Lover Enshrined (19 page)

It was kind of like looking at his shaky hand: This just wasn’t him.

Yeah, except it totally was.

Up ahead, the white stage with its heavy white curtain glowed in the odd, relentless light of the Other Side. Here there were no shadows, as there was no sun in the pale sky, and yet there was plenty of illumination, as if everything were its own light source. The temperature was seventy degrees, neither too hot nor too cold, and there was no breeze to brush over your skin or ruffle your clothes. Everything was a soft, eye-soothing white.

The place was the landscape equivalent of Muzak.

Walking over cropped white grass, he headed around the back of the Greco-Roman theater toward the various temples and living quarters. On the fringes, all around, there was a white forest bracketing the compound that cut off any long vistas. He wondered what was on the far side of it. Probably nothing. The Sanctuary had the feel of an architect’s model or a train set, as if, were you to walk to the edge, all you would find was a steep drop-off to some giant’s wall-to-wall-carpeted floor.

As he went along, he wasn’t sure how to get the Directrix ’s attention, but he wasn’t in a big hurry to make that happen. To delay, he went to the Primale’s temple and used his gold medallion to unlock the double doors. After stepping through the white marble foyer, he went into the temple ’s single, lofty room and stared at the bedding platform with its white satin sheets.

He remembered what Cormia had looked like tied down naked, a white sheet falling from above and pooling at her throat to mask her face. He had torn the thing down and been horrified to meet her tear-filled, terrified eyes.

She’d been gagged.

He looked up to the ceiling, where the draping that had covered her face had been hung. There were two tiny gold hooks embedded in the marble. He wanted to take them out with a fucking jackhammer.

As he stared upward, he randomly thought back to a conversation he’d had with Vishous right before all the shit had gone down with this Primale business. The two of them had been in the dining room at the mansion, and V had said something about having had a vision of Phury.

Phury hadn’t wanted deets, but they’d come out anyway, and the words the brother had spoken were oddly clear to him now, like a recording replayed:
I saw you standing at a crossroads in a field of white. It was a stormy day . . . yeah, lots of storms. But when you took a cloud from the sky and wrapped it around the well, the rain stopped falling.

Phury narrowed his eyes on those two hooks. He’d torn the sheet down from there and wrapped Cormia in it. And she had stopped crying.

She was the well . . . the well that he was supposed to fill. She was the future of the race, the source of new Brothers and new Chosen. The fountainhead.

As were all of her sisters.

“Your grace.”

He turned around. The Directrix was standing in the doorway of the temple, her long white robe brushing the floor, her dark hair coiled up high on her head. With her calm smile and the peace that radiated from her eyes, she had the beatific expression of the spiritually enlightened.

He envied all that serene conviction.

Amalya bowed to him, her body lean and elegant in its Chosen dress code. “I am pleased to see you.”

He bowed back to her. “And I you.”

“Thank you for this audience.” She straightened and there was a pause.

He didn’t fill it.

When she finally did, she seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “I thought perhaps you might wish to meet some of the other Chosen?”

What kind of meeting did she have in mind, he wondered.

Oh, just a bit of high tea
, the wizard chimed in.
With cunnilingus sandwiches and sixty-nine scones and handfuls of your nuts.

“Cormia’s doing well,” he said, deflecting the meet-and-greet offer.

“I saw her yesterday.” The Directrix’s tone was kind but neutral, as if she didn’t agree with him.

“You did?”

She bowed low again. “Forgive me, your grace. It was the anniversary of her birthing, and I was required by custom to give her a scroll. When I didn’t hear from you, I appeared to her. I tried to reach you again during the day.”

Good Lord, Cormia’s birthday had come and gone and she’d said nothing about it?

She had told John, though, hadn’t she. That was what the bracelet had been for.

Phury wanted to curse. He should have gotten her something.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t respond.”

Amalya righted herself. “It is your purview. Please, worry not.”

In the long silence that followed, he read the question in the Directrix’s kind eyes. “No, it’s not done yet.”

The female’s shoulders sagged. “Has she denied you?”

He thought back to the floor in front of his chaise. He’d been the one who had stopped. “No. It’s me.”

“No fault could ever be yours.”

“Untrue. And trust me on that one.”

The Directrix walked around, her hands worrying the medallion around her neck. The thing was an exact copy of what he had on, only hers was suspended from a white satin ribbon, and the chain to his ball was black.

She paused by the bed, her fingers lightly brushing a pillow. “I thought perhaps you would like to meet some of the others.”

Oh, hell, no.
He wasn’t passing over Cormia for a different First Mate. “I can guess where you’re going with this, but it’s not that I don’t want her.”

“Perhaps, though, you should like to meet another.”

This was clearly as close as the Directrix was going to get to putting her foot down and making a demand that he either have sex with Cormia or get another First Mate. He couldn’t say he was surprised. It had been five long months.

God, maybe it would solve some problems. Trouble was, taking another First Mate would be tantamount to laying a curse on Cormia. The Chosen would see her as having failed, and she would feel the same way, even though that wouldn’t be the case at all.

“Like I said, I’m good with Cormia.”

“Indeed . . . except might you perhaps be more likely to engage if it were a different one among us? Layla, for instance, is quite fair of visage and limb, and she is trained as an
ehros
.”

“Not going to do that to Cormia. It would kill her.”

“Your grace . . . she suffers now. I saw it within her eyes.” The Directrix drifted over to him. “And moreover, the rest of us are trapped within our tradition. We had such great hopes that our functions would return to where they have always been. If you take another as First Mate and complete the ritual, you release all of us from this burden of futility, and that includes Cormia. She is not happy, your grace. Any more than you are.”

He thought of her again on that bed, tied down. . . . She hadn’t wanted this from the very beginning, had she?

He thought of her so quiet in the mansion. He thought of her not feeling comfortable enough to tell him that she had to feed. He thought of her saying nothing about her birthday. Nothing about her wanting to go outside. Nothing about those constructions in her bedroom.

One stroll down a hallway didn’t make up for all he’d abandoned her to.

“We are trapped, your grace,” the Directrix said. “As it stands now, we are all trapped.”

What if he was holding on to Cormia because, if she was his First Mate, he didn’t have to worry about the whole sex thing? Sure, he wanted to protect her and do right by her, and those were honorable truths, but the ramifications protected him as well.

There were Chosen who wanted it, wanted him. He’d felt their stares when he’d been sworn in.

He had given his word. And he was getting damn tired of breaking oaths that he’d made.

“Your grace, may I ask you to come with me? I wish to show you a place here in the Sanctuary.”

He followed Amalya out of the Primale Temple, and the two of them were silent as they walked down the hill toward a thicket of four-story white structures with columns.

“These are the Chosen’s living quarters,” she murmured, “but you and I are not bound for them.”

Good thing,
he thought, glancing over.

As he passed by, he noted that none of the windows was glassed in, and he imagined there was no reason for the bother. There were no bugs or animals . . .no rain, either, he guessed. And what the lack of panes meant, of course, was that there were no barriers between him and the Chosen who stared back at him from their quarters.

There was one female in every window of every room in each of the buildings.

Oh, Jesus.

“Here we are.” The Directrix stopped in front of a one-story structure and unlocked a pair of double doors. As she opened them wide, his heart fell.

Cribs. Rows and rows of empty white cribs.

As he tried to keep breathing, the Directrix’s voice grew wistful. “This used to be such a place of joy, filled with life, teeming with the future. If you would only take another— Are you unwell, your grace?”

Phury backed away. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t . . . breathe.

“Your grace?” She reached out.

He jerked away from her. “I’m fine.”

Breathe, damn it. Breathe.

This was what you agreed to. Man up.

In his mind, the wizard served up example after example of him letting people down, starting in the present with Z and Wrath and that shit about the
lessers
, then going all the way back into the past to his failures with his parents.

He was deficient everywhere in his life, trapped everywhere, too.

At least Cormia could be free of this. Free of him.

The Directrix’s voice grew tight with alarm. “Your grace, perhaps you might have a lie-down—”

“I’ll take another.”

“You’ll—”

“I’ll take another First Mate.”

The Directrix seemed stunned, but then bowed deeply. “Your grace, thank you . . . thank you. . . .Verily you are the strength of the race and leader to us all. . . .”

He let her go on and on singing empty praises while his head spun and he felt like a load of dry ice had been dumped in his gut.

The Directrix clasped her medallion, joy suffusing her serene face. “Your grace, what do you favor in a mate? I have a couple in mind.”

He pegged the Amalya with hard eyes. “They have to want this. No coercion. No binds. They have to want it. Cormia didn’t, and that wasn’t fair to her. I volunteered for this, she didn’t have a choice.”

The Directrix put her hand on his arm. “I understand, and moreover, I agree. Cormia was never suited for her role, had in fact been anointed as First Mate specifically for that cause by the previous Directrix. I shall never be so cruel.”

“And Cormia will be okay. I mean, she’s not kicked out of here, correct?”

“She shall be welcomed back herein. She is a fine female. Just not . . . as well suited to this life as some of us are.”

In the quiet heartbeats that followed, he had an image of her undressing him for the shower, her guileless, innocent green eyes looking up at him as she fumbled with his belt and his leathers.

She only wanted to do what was right. Back when this whole mess had gotten started, even though she’d been terri fied, she would have done the right thing by her tradition and taken him in her. Which made her stronger than him, didn’t it. She wasn’t running. He was the one with the track shoes on.

“You tell the others I was not worthy of her.” As the Directrix’s mouth fell open, he pointed his finger at her. “That’s a goddamned order. You tell them . . . she is too good for me. I want her elevated to a special rank. . . . I want her fucking enshrined, do you understand me? You do right by her or I’ll bust this place into ruins.”

While the Directrix’s mind clearly scrambled, he helped her sort shit out by reminding her, “This is my world here. I call the shots, do I not. I’m the strength of the goddamn race, so you do what I tell you. Now nod.”

When she did, his chest eased up. “Good. Glad we agree. Now, do we need to do another ceremony?”

“Ah . . . ah, when you said the words t-to Cormia, you bound yourself to all of us.” She put her hand on her medallion again but this time he had a feeling it wasn’t with joy. More like she needed a little reassurance. “When will you . . . be coming here to stay?”

He thought of Bella’s pregnancy. He couldn’t miss the birth, and with the way things stood between him and Z, he might not even be told. “Not for a while. Could be up to a year.”

“Then I shall send the first of them to you on the far side, shall I?”

“Yeah.” He turned away from the nursery, feeling like he still needed more air. “Listen, I’m going to walk around a bit.”

“I’ll tell the others to leave you to your privacy.”

“Thanks, and I’m sorry for being such a hard-ass.” He paused. “One last thing . . . I want to talk to Cormia. I’m going to tell her.”

“As you wish.” The Directrix bowed low. “I shall need a couple of days to ritually prepare—”

“Just let me know when you’re sending one of them over.”

“Yes, your grace.”

When she left, he stared out over the white landscape, and after a moment, the expanse changed before his eyes, shifting into another view entirely. Gone were the well-ordered, colorless trees and the grass that looked as if it were covered in fine snow. Instead, he saw the choked gardens of his family’s home back in the Old Country.

Out behind the vast stone house he’d grown up in, there had been a walled-off garden about two acres in size. Split into quadrants by pebbled walkways, it had been intended to showcase specimen plantings and offer a place of natural beauty to calm the mind. The masonry wall that corralled the landscape had been marked by four statues at its corners, the figures reflecting the stages of life, from an infant in his father’s arms, to a strapping young male standing on his own, to that male holding a young in his own arms, to him seated in his aged wisdom with his grown son standing behind him.

When the garden had first been constructed, it must have been truly elegant, a real showplace, and Phury could imagine the joy of his parents as they had looked over its splendor as newly mateds.