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The slack skin under the stocky man’s chin wobbled when he nodded.
Ah. Zamush put the man under enthrallment.
Zamush leaned to the man’s ear. It looked as if he whispered something.
But Jelena knew better.
The scent of fresh blood perfumed the air.
He was taking the Hittite’s blood to solidify the enthrallment he’d put him under. He only took a couple of swallows before he stepped away and resumed his position next to the pharaoh’s gilded chair. The two of them shared a knowing look before the pharaoh turned his attention back to the Hittite king.
Pharaoh Ramses cocked his head and steepled his fingers. “Shall we call a cease-fire so discussions may begin?”
A golden chair, just shy of the grandeur of the pharaoh’s throne, was brought in for the Hittite king to sit on.
The Hittite king shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. With a huff, he sat with his legs splayed. He glared at the pharaoh and barked. “I demand you call a cease-fire immediately!”
The pharaoh sat back with a condescending smirk at the other king before glancing at Zamush. “Grand Vizier, I grant you the privilege to be the one to call a cease-fire to our troops.” HIs grin turned warm. “After all, it’s your fault we’re all here discussing an unimaginable truce.”
“At your command, Pharaoh Ramses.” Zamush slapped a fist over his heart and bowed.
“Return with haste after the battle has ceased. After all”—Ramses returned his attention back to his opponent—“you are the key to negotiating our differences.”
“Your will be done, Pharaoh.”
The scene faded in a thick, gray fog.
Getting yanked from one reality to another made Jelena’s head spin. Instead of the bright Middle Eastern sunshine, she now was in a dark, mountainous region under a brilliant quarter moon.
A tall, turreted, red-roofed castle with massive guard towers stood majestically under the dark sky. The striking building stood on a rocky outcrop framed by the surrounding mountains.
A wispy breeze floated by and brought a chill layered with the iron stench of rotting blood. She wrinkled her nose, rubbed the chill bumps popping across her arms, and headed for the bright lights of the open doorway of the castle.
When she crept near, she could see the castle entryway was blocked by a line of bare trees. Her steps faltered. Those weren’t trees. They were something far more sinister.
Positioned in a distinct line were enormous stakes that men, women, and children were impaled on, the pointed tops pierced through their backs. Most of them were silent, but here and there, a few moans and cries floated in the cold breeze.
She tiptoed through a slosh of blood and excrement, as well as the remnants of internal organs congealing in slimy puddles. Holding her breath, she rushed and avoided looking at the tortured wretches around her. The open doorway drew her as if an unseen force propelled her. Even when her instincts screamed for her to run the in the opposite direction.
With tentative steps, she entered the open archway. The sight was far from what she expected.
Rushes were strewn across the cobbled floor as large hounds intertwined between patrons’ legs, sniffing and growling. A long wooden table boasted a feast being consumed by a spirited crowd. The flickering lights from the massive fireplace on one wall gave off heat and light, as did the wall scones and bulky trays holding thick, murky-colored candles.
There was so much going on, Jelena had a hard time focusing on any one thing. In the dim lighting of the smoky room, she made out several couples having sex, ignored by those eating next to them.
Sound echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Several shouted conversations competed against each other. Boisterous voices raised as food was slopped and chewed with open mouths. Except for the man at the head of the table.
He sat back and surveyed the room with a cold smirk. A stocky guy, with a strong, aquiline nose and swollen nostrils. His reddish face highlighted the long eyelashes that framed wide-open green eyes. A bushy black unibrow gave him a threatening appearance.
She shivered. If she was lucky, he’d never notice her.
Strolling behind the scary man was Zamush. Again?
Damn, she had to be in some kind of strange dream. But why dream about Zamush in two distinct realities? In sharp, vivid detail, no less? His appearance here was a far cry from the Egyptian loincloth he’d last been in.
Now he wore an off-white linen shirt with a wide, low neckline. Lashed puffed sleeves of the doublet were decorated with elaborate embroidery. Over the shirt was a tight jacket of black and gold belted at the waist. The collarless jacket was high at the neck, elaborately pleated. Snug black hose showcased his muscular legs tucked into thigh-high, low-heeled boots.
She watched him circle around the back of the creepy, thickset man at the head of the table. Her heart may belong to Sychar, but dayum! Zamush’s overt masculine beauty made her breath catch.
