The Ophelia Prophecy (17 page)

Pax’s reply of “No, thank you” blended with Asha’s “What prophecy?”

Pax studied her. There was a large quantity of data vying for his attention, but for the moment he’d allocated all of his resources to remaining alert for trouble.

“The Ophelia Prophecy, madam,” replied the disciple.

Asha’s jaw dropped, and Pax’s eyes moved between them. He had no interest in the religious pitch that would certainly follow, but Asha’s reaction
did
interest him. “The Ophelia Prophecy” was a reference to something that had happened in Granada months ago. Why did it have meaning for her?

“Unfortunately,” continued the man, stepping closer to Asha, “we are on a trajectory to repeat the mistakes of our creators. It will be our downfall. The prophecy has predicted it.”

Pax reached for her arm to draw her away, and felt her muscles tighten under his hand. “We have to go,” he urged, taking a step away from the man, attempting to pull her with him.

The look she leveled at him was devoid of the softness from a moment ago. But he didn’t have time to argue with her.

“What mistakes?” asked Asha as Pax drew her more forcefully. “Let go!” she cried, tugging at her arm.

There was a bite in her tone he remembered well from questioning her, and something more. An edge of eagerness verging on panic. He didn’t like manhandling her, but she didn’t understand the potential risk. The alley was dark, but his mask was off and the stranger might recognize him. And
that
could go wrong in a number of ways.

“Gentle, my friend,” urged the stranger. “Is there any harm in me answering the lady’s questions?”

Pax hesitated, thinking how to extract them from the situation without drawing more unwanted attention. She was determined enough that they were bound to cause a scene if he tried to force her. Meanwhile the disciple forged on.

“You see, continuing to play God with our evolution is courting disaster. We must reach out to the oppressors, whom we have in turn oppressed, or suffer their same fate. Science is an angel of fire whose arrows will destroy us. Manufactured DNA, genetic manipulation, species exploitation … we must break from the—”

“What oppressors?” breathed Asha. Despite the steady pressure she kept on the arm he was holding, Pax could feel her trembling.

The disciple hesitated, and Pax understood his confusion. It would be an odd question coming from a Manti.

“The humans, in internment, they should be—”

“I’m sorry,” interrupted Pax, “but we don’t have time for this.” He hooked an arm around Asha’s back. “Step out of the way.”

Before they could move out of the alley, four more masked and cloaked figures blocked the entrance.

“What’ve you got there, Micah?” asked one of the newcomers.

In the split second before Pax could react, Asha suddenly dropped, diving free from his grasp.

He lunged for her, but she’d escaped in the direction of the disciple Micah, who’d whipped a knife from under his cloak. He pressed the tip against Pax’s throat.

“I’m not sure I like how you’re treating your lady, friend.”

“I’m not with him,” interrupted Asha, breathless. She moved to stand close to Micah, but her eyes locked with Pax’s. “I escaped from a Scarab today. I met this man in the tavern. He agreed to hide me, but then he brought me here.”

The knifepoint dug in a fraction. Was she trying to help him, or get his throat slit? It could easily go either way at this point.

The alley frosted over with tension. Then someone said with surprise, “Are you human?”

“I am,” she replied. “I was sent here from Sanctuary. I know Ophelia. I know about your prophecy. We might be able to help each other.”

A cold stone turned in Pax’s belly. She was escaping him. Worse than that, she just might be telling the truth.

*   *   *

The reawakened part of her had taken control, seizing the opportunity to abandon Pax’s protection on the hope these others might be more willing to assist her in her mission to recover her father. Not only that, she had fresh evidence it was dangerous for her to remain close to the Manti prince.

And yet as she watched him watch her, the middle of her chest tightened and ached.

The problem was this sliver of self between her abduction and her awakening—the part of her that Pax had brought to a different sort of awakening. Every decision she’d made—right up until the moment Pax revealed the true nature of Sanctuary—had been based on her belief in a lie. She was beginning to suspect even Zee had withheld information. Only Pax had been honest with her. More than that he’d lied to his father to protect her. More than
that
, he’d just kissed her in a way no one ever had—in a way that made her want much more than a kiss.

But somewhere in the Manti capital was her father. He was the one person about whom her feelings were still uncomplicated. Finding him trumped everything.

“We need to talk somewhere else,” muttered one of the disciples, glancing over his shoulder. A steady stream of people passed in the street beyond the alley, noisy and high-spirited.

“I’ll take her to the temple,” replied Micah.

“What about her friend?”

Micah studied Pax while Asha held her breath. Finally he said, “Make sure he’s not in a condition to follow us.”

Her gut wrenched, and her eyes jumped to Pax’s face. He gave her a subtle nod, reassuring her, which only made her feel worse. But he could take care of himself.

She held his gaze a moment, knowing if this desperate plan of hers worked she wasn’t likely to see him again. It would leave a hollow place in her. But she’d made her own choice. Had she remained with him, all her choices would have continued to be made for her.

Finally Micah said, “Come with me.”

He led her between the other disciples as they pressed forward.

*   *   *

The animal in Pax was awake and busy—lighting up nerve fibers, readying his muscles. His mate was walking away from him, and a living wall stood between them. He growled with impatience, at the others and at himself.

She
wasn’t
his mate, but she might as well have been. Since the moment of their meeting, some unconscious component of his hybrid psychology had been hard at work converting an initial chemical attraction to full-on attachment, manipulating his senses and emotions. The whole process had been accelerated by the guilt he’d felt over his lack of control. Guilt had evolved into protective impulses. All of which left him vulnerable to the woman herself—brave, determined, kind-hearted, tough. The recent addition of “passionate” to that list had sealed his fate.

Their kiss had woven together the components of attraction into a cord that was stronger than his resistance.

“Can we get on with this?” he muttered at the disciples.

A couple of them chuckled as their cloaks slid to the damp cobblestones, forming nonreflecting pools of black at their feet.

“Didn’t mean to waste your time, friend.”

The four of them—three men and one woman—all wielded blades. He was relieved to see they were only subtly Manti: only one had an extra set of appendages, and none had forearm spikes. Light filtering from the street showed one of the men bore the same set of surgical scars as Pax. It could be that, like Pax, his mantis appendages had been weak. It wasn’t uncommon, and they could be a handicap in a fight. But sometimes motives for such alterations were more complicated. At the core of Manti society—its heart of darkness—was a loathing for transgenic organisms.
Self
-loathing. It was the primary reason one of his father’s advisors continuously advocated exterminating the remaining human population—so there would be no visible reference for “normal.”

One of the men stepped forward. “Best for you if you don’t put up a fight. Over quicker. Less pain.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” replied Pax.

The rest of the group ranged in a half circle, blocking the alley’s exit. A balcony hung from the house to Pax’s left, but he wouldn’t be able to hoist himself up before the leader reached him.

Picking up an undercurrent of hesitation, he goaded again: “I’m in a bit of a rush.”

The man who’d spoken lunged at him.

Pax spun in a tight circle around him, bringing his elbows down hard on the man’s back. As the disciple hit the ground, Pax jammed a boot into his ribs—and knew from the quiet snap the man was out of the fight. The attacker’s knife had skittered toward the shadowy end of the alley, and Pax retrieved it now, spinning in time to block a swing from the woman.

She recovered quickly and tried to edge around behind him. He swung at her with his blade, cutting her off. He couldn’t afford to let them surround him.

“Why the masks?” he asked the woman.

She answered with another swipe of her blade. This time it grazed his abdomen.

“Do you think you’re keeping some kind of secret?” he continued, hoping to distract her. “I know you’re from the temple.”

“It’s market day,” was the terse reply. “Everyone wears them.”

The others left their positions and advanced on him. He had to give up his protected backside to maneuver between them.

“Get him!” the woman shouted, and they all charged at once.

He sprang for the balcony, catching the rails and drawing his lower body away from the ground.

Someone caught his ankle and hauled him back down to the alley. They spilled together onto the cobblestones.

“Hold him down!” cried one of the others.

Pax punched the first man who tried to grab him, then rolled out of another’s reach. He scrambled to his feet, running for the alley’s entrance, but the woman swept her legs out and tripped him. She clambered onto Pax’s back, pressing her blade against the base of his neck.

As he braced himself to eject her, someone cried, “Let him go!”

He glanced up to see Iris and Carrick moving into the alley.

“Do it now!” Iris ordered.

“Get out of here,” barked one of the disciples. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Iris hissed at him, wings lifting slightly. “You don’t want this fight. I’m giving you a chance to walk away from it.”

“Caleb,” the woman said sharply. “That’s the amir’s daughter.”

Iris was no longer wearing a mask, and one of the men gave her a hard look. He shifted forward a couple of steps, raising his dagger. Light from the alley washed over his bare chest.

“Don’t let her get away,” he said.

Iris laughed, but the priest did not. He gave a menacing growl and took two long strides toward the speaker.

*   *   *

Concern for Pax shifted to the background of Asha’s thoughts as she followed Micah out of the alley. Suddenly he steered her against the front of a house with an overhanging terrace.

“What are you doing?” she gasped.

She flinched as he reached toward her face, pulling the mask back down over her eyes. Then he removed his cloak.

“Put this on. The Guard will be looking for you.”

She slipped the cloak over her shoulders and drew up the hood. “Aren’t we going to the temple?”

“By an alternate route. The entrance is too easy to monitor. And it’s secured on the evening of the market.”

He led her back to Debajo, and the mantis guardian admitted them without question, bobbing his head at her companion. As they descended into the room she glanced at the bar. Her heart jumped when she saw Iris and Carrick. They stood talking to the bartender with their backs to the entrance. Asha tugged her hood lower as they reached the bottom of the stairs, hoping the strong smell of the place would shield her from the pair’s heightened senses.

Micah guided her away from the bar and around the sunken seating area. She risked a glance back at Iris and saw them bounding up the stairs toward the exit. She let out the breath she’d been holding and followed Micah to another stairway at the far end of the room, this one leading down.

“Watch your step,” he said. She pushed back the mask and cloak and took hold of the railing.

The stairway curved, and after a few moments of careful foot placement the stairwell brightened—lanterns hung from hooks mounted along the brick wall.

“Where does this go?” she asked, her voice sounding too loud in the vertical tunnel.

“Under the street. It connects Debajo and the temple. There are passages under much of the old city. Mostly unused. They’re considered unsafe.”

Perfect
. Already she was questioning her decision to leave Pax.

“Were you being taken to Al Campo?” he asked her.

Asha bit her lip, studying him. He’d removed his mask, but at the moment all she could see was the wavy blond hair covering the back of his head. “Actually I’m
hoping
to get to Al Campo. There’s someone I need to find.”

“Really?” She could hear the surprise in his voice, and he glanced over his shoulder. “You know if you’d stayed in the Scarab, it’s likely where you would have ended up.”

“I didn’t have that option,” she replied, uncertain how much to reveal. She’d have to trust someone eventually if she wanted help. But for the moment she preferred to hold her cards close. They were all she had for leverage. “It’s a long story.”

“I see,” he said softly.

She was relieved he hadn’t pressed her further, but she also knew the reprieve was likely temporary.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through an archway into a narrow passage illuminated by more of the phosphorescent lanterns. About half of the floor tiles were missing—accounting for the piles of rubble along the walls—and the remainder were cracked or broken and coated with dust.

“When we were talking in the alley,” she ventured, “it sounded like you were about to say you’d like to see the people in Al Campo freed.”

They passed through a twin archway on the opposite end of the tunnel, and he waved her toward another stairway.

“Yes. But don’t misunderstand. We were wronged by humanity even while we
were
still human. If we let ourselves forget that, we risk
becoming
that.”

She knew what he meant, due partly to her work in the Archive, but mostly due to conversations with her father. Many of the garage bio operations found their “volunteers” among the most impoverished members of society. By the time of the transgenic experiments, that class had grown particularly large.