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It’s only a flash, but doubt registers in Riddick’s features, anger quickly taking its place. And I realize there’s a fracture in the society. From Riddick’s doubt of Devyn to the small gathering here, trust has been broken among them.
Riddick looks over Kallum smugly. “What did the fed do, Locke? Look at her too long, touch her like this…”
He seizes my throat in his thick hand, his other reaching around to grab hold of my ass. I struggle against his clutch, nails raking his arm, only to earn the back of his hand to my cheek.
A violent charge cracks the air. Kallum’s wrath is a blaze of lit kerosene racing through the darkened wetland right before he slams into Riddick and takes him to the ground. He braces his forearm across Riddick’s throat with crushing force.
Emmons moves into the fray and, with a low, controlled command, orders his lackies to haul Kallum off.
My bruised cheek smarting with a painful throb, I face Riddick once he’s on his feet. “He’s going to kill you,” I say in a low tone, and not as a threat, as a warning. Riddick should run.
Riddick’s smile is crass as he licks his lips. “Worth it,sweetness,” he mocks.
Hot rage sparked deep in my chest, I seek out Devyn, finding her watching me with a curious tilt to her head as she caresses the bones of her deceased brother along her chest.
“If the feds aren’t already combing the marshland, they will be soon,” I say, easing toward Kallum.
Emmons rolls his broad shoulders, his eyes flaring wild. “Soon it won’t matter.” There’s no inflection in his tone. The man I first met on the case has seemingly deteriorated.
He claps his hands together, the crack reverberates through the clearing. “You know your places.”
Moving in front of me, Kallum grabs hold of my shirt, his fingers bunching the fabric until I’m pulled closer. Then he covertly lifts the hem and slips an object into my pocket. “When the time comes, don’t hold back.”
I swallow hard at the tender feel of his fingers grazing my waist before his hand falls away and we’re prodded toward the fire’s edge.
Heart clutched in a vise, I outline the object in my pocket. The fierce, rhythmic drumming fades to a muted thump in my ears as I recognize the distinct shape. I’ve held an object like this before. I used it to take a life.
I glance at Riddick positioned across the fire, my gaze dropping to the skull hooked to his belt—the one that now has a broken antler.
As the flames heat my body, Kallum drops his tied wrists around my neck, his sole focus on me. The chalked symbols swirl over the blood and bruised skin of his face, in direct contrast to the dark tendrils of ink along his neck. The combination is stunningly beautiful.
“You know what’s about to happen,” I say, catching sight of Mrs. Lipton as she selects one of the jars. “Tell me.”
Kallum’s tongue darts out to catch a drop of blood, trailing the cut along his lower lip. “The above is of the below, and the below is of the above,” he says. “You’re standing on the formula for gold, sweet Halen.”
I look down at the cloth parchment, at the markings within theouroboros. “Now’s not the time to be cryptic.”
As the drum swells higher, the beat increasing to a frantic cadence to match my firing pulse, the members surround the pit of flames and chant those very words. They proceed to empty the contents of the jars—blood, organs, flesh—into the plate positioned above the fire.
“A prominent alchemist once compared the creation of the philosopher’s stone to the resurrection of pharaohs,” Kallum says, his breath falling over my lips. “A parallel in which both the stone and the body were subjected to a violent process to purify, transform, and resurrect a perfect form.”
Emmons commands them to: “Fill the cups,” and Riddick circles the ring, filling the empty jars with a cloying red liquid that turns my stomach.
“First, the blackening,” Kallum continues. He glances at the gore roasting in the center of the ceramic. “Ingredients cleansed to a black matter to purify.”
Bile rises to the back of my throat as the stench of cooking organs permeates the marshy air. “This is what you lied to Dr. Markus about.”
“Not lied, just a purposeful oversight,” he confirms with a twist to his mouth. “That wall of glyphs was meant to mislead. If I had said?—”
“That the prominent alchemist was a woman, then no one would take him seriously,” Devyn interrupts. “Though prominent is quite a stretch, seeing as she was wiped from history just forbeinga woman.”
Regardless of her claim, the reason Kallum didn’t identify the contradictions in that chamber was for me, because I asked him not to point to Devyn. My ask was high; my own self-deception.
A dark gleam ignites behind Kallum’s eyes. “In you, Cleopatra the Alchemist, is hidden the whole terrible and strange mystery.” His arms tighten around me as he regards her. “You’ve advanced, priestess.”
“I was given little choice,” she snaps. “Will you be displaying your wings tonight, demon of fate? Or was that merely a flashy distraction, like quoting Ostanes now?” She wags her finger and sways to the pulsing rhythm of the drum. “Nietzsche was so close to ascension, if only he had been strong enough to devour his sun in the end. Instead, he just went mad.”
Kallum straightens his spine, towering over me protectively. “The same fate awaits your boyfriend.”
