Eternal Kiss of Darkness (Night Huntress World #2)(71)
Author: Jeaniene Frost

"still out," he muttered. Relief filled her as she heard him rejoin the others in the next room. She opened her eyes a slit, cautious just in case he’d pretended to walk out, but no one was in the room.

She might be able to pull the irons from the wall, but they were too noisy for her to get them out without alerting the guards. Kira gave her manacled hands and feet a ruthlessly analytical look. Broken bones would make a lot less noise than rattling irons. All she had to do was keep herself from screaming. She remembered the agony she’d felt when Flare had crushed her hand.

Easier said than done, but she had no choice.

Kira clenched her jaw shut, bracing herself. Then she slowly, mercilessly pulled her hand down, forcing not the iron from the wall but her hand through a circle far too narrow for it to fit.

Flames of throbbing pain shot through her hand as her bones crunched together, sounding like someone grinding coffee beans for their morning brew. A shudder went through her, and she fought not to make any sound. When her hand cleared the iron clamp, it was twisted into an irregular shape for a few seconds; it hurt even worse as it healed. Then, even though the burning in her hand subsided, the one in her stomach seemed to increase.

She was running on fumes when it came to blood. She’d depleted more of her limited resources by injuring and healing herself, and she still had another hand and two feet to go.

Kira gave a bleak look at the room where the guards were. You can do this, she chanted to herself. Radje thought she was just an average new vampire, helpless against these restraints and his guards. She’d show him just how much he’d underestimated her

– and Mencheres.

She looked at her other hand. Then, with gritted teeth, Kira began to pull.

Mencheres sat cross-legged inside a circle, his hands on his knees, his attention focused on the late-afternoon sun. He faced west, the direction from whence death came. Directly in front of him lay a silver knife and an empty cup. Vlad stood several feet from the circle’s perimeter, his jaw flexed and the scent of smoke emanating from him.

"This is madness."

Mencheres picked up the silver knife. "I told you not to watch. You chose to regardless, but you must not interfere. You risk more than your life if you do."

"We’ll go to Radje," Vlad all but growled. "You’ll hold him with your power, and I’ll burn him until he begs to tell you where he has Kira. That is a viable plan. Not attempting to summon a god from the underworld with a bizarre black magic ritual that will probably kill you."

"Radje is no fool," Mencheres replied. "He knows if he reveals where Kira is, I would kill him as soon as I secured her. Or Radje would refuse to reveal her location long enough to break whatever time limit he’s set with her guards, so they would kill her. He’s dared too much not to see this through, and even if I give him what he wants, he will still kill her."

"Kira could still get away. She’s stronger than any of them realize. You do not have to do this."

Mencheres almost smiled. "Yes I do. In fact, I know now that it’s been preordained." Duat and the god of the underworld lay just beyond the edge of that silver knife. He picked it up, watching the blade flash in the moonlight. Then he picked up the empty cup with his other hand.

"Registered in their names, known by their bodies, engraved by their forms are the hours," Mencheres began to recite from the Amduat in his native Egyptian tongue.

"Mysterious in their essence, without this secret image of the Duat being known by any person. This image is made in paint like this in the secrecy of the Duat, on the southern side of the Hidden Chamber. He who knows it will partake of the offerings in the Duat. He will be satisfied with the offerings to the gods following Osiris. All he wishes will be offered to him in the Earth."

When Mencheres finished speaking, he shoved the blade through his chest, directly into his heart. The silver burned with a fiery agony that felt like it filled his every vein in an instant. The last time he’d performed a dark ritual, he’d used steel instead of silver. But to summon the ferryman of the underworld, Mencheres required more payment than his blood and the bones of murdered comrades. He required the knowledge of sacred symbols drawn in blood that flowed from the edge of death.

"Aken," he chanted. "Ferryman of the dead, ruler of Duat. I summon thee." He willed out his blood from the wound in his chest, holding the cup underneath it. His blood flowed in a steady, aching stream that felt like acid pouring from him. When the cup was full, Mencheres could barely move from the pain, but he needed to, even though the slightest shift of the blade would shred his heart and kill him. He couldn’t use his power to hold the blade immobile, or to do what needed to be done next. His power was useless inside the circle.

He dipped his finger inside the cup, coating it with his blood. Despite the danger that jostling the blade would bring, he bent forward and began to draw the first of twelve symbols that would call forth Aken.

As soon as the first symbol was completed, shadows began to form inside the circle.

Akhs, the damned souls of the underworld. If he wasn’t strong enough to complete the ritual by drawing all twelve symbols, the akhs would consume him, sweeping his soul to Ammut, the Devourer goddess.

The darkness in his vision seemed to taunt him. Was it the endless River of the Dead that the ferryman would arrive on, if Mencheres were successful? Or was it the never-ending darkness of Duat, where he’d be condemned as one of the eternally restless akhs? Had his failure been fated long ago, and he’d spend all eternity trapped like the shadows that now encircled him?

"Mencheres," Vlad said, ignoring the warning not to interfere. "Stop this now."

"It is too late," he gritted, dipping his finger again in the cup of blood. Even that slight movement felt like it rammed the knife deeper into his heart. He tried to concentrate on the crimson liquid as he drew the next symbol instead, attempting to ignore the blistering pain and the overwhelming compulsion to pull the knife out at once. If he pulled the knife out, the akhs around him would immediately become corporeal and devour him. But the longer it took him to draw the symbols, the more power the akhs derived. They fed off pain, and with the silver in his chest, Mencheres was a feast for them. The stronger they grew, the more solid they would become.

Mencheres dipped his finger back in the cup. Kira’s blood was part of him, her essence mixed together with the blood from the other donors he’d fed from. This would not be the closest he came to being with her again. She’d believed in him enough to risk her life with Radje, a person who’d already been responsible for her death once. He might have failed her that first time when he took her mortality, but he would not fail her this time.