PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I move forward, laying her back against the mattress and crawling over her. She's different this time. The way her body moves under me, pressing against me, the way her legs tighten around my waist as I slide inside—I know she meant what she said. She loves the jinn.

  Even if the jinn turned out to be human.

  Her teeth sink into my shoulder in a way that just makes me want her more. And when she comes, she bites down harder, muffling her cries. I push deeper, wanting the release and this to last forever at the same time. She kisses me, long and hungrily, until the end. Then we curl up together and, at long last, sleep.

  ***

  In the morning, we hit the road. We have clean clothes, cold water, and plenty of food. All the things we will never take for granted again. Zoe talks nearly non-stop to Syd, blatantly ignoring me. I deserve that. Syd gives me a reassuring smile. I grin and turn to watch out the window.

  We drive straight through New Mexico and don't stop until we reach Houston. Syd has booked us a one-way flight, routed through Greensboro as I requested.

  During our eight-hour layover, we rent a car and drive to Dansville, Virginia.

  I knock on Patricia Kerr's door, Syd and Zoe right behind me.

  Patricia answers, and her face is a Rubik's cube of emotions.

  “Still sane.” I tap my temple. “Can we come in for a minute?”

  She blinks, then says, “Yes, yes, of course.”

  She unlocks the screen door and invites us in. I glance back at the other two, who are standing close to each other, before stepping inside.

  Patricia's eyes are fixed on me. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thanks. We can't stay for long.” I pause, but there's no tactful way to approach this. “Karl is dead. Silvia is dead. I'm leaving the country.”

  I shift weight, hoping she will say something. Anything. But it's her turn to stare dumbly. I know how she feels.

  I rub the back of my neck. “I guess I just wanted to let you know that it's . . . over. No one's coming for you. Especially not me.”

  Her shoulders drop like she's Atlas relieved of the world. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure. They're very dead.”

  She looks me up and down. “And you—are you ever coming back?”

  “If I do, you won't see me.” I shrug and pull my jacket tighter. “I have no reason to be here.”

  She nods. “Can I . . . Can I write a book about you?”

  “Probably not,” I say without missing a beat.

  She smiles, and then she touches my cheek. It's a small, quick motion, but I understand now. Like Syd, everything Patricia has been through no longer matters. Even if no one back on the farm will believe them, they have met the Wizard of Oz. Their entire existence has been validated.

  “Be safe, Dimitri,” she says, her voice soft.

  I nod, and then head out the door. Syd and Zoe follow right behind me.

  ***

  From Greensboro, we fly to JFK Airport and connect with our international flight. It's coach. I don't care. Syd sits next to me, and Zoe sits on the other side of her.

  We doze in our seats. We play hangman. We flip through Sky Mall.

  And fourteen hours later, we land in Naples, Italy.

  Naples feels like a giant resort. I can't imagine a better place for us to grieve and then find happiness again. Or for the first time.

  Syd's grandmother is worthy of all the acclaim. She knows who I am, but she's neither afraid nor impressed. I like that most about her. She's spunky, and I can see Syd becoming just like that over the years. The best part is, I will know if she does.

  During the afternoon, Syd and I go down to the beach. Zoe comes with us, but she's happy to wander on her own. She's a surprisingly resilient little kid. It must run in the women in this family.

  I step into the surf and stare into the sea. The Mediterranean. Fifteen hundred years ago, my ancestor stood on the southern coast of this same body of water. Fifteen hundred years ago, he made a decision that would impact every generation after him.

  On the drive to Houston, before my phone gave up completely, I searched Al-Jamila. No results returned for the jinn, but I didn't expect any. She has been forgotten by the rest of the world. But what I did learn is that her name is Arabic for The Beautiful.

  I bet she was, and I bet it wasn't just on the outside. Some man who is tied to my blood by a century and a half loved her so much that he gave up everything to save her. I should be bitter I got the short end of that deal. Then I look at Syd, and I can't blame him. Not at all.

  It's not until I stand with the Mediterranean at my feet and the blue sky above my head that I realize—truly comprehend—that I don't have to be here. I don't have to be anywhere, or do anything. And, I admit, the thought is scary. Maybe even terrifying.

  No more Karl to make a phone call to fix my mistakes. No more identities to hide behind.

  I'm no longer Leo or Alan or Alex.

  I'm Dimitri.

  And I am free.

  About the Author

  Rainy Kaye is an aspiring overlord. In the meantime, she blogs at RainyoftheDark and writes paranormal novels from her lair somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona.

  She is represented by Rossano Trentin of TZLA.

  http://www.rainyofthedark.com/

  Coming Soon:

  Axiom (Summoned Prequel)

  Stifled (Summoned Series #2)

  Her Sweetest Downfall

  A Forever Girl Series Bonus Content Novella

  Rebecca Hamilton

  Chapter 1

  Great Paxton, 1808

  Ophelia knew two things for certain: First, the mark where her neck met her shoulder was not there yesterday, and second, if Lady Karina caught sight of it, she would hand her over to the church.

  Initially, the marking seemed to be nothing more than a dark outline of a circle. But as Ophelia leaned closer to the mirror, her hand balanced gently against the frame, she realized the mark formed an ouroboros—a serpent eating its own tail.

  Her heart sunk to her stomach. The town would make no exception of her; she would suffer the same fate as Alice Russel, declared a witch and murdered in a fury of violent outcry. No matter that no one could possibly know what such a marking meant—that it came from nowhere was enough to declare it evil.

  The brass doorknob rattled, and she startled.

  “Ophelia!” came the edge of Lady Karina’s voice. “Open this door.”

  “One moment, please, Miss.”

  She quickly started buttoning the front of her copper gown, but Lady Karina continued rattling the door.

  “I’m coming in,” she said.

  The tinker of keys echoed through the thin wooden door, and Ophelia’s fingers stumbled with the buttons on her collar, her heart racing faster with each passing moment.

  The key slid into the lock, then the knob turned. She finished the final buttons of her gown and spun toward the door, pulling the two muslin flaps of her apron over her shoulders and starting to pin them together behind her neck.

  Lady Karina stepped into the room, an envelope clutched in her hand. “You are never to lock your door,” she said, her irritation visible in the tremble of her long blonde curls. Her gaze trailed down to Ophelia’s neck. “Your collar is a mess and your buttons are one off. We can’t have that, can we?”

  Ophelia tried to steady her hands enough to smooth the collar of her apron. “No, Miss.”

  Lady Karina let out a crisp sigh and impatiently tapped the envelope against her arm. “Well? Are you going to straighten up? Surely you don’t expect me to do it for you.”

  If she undid the buttons to fix her collar, she would expose the serpent—the devil’s symbol. Women in this town had been killed for less, and each execution delighted Lady Karina more than the last.

  Stepping back, Ophelia covered the buttons with her hand, lowering her gaze to the floor and away from Lady Karina. Ophelia never much liked to make eye contact with Lady Karina any
way. The first time they’d met, Lady Karina had told Ophelia that her large, ice-blue eyes gave her the willies.

  “I’ll take care of it right away, Miss.”

  “Very well,” said Lady Karina. She handed over a small envelope with large script on the front. “Deliver this to Lord Isaac. He’ll need it by tomorrow morning, so you must make haste.”

  Ophelia offered a polite nod, taking the envelope and tucking it away in the deep folds of her apron. “I’ll set out immediately.”

  “After you make yourself a bit more presentable, of course,” Lady Karina corrected. “Percy is preparing one of the horses.”

  Lady Karina stepped out without so much as a glance back. Once alone in the room, Ophelia spun back toward the mirror with a sigh.

  “What ‘ave ye gotten into?” she muttered to her reflection. “Father would go mad.”

  But Father wasn’t there. He’d never know his daughter had turned herself over to the same life as her mother, the same life that Father had worked so hard to put behind them. He had hoped for a proper education for her, as the poor lagged behind the upper class in education. Ophelia was reminded of this every time she spoke, and her accent had become so ingrained over the years that she soon tired of trying to speak properly. Her wisdom would show in other ways, she hoped.

  Father had wanted more. He hadn’t known the way things would change following his death, the way their estate would dwindle, his daughter forced to start anew. A proper education was out of the question now.

  Ophelia, however, had not taken this work for the pay. No, she’d done so because she was certain Lady Karina’s brother knew something of the disappearance of her mother, who had worked for him two years prior. Gone to work for him, and then disappeared. Ophelia found her way here just six months later.

  This job—it was all a lie, a masquerade designed to find her mother. Wherever she had gone, Ophelia knew she would not have gone willingly—not without telling her daughter why she was leaving. Ophelia would not stop this hunt until they were reunited, until her mother could once again hold her in an embrace and make the world feel right again.

  After checking the marking once more—it had darkened and the skin had raised slightly—Ophelia did her buttons up properly, pinned the flaps of her apron collar up in a more acceptable fashion, and covered her hair—black as sin, as Lady Karina said when they’d first met—beneath a cream bonnet. She wrapped her mother’s old knit shawl around her shoulders and set out into the chill of autumn.

  Atticus waited, saddled and bridled, stomping his foot against the cold earth and shaking his mane as he sneezed the early evening air.

  “Many thanks, Percy,” Ophelia said to the young man holding the horse’s reins. “I’ll take it from ‘ere.”

  As she rode into the woods, the horse’s canter thudded the ground like the beating of tribal drums, and the sap-scented wind shushed between the leaves above. In the distance, between the oaks and maples, a violin played.

  She dug her heels into her horse’s sides and set him into a gallop. “Come on, old boy. We don’t want to be ‘ere when night falls.”

  Already the autumnal sun was low, its sharp light slicing through the breaks of the forest canopy and glinting off the crystallized stones embedded along the forest path. Night would fall too soon.

  Damn her. Lady Karina would never travel these woods at night, nor would anyone sane send their maid unattended for such a task. Not with the highwaymen known to pass through, not knowing the things those men would do to a woman alone in the woods.

  When darkness encroached, there were still a good few miles left to Lord Isaac’s estate on the other side of Blackwood Forest. Thunder rumbled, but the heavy air did not yet spit down rain. She’d need to make haste. At least word had it that Lord Isaac often permitted late night visitors to stay the night in his servants’ quarters.

  Atticus slowed to a trot. Up ahead, white feathers scattered the forest path.

  “Come on,” Ophelia said. “Come on.”

  Wolves howled from somewhere deeper in the forest, and the horse stopped.

  “Atticus,” she hissed. She dug her heels in. “Go, boy.”

  The horse whinnied and took three steps back, shaking his head. She stroked his neck and lifted her gaze to scan the forest. The moon glinted through the lattice of leaves only enough to reveal the dark trunks of the thicket on either side of the path. Above, charcoal clouds streaked against the patches of night sky, moving shadows over her forest path each time they rolled past the moon.

  With the night came a chill nearly as cold as a winter morning, her breath puffing from her lips in a cloud of smoke. The violin tune grew louder; it cried mournfully between the oaks and maples like the wind in the tree boughs. Her chest tightened. How could that be? She’d covered too much ground to still hear this same violin.

  Atticus reared, tumbling Ophelia from his back to the forest ground. He stomped his foot and backed away.

  “For goodness sake!” She stood and dusted leaves and debris from her dress. When she reached for his reins, the horse stepped back further.

  “Atticus,” she hissed, and she lunged for him this time, snatching the reins. But just as soon as she’d recouped her horse, he bolted away, ripping the reins from Ophelia’s hand with a burning force. Atticus thundered back the way they’d come, leaving her alone in the dark.

  Tears and cold night air stung her eyes. The violinist must have been terribly near because she could hear the tune cutting through the trees and underbrush. She glanced back over her shoulder for Atticus, but he was long gone.

  As she shuffled toward the edge of the path, the overgrown grass soughed together between her shins. “Hello?”

  The mark between her neck and shoulder ached, and she placed her hand on it, the pressure a near relief.

  I need to get to Lord Isaac’s estate.

  As she treaded across the decaying leaves along the trail in search of her horse, a clammy chill rushed up her spine. She stole one last glance into the woods. Yellow eyes glowed between the brambles, and her breath rushed from her and left her lightheaded. Her throat felt dry, and she tasted something rotten on the wind.

  Quickly, she spun back around, desperately searching for her horse. Before she could so much as orient herself, something hooked around her waist and knocked the air from her lungs. A rough hand clamped over her mouth, imparting the tangy spice of cloves on her lips.

  She choked on the saliva in the back of her throat and threw her elbow into the person behind her—a man, judging by his strength and the mass of his arms. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

  Chapter 2

  From Great Paxton to Damascus, 1808

  As the man dragged Ophelia into the underbrush, she struggled against his grasp. His hand fell from her mouth, and she sucked in a breath, prepared to scream. But before any sound could pass her lips, he hoisted her over his shoulder and broke into a sprint, weaving through the forest so impossibly fast that the bark and leaves became a blur. Their bodies thrust into darkness, black and complete. A sudden surge left Ophelia with the feeling of her stomach lagging behind. A light, bright and blinding, flashed before them, and they slammed to a halt.

  He lowered Ophelia onto something, and she blinked a few times to clear her vision. She was on a bed, and they were in a cabin with strange walls made of mortar or packed clay. Before she could get out any words, her stomach churned. She rolled to her side and vomited on the floor, then fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

  The man said nothing, just allowed her to rest. He shuffled and rattled beside her, likely clearing away the mess. But the bile still coated Ophelia’s tongue and teeth, and her stomach’s previous contents permeated the air with foulness.

  “Why—” Her voice cracked.

  Her question was rewarded only with silence. Even with her eyes closed, the room spun.

  As soon as she regained a sense of balance, she would look for an escape. She needed to remain calm—
to find out who he was and where he’d taken her. Even highwaymen could be persuaded with enough charm, though she had her doubts about him. Most would rush to rob a woman of her belongings or innocence, but he had not yet done so.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice gravelly. “Where ‘ave you taken me?”

  The man’s footsteps creaked across the floorboards, and his hand, warm as sheets stacked beside a fire, brushed her hair away from her neck. He unpinned her apron and started on the buttons.

  This was all wrong. If he were going to take her innocence, he wouldn’t bother with the gentle care of unbuttoning. She pushed her hand against his forearm, but her effort did nothing to stop him. As she attempted to sit up, dizziness rushed to her head, and she fell back again.

  He pulled the top of her gown past her shoulder, and his fingers grazed the burning mark between her neck and shoulders.

  “I was right,” he said, his voice deep, husky. It was the voice of a man who lived away from a society of formalities. He stood and paced away.

  A new panic thumped through her. The serpent. If that was the reason he’d brought her here—

  Ophelia blinked, and the small, bare room slowly came into focus. The cramped structure made her stomach go cold. She lay on a cot beside a window that was clearly too small to climb through. The only door was on the opposite side of the room, which seemed to be all the cabin consisted of, aside from a kitchen along the wall across from a humble fireplace.

  Between Ophelia and her exit, the man crouched at the hearth, his body angled toward her, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The flames cast a warm glow over his tanned face and forearms, and his dark, overgrown hair tangled in front of his deep brown eyes.

  “I do not intend to harm you,” he said, stoking the fire.

  He pulled on his collar, straining it against the other side of his neck. Right there, just at the apex of his shoulder and his neck, was the same mark of the serpent. “The ouroboros is said to represent rebirth. To protect against evil. But it doesn’t.”