CHAPTER NINETEEN
The ways have been arranged that I might know my own passage. I have loved the light and followed it easily and with joy. And I struggled to learn how to lie with the darkness where all the wrong things happened for the right reasons.
The ways have been arranged. Through me the past flows like blood. Let the sun that rode on my back light my face. Let night fall with all the finality of death and I shall see a single star. Though the crescent moon pass through me like a slender knife, though it touch me, I shall live.
I've dreamed the nightmare a hundred times, that old revulsion of bone and flesh, waking in a sweat, in a headlong rush toward the world, into the cool certainty of fires that burn in sudden stars, the heat in the body. That I am precludes my never having been.
There are those who live in the boundaries of guilt and fear, the limits of imagination. They believe limitation is the world. You cannot change them. There is work of your own to do. You will never reach the end of your own becoming, the madness of creation, the joy of existence.
Dance in the moment. Reach down and pull up song. Spin and chant and forget the sorrow that we are flesh on bone. We were gods then and we knew it. We are gods now dancing in whirling darkness, spitting flame like stars in the night.
--Excerpts from "Becoming the Hawk Divine" and "Becoming the Child", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
The boy was young, barely eighteen, if one judged by looks alone. He was Egyptian, the dark handsomeness of his youthful features marred only by the jagged edge of fear that was constantly with him of late. He had signed on to the dig with his best friend, a boy only a little older than him, for the adventure of it all, as well as for the money. For all that it was an American dig, and Americans were to be tolerated at best, despised at worst, they paid on time, and in cash. And enough cash made anything tolerable.
The dig had gone well at first, even with the harsh living conditions of the desert camp. Seneb was not afraid of hard work, and removing the dirt and debris from the excavation, pitching in with camp chores, and even assisting the occasionally temperamental Sabir had been no hardship. But that had all changed when the American scientist had done something to make the ancient, cursed pyramid rise up from the ground, bringing with it this evil growth of jungle and the terrifying natives. Still, Seneb was an honorable youth, determined to stand fast against his fears and thus render them powerless against him. So, when the American, Bernstein, had asked for volunteers to stand guard, he had been among the first—and only—to volunteer.
And that singular act of bravery explained how, on a cloudless, clear morning, when the rising sun was just beginning to paint the eastern sky in shades of lavender, shell pink and rosy gold, he and his friend, Emir, happened to be climbing down from their perches in one of the tall trees around the perimeter of the pyramid. Near-exhausted from yesterday's move, and the sleepless night they had spent standing guard, the young men moved clumsily, paying too little attention to handholds and footholds on the slippery trunk of the huge tree. They moved with haste, wanting only to gain the ground—and from there, their bedrolls, and precious sleep—as soon as possible. Emir reached the ground first, looking up with a yawn to watch as the younger Seneb stretched out with his foot to balance on one of the smaller limbs of the tree before grabbing on to the sturdy branch just above it with his free hand. Emir, in his half-dozing state, saw the branch dip precariously when it took Seneb's weight, and frowned groggily. In the next second, he heard the groaning crack as the wood began to give and, finally wide awake, he opened his mouth to call out a shrill warning. It came too late, though, and as he watched in horror, his friend's foot lost its support, his hand slipped off the branch, and he lunged to the side, making a wild grab for his sure perch of a moment ago. He almost made it, teetering for a moment before finally losing his balance for good and plunging down through the remaining five meters of branches and foliage, to land with a sickening thud on the ground at Emir's feet.
Emir let out a yelp, dropping to his knees beside his friend. A quick glance assured him that Seneb was indeed alive—the youth's eyes were wide open, his breath was coming in quick pants, and a low, keening sound of pain worked its way past his tightly clamped lips. He did not move, however, and another hasty check revealed why—his right arm was bent underneath him, jutting out from the shoulder at a sickeningly impossible angle. It was obviously dislocated, and possibly broken.
Emir looked around in a panic, unsure of what to do. He knew he had to get help for Seneb, but he couldn't very well leave his injured friend alone here in the jungle, at the mercy of the very beasts they had just been guarding the others from. And he couldn't drag his friend with him, unless he wanted to risk doing him further injury. At a loss, he resorted to patting the injured young man lamely on the uninjured shoulder, muttering uselessly under his breath, praying to the gods to help them.
The gods answered in their own inimitable way.
Ardeth watched as the Creature—Imhotep, he reminded himself, in deference to Eliana's wishes—moved rapidly through the forest, heading back towards the pyramid. The priest had left Eric's side an hour before sunrise, spoken briefly to the young Egyptian doctor, and then headed out into the jungle, carrying with him one of the camp's heavy-duty lanterns. It had been almost comical to watch the amazement in the three-thousand-year-old eyes as the priest flipped the switch on the device, as he had no doubt watched Eliana and the others do, and the bright, piercing light of the flameless torch shot out, illuminating a wide swatch of pre-dawn jungle.
Ardeth knew that Imhotep would not take kindly to being observed in such a fashion, and the Med Jai had barely managed to hold back his reflexive laugh, finally able to do so only because of his fierce desire to remain unnoticed. His primary goal this morning was to observe, and to determine for himself whether or not the man, or the mummy—or maybe he should just think of him as "the priest"—was indeed as harmless as Eliana and he himself claimed to be. Only time, and careful observation, would prove or disprove that claim.
And so he had watched as, for the last hour, Imhotep had meticulously made his way through the thick undergrowth, shining the beam of the lantern into patches of vegetation, picking through the plants with his free hand, obviously searching for something, but just as obviously failing to find it. Finally, with a disgusted sigh, the priest had given up, looking up at the lightening sky and switching off the battery-powered light. For a second or two—no more—defeat was written clearly on his face—defeat and disappointment both. It was an expression that Imhotep would never have permitted himself to wear, had he known he was being watched, for both emotions bespoke weakness, and revealing weakness in the presence of an enemy was intolerable.
The priest had looked around one more time, more out of a sense of desperation than any real expectation of finding what he sought, and then had turned in the direction of the pyramid, making his way swiftly back through the trees, the Med Jai trailing behind.
At the edge of the tree line, just as the sun was breaking over the forest to the east, Imhotep found the two young men, almost tripping over them, in fact, as they cowered on the ground. The priest took in the scene with one sweeping glance, quickly assessing the situation and the young men—boys, really—that he had stumbled upon. The older one crouched over his injured friend, trying valiantly to look fierce and protective, but not succeeding in the least. The younger one was too hurt and afraid to do anything but lay on the ground, looking utterly miserable.
Crouching down so he was at eye level with the older youth, Imhotep looked into the frightened brown eyes. "What happened here?" he asked in Hebrew, not really expecting to be understood, but pleasantly surprised when he saw the flare of knowledge in the boy's eyes. Pointing upward, the youth quickly explained, his expressive gestures adding detail to the sparsely worded Hebrew explanation. Imhotep nodded, quickly grasping that the boy's injuries were the result of a fall, not an attack by the natives or some other incident.
Working quickly, he examined the youth, running his hands expertly over his limbs to check for fractures, gently palpating his abdomen to feel for any hardness, distension or other sign of internal bleeding and finally, looking into the frightened eyes to determine if they reacted equally to the light. He knew that a serious head injury could sometimes be diagnosed in such a manner, but he saw no indication of it in the young man's eyes. The only thing that shone from them was pain and fear. It appeared that the only injury the boy had sustained was the obvious one—the clearly dislocated shoulder. Thankfully, it was an injury that was easily—if painfully—repaired.
Looking up into the eyes of the older boy once again, Imhotep spoke slowly and clearly, making sure the youth understood him. "His shoulder has come out of its joint. I can replace it, but I will need your help. You must hold him, while I pull the shoulder into place. Can you do this?" He searched the youth's eyes, looking for understanding, and finding it there. Slowly, the young man nodded. "Good," Imhotep gave him a brief smile, as he gently moved the injured youth so that he was no longer lying on his arm. Once on his back, the grossly misaligned limb was even more apparent, and Imhotep held back a wince. This was never a pleasant task—it always required as much brute strength as mechanical dexterity—and apart from that, he didn't like the thought of causing the boy any more pain.
A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that dawn was stealing over the camp, and the sounds of men rising and beginning to stir drifted to his ears. He could so easily leave them—simply go and find one of the hordes of doctors or medical personnel that roamed the site. For a brief second, he contemplated telling them he had changed his mind and doing just that. But another look into the boy's pain-filled eyes convinced him to stay. Unsavory though it was, replacing a slipped shoulder was easy enough to do, and would quickly alleviate the youth's suffering.
His voice was low and gentle as he talked to the boy. "Can you understand me? What is your name?"
After a moment, the young man answered him. "Seneb."
Imhotep nodded, pleased that the youth had managed that much. Gently, he pulled him into a sitting position, keeping up a smooth flow of conversation as he did so. "Seneb, you must have heard me when I told your friend what was wrong." Just in case, he repeated himself anyway. "Your shoulder has come out of place. It is an easy matter to fix, and I can do so, but you must hold still and not pull away when you feel me moving the bone back into alignment. Your friend will assist me. Once the bone is back in its proper position, the pain will be much less. Do you want me to do this?"
The boy nodded, a look of grim determination settling on his face. Imhotep smiled at him, impressed with the young man's fortitude. "It will be painful while I am moving the bone, and you will feel much pressure, but do not move. Do you understand me?" Again, the boy nodded.
Imhotep moved the other boy into position on his friend's left side, showing him where to hold and cautioning him once again to not let go, once he began moving the limb. He took up his own position on the boy's injured side, carefully lifting the dislocated arm and feeling it once more to determine if the shoulder injury was the only problem. Satisfied that it was, he gently moved the arm, steeling himself against the boy's moan of pain. "Close your eyes, grit your teeth, scream if you must," he warned him, "but do not move."
His obsidian dark eyes lifted, meeting the older youth's. He saw the readiness there. With a barely perceptible nod, he indicated that he was about to begin. The young man braced himself and hung on for dear life. With a mighty tug, and a skillful twist and push, Imhotep maneuvered the bone into position, closing his ears to the boy's shout of pain. Difficult though the maneuver was, it was over in seconds, the ball joint of the shoulder slipping back into its socket like a well-oiled key into a lock. Moving it back and forth slightly, satisfied that it was indeed in place, Imhotep put a hand on the youth's other arm. Slowly, the boy's tightly clenched jaw relaxed, and his eyes opened the barest fraction.
"It is over?" he said, in a weak voice.
Imhotep nodded, favoring him with another smile. "It is. You did well. The bone is back in place, and I could detect no other injuries. The gods were smiling on you this day, for that to be the case."
"Indeed they were," said his older friend, looking at the priest with eyes that shone gratitude. "My name is Emir, and I am honored to know you. Seneb and I are in your debt. Thank you."
For just a second, Imhotep was taken aback at the genuine outpouring of gratitude. It had been eons since someone had looked at him with some emotion other than fear, horror or revulsion, and eons more since he had had the satisfaction of putting his healing skills to use. He had forgotten the quiet pleasure of doing so. Unbidden, another smile curved his lips. "It is I who am honored. I am happy to have helped you, Seneb."
Standing, he leaned down to help the young man to his feet, offering him support and talking to him quietly while he waited for Emir to position himself on the other side, giving Seneb another arm on which to lean. Slowly, the three made their way towards the pyramid. Seneb would need to see the other doctors anyway, to obtain a sling for his sore and tender arm, and to be carefully reexamined to ensure that Imhotep hadn't missed something. The priest was quite sure that he hadn't, but it wouldn't hurt to be doubly sure. He smiled to himself again as they crossed the encampment that now surrounded the gleaming golden monolith. The boy would be fine.
After they had moved out of view, Ardeth Bay shoved his way through the underbrush that had successfully hidden him from their sight. The expression on his face was equal parts amazement, doubt and unwilling admiration. What he had just witnessed was an act of true compassion, freely given and masterfully accomplished. He knew from the Med Jai lore that Imhotep had been a skillful and well-trained healer as well as the highest-ranking priest in all of Egypt; but to know something and to witness it firsthand were two vastly different things.
He knew that the priest could have left the two young men to fend for themselves, or could just as easily have gone to get someone else to do the work. The Creature that he thought he knew, in fact, would have done so. The murderous beast that had lived on for ages in Med Jai legend would have done so as well, and would also have enjoyed seeing the stark pain in the boy's eyes—might even have inflicted some additional suffering on his own, for good measure.
But the man that had helped the boy walk out of there just now, after already having helped him so much, was neither of those things, and that rattled Ardeth's preconceptions and set him to wondering even more. He was on shaky ground, dangerously close to setting aside age-old beliefs and a rigid adherence to sacredly held dogma, and the feeling of uncertainty that accompanied that fact came as close to frightening him as anything could.
Shaking his head in confusion, he slowly followed the path that the others had taken before him.
"Professor Bernstein, it is truly a pleasure to meet you at last!" The speaker, a tall, handsome Sudanese man, stood up and smiled broadly as the archaeologist made his way to the table where the three newcomers were seated. "Please excuse our forwardness in making ourselves comfortable here. We have only just arrived, and the trek through the jungle was quite…strenuous." It was a lie, of course. The three had been there since last evening, first disposing of Mousa and then scouting out the camp, developing a feel for where everything was, who everyone was. They had spent the night on the fringe of the jungle, and were not even bothered by the natives—it was almost as if the little Pygmies could sense the presence of a more malevolent evil than theirs, and gave the three a wide berth.
Last night, they had scouted. Today was the infiltration.
Bernstein frowned, not at all pleased that his site was becoming the preferred destination in all of Sudan. How many more people would simply stumble out of the jungle, join up with their party, and set up camp at the pyramid? The pyramid, which he was beginning to think of as the Ebola Hilton. This was getting ridiculous.
"I'm sorry you had a difficult time reaching us, gentlemen," he said, a frown crossing his face. "But this was not the most opportune time to come here, at any rate. Surely Mousa has been in touch with your agency, informing them of what has happened here?"
The man nodded. "He has. That is, in fact, why we are here." He took great pains to look discomfited by having to speak badly of a colleague. "Allow me to introduce myself, please. I am Tariq Bashir. I am Bursuq Mousa's supervisor. I am sorry to say that he has been reassigned and will no longer be working as your contact with the Sudanese government." He shifted his feet and dropped his eyes, still attempting to portray uncomfortable reluctance. "My superiors felt that, given the circumstances, it would be better all around if I replaced Bursuq as your primary contact."
Clearing his throat, he added, by way of explanation, "Unfortunately, Bursuq has not had much experience in dealing with situations of such magnitude and…sensitivity."
Bernstein was completely unconcerned with the ins and outs of Sudanese political games, except for how they happened to affect him, and he shrugged. "Well, who you choose to have represent Sudan is your business, certainly. But you have to realize how difficult it is here already, without people coming and going at all times." He paused, a question occurring to him. "How did Mousa get clearance to leave here, anyway? I was under the impression we were under strict quarantine—no one allowed to either come or go…"
"Believe me, Professor," said Bashir, giving him an oily politician's smile. "Bursuq is in no danger of contaminating everyone. He left last night, under orders from my office, and will be going to a special quarantine unit at our government facility in Khartoum." Again, he paused, this time giving a small sigh of regret. "It was unfortunate he had to leave without even extending his thanks for your hospitality. He asked me to relay his apologies for that grievous omission."
Bernstein shook his head. "No apologies needed. I hope that he makes it back safely. How did he go back, anyway? No one heard a chopper come in…"
"He was escorted out through the jungle itself by a special military unit. A helicopter waited on the edge of the jungle. He was quite safe, I assure you." Oh, yes, Mousa was quite safe. He had no worries at all, anymore.
"Good." Bernstein said, stepping forward and offering Bashir his hand. "Well, welcome to the site. Make yourselves at home." He looked over the table, noting the half-consumed food. "I see you've already made the acquaintance of Sabir, our cook. That should take care of your food. As for lodging—I assume you will be taking over Mousa's accommodations?"
Bashir shook Bernstein's hand, a small smile on his face. "Do not trouble yourself on our behalf. Yes, we will simply take whatever lodging was assigned to Bursuq." Bernstein nodded, and turned to walk away. As he went to leave, Bashir's voice called out, stopping him.
"Oh, and Professor—one last thing." Bernstein turned back, one eyebrow raised in question, waiting for the Sudanese to continue. "Bursuq was much more laissez-faire than I, or my assistants here. You will find that we are much more interested in the fascinating work that you do here at the site. It is not everyday that one is privileged to be a part of something of this magnitude. I hope you will not mind if we observe the goings-on more closely than my predecessor did…"
Bernstein shrugged again. He didn't really care much one way or the other what they did, as long as they stayed out of his way and didn't try to manage his dig for him. "Suit yourself, gentlemen," he said. "But be warned—this site has already proven quite dangerous. Don't go into the barricaded areas, don't go anywhere unescorted, and please, please, don't touch the artifacts. Ahm Shere is a priceless discovery, as I'm sure you know." He paused, to give his next words more emphasis. "It needs to be safeguarded—even from those who mean well."
Bashir nodded. "Understood, Professor. I'm sure you will find nothing objectionable or bothersome about our behavior. We will be as unobtrusive as possible."
With an answering nod, Bernstein turned away. He didn't see the malevolent smile that flickered over Bashir's dark features, or the words that he murmured under his breath. But Bahir's cronies did, and they smiled in return. "Within a few days, Professor, you will not be bothered by much of anything…"
"Imhotep?" Her voice trailed down the corridor, the thick stone walls giving it a ghostly echo. "Is that you?" Of course, she knew it was, had known from the moment she stepped out of the small antechamber and seen his tall, unmistakable form emerging from the hallway to the makeshift infirmary, but the question served its purpose, and he stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him. He looked tired this morning, she thought, as she got closer—tired and a bit sad. His eyes were shadowed and his face had a pale, haggard look in spite of his dark coloring. But despite his obvious fatigue, the bone-deep stubbornness was still solidly in place, and he showed no sign of affection—or interest, even—as she walked up to him.
Saying nothing, he simply watched her impassively, as if waiting for her to explain why she had called out to him in the first place. Uncomfortable under his unblinking stare, she shifted from foot to foot, finally resorting to the only thing that came to mind. "How are you?" It was trite and overused, and it made her wince inwardly to have resorted to such a cliché, but at least it coaxed a response from him.
"It has been a long night." Well, that was a little more forthcoming, at least, than the standard "I'm fine, and you?" It wasn't much in the way of conversation, but it was better than nothing.
"You look tired," she offered, giving him a sympathetic smile. "How is Eric?"
"Not well. I have just come from his bedside. The disease continues to progress, and nothing has been able to stop it. I thought perhaps…" He shook his head, stopping himself before he said more, unwilling to give her hope, in the event that there was none. "Never mind. It is not important."
Before she could stop herself, she had reached out and placed her hand on his arm, refusing to take it away, even when she felt his flinch. "You thought what, Imhotep?" Reading between his words, she pieced it together herself. "Is there something you can do for Eric? Do you know something that will help him?"
He shook his head. "I should never have mentioned it." With a sigh, he stepped away, and her hand fell from his arm. "What I had begun to say was that I had hoped to fashion a tonic—an extract from a flowering plant—that might have given him some time. It could have bought him a day, maybe two, to gather his strength and fight the disease." As he spoke, he distractedly rubbed at his arm where she had touched him, as though he could still feel the imprint of her hand against his skin. "I have not been able to find the plant, so it is irrelevant. The god has overestimated my skill. There is nothing I can do for Eric. If he survives this plague, it will be because of the skill of the modern physicians and his own inner fortitude. I have done nothing."
Her heart went out to him. She would have given all she possessed to be able to comfort him in some way, however small. As it was, all she could offer, all he would accept from her, was a meaningless platitude. "You have done all you could. No one could expect more…" It was the wrong thing to say.
He whirled towards her, tired fury flashing in his eyes. "I expect more!" The words came out in a low growl, underscored by his fatigue and frustration. "Amun-Re expects more! I must help him—anything less is unacceptable."
She took a step back, looking up into his eyes, wanting to help, but unable to do so. Quietly, she asked, "What if there is nothing to be done, Imhotep? What will happen then?"
He looked at her, his eyes tortured. "I do not know. I cannot even think of it." He turned away, facing down the corridor, towards the bright light that shone from the infirmary. "Apart from what this means for me—freedom from the curse, freedom to finally go on—it is unacceptable for Eric to succumb to this plague. He is too young; he has too much to live for. It is not right. I cannot stand by and watch as this disease eats away at him." His shoulders sagged, his voice dropped to a ragged whisper. "But I do not know what else I can do…"
Eliana risked rejection again, moving to stand close behind him, putting her palm against the jutting angle of his shoulder blade, running it lightly over his back in an effort to soothe, to comfort. She felt him tense, but he did not pull away. Emboldened, she moved closer, until she could feel the heat from his body, smell the spicy musk of his skin. Her voice was a low murmur, a balm for his weary soul. "You will do what you can, and it will be enough.
"What if it is not enough, Eliana? I promise you, I will move heaven and earth itself to save him, to ease his suffering, but what if it is not enough?"
She put her arms around him, gave him a brief hug, and after an infinitesimal hesitation, a barely perceptible stiffening, she felt him relax. "It will be enough. You will do what you can, and it will be enough." Pulling away, she moved to face him, and although he resolutely kept his face turned away from her, she lifted a hand to caress the strong line of his jaw, a tiny smile curving her lips, but not quite erasing the sadness in her eyes. "You are a good man, Imhotep. Eric is fortunate to have you here. We all are. I wish…"
The silence stretched onwards after her voice had trailed off, and she began to wonder if he had even heard her. Finally, though, he spoke, fatigue and sadness adding a husky gruffness to the deep baritone timbre of his voice. "What do you wish for, Eliana?" He slowly turned to face her, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, his golden brown eyes searching hers. She was stunned for a moment, unable to keep pace with his mercurial shifts in temperament. One moment he was cold as death, the next moment blazing with the heat of a newborn star. She fumbled for what she had been about to say.
"I wish…" She gulped. "I wish that the others could see you as I do. I wish that my father and Ardeth…" The wrong words, once again. The light in his eyes died immediately, replaced with a frosty coldness.
"Ah, yes…the Med Jai." It didn't take much effort at all for him to dredge up the image of her in the Med Jai's arms. He could still feel the ache inside that that particular vision had caused him. The reflexive pain added a cutting sharpness to his words. "And your father." His next words were deliberate, meant to hurt. "What they—or you—think of me means nothing, Eliana. Nothing. I do not care. The time for caring is long past, dead and gone. At some point, perhaps, even you will realize that."
She stepped away, the color draining from her face, her eyes welling with tears that she only just managed to keep from spilling out. She felt like he had slapped her, knocked the wind out of her lungs…twisted a knife in her heart. Not trusting herself to speak, she bowed her head and turned away, holding herself unnaturally still as she fought against the tears. Finally, she trusted her voice enough to whisper an apology. "I'm sorry, Imhotep." Swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand before she turned towards him again, she opened her mouth to add more, but then changed her mind, shaking her head and dropping her eyes from his. In another second she was gone, and he watched as she walked away.
He was instantly bereft, a cold aloneness settling into the pit of his stomach, curling around his heart. Too late, he regretted every miserable word he had spoken. The temptation to call her back, to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, was powerful, but he fought it off. His pride, his defensiveness—his fear—all kept him from doing so. And so once again, he was alone, watching her retreating form as she fled from him. But this time the fault was his, not hers.
He suddenly, desperately, wanted some miracle to fall at his feet so he could complete the accursed task set before him and fade into merciful oblivion. How much longer could he stand this, when her every look, her every touch caused him an almost physical pain? Unable to answer himself, he turned away, not able to watch her any longer. Even in this new form, she was as beautiful as ever—and on some level, a part of him recognized that the new beauty was as much a loveliness of the spirit as of the body—but it hurt to look at her. Every glance reminded him of what he had lost, of what he could never have, of what he would not let himself have.
When he looked again, the room was empty. She was nowhere in sight. Her absence didn't help at all, of course, for although he could see her no more, the pain had never really been in his eyes to begin with. Now, as always, it had been buried deep within the furthest reaches of his heart.
"It is often said among the Med Jai tribes that what one cannot do, many may well accomplish." Ardeth Bay's quiet voice stretched across the early morning silence, the words themselves as much a verbal peace treaty as an offer to help. Imhotep straightened away from the tree he was leaning against, his expression settling into a mask of haughty disdain as he faced the Med Jai, the one person in the world that he least wanted to see.
"It is said among the Egyptians that only a fool feasts at a table laid by his enemies. I cannot imagine that accepting help from one is any wiser." He moved to walk away, but stopped in his tracks when Bay had the temerity to laugh at him.
"It seems, then," Ardeth offered, not bothering to hide his amusement, "that both the Med Jai and the Egyptian have a problem, in this instance." He took a step closer, watchful eyes scanning the priest's face, looking past the haughty expression—the raised eyebrow, the scornful sneer. Anyone—except perhaps the most casual observer—could have seen through that facade and noticed the weariness etched on the bronze features. To a Med Jai, who from an early age was trained to be perceptive, to read the faces and gestures of those they guarded—or guarded against—the level of fatigue he saw reflected in the priest's countenance was astonishing. "It seems that we must both set aside our distrust, at least for the moment. It is in both of our interests for you to accomplish what you say you must. It is perhaps time for you to acknowledge that you cannot do this alone, and to accept help, even if that help comes from your sworn enemy."
He saw the stubborn resistance begin to creep into the priest's expression, and gave a sighing shrug. "I do not know what you searched for in the forest yesterday, but I know that you were not successful in finding it. And I know that you spent the entire night watching over Eric before going out into the jungle again. If you are mortal, as you say, you must accept the limits that mortality imposes. A man must sleep, Imhotep…"
"I will rest when I have done what I must." Angrily, the priest shoved past the Med Jai, only to be detained by a hand on the arm. A witheringly pointed gaze at the restraining hand, which would have caused most men to shrink away in fear, only served to bring another amused look into the Med Jai's dark eyes.
"We can agree, then, that neither of us trusts the other, priest." Ardeth dropped his hand from Imhotep's arm. "But nonetheless, I believe that you require assistance. As does Eric. As will Doug, if more time is allowed to pass." At the mention of the two young men, the arrogance on Imhotep's features faded slightly. Ardeth saw it, and pressed his point. "You do not need to trust me to accept my help. And I do not need to trust you, to offer it. In fact, what better way to watch you, and speed you on your way, than to help you accomplish your goal?"
Imhotep glanced away, the expression on his face clearly that of a man who sees the logic in another's argument, but would rather chew off his own arm than acknowledge it. Finally, his own weariness forced him to capitulate. "Do as you wish, Med Jai. Help, or not, as you will."
Ardeth gave a quick nod. "Good." He shot the priest a questioning look. "You will be going out into the forest again, then?" Imhotep nodded, and Ardeth cursed the priest's habitual terseness. "It would be helpful to know what we search for, priest."
Imhotep's mouth twitched into a parody of a smile. "We are looking for a miracle, Med Jai."
"So he thinks that some kind of plant is gonna stop this guy from turning into a puddle of jelly?" Connelly dug around inside the nearly empty package and fished out the last M&M, a green one, and popped it into his mouth. He crumpled up the empty package and lifted his arm, about to make a shot at the cardboard box that served as the garbage container. All around it, scattered on the ground, lay discarded wads of paper and miscellaneous debris, remnants of other, failed attempts to hit the target.
Callie reached across the table and plucked the garbage out of his hand and, leaning back, placed it carefully within the container.
"Hey!" Connelly gave her an indignant, aggrieved look.
"You would have missed anyway," she scoffed, turning a coolly superior look on him. "And I won't even bother to answer your question. How can you possibly make a joke about something like this? Eric is sick, possibly dying, from a terrible, awful disease, and you sit here eating candy and making crude, tasteless jokes about it? What kind of…"
He leaned over, taking her hand in his, cutting off the stream of words with a look that contained no humor at all—just a serious, solemn sadness.
"I'm sorry," he said, briefly running his hand through his perpetually rumpled hair and looking up at the tarp overhead. His other hand maintained its hold on hers, his thumb rubbing lightly back and forth over her olive-toned skin. "It's just that…" He sighed, looking into her eyes, trying to make her understand. Why it was suddenly so important that she understand, and not think that he was just some ignorant American clod, he hadn't a clue. But it was important, and he kept his eyes locked on hers, staring into their mesmerizing darkness. His other hand reached across the table, so that now both of hers were trapped within his grip. "It's just that I've seen a lot, doing what I do, and sometimes joking about it is the only way to stay sane, you know?"
Callie cleared her throat, eyes darting away from his, looking anywhere but into the piercing blue-green gaze that stared at her from across the table. Delicately extricating her hands from his, she scooted back on her chair, increasing the distance between them until she could manage to breathe again. It didn't seem to matter much, though. There was still not enough air or space in the open-sided tent, and her hands still tingled from where he had touched them.
Purposely making her voice coolly professional, hoping he didn't hear the slight quaver, Callie scolded him. "What I know is that sometimes a joke is completely inappropriate for whatever reason. I can understand the psychology behind your explanation, I suppose, and even agree with it, to some extent, but really…"
He reached across the table again, his long arm easily spanning the increased distance between them, and laid a finger over her lips, once more stopping the flood of words. "Shhh," he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice, glinting from his eyes. "Take a breath. I get the message. Point taken. I'm sorry, okay?" He knew he should take his finger from her lips, but some inner demon made him keep it there, dared him to rub it lightly over the fullness of her lower lip. "You always talk so much?"
She gasped, completely baffled by his presumptuous familiarity with her, aghast at her own response to it. But no sooner had she opened her mouth to rebuke him than she realized it was a mistake, for the movement served to drag her lips over his fingers yet again, in what she was fast learning was an incredibly erotic sensation. Erotic? She was actually thinking of such a word, in relation to this man? Horrified at herself, she jumped up, almost sputtering with indignant frustration. "Are you always so…so…boorish?"
"Yep, mostly. Call it a character flaw." He leaned back in his chair, and she hated the way she noticed how the movement stretched the fabric of his shirt over the broad angles and planes of his chest, hated how her eyes roamed over the well-muscled flesh revealed by the open collar. He grinned at her, seeming almost to read her mind. That infuriated her even more.
"Obviously, you have character flaws aplenty," she threw at him, attempting to drag her eyes away from the tempting display of his…attributes. She gave him a withering glare. "You're clumsy, you're rude, your humor is incredibly tasteless, you litter," she said, pointing towards the trash container, "and you have absolutely no idea about respecting other people's personal space…"
"Never mind," he interrupted casually, eyes roaming over her, enjoying the look of her flushed face, the sparks flying from her incredibly gorgeous eyes, the fact that she was almost panting in anger, which made her chest rise and fall rapidly…Whoa, there, Connelly! He gave himself a mental shake. What are you doing? A little flirting is one thing, but get a grip, man! The idea of getting a grip, and what exactly, he would like to grip, brought to mind other thoughts, taking him further down that same dangerous path, and he cut himself short, irritated at his own inability to control his thoughts. For all that he liked to play the buffoon, found it useful at times, he was really very self-disciplined, and the fact that this Egyptian doctor rattled him so much that he couldn't keep his mind focused on his mission bothered him quite a bit. "You've made yourself very clear. I get the picture—okay, princess?"
She stopped in the middle of a breath. "What did you call me?"
"Huh?" He was clearly baffled at her abrupt change of topic. "I dunno…princess, I guess. Why?"
She shook her head, fighting off the strange feeling that had come over her when he'd used that term. "Nothing. Never mind…I just…"
From no more than two meters away came the sound of a throat being loudly and rather uncomfortably cleared, and the two of them looked over to see Ardeth Bay and Imhotep standing just inside the shadow of the tarp. Bay was obviously ill at ease over having interrupted them—he had been the one to make their presence known. Imhotep wore his usual enigmatic expression—nothing ever seemed to faze him. But Callie could swear that she saw a look almost like amusement flicker through the Egyptian's dark eyes before he looked away from her.
"Did you have any luck?" Choosing to ignore the entire awkward situation, Callie turned her back on Connelly and focused instead on the unsmiling face of the tall Egyptian. He shook his head, the frown on his face deepening.
"No. There is no trace of it to be found." The lines of fatigue on his face were etched even more deeply than when she had seen him last, and Callie suddenly found herself worrying about him. His skin was pale underneath the natural bronze color; his eyes, especially, had the look of bone deep weariness.
"You tried. That's all you could do…" she began, only to be cut off by a dark, brooding look.
"Effort means little, when failure is the ultimate result." Dark brows lowered over fierce brown eyes. Any attempt to argue that point would be futile. She chose to ignore it.
"Perhaps it's just that it doesn't grow here?" she ventured, lifting her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "After all, this place can hardly be called a 'natural environment'."
He nodded tiredly. "That may be so. But the result is the same, either way."
Connelly indicated the empty chairs around the table with a sweep of his hand. "Why don't you two sit down for a while? Get something to eat, something to drink. You both look like you could use something." He ran an assessing glance over the two, stopping to look carefully at Imhotep. "You look half dead…"
The priest's head shot up at the younger man's words, anger and something else flaring in the depths of his eyes. Half dead? He almost laughed at the irony of the man's words. This situation was ludicrous as it was—that he had now been invited to sit down and share a meal with someone who had just one lifetime ago been his mortal enemy, another who had plagued him in one incarnation after another over the millennia, and another still who was of the hated Med Jai—it was well past strange, moving rapidly into the realm of the truly bizarre. He shook his head, looking down at the still seated Connelly with an icy cold arrogance, not even bothering to answer him. Instead, his glance flicked back to the woman, and the coldness in his eyes thawed slightly. "I would like to see Eric. Will that be possible?"
She nodded, although her eyes were worried. "I think so. Robillard has tightened the quarantine, but I think I can get you in to see Eric." For a second, she was silent, then gave the priest a searching look. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" His raised eyebrow and questioning look indicated his assent, although he said nothing.
"How do you know so much about this disease?" It was the question he had feared, not knowing how to answer it without creating even more questions. "You said you were trained somehow in alternative medicine, but how would you know so much about Ebola, or about this plant…?"
He met her eyes, and settled on the truth, or at least portion of it. "My training as a healer was nothing like the training you have had to become a doctor. My knowledge is based on ancient lore and remedies that have existed for thousands of years. The disease that eats away at Eric is an ancient one, one that has plagued mankind for millennia…"
She interrupted him. "Ebola only made an appearance thirty or forty years ago. Even though the lab results say that the virus in Eric's blood is some sort of distant ancestor to the strains of Ebola and Marburg we know about now, how ancient, really, can it be?"
He smiled, and managed to look almost wistful. "You have no idea." Tiredly, he turned to face the bright daylight just beyond the shade of the tarp, staring into it with unseeing eyes. His mind conjured up images from ancient times, of places and people long crumbled to dust. Even during his natural lifetime, the disease was an echo of history, of times long past. "This disease is truly ancient. It has existed for at least five thousand years, in one form or another." A pause, as he pondered what else to say. "According to ancient texts, it was once thought to have disappeared; apparently, that was not the case."
"However could you know that?" Callie asked, eyebrows arching in disbelief. "I've never read anything of the sort…"
It was Imhotep's turn to interrupt her. "I imagine you and I have not studied from the same texts, Doctor." He turned to face her. "Regardless, I am familiar with the disease, and can tell you a little—very little—of its history. Do you wish me to do so?"
She nodded and sat down. "Please."
Connelly leaned back in his chair, making no bones about the fact that he was listening in on every detail. He appeared relaxed and at ease, but his eyes gave lie to his seeming nonchalance, focusing like lasers on the tall Egyptian. Ardeth, too, although he did not sit down, leaned back against a nearby table, folding his arms across his chest, his posture clearly indicating his intent to pay heed to this conversation. Imhotep spared neither of them a glance, all his attention focused on Callie.
"Five thousand years ago, shortly before the birth of the first pharaohs—before the great Egyptian Empire had arisen from the green valley of the Nile—a mysterious ailment sprang up in the desert to the south of what became the Old Kingdom. Little is known about it, save that it was a hideous, horrible disease, a true plague upon the earth." He paused, considering his words, trying to paint as accurate a portrait as possible of the nature of the illness. "It started much like any illness—pain, fever, nausea—but within mere days progressed to the point where the stricken person began to almost liquefy from the inside out.
"The eyes turned red, spots of blood appeared under the skin, and blood soon poured from every orifice of the body. Eventually, the mind shut down and the victim fell unconscious. Once stricken by the plague—the Red Death, it was called—the victim had no hope whatsoever, save for as quick death as the disease would grant. There was no cure, no remedy, nothing at all that could be done. No one could withstand it; entire cities crumbled from its onslaught."
He looked away again, his agile brain paging effortlessly through the memories of the ancient texts of history and lore he had studied in his early days of training. "It ravaged cities, destroyed entire populations, save for isolated groups of people here and there, who somehow managed to survive. No one knows how or why they were spared. Perhaps they were favored by the gods; perhaps they were simply fortunate. For whatever reason, they lived.
"The region was decimated, though—what had been a populous area had been reduced by nearly three-fourths in the space of several years as the disease swept northwards. Once it reached the northernmost cities, where the Nile empties into the sea, and completed its work there, it simply died out and disappeared. Again, no one knows how, or why—it simply vanished."
He fell silent, his mind working furiously to try to come up with a way to explain the rest. In the space of that silence, a small voice spoke up from behind them all. "So this disease had its origins in the same time period as the Scorpion King legends, then? When Ahm Shere first came into being?" As one, they turned towards the source of that subdued observation.
Eliana stood quietly, hands at her sides, watching the little group. Hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she looked cool despite the midday heat and humidity—the picture of calmness and poise. It was a deceptive tranquility, though, for while she was outwardly serene, inside she was a shambles. Just seeing him made her heart ache—although she was vaguely aware of the others in the tent, her eyes were locked on the unsmiling face of the handsome priest. And the tale he had just told…the pieces fell into place in her mind effortlessly, perfectly, and she berated herself for not realizing it sooner. The pyramid, the statue, the disease, the legend—it had been staring them in the face all along. Quietly, she finished her thought. "And what became of the tattered remains of the population, after the disease had run its course?"
Imhotep watched her intently, paging back through the history and legends in his mind. Within seconds, the answer came to him, and a small flame ignited in the depths of his eyes, catching hold and beginning to blaze. "They were lost; scattered to the winds—their cities had collapsed, their governments and economies had perished along with their husbands and wives, sons and daughters. There was virtually nothing left, until…" A small smile began to form on his lips.
"Until?" Eliana prodded, anticipating the answer, waiting for him to say the words confirming her suspicion.
"Until a mighty warrior rose up from the south and defeated the ragged legions to the north, sweeping through the desolation that remained and gathering up the remnants into what would become Egypt." He paused, letting this revelation sink in. Quietly, he put the remaining piece of the puzzle into place. "Egypt's first dynasty; Egypt's first pharaoh—Skorpios the First—the Scorpion King."
"'With this last, worst plague I deliver over a bleeding Egypt to my servant.'" Shaking her head in disbelief, Eliana's soft voice quoted the words her father had read from the archway leading down to the grotto in the pyramid. "I cannot believe it. Anubis' words to the Scorpion King. The answer to the puzzle of the plague was there all along, Imhotep. All along. I had forgotten all about that inscription…"
With an audible thump, Connelly's chair tipped forward and hit the ground, once again resting on all four legs. The strapping American leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, his piercing blue eyes fastened relentlessly on Eliana. "So you're telling us that this Ebola thing is a little gift from some ancient Egyptian god to his human buddy? Poor guy needed a little help taking over the world, so his favorite deity sort of stepped in to lend a hand?" He snorted. "Been reading a few too many mythology books lately?"
Imhotep skewered him with a look. "The logic is infallible; the conclusion fits seamlessly within the framework of history and legend. The illness destroying Eric is ancient, a legacy from times long past—freed from its imprisonment in the bowels of Ahm Shere and allowed to ravage the earth once more." His gaze swept over the American in derision, taking him in from head to toe and clearly finding him lacking. He looked away, unimpressed. "Perhaps your limited…knowledge…does not permit you to reach that conclusion, but it is a sound one, nevertheless."
Hearing Connelly's indignant huff, he favored the American with another scathing glance, then added, "I have often found that when one has no knowledge of what is being discussed, it is wise to remain silent. Only a fool mocks that which he does not know."
Connelly's jaw dropped open, then snapped shut. He shoved his chair back from the table and stood up, brows lowering into a scowl. "Now just a second…" But Imhotep had already turned away, dismissing him without a second glance. He once again turned towards Callie.
"To complete the story, the plague disappeared for centuries—a thousand years, perhaps more— before finally surfacing again. It was still as virulent when it struck, still as fatal, but it was nothing like it had been. It was almost as though it had changed somehow, been weakened in some way. It still killed, but the killing was more contained, less widespread. It affected fewer people, and of those it did, some—a rare few—sometimes managed to survive. It was during those days that the curative powers of the plant were discovered…"
"But wait," Callie stopped him. "So you're saying that the virus mutated somehow? Changed in some way that made it less effective in destroying huge segments of the population?" At his affirmative nod, she continued musing aloud, staring off into space as her thoughts formed. "So if it killed off all those people before, leaving behind only those who somehow managed to survive it—possibly some sort of natural immunity—and then went dormant…" She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Only those that were immune would have survived, and they would have most likely passed that immunity on to their children." She stood, beginning to pace back and forth, as the train of thought began to form and grow, rapidly gathering momentum as it took shape.
"So the virus would have been left with nothing on which to feed—no hosts—unless it could mutate somehow, giving it a foothold once more." She glanced around at the group, looking at them but not really seeing them. All her energy was focused on piecing together the mystery of how the disease had managed to evolve. "But at the same time that it was changing—evolving—the human population was going through its own changes. The virus mutated, allowing it the opportunity to infiltrate the human population once more; without the need for natural selection to ensure transmission of the natural immunity—because the disease was dormant—the humans would have gradually lost some of their inbred resistance to it in its original form. But still—even a couple of millennia aren't long, in terms of human evolution—large numbers of the population would have remained immune, at least in that part of the world."
She paused, thinking again. "The thing is, who knows how many mutations have come and gone, over all those centuries? The filoviruses of today would be nothing like the ones that existed even a thousand years ago. Similar, yes—the same, no. What some people could fight off back then, we might have no hope against, today."
Imhotep nodded, managing to follow her reasoning, even with some of the unfamiliar terms she had used. "You said that the doctors thought the disease in Eric was an ancient one—some sort of ancestor to the diseases like it that exist today. Is that correct?"
"Yes." She frowned, puzzling over something, not sure of what it was that bothered her. "But…but no one is immune to Ebola, at least not that we've found. Not any of the known strains, not Marburg—when they appear, they kill. They're hard to get—none of them are airborne, like this one appears to be—but they're deadly."
Connelly let out a sigh. He had followed the conversation all the way up to this point, but now he was lost. "What, exactly, does this mean, Doc? You've discovered Ebola's great grandfather? So what? They're deadly, all of them—Sudan, Zaire, Reston, even Marburg—what's it matter? You get one; you're dead. That's it."
She gave him a frustrated look, impatient with his lack of understanding. "No, that's not it, Mr. Connelly. The modern forms of the filoviruses are deadly, yes—no natural immunities exist, at least none that we know of—but they're hard to catch. You need direct contact with bodily fluids to get the diseases. This one," she stopped, letting the full impact of what she was about to say sink in, "this one is different. It's airborne; it's deadly. It's a filovirus in the purest form—unchanged, not mutated, just sitting beneath the earth for thousands of years, waiting to be released. And during all of that time, the human population hasn't remained static—we've changed, mutated—lost most, if not all, of the natural resistance that was bred into the original survivors' descendants."
Connelly sat back once more, the air clearly gone from his sails. "So what you're saying is…"
She cut him off. "What I'm saying is that the virus has been awakened from where it slept for thousands of years. It's hungry—very hungry. And it's just found a whole new herd of cattle to feed on…"
"I think I've got something," Connelly called out, squinting at the flat screen of his monitor. For the last several hours, he had been searching through database after database, hooked up to the Internet via the miracle of his state-of-the-art communications equipment and modern satellite technology. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the forest outside, painting the ground outside in dappled shades of green and gold. He sat back, rubbing his tired eyes, waiting for Eliana and Ardeth to make their way over to him. Callie had been gone for almost an hour, called away to Eric's bedside by one of Robillard's assistants. Imhotep had gone with her.
"Silphion, he said, right?" Connelly looked to Eliana for confirmation. She nodded. "Well, here it is, then." He turned back to the screen, watching as information on the elusive plant scrolled over the screen.
They had dug through pages and pages of material, some of it research, some of it junk, most of it completely useless. They based their search on the few details Imhotep had been able to provide about the plant, including its name and a quick sketch. The search had gone on for several hours, turning up nothing. Until now.
Connelly pointed to the screen, where a rough illustration of a plant shimmered on the display. "That look like our plant?" Ardeth and Eliana glanced between the monitor and Imhotep's sketch, comparing the two drawings. There was a remarkable similarity. Connelly went on, not waiting for them to agree or disagree. He, clearly, was convinced. "This says that the plant's name is silphium, but that it used to be called silphion, as well." He read quickly, skimming through the material on the page, absorbing the information at an astounding rate. He scrolled rapidly, summarizing as he went, his voice a droning monotone. "Miracle plant, native to Kyrenaika—modern-day Libya—and possibly more widespread, as well. Used for thousands of years, amazing healing properties, widely used in ancient potions and remedies, worth its weight in gold…blah, blah, blah…"
He stopped suddenly, a quizzical frown marring his rugged good looks. He turned to Eliana, watching her carefully. "You heard him say he's used this stuff before, right? One of those 'alternative remedies' he was trained in, or something?"
She nodded. Imhotep had been very clear about having witnessed for himself the healing properties of the plant. They had all heard him. Why that should be an issue now, she hadn't a clue. "Yes, that's right. And so what about it…?"
He looked at her oddly, then shot Ardeth a glance, too. Turning back to the screen, he checked the data one more time, then closed the lid of the laptop with a soft snap. He leaned back, watching their faces as he spoke.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he began, his piercing blue eyes missing nothing. "If we're hoping to find this plant, we're out of luck. And if your buddy," he said, looking at Eliana, "if he's actually used this plant, like he says he has—well, he's one remarkable guy."
She looked at him, still clueless, but with a feeling of dread beginning to build, nonetheless. She had an awful hunch about where he was going with this. His next words confirmed it. "He either has a secret little herb garden somewhere—I mean really secret—or he's lying, or he's just plain nuts."
Finally, Ardeth spoke up, his annoyance as plain as the tattoos painted on his skin. It had been a long afternoon, and even his legendary Med Jai patience was at an end. "Connelly, if you have something to say, please—just say it. You have a remarkable knack for obfuscating…
Connelly's sharp blue eyes remained pinned on Eliana, although he ostensibly addressed Ardeth. Somehow, someway, he knew she knew more about this than she was letting on. There was obviously something going on between her and the Egyptian. He didn't know what, exactly, but he'd bet good money on there being something. Hell, maybe Bay knew something too. Who would know, with this bunch? They all seemed to have their share of secrets.
"What I mean, friends, is that he can't have used that plant." He leaned back further in his chair, tipping the front legs up into the air, folding his arms behind his head, his posture one of relaxed calm. His next statement fell like a bomb, exploding in midair, shattering the stillness of the late afternoon. "No one here today can have used it, unless they happen to be a couple thousand years old. Miracle it may have been, but it's long gone, supposedly from overuse. It became extinct way back when—right around the first century A.D."
"NO!" Imhotep stormed past Callie, heading down the hallway and into the room that held the ridiculous white bubble in which lay the ravaged remains of Eric's body. She reached out a restraining hand, trying in vain to halt him as he stalked down the corridor towards the room, now swarming with medical personnel. He'd never be allowed inside, and in his current state, he could jeopardize his ability to confer with her on Doug's case in the future. Robillard was not a believer in alternative medicine, and he was itching for a chance to completely ban the Egyptian man from the infirmary.
She ran after him, catching up to him just outside the doorway. "Imhotep—stop!" Panting, she managed to grab him by the arm. "You can't go in there. They won't allow it." Sadly, she added, "It's too late now, anyway. He's gone. There's nothing more we can do."
Eric had died scant minutes ago, while Robillard himself was examining him, finally succumbing completely to the virus. His blood pressure had dropped abruptly, bottoming out at a ridiculously low number, the steady seepage of blood reducing the volume so much that it couldn't sustain life. His heart, finally, had simply stopped. In a way, it was a blessing that he was gone. No one had even considered bringing out the portable defibrillator to try to shock him back. Even though he had been in a coma-like state during the last few days, he had suffered, and suffered greatly. Now, at last, his suffering was at an end.
Theirs had just begun.
Imhotep whirled around, his tortured brown eyes seeking hers, helpless rage and frustration painted in stark relief on his bronze features. "You do not understand," he whispered, his voice a low, hoarse thread of sound. "I must help him. I must…"
She shook her head. "There is nothing more to be done, Imhotep. It's too late; he's gone." Her voice was soft, comforting—he was obviously in great distress over their failure to save Eric. She squeezed his forearm gently, trying to offer him some solace, some consolation.
He would have none of it, and shook her off, anger blazing in his eyes. "Do not tell me that—you have no idea what is at stake!"
Her eyes showed her confusion. "What is at stake? You mean the virus? Of course I know what's at stake…"
"No, you do not know!" He glared at her, anger and disgust radiating from him. It was not directed towards her, though—for all that his words were harsh, all his rage was directed inwardly. He had been given the task; he had failed. The fault was no one's but his. One more failure; one more soul lost. When would it end?
He turned away, his hands dropping to rest on a cart of equipment standing near the door. His fingers clenched around the sides, knuckles turning white from the pressure he exerted. He struggled for calm as anger boiled within him, threatening to burst forth at any moment. His voice fell to a whisper, icy cold, deadly calm. "You have no idea, Doctor, what is at stake…"
"What are you two doing in here?" Robillard's stern voice cut across the room. He quickly moved towards them, his brow lowering into a frown as he neared. "This room is strictly off limits—as of now no one is allowed in here but my team, unless they have special clearance from me, personally. Do you understand?"
Imhotep went rigid, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the sides of the cart. Callie extended a hand towards him, thought better of it, and let it drop to her side. She turned to Robillard, trying to placate the man. "Doctor, we just wanted to see if we could help in some way…"
"A general practitioner and a…a…whatever it is he thinks he is, are not needed here." Robillard was bristling with indignation and righteous self-justification. "You would do best to simply stay out of the way…"
With a mighty shove, Imhotep overturned the cart, sending equipment and supplies flying in a clattering cascade across the stone floor. He whirled to face Robillard, fury in every line of his body. He opened his mouth, about to say something, then changed his mind, narrowing his eyes to slits as he glared at the startled French doctor. Giving Callie an almost equally hostile look, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room, angrily kicking a box of disposable gloves out of his way as he left.
Callie watched, open-mouthed, as Imhotep stormed off down the hallway. She didn't even bother to turn towards Robillard as he spoke to her. "Doctor al Faran, I'm sure you'd be willing to inform your friend there," he pointed after the departing man, "that he is no longer welcome in my infirmary?" He watched her in silence for a second or two, waiting for a response, and then, shaking his head in disgust, turned and walked back towards the isolation bubble.
In the bubble itself, a modern-day sarcophagus forged of plastic and Tyvek®, the swarm of medics fluttered over Eric's corpse, preparing it for disposal, their flurry and haste in completing the necessary medical rites and rituals giving them an almost insect-like appearance.
Imhotep emerged from the twilight jungle, a dark shadow guided by instinct alone—a bleeding, wounded animal unconsciously seeking a safe haven, somewhere to hide, somewhere to heal. Blinded by unshed tears, weary to the point of exhaustion, he stumbled over a fallen branch and fell to one knee—he had not seen the obstacle, he did not feel the pain. He staggered back to his feet—past thinking, past caring, past hoping. Nothing mattered anymore—he had failed, and his hopes for salvation had been the price for that failure. Eric had died, and Imhotep's last chance for absolution had died with him. What was left?
He had wandered in the jungle for hours after he had left Callie by Eric's deathbed, searching for some fragment of hope, however small. Perhaps all was not lost; perhaps Doug could yet be cured; perhaps the disease could still be stopped. But the bitter truth was that Eric was dead, and Imhotep had not been able to help him. And therefore, he had been unable to help himself, as well. How much longer would he have? How long before the great god tired of his endless failure and cast him back into the pit, subject once more to the clawed talons of the demons and the endless nightmare of the curse? How long?
He walked blindly, unseeingly, until he came to a tent that stood alone, at the very edge of the camp. He pulled up short when he saw where his aimless wandering had led him, tipping his head back into the night and drawing in great lungfuls of air. Of course he had come here. Where else would he go? His mind may not have guided his footsteps, but his heart surely had, leading him here like a homing beacon. For a long while, he hovered like a ghost in the darkness, staring at the tent, lit softly from within by the light of a single lantern. Vague shadows danced over the thin nylon walls, tormenting him with images of the woman inside.
Her father had been angry with her for choosing such a remote location, but Eliana had insisted that her tent be here, as far from the noise and chaos of the camp as possible. It was still well within the protective sphere of the clearing's guarded perimeter, but far enough away to afford her some degree of privacy. At the time, even though he had privately agreed with her father that she should be closer to the center of the camp, Imhotep had not argued the point with her—to do so would have come too close to admitting that he cared. And if he were honest, a less than honorable thought had motivated him, as well. If she were isolated from the others, she was therefore more accessible to him…
He saw the light go off in her tent, and a look approaching panic crossed his face. What was he doing here? Why could he not just walk away? She was poison to him—as much a curse as the Hom Dai—and yet he could not stop seeking her out, desperate for the sight of her, hungry for the sound of her voice, starved for her touch…
A low moan escaped his lips, the sound as lost and alone as he felt. He should leave; he should turn and walk away; he should run as fast and as far as he was capable of running and not look back. He knew he should. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. But instead of carrying him away, his footsteps took him to the closed door of the tent, and he lifted his hand to the flap, groping for it, seeking the zippered opening, seeking her…
Before he could reach it, the flap moved, opening to reveal the shadowy interior of the tent, the darkness framing the woman who stood there, watching him. Some instinct had brought her to the door, some inexplicable force had told her he was there, and she had answered that call. Perhaps she had heard the sound he had made, perhaps not. It didn't matter. Not now. For an age, neither moved, neither spoke. The dark silence of the night wrapped around them, cradling them in a cocoon of intimacy, binding them together in the moonlit shadows.
Eliana's eyes searched the darkness that partially obscured his face and read the weariness there. He looked almost haggard—drained from the long, hopeless day spent in a fruitless, futile search for some chance, however small, of saving Eric. His characteristic aloofness was gone, the arrogance replaced by a deep, forlorn loneliness, and her heart twisted in her chest to see such pain in his eyes. If only, if only… She took a step closer, holding out a hand to him, attempting to bridge the distance between them.
He drank in the sight of her, his soul parched for her, his heart aching. She was everything he had ever wanted and more, and he desperately needed the comfort she could bestow on his weary soul. He craved her nearness; he yearned for it with a hunger that surpassed anything he had ever known or felt in all the long years of his existence. His gaze swept over her, missing nothing—she was already dressed for sleep, her hair hung long and loose around her shoulders; a long shirt draped her slender form, hugging her graceful curves from neck to knee. Although the gloom masked her features, he could see that her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed from weeping. His mind filled in the reason for her tears—because of Eric's loss; because of his own failure.
Finally, she spoke, breaking the fragile silence. "I'm sorry, Imhotep."
He shook his head in confusion. "What?" His mind felt slow, addled, like he was swimming through a thick fog. Her apology made no sense; she had nothing to apologize for. He was the one who had failed.
"I know that Eric is gone. I know…" Her voice faltered, broke. The tears came again, leaking from the corners of her eyes and shimmering in the moonlight like diamonds. He very nearly reached out to brush them away, stopping himself only at the last moment. "I know how much it meant to you—to save him, to complete the task…to break the curse. I'm sorry."
A deep, rattling sigh issued from his lungs, and he bowed his head. "I am sorry as well. I should have been the one to tell you; you should not have learned from someone else—forgive me."
She took another step towards him, reaching out and this time touching him on the arm. A draft of air fanned the bare skin revealed by the short sleeves of her shirt, raising goose bumps and sending a shiver rippling through her. It was a warm night, but the breeze was cool. He put his hand on hers, sensing the chill. "Eliana, you are cold—I should not keep you out here, shivering in the dark. Go inside; go back to your bed."
She shook her head, looking up into the haunted depths of his eyes, sensing the need that even he could not hide. "No. I'll not go inside. Not alone." There was pleading in her voice as she tightened her grip on his arm. "Come with me, Imhotep. Please. You shouldn't be alone right now…" Remembering the hours spent earlier, in search of the elusive plant, she added, "And we need to talk."
He didn't protest as she tugged on his arm, pulling him towards the open door of the tent. At the threshold, he kicked off his sandals, leaving them outside, not wanting to dirty the interior. He stepped into the small room formed by the thin canvas walls and ceiling, and immediately felt the warmth of the interior seeping through his skin, chasing the chill from his soul. Or maybe the warmth had nothing to do with being inside at all, and everything to do with the woman standing next to him. Regardless of its source, the warmth was a living, tangible thing, and he basked in the comfort it afforded him.
She bent to light the lamp, but his hand caught and held hers—no light was needed. The moon was still almost full, and its light washed through the thin material of the tent, providing them with enough illumination to see each other, enough light to paint their bodies with a soft, silvery glow. He shook his head, and she understood. No lantern, then—no light but the moon. He dropped her hand and turned away.
"Who told you that Eric had died?" he finally asked. He needed to know—needed to hear that she hadn't learned of her friend's untimely end from some cold, uncaring source. Her father would be best, Callie a distant second. Even the accursed Med Jai would be better than the French doctor or his cronies.
"Dad told me." Thank the gods; for once fate had been kind. "He found me right away, as soon as he found out himself." She paused, not sure what to say. Eric had been a dear friend, and she mourned his passing, but the disease had robbed him of life long before the end had come. It was a blessing that his suffering was finally over. "It's not your fault, Imhotep. There was nothing you could have done."
"I could have found the silphion," he said, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "If I had found it, he might have had a chance…"
"He had no chance, then, Imhotep, if it depended on that," she said, her voice quiet, solemn. "No matter how hard you looked, you would not have found that plant." His raised his head in question, watching with weary eyes. "It's gone, Imhotep, extinct—it doesn't exist anymore. Nowhere. It's been gone for two thousand years."
"Gone?" His voice was puzzled, uncertain of what he was hearing, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "How can it be gone? Silphion is one of the most valuable herbs that ever existed. Great care was taken to ensure that its supply was plentiful. Surely you are wrong…"
She shook her head. "No. It's gone. It died out around the first century A.D., probably because of overuse. It is extinct—the source of our data was the best on the planet. You will not find that plant—not anywhere." Her eyes were filled with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Imhotep. There must be some other way…"
"No," he said, biting back a curse. "I know of no other. There is none." He turned from her, pacing the narrow width of the tent and back again, coming to a halt just in front of her. A look of complete, utter disbelief was on his face. "How could this happen?" he asked, shaking his head slowly. "In my time, silphion grew profusely all along the Nile, from Napata to Pelusium. It was everywhere." He lifted his eyes to hers, the disbelief slowly fading into an angry revulsion. "How can it be gone? How can it be…what was the word? Extinct? How can this be?"
She put a hand on his arm, lightly squeezing, trying to offer some comfort. "It happens with unfortunate regularity in this age, Imhotep. Species become extinct all the time—daily, in some cases. Apparently, it happened in ages past, as well. Even two thousand years ago, the world supported many more people than it did in your lifetime. Today there are immeasurably more. They spread out, build cities, build homes, push further and further into nature…" Seeing the disgust on his face, she stopped, a helpless look on her face. It was obvious he didn't agree with the point she was making.
"Egypt also grew and expanded, Eliana." His voice was filled with censure. "We were a mighty empire—the mightiest on earth. And yet we did not foolishly destroy what the gods had given into our care. One of humanity's greatest gifts and utmost responsibilities is stewardship of the earth and its treasures. Has this concept died along with the old gods? Does man no longer recognize his place on Earth and his role in maintaining it?"
She had no answer for him. How could she justify man's callous disregard for nature's bounty? How could she explain that it was only recently that humanity had begun to understand its role and responsibility in Earth's ecosystem and take steps to repair the damage that had already been done? How could she expect him to understand, when she herself didn't? There were no easy answers to his questions.
But in the end, perhaps it wasn't answers he needed, as much as it was simple comfort. He had given his all to save Eric's life. He had called upon knowledge and gifts that had lain dormant for centuries, trying to hold Eric's soul within his ravaged body. And in the end, it had all been for naught. The gods would have their due; the plague would win this battle. They might win the war, and even that was a slim hope, but the battle over Eric's fate had been lost.
Two steps put her near enough to wrap her arms around his waist; another brought her close enough to rest her head on his chest. She hugged him tightly, letting him know without words that she was there for him. She chose her words carefully, knowing full well that he blamed himself for Eric's death. "Imhotep, you did your best. You tried everything you knew, used every remedy available to you. This was not your fault. Even modern medicine couldn't save Eric."
Slowly, his arms came around her, pulling her harder against the solid heat of his body. His words were muffled against her hair, but she could hear his sorrow, feel his angry frustration. "He was so young, Eliana, so young. He should have had decades more to live." And then the anger turned inward. "I am so sorry." His arms tightened around her, almost cutting off her breath, but she ignored it, knowing he didn't realize how tightly he held her. There was pain in his voice, and disillusionment. "I failed him. I told you I would try to help him, and I could not. I failed you as well. And I failed Amun-Re."
Eliana leaned back in his arms, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. She shook her head. "You did not fail, Imhotep. Amun-Re charged you with eradicating the plague. There is still time to do so, even though Eric is gone. You did not fail the god." She went on. "You did not fail Eric. You gave him everything you could, everything that the other doctors would allow. This was not your fault." Her thumbs stroked across his cheekbones, tracing a circular pattern over the bronze skin. He closed his eyes, not willing to look at her, accepting the caress, but not allowing it to soothe him, not able to forgive himself for his perceived failure. Her voice grew softer, gentler, as she tried to offer what comfort she could. "And you did not fail me. You told me from the first how difficult this would be, how precarious his condition, how virulent the disease. From the very beginning, you were completely straightforward about his chances for survival. You tried, and for that I thank you. You did not fail me."
His eyes opened at last, and he stared down into her face, seeing the compassion there, the kindness inherent in her nature. For all that she mourned Eric, she seemed equally concerned for his welfare, his state of mind. Imhotep was a man unused to compassion—even in his natural lifetime, he had been for the most part alone, for the same qualities that had propelled him into his exalted position within the temple had served to keep others at a distance. He was looked to for leadership, for authority, for decisiveness. He was the one to whom others turned.
And to whom could he turn? For a time, he had had Anck-su-namun, and their love had filled a void within him, given him something that he lacked. But even their relationship had been unequal, mismatched. Even Anck-su-namun had expected him to lead, to dominate, to always be in control. She had looked to him for salvation—in the end, she had expected him to save her, to save them both. And in the end, of course, he had failed her as well. The Hom-Dai had been his reward for that failure.
The Hom-Dai, three thousand years of excruciating pain and endless isolation, and two awakenings, both filled with horror, hatred, death and betrayal. Fair to say, he was unused to compassion, unaccustomed to being comforted. And yet, here she was, Anck-su-namun but not Anck-su-namun, Eliana now, a woman his soul recognized and his heart knew, someone he had alternately bullied, ignored, used, and hurt deeply, and she was trying to comfort him. It was a crazy reverse image, a strange inverting of circumstance, and it threw him off balance, caught him off guard.
Before he regained a sense of equilibrium, before he could gather up the reigns of his self-control, she was pulling him down to her, her lips moving lightly over his. The comfort she offered now was without words—passion would be his solace, desire his absolution. In the quiet of her tent, their hands and mouths moved over each other in a voiceless affirmation of faith, and trust, and life.
The kiss, which had begun only as an expression of comfort, grew and deepened, becoming something velvety dark and druggingly erotic. Their mouths moved against each other like wordless poetry, each soft brush of their lips, each caressing flicker of their tongues adding another stanza to the timeless verse. Opening his mouth over hers, delving into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth, Imhotep felt himself falling into her moist warmth like a drowning man finally surrendering to the ceaseless pull of the current. He stopped fighting against the magnetic pull she exerted on him, ceased the futile struggle to resist the hold she had on his soul. And with his surrender came the knowledge that had had gained immeasurably more than he had lost.
His hold on her tightened, his hands burned through the thin jersey knit of the shirt she wore, moving over her body with the deft touch of an artist. In his hands, her body was living clay, moving with him, allowing him to sculpt and mold her form to better serve his pleasure, and hers. If Imhotep had given himself over to the simmering crucible of passion, Eliana was lost there as well, adrift on a sensual sea, sinking into the warm oblivion of desire. Heat surged through her, running like bubbling lava through her veins, finally gathering itself into a burning warmth that pooled hot and heavy in her abdomen. She whimpered softly, breaking the kiss, pulling back to look into his eyes. They were simmering like cauldrons of molten ore, glowing with an inner heat like two twin stars. Her lips parted. "Imhotep…"
His fingers fell on her mouth, pressing lightly against her lips, cutting off the words. "No," he whispered, slowly moving his head from side to side. "No more words. Words are useless, pointless. There have been entirely too many words between us already." He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth—a light, teasing touch that scorched and burned nevertheless. "Tonight, we will let our bodies speak, let our hands and lips carry our message to each other." One of his hands tangled itself in her hair, wrapping around the long strands, and exerting the gentlest pressure he pulled her head back, baring the long column of her neck to his lips and tongue. The other hand caressed the length of her arm before dropping to her waist and skimming down to her hip. His fingers tightened on her, pulling her fully against him, letting her feel the heat of his body and the swell of his arousal.
She felt the tip of his tongue move down the bare skin of her neck, felt the warm rush of his breath against the dampness he had created. Desire arced through her body, moving in relentless waves through her veins, lancing through her like hot bolts of lightning. Her mind was shutting down, filled with a hazy fog of passion, but she heard the words he whispered against the curve of her shoulder. "Perhaps we should have been silent from the beginning. Can you not feel the truth in the silence?"
She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back further as he bent over her, moving down over the curve of her shoulder to press his mouth against the slope of her breast. The moist heat of his breath dampened the fabric of the shirt she wore, heightening the sensation to an almost painful pleasure. Words? What were words? All that existed was the silence, and within that silence, the feel of his hands and mouth moving over her. "God, yes, Imhotep." Her voice was a low groan. "No words. Just touch me." Her hands moved over his broad shoulders, caressing his neck, running up and over the smooth bareness of his scalp, the feel of his warm skin beneath her fingers incredibly erotic, exquisitely sensual. She pulled him to her more tightly, reveling in the chance to touch him, feel him touching her. His mouth moved, his breath hot and damp over the swollen peak of her breast. Desire coiled even more tightly within her, and she strained against him. One more word, one more entreaty escaped her lips. "Please…"
His hands moved to the hem of the long shirt she wore, gripping the fabric and pulling it up and over her head, stripping it from her and leaving her breasts bare to his eyes and his touch. He lifted his hands to cup her ripe weight, thumbs rubbing erotically over the turgid nipples. He bent to touch his lips to the now bare skin, tongue flicking out to tease and tantalize, mouth roving over her in a heady promise of pleasure still to come. Her only remaining garment was a scant scrap of lace and nylon.
He lifted his head from her breasts, his lips still moist from the sensual exploration. His eyes were heavy-lidded and obsidian-dark, lit from within by the fire of his hunger. In silence weighted by the intoxicating heaviness of desire, he reached out, his eyes still locked on hers, his breath fanning her face while his fingers skimmed over the taut skin of her abdomen, trailing lower, finally slipping underneath the lacy band encircling her hips. Slowly, with exquisite patience, he slid his hands around to her sides, the movement inexorably pushing the undergarment down over her hips. He knelt before her, unhurriedly undressing her, sliding the garment off inch by inch, following its path with his hands and lips. By the time he lifted her feet, one at a time, to completely remove the wisp of material, she was shaking, shuddering, burning for him. He tossed the flimsy scrap of fabric aside, still kneeling, running his hands up the length of her calves, around to the back of her thighs, and upwards to curve over the gentle swell of her softly rounded bottom. Pulling her towards him, he pressed his face against her abdomen, closing his eyes and laying his cheek against the softness of her skin.
She cradled his head in her hands, looking down at him kneeling before her, feeling strangely like some graven image come to life, an icon before which he offered himself as a living sacrifice, a devout disciple. It was a wild, untamed feeling—earthy, pagan, tinged ever-so-slightly with a delicious sinfulness—and her blood heated at the image. He raised his head and looked at her, and the feeling of delectable wickedness grew even stronger when she saw the smoldering inferno of his eyes, the golden highlights like little tongues of flame.
She watched as he moved his hands, running them lightly around her hips, slipping them between her thighs, gently nudging her legs apart. His fingers moved to the shadowy valley he had revealed, gently touching, moving aside the soft folds as though they were fragile petals, exposing the tender bud that lay beneath. He nuzzled her there, lips and tongue moving over the core of her femininity, laving her with fire, drinking in the nectar of her body like a parched man drinking from the chalice of the gods.
The dark fire began to burn more strongly inside her, heat flaring up through her womb, engulfing her vital organs, pouring through her veins. The sensations he was stirring in her built into an almost painful frenzy of pleasure, an arching throb that threatened to spiral into a mindless, wanton ecstasy. Her legs shook from the effort to remain standing, her fingers dug into the hard muscle of his shoulders, her head fell back, and her lips parted in a low, keening moan of pleasure. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his beautiful artist's hands anchoring her to him as he continued to stoke the inferno he had built within her.
She writhed in his grip, trying to twist away, straining to move closer, helpless to do either as he held her against his mouth, his one hand splayed over her hip to hold her still, his other moving between her legs, his fingers delving deep, working in tandem with his tongue to bring her past the point of sanity, towards madness and beyond. In a rippling cascade of sensation, she felt herself shatter and cried out hoarsely, sucked into a vortex of feeling and emotion, color and light, spinning out of control, anchored to the world by a thin thread of reality that centered around him and him alone.
He held her tightly to him, his arms around her as the shivering aftershocks of pleasure trembled through her, running his hands over her lithe body, murmuring softly against her skin, pressing his lips to her lightly tanned skin. Slowly, the shattered pieces of her world gathered themselves up and fell into place once more, and she opened her eyes, looking down into the face of the man who still knelt before her, the man who had just given her the most exquisite pleasure she had ever experienced in her life. The man she loved.
Slowly, she knelt before him, gazing deep into his eyes, lifting her hands to caress his face, running her thumbs over his high, sculpted cheekbones, pulling his head downwards as she closed her eyes and dragged him into a kiss that was less a kiss and more a dark, carnal promise. She could taste herself on his lips, his mouth still moist and warm from pleasuring her, and the sensation was nothing she would have expected. In her relative innocence, she had no idea how erotic it could be, how much an aphrodisiac.
Heady with the sense of her own power over him, she pulled away, breaking the kiss, watching as he dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, not moving, just watching her with eyes that blazed hunger. She reached out, raking her fingers down his chest, feeling the hard expanse of muscle and sinew beneath the rough shirt he wore, and she was suddenly starving for the sight of his smooth bronzed flesh, the feel of his body, the taste of his skin.
Her fingers worked on the few buttons at the collar of his shirt, loosening them and pulling open the sides, baring the flesh beneath to her touch. Moving closer, she pressed her open mouth to the bronze skin of his neck, running her tongue lightly over the hollow at the base of his throat where she could feel the throb of his pounding pulse. He closed his eyes, the feel of her mouth like wet silk on his skin.
His hands reached out for her, closing around her shoulders to pull her closer, but she evaded his grasp, moving away from his seeking hands. His eyes opened again, one eyebrow raised questioningly, but when he saw the impish gleam in her eyes, the small pout on her lips, he smiled, reading her mind, understanding what she wanted. Her words confirmed it. "You've had your turn. Now it's mine…"
He bowed his head, still kneeling, but sinking back on his haunches now, surrendering to her. His hands dropped to rest on his knees. "As you wish, my goddess. I am your servant. Do with me as you will." He watched her from under his lashes, a small, playful smile dancing over his finely sculpted mouth. He saw her bite her lip, almost as if she were unsure of what to do with him, now that he was in her power. After all, her initiation into the act of love had occurred scant days ago—for all practical purposes, she was still an innocent. When she didn't move for several seconds, he began to wonder if perhaps he should take matters back into his own hands.
He underestimated her. In a fluid move, Eliana stood, walking behind him, dropping to her knees and placing her hands on his shoulders, running them down over the broad planes of his back, curving them around to lie flat on the hard, ridged contours of his stomach. He could feel her softness against him, the hard peaks of her breasts pressing against his back through the rough fabric of his shirt. He fought down the desire to turn around and take her into his arms immediately, dispensing with her playfulness. She would have her wish. She would set the pace, determine the course. But gods, how he wished she would hurry…
Her breath was warm as it fanned the back of his neck, her mouth soft and moist as she moved it over him, trailing tiny kisses up his neck, nibbling on his earlobe. As her mouth teased him, her hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers splaying over the warm skin of his abdomen, smooth and bare to her touch. Lightly, she ran them up and over his chest, flickering over his hard, masculine nipples in a tender, teasing caress, lovingly tracing each line and angle of his body, memorizing the touch and feel of him. Vaguely, he wondered again if this had been a wise idea, to play along with her as he had. Every movement of her hand, every warm breath, every teasing touch stoked the flames of his desire ever higher, until it was a struggle to contain the burning need. He was already heavy and aching with it, his desire hard and stiff and full to bursting. He stifled a groan as she moved to dispense with his shirt.
Placing her hands on either side of his lean waist, she pushed upwards, her palms moving over the sculpted musculature of his sides, up and over the ridged contours of his ribs, raising the shirt with them as they journeyed onward. "Raise your arms," she commanded in a low whisper, her breath hot on his ear. He did so, slowly lifting them over his head, and she caught her breath at the sheer beauty of the muscles rippling beneath his skin. The temptation to touch, to taste, was overpowering, and she pressed her lips to his back, tasting the salty musk of his skin, inhaling its heady scent. As long as she lived, she would not tire of this, would never grow weary of the joy of touching him, feeling his strength and power beneath her hands.
Finally moving her hands from where they rested on his ribcage, she ran them up and over the bulging muscles of his shoulders, learning anew the hard bulk of his biceps, the lean sinew of his forearms. The impediment of the shirt now removed, she laced her fingers with his and, hands entwined, moved their arms back down to their sides in a graceful arc. The movement brought her up against his back, pressing her fully against him, and her breath caught at the exhilarating feel of warm skin against warm skin. Lightly, she rubbed her breasts against his back, enjoying his sudden stiffening, the quickly indrawn breath he took.
Her hands untwined from his and moved to the waistband of his pants. He swallowed hard, flexing his hands into fists at his sides, gathering the reins of his self-control even more tightly. Her hands slipped underneath the fabric, running over his hot skin, enjoying the feel of him, openly tantalizing him. Still, he let her have her way, set her own pace. Finally, she moved to the fastening, undoing it bit by torturous bit, until he thought he would scream in helpless frustration. Every move she made dragged her breasts over his skin, every touch of her hands heightened his already painful arousal.
Finally, the accursed garment was loosened sufficiently for her to push it down over his hips, freeing him from the fabric's rough captivity. His arousal sprang free, bursting from its confinement, and he heard her small gasp of shocked pleasure as she felt the length and breadth of him against her hand. Not satisfied, though, that she had sufficiently tormented him, she stepped the torture up a notch, taking him in her hand, running her palm along the rigid, throbbing length of him, her thumb caressing the velvet tip as her palm moved up and down along the shaft. With her other hand, she cupped the soft weight of his testicles, eliciting a deep groan from low in his throat. Gods, where had she learned to touch him like this? Surely not in this lifetime…
He closed his eyes, on fire for her, perilously close to losing control, wanting nothing but to lose himself in the soft heat of her body. Still touching him, still rubbing against his back, her lips moved against his ear. "Stand up."
He was only too happy to comply. The trousers that were bunched around the straining muscles of his thighs made it somewhat awkward to stand, but he managed, and when he was finally on his feet, she stripped the garment from him completely, her hands taking full advantage of the opportunity to learn the shape and contour of his legs, from the rock-hard thighs to the lean calves. He had removed his sandals before entering the tent, and so finally, when he stepped free of the pants, he was as naked as she. She stood, sliding up the length of his body, and he gritted his teeth in an effort to maintain control.
"Now turn around." Another semi-imperious command, and her voice wobbled only slightly as she spoke it. He chuckled, and obeyed, turning to face her. The look in her eyes when she saw him facing her was reward enough for his patience in playing her game so far. After the briefest pause, she lifted her eyes from that prominent part of his anatomy to his face, and he took in her wide eyes, her flushed face and her shallow, rapid breathing with an amusement he kept well hidden. "You play with fire, goddess," he warned, but still he remained passive, docile. Only his eyes showed the true state of his emotions, glittering in a feral warning, letting her know that she was testing the limits of his endurance.
"The servant dares to command his mistress?" she laughed, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the laughter, suggesting that she knew how out of her league she was in such play. Oddly enough, her timid wantonness endeared her all the more to him. How long had it been since anyone on earth had trusted him enough, felt comfortable enough, to play with him, even if the game was an erotic one, a complete submersion into the realm of sexuality and sensual pleasure? He couldn't remember—at best, it had been millennia ago; at worst, it had never happened at all—and something of the wistfulness of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes.
Eliana moved nearer, cupping her hands around his face, her heart in her eyes, and even though she had promised not to speak of it, would not speak of it, her love for him unfurled from her heart and sent out shoots and tendrils to every part of her. It was a living, growing thing, and the gods willing, one day soon it would find some fertile soil in which to take root, have a chance to grow and bloom. Gods, how she loved him! It was an ever-present ache inside her, wanting only to be set free, to be allowed to see the light of day. Her voice broke when she spoke his name. "Imhotep…"
He caught her hands then, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss into each palm, his long fingers caressing hers as he stared into the emerald green of her eyes. He was drowning in her, losing himself within her, caught in the ebb and flow of some powerful, amorphous emotion, and as his gaze raked over her face, memorizing every inch of every precious feature, he realized how very lost he was.
The words—the declaration—came bursting through the fortress he had built around his heart and he hadn't the strength of will or the desire, even, to stop it. All they had was now, the only thing that existed in the world was them—their bodies, their desire…their love. Yesterday was dust, tomorrow was a shapeless, shifting void—reality was here and now, and he was tired of fighting the demands of his heart, the hunger of his soul. The words came, and he did not stop them. "Eliana, I…"
She stopped him. Afraid of what he was about to say, not knowing what was in his heart, what had almost tumbled from his lips, her hand moved to cover his mouth. Her lips quickly followed, moving against him, drinking the words from his lips before they were spoken. She pulled back, her voice a husky whisper. "No words, remember? No words. Just this…"
She pulled him down to the blankets on the floor of the tent, pushing against his chest until he lay on the makeshift bed, then kneeling by his side. Running her hands down his body, she could feel a shift in the balance between them—a subtle reversing of the tension, letting her know that their game was almost at an end. Still, though, he let her lead the way, accepting her silent ministrations, his only response the gentle movement of his hands over her body. Bending over him, she lowered her lips to his mouth, parting them with hers, stealing inside with her tongue to taste him, then moving lower still, laying a trail of moist heat over his jaw, his neck, her tongue flicking out to taste the bare skin of his chest, to circle the taut hardness of his nipples. His skin smelled of man and musk, a sensual, earthy fragrance unique to him, and she reveled in the delight to her senses.
Lifting her head, she saw that he watched her, and she smiled at him. He reached up to touch her hair, tangling his fingers in the glossy strands, pulling her towards him. "Your hair feels like silk," he said. "Like a curtain of the purest, finest silk." She smiled again, extricating her hair from his grasp, letting it trail over his skin as she moved down his body. The feel of the softness of her hair, and hands and mouth moving over him was a form of superb torture, and he shuddered, knowing that if they waited much longer, he would be unable to restrain himself. He opened his mouth to tell her so, to tell her that they could no longer play this game of hers, when she bent lower still and took him in her mouth. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he went completely still. He was staggered by depth of the sensations that surged through him, shaken to the core as he felt the hot, wet sweetness of her lips closing over his turgid member. He groaned low and deep, his hands once more seeking out the silken glory of her hair, twisting into the soft strands, moving through the burnished length, caressing her scalp through the glossy fall.
Her lips traveled his length and back again, and she circled the satin smooth head of his shaft with her tongue, causing every drop of blood in his body to instantly rush to his groin, setting up a throbbing ache that he knew would be the end of him. "No more," he growled harshly, pulling her up from him, although not without gentleness. "No more unless you want this to be over before it has begun."
She made a soft sound of protest, but allowed him to pull her up along his body anyway, enjoying the delicious sensation of skin sliding over skin. And then an impish twinkle grew in her eyes, and she whispered low, seductively, "But you are my servant this night. Is not my wish your command?"
He groaned, low and deep and harsh. "And what is your wish, goddess? Tell me what it is you want…"
"Ah, Imhotep, let me show you…" Slowly she lifted herself over him, positioning herself so that her hips straddled his, his rigid member straining upwards, hot and hard and aching to be inside her. Smiling, a devilish light in her eyes, she eased herself down, taking him inside her bit by bit, an inch at a time, but never fully, never completely. If he moved, if he thrust upwards, she pulled away, only lowering herself again when he lay still. He saw the glint of devilment in her eyes, knew that she enjoyed the power she had over him, the control that he had given her. And, at least for a short while longer, a very short while, he was sure enough of his own power to allow her this control. But by the gods, a man could only take so much, and if she didn't end this torture soon, he knew he would lose control, turn into a mindless, rutting boar and simply drive himself into her moist, pliant body, desperately seeking the release that she dangled just in front of him. He was self-confident enough to give her free rein, self-aware enough to know when the game had to end. And with her next tantalizing downward glide, he knew the time had come.
In a heartbeat, their roles reversed—she became the disciple, he the master. In one smooth move, he grasped her hips and pulled her down fully onto his engorged length, smiling at her wide-eyed shock, her open-mouthed gasp of surprised pleasure, rolling over with her until he was on top of her, hips resting in the cradle of her thighs, still pressed fully into her tight, slick depths. Shifting his body so that he would not hurt her, he rested his weight on his elbows, tangling his hands in the silken skein of her hair, kissing her neck, biting gently on her earlobe. "A goddess must be merciful, my love," he whispered in her ear, his voice low, seductive. "Or she reaps the fruits of her shameless behavior."
And then he began to move. He started slow, each long, smooth stroke pushing harder, deeper than before, setting an unhurried, even rhythm that started a throbbing, pulsating hum deep within her body. She felt him everywhere inside her—moving within her body, flowing through her blood, beating in her heart. He was a part of her, not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, as well—the other half of her soul. Her hands slid up the bunched muscles of his arms, gliding over his shoulders, caressing the sinewy strength of his neck. Her voice was a choked, gasping sob as the eternal, ancient tempo of their dance built, intensified, "Imhotep…"
"Eliana, I have never before in my life allowed someone to torment me as you have this evening." Each phrase was punctuated by a long, gliding thrust, each word accented by the pounding of her heart. The spiraling current of pleasure building inside turned her into a mindless, wanting creature, and she only half-listened as he continued to speak. "I doubt that I will have the courage to do so again, now that I know how truly merciless you can be…" His words were light, teasing, but in his heart he knew the truth of his words. Just being with her like this was an act of courage on his part, for he knew how very close he was to relinquishing his hold on his heart, his future, his destiny. Every time they were together brought him closer and closer to a willing capitulation, an abject surrender of his heart and soul into her hands, for better or worse, for all eternity.
He watched her face as he moved within her, seeing the flush of color high on her cheeks, noting how she sucked in a tiny breath every time he drove into her. Shifting slightly, he altered the angle of his hips, allowing for a deeper invasion. He moved harder, faster, his hips driving against her, forcing out a moan of anguished ecstasy. "Eliana." He felt the subtle tensing in her body, recognized it for what it was. She was only moments away now, straining for the release, reaching for it, grasping. "Now, my love," he whispered against her lips, "now." He took her mouth in a deep, hot kiss, his tongue plundering her sweetness, swallowing her strangled cry as he thrust once more, hard and deep, and she found what she sought. As they both found it.
She tightened around him, clenching and unclenching as wave upon wave of pleasure rolled over her, drowning her in a sea of sensation. He plunged into her one last time and went rigid, his face freezing into a look of agonized ecstasy, a low groan of fulfillment escaping his lips as his entire body tensed for release. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her fast as he emptied himself into her body, his throbbing manhood pulsating within the sheath of her flesh, his hot seed pouring into her. Even after the final tremors had shuddered from their trembling bodies, he stayed within her, lowering his forehead to hers as their breathing steadied, as their sweat-dampened skin cooled in the soft night air. Lifting his head, he stared into her eyes for a long, timeless moment before kissing her once more. This time, their kiss was one of exquisite gentleness, a silent vow of the hearts, spoken in deed, not words, sealed with the soft caress of lips.
Finally, with a sigh, he removed himself from her warm depths, lowering himself to her side and gathering her into his arms. They lay there quietly, bodies sated, exhausted, skin still damp from their exertion, but hands still roving, exploring, even now still hungry to learn the shape and feel of each other. The silence lengthened, neither one wanting to shatter the reverent hush that had enfolded them in the quiet dark of the tent. There was magic in the air—a delicate enchantment that wrapped around them and whispered promises of things they dared not hope for—to speak would break the fragile spell, and neither wished to risk that.
Finally, Imhotep shifted, moving away from Eliana's side, and she reached out for him, pulling him back to her. "No," she whispered, half asleep already, "don't leave. Stay here with me." Her hands tightened on him. "Please."
He smiled against the silk of her hair as he pulled her head down to his shoulder and covered her with the blanket he had been reaching for. "I will not leave you, Eliana. Not tonight." He pressed a kiss to her temple. For the first time, he dared to let down the walls around his heart, and the brilliant warmth of her nearness flooded over him and through him, carrying off the broken pieces of his soul and beginning the painstaking process of fitting them back together once more.
The nightmare was a living, breathing thing, filled with power and darkness. Clawed fingers held him tight, mercilessly prying open his eyes, forcing him to watch the carnage as his friends, his family, were hideously, horribly slaughtered. Knives flashed, hooked loops probed, and men's screams rang out as human flesh was pulled from still living bodies and piled into glistening, viscous heaps on the stone floor. Blood ran like water, trickling like an evil flood across the ground; cries of agony filled the air. The smell of death and dying—the sweet, sticky scent of blood as bodies were hacked into; the reek of urine and feces as dying men's bowels loosed—surrounded him, permeating the air with a hideous, horrid stench. Bile rose in his throat, he retched and gagged, but still the hands held him fast. And then came the awful silence as screams faded, as air rattled from dying lungs. The carcasses were wrapped in rags—no fine linen for this human debris, no sweet smell of spices to perfume the bodies. Nothing to ease their passage to the other side. Just pain and suffering and death, and the promise of waiting damnation.
And then they came for him. The hands tightened, held him immobile, pried open his mouth as cold iron bit into warm flesh. He felt his own flesh being torn from his body, felt the sting of the blade, the ripping tug as flesh separated from flesh, the choking feel of warm blood running down his throat. Throughout it all, he heard the sounds of low voices chanting, speaking the words that would damn him; tie him forever to this agony of life in death, death in life.
No merciful disembowelment for him; no generous slaughter. No, for him they had planned other, more spectacular horrors. Still gagging on the gore that washed down his throat from the stump of his severed tongue, weak from the loss of blood, wretched from watching his friends succumb to the butchery, he barely struggled as they held him down, binding him from head to foot in length after length of cloth. They covered his eyes, his nose—he couldn't see, couldn't breath—and finally he panicked, struggling against the restraints, desperate to drag air into his burning lungs. His arms and legs were bound tightly, though, and his struggles were to no avail.
Helpless, he felt them lift his body into the air, move it quickly to another place, anxious to be rid of him, and finally he felt himself falling, falling, until with a painful thud he landed on his back on cold, hard stone. He rolled to one side and felt the hardness of a wall; he rolled to the other and felt the same. Gods, this was the end—he knew where he was, knew what they planned—and his entire life passed before his eyes in the space of a heartbeat.
Agony filled him—he had failed, failed utterly, miserably. She was gone from him forever, cursed for all eternity—cursed by him, by the words he had read over her beloved body, cursed by the men who had forced him to read them. His priests, too, had suffered and died on his behalf—more loyal friends he had never had, and because of him they had been cast into the burning inferno of damnation. They had been the only family he had ever known. All were gone; all were damned—because of him and him alone. The physical pain paled into insignificance next to the mental anguish of that knowledge.
But yet one more thing remained. There was a pause as one of his tormentors was sent to fetch the pail containing the scarabs. He heard the swift footsteps as the man returned, heard them whisper above him, knew what was coming. In a skittering deluge, the beetles poured over him, barbed feet hooking on the cloth that bound him as they raced to and fro over his helpless body, mandibles clicking together in an evil, chittering hiss. Thousands upon thousands of insects swarmed over and around him—searching, seeking—smelling the blood, sensing the fear. The men above spoke additional words, hurled more curses down upon his soul, but he did not hear what they said—his entire being was now focused with horror on the evil flood of life-stealing life that ebbed and flowed in the stone of the sarcophagus. And then one of the scarabs found an opening, pushed its armored body through the thin strips of linen, and the others followed…
His mangled scream of agony was cut off abruptly by the cold finality of stone hitting stone. The lid fell into place, cutting off light, cutting off sound, cutting off sanity. There was nothing but the dark, the cold, the pain, the hatred and the loss. There was nothing at all except the feel and the sound of scarabs as they chewed their way inside, living catalysts in the bitter, horrifying metamorphosis of living man into undead Creature…
Death was only the beginning.
The hoarse, guttural scream awakened her instantly, jolting her awake as the body of the man lying next to her shuddered and thrashed. He was bathed in sweat, struggling against invisible hands, locked in some hideous, private agony. Eyes tightly closed, jaw clamped shut, lips pulled back from gritted teeth, Imhotep writhed and twisted beside her, his desperate struggle only serving to twist the already ravaged blankets more tightly around his sweat-drenched body. Low, animal-like sounds emanated from his throat, and although she still hadn't managed to completely grasp the ancient language he spoke, Eliana could certainly make out the word "No!" shouted over and over, and the terrible, agonizing pleas for mercy.
She leaned over him, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him, lightly at first, and then, when that had no effect whatsoever, more and more roughly. "Imhotep!" she whispered frantically, running a palm over his sweat-damp forehead, trying to smooth away the anguish there, but he only fought her more as the nightmare refused to give way. Finally, she resorted to slapping him on the cheek. "Please, please, wake up!" He swung out an arm, barely missing her, not aware of anything but the horror being played out in his own mind, still caught deep within the terror of the dream.
Truly frightened now, unable to reach him, Eliana gave up on trying to shake him out of his dream or slap him into sensibility. Instead, she did the only thing she could think of—quickly moving closer, past his flailing, thrashing arms, she put her arms around him, pressing herself as close to him as she could. Almost on top of him now, trying to keep from being pushed away, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, whispering to him, pleading with him, trying to get her awkward tongue around the melodic phrasing of his native language, knowing on some instinctive level that the ancient words were the only ones that could reach him.
The words she used were nothing magical, mostly nonsensical expressions of comfort that one might use to calm a terrified child, but the combination of her soft voice, the words she spoke, and the feel of her body pressed against his somehow managed to reach far enough into his struggling subconscious to drag him away from the nightmare's evil grip. Slowly, it loosed its tentacles from deep within his mind, reluctantly pulling away, growling and hissing and spitting with malevolent evil. With a last malicious swipe, it was gone, fading back into the far reaches of his subconscious, waiting for some other opportunity to break free. And it would, it always did. Always, always it was there—ceaseless, ageless, eternal—waiting, biding its time, an indelible mark on his soul. It could be beaten back, but only a miracle could vanquish it completely. But for now, for tonight, it was gone.
Almost imperceptibly at first, then in a great shuddering sigh, his ceased his struggles, once more breathing deeply and evenly, and she felt the fever of fear seep from his body. "Imhotep," she whispered once more. "You are not alone. I am here with you." Her hands soothed the last of the tension from his face, her lips pressed against the damp skin of his sweat-slick brow. "Wake up, my love. Please. It was only a dream, just a dream…"
In a heartbeat, he relaxed in her embrace. His arms stole around her, hands sweeping up and over her shoulders and down her back to clasp her waist in a light, caressing hold. Still asleep, one hand crept up to cradle her nape, pulling her head down towards his, his warm breath fanning over her face, his lips a whisper away from hers. A gentle tug erased even that distance. Feather-light, he kissed her, testing the shape and feel of her mouth, almost as if he sought reassurance that she was really there, not just some by-product of his tormented subconscious. Once certain that this was indeed reality, not a dream, his lips grew harder, more demanding on hers. The nightmare receded, but the memories remained, and in his mind he sought the name of the most precious of those. A memory, a vision, a name…
"Anck-su-namun" he whispered, burying his face in the softness of her hair, inhaling its clean, sweet fragrance. His arms tightened around her, pulling her against him, molding the contours of her body to fit seamlessly with his. He was still half asleep, but the dregs of the feverish nightmare were fading away, the horror of the Hom Dai replaced in his slumbering mind with the comforting warmth of her presence. The dream faded; and yet reality could not manage to completely penetrate the fog of sleep. Somehow, someway, he knew she was back with him, and he would not question or wonder why. It was enough that she was here in his arms. His mind, his senses, were swamped in the feel, the scent, the taste of her; no painful memories intruded—she was all he knew, all he desired—and all he remembered was their love. "Anck-su-namun," he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a prayer as he pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder. "I love you."
Eliana stiffened at his words, pulling away from him slightly, carefully searching his face to see if he was awake or still sleeping. She couldn't tell. Her small movement, though, had been enough to shake the last tendrils of sleep from him, and he stirred, his eyes opening, his lips curving into a sensual smile as his gaze roamed her face. The memories evaporated, the ancient name faded away, and all he saw was the living, breathing reality he held in his arms. And it, too, was enough. "Eliana." His voice was low, husky, and he pulled her back against him, not noticing her slight resistance when he pressed a deep, tender kiss to her lips, his beautiful, sensual mouth moving over hers with all the love and longing in his heart. "Eliana…"
Eliana blinked back her tears. He had recognized her, had said her name, had kissed her with desire and with passion. But nothing else, and her heart broke at the omission. No more words, especially not the ones she most wanted to hear. Those words were not for her, only for the other. Always the other; forever, eternally. She wanted to scream, she wanted to rage, but most of all, she wanted to weep and weep and weep—weep until there were no more tears. She did none of those. Instead, she held him in her arms, cradling his head to her breast, offering him comfort and giving him her love. After a few moments, his breathing evened out, and he was fast asleep once more, exhausted in both mind and body from the ravages of the nightmare.
Eliana lay there in his arms, held tightly, possessively…lovingly. She lay there and tried as hard as she could to not feel a perverse jealousy towards a woman long dead—and even more ironically, a woman she had been. It made no sense at all, but the feeling itself was real, and heartbreaking, and bitter as gall. In that moment, she hated Anck-su-namun, hated Meela, hated what they had been, what they had done to this man. She hated their duplicity, their betrayal, the shallow, depthless, cowardly emotion they had called love. And she hated herself, too, because she realized that a part of her had lived in them, and she had betrayed him as well.
It was a long while before she slept again, and when sleep did come, finally, it was fitful and restless and haunted with dreams and regrets and half-formed memories.
"I see you've made yourself at home, Bashir." The speaker walked up behind the Sudanese man, startling him into alertness. He straightened from the tree he had been leaning against and turned to face the man, who traced a quick gesture in the air, a silent communiqué designed as a coded greeting between two soldiers in the ongoing war against the infidels. Bashir returned the symbolic gesture and relaxed slightly. He knew this man's voice—they had talked before, although not often. But he had never before seen the man's face. He had no idea, really, who he was, other than that he was a high-ranking figure in the shadowy terrorist organization they both belonged to. His only information was that he had been sent here to remove Mousa from the scene, and then report to his new commander.
The shadows shifted, and the man stepped forward, moonlight falling on his face. Bashir's eyes widened; he sucked in a startled breath. So this was his contact? Quickly, Bashir's face fell into its characteristic squinty-eyed smirk as he realized how truly fortunate they were. This was perfect—better than perfect. It was unbelievable, really.
"We have managed," he said, smiling at the man who had greeted him. "For a remote site, the accommodations are better than expected…"
"Don't get too comfortable," the man replied. "We won't be here that long. Things are moving too quickly—we need to act soon. Within days, in fact."
Bashir nodded, pleased. He was a man of action, and didn't like to wait. "Good. That is welcome news."
"I thought you would be pleased," said the man, his lips forming a leering grin. "We cannot speak at length now—I will arrange a meeting tomorrow, and we can converse at length. Our plans need to be finalized quickly—there is much at stake, and this operation is…delicate."
"Understood," Bashir assured him. "I will wait for word, then."
The man nodded and moved back into the darkness. Bashir followed his lead, slinking back towards the tent he had usurped from the unfortunate Mousa. In moments, they were both gone, and all that remained in the small clearing was the echoing silence and the shadows of deep midnight.