Mark of the Witch (13 page)

Tomas shot a look at Jon, who quickly scrambled back behind the
desk, turned his computer around so the screen was facing outward and hit a
button on the keyboard. “Babylonian,” he said. “Early period. God, this is
tough. I’ve heard it spoken by linguists trying to re-create the language, but
this is…this is raw. This is authentic. The accent…everything! It’s…it’s like
it’s real. All right, uh, I think she’s saying,
You are
alive…but I am dying....
”

Tomas nodded, though he hadn’t taken his eyes off Indy for more
than an instant. “You’re not dying. I’m here to help you. To save you. Can
you…can you tell me your name?”

Her eyes flashed open and met his, and the power they held hit
him in the gut, nearly doubling him over. He felt its force in every part of his
body, and it was intensified by the shock that her eyes were dark, dark brown,
perhaps even ebony, now. Yes, black. He couldn’t distinguish the irises from the
pupils. She glared at him, her hair blowing even more in the nonexistent wind,
and she said “In-DEE-rah!”

Jon peered at his computer screen, then at the girl whose image
was reflected in it, its built-in camera recording her every move. “Tomas, what
the hell is going on here?”

Tomas held up a hand for silence, but Indy answered for
herself, not in her own voice, but in English that seemed to be a strain for her
to speak, laden with a thick accent. “He ees aboud to keel me.” She nodded
toward Tomas. “To…poosh me over.” She looked down, no doubt seeing not a
carpeted floor but a vast emptiness with jagged rocks at the bottom.

“No,” Tomas said. “Not me. I won’t hurt you. I would never— I
wasn’t there then.”

“Yes, you are dere. Your hands upon my back. You are de one.
You keel me den. You keel me now.
You!
”

He stared at her, not knowing what to say, but she went on, the
words foreign, his mind not even registering them this time until Jon whispered,
“Even though I loved you.”

And then, with a bloodcurdling scream, Indy pitched forward and
fell facedown onto the floor.

9

I
remembered it all when I awoke. Every
last bit of it, in startlingly clear and vivid detail. I remembered standing on
the edge of that cliff far from the city, with my sisters on either side of me.
And the arrogant high priest Sindar giving orders from a safe distance. He’d
stood on a tall boulder, above us all, shiny bald head painted in designs of red
and black. The wind was snapping his red robes, and there was malice in his
eyes. I’d hated him then. I hated him now. The emotion filled me and flowed like
acid from my pores. It burned, my hate for that bastard.

And that other man, my sister’s lover, beaten bloody, being
held and forced to watch. Him, I pitied. And even admired. Even though he could
barely stand upright on his own, he struggled against the bastards who held him.
He’d murdered the king in his rage, trying to escape and save us. Or her, at
least. Lilia.

I knew his name, that tortured man. It was Demetrius.

And I remembered Tomas. Not his name—that hadn’t been his name
then. But it was him. There was no doubt in my mind it was him. He was a servant
of the temple, as were the two men who stood behind my sisters. Apprentice
priests, learning at the feet of the master. It was Tomas who had stood behind
me with his hands on my back that terrifying, fateful day.

How I knew, I could not be sure. He hadn’t looked the same. Oh,
his hair was similar, dark and thick, though it had been longer then. His eyes
had been darker, and closer set. They were a lighter brown now, set farther
apart. They were also wiser, deeper somehow. His jawline had been harder then,
his lips thinner. Today the jaw was strong but not cruel, and his lips full and
thick. He did not look the same. He did not occupy the same body. And yet I knew
him. Sensed him.

Loved him.

He’d been a young priest, obeying the commands of Sindar.
Blinded by his faith? I felt his hands—hands that had once caressed me in
passion—touching my back as I prepared to die. But I knew his betrayal must have
broken my heart and my spirit long before my body was broken on the rocks
below.

It was so cruel!

Tears burned, squeezing their way from beneath my lashes and
spilling hotly onto my face, then sliding down either side toward my ears and my
pillow.

My…pillow?

I was in a bed. I squeezed my eyes tighter, frowning, trying to
get a grip on where I had wound up—and how I’d wound up there. I’d been at
Cornell with Tomas and Dom and Rayne, and we’d met that professor…Jonathon
Yates. And then I’d been on the cliff about to die. In the past. Not a dream.
Not a hallucination. It had been real.

No, no, no, I don’t really believe any of
that.

Do I?

“Indy?”

His voice. God, his voice. No, I couldn’t bear it.

“Indy, are you awake?”

I blinked my eyes open and met his. A sob racked my chest, and
I clapped a hand over my mouth to try to catch the sound it made before it
escaped, but it was no use. My tears were streaming, my chest heaving with the
power of heartbreak.

“It’s all right,” Tomas said softly. His hand was stroking my
hair, his eyes on mine, and so filled with concern and…and feeling. “It’s okay,
I’m right here. Tell me what’s happening. What are you feeling? What do you
remember?”

I stared at him, searching his face, knowing that the utter
heartbreak unfolding inside me was completely irrational. It made no sense. It
wasn’t real. And yet the words that stumbled brokenly from my lips were, “How
c-c-could you? Oh, Tomas, how could you?”

He was apparently stunned into utter silence by my question,
and he lowered his head, unable to look me in the eyes. I noticed odd things
then. The darkness beyond the bedroom window, how purple-gray it was, so I
couldn’t tell if it was day or night, or judge how long I’d been out. I could
only tell that there was a storm building.

“Then it’s true?” he asked softly. “What you remembered, it’s
true?” His fists were clenched on his knees. “I wanted to deny it. To say you
were imagining it all, but your memories haven’t lied to you yet. Indy, I can’t
imagine myself, in any lifetime, ever being capable of hurting you.” He lifted
his head and met my eyes again. “I’m so, so sorry.”

As a fresh flood of tears washed over my face, I turned my head
toward the wall. “It was just a dream. It’s not real.”

“It
is
real. And if you remember
that we were lovers in that lifetime, Indy, I have to say, it explains a lot.
The feelings I’ve been…wrestling with since I first set eyes on you… It’s no
wonder, really. It’s—”

“It was just a dream.” I snapped the words that time, angry at
him. Angry over something that, even if it had been real, had happened thousands
of years in the past. Furious.
And how much freakin’ sense
does that make, Indy?

About as much as the rest of this, that’s
how much.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he told me.

I shot him a look, let him see how pissed I was at him, no
matter how illogical the feeling was. “Yeah? Well, if it wasn’t a dream, then it
ought to be a very big lesson to you in what religion does for people. Blind
faith. Murdering those who challenge your beliefs or break your rules. Stupid
obedience to some man-made cleric who deems himself closer to God, whatever the
hell God is, than you are. What kind of a weak-willed idiot would—”

The look of absolute pain in his eyes made me lose my train of
thought and bite back the rest of my words. I blinked and looked away from him.
Took a breath. Swallowed hard. Started over.

“Obviously I’m still overwrought. The dream was powerful. And
it seemed very real. And my emotions are apparently convinced it was, no matter
how little sense that makes. I’m feeling right now as if the man I loved
murdered me. And I’m feeling as angry at you as if you really were him. I’m
sorry, Tomas. You don’t deserve that.” I looked away again. “It’s all freakin’
ridiculous, but that’s what’s going on in here right now.” I patted my head as I
said it, and realized I should have been patting my chest. This was all
happening in my heart. My head knew better.

“I’m sorry, Indy. I’m so very sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything. Not really.”

He lowered his head, and I could have sworn I glimpsed a hint
of moisture on one dark eyelash. “And I have to say this,” he went on. “You know
as well as I do that religion isn’t evil. Religion is beautiful. Mine is. Yours
is. They’re sacred paths to understanding the Divine. When individuals do ugly
things in the name of their chosen faith, it says nothing about the faith. Only
about the individual.”

I lowered my head, ashamed of myself. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Regardless of what happens here, with this quest of
ours, I give you my word, my solemn oath, that I will spend the rest of this
lifetime trying to make up for the horrible wrong I did to you then.”

With an aggravated sigh, I slapped my hands down on the
mattress, then pushed myself up into a sitting position. Angrily, I knuckled my
eyes dry. “Don’t beat yourself up,
Padre.
It’s not
real.”

“Then how were you speaking perfect Babylonian?” he asked
softly. “And why the hell does it feel more real than the floor under my feet
right now?”

I stared into his eyes, a snappy comment on my lips, and then
forgot what I was going to say. He lifted his hand to the back of my head,
fingers tangling in my hair, and drew me nearer. My eyes fell closed, and I
swayed toward him as his other arm came around me, pulling me tight to his chest
as his lips caught mine. He kissed me.

I held on for dear life, clung to him, and felt a firestorm in
my chest that just wouldn’t die down. I kept reasoning with myself, but my self
wasn’t listening.

It isn’t real. None of this is real. It
was just a dream. Magic isn’t real, God isn’t real, religion isn’t real,
witchcraft isn’t real. There are no curses, no demons, no angels, no
reincarnation, no past lives, no—

His mouth opened and closed over mine, in a gentle yet
demanding rhythm that was born of nature. And my arms twined around him, palms
flattening to his powerful back and clinging there as I opened to him. His
tongue swept into me as if he were feeding from my mouth, like a hummingbird
drawing nectar from a lily.

Love isn’t real. No, no, no, this feeling
expanding my heart like a balloon about to burst isn’t real. It can’t
be....

I clung hard, falling back onto the pillows and pulling him
with me. We shifted and clung, and wound up completely in the bed. His body was
stretched out on top of mine, his hips moving in a pattern as old as time. I
arched mine in answer. And the answer was yes.

There was a powerful flash of lightning that lit the entire
bedroom, a crash of thunder on its heels. And Tomas stopped moving. Slowly he
drew his mouth away from mine. And then his body followed, easing his delicious
weight off me. He got up from the bed and stood beside it, staring down at me. I
was lying there with my hair all tousled, still staring at him hungrily and
longingly—willing him with whatever power lived in me to return to my bed. To my
arms.

He pushed his hands through his hair. “God, what am I
doing?”

I closed my eyes, ashamed of trying manipulative magic on him.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“You? It’s not you, it’s me. You have no vows to uphold. You
remember what we were to each other then. It’s no wonder you’re acting on those
memories now. I don’t have that excuse. I don’t even remember what happened
between us, what we felt....”

“Part of you does.” I sat up as I spoke.

“I’m a priest!”

“You were then, too. Didn’t I mention that part? You were a
priest, and I was a harem slave. We were both breaking the rules, Tomas.” I bit
my lip, shook myself. “Or would’ve been, if it was real.”

“Didn’t work out so well for us, did it?” he asked. “If it was
real, I mean.” He shook his head slowly and turned away from me, staring at the
rain that had, at some point, begun pounding down outside. It was darker than
before, telling me night had fallen, and that fact startled me as it made its
way into my brain. It had been morning, last I remembered.

“I’m sorry, Indy. This can’t happen.”

“Because having sex is a big no-no, right? Worse than murdering
in the name of God. Worse than betraying a woman who loved you.” I closed my
eyes tight. “God, I think I’m losing my mind. None of it’s real. None of
it.”

I hugged my waist, the sheet trapped between my arms and my
nightgown, lowered my head.

Why does it feel as if it’s the most real
thing in my life?

And who the hell changed my
clothes?

Rayne. Had to be Rayne.

“We
will
get through this, Indy.
All of it. I’ll help you.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say…Father Tomas.”

He nodded at the nightstand. “I had to run back out for
supplies while you were sleeping. I bought you a journal. Rayne thinks it might
help you to start recording your dreams as soon as you wake up.”

I didn’t look at it, just kept my head down. “Thanks. I’ll do
that.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

Yeah,
I thought.
A day’s worth of calories, a vat of coffee and a fucking bus
ticket home.
But aloud I only said, “No. I’m fine.”

“I’ll go get some sleep, then.”

“All right.”

“Good night, Indy.” He was willing me to look at him. If I did,
I thought, I would die. Every time I looked into his eyes the emotions of some
make-believe other lifetime welled up in me, and I wanted to wrap myself safely
in his arms and never come out. Stupid.

And yet, he was making me look, tugging at me with his eyes,
and I obeyed as if hypnotized. Lifting my head, I met those brown eyes.
I love you
danced on my tongue and knocked on my
teeth, and I clamped my jaw to prevent the ridiculous declaration from leaping
out.

When it was safe to speak, I managed to say, “Good night,
Tomas.”

But to my own ears it had sounded just the same as the words
I’d refused to say. And from the look on his face as he left me there, I think
it sounded that way to him, too.

* * *

Tomas went to his own room and asked himself what the
hell he’d been thinking to bring her here, under the same roof with him.

He took a bracing shower, cold enough to help him regain his
focus, but he couldn’t shower forever. After that he pulled on a pair of pajama
pants and paced until he found himself with his arms braced against the
windowsill, staring into the storm-ravaged night sky. Impulse lowered his head,
long practice moved his lips. Habit, not faith. His faith was on the bench,
sitting off an injury. His faith had taken a beating followed by an open-ended
vacation that had begun before he’d even met the woman next door. And yet, out
of habit, Tomas prayed.

“Help me see clearly. Help me know what’s right. If I failed
that miserably in the past, how can I trust my own judgment now? What seems like
an obvious sin in hindsight must have seemed like my duty at the time. It
must
have. Or I would never—” His chest heaved, throat
tightening until it hurt. “I could never—God…how could I have killed her?”

His knees bent—not habit this time but pure weakness—and he
wound up resting on them, head still bowed against the cool glass while the rain
pounded against the other side. He had never fully believed that this task was
his calling. He had never believed he was destined to prevent a demon from
crossing into the world and wreaking havoc on mankind. But now…now he was seeing
things he couldn’t deny. He had been inextricably entwined in this curse, in
this prophecy, in this madness, since the very beginning. He’d thought he was
just picking up the story where the last Guardian of the Portal had left off.
But instead he was continuing a story he himself had started centuries and
centuries ago. The other Guardians Dom had told him about had been nothing but
placeholders. Tools, used by God, to ensure he would inherit the information he
needed to find her again. To make this right somehow.