Prologue: The Calling of Ishtar

The ruins of Babylon (2007)

Dr. Christine “Christy” Quinn shifted uncomfortably on her knees, the desert heat pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. She glanced down at herself, her white linen shirt practically translucent now, plastered to her skin like a second layer. She could see the outline of her bra—white lace because even in the middle of nowhere, she refused to let go of every shred of dignity—and the faint shadow of her nipples, hard from the cool breeze that occasionally cut through the oppressive heat. Her khakis clung to her thighs and ass, the fabric stretched tight over her curves. “I might as well be naked,” she thought with a wry smirk. The desert wasn’t concerned about modesty, and neither did the gods whose temple she was excavating.

She glimpsed Mo out of the corner of her eye, his gaze lingering a little too long on her backside. Again. He was always leering at her, his eyes darting away whenever she turned to face him. It was almost comical how predictable he was. Creepy, yes, but predictable. She sighed, brushing a strand of damp hair from her forehead. Mo was useful—he knew the area better than anyone else on the team—but his constant staring was wearing on her patience. She could feel his eyes on her now, burning hotter than the sun.

“Get a grip, Mo,” she muttered under her breath, though she knew he couldn’t hear her over the wind. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

She shifted again, this time deliberately turning her back to him, giving him a full view of her ass as she bent over the cuneiform shards. If he wanted to stare, she might as well give him something to look at. The thought made her smirk widen. Let him squirm. Her purpose wasn’t to be his fantasy.

Her fingers traced the inscriptions again, the ancient symbols seeming to pulse under her touch. The ritual described in these fragments was unlike anything she’d ever encountered before. It spoke of union—of flesh and divinity, of pleasure and power. The words were explicit, almost erotic in their detail, and Christy couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down her spine as she read them. Was this what her predecessors had felt when they first discovered these texts? This heady mix of awe and desire?

She glanced back at Mo, who quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in his notes. “Creep,” she thought again, but there was no real venom in it. He was harmless—just another man who couldn’t handle a woman who knew what she wanted. And Christy wanted this. She wanted it more than anything.

Her notebook lay open beside her, its pages filled with sketches and translations that were starting to form a coherent picture. The ritual was complex, requiring not just knowledge but courage—a willingness to embrace the unknown, to surrender to forces greater than oneself. Christy’s heart raced at the thought. She had never been one to shy away from danger, but this ... this was something else.

The wind picked up again, carrying with it the faint scent of incense and something else—something metallic, like blood. Christy frowned, scanning the horizon once more. Secrets filled the desert, and not all of them lay buried in the sand.

She turned back to the shards, her fingers trembling as she traced the symbols again. “I’m close,” she thought. “So close.”

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the temple ruins, Christine Quinn prepared herself for what was to come—not just for Mo’s lecherous gaze or the oppressive heat of the desert, but for something far greater. Something that would shape everything.

“Let them stare,” she thought with a defiant grin. “I’m not here for them.”

The Sandstorm

The sun sunk low on the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the ancient ruins. Christy stood slowly, brushing sand from her cargo pants and linen shirt with brisk strokes. Her hands glide over her breasts almost unconsciously as they sweep away grit; even through fabric and exhaustion, she feels a spark ignite low in her belly.

The thought crosses her mind: Later. Later tonight, when camp is quiet and the others are asleep, she’ll find a moment for herself. She’ll slip into her tent, the canvas walls thin but enough to muffle the sounds she might make. She’ll lie back on her cot, her fingers already itching to slide between her thighs. Her cunt is wet just thinking about it, the ache building as her clit throbs with anticipation.

She’ll tease herself first, circling that sensitive little nub until she’s trembling, until she can’t stand it anymore. Then she’ll push two fingers inside, fucking herself slow and deep, imagining it’s not her hand but something—or someone—else. The thought makes her bite her lip, her breath hitching as she imagines how good it will feel to cum, to let that tension finally break.

But she’s not ready to stop—not yet. She looks around and suddenly sees a shadow that doesn’t belong.

Another fragment. Buried just beneath the surface.

Her fingers trembled as they brush over the jagged edge of the clay tablet. The flickering light of her oil lamp dances across its surface, illuminating the cuneiform script carved with precision into the baked earth. Her breath catches in her throat as her eyes lock onto the name etched into the center of the fragment: Ishtar. The name of the goddess herself, bold and unyielding, surrounded by symbols that twist and coil like serpents.

“This ... this can’t be,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of the desert wind. She traced the symbols with trembling fingers, her mind racing to piece together their meaning. The tablet feels warm under her touch, as if it’s alive, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly energy.

Her team’s voices drift from the camp behind her, but she barely hears them. The world narrows to the tablet and the secrets it holds. She flips through her journal, pages filled with notes and sketches, until she finds a passage that matches the symbols before her. Her pulse quickens.

“The ritual,” she mutters, her voice low and urgent. “It’s here. It’s real.”

The symbols form a pattern she recognizes—a sequence tied to offerings, to union, to power. Her chest tightens as she reads further, her lips moving silently as she deciphers the ancient script. The words speak of desire, of surrender, of a connection that transcends flesh and bone.

Her hands shook as she sets the tablet down and reaches for her brush, carefully clearing more sand from around it. The light from her lamp flickered, casting long shadows that seem to shift and writhe on ancient temple walls. She pauses, glancing up, but there’s nothing there—just the wind and the endless expanse of desert.

She turns back to the tablet, her focus razor-sharp. “This is proof,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with awe and something darker—something hungry.

The sound of footsteps pulls her from her thoughts. She looks up to see one of her team members approaching, his face etched with concern.

“Dr. Quinn? We’re about to pack up for the night. There’s a storm forecasted. You coming?”

Christy hesitated, her gaze flicking back to the tablet. “Not yet,” she says finally, her voice firm. “There’s more here. I need to see this through.”

The man shifts uneasily, glancing at the shadows creeping across the ruins. “It’s getting late, and the wind is picking up. Maybe we should—”

“Go ahead without me,” she interrupts, already turning back to the tablet. “I’ll catch up.”

He hesitated, but finally nods, retreating toward camp. Christy barely noticed his departure. Her world narrows once more to the tablet and its secrets. She picks up her brush again, her movements precise and deliberate as she uncovers more of the inscription.

The wind picks up, carrying with it a faint, almost melodic hum that seems to resonate through the ruins. Christy shivered, but doesn’t look up. Her heart pounds in her chest as she works, each stroke of her brush revealing more of the ancient script.

And then she saw it—a symbol she’s only ever seen in fragments before. It’s larger than the others, more intricate, with lines that spiral inward like a vortex. Her breath hitches as she recognizes it: the mark of Ishtar’s power.

Her fingers hover over the symbol, trembling slightly. She knows what this means—what it could mean for her work, for her life. For everything.

The wind now howls around her, but Christy doesn’t flinch. Her eyes remain locked on the tablet, on the symbol that seems to pulse with a life of its own.

“I’ve found you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the wind.

The calling

Christy’s hand moved feverishly across the page of her journal, the charcoal stick smudging as she sketches the intricate symbol etched into the ancient tablet. The wind howls around her, whipping sand against her exposed skin like tiny lashes. Her crop top clings to her sweat-drenched body, and her cargo pants are heavy with the weight of the storm. She doesn’t care. She’s close—so close to deciphering the ritual that has consumed her for years.