Ramses the Damned

by Anne Rice

  “But what’s become of her, Alex?” Edith laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

  “She was in a terrible accident. We had all gone to the opera and it had been an enchanting evening until then. Just enchanting. I had told her everything about me. Everything. That I had a title but none of the money to go with it.” Edith winced and bowed her head, as if the family’s financial troubles were a terrible personal failing of her own. “But these things, they didn’t matter to her, Mother. Not in the slightest. What she had for me, it was a kind of adoration. And it was instant. And powerful. So very powerful.”

  “And you had such feelings for her,” Edith replied.

  It was not a question, and there was pity in her voice.

  “And then she simply drove off into the night, and I could do nothing to stop her,” he continued. “The car, it became stuck on train tracks, and she wouldn’t get out. I kept begging her to get out. Pulling on her, even. But it was as if she had undergone some terrible transformation. She seemed so confused. So confused, by so many things. But what she felt for me. She was sure of that, Mother. She seemed absolutely sure of that.”

  “Oh, Alex. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before now?”

  “Because to do so would be to do…this.”

  Surely he could maintain some gentlemanly pose while he wiped tears from his eyes.

  His mother, ever the American, ran her hand up and down the back of his jacket until he relented and leaned into her half embrace again.

  “I blame myself for this,” Edith finally said.

  “Oh, but that’s absurd, Mother.”

  “It may seem so, yes. But it’s not. What your father and I have, what we’ve always had, it’s a fine friendship, but it isn’t much else. To describe anything that’s ever happened between us as passion or a great romance? It would be misleading at best, a fallacy at worst. It was an arrangement of convenience and finance, much as your marriage to Julie was to be. And when you consider those things, it’s turned out rather well, I feel. But nothing we’ve ever had, nothing we’ve ever done, has prepared you, our son, for feelings of this magnitude. And so yes, even though it may sound absurd, I blame myself.”

  “Well, you mustn’t,” he replied. “Besides, what could you have done to prepare me for the passion of a madwoman?”

  “If she truly was mad,” Edith answered.

  He was stricken by her tone, which sounded both distracted and calculating. She gazed off into the distance.

  “You believe she was something else?” Alex asked.

  “I wasn’t there.” She met his stare and then averted her eyes quickly. Did she regret her words? “But it seems that if she were truly mad, some signs would have presented themselves before the accident.”

  “But there were signs. Don’t you see?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, darling. I haven’t met her.”

  “Her desire, the speed of it. The passion. It was all out of sorts.”

  “You consider those who experience an instant attraction to you insane? My dear Alex. Tell me we raised you to have a higher self-regard than that.”

  “Be serious, Mother.”

  “I’m being quite so.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, really. None of it. Nothing will reverse the accident and all those terrible flames.”

  “This is true. What matters is that you get beyond this, Alex.”

  “I am trying. I promise you. I am trying with all I have.”

  “Listen to the recording,” his mother said suddenly. “I encourage you to find your strength and listen to it. Don’t let all your memories of that night be poisoned by its tragic end. Savor of it what you can. Cherish those things about it that were precious to you. Maybe not now, or right away. But soon, Alex.” She embraced him now. “Soon, promise me.”

  “I promise you, Mother. I will try. Very soon.”

  22

  Yorkshire

  “You mustn’t go,” Teddy cried for the third time since she’d started to dress. “You’re in no condition!”

  Unbearable, the thought of spending another minute in this cramped, dusty room.

  Quaint, that was the curious word Teddy had used to describe this place, this inn, as they called it. To her, it seemed a sharp, menacing word; and the forced smile with which he’d said the word over and over again had become a kind of taunt.

  From the moment they’d reached England, his attentions had gone from nurturing to infuriating. The idea that he would try to stop her now, when they were so close to their destination, when this party for Ramses had started not a half hour ago—it was insane, these things he was saying!

  He had already helped her into a corset, but now that she was pulling up the shoulders of the dress he’d bought for her in Cairo, he seemed to be coming apart. She studied herself in the full-length mirror as he paced behind her. “We have traveled all this way. You cannot expect me to—”

  “I will go,” said Teddy. “I will explain everything to Ramses. He seeks to live under an alias now. If I threaten to expose him, he will agree to meet with you at once. He will tell you everything you need to know, and he will most certainly give you more of this elixir. I’m sure of it!”

  “And that is the problem, dear Teddy,” she said. She removed her hat from its box, along with its long, sharp pin. “You are too sure of it. You are too sure of everything you say in this moment.”

  “Don’t you see? This condition of yours, it’s worsened since we arrived. You must stay put until we—”

  If only he hadn’t grabbed her by both shoulders. If only he hadn’t shaken her. There was something about the feel of his hands gripping her in that way that triggered an anger she could not control.

  She shoved him.

  His back slammed into the wall behind him with such force the full-length mirror next to him tilted to one side, sending her reflection askew.

  “Enough!” she said. But the fear in his eyes filled her with remorse. So much fear in him now; fear of her great strength, fear of her condition, as he called it.

  And he was right.

  It had worsened since they’d reached this vast, green island. The powerful visions had been replaced by strange bits of fugue. She now felt the urge to sleep, but could not. The result was a kind of daze in which her limbs went numb and she could barely form words and found herself staring off into space for minutes at a time.

  More, she thought, I just need more. And then I will never have to see this frightened look in Teddy’s eyes again. In anyone’s eyes again. Whoever this Sibyl Parker is, she is a witch, a priestess, and she has used sorcery to exploit my weakened condition. A long drink of Ramses’ precious elixir will make me strong against her.

  But the look in Teddy’s eyes. The misery and the fear. Not since Ramses had fled from her resurrected corpse in the Cairo Museum had anyone gazed upon her with this abject, wide-eyed terror. She could not bear this. She simply could not bear it.

  “It is you who is coming apart,” she said. “And it is you who will remain here while I attend this gathering. I have asked for your care alone. I will not become your slave.”

  “My queen,” he whispered, the tears flowing now. “Please…my queen…”

  Impossible not to pity him now. When she reached for his face, she expected him to flinch or turn away. And she saw the flicker of such an urge. But it died quickly, and when she caressed the side of his cheek, his eyes fluttered closed.

  “Trust in me, Teddy. Trust in that which you cannot fully understand.”

  False, these words. At least the confidence with which she’d spoken them was false, even if the words themselves were true. For she understood the condition that gripped her about as well as he did.

  He turned his lips to her fingers and kissed them gently.

  Did he believe her to be dying? Or, worse, a creature whose mind would collapse even as her body endured?

  How else to interpret his misery?

  There was no time for this.<
br />
  The hat they’d bought in Cairo had a broad black brim and a band of ostrich feathers that arced over it like plumes of spray from a fountain. She had already pinned up her hair so that the hat could fit almost snugly over the top. But she’d forgotten to insert the hatpin itself. Terrified that her resolve would crumble under the force of another terrible wail from Teddy, she left the room quickly, driving the hatpin into place as she strode down the narrow hall.

  When the sharp tip met her scalp, she cried out.

  A careless mistake, and a teasing reminder of how out of sorts she’d grown.

  She had already called for a taxi. It was waiting for her when she stepped outside.

  Once she’d settled into the backseat and informed the driver of her destination, she dabbed at the area of her head where she’d poked herself. A few droplets of blood came away on her fingers. She licked them up. God forbid she stain her dress.

  * * *

  The train had just pulled into the station when pain knifed through Sibyl Parker’s scalp. Crippled, she hit the carpeted aisle knees first.

  Passengers on all sides extended helping hands. In seconds, she was back on her feet, apologizing profusely for her carelessness. Trying her best to give no indication of the searing pain that continued to strobe across the roof of her skull.

  Thank God she had convinced Lucy to remain in their suite at Claridge’s.

  If her lady’s maid and companion had seen this display, she would have insisted they turn around that instant. Whatever Sibyl’s affliction, it had worsened considerably over the past day. Impossible not to believe that the closer she drew to this Mr. Ramsey, the more severe her condition became.

  But nothing would keep Sibyl from this party. Her publisher had arranged for her to attend in response to Sibyl’s inquiries about the strange Mr. Ramsey. And when Sibyl had arrived at Claridge’s, the invitation had been waiting for her along with more recent newspaper stories about the mysterious Egyptian—and the assurance that the countess was quite delighted to have a celebrated American author coming to the event.

  Once the train came to a complete stop, the attentions of the other passengers left her.

  She felt safe reaching up into her nest of hair.

  Had this painful little episode left a mark?

  Her fingers came away dry. She felt no welt or open wound.

  It was a strange, new, and inexplicable aspect of this experience. As strange as her new bouts of sleeplessness. If that was the right word for it. A change had begun to overtake her in the late-night hours following her arrival in London. It had begun to feel as if her body longed to stay awake but couldn’t quite manage it, and so the result was something close to a fugue.

  And now this. A phantom pain that left no mark and spilled no blood.

  It is lovely to meet you, Mr. Ramsey. I know I may seem quite mad, but I have traveled far to see you because you have quite literally haunted my dreams these past few months and…

  She would think of something better than this by the time she reached the party, she was sure.

  She hoped.

  23

  The Rutherford Estate

  The party seemed to be unfolding exactly as Edith had planned, and this delighted Julie to no end. Indeed, Edith had seemed so pleased by the temperate weather and the initial steady flow of arriving guests, she’d made no comment on Julie’s unique ensemble: a man’s white suit tailored just for this occasion, complemented by a white silk vest, scarf, and top hat.

  Julie and Ramses mingled on the grass, while their hosts, Edith and Alex, greeted new arrivals at the house’s front door. They were the guests of honor, and therefore Edith had positioned them outside, where they could be enticements for attendees to move quickly through the house and onto the western lawn.

  To Julie’s eye, this plan seemed to be working quite well.

  Over the shoulders of the couple who had cornered her, she watched the stream of guests proceeding through those first-floor rooms, which had been left open to facilitate a quick passage outside. The rest of the house was closed.

  Just outside the terrace doors, liveried waiters offered each guest a glass of wine, then gestured for the new arrivals to descend the stone steps leading to a lawn dotted with Oriental rugs, tables, and chairs.

  Because the day was only slightly overcast, Edith had raised only a fraction of the tents she’d ordered. As a result, each arrival was welcomed by a perfect view of Julie and Ramses standing amidst parasols and handsome suits and flowing white dresses designed or inspired by Madame Lucile, all of it hemmed in by the parallel walls of hedge that bordered both sides of the western lawn, and the breeze-rustled ash trees dotting the rolling hills beyond.

  The board members of Stratford Shipping were all in attendance, along with wives and older children, and Julie had spent a fair amount of time chatting with them all.

  As penance for turning a blind eye to his late son’s thieving, Julie’s uncle Randolph had worked diligently to place himself back in the good graces of his board members while he righted the company’s course. Their presence here was a sure sign her uncle’s efforts were succeeding.

  Despite the cloudy sky, it was still bright enough out that only one or two guests had commented on her sunglasses. Indeed, many of the guests wore sunglasses of their own, making them difficult to recognize when they first approached. Julie was tempted to get rid of the sunglasses altogether, and let the story of the mysterious fever do its work. Someday soon she would do this.

  Many guests here Julie simply didn’t recognize at all. But this didn’t surprise her.

  Edith had invited not only her close friends, but many acquaintances as well. After all, whether they realized it or not, those present were more than guests. They were witnesses. Witnesses with a tendency to gossip, and countless social connections to whom they would soon spread the tale of the happy couple and their beautiful engagement party. Edith had also shown no desire to enforce a strict guest list. Let the fashionable painters and writers bring their friends. As Edith saw it, if some meddlesome member of the press decided to show up, so much the better. Let them write a story about the happily engaged couple enjoying a breezy afternoon in the Yorkshire countryside. It would make all those lurid tales of stolen mummies and mysterious deaths easier to forget.

  This party wasn’t about privacy or exclusivity. It was an announcement. Not just of their engagement, but of their new stability.

  But, of course, Edith had another motive, Julie was sure. To show to the world her family possessed no hard feelings over Julie and Alex’s aborted engagement. And no doubt a number of future brides for Alex were in circulation, with Edith spending more than a few moments with each.

  For most of the party, the string quartet had transitioned from Mozart to Haydn and back again. But the handsome black musicians from America had finally arrived, and the delightful sound of ragtime piano and horns now filled the air. Julie wanted to dance. She knew perfectly well Ramses was dying to dance, before she caught his glance and wink. But there was no dance floor at the party, and it was just as well. Ramses was too easily given to dancing madly for hours without cease.

  The music wasn’t so loud that Julie couldn’t carry on a conversation, and now, she could even hear Ramses a few paces away. He had finally mastered the art of presenting his tales of ancient Egypt as the result of academic work and not lived experience. Gone was his tendency to discuss long-dead historical figures with bracing familiarity, as if they were old friends. Which, in many cases, they were. For the next few hours, he would be Reginald Ramsey, the Egyptologist, Julie’s strikingly handsome fiancé.

  It was dreamlike, this party. Dreamlike and perfect and everything she’d hoped it would be.

  “You will stay in England, of course,” the woman she’d been chatting with said to her now. Perhaps she sensed Julie’s mind wandering, which made Julie feel terribly rude. “No more of all these travels, I’m sure. Not with a wedding on the horizon.”
r />   What was the woman’s name? Julie had already forgotten. Genève or something of that sort. Her gown was frilly and white with sleeves of sky blue; her hat was compact, one of the smaller ones on display, and so clustered with white feathers they looked like balls of cotton. Her husband was a quiet man. He studied Julie with unnerving intensity. And earlier she’d seen the two of them showing familiarity to a giant bearded fellow, who must have spent a small fortune obtaining such a fine suit tailored to his great frame.

  They both wore sunglasses, just as she did.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t set a date,” Julie answered. “And I can’t imagine a better way to spend an engagement than traveling the world. Seeing its wonders. Enjoying them on the arm of your true love.”

  “How delightfully eccentric,” the woman said.

  “Yes. I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve forgotten your names.”

  “Callum Worth,” the man said, extending one hand quickly, as if the gesture might distract from his wife’s rudeness. “And my wife, Jeneva.”

  “And you are friends of the Countess of Rutherford?” Julie asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jeneva said. “But as I’m sure you know, this party’s not only the talk of Yorkshire. It’s the talk of London as well. So you must forgive us for requesting an invitation through mutual friends.”

  “Mutual acquaintances is more like it,” Callum added.

  “Such an intriguing courtship, you and Mr. Ramsey!” Jeneva continued as if her husband hadn’t spoken. “And we’re all quite sure the tale of how you two first met is equally intriguing. You can’t blame us for wanting to learn more.”

  “You must forgive my wife, Miss Stratford. She does love a good story.”

  “It is people that I love, Callum.” The woman had tried to put conviction behind these words, but she’d fallen short, and the resulting moment was a frigid one, as her husband gave her a look that seemed full of reproach. Perhaps her self-proclaimed love of people rarely extended to him.

  “Indeed,” he added quickly. “Now, Miss Stratford, I’m hoping we can enlist you in a little plot.”