He lifted his mouth away but kept her hand in one of his. With the other, he lifted away the still shaking cup and saucer and set it gently aside, then took that trembling hand in his as well. “You have been a very good Leader in the time allotted you, Miss Smith. It has been strange, but a true honor, to serve at your side.”
After that quiet compliment, he lowered her hands and walked away. Beatrice was left thunderstruck, with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
The core of Phoenix lay listless in Athens’s bricks, fiery and formless. After a time, he allowed himself to trickle out and course across the foyer floor, pacing as he had in corporeal form when pondering a great problem, always in concentric circles.
He’d almost forgotten how it felt to press firm feet upon the Earth. Floating did not satisfy. Still, he floated around the marble floor, now and then pausing, a ghost of blue fire. He couldn’t be too active, lest he wake up the young man to whom he was so tightly bound.
His goddess was right: There had never been a Leader quite so like Phoenix himself. Young Alexi Rychman was everything that Persephone had hoped, fiercely intelligent, with more raw promise and potential than they’d ever encountered before.
Being buried here in Athens had attuned him to new things. He knew that here, much would come to pass, Prophecy would be unveiled, and their great war would be wrought.
Surely Persephone did not know the extent of costs to come. If she did, she would not be so excited, so full of the life that had been missing from her for centuries. She had been a divinity since the beginning of time, and such was how she’d always see herself. But Phoenix knew she had to take mortal form or she was going to fall apart. There was no choice anymore.
If she took a mortal shape, she’d no longer be bound to shadow. But she would lose much by making this change. Perhaps he wouldn’t tell her what she couldn’t take with her. Perhaps it wasn’t his duty to tell her. If he said nothing, it would still happen. She’d pass into her new world none the wiser.
And be gone forever. The lover he’d known, cherished, and trusted would have vanished. If he didn’t tell her, he was no longer the god he claimed to be.
He’d have to reveal to her that she would remember nothing of this life. That she would, in effect, truly die in a way he doubted she could fathom. She wouldn’t come into the mortal world full of power, knowledge, and glory. The girl in her vision was a stranger to them both.
Phoenix pledged that he in turn would lose himself, sink so deep into the farthest reaches of Alexi Rychman’s mind that only his powerful fire would remain. They two ancients would offer up their gifts and let go entirely, allowing mortals to take their places and live reborn in the love that gods once knew.
* * *
Beatrice rose with the sun and noticed a note on the floor. Probably slid under her door sometime during the night. Seeing the familiar hand, a blush burned her cheeks. She bit her lip and picked it up. His writing was impeccable in either the beautiful sweep of Arabic or the rougher alphabet of English.
Though the Grand Work had aged her, she was still a young woman. In this moment, her heart was as fragile, thrilled, and fanciful as that of any who would soon attend this academy.
I have decided to help Ahmed see Verena safely home. It is the only appropriate action, especially given our summary dismissal. I have no sense of the goddess needing me or the others again and I would like to help assure both their safety.
That said, I shall write you anon. After making sure our friends have all they need in Cairo, you and I shall speak of Egypt and of England. We shall come to an agreement on what is to be done next.
Safe travels with the goddess, whatever madness she has planned. Tell me if there is some way I may yet be of service. And take care of yourself. I don’t want anything to happen to someone as important as you.
Warmly,
Ibrahim
Beatrice’s pulse raced as she read and reread the note. For a man as stoic as Ibrahim, this was quite the change. Warmly. As important as you. The gray sky over London now seemed as golden as Cairo. If Ibrahim would yet agree to be the light of her life, she didn’t care which sky she spent it under.
* * *
Alexi Rychman stood in his study, contemplating dark and dismal things. His grandmother’s funeral had been hard on him. She was the person for whom he’d strived. Now all he had to replace her was supernatural madness.
A light across the room caught his gaze. In his doorway stood their prophet, the angel of their annunciation, a breathtaking young woman, impossibly beautiful, luminous with subtly shifting colors, as if lit by a rotating prism. His heart leaped into his throat, and he felt his command of the universe shatter.
“It’s you,” he breathed.
“I’ve been watching,” she confessed shyly, immensely powerful and yet somehow eternally youthful, naive. “I shouldn’t, but I have.”
“And you haven’t made yourself known?” he asked, trying not to sound hurt. He could muster no craft when he spoke with her, no artifice or maturity; she drew from him raw, unfettered emotion, as if he’d known her all his life. There had been an immediate intimacy when she first appeared and charmed her way into his heart by merely saying his name.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” the goddess breathed. “And to get on with the next phase of our plan so that I may come to you, in form newly refreshed, to take up our destinies. But I’m a coward. I can’t bear the idea that if something goes wrong, I may never see you again.”
She grabbed him by the hand, which suddenly felt encased in a gentle, humming fire more potent than the flames he himself these days commanded. He was a careful youth, quiet, often brooding. But with this woman he felt alive, happy, and eager. With her, this supernatural calling seemed no curse but a blessing.
With a start he realized she’d led him into his bedroom. Heat flooded him at the idea of them in so intimate a space.
“I shouldn’t do this,” she continued, yearning clear in her voice.
Alexi’s body nearly convulsed with desire. “Do what?” He meant to sound inviting but only sounded like an overwhelmed boy.
She sighed ruefully. “I must be going. We must begin. We must bring Prophecy to light. I’ve never done it before, you know.”
Alexi trembled.
“Never taken a mortal body,” she clarified. “We’re long overdue for these bold and dire acts, you and I. I was just waiting for the right time. You. You’re the right one. I choose you. Now, and in the future. I will choose you.”
When she leaned in, it was as if a sunbeam broke upon Alexi’s face. The soft, warm press of her lips against his sent crashing waves of pleasure across his body. Perhaps knowing it was his first kiss, she bestowed it tenderly. He was frozen, unable to take her in his arms as he wished. All he could do was drink in the sensation of her lips questing over his. They danced over and across his sharp cheekbones, and her murmur in his ear caused frissons down his body.
“Nothing is as exciting as a stolen kiss, is it?”
She drew back and blushed, an action Alexi found wondrous. She was impossibly feminine, an ageless, timeless girl. Her impish smile was inviting, her shifting and overpowering shades of beauty dizzying.
“Furtively given and taken, out of sight of watching eyes,” she continued. “Illicitness is half the thrill of desire. Perhaps our situation in the future will be similar. Perhaps you’ll steal my kisses next time. I shouldn’t be here now, but I cannot help myself. You’re so like him, you know.”
“Who?” Alexi breathed, confused.
“Phoenix. My love of long ago. Before I was taken under.” Her voice broke, and Alexi dared place his hand upon hers. “Your destined will love you as much as I do. She’ll come with my heart.”
“Love me?” Alexi stammered, reeling. “How can you say that? You don’t even know me. You think you know my destiny, and that of my new friends, but do you know me?”
>
She traced a luminous finger down his cheek. “I have a way of knowing souls, Alexi Rychman. Yours is worthy and true. The Grand Work has its curses, but I promise you joy.”
She touched his temple with a gentle finger. It was not the touch of passion for which he hoped. He wanted to take her in his arms, to be her conquering hero, but her fingertip on his temple held him still.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The sudden sadness on her face doused his excitement. “I can’t let you remember this. I want you to know what it’s like to truly fall in love, like a mortal, with a mortal. Not like this. This isn’t real. You’re under my spell.”
“No, please,” he begged. He was not accustomed to knowing his desires, let alone articulating them. “Don’t take these moments from me.”
“In part they will live here.” Her fingertips, glowing and prismatic, slid past his vest, inside his shirt and across the skin of his chest. He felt something flutter inside: a seething longing, a fierce strength. “Steel your heart until your destined beloved comes. When you’re sure, you may unleash these floodgates upon her. But be patient. Be cautious. It will not be easy for any of us. Darkness will look to drive a wedge between.”
Her eyes filled with silver tears.
“Eternity awaits, my love,” she murmured. Then all the room was light. She was gone from his arms like a vanishing ghost.
Alexi returned to his senses. Hearing his sister calling his name, he descended the stairs and entered the parlor.
“What were you doing? I thought I heard voices,” said Alexandra, shifting her wheelchair.
All he could remember was blinding white light. Nothing else. “Muttering to myself, as usual,” he replied.
Turning to gaze out the window, he saw a host of flowers in the garden below. Had there always been so many? He felt three overwhelming sensations: loss, loneliness, and the belief that someday, despite this hollow pain, he would be provided for. Guided by something beyond his control.
* * *
Beatrice was staring dreamily out her window when Persephone appeared at her side, a jolt of light, color, and the scent of flowers.
“Ah, love!” the goddess exclaimed, grabbing the young woman’s hand and dragging her to her feet. “There is nothing so delicious as a man’s first kiss!”
Though she felt the goddess’s contagious, bubbling glee and wanted to give over to it, to share the bliss that had been Ibrahim’s lips on her hand, Beatrice raised an eyebrow and muttered, “Having fun with your new pet, I take it? Isn’t he a bit young for you? I doubt that’s quite fair.”
At this, Persephone sobered. “I was looking for the others. Have Verena and the rest gone already? So swiftly departed for Egypt and home?”
For the first time in Beatrice’s experience, the goddess was dressed not in robes but in the style of the day: wide skirts, capped sleeves, and tapered cuffs. The fabric was grandly, absurdly red. Playing at mortal, she clearly relished in the costuming, but the garish crimson silk made Beatrice wince.
“I am unsure; their boat may have already departed. It would be … too sentimental of me to have followed along.”
The goddess looked at Beatrice more closely. “You seem nervous, but you’re blushing. Wait! I know that look. I’m sure I’m wearing it, too.”
Beatrice composed herself and countered, “Are you? Are we feeling the same thing? I worry still for Verena, about her health and her journey home, about Ahmed and Ibrahim, traveling with her. I’m heartbroken to see our coterie break apart, no thanks to you. Don’t you have things to do in the Whisper-world? Like pour your blood onto some stones?” she chided bitterly.
The expression on the goddess’s face changed to hurt in an instant, a terrible sight, and Beatrice felt an apology spring to her lips, but she bit it back, saying only, “I remain furious with this whole turn, my Lady.”
Persephone nodded. “Of course. I reel from it just as you do. I declared a prophecy to the new Guard, and the words changed on my very lips! I’m not sure how in control of my destiny I am.”
“How comforting,” Beatrice muttered.
Regaining her earlier joie de vivre, the divinity said, “Let’s see the boat off. I want to wave from the docks and send my love to those who cross the oceans!”
“But the train to the port—”
“Take my hand; we’ll be there in the instant. I’ve enough magic to spare for such a moment as this.”
Beatrice sighed. She could not refuse the goddess’s enthusiasm—or her own desire to drink in Ibrahim’s visage once more.
The world spun, and Beatrice felt the roil of seasickness. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she stood at the Southhampton docks. The goddess slid heaps of crimson silk out onto the stones as if she were stepping down from a precipice. Beatrice noticed her motions were slightly awkward, as if she were stiff or in pain.
Ahmed was visible at the prow of the Peninsular steamer, and his dark face lit with a smile upon seeing them as Persephone nearly dragged Beatrice right to the dock edge. He ran along the rails, shouting, “Oh, my Lady, you’re here!” He seemed not to harbor the anger of the rest of them did, which was odd, considering his love for Verena, but then again, anger simply wasn’t in him.
“Please,” he called, heedless of the surrounding Londoners who turned wary glances on him. “The visions keep coming. I’ve seen betrayals—I don’t know when they will take place, but I feel in my heart that those who love you will betray you. They won’t be able to help it.
“Be careful,” he continued. “Be wary of all. Betrayals will come from close by, from within your coterie; they won’t mean it, so be wary. There is beauty ahead, but much pain beside.”
Ibrahim appeared beside Ahmed at the rail. Beatrice’s heart skipped a beat. He did not notice her at first; he was eyeing Persephone and her costume.
Ahmed continued, “I know this defies Ibrahim’s rational mind. I’ve been driving him mad with it. Our powers gone, yet my visions remain. I must be heard. The war in the ground. The dead have no place to go. You can’t close every door…” He clutched his cap in his hand and ran his hand through his hair, disheveling it.
Persephone nodded. Her voice carried easily to her former Guard. “You are heard and appreciated, Ahmed, though I do not yet see what you see.”
“Because you are too focused on what is directly in front of you. I, objective, can see further,” Ahmed insisted.
“I do not doubt it and will make sure your words are recorded,” the goddess assured him. “That is all I can do.” She faced Ibrahim, who was standing more stiffly now, staring at Beatrice as if his eyes could burn holes in the dock.
The tension was palpable—delicious, Beatrice thought. She clenched her fists and saw that Ibrahim had also clenched his.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Go kiss him, will you?” the goddess said with a chuckle. She batted an elegant hand. “The damned propriety of this age. Thank God we divinities aren’t bound by such ridiculous constraints!” She moved away and stepped up on a small platform, where she began waving and blowing kisses to the departing passengers, leaving Beatrice blushing furiously.
She saw Ibrahim’s lips curve; he was surely imagining what Persephone might have said to make the stoic Miss Smith lose her composure. He put his hand to his heart, still gazing at her. She couldn’t breathe, could only look at him in return.
Her eyes welled with tears, and she was glad he was far enough away not to hear the little hitches of her breath. She placed her hand on her heart, too, and she hoped with every bit of that pounding instrument that their gestures signified a compact. A vow. For two such stubborn souls, this departure might have been the only thing that could have brought it out of them.
The ship shifted, moving into the current, and Ibrahim walked away, his elegant form, clad in a tunic and long coat, vanishing through a door. Beatrice supposed he did not think it practical to linger in aching sentiment. Surely it was only a matter of time be
fore they could move forward, hopefully together. At last she let her tears fall, gasped for breath, and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief.
A bit of a crowd had formed around Persephone, watching her wave and send kisses. Beatrice laughed, saying quietly, knowing the goddess would hear, “You look as if you know and love every single one of us mortals.”
“I do! In my way.” She hopped down from her platform perch, wobbling a bit on landing. Making a face she said, “Shoes. Never have liked them.”
She held out her arm and Beatrice took it. It was damnably impossible to stay angry with the creature.
“Now. What’s to be done with you two?” the goddess asked. “Are you returning to Cairo, or is he coming back for you?”
“I … I don’t know. It’s yet to be determined.” Beatrice felt a wave of trepidation. “I suppose it depends how long you’re keeping me.”
“Not too much longer, else I ruin everything. Come then. We’ll have to buy you some beautiful stationery for love letters.”
Beatrice made a tiny noise. “That’s presumptuous!”
“One should always be writing love letters,” the goddess declared. “One can never write enough of them.”
The route they took back to Bloomsbury and Athens passed a small shop selling all things epistolary. Next door sat a jewelry shop. Persephone seemed unsurprised at this pairing, smiling when she saw it.
Drawing on a thin chain around her neck, the goddess showed Beatrice an elegant silver ring shaped like a feather.
“I’d like to do something with this,” she said. “My tears worked very hard to craft it. I’ll meet you out front in a bit.” She entered the jewelry shop, opening the door as if she were a mortal woman.
After going into the stationer’s, it wasn’t long before Beatrice reemerged with a set that had her dreaming of better days and times. The idea that a composed man like Ibrahim might be more forthcoming in letters than in person, that the written word might better reveal a guarded heart, was a titillating new prospect.
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