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"Trusting me."
"You are all I have," she replied, breaking my heart with her words. A female like her should have had the world at her feet, not be forced to rely on a Daemon.
"I will always be there for you," I swore.
"That's all I ask." She rose to her tiptoes and kissed me. I held her tight after the kiss and, quietly, she said, "You have to go to them, don't you?"
Them. My brides.
My voice failed me, and I nodded. But then I raised her chin with my knuckles to look at her. "Fay, I swear all will be well."
"What did you and Seth talk about?"
"He has a plan," I explained. "Tomorrow we will take on Behlial, and after that, we will all be free."
"Free." She sounded wistful. "I don't want to befreewithout you."
I held her tighter. I couldn't bring myself to make promises I wasn't sure I could keep. I only knew one thing for sure, and that was I would try my damnedest to keep her safe or die trying. In the meantime, I would make arrangements for her to be taken care of if things went wrong.
I would talk to Ishtar and arrange for her to have Fay brought back to Adama should I fail. Her parents might not be the best people in her world, but they would protect her.
"I'll be back soon," I promised.
"I'll be waiting." She bestowed one of her brave smiles on me, melting my heart.
Ihadn'trealizedhowtired I was until my head hit the top of the couch's armrest—I was shunning the bed because it felt too lonely without him. Within seconds, I was asleep, finding myself in a strange place.
I don't know where I am for sure, but I watch with detachment as a baby girl is born inside a dark hut illuminated by torches and a flickering fire. Several women hover around another, whose body expels a tiny infant, and at once I realize the infant is me, even though I observe her like I would another person.
Vivid images flicker in front of my eyes so fast, they're hard to comprehend, yet I know I'm given a glimpse of the girl, who is me, as she grows into a beautiful young woman with long, flowing black hair.
Here the slideshow comes to an abrupt halt.
Curiously, I watch the girl, Mórrígan, dress in a flowing white gown, assisted by several older women. One hands her a drink, and after a few sips I feel dizzy, as if I had drunk it, and instinctively, I know it was drugged.
Mórrígan is led out of the hut with the older women's assistance, where the darkness of night engulfs her. Large rocks tower over her as she walks underneath them into a well-illuminated clearing. Torches and fires are lit, and in wonder, I recognize the place as Stonehenge. Not the way we see it now in pictures, but the way it was, with golden bowls holding fires in between the large stone pillars and another long, flat rock in the center.
On the rock lies another girl about Mórrígan's age. She lays there like a human X, her hands and feet held by four men, clad only in loincloths, whose bodies appear too white in the flickering light, and it takes me a moment to realize their bodies have been rubbed down with white ash, white like the girl's dress, and like the flowing ceremonial robe a man standing next to the girl is wearing.
My heart constricts as I notice a long, bloody knife that he raises high into the sky, and I want to shout at Mórrígan to run, because I already have an idea where this will lead.
But no words or sounds leave my lips as the unfortunate girl's heart is carved out of her chest and discarded into one of the blazing fires. The body is taken away to where two others already lay, and that's when I scream. Not that anybody heeds it.
The men now more or less drag Mórrígan to the altar as she is walking on her unsteady feet. At the last moment, she recoils, noticing the altar is already slick with blood.
Yet the men show no mercy as they place her on the flat rock, spreading her out like the other girl before her, and I watch her lips move in silent prayer. And then, clear as daylight, as if they were my own thoughts, I can hear her thoughts in my head.
More than the me of now can comprehend, the old Mórrígan understands this has to be done for the good of her tribe, and she gives up her struggles, even though her heart is beating like that of a hummingbird's in anticipation of the pain to come.
People are chanting in the background, staring up at the sky, where I can now see, through Mórrígan's eyes, a large spaceship, no, notaspaceship, theAsphodel, hovering in the sky. Clear as if she were talking to me, I can hear Mórrígan's thoughts.They, the gods, have returned and demand sacrifices. Seven maidens are to be sacrificed to them, which is the ritual she is part of. Willingly. It has to be done to save her tribe.
But the me of now knows that this is all wrong, that in theirhaste to comply with thegods, the priests misunderstood what they wanted when they demanded seven maidens for their princes.
In horror, I watch the priest's knife plunge toward Mórrígan's chest, but atthe exact moment as it pierces her skin and draws blood, the priest is thrown back by a winged black creature—a gargoyle.
Mayhem breaks out as people scream and run or try to fight the winged creatures. Mórrígan sits up and her drug-addled mind tries to comprehend what is happening. A man—the most handsome man she has ever seen—steps to her side and presses a finger to the small wound on her chest. He puts his finger into her blood and tastes it before smiling, then brings out another knife. Mórrígan screams in fright, but instead of attacking her, he cuts himself and uses his blood to heal her.
He pulls Mórrígan into his arms and carries her from the place of terror, where the gargoyles and other aliens bring down their wrath on the naïve tribe members.
