by L. R. W. Lee
Interestingly, it’s the same language Harpoc spoke to the sphinx in, hieroglyph, unless I miss my guess because the phonetics and word-ending sounds much the same.
Harpoc tells them to rise, at least that’s what I assume based upon their actions, after which, they eye me up and down as we come even, then stride past. A few stare unabashedly at our joined hands, and then at my ring—yes, the one thing that connects me to parents I’ve never met. I rub the back of it with a thumb.
“They call me emperor, here.” Harpoc says it like it’s no big deal, but a corner of his mouth hitches as I look up at him. He continues looking forward and quickens our pace.
“They’re so diverse.” Many of his subjects have horns of one shape or another. Some have odd-looking faces, others blue skin, others green hair. The differences are vast. It had felt like Narnia outside, but Star Wars feels more fitting at this point.
“You noticed.” He chuckles as we continue.
“A lot of them have scars.” I try to whisper as we approach another group.
“Many who live in the Empire of Secrets dared greatly and bear the marks. Think of this place as a…. What’s the term you use for a place for battered women to hide?” Harpoc says after we pass them.
“A shelter?”
“Yes, think of the empire, in part, as a shelter for those who wouldn’t go quietly; those who refused to be silent in the face of oppression; and those who found courage to not allow fear to stop them.”
My heart grows three sizes. I’ve had many thoughts about Harpoc’s magic, but not once have I considered that it might be a lifeline for those who dared to face adversity.
Harpoc has a vision for his empire, and it’s one I can get behind.
We approach a female hurrying with an armful of linens, perhaps to assist whatever they call medical personnel here. As if to underscore his “refuge” point, a nasty scar mars her forehead, but it’s not fresh. What has she overcome in her lifetime? I have nothing but respect for her.
Like the others, I feel her eyes on me even after we pass.
“They’re curious. They’ve never seen me holding a female’s hand.” He gives me a quick wink and squeezes my hand again when I glance up at him.
What does that mean?
But before I can ask that or the rest of the questions swirling in my brain, we approach another set of chic, modern-style black doors, their pulls that same rose emblem I’ve been seeing.
We’re at the end of a quieter hall that we turned down about a minute ago. This hallway has only a handful of beings, all of whom probably hustled up the large-ish curving stairway to the right.
“Emerson, Piers,” Harpoc says, as the pair of armed soldiers standing guard at the doors bow, one hand behind their backs, then swing open both in unison.
Harpoc takes five steps and stops, and I take in a softly illuminated space that reminds me of Starbucks—not that I frequented the place, but still.
A floor-to-ceiling white sheer curtain is drawn across a two-story window that spans the entirety of the generous sunken living room. Unlike everything else I’ve seen so far with its formal marble, this has a homier feel with rough slate floors and an abundance of wood accents that soften the harsh blacks. Unsurprisingly, more rose emblems are in evidence, which I find amusing for a manly guy like Harpoc.
I drop his hand and move closer to the three steps that lead down into the generous pit with two black leather sofas angled to face the window. They overflow with natural and brown accent pillows, and a throw has been tossed over the back. A glass coffee table with a couple of oversize books add a nice touch.
I feel Harpoc’s gaze as I saunter down the steps and over to the curtain before turning around.
He hasn’t said one word since we reached whatever this place is, and I’m surprised when I look back to find him rubbing the back of his neck. He hasn’t moved from where I left him.
Sounds of the chaos outside are louder here.
“You look… worried. Is it the battle?”
He shakes his head. “I had hoped you’d like my place.”
My place. It’s his home. He’s a freaking god, and he hoped I’d like it?
“If I don’t?” A corner of my mouth curves, and I know he knows I’m kidding because he exhales heavily, then finds his way down the steps and over to me.
He’s too darn cute when he’s unsure of himself, but I’m not sure why that’s the case right now. It’s his place for pity’s sake.
“If you don’t like it, we can redecorate.”
“Redecorate? How long do you think I’ll be here helping you crack the case of leaking secrets?”
“No idea.” He smiles, like he knows something I don’t.
I frown. “You promised to be forthcoming.”
“I did, and I am. I honestly don’t know how long it may take. I’m just happy to have you here.”
I give him a warm smile.
But a loud explosion, outside somewhere, makes me jump, and I step away from the curtain.
He sighs, and it sounds like he shoulders the worries of the world, which he probably does. “I fear the battle is the result of another secret being leaked, if so, it’s the third.”
The third.
I hate secrets, but my stomach tenses all the same. When your business is secrets, even one leak is too many if the magnitude of the goings on outside are any indication, but three?
Chapter Three
“I need to go.”
That much is abundantly clear.
But he doesn’t move to do so. “Before I do…” Harpoc looks down at the slate floor, an unsure expression again usurping his face.
My stomach tenses. What’s got his panties in a twist?
“… I’m wondering…” He gives me a side glance.
I furrow my brow.
“… if you want to…” He scuffs his boots on the floor.
He’s doing a piss-poor job of godding. My inner minion giggles at the new word she invents.
He takes a deep breath. “You can stay in the guest quarters, or…”
Is he asking me to “sleep” with him? Technically we already have, but his inhibition makes it feel like he intends to take it further if I’m so inclined—like he’s not so subtly hinted at since I agreed to come.
Fairies take flight in my stomach—it was butterflies on Earth, but we’re not in Kansas anymore, and with the diversity of beings I’ve seen so far, fairies it is.
He huffs, like he’s losing patience with himself. “…or, if I’ve redeemed myself from being so secretive…” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “…you can sleep with me.”
He is asking me to sleep with him. We didn’t sleep together last night because I was ticked with him for keeping more secrets from me, but he’s promised to be forthcoming.
He’s absolutely still, looking at me with hope in his eyes. I question whether he’s breathing.
I hear another explosion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Either that, or he’s ignoring until I answer.
His vulnerability—revealing what he really wants—is unexpected but more welcome than I have words for, and I cup his scruffy jaw in my palm. “Redeem yourself? You’re a god, I hardly hold that much power.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“That aside, I’m more relieved than you know after our conversation earlier about my best friend, that secret magic can’t hide a sexual assault. Between that, your admission that sometimes you hate secret magic, and your promise to be forthcoming, I’m open to it.”
I don’t add that this “tough bitch,” a title I’m proud to bear, has actually enjoyed the safety and security of his arms around me. I can’t think of a time when I’ve let my hackles down and relaxed in someone’s arms. But I have with him.
He lifts my chin with a finger, then leans in, brushing my lips with his, and deepening it. It almost feels like he’s sealing this moment. Maybe he is.
But before he can take it further, another blast detona
tes—it sounds closer than the others—and he looks toward the windows.
“You need to go.”
He sighs, but nods. “We’ll pick this up later.”
I smile. “I look forward to it.”
He turns as a knock sounds on the doors. “Enter.”
A shortish, plump liveried woman enters and curtsies, uttering the familiar-sounding honorific. Her arms, overflowing with towels, look like they’re about to burst.
She rises after he commands, and he translates for me, “Please rise, Portia.”
Turning to me he adds, “This is Portia. She does not have secret magic so she speaks only hieroglyph, but I’m sure the two of you can figure out how to communicate well enough.”
Not everyone here has secret magic. Interesting.
Though Portia has the same olive complexion and onyx hair as Harpoc, it makes sense that not every native of the empire wields magic, or maybe she lost it somehow. Who knows?
Harpoc introduces me to the woman, which is awkward because she bows to me, too. I don’t miss her glace at my hand, at my ring. What is it with these people? Harpoc wears three rings on each hand so what’s the deal with me wearing just one?
I’m glad when he gives the woman instructions and after bowing one more time, she heads down a hallway to the left.
“I’ve asked her to draw you a bath. I don’t know how long I’ll be so don’t wait up if it gets late.”
He leans forward and plants a kiss on my lips before heading back up the steps, then bobs his head a final time, almost like he’s satisfied I’ll be safe here, before pushing one of the doors open and disappearing.
Another explosion sounds outside, and I stride to the far end and pull the material away from the wall, then step between it and the wall of glass.
The fluffy clouds have thinned a little. Shouts and blades clashing fill my ears despite the glass muting much of it. But all of those aerial beings I saw earlier are still hard at it, rising, then diving. I’m glad my view of those overlarge, white, furry, rodent things is occluded by the turreted wall that surrounds this palace.
Portia calls, words I’ve no idea of their meaning, but I can tell as her pitch rises, that she doesn’t know where I’ve disappeared to.
I step out from behind the sheer curtain to see her draw a hand to her abundant chest. She carries on, animatedly telling me my absence scared her, at least I’m guessing, as she scurries toward me, then gently takes me by the arm and gestures toward the hall she just came from.
Seems my bath is ready.
I can only nod.
She leads me down that warm wood-paneled hallway, then motions for me to follow her through the second door on the left. I pick my jaw up off the floor one more time because Harpoc’s bedroom is ginormous, bigger even than all the hotel rooms we stayed in.
His god-size, gray-covered bed stands against the off-white wall on the far side of the room that’s inlaid with more rose patterns.
Mister Prissy himself.
While it’s cool to be surrounded by emblems of my last name, somehow I hadn’t figured him for a male in touch with his feminine side. The headboard rises to the high ceiling in some modern pattern of odd shaped geometric pieces. Soft light diffuses between each angle of the design.
A vase on the right nightstand brims with fresh roses in colors I’ve never seen before, black and aqua. They’re beautiful, the whole space is.
I run a hand over a glass-topped, sleek, chrome-legged end table standing beside another very inviting sofa; they’re part of a comfortable-looking sitting area. My toes long to dig into the plush pile of the gray rug beneath the coffee table. It warms the charcoal-colored slate tile and ties the space together. Even cozier, the whole ensemble faces a talkative fireplace.
I can see myself cozying up with a good book and some hot chocolate, assuming they have books I can read here. I snicker, imagining reading some hot, trashy romance in hieroglyphs.
Portia no doubt thought I’d followed on her heels, and she’s returned to retrieve her wayward charge. She motions me on once more, and I do as she bids, entering another spacious, tile-lined room. These tiles, again covering the floor, walls, and ceiling are in lighter beiges to warm brown tones and make me want to spend time here.
A pool in the floor toward the far side of the room burbles like it’s inviting me to enjoy its bounty. No, wait, that isn’t a pool because Portia’s pouring what looks like bubble bath in, and boy, do the bubbles foam in the jets.
I can’t help but laugh. I’m sure Portia thinks I’m crazy, but it’s all so beautiful and overwhelming. Poor, artifact-and-baklava-loving, sweats-wearing, little ol’ me in a place like this. Unbelievable.
Flames from no less than two dozen white candles dance in the three long niches cut out from the wall behind the giant tub. A three-sink, free-standing vanity stands to the right, with an equal number of the tallest mirrors I’ve ever seen, stretching to the ceiling.
A large, glass-walled sauna, complete with long, teak bench inside, is to the left, along with a separate honking-big shower, that’s lined with black tile. And finally, I spot the commode, which is equally chic and modern.
Portia motions me forward, pointing to another teak-slatted bench with a fluffy white towel and bathrobe laid out on top. Amazingly enough, white slippers, which look my size, are tucked beneath.
She stands with hands clasped before her, to the side of the bench, waiting to assist as I join her. When I just stand there, she reaches up, for a lapel of my new leather long coat, clearly intent on helping me off with it. From her enthusiasm, I know she won’t be dissuaded, and with our language barrier, there’s no way I’m putting brakes on her help. So I submit.
In not long, I’m naked except for my ring, cowering as I cover my hardly existent chest.
She seems not embarrassed in the least. Maybe this is par for the course for how she helps Harpoc.
I’m never so happy when she gives me a kind smile and nods me toward the bath, then helps me slide in and find the ledge that runs along the wall. It’s much like that swimming pool at the first hotel Harpoc and I stayed at.
Amazingly, Grace, my clumsy alter ego, behaves herself and I don’t make a fool of myself—no, she’s probably plotting another time in front of Harpoc.
I bat at the bubbles that rise to my chin, keeping them at bay before they swallow me whole, because with the jets stirring up the water, they keep growing.
Portia giggles, then disappears behind me, and soon the jets shut off.
“Thank you,” I tell her, smiling, when she returns, despite knowing she doesn’t understand.
Now that the bubbles are under control, Portia points to a sloped piece jutting above the foam and I move to investigate. To my delight, I find it’s a contoured back board with a seat, and I slide on, then lean back, taking care to re-cover myself in bubbles. Portia’s gentle hands start massaging my scalp a minute later. I can get used to this.
The sounds of conflict can’t penetrate this room, and my thoughts drift where they will as her ministrations lull me into a haze. This place is nothing like I imagined, not that I gave it much thought before today. I knew Harpoc was loaded, but this is so much more.
Pell, don’t let its opulence distract you from your objective, my inner voice cautions. You’re here to end the double standard the powerful enjoy.
My inner voice is right.
Thoughts of the recent political scandal, which came to a very unsatisfactory end with no one facing punishment for crimes committed, leap to the fore, and I barely stifle a growl.
Like a bucket of cold water’s been thrown over me, I sit up suddenly, confusing Portia as I wave her off, because I’m again wound up by that fetid sense of injustice.
Being here, I’m one step closer to fixing it, and I won’t mess it up. I just need to guard against getting soft.
Because I will see injustice ended, if it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Four
It’s late
when the rattle of the door handle draws my attention and Harpoc staggers in. There’s blood all over the black leathers he now sports, and I suck in a breath as the doors close behind him.
“Harpoc.” I leap off the sofa where I’ve been reclining, listening to a blend of eclectic music, dressed in my navy sweats and hoodie, that I found in the honking big closet.
As promised, all my clothes from Earth, along with my computer, and the rest of my effects made it, and are in there. As well, gobs more outfits I’ve never seen before—no doubt courtesy of my host—fill the thing that’s bigger than my bedroom at the group home.
I race up the steps, holding my breath as I eye him up and down for damage, then skid to a stop, eyes wide.
“Are you hurt?” The words spill from my lips because I want to strip those leathers off him and examine every inch of his sexy body to make sure he’s okay.
A tired smile lights up his face. “You know, it’s nice to have someone excited to see me home.”
“Are you okay?” Insistence fills my voice. I need him to tell me.
“Yes, Pell. I’m unhurt. This is not my blood.” I exhale heavily, making his smile grow.
“What happened out there? What were those large rodents? Where did they come from?” I’m on a roll, but he puts a finger across my lips.
“Let me take a quick shower before I fill you in. Is there anything to eat?”
“Portia left a plate for you in the kitchen,” I say, as he heads for the bathroom.
I head the opposite direction, making my way to where I ate after Portia ordered me a burger and fries. How she decided what to get me I’ve no idea because I had no say in the matter.
It had been forever since I’d had fries, and they hit the spot. The palace kitchens know how to do them right, a little crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside. Amazing.
I take the silver dome off Harpoc’s plate, also a burger and fries, that’s sitting on the black-granite topped island and put it in the microwave—yes, they have microwaves here—to reheat.
Like the other rooms I’ve seen, the kitchen’s also inviting. I particularly love the teak ceiling. The color’s carried over to the cabinets, and with the ample under-cabinet lighting, the space feels warm.
