Cursed Sight

by T. G. Ayer

  At her side, Allegra noticed General Qhapaq request a dance with Elana leaving the ambassador partnerless in the middle of his own dance floor. Another hint of pressure at her back and Max slowed the dance, drawing to a stop beside McIvor, who appeared a little off balance at being stranded at his own party.

  When Allegra leaned to him, he smiled with relief, reaching for her arm. Allegra wasn’t sure if he’d intended to touch her, or if he’d remembered he shouldn’t. It was possible he was merely so flustered he’d forgotten who she was.

  Or what she could see.

  She took his outstretched arm, placing her fingers on his shoulder, very aware of his movements as he curled his left arm around her waist. She tried to relax, knowing what Max wanted her to do.

  What better way to get a little more information on the ambassador than to see his future. A vision may hold the key to details of what was to come.

  McIvor lifted his other hand, and Allegra took it, allowing her bare palm to touch his.

  Her vision shifted, and she struggled to breathe as the room fell away. A cry left her lips, but she wasn’t sure if she’d uttered the sound aloud or if it was just in her head.

  McIvor sat on the floor, not two feet from Allegra, his eyes wide open, blood smearing his cheeks and forehead. That he was dead was painfully obvious from the sight of two things. The spear that emerged from his skull, an inch above his left eye.

  And the fact that his head was no longer attached to his body.

  Chapter 10

  Lord Severus Langcourt watched the torchlight flicker among the trees in the valley. The blue skies were clear, not a cloud marring its pristine azure beauty. And yet the sight of it pressed down upon him like an unbearable weight, as if he bore Atlas itself upon his head.

  He inhaled slowly, attempting to breathe in some calm. Shouldn’t the surrounding nature have inspired a little more peace within him? Instead, his stomach clenched hard and he found himself pressing a finger against his jaw and massaging the pain.

  It seemed his attempt to escape the stresses of his old life had failed abysmally.

  Behind him, his assistant Charles Roquefort was scratching out notes in his book. I swear the man is obsessed. All he ever does is record everything.

  Roquefort moved closer, coming to stand at the window with Langcourt, who avoided looking at the man’s face. It was far too much of a reminder of what had happened to his ancestral home back in Londinium.

  Just the memory fueled his rage.

  The shouts of warning, the calls from the tunnel watchmen, Langcourt’s sudden decision to set the charges. He’d always known that when things came to a head he would never go down without a fight. He’d said he’d rather destroy everything his family had ever built rather than have it taken from them.

  And that night he had.

  He’d set off the timed bomb, gathered his personal items and had headed to the safe room beneath the villa. He’d built it a long time ago, and it had gone through a number of upgrades. It was bomb proof, disease proof and contained provisions to last ten people for at least five years.

  He’d found Roquefort on his way there, injured by an explosion, half his body aflame. Though Langcourt was not particularly selfless, he’d dropped everything to put out the fire and help the man to his feet.

  Fortunately, he and Roquefort had made it safely out two days later after the police had left. The crumbled remains of the villa had been scoured and Langcourt had watched them on the various well-positioned cameras around the property.

  He’d spent his time watching Roquefort writhe in pain, and had helped tend him to a certain extent. Langcourt didn’t possess an iota of nursing skill and had left the man to his own devices, providing him with the necessary first aid, then retreating to the camera to watch what remained of lifetimes of collection.

  His anger, his frustration had only grown stronger as he watched them touch his personal possession, and toss his memories into the garbage. When he’d finally left the safe room with Roquefort in tow, he’d walked out of the building without looking back, fearing the sight of it would ruin him.

  Something had changed in Roquefort then. He was no longer a sniveling incompetent. His experience had given him a hard streak that sometimes made Langcourt pause. No surprise though, considering the man didn’t need a memory to recall the horror of that night. No, all he needed to do was look in the mirror.

  Roquefort used to style his hair in a severe, cut-across-the-top-of-the-forehead style. Once it used to remind Langcourt of the ancient senators, of Caesar and his ilk. But no longer.

  Now, one-half of Roquefort’s face was a mass of crinkled, shiny skin. The left side of his head was almost hairless, the newly healed pink and brown skin sprouting a few short hairs. The burns covered his face, and had ravaged his cheekbones, running all the way down his neck and inside his shirt.

  Sometimes Langcourt wished the man would cover his face. He was, after all, not a pretty sight. And he was also a glaring reminder of Langcourt’s own failure.

  Once, a long time ago, he’d assumed the man didn’t have it in him, that he’d never move up the ranks from simpering sycophant. Langcourt was not afraid to admit he was wrong.

  Now, Roquefort was his right-hand man, and his skill at translation had helped to no end.

  “Sire?”

  “Yes, my boy?” Langcourt answered, aware the term was no longer one of superior arrogance, but rather of a bastardized fondness for the burned husk of a man.

  “I’ve made a little more progress on the translations. I’ve been working out some of it on the computer. Seems they make things a whole lot simpler.”

  Langcourt didn’t respond. This was classified as small talk, and he didn’t have time to waste on chitchat.

  “I think we will have something concrete to go on within the week.” The man hesitated which made Langcourt impatient.

  “What is it, man? Stop waffling and spit it out.”

  “We have word from the capital.”

  “And?”

  “The Pythia Allegra landed in Qusqu late this morning.”

  Langcourt found his ears were ringing so loudly he had to ask Roquefort to repeat his next sentence.

  “The government officials have placed some sort of hold on her visa. They’d granted her temporary stay overnight until they resolve the problem.”

  He’d come all the way across the world only for the bitch to follow him there. Last time Allegra Damascus had been instrumental in his destruction, and he wasn’t planning on letting her win. Not this time.

  “How long will she be here?”

  “With some luck, only overnight.”

  “What’s the problem with the visa?”

  “Bureaucratic red tape, sire. My source tells me there is a suspicion of collusion with the NGS.”

  Langcourt clicked his tongue and waved an irritated hand in the air. “I couldn’t care less what the problem is. What I need to know is how long she will be here, and if and when do you arrange access?”

  “Access?” Roquefort shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes flitting from his book to Langcourt and back. “Why do we need access to her?”

  Langcourt grunted and moved away from the brightness at the window. His mood did not suit sunshine and warmth. He glared at Roquefort. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? Can you not see what she’s done to you?”

  Roquefort’s eyes went hard, and he lifted a hand to his mottled cheek. “She didn’t…”

  “Maybe not with her own hand, but she sent them our way.”

  “I can see how she can be tangentially responsible. But what do you have in mind?” The man had changed. A month ago, he’d have agreed the Pythia was to blame and set his mind instantly to a plan for vengeance.

  Langcourt wasn’t sure if the man’s newly formed spine was a good thing or not.

  “I want to obtain direct access to her.”

  “To kill her?”

  “As much as I would lik
e for that to be my instant response, I do believe we need to be smarter about her this time. We underestimated her last time.”

  “She had help.”

  “Yes. It’s the nature of that help that worries me.”

  “Yes, sire. Her escape was nothing short of miraculous. On the divine intervention level, to be honest.”

  Langcourt stiffened. As much as his assistant sometimes rambled nonsensically, he had moments in which brilliance spewed forth. This was one of those moments.

  “Divine intervention, did you say?” His assistant nodded. “I do believe you have just hit the nail on the head, my boy.”

  Langcourt hid a satisfied grin. He may yet obtain the revenge he longed for. The Pythias were responsible for so much destruction, and most especially to his own bloodline. They’d taken so much from his family over the centuries, but the most recent blow was by far the hardest to endure.

  All his family’s history had been within the walls of his ancestral villa. And everything within the building had been razed to the ground. Relics and spoils of war from across the world had occupied the house, every corner, every table set with history.

  Now all gone.

  The Langcourt family history was now erased from record. And Langcourt had had to run, to go into hiding, afraid for his life because everywhere he turned someone was looking for him. Everywhere he turned someone was waiting to betray him.

  Langcourt inhaled sharply and began to pace. “Where is your investigation into the Pythia’s lineage?”

  “I’m afraid, sire, that once we . . . left home, the investigation came to a halt. The translations here in the ruins, have taken priority. Do you wish me to focus on the Pythia for now?”

  They had arrived, both he and Roquefort in the employ of the high priest, tasked with translating the writings of a long dead shaman. Langcourt had, in his own time, been adept at translations and had considered the job as a means to an escape.

  As distasteful as it was, he knew he had to do something in order to make money. He had half a dozen bank accounts around the world holding all sorts of riches from rare gems to gold bullion, but he wasn’t about to approach any one of them yet. Not until the search for him had died down.

  He could wait. And in the meantime he could enjoy the translations.

  He was close to finishing up, and Roquefort had proved adept at transcribing the work he did. The High Priest expected an answer within days, and Langcourt knew he’d deliver on time.

  Given his current progress he believed he could do without his assistant’s constant attendance.

  “I do believe Allegra Damascus must now be our priority, my dear boy.” Langcourt nodded firmly at his decision. “Keep me informed. I want updates four times a day. More if there are significant developments. Use the agents in Fornia for the groundwork there.”

  Excitement flashed in Roquefort’s eyes, and Langcourt wasn’t surprised; genealogy was the man’s forte after all.

  A giant shadow blocked out the sun, and Langcourt strode to the window, searching the vista. He spotted the creature toward the left of the pyramid he occupied, flying overhead now in a shallow arc.

  A giant golden condor.

  The birds were majestic, their wingspan rivaling even the albatross from the Brittanic Isles.

  The sight of the powerful bird revived Langcourt’s confidence.

  Power and might such as he had were something one could not take down with a single swipe. He was stronger than they knew.

  He just had to strike smart. And strike hard. And then he would move in for the death blow.

  A death blow to the Pythia.

  Chapter 11

  The vision filled Allegra’s senses, and she swallowed slowly, trying hard to remain calm, to not reveal to their entire audience that she’d just had a vision.

  She forced the muscles in her fingers to remain relaxed as they held onto McIvor’s shoulder, forced her lips to smile, forced her legs to continue dancing, to not flinch every time she came into contact with his skin.

  She swallowed the urge to laugh; it could have been worse—she could have passed out.

  This very room, where she now danced with the ambassador, was the same room in which he would die with an ancient ritual spear through his skull.

  But, she’d won out against her emotions, against the scene of horror still overlaying her vision.

  In the end, Allegra kept her cool and completed the dance. She felt McIvor’s warm, clammy palms against her hand as he led her to the edge of the dance floor to a round of applause.

  He made a show of leading Allegra to Max and Elana who were both standing beside the table where they’d abandoned their food.

  McIvor handed her over to Max with a flourish that made Allegra feel slightly ill. The man had an oily layer beneath his very polished exterior.

  Elana was smiling, her expression disarming, but Allegra was aware of her now, and most thankful her radar had strengthened regarding the woman.

  Though she smiled there was a tightness at the corners of her eyes, an odd way she held her head, making Allegra more certain than ever that something was off.

  “My Lady, you are a wonderful dancer,” Elana spoke in a gushing tone and made Allegra want to shudder.

  Instead, she smiled and said, “Well, I’m not so sure about that, Elana. I do believe it was your husband who kept me on my toes. You’re very lucky he doesn’t step on your toes.”

  Elana laughed in response, appearing a little more relaxed now, which led Allegra to wonder if perhaps the woman was merely the jealous type.

  As the laughter died down, Allegra sensed someone at her back. Celestra—who’d been standing at Max’s side and was handing Allegra a glass of wine—stiffened, her eyes on something over Allegra’s shoulder.

  Allegra turned and was startled as she came face to face with General Qhapaq. She glanced up at him, a ripple of unease skimming her nape at his expression—displeasure bordering on anger.

  “My Lady,” he said tipping his head forward. “You dance well.”

  Allegra smiled and reached for the glass Celestra had forgotten to pass. She lifted the glass to the General in a mock toast. “Thank you, General. It’s kind of you to say so.”

  There was a moment of silence that was filled with the simmering drumbeat and slowly rising tempo of violins as the orchestra began a new set. The general remained silent, stretching out the tension. She knew that technique. Tox, her ex-boyfriend, had employed it one too many times.

  “I am curious, my Lady. It is my understanding that you would receive a vision using touch.” Allegra could have sworn she felt the tension around her rise.

  “Yes, General. I believe that is the reason you didn’t shake my hand earlier.” Allegra was shocked that the words had popped out of her mouth before she could stop them. Still, she was at the point in the evening where she cared far too little. More than anything it was the admonition in the general’s tone that had gotten under her skin.

  General Qhapaq looked over her shoulder at McIvor, and asked Allegra, “My Lady, am I to assume then that you have received a vision of our ambassador’s future?”

  Allegra narrowed her eyes. Who did he think he was to ask such a question. And why was he so inquisitive at all? What does he hope to gain from a vision of McIvor’s future?

  Allegra let out a soft laugh—hoping it sounded flirty. Weren’t men distracted by that? She studied the general’s eyes. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. Not entirely. So, unfortunately, I have to disappoint you. I had no vision of the ambassador’s future.” Allegra paused and lifted her chin. “And even if I had, I would certainly not be at liberty to reveal the contents of such a vision to you without the express permission of Ambassador McIvor himself.”

  The general appeared unconcerned with his rudeness, nor did he appear bothered by Allegra’s rebuke. “I’m sure our ambassador would not mind.” He gave a small bow again. “In any event, it appears it matters not at all. If you didn’t
see his future.” Again, the general seemed to be pushing for an answer.

  Allegra shook her head. “Unfortunately, my visions are unpredictable. Sometimes I don’t see anything.” She glanced at McIvor over her shoulder and smiled. “Perhaps Ambassador McIvor has nothing in his future that he should be concerned about. Except of course his wife if he doesn’t complete their dance.” Allegra hoped the smile on her face was a teasing one.

  The couple laughed, and McIvor was already leading his wife off when Allegra turned to face the general again. The man seemed unaffected in such a way that Allegra wanted to wave her hand in front of his eyes and ask if anyone was home. She’d heard of people who suffered from a muscular degenerative disease of the face which prevented them from smiling, or even laughing. Perhaps the forbidding general was one of them.

  She almost opened her mouth to speak when the general straightened and gave her that small half-nod that constituted a bow. “I must take your leave, my Lady. I confess I am disappointed. I had hoped to hear something interesting about Ambassador McIvor, but perhaps it is as you say and he is safe.”

  Something trilled within Allegra as she made a mental record of the man’s word choices. She’d barely given him a smile before he was turning and stalking off across the room, weaving between the dancing couples and heading to a small group of government officials.

  The dance was over within minutes, and Elana returned, pulling her husband by his sleeve. “Come darling. You must send the Lady Pythia home before she falls asleep on her feet. Jet-lag can be an awful thing if one doesn’t get sufficient rest.”

  McIvor nodded. “I’ll get them to bring the car around.”

  As he walked over to Max and Celestra, Elana asked Allegra, “Are you sure you didn’t see anything?”

  Allegra shook her head. “Sorry. Nothing.”

  “My Lady, I hope you don’t think you need to protect us from any vision you may see. We can handle anything you may need to tell us.”