Magus Star Rising
Chapter Thirty Six

The mind is the greatest battleground of all.

THE SCROLLS OF VANERA

A Clash of Spirits

As a child, Behoola and her sister used to race home after school. Both ‘ran like Curia, the wind’ their father had laughingly said. Their hair streamed out behind them like twin waves, their legs pumped like wild nagelles trying to outdistance an approaching storm front.

She ran like that now, rushing through the hallways of the Honin-Zay mansion, taking their twists and turns with nary a second thought for her own safety. Brother Ortega huffed and puffed somewhere behind her, trying to keep up.

My mistress is in danger.

She ran into the brightly-lit living room to replace Claudia Honin-Zay lying on the floor, wrapped in a blanket of some kind. She knelt at her side in an instant, her heart pounding. “Mistress! Are you hurt? What...?”

Behoola stopped in mid-sentence, stunned and appalled by what she saw. Her mistress, obviously in pain, white-skinned, blue-eyed, more Terran than Senitte, shivering like one just come in from the snows of the upper Gologne Range.

“Spirits! Mistress Honin-Zay, what has happened?” She reached out to the injured woman and placed her hand on her forehead. Though she seemed to be struggling in the grip of some great cold, Honin-Zay’s head felt as if it were on fire.

“Behoola!” Honin-Zay rasped between cracked lips. “Behoola, is... is it true? Is that creature really your sister?”

Creature? A different kind of cold ran through Behoola. Arshelle? “Do not talk, mistress? We need to get you to a doctor.”

“No. No! Listen to me. Aaagghhhhhh!” Honin-Zay arched upward, her body twitching spasmodically.

Brother Ortega entered the room, out of breath. He knelt beside Behoola, helping her to hold onto Honin-Zay’s convulsing form. “My god!” he exclaimed, echoing Behoola’s own distress. “Is she ill? What could have caused this?”

“I’m going to call Nareed,” Behoola said. “He can take her to a med-station.” Her attention wavered as it came to rest on the blanket encircling her mistress.

It wasn’t a blanket at all.

“This is a cloak,” she said, puzzling at the thick, coarse, yet oddly beautiful material. “I’ve never seen this before. Look at the fabric.”

Honin-Zay coughed, the attacks that had gripped her now calm for the moment. “The Puman,” she said, holding onto Behoola’s arm. “The Puman wrapped me in it. He... he lit the oil-globes and went upstairs. Behoola! My husband and Weller... you must...”

Behoola and Ortega exchanged bewildered glances. “The Puman?” Ortega said. “She must be delirious.”

A loud crashing noise sounded from above. Sounds of a struggle filtered down through the spiral staircase situated in the outside hall. “Call Nareed,” Ortega said. “I’m going to help Weller.”

“I’m coming with you! You know I can help. I’ve explained to you about the lase-pics.”

“No! Please, Behoola. It’s too dangerous. And besides, your mistress needs you.” With that, Ortega got to his feet and headed for the staircase.

Behoola watched Ortega’s retreating back, a fire burning within her. Arshelle was her sister yet here was her mistress, lying in great pain! What was she to do?

Honin-Zay groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Be careful, Brother,” Behoola whispered. She squeezed Claudia Honin-Zay’s hand, rose and rushed to the wall com-unit.

Kanoshon slipped out of the Ahnkan’s grip and plunged his staff’s extended blade forward toward his prey. A jarring thud vibrated his weapon, singing all the way up his arms to his shoulders.

He stepped back to see the blade completely broken off. The Ahnkan stood in front of him, unscathed, the knife of his own he had used to block Kanoshon’s thrust gripped tightly in his hand.

Gripped? No. Kanoshon realized the knife seemed to be part of the Senitte’s wrist, as if it had sprung from his body itself.

An implant, he thought as he assumed a fighting stance. So much for the element of surprise.

But just for a moment, the Ahnkan did seem surprised. “Two of you?” he said. “They sent two of you?” And then, just before he attacked, he smiled.

Kanoshon thwarted his prey’s assault easily enough, whipping the end of his damaged staff into the Ahnkan’s stomach. The Ahnkan doubled over but raised his hand, moving it in a semi-circle between him and Kanoshon. It was as if he was mimicking an ancient warding spell.

And a spell it could have been. The litha blade grew hot against the Puman’s thigh. The ether became a dense, cloudy soup, blocking out all sensory input, suddenly enveloping the Puman in a net of confusion.

Kanoshon saw the knife arcing toward his neck but only as a shadow, something glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. He barely dodged it in time, the blade raking across his forearm. He felt the pain and the blood but retreated a step as his vision suddenly cleared.

He amped up his aural projection, casting it at his opponent to throw him off-balance. Nothing. No effect.

Some kind of barrier. Kanoshon remembered the information on Mela Mish’Ton from the packet disc. Camouflage webbing.

Most of Kanoshon’s hunts were matter-of-fact. The occasional problem arose but his present adversary was something else entirely. Had he, the infamous Puman mercenary, just gotten too confident or too bored? Too many successes and not enough challenges? He had even let himself become distracted by the suffering of the woman he had found in the room below. Sympathy was an emotion he could not afford.

Except for his people. Only for his people. And Aileea.

Concentrate! He charged the Ahnkan, roaring his defiance.

Despite his shortness of breath, Luis Ortega took the steps two at a time. More sounds assaulted his ears as he approached the second floor. A clashing of metal against metal, the grunts and exhalations of battle, the thuds of flesh pounding against flesh.

He stopped just short of the top landing. A Puman and a Senitte stood facing each other, their bodies taut and edgy, their expressions focused. The Puman held one of his people’s famous fighting staffs, broken at one end. He bled from wounds on his chest and arms. Growling low in his throat, he circled his opponent.

The Senitte didn’t seem to be hurt, smiled in fact, as he also maneuvered his stocky frame opposite the Puman. He held a knife.

Honin-Zay wasn’t imagining the Puman, Ortega thought in alarm. And this other one; could this be the bodyguard Weller described? Kazrah?

The Senitte swung his blade. The Puman blocked it with his staff and kicked out at the Senitte’s groin. The Senitte sidestepped the kick with a grace uncanny in one so bulky and waved his open palm in front of him almost as if implementing some magic talisman. The Puman shook his head, blinking his eyes, suddenly seeming confused as he retreated a step.

“Ortega!”

Ortega saw Weller on the other side of the hall. He was trapped by the two fighters and seemed to be unsteady on his feet himself. “The den,” he shouted, pointing to the opposite end of the hall. “Selina’s in the den!”

The Senitte glanced in Ortega’s direction, as if noticing a bothersome insect, smiled, and converged on the Puman.

The Puman barely pushed back the assault as he and his opponent now grappled with each other in a fierce, deadly dance. The Senitte shoved the Puman back up against the wall. He pulled back his knife arm.

This is a cloak... The Puman wrapped me in it... He lit the oil-globes...

Ortega vaulted over the last two steps and lunged at the Senitte, aiming the shock-lance at the small of the Senitte’s back. The Senitte turned his head, a smile still on his face as if to say, how could an insect hurt me?

The shock-lance struck its target. There was a humming sound; the lance vibrated in Ortega’s hand.

The Senitte howled in pain as his arm flew out in a backhand swipe, the imbedded wrist-blade cutting the lance in two.

Ortega stumbled backwards, holding the broken lance in front of him. He caught himself against the small banister surrounding the top of the staircase, scrabbling to keep his balance. He hunkered down, waiting to be attacked as he realized with some irony his self-defense courses had never imagined a scenario like this.

That attack never came. The Puman stood over the fallen Senitte, a bloody, glowing knife in one hand. The severed head of his attacker was held by its hair in the other, blood streaming from the jagged flesh of its neck. The Puman shot Ortega a powerful glance, the heat of which sent chills straight through the attendant/nurse.

Santa Madre de Dios, Ortega thought. That quickly. He killed him that quickly.

Suddenly Weller was at his side, running past the Puman and his kill to grasp Ortega by the arm. “Come on!” he urged. “We’ve got to get to the den. I don’t think the Puman will hurt us. Especially since you helped him. His is some Ahnkan matter.”

“What...?”

“Kazrah was Ahnka. Let’s go!”

Ortega let himself be pulled along by Weller but he returned the Puman’s stare for a moment. The Puman blinked once and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded.

Ortega turned away and, as Weller opened the door to the den, looked back once more.

The Puman and his grisly trophy were gone.

Iolyn faded in and out of pain, pain unlike any she had ever felt before. All the parts of her body seemed to have lives of their own, moving and twitching of their own volition. She couldn’t control any of it.

Then, suddenly, as if she had fallen into the center of a great storm, the pain subsided to a mild ache. Her body obeyed her, albeit barely. She could think clearly again, although with effort. She groaned and opened her eyes.

“Mistress! Nareed is no longer on the premises and I cannot raise anyone else. I will take you to the med-station myself.”

Behoola. It was Behoola. Her Head Servant’s tear-streaked face swam before her, hanging in front of her like a cloud-shrouded moon. “No, Behoola. Listen to me. I do not know when the attacks will start again.”

“Mistress, do not try to...”

“Listen! I order you!” Iolyn raised her head, trying to focus her gaze on Behoola. There wasn’t much time. The pain and convulsions would return soon. “I asked you before. Is that creature your sister? If so, you must go to her. You must go now!” She stopped for breath and then continued, “I warn you, she is dangerous and unpredictable but you are her family. She might listen to you. You might be able to stop her. Weller and the other one will need your help.”

“But what about you? I cannot leave you here!”

If she had the strength, Iolyn would have laughed out loud. “Me? I have sinned against all of you! And against Vanera and myself. Do you see? I tried to follow the Way unnaturally, against all reason. I am beyond help. But your sister... perhaps...”

“I...”

“Go!”

Sobbing, Behoola embraced her and then ran from the room. Iolyn wheezed, her breathing labored. If she could make up for any of the things she had done, she would, even if it meant losing her life.

Vanera. Forgive me.

She felt the warmth of the fabric around her. She pinched a piece of it between her fingers.

The cloak, the Puman’s cloak.

Iolyn’s heart began to race. The Puman. Who was he? Why was he here?

She had forgotten about him.

Only after Weller had entered the den did he realize the buzz-pistol still lay outside in the hall. Brother Ortega held what was left of the shock-lance but, essentially, both men were weaponless.

He glanced around the room wildly, his legs still shaky. Kazrah’s attack had left him unnerved. And the Puman... what was his part in all of this? An Ahnkan affair like he suspected?

Yet, intentionally or not, whatever the case, the Puman had saved his life.

No time to think about that now. Weller cleared his head and walked slowly, guardedly through the large, lifeless room. The den seemed deserted, at least nothing living abode there. Marcus Honin-Zay lay sprawled on the floor, his blood-soaked body twisted and broken. Overhead, the ceiling fan hummed its mournful, turning song. The walls of the room surrounded its occupants like a tomb. Broken glass and strewn papers littered the floor. A smell of urine hung faintly in the air.

A few feet away, Honin-Zay’s lover, the Senitte fem Weller had seen in the Yharria, lay dead in a similar, almost ritualistic, fashion. Weller fought the urge to gag. He heard Ortega’s sudden intake of breath.

He bent over Marcus Honin-Zay. Loosely held in one of the dead merchant’s claw-like hands was a lasepic of Weller and Claudia Honin-Zay facing each other, standing so very close. Weller held a drink in his hand as Claudia’s own slender fingers touched the side of his face.

Just now. From just a few minutes ago.

“What in the name of Heaven?” Ortega knelt over the fem. “There’s a picture here by her side.”

“Of me and Claudia Honin-Zay,” Weller finished. “There’s one here too.”

The figure in the alcove. Selina took these. Weller turned away, gulping air. By the Third God, he thought. All this time. Honin-Zay was setting me up! She wouldn’t approach me directly, at least not in her Senitte form; it all had to be scripted, a play, a game. Typical high-born bullshit and I didn’t even see it coming!

He heard her voice, mysterious, insistent. If given the chance, would you change your life again? If made the right offer? Or if you had no choice?

That’s what she had been trying to tell him. She gave me a reason to change my life. One that she created, one that I’d have no choice but to follow. But she also gave me a way out. “A femme fatale,” he muttered. “A fucking femme fatale.”

“What? What did you say?” Ortega asked.

Weller met the hospice worker’s wide-eyed gaze. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ll explain later. We’ve got to call the Karda.”

“They should be here by now. Marsha was to have done that.” The attendant/nurse looked tired, almost as bad as Weller began to feel. “We’ve got to replace Arshelle before she kills again!”

No shit. Weller looked around the room. Nothing. No one there; no place where anyone could really hide.

He snapped his head to the far wall where the curtains there had blown inward by a gust of wind.

The open door to a balcony...

Weller strode toward the balcony. He could see the moons-dappled darkness outside, knew the outside deck for an enemy, a concealer, somewhere where someone might possibly hide.

He walked into that darkness and looked to his left and right, his hands clenching at his side, his stomach in knots. Slowly, he peered over the railing. More darkness. The oil-globes on this part of the property were out. He couldn’t really see the ground from here but surely Selina hadn’t jumped. He remembered the layout of the house from the outside. No one could survive such a fall without some injury. Where..?

“Simon.”

Weller turned towards the corner of the balcony where the sound of that voice originated. There, emerging into the soft light from a pocket of shadows like a ghost from some Terran myth, strode Selina.

But not the Selina of the hospice, the thin, ragged scarecrow of a sentient. The moonslight she stepped into revealed the Selina of old, slender, beautiful. Only the torn clothes and bloody knife held in her hand showed her to be anything other than what she appeared to be.

She’s a killer. She’s not the woman I knew. Weller took a step towards her. “Selina. Listen to me...”

“Did I do that to your hand, Simon? I’ve forgotten. Was it me?”

She sounded calm, almost bored, as if she didn’t even care she had just killed two living beings. Despite her profession, Selina had been essentially a kind soul. “A fish out of water,” the old Terran expression went. Which was how Weller had often described her.

How strange and ironic that sounded now.

He rubbed his left hand with his right. The glove had covered a multitude of sins. He could have had his hand fixed easily enough, regen surgery had been within his monetary reach back then despite his penchant for spending. But, he hadn’t done it. Somehow, he wanted something to remind him of what had happened. Guilt. A kind of punishment.

If he got out of this one, his memories would be more than enough.

“Yes,” he said. “You bit and tore at it. Over and over. You were like an animal. Out of control.”

She moved closer, bathed more fully in the moonslight. Weller held his breath. It was Selina as he remembered her. And yet... “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Surely you know that.”

He could see now. This close, she reminded him of the Seraen fem she had metamorphosed into in the grenia--incomplete, half-formed, her features rounded and pasty. But the way she walked, her voice, mannerisms. All these attributes defined the woman he once knew. Why didn’t she change completely?

“I know that,” he answered, his nervousness and fear growing. “But what about now? Do you know what you’re doing now?”

As if in answer, she dropped the mask. In the blink of an eye, she stood in front of him as he had seen her in the hospice. Her long, stringy hair hung down in front of her face, almost as if she still wanted to conceal her face from him.

“Do you like what you see?” she said, her voice shaking. “This is what I am now. Thanks to you and that slag sister of mine!”

Chills ran down Weller’s spine. “Selina, I never wanted this. Surely you know that!” He kept an eye on the knife. Selina held it at her side. She took a step closer.

“You left me at the brothel. After I’d given up everything to go through the ritual for you.”

“I didn’t want you to do it!” A sudden anger surged through Weller. Was she blaming him for what happened to her? “I warned you not to go through with it. I didn’t care what you were.”

“Yet you tried to change me, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Ah, hell!” Weller threw his hands up in frustration. “Maybe that was wrong but I didn’t want you to risk everything to please me. I thought you were dead! When I found out what you were going to do, I got there as fast as I could. But I was too late. You were already convulsing, overdosing on the drugs. I tried to help you but you attacked me. Then someone else pulled me away, the supposed stroking acolytes, I don’t know. I looked up to see you being carried out. You weren’t moving. Your eyes were blank. There was blood. They kept me from going after you. I tried to replace you afterwards. By the Third God, you don’t think I’d just given up, do you?”

Selina breathed hard, as if reliving her own memories. She started to speak, froze, and then suddenly darted sideways through the curtain into the den. Weller ran after her. A cry of pain came from within. Ortega knelt on his knees, holding his shoulder. A stream of red ran down his arm.

Selina stood over him, her knife wet with the hospice worker’s blood.

“No!” Weller cried, getting as close as he dared. Selina was poised to deliver another cut. “Selina, please. Don’t. There’s been enough killing.”

Selina looked at Weller then back down at Ortega. She seemed to make up her mind about something, snorted, and stepped away as if harming Ortega any further wasn’t worth her while. “I am stronger and faster than you now,” she said to Weller. “There are some benefits to this new being I’ve become. At times, I prefer it. Did you think you could keep me occupied while this oh-so-pious one crept up on me from behind?”

“It’s not true,” Ortega said through pain-whitened lips. “Arshelle, we only want to help you.”

“Help me? Like you did in the hospice? I was nothing there but a piece of meat. Something for you to study and flutter over to show what a great, caring man you are. You did nothing for me!”

“Selina,” Weller stretched both arms out in front of him. “We loved each other once. Try to remember that. Let me see to my friend’s wound. You can’t hate everyone. We’re the ones who care for you, me, Luis, and Behoola. We’re the ones who’ve tried to help you!”

“Love?” Selina lips twisted into a sneer. “Do you know what I was going to do? I was going to make myself into the Senitte high-born. I was going to take her place so you and I could be together. I knew you would never want me like this but a rich highborn made over into a Terran... How could you resist?” She laughed. “Would you call that love?” She raised the knife. “I’ll show you love! And you can help yourself!”

“No! Arshelle!”

Behoola stood at the doorway to the den. Weller gaped at her appearance. Her face was drawn and etched with pain, so different from even just an hour ago--older, more determined. He could only guess how she had been affected by the condition of her mistress and then to see the headless corpse outside in the hall. But now to face her sister, who was not even Selina any more at all.

She held something in her hands, cradling it against her chest. “Sister,” she said. “Please, put the knife down. It’s me you want. Talk to me.”

With a snarl more animal that sentient, Selina turned toward Behoola. “We’ll do much more than talk... sister,” she rasped. “Much more indeed.”

Ladora ran out through the back entrance of the Honin-Zay mansion. The rear gate was unlocked and unattended. Fools, she thought. Do they think they’re all-powerful? That no one can touch them? I could rob them blind!

She decoded the gate lock, courtesy of Nareed, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The boulevard was quiet too. Only the odd hover-craft or ground vehicle passed in the night. She looked back at the house. Farewell, Behoola, Marka, everyone. She threw her head back and laughed. Ah, Denelle, she thought, thinking of the Puman seeress. What a prophecy you made!

She crossed the boulevard, opened the grenia gate and hurriedly walked into the greenspace. Oil-globes lined the walkway threading its way through the high grasses.

Under cover, she stopped and took the object Kazrah had given her out of her pocket. The newly-risen bodyguard had led her to his own quarters in the house--a bare, spartan, almost bleak room set up for him in the basement, totally devoid of any warmth.

My kind of man, she thought, laughing again.

There, he had produced the object, a metal data tube about the length of her middle finger, and given it to her. He wrote a com number on a piece of paper.

“Call this number,” he had said, giving her the paper. “Tell the man you talk to you have this tube and will leave it for him at some designated drop-off point. Do not meet with him personally. I am going to be a little bit too busy now to do it myself. His little assassination attempt was a failure, you see, and I have some mopping up to do.”

“Assassination?”

Kazrah had smiled. “Oh, yes. The shapeshifter who cut me, the one you thought was me. My former employers must have gone to the next level of nano-tech. The shapeshifter must be an agent of that tech.” He looked at her indulgently. “Do not worry. All will be explained to you in time. This man you will call has been looking for me for a long time. I used to work for him. Suffice to say, for now, the data tube contains some terms of mine this man may be interested in, some information he might replace valuable and which may allow me to continue my work unabated.”

He is Ahnka. “And then?”

Kazrah’s gaze hardened. “You can be a part of that work. Believe me, it will be worth your while. Besides, I would like to have a partner.”

She fondled the tube. Yes, she thought. But I can make my own terms. She examined the object. There, a small catch on one side. That was how you opened it. But what was in it? Some data only a computer could decipher?

Stroke it, she thought. I still have the com number. I can still work a deal. She pressed the catch.

She was alive long enough to realize the tube had exploded, that Kazrah had planned to kill his former boss. Why hadn’t he told her? As she tumbled through the air, her body on fire, she tried to scream.

Ladora was dead before she hit the ground.

It was as if time stood still, as if Behoola and her sister were the only two living beings in the world. They stood facing each other in a reunion that neither could have ever dreamed of.

Behoola stared into Arshelle’s eyes, eyes that flashed anger, hate and madness. It took all of her will not to look away. Was it too late? Would she ever be able to reach what was left of Arshelle?

She pressed the lasepic album she held in her hands tighter to her chest. Would her plan work or was she just dreaming?

I wish I could wake up. I wish we all could.

Peripherally, Behoola saw Simon Weller run to Luis Ortega’s aid. It looked like the attendant/nurse had been wounded. “Behoola,” Weller said. “Don’t...”

“Please, Simon,” she said, not even realizing she addressed him by his first name. “Do not interfere.”

Arshelle laughed, her body turned slightly at an angle so she could keep an eye on the two men behind her. “Simon, is it? Are you two that friendly now?”

“Arshelle, please. You must listen to me.” Behoola took a tentative step toward her sister, trying to slow the hammering of her heart.

Arshelle hissed like a vipan. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m tired of everyone telling me I have to listen. I’m through listening!” She walked up to Behoola, pushing her finger against Behoola’s shoulder. Behoola stood her ground, her eyes never leaving Arshelle’s. “Now,” Arshelle said. “You will listen to me!”

She brought her hand around in a stinging open-handed blow across Behoola’s cheek. Behoola cried out and stumbled sideways, almost losing her balance. She righted herself and stared back at Arshelle, blinking back the tears from her eyes.

She saw Weller stand and move toward Arshelle’s back. “No!” she cried. “Stay where you are. Please.”

Arshelle laughed again, not even looking behind her. “Yes, Simon. Be a good Terran,” she said. “I’ll get to you soon enough.”

Behoola held out a trembling hand. “Arshelle, I’ve not come here to fight you. Only to help.”

Arshelle gave Behoola’s hand a withering glance. “That’s something else I’m tired of hearing. Suddenly everyone wants to help me. Where were you when I really needed your help? When I was lying like a corpse in the hospice? When you let the Pleasure Guild take me? Why did you abandon me?”

“Abandon you?” Behoola forced herself to move closer. “Never! You left us. You wanted to go. Don’t you remember? You hated going to school; you hated helping with the household tasks; you hated the fact that you were the daughter of a lowly garment worker, one who was married to a Terran! Father and I tried to replace you...”

Arshelle spat on the carpet between them. “Liar! You and father let me go. I was the problem daughter, remember? I was the one always in trouble. When I took an interest in the Pleasure Guild, when I saw they could give me a new life, that they didn’t care I was a halfer, you and father were more than happy to see me gone!”

Arshelle shook her head. “No! That’s not true! You were tricked, coerced into the guild. They knew you were unhappy and confused and used that to trap you. They wanted you precisely because you were a halfer! Father and I tried to help you. We didn’t want you to become a... a...”

Arshelle smiled. “A slag. Say it. That’s what I am, no matter how high-priced. At least I became the best at what I do.”

“This is not you, Arshelle. You’ve changed.”

“Yes! For the better. And when I’m done with you, I’ll show father this new me as well. Won’t he like that!”

A chill ran through Behoola. “He’s dead, Arshelle,” she said slowly, evenly. “Father’s dead.”

“What?” Arshelle blinked, her dangerous façade crumbling just a little. “Dead? You never said... I could hear everything you talked about when I was in the hospice, when you visited me. Everything. I knew where you worked, who your friends were. But you never said...”

Behoola shook her head, tears of another kind of pain welling in the corners of her eyes. “I know. I don’t know why I never told you. Maybe, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew you could hear me and I wanted to spare you that pain. I’m sorry but, it’s true, he’s dead.”

Arshelle lowered the knife. “How? What happened? You’re lying!”

Now. Behoola held the lasepic album out in front of her, opening it to where she had marked it. “Do you remember this, Arshelle? Mother and Father held a name-day party for us.”

Arshelle’s gaze fell to the page Behoola held out to her. Her features softened, her free hand came up, trembling, to touch the lasepic. “We were ten,” she said softly. Was that a glimmer of a smile on her face?

She stared at the picture but continued speaking to Behoola, softly now, hesitant. “I saw you in the market once or twice after I left. Once you were with a man. You seemed... in love.”

Perrano. Whenever she could, Behoola had wandered the city, even venturing into the Yharria to look for Arshelle. Because of their shared birth, she could feel her sister, feel some vestige of her presence, but only as if from a great distance, a blocked view. Every whore she came upon, she looked closely, hoping this one might be her. Never did she think her sister might have been watching her.

“And once,” Arshelle continued. “Shortly after I left, I went back to our parents’ house. I stood across the street in the empty lot where we used to play and just watched.”

“Then you must know we were not a happy household. Mother died, you left, and I eventually became employed here and left also. Even though I visited as often as I could, Father was so lonely. And then he became ill.” Quickly, Behoola turned the page of the album, once again displaying the contents within.

“Here, Arshelle, do you remember?”

“No, no.” Arshelle brought her fists up to the side of her head, her features twisted in agony. “No!” She backhanded the album out of Behoola’s hands, knocking it across the room.

“Arshelle! Sister!” Behoola reached out for her sister, not caring now what happened. “Give me the knife. We can help you. No matter what’s happened. I’m still your sister. We’re family. And I love you.”

Arshelle stared, her lips trembling. Were those tears in her eyes too?

“Do you hear me, Arshelle? I love you!” Behoola put her hand on Arshelle’s arm, stepping closer.

Arshelle looked at her then, tears running down her cheeks. “Liar,” she whispered. “Liar.” She drew her knife hand back and raised it over her head.

Behoola stood there, looking at her sister, unmoving. “I know you’ll do the right thing, Arshelle,” she said softly. “Give me the knife. No matter what’s happened in the past we’ll get through this together.”

Arshelle’s hand shook as she slowly lowered the blade.

A shrill blaring cut through the air. Arshelle pulled away from Behoola as both sisters looked toward the balcony. Simon Weller had stood up, holding what was left of the shock lance, ready to come to Behoola’s aid.

No, not now! Behoola thought as the sound rose and fell. I almost had her convinced.

Arshelle made that animal noise again, looking from Weller to Behoola. Her face turned hard again, her eyes like a cornered animal’s. “The Karda. I’d know their sirens anywhere,” she said. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

Ortega spoke, slowly getting to his feet, his face white with pain. His bloody arm hung limply at his side. “You’re not responsible for these acts, Arshelle,” he said. “Let us help you.”

“Come with us, Selina,” Weller said. “We can take care of you until you’re better. The Karda don’t have to know what happened here, at least until you’re yourself again.”

“Fool! I am better. And this is my true self!” She looked at Behoola one last time, reached down in a crouch to scoop up the lase-pic album, turned and bolted for the balcony.

“Arshelle!” Both Behoola and Weller ran after her. Behoola fumbled for the oil-globe on the outside wall, bathing the balcony in light.

This time the balcony was empty.

“Where is she?” Weller asked, running to the railing. “Surely she didn’t jump.”

Behoola looked over to the darkened grounds below. Did she hear someone crashing through the brush beneath them? She clenched the railing tightly, leaning over as far as she dared. A low keening sounded from somewhere, building to a shattering scream.

It took her a moment to realize the scream came from her.

“Arrshellllllllllllllle!”