Redemption

by Renee17

Seventy years have passed since the destruction of Ahm Shere. In the Sudanese desert, an archaeological team's discovery begins a chain of events that could end an ancient curse, or unleash a new one upon an unsuspecting world. COMPLETE.

20. Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

I shall not fall under flashing knives. I shall not burn up in the cauldron. I know the names of the scorpions and they are these: anger, bitterness and doubt.

I have seen the face of evil—one with sharp teeth like a ravaging dog that feasts upon corpses, that swallows hearts, that would claim for itself whatever it touched: the perfume of hibiscus, the heart of a lover, the light of its days, the thoughts and passions of others.

What I hate is ignorance, smallness of imagination, the eye that sees no farther than its own lashes. All things are possible. When we speak in anger, anger will be our truth. When we speak in love and live by love, truth in love will be our comfort. Who you are is limited only by who you think you are. I am the word before its utterance. I am thought and desire. Things are possible—joy and sorrow, men and women, children. Someday I'll imagine myself a different man, build bone and make flesh around him. I am with you but a moment for an eternity. I am the name of everything.

Darkness gives way to light, dumbness to speech, confusion to understanding.

-- Excerpts from "Triumph Over Darkness", "Becoming the Child" and "The Return", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis

His hand fell on her shoulder, a warm, comforting weight. "You okay?"

Callie's head swiveled towards, him her huge brown eyes darkened with sadness. A wobbly smile curved her lips. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Once more, dawn broke over Ahm Shere. From where she sat, on a smooth block of golden stone, perhaps ten meters up the front-facing side of the monolith, Callie had a perfect view as the sun rose over the tree line to the east. Unable to sleep, she had come here an hour ago, hoping that the birth of a new day would restore her spirit enough to see this job through to the end.

Lowering himself to sit beside her on the slab of stone, Connelly twitched a golden brown eyebrow at her, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes. "Bernstein know you're playing on his artifact?"

Her smile, this time, was less forced. "No." She hadn't bothered to tell anyone where she was going this early in the morning, and she certainly hadn't stopped to ask anyone's permission. If Bernstein had a problem with her climbing on the pyramid, that was his problem. At this point, she really didn't care. With a sigh, she went back to staring at the rose- and lavender-tinged sky to the east.

Connelly leaned back on his elbows, sprawling comfortably on their rocky perch. The glory of the rising sun seemed lost on him, as he continued to stare at her, an impish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, Doc. I won't tell on you."

She actually laughed at that, his irrepressible charm managing to create the shift in her mood that the majesty of the setting had not. How Connelly had managed to find her here, or why he had bothered to, she hadn't a clue. But surprisingly, his arrival wasn't the intrusion she would have expected it to be—that it would have been, just a day ago—instead, she found herself glad that he was there with her, glad that she was no longer alone, glad that it was he who had disturbed her unhappy solitude. And that last was the most remarkable revelation of all.

They sat in companionable silence as the sun rose higher, the sky brightened, and the last of the stars faded away. Finally, taking a gamble, Connelly raised an arm to her shoulders, exerting a gentle pressure to pull her back against him. She stiffened at first—then, with a sigh, sank back to settle into the curve of his shoulder. She hadn't realized how cold she was, until she felt his heat begin to seep through the thin sweater she wore, warming her skin, bringing her wordless comfort.

"You wanna talk about it?" His eyes were warm on hers, surprisingly gentle, filled with a tender sympathy that worked its way past the barriers she had erected against him, heading with uncanny accuracy towards her heart.

Sadly, she shook her head. "Talking isn't going to accomplish much." Words could never turn back the clock, erase their failure, or give Eric his life back.

"Might make you feel better," he said, absently toying with a dark brown strand of her hair, "and that's worth something."

Callie reached up, pulling the strand of hair from his fingers and sitting rigidly upright again. Briefly, anger flashed diamond-bright in her eyes, and her foul mood came rushing back, eager to darken her spirits again. "Why should I feel better? Eric died; don't you know that?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her forehead in her hands. "My feelings are completely irrelevant right now."

Her posture was completely off-putting, the invisible barriers standing dauntingly upright once more, but Connelly had never been one to let someone else's stubbornness get in his way. His large, warm hand found her back, moving gently over the taut muscles of her shoulders and spine. He moved instinctively, the slow, soothing massage a balm to her, bringing warmth and relief in its wake. His voice was a low, reassuring murmur. "You did the best you could, Doc, working with what you had. Sometimes that's all we can do, and it still isn't enough. Sometimes the deck is just stacked against us."

He could feel her resistance crumbling, the stubbornness giving way to pure grief, and once more, he pulled her back against him, putting both arms around her when she turned her face into his shoulder, stifling a sob. His voice dropped another octave, becoming nothing more than a soothing whisper against her hair. For once, Callie's instincts prevailed over her sense of propriety, and she didn't question the rightness of being held in a stranger's arms—even a stranger that she didn't particularly like very much. Right now, Matt Connelly's arms felt like the right place to be, and she was desperate for the warmth and comfort he offered. Her arms crept around his waist, and with another muffled sob, she gave herself over to the sheer misery of the moment.

Connelly closed his eyes and held her tightly, wondering at the surge of protectiveness that washed over him. It didn't make sense that he should feel so strongly about a woman he had just met—one that he found just as annoying as she was beautiful—but at that moment, he would have gladly done anything just to bring the spark of life and fire back into her eyes. Somewhat desperately, he reminded himself that he needed to remain objective about everyone and everything at this site, or risk jeopardizing his mission, but his heart was having none of it—objectivity went out the window, and along with it, he feared, a good portion of his common sense, as well.

With a sigh, he leaned back against the golden stone of the pyramid, and let her cry it out. There would be time later for good sense and objectivity and rational thought. For now, he was content to simply sit there and hold her. And then his innate honesty got the better of him, and with an inward grimace, he chastised himself. Content, my ass. Who am I trying to kid? He was happy as hell to hold her.

---

Imhotep awoke slowly, to the feel of Eliana's head resting on his shoulder, her hand splayed out over his chest. He could sense the deep, even rhythm of her breathing; feel the soft touch of her skin against his. A stray reddish brown curl tickled his nose and he blew it away with a smile, lifting his hand to gently smooth back the wild tangle of her hair. Morning light filtered in from outside and warmed the small interior of the tent, chasing away the last shadows of night.

Still asleep, Eliana moaned softly and pressed closer to him, curling up against his side and nestling her head deeper into the curve of his shoulder. He put both arms around her and drew her close, rubbing his cheek over the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. For the first time in countless centuries, Imhotep felt a sense of bone-deep peace, the utter rightness of the moment settling over him like a blessing from the gods.

His hand stroked her hair, and he closed his eyes as a surge of emotion flooded him. How had he ever thought he could close his heart to her? She was as much a part of him as his blood, his bones, his soul. They were bound together forever, eternally, and he had been a fool to think that a simple act of will could sever those bonds. No matter that, in a moment of fear, she had betrayed him—he forgave her wholly, absolutely, gladly. No matter that she was no longer Anck-su-namun, the woman he had known and loved—she was Eliana now, and Anck-su-namun was still a part of who she was, who she had been, and he loved them both. Indeed, he was unable, anymore, to recognize where one ended and the other began—their souls were identical, immortal, unchanging, and though the outward appearance had changed, the life force within was one and the same. True enough, the ba was different—Eliana was outwardly restrained, her inner passions well concealed by a carefully constructed mask of composure, where Anck-su-namun had been openly tempestuous, her fiery intensity plainly visible to all. Eliana was the depthless calm of a hidden pool, Anck-su-namun the rushing torrent of a mighty falls; Eliana was the warm light of day, Anck-su-namun the hot darkness of night. But down deep, where it mattered, they were the same. She was the same. And he loved her.

A smile curved his lips as his mind accepted what his heart already knew, and he ran his hand down the gentle curve of her waist, the soft flare of her hip. Awakening with her in his arms was an experience too precious for words—even in the old days, it was a luxury they could seldom indulge; Seti's hated presence and the watchful eyes of his Med Jai guard kept their assignations heartbreakingly brief. A momentary wistfulness clouded Imhotep's eyes as he once more brushed a stray tendril of hair away from her face and allowed himself to wonder if this time, in this place, it could be different.

Perhaps in this lifetime they could have what they had missed in the other—a union sanctioned by the gods and by men; a lifetime to spend together; a home, a family, children. His hand curved over the soft flesh of her abdomen and he froze, suddenly realizing with a horrified sense of amazement that the last could already have been accomplished. Eliana was mortal, and according to the great god, Imhotep was as well. She had been innocent before their first joining, and he had not even stopped to think about the consequences of their actions, let alone take any precautions to avoid them.

The initial dismay slowly gave way to a growing sense of wonder. The possibility of a child had never even crossed his mind, so accustomed was he to thinking of himself as an inhuman monster; but now that the idea had entered his consciousness it took hold and refused to be brushed aside. What if their joining had created a new life? What if, even now, his seed was taking root in her body, creating life from nothingness, hope from despair, a blessing from a curse? What if…

He dashed away the moisture from his eyes, chastising himself for succumbing to such foolish whimsy. He should be hoping against hope that a child had not resulted from this folly, not indulging in wasted dreams of the gods restoring what had been taken from him—from them—so many centuries ago. There was no room in this chaos for a child—there was no room, even, for hope of a future for the two of them. The only hope that could exist now was for an end to all of this—an end that would be achieved by him finding a cure, and finding death.

But even so, Amun-Re had said there would be a choice. And if there was a child…

His hand rested on the taut flatness of her stomach, long fingers spread out over the smoothly tanned flesh, as though he could somehow discern the presence or absence of life by touch alone. Slowly, his eyes swept over her, until they came to rest on her face, now relaxed and peaceful in sleep. Carefully, he shifted, so that he was lying on his side, facing her. His hand lifted, cupping the curve of her face, thumb caressing the ridge of her cheekbone. With exquisite tenderness, he leaned towards her, pressing a kiss to her forehead, to each eyelid, to the tip of her nose, and finally, with the merest whisper of a touch, to her lips.

"Eliana." A fraction of a centimeter separated them when he breathed her name, his voice a low, soft murmur, his breath a rush of warmth over her face. "Dawn has come and gone, and with it a good portion of the morning." As he spoke, he nuzzled her, punctuating each phrase with a kiss, his mouth moving over the soft skin of her cheeks, her lips. "It is time to awaken. We must talk."

"Mmmm." She twisted in his arms, ignoring his persistence in attempting to awaken her, not wanting to release her grip on sleep just yet. "No, no. Don't want to." She had only drifted off into a sound sleep just before dawn—before that, she had tossed and turned, unable to rest, still hurt, still haunted by specters of the past. She pressed both palms against his chest, levering him away from her. Her eyes opened momentarily before slamming shut again, and her voice was sharp with annoyance. "Stop it!"

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth curving down into the roguishly appealing grin he could have patented, so uniquely charming was it. He pulled her back into his arms, this time whispering against her ear, "Are you always this ill-tempered in the morning?"

She fought the shudder of pleasure that coiled through her at the feel of his breath on her neck, turning in his arms so that her back was to him. Opening her eyes at last, she saw from the angle of light filtering through the nylon walls and ceiling that it was indeed very late. She stifled a groan, attempting to pull away from him and sit up, but his arms tightened around her, refusing to let her escape.

"Eliana, wait. We must speak of something." The teasing note had left his voice; all that colored the musical baritone now was a deep somberness.

Her heart constricted, and she closed her eyes once more, unwillingly reveling in the feel of being in his arms. Almost of their own volition, his hands caressed her, moving slowly over the soft curves and valleys of her body, a gentle heat that threatened to melt her resolve. Purposely, she allowed annoyance to seep into her voice. "What do we have to talk about, Imhotep?"

His lips moved over the curve of her shoulder, and before she could stop it, an involuntary shudder revealed her true feelings. Irritated with herself more than with him, she jerked away and held herself rigid in his arms. With a sigh, he began, his hands reflexively moving to curve over her abdomen, the gesture eloquent in its poignant protectiveness. "Have you considered what may result from our actions, Eliana?"

His voice was soft to her ears, gentle; but the implied meaning of his words combined with the unmistakable significance of the position of his hands on her body cut through her like a shaft of pure ice, the implication both obvious and appalling. She went cold all over, as her mind absorbed the ramifications of what he alluded to. Oh, god…

Feverishly, Eliana struggled through a quick mental calculation, working against a brain gone sluggish with shock. Her breath came a bit easier when she realized that although it was possible, a pregnancy was unlikely, given the timing. On the heels of the initial relief, though, came an uninvited, unwelcome sense of acute loss. What in the name of god was she thinking, she berated herself furiously, that she should feel loss over a child that never was, that never would be? And yet, the sorrow was there, as real as the rest of this madness.

Nearly inaudible, her voice hoarse with repressed emotion, she hastened to refute the possibility. "Don't worry, Imhotep. It didn't happen. The timing is all wrong."

She felt him smile against her hair, and his voice, when he spoke, was gentle, as were the arms that continued to hold her. "Many a child has been born, Eliana, the product of an ill-timed fate." His anxiety she could have accepted; his anger would have been understandable. This tenderness, though, this gentle concern, was her undoing, and she choked back a sob, pulling completely away from him and sitting up, the blanket clutched to her chest.

"No!" She turned angry eyes his way, daring him to disagree. "There is no child, there will be none. There is nothing for you to worry about—no need for your concern!"

He levered himself up on one elbow, his brow creasing into an irritated frown. "No need for my concern?" Sarcastic disbelief colored the rich timbre of his voice. "We are talking about the possibility of a child, and you say there is no need for my concern?"

She swung her head away again, unwilling to let him see the tears glittering in her eyes. Her hair formed a living curtain, shadowing her face from him, keeping her secrets. "There is no child. Even if there was, you are free to go. I would never use a child to hold you here against your will…"

Slowly, carefully, every movement reflecting steely control, Imhotep sat upright, the blanket falling away unheeded, revealing the hard planes and contours of his body. His hands on her shoulders were a study in relentless gentleness, velvet over iron, as he turned her to face him. Nothing revealed his inner feelings save a slight narrowing of his eyes and the merest hint of a muscle twitching near his mouth. "Eliana. Look at me."

Stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes, she gripped the blanket even tighter, tipped her head down even more. His fingers gripped her chin, the long fingers, graceful as any artist's, now an inexorable, unyielding force as he compelled her to raise her head and meet his eyes. Although she knew he would never harm her, Eliana was afraid, for she knew she had triggered some deeply held rage. The melodic pitch of his voice held a hardness now, an uncompromising ruthlessness that hinted at the true depth of his anger.

"After all I have told you, everything you know of our shared past," he questioned, his voice deceptively soft, deliberately calm, "you would truly expect me to walk away from another child?"

She sucked in a shallow breath that seemed to catch in her lungs. Too late, she remembered what he had shared with her about their past, the tragedy that had prodded them along the first steps of this terrible, tragic path. Too late, she remembered his pain, the devastation in his voice as he recounted the loss of that tiny soul, gone now for so many centuries.

"No," she whispered, closing her eyes, unable to meet the hard light in his. "I know you wouldn't walk away." Fighting against everything in her, every instinct that told her to throw herself into his arms and beg him to stay with her, forgive her, try to love her again, she steeled herself, her resolve returning and wresting control from her fickle heart. He had been right all along—she knew it now. There was too much history between them; too much betrayal. She was poison to him—death. She had brought him nothing but misery and damnation, heartache and betrayal, and the least she could do was to get out of his life now, once and for all, and hope that he could somehow find some sort of peace, if not here, then in the afterlife. But god, how it hurt!

She rose to her feet, slightly unsteady, and, still wrapped in the blanket, using it as a sorely inadequate shield for a ridiculously tardy sense of modesty, she began to dress in the clothes she'd worn yesterday, jerking them on carelessly, heedlessly, wanting only to escape from the suddenly airless confines of the tent and the painful proximity to him as quickly as she could.

He remained seated, watching her as she pulled and tugged at her clothing, his unblinking regard resolute, implacable. Finally, unable to remain silent any longer, his voice spanned the void between them, still quiet, but powerful in its very softness. "Eliana, why are you doing this? What has happened?"

She paused, balancing precariously on one foot, and dared to glance up at him. Behind the hardness in his eyes, she could see the pain, the centuries-old grief. She'd done it again—carelessly, unthinkingly brought him more sorrow. Why should she expect anything to be different now? She was doomed to give him nothing but misery, nothing but suffering. In this lifetime, as in those past, she was his curse, just as surely as was the Hom Dai.

Abandoning the futile struggle with her shoes, she left them unlaced, standing on both feet now, half turned away from him. Once again, she let her hair fall forward to shield her expression from his intent regard while she gathered her thoughts. This had to end. She could not let it go on any longer. She would not.

But how? She knew that on some level, he had feelings for her. Certainly he had feelings for who she had been. Without a doubt, he would never abandon a child. The knots in this skein were getting tighter and tighter, more and more hopelessly tangled. She knew that his feelings could not be spared entirely; there was no way out of this without hurting him on some level.

But she knew full well that anger was a powerful remedy for hurt, and if she could somehow manage to cast herself as the villain, he could latch onto the anger he already felt towards her other incarnations and use it to bolster his determination to complete the task, end the curse, find peace at last. It was what he had continually said he wanted; it was the one desire he had made perfectly clear, from the very beginning. It was the last, best gift she could give him—a future free of the contamination of her presence. Perhaps in some way, it would make up for the destruction she had wrought before.

The next few minutes would be her test. If she could manage to deliver her lies smoothly, convincingly, he would hate her, and thus be free of her at last. She had always been a poor liar, but never had she been so motivated. She loved him; if it took everything in her, she would somehow manage to perjure herself sufficiently that any feelings he might have for her would quickly turn to loathing. Dredging up every ounce of fortitude in her possession, she calmed herself and managed to put on a mask of cool indifference.

Imhotep watched her as she turned, scanning her face and seeing the coldness there. "Eliana?"

Digging her nails into her palms until she thought she drew blood, Eliana maintained the façade. "This was a mistake, Imhotep. You were right all along. I realize that now. The past can never be undone, nor would I wish it to be. I have a good life here; I am happy, at peace. Perhaps you can do this thing you say you must do, and find peace as well. I wish you luck." By accident, she managed to strike the perfect tone of bland indifference.

Imhotep stood, ignoring his nakedness as the blanket fell completely away, eyes beginning to ignite. He took a step towards her. "Eliana, what are you talking about?"

Deliberately, she made her face, her voice, go colder still. "This," she said, extending her arm in a sweeping gesture that took in the both of them, their scattered clothes, the rumpled blankets. "Us." She began to shake from the effort it took to maintain the deliberate lie, hoping against hope that he wouldn't see the trembling in her hands, her voice. She had to finish this quickly, before she fell apart in front of him. "I want this to end now. It was a mistake, our being together like this, and it won't happen again. And please don't worry—I assure you, there will be no child."

His eyes hardened, grew dangerously cold. "You are certain of that, Eliana?"

"Of course I'm certain," she said, injecting a note of casual viciousness into her tone. "Even if I was wrong, and this…mistake…did result in a pregnancy; well, nothing is permanent." Her heart broke to utter the final lie, for if fate had seen fit to give her his child, she would have cherished it beyond life itself. "Surely even in your day, they had ways of ending things that should never have begun."

His hand shot out, gripping her upper arm in a vise-like hold. His eyes burned into hers, the fury in them soul-deep and damning. "You are saying you would deliberately end a pregnancy, Eliana?" His voice dropped an octave, laced with a dangerous, icy calm. "You would do yourself what we, together, killed Seti for doing? You would destroy our child?"

Her silence condemned her. With eyes that were fever-bright, green as emeralds, she stared wordlessly at his hand on her arm. He held her tightly, but the pain of his grip was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. The bruise he would leave on her skin would heal, in time—the rending tear she was inflicting on herself would never mend. Slowly, as if just now realizing how tightly he clutched her, he dropped his eyes to her arm also, and released his grip on her, watching as the blood flooded back into the white marks his fingers had left behind, turning them an angry red.

When he lifted his eyes to hers again, she saw nothing in the golden brown depths but a cold emptiness that pierced her soul. Turning, she opened the flap of the tent, calling over her shoulder as she left, "I'm going to find my father. I'll be away for a while." As an afterthought, she added, "Do me a favor, please. Be gone by the time I get back."

He said nothing, just watched as she walked out the door and disappeared into the daylight. Finally, the thin veneer of anger crumbled, the pretense of coldness faded away, and a stunned anguish replaced them both. In three thousand years, Imhotep had known his share of suffering, endured what would have destroyed most men. It had been nothing compared to this. He groaned in agony and sank to his knees, lowering his head into his hands as the pain of this last, worst betrayal lanced through him, mockingly turning the Hom Dai into a triviality.

Outside, once she had managed to calmly walk until the tent was no longer in sight, Eliana ran as far and as fast as she could, stopping only when she could go no further. Finally, she allowed the tears to come—and they did, running down her face in a torrent as she leaned back against the hard trunk of a tree, hugging her arms around herself and sobbing miserably.

---

"So it's extinct?" Callie sipped her lukewarm coffee, lifting her eyebrows in question and peering across the table as Connelly, seated across the table from her, lounged back on his chair in his habitually unconstrained manner.

"Really extinct. Really, really extinct." Connelly's blue gaze was level, serious, even though his words were flippant, as usual. "As in, this plant hasn't been around since Jesus was in diapers."

"But that makes no sense," she puzzled, tapping one blunt, neatly trimmed fingernail against the chipped ceramic mug. "How could he say he'd used this plant before, if it hasn't even existed for two thousand years?"

"That's the question of the millennium, isn't it?" Connelly agreed, tipping his chair back down onto all four legs and reaching across the table to grab an apple. Callie watched as he bit into it, her gaze distracted, but aware enough to notice how his large hand dwarfed the red globe of the apple, how the fruit's natural juices moistened his lips, and how the movement of his mouth while he chewed drew her eye to the strong line of his jaw and from there down the sinewy strength of his neck to the solid breadth of his shoulders. There was no denying the man's sheer physical attractiveness, and Callie finally admitted to herself that she was drawn to him more than she had ever been drawn to another man in her life.

And apart from that, she was still grateful to him for spending the time, early this morning, to snap her out of the mood she'd fallen into. Getting herself dragged into a pit of melancholy so deep that she couldn't escape it would accomplish nothing, and there was still Doug to think of—she wasn't ready to forfeit that battle, yet. Matt had sat with her for a solid hour, until the sun was high in the sky and the archaeological shantytown surrounding the pyramid had come back to life, bustling with the busyness of morning. He had been kind, and understanding, and surprisingly thoughtful—not at all his usual brash, insouciant self. It had made her wonder what other secrets he hid, that he could keep this deeper, more serious side of himself so well-concealed.

But this tangent she was on was accomplishing nothing; her wandering thoughts were leading her down paths better left untrod, and there was still this mystery to solve. She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand, ignoring the speculative gleam in his eyes as he watched the play of emotions on her face. "Mr. Connelly…"

"Matt. It's Matt, okay?" A note of teasing crept into his voice. "I'd like to think that you know me well enough by now to lay off the formality a little bit."

She blushed and stammered. "I suppose so…" She cleared her throat, and although her brow was knit into a slight frown, she tried out the name, testing the feel of it as it formed on her lips and tongue. "Matt." A hesitant smile bowed her mouth, and she added. "You must call me Callie, then."

"Nah," he said, shaking his head. His eyes danced with an inner merriment. "I think I'll stick to Doc."

She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable with the teasing, uneasy over the subtle undercurrent of intimacy that was beginning to form between them. It was almost as though something long dormant was slowly awakening, unfolding like the new leaves of a tree in springtime. Again, she cleared her throat. "Um, Matt…."

"Yes, Doc?" He sounded too happy, too pleased with himself. She shot him a look; saw the trace of devilment in his eyes.

The cad! He was enjoying her discomfort, she was certain of it! Annoyance added an edge to her voice. "So how did he explain this discrepancy?"

Immediately, he was all business, as though what had just passed between them had never happened. "He didn't. I didn't ask him." He took another bite of the apple, leaning back on the chair once more.

"Why not? That seems like the most logical thing to do…"

"Well, for one thing, I haven't seen him since then." He chewed slowly as he spoke, hesitating before he spoke further. "For another, I don't think he'd give me a straight answer, anyway."

"Why do you say that?" She was genuinely puzzled. For all that the Egyptian man was brooding, and intense, and slightly intimidating, he hadn't struck her as being particularly dishonest.

Connelly swallowed the last of the fruit and tossed the core at the box containing garbage, missing his target by a good margin. "I hope you have better aim when taking photos than you do while playing basketball," she commented, raising an eyebrow as he made a rueful face at her.

"A guy's gotta have at least one flaw," he teased, raising a hand as she opened her mouth to expand on the potential list. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't do it—my fragile ego couldn't take the onslaught. Have pity on me, okay?"

She grinned at him. "I doubt that your ego is anywhere near what could be called fragile, Mister…" He lifted an eyebrow, and she corrected herself. "…Matt."

Despite her calm, even-tempered demeanor, Callie could be as tenacious as a bulldog, when necessary. "So, Matt, why do you think he'd lie to you?"

"I didn't say he'd lie, necessarily," he amended. "I just don't think I'd get the whole truth from him. He seems to me like someone who's keeping a few secrets. For that matter, so does his girlfriend, and that Bay character."

"His girlfriend?" Callie was confused. Who on earth could that be? As far as she knew, apart from the female lab technicians, the only other woman in the camp was Professor Bernstein's daughter. "You don't mean Eliana?"

"Who else?" Connelly asked, as though surprised she would even have to ask. "Haven't you seen the way those two look at each other? Seems pretty obvious that there's something going on there…"

"Actually, I hadn't noticed," she murmured, for some reason feeling silly for having asked in the first place. She suddenly felt very young, and a bit naïve, and incredibly out of her element. Quickly, she changed the subject. "And what about Ardeth Bay? What makes you think he's not what he seems?"

"In his case, it's just a feeling, more than anything." Matt paused, realizing for the first time that he could be seriously compromising his case by talking so openly with her. But there was something about her that made him want to confide in her, trust her, share his thoughts, his concerns, his dreams… Knock it off, Connelly! With an inward shake of his head, he wondered why he had to continually remind himself to stay on guard whenever he was near her. She was very bad for his professional indifference.

"So you distrust all three of them, is that it? Think they're hiding something?" He shrugged, not willing to discuss it any further, despite the fact that he instinctively trusted her. Noting his silence, she went on. "You think they're keeping some mutual secret? Or that each of them has secrets of their own?"

"Dunno." Again, he shrugged. "Maybe a little of both." Time to end this conversation, before he got himself in trouble. "But it doesn't really matter, anyway—the long and the short of it is that the plant's not around anymore, so it's of no use to him, or you, or Doug."

"You're right, of course. If the plant no longer exists, we'll have to help Doug in some other way." She was unwilling, though, to completely give up on the previous conversational thread. "But he seemed so certain that he had used the plant before…"

"Go figure." Matt dismissed the topic succinctly, and although she looked at him quizzically, Callie let it drop.

"Speaking of Doug," she said, standing up, "I should go and have a look at him, see how he's doing."

"S'okay, Doc. No worries here—I'll find something to do while you're away." The twinkle was back in his eye again, as the conversation moved back into more comfortable territory.

She rolled her eyes as she left, shaking her head at his irrepressible foolishness, but wearing a grin nonetheless.

---

At the end of the corridor, the lights from the infirmary glowed a stark bluish white, and a strong antiseptic smell infused the air, hanging heavy in the cool dryness of the hallway. Although it was bright morning outdoors, time had no meaning in here, the thick, windowless stone walls effectively cutting off contact with the world outside. Morning, noon, evening, dead of night—it could have been any of those; and for those inside, it made no difference.

Imhotep paced down the corridor, his face gaunt, expressionless. From the stern set of his countenance, he could have been a carved effigy come to life, granted animation and movement, but given no soul. The only clue to his true state of emotions lay in the dark, liquid depths of his eyes, where the desolation was a palpable, living thing. His secret was safe, however, since the aura surrounding him formed a barrier of such forbidding aloneness that only the most brave—or most foolhardy—of souls would dare try breaching it.

Nearing the door, Imhotep slowed, becoming cautious, alert, moving with a quiet stealth into the arched opening. Each time he had come here before, he had had to face a phalanx of medical personnel—nurses, technicians—grim-faced despots who took such pride in guarding their territory that they would have done well in days past as members of Seti's royal guard. Especially now, since Robillard had banned him from the area, Imhotep had to take care—a single misstep now could be the difference between his success or his failure in bringing an end to Doug's illness—and subsequently, his own curse.

But for once today, fate had smiled on him—the room was echoingly vacant, only the beeping monitors that surrounded Doug showing any sign of vitality. Doug himself lay quietly on the narrow cot in the isolation bubble, IV tubes pumping in fluids and antibiotics to keep him hydrated and to help fight off the bacterial infections that were a constant threat because of the open sores left by the rash on his skin. Additional equipment continuously monitored his blood pressure, heart rate, blood oxygen levels—providing a constant stream of useful information for his caregivers. Once more, Imhotep glanced around the room—it really was empty. Where the nurses and technicians had gone, Imhotep had no idea—he was simply grateful to have a few minutes alone with Doug.

Eschewing the dubious protection of the mask and gloves, he pushed aside the plastic sheeting, entering the contaminated air inside Doug's "room." The sick man's eyes sought him out immediately—although he seemed almost too weak to move his head, Doug's eyes were alive and aware and very, very frightened. While he had never fallen prey to this particular disease, Imhotep was unfortunately very aware of how it felt to be trapped inside a body that was being eaten alive from the inside out, and although scarabs were a more obvious predator than this virus, and a bit less fastidious in their manner of attack, the end result appeared to be almost one and the same—the blood, the pain, and eventually, the death. He could well imagine the fear that Doug must be feeling.

The language barrier was a huge, unfortunate obstacle in this situation. Doug spoke English, German and a smattering of French; Imhotep's only language, apart from the ones that had been dead for millennia, was Hebrew. Still, some languages were universal, and the smile that Imhotep gave Doug was meant to convey reassurance, comfort, and at least some degree of hope. Feebly, Doug smiled in return. He knew Imhotep from the priest's previous visits with Callie, and the fact that the tall Egyptian was not covered from head to foot in layer upon layer of protective garb made Doug feel more human, less like a writhing sack of virus waiting to spring a leak. But still, he knew how contagious he was, and how deadly the virus, and he gestured weakly at Imhotep, managing to convey his concern over the priest's lack of protection.

Imhotep dismissed his distress with a wave of his hand, a shake of his head. He truly wasn't concerned over a possible exposure—whatever their motivation, the gods had seen fit to protect him from this disease in the past, and he had no reason to believe that the situation had changed now. And treating an ill person with distance and fear was a mistake, Imhotep knew—treating them as though they themselves were the plague more often than not severed their only link to the outside world, making them retreat within themselves and become even more vulnerable to the ravages of the disease. Establishing a connection, a shared bond of humanity, mortality, was sometimes the only thing that served to tether the sufferer to this world—and was sometimes a strong enough bond to give them the will to fight, and to persevere.

Bending over the cot, ignoring the incessant bleat of the monitors, Imhotep pressed two fingers to the side of Doug's neck, feeling his pulse. It was steady, but slightly faster than yesterday, and this worried Imhotep—a man's heart should not have to beat so fast to pump life through his body. Callie had explained what the various tubes and fluids were for, and as Imhotep checked the mucous membranes of Doug's mouth and eyes, he saw that the steady hydration seemed to be helping. The virus was doing its awful, insidious work—the star-like rash was spreading, the white of Doug's eyes bore a slight reddish tinge—but Doug was failing with less horrifying rapidity than had Eric. Still, even with the supportive care, there was little time left for them to find a cure.

Through a series of gestures alone, Imhotep somehow managed to convey his question to Doug: How did he feel? Weakly, Doug shook his head and made a face, clutching at first at his stomach and then at his mouth—for any culture, an effective pantomime to convey the concept of acute nausea. Imhotep frowned. This was a sign he knew to be wary of—when people stricken with this disease began to vomit, it was an indication that the virus had gone to work on the stomach and intestines.

Carefully, he lowered the sheet covering Doug's midsection and placed his hands on the young man's stomach, pressing down gently. It was somewhat distended, and taut, the skin over the abdomen hard from some internal pressure, mostly likely a steady seepage of blood from his organs. This was not good, not good at all—even though Doug's outward symptoms were less acute than Eric's had been, it appeared that the internal damage was continuing to progress as expected.

Slowly, Imhotep raised his eyes to Doug's, carefully veiling his expression from the pleadingly hopeful gaze the young man gave him. Imhotep's smile was an attempt to reassure, as he pulled the sheet back up over Doug's chest. There was nothing to be done now, at least not physically—nothing save watch and pray. Although he knew Doug could not understand him, he spoke to the young man in his native tongue, the ancient language sounding a strange counterpoint to the mechanical beeps and clicks of the modern equipment that surrounded them.

"Rest, and conserve your strength for the battle ahead." As he spoke, Imhotep withdrew a small vial from his pocket. Before coming to the infirmary this morning, he had visited Sabir's supply tent, and, with the cook's permission, helped himself to a variety of spices and other foodstuffs. The mixture in the vial would be considered strange, by modern standards—three measures of celery seed, three measures of dill seed, both immersed in honey and ground together, then mixed with beer and wine—but in ancient days, it had served as a tonic for a variety of malignant diseases. Imhotep had little hope that it would be effective—in his day, the disease had not responded to this particular tonic, but there was precious little left to try, so he would at least make the attempt.

Smiling again at Doug's puzzled look, Imhotep uncorked the vial and poured a small portion of the mixture out onto the palm of his hand. Dipping a finger into the thickish concoction, he moved his hand to Doug's forehead. Alarmed, the young man raised his own hand, grabbing the priest's wrist with a surprising strength. His voice was a feeble croak.

"Hey—you're not giving up on me, are you?" The pinkish whites of his eyes were clearly visible around the brown irises. "This isn't last rites or something, is it?"

Imhotep couldn't understand a word of what Doug said, but he could see the fright in the young man's eyes. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he gripped it reassuringly, shaking his head. "This is a simple incantation of healing—there is no cause for alarm."

Although the words were gibberish to him, something in the priest's tone soothed Doug, and he relaxed, laying back and closing his eyes as Imhotep proceeded to trace out the healing glyphs and symbols on his forehead, cheeks and palms, before placing the vial near the sick man's lips and encouraging him to take a few drops into his mouth. Although the taste was strange, Doug managed a few weak sips, and then fell back against the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes once more.

Corking the vial once more, and placing it back in his pocket, Imhotep laid one hand on Doug's head, the other on his upper abdomen. Centering himself, calling on the old gods, Imhotep closed his eyes and tipped his head back, focusing his mind on the arcane paths of power and using himself as a conduit between them and the body of the man before him. Minutes later, the connection complete, he began the words to the ancient rite, his voice low, resonant, rich with the power and sorcery of the old ways.

"Osphe, Osphe, Osphe, Yosphe, Yosphe, Yosphe,

Bibiou, Bibiou, Bibiou,

Yasabaoth, the one who rules over the four corners of the world,

In whatever I want—I, Imhotep, servant of Osiris—I summon you

Now, now, at once, at once!

Voice of winds when there are no winds,

Voice of waves when there are no waves,

Voice of Amun, the three deities.

Anousph, Anousph, Anousph, Anousph, Anousph,

Anousph, Anousph, Ibiach,

Hold back the blood in every member of Doug, child of Re.

Heal him with your power,

Your goodness, your mercy.

Give him strength, give him rest,

Give him health, give him peace at the last.

Greetings to the sun,

Greetings to those who are with you,

Greetings from the one who is yours."

Imhotep's voice remained strong, laced with a potent energy, a powerful magic, throughout the incantation. Reaching the end of the spell, the words trailed off, and he fell silent, as he felt the power fade from the air around him. Slowly he lifted his head and opened his eyes, taking in the quiet pallor of Doug's now-still features. Had the spell had no effect at all? With a sigh, Imhotep straightened the blanket once more and turned to leave.

With a sudden jackknifing motion, Doug spasmed, his back arching, his head lolling backwards and his eyes rolling back in his head. Just as suddenly, he reversed his position, curving in on himself and grabbing at his stomach in agony. The paroxysm went on for an eternity, becoming more and more extreme with each endless second that passed.

Alarmed, for the ritual should not have produced such a drastic response, Imhotep leaned over the writhing man, desperately trying to determine what was wrong. Finally, with an almost inhuman strength, Doug sat straight up, clutching his stomach and looking at the priest with wide, frightened eyes, reaching out a hand to him before his face contorted into an expression of intense pain. Doubling over, his back contorted again, as he retched, the contents of his stomach bubbling up from his throat in a wet gurgle that spewed vomit and the black gore of old, dead blood across the pristine white of the sheets. Stepping backwards too slowly, Imhotep was sprayed with the noxious liquid himself, the dark brown, almost black droplets covering his hands, his clothing, even splattering up into his face.

Ignoring the disgust and discomfort of the filth that covered him, quieting the roiling of his own stomach with an iron will, Imhotep wiped the worst of the gore from his hands onto his pants, and moved to the bedside, where Doug now lay, exhausted and drenched in sweat from the bout of nausea. He reached for a towel that lay on a nearby chair, wetting it with water from the pitcher on the table beside the bed, intending to clean the young man up as best he could, when a voice from just outside the plastic curtain stopped him in his tracks, chilling him to the bone.

"What in the name of god are you doing in there?" Robillard's voice, icy and hard as diamonds, challenged him. Pushing aside the curtain, a heavy-set nurse draped in all manner of protective garb brushed past Imhotep, pausing to glare sternly at the priest before moving to Doug's side and beginning to cluck over him while she mopped up the mess with a disposable cloth. Doug's only comment was a weary moan, as he fell into a state of exhausted semi-consciousness.

With one last glance at Doug, Imhotep turned to face Robillard. Callie was there as well, standing next to the pretentious Frenchman, her expression one of abject horror as her eyes swept over Imhotep, taking in the soiled and contaminated condition of his clothing and his exposed skin. She started forward, holding out a hand to him. "Imhotep…"

Robillard pulled her back with a grip of steel, his eyes never leaving those of the priest. "Are you insane, Doctor al Faran? That madman has just exposed himself to a Level Four Biohazard agent. You are not to go near him, unless you are wearing the appropriate protective equipment. No one will. His complete disregard for medical protocol, and what I can only call his raging lunacy, has now made him not only a danger to himself, but to everyone else in this camp."

To Imhotep, Robillard issued his final, unarguable edict. "You wanted to play in my infirmary? Fine. You're in my infirmary. And you'll stay here, until you're either proven uninfected, or we carry you out in a body bag."

Past the point of arrogance, past the point of argument, past anything but an exhausted weariness of both mind and body, Imhotep didn't even attempt to dispute Robillard's decree. With a compliant passivity that was totally out of character for him, Imhotep surrendered to the inevitable, and bowed to the inescapable hand of fate. He would not fight this—there was nothing else he could do for Doug on the outside, anyway—and apart from this task, there was nothing else left for him in this world. Eliana was lost to him, by her own choice, and even if she had not been, he could not have gone near her anyway. He would not have dared risk contaminating her. He knew that he was in no danger himself, but he recognized the truth in Robillard's words—having been exposed to the disease like this, he could well be a walking plague, just as he been for countless centuries. The irony of that was not lost on Imhotep.

Lifting his head, he met Callie's stare with his own bleak gaze, and although she, too, knew that his quarantine was medically necessary, she couldn't stop herself from being moved almost to tears by the look of abject desolation in the dark depths of his eyes.

---

"That is the plan."

Bashir sat back on his chair, agape. His contact at the site leaned back as well, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The scheme that the man had just mapped out was elegant in its simplicity, but would require a coordinated effort to set up and accomplish. There would be no margin for error, no leeway for faintheartedness; no room for anything but the most dedicated resolve. The implementation of this plan might well demand the lives of some of their comrades—only those with the necessary fortitude could be entrusted with the more delicate aspects of the strategy.

"This is…ambitious, brother." Bashir couldn't keep all of the skepticism from his voice. He was already nervous about meeting like this, out in the open, even though he knew that no one who saw them sharing a cup of coffee in the mess tent would spare them a second glance, let alone a second thought. But the plan he had just heard, although simple, was an act of terror on a grand scale, and enough to give him pause.

"Allah is with us, brother," his superior reminded him, the slight emphasis on the last word delicately underscoring the fact that they were not, in truth, equals.

"Praise Allah," Bashir hastened to interject, not wanting to risk arousing the other man's ire. "Am I right in assuming, then, that the samples that they have already taken to Khartoum have been…intercepted?"

Leaning back, gratified with Bashir's submission to his authority, the other man smiled once again. "You are indeed correct, brother." He pressed his hands together, steepling his fingers, as he outlined what had already been accomplished. "Our contact in Khartoum has secured the blood sample from the dead man, and the fluid from the pyramid. It was an easy matter to intercept them. The lab had already prepared them for shipment to Geneva. They were put on the plane, in fact. Unfortunately for the World Health Organization, however, the samples will never arrive."

Bashir snickered, imagining how pitifully easy it would have been to snatch the deadly, but precious, cargo. "So the only remaining source of the virus now exists here, in the pyramid?"

"Exactly. For however long the pyramid itself continues to exist, of course."

"Of course. And once we have secured a quantity of the fluid from the statue in the grotto, we will take care of ensuring that ours is the only supply that exists in the world?" Bashir clarified his superior's reasoning, not content to make any assumptions, at this point. "The pyramid will be destroyed?"

"Again, you are correct." The man leaned forward, a feverish intensity in his eyes. "Once we have the fluid containing the virus, we will take it to our people, our labs. There, they will be able to study it, develop a way to contain it, transport it, and eventually, develop a method for disbursing it in places of our choosing. Once we have a way of targeting it, releasing it amongst the unbelieving infidels of the world, we will be unstoppable. No one, nothing, no power on earth will be able to stand against us."

"Praise Allah!" Bashir echoed again, more from reflexive habit than from any true religious belief. "And with their samples having disappeared, they will be left helpless, having had no chance to study the virus, no time to concoct any defense against it. They will be pitted against the clock, desperately racing to find a remedy that will not exist!"

The other man nodded, an evil leer playing over his dark features. "I am pleased you so completely understand our objectives."

"Thank you, brother." Bashir flushed, happy with the praise. "You are certain that no other samples have been removed from the site?"

"Quite certain," said his commander. "No one has left the site since then. The only viral samples that remain are in the pyramid and in the bodies of those infected. As long as you and your men brought enough of the explosives to do the job, we should be ready."

"Do not worry," Bashir assured him. "We brought enough to completely level the pyramid, and a half-mile radius surrounding it. Nothing will remain. No survivors, no witnesses."

"Good," said the other man, pushing back his chair to stand. "And a helicopter will be waiting, just outside that radius, to take us back to Khartoum once our objective is complete. Ahm Shere will once again return to the sands of the desert, where it belongs, and best of all…" He trailed off, a pleased smirk on his face.

Bashir finished for him, as he stood up to leave as well. Even though their sharing a late morning coffee break together was not remarkable in and of itself, it would not do for them to be seen spending too much time together in conversation. "Best of all, it will look as though it was the American's fault all along. Bernstein will go down in history as the man who destroyed the greatest archaeological find of the century."

---

"You were exposed to the virus?" Ardeth's voice reflected his shock, and his dismay, as he stared at the man on the other side of the thin wall of plastic sheeting. After hearing that Imhotep had been put under indefinite quarantine in the infirmary, he had come at once, talking his way past the lone nurse who now watched two charges—one lying in quiet misery on his hospital bed, the other standing in stoic silence in one corner of what had been Eric's isolation unit. Imhotep, now cleaned up and dressed in yet another set of borrowed clothes, inclined his head in a silent nod.

Casting a glance at the dour-faced nurse, and seeing that she was watching, Ardeth held the mask up to his mouth and nose, grimacing inwardly when he saw the mocking curve of the priest's lips, the slight lift of one haughty brow. In the hours that had passed since his exposure, some of Imhotep's natural arrogance had trickled back, and the sight of one of the high and mighty Med Jai meekly capitulating to the iron-clad edicts of the health care team was enough to provide him with some spiteful amusement.

"What is it you want, Med Jai? You have surely not come to offer your condolences, so say what you have to say, and be gone." Even with the partial return of his imperious nature, Imhotep sounded more tired than angry, more resigned than challenging. Ardeth noted the change, and adjusted his response accordingly.

"It is not my wish that it should end this way." He sighed, and dropped the mask from his face. The nurse, occupied with other things, didn't notice. He turned slightly, facing the bubble that contained Doug. "It seemed, for a time, that some good could come of this…"

Imhotep made no answer, so Ardeth pressed on. "You are aware, Imhotep, that the plant you sought is extinct?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware as well that it has been so for two thousand years?" Ardeth's patience with the priest's monosyllabic replies was wearing thin.

"Yes."

His voice was sharper now, conveying a growing irritation. "So then you must recall as well telling Callie al Faran that you have actually used the plant before, to treat this disease?"

Ardeth watched as the ramifications of those two facts, considered together, finally dawned on the priest. It was a testimony to Imhotep's utter fatigue the day before, that it hadn't occurred to him until now. The Med Jai watched as the priest's face lost color and his eyes narrowed in self-recrimination. "What do they know?"

"Nothing, yet. They have not asked, and I have not volunteered any information." Ardeth's voice was calm, yet conveyed a sense of inner agitation. With every passing hour, this situation felt like it was teetering more and more precariously on the edge of catastrophe. "But they have their suspicions, particularly Connelly. He is the one who unearthed the information on the plant, and who pointed out the impossibility of your having used it. As of now, he believes you either a liar or a madman."

The silence stretched on for a small eternity before Imhotep finally spoke. "Let him believe as he will, then. Either of those is preferable to the truth."

"I fear that 'letting' him believe something will not be adequate, priest." Ardeth didn't know why he was so concerned about Matt Connelly's questioning nature, or the strange sense of familiarity he had felt upon meeting the brash American, but something about the man plagued him. It was as though he was missing something that should have been patently obvious, and it vexed him to no end. But try as he might, he could not put his finger on what it was about the man that triggered his concern. "The man is inquisitive, and doggedly persistent. He may let the questions go unanswered for now, but his very nature will not let them rest indefinitely."

"He has harassed me through other lifetimes." Imhotep's tone was matter-of-fact; in truth, the longer he thought about the matter, the less he cared. "Why should this one be different?"

"What?" Ardeth's head snapped up. "What did you say?"

Imhotep's brows shot up in question as his eyes searched the Med Jai's, finding the answer to his question before he asked it. A slow smile curved his lips, as he realized that Ardeth Bay truly had not known. Merciless delight shone from his eyes. Instead of a question, his words became a statement. "You have not recognized him." He laughed softly, a taunting, cruel sound.

Ardeth took a step closer, a grim challenge in his bearing. "We have no time for games, priest." Had the plastic sheeting not separated him from the priest's mocking countenance, he would have been tempted to shake the smirk from the man's face. "If you know something about Connelly, tell me."

"A mighty Med Jai? Asking favors of the loathsome Creature?" Imhotep shook his head, in a parody of amazement. Sarcasm dripped from his words. "Surely your famed insight and knowledge should have unearthed the knowledge you seek, without forcing you to stoop so low…"

"Damn you, priest…" Ardeth began, only to be cut off by Imhotep's bark of laughter.

"You have already done that, Med Jai." The words were bitterly mirthful. "Is that the limit of your creativity?"

"Imhotep, who is Connelly? What do you know?" The dark features of the Med Jai were tense with desperation; he knew that this was vitally important, in some way. "Damn you, man; tell me!"

"I am a man, now? No longer a Creature?" Imhotep questioned, feigning surprise, watching as Ardeth's jaw clenched in angry frustration. With a sigh, the priest turned, staring at the blank monitor screens that surrounded him, abandoning the game. "I suggest you study your Med Jai lore and history at greater length, Bay. Perhaps you have forgotten Rick O'Connell; I have not."

"Rick O'Connell." Ardeth's breath escaped in a hiss, as comprehension dawned. "Of course." That explained the nagging sense that he knew the man; that he and Connelly were connected in some way. Although O'Connell had always denied being a part of the Med Jai order, Ardeth's grandfather had always sworn that in the spirit, he had been a brother, as much as anyone born of the twelve tribes. Fate had simply brought him to them via a different path.

"If Rick O'Connell has been reborn as Matt Connelly, then what of…" Ardeth began, before the answer hit him squarely in the solar plexus. "The doctor."

"Very good, Med Jai; very good. You are perhaps more perceptive than I gave you credit for being." Imhotep's smile was forced, not reaching his eyes. "The players are once again assembled on the game board, subject to the gods' whim, and the fickle conceits of fate."

"A man's destiny involves the journey, as well as the destination, Imhotep." Ardeth spoke instinctively, somehow knowing what was going through the priest's mind. "A man's becoming is as important as his final form."

Imhotep ignored the philosophizing. "Why have you come here, Med Jai?"

That was the question; that was the issue at the heart of the matter. Truth be told, Ardeth didn't know why he had felt compelled to come here when he had learned of the priest's fate; some inner voice had prompted him, and he had heeded its counsel. Briefly, he debated the wisdom of fabricating a reasonable lie; ultimately, his innate honesty prevailed.

"In truth, priest," the admission came slowly, with a cautious candor, "I do not know if I fully understand that, myself."

The soft hiss and click of the equipment in Doug's bubble marked time as Ardeth searched for the right words. Still not sure he had accurately captured the essence of his impulsion, he nonetheless tried to articulate it.

"I do not wish you to fail in this task of yours, Imhotep. In part, of course, because this contagion must be stopped, and if the gods have chosen you for that task, I cannot argue with their wisdom." He paced as he spoke, as though the physical movement would prompt some greater mental clarity. "Another reason still, is my oath to Eliana; my promise to her that I would not hinder you, so long as you posed no threat. As yet, I have seen no sign of such a threat."

He stopped and looked squarely into the shadowed eyes of the priest, hesitant to continue, yet needing to do so. "And finally, I find myself…hoping, somehow, that it is as you say, and the curse can be lifted." Ardeth paused once again. If he finished the thought, he would have stepped well beyond the boundaries of unquestioning loyalty demanded by his order—beyond them, and very nearly into the realm of sedition. He searched the priest's eyes, looking for some remnant of evil, some sinister gleam of lingering malevolence. What he saw reflected back at him were traits that any mortal man could claim—human pride, and arrogance, and anger, and a deep, abiding bitterness. And perhaps, underneath all of those, a profound loneliness. He saw no Creature, no inhuman monster.

With a sigh, he went on. "The Hom Dai has been a curse to the Med Jai as well, Imhotep. For thousands of years, we have existed to serve its memory, prevent its darkness from tainting the outside world. It has been a long road, and perhaps we have finally come to its end. I do not know.

"Eliana has led me to believe that perhaps there were extenuating circumstances for your actions, all those eons ago. I do not know that, either. Perhaps it is a weakness in me; a sign that I am unworthy of the Med Jai heritage." He prepared to utter the last, worst heresy. "But I would like to believe that, in the end, there is always a path by which a man can ransom his own soul."

Imhotep had listened impassively, unemotionally, for the duration of the Med Jai's speech. But now, at its conclusion, he expelled a long breath, unable to believe what he had just heard. The calm of his voice disguised his incredulity. "Your brethren would brand you a traitor for your words, Bay."

"You are probably correct," Ardeth agreed. "They would."

Imhotep glanced away, towards Doug, watching as the young man's chest rose and fell in shallow, painful breaths. It was a long while before he spoke, and even then, he did not meet Ardeth's eyes. "Thank you."

A pause, and finally he raised his eyes. "Med Jai."

Ardeth inclined his head, still not completely comfortable with the uneasy truce that had been forged. "What will you do now, Imhotep? What recourse do you have?"

Imhotep shook his head. "I do not know." He turned back towards Doug. "For now, I will simply watch, and wait."

"That is perhaps all that can be done, at least for now." Ardeth glanced at the nurse, who had begun to walk towards them. "It appears my time is up."

Imhotep looked towards the oncoming nurse and smiled in grim amusement. "It appears so."

Ardeth turned to go, but at the last minute, some impulse stopped him. Looking back at the priest, he chose his words carefully. "Eliana will be…concerned." He masked any trace of pity in his voice or expression. Imhotep would neither welcome nor tolerate such emotion. "Is there any message you wish me to bring to her?"

"Tell her…" Imhotep turned away, hiding the pain that flared in his eyes. "Tell her that I wish her well, and that…" His voice broke; he disguised it with a low rumble of sound that could have been a cough. "That if the curse can be broken, she will be free as well, and I will pray that the gods grant her a long, happy life."

Ardeth stared at Imhotep, unable to stop the stab of sympathy he felt for the priest. "You are sure that is the message you wish me to convey?" There was no response.

"Very well—I will tell her."

---

Eliana drew in a breath. "He's unhurt?" In the hours that had passed since she had learned of Imhotep's fate, Eliana had gone through a gamut of emotions, from shock, to horror, to despair, and finally to a pervasive sorrow that seemed to shadow her inmost being. She had almost given in to her urge to go to him; only a realization that there was nothing that she could do, save make matters worse, had stopped her. Finally, she had hidden herself away in a secluded room, deep in the bowels of the pyramid—ostensibly to work, in reality to grieve. Ardeth had found her just moments before. "Does he think he'll have time before…" She swallowed hard. "Does he think he can do what he has to, before the virus…affects him?"

"He does not seem overly concerned about the virus exposure itself, Eliana." Her eyebrows lifted, and he shrugged. "He did not elaborate on his lack of concern. However, he is frustrated, and anxious, about the task that has been set before him." Ardeth stood near Eliana, watching as she schooled her features and returned to meticulously tracing the pattern of glyphs on a meter-long section of a mural that filled a wall five times that size. For some reason, he felt compelled to continue; that last, despairing look he had seen on the priest's face had not left him, in all the hours that had passed. "He is alone, fighting against a force that continually thwarts him. He seems almost ready to give up, Eliana."

She didn't even look up, but he could see her knuckles turn white, betraying her tension, although her voice was painstakingly neutral. "That should please you, Med Jai." Her unconscious use of Imhotep's derisive tone when applying the appellation revealed her true loyalties. Ardeth doubted that she even realized she had used the scoffing title. "Isn't it your goal to destroy him? This should make your job easier, and so much more satisfying..."

"It doesn't." His flat, matter-of-fact statement drew her up short, and she stopped her work on the mural, staring at him in open-mouthed shock. "We have come to an understanding, Eliana, Imhotep and I."

Her mouth closed, then opened again, then settled into a disbelieving frown as she struggled to assimilate this new, unexpected information. Finally, she managed a lame query, her surprise at his announcement very clear. "You have?"

He nodded. "I have seen another side of him, Eliana—a side that either did not exist before, or that was corrupted and perverted by the curse that we—my ancestors, my brethren—laid upon his soul."

Once again, she was near speechless. "When did this revelation occur?"

His smile was not without humor. "No blinding flash of insight, Eliana; no lightning strike. I have simply watched, and observed, and wondered."

"And your conclusion…?" She was almost afraid to ask.

"I could be wrong, Eliana. My Med Jai brothers would certainly tell you that I am." He moved to inspect the intricate pattern in a group of glyphs, the shift in lighting casting his features into sharp relief. Casually, as though discussing something as prosaic as the designs in the ancient mural, he observed, "From what I have seen, Eliana, I can only conclude that he is a man, like any other. He has his strengths; he has his flaws. He has undoubtedly erred in the past, committed sins, done wrong." He stopped; turned to look into her eyes. "As has anyone; as have I." In the next breath, he took the final step, uttering the pronouncement that would brand him a traitor to his order.

"I see no evil in him, Eliana, apart from the evil that marks us all."

Eliana's eyes burned with the effort it took to hold back her tears. Hearing Ardeth's words were a vindication, not just for Imhotep, but for herself, as well. Slowly, she laid down the tools she had been using, carefully placing them back into their leather storage pouch. Reaching out, she placed a hand on his arm. "Thank you, Ardeth." She cleared away the lump in her throat. "Thank you."

His dark-skinned hand covered hers. "Do not thank me overmuch, Eliana. I have been reluctant, and obstinate, and even now, I must confess to having some reservations, and feeling a sense of having betrayed my kinsmen."

Her eyes softened as she saw the genuine conflict in his. "I understand that, Ardeth. Truly, I do." She thought for a moment. "Maybe…"

"Yes?"

She faced him, and he could see from her face that she had reached some decision. "Maybe it's time you heard the whole story, Ardeth."

He tried not to reveal the true degree of his interest. "Only if you feel comfortable in sharing it with me, Eliana."

"It's not a story that allows for much comfort, Ardeth," she said, the shadow memory of every day of every year of every century of the curse weighting her words like heavy stones. "But I think it's time you heard it."

Once again, she placed a hand on his arm, this time leading him over to a golden bench, carved from the same stone as the pyramid itself. "Sit down, my friend. The story is a long one…"

---

"He's not worried about it at all?" Connelly was dumbfounded, a perplexed frown furrowing his forehead as he looked up at her from his perch on a low pedestal. "He's just been exposed to one of the deadliest viruses known to man and he's not even the tiniest bit worried? I mean, he saw Eric melt into a puddle in front of your eyes, right?"

For once, she ignored his less-than-stellar imagery. "Yes, he knows how deadly the virus is. But he's never seemed the least bit worried. In fact, it was a battle just getting him to wear a mask and gloves."

She moved away from the statue she had been leaning against, rubbing absent-mindedly at the spot on her hip that had rested against the hard stone. Connelly followed the motion with his eyes, trying to ignore the feelings that stirred in him from so innocent a thing as that innocuous gesture. Focusing on the vagaries of the Egyptian man was a better idea. Focusing on anything else at all was a better idea. "He's an odd one, all right."

"He told me after Robillard left that putting him under quarantine was unnecessary—that he wouldn't get the disease, that he had been exposed before, and that he had never been infected."

"He's gotta be wrong, right?" Connelly questioned. "Ebola's highly contagious, isn't it?"

"Under the right circumstances, yes it is." Callie sat down next to him, her thigh brushing against his. He jumped up as though a gun had gone off behind his head. Her startled gaze shot to his face. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

"Ah, nothing. Nothing at all." His long legs measured out what he hoped was a safe distance between them. "Just feeling a little restless, I guess."

"Um…of course." One dark brow lifted skeptically, but Callie was too polite to argue the matter. "Anyway. He was completely covered in gore…"

"Doug barfed all over the guy?" Once again, Connelly's penchant for cutting to the chase was astoundingly artless.

"Well, yes." Why fight it? Deciding to pick her battles more selectively, Callie let the comment slide. "He did."

"So our friend Imhotep's gonna get sick, too." There was no question at all in Connelly's mind. "You can't have a huge exposure like that and hope to squeak by somehow, on luck alone."

"Well, that's just the thing," she said, remembering what Imhotep had told her. "He said that when he'd treated people before, he'd been exposed—just as badly as this time, mind you—and that nothing had ever come of it."

"Oh come on," Connelly scoffed. "What gives? The more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to think that the guy's living in some weird little fantasy world." Connelly paced back and forth, ticking off the facts on his fingers. "I mean, let's look at this. First, he treats people with nonexistent herbal remedies. Next, he knows stories about ancient plagues—that somehow mysteriously don't affect him. For an encore, he bathes in Ebola virus and tells you that he won't get sick." He stopped pacing to look at her in disgust. "You ask me, he's crazy."

Connelly sat down again, this time on a pedestal facing Callie. He braced his arm on his knees, and leaned forward. "The guy's Egyptian, right? Maybe he thinks the gods are protecting him—wasn't his "namesake" the Egyptian patron saint of medicine, or something? Maybe he thinks he's leading a charmed life—immune to it, or something."

Callie had listened in silence to Connelly's tirade. Now, she sat back, deep in thought. Connelly thought that if he looked hard enough, he'd be able to see the wheels turning in her mind. "What? What'd I say?"

"Prior exposure, no infection. If he's telling the truth, that does seem to suggest some degree of immunity, doesn't it?" Callie talked to herself as she thought—it was a habit she had tried to break herself of over the years, but to no avail. Articulating a theory always seemed to clarify it in her mind. Lost in thought, she went on. "He's Egyptian. He certainly looks like he comes from pure Egyptian stock."

"Where are you going with this, Doc?" Connelly sounded worried, as though she was about to fall victim to some sort of communal dementia. "So what?"

"This virus…it's ancient. The ancestor of all the modern strains." She looked over at him, excitement beginning to dance in her eyes. "It's been locked underground for millennia—since the time of the Scorpion King legends. Underground, all that time, in a stagnant environment. No change, nothing to adapt to, no reason at all to do anything but just lie dormant."

"Yeah?" Connelly countered. "It seems to kill people fine, just the way it is. I still don't see your point."

"It killed Eric—an American, probably of Scandinavian descent."

"Yup, and it did a really thorough job of it, too." He cocked his head. "And your point is?"

"Don't you remember what we talked about just yesterday? About how the disease swept through Egypt, killing everyone who wasn't able to resist it, somehow? Through some sort of natural immunity?"

"Yeah, I do. And I still don't see where you're going with this."

"Connelly! Think about it!" She jumped up, almost vibrating with excitement now, impatient with his lack of understanding. "This virus is the original one—the one that a few lucky people were genetically able to resist, before it mutated into some other form—or forms. Those would be the forms that have survived up through today—Reston, Zaire, Sudan; Marburg, even. Imhotep is Egyptian. It's a long shot, but he could have inherited some sort of genetic resistance to the original virus, passed on through the generations." Hands on her hips, she stood in front of him, daring him to find some flaw in her logic.

"So what are you gonna do?" Connelly had to admit that he saw the logic, but she was right. It was a long shot. Still… Wasn't it worth enough, at this point, to take any kind of shot? If Imhotep was somehow immune, and his blood could be used to develop a serum… "You gonna get him to donate blood and cook it up into some kind of anti-venom?"

"No, you silly man!" She beamed at him, and the change in her—the sheer joy that lit her face—was so profound that all he could do was stare. "I'm going to test his blood first. Then I'm going to cook up the anti-venom!" Bending down, she grabbed his face in both of her hands and planted a kiss squarely on his mouth.

"You are an amazing man, Matt! I would never have thought of this, without our having this conversation. Thank you!" In the space of a heartbeat, she was gone, racing off towards the entrance to the pyramid, and the infirmary inside.

Connelly stared after her, dazed. His lips tingled where they had touched hers, and he felt as though he'd received a huge psychic jolt all the way down to his bones. "Sure, Doc," he said, the words drifting after her departing form. "Don't mention it."

Leaning back against the stone of the statue, he shook his head, more amazed over his extraordinary reaction to her than to the possibilities of her theory. "Good luck, Doc, you'll need it. It's a long shot, for sure. The odds of your being right about this are about as good as the odds that our mysterious friend really has had his mitts on that two thousand year old plant."

He thought for a minute more, and then found the one flaw in her logic. "And what about all these 'other cases' he's seen, and the exposures he's had?" He rubbed the fingers of his left hand against his temple, massaging away a sudden tightness. Damn, but it gave him a headache, this situation did. "If he's immune to only the original virus, then that's what those folks must have had, for him not to get sick. And how did they get it, if it's some kind of thing that mutated thousands of years ago and only existed in its original form right here in good old Ahm Shere?"

Thousands of years ago. It all kept coming back to that, didn't it? There was a pattern there, somewhere, and Matt Connelly had always liked a good puzzle. But the only way he could fit the oddball pieces of it together was by putting the one key entity—Imhotep himself—into an impossible scenario. If he was telling the truth, Imhotep had either traveled through time, or was several thousand years old. Neither of those things was possible. It was much easier—not to mention much saner—to believe that the man was a lunatic or a liar.

Connelly sat there, enveloped in the lazy somnolence of late afternoon, struggling with the undecipherable conundrum. Behind him, the bright African sunlight winked off the gleaming gold of the pyramid—the monument itself a tangible testimony to how very feasible the inconceivable could be.

---

"I'm sorry, Eliana," the quiet words resounded in the silence of the tomb-like room. "I had no idea. None of this was ever known; not to me, not to the Med Jai."

She looked at him in puzzlement and stated the obvious. "It wouldn't have mattered if it had been known, Ardeth." Her tone bespoke genuine confusion. "What could it have changed? Seti was a god on earth—a living deity who walked among men. We killed him, and we were found out. What difference would it have made, in those days, to have known what our motives were?"

There was no answer but the truth. "You are right. It would not have mattered."

"But now you know, Ardeth." She gave him a weak, feeble smile. "You know."

His hand grasped hers, the warmth of it taking away some of her chill. "Yes, Eliana, now I know."

"So you understand, at least a little? You believe me?" Her eyes begged him to affirm that belief. "Imhotep is not evil, Ardeth. He's as you said—proud, arrogant, bitter—all those things. He's flawed as any man." Love softened her face, lit her eyes. "And as extraordinary."

A gentle squeeze to her hand reassured her. "I believe you, Eliana." They sat in silence for a while, as the torches illuminated the magnificent artwork of millennia past. "You adore him, don't you?"

A silent tear rolled down her cheek. "Beyond words. If I could sell my soul to break the curse on his, I would."

Unable to offer any other comfort than the meager solace of his companionship, Ardeth put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. "He said to tell you that he wished you well, and that he believed that if the curse was lifted from him, it would be from you, as well."

She had no reply, and he began to think she hadn't heard him. "Eliana? Do you have nothing to say? Will you not at least go and see him, if not for your sake, then for his?"

"He's better off without me, Ardeth." It was a painful admission, but to her, it was truth. "I've done nothing but bring pain and suffering to him, since the very beginning. Maybe without me, he can find peace."

"Perhaps, Eliana; perhaps," he murmured softly, understanding her, but disagreeing with her in almost every way. "But it could be that ultimately, peace is a poor substitute for what is really longed for."

---

The lab was quiet with the solemn hush of early morning. Outside, the camp slept; inside, the timeless cavern of the pyramid harbored an air of subtle watchfulness as fate fed a new thread into the pattern on her loom and a slight but significant change in balance shifted the scales.

"Maggie, come here and take a look at this, will you?" Phyllis lifted her head from the eyepiece of the high-powered microscope, a puzzled frown on her face. She waited until Maggie had crossed the room and reached her side before twisting the expensive piece of equipment around on its stand and offering it to her colleague. Maggie lifted one eyebrow at the excitement in Phyllis' voice, but bent her head and peered through the lens. "Do you see it?"

"Not yet," Maggie said, fiddling with the controls, bringing the samples into better focus. "Almost got it…wait! There!" She examined the slide in silence for a long moment, then straightened up with a frown. "What did you do to these?"

"Nothing!" Phyllis was excited now, the elation in her voice almost palpable. "I didn't do anything, except set up the test exactly as Doctor al Faran ordered. What you're seeing is the result of that test."

Maggie's frown grew deeper as she bent back down to look again. When she stood, the same stupefied look of amazement was on her face. "But that's impossible…"

"It's right in front of our eyes, Maggie." Phyllis said, jubilant over what this could mean for them all. "I'm going to ask Robillard to order a different test, using a different sample for the control, but…"

"My god," Maggie breathed, once again drawn back to the microscopic world teeming under the plastic cover of the slide. On one half of the slide, Callie's blood reacted to the infusion of virus that Phyllis had added. The red blood cells on that half of the slide were broken open, destroyed, utterly ruined through the process of birthing new virus particles. Others were huge, pregnant, swollen with enormous bricks of hatchling disease. On the other half, Imhotep's blood was clear, the red blood cells smooth and rounded, pristine and untouched. It was as though they'd never been infected at all. "You're sure you infected both samples?"

Phyllis' answer was a smug nod. "I'm positive."

Maggie stood up suddenly, knocking over the tall lab stool in her excitement. "Do you know what this means?"

"Yes!" Phyllis answered her, not even bothering to control her rising excitement. "We may just have found our silver bullet!"