The Phallus of Osiris
Page 32
They lay together on the floor, limbs entwined. Sticky semen dried to flaking whiteness on martyred flesh. They were exhausted but still enflamed with desire, waiting only for the command for the ceremonies to begin again.
The Master looked down at the pile of dust and bone fragments and smiled grimly.
‘You were a useful toy, Mara Fleming, but now you are dust.’
He gave the pile a little kick and walked away towards the glimmer of afternoon sunlight, his new Queen imperious and beautiful by his side.
20: Epilogue
An uninvited guest within the body of the negro slave Ibrahim, freed for moments only from the darkness of his captivity, Andreas Hunt watched with mounting anger and grief as the three figures emerged from the main doorway of Winterbourne Hall.
The Master led the way, his Queen radiant and youthful on his arm. They made a handsome pair, mused Andreas with irony, as he recalled how – short months ago – things had been so very different.
Andreas Hunt and Mara Fleming, now the empty puppets of the Master and his Queen. Now Andreas was a captive disembodied spirit and Mara . . .
He bowed respectfully as the Master and Queen Sedet got into the car and Anastasia Dubois emerged onto the front steps of the Hall.
She turned to Andreas and he knew that what he had hoped for was true. Mara’s spirit was not dead. It lived on, within the body of this beautiful vampire-creature, Anastasia Dubois. She looked at him and smiled.
‘Thank you, Ibrahim,’ she said, momentarily touching his hand. There was a hint of sadness in her voice. And was that a glimmer of recognition in her lovely emerald eyes?
He bowed again, this time whispering words for her ears alone.
‘Don’t give up, Mara. I’m coming back for you. It won’t be long now . . .’
As the limousine drew away, its wheels crunching on the frosty gravel, Andreas surrendered to the dark.
But not for long. He was going to crack this one, no matter what it took. Andreas Hunt was back on the case.
Above and around the sightless, silent spirit of Andreas Hunt, locked deep within the crystal, loomed the dark shape of the granite sarcophagus, the walls of Andreas’s forbidding prison.
And on the lid lay something innocently small.
Nothing ornate, nothing of any great significance. Just a ring, cut from a single, flawless crystal. A ring, sparkling defiantly amid the dust.