The Unforgiven (5 page)

It might not be too difficult. The biochemical attraction worked both ways. He saw that Madeline, upon emerging from the hut she shared with one of the other volunteers, had noticed him immediately. She’d halted as if rooted to the spot and watched him for several long moments. She’d flushed when he’d met her gaze. Ah, yes. Her body knew, even if her mind, ruled by the curse, mistrusted him. Her life depended on surrender to Cade.

He’d make his move soon. If he waited too long, her impending crisis—not to mention his own lust—would make matters difficult. Cade’s mind shied away from drawing parallels to his transition. Even a year after the fact, the memory of his crisis was too humiliating, and too vivid, to examine with any semblance of detachment.

Like Madeline, Cade had been an unaware. He’d known nothing of his Watcher heritage. It had been a pure miracle Cybele had passed close enough to be snared by the pheromones his shuddering body had pumped into the frigid night air. The hours that followed had been . . . terrifying. Harrowing. And unexpectedly fulfilling. Cade had lived twenty-four years
before Cybele had assumed control of his transition, but he could say with complete sincerity he hadn’t truly been born before that night.

Madeline’s experience, of course, would be different. Cade had been incredibly fortunate to be found by an adept of his own clan. If Cybele had been a rival, she would have left him to die, since Clan Samyaza did not take slaves. As it was, she had sensed a kinsman and stepped in to save him. In doing so, she had set him on a path to power he’d never dreamed possible.

Cade would anchor Madeline Durant as a rival. Her crisis wouldn’t end with a transition to freedom; it would end in enslavement. Her magic would become Cade’s. And through Cade, Artur’s. Cade hated the prospect of the woman’s subjugation, loathed the thought of himself in the role of slaver. His body, however, judging from the way it throbbed in anticipation, did not.

His quarry’s scent, riding the thin desert air, drifted with unerring precision to his nostrils. He breathed deeply, saturating his lungs with her essence. His lust spiraled. The effort to bring it back under control made him light-headed. For a long moment, he could only grit his teeth and endure. His knuckles clenched until his hands went numb. Every nerve screamed,
Take her. Claim her. Here. Now.

He dumped the load of stones before turning to track her with his eyes. She stood at the water tank, twisting the cap onto her canteen with shaking hands. Maddie Durant was not particularly beautiful, he decided, other than her dark, expressive eyes. She was tall, as all Watchers were. But thinner than she should be. Her form, which was probably naturally lean and small-busted, was now downright scrawny. She’d probably dropped a good bit of weight during her recent chemotherapy treatment. It was almost laughable, that she had
believed—still believed—a human disease like cancer could kill her.

She sensed his scrutiny—he was sure that she did—and gave a nervous glance over her shoulder. He raised his brows in return. Her beautiful eyes widened.

Her hair was dark and curling. And far too short. When she was his, he’d order her to grow it long. He dragged the caress of his gaze slowly down her body, imagining a curtain of waves spilling over her naked skin.

She jerked around and scurried toward the lecture tent.

Yes, little rabbit,
he thought.
Run. Run while you still can.

“The truth is here, beneath our feet.”

Maddie tossed a month-old
People
magazine, abandoned by last week’s crop of teen volunteers, onto a battered side table. Taking off her glasses, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. It hurt to look through the lenses. Almost as if they were too strong, absurd as that sounded. When did myopia ever improve? But she had to admit, tonight the world appeared sharper to her naked eyes, even though her vision should have been bleary from lack of sleep alone. It was close to midnight, and she’d been up since dawn.

After two months as an intern on Dr. Simon Ben-Meir’s dig, Maddie was accustomed to these late-night sessions. As far as she could tell, the Israeli archeologist didn’t know the meaning of the words
rest
and
relaxation
—not in any of the six languages he spoke. The man was tireless, obsessed with using every minute available until the dig was forced to close down for the hot summer months.

The team met late every evening in the largest hut on the site, where new artifacts were logged, cleaned, and tagged, to discuss the past day’s excavations and to lay plans for the next morning. And while recent developments at the excavation had admittedly been exciting, at this particular moment Maddie wanted to be in bed and sound asleep.

She wasn’t alone. Ari and Gil slumped in their seats, barely lucid. Maddie exchanged a wry glance with Hadara, who sighed and stifled a yawn.

Ben-Meir stood at the main worktable in the hut reserved
for lab work and artifact storage. Palms flat on the scarred wood, arms rigid, he stared down at a photograph of a relic known as the Pharos Tablet.

The actual Pharos Tablet was a smooth square of stone measuring approximately sixteen centimeters on a side. At present, it was ensconced in a Cairo museum. Dr. Ben-Meir’s facsimile rendered the artifact at more than twice its actual size, as if enlarging the relic would encourage it to surrender its mysteries.

The piece had been unearthed two years earlier, at a construction site on the Isle of Pharos near Alexandria, Egypt. It was thought to have been part of the collection of the famous library of the Ptolemaic dynasty. Recovered in more than a dozen fragments, the Pharos Tablet had been painstakingly reassembled to form a surprisingly complete rectangle, missing only a few fragments around the edges.

Ancient markings covered the face of the stone. In the right lower corner, a hieroglyph denoting the Pharoah Teti of Egypt’s Old Kingdom, dated the tablet to the twenty-third century BCE—the early Canaanite period, contemporary to the traditional date of the biblical flood. And to the Watchers.

Ben-Meir’s finger lingered on a second glyph: a circle with a smaller circle inside. Egyptologists accepted the symbol as an early representation of the sun god Ra, whose cult was on the rise during Teti’s reign. Ben-Meir, however, disagreed. He was certain the disc symbol denoted not the sun, but an eye, a symbol he insisted referred to the biblical angels known as Watchers. He believed the markings on the Pharos Tablet were not a narrative but a map. A map of Makhtesh Ramon, which Ben-Meir believed to be the ancient home of the Watchers.

Ben-Meir’s assertions had unleashed a storm of scorn and ridicule in the academic world. Outside the universities, however, his theories met with more success, leading to the
documentary Maddie had seen on cable. The
makhtesh
was today a harsh, dry landscape. During the Bronze Age, however, the canyon had been fed by two streams and sheltered from the heat of the upper desert. It would have been a lush, fruitful place, a rich stronghold for powerful ancient tribal chieftains.

The archeologist had chosen the precise location of his dig with the help of the Pharos Tablet. For months, the site had yielded little more than dust and the occasional pottery shard. Then, shortly after Maddie’s arrival, came the discovery of a cache of bronze swords dating to the pre-Canaanite period, and an oblong stone that may have been an ancient smith’s anvil. Very close by, the team had uncovered the remains of a well from the same period.

Dr. Ben-Meir had yet to make a formal announcement of the finds to the outside world. The last thing the expedition needed was a horde of DAMN zealots camping at his gate before he’d proven his theories on the Watchers to his scornful colleagues in the international archeological community.

The camp generators had been turned off for the night. An oil lamp, hanging from the rafters of the palm thatched hut, spilled anemic yellow light onto Dr. Ben-Meir’s thinning gray hair. The archeologist, on the far side of middle age, possessed a slight build and hunched shoulders. His complexion was unnaturally wan, especially considering he’d spent most of his career exposed to the hot Israeli sun. Ben-Meir worked round the clock, it seemed. He was rarely seen eating or drinking. Maddie thought a good meal could only do the man good, though she doubted many of his interns would rush to share a table with their boss in the mess tent. Not unless they wanted to come away from the meal with a long list of extra tasks to accomplish before sunset.

Ben-Meir pushed his black-framed glasses back up his nose. Pens, notebook, and a laptop lay to the right of the
Pharos Tablet photograph. A map of the excavation, inked on transparent Mylar, lay at the archeologist’s left hand.

“The truth is here,” Ben-Meir repeated. “I believe we are close, very close, to finding proof of the Watchers’ existence.”

He slid the transparent map of the dig atop the photograph of the Pharos Tablet, until certain features on the transparency covered markings on the tablet. The circle denoting the recently discovered well aligned neatly with an ancient glyph meaning “water.”

“The Watchers lived in Makhtesh Ramon,” Ben-Meir said. “I am certain of that. But my first calculations led us fifty meters too far to the south. Now, with the discovery of the settlement’s well . . .”

He slid his finger to a series of square marks on the tablet, which seemed to suggest a cluster of habitations. “When we excavate the new area, I am confident we will uncover proof of the Watchers’ existence.”

The new area.
Where the big, beautiful man with the Celtic tattoo had labored, hauling rocks away in preparation for archeologists’ trowels and brushes.

“Here.”

Ben-Meir’s finger stabbed the merged graphics. Maddie saw the strike as a jagged strand of light. Bright lines, like shattered glass, exploded from the point of impact.

Pain pierced her skull. With a gasp, she pressed her fingers to her temple. A heavy weight descended on her shoulders. The sudden, invisible burden caused her to double over, head pressed to her knees.

She became aware of Ari kneeling beside her, his hand on her upper arm. “Maddie! What is it? Are you ill?”

Several moments passed before she felt it safe to answer. “I . . . It’s nothing.” She shoved herself upright and fought the dizziness. Five full beats of her heart passed before she’d
gathered enough courage to look up. Dr. Ben-Meir stood frowning at her. Behind him, a soft, otherworldly glow bathed the photograph of the Pharos Tablet.

She bit her lip and choked back a sob. Ari’s grip on her arm tightened. Hadara appeared behind him, her dark eyes troubled.

Maddie swallowed. “Really. I’m fine. I’m just . . . tired, I guess. And dehydrated, probably. That’s all.”

“You don’t drink enough fluids,” Hadara scolded. “I’ve told you that time and again. Gil, get her something.”

Maddie’s hand shook as she took the cup of guava juice that appeared before her. Obediently, she sipped it as her teammates huddled around her. The sickly sweet liquid stuck in her throat. She couldn’t drink more than a few gulps.

“I feel much better now,” she lied as she set the cup aside.

“You need sleep,” Hadara announced, with a meaningful glance in Ben-Meir’s direction.

“Ah, yes. Of course.” The archeologist’s expression was more annoyed than sympathetic. “Please. Seek your beds. I’ll see you all back here at six a.m.”

Hadara hustled Maddie off to their hut. But tired as Maddie was, sleep just would not come. She lay on her back on her cot, her mind racing along paths it didn’t want to travel. Flashes of light, headaches . . . The tumor was growing. Soon the cancer would be too far advanced to ignore.

None of the team knew Maddie was living with a death sentence. They would have treated her differently if they’d known she was dying, and she had so desperately needed these weeks of normalcy. She had to leave before her condition became apparent. Next week, or the week after. She didn’t intend to tell Hadara and the others the truth; she couldn’t bear their pity. She’d make up some excuse to explain a sudden trip to the States and simply never come back.

Hadara’s breath, deep and even, drifted from the other side
of the hut. Restlessness churned Maddie’s limbs; she couldn’t relax, couldn’t get comfortable. The urge to get up and run as fast and as far as she could was almost overpowering. Only the realization that it would never be fast enough, or far enough, kept Maddie in her bed.

Finally—blessedly—sleep clouded her mind. Strangely, Maddie’s last clear thought was of a broad, tattooed laborer.

She woke in blind panic, heart pounding, lungs sucking air. She lay supine, spine rigid, fingers clawing at the bedsheet. Try as she might to command her body, Maddie’s elbows would not bend, her fists would not unclench, her knees would not lift. A dull force pressed down on her chest, forcing her to struggle for every breath.

For several sickening seconds, she stared blankly at her surroundings. Where the hell was she? The ceiling of sloping palm fronds, the whitewashed walls, the dark square of night outlined by the window frame . . . Hadara’s soft snore rose and fell in peaceful rhythm.

She saw these things, felt them, heard them. But not as if she was present with them. She sensed them through a more immediate haze of water and flame, panic and terror. Torrents of hot rain stung her face. A tearing pain wrenched her gut.

She was drenched, lying on her side atop a makeshift raft, little more than boards hastily tied with rope. She was on her back, violent birth pains squeezing her enormously swollen belly. All around, a violent sea churned; bursts of flame leaped from oily patches on the surface of the water. A searing wind blew. Clouds of embers and ash burned her eyes, choked her lungs. Her robes were sodden. Too heavy. She wanted to strip them off. But she didn’t have the strength.

It was pure hell. Or something very close.

The next contraction came too soon. Terror dragged her breath away. She was sure the baby was going to rip her in two.

The raging terror of the dream juxtaposed oddly with the calm interior of the hut. Like a double exposure on an old photograph. Like a waking nightmare.