by Jasmine Walt
“Crap!” I exclaimed. Had I not just been caught eavesdropping on a woman who seemed to despise me and the man I desperately wanted to jump into bed with, Neffe’s expression would have been funny. Instead, seeing her perfectly made-up face frozen in shock, seeing her artfully arranged curls out of place, made me cringe. She looked scary as hell.
A normal person would step back and attempt to compose themselves if they ran headlong into someone else. Neffe was far from normal. She leaned in close and whispered, “If you ruin this, I swear—”
Razor-sharp, lyrically beautiful syllables cut her off mid-threat. I had no idea what Marcus had just said, but Neffe’s reaction—her features going slack as she stumbled backward—told me he hadn’t been talking about fluffy bunnies and milkshakes. She rushed into the building. Or, at least, I think she rushed into the building—my attention had been completely hijacked by the thundercloud of a man approaching me.
“How much did you hear?” he asked, his voice hard.
“Um . . . I’m not sure. It didn’t really make sense.”
With a frigid laugh, Marcus said, “No, I don’t imagine it did.”
“Are you two . . . or, were you two, you know . . . involved?” I asked shakily. It had sounded like a lovers’ spat, and I really wasn’t interested in taking on an “other woman” role—not even for Marcus.
His responding laugh shed some of the chill, sounding almost tepid. “No, Lex, definitely not.”
I felt a sudden rush of relief. “Oh.”
“Neffe won’t bother you again, but perhaps you should go home for the day,” he suggested.
“Thank you, but, no. I don’t know if she thinks this excavation belongs to her, or what, but I won’t let her drive me away.”
Marcus’s lips pursed slightly, like he was trying not to smile. “Very well,” he said. “Just don’t leave too late. I’ll pick you up at seven this evening. Don’t forget . . .”
Unwilling to let him tease me into a pile of goo again, I stood up straighter. “I’m going to get back to work.”
“I’ll walk you up,” Marcus said, leading the way to the door and holding it open.
“So . . . what’s the plan for tonight? Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
For what seemed like the first time in my life, I was ready early. I’d been sitting in my usual kitchen chair, shaking the leather-clad foot of my crossed leg, when the knock sounded at the door. I bounced up and clacked across the hardwood floor in my knee-high boots.
I opened the door and offered a breathy “Hi.”
Marcus looked more amazing than usual in an impeccably tailored, charcoal suit and a faintly striped, white dress shirt. The top two buttons were undone, making him look a little relaxed . . . and slightly less intimidating than usual. His golden, tiger eyes scanned me slowly from my toes up, narrowing to predatory slits by the time they reached my face.
“Mmm . . . Lex,” he purred. “You look ravishing.”
I blushed at the compliment. I was wearing the only remotely acceptable date dress I had. It was a form-fitting, burgundy silk sheath that reached just below mid-thigh. I’d left my hair down, its dark, loose waves reaching the bottom of my shoulder blades.
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I mused, watching his eyes glitter at the understated compliment. Marcus, I was sure, was more used to women saying things like “Oh, you’re so beautiful, do me right now,” or “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen!” Sure, I was thinking both at the moment, but I figured his ego didn’t need any additional boosting.
He sighed dramatically. “As much as I hate to say it, I must advise you to cover your . . . delectable outfit with a warm coat. It’s snowing.” He said “snowing” like it was a disgusting wad of gum stuck to the bottom of one of his Armani shoes.
“What? Really?” I asked, instantly giddy. Abandoning Marcus in the open doorway, I rushed to the living room window to peer out into the night. Outside of the pools of light coming from the streetlamps, large, fluffy flakes of snow were nearly invisible, making the glowing areas look like conical snow globes.
“Do you always get this excited about snow?” Marcus asked from directly behind me, slipping the sleeves of a black wool trench coat—my third-favorite coat—up my bare arms and over my shoulders.
“No,” I said, laughing. “Only in this city—it never snows here!”
“I see,” he said, reaching around me to fasten the top button of my coat. Unlike the previous time he’d tried to bundle me up, I didn’t swat his hands away.
He moved closer, pressing the front of his suit against my backside from shoulders to mid-thigh. His delicious, spicy scent—like a mixture of cinnamon and nutmeg—enveloped me, along with his arms. Even through the fabric of our clothing, his body felt like layers of powerful, hard-packed muscle. I let my arms dangle, feeling electrically alive with his immense strength wrapped so gently around me. It was like I was a kitten in the lethal clutches of a panther, and I’d never felt more safe.
His wrists lightly skimmed my breasts several times as he fitted the first black disk through its intended slit. With each descending button, an increasingly familiar fluttering amplified in my abdomen. It began like the usual butterflies that burst into life whenever I was around a man I was interested in, but by the third button, located a few inches below my navel, the butterflies had morphed into something larger and more substantial. By the fourth and final button, located directly over my pubic bone, I felt like I had a charm of hummingbirds buzzing around inside me, my whole body thrumming with their frenzied rhythm. Marcus lingered long enough on that lowest enclosure to assure me of his eventual intentions without seeming overtly improprietous. Oh, he definitely seemed improprietous . . . just not overtly so.
When he stepped away, my breathing was noticeably quickened and I’d forgotten the snow entirely. Somehow, putting on a heavy winter coat had been the single most erotic experience of my entire life. Damn . . . I’m in way over my head.
Marcus cleared his throat. “We should go.”
I took a moment to compose myself before turning. “Certainly,” I said with forced cheerfulness. I didn’t want to go anywhere; I wanted to stand in that exact spot while the man before me removed everything I was wearing with the same agonizing attention he’d used to button my coat.
I accepted his outstretched arm, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow, and we departed my apartment. We left behind most of the sexual tension. Unfortunately, Marcus created the stuff like an industrial fog machine.
“So what kind of car is this, anyway?” I asked as he helped me into the same low coupe he’d driven me home in days before. It was slate-gray, sleek, and a perfect match for its driver.
“An Aston Martin Vantage,” Marcus told me, getting into the driver’s side.
“Oh, wow,” I said, trying not to touch anything unnecessarily. I was about as far as you could get from being a car person, but I wasn’t completely clueless. “It’s, um . . . really nice.”
He laughed, a deep, throaty sound. “I agree. It’s my favorite.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it was his favorite car in the world or his favorite among his own car collection. He’s not just an archaeologist, I reminded myself. He’s Nejeret and a member of the Council of Seven . . .
The short drive passed in aching, palpable silence. Though most of my mental power was focused on not jumping the driver, I did manage to spare a few thoughts about where we were going. We skirted the western edge of campus and its many apartment buildings until we reached Ravenna, the adorable neighborhood abutting the university’s northern edge. Fraternities and sororities filled the first few blocks with their deceptively beautiful exteriors, slowly giving way to the ivy-covered porches and manicured gardens of a truly residential area. Some of the university’s wealthier faculty members and scholars occupied the stately mixture of brick homes and craftsman bungalows.
“Unless there’s an unmarked restaurant here,
I’m assuming this is your house,” I said as we pulled into a narrow gravel driveway. In Ravenna, the presence of any driveway was a sign of luxury, not that the house needed it.
I examined my new surroundings as I emerged from the car. The house was ash-gray with white trim and had an adorable porch spanning the entire front. The centered brick steps leading up to the porch were lined with clay pots brimming with purple, red, and white pansies.
“Welcome to my home away from home,” Marcus said as he reached for my hand and led me into the house.
On the walk from entryway to dining room, I peered around at the warm furnishings and tasteful decorations. It was comfy, but nothing I would’ve expected from Marcus, décor-wise. In the dining room, a square, oak table was set for two with the extravagant complexity and perfection of an Edwardian steward. There were more pieces of silverware than I knew what to do with.
“Why, Marcus,” I said, laughing. “Are you making me dinner?”
He chuckled as he held out the chair before the nearest place setting, waiting for me to sit. He sat at the spot on the adjacent side of the table and said, “Definitely not. My culinary repertoire is”—his lips widened to a self-effacing grin—“dated. Breakfast is my strong point.” His grin turned wicked, knowing. “What do you prefer in your omelets, Little Ivanov?”
I, of course, blushed furiously at the implication that he would one day be making me breakfast . . . likely after I’d spent the night tangled with him in bed. I’d never been a big blusher, and it was becoming an irritating habit.
Like the flip of a switch, Marcus’s face blanked and he explained, “My man, Carlisle, is preparing everything tonight. His food is as good as any I’ve ever eaten . . . which is saying something. Besides, I thought we’d need the privacy”—his lips quirked, but his face remained expressionless—“for your questions, of course.”
I raised my eyebrows at his veiled presumptions. Before I could comment, a man—Carlisle—entered the room carrying two small plates. He definitely wasn’t the seasoned, older gentleman I’d expected for someone Marcus regarded as such a talented chef. After Marcus introduced us, Carlisle set the plates in front of us and retreated through a door that I assumed led to the kitchen.
“Carlisle is different than I’d expected,” I remarked. I had to admit, the man was exceptionally talented, at least from a presentation standpoint. He’d turned a salad into a minimalistic composition of edible art. Taking a small bite, I noted that the little bundle of color on my plate was at least as delicious as it was beautiful, with sliced heirloom beets, apple, and pickled fennel, all lightly glazed with a tangy vinaigrette.
Marcus chuckled as he chewed. “Don’t let his appearance fool you.”
“What do you . . . he’s Nejeret?”
Marcus nodded.
“And he serves you?” I asked doubtfully. “Doesn’t he need to do Nejeret things?”
With another chuckle, Marcus clarified, “He works for me, Lex. We are born Nejeret, like humans are born human or cats are born cats. It’s not our occupation. Nejeret is what we are, but we decide what we do.”
“Oh,” I said, a little abashed at my assumption. “So Carlisle is a personal chef?”
Nodding, Marcus finished his bite. “In a way, yes. We all find something we excel at, something we enjoy more than anything else. Call it our . . .” He paused, thinking. “Our passion. For Carlisle, it’s the culinary arts . . . and organizing—things, people, you name it, he can whip it into working shape.”
I was quiet for a few minutes, contemplating Marcus’s words while I finished my salad. “And you?” I finally asked, leaning in with interest. “What’s your passion?”
Marcus waited for Carlisle to switch out our plates before answering. Instead of a mini salad, I now had two delicately flavored fish tacos, blessedly more substantial than the previous course. I started eating, not-so-patiently waiting for Marcus’s response.
“I’m a fighter . . . a warrior,” he eventually said. “Lex, you know I’m on the Council. Well, my role there is militaristic. I’m our people’s general. It’s what I’m good at . . . and what I enjoy.” His serious tone implied something graver than his words alone suggested . . . something I had yet to grasp.
Slowly, I shook my head, feeling a crease appear between my eyebrows.
“Damn it, Lex,” Marcus said with surprising ferocity, and I flinched imperceptibly. “You must understand this!” He held my eyes, his demanding stare boring into me. “Strategy and death, that’s what I am. It’s what I’ve been for millennia.”
Is he trying to scare me off? He was a fool if he was, and Marcus was no fool. The embodiment of tranquility, I said, “That’s very interesting.”
“Interesting?” He looked baffled.
“Yeah, Marcus . . . interesting. You hurt people.” Like you hurt Mike, I thought. “You kill people.” I glanced down at my plate, considering how best to say what I felt. “I get it, and, um . . . I’m okay with it.” At least I was fairly certain that I was. How many battles has he fought? How many wars has he been a part of? Were they human wars, or other, unknown-to-me Nejeret wars? How much death has he caused? “Exactly how old are you, anyway?”
Caught off guard by my question, Marcus’s domineering presence evaporated.
While I waited for his response, I ate . . . everything. Carlisle was a genius. Marcus took his time, eating and watching me, not speaking.
“Okay,” I said, realizing he wasn’t going to answer. “So, Heru . . . Horus. Is the god named after you or you after him?” I asked, using a less direct tactic. It would at least give me an over-under. Please say you’re named after the god, I thought. Please tell me you’re under five thousand years old.
“Are you sure you want to know? The truth is the truth, but you cannot unknow it.” After reading my silence as acquiescence, he looked into my eyes and answered my question. “I inspired the myths.”
My stomach dropped. “Oh my God,” I said, at a loss for real, meaningful words.
If he inspired the Heru myths, then he had to be at least five thousand years old, give or take a millennia or two. The world had changed so much in that time, civilizations had risen and fallen, thousands of wars had been fought. Had he been involved in most of them? All of them? How could a relationship between us ever work? How could I ever be enough for a man who’d walked the earth for more than five millennia? I shook my head back and forth, staring at him with eyes wide from both shock and awe. “You . . . you’re . . . my God . . .”
“Carlisle!” Marcus called out. “Bring wine with the next course.”
Numb, I looked down at the suddenly full plate before me. A plump filet of beef tempted me with its promised deliciousness. But . . . Marcus is older than Alexander, older than the Egyptian civilization. How many people has he killed? How many women has he slept with? How many has he loved? How many children has he fathered? How many . . .
Marcus said nothing else for a long time, other than telling Carlisle to leave the bottle while I worked through my questions. I demolished the steak and wine with an intensity usually reserved for kneading bread or beating the crap out of someone.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, I decided that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that my life so far had been a blink in comparison to his or that he might grow bored of me in another blink. I wouldn’t let my self-doubt get in the way of knowing the man who’d inspired one of ancient Egypt’s most beloved and fearsome gods. I wanted to know Heru. I wanted to know Marcus. I wanted to know him.
“Okay,” I said. “What else?”
For a moment, I thought he might ignore me, staring as he was at his empty plate. “Josh, Dominic, and Neffe are Nejeret. They know that you are too.”
“Okay,” I said quietly.
He held his breath for a moment. “And Neffe is my daughter.” He sounded resolute in his defeat, like with that statement I would run for the hills, shunning him, his excavation, and our people as I fled.
I thought about Marcus’s age and Neffe’s status as a Nejerette, and a horrid, cold feeling seeped into my spine. “What’s Neffe’s full name, Marcus?”
“Neferure.”
“Neferure,” I repeated. “As in . . .”
“Hatchepsut’s daughter, yes,” he finished for me.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. Neferure, the daughter of the famous female pharaoh, had disappeared from historical record as a young woman. Her mummy had never been found, though a tomb had been constructed for her. Well, I guess that explains the mystery of the missing princess, I thought.
Marcus refilled our wine glasses, emptying the bottle between us, but remained quiet.
“The others, are they your kids too?”
“Josh and Dominic?” When I nodded, he said, “No.”
“Carlisle?” I asked.
“No. Carlisle is only a few centuries old, and I haven’t fathered a child in over a thousand years,” Marcus explained.
Our plates were replaced twice more and a second bottle of wine had been brought out while I processed the information.
Finally, Marcus said, “You must have other questions, Lex. Now is the time to ask them.” It was the understatement of the century—I had other questions like stray dogs had fleas.
“What are your talents? Obviously you can cloak yourself, or whatever the correct terminology is, but do you have any others?” I asked, genuinely curious.
For the briefest moment, Marcus looked offended, but the dark emotion quickly melted into amusement. “You should know, Lex, that asking a Nejeret about his talents is akin to asking a woman how many men she’s bedded. So, how many men have you bedded?”
I waved his question away. “But Alexander didn’t mind,” I explained. “I . . . I don’t need to know everything . . . it’s okay. I’m sorry if that was rude.” I looked down at my hands, which were resting on my lap, wondering if there was any way to hide my sudden shame.
“Lex,” Marcus said, his tone like honey dripping onto white-hot coals. “I’m not offended. If I were weak or had no talents, I might be, but I am neither of those things. Just be mindful in the future of whom you ask that question, okay?”
