by Nina Bruhns
She’d never seen him like this before. Something was hidden around here, and she had every intention of finding out what. And why he seemed so jumpy.
After tying Dawar to a low bush, she hiked the last few feet to the cliff, reaching out to touch its rough, sandy surface. Hot. Gritty. No vibes. She smiled in memory. Her mother, a true child of the sixties, had believed the earth held spirits you could hear and feel, if you only tried hard enough. It was important not to offend them or dishonor them.
Gillian and her sisters still followed their mother’s habit of making a libation to the local spirits whenever they ate outside, and saying a prayer for safe passage through their lands. Better safe than sorry.
Unfortunately, no earth spirits spoke to Gillian today. She’d have to find whatever was hidden among the cliffs all on her own.
“But there is nothing,” Mehmet protested, arms spread expansively. “Perhaps farther along—”
“What’s that?” She squinted a few feet above her head. It was a shadow. Thin, but solid and black, clinging to a slight recess in the rock. She scrambled on all fours up the steep gravel alluvium to reach it.
“Miss!” Mehmet called after her. “Be careful! The sand is loose. It’s dangero—”
“My God! Look!” She reached the recess and peered behind the outcropping that hid it. “It’s an opening! Just as you thought.”
Tall and narrow like the eye of a needle, it was nevertheless large enough for a person to sidle through. Into what—if anything—was anyone’s guess. But again, she intended to find out.
She reached for the small but powerful flashlight hanging next to the knife sheath on her belt. “I’m going in.”
“Miss! Wait!”
She could hear Mehmet clamber hurriedly after her. But she had already switched on the flashlight, steeled her nerves, and slid through the opening.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted from dazzling sunlight to near-complete darkness. And realized she was standing in an antechamber. To a tomb. Ancient, by the look of it. Which was nothing unusual, in itself. The cliffs were riddled with them. The foyer-sized chamber, bare of objects and ornamentation, was simply four square walls chiseled out of the sandstone.
Uninscribed walls. Their only adornment was lines carved in the rock to make it look like fitted blocks.
Damn.
She sighed in disappointment.
Mehmet poked his head in through the opening. His eyes darted frantically around the empty room. Then his shoulders notched down, and again he touched his amulet. He reached for her arm. “You see? It’s nothing. We should go.”
She couldn’t help the feeling that he was desperately trying to draw her away from this place. Again, why?
“Just a sec,” she said, shook off his hand, and took two steps to the center of the chamber. Slowly, she trailed the beam of her flashlight over the walls. Searching for anything that would tell her why Mehmet was acting so strangely.
That’s when she found it. A narrow slot cleverly carved between two faux blocks, so well-hidden that anyone who had not grown up trekking through tombs and temples with an Egyptologist father would never have spotted it. Maybe not even then.
Her scalp prickled and a rash of goose bumps surged over her arms. She walked over to examine it closer. “What do we have here?”
“No! Miss, please. You shouldn’t be here. Let us leave this place at once.”
She turned to him. His mouth was twisted in fear. Good lord. These rivals must be ruthless.
“Mehmet, you know you can trust me,” she tried to assure him. “Whatever else this tomb contains is none of my business. I am only interested in one thing—the Kilpatrick inscription. If it’s here, I’ll take pictures and we can leave. I swear I’ll tell no one of its existence.”
He shook his head vigorously. “You don’t understand.”
“Go get the camera from the saddlebag,” she instructed crisply. “The sooner we find out if the inscription is here, the sooner we can go.”
He stared at her for a moment, then turned jerkily and left, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
Okay, then.
Drawing her knife from its sheath on her hip, she gingerly inserted the blade, probing for the trip-latch she hoped she’d find. The tomb must be Ptolemaic. Only during the Greek period did such devices exist, then rarely, and to her knowledge only in the temples. A priest was probably buried here. Odd, though, this far south. Most of the real Greeks had stayed up north in Lower Egypt.
There! The knife tip hit something metallic. Carefully she pushed down on it. A low rumble started in the bowels of the tomb, and slowly, a square section of the rock started to move backward. When it stopped, it revealed a hole large enough for a man to crawl through.
Good heavens!
She swallowed, the goose bumps on her arms tickling like mad. She rubbed her palms over them, then reached for the water bottle in her trouser cargo pocket. She poured a generous libation on the ground and murmured a silent prayer.
Then she sucked down a deep breath, dropped to her knees, and crawled into the hole.
Chapter 4
So hurry to see your lady,
Like a stallion on the track...
—Late Period love song
“She is close. So close I can smell the sweet scent of her woman’s blood.”
Rhys turned to Seth and let his lips curve in a smile. “Indeed.” Rhys could smell her, too. Not her blood, but a faint tracing of flowers and vanilla-scented skin. Lovely. Arousing. “What would you have me do with her, my lord? Frighten her away, or...?”
Seth paced across the malachite council-room floor, his tall warrior’s frame erect, his face betraying no emotion that Rhys could discern. “She must not be allowed to find that inscription if it brings your curious descendents down upon us.”
“I agree. That would be a disaster.” They’d already had one too-close call back in the twenties, when that pompous American archaeologist nearly discovered their secret eastern entrance.
A soft rumbling reached the room from the far-off surface, more of a vibration in their minds than a real sound. They both glanced up in surprise.
“Good God. She’s found the entrance,” Rhys said, his stomach dropping. He’d arranged for the boy, one of his mortal familiars, to lead her to the hidden tomb, hoping the plain-rock antechamber would put an end to her curiosity. He’d never expected her to discover the secret way in.
“And by finding it, she has decided her fate,” Seth said.
“Shall I set her capture in motion?” Rhys asked cautiously. The alternative would not be a pleasant one for her. He would fight it, if it came to that.
“You’ve seen this woman?” Seth asked, clasping his hands behind his back. Meeting Rhys’s eyes.
“From a distance,” he granted. “She looked... dusty.” Which was the truth, if not the whole of it. For some reason, dust and all, the woman intrigued Rhys. Even now, he could feel the rhythm of his heart increase at the thought of her.
Seth’s brows moved infinitesimally. “And she’s a foreigner, you say.”
“American, I believe. Tall, pale, and blond. She was with two other women down at the ruined temple of Sekhmet. Sisters, my informant tells me.”
The other man’s black eyes glowed with obvious interest. “Hmm. A blonde to replace the shabti Haru-Re stole from me last month.”
“Yes. Or she would make a fine initiate. She seems intelligent. Respectful.” And had the right color hair. Which was why she’d attracted Rhys’s attention in the first place, when he’d heard about the three beautiful foreign women. Seth was partial to blondes, and accessible ones were rare in this part of the world, off the beaten tourist path as they were. Especially in these days of random, violent political terrorism.
Of course, now that she’d discovered Khepesh’s secret entrance, there was little choice in the matter.
“True. I could use her for the Ritual of Transformation,” Seth said thoughtfu
lly. “And if I like her, take her as my consort. I miss having a helpmate at my side.”
Rhys fought a scowl. That would change things. If Seth claimed her, the woman would be off-limits to Rhys, on pain of banishment, or even death. Not exactly what he’d had in mind. Being the demigod’s master steward had many advantages. But it sometimes involved a bit of frustration. Rhys was also partial to blondes. At least this one.
“The transformation ceremony,” he said, deliberately downplaying the consort idea. “Yes, why not. If Nephtys gives her blessing, of course.”
The rumbling of the entrance stone ceased abruptly.
Seth looked up again. “But is it really wise to take her?” he asked with a frown that in no way disguised his desires in the matter. “Foreigners do bring a welcome change, but they are always such a risk. Especially if there’s family who will miss them.”
“Not an insurmountable difficulty,” Rhys assured. There were ways of dealing with troublesome relatives, if necessary. As long as they were here in Egypt. “I believe she only has the two sisters. And they are easily bespelled.”
Young women were especially susceptible to...influence.
“Perhaps an accident would be more prudent.”
“You did say to increase our number,” Rhys argued reasonably, when what he really wanted to do was shout, No! You will not harm her! “And fresh blood for the ceremony would be a good thing for you.”
“Yes.” Seth’s expression resolved. “Then go quickly, my friend. Assess the situation. Use your considerable charm to bring this woman willingly to our side. But if it turns into more trouble than she’s worth, take care of her.” His gaze pierced Rhys’s. “We don’t need any more problems right now.”
“Yes, my lord.” Rhys bowed his head, turned, and strode from the room.
A thrum of excitement buzzed through him. For the past few days the woman had been wandering too close for comfort to their underground palace, so he had decided to arrange an encounter through his informant. The boy had been strangely reluctant to expose her, so Rhys had gone out earlier to subtly remind him of the consequences of failure.
The woman had spotted Rhys as he’d gazed down at her in anticipation. Even from high atop the gebel, he’d felt a charge of electricity from the way she’d returned his perusal.
Awed. Worshipful. Like she wanted to wrap her thighs around him and ride all day.
She would be no shabti, he thought determinedly.
She would make a fine prize for the god—and afterward, for himself. Rhys would see to it that the ceremony did not damage her. As for becoming Seth’s consort, well, Rhys would simply have to find someone else for that role.
This woman was his.
Black robes flying and boot heels clicking a determined tattoo on the hallway’s marble floor, he quickly made his way through the Great Western Gate and the winding tunnels that led to a rock-hewn stairway and the world above. When he burst out from the well-concealed opening, high up on the gebel where no human would dare climb, he gathered his robes and spun in a swift circle, chanting the magical words of the spell that Nephtys had gifted him on the night of his transformation. The powerful words that would change his human flesh into his immortal form.
The stallion, al Fahl.
Having shifted to the beast within, he reared up and pawed the air in growing anticipation, then took off at a gallop, seeking the path that would take him to the woman. The woman he had chosen to have bow before the altar of the Lord of Darkness. The woman destined, if all went well, to be Set-Sutehk’s next blood sacrifice.
And Rhys’s own newest conquest.
Chapter 5
Gillian hesitated on her hands and knees just inside the inner tomb opening, unwelcome thoughts of vampires stealing through her mind. The interior room was blacker than midnight.
She swallowed. If she crawled in all the way, would the sandstone block slide home again, trapping her inside the hidden tomb? Her heart hammered so hard she feared it would slam right out of her chest. Surely, there would be a lever on this side, too...
Stifling a shiver, she raised her flashlight to look around before deciding. But her hands were shaking so badly she dropped the light. The clatter of hard plastic on stone echoed through the chamber, hinting at its size. Not huge, but a good deal larger than the antechamber.
“Mehmet?” she yelled over her shoulder. Where had the kid gotten to with that camera?
He didn’t answer. Nor did she hear the comforting pad of torn sneakers on the stone floor behind her.
Turning back inside, she took a deep, cleansing breath of surprisingly fresh air. This was ridiculous. There were no such things as vampires. And she’d been in a thousand tombs before. This one was no different.
Well. Except for the weird sliding stone. That was unusual. But certainly nothing to be all paranoid about.
She let out the breath, picked up her flashlight, and shone it around.
An involuntary cry arose in her throat. “Sweet Mother of God!”
Shock and excitement surged up within her. Forgetting all about being trapped, she vaulted to her feet, wildly aiming the flashlight around the room.
It was amazing!
Beautiful, precisely chiseled inscriptions and breathtaking painted scenes covered the walls on all sides. Old Kingdom, if she didn’t miss her mark. And truly incredible!
She swept the flashlight beam to the main funerary scene on the focal wall. Which showed clearly it was not a Ptolemaic priest’s tomb, at all, but a far more ancient priest who had served—she stepped closer, stilling the beam on the central figure of the scene—the god Set-Sutekh. The tall, distinctive figure of the half man, half mythical jackal-like creature stood regally in a pose he’d held for five thousand years, accepting gifts and adulation from the slightly smaller figure of a human priest-servant.
She squinted at the inscription alongside the man, dredging up the hieroglyphics she’d learned as a child, traipsing after her father and a bossy sister who liked to tease her with secret messages written in obscure glyphs. The priest’s name was...Seth-Aziz.
Her eyes widened and she let out a nervous laugh. Oh, shit. The vampire? Seriously?
She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Get a grip, girl,” she scolded herself. Seth-Aziz was not an uncommon name back in those times. Presumably this one had been the builder of the tomb, and its original occupant. A priest. Not a vampire.
She concentrated on the funerary scene. Fanning off to either side of the deceased were other, even smaller figures of men and women, as well as gorgeous carvings of flowers, birds, and animals. It was all simply stunning.
“Oh, man,” she said softly, drowning in the beauty of the painting. There was something magical about it. Something almost...alive. Despite its age and the classic Egyptian stylization of the depictions, the figures seemed almost to...to breathe with vitality and life.
Again, goose bumps whispered over her skin and she murmured, “I hope you paid your artists well, Seth-Aziz, for they created something truly worthy of your god.”
She savored the rest of the scene, taking it in slowly, bit by bit, sounding out the names of the other family members and followers depicted worshipping the great god Set-Sutekh, along with the High Priest Seth-Aziz. Some stood, some knelt respectfully on their heels. Some danced or played instruments. All were carefully named. Even the birds and animals had names.
“Mehmet!” she yelled again, aiming her flashlight at the crawl hole. “You have got to see this! Hurry! Where’s that camera?”
As she turned back to the carved figures, a man toward the end of the line of Seth’s human supplicants caught her attention.
He had a mustache.
“What the...?”
Egyptians didn’t do mustaches. Ever.
He must have been a captive. A foreigner who had somehow worked his way into the high priest’s respect. Curious, she walked up and peered closely at the inscription running along his back. She didn’t recogniz
e any of the words. Or the name.
“Lard... Lerd Roos... Rees...” she sounded out aloud. One of the big annoyances with hieroglyphics was that, like Arabic, they didn’t contain the vowels used for pronunciation, and unless you knew the word, you just had to guess. “Okay, definitely a foreign name. So, Lerd Roos or Rees, Khel... Khilpet... Khelpet Rech. Lard Roos Khelpetrech. Lord—”
She let out a gasp and dropped her flashlight again. This time the bulb popped, plunging the tomb into pitch darkness. But she barely noticed. Instead, she was frantically trying to tame her thoughts. The inscription had been clearly carved in the same style as the rest of the figures. Not graffiti.
Impossible!
That’s when a stranger’s voice suddenly came from behind her. “I see you’ve found me.”
A man’s voice.
Not Mehmet’s.
With a scream, she whirled, instinctively flattening herself against the tomb wall, vainly searching the darkness. “Who’s there?”
She grabbed for her knife. It wasn’t in its sheath. She must have dropped it in the excitement of opening the secret door.
The scrape of boots sounded like the stranger was moving through the crawl hole, then came a soft rustle of fabric as he straightened. Inside the tomb. With her.
Panic crawled up her spine. This wasn’t some mythical vampire. This was a real man. Possibly a tomb robber. Or worse. Why hadn’t she listened to Mehmet?
“Don’t be alarmed.” The voice was calm and smooth, with a cultured British accent. Which didn’t mean squat. Jack the Ripper’s accent probably sounded sexy as hell.
The boots stepped closer. She pressed herself harder into the wall. But there was no escape through solid stone.
She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut but didn’t dare. Though it hardly mattered. The darkness was so thick it wrapped around her like a black velvet blanket, heavy and cloying. She could barely breathe. She started to feel faint—and her knees were growing weak.
There was something wrong with her.
