by Sue Wilder
“Why aren’t you in with Christan planning?” Lexi asked. “You’re Calata.”
The woman shrugged. “I’ve had centuries of planning, Lexi. I know when to trust others to do the job.”
“I never imagined you giving up control.”
“Why would you?” Three glanced toward the sink and then back to the stove, and a cool brush of power caressed Lexi’s skin. “You’re gaining strength.”
The observation held traces of concern, odd now that Lexi thought about it, and when she noticed the cutting board with four red pomegranates, she picked up the waiting knife and began a cautious conversation.
“When we were at Cyrene,” Lexi said, cutting open the fruit and spooning ruby seeds into a bowl, “I collapsed a cave because I was frightened. It worries Christan that I have no control.”
Three had returned her attention to the stove and was adjusting the burner. “What have you been doing about it?”
“Christan has been working with me.”
Three turned and smiled. “You’ll not find a better teacher, but you need to mature into the power itself and that takes time.”
Lexi didn’t think she had enough time before they disappeared into Algeria on their hunt for Two’s cave, and her hand was unsteady as she discarded the pomegranate skins. The familiar smell of browning chicken with sweet butter and white wine filled the kitchen and startled, she said, “I remember this.”
“I taught you how to make it. Pollo alle melogrne. It was Christan’s favorite.”
A faint memory nibbled and suddenly she was Gemma, standing in a kitchen with a tall, blond woman who taught her how to cook. Three seemed to know where Lexi’s thoughts had drifted, and she smiled.
“Your aunt had passed by that time and you were nineteen. It was summer. Marie de’ Medici was embroiled in her political intrigues—that’s where Christan was, by the way, fighting in France—and your sister had married and moved to Verona. Your cook was abysmal, an old peasant woman still tied up in superstition, so I took pity on you. I pretended to be a friend of the family and dropped by every few weeks to keep you company.”
The bowl of pomegranate seeds wobbled when Lexi gripped it. “Why?”
The immortal shrugged. She was sprinkling pepper over the chicken, adding cinnamon and nutmeg. Then she measured the wine like an alchemist preparing potent magic.
And Lexi understood.
“He’s not just your enforcer.”
“No.” There was a wealth of information in that word, a minefield from a woman so far from being human Lexi wondered if she recognized emotion when she felt it, because, clearly, she did.
“You love him.
“He’s the son I’ll never have.”
“You have no family?”
“Only Phillipe, although he’s not a blood relation. My family disappeared centuries ago, Lexi. I have only the vaguest of memories.”
Lexi handed the ingredients as Three asked for them, realizing the immortal could have used her own power to summon the items, but there was a companionship in working together and both women found it unexpectedly pleasant.
“Phillipe has been telling me about immortals,” Lexi said as the chicken continued to sizzle. “I’m still ignorant about much of it.”
“Humans aren’t meant to know about immortals—it disrupts their sense of reality and then they react badly.” The woman rinsed her hands beneath the curving faucet at the sink, dried them on the towel tied around her waist. “You’re only half-human now, so ask what you’d like to know.”
“Do you have families, or did they all disappear?”
“Some immortals maintain close relationships, others prefer to live alone. It’s boring, living with the same person century after century.”
“Do immortals have children?”
The woman laughed outright in a total breach of regal control. “Once, we did. It’s so rare now you’d think we’d forgotten how.”
“What about Two? Was she mated?”
Three turned the chicken one more time, added broth, and lowered the flame on the stove. “No, but she loved Four, as he loved her, and it was only a matter of time before the Calata guessed the truth.” And from Three’s tone, Lexi realized that the Calata would not have approved. Such an alliance would have shifted the balance of power.
“What about you?” Lexi asked, feeling the barriers between them soften. “Did you ever want a mate?”
“Perhaps” Three said, tipping her head as she considered it. “If I found someone strong in who he was, intriguing enough to interest me for centuries—I might consider it then.”
Three turned after a moment. The depth of the universe was in the woman’s eyes, and Lexi felt as if she was drowning, streaming so far back into the distant past she needed to grip the edge of the counter to remain grounded in the present. This was what immortality was like, she realized, to see worlds, lifetimes come and go in a constant, unending flow.
“How difficult is this for you?” the immortal asked.
The kitchen felt smaller now. Lexi remembered Three as the immortal who manipulated throughout lifetimes, but somewhere between the sizzling of the chicken on the stove and the same sound drifting through a memory of Gemma, something had altered between them. Lexi wondered why they were still at odds when they both protected the same man.
“It’s difficult,” Lexi admitted, knowing Three could see into her mind and find the truth if she wanted. “I must ask you something.”
Three grew so still she almost disappeared. Yet her power shimmered in the evening air, alive against Lexi’s skin. “What do you need?”
Voices murmured from the other room, and Lexi realized there was nothing she wouldn’t do, no bitterness she wouldn’t lay down for Christan’s sake.
“There are times when I can slip into his mind and hold him there,” she said quietly, adjusting to the intensity in Three’s silver eyes. “But I feel the darkness the same way he feels it, and I’m afraid I’m not strong enough. You say it will take time for my power to mature, but will I—will we have enough time?”
Three took two steps forward and cupped Lexi’s face. A warmth simmered beneath the woman’s palm, then a tingling began, like the froth of a gentle waterfall cascading from the crown of Lexi’s head to her toes and bringing a sense of calm.
“What better protector for my enforcer than the one who loves him above all else?”
Three stepped back to the stove, adding the pomegranate seeds to the shimmering chicken as if nothing unusual had happened. She was stirring the broth so that the seeds didn’t stick and Lexi reached out, hesitated before sliding her hand to Three’s back. When Three didn’t move away Lexi leaned against the woman’s shoulder the way she remembered doing in a kitchen in Florence, when she’d been nineteen with an abysmal cook and learning how to prepare Christan’s favorite dish.
Silhouetted in the darkened window were the first five stars of the evening. Lexi made the wishes, aware of the shattering touch as her enforcer stroked through her mind. He whispered the words with her: fiducia, forze, visione, coraggio, amore.
✽✽✽
They ate at the wooden table on the rooftop terrace, drank wine and watched the setting sun. As light faded from the horizon, Phillipe’s phone chimed. They carried the dishes to the kitchen while the academic reestablished a secure real-time connection to Ethan. Three was once again regal and remote in the leather chair. Phillipe took his previous position, and Christan pulled Lexi onto his lap, his hand tangled in her hair.
Several windows opened on the computer screen, the largest showing the Eastern Mediterranean. As they watched, the blinking white dots changed course and streamed in new directions. Another window opened, this time with tiny red dots snaking across Germany, France and into the Baltic states. As chaos spread, another window opened revealing files; green bars marked the progression while, in the upper corner, a financial figure decreased, the numbers changing in a blur. When the number reached zero, a seco
nd batch of files took its place, and a third. Millions of dollars disappearing in whispered silence. Christan’s warm hand moved up and down Lexi’s spine as they watched.
“Can Six correct the shipping orders?” Lexi asked.
“No.” Ethan’s voice carried from the computer. “Your friend altered the program that generates the cycling passwords and locked Six out of his own system. Every order has to be given in person or by a secure phone, since his people will disregard orders that don’t follow the official protocol.”
They had time.
Twenty minutes later, Christan carried their bags down to the stone steps that led to the pebbled beach, where he helped Lexi into a white wooden boat with green stripes. Within ten minutes they were boarding the yacht that would transport them on the first leg of their journey to Algeria. Phillipe planned to follow by a different route. Three remained to close up the house at the top of the hill, erase all evidence of their presence, and then she would return to Florence.
Where chaos was breaking out.
CHAPTER 29
Tassili n’Ajjer, Sahara Desert
The journey to Algeria took two days, long enough for the Calata to be in an uproar. The yacht was fully equipped, and everything Millie Chapman might have needed had been provided, including several battered cameras and notebooks filled with details from previous research trips. The mementoes included a copy of an obscure book on rock art, written by Millie in collaboration with another scholar who would agree, if contacted, that the two had worked for eighteen months on the project that now sat on a dusty shelf. Lexi took the time to familiarize herself with Millie’s work. As for Gio Chaccone, he lounged on the deck with a hat pulled low over his eyes and stared at the horizon.
Their entry into Algeria was uneventful. They flew on a commuter plane to the small airport near Djanet, and the drive from there to the oasis was routine. But the reality of the Sahara was overwhelming. Sand the color of caramel snugged up against dry massifs that were jagged and forbidding. The sun was white-hot. Closer to the palmeraie around Djanet, insects swarmed with high-pitched buzzing while Lexi swiped at those circling around her face.
The oasis was larger than expected, made up of several streets, vendors selling a variety of products in the open air and dusty pickup trucks parked in the shade cast by the buildings. Clusters of mud-brick houses were painted white with a single yellow or turquoise stripe that appeared to be at waist height. Dark blue doors spoke of mystery and their shuttered windows made Lexi think of prying eyes. Founded by the Tuareg in the Middle Ages, Djanet held memories. Echoes of ancient cultures remained alive and vibrant in the sand. History brushed with both softness and terror, and Lexi shielded against the vibrations everywhere she went.
It was the color, though, that astounded her. The landscape was neutral, but the clothes were jewels—emerald, lapis, the shimmer of silver and long robes in purple and gold, peach-colored trousers worn beneath white tunics, or lime green and orange. Anonymous faces were covered by royal blue keffiyehs.
On the outskirts of town, black and white goats grazed on sparse vegetation growing between the date palms. Dry, sandy riverbeds were sculpted by the torrents from flash floods, although Djanet rarely saw the rain. Water surged down from the mountain storms and swept past. Then the land dried dry out beneath the unrelenting sun.
Within an hour of arriving in Djanet, anthropologist Millie Chapman, with her Italian husband, Gio Chaccone, joined the tour as arranged. They met two young students from Canada. The girls were studying art history—fortunately not at University of Toronto in Ontario—chatting endlessly about the wealth of rock art in Algeria. When they tried to engage a tall, pale man in their discussion, he explained, rather tersely, that he was an ascetic following in the footsteps of a French hermit who had trekked through Algeria centuries ago. The Canadians soon realized he wasn’t there for the conversation.
In all, five tourists and two locals left Djanet that morning. The Tuareg guide introduced himself as Semi, a man of the desert wrapped perpetually in purple. There was also a cook named Amma. The herder, with his mules to carry the equipment, would meet them when they reached the point where vehicles could no longer navigate the terrain. From that point, Semi explained, the group would hike on foot along the zig-zag route through gorges dry as bleached bones, followed by the hot, steep trail on the trek to Tamrit. Then he ushered them into the battered utility vehicles and they drove along a road that was invisible due to the shifting sands. One of the Canadians panicked when she couldn’t find her required photo permit. That caused Millie to pat her pockets until her husband drew their permit from the inside pocket of his jacket, which he had tossed over the rolled packs in the storage space behind him. The girls laughed with relief, casting covert glances toward the handsome expert in Renaissance Literature Criticism, who spoke in soft Italian to his rather bookish-looking blond wife.
As the tourist caravan drove through endless yellow sand dunes Lexi noticed the immensity of the desert. Once they lost sight of Djanet, it was as if they’d travelled back in time, where the only landmarks were the rock cairns that marked the road. At this time of year—early June—the heat was uncomfortable and would only get worse until the end of September, although the nights remained frigid. It was when they drew closer to the mountains that the landscape darkened to shades of red. Sandstone monoliths took on bizarre shapes, and in the evening, the desert bloomed with the colors of slanting light. Rose, corals, and vermillion splashed across rocks veined with gray or white. The sky was deep blue with millions of stars blazing in pinpoints of light.
It was breathtaking.
Their guide called them imidiwan, companions, and chatted about the nomadic lifestyle. When prompted, Semi told stories filled with mystery and myth until one of the Canadians asked about the Tuareg, how they found their way through the desert without maps; Semi pointed to the stars, then gestured toward the rocks and sand. Millie dug her fingers into the warm ground, spread her palms against the earth, and knew what he was talking about.
They made camp beneath the shelter of a rocky cliff, the men laying down plastic mats covered with brilliantly woven rugs to fashion seating areas. Millie was given a small tent, a second was offered to the Canadians, while the ascetic preferred to sleep under the open sky, as did the Italian and the Tuareg guides. The two vehicles, parked together, protected their eating area from rising winds, and as the night turned to indigo, the flames from the camp fire were vivid white and orange. Battered pots made of copper and glazed with deep blue enamel sat in the embers, heating the water for tea. When Amma set out pita bread, Millie wrapped the soft, flat rounds in woven cloth and buried them in the hot sand. If she noticed the curious glance from the cook as she attended to the ancient task, she didn’t acknowledge it. Gio came to sit beside his wife, a large hand against her back while he murmured something, making her smile.
They ate hummus with the warm pita bread, fresh sliced tomatoes, onions and hard cooked eggs. There was goat’s milk, and the elaborate tea ceremony. Sitting by the fire, Semi picked up the pot of tea, and pouring from a great distance above the cups, he explained that the first drink was bitter, like death. He passed around the cups, and they all drank, deep in thought and memory. The second, he said, reaching for a different pot, was sweet as life. Again, the cups were filled and sipped. Firelight danced across the patterned rugs, the sculpted sand, even the closest rock cliff. The third, Semi intoned, was sweet as love. Lexi sipped as Christan’s fingers caressed her nape. The moon was huge as it rose into the night, and she tilted her head back and counted the first five stars, heard Christan count with her while the sky expanded in a dazzling display. Lexi saw the dark rift. The pathway to mysteries. The place where Gaia’s lover went on his errands for the Gods.
Later, there was music, called a bana, sultry and slow.
“What are they singing,” Lexi whispered, reluctant to disturb the spell.
“Untranslatable words, but they speak of lonel
iness, sadness, the world of night beyond the light of the campfire.”
“It’s haunting.”
“It’s ancient.”
The following morning, they heard the double-clang rhythm of brass bells as the herder, wrapped in indigo with only his dark eyes visible, led the shaggy brown mules into camp. Once the mules were loaded with their supplies, the group set off for the first of three passes guarding the plateau of the rivers. There were occasional pools of water, some deep blue, others greenish-gray, remnants from floods—most places were affected by the rare mountain rains. But floods were welcomed, providing life, precious water that survived evaporation by hiding in the undercut hollows beneath the cliffs, or in the low-lying depressions called gueltas, where water from underground bubbled up and formed large pools that sustained life.
As the day progressed, five tourists and three Tuareg men dressed in blue spread out in a clustered line, following the mules past impressive stone pillars which were, upon close inspection, walls of eroded sandstone separated by narrow canyons. Interspersed were low rocky humps emerging from the sand. The rhythmic clanging of bells brought a sense of unhurried peace, quiet conversations drifted, and when the last valley came into view, Lexi knew they were approaching the ancient cypress grove. The trees reached out with archaic voices, whispered in the heated wind. Emotion rushed over her and found a way beneath the deep blue headdress to caress her face. The Tuareg people called the trees tarout. Lexi called the knotted giants dear, sad friends.
Zal, they whispered, and she heard the grief of the mourning trees whose branches had once burned, the smoke wafting above the funeral pyres.
“We’re close,” she murmured as Phillipe joined Christan at her side. “The land, the trees, are speaking to me.”
