Chapter 20 – Ancient Nightmares
Robert Varne awoke in a cold sweat. He'd had those dreams again. Throwing back the covers, he staggered to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. The face that looked back from the mirror looked ordinary enough. A young man of twenty-two, his jaw stubbled with a day old beard. His dark hair was slightly damp with water and sweat, and his brown eyes were haunted by the visions seen in sleep. Returning to the bedroom, Robert put on his robe and wandered into the kitchen. It was barely 5:00 AM, and the housekeeper wouldn't be up for another hour. He poked around in the cabinets, finding the coffee pot. Hoping he remembered how to use the damn thing, he measured the grounds and set it brewing. Robert slumped at the table and put his head in his hands. The dreams were getting more and more frequent. Sometimes he wondered if he was going mad.
It had begun two years ago. He'd been in college in London. His father, Sir Randolph, had wanted him to go to college in Egypt, but Robert had held out for England. The further away from his father he could get, the better he liked it. They'd never gotten along. Sir Randolph was a cold, unloving man. In addition to that, Robert had always had the vague feeling that his father was a danger to him. He'd never had any reason for feeling this way, but the fact remained. So, two years ago, Robert had been living on his own in London. He'd had his own flat, a relief after the cold formality of his father's town house.
It had all stemmed, he thought, from the woman who'd moved into another flat on his floor. They'd encountered from time to time in the hallway, or waiting for the lift. She'd been stunningly beautiful, but her manner toward Robert had been one of amused contempt. He shivered at the memory. Meela Nais, her name had been.
He'd encountered her late one night coming up from the lobby. She'd had an odd friend with her, a tall man wearing black robes and some sort of mask over his face. Perhaps they'd been to a costume party? He had nodded politely and stepped aside to go around them, but Meela had put out a hand to stop him. "Robert," she had purred, taking his arm. "You must come over for a nightcap. There is someone I would like you to meet." She'd steered him toward the door of her own flat. Robert had gone along, not knowing how to refuse. Her tall friend in the mask had said nothing. She had not introduced him. Ten minutes later, Robert had sat gingerly on a sofa in her lavishly decorated living room, sipping scotch and wondering how the hell he was going to get out of there.
Since Meela had handed him his drink, she and her odd friend had ignored him. They'd started speaking in ancient Egyptian of all things. Robert had learned that language at the insistence of his father, so he'd been able to understand what they said. The words, that is. The content of their discussion was so bizarre he could hardly believe it.
"I thought you would want to see him." Meela had said.
The masked man seemed to study Robert. "Yes, indeed." The man's voice was oddly muffled because of the mask. "You could not find the other one?"
"No," she answered. "There has been no trace of his soul." She smiled. "The year of the Scorpion is a good one. I have been able to find many of those that we both recall. Nefertari, you saw tonight. Hentumire lives in France. Tiye lives in America. Some of the minor nobles and priests are scattered about Africa and Europe. Ramses is an Englishman, but he lives in Cairo. This one," she indicated Robert, "is Ramses's son in this life."
"Truly?" The voice sounded amused. "Does he know?"
"No," Meela sounded scornful. "Neither does his father. Ramses thinks him one of his own – one of the boys who died young perhaps."
The masked man made an amused sound and turned toward Robert. "He understands, you know." The man moved closer to Robert, who rose from the sofa and stood silently. "You have no memory of me," the voice said quietly. "How could you, when I died before you were born? Yes, even as you did. You were murdered in the womb. Yet I am your father, thousands of years ago in Hamunaptra. It seems my line is not extinct." The man reached out with a gloved hand and put a finger under Robert's chin. His flesh seemed to shrink at the touch, but he couldn't move. "You do not know what I mean. But you will, Robert Varne. You will."
The man had turned away at that point and resumed speaking to Meela. "First we must awake and defeat the Scorpion King. After that we will deal with Ramses. I have plans for this one," he jerked his head toward Robert, "but they will wait."
A few moments later, Robert had found himself ushered out the door and left unceremoniously in the hallway. He'd made his way slowly back to his own flat, his mind reeling. What in heaven's name had that been about?
He'd tried to dismiss it as a bizarre joke. He'd never seen either of them again. Meela Nais had apparently just disappeared. After several months, the landlord had put her things into storage and leased the flat out to someone else. He didn't know if she'd ever turned up again for her property, of if the landlord had eventually just sold everything.
The dreams had begun soon thereafter. Visions of ancient Egypt. A woman who looked like Meela Nais, with the same manner of amused contempt. A man with a shaved head and a cruel smile. A teenaged girl with fear in her golden brown eyes. A man who resembled his father wearing the crown of Pharaoh.
Robert ran his hands through his hair and glanced at the coffee pot. It had finished brewing, so he rose and found a cup in a cupboard. He added cream and sugar and sipped cautiously. After a grimace, he added more cream. There was a lot to be said for housekeepers. They could usually brew a decent cup of coffee. He resumed his seat at the table and sipped his coffee again, welcoming the heat of the cup in his hands. The dreams always made him feel cold, as if he was dead.
He thought idly of Tia DeWitt, and wondered if she was enjoying her trek out to the desert. He'd tried to talk her out of going, but she'd been determined. It reminded him that he wanted to go talk to Dr. Tierney at the museum today. Perhaps he had some word when the archeological team would return. He took another sip of coffee. He needed to think about Tia. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect her, but felt almost no desire toward her. It made him uneasy. How could he be in love with her without wanting to kiss her or touch her in an intimate way?
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