Blood and Lotuses Read online

Attuned to her now, realizing that he had always been attuned to her since they first met, Thanom could feel the warmth of her smile, although her face was hidden. “Well, it has to be good, loving sex, for starters.”

  “I’m a little rusty. We’ll have to practice a lot. And that sounds like a good argument for leaving town as soon as possible.”

  “Thanom, you made a joke!” Anchali hugged him, despite the danger of being spotted. “But I like your idea about leaving town now.”

  Thanom shrugged. Women bewildered him sometimes, and this one more than most. “Wasn’t I the one who’s been trying to get us to leave all along and you’re the one who insisted we needed to stay and learn more?”

  She smiled a smile Thanom felt all the way through his body, especially but not exclusively his cock. “I found the answers I needed to bring to Lord Rak. It makes sense to leave now. Besides—” there was that smile again “—I have plans for you that we can’t carry out here. Really important plans, critical to defeating the demon.”

  That should have been frightening, but she said it in a throaty purr and all Thanom could think about was finding a safe place where he could bury himself inside her gripping heat and forget about demons altogether for a little while.

  *

  Nshlic cursed in the half-world.

  Discovered. It had been discovered—and by one far less powerful and learned than either Iana or the Chosen of Pichitra Nshlic/Iana been able to bring down just on time, just as he was starting to put the pieces together.

  Nshlic was reluctant to manifest in the physical realm just yet. Its power had grown immensely, but that was still a risk it was ill-inclined to take. Once in the physical realm, it could be bound or destroyed.

  On the other hand, it could fight its foes directly, rather than through human puppets—and that might prove necessary. Some reaction, some rebellion, was bound to happen if word got out that a demon controlled Iana.

  The High Chosen had been much loved in the city. Nshlic couldn’t understand the concept of love, but it had observed that love prompted humans to act to protect what they loved. It had seen that when Emjaroen was captured. The city had gone mad. That madness, though, had served Nshlic’s purpose, giving Iana’s followers more reason to turn on those they deemed to be enemies of purity, challenges to their faith.

  But if her followers decided to try to rescue Iana—not that they could—it would serve Nshlic poorly, and if the fickle mob turned against her, that would be even worse. Nshlic needed the people of the city following Iana’s dictates, despising their own natures, subduing their passions except for the passion for destruction, not acting on their own.

  Fear would be the best way to put down any attempts to rebel. And unlike love, fear was something Nshlic understood very well.

  Chapter 10

  Although refugees still fled Dakura for the countryside to escape the demon-inspired madness, another stream of refugees flowed toward the city, fleeing Lord Rak’s army. Although Lord Rak’s officers maintained tight discipline, giving orders that the villagers and farmers were not to be disturbed, many people were apparently acting under the theory—sadly proven by history—that any army was potentially dangerous, even an army that said it was just passing through on the way somewhere else, and were running to the city that in times of trouble had always offered safety, not realizing it was probably the least safe place in Benire to be.

  With Lord Rak’s blessing, Thanom and Anchali slipped away from the army and joined the panicked throngs heading toward the dubious safety of Dakura’s walls. With them went two others who had fled Dakura in the first place: a young acolyte of Pichitra named Chanhira and her lover, Khun, a former city guard, who had agreed to protect the ritual.

  In the guise of refugees, all four of them found their way back to the temple. And in the night, they moved.

  Even now, when everything had been reversed and the way of Jananya turned on itself, the temple sanctuary was deserted in the black hours before dawn. The worship of Jananya took place in the daylight, the time of logic and reason, and so it still did, even though the worship taking place now was anything but reasonable. So Thanom and Anchali and their companions were unchallenged as they crept past the acolyte snoring gently at his guard post, past the great brass lamps that flanked the door—formerly alight with fragrant oils to symbolize the sweet light of knowledge, but now dark—past the empty vases once filled with flowers, and into the dim heart of the sanctuary.

  In silence, they shed their garments. In silence, they made a circle of dried and fresh flowers and powdered amber that Anchali had smuggled into the city under her bulky robes. She had almost stopped breathing coming in through the gates and again entering the temple, sure that her contraband would be discovered, but the new laws actually were on their side this time. With any kind of touch regulated, the gate guards were unable to do anything like a body search.

  Working by gesture, Anchali on the inside and Chanhira on the outside raised the circle, until even Thanom could see its warm glow, rose and red for passion, gold for love, blue like the heart of a flame for the spirit.

  Anchali took Thanom’s hands and began to mouth the words she had discovered in the ancient manuscript and updated for their needs. She dared not raise her voice even to a true whisper, but she had taught Thanom the words during their journey, and she had to trust that as a true follower of Jananya, he would have trained his memory well.

  He wasn’t even trying to read her lips. His eyes, wide in a darkness illuminated only by the circle’s flickering colors and the lightening sky outside the great eastern window, were locked on hers. But he breathed the words flawlessly.

  *

  In the world of flesh and blood, their voices could not be heard. But in the half-world of gods, demons, and dreams, they echoed loudly.

  The ritual echoed in the realm of Pichitra, who smiled that smile which, at the beginning of time, had first brought lovers together in joy, and lent Her Chosen and Her Chosen’s beloved some of the power they needed to do what was needful.

  The ritual echoed in the corner of the half-world that Nshlic had infiltrated and made its home, preparing to enter the physical world. It stirred, smelled the incense that had not been lit, smelled ylang-ylang and lotus and amber, heard the sweet laughter of the goddess Pichitra, and roused to action.

  It was time. If Pichitra was trying to get involved, it was definitely time. Perhaps past time.

  Once, long ago by mortal reckoning, Nshlic had, in female form, paid a nocturnal visit to a devotee of Pichitra. The sop figured the beautiful winged creature who appeared in his meager room one night was a sign from his goddess, the pleasures she offered a measure of divine favor. The human fool, sated and smiling, had been saying a prayer of thanks to Pichitra when his demon leman slew him.

  Nshlic was doomed by that prayer, and by Pichitra’s anger, to being what it was. Most demons could shift shape and gender at whim, the pleasures of the flesh they shared with each other the only touch of light in their long, brutal lives—and their only hope of redemption. Demons could learn to love each other, although it was rare, and through this love, might change, ascend, and become a sort of nature spirit, less powerful, but taken back into the light at death instead of simply snuffed out like a candle.

  But for a demon, love—were it to happen at all—grew from sex, which was the only way they could truly connect to each other. This was Pichitra’s gift to demonkind, for Her compassion extended even to beings who were by their nature enemies to Pichitra, Jananya, and all good.

  But even Pichitra's compassion was not infinite. Nshlic was now barred from all that, for Nshlic became neuter upon that cursed night, and had been fixed forever in that form.

  At the invocation of Pichitra in a temple Nshlic had come to regard as its own, it was ready to burst with fury.

  It sent forth its minions while it prepared to manifest.

  The ritual echoed in the dreams of the High Chosen Iana. A morsel of her
old self, the scholar devoted to reason and the light, remained hidden inside her, and that part was strongest when she slept and dreamed. Nshlic and her own restless nature conspired against her slumbers, but tonight, by chance or the will of Jananya, she had managed to sleep deeply, and in the dream heard the ritual words and breathed the fragrance of Pichitra’s magic and found them good.

  The holy magic blended in Iana’s sleep with dreams of visiting the temple of Pichitra during the rice-planting festival. Iana had been celibate by choice for all of her life, but while her bed remained empty, her life then was full of love and rich in friends, some of whom were dedicated to Pichitra. The smell of lotuses and amber filled Iana’s dreams, brought her back to that festival and to the wise conversation and surprisingly welcome sacramental kiss and embrace, chaste but loving, of her old friend Emjaroen.

  Lost in the rare, pleasant dream, Iana came awake harder, woke to dark and discomfort and the low pain of self-inflicted wounds that had never properly healed.

  Despite the pain, she woke smiling, thinking of Emjaroen. Must pay him a visit soon, now that she was up and about again, she thought.

  And then remembered why she could not.

  She herself had wielded the knife to cleanse him.

  To kill him.

  The smell of amber and lotuses overlay scents of stale blood on unwashed robes and of festering wounds, but Iana gagged on memories.

  And when the demon crashed into her mind, it found flowers and resistance waiting.

  Memory guarded her, memory of the last lips that had ever touched hers and a beloved voice—familiar now, but not when it happened—saying There is still time to become undeceived, and a friend’s blood staining her hands. Truly awake for the first time in more than a year, she didn’t know how this had come to pass, how she had become a killer, but she knew that whatever it was that wanted to enter her mind and block her pain was not a friend to her or Jananya.

  Hastily, she erected a barrier of white light.

  But possession was an old friend now. Possession stopped the pain, made her walk straight and strong.

  Possession cut off the flood of memories now trying to drown her, memories of what she had done in the name of Jananya.

  They make you doubt, child, a familiar voice resonated in her head. The whores, the unclean ones who have infiltrated the temple. I am Jananya, and you have only to let Me in to be able to stop them.

  Blood on her robes. She should not have blood on her robes. Jananya did not demand blood sacrifice.

  Iana went to stand and could not; her elderly, damaged body, not borne up by the demon, betrayed her. And in that confusion, Nshlic slipped in.

  Mostly.

  Without her conscious volition, her wracked body straightened, grabbed her tools of office—including the long knife that had become a constant companion—and strode down the corridor. But some part of Iana walled herself away to try to reason through the nightmare in which she woke.

  Miracles and portents. She remembered miracles and portents, and prophecy of a new, clean age where light and reason prevailed. But what she mostly remembered was blood, and a friend’s eyes gazing at her with love and compassion as she killed him.

  She rode her own body as a passenger, trying to wrest some control back, trying to make sense of what was going on.

  *

  In the temple sanctuary, Anchali and Thanom, naked and ringed by a rainbow of light, stroked and caressed each other’s bodies, raising the power that they would need for their working.

  Thanom was self conscious, knowing they had an audience, although Chanhira and Khun were paying more attention to the various entrances to the sanctuary than to them. “I’ve never …” he started to say. “I’m not sure I…” H didn’t want to say what he really meant, that he feared his body would fail him, because saying the words out loud might cause it to happen. He had been in a constant state of semi-arousal even since he first met Anchali, but this was different. This wasn’t ordinary sex. This was magic on which other people’s lives depended, and he was afraid. He had faith in Anchali, and in the goddesses, but he was a soldier, not a Chosen. Magic wasn’t supposed to be part of his world, except for the small, ordinary magic of blessings and healings. He certainly wasn’t supposed to be doing the kind of ritual that might defeat a demon. It was enough to make any man’s cock grow limp, despite the beautiful, beloved partner touching him.

  “Don’t fear,” Anchali whispered, seemingly sensing his thoughts before he could find a way to voice them. “We are in Pichitra’s hands. What we are doing may seem complicated, but really, it is just lovemaking and a prayer to Her. My whole life has been Pichitra’s since I was a girl. The goddess chose me and I chose you, and thus we cannot fail. By loving me, by my loving you, we have already won.”

  And whether it was entirely true or not, he felt the weight of fear leave him. With that weight no longer pressing him down, other things were able to rise.

  They were still caressing, rousing each other, taking the slow, sweet time prescribed by the ritual, when Beyun, Iana’s second-in-violence, burst into the temple.

  “Filth!” Beyun screamed, as if it was the first thing that came into his mind, and ran at the lovers in the circle, brandishing his knife.

  Bounced off Khun, who’d rushed to cut him off. Beyun ricocheted off the circle and back at Khun. Undeterred by being blocked by the magic, Beyun simply turned his fury at Khun.

  Thanom winced and froze. He couldn’t leave the circle—his knowledge of ritual magic was imperfect, but Anchali had impressed that much upon him—but he was a soldier, with far more years of fighting experience than Khun’s life as a city guard probably provided. He had to…

  No, he didn’t. Between his guard background and his time, however brief, in Lord Rak’s army, Khun was managing a fine job demonstrating to Beyun that training, determination, armor, and a sword will eventually prevail against a short knife and untrained ill-nature. Beyun was putting up a decent defense, but wasn’t closing at all.

  It was hard to focus on lovemaking with a fight so close by. Thanom’s attention, and his arousal, began to flag.

  “Pray,” Anchali whispered. Then her hot mouth closed around him, and he began to pray indeed, a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Light began to fill the temple. Some of it was the approach of dawn.

  But some, Thanom realized with wonder, radiated from him and Anchali.

  *

  Iana’s body sagged. She caught herself in the archway that led from the corridor into the sanctuary, praying for strength to defeat the wickedness within.

  She could see the colorful glow of the ritual circle, smell an ever-thickening scent of ylang-ylang and amber and lotuses, hear the small moans and sighs coming from within the circle of multicolored light. She couldn’t see the figures inside the circle distinctly through the steady glow, but she could see enough to tell that they were naked and up to wickedness.

  Beautiful, a small voice inside her said, a voice quickly squelched by a roar of self-righteous fury.

  Harlots. Unclean. Devotees of false Pichitra. And not even carrying on in private, but performing it as holy magic in a ritual circle and defiling the very temple of Jananya!

  She could tear down their protections, abort whatever it was they hoped to accomplish, but only if her traitor legs would carry her that far. “Blessed Jananya grant me strength,” she whispered, waiting for the by-now familiar surge of energy and purpose that would follow.

  Instead, the circle flared brighter, and she found herself sinking to the floor.

  Someone outside the circle was chanting, something about spring planting and green shoots and love. The song sounded familiar. The voice was girlish and thin, but she’d heard the chant from an entire temple once, led by a man who used to walk by the river with her, and brought her flowering plants in pots when her legs failed her and she could no longer walk with him.

  A man she’d killed.

  The noise was spreading,
not of the ritual sex, but of fighting. She recognized Beyun’s coarse voice, and some others, heard footsteps running into the sanctuary from all directions, acolytes and Chosen and temple residents drawn by the sounds.

  The chant cut off with an awful, gurgling cry.

  Something twitched inside her, propelled Iana to her feet. She staggered forward.

  The chant had stopped. That was good. It was as it should be. The chant, and the chanter, and those touching each other inside the circle’s cozy glow, were all evil.

  She was weeping, though, and she didn’t know why.

  Chapter 11

  Inside the circle, Anchali stifled a cry and added a prayer for the girl who had been cut down to the prayers that formed the ritual.

  Khun was fighting. Chanhira had fallen. How could Anchali continue to pleasure Thanom when her friends were in such danger?

  Still, her mouth bobbed up and down on the surprisingly hard length of him, and her hands caressed his body.

  This was what she had to do, to save them all. Instinct fought with knowledge: The only hope for Chanhira or Khun or any of them was to carry on, not lose focus, guide the less experienced Thanom, make sure they could finish the ritual.

  She moved up Thanom’s body to straddle his hips. With his hands on the curve of her hips and his hardness probing against the surprisingly slick lips of her sex, Anchali took up the chant in Chanhira’s place. Her voice was faltering, but she sang out, unafraid now that someone would hear. They were already discovered. Now they had to finish, raise the power to end this nightmare.

  Anchali raised herself up, then eased down, taking Thanom deep inside her. He felt wonderfully, deliciously familiar, but at the same time, thanks to the magic, he felt like something beyond the simple soldier she loved—just as she herself was something beyond the person she could normally be. Pichitra’s gift, Pichitra’s grace, touched them, filled them, transformed them. Pleasure coursed through her body, and the pleasure was light, fragrance, music that soared above her own distracted efforts as chanting.