Walking The Razor's Edge

by Ileandra Young

  Kallisto glanced at Luke, tapping her bottom lip with the edge of her little finger. ‘There is certainly something happening within the Bright Moon Clan that Darryl has neglected to share.’

  The thump-thudding of Luke’s heartbeat filled Lenina’s ears. His anger seemed to super-heat the air and give it a shimmer. The hair at the back of his neck curled and, for a bizarre moment, Lenina imagined she saw it growing.

  By the time he spoke again, his rage was controlled to the faintest of tremors in his voice. ‘I’d be more than happy to share with you but it’s not my place. As alpha, Darryl decides what information we share with outsiders.’

  ‘Outsiders?’ Kallisto frowned.

  ‘His word, not mine. But I must obey my alpha.’

  Lenina couldn’t help but admire the skinny werewolf. Within an hour he’d managed to sow seeds of doubt amongst the pack and tell Kallisto that Darryl was only half invested in their relationship. Further confirmation that Darryl was no longer the real danger.

  ‘And there lies the problem.’ Tristen shrugged. ‘But it doesn’t matter; if the puppies manage to find the human where I couldn’t, then we’ve all misjudged them. I used every avenue open to me through my contacts with the constabulary. Raymond Miller is not in any hospital within the Leicestershire and Rutland area. Contacts in London confirm he hasn’t returned home.’

  ‘The other humans?’

  ‘Gone. Nobody knows where.’

  Luke cleared his throat. ‘My pack are searching for them too. When we realised they were missing, our search expanded to include them as well as the Miller human. If they’re to be found, we’ll do it.’

  ‘Of course you will.’ Tristen barely looked at him. ‘Can the ritual go ahead without Raymond Miller?’

  A crawling ripple of cold shuddered down Lenina’s spine.

  ‘I have a substitute.’ Kallisto smiled. ‘I will need a few hours to ensure it is suitable.’ Another of those lazy finger flicks. ‘Take the human upstairs.’

  For split seconds, Luke froze. A golden sheen crept over his eyes.

  Lenina stiffened. Rubbed her nose as the scent of fury stung her nostrils. She tensed, bunching up every muscle in preparation to spring. Where, she had no idea, but the thought of staying on the receiving end of such anger made her limbs itch.

  Beneath his suit, Luke’s slender shoulders lowered. He stepped back far enough to give a shadow of a bow and beckoned to Shawn.

  The policeman hesitated, clearly concerned as to the wisdom of walking away with a known werewolf. He looked at Lenina, pleading with his eyes. She dropped her gaze.

  Shawn clenched his fists, chewing on his bottom lip. His legs tensed.

  ‘Don’t,’ Kallisto warned.

  The fight seeped out of his limbs. Half trotting, almost running, he joined Luke and allowed himself to be led, up the stairs on the left and along the corridor out of sight.

  Kallisto nodded as if confirming a private thought. ‘Good. Lenina Miller, return to your room with Tristen. I will summon you shortly.’

  Her heart leapt at the thought of being alone with Tristen. She bit her lip, struggling through the sensation of need and desire rising slowly like a sea tide. It warred with the fear, a battle largely even until she caught his gaze.

  He swaggered closer, all grace and gentle seduction. When his hands brushed down her shoulders, she inhaled deeply and let the breath go with a shuddering sigh.

  ‘It will all be over soon,’ he said. ‘You won’t have to fight any more.’ One finger traced the curve of her jaw before dabbing the corner of her mouth. He touched her lips. ‘I’m sorry to lose you, but at least we can make your last night memorable.’

  His will bore down on her like a winter duvet, heavy, enveloping, suffocating.

  Each throb of her injured leg reminded her of the pain yet to come and Lenina thought of how easy it would be to let go. To fall and let the tingle in her skin consume her whole body. She leaned forward.

  The image of soft, golden hair danced before her eyes. A crooked nose between bright blue eyes.

  Ek het jou lief.

  Lenina pulled back. Scrubbed at the lingering impression of his fingers on her skin. ‘Kallisto,’ she faced the smaller god-touched. ‘Don’t leave me with Tristen.’

  The girl sneered. ‘Do not give me orders. I know you desire him. The smell of lust on your body confirms it.’

  ‘It isn’t real,’ she snapped. ‘None of it is. This is all a game to him, can’t you see?’

  ‘I see a faithful servant of Saar and a frightened, foolish girl.’

  ‘He hates Saar! How can you not see what’s right in front of you?’

  Kallisto turned. The swell of her power sucked all the warmth from the air. ‘Tristen survived Saar’s death when all others of his age returned to the sand. He is marked as worthy by Set.’

  Tristen’s fingers scraped her sleeve, but Lenina twisted away. She knew if their skin touched, her mind would turn to mush. It would leave her longing, wanting, desperate for him the way she had been the night before. It was with a sudden burst of clarity that she realised even unspeakable physical pain would be better than losing herself again. Preferable to stamping on Nick’s memory any more than she already had.

  Ek het jou lief.

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘Then why is he lying about the Fang?’

  ‘Girl, you try my patience—’

  ‘What do you think made this stupid mark?’ She jabbed a finger at the healing wound on her left cheek.

  Kallisto’s eyes blanked out. Fangs showed between her lips. ‘Set touched you.’

  ‘Jason. He had the Fang because Tristen gave it to him.’ Again she twisted away from Tristen’s grasp, scurrying closer to Kallisto. ‘Please, listen. You know how Xamesh works—any wound I receive after my first tribute should heal. But not this one? Why?’

  Silence followed. She could all but see the spokes of Kallisto’s mind turning. Considering. Weighing. Deciding. With a flash of speed she grabbed Lenina’s wrist and dragged her arm out. Fingernails scored down her forearm, drawing three long lines of bright red blood.

  Lenina hissed and tried to pull back, but the effort resembled trying to pull an elephant by the tail.

  Her arm tingled. Skin prickled. Beneath the welling drops of blood her flesh knitted back together quick and easy. When Kallisto leaned forward and lapped the crimson splashes away, no sign remained of the scratches.

  Her eyes narrowed. She scratched again, and this time Lenina cried out as Kallisto’s nails scribed the Neeva against her skin. Within seconds, the shallow surface wound healed over, leaving no trace of the sacred mark.

  When her arm finally slipped free Lenina was under no illusions as to why. Her skin continued to tingle, the magic of her blood working to correct any harms. Her leg, her beaten limbs . . . but not her cheek.

  Kallisto surged across the parlour, ploughing into Tristen with a snake-like flurry of jabs to the chest and stomach. As he grunted and fell to his knees, she forced him flat to the ground and stood with one foot to either side of his face.

  ‘If you have lied to me . . .’

  Tristen wheezed, no longer calm and suave, but struggling to catch his breath. One hand clutched his chest, the other turned upward to ward her off. ‘No—never—I wouldn’t—’

  ‘How did the Neeva come to be upon her face?’

  A smile tugged at Lenina’s lips. She edged around them to find a better view, to enjoy, at last, the sight of Tristen hurt and afraid. The surge of pleasure boiled through her belly, a sense of justice she grasped and embraced.

  Saar stirred in the depths of his mental prison, reached out to stroke the bars.

  Kallisto squatted over him, closing her tiny, slender fingers over the front of his throat. ‘Do not lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘Your heart flutters like a trapped butterfly. Though you try to hide it, the smell of your fear
calls to me.’

  Tristen thrashed against the floor. His hips bucked. ‘Please . . .’ He turned his head. Caught Lenina’s gaze. Held out his hand. ‘Please . . .’

  She stopped smiling. Stepped forward. Half way across the distance between them Lenina jerked to a stop and swung her head from side to side. Tristen’s fear burned inside her, tearing at her senses, scratching at her mind. She longed to stop it by any means possible, to make the pain go away. To save him.

  ‘Stop it!’ Lenina had no idea who she was talking to, but she begged all the same. ‘Just stop, please.’

  Something shiny and heavy flashed past her ear, whistling as it cut the air. It struck the carpet with a dull thunk, quivering two yards from her feet.

  Wavy blade. Gold hilt. Blue and white gems. Red pommel.

  Recognition hit her the same moment Darryl strolled through the open doors, grinning wide enough to show all of his gold teeth.

  ‘Hey, Kallisto, sorry to take so long, but I thought you might want this.’

  Lenina shuddered, fighting with the familiar surge of anger at the sight of that ancient bronze weapon.

  She bent and grasped it by the hilt. Her fingers closed around the cold gold and gemstones in a way that was familiar and horrifying all at once. The feel of it, weight of it, even the smell of that old, old metal told her the truth. The weapon was hers.

 

  It jerked out of her hand, spinning through the air to Kallisto who caught it with barely a blink. She turned the dagger over, her lips slightly parted, eyes wide. In that moment, she resembled the child she once was. A dreamlike smile lifted her lips as she traced the patterns on the blade with one finger. ‘It is—Gods, I would know this blade anywhere.’

  Tristen gave a low moan, massaging the sides of his throat. He didn’t move, but glared at Darryl with hate burning in the depths of his eyes.

  ‘When I was human I watched Saar with this blade. He would peel fruit for me or cut chunks of meat from the sticks we used to hold over our camp fires. I remember thinking how dirty it was. How disgusting the blade appeared. Once I took it to the river to clean it, but the marks remained after several attempts. When I asked him why he never cleaned it do you know what he said?’

  Lenina did.

  Kallisto stroked the flat of the blade against her cheek and continued in the same dreamy voice. ‘He told me that to clean this blade would be to rob it of its power. He told me the blade collects the blood of those it deems worthy and that the blood it holds should be treasured. Protected. Revered.’

 

  Lenina didn’t need to see Tristen to know how he felt about that. His fury gushed through the bond between them, hot enough to scald. Just as quickly it rolled back, cooling into anxiety. Then fear.

  Darryl chuckled. ‘Beautiful, Kallisto, I never took you for the sentimental type.’

  ‘Where did you find this?’ The dreamy quality vanished from her voice. It became diamond hard, lined with a sharp edge that would cut if she chose.

  ‘Well,’ the werewolf stepped forward, savouring every moment. He thrust his hands into his pockets and spoke slowly, drawing out the torture with a feral gleam in his eyes. ‘I found it in the offices of Leicester City’s High Street constabulary. Not in the evidence drawers. Not even on a prisoner. I found it among the belongings of one Detective Inspector Tristen Blake.’

  White light filled Tristen’s eyes. He leapt at Darryl, a blurred flash of speed. The werewolf ducked, laughing the whole time. When Tristen punched, Darryl ducked, weaving easily around the frantic attacks as they came with increasing intensity and speed.

  ‘Didn’t think anybody would find it, did you?’ Darryl grinned as he danced around the blows. ‘You must think I’m an idiot. That we’re all idiots. You really think I’d believe your childe could Kiss someone as important as the Vessel and that you didn’t know the instant it happened?’ Another laugh as he dropped to the ground, sliding under another flailing fist. He bounded upright and crossed his arms just in time to block the kick aimed at his chest. He shoved and Tristen stumbled back.

  The fight pressed on, Darryl now shifting from defence to more aggressive posturing. When Tristen aimed a right hook at his jaw, he swayed out of reach and ducked beneath the outstretched arm, knocking it aside with one hand and driving forward with the other. Sharp black claws gleamed at the end of each finger.

  Lenina screamed a warning, but Kallisto chose that moment to intervene. The little girl appeared between them as if by magic, the dagger clutched between her teeth. She braced, then shoved up and out with both hands. Both men flew away from each other as though jerked on wires, Tristen slamming into the wall beneath the stairs, Darryl into the main doors.

  ‘Enough.’ Her voice was a whisper that carried easily in the deathly silence. She spat the dagger onto her palm.

  Groaning, Tristen picked himself up. The wall behind him was cracked and dented. Small flakes of plaster dotted his hair. ‘Kallisto—’

  ‘Silence.’

  ‘If you’d let me explain—’

  ‘Explain?’ She was on him in an instant, dragging him down to sit at the bottom of the wall. She pressed the tip of the dagger against his cheek, the point of the blade a finger’s width from his eye. ‘Explain what? That you had the Fang all along? That you knew about the Vessel? That you lied?’ Her voice cracked. ‘I thought you loved him. As I do. You murdered Mosi for him, something none of us ever dared.’

  Tristen froze, his hands pressed against the floor at his sides. The white faded from his eyes but it hardly made a difference; his expression remained wooden. ‘I killed Mosi for me.’

  Kallisto flinched as though slapped. She pulled back her arm, angling the dagger for a killing strike.

  ‘Wait!’ Lenina raced across the room, grabbing Kallisto by the wrist. ‘Don’t, please don’t.’

  ‘Why? He betrayed me, Red Fang and the great one we all serve.’ Her arm trembled. Lenina clung to it, putting all her strength into slowing its descent.

  ‘I don’t know—I can’t think—just please don’t kill him. It’s not his fault.’

  ‘This is no matter of ‘fault’ or blame. It is revenge. I want him dead for what he’s done.’

  ‘But what has he done? I can’t see what happened in 1815. He’s the only person who was actually there.’

  Another violent tremor rippled through Kallisto’s arm. Her eyes dipped briefly into blackness before brightening to their normal hazel colour. ‘This won’t save you, Lenina Miller. The ritual will proceed.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Good.’ Like shrugging off a child, Kallisto pulled free of Lenina’s grip and punched Tristen across the face. His eyes rolled back. As he sagged to the floor she looked over her shoulder at Darryl. ‘Take her back to the room until I send for you. Do not let her out of your sight.’ With that, she grabbed the unconscious Tristen by the collar and dragged him up the stairs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jerusalem, 11 July AD 1187

  Saar walked with his head high, the guard of his turban pulled across his face. He watched the people return, families walking children through the streets, setting up homes on land that, barely six months earlier, had been lost to them. Signs of the battle remained, the occasional crumbled home, or missing building, but the important features prevailed.

  The Dome of the Rock stood tall and proud, complete with its beautiful golden dome. He longed to step inside and see the foundation stone but, like many years ago when the shrine was first built, he felt it inappropriate to do so.

  He had no right to be there, not when his gods differed so much from those who held it holy. Even if they were wrong, it seemed cruel to give them the truth.

  The shrines and temples were beautiful, with colourful rugs spread across the floors and words from the holy books painstakingly scribed on the walls. The smell of rose water still clung to the air, left over from repeated ritual cleansing of the areas sullied by Christian u
surpers.

  On the steps outside the al-Aqsa Mosque, Yameen sat on a stretch of rough linen, pulling off a pair of filthy boots. He grinned as Saar approached. ‘I wondered if you would come, my lord. Where have you been?’

  ‘Tribute.’ The word stuttered on a tongue still unfamiliar with the sounds of the local Arabic language.

  Yameen considered, then stood. Though he spoke to Saar, his body remained angled towards the temple doors. ‘You must think me foolish. All this power and yet I still remove my boots to pray.’

  ‘Faith is never foolish. Say your prayers. I will wait here.’

  ‘Join me.’

  Saar backed away. ‘I shouldn’t—’

  ‘Allah will forgive you, Lord Saar. You brought this holy city back into the control of those who love it. You helped crush the blue-eyed invaders.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for you.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But Salah ad-Din would not have led the strike as he did without your intervention. This is as much your victory as it is that of any Muslim—you should be permitted to see what you’ve won. Come.’

  More men came to the doors of the mosque, pulling off their shoes as they went; slippers, boots, sandals, all arranged in neat rows on the steps.

  Slowly, Saar pulled off his own boots. His weapons followed. Yameen gave him a happy smile and stepped through without waiting, joining the throng of men entering the sacred space. There were women, but not many, these keeping back against the rear walls to let the men continue ahead of them. Children went too, some smiling, some serious, all bare foot and moving with purpose.

  A wide passage lined with white pillars stretched into the body of the mosque. Above each pillar, a large arch spanned the gap in shades of white, blue and gold. Small tiles decorated the surfaces, seemingly random until viewed from afar, when distance tricked the eye and made huge pictures and symmetrical patterns. Glass in the windows shone in glorious butterfly tints, casting coloured shadows on the ground. The air murmured with low, respectful voices and the rustle of dozens of bare feet on the rugs and carpets. The sound bounced back off the high ceilings and arches until even the sounds of movement outside were masked.