Daughter of Ra

by M. Sasinowski

  Daughter of Ra

  Blood of Ra Book Two

  M. Sasinowski

  Kingsmill Press

  Copyright © 2019 by Maciek Sasinowski.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Igor Reshetnikov.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or disseminated in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  ISBN 978-1-7324467-3-1

  ISBN 978-1-7324467-2-4 (ebook)

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, except in the case of historical figures and events, which are used fictitiously.

  For Vera

  Contents

  Part I

  1. Giza Plateau

  2. Budapest, Hungary

  3. National Zoo, Washington, DC—Ten Years Ago

  4. Renley Estate

  5. Renley Estate

  6. West of Tenerife

  7. The Valediction

  8. The Valediction

  9. The Valediction

  Part II

  10. Korzo Laboratory

  11. Kathmandu, Nepal

  12. Nepal

  13. Renley Estate

  14. Renley Estate

  Part III

  15. West of Tenerife

  16. Over the South China Sea

  17. Hong Kong

  18. Hong Kong

  19. Hong Kong

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part 1

  VALEDICTION

  1 Giza Plateau

  Ra, grant me strength…

  My feet pound the marble as I charge the gilded stairs to the door of the sleeping chamber. My heart rings against my chest, echoing the clamor of the palace bells. The bitter scent of ash that hangs in the air sweetens the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

  With a snarl, the man leaps forward, and his sword scythes with vicious intent. Weaponless and unable to parry, I dive under his blade. The man reels, surprised at missing his mark, but there is no hesitation in his next move.

  He cuts down with his right. The blade scours only marble as I roll aside. His balance upset, he staggers for a heartbeat. It is all the time I need. My fist rams into his face, the brunt of my blow doubled by my fury and fear for my kin.

  Blood erupts from his nose and he wavers, eyes glazed. He never recovers as I move in and thrust my fingers to his throat. He crumples, eyes bulging.

  I snatch the sword from his limp grasp an instant before another blade lashes out. With a sharp clash, steel meets steel, and I deflect the savage slice. He turns full circle, leaps and strikes. I parry and counter to his head. When he lifts his blade to defend, I change the angle of my attack, dropping low. My weapon cuts through his thigh, cleaving bone. I reach the door at the end of the hall before he drops to the ground, screaming, clutching his useless limb.

  I storm into the sleeping chamber. My breath catches in my throat at the sight. My wife, dagger in hand, besieged by three invaders. My rage swells at the crimson lines on her skin, her wounds numerous and deep. I roar and charge. All eyes lock onto mine, one pair swells with hope, the others flare with hatred. Two men turn to intercept.

  We meet in full stride. The first to reach me is the first to die. He moves to defend, and our blades meet in a sharp clash. I spin my weapon and lock my grip, slicing the blade deep across his torso as we pass. He gasps, and the blood bursts out. The second man is on me in an instant, knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. With a growl he charges, cutting low with his left, then spinning about, his sword screaming to my neck. Our blades weave a dance of liquid fire in the glow of the torches, the clash of steel on steel ringing into the night. Then it is over. His hands grasp his throat, blood seeping between his fingers.

  I spin to face the third man.

  Time stops.

  The attacker’s blade sinks into the soft flesh beneath my beloved’s breasts. He tears the sword free, and she slumps to her knees, clutching the ghastly wound.

  My mind rejects my sight.

  My soul shatters.

  The howl of a wounded beast thunders through the chamber as I close the distance between us in a single leap. The murderer draws back, his sword raised, but his fate is sealed. I know not when I strike the killing blow. The blood flows freely, and the man writhes on the ground, clutching his gut, his sword in my hand.

  I sink to my knees at my beloved’s side.

  Hathor… I mouth her name, the sight before me robbing me of my speech.

  “Horus…” Her voice is thin. She coughs, and red spittle mars her lips.

  “Be still… do not speak.” My eyes are glued to her face. The radiance of her golden skin dims with every slowing beat of her heart. The delicate lines of her face are twisted with pain and fear.

  My hand presses to her chest as her life weeps from her, warm and silky between my fingers. “The healers will be here soon.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.

  “Horus,” she says again. I know the words before she utters them. My eyes beg her to remain silent.

  “They took him,” she whispers, “they took Imset.”

  Her pleading eyes turn glassy, but before she leaves, a mother’s final appeal.

  “Find him… Bring back our son.”

  Our gazes meet in a last embrace, then she is gone.

  My vision fades. The pounding in my ears surges like a wave.

  I am Horus.

  Son of Isis and Osiris.

  I shall know no—

  The sound of my son’s name rips out of my throat, drowning the wailing of the alarms.

  “Imset!”

  The scream passed through Alyssa’s lips, its echoes erupting like cracks of thunder in her head.

  Imset…

  Her body shuddered as the rush of adrenaline receded. She swallowed, trying to flush down the taste of the ash and bile that lingered in her throat. The memories began to fade from her mind.

  No.

  Not memories.

  She pressed her fists against her temples, willing her mind and body to reject the onslaught of the—

  Dreams.

  Just… dreams.

  Her phone alarm rang again. She silenced it. Slowly, too slowly, the gilded marble columns of Horus’s bed chamber transformed into the cluttered back seat of an SUV.

  Alyssa rubbed her eyes, trying to focus on the narrow cobblestone street leading down to the pier. The sun had just crested the red-thatched roofs and the spires rising above Prague’s old town, painting the west bank of the Vltava river a fiery orange.

  She leaned her head into the seat and sucked in air, trying to calm herself. She focused on her breathing, forcing all other thoughts from her mind.

  Her phone dinged with a text message.

  HISTORICAL STACKS. 10 MINS.

  Finally.

  She reached for her tablet in the passenger seat and pulled up the schematic of the Prague National Library. She studied the image one more time, memorizing the building layout. I sure hope the floor plan is right. She craned her neck up to the small terrace directly above her. Actually, I really hope I don’t need to find out.

  Either way, soon she’d know whether the ten-hour drive following the latest clue will have been worth it, or whether it would turn into just another notch in the tally of dead leads about the Society, the secretive group of ultra-rich crackpots obsessed with the Hall of Records and the ancient crystal her father had found under the Sphinx. After four fruitless months in Zurich and over much of Europe, she had stumbled upon
a three-decade-old thesis in Rotterdam written by a Czech historian who had agreed to meet her here. She wasn’t holding out too much hope, but it was one of the few references she and Clay had been able to dig up that even hinted at the existence of the Society. Not to mention her first warm lead since starting this hunt.

  Alyssa slipped on her sneakers and opened the door. She breathed deeply, savoring the crisp morning breeze against her skin and stretching the kinks from her neck before setting out along the deserted cobblestone street.

  She turned left and trotted up the wide stairs to the main entrance of the library. A scattering of students lazed on the steps, Starbucks cups glued to their palms. No one seemed to pay her any attention as she made for the giant copper doors and entered.

  Old world mixed with new in the great hall that served as the reception area. Ornate columns rose from a tiled chessboard floor up to the fifty-foot Gothic ceiling while huge high-definition monitors hung on wood paneled walls, cycling through images of paintings and multi-language informational blurbs. A bespectacled woman perched behind a tall counter, and a guard dressed in a blue uniform glanced up. Alyssa caught the guard’s eye, and he offered a slight, unenthusiastic nod. The woman retreated to the computer screen, showing even less interest. Alyssa gave the guard a quick smile and ducked into the women’s bathroom across from the reception desk.

  The scent of bleach and citrus invaded her nostrils as she slipped into the handicapped stall. Cracked tiles lined the walls, and a dated porcelain sink and commode crowded the small space, but at least they looked freshly cleaned. Nothing like morning hygiene in a public restroom. She sighed as the thought of her oversized tub in Cairo knotted her chest. Is a bathtub and a clean toilet too much to ask for someone who prevented a global disaster? she thought, chuckling wryly.

  It didn’t take long after the near miss of the Horus epidemic for the Society to regroup. Despite attempts to contain the details about the ancient genes in Alyssa’s blood and their role in developing the cure, the information got leaked to the news. Her father was furious since it had made her a prime target for any factions of the Society that still remained operational, turning her current pursuit into a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Kade insisted on her coming back home to Cairo, but what good would that do? Still… she missed her old man.

  The knot in her chest squeezed tighter. Alyssa slumped over the sink and clenched the cool porcelain. She lifted her head and scrutinized her reflection. Her skin looked dreadful, and she needed a haircut. Badly. Her split ends had split ends on them. Crisscrossing most of Europe, bunking in an SUV for months, hadn’t done either one any favors.

  She studied her eyes. Perhaps it was only the way the fluorescent lights reflected in her irises, but their deep hazel seemed to have softened to a golden brown. The strange dreams… or memories… or visions… or whatever has been messing with her mind hadn’t been the only unsettling things happening inside her. Since her exposure to Thoth’s weapon in the Hall of Records, she’d been noticing… developments. Like being able to hear conversations from across the room, or making out the fine print in a newspaper at the far end of a bus. It was both thrilling and unsettling.

  Kinda like starting puberty again at seventeen… and without having some girl on Quora to tell you you’re not the only one… and that boys dig those changes.

  Boys…

  She smiled for the first time that day when she pictured Paul’s playful grin. Thankfully, he had fully recovered from his injuries, and his second year at Oxford was in full swing. He had just declared his concentration. Medical physics and molecular biochemistry. She chuckled. And here I thought archaeology was a mouthful.

  Between his study schedule and her travels, they hadn’t been able to see each other since Cairo, but they texted daily and talked as often as they could. Still… it didn’t seem enough.

  Alyssa shook off the thoughts and turned on the faucet. She splashed some cold water on her face then lifted her sweatshirt over her head and cleaned up as well as she could, birdbath-style, and brushed her teeth. She slipped the sweatshirt back on and brushed out her hair then pulled it into a ponytail. She capped off her morning hygiene by spritzing on a dash of perfume.

  That’s as good as it’s gonna get.

  She left the restroom and climbed a flight of stairs to the historical stacks section on the mezzanine level. Row after row of bookshelves heaved under the weight of the old volumes. She marveled at the knowledge housed inside this hall. Each of the shelves seemed to go on forever.

  A short man stepped out from one of the narrow aisles. He was in his mid-fifties, dressed in blue slacks and a gray, button-down sweater worn thin at the elbows. He gazed kindly at Alyssa through a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

  “Alyssa?” he asked when she approached him. It sounded like Aleesa.

  “Dr. Danek,” she replied and held out her hand.

  “Please, call me Konrad,” he said, his voice gentle despite the hard, rolled r. His handshake was warm and clammy. Alyssa forced herself not to flinch at the touch and managed to tug her lips into a smile. “Thank you for meeting me, Konrad.”

  “Ha, it is not often that I get email about thesis I wrote thirty years ago,” he said and pointed to a chair at one of the long tables. “Sit, sit.”

  Alyssa sank into the chair and wiped her hand on her jeans. He seemed nice enough, but the small hairs on her arms stirred and lifted whenever she caught his eyes.

  “Your trip to Prague, it was good, yes?”

  Ten-hour nonstop drive from Amsterdam, she thought. She simply nodded in response.

  “You had chance to see our city?”

  “I have not,” she replied, folding her hands. “I came here just to meet with you.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” he said and pulled up in a chair beside her. “You want to ask questions about Society and Eric Cayce?”

  Alyssa blinked. It’s Edgar—not Eric—Cayce. She opened her mouth, but the expression on his face stalled her. At first she thought she had only imagined it, but it was his scent that had caused her apprehension. He smelled of… anxiety… fear. Her keen hearing had picked up the strain in his voice, the subconscious tension to his words.

  Konrad’s gaze slid away from hers for a moment and rested on the door at the far end of the hall, just long enough for her to notice. Uneasiness washed over her, through her. She tensed up as if to stand, but he placed a clammy hand on her arm, his fingers tightening, urging her to stay.

  “We have much to discuss,” he said, his eyes moving to the wide stairs leading to the lobby. He gave the slightest shake of his head. Alyssa compelled herself to lean back, and he patted her arm.

  “How much do you know about Cayce?” he asked.

  “He was an American psychic.” Alyssa forced the anxiety from her voice. “He was fascinated with the occult—and with Atlantis.”

  Konrad nodded approvingly. “In his early years, Cayce was greatly influenced by Helena Blavatsky, a Russian occultist. In 1877, she published book called Isis Unveiled.”

  “Isis Unveiled?”

  “It was hailed a master key to mysteries of ancient and modern sciences, and theology. It included description of mythical continent of Lemuria, which, until the mid-nineteenth century was the accepted scientific theory.”

  “Is that what sparked Cayce’s fascination with Atlantis?” Alyssa asked.

  “The book touched on many controversies of that time.” He held up a finger. “Darwin’s theory of evolution, yes? Another is her description of mythical beings—Masters—who have undergone spiritual and physical transformations.”

  Alyssa tensed at the words: Spiritual and physical transformations?

  “What kind of transformations?” she asked.

  “Sadly, not much of it is known. Nevertheless, the book served as blueprint for Cayce’s claims about advanced race that influenced development of mankind.” He lowered his voice. “It was promise of channeling power of this advanced race that inspired
likeminded individuals to gather together into group that became Society.” He leaned forward. “Individuals who were wealthy enough to fund his research.”

  Alyssa processed his words. “Are there copies of this book?”

  “That was my reason for asking you to come here. Fortunately, this library holds one of three last surviving examples of original manuscript,” he said. “The document is in basement.” He pointed to a door at the far end of the hall. “We can take stairwell.”

  Alyssa didn’t need the silent warning in his eyes. Her mind and body were on full alert.

  She slid her chair back and stood when she spotted the man on the stairwell. His casual clothes belied the predatory gait and flinty eyes as he stalked toward them.

  Konrad leaped up. “Run! There are more downstairs!” he cried out and charged the man on the stairs.

  The man sidestepped Konrad’s clumsy attempt to stall him and drove a fist into the small man’s gut, dropping him like a stone.

  Alyssa leaped across the table and dashed between the stacks, the flinty-eyed man at her heels. She heard a door open and the sound of footsteps rushing to the far end of the stacks. A moment later, another man appeared in the aisle, cutting off her escape. He was short and bald, with a neck like a bulldog.

  She staved off panic, her mind racing faster than her legs. She looked desperately for a break in the bookshelves between her and the man before her, but she was trapped in a tunnel of books with flinty-eyes breathing down her neck.