The Hand of Kali Box Set Vol 2 Read online

  Maya still found it hard to believe her own mother was the avatar of the Goddess of the Earth. But then, it made perfect sense for Kali to send Maya to Leela to raise. Even that convoluted reasoning was beginning to make sense to Maya, which should definitely be something to worry about.

  After nibbling a drumstick, Maya asked, “So when do you get back to normal work?” Maya understood now that Archana’s decision must also have had something to do with his time off.

  He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and took a sip of his juice. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Today, if I wanted. My father asked if I was ready.”

  Maya nodded.

  It was time for him to return to work.

  She pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, all vacations must come to an end.”

  Nik laughed. “It’s been fun while it lasted.”

  Nik left soon after, with a promise to update her on when he would return to work proper, and Maya trudged up to bed, enveloped by the hollow sound of darkness and night. For some reason, the nighttime seemed to promise ghosts and ghouls and not the usual peace and regeneration.

  Not surprising with the life Maya led.

  Her dad’s study was empty, and she suspected he was out on a case. She tiptoed upstairs, ensuring the sound of her heels on the wood floor wouldn’t wake anyone up. Her parents’ room lay submerged in darkness, with her mom’s form unmoving on the bed beneath a burgundy and gold silk comforter, a get-well present to Leela from the goddess Chayya.

  The goddess of shadows had dropped by every so often to check on the family, but Maya hadn’t seen much of her in the last week or so. Guess even gods got too busy to waste time on friends.

  Sabala, Maya’s personal bodyguard in the form of an honest-to-goodness hound from hell, gifted to her by Lord Yama, sat at the foot of her mom’s bed, watching over her.

  Leela had spent days sleeping during her recovery, but in the last two weeks she’d been up and about, frustrated she couldn’t get back to work.

  Maya totally understood where she was coming from, and had sympathized. But in the end her mom was truly better, pronounced free of the poison just last week by the goddess Chayya.

  Maya headed to her bedroom after checking if Joss was home. Joss was fast asleep too, a soft snore reverberating across the room.

  Her best friend, Joss Cawood, was back from a short visit with her parents who’d returned home for a brief respite from their international jet-setting lifestyle. With Joss’s father playing the stock market and her mother a die-hard socialite, the couple barely had time for Joss who they’d long considered a very independent child. For years, Maya’s parents had given Joss a home away from her own.

  Satisfied, Maya walked to her room, by now used to the absence of the hellhound. With Nik around so often she hadn’t needed the dog’s protection, so he’d been charged with her mom’s protection. A perfect companion dog.

  Changing into her pajamas, Maya fell into bed, and stared at the ceiling where she saw Archana’s face hovering above her. She’d been welcoming and pleasant and so kind. More than Maya had ever expected, especially considering how aloof Lord Yama had been in the time she’d known him.

  Funny the man she’d met only a few hours ago seemed so different from the god she’d met months ago.

  Maya drifted off to sleep, her thoughts filled with images of the gods she’d met, gods who’d helped her find a new place for herself in this world.

  Chapter 3

  The steady beat of the drums echoed around her, reverberating from the soft soles of her bare feet and through her bones, as if the very ground beneath her thundered with the heartbeat of Bhumi, the earth mother.

  Her feet hit the ground, flat of the foot first, hard enough to slap the cracked stone with a sharp tap, then up on the ball, knee bent, stance elegant, channeling musical energy from the air around her. The thick and well-worn leather belt at her ankles, threaded with hundreds of tiny brass bells, jingled, tinkling in accompaniment to the rhythm of the drums.

  She was ready, her pose expectant as the drumbeats teased her chakras, her hip jutting out almost provocatively, her hands folded demurely over her right hip bone. She lifted her chin, dark kohl-lined eyes gazing upward, a hint of an entranced smile cast up at an unseen but benevolent moon -- the god Chandra smiling down upon his devotee.

  The dance, each movement, each sequence, telling a tale so familiar, so tangible.

  Around her, the temple hall lay empty, stone walls smoothed after hours of laboring now cracked by the snaking roots and vines. Delicate alcoves once populated by an abundance of hand-carved stone statues of the gods, now bathed in layers of dust and covered with a dense, sickly green moss.

  The vine-covered walls of the temple rose high above, disappearing into a darkness filled with the hanging roots of thick plant growth. Somewhere high above her something scurried, a creature seeking a hiding place, or waiting to pounce.

  But she was not afraid.

  In this mostly-abandoned temple, high up in the mountains of Southern India, giant statues dotted the floor space, standing twenty feet in height and serving as columns to support a once-majestic roof.

  The temple was seldom used by the villagers, and populated mostly by reclusive priests who flitted its halls like ghostly apparitions.

  Too large to be looted, the statues remained, now overrun by vines and moss. Despite the overgrowth, the carvings, never painted, never adorned by color, remained infinitely beautiful in their simplicity.

  Only the flickering light from dozens and dozens of clay lamps held the darkness at bay, the odor of hot oil and flame drifting lazily toward her, teasing her nostrils. The lamps cast ghostly shadows across the uneven walls. Shadows that danced and shivered, waiting for her to join them.

  Again the drums beat, throbbing in time with the pulsating of her heart. Dressed in a simple red sari, pleated loosely around the legs to allow for movement, shot with gold thread to capture the glow of the lamplight, the girl stood as still as the carved gods, glittering in the shimmering lights, waiting for the note that would bid her begin.

  Another beat.

  She extended her foot, and drew her toes across the floor in a wide semicircle. The silver rings on her toes glinted as she stepped to the side, planting her foot on the ground before transferring her weight to it. The bells sang again, their music a multitude of sweet notes of pure sound.

  The beat of the drum wove an intoxicating spell around her, and she found herself drifting away to that place she always visited at the height of the dance, a place of utter peace and tranquility. Where, while she danced, while her body moved in time with music that swelled around her, she remained in total harmony with the universe.

  The drumbeat sped up, and her heart kept time, escalating with anticipation. She lifted her intricately hennaed hands, palms placed together in holy salutation, raising them to the East where Surya rose from the darkness, to bless the land with his benevolent light.

  From somewhere beyond the drums came the undulating song of a flute, drifting on the air, the notes clear and beautiful, the sound of sunshine on ice, of the ocean at its depths.

  Her body swayed, sinuous and entrancing in time with the notes, slow, dreamy movements that picked up pace along with the music. The music echoed around her, earnest and sad and yet still as intoxicating as the beat of the drum.

  The temple was her solace. She came here to practice, to be surrounded by the benevolence of her god. The eternal Lord of the Universe, the cosmic dancer Lord Nataraja.

  Before her, in the largest alcove, stood a stone carving of her Lord. He rose into the air, almost touching the stone ceiling. Even now as she stood waiting for that one special beat that would bid her begin, she adored the statue with her gaze. She'd spent hours staring at the sculpture, marveling at the workmanship; what talent the sculptor had had to hammer stone flames that looked real enough to singe one's skin.

  The statue gleamed, free of cracks and overgrowth, as if n
aturally repelling the onslaught of the jungle. The Lord in defiance of the nature he kept in perpetual balance.

  The music quickened, and her heart followed suit, slamming against her ribs in anticipation. She began to dance, slapping a foot on the stone, once, twice. Then again, keeping the beat. Creating with her feet, her own music.

  She moved faster now, stamping each foot on the stone floor in time to the beat of the drum, a rhythmic pattern, faster and faster as she moved.

  Her swaying hands lifted, formed shapes as she nodded and smiled, speaking a silent language, as she told a story with her eyes and her body, as she performed her prayer to her lord. She had to remind herself to breathe, remind herself to remain in control. It was so easy for the music and the dance to take over, so easy to be swept away by the joy of it all.

  When she'd first learned the art of Bharatanatyam, she'd heard of the trance. It was said to be the ultimate level of dance, usually only attained by a Kumari after years, sometimes even decades.

  Up here in the mountains, the simple folk rarely had the privilege of educated dance teachers. Here they made do, learning from the older women, and passing the art down one generation at a time.

  But even here, the legend of the trance was repeated in hushed whispers. Some said the dancer communed with Lord Nataraja when deep within their trance, a blessing dreamed of by many, and experienced by precious few.

  For that reason, she'd never revealed her first experience to her mother. She'd been dancing a mere two years now, since her fourteenth birthday, and already for the past year she had experienced the joy of the trance.

  She feared the danger of it only because she had no control. When she fell into the grip of the trance she knew nothing until she opened her eyes again, and often she'd find herself lying on the floor exhausted, hours later.

  Despite the danger, she'd risk it time and time again, just for the beauty of the trance, risk too, the possibility of discovery. The meager contingent of priests knew she danced here, and they accommodated her, smiling benevolently whenever she arrived.

  But they were not the only ones to use the temple. She had to stop being careless.

  For now, she slipped deeper into the joy, and allowed herself the freedom.

  To dance, faster and faster, the energy taking control of her body and of her mind. She gasped for breath as dizziness rose like a tide, eager to overcome her. Heat filled her body, flooding her veins, burning her blood.

  The music echoed in her ears, a distant sound drifting to her from beyond her awareness. And still she danced, swirling around the room, as perspiration tickled, drifting down her spine, as the cool air of the South Indian night whispered against her slick skin.

  And then a light flickered. At the edges of her vision, the softest glow.

  She blinked. Had she imagined the golden light? Had it been a trick of flames, a reflection perhaps?

  Her chest tightened as trepidation stabbed her heart.

  She wanted to stop dancing, to search the growing darkness enveloping her, but her body no longer obeyed.

  Still, she wasn't truly afraid.

  She continued to dance, though a part of her brain tried to remain aware. And when she blinked again, golden light shimmered just beyond her sight, growing ever brighter around her. The flames of hundreds of clay lamps danced upon the walls, filling the room with fiery light.

  As she moved, she spun on her heel, sinking into a bow, scanning the temple hall. The pale grey stone, now awash with gold, glittered.

  The light beckoned her filling her spirit, teasing her consciousness, threatening to toss her into the waiting darkness.

  Her muscles ached now, her feet throbbing, but her heart swelled, filled with inexplicable passion and energy. She both loved and hated this part, where her spirit filled with endless joy, the stage she strived to attain every single time.

  Fatigue pulled at her limbs, weighing them down, and yet she didn't stop.

  She was unable to stop.

  She’d concluded the dance, prayed it would signal the end of her torture. But her limbs moved, her own will ignored.

  Her heart raced now, edged with fear, yet still in time with the music. She strained, urging her body to stop dancing, but still she moved.

  A cry of fear escaped her throat as her mind slipped back into the reality of the dance. The trance no longer held, and she was horribly aware of her bloodied feet, and her aching muscles. Her clothes stuck to her skin, soaked with sweat.

  Yet she still danced, her movements frenzied, the chaos of hurricanes tearing through her heart, of mountains come crashing down when the earth rebelled.

  Tears slipped from her eyes, her muscles aching, filled with intense pain, dancing even when her feet began to slip on the bloody stone floor. Fear filled her throat, thick and cloying. But still she moved with the music, her body intent on screaming its own physical song, in harmony with the drums, with sorrow.

  She watched herself now, part of her awareness splitting away, watched as she danced around the temple floor leaving a trail of slick red behind her. She watched the white stone of the Nataraja begin to glow with an inner fire.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it took her breath away.

  Had her god come down to bless her?

  But Lord Nataraja was a benevolent god. Never one to cause his devotees to suffer. She loved to dance, found utmost peace in every movement, but now every breath was filled with the fiery pain.

  This was no blessing of God.

  Terror cut a burning swathe through her senses.

  Her black hair swung limply against her cheek, stray locks now soaked with sweat. She swayed, exhaustion urging her down, controlling her movements.

  Gone was the beauty of the dance, the lithe sinuous movements. Now, she swung helplessly, a marionette controlled by insanity. Her arms flailed, whispering only the language of extreme exhaustion.

  She cried out, but no sound left her throat.

  Fear filled her heart.

  The speed of the music increased, and the light blinded her. And she danced. It wasn't physically possible. This was a fact even a simple village girl like her knew. As exhausted as she was, to continue dancing with this much passion, and with this much pain, was simply not possible.

  Darkness began to fold over her, drawing her into unconsciousness. The promise of release.

  Now she prayed for the blackness.

  All she had to do was give in, and she'd be free from this horror. She blinked harder, as shadows swirled within the temple. Her vision darkened further, and at last she fell to the ground, sightless, her fingers scrabbling at the curving roots.

  She lay there, flat on her stomach, gasping for air, feeling the cool stone against her heated cheek. Her heart threatened to shatter her ribs, and she knew it would explode.

  And she welcomed it.

  One last ragged breath. A sharp stabbing speared her heart.

  Fire and energy surged through her body, and she let out a slow, deep breath.

  A breath that was her last.

  Chapter 4

  VOICES CALLED to Maya, hollow and echoing around her.

  Scared voices.

  No, terrified cries. Maya blinked, her lashes heavy as she stared blindly, confused.

  She lay on the tiled floor in the front hall of her home, staring at the elegantly patterned crown molding floating where wall and ceiling met. For some reason she was beginning to think the design had been a brilliant idea.

  Maya frowned, pulling her thoughts away from home decor, thinking the least someone could do was to turn the lights down before they blinded her permanently.

  She blinked again, then shut her eyes, her lids heavy, too heavy to keep open.

  What was she doing here, anyway?

  The last thing she remembered was being in bed, and struggling to fall asleep. The cold of the marble floor bit into her skin, mean teeth relentlessly gouging to her bones.

  Wait, what? Why is my skin hot?<
br />
  Why am I lying on the floor?

  A warm hand touched her cheek, and her mom's gentle voice drifted through the fog, the sound of comfort and safety wrapping around her like a fire-warmed blanket. "Honey, are you okay? What happened?"

  Maya tried to open her eyes again, but her lids refused to obey.

  She gave up.

  Another voice, her dad now. "Maya, what's going on? Are you dreaming?"

  Maya's forehead furrowed as memories of the dream came flooding back to her, images jostling to be the first one she recalled. She gasped and a tremor ran through her body, rippling through her limbs like an earthquake.

  Movement at Maya’s right drew her attention as her mom placed an arm around her, gently curling her hand around Maya's waist. She lifted Maya upright then settled her back, using the slim line of her own body to support her daughter's limp frame.

  The warmth of her mom's skin gave her some comfort, fighting the incessant waves of cold that had claimed her entire body. Warmth slowly enveloped cold, battling its way through Maya’s limbs, and the shivering gradually ceased.

  Maya’s own fire remained absent.

  Awareness increased with each blink, each soft inhalation. Her breathing returned to normal. She cracked heavy lids open, and found herself surrounded by her family. Maya’s dad and section chief at the KALIMA Agency, watched her from her right, meeting his wife’s eyes, his own worried expression matching hers.

  Sabala, sat on the floor beside the hall table which now stood at a strange angle from the wall, as if someone had bumped into it in the rush to get to Maya.

  Her mom’s excellent-fake Ming Dynasty vase sat on its side, having rolled almost to the edge of the table. She wanted to warn her mom, to tell her to grab the vase before it rolled over to its death, but she couldn’t open her mouth.

  Instead she watched Sabala as he sat watching her like a black statue, all four of his black glistening eyes staring at her as if she'd done something wrong. What did he have to be indignant about anyway?