Harvest Hunting (31 page)

I gazed steadily ahead, not speaking. It wasn’t that I wanted to be obstinate, but I didn’t want to discuss my relationship with Hi’ran with her.
I
was his only living emissary,
I
was the one he wanted to get with child, and I didn’t want to think about him touching the rest of them, even though I knew that I was simply one in a harem of women.

But she must have seen it on my face. “You will never have him all for your own, and he cannot touch you until you are dead. Accept the reality. He’s one of the Harvestmen—an Immortal. He’s beyond even the gods.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m just lonely. And he makes me feel . . .”

“Please, trust me when I tell you that you’re special to him. You are his chosen one. He won’t let you remain alone. There are wonderful things waiting for you—long before you enter the realm of the dead. Don’t begrudge the rest of us what joy we have. We can never receive the chance he’s offering you.”

I stopped then, turned to her. No guile or anger flickered in her eyes—simply wistfulness. “You love him, don’t you?”

“I do. We all do. Joining the Death Maidens, being chosen to serve
him
is one of the best things that ever happened to me. I met my death willingly because I knew I’d be joining him. My life was horrendous, but now . . . And every one of us will tell you that being his servant is a blessing, not a curse. In fact, that’s where we’re going. You must realize that you are not acting alone.”

“I’m going to meet the rest, aren’t I?”

She nodded, a faint smile creeping across her face. “Yes, you will meet your sisters tonight.” And then, in a whirl of smoke and mirrors, she caught me up and we raced ahead, a blur in the night, shadows running under the moon, Death Maidens on the prowl.

 

 

We might have entered a sheik’s palace or a harem out of
One Thousand and One Nights
, or some epic fifties Cecil B. DeMille movie. The room was dimly lit, opulent, and lush, and I realized we were no longer in Seattle but in some distant place, like the glade I’d been in when I first met Greta. Giant pillars, evenly spaced throughout the hall, held up the domed cathedral ceiling.

The walls were invisible, hidden behind sparkling curtains that draped languorously across them, a silken paradise swathed in yellow and red, in pink and ivory, embroidered through with golden threads.

Against one wall, upon a raised dais, dozens of scattered pillows matched the drapes, inviting me to come sink into their splendor, to rest, to dally. Here and there, ornate tables held trays of fruit and pitchers of what smelled like fine wine and mead. Dipping bowls filled with honey, platters of cheese, and freshly baked bread covered the surfaces.

As I turned, I saw one wall covered with a rack containing weapons of every sort. They were polished but used—no decorations here. Urns my height held giant fronds of grass and autumn foliage, and a fireplace big enough to walk into crackled with a fire that filled the room with warmth.

The décor might be stunning, but what caught my eye most were the women. I counted them—twenty-one in all, including myself. Blondes, redheads, brunettes—some with fair skin, others with skin the color of burnished ebony, tall and short, thin, fat . . . mostly human but a few who looked Fae. They were all unique, but one common bond connected them: every one of them looked content.

A few were reading, a small group were discussing something around one of the tables, a pair of taut, muscled women sparred with daggers and swords, but as Greta walked me to the center of the room, all eyes gravitated my way. I held my tongue. This was their home—their abode. I was the guest, and I would let them lead. Within seconds, they gathered around me, chattering brightly.

“You brought her!”

“Good to see you here. It’s about time—”

“You’re Delilah, right? Delilah of the Fae?”

“You’ve finally come to meet us!”

The questions and comments came fast and thick, but I sensed no animosity and began to relax. And as I relaxed, I began to talk with these women of the grave, these women who were now my sisters in spirit.

“Yes, I’m Delilah . . . I’m originally from Otherworld, but I’m part human.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” One particularly lithe young woman, Japanese by her looks, and with hair that flowed to her ankles, cocked her head and laughed then. “What funny hair you have. I like it, though.”

I grinned. “I got skunked—it’s a long story. And yes, I’m still alive.”

It felt odd, as they pulled closer, to realize that all of them—all of these seemingly corporeal women—were spirits. But before I could dwell on that thought, I found myself herded over to the pillows where they drew me down and sat around me.

Greta held up her hand, and everyone quieted. She must wield more power than I’d thought.

“I brought Delilah here tonight for several reasons. One, to meet you—so she will realize that she is not alone. We’ve all walked the path she now walks, and when we died, our Master brought us here, to Haseofon. That’s what this place is called, Delilah—
Haseofon, the Abode of the Death Maidens.
”

I rolled the name around on my tongue for a moment, getting used to it. “Is the name private? Can I use it outside of these walls?”

“It is not of great importance. We will not attempt to keep too many secrets between you and your corporeal family.” And then she smiled. “Introduce yourselves, please. She may not remember all of our names at once, but part of her training will be to interact with all of you and to learn from you.”

And so, one by one, they introduced themselves. Most of the names went by in a blur, but a few stood out. Eloise, the tall, dark-skinned warrior woman; Lissel, a gorgeous redhead who dropped into a quick curtsy; Fiona, a dark-haired Irish lass; and Mizuki, the Japanese girl who seemed as light on her feet as I did when I was in cat form. And every one of them bore the markings on their forearms that Greta—and I—did. Brilliant swirling leaves and vines of black, orange, rust, and red, tattooing their allegiance to the Autumn Lord.

She turned to me. “There is another you must meet. She is part of our family, although she is not a Death Maiden. You will recognize her.”

Of course that sparked my curiosity. I turned in the direction that Greta was pointing, and waited. Out of the shadows, from behind an urn, stepped a carbon copy of myself, only she had hair the color of sable fur, rich and brown. She smiled and held out her arms, and in that moment, I understood.
Arial.
My twin. My leopard sister.

“Arial! Oh Great Mother Bast—my Arial!” And then I was sobbing, in her embrace, holding on for dear life. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” she whispered, and her voice was my own as well. “I live here, when I’m not prowling the astral, keeping an eye on you. The Autumn Lord took me in when I died, and I grew up here, in spirit if not in body.”

“But why aren’t you with our ancestors in the Land of the Silver Falls?” I managed to force myself to stand back, holding her by the shoulders. “Why aren’t you with our mother?”

“That will keep for later—the story is long and involves your own destiny. But for now, just be glad we’re together again. Whenever you come here to visit, I’ll be able to talk to you. I can’t appear as anything but my leopard self when outside of these walls.” She laughed, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder. It reached her lower back in a cascade of curls similar to Camille’s, but it wasn’t nearly so dark or thick. But her forearms were clear of tattoos. She wasn’t a Death Maiden; that much was obvious.

Unwilling to let go of her, I wrapped my arm around her waist and turned to Greta. “Bless you . . . I can’t repay you for this gift. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just promise me that you will keep your temper and wait for my direction next time. It’s one thing if you fight to the death against an enemy, but you obliterated his soul, Delilah. You may not realize it, but you sent him directly to the abyss without being told. That could have serious repercussions down the line. Be cautious not to invoke your powers as a Death Maiden to take down your foes unless you have been given leave.”

I understood then. She wasn’t asking me to keep from fighting. It was
how
I fought that worried her. “I see . . . and I promise. Now, can I spend some time talking to Arial privately?”

Greta laughed. “You have all the time in the world. And you may come any time, though for now you are here in spirit only. But bid your sister farewell for now, for I have lessons to teach you.”

Reluctantly, I said good-bye to my twin. Arial turned for one last wave before darting out of the chamber through one of the side doors. I gave Greta a long look. “What does my sister do here? Why is she tied to the Autumn Lord?”

“She has never met him, save at birth. He brought her in, and she spent her first few years as a lovely leopard cub, secure in her life here, adored by all the Death Maidens. We’ve grown very fond of her. We helped her learn how to take her two-legged form, how to speak, we taught her to read and to play the harpsichord—”

“The harpsichord?”

“I have no idea why she chose that particular instrument, but it’s the one to which she gravitated. She sings beautifully and writes poetry. And she acts as our handmaid, helping us when we need it. She’s a part of our family, even if she’s not a Death Maiden.” She paused. “More you will find out in time, but for now . . .”

“Now . . . lessons?”

“Yes. Follow me.” She rose, and I followed her through a door to the side and down a long hall. We entered another room, this one sparse, though still beautiful, and in the center, a bench with a thick pillow on it. “Please, take a seat.”

“What are you going to teach me?” I asked, taking my place on the pillow.

Greta smiled slyly. “Oh, girl, it’s not what
I’m
going to teach you. Whatever you do—do not get off the bench. That is the one rule I give to you, and see that you follow it. You can die if you don’t. I’ll be back for you in awhile. Until then . . .” Her voice dropped, and she gave me a solemn pat on the shoulder and left the room. I heard a faint click of a lock.

Nervously, I looked around, wondering what was going to happen. The lights dimmed, and the room took on a faint glow around the bench, but everything else fell away, bathed in darkness. I sucked in a deep breath and waited.

A scuttling caught my attention, and I jumped but, remembering Greta’s admonishment to stay seated, I forced myself to remain in place. The sound creeped me out; it was the sound of feet skittering around the room. A shadow here, a sudden movement there, and I thought for sure that I saw a jointed leg stretch out from the darkness.

Hell. Werespiders again?
I flashed back to the werespiders we’d fought a year before. Kyoka and his hobo spiderlings. Could they really be here? As the noises came nearer, I thought for sure I could hear breathing behind me, and I began to shiver, every hair on my body standing at attention as the rasping grew louder.

Crap.
Every instinct screamed,
Move, fool!
But if I moved, would I die? Was this a test of skill? Of strength? Or of obeying the rules? Breath catching in my throat, I poised to leap the minute anything go too close.

The words echoed in my head, but it wasn’t my voice. Once again, I sensed Hi’ran, and yet the voice was smoother than his, like honey, calming and sweet.

I sat on my hands, trying not to cry, trying not to notice the darkness that was narrowing in on me. The circle of light surrounding the bench was growing smaller, the faint glow fading. Something brushed one shoulder, and I jerked around but saw nothing. A tap on my other shoulder, and I lurched to my right. But there was no one there. Nothing to fight, nothing to see.

Again, the calming voice, steady and deep, smooth silk and honey on my frayed nerves. I obeyed, breathing slowly. One breath at a time. Deliberate, focused, trying to push beyond the fear.

The movements hastened around me, and I pulled my legs off the floor, tucking them beneath me on the bench, wanting nothing more than to shift, to turn into Panther and tackle whatever enemy waited in the darkness. The sound of a thousand scurrying insects rustling against the floorboards taunted, both terrifying me and luring me in.

His voice became a thread, and I followed. And when the words stopped, the energy remained, and I could suddenly see the signature. So often I’d heard Camille describe doing just this, and I never understood what she was talking about until now. But his voice left a trail of frost, a trail of sparkles, and I hurried after them, journeying with my mind, keeping my body still, forcing myself not to transform, not to shift.

I focused on creating a light—on turning on a switch somewhere inside. At first, nothing happened, so I tried harder, urging the light from out of my stomach. Memories of Chase and loneliness immediately rushed through me, and I felt like I was floundering.

Thoughts raced through my mind, but a clear voice, from somewhere deep inside, whispered, “I’m afraid of not mattering to anyone.” And as soon as I heard it, I recognized the little girl who missed her mother, who always felt more at home with animals than people, who felt like she blended into the background.