Waking the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  The dagger flew end over end into Dee’s hand, so that her sister now brandished it.

  Dee stared helplessly at her sister. “I’m so sorry, Paula.” Her hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger. “I can’t control this. I couldn’t control any of it once they took over. All that stuff I told you…”

  In an instant, everything fell into place. The inconsistent way her sister had been behaving. The stories from their childhood… “All that stuff about an imaginary friend. It didn’t happen, did it?”

  Dee shook her head, tears coursing down her face. “They put the words there. I almost believed it myself. And there’s more…so much more. I shouldn’t have…” The humanity faded from her eyes, replaced by a flashing white light as Arsinoe stepped forward to claim her prize.

  The girl vanished and an unfamiliar light shone through Dee’s eyes.

  Quintillus stepped aside.

  Paula knew what she had to do. She threw herself at Arsinoe, now fully in her sister’s body, taking her by surprise. She knocked the dagger out of her hand and it clattered away across the floor.

  “You will not have her,” Paula cried as she grappled with her.

  Lena opened her black book and screamed incantations in German.

  Paula yelled at her, “Make it go away.”

  Arsinoe flung Paula away from her and she collapsed against the wall, pain screaming up her back. She struggled to right herself as Arsinoe joined Quintillus.

  He raised his hand and clenched his fist.

  Lena dropped the book. She collapsed on the floor. Arsinoe and Quintillus bent over her, appearing to inhale her last breath. They had turned away from Paula.

  Paula saw her chance and took it. With strength she summoned from somewhere, she grabbed the dagger and staggered out of the kitchen toward the library. She shut the door and locked it. With no idea of what to do next, she glanced upward at the painting. The girl in the scarlet gown had gone.

  A noise behind her made her turn. Quintillus and Arsinoe stood side by side. Paula froze at the woman’s words as she spoke to her companion.

  “Now I live, you shall have your reward as I promised.”

  Quintillus moved closer to Paula. His voice dry and brittle, he said, “You are sure?”

  “I am sure.”

  Arsinoe waved her arm and a large black cat appeared. It sat beside her, its face taking on the semblance of a lion, while its fur changed from jet black to gleaming golden. It stood on two legs. Its paws morphed and, from the neck down, robes of green, scarlet, and gold replaced the fur. The goddess Sekhmet stood silently. Waiting. As Paula continued to be rooted to the spot, a shadow appeared on the wall. It took mere seconds for the god Set to emerge. He, too, stood silently.

  “Now it begins,” Arsinoe said.

  A sound of crackling, snapping and a loud sigh came from the portrait on the wall.

  Paula could do nothing. She could neither move nor think clearly. Her thoughts muddied themselves. Visions of an Egypt where men and women walked dusty streets looking as if they had stepped out of a museum. And she had become one of them. No, not one of them.

  She ruled them. She wanted to stay there. In the great temple that soared above her. She wanted to remain where her lover lay nearby—somewhere just out of reach.

  But something dragged her from there. Against her will. It must not happen. They could not take her. Not again.

  Sekhmet’s hypnotic eyes drew her ever further. She fought and it pulled harder.

  She cried out. “I am the queen. I shall always be the queen.” Had she really spoken those words? No, not her. Someone else. And now she floated, drifted. A beautiful goddess in a golden chariot awaited her. But Paula felt another presence. A far more sinister entity. It lurked just out of sight, biding its time.

  From somewhere far away, Arsinoe laughed. “You can do nothing. I am your queen now, and you will obey me.”

  Paula heard another voice. It came from her body.

  “Isis protect me. Set protect me.”

  “The gods have deserted you, treacherous sister,” Arsinoe said. “I have the power of Set and Sekhmet. You shall remain trapped here, inside this body, far from the man you love, bound to a man obsessed with you.”

  Paula willed herself back into her body, but a new force barred her way. On the edge of her vision, out of reach, the beautiful goddess beckoned to her. She felt a strong sense of peace emanating from the deity she recognized as Isis. It wrapped itself around her. She wanted only to give herself up to it, to allow herself to be swept away into the afterlife.

  But darkness swept in from the outer edge of time. It came as a shadow so black she couldn’t penetrate it. However hard she tried, Paula could no longer see the goddess.

  A hideous beast threw off its cloak of shadow. It reared up in front of her—charcoal colored, scaly, its long fangs protruding from a lipless mouth. The atmosphere around her froze.

  Despair filled her spirit and washed away hope.

  Paula’s world went black.

  Chapter 18

  When Cleopatra opened her eyes, she lay on a floor in an unfamiliar room. A stranger bent over her. No, not a stranger. She had seen this one before. He had imprisoned her before. She looked about her at the strange furniture. Not of her time, or her place. And this man…

  Mists cleared in her mind and she remembered. A woman, driven from her body. This body. Her own spirit forced into it, though she fought against it.

  She cried out in her new voice. “No.”

  He took her hand and her touch seemed to revive his withered skin. In an instant, empty veins pulsed once more with circulating blood. Healthy, supple skin covered his face and hands.

  He kissed her hand, and she withdrew it in disgust.

  “My queen. You are returned to me.”

  “Never.”

  She staggered forward, her new body only reluctantly obeying her commands. A dagger lay a few feet away from her. The man called Quintillus didn’t appear to have noticed it. He made to steady her, but she shrugged his hand off.

  In an instant, she crouched and managed to save herself from toppling over. She snatched up the dagger. Quintillus wrestled her for it.

  She lashed out at him, the dagger scything through the air. “You cannot imprison me here.” She caught the side of his face. A thin stream of blood ran down his cheek. He lunged for her arms but she sidestepped him.

  “You took me once before. You shall not do so again. I curse you, Emeryk Quintillus. You are damned for all time.” Cleopatra plunged the dagger deep into her chest. She staggered. Collapsed. Blood pooled around her, and her spirit was released.

  Quintillus sank to his knees and let out a howl of anguish.

  In the basement, Arsinoe smiled. “No, my sister, you do not escape so easily. I shall find you, wherever you may hide.”

  * * * *

  Arsinoe stared at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed her hair. Dee’s body felt so alive, vibrant, healthy. Strange that the gods had willed that she retain her host’s features and not revert to her own. Strange, too, that she was so aware of Dee’s spirit within her body. Not in control, but a presence nonetheless. She seemed tortured, riddled with guilt. But then, she had a lot to feel guilty about.

  Arsinoe heard the key scrape in the lock and faced the door.

  The sound of a man’s footsteps echoed through the hall. The library door opened and a face familiar to Dee smiled at her. Seconds later, he took her in his arms, stroking her hair and kissing her. Dee’s spirit yearned for him. Arsinoe let her enjoy his caresses—for the last time.

  “Is it done?” Phil asked. “Paula took the pills? I wasn’t sure she was convinced she needed help. I knew I hadn’t persuaded her she was going out of her mind. But when you told her she had all those suppressed childhood memories, that was a masterstroke. Remin
d me never to get on the wrong side of you. For real, I mean.” He laughed.

  Arsinoe, back in control, was beginning to enjoy herself. “It is done. She is gone from here.”

  Phil’s face clouded over. “You mean she’s dead, right?”

  “To this world.”

  He looked agitated. “You’re remarkably cool about it, Dee. I thought you two were close once.”

  Arsinoe didn’t reply. Inside her, Dee’s spirit struggled for control—and failed.

  “Where is…where did they take her? They did take her, didn’t they? I mean, she’s not still here, is she?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that. It is all taken care of.”

  Phil exhaled. “That’s good. I couldn’t have gone through a funeral, and as for her body being here…” He shivered.

  Arsinoe wouldn’t mention the bodies lying in a basement room.

  Phil hugged her tight. “Dee, you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this. I thought I’d never be free of her. If it wasn’t for her money, we could have been together all along, but now it will all be ours. If your father hadn’t cut you out of his will, Paula could still have been alive. It’s his fault we had to kill her. It’s been so hard pretending to hate you when all I wanted to do was smother you in kisses, but it was worth it. Now we can be together as we always planned.”

  “I have learned to be patient.”

  “You played your part well. You were so convincing. I thought, if anything, we went a little too far sometimes, but it only seemed to convince her more.”

  “And now you have all that you desire.”

  “And, I hope, so do you.” He covered her face with kisses.

  Arsinoe endured the attention. After all, it wouldn’t be for long. Then she would be free to live any way she wanted, for as long as this body pleased her.

  On the table behind the man, the gold dagger gleamed. Arsinoe smiled at it.

  And reached out her hand.

  Afterword

  Paula swam out of her unconscious state, and Isis surrounded her with a gossamer blanket of peace. She spoke to her. “Come, and I will show you a special place. A place of life and death. Of birth and rebirth…”

  Paula floated, carried along by a nebulous wave. All around her, lights flickered red, gold, silver. Her spirit rejoiced. She spoke, her voice a shadowy echo. “What is this place?”

  The soothing tones of her companion wafted over her. “A place you were always meant to be.”

  Paula lifted her arms and saw they were transparent, and it was right somehow. Her new skin glowed, pulsed with life. A new life. A life that shouldn’t be. Couldn’t be… The lights flickered once and went out. The soft whispers silenced. Isis transformed into a figure of evil. Trickery. That mistress of deceit—Arsinoe—had triumphed. Fooled her into thinking Isis protected her.

  Arsinoe laughed at Paula’s anguish as the darkness descended over her once more. She lifted her arms and cried out to the interminable blackness that surrounded her. Paula touched her face and felt only scaly, flaky skin. A sudden burst of white light showed that her hands were scorched and blackened, skeletal.

  “Help me!”

  “You are beyond help now.” Arsinoe’s voiced echoed all around her. “The price you must pay to keep my faithless sister trapped in a world not of her choosing.”

  “Please…”

  But only silence replied. Arsinoe had left her alone. Paula closed her eyes. The white light snapped off.

  But she could sense someone.

  Out there in the darkness of eternity.

  Hands grasped her shoulders, tugging her back, dragging her down through the shaft of light. Terror seized every nerve and muscle. Paralyzed her so she couldn’t fight.

  Her voice—now no more than a cracked whisper. “Who are you?”

  Shadows swirled and an icy breeze froze her soul.

  Wrath of the Ancients

  DESTINY IN DEATH

  Egypt, 1908

  Eminent archeologist Dr. Emeryk Quintillus has unearthed the burial chamber of Cleopatra. But this tomb raider’s obsession with the Queen of the Nile has nothing to do with preserving history. Stealing sacred and priceless relics, he murders his expedition crew, and flees—escaping the quake that swallows the site beneath the desert sands . . .

  Vienna, 1913

  Young widow Adeline Ogilvy has accepted employment at the mansion of Dr. Quintillus, transcribing the late professor’s memoirs. Within the pages of his journals, she discovers the ravings of a madman convinced he possessed the ability to reincarnate Cleopatra. Within the walls of his home, she is assailed by unexplained phenomena: strange sounds, shadowy figures, and apparitions of hieroglyphics.

  Something pursued Dr. Quintillus from Egypt. Something dark, something hungry. Something tied to the fate and future of Adeline Ogilvy . . .

  Prologue

  Taposiris Magna, Egypt, 1908

  Emeryk Quintillus squinted up at the vivid blue Egyptian sky. Not even a wisp of a cloud marred its azure perfection, and the sun beat down, baking the sand in its relentless, searing heat. The merest hint of a breeze whipped up a small shower of desert sand, coating his long, dark jacket in a pale layer of dust. He brushed it off and took out his Hunter watch from his waistcoat. Midday. Not long now. He replaced his watch in his pocket. Nearby, his horse whinnied and thrashed its tail.

  All around Quintillus, a small army of Egyptians dressed in traditional galabeyyas sang while they carted away buckets of sand and stones, working in relays as they had done this past three months. The dig had gone well, far surpassing what their employer had anticipated. Soon, if his calculations were correct, they would find the culmination of his life’s work—the tomb archaeologists the world over had been searching for this past two thousand years.

  Quintillus inhaled the dry air that caught in his throat and burned. He seemed oblivious to the discomfort. His surroundings were of far greater interest. The vast, ruined temple of Taposiris Magna—with its soaring stone pylons—had witnessed burials, ceremonies, battles, and destruction, but now it was about to give up its greatest secret. And, so far, the news had been good. Long-buried artifacts—small alabaster statuettes, coins, all from the right period—all depicting that enigmatic face.

  Around him, the laborers sang their work songs. Different—but somehow reminiscent of—the ones he had heard black slaves sing in the cotton fields of Mississippi long ago, in another lifetime. Quintillus reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and removed a black leather-covered cigar case. He opened it and selected his habitual long, thin cheroot. A shot of blue flame from his silver lighter ignited the tobacco, and he inhaled. In his distinctive black stovepipe hat, with his long dark hair flowing over his shoulders, he presented a curiously eccentric figure in the white heat of the desert. He made no concessions either to location or temperature and appeared never to experience extreme heat or cold. But then, there was much about Dr. Quintillus that he chose to keep to himself.

  A sudden whoop startled him. The Egyptians were shouting. Waving and excited. Now. It must be now.

  The familiar rotund figure of Max Dressler scurried as fast as the heat and his out-of-condition physique would allow. Unlike his employer, he was dressed for the desert, complete with pith helmet. He came closer, panting and wiping the sweat off his face and neck with his oversize handkerchief.

  Quintillus tossed the remains of his cigar onto the sand while the man recovered himself sufficiently enough to speak. The archaeologist could afford to be patient for a few more minutes, after so many years of searching.

  Max Dressler’s breathing returned to something approaching normal and his face drained its vivid red hue. The handkerchief flapped like a white flag while he gesticulated toward the deep shaft of the dig. “We’ve…found…her.”

  Dr. Quintillus’s lips twitched in the birth
of a smile. “You are sure?”

  “Beyond question, Herr Doktor. The sarcophagus carries her cartouche.”

  “And is he buried with her?”

  Dressler’s extra chins wobbled as he shook his head. “He may be in another chamber, but he is not there. Not at her side.”

  Quintillus’s smile became a broad grin, lighting up his bearded face. “So they were wrong. Then let us go and meet our queen.”

  Dressler stepped aside. His master strode past him. The narrow, steep stone steps presented no difficulties for the tall scientist, but Dressler struggled down them. Quintillus ignored him, his mind focused on one mission.

  At the bottom, the recently excavated chamber reeked of kerosene from the hurricane lamps, which illuminated it and cast deep shadows in the corners. The stillness hung heavy. It seemed to be waiting for something to break it, and the temperature was many degrees cooler down there than on the surface. Quintillus’s leather boots crunched sand on top of stone. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls.

  Maybe a dozen skeletons, their ruined ancient robes hanging off them, lay haphazardly on the floor—the bodies of the queen’s faithful servants. Quintillus ignored them and made straight for the sarcophagus at the far end of the tomb. Propped up against the wall behind it stood an exquisite gold coffin lid, with the queen’s perfect image inlaid with lapis lazuli, emeralds, and rubies. Savoring this precious moment, Dr. Quintillus gazed at it, excitement mounting inside him, his blood pumping hard.

  He approached the sarcophagus. The stench of the long-dead body reached him. Max Dressler, a few steps behind, smothered his nose and mouth in his sweat-drenched handkerchief, but Quintillus barely noticed the odor of decay and mortification. He leaned over the coffin and peered down at the blackened mummy.

  Quintillus bent down to kiss the ancient queen on her cold, dry lips. Dressler retched.

  “She is remarkable,” the doctor said. He straightened. “Her state of preservation is better than any I have seen.”