He pulled his shirt off. His scent hit me. He opened his arms…
I jumped him.
We collided. The smell of him, the feel of him, the heat of his skin on mine, oh my God, this cannot be happening. He kissed me on the mouth, searing hot. “I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I was an ass…”
I couldn’t even talk. I just kissed him, running my hands over his chest, over his muscled back, touching his hard ridged stomach, wanting him inside me, wanting to be one. He slid his hands under my T-shirt, and I pulled it off, in a desperate hurry. He touched me again, pulling me into his arms, and it felt so right, so good, so sensual that I trembled. I slid my hands into his pants and stroked the hot hardness of his shaft. I wanted to feel him inside me, sliding in and out. I wanted the ultimate proof that he was mine and that I was his, and I was hot and slick and ready. All of my tricks went out the window, and I just rubbed against him, tasting his skin and purring. He kissed my neck, sliding his tongue along the sensitive spots, and then he lost it, too. Somehow, intertwined, we made it down the attic steps into the hallway.
We had had sex hundreds of times. We had tried dozens of positions, we had flirted with our kinks, we had long ago learned how and where to touch to make each other moan and gasp and to delay each other’s pleasure until the sweet anticipation of release became almost torture…and we used none of it. We made love in the tried-and-true missionary position right there on the hideous purple carpet in the hallway, awkward and impatient, fumbling about like two virgin teenagers caught in a selfless race to make the other happy.
It was the best sex I had ever had.
My eyes snapped open. I lay in the hallway. Raphael’s arm was wrapped around me. The carpet under us smelled like sex and plastic.
The ceiling was steeped in shadows. Raphael’s drapes were open and they streamed down on both sides of the window. Moonlight flooded the city and struck the latticework of steel and silver bars on the window, setting them aglow with delicate radiance. The magic was up.
I glanced at the clock. Two a.m. I’d barely had an hour of sleep.
Something had woken me.
A deep rumbling noise rolled through the house.
My body went from drowsy and tired to full alert in half a second. Next to me Raphael sat up.
The sound came again, a low, deep tone like a muted roar of the bull alligator mixed with the bellow of a bull.
The window.
I jumped to my feet and ran to the window. Raphael got there at the same time. We pressed to the wall on the opposite sides of the window frame and edged the curtains aside.
Ammit stood below, its long-jawed, heavy head raised up. Its eyes stared at us. It didn’t seem hostile. It simply waited.
Raphael and I traded glances.
He slid the window open. “Hi there.”
Ammit stared at us.
“Shoo! Go away, girl!” I said.
“Girl?”
“Kate says it’s female.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an Egyptian demon who devours souls.”
Raphael sighed. It was a dejected, I am so tired of this crap sigh and it made me want to hug him.
Ammit stared at us.
“If only I had a bow,” I murmured. “I could totally shoot it in the eye from here. Boom, arrow to the brain.”
“Your bow is on the table downstairs. Do you like it?”
“It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.” Aside from him and Baby Rory.
“I’m so glad.”
“How did you get one?”
He smiled at me, that handsome, slightly evil Raphael smile. “It’s a secret.”
I ran downstairs to fetch the bow. When I returned, Raphael still stood by the window. “It could go through the door to get to us,” Raphael said. “So why doesn’t it?”
We peered at Ammit.
“What is it, girl?” Raphael asked, his voice coaxing. “Did Timmy fall down the well?”
Ammit said nothing.
“It would be crazy to go out there,” Raphael said.
“We’d have to be insane.”
I pulled on my pants, socks, and sneakers. Raphael pulled out two fresh T-shirts from a chest by the basket of clean laundry and tossed one to me. I grabbed my Ifor, he got his knives, and we took off down the stairs.
Outside, the night was bright. Pale bluish vapor rose from the chunks of concrete that made up the low wall around the house—something magic must’ve been brought out by the moonlight. I drew my bow and we snuck around the building, moving silently, carefully walking on the balls of our feet.
Step.
Another step.
I turned the corner and the tip of my arrow touched Ammit’s nose. It’s amazing how far you can jump backward, if properly motivated.
Raphael stepped around me and approached the massive beast. We had killed it. I could still picture its corpse in my mind, fresh and vivid, the blood, the dulled eyes, the great maw gaping lifelessly, spilling the tongue on the ground. Yet there it stood.
Raphael reached out.
“Don’t,” I warned.
He touched its head, petting its cheek. The tentacles of Ammit’s mane twisted toward him and slid harmlessly off his hand.
The beast sighed. Two clouds of moist vapor escaped its nostrils.
It didn’t open its crocodile mouth and bite Raphael’s hand off.
Slowly Ammit turned, trotted forward a few feet, and looked at us over its muscular shoulder.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“No.”
The jaws gaped open and the roar rolled forth, primal and ancient, so much older than the city around it, so alien that I wondered for a second if the illusion of Atlanta would tear under the force of that primeval call and I would end up standing in the muddy, rich waters of the Nile. I could almost see the tall slender reeds shifting in the night breeze.
The roar sang through my veins, urging me to follow.
Ammit took a step forward and looked at us.
“Should we?” I murmured.
Raphael shrugged. “Alright, Lassie. Lead on.”
The great beast started down the slope, and we followed. Ammit built to a fast trot. We ran through the magic-soaked city. My feet were weightless, and we devoured the distance, swallowing mile after mile, tireless and exhilarated.
Tendrils of faint orange vapor curled from the beast, streaming from its mane and back. Its magic enveloped me. It felt so right, running like this, hunting like this, next to Raphael. Lean, muscular, the white T-shirt molded to his body, he ran with grace and power, his long legs in gray Pack sweatpants carrying him forward. His skin almost glowed. Sweat dampened his dark hair. His dark eyes focused on something far ahead.
The compound bow in my hand could be made of horn, wood, and sinew. The oversized white T-shirt Raphael had given me could be a tunic. The asphalt under my feet could be sand or the dry red soil of low hills. The air smelled of lotus and water lily, and sometimes of dew-soaked jasmine, and then of dry desert.
Ammit stopped and I almost cried out. I wanted to keep running.
The reality came back, fading in through the magic. We were in front of the Cutting Edge office.
The magic of Ammit swirled around us, evaporating slowly, like distant notes of perfume dissipating from the skin.
A second Ammit thundered down the street toward us, a huge black horse following it. Roman dismounted next to us, his staff in his hand. He wore a tank top and black pajama pants with an Eeyore pattern.
“I have had it with this shit,” he announced. “I got woken up in the middle of the night, didn’t get any sleep again, rode across the whole damned city, nu na cherta mne ato nuzhno.” He waved his hand in front of his face. “Damn magic everywhere, making me sneeze.”
The Ammit next to him opened its mouth. Roman whacked it with the top of his staff on the nose. “You—shut up.”
The Ammit looked just like a cat who had gotten popped with a newspaper: half-shocked, half-outraged. Roman surveyed the two of us. “What’s the matter with you two? Why do you look all dazed?”
The magic melted, taking the visions of the Nile with it. My mind struggled to formulate a coherent thought, any thought. I opened my mouth. “Your pajamas have Eeyore on them.”
“I like Eeyore. He’s sensible. A sober outlook on life never hurt anyone.”
Raphael shook his head, trying to clear it. “What are you doing here?”
Roman grimaced. “How would I know? Last night I helped Andrea and then a winged gadina took my staff, and tonight I woke up with this varmint howling under my window.”
Raphael turned to me. “Last night? After I called you?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you call me to come and help?”
“Why would I call you? You can’t do magic.”
The wheels slowly turned in Raphael’s head. He looked at Roman. “How long have you been helping her?”
Roman’s face took on a dangerous expression. “I’m sorry, since when do I answer to you, exactly?”
The two men squared off. Great. I tried the door of the office. Unlocked.
Raphael stepped forward. Roman did, too. They stood dangerously close.
“I asked you a question,” Raphael said, his voice saturated with menace.
Roman’s voice turned icy. “And I told you to fuck yourself. Which part wasn’t clear?”
“Hey!” I snapped.
They looked at me.
“The door is open,” I said. “You can stay out here and compare inches for the entire night, but I’m going inside.”
I swung the door open and stepped across the threshold.
The office was bathed in a gentle yellow glow. The air smelled of sweet myrrh, fiery cinnamon, balsam, and the smoky, spicy mix of thyme and marjoram. The pungent aroma didn’t seem to drift but saturated the room, hanging in the air, filling the place.
I stepped inside. My desk and Kate’s were missing. Four braziers, bronze dishes filled with some sort of fuel on tall metal stems, burned bright, set on both sides of a large chair. In the chair sat Anapa. He rested his cheek on his hand, bent at the elbow and leaning on the chair’s armrest, one long leg over the other.