Embers (33 page)

Anya rubbed his scalp. “It’s kind of hot. Feels like Velcro.”

Brian shrugged. “Meh. I’ll figure out a way to work it. Maybe get some sunglasses.”

Anya shook her head. “I love you just as you are. Without the shades.” She paused, realizing what she’d just blurted out.

Brian grinned. “Well,
that
was worth waking up to.” He reached for her hand. “What brought that on?”

She swallowed. “No time like the present.”

There’s no knowing how much time any of us has,
she thought.

Mimi snorted at her:
“Keep marking those minutes, Anya. They’re going to keep slipping
through your fingers, until they’re all mine.”

Mimi’s grip on Anya’s dreams tightened.

Anya tried to stay awake as late as she could, watching infomercials for dozens of arcane devices that variously promised to remove Jack the Ripper’s laundry stains, flatten out unflattering panty lines and arm bulges, and both curl and straighten hair. Katie snored on the other end of Anya’s couch, having given in to the impulse to purchase an item resembling a cheese grater to exfoliate her feet. She rationalized the purchase by deciding to use it to grate nutmeg if it didn’t work on human flesh.

Anya stared at the ends of her hair, seriously contemplating if her hair could be steampressed into the attractive flip the spokesmodel shook before the camera. About the time she decided it wasn’t worth the effort or the twenty to buy another gizmo that Sparky would enjoy nibbling on, she nodded off. . .

And fell into the centuries-old well of Mimi’s memory.

She surfaced at night, a thick, warm darkness that clung to the skin like sand. Like the dream of the priest, Anya was a spectator, able only to watch Mimi’s memory unfurl and stain the water of her dreams like ink.

She watched as a woman walked through the darkness of ancient dirt streets. The bracelets on her arms and bells sewn into the fringe of her garments clinked with the sway of her hips. The bells had been intended to drive away evil spirits, but there was no use in such petty charms. Anya could feel Mimi moving through her, luxuriating in the breeze moving through her clothes and the languid warmth of a recent sexual encounter on her skin.

The woman’s black hair gleamed in the darkness, bound up with bits of metal and wire and set with beeswax. Sausage-thick curls wrought of horsehair brushed over her back. The blue of her ankle-length tunic and her belted shawl was paler than the azure of the tiles of the massive Ishtar gates she passed through, reaching up in all their splendor to the starry night.

The low skyline of Babylon was jagged, pierced by the geometric edges of ziggurats, the king’s palaces, and the sharp crenellations of the Ishtar gate. Beyond the defensive walls surrounding the city, palm trees nodded on the banks of the river, leaves whispering in the arid breeze. To the west, she could hear the soothing rush of the black waters of the River Euphrates. The city had a deceptively safe, sleepy feel about it, as if no one knew about the monsters behind the gates.

A voice curled down from the top of the gate, like smoke:
“Where is a priestess of Ishtar
wandering to at this late hour?”

The woman turned her beautiful rouged face up to the source of the voice, a massive shadow on the wall. From the ground, Anya could only see a shimmer of gold and the harsh red burning of a pair of eyes above. She smelled something burnt, like warm carbon. The dark shape was beyond the reach of the guttering torchlight, but it was large enough to blot out the light of the moon.

“Sirrush.” The woman sketched a deep bow. She looked up at him through fringed lashes. “I am merely searching for tribute for Ishtar.”

A rustling above sounded like silk over dry leaves.
“Food for your goddess?”

“Yes. Food for the goddess.” Her smile curved upward. “A sacrifice.”

The creature pacing the top of the wall snorted. From the ground, Anya could see the dark ripple of what might be a tail or the curve of a spine, the shimmer of refracted light.

“Lilitu. Your goddess requires strange sacrifices.”

Lilitu lifted her eyebrows in mock surprise. “They are no different than the ones required in your temple, Sirrush. Flesh is flesh.”

A summoning bell tolled in the distance. The creature on the wall above stilled, listening.

“Your temple is calling you to feed, Sirrush.”

Massive claws scraped the stone as the creature walked away, following the sounds of the bell.
“May all the gods and goddesses eat well tonight, Lilitu.”

Lilitu bowed her head, smiling a predatory grin. Anya could feel the grip of the demon tight around her throat.

She prowled through the darkness of the streets. Her kohled eyes roved over the few citizens of Babylon still awake at this hour: the guards, the carousers, the holy men taking out the dead. None of them were what she sought. She needed something special to sate Ishtar’s taste for flesh. Something new.

She found it beside the inn, a traveler handing the reins of his horse to the quartermaster. She admired the way his body moved beneath his dusty traveler’s shawl, the thickness of his curly hair and beard, the broadness of his shoulder. He wore a tunic richly dyed in shades of red and violet, the sparkle of jeweled rings glinting as he gestured to the quartermaster. His beard was knotted with bits of wire and gems, and the embroidery of his cap glinted with gilt. The traveler had more than a little coin. He would make a nice offering to Ishtar.

She sidled up to him as his horse was led away, looking up at him through her eyelashes.

“The temple of Ishtar welcomes you to Babylon.”

The foreigner smiled at her, his eyes scraping her from the top of her head to her sandaled feet. “I’m pleased to be so richly welcomed.”

Lilitu bowed her head, dipping to display the bronze flesh of the tops of her breasts. “My name is Lilitu. I’m a priestess.”

The foreigner tipped his head. “I am Darius. When you say that you are a priestess, does that mean. . .?” He trailed off, not wishing to insult her. It was clear that Darius didn’t understand their customs. Like many travelers, he’d heard rumors about the beautiful priestesses of Ishtar, but never experienced them firsthand.

Lilitu grasped his arm, smiling. “Aye, I am one of Ishtar’s sacred prostitutes, an incarnation of her flesh. And I invite you to partake of the goddess’s hospitality.”

The foreigner’s broad face broke into a grin. “I would be honored to follow the customs of my host city,” he murmured as Lilitu led him away down the dirt streets.

He followed her up the steps of a temple of smooth, sand-colored rock, between the sculptures of two roaring lions. The temple smelled of incense, rich and musty. Inside, vaulted ceilings reached up to darkness, lit by guttering torches. Priestesses carried serving trays, plucked the strings of lutes, flitting like butterflies against the glazed brickwork interior.

The back of the temple held a massive altar, overhung with flowers and lit with the glow of a multitude of lamps. A life-sized gilded statue of Ishtar stood on a pedestal, surveying her dominion. The goddess bore some characteristics of the eagle, wings tucked behind her, and her clawed feet balancing her on the pedestal. Her golden armor gleamed in the candlelight, which cast undulating shadows across her eyes, inset with lapis lazuli. Jewelry and garlands of flowers draped her outstretched arms.

“This way.” Lilitu led Darius on a room to the right, concealed from the main area by curtains. It was one of six rooms splitting off from the great hall; giggles and sighs of pleasure could be heard from the others.

Grinning in anticipation, Darius let Lilitu draw the curtain behind them. He reclined on a pile of cushions, watching the priestess move near. She bent over him, tickling his chest with her hair. His gaze roved over her voluptuous body, his hands reaching to grasp her buttocks as she straddled him. Slowly, she drew out the laces of her golden girdle, exposing her breasts to the dim light.

In his ear, she whispered. “My flesh is the flesh of Ishtar. Feel the blessing of her skin upon yours.”

He shivered in pleasure.

Lilitu smiled at him. She lifted the hem of her dress, rubbed her hand over her exposed coppery skin. She reached for her sandals, for the small, jeweled dagger she’d tied in the laces. Darius’ attention was focused on her breasts, and he never saw it. She smiled, leaned forward to cradle his head in the crook of her elbow, and covered his mouth with hers.

Pulling the dagger free of its sheath, she raised it behind her head and plunged it between his ribs. He screamed against her mouth, but the demon held him fast, locking his head to hers with superhuman strength. Her mouth muffled his cries as the demon twisted the blade, scraped it against bone. The foreigner’s lung deflated, and he rolled back against the pillows.

Mimi smiled with Lilitu’s lips. “A sacrifice of flesh for flesh.”

Anya awoke, her palm feeling hot and slick from the sensation of the knife in her grip. Instead of guttering torchlight in the temple, the television in her living room showed a man doing push-ups with a nasty piece of exercise equipment. Beside her, Katie slept, curled up in a ball and drooling on the back of the couch.

Sparky shifted in Anya’s lap. He leaned into her chest and Anya imagined he could feel her heart hammering. Anya rubbed her grainy eyes, as if she could drive some of Mimi’s murderous influence away. But she could still feel the warmth of Lilitu’s victim underneath Mimi’s hands, the scrape of metal drawing out against bone and the sigh of a collapsing lung.

How long would it be before Mimi would drive her to such acts? How long could she fend Mimi off with beeswax ointment and holy water, before the demon seized control and hurt someone with Anya’s own hands?

Anya pressed the heel of her palm against her forehead. The irony of Mimi’s demonic possession pressed thickly upon her: As lonely as Anya had always been, no matter what terrible things she did, she would never be alone again.

Mimi whispered at her, gentle as a desert breeze:
“Never.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“IF SIRRUSH IS ANYTHING LIKE Uktena, he’ll have a nest somewhere.”

Anya flipped through a street atlas of Detroit in the archival room at the library. The thick walls blocked out the clear morning sunshine. Anya missed it—she felt that, with Mimi’s influence, she was slowly losing her grip on time.

She turned the pages of the atlas with one hand, while the other held a pen scratching on a notebook. Mimi had seized the opportunity to compose a sonnet about the virtues of lust.

Katie peeked over Anya’s shoulder. “Ugh. That’s disgusting. I didn’t think that you could do that with a spatula.”

Anya made a face. “Trust me, I’m not that creative. You’ve seen my kitchen.”

Katie peered into Anya’s face. “Mimi. You’re one nasty-ass demon.”

Anya couldn’t stop Mimi’s voice before it escaped her lips:
“I go both ways, dear. Want
to play?”
Anya clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she said.

Katie wrinkled her nose. “I can’t wait until you get rid of that bitch.”

Felicity popped her head cautiously through a cabinet. “
Is it safe to come in?”
Mimi had threatened to consume Felicity with a side of tofu an hour earlier, and the ghost of the librarian had made herself scarce.

“It’s safe, as long as you’re not a spatula.”

Felicity stepped over Sparky, who was taking a nap on the floor.
“I’ve got that list of
underground parking garages for you that predate 1950.”
A scrap of paper floated to Anya’s right hand. Her left hand snatched it before her right had the chance to scribble more obscenities involving kitchen utensils on it.

“Thanks, Felicity.”

“I was thinking. . .”
The ghost kept well out of reach of Anya’s right arm.
“What about
the Detroit Salt Mine?”

Anya’s hand stilled. “Talk to me, Felicity.”

“Well. . . it’s closed down now. Has been since the 1980s. But, if memory serves, the
Detroit Salt Mine spreads under a large portion of the southwestern part of the city.”

Anya hopped over to the computer terminal to search for information on the salt mine. Unfortunately, Mimi wouldn’t cooperate well enough to type, and she hit three pornographic sites before an automated message threatened to kick her off the computer. She surrendered the chair to Katie before a flesh-and-blood librarian turned up to ask her to leave.

“I shudder in pleasure to imagine what I could have managed with the internet in ancient
Babylon.”
Mimi sighed under Anya’s breath.

Katie closed down dozens of pop-up windows describing a variety of flavors of online services directed to aficionados of webcam voyeurism. She searched for the Detroit Salt Company, and opened up a page displaying a grainy black-and-white image of a cave larger than an airplane hangar.

Anya’s breath snagged in her throat. “That’s the cave from my dream. I’m sure of it.” It hadn’t been ice, after all. . . the cave had been hewn of salt. “Felicity, you’re brilliant.”