I pulled the shop door open and paused six steps in to glare at the man working in my office. Nik was leaning over a woman getting her tramp stamp covered up. I rushed past the door, not wanting to give him a chance to take in my all-too-recognizable scent. With his sensitive nose, there was no way he’d miss the smell of sex if I lingered.
The door’s little bell chimed, and I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I said under my breath as Garth strode in. I stalked toward him. “What did I just tell you?” I said, seething. I really didn’t want to get him killed, and that was exactly what would happen if the wrong Nejeret discovered that he, a lowly human, knew about us. Protecting ourselves, our people, was our number-one priority. We might be more powerful and live longer than humans, but they outnumbered us a million to one. Probably more. “Stay away from me, Garth.”
His eyes shifted to the right, then to the left. Kimi was watching us from behind the counter, but the artists and clients in the offices seemed oblivious enough. Except for Nik, I’m sure. He was probably soaking up every single word. “I still need your help with the missing kids . . .”
Nope. Not happening. With his knowledge, if I got him involved with this Ouroboros situation and the missing Nejerets . . . his days were numbered, probably in the single digits. I shook my head and rolled my eyes, putting on an air of annoyance, which wasn’t all that difficult. “Fine, whatever.” My mind churned a mile a minute. “Meet me at the Fremont Troll at nine, tonight.” Waiting for me there would keep him distracted while I searched the containers in Mari’s mysterious shipment. “You can help me go through the missing kids’ shit.”
His brows knitted together. “Why not now?”
Because I need to know that you’re somewhere else when I go to Harbor Island. “I have to prep some stuff,” I told him, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “Ask the cards for guidance . . .”
His eyes scrutinized my face, but finally, he nodded. “Alright. Nine o’clock tonight—the troll.”
I nodded, then turned away from him and strode toward the beaded curtain, glancing sidelong at Nik as I passed by.
He was studiously not looking at me. Until his nostrils flared and his entire body stiffened. His jaw tensed, but he remained focused on his client. My client. There was no doubt in my mind that he’d been eavesdropping, but at the moment I was more concerned with what his nose was picking up than what his ears had.
I paused before the beaded curtain, like I might offer an explanation or an excuse. But there were none that didn’t make me sound like the degenerate I’d become. So I continued on. I passed through the curtain, shame bubbling in my belly and disgust poisoning my heart. Because Nik knew. And if I wasn’t mistaken by his reaction, he cared.
Even more disturbing—so did I. And that scared the shit out of me.
11
I emerged from the shower with skin raw and rosy from excessive scrubbing. By the time I was lacing up my combat boots, my head was clear of the slosh and slog of too much tequila and my regrettable sexual encounter. I still didn’t know the Senate Nejeret’s name, but it didn’t change the fact that I felt immeasurably better once the scent of him was off my body and I was comfy in my favorite pair of jeans and a tank top. Though it was the boots that really sealed the deal. Feeling like me again made everything else that was going wrong seem a little less vomit-worthy.
I grabbed a leftover slice of pizza from the fridge and headed into my office. The paint on the walls had changed again, becoming a dark, swirling miasma. I studied the designs, searching for meaning in the chaos while I ate the cold pizza. The only definite shape I could make out was a pitch-black orb that seemed to bob along throughout the midnight current.
Maybe, eventually it would make sense, but right now it was meaningless to me. I brushed the crumbs on my fingers off on my jeans and walked to the closet. I stared at the door for a solid minute. Was I really going to do this? After three full years of relative normalcy, was I really considering jumping back into this life—one where I needed a sword at my back and a half-dozen other blades stowed about my person? Once I opened this door, once I came face-to-face with the darkness within—with my past—I wasn’t sure I’d be able to shut it away again.
But for Dom . . .
To find him, to save him, I needed the darkness. Wasn’t that why Nik had come to me in the first place? Not only because my sheut might make me the only one who could find him, but because I, personally, might be the only one willing to do what needs to be done to save him.
“You better not already be dead,” I grumbled, sliding the closet door open and ignoring the lead sinking into the pit of my stomach.
The closet was empty, for the most part. Two identical small wood and iron chests sat on the closet floor, and a few items hung on hangers. I dragged the chests out into the room, then reached up to the overhead shelf, fingers searching for the only thing up there. For a moment, I thought it wasn’t there. My heart skipped a few beats. But my fingertips grazed a strip of leather, then touched cold metal, and my worry eased.
I closed my hand around the old, familiar hilt of my sword, Mercy, and pulled it down from the shelf. “Hello, old friend,” I murmured. I’d named the sword a long time ago, and it seemed wrong to ignore what she’d been to me. She was what had finally brought an end to the suffering left over from my human life. She was my right hand. My salvation.
Overall, Mercy was very katana-like. Her blade was long, slender, and slightly curved, with only one sharp edge, and the hilt was wrapped in worn black leather cording, leaving the shiny steel underneath peeking through in a diamond pattern. The butt of the hilt was solid silver, a Horus falcon molded into the metal, tarnished from the years of disuse. But however much it seemed like a katana, this sword was different. Mercy was ancient beyond any katana, and so very other. She’d been created by Nik, her At blade formed by his hands nearly two thousand years ago.
I unsheathed Mercy in one slow, smooth motion. The sound of her indestructible, crystalline At blade sliding against steel broke a dam in my mind, and memories flooded in. So many memories. So many lives. So many names crossed off a list with the slice of this blade through flesh and bone. My heart rate increased as adrenaline spiked my blood. I was ready. To fight. To kill. And if it came down to it, to avenge.
“Soon,” I said to the bloodthirsty creature I’d just reawakened within me. Depending on what I found at Harbor Island, it could be very soon. I sheathed the sword. Soon, but not yet.
Kneeling, I set Mercy on the floor and opened the first of the chests. It had been so long since I’d stowed them in the closet, I couldn’t remember which was which. One contained my stash of weapons and gear, the other, what would probably convince a criminal profiler that I was a serial killer. To some, maybe I was. But I hadn’t killed for pleasure or for the thrill, even if, for a time, it had provided temporary relief from the grief. I’d killed with purpose. I’d killed for a cause. My cause, and the Senate’s.
As soon as I lifted the lid, I closed my eyes and bowed my head. This chest didn’t contain any weapons. Instead, it was filled with mementos—reminders—of the thirty-nine lives I’d taken during Mari’s and my sanctioned reign of terror. As the Senate’s assassins hunting rogues, rebel Nejerets, we’d taken out fifty-one targets total. I’d finished off most, not because I enjoyed taking lives, but because I enjoyed watching Mari torment our targets—our victims—less. We’d both lost our mothers to those rogues, and the hunger for vengeance could twist even the purest soul into a monster willing to do unthinkable things in the quest to sate the insatiable.
I opened my eyes and made myself peer into the chest. I reached in and pulled out the first thing my gaze landed on—a small, black leather-bound notebook. It had belonged to a Nejeret named Gerald, the last Nejeret I ever killed for the Senate. The last life I took. He’d been a deserter, running for his life, but he hadn’t been a true rogue—the proof was in that little black book—and he’d been the fur
thest thing from dangerous. He’d been terrified. He’d begged me not to kill him. He’d cried, in the end, when I’d freed his ba with one slice of Mercy’s ever-sharp blade.
Groping blindly behind me, I found my sketch pad and the pen I’d left in here last time, among the droves of sketches of the missing Nejerets. I wrote down Gerald’s first and last name. My victim’s name. Sure, his ba—his everlasting soul—was out there, somewhere, maybe on this plane, maybe another, but his physical life had been ended by me. That mattered. I’d killed, and as with all the others, I’d also killed a part of me. Taking his life had been a breaking point for me, tipping me over the edge. The moment his heart stopped, I knew I was done. I’d felt it deep in my bones.
It was past time I acknowledged all that I’d done. It was time for me to accept it—finally—and, if I could, move on.
I pulled the next item out of the chest. A flyer advertising an animal adoption fair. It had been stuck to Bree Coolridge’s fridge. She’d been hiding from us for six years and had amassed a small army of rescue animals. She’d had no less than seven cats, three dogs, and a turtle when Mari and I finally tracked her down. She’d been instrumental in orchestrating the events that led up to my mother’s murder. I hadn’t felt an ounce of pity for her when my blade pierced her heart, but I had felt bad for her animals. I hoped they found new homes afterward.
I added Bree’s name below Gerald’s, the act cathartic.
I moved through the chest, cataloguing and recording names until I had a list of thirty-nine. I tore the page free from my sketch pad and folded it up, tucking it into my back pocket, then returned everything to the chest and shut it once more. I shoved the chest back into the closet, vowing to never open it again. The next time I pulled it out would be to destroy it and everything within. I would honor my victims another way from now on.
Going through the second chest was a far less draining experience. I gathered the items I needed—two knives and their matching boot sheaths, a bracelet that doubled as a garrote, two four-inch needle daggers, and a leather belt that concealed a stubby push dagger in the buckle. I set everything on the floor beside me and returned that chest to the closet as well.
Once the closet doors were closed, I pushed everything to the side of the room, clearing a large space. I drew the sword and set the sheath and shoulder harness on the floor by the wall with the rest of my gear. It had been years since I’d wielded Mercy, and though I kept in fighting shape, I was out of practice with a weapon.
I spent the next few hours reconnecting with my sword. Her balance, the way she cut through the air, the way she worked as an extension of me—it all felt both familiar and foreign at the same time. I practiced with Mercy, spinning, thrusting, parrying, and rolling, until only familiarity remained.
When I emerged from my office, sweaty but oddly energized, the oven clock said it was five in the afternoon. I was planning to leave for the shipyard at eight. I had three more hours to kill.
I pulled a frozen pizza—BBQ chicken—from the freezer and turned on the oven. Too hungry to wait a half hour for the pie to be done, I peeked into the cupboard to the right of the stove, fingers crossed that it wouldn’t be empty.
“Score,” I sang quietly, pulling down an unopened bag of Hot Cheetos. They’re terrible for me, I know, but that knowledge never stops me from inhaling a whole bag in a single sitting. And I’m not talking about one of the little bags. Think: family size. I tore the Cheetos open and shoved a handful into my mouth, then grabbed a Cherry Coke from the fridge. Leaning back against the counter, I alternated between scarfing down Cheetos and swigging Coke. I wholeheartedly accept that I’m the poster child for what not to eat. But then, I’m the poster child for what not to fill-in-the-blank, so why hold back?
I chomped on a few Cheetos.
How to kill the time?
I drank from the can of Coke. I ate a few more Cheetos. I looked around the fairly barren apartment, utterly uninspired.
An idea tiptoed into my mind, and I tilted my head from side to side, considering it. I set the pop can down on the counter behind me and pulled the list of names from my back pocket. I unfolded the paper, reading over the list as I sucked the spicy fake-cheese dust from my fingertips, scraping the stubbornest bits with my teeth.
I checked the clock on the stove. The oven was almost heated, and I was down to two hours and fifty-four minutes. I had a tattoo in mind for my left forearm, a piece to replace the fading tarot card, and I’d been playing with the idea of something else that would test the extent of my innate sheut power. I’d be cutting it close, time-wise, but if I wasn’t done by the time I had to leave, I could always finish inking myself later.
The oven beeped, and I tossed the pizza on the rack, setting the timer before I headed for the door to the stairs. The shop closed early on Sundays, so there was a good chance that everybody had already left. Kimi might still be here, closing out the register and doing the final clean-up, but everyone else should be gone for the day. I crossed my fingers. Hopefully that included Nik. The idea of facing him right now, after everything that happened earlier . . . I couldn’t handle it.
Thankfully, everyone, Kimi included, was gone. Even Nik. I didn’t know where he’d gone or for how long, and at the moment, I didn’t really care. I didn’t. The shop was empty, and I was alone. Which was exactly what I’d been hoping for.
I paused at the beaded curtain.
So why was disappointment taking root in my chest?
Hands in fists and nails digging into my palms, I ignored the troublesome emotion and pushed through the curtain. I gathered up my tattoo machine, a fresh needle, and a bottle of black ink, then paused, staring into the ink drawer. Tucked in the very back was a bottle that almost seemed to be glowing, ethereal and iridescent.
I grinned, swapping out the black ink for Nik’s At ink, and retreated back upstairs.
***
I stared at my left palm wondering what exactly I’d just created. A shimmery Eye of Horus stared back at me, taking up nearly my entire palm, reflecting colors from another dimension every time I shifted my hand and the light hit my skin differently. It was my clan’s symbol, proclaiming my permanent obedience to Heru better than any papers or oath ever could. But it was more than that, too.
The Eye of Horus was an ancient symbol, steeped with so much meaning—thousands of years’ worth. A civilization’s worth. An entire mythology’s worth. It was a symbol of protection from evil, from deceivers . . . from so many things. I didn’t know how it would work, or if it would even do anything beyond being decorative, but I figured a symbol as potent as the Eye of Horus would have as good of a chance as anything of doing something. And gods knew I could use some protection right about now.
Learning how to use the powers afforded me by my sheut was a game of trial and error. I never really knew what would work and what wouldn’t. I’d barely had the damn thing for three years. It had been a gift from the two new true gods—the Netjer, the inheritors of our universe—who’d been born just twenty years ago to Lex and Heru. And—laugh—I was their aunt. On the same day they’d gifted me my sheut, they’d left our universe and had yet to return. Sometimes it felt like they never would.
I closed my fist, then opened it again, somewhat surprised I couldn’t feel the tattoo. It had healed almost as soon as I’d inked it, as usual, but I still thought I should be able to feel a stiffness or something. The depiction of the goddess Isis in At ink on my right arm had been the same way. It just looked like something that I should feel. But I didn’t.
I glanced at the clock. Six-thirty. An hour and a half until it was go-time.
Cracking my neck, I re-inked the needle in the bottle of shimmering, liquid At and looked at the sheet of paper listing the names of everyone I’d killed. It was time to get to work on my next piece, on my memorial to every life I’d ended . . . and to every piece of myself I’d killed along the way. I brought the needle to my wrist and pressed it against my skin, starting with a
G.
12
The rumble of the Ducati echoed off buildings as I rode through downtown Seattle. As usual, an accident had jammed up I-5, turning the southbound lanes into a glorified parking lot. It wasn’t a major loss; I’d only have been on the freeway for a couple miles anyway, and by avoiding it, I didn’t have to deal with the high stress of lane-splitting. I was already anxious enough.
Garth would realize I’d sent him on a wild goose chase soon enough, but at least this would keep him from being able to follow me. And just maybe, after getting stood up tonight, he’d get the hint; our partnership was over. And then there was Nik. I didn’t know where he’d gone after filling in for me at the shop today, but I had a pretty damn good guess. I’d eat my boots if he wasn’t heading to the Fremont Troll to spy on me. After all, he’d overheard my exchange with Garth. I hoped my instincts were correct. I wanted both of them as far away from this Ouroboros mess as possible. I was expendable; they weren’t.
Is it weird that I was also a little giddy? It had been ages—years—since I’d seen any real action. The violent kind, not the sexy kind. My little scuffle with Nik two nights back had awakened something within me, almost like him showing up had started a domino effect that would drag me back into this world, kicking and screaming, if need be. Except I was going willingly.
I zigzagged through the streets of SoDo, the Industrial District south of downtown Seattle, and parked my bike on the east side of the Spokane Street Bridge, not wanting to alert whatever late-night workers or security personnel were lingering around on Harbor Island of my presence. Kickstand lowered, I hopped off the bike and hung my helmet on the upraised handlebar, then jogged to the West Seattle Bridge Trail, which crossed the Duwamish Waterway and carried pedestrians and bicyclists across man-made Harbor Island at ground level. It was dark out and cold at just past nine at night—nobody was on the trail.
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