The Only

Chapter Twenty-Five - Neima

Neima left Tiberius' room and walked down the hallway. The ancient Nocturne had heard everything that transpired and was most aggrieved over the death of such a young member of the clan. The news had done nothing to improve his health, and he was most surprised at the questions about someone possibly influencing Miranda to continue with the dangerous drugs. He could offer no explanation of who it could be.

She shook her head and shrugged in frustration as she walked down the stairs and entered the side parlor that was serving as a viewing room for Yasmin. The air was heavy with candle smoke, part of the ritual in keeping the room as dark as possible. Yasmin was positioned on a high alter, covered in a rich, terra cotta-colored robe, fitting for her rank within the tribe. She had the appearance of just sleeping.

Hamza sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her body — frozen. His shoulders were hunched in defeat. His head hung low, and his gaze seemed to be preoccupied with the robe that covered his legs. Every few seconds he inhaled; the motion moved his long, unrestrained, silver hair further in his face.

Sadness permeated the walls. The entire castle was drenched in death and grief. But it was guilt that took over the room. Hamza's guilt. It was what made him immobile. Neima had seen it thousands upon thousands of times throughout her lifetime. A father's guilt over treatment of a daughter was something that time did very little to change. Nor did it make a difference if it were Experiment or human. The result was the same. The father was never able to make peace. Hamza was not able to make peace with Yasmin. It was inevitable that he would need to live with his regret.

"Hamza, you must eat. You must take care of yourself," she whispered. The hunger experienced after changing was most likely eating him alive.

"What does it matter?" he replied. "My hunger is eclipsed by my grief." He turned his head to look at Yasmin. "It is unthinkable to outlive a child who has survived the fever."

Roland stood up from his seat in the corner. The long, tribal robes covered his wide frame and lightly brushed the floor as he moved. "Emir, we need to gather the others. It is time to sit to help guide her to the Creators."

Hamza nodded. "Tell my sons to come to me."

"They have not returned, my liege."

"What is the delay?"

"I don't know, sir."

This wasn't good. Hamza's progeny should have returned by now, especially if they were arriving in animal form or, most likely, avian form. If something happened to them, Reza, the last remaining child, needed to be watched and guarded. She had to tell Erol.

"Call the tribe together. Tell them it is time," Hamza said.

The room filled with Mutare, each one wrapped in tribal robes the colors of the earth — browns, oranges, and greens. One by one, they took a seat on the floor. Neima looked out at the sea of white hair and wondered which one of them was the killer.

Monty had relayed to her the latest news from Cesar. An imposter was now afoot. But who? There was a murderer, a mad executioner in her own house, and everybody was under suspicion. She cast her gaze out at the crowd again. A deep ache filled her at the expectation of seeing her beloved friend and remembering she was the one being sent off.

A low hum began to reverberate in the room from those seated closest to the body. Row after row picked up the hummed melody until the entire room shook from the deep-throated sound. More candles were lit, and the soft light gently flickered dancing shadows on the wall. It was time to send her off with the love of the tribe.