by Anne Rice
Beyond, two gleaming motorcars sat parked. Standing next to each one, a tall black man in a beige suit and tie. Both cars were Unic Landaulettes, each with a pair of backseats that faced each other.
"We can't just leave!" Julie finally cried.
"Why not?" the woman answered. "Everyone else is."
"But Samir and Alex and--"
"No mortals have been harmed by what I've done."
"We cannot abandon our mortal friends to this panic," said Ramses.
"I sent a message!" the woman replied. She whirled on them. Her eyes blazed with anger. "I destroyed those who came to abduct your fiancee. In this way, I have sent a message to the one who sent these lackeys. And the message is this. I am awake, I walk, and I know of his evil designs. These actions of mine call for your gratitude, Ramses the Great, not your disapproval."
Whoever she was, this self-proclaimed queen, she seemed coolly satisfied by their reactions to her shocking words. And she spoke his former title with just enough disregard to indicate she would not be cowed by it.
"We have much to say to one another," she said, more quietly. "And we will do so once there is safe distance between us and this place."
She started for the car parked in front.
Her tall servant continued to hold open the back door to the one parked just behind it.
"That's not enough," Ramses said firmly.
"Enough for what?" she asked.
"Enough for us to feel like anything other than your captives. Captives to whatever poison you used on those guests."
"If I wished to poison you, I would have done so already."
An excellent point, Julie thought. And she now feared his pride might get in the way of whatever revelations this mysterious woman held in store.
They were staring at each other, Ramses and this woman, this queen. Each assessing the other's strength and resolve, it seemed. Two monarchs establishing ground. Would it fall to Julie to prevent an all-out war between them?
"You do not understand the forces that wish to do you harm," the woman said. "You were not even aware of them before now. Make no mistake. I am not one of them." She held his gaze. "I am Bektaten," she said, "queen of Shaktanu, a land that perished before your Egypt was born."
With that, her other servant opened the back door to the first car and she stepped inside. As she did so, Julie glimpsed a beautiful, golden-haired woman spread across one of the car's facing backseats, wrapped in some sort of blanket or shawl.
She couldn't just be sleeping. She must be unconscious.
Bektaten. Shaktanu. Julie could see that Ramses was mystified. He stood there staring forward, clearly in the grip of a storm of questions.
"Come, Ramses," Julie said, pulling him towards the other car. "Come. We have no choice."
Part 3
27
Cornwall
She had yet to wake, this golden-haired woman who walked with the same poise as Cleopatra, so Julie had volunteered to prepare her for bed.
How suspicious and apprehensive Ramses had been as he watched the man called Aktamu carry this strange woman in his arms across the swaying rope bridge! What if the poor mortal woman woke suddenly? What if she saw the perilous drop to the crashing surf and let out a scream that startled her caretaker so badly he dropped her by mistake?
When in all his long existence had he ever stood by silent, and helpless, watching the actions of another male immortal, whom he could not control?
Nothing of the kind took place, and now they were all safely inside this immense castle with its soaring walls and smooth floors of polished stone and its roaring fire and its lustrous draperies.
The furnishings in the great hall were new and suitably grand; there were great expanses of Oriental rugs, their colors muted so as not to compete with the purple and gold that defined the drapes and upholstery throughout. Each chair gathered around the massive card table resembled a kind of throne with a carved wood frame and thick, tufted cushions. The iron chandeliers overhead had been wired with electric replicas of candles, their glow steady and insistent. It was Norman, this castle. The arches in the windows and doorways were rounded and subtle. Ramses preferred it to the jagged severity of the Gothic, a style with which so much of this country remained utterly enthralled.
The man called Enamon lit some of the torches in the hallways. And so it seemed the castle had some corners electrical wires did not yet reach.
They were alone now, he and this queen, her turban like a crown. And in her bearing and in the fluid and patient way with which she moved about the great hall, her demeanor, that of a person who might have come into the world long before his own time, he sensed her age, sensed her deep reserve of control.
She studied him silently, and without any suspicion or disdain that he could see.
"You are my great folly, Ramses the Damned," she said finally. "Do you realize this?"
"How so?"
"That I did not see you. That I did not see the touch of an immortal in Egypt's long history."
"It was not every ruler who called me into service. And there was only one with whom I shared my story."
"Which one is this?" she asked, approaching him.
An astonishing feeling, the presence of one who could act as an authority over him--who outmatched him in experience, wisdom, and life. Indeed, she was the elixir's creator; she must be. For he could feel the quiet strength of her many years.
How would she react, this queen, when he told her what he'd done to Cleopatra? Would she consider it an unconscionable crime? Were they members of a special race of beings, he and this woman? Did she consider herself the arbiter of their laws?
"In time, Queen Bektaten of Shaktanu," he said. "I may tell you all you want to know, in time." And she can destroy you with that potion of hers, the potion that infected those blue-eyed immortals you saw destroyed all around you.
He took a deep breath, and tried to wipe the slightest expression of dread from his face.
She furrowed her brow a little. Mild disappointment in her expression, but not anger.
Just then, Julie returned. She took up a post next to him as if she meant to physically guard him. It was a loving gesture, this protectiveness, and under different circumstances he would have taken her in his arms to show his gratitude.
"The man," Ramses said. "The drunken one who attacked her. Where is he?"
Bektaten walked to the open window and stared out at the sea. "You know this man?"
"I believe so," he answered. "I believe he is a doctor named Theodore Dreycliff."
"A doctor," she whispered. Surely she did not find the word unfamiliar, but she exercised care in whispering it, as if she found it exotic. "And how did you come to know him?"
When neither Ramses nor Julie answered, she turned and gave them a long, steady look. "I see," she finally said. "And so we have yet to establish trust."
"Is that not what we have come here to do?" Ramses said. "Establish trust?"
"Let us begin to do it, then," Bektaten said. "I killed this man. The blow you saw me give him, he did not survive it. It was not my intention to end his life. I believe it was not your intention either, for the blows you threw at him were cautious and reserved. Am I correct in this?"
"You are," he answered. "I wanted only to prevent him from harming the woman--"
"Sibyl Parker," Julie whispered.
"How do you know her name?" Ramses asked.
"She's an American, a novelist," Julie said. "She writes popular romances." Julie eyed Bektaten warily. "My father thought her very clever and clipped an article written about her in the Daily Herald. It's still in his study." Again, Julie looked uneasily at the queen.
Another long, uncomfortable silence passed, filled only by the pounding of the surf against the cliffs outside.
"This will not serve us," Bektaten finally said. "This suspicion, this concealment of our histories."
"I agree," said Ramses. "May you take the lead here just as you have
taken the lead in so much of what has occurred today."
"Ramses, please," Julie whispered, caution in her tone.
"You fear me, Julie Stratford," Bektaten said.
"I fear your poison," Julie answered quietly.
"This was not my intention, to fill you with this fear," she answered. "The plot that I disrupted today, Julie Stratford, was to have seen you placed in a pit with trained fighting dogs who had been given a version of the elixir. They were to be starved, these dogs, so that they would set upon you again and again with ravenous hunger and terrible strength."
Ramses felt his heart beating silently in his head. Who would do this to his beloved Julie? He felt a tremor pass through his body, a mounting rage.
"To what end?" Julie asked innocently. "What have I done to make enemies such as these?"
"It was to force your beloved king to reveal the formula for the pure elixir, the one that has made us all what we are, and what we forever shall be."
"Of whose design was this plot?" Ramses could keep silent no more. "Who are these possessors of a corrupted elixir?"
"Come," Bektaten said quietly. "To the tower. To my library. Allow me to once again take the lead, as you so put it."
28
She was being chased and giving chase.
The labyrinth through which she ran was occasionally pierced by great shafts of sunlight that came from odd angles. She pursued the raven-haired woman from her dreams; she chased the woman as she rounded corners and slipped down alleyways.
Then she became the raven-haired woman.
She was no longer Sibyl.
She was being chased by Sibyl.
It repeated again and again, this pattern, with sinuous regularity, a continuous dance of pursuing and being pursued. And all of it was far more vivid than a dream, and much more substantial than the fleeting visions that had plagued her since she'd started her journey.
A child called out to her now.
She didn't recognize the voice, couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Mitera, Mitera, Mitera, the child called. Distant, but urgent. Echoing through the strange and endless alleyways and tunnels through which she ran. There were glimpses of blue sky overhead.
She was not deep beneath the earth. She was in a city.
Alexandria, a woman's voice said.
Suddenly she stood at the edge of a slender canal that cut between great sandstone walls. Its banks were paved. Sunlight poured down through the break overhead, washing the rippling water in gold. And there she was, the raven-haired woman she had only caught glimpses of before now. Perfectly clear, practically an arm's length away on the other side of the canal. She wore a modern dress, deep blue, a lustrous shade, and she gazed back at Sibyl with as much astonishment as Sibyl felt.
Are you the one who took me? The woman's voice echoed. Her lips did not move, but the pain in these words swam in her expression, in her blazing blue eyes.
It was she. It had to be. The woman who called herself Cleopatra. And they were together now, for the first time, but in some place that was neither dream nor hallucination. But was it truly Alexandria, or some vague recollection of it, sanded free of detail, rendered immutable and stark?
No, I did not take you. I would never mistreat you.
Then leave me. Then leave my mind.
I cannot. You have entered my mind just as I have entered yours.
The voice. The voice again. The child's voice calling. The raven-haired woman turned and looked over her shoulder. But Sibyl felt as if the voice was coming from behind her as well. Mitera, Mitera, Mitera. It was Greek, this word. Mother, the child's voice called over and over again. Mother.
Where do you hide him? Where do you hide my memories of him?
I don't understand. I seek to find you. From you, I would hide nothing.
The woman spun to face her, as if astonished by these words.
Something in the rippling water caught her attention.
She let out a terrible scream.
When Sibyl looked down, she saw that her reflection was not her own but that of the woman at whom she'd been staring only seconds before.
29
When Sibyl jerked awake, a tall handsome man with black skin rose from the chair next to her bed. He had an elegance about him. He extended one graceful hand as if he thought she might leap from the covers.
She felt no such urge. The bed in which she found herself was a small sea of luxury. Soft sheets kissed her bare legs. Her head rested on a veritable field of soft pillows. All of it was so soothing she had no desire to sit upright. Not yet.
But when she realized that someone had undressed her down to her undergarments, she stiffened. Even the corset had been removed, all without waking her. Had this strange seductive man done this?
The thought embarrassed her into a deeper silence.
"It was a woman who prepared you for bed," the man said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He was incredibly tall, black skinned, with a sweet, boyish face. "A woman, I assure you. Your modesty was protected."
She could only nod in response to this.
Gone was the dream. The strange vision of Alexandria. The sight of her reflection replaced with that of another.
Now there was just this bedroom, with its high stone walls and iron chandelier filled with flickering candles. No, they were electric, these candles. And for some reason this comforted her, to still be connected to the modern world even amidst these austere walls and the thundering surf outside and the roaring fireplace across from the foot of the bed.
It was a windswept coastline she'd been brought to.
How far was this place from Yorkshire?
She didn't know the map of England well enough to even guess. But it was a warm place and it had been cared for and the man near to her showed no malice or aggression. All of these things calmed her.
"A man," she said. "A man tried to kill me."
"You are safe. This man, you need not think of him now. He died due to his own rash behavior. He cannot harm you ever again."
From a crystal pitcher on the nightstand he poured her a glass of water, gestured for her to drink. Of course, it could be poison. Of course, this man could be an abductor far more fearsome than the mad drunk who had attacked her at the party. But she was not confined or restrained, and he was kind, this man. Very gentle and kind and possessed of a quiet strength for which she did not have a name.
"I am Aktamu," the man said.
Such a strange name. She had never come upon this name in all of her dreams or studies.
He held her gaze in the silence that followed, and she realized he was asking for her name without demanding it of her.
"My name is Sibyl Parker," she said. "And I would like very much to know where I am."
"I will tell them you are awake," he said. "I'm sure you will all have much to tell each other."
She nodded, even though it wasn't possible for her to know what this meant, who they were, or how she had come to be in this place.
At least it was beautiful, she thought.
At least she could hear the sea.
She felt movement on the blanket next to her and cried out. But then she found herself staring into the watchful gaze of a slinky gray cat. The gentle creature approached with careful steps and then sprawled out across her chest as if to comfort her.
This was no ordinary creature, she was sure. Sibyl began to stroke its fur anyway, and watched as it gently closed its blue eyes with a drowsiness that appeared almost human.
30
Havilland Park
Her scream was loud enough to awaken a pack of dogs nearby.
She could hear them howling, somewhere out there, somewhere beyond where she was now confined. Her reflection in the canal's water had vanished and been replaced by another. By Sibyl Parker. But were the woman's words true? Did she truly seek to hide nothing, to steal nothing? Was she as tortured by their connection as Cleopatra was?
A confusing jumble, these thoughts, none
of them strong enough to distract her from the cold stone under her back, the pebbles and rocks digging into her flesh, and the damp, earthy smell of the cell in which she now found herself.
Her eyes needed no time to adjust to the darkness. For that she could thank Ramses and his elixir.
The grooves in the stone floor were clear, as was the outline of a formidable door made of some kind of metal. Also in this dark place, the lingering stink of some animal. Had the creatures howling somewhere nearby been housed inside this cell at some point?
A curse in this moment, these heightened senses. She would have savored a second or two of disorientation. Another few minutes of feeling as if her dream of Alexandria and the woman named Sibyl Parker were slowly falling from her like a shroud.
Gone was Alexandria. The sense of pursuing and being pursued through a vague impression of its backstreets and canals. Gone was the terrifying sight of Sibyl Parker's reflection where her own should have been. Gone was the sound of a young boy's voice calling out to her again and again in Greek. Mother, Mother, Mother.
And now...
There was a terrible scraping sound. Similar to the sound her captors had made when they closed the lid over the coffin that brought her here.
Dim orange light fell in a small rectangle across the floor at her bare feet.
Through the sudden opening in the metal door, she saw three faces. She did not recognize a one. The man in the middle had cascades of black curls and exquisitely balanced features. To his left, a man who looked much older, with a pinched, sour expression and two wings of wiry gray and white hair with which one might scrub pots. To his right, a woman with a great mane of blonde hair who bore no resemblance to the other two. Immortals, all of them, and they studied her coldly, as a scientist might a failed experiment.
"It is not her," the man in the middle said, a quiver of rage in his voice.
"Master," the older one began. "I am so very sorry, but you--"
"Go," the man in the middle said.
"In the tunnel, they acted too soon and now with everything that's--"
"Go!" the handsome man roared.