Alaskan Fury (25 page)

Kaashifah pulled her hand back
from the djinni’s chest, biting her lip.

She had survived, but barely. 
When she’d crawled back to her rooms within the temple, all of her art had been
destroyed.  Everything she had created over millennia, every painting, every
sculpture, every tapestry, everything she had made or collected for its beauty,
gone.

Kaashifah lowered her head,
feeling the threat of tears once more.  She had thought then, in those moments
of utter despair, seeing her ransacked room, her walls bare, her statues
crushed, that she would fulfill the prophecy of her birthmark.  She had wanted
to kill them all, wanted it so bad she was trembling.  Yet, before she could
step outside to find her sisters, she had spotted the tiny pendant of her Lord,
left upon the broken neck of a sphinx.  Around it, in the powdered clay and
stone of her broken treasures, she had found no footsteps, no hint of how it
had gotten there.

The pendant was a gift given only
to those most faithful, and the fact that she wore it the next morning had
angered her sisters—and terrified them.  And, while none of them would find the
courage to claim she had crafted it, for years, they refused to speak to her.  Estranged
by her kindred, Kaashifah had turned to her sword for comfort, then.  She had
taken solace in it, had
become
it, taking on the worst of criminals,
fighting the most dangerous battles, for years longing to find that fatal blow.

It was how she had become so
revered amongst her kind, how she took the title of the Blade of Morning.  She
became the blade that lasted the night, that which still swung long after all
else had fallen, still standing on the battlefield as the light of dawn rose to
illuminate the destruction she’d left behind. 

She, the Fury who had fought her
nature at every step, in her youth, had
become
Fury.  She had cinched
that mantle around her shoulders so tight that even the whisper of her name had
spurred war-criminals to suicide.

…and here she was, touching a
man.

Yet, she had nothing to fear from
her sisters, ever again.  Her dedication to her sword had assured her of that. 
All Kaashifah had to fear, now, was the wrath of her Lord.  And she’d never
heard of her Lord flogging anyone.  Kaashifah glanced at ‘Aqrab again, watching
his eyelids, listening to his breathing, debating.

He is so beautiful
, she
thought stubbornly, that long-hidden part of her once more stirring within. 
She began tracing the lines of muscle and sinew with her eyes, wishing she
could touch him. 

And why not?
a rebellious part
of her demanded. 
He’s touched
me
often enough.
  He did it every
chance he got, and her Lord had not yet struck her down for the profanity. 
Surely it could be no more sinful to return the favor.  And as long as there
were no witnesses, what would it hurt?  She was already besmirched.  A few
minutes of exploration would not seal her fate.  Besides, he might as well have
been a piece of
art
beneath her, not a
man
, so perfect was the
djinni’s body. 

Biting her lip and watching ‘Aqrab’s
face, she gingerly reached out and traced a finger across his collarbone,
memorizing the lines.  Oh, to
paint
this, to
sculpt
it…

Holding her breath, she followed
the flow of his limp body with her eyes.

She saw the steady rise and fall
of his massive chest, saw his big hands slack, their lighter palms facing the
ceiling, saw the mound of flesh beneath the thin silk of his sirwal, saw the
curve of his thighs under the cloth, saw the thick muscle of his calves, the
dirt between his big toes…

Gingerly, she inched closer to
him and leaned against his ribs as she traced her finger back down his chest,
searing the lines into memory.  She allowed her hand to follow the curvature of
his body, learning every ridge, every ripple, every curve.  Yes, she could
definitely paint this.  She would
enjoy
painting this.  She slid her
finger down his abdomen, gently followed the indentation of his half-moon navel,
then hesitated at the hem of his sirwal.  She bit her lip, considering that
thin band of silk and what it hid beneath.

“I think,” the djinni said,
startling her, “Tomorrow, mon Dhi’b,
you
will touch
me.
”

When she looked, in panic, the
djinni was watching her much too carefully, and his violet eyes held none of
the dullness of sleep.

“If that was the touch of one who
hates the male form, mon Dhi’b,” he continued, in her horrified silence, “then
I am a bald and rotting leper.”

Gasping in dismay, Kaashifah
threw herself away from him, scattering empty bowls and platters in her haste. 
The djinni sat up, slowly, to face her, his eyes much too acute with thoughtful
deliberation.  “You’ve had a man before, haven’t you, mon Dhi’b?”

Choking, Kaashifah felt her face
flush purple.  “Never,” she said, her voice strangled.

Now his face was curious.  “Then
why—”

Kaashifah rent a tear in the
Realm and hurled herself into the Void.

Imelda knelt at the fresh cluster
of graves, her knees long since having lost all feeling on the frozen ground.

A hand touched her shoulder. 
“Vespers, Inquisitrice.”

Imelda ignored him, staring at
the six stone crosses that now shared space in the Eklutna Compound’s Cimitero
di Eroe.  The Cemetery of Heroes.  The only place of rest that most of those of
the Order would ever find, once they’d taken their vows.  The cold, bitter
graves seemed an insult to the memory of the lives they now sheltered.  They
seemed lonely and abandoned, forgotten by those who’d survived.  The
groundskeeper hadn’t even gotten around to clearing the fresh snow from the
graves. 

Before tonight, Eklutna’s
Cimitero di Eroe had fourteen members, most of which had died over the three
years it had taken to completely root out a nest of vampires in the quiet town
of Kenai.  Now, due to her own short-sighted stupidity, it had six more.  In
the space of a single afternoon.

On her shoulder, Jacquot’s
fingers tightened, giving her strength.  “They are in God’s hands, now,
Inquisitrice.”

Imelda refused to take her eyes
from the six stone crosses.  Her migraine had narrowed her vision to a thin
band in front of her, her skull feeling too big, her brain lanced with tendrils
of glass.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d managed to eat.  Her hands
were trembling as they held the cross upon her throat, though if they shook
from a lack of sleep, a lack of food, or simple grief, she wasn’t sure.

After a few more moments of
hesitation, Jacquot left her, the crunch of his boots much too loud against the
packed snow of the yard.  She winced under the stabbing mental agony of each step
until he climbed the stairs and disappeared back inside the compound, leaving
her in silence once more.

She had given the orders for them
to seek the wolf and her djinni.  She had given the orders for them to die,
knowing
that they were up against something far worse than a simple wolf.  Something
that had pierced a
shield
with a
boulder
, then ripped them all to
unrecognizable pieces.  So dismantled were the bodies that the surgeons had had
trouble picking out which parts belonged to who, and the priests had decided to
bury them as quickly as possible, because the morticians could not preserve
ragged chunks of meat.

But the worst part was the
naggling little question that Father Vega had instilled in her mind.  The
question of whether she was hunting an angel.

And, if she was, was it a fallen
angel, or a messenger of God?  How could one be differentiated from the other? 
While common culture depicted fallen angels with bat wings, rising from the
depths of Hell on waves of fire and brimstone, she could not find a single
passage in the Bible that spoke of a fallen angel losing its charisma and
magnetism.

Further, did Zenaida carry the
talisman because she had killed an angel?  Or because she
was
an angel? 
The second idea left Imelda with nausea constricting her guts, for she couldn’t
picture one of God’s messengers enjoying the position of an Inquisidora,
draining the magic of her foes in dribbles of crimson, rather than with the
swipe of a sword.

But the alternative
was…unspeakable.

Behind her, the loud crunch of
snow once more sounded as someone heavy approached, and a moment later, Herr
Drescher boomed, “Get off your knees, Inquisitorin.  You’re coming to Vespers
if I have to drag you, then we’re shoving some food down your throat.  Jacquot
tells me you haven’t eaten in a week.”

Imelda ignored him.

The German grunted.  “Don’t say I
didn’t warn you.”  Then he bent down, grabbed her under the shoulders, and
hefted her off of her feet, into his arms.  Imelda thought about trying to
object, but the motion of being swept off her feet, combined with the sounds of
his boots and his breathing, left her head in agony, and she just ducked her chin
to her chest and let the elder Brother carry her.

Herr Drescher settled her in a
pew just as Father Lott began the evening’s prayers.

“Deus, in adiutorium meum
intende.
Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina. Gloria Patri,
et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in
saecula saeculorum.
Amen. Alleluia.”

The sound of the versicles was
like hammers pounding shards of sheet-metal into her brain, and by the time it
ended, Imelda was struggling just to stay conscious.  As the congregation moved
into the nightly five Psalms, it became a narrowing of her awareness to the
wood of the pew in front of her.  The Gloria Patri left her reeling.  The
biblical verse that followed pushed her to the very edge, her world hazy with
pain, her vision contracted to a narrow strip of bench, her hunger leaving her
weak, yet desperate to stay aware.

Sometime during the shuffling
footsteps, the ‘amens,’ and the all-too-loud organ music of Communion, the
German turned to her, a look of concern on his face.  Breaking the courtesy of
silence during Mass, he leaned close and whispered, “Are you going to be all
right, Inquisitorin?”

The hiss of his voice shattered
what was left of her control, sending shards of glass piercing her brain in
stabbing blasts of agony.  Herr Drescher was raising his voice to Jacquot in
alarm when she felt herself lurch forward, into darkness.

Chapter
11: Unseasonable Weather

She had touched his body. 
Willingly.  With
relish
.  And, judging by the look of rapture on her
face, had
enjoyed
it.  Yet here she was completely ignoring him again,
pretending as if he didn’t exist, refusing all hints at a bargain.

‘Aqrab was considering that as his
magus floundered ahead of him through the snow, stubbornly silent as she led
them through a rare wooded valley in their hike through the Alaska Range.  The
look of horror on her face when he’d first suggested prior escapades with the
male form led him to believe her rabid denials.  Yet why had she so obviously
delighted in his body?  Why had she traced him with such…lust? 

He was about to open his mouth
and ask her again when, from a clear sky, a crackling, mind-rattling
boom
heralded a eye-searing flash of lightning that knocked him flat on his back in
the snow.

Dazed, his ears ringing, ‘Aqrab
sat up enough to see a tall young Athabascan man dressed in a shimmery
gray-white robe standing serenely where the thunderbolt had struck.  The man’s
long ebony hair was braided into a rope, having enough length to be flipped
over his shoulder and wound around his waist, then tied like a belt at his
hip. 

“You are trespassing,” the native
man said calmly.  His eyes sizzled with the color of electricity and gave off
an unearthly blue glow.  Looking between ‘Aqrab and the magus, who was
similarly sprawled out a few feet away, the man tranquilly said, “Leave or die,
gasht'ana.”  With the man’s words, ‘Aqrab felt every hair on his body standing
on end, as if lifted by an otherworldly source.

His magus seemed to notice it,
too, because she blurted, “We seek the dragons!”

Ever so slowly, as if haste was
not even within his vocabulary, the man turned to face the wolf.  “There are no
dragons here.” 

“They’re in the mountains to the
north,” his magus said.  “The next set beyond yours.  We are just trying to get
to the Brooks Range.”

If anything, ‘Aqrab’s hair began
to drift further from his skin. 

With all the concern he would
give a worm, the man said “Yet you come woven in shields and invisibilities.”

“We are being
hunted
,” the
Fury snapped.  “Of course we wear protections.”

‘Aqrab could
feel
the
lightning about to strike.  “Mon Dhi’b,” he interrupted carefully, watching the
Athabascan man, “perhaps we should just go.”  His mistress had never been good
with negotiations that didn’t involve a sword.

Ever-so-slowly, the fine-boned stranger
turned his electric blue stare on ‘Aqrab.  “You are in the wrong Realm.”  And
‘Aqrab had the very strong feeling that fact was about to be corrected—with his
violent demise.

Slowly, ‘Aqrab lifted his hands
to show the creature his palms.  “We’re leaving.  Now.  Aren’t we, mon Dhi’b?”

The Athabascan man’s
electric-blue eyes narrowed at him slightly.  “Who said anything about ‘we,’
Southlander?  I told
you
to go.”

‘Aqrab froze, frowning.  He
exchanged a confused glance with his magus.  Cautiously, he said, “You would
let her pass?”  If that were the case, he would be happy to follow along in the
half-realm.  Or, if the idiot was going to be difficult, the firelands.

The man eyed his mistress like a
mass of steak that only barely passed his strict standards.  “I would keep her,
at least for awhile. 
You
will leave.  I would wash her of your stink
before I enjoy her.”

‘Aqrab watched the Fury’s eyes
widen in shock before he automatically slipped to the half-realm, knowing
all-too-well what that look would bring with it. 
Oh please don’t, mon Dhi’b
,
he prayed. 
Restrain yourself…  This is
not
someone we need as our
enemy.

His prayers went unanswered. 
“You
dare
?!” his magus screamed.  Even as the Northlander was languidly turning
back to her with a look of utter superiority, the Fury summoned the wolf and
demonstrated her newfound capacity for violence by punching Thunderbird in the
side of his sacred face, knocking him completely off of his feet in a startled grunt.

An instant later, the world
rained down lightning in such a shrieking, crackling, vibrating frenzy that
‘Aqrab fell to his knees even in the half-realm.  Trees on all sides split
apart and caught fire, with smoldering splinters flying in all directions.  A
few feet away, in the darkness of the First-Lands, he watched Kaashifah throw
up a shield of multi-colored iridescence, and bow under the first of the
blasts, strain on her face.

Then Thunderbird leapt up in a
scream of indignance and made the storm that had dropped ‘Aqrab to his knees
look like child’s play.  Like a pillar from the gods, the first massive bolt
hit Kaashifah’s shield and made the magus shudder, bowing under its weight. 
Unable to find her Fury, she could not retaliate in kind, but could only take
what was given and try to survive it.  Another bolt followed, and another,
until his magus fell to her knees, screaming under the strain, and yet the man
continued his assault, slamming bolts into her again and again until her
iridescent shield flickered and sputtered out.

Then Thunderbird began hitting
her
body
, forking lightning into the Fury’s corpse with all the
imperious disdain of a czar executing a criminal.

“That’s
enough
!” ‘Aqrab
snapped, twisting to the First Lands before Thunderbird had a chance to kill
her.  Passion and fear powering him, he released a blast of heat from the
Fourth Lands before twisting back again, setting the Thunderbird’s robe and
hair afire.  The man shrieked and twisted, looking wildly to where ‘Aqrab had
stood, his electric blue eyes filled with deadly intent. 

Stalking around him in the
half-realm, ‘Aqrab slipped back and fired him again, knowing beyond a doubt
that the Thunderbird, as one of the handful of over-tier beings—demigods,
really—in the First Lands, could easily kill him, if he ever managed to land
one of his bolts.  After all, while ‘Aqrab was in line to become a Fourth
Lander lord himself and could have held his own against the Thunderbird in his
own
land, he could never match the First-Lander on his own turf.

“Show yourself, coward!” the
Thunderbird screamed. 

“A coward I may be,” ‘Aqrab
growled, flaming him again.  “Stupid I am not.”

“I will hunt you down and
exterminate
you, Southlander!” Thunderbird shrieked, as his braid burned in half and
fell from to his waist in licks of ash and flame.  His robes, once shimmery and
glorious, now hung in charred patches from his shoulders.  He was not, however,
burning of the flesh. 

Damn.

“Just back away from the woman
and leave us be,” ‘Aqrab growled.  “I don’t want to fight.”

“You are going to
die
!”
the man snarled, stamping his foot with all the impetuousness of a spoiled
teenage tyrant.

 ‘Aqrab slipped behind him again
and blasted him with another taste of the inferno before quickly twisting back
out of range.  “I said
leave us
,” he snapped.

The Thunderbird cursed him, then,
and the lightning once more started a chaotic, sizzling dance around them. 

On the ground, Kaashifah’s body
started to hop and jerk with every jolt, and, seeing that, ‘Aqrab froze. 
Could
Thunderbird kill a Fury?  Both were top-tier Firstlander beings, the
clashings of which were written about by mortals for eons to come.  A full Fury
probably would have just brushed the lightning off, he knew, but what of one
dampened by the blood of a wolf?  The lightning was burning holes, but spilling
no blood.  A Fury could continue to live indefinitely, as long as she still
carried her Fury within her.  But what if it was
burning
her blood? 
Would that still count?

Then, ‘Aqrab realized, could he
really take the chance to find out?  “Wait!” he screamed above the sizzling
clamor.  “A festering on your dick,
wait
!”

The Thunderbird, whose cheek and
eye was even then beginning to blacken and swell from the force of the magus’s
swing, halted the storm around them, panting in open-mouthed, wild-eyed rage. 
“Show yourself,” he growled, “or the wolf dies.”

And ‘Aqrab knew then that he’d
lost.  Seeing the rage and pain in the Thunderbird’s eyes, he knew that, the
moment he appeared, the man was going to kill them both.  Seeing no other
alternative, he accessed the Fourth Lands, wrapped his words in Law, and
hastily blurted, “By Fourthlander Law, I will grant you three wishes in
exchange for my life, the life of my mistress, and the safe passage of both of
us through your lands.  Do you accept?”

Something flashed in the
Thunderbird’s eyes.  “Three…wishes?”

“Three,” ‘Aqrab assured him.  “In
exchange for the conditions given.  Do you accept?”

Slowly, his regality belied by
his burned and bruised appearance, Thunderbird straightened.  “I accept.” 

Never before had the rush of
Fourthlander power, wrapping the contract in Law, given ‘Aqrab such a sinking
feeling of dread.  “Our contract is sealed,” Law boomed through him.

“Show yourself, djinni.”

Wincing, ‘Aqrab stepped from the
half-realm, until he was looking down upon his new master.

Thunderbird straightened and
sniffed.  “My first wish—”

Quickly, just
knowing
that
the Thunderbird was about to ask for something horrible, like, ‘expel all of
the gasht'ana scum from my continent,’ ‘Aqrab said, “Before you make your
wishes, you should take the time to consider—”

“—is for my braid to grow back to
its natural form.”

‘Aqrab’s mouth fell open. 
He
is
a vain bastard,
he thought, until this moment believing that the
wereverine’s ill-tempered disparagements had been mostly spawned of envy.

…and then the Law was rushing
through him again in a wave of ecstasy. 
“How would you fulfill this wish?”
the Law demanded like a gong in his mind, as it filled him with so much power
he felt the universe move and shift around him with his every breath. 

Return his hair to him, as
long as it was this morning,
‘Aqrab thought.  He didn’t even attempt to
monkey-paw, so reasonable was the wish.  With that, the magic swept through
him, granting the Thunderbird’s wish, leaving ‘Aqrab utterly breathless, his
heart hammering uncontrollably against the pleasure of flirting with Law.

Thunderbird reached up and twined
his fingers through his hair.  “My second wish is for my robes to be replaced.”

No sooner had the violet shimmer
around ‘Aqrab died down than the Thunderbird’s second wish hit him like a
titan’s sledge, slamming through him with all the power and ecstasy that only a
full wish could give.  Again, ‘Aqrab found the wish reasonable, and again, he
did not try to monkeypaw.  He returned the Thunderbird’s entire wardrobe to
him, as perfect as it had been that morning.  When the violet faded from his
vision, he slumped sideways, shuddering under the after-effects of the Law-made
high.

“Wait for me to catch my breath,”
‘Aqrab begged, seeing the Thunderbird open his mouth again.  “I can’t…”

Unheeding, the Thunderbird
touched his bruised and swelling cheek and said, “My third wish is that my face
be returned to me.”

‘Aqrab could have twisted
that
wish upon itself a hundred times over, but, when the power of Fourthlander Law
hit him like a sledge, demanding to know his verdict, he merely gave the creature
what he knew he wanted and surrendered to the bliss that followed.

All three wishes had taken less
than a minute, in total, to complete.  Never before had he had a master make
his wishes so quickly, and ‘Aqrab just lowered his cheek to the ashes of the
forest floor in a daze, his body a shuddering mass of rapture.

He was still lying on his side
when Thunderbird’s suede-clad toe nudged him in the ribs.  “You asked for safe
passage.”  The First-Lander still had the air of royalty about him, but now he
sounded a bit more…cautious.

But ‘Aqrab could only bring
himself to groan.  He was utterly exhausted, spent to the core, and if the
Thunderbird had walked behind him, yanked down his sirwal, and decided to dick
him in the ass, he really wouldn’t have been able to do much about it.

The Thunderbird squatted in his
field of vision, then, giving him a curious look.  “I’ve never seen a djinni
before.  You are…prettier…than I imagined.”

Suddenly, the surprise dicking
seemed a hell of a lot more likely.  ‘Aqrab groaned and tried not to think
about whether or not he would enjoy it, in his over-stimulated state.

Then the Thunderbird’s face
twisted and he peered over his shoulder.  “What is a djinni doing with a
wolf
?” 
He said ‘wolf’ as if it were a form of excrement.  “Surely you have rules
against that.”