Sins of the Flesh

The stairs ended. Calliope paused in the small, cave-like reception area with walls of weeping gray stone. Before her was a heavy steel door, guarded by the latest biometric security.

A scan of her retina. A check of her fingerprints. She said her name and the system evaluated her voiceprint. The door swung open with a faint hydraulic hiss.

She had three seconds, only that, before it would swing shut once more.

Those who sought entry to this place had best be nimble on their feet.

Calliope stepped forward, staying perfectly still as the door swung shut behind her. She heard the faintest click, almost inaudible, and she knew the self-destruct had been engaged once more. If enemies tried to force their way past, the door would explode, the charges set to seal this path and at the very least slow—but preferably kill—those who tried to breach security.

She held still, waiting. Technology was not the only challenge that lay in her path.

Tendrils of ancient magics reached out and swirled around her limbs, testing her, tasting her. She resisted the urge to squirm away from the damp, cloying touch. They were not spells wrought of light, and not precisely of darkness, but rather some twisted combination of the two. Such spells were risky, but the Matriarchs of the Daughters of Aset would do anything to protect the line. Security was paramount, and those who had set these defenses willingly took the blight for the conjuring on their souls.

They made that sacrifice for the common good.

Such was ever the expectation of members of the Asetian Guard. Sacrifice for the common good. The collective before the individual. The single irrefutable fact: the line must continue.

The sensation of being probed by tongues of magic she could not see receded, and she continued along the narrow stone hallway that sloped down at a sharp angle. Beautifully wrought symbols were etched in the stone walls, ancient hieroglyphs that told a story of the way to rebirth. They depicted the Twelve Gates of Osiris, one for each hour of the night.

Some ancient texts spoke of twenty-one gates. She was familiar with the concepts of both.

Again, she paused. Before her was a second steel door, and she repeated the entry process before stepping into a second chamber, this one bearing hieroglyphics that told the story of Aset and her brother/husband Osiris, and the birth of their son Horus.

Calliope had been to this underground place once before in her life, which made her a rare breed. There were many in the Guard who would never enter the presence of the Matriarchs.

She remembered the first time she had passed through these doors, just over ten years ago when she had been promoted to the position of mentor, entrusted with the rare and wonderful opportunity to guide the growth of a new member of the Asetian Guard. Roxy Tam.

On that previous occasion, she had been invited to enter.

This time, she had been ordered.

Still, she would not choose her actions differently were she able to go back and change them.

The collective before the individual. The choice she had made had kept Kuznetsov in the hands of the Guard and prevented the soul reapers from having access to his knowledge. The outcome was desired; only the method was questionable.

If she was to be punished, so be it.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the second door. Soundlessly, it swung shut behind her.

Lights came on, so bright they hurt her eyes. Calliope blinked against the glare, not fighting it, merely waiting for adjustment to occur. Once it did, she stared straight ahead. The lights illuminated a defined circle, perhaps ten feet in diameter, and she was at the center of it. Beyond the sharp boundaries of light was utter blackness.

If she reached out, she would encounter thick, fortified glass: a cage of glass. She had discovered that on her previous visit. She didn’t bother to confirm its existence now.

The lights came up all around her, first taking on a faint glow, like a single candle, then growing brighter and brighter until the space beyond the circle was as bright as that within.

Three identical chairs stood on a raised stone dais at the far end of the massive chamber. Made of fine wood from Lebanon, each was engraved with the knot of Aset, also known as the “blood of Isis.” Each chair back was set with a deep red cushion embroidered with gold thread, and similar cushions formed the seats.

There was no chair within the cage of thick glass that surrounded her, but there was a silk carpet in tones of red and beige and brown beneath her feet, a small concession to her comfort.