Books by Maggie Shayne (334 page)

“I don’t live in captivity,” he insisted. He sat down on the stone wall that encircled the veranda. “What makes it seem that way to you?”

She shrugged again, and pacing to the veranda’s edge, stood there with the sea wind whipping her nightgown around her legs, and blowing her hair behind her like a flag. “You aren’t free to be what you are. You keep it secret, afraid to let it show. You pretend to be just another mortal. You live like one. It seems like captivity to me.”

“And you ... how do you live?”

Tipping her face up to the kiss of the wind, she closed her eyes. “Wild. Free. I travel the world. I amass fortunes and spend them at will. I
live.
I relish it.” Taking a deep breath, she continued. “A long time ago, there was a man by the name of Nathanial Dearborne. He was a Dark High Witch and something of a scientist. He made a habit of taking Light Ones alive when he could and keeping them captive. Killing them in one way or another, and then watching them revive. Studying which manner of death would last longer. He even began taking their hearts ... and then returning them to see if they would revivify.”

Natum’s next breath came from very close, and warmth rushed over her nape. His hands curled around her shoulders as he stood behind her. “I had heard such a thing was possible, but I never believed it.”

“Believe it. It’s true. I suppose that in a way I owe Dearborne a debt of gratitude. His experiments, the notes he left in his journals—they were what enabled Arianna to restore life to our son after his heart was taken.” She turned and looked at Natum’s startled eyes. “He laid in a grave for three hundred years. She found his heart, returned it to him, brought him back. So perhaps the torture was ... in some twisted way ... worth bearing.”

“You were one of this Dearborne’s captives?” His face seemed to pale.

She nodded. “You said you wanted to know.”

“By the Gods ...”

“Don’t. It’s in the past. Over. Dearborne is long dead. Nicodimus has been restored. And I... well, I learned how very much I value my freedom, and my life.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Immortality is a gift, Eannatum. Why would anyone wish to ignore it—to live as if they were just like everyone else?”

“They hunt you,” he said flatly. “You’re forced to kill or be killed, over and over again. I lived like that, Nidaba, and I hated it.”

She lowered her head. “Freedom comes with risk.” She glanced up toward the roof. “I guess for some the security of domestication is worth the sacrifice.” Then she stared out at the sea, spotted a gull swooping and diving. “And for others, freedom is far more important. I’d rather fight and die free, Natum, than live forever in a cage.”

He looked back at his house. “This is hardly a cage.”

“Yes, it is. No matter how gilded, it still has its bars.”

He nodded. “We’ve grown very different in all this time, haven’t we, Nidaba?”

“More than I ever would have guessed,” she said. And she understood now why he couldn’t love her anymore. He wouldn’t give up the kingdom he’d built to run away with her now any more than he had been able to that night in the desert so long ago. And if he brought her into it with him—assuming that she could bring herself to live that way—she would bring battle, strife, chaos with her. And his kingdom would fall. Crumble into the sea.

It was impossible, then, wasn’t it?

She met his eyes, and saw that he knew it too. And a new despair settled over her. “I used to think that a person could only live so long and remain sane. That eventually the body of an immortal would outlive the mind.”

“And why did you think that?”

She shrugged. “I suppose I saw my own mind as the best example. I went a bit insane after I lost my son for the second time, in the sixteenth century when a Dark Witch took his heart. But I survived. Eventually I returned to myself. I sought vengeance on the Dark Witch who had murdered my son, but it was I who was trapped, captured, tortured. I only escaped three years ago—both my mind, and my body were broken for a long time.”

“But again, you recovered.” He stroked her hair, fingertips gentle on her temples. “Perhaps the mind of an immortal heals itself just the way the body does.”

“Perhaps. I recovered slowly, and only when I found my son again.”

“Loss ... has a profound effect on us, Nidaba.”

Then how, she wondered, was she going to bear losing her Eannatum when this was over?

“This is a pointless discussion.”

“No. I needed to know these things,” he said softly.

“I can’t imagine why. They have no relevance to the threat facing us now.”

“Everything about you has relevance for me, Nidaba.” He paused. “What happened on that hotel rooftop?”

She stared into his eyes, so filled with concern, for her. “It wasn’t another bout with insanity, if that’s what you’ve been thinking. No. It was far simpler, Natum. A simple attack by one of the Dark Ones. Something that has become routine in my life, I’m afraid. However this Dark Witch had hedged her bets. When it looked as if I would defeat her in a fair fight, she pulled a weapon—a gun. I had to either let her shoot me and carve out my heart while I waited to revive—or jump and hope to revive before the ambulance arrived. I happen to think I made the sane decision.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Though had I known what would follow, I think I’d have taken my chances with the gun.”

“Gods, when I think what you’ve been through . . .” He leaned closer, kissed her cheek. “You’re getting cold. We should go back inside.” One arm around her, he urged her through the French doors.

She shivered, realizing only now how chilled she was, and started toward the living room, moving ahead of him. She was eager for the warmth of the fire. Natum followed her, then headed back into the library. “I’ll be out in a moment,” he called.

Nidaba kept walking, rubbing her chilled arms and thinking about how differently they saw things now. She touched the long, thin nightgown she wore, and it reminded her vaguely of the sacred white gown she used to wear in the temple. She wasn’t wearing anything else, except, of course for the dagger at her thigh.

It hurt, very deeply, to know that he felt only desire for her. That the love he had professed of old had not been as immortal as they both were. But he had made love to her as if nothing had changed. And for now she would have to be content simply to pretend. It was painfully obvious they could never go back to the way things had once been.

Nidaba stopped short when she stepped into the living room and saw the dagger that pinned a scrap of parchment to the wall beside the mantel like a butterfly’s wing.

“Eannatum!” she cried.

He appeared a moment later, a blanket in his hands, which he draped over her shoulders. “Right here,” he said. “I just wanted to grab this throw out of the library for you to ... Nidaba? What’s wrong?”

Lifting a finger, she pointed.

Natum followed her gaze. She heard the hiss of his dagger sliding free of its sheath. “Stay close to me,” he whispered, moving around her, clasping her hand behind him.

Nidaba drew her own dagger, its golden hilt cool in her palm. Slowly they moved across the room, looking all around them, listening, every sense alert. Even the dog looked uneasy as she lifted her head and looked around.

Natum reached up, yanked the note from the dagger’s blade, leaving the blade where it was. And then he read it aloud.

“A trade,” he read. “George for your son.”

“How could she know? How?” Nidaba sank into a chair, the blanket around her shoulders, her head in her hands. The skin around her eyes was already stinging from the drying salt of so many tears. But she was angry now. Frightened for George and furious for his suffering, and for Sheila. But this was more. This was her son.

Natum’s face was cold and grim. “She ... must have overheard us talking when you told me he was still alive, that you knew where he was,” he said. “I just don’t understand how. There was no one here, but us, and the dog and—wait a minute. Wait a minute, that’s it! The dog.”

Nidaba shook her head even as Natum started looking for the dog. “No, it’s not her, Natum. I’ve touched her. I would have known.”

“Wait, here she comes,” he warned. “Come on, Queenie. Here, girl.”

The big Rottweiler trotted up to him, and when he reached out to stroke her head, she turned it and licked his hand. No sparks. Damn.

The dog went to the door then and scratched it with a forepaw.

Absently, Natum opened it and let her out. “I was so sure.”

“She can’t take my son from me again, Natum. I won’t allow it.”

“Of course you won’t. Nor will I!”

“But George—she has George,” Nidaba muttered.

Natum stopped pacing, looked slowly from the note to Nidaba. “What if she doesn’t?”

“What do you mean? Her note says—”

“Never mind what her note says. She’s evil, Nidaba, she’d certainly have no compunction about lying to get what she wants. All we have is her word that she has George.”

“And Sheila’s,” Nidaba reminded him.

“No. No, Sheila said, ‘She went after George.’ ” He turned to the windows, pushing the curtains back, staring out into the ever thickening darkness. The storm was rolling closer now. The thunder was closer, louder, and Nidaba could feel the static in the air.

“What if George saw her attack Sheila and ran away?” Natum said.

Nidaba sat up straighter in her chair. “Then Puabi would have gone after him.”

“She’d never have found him. Not if he made it to the woods before she caught up.”

Sighing softly, Nidaba got to her feet. She went to where he stood and put a hand on his shoulder. The familiar tingling jolted through her hand at the contact, then faded to warmth. “Natum, I know you love him, and you want to believe he’s all right. But Puabi is a High Witch over four thousand years old. George is just a simple mortal. Besides, we searched the woods. There was no sign of him anywhere.”

He nodded slowly. “I know. George loves those woods. He used to vanish for days at a time. And damned if I know where he hid, but wherever it was, he got there by way of the woods.” He let the curtain fall, turned to face her. “I used to search—hell, the neighbors and the volunteer fire department even got involved one summer. We turned those woods inside out. But we never found him. He showed up safe and sound when he was ready. I got so worried I had to ask him not to go out there anymore. And when he saw how upset I was, he promised he wouldn’t.”

Nidaba blinked. “Do you really think there is a chance George could be so well hidden that even Puabi cannot find him?”

“I think there’s a chance, yes.” He closed his eyes. “Gods, please let there be a chance,” he whispered, and she knew it was a prayer, heartfelt and potent.

“I don’t think we should count on it, Natum.”

Drawing a long breath, he expelled it quickly. “Maybe ... it’s time we call Nicodimus.”

Nidaba’s head came up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“We have the name of the hotel, the number. The woman, Arianna, left it with me. We should let our son know what’s going on.”

“Why?” Her brows bent deeply as she searched Natum’s face in horror. “He would only come rushing out here to help us, Natum!”

“Which would force Puabi to show herself.”

“You want to use my son as
bait?”
Nidaba’s eyes narrowed on him, and she looked more closely. At his skin, its texture, his eyes, their color.

He held up a hand. “Just hear me out. You said yourself Nicodimus is a powerful immortal. A strong warrior. We’d never let him out of our sight, Nidaba, and when Puabi came for him, she would have all three of us to contend with.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You would risk him that way? Your own son?” She backed a few steps away from him.

Natum frowned. “No. No, Nidaba, you’re misunderstanding me. There would be no
risk
to it. Puabi would have to go through me to harm him, and that’s not going to happen.” He took a step toward Nidaba.

She took a step back.

Natum stared at her, his eyes widening. “Nidaba, don’t look at me that way. If Nicodimus is half the man I think he is—I know he is—then he would want to make this decision for himself. He would want to be here to help me protect you from Puabi.”

“My son died protecting me once. It will not happen again. And if you can even suggest what you just have, then you are not worthy of calling yourself his father.”

The dog came wandering in from the kitchen then, halted halfway across the room, stared at Natum, and suddenly began to growl deep in her throat.

Nidaba shot a panicked look at the animal, then back at Eannatum again. “Oh Gods, no,” she murmured.

He held up a hand. “No, Nidaba. Don’t... don’t think what you’re thinking. It’s not—”

“Stay away!” She took a step backward for every one he took forward and yanked her dagger from her thigh, holding it up between them.

“Don’t do this, Nidaba.”

“The dog knows you’re not Eannatum,” she whispered. Her breaths came faster, shorter. She told herself to lunge at him, to drive her blade into his chest, but for the life of her she couldn’t do it. Even though she knew he must be Puabi. Otherwise, why would the dog behave that way? Growling at him, hairs bristling. He’d been out of her sight when he got the blanket for her from the library. Only for a moment, but still...

He just kept shaking his head, staring at her and shaking his head. “It’s me, Nidaba. I only want to keep you alive, protect you. I only want...” Then he reached out for her, and in her panic she jabbed her dagger at him. He swung one powerful arm, delivering a blow that sent the dagger flying out of her hand. Left with no other choice, Nidaba turned and ran from the house. And even as she lunged into the night, and fled at top speed, he gave chase.

“Stop! Dammit, Nidaba, wait!”

Thunder clapped loudy, and Nidaba turned to look behind her as she raced around the house. She saw the dog launch itself at Natum—or at the person who
looked like
Natum—and send him face first to the ground. His head connected with a rock. She saw blood, and he went still, not moving again. Good. Then the dog raced onward, as afraid, Nidaba thought, as she was.

What the hell had that bitch done with the real Ean-natum?

He couldn’t be in the house. He’d have cried out. And now that the stormclouds had rolled in, it was too dark to see outside as well as she would have liked. Still, her night vision was far better than that of a mortal. Dammit, the storm was going to break any moment. Again thunder clapped, and this time the wind whipped with it.

She rounded the corner to the rear of the house and saw the stairway there, hugging the back wall, angling sharply upward to the flat roof. The dog raced ahead, pausing on the bottom step. Even as the wind whipped harder and the first few fat raindrops smacked her in the face, Nidaba nodded. “Yes, the roof. I can see all around from up there.”

Mounting the steps, she started up them. The wind whipped her hair, and her white gown snapped around her ankles. Bowing into it, she gripped the slender rail and made her way to the top, the dog right behind her.

Finally, she reached the flat, tar-coated rooftop and looked around in the darkness. The moon was blotted out now by dark clouds, and the sea in the distance roiled with whitecaps and froth. The wind was treacherous up so high, and getting worse by the minute. She staggered forward against it, squinting in the darkness to see the large square structure in the center. Cooing and scratching sounds told her what this was. The pigeons. Sheila’s precious pigeons.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the night, and two things became visible, and invisible again, in that one blinding moment. The form of a large man, curled up, shivering and lying on his side next to the giant coop, and the body of the huge Rottweiler lying close beside him.

“George?” Nidaba cried out, and she started to move forward, but stopped in her tracks when the deep-throated growl came from behind her.

“Nidaba? Is that you?” George asked in a frightened voice.

Going utterly still, she swallowed hard and her mind raced.
But the dog was in front of me, lying beside George . . . so how is it behind me, snarling at me? Oh, Gods
—
two dogs. Two dogs. One, George’s best friend .. . and the other. . .

The beast behind her growled more loudly. Nidaba turned to face it, and she saw its eyes come alive, glowing with an unnatural yellow light.

“I always said you were a bitch, Puabi,” Nidaba said. “But I didn’t expect it to be literally true.” Her hand touched the sheath at her thigh, but the blade was not in it, and her heart sank as she recalled that Natum had knocked it out of her hand. Natum—lying down there with his head split open, bleeding. The sky burst open with an explosion of thunder. Icy rain fell in sheets as the beast crouched and attacked. Teeth tore through flesh, giant paws knocked her flat. George cried out, and she heard the other dog—the real dog—snarling. The dog-Puabi leapt onto her chest, and even as she clasped its big head to hold the beast off, she knew she couldn’t win.

When the powerful jaws locked on her throat, and the incisors ripped into her jugular, Nidaba knew it was over.

But even as her blood pulsed out of her, and her life force weakened, the lightning flashed. The killer beast rose away from her. She saw the other dog, the real dog, lunge at it, only to stop short and cower in fear. The beast was changing, morphing, right before Nidaba’s eyes. And the shape it took this time was her own. A Nidaba look-alike, white gown intact, throat unmarred, Puabi knelt over her. And she lifted a blade, held it poised above Nidaba’s chest.

“Know before you die that I will take Natum and your son next. Know it. Feel that pain. I want you to suffer the way I have.”

And then there was a deep menacing growl. Nidaba turned her head weakly, and saw George’s dog flying forward, having overcome her fear in order to protect Nidaba. Queenie’s powerful paws hit Puabi squarely in the chest, and the Dark Witch sailed right over the edge of the roof.

Squinting through her fading vision, Nidaba turned her head toward the place where George crouched with his knees to his chest, rocking in abject terror. She tried to call out to him, but her throat had been too torn apart to allow speech.

The dog—the real dog—leaned over her, licking her face, as death swept her into its cold prison once more. She could only pray that the healing would take place in time to save Natum. And then there was darkness.

“Nathan? Oh, Nathan, are you all right?”

Nidaba had not once called him by his modern alias. Until now.

Nathan blinked the dizziness away, tried to shake off the pounding in his head, and managed to sit up. Nidaba leaned over him, cradling his head, speaking in an unnaturally hoarse voice.

“That dog—that damned dog—” Nathan began.

“It was no dog, Nathan. It was Puabi,” Nidaba whispered, her voice far too soft. “I’m so sorry I doubted you, my love.” She rubbed her throat and Nathan saw bruises there in the shape of hands.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. “What happened to you?”

“She attacked me. Choked me, and my vocal cords are slow in repairing themselves. But... it’s all right, Nathan. I—I killed her. She’s dead.”

Nathan sighed and closed his eyes. Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around Nidaba, held her tight. “Thank the Gods. It’s over. Finally, over. God, if only we could find George.”

She nodded, sniffling and snuggling her head into the crook of his shoulder. “Well... for that we can get some more help. If... if you’re up to it, Nathan, I think it’s about time we made that call. You’ve waited far too long already ... to meet your son. Don’t you think?”

He brushed her hair away from her face, smiling at her. “Yes. Yes, I have. Go ahead, and call him, Nidaba. The number is in the drawer of that small table beside the fireplace,” he told her softly. She looked toward the house. “Go ahead,” he told her. “I’ll be along in a minute. My head is already on the mend.” He lifted a hand to rub at the spot on his skull and sent her a sheepish grin. She returned the smile, and ran into the house to search for the phone number.

Nathan managed to get to his feet, though his head throbbed and dizziness swamped him. He drew his dagger and steeled himself against the gut-churning fear. He didn’t know where the hell Nidaba was ... what the bitch had done to her, or to George, but he knew one thing without a doubt.
That
hadn’t been Nidaba. Nidaba had not once called him Nathan. And her touch had never been cold, her voice soft, her demeanor hesitant.

He made his way to the front door, his dagger behind his back. He walked quietly inside, step by step, closer and closer to the woman who leaned over the small table rummaging through the drawer. He brought the dagger around, lifting it above his head.

Behind him someone screamed.

He whirled in time to see the blond woman, Arianna, in the doorway, pointing at him and yelling, “I
knew
it! I
knew
he was lying!”

And then a handsome, powerfully built man, with russet hair and midnight eyes surged past her, landed a blow that slammed Eannatum into the wall. His already injured head cracked against the plaster, and exploded in new pain.

“Nidaba! Gods, are you all right?” Arianna Sinclair-Lachlan asked, rushing forward to spin the impostor around and embrace her.

Eannatum fought to stay conscious, to keep from sliding to the floor, as the man strode up to him, gripped the front of his shirt, and held him upright.

“Are you Nicodimus?” he managed to ask, before the man could pummel him again.