Humbaba himself was a cast of the die thrown by Enlil. Where the child before him, growing plates of granitelike skin, was obviously an effort at recasting Annunaki genes in a silicon-based life form, Humbaba was combined with one of the races discovered in northern Africa, the Anhur. Conquered by Enlil’s armies, the lion folk had impressed their mutual father enough to warrant experimentation. Though Anhur had been all but scourged from Earth, Enlil had saved a bride from the feline colonists as an experiment to relieve his boredom, curiosity and lust.
The result was nine feet and four hundred pounds of rippling, coiled muscle sheathed in a blend of golden fur and glimmering scales along his chest, belly, arms and legs. Humbaba had proved his might in single and multiple combat with Nephilim and Igigi, showing his might as a match for any five of those servitor beings. Humbaba mused over Ullikummis and what kind of beast he would be in adulthood.
He was tempted to throw the brat before his new prize, but Humbaba didn’t want to waste his slave or incur the ire of his father, depending on who won their conflict. Even under Shamhat’s influence, Humbaba was not certain the man-beast would accept orders. Enkidu had arrived, unable to speak the language of the apekin the Annunaki ruled over, not a problem with the mental abilities of the overlords. Telepathic communication enabled Enkidu to understand their words, even though the wild man’s brain was a scramble of disjointed information, making it nearly impossible to know his origin. All they could tell was that he was human, and he bore technology far beyond the simple tools that the apekin had developed.
The cloak he wore, the weapon strapped to his arm, even the small implant put subcutaneously on his mandible, were materials either thousands of years distant for humankind, or inspired by the technological genius of the Annunaki and their slaves. The cloak and weapon hung on a pillar, not far from the bound giant. His skin was shades lighter than the ebony of the natives of the continent of Africa, indicating that somewhere along the course of his family, the blood of Europeans and Asians had mixed into his genes. He was a melting pot of all manner of humanity’s strengths—that much was apparent from Humbaba’s gene crafters. They had even seen some of the hand of such gene tampering in the protein strings that decided his form.
His musculature had only improved in the time since he had first appeared, and his will was still strong, despite the brainwashing techniques of Shamhat, the finest of Humbaba’s scientists. That iron determination not to be dominated and the odd scrambling that had stripped Enkidu of his identity had stopped them cold.
“Do you like my man-bull?” Humbaba asked his half brother.
“He’s…impressive,” Ullikummis replied. As tall as the young Annunaki was, this was the first human who towered over him. Dark eyes blazed with rage and defiance, a fire inside that was not quenched. “How long have you had him?”
Humbaba frowned. “Not long enough.”
“He hasn’t been broken,” the son of Enlil said. “I repeat…how long have you had him?”
“Four months.” Humbaba sighed with resignation.
Ullikummis looked at the chains wound around Enkidu’s wrists. Shoulders swelled like melons, his forearms corded so tightly that the veins stood out on them. He was straining against secondary orichalcum, one of the strongest alloys developed by the Annunaki. “He’s that strong?”
“He could not burst the links on the steel chain we put him in,” Humbaba said. “But he used those bonds to crush the throats and break the necks of four Nephilim.”
Ullikummis tilted his head.
“He’s just a human,” Humbaba said.
Ullikummis narrowed his eyes.
Humbaba didn’t sound quite so convinced of his superiority as the chained apekin stood. This was not a beast who railed savagely against his captivity. This one quietly flexed, his muscles struggling to find a single weakness in his bonds, all the while watching for the opportunity to get the upper hand.
Either Humbaba and Shamhat would break him, or this giant among humans would see their downfall.
It would be worse should Enkidu remember his true name.
The man who would be known as Grant five thousand years from now bided his time, waiting for his chance to break free, to find out who he truly was, and return to where he knew the language and the people.
Chapter 1
When Grant’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness seizing him once more, the first thing he saw was the tanned, soft shoulder of Shizuka. The beautiful, black-haired woman breathed deeply in the peace of sleeping bliss. The jet-black silk of her hair poured over his right biceps and her back pressed against his barrel-like chest, while his left forearm rested in the saddle formed by the curve of her waist between her rib cage and one sleek, muscular hip. Nothing separated their bodies save for a thin sheen of perspiration. The only other things that touched them were the cool predawn air, the futon mat they lay upon and a thin sheet of slick gossamer cloth.
Shizuka was entwined with him, her supple form spooned against his, and Grant let the heaviness of his eyelids drag themselves closed. He didn’t want to disentangle himself from the Japanese goddess, her cheek lying on his muscle, using it as a pillow. He allowed himself a small smile, enjoying the scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin.
For all intents and purposes, Grant and Shizuka were man and wife, one heart that had been repaired when the warriors of Cerberus redoubt had encountered the Tigers of Heaven from New Edo. It had been hard weeks since he had last seen her, his time claimed by the arrival of a grim godling from the stars. At the memory of Ullikummis, Grant’s joy at his reunion with Shizuka was plucked out like a worm in soft, moist soil.
“Grant?” Shizuka asked sleepily, roused from her slumber by the deep, guttural rumble that rolled through his chest, riding the crest of disappointment washing over his heart.
“Sleep,” Grant whispered, kissing the back of her head, but Shizuka was a leader, not a follower. Her strength of will and her warrior spirit were strong enough to dispel centuries of tradition to make her the commander of the fabled samurai of the Tigers of Heaven.
She turned with effortless grace, and her dark, almond-shaped eyes stood out in the premorning gray that crept through the rice-paper wall panels of Shizuka’s Spartan abode. Concern had creased her brow and Grant’s frown followed the downward curve of his gunfighter’s mustache.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.
“I felt your turmoil when you first stepped from the mat-trans,” Shizuka answered. Her slender but rope-muscled arm reached up, looping around his neck, and Grant winced as he realized that his deltoids were drawn taut with tension. “We managed to put it away for a while, but it’s returned strong enough to wake me.”
“Can’t even take a full night’s sleep.” Grant folded his arm, putting his hand under his head as a pillow between his head and the futon, fighting down the regret that weighed heavily on his broad, powerful shoulders. His eyes met Shizuka’s, drawn into the dark pools, succumbing to the depths as he peered through the windows of her soul.
Grant had loved Shizuka almost from first sight, and while the attraction to an athletic, confident and beautiful woman was hardly a mystery, there was something in her that seemed a sort of anchor, a bond that immediately formed between the two warriors. He cupped his free hand at the nape of her neck, black silk cascading over his fingers like cool water, and pulled her gently to him, meeting her halfway in a kiss. It was a cleansing of his mind, driving away his doubts, regrets and worries as he sheltered himself in her loving embrace.
Shizuka’s