Forgotten in Darkness (11 page)

Dakar shook his head, no.

“You’ll excuse me if I opt out of another beatdown
.
” He waved his lacerated arm. “Look, if you need a good fight, find V. Ashor just revoked his leave privileges after another fight at a local biker rally few days ago. He needs to burn off some steam.”

“Who’s V?”

“Viktor. Tall Russian with the shaved head. Got a lot of hardware on his face. I saw him downstairs.”

“No, what’s his talent?”

“Oh, right. Sees ghosts. At least, that’s what he claims.”

The necromancer who could channel ghost energy. Very powerful. But, yet another magus cursed with lack of memory when brought back, not that Dakar felt bad for the guy. To be able to weld the power of the undead was impressive. Too bad he usually took about fifty years to figure it out. “How long has he been reincarned?”

“I don’t know. Maybe twenty or thirty years.”

“So, he’s got no clue how to use his powers yet.”

“None. Can you help him?”

“Maybe. I cannot say I expect him to be asking. You asking for him or for yourself?”

Nate’s face colored while he fiddled with the towel around his forearm. “It’d be damned useful not to get my ass kicked all the time. I’ve only been at this about a decade, but I’d sure appreciate any tips you’ve got to offer.”

“Zap ’em in the ass. It might scare the hell out of whoever or whatever you are fighting.”

“I don’t have enough control for that. Besides, couldn’t it kill a magus?”

Without warning, Dakar headlocked Nate. Nate twisted proficiently in an attempt to elbow Dakar’s abdomen, which he dodged.

“Stop fighting like a human soldier. Focus. You have the power of Zeus. You own lightning.” Without releasing his head, Dakar grabbed Nate’s lacerated arm.

Despite the pressure on his throat, Nate roared.

A crack of lightning zinged into Dakar’s back and pushed him forward. He released Nate to catch his balance. The far wall caught fire from the bolt. Dakar flicked his wrist to absorb the flame. He straightened, rubbing his back where the bolt struck. “Better.”

Nate massaged his throat and glared pissed-off. “Don’t touch me again.”

“Or what? Inspire me not to. Until you do, I shall attack whenever I want.” He pivoted to leave, but halted. “You cannot kill one of us like that. Did you not read the
Thutmose Treatise
? I thought committing its contents to memory was required upon induction.”

“That thing was boring as hell and written in an old English translation that has a lot of weird phrasing. Christian gave me the short version.”

“Ashor must be losing his edge. He used to be a hardass about that memorization rule. I suggest you borrow it and spend a few days reading. The only way for you, for any of us, to leave this life is either through the strike of a daemon or a magus’s scimitar. Or at the whim of the gods, who seem to like to mess with us for sport, but you have golden blood in your veins. None of the gods would willingly challenge your mother.”

“Who’s my mother?”

“Ma’at.”

“Our liaison goddess?”

“Yes, her.”
The bitch that marooned me in the Middle Realm
. He continued his path to the exit. Maybe outside he could find quiet.

At the patio door, a female voice behind him said, “Dakar, you and I need to have a chat about those lesions on your back.”

The akhrian.
He turned and glared what he hoped was his best
hell-no-way
.

“Can I clear them?” Kira dropped her stethoscope into her white lab coat pocket and skewered him with her pale, multi-colored too-keen eyes.

“Leave it be.”

“Come. Let’s talk about them.”

“I am fine.”

“Then you should view this as simply a formality. Your healer doing a brief look-see.”

“When did you get the idea that I wanted help?”

“You look like someone who’s malnourished. Isn’t sleeping. And is in constant physical pain. I’m not commenting on the emotional shitstorm your aura broadcasts. So, let me have a look.”

“Why did you not deal with them when you rendered me unconscious.” He couldn’t help the bitterness of his tone.

“I’m not apologizing for knocking you out. You were about to run. We need you here. I didn’t know what they were. So, I wasn’t about to do anything without a discussion. So, let’s have that talk. Now.”

He was well familiar with people who didn’t accept no for an answer. And going on her hard, level tone, it was damn clear the doctor was having it her way or else.

“Follow me to my office.” She turned and led to the back of the house.

He followed through the white door into the medical area. The room was clean, sterile…and ignited a compulsion to escape. He hated the distinctive smell of cleaned-up blood. And the lingering impression of barely survived trauma. Ending up here meant he’d either had the shit kicked out of him by a daemon, or was about to depart this life from whatever fatal wound Shaiani had inflicted. That meant fifty percent of the time he died in rooms like this.

Too many memories. Too many death moments. Sometimes Shaiani had pleaded for forgiveness. Other times she threw invectives until he passed into death. Too many times he’d stared into her unearthly beautiful green eyes wishing desperately for a different destiny.

He unlocked his now aching jaw. “Let us not do this.”

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want, but we do need to figure out what those things are and if I can help. They’re draining your energy and they hurt, don’t they?”

Yes, damn it.
“You are not like the previous
akhrians.
”

“In what way other than being a woman?”

“None of the others cared if we suffered. Pain is part of the deal. Most could not care less if we chose to let our injuries heal on their own.”

“But you’re not healing.”

He shrugged.

“So, here’s how I work. If you’re injured and you’re not seeking treatment, I will hunt you down and take care of it. One vulnerable magus weakens all of them. And puts all of us in danger.”

“Who says I will battle daemons again?”

A fleeting smile crossed her lips. “Deny it however long you want, but it’s inevitable. It’s who you are. So, please come in. Take off your shirt and let me take a look at those lesions.”

He seesawed his molars and didn’t budge.

“I promise nothing I see or you say will ever be revealed to another soul. I won’t hurt you. Now, please, step away from the door and take off the shirt.”

Dakar swallowed and tried to slow his hammering pulse without success. He fisted his hands to stop their tremoring. Somehow, he must get through this. She was right. The wounds weakened him.

He unbuttoned, pulled off the shirt, and stepped into the room. “Let us finish this quickly.”

She approached slowly as if advancing on an injured wild animal. He slammed his lids closed, praying the encounter end fast. Her cool fingers lightly touched near the newest black lesion festering on his back.

“How long have you had this?”

“About a month.”

“And the one on your side?” She gently probed her fingers along the edge of the old lesion.

“At least fifty years or so. Time was difficult to interpret where I was.”

“What caused them?”

“Daemon scratch and then spit.”

“Interesting, but icky. Does their spit stink as much as them?”

His lips twitched. “It does.”

She shook her head. “I have no idea how you guys can face those disgusting things. I’m glad of it, don’t get me wrong. But I would gag.”

“It is what it is.”

“You want me to try to clear them?”

He sighed long and hard, despising this weakness. He hated the brutal fact he needed her to do this. He nodded.

She rested one hand on his forearm. A jolt of heat warmed his body with a soothing sensation that beelined for the wounds. After less than a minute, she stepped away and plopped down onto a rolling stool. “Better?”

He touched his side and back where the areas had been, finding only fresh smooth skin. And a new tattoo on his side that signaled magical healing as only the
akhrian
could do. Probably had a matching tat on his back. He pulled on his shirt. “Yes. You are quite good at this. Different, but good.”

“I keep hearing that from the others. You’re welcome. So, how old are you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I really do.” She crossed her legs and rested her chin on her hand.

He stood to leave. “Thank you for your assistance. Please, do not take it personally if I say I prefer not to be in this room again.” He paused at the door with one hand on the handle. “I was born into this incarnation in 1642. I regained my memory when inducted in 1668.”

Chapter Nine

Shay departed the Asheville airport in a rented economy car that was little more than a blue plastic egg on roller skates. Now she had to contact Brant.

Her stomach soured at the thought of her stepbrother. Right after her mother married his father, she caught him sacrificing a raccoon in a voodoo ritual. That was the first time he locked her the basement closet and threatened her with something worse than he had inflicted on the raccoon if she tattled on him. One suppressed memory surged to the forefront of her mind, of a time when he used a knife on her when she wouldn’t give him the TV remote. She had a nice little scar on her left arm from that. But it was the memory of eighteen-month-old Jacob smiling up at her in his classic adoring way while he toddled along behind her that caused her abdomen to cramp. Brant had killed him, her innocent little brother, not that anyone could pin it on Brant. But she knew. How could he shoot himself with a rifle? The kid could barely hold a jumbo crayon. His death killed her mother’s zest for life.

She suspected Brant had also arranged her stepfather’s mysterious death. The medical report said he fell off the porch of his house and broke his neck. No one could prove it was anything other than an accident. The last time she’d spoken with Brant had been at that funeral. If her current desperation hadn’t driven her to find him, those eight years weren’t long enough.

He’d already gotten mixed up in some sort of ancient Persian cult called the Order of Assassins when she saw him at that solemn event. Morbid curiosity led her to research them, secretly hoping they’d all do a group suicide thing. No such luck.

She never believed magik in any form existed and hadn’t lent the cult much credence. Now, she wondered if there was some fact to it. If not, perhaps Brant could direct her to someone who had answers.

She didn’t want to just show up at his place of work, the Hashishin complex they called the Sanctum, located just north of the city. The place just sounded creepy. Finding the location of the specific sect had required a lot of Internet digging. She checked into a hotel near downtown Asheville, putting the bill apprehensively on her almost-maxed-out credit card. Once in her rented room, she pulled out the phone book. Revulsion slid down her back as she found him listed. Brant Kiersted. There weren’t many others with that name.

She palmed the bedside phone and dialed before she lost her nerve.

On the second ring, voicemail picked up. Brant’s distinctive voice relayed a generic message. At the beep, she cleared her throat and said, “Uh, hi, Brant. This is Shay. Shay McGinnis. I’m in Asheville and wondered if you had a few minutes to go to lunch or have coffee tomorrow. I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.” She left the hotel’s information and hung up.

With her head on a pillow, she stared at the ceiling cracks breaking through a crappy paint-over attempt. Sleep had eluded her for the past week. Yet, right now…her lids drifted closed.

****

He reclined on a wooden deckchair, his naturally tanned chest soaking up sun. A white dress shirt hung unfastened in careless disarray, dangling off the edges of the chair. Shay glided forward, entranced. In the center of his bared chest was the triangle symbol—the one that had propelled her into archaeology. She wanted to touch. And not just the symbol. His body was a masterwork of impressive lines.

Aching need powered through her blood. She slid to his side. Yet, he didn’t acknowledge her. That hurt. How could he not know she stood beside him?

A flat, golden pendant encircled his neck, an Egyptian
menat
. Without opening his eyes, he lifted his head and neck to flip the pendant so its larger surface sat at the back of his neck. Then, reclined again. The piece didn’t look particularly comfortable, but he’d handled that adjustment like it was a permanent fixture rather than an annoyance. Experts claimed these pendants to be virility amulets. This man needed no pendant to enhance that. Virility was his middle name.

His facial hair no longer screamed wild man, now manicured into a sinful goatee that accentuated the angles of his face. Where was that glorious mane of hair? Had to be confined at his neck…oh please, don’t let him have cut it.

He still ignored her.

No more.

She hiked up her flowing sundress’s ankle-length skirt and straddled him.

His eyes popped open with a startled
say-what
. She smiled. His pupils dilated. At the desire in those dark depths, her thighs clenched around him.

She placed a forefinger over his mouth when he opened it to speak, muting him. Gently, she ran her hand over the single hoop earring in his left ear to the back of his neck, asking permission to lift his head. To release his hair. He obliged by raising his neck. She undid the band. With both hands, she ran her fingers through the dark strands.

His massive arousal pushed against her core from its confinement in his jeans. With a smile, she latched onto a nipple and sucked. The moan that ripped out of him nearly had her coming. From beneath lowered lids, she kept her stare locked on his as she moved down his chest to his abdomen.

She released the pressure of the jeans’ zip fly.

He hissed and gasped out a strangled “
Shaiani.”
His muscles tensed, jaw locked tight. He wanted control. To flip her beneath him. To lock himself deep inside her. She saw his vision of where he wanted this to go as if he’d projected the x-rated movie directly into her brain.