CHAPTER 6
At first no one spoke. There was only the vast landscape and the restless, whispering wind. The tang of the wine blunted scents of sage mixed with dust. Arsen’s campfire had gone out. There was nothing to look at but olive-drab terrain. Rugged, unforgiving.
Isolated.
Marge launched into her story.
“Did you know there are tribes living in the Amazon that no one has ever seen? Scientists know they’re there. We have photo-evidence from satellites, but they manage to live completely out of sight.”
Lexi noticed how Robbie was relaxed in his chair, studying the horizon while Arsen was staring at the weeds near his feet. They were both paying attention to every word.
“There are others living just as invisibly,” the woman continued. “Early cultures thought they were Gods. They thought they were immortal. They stumbled upon our little planet and found it to their liking. They thrived, began to interact with humans. But everything that lives can be killed. When a ruling member of this immortal society was murdered, the Calata—that’s what they call themselves—realized the need for self-protection. Since some in their rank were alchemists, they used their knowledge to create a class of warriors—perhaps using the Wandjina story as a template. They gave these half-human, half-immortal warriors the ability to change their forms. They could fight as either men or animals, and from what I understand, it was very efficient.”
“So, this isn’t the ‘Gods come down from Olympus’ version?”
“No,” the woman said quietly, “but it has everything else you’d expect from a myth—including the tragic ending.”
Lexi had been reaching for her glass of wine when Marge looked in Christan’s direction. Now she was looking back and Lexi set her wineglass down on the table, a little surprised she didn’t break the fragile stem.
“Our story picks up around 500 BC,” Marge said, and then explained that Etruscan culture was thriving throughout Italy when the murder occurred, although warriors were not actually created until a century later. The alchemy took that long because the magic was both dangerous and difficult, and there had been significant debate about the characteristics warriors should possess—rather like breeding horses, Lexi pointed out sarcastically—and Marge made a rude sound, looking at Lexi before she continued with the explanation.
The Calata had been interested in protection, which was why warriors were all male. But it didn’t take long to discover other uses. It sounded bizarre and yet Marge spoke with complete sincerity. Since warriors looked human, they could infiltrate into local populations, influence political thought. They could change the outcome of war and often did. By the time Rome was expanding throughout Europe and Africa, Marge concluded, “the warriors were fully involved.”
Lexi studied the purple shadows creeping up the canyon wall, her fingers absently tracing up and down the stem of her wine glass. The glass was back in her hand. She wasn’t sure when she had picked it up. “You said this story had a tragic ending.”
“And it does. After eight centuries of interaction, some warriors took human mates, and human characteristics became dominant. The warriors questioned authority, developed ethics, and were no longer blindly obedient. The Calata’s reaction was predictable. They voted to kill the human lovers.”
“Why?”
“The warriors had rebelled. War was imminent. Some believed the women were the key. Kill them and the Calata could reestablish power. You’d have to understand the immortal mind to understand the logic.”
“There is no logic to understand,” Lexi said quietly.
“No,” Marge agreed, lapsing into silence. “And then a solution was proposed. They called it the Agreement. The warriors would agree to the Calata’s authority and in exchange, their women would be safe. But not just safe. The warriors asked for something so extravagant it almost caused another war.”
A bird screamed in the distance. Marge sipped her wine. Lexi stared at the horizon before looking back in the woman’s direction.
“Warriors considered themselves immortal,” Marge continued. “It was a reasonable request to want their lovers to be immortal too. That was their demand for peace, Lexi. But since such magic was beyond the alchemists’ abilities, they had to find another way.” A long pause. “We’ve had conversations, haven’t we, about reincarnation?”
“At night, over a glass of wine when we were indulging in fantasy.”
“Over a third of the world’s population believes in reincarnation. Plato was the first proponent. His theory of anamnesis suggests that knowledge is not learned, it’s remembered from a past life.”
Lexi turned her head a few degrees to the left. “Let’s not debate Plato right now.”
“We’re not debating. We’re talking about alchemists who realized they could use reincarnation as a way to insure the warriors reunited with their lovers, lifetime after lifetime. When you think about it, you’ll see it was a perfect solution.”
“In a myth, Marge.”
The woman sighed, looked down at the tiny cube of cheese in her hand. Lexi closed her eyes and rubbed hard against the pain above her right eyebrow. Christan had shifted his stance, barely perceptible, but he was watching her and his expression wasn’t friendly. Why she was so attuned to him Lexi didn’t know, didn’t want to know. But there it was. She couldn’t turn the awareness off the way she turned off energies from the earth, and those tattoos were catching the light of the sun. She wasn’t attracted to tattoos and her fascination was bewildering. At some point, she’d noticed Arsen had some ink of his own. So did the man with Marge.
“This is why you’ve been dreaming,” Marge was saying quietly, and Lexi struggled to follow along. “What your night terrors are about, why they’re so upsetting. They are the walls in your subconscious breaking down so that the past lives can filter through.” Marge paused, and when she spoke again her voice was firm. “It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, Lexi. That we haven’t talked about this.”
A statement. No question in the words. Lexi took a deep breath and looked at the horizon because it was the closest she could come to something normal. She struggled for self-control, wanted to close her eyes but refused, because self-control would be lost without something visual to anchor her.
“You realize how insane this sounds.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to believe it without proof. Robbie had to shift in front of me before I would believe him.” Marge held out her right hand. “These are my memory lines.”
Over the previous months, and in her role as therapist, there were things that Marge had asked Lexi to do, and Lexi had done them. This shouldn’t be any different. Just something Marge insisted upon. For her own good. Which was why Lexi tried to ignore the erratic beating of her pulse that was strangling her. But as she studied the woman’s right wrist and forefinger, she could see the amber lines. They were so delicate they looked translucent, curling and exotic. That was the word. Exotic. Like the temporary henna tattoos in the Hindu culture. Mehndi lines, used to celebrate auspicious occasions.
“They’re the traces of memory from each past life that I remember,” Marge said. “You have marks of your own.”
The breeze danced through the tips of the grass, scattering the seeds. The edge of the white tablecloth fluttered, and time paused until Lexi gathered the courage to look at her hand. A faint gold line had unfurled beneath her skin.
Her gaze drifted over Marge, then Robbie, noting the casual strength in his body. Odd, she thought, that he looked closer to Marge’s age. She glanced at Arsen, mid-thirties, she decided. Relaxed, friendly, but the red Hawaiian shirt did nothing to conceal the power in his frame.
She looked at Christan. He brought Marge’s story to life with such intensity she closed her eyes. This man who could so easily put her on the ground, who stripped her raw with a single glance. Lexi could almost see the immortal in him. Ancient energy abraded her skin. Physical awareness tightened the muscles in her throat, made her pulse race. He held the darkness in her dreams while every whispered voice imprinted in the landscape was screaming with warnings.
The woman clapped her hands, and said, “So, who’s up for proof?”
Everyone sat frozen. Christan hadn’t moved since that brief tensing of muscle, a readiness that was almost primal. After a long beat, Arsen got to his feet, resignation on his face, and it was impossible, now, not to watch as Arsen stalked toward Christan. Not to notice the sleek way he moved, the way all of them moved, as if they were more predator than human.
Arsen stood beside Christan, having one of those silent bro conversations before turning in her direction. A beat, then another, and heat waves obscured his entire form.
“Oh. My. God.” When the vibrations faded from the air, one of the largest predators Lexi had ever seen stood in Arsen’s place. A thick pelt in a pattern of yellow and brown covered a massive frame. Lips pulled back over prehistoric fangs. Arsen was majestic.
Lexi pressed an open palm against her chest. “That’s—Arsen?”
Robbie took pity on her and answered. “Shape-shifting is the easiest way to describe it. We’re able to change into any animal large enough to be comfortable. But after a few hours, we’ll shift back into our human forms, which can be awkward, if you happen to be flying in the air.”
“Can all immortals shift like that?”
“Only warriors shift,” Robbie said. “It’s as natural for us as changing clothes is for you.”
“Yeah, about the clothes.” Lexi tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Arsen’s not going to come back naked, is he?”
“No.” Robbie was grinning, and she didn’t mind his amusement. “The alchemy views clothes the same way it views an animal’s pelt, so when we shift into an animal, we wear the pelt, and when we switch back, we’re wearing clothes. Weapons such as knives seem to fit within the magic’s rules. They make it through the shift and back. But not modern electronic items. The magic rejects them—they come back in pieces, so we don’t rely on guns if we think we’ll need to shift. It’s hard on watches and cell phones, too.”
Lexi leaned forward, curious, now. “And are you still you, thinking in the animal form? Or do you become the animal?”
“A little of both with some. With me, I’m always in control.”
“Do you drink blood?” It was the sort of question that came out despite all efforts to prevent it.
Robbie laughed, pure delight. Then his expression gentled, and he settled a hand over hers. It was a warm contact.
“No, Lexi. We’re almost as human as you are.”
Lexi filed the almost human part in the to-be-discussed-later folder and stared at Arsen. The predator stalked, the grass shifting beneath massive paws. The tail swished with concentrated intent. She stiffened. He grinned with his lion grin. When he reached her side, Lexi was gripping the seat of her chair. Wildness moved. A long pink tongue rasped against her cheek, the caress hot, moist, drifting across her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed, and Marge cleared her throat.
“Not him, dear,” she murmured from behind the glass of wine.
Lexi barely registered the words, but by the time the implication settled, Arsen had changed into a tabby cat. With a rumble deep in the chest, he embedded sharp claws into her jeans, high on her inner thighs. Then he looked back at Christan.
A low vibration filled the air, sank into the ground. As the energy rolled in Lexi’s direction, Arsen turned into a large red-tailed hawk and flew up into the rocks. Marge’s lips twitched.
“Oh dear.” Over her shoulder, Marge added, “He meant no harm.” Robbie rose, brushed a kiss against Marge’s cheek, and walked toward Christan while Marge patted Lexi’s frozen hand. “Drink your wine, Lexi, it’s medicinal.”
“I may need more than wine.”
“Nonsense. It’s exhilarating once you get past the shock.” Lexi choked when she saw the look in her friend’s eyes. “Besides, I’ve hated keeping secrets from you. That’s why we’re here. For privacy in case you required proof.”
Which made the isolation less offensive—Lexi could almost forgive them for it. Almost. She looked up into the clear sky. “Is this place safe?”
“They have a drone up there,” Marge said. “With a camera that sends images to Christan’s phone.”
Lexi looked at the two men standing in the distance, the older one easy in his stance, the other pure male. “Robbie is your—”
“Lover? Mate?” Marge smiled. “Yes. A warrior just like Christan and Arsen.”
“He looks older than they do.”
“An accommodation to my vanity. I once told him I was uncomfortable with our age difference and he changed his physical appearance to keep it closer to mine.”
Another secret Lexi hadn’t realized, that Marge was insecure when it came to love. Lexi touched her friend’s hand. “You deserve to be loved, Marge. He seems perfect for you.”
“Now that he doesn’t look thirty,” Marge agreed. “They don’t age unless they want to.”
Lexi looked toward Christan, unable to stop herself, watched the way sunlight disappeared in the midnight depths of his hair. Awareness pounded through her, the kind a woman felt beneath her skin. Hard. Alarming. She’d need to walk far, far around him, this man with dark intensity in his eyes. Far around, indeed.
“So Christan is what—a boss or something?”
“Or something.” Marge relaxed in the bistro chair. “No one has seen Christan in four hundred years.”
“That seems excessive.”
“He was in the Void.” The older woman lifted her shoulders, pushed the hair from her face. “It’s a place between matter and space.”
“But four hundred years?” It was more than excessive. It was extreme, reminding Lexi of what immortal meant when it came to time.
“But it’s curious that he’s back now.”
“Curious isn’t a word I would use.”
“Fascinating, then. Warriors have both telekinetic and telepathic abilities. Maybe you’ve noticed the way they seem to be holding mental conversations? They are. And the telekinetic ability—that’s how Christan put you on the ground and kept you there. He can be annoying at times.”
Annoying was another word Lexi wouldn’t use, but Marge was prattling on, ignoring Lexi’s lack of enthusiasm.
“Immortals can speak any human language they want, but for their magic they use mental images called one words—it’s a complete concept. They project it telepathically, just send it into someone’s mind. Robbie told me it takes a strong power to control the one word Christan used to put himself into the Void. That’s how he kept himself there, too. Only two immortals are strong enough to have forced him back. Probably the one they call Three did it.”
“They go by numbers?”
“The immortals on the Calata do. Some old tradition. Christan is her enforcer.”
“I can imagine what that means,” Lexi said, looking at the man.
“No, actually you can’t. It’s quite appalling in some respects, although I find it tragic. Everyone respects him. They would do anything for him. They’re trying to protect him right now, even though he doesn’t need protection.” Marge picked up a cube of the cheese, held it between her thumb and forefinger. “How do you see Christan, now that you understand what they are?”
“I haven’t formed an opinion,” Lexi said, although a part of her remained confused by the emotions he aroused. She was both aggressive and vulnerable at the same time. When he’d put her on the ground, the force of it felt empty, but there’d been more behind his action than ending an argument over photographs. He’d looked at her, and his eyes were dark and ancient. Bitter. She could still feel it.
“How do I factor into this, Marge?”
“You have memory lines.”
“One,” Lexi corrected. “Barely visible, and without memories, which I assume is the purpose behind it.”
“But you’re smart enough to know what it means.”
Toward the edge of the canyon, bits of dirt swirled in a dust devil that jumped and skittered across the ground. Lexi watched it fade away, then glanced at the faint line beneath her skin.
“What life was this?”
“If I had to guess, it was Gabrielle.”
“She died young.”
Marge nodded. “The lines record every remembered lifetime, not just those with the warriors.”
“They aren’t around for every life?”
“No, they don’t always interact. Sometimes, it’s due to circumstance. Choice in others.”
Lexi scrubbed her boot across the ground, a child, erasing something written in the sand. “How was Robbie able to find you?”
“The magic creates a bond energy in the girls. If a warrior is sensitive enough, he can pick up on it.”
“Describe it.”
“I feel a silver thread. When Robbie is near there’s a tugging sensation in my throat.”
Lexi turned her head to gaze at a distant juniper tree, gnarled and bent. Half of the tree had been severed from the other as if struck by violent lightning, exposing the inner heart, blood red.
“I don’t feel anything like that.”
“But you recognize him. You’ve been aware of him this entire time.”
Lexi looked back at Marge. “When Arsen changed, you said, not him.”
Marge picked at a thread from her khaki slacks. The low sound of male voices carried, filling the silence, and Lexi turned her eyes toward the juniper again. “It’s not Arsen, is it?”
“It was a long time ago,” Marge said. “Warriors are immortal. They wanted what no immortal should have dared conceive, and the Calata gave it to them.”
“I don’t think it turned out all that well.”
“No. For most of them, it wasn’t the gift they expected, and they failed to realize love could be so fragile. They made mistakes. The girls made mistakes. We were never meant to remember, you know, for that reason. But the magic wasn’t perfect. It didn’t prevent some of that pain from bleeding into each life, even when there’s no memory of the cause.”
“You’re telling me that because I feel lost and alone after some of those dreams, it’s a fragment of a past life leaking through?”
“Is that so hard to believe, given what you sense from the earth?” Marge placed a hand on Lexi’s forearm. “I’m not saying it’s easy. We have to face who we really were, what we did, what they did. It can be shattering in some instances. I had difficulty, but Robbie was better able to cope. He helped me through it.”
“Who’s supposed to help me through it, Marge?”
The other woman glanced at the two men standing in the distance. “Christan is everything they are, cruelly immortal in so many respects. But he follows a code of honor. There’s goodness in him, or at least there was. I think he’s forgotten what it’s like to be human.”
Lexi pressed a fist hard against the pain in her chest. Desperate, stinging emotions held her riveted, taut somewhere on the edge of the past. A past she could not remember.
“If it’s Christan, I can’t do this.”
“Of course you can.”
“No.” Lexi shook her head. “You see the way he looks at me. I. Can’t.”
“He’s been in the Void a long time. Robbie tells me it’s a cold, empty place devoid of all emotion. It takes time to find who you are again.”
“I’m not going on that journey with him.”
“He’ll just come find you again. At least talk to him.”
The image of Christan sprawled in her office chair rose unbidden, and Lexi’s chest felt so tight she thumped her fist below her collarbone. “We don’t talk, Marge.”
“You’ve had many lifetimes with him. Aren’t you the least curious?”
“No.”
“How can you pretend your reality hasn’t changed? Can you unsee Arsen, changing in front of you? You can’t. And you can’t sleep at night, either, now that you know someone was in your cottage. They forced you to dream and watched while it happened.”
“Why, Marge? It makes no sense.”
“Not in human terms, but perfect sense for immortals. Arsen thinks this is an old enemy trying to weaken the Calata. Night terrors exploit the weakness in the magic and bring the past life memories closer to the surface. Someone wants us to remember and they don’t care what they have to do. It’s harming the girls, and the warriors will break the Agreement if it’s not stopped.”
“Is that why Christan’s back?”
“Part of the reason. He can control the warriors.”
“And the other part of the reason?”
“They’ve killed three girls. And whoever is doing this now seems to be targeting you.”
“God, Marge.” Lexi squeezed her eyes shut, felt the return of the migraine as it sliced behind her eye. “I’m already terrified.”
“There’s a threat out there.” The woman grabbed Lexi's hands and leaned forward. “I would never lie to you about something as important as this.”
Lexi tugged free of Marge and rose to her feet, walked several paces away until all she could see was the darkening light that filled the canyon. It was too late, she thought, as shadows settled into purple. They would never leave this place in daylight.
She followed a small trail, worn down by the animals who existed in this wilderness, the deer, perhaps, who roused themselves at dusk to feed. The various predators who culled the herds. This was Hells Canyon, marked on the old maps as the Empty Place. It was fitting, she supposed, that everything she once believed had been called into question, in this landscape filled with utter emptiness, other than the susurration of the wind.
The wind stopped and Lexi saw him. He was standing ten feet away, legs apart, arms crossed, so still he could have been carved in stone. In the hard blade of his mouth she could see the beautiful, implacable weapon the immortals created, an impossible creature of ancient origins. The dying sun lost itself in his hair. The scent of him weakened her legs. The space between them vibrated as if electrically charged.
Lexi took a step back but there was no escaping. The sun was on her face and it felt like him. Every breath drew him into her lungs. The breeze lifted her hair and it was his fingers fisting. He was silent and he terrified her. He was the kind of man who could break a woman and she couldn’t let him close. Could never let him close.
She felt the hard, thick wall he erected so easily and there was not an ounce of give in him. Nothing soft. Nothing reasonable. He was the knife that could pierce her heart before she felt the thrusting blade and she knew, now, recognized the fear behind the truth. He had destroyed her, in more than one lifetime. And he would do it again if she let him.
Her heart thudded so hard her chest hurt.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said.