Eternal Love: The Immortal Witch Series

by Maggie Shayne

  “Our attention? There are more than one of you?” He strode to the front door and looked outside.

  “The others don’t know I’ve come,” she said. “They aren’t as... reasonable as I am.”

  “You call this reasonable? You come to my home and practically accuse me of kidnapping a mental patient, and that’s reasonable?”

  “For me?” She seemed to battle a smile for just a moment. “A year ago I’d have kicked the door in, beat you senseless, and searched the place for myself, Mr. King. Some of my friends still would. You wouldn’t believe how lucky you are that I’ve grown... calmer than I used to be. But I’m warning you, the others will follow the same trail I did, and it will lead them to your door. If they find out you’ve harmed Nidaba—”

  “Harmed her?” He feigned deep offense. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  She just stared at him. So he went on with the righteous indignation routine. “I think maybe you’d better leave now, Ms. Lachlan-Sinclair.” She felt guilty. He picked up on it, and thought his rusty skills might be freeing themselves up at last.

  “Sinclair-Lachlan,” she corrected, but her voice was softer now. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come here and offend you. Especially if you really are... innocent in all this.” Then her eyes narrowed. “But if you’re not, I’ll find out. And may God help you then.”

  Either she was sincerely worried about Nidaba, or she was a very good actress, he thought. And from everything he could sense in her, it was the former, not the latter.

  Then she drew a breath, swallowed. “What... what condition was she in... when you saw her?”

  He mulled that one over. How much to reveal? In the end, just to see her reaction, he said, “Catatonic.”

  Moisture sprang into the woman’s eyes. A flash of her pain hit him—so much so that his resolve started to waver. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Even at her worst, she was never quite that far gone.”

  “Then, she’s had these sorts of episodes before?”

  “I thought she was over it. I thought...” She clamped her mouth closed, looking up at him sharply. “I’ve already said too much. You’ve made it quite clear that this is no concern of yours.”

  “The suffering of another human being is always of concern to me,” he countered.

  “That’s a very pretty speech.”

  “But not a convincing one?” He shook his head, walked through the foyer, and yanked open the front door, praying she wouldn’t look through the doorway and glimpse that portrait. “I wish you luck in finding your friend,” he said. “But I have things to do.”

  “Don’t think I won’t be back,” she warned. “If I get even an inkling you’ve been lying to me—”

  “I haven’t been. Good-bye.”

  She stepped through the door, but before he could close it she said, “Wait.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a card and a pen. “This is my hotel... and the room number is on the back.” She scrawled it as she spoke. “If you remember anything, or... whatever... call me.”

  Nodding slowly, he said, “All right. I will.” He reached for the card. She didn’t give it to him. Instead she set it down on the stand just inside the door, then turned and walked away.

  Nathan picked the card up, looked it over as he closed the door, then carried it idly with him back into the living room, and put it into a drawer for safekeeping.

  He stood still for a moment, wondering who in hell this Arianna really was and what she truly wanted from Nidaba. Immortal, she had to be. She had deliberately avoided touching him. She said Nidaba had suffered trauma. What trauma? Could this woman have known about his past with her? Or had there been something more?

  And what kind of fool question was that, anyway? Of course there had been more. Centuries had passed since the anguish he’d rained down on Nidaba’s head and she on his. Surely there had been more.

  Footsteps on the stairs alerted him, and he turned to see Sheila coming down. His senses jumped. “Sheila, what are you doing down here?”

  She looked at him with a frown. “Lisette asked that I bring up some broth for the patient,” she said. “Whatever is the matter with—Nathan?”

  But he was sprinting past her, taking the stairs two at a time. He raced down the hall, threw the door open, and saw the nurse leaning over Nidaba, her back to him so he couldn’t see what she was doing.

  “Lisette!”

  She went stiff and still for just a moment. Then she straightened and turned slowly. The only thing in her hand, he saw, was a hairbrush. Even as Nathan blew a relieved sigh and called himself an idiot, Lisette pressed a palm to her chest, as if to calm her racing heart.

  “My goodness, but you scared me half to death! What’s wrong?” she asked him.

  Swallowing his nervousness and feeling like a fool, Nathan said, “Sorry. Nothing. Nothing at all.” He was going to have to stop being so irrational. The woman was a nurse, for God’s sake.

  Lisette sighed and resumed brushing Nidaba’s hair. Nidaba lay stiff, jerking her head with each stroke.

  “Why don’t you let me do that?” Nathan asked.

  “Oh, now, what did you hire me for, if you’re going to do everything yourself?”

  He didn’t take no for an answer, though. “It’s not you,” he said. “I just like taking care of her.” He stepped forward, took the brush away from the nurse, and waited for her to step aside. When she did he said, “Go now. Take a break. Get some dinner and rest. I’ll handle her myself for a while.”

  “But–”

  “Go.”

  With a sigh, she finally did.

  Nathan watched her until she closed the door behind her. Then he turned to Nidaba, smoothed her hair with his hand, and whispered, “I’m here. It’s okay, she’s gone.” He pulled his chair up and began running the brush through her ebony hair in long, slow strokes. And he thought she relaxed just a little bit. “You don’t like Lisette at all, do you, Nidaba?”

  Naturally, there was no reply.

  “You’re as bad as I am, then. I don’t like her either. But I wonder why,” he murmured softly. “I honestly do wonder why.”

  * * * *

  THE WOMAN WHO called herself Lisette lingered in the hall, pacing nervously and wringing her hands as she hoped to the Gods that Nathan King would not discover the drug-filled hypodermic needle she had shoved underneath the mattress when he’d burst in on her.

  Dammit, she’d barely hidden the weapon in time.

  Then she slowed her pace, calmed herself. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. So what if he did find it? It wouldn’t change anything. She would simply have to find another way to do what she had to do—what she should have finished centuries ago.

  And she would.

  She always found a way to do what must be done. And this time there would be no question, no deception, no mistakes. This time Nidaba would die by Puabi’s own hand. As it should have been on that hotel rooftop. As it should have been over four thousand years ago.

  Chapter 9

  HE FELL ASLEEP brushing Nidaba’s hair, and he dreamed. Memories he’d locked deep inside long ago resurfaced now, to torment him again, as fresh as if they were new.

  Eannatum sat at his father’s bedside, clasping the old king’s withered hand in his own younger, stronger one. “I am here, Father,” he whispered.

  The king lay still, swathed in coverings of the finest fabrics. Sacred incense burned, and tendrils of its smoke lingered in the air, like spectral dancers. The powerful smell of the smouldering herbs laced each labored breath his father took, but Eannatum knew the herbs would not save his father. Nor would the incessant chanting of the priest who sat on the chamber floor. Nor the prayers and supplications of the entire kingdom. Death hovered, waiting to take the once mighty king away. Natum could almost hear the Dark Goddess’s raspy voice, whispering from the dim corners, from the hidden realms, from the Underworld...

  I am the Darkness behind and beneath the shadows...
<
br />   I am the absence of air that awaits at the bottom of every breath...

  “Silence!”

  Eannatum’s shout caused the priest to stop his chanting. “No, I... didn’t mean you,” Eannatum said, but it didn’t matter. The young priest got to his feet, bowed deeply, and left the room.

  But Eannatum sensed he was not alone with his father, even then. The Dark Goddess was there, lurking, waiting. He could feel Her cold breath on his nape, and smell Her foul stench in the air. Ereshkigal.

  I am the decay that fertilizes the living...the bottomless pit...

  “Shut up, Crone. Let him live!”

  “My son.” The voice, weak but real, came from his father. And Eannatum bowed over the old man, tightening his grip on his father’s hand. “Do not speak so to the Dark Goddess. For it is into Her embrace I go, and She alone will see me to the other side.”

  “Father, you mustn’t say such things. You’ll be well. I’ve sent for more herbs, more priests—”

  Sadly, the old man shook his head. “It is over, my son. I am dying. My time in this world is done. It is as it should be.”

  “But–”

  “Be still, Eannatum.” His voice strengthened just a bit. “A dying old man I may be, but I am still your king and your sire.”

  “Speaking will only tire you.”

  “There are things that must be said.”

  Swallowing his objections, Eannatum nodded. He reached for a drinking vessel and held it to his father’s lips, lifting the old man’s head. When the king finished drinking, he lay back and stared at his son.

  “Upon my death, you will receive my crown, Eannatum. The kingship of Lagash will be yours. But because of your impending marriage to Puabi, daughter of Ur, you will be called King of Kish, Ruler of all Sumer. You will take your throne on the first New Year’s Day after your marriage, by sacred tradition.”

  “I do not wish—”

  “I have no care for what you may or may not wish. I am your king. I am your father, and you will do as I command. For the good of your country, Eannatum. For the sake of peace. Already you have seen the power of Ur and Lagash joined as one. From the day word went forth that you intended to make Puabi your queen, the Ummamites began to cower. When our armies, united, began to patrol the borders, those raiders scurried like scarab beetles in full sunlight. If you don’t go through with your promise now, they will fall on Sumer and rip it apart. Tell me you will keep your word. Tell me you will marry Puabi upon my death.”

  Inclining his head, Natum sighed. It was as close as he could come to showing his consent.

  “Puabi will remain in her father’s palace in Ur until after your coronation. This is wise, and best for her sake as well as your own. But as soon as you are crowned king, she will join you here in Lagash, and you will take her as your wife and your queen.”

  “Yes.” The word was wrenched from him against his will.

  “Good. It is good.” For a moment, the king rested, caught his breath, before he gathered his waning strength and continued. “On New Year’s Day, Inanna Herself will anoint you as Her chosen ruler, through the ritual of the Sacred Marriage Rite. You know what this entails.”

  He nodded. He knew.

  His father went on as if he did not. “The High Priestess of the temple will be cleansed and purified. She will call the Goddess to come to her, to inhabit her body. And then She will mate with you, so that you will become part God yourself. Her servant always. Her consort in human form, ruling Her people of Sumer by divine right. You understand?”

  He nodded slowly. “It shall be as you wish it.” The High Priestess... Lia had been elevated to that station right after Nidaba’s abandonment five years ago. It would seem sinful to copulate with the woman who had been his teacher, and Nidaba’s. Almost a mother to her, in fact. It would seem wrong.

  “There is no time to waste, my son. Your power must be established at once. The new year is but a quarter moon from today.”

  A frown bent Eannatum’s brow. “I assumed you referred to the next new year, my father.”

  Weakly, the old man smiled. “Optimist. I’ve not a year left in me. No, it must be now.”

  “But... Father, you yet live. I can’t very well claim the crown while you...” He frowned, a heaviness forming in his stomach.

  Closing his eyes wearily, the king said, “This night is my last.”

  “No...” Eannatum leaned closer, touched his father’s face, and the old eyes opened again. “Father, how can you know this? You might live for many weeks, months, even.”

  “My time ends tonight, my son. Your time is come.”

  “You cannot know that!”

  “I know. Give your solemn vow to me that all shall be as I have told you, that I might go in peace to the Underworld.”

  “Father–”

  “Give it to me!” his father demanded, his eyes flaring wider as he came off his pillows.

  “I vow it. I shall do all you ask of me. But Father—”

  “Good,” his father said. “Good. Now, give to me the rest of my wine, and I will sleep.”

  Eannatum took the chalice, held his father’s head up, and put the rim to the dry, parched lips. His father drank and drank, and when Eannatum tried to take the cup away, the king pressed a hand to it to keep it there, tipping it higher, draining it.

  He breathed when he finished, then lay back on die pillows, and muttered, “It is done. For the good of Sumer, it is done.”

  Blinking, Eannatum looked from his father’s face to the cup he still held, and realization flashed blindingly through his mind. He sniffed at the contents, then tasted the remaining droplets, only to draw back and grimace at its bitterness. “No!” he cried, hurling the baked clay goblet away from him. The cup hit the wall and shattered to bits. “Father, what have you done?” He bent over his father, whose face had gone lax now. Gripping the front of his robes, Eannatum shook him. “Wake! Wake, curse you! Why have you done this? How dare you do such a thing! Father! Father!”

  The door was flung open, and then someone was pulling at his shoulders. That young priest, Eannatum saw when he whirled on the offender.

  “You gave it to him! Didn’t you, priest? Didn’t you?” he demanded, shaking the pale, frightened man until his teeth rattled.

  “I gave it to him,” a deep voice said.

  Natum released the priest, who fell into a quivering heap on the floor, and looked up to see Lathor, the detestable High Priest who was unworthy of the title, standing in the doorway. “You?”

  “Yes. I. It was his final wish, and as his most trusted friend, and spiritual counsel, I had no choice but to obey.”

  “You murdered your king! Traitor!”

  “If you go shouting that about the palace, my prince, it will be you who will be called traitor. For you will destroy what your father gave his life to protect. This kingdom. And your throne.”

  Eannatum stopped halfway to throttling the bastard. He was right. Damn him, he was right. But grief and fury raged in him, and he shuddered with the very effort of restraining himself. The need for vengeance warred with the knowledge of what was best for his kingdom.

  His kingdom.

  Turning to the bed, he dropped to his knees and folded himself over his father’s prone form. He lay his head on the silent chest, and allowed the tears to come....

  Time passed. Hours perhaps. The two priests had left him, for how long, he did not know. His father was dead. He was to rule. To take the throne and then to marry Puabi. He lifted his head, rubbed at his eyes, and stared at his father’s still, white face with blurred vision.

  “Have you had enough of mourning, then?”

  He turned slowly, and saw the High Priestess, Lia, standing just behind him. Swallowing hard, he let his chin fall. “I will never have enough of mourning, it seems.”

  “I am sorry for your loss, my prince,” she said softly. “But I have come to offer words that may be of some comfort.”

  “What words could comfort
me now?”

  “Only these. I will not serve as your lukur, the vessel of the Goddess, for the Sacred Marriage Rite.”

  “How can you... ?”

  “I have charge of the temple. And of the spiritual guidance of Lagash now that Lathor has fled.”

  “Fled?” Eannatum shook his head. “But he was here...”

  “Two days ago, my prince. You have been closeted with your father’s body for two full days.”

  Eannatum could only blink, looking around the room in confusion. He ran a hand over his chin, felt the growth of whiskers that proved the priestess’s words to be true.

  “Therefore, I am the highest-ranking official of Inanna’s temple in all of Lagash. And I have decreed that I am unable to fulfill this role and have also set forth the solution.”

  Frowning, Eannatum looked at the priestess, searching her face, unable to make much sense of her words.

  “The High Priestess of every temple in all of Sumer will journey here in time for the New Year’s celebration. And they will dance for you, their king. They will dance the sacred Dance of the Seven Veils, in remembrance of Inanna’s descent to the Underworld. And when they finish dancing, my prince, you will choose the one you wish to serve as your lukur.”

  If her words were meant to offer comfort, they fell far short. “Fine,” he said. “So be it.”

  She nodded, some secret hiding behind her eyes. But her hands on his shoulders were soft. “Come, my prince. You need to be attended. You are tired, hungry, and grieving. Let me care for you.”

  He turned back toward the bed. “But my father...”

  “I have twenty priestesses waiting to attend your father, Eannatum. With tenderness, love, and deep respect. They will take care of him, I vow it to you on my honor.”

  He nodded slowly, knowing it needed doing, and he let the gentle High Priestess lead him from the room.

  The burial passed in a blur of grief. All Eannatum wished for was Nidaba, to feel the comfort of her arms around him. And yet if she had remained here, as a priestess serving in the temple, she might have been compelled to join in the most grim portion of the burial rites. And then he would have lost not only his father, but Nidaba as well.