Stealing Sacred Fire (16 page)

Closer now. The women seemed to
be waiting for her. They would speak. One ran her fingers through
her long, tangled hair, another fanned herself with a broad leaf.
Melandra felt as if their sly gaze willed her to draw close to
them. They whispered together softly, and each time one of them
bent her head to murmur in the ears of another, Melandra heard the
chime of tiny bells. When the breeze lifted the hair of the women,
the air vibrated as if a rattle-snake had shaken its tail
nearby.

One of them raised a hand and
beckoned. Her hair was henna red and fell over her shoulders and
breasts in a lascivious cloud. Almost hypnotised, and unable to
pass by, Melandra halted before the group. Even seated, they seemed
to tower over her. They stared at her in the manner that cats
stare; inscrutable. It made her feel like a child again.

I have always been a child, she
thought. Never a woman. The secret territories these harlots know
are unknown to me.

Her mind felt hazy, overwhelmed
by the chime of bells that jingled at the women’s wrists and
ankles, and the perfumes exuded by their bodies: jasmine,
sandalwood and clean sweat.

Swaying where she stood,
removed from reality, Melandra was held in the snare of dark eyes.
The women disgusted her no longer. She was envious of their pride
and beauty. A desperate longing uncoiled within her, rising up from
the empty pit that had lain within her all her life, poised to
strike its venom into her heart. These women had power she had
never had. She wanted to understand it, possess it.

The woman who had beckoned to
her stared unblinkingly into Melandra’s eyes for what seemed like
an eternity. Melandra found herself taking tiny steps, nearer and
nearer. Her head was pounding, and pin-pricks of light sparkled
before her eyes. She thought she must collapse, but then the woman
reached out and touched her face. At once she felt strengthened;
intoxicated perhaps, but nowhere near losing consciousness. Long,
ring-encrusted fingers caressed her cheek, then curled behind her
neck and pulled her closer. Melandra felt the moist heat of the
woman’s sweet, spicy breath upon her lips. Her whole body tingled
as if it was being stroked by loving hands. Melandra closed her
eyes. Her lips met those of the nameless woman and for a timeless,
endless moment, they kissed like lovers.

Melandra’s heart seemed to have
stilled within her. She had no thoughts, no opinions, and had
become a ringing nerve of pure sensation. Then the heat and
perfume, the pressure of lips, drew away, and Melandra opened her
eyes. The woman now stared down the street. The breeze blew the
banner of her hair in the same direction. Melandra followed her
gaze. A tall, white-clad figure stood motionless, some feet away,
his back towards her. It was her target; the demon Shemyaza.
Melandra began to walk towards him. She glanced back at the women
behind her, but they ignored her now, staring only at the man in
white. Shemyaza began to walk away, and Melandra followed him. She
did not think about what had just happened.

Soon, the stalls became more widely
spaced, until eventually, Melandra found herself walking along a
narrow alley, tall buildings to either side, but no sign of human
life. Sunlight came down in patches and her target moved through
these golden pools, briefly blazing before swimming into shadow.
She thought that he must be aware of her by now, but still he did
not turn or change his pace. An ephemeral blade of panic touched
its point against her heart: was she following him into danger?
Perhaps he was totally aware of her pursuit and planned to lure her
into some hidden spot, where his followers would jump her before
she could defend herself. The feeling did not persist. Melandra
became convinced the man ahead was unaware of her. His gait and
posture were relaxed, as if he was taking a stroll to mull over
some private thoughts.

She realised she was tired, and
had perhaps been walking too long in the sun. It seemed as if she
was moving in slow motion. When she looked up, a carpet hanging
overhead seemed to flap at an unnaturally sluggish pace. She heard
a delicate tinkling chime that seemed to keep time with her steps,
as if she wore invisible bells around her ankles. Simultaneously,
an oceanic rushing sound invaded her ears. It was quiet at first,
hardly even a sound at all, but gradually built in intensity, as if
she had two giant shells pressed against her ears. Then, a distinct
salty smell, like the sea, washed over her, perhaps conjured by the
ghosts of breakers in her ears. She thought that the man ahead of
her nearly turned his head, although he did not look round. Her
hand was damp upon the clasp of her bag. She thought about removing
her weapon, for there were no people about. She could shoot him now
quite easily.

He turned into another side
street. Melandra walked into shadow. For a moment, it seemed there
were stars in the afternoon sky above her. She should do it now;
end the mission. She reached inside her bag to take out the gun,
and her fingers curled around its hard handle. The sun must have
penetrated the strengthened cloth, for the weapon felt absurdly
warm and alive to her touch. She ran her fingers over it, trying to
establish its familiar form in her mind. Something wasn’t right.
Her exploring hand was running over what seemed to be a long, hard
fleshy shape. Its surface covered in a loose, soft skin. It was
full of living heat; she could feel blood coursing through its
length. Where the muzzle of the weapon should be, she found a
bulbous but delicate knob of flesh. Melandra realised what it was
she was touching, and yet a surreal sense of indifference washed
over her. A tiny voice within her cried out in disgust at the
phallus in her grip. It should be a gun, this is not possible. But
the voice was drowned out by the rushing in her ears, and the state
of non-reality that enveloped her. Melandra withdrew her hand from
the bag and let it dangle at her side. She kept on walking.

Her target’s pace was almost
hypnotic. She felt driven to keep following him. A strong aroma of
ozone and corn drowned out the smell of the sea. For a brief
instant, she had the impression she was walking through a field of
swaying wheat that was starred with blood-red poppies. The horizon
seemed to rush out on all sides. She felt dizzy, blinked, and the
narrow alley-way swam back into focus. The haunting sound of a
woman’s voice came again, so close. Could it be her own voice
singing? The images of the whores’ faces floated across her mind.
The sensation of the kiss lingered on her lips.

Somewhere ahead, a door slammed
and there was a sound of running feet, a short ripple of laughter
sharply silenced.

Shemyaza paused ahead of her.
He still did not look round. Melandra put out one hand to lean
against the nearest wall for support. She felt breathless, and her
heart was beating painfully in her chest. She could hear its soft
yet urgent boom.

She watched as Shemyaza began
to unwind the cloth from around his head. A wave of snow-gold hair
tumbled down over the aching white of his robe. He shook his head,
then continued walking down the alley. She could do nothing but
follow. Now, her sandaled feet seem to follow the secret dance
steps of the eastern women she had seen on the streets. Around her,
the rushing sound had become the gossiping rustle of thick corn,
overlaid by the chimes from her braceleted feet. She made music as
she walked. Now she felt powerful like the whores, she felt
alive.

Then, a flash of blinding
whiteness dazzled her eyes. Something blocked her way. All the
strange sensations ceased abruptly. She heard a dog bark somewhere
and the wail of a peevish child.

She looked up to find the tall
figure of Shemyaza before her. He had the most beautiful face she
had ever seen; the face of a pharaoh or a god. His eyes, the
deepest blue, stared unflinchingly into hers. His musky smell was
overpowering; she could taste it, taste his spirit.

‘Who are you?’ Shemyaza asked
her reasonably.

‘I am yours,’ she said. And the
world transformed itself around her.

They lay down together in the
corn. He held her gently, kissed her closed eyelids. ‘You are an
angel,’ she said, and knew it to be true.

He lifted her dress and put his
long hand flat against her naked belly. ‘And you are a woman of the
earth.’

Melandra was a virgin. As she
lay in Shemyaza’s embrace she thought about how she’d never
considered how it would be when the time came for her to lose this
maiden state. Against her instincts, nurtured by the beliefs of
those who’d raised her, she realised that she was blessed, and
being given an experience few women would enjoy. The pain was just
a small spark that kindled a greater flame of pleasure within her.
She gave herself up to the drunken delight of his body upon her. No
thought of guns or killing, only simple, natural experience. She
became pure feeling, devoid of intellect. The delicate petals of
poppies drifted down upon her face. She was enfolded in feathers,
in great wings.

He breathed a single word in
her ear. ‘Ishtahar.’

Melandra woke up feeling cold.
Before she even opened her eyes, she was aware of the rough sacking
beneath her. Her dress was drawn up over her hips and her underwear
had gone. She sat up abruptly, and saw that it was dark. Faint
lights burned in some of the high windows of the buildings around
her. She was alone.

Melandra jumped up, skidding on
the sacks, and pulled down her dress. Her face was flaming. What
had happened to her? How could she have allowed it to happen?

In numb despair, she ran back
the way she’d come, expecting threatening figures to jump out at
her at any moment. She couldn’t believe that she’d allowed Shemyaza
to seduce her. Yet wasn’t that his original evil? She had given up
the most precious gift to him, her enemy, and he had taken it
cruelly and left her abandoned in a potentially hostile
environment. His vile hand-maidens had initiated her violation even
before he looked upon her face.

Melandra reached the end of the
alley, already trying to decide before she turned the corner which
direction she could take. And yet, amazingly, when she stepped out
into the next street, she found she was back where she started.
There was the café where she’d sat earlier, and there was the hotel
where Shemyaza was staying.

Melandra ducked back in to the
alley to catch her breath and try to calm her mind. ‘Bastard!’ she
hissed and punched the wall with a closed fist. He had mocked her,
shown her his power and she, believing herself immune, had fallen
beneath his unholy spell. She cringed inside to think what
Nathaniel Fox would say if he knew of this. She had failed in her
duty, soiled herself in God’s eyes. Shemyaza must know what he’d
done to her. It was abominable.

‘Right,’ she said aloud,
spreading her hands on the air before her. ‘Get a grip of yourself.
It’s not over yet.’

She peered round the wall at
the hotel. Its doors stood open, and a few people were talking just
inside the entrance. Melandra felt her skittering heart turn to
steel. She would kill him now. She did not care if she was caught.
He had defiled her, in body and mind; rendered her worthless.

Calmly, she walked towards the
hotel. People moved aside to let her enter the lobby. She brushed
her hair back behind her ears and marched purposefully up to the
reception desk. A thin Turkish youth stood behind it. He smiled at
her in open friendliness.

‘Good evening,’ Melandra began.
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine who I believe is staying here. Mr
Jacobs. Michael Jacobs.’

The youth frowned, shook his
head, with a moue of apologetic denial.

Melandra sighed. ‘I know he’s
staying here. Perhaps he’s using his… professional name.’ She
leaned on the desk and smiled widely, with what she hoped was
charm. ‘Look, I’ll describe him. He’s very tall, with long blond
hair. Handsome, I suppose. Travelling with two companions?’

The youth thought for a moment,
then grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Shenley. He’s gone now, I’m
afraid.’

‘Gone?’ Melandra’s heart
stilled for a moment. Then she collected herself. ‘He’s checked
out, then. When?’

The youth nodded. ‘This
morning, Miss. Very early.’

Melandra stared at the youth. ‘That’s
impossible,’ she said. ‘I saw him coming out of the hotel this
afternoon. Would you check for me please?’

The youth shrugged. ‘He left,
Miss. He and his companions hired a truck and drove out of the city
this morning. I helped them load their bags. You must have been
mistaken about seeing him. I’m sorry.’

Melandra couldn’t prevent
herself from drooping over the desk. Her mind felt as if it had
just been put into a liquidiser. Don’t think about this yet, she
told herself. Stay calm. Get information.

She raised her head. ‘Have you
any idea where Mr Shenley was heading?’

Again, the youth shrugged. ‘He
didn’t say exactly. But they took supplies, even blankets. Looked
like a long journey.’

Melandra tapped the counter
with one hand. She sighed. ‘Thank you.’

‘Miss?’ The youth looked
expectant.

Melandra found him some coins
in the bottom of her bag and threw them over the desk. ‘You’ve been
most helpful.’

Outside, she stood in the
street, tears running uncontrollably down her face. Devil, demon.
What had seduced her? Possibly not even flesh and blood. She must
find him now and finish her task. It was her destiny. It was
war.

Back in her hotel, she drank an
entire bottle of wine and, her nerves calmed, called Nathaniel Fox.
It was early morning in New York. It surprised her how easily she
kept the panic and horror from her voice as she reported that
Shemyaza and his companions had fled.

‘Was he aware of your
presence?’ Fox demanded.