Slowly, she lowered herself onto the slab and sat.
Quintillus reached into his pocket and retrieved some gray dust. He poured it into a goblet that lay near the stone. From his coat pocket he took a small silver hip flask and poured a healthy measure of golden liquid into the glass. He swirled it around and gave it to her.
“Drink this. All of it, in one mouthful.”
“No, I won’t do it.” Lizzie’s words slipped out before she realized what she intended to say. The slap he gave her made her ears ring.
“You would defy me? No, you won’t.”
He dragged her hair back until her scalp screamed in pain. He forced her mouth open. She tried to bite him, but he redoubled his efforts and she felt as if her jaw would break. Her mouth opened and filled with brandy and ash. He clamped her jaws closed and held them tightly. She had to swallow. The brandy burned her throat and the ash made her choke. He hit her again, the force of it enough to distort her vision and send spasms of pain tearing through her head. She kicked out hard, her feet sometimes finding their mark, but he seemed to have the strength of five men. In one swift move, he dragged her hands behind her back, nearly wrenching her shoulders from their sockets. He bound them so tightly that the rope cut into her wrists. She kicked out again and he threw her against the cave wall, where she sank to the ground. In her semiconscious state, she couldn’t fight him off as he bound her ankles together with more coarse rope.
Angry tears ran down her cheeks.
“You can’t do this. You won’t get away with it. Untie me.”
He laughed. “Untie you? When I have gone to so much trouble to bind you? No, Miss Charters, I think not. Besides, in a few minutes, it won’t matter.”
Lizzie stopped struggling for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“My experiment. It is about to begin.”
Lizzie took in the blazing eyes and arrogant posture of the man, and knew she stared into the face of evil. How could she ever have been attracted to such a monster?
Quintillus moved back to the stone and extracted a small gold statuette from his pocket. He took a little more dust from the pouch in his pocket and sprinkled it at the feet of the figurine.
He began a chant that echoed off the walls, gradually rising to a crescendo. Lizzie’s head pounded, her vision swirled, and shadowy images emerged from the dark corners of the cave. More voices joined his, though Lizzie couldn’t see where they came from. Louder and louder. Screams rattled her eardrums. Something touched her. She squirmed away. Hands. Claws. Tugging at her clothes. Twisting in her hair. Nothing of any substance to be seen, yet so much pain from the stabbing, insect-like assaults. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a sea of small beetles. Scarabs. Hundreds of them, crawling over each other, crawling over her. She screamed. Quintillus laughed. Laughter echoed all around her. Wild. Manic. Like the hilarity of the insane.
Lizzie screamed again. The scarabs were everywhere. Crawling up her legs, reaching for her face. She must be covered in bites. They burrowed into her clothes. She felt them on her breasts. Sharp claws. Still Quintillus laughed. Still, his unholy choir echoed him.
A figure appeared as a gray mist, taking form. A man. But not a man. It stood on two legs, but its head looked like no animal Lizzie had ever seen. One moment it seemed like a strangely elongated jackal snout, the next more like an aardvark. Two tall ears stood erect on top of its head, and it carried an ankh in one hand and a strangely shaped staff in the other. As it manifested itself, it grew taller, until it towered over Lizzie—its eyes menacing her. She recognized the god of chaos, war and storms.
Set.
Lizzie’s muscles locked as fear coursed through her body.
Quintillus stopped laughing. The “choir” died down. He began chanting again, in that archaic language which had to be that of ancient Egypt.
Lizzie’s vision blurred. Her consciousness drifted. In the distance, a mummified body lay still upon a stone slab. The vision morphed and Lizzie saw her as she must have been—a magnificent woman, dressed in white from head to foot. On her head, the royal diadem. She lay sleeping. Not sleeping. Dead. Lizzie stared down at her now. Out of her body. Weightless yet able to stand. Unbound and free of her captor.
She stared down at the mesmerizing face.
Cleopatra opened her eyes.
Chapter 11
The vision misted, and once again the ancient mummified body lay in front of her. Somehow it had moved closer. So close, she could have reached out and touched the bandaged limbs. Lizzie screamed, but no sound came out. The dark eyes blazed with anger so profound she could almost taste it. The queen slowly raised herself into a sitting position. Only her face showed signs of life. Her torso, arms, and legs remained bound with bandages, black and gray with age and embalming fluids. But that face. Its eyes, heavily rimmed with kohl, the skin, olive and smooth. High cheekbones and a slightly hooked nose gave her a unique, if not classical, beauty. Full, red, sensual lips—those of a woman who could have captivated any man she chose.
Her gaze locked onto Lizzie’s eyes and held her in a trance. She lifted one arm with apparent ease, her fingers pointing toward the frightened young woman. Lizzie felt an irresistible force tugging at her, dragging her. Her back bent, her face inched closer to the queen’s.
Cleopatra’s eyes hypnotized her until all she could see was one magnificent iris. Deepest violet. Drawing her into itself. She fought to break away but the power was too strong. Somewhere nearby, she heard a man’s laugh. It could only be Quintillus. This must be what he wanted. This, the experiment he intended her to be a part of. With all her strength, she fought back. Her formless body screamed in pain. Her mind filled with images of beasts and demons, scaly arms, legs, bodies. Over all the chaos, the god Set wielded his staff, threw back his head, and roared.
* * * *
Lizzie emerged from unconsciousness on the floor of the cave. It took her a minute to realize where she lay. Then she remembered. Thankfully, the bonds which had held her so tightly were gone, and she willed her numb feet to bear her weight. No sign of Quintillus or of the statuette. The cave was entirely empty. She had no idea how long she had been there but, limping to the entrance, the bright sunlight made her blink and her eyes tear up.
She picked her way back along the beach, pausing briefly at the cave where Herr Ziegler had been killed. She hesitated, but didn’t go in, and resumed her journey back to the hotel. All the while, she wondered. Had what she experienced been real? Whatever Dr. Quintillus had given her to drink must have drugged her, and she couldn’t know what else might have happened while she lay there, tortured by impossible visions.
Back at the hotel, she made straight for her room. She opened her trunk and piled her things back into it. Anything she had left at camp would just have to stay there. Lizzie worked fast and was putting the key into her purse when a loud rapping sounded at her door.
Dr. Quintillus? But what could he do in broad daylight in a hotel corridor? As long as she didn’t let him in. She took a deep breath and opened the door a crack, ready to slam it shut if need be. Abbas stood there, a serious expression on his face. She hesitated a moment and then let him in.
“Miss Charters, I am instructed to take you to Dr. Quintillus immediately.” He couldn’t miss seeing the trunk and the empty wardrobe with its open doors. He raised his eyebrows.
“As you can see, Abbas, I have decided to return to England immediately. I cannot remain here any longer.”
“But Dr. Quintillus—”
“Dr. Quintillus is the reason I have to leave. If I stay, I’m certain something terrible is going to happen to me. If it hasn’t already.”
Abbas looked at her questioningly, but Lizzie wasn’t prepared to debate with him. “Thank you for all you did for me during my illness, Abbas. I’m sorry to have to do this, but I must ask you to leave. Now.”
Abbas sighe
d deeply. “I too am sad I have to do this, Miss Charters.” She didn’t see the blow coming. Everything went dark.
* * * *
She was tossed and turned from side to side, and Lizzie’s head throbbed. She struggled to open her eyes and pain shot through her head from the bright sunlight.
“Ah. Miss Charters. I trust you are not in too much discomfort.”
Lizzie struggled to sit up and glared at Abbas, whose expression of concern doubled when he saw her face.
“Why did you do that? I thought we were friends.”
“I hope we can still be, but Dr. Quintillus insisted, and you should know that when he orders, you obey.”
“Where are you taking me? Taposiris Magna?”
Abbas shook his head. “No. Somewhere nearby, but not there. Not anymore. I am not permitted to tell you.”
“What does he intend to do to me?”
“I am not so far in the doctor’s confidence that he tells me such things.”
“I believe he intends to kill me in order to bring Cleopatra back to life.”
Abbas’s eyes grew wide. “But that is impossible.”
“Tell that to Dr. Quintillus. I’m sure he attempted something like it yesterday evening. I don’t believe he succeeded then, so perhaps he believes it will work better wherever you’re taking me.”
“I do not know any of this,” Abbas said.
The carriage sped over dusty roads. The sun beat down, its brightness dazzling. Lizzie tried to make herself as comfortable as possible. Right now, escape would be impossible. She must wait for the right moment. If that ever presented itself.
They turned off onto a narrow track with potholes so large, they sent the carriage lurching again from side to side. Tall palm trees and grasses swayed in the hot breeze and framed the path. After several minutes, they came to a halt outside a small, dazzlingly white, ruined temple.
“We are here,” Abbas said, and helped her down from the carriage.
He led her toward the entrance, which was flanked by four enormous Grecian pillars. Taking her hand, he helped her up the worn steps and into a courtyard.
Ahead of them, Quintillus stood, waiting in the area that would have been the temple’s inner sanctum. He had prepared an altar. On it, the statuette of Set stood next to a small covered bowl. A sharp dagger glinted in the sun and Lizzie hoped its purpose was purely ceremonial, but either way, determination had kicked in and she stood with her head held defiantly high. The time for weakness and naïve faith had well and truly passed. Now she faced Quintillus as he unwrapped and unrolled an ancient papyrus scroll, laid it on the altar, and secured it at each corner with stones.
A wave of apprehension threatened to crumble her newfound resolve, but Lizzie set her jaw. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her emotions. Abbas stood to one side, just out of her line of sight. She wondered what he made of all this. Surely he wouldn’t stand aside and watch while Quintillus murdered her.
“You cannot escape your destiny,” Quintillus said.
“And what is that?” She felt proud of the defiance in her voice.
“My queen will live again in you.”
“No. You tried yesterday and failed.”
He looked around. “Now we are here. In this temple dedicated to Isis.”
“Then what is that statuette of Set doing here?” She caught sight of a familiar small alabaster figure. “And Sekhmet?”
“I shall call on the collective power of the gods.”
Lizzie thought fast. Maybe she could outrun Quintillus. If she made it back to the carriage, surely the driver would help her, even if Abbas would not. Desperate thoughts, but her situation could hardly be more desperate.
Quintillus turned his back on her and began chanting. She saw her moment and took off at a speed she didn’t know she was capable of. Abbas didn’t follow her. Neither did Quintillus. She had made it maybe halfway when a strong force tugged her backward. She fought against it, pushing on, but her feet wouldn’t move forward. The force dragged her back and nothing she did could stop it.
“You see?” Quintillus said. “I have the power of the gods on my side.”
Lizzie fell, limp and exhausted, to the ground in front of him. Despite her best efforts, there seemed nothing more she could do. Abbas continued to stand silently, but he bowed his head. Waiting, it seemed, for the inevitable.
The invisible force dragged Lizzie to her feet, and Quintillus took her hand and led her to the altar. The harder she fought not to move, the more the energy pushed her. She staggered up the two steps and Quintillus spread his hands. In an instant, Lizzie lay on her back.
The sky darkened like a solar eclipse. A rushing wind hurtled toward them. The surrounding palm trees swayed and creaked. Lizzie tasted sand and salt. All the while, Quintillus chanted and her mind became confused. Disjointed.
More visions. The dead queen’s face, her magnificent eyes, all swirled up to force themselves into her consciousness. She felt a wrench and realized she had once again left her body. Weightless, floating, staring down—not at herself—but at the dead Cleopatra.
This time, she felt lighter, freed from her fears. She saw Quintillus brandish the statuette of Set in one hand and Sekhmet in the other. From somewhere she heard the growl of a lioness and the roar of the god of chaos. Surely Isis should have been here, in her temple, but the goddess of love was nowhere to be seen.
The queen stood and pointed at Quintillus. He seemed to waver for an instant, then recovered. His chants grew louder and more insistent. The wind howled and rain cascaded down on the scene Lizzie could now only witness. Above it all, she floated, suspended between space and time. The queen looked ghostly, lacking the form she had worn the previous night. Lizzie peered down at her own body, inert, peaceful. An empty vessel.
Waiting.
Chapter 12
Professor Charters replaced the telephone receiver and leaned back in his chair. His study was peaceful, a haven from the hustle and bustle of the world. Yet, even in this tranquil corner of civilization, evil could penetrate. The telephone call troubled him more than he cared to admit. He had never heard Lizzie’s mother in such a state. What had happened to the girl? When he had calmed her sufficiently to allow her to string a sentence together, Flora told him that Lizzie had called her when she first arrived in Egypt, then sent her a telegram informing her she was going to the dig and wouldn’t be back for some days. But when two weeks had gone by with no word, Flora telephoned the hotel. They flatly denied all knowledge of her, leaving her mother with no idea where her daughter had gone. A sense of dread gripped the professor.
A sharp rap on his door announced the arrival of Michael Sullivan, who breezed in, pipe in hand and newly returned from the Cotswolds.
“Gracious, Charters, old man, you look like someone dumped the worries of the world on your shoulders. Whatever’s happened?”
Charters brought him up to speed. Sullivan let out a long breath. “I don’t think it takes too much imagination to conclude that something is very wrong here. A young girl out there in the desert with a man of questionable character… What were you thinking of, allowing her to go with him?”
“She left me very little choice. Lizzie has always been strong willed, even as a small child. I couldn’t stop her. Her mother couldn’t stop her. When Lizzie fixes an idea into her head, I doubt Jehovah himself could prevent her carrying it out.”
“What will you do now?”
“I don’t really see any option but to go out there and try to find her.”
Sullivan nodded and puffed on his pipe. “Fancy some company, old man?”
Charters thanked every deity he could remember. “I would be most grateful if you would join me. I confess I don’t relish the thought of encountering Quintillus over there on my own.”
“Quite understandable. The man is unstable
and unpredictable. I dare say the two of us are more than a match for him, though.”
Charters wished he could feel as certain as his friend.
* * * *
Charters and Sullivan arrived at the Hotel Regal Imperial in Alexandria, hot, dusty and somewhat disheveled after their journey. Traveling overland and then by steamer from Brindisi in southernmost Italy, they had saved themselves nearly a week on the alternate route taken by Lizzie and Quintillus. The journey was, however, far more exhausting, especially in July, with temperatures soaring into the nineties.
The concierge greeted them and they checked in.
“I wonder if you could tell me when my niece, Miss Elizabeth Charters, checked out,” Charters said.
The man behind the desk frowned. “Miss Charters?” He shook his head. “I do not recognize the name. When did she stay with us?”
“She should be registered with you still, but she certainly stayed with you three weeks ago.”
“One moment, please. I check the register.” He flipped back some pages and ran his finger down the list of names. “No, I am sorry, I cannot help you. She is not here. Perhaps another hotel? The Regal? Majestic? Imperial? I am afraid some of our names are so similar.”
Charters raised his eyebrows at Sullivan. To the concierge, he said, “No matter. Thank you.”
They moved away from the desk.
“What do you make of that, old man?” Sullivan asked.
“I don’t know yet. Let me think about it. I don’t know about you, but I do my best thinking in the bath.”
“A long hot bath. What a glorious thought.” Sullivan clapped his hands and they made their way to the elevator.
Charters welcomed the soothing soak and comforting towels, which eased his aching muscles. Changing into a fresh cotton shirt and trousers, he felt clean and refreshed for the first time in a week or more. Down in the lounge, he met up with a similarly spruce Sullivan.
The two men ordered beers and eased back in comfortable armchairs.
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