Charlie Madigan: Shadows Before The Sun Part 9

"And Sachath? You called it Death. Will it kill me, then?" She opened her mouth and then thought better of answering.

"Why the h.e.l.l can't you tell me?"

"Because I don't know!" She got up and started pacing, wringing her hands together. "You have no idea how stressful my calling is. No idea. To have to make these decisions, to decide what to tell and what not to tell, what small bit of information might change a life or even end it."

"Well, be confident in the knowledge that whatever you say, Fate has decreed that you would and should say exactly what you end up saying!"

She stopped and leveled a glare my way. "There are lives that don't play a part in Fate's bigger picture, Charlie. Lives that play supporting roles, sacrificial roles, roles to move things along to the endgame, lives that don't seem to matter at all," she said quietly.

Annoyed and yet feeling sorry for the burdens she obviously bore, I got up and carried my plate to the buffet, stopping to get hers. "Done?"

She nodded, handed me her plate, and then walked out onto the balcony.

I disposed of our dishes and then went into the bath chamber-it was too enormous to be called a simple bathroom. Normal bathrooms didn't have columns and a sunken pool filled with steaming water. I washed my hands in the sink and noticed the yellow bruising around my left eye and the nice purple mark on my chin.

I just stood there, staring into the mirror, wondering how in the h.e.l.l I was going to find Hank, and what Sandra's inability to see him really meant. And all this fate craziness was mind-numbing; I could only imagine what it must be like for Sandra, day in day out, vision after vision. . . . I huffed at my reflection. "Go make peace."

It had grown cooler since my earlier foray outside. The sky was dark and littered with stars. Waves crashed against rocks in the distance, the ever-present sound mingling with echoes from the harbor, the market, and the music and voices from the palace.

Sandra reclined on a white chaise lounge, her knees drawn up, head back, and eyes closed. She didn't move when I sat down on the end of the lounge. "So this whole fate thing . . . it pretty much sucks."

Her surprised laugh made me smile. She sat up, tucked a black curl behind her ear, and then wrapped her arms around her knees. "Sucks doesn't come close." She went silent and thoughtful, before saying, "I've had visions of you that have since come to pa.s.s-flashes, moments of crisis, of pain, or happiness. My visions are never linear, never from one moment to the next, so I must interpret what they mean, put them into a context . . .

"I like to say I know all, like to push people's b.u.t.tons, but the truth is," she admitted, "I live a life of confusion, addiction . . . I gamble every time I open my mouth and relay my visions. What should I tell and not tell? There was a time when the gift of prophecy was relayed verbatim, but sometimes oracles see things too clearly, things which should not be shared. And sometimes we must interpret what we see and hope our interpretations are pure."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "I'd think I knew what choices you'd make and then you'd surprise me. It's not often I'm surprised."

I stared out at the sea, the stars from above reflecting off its dark surface. "But nothing surprises All-knowing Fate, is that it?"

"For the most part, probably not. Sometimes I wonder if Fate gets a kick out of changing things, out of s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me, gathering information like some kind of super computer and then changing outcomes or courses to suit some end no one can see, not even me."

"So this not being able to see your own path . . . that has happened to you before?"

She rested her chin on her hands. The gesture made her look small and impossibly young. When she spoke, her voice was softer. "It didn't end well. Someone always loses."

So she kept herself apart from others, didn't want to get involved. As unnerving as it was, Sandra was starting to make sense and I was beginning to see her in a more complex light. "Well I don't plan on losing. Neither should you. The only ones losing this time are the Circe. I believe we make our own fate. No offense."

She looked amused. "None taken."

We stayed like that for a while, the sound of the water creating a sense of peace-false though it was. Even so, I breathed it in and savored it. When I went to stand, Sandra stopped me before I could rise, her expression suddenly determined, as though she'd made a weighty decision.

"Sachath is drawn to your power because it is reminiscent of divine power. You have the genes of the three n.o.ble races inside of you now, Charlie. Just like the First Ones."

I sat back down, careful not to show my surprise; I didn't want to give her any reason to change her mind.

"When the Creator decided it was time to withdraw from the worlds, some of the First Ones refused to go; they'd become attached, you see, to the worlds and to their offspring. To the Creator, their job was done; they had seeded the worlds. They found themselves for the first time in opposition. The rebellious First Ones fled and Sachath was designed specifically to hunt them down. It is drawn to their unique power-only theirs and none other.

"Some of the First Ones went into hiding, trying to stay one step ahead of this creature. Some interred themselves into tombs of agate to mask their power. Sachath awakens when this power flares. It senses your power. But because you are not quite there yet, in terms of your evolution, it becomes confused; it doesn't know what you are. It is only supposed to kill First Ones. There are no judgment calls, no maybes. And when it gets close enough to strike at you, it knows you are not quite what you should be and therefore withdraws."

Disbelief slid past my lips in a cold rush. That thing, that shadowy creature that vibrated with power so deep and ancient, was a killing machine made by the Creator. I could only imagine the strength and power it must have in order to kill the First Ones.

"That morning on Helios Tower," I said, remembering when Ahkneri's tomb had been taken by the Sons of Dawn to the top of the tower, and Llyran pulling down the darkness to open the lid. The power surge that had escaped had been astonis.h.i.+ng.

"Yes. For the first time in many thousands of years, Sachath woke. But when it arrived at the source, the battle was over, the lid was back on, and the Druid King had hidden the sarcophagus in the lake. There was nothing to be found. But the creature is a hunter. It scoured the city, looking. And then you used your power in my club and it felt it. I suspect had her tomb not been opened, your power wouldn't have been strong enough to call to it as it slept. But it was already in the city."

I rubbed both hands down my face. "G.o.d." I laughed through my fingers in defeat. "My timing really sucks."

Every time Sachath had approached me, I'd felt its confusion, felt its curiosity and hesitation. And that was a sobering thought. I'd been dodging a f.u.c.king divine a.s.sa.s.sin, and it was just a matter of time before it finally recognized me and went to work doing what it was created to do.

"Well, at least for now, I can still use my power if I need to. It'll show up, but it won't kill me."

"Yet."

"Thanks for adding that," I said with a wry smile.

"No problem."

"How many people would know about Sachath? Even to most Elysians and Charbydons, the First Ones are merely legend."

"A few. Sachath is even more obscure than the First Ones. As is, not much exists in the prehistorical artifacts and writings, and what does exist is interpreted as mythology. But, as you know, there are those who search for the truth and those who inadvertently discover it. And there are those who still exist from the time of the First Ones." She laughed at my stunned look. "If your Ahkneri still exists and this creature, then the idea is not so impossible, is it?"

"No, I guess not. It's just . . ."

"A lot to digest. I know." As I went to stand up, Sandra stopped me again. "I'd advise against tiptoeing through the palace at night. Going in and out, or taking a stroll before bed is one thing, but sneaking around in the middle of the night is another. We're in a good position. The royal family trusts me. The Circe have no reason to suspect us. I know you want to find your partner, but to do that we must find their inner sanctum and it's not in the palace."

"I have to try. I came here to try. I can't just do nothing."

"That's exactly what you're going to do. Nothing." Alessandra turned on the lounge and placed her feet on the ground. "We've been invited to a banquet tomorrow with the royal family. The Circe will be there. They will ask me to consult the Fates. I'll say I'll need a private sanctuary, a holy place, close to the G.o.ds, close to the things important to the Circe. We won't have to search for their inner sanctum. They're going to invite us in." She let that simmer in the air for a moment. "As long as you don't go snooping around and screw it up."

I woke just before dawn, my right arm aching and hot. My room was open to the balcony and the thin linen curtains swayed in a languid dance. The air was cool and clean, the ever present salty breeze and the sound of the sea playing like a soft lullaby. It felt as though I'd woken from one dream only to find myself in another, in another world, heaven, Elysia, home of the G.o.ds . . .

But, as much as I wished it otherwise, this wasn't a dream.

As my vision adjusted, the mural on the high ceiling began to take shape-brightly colored depictions of fish, dolphins, flowers, reeds, waves, griffins . . .

I'd dreamt of Ahkneri again, of some faraway land, of speeding over valleys, plains, and mountains, across the same vast desert and to the colossal temple rising up from the sand and the glittering river beyond.

I knew the dialogue that followed by heart, felt her cries and her heartbreak as if they were my own. As if it was me kneeling on that floor, knowing I was pleading in vain and yet trying anyway.

Our purpose is at an end . . . It was always meant to be like this.

As I lay there gazing vacantly up at the ceiling, I understood now-thanks to Alessandra-what the recurring dream meant, and with no small amount of astonishment, I realized I'd heard the Creator's voice answering Ahkneri's plea.

She'd wanted to remain on Earth; she wasn't ready to leave, to fade from physical existence. Rebelling was her only option, and she'd felt betrayed by the Creator. She wasn't a slave, wasn't a thing. Yet she and those like her weren't given a choice, weren't allowed life after they had seeded it, after they had created it.

And they'd been hunted by Sachath.

It was a sad irony for the First Ones like Ahkneri who had been forced to entomb themselves. Being alone, asleep, gone from the world they so desperately wanted to be a part of was the very thing they'd tried to avoid.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My arm hurt so much; a deep ache that burned from my fingertips to my shoulder. Slowly, I worked the arm, opening and closing my fingers, rolling my shoulder, using my other hand to knead my bicep. As I did, I stared out into the predawn sky, watching it grow lighter.

I missed my kid.

I wasn't sure what kind of time difference existed in Fiallan compared to Atlanta, but it didn't stop me from picturing Emma asleep, skinny arms thrown wide, mouth parted . . . My chest tightened with the need to hold her, my daughter.

"Ugh. Get it together, Charlie."

With a heavy sigh, I forced those thoughts away, knowing how easy it'd be to make myself homesick. I had a job to do, had to stay focused on finding Hank. I stood and headed for the bath chamber, deciding to slip into the bath, shake the depression, and, hopefully, ease the ache in my arm.

I showered first and then stepped into the hot salt.w.a.ter pool, the steam parting for me as I went. The sirens' penchant for open-air living was growing on me. There was about twelve feet of stone floor separating the bath from the outside. I could soak and watch the dawn transition into day.

I swam to the edge of the pool, rested my elbows on the ledge, let my head fall on my good arm, and closed my eyes with thoughts of the banquet, the Circe, and Hank.

Sometimes he dreamt.

After the lashes, after his death and resurrection, when he was left naked on the floor to heal for the next go-round, he slipped into unconsciousness. And he dreamt.

Mostly they were nightmares, repet.i.tion of his torture, of his tired soul being pulled back into his broken body. But some were relished, like those of death, blood, and vengeance against the Circe.

And some were more painful than all the others.

The good ones were the worst.

The good ones left him waking up to the reality where nothing good existed. He hated the good ones.

Yet, they would come, like they did now, and he would find himself in another time, another place where his mind and body were healthy, where his gaze was currently fixed on the hypnotic sight before him, of the woman who slept in a steaming bath overlooking the sea.

The water pressed and flowed over his skin as he moved toward her. Droplets fell from the ends of her hair and ran down the curve of her back, disappearing into the water that hugged her hips.

He wanted to touch her, to lay his rough palm on her smooth skin, to feel the contrast and make a connection, forge a link, to claim her-all of her. Body. Mind. Heart.

His heart pounded. He felt powerful. But she was more so because she could reduce him to this . . . need.

The water lapped at her back as he moved behind her. He could smell her skin, her hair, hear her soft breathing. A sudden tenderness went through him, making him pause as he went to touch her.

No, he was not tender. Not kind or good.

He was f.u.c.ked up. Changed. And he didn't care anymore. He didn't care if she cared.

He reached out and slid his fingertips over her hip and then around the curve until he held her. He swallowed hard. Her skin was hot like the water. Silky. Damp. He stepped closer, moving his other hand up her back and then curling it over her shoulder.

Christ, it hurt, being so close, yet not close enough.

He bent over and kissed her shoulder. She stirred, releasing a soft female sigh that made his fingers dig into her hip. He held on as though his life depended on it. As if letting go would shatter him into a million pieces.

His lips brushed back and forth against her skin and then moved to the spot where her shoulder met her neck. He smiled against her warmth. He liked this spot. He wanted to tell her how he felt, what he wanted to do to her, how his body was about to break apart because of her.

So he did.

He wrapped his arms around her, his big hands splayed over her bare stomach, dipped his head, and spoke softly, just below her ear, the deep power of his words giving life to his thoughts, his wants, his driving need. He told her everything.

She straightened, finally waking like Aphrodite rising from the sea. Her back pressed into his chest. Her hands settled over the top of his, holding him to her as her head dropped back, exposing more of her neck as though she wanted more, wanted him.

Accepted him.

9.

The knock at the bathroom door heralding breakfast jerked me out of the dream so fast I almost sucked in a mouthful of water. My heart beat like a jackhammer, and my body practically hummed. I coughed several times and then swallowed hard, trying to reclaim some control over myself, but it was pretty d.a.m.ned difficult.

That dream . . . G.o.d.

Feeling dazed and shaky, I left the pool and dressed quickly to the sound of servants bringing in the morning meal, setting the small buffet, and Alessandra's muted voice.

As I sat down on the end of the bed to pull on my boots, I was still reeling. Still shaking. Cheeks still flushed and warm.

Hottest dream on record. Period.

Hank's deep, exotic voice echoed in my mind and whispered against my skin.

The mark on my shoulder, however, was still unresponsive, and that realization cooled me off considerably. Thankfully, the ache in my arm was nearly gone. And in a few hours, I'd meet the infamous Circe, start making headway into finding Hank, and proving those delegates wrong.

He was here. He had to be.

Shaking off the last shreds of the dream, I stepped into the main room. Sandra took one look at me and said, "We need to do something about your wardrobe."

"Gee, thanks. Good morning to you, too." I went to the table to pick up a slice of warm bread, feeling edgy and frustratingly unsatisfied. "There is nothing wrong with my clothes."

"I didn't say that. But you can't exactly wear that outfit to the banquet. And this"-she gestured from my toes to my head with a wild flourish of her hand-"just doesn't cut it."

"Well, let's see . . ." I lifted a foot. "Steel-toed boots." I stuck out my hip. "Cargo pants for ease of movement." I slapped a hand on my weapon strapped to my waist. "ITF-issued High Frequency Tag gun; otherwise known as a Hefty." I spun around so she could get the full effect. "Outfit designed to maximize that a.s.s-kicking edge . . . priceless."

Alessandra huffed. "You're such a smart-a.s.s."

"So are you. You're just a better morning person than me. Which is annoying by the way." I sat down on the couch.