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ALEXANDRA’S BEDCHAMBER was lavishly ordained with silk linens and Berber rugs that rivaled comforts bestowed a favored paramour in the Sultan’s harem. Enough moonlight filtered into the open-shuttered windows to allow her to appreciate her lover’s sweat-shined body. She broke her sticky embrace and walked into the bathroom, only to return with a small bottle in her grip.
The lubricant filled her hand, and she greased his cock. Seductive whispers trespassed Kimball’s ears as she kissed his neck. She turned, leaned forward across the mattress, and offered herself: back arched, rump raised. His manhood pressed into forbidden realms.
Even oiled up, it was a stubborn fit.
With a loud, licentious sigh, she bit her lip and then implored him to ravage her at his leisure.
An hour later, Alexandra awoke and looked at her hand. It felt hot and was pulsating. She sat up, flushed with worry that a scorpion had stung her, as she had earlier killed one hiding in her shoe. More alert, she sensed a similar discomfort underneath her, as if she were sitting on burning coal. She gasped in realizing the tingling blazed within and gave thought it was due to asking for extra spicy harissa spread on her khobz b’cehma flatbreads. She gulped down the glass of water on her nightstand.
Nothing! It seemed unlikely that stowaway Brazilian fire ants were marching up her rectum. The inferno grew maddening.
Kimball lay muttering in his sleep.
She punched him. “Wake up!”
He opened his eyes and moaned in pain. Alexandra lifted the sheets off and tried to mount him. He protested and shoved her off.
The fiery tickle was becoming excruciating. She again attempted to straddle him, desperate to douse her inflamed back passage. “Chivalry dictates you allow me to mount you!”
He reached over and surged the flame of the nightstand’s oil lamp. They screeched in unison upon seeing how red, gorged, and angry his penis stood. It did not look healthy.
Alexandra could stand it no longer. She cried out and made a mad dash for the bathroom. She crashed into the tub, legs over the rim, praying the cool water would extinguish the burn. Her breathing turned rhythmic, as if in labor. Nothing was happening, and at this moment, she would give up half her fortune for a turkey baster.
Kimball plopped beside her. “What lubricant was it?”
Alexandra cringed, realizing her error. “I may have rubbed my back ointment on your... It’s some secret Japanese concoction meant to spur blood flow to tight muscles. Very potent stuff.”
“Water isn’t helping.” He groaned. “We’ll go to the hospital.”
“No! I’m too young to be hanged as a sodomite!”
“Do you have a better idea?” he asked.
“Don’t blame me, Liam,” she griped. “We both know Ursula’s at fault for crushing my spine.” The arsonist in her anus continued to run rampant. After determining no other remedy, Alexandra pushed herself out of the tub and desperately sought her clothing to dress.
“Public hanging as sodomites it is!”
—‡—
IT HAD PROVEN A DIFFICULT evening, but Alexandra found cause to rejoice in the oddest thing: her back pain was so alleviated. She spurred Liam to dress less sluggishly. He secured his shoulder holster and slid on his blazer. They walked down the steps more rigidly than Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. They had sought treatment at the French hospital in Gueliz, claiming ignorance. Enduring the snickers of the medical staff had served as cruel and unusual punishment.
“Bonjour, Lieutenant,” Alexandra yelled from the inner rail.
Paulin waved up from his seat in the courtyard.
The houseboy was serving Turkish coffee.
Kimball asked Alexandra, “Will you require another enema?”
“Whatever they pumped in worked. I’m clean as a whistle and light as a feather,” she said cheerily. “I can barely walk for reasons I shall place on you. Do you need to continue icing it down?”
He groaned, having no answer. It was not a treatment conducive to managing his workday.
She assumed his penis would be out-of-order for the last evening of her stay. They hushed up before reaching the courtyard and joined Paulin. Alexandra noticed the codger was watching her. Something about the man both enticed and repelled her curiosity.
Paulin handed over a telegram.
She read her message and declared, “The killer is Persian! My man Friday believes what he yelled was in Farsi. ‘Go away, old crow.’”
Kimball sat up. “Wears a suit. A tradesman based in Baghdad.”
“It would explain why he is here,” Paulin added. “He may have victims in many countries.”
Alexandra said, “My work here is complete. After breakfast, I plan to sleep all day.”
“You must dine with us in Gueliz tonight,” Paulin insisted. “I know of the perfect brasserie.”
“Oui!” She hoped the bistro was not popular with hospital staff.
They were served olives and honey-coated pancakes.
Both detectives soon departed, eager to check in with informers and press forward with this latest information.
Alexandra walked them to the gate and wished them good hunting. There was no guard posted. It would save her the perils of slipping over the rear wall after napping. She let out a yawn and headed for her room.
“I heard you last evening. Your libidinous cries were of sacred delectability to my ears.”
Alexandra covered her mouth, mortified. “Sir, who are you?”
“I’ve been called many things,” the bald codger replied, motioning with a hand for her to be seated. “Some think me a grand philosopher, others a tormented artist, while there are those who refer to me as ‘The wickedest man alive.’ I do not judge. ‘Do what thou wilt’ is our only law.”
Alexandra took a seat. “What is it you see in me?”
“I sense a young woman shackled. One yearning for the freedom to unleash a sensual, spiritual beast raging just under her facade of decency. I can help you break your chains.”
She lit a cigarette and leaned back in her chair. Something in his proposal titillated her. “Swing your hammer.”
He signed his drawing of the prior day and passed it over. Alexandra examined his work. From an artistic standpoint, it was quite good. He had cast her seated upon a thrown in Hades next to an archdemon. Cowering slaves—herded from the flames by robed skeletal minions—were pleading for mercy, bowed at her feet. She noticed a corner of his lip rise to her lack of reaction.
Alexandra assumed if anyone knew, he did. “What do you know of Nephilim? Are they among us today?”
“I have heard things.” He leaned forward, basking in a disquieting afterglow. “Rituals still practiced by the old aristocracy. They offer young brides. It is considered a great honor. Arcane sacraments are conducted from an early age to prepare them. Their submission must be voluntary by chthonic law. Each aspirant must perfect a song to lure the demon when ready to copulate. The quickened gestation is damaging to the reproductive organs, so Nephilim are most often the bride’s youngest child. Such heretical spawn cannot reproduce, so she must first cede a daughter to continue the cycle.”
Though portions rang familiar, Alexandra suspected he was toying with her. “Name one.”
“I cannot. They wield great power over humanity, though do so from the shadows.”
Alexandra studied him. He had spoken with a hushed sense of awe, as if one observing the big game from the junior varsity bench. Never one to allow a conspiracy theory to pass without piling on, she said, “I suspect those known by only one name. Robespierre, Rasputin, Judas, Beryl, and the like.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have an interesting mind and delectable flesh. I am to preside over a minerval for postulants to our Northern African lodge of the Ordo Templi Orientis. Join us.”
She doused her smoke. “I think not, but thanks for the offer.”
“Seek me out when you’re ready,” he insisted as she stood to depart. “For today, let us at least spar in chess.”
“It’s a losing proposition to play chess with a mind reader,” she noted. “Good day, Mister Crowley.”
After a short nap, Alexandra revisited the hectic square of the prior day. Dressed in a gandora robe, her head and face veiled by a tahruyt, she blended into the crowd. Once more, the boys were at their game. She slipped off her balghas and asked a henna artist to ornament her feet. Seated upon a plush pillow, she aligned her camera lens to the range of the youths and then placed it away. The henna artist sang as she ground her leaves to create a paste.
Alexandra inspected two raggedly dressed men loitering nearby. The desert nomads were conversing between predatory gazes at her. It brought relief to feel the handle of the small pistol tucked into her layered waist wrap. The artist decorated up to her calf along one leg. No one unseemly had approached the boys. Alexandra continued to monitor the unkempt men sizing her up. They were a type she had been warned about. It troubled her in how they were rubbing their craggy beards—their mouths open, exposing a noticeable lack of dental hygiene.
Wistful thoughts over her miscarriage arose for reasons lost to her. Her son would be four if it had not occurred—she was certain she would bear only boys. Why it filled her with guilt, she did not know. She had done nothing to cause it, only wished it, and it was so. Perhaps she was here, watching over these rambunctious lads, because she owed the world a life. Alexandra placed her ruminations aside in detecting a dark-haired man in a blue djellaba observing the game. It was difficult to identify him between the intermittent foot traffic blocking her view.
He took a seat next to a younger boy.
The man fit parts of her sketch. She extracted her camera and lined him up in her lens. A basket-laden camel lumbering to the fountain disrupted her first attempt to photograph. The man came back into view.
He passed the lad a candy and her spine ran cold.
It was Ali!
Alexandra snapped the photograph, paid the henna artist, and rushed to place on her slippers. The suspect walked off with the boy, becoming lost in the crowd. She rushed ahead until he was spotted. “Arrêter toi crétin!”
The man looked back.
Click.
He covered his face and fled.
Alexandra’s blood was up. She dashed past the abandoned boy in pursuit, unsure if the first pictures would neatly unveil the killer. She pushed through the crowd, tearing off her tahruyt as it was impeding her vision, barely keeping him in sight as he trampled over dusty alleyways. Somewhere along the way, she became lost in the maze.
The dirty lane held an unyielding odor from the human waste and garbage strewing its gutters. Clucking chickens scattered before her, dogs barked ahead, and swathed heads peered out through windows.
Ali had vanished.
She stopped to catch her breath in an alley.
In her wake stormed the two nomads. One lurched forward and slapped her across the face, knocking her over. She hit the ground hard and remained stunned. Her assailant emitted a frenzied cackle, fully displaying his rotted teeth. He produced a rope and closed in.
There was no hesitation. Alexandra ripped free her pistol, aimed, and fired. The man hopped back, holding his thigh, his hand filling with blood. She shot him again, and this time he toppled to his knees. She shuffled to a wall before the other slaver could draw closer.
Pedestrians shouted and high-pitched police whistles sounded. The second slaver vanished into the crowd.
Alexandra tossed the gun. People pressed nearer. Some offered soothing words, while others cursed. There remained nothing else to do but curl up, cover her eyes, and wait to escape it all.
—‡—
A TRACE OF SUNLIGHT breached the cell’s barred window. It would scurry the rats, but not the cockroaches. Alexandra felt relief that morning was on the march, eager for breakfast and to warm up, as the night had passed chilly. They had gone medieval on her, locking her in the prison dungeon, which in her assessment had its plusses and minuses. It was a sparse cell, but preferable to the crowded holding pen briefly shared with apprehended prostitutes. She did not fare well among other women. The foiled slavers had learned what she knew to be true: harem life could never be for her. To ease her boredom, she tried to run in place. It would be easier if the rusted metal corset fit snugger across her midriff. The primitive device was chained to the wall and designed to torment its wearer by denying the ability to sit. It had some slack to it, but her only fun was seeing how far she could lean forward without toppling.
She abandoned her efforts and placed a finger on her swollen lip. While her mother had often slapped her, a man had never hit her. With dabbling in a rough and tumble world, she accepted that the codes of chivalry would not forever shield her. The slaver had struck her, and she had shot him.
It seemed an appropriate quid pro quo.
The cell door finally opened.
“Sacré bleu!” Paulin berated the guard, who held up his hands, confused, before receiving a swipe across the face from his superior’s gloves. It was a disgraceful state of affairs.
Kimball rubbed his chin. “You put that on yourself, didn’t you?”
Alexandra reached back and popped the latch. The archaic device clanged against the wall. She said with much excitement, “It was Ali. I got a clear view of him. Why is everyone frowning?”
“The man you shot is a notorious slave-dealer,” Paulin said. He apologized to the guard and dispatched the underling to retrieve her possessions. “He will live the rest of his days a eunuch.”
So far, so good she thought. “What about Ali? Is he captured?”
No answer came. Paulin said, “A car waits outside to take you to Casablanca. The Sultan demands that you leave the country. Your ship sails at dusk.”
“I stopped a crime. Why am I being punished?”
Paulin better understood both sides of the equation. “The usual penalty for a Christian woman shooting a Muslim man is death by stoning. When they explained that you’re an American and British subject, the Sultan felt it wise to avoid an international incident.”
Alexandra snorted. She had never been kicked out of a country before. “Can I at least remain in my cell until breakfast is ready? Last night they served me the most incredible bastilla.”
Kimball shook his head, exasperated. “We’ll gather your belongings. I’ll tag along for the ride and escort you to the ship. The Sultan orders that you be handcuffed until safely aboard.”
Alexandra rolled her eyes as Paulin placed on the cuffs. She said, “You may want the film from my camera.”
“You attained a photograph?”
“Of course. It’s what I do,” she brazenly informed. “My gift to you for your hospitality.”
Paulin winked. “Something good will be sought from the kitchen.”
Alexandra smiled at Liam as he escorted her out of the dungeon. She said, “Will you at least spank me along the drive to Casablanca?”
“Seeing that you’ve misbehaved, certainly not.”
He could not help but chuckle.