His father was still in the compound.
As Duran’s eyes adjusted to bright light, he wanted to put his gun away so his attack could be more personal. But he kept the forty up in case the male was armed—although he was not worried about anyone else because there were no other scents in the air. The Dhavos was alone.
“Father,” he said in a low growl. “Will you not welcome your son?”
Duran looked around, and instantly, nothing else mattered.
The luxurious antechamber to the Dhavos’s bedroom had been emptied of its fancy gilded and padded accessories. There was only one piece of furniture in it.
His mahmen’s cot. And on the cot . . . was a skeleton, the skull on a satin pillow, a set of clean sheets pulled up to the collarbones, a blanket folded with care over the legs. Beside the remains, on the floor, was a twisted bundle of blankets. A half-eaten tear of bread. Water bottles that bore the name “Poland Spring.” A book.
Several books.
Duran stumbled across the otherwise empty space and fell to his knees at the cot. His mahmen’s hair . . . her long dark hair . . . had been preserved, a braid of it lying off to the side, tied with satin ribbon.
“Mahmen,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m going to get you out . . .”
The pits of the eye sockets stared sightlessly to the ceiling, and the jaw had been wired into place by an amateur with what looked like . . . dental floss. Dental floss had been wound around the jaw joint to keep the teeth together.
“I’m sorry, Mahmen.” He cleared his throat. “I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t get everything set fast enough. I’m so sorry.”
The pain of seeing her remains and feeling his failure to save her was so great, he couldn’t breathe, and then he couldn’t see as tears came. Lowering his head, he tried to be as a male should, as she deserved, someone strong and capable. Someone who was worthy of the love she had so inexplicably given him.
Pulling himself together by will alone, because God knew his emotions were so big, his body could barely contain them, he sat up straight and wiped his face off on the sleeve of his shirt.
“I will get you out.”
While he tried to think, he pulled the blankets higher, as if she were still alive, as if she could feel the chill in the air and he could do something to fix that. And as he did, he bumped against the cot and dislodged that which had been carefully balanced on the pillow.
The skull fell to the side, toward him, those empty sockets swinging in his direction.
Duran quickly righted his clothes and patted his hair down.
As if she could still see her precious young. Who was no longer young, regardless of what his age put him at, and who had never been precious, no matter what she had told him.
“I love you, Mahmen,” he whispered.
He put his hand about where he imagined hers would be under the blankets, and the great divide between the living and the dead had never been so clear to him. She would never hear his words, nor he her responses. No touches. No smiles to exchange.
No future, only the past.
And there was no crossing this cavern in order to connect, at least not while he was alive, and likely not when he died, either.
After all, his father had been wrong about everything he’d told his congregation. Why wouldn’t the same be true of the rumors of the Fade? The traditions of the Scribe Virgin?
You could trust no immortal leader. No temporal one, either.
Taking a deep breath, he saw the water bottles and instantly refocused.
His father was alive.
Goddamn it, the motherfucker was alive and somewhere down here.
“Ahmare,” he said as he got to his feet. “Let’s get you out of here with the beloved.”
He needed her to be safe and on her way back to Chalen before he went after the Dhavos. He didn’t know what kind of condition his father was in, but he couldn’t take chances with Ahmare. Also didn’t want to be distracted by her.
“Ahmare.” She was no doubt giving him space. “You can come in.”
With a frown, he looked over his shoulder toward the open door and the darkness of the bedroom. “Ahmare?”
Warning bells began to ring in his head as he flicked on his flashlight and went over to the doorway.
Before his beam had done a full sweep, he already knew she wasn’t there.
“Ahmare!”
26
AHMARE FOUGHT AGAINST HER captor with everything she had, twisting and kicking, punching—she would have brought her fangs to the party, but the sack over her head robbed her of that. Grunts, like she was taxing the male who was dragging her through a tight space, got louder.
And then he struck her hard on the side of the head and she saw stars, a whole galaxy blooming in the claustrophobic confines of the hood.
Going lax was, at first, not an option but an overwhelming imperative, her legs falling boneless, her arms flopping loose, her mind muddling up. But as the male continued to pull her along, she saved her strength and banked on him getting sloppy with his hold.