The Pharaoh's Mistress

by Aderyn Wood

  Michael’s heartbeat slowed, and his breathing regulated. His mind wandered to that space of lucid unconsciousness where he could control the dream-like quality of his trance and ask questions of the cosmos, or whatever it was that gave him insight into this world and the many worlds beyond.

  As much as he tried to guide his search, unwelcome images kept flashing in his mind. Emma, with red, shining lips and eyes as black as the night that seemed to take him into their power. Her alabaster skin almost glowed in the moonlight and her black eyes focused squarely on him, pinning him in place. She reached for him and his heart betrayed him, quickening with anticipation, each beat booming in his ears. Her lips drew back into a strange smile and she bent down, her face ever closer, her lips mere millimetres from his own.

  He forced his eyes open, panting in rapid gasps. He flung his body up out of the chair. This was stupidity. These feelings for Emma were dangerous.

  Guard your heart.

  The warning bubbled up from his subconscious and a shiver bounded through his core. His grandmother had warned him through Brother Gerold to guard his heart. He’d believed she’d meant Judith at first. His ex-wife had made her intentions clear enough and he’d been stupid enough to consider returning down that familiar path fraught with misery and broken-heartedness. But Emma fixed that, and now Judith was free. Safe. And unaware of his existence.

  But his grandmother hadn’t meant Judith. She’d meant Emma. Michael’s hand moved involuntarily to his inner coat pocket and felt the length of the stake still hidden there – the stake that had killed a vampire once before.

  He let go and removed his spectacles to rub weary eyes. Could he even trust that Gerold had truly channelled his grandmother in the first place? Gerold was involved in this secret organisation, the SSO, along with Amynta and Schleck. He couldn’t trust him. Michael shook his head remembering the gestures the monk had adopted. The way he’d lowered his chin as though he looked over low-sitting spectacles. The way he’d called Michael, my little man. It must have been his Nan’s spirit.

  Michael rolled his shoulders and moved his head from side to side in an effort to clear his mind and counter the sudden weariness that made his body heavy. Fatigue from altered sleep patterns, the overuse of his gift, and a constant state of being alert was weighing him down. Suppressing his growing feelings for Emma only added to the lethargy. He’d spent no time thinking about those desires, analysing them like he would any other emotion in any other case, to glean what he could from the meaning. What would come if he allowed himself to admit such desires were real? He wanted to suppress these very thoughts too, right now, but… the key to everything lay with Emma.

  “Yes,” he said aloud. She had vast experience with ancient Egyptian artefacts in her work as a conservator. She was a veritable Egyptologist for Christ’s sake! She was bound to know the significance of Ashayet, Seth and anything else to do with Egypt.

  Michael whipped his glasses back on and strode to the cabin exit. He took the steps to the lower deck, but Emma no longer lingered there. Michael paused to take in the view. The river remained a blue-black ribbon reflecting the stars of the clear night sky. Dawn was a way off yet.

  He went straight to their cabin, but Emma wasn’t there either. She’d been here. An open book sat on the bedside table, the Foliss, and the vodka bottle now empty beside it told him she’d returned to their cabin recently.

  Michael frowned, and scratching his head he walked back to the deck and up to the helm.

  “Good evening, sir,” Yossef said stepping out from the wheelhouse. “We should reach Asyut this morning.”

  “That’s good, Yossef. Have you seen Emma?”

  “She was on the lower deck earlier. But I’ve not seen her for at least half an hour.”

  “Thank you.” Michael hurried back below deck thinking she could have returned to their cabin, but it still remained empty. He climbed up to the dining cabin, but she wasn’t there either. The laptop and Michael’s tablet remained on the table untouched, just where he’d left them.

  “Where is she?” He ambled out of the cabin as a terrifying realisation took hold and his blood turned to ice in his veins.

  “No!” He gritted his teeth as his feet slammed down on each step to the passenger cabins, and he cursed his body for being so slow. There weren’t many other cabins on this level, no more than half a dozen, and Michael had no idea which she slept in. The first three cabins were locked, and panic whirled in his stomach, the whisky turned to acid. But the next door flew open when he pushed it, and he raced in.

  It was dark, but Georgette’s sleeping form could just be seen in the starlight streaming through the window. Her breath was regular and heavy. A wave of relief doused the fire burning his stomach, but then he spotted a lingering shadow.

  “I didn’t.” Emma’s voice had morphed into the throaty, resonant depths that meant she had transformed. A dull red glow came from her eyes. She was in hunt mode, and Georgette had been her prey.

  Michael swallowed, his throat dry, and he forced his fear down ordering his mind and body to remain still and summoning his confessional calm, he spoke, “Emma, no. You can’t do this to Georgette.”

  “Her blood. It is all I smell. And he is with her. He calls to me.”

  “Emma, come with me. Let’s get you away.”

  “The hunger, it grows. I’m ravenous.”

  “Emma, you must maintain control.”

  Those red eyes seemed to flare in the darkness. “What do you think I’m doing? But it calls to me. Her blood. It smells good.”

  The panic had risen once more, his stomach a pool of fresh acid. His mouth dry, but he licked his lips and forced his voice to remain calm, though it shook like a reed in the wind when he spoke. “Emma, please. Take me. Take my blood instead.”

  Silence.

  A low growl, deathly quiet came from her. Like the snarl of a wild creature. The rumble of a predator. Then she seemed to disappear altogether, and Michael’s panic rose once more. Something cold and hard grasped his throat and arm, and he was hoisted outside. The cabin door shut, and in the low light of the passageway Emma stood close. Her transformation was complete. Her skin was tinged with blue. Her eyes were like those of a demon, the irises wide, black on red. The veins bulged in blue spidery webs along her skin. Her mouth was open, and her fangs were large and waiting.

  She seemed to be holding back. Michael knew his own fear had gripped him and there was nothing he could do to douse it. With trembling lips he spoke. “Go on.”

  Emma moved so quick she was a blur as she sunk her razor teeth into the side of Michael’s neck. His eyes rolled up and he gave in to the exquisite trembling that flourished through his being – an electric pleasure, skipping along nerves and veins, and gifting him with the most euphoric fulfillment of his life. Pure, transcendent bliss.

  Chapter 10

  Most cities appeared vastly different to their versions of centuries past. The rats’ quest for ugliness with gaudy advertisements in every space, abhorrent spray-can graffiti calling itself ‘art’, and sprawling shopping malls rendered most places unrecognisable. Nevertheless, some locales managed to retain their old-world charm and this dark little monastery in the oldest part of Rome was one of them. The stone had blackened with the ages, making the gargoyles atop its palisade a shade more sinister. Electric lights had replaced the old ones, though a few oil lamps still flickered, their reflections dancing on moist cobblestones.

  Nathaniel moved like a shadow through the grounds, his senses on high alert. It was a mistake to underestimate the monk, and it was why he had to take certain precautions before he could approach Gerold in the flesh.

  Inside the chapel, a few candles burned low emitting a golden light that gave the statue of the blessed virgin a sorrowful look. Nathaniel paused at the basin of holy water. He tentatively reached out and dipped the tip of a finger into the inky liquid. It hissed as though he’d put his skin over a candle flame and a tendril of smoke streamed
upward. Nathaniel retracted his hand with a snarl. The monk was here, that was certain. Those skilled enough to make the elements, such as water, detect a Dark One, well, Nathaniel could count them on one hand.

  Beyond the altar, the statue of the Saviour drooped, twisted and tortured, on the cross. Blood streamed from his head where the crown of thorns had cut deep, and from his side where the lance had done its final damage. Nathaniel paused to study the wound. A roman soldier named Longinus had plunged his spear into the Christ’s side. The spear’s shaft had disappeared long ago; only the spearhead remained – the Holy Lance, or the Spear of Destiny as the poets like to call it. That lance had caused wars, and the rats in their lust for power and political persuasion had forged several hoax lances, claiming each as the one true spear that had administered that final harrowing wound. But only one had been the genuine artefact – the Lance of Constantine – and until recently it had been in Nathaniel’s possession. Until the big policewoman stole it from him.

  Nathaniel’s hands had balled into fists and his nails cut into his palms. He forced them to relax and he returned his attention to Jesus hanging so pitifully. The Romans knew their torture, and they’d reveled in it. Nathaniel had met an Old One once who’d been a Roman soldier in the time of Caesar. Gavius was sharp and deadly, despite a casual and friendly air. They’d met in Spain during the third inquisition and stalked the streets together. An unusual occurrence for two vampires, but it was troubling times and they’d learned the benefits of allegiance.

  Gavius had been unusually gregarious for a vampire. Said he enjoyed company and would even befriend humans. That surprised Nathaniel at the time, for he only ever considered humans good for food or entertainment. He’d met some vampires since who’d also enjoyed the company of humans, though Nathaniel suspected the truth. Befriending them was frequently a necessary step in grooming one’s victim. It left a bad taste in the mouth, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. Some vampires deluded themselves into believing the friendship a genuine one, only to find themselves in a drunken-like stupor when they finally gave into their instincts and gorged on the so-called chum.

  The dark tug of nostalgia threatened to pull down Nathaniel’s mood as he remembered with fondness the camaraderie he and Gavius had shared. The pleasure they’d taken in avoiding the Alguaciles and the inquisitors’ tortuous knives. They’d parted ways, of course, as they knew they would. Vampires were lone wolves when it came down to it, but Nathaniel had often wondered about Gavius in the decades and centuries since.

  Nathaniel tore his gaze from the crucifix to survey the area. The church was empty. Too late for the old nonnas and nonnos to partake in prayer at this late hour. But the church would remain open in case a soul needed salvation in the dark of night.

  He kept to the dancing shadows as he opened the heavy oak door and walked the short passage to the vestry door. He paused to listen, satisfied no one was within he entered Gerold’s private room.

  The furnishings had changed. A new desk stood against one wall and a chair with worn tapestry in the corner, but the room was essentially the same. Nathaniel stepped to the desk where a gospel was open. He scanned the passage and quickly realised it wasn’t the Bible at all. Nathaniel longed to hold the book and read the cover, but he dared not touch it. It was best he touch as little as possible. Gerold was known for his spells and hexes. Or it was just as likely the book was inlaid with silver. No, he wouldn’t touch it, though he guessed it was a reading from the Dead Sea Scrolls. He narrowed his eyes and read a section aloud. “…and Azazel shall lead the dead to the Lord, and the dead will bring new life, so that He may rise and rule…”

  Nathaniel frowned as he read. Azazel was one of the fallen angels. Why was Gerold interested in the fallen?

  His eyes flicked to the door on the opposite side of the room. He doubted Brother Gerold would have changed his habits of a lifetime, such a long lifetime too. Gerold wasn’t a vampire, Nathaniel knew that much, but he was something beyond the normal rat. Perhaps a slayer like Amynta. Whatever it was, it gave him unnatural longevity. Nathaniel guessed Brother Gerold was reaching his fifth century, if not his sixth.

  He closed the vestry door then stalked the few short steps to the door opposite, locked.

  “Damn it.”

  He considered wrenching it open with nothing but brute force, but he’d learned over the centuries that when it came down to it, wisdom would trump strength in most situations, so he paused to think. He searched the desk drawers first, then the coat pockets that hung on a hook by the stained glass window and, finding no key, he stilled to think some more, his eyes glancing about the room. There was a sink in the corner, and a bench next to it that held a little stove for Gerold’s tea habit. Perched on the wall above were two shelves. Nathaniel reached for the tin of tea on the upper shelf, noting the bottle of whisky behind it, and opened the tin. He allowed himself a smile. No silver and atop the tea leaves sat the fat iron key to the big old door.

  The door creaked when he opened it. Beyond, the small space was lit dimly by a red lantern which existed as a symbol representing the life within the golden box – a tabernacle filled with the eucharist Gerold was sanctioned to administer following his famous exorcisms. Nathaniel stepped toward the gilded box and opened the little glass door. His fingers brushed over the eucharist. Not for the first time Nathaniel considered the irony of the Catholic belief in transubstantiation. That the flesh and blood of a man are bound in this circle of bread for the rats to consume in order that it may rescind their sins. Was it all that different to a vampire feeding? Or a vampire’s shifting shape, which Gavius had believed possible. Nathaniel ignored the questions he’d pondered many times before, and pressed the latch at the back of the tabernacle.

  The click and groan of a heavy bolt unlocking filtered through the masonry and Nathaniel allowed himself another smile. He’d been right, nothing had changed. He reached up to the frame of the structure the tabernacle sat upon and pushed. It swung open with another groan, and a light blinked on to reveal another secret chamber.

  “You really ought to alter your habits, Gerold,” Nathanial whispered as he stepped inside the dim space. It had also undergone some small changes. Shelves and cabinets lined the stone walls from floor to high ceiling and in every nook and cranny a weapon was stowed. Maces, crossbows, swords and spears occupied the taller sections, while a range of smaller items like daggers, darts and wooden stakes, sat upon shelves lined with velvet.

  Nathaniel was drawn to one corner of the room where a different kind of weapon sat waiting. Amulets. Gerold’s secret collection of magic charms that he used not only against vampires, but also his very own kind.

  Centuries past Nathanial had witnessed Gerold apply them to some of the more skilled Alguaciles, the soldiers of the inquisition, who were reluctant to retain their wretched exploits. Their fondness for torture had sickened even the vampires who had grouped together to better defend against interrogation. The inquisitions, unbeknown to most scholars, had in part been caused by an outbreak of newly-made Dark Ones all over the continent. Something had caused the blood to fire, and with the waxing of every moon, more vampires would arise.

  But the bloodlust, it seemed, had not been limited to vampires. Humans too, like the inquisitors and particularly the slayers such as Amynta, were crazed by their desire to kill and cause harm. Gerold, who at that time assumed the name Baltasar, was head inquisitor. He had to devise a way to protect himself and others from the powers of those who drew on more than the physical realm.

  Nathaniel’s eyes fell to one talisman in particular. It was a perfectly even cross with circular swirls engraved along each arm, the whole thing was no bigger than his palm. Nathaniel reached out to grasp it but nearly screamed at the burn in his hand.

  “Silver. Fuck.” He should have known.

  The stench of his own seared flesh filled the chamber and he watched the red wound on his hand heal, slowly. The sharp pain diminishing far too gradually.

>   “Damn you, Gerold,” he whispered. It would take all his strength to use it, but it was the only way. He couldn’t afford to face Gerold again undefended. Nathaniel ripped a square of velvet with a grunt, wrapped up the amulet and put in in his coat pocket and left the secret chamber. It was time to find the monk.

  Gerold was reading in the library. The man still never slept. Nathaniel carefully took the velvet pouch from his pocket and gritted his teeth as he held the talisman on his bare hand. His skin sizzled instantly. The pain was excruciating, like grasping a hot iron. But he’d experienced such torment countless times, he could bear this. He had to. There was no other way.

  Nathaniel stood in the shadow of the doorway. It wasn’t long before the burning stench of his own dead flesh filled his nostrils. Perhaps that was the thing that made the monk turn. Gerold spotted him and stood as quick as a striking snake, the wooden chair crashing backwards. Gerold held both arms out and was already halfway through one of his ancient hexes that would have brought Nathaniel to his knees, paralysed and crippled in pain, in any other circumstance.

  Nathaniel let out a deep and mirthful laugh designed to unhinge the monk. It did its job because Gerold ceased his chant and looked at Nathaniel with a glint of alarm in his small black eyes.

  Nathaniel held up his hand to show the smoking palm and what he clutched within.

  “My talisman,” the monk said.

  “Ever perceptive, Gerold.”

  “How did you get it?”

  Nathaniel passed the amulet to the other hand, careful to keep his face neutral and not reveal one inch of the flaming pain that burned him. The palm that had been holding it had the mark of the circular engravings in red, blistery welts. Smoke still spiralled. Now, both hands hurt like hell, but the first wound would start to heal, hopefully soon. Nathaniel would need to feed after, that was a certainty.

  “How I got it is entirely irrelevant and rather boring. I don’t want to spend the short time I have with you in idle chitchat, Friar.” He held his left hand up once more. “As you can see, I’m using your own talisman against you, rendering your gift inactive. But I don’t particularly want to be standing here with a searing hand all night.”