Shadows on the Aegean (43 page)

The double doors opened, and peacocks, their tails spread, strutted into the room. A high-pitched voice began to sing, announcing
Hreesos
Zelos and Kela-Ileana. Everyone, with the exception of Phoebus, raised their arms and hands, saluting the rulers of the Clan
Olimpi, the embodiment of gods on earth. As they approached, Phoebus raised his hands, too.

“So you are the choice of Imhotep,” Zelos said, his voice gruff. He was an impressive man, tall, barrel-chested, his hair
long and still blond, his eyes cornflower blue and intense. Cheftu acknowledged he was and then met Ileana. She weighed him
with her eyes until he felt like berries before a hungry crow. The couple swept on, and the rest of the room relaxed.

Dion sat down next to him, greeting Phoebus and asking after Niko. With a glance at Cheftu, Phoebus said Niko had gone in
search of some privacy, some time for meditation. He was probably at the temple. The feast was served, most of it still in
its shell, and Cheftu sat silently while the two men discussed Dion’s air sail. Cheftu’s gaze searched restlessly for Sibylla
until Dion’s words recalled him.

“You think Sibylla will run?” Dion asked Phoebus.

“I have heard she is already training,” Phoebus said, licking his fingers.

“You should see her,” Dion murmured. He slapped Cheftu’s back. “Our Egyptian friend was slain by Vena—”

“A ritual here in Aztlan,” Phoebus said. “Vena offers every newcomer her favors. We should leave her on the Breakwater for
the purpose of serving traveling ships!” Dion laughed, and Cheftu tried to smile. “You were saying about Sibylla?” Phoebus
asked Dion when they had stopped laughing.

“I know you have always cared for Irmentis—”

Phoebus’ face darkened. “It is no matter.”

“Aye, well, Sibylla has matured greatly this past Snake Season. You would not know her to look at her. She is beautiful.”

“Always Sibylla has been beautiful,” Phoebus said.

“There is something more now,” Dion mused. “I am the closest man to her, and it is very clear.”

“You only wish she were not such a good friend, so you could rut with her,” Phoebus said.

Dion shrugged, and Cheftu clenched his fists. They were discussing her as though she were a plot of land! A goat, to be bartered
over! “She lacks,” Dion said slowly, “some things that I find attractive.” His glance met Cheftu’s, and Cheftu looked away.
In his mind he could see Dion and Sibylla linked together, breathing and basking in—

“Look at her!” Dion said, nudging him in the ribs, muddying his stream of thought. It was the same dancer Nestor had tried
to give to Senwosret.

The music got louder, and as the guests finished eating, they began to dance. Linking into lines, they formed elaborate patterns
that brought them close together, so that breasts brushed bare chests, and then far apart. They danced halfway through a pattern
and then reversed direction.

Cheftu’s head began to ache. The woman who had caught Dion’s eye was even now rubbing against him as they danced together.
Phoebus had left, stony faced, and Cheftu sat alone, watching the dark-haired women, wondering who was holding Sibylla. He
snapped for more wine and looked around the room.

Compared to the Aztlantu, the Egyptians were absolutely reserved. Within a few more cups of wine, Cheftu imagined this feast
would become an orgy. Already he had stopped a few southerly moving hands.

Half the line was turned away from him, and Cheftu’s gaze skimmed over the hourglass shape of the women, long black curls
dancing on their ruffled rears. Then he felt his body tighten. He knew it was she, he could sense it, even though she was
turned away. Her feet moved swiftly in the pattern, coming around to face him. As she danced he could see the flush of exertion
on her skin, the glow in her green eyes.

She met his gaze for a moment, then curtained her face behind the dark veil of her hair. He downed his cup and snapped for
another. His head would ache horribly come dawn, but perhaps this would soften the ache he felt elsewhere, now.

C
HLOE WAS HAVING FUN
in this ancient version of a conga line. Cheftu, whom she’d not seen for a while, was leaning against a male companion, a
voluptuous redhead sitting on his lap. Chloe stared hard at him. Look at me! she thought. Get your hands and mind off that
woman and look up! The conga line moved closer, and the redhead was pulled off his lap by some guy. Cheftu looked up, his
eyes seeming dark in the muted light. The line moved closer, and Chloe danced over to her husband, taking his hand and pulling
him.

He didn’t move. He didn’t look at her. He just sat. Chloe tugged and he jerked away, continuing his conversation with the
other man. Three women came up to the other guy and towed him along, rubbing their hands on his body, making the invitation
quite clear.

Still Cheftu sat. He was ignoring her? Boldly Chloe brought his hand to her breast. He looked up, his fingers already caressing
her, and stared. Guiltily, Chloe thought. He blinked a few times, and Chloe grabbed his other hand and dragged him into the
line.

It was not an easy dance, but Cheftu matched her steps. She felt the heat of his body, smelled the blend of his skin and unguents
and wine. After a while the line turned directions, each person holding tight to the partners before them, while those behind
them moved very closely. The music took on a primal, seductive beat. Chloe was flushed—the feel of Cheftu against her, hot
and aroused, was sexier than imagination. The circle grew smaller as couples broke away. She was just deciding to pull Cheftu
into a darker corner when she was lifted and kissed.

He tasted like wine and hunger and Cheftu, and Chloe could barely breathe for wanting him. She heard voices, felt a very cold
wind, but his body, scorching, was against hers. His hands moved beneath her skirt, his mouth laved her exposed breasts. Tears
streamed from the corners of her eyes as he whispered to her. She was with Cheftu, finally! He knew her! He loved her!

The contrast of his black hair against her paler skin was visible even in the darkness. He kissed her stomach, the insides
of her thighs, and Chloe fell back with a low moan. She became nothing but sense and felt as though she were laid bare to
the bone with electricity jagging through her body. He pressed his fingers into her mouth and she sucked on them, imitating
the actions that were shattering her. Chloe was whimpering, alternating hot and cold until her body was reduced to shudders
and tears.

He pulled her onto his thighs, entering in one slow movement. Chloe draped her arms around his neck and absorbed his thrusts,
still reeling from the magic he’d worked on her. His lips were pressed against her neck, her skin muffling his panting and
final stillness.

They fell back as one body. Her love was back, here in her arms. Chloe was so happy, she wanted to cry.
“Eee
, Cheftu,” she whispered, her hands in his hair.

His lips were against her ear, his voice husky and wine scented. “So you craved me again, Sibylla?”

Again?

Chloe’s eyes popped open.

“I apologize for leaving the way I did,” he said. “I did not know you were a chieftain.” He kissed her ear. “It was not intended
to be disrespectful.”

What the hell was he talking about? Chloe banged on Sibylla’s mental door, demanding a response.

He kissed her,
Sibylla’s
, shoulder. “You are magnificent, my mistress.”

Chloe couldn’t think. Her body was still trembling from him, yet he didn’t know who she was? He didn’t recognize her? How
had he known Sibylla? He made love this passionately, this
graphically
, to a woman he’d known only … only … she didn’t know how long.

Chloe wondered if she could kick in Sibylla’s mental door.
Cheftu slept with another woman? Well, with me inside another woman? But I wasn’t there!
With a last defiant battering of the door—unanswered—Chloe searched Sibylla’s memory.

Knossos. Rituals.
Yeah, right!

She couldn’t decide if she felt more pain or anger. She knew she wanted to kill him. She also wanted to run. Far, far away.
He didn’t know her? The man who’d promised to find her in any century, in any body, and he didn’t recognize her when they
were making love?
Twice?

He pulled away from her, lying on his back, apparently dozing. Her Cheftu had always been a chatterbox after lovemaking. How
could he not know her? Chloe sat up, pulling down her skirt and tucking it around her cold feet, straightening her jacket.
This was the last, the
very
last, time Cheftu would touch her until he knew whom he was touching!

“This cannot happen again,” he said, his words slurred. “After tonight, although I crave you, I cannot …”

“Trust me, abstinence will not be an issue,” she said coldly.

He opened his eyes at her response and raised up on an elbow. His hair was just as mussed as hers, and he hadn’t yet bothered
to straighten his kilt. “Do I detect anger? Have I left you less than satisfied?”

Much less, she thought. “Your skills are worthy of a Coil Dancer.”

Eyes narrowing, Cheftu sat up. “Your manners are not.”

Chloe stood up, furious and blinking back tears. Was their love affair just for Egypt? Was he not attracted when she wasn’t
Egyptian? Were their souls really
not
connected? Had she been lying to herself?

Cheftu stood up, grabbing her wrists with one hand, adjusting his kilt with the other. “I do not appreciate lovers who leave
without even a word of kindness.’

Like you left Sibylla,
me
, in Knossos, she thought. “Perhaps you are reaping as you sow?”

He dropped his hand. “I see you do not easily forgive.”

“You
more
than easily forget, though!” Chloe said, fighting back tears. He frowned at her and rubbed his face, gestures that were so
Cheftu they hurt. What had happened? He touched her face, frowning when she pulled away.

“I want you again, Sibylla. Gods help me, I do.”

She watched the face she’d memorized, detail by detail, from eyebrows to the fine lines around his mouth and eyes, draw nearer.
His pupils were dilated, and she knew his expression of desire so well.

For another
.

“Go to hell,” she said in English. Lifting her skirt, she ran away, weeping.

I
T TOOK A MOMENT FOR
C
HEFTU TO REALIZE
she’d spoken to him in English.

English!

Green eyes, black hair, skin that received him eagerly, a spirit that left him buoyant to behold. Cheftu pressed his hand
to his chest, feeling the thundering of his heart. He couldn’t catch his breath, he didn’t dare even think it. He’d seen her
body, her dead body! The Egyptians had told him she was gone.

Gone into another body!

It explained so much! Why hadn’t she told him in Knossos, though? Why let him believe she was dead and that he would spend
his life mourning her? Why flee him now? His heart slowed, and Cheftu wondered if she was happy he was here. She’d bedded
him willingly enough, but …