In Bonds of the Earth (Book of the Watchers 2)

by Janine Ashbless

  “Vidimus?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it that they do?”

  “Mostly we keep an eye on the imprisoned Watchers, the ones we know about. We try to track down the ones we don’t know. And we hunt Nephilim. Human nature being what it is, there have been a few conceived from the prisoners over the years. Quis custodiet ipsos custodies…”

  Uriel had quoted exactly that at me the first time we met, and hearing it from Egan made my hair bristle.

  “Vidimus means ‘We Have Seen’. What have they seen, Egan?”

  “Shite you wouldn’t believe.” For a moment looking into his face was like looking into unending night—and then he smiled, sadly, and he was my old Egan again. “There you go. Do you know me a bit better now, Milja? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  13

  FEVER

  What I knew was that I wanted to grasp his face and kiss all that pain away. But I couldn’t do that. Instead I flipped my seat buckle and scooted right to the edge, reaching across the gap between us to touch his uninjured cheek. His skin burned beneath the blond stubble. There were no words with which to answer him.

  Oh God, Egan, you are a mess.

  He’d offered me a glimpse into the monsters his life held, both mythic and personal. He’d shown me that he’d been broken, and how he’d been put back together again—and from here on there could be no hiding the cracks. For all he’d tried to care for me, his soul was as crazed and fragmented as my own.

  “Egan,” I whispered, inaudible above the drone of the engines and only my lips shaping the words. “Oh, Egan, we are so screwed.”

  He turned his face and pressed his lips to my palm. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes pale, like he wanted to nest there.

  “Oh no,” I said, snatching my hand away, earning a startled flash of his eyes. “Don’t do that—I’m probably carrying dysentery and everything!”

  He exhaled, looking relieved not repulsed. I think he’d suspected a much more personal rejection. Then he reached across and rooted in the side pocket of his rucksack.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered, hating myself so much that I physically wrung my hands, as if I could rub away the prison germs.

  “No, I should have thought of this earlier.” He held out a packet of antibiotic wipes, and I snatched them from his grasp.

  “I’m so filthy… Oh God this is horrible. I need a shower. I need to wash my hair.”

  “Don’t worry.” Egan unbuckled and stood. “We’ll be in a hotel soon. I’ll go have a chat with John up front. Knock on the cabin door when you’ve finished.”

  I tried to smile at him, grateful for his understanding. When I was alone in the passenger cabin I scrubbed and scrubbed at my face and hands with those little moist towelettes, peeling away my foul garments one at a time to access armpits and underboobs, crotch and feet, desperate to feel clean again. I used up every one of those wipes. If I could have cried I would probably have broken down, but the lack of release kept me focused.

  It also gave me time to think. To replay everything Egan had confessed. So much violence in his life. Did I still feel safe with him now that I knew?

  His sisters. Oh, that was awful. No wonder he was such a white knight—he must still be haunted by his helplessness.

  His mission. Vidimus. This wasn’t a matter of faith, was it? His enmity toward Azazel wasn’t based on blind obedience to Church dogma. He knew that angels existed, he’d seen one for himself; Michael in all his terrible ruthless glory. He knew exactly what the Fallen had wrought through their intrusion into humanity. He’d seen what their children were like. He’d had to kill his brothers-in-arms to put a stop to one.

  Did he mean what he said about a peaceful solution? A Good Friday agreement between Heaven and Hell?

  Nice idea. What if it falls through? Which way will he jump?

  I couldn’t bear to put my stinking boots back on so I stowed them at the back of the cabin and padded barefoot up the aisle to knock on the door. By the time Egan came out I was sitting back in my seat, my bare feet tucked under me.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked, alarmed by the sweat beads on his brow and the uncomfortable way he slid into his seat.

  “I need to scare up some antibiotics when we land. This arm is sort of hot and tight.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Sure, not to worry.” He grimaced. “Look what I found for breakfast.” He pulled two chocolate bars out of his sling and tossed one across to me. A little crease appeared between his brow as he watched me tear the wrapper open and cram it into my mouth. “Here,” he said mildly, handing me the second.

  “Y’shoor?” I mumbled through the mouthful I was still chewing.

  “Go on. I should have stopped the car to pick up some proper food.” He shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

  I didn’t have the strength of will to refuse his gallantry, but I tried to slow down for the second candy bar. I was halfway through when he spoke again.

  “So, are you ready to tell me what happened in Lalibela?”

  I froze, my head bowed.

  “Since we’re being honest with each other?”

  I had to force myself to meet his gaze. I swallowed carefully. “Egan, I don’t think I can. Really. I’m sorry. I know it must have been so hard for you to tell me all that. I feel awful. But I just can’t.”

  He didn’t get angry. He didn’t even look surprised. He just nodded, sagging a little. “You still can’t trust me.”

  No I couldn’t, but that was only the half of it. “If I told you,” I choked, “you would hate me.”

  “I find that hard to imagine.” His voice was soft. “Try me.”

  I didn’t want to talk. Anything I said might, I knew, be used against Azazel. That I could talk to imprisoned Watchers in my dreams? That I’d smuggled him onto holy ground by allowing him to possess me?—those tricks were ones we might need in future. That Roshana was there—then why? That she was one of the Nephilim?—then she was his enemy too, assuming she was alive. That Uriel had taken her?—then her body could be bargained for.

  But I couldn’t shut Egan out. He’d bared a part of his soul to me. We had so much guilt in common. “People died,” I admitted.

  “Okay.” His tone didn’t change. “Did you kill them deliberately, by your own hand, with no thought for self-defense or loyalty or love?”

  I shook my head, once.

  “Then I can’t even start to hate you. You know some of what I’ve done in my time, now.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Well yeah, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. I remember Ratko.”

  “Ratko?”

  “That guard in the monastery.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I do try to feel bad about that one, for theological reasons you understand.” His eyes were full of dark memories. He’d killed Ratko for hurting me and threatening my life. “I haven’t succeeded so far.”

  I bit my lip, voiceless.

  “Okay so, I’m going to assume the murdery stuff was done by the Fallen. Priests or pilgrims?”

  “Priests, and it wasn’t like that. It was a proper fight. He didn’t just murder them.”

  “How does anyone fight your man there?”

  “They summoned Saint George.” Even as the words came out of my mouth I felt it was a mistake—and not because Egan didn’t believe me. He looked startled, certainly, but interested. Way too interested.

  “Really?”

  “I think it was George,” I mumbled, feeling my stomach turn over. My body was better at spotting when I was making a mistake than my messed-up brain was. “He had a spear.” I’ve already told him about the spear, haven’t I? “It was vile, this whole Night of the Living Dead sort of thing.”

  “Okay…that’s a new one.”

  I bit my lip hard. I shouldn’t have told him that was possible.

  “So the priests were just collateral damage?”

  I nodded, reluctantly.

  “You said Penemuel was
injured. But could still be alive. Taken away, I assume then.”

  I had said that, hadn’t I? “Uhuh.”

  “But your man hasn’t come back for you since.”

  I shook my head.

  Egan let out a long breath. “Well I’ll tell you one thing, Milja, it sounds like you’re lucky you were just dumped off in prison without a covering note. Someone was being very restrained.”

  I’ve got Uriel to thank for that, I think. Oh hell. What advantage does Uriel gain keeping me safe and alive? “You told the warden I was your sister?” I croaked.

  “You’re my sister in Christ.” He tried to shrug, and winced. “From a broad ecumenical perspective.”

  “And you wonder why I can’t trust you.” I smiled sadly.

  “Milja, I would give the last breath in my body to save you. You know that.” He wasn’t forceful, but he was dead serious.

  My heart clenched. Yes, I did know that. “Why is that, Egan?” I whispered.

  Maybe he didn’t hear me over the engine noise. Maybe he couldn’t read my lips, or the ache in my eyes. But whatever, he didn’t answer.

  The plane started to angle downward.

  “Are we landing?” I asked, letting him off the hook.

  “No, we’re just dropping off the Ethiopian plateau. We’ve got a few hours to go yet. And I think I need some sleep now.”

  By the time we booked into the hotel in Djibouti City, Egan was feeling so unwell that I insisted on carrying the full rucksack. He asked at reception for the hotel doctor, pointing at his sling, and then we walked through the dark corridors to our ground-floor room.

  “You want to keep an eye on me?” I asked, surprised he’d checked us into the one room together. Not displeased, I admit; just surprised.

  “You got a passport to show them?” he answered wearily. He hadn’t claimed I was his sister, or his wife; he’d just said nothing, and the hotel had let it slide. The place was large but run-down and everything was brown, like some 1970s film set.

  Our room was beige too, and rather dingy, but it had generously sized twin beds and an en-suite, and there were dusty palm trees outside the window. It felt stuffy and humid in here so as soon as I’d dumped the baggage on a chair I turned to the air-con control box.

  “Please don’t,” said Egan, sitting on the end of the bed. “I’m feeling really cold.”

  He wasn’t kidding. “You’re shaking,” I said, going over to put my hand on his forehead. He’d stopped sweating, but he was still raging hot to my touch. “You should get under the covers.”

  “I’ll sit up and wait for the medic.” He wrapped his good arm around his chest.

  I pulled the top end of the coverlet up from his bed and draped it over his shoulders, tucking it around him. For a moment he leaned into me, seeking warmth, and I slipped my arms about him.

  “Milja. I’m sorry. I’ll make some calls once I get some drugs in me.”

  “That’s no problem.” I stroked his hair. “There’s no hurry. Is it okay if I use the shower?”

  “Feel free.”

  “Will you be all right?”

  “I’m fine.” That was obviously not true. His teeth were actually juddering together.

  “Ah—I haven’t got a change of clothes.” I was musing aloud more than complaining.

  “There’s a clean shirt in the bag there if you want to borrow that. We’ll go shopping later… I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. I’d be rotting in an Ethiopian prison if it weren’t for you.”

  “Your man is a piece of shite, leaving you there. I hope you know that.”

  I laughed, unhappily. I’m sure there’s a reason, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud. And I couldn’t guess what that reason might be. Now that my immediate fear for my own life had ebbed away, I could feel the great dark dread lurking beneath. What had happened to Azazel? What was he doing?

  “Okay, I’m going to go get clean,” was all I dared say.

  I dug a folded shirt out of the rucksack and retreated into the bathroom. As soon as I could I tore off my own clothes and threw them into a corner.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  It felt so good to be naked. I stared at myself in the mirror, bracing myself for the worst—and I got a shock; I didn’t look anything like as terrible as I ought to. Filthy, yes. There was a gray tidemark of grime around my throat, and my unnaturally pale hair was rough and staring. But my face, my skin…

  Oh God.

  There wasn’t a single bruise. I’d been punched and slapped and scratched, and my face should have looked just as bad as Egan’s. But underneath all the dirt, I wasn’t even puffy-eyed. I twisted in front of the mirror, checking my back and shoulders. Not a mark. And my blonde was growing out—the roots already dark.

  Witch.

  I supposed I should be grateful to my Dorian Gray body, and to Azazel.

  It wasn’t something I could afford to worry about now anyway. I went and flipped the shower tap instead. My patience was eventually rewarded with warm water, and I took my time to scrub myself thoroughly clean. I shampooed twice. The sensation of cleanliness was utterly blissful, like some sort of heavenly redemption. While I was toweling off I heard a muffled knock at our bedroom door, and a low, sporadic conversation between Egan and some other man that ended in a “Thank you,” the door closing and silence.

  Good, I thought.

  I pulled the shirt on over my head. It was the collarless one I’d seen Egan wear in Lalibela, and I guess I’d made the wrong choice because it hadn’t been laundered since; the scent of his skin was all around me like incense as the garment settled on my shoulders. Something inside me clenched with a sharp, sweet pain, and suddenly my legs were so weak that I had to sit on the toilet lid. The hand I raised to push back my wet hair was shaking.

  Goddamn. While I was in prison, the very fear for my life had held me together, but now I felt like I was flying apart in pieces. The fracture lines in my heart threatened to splinter me into a thousand shards. I felt so alone that I ached, physically. More than anything else, I needed to be held. I needed to feel skin against my skin in primal animal comfort. I wanted to be home, safe, secure in my lover’s arms—all the things I could not have.

  Could never have, perhaps.

  Sitting on a toilet in a dingy African hotel bathroom, I felt Azazel’s abandonment like a wound under my ribcage.

  Slowly, feeling like it was the heaviest of labors, I rolled the shirt sleeves up to fit my arms. The cotton was soft, and brushed loosely on the tops of my legs when I stood. Just about decent.

  I couldn’t bear to put any of my befouled old clothes on—not even my panties—so I bundled them into the sink, squirted on shampoo and left them to soak in water. My hair still dripping, I walked out into the bedroom.

  Egan had got himself, fully clothed, into bed and under the covers. He lay on his right side with his broken arm propped on his ribs and was already asleep, judging by his heavy breathing. I spotted a small plastic pot and a strip of pills on the night stand; I couldn’t identify the capsules in the pot from their label, but the strip was codeine and two had been popped out.

  I looked down at Egan, biting the inside of my lip even as I smiled, relieved he was getting some rest. The blankets were tugged right up to his neck, and as I watched he shivered visibly and hunched them higher.

  Quietly, I climbed onto the bed behind him and spooned up. I was too hot to get under the covers even had I thought that a good idea, so I just snuggled in around him hoping to lend some body-warmth. Egan made a little mumbling noise as I slid my hand around his waist, careful not to nudge his injured arm.

  “Freezing,” he groaned.

  “Shush, go to sleep,” I murmured. I liked the smell of his hair. I liked his solidity, something to hold on to. If he could not comfort me, I could comfort him. “Everything’s okay.” So I lay there, embracing him, until we both dozed off.

  I didn’t dream. I hadn’t dreamt at all since Azazel left me.


  I woke when Egan floundered out from under the covers at his side of the bed, gasping, and slid onto the floor.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Hnh. So hot!” The sweating part of his fever cycle had come back with a vengeance; his shirt was soaked. “Help me,” he begged, plucking at his sling. “Gotta get this off.”

  I wriggled over on the bed and dealt with the safety pin. The arm revealed wore a cast below the elbow and was wrapped in bandages above.

  “Shirt. Cold shower.”

  I helped him wriggle out of his button-down shirt and then steadied him as he climbed to his feet. Given that I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my own borrowed garment I was worried about flashing him, but Egan wasn’t looking, and to be honest I’m not sure he would have seen anyway. His eyes were unfocused like he was still struggling out of sleep. “Are you going to be able to manage?” I asked as I chaperoned him to the bathroom door.

  He nodded, his movements exaggerated as if his muscle control was shot to hell. As soon as he’d shut himself inside I went and turned the air-conditioning on. The old mechanism clunked and hummed, but seemed to be firing up.

  Damnit, what can I do? I wiped the sleep out of my eyes and glanced out of the window anxiously. It looked like the sun was easing down toward evening, and I wondered if enough time had elapsed to dose him with more pills. I really had no idea. I sat on the edge of the bed, my lips pursed, feeling helpless.

  There came a slithering thump from the bathroom, louder even than the hiss of running water, that made my blood run cold. I dived for the door.

  “Egan! Egan, are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Thank God he hadn’t locked himself in. I thrust the door open to find him half-collapsed on the floor, soaking wet and butt-naked, his injured arm raised. The shower was still running.