Lady Sativa (19 page)

“I don’t know if I can prevent myself from killing someone this time. I haven’t been sleeping and my nerves are shot and I can’t meditate properly any more. Can’t really do anything.” He looked down at his hands. “And whenever I do manage to fall asleep I keep having a dream—the same one every time.”

“What sort of dream?” Sybelle prompted gently.

“I’m... actually I’m in no specific place except that its dark and I’m on some kind of flat plain. I’m running away from someone who’s hunting me.

“Does he want to hurt you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid; all I can do is run.”

She looked at him. “All the charts I ran on you were negative. So I’d like to try something else.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“I don’t think so dear, not really,” she said soothingly. “But you won’t have another day like this... so
much
positive energy, I mean, for a long time.”

The news bit into his understanding and numbed his enthusiasm bit by bit, like venom. “What else?” he persisted. He suddenly wanted to know every detail as if they could somehow measure the limits of his disease.

Well, today for instance your Venus is very strong and complements other factors including your energy number. But tomorrow Mars takes over and your energy number will be very low. This trend continues right up to the moon period.” She hesitated. “Isn’t it wonderful what a complete reading one can get with just a few simple facts about time of birth? I always find it so fascinating.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. What happens during the Full moon?”

She sighed and patted her hair. “Your graphs show intense conflict,” she told him reluctantly. The horoscope and numerology chart both show danger, and it’s also one of the abysmal cycles on your I Ching reading. But now that you’ve got your poppy gum we can mix the formula right away and everything will be fine, I’m sure.”

Her cheery tone reminded him of a visitor in a hospital ward She reached out and grasped his hand “Don’t despair,” she whispered, “there’s something else we can try now that you’re here.”

Orient felt the energy radiating through her hand and knew that she’d established a vibrational harmony between them. For some reason, it gave him a sense of security.

Sybelle stood up and went to a shelf on the other side of the room. She picked up a small glass globe and brought it back to the low table in front of the couch. “This is the Skrying glass poor Carl left me in his will,” she explained as she sat down on the floor in front of the table. “Come sit here next to me, darling. Perhaps your unusual powers of concentration will help us get a strong reading.”

He shook his head. “My concentration’s been zero lately. Don’t think I’ll be able to see anything in your crystal ball.”

“Let’s give it a try anyway,” she insisted. “I’ve always-gotten my best results with Skrying. I seem to have a natural affinity for it. And this Skrying Glass is something special.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of work,” Orient observed, easing off the couch onto the carpet. Three slender prongs of silver balanced the crystal ball above the heavy base, allowing light to pass unobstructed through the glass. The crystal had a subtle, smoky tint that seemed to shade and soften the reflections trapped inside. “Do you use a special technique?”

“Of course.” She took a square of cloth from the pocket of her shift. It was a piece of raw linen which had been inscribed with an eight-pointed star set in a triangle.

He recognized the symbol as one of the Pentacles of Gerbert; the alchemist who had become Pope Sylvester II. The Pentacle was used to divine magical images from bowls of mercury or water.

“I prepared the invocation very carefully last night,” she said as she slipped the linen square under the silver base of the glass.

“Now all you have to do is try to join my consciousness,” she told him. “Nothing more. My vibrations will activate the reflections in the glass. All you have to do is look at them.”

Orient inhaled as he gazed into the crystal, trying to establish a simple breathing pattern. In a few seconds he was able to maintain a wobbly concentration and he felt Sybelle’s vibrational energy radiate across his dulled senses.

At first the reflections in the glass were inert and unchanging: two crossed streaks of fight shooting through a dark center. Gradually, he began to see that the dark center was actually a compressed image of the entire room, its dimensions distorted by the curve of the glass. He found his own reflection, a tiny figure with an elongated head, sitting inside the room.

The constant flow of Sybelle’s energy helped him focus as the tiny image of himself cleared and became larger. His face loomed in the center of the crossed - streaks of light, expanding past the confines of the space.

He saw his gaunt, etched features and sunken eyes. The eyes grew huge and he could see his hair, then red and blue vessels around the shaded green sunburst in his pupils. Then the sunburst slowly disintegrated and he was surrounded by a dark, fog-like cloud.

He was no longer sitting on the floor, but was walking through the fog. Moving away from the land of the strangers toward home. An edge of impatience quickened his steps as he remembered how long it had been since he’d seen his woman. He smiled in the darkness when he thought of her. The fog began to diminish as he pushed on, guided by his instincts, and the reassuring memory of her promise to wait.

He walked faster across the dusty plain, anticipating the pleasures of his arrival. The mist had disappeared and he could make out the familiar landmarks.

But then he saw smoke curling like a dark snake from the top of the Pyramid, outlined on the horizon ahead, and a vague uneasiness intruded on his reverie. It was the time of the Seven-Year Festival. He had been away too long. He began to run toward the Temple.

As he neared the Pyramid he could make out the tents at the outskirts of the marketplace. They seemed deserted. He remembered that everyone would be gathered at the river while Kam, the Pharaoh’s priest, prepared the flames for the sacrifice.

Then he saw that not everyone had gone to the river. Two or three soldiers were sitting under the shade of a tree. He slowed down and walked toward them, hoping they would recognize and help him.

He saw them arise as he approached and draw their short swords. He lifted his hands to show he was unarmed. Suddenly, one of them called out his name and they began to run toward him, their swords lifted as they tried to cut him off from the Temple.

Realization and fear exploded in his mind and he sprinted desperately toward the Temple. They had recognized him, but they weren’t there to help him. Their orders were to kill him. Kam was making sure he didn’t disrupt the Festival. His woman had been chosen Priestess, and victim, of the sacrifice.

He drove his legs harder as the footsteps pounded close behind him. He had to abort the rite. If he could reach the Temple, he could claim his right to judgment. Kam was bound by law to submit to his claim. He could explain why he’d left his woman alone so long.

Someone shouted and a thrown sword glanced off his shoulder, momentarily breaking his stride. He lowered his head and increased his speed as he raced through the empty marketplace, hoping that his pursuers would be forced to give up. But they came on. They were soldiers and hunters and used to running their enemies to the ground.

As he neared the Temple, he saw two soldiers standing guard beneath the giant torches at the entrance. In a moment they’d see him and he’d be hemmed in. It would be over in a few seconds. The pace of the soldiers behind him slowed as they saw that he was trapped.

Gasping for breath he continued to head directly for the entrance. The guards at the entrance spotted him and advanced toward him.

With his last ebb of strength, he cut sharply to the right and headed for the hidden door at the side of the Pyramid. The maneuver confused the soldiers and gave him an advantage of a few yards.

He slowed down as he passed the massive blocks of stone that formed the base of the Temple, looking for the concealed stairway. When he found the small footholds cut into the rock, he quickly crawled up to the third level and located the passage.

The soldiers, ignorant of the small chinks in the sheer face of the rock, cursed him as they tried to scale the blocks that were taller than any two of them.

His muscles were trembling with exhaustion as he hurried through the narrow passageway to the Room of Worship, the Altar of Tem-Khepera.

A strangled cry forced itself through his twisted lungs when he rushed into the huge room. A naked priest was standing at the silver table beneath the golden statue, and his woman was there, chained to the altar. Her golden skin was streaked with blood.

He lunged toward the priest, but a stunning blow at the base of his skull sent him sprawling to the floor. He rolled over and saw Kam standing over him. Half of his face was hidden by the ritual mask, but his pouting, sensual smile betrayed his identity. Still smiling, Kam seized a sword from a soldier’s hand and brought it swiftly down….

All light and sensation were flooded by an intense cold... the fog rushed in to cover him like a shroud of ice….

Orient blinked.

He was sitting on the carpet, staring at the crossed streaks of light in the center of the crystal globe. His skin was chilled and damp and a lump of fear froze his throat so he couldn’t speak.

“I said, are you all right?” Sybelle repeated anxiously.

He wet his lips. “I think so. I’m here anyway.”

“I saw a pyramid and statues. You were running, like in the dream you told me about.”

Orient didn’t answer. He was trying to remember something. The mouth under the priest’s mask. The cruel, mocking pout. The priest had been
Maxwell
A sudden glare of clarity illuminated the memory and he understood that he had re experienced his death in a past existence. And Maxwell Andersen had been his executioner.

“I couldn’t see clearly,” Sybelle was saying. “What happened when you reached the Pyramid?” Orient looked at her. “I was killed.”

“Oh, dear.” Her hand flew up to her mouth. “I think it was a mistake to try the crystal. What happened? Was it an accident?”

He didn’t hear her questions. His brain was stuffed with one single image. The mutilated woman in the Altar Room had been Lily.

“Owen, darling, for heaven’s sake, tell me what you saw.”

“I think it was an image of a past life,” his voice sounded flat. “It was the moment of my death.”

Sybelle opened her mouth, closed it, and stood up. She strode purposefully to the velvet-covered bar against the far wall. The red velvet was intricately embroidered with Zodiac Symbols and lit by colored lamps giving that part of the room the gloss of a newly opened lounge.

She came back with two large glasses and handed one of them to him. “What you need,” she said firmly, “is a good stiff drink.”

For the next hour, Sybelle pressed him for details of his vision, but he managed to avoid telling her what he’d actually experienced.

He didn’t want to explain his relationship with Lily and it would only confuse and frighten her if he named Maxwell as his reincarnated murderer.

As he dodged her questions, his thoughts kept racing back to the room. To Lily. He had to warn her.

He remembered something as he was leaving. “Don’t expect to hear from me until after the moon phase,” he told Sybelle. “I’ll be in tight seclusion when I test the formula. But the night of the full moon I want you to keep the doors and windows locked. Don’t let anyone in. Not even me.”

“But darling,” she gasped, “are you afraid something’s going to happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But if our guess is right, then there’ll be
two
werewolves who’ll appear that night. And one of them is a killer. Maybe both”.

He didn’t go home after leaving her apartment, but: drove aimlessly through the city trying to decide what to do. His thoughts were besieged by a crowd of suspicions, all shouting the same alarm. He had to tell Lily what he’d seen in the crystal. He reached for the phone in the dashboard and punched the code for the long-distance operator.

It took a half hour before she called back to tell him that his call was ready.

“Hello, this is Lady Sativa.” Her voice was indistinct and Orient silently cursed his stupidity for failing to drive toward the outskirts of the city where mobile-phone reception was stronger.

“I’ll be on holiday for the next three days,” she continued, “so I’ve made this recording. If you have a message just speak when you hear the tone and it will also be recorded. Thank you very much.”

Orient hung up before the tone sounded.

He turned the Rolls Ghost toward home and feverishly ransacked his mind for someway to reach her. Someway to tell her that in less than forty-eight hours she’d be participating in an experiment with a man who, lifetimes before, had offered her life as a sacrifice to his gods.

14

Orient spent the rest of the night and most of the morning synthesizing the ingredients for the formula.