Protector of the Flame (6 page)

Serenity’s heart clenched. Tears leaked from her eyes, trickling into her ears. Tremors seized her as sizzling claws flayed her open and gutted her womb.

Chapter Five

Once Carin had cleaned Serenity, Cyrus dressed her in fresh clothes and tucked his
kabashem
into bed to rest. She was healed, but hovered somewhere between consciousness and catatonia.

He sat beside her. At a loss for words, he stroked her hair, but she recoiled from his touch, turning away, and curled into a tight ball.

Grief welled in his chest. As he stood, he bit it back down, choosing to focus on the fire of his burning anger. Anger over the loss of something he didn’t even know he had.

He went into the hall where Carin waited and closed the door. “I don’t understand.”

“The pregnancy wasn’t far along. I’ve no idea what caused the loss.”

Answers wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t bring back the child he was sworn to have to break the curse and save Kindred from extinction. Wouldn’t ease his
kabashem’s
suffering. Or his own. But he needed answers.

“You’ve healed her several times. Why didn’t you feel the child?”

“So early in a pregnancy it’s hard to detect the fetus. The energy of the child can mimic the mother’s.”

“But why? Kindred don’t…”

Kindred didn’t miscarry. Conception had grown difficult over the years for many, exacerbating their dwindling numbers, but Kindred never miscarried.

“She’s very strong. I don’t see a reason.”

He’d failed Herut and all those counting on him.

More importantly, he’d failed to protect his wife.

A corrosive surge of guilt and rage lashed up, and he punched a wall, plunging his fist through plaster and concrete.

Chapter Six

Serenity rolled toward a window. Amber light filtered through drawn curtains. A door closed. Cyrus climbed into bed and wrapped his arms around her. She wanted his hands and mouth to erase the pain Carin couldn’t take away. She wanted to scream, to cry. But no sound stirred in her throat and she couldn’t bear to touch him.

Light faded. Dusk fell.

Cyrus left the room and returned with a tray of food he set on the nightstand. He nestled his face in her hair and held her, but there was no comfort in the haven of his arms.

Dawn came.

A knock at the door jarred her from the slipstream of darkness. Cyrus got up.

“Shall we stay another day?” Spero asked.

Serenity threw back the covers and put her feet on the cool tiles. “I want to leave. Now.” She walked into the bathroom and stopped, staring at the floor where she’d lost her child—a bloody, congealed glob—Cyrus’s child.

In a rush, she gathered her things and packed.

Marrakech disappeared behind them in a cloud of sand and dirt. After an hour, maybe more, maybe less, they were in Fez.

Cyrus steered her as they wandered through a blur of streets, a shrine and some mosque.

They went someplace where hundreds of swarming birds mottled the sky. The fluttering muddle of life overhead blotted out the sun. The riotous sound of flapping wings grated her ears.

She longed for oblivion.

They toured a landscaped garden. Her gaze washed over thriving blossoms on evergreen bushes. All she could see was the withered bud her body had expelled like a foreign agent on the floor of a hotel bathroom.

She glanced about absently, looking for something, uncertain what it was.

“What do you need? The restroom?” Cyrus asked.

She nodded, thankful he knew when she didn’t have the words.

Carin led her to the toilets. She went into a stall, closed the door and sat on the closed lid. What had she done wrong? Besides neglect to eat, smoke a hookah and have two glasses of wine. Two full goblets of wine!

She’d killed their child with reckless behavior. The second she knew something was wrong she should’ve told Carin.

Hot tears streamed down her face.

Cyrus wanted ten kids, maybe more. She couldn’t even give him one.

She came from a corrupted gene pool where females left their children unprotected, the way her own mother had abandoned her.

Her womb had been full and she didn’t even know it. Now she was only full of grief for the loss of a child she didn’t know her heart wanted. She slid onto her knees.

Salty heartache overflowed from her eyes, but she couldn’t sob. Her chest heaved, but there was no sound.

Carin pushed the stall door open and knelt in the doorway.

Had she forgotten to lock it?

Sorrow swept over Serenity like high tide, submerging her soul in darkness. Bitter coldness crystallized her core, seeped down her legs, swept up her chest. Her lungs and throat constricted until she gasped.

A prickling sensation slithered through her skin. Her energy stream churned as she exhaled, emitting a shimmering burst of golden light.

The stalls shook, metal rattled and tiles fell from the walls.

Tears spilled from Carin’s eyes.

With another surge of sorrow, Serenity released a second wave of glittering dusty gold energy.

Pipes in the bathroom ruptured. Water gushed from toilets, sinks, cracks in the walls.

Serenity and Carin emerged from the restroom, sopping wet. Attendants rushed by them, clamoring in Arabic, headed for the disaster area.

Cyrus didn’t look surprised. He merely stared with woeful eyes. “The vehicles are a fifteen minute walk through the souk. It’ll take thirty minutes for them to drive around. I thought the fresh air would do you some good. I didn’t anticipate this.”

Unfazed by her drenched clothing, she shrugged.

She drifted behind Cyrus through the lobby into the garish glare of the sun. Her body was no longer heavy, full of death. She could breathe without wanting to weep, but she felt hollow.

In the maze of the souk, a couple of men tried to entice them to enter their stores. A guy selling fruit attempted to shove an orange into her hand, but one of the
vadeletori
, Ptolemy, stepped between them, throwing the man a menacing look that made him cower.

A stand with leather goods caught her eye. She stopped in front of the vendor’s table and glanced at the satchels and backpacks. Her fingers trailed across the smooth leather of a bag with sturdy straps.

When she was first put into foster care, she had no possessions besides the clothes she wore. The little she remembered of her parents tormented her daily.

A gentle woman whose name she couldn’t remember had bought her pretty outfits and stuffed animals. Each item was a badge of love, proof she was wanted by someone, even if her mother had thrown her away.

Then one day she was told she had to leave. Her trophies of love were packed in two suitcases, far more than her parents had left behind.

Upon consignment to her fourth new home, she had one suitcase and a single bear. When it was time to move again, she stuffed everything in her school backpack. She couldn’t control which home she was sent to or what type of foster parent she’d get, but strength came with the ability to carry her own things without assistance. Someone could pilfer what was in her backpack once she arrived, but while it was on her back, hands free, she was independent, capable of handling whatever came next.

The vendor uttered something in French, dragging her back to the present, and handed her a different bag. The backpack had several outer pockets and a cavernous inner compartment she could pack her whole life in. Other than Cyrus, she didn’t need much.

“Do you want it?” Cyrus asked, touching her shoulder.

She nodded, not knowing why, only that she needed the bag.

He spoke to the man in Arabic. A moment later, Spero handed him cash. The purchase was made and they headed to the cars. Ptolemy tried to carry the bag for her, but she clutched it to her chest.

They checked into a new Riad. The air in their suite was stale. Cyrus opened the balcony doors and a breeze swept through.

In the bathroom, she removed her clothes. They flopped to the floor in a sodden heap. She sat underneath the spray of hot water in the shower. Knees tucked to her chest, she rocked back and forth.

Once the water turned cold, she stood, stretching her stiff legs. Steam filled the bathroom. She used a towel to wipe the mirror.

Her mother’s eyes—sharp violet—shone back.

The amulet resting on her breastbone gleamed in the misty reflection. The unearthly chain sat just beneath her skin as if it was a diseased artery, wings entrenched in her skin.

From the moment she and Cyrus had touched, tasted one another, there would always be this, darkness and death.

Her mind drifted, lost in a cascade of memories. Ruthless mercenaries with lethal energy weapons. The car tumbling down a slope. Her screams filling her ears. Battle-guard of Sekhem ripping through steel to kill her. Broken bodies. A dank warehouse. The cruel yet beautiful one-eyed Lysandra. Her best friend, Evan Wade, corrupted by jealousy, gone mad. Two bullets tearing through her gut.

Now this. She raised her fingers to touch the amulet around her neck. The cursed charm burrowed deeper.

She didn’t flinch or get gooseflesh. Her sorrow shifted to hatred as she finally saw through the veil of deceit.

Throwing on a terry cloth robe, she went into the bedroom.

“Our child lived through the car accident,” she said to Cyrus. The shimmering sapphire eyes of the Sekhem warrior who had tried to kill her two weeks ago flashed in her mind. “Our baby even survived after I was shot twice.” She pulled wet hair out from the back of the robe. “It’s the necklace from Seshata.”

In a fluid motion she almost missed, he was off the bed and on his feet. “We’ll leave for House Aten tomorrow.”

She walked onto the balcony. Her gaze swept the panoramic urban view. Arabic chanting boomed from speakers across the city.

“Do you pray?” She stared out at the maze of buildings. He had such faith in the Creator, yet she didn’t know the answer.

Cyrus stood beside her. “No. I believe the Creator acts according to its will, not mine. I also believe I have a choice in my actions and the course of my life.”

“Do you believe if someone prays that the Creator listens?”

His brow furrowed as he drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I made a bargain with the Creator.” She didn’t want to look at Cyrus, see his eyes. “It didn’t turn out the way I expected, but I have to keep my end of the deal.”

“You can’t make deals with the Creator.”

She gripped the railing and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You don’t believe your Creator would honor a sacrifice?”

He raked back ink-black hair with both hands. “You don’t even believe. You’re not making any sense.”

Defiant, dark waves swung forward. In another week the shadow of hair on his face would grow into a full beard, but she wouldn’t be there to see it.

“I’m going to House Aten without you.”

“No. I won’t let you.” Fierce possessiveness, a desperate need to protect resounded in the timbre of his voice, causing her to doubt her decision.

Then she thought of her sworn vow to the Creator and of her promise to Abbadon. “I have to let you go…back to Herut to stand before your Council.”

Icy shards rained through their merged energy stream.

He shook his head. “You will not go to Aten without me. I forbid it.”

“I’m not a child or servant you can command.” She kept her voice soft.

“You can’t stop me from going with you.”

She faced him and stroked the stubble of his cheek. “I finally understand what Abbadon has been trying to teach me.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t think of Abbadon or heed anything he’s said. Redemption is all that matters to him. He’d sacrifice our happiness if it meant no other Kindred had to endure his suffering.”

“What do you mean? Abbadon doesn’t have blood rage or the dark veil. He was inoculated when his energy stream merged with his
kabashem’s
.”

Cyrus lowered his eyes. “There is a dark side to having a
kabashem
beyond what you know. There is a yearning that grows and takes hold of your soul. I’m just now beginning to understand it myself. It’s not just for the body. It’s also for the nourishment from our mate’s pool of energy. Once parted like he is from Kasmira, the ache can be enough to drive one mad or to seek the release of death. It can only be tempered by the healing harmony of the collective stream, but it will never cease until they are reunited.”

He took a deep breath. “Abbadon believes having a
kabashem
is the worst part of our curse. It’s his greatest hope that redemption won’t only free our people from the torments of blood rage and the dark veil, but also bless future generations with a complete soul, intact and untainted.”

Her mind reeled. Poor Abbadon. Although finding her soul mate hadn’t led to happily-ever-after, she couldn’t imagine life without Cyrus.

“Be that as it may, it has no bearing on my decision.”