Perilous Prophecy

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Well said,” Beatrice commented, “very true.”

  Everyone nodded slowly. Ahmed reached toward Verena as if he wanted to take her hand. She stared at his hand, then him, and smiled, but did not move. Beatrice’s expression became a scowl.

  The feast of unrest here saddened Ibrahim. He wondered if the Book of the Dead had helped any of the pyramids’ souls find peace or if it had only served to confuse them. He was certain the unrest had more to do with mortal meddling than any flaws of faith. He was so lost in thought that it took him some moments to realize that the others had remounted their camels and were heading back to Giza. He hurried to catch up.

  They hadn’t gone far, so their return did not take long. Beatrice was the first to arrive back at the tourist depot. After a limber dismount, she tied the animal to a stable post and turned to her fellows.

  “Well, my troops,” she declared. “Good work, it would seem. Until we next feel the call to arms.”

  The rest stared after her, blinking as she walked away, still unsure what sort of protocol they should follow at the end of meetings such as this. Eventually they took her action as dismissal. There was little else to do at this time of night but return to the central city.

  Ibrahim watched his fellows sort themselves into couples in a way that seemed understandable, Ahmed asking Verena in which part of the Coptic hara she resided, Belle and George exchanging halting French and English sentences and smiles. A few Giza residents stumbled past and stared, surprised at the seemingly upstanding and well-kept youths who shouldn’t have been wandering the streets at such an hour. Before they could ask questions, Belle waved a hand and they turned, dazed, and wandered away.

  Beatrice vanished around a corner, and Ibrahim practically ran after her.

  “Do not misinterpret this,” he called in smooth English. “It isn’t that I require your company, it simply isn’t the wisest idea for a young woman to walk alone at such an hour.” Her black traveling skirts swished about her as she strode forward and then bounced to a halt. She turned, one eyebrow raised.

  “While in any other circumstance I would entirely agree,” she began, “I somehow think I’ll be all right.” She gazed down at her palm, in which she held a ball of blue fire.

  “I’d suggest you not entertain any unrealistic sense of security,” he cautioned. “Don’t tempt fate. Your fire works on ghosts, not human criminals. Don’t think you’re a god.”

  Beatrice made a face. “I know I’m not a god. But I would like to be left alone. This Grand Work madness came at a most unwelcome time. I must remember that I’m in mourning.”

  “As am I. And I respect that. But as your”—he swallowed—“second-in-command, I should see to it that you are escorted home. I can walk several paces behind you if you’d rather.”

  Beatrice’s face softened. “Thank you, Ibrahim,” she said in Arabic after a quiet moment. “You are a gentleman. Walk with me, then. But please forgive my silence. While I know I ought to be asking all the things new friends should, I’ve no stomach for niceties at present. We’ll have all the time in the world for cordiality—or so it would seem.”

  Ibrahim nodded, intrigued by her cool tone. Intuition told him it hid something. She was forcing herself to be distant.

  They kept to shadows and silence as the city thickened around them, veering toward the Citadel. Glancing at the passing ghosts, seeing that they seemed uninterested in him, Ibrahim wondered if he and she really were allowed to speak freely, like friends and comrades. If so, what on earth should they say? Where would they begin? The Grand Work was redefining their identities, and he could hardly remember how the world looked and felt before, though he knew that at the core they each had been chosen for who they were. They were not changed but … heightened.

  Despite that, they were no less alone.

  * * *

  The Whisper-world echoed with the Gorgon’s triumphant cry. “I’ve found where she keeps them all!” Luce crowed as she ran to tell her master, dancing around those shadows lit by red eyes.

  Darkness launched to his feet. Down from the massive stone throne he stepped, casting open the veil of darkness and standing, a luminous and bone-white skeleton. “Where? Where is she? Is she there?”

  He was suddenly a beautiful man. In the next moment a skeleton.

  “No, she’s out cavorting with mortals, as usual,” Luce sneered, daring to slide her black-robed arm into his, which was flesh, then bone. “While she’s away, you ought to make your move. Gather your most miserable minions, the ones without hope, all those who have refused redemption. Bring them. We’ve a field to burn.”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Putting the gaping maws of the restless Giza ghosts behind her, Beatrice bid Ibrahim thanks and a quiet good night at the front door of their building, and he bowed his head and disappeared around the corner.

  Climbing the stairs with a quiet tread, she unlocked the front door of her father’s apartments and went directly to the study, where she assumed she would find him. He was always up until all hours, poring over glyphs and pieces of pottery. She kissed him on the head without a word, receiving no smile or acknowledgment in return, then glided silently to her room. Rest was imperative.

  She tried to ignore the pain of her dear father having hardly noticed her, for that was the way of things now. Her cohorts across the city were surely feeling the same, passing phantoms in their own homes.

  Beatrice stared at the ceiling as a vague horror crept over her. She should be truly in mourning, not having to remind herself of it. She should be helping her father make discoveries. She should be creating a name for herself in Egyptology. And yet, here she was, her purpose in academia supplanted by something she couldn’t accurately describe, even to herself. Her family had been replaced by five strangers and an angel.

  Instead of finding Jean’s image on her eyelids when she closed them, she saw the disturbingly handsome face of her second-in-command. As firmly rooted as if meant to be. As if they were meant to be. But how could such different people be fated to unite? It was nonsense. Ibrahim was a stranger. Where was this odd sensibility coming from?

  Keeping sharp and defensive was all she could do to keep boundaries. She couldn’t let a stranger, one so cool and detached toward her, know that she was drawn to him. He was her second-in-command, and he likely resented her for it. Men always did.

  “I couldn’t help that I was chosen as Leader,” she murmured. Then she was overwhelmed by contrition. “Surely he doesn’t feel this weak contrivance of emotion. He can’t feel any of what I do. I’m projecting my grief onto Ibrahim, feeling a strange attraction … No, the man hates me. This is absurd.”

  “It isn’t” came a voice at her bedside. The light of the room shifted colors.

  “Good Lord! Couldn’t you knock or offer a bit of warning?”

  The goddess sat at the end of her bed and smirked. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Lord.”

  “I don’t know what I believe. But recent events have at least renewed my faith in cursing,” Beatrice replied.

  Persephone chuckled. “It isn’t absurd to find yourself drawn to your second-in-command. It’s only natural. Leaders and seconds have loved each other for ages, no matter who they are, men, women, no matter where they come from or how they may identify. All the Muses are interested in is the soul, not the body. Shouldn’t that be the way? Of course; it isn’t a mandate for partnerships to arise, they simply often do.” She leaned close. “He’s dreadfully handsome, isn’t he?”

  “You were eavesdropping,” Beatrice hissed, blushing. That would teach her to sort through her emotions aloud.

  “No,” Persephone argued. “I just wanted to say good-bye before I return to the Whisper-world. I never know how long I’ll be gone in terms of your time. It may be a month or a day to you, I’ve no idea, but being away from the living always feels like an eternity to me. When I feel a pull to my Guard I try to make my rounds to those most influential. You�
�ve done well. Take care. Keep faith.”

  The goddess vanished, leaving Beatrice still blushing and awkward. But at least she had some sense of why she was feeling such a pull toward Ibrahim. There was a Guard precedent.

  She couldn’t be blamed, then. And, of course she wouldn’t act on it, considering his indifference. She did have her pride, after all. A whole hell of a lot of it.

  * * *

  Several streets away, Ahmed woke with another cry. Ibrahim stirred groggily, rubbing at his eyes and fighting a sense of déjà vu as he sat up.

  “The nightmare again?”

  At the foot of his friend’s bed sat the angel, Persephone. Ibrahim found that calling her an angel still felt more natural to him than calling her a goddess. Not everything he believed had to be overturned at once.

  Ahmed breathed heavily. He saw Persephone, turned to Ibrahim and offered a valiant smile.

  “What is it?” the divinity asked.

  Ahmed addressed her. “Visions came to me at the same time as the Grand Work. They showed a war in the ground, where the dead have no place to go. Why do I keep seeing it unless it’s a warning? I tell you, this is important. The dead have nowhere to go … Surely that means something to you, my Lady.”

  She considered before shaking her shifting-colored head. “Alas,” she admitted, “such a vision is unfamiliar to me.”

  “It is of a time I cannot yet fathom. There are machines, terrible constructions of metal. It all seems fantastical and impossible. The dead, oh, so many dead! They speak to me. They tell me not to close every door. Do you know what door?”

  “I recall that the Heart was desperate to go to you, was so very eager to choose you, Ahmed. Perhaps this was why. It knew it gained both a joyous heart and a visionary. It sensed that you could help our cause.”

  “Perhaps,” Ahmed said, shaking off the nightmare and regaining hope.

  “Or it is all too human madness,” Ibrahim muttered.

  The angel turned as if to admonish him, but instead replied, “Visionaries or madmen. There seems a hair’s breadth distinction at times.”

  “But you’ll be alert, should this suddenly mean something?” Ahmed begged. “If this torture was for no good purpose…”

  “Of course I’ll take your vision to heart!”

  The Sufi nodded, satisfied. Ibrahim noticed that his eyes had dark circles underneath. How long had Ahmed been suffering these dreams?

  Persephone bit her lip. “May I offer you something?” she asked. “I wish to counter your pain with something beautiful.”

  Ahmed nodded, eager. Ibrahim watched her a bit more closely.

  “While I’m hardly omnipotent, I can deeply feel the human heart—of my Guards in particular. I can affect a journey of release should you choose to accept it. A living daydream of something beautiful. A journey into a favorite, perfect place, if only for a moment. Think on that and we’ll travel there. Close your eyes and think of something heavenly.”

  Ahmed did. Persephone touched his temple with her fingertip. He shivered—in delight, Ibrahim hoped.

  She turned. “Would you like to come?” she asked.

  He stared at her a moment. She cycled through a few different shades. Finally he moved toward her. She gestured him closer. Reaching out a fingertip, she touched his temple …

  The world changed. They stood on a wide rooftop, a vast stone courtyard. The Nile delta stretched out below, lush, verdant, the source of all life. There was music, incredible music, as if a thousand muezzins called out in Arabic, in pure, powerful tones from a hundred unseen towers.

  Ahmed was transformed. His long, layered tunic was all white and a tall camel-hair cap perched upon his head. The Sufi’s eyes were closed in rapture, and there was a huge smile upon his face as he listened to the sung prayers.

  Persephone stood at a respectful distance, eyeing Ahmed with unquestionable love. In this moment she did not shift. She was entirely without color, her hair and skin from head to toe, her diaphanous robes; all was solid white as if to match Ahmed’s robes.

  The Sufi began to turn, his left foot the pivot, his arms up as if welcoming the world; one hand was turned toward heaven, the other to Earth. His white skirt spun out around him, low at first, higher as his spinning grew and the hymn swelled. From what Ahmed had described to Ibrahim about his faith, Ibrahim recognized this as part of a worship ceremony. This was Ahmed’s personal, private joy: Sufi whirling. And the beauty of it, of the singing and of the simple meditative movement and worship of a mysterious divinity, brought Ibrahim close to tears.

  Ahmed opened his eyes to fix his friend and their mysterious angel with a meaningful gaze. In one gesture, he encouraged them both to imitate his form. To join in his affirmation. Which they did. How could they not?

  It did not matter how much time passed. Eventually, the music quieted. The bright expanse of the perfect day darkened, Ahmed turned to Persephone, and suddenly they were all back in his small Cairo room.

  “Thank you for that,” Ahmed said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned to Ibrahim and added, “Such as that was a glimpse of the unseen world, as close as we’ll get to the afterlife while we yet live.”

  Persephone smiled, her colors bright, refreshed.

  Ibrahim chuckled, enjoying the memory. “You may make a believer of me yet.”

  Ahmed shrugged. “I don’t worry for your soul.”

  Such a pronouncement was good to hear. Ibrahim smiled.

  Persephone’s colors darkened. “I must go back.”

  Ahmed frowned. “Again? It is not yet the season, is it?”

  The goddess’s smile was fond. “There are many different seasons across this planet. We abandoned the old schedule long ago. It’s better that way. I am leashed but come and go as I please, and if I return regularly, he tends not to watch so closely. But I’m sensing things are about to change. We’re on the cusp of a new dawn, and I want to be both places as much as I can—so I can react quickly.” She blew both Ibrahim and Ahmed kisses, her eyes sad. “You be sure to enjoy this world. The next one comes soon enough.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Be sure to think on my vision, my Lady, should you find it useful.”

  Persephone sighed. “I never take what a Guard says for granted. And if there comes a time to use your wisdom, I shan’t forget. But as for now, I see nothing.”

  She cast her arm forward, and a black portal ripped into the room. Ibrahim and Ahmed watched in awkward silence as the beautiful creature steeled herself and straightened her shoulders. Did her hands tremble? She drew a deep breath and stepped inside. With a snapping sound the portal closed. They were again alone in the room.

  “It is terrible to see a divine being of such gentleness move frightened into a dark night,” Ahmed stated.

  Ibrahim nodded. The sight was indeed deeply distressing, and Instinct rustled his blood, shuddered against his bones. There were many dark nights ahead for all of them, not just Ahmed. If these mounting shadows were hard for a divinity, what would they be like for mortals?

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  What Persephone had said to Ibrahim and Ahmed was true: She had some freedom, but it was best if her feet often touched the ground of the Whisper-world. If she didn’t go back voluntarily, the maw would eventually open, she’d feel wrenching pain, and shadowy claws would drag her back by force.

  Gliding through the darkened corridors, she saw that the regent was not on his throne. Relieved, she turned toward her resting place, a platform a few paces nearer to the river. A pair of red eyes blinked at her from the floor. The dog.

  It wasn’t a dog, exactly, but what else could one call this gruesome guardian? It sometimes appeared in a dog’s shape, save that it had far too many heads, too many tongues salivating for violence. Persephone had a fondness for animals, but this was not an animal. It was a swarm of shadow and teeth. And it, like its master, liked her to know it was watching.

  But she was not without recourse, and she was unafraid to strike bac
k. She struck the air with her delicate hand: A cracking sound reverberated through surrounding corridors as a burst of dazzling white light snapping out from her body like a whip. The creature turned its hundred tails. Uttering vague, canine noises it fled, shadows breaking apart like rats scurrying away.

  Alas, wielding her light here always had consequences, and Persephone’s bosom seared with pain. She choked, pomegranate juice upon her lips, that eternal bile that had bound her here so long ago. She spat, and the stones sizzled with the heat of her blood and residual light.

  Gasping, she sank down upon the bed Darkness provided her. Though she rarely spoke to him, nor he to her, it seemed to keep him satisfied when she lay upon her bier near the throne, just as it did when she took his hand for a promenade through his kingdom.

  An old wound ripped open within her, something far worse than the usual repercussions from her powers. She shot up from her bed, assuming Darkness had returned and was torturing her with another of his nightmares. But his chair remained empty.

  Somewhere Darkness was stoking the fire of eternal anger. Persephone picked her battles, always had, but now a battle was picking her. She had an inkling that, in one eternal night, everything would be different, like the day he’d killed Phoenix.

  Seeking the source of her discomfort, she ran, but the stone corridors confounded her. He’d changed them again, a maddening and confounding habit. She lifted one hand before her to light her path. The haggard spirits in her way ducked clear, knowing not to trifle with this luminous fury.

  Was Darkness moving against her Guard? It was time for a fight. It had long been time for a fight. Darkness hadn’t bargained for a fiery bride when he’d kidnapped youth, beauty, love, and hope; all elemental aspects of one prismatic being. He’d thought these meek mortal properties were easily controlled. He was mistaken, though she was often too scared to see anyone hurt.