Prisoner of Shera-Sa

by Reese Gabriel

  At the same time, she was furious with him, and confused and desperately wishing he could get her out of this place, to anywhere else.

  “Emotions? How am I supposed to know what you’re feeling?” She accused. “You hide everything.”

  “I think I have made my position clear enough.” She could see the contradictions. The tension. The erection in his shorts, the clenched fists, the twitching lip. He wanted her, just like she wanted him. It was a primal thing, a hearkening back to ancient days, of caves and animal skins, when males protected and dominated their females. But something held him back. She’d felt it there, even yesterday when he’d proposed to her.

  One way or the other she had to know.

  “You want to beat me?” She challenged. “Is that the best thing you can think to do with me? Fine, I surrender—wreak havoc on my naked ass and then pass it along to Hassan and the others. They can whip me, too, and maybe even fuck me. How’s that for a plan?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. This is simple discipline. Between you and me.”

  “But it’s not simple.” Minarra was unbuttoning her khaki shirt, pulling it down over her shoulders. “You obviously have all these things to prove where I’m concerned. You need me to be your little harem girl, your desert slave—whatever. Well, here’s your chance, baby. And why not? We’re going to die, anyway.”

  “Get hold of yourself,” he warned, as she shed the shirt and unhooked her bra.

  Minarra sank to her knees, holding up her exposed breasts, pushing them together. “Use me,” she said, her voice a husky, dark whisper. “Ravish me…now.”

  It was a call for her own subjugation, though Minarra was far from weak in the matter. When this was said and done, she’d pick up her gun again. Her own father had trained her to use it, and Mac knew that. No, this was about the sex, pure and simple. Sex in the desert, sex with danger, sex with role-playing.

  “Get, up, Min.”

  “No.” Defiantly she crawled to him, reaching for his crotch. He pushed her back onto the sand.

  She went to him again, this time hugging his calves. “Take me,” she hissed, biting into the back of his leg.

  Mac cursed, grabbing her by the hair. He pulled her up, painfully, back to her knees. Her blood was pounding. He had her back bowed, enough to fully advertise the swell of her breasts. “You don’t know what you are messing with, Min.”

  “Try me,” she dared. Indeed, she was fearless. Under the skies of the ancients, the stars of the long ago merchants and vagabonds, she held nothing back. More than this, she sensed in her gut the pull of the city. Of Shera-Sa. It was calling. Just like Hassan had said was possible. She wondered if he knew the details…if he’d ever seen the gorgeous Komen-tah, or his mysterious priestess, those pure creatures of dark seduction.

  Mac’s face reflected her own torment—the craving of delicious pain, the feel of the moth, drawn to flame. Could he feel the power, too? Pulling down his zipper, he pulled his rock-hard erection from the opening.

  “Don’t say you didn’t ask for this.” He declared. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret, too. Every time I’ve seen you lately I have wanted to do this—this and about a hundred other things to you. The desert agrees with you…you wench.”

  Mac guided her lips to the tip of his cock. His skin glowed in the moonlight. He smelled deep and rich, like a man should. The tip of his shaft was velvety smooth. Gladly she wrapped herself around him, working her way up the base. “Oh Min,” he groaned. “That’s so good. If only…if only. Oh Christ. You get my head so…scrambled.”

  It pleased her to be able to scramble him up for a change. Certainly, he’d done his share of that to her head. It pleased her even more at the moment, to be burying her fear, with all the seeming ease of burying the man’s cock. Fumbling at her waistband, she tucked her hand in, edge-wise. She was on a mission for her pussy and she would not be deterred.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t want to come yet,” he declared. “I wanna be inside—”

  Mac went stiff. Ramrod straight. Like steel. The only motion was the pulsing of his warm cock. Something was wrong. The man had sensed something.

  “Min,” he whispered, his voice sharp as a Japanese blade. “We’re not alone. Don’t make any sudden movements. Disengage, quick and quiet as you can and crawl behind me.”

  Minarra knew this was not the time to argue. She could hear nothing herself, but she trusted him totally. Sliding her mouth off the end of his cock, she lowered herself to her hands and knees. Damn it. What a fool she’d been, playing sex games with him out here in the dunes.

  “Now I want you to hand me the rifle,” he said when she’d taken up her position behind his shins. “Nice and slow. Don’t get up. Keep as low to the ground as you can.”

  Minarra lowered herself to her hip. She could barely see a hand in front of her face. Feeling in the sand, she found the rifle, grabbed it and handed it up to Mac. He took it nice and slow, keeping his arm at his side. With the weapon pointed to the ground, his finger on the trigger, he gave her his final orders.

  “When I count to three,” said Mac, his eyes still trained on the seemingly empty desert in front of them. “I want you to get up and run back to the jeep. As fast as you can. Alert Hassan, tell him my orders are for you to escape now. You are not to wait for me. Is that clear?”

  Her poor heart felt like it was going to explode. She managed to grab her shirt, clutching it with a damp fist. “But…but Mac.”

  “Goddamn it, Min. Do it!”

  “Yes…”

  “One,” he counted. “Two…and three.”

  Minarra bolted. Time went into slow motion. It was like one of those dreams where you try and run away, but you feel like your feet are stuck in place. Behind her she heard shouting, in Alcazaran. A shot rang out and then another. The crack of rifle fire. It never occurred to her that she could be shot. It was Mac she was scared for. She had to get him help. There was no way she’d let them go without him, even if she had to go back for him herself.

  There was no need to sound any alarm. Hassan was already running toward her, several of the men with him.

  “Mac needs help,” she cried, pulling the shirt on to cover herself. “He’s over the dune. “Fighting off some of the rebels!”

  She left the part out about how they were all supposed to leave without him. It was insubordination to the max, but she’d be damned if she’d lose Mac out here. Not now. Not like this.

  Hassan began shouting orders. Minarra ran to the back of the jeep, looking for her weapon. Seeing the mounted machine gun gave her a better idea. Starting up the vehicle, and turning on the headlights, she headed right for the dune. A little firepower would scare the bastards off…

  She paused at the top of the dune. Looking down, in the beam of the lights, she could see Mac down, on his stomach. He was firing the pistol, attempting to pin down the enemy at several points. He had them at bay, a stalemate. Though it wasn’t going to last long. He was vulnerable as hell from his position. Especially now that she was shining the lights down there.

  Minarra hadn’t a second to lose. She shut off the lights and listened. She could hear gunfire coming from the other way, requiring the men’s attention. Climbing back over the seat, she grabbed the dual handle of the machine gun. She’d have to aim high, so as not to come anywhere near Mac. She’d never actually fired a gun this powerful, though her father had made sure to teach her how to use small arms as well as hand-held machine guns.

  Spacing her feet solidly apart and pointing forward, she depressed the trigger. The gun crackled and boomed, spitting out death with fast muzzle flashes. All at once, the sky lit up. She’d managed to hit something, that was for sure. A fireball rose into the air and the rebels pulled back.

  “Mac!” she called out, searching for him in the firelight.

  By this time Hassan had caught up to her. Running down into the sand valley, he grabbed Mac and helped him to his feet. Mac put his arm around H
assan’s shoulder. Minarra’s heart seized. Mac had been shot.

  Hassan helped him into the jeep, next to her. He’d been shot in the leg. Thank god it wasn’t to a vital organ. Even so he was in pretty bad pain.

  “Drink this, my friend,” Hassan passed him a flask.

  Mac took a deep swallow of whatever alcohol was inside. “I’ll drive,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  “Like hell,” said Minarra. “You’re not fit to drive a golf cart. I’ll drive, thank you very much.”

  “Hassan,” he breathed, obviously weakened and woozy. “Tell this woman I am fit to take the wheel.”

  Hassan hesitated. She knew what a big deal it was in his culture to allow a woman to take preference over a man, especially a foreign woman. The mere fact that he was not instantly siding with Mac was all the encouragement she needed.

  “I’ll take the lead!” She announced. “You follow me, Hassan.”

  Hassan pursed his lips. “The rebels may yet be ahead of us,” he pointed out. “Are you sure I or one of the others should not be in front?”

  “There won’t be any more rebels.” Minarra startled herself with the authority in her voice. She had no idea how she knew this to be the case, but she did. From this point on, so long as they kept moving, there would be no further opposition. At least from the natural world.

  Hassan studied her face in the moonlight. “You have the sight,” he said. “I have watched you and thought it might be so, and now I know.”

  “The sight?”

  “The sight of the priestess. There are some who connect to it. They are drawn here, from many places, to the old city, to Shera-Sa. It is a gift.”

  “A curse more like.”

  “Nonetheless, those who are called must follow it,” said the big man soberly. “Just as we must follow you…”

  Seconds later, they were on the road, once again under cover of darkness, speeding further into the desert, further from civilization. Mac was mumbling something about resting his eyes for a few minutes and then taking over, but it was clear he was hurt worse than he was letting on. Had he been hit more than once?

  She considered stopping, to check on him, to let him rest. But the fact remained they might all die in that case. The only safety, for him, or any of them, lay in pushing on.

  “You sure you’re all right?” She asked.

  “Yeah. Stop worrying about me and watch those potholes,” he groused. “Women drivers…”

  She gave him a light slap on the arm. “Watch your tongue,” she chided, trying to keep her tone light and jovial.

  It was her worst fear come true. Mac was dying.

  Chapter Eight

  Dawn found the little convoy utterly alone, surrounded by millions of cubic meters of sand. They were stopped at their rendezvous point, due to meet with a group of Bedouins Hassan had subcontracted to provide camel transport.

  It was the end of the road. Literally. Mac was laid out on a section of canvas tent. Mahmoud, one of Hassan’s men was kneeling beside him, attempting field surgery. He’d had some experience as a medic in the Alcazaran army, though he was hardly a doctor. Under the circumstances, however, it was the best they could do. Minarra was holding his hand, fighting back the tears. Cursing all the lost time, she would never forgive herself if he died now.

  After all, she was responsible, too. For being too proud to pursue him. To demand he explain his sudden departure. In her heart she’d always wondered about the cause. Her own insecurities made her too timid to face rejection head-on, but what if it was something else?

  Hassan said a morning prayer, asking his god to intervene. The wounds were indeed more serious than they’d first appeared. Mac had the bullet in his thigh, but there was also a second lodged in his shoulder. A third had grazed his temple. He’d been losing blood. There were twin dangers now. On the one hand, sepsis from the wound, and continued blood loss on the other. Surgery was costing more of his vital life fluid, but they couldn’t afford to leave the bullets in.

  “Don’t you die on me,” Minarra clasped his hand in hers. “You hear me, you stubborn son of a bitch?”

  He looked up at her, focusing, hanging on her words. “Wouldn’t…give you…the satisfaction,” he groaned through gritted teeth.

  Minarra laughed through watering eyes.

  Hassan continued his incantations, beautiful, haunting words, ancient as the sand, proud as the rising sun and the blue sky. Minarra tried not to see the blood, the despair it represented. If the man died now, she would remember this always. A different kind of tragedy than losing her father. In the case of Roger Hunt, it had been an invisible killer. Microbes, a disease, an unbeatable foe, contracted on an expedition to the jungle.

  They’d had to drag her from his body at the funeral home. She could not accept the reality that the lifeless gray skin could possibly belong to her father. It took the burial, seeing his body laid beside her mother, to finally convince her. Afterward she’d had the nightmares—chasing after him in the jungle, trying to protect him from all manner of deadly creatures, panthers and creeping vines, hissing snakes and biting insects.

  She wouldn’t, couldn’t lose another man in her life. So many things she’d never asked her father. She’d never known what made him tick. Why he was as sullen as he’d been, why quiet and angry, why obsessed. And why, never, ever, had he been able to say he loved her. A million other things—powerful protective things, a whole wall of security in his words—but never the three she wanted most. I love you.

  No wonder she couldn’t deal well when Mac said them.

  No wonder…

  Damn it, she couldn’t go there. She had to get him through this. The blood. It was real. She couldn’t look away. She couldn’t deny it. She had to go into the fire, stand with him.

  But with the blood…came terror.

  She blinked, trying to force it from her eyes. Something gripping her. She sought to focus only on Mahmoud’s tiny knife, making its precise incision. The ugly gray slug underneath. It was too hard to fight though…it was the shower all over again. Red, trickling fluid.

  The river turned to blood. Like the Nile in the Bible.

  Minarra felt faint. The voices around her were hollow.

  “She’s exhausted,” said Hassan. “Lay her down.”

  She tried to shake her head no. Don’t separate us…

  ~~~~~

  All at once, her world was swallowed in darkness. She feared she was drowning again, but as she breathed, new life flooded her lungs. A flash of light, and she was standing before an altar, a black marble disc, floating midair. On either side, two pure gold columns. A ring of gems hung in the air, arrayed like the setting of a diamond ring. Minarra looked about. She was outside, standing on what appeared to be a small platform. On closer examination, she saw it was the top of a structure, the small, flat roof of a pyramid. One among many pyramids. A city of them. There were spires, too, and domes, incredible architecture on all sides. Banners hung from some of the spires, colored in brilliant golds and purples.

  There were statues too, hundreds of feet high, flanking colored stone streets. Eagles merged with lions, a serpent with four heads and the flanks of a bear. A whole array of mythical creatures, some known to her and some brand-new.

  She drew a deep, sharp breath as she realized the implications. She was seeing Shera-Sa. She was there…in it, as it was. Or was it merely more of her own dream projections?

  “You ask the correct questions, my dear,” said a voice, melodic and exquisitely female.

  Minarra turned back to the altar, though the voice was everywhere, even in her head.

  “I have waited long to speak with you,” said the beautiful, dark-haired woman, arrayed as an Egyptian priestess. “I am she who shares your name. I am Minar-ra, Intercessor of the People.”

  Minarra licked her lips. She’d never seen a creature so dazzling. Her blue gown, light and pleated silk, glowed. Her skin was the color of mocha, her shoulders graceful and smooth below the
delicate, thin straps of her costume. A thin golden cord circled her waist, accentuating her hips and perfect breasts. On closer examination, she saw the cord was actually a small snake, with green eyes and a red tongue.

  The snake looked at Minarra and hissed.

  The priestess touched the head of it, and said a word to quiet it. The gesture came too late to dispel Minarra’s sense of danger. This priestess was not to be trusted.

  “You cannot but trust me,” Minar-ra read her mind again. “Our thoughts are one. I’ve known you from your birth. I’ve cultivated you. Once, a long time ago, I knew your father, too.”

  Minarra shook her head. “I am not with you. I have my own life.”

  Mac.

  “Yes…” Minar-ra attached herself to this at once. “The Mummy Hunter. He has amused us for some time.”

  A surge of protectiveness went through her, combined with sheer rage. She’d been running long enough. From her own fears. From her past, and lately from a group of gun toting bullies who’d shot the one man who’d ever helped her to be a woman.

  “If you do anything to hurt Mac,” swore Minarra, “I will kill you.”

  Minar-ra smiled. It was not a smile of kindness. Not a living smile at all. “You love him, don’t you?”

  The words were filled with scorn, accusation.

  “You’re in my head,” spat Minarra. “Answer your own questions.”

  “You should watch your tongue, my little daughter. Especially given that I am the only one who can save your precious Mummy Hunter.”

  “What are you talking about? Save him?”

  She raised her arm, her long slender fingers tipped with blood-red nails. “Life flows through these fingers. And death.”

  “You aren’t a goddess,” Minarra defied. “I don’t even think you exist at all.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Or will be shortly.”