The Scholar,

The Sphinx,

and the

Shades of Nyx

The Scholar and the Sphinx Book 1

A.R. Cook

The Scholar, The Spinx, and the Shades of Nyx © 2013 by A.R. Cook

This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.

Cover design by Keith Robinson

Dragonfire Press

e-Book ISBN: 978-1-958354-30-8

Originally published by Knox Robinson Publishing in 2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter 1

It takes only one reckless decision to change a life—to better it, worsen it, or end it. It takes only one decision to make someone a hero, or a fool. And it was that kind of decision that led a young man to journey into the Curtain, outwit a predator, befriend a shapeshifter, face the test of an ancient spirit, confront a goddess, and be loved by one of the most infamous monsters in the world. This is how it happened.

Surrounded by his citadel stacks of books, David Sandoval devoured words on a printed page as one consumes the most treasured of treats. Much like the biblical king for which he was named, he ruled over his designed realm of knowledge, a kingdom constructed from everything he found engrossing, from swordplay, to history, to languages, and most devotedly, to the tales of the supernatural and magical.

No one could understand why folklore and fairy tales fascinated David so—his family considered it “impractical,” and concluded it was only a phase—but his stories of mythical beasts and enchanting spirits had given him quite a reputation in Cervera. He always tried to sneak something unusual into any conversation or give advice to others based on what a legendary hero would do. He wrote his ideas and stories down in journals, away from disapproving glances or patronizing gossip. Unfortunately, David experienced none of the excitement that he wove into his stories, for nothing frightening or wonderful happened in his hometown.

He came from a long line of tradesmen, less whimsical, more practical people. His father was a hard worker who was adequate enough at his job for his family to live comfortably. It had been hard times in Cervera, since its famous university had been relocated to Barcelona when David was six years old, and this had triggered a great economic strain on the city. The Sandoval family was not in dire straits, however, and could not rightfully complain—even if it made David’s parents crestfallen that their children would not as easily get the advanced education they had hoped for before losing the university.

David’s father, being a pious man, was the one responsible for naming David after the Biblical king that had overcome the giant Goliath, setting the expectation that his son should always conquer any insurmountable obstacle that life would present. David held pride in being named after a king, as he knew from the old tales that one’s status in life, and his prosperous future, were tied to having a meaningful name.

The opportunity for a prosperous future arrived in the form of a letter shortly after David’s sixteenth birthday, one of the many milestones he anticipated for the year 1852.

He tore ecstatically into the letter, knowing it was a reply to his request for an apprenticeship in Paris. He was to study under the renowned architect Antoine Roland, a long-time friend of the Sandoval family.

This is an exciting time for Paris, as it is undergoing a grand modernization, Monsieur Roland wrote in his eloquent and loquacious letter to the Sandovals. Napoleon Bonaparte III has great plans to rejuvenate the city, and under the direction of Baron Haussmann, I am one of an exclusive selection of engineers commissioned to help with new layouts for Paris’s streets and public parks. Such a large-scale endeavor is a great opportunity for any aspiring architect, and I know that David would be the perfect apprentice to assist me in this project.

David was inflated with a burst of delight at these words. This was his ticket to an admirable career of which his father and brothers could only dream. His delight, however, was abruptly deflated once his mother told him that they had sent for the eldest son of their neighbors, the Guerreros, to be David’s traveling companion.

“No! Not Pablo!” David begged. “Mother, he hates me!”

“Of course he doesn’t hate you. Pablo has nothing but respect for you,” his mother insisted. “It is dangerous for a boy as young as you to travel on his own. There are thieves on the roads, and swindlers in the towns. Pablo is older and stronger.”

Pablo was a bulky braggart of a fellow, strong in arms but not so much in brain, which was a severe contrast to David’s lean, limber stature and erudite mind. While Pablo wasn’t smart, he could be charismatic when he desired to be, and he often deceived Señora Sandoval into thinking he was an upstanding boy. David knew better, as all the childhood years of Pablo flicking him behind the ears, giving him hard punches in the shoulder, and tripping him into mud puddles were not forgotten nor forgiven.

“Madre, have I not proven that I am mature and smart beyond my years?” David asked. “I know how to protect myself. I will always keep my belongings in my sight. I will send letters home every day if you want me to, and I will not take any detours. Please, mother, I’m not a child! Give me a chance. If I am to prove myself to Monsieur Roland, I need to show him I can take care of myself and be responsible. How can I do that if I need to be chaperoned to Paris?”

It took several days of insistence and the consent of his father.

“I was traveling on my own when I was his age,” Señor Sandoval noted—and David’s mother finally relented. She made him promise to send letters home at every stop along the way, and she made no promises not to send Pablo after him if her mother’s intuition should alert her to trouble.

David was so thrilled that even his mother’s threat could not ruin his mood. He would be traveling to Paris, without parents or chaperones to tell him what to do. This was going to be the best time of his life.

David arrived in the city of Orléans, about 81 miles southwest of Paris, by carriage after a long, tiring week of travel. The carriage driver dropped him off at an inexpensive inn to spend the night, the Villa Valere, and David unloaded his baggage with words of thanks to the driver.

He entered the inn, where he was greeted by the innkeeper and his multitude of freely roaming dogs. A playful hound bounded up to David, almost knocking him over. David placed his baggage down to pat the dog on the head. While a young bellboy took his packs to his room, David settled down at a small table in the dining area, and ordered an inexpensive supper of bread and cheese, topping it off with a glass of wine. He did not normally drink wine, but how could he resist, now that Mother and Father were not there to dictate his decisions?

The whispers of music wafted into the inn from outside. It sounded strange to David, and he could not place the melody or the style. “Innkeeper, where is that music coming from?” he asked in French. He had done his best to brush up on his French before his trip, but his Spanish accent made it obvious that it was not his first language.

The innkeeper glanced up at him and turned his head towards the inn’s entrance. “A group of traveling performers set up their act at the end of the street. They pass through every now and then. Quite amusing. You should take a look.”

“Just keep your coin purse close. Got to be watchful of sticky fingers,” murmured a patron at a table in the corner of the room. He was a wiry old man, grizzled and gaunt, his head hovering just inches above the tabletop while his hand clutched desperately onto his wine bottle. Another man sat with him, buried inside a coat that was too large for him and a hat that swallowed his scalp, and observed the room in silence.

“Come now, Gustav. They’re harmless folk,” the innkeeper replied.

“Ha! Harmless, he says,” Gustav choked up a laugh, and took a drink. “Gypsies are never harmless. Rob you blind, at the least. Give you the evil eye, curse you with their black magic.”

The coat-cocooned man gave Gustav a light shove. “Hush, old man.” He turned to David. “Don’t mind him. He’s scatterbrained even when he’s not drunk.”

David shrugged. “I’m not afraid of them. They’re only people, like us.”

Gustav lifted his head, and a crooked grin sliced across his face. “Oh, you think so? I hear they like to steal children, straight out of their beds in the night. Turn them into animals or sell them to the witches and nasty spirits.” He raised his hands, waving his fingers at David in a spell-casting motion, and puckered his lips to let out a slurred, “Ooooooooh.”

Gustav’s friend gave him a hard smack in the shoulder. “No more stupid ghost stories.”

David shook his head. “Even if that were true, I have nothing to worry about. I’m not a child, after all.”

Gustav looked David up and down. “Not so much a man yet, either,” he snickered.

David glowered and turned away from the two men. He did his best to not appear bothered by the old man’s opinion of him. Eventually, his undeniable curiosity nipped his ankles to rouse him to his feet, coaxing him out of the inn and down the street. A wondrous display was set up: three massive painted wagons of brilliant colors and designs formed a triangle, with draperies and banners and paper decorations entwined together. Round flower-patterned lanterns illuminated the square, and music poured from the instruments of the minstrels wearing fine costumes. Dancers twirling scarves entertained passersby, and the women and children went about selling jewelry, bottles, ornaments, and charms from baskets. Two of the carts had been opened into stage platforms; upon one, a well-toned man juggled flaming torches, and on the other a young boy performed simple magic tricks. The caravan had drawn quite a crowd, and the townspeople threw coins and applauded the performing artists. Children came around to pet the six burly white horses that drew the caravan.

Even before having heard the drunken man’s warning at the inn, David was not entirely trusting when it came to these performing nomads. They were considered swindlers, con artists, and tricksters, and some people thought even worse of them. Many towns had already banned nomadism, but since the Romanis’ emancipation from slave bondage, many nomads were migrating across Europe. Being the reader of paranormal tales as he was, David knew plenty of stories about minstrels and performers who were, underneath their pretty visages, witches or even were-animals. There was only one book that he had read that painted them in a kinder light, one by a French writer named Victor Hugo—it was a story about a hunchback who fell in love with a kindhearted peasant girl—but it was not as captivating as the shape-shifter folklore that David loved. Yet, he had to admit, they were fine artists. Their music was mesmerizing, and the dancers were—aside from inappropriately flirtatious—nice.

A dark-eyed Romani girl spotted David, and she walked over to him with a coy smile. Her outfit was adorned with colorful beads and jangling gold coins, and her long black hair blossomed with ribbons and silk flowers. She carried a basket full of random knick-knacks. “Bonjour,” she cooed in hesitant French. “Voulez-vous acheter?”

David could tell by the way she had asked, “Would you like to buy?” indicated she had been trained what to say, and most likely she did not understand French. “Hablas español, señorita?” he offered, wondering if Spanish would be an easier language for her.

Judging by the confused look on her face, apparently it was not.

“English, perhaps?” David asked her.

A smile bloomed on her face, and she nodded. “Yes, English is better. Perhaps you would like to buy something? I have many exotic charms from far-away lands. They are unlike anything else in the world.”

David instinctively placed his hands over his trousers’ pockets, before she had a chance to pluck something from him without his knowing. While logic dictated that he should walk away, his incorrigible curiosity kept him locked in place. “Sorry, but I don’t need anything. You had better move on.”

“I may have something that would be perfect for you.” The girl dug deep into her basket, producing a stylish old-fashioned dagger in a black and silver sheath. It curved like a basilisk’s tongue. “This was custom made by a highly praised blacksmith in Arabia. Here, you may look at it if you like.”

David took the dagger, removing the blade a few inches from its sheath before sliding it back in. “This is a fine piece of work,” he admitted. “But I’m sure that it is out of my price range.”

“But look at the way it sits in your hand. It is a perfect match. I will sell it at a special price, just for you. Fifteen francs. Such a rare piece would cost thrice that much.”

David paused, calculating in his mind if he had the money to spare. For the girl to sell the dagger that cheaply, it must be of low quality, but it was always useful to have a blade. With a sigh, he held the dagger out to the girl. “I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t.”

“Then how about a game instead?” A voice, thick with a Scottish brogue, ambushed David from behind. David snapped his head around to see a burly man, with copper red hair thick on his head and face, and a brazen smile that would make wolves cower at the sight of his teeth. The man wore a dark green vest with no shirt, and the muscular masses of his arms and shoulders made David’s slim physique comparable to a blade of grass. David realized that this was the juggler who had been performing onstage earlier.

“A game?” David squeaked.

“You seem to be a bright fellow. You win, the dagger’s yours.”

David gulped. “And if I lose?”

The Scotsman chuckled. “Then you walk away as you are now, no better or worse. Nothing to lose. How’s about it, lad? Even a wee bairn could win this game.”

By now, the conversation had attracted the attention of the crowd around them. People pressed in, murmuring in excitement. David cast his glance around, looking for a way to escape. When he did not respond to the juggler’s invitation, the crowd spoke up, urging David to accept the challenge. They began to chant and clap, and the performers encouraged it. David blushed so red he was sure his clothes would burst into flame from the heat in his face. Finally, he nodded in assent. The people cheered as the juggler clasped one of his great arms around David’s shoulders and dragged him up onto one of the stages.

The Scotsman went over to a barrel on the side of the stage and took out three large juggling clubs.

“I don’t know how to juggle,” David said meekly.

The juggler laughed. “You don’t have to juggle. You only have to sit.”

David felt a weight lifted from his body. “Is that all? Sitting?”

“For as long as you can. I’m wagering…twenty seconds. You manage longer than that, you win.”

“Why would I only be able to sit for twenty—”

The juggler came over to David, turned around so that his back was towards him, and knelt down. “Hop up,” the Scotsman said.

“Hop up? On your back?”

“On my shoulders, boyo. I said you’d be sitting, not clinging to my backside like a monkey.”

David took a deep breath, which he instantly regretted because the musk of the Scotsman was enough to make a skunk pass out. He awkwardly lifted one leg up and placed it over the juggler’s right shoulder, and it took him three or four hops before he could successfully swing his other leg up. He was barely in place before the juggler stood up abruptly, and David struggled not to fall off. The people in the audience laughed at David’s shaky shifting, but once he found his balance, he relaxed his muscles. This wasn’t so bad. How was this game a challenge?

An assisting performer walked up on the stage, holding an oil lamp. The juggler touched each club to the lamp’s flame, and they ignited in wickedly dancing flames. David’s eyes opened to the size of tea saucers at the sight of the burning clubs.

“Sit as straight as you can,” the juggler advised. “Don’t lean back, and don’t lean forward. And don’t sneeze. Last fellow who did this sneezed in the middle of the act. I hope the poor bloke’s hair grew back.”

For the first time that day, David’s curiosity was nowhere to be found. In its place was a voice in his head screaming, Get out of there, you idiot!

But he couldn’t. The juggler launched into his act before David could demand to be put down, as the burning torches flew up only inches from David’s face. The flames rose and danced around David, trails of orange tongues licking at the air around his head. The boy’s skin, usually the color of cream-cooled coffee, blanched to milk white, while his brain willed for Time to pick up its pace.

Then there was a fourth club—more specifically, a butcher knife. Then a cleaver. Then a machete. The assistant stood off to the side, tossing blades to the juggler, who caught them in mid-pass and added them to his twirling tornado of torture. The audience held its breath as the juggler increased speed, catching and releasing his implements while David sat petrified, his hair standing on end. As David was about to scream for deliverance from this death trap, the blur of fire and flashing metal stopped.

“Thirty seconds! Well done, lad!”

The next thing he knew, David was back down on the stage, planted securely on his feet. He felt something pressed into his hand, and it took him several moments to regain his wits to realize it was the dagger—his prize. He looked up to see the dark-eyed girl, who gave him a quick congratulatory kiss on the cheek. The crowd was cheering and applauding, but David could not hear it. His head was still spinning as the juggler guided him off the stage, patting him roughly on the back.

“Not bad, boyo. I was sure you would be screaming for your mum before time was up. You have thicker skin than I thought.” The juggler shook David’s hand, giving him a smile that seemed less genuine than before, even tinged with a bit of irritation.

That was when David noticed the tattoo on the juggler’s arm: a silver spear standing straight in the middle, with two golden arrows crossing behind it, and a white lily wrapped around the head of the spear. The Master Huntsmen’s crest.

The exclusive guild of the most exceptional hunters in the world had intrigued David ever since he had heard about them from his uncle, who, admittedly, claimed to always know more than he truly did. David himself would have liked to give hunting a try, but his mother had adamantly protested it, calling it a barbaric sport not suitable for a refined young gentleman.

Was it possible that the juggler had once been a Master Huntsman? No, he couldn’t be. The tattoo must be a facsimile. After all, who would give up the excitement of being a Huntsman to be a second-rate juggler?

David’s room at the inn was small, only a stiff bed, a bedside table and one window, but it was enough. Sleep eluded David that night, the adrenaline from his near-death encounter keeping him awake, so he lay in bed reading his books. He had become enthralled in one story by a writer named Johann Ludwig Tieck, about a woman named Brunhilda who was brought back to life by a sorcerer and then went about drinking the blood of children. Heaven only knew why David wanted to indulge in a horror story after the evening he had been through, but he could not put it down. The story tainted his paranoia enough, however, that he removed his new dagger from his pack and stuck it under his mattress. His logical mind knew that no demon named Brunhilda was going to pay him a visit, but he recalled hearing a superstition about how placing knives under one’s mattress or pillow was an effective ward against evil and bad dreams.

It was after midnight when David finally felt sleep seeping into his bones. He settled into bed and extinguished his bedside candle. He was just about to fall asleep when a sudden draft blew open his window’s shutters, causing them to flap and clap like wooden wings in the breeze. That was odd, he must have not locked his windows well enough, although he was certain he had latched them shut. He got up and closed the shudders again, confirming the lock was secure.

Once he returned to bed, his eyelids began to droop again, but then he caught the scent of something. It was pleasant, soothing, like the odor of herbal tea. He could tell this new smell was too strong to be wafting up from the inn’s kitchen. It was like the source of the smell was right there, in that room with him. Yet panic did not seize him; the delightful smell calmed him, drawing him into a state of contented relaxation.

Blurry visions of wonderful colors and shapes passed through his mind, and a soft tinkling of bells filled the air. He smiled a little, a tiny hum of peace escaping his throat.

He enjoyed it for about another minute until his consciousness slapped him to attention. The tinkling sound was very close to him, as if someone were jingling coins next to his ear, and something was pressing down onto his body. A touch alighted on his cheek. He shot his eyes open, and although he could not see his intruder, he could feel a hot breath warming his face.

Something was right on top of him.

Horror grasped David’s entire body. The word “vampire” rang loudly in his ears. He had no wooden stake or cross on him—not that it would have done any good, given that he could not move. David cringed on the inside and the intruder sniffed gently on his nightshirt collar. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, and he knew any moment his assailant was going to bury its teeth into his neck.

His mind grasped for logic long enough to remind him: the dagger… under your mattress…

David swung his leg around and kicked the thing in the side. It huffed and reeled back, startled. He kicked it again, this time digging his heel into its neck, sending the intruder tumbling off the bed onto the floor. He flipped out of bed and thrust his hand under the mattress, quickly pulling out his dagger. He ripped it from its sheath and held it up threateningly. Rather than attack him, the creature burst out the window, nearly breaking the shudders right off their hinges.

David rushed to the window, looking out into the empty expanse of sky. He lowered his dagger, wondering how the animal could have disappeared so fast. His foot bumped into something, and when he looked down, he saw his coin purse on the floor.

He was baffled. He was sure his purse had been in the pocket of his trousers, which were tucked away in his traveling case. Had his assailant been trying to rob him?

As he traced his fingers along the windowpane, noting the scratches that had been left behind in the wood, he found something small caught in one of the gouges. It was a thumbnail-sized gold coin, a decorative piece, much like the ones worn by the girl who had given him the dagger. His attacker must have been wearing a good number of these coins from the jingling sound he had heard. David knew where to go to find that creature, and learn what manner of demon it may be.

The next day, David wasted no time searching out the caravan. The nomads had already packed up and left town before dawn, but he figured they could not have gone too far. He asked around the market if anyone had seen where the caravan had departed to, but no one knew. Eventually, he stumbled upon the grocer’s shop. The caravan folk had purchased a good amount of eggs, bread, flour and milk before heading off towards a grove on the other side of the river. The grocer mentioned that whenever the caravan passed through the area, they tended to stay a few days in a particular grove before moving on. So, it was the place to start. Before he left the grocer, he bought some amenities, including a string of garlic cloves, for good measure.

It was late evening when David left the inn and made his way through the dusk-washed streets of Orléans. He did not want the nomads to hear him approaching by horse or in a carriage, so he decided he would walk to the grove and sneak up on foot under the cloak of night. That way, he could peek in and gauge the situation in the caravan’s camp. He did not fear roadside thieves that could be lurking nearby; he had his dagger with him, although he predicted his most effective weapons that night were going to be the garlic clove necklace around his neck and the makeshift wooden cross in his pocket. He also had a few other small items that he had collected throughout the day, secured in a leather pouch on his belt. He thought they would be helpful against demons and undead adversaries: a sample of herbs, a silver spoon, small corks, an iron horseshoe, and a shaker of salt. The walk was a good distance, but eventually David arrived at the river and crossed the bridge, and night’s shadow settled with sudden swiftness around him.

He soon caught a glimpse of ghostly light emitting from an opening in the trees not far away. Standing up and advancing cautiously, David approached the clearing. The light flickered from a bonfire, flashes of orange, scarlet and yellow dancing on the trees. There was a collection of caravan wagons, placed here and there around the grove like a small town, their painted sides taking on demonic images in the coating of red from the fire.

All around the grove were snoozing nomads. Scattered among them were sleeping dogs, cats, and a handful of small goats. The forest floor they lay upon was covered in soft cushions and rugs, giving the appearance of a room in a palace. One wagon in the middle of a large, nestled group had one of its sides pulled down into a theatrical stage, standing about a foot above the ground. The walls of the wagon’s interior room were adorned in dozens of long colorful drapes, and in the center was a smooth bronze bowl, ten feet in diameter and about four feet deep.

David tiptoed around the sleeping people. He looked up towards the massive bronze bowl, with the edges of satin pillows spilling over the edge of it. David pulled his dagger from his belt and cautiously ascended into the wagon.

Thoughts of concern entered his mind. Why was he doing this? He wasn’t really sure what he was up against, and he might do himself more harm than good. Besides, if these nomads were already set on leaving the area, why not just let them go, along with whatever strange creature they were hiding? David told himself, because that creature could have killed me—possibly. Wherever this caravan goes, the beast might continue searching for victims, and may be more successful in killing one next time. He felt in his gut that this needed to be done.

Plus, it all was rather exciting. David the Monster Slayer—it had a nice ring to it.

He raised his dagger over his head as he peered over the edge of the bowl. He halted, every muscle in his body tensing into stillness, except for his eyes that widened and his jaw that went slack. It was no vampire or hell beast, but a young woman. At least, from what he could see—except for her head and shoulders, she was mostly buried beneath her nest of pillows and fur blankets. Her dark cascading hair and her throat were adorned with strands of gold, silver, and jewels, and a light scarf of white wrapped around her chest, looping up around her neck. Her skin was golden tan, close to the color of sun-drenched sand, and it was smooth like glass. What caught David the most was her face; it was unlike any he had ever seen. It was a face that was feral, yet at the same time so delicate, that David was filled with both trepidation and fascination.

He stared bewildered at the sleeping woman, and then cast his gaze around the caravan. He wondered, for a moment, if he had been completely mistaken about his theory. Granted, this woman could be of the netherworld, and he had not ruled out the possibility of vampirism. Vampires, according to his readings, were noticeably of the undead—pale, ghostly, and reeked to high heaven of decay. They were also supposed to sleep in coffins, not out in the open like this. Still, she could be some kind of demon. He removed the cross from his pocket and held it up to the woman, preparing for any volatile reaction she might make to its presence. She did not awaken. He leaned over the bowl’s rim and held the cross a little closer, almost an inch from her serene face, but nothing happened, so he shoved the cross back into his pocket. He tried the same thing with the horseshoe and silver spoon, holding each item an inch from her, but still, no response. He even flicked some salt from his saltshaker at her—nothing, although she twitched a little. He pulled away and secured his items back in his pouch, admitting to himself that he was a little disappointed. Maybe the creature he was looking for was not even here. David began to think perhaps more research was in order, and was ready to turn around and sneak away, when he glanced back at the sleeping woman and saw that she was wide awake, staring at him. With large, golden eyes.

David felt something fuzzy and warm enter his head. Everything around him was melting into the fluffiness of a watercolor painting. He quickly shut his eyes and covered them with his arm, staggering back in a flash of panic. He tripped and plummeted off the platform of the wagon, landing with a thud on the ground. David shook his aching head and looked up.

The woman had risen from her bed and was walking towards him, on all fours. She did not walk on human hands and feet, but great lioness paws, and a long fur-tipped tail swished out behind her. Two violet-black wings opened from her back, as if made from pure midnight. The great cascade of hair draped around her, like a shroud, and those glowing golden eyes bore into him like hot branding irons. Her lips pulled back unnaturally towards her ears, baring a predator’s teeth, sharp for tearing flesh.

David opened his mouth, but instead of the scream of terror one might expect, he said in a hushed but triumphant tone, “I knew it!”

The woman-beast’s menacing expression faltered. She raised an eyebrow in confusion.

David stood up, dusting off his trousers as he spoke in a low voice so as not to wake the others. “I’ve read about things like you before. Everyone always says my stories are just silly nonsense, but I knew deep down there was truth to them. If only I could see the looks on my Mama and Papa’s faces if I showed them this! A real live…hmm, you’re not a vampire. Let’s see, a monster with the body of a lion and the head of a woman. That makes you…a sphinx! Like the one in the ancient Greek stories.”

The sphinx, for that was indeed what she was, pursed her lips in thought.

David felt his blood run cold as he recalled all he knew about sphinxes. They were described as man-eaters, who would either strangle their victims with their jaws or simply rip them to pieces and devour them. They were also cunning and deceiving, although sometimes benevolent and noble if they were in the mood. David was hoping this one could be coerced into being the latter. He had never read about sphinxes having a hypnotic power, but it was her teeth and claws that he was focusing on at the moment.

David’s shock was trumped by his sense of self-preservation. He drew out his dagger, pointing it at the sphinx’s face, and cleared his throat. “I know exactly how to conquer you, sphinx. The answer…is Man!”

The sphinx cocked her head questioningly at him.

“Your old riddle,” David said, keeping his dagger pointed towards the sphinx. “It’s from the story of Oedipus. King Oedipus meets the sphinx on the road to Thebes, and she asks, ‘what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three in the evening?’ The answer is Man. And since I answered the riddle correctly, you have to throw yourself off a cliff in despair.”

The sphinx did not seem threatened by this. In fact, she gave him an amused grin, and a soft chuckle in the back of her throat. As if to say, How adorable.

David could feel sweat beading on his forehead. “Unless…that is not how this works at all. I…should probably go.”

Yet, he could not will his legs to move. Her gaze held him, trapped by those two glowing golden eyes. She shook her hair and inhaled deeply, her chest expanding, and then whispered forth a sweet-smelling scent, a mist of lavender, vanilla and rose that clouded David’s face. The scent invaded David’s nose and throat, commanding his body and brain to relax, making him feel woozy and happy at the same time. David snapped himself out of it, reaching back into his pouch and pulling out the two small, thin corks. He shoved the corks up his nostrils and breathed through his mouth. He had thought to acquire the corks after the night the creature had broken into his room at the inn, remembering the enchanting aroma that had lulled him into false repose.

The sphinx looked at the corks in his nose, and gave him a skeptical look that said, Really? Then a smile spread across her face. David wrinkled his brow, wondering what the sphinx was smiling about, until he heard a chorus of growls behind him. Turning, David saw the nomad men and the dogs, all staring at him. The men frowned at him, a few of them cracking their knuckles. The dogs bared their teeth and snarled.

Before David could run, the men pounced at him, taking hold of his arms and pinning him to the ground. When he tried to break free, the dogs bit at his trouser legs. The weight of the men made him immobile, and his dagger was wrenched from his hands and his pouch of items taken. In the tussle, the corks fell from David’s nostrils. He could only wriggle madly as his hands and ankles were tied tightly with a coarse rope. Then they raised their fists in preparation to knock him out.

The sphinx made a soft coo, and the men and dogs immediately stepped away from David. The creature approached the bound boy, her expression gentle but keen. David thrashed about, pulling with all his might to free his hands from the rope, but the men had tied him down superbly. The sphinx looked up at the others, her eyes glowing. The men became drowsy, and they lay down one by one and returned to snoring contentedly.

David held his breath and shut his eyes, refusing to be taken in by the sphinx’s spells. He felt one of her strong arms wrap around his waist, her claws digging into his side, and he was dragged along the ground. He was lifted and set down on something soft. He opened an eye, and found himself inside the sphinx’s bowl, with the monstrosity settled next to him. The sphinx gazed at him fixedly, but made no sign of her intentions. David continued to struggle against his bindings, even though she spread one feathered wing over him to hold him still.

“You’re making a big mistake,” David barked. “Nothing you do will make me your slave. The instant I’m out of these ropes, I’ll destroy you and free all these people from your spell. Do you understand me?”

The sphinx merely blew a soothing aroma into his nose. David gagged on the scent but could not prevent it from taking effect and caressing him into the most blissful sleep he had had in a long time.

Chapter 2

David awoke the next morning to the smell of something delicious. He blinked open his eyes wearily, not remembering where he was at first. He took in his surroundings, and then recalled the events from the previous night. The sphinx was not at his side, but he was still tied up. He craned his neck to look over at the camp. Everyone was having breakfast. There was a large pot cooking over the bonfire, brewing a thick hearty stew. Baskets of fruit and bread were placed near the fire pit, and a jug of milk was being passed around from person to person.

Each nomad took his or her fair share of food: half a loaf of bread, one or two choices of fruit, and a decent sized bowl of stew. What was peculiar was that the sphinx was the one serving the stew with a wooden ladle in her paw. The toes of her front paws were more elongated and flexible than those of a typical lion—they were like stubby fingers with claws at the tips. The stew smelled so intoxicating, David was drooling a river. He sighed, realizing that he would probably get no breakfast, or any meal for that matter, until he was willing to give in to the foul animal. He tried again to see if he could wriggle out of his ropes, but his muscles ached too much to make a good effort. He laid his head back against the side of the bronze bowl, his mind racing with thoughts of how he would get out of this mess.