High Stakes Trial

by Mindy Klasky

  There was no way to say I was asking about my other mother—my spiritual mother, the root of a family tree I could never share with any mundane friend. I was asking about Sekhmet. And Sheut.

  Wiping my palms against my thighs, I admitted, “I’m not saying this right. I guess what I’m really thinking about is parentage, not adoption. I’ve never known who my father is. And for the first time in my life, I’m thinking about what it would mean if one man was. Or a different man.”

  “Do you have specific candidates in mind?” Allison asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Did your mother ever talk about these guys?”

  My flesh-and-blood mother had always refused to discuss my father, no matter how many times I’d begged. But Sekhmet? She’d shown me an image of Sheut, disappearing into the shadows.

  I couldn’t explain any of this to Allison. She’d never understand. I could barely understand it myself. Sekhmet and Sheut were more than just my spiritual parents. Their ancient physical beings had determined my current corporeal self. They’d made me a sphinx, an unknown imperial, whatever. Something close enough that I’d fooled James and Chris and the Den for the past two years.

  Once again, Allison was waiting. Once again, I had to find something to say, something that wasn’t a complete lie. “She gave me hints,” I said. “I saw a…a photograph. I just thought you’d understand. With your job, and everything…”

  She said, “I do understand. I understand you want answers. I understand how hard it must be with your mother gone, so you can’t ever ask her. But none of this has anything to do with adoption.”

  I couldn’t tell Allison about the crazy, shaky line that went from Sekhmet to my mother to me. The one that went from Sheut to my mother to me.

  Instead, I gave up and asked Allison how work was going. And it turned out, that was the conversation we should have been having all along.

  I listened to her answer, about a new push for bipartisan legislation about accessing adoption records in foreign countries. I saw how excited she was to be having an impact, to be making a difference in the lives of children and adults throughout the world.

  Suddenly, it felt good to sit there. It felt good to be talking, despite the fact that dozens of topics still felt too dangerous, too raw for us to share.

  “Listen to me,” Allison finally said. “I sound like a little old woman whose only companion is a cat. I could go on like this for hours.”

  “I like it,” I said, smiling. “I like knowing what’s going on in your life.”

  “But…” Allison said, accurately reading my tone.

  “But, I have to get to the office.” I stood reluctantly, collecting my purse and keys.

  She walked me to the front door. We stood there for a moment, suddenly awkward again. I wanted to hug her, but I didn’t know if I should.

  “Thank you,” I said instead.

  “I don’t think I helped very much.”

  “No,” I said, protesting her doubt. “You did. A lot.”

  I stepped outside, into gray twilight. For just a moment, I wondered if James was stirring yet, if he was awake and alone in my apartment.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Allison said. “For listening.”

  “We’ll do this again soon?” I asked.

  She bit her lip, but she nodded. I did hug her then, an awkward, half-body clutch. Before either of us had to figure out anything else to say, I hurried to James’s car. I was afraid to look back as I drove away.

  21

  For once, I made it through an entire shift at the courthouse without a disaster, either imperial or mundane. In fact, my shift was so boring, I almost fell asleep at my desk. Only my constant fear of Angelique policing my work kept me sitting upright, typing away, trudging through the interminable backlog of cases that had been misfiled in the decades before James hired me.

  At the end of my shift, I faced a dilemma. James’s Prius was parked in the courthouse garage. On the one hand, I could drive it back to his house—taking due care to keep from being followed—and return it to his garage. On the other hand, I could go to my own home, searching once again for parking on the street, and entering my basement apartment ready—hoping?—to find James waiting there. On the third hand (what? Most people—humans or imperials—don’t have a third hand? Work with me here…), I could drive the car over to Chris’s house.

  The third hand won. Not because it was any easier to find parking in his neighborhood—it wasn’t. But because I could still hear the scarcely bridled anger in Chris’s voice the last time we’d spoken. I could still hear the tortured silences as he digested everything I’d told him, all the details of my research about the auctions at Sotheby’s and Christie’s and Wellingham’s.

  I’d done my best to scrape a path toward normalcy with Allison. It was time I devoted at least the same level of energy to doing the same with Chris, the man—the sphinx—who loved me.

  As I waited for Chris to answer the doorbell, I barely resisted the urge to run away. It would have been simpler to use my key to enter the house. But I was uncertain of my welcome, and I declined to take that risk.

  At least he answered the door quickly, fast enough that I suspected he’d watched me walk up the sidewalk. Clearing the threshold, I moved forward automatically, anticipating our usual kiss of greeting. Chris apparently had the same idea; he leaned forward too.

  We both stopped short, though, of actually touching lips. It could have been an accident, a casual miscalculation born of haste and coincidence. There was a split second where I could have laughed and thrown myself into his arms with enough force that there’d be no doubt of my intentions. We could have kissed for real, with the passion we’d shared countless times over the past ten months.

  But I missed that chance. And then there was nothing left to do but curl my arms around my belly, my fingers clutching tighter than necessary as I took a deep breath.

  “Hungry?” he asked, leading the way back to the kitchen. The question was easy enough. We’d long since grown accustomed to sharing a morning meal—his breakfast and my dinner. “I just finished cooking the bacon. It’ll only take a minute to fry up some eggs.”

  I glanced at the plate on the counter, next to the hot skillet on the stove. Eight crisp pieces of bacon glistened on a bed of white paper towels.

  He’d cooked enough for both of us. He’d known I was coming over, even if I hadn’t been sure until I exited the parking garage.

  Or maybe he hadn’t known. Maybe he’d just hoped and was willing to throw away a few strips of bacon if he’d calculated incorrectly.

  I slipped off my jacket, clutching the fabric just to give my hands something to do. Chris’s motivation didn’t really matter now. The important thing was that I couldn’t eat the bacon. I couldn’t eat any meat, not when James was taking me to Richardson in less than twelve hours. I didn’t even trust a couple of over-easy eggs, unless Chris scrubbed the frying pan first.

  My stomach growled, reminding me I’d been skimping on regular meals of late. I forced myself to smile as I said, “I’ll just have an apple.”

  Chris’s face tightened. “So James really is back.”

  I froze. Part of my brain shouted that I should say something, anything. Chris was a sphinx. He was the Sun Lion, for Sekhmet’s sake. He’d devoted his entire life to protecting vampires. He could hardly fault me for doing my best to protect James.

  But I could hear the lie behind those words before I even spoke them. Chris wasn’t faulting me for protecting James. He was faulting me for failing to tell him I was protecting James.

  The distinction was far from semantics.

  My silence stretched out for long enough that Chris had a chance to cross his own arms. He schooled his face to impassivity, and I watched him take a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, then exhale slowly and evenly, exactly the way I’d been taught.

  His voice sounded almost conversational when he asked, “Did you sleep with him?”

/>   “No!” My answering shout echoed off the sleek stainless steel of the refrigerator.

  Chris waited.

  “He’s back, yes. He was waiting for me inside my apartment last night.”

  Where I wouldn’t have been, if you’d let me come over here. I thought it. But I didn’t say it out loud.

  His eyes went to the scabs on my throat.

  “It’s not James’s fault,” I said. “I startled him. He bit before he realized it was me.”

  Chris’s eyes narrowed, and I realized I’d elided over the truth. I hadn’t clarified that James had attacked me in his home, the night before he’d come to mine.

  Like a guilty teen trying to justify a curfew violation, I stammered on. With each phrase, my words got faster, my voice rising in pitch. “He offered to heal me, to let me drink from him. He tried to make things right. That’s why he was there in the first place. He wants to help.”

  “He wouldn’t need to help, if he kept his fangs where they belong.”

  “You’re the one who told me to see him!” Before Chris could deny my words, I scrambled for a clarification he might accept. “You want your New Commission. I was just bringing James into the fold.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it these days?”

  I’d never heard Chris’s voice drip with sarcasm. For a moment, I thought I’d slap him, but that would be simple melodrama. Instead, I turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Chris called, before I made it halfway to the front door.

  Sekhmet help me, I stopped. Maybe it was the honest fear I heard beneath Chris’s shout. Maybe it was the sudden realization that if I walked out of the townhouse, I was never coming back. Maybe it was the niggling feeling that always struck when I was in Chris’s presence, the balance, the harmony, the rightness of being with another sphinx, even in the midst of this gut-churning fight.

  “Sarah…” Chris said, loading my name with an encyclopedia of pleading. Of apology. Of longing.

  I turned slowly. “I told you I didn’t sleep with him. I’d never lie to you.”

  Tension spun out between us like a strand of spider silk. I willed him to hear the honesty beneath my words. I waited for him to accept the truth.

  He swallowed hard. And then he sighed, opening fists I hadn’t even realized he’d clutched tight.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t fair,” he said. “And I apologize.”

  It took me a moment, but I found the right response. “Apology accepted.”

  I almost believed myself.

  He waited, and I knew he was giving me a chance to follow through on my inclination, to leave, even though he’d capitulated. I weighed my options. But despite it all, the angry words and the queasy specter of jealousy, I didn’t want to walk out that door.

  “I’ve been doing some research,” he finally said. “Following up on your leads.”

  “My leads,” I repeated. He relaxed a little, recognizing a truce when he heard one.

  “About those auctions. I talked to a few people, called in some debts from my days at The Banner. I found out who’s behind Lost Soul Enterprises.”

  “Who?” I asked, even though I already knew he was going to say Maurice Richardson.

  “Mohammed Apep.”

  “Not Richardson?” I was shocked.

  “Not Richardson,” Chris confirmed.

  That didn’t make sense. When Sekhmet had told me about the Seal, I’d sensed ruthless destruction, a bottomless appetite for power. I’d been certain I was seeing the vampire overlord who’d tyrannized the Empire for generations. “Apep…” I said in disbelief. “Why do I know that name?”

  “He’s a billionaire recluse who hasn’t been seen in public for twenty years.”

  I made the connection. “The one who makes all those donations?”

  “One and the same.”

  Facts came flooding back to me. Mohammed Apep had made his money in finance, running a hedge fund or a private equity fund or one of those things. A secular Muslim, he’d been born somewhere in the Middle East. His parents had moved to the United States when he was two or three years old. His father had worked as a cobbler; his mother was a seamstress. He’d worked his way through public school, got a scholarship to Harvard, and had become one of the ten wealthiest men in the country before retiring abruptly, almost thirty years ago.

  In interview after interview, Apep stated that he could only have achieved his success in a country as generous as the United States. He’d vowed to return the favor, underwriting countless projects in and around DC. He’d financed a replacement roof for the Botanical Garden, stepping in when the federal budget fell short. He’d paid for the restoration of the Ulysses S Grant statue at the foot of the Capitol. He’d overseen the replacement of the dome at the National Gallery of Art, the carousel on the National Mall, and the National Archives display cases for the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. He’d endowed a chair at American University, a professorship focusing on the history of civilization.

  And despite all of those good deeds, no one had seen his face since his retirement. There were countless stories from reporters who’d tried to track him down—Apep was living in Dubai, in Singapore, at an ashram outside of Bangalore. Wherever he was, the checks kept coming—the checks and the special projects to save his adoptive country.

  I stared at Chris. “Apep bought the Seal from Wellingham’s?”

  “According to an old article in Vanity Fair, he’s been a collector for decades. Revisiting the culture of his people. The Metropolitan offered to build a new gallery for his collection, next to the Temple of Dendur. The Chicago Institute of Art proposed an entire new wing. But the Smithsonian thinks they have the inside track.”

  “Why?” My mind was still reeling. Mohammed Apep was Lost Soul Enterprises. But Maurice Richardson could still be Mohammed Apep. It wouldn’t be the first time the vampire kingpin had masqueraded as a mundane in a position of power.

  “Apep gave the Smithsonian the first Egyptian artifact he ever acquired. A faience charm. The Amulet in the Form of Two Deities.”

  A shiver rippled down my spine. “Which deities?” I asked, too quickly.

  Chris met my eyes. “According to online records, Sekhmet is one.”

  “And the other?”

  “Is listed as unknown. ‘In the form of a man.’ But the head is broken off.”

  Sheut. I had no way of knowing. No reason to be sure. But even as my mind seized the thought, I knew I was right.

  I wanted to see the amulet. I needed to see it. If I could touch it, extend my imperial powers into it, I could finally make my yearned-for progress on my search for my father.

  I thought back to my childhood visits to the National Mall, to countless school field trips in all the museums. Would I have recognized the significance of an Egyptian charm when I was only a kid? Would Sekhmet have called to me before I had any idea of my true nature?

  “Maybe I saw it when I was a kid?”

  Chris shook his head. “It’s not on display.”

  I was filled with immediate outrage. How could something as valuable as a Sekhmet amulet not be on display? Of course, the average mundane curator had no clue how important Sekhmet was to an entire race of secret imperials. Two hidden races—sphinxes and vampires. And whatever the hell I was too.

  Chris’s answer overrode my huff of displeasure. “The Smithsonian owns millions of items, but it only has room to display a fraction of that. Apep’s gift only mandated that it be kept available for anthropologists to study, not that it be kept permanently on display.”

  I sighed. “I’d give anything to see that amulet.”

  “Anything?” Chris said, with a glint in his eye. “What are you doing tonight?”

  It was Saturday. For once I wasn’t working. But I’d promised James I’d go with him to Richardson.

  I wasn’t about to tell Chris I’d made that commitment. Our truce was still too fragile. Instead, I gave him a leery look. “What
am I doing?”

  “How about breaking into the National Museum of Natural History?”

  22

  I stared at Chris in shock. I was the one who was supposed to be impulsive, to act first and think later. He was supposed to be the voice of law and order.

  But here he was, without a hint of hesitation, proposing that we break into a federal building.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. At the same time, my hands actually ached at the thought of holding the amulet. I could picture the faience, bright blue glass with darker cobalt-colored creases. Cool to the touch, it would warm to my body heat almost immediately.

  My longing for the amulet was like a physical pang. But I retained just enough logic to ask, “Why would you even consider doing that?”

  “The Seal,” he said.

  I glanced at my wrist, at the band of flesh where Sekhmet had displayed a bisected oval. Skeptical, I asked, “The amulet is the Seal?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so. If it was, he wouldn’t have bought those recent lots at auction. Or he might have, but he wouldn’t have stopped after the Wellingham sale.”

  “They why break into the museum?”

  “Apep must have held the amulet. With any luck at all, he left enough of his essence on the charm. We’ll be able to follow him, like bloodhounds on an astral trail. We’ll use the amulet to track the Seal.”

  I didn’t need much convincing. The thought of holding Sekhmet’s amulet made my breath come fast.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay?”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll break into the National Museum of Natural History.” Less than two weeks earlier, I’d been locked up in an Eastern Empire cell, and I’d hated every second of my imprisonment. What the hell was I doing, signing up for a possible stay in DC’s municipal jail? If we got caught this time, Chris couldn’t simply call himself my lawyer and get me off the hook.

  But when I closed my eyes, I could imagine the faintly rough surface of the faience amulet, feel its ancient power beneath my fingertips. Shoving aside the thought of living behind bars, I asked, “What do you need me to do?”