1855 India again. The last chapter had Erik falling asleep on The Goddess's lap. The chapter before that Erik was warned by Ravi Patel (Anisha's cousin) to stay away from her.

Ch 8

A wisp of dream clung to Erik's mind, a recollection of a whip and a knife.

There had been fire.

Blistering flames, coal black smoke and screaming…then silence. Silence only because there was death and no one left to scream. Silence because there was only a woman on a balcony, a woman draped in pale gray with her face covered, with every inch of flesh covered. She clapped her hands and broke the silence with an echoing applause that cut through Erik's mind.

Power to end silence, to end lives, to end freedom. A woman of endless power and dark dreams…dark like the smoke, darker than hell…darker than what Erik felt writhing in his belly.

"Well done, Frenchman," the little Sultana said thickly. "I will bring you more criminals tomorrow."

He bowed, walked from her view, and vomited in a flower pot.

You sicken yourself, even.

There was a peacock strutting past when Erik woke from his nightmare. He could still see the Sultana's jade eyes in the back of his mind. He had seen such danger in her beautiful eyes, such lifelessness and cruelty in her gaze. She transfixed him and alarmed him with one bat of an eye.

"Forget her. She isn't here," he muttered to himself.

By the pallid calm of the sky it was probably an hour after sunrise. The last thing he remembered was the confrontation with Ravi, which made waking up on the rooftop a small surprise. He hadn't attended the engagement announcement, he knew. There had been wine served but not nearly enough to erase the evening. The last thing he remembered for certain was silently swearing he would think nothing else of Anisha. Ravi, though short-tempered with him over the last day, had been a good translator and guide. He was the second oldest man living in the home and demanded respect. With reluctance, Erik agreed to honor the request.

Erik inhaled deeply and sat up, arching his back. His spine crunched into place and he groaned. His back was sore and his hair slightly damp. The air, even for the hour of the day, was already humid and sticky, slowly edging toward hot. In the month he had been in Dareesh he had learned that this part of India had thick air that was akin to breathing water. Building a new home for Anisha and Girish was going to be a miserable task. A visit to the rock quarry had been unpleasant and that was before anything had been harvested.

While he awakened, Erik glanced around. Fractured sunlight made freckled patterns on the wicker lounger where he sat. The shade beneath the waffle-pattern overhang had been welcomed as he sat and made his calculations for the new homestead. Mr. Patel had strictly forbidden his six daughters to bother the architect while he was at work. Hour after hour Erik worked diligently to create plans for a plantation palace. When Mr. Patel and Mr. Baleeze returned from business, Erik would present his work. Already he had two plans finished but he had hoped to have three designs prepared. The trip to Chandernagore would either inspire him or encourage foolery.

Erik had a feeling the company in the French settlement would play a great factor in whether or not he was truly at rest or still at work. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy planning buildings. There was a sense of power in knowing he created the walls and floors, the corridors and layouts people would inhabit. It was almost god-like. He had always been like his father in that sense: power was pleasure. What could be better than power?

However, his age prevented totalitarian power and that irritated him. Men smoking pipes and drinking brandy would squint at his ideas and scrutinize certain small things, or make ridiculous requests.

Erik no longer wanted to think of those employers. He had found his way to Persia by dumb luck and impressed the Sultan's advisor with a pompous attitude and a small trick of deception in a marketplace. As more of a novelty than anything the advisor, Rameed, had delivered Erik to the Sultan's palace. The two men spoke for quite some time and ignored Erik, though they laughed often and gestured in his direction occasionally.

When they asked what he did besides fool peddlers out of goods, Erik had answered with a crooked smile, "I build homes for wealthy men, such as Sultans."

His self-assured attitude had brought him commission for two years. Being in favor with the Sultan had built him a small fortune, one of which was now in the hands of Mr. Desai, Corinna's father. As long as Corinna was unharmed when he returned, Sanjeev had sworn the funds would be returned. It was a desperate bargain. Erik knew he would have died three months ago on the executioner's block had he not agreed.

Erik shuddered at the thought. He had expected something sinister from Mr. Desai when he promised to smuggle Erik out of Persia but nothing had happened. Erik had found himself in London for a week, then on a boat heading to India where Mr. Desai had set up work for him, employment he said would take a year. After the home was complete he was free to find labor in India or return to France.

France did not interest him. Italy was where he expected to settle, in the heart of music and art. Perhaps in a few years he would take his newfound knowledge and educate the Parisians. Take a student, he mused to himself, turn a few little sparrows to songbirds, a herd of cows into ballet dancers. He would do something for France, something that would never be forgotten.

Dreams! Decadent, foolish dreams just as his father always said. A muddled, eccentric brain clouded with all sorts of silly ideas. He would become nothing in the end if his father had predicted correctly.

No, he would not return to France. Not for a long, long time.

A strange sound filled his ears as he rose from the makeshift bed and yawned. He didn't want to think about his parents or the Sultan or anything else for that matter. Chanting, without direction, came faintly on the lazy morning breeze. The sound was hypnotizing, a serum of the mind that drew him to the edge of the rooftop.

Omar and another man Erik didn't know were walking cattle toward the fields.

Omar, he remembered. He had returned to their shared room around two in the morning and heard Omar and the woman laughing. Exhausted, he had returned to the rooftop, moved the wicker lounger beneath the slatted overhang and fallen asleep. The storm had passed overhead without more than a light drizzle of rain but the lightning show had been mesmerizing. Bolts flashed through the indigo night like whips flailing overhead.

Like whips.

The Sultana.

Erik shuddered. He moved one hand behind his back and slipped his fingers beneath his shirt. The scar was still there along his right hip. He dragged his finger along the scar as it passed over his spine. The scar was still there.

The Sultana had been real.

Now that he was fully awake, Erik couldn't shake the Sultana from his mind. Weeks had passed since Erik had jolted awake in bed, body soaked with sweat and a scream threatening to leave his lips.

"She's still here," he muttered to himself.

"Good morning," a woman said.

Erik jumped back from the parapet and turned to face Anisha. She stood with her hand catching water from the fountain. Her hair was braided and she wore an undecorated tangerine sari. She smiled enigmatically, apparently amused by the fact that she had startled him.

"Good morning," Erik replied. He glanced around and saw that she was alone. "What are you doing here?"

"Am I not allowed on the rooftop of my father's home?"

Erik half-smiled. "You're…alone."

She shrugged. "You're here. Or don't you count?"

"That isn't what I meant." He glanced about again and shaded his eyes with a hand at his brow. "I've rarely seen women unescorted."

Anisha moved away from the fountain. "Do I need to be protected from you?" she mocked. "Or was my Uncle Sanjeev right about trusting you?"

"Your uncle is a good man."

Anisha sauntered forward, keeping her eyes on his as she neared. Every step she took toward him stole the breath from his throat.

Her skin looked freshly clean, but her eyes, per tradition, were still smeared with black. She had beautiful, coal black eyes twinkling in the early morning light. Erik had never seen such ravishing, almond-shaped eyes in his life, such depth and beauty. Such…power….

Erik's heart raced, his promise to Ravi Patel suddenly seeming impossible. He was completely smitten with Anisha. He barely knew the young woman but couldn't take his eyes away from her.

She stood at arm's length. "So tell me, Monsieur…"

"Levesque. Erik Levesque."

A smile slithered onto her face. "Monsieur Levesque, are you a dangerous man?"

Erik was slow to reply. He sensed danger, like a zebra catching the faintest stench of a lion in waiting. Two years spent with the little Sultana made him wary of such innocent questions.

When he did reply, he had a query of his own. "Where did your fiancé and father go?"

"Persia," Anisha answered.

A wisp of dream clung to Erik's mind, a recollection of regret.