“Oh, my God! Jackson!” Docia cried out, reaching to gather him close to her even as he jerked in defensiveness, trying to guard himself from further attack. He sat up, shards of glass falling like diamonds from his clothing. He coughed, his body shivering hard in the cold.

Docia felt him holding on to her, a twofold gesture of affection and anchoring himself, protectiveness and a need to feel the realness of her.

“Are you all right?” he coughed out, his lips pressing hard against her forehead, his eyes darting around to see the faces looking at him.

She laughed at the absurdity of him asking her that question. “I’m fine,” she told him. She helped him slide off the hood of the car, her eyes lifting briefly to catch Ram’s gaze.

Oh, there was no mistaking the venom that shot toward him. She was furious with him, and he suspected he knew why. But she wasn’t seeing the bigger picture. It bothered him, though, that he should have to excuse himself and apologize or make amends to her. Why did she not trust him, after all they had been through? Why did she have so little faith in him? He wanted to reach out and grab her, take her into privacy, where he could teach her a thing or two about the faith he thought he deserved.

But he exhaled a long, slow breath and let his temper cool. It was so strange, this way of feeling; this assumptive sensation that they had known each other for a lifetime and should know and trust each other to the core in all things. But the truth was that their relationship was light and young. Newly born, however old the sensation of their connected spirits might be. He had to remember that they had barely touched, barely kissed, barely loved.…

But it was hard to do so when he was so full of love and pride for her. She had fought back against one of the worst enemies known to the body Politic. The strongest driving force of the Templar rebellion had been cut down, her strongest forces obliterated at Docia’s hand. And although Leo had struck the fatal blow, it was Docia who had softened her up enough that he was able to reach her.

“Someone needs to explain to me what in the name of God is going on here,” Jackson rasped as he stared wide-eyed at monsters of stone who morphed into men of muscle and wings of gray. Then the wings were folded back and soon gone from sight as well.

It was Kasimir who stepped forward from the group, his long, lean body expressing openness and a sort of welcoming comfort just in his expression and the way he held his hands before him.

“Allow me to help,” he said. Then, very slowly, he drew an Egyptian dagger from inside his sleeve. He raised it in three fingers, dangling it perpendicular to the ground, the gemstones so small and well crafted, the gold of it so bright and so beautiful. “This is the Dagger of Dreams. It will shift all of this reality into the world of dreams. You will know this as nothing but one of the most astoundingly vivid dreams you have ever known. And now, you will rest.”

Docia watched with shock as Marissa, SingSing, and Leo suddenly collapsed to the ground; Jackson jerked around to see it happen, then stared in shock as two lay in the snow in a perfect enchanted sleep and one curled up and began to snore on the hood of his car.

There was a tick of silence, and Docia realized everyone was staring at Jackson with wide eyes. Jackson realized it, too, and glared back at them.

“What?” he demanded.

“This blade enchants all who look upon it, except Bodywalkers and the Gargoyles who were born from us,” Kasimir said. “You should be as they are.”

Jackson scoffed. Then he stood quite still, his head cocked to one side. He seemed to be listening to something and then looked as though he were going to be ill. He hunched over into himself, and just as everyone moved to reach out a helping hand, his body straightened with violence and a powerful surge of energy lashed out in a massive circle around him, throwing them all back off their feet.

Ram scrambled to get back up, at the same time reaching for Docia, who lay in shock on the ground beside him. Docia didn’t understand what she was seeing as she looked up with panic at her brother, whose eyes were shimmering a bright, powerful green. He stood tall, his spine perfectly erect, his shoulders thrown back with strength and a stance that Ram would have recognized through thousands and thousands of years.

“Menes,” he said with soft wonder. Then again, this time with joy: “Menes!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

There was only one Bodywalker who could ever be immediately present in their shared body after the exhaustion of coming out of the Ether, and that was Menes. The pharaoh of all the Bodywalkers, whether they chose to recognize it or not, was king for many reasons, but his indisputable power was the crux of it. The repulsion energy he had used just now, most likely because he was not fully in control of it without even the most rudimentary stages of the Blending, proved without a doubt who he was. The green of his formerly blue eyes only verified it.

“Ramses,” he said, his voice nothing like Jackson’s, while still a version of it. “My old friend.”

Jackson reached down to Ram and they clasped forearms, then Jackson pulled him up. “I am comforted to see you!” His delight and joy were obvious. He looked around him as the others regained their footing. “Well! This is a cold place, is it not? No desert this!”

“No indeed,” Ram agreed.

Docia was put on her feet by a strong tug from Ram, which was helpful because she was in too much shock staring at her brother to coordinate her legs beneath her.

“What … ? What do you mean, Menes?” she croaked. “You mean … the king, Menes? As in All Freaking Powerful Blah Blah Blah Menes?”

“Yes,” Ram soothed her gently.

“Menes is inside my brother?” she persisted, her pitch rising.

“Yes, love,” Ram affirmed. “That explains why the dagger did not work on him. It explains why he was dead … and then not.” He didn’t bother to point out the irony that Odjit had facilitated the near death experience necessary to open Jackson to Menes’s resurrection.

“No! No! Absolutely not! I want my brother back!” She launched forward before Ram could catch hold of her, slamming into her brother’s body and beating her fists against the chest of the creature inhabiting him. “You can’t have him! You can’t! Give him back to me!”

Menes reached for her flailing fists, capturing them gently, trapping them against himself, and reaching to tip up her chin so she could see him through tear-filled eyes.

“It’s too much,” she said, sobbing. “It’s all too much!”

“Nonsense,” he scolded gently. “You are strong enough for this and many other things. Jackson assures me of it. And I will assure you, Jackson is still here. Over time we will Blend just as you have done with your Bodywalker. When you look at me, you will see us both. When we look at you, we will still love you as a sister, no matter who or what you are, Templar.”

Docia pulled in a breath of surprise, and Ram saw fear flash across her face. He moved to retrieve her, his entire being screaming with the need to comfort her in the midst of the maelstrom she was caught up in. Ram went still, holding his breath even as she held hers. His heart wrestled fitfully in his breast, fear for her paramount to him. If things went awry, he would do anything to protect her … even, perhaps, speak contrary words to his king.

“No. Do not fear, Templar,” Menes said to her, a fingertip touching her lips. “Even if I knew nothing about you, the fact that you have won Ram as champion would speak enough words to this pharaoh. And you, as with any other Bodywalker, are welcome in the eyes of your king.”

Ram exhaled gingerly, not sure how much relief to feel. Menes was offering the open hand Tameri had asked for; the question was, would Docia be able to accept it? She had been through so much, shifted through one change after another. She had barely scratched the surface of the Bodywalker world, never mind the world of Nightwalkers. He knew she was strong. Knew her spirit was a fighting one. She’d proven that to him if nothing else. All he could do was wait and watch, just like everyone else.

Tears skipped down Docia’s cheeks, two large ones.

“Promise me,” she rasped, her begging eyes latching on to Menes’s. “Promise me you will not take him over in such a way that he will be lost to me. I need him. He’s the only family I have. I know … I know he is alive only because you chose him and he agreed,” she said hastily before Menes could speak, “but I need Jackson to be Jackson. He deserves to be here, too.”

“Docia,” Menes said, her name coming easily to the mind of her brother, “it is not our way to bully and subjugate our hosts. Have you not learned that by your own Blending? Ah,” he corrected himself. “But you are part Templar in there. You have seen the Templar way, which is to do exactly that. So listen, Templar … Docia … and trust me. I want to be as much Jackson as I do myself. I would not have chosen him otherwise. I find him a strong spirit, and a loyal one. His morals are indefatigable, even when he wanted to find you badly enough to cross the bounds of right and wrong. I could think of no better soul to Blend with. So why would I obliterate him when what he is is what attracted me to him?

“Your brother is going to be king of all the Body-walkers, little Templar,” Menes whispered into her face. “He and I will become two halves of a whole. This is a magnificent destiny, and he has embraced it well.” Menes sighed, and Ram could tell he was weakening after such a powerful display. He wasn’t yet strong enough in this world and in this body to be doing such things, but he had needed to make his presence known.

Docia was shivering; exposure to the outdoors and the constant onslaught of emotion had worn her down, as had Menes’s well-placed words and thoughtfulness. Ram came up to her, folding her into his arms and drawing her back against his body. In spite of everything, he noted with no little wonder, in spite of trauma and war and the pain in his body, the minute she came into contact with him, every neuron in his brain and every cell in his beleaguered body fired to life.

Menes felt all kinds of power fluctuations, sensed them in many forms and intensities, so it was understandable that he would sense the connection between them immediately. He drew in a breath that everyone heard, mainly because they were all in obeisance to him, either kneeling or bowing in the snow.

“I see,” the pharaoh breathed. “And I feel what is between you. Gods of fortune have smiled upon you, Ramses. And I …” There was an immediate, hollowing sadness in his eyes, enough to compel Docia to make a sound of empathy. “I have left my queen in the Ether. It must be safe here before she can come and …” He trailed off as he looked down at Marissa lying in the snow. “But there are more immediate issues. We must clean up these affairs and close this house for good. Rest assured, Kasimir, we will find you another.”

“I am always confident in your wisdom, Menes,” Kasimir said, inclining his head. He had picked himself up from the snow and was brushing himself off carefully. “We’ll see the humans returned to the safety of their homes and their beds. The Djynn …”

“Protect her as she protected us,” Ram instructed, his voice brooking no argument and no tolerance for anything less. He had matters to deal with as far as the quirky little Djynn was concerned, but they would have to wait for another time. He did not appreciate her trying to trick Docia into making a wish. The nature of wishes was a complex thing when it came to the Djynn, and because they were such an irrepressibly mischievous breed, all kinds of mayhem could ensue.

For the time being … he had other concerns.

He swung Docia into a single arm and reached out with the other to catch Menes as he drained completely from Jackson and his body crumpled with the absence of all strength. Asikri was there as well, helping him.

“Where should we take him?” Asikri asked. “He was right. This is an unsafe place.”

“What about my house?” Docia asked. “I mean, it’s small and all that, but no one knows where it is. Right? Or Jackson’s house,” she said after a second of remembering what her housekeeping skills were. Jackson had learned to be far more fastidious after years of raising her.

“Jackson’s house is as good an idea as any for now,” Ram agreed. “I’ve seen your house. It is … um …”

“Miniature,” Asikri grumbled. “And messy.”

“Asikri,” he snapped.

Jackson’s house was similar to SingSing’s in that it had open spaces, warm woods, and wide windows looking out over snow-covered property and the occasional mountain vista. If you lived in the Catskills, it was hard not to have a mountain vista. And this house was outside of town, whereas Docia’s was in the historic town center. Because she had gotten her house in foreclosure, it was in need of a lot of work in a lot of ways. Luckily, Jackson had often come over with a great deal of off-duty manpower, and they were slowly working on it. She had looked on it as her own little resurrection boutique.