Lenina shook her head, bemused and wary. ‘But you’re not. You can’t be.’
‘Explain yourself.’
‘You’re white.’ Lenina searched the room for support. When none came, she straightened her shoulders and kept talking, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘First Majestic? If that means what I think, you claim to be the first human Saar Kissed after the battle in Alexandria. What would a woman of your complexion be doing in Egypt in 36BC? I’m an archaeologist and a historian; that doesn’t make sense.’
Silence . . . followed by slow, sarcastic applause.
‘Well done.’ The little six-year-old leaned off the table and stalked around it, still clapping as she came. ‘Very well done, Lenina. Few others see through the ruse, certainly none as young as you. But I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’ Inky darkness seeped into her eyes and blanked them out. Fangs showed as she smiled.
Saar gave a moan of longing.
‘You’re Kallisto?’ Though she phrased it as a question, Lenina didn’t need an answer. She knew.
‘Yes. And you are everything I hoped. More. Welcome.’ Her voice was lower than it should have been. It had weight in it; experience, power and strength combined. The trace of an accent, ancient yet familiar, lingered in her vowels. ‘Release the chains. She can do no harm here.’
Darryl scrambled to obey, leaving Shawn with Luke while he fumbled with the key. He refused to meet her eye.
Lenina rubbed the soreness from her wrists and throat and studied the girl.
No, not girl . . . god-touched.
‘You’re afraid.’ Kallisto cocked her head.
The urge to nod swelled within her. Instead she swallowed a shuddering breath and clutched the hem of her top, twisting the fabric between her fingers. She kept her head down, shoulders rolled in. ‘Why did you bring me here?’
Kallisto stepped away, trailing her hands over the desk and dismissing the red-haired woman with a lazy flick of her fingers. She claimed the seat and blinked the darkness out of her eyes. ‘Last night I received a phone call. A Seeker told me of a woman who specialises in Ancient Egypt and associated mythology. She works in a museum in Leicester and recently suffered a terrible attack at the hands of a mugger who bit her on the throat.’
Tristen twitched then froze. The sudden absence of his breathing made Lenina question if he was there at all. His presence in her mind reeled back, a hook on a fishing line, until he was nothing more than an echo.
‘My Seeker went on to tell me that this woman’s fiancé was later murdered following an attack on their home. He too was bitten on the throat. This woman then became the subject of much police attention as one of the investigating detectives was killed in her presence. The other detective,’ she shot a venomous glance at Tristen, ‘disappeared.’
Tristen shifted, as if to take his feet. ‘If I may explain—’
‘You may not.’
His knee bumped back down to the carpet.
A cold bead of sweat slid down the back of Lenina’s neck. The fabric between her fingers gave with a sharp tearing sound. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘For what?’
‘I—’ she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Please—I don’t know anything about anyone. I haven’t told anybody. Please just let me go home.’
‘You are home.’
Lenina jerked her head up, leaning back when she found Kallisto two feet from her kneeling place. Another drop of sweat joined the first. ‘No—’
‘Yes. I’ve dreamed of this moment for a long time, girl. I’ve fancifully put myself here, before you where I might touch my father again. Hear his voice . . .’ Kallisto stroked the backs of her fingers along Lenina’s face. Her skin was hot and smooth, the touch a feather-light caress.
Lenina shuddered as the weight of Saar’s longing bore down on her senses. A tear gathered in the corner of her eye. ‘Stop . . . please.’ She had no idea who the words were meant for.
Kallisto smiled, then pulled away, suddenly brisk. ‘You, wolves—take the human upstairs.’
Darryl opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. ‘Yes, of course, Kallisto.’ Though the words were respectful enough, his tone resembled broken glass. He grabbed Shawn by the shoulder, beckoning Luke with a flex of his free hand. Shawn had just time for a terrified whimper before they forced him from the room.
His expression seared itself upon Lenina’s memory: confusion, pain, terror. She sniffed back tears. Tried to focus.
Impossible. She had seen that expression before.
Once more Tristen tried to rise. ‘Kallisto, if you would allow me to—’
‘Make no requests of me,’ she cried, whirling round. ‘The Vessel was Kissed on your watch. By your Childe if reports are to be believed. Yet you did nothing to inform us. To inform me. Why?’
‘I wanted to,’ he stuttered, clearly choosing his words with care. ‘But her case was high profile and complicated. I knew to bring her here would disrupt my role within the constabulary.’
‘You value your human job more than your calling as a Watcher?’
His head snapped up. ‘Of course not. But if I came straight here, the hunt would have followed. Everything here would be at risk. You would be at risk. I wanted to protect you from it.’
Kallisto gave a shy little smile. In that moment, she truly appeared to be the six-year-old she resembled. ‘Protect me?’
‘Of course. Always.’
Saar growled. With effort Lenina avoided vocalising it, but she shared his anger. This timid display of obedience and servitude was at complete odds with the man she knew.
‘As soon as I saw the mark on her face I knew what she was,’ Tristen continued. ‘Who she was. I went to her home as soon as I could but the wolves had already been there. I came as soon as it was safe.’
Long seconds passed before Kallisto spoke. ‘Show me the mark.’
When Tristen’s hands brushed her face, the urge to cringe away fought desperately with the desire to fall into his arms. Heat rose between them, a sweet swelling of lust that tingled through her cheeks. She became aware of her heart beat rising, pounding to match his. Her mouth flooded with moisture as her lips puckered for the promised kiss.
‘Please . . .’ She had no idea what she was begging for.
The bandage peeled back from her cheek with aching slowness, allowing cool air to caress the wound.
The stitches itched.
As soon as his hand moved away Lenina returned to herself. She narrowed her eyes but the damage was done, Tristen’s amusement visible in the arch of one slender eyebrow.
Beside them, Kallisto sucked in a deep breath. ‘Neeva.’
‘Jason did it.’ Tristen’s voice filled the reverent silence, quick and breathless. ‘Marked, by one of The Blood, just like the prophesy says.’
‘The first sign. Two more is irrefutable proof. I must test her. Now. I must know.’ Kallisto broke away and ducked beneath the larger desk. When she resurfaced, she held a wide, stone basin.
Lenina gazed at the chipped, white limestone. Something in her stomach gave a violent lurch.
‘Do you know what this is, girl?’
She hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Liar.’ Kallisto gave a feral smile. ‘You know. You feel it. Your very breath is saturated with the stink of your lie. And your fear.’
She pressed her hands to her head, wary of the waves of white cloud fogging up her vision. The feeling was so common now that she almost didn’t fight it, but fear of what she might see stopped her falling into the memory. ‘I don’t know what it is.’
‘Then perhaps you’d care for a closer look? Perhaps you would like to hold it.’
‘No!’ Lenina reached as far as one knee before Tristen dragged her back. He held her shoulders and the heat of his fingers through her clothes made her quiver with wanting. ‘Please, don’t make me.’
Kallisto leaned in, the bowl held out before her. ‘Then tell me wha
t it is.’
Lean back into Tristen or touch the bowl. Impossible choice.
It inched closer. A finger’s breadth from her trembling hands.
The fog of Saar’s memories began to swell. Fear came with it. Anger. Cries of pain. ‘It’s Kazemde’s bowl.’ She shouted the words, scrunching her eyes shut. ‘Please—it’s his. Saar had it in the temple beneath Alexandria. The blood—Set’s blood—came from that bowl.’
The hands on her shoulders loosened. Lenina sagged, too drained to care that Tristen’s fingers rested lightly on the bare skin of her wrists.
Kallisto sniffed. ‘The youngest of us are taught the Birth Story. All god-touched Kissed in the UK are brought here to hear it. Tristen or Jason might have told you—it could be their knowledge you parrot now. I must know for sure. Touch the bowl.’
‘No.’ She struggled, but Tristen clamped down once more. He forced her hands together then held them out, shoving her inexorably closer.
The voices in her head grew louder. White mist swirled. True shapes formed. Tall pillars of rough, unworked stone. A cave. A tall, slender man with choppy dark hair and serious eyes.
She had just time to recognise the swell of Saar’s longing before her fingers brushed the cool stone rim.
Chapter Six
Alexandria, 17 July 36 BC
Saar squelched from the underground river wringing moisture from his shendyt and the cloth sack slung over his shoulder. He released his dagger from between his teeth and held it while scanning the area for enemies.
Behind him, Mosi coughed and spluttered, dragging himself on to the sand. The sight reminded Saar of his own actions several weeks prior. Remembered relief at the sensation of solid earth beneath his feet made him smile. No reason to fear such things now.
The journey this time was no less wet or bumpy. Or painful. His head tingled as miraculous, god-given powers healed the cut across his forehead, sliced across his flesh by a low outcrop of rock. Salt water stung the wound.
He turned, taking in gloomy walls and high ceilings. Daylight crept through in pin-prick points, golden shafts of light spearing to the ground. So different to his first visit. But the smell was the same; dry sand, salt and musk.
Mosi flopped onto his back. ‘Is there no other way to reach this place?’ His voice echoed through the cavern.
‘Perhaps, but I don’t know it. The first time I left in a dream state, stumbling blind until Antony and his men found me.’
‘You were guided here by a messenger of the spirit world. He fed you the blood of a god and left you a terrible gift. Perhaps this temple should not be easy to find.’
‘I agree but that is why we are here—no others must stumble upon this place.’
Mosi touched his arm. ‘I’m glad you found a way here. Had you not, you might never have found me.’
Turning, Saar dropped the dagger and swept the smaller man into his arms. His hug was crushing; the bones of Mosi’s body crunching beneath his grip. But he didn’t let go. Saar met those full lips with his own, sliding his tongue into the gap and feeling the sharp point of fangs within. His hands tangled in the soft brown hair, still beautiful at its shorter length. When he drew back, they were both breathless.
‘Thank you for joining me, Mosi.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll go anywhere with you.’
‘This place is a tomb. Dark, evil things happened here.’
‘You survived.’
He reached up, seeking the cut on his forehead. It was no longer there. Shuddering, he retrieved the dagger and put it back into the sheath at his hip. ‘Did I?’
#
Saar led the way through the passage, trailing one hand along the wall. Behind him, Mosi’s steps dragged. His breathing hitched. The rhythmic beat of his heart took on a rapid pace. A moment later he hurried close and pressed in against Saar’s back.
‘How can you stand this place? I smell death here. Pain. Was it always like this?’
‘I had no power to smell it before.’
‘Set reigns here. Can you not feel him? He’s in the walls, on my skin. He weighs on my chest like a stone.’
‘No harm will come to you here. Not while I live.’
The passage sloped down, then right, then round. Saar followed and put out one hand to pull Mosi closer. The smaller man trembled against his side, his steps slow and shuffling. Saar gripped tighter and squeezed in what he hoped was a comforting way.
Light eventually bloomed before them, a soft glow that brightened and filled the passage. A tall, round chamber opened before them.
Unlike his first visit, Saar could see the hole in the roof gave way to the outside world. Visible in the gap, skudding white clouds drifted through a watery blue sky.
A gasp came from his right.
Whirling, half expecting danger, Saar found Mosi following the story depicted in pictures on the tall, sloping walls. They told the story of the battle between the bothers Set and Osiris and how it spilled over to consume the lives of their nephew and son, Horus.
Mosi touched the paint of a tall black figure with square, pointed ears and a forked tail. ‘This was a temple?’
Saar nodded. ‘So Kazemde told me. Given that this place is so far from the city it cannot be anything but a secret. Those in Alexandria have no love for Set. It should not surprise you that his place of worship would be hidden from those who disapprove.’ He stopped before the tall stone altar and touched the surface. The dried blood remained, a disgusting mixture of black and rusty brown. More patches scarred the sand around his feet. A full circuit of the altar revealed more blood and several hand-shaped smears. On the walls.
Long fingers of cold teased down his back.
‘His body . . .’
Mosi looked a question at him.
‘Kazemde’s body. I killed him here; a stab beneath the jaw with this,’ he tugged his dagger free and held it up.
Mosi reached for his hair, probably to tug it. Still unused to the shortened length, his fingers grasped air for before catching the dark strands. ‘That blade has a dark feel to it. Why must you keep it?’
‘It’s powerful. The blood of Set lives in the metal. From blood all power comes.’
‘It is evil. You should leave it here.’
Saar re-sheathed the weapon and walked the perimeter of the small chamber again, occasionally scuffing through the sand with his toes. ‘Kazemde is gone. But how? I left his body before this very altar.’
‘Why do you want it?’
Unsure until that moment, Saar looked Mosi full in the eye as he spoke. ‘I need to see. I must prove that my life and these powers are not some waking dream. I must know he was real and what happened here had a purpose.’ He lowered his head. ‘I must know that I didn’t damn myself without assistance.’
Mosi closed the space between them with two long strides. He held Saar close and ran slender fingers through his shaggy, dark hair. ‘You didn’t do this,’ he whispered. ‘And you don’t need his body to prove you were tricked. Just look at this so called temple. You would never come here unless desperate. You were used by someone who sought to manipulate the good in you for their own ends.’
‘I wanted power.’
Though his fingers trembled, Mosi touched the altar. A look of pain flickered across his face and he jerked away. ‘How many times must I say you are a good man. This terrible thing, this dark magic . . . don’t let it define you. Be as you always were. Protect our queen. Serve your city.’
‘But the tribute—’
‘—Can be resolved. There must be other ways. And if we must offer blood as tribute we will do it in a way that does not dishonour us. We will find a way.’
Shaking, Saar let himself be comforted. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of Mosi’s body, the familiar contours he had come to learn and love over the past few weeks. He touched Mosi’s neck, remembering the sight of long hair spilling over those slender shoulders. Now Mosi’s hair was short, rough spikes of black that stuck up all over
his head. Despite Mosi’s insistence, Saar hadn’t the heart to hack away all that beautiful hair.
‘What is this?’ Pulling back from the embrace, Mosi stooped and retrieved something from a nook beneath the altar.
Saar’s insides knotted. ‘That held the damned black liquid.’
Mosi turned the bowl over in his hands. He inspected the symbols on the sides with narrowed eyes. ‘I don’t know these signs. They are very old, as is the bowl. It feels . . .’
‘What?’ Watching his face, Saar saw colour drain from his cheeks and forehead. Slow at first, then faster, like the slide of sand through the timers in the palace. Mosi began to shake. His fingers convulsed, flexing around the stone bowl until it creaked.
‘Mosi?’
He opened his mouth. Fangs sprang forward. In his eyes, the brown colour faded away, replaced by glowing white light.
Saar grabbed his shoulders. Shook him. ‘Mosi? Mosi!’
Low moans fell from his mouth. Soft at first, then louder. Their pitch increased, twisting through the notes of pain until Saar longed to press his hands to his ears.
‘Mosi!’ He gripped the smaller man’s hands. ‘You’re cold . . .’
The moans became screams.
Still Mosi held the bowl.
Saar grabbed it. Pulled. Mosi’s grip never loosened.
Panting, Saar pulled his lover’s fingers one by one, prying them away from the edges of the bowl.
Still he screamed, tossing his head from side to side, body trembling, now shaking; terrible tremors that made his feet slip and slide through the sand.
‘Mosi, please!’
Saar recognised the switch in his own vision and knew his own eyes had changed. He knew they were black; black to match Mosi’s white and the strange sharpness to the world told him that panic controlled his motions.
He gripped the bowl again and heaved it against his chest.
With a last shrill shriek, Mosi’s hands slipped free.
Thrown off balance, Saar stumbled back, bumping against the altar before falling to his knees. The bowl landed beside him, upside down in the sand.
Walking The Razor's Edge Page 5
