It should not have happened.
He scowled. It should never have happened. Yet somehow, it had.
Where no other had been able to see beyond the steel-walled exterior that was his persona, she had.
Nothing about it was extraordinary, and that was the thing that confounded him the most.
He had loved once; but she had not been strong enough to withstand his world, nor those with whom he kept company in the privacy of his palace.
Tin-Tin's own mother, one so beautiful and so in love with his half-brother, he had once claimed as his own. But she had succumbed to the possessions
which she was far too weak to handle and he had learned that hardening his heart, that relying upon Ombakte, was all he had and all he would ever have.
So very many years ago he had made the pact with Ombakte, under the guidance and blessing of the Shadow Chhaya; the pact which would give him
everything he hungered for: power, wealth and eternal life. But as the years had begun to pass, as his body became older and his surroundings became
mundane; as he began to tire of the endless lines of slaves, of being able to take anyone and anything he wanted; as he failed time and time again to
obtain the secrets of International Rescue, he began to question things he had never dared question before.
It was during one such period of time not six months prior that he had taken his doubts and wanderlust and set upon a journey. Aimlessly he travelled
by boat, by car and by plane. He had more money probably than the Tracy family did, but he found it did not ease the strange ache in his belly. He even
tried a simple murder with his own two hands, without any magick involved. The gas station attendant in the middle of nowhere lost his life simply for
being in the path of Radzi Belah Gaat.
Yet even that act, one which used to give him an almost sexual satisfaction, left him empty. It was at that moment, as he knelt next to the lifeless
body of the grizzled old man, that he knew he would never take another life again.
It wasn't as though he made a conscious decision to stop killing; it was simply something he innately became aware of no longer desiring. Turning, he
looked at the ostentatious black Hummer he'd been driving and shook his head. He didn't want it anymore. He just didn't. The chattel he owned, every
priceless painting and statue, every vehicle and slave and even his temple; they had become meaningless to him now.
Abandoning the vehicle where it sat next to the gas pumps, he headed north. The Man of a Thousand Faces had been flying to remote locations, taking
boats out into the middle of oceans and seas and had finally wound up on the coast of British Columbia. It had taken him this long to make his way
south into Mexico and then back up across the border into the United States. He'd driven wherever he'd felt like, whenever he'd felt like and in all
honesty hadn't felt this much freedom in longer than he could remember. Since early this morning he'd been following 180/64 in Arizona toward the Grand
Canyon. It had been with some surprise earlier when he realized where he was headed, but he felt drawn to that location. Maybe it was because he
intended to throw himself from the tips of the rock cliffs into the depths of the gorge. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he wanted to end it all.
Though he hadn't seen, heard or felt her since embarking upon this strange journey of his, she still was on his mind. But Ombakte bored him. Where once
he had craved her seeping into his very blood, now he would lay emotionless and unmoving while she had her way with him. It was no longer interesting,
no longer exciting. For the man who'd vowed to have everything, and very nearly did, life had become pedestrian.
But he knew that while he would suffer the same pain as any man who might jump off the walls of the Grand Canyon, while it would be nothing less than
an agonizing result, he would not…could not…die. That was one of the things he had once considered a benefit. Now, however, at the
age of fifty-three, he found himself staring into an endless future. Like the fabled vampire, he would be forced to witness life after life after life;
the never-ending cycle of seasons, years, war, peace, technology, and humankind.
He didn't want to. It was that simple, really.
Belah wanted to grow old. He wanted to experience the aging of his flesh rather than always being healthy, always being strong, always being able to
come out of any battle unscathed. What would it feel like to be completely human once again? He had been so young when this commitment had been made.
As a teen he had made a pact that he hadn't the foresight to completely understand the meaning of.
A wry smile etched his face. Wasn't that the way of every human being? It seemed all made mistakes in their early years that they regretted when they
reached middle age. He was no different; it was the nature of his mistake that separated him from all others.
Many vehicles passed him on their way to the magnificence that was Grand Canyon National Park. Truth was he had never visited the landmark, nor any of
the others that normal people took their families to. Because he had never been normal, by any stretch of the imagination.
At ten, he watched his father kill his mother and beat Kyrano to within an inch of his life.
At seventeen he had made use of his knowledge of the dark arts and called forth his first demon. Six months later Ombakte owned him.
Then he'd killed his own father to avenge his mother's murder.
Young Belah, eighteen years of age, blazed his way around the world using the mysterious powers he'd gained through his alliance with the demon world
to take whatever and whoever he wanted.
By twenty he was the tenth wealthiest man on the planet. By thirty he was obsessed with defeating International Rescue. By forty he'd amassed more
wealth than most countries combined were worth.
It was as he approached the half-century mark that his own personal midlife crisis, if it could be called that, had hit. After yet another failed
attempt to steal Thunderbird 1 at a rescue site, and after having a hole the size of a volleyball blasted through his torso by Scott Tracy, he had
retreated to his temple to wait for his wounds to heal and curse the Tracys even more than he had the previous twenty years combined.
But it was during this time of healing that he'd realized just how much he didn't care anymore. A dozen new slaves had been brought to him proudly by
his slaver, and indeed they were creatures of beauty. One of them even reminded him of Scott a little bit the way his dark hair curled over his
forehead, and the thought of pretending it was the man who'd blown a hole in him, and doing whatever he wanted to cause him pain and torture, did pique
his interest.
For all of about five minutes.
He remembered sitting there and sighing at all the downcast eyes. Not one of them would ever look directly at him. And of course, why would they? He
had trained them all to never look at him. His scientists, his military personnel, the head of his guards, the trainers, his bathers, his sorcerers and
witches. Not a single one would ever look him in the eye. How tiresome that had grown.
His many hours alone on the road with nothing to do but think had been both good and bad. Good, because without the constant attention that this or
that thing always needed in Malaysia, he could actually string enough thoughts together to begin questioning his life. Bad, because the questioning of
his life had led him to a single conclusion: he was unhappy.
Belah snorted aloud as his feet moved of their own volition up the first incline toward the canyon. Great, so he'd figured out he was unhappy. It's not
like this was the most supreme revelation. But the fact that he admitted it, if only to himself, was.
So now what?
Sighing deeply, he looked ahead and saw a booth where he supposed you had to pay to enter the national park. He didn't feel like paying to experience
something that had been made by nature. He had enough cash in his pocket to pay for each and every car that was lined up down the highway, but that
didn't matter.
He left the road and disappeared into the woods. Higher and higher he climbed. He had begun to sweat, and removed his soft black leather jacket,
discarding it to the dry ground. His black boots were perfect for this terrain; black jeans protected his legs from any scorpions who might wish to
sting him. Dampness became apparent around his armpits and in the V of his perfectly chiseled chest as the terrain became more difficult; the climb
more steep.
He felt…exhilarated. And with each step, he began to realize this feeling was new to him. The last time anything had come close to this was
longer ago than he could remember. As if trying to order more of this newfound companion into his being, he pushed himself harder and faster. Before he
knew it, his next step nearly took him over the edge.
For there he was; standing at the precipice to one of the most incredible natural sights man had known. As far left and right as the eye could see, its
magnificently cut depths and the rushing waters of the Colorado River made him feel almost giddy with delight. He'd become so used to the jungles of
Malaysia, so used to humidity and rain and the sounds of the animals that dwelt there; this heat, the thinner air, the incongruity of desert meeting
river was downright fascinating.
Perhaps he had shut himself away from the world for too long.
He began searching for a way to get down the steep edges but nowhere did he find a suitable place for descent. And so he began walking to his right,
placing his feet with an assuredness that surprised even him. It was like he'd been here before; as though he knew every inch of this rock upon which
he now walked. The further he went, the more harmony he felt.
Yet another foreign sensation. Harmony. His mother had taught it, his half-brother had lived it. But Belah's life had never been truly harmonious, and
it was due to his own inability to see that such a thing was even possible. But here he was, not another living soul in sight, and for the first time
he began to think of peace.
Warfare had made him a fortune over the years. Supplying weaponry to both sides of any fight was always profitable, and managed to cause millions of
deaths. What did he care for those idiots who insisted upon engaging in hostilities over small strips of land, or what type of god they worshiped, or
who was right and who was wrong in their interpretation of ancient documents? If they were brainless enough to let things like that become their death
shrouds, then they were too stupid to live, was his opinion.
There was no breeze here. There were no sounds save those very faint ones from the river far below. The sun shone off his bronze skin and he felt its
warmth seep into his bones. Yes, this was peace. For all his inexperience with it, he knew it to be so.
And so he made his way along the gorge, rarely thinking of anything but the new man he was beginning to feel like. The sun had nearly disappeared into
the horizon by the time he realized how late it was. And he hadn't exactly thought this far ahead.
It would get cold at this elevation once the sun was gone. He'd left his jacket miles and miles behind him and was well beyond any of the standard
tourist stops.
At last he found a place where the canyon sloped downward gently enough that he could make it to the Colorado. As he approached, he heard something
that seemed out-of-place in this environment, yet oddly as though it were meant to be here. Walking slowly along the sandy banks of the river, he
continued east, drawn to the sound.
It was a flute-like instrument of some sort. Closer and closer he drew, and the melody became louder. Then he saw, as the sun dropped and night was
upon him, the soft glow of a campfire. He stopped for a moment. Was he prepared to encounter anyone else? The serenity he'd begun to feel suddenly
tightened in his chest. He was about to show his face to people he did not know.
Then again, he reasoned, they probably wouldn't have a clue who he really was, either. That could be good. His stomach rumbled and he wondered
if those at the campfire had any food. As if in response, a scent wafted to his nose that made his stomach gurgle in protest.
He decided that he would risk it. At the very worst, knowing he couldn't actually be killed, he'd come away with something that would need to heal if
they shot him. And in spite of this his body was still human and therefore required sustenance as did that of any man.
Taking the last few steps through the green scrub that lined the banks of the river, he moved onto the sand and made his presence known. For a fraction
of a second, he would have sworn his heart stopped.
Seated on the ground with legs crossed, and a wooden flute held gently in her hands, there she was. Her lips, pursed to continue the music she had been
making, stopped blowing as their eyes met. His mouth opened, rapid breathing making his chest heave out and in. He took a step closer as she lowered
the flute to her lap and her mouth resumed its normal shape.
Perhaps it was the glow of the fire, or perhaps it was that he was hungry after hiking alone for more than eight hours. Or perhaps it was simply real. Whatever the reason, he thought he had never set his eyes on a sight more beautiful than this woman.
She looked at him a moment more, as though measuring how much of a threat she thought this stranger who had wandered into her camp might be. Then, as
if coming to a decision, she rose to her feet in one fluid movement. Her blue jeans were dusty, as were her hiking shoes. Her soft brown leather jacket
hung open, and she stuffed the flute into one of its pockets as she smiled. He was unable to move. Her hair was like spun gold; he had never seen the
like. It fell in waves well beyond her shoulders. Her lips seemed to taunt and beckon him as she spoke.
"I have some food if you're hungry."
He dipped his head in acknowledgment, still unable to find words as he moved toward her.
"My name is Catherine," she said softly, holding out her hand as she stepped around her small fire.
Not trusting his own voice, Belah closed the distance between them and reached out to take her offered hand. The moment they touched his senses reeled
as though he'd been punched square in the jaw. Up close he could see her pink-peach skin, the upturned corners of her mouth, and the crinkles at the
corners of her eyes when her smile turned into a grin.
"Cat got your tongue?" she asked, making no move to release his hand.
"Cat?" he repeated as though the word was entirely foreign to him.
"Cat. Meow." She cocked her head at him as his thumb moved along the back of her hand, an area which seemed to have transfixed him.
Looking up at the same moment, their eyes met and he heard a small gasp from her. Fearing those eyes, which had done so much damage thanks to Ombakte
who dwelled behind them, had frightened her, he jumped back as though burnt, releasing her hand.
"I won't bite," she said.
He almost barked out a laugh. She thought he was afraid of her? He swallowed hard and found his voice still didn't want to
cooperate. Perhaps, he thought, he should be afraid of her.
"It's okay. Come on, I have a good canned meal here. Beans and franks, if you can stand 'em."
She opened a nearby knapsack and pulled out a bowl, then went to the fire over which a pot was hanging. He watched as she slowly stirred; saw the heat
rising from its contents. The ladle came up and she poured some of this beans and franks concoction into the bowl she held. Returning to her knapsack,
she pulled out a spoon, then turned and held it all out to him.
"Come and sit with me. I don't often get company," she smiled.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and thought how infantile his behavior had become. On the one hand, he was still the evil one who would stop at
nothing to get what he wanted. Whereas yesterday he would simply have grabbed this woman and carried her away, now he could only look at her in wonder.
She busied herself with another bowl and was soon seated cross-legged next to him on the sand. The water provided their backdrop; the glow of the
campfire warmed his body much as the sun had earlier in the day. The smell of the food became too much and he dug his spoon into it, nearly reaching
his mouth before he felt compelled to speak.
"Thank you."
She grinned. "You're welcome." Catherine looked him up and down. "You don't look like someone who's meant to be out here wandering the Canyon. Are you
lost?"
Chewing and swallowing what he found to be a unique and almost heavenly taste in this beans and franks of hers, he met her eyes. "I was…" he
responded, voice trailing off.
"But now you're not?" He shook his head, shoveling two more spoonfuls into his mouth. "There's plenty more if you want it." Gesturing first toward the
pot, she then began to eat her own meal.
He emptied the bowl, and moved to get more food from the fire. They finished the meal in silence. When the utensils and dishes had been placed to the
side, he stretched his legs out in front of his body. I should tell her my name.
The thought startled him. Well, what did it matter? This lone woman here in the middle of nowhere wouldn't know him, wouldn't care. He could tell her
to call him Belah. Yes, that's what he would do; he would tell her his name.
"I am Radzi."
His eyes widened. Why on Earth had he given her that name? It was the name his mother had chosen for him, his true given name, and
the name that only his half-brother and Chhaya had ever dared call him. He had banished it from use after his mother's murder. Now it was a forbidden
sound that even he refused to acknowledge, so why had he told her this deeply buried word? A line of sweat appeared over his upper lip.
"What an unusual name," she said, looking up at him. "You seem embarrassed."
Embarrassed? Him? Was she kidding? But why did he feel like…why did he feel that…? He looked into her eyes. "Nobody knows that part of me,"
he said simply.
"Why do you keep it hidden?"
"I must to survive."
She reached out and placed her hand upon his arm, then swept her other hand out to indicate their surroundings. "Nothing here threatens your survival."
"No," he agreed, feeling as though his skin where she touched him was on fire. She was wrong. Something here was threatening his survival:
Catherine herself.
He swallowed hard and tore his eyes from hers. He took in the small tent she had pitched but saw no other signs to indicate who she was or how she'd
gotten here. Catherine followed his gaze. "I hiked in from the road."
Whipping his head back to look at her, he wondered how she had known what he was thinking. Awkwardly he rose to his feet, tearing his arm from her
hand. He was on dangerous ground. Something was happening, something wasn't right; something that terrified even him…yet begged him to allow it
to consume him…was closing in on him, making him feel claustrophobic, like there were walls that threatened to crush him.
"Radzi, are you all right?"
"Don't…call me that!" he whispered fiercely.
She, too, came to her feet and took a step nearer. "But you told me to."
He turned to look at her as she came nearer. "You are not afraid of me," his thickly accented voice proclaimed in wonder.
"No. Should I be?"
He nodded once, then shook his head, then just lowered it altogether. He was confused; everything was a jumble in his mind. A thousand voices screamed
from his past, from the depths of the underworld, from his endless future. Squeezing his eyes shut, he balled his fists, almost physically battling
that which threatened to overwhelm him.
And then he felt her again. Felt her body close, felt her hands reach out and touch the insides of his elbows. He shuddered almost violently. Slowly
his eyes opened as her fingers ran down his arms and disappeared into his much larger hands.
"You've been hurt," she said softly, raising her eyes to meet his. "Badly."
If only she knew. If only she knew that he was the one who had hurt others so badly. If only she could see into his mind. She would be scared.
She would be frightened.
"You've hurt others," she said and his eyes widened. Could she read his thoughts? "Come back to the fire, Radzi, I won't hurt you."
"But I may hurt you." There. He'd said it. He had no idea how to talk to people; how to really talk to them. He knew how to
bamboozle, order, chant, incant and utter the most evil curses known to this realm. But he had not a clue how to have a normal everyday conversation.
Catherine pulled him back to the fire and gently prodded him to sit, which he did. She sat next to him, their legs touching, keeping one hand on his
left arm. "You won't hurt me. If you wanted to hurt me, I'd be dead already. I'm not even half your size, Radzi. I'm no match for you."
He knew it as soon as she'd uttered the words. That was the problem! She was a match for him. The realization hit him with such force
that he expelled every bit of air in his lungs.
"You're really fighting some serious demons, aren't you?"
His eyes moved to hers so fast he was sure he'd gotten whiplash. "How…?"
She smiled. "It's okay, just sit here and look into the fire. It's mesmerizing. It's tranquil; peaceful. It will help relax you."
Stunned into silence, he turned to face the fire as suggested and stared into its flames. The last time he'd stared into fire was at the Gates of Hell.
He shuddered again. He simply could not forget who and what he was. Yes, this woman was in danger.
But so was he.
Part Two: The Betrayal
That first night had passed quietly enough. Eventually she'd gone to her tent, zipping it slowly, leaving him out in the open at his own request. For a
time he'd wandered the banks of the Colorado, but eventually he'd settled down alongside the dying campfire. When he awoke at dawn the next morning, it
was to find a thick wool blanket was covering him and a soft down jacket was beneath his head as a pillow.
It unnerved him and he shot to his feet, looking wildly around. A rustling from the tent, the sound of the zipper, and she emerged, fully clothed, her
hands covered by gloves, her breath hanging in the chill morning air.
"Good morning!" she chirped, going behind the tent. "I hope you slept okay out here."
Hoped he slept okay? Why would she care how he did or did not sleep?
"I figured that blanket would keep you snug as a bug in a rug," she finished as she emerged with an armful of chopped wood and kindling. "I have to
haul this with me from the road, but it's worth it when it gets this cold!" she smiled.
Snug as a bug in a-he shook his head. He wasn't even going to try to figure that one out. "Yes, it served its purpose. Thank you."
Scratching the back of his bald head, he watched as she laid the logs into the pit just so, arranged kindling over top of them and then went back to
her tent. She returned quickly with two crumpled pieces of paper upon which words had been hand-written. She knelt and started shoving one of them
under the kindling.
He had no idea where it had come from, but suddenly the words on that piece of paper were as important to him as oxygen itself. He moved so quickly
that Catherine yelped in surprise. Snatching the papers from her hand, he backed away as he smoothed them open.
"No, don't!" she cried, but made no move to stop him.
His eyes widened as he began to read:
I have never seen one before who isn't aware of his own humanity. It's as if he's been lost in another world his whole life, and only just now
begins to realize he is flesh and blood. He says his name is Radzi but doesn't want to hear the word, as though it's poison to him. But then when
he looks at me, the wall he's so carefully constructed seems to crumble and for a moment that passes far too quickly, I can see into his soul.
What I have seen frightens me.
"Why," he breathed, looking up from the page. "Why did you write this?"
She shrugged. "I keep a journal. The reason I come on these solitary trips is to clear my head, to get away from the hustle and bustle of life. I work
through things."
Work through things? What things?
He slid the first page behind the second and smoothed it out more. The words written in blue ink leapt from the page and straight into his chest like a
hundred knives stabbing him all at once. He couldn't even breathe.
But even though it frightens me, I know he won't hurt me. Deep down he wants to be free of whatever demons have plagued him. I think maybe I was
here at this very moment for a reason. But he's almost like a wild animal. So hungry it would risk its life to come close to a human for
sustenance; so afraid of the human it approaches that it would rather starve than live.
I'd like to help him. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because he needs me.
Perhaps it's because I need him.
The papers fluttered to the sand at his feet. It took a few seconds for him to start breathing again, and a few more before he looked up to where she
stood watching him. He wanted to demand answers from her. How could she possibly know what he was feeling? How could she decode him so quickly, so
thoroughly? Why did he need her? Did he need her? Why did she need him? What did any of this mean?
That's what he'd always done, was demand things. Answers, money, secrets, blood, sweat, tears. All his life, he'd never asked for anything. Even when
he'd summoned Ombakte for the first time, he hadn't asked her to help him; he'd demanded she help him.
"I don't understand."
She smiled. "Good, because neither do I. Now, I was going to head back this morning, so I didn't bring anything for breakfast."
"Back?"
"Yeah. Home. It's Sunday. I have to go to work tomorrow."
"Work?"
She laughed. "You keep repeating everything I say like a parrot."
He was about to say the word parrot but snapped his mouth shut, making her laugh all the harder. Only then did he realize why she was laughing, and he
felt his mouth turn upwards in…a smile? Was that really a smile?
He bent over and picked the papers back up off the ground. Moving to the fire she'd laid out, he stuffed the papers in and was about to just snap the
thumb and forefinger of his left hand to light it, when she was suddenly next to him with a book of matches.
"If you want to start learning to be human," she said softly, "then you need to start acting human."
"What makes you say I'm not human?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know.
Catherine got the two pieces of paper lit and slowly fanned the flames with her hands to allow the kindling to catch. "Every time I look into your eyes
I can see you're not. At least, you don't think you are."
"You know nothing about me."
Satisfied with her work, she rose to her feet, dusting her hands over the growing fire. She turned to look at him. "I know you come from money. Those
boots, those jeans, even that tee shirt you're wearing are top name labels. Nobody who's poor or middle class wears five hundred dollar jeans, Radzi."
He flinched when she said that word.
"You have an unusual accent, too, but your English is perfect. Almost too perfect. This leads me to believe you're highly educated."
"I am that, but not in the traditional manner."
She half-smiled, looking once more into his eyes as she continued. "There is something very dark inside you. That's what I see in your eyes. Something
I know I should be frightened of."
"Yes," he replied with a slight nod of his head. She was as intuitive as she was beautiful. Even with her silky hair tied behind her head and covered
with a hat she took his breath away. "I must walk," he said gruffly, and turned toward the river bank.
And that was how they spent the day. It was hard at first to wrap his head around her words, around how he was supposed to respond, but he had
learned…somewhat. He made her laugh throughout the morning and by the time mid-afternoon had rolled around he had found that sensation again;
that feeling of peace.
"You know, we haven't eaten a thing all day. How about we head to the nearest roach coach for a bite?"
"Roach coach…what is this?"
She laughed and laughed. What was so funny about a coach that held roaches? The confusion on his face made her laugh even harder and he felt the
corners of his mouth turn up again. She was doubled over, holding her sides and suddenly whined "Owwwwwww!" as she kept on laughing.
He took it as a sign she was in pain and every fiber of his being wanted to help. He grasped her forearms and stood her straight up. His body was
against hers and to steady herself, she placed the open palms of her hands on his chest.
"What has happened?" he asked. "Are you injured?"
She panted and laughed and then took a deep breath and giggled and then finally looked up into his face. What she saw there made her laugh and her
smile disappear. Her mouth hung open just slightly.
"I'm not hurt, Radzi."
"But you said…" his voice trailed off. He became aware. Fully aware. Every nerve ending seemed to light up. He felt her heaving breaths moving
her chest, her body, into his and then ever so slightly away. He felt his own lips part, his own breathing become ragged. "You said…ow," he
finally finished.
"It's just that laughing so hard made my sides hurt."
"Sides? Here?" he asked, his large hands moving from her back to either side of her stomach.
She nodded, their eyes still locked on each other.
"Why does laughter make them hurt?"
"It…stretches the muscles," she replied. "Don't you ever start aching from laughter?"
"I do not laugh."
"What? Ever?"
"No."
"You are a strange one," she breathed. Her hands moved up to his shoulders; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach them. Slowly she traced her right index
finger up his neck and along his jaw. "I'm sorry," she whispered, but made no move to stop.
For his part, words once again would not come. Her touch electrified him. Excited him. His body would soon betray him, he knew, but he was frozen to
the spot…frozen in this embrace. He closed his eyes when her finger found his lips, and reopened them as she traced up his cheek.
He wanted her. His body made that crystal clear to him. She stood as tall as her small frame would allow, reaching her hand behind his neck.
"You are playing with fire," he managed to get out as he allowed her to lower his head.
"Maybe I want to get burned."
He moved the last few inches and found her lips, expecting nothing more than he had experienced with any number of slaves or captured women over the
years. But he had been mistaken. She really was playing with fire. And so too, he knew, was he.
He lifted her easily, crushing her to his body as her tongue slid along his lips. This wasn't right. But it was. Opening his mouth, he devoured her,
demanding as he always did that she surrender. But he felt her back away, her hands pushing her head apart from his.
Belah felt wild. He felt alive.
"No."
How many times had he heard someone say that to him in his life? More than he could ever count, but it had never stopped him. It wasn't about what they
wanted; it was about what he was going to take from them.
"Radzi, no."
He flinched again, his automatic response to hearing that name. He set her down, confused, his blood racing, heart pounding, jeans growing even tighter
across his groin.
"No?" he asked, as though the word were from a language he'd never heard before.
She shook her head as he lowered her to the ground. "You can't just take. You have to give as well."
Give. The most he'd ever given someone was when he told people they could try to convince him that he shouldn't kill them. But he always killed them
anyway. Or, at least, given out punishment. It was all part and parcel of having slaves.
"You look confused. Come." She took his hand and led him back to the tiny camp. She unzipped her tent with one hand as the colors of an Arizona sunset
began filling the sky.
She was right. He was confused. Give. What was it she expected him to give? She had initiated the contact, why did she then say no? He really
and truly did not understand at all.
"Come inside with me. It will be getting cold soon, and our fire died while we were out walking."
He recalled something she had said that morning, about having to leave to go to work, and wondered why she was still here. He had to get on his hands
and knees to fit his six-foot-one frame into the confines of the tent, and she followed him in, turning to zip the entrance shut behind them.
Then she sat atop her sleeping bag and motioned for him to do the same. "When I say you have to give as well," she began, "it's because…well, it
just feels like all you want to do is take me."
He didn't see the problem with this, but kept his mouth shut.
"Radzi," she said so softly he barely heard it. "I want you. I don't know why, I just do."
"I want you," he repeated, only this time actually meant the words to be more than an echo of hers.
She gave a small laugh. "For some reason it sounds like you're leaving off 'and I will have you.'"
He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. How well she knew him in only a day…how could that be? He didn't know what to say. He didn't know
what to do. He was at a loss for what his next step should be. Except maybe it should be away.
This was no good. It couldn't be. It shouldn't be.
"You're getting ready to bolt. Why, Radzi? Why are you so afraid of me?"
That hit him where it hurt. At first he felt indignant, followed by enraged, followed by frightened, lost, confused, alone and hurt in rapid
succession. Nearly all were feelings he was unfamiliar with and the whirlwind left him breathless as he watched her in the waning light.
"Let's just lay down," she suggested. "I have to be up early. I still have to go to work in the morning."
He nodded, feeling the pressure she'd placed on him ease a little. She quickly unzipped the sleeping bag and removed her coat and boots. Then she
looked up at where he was still seated at the bottom of the bag and smiled. "Usually I sleep naked."
His pulse throbbed at his throat. He looked from her eyes, to her mouth. Her mouth, to her chin. Down her neck to the brown tee shirt she wore. Down
further to the curve that beckoned from her chest. Belah Gaat, a man who had killed more men than all serial killers in history combined, wanted to
touch them so badly. He knew they would be soft and supple. His hands began to ache.
Catherine placed her fingers at the bottom of her shirt. "I'm not really modest," she said, blushing. Pulling it halfway up, so that only her abdomen
was exposed, she reached across and took his hands, guiding them to her waist. "Steady me."
He felt the smooth skin of her body under his hands and became so dizzy he had to close his eyes. He heard the swish of her shirt being removed. When
she told him to look, he did. That gnawing ache, the one he'd been feeling these last many weeks, the one that no meal could satisfy, returned with a
vengeance to his body now.
"I will give myself to you," she offered, placing her hands over where his still encircled her waist, "if you will give yourself to me."
That was what had been the beginning of the end. It didn't matter if he just took what he wanted. It was when someone willingly gave to him and he
equally willingly gave back. This split-second decision, one he would have known better than to make under completely different circumstances, was to
seal his fate…and that of this innocent called Catherine.
"I will," he breathed, rocking up to his knees and moving until he was directly in front of her. His hands moved an inch up until he felt her belly
beneath his thumbs.
Her hands cupped his face as their lips met, and the sweet breath of her whispered words disappeared into his mouth. "I will."
The urgency was there, like before, only somehow slower and not so consuming. Like an empty vessel he felt her fill him, pouring shining liquid into
the empty hollow he'd become, bringing cracks of light into the darkest recesses of parts of him he was convinced were long-dead.
Her mouth, her tongue, the feel of her body as she leaned into him. He realized after several minutes that she was trying to push him back, and so he
let himself fall to a sitting position, sticking his legs straight out in front of himself. In wonder, he watched as she grabbed the bottom of his tee
shirt and pulled it up and over his head. He grasped the fabric and tossed it aside, watching her look at him.
Her breasts waited beneath the see-through lace of her bra. Oh, how he ached with need, with desire. Her hands darted out to feel the defined ridges of
his abdomen, to move upward over his pectorals. He shivered, and it wasn't because he was cold.
He was learning to feel. Like a blind man or a babe fresh from its mother's womb. The sense of touch…he had never known what it was like to have
someone adore you with touch, to worship you with touch. He had worshiped Tin-Tin's mother this way, but she had not reciprocated. The fact was she had
never loved him; she had only been using him for her own greedy purposes.
This was, after all, ironic since that had always been his M.O.
But this woman, she was unlike any he had encountered. Everywhere her fingertips roamed turned into melted flesh. Everywhere her mouth touched his body
became white-hot fire. He watched her consume him inch by inch and silently begged for her to take him all, to leave nothing behind.
"Tell me," she said, and he realized she was nose-to-nose with him. "Tell me what it is you are thinking right this very moment."
He was surprised by how easily he said it. "Take me. All of me." Was that him? Was he begging?
"You are giving yourself to me," she whispered, leaning down so their noses touched. "Yes." She kissed him softly, chastely, upon the lips. "Yes," she
breathed, nuzzling her way down his neck. She reached behind her body and undid the clasps of her bra, letting the straps fall along her arms.
He reached up, hesitant, unsure. This was new territory. This was not a conquest or a possession. This was…different. She nodded and his hands
found both straps over her biceps. Gently he pulled them down along her arms, freeing her to his eyes. The bra was gone and forgotten.
She shifted and laid herself on top of the sleeping bag. "Come, Radzi," she said softly, opening her arms to him.
This woman of the golden hair and whom he knew absolutely nothing about was inviting him to take her. No…not take her…to give to
her. To give himself.
The last time he'd given himself…no! He blocked that from his mind. No! He would not think of that. He would think only of this one before him.
"Catherine," he said, his voice emerging as a deep rumbling bass.
Leaning down, he realized the ache was beginning to disappear. He kissed her. His body burned. He licked along her jaw, up her cheek to her ear. He
moaned in harmony with her. His mouth moved down as his hands stroked her hair, the color and oddly the same scent as fresh, rich honey.
Such sweetness he had never known. The small sounds she made. The sighs, the mews, the gasps. And all in response to him. He didn't feel the same this
time. He was somehow being gentle, but he wasn't sure how or why or what was guiding his ministrations. And then, as his mouth moved to her belly
button, then to the waistband of her jeans, she arched into him and he knew.
He was following her lead. He was responding to her. He was doing what she wanted and needed and desired, rather than what he wanted
and needed and desired. And yet somehow, even though he wasn't thinking at all about what he wanted, he was getting it.
The concept was novel. It was something he had not considered. That by giving someone else what they needed, you yourself would receive the same. How
had he missed this? How in life had this concept, which seemed so very simple and yet still so very complex to him, been missed?
Her jeans were removed, as were his. There was almost nothing left separating them. Not only could he not get enough of her softness, but he couldn't
stop wanting to experience her reactions. It was as though each time he kissed or licked or touched her, the reactions were tiny gifts. Gifts that kept
piling higher and higher and higher until he could almost stand no more.
Mindful of the fact that he dwarfed her considerably, he laid atop her just enough that she would feel his body the length of hers, but not enough to
crush her. She smiled, looking into his eyes, her body responding to his proximity. She rose up to kiss him, and then settled back. He lowered his lips
to hers, kissed her thoroughly, and then pulled back.
It was choreographed. A dance was all he could liken it to. But much more beautiful and satisfying than the dances his slaves did. They were
ridiculous, in all honesty. And in that moment, looking into eyes he wasn't even sure of the color in the near darkness, he vowed to release every
slave as soon as he returned to his temple. All of them. To hell with them and their forced worship of him. He now understood how fake their 'love' for
him was.
Because this woman he held was worshiping him. Only she actually felt it.
He caressed her, eagerly waiting for her signals that what he was doing was right. Her hands moved everywhere, he felt like such a giant against them,
towering over her. He didn't want to overpower her, he wanted to…do…to…to what? What was this he wanted?
The lovers. He recalled the card from the tarot deck his mother had used during his early childhood. Lover. He wanted a lover. To…make love. He
rose to his knees and saw her body shiver. Pulling her to a sitting position, he then reversed so he was seated and she was in his lap, her legs around
his waist.
"I want to watch you. I want to see you." And he did. He knew how to bring a woman to ecstasy. His father's friends had made him learn how to do it for
their amusement. And over time using his slaves as experimental toys, he had figured out every intimate and intricate detail of womanhood. But he
hadn't ever cared whether they enjoyed it. He'd only cared that he was the one making them lose that control over themselves.
This time, he cared.
Cared. Did he? He did? He cared…what?
The shock of the thought numbed him at first, and then he felt a tingling sensation at the very tip of his head. As it swept down into his face, and
then his neck, and began dissipating throughout his body, his eyes squeezed shut and then flew open. He looked at her eyes and knew instantly they were
hazel. Nearly gold around the pupils and a dark green to the whites of them, they sparkled under her long lashes.
He looked at her mouth and knew she wanted to taste his. He obliged.
He smoothed her mussed hair down along her head, feeling its silkiness in between his fingers and once again was overcome with the scent of honey.
He wrapped his arms around her body, enveloping her, surrounding her, owning her but not as property. No, not this time. This time because she desired it. He felt humbled and empowered all at once as her arms wrapped around his back. He felt scared and overjoyed. He felt need and
fulfillment. He felt as though his chest would burst.
Belah Gaat was lost. She pulled back, forcing him to let her go, and her hands moved down to his tight black boxer briefs. Before he knew it, she had
taken him completely, crying out into the still night air. Again, he couldn't be sure if it had only been her voice, for it felt as though he, too, had
made the sounds.
She moved. Wet. Hot. Mad. Fever. The tingling, the rush, the satiation. He'd had sex more times than any man alive, most likely. He'd been having sex
for forty years now. But that's all it had been.
This? This was more.
She moved faster. He moaned into her mouth, kissing her, holding her, rocking her, feeling her. Just plain feeling.
And when their climax came, he knew for certain his voice had cried out just as loudly as hers.
He rested his forehead against hers, ragged, rasping breaths rendering him unable to speak.
"Radzi," she whispered, kissing him softly.
This time he didn't flinch.
Part Three: The Decision
They didn't both fit into her sleeping bag, so they had unzipped it completely and laid it flat on the ground, and then used her wool blanket to cover
their nakedness. He had been too overwhelmed by the experience, and had fallen asleep quickly; unaware that Catherine spent the next few hours just
watching him at rest.
But by 3 a.m. she too had succumbed to their exertions and was nestled against his body, her back to his front, enfolded in his arms. Safe. Secure.
Content.
That's when something startled him awake. He listened but heard nothing and wondered what it had been. But in his sleepy haze he didn't really care.
She was there, gathered into his embrace. Not an ounce of worry wrinkled her brow; not a bit of concern disturbed her dreams. He smiled - it was a real
smile - and closed his eyes.
He heard it again, and this time he knew exactly what it was.
"No," he breathed, raising his head.
A low moan escalated, becoming louder, increasingly louder, morphing into a higher pitch, changing, becoming more urgent. He was on his feet by the
time it reached a shriek that could split your head right down the middle. He scrambled away from Catherine, ignoring her mumbled protests, and had the
tent unzipped in mere seconds. Crawling out on hands and feet, he rose to his full height.
Where before there had been no campfire, flames now burned high into the sky. Where each and every star had once been visible in the clear sky, there
was now an acrid fog that smelled of sulphur.
"No," he said desperately.
The flames turned from yellow to red, from red to green, from green to purple, and then darker and darker until they were very nearly black. The
legions sang her arrival, howling and screaming and screeching until he covered his ears with his hands, the pit of his stomach dropping out. He
suddenly felt sick.
Louder and louder. They sang and sang, paving the way for her to arrive in this strange place, for she had found him. She had found him because she
knew. She knew because she felt it. Andhe knew he was going to die.
"Radzi!"
Catherine. He pivoted to face her. She had managed to pull one leg of her jeans on but stopped as soon as she saw the black-purple fire raging before
them.
"What's happening?" she cried, wiggling out of the jeans and racing to his arms.
"You must not…I told you not…" his voice failed him as a wail cut through the night sky. They both covered their ears. "It is my fault," he
said, but she could not hear his words. "This is my doing." He pushed her away, holding his arm out to keep her at bay.
Sparks flew and in the blink of an eye she appeared, gray and deformed, ugly and evil, and slammed into his body with such force it sent him sprawling
into the tent, knocking it to the ground. He could hear Catherine scream and knew he had to fight this…he had to fight Ombakte.
"You have betrayed me," came a voice that was a thousand tongues time a thousand. Shrill and guttural with the same effect as fingernails scraping a
chalkboard. "You have betrayed me and you will pay!"
He struggled to get to his feet, but she controlled every limb.
"First you, and then her!"
That made him take notice. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he fought against the control. He had not given her permission this time, he
had not offered himself willingly as always in the past he had done.
"No!" he said, but his voice could barely be heard in the din.
"Radzi!" her sob cut through him like a knife. "What's happening? Radzi!"
He could feel her hands. No, no, no, she couldn't touch him! "Get away!" he bellowed, and thankfully felt her retreat. He used Ombakte's
moment of distraction at the unfamiliar flesh to arch his back, leap to his feet and stand. His eyes blazed the color of silver, skin rippling and
moving like something alive moved just beneath it.
He knew he had to weaken her. He had to rid himself of her. If not, she would have her way and Catherine would die. He looked across at her, at the
golden honey hair swirling around her head in the wind created by creatures that whirled around them. Ombakte's children cried and moaned and sang to
their mother, their demon princess.
Catherine's eyes were wide, disbelieving. She looked directly at him. He stepped closer, maintaining as much control over his violently shaking body as
he could. "Cut me," he ordered, using his finger to draw an invisible line from his right pec diagonally to his belly button. "Cut me!"
"What? No, I-Radzi, I can't! I can't hurt you!"
His mouth opened and Ombakte's screeching voice emerged. "Fooool!" she cried. "He is mine!"
"Cut me!" This time it was Belah's voice again.
Catherine ran for her knapsack, which had been knocked back four feet from the tent. She opened the front pouch and produced a large red jackknife.
Belah had turned to face her, but as little as she knew about what was happening, it was plain to see he was losing the battle.
"Cut-" His voice was low, and a mixture between the demon's and his own. "Meeeeeee."
"I can't hurt you," she cried. "Please…"
"Then we…will both…die…" he rasped, sinking to his knees.
Shaking her head, she moved quickly to stand in front of him, and then kneel before him. Trembling from pure, unadulterated fear, she stopped when at
last she saw into his eyes. Tears streamed from her own.
"You must," he said, but it came out barely above a whisper.
She opened the largest and sharpest knife until it clicked into place. She reached out, touching the point of it just below his right nipple. Squeezing
her eyes shut, she thrust into him and wrenched downward with all her might, sobbing "Nooooo!"
They both lost consciousness.
There were so many stars. Too many to count. She blinked her eyes open and wondered why her arms and hands felt so dirty.
All at once she remembered. She sat up and screamed. Looking down at her hands which were covered in blood, the tears began to flow.
He was gone.
She looked up as the glow of day appeared on the horizon.
He was gone!
Finding his shirt amongst the ruins of the campsite, she held it to her face and wept.
Silence filled the space in the midst of Sarawak that had been home to a temple built by slaves. It wasn't from ancient times; no, this was a more
recent build, having stood on this spot for twenty years. Only yesterday it had teemed with life. Slaves wearing very little to cover their modesty
could be seen both within and without, scurrying to complete their tasks or risk the master's wrath.
Only yesterday planes and helicopters were frequent visitors, taking off and landing at all hours. They brought supplies, scientists, new slaves,
captured runaways, business associates. For the seventy-five meter diameter surrounding the grand structure that was kept clear and well-manicured,
there were no lawnmowers or tillers in the gardens. Bunker entrances that led to an underground network of tunnels stood unguarded, as did every
entrance of the palace that the Hood had built in homage to his own greatness.
Every stone that made the first layer of the building had been hand-cut from the Simunjan Granite Quarry in the western part of the province he called
home. Portions of Sarawak were heavily populated, parts were industrial or farmland and then there were the hundreds of square kilometers that were
still pristine tropical rainforest. Here, not far from the Rajang Baleh, even the wildlife had fallen silent, as if very well aware of the changes that
had taken place.
His coffers stood nearly empty. The laboratories held no more ground-breaking research. One of the heavy Keranji wood doors hung half open. Most of the
statues were missing; of those too heavy to carry, they lay on the floor either whole or broken. Artwork had disappeared from the walls, either in
whole or by being cut out from their frames. At its far end, a dais of pure gold stood naked, surrounded by the remains of a beaded curtain.
Slaves' quarters, both male and female, were a shambles. Not a stitch of what little clothing had been in their closets remained; indeed, each and
every room that had housed the hundreds of individuals living in the palace was stripped clean. Even pieces of opulent carpeting from parts of the
first two floors had been carted away. Anything at all that could be carried on the run, that could fetch a price on the black market, was gone save
for the millions in precious metals and gems kept underground where only he had the key.
And deep within the basement dungeon, so large it covered the entire temple footprint, the 'furnishings' remained. Those too weak to travel on their
own had been carried in makeshift litters by the strong. Uneaten bowls of mush were upended, their nonexistent nutritional value of no concern any
longer to those intended for punishment. Not even a rat scurried across the floor.
On the temple's main floor, far in the back was the sacrificial room. Made of simple concrete blocks and a painted floor, a smooth stone rectangular
altar rose from its center. Many a life had been lost here. Lives that he never cared about, for they were gifts made to his demon princess and her
Shadow Priestess. Atop the altar now, amidst the vacuum of this formerly lively yet deadly place, sat a figure.
Dried blood clung to his torso but no wound could be seen. Aside from that, he appeared to be fine. Yet he just lay there unmoving, eyes open but
staring at nothing. He had let them go. He had let them all go. He didn't care anymore. About anything.
But even that wasn't true.
He did care. For the first time in a half-century, he had learned how to care. And just as suddenly as the gift had been given, she had stripped it away. He'd had to leave. She'd saved his life, for only when he was wounded would Ombakte depart. His body had
healed quickly enough as he made his way to the road, stolen a car parked at a campsite not far away and made his way at last to Malaysia.
Upon his arrival, he had gathered all his senior people in the main hall and explained what he wanted. They looked at one another incredulously. Slaves
didn't believe it at first; they were certain it was nothing but a setup whereby they would try to exit the palace and be killed for their efforts.
He had retreated to this room, listening to the sounds of jubilation, disbelief, and…freedom. Freedom. Something he had only just become familiar
with himself, yet because of his stupidity so many years ago, because of the blackness he'd allowed so willingly into his soul, it was something he
could never have. The last of those he once held prisoner had left hours ago, but still Belah didn't move.
He heard her footsteps long before she spoke.
"Radzi Belah, what have you done?"
"Leave me, Chhaya."
She raised an eyebrow as she approached. "Surely you do not mean to tell the Shadow Priestess what to do."
"I don't care what you do."
Clucking her tongue, she came to stand over him. "So you are sacrificing yourself for your misdeeds, is that what this is? You are ready to take your
place amongst them?"
He squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head. How had he not seen this before? Seen the utter foolishness of this association? Seen that he could
never win? When you're young, you think you're invincible. You think you know everything. Sell your soul to the devil? Sure, why not? You'll figure a
way out of it. No. You won't. He was fifty-three and there was no way out.
Her laughter filled the room. "Ah, Radzi, that is where you are quite wrong."
He moved at last, turning his head to look at her. He'd momentarily forgotten she could read his every thought. "I'm not wrong," he countered. "There
is no way out."
"But there is, Radzi, there is! Why do you think she was angry enough to appear in the place you were, so far away from here, her home?"
His brow furrowed.
"Why do you think she was incensed to the point where she nearly broke her part of your pact and killed you by way of possession?"
Slowly he raised himself up to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side.
"Why do you think she contacted me? Why do you think I am here?"
"I assumed it was to take my life for breaking the pact."
"How did you break the pact, Radzi?" she asked as though addressing a small child. "Tell me how."
He could not trust her, and he knew it was so. But she was dangling a glimmer of hope before him. Without that, his life was over. At least this
way…he had a chance.
"I forgot who my Mistress Demon was."
"Willfully."
"Yes."
"Wantonly."
He nodded. "Yes."
"Why in the past has Ombakte not cared if you had sex with women? Or with men, for that matter?"
"Matter," he repeated, looking into her eyes. "Because none of them mattered."
"Exactly. But this one…she mattered, did she not? She made you feel, Radzi."
He felt a lump form in his throat.
"Her golden hair caught your attention and her manner captured your heart."
Jaw dropping, he whirled on her, shock etched into his features. "What did you say?"
Half her mouth lifted in a mock smile. "You poor bastard. You've belonged to the Darkness for so long you don't even know love when you've found it."
His mind raced. Stuck, it kept repeating her words over and over and over but couldn't comprehend them. He couldn't even begin to understand
what she meant, although on some level he recognized truth and honesty in what she told him.
"You were so young when your mother died. You probably don't remember much of her love. But we were there, Ombakte and I. Why do you think your father
killed your mother?"
"Because she enraged him."
Nodding, Chhaya gestured for him to continue.
"She enraged him because she was unfaithful."
"No, no, no! That's only what he told you!" she chided, clucking her tongue again. "That's what he told everyone, to make sure he sounded like the big
man, to make himself feel better. You, a vulnerable boy, watching your mother die at his hands…but Radzi, Radzi…they were not his hands."
He opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut. That was what his father had told him. Yes. That was what he'd told everyone. Yes. Young and frightened,
Belah had watched his mother choked to death by his own father. Yes.
He looked at her expectant face. Softly she began to hum. He looked away. The room was almost completely lost in the darkness now.
Lost in the darkness.
They were not his hands.
Why do you think your father killed your mother?
Slowly the answer began coming to him.
Why in the past has Ombakte not cared?
We were there, Ombakte and I.
He sank to the floor, head in his hands. "Oh, my God."
She hummed louder. Ever louder.
Looking up, he rubbed a hand down his face. "I killed my father, so she took me. Ombakte was in him. She killed my mother."
Chhaya smiled. "She was jealous. It was either she who had taken his heart, or him. He chose his own life, allowing her to work through him to take
your mother's."
Belah turned and for only the second time in his life, found himself vomiting as though everything he'd eaten over the last month was coming back to
haunt him. He was transported back, back to the moments in which his mother's life had ebbed so slowly and yet so quickly away. Back to himself hiding
beneath her bed, daring to peek out and seeing the twisted look upon his father's face.
How many times…how many times had that same twisted look been upon his own countenance?
She had found candles somewhere and placed them on the four corners of the altar, lighting the room enough to see.
Oh, God, it couldn't be true…yet in the deepest recesses of his being, he knew it all was. Somehow, he'd always known, and yet it was a secret
he'd locked far beneath the surface. To allow him to continue his delusion, he'd ignored the obvious for over forty years.
His body heaved, but there was nothing left to come up. Hanging his head between his hands, staring into a pool of stomach acid and not much else, he
saw something fall into it and frowned. Then another thing plopping into the pool causing a small ripple. He shook his head and looked up where Chhaya
had come to stand next to him.
"I don't believe it," she said, truly surprised. She reached out and ran her finger up his cheek. It came away wet. Confused, he touched his other
cheek and his own finger also came away wet. "Radzi, you're crying," she whispered.
"But I…I cannot cry," he responded, mystified. He tasted the wetness on his finger and found it to be salty. "These are tears," he said. "Real
tears."
"Yes. Real tears."
"What does this mean?" he demanded, rising to his feet and holding his hand out toward her. "Chhaya, tell me, what does this mean?"
"You made love to her. Didn't you."
Made…love? To Catherine? He closed his eyes and remembered how he had felt, how he had wanted so badly to please her, how closely he paid
attention to her every movement, every sound she made. How he had felt every moment in the moment. They had joined, they had…he felt a
smile.
"Why did I not see this? Of course you did. Of course you made love. That is why you can cry, Radzi."
He opened his eyes, the smile disappearing from his face. "Explain."
"She, this…Catherine…she is the one person who has the potential to break your curse, Belah Gaat."
"I was never told of a way to break it!"
Chhaya shook her head. He lunged at her, hands around her throat. "Tell me or the very next breath you take will be your last!" he seethed.
"She must be willing in every way," the woman choked out. She grasped his fingers and pried them away from her throat. Rubbing it with one hand, she
steadied herself on the altar with the other. "She must know everything and still feel the same way that she felt with you that night."
He paced away, then back toward her, and was satisfied when she cringed and took a step back. "But why her? I just came upon her in the middle
of nowhere!"
"Because she is pure, Radzi. Not as in virginal, but as in spirit. She is untouched by Evil, by Darkness. She loves with her whole heart, with all of
her being. Your Mistress Demon cannot penetrate such purity of soul. This is the only thing which can defeat any demon. But if you do it, you will
return to the very moment at which you made the pact."
"You mean to tell me I will go back in time?"
"Yes and no," she sighed. "You will return to that moment; it will be as though it never happened. You will have a chance to make it all
right. But you risk being stuck back there in your past forever. Not as a child, but as the man you are now."
"Tell me how," he said. When she didn't speak, he went for her again. "Tell me how!"
She screeched and scurried around the altar, putting it between them. "I cannot. It would violate my oath as a Shadow Priestess."
"Then violate the fucking oath or you won't have to worry about any oath by the time I am finished with you!"
Sinking to the floor in defeat, she told him.
He turned and ran from the temple. Her screams of terror and agony followed him into the rainforest. He barely heard them. And he didn't look back.
Part Four: The Journey
Being reborn isn't much help when you know you're being hunted. And Radzi Belah Gaat was being hunted.
It had been three weeks since he'd abandoned his temple and left Chhaya to face her fate for betraying her oath. Yet another in a long line of human
lives he was responsible for taking. He had eaten little and slept even less. As hours turned into days, and days into unending weeks, he began to
despair of ever seeing Catherine again.
He didn't even know her last name.
Every day he wandered the southern wall of the Grand Canyon for five meters in each direction from the campsite that had been hers. What if she had
gone mad from what she'd been forced to witness? What if, in spite of his rapid departure from the scene, Ombakte had returned and killed her?
He had checked her thoroughly from head to toe, and then kissed her lips as he looked upon her for the last time. It was best for him to go, to leave
without any trace. For then she would be safe.
But Ombakte knew, and unlike here on the surface of the Earth, she from far below could easily find the one who had caused him to betray the pact.
Perhaps even now she was being terrorized wherever she lived. Her apartment sealed by police due to the bloodbath found inside. Screams and cries for
help coming from her house. Maybe she lived in a trailer, or even a mobile home. A houseboat? He knew nothing about what she did for a living; what
type of work it was she'd kept insisting she had to go to the next day.
How far away did she live from this spot, this once magical and terrifying spot, where he now stood? The sun hung low on the sky. What day was it?
Thursday? Friday? He no longer had any concept of time. Dark circles framed eyes that no longer sparkled. He couldn't use the powers that were only his
because Ombakte had made it so. She had blocked his abilities but as yet had been unable to possess him. Why, he did not know. Toeing the dirt where
the campfire had once been, he chided himself for this lunacy.
Even if he did somehow find her again, she would probably run screaming in the other direction. And rightfully so, he concluded. He had to
tell her everything; just from what she had seen, he doubted she would even listen to him. If she did, she wouldn't want to help him. Not if it meant
risking her own life. They were complete strangers to one another. It was too much to ask. Too much to hope for.
There was another possibility, one which had only occurred to him yesterday. But could he even fathom that his half-brother would care? The things he
had done to him, and to his niece. How he had pursued them for so long, kept them on the run. Kyrano's allegiance to International Rescue, the
organization that even now Belah felt ire toward, if only for being able to thwart him time and again.
The one thing that Ombakte had never been able to get for him was International Rescue. He sat down in the sand and contemplated that single truth.
Why? Why had he been able to take anything and everything else in the world that he wanted but them? Why had she not been able to defeat them?
Your Mistress Demon cannot penetrate such purity of soul.
Was the same true of International Rescue? They existed for the sole purpose of saving lives. The lives of complete strangers, people who would never
know their identity but would forever owe their lives to an organization that spent millions, if not billions, yet asked for nothing in return.
This is the only thing which can defeat any demon.
This was why Ombakte had failed to help him capture Kyrano all those years ago. And it was why he'd never been able to take International Rescue. He
was startled by a gasp from behind him. When he turned toward it, his heart leapt into his throat.
"You came back," she breathed, tears filling her eyes.
He rose to his feet. He knew he must have looked a sight, but since she would probably turn right around and run as fast and far away as she could, it
didn't really matter. He nodded.
"Are you…all right?" she asked, dropping her gear to the ground and taking a few steps closer.
"I-" His voice cracked, and he felt dampness on his cheek again. Swiping at it with his hand, he saw the wetness on his finger and held it out in front
of him. "I was never able to cry until you."
"Radzi," she sobbed, launching herself into his arms.
He embraced her, holding her tightly to himself, feeling her energy flow into his body. "Catherine," he whispered into her hair.
"I…I never thought I'd see you again…I thought you had died, or that thing…what was that thing? That thing, it…and I cut you
and…how did you…?"
"Shhhh," he soothed, a faint memory surfacing of his mother holding him and cooing the same. "I must tell you."
She backed away and looked up into his eyes. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I have not." He looked toward the sun as it advanced upon the horizon. "I must tell you, Catherine. Will you listen?"
She nodded, wiping the tears from her face. "Let me get things set up."
"No!" he said, a little more forcefully than he'd intended. "There is very little time."
Giving him an odd look, eventually she nodded. "Then tell me. Explain what the hell happened? Who you are!"
He released her and turned away, gathering his courage. Courage. Another foreign entity. He'd always felt confident, speaking and moving with an
assuredness that rivaled no other. Before this woman he felt like the helpless child he had been so very long ago.
"Have you ever heard of the criminal the world calls the Hood?"
He heard her thump to the ground and turned to face her. "That…yes, I have. He's…he's killed so many people, stolen so much. He's a master
of disguise; nobody knows what he really looks like. They can never find him."
Squatting to be more eye-level, he said, "You have done what they could not."
Catherine's eyes widened. She stared at him for almost a full minute. "Are you telling me," she finally said, her voice small and high-pitched, "that you're the Hood?"
"Yes. I am. Or…I was."
She rose to her feet and began pacing between her discarded knapsack and the campfire area. He watched her and couldn't help but remember the feel of
her skin, the heat of her kisses, the way her body arched into his touch.
"All right," she said, coming to stand in front of him but staying out of arm's reach. "All right, so if you're the Hood, what were you doing out here
wandering around without any food or transportation? What do you want with me? And what the hell was it that happened that night?"
She was still there, still listening. There was still a chance. And so he went back to the beginning. Seating himself on the ground, he looked at her
face, silently willing her to believe. Silently willing her to care.
"Long ago, when I was just a boy, my father killed my mother…"
It was nearly 2 a.m. Catherine had built a fire and kept it going. Sometime after he had begun his story, she'd seated herself close to him. She asked
questions as he went along, and when at last he had finished explaining what she'd witnessed, and why he had left without a trace, she moved to kneel
in front of him.
"What you tell me is fantastical. It's like something out of a movie."
His face fell as he looked down at the ground. "You don't believe me."
"On the contrary, Radzi, I do." A glimmer of hope shone in his eyes as they met hers. "But what of your temple and your slaves? What of all
the lives you've taken?"
"I let all my slaves, all my prisoners, go. The temple is empty." He looked away. "I can never make atonement for those I have killed. I am a
murderer."
"Were."
"Are you not even more frightened of me than you were before?"
"I…I should be. Lord knows I should be. But for some reason, I'm not. I'm just…I don't know what to feel or think. I'm in shock."
She reached out and took one of his hands with both of hers. "You tell me you're this evil character who's the most wanted criminal on this planet. But
I don't see that part of you. All I see is someone who wants to be a man, who wants to be human again."
She understood. Somehow, in some way, she actually understood.
"Is there any way you can exorcise this demon you have a pact with? Is there any way to rid yourself of her once and for all?"
He couldn't. He wouldn't do this. He didn't deserve it, he realized. He had sealed his own fate, and it was time to pay the piper. And in spite of how
he felt now, how he had begun to change, and how much he wished to shed his past, he could spend the rest of his life trying to atone but would never
succeed. He'd done so much wrong. So much…
"Radzi, there is, isn't there?"
"There is. But it's too risky for you."
"For me? You mean…somehow…I can help you?" When he nodded, she grasped his biceps. "How? Tell me how, Radzi!"
"If we are touching when Ombakte possesses me, there is an incantation we must say together."
She swallowed hard, but continued to listen, dropping her hands to his. He squeezed them as he continued. "I will be transported back to the moment
when I made the pact, and will have to break it."
"What…what then?"
"Ombakte will be gone and I will have the chance to make things right."
"How?" she asked. "How will you make it right?"
"I don't know for certain. Chhaya said I would know in that moment, but she also said I might be stuck back there in my past. That I might not be able
to return to the present."
"Is there a way for me to help you return?"
He looked into her eyes. "This is the one thing I could ask of no one; not after how I have conducted my life."
She leaned forward and kissed him softly. His senses reeled. "Ask it of me."
Swallowing hard, his voice was low and quiet. "I have to bind you to me, but you have to agree to it. Henceforth, if we are bound, we must remain
together until our natural deaths."
"If we don't?"
"The Evil will return. All will be as it is now. I will be vulnerable to Ombakte and her children."
"And?"
"And you will be none the worse for wear. You will remember everything, but be left unharmed. Truly," he admitted, "there is nothing in this for you."
She surprised him by laughing. "That's where you're wrong!"
"It is?"
"Of course! There is everything in this for me, Radzi."
He frowned, exhaustion toying with what was left of his sanity. "I don't understand."
She took his hand and lowered it, then pulled it across to place it firmly against her abdomen. "Everything is at stake," she said, smiling broadly.
"For both of us."
He shook his head, unable to clear the cobwebs from his mind. Mentally and emotionally spent, he silently implored her to explain.
"It's been six weeks since we made love."
Made love. That phrase again. He nodded.
"I'm carrying your child, Radzi."
He just stared at her. "But…I can't have children. I was rendered sterile the moment I became hers." He couldn't have children any more than he
could…a tear ran down his cheek. Any more than he could cry.
She noticed and wiped it away. "But you have made a child. I haven't been with anyone in years but you, Radzi. So you see, as I said, everything's at stake for me."
Something behind her caught his attention. Was the fire burning brighter? His eyes returned to hers. "How can this be?"
She smiled. "It just is, and you must fight, Radzi. You must fight for this child we have made." She moved into his lap, nestling against his chest.
"If you are able to undo all that you have done, and are able to return to us, you can live out life normally, Radzi."
Normal. He barely knew the meaning of the word. He certainly had never experienced it. Was it possible? Was everything Chhaya had told him true? Could
the Hood, the Master of Disguise, the mass murderer, the pursuer of International Rescue…could he really change? He'd already given up
everything that had made him great: his slaves, the majority of his wealth, his temple. But could he give up that which had always been at the center
of who he was? Even before Ombakte, it had existed.
He had always, quite simply put, been bad.
Could a man such as him really and truly change? Or would it all fall apart? In spite of his best intentions, in spite of having Catherine, in spite of
the fact that he'd been able to make a child, he felt the balance too precarious; at any moment a grain of sand from the very shore upon which they sat
could tip the scales and it would all come crashing down around him.
And what would he do? He was used to luxury and wealth. He was used to taking what he wanted, not working for it. Asking his demon and having it
provided. To become human again; to become mortal. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Catherine. She believed in him. And she wanted him.
And to his very marrow, he believed she…and their baby…was what he wanted, too.
But was that enough?
She had insisted.
He was uncomfortable, to say the least, as he led her to the sacrificial room. Hand clasped tightly in his, she barely flinched when they found the
body at the altar's base.
"Is that…Chhaya?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"Oh."
They moved through the vacant rooms, each as he had described it to her. He wanted to show her this, his former world. He needed to show her.
As if by bringing it all to life for her, it would ensure she believed his tale.
There was one final place to be seen before he rescued the remains of his wealth from the underground bunker. He opened a thick steel door and flicked
on the switch at the top of the stairs. She took his arm and together they descended into the place some had called worse than Hell.
A sharp breath from his side was the only audible reaction as they came to stop in the center of the first room. He looked left and right, looked ahead
and behind. She separated from him and walked to a long table with straps that looked as though they'd been cut. She touched the table, running a hand
along its cool length, before noticing the dried blood at its end. Jerking her hand back, she frowned, and turned to look at him.
"You…used these devices. On people."
He nodded once.
She took a long, shaky breath and moved to another device, one that resembled the iron mask she'd once seen in a movie. And yet another, this she knew
to be a device similar to the Rack. Of her own volition she moved through the next doorway into an even larger room surrounded by tiny cells, their
doors swung open in haste.
He slowly followed and watched as she examined each device, each tool, and each instrument of torture. She picked up a double-edged knife stained with
decades of the blood of hapless victims. Her hand shook.
"How?" she asked, voice as tremulous as her hand. "How could the man who made such love to me do this?"
He turned from her, shoulders drooping. Belah felt something he had never felt before: shame. He was ashamed to show this, his legacy, to her. Ashamed
of the life he had led. Never before had he regretted anything but now he did. He regretted it all.
But it could be changed. All of it could be changed. If she were willing. He felt her hand upon his and looked down to find not the hatred or repulsion
he'd expected, but rather acceptance. Belief. Faith.
"I don't ever want you to be the way you were again," she said. "I want you to be my Radzi, to be a father, a lover. I want all of this gone,
never to have happened, never to return."
Hope swelled within him.
"Bind me to you, Radzi. Bind me to you now."
He frowned and shook his head. "Not here. Not now." He looked around the torture chamber. "This is not the place for someone such as you to be bound."
"I have a feeling…"
"What feeling?"
"I have a terrible feeling, Radzi, that you won't have another chance. That we won't have another chance."
He closed his eyes and knew instantly she was right. Even now, Ombakte hunted him. Even now she was coming. His eyes snapped open. He grabbed her hand
and they ran back to the steps, ascended to the main floor. Quickly to the second and then third, moving so fast she panted from the exertion.
Taking her into a room on the far left side of the grand hall, he turned on the light and closed the door behind them, locking it. Looking around, he
made his way to a tall set of tiny drawers, pulling one open, taking something out; pulling open a second and removing two items. Pulling a third and
taking yet two more things.
Turning to the low, long dresser opposite the bed, he laid the items out. A single two-by-two square of parchment paper, an old-fashioned quill pen. A
vial of dove's blood and two white candles. A spool of red string and a small brown jar of rose oil. And one simple book of matches.
Using the quill pen, he stooped over the parchment and wrote her first name as she leaned in to see what he was doing. He looked at her after finishing
the e at the end of it. "Catherine Agnes Sinclair," she offered. He smiled a little and wrote her middle and last names. Then, at the bottom of the
paper, he wrote his name…his full name: Radzi Belah Gaat.
He picked up the paper and waved it in the air until the dove's blood had dried. Turning it
over, he took the two small white candles and placed them in the square. He picked up the spool of red string, unraveled a length of over twelve
inches, and used his teeth to cut it.
He wrapped it around the two candles until he reached the top, and then continued wrapping a total of seven times. This done, he tied the string in a
knot, and then held the candles in his left hand. With his right, he opened the small jar of rose oil and poured all its contents over the candles,
soaking them from top to bottom, and ensuring the red string was dripping wet.
He turned to face her here in what had once been his opulent bedroom. Gone were the curtains and sheets of silk, gone were the ornate decorations. Gone
was everything but the mattress and a single worn blanket. It was here that he would bind her. Here that she would become his. She ran her fingers
through her hair until she held just a single strand, and pulled it from her head. Handing it to him, she watched as he wound it 'round and 'round the
tops of the two candles.
Closing his eyes, he made himself feel her throughout every cell of his body. He pictured only her face, her hair, and her eyes. Then he looked down
and lit the two candles, standing them carefully upon the dresser. He took her hand and led her to the bed.
"We must wait until the candles burn out," he said by way of explanation. "Then we must bury it on the temple grounds."
She nodded and crawled into bed, beckoning him with her arms. "Come to me," she said. "Rest now."
He obeyed, succumbing to sleep at last.
When the first rays of sun streamed through the window, he awoke to find her in his arms. He allowed himself the luxury of a few moments watching her,
eyes traveling from the golden hair down to the tanned skin of her face, over her slowly moving chest and coming to rest on her belly. A child. His child. It didn't seem possible. It didn't seem real. Yet it was.
A father. He didn't really know what that word meant, for his own role model had been nonexistent at best. He remembered beatings suffered at the hands
of the man who had given him life and cringed. Would he do that to his own child? He shook his head, unable to imagine hurting a small baby fresh from
its mother's womb. Even at his worst, he had avoided contact with infants. They were innocent, pure, untouched by evil or the world. How could anyone,
he then wondered, do the things that were done to him unless he hadn't been born pure and innocent?
What if he couldn't change anything? What if, no matter undertaking this journey to the past, he continued to walk the only path he'd ever known? Would
he hurt Catherine? What of the child? As the years passed, would he be able to live without the urges that had gripped him from an early age?
Carefully extracting himself from her arms, he stole to the dresser where the binding he'd made was fully melted. Wax, parchment and string were molded
into a circular cooled mass. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket. Turning to look once more at his sleeping bond-mate, he silently moved across
the room and through the door.
Halfway across the cleared perimeter he stopped and looked back at the temple. It was foreign to him now, as though a bad memory he couldn't be rid of,
yet could hardly recall. He moved one step further and used a nearby rock to dig a hole six inches deep. Taking the binding from his pocket, he held it
for a few moments and sent a silent wish into the ether that this really would work. Kneeling and placing it into the hole, he covered it back up,
smoothing the dirt and securing the spot with the rock. He knew that now, it could not be moved. No one but he could dig that up again.
He jogged the last few meters to the metal bunker head. Keying in the code only he knew, the titanium door slid to the side, revealing a second, locked
door. He reached into his jeans pocket, noticing for the first time how awful he smelled. Being without the powers to which he'd become so accustomed
was going to take getting used to. Before, he had only bathed as part of rituals. Now, he realized, it was going to be a much more frequent
requirement.
He unlocked the door. And as though the sun itself had been pulled from the sky, everything went black.
Part Five: The Expulsion
When he came to, he smelled the sweet sharp scent of cinnamon, the intoxicating aroma of patchouli, hibiscus and jejarum. He recognized the perfume of
orchid and fuchsia, and thought he detected rose as well. Some of it was coming from his own skin, while some was incense that hung thick in the air.
He felt dizzy, and it took a moment for him to open his eyes and make the room stop spinning. The room. What room was this? It was then he felt the
leather straps. It was then he realized, as goose bumps dotted his flesh, that he was nude. It was then he heard her call his name. Whipping his head
to the side, he cried out when he saw her.
She, too, had been stripped and bathed. Framed by golden ringlets, her face showed her fright as wide eyes stared. He was surrounded by a ring of fire
not yet a foot high, and she was shackled spread-eagle to the far wall. How he longed to lay with her again in the anonymity of the camp. How he
yearned to feel her soft flesh beneath his, to feel her surround him and flow through him like the sweet music of her flute.
But this was cold, hard reality. He was trapped. She was trapped.
And they were not alone.
He turned to look at the entry to this room and struggled against the straps that held him in place as a sight even more horrific approached. She was
the walking dead. She was disgusting and yet somehow alluring. Pieces of flesh hung from her face, dark stains covered her clothing.
"Chhaya," he whispered.
A laugh filled the room. "Chhaya is gone." The voice was distinctly male. "Her body will be used to carry out the ritual."
"What ritual?" He continued to struggle, flexing his arms and legs, trying desperately to free himself.
"The one that binds all three of you to me forever!"
Wind from nowhere began to blow the former Shadow Priestess' robes all around. The ring of fire surrounding him billowed to the ceiling, encasing him
in a wall of flame. That was when he knew for certain who had done this; who had possessed Chhaya's body and meant to take his and
Catherine's…and their child's…very souls.
Berith, Prince of the Cherubim. He was the father of Ombakte and the one to attend their ceremonial pact that many years ago. He was also the one who
had enabled Chhaya for so long to remain human and yet have the unique connection to the underworld that she had enjoyed.
He was going to have them.
He could no longer see Catherine, but he could hear her screams.
He closed his eyes and pictured his unborn child. That tiny life barely larger than one of the beans Catherine had fed him when first they had met. She
had welcomed him. She had trusted him. She had loved him. Their union had produced this gift he never dreamed he would have.
The gift Berith now meant to destroy.
He could no longer stop the tears that streamed from his eyes, pooling in his ears, flying from his face as his head thrashed side to side. She loved
him. His Catherine, she loved him.
Their baby. Her body.
Freedom. Her laughter.
A child. Being human.
He loved her.
His eyes snapped open. He loved her. He had never loved anything or anyone but himself since his mother died. But the thought and the feeling came to
him as easily and as quickly as though it were more natural than breathing. He loved Catherine. And he loved their baby.
There was only one thing he could do. He steeled himself for what he knew would be the last time. In ancient Chinese he began to pray. His words
angered Berith, if his shrieks were any indication. The flames surrounding Belah became thicker and higher. Catherine cried out his name.
Belah's muscles strained against the straps, sharp-edged leather cutting into his flesh. "I entreat thee to inspire Ombakte to manifest within me that
she may give me true and faithful service, so that I may accomplish my desired end."
Wind whipped through the wall of flames, blowing so hard he could barely hear himself think. He took a deep breath and began to feel again what he used
to feel. The power. The certainty. The longing. The need.
Trembling in anticipation, he allowed his mind free of its confines, inviting her to unite with him once more. He took a deep breath and the smell of
jasmine mixed with a myriad of other spices and flowers filtered through him, filling him with sweet desire.
"Ombakte!" he cried. "I give myself to you!"
His body vibrated, then began to convulse. She was within him.
He let out a howl that shook the very walls. The leather straps that held his body were no match for the power of his demon. He rose and walked through
the heat of the fire as though it weren't there, coming face-to-face with Berith.
"Father," he screeched, though the voice was not his. "You will not have him! He is mine!"
"Foolish child!" The body of Chhaya spoke, Berith's voice booming throughout the temple. "He broke your pact with her!"
The ring of fire went completely out and Belah turned to see Catherine, trembling and covered with sweat. Her eyes were red from crying and from the
combination of smoke and incense. When she saw him, she fought the shackles that bound her so tightly.
"Radzi!"
One moment he was standing near Berith. The next he was by Catherine's side.
"Tell me," Ombakte hissed through Belah's mouth, "why I should protect the one who took you from me!"
His face softened into the man…the human…Catherine had come to know. "Because if you will release her from this place, and never
touch her or my child, I will give myself to you for all eternity."
Catherine's screams of "No!" blended with one crying out the same word from the chamber entrance.
But Ombakte had made up her mind and her laugh rang out, echoing off the concrete walls. "It is too late, Meor! The deal has been struck!"
Meor? Belah turned on heel stared in disbelief. Kyrano…was there? But how? Why? Then he turned back to face Catherine. It didn't matter now. The
deed was done. As long as Ombakte kept her word, Berith would never be able to harm Catherine or the baby. He turned again to face the man who as an
older brother to young Radzi had been called Meor.
Belah placed his hands upon his half-brother's shoulders, fighting to keep control.
Kyrano's hands rose to cover Belah's, face belying the pain and sadness of years past. "Radzi, my brother...if only you had told me."
Belah shook his head, sweat spraying in all directions. "Listen to me, Meor. She is innocent. She bears my child. You must…see that she
is…" He fought against Ombakte. Only a few seconds more, that was all he required.
"You stupid child!" squealed Berith from across the room as he fell to his knees in Chhaya's body and began ripping decaying flesh from her bones. "He
has beaten you, he has already beaten you!"
Belah's mouth opened as wide as his eyes, body thrashing uncontrollably. "What have you done?" Ombakte screeched two octaves above any sound
the human voice could make.
"Help him!" Catherine cried from her place on the wall. She gasped in surprise as she watched the man she now knew to be Radzi's brother raise his
hands and the shackles at her wrists and ankles fall away. She came crashing to the floor and was instantly at the side of her love.
His skin seemed to bubble. Something was inside him, pushing outward, something alive…something unholy. She could feel the evil pouring off him
in waves and looked to Meor…to Kyrano. "Please," she cried, wrapping her arms around her bare breasts. "Please help him."
"He does not need my help," Kyrano said softly, moving around Belah's convulsing form to take her by the arms. He pulled her to her feet, removed the
knee-length black coat he wore and nodded for her to put it on.
"But she has him! He's going to die!"
Barely had she gotten her arms through the sleeves when a garish gray figure, barely more than formed wisps of smoke, emerged from his body before her
very eyes. Open-mouthed she stared as the smoke coalesced into something resembling a head, a body and arms with two bright red dots where eyes might
have been. Then out of nowhere a mouth appeared, opening impossibly wide and shrieking so loudly she and Kyrano had to cover their ears, wincing as the
sound cut right into their minds.
As soon as Berith's words had been uttered, Belah's world had gone black. He lay there unmoving as Ombakte, expelled from his body for the last time,
hurled herself across the room into what was left of Chhaya's body. Bits of flesh and bone flew through the air on impact, and the howling, shrieking
cries of pain, of agony, of defeat and of betrayal died with the wind.
The chamber was so dark none could see their hands in front of them.
"Meor," she said weakly, her voice unsteady.
An arm encircled her. "I am here."
"Is…is he dead?"
She could hear the smile in his voice. "No, child. Radzi still lives."
"I don't understand. He offered himself for our protection; mine and our baby's. But…still she left him. Why?"
She watched, fascinated, as a small glow appeared near her. It grew in size and brightness until she realized that it was coming from Kyrano's upturned
palm.
"Remember the binding he performed?" She nodded. "Because he used a strand of your hair, it was a binding for soul mates, Catherine. A binding not for
lovers in this life, but for lovers in everylife."
"Every life?"
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "That binding seals your souls until at last you have achieved all you are meant to."
She shook her head. "I still don't understand how that got rid of Ombakte or the other demon."
"She made a pact with him. In exchange for not harming you, or your unborn child, she agreed to take his soul forever," he explained, gesturing down to
where Belah still lay at their feet. "But because you are already bound to him, it was a gift he was unable to give, and therefore one she can never
receive."
She stared down at him. He looked so peaceful now; so free. "Did he know that?"
Kyrano frowned. "My brother is knowledgeable of magick, but he may not have understood the ramifications of the binding he performed. You see, that was
done with white magick, and my brother has always practiced the dark arts. He would not have been as fully versed in that particular spell."
"You mean…he offered himself to the demon…believing that it would be the end of him."
He nodded. "Radzi knew she would accept his terms; he has belonged to her for so long she would do anything to have him permanently. Even give up
coming after her rival." He looked into her eyes. "You."
She knelt next to his prone figure, the concrete floor as cold as ice. Slowly she began to stroke his smooth bald head and was surprised when it
started feeling softer. The light in Kyrano's hand brightened and she gasped. For as they watched, thick black hair started to grow where once there
had been nothing at all.
"His humanity returns," Kyrano smiled, squeezing Catherine's shoulder. "Welcome back, my brother."
,Author's Notes:
Thank you if you made it this far. I know the majority of folks enjoy the Tracys more than anyone else in Thunderbirds, so I appreciate you
sticking with me while I explore one of the secondary characters. I like to figure him out and give him life beyond a handful of episodes in which he
was portrayed as a buffoonish bad guy. -grin-
