CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
At the ends of the universe is a blood red cord that ties life to death, man to woman, will to destiny. Let the knot of that red sash, which cradles the hips of the goddess, bind in me the ends of life and dream. I'm an old man with more than my share of hopes and misgivings. Let my thoughts lie together in peace. At my death let the bubbles of blood on my lips taste as sweet as berries. Give me not words of consolation. Give me magic, the fire of one beyond the borders of enchantment. Give me the spell of living well.
Learning peace itself is a struggle. More often I know the air as it whips my face. When the wind is still, I forget the wind. Walking through town, I turn longingly to the mountain. On the mountain I gaze back on the town. When there's much talk I withdraw into silence. When it is quiet I strain to hear some song. Having no trouble, I create some to keep the day interesting. We misunderstand the quiet. In the heat of the day I seek shadows. At night I praise the light of stars. The moon grows legs and wanders through an old man's heart seeking some dark corner to inspire. At midday the gods walk through town invisible as cats. Only children and wise old men know the difference.
Even night and day struggle, make peace between themselves. We call that beautiful sunset and dawn. In the spirits of men we call it a state of grace. Unless the earth enveloped the seed and the seed struggled against the darkness, there would be no corn. The moment we are born we begin to die. In each death we are born again. We take in the air and the air escapes us. Call it the breath of life. I no longer call loss disaster. It is the empty heart waiting to be filled. From the act of love, two bodies straining against each other, there rises the star of children. After opposition comes unity. Knowing that removes the sting of failure.
--Excerpts from "The Knot of Isis" and "Field of Flowers", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
"The same?" Maggie crooked her head and peered at the notes Phyllis was furiously scribbling into the notebook beside her, writing blind as she kept her eyes glued to the lenspiece of the microscope.
"Yes, the same." Phyllis was distracted, trying to write as quickly as she could, but still capture all the pertinent information. "His blood's still not reacting." Imhotep's blood had now been tested against three additional controls besides Callie's. Matt had cheerfully provided one sample; Sabir, although his swarthy skin had blanched white when he saw the needle, had also contributed to the cause; Jacques Robillard himself, grumbling the entire time, had furnished the third and final specimen. "You finish the comparative analysis, yet?"
"I think so." Maggie was nervous about this—her results would be vital to the research papers that would eventually follow this discovery—and she didn't want to chance being wrong. "I think I've got it narrowed down to one protein molecule that's just a bit different in his blood, but I'm kind of scared to say that definitively without having someone else go over my documentation."
She sat down on the stool next to Phyllis, tapping her fingers on the metal tabletop. "I'm having Jean check over the results for me."
Phyllis dragged her eyes from the microscope, lifting her eyebrows at Maggie. "You want to be that sure, huh?" Jean Godfrey, Robillard's second-in-command, was an expert in infectious diseases, a true genius that preferred the quiet of the lab to the glaring limelight that Robillard fancied. If Robillard was the voice of the team, Jean was its brain. An exacting researcher, she was meticulous in her work, demanding of her associates, and completely dedicated to her cause. But for all that, she was kind, as well, and Maggie would much prefer having her work picked apart by Jean's hand than by Robillard's.
"Yeah, I do." Maggie leaned back on the stool, propping her elbows on the tabletop to support herself. "This is too important to risk making a mistake."
"That's true," Phyllis agreed, turning away from her colleague to scribble down the last few words of her summary. "We have what we need right now to cook up the serum, but isolating the protective agent in his blood is the foundation for all the research that will come later." She switched off the microscope, turning once again to her coworker. "Don't want to mess that up, for sure."
"You ready, Phyllis?" Maggie slid off the stool, waiting for her colleague. "Robillard wanted us to get him as soon as we were ready with the results of these last tests."
"I'm ready." Phyllis gathered up her documentation. It would be hard for Robillard to discount the results of four separate tests, and at the rate Doug was failing, they had very nearly run out of time for more exhaustive experimentation. Everything that she had seen so far pointed towards the irrefutable fact that something in Imhotep's blood chemistry was stopping the virus in its tracks. Using the immunoglobulin in his blood, they would soon be able to fabricate a serum product that could be injected into Doug and hopefully produce the same results. Although it wouldn't provide Doug with lifetime immunity to the disease, the way some vaccinations did, it could hopefully provide him with a cure this time around.
The premise was the same as that used to treat humans after an exposure to rabies—a series of shots given after the exposure transferred limited passive immunity to the victim. But there was no little need for faith, here. In rabies cases, once symptoms actually appeared, an indication that the virus had successfully attacked the central nervous system, the disease was one hundred percent fatal, without exception, regardless of whether or not the injections were given. Ebola went after the central nervous system as well, and Doug had been symptomatic for days. For all that Ebola's sister virus, Marburg, was originally called "stretched rabies", due to the physical appearance of the virus particles themselves, they would have to hope that the similarity between this virus and rabies ended with looks alone, and that the serum could somehow work its way through Doug's system and result in a cure.
"Let's go make history then, shall we?" Maggie wouldn't let herself fall victim to doubt. At this point, hope—and their precious supply of immunoreactive blood serum—was all they had.
"And his blood serum seems to contains an immunoglobulin—a protein molecule—that not only binds to the virus and renders it unable to reproduce, but also seems to make it more susceptible to attack by the other blood proteins." Although she was tired, Callie's expressive brown eyes were alive with enthusiasm, and she paced back and forth excitedly.
Connelly felt as though he were watching a tennis match in fast forward. He was, as usual, sprawled carelessly in one of the chairs, fiddling with his photographic equipment. He had shot several roles of film yesterday, thinking that he should probably start to act like a photojournalist, even if he was not. And, he reasoned, having photos of the site couldn't hurt the CIA's case, either. In addition to shooting the exterior and interior of the pyramid, he had made it a point to get shots of all of the site workers, the plethora of visitors, and the entire archaeological team, as well.
Finally, he couldn't stand it any more. Just watching her pace was making him nervous. "Doc, you're gonna wear a trench in the ground there, if you don't stop." She looked over at him, startled by his remark, and he tried to distract her. "And can you translate what you just said into something that the rest of us non-geniuses can understand?"
Her lips pursed into the little moue he was coming to recognize as a sign of irritation. "Matt, what I said was perfectly understandable, if you had bothered listening." With a sweeping wave of her hand, she took in the other people seated around the table—Ardeth Bay, Akil Hamid, and several of the Sudanese diplomats. "It seems as though everyone else has been following along splendidly." Connelly bit back his reply that he had understood her just fine, but that he would have done or said anything at that point, just to get her to stop moving. At least she was motionless, now, even if she was standing there with her hands on her hips, glowering at him. "In plain English, Imhotep's blood contains an agent that can attack the virus and possibly cure Doug."
"Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?" He was purposely goading her, and she very nearly took the bait.
With a sigh, she overlooked his deliberate provocation and turned away from him. "I give up. This is wonderful news, and I refuse to let your childish teasing spoil it."
"I apologize, Doc." He really hadn't meant to mar her enthusiasm. For some reason, though, he just couldn't stop himself from constantly wanting to bait her. "It is good news. Really it is. It's terrific."
"Doctor al Faran," Akil Hamid's voice was quiet, deferential. "This is truly an amazing discovery. Are we to understand, then, that using Imhotep's blood, you will create a serum that can be used to treat the disease, not just in Doug, but also in others who may contract the virus? You have discovered a cure for Ebola?"
"For this strain of Ebola, yes—we hope so, anyway," said Callie, her enthusiasm tinged with a sensible caution. "Although it's doubtful, based on what we know, that he's immune to the modern strains of the disease, we can at least make the serum to treat this particular virus, and use it to help Doug. Afterwards, Robillard will have the serum and blood samples flown to Khartoum to be tested against the modern strains." She bit her lip, an outward sign of her concern. "It's just that, even with regard to this strain, Doug is already symptomatic, and that's never a good thing. Still…" She trailed off, then squared her shoulders, injecting more determination into her tone. "Still, we have to try, and hope for the best."
Tariq Bashir's oily smile polluted the space inside the tent. "Of course. One must always hope for the best, even in a most difficult situation. Our thoughts are certainly with the unfortunate young man…"
Callie glanced at him, barely managing to suppress a shiver of disgust. Something about Bashir turned her stomach, and she edged further away from him. "Yes, of course. I'll, uh…I'll relay your good wishes to him." Nervously, she glanced at her wristwatch. "I suppose I really ought to get back in there, and see if they need any help…"
"See you later, Doc," Connelly promised, with a wink. "Hurry up and save the world; we'll be right here waiting for you."
Callie glanced heavenward in feigned disgust as she set out for the pyramid. Connelly could have sworn, though, that he had caught the faintest trace of a smile hovering on her lips before she managed to escape.
For a few moments, none of the men left in the mess tent spoke, as each contemplated Callie's revelation. Finally, Bashir broke the silence. "This is wonderful news, then, is it not," he asked, looking towards Rais Azziz and Muhammad Hassan, who had so far refrained from comment. His dark eyes were speculative, curious, almost rat-like in their beady intensity, as he stared at the two men.
"It is truly remarkable," replied Azziz. Hassan merely grunted noncommittally. Azziz continued. "The medical team must be so pleased."
"Oh, I'm quite sure they're elated," Akil Hamid assured him, standing up to go. "I think I'll go find John, and fill him in on the good news."
"Give him our regards, Mr. Hamid," Bashir requested, his narrowed eyes sliding over towards the Egyptian scholar.
"I'll do that," replied Hamid, as he left to find his American colleague.
"My blood will cure the disease?" Imhotep lifted his hand, staring at the back of it as if he could see inside, to the miraculous curative agent that Callie had just informed him existed within. "How? Why?" Apart from the wonder in his voice, that he himself could be the cure he had been searching for, Callie also heard a good bit of skepticism. She had to wonder at that—he had said he was a healer, after all, and even if he was more versed in the homeopathic treatments that some of today's alternative medicine practitioners focused on, he should have at least been aware of the concepts of antibodies and the immune system.
The scholar in her, though, couldn't pass up the opportunity for expounding upon the miracles of the human body. "If I had to guess, I'd say that you come from the same genetic line as those who managed to survive this virus to begin with. You inherited a natural immunity. Your blood contains antibodies—protein molecules…" She trailed off, seeing his look of confusion. "Um, there is a part of your blood that is able to attack the virus—the disease—and render it harmless. Kill it, in effect." She graced him with a wide smile. "It's really quite remarkable—the miracle cure we'd been hoping to find was right there, all along, inside your body!"
As Callie watched, a strange look worked its way over Imhotep's face, equal parts incredulity, relief, and an inexplicable mirth. Why he would think what she had just said was so funny, Callie couldn't imagine. She took her work very seriously, and although it certainly called for some joy, this momentous event was certainly not amusing. But as the seconds wore on, the Egyptian man seemed more and more taken with the hilarity of whatever it was he was thinking, and finally, he could no longer suppress an outright laugh.
Callie stared at him in stupefied amazement. Apart from being incomprehensible, given the gravity of the situation, the deep, rich rumble of laughter transformed him, shaving years off his age, revealing an almost boyish irreverence that danced in the golden brown eyes. She had always been impressed with Imhotep's intelligence and dedication to healing. This side of him, though, the one that had just now been revealed by his laughter, was a new one, one that she had never noticed before. And while she had always recognized, in a sort of academic way, that he was a handsome man, she had not realized, before now, just how lethally compelling that attractiveness could be. He was, quite possibly, one of the most magnificent men she had ever laid eyes on.
But for all that she liked and admired the man, there was an aura of danger and foreboding about him that negated whatever allure he might have held for her, and with a sense of alarm, Callie took a hasty step back. No, he was not the kind of man she was attracted to, not at all. Unbidden, an image of Matt Connelly pushed its way into her mind. Annoyed more with herself than with the Egyptian man, now, her voice took on a note of irritation. "Whatever is so hilarious, Imhotep?"
Struggling to contain the laughter, he finally managed a few words. "That the cure should be…" He chortled again, amazed at the absurdity of it all. "That I myself should be the cure…" He saw that she didn't understand him at all, and shook his head. "That the cure for this lethal disease should be contained in this body," his hand made a sweeping gesture over his torso, and he laughed once again. "Never mind—it is not something you would understand, nor could I explain it." He could explain it, of course, but doing so would be unwise. The magnificent irony that his cursed, putrid body—a body that had lain trapped and decomposing in a stone sarcophagus for countless centuries—should contain the miracle that they sought would have to go unexplained. He was so close, now, to completing this task, he would not jeopardize it by either convincing them that he was insane, or worse yet, risk awakening some latent memory within her, or Connelly, or them both.
A change of subject would be for the best. "What will happen now?"
"We'll need to get more blood from you, and Robillard's staff will use it to make up a serum that can be injected into Doug." She glanced towards the young man, who lay sleeping in his isolation tent. "Hopefully, within a day or so, your antibodies will begin to have some effect on the virus in his system, and we'll know if we've got a cure."
She glanced up, her attention caught by the approach of one of Robillard's technicians. She didn't know Maggie well, but based on their brief conversations, liked her well enough. To Imhotep, she said, "This is Maggie. She was one of the lab technicians who made the initial discovery."
Maggie walked up with a smile for them both, setting aside the tray she carried. "Robillard gave us the okay to begin work on the serum." She addressed Callie, since she knew Imhotep couldn't understand her. "I'll need to draw some more blood now, and then a bit more later."
Callie translated, and Imhotep nodded, turning to the American health care worker with a steady regard. He began to speak, then turned to Callie once more. After a brief exchange, Callie smiled, and spoke a phrase in English. Imhotep turned to Maggie once more, and the young woman caught her breath as he took her hand in his. "Thank you." The English was softly accented, the rich baritone curling around the words and giving the simple phrase a seductive tone that sent a shiver all the way to her toes.
"Um, not a problem," she stammered, unable to move her eyes from the captivating golden light in his. "You're welcome, I mean." She cleared her throat as he smiled, turning the full force of his charm on her, well aware of her reaction to him. After a moment, he released her hand, and she slowly lowered it to her side, trying to ignore his charismatic appeal, and not quite succeeding. Still, she was a professional, and it wouldn't do for her to be fawning over him like this. She cleared her throat again, and pulled herself together. "We were pretty happy to make that little discovery ourselves, so thank you."
"Are you going to draw that blood now?" Callie tried to hide the sharpness in her tone, irritated despite herself. "I think Doug might like to have that serum sooner, rather than later."
"Of course, Dr. al Faran." Maggie threw her a confused look of apology, not quite sure why the Egyptian doctor was annoyed. "Could you please tell him what I'll be doing?"
Callie spoke a few sentences to Imhotep and he nodded, not flinching when Maggie wrapped the rubber tourniquet around his arm and drew the blood. She filled several vials, placing them carefully into a plastic carrier. Finally, she withdrew the needle and pressed a cotton swab to the tiny wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. When she completed her job, the only evidence left was a small bandage. With a smile, she patted Imhotep's arm and gathered up her supplies.
"Dr. al Faran, if you could just tell him that we'll probably need a bit more blood in a few hours, I'd appreciate it. He's free to go now—Robillard lifted the quarantine on him—but he probably shouldn't wander off too far. We'll need to be able to find him."
"Of course, Maggie," Callie assured her. "I'll tell him. Do you need any help in the lab?"
"Probably not," Maggie told her, "but if you're interested in observing, you can certainly come along. Not every day you see medical history in the making." She glanced once more at Imhotep, ducking her head with a blush when he returned her smile.
With a nod, Callie agreed. "I'll be there in a few minutes, then." In a moment, Maggie had gone, leaving the two of them alone once more. With a frown, she turned to the Egyptian man. "Do you practice that in a mirror, or something?"
His brow knit together in frown of confusion. "What?"
"That smile of yours," she explained, with a wry twist of her lips. "It should be declared an illegal substance. Don't tell me you didn't know exactly how flustered you had that poor girl."
Understanding humor lit his eyes. "Ah," he grinned at her. "I have never thought that appreciation, properly expressed, was wasted effort. She deserved my gratitude. It was she, after all, and her colleague, who discovered this potential cure."
Callie emitted a ladylike snort, although it was in good humor. "I'm sure it's going to take her at least a couple of hours to get over her appreciation for your gratitude."
Smiling again, Imhotep stood up from the cot where he had been seated. Looking around the room, he caught sight of Doug, and felt his brief good humor drain away as the weight of the situation pressed down on him once more. If the serum worked, he would have completed the god's task, and would be free. Logic demanded that it would work. Amun-Re would presumably not have charged him with a task that could not be accomplished. Nothing he had done yet had worked; this was all that was left to try. It would have to work. And when it did, there would be nothing left to tie him here. His work would be complete; he could go on. It would be over. That alone should have been enough to make him happy, but instead, he found that it made him unaccountably discontent. He had almost achieved his goal; success was so near that he could sense its presence. Why, then, did he feel that in the most important task, he had failed miserably?
Callie touched his arm briefly, bringing him back to himself. "Imhotep? Robillard's apparently lifted your quarantine. You're free to go, if you want." She noticed the change in his mood, and gave him a sharp look. "Are you feeling all right? Maggie didn't take that much blood, did she? Do you need to sit down again?"
He shook his head. "Do not trouble yourself. I am fine."
She sighed. For a few minutes, there, he had seemed almost human. Now, the indecipherable mask was back in place, and the cold aloofness was once again in his voice. The man was an enigma. "They'd like you to stay fairly close to the pyramid, Imhotep. No wandering off into the jungle, in case you've a mind to. They'll need some more blood within a few hours, they said."
"I will remain nearby."
She nodded, and watched as he left the infirmary. Odd, but she almost felt sorry for him, in some way. She had never in her life met anyone who seemed so solitary, so alone… Shaking off the feeling of inexplicable sadness, she headed for the lab. The best thing she could do for him, for them all, was to help create this miracle, in whatever way she could.
"Now! The time is now!" The sibilant hiss offended his ear, and the spittle that flew from the man's mouth and struck Bashir on the face made him cringe away in disgust. "You heard them as well as I. There is no more time. We act now!"
Bashir swabbed at his face with a dusty handkerchief. "But to act in such haste could jeopardize everything…"
"Waiting for them to develop this cure and then have it flown to Khartoum; that could jeopardize everything, you fool!" The man's face grew even redder, and he made a slashing motion with his hand. "No! The pyramid will be destroyed now—today! The pyramid—and everyone and everything associated with this dig—will be wiped off the face of the earth. It is Allah's will, and mine! Do you understand me?"
His leering grin notably absent, Bashir nodded. "So be it, then. I will have my men obtain the specimens and set the explosives in the grotto. You will contact the cell in Khartoum to arrange for our transport out of the jungle, once the objective is complete?"
"I have already done so," the man said, with a self-satisfied sneer. "Our helicopter will arrive just before sundown. Can your men complete their task by then?"
Again, Bashir nodded. "I will personally guarantee it."
"It is good to see you accepting responsibility, Bashir." A thoughtful look crossed the man's face, and he tapped one finger against his chin as he contemplated an additional detail. "I believe I may pay a visit to the infirmary. Our having the virus itself is one thing. If we also were to have in our possession the only known cure…"
"Our leaders will be well pleased with your foresight and attention to detail." Bashir was at his best in situations that called for insincere flattery and gratuitous praise. Once again in his superior's good graces, he decided to beat a hasty retreat, and began backing away from the other man. "I will organize my men. We will take care of the fluid and the pyramid. You will have no cause for worry; it will be done as you have ordered."
"I appreciate your thoroughness, brother," said the other man. He cast a sideways glance at the pyramid, towering over them, its golden bulk shadowing their sinister scheming from the eyes of the camp. Far overhead, the diamond capstone winked at them, its many facets sparkling like tiny, captive suns. "Such a beautiful structure, really. A shame that its days have come to an untimely end..."
Bashir turned and fled. The cackling discord of the other man's laughter followed him, nipping at his heels like the teeth of a rabid dog.
An hour or more had come and gone since Imhotep had been released from his incarceration in the infirmary. He had passed the time wandering through the camp, even managing to convince himself that his meandering was an attempt—before he was sent on to whatever fate awaited him—to observe and learn. The awesome store of knowledge and technology available to inhabitants of this time staggered him; it was almost too much to comprehend.
His ploy of self-distraction worked, too, at least for a while, until he caught a flash of burnished auburn hair and spun around—half in hope, half in trepidation—only to find himself staring after one of Robillard's assistants. Eliana was nowhere—she had managed to secret herself somewhere away from the crowded common areas, and he couldn't bring himself to look for her. What good would come of it? Still, her absence was like a gaping wound in the fabric of his soul, and finally, he gave up the pretense of trying to occupy himself with other things and left the commotion of the campsite behind.
When Ardeth found him, the priest was sitting on the ground, knees bent beneath him, perhaps two meters away from the golden wall that formed the far side of the pyramid. It was peaceful here; the hubbub of the camp was blocked by the fathomless bulk of golden stone, the sunlight filtered warm through the leafy green of jungle foliage. Imhotep's eyes were closed, his head tipped slightly back, his hands rested on his thighs. He seemed deep in meditation, almost in a trance.
Hesitant to intrude, Ardeth began to back away, certain that his famed Med Jai stealth had shielded him from discovery. It was said of the Med Jai that they were shadow warriors of the desert, unable to be seen or heard, unless they willed it. He would find the priest later; there was time. The uneasy feeling that had begun to develop days earlier, and grown darker and more menacing ever since could certainly wait for a few more minutes, until the man was done with whatever inner reflection was occupying him.
"You have already disturbed me, Med Jai," the rich baritone snared Ardeth where he stood, the shock of being detected quickly fading into an unwilling respect for the priest's powers of discernment. "That accomplished, you may as well say whatever it is that you have come to say." Imhotep opened his eyes and looked towards the Med Jai, rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion that brought to Ardeth's mind the somewhat disturbing image of a panther drawn from its rest by the scent of nearby prey. "You appear troubled, Bay. What is it that disturbs you so?"
Ardeth approached him slowly, still wary enough of the priest, despite their recent truce, to treat him with delicate caution. "There is something amiss here."
"Something?" The priest's laugh was acerbic, riddled with sarcasm. "Something amiss? Tell me, Med Jai—would that something be the disease that plagues the camp? Or perhaps the newly arisen pyramid, its shroud of greenery, and its deadly protectors? Or perhaps it is the fact that you are standing here speaking with your recent mortal enemy, whose undead body you were sworn to keep in its grave. Tell me, Bay, which of those is the something that troubles you? Or shall I continue to list the possibilities?"
Ardeth's scowl darkened his face, drew fine creases through the line of tattoos on his brow. "I see that your release from quarantine has done nothing for your disposition, priest."
With a sigh, Imhotep turned away, staring off into the impenetrable green surrounding them. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, he quietly blasted a gaping hole in another one of Ardeth's deep-rooted prejudices. "Forgive me. My mockery was uncalled for, Med Jai."
"It is already forgotten, Imhotep." His reluctant respect for the man growing by another portion, Ardeth accepted the priest's apology. "You must be pleased," he continued, "that a cure has been found."
"A possible cure, Bay. There is no way of knowing, yet, if it will work." Imhotep's bland stare was an effective mask for his inner concern. Everything in him told him that this was the cure, but until Doug began to show improvement, he would not let himself begin to hope too much.
"Still, it is far beyond what you would have dreamed possible, even yesterday," Ardeth countered. "It is a chance; and for that, you must be pleased."
With a slight inclination of his head, Imhotep agreed. "I am." But that still did not explain what was troubling the Med Jai. "I assume that this potential cure is not what disturbs you?"
Ardeth smiled, somewhat surprised, as always, at the priest's sardonic sense of humor. In another lifetime, had the situation not been what it was, he could almost say he would have enjoyed the man's company—could have called him a friend. But circumstances were what they were. "No, priest, it is not."
Imhotep quirked an eyebrow at him, obviously waiting for the Med Jai to elaborate. As he waited, he retrieved the shirt he had discarded before his meditation, pulling it over his head and fastening the buttons at the top. When Ardeth still didn't speak, Imhotep made an impatient sound. "Bay, do you plan to tell me or not? Either way, I do not care, but you are clearly troubled…"
"It is not an easy thing to put into words, priest." Indeed, his inability to articulate what it was, exactly, that was bothering him was one reason for his silence. The other reason, if he was honest, was that he was equally disturbed that the only person in the camp who might be able to understand and appreciate what he was about to say had been, up until mere days ago, his sworn enemy. That he was now contemplating confiding in Imhotep was such an incongruity that it amazed him.
"You might begin to try, Med Jai." Clearly, the priest's patience was wearing thin.
"For the past day or two, I have had a sense that something was not right." Ignoring the cynically raised eyebrow, Ardeth kept speaking. "It began shortly after the new group of Sudanese bureaucrats arrived. Each time I see them, I sense something…something wrong…" He broke off, once more unable to put into words the exact nature of the threat he perceived. "
"It is true that a person's aura betrays their intent. Good radiates good and conversely, evil projects evil. Unless a person is particularly skilled in concealing their true nature, it is fairly easy to read them." He shrugged. "Your Med Jai forebears bragged about their legendary sixth sense. It does not surprise me that you would share their perceptiveness. Beyond that, I cannot help you. I have not met these men. I do not know what it is you have sensed."
"I have not spoken with them at length, myself," Ardeth admitted. "But in their presence, the air is thick with the presence of evil."
The priest shrugged once more. "I cannot say. I have sensed nothing, but I have spent much of my time since their arrival locked away in the sick room."
"I know." A sigh betrayed the Med Jai's frustration. "I would ask a favor, priest. If you do notice anything…odd…in their presence, will you tell me?"
Imhotep inclined his head in agreement. "It is a small service you request, Med Jai."
Ardeth turned to go, still frustrated, still plagued with a vague foreboding. A word from the priest stopped him.
"Wait."
"What is it, Imhotep?" Ardeth turned a questioning eye on the priest, who was doing his best to maintain the ever-present mask of composure. The veneer was growing thinner and thinner, however, and Ardeth had the sensation that if he looked hard enough, he would be able to see the fine cracks that were beginning to mar Imhotep's impenetrable armor plating. Something was working on him, burning through layer after layer of cold aloofness, stripping off the protective barriers he had built around himself over the centuries. Once that iron shell was gone, Ardeth wondered what would become of the man inside. The priest would either be destroyed or become stronger for having passed through life's crucible. There was only so much that one man's spirit could take, and Imhotep's spirit had survived centuries of torment. It was a testimony to his inner strength that he had survived this far. Only time would tell if he could survive the rest.
"You have asked a favor of me, Med Jai," said the priest, not meeting Ardeth's eyes. Instead, he focused on the deepening shadows of late afternoon, watching the play of light and darkness over the jungle growth. Lightness and dark, the eternal struggle, the balance tipping first one way, then the other, as the universe continued its quest for balance.
"I have one to ask of you, as well."
"Go on." Ardeth took a step closer, almost afraid to imagine what would cause a proud creature—man, he reminded himself—like Imhotep to ask for help.
Only the slightest twitch of a muscle in his jaw revealed Imhotep's inner turmoil. "If they have indeed discovered a cure for this disease in my blood, my task will have been completed." Filtered sunlight played off the contours of his profile, casting him in contrasting patterns of light and shadow. "That said, I do not know how much time I have left here. The time of choice is surely drawing near…"
"Choice? What choice?"
"I have already explained this to you Med Jai. Days ago." Imhotep's hard tone conveyed his impatience. "When the task was complete, I was to be given a choice—death and the afterlife, or life as a mortal man."
"I knew of no choice, Imhotep. You told me that once you completed the task, the curse would be lifted, and you would be free to go on to the afterlife. You spoke of no choice in the matter." But did it matter? Once, it would have; but did it now?
"Did I omit that?" A trace of sarcasm was present in his voice; even now, the priest was unable to resist a bit of acerbic humor. "Perhaps so. We had not yet reached our…agreement."
"So what are you saying, Imhotep?" Once again, Ardeth was on uncertain ground. So the priest had a choice to make. What possible need could he have from a Med Jai in a matter such as that? "How does this choice of yours come into play here?"
"Truly, Med Jai, I believed until just recently that I had already made my choice. After three thousand years of misery, after being betrayed by the only dream I had left, what better hope than one of final, eternal peace?"
"Imhotep…" The priest held up a hand, silencing Ardeth.
"Please. Allow me to finish." The weary resignation in Imhotep's voice was a clearer indication of his mental state than anything he could manage to put into words. "Yesterday, I began to wonder…I thought that perhaps…perhaps a different choice could be made." He looked at Ardeth, searched the other man's eyes, saw the comprehension there. "I was wrong. There is no other choice. I will go on. There is no reason to stay."
"Why do you say that, priest?" Ardeth's tone was mildly curious. "It seems to me, that if the curse is lifted…"
"The favor I would ask of you, Med Jai, is not your opinion."
Ardeth raised one dark eyebrow at the priest. The man was insufferable, even in the midst of asking for help. Nonetheless, he fell silent.
"I will be gone." His tone brooked no rebuttal. It was a statement of fact—no more, no less. "You, unlike anyone else, understand what has gone on here. You understand Eliana, care for her, even." His hard look silenced Ardeth before he could even form a word. "Do not bother denying it. I have seen it in your eyes when you look at her. It is in your voice when you speak of her."
Unable to voice the lie, Ardeth kept silent, waiting for the inevitable request. When it came, even though the words were anticipated, the shock of hearing them actually given voice made the Med Jai realize just how much truly had changed in the short span of time since Ahm Shere's rebirth.
"Eliana cares for you as well—calls you her friend, turns to you for comfort. She trusts you. Perhaps more." The gruff tone in Imhotep's voice hid the hurt that thought caused him. He watched Ardeth, seeking some reaction to his words. Finding none, he went on. "You seem a man of honor, of integrity. Your willingness to set aside old prejudices, old feuds, even when it meant compromising your loyalty to your order tells me much about the inner code you live by. As strange as it may seem, I believe you are a man who can be trusted to keep his word. And so…" He took a deep breath, and this time did look away from the other man, unable to keep up the façade, unwilling to let the Med Jai see inside. "When I am gone, I would ask that you…look after her, care for her. You know of her past—you can give her the kind of understanding that someone unaware of her history cannot."
"You presume too much, priest," Ardeth warned him, finally breaking the silence that had held him fast.
"You will not do this?" Imhotep sounded almost shocked, so sure had he been of the Med Jai's willing—eager, even—acceptance.
Honesty—as much honesty as possible—was the best strategy here. "It is not I who would refuse, Imhotep. Eliana is a beautiful woman, inside and out. She is intelligent, kind, compassionate… I would be honored to serve as her…protector." It would never happen, though. Ardeth knew Eliana well enough by now to know that she would never allow him to serve as a second-rate substitute for the man she really loved. "But Eliana herself would never hear of it. She is too independent, too proud, too honorable, to allow me to step into a place that can be filled by only one person."
Imhotep made a raw, painful sound that Ardeth supposed was a laugh. "If you imagine that I am that person, Med Jai, you are mistaken."
"Why?" A single word, complex in its simplicity.
"She told me so herself, but a single day past." He could still see the coldness in her face, hear the ice in her heart. Another shaft of pain pierced him.
Ardeth had spoken to Eliana much more recently than that. He knew how much she loved this proud, arrogant man. He knew as well—or could venture a fairly accurate guess—why she had no doubt pushed him away. She had been trying to save him from himself, to save him from her, to give him what she thought he wanted, what he needed. And a blind man could see, just from the pain in his eyes, no matter how desperately he tried to hide it, how deeply the priest loved Eliana. What a pair of besotted, lovesick fools! To finally have a chance at what they had squandered their souls on so long ago, and to foolishly throw it away in a fit of pride, stubbornness, miscommunication and fear.
But Ardeth had made Eliana a promise, and was honor-bound not to betray her confidence. Still…
"You are wrong, Imhotep, so wrong. She will not accept me in the way you suppose." Unable to say more without saying too much, Ardeth turned away, preparing to leave.
"Med Jai, wait." Rough pleading filled the normally imperious voice, but when Ardeth reluctantly turned back, he could still see the stubborn set of the priest's jaw, the defiant pride in his dark eyes.
"Eliana confides in you, trusts you. She obviously cares for you." His hands clenched at his sides. "Why do you refuse this request? I know you return those feelings…"
Ardeth had had enough. "Are you deaf, man?" He was nearly shouting, the sheer pigheadedness of the priest's adamant refusal to see reality finally pushing him over the edge. "Regardless of what I may or may not feel for her, the woman has no feelings for me whatsoever, save friendship. She may trust me, she may confide in me—as a friend—but Eliana has eyes only for you. Her heart is yours—it always has been, it always will be. And fool that you are, you do not even realize what a treasure you are giving away."
"What do you know of this, Med Jai?" Ardeth could hear the anger building in Imhotep's voice, see the flare of it in his eyes. "The woman herself told me that she wanted nothing more to do with me, save for me to disappear from her life. She betrayed me once, in another lifetime. She has rejected me again, in this one. What could you possibly know that could change those facts?"
His voice almost gentle, Ardeth told him. "She lied, Imhotep. She lied." He felt deplorable, betraying Eliana's trust in this way, but in the end, some promises were not meant for keeping. "She believes she is doing something noble, something selfless. She believes that letting you go is the only way to help you find happiness. She loves you—far more than you realize, far more than she will let you see, far more, probably, than you deserve."
"You are wrong, Bay. I am sure you are wrong…" But Ardeth could hear the new note in the priest's voice—a note of uncertainty, perhaps even a note of hope. Then, in the next second, it was gone, displaced by the old arrogance. "You are wrong. But it is obvious that I have erred in my assessment of you." Suddenly, Ardeth found himself facing the priest's back, summarily dismissed. "Leave me. I will find another way to look after her when I am gone."
Ardeth released his breath in a slow hiss. The man's pigheaded obstinacy knew no bounds. And it would cost him, cost him dearly. It would cost Eliana, as well. And that, that alone, was enough to raise the Med Jai's ire. He had heard enough idiocy this day. He would leave the priest, leave him to wallow in his sorry self-pity, but not before speaking his mind.
"Many tales have been told about you, Imhotep. Over the millennia, you have become a legend. Your vices and failings are well known among the Med Jai tribes. It is no secret that among them are arrogance, pride, and stubborn, unyielding determination, even in the face of complete impossibility, even in the face of death and damnation." Slowly, Imhotep turned around, and Ardeth's eyes held the priest's, detecting the slow fire of anger that began to build and grow. Good. It would ensure that he had the man's full attention for this final point. "But until now—unless you have just recently acquired this new weakness—I was never aware that blatant stupidity should be counted among your shortcomings."
Leaving a dumbfounded Imhotep to ponder that thought, Ardeth turned and walked away.
"Mr. Connelly."
The lightly accented voice spoke softly, but it was enough to catch his attention. Connelly paused, waiting as the Sudanese man caught up with him. Muhammad Hassan looked cool, despite the heat of the afternoon sun. There was something vaguely reptilian about the man's eyes, and Connelly could picture him curled up on a rock, soaking up the sun's heat. No wonder he looked cool—lizard blood was pretty damned cold. As always, the man was dressed in a crisp uniform, jet-black hair slicked back from his high forehead, his every button buttoned, and every one of the numerous pins and medals that bedecked his jacket rigidly and squarely secured in place.
He musta used a level and glued those damn things there, thought Connelly, looking down ruefully at his wrinkled khaki shirt and equally grubby canvas pants. GQ would surely not be calling on him to model for them any time soon. Unlike the Sudanese officer, Connelly looked like a stereotypical depiction of the slovenly American journalist, slogging through the foreign jungle with mud on his shoes and a hundred pounds of photographic equipment hanging from his neck and arms. No, he would not be winning any best-dressed awards today, or any other day, for that matter. And considering the creative content of the hastily captured snapshots he'd taken with the expensive equipment, he wouldn't be queuing up for a Pulitzer any time soon, either. Ah, well, at least it's a good cover, he rationalized, immediately dismissing the momentary abashment over his sorry state of dress, and his lack of creative genius in photography. Matt Connelly was not one to linger over such worries. He knew his way around his computer and his communications gear and his gun, and that was the equipment that mattered, here and elsewhere.
"What can I do for you, Hassan?" Polite, but not too friendly, his tone spoke volumes about the degree of trust he afforded the other man. "Need your picture taken? Gotta tell ya, though, I don't do glamour shots…"
The Sudanese man didn't even crack a smile. "Mr. Connelly, I would like to speak with you about something."
Matt glanced around, then back at the intelligence officer. He leaned close and whispered, as if to impart a great secret. "Um, aren't we doing that?" If he had looked closer, Matt thought he might have seen a forked tongue flicker out and test the air as the taller man looked down his raptor-like nose at him. Clearly, he was not amused at the blasé flippancy typical of Americans. "Okay, Hassan, sorry about the 'tude. I forget how tightly trussed and buttoned-up you are. This is gonna be a private discussion, I take it?"
"That would be preferable, Mr. Connelly," Hassan told him. "We have some matters of…joint interest…to discuss."
"See, I knew you wanted your picture taken," Connelly crowed, heading for the pyramid's arched entry. "Hope you don't mind if I take my work along with me while we have this talk…"
"Oh, I expect you to bring your work with you, Mr. Connelly." Hassan's lukewarm smile left the ice in his eyes untouched. "I would expect nothing less from someone of your…rank. And the pyramid itself is a perfect place to have our conversation."
Okay, he's got my attention now, Connelly admitted, his CIA-trained and front-line-duty-attuned senses perking up and awakening to the scent of danger in the air. Surreptitiously patting the bulge in his shirt that hid the revolver secreted there, he shook off his act and unleashed the deadly serious operative it had obscured.
When he looked back at the Sudanese intelligence officer, the glacier blue of his eyes reflected an equal cold. "Let's have that little talk then, Hassan." He made a sweeping bow, as graceful as the awkward load of cameras and satchels would allow, waving the other man ahead of him into the pyramid's murk.
"After you."
His hands braced on either side of the deep hewn stone doorway, Imhotep watched her work. She was detailed, patient, meticulous, working carefully and thoroughly to copy the hieroglyphics from the mural into the sketchbook she held. It was mundane, tedious work, and he felt a sharp flare of pride that her work standards were high enough to require the painstaking effort she was expending on the task. In his other lifetime, as high priest of Osiris, Imhotep had often lost patience with the younger acolytes, those who were less disciplined and focused, less willing to attend to the details that, when mastered, would carry them with ease into the ranks of the high priests. The priesthood had lost many brilliant, talented men, because of their refusal to pay heed to the small, the ordinary, choosing instead to seek out the grandiose, the awesome. It was only those few, the truly wise, who realized that the commonplace was the foundation upon which the extraordinary was built that had reached the heights of success. Imhotep was among those few.
Finished for now, Eliana closed the sketchbook, lifting her hand to trace with her index finger the final glyph. It was the ancient symbol for enduring life, the ankh, beautiful in its simplicity and graceful symmetry. Eternity, everlasting life, the promise of hope and peace and forever… It was what had been taken from them both, so long ago. She couldn't blame him for wanting so badly to find it now, no matter the price. Ardeth was wrong—there was no equitable substitute she could offer that would replace what she had already cost Imhotep. It was far too late for that, and she had to let him go, let him move on.
Her hand curled into a fist over the cut stone, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight to hold back the tears. How simple life had been, only a month ago. Just a few short weeks had changed her life beyond recognition, and although before, she had been blanketed in a tranquility born of ignorance, she wouldn't change a minute of what had come to pass. The memory of the last few days would be all she had to carry with her into the future, once he was gone. And how long would that be? She, like everyone else in the camp, had heard the miraculous news of the possible cure they had found in his blood. She, like everyone else, had rejoiced—only she had not only been overjoyed for Doug, but for Imhotep as well, because this would surely mean that he had fulfilled the god's demand. And if that were so, how much longer could he have left?
Hot tears burned fresh behind her eyelids once more, and her stomach flopped queasily at the thought of never seeing him again. In such a short time, he had become vital to her—almost as necessary as the air she breathed. Suddenly, she wasn't sure she had done the right thing—the cold, angry look on his face, which had been so closely followed by one of freezing indifference haunted her, and she questioned what she had said, what she had done. She had hurt him terribly, she knew—opened poorly healed, still aching old wounds—but at the time, it had seemed the kindest path. Now, she wasn't as sure…
In a sudden fit of anger, with herself and with the hopelessness of it all, Eliana flung the sketchbook and pencil across the room, where they bounced off the far wall and fell to the floor, the pencil broken and the neat sketches mangled and torn. What did it matter? Crossing to the stone bench that faced the mural, she sat, her head resting on her hands, curled in on herself like a withered flower. She felt old, brittle, as if at any moment she would shatter into a million irreparable pieces. With a choking sob, she huddled there, alone in her misery.
He watched for a moment, his knuckles whitening where they lay fisted against the cold stone, until he could stand it no longer. This was not the woman who had left him yesterday—that woman had been coldly cynical, callous and deliberately cruel—the woman before him now was crying as if her heart were breaking. Which was fact, which was fabrication? She believed herself alone now—why should she playact? Suddenly, the Med Jai's words replayed themselves in his head—She loves you far more than you realize; far more than she will let you see; far more, probably, than you deserve…
His hesitation lasted only seconds more. Crossing the room slowly—unseen, unheard—he lowered himself to sit beside her on the bench, not touching, not even looking at her when she gave a startled gasp of surprise and straightened, eyes frantically searching his face, devouring his beloved features. "Imhotep?"
He ignored the implied query, instead gazing transfixed at the mural before them. Painted in breathtaking shades of ochre and azure, bright scarlet and deep sable, highlighted in brilliant greens and golds, it set forth the story of one of Egypt's most beloved legends. The artwork itself was extraordinary—Imhotep's admiration for the unknown, long-dead craftsman was profound. Silently, still not looking at her, he reached out and gathered her hand into both of his. "It is the story of Isis and Osiris."
"Yes," she nodded, not bothering to wipe away the telltale moisture from her face, "it is."
"It is beautifully detailed, is it not?" As he spoke, his hands caressed hers, tangling their fingers together, uniting them in at least one small way once again. "Whoever designed this was a truly gifted artist."
"It's magnificent," she agreed, afraid at the degree of joy that surged through her just from his nearness. "But it's a beautiful story; it deserves to be depicted so exquisitely."
"Isis and Osiris—the eternal lovers. Doomed by the treachery of others—Osiris betrayed, murdered, his body destroyed and scattered to the furthest corners of the earth. Isis made an outcast in her own kingdom, doomed to wander in exile, until their love found a way to somehow triumph over the darkness and misery that engulfed them."
Eliana knew full well that he was grossly oversimplifying the myth—there was far more to the tale, and the lines between good and evil, oppressed and oppressor, were not nearly as clearly drawn as his words implied. Yet the dark melody of his voice, the caressing touch of his hands, and the obvious parallel he drew between the gods' story and theirs bound her up in a fine web of magic that she had no desire or will to escape.
"Imhotep…" Her voice was low, husky with unshed tears, and finally he turned to face her.
"Eliana, their love endured, eventually prevailed." One hand left hers, rising to trace one of the mottled tear streaks on her cheek. "Is it only the gods whose love can endure? Why can mere mortals not be blessed so?"
Her mouth worked, searching for the words to express what was in her heart. At a loss, all she could do was offer a garbled, feeble explanation. "Yesterday…," she started, only to begin again. "What I said to you…I'm so sorry…I would never…could never…I didn't mean…"
He waited patiently, his eyes kind, as she groped for the words, but finally she gave up, shaking her head in misery and dropping her eyes from his. "I didn't mean it—any of it. I thought it was for the best, but…"
Two fingers beneath her chin tilted her face upwards once more, and the silent compulsion in his gaze forced her to meet his eyes. There was understanding in the gold-flecked darkness—understanding and forgiveness and…something else. Something that sent hope flooding through her and made her afraid to look away, for fear she had simply imagined it, conjured it up through the depth of her own longing.
"We have both, I think," he speculated, "said things that were perhaps not the truth. As his voice caressed her soul, his hand curved upwards, moving to cradle her cheek, his thumb wiping away the remainder of the tears. "I have been as guilty of this as you, and for reasons, I fear, that were less noble."
She opened her mouth to protest, but one long finger gently trapped her lips, held them shut. "Your lies were well-meaning, if misguided—you sought to give me freedom, the peace I have continually, tediously asserted was my only goal." His eyes now held some degree of self-derision, as well as the continued warmth he directed at her. "My lies, conversely, were ones born of cowardice, anger, pride. They were spoken out of bitterness, hurt…"
"Hurt that I caused," she interrupted. This time, he silenced her with a kiss, the merest touch of his lips against hers.
"It was a lifetime ago, Eliana." That single phrase, coupled as it was with the touch of his mouth on hers, absolved her, wiping the slate clean. "It is over, done, dust blown away by the desert wind."
But still, guilt kept its finger hold on her. "Not so long ago, considering…"
"The past is dead." There was no arguing the stern command in his voice. "Leave it lie where it is, buried under the weight of years." A flicker of molten gold blazed in his eyes, sending a rush of warmth curling through her body. "What matters is the present—now."
Her breath left her lungs in a warm rush, as his head lowered to hers once more, his lips capturing hers, moving lightly, but with inescapable demand over the softness of her mouth. It went on forever, yet ended all too soon, and when he lifted his head, a small sound of protest escaped her.
"Eliana, look at me." For all that his voice was gentle, it was still a command. Reluctantly, her eyes opened, and she recognized the uncompromising determination in his.
"I have told you before, have I not," he began, "that when Amun-Re spoke to me, he said I would have a choice to make, in the end." Her nod answered him, and encouraged him to continue. "In my stubborn folly, my foolish pride, I argued with him, insisted that my choice was already made, my decision cast in stone. My only desire was for peace. Still, the god said, regardless of my resolve, in the end, there would be a choice." He paused, pondering the gods' legendary proclivity towards fickle capriciousness. "I do not know if that opportunity for choice still exists…"
His hands gripped hers with an almost painful strength as his eyes bored into hers. "But if it does, I need the truth, Eliana." He lifted his hand, started to reach for a stray strand of her hair, then changed his mind, instead drawing his palm down over the air in front of her face in that timeless gesture of their love. Emotion swamped her, a lump formed in her throat and the tears threatened once more.
"Tell me the truth, Eliana." The quiet timbre of his voice was compelling, beautiful, its rich melody drawing the truth from her heart, coaxing it from her soul. "Is there a reason for me to alter my choice? Shall I tell the god that I wish to stay?"
He drew away, not touching her at all now, not wanting to influence her answer in any way. He wanted the truth, needed it; and no matter what answer she gave him, he would have it be an honest one.
Once again, as she had the night at the pool, Eliana stood poised on the precipice of uncertainty. But unlike that last time, she now knew exactly what she stood to gain—and what she could lose. Dishonesty would buy her nothing, now. The only currency of note was the complete, utter truth. Drawing in a breath, she stepped over the edge.
"Yes, Imhotep, there is a reason." Her eyes locked with his, the moisture of unshed tears clouding her vision. Slowly, with an initial awkwardness that quickly gave way to a graceful simplicity, as some unawakened portion of her being stirred into life, Eliana returned the same gesture of love, her heart soaring when she saw the answering hope flare in his eyes.
"I would not hold you here unwilling, Imhotep, but when the god allows your choice, make it knowing that I love you with all my heart."
With infinite tenderness, he lifted his hands, cupping her face gently. "Thank the gods," he whispered, his lips drifting closer to hers. "Thank you, my love, for your honesty, and for your faith." His thumbs drew lazy circles on her cheekbones, and his head slowly inched lower until only a breath separated them. This close, she could see the individual striations of gold in the deep mahogany of his eyes, feel the warmth of his breath on her face, sense the tension he had held tightly in check while he waited for her answer—tension that he only now began to release. With her answer she found her own peace, and as he drew nearer her eyes fell closed and she tipped her face to meet his lips.
He answered the unspoken invitation, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was soft, gentle, the lightest of caresses. But underneath those tender emotions lay a darker passion and an undeniable hunger. This kiss, unlike any he had bestowed before, was more than a physical caress. It was a declaration of ownership, a claim on her heart and soul. And with no second thoughts, no regrets, no doubts, she put her arms around him, pulled him close, and threw wide the door, allowing him to take possession of both.
The kiss went on for long moments; a simple mingling of mouths, of breath, until with a flicker of moist heat, his tongue traced the seam of her lips, demanding a deeper response that she was only too eager to provide. His arms went around her, his hands weaving their singular black magic over her senses as they tunneled under the rich fall of her hair to caress the nape of her neck, pulling her even closer to his solid strength before running possessively down the curve of her spine and from there coming to rest on her upper arms, holding her tight in a grip that she had no desire to escape.
Tearing his mouth from hers, Imhotep's lips trailed fire down her neck, pausing to feel the rapid beating of her pulse in the scented hollow of her throat. The perfume she wore was exotic, a blend of musk and spice that ostensibly heralded from India, but that called to mind the fragrance favored by Anck-su-namun so many centuries ago in Egypt. Its essence was a perfect blend of old and new, innocence and wantonness, sin and salvation, and the perfume's aura combined with the feel of Eliana in his arms wrapped around Imhotep's senses, choking off reason and sanity and everything but a burning, raging need. A low moan escaped her as his hands moved, his long artist's fingers teasing out the first notes of the melody they could make with their bodies, wrapping her in the mute splendor of the silent adagio he played with his hands and his lips.
"Oh!" Callie's voice struck a discordant note in the harmony. Her face flamed as she burst into the room and took in the scene she had interrupted. "Oh! Excuse me! I'm so sorry…" Mortified, she stepped backwards, turning her head, averting her eyes from what had obviously been a very intimate exchange. In that moment, if she had been guaranteed that it would quickly melt her into an unnoticed puddle on the floor, she would have gladly injected herself with the dreaded virus. Instead, all she could do was try to exit as quickly as possible. Gracefully was no longer an option. "Uh, whenever you're…um, finished talking, or…" Damn it! Pull yourself together, Callie!
"Uh, they need more blood, Imhotep, as soon as it's convenient for you. We'll be in the lab." The last sentence was a barely coherent mumble as, without waiting for a response, she turned and fled back down the hallway.
Smiling ruefully, Imhotep pulled away from Eliana, once again taking her hands in both of his. With a look that would have melted stone, he gazed deep into the pure green of her eyes, and gave her one last, lingering kiss. "I must go for a little while. You will be here?"
She shook her head. "I was done here. I'll be in one of the other rooms—I'm not sure which one until I find Dad..."
"I will find you, my love," he promised, running his hand over the shining auburn of her hair. "We are not finished, yet, with this discussion." His grin was almost boyish, but the deliciously wicked light in his eyes was that of a man full-grown.
Eliana felt a shiver of anticipation pass through her as she returned the smile. "I'll hold you to that promise, Imhotep." With one last caressing touch of his hand, he stood and turned to leave.
He was almost out the door when Eliana sensed the chill in the room, felt the first touch of foreboding. She shivered again, but this time from some sixth sense that warned of impending misfortune. Her voice shrill with worry, she called out to him. "Imhotep?"
He turned back, puzzled at the strange tone in her voice. "What is it, my love?"
She shook her head, irritated with her sudden bout of uncontrolled panic, and attempted a reassuring smile. "Never mind—it's nothing, just…" He lifted an eyebrow in question, and she shook her head. "No, nothing. Just…I love you."
His answering smile was more precious to her than water to a man dying of thirst. His eyes were dark with secret promise, as the rich music of his voice reached her ears. "I know, my love, I know. I will be back."
In a whisper of movement, he was gone, and the empty silence of the room seemed to echo with mocking laughter.
Bernstein paused, listening to the sounds that swam towards him through the stagnant air of the pyramid's lower levels. The whispers drew him more surely than voices speaking in normal tones would have. The sound skittered over the stones like the feet of insects, like the rattling of a viper's tail. It called to him, beckoned, lured him like a siren's call past the barricade and down into the damp tunnel leading to the grotto.
Idiots, he thought, more annoyed than anything else. Everyone knew they were not to be anywhere near the grotto. What could possibly be so important down there that someone would risk contracting the terrible disease, even if a potential cure hovered on the horizon?
Heeding an inner sense that warned caution, Bernstein moved quietly down the corridor. The sounds escalated, bouncing off the damp stone and rising in an eerie crescendo. Still too far to make out distinct words or voices, Bernstein edged closer, surprised to discover that he was holding his breath. What was going on down there? And more importantly, who was down there?
He was perhaps two meters away from the entrance to the grotto, hidden in the bog-like dank of the narrow tunnel, when he could distinguish the sounds. Two voices, both touched with the vocal highlights typical of natives to Sudan, both speaking in whispered Arabic.
"Hurry with filling those vials! I still need your assistance setting the explosives!" The speaker sounded harried, impatient, annoyed with his slow-working comrade.
"Patience is a virtue, my brother." An indistinct curse. "Allah himself would be moved to anger if he had to wear all of these layers…"
Soft laughter. "Better to wear the layers, than risk infecting yourself."
"I will be glad to finish this and return to Khartoum. This place has a bad feel to it…""Spare me, brother. Do not begin to throw around your talk of curses, again. Please." An evil chuckle. "Where Ahm Shere is concerned, we are the only curse afoot."
"I am almost finished here. How many minutes have you put on the timer? We need time to get out of here and reach the rendezvous point…" Was that a trace of worry in the soft voice?
"When we are finished placing them, I will put sixty minutes on the timer. No one comes here, they will not think to look for a bomb." A hiss of something that could have been a snicker. "No one will even be concerned. They will go about their business as usual until…"
The other voice cut in. "Until they are called to meet their maker."
"They are infidels," Bomb-Setter corrected him. "They have no maker. They do not know the true god."
"May Allah have mercy on their souls, then," Vial-Filler amended. "I am finished here." A pause. "You think the others have managed to place the evidence that will cast blame on the American?"
"Yes. Bernstein himself will be held responsible for the second death of Ahm Shere. History will carry tales of his infamy." Another sound of impatience. "Now come and help me with this. I want to be well away before this place implodes."
Bernstein sagged against the wall, oblivious to the cold, mindless of the damp, heedless of everything but the pounding of his heart. An hour? In an hour, Ahm Shere would be destroyed? Who were these men? Why would they do this? How could he stop them? He couldn't just sit back and watch while they destroyed his life's work, the most important thing in his life…
No, not the most important. Second-most important, perhaps—but a distant second, at that.
"Ellie." A mere thread of sound, the whispered name hit the dead air in the tunnel and died itself, carrying nowhere, not betraying his presence.
Where was she? Was she still in the room with the mural? Did he have time to find her, get her out of there, and still find help? Backing up a step, he dislodged a largish pebble, sending it bouncing down the sloping stone floor. There was a thick coating of muck, which muffled the sound, slowed its trajectory, but didn't stop it. Reaching the drop-off at the end of the tunnel, it fell with a splash into the water. Holding his breath, feeling the pounding in his brain with every pulsing beat of his heart, Bernstein continued to scuttle backwards, moving crablike back towards safety and light. He heard the voices again, slightly louder now.
"What was that?" Alarm, anger, fear.
"Nothing. Probably a rat. No one comes here—they are too afraid of the virus, and probably too afraid of the same shadows and spirits and curses as you. Now stop your cringing and get on with your work!"
The voices faded away into the gloom as Bernstein reached the top portion of the tunnel. Judging himself safe, he began to move more quickly, finally breaking into a dead run when he reached the antechamber. He had to find Ellie, get her out of there, and find someone, anyone, who could help him. But who? Who?
A cold sweat drenching his clothing, a sick misery lodged in the pit of his stomach, the clock now ticking away the final moments of his dream, Bernstein set off on a race with time. Each step, each heartbeat, was one more second stolen.
Having fed the final thread into her loom, Fate leaned back, gnarled hands resting on bony legs. A shadow of a smile ghosted her thin lips as she watched the tapestry itself seem to shudder with burgeoning life. At some point, the creation always became the creator, wresting itself away from her hands and refusing to be guided further. Such was the case now. The loom whirred, the threads continued to interweave, the pattern blossomed, grew. An ancient such as she knew the limits of her own powers, and she had reached them now.
As she sat back, preparing to watch the ending act of a play millennia in the making, the weathered old crone smiled again as a stray shaft of sunlight gilded the patterns now forming before her eyes, for a moment turning them bright and shining and beautiful. In less than a second, it had faded, shifting away and illuminating other unfinished pieces in her workroom, leaving this particular creation beclouded and vulnerable to the dark once more.