Finally, she gazed down at the picture. A moment later, she ran a hand over the image of Alaric’s face. If the painting on the page was anything to go by, Alaric was truly something to behold. Long, golden-brown hair with a body as well-shaped as any Ikari warrior she’d ever seen. Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to be taken captive by such a man. To be at his mercy. Of course, as one of the Ikari, Al-Kenna could never be at the mercy of any man. She was too strong, but Smenkhare hadn’t been. Smenkhare had been human. Did Smenkhare know her captor was a vampire? How often did she allow him to touch her, to do things to her? What would it have been like to be Smenkhare?
Why would any man as beautiful as Alaric need to take a captive? But then, maybe he hadn’t been this beautiful in real life. Surely, her dreams weren’t anything to go by. As for the painting, in it his lips were too pink. Nobody could possibly have such lush lips, least of all a man. Then, there were those preternaturally light eyes, the thick thatch of golden eyebrows, and the glittering length of eyelashes that framed those wondrous eyes. Common sense told her no person could possibly have such a face as this, that what she saw was simply a fanciful artist’s rendering of the man. The book called the subject Alaric the Cruel, for crying out loud. No person with such a name could look like this. Still, now that she’d looked at the image, she couldn’t stop staring at it.
She ran the tips of her fingers across the page as though doing so would give her the sensation of touching the man. God help her, she wanted to touch the man. Something in her had clicked into place when she’d opened the book that first time and gazed down at him. That moment, she had known she would go to him. She had known she’d be the one to seek Alaric, persuade him of the Ikari cause, and…and what?
She slammed the book shut suddenly and tossed it onto the bed, shocked and disgusted by her train of thoughts. What was wrong with her?
She glanced at her bedside clock and was surprised at the time. It was nearly four in the morning. Had she been reading so long? She had to replace the book in the archives before Father Caleb realized it was missing, then she had to find a way to replace the Warlord’s key.
She eased off the mattress, carefully removed her dagger from beneath her pillow and slid it into the sheath on her thigh. It was habit. A necessary habit, with so many bizarre things happening around her. A second later, she removed her robe from her bedpost. As she slipped her arms into the thick terrycloth sleeves, she debated whether she should put on her slippers. In the end, she decided they’d make too much noise. Tonight, she was going for stealth.
She slipped the book into a pocket in her robe, tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and stepped out into the dim hall. She bit back a yelp of surprise when a gust of hot air from the heating vents lining the floor set the ruffles of her nightdress fluttering about her knees. Setting her lower lip firmly between her teeth, she started forward.
A number of small, wall-mounted lamps lined the hallway. The light was dim, only enough to make night vision possible, but still unobtrusive enough not to disturb anyone whose bedroom was situated along this corridor. At night, every hall in the compound was lit this way. In case of an emergency, sight was a necessity.
Al-Kenna made her way to the balcony at the top of the stairs and gazed down at the courtyard-like lower level. Directly below her was a series of couches, tables, a pool table, and a wide screen television. It was a sort of rec room. It was empty now, but someone was downstairs. Even from her position at the top of the stairs, she could hear the sound of voices emanating from somewhere on the lower level.
To the right of the rec room were the kitchens, to the left was living space, and beyond the rec room was the Great Hall.
She started down the stairs on her toes. The polished oak was slick beneath her feet, so she held tightly to the rail. When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she paused to listen.
The sound seemed to be coming from the Great Hall. Were the men still gathered there at this hour? She rushed down the back hall and toward the Great Hall, sure she was wrong. But when she got to the expanse of double doors, she heard male voices raised in anger. She could make out the sound of the Warlord, but with the doors shut, she couldn’t make out his words. Father Caleb was there, too.
Could she have gotten so lucky as this? That both men were still holed up in the Great Hall gave her the time she needed to get down to the archives, replace the book, and into the Warlord’s private chambers to replace his key.
She was about to turn and flee when an urge to know what was happening inside nearly had her running forward and pushing the doors open as she had this morning. She had to remind herself that nothing good had come from that move.
“Replace the book,” she whispered. “Listen later.”
Forcing herself away from the doors, an act that took Herculean effort, Al-Kenna made her way back to the courtyard and slowly through the darkened parlor. She was careful not to bump into anything. Her night vision was pretty good—that was one of the perks of being Ikari—but she didn’t want to trip over something due to carelessness and alert the Warlord to her presence.
From the parlor, she saw the dim lights of another corridor. She went to it and made her way toward the end of the hall. Even as she walked, she realized she wasn’t alone here, either. There were voices coming from ahead in the library. Male voices.
As she neared the open doors to the library, she saw bright orange light shining from the room. The soft crackling of flames drifted to her as a murmur below the sound of male voices. None of them were familiar to her. Their voices were accented. One sounded Spanish and the other Russian.
“So, they’ve decided they want our aid. But how safe will we be here, Raven?” the Spanish one was asking.
Al-Kenna paused to the right of the doorway and gaped. Raven, the fallen one, the Watcher? He was here in the compound?
“Would I have summoned you if your safety were an issue?” the Russian—Raven—replied.
There was silence in the room.
“Sunrise is in less than three hours. Where did he get off to? We should leave—”
“Stay here. I want you both close, Damon. No harm will come to you here. We have the Warlord’s word. And you have my word.”
“And while we’re sleeping, what’s going to happen?”
“You’ll be locked in the basement chamber where nobody can get in, save the Warlord and Father Caleb. Meanwhile, Myrddin, Aliceanna and I will enter the fifth portal to the Void.”
“So she’s there, she’s in the Void now?”
This news seemed to excite the Spanish one. The one called Damon.
“She doesn’t know where she is, though. Her mind is such a jumble of confusion and I still can’t communicate with her to let her know I’m coming.”
“Maybe she’s trying to block Azriel and doesn’t realize she’s blocking you, too.”
“Mmm. That would be a good sign. Nevertheless, the time to act is at hand. As soon as Myrddin and Aliceanna arrive, I’ll set off. I don’t foresee being gone too long. Azriel should be busy waking the imps and calling them to arms. I’m hoping I can get in and out of The Void without him noticing.”
“Alaric will hate being left behind.”
Al-Kenna gasped and took a step back. “Alaric,” she whispered.
The library went quiet.
Panicked, she turned to leave but was stalled when a commanding male voice demanded, “Who’s there?”
Accustomed to obeying the dictates of the Warlord, she froze in her tracks.
She didn’t know what to do. Should she make a run for it, should she answer, should she just stand there like a bump on a log and hope she’d blend in with the walls? Decision was taken from her when she heard the floorboards behind her creak. A male voice rose in question.
“Who are you?”
Chest heaving, mind a confusion of thoughts, Al-Kenna closed her eyes for a moment and struggled to think a coherent thought. Raven was in the library, and
he spoke of Alaric. Alaric, from the painting in the book she was holding, Alaric the Visigoth. Alaric, who had the face of an angel.
Swallowing, she forced herself to turn and face the speaker. Unfortunately, when she saw the man standing there, whatever she was about to say slipped from her mind. Before her stood the most extraordinary man she’d ever seen face to face. He had plum-red hair with wide black streaks running through it, a face so wondrous all she could do was stare, and a long, sleek body that made her think of fast automobiles.
“Who’s there?” the Russian…Raven, still in the library, demanded.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Al-Kenna blurted. “I’m Al-Kenna, the Warlord’s daughter.” She met the Spaniard’s gaze and forced a smile to her lips. “And you’re a vampire.”
He didn’t smile. In fact, his face had gone stark white. With one hand clasped to his throat, he took a step back. “It can’t be,” he muttered, then he squinted at her. “Al-Kenna, you say?”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the library as Raven made his way to the hall.
“She says her name is Al-Kenna,” the Spaniard called over his shoulder, “and that she’s the Warlord’s daughter, but her face…I’ve seen it before.” To Al-Kenna he said, “You know our Alaric?”
At the mention of his name, Al-Kenna’s heart hiccupped in her chest. “No,” she said quickly.
“The Warlord’s daughter?” Raven was saying as he neared the doors.
“I should go,” Al-Kenna said. “I’m not supposed to be here. The Warlord will kill me if…My God!” Al-Kenna’s mouth fell open.
The largest man she’d ever seen materialized in the hall behind the vampire. He loomed over her, making the hall dwindle in size. He had a mass of raven hair that fell in lush waves to his waist. His eyes were black as midnight and his face was simply too extraordinary to be real. And he had wings. The man had wings. Glimmering, sable wings. “My God!” she said again. “It’s true. You’re Raven. You really exist.”
Instead of being offended, the man—the angel—smiled. He didn’t say anything, but motioned for her to enter the library.
“No,” Al-Kenna said. “I’m not supposed to be here.” Though she wanted to enter the library. She wanted to see him. See if he was anything like the painting she’d seen of him.
“Surely, the Warlord won’t mind you keeping his guests company for a while?” Raven asked.
Chest heaving, she stepped away. “Yes, he would. I have to go.”
She turned to leave, then froze. The air came out of her lungs on one long sigh and she let loose with a tiny mew of distress.
The man appeared in front of her, hands on hips, legs spread wide, and body blocking her only means of escape. She gazed up and into his face, blinking when she saw her surprise mirrored on his face. Mouth gaping like her own, crystalline eyes wide and wondering, and chest dancing rapidly up and down, the man stared at her.
“Smenkhare?” he murmured.
She felt herself falling backward, felt her sight narrow until she saw only darkness. She landed on her back with a gasp of pain. In the far distance, she heard a male voice swearing.
“Bloody hell, Damon,” Raven said. “What is he doing? We don’t have time for this.”
“How incredibly common of him,” Damon said dryly. “Our great Visigoth, our barbarian warrior turned vampire, the infamous Alaric the Cruel, has swooned. He’s fainted dead away.” A soft male chuckle reached her ears. “This is too good to be true.”
* * * *
Al-Kenna felt the red glow of the firelight on her face from her seat on the fur rug to the right of the stone hearth. Once Raven and Damon hefted Alaric off her and she could move again, she managed to get to her feet and follow them into the library. They carried Alaric to the fire and settled him on the sofa between them. Al-Kenna didn’t know what happened out there, but if she didn’t know better, she’d think the sight of her had somehow shocked Alaric. He’d called her Smenkhare. This was the second time today she’d been referred to by that name. Did she, in some way, resemble his lost love?
The two men leaned forward, toward the fire, Alaric propped between them. The broad sweep of Alaric’s shoulders, the lean lines of his body, and that golden brown hair was even more perfect than the artist’s rendering. And his face was even more wonderful than it had been in the book. Raven was an angel, and beautiful, but Alaric had a face formed by God Himself. His eyes were closed now, but when he’d stood before her in the hall, she’d seen the nearly translucent gray coloring the book had spoken of. While the artist had done a commendable job at capturing the effect of Alaric’s translucent stare, he’d fallen woefully short. He didn’t capture the flecks of blue and green, or the deep blue shadow that outlined his irises. The artist’s skill was dead on when it came to Alaric’s lips, though. They were as full and pink as she’d seen them in the painting. And his eyelashes were long, dozens of tiny hairs spun from golden silk. He would have been too beautiful, had it not been for the very masculine bone structure of his face.
Alaric was dressed in leather. From the fierce-looking leather knee-boots he wore to the sinfully tight leather pants, he looked like he’d come to the compound with the intent to kick butt. If he’d tried to make himself more appealing to Al-Kenna, he couldn’t have done a better job. His black silk shirt was unbuttoned and lay open, exposing one pink nipple and the tight bands of muscle that covered his chest.
Al-Kenna clutched the book to her breasts and marveled that Alaric in person was even better than Alaric in the painting. A thousand times better. Again she wondered what it would be like to be kidnapped by such a man.
“Alaric?” Before she realized she was going to speak, the name had escaped her lips.
Damon and Raven looked up, as if they’d forgotten her presence and just now remembered she was there. They both studied her openly, but save a slight stiffening of his body, Alaric made no move to acknowledge her. Eyes closed, he let his face fall into his hands. “Tell me if I’ve gone completely mad,” he said suddenly, voice muffled by the press of his hands to his face. “Is it her? I can’t look. I can’t bear to look.”
“Who?” Raven asked.
“I’ll look,” Damon said at the same time. He rose from the sofa and moved to stand over her. Damon’s eyes widened for a moment, but he made no sound. Instead, he moved closer.
“Who?” Raven demanded again.
“One moment please, great one,” Damon said.
Charity watched Damon, marveling that he was a real vampire, not a simulation vampire. And Raven, the fallen one, was real and she was with them. For some reason, there was a question about who she was.
“I’m Al-Kenna, the Warlord’s daughter. He doesn’t speak of me much, true, but I do exist. I’m not the son he would have preferred, but I am real.”
Damon moved forward until his leather boots were mere inches from her, then he crouched low. His face hovered above hers.
From a distance, Damon could easily pass for human, but this close, his perfection was a dead giveaway. His pale skin was flawless, his hair glimmered and shone unnaturally in the firelight, and his eyes were green as emeralds.
He reached for her. She felt the cool skin of his hand as he brushed it against her face. She should have felt something other than awe at being this close to a vampire, but she didn’t.
When he abruptly poked her with a finger, though, she reeled back and yelped. She gave his probing finger a shove and covered her cheek with one hand to stave off any further pokes.
“What in the hell are you doing, Damon?” Raven demanded. “This is the Warlord’s daughter.”
“Tell me, Damon. Am I mad?” Alaric said. She heard a slight tremor in his voice, but couldn’t figure out what about her had shaken him.
“Who are you?” the one called Damon asked her.
“Al-Kenna,” she answered. The sound of her own name brought her to herself. She was an Ikari warrior, for crying out loud. What in the hell was she doing sitti
ng cross-legged by the fire in a room full of vampires and a fallen angel? “If you poke me again, I’ll be forced to respond in kind.”
“She’s real,” Damon decided.
“Of course, she’s real,” Raven said. “Do they know each other?”
“I’m not sure,” the plum-haired one said. “Smenkhare died a long time ago, yet this girl looks like the woman whose face hangs on portraits within the walls of Alaric’s homes.”
“Smenkhare?” Al-Kenna repeated. “The Egyptian Alaric stole away from Marcus Ennius, the Roman? I’m not her. I’m Al-Kenna, daughter of Galen, descendent of the Shilesians. I look Egyptian because my mother was Ethiopian. I have her skin and her features. That’s what the Warlord tells me, at least. I look nothing like him.” She abruptly stopped talking when the ramifications of Damon’s statement hit her. Alaric thought she was Smenkhare, the Egyptian princess he kidnapped nearly seventeen centuries ago. Smenkhare was said to have been beautiful, so beautiful that one look at her made the Visigoth vampire fall madly in love with her. “You think I’m Smenkhare?” she blurted.
Alaric rose to his feet, but made no other movement. “Smenkhare?” he asked in a weak voice.
“No,” she said, getting to her feet as well. “Al-Kenna.” Though a part of her wished heartily she were Smenkhare.
“You have her voice.”
He turned toward her and she saw his lashes flutter. Slowly, he opened his eyes. He didn’t look at her face, though, but at her bare feet. His gaze felt as gentle as the touch of dove wings. Her toes tingled, then her ankles. Heat enveloped her legs, then her thighs and she wished she’d worn a longer nightgown tonight. A slow tingle began in her stomach, and her breasts burned with a sudden need to be touched. Then, warmth suffused her face.
She stared into his eyes and felt a jolt pass through her body like a current of electricity. His lower lip quivered as he studied her face. She couldn’t look away from him, felt somehow locked in place.
Nephilim War: Book 2 Page 11
