Visions of Fire and Ice (The Petiri)

by Teresa D'Amario

  He forced himself to concentrate on the conversation, the antiquities and their histories. But it grew increasingly more difficult with each moment that passed. Her scent kept him on the knife’s edge of desire while his mind struggled with the problem of the Napshua. If it fell into the wrong hands and was analyzed, it could mean the death of his people. He needed to get it back. And without her running to the Egyptian police and pressing charges.

  “She looks so happy.” Tamara peered at the death mask of Yuya, mother of Queen Tye. “All the other death masks are so serious, yet this one smiles so peacefully.”

  “Indeed,” he said, forcing his thoughts back to history. “Of all royalty, she was probably the most pleasant. She was always smiling.”

  Tamara turned to him, her brow puzzled. “You sound as if you knew her.”

  “I did.” Damn. He couldn’t keep slipping like this with her. “Through the records. Most of these people,” he motioned to the masks and artifacts, “are like family to me. Each item tells me something about their lives.”

  “Really?” Her voice was skeptical. “You don’t sound like any historian or archeologist I’ve ever seen, on TV or in person. It’s as though you take everything here personally.” She studied him for a moment longer, before turning to leave the room. Her heels clicked on the floor with each step as she headed down the hall, leaving him alone in her wake.

  Ramose cursed himself inwardly. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to make a mistake from which he could not recover. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he followed her, reminding himself to keep quiet.

  They moved on until they approached the King Tutankhamen display. Dread pulled at his stomach, and his steps dragged. He hated this room. Even when his job brought him here, it took all he had to enter. Today was no different. Perhaps even worse. He’d dreamed of that fateful day just last evening. Of the day he’d let down the boy he loved. The day he’d let down his sister.

  He glanced at Tamara. Excitement burned in her eyes. There was no way he could steer her away from the exhibit. He hated how popular the boy king’s funerary was, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. She would, of course, wish to see everything she could of his life. Everyone who came to Egypt did. Damned grave robbers. Maybe he could remove the rest of the audience, and it wouldn’t be so difficult to see her as the tourist when alone.

  “Wait here.”

  * * * *

  Tamara waited while Ramose approached the guard at the entrance. The man nodded as Ramose whispered in his ear then went inside the exhibit room and spoke to the patrons. One by one, they trickled out, and the guard positioned a CLOSED sign in the doorway. One particular man, a middle-aged Egyptian from what she could see, stared at them accusingly as they were pushed out the door.

  She arched a questioning brow to Ramose.

  With a tight smile, he took her hand and guided her into the now empty room, pulling the door closed behind them.

  “You had everyone else leave?”

  The smile on his face looked perfectly natural, but Tamara could tell it was forced. Maybe it was the flicker in his aura, but she could almost feel his discomfort.

  He shrugged. “Just a perk of helping with security. I wished you to see this in peace, without having to fight the crowds.”

  “You don’t like tourists much.” A frown covered his face, and she laughed. “That’s it, isn’t it? And here I am a tourist!”

  He smiled, raised his hands, palms up, a sign of acquiescence and defeat at her observation. Tension drained from his body. “I don’t dislike all tourists.”

  The smile on his face didn’t quite reach his eyes. They remained hard-edged. Maybe even haunted.

  For years, she’d learned to pay attention to her feelings, and one thing was sure: Ramose was hiding something. And whatever secret he was keeping, it was big. Not that it mattered. He was just a man. One she’d never met before yesterday, despite her dreams. His secrets were none of her business.

  Though she still didn’t know why he volunteered to bring her to the museum. Yes, he desired her. She didn’t need the bright hues of his aura to tell her that. It was evident in the way he held himself, in the sudden gasp in the car before they arrived here. Yet he made no effort to woo her. He didn’t try to kiss her. Except for the single moment the night before, when she’d been sure he was going to press his lips to hers, he’d kept his distance. He’d even stopped holding her hand as soon as he could.

  Holding back a sigh of frustration, Tamara turned her attention to the displays. The flash of Tutankhamen’s gold sparkled even in the muted artificial light. State of the art display cases lined the room filled with hundreds of artifacts. Here lay the pieces that once were buried deep within a tomb, wrapped together with the body of a boy king.

  The central focus of the room was on a pedestal. Encased in protective bulletproof glass stood the one piece known by millions of people. King Tutankhamen’s death mask. She’d seen photographs, but none did it justice. Gone was the cold unyielding glare from the cameras, replaced with a soft luster of gold. It called and compelled her to feel its warmth and softness. The royal headdress bore an asp and a vulture.

  Ramose must have noted her examination for he said, “That asp is Wadjet’s symbol on his nemes.” He nodded to the headdress. “She was the symbol of Lower Egypt. The other is Nekbhet, her sister and symbol of Upper Egypt.”

  Tamara nodded and peered closer at the asp. It wasn’t much different from the one on her arm, though her arm bracelet, or Napshua as Ramose had called it, was of a much finer craftsmanship. Her gaze trailed over the headdress, the blue paste glass shone in the light. Her gaze moved lower to the collar, filled with gold, turquoise, lapis lazuli, and more. The stones glittered in the soft light like stars in the sky.

  “Wasn’t Wadjet the protector of Ra?”

  He nodded. “Yes, she was known as the Eye of Ra, or the Eye of Horus. She protected him from the demons in the underworld, using the power of fire.”

  Fire. Just like she had. Tamara did her best to not react; instead, she looked deeper into the mask’s face. The dark eyeliner around his eyes and his brow only served to enhance the youthful beauty. A boy king struck down before his life truly began.

  “I would have to say,” she said, breathlessly, “no picture does this justice.”

  With short, slow steps, she circled the mask’s display case. Energy emanated from the piece in almost imperceptible waves. It pulled at her, drew her closer. She was surprised to find tears stinging her eyes.

  “The work is exquisite and so different than anything else in the museum. The metal looks poured rather than molded or pounded like the others. I wonder why it’s so different.” She continued to whisper. Her fingers itched to touch it, and she clasped her hands behind her back in an effort to avoid prints on the glass.

  “It is said the mask was created quickly and that it looks nothing like him. That is why they say it is so smooth. They did not have time to recreate his true image.”

  She barely glanced at him as she walked to the coffin. “That may be,” she said, “but the work is still exquisite, the detail so clear. Artisans don’t do this type of work unless they care.” She shook her head, unable to imagine the true level of work a piece like this would take. “I’ve seen new computerized images of what he looked like, and it’s true, it doesn’t look much like him, or at least what our computers think he looked like.” Tamara sighed, her eyes trailing across the artifacts around the room. “But his innocence, that it captures. Maybe, due to time constraints, it wasn’t his face they worked to capture, but his spirit.”

  Tamara studied Ramose from the corner of her eye. His aura swirled and changed colors. Shades of muddied and murky blue washed across his chest, like a shield protecting his heart. Sadness. It was odd to see someone care so much about a boy who’d died so long ago. Then, again, she had tears stinging her own eyes, so maybe it was simply that. A respect for a boy who’d suffered. Ramose seemed almost
vulnerable and lost in thought as he stared at the golden death mask. He looked a million miles away. Or was it four thousand years away?

  “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

  He started then looked at her, the wash of blue fading to mix with the rest of the confusing colors around him. “No.” He shook his head. “I was just thinking of your viewpoint. It strikes a chord is all. We Egyptians tend to take our King Tutankhamen seriously.”

  “So I see. But you said you aren’t Egyptian.”

  He shrugged. “No, but, as I said before, this is home.”

  She turned her attention back to the displays and moved to examine the jewelry and artifacts. From the pectoral, to the casket, to the ankh missing its chain. Each one exquisite in its design. Each piece, so delicately created, told a story. Each one showed the power of the artisan who created it, blending with the spirit of the boy king who wore them.

  Tamara remembered the dream from last night. A boy king, dethroned by death. The phrase wouldn’t leave her mind. Had Ramose lived in that time? In a previous incarnation? She’d never believed in reincarnation, despite what Julie had said, but, now, she began to wonder.

  “Perhaps we should leave and let the tourists come back in.”

  Tamara jerked her attention back to Ramose then smiled sheepishly. She gave a quick glance at her watch and was surprised to find she’d been in the room for more than an hour.

  “Wow, I guess you’re right! I didn’t realize we’d been here so long.”

  * * * *

  The two left the building while it was still filled with tourists and archeologists. People milled all about them, entering and leaving. Someone brushed past them quickly, slamming into Tamara’s side.

  “Hey, watch it!”

  The man avoided her eyes, but she recognized him. He was the one who’d given them the angry look when they’d kicked him out of the Tut exhibit. The man hurried along, his hands shoved into his pocket, a glower on his face.

  “Some people are just rude,” she murmured.

  Ramose chuckled. “You’re right there. But maybe he was an art student upset with his sudden change of plans.”

  “True,” she murmured. She’d bet there were tons of budding history and art students mixed in with the throngs of people. What better way to learn about a culture than to view the art left behind?

  Tamara glanced at Ramose. In ways, he too seemed to be a piece of art from a time long past. A past she saw in her head that seemed so real in her heart. Will I always think of him as someone from ancient times? Or will I finally see him for what he is today? A contemporary man, one who was as strong and powerful as the man in her dreams?

  When he reached around her to open the car door for her, his masculine scent teased her senses, pleasuring her insides with a wash of sudden arousal. Her eyes fluttered in appreciation. She stepped into the car, gripping the front seat in clenched fingers to hide the shudder in her body. Damn, he smelled good. Once inside, she slid across behind the driver.

  “So, tell me why you have a driver.” The dark man’s eyes met hers in the mirror, his head nodding in acknowledgement.

  Ramose nodded and folded himself in beside her. “I’ve never been much of a driver. At least, not in the city, and Jakkar happens to like to drive. It makes for a good arrangement.”

  “So, he’s not your employee?”

  He shook his head, a frown between his brows. “I’m not sure how to explain it, but, no, Jakkar is more friend than employee.”

  “But doesn’t he get paid? Jakkar, does Ramose pay you to drive for him?”

  The man’s eyes crinkled in the mirror, and he nodded. “Yes, madam, he takes good care of me, but I do not drive for him often.”

  “Really?” She looked between the two men. “Why not?”

  The car pulled onto the main road, and the man behind the wheel shrugged his shoulders. But when she expected him to tell her the reason why, his voice turned sharp.

  “We’re being followed.”

  Ramose spun to stare out the back window of the car, searching the vehicles behind them.

  “Which one,” he asked.

  “The blue Toyota. It pulled out behind us when we left the museum.”

  Ramose cursed. “Damn. Turn right.”

  The car swerved, throwing Tamara hard against the door. She grabbed the seat.

  “Didn’t lose them. Try again.”

  The car swerved again, this time throwing Tamara hard against Ramose’s side. He righted her, absorbed in the apparent car chase.

  Shit.

  They turned another corner, and both men stared behind them, one using the mirror, the other turned to face the rear. After a time, she sensed the softening of Ramose’s muscles as he relaxed. He turned back in his seat.

  “It must have been one of Amunkha’s followers.”

  “Why would Amunkha be following you?”

  Ramose jerked his head around, staring at her.

  Damn. The more she thought about it, the more she realized they weren’t speaking English, yet she’d understood every word. How the hell had that happened? She didn’t know Arabic, or whatever language they were using. And if the expression of shock and anger on Ramose’s face was an indication, he didn’t like her eavesdropping on his conversation.

  * * * *

  Ramose struggled with the sudden sense of danger. He stared at Tamara, her eyes suddenly wide with surprise. Who the hell was she? He tightened the muscles in his jaw.

  Switching to mental communication, he returned to the problem at hand. Ideas? asked Ramose in Jakkar’s head. He didn’t have to clarify. If Tamara understood ancient Egyptian, she definitely was not just a human who’d come across the Naphsua. She was something else all together.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she guessed. Amunkha’s name was mentioned, and it was pretty obvious we were dodging the car behind us.”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. She knows she slipped up. She’s not who I thought, Jakkar. She’s dangerous.”

  “And she is in danger as well.”

  “True.”

  “Are you two going to talk to me? Or are you going to continue with the telepathy?”

  Jakkar glanced in the mirror, his dark eyes filled with worry.

  Ramose wanted to tell the man to leave everything to him, but now he hesitated to communicate at all. Could she hear their words in their heads as easily as she understood Petiri? Maybe she had studied enough ancient Egyptian to figure it out. The two languages were almost the same.

  The car pulled into the hotel’s circular driveway and parked near the end of the taxi row.

  Ramose pursed his lips. Now was as good a time as any to find out who and what she was. She wasn’t Petiri. He was sure of it. At least, as sure he could be of anything at the moment. He opened the car door. “Later,” he said to Jakkar. Once he had this out with her, he could concentrate on tracking down Amunkha and his goons and find out why they were chasing them. He got out of the car and waited as she slid out.

  Despite everything, Ramose’s hand itched to take hers, to feel her soft flesh beneath his palm. Then he remembered the surge of heat he’d felt at the elevator. Something wasn’t right about this female. He would have his answers. He would forget trying to be subtle and wooing her. She was dangerous, and, obviously, Amunkha wanted either her, her Napshua, or Ramose, and the only way to find out which was to first learn about her.

  They strode wordlessly across the cold hard floor, and Ramose punched the button for the elevator. He could sense her anger building between them.

  Good. She had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Like how she could speak Petiri, how she could have a Petiri Napshua, and how the hell had she recognized telepathy.

  Maybe once he knew what and who she was, he could choose the next course of action. Human was one thing, but this newfound talent was uncomfortable. Dangerous, even. He’d learned long ago humans couldn’t be trusted with his secrets.

  He cursed
to himself. When the elevator stopped on her floor, they stepped out. With meticulous care, he escorted her down the hall, one hand brushing the small of her back. Heat burned through to his fingertips. A heat which called to him, warming the cold core of his body and soul. Explosive or not, he could only hope he managed to diffuse the situation before he lost control.

  She unlocked her door and strode inside. He couldn’t miss the sensual sway of her hips. He pursed his lips. Everything about her was maddening. Her scent, her body, her talents, and her ability to speak a language that didn’t belong on this world. If he didn’t get some answers soon, something would detonate, and he was sure it would be him.

  Ramose shut the door, ignoring the desire in his body and stormed inward toward the sitting area. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Chapter Ten

  “Who are you?”

  Ramose barely whispered the words before he realized they were a mistake. Anger boiled in Tamara’s eyes, and he could swear he saw flames burning behind that beautiful blue and gold iris.

  “What the hell do you mean, who am I?”

  “I mean,” he backtracked, “how is it you can speak ancient Egyptian?”

  Confusion whispered across her face before vanishing. Her back straightened. “So that was ancient Egyptian?”

  “Oh, come on, Tamara. It’s not like you studied it in high school. Where did you learn it?”

  The spark of anger burned bright again. “And, therefore, I shouldn’t know it, right? Little ol’ me couldn’t be smart enough to understand such a thing. Is that what you mean?”