12.21.12: The Vessel (The Altunai Annals)

by Killian McRae

  Shep snaked his arm under Victoria while Alex took her other side. Now that they were turned toward shore and making good progress, Shep tried to gauge where they were. Had they somehow fallen out of the warehouse windows? Yes, that must have been it. He remembered a flash. There had probably been an explosion, and the force of the blast had blown them into the Thames.

  Only, Kronastia’s flat had been in South London, and nowhere near Big Ben. The view was fuzzy, but he was pretty certain there was a tower rising from the profile of buildings before them. And when had the air gotten so warm? Ah, the blast. Any second now, his skin would dull from the chill of the London December night. Any second.

  “Holy cow!” Shep’s voice trailed off as his eyesight sharpened. Without doubt, he knew that prestigious edifice anywhere. “That’s the Lotus Tower! But that’s in Cairo!”

  Alex coughed, returning in a snappish tone, “Yeah, I figured she’d pull us here. Why fly when you can fly, you know?”

  “In Cairo!” Shep repeated. His tone was nervous, questioning, but he continued to paddle toward the bank. “How the hell did we get to Cairo? Why did Dmitri Kronastia have you tied up in his warehouse? And why the hell are you two-timing Monique with Victoria Kent?”

  “I’m not two-timing Monique!” Alex retorted, taking in a mouthful of water as he said it, coughing and sputtering. Shep tried to relieve his burden by gathering Victoria closer. “We can handle details later. Right now, we need a place we can hide. I don’t think Kronastia can port without Victoria near, but he sure as hell can hop on a plane.”

  Victoria’s head rolled to the side as she momentarily came to. Her voice came out as an abrasive whisper in Shep’s ear. “Anathea ... Hermapolous’s house.”

  They had reached a dock and just in the nick of time. Shep didn’t think he could keep them both above water much longer.

  “What?” he called to the dripping woman as he hoisted her up to safety.

  “You ... you know ...” She coughed, water spouting from her mouth. “You know where ... Anathea’s house ...”

  Shep reached out his hand to Alex and helped him crawl up to safety. “I know where it is, but she won’t let us in. Trust me, she doesn’t see anyone.”

  He knew from experience.

  Victoria’s eyes cracked open. “She will,” she assured him in her meek tone.

  Instinctively trying to comfort a damsel in distress, Shep pulled her into his lap. “I’m not convinced what you are or are not, but I’m pretty sure that the whole studying-under-Anathea thing was a bunch of malarkey. And you look ... injured. What we need to do is get you to a hospital.” And me to a shrink.

  Her chest shook as she brought up more of the Nile. “No, Shep.” With a trembling hand, she struggled to stroke his cheek. “You don’t understand, I am Anathea.”

  -Ψ-

  Horns blared as they darted from lane to alley to byway. Shep could feel the weight of the stares as they laced through the crowds. It was, no doubt, a curious sight to the locals: a middle-aged white man holding a passed-out, twenty-something, native beauty, dripping water, in his arms as his eyes surveyed the paths ahead. Trailing behind him was an equally desperate-looking younger man, hair slicked and eyes inhumanly green. Something had happened to the woman, or was about to, and both these men were determined to get her out from the public eye yesterday if not before.

  “How do you know where her house is?” Alex asked Shep.

  He didn’t pause to answer, only dashed to the right as he orientated to their location, and spoke over his shoulder. “Before I left Egypt for the last time, I tracked down her address through some old real estate records. I stood outside her house for two days, staring through the gate before Anathea finally got annoyed.”

  “So you saw her then,” Alex concluded.

  “No, she never actually came out. Her maid—at least, I think it was her maid—asked me several times to leave. The police finally showed up in the end.”

  He still couldn’t believe he had made so desperate an attempt. Christine had been buried in Cairo. Oddly enough, that request had been spelled out in her will. It perplexed him; Christine had never seemed particularly fond of the country. He wanted her to be buried ... he didn’t know. Her hometown in New England, maybe, or in the same graveyard as his own mother and father in Oklahoma? Even Boston would have been better. Not in Egypt, not so very far from him. As much as the thought grieved him, he was angry at her for it. How could she deny him so simple a comfort as having her resting place nearby to him?

  But then, Shep thought, if her grave were far from him, he would never have to visit it. In that way, he could better face her death. It would be a reality removed. If he kept himself from Egypt, that was. So, making up his mind in his traditionally stubborn way, he swore he would never return to Cairo again until it was time for his bones to rest in a grave next to Christine. It seemed a crazy decision for an Egyptologist, like a surgeon vowing never to scrub in again. One thing he had to do before he left Cairo, however, was see Anathea Hermapolous. There was no one he knew who would be more capable of proving his theory about Cleopatra’s murder. If he could only see that through, then Christine had not died in vain. He had been determined to come face to face with Anathea at least once.

  Lo and behold, he had and not even known. Victoria Kent. Shep was beyond the surprise anymore. At this point, someone could tell him that Stalin and Roosevelt took turns cross-dressing and calling themselves Golda Meir and he’d believe it with no less or greater sense of awe than what he currently felt. His emotions and his world view had been so shaken the last few days, his body and his mind had simply gone numb as a defense.

  “Jesus Christ, Alex, was she actually after me? Was she too guilty to face me right after Christine died? She said she sent Christine …” His voice turned up an alley of confusion.

  “That was all a lie, Shep.”

  “Dmitri says she doesn’t tell lies.”

  Alex shrugged. “Guess there’s a first time for everything. What I want to know is why. We’ve got to get her conscious again.”

  They continued on without much talk. Shep had asked at one point about getting a cab, but as neither one of them had any money or identification, and as they were carrying an unconscious woman that could raise suspicion, it wasn’t an option.

  Finally, they reached the gates. Anathea’s home was one of a few old English-styled buildings in Cairo, set behind heavy bars that rose ten feet high, but bore distinct indigenous accents. The windows, for example, all had been latticed over with wooden panels bearing geometric motifs. The house itself was nothing too impressive. In London, it would have been yet another Victorian two-story. Here, however, in a city so crowded that some made homes in old cemeteries, the spacious lot was a luxury. There was a security keypad embedded in the stone column to the right of the entrance.

  He looked down at the woman in his arm and trembled. The color had drained from her face, and if he didn’t know better, he would say she was deathly sick, maybe even dying.

  “She is,” Alex said.

  Shep looked at him curiously. “Is what?”

  “Sick,” he returned matter-of-factly. Shep’s mouth dropped as Alex continued, “Yes, I can hear your thoughts. Most of them, anyway. You’re thinking really loudly right now.”

  “Shouldn’t we take her to a hospital?”

  “Nothing the doctors could do for her. I know what she needs, but it will take me a little time to find it.” Alex punched a series of numbers into the keypad, and by some miracle, the locks disengaged as the door swung open. “Take her inside and get her out of the wet clothes. You too, of course. I’m not sure what you’re going to find to wear, but she wanted us to just stay here and lie low until morning.”

  “And you know this because ...”

  Alex smirked and tapped two
fingers to his forehead indicatively. “Lots to catch up on. Go inside. I’ll be back soon.”

  Inside, Shep found himself in a room full of sheet-covered furniture. On the wall above the fireplace was a portrait of Victoria, a la the Italian Renaissance. Passing through the sitting room, he found the stairs, at the top of which was a bedroom straight out of Howard’s End.

  The wet clothes fell with a slosh onto the floor of the master suite bathroom, placing the bag she’d had strapped to her side on top of it. Shep tried his best not to ogle Victoria in her undergarments, and forced himself to put her in her bed and throw a heavy blanket over her instead. Delicately, he worked his hands under the blanket and removed the last remnants of wet clothes, preserving her modesty a little. Shep returned to the bathroom and pulled off his own clothes, but couldn’t bring himself to take off his boxers. Instead, he grabbed a thick cotton towel from the linen closet of the bath and tied it around his waist.

  Victoria’s chest slowly rose and fell, and Shep breathed a sigh of relief that she seemed to be at ease for the moment. Cautiously, he decided to slip under the blanket on the queen bed as well. He needed warmth. He was determined to stay awake until Alex returned, but his body had different ideas. It had endured too much. It needed to recoup.

  As the blanket began to reflect his own heat back at him, the comfort enveloped him, and his eyes drifted closed.

  Chapter 25

  In the week since he’d met her, Shep had already discovered that Victoria Kent had a history that included being an ancient world tourist, an Egyptian goddess, an Israeli special forces officer, an international black market antiques dealer, a college friend of his wife’s, and half-alien. That she was also Anathea Hermapolous, a prominent luminary in the area of Near Eastern archaeology? It was no more a shock than finding out your straight-laced friend led a secret life as a Rocky Horror Picture Show fan.

  Alex had been gone for hours. The scant amount of sleep Shep had gotten came to an abrupt end when Victoria’s shaking had woken him. The seizure only lasted a few moments. As soon as he covered her with another blanket and stroked her hair in comfort, she stilled. He felt a twinge of anxiety as he looked at her and pressed the palm of his hand against her cheek. Victoria’s lacked her normally bright complexion, her breathing had become far too shallow. No matter what he did, she didn’t wake. It was like she was in a coma.

  In silence, he got up and found his clothes, now dried out, and dressed.

  He meandered down the stairs and into her foyer, ripping dusty sheets as he went. Every surface was covered in relics; not just archeological treasures great and small, but photographs. Ever so many photographs. Among them, one face that he recognized: Christine, probably about seventeen years old, posing with her parents, a child who looked barely more than a toddler, and there between them all, Victoria.

  Shep picked up the picture and eyed it more closely.

  “What you got there?”

  Alex’s voice nearly made him drop the heavy-metal gilded frame. “What? Um ... Just a picture.”

  Alex wasn’t alone. Under his arm, a brassy blonde with black roots stood silent and expectant. When Shep’s stare settled on the C-cups before him, Alex mouthed, “For Vick.”

  What would Victoria need with an Egyptian prostitute? he wondered. For the moment, his attention stayed fixed on the picture, however. Shep extended a finger and pointed to the toddler in the photo as he held it up for Alex to see.

  “This you?”

  Alex dragged the whore under his arm and leaned in closer, studying the photo. “I guess so. I don’t remember it being taken, but looks like I was really young. Jesus, is that ...”

  “Sure looks like her,” Shep agreed. Even if the circumstances were beyond belief, Shep held on to his smile at having found a little memento of his wife. He replaced the photo on the table where it had stood. Turning now to Alex, he could no longer withhold his inquiries, even with present company. “What the hell is going on? How are you involved with all this? How was Christine? And what happened to your eyes?”

  To both of their surprises, it was the call girl who spoke, though her English was as fractured as the tile floor on which they stood. “We make the sex now. I have no time for chit chatty.”

  Alex blushed as Shep eyed him curiously. “Actually, my friend, Vick, is waiting for you upstairs. That pair of double doors right at the top, just go on in. If she’s asleep, don’t feel badly about trying to wake her. She really needs your company.”

  The call girl’s head whipped to the left, looking at the stairs. “You did not say woman. Costs more. I only gay for pay.”

  Beginning to push her upstairs, Alex gave her a warm smile. “Of course. However much you like. When she wakes up, tell her that Alex sent you to quench her thirst.”

  Hesitantly, she began to climb each step nervously, as though she suspected all she might get from this deal was screwed. Taking a quick survey of all the treasures mounted on the walls must have assured her of Alex’s ability to deliver, however, and with a quickened step she took the last few stairs spritely and disappeared into Victoria’s room. When she was gone, Alex turned back to Shep.

  “I am a member of The Order,” he said matter-of-factly when they were alone. “We serve the goddess.”

  “And by the goddess you mean Victoria.”

  Alex nodded. “She’s Sekhmet, though some call her Hecate. But, yes, Victoria.”

  “So, you worship Victoria,” Shep attempted to confirm.

  Alex gave a wry laugh. “No, Shep. I’m Catholic, as you know. I don’t worship her. I serve her.”

  “In what capacity?”

  Alex’s hand ran nervously through his hair as he sat on the arm of the nearby sofa. “She had me on retrieval and recovery until a few days ago. You see, Victoria’s been on a mission for years. The time of isolation—that’s the period in which the Altunai ... Well, the Altunai are this group of ... And humans … Wow, I just don’t know where to start.”

  “Kronastia already gave me a Cliff Notes version on the history of Altunai-Human relations. What I don’t get is why you’re wrapped up in this. What in the hell were you thinking, trying to take on a Russian mobster?”

  “He’s not a Russian mobster.” Alex’s back straightened. He spoke with such confidence, Shep realized suddenly his wife’s little brother was no longer a child, but a man. “I am her proxy. I’m like her minion, I guess, but totally voluntarily. She gave me a little of her abilities, and I’m using them to serve the cause.”

  A low chuckle was too hard to suppress. “Why in the hell would you care about Victoria Kent’s cause? What does it mean to you?”

  “It means I can help save humanity and the woman I love. And more than that, it means I can avenge the death of my sister,” Alex answered. “You know? Your wife.”

  “What are you talking about?” Shep shook his head vigorously in denial. “No, Alex. I get it. Believe me, I do. When Christine died, I wanted to blame someone, too. Truth is, sometimes shit just happens. Sometimes, accidents just happen.”

  “You don’t understand. Christine was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” The thought was preposterous. “C’mon!”

  “Well, fancy that,” Alex sighed sarcastically. “The very man who ruined his career trying to prove a two-thousand year old murder can’t see the one that happened right in front of his eyes three years ago.”

  “Alex, believe me, in some ways I’d actually be relieved to find out Christine was murdered.” At least then there’d be a reason behind it, no matter how heinous. “But why, and by whom?”

  Alex looked incredulous. “You can’t figure it out?”

  “Alex, that’s enough.”

  Both their heads snapped when they heard Victoria’s voice at the top of the stairs. A double take wasn’t sufficient; Shep had
to take in the view three times to be convinced he wasn’t dreaming. More than refreshed, Victoria was renewed. With both her eyes bright, she looked every bit the energetic coed he’d mistaken her for almost a week before.

  “Shep doesn’t need to be burdened with our internal politics,” she continued.

  “Yasmin do you okay?”

  Shep was many things, but slow wasn’t one of them. It didn’t take long for him to figure out that if Dmitri as an Altunai had to feed off human life force, Victoria did the same.

  Her reply only served to confirm that hypothesis. “Indeed. Why a woman, though? You know how I feel about that.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed, his hands flew up. “I’ll do many things for you, Vick, but trying to pick up a guy in a country where Sharia law is making a comeback isn’t one. By the way, what the hell was all that crap in London about being in love with Shep and me?”

  She shooed the question aside with the wave of her hand as she made her way to the bottom of the stairs, her hands clutching the strap of the small side bag she’d been carrying since London. “Soon. I’ll explain soon. Right now we have more important matters to which to attend. The girl, how much did you promise her?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Three hundred dollars!” Victoria let out an exasperated sigh before pinching the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

  “Not dollars,” Alex corrected. “Euro.”

  “Jesus Christ! I know I have plenty of money, but that doesn’t mean we should go tossing it about as though it’s air. She’s sleeping it off. Slip her two hundred in her clothes with a note to let herself out.”

  Alex pulled out the emptiness that was his pockets and motioned to them indicatively.

  Victoria pointed to the door on the far side of the room. “In the pantry, in a box labeled ‘tea biscuits’.”