Accidentally…Cimil? (Accidentally Yours #4.5)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Prologue

After all he has done to me, I still find myself unable to fully blame him. Because truthfully, some women aren’t meant to be loved. And by some women, I mean me.

I. Am. Evil.

The worst kind of evil.

There are no limits to the death, destruction, and mayhem I will bring to your doorstep if it suits my needs. I will pretend to be your ally. I will pretend to give a rat’s ass about your happiness when in reality only one thing matters. Survival. Okay, survival and avoiding na**d clowns.

Judge me if you will, but this is the cold, hard truth about being the Goddess of the Underworld. Because I’ve seen the future. It holds no joy or hope. There is no sunlight. No love. No glorious garage sales where once useful items are given a second chance at a new life. There is only death. So much death.

And it’s up to me to stop it. Me alone.

Okay, Minky and me, but mostly me. Potatoes, patatoes.

And what’s my plan? Try to forget him. And avoid watching Love Boat marathons. And definitely avoid bugs. Can’t afford any distractions. Not now. Not when this giant mess is all my fault.

Why did I ever dare to dream that I could find love and happiness?

I. Am. Evil.

Or maybe I’m just crazy…

PART ONE—CIMIL AND NARMER

THE EARLY YEARS

Chapter One

3000 BC (Give or take a few centuries. Who the hell’s counting?)

The day started like any other. A typical day in the life of a goddess. An ancient, lonely, bored-out-of-her-immortal-skull goddess.

I opened my mind to my brethren, listened to their thoughts (yawn), felt their worries (trivial), and contemplated my otherworldly navel until I decided where my talents were most needed in the world. On this day, that meant checking in on my brother Kinich, God of the Sun, whose self-imposed exile was seriously getting on everyone’s last nerve.

Especially mine.

Don’t get me wrong; I was also worried. What affected him affected all of us. We were connected. Brethren of the same light. And we all tasted his pain, which is why I can say… What a big baby!

Yes, yes, it sucked to be a deity, a slave to mankind’s well-being with no end in sight, no hope of finding true love, owning a pet sea turtle (don’t ask), or of having a life, but that was the gig. How many millennia did it take to sink in? Apparently, for Kinich, more than two. Or three. Or four. It was time to bring him back to our realm, time to take his place among us.

So I hopped into the portal, which spat me out in the usual place—a cenote in Mexico (See definition in back. Okay? Did you do it? Did you? Good. And moving on…)—summoned Minky my trusty unicorn; longingly stroked a sea turtle; and dashed off to Giza, Egypt, where Kinich was hiding out. Like I said, a typical day.

Jealous? Well, don’t be. I haven’t gotten to the real story yet.

Cue jazz hands and waffly waves of air for extended flashback…

It all started when I arrived at the small dusty market. Normally, this section of Giza bustled with camels, caged birds, and those other stinky animals—humans—but on this particular day, the place was a ghost town. When I asked Minky to do a quick sweep of the city, she immediately reported back. The masses were gathered outside the pharaoh’s palace for a big speech. Naturally, we went to check it out, and that’s when I saw him.

Hello, man candy!

As I stood at the foot of his great temple, the desert sun glistened off his rippling abs and deeply tanned bare chest, his golden staff gripped in his large, powerful hand (Yes, yes. I mean a real staff! Not his man-trinket. Jeez…). In typical pharaoh fashion, he had a razor-thin beard, more like a sculpted five o’clock shadow, along the very edge of his jaw and an elaborately braided goatee, which we shall call a pharaoh-tee. ’Cause this hottie was no goat. He was more of a huge frigging viper in a man’s skin—deadly, powerful, with a barbaric gleam in his eyes. He wore a tall black-and-gold headdress that on any other man would scream “please kick my ass,” but on him, it looked pharaoh-licious.

I licked my lips and watched with sheer fascination as his dark eyes drilled into the crowd, daring anyone to step forward and defy him. I shivered from the raw potency of his male strength. And when our eyes met for the briefest of moments, it felt like being hit with a bolt of lightning. Naughty, dirty lightning.

Who. Is. That? I thought. Yes, yes. I knew he was the king. But who was he really? What made him tick? Why did he glow with an intoxicating inner light that drew me in like a multifamily hut sale? (The BC version of a garage sale, but with pelts, used stoneware—yes, yes, made from real stone—and the occasional old donkey.) Point was, something about him was utterly irresistible. Why?

Inquiring immortal minds want to know…

Immortal minds also wanted to know what it would take to knock that pretty, pretty man off his pretty, pretty pedestal. I wanted to own him. I wanted to bend him to my will and have him begging me for attention. I wanted to break him.

Now, before you judge, my precious little people-pets, I’ll refer you back to the earlier part of my story. The part where I tell you I am ancient, lonely, and bored. I can’t help who I am or that when I see a mortal such as him, it feels like receiving a shiny new toy from the Universe herself.

And Auntie Cimi wants to play.

I elbowed the bald man to my side, standing with me among an ocean of loyal subjects who’d come to listen to their pharaoh publicly decree that from this day forward, Egypt would be a united people.

“Tell me,” I said in the man’s native tongue, “where does your king spend his nights?”

The man’s shendyt—a simple pleated, white linen skirt—and golden armband told me he was a slave. One who belonged to the king, perhaps serving food or providing entertainment.

The human didn’t answer, but instead stared nervously. I got that reaction a lot. Sometimes I wore my hair bobbed, sometimes long and wild as it was today, but it was always flaming red and equally as uncommon as my pale skin and turquoise eyes.

Thank the gods that mortals can’t see Minky. I gripped the slave’s shoulder and stared deeply into his eyes. “Tell me your name.”

The man blinked several times. “Adom.”

Adom means “receives help from the gods.” It’s his lucky day!

“Adom,” I said, “you will tell me everything you know about your pharaoh, and in exchange, you will be free. Forever. You will be transported anywhere you like and given a purse of gold coins.”

The man nodded slowly and pointed north.