the head, and he bellowed in rage. He swung his broadsword at her, the blade whistling in the air, and she knew that regardless of the instructions they’d been given, these men might not be willing to spare her life. Especially if it meant their humiliation.
Time became a blur as she parried and countered. She danced to the side, an attempt to force her attackers together so she would only have to fight one or two at a time, but the two men with blank expressions separated and came at her from either side. She had three fronts to defend, an almost impossible task for one. But while the men were limited to the ground, she was not.
With a pump of her wings, she pulled above the fighters. One of the men raced forward, slashing at her hindquarters. The blade sliced through her fur and skin and into the muscle. The gash sent fiery pain burning up her leg. But she’d been injured before, and within seconds the mortal wound knitted together into a scab. She flung the first spear at the man with the sword, and her weapon lodged deep within his thigh. He gasped and fell to the ground, clutching at the rod. She swung the other spear, smacking the arm of one of the men with the pole. The crunch of bone was audible, and the man released his blade and slumped to the earth, gritting his teeth.
The two men who had charged her were up again, and she swooped down and picked one up by his neck. He writhed and scratched at her hands, and she released him, dropping him back on top of his previously enthusiastic companion. This time they both stayed down.
The two men with neutral expressions didn’t look quite as neutral any more. They approached warily, each step a little slower this time. Phaidra circled over them and then dove down, yanking the blade from one and swinging it at the other. The man deftly blocked the swing, and she was forced to pull up to avoid serious injury. Even so, the warrior had cut her forearm, and she opened her hand as she drew it to her body, and the heavy sword fell. If the men hadn’t been well trained, the one surely would’ve been impaled. The blade still grazed his leg, and he sucked in a deep breath.
The other, weaponless man scurried along the sand. Grabbing a spear and then rolling to the side, he launched the spiked pole at her. The head pierced her wing, and she screamed in pain that morphed into a bloodthirsty war cry. She dropped to the ground, snatched up the blade, and then jabbed at him with all her might. Shock had frozen the warrior, and the seconds cost him as the tip of the sword penetrated his belly. The cut was small but deep, and his entrails protruded from the wound.
The fight was over.
Chapter 2
Phaidra’s senses returned, and she gaped in horror at the scene before her. She had done this. These men, lying in the dirt and sand, with oozing wounds and broken bones. Men who might die so she could prove that she had power. Her stomach turned, nausea threatening to make her vomit up the meal she’d just eaten.
A hushed silence fell over the crowd. And the man with the gold headdress approached her.
“You are quite fierce.” The leader bowed to her. “I am Djedefre, Pharaoh of Egypt.”
Her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded. But she dropped the sword to the sand and inclined her head. “Pharaoh.”
A title for king or ruler she supposed, and she tried to focus on him. Part of her wanted to flee from what she’d done, but the leader did not seem angry in the least. She watched as the other men pulled away the injured. “I hope your men recover quickly.”
He waved off her concern. “It was a noble sacrifice for Ra.” He leaned toward her and said more quietly, “You are strong but untrained. If you are still willing, I will train you to be deadly, and I’d be honored to accept your offer of defense.”
Could she do it? She looked at his dark eyes and the hope that lay therein. The warmth she saw there was the closest thing to acceptance she’d ever seen from a mortal.
He held her gaze. “It would do me a great service, and I would be forever in your debt.”
His sincerity is what sealed it for her. He was offering her far more than just work. “I’d appreciate any skill you deign to teach, and it is an exchange, so there will be no debt.”
Djedefre studied her, and she pushed the sweaty strands of blond away from her face. She was probably filthy from sleeping in the sand, and the heat and exertion had made her sweat enough that she probably stank. And she was a monster. His scrutiny made her uncomfor
table, but she swallowed her shame and pretended she had some pride as she met his gaze.
The pharaoh inclined his head. “I am honored. I shall have my men set up a tent there for you,” he said while pointing to the edge of the encampment. “And I would request that you fly surveillance several times a day. There is not much here in Abu Rawash, nor the surrounding area, so the element of surprise should be vastly limited now, thanks to you.” He pursed his lips and then continued, “Would you like me to call you Great Cat, or is there another name by which to address you?”
Phaidra thought about his question. Perhaps he was simply trying to be kind, but there was power in using her name. Somehow, the idea of his meager kindness turning bitter and having him scream obscenities with her name made a leaden ball sink deep into her stomach. “You may call me Sphinx.”
He narrowed his eyes but then said, “I shall have one of the slaves attend to any needs, Sphinx. And Wati, my first, will see to your training tomorrow at first light.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turned and shouted instructions to his men.
She could feel the angry stares, the bitter hatred from the men around her. Like the beating of the sun’s rays, their harsh judgment made her want to flee. But being ostracized here was no different than every place she and Priska had been while growing up, and no different than what Phaidra expected for the rest of eternity. Because the curse was clear that the only way for her to die was to fall in love and marry a mortal and bear his child, or to wed Apollo. Neither of which would ever happen.
She raised her face to the sky and wished for rain, and then she decided to go find running water to rinse off the dirt herself.
Phaidra returned to the camp refreshed and clean, but after only a few minutes she took off again. She surveyed the camp from the air and then flew several miles in all directions. The pharaoh had been correct: There were only two roads leading into Abu Rawash, one on either side. An ambush would be impossible with her patrolling. She landed, and before she could become uncomfortable, a lithe man the color of pale honey approached. He wore only a loin cloth, and his head was shaved. Just below his left ear was a symbol Phaidra recognized from Priska’s teaching as a letter. The man had been branded.
“Why did they do that?” she asked, pointing at the black image.
The man furrowed his brow and brought his fingertips to his neck. “My tattoo?”
She nodded.
“It marks me as property. The spoils of war from decades long past. My mother’s family was captured when she was a girl, but we are still slaves.” His eyes narrowed; the black depths hardened like coal. “How is it you speak our language and know nothing of our land?”
Phaidra shook her head. She had no answer for him. She hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking a different language. Was this something more to do with Apollo’s curse? And how could man mark another as property? Like Apollo had marked her . . . Just thinking of the god made her irritable. “Are you sent to fetch me? Does the leader have need of me?”
The slave raised his eyebrows at her rudeness but otherwise maintained his composure. “I’ve come to show you to your tent. My name is Orn. The Pharaoh has tasked me to aid you, as you have need.” He continued talking as he walked toward the edge of camp. The edge nearest the road. “Do you really believe the gods leave no blessings? Have you truly had a life void of joy and love?”
He didn’t even glance back as he hurled the seemingly innocuous question back at her. But the words were a mockery of her life. The only joy she’d had was before she’d known what she was, and the only one who loved her, if it could even be called such, had been assigned to watch over her when the Moirai appeared. And instead of just letting her die, the twisted sisters blessed her with immortality until she either passed the curse to her offspring or fulfilled it herself.
The slave, Orn, waved at a pale cloth tent. “This will be yours while you serve our Pharaoh. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”
He was going to leave, and a sense of wanting flooded her. Could she ever truly be accepted? The Pharaoh had been gracious from the very beginning, so perhaps his people might not have the same hate as those in a small town. She swallowed her pride and asked, “Will you please take me to your healer? Perhaps”—her stomach churned with anxiety—“I may be of assistance.”
Priska had mentored Phaidra in the art of healing, so perhaps she could be help mend some of the damage she’d inflicted.
Orn narrowed his eyes. “I’ll take you, but don’t be surprised if Hesy refuses you. He is not a patient man, and you’ve given him much to do.”
They crossed back through the camp, past the men working on the base of the structure Orn told her would be the pharaoh’s final resting place when he died. They passed a large open area with several clay ovens, and the earthy scent of baking bread and rich smells of stewing meat teased at her. Months had passed since she’d eaten a cooked meal, and the idea of dining like a human made her heart clench with guilt as she thought of Priska.
“You’ll be well fed here. Many of the men volunteered to aid Djedefre solely for the food. He is insistent on everyone getting enough rest and enough nourishment.”
She could hear the disdain in his voice. “Why is that a problem?”
Orn stopped and faced her. “He is the pharaoh, the closest person on earth to Ra; some even say he is the god’s heir. But Ra is not so benevolent, and Djedefre will never finish his pyramid if he doesn’t push the men harder.”
“You speak very openly of your view.” Perhaps serving her was punishment for his big mouth. Claiming a king to be too kind? And the son of a god? “Who is this Ra?”
Orn inclined his head and in a reverential tone said, “Some have called him Malakbel, others Ravi. At home we called him Utu. He is the god of the sun. He is the god of light and truth. Do you not know of him? What land do you come from that you do not worship him?”
She ground her teeth and clenched her fists. This could not be. Staring up at Apollo’s chariot, the brightness making her vision go black, she hurled her disgust with a vehement scream. Her body trembled with rage. Even here, far away from everything she’d ever known, his reach still found her. Her eternal tormentor. Would she never escape him? She glared at where her slave had been, still unable to see after staring at the sun, and growled, “Ra? They call him Ra?”
She stumbled forward blindly, her anger goading her to act, to do something, to lash out at anyone, and she tripped and tumbled into the hot sand. The grit chaffed her skin and stuck in her matted fur. Her hair fell forward in clumps, and her wings opened, instinctively covering her from potential attack. In her dark cocoon, she allowed her tears of torment to leak from her eyes in salty rivers of anguish.
“My . . . lady?” Orn’s voice was just above a whisper, just loud enough to penetrate her feathered barrier. “You know the sun-god?”
Know him? She’d never even met him. But he was the entire reason for her cursed monstrous body. The reason she’d be alone, forever, because she would never accept him. And Orn had the audacity to ask, as if he cared. She snapped her wings back and, eyes adjusted to the light, flinched when she saw him kneeling in front of her.
His bare chest was covered with sand, his hands resting on his knees with palms open. He tilted his head to the side as he regarded her with dark eyes swimming with emotion. “He is a fierce and jealous god.”
Phaidra’s heart softened toward the man, and then shame smacked her as she thought of her terrific rage. “I’m sorry I lashed out at you.”
He closed his eyes. “I am your slave, so it is your right.” He opened his eyes, and his gaze pierced her. “But I hope you will find me worthy of your trust.”
She swallowed the lump of guilt. “Why are you being nice to me? I can’t do anything for you.”
He smiled, revealing a missing tooth and a chipped one next to it. “You are quite blind to your power. But regardless, I can see you have a strong sense of loy
alty in your tender heart, and there are wounds there that must be bound so they can heal.”
She struggled to comprehend his meaning. This man spoke terrifying truths that he couldn’t know. It was almost as if . . . “You don’t see me as a monster?”
His features grew troubled. “A monster?”
Orn was quiet for several seconds, and Phaidra fidgeted, pushing back her ratty hair. She couldn’t even imagine what she must look like; dunking in a river now and again was hardly enough to make her clean, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d combed the tangles from her hair. She glanced down at the fur on her abdomen and, running her hand over it, watched as grains of sand fell to the earth.
Suddenly, she didn’t want him to answer the question. “Let’s go to the healer. I don’t want to talk anymore.”
~~~
End of Excerpt
Want to keep reading? Come join my newsletter!
You’ll get all of Phaidra’s story in Egypt as a welcome gift. You’ll also get character interviews, coloring pages, and bonus content from The Sphinx series. I’ll also keep you up to date on new releases, as well as send you recommended reads and deals from authors I know. I’ll never share your info with anyone, either.
Click HERE to join.
Acknowledgements
Always first, I have to thank my family for their sacrifices and their support. Jason, Jacob, Seth, and Anna. Words are inadequate for how much you mean to me and how much I love you.
To my parents, sibs, sib-spouses, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my in-laws, too… You deserve your own chapter, and if I wrote all your names, you’d get one! ;) My favorite time of year is coming up and we’ll all get to be together in mass chaos. It’s my absolute favorite kind of madness. Love you all!!
To my bestie pals: Alli, Cassy, Katie, Kathy, and Annie. You know me well enough to be family, and you chose to love me. I adore each one of you so much.
Sara Meadows: You’re amazing. That is all.
