Free Scenting Hallowed Blood by Storm Constantine Page B

back could Owen be
restored, but Shem was physically incapable of achieving that at
present. He had forgotten how to give.
    He knew how badly Daniel wanted
him to express his potential as Shemyaza, but it was more than
obstinacy and resentment that made it impossible. He felt that it
was a mistake; he couldn’t really be this thing of power. Shemyaza
had been dead for thousands of years.
    He exhaled, long and slowly,
and lowered himself to the sofa, stretching out his limbs, seeking
comfort from the yielding yet gritty cushions. He closed his eyes,
and red and purple patterns pulsed across his mind: the
interference of the TV screen, flickering unheeded in the corner of
the room, or the colours of his own pain. His mind drifted, and
thoughts swam across his consciousness like winged dreams. He
descended into semi-trance states whenever he was left alone, and
then it felt as if his life as he lived it now was simply a
fantasy.
    What right had the universe to
plant the memories of that ancient, forgotten life and subsequent
torturous death in his mind? He could no longer eat meat, because
he could remember the smell of his own flesh burning. Sometimes, a
poignant memory would assail his mind, such as now, when his
imagination flew free. He would expect to open his eyes, not to the
crumbling decay of the Moses Assembly Rooms, but his ancient home,
with its cool, lofty chambers and swaying draperies, and the
translucent pleats of incense on the air. At any moment, his old
friend and conspirator, Salamiel, might walk into the room, put his
head on one side and say, ‘Are you coming, then? She’s waiting for
you.’ And there would be a message from Ishtahar in his hands: a
single sheaf of corn bound with ribbon, a wilting flower picked
from the corn-fields. Or perhaps dark-eyed Penemue, another of the
rebel cabal, would come to his chamber and fling himself on the
bed, saying, ‘Listen to this,’ and read out his poetry; shivering
lines about Ishtahar and her sisters. They had held each other
once, Shemyaza and Penemue, in the perfumed opulence of Shemyaza’s
palace. They had nuzzled each other’s flesh and whispered of the
delights of human women, igniting their own desire with expectation
and the excitement of taking that which was forbidden. Penemue had
been innocent, wanting only to share his words and the ability to
shape them with his human friends. For that, his people had killed
him. Not for humankind the art of writing; they must be kept as
animals, uneducated. In prison, Shemyaza had been brought word of
how Penemue’s lowland woman had been stabbed through the belly by a
Serafim guard. It had, of course, killed the baby, but she had
lived. They had done something worse to her afterwards, like taking
her tongue or her eyes, but thankfully Shem had forgotten the
details. His own Ishtahar had suffered, and legends spoke of how
her tears of grief had caused the Great Flood, but his people and
hers had realised she was special. They had not maimed her.
    Memories of his past life
flooded his mind now, but they were intrusions. He did not want to
own them, and pushed them away, fighting off the dream-state that
seemed to want to enfold him with bittersweet recollections. He
must stay conscious and refuse the past admission into his
life.
    With a cry of frustrated pain,
Shemyaza sat up on the sofa, blinked at the TV ahead of him.
Peverel Othman had been demonic in his obsessions, but he had never
experienced doubt or regret. Shem yearned for that strength of
indifference now.
    Shem knew, in his heart, that
Emma was probably right and that someone was looking for
him. It was inevitable, because the Parzupheim were greedy for
Shemyaza’s power, or what they believed it to be. Only by refusing
to accept what he had become could he hope to hide from them. It
was impossible to conceal himself physically from Grigori adepts,
he knew that, but if they came to believe they were wrong about
him, they might leave him alone. He