The Pharaoh's Mistress

by Aderyn Wood

  He turned his attention back to Georgette’s message and read it in less than three heartbeats.

  I make my way to C. I will meet you at le chat at midnight.

  Michael frowned. Trust Georgette to write such a cryptic message. He supposed she was stalking about wearing bug-eyed sunglasses, and scarves that would never retain her blond frizz of hair. He should have been more adamant with her. He should have told her to stay in Paris, and that he would refuse to meet with her under any circumstances. But it was too late for that. Now she had set forth on a dangerous path and her very life was at stake thanks to him. With that thought his hands buzzed so violently he nearly dropped his coffee. The cup plonked onto the saucer with a loud clang and coffee splashed on the white tablecloth.

  Kallum appeared by his table. “Is everything to your liking, sir? Is there anything you need?”

  “No. Thank you. I just… I just dropped my cup that’s all.” Michael tried to shake the tingling from his hand.

  “No, trouble, sir. I shall bring you more coffee.”

  “No, it’s all right. I don’t wish for more coffee right now.”

  “You’re certain? It would be no trouble.”

  Michael grimaced. Damn Emma and her bloody enchantments. These zombies were utterly under her spell. “No, perhaps later.”

  Kallum flashed a smile then, gratefully, departed.

  Michael took a deep breath as he shook his hands once more. Georgette was involved in this more than he knew. He must meditate on it.

  He glanced around. There was no else present in the large dining cabin. Michael had seen a handful of crew; the driver, perhaps he should be called ‘captain’, Yossef, Kallum and he’d glimpsed a cook in the kitchen. The pamphlet in their cabin announced there were twelve members of the crew who worked in set shifts, so there was always someone available if a guest needed a ‘midnight snack, new linen or a cocktail at any time of the day or night’. Outside, the day had brightened further, and a pair of herons glided past. All seemed peaceful. With his belly full and his energy high, now was as good a time as any to meditate.

  Michael closed his eyes and stilled his breathing. In seconds he entered that almost trance-like state in which he could simply allow his consciousness to reveal certain clues. He pictured Georgette, her tall frame, her blonde curls, the scent of cinnamon or nutmeg that seemed a permanent part of her. Images flicked through his mind. Georgette on a plane, or train? Georgette tapping away on her laptop. Georgette reading. Michael attempted to identify the book, but it remained shrouded in the cosmic fog that always obscured these visions. The images flicked past at an increasing pace and Michael’s breath came faster as he tried to still the flow and focus on just one sign. But a single vision recurred. The stream of pictures refused to slow no matter how much he concentrated, but that one image repeated itself among the many others.

  His palms were hot and sweating and the buzzing in his limbs became almost unbearable, but he gritted his teeth and forced his mind to remain in this state until he’d seen enough of that image to glean some small detail. There was a gold handle, or hilt belonging to a long blade. Some kind of dagger perhaps, or a spear? Michael opened his eyes and breathed sharply.

  He forced the chair back and stood on unsteady legs to pace the available space in the dining cabin, shaking his hands out and breathing hard. The visioning had taken its toll physically, but it had given him something. Some ancient relic. It was a weapon of sorts with a gold and steel blade. Perhaps it held power over vampires. But there were thousands of such relics. Beginning a search for this one seemed pointless. A chill gripped his spine with a new question that slowly formed in his mind. What did it have to do with Georgette?

  Michael napped after the strenuous meditation and in the early afternoon he dined on a delectable luncheon of baked Nile perch and fennel. Gradually, his strength returned. He read from the notes he’d taken from Gavius’ Dark Ones in the late afternoon as he reclined on a deck chair. But his concentration wavered, and now and then he watched the river as he considered the matter of Georgette and the mysterious relic.

  The fatigue returned to him in spurts; he kept nodding off, and the dreams would begin. There was Emma standing in the dark. A pale light illuminated the sharpness of her cheek and jawline. The softness of her neck. His eye kept returning to behold her artful beauty, and a longing deep inside him made his dream-self step forward and reach out to touch her, to kiss her…

  Michael, Emma said in the dream.

  “Michael.”

  Michael opened his eyes. Someone stood close – a black shadow in the dusk light. It wasn’t Emma, she wouldn’t yet be awake. This person was too tall to be Emma, and the red hair confirmed it was not her.

  Michael jolted and sat up, blinking, suddenly alert and only too aware of who stood before him. He glanced around in earnest. The river remained empty of other vessels. How did she manage to find them and board the yacht?

  Laughter emanated once more and the figure in black stepped forward. The red of her hair was more visible now and it matched the colours of the dusk skyline. “Enjoying your dreams, priest?”

  Michael sprung to his feet. “How did you—”

  “Never mind that.” Amynta’s clipped words cut through his post-nap haze. Her accent was a strange mix of cultures. “I am not here to capture you, though well I should.”

  Michael frowned. “What do you want?”

  “A word. To appeal to your rationality while I still can.”

  “While you can?”

  Amynta pursed red lips. “Her influence over you grows, Michael. You’re a fool to deny it one moment more. Soon, you will become her prey in full, and then I fear it will be too late. Your fate will be sealed.”

  “And why should my fate be of any concern to you?”

  Amynta raised an eyebrow. “It isn’t. But, as I’ve tried to tell you, she is my concern.”

  “You want to murder her.”

  “Ha! If we cull the wolves who prey on the village, do we judge it murder? You’re a fool to think it so.”

  Thoughts of Hany flashed in his mind. The blood had been everywhere, and he very much doubted the boy would have survived.

  “You know I speak the truth. You’ve seen her powers grow.” Amynta tilted her head and took a step closer. Her ruddy eyes seemed almost red in the dusk light. “She’s already caused grievous harm, hasn’t she?”

  “What exactly do you want with her?”

  “I’ve told you, I need her for bait. Something is happening, Michael. An ancient prophecy is about to play out. I need to get to Asha.”

  “Why is she important?”

  Amynta took a sharp breath and studied him a moment, considering her words. The dusk was rapidly fading, as it always did here in Egypt. One moment it was day, the next, night. “You know about the pendant Asha wears about her throat?”

  Michael’s hands buzzed.

  “Of course you do, it was written all over Chartley’s diary. I must have it.”

  “Does it hold some kind of power?”

  Amynta smiled in a creepy fashion and opened her mouth to speak, but a terrifying screech interrupted her, followed by a rushed blur, and in the next instant a fight was in full mode. Emma was punching and kicking Amynta, but the slayer seemed to be holding her own, dodging punches with stupefying speed and throwing some of her own. Emma was still high on the youth’s blood and her strength and speed was so much more than Amynta’s. In less than half a minute Emma stood on the deck, arm stretched out over the water where she held the slayer by her collar dangling over the whitewash of river below.

  “I’ve a mind to drain you dry, bitch, for what you did to me,” Emma snarled. Her voice was altered, deeper, and like gravel. The monster’s voice. Michael paced a few short steps before hesitating. He should accept what she’d become. The monster was part of her now, but he couldn’t do that. He had to help retain her dwindling humanity.

  “You could try,” Amynta managed to hi
ss back. Her hands clung to Emma’s forearm. Her feet circled the air. Beneath, the river churned as the yacht powered through. “Go ahead. Make my night.”

  Emma’s snarl curled all the more. “Your blood would taste like piss.”

  “Emma, no!” Michael shouted too late.

  Emma released her hold.

  Time seemed to pause as Amynta, still grinning, shot her arm up and stabbed Emma in the shoulder with some small object, before pulling back, object still in hand. Then she fell into the inky waters of the Nile. Down to the dangers of currents and crocodiles. But if the slayer had been afraid, she hadn’t shown it. Not in the least. For Michael swore he saw her keep that smug grin, her reddish eyes never leaving his as she plunged into the river that now reflected the red night sky.

  “Damn her,” Emma said rubbing her shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  Emma looked at him, her eyes also red. “She stabbed me with a syringe. Took a sample of my blood.”

  Chapter 7

  Paris Gare de Lyon looked much the same as it had for the last century. Nathaniel had first seen the old train station’s now famous clock tower and stately architecture during the 1900 Exposition when talking films and escalators were all the buzz. For Nathaniel, that World Fair had proved utterly fascinating. He’d only just awoken from his second dormancy – a hibernation of almost fifty years in which he’d slept deep in the bosom of the earth. Resurfacing to learn of such advancements were perplexing to say the least. Before his long dormancy, the civilized world was still coming to grips with barometers and daguerreotypes. To see moving films, let alone talking ones, had made Nathaniel’s jaw drop on more than one occasion. Of course, the speed of technological development had increased exponentially since, and Nathaniel found himself contemplating what type of world he would awaken to the next time he slept for half a century. Or perhaps, the rats would destroy it all. Nathaniel wouldn’t be at all surprised if they did.

  He forced his thoughts back to his task as he stuck to the shadows and observed the bustling crowd. Commuters who lived in Paris’ outskirts marched in a trance-like state, rushing with briefcases and phones in hand to catch their routine ride back to mundania.

  Nathaniel like to watch the rats in their race, even when he wasn’t hunting. To observe their utter ignorance of how close their worn paths came to danger intrigued him. Sometimes, when he was in the mood, he would frighten the living lights out of them just by revealing his fangs and blood-filled glowing eyes. But this night, there was no time for play. Keeping close to walls and barriers, avoiding the security cameras where he could, he made his way to the platform.

  He’d tried travel by plane, only once, and vowed he would never attempt such folly again. Airports proved too difficult for a vampire to navigate. The X-ray equipment, the mass of security cameras and sniffer dogs, not to mention the guards with their misplaced superiority, it was all too tricky. Rats were, on the whole, easy enough to sway when they weren’t thinking about it. But those guards at the airports had attitudes that would put even Schleck to shame. No, it was all too difficult. And why bother with planes at all when the romance of travel by train, ship or ferry offered so much more. He knew it fed his nostalgia, but he permitted the indulgence. On these longer trips, one could delight in various pleasures of the blood and the flesh. Rats could die anywhere, after all. Mostly, Nathaniel preferred not to kill these days, but sometimes he was rash. Old Ones could be rash when the mood took them. He didn’t blink if he killed a victim though. This planet was crawling with rats, there was a veritable infestation of them. He was doing Mother Earth a favour by reducing the plague of humanity that choked her. He’d often considered altering his policy and killing every single one of his victims. He would, too, if it didn’t draw the attention of the authorities and, in turn, Amynta.

  At the platform, the train awaited departure and passengers gradually made their way onboard with luggage in tow. A young couple kissed and embraced. The sweet innocence that emanated was so strong a hard knot of nausea settled in Nathaniel’s stomach. He snarled, wishing he could give them the fright of their young lives. They needed it. Nathaniel studied the man a moment, but swiftly moved on. Far too young.

  Nathaniel scanned the growing crowd as he stalked along the platform. He needed a passenger with a certain build, a certain look. Handsome, debonair. A family rushed passed, the mother held a small infant in her arms and it was screaming, producing such an affront to Nathaniel’s delicate hearing his ears actually hurt. The family boarded a carriage in economy, and the child’s piercing wails muted somewhat. Nathaniel almost pitied the passengers forced to share a cabin with that screeching runt – almost.

  He walked on to the first-class carriages and resumed his search.

  An elderly couple, conservatively dressed, looked around with dumb expressions on their crinkled faces. Probably bamboozled by the new e-tickets that were so different to last century. Simpletons. Another thing he’d noted about rats. The older they got the stupider they became. Some scholars, those with even a pinch of merit, had postulated that the vampire was reluctant to change with the times. Nathaniel smirked. Bullshit.

  Further along a young woman, thin and over-preened, her tall heels making a clacking sound on the platform, held an air of self-importance, as though this train was here for her sole purpose, and others should think themselves lucky it existed at all to take her to Rome. Nathaniel paused a moment to watch her arse as it bobbed in jerky movements in her little floral skirt. She was far from his type – pretty in a plastic way, skinny and stupid. Probably thought shoes and handbags were the all that mattered in the world.

  Nathaniel moved on before pausing once more. He found his target. The man was approximately his own height, give or take a centimetre. He had dark hair and eyes, an elegant nose and just the right jaw line that gave him a certain dignity. He would do nicely.

  Nathaniel stepped forward. “Excusez-moi,” he said quietly.

  The man turned in a distracted fashion. He was in the middle of texting. Nathaniel was pleased to see his age, thirty-odd, a good match.

  The man glanced at him. “Je ne suis pas intéressé.”

  “Oh, but you are interested.” Nathaniel locked the man’s gaze in place and felt the familiar immediacy of having a rat under his immense power.

  The man’s mouth fell open slightly and his hand drooped by his side. The phone nearly slipped from his clutch and Nathaniel stepped forward to take it. “I’ll be needing this. Along with all your passwords, your wallet, any laptops or other devices, and I may as well take your luggage from you too. When you leave from here you’re to go to Ruelle Noir, to the men’s hostel. They will take you in. In the morning when you wake you’ll wonder what happened. You would have suffered a mysterious and altogether unexplainable bout of amnesia. And I wish you all the best with that.”

  His cabin turned out to be a first-class sleeper. Nathaniel congratulated himself on his choice of rat. Not only did the identity fit him nicely, but the cabin would give him the privacy he desired. Perhaps a little distraction would be possible after all.

  The train jolted, and began its trip to Rome just as Nathaniel placed his newly-acquired suitcase in the storage compartment. He would go through the rat’s belongings later. It always proved entertaining searching through his victim’s articles, seeing what mundane or sordid little lives they led. He enjoyed the secrets he uncovered. It could also prove profitable. Sometimes he found large sums hidden away in the pockets. Drugs too. Though he steered clear of those. Alcohol, tobacco and opium provided him with some slight pleasure, but most of the cheap chemical concoctions the rats cooked up gave him nothing but heartburn and headaches.

  Yes, the train was good, but not like the old days. They were something. Long wintry nights playing poker till dawn in the dining car of the Orient Express. He recalled a night when the old wooden train came across a snowdrift somewhere near Cherkeskoy, Turkey, and remained stuck in one place for five full nights
. He feasted on the wealthy. A mistake – the murderous journey received too much attention from the world’s fledgling press. Nathaniel later learned it had hit the front pages everywhere from Melbourne to New York, and Amynta had pursued him hard. Perhaps it was that particular journey that gave old Agatha the inspiration for her famed novel.

  Trains had changed, though not for the better with their sealed windows, air-conditioning and accoutrements wrapped in plastic. This century, plastic was everywhere. Plastic panels. Plastic table. Plastic in the very seat. A lingering nostalgia rose within Nathaniel’s mind and he yearned for the warm smell of varnish on wood panels, the squeak of leather seats, the soft hue of woollen curtains in the trains of yesteryear.

  He shook his head. These little episodes of nostalgia grew more frequent the older he got. If he allowed them, they would take him down into a dark and brooding despondency that would last days. Keeping up to date with the times – the gadgets, fashions and even the politics – helped him to foster an appreciation for the present. But the past continued to battle this self-obsessed modern world that increasingly sickened him. Them, the rats, they’d become more self-absorbed, more greed-ridden, more narcissistic than any vampire he’d known.

  Nathaniel turned to face the door to the little cubicle that was his private bathroom and found a mirror on the wall. Nothing there but the reflection of the door. He took a towel and covered the looking glass as best he could, just in case.

  “Looking glass,” he whispered with a shake of his head. “Get a grip, Nate. They haven’t called it that for a century at least.”

  He washed his face and hands then stepped out into the passage. It was time to explore.

  Nathaniel ended up at the bar, as he knew he would. The skinny woman with the short skirt and the impossible heels was there, well on her way to inebriation. Her horrid accent told him she was American. New worlder, he thought with disdain. She flirted with a couple of young male passengers, Germans, and every single one of her actions screamed an obvious message – she was available and open to whatever entertainments the young men suggested.