The Rise of the Goddess

85 | I CAN NEVER GO BACK

"At last we meet," a voice, dark, seductive, cold, cut through Istara. She looked up. Obsidian eyes bored into her, languid with hate. Istara took a step back, horror crawling up her spine as Baalat eased nearer the metal-clad figure, her eyes darkening with desire. "You have something I want," he said, "and I have something you want."

"You have nothing I want," Istara answered.

"Indeed?"

A shimmer and Istara stood alone in the suite.

"Istara."

Her heart thudded. Sethi. She turned. He stood before her, clad in an elegant, gold-embroidered black kilt, his eyes no longer golden but black as pitch. Dark fractals rotated upon the slabs of his pectorals, seamless, mesmerizing. She looked down at herself, her gown no longer white, but black, shot with threads of gold. He came to her, caught her against him, the feel of him warm, real, visceral. She clung to him, desperate in this lightless, twisted place for something familiar. He kissed her, his hands tangling in her hair, his thumbs caressing her jaw, intimate, gentle. He pulled back and let her go. She staggered, lost without him. "Give him what he wants." His voice saturated her, weakened her. His warmth left her as he retreated. "Do not cling to what is past. Come to me."

She lunged after him, willing him to remain, just a little longer. He vanished. In his place, the cold shear of oblivion. The dark aspect stepped out of the shadows, his dead gaze blistered her soul.

"Do you still believe I have nothing you want?"

Istara backed away. Her calves collided with the divan. At the edge of her vision, the faint existence of the pendant penned in by the malevolent darkness called to her, mournful, alienated. Denied.

"What could I possibly possess you would want?" Istara cried, hating herself for asking, yet the feel of Sethi's arms around her had seared her senses, assaulted her reason. The thought of losing him, of being slain by his hand overwhelmed her. Why should she fall for a mistake the Creator had made out of arrogance? For a fight which had never been hers? She thought of the fallen gods, obliterated by Marduk's weapons. Of Baalat's amusement. Defeat hauled at her. The darkness would win. She would have another chance to live on, with Sethi, forever.

A flicker of satisfaction rippled through the depths of her oppressor's eyes. In its wake, naked hunger. "Your thoughts betray you," he said. "I can give you your heart's desire for one small thing. A cleansing. You will sacrifice your light to me. Willingly."

"I have no light left," Istara answered, ashamed at the shear of her disappointment. "I lost it when I used the relic in the tower."

"No," he said, moving closer, his baleful gaze lowering to her breast. "It is still there, buried deep within your heart, hiding from me." Baalat approached, her gown a silken whisper against the floor. She carried a black dagger engraved with silver symbols. He took it from her and held out the blade hilt first to Istara. "You are no fool. You know how to use this. Find your heart, empty it. Strike the final blow against my nemesis and tonight you will sleep with Sethi, his queen, for eternity."

"Queen?" Istara drew back from the blade's hilt. "I am a goddess."

The faintest of a sneer shadowed his elegant features. "I am not him. The time of the gods is at an end. You will have other powers, abilities granted by the darkness. Or," he stepped aside, and gestured toward the rift boiling with darkness, "if my offer does not please, you are welcome to return to have your light taken by the jihn. Either way, your light dies."

Baalat reached out and caught Istara's hand. "Daughter," she said, soft, compelling, a mother. "You are part of me. I cannot bear to lose you. Take the blade. Free yourself. Join me in the truth."