Shades of the Wind

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

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Shades of the Wind ISBN # 1-4199-0570-8 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Shades of the Wind Copyright© 2006 Charlotte Boyett-Compo Edited by Mary Moran. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication: November 2006 This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Content Advisory: S – ENSUOUS E – ROTIC X - TREME Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme). The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous. S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

SHADES OF THE WIND Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Acknowledgement With much love and deep appreciation to my wonderful friend Angie Evans for everything she does! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!

Author’s Note The Speech of Anubis from The Egyptian Book of the Dead, 240 B.C. and The Papyrus of Ani, from the speech of the dweller in the embalmment chamber—Anubis were referenced in this novel.

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Chapter One Catherine Brell lowered her head against the pelting rain as she stepped down from the buggy and entered the fragile protection of the driver’s umbrella. Above her, the sky turned a molten white as lightning washed over the sodden gray sky. She flinched, glancing up with unease to the heavens, for she had always been deathly afraid of thunderstorms. “Bad day to be out and about, folks,” the driver shouted above the rolling boom of thunder which followed. He took Catherine’s elbow. “Watch your step, milady.” “Yes, do be careful, Catherine. I’ve no time to be looking after an injured woman,” Bahru Karim grumbled as he descended the buggy. “Olabishi, do your duty and look after my fiancée.” The fourth occupant of the buggy got down with the assistance of the driver. She meekly nodded to Bahru and moved closer to Catherine. “It’s all right, Ola,” Catherine said gently. “I promise I won’t fall.” Her promise proved to be a difficult one to keep for the brick walkway was slippery and Catherine was grateful for the driver’s assistance. She kept the skirts of her traveling dress lifted as high as was decently possible to keep them from dragging on the wet pavers. “Careful now,” the driver cautioned. His grip tightened as he helped her up the graceful flight of marble steps to the veranda under which waited two black servants— a very tall man dressed in the tuxedo suit and white gloves of a butler and a young woman dressed in a long scarlet dress with a multi-colored turban wrapped around her oval head. “You are late, Beasely,” the housekeeper greeted them. Her voice was thick with a lilting accent Catherine thought was most lovely. “The master was beginning to worry.” “The roads are a quagmire,” the driver quickly apologized. He swept off his battered hat to wipe at the moisture clinging to his wrinkled face. “Didn’t think we’d get through some of them places. Water was darn near over the hubs.” “It seems the water got inside the buggy,” the housekeeper accused, her mouth tight with irritation. “The lady’s dress is damaged.” Catherine shook out her damp skirts, looked down with dismay at the wide, dark stain along the hem peeking out from the slit in her cape. She sighed heavily then gave the housekeeper a woebegone smile. “I am a mess, aren’t I?” Although the housekeeper did not return Catherine’s smile, she nodded with understanding. “I fear that skirt is beyond cleaning.” She stepped back as the silent butler opened one of the large double doors into the plantation house. “Welcome, Lord

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Bahru,” she said, bowing to the man who pushed past Catherine and entered the home of his new employer ahead of everyone else. “My fiancée’s frock is of little importance. I have purchased many new ones which will be arriving before our Joining,” Bahru stated. His black gaze was sweeping the foyer, his nose wrinkled. “I understand, milord,” the housekeeper replied. “Me and Hawkins will bring in Lady Catherine’s trunk,” the driver stated, nodding toward a manservant who had suddenly appeared at the far end of the veranda. The housekeeper frowned sharply at him. “Mind you do not track my floors, Beasely,” she warned him. Elmer Beasely mumbled darkly as he jammed his hat back on and then hunched his shoulders before venturing once more out into the heavy downpour, Hawkins close on his heels. Once inside the plantation house, Catherine smiled politely at the butler as he offered to take her cape. “I know I’ll feel ten pounds lighter when I get this off,” she joked. She reached up to unhook the clasp at her throat, wondering if the man was mute for he had yet to utter a sound. “Jacob is a mute,” the housekeeper confirmed as though reading her mind. Catherine met the black man’s steady gaze, her own gentle and understanding. She lifted her hand and made the sign for friend. Jacob smiled back at her and returned the greeting, adding one of his own—of welcome. “Thank you, Jacob,” Catherine replied in sign. “I am sure I will be happy here.” She turned to the woman standing behind her. “This is Olabishi. She too is mute.” The black man smiled hesitantly at the diminutive woman behind Catherine. He signed a hello to her. “You have better things to do, Jacob, than gossip with Lady Catherine’s maid,” the housekeeper snapped. A shadow flickered across the tall man’s face and he cast a quick look at the housekeeper. Whatever he saw on the black woman’s face sobered him for his smile vanished. Bowing respectfully to Catherine, he turned and left. “Actually, Olabishi is not my maid. She is my companion. My father hired her to be my chaperone until my Joining to Lord Bahru.” “I see. Whatever the case, you have made an ally of Jacob,” the housekeeper said tersely. Her words were punctuated with a shriek of lightning hitting close to the plantation house. “Does it usually rain so hard here?” Catherine asked, wondering why the woman did not seem pleased at the idea of her becoming friendly with the black man.

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“This is the rainy season in Diabolusia, Lady Catherine,” was the reply. “You will get use to it. Come August, you will wish it would rain again.” “I hate rain,” Bahru complained. “I prefer the dryness of my native land. Rain causes mildew and I detest mildew.” He sniffed. “It smells of mildew here.” “You will get accustomed to the smell, Lord Bahru,” the housekeeper told him. “I doubt I will,” Bahru replied. The interior of the foyer was dark from the late spring storm and the feeble light cast from a single lantern on a nearby table did little to dispel the gloom. Catherine had a sense of very old, very expensive furniture, luxurious wool rugs underfoot and priceless paintings on the damask-covered walls. She looked forward to the morning when she could get a better look at the elegant furnishings of her new home. “I’ve laid a fire in the library,” the housekeeper informed them. She indicated an intricately carved oaken door at the end of a short hallway off the right side of the foyer. “You may wait there while Beasely brings in your belongings. Please follow me.” Once more Bahru pushed ahead of Catherine, turning his head from side to side as he surveyed the furnishings. “Very impressive,” he pronounced. “I shall be quite comfortable here, I believe.” As Catherine followed the housekeeper, she too became aware of the pervasive smell of mildew, which seemed to weigh heavily in the air, but she knew that was to be expected in this land of high humidity. She would have been surprised not to have encountered it. But she was not prepared for the semidarkness and overpowering smell of mold that greeted her when the housekeeper opened the library door and ushered her inside. “Unacceptable,” Bahru pronounced, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “Most unacceptable.” There was indeed a comfortable-looking fire in the blackened grate, but it was the only source of light in the entire room. Heavy velvet drapes over the windows blocked out the waning light of late afternoon yet did not seem to keep out any of the chill. The room was oppressive and bore the telltale stamp of abandon for there was the unmistakable hint of dust among the thick tomes on the shelves. “How many servants are employed at Anubeion?” Catherine asked, somewhat taken aback. “There are three here in the main house,” the housekeeper replied, stepping aside so Catherine could enter the library. “The cook, her husband and Jacob. There are close to fifty who maintain the plantation.” Catherine turned to give the housekeeper a surprised look. “You clean this entire house by yourself?” A flicker of condescending amusement moved over the housekeeper’s face. “I am not a servant here and there isn’t that much to do. The master is very meticulous in his

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personal habits and we have few visitors. He keeps mostly to his own suite of rooms. Twice a year—spring and autumn—the master allows in a cleaning crew from among the plantation’s women to give the house a thorough going-over. That is all that is really necessary to keep Anubeion as he prefers it.” Unable to keep from thinking the owner must be something of a miser, Catherine moved toward the cheery fire that was snapping in the grate at the far end of the room. Without looking up at the massive painting above the hearth, she laid her reticule on the mantel then held out her hands to the flames, basking in the warmth that enveloped her. “Does he also like to keep the rooms this dark?” Catherine inquired. The gloom was uncomfortable and seemed to envelop the entire plantation house. It made the atmosphere more oppressive. “Bright light bothers him,” the housekeeper stated. “We have grown accustomed to this level of light but if you prefer, you may keep your own room as bright as you wish.” “I too prefer the darkness,” Bahru said. He took a seat, crossed his legs and laid a hand on the back of the settee. “I require something to cool my throat.” “I will see to it, milord, as soon as possible.” Catherine glanced around at the other woman, hearing disapproval in her words and censure in her tone. Although there was a polite look on the housekeeper’s face, there was, however, a glint of scorn in her dark eyes. Catherine returned her gaze to the snapping fire. “We don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” she said. “We shall try to accommodate you as best we can,” the housekeeper replied. “Would you like for me to have Hawkins draw you a bath, milady?” She was standing at the door, her hands folded primly at her waist. It was obvious she wished to be away. “I require a bath,” Bahru said. “See to mine first.” The housekeeper nodded her head. “Milady?” The thought of a hot bath sent a shiver of pleasure down Catherine’s spine. She smiled. “That would be delightful. Thank you. I’m sure Ola would find a bath relaxing as well.” “Hers can wait,” Bahru pronounced, “until I am abed.” He frowned. “What do you have for our supper?” “Cook is preparing a tray for you,” the black woman stated, turning her head to look out the door. Her dark eyes followed Beasely and Hawkins as they climbed the stairs with Catherine’s trunk. Catherine’s left eyebrow shot up. “We won’t be dining with His Grace?” Once more a condescending smile tugged at the housekeeper’s lips, her eyes flared slightly. “The master prefers to take his meals in his suite,” she answered. “Alone.”

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Disappointment settled like a rock in Catherine’s stomach. She had been looking forward to conversing over the nightly meals with her fiancé’s new employer. She had many questions about his native country. “You will learn more about Kensett than you will ever have dreamed of knowing,” the housekeeper said as though reading her mind again. “The master is very proud of his Hasdu heritage.” Catherine blushed, sensing a slight admonishment in the housekeeper’s tone. She was glad she was not directly facing the woman. “I would certainly never presume to pry,” she responded. “I am sure you wouldn’t,” the black woman answered dryly. Beasely appeared in the doorway, his sopping hat clutched tightly in his big hands. “Your things are in your rooms, Lord Bahru and Lady Catherine. Is there anything else I can do before I head back to town?” “Surely you’re not going to venture out in this rain again!” Catherine gasped. Although the thick curtains prevented her from looking out, she knew the sun wasn’t that far from setting. She looked at the housekeeper. “There’s room for Mr. Beasely to spend the night, isn’t there?” “No!” came Beasely’s immediate denial. His eyes had gone wide and his face pale at the suggestion. He fiercely shook his head, his hands rolling the brim of his hat around and around in agitation. “I gotta get on home before nightfall. I can’t stay here, milady.” Catherine was surprised at the driver’s vehement rejection of her offer. From the sounds of the rain beating against the windows and the ominous rolls of thunder shaking the panes, the storm had no intention of abating any time soon. If anything, the onslaught was worsening. “But you said yourself we barely made it here, Mr. Beasely,” Catherine protested. “I would feel awful if you got mired down—” “Can’t stay, I tell you!” the man nearly shouted. His mouth trembled even as he blushed at his rude outburst. Catherine stared at him, stunned at the intense look of unbridled fear stamped on his wrinkled face. His eyes were darting to and fro as though he expected someone to jump out of the shadows of the library and attack him. “Can’t stay here,” Beasely repeated in a choked whisper. He began backing out of the doorway. “Won’t do it.” He bobbed his head firmly in farewell and then spun on his heel, more than anxious to leave before Catherine could think of a way to prevent him from doing so. “Why are you concerning yourself with the hired help, Catherine?” Bahru asked in a snide tone. The housekeeper laughed, the sound one of scorn. “My question as well, Lord Bahru,” she stated. “Beasely is a fool at best.”

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“He acted as though he was scared out of his mind to stay the night here,” Catherine replied with a nervous giggle. “Is the plantation house supposed to be haunted?” An elegant black brow lifted in query. “You’ve not heard the stories about Anubeion, milady?” the housekeeper countered. “Stories?” Catherine repeated, her laughter nervous. “Are there stories?” There was a quirk of the housekeeper’s lips. “They tell tales of a night creature who prowls the lands of Anubeion Plantation.” “Oh for the love of Osiris!” Bahru said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What stupidity.” “They?” Catherine asked. “The slaves,” was the reply. “Most of their ancestors were brought here from Necroman when the master’s great-grandfather built the plantation house. They brought with them the childish tales of their homeland and the ridiculous superstitions as well.” “Is that where you are from?” Catherine inquired. “Necroman?” The housekeeper lifted her chin and her voice was filled with disdain when she answered. “I am not a slave, Milady Brell. I was born in Khirbet Province. I was chatelaine at the master’s keep there. When he was sent here, I came with him.” “I know very little about Kensett,” Catherine said. “I—” “There are five provinces in Kensett,” Bahru snapped as though talking to the village idiot. “The capitol is at Kharis in the northern province of Khamsin and is the most prosperous with Khirbet close behind in wealth. Kerak, Kharstand and Kermis— where I was born—are the other three. Each Province is ruled by a sheik, members of the Ben-Alkazar family. The summer home of the royal family is in Khirbet, near the sea, and it is there where Prince Khenty preferred to live.” Embarrassed at her mistake, Catherine apologized. “I meant no insult regarding your nationality. It’s just that your accent is so—” “Black?” the housekeeper snapped. Her eyes became obsidian slits of irritation. “Musical,” Catherine amended. She felt her face flaming and knew she’d somehow made an enemy of this woman. “My brother has a cook from—” “You have had a tiring journey,” the housekeeper interrupted. “We can discuss your life in Virago when you have rested.” She stepped away from the door, expecting Catherine to follow her. At a loss to understand what she could have done to alienate the housekeeper so early on in their acquaintance, Catherine turned to retrieve her reticule. As she did, her attention was caught by the gilt frame of the portrait hanging over the fireplace then lifted to the portrait itself. The breath caught in her throat as she stared at the man in the portrait. “The master,” the housekeeper said in a soft, respectful tone. 10

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Bahru glanced around and when he saw the painting, came quickly to his feet. His face paled and he backed away. “I did not know,” he said in a whisper. His hand went to his throat. “No one told me!” Catherine stared at the portrait—caught and held by the imposing figure of the black-clad knight sitting astride a magnificent rearing destrier. The glow from the fire cast shadows on the canvas but gave off enough light for Catherine to make out the details of the painting. His hair was midnight black, sleek and shining as it flowed to the shoulders of his ebony silk shirt. The artist had set a wind to blowing over the tall crags behind the rider so that the stygian hair was lifted slightly away from the temples of a lean, squarejawed face. Strong hands sheathed in black leather held tightly to the steed’s reins and bulging thigh muscles gripped the horse’s body in restraint, giving the impression that if not controlled, the beast might well leap out of the painting to trample its viewer. A coiled whip hung at the rider’s hip and around his neck he wore a green ribbon that held a strange golden symbol. Beyond the horse and rider were mountains—their jagged peaks veiled in lowhanging, sodden gray clouds—so steeped in opaque gray ground fog that it seemed as though the two main objects of the painting might dissolve into the mist at any moment. High atop the massif of the mountain range, fixed precariously upon a veined scarp, just the hint of an ancient keep, a single light glowing from the battlements could be seen. The sheer inaccessibility of the keep made it appear dangerous and foreboding. “He is magnificent, isn’t he? His is the heqa segr, the silent power,” the housekeeper breathed, coming to stand alongside Catherine. Her voice was hushed with awe as though she were regarding the portrait for the first time. “The portrait was done while he was fighting the Rysalians alongside his great-uncle in the mountains of Asaraba.” Catherine could only nod for she was held, not so much by the extraordinarily handsome face of the rider—although his sensuous lips, straight nose and high cheekbones together combined to set her heart to fluttering—but by the intensity of his dark gaze and the promise of even darker visions those eyes had beheld. “I did not know he was one of the Anubi,” Bahru whispered. He took a few steps back. “Is this to be my destiny?” A strange feeling went through Catherine and she wondered if her destiny as well lay with this dark warrior. “He is a wondrous being. There is no other like him in all the megaverse,” the housekeeper stated. She swept her gaze over Bahru. “And nay, milord. You could never be such a one as he.” Catherine forced her gaze from the portrait and turned to look at the housekeeper. The woman was staring fixedly at the man in the portrait and upon her face was a look of such rapturous devotion, such intense sexual longing and unrelenting need, Catherine hotly blushed and had to look away. She glanced at Olabishi and found her companion staring with wide eyes at the painting.

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“You haven’t told me your name,” Catherine said to break the discomfort of the moment. She moved away from the fireplace, wanting to put distance between herself and the portrait. The housekeeper reluctantly tore her gaze from the painting and shrugged indifferently. “Nyria,” was the answer. She walked past Catherine and exited the room with haughty grandeur, her spine stiff. Taking the lantern from the foyer table, Nyria held it aloft and started up the grand staircase, not bothering to ascertain if Catherine was following. Bahru quickly followed Nyria, not bothering to escort the woman he was engaged to wed. The risers of the spiral staircase that led up to the second floor were wide and deep and covered with thick velour carpet. The railing was teak and—although it needed a good polishing—was intricately carved and inset with elaborate panels embossed with sheaths of wheat. “The staircase is lovely,” Catherine observed. “It took the woodcarvers nearly a year to finish it,” Nyria explained in a bored tone. “The wood itself came from Serenia. The carpet was purchased in Ionary.” Catherine marveled at the exquisiteness of the material used to create this grand staircase. Obviously no expense had been spared, yet she wondered why such beauty was being neglected. She reached out to touch the thick brocade wallpaper that adorned the walls. “I would imagine these walls could tell tales of their own,” she commented, grimacing as her fingers came away with a slick wetness that could only be mold. “About all the gatherings held here at Anubeion.” “Many years ago,” Nyria informed her, “the master’s great-uncle gave elegant parties here.” She reached out to caress the sweeping wood of the railing. “Planters from as far away as Oceania came to visit us.” “How long has it been since His Grace has entertained?” Catherine asked, wiping her hand against her already soiled skirts. “I’ve heard tell of the magnificent parties here in the southern countries. I hope—” Nyria stopped, turned and fixed Catherine with a steely stare. The light from the lantern cast a sickly yellow tint to her flawless complexion and highlighted the darkness of her suddenly hostile eyes. “Do not insult us by comparing Anubeion with those other Outlander abodes, Lady Catherine.” Her lips twisted scornfully. “The master does not invite strangers into his home. When we have guests, they are of his own kind. They gather here for a reason, not some frivolous pretense!” “His own kind?” Catherine echoed. “What do you mean his own kind?”

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The housekeeper’s head snapped around as though someone had called her name. She shuddered—causing the lantern light to flicker wildly against the wall for a moment—then bent her head as if in disgrace. “It is getting late,” Nyria whispered. “You should bathe before I bring up your tray. Tomorrow will be time enough to answer your questions.” The housekeeper turned back around and started up the stairs again. “Where is my room?” Bahru questioned in an irritable tone. “I am tired and need my rest.” “Through this door, milord,” Nyria said, stopping at the first door along the hall. She opened it and Bahru disappeared inside, shutting the door in the housekeeper’s face. “He’s very weary,” Catherine apologized for her fiancé’s rudeness. “It was a long journey,” Nyria agreed, though her eyes held a spark of malice. Catherine wanted to ask again what Nyria had meant about his own kind but knew the subject was closed for the moment. Lifting up her skirts, she shook her head with exasperation and followed the housekeeper as quickly as she could. “Which room is His Grace’s?” Catherine asked as they passed several closed doors along the landing. “None of these,” Nyria answered quietly. “His suite is downstairs.” She cast Catherine a quick look. “At the back of the house.” “What about your room?” Nyria stopped before one of the many doors and took out a key to unlock the portal. “My room is near the master’s.” She opened the door. “In case he should need me during the night.” “Then shouldn’t Lord Bahru—” “He is where I am putting him!” the housekeeper snapped. Her eyes were live coals burning into Catherine. Catherine blinked at the woman’s outburst but didn’t respond. Instead, she pursed her lips together and moved past Nyria. Despite her irritation at the housekeeper’s attitude, she was pleasantly surprised with what she found behind the locked door. Olabishi followed her inside. “I will see to Lord Bahru’s meal then send yours up,” Nyria said. She turned her attention to Olabishi. “You, come with me.” Olabishi looked to her ward. There was a strange look on the mute woman’s face and her hands appeared to be shaking. “I’ll be fine, Ola. I know you’re tired,” Catherine said. “Tomorrow will be time enough to unpack.” After a moment’s hesitation Olabishi signed goodnight to her companion then left the room. Nyria closed the door behind their exit.

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***** Her room was sheer delight, Catherine thought later as she lay soaking in the oversized copper tub. The water was just right and had been sprinkled lavishly with oil of lavender. Fleecy bubbles lay like lamb’s wool on the surface of the scented foam and tickled Catherine’s nose as she scooped them up in her hands and inhaled their delightful aroma. Beside the tub, a fire snapped and sizzled in the hearth and the room was flooded with the bright, shadow-chasing glow of three lanterns and a fat, sputtering candle that smelled richly of bayberry. Draped over a low brass stand beside the fireplace was a thick, plush towel being warmed by the flames. On a rosewood stand to the right of the tub was an ornate brass tray which held a three-piece pewter tea service and a delicate porcelain cup and saucer. The rich aroma of orange-flavored tea vied with the oil of lavender to perfume the room. Catherine’s gloomy mood—brought on by Nyria’s odd behavior—was slowly dissolving with every pass of the fleece rag over her tired, aching body. She looked forward to the promise of supper and the softness of the feather mattress on the brass bed across the way. “Ring when you are through with your toilette,” Nyria had told her, “and I will bring up your supper.” After her bath, Catherine put on her robe and tugged on the bellpull beside her bed. She barely had time to braid her hair before there was a light knock on the door and Nyria entered with a tray. “I will unpack your belongings,” Nyria said. “That isn’t necessary,” Catherine said. “I—” “It would be my pleasure, milady,” Nyria interrupted, though her tone suggested otherwise. “As you wish,” Catherine said. The Khirbetti housekeeper—now silent and seeming oddly chastened—padded about the room unpacking Catherine’s belongings and putting them away in the ornate armoire. Only once more did she speak before taking her leave. She had held up Catherine’s nightgown of soft mauve cotton. “He will like this,” Nyria whispered, stroking the delicate lace along the neckline and tugging gently at the pink ribbons that held the bodice together. “I beg your pardon?” Catherine stammered, staring wide-eyed at the housekeeper. Surely the woman didn’t think she, Catherine, would ever let her husband-to-be’s employer see her in her night clothes! No respectable woman would! Nyria looked up from the nightgown and stared at Catherine. There was loathing and jealousy in the housekeeper’s cold glower. Without answering, she laid the nightgown on the bed and turned to go, firmly closing the door behind her.

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A shiver of apprehension went through Catherine and once more she wondered what she had done to cause the woman’s obvious dislike. If she feared Catherine would usurp her position in His Grace’s house, she could rest easy on that score.

***** Nyria scratched lightly at her master’s door then entered. The man she worshipped more than any god was unbuttoning his shirt as she came to stand behind him. “They are settled in?” he asked. She slipped her hands to his shoulders to pull the shirt from him. “You will not like the new taricheutes,” she commented. “Why is that?” he asked. “He is arrogant and conceited. He speaks as though he is the center of his universe and thinks of no one other than himself,” Nyria answered. She lovingly folded the white linen shirt and set it aside, waiting for her master to take off his loose-fitting trousers. “What of the woman he is to wed?” Nyria’s face hardened. “She has no backbone and allows the taricheutes to intimidate her.” Her master looked around at her, one dark brow crooked. “In what way does he do that?” Shrugging as though it was of no importance to her, Nyria rolled her eyes. “He insults her and she allows it. He treats her as a second-class citizen, milord, and she tolerates his abuse without speaking her mind. She is an insipid woman and I fear she will be of no use to you.” “We’ll see,” the prince of Anubeion said. He shoved the pants from his lean hips and stepped out of them. Nyria bent over to retrieve the white linen garment and folded it with care. “There is another with them.” “Ah yes,” he said. “The duena. I am told she won’t be staying with us long.” “She is a mute like Jacob.” “I know,” he replied. “She has led a hard life, Nyria. Be kind to her.” Nyria inclined her head at the command. “Lord Kaelin has sent word that he will be here tomorrow.” Her master nodded absently and walked over to his bed. He threw the covers aside and stretched out, his head cupped in the palms of his hands. His hot gaze was locked on Nyria. “Undress for me, pretty one,” he said in a husky voice. Nyria had been waiting all day for that order and she reached up to pull the turban from her head. Thick, gleaming black hair spilled from the turban to lie heavily along 15

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her back, dipping down to the curve of her hips. She took her time unbuttoning her blouse for she knew he enjoyed the anticipation. Her eyes were locked with his and she could see the passion rising in his golden depths. Peeling back her blouse to reveal the heavy globes of her breasts, she inched her skirt downward a little at a time, the elastic waistband sliding provocatively over her shapely hips. “You are a beautiful woman, Nyria,” he complimented her, his cock nodding in agreement. “I am what you have made of me, milord,” she said. No undergarments touched the black woman’s satiny skin. She kept herself ready for those moments when her master would beckon. Her perfumed skin, the shining silk of her hair, the lithesome length of her limbs pleased him and she wanted it to always be that way. His desire for her completed her. “What does the taricheutes’ betrothed look like?” he asked, breaking Nyria’s concentration for she was running her hands down her smooth flanks. “Why do you bring her up now, milord?” she asked, her lips pressed into petulance. He shrugged. “They tell me she looks like my sister. I was just curious.” “The white woman wishes she were as pretty as your honorable sister,” Nyria stated. “She is pale, short and has no breasts to speak of.” “Really?” he drawled, and held his hand out to her. “Not like your wondrous orbs that beckon a man’s lips to suckle?” She came to him, kissed his hand and then climbed upon his bed, straddling him, her knees digging into the mattress to either side of his hips. From years of being this man’s mistress, she knew what he wanted, what he needed and just how long he would wait. She cupped her breasts as he trailed his hand up and down her taut thigh. “Do I please you?” she asked, pulling at her nipples, rolling them between her fingers. “You know you do,” he said huskily. The scent of her called to him and he turned his hand to cup her sex, slipping his middle finger into her hot sheath. Nyria threw her head back, her long hair sweeping against his knees and thighs. Her movement thrust her breasts forward so his heated gaze fell to them and he reached up with his free hand to run his fingers down one turgid peak. She trembled beneath his touch—as she always did—and bent forward to place her lips to the hollow at his throat. He buried his hands in her lush fall of hair and cupped her scalp, closing his eyes to the flicker of her tongue at the base of his throat, her lips pressing gently against the hollow where his flesh throbbed with the rhythm of his heart. The points of her breasts grazed along his chest, the combined heat of their bodies bringing forth a fine film of perspiration.

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“I want you to be nice to her, Nyria,” he said. She lifted her head and looked down at him. “Is that an order, milord?” she asked, her eyes flaring with anger. “It is,” he stated, and let his hand fall to her neck. He drew her face to his and slanted his mouth across her full lips, nibbling at the lower one until she opened her mouth to him and he could insinuate his tongue into the warm recess. He licked at her lips, stabbed deep with his tongue, sweeping it across her upper teeth—easing her for he could feel her rage building. Her hands were at his waist and he could feel her nails digging into his flesh. It was her way of punishing him for bringing another woman into the home they shared—something he had never done before. Nyria caught his tongue between her teeth and bit down just hard enough to make his eyes narrow. She held his gaze for a moment longer then released him. She cried out as he grabbed her upper arms and flipped her over so she was lying beneath him, his knees pushing her thighs wide. “You want to play, little pantheress?” he cooed, grinding his lower body against hers. “I am your woman,” she said, lifting her chin. “You need no other.” He smiled, but it was a cold, calculated smile that could chill even the coldest heart, and when he spanned her long, elegant neck with his hand, there was nothing playful or gentle about the promise coming from his hard stare. “Don’t dictate to me, Nyria Moustafa,” he warned her. He tightened his grip on her neck. “And don’t presume things you have never been promised.” Nyria lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips, imprisoning him as she pressed her damp sex to his. She squeezed him hard between her locked legs. “There is nothing the white woman can do for you that I can not do a thousand times better.” She ground herself against him. “Remember that when you look upon her pale, comely face.” He was hard and hot and a tiny drop of moisture clung to the tip of his cock. He was ready for her but she was too eager, too sure of her control over him so he did not thrust into her as every instinct cried out for him to do. Straining though he was— heavy and throbbing and just as eager as she—he paused there above her, staring down into her shining black eyes, her soft café au lait face that was so beautiful it sometimes hurt him to look upon her and the sweep of her little pink tongue as she slowly licked her lips but refused the both of them. “Take me,” she begged, writhing beneath him. She ran her hands up his side and around his back, digging her nails into the broad expanse, grinning nastily when she felt him flinch. “Stick those wicked claws into me one more time, wench, and I will pull them out by the roots,” he warned.

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She raked her nails—none too gently—down his back to his bare ass then trailed her fingernails down the deep crack until she could touch his puckered opening. “Take me,” she repeated, straining to insert the tip of one finger into his anus. The prince of Anubeion growled deep in his throat and he twisted his upper body so she could not touch him like that again though she tried. Before she could scratch him once more, he thrust his cock deep into her, mindless of her gasp of surprise, her moaning complaint at his roughness. He withdrew then slammed into her again as hard as he could, sliding her up toward the headboard. Such was the way they shared their bodies and both knew what to expect. Nyria locked her arms around him as tightly as her legs would go and arched her hips up to the pummeling force of his hips, his cock driving into her. His head was buried in her shoulder, his warm, ragged breath fanning across her breasts. He drove into her so brutally they were both grunting beneath the effort. “Yes,” she whispered to him, for his cock had found and was stroking that special place where intense pleasure hovered. She began bearing down on him—pushing her sheath hard against his marauding rod—until the itch began between her legs, in her loins, and her womb began to throb with need. He was pistoning in and out of her—faster and faster, their lower bodies slapping together with a meaty sound. The bed was shaking beneath them. His hands were beneath her ass, his fingers arched into her flesh to hold her anchored to him. He tore his mouth from her shoulder and slammed it down over her lips, thrusting his tongue deep into her warm moistness. As one muscle plowed the furrow of her cunt, another stabbed between her sultry lips to lay claim to her mouth. Nyria’s scream was lost in his passionate kiss as her climax rocketed through her so hard she saw bright flashes of light behind her tightly closed lids. She clung to him— riding out the release—and grunted deeply as she felt his seed spurt. She held him as he stiffened and his cock throbbed, pulsed and filled her so completely he wondered if he would be able to pull out of her ever again. Exhausted, completely drained, he fell limp upon her, his face on her breast, his lips touching her nipple. He was gasping for breath, shuddering as he felt her deliberately clenching her vaginal muscles over his shaft. It was a nearly unbearable torture but one he rode out until she grew tired of taunting him. Her hands were raking through his hair, holding his head to her and she was crooning an old, old Khirbetti folk song as she relaxed her legs and released him from her tight hold. He was asleep in her arms in a matter of moments, his breath cooling the sweat that had formed on their upper bodies. “You are mine, Khenty Ben-Alkazar,” she whispered. “I’ll allow no woman to take you from me.” Lightning flared beyond the windows and she turned her head to look at the pulsing. It was close to the sixth hour and he would need to be up and at his work. For

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a little while though, she would let him rest. When he returned to her, she would be waiting.

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Chapter Two It was the howling that woke her. It was an animal baying to an absent moon as thunder and lightning clashed beyond the lace curtains of her bedchamber and rain pelted the glass like small pebbles. Wind skirled a haunting and lonesome sound through the eaves—moaning, lamenting. Catherine sat up in bed, unnerved by the mournful sound, made uneasy by the savagery of the baying. She swung her legs from the mattress and sighed pleasurably as her toes sank into the plush carpet. Padding barefoot to the window, she pulled back the curtain and tried to look out. Until the lightning flared again she could see nothing beyond her own reflection cast from the one lantern she had left turned low, but when the gray-white light streaked across the heavens, she could make out the melting landscape viewed through the harsh cascade of rain against the panes. Thunder shook the house, setting the glass panes to rattling in their casements. Flare after flare of lightning lit up the firmament in a succession of fiery volleys and it was then she saw the dark shape sitting upon a low hill, its head thrown back as another dark and inhuman cry of misery rent the air. Why was the animal out in the storm? she wondered, pressing her nose to the window to get a better look. From all she had read, wild beasts were afraid of such tempestuous weather and eagerly hid to wait out the storm. They tended to shy from fire and loud noises, and yet this one was right out in the open, seeming to welcome the dangerous strikes of lightning that fell all around it, almost daring the fiery missiles to hit it. Another wretched yowl was torn from the animal’s throat and the sound brought tears to Catherine’s eyes. “What has caused you such pain, little one?” she whispered to the beast. “I wish I could ease your sorrow.” Almost as though it had heard her, the animal lowered its head, swiveled its muzzle over its left shoulder and appeared to look right at her. For a long moment it held its position then pushed up from its haunches, turned and began to lope gracefully toward the house. Catherine’s hand tensed on the curtain but she did not draw back as the beast stopped just beneath her window and lifted its head to look up at her. She did not fear the animal for there was no way it could leap up to her window, close to twenty feet straight up. “You should be under some kind of shelter, little fellow,” she suggested, smiling at the sodden animal.

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The beast’s eyes glowed fiery green as lightning branched across the sky. It sat down on its haunches—seemingly oblivious to the crashing storm around it—and continued to watch her. “Are you hungry? Is that it?” Catherine whispered, and watched the beast turn its head to the right—then left—in the manner her pet dog Brownie had often exhibited when she’d spoken to her. “Are you hurt?” The inhuman cry of melancholy came again as the animal threw back its head and howled. When it returned its gaze to Catherine, it brought up one paw and stabbed at the air. The gesture caused an immediate reaction in Catherine’s tender heart. “You wait right there,” she said resolutely. Moving to the bed, Catherine pulled on her robe and belted the sash as she slid her feet into canvas house slippers. But when she tried to open her door, she found it locked from the other side! Absolute astonishment made her mouth sag open. Jerking on the doorknob, she could not believe Nyria had locked her in her own room. Astonishment turned almost instantly to anger and she lifted her hand and pounded her fist against the panel. “Nyria!” she shouted, beating on the door as hard as she could. “Open this door!” From outside the window, the animal returned to its miserable baying and the howls were so sorrowful, it made the hair stand up on Catherine’s arms. “Nyria! Bahru!” She heard tapping coming from the room to which she realized Olabishi had been taken. Unable to call out, the woman was letting her companion know she too was locked in. Catherine kicked at the panel, rattled the doorknob and pulled at it until her hand began to cramp. With every ounce of her pent-up fury, she pummeled the door as hard as she could until she heard footsteps coming down the hallway toward her door. “What do you want?” Nyria asked from beyond the panel. “You locked the door!” Catherine accused. “Yes.” The one word—spoken with such emphatic agreement—stilled Catherine in her tracks. She stared with disbelief at the door. Had the woman meant to keep her in her room all night? Why? “Open it, please,” Catherine asked, not expecting to have her wishes denied. “In the morning.” Catherine could not believe what she was hearing. She slammed her fist against the door and demanded it be opened. “In the morning,” Nyria repeated. “You will be safer that way.” “What are you talking about?” Catherine shouted at her.

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“Everyone is locked into their rooms at night, Lady Catherine,” Nyria explained. “It is the master’s wish. He wants his guests safe.” Safe from what? Catherine wondered with a touch of fear niggling at her belly. “But what if there should be a fire?” she protested, yanking on the doorknob again in the futile hope she could spring the lock. “You are safe, milady,” Nyria told her. “He will let nothing harm you.” Catherine was not claustrophobic but she did not like being locked in her room. If the door needed to be secured, she could do it from her side. Surely that would be safer than having it where anyone could come along and unlock it to gain entrance. She said as much to the housekeeper. “Only the master and I have keys to the rooms, milady.” The thought of His Grace having access to her sleeping chamber whenever the mood struck was no more to Catherine’s liking than being locked in. “He will not enter unless invited,” Nyria told her with that uncanny knack she seemed to have of reading Catherine’s thoughts. “He can not.” Catherine stood there in complete bafflement as she heard the housekeeper’s footsteps moving away. “Nyria! Wait!” She pressed her face against the panel. “At least see to the animal that is causing such a racket.” Nyria did not answer immediately and when she did, her words sounded odd. “He is hungry. He wants to feed.” “Then feed him!” Catherine pleaded. There was a low, brittle laugh from the housekeeper and when she spoke, her words sounded bitter. “He will not take what he needs from me,” Nyria answered in a harsh, brittle hiss. “That was the Covenant he made with my father. Believe me, if I could, I would gladly provide what he needs.” A Covenant with a dog? Catherine thought, wondering at the woman’s sanity. What in the gods’ names was she talking about? “Not the gods, milady.” Nyria laughed as her voice became nothing more than an echo down the stairs. “There are no gods at Anubeion!” Catherine slapped a hand against the door panel and turned away. She knew defeat when she’d been handed it and until morning—when she could speak with the prince—there would be nothing she could do. Flouncing on her bed, she sat there with her chin propped in her hand, flinching now and again as the lightning continued to stitch through the heavens. Though she kept listening for the beast, the howling had stopped and even the thunder had ceased to boom quite so fiercely. Heaving a sigh, she was about to blow out the lamp when she heard a clicking sound at her door and looked that way. “Nyria?” she questioned but was met with silence.

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Curious, she got up and padded over to the door. She placed her ear against the wood but heard nothing out in the hall. She tried the door handle and was surprised to find it twist in her hand. With infinite care, she opened the portal and looked out into the hall. There was no one about and if Nyria had had a change of heart and unlocked the door, the least she could have done was inform her, Catherine thought. Leaving the door ajar, she slipped out into the hall, looking both ways down the shadowy corridor but seeing no one lurking about. The stairs creaked only in a few spots as she slowly made her way to the ground floor. She took the back hallway and stopped only long enough to peer out the mullioned window, searching for the animal that had been making such a mournful sound. When she couldn’t see beyond the deep veranda that bordered the back of the mansion, she unlocked the door and slipped out onto the veranda and went to the railing. Rain was still coming down hard, cascading over the veranda’s overhang in silvery sheets. The smell of wet, fecund ground was somehow comforting and Catherine stood there with her hands on the porch railing, drawing the cool, damp scent deep into her lungs, reveling in the gentle mist that blew in from the rain to speckle her face. It felt like a dream when arms slipped to either side of her, imprisoning her against the railing. She looked down at strong-looking hands that curled possessively over hers and felt a warm body press against her back. Soft lips touched the side of her neck. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding strange to her. “Taking what is mine,” he said. His words were little more than a whisper of breath against her shoulder. She felt lightheaded and the world seemed to canter off center for a moment. Her head fell back against his hard shoulder and he lifted her hands from the railing and crossed them in front of her, trapping her in his strong arms. “This isn’t right,” she said. He didn’t answer for his lips had moved to her shoulder and his tongue was making darting spirals upon her flesh. There was a slight nip and she cried out, but almost immediately the sting was soothed. She felt her womb lurch and then he was lifting her in his arms, holding her to his brawny body. In the darkness, she could not see his face but the warmth of his body lulled her and she closed her eyes as he turned from the porch and carried her back into the house. Floating on a sea of desire, lost in the arms of a passionate warrior whose body was hard and strong and lusty, Catherine let herself drift, unable—and unwilling—to stop what was happening to her. As he placed her on his soft bed and pulled off her robe and gown, eased the slippers from her feet, all she cared about was how it would feel to have his muscular chest pressing down upon her aching breasts. She wanted to know what it would be like to have his warm mouth take hers, to lose herself in his dark gaze. 23

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Khenty stood at the side of the bed and looked down at the beautiful woman lying before him. His hand shook as he reached out to touch one soft, glorious breast. At her slight moan, he felt his shaft grow as rigid as stone within the confines of his loose pants. Swallowing hard, he drew his hand back and began to undress, never once taking his eyes from her lovely form. He sat down beside her and stroked her arm. Her virginal flesh was like warm silk beneath his fingertips. He ached to know every inch of her—outside and in—and he could feel the sweat forming on his palms as his need grew. “Slowly, Khenty,” he cautioned himself. “Slowly and gently.” His hand went to her beautiful hair and he lifted a heavy lock, letting it run through his fingers. He took up another tress and brought it to his face to inhale the lemony perfume that clung there, closing his eyes to the intoxicating scent. “Move over, my love,” he whispered to her, and under the enthrallment he had cast upon her, she sighed and did as he ordered. He stretched out beside her, content for the moment to just lie there and look at her exquisite face and stunning form. He trailed his fingers down her right arm from shoulder to wrist then lifted her hand to place the softest of kisses on the underside of her wrist. Beneath his lips, he could feel the beat of her heart pulsing through her veins and his fangs burst forth. It was all he could do to force them to retract for it was not yet time to take her life essence into him. First he must pave the way for all the wondrous years that were to come. “Come into my arms, my beauty,” he commanded, and when she slipped into his embrace—her head to his shoulder, one hand to the place where his heart thundered in his chest—he held her tightly to him. His hand went to her naked hip and he caressed her, sliding his palm down to the nether curls that made his fingertips tingle when he touched them. The base of his hand covered that sweet triangle as his fingers gazed the soft, heated folds that beckoned him like a siren’s song to explore all that was Catherine. With his heart pounding, he eased her to her back. “Spread your legs for me, Kate,” he told her. A long sigh escaped her perfect mouth as she opened her legs. Her eyes were closed and there was a gentle, trusting smile on her full lips—lips that drew his own to taste and savor. As his tongue slipped between her lips, one strong finger stroked each tender fold slowly and tenderly, not yet touching the core of her sex, that sweet nub where pleasure dwelt. He was gentling her as one would a mare about to be broken to saddle. Taking his time—not hurrying, not intruding too quickly or too firmly—touching slick flesh and wiry curls, his kiss deepened until she was responding to his soft seduction. Her hips lifted toward his hand but he denied her the relief she unconsciously sought, keeping well away from her clitoris. 24

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Moving his lips to her ear, he gently blew his breath there and caught her lobe between his teeth. He smiled as a shudder rippled down her body and she writhed beneath his hand. “Do you want me, my beauty?” he whispered against the spirals of flesh in her ear. “Yes,” she groaned, grinding her buttocks against the sheet. He slid the tip of his middle finger past her folds and slightly into her waiting sheath. “Yes!” she gasped, and shuddered again. Khenty knew she understood very little about what went on between a man and woman. She was a virgin and her flesh was yet untried. There was but a vague notion of the sexual act hovering in her mind but nothing in her experience had ever prepared her for the pleasure he intended to give her this night. He planted a kiss on her ear then another on the side of her neck, still another at the hollow of her collarbone. His warm lips moved across her upper chest and to the sternum then went lower until his mouth was between her breasts. The hard pounding of her pulse was an aphrodisiac and it took all his willpower not to allow his fangs to slip out once more to pierce her tender chest. His finger went a bit deeper inside and he reveled in the feel of the moistness that oozed around it, readying her for what was to come. When his mouth claimed the rosy peak of one breast, she arched her hip up in need for a deeper penetration. Spiraling his tongue around and around her burgeoning nipple, he merely grazed it with his teeth and she was shivering like a willow in a strong windstorm. Her little moans were sweet music to his ears and he gently clamped his teeth over that straining bud, his finger going just a bit deeper still inside her. “Oh!” she cried out. Moist heat clung to his finger from tip to second joint. Her sheath was tight around his probe, her hymen a sweet little band that labeled her virginal. Though he ached to press deeper inside her, he did not want to risk rupturing her maidenhead until they were legally man and wife. He gently removed his finger, smiling at her groan of disappointment. He released his gentle hold on her nipple and put his lips to her ear once more. “I will give you sweet, sweet pleasure, my love,” he told her. “Do not fret.” Catherine groaned again for the base of his hand was once more pressing against her nether curls, his wet finger scratching delicately along one fold then the other. Her hips were undulating against the sheet, her breathing coming in quick, expectant little pants, her hands opening and closing, her heels digging into the mattress. “Now you are ready,” he whispered, and moved the pad of his middle finger onto her love pearl. Bucking beneath that touch, Catherine cried out and as he began stroking her, bringing her juices up, the blood down to engorge that tender, swelling little head, the

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man at her side moved his mouth over the throbbing vein at her throat and as the ripples of pleasure shot through her lower body, he sank his fangs into her sweet flesh.

***** Nyria was on her knees at the keyhole, watching the inevitable happening in the room beyond. Bitter tears fell heedlessly down the housekeeper’s face and the palms of her hands were brutally scored with the half-moon imprints of her sharp nails. She made herself watch it all and she knew hatred she could not control for the young woman whose soul—though not her virginal body—was being claimed by Nyria’s master.

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Chapter Three Awakening with the first light of dawn, Catherine shot up quickly in bed, her heart racing, one hand to her chest. What had snatched her from her slumber quickly faded as she sat there, striving to hold onto a faint image that was rapidly receding with each breath she took. Her body and mind felt heavy, drugged, encased in cottony layers, and it was all she could do to throw back the covers and swing her legs from the bed. She experienced instant lightheadedness and reached out to take hold of the bedpost. With legs that felt rubbery, she pulled herself to her feet and stood there wavering, her hand pressed to her forehead, clutching the bedpost. Strange sensations were drifting through her mind—whispery warmth on her lips, her shoulders, a slight stinging pain upon the side of her neck. She felt drained, depleted and sleepy. Surmising her lethargy was due to the long trip to Anubeion, she forced herself to walk across the room to the bathing area to perform her morning ablutions. Remembering nothing at all of what had taken place the night before, Catherine was growing anxious by the time Jacob came to unlock her door and bring in her tray the next morning. She had been pacing for over an hour, ready to do verbal war with Nyria about locking the door to her room, but when that door opened, it was the mute servant who came in with an apologetic smile on his dark face. He signed to her that Nyria was otherwise occupied and had given him her keys so he could bring Catherine’s morning meal. Catherine was only slightly mollified as she pulled her robe tighter around her, but had no desire to take her frustrations out on someone who had not been a party to her predicament. Jacob placed Catherine’s breakfast tray on the little table sitting before the western bank of windows and uncovered a pungent omelet stuffed with sharp cheese, mushrooms, crispy bacon and peppered with some sort of green herb. He pulled out her chair and waited until she was seated before shaking out a linen napkin and placing it in her lap. He looked at her quizzically as she placed a hand on his black-clad arm. “Are all the prince’s guests locked in their room at night, Jacob?” she signed to the butler as he waited for her to make her wishes known. Jacob nodded solemnly. He lifted his hands and told her it was for her own good. “Why?” Catherine demanded. The butler’s eyes shifted to the window and his face took on the look of one who is acutely uncomfortable. When he looked back down at her, he shrugged helplessly. He signed that it was for the best and that she should not question the master’s motives in wanting to protect her. 27

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“Is he up yet?” Catherine asked. Jacob shook his head and told her it would be late afternoon before the prince would be able to see her. He would sleep until sunset. “Is he ill?” Catherine asked. Once more Jacob shrugged helplessly, his hands up beside his shoulders as though to say things were beyond his ability to understand. He smiled gently then turned to go, stopping politely as Catherine rushed to him and took his arm. “Where is Nyria?” she signed. Jacob’s face darkened, his eyes narrowed into unforgiving slits. “With the master,” he signed with disdain. Catherine felt her face turn red for there was no denying the implication of neither Jacob’s words nor the staunch disapproval his quick signing exhibited. Embarrassed, Catherine rapidly changed the subject. “Last night,” she said, “there was an animal—” Jacob shook his head vehemently and turned to go but stopped again when she laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Do not concern yourself with the beast, Lady Catherine,” he signed. “Is it a dog or a wolf?” she asked. “I could not tell in the rain.” Jacob looked at her, his dark cinnamon eyes seeming to see all the way to her soul and beyond. He sighed deeply. “Keep away from the beast for as long as you can, milady,” he warned her, his hands moving quickly. “Is it that dangerous?” she wanted to know. Jacob thought a moment and then shook his head. “Not to you,” he told her. “It was making a terrible racket last night,” she said, and watched Jacob nod his agreement. “I thought it might have been hurt.” The butler’s forehead crinkled in such a way it was obvious to Catherine he was trying to decide whether to tell her something or not. Finally, he let out a long breath then lifted his hands. “He seeks a mate,” Jacob signed. “One with whom he may spend eternity.” His eyes bore into hers. “One for whom he would destroy all mankind in order to protect.” Catherine blinked, puzzled by the odd statement. There was a sound at the door and she turned to see a sullen Nyria standing just outside her room. “The master bid me see to your needs,” Nyria stated. She raked her dark gaze over Jacob and the mute butler was quick to leave, moving past the housekeeper in such a way it seemed he was loath to touch her person in any manner. “Lord Bahru is still abed and sent me away when I knocked at his door.” Catherine could feel the temperature of the room drop as Nyria stood there glaring at her. The woman’s lips were swollen—as were her eyes—and there was such stark

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emotion in her look it could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was— hatred. “Lord Bahru prefers to sleep late each morning,” Catherine said. “It matters not. The prince says I am to place myself at your complete disposal,” Nyria snarled, her eyes flashing ebony fire. “That I am to consider you the mistress of his house from this day forward.” An unladylike snort punctuated the housekeeper’s words. “Mistress of his house?” Catherine asked, stunned. “As though you could ever be mistress here,” Nyria sneered. Catherine was unnerved by the woman’s attitude. “Have I done something to cause your dislike, Nyria?” she asked. “You are here, are you not?” Nyria spat at her. “You, who do not belong, are not one of us—” As Catherine watched, the housekeeper’s words were cut off as though a noose had dropped over her neck to silence her. Nyria’s hands flew to her neck and she scratched at the flesh there, digging into the invisible constriction that was rapidly turning her face dark with infused blood. “Nyria!” Catherine shouted, and rushed to the other woman’s aid. The housekeeper staggered backward, slammed into the wall and then slid down it as she clutched at her throat. Strangled gasps came from her wide-open mouth and her eyes bulged as she strove to draw air into her body. Her legs shot out in front of her, her heels digging into the carpet. “Jacob!” Catherine screamed, dropping down beside Nyria and pulling at her hands. “Nyria, let me see!” Nyria shook her head from side to side while still trying to free her throat from the unseen pressure. Her eyes were already rolling up in her head and her gasps becoming weaker. When Catherine managed to tear Nyria’s hands from her throat, she was stunned to see twin indentions pressing deeply into the housekeeper’s windpipe. But before she could react, she was dragged to her feet and spun away from Nyria. She jerked her head around and got just a glimpse of a stranger’s broad face before being pushed into Jacob’s arms. “She’s choking!” Catherine shouted. She tried to twist out of Jacob’s powerful hold but the butler held her easily. “I can help her!” “No, you can’t,” the stranger replied as he bent over and grabbed Nyria’s arms, jerking her to her feet. “Let me—” Catherine began, but Nyria was already drawing in great gasps of breath. Catherine could only stand there—still held in Jacob’s massive arms—and watch as the housekeeper turned fearful eyes to her.

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“Forgive me,” Nyria croaked. She held out a hand toward Catherine. “Forgive me, mistress. I did not know…” “What happened?” Catherine asked, freeing herself from Jacob. She took a step toward Nyria, but the housekeeper backed away, still holding out a hand in apology. “Forgive me!” Nyria jerked around, stumbled against the wall and then fled down the staircase, her turban coming undone to trail behind her as she ran. Catherine would have gone after her, but the stranger stepped directly into her path. “Best leave her alone for now, milady,” the man said in a deep rumbling voice. “The master will see to her.” “She could have choked to death,” Catherine reminded him in an angry voice. “I am trained as a nurse. I am more qualified than you to take care of someone who is struggling to breathe!” “Yes, milady, I’m sure you are, but she was in no real danger,” the stranger said calmly. “No real danger?” Catherine gasped with disbelief. “She was choking!” The man nodded. “She was being punished for speaking to you disrespectfully, milady.” Catherine was aware of Jacob nodding his agreement beside her and she turned to look up at the butler’s impassive face. His cinnamon gaze was on her. “You believe this too?” she signed. Jacob answered. “Yes.” She turned back to the stranger. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me His Grace was the one punishing her,” she snapped with irritation. “Even though he wasn’t even here.” The stranger smiled, displaying a cavernous mouth full of sparkling white teeth. “He has no need to be in the room, milady, to know when one of his is disobeying him or to punish them for their wrongdoing.” Without another word, he put a finger to his temple in respectful salute and then turned to go. “Who are you?” Catherine called out after him. “I am Hasani,” he told her. “I am the coachytes.” Catherine started after the man—unfamiliar with the word he’d used—but Jacob gently touched her shoulder and when she looked at him, he shook his head. “There is much you will learn of Anubeion and its master,” Jacob told her with his hands. “You should not question what you learn nor fear it.” “I don’t understand,” Catherine returned. “Be patient. You will,” the butler encouraged.

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When Catherine went downstairs and could not find Nyria, she wandered out to the detached kitchen behind the plantation house. Olabishi was close behind her, having joined her as Catherine exited her own bedroom. It was there Catherine found the rather large woman who was employed as the cook at Anubeion. “Good morning, Lady Catherine,” the cook said, bobbing a clumsy curtsy. She appeared nervous. “Did you like your breakfast?” “It was delicious,” Catherine replied, although she’d eaten little of the omelet. “What was that marvelous herb?” The cook breathed a sigh of relief. “It is called cilantro. Some folks can’t tolerate cilantro. You either love it or hate it. There is no in between. I am glad you liked it. It is a favorite of the master’s. Is there something I can do for you then? My name is Holly. Hawkins is my husband.” “I am pleased to meet you, Holly,” Catherine said. She introduced the cook to Olabishi. Looking about her, she frowned. “I was looking for Nyria. Have you seen her?” Holly’s mouth twisted. “Begging your pardon, Lady Catherine, but I ain’t wanting to see that harlot.” The older woman sniffed. “Nor her me, I reckon. She stays out of my kitchen and I stay out of her affairs.” So no one in the house liked Nyria, Catherine thought. That wasn’t hard to understand. If she treated them as badly as Catherine had been treated, it was little wonder. “If you need something from that one, I can probably do it just as well,” Holly remarked as she started to peel a mound of potatoes in the pan. “It’s not important.” She pointed to the potatoes. “May I help? I’ve nothing to do and you know what they say? ‘Idle hands are the devil’s tools!’” She laughed, expecting the cook to laugh along with her, but the woman didn’t. The cook just stared at her, her faded blue eyes glazing over, her head cocking oddly to one side as though she were listening to something only she could hear. “Is something wrong?” Catherine asked concerned, for the woman was standing perfectly still, her knuckles white on the pan she was holding. Then the cook seemed to shake herself mentally. She smiled warmly. “If you’d like, Lady Kate.” She handed over the pan of potatoes and a sharp paring knife. “Would your companion also like something to do?” “Kate?” Catherine laughed. “My grandmother used to call me that.” “Yes, ma’am,” Holly answered. “Used to help her in the kitchen too, didn’t you?” Catherine nodded. “And loved every minute of it.” She signed to Olabishi and the woman nodded quickly, smiling. “I asked Ola if she would like to help too and she says she does.”

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“I’ve got some peas in need of shelling,” Holly said, and handed the bowl to Olabishi. Catherine plied the knife over the potato skins with expert ease. “My mother wouldn’t let me anywhere near our kitchen.” She lowered her voice. “And if she heard anyone call me Kate, she’d have been mortally offended!” Holly’s smile widened. “But I hear tell you like it so that’s what I reckon I’ll be callin’ you.” If the cook’s words surprised her, Catherine didn’t show it. She was too happy to be working in the kitchen for it brought back pleasant memories she had all but forgotten. “You are originally from Chale, aren’t you, Lady Kate?” Holly asked, making conversation as she took out flour and lard from the pantry. Catherine stopped in mid peel. “How did you know that?” Holly shrugged as she measured flour onto the wooden table. “You have a bit of a Chalean brogue.” She glanced over at Catherine. “How’d you end up in Virago?” “My mother’s family owns a shipping line there,” Catherine told her, amazed the servant was privy to her personal affairs. “Her oldest brother died when I was eight and Papa moved us to Virago to take over the company.” “Did you like it?” “No, but then again I didn’t have any choice.” “Me neither,” Holly sighed. “I came here from Ionary with my man, and one day I hope to be allowed to return home.” “How is His Grace to work for?” Holly’s hands were deep in the flour and lard mixture. “If you don’t cross him, he leaves you be.” She put her shoulders into the work of kneading the dough, folding it over and over itself. “You cross him though, and you will find he is not a forgiving man. I have been here ten years. Ain’t a bad place to live.” Catherine bit her lip, loath asking the next question but determined to learn something of the man before she met him. “Is he cruel to his slaves, Holly?” Holly’s head came up. She was looking at Catherine with shock. “No, ma’am! Where’d you get a notion that he was?” “Oh I didn’t,” Catherine was quick to answer. “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about plantation owners in Diabolusia and since we don’t own slaves, I was just wondering about His Grace.” She felt her face reddened. “And I do know that Kensetti royalty as a whole have thousands of slaves at their disposal.” “His Grace didn’t bring any with him when he came here,” Holly defended. “What slaves he’s got, he inherited from his great-uncle. He does not approve of slavery, milady.” “Then why doesn’t he free the people who work for him?” Catherine asked.

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“He can’t,” Holly said. “It is against the law in Diabolusia.” “With the grace of the gods, that’s one law that will change one day,” Catherine grumbled. “I hope so, milady,” Holly said firmly. “I surely hope so.” For a while there was no more conversation between the two women. Catherine moved from potatoes to carrots as she helped Holly make their lunch. Olabishi finished the peas and began whipping cream. Together they made strawberry shortcake and vanilla pudding. “My old granny,” Holly recalled as she slid the biscuits into the hearth oven, “was real fond of shortcake. I don’t get to make it that often anymore. There aren’t that many of us eating every day.” “How is His Grace’s appetite?” Catherine inquired. Holly stood up from the oven and stared straight ahead at the bricks. “He’s had one hell of an appetite of late, milady.” She shuddered. She swiveled her head around to look at Catherine. “You being here will help to ease him.” Catherine didn’t understand and said as much. The cook turned to face her companion. There was a strange expression on the elderly woman’s wrinkled face. “He will not truck with the folks of Anubeion, you understand, and not many in town neither, just strangers passing through. That was part of the Covenant, you see.” This was the second time Catherine had heard of this mysterious Covenant. She started to ask Holly just what it was when the stranger from earlier that morning stepped through the door. “You have company, Lady Catherine,” he said, nodding politely at Holly. “That would be Lord Kaelin, I would imagine,” Holly said. “Not many other folks come out here willingly.” She dusted her hands on her apron. “I would suspect the master sent for him.” “Who is Lord Kaelin?” Catherine inquired. “Lord Kaelin McGregor. He is the master’s lawgiver,” Holly answered. “You’ll like him. He’s a card, he is!” Catherine looked down at her dress and frowned. There was flour dusting the gray skirt. “I’m certainly not dressed to entertain my host’s lawgiver,” she sighed. “You look lovely,” a male voice countered. Catherine spun around, her hand going to her mouth. A tall blond-haired man stood in the kitchen doorway, a battered satchel in his hand. He was smiling at her and from the look in his azure eyes he was amused at her embarrassment. “I apologize for dropping in on you like this, milady,” McGregor said.

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He doesn’t look apologetic, Catherine thought with slight annoyance. If anything, the man looked supremely pleased with himself. Drawing herself up and trying to ignore the flour clinging to her skirt, she held out her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” she said primly. His hand was warm and his grip firm. When he brought her fingers to his lips, she could not help but draw in her breath at the sensual look he gave her. “The pleasure is all mine and please call me Kaelin,” the lawgiver replied as his lips brushed the backs of her fingers. He was staring at her from under his long, dark gold lashes and as he lifted his head that bold look became hotter still. Catherine could feel the color rising in her cheeks and she had to turn away. That her puzzled look met Holly’s knowing one only added to Catherine’s discomfort. “May I present my companion, Lady Olabishi?” “It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Lord Kaelin said. “Is Lord Bahru up and about yet?” “I would hope he is by now,” Catherine replied. “I have a few papers he needs to sign,” the lawgiver said. “There is also one required of you to sign and Lady Olabishi if she will be staying with us.” Olabishi had been watching McGregor and vigorously shook her head to indicate she would not be staying after the Joining of her companion and Lord Bahru. “Obviously, Ola is anxious to return to her homeland,” Catherine said with a faint blush. Her blush deepened when Olabishi nodded again, this time emphatically. “Then may we retire to the library where I may get at least your signature if Lord Bahru hasn’t risen?” the lawgiver inquired. “Of course,” Catherine said, and looked to Olabishi who returned to her seat and sat down. “Are you staying for dinner, Lord Kaelin?” Holly asked, a challenge in her tone. Kaelin McGregor winked at her. “You know damned well I can’t pass up one of your meals, Holly Mae Hawkins.” “You can’t pass up anything if you ask me!” Holly sniffed. She fanned him away with her apron. “Get gone. Let a body work!” Catherine could tell there was great affection between the two and she smiled, appeased somewhat by the jocularity. “Unfortunately,” Kaelin was saying as he walked behind Catherine on the brick pathway leading back to the main house, “I am engaged.” Catherine stopped, turned and stared at him. Her left eyebrow quirked up. “I don’t believe I asked your status, milord.” “No,” he agreed, taking her elbow and moving her forward, up the three steps to the back door. “But Khenty would be very annoyed if I didn’t tell you.”

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Catherine eased her arm out of his grip as he opened the door for her to enter the house. “I can’t see that it makes any difference.” “Believe me, it does,” Kaelin insisted. “To whom?” she demanded at the library door. “To Khenty, of course,” he replied seriously. He reached past her and opened the door. The room was still dark, the curtains pulled over the tall windows. Catherine—her lips pursed with silent irritation—walked purposefully over to the drapes and flung them aside, waving away a cloud of dust that flew out from the material. “This is unhealthy!” she exclaimed. “No wonder the place smells of mildew!” Kaelin folded his arms and watched her as she moved from one window to another, shoving aside the drapes and flinging open the windows to let in the sunshine and fresh air. “I’ve been trying to think of ways to occupy my time while His Grace sleeps,” Catherine mumbled. “I think I’ve just found one.” “The place could use a thorough cleaning,” Kaelin agreed. He looked about the room. “I doubt he knows how badly Nyria has let things slide lately.” “How could he not know?” Catherine grated. She sneezed, sneezed again and then looked to the heavens for help. Kaelin laughed. “Something tells me the next time I come to visit I’ll be able to eat off the floor!” Catherine laughed as well. “Well, maybe not, but at least this room will be clean as I found the dining room earlier!” She dusted her palms together and then pointed to a brace of loveseats set at right angles to one another. “Please, sit down.” “How was your trip down from Holy Dale?” Kaelin asked, referring to her home in Virago. “Hot and tiring, but the scenery was nice,” Catherine responded. “And how did you like our little town?” “I didn’t get to see much of Devil’s Nest when we landed here in Diabolusia,” she told him. “Mr. Beasely was waiting at the quay for us as soon as we arrived and it was pouring rain.” “Ah, Elmer Beasely,” Kaelin chuckled. He smoothed the crease of his gabardine breeches. “He had nothing but nice things to say about you this morning at the Serpent’s Tale.” He smiled. “Our one and only tavern, I’m afraid.” “That was nice of him,” Catherine said, blushing slightly. “He was very helpful although…” She looked down at her hands, which were entwined in her lap. “Although?” Kaelin questioned.

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Catherine looked up. “He seemed most anxious to be away from Anubeion before sundown. I was worried that he wouldn’t make it back to town in that terrible downpour, but he was more concerned about leaving than his own safety.” Kaelin’s smile slid slowly away. “Did he say why he preferred not to stay last evening, Milady Brell?” “Please,” she asked, making a decision she knew would displease her parents. “Call me Kate.” “A lovely name,” he complimented. “And very Chalean.” “As Kaelin McGregor is very Serenian?” she teased. “Indeed.” His smile returned for a moment then fled again. “Beasely?” he pressed. “Did he give you a reason for not wanting to stay the night?” “No,” she answered. “He just seemed very fearful.” She waved a negligent hand at the air. “I even asked Nyria if Anubeion might not be haunted to cause such a reaction in the gentleman.” Kaelin leaned back against the loveseat and braced his arm across the curved back. “And what did the inestimable Nyria tell you?” Catherine lowered her voice. “She told me of the night creature who supposedly roams the plantation grounds,” she replied, her eyes twinkling. The lawgiver’s mouth tightened perceptively. “I am sure Khenty was not pleased with the woman’s foolishness,” he snapped. “She should not be regaling you with superstitious slave folklore.” “She dismissed it as such,” Catherine said, feeling a need to defend the absent housekeeper, although she couldn’t imagine why she should bother. “Nevertheless,” Kaelin quipped, “she shouldn’t have mentioned such things to you.” Sensing this man cared no more for Nyria than did the rest of the household, she wanted to change the subject. “You said there were papers?” He nodded politely. “I take it they are Lord Bahru’s employment papers?” Kaelin’s brows drew together and he seemed puzzled. “Employment papers?” She looked closely at the lawgiver for the gentleman seemed not to be hearing her. “Lord Kaelin?” “Just Kaelin,” the lawgiver corrected absently, turning his head to look past her. Just as Holly’s eyes had done earlier, McGregor’s pale blue orbs glazed over for a moment. He blinked and then looked at her before snapping his fingers as though he had just remembered why he was there. “Ah, employment papers! Aye!” he agreed. “Where is my mind this morning?” Catherine watched him bend forward and take up his battered satchel, open it and rummage through the papers within until he found what he was looking for.

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“Let’s see.” He pulled up a folder, glanced at it and then opened it. He scanned it— appearing as though he were seeing it for the first time. “Well, here it is then. There is a contract for the duration of two years for Lord Bahru. Room and board and necessities provided by the Ben-Alkazar estate, a small salary of two hundred gold sovereigns to be paid at the end of Lord Bahru’s employment.” “You said there was a paper for me to sign?” Kaelin looked up at her expectantly then shuffled the papers until he found one that had her name on it. He perused it—his face turning a bit pale—then extended it toward her. “It is an offer for you to teach the children of Anubeion if you would be so inclined. There is a small annual stipend, of course.” “I would indeed!” Catherine exclaimed. “With or without a stipend! I really was wondering how I would spend my time here.” “Does that meet with your approval then, Kate?” “Yes, it certainly does.” Catherine wondered why he seemed relieved at her answer. Once more McGregor’s brows clashed over his hawkish nose. One blond brow crooked upward. “There is another clause that offers you the chance to assist the prince. Would you be amenable to that as well?” For a reason she was unable to understand, Catherine felt a shiver of reluctance go down her spine at his words. Just exactly what did “to assist the prince” mean? She certainly hoped her employment was not meant to be along the lines of what the housekeeper’s was to the prince. “I have had nursing training,” she said. “Is that what you mean?” “That might be of help, but this employment refers to the position of being his personal assistant,” Kaelin was quick to say as though he had sensed her unease. “There is a lot of correspondence between the prince and his homeland, and he hates writing.” Catherine relaxed. “Oh I understand that only too well. Both my father and Lord Bahru are the same way.” He gathered the papers together and took them over to the desk, placed them on the top and took up a quill pen. “If you’ll just sign at the Xs…” How eager he is to have me put my signature to those, she thought as she stood and walked to the desk. Her uneasiness was increasing as she allowed him to pull out a chair for her to sit. Once seated, she looked up at him. “May I read the paper first?” she asked, taking the pen from him. She watched as his face first went deathly pale then became quickly infused with high color. “You don’t trust me?” he queried, his gaze too sharp and a touch on the frosty side. “I have always been taught that before I put my name to any legal document, I should first read it thoroughly and understand it,” she replied. “I mean no offense to you or His Grace, but I am a very cautious person, Milord McGregor.”

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“Kaelin,” he corrected again, this time with clenched teeth. He started to say something else then stopped, his head going up as though someone had called his name sharply to get his attention. What do these people hear that I do not? Catherine pondered as she stared up at the underside of the lawyer’s jaw where a faint white scar puckered the flesh there. He is listening so intensely to something, but what? Then as though nothing at all had happened, the lawgiver lowered his head, smiled at her and reached out to pat her shoulder much as a much-respected elderly uncle would. “You are right, Kate,” he said. “By all means read the paper.” He turned and reseated himself on the loveseat, crossed his legs gracefully and once more braced his arm along the back as though he had not a care in the world. He smiled calmly, encouragingly at her. “Please. Take your time.” Strange behavior, Catherine thought as she tore her attention from him to look down at the three-page document. The writing blurred for just a second then straightened itself out as she narrowed her eyes. Not for the first time did Catherine fear she would need those spectacles her mother was now forced to wear in order to read. The contract was simple. It stated everything Kaelin had mentioned. Everything seemed to be in order. There appeared to be no hidden clauses. If Catherine was not happy teaching the children of Anubeion or found she could not get along with Prince Khenty Ben-Alkazar, she could cease her employment at any time with all monies due her up unto that moment. “Everything to your liking, Kate?” Kaelin asked. Catherine looked over at him. “Yes,” she answered, placing the quill on the first page and scrawling her signature on each of the three pages. Kaelin stared across the room at her. So much like Kebechet, he thought as his scrutiny slid up the column of Catherine’s slender neck then touched at length on her burgundy red hair before moving over the delicate profile. The emerald green eyes were the same—almond-shaped with long dark lashes. The two women were of the same height, near the same weight—although Kebechet had been the slimmer of the two—and curvaceous in those places he knew Khenty preferred. Even Catherine’s voice was similar to Kebechet’s—missing the dialect and cultured tones of Upper Kensett, but soft and sultry for a woman who had spent sixteen years among the barbarians of Virago. “Didn’t your mother tell you it was impolite to stare, Milord McGregor?” Kaelin flinched. How long had she been watching him watch her? He had the grace to blush furiously before smiling his apology. “She didn’t tell me it was wrong to stare at a beautiful woman,” he chuckled, “just to never get caught doing it!”

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Catherine stood up and walked toward him, looking up into his handsome face as he shot to his feet at her approach. She extended the papers to him. “Is there anything else?” “Your forgiveness?” he sighed, putting his hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “For staring at you.” “You were looking at me as though I reminded you of someone,” Catherine challenged. “You do,” Kaelin answered, and could have bitten off his tongue. He knew he’d pay for that mistake. “May I ask who?” “The sister of a Windwarrior Society classmate,” Kaelin was quick to lie. “My first serious crush, I fear.” It was Catherine’s time to look away. “Not your fiancée, I take it?” “Sarah?” he gasped with mock terror. “Good Lord, no! Sarah is as big as a barn.” He winced. “I shouldn’t have said that.” “No, you shouldn’t have,” Catherine teased him, and shushed him as he began to stutter an apology. She draped her arm through his. “You are staying for dinner?” “I won’t be able to eat a thing,” he stammered. “Hard to do so with your foot in your mouth, Kate.” “Try anyway,” she told him.

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Chapter Four Bahru ignored Kaelin after a brief introduction. The taricheutes signed his employment papers with a flourish then walked out of the library, dismissing the lawgiver in search of the noon meal. “Is he usually that polite?” Kaelin asked Catherine. “Bahru is very self-contained,” she said, turning to make sure Olabishi was walking along behind them. “Self-contained,” the Serenian repeated. “More like self-centered.” Catherine’s face turned red but she did not disagree. She was quickly learning that excusing Bahru’s lack of manners was going to be an ongoing situation. Seating himself before the others, taking the place of honor at the head of the table, Bahru picked up his napkin, shook it out and tucked it into the collar of his kameez, the long linen garment worn by men. “I am not accustomed to having to wait upon my food,” he complained. “This will cease.” “Bahru,” Catherine said, wincing at her fiancé’s imperial tone. “Should you be sitting there?” “I am a high-ranking member of the Guild of Taricheutes,” Bahru snapped. “It is my right.” “To sit in the prince’s chair?” Kaelin questioned with an arched brow. “I will sit where I wish,” Bahru sniffed. “I am entitled.” Catherine sighed deeply. She thanked Kaelin for pulling her chair out for her and took her seat. “Would you sit beside me, Lady Olabishi?” Kaelin asked. Olabishi inclined her head in acknowledgement of the lawgiver’s offer and allowed him to pull out a chair for her—two down from the head of the table—then he skirted the table to sit across from Catherine and at Bahru’s right hand. “This is unconscionable,” Bahru grumbled. “I am hungry. Why are the servants not bringing in my food?” “I believe my people are waiting for me to make an appearance.” Catherine was not prepared for the man who came into the dining room. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the portrait in the library come to life. As handsome as that dark rider had been, the real man himself was male beauty personified. She was so stunned by his appearance that she failed to stand to show him the respect he—as a member of the royal house of Ben-Alkazar—was due. All she was capable of doing was staring at him.

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His shoulder-length hair was as sleek and glossy as a raven’s wing and was tied back from his square-jawed face with a bit of dark ribbon. Thick eyebrows peaked gently over eyes the color of dark rum and were shielded by the longest lashes she’d ever seen on a man. The almost perfect shape of his nose hinted at softness to his nature while his lips—those sensuous lips she had so admired in the painting—gave lie to the suggestion of softness and labeled him aggressive and perhaps a tad cruel. And those hands! She thought with rapt dreaminess. His hands were deeply tanned—as was his face and neck. She had been mesmerized by the strength portrayed in the painting of those capable-looking hands controlling the power of a mighty steed. Seeing them now in reality, she felt a shiver of pure sexual thrill invading her lower body and put up a hand to stifle the whimper of submission that threatened to escape. “I am glad you do not find me loathsome, Kate,” she heard him say, and forced her stare from those powerful hands to the compelling darkness of his golden eyes and was caught—and held—by the sensuality lurking there. Catherine felt as though she were drowning in that intense gaze, being pulled down through a maelstrom of dark needs that set her blood to singing and her juices to flowing. Without knowing she was doing so, she lifted her hand to him as he came toward her with feline grace and reached out to accept her offering. And when their fingers met! Catherine sucked in a wavering breath and felt her knees growing weak as his strong sword hand closed around her hand. “Welcome to your new home, milady,” he whispered, turning her hand so the underside of her wrist was revealed. He did not release her from his magnetic gaze as he lowered his head to place his lips to the erratic pulse at her wrist. He was watching her from beneath that long, sweeping fan of lashes and as his tongue moved slowly, languidly over her flesh, she felt a leap in her pulse that brought a smile of satisfaction to the prince’s lips. “Soft as satin,” he murmured against her wrist, and his teeth grazed her flesh for just an instant before he lifted his head to look down at her. He is taller than I expected, she thought as she stared up at him. And his shoulders are so wide, so powerful. Beneath the loose white kameez, she could see the hard plains of his chiseled chest and another wave of passion spread through her lower body. Bahru had shot to his feet as though he’d been spurred with a red-hot branding iron as soon as the prince spoke. “Forgive me, Your Grace!” he said, bowing as deeply as his slight paunch would allow. “I did not know you would be joining us and—” “By all means take my seat, Bahru,” the prince interrupted. “I will sit where I wish.” The prince had not relinquished Catherine’s hand, but instead tightened his grip possessively as though he had no intention of doing so, and when he was seated, he still kept her hand in his, his fingers laced through hers. “I trust your room is comfortable, milady?” he asked, and his voice was dark silk as it settled around her.

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“My room is very comfortable,” Bahru said. “Very comfortable.” Not even turning his head to look at Bahru, he asked his question again, directing his gaze into Catherine’s eyes. “Is your room comfortable, Kate?” “Yes, milord,” she answered, unable to tear her eyes from his. “And your trip? Uneventful?” “We ran into bad weather around the Cape,” Bahru said. “We—” He stopped, for the question was being repeated but not to him. “Most pleasant,” she replied. She felt overly warm for the prince was making slow, lazy circles in her palm with his thumb and the sensation was causing her blood to race. “I am glad,” Prince Khenty said. “I wish only the very best for you, Kate.” Catherine could do no more than gawk at him as he lifted her hand to his lips once more and kissed the tips of her fingers this time. In some distant, unheeded part of her she knew she shouldn’t allow him such liberties, but she felt as though all the bones in her body had melted and she was no more than a mound of clay ready—and more than willing—to have this man’s strong hands mold her to his liking. “I intend to make sure your life here at Anubeion fulfills all your fantasies, milady.” Bahru cleared his throat. “I was hoping we could—” The prince turned his head and gave Bahru a look that quelled the lesser man. “I was not speaking to you. We will discuss your duties later this evening, taricheutes,” he said, and let go of Catherine’s hand. “Of course, Your Grace,” Bahru was quick to agree. “And what did you think of your ocean journey?” Khenty asked Catherine. “As a matter of fact—” Catherine began “She found it far more enjoyable than did I,” Bahru answered for her. A muscle jumped in Khenty’s cheek. “Did you have bad weather?” he asked Catherine, ignoring Bahru. “It was absolutely miserable,” Bahru said, sitting down. “It rained just about every day and into the night on many occasions.” Without looking at Bahru, the prince asked him if his fiancée was an educated woman. Bahru’s brows drew together over his hawkish nose. “Yes, Your Grace. I would never consider Joining with a woman who was not—” “And does she have opinions of her own?” Still Khenty had not looked at the man who had usurped the prince’s place at the head of the table. “I suppose she does,” Bahru answered. “Although—” “And is she capable of expressing those opinions in a clear and distinct voice?” Catherine glanced at Kaelin and found the man grinning behind his hand. Olabishi was sitting in her chair as rigid as a piece of wood, staring down at the table.

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“If you wish to know of our journey, Your Grace,” Bahru said with an ingratiating smile, “I can tell you—” “I was not asking you for your thoughts, taricheutes. I am not interested in your thoughts. They mean nothing to me,” Khenty stated in a firm voice, and he turned his head to spear the smaller man with a fierce look that opened the other man’s eyes wide. “If I want your opinion, I will ask it. I was speaking to milady. I want to hear what she has to say. Do not interrupt her again.” The dark golden gaze narrowed dangerously. “Is that clear to even an imbecile like you?” Bahru’s mouth moved but no sound came out. He put a hand to his throat, trying to swallow. He nodded, unable to speak. “May I suggest a drink of water, Lord Bahru?” Kaelin asked in an amused voice. “Now, milady,” Khenty said, returning his gaze to Catherine. “Tell me of your trip to Diabolusia.” Catherine felt the heat creeping up her neck. Bahru was glaring at her, his beady black eyes hard and full of retribution. She lowered her head. “I immensely enjoyed the trip, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “Please call me Khenty,” he said, and his knee touched hers under the table. “We are a relaxed group here, aren’t we, Kaelin?” Too shocked to move, Catherine sat there with her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting together. “Indeed we are,” Kaelin replied, his lips twitching with amusement. “Some more relaxed than others.” “The movement of the ship did not bother you?” “No, Your—” Catherine stopped, risking a glance at the prince. “I found it exhilarating.” Khenty smiled and his knee pressed against hers. “As did I when I came out here many years ago. I love the water and rain soothes me almost as much as the wind.” “I too love the wind and rain,” Catherine admitted. She wanted to move her knee from touching his but was afraid to do so for fear she would insult him. “Although bad weather frightens me.” “There is nothing to fear here at Anubeion,” he told her. “I give you my word on that, milady.” Holly and Jacob came in bearing trays of food, which they placed on the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Catherine saw Bahru licking his lips and start to stick his fork into a platter of pork chops. She had to bite her lip when the prince raised his voice and stopped her fiancé from doing just that. “Taricheutes, have you no conception of manners or do you simply prefer to ignore them?”

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Bahru’s face turned crimson red and he snatched his hand back. He sat there with his knife in one hand, his fork in the other and his chin trembling. “I apologize, Khenty,” he said meekly. The prince’s eyes narrowed. “I do not remember giving you permission to address me by my given name.” He looked at Kaelin. “Did I give the taricheutes permission to do that, Kaelin?” Kaelin shook his head. “No, milord, you did not.” The taricheutes looked stricken. “But you told Catherine she could—” “Yes, I gave Kate permission but you do not have that permission. Do not irritate me again,” Khenty stated. He stared at Bahru for a moment longer then turned to Catherine. His voice softened as he spoke to her. “Would you pass the platter, milady?” Catherine was quick to do as he asked, not taking a pork chop for herself. When Khenty speared a chop and put it on her plate, she smiled at him. His answering smile sent tremors down her spine. “So, Kaelin,” Khenty said. “How are things in Serenia?” He passed the platter across to Olabishi. “There’s been a drought in Zephyrus and they are carting hay in to the animals from Eurus and Norus,” Kaelin replied. “The priests there are praying for rain for that quadrant.” “Priests are useless most of the time,” Khenty observed. “They create more havoc than good.” He took up a bowl of peas, ladled up a large spoonful and held it over the bowl. “Milady?” “Please,” Catherine said, lifting her plate so he could place the peas beside the pork chop. “I will make entreaties for your people in Zephyrus,” Khenty said. “Perhaps my father will intercede on their behalf.” Catherine turned to look at the man sitting beside her. “Is your father a priest, milord?” “Foolish woman!” Bahru said, snatching the platter of chops from Kaelin and taking not one but three. “Don’t you know who he—?” “Leave my table, taricheutes,” Khenty said in a quiet, deadly voice. Bahru’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?” he said. “Beg milady’s pardon for insulting her then get up and leave my table and my presence,” the prince ordered. “But I have not eaten!” Bahru protested. “From the looks of you, foregoing a meal would be of benefit,” Khenty said. Catherine took one look at Bahru’s angry eyes and knew she would suffer for the seething wrath she saw lurking there. “Milord, it isn’t necessary,” she told Khenty. “I am sure Lord Bahru—”

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“It is necessary,” Khenty cut her off. He was glaring at Bahru. “It is very necessary.” Bahru looked down at his plate, swallowed and then rose to his feet. He bowed slightly to Catherine. “My apologies, Lady Catherine, Prince Khenty.” He pulled the napkin from his collar, folded it, laid it beside his plate and, after one last longing look at his plate, bowed again and left the room. Jacob was standing to one side of the room in case his services were needed. At a slight hand signal from his prince, he came forward quietly. Only Lord Kaelin was unaware of the meaning behind the signing the prince directed to Jacob. The black man bowed then turned to do his master’s bidding. “Milord,” Catherine said, placing a hand on the prince’s arm. “I am sure Lord Bahru is hungry. He ate very little on the ship and—” “Can stand to lose a few pounds,” Khenty interrupted. “I am sure he will more than make up for it at supper this evening.” “Did you signal Jacob to inform Holly not to provide the taricheutes with food?” Kaelin asked as he cut his pork chop. “Something like that,” Khenty replied. “He can have bread and water if he chooses.” “You are an evil man,” Kaelin said with a snort. “I can be,” the prince agreed. Catherine found she was relieved to have Bahru gone from the table though her tender heart held a certain amount of pity for the man. “The taricheutes is an unmannerly bore, Kate,” Khenty said as he speared a vegetable onto his fork. “He needs to be taught restraint and manners.” He smiled at her. “He will learn both in my household.” “I understand,” she said softly. The quartet ate in silence for a while. It wasn’t an awkward silence but one of genteel companionship. The food was excellent—as was everything Holly cooked—and the wine Jacob served was extraordinary. So extraordinary in fact that Catherine felt compelled to say so. “It is from Anubeion’s own orchards,” Khenty said, lifting a glass of the heady beverage up to the light so that shards of amber crystals from the brew sparkled on the pristine white tablecloth. “It is made from a yellow plum found only in this part of the world.” “Other vineyards have tried unsuccessfully to start cuttings from our plums but the vines wither and die. They prefer the soil of Anubeion,” Kaelin put in. “What is the name of the plum?” Catherine asked. “Golden Passion,” Khenty replied. “It is similar to some of the Chrystallusian varieties used to make their superb plum brandies but I find it much more potent.” He leaned toward her. “Be careful how many glasses you imbibe, milady. It will creep up on you.” 45

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Catherine smiled. “Lord Bahru only allows me one glass of wine with my meals so I think I’m safe.” She saw the prince frown before he downed the contents of his glass. “I’m curious, Kate,” Kaelin said. “Why would a beautiful woman such as yourself accept the proposal of a man like him?” “Like him?” Catherine echoed. “A pompous ass with a greedy gut and a propensity to believe himself better than everyone else,” Khenty stated. “You left out mincing fop, didn’t you?” Kaelin asked with a wink. “Come on, Kate. Tell us why in the world you’d ally yourself with a twerp like Bahru.” Lowering her eyes, Catherine informed the lawgiver that the marriage had been arranged between her father and Bahru and she had not been consulted in the matter. The Joining was to take place at the Harvest Gathering there in Diabolusia. “I did not meet Lord Bahru until the night before we left for our journey here.” “A journey of what? Two weeks?” Khenty queried. “Two and a half,” Catherine answered. “And in that time, did you come to know the man?” Kaelin asked. Catherine shrugged. “Somewhat.” “If he ever lays a hand to you here at Anubeion, I’ll take that hand off,” Khenty said as he held his glass up to Jacob. “He dared to hit her?” Kaelin asked. “Milord—” Catherine began. “Not once but twice on the ship,” Khenty said, gritting his teeth. “And four times had her locked in her cabin without food.” “You had spies on the ship?” Catherine asked. Her face was turned toward the prince. “The ship belongs to me,” he informed her. “The captain reported every incidence that occurred on it.” He looked around at her. “Every incident.” Catherine’s face turned red and she put a hand to her throat. “He was inebriated, milord.” “He was drunk,” Khenty snapped. “Even drunk, a man who attempts rape is not a man in my book.” “Rape?” Kaelin echoed. He was staring at Catherine with horror. “By the gods, that is low!” “He believed he had the right,” Catherine said, wondering why she was bothering to defend Bahru for she had been sickened by his demand that they consummate a Joining that had yet to be performed. “The only rights that man has are the ones I grant to him,” Khenty said. “The sooner he learns that, the sooner he will be on his way else he’ll go to the Beyond in the belly of a croc.”

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Catherine knew very little about the religion of Kensett but she understood the allusion to which the prince was referring. Those found unworthy were denied the Afterlife in death and were subject to spending eternity in oblivion—a fate worse than any painful death for a Kensetti. “I forgave him, milord,” Catherine said. “I have neither forgiven him nor will I ever forget what he attempted to do,” the prince said. He took up his napkin to blot his lips then pushed his chair back. “If you will excuse me, there is much work to be done this night and I must see to it before the setting of the sun.” “But you haven’t finished your meal,” Catherine protested. “I do not usually eat a noon meal. I wanted to speak with you more than I wished something to eat. I’ll get all the sustenance I will need later.” With that said, the prince was gone, leaving Catherine staring at his empty chair. “He is a complicated man, Kate,” Kaelin said, “but a fair one. He does not tolerate stupidity well and your fiancé would be well-advised not to anger him.” Catherine put down her fork. “Is he a violent man?” “There have been times when his temper has gotten the better of him but it takes a lot to goad him into such a situation,” the lawgiver replied. “I will remember that, milord.” “You, my sweet, have nothing to worry about,” he told her. “And why is that?” Kaelin smiled and lifted his glass to her. “My friend has taken you under his protection and you are safer in his shadow than in the very vault of heaven.”

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Chapter Five After the noon meal, Catherine and Olabishi took a walk in the gardens with Kaelin. He showed them a spectacular vista the recent rain had washed clean so that the grass sparkled with a healthy green color, the bougainvillea and wisteria stood out amongst the foliage, and the blue-gray mountains in the distance looked lush. “That is Mount Inferno,” Kaelin said, pointing to the highest peak on the horizon. “It is said that is where the bad dead of Diabolusia reside.” He lifted his foot to the rim of a circular stone fountain and rested his crossed arms on his knee. “Is Anubeion in Diabolusia?” she asked. Kaelin shrugged. “Yes and no. Khenty’s estate is a principality unto itself. There is also an Oceanian principality between here and Mount Inferno. Those who work on the Oceanian estate are primarily Diabolusian. Khenty’s people are from Kensett.” Catherine put a hand over her eyes to survey the jagged peaks. “I believe I see a thin stream of smoke coming from the zenith.” “You probably do,” Kaelin said. “There is a volcano inside the mountain, thus the name. My eyesight isn’t that good anymore.” He grinned. “But my hearing is getting better as my vision grows less crisp and I often hear that mountain rumbling.” “Where do the good dead of Diabolusia reside?” Catherine asked. “They go on to a place they call Cielo. It is much like the Serenian heaven or the Chalean Neamh.” He glanced over at Olabishi who was signing something to Catherine. “What did she say?” “She was giving me the Kensetti name for heaven.” “Ah, the Fields of Yaru. She is so quiet, I forget she is with us. Is she Kensetti?” Kaelin inquired. “Actually, she is from Asaraba in the Northern Sector of Rysalia,” Catherine told him. “Was she born mute?” A shadow passed over Catherine’s face. “No, she doesn’t speak because she does not have a tongue.” Kaelin flinched. “May I ask why not?” “It was a punishment her husband decreed for her but I have not been able to find out why nor will anyone tell me whatever became of him,” Catherine answered. “All I know is that she is a widow.” Kaelin looked at the small woman who was standing a few feet away with her face toward the closest mountain. “The place to where she is looking is called Mount

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Manu,” he said. “It is where the journey of the dead begins for those of the Inner Kingdom and—for evildoers—it is where existence ends.” Olabishi nodded slowly and made the sign stating this is so. Kaelin looked over at Catherine for she had sat down on the fountain’s rim. “Do you know what it is Bahru does?” he asked. “Why he was sent here?” “I know he is a taricheutes but I don’t know what that means,” she replied. “He came here to assist Prince Khenty in his duties as Lord of the Silent Land of the West. What those duties encompass is not known to me.” “You were not told that Khenty is the Preparer of the Way?” Kaelin asked. “That he is the descendant of the Great Lord Anubis?” Catherine shook her head. “I am from Chale, milord. I don’t know what any of that means.” Kaelin straightened up and took his foot from the fountain’s rim. “You must speak with Khenty, milady,” he said. “Bahru should have told you before you agreed to come to Anubeion.” She met the Serenian’s gaze. “Milord, you presume I was given a choice in the matter. I was not. My father betrothed me to Lord Bahru long before I even knew the man existed. It was a matter of honor to my parents and there was nothing I could do about it.” “Perhaps you can’t, but I know someone who will,” Kaelin mumbled. “I can not go against my father’s wishes,” Catherine said, moisture forming in her pretty green eyes. “My destiny is sealed.” “Seals were made to be broken,” Kaelin said. “That is why they are crafted of wax.” Olabishi came forward as quietly as a shadow and laid a hand on Catherine’s arm. Once assured of her companion’s attention, the Rysalian woman began to sign. When she was finished, she turned away, her attention once more on the rugged peaks of Mount Manu. “What did she say?” Kaelin inquired. “She agrees with you that I should speak with Prince Khenty. She said she was warned not to tell me about this place or its master but I should be told.” “Yes, you should,” Kaelin said. He reached out and took hold of Catherine’s upper arm. “And right now is as good a time as any.”

***** Though he searched for his employer, Kaelin could not find him and had to give up. He apologized to Catherine and explained to her that he would speak with the prince at the first opportunity for there were certain things she needed to be made privy to. “Can’t you tell me?” Catherine asked.

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Kaelin shook his head. “Khenty would prefer to be the one to tell you.” Neither Olabishi nor Holly would tell Catherine what it was that seemed so important for her to know. When she sought out Nyria later that afternoon, the housekeeper mumbled something about being too busy to converse with her and then hurried off. With no one willing to speak with her, Catherine retired to her room to read until the evening meal. “The master has much to do and sends his apologies for not joining you,” Nyria told Catherine and Olabishi when they came down for the meal. Kaelin had left earlier and Bahru was nowhere in sight. “Have you informed Lord Bahru the evening meal is being served?” Catherine asked. “He is with the master. If the master allows the taricheutes to eat, it will be a small portion to be taken as they work,” Nyria said, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Lord Bahru will learn to make the master angry is to suffer the consequences. He will be less inclined to do so after this night.” Although Catherine couldn’t seem to dredge up even a modicum of sympathy for Bahru, she was uneasy that he had made an enemy of the prince so early on in their acquaintance. Bahru had told her the support of his patron would be needed if he was to make a success of his career with the Guild and obtain the assignment in Abaddon— wherever that was—that he so coveted. “Two years in the wretched hell of Diabolusia and I will have earned the right to go to Abaddon,” Bahru had told her on their first night aboard the ship. “I will put up with anything for that plum assignment.” He had raked his small black eyes over her. “Anything.” That her fiancé despised her had been a shock to Catherine and she had asked why he had asked for her hand if that was not what he wanted. Bahru had sneered at her. “It is not you I want but what you represent,” he had snapped. “I can not have one without being forced to take the other.” Climbing the stairs to her room after a delicious meal of roast chicken, new potatoes swimming in a fragrant butter sauce, green beans sautéed with slivers of almonds and a heady wine that relaxed her though she drank only the one glass, Catherine thought again of the disdain Bahru aimed at her each time they were in the same room together. Such an attitude did not bode well for their future together. A future she was finding less and less palatable as the days passed.

***** Bahru’s stomach was growling. All he’d had to consume was stale bread and water that had tasted brackish. He had complained to Nyria that he was sure he would come down with some vile tropical fever—or a strange ailment of the intestines—for having drank the sulfur-tasting stuff. With a mulish expression on his thin face, he was

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following the housekeeper’s instructions and was now approaching the stairway that led down to Prince Khenty’s workshops. His black eyes were narrowed in anger and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he flung open the stairwell door and started down the curving stone steps to the bowels of Anubeion for he had taken in the delicious odors coming from the dining room. Flickering rushes placed along the old stone wall lit the way down the serpentine stairs. The smell of resin wafted through the air and the atmosphere grew cooler the lower the taricheutes descended. The cuffs of his white trousers dragged over the wet stone and in places the steps were so slick he had to reach out to grasp the iron railing stapled to the wall. In the distance came the sound of water lapping against an unseen shore and the tang of salt filled the air. Now and again low moans would echo against the stone and piercing shrieks—far off and sounding hopeless, terrified—would reach the taricheutes’ ears. With each new sound, the taricheutes would shiver and dig his fingernails into the creases of his hands. Such woeful sounds were part and parcel of his profession. Darkness loomed up at the bottom of the stone steps and Bahru was careful to stretch his foot forward to feel for the level ground ahead of him. He stepped cautiously around a massive stone jutting up before him for the faint glimmer of light flickered beyond. The closer the taricheutes came to the light, the colder the air became. He was shivering by the time he reached a small room with a low ceiling in which several people sat on gilded chairs. “You took your time in joining us.” Prince Khenty’s voice was pitched low and threaded through with annoyance. “I would have been here sooner, Your Grace, but—” “Sehkmem, rise and come to me,” Khenty cut him off. A young man got up from one of the chairs and came forward. His eyes were dull, his face expressionless and the loincloth he wore barely covered his thin hips. Barefoot, he made no sound as he walked to the prince. Khenty took the young man in his arms and lifted him, carrying him easily into The Pure Place to a long stone table that stood in the center of the next room. Placing his burden on the cold slab, the prince put his hand over the young man’s face. “Thy brow is under the protection of Anubis, and thy head and face, O beautiful one, are before the holy Hawk. The Great God looketh upon thee and he leadeth thee along the path of happiness. Sepulchral meals are bestowed upon thee, and he overthroweth for thee thine enemies, setting them under thy feet in the presence of the Great Company of the Gods who dwell in the House of the Great Aged One which is in Anu.” A slow exhalation of breath issued from the young man’s mouth and his eyes closed slowly. He lay perfectly still, death gathering him to Her bosom in the blink of an eye.

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Black as the night, a large man came from the shadows, startling Bahru. In the giant’s hand was an obsidian knife, the gilded hilt all but hidden in the massive palm. “Prepare his body with care and gentleness, paraschistes,” Khenty said quietly, and stood back, his arms crossed over his bare chest. “Taricheutes, begin your preparations.” Bahru bowed low and set about taking off his white trousers and kameez until he was bare of all save the white linen kilt that covered his hips. The paunch of his belly extended over the waistband of the kilt and jiggled as he turned to take the instruments of his trade down from shelves ranged along the stone walls. Khenty looked with distaste upon the embalmer who had been sent to him from Asaraba. Not only did the man’s protruding gut and spindly legs offend the prince, Bahru’s adherence to the old ways of shaving away all his body hair emphasized the taricheutes’ effeminate nature. “Things have changed a great deal over the centuries, haven’t they, Your Grace?” Bahru asked as he laid his instruments on a tray. “I must say I prefer the old rituals to the new. My—” “Perform your job in silence, taricheutes,” Khenty commanded. “Show respect for the dead.” Bahru clamped his lips shut but his eyes blazed with anger. He gave the impression he was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a disrespectful manner and he keenly resented it. A slow, taunting smile stretched over Khenty’s finely chiseled lips. He had found the taricheutes’ weakness and had every intention of pushing that weakness to its limits. Long into the evening Bahru worked at his ancestral trade, his brow dripping with heat as he did the dual jobs of excising the internal organs from the dead then plunging the bodies into heated baths of natron after having coated them first with bitumen. He would often cast his eyes to the table upon which the man Hasani worked his elegant magic—wrapping previously embalmed bodies in pristine strips of linen. Prince Khenty kept watch over them both, never moving, never speaking, his gaze missing nothing. The sight of the Lord of the Silent Land of the West standing with his brawny arms crossed over his sweaty chest, his schenti—the white linen loincloth he wore over his lean hips—fitting him without a wrinkle and accentuating the dark of his muscular legs would have turned the head of any maiden and many a male—such as Bahru. Bahru jumped when the prince spoke at last, his soft words directed to Hasani. “Will there be one whose mouth is to be opened and who is to walk the path this night?” Khenty asked. “No, milord,” Hasani replied. “Tomorrow there will be three. They have attained their seventy days. I will stagger their departures for you.”

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Khenty sighed deeply. “Is that your last traveler, taricheutes?” he asked Bahru. “She is, Your Grace,” Bahru replied in a weary tone. He ran the back of his forearm over his sweaty forehead, knocking his wig askew. “When you are finished with her, help Hasani with his tasks. Learn from him. He is a master of his craft.” Bahru seemed too weary to do anything but nod his agreement. He was filling the fourth canopic jar with the organ of his patient so did not look up as his master departed the room. Khenty knew it was well after midnight. He had missed his evening meal but was consoled by the fact that the taricheutes had missed his as well. He pitied Hasani but knew the coachytes—the binder—would find sustenance when his job was finished for the day. Tired, hungry and fighting a headache that throbbed at his temples, the prince climbed the stairs slowly, the soles of his bare feet cool on the damp stone. All he wanted was a thick slab of meat between two slices of buttered bread and a glass of iced beer before taking his bath and climbing naked beneath the soft linen sheets of his bed. Making his way to up through the twisting stairway beneath the main house, he was looking forward to walking out into the night air on his way to the detached kitchen of his home. The air was cool against his bare chest as he left the safety of the back veranda and ventured out into a light misting rain. It pebbled on his flesh and made him draw in a long, satisfied breath. There was a soft light glowing in the kitchen and he knew Holly would have provided for him in her quiet, understated way. Five minutes later, the weary Lord of Anubeion left the kitchen with an icy glass of beer from the storage bin in one hand and a thick sandwich in the other. He had to set the glass of beer down on the kitchen’s veranda to close the door and when he turned around, he looked up and saw Catherine standing at her window. His heart thudded in his chest as he watched her. She was wearing a green silken gown through which the lamplight behind her silhouetted her shapely body. Her burgundy-colored hair was flowing freely about her shoulders and down her back, hanging in ringlets over her lush breasts. Though he could not see her face, everything else about her made his body harden with urgent need. The beer forgotten, he tossed the sandwich aside and started into the house, his palms itching to feel her flesh beneath them. The fangs that were slowly sprouting in his mouth ached to taste her sweetness. For just a split second Catherine gasped as the door to her bedchamber opened and she saw the prince standing there. For just the blink of an eye she panicked at the sight of the intruder’s bare chest and legs, but his enthrallment was cast over her and she stilled, her eyes glazing as he strode toward her. “My beauty,” he said, and took her into his arms, bringing her up against his hard chest. 53

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Deep in the trance in which he had placed her, Catherine made no move as he molded his hands to her body—touching her in places that set her blood to boiling. She did not protest as he divested her of the gown that hid her nakedness from him. She put her arms obediently around his neck when he lifted her and took her to the bed. It took him but a moment to step out of his kilt and join her on the mattress. He lay atop her, aching to drive his shaft deep into her body, to pierce that little obstruction no man save he had ever touched. His body was on fire with wanting her. His sac throbbed, burned, ached, to possess her. “My sweet Catherine,” he said as he writhed atop her, wanting so desperately to feel every inch of her tender flesh. He nudged her legs apart with his knees and settled his lower body between them. His hands were on her lush breasts, his mouth at her navel as he rained kisses on the soft mound of her belly. He slid farther down on the bed until he could enclose her clit and suckle it, stabbing his tongue against that erect little nubbin. Her hands came up and she buried them in his thick black hair, her fingernails grazing his scalp. It spurred him on and he hooked his hands beneath her thighs and lifted her so he could taste all of her. He lapped at her moist flesh, licked her from clit to the rippled flesh of her anus, growling as she moaned at his invasion. He thrust his tongue into her sheath then latched onto her love pearl once more. He brought her to wave after wave of release until she was straining to get away from his lips, his tongue, the finger he had insinuated into her ass to prolong and intensify her climax. When she was drained, depleted, as surely sated as he could make her, he flicked his tongue over her to taste the last ooze of her juices then slid up in the bed once more, his fangs extended. Before he left her, he gently put her gown back on her then bent over to place a soft kiss upon her brow.

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Chapter Six Catherine opened her eyes as she became aware of the deep softness beneath her head. She smiled dreamily and stretched, turning over to press her cheek to the cool surface of the pillowcase. She stared across her bedchamber to the tiny sliver of light peeking through the drapes, wondering why she felt so lethargic. She sat up slowly, shielding her eyes, for the light was very bright—far brighter than normal—and she realized it was much later in the day than she usually arose. Tossing the covers aside, she started to get out of the bed but felt a momentary dizziness overtake her and put her fingers to her temple where her blood seemed to be throbbing hard. The room spun crazily for a moment. She closed her eyes, feeling a touch of nausea at the vertigo. The sound of a key turning in the lock barely distracted her from the sick feeling that had overcome her. The housekeeper came silently to the bed and slid a hand beneath Catherine’s back to steady her. “Drink this,” Nyria said, and thrust a glass under Catherine’s nose. It seemed to Catherine as though she had no control over whether or not to drink the liquid. She felt compelled to do so. Surprised by her eagerness to do as she was ordered, she took the glass from the housekeeper and drank willingly, experiencing a rather pleasant taste of wild cherries in the lavender-colored brew. “Lie back until the elixir has had a chance to work,” Nyria advised, ruffling Catherine’s covers as the young woman did as she was told. Drawing the covers over her charge, the housekeeper stood primly at the bedside. “How do you feel?” “I feel strange,” Catherine said, putting a hand to her temple once more. “That is to be expected,” Nyria replied. “Your long journey to Diabolusia, the food and water here is different than that to which you are accustomed—such may cause your system to rebel. You must give your body time to adjust to your new environs.” Catherine felt chilled and pulled the covers up to her neck yet her flesh seemed overly warm to her. “Do I have a fever?” she asked. She knew tropical climates could produce strange maladies. Nyria pursed her lips but placed a palm to Catherine’s brow. “You are a bit warm. Perhaps you should remain abed until you feel better.” Walking to the windows, she pulled the drapes closer together, eliminating the light that shined there. The thought of lazing in the bed did not appeal to Catherine. She wanted to get at cleaning the rooms of the house but her stomach rebelled at the thought of standing and she sank deeper into the covers. “You may be right,” she agreed.

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The housekeeper nodded and turned to go. “When you are ready to break your fast, the bellpull is there to the side of your bed.” “Might I bother you for something cool to drink?” “I will send something up with Jacob,” Nyria said, and continued walking. She closed the door firmly behind her when she left. A slight shiver ran through Catherine. Her head hurt and she felt so weak it was all she could do to lift her hand to her throat where pain seemed to lance along the left side. She touched a place that appeared very sore. Her fingertips traced over two raised spots that were very sensitive to the touch. Rubbing at the discomfort there, she once more felt the nausea and vertigo and lowered her hand, closing her eyes to the feeling. Had she come down with a tropical disease? she wondered. Had she been stung, bitten by some insect or creature lurking about the room? The thought of some strange life form scuttling under the covers made her toss the linens aside. There was a light knock upon her door and thinking it was Olabishi, she bid her visitor enter. She was surprised to see Prince Khenty come into her room. “Milady, how do you feel this morning?” he asked, and came to sit on the bed beside her, taking her hand in his. Mortified at his brazenness, Catherine was deeply embarrassed the prince was there with her as she lay in her nightgown, the covers cast aside, her bare feet and ankles exposed to his sight. Her face flamed and she ducked her chin into the safety of her pillow. “Milady, there is no need for discomfort,” he said. He brought her hand to his lips, turned the palm upward and placed a light kiss on the heel of her hand. “I have nothing but great respect for you.” Catherine felt a tremor run through her. His hand was cool against hers. In the dim light of the room, his eyes were glowing like golden jewels as he looked down at her and the long sweep of his lashes as he slowly blinked, caught and held her attention. “I am a bit woozy,” she told him. “So Nyria said. I came to you as soon as I heard you were feeling unwell. The elixir will help. You have a touch of what the locals call calentura. It will pass in an hour or two.” “An hour or—?” she gasped. “Kaelin tells me you are anxious to have the house cleaned and after a cursory inspection of it this morn, I can understand why,” he interrupted her. “I must tell you I have been so busy of late that I have allowed things to slide. I have informed Nyria to call in the plantation women and they will begin giving the place a thorough cleaning this afternoon.” “It is so dark in the rooms,” she said, and winced at the remark. She eased her hand from his. She couldn’t think straight with him touching her.

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“Yes well, that too will be remedied. Open all the drapes if you are of a mind to,” he said. “Of necessity, my work is done mostly at night and I tend to sleep through the daylight hours but hopefully now that you are here to help me with my work, things can get back to a more manageable schedule.” She was looking into his handsome face and feeling the effect of it on her womanly parts. “Thank you, Your—” “Khenty,” he said firmly. “Khenty,” she repeated. She felt as though she were falling into his eyes and had to look away. He smiled—very slowly—and the warmth of his smile settled deep in her belly where it stirred her womb and sent a wave of heat between her legs. She squirmed beneath his sultry look. “Have a good day, milady,” he said, getting up from the bed. The white of his kameez was striking against his dark skin and the trousers fit his lean flanks as though he had been poured into them. As he moved away from her bed, she became aware that he was barefoot, and for some reason that made heat pool once more in her loins. And then he was gone—taking the warmth of the morning with him. She was still staring at the door when Olabishi came to stand at the entrance of her room, her hands clasped together at her waist. “How are you?” Catherine signed. Olabishi replied she was well and to her companion’s query of how she had slept, the diminutive woman answered she had slept soundly. “May I have a moment of your time?” Ola signed. “Yes.” Coming into Catherine’s room, Ola did not close the door but walked to the bed and stood there for a moment as though gathering her thoughts. “Is something wrong?” Catherine asked. Olabishi lifted her chin. “Lord Bahru is sending me back to Asaraba with Mr. Beasely,” Ola replied with her hands. “I am to leave later this afternoon.” “Why?” Catherine asked, her eyes full of concern. “Lord Bahru says my services are no longer needed and that I am a burden to him.” Catherine’s mouth tightened. “Well, we’ll see about that!” she promised, and tried to rise only to find she was still dizzy. She lay back down, flinging out a hand in frustration. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Olabishi placed a hand to her companion’s forehead and frowned. “You have a slight fever,” she signed. “Nyria said the same thing,” Catherine told her. She touched her neck. “I believe something bit me in the night.”

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Olabishi’s eyes widened and she took a step back from the bed. She signed, “I will seek out the master and—” “He was here earlier,” Catherine interrupted her. “He says I have a touch of something or other and that it will pass in a short while.” Ola nodded then cast her eyes downward. She stood there for a moment then looked up, her hands moving quickly as she spoke. “I wish to go home, milady. Please do not speak with Lord Bahru. I do not like it here.” Catherine’s brows drew together. “Has someone made you feel this way, Ola?” she asked. The small woman shook her head then signed that she wanted to be among her people in a land she knew. She had performed her duty to Catherine by escorting her to this land and now she was ready to go back to her people. Sighing deeply for she had grown very fond of Ola, Catherine assured the woman she would not interfere if it was Ola’s wish to return to Rysalia. “I will miss you though,” she added. Ola’s smile was hesitant then seemed sad. She bowed slightly then turned away. She quietly left the room, closing the door gently behind her passing. Feeling a bit better, Catherine tried once more to get up but the room continued to shift around her and she lay back with an annoyed rush of breath pushing from her lips. She was staring up at the ceiling when Nyria came back. “Are you feeling any better?” the housekeeper asked. “I’m still dizzy,” Catherine complained. “I have another elixir. The master asks you to drink it very slowly,” Nyria said as she came to the bed. She slid a hand under Catherine’s neck and helped her to raise enough to sip the brew. A very pleasant taste spread over Catherine’s taste buds. Slightly tangy but with a sweetness she found went down smoothly made her feel warm inside, though it was cool on her tongue. “What is that flavor?” she asked as Nyria slid her hand from beneath Catherine’s head. “Mango,” Nyria said, “with a touch of lime juice and the master’s magical powders.” She shrugged. “Don’t ask what kind of powders for I do not know nor would I ask.” “It tasted very good.” “Try to rise now,” Nyria ordered. Catherine gingerly sat up and was relieved to find her head was no longer spinning. She was able to swing her legs from the bed and sit on the edge without the room canting off center. She smiled.

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“Better?” “Much better, Nyria,” Catherine agreed. “Shall I choose something for you to wear today or would you prefer to do so?” The housekeeper was moving toward the armoire. “Something lightweight and cool would be nice,” Catherine said. “Something I can wear to help the women clean.” Nyria pursed her lips but remained silent as she picked a cotton day dress from among those hanging in the armoire. She brought it over to the bed then went to retrieve underwear for Catherine. “There is fresh water in the basin,” Nyria told her. She nodded toward the screen that hid the copper tub from view. Walking slowly and carefully over to the bathing area of the room, Catherine felt well enough. She relieved herself, pulled off her gown and washed her face, neck and underarms. Nyria hung the underwear over the screen—as well as the dress—and was waiting for Catherine when the young woman had finished dressing. “The master may be able to dine with you at the noon meal, but do not be surprised if he does not appear,” the housekeeper informed her. “I am amazed he is up and about so early since I am sure he had a late evening yesterday.” She lifted her chin. “Lord Bahru is still abed.” Catherine smoothed the front of her dress. “He sleeps in nearly every day, Nyria. That is his custom.” “Laziness seems to be his custom,” Nyria complained. “I suppose it does appear to be that way,” Catherine agreed. “He says he is a night person.” Nyria sniffed then stood aside for Catherine to precede her from the room. “Are the women here already?” she asked for sounds were coming from below. “They arrived ten minutes ago and I have set them to doing what I thought you would order done. You may direct them as you see fit. They will remain until an hour before sunset.” Catherine glanced at the housekeeper as they reached the stairway. Something odd lurked in Nyria’s expression and Catherine was loath to go ahead of the woman down the winding staircase. She leaned against the wall, pretending to adjust her slipper and Nyria—after a moment’s hesitation and a sniff of disdain—started down the stairs. There were burly men moving the furniture about in the parlor, young boys rolling up the carpet to be taken outside to be beaten and cleaned while several women were busy washing and polishing knickknacks, dusting the paintings and sweeping up behind the men who were carrying the carpets out. No one seemed willing to touch the large painting of Prince Khenty and even seemed to be reluctant to look at the imposing portrait.

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“Tell them what you wish done and they will do it,” Nyria said. “I must be about my own duties.” Before Catherine could reply to the housekeeper, Nyria was gone. “What duties?” Catherine mumbled to herself. She looked up at the prince’s portrait. “Or shouldn’t I ask?” It would turn out to be a long, hot and tiring day for Catherine broken only by the noon meal for which her employer did not show. Since Kaelin had left the day before she ate alone—depressed—disappointed the prince had not come to eat with her. Even Olabishi had not come down to eat for the woman was busy packing her belongings, getting ready to leave Anubeion later that day. Admitting to herself that she had been looking forward to eating with the prince, Catherine pushed the food around her plate, sluggishly eating Holly’s delicious fare, feeling abandoned and unwanted. Going back to work after her lonely meal, she did not ask the plantation women to do anything she didn’t help them do. What had first been a stilted, uneasy endeavor soon became joyful with both the women and their men helpers laughing and talking openly amongst themselves and with Catherine. Taking time out only to say goodbye to Olabishi and to walk with the woman to Mr. Beasely’s wagon, the day seemed to pass by in a blur of excitement. When the sun began to lower and the workers became edgy, Catherine realized they were anxious to leave Anubeion and she told them to come back the next day to tackle more rooms. “And bring me a slice of that pie you were teasing us with, Maria!” Catherine called out to a large, heavy-busted woman who had been bragging about something she called key lime pie. From the stairway landing where he’d been standing for the last fifteen minutes or so, Khenty watched the plantation folk smiling and conversing easily with Catherine. He was leaning against the railing, his forearms on the top rail, his fingers threaded together, observing the way the burgundy-haired woman had taken over the challenge of his home and was well pleased with her abilities and her calm way of handling the servants. He could tell the plantation people liked and trusted her and felt comfortable in her presence. “Your Grace?” Khenty frowned at the grating sound of Lord Bahru’s voice and swung his head toward the man. “What is it, taricheutes?” Bahru flinched at the tone and at the derogatory way in which the prince said his title. “I am afraid I woke late in the day and your servant tells me I will have to wait until supper before I may break my fast. I—” “The sun is almost set,” Khenty observed, “and you are just now getting up?” “I worked late,” Bahru said. “Hasani was teaching me the intricacies of the wrapping and—” “You will eat when we eat,” Khenty said. “You have waited this long. You can wait another hour.” 60

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Grinding his teeth, Bahru bowed respectfully and went back into his room. “Pompous ass,” Khenty labeled the man, and pushed away from the railing. Padding barefoot down the stairs, he walked into the parlor and was amazed at its transformation. The drapes were thrown back and a stirring view of the setting sun was framed behind the mullioned windows. Bright pinks and oranges vied with scarlet reds and gold to streak the horizon. It was a breathtaking sight and standing at the window watching this marvel of nature’s beauty was Catherine, her back to the room. She sensed him even before he came to stand directly behind her, the scent of his aftershave wafting beneath her nostrils. He was so close she could feel his body heat and his warm breath fanning the hairs that had escaped her braid at the nape of her neck. “It is beautiful, is it not?” he asked in a low, soft voice. “Very,” she replied, and could feel the acceleration of her heart. He put his arms to either side of her—his palms on the window frame—pinning her in. She was having trouble drawing breath for there was a strange feeling in her chest and her breathing was quick and shallow. The way he was standing behind her seemed all too familiar to her and it brought warmth to her cheeks. “But the view is only half as beautiful as the one observing it,” he whispered. “Milord,” she chastised in a breaking voice. His lips were at her ear and the warmth of his breath was sending tremors down her neck and spine. “You know you belong with me,” he said. “I am betrothed,” she said, hating the very sound of the words and wishing they were not true. “I am his master,” he reminded her. “As such, my wishes supersede his.” “Please,” she whispered, closing her eyes to the soft touch of his mouth against the column of her throat. She was trembling, dragging ragged breaths into her lungs. “Do you remember your Chalean history, Katie?” he asked. Her nickname on his lips sounded far too intimate and personal but Catherine reveled in hearing it. “R-regarding what, milord?” she questioned. “Jus primae noctis,” he whispered. “Milord!” she said. “There is no such law in Chale. That is an old myth told to frighten young women.” “Yes, but it is a law in Diabolusia,” he told her. “The Right of the First Night is alive and well in this land, although I have never exercised that right.” Another tremor shook Catherine as his words settled into the pit of her belly and took root. She had no way of knowing if it was indeed a law in Diabolusia, but the

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rights of a feudal lord to claim a virgin on her wedding night sent chills through her soul. “Not that I would claim such a right of you,” he said, planting soft kisses down her neck and onto her shoulder. “I will simply declare your betrothal null and void and place myself as your intended.” “You would not,” she said, almost panting beneath the press of his warm body against her back. “Wouldn’t I?” he countered. He took his right hand from the window frame and brought it to her left breast, massaging her gently through the thin cotton of her bodice. “You know damned well I would.” She closed her eyes to the masterful touch that was kneading her flesh. As his thumb passed over her straining nipple to tighten it to a hard little nub, she felt her knees growing weak. “I am claiming you for my own, Catherine Regina Brell,” he stated. “You are mine.” “Bahru will—” “Stand aside,” Khenty said. “He has no choice in the matter. Do you really think I would allow that half man to touch you, Kate?” His hand molded firmly to her breast. “To lie with you?” His lips moved across her shoulder as her head fell to one side to allow him better access. “To put his limpid flesh into your hot sheath?” Heat flamed up Catherine’s face at his bold words and she put up a hand to cover his questing one, thinking to deny him this intimate touching, but once the dark, crisp hairs on the back of his hand came into contact with her palm, she lost all resolve and did nothing more than press his hand tighter to her flesh. “I will tell him you are no longer his to abuse,” Khenty stated. “Your engagement to the taricheutes is voided as of this moment.” “Milord, you can’t—” “I can and I have,” he replied, and took his left hand from the window to place it at the junction of her thighs, his fingers sliding between her legs through the obstruction of the fabric. “Please!” she gasped, her legs threatening to give way. “We have only just met and know nothing of one another. How can you make these assertions?” “Quite easily, I assure you. I have taken from you twice. Once more is needed to complete the ritual. Before the sun sets on another day, you will be completely mine in soul and body,” he said, and removed his hands, stepping back so quickly, she stumbled forward and had to reach out to grab the window frame to keep from falling. She turned around to confront him but he was gone, having left as quickly and as quietly as he had appeared. “Ritual?” she repeated. “What ritual? What did you take from me?” She put a hand to her neck where she had found two tiny punctures. She had thought them the night work of a spider but now she was not so sure.

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Chapter Seven “Pay good heed to the weighing in the Balance of the heart of the Osiris, the young woman of Basaraba, Beketaten, whose word is truth, and place thou her heart in the seat of truth in the presence of the Great God,” Khenty said to the Assessor Gods. As he came forward in the Hall of Two Truths at the sixth hour, he held the hand of a plainlooking woman in her mid twenties in his right hand and in his left he carried a golden ankh. Upon his face he wore the glittering black mask of a dog, the adornment of his office as a priest of the Great God Anubis. The woman Beketaten was trembling as she stepped before the scales. Her heart lay in an alabaster jar and it was placed upon one of the pans of the scales. On the other scale was placed the Feather of Maat. With the golden ankh, Khenty nudged the scale in the woman’s favor then stood back to await the Weighing of the Heart to determine if she had led a pure and honest life. As the pan with the feather fell below that of the woman’s heart, a collective sigh was heard throughout the cavern and Amemait, the Devourer of Dead Souls, slipped silently away for there would be no need for her to consume a guilty heart. Khenty let go of the woman’s hand and stood back as Thoth recorded the judgment upon his tablet. He listened as Baketaten greeted the forty-two assembled gods then began her Negative Confessions. “I have committed no evil upon men. I have not oppressed the members of my family. I…” On and on the confession went. The ritual seemed to take forever and there were four more travelers yet to be led across the Celestial Waters of Nu in the papyrus boat ferried by Mahaf within the next four days. Each trip, Aken, the custodian of the boat would need to be awakened. It was a lengthy process that lasted until the first rays of the sun struck in the east. Khenty’s mind was not on the ceremony playing out before him, although he was happy when Baketaten was finally allowed to begin her journey through the underworld. He sighed and started back through the Hall of Two Truths, removing his mask as he went. He bowed respectfully to Ament, the goddess who watched over the gates of the underworld and offered bread and water to the newly dead. “You look tired, milord,” Ament said to him. “It has been a long night, milady,” he replied, politely covering a yawn. He spoke in passing to Aker, the first guardian of the gates, and then went over to awaken Aken and Mahaf so he could be ferried home to Anubeion.

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Grumbling, Aken gave his permission for Mahaf to take the boat before going back to his comfortable bed. The oily black waters slipped thickly beneath the boat’s keel as Khenty settled back in the padded chair reserved for The Conductor of Souls. Beneath the craggy ceiling of the cavern hideous creatures winged their way over the boat and carnivorous beasts too horrible to name surfaced to snap at the passing craft. Along the stalactites and stalagmites that pierced the roof and drove up through the filthy waters, serpents coiled and slithered, hissed and struck at the two passengers. The leathery wings of the flyers stirred the sulfurous, smoke-filled air to a choking muskiness that burned the eyes and throat, making it difficult to draw breath in the heated atmosphere. It was a dark and dismal place and filled with all manner of evil beings whose red eyes peered from the darkness. “A bad night is this one,” Mahaf said. “A night to which I will rejoice bidding farewell,” Khenty said wearily. He closed his eyes to the sinister sights surrounding him. He had seen the monsters thousands of times, had smelled their vile breath and felt their damp oppression on his naked shoulders but still it bothered him. As he had many times over the years, he wished it had been his twin brother who had inherited the title of Lord of the Silent Lands of the West and not him. But he was the elder of the two and—by right—had been thrust into his position. “There are many of our people who have gone to lands beyond our shores. Many are in the hellish mountains of Diabolusia. I am sending you there to guide them safely home, my son,” Khenty’s father had announced. “You are their guardian. Keep vigilant watch over the burial lands in the new world and see they are not desecrated.” Khenty opened his eyes, ran a tired hand over his face. The boat was gliding over cleaner water now and the air was not fouled by the evil breath of monstrous beasts. Off to his left was the long serpentine pathway that led deep into Mount Muat where his dead could lay untouched by robbers’ hands. Twelve Medjai warriors patrolled the sanctuary of the dead at all times and any one who dared enter the holy caverns would never see the light of day again. Silent as the grave itself the Medjai were almost invisible, their black robes and obsidian blades blending in with the darkness surrounding them. Climbing out of the boat, Khenty glimpsed one of the stealthy warriors and knew the man would not have allowed himself to be seen unless he wanted to speak with his master. Dismissing Mahaf, Khenty walked along the shore, the waters lapping at his bare feet. “Greetings, Majestic One,” the warrior said so softly no one else but Khenty could have heard. “Something is troubling you, Rajab?” The captain of the Medjai stepped forward. “The one called Bahru has cast his eyes upon the younger of my sons,” Rajab said. “I fear for the young one’s honor.”

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Khenty’s eyes narrowed. “Where did the taricheutes see your boy?” “Ahmes was among those who helped to clean your abode this past day,” Rajab replied. “He accompanied his mother.” Anger passed over Khenty’s face. “How old is this boy?” “He will be ten in three months, Majestic One,” the warrior answered. Clenching his hands into fists, Khenty swore beneath his breath. “Did the taricheutes lay hands to Ahmes?” “He tried, but my son is brave and he pushed the taricheutes’ hand away. He stayed close to his mother’s side thereafter.” Rajab lowered his eyes. “My son will be accompanying his mother tomorrow and I fear—” “You have nothing to fear, Rajab,” Khenty told him. “I will see to the matter.” “You have my eternal gratitude, Majestic One.” Without another word, the warrior stepped back into the darker shadows and was gone. Furious the high priest had sent him such a perverted man, Khenty was filled with wrath by the time he climbed the stone steps from the caverns to the room beneath his mansion. Pushing open the door, he took the stairs to the upper floor two at a time, his anger a goad that spurred him with a razor-sharp blade. Not even bothering to use the key to unlock Bahru’s room, he kicked it open, mindless of the pain along the sole of his foot. Bahru squealed like a young girl when the master of Anubeion grabbed him by his sleep shirt and dragged him up. He had awakened from a sound sleep, the crashing open of the door bringing him to a sitting position but the situation having no meaning for him in his befuddled state. He slapped at the hands that had jerked him up. “Put your hands down!” Khenty shouted. “Put them down or by the gods I will break them off at the wrist!” Recognizing the prince’s voice, Bahru stilled, whimpering as he was shaken like a rag doll in the strong hands of Khenty Ben-Alkazar. “There is nothing I detest more than a half man who preys on children,” Khenty snarled, tightening his grip on Bahru’s shirt. He was almost nose to nose with the taricheutes, his fierce stare boring into Bahru’s chalky face. “Let me hear one more complaint that you have dared put your filthy hands to one of my people and I swear I will bury you up to your neck in the sand and leave you for the scorpions to feast upon. Do you understand me, you sick bastard?” “Yes, Your Grace!” Bahru sobbed, tears coursing down his face. Hissing like an angry viper, Khenty shoved the taricheutes away from him and stalked out of the room. He came up short when he saw Catherine standing in the hall. “What’s happened?” Catherine asked. Forgetting he had ordered Nyria not to lock Catherine in her room at night, Khenty stood there raking his hands through his hair, wondering how she had managed to get out of her quarters. “Why are you up, milady?” he demanded. 65

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“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, taking a step toward him. She glanced at Bahru’s door. “What did he do?” Khenty walked to her and took her arm. “You should be abed,” he said, pulling her along with him into her room. Catherine allowed him to lead her to the bed. Obediently, she climbed up on the soft mattress, sensing he was a man not to be argued with at that moment. She lay down and said nothing as he flung the covers over her and tucked her in. She looked up at him as he stood there, his brow furrowed. “Can you tell me what has made you so angry?” she asked. Khenty looked down at his bare feet and winced. His feet were dirty. “I need a bath,” he said, but instead sat down on the bed beside her and bent forward, propping his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. “I wanted to kill that son of a bitch and I should have.” Catherine sat up and put her hand on his bare back. “Tell me.” She soothed her hand up and down his spine. “He is a half man,” he told her. “I don’t understand.” He turned his head to look at her. “He prefers boys to girls,” he stated bluntly. “Little boys.” Catherine’s eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, her hand stilling on his flesh. “And he tried to touch one of the boys who came here with his mother to help clean. The boy is the son of a Medjai.” “Which boy was this?” she asked. “Ahmes.” Nodding slowly, Catherine told him the boy was very good-looking. “I warned him if he tried to corrupt one of my people again, I’d bury him alive and I will!” Khenty stated. He got up from the bed and began pacing, threading his fingers through his hair over and over again in his agitation. “I may kill him anyway just for the hell of it!” She watched him pace back and forth several times before she tossed the covers aside and went to him, stopping him by putting her hands to his cheeks. “You look tired and should get some sleep. I doubt Bahru will make another attempt to touch what he shouldn’t.” He covered her hands with his and stared down into her beautiful green eyes. “Let me sleep with you,” he asked. Catherine stiffened. “What?” “I just want to be with you, Catherine.” “That wouldn’t be right, milord. I—”

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“I would not dishonor you,” he pledged. “All I want is to lie beside you, to hold you. Nothing more.” “Khenty—” “I give you my word that I will not dishonor you. I will wait until the Joining words are spoken before I lay claim to you as my woman and then not even the gods themselves could keep me from taking you.” His low words drove straight into her womb and made it leap. She felt heat gathering between her legs and knew she would be treading on dangerous ground if she welcomed him into her bed. But the thought of lying in his arms was an enticement she found hard to resist. “Please?” he whispered. “I need to be with you this night. I need to hold you.” “I am still betrothed to Bahru,” she reminded him. “I told you I have annulled that travesty!” he growled through clenched teeth. “I will go back to his room and tell him—” “My father would disown me if he knew I was even contemplating breaking my vows,” she cut in. “It is not only a matter of honor but a legal matter as well.” “But was it a vow you made or one your father made for you?” he countered. “Did you swear to wed the taricheutes?” “I was not asked to make such a vow,” she said. “Did you consent to the Joining?” “I did not speak out against it,” she admitted. “Did you give your consent?” he pressed. “By saying nothing, my consent was implied,” she reminded him. “Without you actually voicing your agreement to the betrothal, a vow made on your behalf, without your consent, is not binding in Diabolusia. You are now a citizen of this country and as such you are bound by its laws—as is the taricheutes. I have already sent word to Kaelin for him to draw up the papers for our betrothal. He will have those ready come morning.” Catherine arched a brow. “You are sure of yourself, aren’t you, milord?” “I know what I want and I let no man stand in the way of my having it,” he stated boldly. “And what exactly is it you want?” she asked. “You.” They stared at one another for a long moment. Catherine chewed on her lower lip, her gaze locked with his, the uncertainty spreading over her lovely features. “I am going to make you want me, Kate,” he said in a husky voice. “It is but a matter of time.” “You are making this difficult for me,” she protested. “You’re not giving me time to think.” 67

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“I rather thought I was making it easy for you,” he countered. “I want you, Kate. I intend that you be mine. Do you really want to be shackled to a half man like Bahru?” His eyes were steady on hers and she felt the strength of him, the deliberate power he wielded so easily and knew she was fighting a losing battle. Her body wanted this man, her soul called to his, had from the moment she saw his portrait. “No,” she said honestly. “I have no desire to spend my life with Bahru.” “Then accept me, Kate,” he whispered. “I will lay the world at your feet.” Catherine sighed, giving in, no longer able to fight the attraction she felt for him, and then she glanced down at his feet. “Prince or not, you’ll not climb into my bed with mud on your toes,” she declared. A slow grin tugged at Khenty’s lips. He held up a hand, fingers spread. “Five minutes,” he said, walking backward. “Just give me five minutes!” With that he rushed from the room. Catherine stood where he’d left her in the center of the room, chewing on her lip. She knew what she was about to do was wrong, would be construed by her parents as grounds to disown her but she really didn’t care. From the very second she was introduced to Bahru, her soul had cringed at the thought of being his wife. Although until that night she had not known about his perversion, she had suspected something was not normal about the man for his presence often made her flesh crawl. Looking back now at the way he had stared at young boys on the wharves, the many times he had called for the cabin boy onboard the ship, all of his strange behavior made sense. She shuddered, relieved she would not have to live with such a—what had Khenty called him?—half man. She turned as Khenty entered her room and drew in a quick breath. His shoulderlength hair was wet—curling on his broad shoulders, his bare chest glistened with drops of water and the play of light across those drops accentuated the hardness of his pectoral muscles. His lower body was clad in soft white cotton trousers that fit him like a second skin and on his feet were black leather sandals. Around his neck hung a towel, which he used to wipe at the moisture on his face. “That was quick,” she said, her lips twitching. She twisted her fingers together at her waist. “Very quick.” “I dove into the pool,” he said with a shrug, “and swam like a fiend.” “You have a pool in the mansion?” she asked. “There is a bathing pool in my room,” he said. “The water is like ice.” He came toward her. “I’m freezing, milady. Will you warm me?” Her heart thudded hard in her chest. “You could not have your pool heated, milord?” she asked. He was standing before her and she reached up to smooth the wet hair back from his forehead. “It’s fed from an artesian well,” he mumbled, and took her hand to press its palm to his lips.

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“Even so,” she said, letting the words hang in the air. “Even so,” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. She was so warm against him—her soft body fitting against his harder one as though the gods had designed it to be that way. Her hair smelled of lemons and the faint scent of gardenia tickled his nose. “I like that perfume,” he said, rubbing his chin along the side of her head. “Gardenia?” “Yes,” she said. Her hands slid from his waist up his back and she held him to her. It was a giving in, an offering and a silent response to the male in him. Dipping his knees, he swung her into his arms, her one hand coming around to press lightly upon his chest. He carried her to the bed and placed her there, coming over her, rolling to his side so he was in the center of the wide bed and she was tucked safely in his arms, her head on his shoulder, their fingers laced together. “This,” he said with a sigh. “This I have waited for all the day. It makes my job tolerable.” She placed a soft kiss upon his shoulder. “What exactly is it you do, milord?” His fingers tightened on hers. “You weren’t told?” “No and Lord Kaelin seemed adamant that you and I talk. Why was that?” He was silent for a moment then let out a long breath. “Someone should have told you before now.” “Then you tell me.” He raked a hand through his wet hair. “Do you know what the word psychopomp means?” “No.” “Do you know who Morrigunia is?” She lifted her head to look at him. “The Triple goddess from my land? She who sends souls on their final journey to the Otherworld?” “Yes,” he said. “I am one like her. I guide our dead through the Underworld and to their judgment.” “Surely that is a myth!” she said. “I am flesh and blood, Kate. I am not a myth.” A chill went down Catherine’s spine. “You have that much power, milord?” “I do,” he replied quietly. “You are a god?” she asked the question in a near whisper. He shook his head. “No, only an emissary of the Great One Anubis, although I have a few powers granted to me.” She laid her head back on his shoulder. “That must be a lonely job,” she said. Khenty smiled. “It does not frighten you? That which I do?”

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“No,” she said. “I believe it to be a blessing to those who have left us. It would be a terrible journey to make alone.” He relaxed beside her. “You are a wondrous find, Katie,” he told her. “What powers do you have?” When he didn’t answer she tilted her head up. “I can shape-shift,” he said softly, and watched her blink. “Shape-shift?” she repeated. “Into a beast.” Her eyes widened. “Was that you I saw that first night?” she asked, excitement running through her voice. “The beast that was howling?” “He is a part of me,” he answered. “It is usually after a soul has not passed on to its reward, when it has been devoured, that the beast within me comes alive. My responsibilities seem almost more than I can bear at such times and I need to run, to be free.” “Jacob said you were searching for a mate.” “And I have found her,” he stated, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I will cherish her all our days together and into the Beyond.” “You seemed so lonely that night.” “I was lonely.” “And so forlorn.” “That too.” She was silent for a long time, taking in and trying to accept that the man beside her was something more than a mere human. The ancient tales she had heard from childhood of gods and goddesses made it easy for her to accept the strangeness of this budding relationship. She had sensed something powerful, otherworldly in the portrait of the prince so it seemed natural to acknowledge what he was. It frightened her a little but it was exciting as well. “Something is bothering you,” he said. He could read her mind as easily as a book but he preferred to allow her to tell him her concerns in her own way, in her own time. “What do you do when you change, milord?” she asked, her eyes troubled. “Ah, I understand. Katie, I haven’t devoured anything in centuries,” he said, “and rarely do I drain my victims dry unless they annoy me.” She felt the smile in his voice and looked up to see him staring down at her, wagging his eyebrows. “Be serious,” she said. “I am serious,” he said, the smile slipping from his full lips. “I do take from a person now and again when the hunger is upon me—as it has been quite often of late— but I never harm any of them and they will not remember the sting of my fangs unless I want them to.” “Fangs?” she repeated, reaching up to touch her neck.

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“Never mind,” he said, taking her hand in his. “We will not discuss such things now.” She could not let it rest. “You take blood from humans?” He sighed. “Yes, Kate. On occasion I do.” Her heart had started to pound fiercely. “D-do you ever kill those you bite?” “If they need killing,” he admitted. “There is evil in this world just as there is evil in yours.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “But you have nothing to fear from me, my love.” Catherine plucked gently at his chest hair. She was not afraid of him though she knew she had every reason to be and should. “Do you use your power to punish those who anger you?” she asked hesitantly. “You mean Nyria,” he said. She smoothed her palm over his chest, reveling in the prickly feel of the curly hairs against her flesh. She was glad he did not shave away his body hair as she’d heard many Kensetti men did. “She nearly choked to death the other day and—” “She was in no danger of choking, milady,” he said. “She needed to be reminded of certain things. With a woman as headstrong as Nyria, pain is most often the only chastisement she understands.” “You hurt her.” “I punished her and no, I did not hurt her. However, I frightened her.” “She doesn’t like me.” Catherine was obviously unused to people not liking her. “She is jealous of you,” he told her. “Pay no attention.” “I fear I’ve made an enemy of her.” “You’ve no reason to fear her or to be upset over how she feels. She is a servant here, nothing more, and I’ve never suggested otherwise to her, but she has dreams that may well become nightmares if she isn’t careful.” There was something very cold and steely in Khenty’s words and when Catherine glanced up at his face, she saw his jaw was clenched and his eyes were filled with determination. “I don’t want there to be enmity between us, milord,” she said softly. “It is never good when women live in the same house to have one hating the other.” “I will speak with her,” he said. “If she does not wish to behave as she should toward you as the mistress of this manner, she is free to return to her homeland just as Ola was free to leave. I keep no prisoners here.” “I will miss Olabishi,” she said. “I wish Bahru hadn’t sent her away.” “It was my understanding she wanted to return to Asaraba,” he said. “I suppose she did,” Catherine admitted. “She was hired to be my companion for propriety’s sake. If she hadn’t come to my room the night Bahru got drunk and tried to…” She buried her face on his shoulder.

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“I imagine he wanted to see if he could actually do what he was attempting to do,” Khenty told her. “I am told those who prefer members of their own sex sometimes have difficulty performing with those from the opposite sex.” “The thought of him touching me in that way makes me ill,” she said. “It bothered me before but it bothers me even more now that I know what he is.” “Don’t think about it,” he said, stroking her hair. “You won’t be put in a position to be at the taricheutes’ mercy ever again.” “He will be furious that the Joining won’t take place,” she said. “I suspect my father paid him a hefty dowry that he will be honor-bound to give back.” “If that is the case, I will reimburse your father the amount of the dowry. I want nothing to stand in the way of the two of us Joining.” Catherine snuggled closer to Khenty. “I suspect Bahru didn’t want me in the first place,” she said. “He told me it was what I represented that mattered. What could that have meant?” Khenty chuckled. “Respectability, wench,” he answered. “That and the dowry. Half men like him need what is referred to as a beard—a woman whose presence in his life covers up the true status of his sexuality. I suppose he thought it would not be suspected he is a pedophile if he were married.” He smoothed his palm up and down her arm. “My question is why your father gave you into the taricheutes’ keeping in the first place. No one can answer that for me.” Catherine laughed softly. “It might have something to do with the fact that I am the third of his nine daughters and he was desperate to get rid of me so he could strike for a good match for the fourth, his favorite. Until I was married off, Celeste could not,” she surmised. “Ah, well, then that makes sense.” He yawned hugely then apologized. “You sound tired,” she said. “I can hear it in your voice.” “I am tired.” He rested his chin atop her head and closed his eyes. “We’ll talk tomorrow when Kaelin brings the tribunalist to perform the Joining.” “Tomorrow?” she gasped, looking up at him. “Are you serious?” “Very serious, wench.” He snuggled her in his arms. “I have no intention of letting you get away from me. I will bind you to me legally and lovingly before I make you completely mine.” For a long time Catherine lay there in his arms listening to his easy breathing until she was sure he slept. She was now too keyed up to do so, the thought of being his wife tumbling through her brain to make it impossible to sleep. When at last exhaustion proved too hard to fight, her eyelids drifted down and she sank into a sweet dream that had her smiling in her sleep.

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Chapter Eight Bahru’s thin face was livid with rage as he stood before his master. “She is my betrothed. You can not just take her from me!” “I can and I have,” Khenty said in a reasonable voice. It was giving him great delight to sit at his desk—leaning back in his chair—and stare up at the taricheutes with undisguised hostility. “The lady is mine and that is the end of the discussion.” The taricheutes raised his chin. “I will make recourse to the Tribunal,” he stated. “You may be of the royal house of Ben-Alkazar but I am not without influence in Asaraba.” Khenty grinned mercilessly. “In case you haven’t noticed, taricheutes, you are not in Asaraba. Here, I am the law. Despite that fact, no Tribunal would deny me what I want. I am of the lineage of a god. From whose less than noble loins did you spring?” So angry he was trembling, Bahru gave in to his fury and spun around on his heel and stormed off, forgetting both his manners and protocol. “You could censure him for such conduct, Khenty,” Lord Kaelin remarked. He was standing beside the prince’s desk with his arms crossed. “I’ll deal with him in my own way and in a time of my choosing,” Khenty said. “He has much for which to atone, McGregor.” Kaelin shivered. “I don’t believe I’d like to be in his sandals.” “I assure you that you would not,” Khenty stated. “The taricheutes isn’t the only one you’re going to have trouble with over this,” Kaelin suggested. “Have you told Nyria yet?” “I have not seen her today. I don’t know if she’s aware the tribunalist is here or not and I don’t care. Her feelings mean nothing to me.” Khenty rubbed a hand over his eyes. Although he’d slept soundly, he’d awakened still tired. “When I brought her here as my housekeeper it was with the understanding that I would one day marry. It was she who came to my bed that first night. I did not go seeking her out. I have never made any kind of promises to her. She knew what was between us was purely sexual.” “I disagree with that assumption, my friend,” Kaelin said. “To her, it was far more.” Khenty shrugged. “It shouldn’t have been. I have never given her any indication it would be otherwise.” “Women believe what they want to believe, Khenty. Mark my words—Nyria is going to be a problem.” “Perhaps I should make arrangements to send her back to her home,” the prince commented. “That would settle the problem.”

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“I believe that would be best,” Kaelin agreed. “Then see to it. Have my ship provisioned and let the captain know there will be two passengers making the trip.” “Two?” Kaelin questioned. “I’ll be sending the taricheutes back along with Nyria. I’ve no use for a half man like him here. Until the Guild can send me another, I will handle the duties—as I did before the half man came here.”

***** Bahru glanced at the tall tribunalist in his black robes of office, jeweled pectoral necklace shining in the morning sun, and the fair-haired woman standing beside him. The taricheutes hissed like an angry snake. He stalked past the imposing older man and his female companion, cursing beneath his breath as he went. With his thin face set in lines of anger, his almost non-existent lips pressed tightly together, hands clenched into fists at his side, stooped shoulders bent forward in his agitation, the taricheutes presented a very unimposing figure to those he passed. “Get out of my way!” he snapped at Jacob, shoving the butler aside as he stomped through the mansion in his search for Nyria. He found her sitting in the garden, her swollen eyes cast to the ground at her feet. She didn’t look up at his approach. “What are we going to do about this?” the taricheutes demanded. Nyria lifted her head, flicked a cursory glance up and down the spindly man with the protruding gut and said something beneath her breath. “What?” Bahru growled. “What did you say?” “I said you are a fool,” the black woman replied. “A fool to think you can go against the master’s wishes.” “She belongs to me!” Bahru shouted in a shrill voice. “Her father handed her into my keeping!” “Do you think that matters to a man like the prince?” Nyria asked, her upper lip drawing upward. “If you do, you are even more than a fool. You are an idiot. Remember what he is. He is a prince, an Anubi. You are not fit to touch the straps of his sandals.” Bahru lashed out with his right hand and slapped Nyria’s face with enough force that she nearly toppled from the bench upon which she was sitting. The fiery imprint of his palm was livid against her smooth complexion. Not once in her life had the black woman ever been struck, and to have this particular person be the first to do so was an insult. She leapt up from the bench and attacked him, pummeling him with doubled fists on and about his head, shrieking as though the hounds of hell had been set loose. Stunned by the assault, Bahru could do no more than cross his hands over his lowered head and stumble back, wincing as the woman kicked his shins, tried to knee 74

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him in his groin and stomped on his bare feet. He was yelping like a little girl with a nest of enraged bees attacking her, hopping up and down from one foot to the other. It was Hasani who came to the taricheutes’ rescue. He grabbed Nyria around her waist and swung her away from the bleeding, bruised object of her vengeance. “He hit me!” Nyria screamed. “The white bastard hit me!” “Leave off, woman!” Hasani bellowed, easily locking her waving arms tight to her body and squeezing her so hard she could not turn her anger on him. He snapped his head toward Bahru. “Get the hell out of here before she gets loose and beats the shit out of you!” Scrambling away as fast as he could, Bahru shouted incoherent threats at the housekeeper. He quickly disappeared inside the mansion, his bare feet slapping on the stone floor. “Enough!” Hasani growled from between clenched teeth. His embrace tightened even more until Nyria was gasping for breath. Slowly she relaxed against him, her head bowed. “He hit me,” she repeated. “I heard you the first time, wench,” Hasani told her. He slowly eased his fierce grip until she twisted away from him. “Did you hear what the master is doing?” she asked, tears rife in her voice. “I heard,” Hasani replied. “It is his right to take a mate.” “I am his mate!” Nyria declared. “You know better than that,” Hasani said. “You were his mistress and nothing more. Don’t stand there and lie to yourself even if you find it necessary to lie to others about your relationship with the master.” Nyria began to sob, the sound soul-wrenching, and she collapsed to her knees on the ground, her hands covering her face as she rocked back and forth in her misery. Hasani sighed loudly. He went to hunker down behind her, putting a hand to her back and stroking her gently. “I warned you this would happen, Nyria. You didn’t want to listen.” “I love him,” she sobbed. “We all love him, woman,” Hasani said. “If you keep carrying on like this, he’ll be forced to act and I doubt you will like what he might do.” Nyria turned her tearstained face to the coachytes. “You don’t think he will send me away, do you?” “He might,” Hasani replied. “Best you make peace with his lady and move on.” His look became tender. “You know I am here if you need me.” The housekeeper’s shoulder slumped. “So you keep reminding me,” she sneered.

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Hasani removed his hand as though he’d been burned by the contact then stood up. He looked down at her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Nyria,” he said before walking off. “I won’t let her have him,” Nyria swore as she staggered to her feet and angrily swiped at the tears flowing down her cheeks. “I won’t! He is mine and mine he will stay!” Although she despised him, she went looking for Bahru. The taricheutes would be the only ally she might have for each of them had a lot to lose when the prince took the white woman as his legal mate.

***** “Before gods and man, I declare you husband and wife,” the tribunalist pronounced. His beefy face beamed down upon the couple from his imposing six-feet nine-inch height. He exchanged a glance at Lord Kaelin then closed the ritual book he had placed on the altar. Kaelin and his bride-to-be Sarah were the only other people in the room. The couple had stood up for the prince and his lady and were called forward now to sign the register as Khenty placed a tender kiss on his wife’s smiling lips. “It is done, wench,” Khenty said. “You are mine for all time. What are your thoughts on this our Joining Day?” “All this has happened so fast,” she replied. “I scarcely know what to think.” “I know what I think,” he whispered against the side of her face. “I am thinking I can’t wait to get you in my bed.” Catherine’s face turned bright red and she pushed him gently away. “You are that evil man Lord Kaelin named you.” He wagged his brows at her. “You haven’t seen evil yet, wench.” He had hold of her hand and brought it to his lips, staring deeply into her eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “I hear Holly has provided us with one of her superb repasts,” Kaelin remarked. “Splendid,” the tribunalist proclaimed. “I am a growing boy and I need my nourishment.” Kaelin’s fiancée stared up at the man with wide eyes and mouth ajar. “Close your mouth, dearling,” Kaelin whispered to her. “He’s not going to get any taller.” Sarah Tarnes closed her mouth with a snap and a flash of her pale blue eyes. She nudged her husband-to-be with a not so gentle elbow to his ribs and gave her long blonde hair a flick to show him her displeasure. Nyria appeared in the doorway of the parlor where the Joining had just taken place. There was no expression on her face. “I was asked to inform you the luncheon is

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ready,” she told the group. She inclined her head when the prince thanked her then turned away, disappearing down the hallway. Six places had been set at the table but Lord Bahru was nowhere in sight. His absence did nothing to dampen the high spirits as the others took their seats and Lord Kaelin rose to toast the bride. “May all your troubles be little ones!” Kaelin proclaimed, lifting his glass high. “Here, here!” the tribunalist agreed. Catherine was sitting in the place of honor reserved for the mistress of Anubeion but she wished she could be near her husband. The sparkle in his eyes warmed her though the air had become a bit chill with the approach of another rainstorm. “I believe you might want to spend the night, Your Excellence,” Khenty suggested. “It seems we’re in for another round of bad weather.” “Only if you promise me the beast won’t come nipping at my heels, Your Grace,” the tribunalist said with a chuckle. Khenty smiled. “I believe the beast will otherwise be engaged this night.” He lifted his glass of wine to his bride. Catherine felt the heat flaming in her cheeks and looked down at the plate Jacob had just placed before her. She glanced up to thank him and was surprised to find his gaze filled with concern. She signed to ask him what was wrong. Jacob shook his head, seemingly trying to cast aside his worried expression. He smiled gently at his new mistress. The meal Holly had prepared was excellent—baked ham swimming in its own rich juices, a spinach soufflé and small, succulent ears of buttered corn, fresh tomatoes from the garden and spicy custard that had everyone complimenting the cook. Rich red wine flowed freely and after the meal, a dessert coffee served with a slice of buttery pound cake completed the repast. “I couldn’t eat another thing!” the tribunalist protested, holding up a hand to the prince’s offer of another slice of cake. “You’ll have to roll me to my room as it is.” He grinned. “I hope it’s on the ground floor else you’ll be huffing and puffing getting me up those stairs, McGregor!” “I know you have a bad knee and prefer not to climb stairs, Your Excellency,” Khenty said. “We will have a room prepared for you on the ground floor.” “Much obliged, Your Grace,” the tribunalist said. “Rainy weather tends to play hell with that knee.” “Kaelin, will you be staying?” Khenty asked. He knew McGregor’s plantation was only a mile from his own. “No, I promised Sarah’s father I would have her home before nightfall so we had best get going before the storm hits.” Kaelin got to his feet and held his fiancée’s chair for her to rise.

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Catherine joined her husband as they walked Kaelin and his bride-to-be to the front door. She hugged Sarah then Kaelin and stood with her arm around Khenty’s waist as the lawgiver and his lady hurried off the veranda and into the safety of their buggy. The first fat drops of rain were already plopping down on the roof as the spirited team of horses began their journey away from Anubeion. “I like Sarah,” Catherine said. “I felt you would,” her husband said. “She is the Tribunal’s secretary and they adore her.” “She seems an easy woman to like.” He turned her in his arms. “Do you suppose His Excellency will be annoyed if we retire to your room early?” “My room?” she asked. Khenty’s expression sobered. “I’ll not take you in my bed until the new one arrives. I want no memories of other bodies intruding on our time together.” He did not tell her he feared Nyria had laid a curse—ineffective and spiteful but a curse nevertheless— upon his bed. Catherine smiled at her husband. She had not wanted to lose her virginity in the same bed where her husband had lain with his mistress and she was touched that he was so considerate of her feelings. When he swooped down to lightly touch his lips to hers, she felt liquid heat spearing from her breasts to her vagina and back again. “Soon,” he whispered against her lips. Hand in hand, they went in to give the tribunalist some company but found the man sitting in an overstuffed chair, his head back, snoring. “If that isn’t tacit approval to take my wife to our quarters, I don’t know what is,” Khenty said with a quirk of one dark brow. Catherine tucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Should we leave him here like this?” she asked. “Would you like to wake him and then engage him in a long, lengthy conversation regarding the Tribunal’s yearly budget—” “Let’s go upstairs,” she interrupted him, tugging at his hand. “I can think of better conversations we might have.” “Lead on, milady,” he said, grinning devilishly at her. From the plush comfort of his chair, the tribunalist opened one eye as the couple made their way up the stairs. He grinned then settled deeper into the overstuffed cushions and closed his eye with a satisfied smile. The tribunalist was not the only one to watch the newlyweds climb the stairs. Nyria had been sitting in an alcove upstairs, the front of her gown wet with tears. As Khenty and Catherine passed, she sat very still but her angry gaze followed them to Catherine’s room. When Khenty swept his new wife into his arms and carried her over the threshold, Nyria bit her lip so hard beads of blood oozed from the puncture wounds. 78

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“You will rue this day, Catherine Brell,” the housekeeper swore. “It will be the darkest day of your life instead of the brightest!”

***** Kicking the door shut, Khenty took his bride to the bed and laid her down gently. He slipped his arms from beneath her and stood there looking down at her, his handsome face filled with happiness. “You are a beautiful woman,” he said softly. He bent over to remove her thin leather sandals. Catherine felt self-conscious. She could feel heat creeping into her cheeks and put a hand to her breast. The white linen gown with a fine bead net covering it from neckline to hem she wore was many years old and had been lovingly removed from a golden chest Khenty kept in his bedroom. “It was my grandmother’s Joining gown,” he told her. “She handed it down to her daughter and now it is yours. Hopefully one day, our daughter will wear it to her Joining.” “Your mother didn’t have a daughter?” His smile faded a bit. “I had a sister,” he said. “Kebechet. She died several years ago.” When she started to express her sympathy for his loss, he held up a hand. “I do not like to speak of her, Kate.” His smile returned—although not quite as bright. “Here, let me help you remove the necklace.” To the gown, the prince had added a spectacular broad-collar necklace called a wesekh of coral, lapis and golden glass bead pendants shaped like lotus flowers as his gift to his bride and—in the tradition of her people and religion he had sent Kaelin to the Diabolusian capitol to procure a wide golden wedding band for them both. His band carried her name and her band carried his written in Kensetti. Catherine sat up and he moved to sit beside her, reaching behind her to slip the wesekh from her—careful of the counterpoise in back that made the heavy necklace less cumbersome and weighty. Gently separating the repousséd falcon-head terminals that had been linked together, he removed the necklace. “I can not imagine the many hours of work that went into that necklace,” Catherine observed as he carefully laid the wesekh on the bedside table. “It is very old,” he said. “Generations old.” His eyes turned hot. “Shall we remove the dress now?” As lightweight as the linen was, the network of beading that covered it entirely, the tiny pleats that made up the skirt of the gown adding many yards of fabric to the creation was warm in the Diabolusian climate—as it must have been in that of the Kensetti deserts. Though the material was soft to the touch, there was a bit of scratchiness and the perfumed woods in which it had been preserved added to the

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minor discomfort of wearing it. Add to that the thin linen shift she wore beneath the gown, it would feel good to be relieved of her clothing. “Please,” she said, and when he stood, she slid from the bed so he could work the intricately netted gown then the soft linen shift over her head. The coolness of the air in her room—flowing in freely from the row of opened windows—felt good on her flesh. She stood there before her husband completely naked as every Kensetti bride was beneath her wedding finery. “So lovely,” he said, drawing her to him. The linen of his kameez and trousers felt cool against her skin. His hands roamed up and down her bare back and for the first time Catherine became aware he was trembling. “Milord?” she questioned, drawing back from him. She looked up into his heavy eyes, her own filled with concern. “I need you, milady,” he said. “I need to complete the ritual that will bind us together for all time.” She put a hand up to his cheek. No words were necessary. Whatever ritual he needed to perform, she would gladly accept. He lifted her in his arms and laid her down upon the mattress once more. With one quick jerk, he drew the kameez over his head then tossed it aside. Quickly, he kicked off his sandals, stepped from his trousers, pushing the elastic waistband over his lean hips and kicking the garment away. “We will talk about the way you treat your clothing, milord,” she said with a grin. He arched one brow. “Right now?” he asked, putting one knee on the mattress. “You want to talk about my clothing right now?” She held her arms up to him. “Perhaps later,” she said quietly. He stretched out atop her, settling his naked body upon hers but keeping his weight from crushing her by propping himself up on his elbows. He stared down into her face, his gaze sweeping over each feature. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Memorizing every mole, every freckle, everything,” he responded. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, the touch fleetingly soft and infinitely arousing. When he lifted his head, he smiled gently and called her his wife. “My husband,” she stated. He slipped off her so he could lie on his side and with light touches of his fingertips, glided his hands over her flat belly. “I want to go very slowly with you, Kate,” he said. “I want this night to be special for you.” “It will be,” she said. “How can it not with a man as gentle as you?” Khenty’s heart swelled at her compliment. Though every instinct screamed at him to throw himself upon his wife and take her, he knew her to be a virgin and though— unknown to her—he had laid with her twice before and given her pleasure, he had

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taken nothing more than a few drops of her sweet blood, binding her to him in ways she would never understand. “I never want to hurt you, Kate,” he pledged to her. “I would rather cut off my right hand than cause you pain.” He had not always been a man given to gentleness, he thought as he pulled her against him. There had been many times in his life when he had been a vicious warrior intent on winning at all costs. His sword had claimed the lives of thousands of enemies, his dagger finishing what his blade had begun. He had stood by, watched as prisoners were tortured for the information they tried to withhold and had never batted an eye. Khenty Ben-Alkazar knew himself to be a man capable of extreme violence and exacting retribution. Yet for the small woman lying beside him, her head upon his shoulder, he would gladly give his life, endure the greatest of torments to keep her with him, slaughter any man foolish enough to try to take her from him. Every warrior instinct honed over the years in his muscular body was at the ready to defend Catherine and keep her safe in a world he knew to be evil and pitiless. “What is the significance of taking my blood?” she asked him quietly, and when he flinched at the question, she drew back to look up at him. “Khenty?” His eyes were troubled as he stared down at her. “I was not aware you knew what I had done,” he said. “I found the punctures on my neck,” she said. “Did you think I would not?” He frowned so brutally she reached up to smooth away the heavy wrinkles between his brows. “I wanted you to believe they were caused by an insect. Forgive me, milady. I certainly never meant for you to know I had caused them.” “Why did you take my blood?” she repeated. “Did it frighten you when you realized the marks came from me?” he countered. “It…” She thought about it for a moment. “It surprised me,” she said. “At first I did believe I’d been bitten by a spider until you said you had taken from me.” He groaned. “Did I reveal that?” “You did and I put two and two together and realized what you must have meant. I’ve heard tales of the undead coming to drink the blood of the living but since I know you to be among the living, I suspected you had a reason.” “Other women might have gone screaming into the night,” he said. “I am not other women. I knew my destiny was here long before I met Bahru. That is mostly why I did not fight my betrothal to him.” “How did you know?” She twined a lock of his hair around her index finger. “An old gypsy woman came to the school where I was studying nursing.” “A noble profession,” he observed. “My father wanted each of us to learn a skill should we ever have the need to look after ourselves. He was not sure he would have enough monies for nine daughters.” 81

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“I can see the wisdom of his actions but even if I had twenty daughters—” “Which you certainly won’t have!” she stated firmly. He grinned. “Ten?” She arched a brow. “Five?” “Let’s say four sons and one daughter,” she replied. “It could be the other way around,” he said smugly, “and if that happens I’d find a way to provide four dowries for my daughters.” “Yes, but you are a rich man,” she countered. “My father is not.” He shrugged. “So what happened with the gypsy woman?” “For a tuppence she offered to tell our fortunes.” Catherine smiled. “I was the only one brave enough to allow her to read the cards for me.” “You never fail to amaze me, wench,” he said. “So what did the old Rom say to you?” “That I would travel to the western lands and there spend my years in the service of those who would become my people.” Khenty’s eyebrows shot up. “And what did you take that to mean?” “That I would use my nursing skills,” she said then her lips pursed. “I had no idea my father would betroth me so soon after I completed my studies. I was disappointed that I would not have a chance to help people and when I mentioned it to Bahru, he waved my suggestion aside and told me I was stupid.” “I believe we know which of you the truly stupid one is,” Khenty said with clenched teeth. She shifted against him, looking him in the eye. “I know you want me to teach the children of Anubeion and I can do that, but is it possible for me to use my skills here as well, milord? Are there those in need of nursing?” He nodded. “From time to time there is need of a healer. More importantly though, there are those in need of care, milady, who have passed on from this world. It is their bodies that are in need of respect and preparation.” “I can do that,” she stated. “Milady, you don’t understand—” “I could help you, milord,” she stated emphatically. “I want to.” “I am speaking of embalming, milady, of touching the dead, of bathing them.” “I am not squeamish and I have no fear of the dead.” He stared into her lovely green eyes. “It was the duty of my sister Kebechet to wash the organs of those who are being embalmed and to place them in the canopic jars,” he said. “She also gave the souls water as they waited for their trip to Duat. I assumed her duties when she died.”

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“Then let me perform those duties for you, husband,” she said. “It would be my honor to work alongside you.” “Kate—” “Please?” she asked, caressing his jaw. “Allow me to help.” He smiled. “If it is something you feel compelled to do…” “I do.” “In that case, I would be overjoyed to have you with me.” She smiled and snuggled against him. “That pleases me, milord.” “You asked about the blood taking,” he reminded her, lifting her hand from his chest. “Yes.” He turned his face so his lips grazed her palm and then brought her hand to his mouth. His lips traveled to her upturned wrist before he placed her hand to his heart. “It was necessary, milady. It is part of the Ritual of Joining that is eons old. With the First Taking, I now had a part of you inside me, blending with my essence so I might know where you are at all times though we are thousands of miles apart. Your soul and mine are forever entwined. With the Second Taking, your essence became preserved within my body so that you will live forever as a part of me. It deepened the bond between us. Where I go, you too will go. Where you go, so will I also be there. With the Third Taking, nothing under heaven or in the deepest pits of hell will be able to keep us apart one from the other. We will be joined for as long as there is time and beyond into the Abyss of Being and we will become as One.” Catherine felt tears gathering in her eyes. “That is beautiful.” “It is a part of what and who I am, beloved,” he said. “To accept me is to accept the Ritual of Joining. My father set down the rules for Joining in the distant past and it is his wishes to which I must accede.” His hand tightened on hers. “Are you ready for the last Taking, which must be done of your own free will and while you are aware of what I do?” She nodded, her heart pounding for fear he would hurt her. “Never,” he swore. “While the First and Second came from your throat, the Third must be taken from over your heart, for it is your heart that will be forever in my keeping.” He splayed his palm over the center of her chest. “It is from the very core of you that I must meld our essences.” “Do what you need to, milord,” she said. “I am yours for all time.” “The essence I take this time will bring you over into my world, Catherine,” he said. “There will be no turning back.” She nodded. “I understand.” “Not fully, but you will,” he said. “You will be able to see the dead, to talk and walk with them, to accompany them on their journey to the Afterlife.”

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Catherine’s eyes widened and she drew in a breath. “I must go into the Underworld?” He smiled. “With me beside you every step of the way.” Tucking her lower lip between her teeth, she held his gaze for a long while then relaxed. “I trust you, milord.” His hand moved to the globe of her breast and molded it, doing nothing more than holding her sweet flesh in the cup of his palm. “For years I have dreamed of someone with whom I could spend my life,” he said. “It has been lonely since my sister died. My only company has been Kaelin and the staff.” “And Nyria?” she asked. “That is over,” he said. “She eased my loneliness and my need, but there is no longer a reason for her to remain at Anubeion. When Bahru leaves, she will leave with him.” “Perhaps that is for the best,” she said, holding her breath as his thumb stroked gently over her nipple. “Now and again, others like me come to Anubeion. It is rare that they do. When it happens, it is usually at the death of someone very important.” “Those like you?” “Other psychopomps,” he said. “Every religion has one and the western lands are where most bring their dead. Beneath these mountains are the Underworlds and Judgment Halls of many beliefs. Those of us gathered will join in a procession to lead the important one to his or her final rest. It is a matter of honor among us.” “Morrigunia will come here?” she asked. “No, but there will be a descendant of hers—one of her Reapers—who will,” he replied. “Psychopomps from many religions will come as well. They are descendants of their Great One, just as I am a descendant of Anubis. The Great Ones have earned their own rests and it is up to those of us who are of their blood to carry on for them now.” Khenty bent forward to capture her nipple between his lips to end the talk. At her gasp of breath, he grazed that sensitive nubbin with his teeth and grinned as she threaded her hands through his hair to hold him. “Milord!” she whispered as he laved the burgeoning flesh and drew strongly upon it, his hand still cupping the globe of her breast. With infinite gentleness, he slipped his leg over hers and pressed his knee to the junction of her thighs. Her immediate shiver sent waves of delight down his spine. His lips drew upon her nipple, his hand massaged the tender flesh, and he increased the pressure of his knee to the apex of her thighs. He shifted his attention to her other breast and had to lightly press down on Catherine’s chest to keep her from levitating off the mattress. Her back had arched, sending her nipple deeper into his warm mouth, and her hold on his hair had increased. 84

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A light film of moisture was gathering on the spiky lower curls of her mons. Beneath his cheek, he could detect an increase in the speed of her heart and her breath. With his teeth nibbling gently at her turgid peak, he slid his hand down her body, over her quivering belly and spiking his fingers through those sweet nether curls, cupped her sex lightly—one finger tapping gently at her entrance. “Oh my!” Catherine said with a groan. She could not stop her hips from lifting upward, some strange, alien desire—some great need—making her want to impale herself on that slowly tapping finger. Not in all the years of his existence had Khenty known the tender flesh of a virgin. Not once had he tasted the unspoiled plains of a budding woman’s heat until he had tasted Catherine’s. He ached to know his wife’s scent, her taste, the unique fabric of her inner warmth that beckoned him to enter once her maidenhead was broached. Withdrawing his teeth from her nipple, he slanted his mouth across hers in an intoxicating kiss that thrust his tongue deep into her moist recesses and tasted the slight hint of plum wine. Ending the kiss, he peppered tiny little pecks down her chin, her throat, between her breasts—lingering over the deep concavity of her bellybutton, swirling his tongue there, nipping at the lower rim—before moving on to the top of her wiry curls. Catherine was forced to let go of his hair as he moved down on the bed, coming over her to stretch out between her thighs. Gently he pushed her legs farther apart with his elbows as he placed his hands on the tops of her thighs, his thumbs stroking the damp curls lightly but not touching her heated flesh. Alternating his thumbs—one up, one down—across those reddish-gold spikes, he lowered his head to blow gently upon her core, his warm breath sending another quiver down her frame. Her face flaming, Catherine was quivering. Digging her hands into the covers beneath her, her heels into the mattress, she bit her lip for his fingers were slowly, tenderly pulling the lips of her vagina apart and his warm breath was fanning over the moist labia. His thumbnails dragged down the inside of the outer fold with excruciating slowness and she writhed beneath him for the sensation set off an itch that was almost more than she could bear. “Lie still, bantling,” he said to her, his elbows pressing down upon her thighs to keep her immobile. “I want to look at every inch of your precious body.” She did not think she could lie still, Catherine thought. His thumbnails were doing maddening things between her legs. She had a fleeting thought that she should be mortified that a man was peering so closely at her intimate parts but that thought died quickly when he touched some part of her that had her arching up from the bed like a puppet on a string. “You liked that, eh?” he asked with a laugh. Whatever was being pinched gently between his fingers and rotated was driving Catherine insane with desire. She was aware of something being pushed back and something far too sensitive being touched, scratched tenderly, by his short fingernail.

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“Khenty, please!” she begged, wanting to wriggle but unable to do so for he had increased the pressure of his elbows upon her thighs. “Not yet, milady,” he whispered. The moment his lips touched that ultrasensitive part of her, Catherine cried out and nothing short of being tied spread-eagled to the bed could have kept her from thrusting her hands into the prince’s hair and gripping it. But instead of pushing him away as he suckled on that responsive part of her anatomy, she pressed him closer, unwilling to let him escape. He was torturing her, but it was such sweet, precious torture and it was sending wave after wave of undeniable pleasure through her lower body and making her loins feel heavy, itchy and throbbing all at the same time. He released his hold on that part of her that was driving her mad and used his tongue to lap at the folds of her vagina—tasting her, laving her—that sturdy muscle lapping at the moistness that had suddenly formed between her thighs. “Sweet,” he pronounced. “So sweet and such a heady scent. I can only imagine how much sweeter it will be when I have entered you for the first time.” Catherine felt tingles rippling down her arms at his words. Heat crept into her cheeks but she was lost. Whatever her man wanted to do to her, she was game. Her need was building in leaps and bounds and she knew whatever it was that was coming would shatter her world forever. He thrust his tongue into her cunt and Catherine bucked beneath him. His hands were holding her vaginal lips apart as he licked at her, pressed into her as far as he could go. But it wasn’t enough for her and he knew it. From the tenseness of her body, he knew she was rapidly approaching release and he wanted her to be completely fulfilled when that penultimate moment came. With infinite care, he slipped a finger deep into her warm sheath. “Khenty!” she cried out, and ground against that wondrous invasion. He turned his hand so the palm was up and slipped a second finger into her—going deeper, seeking that inner part of her he knew would be the site of her greatest pleasure. A third finger gently joined the other two and he felt the slight bump on the roof of her vagina and stroked it. Catherine bore down on his hand. A light gush of liquid spread over his fingers. Ripples of spasms clutched her vaginal walls and she trilled as her release came like a rocket. As he continued to stroke that mysterious part of her vagina, she continued to come, her thighs quivering, her upper body jackknifed in the bed so that the small of her back did not touch the mattress. “Stop!” she cried out, unable to sustain the pleasure that was quaking through her body. “Khenty, please stop!” It was her first time with her completely aware, without being under his enthrallment, and he had wanted it to be special for her. He had wanted it to last and to show her what pleasures a couple could experience in the privacy of their bed. He had

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longed to teach her that sex could be not only a pleasurable experience but one that drew a man and woman closer together. He thought perhaps he had succeeded. His wife lay spent, her legs splayed far apart, panting and trembling as he moved up her body and gathered her into his arms. Her body was damp with perspiration and her heart was thundering in her chest. The ragged breaths she drew into her lungs were loud in the still room. “Milady, you are almost a woman now,” he said softly, placing a light kiss to her brow. Although Catherine had been inexperienced, she knew her husband had not gained pleasure from their mating. She knew until he had seated himself inside her, had pierced her maidenhead, she would not truly be a woman. She could feel the stiffness of his sex throbbing against her thigh. She knew he had put off his own satisfaction, his own gratification to ensure hers. She wanted to give back to him a measure of the supreme enjoyment he had shown her. “Milord, tell me what to do to please you,” she said. Another man might have grinned demonically at such innocent words but Khenty only felt a great sense of honor. There were some things done in a marriage bed that women found abhorrent and preferred not to do, things a man’s mistress might do to hold onto him yet not really enjoy. He had always thought that when he chose a mate, he would let his woman decide what she liked and felt comfortable doing. “Look at me, bantling,” he said, and turned so that he lay flat on his back, his right leg crooked, his hands behind his head. Catherine sat up and stared down at the thrust of his penis. She was surprised at its length and size in the state in which it seemed to have swollen. A tiny bead of pearly moisture clung to its broad head. “Would you like to touch me?” he asked softly. “Yes,” she said, eager to slip her hand over his hard length. She put the tip of her finger to that little drop of moisture. She looked up at him. “May I taste it?” Khenty’s body clenched at her sweet question and he could do no more than nod, afraid his voice would break like that of an adolescent if he were to try to speak. Catherine captured that pearly drop and opened her mouth, touched his essence to her tongue. Her gaze met his. “It is salty,” she said. “What do I taste like?” He shrugged helplessly. “Starchy, I think,” he said. “But ultimately sweet.” She looked back at his cock then circled him slowly with her fingers. His flesh jumped beneath her touch and she smiled, one burgundy brow lifting. “He likes that.” “Yes, he does,” Khenty said. His blood was throbbing so powerfully between his temples he could hear it. His body was taut as he strove not to push her over and claim her in one wild thrust.

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Her hand moved to his sac and she cupped him, weighing the wrinkled flesh. “He seems to like that too,” she said with a giggle. “He likes everything you are willing to do for him, milady,” he replied in a gruff voice. Khenty sucked in a harsh breath for his lady bent over and put the head of his rod in her mouth, swirling her tongue over the slick bulb. As he had done with her nipples, she suckled him and he was starting to fight the urgent need that was lashing him with unsheathed talons. “Milady, no,” he said, putting a hand to her head to push her gently away. “I am near to bursting.” “And you want to burst inside me?” she asked. Her words sent quivers down his spine. “Yes, milady. More than anything I have ever wanted.” She moved to lie down beside him, opening her arms to him. “I wanted to taste you as you tasted me,” she said with a pout. “You can,” he said, not knowing how much longer he could stave off the thick need growing in his cock. He moved over her, putting the tip of his rod to her warm entrance. “It will sting but for only a moment as I break through your maidenhead.” Her hands pulled him to her. “I have no fear of you, milord.” Gently he pressed into her, widening her inch by slow torturous inch so he would not hurt, would not bruise her virginal flesh. When he came to the obstruction of her hymen, he drew in a breath and pressed slowly, surely against that frail barrier. Catherine blinked as her maidenhead gave way. There was no sting, only a sensation of stretching. She let out a breath she did not know she’d been holding and realized her husband had done the same. They laughed together and instinct made her lift her legs to grab his lean hips. “Milady!” he said, shocked at what she had done but thrilled by it just the same. “I’ve seen dogs holding onto their mates,” she said. “Can I not hold onto you?” He couldn’t answer that for his body had taken off and was slowly pistoning in and out of her of its own accord. His need was so great, his desire so full-grown that he was finding it hard to do anything save thrust into her deeper and deeper. Her slickness, her warmth was overpowering and he was caught like a fly in her web, struggling—not to break free—but to reach paradise. With her legs around his hips, her arms around his back, her naked breasts pressed against his chest, Khenty was being locked to his lady, branded by her soft peaks. His blood was stirring and when he felt her first tremor, he increased the speed and depth of his thrusting and took her with him over the edge and to a climax that rocked them both. Hot spurts of liquid pulsed into Catherine’s womb and she felt the jerk of his flesh inside her, the release of his seed. Her own tightening, releasing, tightening of pleasure

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vibrated through her loins and brought a cry from her lips as she dug her fingernails into her husband’s back. His own cry echoed hers and when he collapsed atop her— spent and drained—she gathered him to her, reveling in the weight of his strong body pressing into hers. “Can I taste you next time?” she asked. Khenty laughed despite his tiredness, his depletion. He rolled over, dragging her atop him and holding her as wriggled against his sweaty length. “You can do whatever you want to me, milady.” She cocked her head to one side. “Anything?” “Anything,” he said. “That will bear thinking on,” she said, and laid her head to his shoulder. “Will you do the Taking now?” He had all but forgotten the Third Taking. It was vitally important and should have been done while he claimed her as his mate. “If you are prepared,” he answered. She eased out of his arms and lay down, her arms to her side. “I am ready.” He locked his eyes with hers for a moment then bent over her, his lips to her left breast. He kissed her then his fangs extended so quickly it surprised him and stunned her for those wicked, hollow canines pierced her flesh before she could put her hand to his head. There was pain, but it was not unbearable. It felt strange and almost as soon as it had been given, the discomfort ceased, her body relaxing beneath a strange mellowness that brought a gentle smile to her lips. She could feel the blood from her heart being drawn up into his mouth but she knew it would not harm her. When Khenty lifted his head, his fangs still curved over the fullness of his lower lip, she looked up into his eyes. “Milady?” he said, the fangs retracting. “Umm?” she answered, closing her eyes to the lassitude closing over her. “Are you all right?” he asked, gathering her to him. “Umm,” she replied. “Is that all?” “It’s done, bantling,” he said. “Sleepy,” she mumbled. Khenty smiled. “Then sleep, milady.” There would be time to finish the ritual that would bind them for eternity. She would need to take his blood.

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Chapter Nine There was a light scratching at the door and Khenty turned his head toward the sound. His face turned hard. “What?” he called out, anger threading through his voice. “I must speak with you, milord,” Nyria said. “Can it not wait?” “No, milord. It can not.” Furious with the woman, Khenty slid his arm from beneath Catherine and rolled to the opposite side of the bed. He got up, pulled on his pants and went to the door, flinging it wide. “What the hell is so important it could not wait?” he demanded. Nyria stood at the door with a wide copper dish in her hands. Khenty glanced down at it only seconds before he saw the spite in Nyria’s eyes. Before he could push her away, she blew her breath hard across the dish and the powder lying on the surface of the dish hit the prince in the face. He staggered back, gasping for breath, clawing at his throat, shaking his head violently then went to his knees, falling over to his side, his body twitching convulsively. “Khenty!” Catherine screamed, scrambling from the bed. She knelt beside her husband, unaware of Bahru coming up behind her until he slapped an oily, suffocating rag across her face. She fought him, but the fumes of the ether penetrated her lungs and she slipped over into unconsciousness. Nyria was staring at her master as he writhed on the floor. She knew the potent mixture of dried devil’s cherries, mawseed and mandragora would keep him incapacitated for quite some time. Already his convulsions were slowing as he fought the drugs he had inhaled. “Are you coming?” Bahru snarled. He had snatched a sheet from the marriage bed—hissing at the small spot of telltale blood—and wrapped Catherine in it, flinging her over his shoulder with a grunt. “Take your whore and go,” Nyria said. “I will stay with my man.” “And he will gut you for your part in this,” Bahru warned her. “I am dead without him anyway,” the housekeeper replied. She sank to her knees beside the now still prince and ran her hand over his bare back. “Fool!” Bahru pronounced, and left with his burden dangling limply over his shoulder, grunting with the exertion. Nyria stretched out beside her master, snuggling close to his side, her forehead pressed to his firm shoulder. If for some reason he awoke sooner than expected, she had more of the powder to send him back into a heavily drugged slumber. It was imperative he sleep for a good long time to give Bahru time to escape Anubeion. 90

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There would be no one to stop the taricheutes from carrying the white woman out to the stables where he could toss her into the back of a wagon and be gone from Anubeion within the hour. Jacob and Holly and her husband would be in their beds. At that hour Hasani would be seeing to the newly dead, wondering why the taricheutes had not come to join him. By the time Khenty awoke, the taricheutes would be many miles away from Anubeion and—with any luck at all—dead at the hands of robbers lurking about the burial grounds. The white woman would be an enjoyable surprise to the robbers and she would be taken and used until she was broken and of no use to anyone. Her life was forfeit at any rate. “I am here, beloved,” Nyria said as she caressed Khenty’s arm and ran her hand back and forth across the small of his back. “You do not need the pale one. I can give you whatever you need.”

***** The fate awaiting him was unknown to Bahru as he quickly hitched the wagon and drove it quietly from the stables. It wasn’t until he was well on the road to the Diabolusian capitol that he felt the first stirrings of unease nipping at his shoulders and he kept turning to look behind him, fearful of finding Prince Khenty close on his heels. He turned down the road Nyria had instructed him to take and slashed the horses with the reins, urging them to a greater speed. When the attack came, Bahru keeled over, an arrow buried to the hilt in his chest, the horses running wild without the control of their reins holding them back. The wagon careened over the mountain trail until a ranger jumped from his horse to the back of one of the two horses pulling the wagon and brought the beasts to a stop. Pushing the dead man from the bench, another ranger glanced in the back of the wagon and when he saw a bare foot sticking out from beneath what appeared to be a white shroud, called out in fear. “Cadáver! Cadáver!” The leader of the Stravteuma walked his horse over to the bed of the wagon and looked in. He frowned and motioned another of his men to unwrap the body. In the pale glow of the moon overhead, the leader drew in a quick breath when the woman’s body was revealed to him in all her young glory. His gaze went to her chest and he saw she was breathing. “Cover ella, Diego!” the leader said then told the man to be careful of her. “Tenga cuidado con ella.” “Ella no es muerta?” the one called Diego asked. “No, she’s not dead!” the leader snapped in his native language then turned an irritated look to Diego. “No, ella no es muerta.” He looked over into the wagon. “More likely kidnapped and intended for ravishment,” he said to himself. With the dead man lying face up on the roadway—his glazed eyes staring reproachfully at the ranger who had usurped the taricheutes’ place on the wagon seat— 91

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the bandits moved on, the sleeping body of the prince’s wife unconscious in her cotton covers.

***** Catherine awoke to bright light shining through a crack in the curtains and turned her head away. Her head was throbbing with an awful ache that made it feel as though the top of her skull were about to explode. She snuggled down into the coolness of the pillow beneath her cheek and wished for the nausea and vertigo to go away. “Here, sweeting.” It was a soft, deep voice filled with authority that spoke to her and a gentle hand cupped her neck to lift her head. “No,” Catherine protested, but the cool rim of a glass pressed against her lips. “Drink. It will make you feel better.” The speaker gave her no choice and Catherine opened her mouth to something cool and refreshing. She drank greedily—the nausea subsiding and the pounding headache slipping steadily away as she downed the pleasant-tasting brew. “Now, lie back and let the tenerse work,” he said, and gently lowered her head to the pillow once more. Forcing her eyes open, she saw the shadow of a man’s broad back. “Khenty?” she asked and saw the man stiffen. Slowly the man turned to face her. He was tall—at least as tall as her husband—but perhaps a bit heavier of frame. His hair was dark and in the shadowy confines of the room, his eyes looked dark as well. He was dressed all in black and as he brought a chair to the bed and swung it around with the tall back to her, hooking his leg over the back before straddling the seat, she saw the dagger sheathed at his hip. “Who are you?” she asked, pulling the covers up to her chin. “You may call me Rhada,” he replied. “My whole name is too wieldy.” “You are not Diabolusian,” she accused. “Oceanian,” he told her. “You are the new wife of the psychopomp,” he said. Catherine was clutching the covers although she knew she was clothed beneath the sheet and coverlet. “I am,” she answered. “Ben-Alkazar is to be complimented. You are a lovely addition to the Kensetti pantheon, milady.” He crossed his hands over the back of the chair. “Who was the fat man who was trying to abscond with you?” “It must have been Bahru,” she said, the name a curse in her mouth. “Where is he?” “Gone on to his reward,” Rhada said, “if there is one for such as that.” “He’s dead?”

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“As the proverbial doornail. We left him where he met his end.” “I doubt my husband would have wanted to embalm him anyway,” she said with a sniff. “Well, my people certainly won’t so let the jackals…” He grinned. “Those that roam my mountains will feed upon him.” “Where am I?” she asked. “Have you sent word to my husband?” “You are in my home,” he answered. “I call it Ocaleae.” He put his chin on his crossed hands. “And no, I have yet to inform the Kensetti that I have his lady.” A chill ran down Catherine’s spine. “Why not?” Rhada shrugged. “Out of pure spite.” He smiled. “Have no fear, sweeting. I have no designs upon your lovely body. My own lady would flay me alive and throw my entrails to her precious hounds.” “Where is your lady?” Catherine asked suspiciously. “Visiting her sons in Oceania, but you have nothing to worry about. I take my vows to her very seriously.” “I must insist you send word to my husband,” she said, her eyes flashing. “He will be worried.” “I would venture to say Ben-Alkazar will come hunting for you on his own,” Rhada said. “Did he not perform the Taking?” “Yes, but—” “Then don’t worry,” her host said, standing up and swinging the chair to one side. He crossed his arms over his brawny chest and looked down at her. “No man in his right mind—although I wonder if such is possible with Ben-Alkazar—would let you remain without his care. Relax, get over that vile concoction you inhaled, and when you’re ready, ring for a servant. Unlike your husband, I have more servants than I can count in my home. One will gladly come to assist you to dress for the noon meal.” “You are a psychopomp?” she asked as he headed for the door. “Aye,” he answered. “That I am.” “But you are not a friend to my husband?” she queried. “We are,” he said with a grin, “pleasant rivals.” His eyebrows drew together. “Tell me about the man my archer killed.” “He was a taricheutes,” Catherine replied. “He worked for my husband.” “Ah,” Rhada drawled. “A pity to have had to destroy a man of that profession but he should not have been where he was and driving his horses in such an erratic manner that we thought him a grave robber.” “I don’t understand.” “Just as Khenty has his Medjai warriors, I have my Stravteuma, my Guardians,” Rhada replied. “They are there to protect the final resting places of our people, to make

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sure grave robbers do not break into the burial places to steal from the dead.” He clenched his teeth. “Nothing angers me more than for someone to desecrate my dead.” “That is the lowest of the low,” Catherine agreed. “You are Chalean?” he inquired. At her nod, he smiled. “I have studied the burial customs of many people and I must say yours are among the most simple yet the most respectful. A pyre, a cleansing fire, ashes lifting to the heavens at the setting of the sun. I envy your psychopomp the simplicity of his work.” “I can’t believe such entities as you and Khenty actually exist,” she said. “We shouldn’t, if you listen to the modern thinkers,” Rhada drawled. “There is more lurking between the shadows and the clouds than meets the normal eye.” Almost as if on cue, Catherine caught movement from the corner of her eye and she turned her head to see a very lovely young woman enter the room. The woman smiled shyly at Catherine then went to speak quietly with her master in a language Catherine did not recognize. “I will handle it,” Rhada said, his expression hard. “Trouble?” Catherine asked when the young woman left. “Nothing with which to concern yourself, milady,” he replied. He walked to the door. “Make yourself comfortable. I am sure Ben-Alkazar will come as quickly as possible to retrieve you. If for whatever reason he can not, I myself will take you to Anubeion.” Before she could thank him, Rhada was gone. Catherine got up from the bed and moved to the window, curious about where she was, but when she pulled the curtain aside, all she saw was the granite expanse of a mountain soaring upward. Peering downward, she could see nothing more than a landscape peppered with fallen rocks. As comfortable as the room in which she found herself, the exterior of Rahda’s home was just that austere. Looking about the room, she found she did not feel uneasy there. She sensed no threat or danger. Though her head still hurt, she was content enough in Rhada’s home. She knew one way or another she would return to Khenty. It was just a matter of time.

***** Twice Khenty struggled to regain consciousness during the night and twice Nyria had plunged him back into oblivion. With the rising of the sun, she had checked his breathing one last time to make sure he was completely under the spell of the powder then got up and left, locking the portal securely behind her. “Not even you have the power to escape a locked room, my beloved,” she said as she took the stairs to the lower floor. Going out to the kitchen, she found Holly preparing breakfast for the master, his lady and their guest the tribunalist. The cook gave her a disdainful glance then ignored the housekeeper. 94

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Nyria slipped her hand into the left pocket of her dress and sidled over to the counter where Holly was kneading dough for biscuits. Holly ignored the black woman, not even bothering to look around at her when Nyria moved in behind her. When the needle was driven deep into the side of her neck, Holly cried out, reaching up to touch her punctured flesh. She collapsed like a child’s broken doll and was dead before she hit the floor. Nyria put the toe of her boot to the cook’s shoulder and nudged her but Holly was staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide, a thin stream of drool dripping down her chin. Squatting down to pluck the needle from her enemy’s neck, Nyria spat in the older woman’s face then stood up. She put the needle back into her pocket and fished her hand into her right pocket for the death sentence that awaited Jacob. As her fingers closed around the needle that would send the butler to the Netherworld, the housekeeper smiled hatefully. The workers were returning for a new day as Nyria went in search of Jacob. She met them at the door and told them they would not be needed. “The master has taken a bride and does not wish to be disturbed,” she told the women of the plantation. “Go back to your huts. I will call you when he wishes for you to return.” Mumbling to themselves, the women and the older children they had brought with them turned around and left. One or two cast Nyria a wary look but said nothing to her. Jacob met his death as he bent over to retrieve a paper that had fallen from Khenty’s desk. He made no sound at all as the needle was jammed into the nape of his neck. He lay facedown on the floor, the paper still clutched in his hand. Silus Hawkins—Holly’s husband—lay dead in the cellar. He had met his end bending over the crate Nyria had come down to the cellar to have him move. Easing the door to the bedchamber in which the tribunalist slept open, she made quick work of that one then quietly closed the door behind her deathwielding. There was only one other person Nyria needed to get rid of and she knew he would still be abed, having done the work of three men during the night past. With one more loaded needle in her pocket, the black woman headed for the coachytes’ room. When Hasani lay dead in his bed, Nyria headed back to Kate’s chamber. “Now there is just the two of us,” she said aloud. “What of McGregor?” a sly voice whispered in the housekeeper’s mind. Nyria stopped, her face crinkling into lines of concern. The lawgiver came often to Anubeion. “He’ll not come today,” Nyria said. “Can you be certain?” the insidious voice asked. The black woman stood on the stairs for a moment then turned around and walked quickly to the door. Going out into the courtyard, she looked around for any plantation men who might be working. Seeing no one, she hurried to the stables and after

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searching every stall finally found a young boy who looked up at her with fright as she grabbed his arm. “The master wishes Lord McGregor to know he is not to be disturbed for the remainder of the week. He and his new bride wish to have time alone.” Her grip on the boy’s arm tightened. “Go to the lawgiver and tell him what the master has said.” She shook the boy. “Do you understand?” “Aye, mistress!” the boy replied, and stumbled when the housekeeper released him. He scurried out of the stall and was on his way before Nyria started back to the mansion. “One night,” she said as she took the stairs. “All I want is one final night with him.” She touched her pocket where one last packet of the powder was nestled. In that packet was a far more potent concoction—a killing blend—and there was enough for her and Khenty.

***** Khenty’s eyelids fluttered open and the bright afternoon sunlight felt like shards of glass pressing against his eyes. He was so nauseous he could not lift his head from the floor for the room was spinning around him in fractal colors like a kaleidoscope. His head throbbed miserably, increasing the nausea. His lungs ached with every intake of air he took. His throat was burning, his eyes itching. The dusty smell of the carpet under his cheek was overpowering and he was finding it very difficult to breathe. “Catherine?” he called out, wincing at the sound of his own voice. It echoed through his head like the thump of a kettledrum. Striving weakly to push himself up, he gagged as bile rushed up his throat so lay still, unwilling to move another muscle. He hurt so badly, felt so drained, all he could do was lie there. Once more he called for his wife and when there was no answer, memory shot through him like a poisoned arrow. “Catherine!” he grunted, and tried once to get up but had no control of his limbs. His arms were like lead weights he could not lift and his legs had no feeling at all in them. His world skittered violently off to one side and the floor felt as though it were tilting beneath him. The nausea washed over him like a heavy blanket and he gagged again, squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth, struggling not to release the bitter vetch that threatened to erupt. He heard the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock and forced his eyes open. He saw the hem of a woman’s dress, scuffed black boots and knew it was Nyria. At that moment he hated her as he never had another living being and the taste of his fury was far more bitter than the bile edging up his gullet. “Where is my lady?” he managed to ask around tight jaws. “She has gone over to the Other Side,” Nyria said.

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At first those words gouged into Khenty’s heart like a dull, rusted blade until a small voice cautioned in the back of his aching brain that the black woman was lying. “Fear not, my son. Your lady is well and in good hands,” the voice whispered to him. “Look only to yourself for now.” “Bahru also is dead,” she informed him. He could not have cared less about the taricheutes and if the bastard was indeed dead, that was all to the better. “We do not need them,” Nyria said as she went to remove the bottom sheet from the bed. “Things will return to normal now they are gone.” Although he could not lift up to view what the black woman was doing, he could hear her movements behind him and when she threw the sheet and coverlet to the floor, the air fanned around him, bringing to him the mixed scents of spent passion and the gardenia perfume Catherine wore. “What did you use to knock me out?” he asked, wincing as the words reverberated through his pounding head. He scratched at the floor with his fingers, unable even to lift his arm. “Can you not get up?” she countered with a giggle. “You know I can’t.” He heard her grunt then watched her walk over to the door and throw the soiled bedding out into the hall. She was humming as she locked the door then turned back to the armoire to retrieve fresh sheets. “We are all alone now,” she said as she began making his bed. “Where is Jacob?” he asked. “He too has gone on to what reward may await him,” she said cheerfully. “He took the tribunalist, Holly, Silus and Hasani with him when he left.” Khenty closed his eyes for he heard the truth in her words. “You should not have done that,” he said. “You have always belonged to me,” she said, coming to stand over him. “We have no need for others.” With an ease that surprised him, she squatted down, flipped him to his back, ran her arms under his neck and knees and lifted him as though he were a mere child. He was astounded at her strength as she carried him to the bed. Nyria laid him on the clean bed then stood there with her hands on her hips, looking down at him with her head cocked to one side. “You look overly warm,” she said then bent over to pull his pants from his immobile legs. “Don’t,” he protested, but she paid him no heed. As he watched her, Nyria began unbuttoning her gown, slipping out of it with a sly grin on her dark face. As many times as he had seen her naked, had lain with her, taken her flesh to his, he knew her body intimately, but this time the sight of it revolted him.

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“You should not have lain with that pale bitch,” Nyria said as she crawled onto the bed with him. “You need no other body save mine.” Unable to move, he lay there as she ran her hands over him and the only consolation he had was that he could barely feel her touching him. For that, he was grateful. Inwardly he was cringing as the fingers of her right hand wrapped around him, the palm of the left hand hefted his sac. In tandem, her hands stroked, tugged, squeezed, massaged and kneaded until he knew he was hard and erect though thankfully he could not feel the hardness of his shaft. Staring up at the ceiling as she worked him, his jaw was tight, his teeth grinding. He knew there was nothing he could say, could order or threaten or curse that would get her hands off him. He would not give in to the satisfaction of cursing her for such would be useless. He had glimpsed madness in her eyes and knew she had become unhinged. Reasoning with her would do no good. He only hoped the use of his limbs and mental abilities would return to him before she decided to take his life as she had taken the others. When she took him into her mouth, he grimaced and closed his eyes. It would only be a matter of time before his body betrayed him and gave her what she was craving. He had never known another woman who enjoyed sucking cock as much as Nyria. Not that he had ever minded, but this time it was different. He felt unclean, used, and his rage was building at an astonishing rate. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples and it was no longer due to the drug she had forced upon him. He was experiencing a fury that turned his eyes to molten gold. Nyria ran the tip of her tongue into the slit of his shaft, spreading it apart as far as it would go as she probed inside. She was gently rolling his balls, allowing her fingernails to graze the sensitive underside of the sac with each flex of her hand. She licked at his engorged head, flicked her tongue up and down his length, drew him deep into her mouth and drew hard on his flesh until he came. Khenty squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, hating his body at that moment for the treasonous vehicle it had become. He tried to blot out the black woman’s slurping as she cleaned every drop of cum from his shriveling flesh. His fingers were digging into the sheets although he still could not bring his arms up—something he devoutly wished he could do for he longed to wrap his fingers around her thieving throat. “There is such sweet power in your sword, beloved,” she said as she straddled his body and sat back, her naked rump wedged between his legs as she pushed his limbs farther apart. Her hands were still on his shaft, caressing him. He opened his eyes and locked his steely glower on her face. “Oh what a murderous look you are giving me!” Nyria said with a laugh. “It is a wonder I do not burst into flames.” The room was no longer as bright as it had been when he woke so he knew the sun was setting. He’d been far too long under the devastating effects of whatever potion she’d given him and he worried that he might never regain mobility. Real fear of being

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paralyzed for the remainder of his life flitted like a half-dead moth against the flame of his soul. Whatever she had given him had completely stymied his mental powers and he could not even reach out to her to wipe the sneer from her gloating face. He tried flexing his toes but felt no movement at all, likewise when he tried to turn his head. He was trapped as though encased in amber with only his fingers able to arch and claw against the sheets. “My lady?” he asked silently, reaching out to the voice that had reassured him earlier. He was worried sick about Catherine, terrified of what Nyria and Bahru might have done to her. “She is safe. I will aid you when the time is right, my son,” the voice said softly. “Fear not.” Nyria was crouched above him, her heat poised above his member. He watched her slide down his length though he could not feel her wetness, her sheath as it enveloped him. The room grew darker and that concerned him even more than the woman sliding up and down upon him. Staring at her bouncing breasts, he realized the light was slowly fading and he worried that his sight was failing. “Please,” he whispered to the voice. “Trust, my son. Have trust.” With her head thrown back, her eyes closed as she rode Khenty, Nyria was not aware of the room becoming darker. She was unaware of the sun setting. She did not see the faint wisp of smoke that seeped through the crack where the door met the frame but Khenty saw it and stared—his eyes widening—as the smoke wafted to the floor then began to take form. The entity taking shape was tall and muscular, its body darker than the darkest night. A gleam of gold halfway down its length shimmered into a shendyt kilt that hugged slim hips and long, muscular legs. Golden armbands appeared next then a broad collar that sparkled like fire. But it was the headdress that caught and held Khenty’s attention and he knew whom it was that had come to his aid. Nyria stopped moving. Slowly she lowered her head, her gaze meeting her master’s for a moment before his slipped past her. She drew in a breath and began to turn her head. What she saw behind her tore an unearthly scream from her lips. Bright crimson blood splattered Khenty’s naked chest when the entity struck. He flinched as a splash of it hit his face. Still unable to move, he could do nothing but watch as death was dealt in the harshest of manners and the growling, tearing, crunching sounds of the entity taking its revenge permeated the room. When there was nothing left of the woman who had betrayed the master of Anubeion, the entity rose up to its full seven feet of height, a long-handled scepter appearing in its dark hand. “You have cared for our people well, my son,” the dog-headed god said in a deep voice. “We are most pleased with you.”

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The dog-headed scepter was lifted, angled over Khenty’s prone body and then moved from side to side before the forked base of it was returned to the floor with a low thump. “Go, my son,” Anubis said. “Retrieve your mate.” Feeling came instantly back into Khenty’s body and instinctively he shot up in the bed, pressing his back against the headboard, his knees drawn up to cover his nakedness. “Milord, I—” he began but the entity held up a hand—a hand in which a golden ankh rattle was clutched. “We take care of Our children,” the god said, and then disappeared in a sparkle of golden flecks of light. Khenty sat there—his chest heaving, sweat pouring from his body—staring at the place where the god Anubis had stood. He found he was shivering with an unaccustomed fear that made his hand shake as he lifted it to rake it through his tousled hair. Ashamed his teeth were chattering, he propelled himself from the bed. Clammy with the feel of Nyria’s blood covering his chest, he hurried to the bathing pool and dove in, swimming beneath the water until he no longer felt the stickiness clinging to him. Surfacing with a loud explosion of air from his tortured lungs, he stood in the waist-deep water trembling, his eyes stricken. “Go to your mate,” he heard whispered on the wind. Fearing more for Catherine than what he had just witnessed, he waded through the water and climbed up to the marble coping, shaking his head to fling his wet hair back. Not even bothering to dress, he ran to the door, unlocked it and rushed through, shifting as he did into his canine form, his nose twitching as he searched for his lady’s scent.

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Chapter Ten Catherine heard the howling and knew from whose throat it came. She rushed to the window and shoved the curtain aside. It was night now and the dark mountain cliffs showed no hint of the animal whose plaintive cry reverberated through her very soul. Turning away from the window, she went to the door and pulled it open to find Rhada standing there, his fist raised to knock. “You heard him?” he asked with a slight smile. “I knew he’d come,” she said. “He’ll not enter my courtyard without an invitation from me,” the Oceanian said. “I’ll take you out to meet him.” She could sense something troubling him and she glanced at his handsome face as they started down the stairs. “What is distressing you, Rhada?” she asked. “There is a situation in the village and I have been unable to stop or contain it.” He cast her a quick look. “Perhaps Fate has provided me with a solution.” A servant hurried to the door to open it for his master, bowing as Rhada and Catherine walked past him. “Shall I send for the Stravteuma, Your Grace?” the servant asked, his eyes wide in fear. “No, the cries are coming from another like me, not the vrykolakas,” Rhada replied. The servant crossed himself. “The Anubi?” “Aye,” Rhada said. “With any luck at all, I will be able to persuade him to help us.” Catherine felt the chill in the air and the hint of rain as they walked out into the courtyard. Along the walls were torches that snapped and hissed in the quickening breeze. “What help do you require of him?” she asked. “The vrykolakas is vicious and so far has managed to elude my Stravteuma, but Ben-Alkazar is a different breed of creature than I. His power might be able to find the Undead One.” “Vrykolakas?” she asked. “A bloodthirsty creature who drains its victims,” Rhada said. “An evil thing beyond knowing, milady.” Once more the howling came but this time much closer and Catherine looked to the heavily barred gatehouse where soldiers were staring out into the night. “You can not shape-shift as Khenty does?” she questioned, and marveled that she could discuss such a thing in a calm way.

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“Oh I can shift,” Rhada said, “but into an Imperial eagle. I am a diurnal creature, a creature of the day. Ben-Alkazar is nocturnal and the vrykolakas hunts its victims at night. It hides during the day and I do not have the ability to sniff it out as he can.” They were almost to the gatehouse and again the howling rent the air with a lamentation that made Catherine’s heart ache. “Khenty, I am coming,” she called out, and the howling ceased abruptly. “He has rushed up to the gate, Your Grace!” one of the soldiers on the wall cried out. “Open the gate then,” Rhada said as a fevered scratching sounded on the thick wood. The two guards posted to either side of the gate exchanged looks then hastened to do their master’s bidding. A loud shrieking protest came as the massive portal was pulled open. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief to see Khenty, even if he was in dog form. Her heart did a funny little squeeze in her chest but she never broke her stride as she went to him and knelt down beside him, putting her arms around his furry neck and burying her face in the ruff there. She could feel him quivering and knew he was reacting to Rhada’s presence. She stroked his back. “He is our friend, milord.” “You are welcome in my domain, Prince Khenty Ben-Alkazar,” Rhada said with a bow. “I bid you enter as my guest and as a brethren.” Catherine stood up. “He is in need of your help, milord.” The dog looked up at her, his eyes glowing and cocked his head to one side. “He protected me from Bahru and now we must do what we can to return the favor,” she explained. With a sniff, the dog started forward, waiting until Catherine was at his side. He stopped just before crossing over into the courtyard of Ocaleae and sniffed again. Apparently satisfied there was no treachery afoot, he continued on toward Rhada. “You will need clothing,” Rhada said, and turned to show his guests back into the mansion. “I believe we are of the same size and height.” Catherine smiled at the slight huff that came from her lover. “Behave,” she whispered. Leading them into his home and up the stairs, Rhada was quiet, his disquieting thoughts communicating with Khenty in a way Catherine could not discern. By the time he led them to their room he had explained the situation to the prince of Anubeion and had gained a silent pledge of help in return. “Thank you, Prince Khenty,” Rhada said, bowing once more. “I will be forever in your debt.” He left them with a promise to send clothing for Khenty. Once the door was closed, Khenty changed in a flash, reaching out to grab his lady and drag her to him in a feverish clench that nearly drove the air from her lungs. “I was sick with worry, wench!” he told her, his throat clogging with emotion. 102

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Her arms slid around him. “He treated me like one of his own,” she told her husband. “He—” “Wench, you are mine!” he snarled, his lips peeled back from his teeth. “Of course, but—” Refusing to release her, he backed her against the wall and his mouth went to hers in a heady kiss that hit them both with wild desire. His hands dragged at her clothing, yanking up her skirt, ripping the underwear from her in his need to have her flesh against his, his body within hers. He rammed his naked thigh between her legs—lifting her up from the floor with his hands cupped beneath her rump. His mouth moved to her breast and he drew her nipple deep into that warm recess, his teeth clamping down gently to make her whimper with ecstasy as he used his tongue to stab heatedly at the hardening bud. “Khenty!” she cried out. “Please!” Unable to endure the overpowering feel of his lips on her breast, she pulled his head up and brought his mouth back to hers. She put every ounce of her love and need and desire for him into that kiss and he responded with a low growl deep in his throat. Holding her pressed to the wall, he arched his hips against her, his cock as hard as stone along the juncture of her thighs. Her legs came up and she wound them ‘round his waist, her ankles locked and her heel digging into his flanks as she held him fiercely to her. As she threaded her fingers through his hair to anchor his mouth to hers, he thrust fiercely into her, muffling her grunt with the stab of his tongue. Sliding her up the wall with every possessive plunge into her moist heat, he pistoned his hips upward, allowing her to ride his cock down again with such an intensity it made their hearts thunder and blood race. She was slick along his rock-hard shaft, her juices mingling with his so he glided into her as quickly as his strength would allow him. His heavy sac slapped against her anus to send shudders of lust coursing through his body. The scent of their combined moistness drove him wild and he drove harder into her, faster, striving for the release that hovered right on the edge of madness. Catherine was moaning low in her throat, her tongue dueling with his, her lips nibbling at his, her body molded to his. Her arms were wrapped around his head— wrists crossed, fingers entangled in his thick hair. When he shifted her higher and pushed as deeply into her as his cock would go, she felt the itch spread like wildfire through her lower belly, her clit, to wriggle all the way through her sheath. It was a pleasurable pain in which she reveled. Her moans became a shrill scream absorbed by his questing mouth as her climax wound tight like a clock spring then let go with a spiral that brought darkness to her vision. Khenty was completely lost in the sensation that engulfed his staff. Her body was hot around his, sliding along him, the friction a pure delight. The quick pulses that milked him brought forth his seed in a wild spurt that made his entire body go rigid

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with the release. He tore his mouth from hers, bared his fangs and sank them into her neck at the pinnacle of his discharge. Yelping as her lover penetrated her flesh, Catherine drove her fingernails into his scalp. It was not a painful thing he had done to her but such an erotic, overpoweringly sensuous act that brought wave after wave of violent climax rippling through her cunt. As he drank in his lady’s blood, Khenty knew a moment of such fierce possessiveness he thought he well might die from it. Had anyone—god or man—tried to tear her from him at that moment he would have become a raving lunatic. He growled low in his throat as he withdrew his fangs. “My love,” Catherine whispered, feeling the strangest sensation coursing through her. “You must…” He could not make his vocal chords work. He shifted her so she rode his thigh once more and pulled his hand from her rear. Reaching up between them, he dragged his fingernail across his jugular, opening the vein and slid his hand around her neck to draw her lips to the coursing blood. “Drink, Catherine. Drink. I will never fear losing you again!” She did not question him, although the thought of drinking his blood sickened her. She put her lips to the wound and did as he ordered. The taste was salty and spicy with a tang of something she found extraordinarily enticing. As the warm liquid coursed down her throat, it set her womb to clenching and she came again, the taste of him in her mouth exploding on her tongue like an oral orgasm. Khenty held her mouth to his neck and closed his eyes, taking as much pleasure from her drinking his blood as he did from taking her life essence. The sweetness lingered on his tongue and flowed through his body like nectar. It sang in his soul. It warmed his cold heart. When she had taken as much as he dared allow her, he eased her lips from his flesh and looked down into her flushed face. Her pupils were dilated as though she’d partaken of a strong, intoxicating drug—and in part, she had. There was a crimson droplet upon her lush bottom lip and he lowered his head to flick his tongue across the smoothness. “I feel strange,” she whispered. Khenty nodded. “I know.” He bent and lifted her into his arms to carry her to the bed. “Why is my head spinning?” she asked. “I have now brought you fully into my world, my love. The Ritual is complete,” he said softly as he sat down beside her. He put his fingertips over her eyes. “You must sleep now.” Catherine felt as though a warm, numbing blanket had been laid upon her senses. She was tired—infinitely so—and her world was reeling. Khenty’s fingers were cool on her closed lids.

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“Sleep,” she heard her husband command, and allowed the darkness to enfold her in gentle arms. For a long while Khenty sat beside her until he was sure she was fast asleep. Leaning over, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead then stood. Padding to the door, he opened it and looked down—knowing full well what he’d find. A small smile tugged at his lips as he bent over to retrieve the neatly folded garments lying on the floor. Dressing quickly in the soft black shirt and pants, he left the bedchamber, quietly closing the door behind him. There was a debt he needed to repay.

***** Rhada was standing at the hearth, staring down into the leaping flames. He glanced around as Khenty came into the room. “Your lady is resting?” he asked. “I brought her into my world,” Khenty replied, and saw his host nod in understanding. “My lady has never forgiven me for bringing her into mine,” Rhada said, “and never allows me to forget it.” “How is ‘Mena?” Khenty asked. Rhada frowned. “Sticking her hairpins into the eyes of her enemies on Oceania if I know her,” he replied in a droll voice. Khenty reached up to rub his hooked index finger along the bridge of his nose. “I’d heard she has a temper.” “Temper?” Rhada echoed. “Rage is a closer description, Ben-Alkazar.” The two psychopomps were silent for a moment then Rhada turned to offer Khenty a seat. Once they were comfortable, the Oceanian prince heaved a tired sigh. “I am at my wit’s end with the vrykolakas ravaging my people,” Rhada said. “How many have died?” “Ten that we know of,” Rhada replied. “There may be more.” Khenty dusted a speck of lint from his pant leg. “If I remember my Oceanian history, when the vrykolakas is destroyed, those it created in its likeness will cease to exist.” “That is so.” “Have you any idea where I should start looking for it?” “I have been searching for her during the daylight hours but so far have found no trace of her whereabouts. I strongly suspect she’s slipped over the border into Xolotl’s realm.” “It’s a she?” Khenty asked, his brows arched.

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“A jilted woman who sold her soul to gain revenge on the man who wronged her,” Rhada said. “The trouble is, after she murdered him, she liked it so much she went after others she thought had caused her problems in this life.” He glanced at Khenty. “The telling word there is thought.” “She’s killed the innocent.” “Aye, she has. One was a mere child of seven.” Khenty—distressed at hearing that—sighed deeply. “I’ll take care of it for you.” Stretching out his leg, Rhada fished in his pocket and brought out a scrap of material. “This was worn by the vrykolakas.” He leaned over to give the piece of cloth to Khenty. Khenty brought the frayed fabric to his nose and the scent from him made him ill. He lowered it. “Hers is a vile odor,” he commented. “She was a vile woman,” Rhada said. “That was why her man left her in the first place. I am in your debt for helping to rid us of her presence.” “There is no debt,” Khenty said, getting to his feet. “You took care of my lady. Consider the debt paid.” “I am grateful and I apologize for bringing you into this. If I were on good terms with Xolotl, I’d have gone to see him about this since he has powers similar to your own,” Rhada said. “Xolotl isn’t on good terms with anyone,” Khenty said, “but he’ll not quarrel with me. The last time we scuffled, I took off part of his right ear.” He grinned. “He returned the favor by giving me a bad case of fleas.” “Be careful, Ben-Alkazar,” Rhada said. “He’s a sneaky son of a bitch.” “We both are. Just watch over Catherine until I return,” Khenty said as he walked toward the door. He stopped and looked around. “By the way, I stopped by your kitchen to provide for my lady if I am not back when she wakes. Will you see to her comfort?” “You have my word,” Rhada pledged. It was raining hard when Khenty went out onto the steps of Ocaleae. He waited until the servants had shut the door behind him before stripping off his borrowed clothing. Folding them neatly, he laid them next to the door then walked out into the night. As he neared the gatehouse he was canine form, barking to the guards to allow him exit. When the heavy gate was open, he loped off into the darkness. Running with the wind against his muzzle and the rain pelting his back, he raced up the mountainside and toward Mount Inferno, the land ruled by the Diabolusian psychopomp Xolotl. Now and again, he stopped, threw back his head and let out a warning howl to let his counterpart know he was not the one Khenty was seeking. It was the rattling of bones that brought Khenty to a skidding stop. He swung his head around to view the animal coming toward him. Sitting down on his haunches to wait, he panted, his sides heaving, his tongue lolling out.

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The entity who sidled up to Khenty was as thin and cadaverous as any mangy dog to be found in the poorest parts of Diabolusia. Its flesh was taut to its rib cage and the bony legs were spindly, the feet oddly pointed backward. One ear was missing a large portion of cartilage. When it opened its mouth, it made a mewling sound. “The Oceanian sent me in search of a marauder,” Khenty said, taking his human form. He sat with his naked legs drawn up into the circumference of his arms. Xolotl whined then changed into a pathetically thin man—more skeleton than anything else. His face was so drawn it was a chore to look upon him but it was the club feet upon which he stood that bothered Khenty most of all and he tried not to stare at the huge penis that hung between the psychopomp’s thin legs. “What kind of marauder?” the Diabolusian asked, scratching his sparse chest hair. “A vrykolakas,” Khenty replied. “A vampire.” “Distasteful things,” Xolotl said with a sniff. “Why come here looking for it?” “Rhada believes it to be hiding here.” He turned his head, chin raised, nostrils flexing. “I sense it close by.” “Is that the stench I caught a whiff of?” Xolotl smirked. “And here I thought it was you.” Khenty grunted at the insult. “Why didn’t the Oceanian prick come do his own hunting?” the Diabolusian queried. “Would you have let him?” Xolotl dug at his scalp for a moment before answering. “Most likely not, but he could have had the courtesy to ask.” “Coming here wouldn’t have done him any good,” Khenty said. “His powers are no good after the sun sets.” “Damned raptor has no powers to speak of anyway. So he can fly. So what? So can a gnat,” the Diabolusian growled. He scratched at his hip. “I hate gnats almost as much as I hate birds.” Khenty almost smiled. “Could that be because your twin brother is half avian?” “He’s more snake than bird,” Xolotl said with a snort. “I hate snakes too.” “Thus you hate Quetz,” Khenty surmised. “Never said I didn’t,” the psychopomp replied. He watched Khenty for a moment. “I hear congratulations are in order. You took yourself a bitch.” Khenty grimaced at the word but he knew the other psychopomp didn’t mean it as an insult. “I Joined legally with her,” he mumbled. “Joining,” the Diabolusian said with a shake of his shaggy head. “Unnecessary bondage if you ask me. Now you’re stuck with her.” “It’s a sticking with which I am well pleased,” Khenty told him.

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“I prefer fucking them, getting them with pups then leaving their ass, but that’s just me. Well, here’s to healthy litters, Ben-Alkazar,” Xolotl said. He shifted into his canine form, used his misshapen left rear leg to scratch at his belly for a moment then turned and ambled off into the rain. Khenty watched the Diabolusian until he disappeared then changed his own shape. He shook his fur voraciously—hoping he hadn’t picked up any of the Diabolusian’s copious fleas. He knew Xolotl would leave him be. They weren’t friends but neither were they really enemies. They had an understanding between them few others would understand. With both of them having their canine abilities in common, it made for a fairly calm relationship. Now and again, they might fight but it was never serious, never meant to do real harm to one another. Had the Diabolusian been concerned about Khenty’s presence on Mount Inferno, his hackles would have been up and he would have bared his fangs. As it was, the scruffy mutt had gone on his way without a challenge just as Khenty knew he would. Putting his muzzle to the ground, Khenty caught the scent of the vrykolakas. It was mixed with the putrid odor of decaying flesh and rancid blood. Sniffing, he followed the scent up the mountain trail, sickened by the smell invading his nostrils. Stopping now and again to change direction, he began closing in on the entity. The terrain was rocky and steep, and the higher up Mount Inferno he ran, the colder the rain slashing down at him became. There was almost a touch of sleet in the air and it made the going rough. Twice he slid down the sharply jutting surface of one cliff—scraping his belly badly—until he spied a cave wind-etched into the mountain wall. As soon as he neared the entrance, he heard the pitiful, frightened cry of a child and without another thought, bounded into the dark recess of the cave.

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Chapter Eleven Catherine huddled in the thick shawl that had been left in her room for her as she slept and walked carefully down the stairs. She was still a bit lightheaded and her stomach growled with hunger. It had been the bright light of morning pouring in through the two edges of the curtains that had awakened her. A salty taste lurked in her mouth, bringing back vividly to her the evening before and her taking of Khenty’s blood. Swallowing convulsively to keep the gorge from bubbling up her throat, she made her way downstairs in search of her husband. “Good morning, milady.” She turned to see Prince Rhada coming toward her with a tight smile. “Good morning,” she managed to say. “I hope you slept well and are rested this morn,” he told her. He narrowed his eyes in concern at her paleness as he drew nearer. “You aren’t feeling well, are you?” Putting a hand to her throbbing head, Catherine replied that she wasn’t. “I have a terrible headache and my stomach is queasy.” “You need Sustenance,” he said to her, and reached out to gently take her arm. “My staff has prepared a light meal for us.” Horror filled Catherine’s gaze. “Oh milord, I don’t think I could eat anything the way I feel!” “Trust me,” he said, leading her from the stairs and down a short corridor toward the dining room. “I am aware Khenty brought you fully into his world, and since I promised him I would look after you until he returns, I believe I know what will make you feel better.” Catherine stopped, looking up at him. “He hasn’t returned?” Rhada shook his head. “Not yet, but I don’t expect him to until he has found the vrykolakas and destroyed it. If I am correct, it is hiding somewhere up on Mount Inferno and the weather was very bad last night.” “He could be hurt!” she said, trembling. “He could—” “Do you feel that?” Rhada interrupted her. She stared at him. “What do you mean?” “Milady,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips for a light, respectful kiss to calm her. “You are fully in his world now. Had something dire happened to him, you would have known it at that very moment. You are so connected to him that what one feels, the other will feel.” “But I was asleep,” she protested. “What if—?”

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“Believe me, dearling,” he said gently. “Your husband is well and will return as quickly as he can.” He patted her hand. “Now, we need to see to your wellbeing.” Before she could object again, he led her into the dining room and held out a chair for her. There were only two places set at the long, elegant table. On a pristine white lace tablecloth, the exquisite china, heavy silverware and fragile-looking crystal sparkled in the bright sunlight slashing through the tall casement windows. “I really don’t think I’m going to be able to eat,” Catherine said. A servant came in carrying a silver tray upon which sat two ornate goblets. Placing a goblet before Catherine, he then set one before his prince. Catherine frowned. “What is this?” “Sustenance,” Rhada answered. “Your husband made arrangements before he left last evening.” Lifting the goblet, Catherine looked down into it and realized it was filled with blood. Her eyes widened as her head snapped up as she stared at her host. “I can’t!” she denied. “Milady, you can,” he said firmly. “And you must. I promise you, it will restore you.” “But…” “Being fully in our world means living as we live, milady,” he stated. “Once a day is all that is necessary unless…” He blushed. “Well, unless in the act of passion you feel the need to…” He shrugged. “I believe you understand what I am bumbling to say.” She lowered her gaze to the crimson liquid. A part of her wanted to drop the goblet and run, but another part made her mouth water. Torn between horror and need, she just sat there until she saw Rhada lift his goblet and drain it. For a moment she feared she’d throw up, but after a deep, strengthening breath, she brought the goblet to her lips, closed her eyes and began to drink. Rhada smiled to himself. Such had been the way with his wife ‘Mena. To this day, she did the same thing as Ben-Alkazar’s wife was doing although by now he thought perhaps it was more habit than need on her part. When Catherine had finished and set the goblet down with a shaking hand, he arched a brow at her. “How do you feel?” he asked. Catherine was amazed that as she drank the headache vanished almost instantly and her sense of illness had left her. She felt good actually, with a great deal of energy flooding her system. With a dip of her head, she admitted she believed she could eat a horse she was so hungry. Throwing back his head, Rhada laughed then clapped his hands for his servant and the man returned with a tray of wonderful-smelling food that brought delight to Catherine’s eyes. “Eat up, milady,” Rhada said.

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***** Hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, Rhada hurried along the brick walkway that led from the front steps of his home to the guardhouse. The gates were closed though the portcullis had been raised for the day. “Any sign of Prince Khenty?” he asked the chief guard. “No, Your Grace,” the man replied. “We have been watching as you ordered.” “I don’t like this,” Rhada said. It was well past noon and the man he had sent to destroy the vrykolakas should have been back long before now. He stood there for a moment then told the guard he would be leaving for a while. “If his lady should come to ask, tell her I had business in the village.” “Aye, Your Grace,” the chief guard replied. Rhada turned and walked to the far side of the courtyard to an alcove and stepped inside. The chief guard looked up as the Imperial eagle’s wings flapped loudly in the still air. He saluted the raptor as it winged its way over the guardhouse with a sonorous bark of farewell. Taking to the sky with a powerful snap of his wings, Rhada sailed over the forest at the base of Mount Inferno. His sharp eyes were locked on the ground below, searching for movement. Soaring over a tall sweeping pine, he caught movement and banked, diving down through the glistening pine needles until he found what he’d been seeking. Khenty stopped, looked up at the majestic raptor as it settled to a sturdy branch. He smiled tiredly. “Came searching for me, did you, Rhada?” Taking his human shape as he crouched on the branch, Rhada cocked his head to one side. “Where’d you get the clothes?” The Kensetti prince looked down at the ragged clothes he wore. “I snatched them from a villager’s shed last eve. A bad fit, eh?” Rhada grinned. “You look like a scarecrow,” he teased. “I feel like one and I strongly suspect that is what these rags were intended to dress,” Khenty observed, plucking at the offending garments. He shrugged. “Is my lady well?” “She is, and has had her first goblet of Sustenance.” Khenty narrowed his eyes. “How did she take to it?” “Fair enough, I suppose. She ate a hardy meal afterwards.” Staring up at the naked man perched on the branch, Khenty had to chuckle. “Your dangly is dangling down below the branch, brother. Perhaps you should shift back to your more modest shape. That bark has to be rough on your balls.” Rhada sniffed. “When you tell me what took you so long,” he replied, completely unconcerned with his nudity. 111

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“I had an errand to run after I dispatched your vrykolakas,” Khenty told him. “She had a child with her, a toddler, and I had to return the baby to its family.” “Alive?” Rhada asked. “And well. I don’t believe she meant the boy any harm but who knows? She might have been saving him for a late-night snack.” The Oceanian shuddered. “She didn’t taint him then.” “No,” Khenty said then pushed back the sleeve on his left forearm, “but the bitch took a bite out of me.” Letting out a long sigh, Rhada pushed off the branch and landed easily on his bare feet, striding forward to take a look at the vicious wound. He took Khenty’s arm, peered closely at it and then shook his head. “This will need draining then cauterizing.” “Aye, I figured as much.” Rhada met the other psychopomp’s eye as he released Khenty’s arm. “Did my villagers see you?” “I doubt it. I had a helluva time finding the child’s parents. It was the mother’s wailing that led me to them.” He lowered the sleeve over the bite mark. “I put the child in front of their door, knocked then got out of there as fast as I could. I can’t wait to get out of these foul clothes.” “You can’t shift?” “I’m too weak from this fucking poison spreading up my arm,” Khenty said. “I’m barely able to walk.” “Want me to bring a horse back for you?” “I’d appreciate that.” Rhada nodded then turned to go. “You’re on Ocaleae land now so I won’t worry about Xolotl attacking you. Wait here,” he ordered. Within the space of a breath, he had shifted to his avian form and taken to the sky. Khenty sat down beneath the pine tree, drew his legs up and laid his head on his knees. His arm was aching miserably, his head hurt and he knew he was feverish. Heavy bronze-colored streaks had formed under the flesh around his wound and were radiating toward his shoulder. A foul-smelling discharge seeped from the bite and the area around it was swelling. His only consolation was the vrykolakas would never hurt another human. Half an hour later, he woke to men lifting him into the back of a wagon. “I thought you were bringing me a horse,” he mumbled, closing his eyes to the light piercing his vision. “It’s a good thing I didn’t,” Rhada said. “I don’t think you’re capable of sitting one.” A soft padding had been laid on the back of the wagon and Khenty was appreciative of the comfort. As soon as the cool fingers touched his brow, he knew to whom they belonged and forced his eyes open. He smiled. “Hello, wench.” 112

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“Are you going to forever be making me worry about you, milord?” Catherine asked as she smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “That’s a wife’s duty,” he reminded her. “Aye, and scolding her husband for walking in harm’s way is right at the top of that list of duties,” she countered. “I suppose you’re right,” he agreed as she eased his head onto her lap. “And we will talk about your choice of garments later,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You positively reek, milord.” Rhada exchanged a look with the guard who was driving the wagon. They both knew it was the smell of the necrotic tissue of the Kensetti’s wound that was causing the foul odor. “Make haste,” Rhada said quietly to his man. “I’d rather he not suffer any longer than he must.” Khenty closed his eyes again as his lady stroked his face. He did not want to see the worry in her face as she watched him. Knowing she could feel the heat blistering his skin concerned him, but there was nothing he could do about it. Once the wound was opened, his veins drained of the vrykolakas poison and the wound cauterized, he would feel better. “Is he sleeping?” Rhada asked, twisting around on the wagon seat to look down at his passengers. “No. His flesh is so hot,” Catherine said. “He’ll be fine, milady. It will take more than a vrykolakas bite to take the life of one of his kind.” He smiled at her. “It’ll make him sick as a dog—” He stopped, shrugged at his pun and then turned back around.

***** Rhada and his healer would not allow Catherine in the room as Khenty was being attended to despite her explaining that she was a trained nurse. The men staunchly refused, stationing a guard outside the bedchamber to keep her out. “Thank you,” Khenty said after relieving his stomach of the fluids making him so desperately ill. “She doesn’t need to see this.” “No, she doesn’t,” Rhada agreed. The healer was preparing to open Khenty’s veins as his prince heated a cautery iron in a small brazier. “I am ready, Your Grace,” the man said. Two burly guards stood at the head of the bed to hold Khenty’s shoulders and arms down while another two were positioned at the foot of the bed to restrain his legs. The wound was fiercely painful and the laceration would cause great discomfort. No one wanted the Kensetti to buck while the operation was in progress and make matters worse.

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“Here,” Rhada said, rolling up a small rag. “Clamp your teeth down on this.” Khenty obeyed, grateful his host was providing something with which to muffle the cry he was damned sure would come when the wound was debriefed. Outside the bedchamber, Catherine paced up one side of the hallway and down the other, straining to hear anything that might be happening in the room. She knew he was somehow shielding her from knowing just how bad the situation was and had every intention of taking him to task for it. She had witnessed the treatment of patients suffering from gangrene and the wound on her husband’s arm bore a strong similarity to the mortified and necrotic tissues she’d seen in patients during her training. “It is not the same,” Rhada had explained to her. “This is an infection, true, but one that is not deadly to one of our kind. As I said, it will make him very ill but as soon as the wound has been properly cared for, he will mend quickly. Try not to worry.” That was easier said than done, Catherine thought as she stopped in front of the door once more. The guard smiled encouragingly at her but did not speak as she commenced to pacing again. “Milady?” the same beautiful young woman who Catherine had seen the day before was standing near the stairs. “Yes?” “There is a man at the gate asking for His Grace. He says it is very important.” Catherine glanced back at the door then started toward the woman. “Show me,” she asked. The man who waited at the guardhouse bowed deeply to Catherine as she approached. He was dressed in flowing black robes with a black keffiyah nearly obscuring his dark face. “Your pardon, Your Grace,” he said to Catherine. “I am seeking the prince.” “Prince Khenty is indisposed,” Catherine said. “May I ask who you are?” “Again, I ask your pardon, Wife of the Majestic One,” the man said. “I am Captain Rajab Bin Talal of the Medjai, the prince’s private army.” “Is there trouble at Anubeion, Captain?” she asked. Rajab bowed his head. “I do not know how much His Grace knows of what has happened in his home. If I may speak with him…” “I am his right hand, Captain,” Catherine said. “You may be assured that whatever you say to me will be reported directly to him when he is available.” The Medjai looked up. “It is good His Grace has you to care for him, milady.” “It is my good fortune, Captain,” she said. “Has there been trouble at Anubeion?” “We only found out this morning that His Grace was at Ocaleae. I would have come earlier had I known where to look for him. When we found him gone, the tribunalist, the servants and Lord Hasani slain, Lord Bahru and Nyria missing…”

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“Holly, Silus, Jacob and Hasani are dead?” Catherine gasped, her hand going to her throat. “And the tribunalist?” Rajab inclined his head. “There were puncture wounds on their necks. It looks to be a form of poison that was administered to them. We have taken care of the bodies as is fitting but they must be embalmed and with Lord Hasani lost to us…” He held his hands out to either side of him, palms up. “We knew not what to do.” “Nyria is gone, you say?” Catherine asked, her eyes narrowing. “No trace was discovered of the darkling though there is much blood in your chamber,” Rajab replied. “Her possessions are where she left them but she has vanished. Likewise Lord Bahru is nowhere to be found.” “Lord Bahru is dead,” Catherine said. “He abducted me and was killed by Prince Rhada’s men.” “No great loss,” Rajab mumbled, and started to apologize but Catherine stopped him. “My sentiments as well, Captain. He was a vile man and the world will not miss his parting.” Rajab bowed his head in acknowledgement of her words. “Prince Khenty is being cared for by Prince Rhada’s healer. We will return to Anubeion as soon as he is able to travel. I wish I could tell you what needs to be done for our dead, but I do not know.” She took a step toward the Medjai. “Perhaps one of your men could apprentice with the prince to learn the procedures while we procure another embalmer.” “We would be honored to do so, Your Grace,” Rajab replied. “Go home then and take care of our people. Hopefully, we will return soon.” Climbing the stairs to the bedchamber in which her husband lay, Catherine was numb with grief for Holly and Jacob and though she hadn’t known him well, for Holly’s husband Silus as well. She had liked them both and was sorry they would not be there when she returned to Anubeion. She remembered Holly wanting to return to Ionary and made a mental note to tell Khenty they must make arrangements to send the cook and her husband home for burial. As to Jacob, she had no idea where he had been born or if he had even desired to return there. Perhaps Khenty would know. “Prince Rhada says you may enter now, Your Grace,” the guard at the door told Catherine as she came down the hallway. Grateful she could see her husband, Catherine thanked the guard and waited for him to open the door for her. She went into the bedchamber and was relieved to see Khenty awake and holding his hand out to her. “Where did you go, wench?” he asked. “You’ve spoiled him already, Catherine,” Rhada chuckled. “He is not apt to let you out of his sight anytime soon.” She went to her husband and took his hand, glancing over at his bandaged left arm. “The poison is gone?”

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“And the wound cleaned,” the healer said as he returned his instruments to his large black bag. “You will need to change the dressing twice a day and spread on the ointment I have given His Grace.” “I will see to it,” Catherine agreed, smiling at her husband when he brought her hand to his lips. “Bed rest is indicated?” “For a few days at least,” the healer acknowledged, “though I suspect that might be hard to accomplish if Prince Khenty is anything like Prince Rhada.” “We’ve the dead to see to,” Khenty said, searching Catherine’s face. “Who told you about what happened at Anubeion?” “Captain Rajab came looking for you,” she answered. “The dead need us, milady. We must return home,” her husband said, starting to throw the covers aside. “I think not!” the healer said. “Not today at any rate.” “He knows what is best, Mikos,” Rhada told the healer. “He will be more comfortable in his own home than here.” The healer pursed his lips but said nothing more, merely giving a curt nod to his prince. Khenty’s arm throbbed horribly and his shoulder felt as though it had been dislocated but he managed to swing his legs off the bed, grateful he wore a soft pair of black silk pants to hide him from the healer’s avid view. He’d heard certain things about Oceanian men and was uneasy with the man’s intense stare. “Come, Mikos,” Rhada said, sensing his counterpart’s discomfort. “Let’s leave him to dress.” “May we use the wagon again, milord?” Catherine asked as she slipped her arm around Khenty’s waist. “Of course. I’ll send someone to fetch it tomorrow.” “I can sit a mount,” Khenty protested, but his wife gave him a droll look that brought the color to his cheeks. He ducked his head. “But the wagon might be best.” Rhada’s lips twitched and he winked at Catherine. “Our womenfolk always know what is best for us.” After they were alone and Khenty was sitting on the bed, Catherine on her knees before him buttoning his shirt, he gave in to the weakness that he’d refused to show in front of the others. “I feel like shit warmed over, dropped on the floor, stepped in then scraped off someone’s boot,” he admitted. Catherine giggled. “That sounds pretty bad,” she acknowledged. She got to her feet and went over to retrieve the boots Rhada had provided for her husband, wrinkling her nose at the pair Khenty had pilfered from someone’s barn. “When we’ve prepared the bodies, it will be a while before we will need to escort the tribunalist, Hasani and Jacob to their rest. I’ll have the boat readied to take Holly

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and Silus back to Ionary. Unless there are other dead I’m not sensing, I intend to sleep for an entire day and night,” he told her. “And you should,” she agreed. His gaze was like a burning ember. “With you at my side.” “We’ll see,” she said, and squatted down to help him on with the borrowed boots. Looking down at her silky burgundy red hair, he reached out to touch the long braid hanging over her left shoulder. His loins ached as his fingers slid along the satiny tresses. “I love you, Kate,” he said softly. She lifted her head as she tugged on his boot. “And I love you, Khenty,” she replied. “Did that bastard hurt you?” he asked. “Bahru?” she asked then shook her head. “No, I was unconscious when Rhada’s men killed him.” He let go of her braid. “Rhada and I have never been particularly friendly but I am thankful it was he who rescued you. Had it been Xolotl, there might have been a bit of a problem.” “Prince Xolotl is the Diabolusian psychopomp?” He nodded. “He’s a perpetually horny little runt who I have no doubt would have attempted to seduce you. Rhada is an honorable man and fears his lady’s wrath.” “He described the two of you as pleasant rivals,” she said, standing up. “Pleasant rivals,” he repeated. “I’m not sure I would have described our relationship in that way.” He got to his feet, his injured arm held crooked at his waist. “Before the site of our meeting place cycled to Serenia and to Prince Kai, Rhada had come to Anubeion many times over the years on the Day of the Dead to celebrate the Release of Souls.” “When will that cycle return to us, milord?” she asked, remembering Nyria saying something about him entertaining his own kind. “Not for another hundred years,” he said, “and by then, I hope you and I have retired and gone on to the Fields to rest.” “I should think we would be,” she said with a light snort. “Catherine,” he said, reaching out to cup the back of her beck with his palm. He stared down into her emerald eyes. “Milady, you are no longer entirely human. You, like I, will live way past the normal span of years. A hundred years is but a drop in the well from a leaky bucket.” Her lips parting, she stared at him with horror. “Oh Khenty!” Tears filled her eyes. “I will be so wrinkled and saggy! I will look terrible for you!” He smiled. “You will look no different on the day you make the Final Journey than you do now.” He shrugged. “I don’t like to brag, but I don’t think I look a day over thirty-five. Do I?”

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She swiped at the single tear that fell down her cheek. “How old are you?” Thick jet brows waggled. “I’ll never tell, but let’s just say I was around long before you were a gleam in your father’s eye.” “Eeewww,” she said, pretending to shudder. “I married an old geezer!” Khenty snaked out his good arm and pulled her to him. “I’ll make you regret that remark, wench,” he said before swooping down to claim her lips. Catherine clung to him—mindful of his wound—as his kiss made her toes curl in her boots. Heat flooded her lower body and her breasts tightened beneath his expert assault. She wanted nothing more than to push him down on the bed, open his pants and impale herself on the hard bulge pressing against her belly. The Kensetti prince pulled away from her. “Save that thought,” he said hoarsely, stepping away from her. “Until we’re home.”

***** The wagon ride back to Anubeion was miserable for Khenty but he did not complain. He lay with his head in his wife’s lap, her cool hands on his brow, and tried to doze, but it seemed the driver ran over every rock in the road between Ocaleae and their home. By the time the gates of the Kensetti mansion swung open, he had almost ground his teeth to nubs in an effort to keep quiet. Rajab met them as Khenty struggled to put one foot ahead of the other up the steps of his home. The Medjai warrior gently took over for Catherine in helping his prince into the mansion. “Catherine, I need to take a nap before we begin our care of the dead,” Khenty said. “Please write a letter to the Council of Priests and explain to them what has happened. Ask them to send us two taricheutes this time and a coachytes. Bid them hurry.” He glanced at Rajab. “Have a man ride to the harbor with the letter as soon as milady has finished with it and make sure the captain of my fleetest ship leaves on the evening tide.” “Aye, Your Grace,” Rajab replied. “I took the liberty of informing Lord Kaelin of what has happened and he sent word he will be here tomorrow morning. He could not leave sooner.” Khenty nodded. “I will need him more tomorrow than today so that’s just as well.” Catherine trailed behind her husband and the captain of the Medjai as Rajab assisted his prince up the stairs. She keenly felt the loss of Jacob and Holly, felt sadness over Silus’ loss, yet sensed their spirits were not angry at their passing. Hasani’s shade seemed to be lurking about in a state of puzzlement and the bitterness of Nyria appeared to cling to the walls of Anubeion. “I will vanquish her when I am able,” her husband told her. “I want no reminders of her treachery in my home.”

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That her husband could read her thoughts did not surprise Catherine. She now knew who it was Kaelin, Holly and Nyria had been listening to when their eyes took on a strange intensity. “When I get you settled, I will write the missive,” she told him. “Worry about nothing but resting.” After she and Rajab had Khenty safely in a guestroom bed, she watched him close his eyes and go to sleep almost as soon as his head touched his pillow. She tucked the covers around him then walked out of the room ahead of Rajab. “Have you thought of a good man to become our apprentice?” she asked the Medjai. “Several have volunteered,” Rajab said as they descended the stairs. “I will let His Grace choose whichever one he thinks best.” Long after Rajab himself had left with the letter—not willing to risk anything so important with anyone else—Catherine sat in a chair by her husband’s bed and listened to his soft snore. She could feel Nyria in the room but ignored the shade, despising her for the murder of five good people. Each time a cool blast of clammy air touched the nape of her neck, she knew the black woman was hovering close, trying to unnerve her, desperately trying to make Catherine leave the room. “He is mine and mine he will stay,” Catherine mumbled to the troubled spirit. “And when he is able, he will cast your soul to the Abyss for what you’ve done.”

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Chapter Twelve Although Rajab and his men had washed the bodies of the tribunalist, Holly and Silus, Jacob and Hasani, Catherine did so again but with special herbs and spices that her husband directed her to use. Holly’s body then Silus’ were prepared first and in a different way than those of the three other men. When she lay in her casket in the most beautiful gown Catherine had ordered three seamstresses to make—the three working all night to fashion the satin gown—Holly looked as though she were smiling, the embalming art of Khenty Ben-Alkazar making the worn face of the cook look twenty years younger in death. It was a small group that traveled to the harbor to see Holly and Silus off on their final journey. Rajab was sitting beside the driver of the buggy that was carrying the prince and his lady to the harbor. Lord Kaelin McGregor rode his big roan stallion beside the coach. Behind them was the wagon laden with the expensive coffins carrying Holly and Silus’ earthly remains. Coming back to Anubeion later that day, Catherine could tell her husband was not feeling well. There was still residual poison from the vicious creature who had bitten him lurking about in his system and she insisted he was to take a nap as soon as they entered their temporary bedchamber. “We need to see to—” he began, but she shushed him by placing the tips of her fingers against his lips. “There is nothing that needs doing for a while yet, milord.” She urged him toward the bed. “Lie down and I’ll make you a cup of mulled cider.” He slipped his arms around her. “I’d rather have a taste of my lovely wife,” he muttered as he planted a kiss at the curve of her neck and shoulder. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Let me take off your boots and then we’ll talk about tasting.” She pulled the covers back so he could lie down. Khenty smiled. He enjoyed the way she gently bossed him about for he knew she had only his best interests at heart. He did as she asked and stroked her hair as she knelt down to remove his boots. “You are spoiling me,” he said. “It’s time someone did,” she replied. With his boots and socks removed, she helped him to stretch out on the bed, plumping the pillow beneath his head. “I will check on the others,” she assured him. She turned to go but he caught her hand to prevent her. “Uh-huh,” he said with a shake of his head. “You promised me a taste.” Catherine’s left eyebrow crooked up. “Nay, milord,” she countered. “I said we would talk about the tasting.”

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“Then come here, wench, and—” She slipped her hand from his and put her fingers to the fly of his trousers. Looking into his eyes, she opened the button at his waist and slid down his zipper. “You brazen hussy,” he teased, and despite the brutal ache in his left arm, folded his arms beneath his head. He shifted his legs slightly apart as she reached in to pull his cock out of his pants. “What have we here?” she mused, nudging him over with her hip so she could sit down beside him. Her fingers slid along his burgeoning length. “A tasteful little morsel?” he inquired. Catherine’s smile was predatory. “There is nothing little about this delicacy, milord,” she told him. Leaning over, she took him into her mouth. Khenty closed his eyes to the delicious sensations coursing through his body. She was gently molding his sac with her right hand as she wrapped the fingers of her left hand around his shaft. Using a back and forth motion with her hand, she drew him deep into her mouth, laving the tip of him with her sweet tongue. He lowered his right arm and threaded his fingers through her hair. “You are a wonder, milady,” he whispered, and smiled at her grunt. She was milking him and his blood was singing as she drew upon his taut flesh. Supreme pleasure had settled in his loins and he felt as though he would burn to a cinder as she worked her magic on his willing flesh. When she lightly squeezed his balls and pulled firmly on his cock with the suction of her mouth, he exploded like a primed cannon and trembled as the climax took over his entire being. Catherine looked up at him through her lashes, listening to the harshness of his breath as he tried to draw in air and then lifted her head, swirling her tongue around the dewy moisture still clinging to his shaft. “Was that tasting to your satisfaction, milord?” she queried as she tucked him back into his pants. “Aye, milady,” he said with a yawn. “You have worn me to the nub with your tasting.” Laughing, Catherine pulled the covers over him. She checked on his bandage to see if it needed changing and then leaned over him to place a soft kiss on his brow. “Sleep well, my love,” she said. Khenty was nearly asleep and could do no more than grunt in reply. By the time Catherine eased the bedchamber door open and left, he was once more snoring lightly. Kaelin looked up as Catherine came into the library. “Is he abed?” “And snoring to wake even the hardest of hearing,” she laughed. “How bad is the wound?” the Serenian asked. “It was savage,” she replied. “The vrykolakas tore a chunk out of his flesh, nicking the bone. There was copious venom in that bite and not all of it drained from him before the healer cauterized the wound.” 121

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“Ouch,” Kaelin said. “Luckily Khenty’s immortal. Such a bite would have killed and turned an ordinary man.” “Immortal,” Catherine said. “I’m still not used to the implications of that.” Kaelin nodded. “I imagine it does take some—” The mirror across the way from them flew off the wall as McGregor spoke and hit the wall opposite it, shattering the glass into thousands of fragments, spraying Catherine and Kaelin with shards that luckily were not large enough to hurt them. Kaelin jumped up, unsettled by what had happened. “How did—” Before he could finish the question, the books on several shelves tumbled to the floor with a loud bang. Items on Khenty’s desk flew off the shining surface and landed on the floor in a heap before being drawn up by an unseen whirlwind to be tossed all about the room. The chandelier overhead rattled ominously and the curtains at the windows were torn from their rods. “It is Nyria,” Catherine said calmly. “Sit down, Lord Kaelin. If you ignore her, she’ll subside.” The Serenian sat down on the sofa uneasily, turning his head about the room as first one thing then another crashed against the wall or floor. “Does this not disturb you, milady?” he asked, his eyes wide. “They are the actions of a spoiled child who has been denied what she wants. I will be here long after Nyria has been cast into the Abyss.” Though papers and flowers flew all around her, Catherine sat still, untouched by the debris. When the last book had tumbled from the shelves and there was nothing else that could be broken or torn, the commotion ended and the room in shambles. “Do you know what happens to souls judged unworthy of rest, milord?” Catherine asked. Kaelin shook his head. He was staring at the destruction. “Khenty will escort the dead one to be judged and when her heart has been deemed unclean, a monster will rear up and devour her, leaving nothing of her behind. She will spend her eternity in the belly of that monster.” A loud wailing sound reverberated through the halls of Anubeion. It was the lost cry of a condemned being and Catherine almost felt sorry for the dead woman. She looked at Kaelin. “Such is the fate of she who murdered five people to gain what was never hers to begin with.” Another ululation of misery skirled through the mansion, only to die away into a piteous whimpering. “Khenty told me she would have tried eventually to take his life with the powder she had used to keep him immobile. Enough of it would have paralyzed his lungs and very possibly would have caused brain damage,” Catherine said quietly. “It wouldn’t have killed him as she intended. The result would have been far worse than death.” 122

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“Surely she had to know she couldn’t kill him,” Kaelin said. “I don’t believe she was thinking clearly, milord. She wanted only what she wanted with no thought to what might happen. I doubt she even considered the fact that she would be damned for all eternity.” Once more the unearthly yowl echoed around them then died to a pathetic whimpering. A cold wind shot through the room then all was quiet, the heat from the fireplace reaching out to warm them. “Hell hath no fury, eh?” Kaelin said, taking out a kerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Indeed,” Catherine said. She looked up as Rajab appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Rajab?” The Medjai bowed respectfully, the black material of his head covering falling forward to partially hide his dark features. “Your pardon, Your Grace,” he said to Catherine, “but there are no other servants for Anubeion. If you would trust me with the hiring, I will see to it for you. My wife has sent food for the evening meal but there is tomorrow to consider.” Catherine smiled at the enigmatic man. “And I’m not that adept at cooking. I would be grateful for your assistance, Rajab. We most definitely will need a cook and butler, perhaps a maid or two and someone who would be willing to take on the duties as housekeeper. I would also like the women of the estate to return so we can finish the cleaning we started.” “My wife would be honored to be temporary housekeeper until we can find a woman to your satisfaction, Your Grace, and I have daughters who have expressed an interest in working on the estate. My brother-in-law would make you a fine butler. As for a cook, I believe there is a middle-aged widow who would suit nicely.” “Then if you would see to their hiring, I would appreciate it.” Rajab bowed once more and left. “He’s a good man,” Kaelin said. “I believe so,” Catherine agreed. Kaelin’s brow crinkled. “There is still the matter of the superstitious fear that permeates Anubeion. The villagers worry about the creature that—” “No longer has a need to roam the hills in search of its mate,” Catherine said. A warm smile flitted over the Serenian’s handsome face. “That is true, milady. I believe its loneliness is a thing of the past.” “I know it is,” Khenty said from the doorway. He waved a hand as Kaelin would have risen. “We’ve a matter to discuss, my friend.” Kaelin glanced at Catherine. “Can it not wait, Khenty? I don’t imagine you feel well enough to go over business.” “I am well enough and there is the matter of the taricheutes,” Khenty said.

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“Bahru?” Catherine questioned. “What of him, milord?” “There may not be much of him left in the hills of Rhada’s estate but what little there is should be returned to his family. Personally, I would just as soon leave him out there and not have to worry about jigsawing his pieces back together again, but his family deserves better. His soul will enter the croc as surely as I’m standing here, but what is left of his mortal remains should be sent back to Kensett. I don’t want his remains on Rhada’s land.” Kaelin nodded. “I understand. I’ll send a party to retrieve what they can. Where should we look?” “Tell the men to go first to Prince Rhada and explain their mission. The taricheutes was on holy ground, near the gravesites, and I don’t want any misunderstandings with his Stravteuma. Prince Rhada can tell our men where to find what’s left.” “I’ll take care of it,” Kaelin acknowledged. Khenty sat down beside his wife and threaded his fingers through hers. “One more thing,” he said. “Prepare a letter for my lady to sign asking the Lady Olabishi if she would consider returning to Anubeion as our housekeeper. Offer her a goodly salary and let her know neither Nyria nor the taricheutes is here to cause her trouble. Tell her my lady misses her.” Tears welled up in Catherine’s eyes. During the time she had spent with the mute woman, she had grown to care a great deal for her. She would be overjoyed if Olabishi would consent to return. She squeezed her husband’s hand in gratitude. Khenty drew his lady up as he stood. “Now, there is work my wife and I need to undertake.” He looked at Catherine. “We had a death during the night.” Catherine nodded. She turned to the Serenian. “Please let Ola know that she is truly needed here.” “Consider it done,” Kaelin said, getting to his feet.

***** A Week Later Hand in hand, Khenty and his lady climbed the stairs to their bedchamber. It was late—the sun already beginning to rise. The night passed had been a good one and there had been many shades within the Underworld for Catherine to meet. “I can barely put one foot ahead of the other,” Catherine said, hiding a yawn. They had reached the landing and her steps were dragging. Khenty scooped his wife up into his arms, gazing down at her with all the love that his heart could hold. “Then let me be your feet, my beauty,” he said. He bent his head to claim her lips. “And your strength.”

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He carried her to their bed and laid her down, hovering there for a moment as he took in the sight of her stretching, her breasts like twin mounds of temptation calling to him. His hands went to the belt of his shendyt kilt. “Slowly, my husband,” Catherine said, her eyes no longer showing the tiredness that had been there a moment before. Khenty arched a dark brow. “You want me to strip for you, wench?” Her slow, seductive smile was all the encouragement he needed. With infinite care he peeled the kilt from his lean hips. “And the collar,” she said. He nodded and reached up to unhook the elaborate gold broad collar that encircled his neck. “And the armbands.” “Totally naked, eh?” he countered. “Without any hindrance on your luscious body,” she replied, pushing herself up on her elbows. Khenty chuckled softly. “Wicked woman,” he stated, but took off all of the jewelry of his office. When he stood there unadorned and as bare as the day he was born, his lady-wife gave him a slow look from head to do. “You’ll do,” she said, and lay back down, her hands behind her head. “Will I now?” he queried. He folded his arms over his brawny chest. “And what of you, wench?” Catherine lay there in her linen shift with the counterpoise of her own broad collar digging into the center of her back. “What of me, milord?” He cocked his head to one side. “Is that one of your favorite gowns?” A small frown formed on her lovely face. “Yes. Why?” Her husband gave her a hot look. “Do you want it ripped from your body or would you prefer to take it off yourself?” he asked in a low, sultry voice. She sat up. “I’ll take it off,” she said. Swinging her legs from the bed, she turned so he could unhook her broad collar. Khenty obliged her then tossed the necklace aside, putting his hands to her shoulder to bring her back against him. He lowered his head to her neck, his lips finding the bare spot on the plain of her shoulder the shift did not cover. He kissed her, nipping her lightly with his teeth. She arched her head to the left to give him better access and was not surprised that his kiss slid up to her neck and his fangs pierced the vein there. Bright lust burst over Khenty as the honeyed taste of her rich, red essence flowed into his mouth. His cock was like steel against the small of her back and he ground himself against her as he took her life fluid. “You are insatiable, milord,” she whispered.

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Withdrawing his fangs, he turned her in his arms and before she could protest, ripped the gown from her shoulders. “Oh Khenty,” she said. “Not another one!” “I’ll buy you a thousand such gowns, my beauty,” he said in a husky voice as he brought her naked body against his. He slanted his mouth over hers and thrust his tongue deep inside, lifting his bare thigh to press it between her legs so she rode him. Catherine’s hands went around his neck and she pulled herself up, clasping him around the waist with her silken legs. “Two can play this game,” she murmured against his lips. Sliding his hands from his wife’s shoulders and over her breasts, he gripped her hips and lifted her so he could impale her moist sheath upon his rigid cock. The moment he was well seated within her, he put a knee to the mattress and fell with her beneath him, her limbs securely imprisoning him. “My woman,” he said as his hips began the ancient rhythm lovers throughout time had ever enjoyed. With her husband buried deeply within her, his hands squeezing her buttocks and lifting her to him for every forceful stroke, Catherine opened her mouth and sank her fledgling fangs into her prince’s neck to experience the same intense explosion of desire that he had.

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Epilogue Aken woke with a gruff snort then made haste to retrieve the boat. Mahaf, the ferryman, mumbled and grumbled and snorted as he made his way to the boat to pilot it. Two shades were already seated in the stern of the vessel as he stepped over the side and took up his oar to plunge it into the midnight dark waters of the underground river. In the bow of the boat sat the Lord of the Silent Land of the West and his Lady Consort. Torches flickered on the rough rock walls of the cavern as the papyrus boat glided noiselessly over the black satin of the Celestial Waters of Nu. The only sound was the gentle lap of the water against the hull and the occasional squeak of a bat along the craggy subterranean cliffs. A faint scent of brimstone wafted past to mingle with the funeral perfumes that clung to the corporeal bodies of the shades. As silent as the tomb, the shades sat with heads bowed, fingers clutched, eyes closed. Seated in the newly remolded seat for the Conductor of Souls, Prince Khenty and Princess Catherine were quiet, each lost in thoughts that plagued them. It was the lady’s third journey into the vast land beneath the grounds of Anubeion but unlike the first three times when she had accompanied her husband joyfully as he led the souls of Hasani, the tribunalist and Jacob through the Judgment, this time would be different. This time there would be a reckoning. Khenty tightened his grip on his wife’s hand. He could feel her trembling and knew this would be a bad night for her. He had bid her stay behind but she had refused, telling him that where he went so too would she go. As the boat flowed up onto the loose shale of the End Shore, its keel scraped the sand like fingers along a casket lid. The sound was final. It was gruesome and it pierced Catherine’s tender heart. As Mahaf stood in the middle of the boat with his oar jammed into the oily ebon waters to keep it steady, his prince and princess stepped out onto the shore and waited as the two shades shuffled forward, each in their burial gowns of plain white linen. Neither shade looked up at the Conductor of Souls as they passed. Ament, the goddess of the Gates of the Underworld, stood at the entrance with a tray containing bread and water. Silently she offered the repast to the shades but the two sadly shook their heads. The goddess looked sadly at Khenty. “It is not a good night, milord,” she said softly. “No, Ament,” Khenty replied. “It is not.” With Catherine’s hand in his, he led the shades into the Underworld and their destiny in the Hall of Two Truths. It was nearing the sixth hour—the Hour of Journey.

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Standing to one side as the ritual began, Catherine could not keep the tears from easing down her cheeks. She took pride in watching her husband perform his sacred duties as psychopomp of his people. In his dog-like mask he was a sight to behold. His was the power, the authority, the grandeur of his ancient lineage and he represented Anubis respectfully. At one point—just before his heart was weighed—Bahru had turned to look beseechingly at Catherine. His fear was evident in his wide stare. Her tears seemed to terrify him even more and he looked away, soon lost to the gruesome fate that awaited him. To give him his due, he did not scream when the croc took him. Nyria—though she had been silent and submissive on the ferry—grew angry and defiant as her heart was laid upon the scale. She cursed her prince and his lady, screaming in wild rage as the crocodile lashed up to devour her, cutting off the black woman’s savage curses. The sound of her dying filled the chamber. Catherine saw Khenty lower his head and knew he was hurting for the loss of two souls even though those souls had been as black as the stygian waters of Nu. She knew he would take to his canine form before the night was over and run until he was exhausted, his great heart aching for what should have been and could not be. She ached to go to him and take him in her arms but there would be time for that when they returned to Anubeion. The journey back was as silent as the journey into the Underground. Khenty sat with his hands dangling between his knees, his head down. Catherine did not touch him for she knew he needed this time in peace. When the boat docked and Aken had to be roused to come take possession of it once more, Mahaf shuffled off to his bed and the prince and his lady started the long climb up the steps that led to the preparation chambers. “Would you like me to wait up for you, beloved?” Catherine asked her husband. Khenty turned to her. “Wait up?” he asked. “Will you not be going out this eve?” she asked. The Kensetti prince shook his head. “I’ve no need to go out, milady. I have what I need here beside me. I will take my comfort from you.” Catherine smiled and reached up to place her hands to either side of her husband’s face. “Do you know how grateful I am to the Fates for sending me to you?” she asked. Khenty drew her into his arms. “As I am grateful to Them, milady.” He kissed her sweetly then released her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they resumed their walk. “Do you have any regrets?” he asked her. “Not a one,” she replied. “And you?” “Never.”

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They reached the halls of the mansion and headed for the stairs. Before they reached the serpentine steps, Catherine stopped her husband and turned to him, gazing deeply into his eyes. “There is something I need to tell you, beloved,” she said. He tilted his head to one side. “And that is?” She smiled. “I am carrying your child.” Khenty nodded. “A girl child as it has been prophesied,” he responded. Catherine’s eyes widened. “Truly?” “Aye,” he said, bending down to sweep her up into his arms. He lifted her high against his chest, ignoring the residual pain that shot through his left arm. “And we will name her Qeb-hwt.” Catherine laid her head on her husband’s shoulder as he carried her up the stairs. She had her answer for long ago. She had found her destiny in the arms of her dark warrior.

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About the Author Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology Fated Mates anthology HardWind Passion’s Mistral WesternWind: Reaper’s Revenge WesternWind: WyndRiver Sinner WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche WindVerse: Phantom of the Wind WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco WindWorld: Longing’s Levant WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian

And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press (www.cerridwenpress.com): BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn Desert Wind In the Wind’s Eye Taken By the Wind

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

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