Leopard Moon (32 page)
CHAPTER ONE
The incense was the thing she remembered most about her marking ceremony. It had been heavy, almost like another presence in the room. The smoke from it had sent up a thick plume that threaded through the air like a serpent, undulating in the drafts. At fourteen, Laila had been fascinated by it. It gave off a powerful scent of funerary herbs, of things she'd been smelling since the cradle. Myrrh of course, and dragsonsblood, and something almost floral--possibly yarrow. It dulled her other senses and Laila felt herself slipping into a kind of half-trance.
Her father was speaking, although there wasn't anyone else there to witness the marking. It was just her and her father, and if she really believed in such things, the jackal-headed god Anubis. They sat in the basement room that served as the center of worship. The marking ceremony was a private thing, held when the initiate was fourteen. The closest thing that Laila could compare it to was a Catholic's confirmation--the time in the participant's life where they were actively choosing to follow in the faith that, up until that point, had been chosen for them. With the Keepers of Divine Order, it was the same. If you were serious about service to them, and to Anubis, you were marked with a bronze knife at fourteen somewhere on your body.
The Keepers of Divine Order have been around since ancient times. It was thought that the very first Keepers originated in ancient Egypt, where people with a need would go to the edges of cities, near the necropolis or cemeteries where the jackals and other night scavengers gathered, and leave their request along with an offering. The werejackals in the area would evaluate the requests and decide whether to grant them, depending upon the offering left or whether they felt the request met their requirements. Laila highly doubted that the first werejackals had been terribly picky.
Laila had been raised knowing that this was her path. She had wanted nothing else. Weaned on stories of the Anubis Knights and their exploits, reared by a highly respected Keeper and sister to another, Laila thought her marking ceremony was a foregone conclusion. There was no other choice for her. She'd been in training since she was old enough to walk, even if she hadn't known it at the time. Her wrestling games with her father and brother had been precursors to the martial arts lessons that soon followed; private piano lessons honed swift and flexible fingers that could strip and reassemble a rifle in record time. At fourteen, she stood before the small statue of Anubis with more fighting and weapons knowledge than most enlisted military men.
The old bronze khopesh knife was placed in the center of the low table, wreathed in smoke. Laila stared at it, unable to look away. It was almost as long as a man’s forearm, the blade shaped somewhere between a claw and a sickle. She’d seen it plenty of times--it was her father’s after all and he carried it with him almost everywhere he went--but it scared her now. She felt sweat break out across her face.
Her father finished intoning in his deep voice and he slewed around on his knees to face her. Her father, like everyone in her family, wasn’t tall for a man, but his lean frame was incredibly strong. Most people underestimated them because of their size. It was a mistake they would not repeat, usually because they were dead.
He lifted the blade in both hands, like an offering. “This supplicant comes before you, seeking admittance to your Divine Order. May you receive her and deem her worthy.”
She said the words that she had memorized. “I offer unto you my life and my service, great Lord Anubis. You are the Opener of the Way and the Lord of Order. I will be your eyes and hands here on earth. I ask that you find use for them.”
Her father knee-walked over to her, the knife still held before him in one hand, a chalice in the other. He gave her an encouraging smile. “Ready?” he whispered.
Not trusting herself to speak, Laila nodded. Her father drew the knife down her forehead in a vertical line above her left eye. Blood spilled out, dripping down her brow bone and into the cup he held against her face. She closed her eyes so he could continue cutting, beginning again just beneath her eye and stopping the line parallel with the tip of her nose. The smell of blood, even this small amount, was thick in the closed room.
“By blood and by bone, by earth and by darkness, by life and by death, so I offer my oath.” She clenched her hands into fists, feeling hot and nauseous in the little room. Blood still dripped down her face and suddenly Laila was swept with the urge to fight, to hurt, to lash out with teeth and claw. It was almost overwhelming at first and she shook as the sensations passed through her. It was a little like when she changed forms, although she was still relatively new to it since her fourteenth birthday. When she changed, she was always in charge; it was simply another part of her that was taking precedence. This new feeling was edgier though, almost like she danced on the edge of control. It was scary and dangerous and she was a little appalled to find out that she kind of liked it.
Her father pressed a clean white cloth to her face. She would have a scar matching his and her brother's. She was a were, which meant she’d heal quickly and that the scar would be slight. Only wounds inflicted by silver or those from another were would leave telling marks behind. If her father’s scar was any indication, no one would be able to see it unless they knew where to look by the time she was his age. Her brother’s scar was still noticeable, although not glaringly so, but it too was fading with time.
Her father told her to lie down. She heard him open the door and felt the circulation of fresh air as it carried out the cloying smell of the incense. He was rattling around, gathering up bottles of salves and unguents that would help the healing process. Laila didn’t care about the cut; she was more interested in this new feeling. It was still there, quiet now, having subsided back into the recesses of her head since there wasn’t anything to feed its bloody desires.
She wondered briefly if this is what being consecrated to Anubis meant. Did this feeling mean the ritual worked? Or was this one of the by-products of being a werejackal? She hadn’t smelled blood since her first change, so maybe this was some kind of were response? Everything was still so new. She’d known she came from a family of werejackals and the odds were good that she would be one too, but knowing and knowing were vastly different, as she was finding out.
Her father returned, cool hands removing the cloth from her face. As he worked at the cut, she thought about asking her father about this new feeling. She knew she could talk to him about anything, but this she felt hesitant about and she couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t like he could look at her like she was a freak--she was exactly like him and Mebis. At the thought of her brother, Laila had her answer. She’d talk to Mebis about it when he got home. He’d know and would be straight up with her. He always was.
Books don’t just happen in a vacuum; there are lots of people that help shepherd it along the way. First, a huge thanks to Melissa Marr, for taking a look at it and assuring me that it didn’t suck. To Tracey--a ginormous thank you for your inventive and hilarious book notes. Beta Reader, Nan, thank you for your encouragement and for always asking me to write more, more, more.
Tom Markart (DB), thanks for an awesome website. To Keri, for being awesome. To Kerryo, the images of my raven rock and will make an excellent next tattoo. To Dimitri Williams at Dimitri Williams Photography—the photos are beautiful, as are you.
My family: Mom, the original WK, an everlasting thank you for putting up with my psychotic type A leanings. My daughter, thanks for letting Mommy work the long night hours to write three books in nine months. You are the reason I do everything. To Dad-- and you wanted me to get a degree in accounting. And Richard, you will always be the other side to my coin. I love you all.
Jeanette Battista graduated with an English degree with a concentration in medieval literature which explains her possibly unhealthy fixation on edged weapons and cathedral architecture. She spent a summer in England and Scotland studying the historical King Arthur, which did nothing to curb her obsession. To satisfy her adrenaline cravings--since sword fighting is not widely accepted in these modern times--she rode a motorcycle at ridiculously high speeds, got some tattoos, and took kickboxing and boxing classes. She gave up the bike when her daughter came along, although she still gets pummeled at the gym on a regular basis.
When she’s not writing or working, Jeanette spends time with family, hikes, reads, makes decadent brownies, buys killer boots, and plays Pocket Frogs. She wishes there were more hours in the day so she could actually do more of these things. She lives with her daughter and their ancient, ill-tempered cat in North Carolina.
You can read more about her and her books at
http://www.jeanettebattista.com
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