Silk Over Razor Blades (16 page)

The visions weren’t nightmares.
Nor the frightening imaginings of a mind on the verge of breakdown.
Mosi and Kiya were real. Saar was real. His life played before her
eyes each time she slept, moving backwards from his last battles to
show his gradual rise to power. Lenina knew then that Xerxes was
wrong. Saar hadn’t just loved Kiya, but Mosi too. The other man’s
betrayal hit him hard
because
of that fact. She kept
reading.

Relations between Kiya and Mosi
were strained at best, volatile at worst, but no others cared for
Saar more than they. No others were afforded such preferential
treatment.

These two were the first of
Saar’s original fourteen children; Hasina, Aswad, Ife, Faki,
Jamila, Jafari, Kakra, Atsu, Moswen, Musa, Nubia and Adofo.

Seven men and seven women,
chosen by Saar for their skills, intelligence or connections. They
helped create the other god-touched warriors he then recruited to
his personal army, Red Fang.

A shiver of cold coursed down
Lenina’s back. God-touched. Red Fang. Seeing the phrases
strengthened her recollection. Hadn’t Saar called his soldiers
god-touched? Hadn’t Kiya insisted Red Fang was a suitable name for
the army they intended to build together?

Scraping her chair closer to
the table, Lenina scrolled to the beginning of book to read it
properly. She read about Saar’s plans to secure leadership of Egypt
with an army of men loyal to him. His failure caused by Mosi’s
betrayal. His search around the world for suitable substitutes
which would enable him to rekindle his fight to rule in place of
humans, whom he thought to be weak, soulless and foolish. The book
culminated in a lavish account of the Battle of Waterloo, in which
Saar, having sided with Napoleon, lost spectacularly to Duke
Wellington’s allied forces in 1815.

Though no trace of Saar’s body
was ever found, every God-Touched less than four years old perished
that day. Many believe this was a direct result of Saar’s death as
he was the primary link to Set. Without him to bind us together,
the weakest of our number couldn’t hope to survive.

But we maintain hope.

Sacred texts held by Red Fang
tell of secret ways to restore Saar to a living god-touched body.
‘The Prophecy,’ as it is widely known, speaks of a Vessel suited to
this purpose.

The Vessel will be known by a
symbol unique to Saar, but the exact details are the subject of
much speculation. The popular belief is that the Vessel will bear a
mark much like the one representing Red Fang, a curved slash
resembling a long tooth, often called the Neeva. However the
Prophecy and the specific details it contains remain the business
of Majestics and not any God-Touched younger than First
Generation.

In their search for the Vessel,
Majestics gave all Elders a specific role: seeker, watcher or
soldier. Seekers search for the Vessel, watchers ingratiate
themselves into human society, while soldiers are our first line of
defence against all those who seek to do us harm.

Lenina wiped her grainy eyes
and licked her dry lips. She pushed back from the laptop, shaking
her head.

The room seemed to spin,
fragmented images whirling through her mind in a colourful
kaleidoscope of memories. In the silence of her large modern
kitchen, it all seemed so foreign and out of place. Yet parts of it
were familiar and not only from her dreams. Something about the
tale Xerxes told and the emotions he toyed with captured her
heartstrings and plucked them like a harp’s. Despite that, Xerxes
had written only a fraction of the real story. She knew that with a
certainty that frightened her. His simplified and indulgent account
skimmed the surface of the man called Saar, no doubt a result of
the rose-coloured glasses he wore when looking at his hero.

The front door opened with a
soft click. Soft thuds and a strong smell of wet leather told
Lenina who it was long before Nick put his head around the door
frame.

‘Hey.’ He dropped his
motorcycle helmet on the table and unzipped the top half of his
oversuit. ‘You didn’t call. How was the doctor?’

She had to think. That morning
and the simple worry of calling the doctor seemed a million years
ago. She gazed at her fingers. ‘No appointments until Monday.’

Peeling off the top half of the
suit, Nick fanned his t-shirt against his chest. ‘I suppose Ray had
a fit about that.’

Lenina turned away. She
couldn’t bear to look at Nick’s cheery face, such a mismatch with
the rest of her day.

‘What’s wrong, babe?’

Where could she possibly
start?

‘Is it the goodie bags again? I
told you, just put in cufflinks and earrings or whatever it was you
wanted.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what? The dress?’

Lenina drummed her fingertips
against the table. Anger roughened her voice. ‘Not everything is
about this stupid wedding.’

‘Wow, okay. But it’s all you’ve
talked about for months. Nothing else exists right now except
flowers, horse-drawn carriages and white doves.’

She wondered if Saar ever
worried about such mundane things as weddings. Tears gathered in
her eyes and ran free, splashing against the laptop. ‘I’ve done
such horrible things. I’m a monster.’

Nick actually smiled. ‘Every
woman gets a bit stressed when planning something like this. You’re
no monster.’

‘No, you don’t understand—’

He grabbed her hand and held
it. His fingers brushed hers and she realised he was stroking her
engagement ring. ‘I haven’t made any vows yet,’ he whispered, ‘but
I’m with you for better or worse. Nothing you can do or say will
take away what we have. Tell me what’s got you hissing like a
koperkapel
.’

She arched an eyebrow at
him.

‘A snake from back home.’

Lenina looked away from her
fingers. She met Nick’s eyes and saw the sincerity there, the love.
The thin film of sweat on his cheeks and forehead made his skin
shine while the heat gave him a warm glow.

He squeezed her hand. ‘Tell
me.’

‘I’m a vampire.’

He blinked at her.

‘The man in the park. When he
bit me he turned me into a vampire. I think. Or perhaps it’s when I
drank his blood. I don’t know. But I
do
know that I’m a
vampire now. Or God-Touched . . . they never say vampire. Is that
the wrong word? I don’t know.’ By the time she finished speaking,
Lenina had to gasp to breathe.

Nick squeezed her hands. ‘Come
on, babe. This is a joke, né? You don’t even believe in that
stuff.’

‘I didn’t, but then I found
this website and it had all this information that matched my dreams
and—’

‘Dreams?’

She took a deep breath. No
matter how she tried to explain it, Lenina knew it wouldn’t make
sense.

‘It doesn’t matter. None of
it’s important except the first bit. I’m a vampire.’

Nick pulled back and crossed
his arms. ‘Right. So you drink blood now, né?’

Lenina saw the woman on the
park again. The glassy eyes. Bloodied throat. With the image came a
name, floating up like an air bubble from the oceanic depths of her
mind.
Pauline Lock.
Though she had no idea how, Lenina knew
the name belonged to the dead woman.

She bit her lip. ‘Yes. I’ve
already done it.’

‘You drank blood?’

A nod. ‘Today. In the park. I
killed a woman. I kicked her dog.’

Nick stood, hunching his
shoulders against his ears. His voice trembled, a soft stream of
Afrikaans expletives before dipping back into English. ‘That’s a
really shitty joke, Lenina.’ He turned on his heel. ‘I’m going
upstairs.’

Nick’s use of her full name
felt like a punch to the face.

Further tears blurred Lenina’s
vision as he walked away, damp boots squeaking on the tiled floor.
She might have laughed if not for the ache in her heart. Instead
she gasped and clutched her chest, remembering the slow crawl of
fear as Mosi turned his back on her, leaving her alone to hear his
terrible final words play over and over in her head.

No— not Mosi.

Lenina clutched the table,
sinking her fingernails into the wood until small splinters came
away in her hands.
Nick
left her. Not Mosi.

But it felt the same, as if her
heart was filled with hot lead, firing agonising darts of heat
through her limbs until every moment was pain. Like the loss of an
integral part of herself. Knowing that Saar and Mosi had never
reconciled their differences only made it worse. How could two
people so much in love hurt each other that badly?

She stood, ready to throw
herself at Nick’s feet and beg forgiveness. She would lie if forced
to, deny the truth of her discoveries and play the happy bride once
again. If only he would hold her. Look at her with love and desire
the way he once did.

As she planned what to say, she
gazed at the window, watching rivulets of rain form wriggling
tracks down the glass. Sighing, she likened the sight to a similar
one in the window of a homoeopath’s office in Lusaka. The woman
inside had gestured her in, pointing to large trays of minerals
including quartz, haematite, halite and bloodstone, while praising
their healing properties. Gerald hadn’t known what to do and opted
to linger outside, watching the locals rush through the
drizzle.

The smile fell from Lenina’s
face as the memory faded away. She had no idea who Gerald was.

Lenina had never set foot
outside Europe, let alone travelled as far afield as Zambia, of
which Lusaka was the capital. She shivered as a sensation like the
slide of cold jelly slithered down her back. Shaking hands clutched
the tabletop once more. Gerald
Lock
. . . Pauline Lock’s
husband. Lenina saw him in her mind’s eye, a tall, barrel-like man
with a bristling black beard and arms like a gorilla. She heard the
deep, earthy rumble of his voice, softened by emotion as he asked
her to marry him.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Not
me.’

Jerking her head to the side,
Lenina clawed free of the foreign memory. But more followed. Gerald
waving from far out to sea, bobbing on the waves with a blue and
white surfboard. Stroking her round stomach, kissing the stretch
marks around her belly button. Then Lenina saw a screaming,
red-faced child. Felt the delicate weight of those tiny limbs as
the doctors laid it against her sweaty chest. A similar scene,
though this time, as the doctor wrapped the baby and handed it
over, a young boy with hair the colour of field mice stood on
tiptoe beside the bed.

‘My little sister,’ he
said.

Shrieking, Lenina ground her
fists against her eyes, knocking her head against the table over
and over. It dazed her, but didn’t stop the images; a constant,
full-colour film reel of Pauline Lock’s most vivid memories.

At last she saw her own face,
barely recognisable with features twisted by anger. She saw the
long fangs in her mouth, glinting in the watery moonlight beneath
the empty black pits of her eyes. The last thing she recognised was
the night sky and the pinprick silver of stars, lined on one side
by damp grass.

When she returned to her own
mind, Lenina lay on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest. Her
cheeks were damp. She shoved her fingers into her mouth and pressed
down to muffle the rising scream.

It didn’t work.

Shrill shrieks fled her lips,
the agonised call of a beast trapped and dying, alone and afraid.
Her limbs ached. Weariness pinned her to the floor. Lenina curled
into a tighter ball when she heard Nick dash back into the kitchen.
She imagined Pauline Lock’s body still lying in the park, close to
the broken remains of her feisty dog. For the first time, the full
weight of the truth sank in. She shuddered.

How many times would she have
to repeat that experience? How often? Would she take on
every
set of memories?

Saar certainly seemed to have
done so.

Nick grabbed her and heaved her
upright, pressing her body against his. She clung to him, gasping
for breath, sucking in the familiar scent of leather, sweat and
newsprint. The smells of home.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded as
he stroked her hair.

‘You left me. You walked
away.’

‘Only to go upstairs. I’m
sorry. I needed to think.’

‘You didn’t even look back.’
Lenina shook her head. A crawling ache began to consume her skull,
from the back of her neck to her forehead. A full, bursting
sensation, as though her head held too many thoughts. She bit her
lip hard enough to make it bleed. It didn’t help.

‘You abandoned me when I needed
you, just like before. You don’t love me.’

‘I think you’re overreacting a
little bit, babe.’

‘No!’ She jerked free of his
arms.

A low buzzing filled her ears.
Soft at first, then louder, as though thousands of tiny bees had
nested within her skull.

Again she shook her head but
that only made it worse.

Escaping into the living room
failed to improve things. Though she saw the familiar room and the
furniture it contained, over it Lenina saw smooth mud-brick walls,
wooden chairs and tables inlaid with gilt beneath diaphanous
hangings of linen dangling from high vaulted ceilings.

She gnawed her thumbnail. ‘You
left me because you were too stubborn to see the truth. Kiya was
right, you were too soft hearted to see what needed to be done and
that I had to be the one to do it.’ Now she was talking, the words
seemed to have no end and she let them flow, flinging them like
spears, designed to hurt and maim.

Nick followed with his hands
held out before him, speaking softly as he might to a skittish
horse. ‘Who’s Kiya? Speak sense, babe. You’re scaring me.’ He held
out his hands but Lenina twisted away.

‘You knew what would happen but
you left anyway. Then you led those Roman heathens into our city
and let them raze it to the ground. They killed our queen.’