Shadows Before the Sun

I stayed a few more minutes, and then headed back toward the palace to attend the Panopéic rites.

* * *

“I really don’t see why I have to be bare-ass naked in front of everyone!” I whispered vehemently. “You’re the one who was invited.”

Sandra had neglected to mention that being invited to the Circe’s Panopéic rites also involved a cleansing—a nude, arctic, freeze your fucking ass off cleansing. I didn’t appreciate the non-warning, nor did I appreciate the fact she hadn’t stopped flaunting her amazing night of lovemaking ever since I’d returned from my morning walk. In reality, if I thought parading naked through Fiallan whistling “Dixie” would get me closer to Hank, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I didn’t have to like it or the company.

Sandra and I were the last of the all-female procession to shed our clothes and step into the sacred spring. I was allowed to keep my amulet, but I worried about the mark on my shoulder blade and the symbols on my arm being visible. But more so about the mark, as it was identical to the one on Hank’s chest. We had squabbled at length with the priestesses, trying to forgo this part of the ritual, to the point they threatened to bring the Circe to back them up. We’d considered Sandra going in alone and then reporting back, but then we learned once the procession was over, no one was ever permitted inside of the sanctum. Sandra felt sure she would not be invited back again, and I might miss my chance to get inside.

In the end, we decided this was our moment. We had to take it whatever the risk.

“You can’t come unless you’re purified in the spring,” Sandra sang over her shoulder.

I shot daggers at her back as a gazillion icy goose bumps swept up my legs and arms. A siren attendant filled a bowl with water and lifted it to my shoulders. I braced myself as cold liquid hit my skin. “Sweet Baby Jesus!”

The only good thing about that moment was watching Sandra get the same treatment, though it was hard to really enjoy her shock since I was in the process of becoming a human Popsicle.

The group in front of us received their gowns and began walking down the shallow stream that led out of the pool.

The grotto and spring tucked into a high rock was, according to Alessandra, supposedly the sacred spring where the deity Panopé had appeared to the Circe and given them the vision of how to save the city from the Adonai. Panopé was also called the Witch of the Sea, which I thought appropriate given her association with the three hags I planned on killing.

Males were prohibited from taking part in the Panopéic rites. Good thing. As it was, my poor brain felt permanently damaged at having to see Alessandra in all her bare-naked glory. Like most Elysians, she wasn’t shy when it came to baring all; they often gathered in the baths naked as the day they were born, eating, conversing, as though nothing was out of the ordinary—though for them nothing was.

It made me wonder about her origins. Some race of Elysian, possibly? The fact that nudity didn’t faze her was a clue I cataloged with all the others.

Sandra took the gown offered to her. “Besides, Charlie, it wouldn’t kill you to let your feminine side out once in a while.”

“Uh . . . I believe my feminine side is out right now for all the world to see,” I grumbled. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean anyway?”

She laughed. “You’re just grumpy because I had fun last night and you didn’t.”

My glare was cut short by water over my head. I stopped myself halfway into spinning around and decking the attendant. Fuck, that was cold! I swiped a hand down my face. “I hate you,” I told the oracle with as much menace as I could manage.

She tossed a cocky look over her bare shoulder. “It was good, too.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled the gown over my head. Yeah, if only she knew the night I had. Hers obviously had been nothing but pleasure while mine had been . . . brutal. Whatever. I refused to let her bait me and tried to ignore her constant hints at her amazing night.

As I tugged the gown over my wet skin and arranged it correctly, I realized it left part of my mark visible. I glanced over my shoulder, trying to see how much was actually exposed.

“Charlie.” Sandra stood downstream, waiting in the bend.

For a moment I was struck by the scene: her wet black hair spilling down her back, the white gown with its hem floating in the water around her calves, the blossoms in her hand, the trees that lined the mossy banks with their thin, fragile-looking limbs and the delicate leaves . . . Like a painting, a scene straight out of some Renaissance artist’s dream of goddesses and ancient rites.

Then her eyebrow arched and one corner of her red lips dipped down, ruining the whole picture. The attendant handed me a bowl filled with white blossoms, which I was to carry down the winding stream, releasing them as I contemplated the gifts of the goddess, asked for her blessing, and offered her my gratitude. Blah, blah, blah.

I tugged on the shoulder of the gown with one hand and balanced the bowl in the other. Well, at least we were the last to go, I thought as I picked my way along the mostly sandy bottom of the stream. And I sure as hell wasn’t backing out now.

Once I caught up to Sandra, who looked as though she was taking instructions seriously, I poked her in the back to get her attention.

“What?”

“How well can you see my mark?” I asked, turning around.

“Fairly well. But I’m standing right by you. Don’t sweat it,” Sandra said, moving on. “You’re the least important person here, so you’ll be in the back where no one will notice you.”

Gee, don’t mince words, Sandra.

“Now, hush. We’re supposed to reflect on the goddess and the connection we make from us to the water and to the sea.”

The chant of Tibetan monks came to mind and I couldn’t help but say, “Should I start Om-ing?”

She tossed a flat, unamused look my way and then returned her attention to the procession. After a few minutes, Sandra said thoughtfully as she walked, “I want your word on something, Charlie.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure I was listening. “If anything were to happen to me . . . Promise to take me back home to Atlanta. Tuni will know what to do.”

The goose bumps that slid over my skin had nothing to do with the cold. Sandra was worried, which was understandable, especially for someone who could always see the future and now couldn’t. “I will,” I promised.

“You swear?” Her eyes narrowed as she stopped to look at me.

“I swear. Cross my heart and everything. Will you do the same for me if you can?”

“Of course.”

As we continued walking, I mulled over her request. Did she know something she wasn’t saying? Or was she just concerned? Neither thought was comforting.

Eventually, we came to a high rocky ridge topped with trees where the stream disappeared into the large opening of a cave. My feet were completely numb from the cold.

“We’re close to the sea now,” Sandra said over her shoulder, though it was unnecessary. As soon as we entered into the dark cave, I smelled the salt water and heard the faint echo of waves from some distant place up ahead.

At first it was pitch-black inside, and I was glad the sandy bottom allowed us to walk without much trouble. Light soon came, however, in the form of sunlight, which shot through random holes in the cave ceiling, making gossamer shafts straight to the water. The small waves our passing made reflected light in ripples on the water and along the caves walls.

The mood changed, taking on a quiet reverence. Occasional murmurs from the procession goers drifted back to us in solemn tones.

My senses sharpened. We had to be getting closer to the Circe now. I took the opportunity to scan the cave walls, looking for any passageways and hoping—waiting—for my mark to warm. We were entering the Circe’s lair, where they did their dirty work, where Hank most likely was being held.

A song had begun, rising softly over the sound of the waves, the natural acoustics of the cave giving it added volume and significance.