*
A soft, contented purring sounded in his ear, accompanied by the tickle of whiskers. Drowsily swiping a hand to relieve the tickle, Ardeth was jolted to full consciousness by the playful bat of a small feline paw straight across his nose. Eyes snapping open, all he could see was creamy white fur and large, inquisitive sapphire blue eyes. The Persian cat meowed triumphantly, pleased her plaything was awake, and rubbed her head against his chin. Absently scratching behind the cat's ear, who responded by walking down his chest and settling across his stomach, he realised he was lying in a huge, wooden-framed bed. Pushing down the crisp white sheets and patchwork quilt, he cautiously sat up. Giving a plaintive meow, the cat shuffled down into his lap. The room was spacious, with a high, airy ceiling and honey rich oak panelling on the walls. Buttercream yellow early morning sunlight filtered through the heavy brocade curtains at the large, leadlit bay window.
Where in Allah's name am I? he wondered, knowing the room was too big to belong to the town house.
He frowned, struggling to remember what had occurred. Try as he might, he could not recall anything beyond Rhiannon Ward grinding bitter-smelling herbs to a thick paste in a pestle and bringing in a basin of steaming hot water. Belatedly realising that each breath he took failed to precipitate eye-watering pain, he lifted a hand to his chest and pressed the bandages experimentally. Glancing across the room, attention lingering over the sumptuous Tiraz wall hanging, intricate floral design accented with gold silk thread, he saw his djellaba and bandoleer slung over a chair. To his relief, his Brownings were in their holsters and his scimitar lay wrapped in a red silk sash across the seat.
The cat, which was contentedly washing itself, licking first one paw, then the other before scrubbing at its ears, looked up expectantly. Leaping from the bed, it padded delicately across the floor to the door and sat down, staring up at the handle. The door opened, oiled mechanism whispering, and swung open. Rhiannon Ward entered quietly, dressed in a black velvet thobe embroidered with silver water lilies, neat doeskin boots on her feet. Purring like a traction engine, the cat wound itself around her ankles, leaving traces of white fur on the velvet. Bending, she petted the animal's head and shooed it affectionately out of the room. Sensing she was being watched, she turned with a slight smile.
"Good morning, sayadi," she greeted in Arabic. "Did Ghost wake you?"
Surmising she was referring to the friendly Persian, Ardeth nodded, taking the cat's reaction to her presence as promising. Cats were anathema to evil, kept by Egyptians for countless generations to guard against the supernatural. A scrabbling came from the other side of the door, accompanied by a miserable, throaty meow. Ghost clearly disliked not being the centre of attention.
"You expected her to hiss, perhaps?" Ward sounded tolerantly amused. "Maybe run around with her fur bristling? I'm sorry to disappoint… should I screech and turn to dust now?"
"And soil that fine carpet?" Bey asked, displaying a hint of dry humour.
To his surprise, she laughed, suddenly sounding as young as she appeared. Crossing the room, she sat on the side of the bed and gazed appraisingly at him, hands folded in her lap. Noticing the cat hair on the hem of her thobe, she tutted under her breath and reached to brush it away.
"How do you feel?" she asked, reaching towards his bandages.
When he flinched away, regarding her with mingled suspicion and distrust, she sighed and shook her head sadly.
"Ardeth," she said firmly, addressing him by his first name. "I must check the wounds. If I wanted you dead, dear man, you would be pushing up daisies in Hyde Park. Now sit still and stop being such a fusspot."
The quintessentially English sentiment, expressed in Arabic, made him smile despite himself. She had the same brisk tone Evelyn O'Connell used, a no-nonsense attitude that seemed universal amongst British women of a certain class. Cool and remarkably gentle, her hands, slightly callused in places, peeled back the bandages.
"Where am I?" he asked. "And how did I get here?"
"We're at my manor house," she replied. "A rather earnest young police constable took it upon himself to call when one of the neighbours reported the racket you made rolling about on the floor with Khepri. I thought a change of scenery best while my odd job man repairs the floor, the stairs, the banister and the bullet holes in the walls. I drove us over – I've just bought one of those marvellous new Ford cars. I'm afraid you conked right out, and I hadn't the heart to wake you."
Making a small, satisfied sound, she balled the stained bandages and ran her fingers across his chest. Catching her hands, skin tingling, Bey risked a glance down, expecting to see a swollen, weeping collection of purpled gashes and clotted blood. To his amazement, the flesh was whole save for pinkish scars.
"By Jove," she breathed, sounding as surprised as he felt, pulling her hands from his to prod at the healed area. "It's good stuff, that ointment. Boots the chemist would pay a mint for that."
Bemused, Ardeth watched her expression alter from incredulity to satisfaction, to something approaching awe. The preternatural white lady of the previous night seemed absent, replaced by an altogether more natural, earthly version of the same woman. She seemed astounded by her own abilities. Her voice, measured, pleasant and educated, lacked the strange resonance, and she no longer glowed with an inner luminance. Rather, her power was hidden, nestled away in the core of her being until it was needed. She knew and understood the value of image and theatrics.
Running a fingertip along the arc of the largest scar that ran across his right pectoral, features alight with curiosity, she stopped as she saw the minute change in Bey's expression. Sudden mischief sparking in her eyes, she lay the entire flat of her hand against his chest, slowly stroking back and forth.
"Do I frighten you?" she asked, shifting a little closer, feeling his heartbeat increase beneath her palm.
"No," he answered, daring to meet her gaze.
Lips curling in a sly smile that revealed even, pearly teeth, Rhiannon Ward chuckled archly, grazing the knuckles of her left hand over the tattoo just below his diaphragm.
"Do you want me to?"
A brief moment of consternation exploded behind the Med-Jai's black eyes, coloured by the merest shade of involuntary desire. Folding his hands around her wrists, he firmly removed them from his chest and sat back.
"I would prefer some answers," he said calmly.
"Ask away," she shrugged, rising to fetch a chair. You're a brave man, Ardeth Bey… and remarkably strong of will and character. Interesting…
Seating herself a respectable distance away, she crossed her ankles, quirking an eyebrow at him. Throwing back the bedcovers, Ardeth swung his legs over the side, quickly deciding against attempting to stand as his knees seemed not to want to cooperate.
"What are you?" he asked.
Rhiannon spread her hands disarmingly, and flicked a glance at the tapestry bellpull on the wall. Jerked by invisible hands, it caused a muffled brass chime elsewhere in the manor house.
"Breakfast?" she enquired cheerfully. Without waiting for him to reply, she quoted, "I am yesterday, today and tomorrow, and I have the power to be born a second time. I am the divine hidden soul who created the gods and gives sepulchral meals to the denizens of the deep, the place of the dead, and heaven… She is I, and I am she!"
Recognising the passage from the Book of the Dead, Bey frowned, a dark indent appearing between his brows. The section referred to reincarnation, though definitions of exactly whom or what was reborn had caused vehement squabbles between Med-Jai scholars for generations.
"You are a reincarnation?" he hazarded. "That would explain your…"
"Contradictory demeanour?" she supplied helpfully. "Knowledge of sorcery and dead languages? Well, yes… but not quite accurate. I'm something a little different to Evie O'Connell or that dreadful slut Meela… don't look quite so shocked, sayadi – you can hardly necromantically reanimate a Creature like Imhotep in the British Museum and nobody notice. A bit like thundering through the streets in a runaway double decker with several smelly mummy warriors on your tail. No, to put it bluntly, in layman's terms, I'm an avatar. The avatar of Isis."
Ardeth blinked at the revelation, the concept unfamiliar to him. The reincarnation of powerful figures from the thirteen dynasties was an accepted fact by the Med-Jai, each prophecy or proclamation of rebirth monitored for veracity and possible adverse consequences. The prospect of a goddess descending to earth through a bodily form was difficult to grasp.
"You are the queen of heaven? The goddess of magic, sister to Osiris?" he asked, incredulous. "She who stole Ra's secret name and powers?"
"Ah, yes, that," she frowned, waving a hand dismissively. "Yes and no. Every few centuries, or millennia, as it suits Her, Isis chooses to be born of flesh and continue Her work on earth. It's hard to explain in simple words, but the upshot is I'm both Rhiannon Ward and Isis – my soul is twin, two essences in the one vessel."
At that moment, a polite knock sounded at the door and a starch-aproned maid entered, bearing a tray filled with clinking Wedgwood china. Not in the least ruffled by the sight of a half-dressed, tattooed Bedouin sitting on an unmade bed in the same room as her mistress, she placed the tray on the dresser, bobbed a quick curtsy, and left. It was only after the door clicked to behind her that Ardeth realised her shadow had a switching feline tail.
"Tea?" Rhiannon asked, pouring milk into a bone china cup. "And there's toast, eggs, sausage… and bacon… ah… oh dear… I really must speak to Layla. This is her idea of a joke – she knows full well pork is off the menu as far as you're concerned…. Where was I?"
Jumping as a cup and saucer materialised in his hand, almost spilling the scalding contents into his lap, Ardeth admitted to himself that the food smelled good. His stomach growled sulkily, reminding him he had not eaten in over twelve hours. The tray appeared on the nightstand with a barely audible pop, plate masked by a shining silver cover with a loop handle in the centre.
"You were explaining how the goddess is bound to you… or you to her," he said, turning the concept over and over in his mind.
"It does get a little confusing, doesn't it?" she observed, with a rueful smile. "I don't know where Rhiannon ends and She begins. You could say I'm a goddes-in-training. I've learnt it's best not to think too hard about it – it only ends up giving me an atrocious migraine, and these days when I get into a snit, I could accidentally level a few streets… which is not really cricket."
She broke off and took a long mouthful of hot, sweet tea, giving a small, thankful sigh. The humour and animation abruptly faded from her countenance, leaving her looking pierrette doll fragile and unbearably young. Her eyes remained old, fathomless and heavy with the weight of countless centuries of knowledge as they turned to rest on the Med-Jai commander.
"I have all Her knowledge up here," she said colourlessly, tapping her index finger to her left temple. "Which is a bit like trying to cram the great library of Alexandria into a pocket book."
Blowing on her tea, she watched the steam curl upwards and disperse on the air, huddled inside her exquisitely-embroidered thoth like a child in her mother's Sunday best clothes.
"Why are you telling me this, lady?" Ardeth asked, chilled by the sudden change in her mood.
Shell delicate, the teacup creaked alarmingly as her fingers tightened around it, shattering as the pressure became too great. The glittering shards of china and hot tea floated on the air and imploded, disappearing without trace. Brushing stray specks from her lap, the goddess looked up, eyes momentarily flashing liquid gold.
"Because, Med-Jai, I'm not the only avatar. There is another, and he wants to steal my powers for his own ends. His name is Runihura, and he killed those people back in Egypt. He was after me."
She sighed, gaze distant and troubled, hands knotted into white-knuckled bunches in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was low and harsh, a razor slash of pain.
"I've confronted him once, before he became empowered, as I have become from the Horn. I thought I'd killed him, but I was obviously mistaken. He must have survived and found the talisman he needed. He is the avatar of Set, god of chaos… I knew it was him when I found out how those people had died."
She stood and crossed the room, the folds of her thoth swirling huskily around her ankles.
"Much as I'm loath to admit it, I need your help, Ardeth Bey – if ever there was a cause worthy of the Med-Jai and their holy covenant, it is this. I can remember generations of your people stretching back to before there were pharaohs, before the first foundation was carved at Giza. Runihura means to rob me of my powers and break open the gates to the Underworld, bringing death and chaos to the world." She paused and a shadow passed darkly over her face. "I'm human and therefore fallible, despite the fact She has chosen to manifest through me. I can't outwit him alone. He needs a sacred artefact to disempower me and claim my magic as his – the Throne of Isis. And he can only perform the spell at the Temple at Hamunaptra, the dead city you and your kin have sworn to defend. I said my business was no concern of yours, but now we're in this together, whether we like it or not."
*