Page 34 of We Were Eternal Once

“You are one of the oldest of our kind, older than the false gods and goddesses the humans erect temples for. If they seek you out, is it not for knowledge?” My unasked question—what did you do to fear them?

“Knowledge?” You scoff, but you linger in the doorway.

“Are the truths such that they would not?” I ask. “This is the city of knowledge, after all.”

“It is,” you agree, and your gaze slides to the window behind me. You stare for a long moment before shaking your head and turning to me once more. “I do not wish to relive the past.”

“Then we leave,” I agree.

“We must plan first. It is winter, and the seas too rough to return to Rome. Let us think for a few days on what the future holds.”

I don’t smile until your back is to me, because I know we will not leave. As much as I don’t wish to share you with the man in the street, I will if it means I get my answers.

I will not leave. I will not lose you to your past. I will learn it, wear it, and make it mine.

To Follow Your Lead

Essemteu is in our garden.

He sits on the bench, his head tilted back to stare up at the sky above. The moon hangs low, the smallest sliver of a crescent above him. His light blue eyes are closed, his face serene as he smiles.

“Thoth smiles on us tonight,” he says as we pause just over the threshold.

“For the last time, I think,” you say. Your body is rigid with pungent rage.

“I am here in peace,” he says.

“You enter our home uninvited, that is hardly a peaceful act,” you say.

He shrugs and pats the space next to him on the bench. You don’t move, instead crossing your arms over your chest. “You are a bold creature.”

“It is how I got to where I am. I have heard stories of you, Mother of Silence. If I am to die, it would be an honor at your hand,” he says.

“So you are suicidal? Very well.” You take a step toward him, your fingers flexing at your side.

“I speak for a small community of lamia. I was sent to beseech you,” he says.

“Lamia?” You scoff. “I did not think you followed the Greek gods. Do you not prefer to think of yourself as a child of Sekhmet?”

“Hmm,” he considers, tilting his head at you. His irises are so pale they nearly match the whites around them. From far away it looks as if his eyes rolled into his head. “Is that what we are? Sent to punish the humans for their transgressions? A curse for them?”

“Does she not also heal?” you ask.

I know little of the Egyptian gods. I meant to learn their language so as to explore the scrolls, but that fell by the wayside in my indulgence of pleasure. How fascinating the Egyptians should have a goddess that is of our kind, while we Greeks believe Hera punished a woman to create lamia. We are not lamia though. We are so much more.

“She does indeed,” Essemteu is pleased. “She is a goddess of many sides. I think you can understand that.”

You regard him for several long moments. I don’t know if you will strike—I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Yes, we kill often when we hunt, but those are humans. They are our prey. It is like faulting the humans for eating their cattle, or unearthing a plant to devour. But you’ve never acted in violence. I suspect you have the stomach for it, but not the patience.

What would I do, if I were you? I think of Theon and his repulsive grin and his game of questions.

I would rip Essemteu’s head off and be done with it, I think.

“You were sent to beseech me—for what?” you speak at last. Essemteu’s smile grows as he pats the space next to him on the bench once more.

You move to sit next to him, and I next to you. My thigh presses against yours, but you keep distance from him. His gaze slides to me, considering. “And what is your name?”

I wait for you to answer for me, to tell him it’s none of his business. I only speak when you do not. “Melinoë,” I say.