The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [166]
Over the next few hours, despite the wretched cries, they did not see another akhoz.
They came to a section of the city older than the rest. Tall, rounded buildings dominated here. The traceries carved into the surface of the pink stone were intricate and weatherworn. Far ahead stood an ivory tower with two sprawling wings spreading out from its base. The tower was nestled between other hulking structures, many of which looked like they were mere shells.
Nikandr had seen such buildings on his first and only trip to the Yrstanlan island of Galahesh. One of its oldest cities, Baressa, was the site of the final battle between the Empire and the islands. Much of the old city had been gutted by cannon fire, both from the armada that the fledgling state of Anuskaya had amassed, and from the sizable army that had landed. Though Nikandr was sure there had been no cannons on Alayazhar when the rift had formed, the buildings looked much the same as those in Baressa had—walls stripped away, revealing gutted interiors. They were skeletons more than they were buildings. But the tower was different. It appeared to be whole and untouched, and Nikandr knew that it was the tower from his dreams, the one where Khamal had been killed.
Nikandr’s stomach felt rank, and the closer he came to the tower, the more pronounced it became. He couldn’t shake the feeling that within the walls of that tower lay his doom. By the time they had reached its tall, wrought-iron fence, the feeling had become so pronounced that he was forced to grit his teeth against the pain.
He reached out and grabbed one of the rusted bars of the fence.
And the moment he does, he feels a change, as if the world has shifted from underneath him. The pain in his gut is no less painful, but he straightens and takes in the surrounding buildings, which are now complete, whole, pristine. The wind is hot and stifling where only moments ago it was cool, and there hangs in the air a sense of change, of coiled intent, like a lion in the moments before it leaps.
He pulls himself upright.
And only then does he realize that he is alone.
CHAPTER 52
He leans down and kisses her. Her lips are moist and hot. He takes her in his arms and holds her tight as their kiss deepens, and soon he realizes that they are moving toward the bed. He removes his clothes as she slips the dress from her shoulders and allows it to pool about her feet. He picks her up and together they fall into the bed. He runs down the length of her, pressing kiss after kiss against her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and finally her thighs. She spreads her legs at the merest touch, and when he runs his tongue near her lips, she sucks in breath.
When he can stand it no more, he runs his chest along her stomach and breasts and kisses her once more, ready to enter her.
As he waits, prolonging the pleasure to the point of ache, something strikes him—he cannot feel her heartbeat. He can feel his own, which is beating madly, but he cannot feel hers. He leans down and kisses her cheek and ear, if only to gain a bit more time.
He knows not how, but it is true—no blood runs through her veins. And he realizes with a start where he is, who this woman is, his purpose here.
Where, he wonders with a growing sense of desperation, are Ashan and Nasim and Pietr?
“Come,” she whispers, reaching between her legs and stroking him with her hand.
He resists, and feels her tense beneath him.
Her grip tightens. “Come.”
He tries to pull away but she grabs the back of his neck and with a strength that belies her frame pulls him down until their lips are once again locked.
He twists away and falls from the bed. “Nyet!”
She pauses, her expression no longer one of anger, but shock. She slips from the bed and stands over him. “What did you say?”
“I