Carolina Montague

Dear Readers,

I wrote the story below as fan fiction years ago under my Wiccan name Allae. It links my books Door in the Sky, Sacred Guardian, and The Entrancement. I changed the actor’s name so it is no longer fan fiction but is a paranormal romance short story. I am putting this on my site so you can see if you like my writer’s “voice” and if you do, I have books you may want to check out

I had to edit it because in the original version there were a lot of swear words and some scenes were pretty hot. I don’t want that on my website so I am going through it to make sure it is okay – I’ll be posting it in sections.

The Spinner

© 2001 Carol Lynn Stewart

There was nothing like it: gray ribbon of highway unfurling ahead of him, hills on his right, ocean off to his left — too far to see, but he could smell the tang of kelp and bite of salt-laden spray.  Three hours on California One, wailing up the coast, lashing the shroud of despair that had set in since Jackie had taken her leave.   It was already November but he still hadn’t gotten the taste of her out of his system.  Once the early rain showers had let up, he’d jumped on the bike and took off, leaving LA madness behind.

Three AM. Enough before dawn that coal-dark night still held sway.  The moon was an old, waning crescent dipping into the sea.  A nice bite to the air; it tore at his hair as he cranked the throttle.  The throb of his Harley pulsing between his legs, urged more, more.  More juice, more speed.

Mark glanced behind and up ahead. No cops, but that didn’t mean one or two might lie in wait behind one of the hills, or maybe to the left in the dunes.

He didn’t care.  He opened it up and pushed to ninety.

Downhill now, dipping toward Pismo Beach.  The highway took a straight course for a while, at least four miles were visible ahead.

He stepped on it, edged toward ninety-five.

A dark lump at the right side about three miles down caught his eye.  He eased off the gas and stared.

What was it?  Not very big.  F%&!!  Maybe someone had hit a dog.  Damn.  Had to be dead.  He didn’t have to stop, did he?

He whizzed on past, glancing over.  The lump filled out, took on features: a pale arm stretched into the road, a spill of bright hair, tangled legs.

He pulled up in a scream of rubber and smoke and lifted his helmet. “F%&!”  Jumped off the bike and sprinted toward the body.

Small, not a guy.  GOD, was it a kid?  Goddammit, where was his cell phone?  He patted his jacket until the bulge of its case rested under his hands.  He drew it out and started punching the numbers before he even reached the still form.  Thank God his sister had insisted he carry a cell phone with him at all times.

The phone purred once, twice.  He reached the body.  Small all right, but not a kid.  A woman lay crumpled there.  He didn’t see any blood.  Shouldn’t there be blood?  No.  He wouldn’t be able to see its color in the starlight.  But there didn’t seem to be any dark spots on her clothes or what he could see of her head.

His CPR certification wasn’t current.  What the hell was he supposed to do?  Survey the scene.  Yeah.  He glanced up and down the highway.  No cars coming now but he’d have to get her off the road before one did.  He dropped to his knees by the body and breathed into his phone.  Weren’t they supposed to answer a 911 call?  He held the phone out.  The battery light flashed red.

Damn.  He’d let it run down again.  “S%##!”  He pounded on his knee.

The body stirred.

Ah, God.  What if she was badly hurt?  All he had was his bike.  Okay, okay.  He wasn’t supposed to even touch her until he determined the extent of her injuries.

She raised up on her elbow, drew her legs together.  “What?” Silvery hair tumbled in front of her face.

“Don’t move!”  At least he knew that much.  “You don’t know how badly you’re hurt.”  Well, he didn’t know but forget that now.  Take charge.  He could do this.

She shook her head and coughed.  “Hurt?”  Her legs pushed against the pavement.  She raised her face.  The tangle of silver hair parted.  “I don’t think I’m hurt.”  She stretched her arms and shifted her legs. “Ow!” Her hand went down to her leg.  “At least not very bad.”  She looked up at him.

Elves.  She was like a goddamn elf.  Tilted, light eyes, thickly lashed.  Silvery hair to her waist.  An ankle-length gown clung to her form but flared over an under-sleeve at the wrists.  Almost medieval.  But a compact body, everything scaled down.  “What time is it?”  She shook her head and slumped forward.

“Damn.” Was this for real?  He hadn’t smoked any dope today.   “Okay, elf-lady.” He rose to his feet and leaned over her.  “I have to get you off the road.”

****************************************************************************

Elf-lady was small, but solid, like a dancer.  He hefted her into his arms and strode five feet from the highway, placed her down on the dirt and scrub.

Should’ve taken his jacket off and put it under her.  Her dress was going to get stained.  Well, too late now.  He rubbed grit off his hands and touched her face.  “Ah, lady?  Girl?”  Now that wasn’t right.  “Woman?”  What did they like to be called now?

She stirred.  “Rats.”  Started to push up on her elbow.  “Did I conk out again?”

“Don’t move.”  He pushed her back down.

Her tilted eyes twinkled up at him.  “Why?”

“First aid.  Gotta do this right.”  Start at the top.  He checked the pulse at her throat.  Good and strong.  Soft.  Warm.  His fingers stroked all the way to her earlobe. Move on!  He snatched his hand back. A hangnail on his index finger caught in her abundant hair.  He gently worked it free, but the hair slid through his hands, silken.  He couldn’t seem to stop touching it; when he glanced down at her face, she was simply looking up at him.

“Uh, anything hurt up here?”  He moved his hands upward as if that was what he intended all along, and probed her skull.  No bumps, no wet spots that would signal a wound.

“No.”

“Okay, how about this?” He was supposed to work his way down but he had to take a quick cleansing breath before he commenced. Think like a doctor. She could be seriously hurt and not know it.

Her collarbone was firm under his light touch. No break there. He slid his hands lightly down her arms, checking out back and front, elbow joint, wrist, her hands.

“All okay.”

Her voice was light and clear. It reminded him of church bells. Notre Dame? St. Peter’s? “And this?” He traced her ribs, probing as he’s been taught, avoiding the swell of her breasts but going firm on the sternum and all the way down to her solar plexus.

“Tickles,” she laughed. The laugh caught and spilled into another cough.

He drew his hands back and listened. Not a bad cough — probably no broken ribs. But the peal of her laughter triggered a memory.

“Chartres.” A bell concert he’d heard on the steps of Chartres one Easter. Unexpected. Magic. All the women covering their hair to enter the cathedral. The maze on the floor. The buzz of . . . something that had grabbed him then. Her voice was like that.

Damn, he’d been sitting here staring off into space when he should finish his survey for injuries. He pushed gently against her pelvic girdle and on down her right leg. The muscle below her knee tightened.

“Ow.”

“I need to lift your dress a little so I can see what’s causing your pain.” He rocked back, heels tucked under him. “Is that okay with you?” Damn. He was supposed to tell her exactly what he was going to do before he did it, each step of the way.

“No problem.” She reached to yank up the side of her gown.

He pushed her down again. “Just let me check it out, all right?” Well, it had been at least two years since he’d certified. The only time he’d ever used it was when a friend O.D.’ed. Came in useful then. Dude was still alive. Wished he’d been there when the other had crashed . . .

“Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“Huh?” He looked down at her as he gently pulled at the skirt of her gown, lifting it from her right leg.

“You couldn’t have helped him.”

“What?” He sat back. A chill skidded from his skull to his tailbone. “Say what??”

“Just a hunch.” She shrugged. “You seemed to be remembering something.”

Had he heard that right? How could she have known? He placed his hand on her knee and leaned forward, focusing on her exposed calf.

“I’m sorry.” She must have shrugged again; her legs flexed. “Sometimes I just blurt things out.”

“Ah.” Dancer’s legs, all right. Firm and strong. A dark spot bloomed and swelled just below the knee. He touched around it, looking for evidence of a break.

Her breath drew in, a long hitch ending in a “Damn!”

“Sorry. Nasty knot there.” He stroked all the way to the ankle and back; then explored the other leg. “This one okay?”

“Yeah.”

He rose.  “Can you get up?”

She didn’t say anything, just leaned over and rubbed at her leg, then used her hands and good leg to lift herself up.

“Guess you can. Well.” He glanced over at his bike. She didn’t have a helmet. “Hey — what the hell were you doing out here at this time of night walking on a freeway?”

“It’s not a freeway here.” She struggled to her feet.

He caught her arm and pulled her up. “Maybe. Don’t put any weight on it!” She leaned against him. “But that still doesn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

She limped beside him to the Harley. “Car broke down.”

“Where is it?”

“About a mile down.” She pointed toward Pismo Beach. “I was coming back from a h . . ., a friend’s house.”

He tugged his helmet on and lifted her onto the back of his Harley. “A mile should be okay.” Swung his leg over it and settled on the seat. “I’ll go slow.  Think you can hang on?”

“Sure.” She put her arms around him.

Damn! What if she fainted again? “Wait a sec.” He dismounted and unbuckled his belt, slipped it off. “Uh.” He wasn’t a pervert. “I won’t hurt you, I . . .”

She just raised a brow. “You want to make sure I don’t fall off.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Right.” He settled into the seat again. “Put this around your back and bring the ends to my waist.”

Lucky she was small. Even so, he could barely buckle the first hole. “That too tight?”

“It’ll do. And it’s not far.”

He gunned the engine and coasted out onto the highway.

**************************************************************************

The Others would want to know . . .  She leaned her cheek against the leather of his jacket and concentrated on keeping her injury active. It wouldn’t do to have it heal too fast, to have him witness that. She caught a whiff of old, soft leather, motor oil, pizza, and male sweat.  The leather was soft and tickled her face.

It had been too long. And the Aethnae was nearly upon her. Who would It choose this time? Well. She rubbed her hair against his back. Perhaps she could spend some time with this young one. Though the fates had a different purpose in mind; she was sure of this. Did he need Healing?

Ah, she didn’t want to know. Not right now, at least.

Yet Alia, Kaeko, Mari, Onatah and Kylie would want her to tell them about him; they would want to know, had a right to know. She turned her head slightly, moving away. He pulled at the belt, drawing her closer.

“You okay back there?”

“I’m fine.” She buried her face in his jacket again. The Others may have a right, but she’d keep this to herself. For a time.

The motorcycle slowed. He brought it to a smooth stop next to her car. “This yours?”

“Yes.” She waited until he withdrew the belt and swung off the back of the Harley, limped over to her car.

He still stood by his bike, staring at the car with a blankness that told her he wasn’t really there.

She waited and watched him come back into himself, climb out of a well of despair. It was red and black, this sadness he held within. Sometimes it swallowed him up. She saw all this and allowed a sigh to slip out as she deepened her wound, kept it from healing. This was her task, then. He was in need.

This was why the truck had splattered her all over the highway . . .

“So this is your car.”

“That it is.” She leaned against the driver’s side. “It doesn’t want to run.”

He ran his hand over the hood. “It looks diseased.” His hand jerked. “Sorry! I mean, that is . . .”

“Don’t be.” She opened the door. “The worse it looks, the less likely someone is to steal it.”

“Maybe I can get it started and take you to the hospital.”

“You can try.” It wouldn’t start again. She knew this. The Mother had stopped it. That meant She had a job for Alathea. It was always this way. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She extended her hand. “I’m Alathea.”

He took her hand in an uncertain grip that deepened as she showed him her strength. “Mark Stanley.”

“Oh! The movie actor?”

“Yeeessss.” He rubbed his ear and backed away.

“How delightful. I’m pleased to meet you.” She grabbed her keys. “But I’m sure you have better things to do than take me to the hospital.” She slid into her seat. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

“What happened to you?”

She shut her eyes. The flat-bed had come out of nowhere, weaving. She’d been walking several feet off the road but it came at her anyway. Came at her and struck her, throwing her up into the air and all the way across the highway. Hit her and sped off down the road. “I tripped and fell.” This was true; after she had repaired most of the damage, she fell. Her injuries were worse than she’d thought at first. “I fell.”

She could not lie. The geis upon her would not allow it. But she could refrain from telling the entire story.

She turned the key. It clicked. The engine didn’t even turn over.

“Pop the hood.”

She pulled the lever that released the mechanism. He leaned in and swore. “How did you drive this thing?”

“It was fine this morning.”

“It’s fried!” He gestured toward the engine. “All the wires are burnt away.”

“Well, it was smoking a little.”

“Smoking! You’re lucky it didn’t explode.” He pulled her out of her seat. “Okay, I don’t like this, but you’ll have to ride without a helmet.”

“I can just stay here, can’t I?  It’s almost dawn. Someone will be along, I’m sure.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “No way. I won’t leave you here.” She stayed beside the car as he tugged on her arm. He dropped her hand.  “Look, could you do this for me? I mean, I’d feel sh . . . real bad if I left you here, okay?”

She looked up into his eyes. Brown, but with amber lights. Remote and yet direct and present at the same time.  A N’Aarta? Did they still come here? It had been so long since she’d looked into eyes like that. Who was this one? And how often had he come back? She pressed her hands into her temples. Weary. The years had made her weary. “I will go with you.”

************************************************************************************************************

In the end, he had to take her all the way to Santa Barbara. She insisted she’d be fine. Several times she told him this. And she said she lived there, in a cottage near the campus.

Well, HE insisted that they go to a hospital and she be seen by a doctor, so they cruised on down the coast to where Highway 1 met 101 and exited, meandering over to Castillo Street. He pulled up in front of the tan-and-white Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital, his Harley rumbling a low throb, Alathea-elf-lady slumped against his back, imprisoned by his belt.

“Alathea, we’re here.” He switched off the Harley. His ears rang in the sudden quiet.

“Where?” She pushed against him and was brought up short. “What?”

He unhooked the belt and eased off the bike, holding onto her arms and taking her with him. “Santa Barbara Hospital, remember?” He turned around and watched her blink. “You promised to come here before I take you home.”

Her eyes flickered. “Oh. Yes.”

“You okay?” Now this was weird. For a moment there, she looked stricken. Almost panicky.

“I’m fine. We don’t really have to . . .”

He took her arm and guided her. “No way. You promised.”

“I did.” The words were slow and reluctant, but she nodded. Still looked worried, but walked by his side. Didn’t even limp.

“Your leg must be better.”

“Huh?” A line invaded her brows. She looked down. Her forehead smoothed. “Yes. I fell asleep.”

“What?”

She shook her head. “Sleep can be healing. Here’s the entrance.” The red line to the ER ended at a you-are-here map just outside the door. She straightened her shoulders and moved away from his side.

Emergency Rooms at 5:00 AM were either madhouses or tombs. He pulled Alathea through the electric doors and glanced at the nurses’ station. Definitely a tomb this morning. Dammit, Stanley, don’t jinx this! He strode over to the counter. Quiet, it’s just quiet here. “Um, we need to see a doctor?”

The nurse picked up a clipboard and handed it to him. “Fill this out, honey, and go sit in chairs over there.” She winked at him and pointed to the lounge where a man in a tattered sweatshirt and little else lay snoring. “I’ll get a doctor to see your girl.”

“But she’s not my girl.” He looked up. The nurse had already gone through doors in back of the counter. Okay, okay. Just get on with this. He was starting to get punchy. Been up twenty-four hours now. His body was screaming REST and his thoughts just wouldn’t form a coherent stream.

He guided Alathea to the other side of the lounge. The guy laying across the chairs stunk of old wine and the filth of the streets, better keep his distance so Alathea wouldn’t get nauseous. “We need to fill this out.” He looked down at the clipboard. “Do you have insurance?” He glanced up. “Thea? What are you doing?”

Alathea walked to the man sprawled across the chairs. She knelt in a perfect dancer’s crouch and smoothed the hair back from the man’s brow. “Roscoe,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be here.”

Mark stood clutching the papers in his hands, staring.

“Come, Roscoe,” she breathed into the guy’s ear.

Then she smiled.

In an instant, the skin of her face and hands shone, edged with a blue glow that burned an afterimage into Mark’s retina. He blinked and saw spots.

“Damn.” What the f#&k was that?? Must be ready to crash. “Thea, I need you to help me fill this . . .”  What the? The man was standing now. The gray hooded sweatshirt hung in strips around him. His elbows poked out of holes in the arms. A baggy swimsuit covered his bottom; his legs were streaked with dirt, feces and scratches. But he stood, straight and tall, holding Alathea’s hand, smiling down at her. She stepped back. “Now go home, Roscoe.”

Roscoe turned and walked through the emergency room doors. Chill, damp early dawn puffed in and died with the swish of the doors closing.

Alathea took the clipboard from his hands. “I don’t need to be seen.”

“Huh?”

“I promised to come to the ER with you, not to be seen by a doctor.”

“But.” Hadn’t she said she would see a doctor? Damn, he just couldn’t THINK. Too f#&ing tired.

“I’ve fulfilled that promise.” She took his arm. “You need to sleep.”

“I’ll go back to LA after I drop you off.” He stared at her hand. For a moment, the blue glow came back. “Oh, man.” His eyes squeezed shut.

“No you won’t.” Her voice drifted to him from a vast distance. Closer in, something seemed to hiss and gurgle.

When he opened his eyes, they were beside the Harley. “What?”

“You did me a good turn.” She looked into his face. “Let me play the Samaritan, now.” She swung her leg over the back of the bike and sat. “I’ll guide you.”

“Ah.” Shit, he did need to sleep. Never make it back. Well, maybe a hotel after he dropped her off. “Okay. I’m glad you’re better.” He’d have a look at her leg again at her house, maybe have her put ice on it.

“Wait.” She leaned toward him as he mounted. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Back there you called me ‘Thea’.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Goddamn headache was starting to take hold. “Yeah.” He swiveled a half turn and caught her smile again. “Sorry. Was that presumptuous?”

“Not at all.” She rested her head against his back.

“Hang on.” He kicked the Harley to life and charged out into the road.

****************************************************************************

Alathea bent and brushed feathery hair that had fallen into his eyes away from Mark’s brow. The lemony glow of sunrise gilded his face, lax in sleep. He’d crashed in the three minutes it had taken her to pick up yesterday’s mail from the box by the road and traipse back to her cottage. She’d walked in to find him stretched out on his stomach on the Aubusson, head cradled in his arms and canted to the right, mouth slightly open.

Lucky she had thick padding under the rug. Still, he’d be stiff if he lay there too long. She glanced at the east window. Sun barely up. Maybe going on 6:30.  She walked over to the southwest where a bank of windows faced the Pacific.  A dense shroud of purple and slate clouds brooded on the horizon. Storm later, maybe. She opened the central window and allowed the sea breeze entry through the screen.  A pale moth fluttered on the casement. She cupped it in her hands and carried it to the door; released it to the air. “Fly.”

A hand rested on her shoulder. She stiffened, then forced herself to relax, to simply turn. “You didn’t sleep long.”

He blinked and frowned. “Don’t need much.” He rubbed his left eye. “Sorry to startle you.”

The N’Aarta didn’t miss anything. And they could move with such silence that few  people noticed their presence, if they wanted it so. Alathea moved away from his hand toward the kitchen. “Barely an hour?” She’d forgotten how they could move, how their eyes missed nothing. “Surely you need more than that.”

“I’ll sleep more later.” He scanned the kitchen. “Got any ice?”

“Yes.” But which of the N’Aarta was he? She couldn’t tell, though she was sure to have encountered him across the aeons.

He opened her freezer and drew out a couple of ice cubes, turned and raised a brow. “Plastic bags?”

She pointed to the last drawer on the right of her butcher block counter and watched him wrestle with it. He wasn’t one of the first N’Aarta, she was pretty sure of this. The first ones always cast a Light. He had the eyes and the silence, but it did not appear that the Light was his. She released a sigh and leaned against the wall. Perhaps it would be all right. She could perform a Healing for him without breaking the pact, and, she hoped, without the Others even knowing what she was doing. If he had been one of the elder N’Aarta, she would not dare. She wouldn’t even risk being in the same room with him. But if he was truly part of the later wave, she was safe.

If he was of the later wave, he wasn’t one of the N’Aarta who had imprisoned her and the Others.

“Why don’t you sit down somewhere?” He bent toward her.

“What?” That blasted silence again. He’d somehow moved from the counter to her side without her awareness of his movement.

“We need to check out your leg, put ice on it.” He stood with that listening gravity all N’Aarta possessed, waiting for her to respond.

“My leg.” No. She couldn’t allow this. If he didn’t already know what she was, the sight of her completely healed leg would tell him.  “I don’t need ice.”

He tilted his head. “You’re sure?” Looked blankly at the plastic-covered ice in his hand. Shook his head, glanced up.

Smiled.

The amber lights in his eyes deepened. Every curve and plane of his face brightened. A glow of colors that had no names, that had never had names, emanated from the dip just below the bulge of his thorax. His Light reached toward her, scented her, and knew her. His gaze still resting upon her face, he tossed the bag of ice up over his shoulder, where it sailed across the room in a graceful arc into the sink.

The shattering of the ice brought air back into her lungs. She backed away.

How could she have been so wrong, so blind? How could she not have known who this one was?

“KIPHA!”

****************************************************************************

Damn! Alathea-Elf-lady went all white, like she’d seen a ghost. Mark glanced over his shoulder at the sink. Hey, cool! He’d made the shot. And there wasn’t anything else in the sink so he hadn’t broken anything. He looked back at Alathea. Her eyes widened and she backed away from him.

What had he done?  “Um. Don’t worry, it’s only ice.”

“What?” She still looked at him like he was a serial killer.

Damn. “There wasn’t anything in the sink. Nothing to break.”

She deflated. All the juice just went out of her. She crumpled, folded in on herself.

He’d never seen anyone crumple before. New experience for him. But he caught her as she slid down the wall, like he knew what he was doing, carried her into the living room and set her on the couch.  Now what? He crouched at her side, looked at her face, the thick brush of her lashes, the pale hair streaming across her brow and all the way down to tangle in her fingers. He held his hand beneath her nose. A warm moistness caressed his fingers. Well. At least she was breathing. Her face was a little pale, but not too bad. Maybe he should just wait until she came to again.

He slid his hand over the wooden frame of the couch.

“F#%k!” Shaker. It was real, too: clean spare lines, hand-worked wooden nails in the joints, beveled edges. He’d seen the genuine thing in New York. And he’d swear the rug under his feet was real Aubusson, as well.

H’mmm.  Looked like Alathea did pretty well for herself. He settled at her side and stared.There was something familiar about the planes of her face, something that tugged at him. But what was it? He shrugged and raked at his hair until it stood in spiky tufts. He was sure he’d never met her before last night, er, this morning, that is. And with waist length hair the color of sunlight through honey, nice, neat compact body, pearl and pink skin with a dusting of golden freckles, well, he’d remember meeting a woman like her.

And green eyes. She had green eyes, didn’t she? Suddenly it was really important for him to see her eyes. Were they green or blue? They were light in color; he knew that, but what color? Why wouldn’t she wake up? It hadn’t taken this long for her to come to before. He froze. What if she had a concussion for real, and that was why she kept fainting?

“Damn!” He KNEW he should have insisted she be seen at the hospital. How had she convinced him to take her home instead? He leaned over her and peered at the pulse in her neck, watched the steady beat for a full minute. She didn’t seem to be in any danger right now. Maybe she’d forgotten to eat. That could cause someone to faint. He rose. Must be something in the kitchen he could fix for her. Hell, and for him, too. He was starved. Have to keep an eye on her, though. Make sure her faint doesn’t turn into something worse.

The kitchen was small, compact like the elf-lady. Everything was scaled down, crafted to be within the reach of a small woman. He rifled through the cupboards and plucked Earl Gray tea, Mrs. Morrison’s Scottish shortbread cookies, two cups, plates and spoons out of the depths of her cabinets. The teakettle was on the stove. He flicked on the gas ring underneath it and arranged the cookies on the plates. Hefting two plates full of the cookies and holding one cookie in his mouth, he strode back into the living room and looked down at Alathea. She still lay where he’d placed her. He put the plates on the coffee table in front of the couch and bit off the shortbread. Sweet and buttery, it melted on his tongue. He stuffed another in his mouth and considered.

Well, while she was out like this he could have a look at her leg, see how bad it was.

He reached for her skirt; his hand stopped just over her knee. Should he? What if she woke when he was poking around under her skirt? He drew his lower lip between his teeth. Better not. He touched her shoulder. “Alathea?” She just needed to eat something; that was all. He hoped.

Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she just looked up at him, puzzled.

Green, her eyes were green. But not like other green eyes he’d seen. Alathea’s eyes were the vivid green of fairy rings on the road from Dublin to Connacht . . .

Huh? He attacked his hair again. What made him think that? “How are you feeling?”

She cringed away.

Screw this! He stood, hands held up. “Hey, I don’t know what your problem is, but I won’t hurt you.”  What the hell did she think he was, anyway?

“Give me your word.” She lifted up on one arm; her gaze speared him.

“What?”

“Just your word on it.”

Oh, man. He did not need this. “Yeah, sure. My word.” He crossed his hands on his chest. “I-won’t-hurt-you.”

He started. The words had just billowed out of him in a voice that was his and yet not his at all. F#%k!

She bowed her head and nodded, then rose in one fluid motion. “Thank you for that.”

“Alathea, what the hell is going on?”

“How do you mean? Oh, you brought the cookies out!” She grabbed a shortbread cookie and crammed it into her mouth.

“First I find you all bruised at the side of the freeway . . .”

“It’s not . . .”

His hand sliced the air. “I KNOW IT’S NOT A FREEWAY THERE.” He turned, then turned again. “Would you just f%#king listen???”

She kept chewing and looked up at him, wary again but not cringing away.

“Then I take you to the hospital and your leg is better . . . can I see it?”

“See what?”

“Your injury.”

“Why?”

Damn. He didn’t even know why. “I don’t need this.” He turned, scooping his helmet off the floor as he strode to the door. In the kitchen, the teakettle screeched. “Goodbye, then.”

She just sat there. “Thank you.” Her legs shifted and she leaned forward. “For taking me home.”

“Don’t mention it.” He pulled the door open and walked into the freshening day. The sky glowed blue toward the hills, but above him it washed out to eggshell, and over the ocean it purpled. He jogged to his bike and slung his leg over it. Could he get home before it rained? Damn!

He fingered his keys, then tossed them from hand to hand. Who the hell did she think she was, anyway?  He’d practically saved her life, hadn’t he? Brought her to a hospital. Took her home. And she was AFRAID of him? He threw the keys way up, caught them one-fisted. No, he couldn’t let this go. Had to let her know how pissed off he was.

He loped back to the house and knocked at the door. It opened immediately; he nearly knocked against her head before he drew his hand back.

“Yes?” Those phosphorescent fairy-ring eyes looked up at him.

He scowled. Kicked at the doormat. Cleared his throat. But the words that tumbled out were not what he’d had in mind. “Are you doing something tomorrow night?”

**************************************************************************

How could he not know? Alathea stood in the doorway, staring into the eyes of Kipha, N’Aarta of the first wave, beloved of Marayam. Kipha, who had walked beside Yeshua the Morekala; Yeshua the Light of this world; Yeshua, Who would be Last as He was First.

Had the N’Aarta lost their senses? Were they forsaking their Memory now? She lifted her hand to touch his arm; her fingertips grazed the edge of his sleeve before she backed away.

No. This could not be. Sister Alia kept track of all the N’Aarta who entered dense matter. Alia said most of them were in Konya, Afghanistan or in the Himalayas with Yeshua.

Something must have happened to Kipha. Why else could he no longer Remember?

And was this her task? To bring Kipha back to Himself, back to the N’Aarta he was?

The N’Aarta who would surely kill her.

Alathea gripped the door frame, ready to say words that would send him away, words that would save her and the Others from the N’Aarta wrath. If she could make him leave, she would be safe for a time, could disappear into the world again. There were many places she could go. Onatah had a ranch in Montana, miles from any town. Or Kaeko — Alathea could flee to Saigon and join her sister there, help run the orphanage.  The Others, she must consult them. She should send him away.

She glanced behind her, at the warm haven of her cottage. So hard to leave it. She’d built it herself in 1870. Of course, she’d had to go away periodically and return as her own daughter. She and her sisters all had to do this if they stayed in one place.  She looked through the west bank of windows at the back. Sun caught the edge of the cloud mass that glowered over the ocean, washing deep violet with gold. A breeze slipped through her open window and shivered her ferns, lifted her hair. She turned as the breath of the god of winds flowed over the fine-boned, noble face of the N’Aarta before her.

Maybe she didn’t have to send him away.

It had been so long since they were hunted. She and her sisters stayed hidden in plain sight now. Alia had assured them that it was safe; she swore this! She said the N’Aarta had other tasks. Since the great wars, they had toiled at the side of Yeshua. Surely He still needed them in these times of peril.

But N’Aarta used to hunt all of them: Alia, Kaeko, Mari, Onatah, Kylie and Alathea.  Caves and catacombs once gave the sisters shelter from the roving eye of the winged ones.

No. It must be done.

Alathea lifted her face, ready to deny Kipha, to send him away. To deny him the Healing only she could give. She looked into his eyes. The amber lights were muted now. He was waiting for her answer, not moving, but fine tremors in his thighs spoke of fear.

Fear? But how could a N’Aarta, even one who had forgotten, be afraid of a daughter of Eriod? He could smite her where she stood, with no more than a glance.

It was not always so. In the beginning, N’Aarta and the daughters of Eriod joined in the dance of creation. But the tricks of the Deceiver convinced the winged ones that daughters of Eriod threatened the Morekala, the humans. This world was made for the Morekala. The N’Aarta were their protectors. Any being who threatened the Morekala must die.

Alathea sighed and let her hand slide down the door to drop at her side. She had nothing to fear from the later waves of N’Aarta incarnating on the earth.  The later winged ones did not pay heed to the Deceiver’s lies, to its stories of the daughters of Eriod. Why, oh why did the Being standing before her have to be Kipha, one of the Primes?

She shook her head. A daughter of Eriod would not endanger her sisters. If she was to send him away and flee to the Others, she must first see why he had forgotten, and how he would threaten them.

She bid his eyes meet hers and delved deep into his gaze, opened all her senses, matched his breath with hers. Whenever she breathed with another, matched their rhythm, no secrets could be kept. The diamond body of light resided in the breath; it held no shadows. She wasn’t sure this would work with a N’Aarta. But she must know . . .

****************************************************************************

“So. Are you doing something tomorrow night or what?” And why was she taking so goddamn long to answer? He curled his hands into fists and then straightened them, shaking away tension.

Her eyes were all frosty and remote. He looked away. The upper branches of two tall laurels at the side of her cottage shivered in wind that whipped off the sea now. Shit. Going to rain soon. Air was laden with salt. He’d get f#%king soaked.

He looked back at Alathea. She was still staring at him. Fine tendrils of honey-gold hair stirred around her face. Hell, if she thought she could stare HIM down, she had another thing coming. He settled back on his heels, centered his balance, and fixed his gaze on her eyes. Nobody had ever beat him in a staring contest. He suppressed a smile and lowered his head, maintaining eye contact. Just try it, elf-lady. We’ll see who looks away first. He WOULD get his answer.

At first, it was fun. The periphery of his vision cleared but he couldn’t really see her anymore. Always happened when he fixed a stare. Something about the retina needing motion — fine, small movements — in order to accept the image before the eyes. Alathea had faded into a soft photo-negative blur. Wind still kicked around him but after a while he didn’t hear it. Yet his heart seized him. The pulse surged all the way to his fingertips. And his breath. Shit, his lungs were pumping like a f&#king bellows. When had he started breathing so deeply? It was shifting his body enough to clear his sight.

She sprang into view. At the same time, something grabbed the base of his spine, climbed up his back all the way to his neck in a pinprick scuttle. “Hey!” He reached behind in time to catch a gray and white kitten before the feline left tracks in his scalp. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” He held the kitten in front of him. Damn it was small. Fit in one hand. Was EVERYTHING here miniature? He glanced at Alathea.

Her face was lit from within. Radiant. Glowing. Beaming. So f#$king bright he could barely look at her.  He tuned to the left and caught her smile from the side. Why was she so happy now? “Oh, right.” Shit. “You won.”

She shook her head, this much he was able to catch as he focused on rubbing his thumb over the kitten’s head.

“It was a draw.” Her voice filled the space between them and set his bones rattling.

“Uh!” What the hell was THAT? “Ouch!” The kitten slipped out of his grasp, taking a chunk of his thumb. He lunged after it, but it streaked past the lilacs and under the cottage. “You have a crawl space?” He hadn’t noticed before. Unusual in California. “Alathea?”

She still smiled at him, but the amps were lower, easier for him to take. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?” From a pocket on her gown she extracted a linen handkerchief and wrapped it around his thumb.

“Huh?”

She waved her hand.  “You’d better get your bike in the garage and come on inside.” Fat droplets spattered on the front steps and trickled down his neck. But a warmth curled up from his belly and filled a place around his heart he hadn’t known was empty. He didn’t want to move. A thrumming drone hummed behind him. What was that? Plainchant? Wooden sticks rubbing brass Tibetan bowls? Massive tuning forks? He stood there, rain pattering on his face, dripping off the end of his nose.

“Earth to Mark.”

“What?” He started, ran his hands through hair plastered to his head. “Oh yeah. The bike.” Pivoting on one foot, he executed an about-face and sprinted to his motorcycle.

****************************************************************************

He could carry a tune; that much she could say for him.

Alathea pulled Mark’s jeans and shirt out of her dryer, listening to the hiss of spray from the shower. He’d been in there awfully long. She shook the faded black tee shirt, and frowned at a cluster of holes at the neck. It was silent in the bathroom now, but twenty minutes ago he’d been singing everything from show tunes – Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables appeared to be favorites – to Radiohead and even Sigur Ros. Surely the hot water must have run out. Her heater wasn’t all that large.

She strode to the bathroom door, stopped and listened deep, clutching the shirt and jeans to her chest. No sound, just the spatter of water on the tile.

“Blessed Mother!” She flung the door open, entered the room and twisted the faucets off.

He was asleep, sound asleep, curled up on the floor of her shower. How long had he lain like this?

“Stupid, Alathea, stupid!” She grabbed a bath towel and threw it over his abdomen. “Come on, Kiph, uh, Mark.” Tugging on his arm, she hefted him off the sopping tiles to the bath mat. “Time for bed.” She wrapped the now damp towel around his waist and plucked another from the rack. How could she have forgotten? Reading the Breath always had a price, and he’d been fatigued to begin with.

He blinked up at her. “Bed?”  Ran his fingers through his hair until it stood straight up. “Uh, did I pay you yet?” He patted his hip and scowled at the towel. “Um. My wallet?”

Alathea dragged at his hand until he stood. “We are even. You don’t owe me anything.” She draped his arm over her shoulder and staggered with him into the bedroom. “Here.”

He swayed and stared blankly at the bed.

She drew down the quilt and peeled back the sheets. “Come, now. You need to sleep.”

He nodded and clambered in, drawing his knees nearly to his chest and tucking his hands, folded at the wrist, under his chin.

Alathea pulled the sheets and quilt over him, keeping her gaze away from the towel. It had wandered when he climbed into the bed and now covered nothing of what she’d intended it to cover. She fought the urge to stare, to feast on the long, lean stretch of legs, the tender dip and curve between. But when he was nestled in the bed, she stood looking down at him.

Mortals all looked so innocent when they were asleep. She reached over and ran her fingertip across his cheek, over the roughness of an incipient beard. Did she have any razors?

The pillow twitched. Alathea pushed the pillowcase aside and laughed when her gray kitten bounded out. “Mafu! How did you get in?” She held her hand steady and watched as Mafu sniffed each finger, then the kitten climbed over Mark’s shoulder and settled in at his side.

“I guess you’ll be all right there.” She turned back to Mark.

He slept guarded, legs and arms protecting his belly. Why? Most incarnates slept on their backs or sides. And earlier, he’d been on his stomach. Did her attempt to Read him alert his defenses?  She sighed and slumped on the side of the bed.  Darkness now beckoned at the edges of her vision. The Reading had not taken long, but the price still must be paid by both.

And it was important that she determine he would not be a threat. He would not harm her or the others, not willingly. There was something strange about his effect on her that had eluded her and slipped away when Mafu had climbed up his back and contact had been broken. But she had to think about that later . . .

Her hands tingled and arms took on the weight of lead. She had to make it to the couch before she collapsed. Couldn’t stay near him. When the geis that bound her came to collect its due for the use of her power, she must be away from incarnates.

It would not do to have him wake and find her next to him, cold and not breathing.

She stumbled into the living room. Her knees gave way. The carpet broke her fall, but she couldn’t get back up. She couldn’t even crawl the two feet to the couch.

Here, then. She would rest here. And pray to the Mother that he did not wake before she did.

****************************************************************************

Alathea came back slowly. The Light that was all colors and no color, a Light unlike anything else in the world of form slipped away from her grasp. As always, she struggled to hold on to it, to stay where she truly belonged, in the world unseen. With the Mother Who had spun the hair of God into atoms. With her own mother Eriod, daughter of the One, who had woven atoms the Mother had spun into molecules, into minerals, into elements, into chains of adenine, thymine, guanine, cytosine. Into other chains, too, of dark matter, twisted into Life.

Fought to stay where she belonged, from whence she had come. Before the imprisoning.

But the Light was His. The N’Aarta were His. And she would not fight Him.

The tug of gravity, the long, sucking breath claimed her. She rolled over and moaned, then rubbed at aching eyes and started at the wet tracks on her face. How could she have cried? This body held no life when she was absent. No pulse, no breath.

So where had the tears come from?

“What are you playing at, Alathea?”

Alathea sprang to her feet, legs bent at the knees, fists held ready.

“Calm down.” Sister Mari entered the living room, carrying two cups, steam rising from their tops. “It’s only me.”

Alathea dropped onto the couch. “I thought you were in Sao Paolo.”

Mari sat opposite, placed a cup on the table in front of the couch, nudged it toward Alathea. “Until yesterday, I was.” She turned and tugged at a massive, carved wooden chair, pulling it in front of the table. Lifting her head, she speared Alathea with her gaze. “This chair belonged to the Plantagenet.”

Alathea brought the cup to her lips, smelled the dark honey, the mint and balm. “It did.”

“Thea, Thea.” Mari dropped into the chair and leaned toward her sister. “Why do you keep these things?”

Alathea looked into the face of her sister, so like her own, yet with skin the bronze of Quetzalcoatl’s wing, hair a cloud of black waves, eyes of the raven, a burnished black that harbors the deepest shade of blue. “To honor those who gave them to me.”

Mari shook her head. “All passes here. Everything fades, everything changes.”

“We don’t.”

“All the better to let these things go, then.”

“You have no idea how much I have let go.” Alathea sipped at the tea. “Is he awake?”

Mari stared at Alathea for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head. “He won’t awaken for another hour.” She lifted her own cup. “Why this one?”

“You mean why has he come into my life?”

“Tell me how this happened.” Mari paused. “How you encountered Kipha.”

Alathea sighed. So they already knew, or would know soon. “He was brought to me, Mari.” She stood and padded to the entry of the bedroom. “I had no choice.” He had spread out on the bed, no longer guarded, one arm flung over his eyes, the other cradling Mahu at the crook of his elbow. His chest rose and fell in the deep rhythm of sleep.

Alathea leaned against the door. It was odd how the N’Aarta presence drew. She’d seen Them walk through the crowds at Golgotha, silent and nearly invisible in Their grief. And yet each and every one of the Morekala had felt Their passing, had hugged the anguish and the peace the N’Aarta radiated close to their hearts, had taken this holy fire home and passed it on to others in need of comfort. She’d felt it, too, that day. Though she had already counted her years in the millions, she’d felt Their grieving triumph.

Only One had turned back when she left the slope of the hill where Yeshua was dying, seeking to flee the N’Aarta presence. Only One had halted in His stride, falling behind the other N’Aarta. Only One had looked back, eyes raking the score of Morekala, gaze resting briefly on Alathea, daughter of Eriod.

In that moment, He had known her, had known what she was. And yet He had let her go. “I have no choice, Mari.” She had known him then, had known instantly who he was.

“I will bring this information to Alia, you know this.”

“I know.” She turned to her sister. Mari was afraid; she hung back at the entry. “I would give my eternity for all of you. You must know that.”

“We don’t want it to come to that.”

“Alia said the N’Aarta no longer endangered us.”

“She said they no longer hunted us.” Mari waved at the sleeping Mark. “This is different.”

“I have to heal him, Mari.” Alathea walked into the room. “He’s forgotten Who He is.”  Mafu stirred and stretched, kneading the inside of Mark’s arm with tiny claws. “You’d better go.”

“This may be your final task.” Mari whispered this.

“Blessed Mother, I pray to the One that it will be.” Alathea glanced back, but Mari had already gone.

*****************************************************************************

Something was pricking his arm with at least a dozen needles.

“Shit!” Mark bolted up, grabbing and detaching the gray kitten. “Oh.” He set the kitten down. “You again.”  A teal and gold quilt covered his legs; ivory satin sheets draped his abdomen. He glanced around the room. Apricot walls, warm and peaceful. A lace panel over a large window facing the ocean. Dense fog pearled the windowpane but waves lashing the shore below made a pulsing counterpoint to the kitten’s purr. “What time is it?” No watch. No clock that he could see. And where were his clothes?

“A little after 3:00.” Alathea walked in the room, carrying a tray.

“Uh.” He sat up against the headboard and pulled the sheet higher. “How did I get naked?” His head dipped. “Damn. I mean, did we, did I?”

“You showered.” Alathea placed the tray on a portable bed-table and hefted it across his lap.

“Oh that’s okay then.” He guessed it was, at least. How the hell had he gotten in bed though? Shit. Couldn’t remember. He looked down. His stomach started a conversation. The tray was stacked with everything for an English High Tea: biscuits, crumpets, cucumber sandwiches, gently steaming, fragrant oolong in a classic “brown betty” pot, sugared ginger and . . . “Oh, God.” Scones so fresh he could smell the butter in them.  Apricot jam.  High tea? He peeked up at Alathea. She was settling into a khaki overstuffed Art Deco chair that somehow went with the quilt, the lace, the apricot walls, the ocean tumbling below them.  Well, when he first saw her she did look old-fashioned, though she’d changed from the pseudo-medieval gown into cobalt leggings and a scarlet silk overshirt. Couldn’t detect an accent. Maybe her family was from Great Britain, though from the shape of her face and the cream porcelain of her skin, he’d guess Ireland. He crumbled the edge of a scone and couldn’t stop a soft moan from escaping. Hell, he didn’t care. He was STARVED. Almost drooling.

He lifted a cup. “Minton!” Yes, the elf-lady did all right.  He frowned at the tray. But how the hell had such a little woman lifted this tray over him? Had to weigh at least 25 pounds with all the crockery, food and utensils on it. Oh, well.  He’d think about that later.  He tucked into the meal.

Half-way through the biscuits  — he’d demolished the scones and sandwiches in 5 minutes — he glanced up. Alathea sat there, gray kitten in her lap, watching him. He slugged some tea down to clear his throat and give him time to think of what he wanted to say. How could he get her to go out with him? Not that he was looking for a relationship. No way. But he found her . . . intriguing. How she lived. How she thought about things. No one he knew was so otherwordly and yet so earthy.  He wanted to stick around her. For a time.

“Yes.”

He choked on the tea and held the napkin against his mouth as his eyes streamed. “Say what?”

“I’ll go out with you tomorrow night.” Her hands stroked the cat. The rumble of feline purring filled the air. A few fingers of final sunlight pierced the fog and painted the room pumpkin.

He picked up the tray and set it aside. “Are you sure?” After all, she’d been afraid of him just a few hours ago.

She looked down. Her hair spilled, covering her face. After a long silence she spoke, “I’m sure.”

Okay . . . But it would be on his terms and in his territory. “I’ll pick you up at seven then.” He wrapped the quilt around him and swung his legs over the side. “Oh – do you have a helmet?”

“I’ll find one.”

“Good, and wear jeans, something warm.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You like Italian food?”

“I love it.”

Her eyes were twinkling and she sounded like, like, well, a mother or something. Like he was a kid and she was humoring him. “Well.” He almost said it, almost told her to forget it. But that warmth, the glow that had filled him before, when he stood on her doorstep in the rain, poured up from his nether regions and flooded his heart space. Left him breathless and reeling. “Okay then,” he croaked out. “But I have one more question for you.”

She raised a brow.

“Where the fu . . . where are my clothes?”

******************************************************************************

LA smelled.  No.  It reeked.

Mark pulled the Harley up onto the sidewalk and glanced at the Haiku Gallery. Purple and tangerine neon flared “Japanese Anime.” A cluster of the aspiring-to-be-somebody LA crowd, dressed to compete in Vera Wang, Armani, Gauthier and Prada jammed the sidewalk in front. The Haiku owners were expecting him at 8:00 for the opening. He checked his watch. Five more minutes. He’d made good time.  Killing the engine and swinging his leg off the seat, he unbuckled his helmet and sniffed the air again. A fierce scent. Metallic. Blood.

Not like the air around Alathea’s cottage. They’d parted at the door. He’d known he had to get back to LA. He didn’t break promises and the gallery owner was a friend. Yet he’d stood there looking at her as the minutes ticked away. He’d  taken and held her hands for a long moment, wanting to find some way he could stay. Wind off the sea had blown away the fog and brought a wash of salt-laden air. Cypress and wood smoke blended with the sweet, tart fragrance of lemon thyme growing between the flagstones leading to her cottage. The scent followed him all the way back to his bike as his boots crushed the thyme underneath his heels.

He rotated his shoulders to work out the kinks from wailing down 101 all the way to the Haiku. Lucky CHP didn’t seem to be patrolling tonight. Ticket would be at least $500 if you counted speeding and illegal lane changes.  He’d had to book to make up for the time he’d spent at Alathea’s place.

He swiveled and checked out the area. Never knew when someone would jump out at him. He had his share of stalkers and it was commonly known that he’d be here tonight for the opening.

The street stretched north and south. On the north end, a couple of hookers plied their trade. One dressed in a brief red tank dress leaned into the window of a Mercedes. A little overripe for his tastes, but a good ass. The other bothered him.  Looking at her was like biting on tinfoil. He watched as she turned and readjusted her brassiere. Ah. That was it. The breasts moved as no woman’s breasts would. Transvestite.

He glanced to the south. A couple of fans he recognized from gigs at the Viper stood patiently watching him. He gave a little half-wave and pointed toward the gallery. They jiggled up and down and nodded with enthusiasm. No problem there. They’d wait until he came out and he’d give them an autograph or talk to them for a bit.

It was a shame he had to stay in LA tomorrow. Had a breakfast meeting with the producers of a movie he was considering and a lunch meeting with his agent. Too bad he couldn’t bail. He wanted to be where the air soothed. Where, come spring, roses and lilacs would bloom in abundance. Where even the ground smelled good.

And  tomorrow night, at 7:00 sharp, he’s be there again. Where he wanted to be.

The crowd outside the gallery trickled inside.

Well. He pulled his helmet from his head and shook out his hair. “Showtime.”

*****************************************************************************

The door bell chimed. Alathea glanced at the clock. Punctual. She wouldn’t have expected that of an actor at the level Mark had achieved.

But then, he was Kipha.

She opened the door, fell back. Her hand rose to her throat. Flowers. He’d brought flowers. And not just any flowers; these were antique tea roses, all of them: swollen ivory Sombreuil, double-petaled White Dawn, lemony Perle des Jardin and saffron-apricot buds of Safrano.

He thrust the bouquet into her arms. She dipped her head and swam in the fragrance. All of them from the 1800s. Each and every one of them still grew in her garden. But yesterday he hadn’t gone around to the side where she’d planted them.  How had he known?

“I was going to take you to LA.” He stood scuffing his toe against her mat. “But there’s a great Italian restaurant here, it’s . . . Maria’s.”

“Trattoria Mollie!” She stepped back. “Delightful. Would you like a drink before we go?”

“Um, our reservation is for 7:15.”

“Ah.” He was uncomfortable. That much was evident. He kept his gaze focused on her throat, wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Well then, let’s go.” And he kept scuffing his foot. What was wrong? She opened outward to capture his essence — not to trespass; she would never do that. But they had already combined when she read him yesterday and it was important to have access if she was to heal him.  Her KA, her body of Light, reached out toward him.

And was soundly rebuffed. The contact was so abruptly cut she fell back against the door.

“Are you all right?” He caught her arm as she stumbled. Stared down at his hand. Looked her full in the face, a mixture of wonder and terror blanching his skin.

His hand seared her arm. She tried to look away, but the Aethnae, curse of the daughters of Eriod, the unrelenting flood of yearning washed upward, from the space below her navel to her heart. It set her loins on fire and burned tracks through her arm to where he held her.  Sparks of indigo and rust flared from her arm, swirled, then sunk into his hand.

“AITHKAL!” he shouted, wrenching his hand away. He tucked it under his elbow and backed away. “Alathea.” He looked down and ground his teeth. “What. The. Hell. Is. That???” He could barely speak.

No time for easing him into this, no time to heal him without his conscious knowledge. She sagged against the side of the cottage. Probably not even any time to heal him. No time at all.  He had already spoken in the ancient tongue. Aithkal meant “Fire of God.” He didn’t seem to be aware he’d said that. In the grip of the Aethnae, nothing else mattered, only the surrender to its imperative — the wanting, the melding — or to struggle against its demands.

There was no turning back now. She would have to tell him. And pay the price.

“It’s called the Aethnae.” Each word was won, wrested from deep inside her, dragged from the scarlet tide of need, the liquid and urgent longing.  “It means . . . that which yearns.”

He doubled over, breathing double-time. “Am I . . . heart attack?”

“No.” This much she could give him. “It’s the Aethnae.”

“It has chosen you.”

****************************************************************************

It was like breathing fire-laced aching need.  Mark held his knees and tried to take a breath. No good.  He gulped and the hot ache grew; it scorched a path from his groin out to his toes in a scarlet tidal wave of wanting.

Shit. This was desire on speed. “Ah, shit!” He doubled over and tumbled to the ground, moaning. Make that lust on crack. Goddammit. He turned and drew his legs up. This f&#king hurt. It was as if all the hormone-driven urges of his teens decided to engulf him, only this desire was amped up to massive proportions.

Then it faded, slowed, drained away. He drew in a long breath and coughed. Just like that. It was gone. He sat and looked over at Alathea. She was pale, holding her middle. But not in anywhere near as bad shape as he was.

“You were expecting this.” F&#k this shit. He was out of here. Check into a goddamn hospital, have his ticker monitored. “Wait.” Could she have slipped him something? He’d just arrived. “You drugged me, didn’t you?” Had to be yesterday. Some slow-acting substance.

“No.” She moved away from the wall of the cottage, slowly, like an old lady. “No drugs.”

“Bullshit.” He slashed the air with his hand. “Lady, I am GONE.” He backed away.

She just looked sad. “I wish it was that easy.”

What? “You’re f%#king nuts, you know?”

“I wish that was so.”

He shook his head. “Goodbye Alathea.  It’s been real.” He turned on his heel, strode down the path, but not fast enough.

“You’ll be back.”

Her voice was quiet, but it carried. He kept on walking.

“You won’t be able to help yourself.”

Yeah, right.  He slammed his helmet on his head and ignited the engine, sat gunning it until his balls ached.

Tore out of her driveway and skidded onto the road.

******************************************************************************

Three weeks. Alathea emptied the fifth bedpan and placed it in the sterilizer.  It had been three weeks since Kipha had left. She turned and climbed the basement stairs of the Brinkley Hospice.  A surge of urgent, aching hunger, an agony of wanting so sharp it cut a clean swathe through her caught her at the top of the stairs. The Aethnae. The curse placed upon all of them: Alia, Kaeko, Mari, Onatah, Kylie. And Alathea.  A curse known as “The Calling” that drew a mate to them every thirty years, that compelled them to join, to serve the purpose of the N’Aarta. To create children. Extraordinary children. Children who went on to become great healers, or leaders, or teachers.

Children the daughters of Eriod could never know. Children wrenched from them by the Aethnae.

The flood of longing almost defeated her. She clung to the edge of the door and shut her eyes. God, if it was this bad for her, what must it be like for Kipha?  But he was N’Aarta. Perhaps with distance, he would not be affected at all.

She could only hope. And pray. She could pray.

“Mother.” Her whisper echoed against the metal of the sterilizer and the furnace behind her. “Let this be so.” Let him be free of this. Let this cup pass from his hand . . .  His hand.  When she’d seen him in Jerusalem, Kipha had worn a different form. He was called Symeon then.  But Yeshua knew who he was. It was Yeshua who called him by his N’Aarta name. Yeshua who named Symeon “Kipha,” the rock upon which Yeshua the Morekala would build His church. At that time Kipha’s hands were the hands of a fisherman. Large and square. Strong. Yet gentle.

And he had let her go free. He could have killed her that day. Killed her in a way that erased her forever. Not the little death that the Morekala endured, the death that brought them all back again and again. Not the death that incarnating N’Aarta knew, the death that brought them to full and complete awareness of Their Being. What Kipha could have brought her was the death that would remove her from everything. Total and complete annihilation.

Alathea opened her eyes. The Aethnae was fading, as it always did. It would return, but she would be free for the next hour, free to perform her job, ministering to the needs of the dying. She passed through the door and entered the foyer.

Kipha stood there, helmet in hand. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, amber-sherry eyes darkened. “What time do you get off work?”

No wonder the Aethnae had nearly brought her to her knees. His presence . . . but she had to answer his question. “In an hour.”

He looked down. Nodded. “I’ll come back then.” He turned and reached for the door but his hand fell away before opening it. “When I come back,” he said, through clenched teeth, “I want some answers.” His hands turned the helmet around and around.  His hands . . .

“I will tell you what I can.” Once she had, she would go away, far away. She would not do this. It had to stop here. She would defy the Aethnae. Even if it meant her death, the death of her sisters, she would refuse to give it what it craved. Not with Kipha, who had spared her, so long ago.

Not with Kipha, whom she loved, and had loved for a million years.

****************************************************************************

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

It startled him — that she was in his thoughts all the time. And he was so restless, he couldn’t keep still. He’d burned so many miles in the past three weeks, traveling to San Diego, Palm Springs, way out into the Mojave, he’d had to get the tires changed on his bike.

Even in motion, he thought about her, went over every detail of their meeting, all the moments they’d shared at her cottage. He’d shied away from thinking about what had happened in the hospital. How had she known that man? What had she done to transform him from a tattered street person to a presence with dignity and purpose?

He’d gone over and over the time he’d spent with her, remembering the musical peal of her laugh, the listening stillness of her face when he spoke to her, the cascade of saffron hair that poured around her shoulders, her fine, small-boned form. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve, a code he needed to break.

He would find out who and what she was. And he would go back to his life.

He would NOT fall in love with her.

He sat on a glider on the porch of the Brinkley Hospice, pushing off with his toes to set it rocking. A fresh coat of lemon paint and cream trim sparkled on the clapboard and window frames. He looked down at his watch. Fifteen minutes before she got off work. He draped his arms across the back of the glider. This place was a surprise. When he’d set out to track her down, the mayor — the Mayor, no less! — had directed him to this place. With a technicolor smile, the politician had raved about Santa Barbara’s Alathea Clifford.

It seemed the Clifford family had resided in Santa Barbara for a long time. A very long time, if the pictures in the Carriage and Western Arts Museum were truly of Alathea’s family. They’d been in the area around the time of the Spanish, according to the curator.  Mark had examined each and every picture of the Cliffords, from the portraits by Spanish artists to the sepia prints of the 1800s, all the way up to the present.

Alathea and her family were great philanthropists. Not flashy, but quiet, donating money and time to causes that often were unpopular in their day. Women’s suffrage, early environmental groups, hospitals and hospices all benefited from the time and energy the Cliffords put into them. He’d looked closely at all the records, all the paintings and pictures, looking for a clue to the experience that had somehow grabbed and shaken him to the core.

What he had seen in the pictures spooked him. In each picture was a woman. The hair and style changed, but not the face, never the face.

It was the same woman in every picture. Alathea. And her name never changed, either. She was always Alathea Clifford. When he pointed it out to the Museum Curator, the woman had shrugged and said that throughout the generations, the Cliffords had named the first born girl Alathea. Of course there was a family resemblance. They were all Cliffords.

Why didn’t they see it? Alathea appeared in all the pictures. There were others there, to be sure, a few men and women had stood beside Alathea in the pictures. But it was her, in all the pictures. Alathea Clifford. The woman toiling inside the hospice behind him, changing bed pans, offering comfort, wiping the sweat off dying faces . . . Alathea. His elf-lady.

A wash of the liquid ache that had seized him every few hours since that first moment three weeks ago now flowed from his belly, along his arms and out to his toes. He hunched over and waited for it to pass. It hadn’t been so bad when he was in LA, but here it stole his breath and turned his insides to pulp. Left him weak. And pissed.

But not in love. He couldn’t be in love. It was impossible.

He wanted to STRANGLE her, throttle her for what she had done to him. He’d lost interest in everything else in his life. All that had remained was her.

Alathea.

The door opened with the creak of the spring that kept the screen from slapping back into the frame. Alathea stepped onto the porch.

She looked tired. Beaten, almost. But resolute.

“I know someplace neutral where we can go.”

He waved his hand. “Lead the way.” As she descended the stairs to the sidewalk, he caught her arm. A surge of the hot ache sped up his arm, but he kept his hand in place.

“I’ll have my answers.”

She turned, her profile gilded with the late afternoon tangerine sunlight. “I will tell you.”

***************************************************************************

He’d never been here before.

Alathea stood a bit over ten feet away, facing the ocean. They’d driven north for half an hour. He hadn’t wanted to, was certain that having her so close, her arms wound around him, would be pure torture from this . . . thing that had pulsed out of her and entered him. Shit, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to stay on the bike if it hit him full force. But she’d assured him it wouldn’t. Not for another hour.

And well before the hour was up, she’d pointed to a break in the dunes, a place to ride the bike through. The sky was just a scarlet glow at the horizon, edged by sapphire bleeding into deepest indigo. Central California twilight in November. Leather jacket weather, a nice bite to the air, but clear and tranquil. Oh, and what was that saying? Red in the night . . . whatever.

He’d parked on the scrub, refused to go out onto the sand and risk getting stuck. Sure, he could walk the bike off the sand, but that was a f#@king drag. And he wanted to keep his distance from her.

As soon as he stopped, she hopped off the bike and jogged toward the shore.

He loped after her, but stopped nearly a car length from where she stood. Can’t be too careful. The sun had dropped into the ocean now; night ruled this place. He took in a lungful of salt-tinged air and puffed it out through his mouth, swinging his arms and looking up at the sky. Was that Arcturus there, winking at him? He traced the constellation and smiled. The Lord of the Starfields had blessed them with a clear night. But this was not the time to greet his old friends, Orion, Chiron, Casseopia. This daughter of the Weaver and he must confer. And Yeshua told him, told him, told him . . . What??

He stumbled, flailed his arms, nearly went down on his backside. He caught his balance and held his thighs for a moment, heart pistoning and hands trembling. “F@##kkkk!” What the hell was that? It was like someone else had zipped into his head for a moment. Yet it had felt like him thinking. He straightened and glanced at Alathea. Yes, it had felt like him. Only larger, somehow. Like he knew what she was about to say, what his duty was. And something heavy seemed to sprout from the middle of his back and stretch out twenty feet on either side. “Shit.” He ran his hands through his hair, down over his face, and peered to the right and left. Nothing there but sand and scrub-topped dunes.  Damn, that was weird! He stepped toward Alathea.

“How about my answers?”

“What you are feeling, what is happening is called the Aethnae.”

“I already know that.” He scuffed at a frond of kelp with his toe. “I couldn’t find it in any dictionary, any encyclopedia.”

“It wouldn’t be there. It’s the ancient language . . . It means ‘The Calling’ or ‘That Which Yearns’.”

“Yearns for what?”

She looked down at her hands. “It wants us, wants us to . . .” A long sigh quivered through her. “It will use us.”

“Use me, you mean.”

She startled and glanced up. “Yes.”

“What if I refuse to be used?” He rubbed his neck. Damn! Now his injury ached. “I mean, I’m a free man.” Nothing would use him. He’d die first.

A shadow-smile flitted across her face. “Number six?”

“Who is number one?” Shit. Did he really SAY that? “Let’s cut the crap here.” A flock of pelicans rode low over the waves. He looked up and tracked their flight. Did they really come out at night? He hadn’t known, thought they were diurnal. So beautiful in flight, so ungainly on the ground. Like the N’Aarta when they enter dense matter . . . “Shhhhiiittt.” There it went again. He gave his head a shake and winced when his neck screamed at him.

“Those pictures in the museum. Alathea Clifford. They’re all you.”

She didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

“How?” He stepped closer. “What are you?”

She held up her right hand. “No closer.” Her voice quivered.

He halted. “You said you’d give me my answers.” Dammit, he’d just begun asking his questions.

“In a moment.” She bent and wrapped her arms about her middle. “Here it is. Aithkal, Mother help us!”

This time, it brought him to his knees. Held him in its grip and squeezed. Filled his chest with liquid fire. Melted his loins. He lurched forward, reached out and caught his weight with his left hand. Aithkal! “Thea,” he panted. “Can’t. Catch. Breath.” His heart pattered and slipped. “Help!”

A hand on his hair brought his head up. “Don’t fight it.” She was staggering, could barely stand, but she took his right hand in hers. “It’s too strong right now.”

The iron vise holding his heart eased. “What are you doing?”

“I can take it into myself for a time.” Her eyes closed. The bones in her face sharpened, as if skin was stripped away.

The ache lifted. It swirled through him, from his groin to his right arm, out through his fingers. Into her.

She broke contact and fell over, drew her legs up. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Leave me for a moment.”

He didn’t leave. She couldn’t make him, could she? No way would he leave her in this condition. What if she needed his help? He smoothed the sand beside her and settled onto it, sat watching her. She must have been breathing so shallow that he couldn’t see it. He almost touched her to see if her heart still beat. But her eyes were open. She saw him, he was sure of this.

And he saw her. She lay in front of him, eyes alive and aware. Who was she? Why did she touch a place in him he never knew? A place where certainty and mystery coexisted. A place where guilt-laced sorrow gave way to raw triumph.

A place where forever was not a dream, but an awakening.

He worried, though. She had taken this thing into herself to spare him. How she had done this he didn’t know. But he could see the cost, in the rigid curve of her body, in the bones of her face. If he looked away and back again, her skull overlay her features in a pulsing x-ray.

Yet she didn’t move. He timed it. Twenty minutes this time. A lifetime before she stirred. It was getting worse, as she said. Before this, it had only held them in its grasp for five or ten minutes.

She shuddered and rolled onto her back.

“Is it gone?”

She nodded. “For now.”

“You’re sure, this thing, this . . . what did you call it?”

“Aethnae.” She was weak. Her eyes followed something he couldn’t see.

“Okay, this thing that would make me want to, um, HAVE you?” He edged closer. “It’s really gone.”

“For the moment.” She raised a shaking hand to her brow.

“Good.” He took her into his arms. “Then this is NOT the Aethnae. THIS . . .” He dipped down and claimed her mouth, ran his lips along her cheek, down her neck, back to her lips, where he breathed, “is ME!”

***************************************************************************

Firm and yielding all at once, Kipha’s lips grazed her face. He rubbed his cheek everywhere — over her neck, her ears, her head, her eyes. He lingered on her mouth, tongue moistening the contours of her lips. His hands burrowed under her flannel shirt and he traced the edges of her brassiere, dipping underneath to flick each swollen nipple. A shiver grew below her heart and moved outward, carrying the honeyed ache he’d started in her breasts to the tips of her fingers.

Air caught in her throat as she grasped the back of his head, fingers tangling in the coarse strands of dark hair. Kipha. This was Kipha. The N’Aarta she’d watched for millenia, cloaking herself in shadows so he would not see her, hiding amidst the Morekala to avoid capture and certain death at his hands. How long had she wanted to touch him? All those years of watching and wanting. Ah, Mother, why had the Aethnae chosen him? This could not be. She would not allow it to use him. But for now, for now . . . She would rest here a while, the weight of Kipha’s mortal body pressing her into the sand; his breath on her skin.

She followed the curve of his cheek with her mouth as he nestled into the space between her shoulder and neck, heating her skin with his breath. She replied in kind, delving into the tender curves of his left ear with her tongue, nipping at the sweet pillow of his earlobe.

“Unnhhhh.” He startled, groaned and lifted, gazing down at her. The deep sherry-amber of his eyes flared. His neck bent; he nuzzled her face. She placed her fingers against his mouth, tracing the full lower swell of his lip with her thumb. “We should not.”

He straightened, propping his weight on his elbows. “How long?” He took her thumb in his mouth and nibbled.

Warmth poured up her thumb, through her hand and arm, ignited her heart and drained liquid fire into her loins. “What?” She was breathless.

So was he. His chest pumped double-time, crushing her deeper into the crumbling sand. “How long have we got before it returns?” His voice had deepened to a rumble that shook Alathea from her head to her toes.

“I . . . don’t know.” She’d never shared her body in the absence of the demands of the Aethnae. Not once in the millions of years she’d been imprisoned here among the Morekala. Once the Aethnae took hold, its greed was enormous. She had no experience of love making without its frenzy.

But she wanted Kipha without the flame of the Aethnae’s hunger. Wanted to link her KA with his, to interpenetrate his body of Light with hers. This, she could give him. They all could do this — Alia, Kaeko, Mari, Onatah and Kylie — could all give this gift of themselves, to truly take their lovers inside.

She could do this. He would feel her, she would feel him as if they had switched bodies . . . No. What was it Alia had said? It was as if they had merged and were truly one. He would feel her feeling him . . . feeling her.

But Alathea had never done this, not with any of the hundreds of thousands the Aethnae had chosen. Why?

She’d never thought to question this. Yet Alia took lovers when the Aethnae did not hold her in its hand. The others did also. Why hadn’t Alathea?

No matter. She couldn’t think while his mouth kindled a blaze that built until every inch seared. Until the ache inside her mounted to a conflagration.

This she would give him.

****************************************************************************

He wanted to take his time. This is what he always did; sometimes he thought it was what he did best: to make loving a slow and delicious slide toward completion, to play a woman’s body like the finest cello, or to savor her, like the most robust and fragrant red wine.

He started at Alathea’s forehead — tasting, nibbling, kissing, caressing — and traveled downward with his mouth and hands. Her hands were busy, too, tracing the length of his back, his arms, down to his hips, reaching inward to tug at the zipper of his jeans. Everywhere she touched, streaks of fluid, urgent ache followed, igniting him until all he could do was touch and grunt as he sucked at her ears, her neck, and on down to the swell of her breasts.

She had her own taste — it reminded him of the shadow and silk flavor of a fine Bordeaux from the time of Napoleon, sold to some millionaire and decanted for a charity dinner. He’d only had a sip, but he never forgot it.

The fleeting reverie stopped his stroking of her neck, where her pulse trembled against his thumbs.

Who the hell did he think he was? The woman writhing underneath him, setting his groin from “stop engines” to “engage, warp six” most likely was around when Napoleon reigned. He rose onto his elbows and looked down at her. Hell, he would think about that later. Right now he was skating dangerously on the edge of premature ejaculation. Time to ratchet this down until he got her closer.

She stopped writhing. “We can’t, can’t . . . ”

“Oh, yeah.” He rolled off and dug into his pockets. “Hey, aren’t immortals sterile? Don’t have to worry about AIDS, right?” He glanced over at her. She wasn’t smiling. “Sorry! I didn’t mean, that is . . .” Shit, where were his condoms? He seesawed on the scrub, catching a dried pod of beached kelp with his foot. “I know I have some.” He never went anywhere without protection.

She took his hand as he turned his pockets inside out. “It’s not your fault.”

“But I put some in there just this morning!” Or had he? He couldn’t remember.

“The Aethnae would not allow it.”

“How do I get that SHIT out of my head??” He lurched to his feet and stood leaning over, grasping his thighs. “Dammit, Alathea.” Now it had prevented him from stuffing prophylactics in his pockets? What else was this Aethnae doing to him?

“There is one thing we can do.” She beckoned, reached until she grasped his hand and tugged him down onto the sand and kelp beside her. “Then I promise you,” she touched his lips with her fingers, her thumb giving his lower lip a caress that sent a shiver all the way to his toes, “this will be over and you will be free.”

He started. Damn! He wanted to be free, didn’t he? Never wanted anything to have dominion over him. Not ever. And he had a task to fulfill. But there was something wrong here, some cost he couldn’t grasp. He shook his head until his teeth rattled. Dominion? Task? Shit, there it was again — his head was doing the thinking but those weren’t really his thoughts. Or were they? “I’ll be free.”

“Yes.” She pulled at his arm. “Lay on your back.”

He stretched out on the sand. The aroma of dried kelp — part fish, part medicinal tang — puffed around his arms and legs.

At first, she didn’t move, just sat there gazing at him. As if she was memorizing every inch. Her head lifted, chest expanded with a breath that seemed to go on forever. She spread her arms in a curve he’d seen in ancient statues of Diana, embracing the sky.

“Alathea?”

She smiled and climbed on, straddling his hips, Portia di Rossi hair streaming all around him.

“Let me take the lead.”

*****************************************************************************

Golden. Kipha’s skin was pale gold this time, this incarnation. Smooth and hard, yet pliant, warm and yielding under her hands. Alathea lifted his sweatshirt, tugged it off and leaned over, breathing her KA, her Diamond Body of Light, all over his torso, from the indentation at the hollow of his throat, out to the swell of his shoulders and downward. A low groan erupted from deep within Kipha at each puff of her breath. When she reached his flat male nipples, she used tongue and teeth, pulling at the sparse wiry dark hair that trailed from each, wetting the puckered tips and breathing her KA into their depths.

His own Diamond Body was emerging, brought forth by her call, sparkling brilliant and sun-bright in answer to the indigo fire of her KA. She nuzzled his ribs and blew into the region around his navel, her tongue tracing a long, puckered scar he’d acquired that stretched from just below his breastbone to the edge of his jeans. She gave a gentle, playful tug on the abundant dark hair peeking over the side of his underwear and he gave a laughing grunt in reply.

He lunged and grabbed at her head, pulling her face up to his mouth where he pried her lips apart and entered with his tongue as the swelling in his loins pressed in desperate yearning against her. “Please,” he breathed.

“Too soon.” She straightened and pushed him back down, lifted his arms and smiled at the sparking lights trickling off his fingers. Good. She’d awakened the KA. Now all she needed to do was to guide him from his body. She glanced back at the motorcycle. It was hidden from the road by the swell of a dune. Their bodies should be safe here for a time.

But first she had to ensure that his cord would stay completely attached — enough to pull him back to his body. The lure of the Door between the worlds, the Light that was all colors and no color, the Light that dreamed and sang and breathed, the Light imbued with Forever was always too great for Morekala. Once they knew this Light it took Yeshua to bring them back. She wasn’t sure this was so for the incarnating N’Aarta, but she couldn’t take the chance that Kipha would not be able to bathe in the Light of God and still agree to return to the prison of his mortal form.

Alathea knelt and peeled Kipha’s jeans and underwear from his fine long legs and muscular thighs. She breathed KA into his toes, ankles, the backs of his knees, all the way up to his straining member. He now uttered a low rumbling plea filled with words that were from the ancient tongue, all entreating variations of “please, for the Love of the One.” She stood and pulsed a binding burst of KA into the serpent coil arising from his navel, the golden cord that bound the N’Aarta to his form. This would assure his return.

She needn’t worry about her ability to return to the flesh prison of her form that would be lying on the sand. The geis, the curse would propel her back.

A geis Kipha himself had set.

For a moment she paused. A shadow passed across the sky. She glanced up and cringed, but it was only one of the Mother’s creatures, a great heron, winging its way over the shore.

What if taking Kipha from his form released his Memory, freed the massive wings, triggered the aeons-old hunt? She backed away, staring at the swirl of lemon and saffron KA coalescing into Kipha’s Diamond Form.

But wasn’t this what she wanted? To finally be released from her prison?

Even if that release meant the dispersion of all her forms, the dense matter prison, the KA, the Sephira? Scattered, so that even the Mother could not weave Alathea back into existence.

She extended a trembling hand toward Kipha. Already his KA had loosened its hold on his dense matter form. He was struggling to rise up out of it. She separated from her body and watched it tumble to the sand beside his.

He lifted and floated, turned. Reached for her with the fine long-fingered hand that was a double of his body, formed in Light.

She met his hand with her own.

For this time with Kipha she would risk it; she would pay the price.

Their hands joined, melted into one another.

It had begun.

****************************************************************************

How the hell did he get here? Two feet off the ground. Left hand practically welded to Alathea’s right hand.

He twisted and jiggled. Hell – he was floating!  Shit on a stick! Oh, man! His first O.B.E.!  Complete dead-on out-of-body experience. Cool! He glanced at some kind of bundle resting below his toes. “Hey, Thea! Check this out.”

He twirled and stared down, then leaped up, spinning and smacking headlong into Alathea. “Watch it.” She slowed the rotation and floated them back.  “No need to fear. Go ahead and look.”

Two bodies lay clumped side-by-side on the sand.  A “his and hers” matching set; Alathea’s curled on her side, his flat on his back. Shit.  Did he really look that whacked?  He windmilled his right arm and somehow that brought him closer.

Damn! When had he last shaved? “Whoa!” He did a little twisty-thing and found himself staring into Alathea’s eyes. She was floating above the ground with him. And she was edged in light that was blue and purple together — not mixed exactly, but blue-purple-blue-purple. Bluepurple! He barked out a laugh and startled again when his laugh echoed back at him. “What the!” He stared at his right hand. While Alathea was edged in bluepurple, his contours bled gold.

“Not fair.”

“What?”

“You get two colors, I only get one.”

Her laughter pealed. He shivered. She’d sounded like the bells at Chartres before. Now her voice had the resonance of a thousand Tibetan singing bowls. A chiming that seemed to clutch at his loins and ignite his nether regions.

He looked down. Alathea still held onto his left hand. Well, no, his hand and Alathea’s were joined, one blending into the other.  And it felt – oh, God it felt good! A wash of pleasure the size of Niagra coursed up his left arm and curled his toes. “Wait!” He waved his legs; his right foot bumped against Alathea’s calf. “How can I be feeling anything? My body is down there.”

“This is your body, too.” She tugged at his hand and stars burst from his groin all the way to the back of his eyes.

“How come we have clothes?” His tee shirt was rumpled, but it covered his chest; his jeans were unbuttoned but still encased his legs and pelvis.

She blinked. Her clothes disappeared. Alathea Elf-Lady in all her glory. Lady Godiva clothed in a blanket of hair. Shimmering, from the full globes of her breasts all the way to her toes.

“Whoa! Can I do that?”

“You can. Just think . . . naked.”

He stared at his chest until his kind-of-sort-of eyes bulged. Tee shirt didn’t go away. “What do I do?”

She pulled away from his hand and tugged his shirt over his head. “Sometimes you need to keep your illusions.”

He fingered his chest, poking at his scars. “Why do I look just like I look down there?”

“This body is a duplicate.” She caressed his arm and a dense craving, tinged with bliss crept up to his heart. “Some call it the doppelganger or vardoker.”  Her hand dropped to his thigh. A series of discrete pulses of aching splendor jolted his loins. “It just answers to different laws.”

“Does it answer to the Aethnae?”

A smile lit her face from within, her sapphire-laced light burst all around him until he could barely see. “No. It does not.”

She passed her hand over his face. His vision cleared. “It’s just you and me here. And this,” she closed her eyes, “is ME.” She took both his hands now.

He watched her face, the curve of cheek, eyes jittering behind . . . lids? But how could he see without eyes, hear without ears? How could she? What was her real form like?

And what was his real form?

Her wanting took him by surprise, building so slowly he couldn’t differentiate it from the hot ache ever-present in his loins. It started as a hunger, a yearning, a wanting-to-be-filled, needing to be filled, HAVING to be filled. She reached up and brushed his nipples, kindling an urgent, tingling fervor to possess.

His clothes dissolved.

He didn’t even think about it. Somehow this body was as real as the one below on the sand. He bent and took her mouth, grabbed her behind, pulled her up and wrapped her legs around his waist. Felt her feeling him enter her. “Ah, God!” The spear and the cup joined, one and the same.

They catapulted into the sky. Clouds swirled, leaving tattered lace droplets on their limbs. The moon rode the heavens, bathing them in silver light. He entered and was entered. Every place he touched her he felt it too. When he sucked on her breast it was almost too much, almost brought him to the edge, almost . . .

Then there was no distinction between them: where his form left off and hers began. Yet they were separate, hungry and needing, melding. The throb of longing swelled until he couldn’t stand it. He pulled away and shouted, “Nimratha!” stared into her eyes as fulfillment convulsed them.

Kept her close in, held against his chest, no longer one, separate now as they spun among the diamond scattering of stars.

****************************************************************************

The breath went on forever, swelling her lungs, searing her throat. The first gulp of air when she dropped back into her body always burned. But this time it was also sweet with the chill night, the tiny specks of sea foam hurled onto the shore, the vibrant complaint of gulls.

Gulls at this hour? Storm must have chased them in. Time to move.

Alathea rolled over and wiped tears from her face. Damn! Why did her body cry now when she left it? It never did before. She turned to where Kipha was rising. “Slowly.” She took his arm and startled at the clammy slickness of his skin.

“Stupid, Alathea.” She jumped to her feet and gathered his clothes, rubbed at his limbs with her shirt. “Very stupid.”

“Huh?”

“Your mortal body lay here uncovered while I took you away.”

“But I had clothes on when I was . . . without a body?” He stared at her, sherry eyes flaming. “Where the hell were we?”

“Let’s get you warm first.”

“No.” He grabbed her arm. “I want my answers now.” With his other hand he tugged his underwear over his knees and wiggled into it.

She pulled away from his grasp, handed him his jeans and jacket, averting her eyes from the long stretch of limb, the fine-boned face. “I am a daughter of Eriod.”

“So now I know your mom’s name.” He shrugged into his leather jacket. “So what?”

“You are a N’Aarta.”

He straightened. His eyes widened. “What?” The word was breathed, low and husky.

“We are enemies, you and I.” She rose and offered her hand to help him up.

“Why do I feel that I don’t want to hear this?”  He stood there, solemn in his N’Aarta stillness.

“Want to or not, we need to get back to my cottage if you will hear the rest.” She glanced up and down the shoreline. “I’ve tricked the Aethnae but it won’t stay away forever.

He stood looking at her for a long moment. The rhythmic pounding of the breakers on the shore was louder than when they first arrived. Alathea turned, keeping him in her peripheral line of sight. Tide was coming in. The water was only inches away now. They’d returned to their bodies just in time.

“Let’s go back then.” He extended his hand. “I’ll take you home.” She took it without thinking.

His grasp was warm; Power thrummed underneath the surface of his skin. It bled into her hand and crawled up her arm, settling in the space surrounding her heart.

“I will go with you.” She looked into his face. It had begun. The living statue countenance, the sign of a N’Aarta, seized his features and bestowed the mark of God upon him.

It was time.

“Kipha, N’Aarta of the first wave, Beloved of Maryam, Keeper of the Heart.”

“Methala!” Kipha’s eyes flared amber-saffron.  Hand still gripping hers, he bent, chest laboring. An immense shudder shot through his limbs, nearly bringing them both to the ground.

Alathea watched as Kipha struggled to contain the full descent of his Self into dense matter. He seemed to grow larger, though the dimensions of his earthly form remained the same. His thighs buckled but he caught his stumble and stayed on his feet.

“You need to find your center, Kipha.” She’d heard of this but had never witnessed it. Of the sisters, only Alia had seen the process of the N’Aarta fully incarnating, bringing their eternal Selves into dense matter. Alia had told her it hurt them . . .

Alathea believed this. Fine tremors radiated from his hand, shaking her to her toes as Kipha fought to control the pain. She reached out slowly, ran her fingers through his hair and across his brow. “Your center, Kipha. You can find it.”

He stilled. His shoulders straightened, knees unlocked. He breathed.

When he lifted his head, a quiver gripped her spine, chilled her heart.

“You have tricked me, daughter of Eriod.” The voice was that of the actor and yet it was not. It rolled out in a flood of power that had her hair standing on end. “Weeks ago, you had me give my word to not harm you.”

“Can you blame me?” She dampened the ice that danced through her limbs. “You were brought to me.” She tugged on her hand. He held it for another minute; then released it. “Should I have fled? Should I have rejected the Calling?”

He drew himself up. Though the wings were not in dense matter, they each stretched twenty feet to either side of him. “I must think.” He extended his hand again. “Come with me.”

She looked away. “Where?”

He shrugged, a gesture that was mortal and yet imbued with the intensity of his N’Aarta force. “To your cottage if you wish.” His eyes flared again. “I gave my word . . . Alathea.” The voice softened, he reached for her again.

His use of her name unraveled the grinding lump of terror that had settled midway between her throat and her heart.  Isn’t this what she wanted? “I will go with you.”

To be with Kipha until her ending?

****************************************************************************

Kipha ran his hand over the volumes in Alathea’s bookcase. Many were immensely old, first editions with fragile pages. Why did she keep these? Surely a museum would be a better place to store them, a place where others could see them. His finger caught on one and he pulled it out. He stood holding the book in his hands, listening to the sound of the shower.  Alathea had gone directly to the bathroom when they arrived, saying she needed to cleanse the sand and kelp off her dense matter form.

The bathroom had a window opening out onto the garden. How he knew this he wasn’t sure; his life as the actor still swirled inside him and had not yet settled.  At moments he slipped back into that life, thought the way he would have before the Change.  He’d even felt the liquid fire, the urgent need of the Aethnae, when they were pelting down the freeway on the bike, felt it as Alathea’s small arms tightened around his middle, as the softness of her breasts pressed hard against his back. It had caught him by surprise, grabbed his loins and caused him to swerve.

But Kipha had quelled it, straightened the bike and pushed on. The Aethnae had served HIM, had served all the N’Aarta, for millions of years. HE was the master. It had retreated under the force of his will, but he sensed it now, circling the cottage, waiting for a moment of weakness to clutch at his groin and force him to his knees. To his knees?  Never!  He was Kipha, Keeper of the Heart. The Aethnae must answer to HIM; he would not allow it to slip past his will.

How humiliating to have been locked in its grasp.  Even for a moment.

He tilted his head. Water still rushed through the pipes.

A window that opened meant possible flight. But Alathea would not be able to escape him. The minute she left the cottage, he would know. And he was faster than Alathea. She could not outrun him. He looked down. The pages of the book fell open in an accordion trickle. He stopped it with his forefinger at the front and read a handwritten passage there.

To my Lady, Your devoted servant, Percy, 1820

So. A poem to Alathea from the poet Shelley. Had Shelley known? The poet must have suspected something. And there was something about this poem. Some message. Kipha had seen it before. It had been a favorite of his. But when?  He drew a breath and and whispered,

The Spirit he loves remains . . . Kipha rubbed the crease between his brows. Too long ago. He was sure of this.  And this was why Alathea kept these things around her.

They were mementos. The books, from many of the years she had existed in dense matter. He’d bet there was a cabinet with papyri and even older writings. The Shaker couch was mid-1700s. He didn’t know how it had come to her. Yeshua had needed Kipha then and he couldn’t keep track of Alathea and take on the tasks Yeshua put before him. He glanced over at the massive, carved dark wood chair. The Plantagenet — Kipha had been there in the shadows when Alathea took the name of Rosamond and bewitched a King.

No. He must be fair. It was the Aethnae that chose Henry Plantagenet. Once their child had been born, in secret so its life would not be taken by overzealous champions of Eleanor, Kipha had allowed Alathea the seven years she’d been promised. Seven years with her child. Only seven years. At the end of the seventh year, Kipha had stepped in and made sure Alathea left her child and lover. He had thrust Alathea, pushed her out of her dense matter body long enough for Henry to bury her.

It was Kipha who had removed her dense matter form from its grave, calling her forth, forcing the breath of life into her, and stepping back into the shadows as she rose from the earth. So she would not know he was there.

He snapped the book shut and held it in his hands. He’d had great hopes for that child. But God had decreed that the secret offspring of Henry Plantagenet and Rosamond Clifford would not become the great teacher and leader Kipha had envisioned.

Pride.

Kipha pushed the book against his forehead, pressed the spine of it between his eyes. Pride always tripped him. He’d thought that lesson had been truly learned, there outside the Temple in Jerusalem. He lowered the book and smoothed the page he’d rumpled. A chuckle escaped him, rolled out and filled the room with mirth. Who was he to say when he’d learned enough and when he had not? Only the One had a right to say when the job was done.

But what of Alathea? What was he to do? She knew. She knew him. She had called him forth this time.  How could he carry out his orders?  He’d stayed in the background for millennia, letting her watch him when she would, watching her and making certain she did not know he saw her.  And all to keep her safe from the fire he could bring, a fire that would consume her. He was sworn to kill her, to destroy her if they ever met in the open. Yet in this very cottage he had given his word he would not harm her.

How could he have forgotten who he was for so long?  None of the primes ever forgot. The later N’Aarta, like Josael, often forgot. Sometimes these N’Aarta spent entire lifetimes without a clue about who they were, what they needed to do.

It was this that bothered him — the tremendous waste of an incarnation. He could barely believe that over three decades had gone by and he hadn’t remembered.

The room seemed smaller to him, constricting.

He needed to be on a mountain. Somewhere above the tree line, where the bones of the earth stood clear and spare. A place where he could breathe.

The rush of water from the shower stopped. He listened closely now, for the catch of the latch on the window. But the door opened and Alathea stepped out, clothed only in an ankle-length silk robe of purest blue.

His throat contracted.  The book fell from his hands.

**************************************************************************

“Are you hungry?”

“Hungry.” Not for food. The prowling Aethnae surged into him and set his bones shaking with the effort to expel it.  He managed to thrust it out, send it spinning away before it propelled him toward her.

She brushed past him, silk robe sliding in time with her motion, bent and picked up the book he’d dropped. “I’ll fix us something.” Oils from the oldest Temple, scents of the sky gods  — myrrh, sandalwood, spikenard, cedar, acacia, and something else he couldn’t identify, something that settled the quiver in his gut — ascended from the heat of her skin and grazed his face.

“No meat.”

“I remember.”  She looked at him then, a half-musing, half grieving glance, and disappeared into the kitchen.

He followed her.

It was a miracle, watching her prepare their meal. Smooth, flowing motion, economy of movement, chopping lemon grass and sprinkling fresh thyme, braising the onions and fresh peppers, both green and red, the coriander. Bringing a pan of broth to a boil and stirring spinach noodles, testing until they were firm, not too soft, not too hard. Dumping the drained noodles into the pan with the browning vegetables.  Pouring the dusky remnants of a bottle of Chateau Neuf de Pape over the sizzling mix.

He always loved watching Maryam cook.

Maryam? But where was his Other?

He turned and quested for her essence. His twin. They used to incarnate in sequence, one in dense matter, the other remaining in the Diamond Body. But where was she? A frisson tickled his neck and slithered down the length of his spine. “Maryam?”

Alathea paused, finger in her mouth, sucking off the remnants of spattered olive oil. “What is wrong, Kipha?”

He turned toward her, shaken. Angry. “I can’t find her.” He fought the urge to take the daughter of Eriod and shake her. “What have you done to Maryam?” Draw her into his arms. Kiss her. Penetrate. Take. He dampened the urge. Yet it remained.

She stared at him, eyes wide. “Don’t you know? Can’t you remember?”

“Remember what?”

She froze, metal spatula gripped in her right hand. “Maryam is incarnate, like you.  You have not been incarnating in tandem since Yeshua’s time.” The spatula quivered. “It was time for you to both take incarnation.”

He looked down. His hands were knitted into fists. Somehow he had broached the distance between them and stood nose to nose with her.

Her eyes darkened, yet she stood her ground. “You don’t know who she is. She is hidden from you. No wonder you’ve forgotten! You have no guide.”

Scent from the Temple oils rose and filled him. “No.” He reached and touched her forehead, smoothed back the fine honey curls that sprang from heat and moisture. “It means she is not here.” He leaned forward, drew a line from her temple to her neck with his lips. “I need no guide, Alathea.”

She clutched the dial and turned off the gas. The spatula clattered to the floor.

***************************************************************************

Kipha’s long arms encircled and crushed her, pulled her against him so hard they both tumbled to the polished wooden floor. He didn’t even flinch; his mouth seized hers and his tongue plunged into her depths. She met his fervor with her own, matched it, tasted him, his lips; the hot demand of his mouth. A groan rumbled up from his chest and trembled on her lips; his loins thrust up into the thin silk of her robe, parting her legs and burning the unfolding moistness there, meeting the fury of her need.

She broke contact and raised her head, looked down on him in astonishment. Her need. Hers, not the Aethnae. “How did you banish it?”

Something uncoiled and flickered behind his eyes. Alathea took his face between her hands. Such eyes, such power.  Dark, focused N’Aarta eyes, fiery and searching.

Enraged eyes.

But she was ready for him, ready for the end that would surely come. “How did you send the Aethnae away?” she whispered.

“I am it’s Master.” He grasped her, rolled her to the side and slid his mouth down to her breasts, tongue flicking each nipple one by one, igniting a path that rushed to her core and set her panting. He pressed into her belly and slid downward to her woman’s cleft, rubbed his face from side to side, breathing in her scent and rasping against the swollen nub of her arousal.

“Kipha Kipha Kipha . . . KIPHA!” She shook with the need to have him enter her. “We must . . . we have to . . .” Her body had been primed by the Aethnae for weeks now; they must prevent . . .

“No!” He tore the front of her robe and settled his hand on the space between her legs, rubbing until she sobbed. “I am Kipha of the N’Aarta.” He ripped his zipper down and bulged out of the opening. “Daughter of Eriod, you will bend to ME!” He grabbed her behind and lifted her whole.

*****************************************************************************

Her legs wrapped around his hips. Aithkal! She was hot and ready. Dark scent from the oils and her trembling need stole his breath. His own need coiled at the base of his spine and drove outward to his fingertips; everything in his body ached, everything rejoiced.

He pushed her open with his fingers, pulled her close and forced all of his length inside.  Sank into her. All of it, every inch, until he went blind with the need to thrust, to drive both of them across the razor edge of wanting. To ride her. Bring her up again and again.

To rend her, tear her into pieces, annihilate her . . .

What?

No.  He would not.

Kipha released Alathea, braced his hands on either side and leaned over her. Breathed the rage away, sucked it from the depths and set it loose.

Looked down at her face.

She was crying.

“Alathea?” He drew her up and held her against his chest. “I gave my word I would not harm you.”

“It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

“There cannot be . . . I cannot,” she choked, “I couldn’t leave a child that is yours, Kipha.” Each word was torn from her throat through the sobs. “And you know I would have to.” Her voice dwindled. “After seven years.” She looked up at him, tears diamond-bright in her eyes. “Unless . . . There is a way?”

The tears nearly unmanned him. He tucked her head under his chin and rocked her as her sobs dwindled. Was there a way they could break the geis? He’d already defeated the Aethnae. But would the One allow her to remain with a child from his loins? He dived inward, plunged through the Door between the worlds of dense matter and the outer realms, to the Halls of Forever. Listened for the golden voice of his Maryam.

Silence. Unbroken. Not even the Song of Adoration, the unending paean to God that his Kind sang. He couldn’t hear it, couldn’t feel its pulse in his veins.

“Damn,” he breathed. “Alathea, I don’t know.” He stroked the heavy weight of her hair. “Maryam is not here to give guidance.” Without Maryam he couldn’t even contact the other N’Aarta for answers.

“Then we cannot join.” The steel was back in her voice. She pulled away and stood, smoothing the ragged edges of her robe where he had torn it.

It was this he had first noticed in her; the refusal to use her power for gain, the bone-deep virtue that led her to live on the fringes, working alongside the Morekala, not profiting from her labor beyond her immediate needs. The iron will. Among the Daughters of Eriod, only Alalthea and Alia lived this way, in complete and unbending service to their code.

It was this same virtue that now set his teeth grinding. If she were Mari or Kylie, she would use his desire, would take his seed.

And in so doing, she would hold him in her hand.

He stood and caught her chin. “You know that I can’t be here and not make love to you.” Even now he burned to lift her and slide into the honeyed sweetness between her legs. He bent and placed his lips on hers.

She turned her head. “You banished the Aethnae. Could you make use of what it would not allow?”

“Of course.” He backed away. “You have some sheep’s gut?”

“Sheep’s gut!” She bent over with laughter. “Kipha!” She took his hand and led him to her bed chamber. “Will this do?” She tossed him a foil-wrapped packet. “You left these here weeks ago.”

“Did I?” He fingered the packet. “I . . .” He hadn’t yet melded with his incarnation. The life of the actor was buried deep within. “I don’t remember.” The motorcycle. He’d been able to make it function just a short time ago. But now he had no idea if he could do so again. What was happening? He’d been sure he could suppress the life of the actor, the memories of his incarnation and pluck them out at will. He looked down at his hands, at the long fingers. They were his, he knew this. Yet he could not recall his childhood, how he came to be the man he was now.

“I will help.” Alathea took the packet from him and ripped the foil.

“You will?” Could she help him remember?

“It works like this.”

“What?” He sucked in his breath as she reached, caressing him to full swell. She tugged the thin membrane over him.

Her hands now trailed up his chest, fingers roughing his nipples; electric pulses shot to his groin and found answer in the swollen tip of his member.  He grabbed her bottom and pulled her up, pinioned her as her legs wrapped around his waist, groaned as she shuddered. “Thea,” he whispered against her lips before he claimed her with his mouth as well.

She met his need, rocking with his motion, full breasts straining through the silk of her robe. “Kipha. Now!” She broke away from his kiss, stared into his face. Her eyes had turned dark, the green of deep forest. “Kipha. Ah!!!”

And he knew her, felt her, the wanting to be filled, to embrace all of him; felt him fill her, the fire between her legs when he reached down and touched her.

A liquid ache pulsed in fury as he thrust. “Thea . . .” He tightened and grew still. “With me.” He groaned as she kept moving, rubbing against him. “Please.”

She threw her head back and shook with the force of her completion.

He let loose a hoarse shout of triumph as his seed spilled.

They tumbled backward onto the bed, rolled and came to rest.

Side by side.

*************************************************************************

Kipha slept. A dream skidded across his face; his eyelids jiggled. His brows first raised, then drew together.

Alathea bent over him, holding the empty cup of meadowsweet and balm she’d made. He’d drained it last night, thirsty after the number of times they had joined — by the bed, in the living room, again in the kitchen after she’d fed him and finally on the bed. She’d laughed and said, “Kipha you are insatiable.”

He’d grinned and said, “I’m making up for all the years we lost.”

It cast an arrow through her heart to hear him say this. He really thought the other Primes would let them stay together. As if all the years of hunting could be dismissed in one night. As if Kipha could keep her safe from them.

Sometimes the Winged Ones could be so blind.

But it was curious, how much she wanted to believe that she could stay with him. She, who had been in dense matter for millennia, knew both the curse and the blessing of the long years. Immortality gave a gift that could burn. No matter how badly she was injured, her body repaired itself. She did not age. Her hands could heal others. She could see all the paths before her; she could plot the twists and turns of events.

None of these tracks into the future held a place for her at Kipha’s side.

She stepped back and allowed despair to surge through her, to spurt misery all the way to her fingertips. Her breath deepened. Alia had shown her this; to use air to conquer pain. The pulse of anguished wanting mounted.  She caught at the bedpost and forced her breath to remain steady. “It will pass.”

But it didn’t. The pain receded, yet still it remained.

How could this be? No mortal had ever caught her heart like this before, captured it and squeezed it until there was nothing left but him there, until she could not imagine continuing without him. She’d never allowed any of the men she had joined with to matter more than the other Morekala she was destined to help. It was part of the price she had to pay for her immortality, to see her loved ones wither and die while she continued. The only way she could cope was to detach from the love she held for the mortals the Aethnae chose. It was the only way she could leave the children she bore these men.

But Kipha was not Morekala. He was N’Aarta. A Winged One. Her hand sketched a caress across his face, but drew away when he murmured. Had she given him enough balm? It was twice the dose she gave to Morekala when they needed to sleep.

She stood and watched a dream claim him again, his breathing steadied and fingers twitched.

It was time.

She moved into the living room and lifted the receiver to her phone, taking care to muffle the sound of the dial tone and beeps as she depressed the numbers. The phone purred in her ear, three, four times. Was he there?

“JJ Parker Motorcycles,” a voice rumbled.

She glanced back. “I need you, Joe Littlehawk.”  No sound drifted from the bedroom, just the soft intake of Kipha’s breath as he slept. “I mean, I need Josael.” She clutched the cord in her fingers and twisted it.

“Trouble, Alathea?”

“I need the help of a later-wave N’Aarta, Josael.”

“You have it.”

Just like that. You have it. “I’ll have to hide for a while.”

“Mi casa . . . ”

“I know, I know.” Tears welled up and spilled. She bit back a sob.

“Thea, what’s wrong?” A bell clanged in the background. JJ yelled out, “Hey Padre! Have a seat — be with you in a moment.” Then, “You still there?”

“I’m here, JJ” She wiped the tears away. “I’ll tell you when I get there. I’m not sure when; I’ll have to hitchhike.”

He gave a low whistle. “Big trouble, eh?”

“Bigger than I can say right now.” Still no sound from the bedroom. “How is Alena?”

His voice dropped a full register and filled with joy. “Eight months and counting.”

“And your little one — how is Johnny?”

“Aiiiyyaaa! Babe, you don’t want to know,” he chuckled, but his voice sharpened. “Hey, Thea — get out of there fast, okay? I got a bad feeling about this . . .”

She stepped back and peered into the bedroom.  Kipha still lay in the same position. “I will.  See you soon. Bye.”

She placed the receiver gently in its cradle and grabbed her blue backpack, stuffed her wallet inside.

Time to disappear.

She strode out the door, left it open. Couldn’t look back, couldn’t walk into the bedroom and see him again. Even one glance at Kipha would lead to another, and another, and another. She must be far away when he awakened.

A thick blanket of fog draped over her cottage, but the air was freshening. If she was lucky it wouldn’t turn to drizzle or rain. She sprinted down the path and up the track leading to the highway.

Time to go.

***************************************************************************

His nose tickled.

Kipha opened his eyes. A kitten stared at him from an inch away, solemn little gray-green eyes unblinking. Then it twisted in the sudden, fluid way of cats and licked at its shoulder.

Kipha reached out and idly scratched behind the kitten’s ear. “Thea?” He sat and scanned the room. Light splashed across the bed from the partially opened door; a lamp in the living room had been left burning. Night pressed against the bank of windows facing the ocean. What time was it? Surely it had been almost dawn when they had finally slept. He stretched and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The kitten followed, rubbing its face against his bare knee, making tiny prrrrttttt requests.

“You are hungry?” This was strange. No clock in the bedroom. Was there one in the kitchen? He rose from the bed and caught at the wall when his head spun. What was this? His stomach rumbled in a slow gurgling rush.

Of course. His body needed fuel. He plucked the kitten from the bed and placed it on his shoulder. “Thea?”

The cottage was silent, save for the motor of the kitten’s purr.  Kipha stumbled into the kitchen and flicked on the light. A wall clock showed 11:14 PM.

He’d slept the entire day.  He ran his hands through his hair and stopped when the kitten attacked his arm. “Hey!” Why did he still feel so groggy?

The kitten bounced off his shoulder and circled his feet, brushing against his legs. Maybe he should get some milk for it. He reached for the refrigerator door and stopped when he saw a note pinned to the front by a rose magnet.

Kipha. Please feed Mafu. Alathea.

Short and to the point. That was Thea. He smiled and searched through the cupboards until he found a can of cat food, then popped open the top and spooned the contents into a dish on the floor at the back of the kitchen.

Where was Thea?  He had it in mind to pick up where they had left off. Let’s see, the last time was in the living room on the Aubusson, Alathea on her knees and forearms, his hands cupping her breasts as he slipped deep into her from behind. He laughed as his body responded to the memory. Better put on some clothes and see if she was outside.

Wait. He caught at the kitchen door. Why would Alathea be outside at this hour? It was going on midnight now. He closed his eyes and felt the house, the grounds, all the way to the highway at the end of the lane that led to her cottage, searched for her essence.

Nothing. No one in the house. Just he and Mafu.

She’d left the house. He slammed his hand against the wall and strode into the living room, grabbing his jeans on the way and pulling them on before he reached the front door.

He looked down and threw his eyes out of focus, seeking signs of her passage.

There. Faint traces of her footprints. Hours old, though. He threw open the door and stepped out into the night. Her tracks led to the lane, but were even fainter than those she’d left in the house. Droplets of fog and drizzle had broken up the trail.

Methkala. She’d run away again.

****************************************************************************

Alathea slipped out of the truck’s cab, landing on gravel at the side of the Pacific Coast Highway. “Thanks for the ride.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” The driver leaned forward, brow wrinkling. “I can take you into town. You can call your friends from there.”

“They are expecting me.” She beamed a smile at him. “I know the way from here.”

“Awful dark out there.”

“I will be fine.” She touched his hand and smiled again. Flecks of blue and purple from her ka flowed up his arm. You drove all this way alone. You saw no one, gave no one a ride.

The driver returned to his position behind the wheel and pulled back out onto the highway. Alathea stumbled back, barely had time to slam the door shut before the Semi lurched onto the road and accelerated toward Big Sur.

That was cutting it close. She’d have let the driver keep the memory of picking her up just outside of Santa Barbara but she didn’t know to what lengths Kipha would go to follow her. She turned toward the dirt trail that led to J J’s and Alena’s cabin and waited for her eyes to adjust to the velvet black gloom under the redwoods. It was safer this way. Kipha was not in contact with Maryam, so he had no guide through whom he could call on the other N’Aarta. It would take him time to track her to JJ. By the time he discovered that she’d fled to a later-wave N’Aarta, she’d be long gone.

She moved up the hill through drifts of pine needles, her feet sinking into the loam.  Up at the top of the rise stood JJ Parker’s Big Sur cabin. JJ, last incarnate as Joseph Littlehawk, marine killed in Vietnam. Lights from his living room window sent a welcome glow toward her. Joseph Littlehawk/JJ Parker.

Josael the N’Aarta.

Josael would help her.

She turned back toward the highway. Night was creeping toward the turning hour, midnight, when it would slide forward to the dawn. Had Kipha awakened yet? What would he feel when he found she was gone. She was sure she could trust him to feed Mafu. N’Aarta would never cause suffering to a creature of the world the One had created for the Morekala. Tomorrow Nellie Garcia would come and take possession of the cottage. The paperwork for the transfer had rested in the hands of an attorney who knew no more than Alathea’s name, and the papers he held she’d completed decades ago. She’d only had to make a phone call to transfer the property to Nellie. Tomorrow Mafu would have a new mistress.  Nellie would own the home Alathea had built herself. Nellie. My own great-great-great-great granddaughter.

Alathea swiveled and trudged up the rise. Kipha would not hurt Nellie. Even if he knew her lineage, he could not harm a woman who had at least one Morekala parent. Alathea could flee and disappear without risk.

She had to flee. Kipha may not kill her, but eventually the other primes would find her through him. And through her, they would find her sisters. It was better this way, to leave Kipha before even the thought of leaving him became impossible. Better this way.

Then why did she feel so hollow, so empty. Why were tears scalding her face?

She bent and allowed the sobs to come, to spill out of her and fill the quiet night with her wrenching grief.

****************************************************************************

Where was Alathea?

Kipha dug into fog-drenched soil at the edge of Alathea’s property where her lemon-thyme-bordered flagstone met the county road. He lifted his hand and sniffed at the dirt clogging his fingernails. It was dense with oil, bits of sand blown up from the beach, minute scraps from the tires of the motorcyle . . . and smelled of the freshly-bathed soles of Alathea’s feet. The scent of temple incense from where she had dabbed it on her instep still lived in the soil she had trod only hours before. She hadn’t worn any shoes when she left, then. At least to the road she hadn’t. Probably carried them with her. Bare feet made less of a sound. “Alathea, why do you think you can escape me?” Now that he had fully incarnated, there was no way she could hide from him.

He stood and rubbed his hands on his jeans. She’d gone on foot; the old car that had died on the road to Pismo Beach and had been hauled back to Santa Barbara still sat idle in her garage. He strode onto the tarmac and stopped, standing with arms outstretched, hands facing down, eyes closed. No bus came down this road, he was sure. Buses and large trucks left a dent in the retha, the collection of light-bodies that made up the net of dense matter. It was so in earlier times, when the siege engines of Charlemagne rolled through Navarra, and must be so now, in the age of lumbering vehicles of a size that would stun the early king.

The retha was unbent here . . . clean as the arc of eternity. Kipha opened his eyes, nodded and stepped back from the road. No bus. That was good. It meant she had to walk farther, meant he could track her at least to where she either caught a bus or obtained a ride.

Fur whispered against the top of his left foot. Kipha looked down and knelt to scoop Mafu from the ground. Must have left the door standing open. He carried the squirming kitten to the cottage and placed it in the kitchen, poured water into a large bowl and filled another with Friskies Kitten Chow.  “I know I already fed you but I may be gone for a time.”  Mafu sniffed at the bowl and mewled. “No — you have to stay here.” Kipha stepped out of the kitchen and closed the door. The kitten would be safe and well-fed until he returned. Maybe Alathea had gone on a healing task. She’d often done that during the thousands of years he’d watched her. He hoped she’d just forgotten to leave a note telling him this is what she had done.

But why would she leave her shoes off to do that? What would be the purpose of leaving him with no notice of where she had gone? Muffled scratches and snuffling came from under the kitchen door. Kipha tapped on the frame. “I will bring her back, Mafu.” Perhaps she had only gone into town for milk or butter and had been delayed. Perhaps she had left with silence so she would not disturb him, to let him sleep.

“Right. And maybe swine can fly.”  He plucked his tee shirt out of the laundry basket and pulled it over his head, then lifted the long black leather jacket draped on the back of the Plantagenet’s chair.  The fabric was supple; it rippled over his frame when he shrugged it on. The jacket felt familiar and alien all at once. He knew that a girlfriend had picked it out for him but he could not determine what she had been to him in his life as the actor. Had they been happy together? Had they been lovers or just friends? What had happened between them that had catapulted him out of this woman’s life? She no longer saw him, he was sure of this. A memory of the woman’s face drifted just out of reach. She was pale, like Alathea. Alathea . . .

“Enough of this.” He grabbed the helmet from where it lay on the floor and strode toward the front door, looking back once to see that Mafu was still inside. “You’ll be safer in here, kitten.” He suspected happiness had been elusive to him. It always had been. For the N’Aarta, duty was all. There was nothing else.

Kipha loped down the path to the motorcycle, mounted it in one fluid motion and started it up without thinking of how to do it. It was best to think as little as possible — he must let the actor’s . . . no, let HIS body behave as it should in this time, the twenty-first century. He sat and toyed with the handlebars as the engine rumbled underneath him. Surely he only needed to push it . . . He dismounted and mounted once again, but sat with one hand on the throttle, the other hand in his lap, and both feet on the ground to keep the bike from toppling. How had he ridden it before? Why couldn’t he remember?

He’d heard of this. It happened when N’Aarta did not fully incarnate by the third decade of existence in dense matter. The details of a life were harder to capture when too much time had passed. Kronos always demanded his due. Though Kipha had known how to drive on the way to Alathea’s cottage right after he had descended into his body, he now had no idea how to make the motorcycle work.  Marayam would know what to do. But his guide was not here.

The cycle bucked under him and stalled. Kipha braced his feet on the ground and glanced at the sky. How long did he have? If Alathea had just left, he could trust his own instincts and learn this new time. Time. That was the problem. Given enough of a lead, she really could disappear. He couldn’t allow her to go to ground again.

There was only one thing to do.

He had to loosen his hold on this incarnation, if just for a moment. It was the only solution he could think of, at least until he found Alathea. Once they were truly together, she could teach him what he needed to know. But in the meantime, he was lost. He could do the basic things, like turn on a light and boil water, but more complicated matters requiring whole sets of skills were beyond him . . . at the moment. “That will change.” Once he had resumed control, he would use the money and resources he had earned to show Alathea all of N’Aarta power. There were places in the Himalayas that no one in dense matter had ever seen, no one but the N’Aarta.

N’Aarta, servants of the One. “When you set in western Lightland, Earth is in darkness as if in death . . .” Kipha lifted his arms in the paen to the sun of his student Akhnaten. Such a waste that was, too, when the fruit of Alathea and her consort was killed. Ah, it was too soon, too early for such a king, but what a king he had been! And Kipha had been Akhnaten’s priest, the man who had pointed the boy to the harmony of the One. He’d had his servant take Akhnaten from Alathea at the appointed time and had shaped the youngster into the great spiritual leader the people of the Two Lands needed. “My mistake, my failure, not his fault.” It had been too early. Hadn’t Alathea herself told Kipha’s emissary this when the man tore the child from her arms? It is too soon for Akhnaten.

He sighed. Yes, Alathea had said that. Kipha’s servant told him she had cried. He crossed his arms and leaned into the guilt that evoked. Yes. He should suffer for what he had done. She always cried when her children were taken. None of the other daughters of Eriod cried. Only Alathea. At one time he had taken pleasure in this – he could make her cry. “What kind of a monster was I?” The hundreds of children he had groomed for roles of power! He snorted. Temporal power. What was that in the face of eternity? He should have listened to Yeshua, and followed the flow of the One.

Pride. It was always his downfall. He leaned forward and patted the side of the bike. “I will learn to ride you. And I will make things right.” He would find Alathea, wrap her in his wings.

Yet for now, he would allow the actor ascend for a time, to take the body they shared where Kipha wanted to go. And then he could . .  “Wait.” What if he could not take control again? Once he left the body could he return at will? Without Marayam or Alathea to call him to return, could he come back into this lifetime? He looked up into the violet sky. How much time had passed while he sat here on the motorcycle? Dawn was not far away now. Even the air held the breath of Ra; pale sunlight limned the hills behind him, though over the ocean full night held court over restless waves. It was a risk worth taking.

A simple leap of faith. The more time passed, the farther away Alathea could go. He had to find her. It wasn’t simply his lo . . . his lust for her that drove him. There was something he had to do, some task that must be finished, that had been left undone for aeons. He could not remember it fully — it eluded him, but had to trust in the One. It was now or never. The motorcycle helmet rolled when he braced his legs and opened his arms out, palms up. Opened them as wide as they would go.

Kipha breathed and released the force of his Ka into the air. Breathed and jumped into the space between the worlds, leaving his form on the bike.

“Huh?” Mark gripped the handlebars of his Harley and splayed his legs, toeing in to keep from tumbling. “What the f#@k . . .” He looked to the left. Alathea’s cottage huddled under the laurels that surrounded it. “happened?” He rubbed the back of his neck. Last he remembered he was on the beach with Alathea, asking her what-was-with-the-Highlander-bullshit. He’d needed answers. Who was she, what had she done to him? They’d had sex, hadn’t they? He scratched his chin. F%$kin’ A they had. O.B.E. sex. “Holy shit.” But what happened after that?

The cottage was dark. He looked down at where his watch should have been. Nothing there. “Goddamn.” He turned toward the cottage, then away. “Don’t know what drug you fed me, witch woman, but I am through with you now.” He had no idea what time it was but it felt like it was going on morning. The Harley sparked to life.  He gunned the engine and pulled out onto the rutted road that led to the highway.  L.A. pulled at him. He had three scripts waiting for him at a friend’s apartment in Santa Monica. His new laptop sat in a box there, too. He wanted to boot it up and see what it could do.

But first there were tasks demanding his full attention. Fine mist laden with sea salt lashed his face and coated his hair as he swung onto the highway and roared north. A date, he had a date. Right. Girl was waiting for him in the redwoods. “F%$k the scripts.” This was more important. She would bend . . . He whipped past a truck that was creeping toward Highway One. That is, he would bend her over his . . . That is, well. “F%$k it.” He needed to get laid, to have sex with a real woman. Oh, how he needed to get laid. But who had arranged it? Here he was roaring toward some woman and he had no idea who she was or why he needed to find her so fast. Except that she was pretty. Must be pretty. Shit, she had better be pretty. He just passed a radar trap doing . . . he glanced at his speedometer . . . a hundred five. But no wail of siren broke into the sound of wind screaming past his ears. “Christ, where’s my helmet?”

He almost turned around, back to L.A.  Almost.  But the spur that drove him kept him on track. “She’d better be good.” His barking laugh sliced through the wind. “I know. The gatekeeper!” He nearly choked when a moth swept past his cheek. “She’d better be the f$#king gatekeeper.” One twitch of his thighs and the bike lay nearly sideways as he made the last turn to enter California One. “And I’m the Keymaster!  Woooooooooo!!!!”

F%$k he loved this. Just him and the highway. The highway, the bike between his legs . . . and the sound of gigantic wings beating just overhead.

*****************************************************************************

Alathea curled her legs under her, nestled on a plump cushion in a wicker chair, enclosed by the redwood walls of the toasty kitchen of John Joseph “Call me JJ” and Alena Parker. Two year old John Junior raced under the table, around the table, over the table. His mother Alena kept up a stream of chatter as she prepared a two o’clock in the morning meal, her husband JJ poised right behind her.

“It’s no problem fixing another dinner.” Alena glanced at the clock. “Well, maybe breakfast, huh? I’m like, always ready to eat, you know?” She patted the swell of her belly. “I mean, it’s great to have you here, Thea. What if Binky decides to come early? Hey, you’d be here to help me deliver. That would be way cool.” She snatched a bowl of pine nuts from John Junior’s grasp. “No. John. No.” She opened the oven. “We’re having chicken stuffed with rice, sausage and pine nuts and, um, onions and stuff.”

“Smells heavenly, but why the name ‘Binky’?” Alathea smiled at solemn Michael Morgan, Alena’s child by her first husband. The boy was a quiet one. It would be easy for him to feel left out — his mother Alena was so clearly entranced by her husband and overwhelmed by the active John Junior — but during the entire exchange, Michael only had eyes for JJ Parker, his step-father. Josael the N’Aarta. Children are always drawn to them. “Am I missing something, Mike?”

Michael gave her his owl-eyed attention over his wire rimmed glasses. “Mom’s decided to call the baby ‘Binky’ since she doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.” He opened his arms as John Junior climbed into his lap.

“Binky. Binky. Binky.” John tolerated his older brother’s hair-ruffling, then wiggled to the floor again.

“She called you Binky before you were born, too, bud.” Mike’s rare smile flashed and was gone. He went back to observing his mother and step-father.

The couple moved together, JJ snatching hot dishes out of the reach of John’s little fingers, Alena saving glasses and plates from tumbling as the boy grabbed them off the table. Alena jiggled, her slight frame ballooned by her near-term pregnancy. She’d let her spiked hair grow out; the auburn waves fell to below her shoulders now. But a silver nose ring still pieced her left nostril, a reminder of her wilder past.

With every step and movement Alena made as she prepared Indian fried bread and green beans smothered in mushrooms. “Not that kind of mushroom,” she bristled when JJ grinned. She prattled about the trials and delights of being a mother to Mike and John Junior. But not one word from Alena asked Alathea why she had arrived at their home in the middle of the night.

Alathea blessed them both for their lack of questions. When she’d shown up on their doorstep over an hour ago, tears still coated her face. She needed this time in the warmth of their hearth, craved this respite from the terror and the guilt that sliced her whenever she remembered leaving Kipha. Mike’s stolid presence at her side and John Junior’s antics soothed the deep ache inside.

This is what life could be, this warm sharing of the Presence of a N’Aarta. JJ was N’Aarta. Anyone who knew them could see that in him; the features of a painting by Botticelli, Michaelangelo, or Raphael came to vivid life in JJ’s face.  His Lakota ancestry made the N’Aarta living-statue countenance all the more intense, the hawk nose, the high-set cheekbone. Alathea wanted to stay, wanted to settle into the warmth. This is what life could be.

But she needed to let JJ know the danger of her lingering.

“Alena, I need to borrow your husband for a moment.” Alathea stood and patted Mike on the shoulder. “It’s a boy,” she whispered in Mike’s ear, “but don’t tell your mom.”

Mike groaned. “Oh, man.” He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, looked at John Junior and sighed, “Not again . . . uh, okay. I won’t tell.” He jumped up and saved yet another dish from crashing as John Junior barreled into the table.

“Hey, Alathea!” Alena wiped flour from her hands. “Just bring JJ back in good condition, huh?”

***************************************************************************

“Holy shit, Thea.” JJ Parker hunched forward on the leather chair in his den. “You don’t do things by half, do you?” He shook his head. “Never heard of a N’Aarta and one of the Daughters bonding.”

“He is incarnate, like you are. In a body shaped by this world.” She looked down at her hands, clenched together in her lap. “Why shouldn’t he be subject to the Aethnae? Who can say why this happened?” She spread her fingers and released the tension in them. “Anyway, you are N’Aarta and Alena is part of us.”

“What!”

“I thought you knew. Her ten-times great grandmother was my sister Mari, who was bonded to Daniel, son of the Basque witch Mariana.”

“I had no idea.” He shook his head again. “I knew about the Basque witch and all, but I didn’t know Mari was with her son. Anyway, it’s different, isn’t it? Alena may be part of you but she’s not one of the Daughters.” He picked up a picture of John Junior from his desk and gazed at it. “As much as I love Alena and wish she were an immortal like you, she’d have to leave me, wouldn’t she? God, that must have been hard for Mari to have to leave Daniel and their child.”

“It never gets easier.”

“They only give you seven years with each child, don’t they?” He took her hands. “I’m sorry, Thea. I wish we could have convinced the Primes to lift this curse.”

“We can’t know just Who is behind it, Josael.”

“I won’t believe that the One engineered this.”

She touched his face. “It’s not your worry. You have your family to consider and I can’t stay long. I think Kipha is on his way.” The throbbing demand of the Aethnae hummed through her, as it had for the past hour, but it was muted. Either Kipha was still distant or he had found a way to quiet the longing. In either case, it was only a matter of time before he found her. She pushed up from the chair. “I won’t tell you where I am going so you won’t be able to tell him.”

“I could try to protect you . . .”

“No, Josael. You can’t defy a Prime, even when both of you are incarnate. I should have time to break bread with you and your family, then I will leave.” She looked out the window into the velvet blackness underneath the redwoods that encircled JJ’s cabin. Giggles and the thump of little feet stopped just outside the door to the study, then Mike’s patient, “C’mon, John” was followed by a swift pattering run back to the kitchen. “You’re a lucky man, Josael. Does Alena know who John Junior was?”

“She’s not a witch like Mariana, but she has enough of the bloodline in her to suspect who John was. My nephew was a real hell-raiser. His death hit everyone pretty hard.”

“But he has returned to you both as your son.” She smiled. “Do you know who will incarnate as your new child, the child Alena carries?” Through the open door, Alena’s voice calling out that dinner was ready floated into the room.

JJ grinned and bounced to his feet. “You bet, I do.” He hit his fist into the palm of his other hand. “And, oh, how I am going to love telling Ramael what to do!”

“I remember that you two always fought.” Alathea touched JJ’s arm. “Be patient with him, Josael. It’s been a very long time since he was in dense matter.”

“Didn’t you hear the doorbell, JJ?”

Alathea stilled. No. It couldn’t be. She turned.

Alena stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “Sorry, but I am, like, freaking! You’ll never guess who’s here.” Mike was behind Alena, John Junior held tight in his arms. “Goddamn Mark Stanley is at our door. God, I used to have the hots for him when I was thirteen. He’s an A-list star!” She stared hard at Alathea. “Thea, have you got something you want to tell us?” She looked back over her shoulder, and then leaned forward and whispered, “He said he was looking for that L.A. Madame, you know — the one with all the high priced prosties. I told him no way, no way! But he said he wants to talk to you, JJ.”

“Right. Out the back, Thea.” JJ pushed past Alathea, but her hand on his shoulder halted him.

“No.”

“What?”

“I’ll go with him.”

Alena giggled. “Girl, you have to tell me everything later on.”

Alathea looked at JJ.

“Are you sure?” He gripped her hands.

“I am certain this was meant.”

JJ looked at her for a long moment and nodded.  “Send word if you can.”

“I will.” Alathea patted Alena on the shoulder. “We’ll talk, Lena. Later.”

The steps warned her; a loping stride, a slight hitch on one side that made the gait uneven. His dark, silken voice filled the space. “Hey, what’s cooking?” He staggered to a stop when he saw Alathea.

“You again.” Mark leaned against the doorframe. “Might have known.”

Alathea pulled away from Alena and JJ. “This is between us.” She lifted her bag and shrugged into her jacket.

“Riigghhhtt.” Mark sketched a s’alaam to Alena and JJ and shook Mike’s hand. “Sorry to barge in. See you later, dude.”

Alathea forced herself to breathe as she walked past him, out into the night, listening for his steps behind her.

******************************************************************************

Each of Kipha’s steps hit her in a place that hurt so much she longed for death to take her, but as the air freshened and the scent of ocean teased her nose, the steps behind her slowed. She pivoted to see why he had stopped and halted the gasp that choked her when she saw Kipha on the ground and Alia, eldest of the Daughters, standing over him. Alia stepped away from Kipha and became an even darker shadow among the velvet black of the forest.

“Alia, what have you done?” Alathea rushed to Kipha. Her fingers found the life point in his throat. It was strong and steady, but his body was still, eyes shut.

“He is in a mortal body, Thea.” Alia stood and beckoned. “I have not harmed him. Come with me. We need to speak.”

Alia’s honey-amber eyes flashed in her dark face but a gentle curve of her lips stilled the anger Alathea felt rising in her chest. “Very well, Alia. Will he be safe here?”

“Quite safe.”

She took Alia’s hand and walked farther into the forest with her. “Have you been following me?”

“I have watched all of this unfold, my dear one. Who do you think sent Mari to you?” Alia reached out and grabbed Alathea. “We are at the edge of the cliff, my dear. Please do not take another step.”

“Why not?” Alathea held her foot over the crumbling ground. “It will not kill me, but if Kipha returns to his life as the actor, he will think I am dead and won’t seek me.”

Alia sighed. “The Aethnae will not allow that, Thea. He would follow you, even to the ends of the earth, to fulfill the will of the curse. You know that.” Still, she stepped back as Alathea stood, one foot over the edge.

Alathea moved away from the edge. “You’re right. I can’t do this to him.” She turned and stifled a sob as Alia opened her arms.

“Why?” Alathea collapsed into Alia’s embrace. “Why has the Aethnae chosen him?” She let tears soak Alia’s dress as Alia held her close, stroking her hair and rocking her. “You are the eldest of us. Why Kipha? I have loved him so long.” The tears lessened. She found that she could breathe again. Was Alia releasing this knot inside her, or was the mere telling of this truth to her elder, this secret she’d hidden for so long, relieving the endless ache that lived in her? “Though he is bonded to Maryam, I have loved him.”

“Love is why we are here, Thea. And love is why the Primes decided to carry out the will of the One.” Alia brushed tears from Alathea’s face. “It may seem cruel to you, but the children we bear often bring great gifts to the Morekala.”

“But why Kipha? Is that not against their Law?”

“It needed to be Kipha, Alathea. Kipha has to be the one to end this for you.”

“You mean I can finally leave?” Alathea pulled away but grabbed at Alia’s hands as she stood. “I can finally go back to the One? I will be free?”

Alia looked into her eyes. “All of us have longed for that, Thea. You have wanted it the most.” She stepped back and turned her head. “He is waking. I will be here to witness, Thea. If this is what you truly want.”

“I would not be able to bear being wrenched from our child. Not Kipha’s child.” Alathea choked back her sob when Alia frowned. “Is that not reason enough?”

Alia stepped toward her. “There is only one reason to choose this, Thea.”

“Union with the One. Freedom.” Alathea bowed her head.

“He approaches. If you change your mind, I will be here.” Alia melted back into the darkness.

“Thea?” Mark Stanley stumbled toward her, catching his balance against the nearest redwood. “What the hell did you do to me now?” He shook his hair out of his eyes and glared at her.

Alathea shuddered. “Kipha come forth.”

The actor buckled, falling to his knees as Kipha entered his dense matter body. He stayed there, breathing, while Alathea stood at the edge of the cliff.

“What are you doing? We can’t go against the One, Thea. If the One has chosen me, why should you question this?”

His wine-dark voice curled around her. It took all her strength to hold still, not run to him.

“I demand the justice of the Primes, Kipha.”

He leapt to his feet. “You cannot mean that.”

She straightened. “I mean that.”

He paced back and forth in front of her, arms folded.

“I demand the justice of the Primes.”

“I cannot hear them, Alathea.” He shivered. “This body blocks their signal.”

“It only takes one.” Alathea moved toward him and took his face in her hands. “You are a Prime, Kipha. You know what binds you, binds us both.”

“But the Aethnae chose me. How can I go against that?” He gazed into her eyes and brushed at her tears with his thumbs.

“You know why.” His touch sent exquisite shivers throughout her body. She needed to step away.

He shivered again, squeezing his eyes tight. “Maryam, help me.”

“She is incarnate.” She let go of his face.

His eyes opened wide. “How can that be? We don’t incarnate together. Not until . . .”

“Until it is time for Yeshua to reveal Himself.”

“It can’t be that time. The Morekala are not ready.”

“Maryam is incarnate.”

“So you say.” He pushed her away. “What if this dense matter body is holding her away as well?”

“Kipha – have you ever incarnated without being able to hear Maryam?”

“Only when . . .”

“Only when you were both with Yeshua.” Alathea straightened again. “And I demand the Prime’s justice.”

“You don’t know what you are asking of me.” He attacked his hair, pacing again.

“It is time.” The freshening air started to rise, blowing Alathea’s hair around her face. “I know what I am asking, and I am sorry, so sorry to ask this of you.”

“Another Prime can do this.”

“It must be you.”

He stopped, falling into the complete stillness of the N’Aarta. “Why?”

“Because I have loved you since the first moment I saw you.”

“What?”

“Only one I love can set me free, Kipha.” She closed her eyes. “Please don’t make me beg,” she breathed.

“Don’t ask that of me. You are denying me the child I deserve to have.” Rage sparked from his eyes.

“You are forgetting who you are and who I am! Shouldn’t Maryam bear your child, Kipha? You are Bond-Mates.” She stepped closer to the cliff edge and stopped, raising her arms. “Do it!”

******************************************************************************

How could she ask this of him? He stared at Alathea, at her golden hair swirling in the rising wind, at her bowed head.

He raised his hands and stared at them. “I don’t think I can do this, Thea. I don’t have the . . .” But his hands glowed, edged with blue that bled to the most pure white Light. A spark started to tremble from his core. “Please, please, please, don’t ask this!”

Her head lifted and she stared at him. “I am not asking, Kipha. I demand it!”

“Aithkal! “ He dropped to his knees, holding the pulsing Light close to his chest.

“I am a Daughter of Eriod and I demand justice!”

“NO!!” He fought to keep his arms to his chest but watched in horror as they moved into the form that would release the Light he held. His right forearm crossed over his left. The Light was blinding him. If he could just fall to the ground, it would pierce the sky, not Alathea. Yet he could not move. The geis that held her also held him.

Alathea lifted her head to the heavens. “I give thanks to the One for this existence. Do not hold the N’Aarta to blame for ending it.”

She looked at Kipha, a melting glance of love so great that tears now blinded him. “Please, Alathea, please don’t make me do this.”

“Do what you were made to do, Kipha.”

He stood now. “It is what you want?”

“I ask this of you.”

“Is there no other way?”

“You know there is not.”

He ground his teeth but held his eyes wide. If he must do this, he would not look away. He allowed his form to call forth the beam that would destroy her, she who could only be destroyed one way. Nothing could kill the Daughters. Only the justice of the Primes could.

The Light built into a single beam, a searing, blinding bolt that left his crossed arms and smashed into her. It danced around her form as she held steady, gazing at him with that melting glance.

“Thank you,” she whispered, but where she had just stood was empty.

He ran to the edge of the cliff. “Thea!” The earth beneath him crumbled and he pitched forward, but strong hands pulled him back from falling into the ocean, pounding hundreds of feet below him.

“Not yet, brother.” JJ Parker tugged him back to safety.

“But Josael.” He looked at his hands, only faintly glowing now. “I killed her.”

“What!” JJ grabbed Kipha by the shoulders. “You’re kidding, right? Nothing can kill them.”

“I just did.”

“Shit!” JJ pulled Kipha to the redwood and leaned against it. “Why did you do that?”

“She demanded it.” He held his arms against the bone-deep ache in his middle. “Alathea refused to have my child.”

“Oh man. Now I see.” JJ rubbed his leg. “Look, Kipha. If you sent her Home, it was what she wanted.”

“Why would she want this?”

“How the hell would I know for sure?” JJ pushed Kipha back toward the house. “I never got this stupid Daughters and Primes crap, Kipha. I just know Alathea. If she wanted this, it was not your fault.” He stopped, covered his face with his hands and groaned. “What am I going to tell Alena? She was counting on having Thea there when the baby comes.”

Kipha patted JJ on the arm. “We will send someone.”

“Ah! So you are back to yourself again?” JJ peered into Kipha’s eyes. “No more famous actor crap?”

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t seem to stop shuddering.

“Mark Stanley the actor. You seem to be wearing his body.”

Kipha looked at his hands again. “I never fully incarnated.”

“Okay, if you say so. Let’s go back to the house so I can tell Alena.”

“I need to stay here and recover before going inside.”

“Kipha. Cut the crap. I miss Alathea too. All of us will miss her. But I saw what the long years were doing to her. You didn’t see it. It would kill her to have one more child and be torn away from it again.”

“Where is my Maryam?”

“How should I know? She’s your Bond-Mate.” JJ stopped. “Wait – you mean you can’t hear her?”

“She is incarnate.”

“Oh man.” JJ dropped to his knees. “Then we’re at that time?” He looked up at Kipha, his face twisting with pain. “I only just found Alena. Am I to be torn from her again?”

“It will only be the Primes who will be called.” Kipha swallowed the grief that engulfed him. He’d done his duty. He had to help Josael get back to his family. Josael was not a Prime. Kipha was bound to protect the later-wave N’Aarta as it was to nurture and protect the Morekala. He stared toward the north. Maryam was there. He could feel the tug of the binding that linked them, now that the Aethnae no longer blocked it.

Now the loss threatened to devour him. He groaned and held his face in his hands.

“Kipha?”

“Yes, Josael.” He lifted his face and looked up at the sky. The stars were glazed by a jeweled Light that swirled up and away. “Goodbye Alathea.” He offered his hand to Josael. “Let’s go to your wife. I will help you.”

It was his duty.

*****************************************************************************

She was floating somewhere warm, yet seemed to be swimming among stars. How could she still have any thoughts at all? Kipha had sent her Home. Hadn’t he?

A presence at her left tugged at her awareness. Alia! What are you doing here? Did Kipha kill you too?

Don’t worry, Mother. I am safe from the Primes.

What are you saying? Eriod is the Mother.

A burst of mirth shook her field of awareness. Well, you know me as Alia, but I am Eriod, though I am not your mother.

What had Alia just told her? She tried to focus on Alia – was Alia truly the Weaver? But the Light that surrounded Alathea bathed her in Bliss so complete that she could only surrender to it.

You took the name Alathea to taste Creation, Mother. You asked me to keep your secret.

Alathea broke free of the Light and drifted. But if you are the Weaver then what am I?

My beloved Mother. Go home, now, and spin the Hair of God. I will look after Kipha.

Yes. Kipha would heal. And this was work only she could do. She sank into the singing Light and parted it into strands.

The Bliss deepened as she nestled inside the One.

The End