Altar of Anubis

26 Pages·2008·0.29 MB·English

by  Vremont Ann

Altar of Anubis
Ann Vremont
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2008 Ann Vremont
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ISBN: 978-1-60521-104-6
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Publisher:
Changeling Press LLC
PO Box 1046
Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Artist: Bryan Keller
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Altar of Anubis
Ann Vremont

Interrupting a burglary, antiquities expert Rene Walker discovers
sometimes you have to die to find true love. But a gorgeous male pledging
his eternal devotion isn’t all that awaits her on the other side. To enjoy
eternity, Rene will have to thwart an ancient enemy who has waited
millennia to destroy her and come to terms with an inflexible custom of free
love in an immortal society where men outnumber the women ten to one.
Part 1
Battle not with monsters lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the
abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. --Friedrich Nietzsche
Rene Walker parked her aging Malibu in front of Stage 7 at Datura
Studios. It was Friday, well after sunset, and everyone was either on location or
gone for the weekend. Rolling the windows down against the late summer heat,
she turned the car off and listened to it tick and shudder as the engine cooled.
She waited, sitting, a drop of sweat running a line down her nose, until even the
noises of the car were silenced. She closed her eyes, searching for the perfect
blank.
The drop of sweat fell, hit her arm, and she opened her eyes. Like her
concentration, the bead of moisture was broken, running across the pale, freckled
skin in half a dozen directions. She lingered another moment, trying to block the
smell of half-melted asphalt before giving up and grabbing a small duffel bag
from the back seat. At the studio’s double-glass doors, she dropped her access
card trying to slide it through the reader.
Twice.
“Fuck!”
Rene picked the card up, leaned her forehead against the door. Air-
conditioned on the other side, the glass was cool against her skin. The cold,
smooth surface promised relief from the heat and tar-coated air and the
scratching need that had been clawing at her all week -- to be alone with the
artifacts on loan to the film.
Taking aim a third time, she slid the card through the reader, heard the
lock disengage. She slipped inside, the gym bag slung over her shoulder. In the
dark, she moved to her left, found the wall and then followed its curve. The wall
ended at a single narrow door. She opened it and flipped a switch to turn on the
central lights. The interior of an ancient Egyptian temple appeared before her.
She had consulted on at least two dozen movie sets since completing her
master’s degree in classical studies, but this was the first one to be dressed with
genuine antiquities. Getting a museum’s board of directors and an insurance
company to agree at the same time was impossible. But Datura’s marketing
director had somehow worked a deal with a private collector, and most of the
items borrowed would be part of a fifteen-city tour when the film opened.
There would be security guards then, and velvet ropes. For most of the
items, tonight’s only protection was a double padlocked door and sealed crates.
But it wasn’t the cat statues and gold scarabs making her hands sweat.
That honor went to the room’s centerpiece -- the Altar of Anubis. Made
from polished black basalt, it was almost seven feet long and three feet wide.
And she’d bet her degree it was a fake.
Stopping in front of the altar, she eased the bag onto the floor. The heat
had turned her hair into a frizzy mass of copper strands, and she pulled a rubber
band from her pants pocket. She secured her hair in a ponytail, then bent down
and unzipped the bag. Inside were a small hand drill and bits, a voice recorder,
empty glass vials, a laser level and rangefinder and, on loan from the local
university, a portable spectrometer. She hooked the voice recorder to her ear and
switched it on.
She stood back up and placed her hands palm down on the altar’s cold
surface. It certainly felt time-worn, the stone having an almost sensual
smoothness to it. Slowly, she ran her hands over it, leaning in and closing her
eyes. She wanted to believe it was the real thing, to imagine the hundreds who
had been sacrificed or embalmed on it. But the properties were off. For starters,
the shipping weight was too heavy, suggesting a density four times what it
should have been. And the owner had never allowed its inspection.
“Magnificent, isn’t it, Ms. Walker? It’s the one thing in my collection
I’m keeping.”
Rene spun around to find Michael Tajnoor watching her with a sharp
smile. Behind him another man carried a black suitcase. Both men were dressed
in black all the way down to crepe-soled shoes.
“How’d you get in?” She glanced down at Tajnoor’s hand, wished she
hadn’t when she realized he was clutching a black ski mask.
Tajnoor jerked his head in the stranger’s direction. “Mr. Tomsin is a man
of many talents -- locks, cameras, aging lot guards.” Casually, Tajnoor tossed the
mask at her face, ruthlessly grabbing her by the hair when she made the mistake
of trying to catch it.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Walker.” His smile deepened, and Rene heard the snick
of a knife opening. “But I have a schedule to follow and you’re fucking it up.”
The stab was quick and sure, delivered dispassionately but with a force
that buried the blade. She tried to lift her hands, to grab at his arm and the handle
sticking out of her chest. Tajnoor shushed her efforts, pushed her backwards
until she was falling onto the altar.
Taking the voice recorder from Rene’s ear, he pocketed it, his gaze never
leaving her face. Vision fading, she saw him gesture at Tomsin. “Those linens,
bring them to me.”
Tajnoor sounded like he was ordering lunch service. Sightless, she heard
the blade withdraw with a wet, sluicing noise, followed by the snap of cloth and
the push of air against her face. As the sheet settled over her, she thought about
Beth, her intern, and how the woman should have cut the cloth into strips
already.
The last sound to reach her was Tajnoor, his words framed on each side
by a deep chuckle. “There, let them think it’s one of her props. We’ll have our
money before anyone knows she’s dead.”
“Stop struggling.”
Hands, gentle but unyielding, pressed against Rene’s bare chest.
Someone wiped at her skin with a warm, moist cloth, tugging at the dry blood.
Cool air fanned her nipples and stomach, and she felt the weight of a sheet
pushed down to her hips. The heavy scent of spices filled the air. She tried to
open her eyes, tried to speak.
“Relax, Reynar. Let me heal you.”
It was all wrong. There should be pain. And the sounds of machines, the
scrape of a scalpel being lifted, nurses talking, sirens… not a lone voice, familiar
but unrecognized.
She lifted a leg, attempted to roll to her side. Hands pushed her back
down, not so gently this time.
“For once, woman, would you listen to me!”
Was it Phil, the night guard? No, Phil was pushing sixty and his voice
shook on the best of days. It was nothing like the deep rumble of this man. And
he’d called her “Reynar.” Why?
She was dreaming, had to be. She needed to wake up, to trip the alarm if
she could and hope it wasn’t too late. She lifted her hips, fighting the dream.
This time the hand came down low on her gut.
“She must sleep.” The voice, deep, soothing, commanded action, and she
felt another wet cloth, this time against her face and loaded with the same
intoxicating spices.
“Sleep, Reynar. You can fight me when you wake.”
The hand stroked her stomach before cupping her breast, the thumb
pressing against the knife wound. He continued speaking, his words reaching her
in a jumbled mess but sounding for all the world like he was locked in the
rhythm of fervent prayer.
Rene woke again, curled in a soft bed, with a heavy sheet anchoring her
to the mattress. Eyes still closed, she touched her hand to her chest and listened
while, somewhere, a man and woman argued. Her skin was smooth -- no
bandage, no scab, not even the dimple of a scar. It didn’t seem possible she’d
been out that long.
“They have disturbed your sleep?”
She recognized the voice -- the dream healer. Was she still dreaming,
then, or was he real? And his hand along her stomach, beneath her breast --
fantasy or reality? She took a shallow breath and answered, “Yes.”
“Then open your eyes.”
She obeyed with a deliberate slowness, knowing as he came into sight
that she had transitioned from one dream into another.
He wore a blue linen kilt. He was bare-chested, his hands casually resting
on his lap. The skin was a dark walnut in color with a hint of bronze where the
light bounced off him. The nipples were a deep berry red and there was no hint
of hair on the powerful chest.
Shocked at the detail her sleeping mind had conjured, she lingered at his
sensuously full lips a second before staring into his eyes with their golden brown
irises. She willed him to speak again, wanting to feel the deep rumble of his
voice vibrate down low in her stomach. He didn’t say anything, just stared back
at her until she asked, “What are they fighting about?”
He leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms against the mattress.
“You, Reynar.”
“My name isn’t ‘Reynar’.” This close, she could smell his skin, the rich
spices of the healing room clinging to him. Thick, dark lashes fringed his eyelids
and, together with the sculpted black brows, were the only hair on his head.
Another odd detail, she thought.
“It was your name once.” He smiled at her, showing strong white teeth.
“It will be again.”
Every nerve cell from the neck down begged her to make the most of this
odd dream but she rolled to her side, away from him. She looked at the ceiling,
the walls, the floor and found herself in a fantasy carved from alabaster and
populated by… she glanced back at him, licked her lips once before looking
away again.
He touched her shoulder. Her body’s response was immediate, a warm
flush spreading out from where his hand rested to heat her breasts and dampen
her thighs. “You have had millennia to forget yourself, your family… me.”
She looked at him, forced herself not to linger on the curve of his jaw or
the promise of his mouth. No way in hell would she forget this man. Already his
voice and touch were embedded in her memory forever. If she lived, if she woke
up from whatever sleep or coma she was in, his image would haunt every wet
dream she had for the next five years.
Minimum.
He just needed a name she could carry into her waking world.
“And you are?” she asked, risking a second glance.
“Imeut.”
“Of course.” Turning away, she laughed at herself. At least the name her
sleeping mind had given him was easier than “Anubis” to scream out in the
throes of future orgasms.
“So you do recognize me?” The hand that had been lightly resting against
her shoulder cupped her chin and coaxed her into looking at him. Stroking her
chin with his thumb, he repeated his question.
She wondered at the anxiety, the intense need clearly written across his
features.
“Fool! Your Reynar will not come again. Why do you waste your time
on a human who does not even look like her?”
From the sound of the voice, it was the woman who had been arguing in
the next room. She stood in the open arch, a pale silhouette with long black hair
and blacker eyes. A linen shift covered her, the fabric’s loose weave failing to
hide the pink tint of her nipples or the hairless V tucked between her thighs.
“It is my time to waste, Selesma.” Imeut flicked his hand in the woman’s
direction, his gaze still locked on Rene. “And you are wrong.”
“If she was Reynar, he would not have left.”
Rene remained mute, immobilized by the hate blazing in the woman’s
eyes and the icy venom that laced her words.
“Lord Reymas is afraid of disappointment after all this time. His fear
does not negate reality.” He turned to the woman, his face hardening. “Now go.”
Selesma raised her arm, drawing it back as if she were preparing to pitch
a baseball. Her cold smile reminded Rene of Tajnoor and his knife. “There is one
sure way to tell if she is Reynar.”
“I do not care who she is!” Imeut jumped to his feet, his body partially
blocking Rene’s view of the other woman. “You will not undo my work.”
“Oh, you care.” Selesma dropped her hand to her side. “Fool that you are
you would still die for her.” She turned, calling over her shoulder as she went,
“But it is not your death I seek.”
“You must go out.” Imeut reached across her, his hand closing around a
shift that lay folded on the opposite side of the bed. “People must see you, make
up their own minds before she can spread her lies.”
Rene looked at the piece of cloth in his hand. It had the same loose
weave as Selesma’s dress but there were threads of gold mixed in with the pale
cream-colored linen.
“You’re kidding, right?” She looked at him, saw the stubborn set of his
mouth and tried to mimic it. “I’m not putting that on.”
“Why not?”
“Look, you saw what I was wearing…” She stopped, reminded herself
that she was talking to a dream no matter how real he seemed. She settled back
against the mattress and closed her eyes.
“You were naked when you came through the portal.”
Rene’s eyes popped open. Naked? Portal?
“If you wish to go naked, that is acceptable.” He dropped the shift and
reached for the sheet covering her.
She threw her hands up, blocking him. This was going too far, it had to
stop. “Wake up. Wake up, Rene!” One hand clutching the blanket to her chest,
she slapped herself.
“Is that what you think, that you are sleeping?” He chuckled and ripped
the sheet from her grasp. “Ah, sweet gods, how shall I convince you otherwise?”
He put a knee on the bed, his intent unmistakable as he reached for her leg. “As I
used to?”
She scrambled to find an edge of the sheet, but he tossed it onto the floor.
She pulled the shift on, glaring at him. “You won’t convince me because you’re
not real.”
“Then why hide yourself?” He moved closer, an arm on either side of
her.
“Who are you kidding? This dress isn’t hiding jack shit.” She pushed at
his chest, but he grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet.
“There is no time for this. You have passed beyond the memory of many.
They will not recognize you as I do. Selesma will make sure --”
Imeut stopped and placed a fingertip against Rene’s cheek. She hadn’t
realized she was crying. Imeut lowered his head, his lips just touching her face.
His hands dropped possessively to her hips, pulled her closer as he groaned. “I
had forgotten the taste of your tears, my love.”
She blinked and he groaned again, his tongue darting out to catch another
drop of her fear and frustration. He carried the tear to her lips, then deeper into
her mouth as she opened to him. He cupped her breast, gently squeezing it as he
pushed his erection against her stomach. Guiding her hand down to press against
its rigid length, he broke the kiss.
“Does this feel like a dream to you, Reynar?”
She shook her head, as much against the name he used as the question.
He felt solid, deliciously so. Reaching lower, she traced the outline of heavy
balls beneath the fabric. Her nipples, thinly covered by the shift, brushed against