Gestamar pointed toward the door. I took that as my cue to move and, after one last gulp, reluctantly relinquished the mug and its precious contents. Sighing, I dug my fingers through my snarled hair as I exited.
Gestamar directed me to an antechamber, and inside was a set of double doors.
Two life-sized statues of demon-marble flanked the doors. On the left, a woman of mature but indeterminate years stood in tall grace. Though her face was serious, a smile played at the corners of her mouth. A single shoulder strap secured her masterfully carved close-fitting dress, revealing more than it covered. On the right, a young man in a RenFaire outfit stood with his arms folded casually across his chest and a mischievous smile lighting his face.
I peered at them, so exquisitely sculpted I almost swore they were breathing. “Who are they?” I glanced over at the reyza, then back to the statues.
“Nefhotep and Giovanni Racchelli,” he said. “Favorites of Szerain. Giovanni died young.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot and settled into a crouch. “Nefhotep lived here for over two hundred years.”
I blinked in surprise. “Humans?”
“Yes.” He adjusted his wings. “From the time long ago when the ways were open,” he said, lifting a claw toward the young man then toward the woman. “And fully open, very long ago.”
The weird déjà vu feeling crept through me again as I looked at the statue of Giovanni. I knew him, it tried to tell me. Even now I could picture his quick smile and infectious laugh, and for just the briefest instant it was as if the statue moved to turn his teasing grin upon me. My breath caught, my stomach fluttered, my heart pounded, and damn it all, my face heated in—a blush?What the hell?
I squeezed my eyes shut to dispel the illusion and turned away. The sensations lingered for another few heartbeats before fading.
“Szerain has always had the gift of capturing the very essence of his subjects,” the reyza said, peering at the statues.
“He carved these?” I asked in surprise. Gestamar nodded. Had I ever seen Ryan show any sort of artistic ability? I couldn’t think of a single instance, which sent a weird and sad pang through me.
My musing came to an abrupt end as Mzatal strode in, passing me without a glance. He still wore the Armani suit and white shirt, but had changed his tie to one of blood red, and the pattern of his braid seemed different. The double doors swung open before he even reached them, and he entered the room beyond without the slightest hitch in his stride.
Gestamar stood and gestured for me to go in. I did so, jaw tight, hating how grubby and foolish I felt in the damn shift.
With its vaulted ceiling and two huge unbroken windows on the far wall, the room felt spacious despite its small area—not much larger than my living room back home. I couldn’t tell what purpose the room had, though, since it was empty of furnishings. The only object remaining was what appeared to be a statue adjacent one of the windows, covered in a white cloth.
Mzatal stood facing the other window, hands behind his back. I stopped a few feet from him.
“So. Great,” I said, folding my arms over my chest, and doing my damnedest to marshal something resembling a strong attitude. “You have me. You’ve made sure that Rhyzkahl can’t get me back. I have a comfy cell, and crap food, and no toothbrush. Now what?”
Mzatal slowly turned to face me. His eyes met mine, and I suddenly realized that the absence of a toothbrush really wasn’t so bad after all, considering. My mouth went dry as he approached, and I had to steel myself against a shudder as he moved around and behind me. I felt his hands on my shoulders, and then a heartbeat later he lifted the collar from my neck. The arcane clarified and brightened. The room was well-shielded, though I didn’t really need to look at the patterns and sigils to know that. There was no way he’d take the collar off me in a room that wasn’t, and run the risk that Rhyzkahl could track me.
He remained behind me, unnervingly silent, though I could feel him there, his aura alone near overwhelming. Potency like a wave of nightmare engulfed me as he leaned in closer. “What now, you ask?” he breathed in a quietly menacing voice that sent terror streaking through me. “I decide if you live or die.” He paused. “I decide howyou live, or how you die.”
My breath caught in a low sob. I hated him more than anyone or anything at that moment. “Okay, I get it,” I managed, nursing what dull anger I could. “You hold full control. You have me scared shitless. You win. Happy now? Whatever this is all about, whether it’s me living or dying, fucking do it already.”
He continued the circle and stopped in front of me, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Before I could get pissed at his amusement at my expense, he lifted his hand and looped a softly glowing strand of potency around my throat, then turned, drawing me behind him like a dog on a leash as he approached the covered statue. I seethed, but was nevertheless grateful for the over-the-top display of dominance. I could do anger a lot better than terror.
He stopped a few feet from the statue and moved behind me once again, but this time he gripped my head between his hands, as if to make absolutely certain I couldn’t look away.
“Elinor.” He spoke the word like an invocation piercing my essence as he stripped the cloth from the statue without touching it. And there she was. Elinor. Youthful. Slight of build with a sweet face that radiated innocence. Sudden swirling dizziness put a stop to my observation.
I jerked, and only the lord’s grip on my head kept me from staggering as memories flooded in, memories that I absolutely knew weren’t my own. Yet as they poured over me and through me, they drove my own existence and identity before them. The room melted and reformed.
“Come, dear one,” Lord Rhyzkahl says, holding his hand out to me, broad expanse of cloudless sky beyond him framed by columns. My stomach flutters, and I feel the blush rise in my cheeks. I smile and take his hand. Anything for his gaze, his touch. Will he kiss me? Breathless.
The memory shifted dizzyingly.
I wring my hands, banished for the moment to the antechamber. Fear. Uncertainty. I hate it when they argue. I listen to the words though do not understand more than that Lord Rhyzkahl dominates this one and Lord Szerain counters. Do not faint. Do not faint. Do not faint.
Shift.
The ritual seethes around me, tearing at me. Pain blossoms in my chest. Please. Pleeeease. I don’t understand. I don’t understand!
Shift.
Giovanni places the small cakes one at a time before me, counting. His eyes twinkle, and I cannot concentrate on the numbers. He will surely think me a silly little thing if I cannot even learn to count to ten in Italian. Uno. Due. Tre. Quattro. He touches the back of my hand and smiles. I am undone!
Shift.
Cakes. Cakes.A statue. Birthday cake. Tessa grinning.
Pancakes. Lots of pancakes at Lake o’ Butter. Jill eating pancakes across the table. Dear One. Cinque. Sei. Sette. Jill. Jill. Otto. Nove. Dieci. Ryan laughing next to me, and Zack rolling his eyes.
Through the maelstrom of memories I became distantly aware of my own whimpering and an increasing grip on my head. My breath hissed through my teeth, and I struggled to focus on the statue as just that—a statue. These weren’t my memories. The dreams, the déjà vu, all this…This wasn’t from me. I was notElinor.
My hands clenched and unclenched as I called up and galvanized my own memories: My mother and father, growing up with Tessa, learning to summon, graduating from the police academy, my first pursuit on foot, the first time I had sex, crawfish and beer, becoming a detective, the pride of putting bad guys in jail, the first time I got punched by a suspect and how I put him in handcuffs, becoming friends with Jill, giggling over reality TV, Christmases and birthdays, Ryan’s quick smile and Zack’s laugh, Eilahn and Fuzzykins…