They looked at each other, thinking about that. Ian came to himself first. “Slaves shed blood one way or another,” he growled. “Now, which symbols make the doors open?”
Beth felt as though she had been slapped. “I . . . I don’t know.” She looked again to the great tablet. Nothing leaped to mind. She touched each symbol in turn. Nothing happened. She touched every other symbol. Nothing. “Did you see what she touched?” She glanced to Ian and saw his face fall. So much for his blind confidence. Panic rose. She would fail him here. . . .
“I was kneeling behind her and not . . . not well.” Even in the green light cast by the emeralds she saw him flush with shame at admitting the extent of his slavery.
But his memory might be the only hope she had. “Think back,” she ordered, knowing it would cause him pain. “Can you remember even a single symbol?”
He shook his head in frustration.
“You remember the green light, don’t you?” She could not let it go.
He frowned in concentration. “Yes. The thrumming in the floor was slower then, before the blood. My feet were cut, so I was glad to kneel. I was weak, even though she hadn’t taken my blood for several days. She meant to offer me to the Old One.”
“Where were the other slaves?”
“Behind us, gibbering.” Ian’s eyes flickered over the lettering. “She turned to the tablet. She jerked my rope. My neck was raw. I crawled behind her.”
Beth wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, but she could not. “And then . . .”
“She read the tablet. She touched various places on it. . . .”
“Any pattern you could see?”
“It seemed random.” He peered over her shoulder at the stone. “But . . .”
“But what?” Beth pushed down the frantic beat of her heart.
“I think she touched that symbol, that one there. I remember because the rope cut my neck when she had to reach for it.” He pointed to the symbol for blood.
“Do you remember any others?” she asked, a thrill coursing through her.
He shook his head, ashamed of his failure. “No.”
The end, then. She had failed. But no . . . wait! There must be some inner sense to the pattern chosen to open the door; a cryptogram within the words themselves. Her eyes darted over the symbols, seeing the words come alive now.
THE SONG SWELLS ACROSS THE UNIVERSE. BLOOD CALLS TO BLOOD. COME FOR ME! IS THERE NO ATONEMENT POSSIBLE IN THE LENGTH OF A LIFE?
FORGIVE ME.
A flutter in her heart sped to her brain. What had the Countess said, like a mantra? Her hands moved over the symbols. Yes, it was here. She pushed at the first symbol. The. She could not reach the next. “There,” she commanded Ian. “Touch the one you saw her touch. He reached up and pushed at it. Blood. She was sure of herself now. Is. The. Life.
The great doors swung open silently, one bearing the huge tablet with the hieroglyphs. Beyond was a black vortex of some swirling viscous substance, like a great unseeing eye ready to suck one into the unknown. She jerked back, aghast.
“Your part is played, Beth,” Ian whispered as he stared at the whirling current. He glanced at her and smiled in what he must think was reassurance. The smile was only a little crooked. “Wait for me at the main door to the temple. If I am not out in an hour, leave this place. You can make it to Haasi Fokra. Send word to my brother. He will come for you.”
She shook her head. Everything within her protested. “I will not leave you. . . .”
He took her hands. His grip was strong, full of life. He smiled at her, tenderly. “I am so sorry to have dragged you into this. But who else could have opened the doorway?” He squeezed her hands. “Now it is my time upon the stage.” He folded her in an embrace. His arms tightened around her as though it was their last contact. He was preparing to sacrifice himself.
This was the embrace she had longed for. Her thoughts raced. Once he had wanted to die. Now he was going into that vortex so desperate to live he would risk what lay beyond. He had purpose. He might have found enough of himself to love her. His embrace said he was willing to build the bridge between them. Why did it come only now, when it might be too late? She couldn’t lose him now. “I’m coming with you. I can help . . .” she whispered into his shoulder.
“Too dangerous,” he said. “I have seen what he can do. And now he has been roused by blood.” She started to protest. He held her away from him and touched her lips with two fingers to still her. “Remember, don’t look at the jewels in the signal, my love.” She saw the muscles in his jaw clench. “You are brave and resourceful. You can make it back.”
He pushed her up the ramp. How could she let him do this alone? She turned to see the vortex bow out at his touch, like bubbling pitch. He thrust himself into it and was swallowed. She ran to the black whorl and pushed at it. Her arm disappeared to the elbow and she leaned into it but couldn’t break through. It would not let her in! She threw herself at the center only to bounce back. She stood, appalled. Her chest heaved. Something meant to get Ian alone. There was nothing for it now but to obey him. She forced herself to turn and run up the ramp.
Twenty-one
Ian pushed into the black vortex of whirling viscous fluid, trying to focus on what must be done. He had no idea what might wait for him on the other side of the dark veil. What had been impossible and horrific might have become something even worse with the application of blood. He popped through the blackness and stumbled to the side of the entrance, senses reeling.
The echoing chamber he remembered was still dim and blue. It took a moment for the confusion of the vortex to abate enough for Ian to realize what he was seeing. The huge throne still stood at the far end of the room, but it was empty now. The smell of rotting flesh underlay the heavy cinnamon scent. A pile of putrid corpses lay against the far wall. Movement in the shadows caught his eye. A larger, more attenuated shadow shifted behind the throne.
The Old One paced relentlessly, his form impossibly tall, his steps agitated. Even as Ian watched, he stopped abruptly, turned, and peered at the vortex. He stalked forward into better light. Ian was shocked. His eyes, once so lazy, so eternal, now snapped around the room. His countenance was stretched and . . . raw-looking.
“Where are you, intruder?” he croaked in Arabic Ian could barely comprehend, and his voice was like a wound.
Ian took a breath. This was what he had hoped for. His heart beat in his throat. He knew what he would say. He had no idea if it would work. But there was hope.
“Old One!” he called in university Latin, standing, still, in what light there was from a thousand sapphires, glowing from within. “I have returned.”
The head, a parody of human, snapped around. The flat black eyes fixed on him. The Old One went still. “Ah. The one who knows suffering, yet chooses to live,” he answered in Latin. How did he know? When he was last here Ian had only wanted to die. Or did the Old One see somehow that Ian had now changed? “You have the Companion. I can smell it.”
“Yes. To my cost,” Ian admitted, hoarse.
“For that I admitted you. Why do you come to your death when you have stolen eternal life?”
Ian stepped forward as anger took him. “I did not want your parasite. I do not want your life. She infected me. Asharti.”
“Ah, the one who brings blood.” The eyes closed, the vibrations increased in intensity. The forehead creased. “She should not have shared the Companion.”
Ian’s certainty grew. “The blood is always a mixed blessing, is it not? Life and pain.”
“Yes.”
Ian could not help but notice that the Old One did not sit, still, upon his throne as he had the last time. Perhaps he could not. Perhaps all stillness had been lost to him. Ian had to take a chance now. He swallowed. All depended upon the next moments.
In the entrance hall, Beth paced under the immense guardian statues of Thoth in their jeweled collars. She could only imagine what might be going on below her, but her imagina
tion was not lacking. Was Ian being torn limb from limb by the Old One? He needed the Old One’s blood to match his strength with Asharti. How could the being whose likeness she had seen in a broken statue ever give Ian precedence over Asharti when Asharti brought the blood he craved?
Each moment was an agony of waiting. The Countess had told her to have courage in order to help Ian. But Ian wouldn’t let her help. She wanted to scream in frustration! A pulsing darkness whirled in the entrance. She froze. She knew what that was. A second pool began to coalesce behind it. The room was suffused by the scent of cinnamon and ambergris.
The first darkness dissipated and a beautiful woman stood there, black eyes, black hair, a perfect creamy complexion, and a perfect body, revealed by the gauzy fabric draped over her shoulder and caught with a golden girdle at her waist. In that belt, a curved sword swung, its hilt set with jewels. The swell of her breasts was capped by clearly visible nipples, and her long fingernails and shorter toenails were painted metallic gold. She was almost a deity. This woman could enslave men without using the compulsion of a vampire.
Beth trembled. Who else could it be? Asharti.
The second pool evaporated, and the tall Arab she had seen at Haasi Fokra appeared.
Asharti looked around and fixed her gaze on Beth. She cocked her head. “Was it you who tore my Berbers limb from limb?” Her aristocratic nose sifted the air. “No. You are not our kind. Fedeyah!” She turned to the Arab behind her. “You said you saw my slave.”
“Yes, my goddess. It was he who killed the Berbers, not this human child.”
Asharti turned toward the passage, sniffing again. “He is here. . . . He has defied me! He is with the Old One even now! I must call him to heel.” She stalked toward the dark portal.
Beth’s mind raced. This woman was lethal. But she must not be allowed to interrupt Ian. He must get what strength he could before he faced her.
“You think because he was your slave he is still your slave?” she called.
Asharti turned, glanced once over Beth, and said, “Kill her, Fedeyah.”
Beth’s heart skipped. “He is not. I have set him free.” She had no idea what she was saying. She only knew she had to make them listen to her.
“You?” both Asharti and Fedeyah asked, one in derision, one with long-suppressed hope.
“Yes. Which makes me stronger than you are, Asharti.”
Asharti sneered. “A human?”
Beth managed a slow smile and nod.
“How?” the Arab asked. His voice was flat, but underneath some emotion surged and was checked. He was concealing his interest in the answer from Asharti.
“The . . . the power of love.” Would this woman believe that? Belief washed over Beth. Her voice grew stronger, as she remembered Ian’s embrace. “Enough love to erase the scars you left.”
“Set him before us,” Asharti smirked, “and see whose call he answers.” She looked at Beth curiously. “Do you know what he is capable of—the pleasures he can provide a woman?”
Beth flushed. “Yes, but for me he does it willingly.”
Asharti growled and it spiraled up until it was a bark of anger. Her fingers formed claws and she advanced upon Beth. Beth tried to stand her ground, wishing she had not gone so far so fast. What could she say to delay the evil goddess now?
“My queen,” Fedeyah called. “My queen, why not save her? If he loves her . . .”
Asharti stopped. Her claws relaxed and she tapped one grotesquely long nail on her chin. “You are right, Fedeyah.” She grabbed Beth’s wrist. “Come, girl. You will see the end.”
“Asharti stole peace from both of us when she gave us blood,” Ian said to the Old One. “Is the waiting easier when you feel every moment of the passing hours?” Back in England he had imagined the Old One’s existence becoming a hell once the blood brought him back to time and need. Had it been mere wishful thinking or was he right? All depended on the answer.
The Old One stopped his incessant pacing. He fixed his basilisk stare upon Ian and lifted his tiny chin. “I refused the blood once,” he said, in that echoing rumble that never came from a human chest. “So long ago. I had the courage once to slow time. I no longer have the courage.”
“She created your need. Now only she can fulfill it. She exacts a price. She always does.”
“That which we long for becomes our curse.” The words rumbled from the hanging tapestries to the great throne. “A self-inflicted curse.” The Old One began his pacing again. The very air vibrated with a restless power.
“Let me lift the curse.” Ian pushed all his hope for the future into this one plea.
The creature stopped and turned. “You?”
“You cannot refuse blood when she brings it. If I kill her, there is no more blood.”
“Pain,” the Old One mused. “Denial.”
“For a while—short in the scheme of things. Then time slows. You can bear the waiting.”
“Ahhhh,” the creature sighed, and the longing Ian heard in that sigh made all human suffering seem transitory by comparison. The eyes fixed on him again. “You want my blood.”
“No, with all my heart. Would I could get rid of the damned Companion altogether. But it is the only way I can best Asharti.”
“Why?” The voice vibrated with the very stones of the temple.
“She is creating vampires everywhere. She will destroy the human race, the ones I love, me, unless you give me the strength to stop her.”
“You? You are but newly made.”
“But I am all there is.” He knew he was not adequate to the task. She was still his master. He hated her for that more, for the first time, than he hated himself for succumbing.
The Old One lifted his stick-thin arms into the dim blue light. “Brothers!” he cried. “I stand at a crossroads. I crave the blood. Yet feeding makes the waiting torture and Asharti uses my strength against the very flock you shepherded for so long. She shares the Companion. What would you have of me?” He waited. The temple vibrated with his essence. No voices answered him. Slowly his arms lowered. His head bowed. “I am so alone. . . . When will you forgive?”
Silence stretched. Ian held his breath.
“It may be aeons until I can go home,” came the strange voice—a breath, no more, in the blue dark. “I must suffer the deprivation. How else can I endure the waiting?”
He stalked over to Ian. Ian stood his ground in the face of the overpowering vibrations. The being stretched above him, dwarfing his six feet. Those stick arms held the threat of fantastic strength. Ian had seen it. “You promise you will not bring me blood?”
Ian nodded. “I cannot prevent you from seeking it in the outside world.” There could be no lies in this bargain.
“I can prevent that.” The Old One held his own wrist to his needlelike canines and ripped a wound there. “Drink,” he commanded, and extended his wrist. Blood seeped into Ian’s upturned mouth, thicker than any human blood. Its intense taste was sour metal on his tongue. Like rich copper pudding, it slid down his throat, burning. The taste combined with the putrid rotting smell underlying the reek of cinnamon and ambergris. Ian almost gagged and turned away, but the Old One’s long, attenuated fingers snaked around his neck and held him there. Ian had made his choice. Now the Old One would hold him to it. He gulped convulsively.
Behind him, the vortex burbled. The Old One was letting someone through. Beth? The Old One might want no witnesses to his gift. He tried to look, but still the Old One held him. Still he was forced to drink the metallic blood.
“Betrayer!”
Ian’s heart sank. Asharti! The Old One loosed his hold on Ian, and Ian dropped to his knees and hung his head. The Old One’s blood coursed through his veins, burning.
“You give your power to another? It is I who bring you blood! We made a bargain.”
Ian raised his head. Asharti stood in front of the vortex, Fedeyah by her side. Her fist was wrapped in Beth’s hair as Beth fell to her knees. No, he thought, th
rough the fire in his body. Not Beth. He struggled to his feet. Why had the Old One let Asharti through the vortex? Ian knew he could control the entrance. One thing was clear. Whatever happened, Ian could not let Asharti hurt Beth. “A bad bargain,” he choked. “It’s been renegotiated.”
“You challenge me?” Asharti spat. “A drop of his blood is not enough.”
Ian straightened. Asharti had been given but a drop. He had just gulped more than a cup. Even if she had been back again and again . . . But perhaps volume didn’t matter. The burning in his veins and the weakness he felt said that the effect, even of so great a dose, was not immediate. It might actually weaken him to begin with. Yet Asharti was here, now, spoiling for a fight, and she was strong enough to kill Beth with a single blow. Could he keep her at bay until his body could assimilate the blood? He was about to find out. “I challenge you,” he managed.
Asharti looked at the Old One, wary. “What outcome do you favor?”
“What will be is now and ever shall be.” He sat on his throne. “It is not for me to decide.”
A dreadful smile spread across Asharti’s face, even as her eyes went red. The Old One would not take sides. She cast Beth aside and pulled out her gleaming sword. With a cry she sprang forward, slashing at Ian.
Ian stepped to the side and her slice hit only air. He would have to sustain some damage to hold her off. First, deprive her of her weapon. She whirled in rage and came after him again. This time he stepped into her swing. The blade sliced his shoulder, but he caught her wrist. She was incredibly strong. He could not win a straight-out contest of strength, so he brought her fist down and jerked his knee up. The blow caught her off-guard. The sword clattered to the stones.
Asharti threw herself against him. Ian braced himself for her weight and got his forearms up even as he kicked at the sword. She would try for his head. The sword went spinning away. She clawed at him, reaching around his defense, leaving bloody tracks on his face and neck. She ripped his burnoose, baring his bloody shoulder. Using all his weight, he crashed his body into hers. She fell back. The fire in him was shooting pain throughout his body. He could hardly see for the veil of black gauze that seemed to fill his head. Asharti threw herself on him again. He lashed out in an uppercut that had his hip behind it. Gentleman Jackson would be proud. Now was not the time for half measures. She staggered back again, but his blow had little effect. Dazed, he stumbled forward to pursue his momentary advantage, but she was up. She hit him a stunning blow to his head. He staggered. She followed with a kick to his ribs. He could feel them break. He fell to his knees. Somewhere he heard Beth crying his name.
Susan Squires - [Companion Vampires 0] Page 35
