The Night Everything Fell Apart (The Nephilim Book 1)(22)

Shimon, dressed in khaki pants and jacket, carried a hard-sided suitcase. Dusty and disheveled, his body fairly vibrated with fatigue and excitement. Maweth edged a bit to one side, craning his neck for a better view.

Gently, as if handling a crate of eggs, the archeologist laid his suitcase on Dusek’s desk. He withdrew a ring of keys from his breast pocket and proceeded to open what Maweth considered to be a ridiculous number of locks.

The top lifted to a nest of foam peanuts and crumpled newspapers. Moving those aside, Shimon extracted a colorful, cloth-bound bundle and set it on the desk. He banished the suitcase to the floor while Dusek cut the cords to reveal a crude wooden box.

“I excavated the relic three days ago,” Ben-Meir said. “I made no mention of the discovery in the expedition log. There is no photographic record, either.”

Dusek glanced up at him, before returning his attention to the box. “You had no trouble taking it out of the country?”

“Some small delay at customs. Nothing a handful of Euros could not remedy.”

“Very good. Show me.”

Shimon produced a pocket knife. He slid the blade under the lid of the box. Dusek, palms resting on the table, leaned close, blocking Maweth’s view.

Frowning, Maweth rose off the floor, trying to see around his master’s bulk. Lucky followed him, wings abuzz. “What’s he doing?” the cherub whispered loudly.

“Shush.”

The archeologist lifted a number of flat stone fragments from a cloud of lamb’s wool. He set the pieces one by one on the desk, matching the edges like a puzzle. The fragments formed a rough rectangle, about twenty by thirty centimeters. Etchings covered its surface.

“A surprisingly complete specimen,” Dusek said.

“Yes,” Ben-Meir replied. “Intact but for a few perimeter fragments. It was excavated from a strata dated to the first century of the Common Era. The stele itself, however, is clearly much older. I believe its provenance is Egypt’s Old Kingdom. Twenty-third century B.C.E.”

“Excellent.” Dusek retrieved a magnifying glass. He bent close, examining the tablet’s markings.

“You’ll recognize this symbol as the cartouche of the Pharaoh Teti,” Ben-Meir said, pointing to a lower corner. “The piece, I believe, is contemporary to his reign.”

“Some five thousand years ago,” Dusek murmured. “The correct era.”

“Translation will be my highest priority. My starting point—the reason I left Axum so precipitously—is here.”

Maweth flew higher, angling for a better view. His head bumped on the mirror’s ceiling. He barely noticed.

The archeologist’s finger hovered over a pair of concentric circles. “Many of my colleagues would identify this glyph as an early notation denoting the sun god Ra.”

Dusek’s fingers, until now spread flat on the table, curled. “But you would not.”

“No. I recognized the truth immediately. The glyph doesn’t represent Ra or the sun. It is an eye.” The archeologist straightened. “The eye of the Watchers.”





SIX


It was full daylight by the time Arthur returned to T?’r Cythraul. The clouds had moved off, revealing a sky of brilliant blue. He stumbled as he landed in the garden, going down hard on one knee. He remained in that position, head bowed, wings brushing the ground, fighting the horror of what he’d become. It was a long time before he felt calm enough to raise his head.

He caught a glimmer of light in the attic window. He rose and allowed the morning breeze to cool the heat of his demon nature. His wings melted into his back. The dark opal light under his skin faded. His humanity reasserted itself.

And he felt...incomplete.

The sensation took him by surprise. When he’d shifted for the first time, during his Ordeal, his demon form had been a nightmare. He’d reverted to his human body with mind-numbing relief. Since then, a subtle shift had taken place. Now his human form felt like a pair of favorite jeans, slightly shrunk in the wash. Vaguely uncomfortable, but not tight enough to get rid of. You wore them, hoping they’d stretch out, unwilling to admit they never would.

It seemed incredible that he’d been away from Cybele and T?’r Cythraul for only a few hours. It felt as though an eternity had passed. Ironic, considering how little he remembered of his travels. He glanced again at the attic window. Was Cybele awake, waiting for him? Or asleep, her body soft and unaware?

Both scenarios made his cock jump. He was fiercely glad she was here. At the same time, he fervently wished she was somewhere else, somewhere safer. He mocked himself with a grim laugh. Consistency of emotion didn’t have the upper hand just now.

He shied away from the thought of Cybele seeing him in his demon form. He wasn’t sure why that embarrassed him. She knew what he was. Hell, she was the same—or would be, after she came through her own Ordeal. Neither of them could help what they’d been born to.

And yet a part of him wanted to run from her. Fly into the dawn and leave her behind without a word. He’d have done it, too, if he thought she’d be safer without him. Unfortunately, she’d be only more vulnerable alone. Mab would find Cybele, and force her into the Ordeal with Rand as her guide.

If Arthur didn’t claim that role instead, there were only two ways Cybele could avoid becoming a thrall. The first was death. The second was an unguided Ordeal. Arthur would die before he allowed Cybele to face either of those horrors.