The Unforgiven (11 page)

“Have you got a weapon on you?” he asked.

“No,” Cybele replied.

“I thought not. So. With only one weapon between the two of us, any fight we undertake that tried to preserve the host’s life would be a messy proposition. Not at all healthy for bystanders, I’d say. And ultimately a failed effort.” He paused. “But if I shot to kill the human . . .”

Cybele sighed. “The fiend would be trapped in the dying body long enough for you to annihilate it as well.”

He grinned. “High marks for that conclusion. So . . . a decision. Kill one human? One who’s probably on his way to Hell anyway? I’ve been watching him. Or should we allow an ancient hellfiend to go on its merry way, strewing the blood of innocents in its wake?”

Cybele’s white teeth caught her plump bottom lip. Artur felt the bite straight down to his groin.

Finally, she shook her head. “Blast it, Artur. I hate this.”

“You think I enjoy it?”

Her green eyes flashed. “Frankly? Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “You didn’t used to think the worst of me.”

“You didn’t used to try so hard to make me hate you. And why? Because I saved Cade’s life.”

He hissed. “You broke our bond, Cybele. I didn’t.”

“What I destroyed was your pride. I exchanged it for Cade’s life. I thought it a fair trade at the time. I still do.”

“You might have summoned Morgana. It was her duty, her right to act as anchor. Not yours.”

“I didn’t think there was time! Cade was already half-mad when I found him. I . . . I was sure he’d die.”

“He wouldn’t have. Not if you’d gone straight to Morgana.”

“I didn’t know that. I didn’t think. I—” She shoved a hand through her hair and abruptly laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not doing this again. We’ve had this argument more times than I can bear. There’s no apology I can make that will satisfy you.”

“I don’t remember you making any apology.”

“And I won’t.” The heat of her anger had raised the color in her cheeks. “I’m not sorry. I did what I believed was necessary. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Everything she’d said was true. Artur, when beset by a rare objective moment, recognized himself as the villain of the piece. There was no way he could be absolutely certain Morgana would have reached Cade in time. Cybele hadn’t wanted to betray him.

But, she had. And there was nothing he could do to change that fact. Cybele, his bonded mate, had fucked another Watcher. She might speak of apologies, but Watchers—
Nephilim
—were not known for their loving, forgiving natures.

Avoiding Cybele’s eyes, Artur studied the possessed man. The dart game was over. The hellfiend and its host’s mates had sat down at a table, fresh drinks in hand.

“Looks like their night’s just getting started,” he commented. Draping his arm over the back of his chair, he nodded to the seat opposite. After a brief hesitation, Cybele sat.

Artur signaled for a couple pints. The plump and pretty barmaid—Janey, he thought her name was—brought them quickly. She brushed Artur’s arm with her breast as she set the glass before him.

“Thanks, love.” He cupped her round arse and squeezed. She giggled and ran a lascivious hand along his shoulder.

“For you, Artur? Anytime.”

The contemptuous flash in Cybele’s eyes was supremely gratifying. “One of your human sluts?” she asked when the woman was gone.

He grinned. “Jealous?”

“Hardly. It’s beneath you, is all. Crawling from pub to pub. Pickling your brain. Screwing whatever catches your eye.”

“I have a duty to beget children for the clan,” he said.

She snorted. “Give me a break. You didn’t give human women a second look when we were bonded.”

“Ah, so that’s it, eh? You’d prefer I drag along after you, like Cade does.”

“You’re an ass, Artur. You know very well that Cade and I didn’t continue our . . . physical relationship after his transition.”

“He wanted to. Still does. Perhaps you should have him. Sex might improve your mood. Celibacy is hell for a Watcher.”

A muscle jumped in her cheek. “I doubt you would know. When was the last time you went a night without?”

“Humans,” he said dismissively.

“That’s not the point! You’re our chieftain. You’re better than this.”

But he wasn’t better. Didn’t she know that by now? The thought brought a wave of something perilously close to despair. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to have this war with her stop.

Closing his eyes, he passed a hand over his face. “I assure you, Cybele, I’m not better than this. In fact, I’m far worse. What do you want me to do? Change the past? Forget our broken bond?”

She stared at her untouched ale. “I . . . I don’t know. I just want . . .”

Long seconds ticked by.

“What?” he prompted, hating himself.

She seemed to deflate. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Her hand lay on the table. He wanted to cover it with his. He didn’t.

She sighed. “I loved you, Artur. I truly did.”

Loved. Past tense. He laughed without humor. “Now you hate me. As you should.”

She closed her eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do hate you. Even so, I doubt I hate you half so much as you hate yourself.”

True enough, he supposed. He was Nephilim, and a nasty bastard besides. Of course he hated himself.

He shrugged, letting his gaze wander toward the possessed man and his mates. All four were now on their feet. He watched them and his bloodlust simmered.

Artur rose. Extracting a bill from his pocket, he slipped it onto the table as the hellfiend herded its prey toward the door. Adrenaline bled into his veins. He slid the Glock into his belt. Bloody hell, but he needed a kill right now. Whacking hellfiends was like Nephilim crack. He ought to sign himself up as a sodding DAMN recruit.

“Go out ahead of them,” he ordered Cybele. “Swing your ass. Draw them down the alley to the south. I’ll close in from behind.”

“Oh, all right. Why the hell not?”

Something in her tone had him catch her gaze. He was stunned to see her eyes reflecting his own anticipation, and she flashed him a grin.

“You know, I think I’m almost looking forward to this. I always thought, Artur, that killing hellfiends was what we did best together.”

Bloody hell, how he missed her.

“Actually,” he said softly, “it was second best.”

“Ms. Durant? Is that you?”

Maddie froze with her left hand on the door latch, acutely aware of the object clutched in her right. She could just make out the figure of a man sitting at the worktable.

“Dr. Ben-Meir? Why . . . why are you sitting here in the dark?”

The archeologist produced a cigarette lighter, then stood to light the oil lamp hanging overhead. Anemic light spilled across his scattered papers. He bent his head to examine the battery-powered lantern on the worktable. He flipped a switch, then shook his head ruefully.

“Dead. It must have gone out after I fell asleep.” He frowned. “What time is it?”

“I have no idea,” Maddie said cautiously. “One, maybe?”

Her answer caused him to look up, as if he’d just realized the oddity of her presence in the work hut. “Ms. Durant. What brings you here at this hour?”

Maddie’s instinct was to turn and flee. She fought it. She stepped into the hut and closed the door.

“I came here to do some research. I . . . I found something.”

His eyes narrowed on her hand. “Indeed. Is that it?”

Her fingers clenched.
It’s mine.

“Yes,” she said, backing away. She’d changed her mind. She couldn’t trust Dr. Ben-Meir. She should have run as soon as she realized he was here.

No. She gave herself an abrupt mental shake. What the hell was she thinking? Of course she trusted the professor. She forced her hand to unclench.

The archeologist stepped toward her, brow furrowed. When he reached out, it was all Maddie could do to stop herself from slapping his hand away. She knew she was being irrational.
This was Dr. Ben-Meir’s dig, and she’d unearthed a relic, most likely a very important relic. Of course he needed to see it.

She forced herself to place it in his hand and immediately wished she hadn’t. Her chest contracted with anxiety as Ben-Meir examined the artifact.

The disc was the size of his palm. Maddie had rubbed off some of the dirt, revealing scorch marks and discoloration. In a few places, however, the gold still gleamed. But the metal was undeniably damaged, creased through the center of the disc as if it was struck by something sharp and heavy. The impact had severed the delicate strips of gold that held the gem in the center of the piece. The stone itself, which must have once been a full inch in diameter, was now a lopsided half circle. That crystalline fragment glowed a deep, rich red.

“Ms. Durant, this is magnificent.” Ben-Meir tilted the relic into the light, examining the faint tracery pattern on the gold.

“Hammered embossing,” he breathed. “So intricate.” He bent his head. “An ornament for a breastplate, judging by the four holes at the perimeter. Maybe,” he mused, “it took a blow in battle. And the etching! If I’m not mistaken . . .” He rubbed off a bit more of the dirt with the hem of his sleeve. “Yes. Just as I thought. The Seed of Life.”

Maddie frowned. “What’s that?”

“A very ancient design. See?” Reverently, his forefinger hovered over the etching. “One central circle, with six more circles arranged in symmetry around it. Each pair of edges overlap to form an even earlier symbol, this vaguely fishlike shape. It’s known as the
vesica piscis
.”

His tone assumed the quality of a man accustomed to lecture halls. “Early cultures considered the
vesica piscis
to be the place where the spheres of Heaven and earth meet—the place and time where life begins. It’s thought the seven circles of the Seed of Life pattern, with each overlapping circle segment forming
a magical
vesica piscis
, represent the seven days of creation. To the ancient world it was a powerful symbol indeed.”

He tilted the piece, catching the light. Maddie counted the seven circles. Repeated at regular intervals around the central stone, the circles created what looked like a six-petal flower.

“How old do you think the relic is, Dr. Ben-Meir? Could it be from the time of the Watchers?”

“Certainly it could. The Seed of Life symbol was known in Assyria and Egypt at least three thousand years ago. The symbol was likely well-known in the early Canaanite period.” His hand trembled as he touched the central stone. “This must have been very beautiful when it was whole. I wonder what caused the damage.”

It did not escape Maddie’s notice that Dr. Ben-Meir had not mentioned the pulsing red light. Of course not. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t
feel
it, like she did. Because it wasn’t there?

The archeologist’s head came up, and his dark eyes fell on her. “Where did you find this, Ms. Durant?”

Maddie swallowed. “At . . . at the bottom of the Watchers’ well.”

“That well was empty.”

“It was buried.” She twisted her hands together to keep herself from snatching the ornament. She wanted it back. It seemed so . . .
wrong
in Dr. Ben-Meir’s hands.

“And you dug it up this afternoon?” Incredulity crept into his voice, along with a touch of anger. “With those American teenagers? And you didn’t report it to the team? You just . . . pocketed it?”

Maddie couldn’t drag her eyes from the disc. “No! No, sir. I didn’t have it this afternoon. I found it just now. Tonight.”

Ben-Meir’s dark brows met over the bridge of his nose. “You went to the dig in the middle of the night? Alone? Why would you do such a thing? You know the protocol. If you suspected something, you should have informed me.” He stared down
at the broken ornament. “A discovery of this magnitude . . . it should have been photographed in situ, before you even touched it.”

“I know. I know I should have come to you first. I’m sorry.”

A red light pulsed in the stone; the tarnished gold glowed white. Sparkles of light darted around and around the edges of the circles like tiny frolicking faeries. A red heart beat at the center of their dance.

Staring at the display made Maddie slightly dizzy. What caused the light? Some fusion of metal and crystal? Natural phosphorescence? Or was it simply a product of her disease?

Dr. Ben-Meir turned the disc over. At the same moment, Maddie became aware of a white light outlining his head and shoulders, the same sort of aura she’d seen surrounding the teens this afternoon. She rubbed her eyes.

Dr. Ben-Meir retrieved a brush from the tool cabinet. Gently, he dislodged some of the dirt encrusting the rear face of the disc. Maddie clenched and unclenched her fists. She didn’t like him touching it. She should never have given it to him. She wanted to snatch it back. To cradle it between her breasts where it
belonged
.

“Perhaps this piece was created in the forge near the well,” he was saying. “Perhaps it was even formed on the anvil we excavated. Often an ancient metalsmith left his mark on his pieces . . .” His hand stilled suddenly, and he sucked in his breath. “What have I found?” he breathed. “Dear God. Is it possible?”

What
I
found,
Maddie wanted to shout.
It’s mine. Only mine.

“What is it?” she asked, moving closer.

Ben-Meir’s hand was trembling. “Look. The eye of the Watchers. Right here, in the center. Just as it appears on the Pharos Tablet.”

It was true. The symbol on the disc, a small circle within a larger disc, matched the marking on the Pharos Tablet.

“Let me see.” She reached out. “Let me hold it.”

He snatched the disc away. “Are you insane, Ms. Durant? This relic, this treasure, should not be touched. Not even by me.” Crossing to a shelf, he located a square of chamois and spread the cloth on his palm. He placed the disc atop it. The red light flared, then commenced a slow pulse. Strands of white wove around it.

“Do you see the light?” Maddie asked suddenly. It couldn’t be all in her mind. It just couldn’t be.

“What are you talking about, Ms. Durant? What light?”

“Red light. And white.” She stretched out a finger. A gossamer strand of crimson arced from the broken stone. It was shocking as it struck her skin. She drew a startled breath and rubbed her thumb against her tingling forefinger. “Did you see that?”