The Passion of Cleopatra Page 21

  Relief in Julie's eyes.

  But just then Cleopatra felt a sharp pain in her throat.

  Her hand flew to the spot where she'd felt it. Her fingers came away bloodless.

  Julie advanced on her quickly.

  Cleopatra recoiled, bracing herself against the statue's pedestal.

  "Stand back," said Cleopatra. Impossible not to interpret this woman's advance as an attack. As Julie seizing upon a moment of weakness. But the woman's expression was one of absolute concern. Absolute pity. Somehow this only made the pain worse.

  "Stand back," Cleopatra said again, but it was a tortured whisper. "Come no nearer to me."

  "Pain," Julie said quietly. "You've told me of lost memories, but not pain. And it's pain you feel now. You have trouble walking. You have trouble standing upright. This is all a result of what's happening to your mind? It can't be."

  Cleopatra couldn't answer, couldn't speak. To speculate on Julie's question was to return to those terrifying thoughts that had plagued her on the journey there: that her mind was no longer her own. That she had been invaded by one who was exploiting her current weakness. But that was too great a vulnerability to admit to in this moment. Not until she had the elixir in her hands.

  She held to the pedestal, laboring for each breath.

  Worse than the pain was this terror. This paralyzing fear that came once again in unstoppable waves. Where did it come from, this terror?

  "Cleopatra," Julie whispered, her hand extended.

  "Don't," she cried. "Please, don't...touch me. Stay back."

  *

  "Why do you torture her?" the man growled. "Why?"

  Sibyl's urge was to shake her head, but if she moved an inch she might die in this tiny washroom, only steps from the pleasant chatter of aristocrats and servants. Nothing she had said so far calmed this man.

  He gripped the back of her neck with one hand. With the other, he held the knife to her jugular vein.

  Could she cry out for help before he managed to cut her throat? He was a doctor, he'd said, after he'd shoved her into this tiny space and there'd been no hope of an escape. A doctor who knew just where to cut and slash and cause instant death.

  "Why do you do this to her? Why?"

  "I don't know what you--"

  "You torment her! You have entered her mind. How have you done it? Sorcery? Are you a witch?"

  "I...Cleopatra. You speak of the woman who calls herself Cleopatra? You say I have entered her mind? But this is what I have been--"

  "You sent her a message. You demanded to know where you could find her. Now you are here. You are stalking her. To what end?"

  "For help. I thought we might help each other. But I had no idea she would be here. I came because...Oh, this is confused. This is so terribly confused. If you would just please calm yourself. If you would--"

  "If I would just end you, then her visions would stop," he growled. "She would be healed of her pain. She would be healed of you."

  A sharp knock on the door.

  It surprised them both so badly she was terrified the mad doctor's hand might slip, allowing the knife to slice into her vein, where the blood pumped wildly thanks to a racing heart.

  "Come back later, please," the doctor said, in a voice of maddening, terrifying calm.

  Silence from outside.

  Oh, how she wanted to cry out. She was desperate to cry out. Torture now to listen to whoever it was depart. To have been so close to rescue. But now the mad doctor's nose was inches from her own again, his grip on the knife steady.

  "Now," he said, "give me one reason why I shouldn't--"

  The door was ripped backwards. The knob fell off and landed on the floor at their feet with a loud thud. Sunlight flooded the tiny bathroom.

  There stood Mr. Ramsey. Having torn the door off its hinges, he propped it against the wall behind him as if it were a small work of art. Then he grabbed the mad doctor by the back of his neck and dragged him into the hall with one hand.

  Just as she felt relief, her legs went from under her. The mad doctor had been the only thing holding her upright.

  The back of her head slammed to the dressing table. Pain thundered through her, followed by a great wave of darkness that seemed to swallow her whole.

  *

  "Cleopatra, please. Take my hand."

  She stood there with her own hand out in warning. Stay back.

  Julie was not surprised.

  The queen's knees were bent, her eyes slits. She seemed to be fighting a terrible sense of disorientation.

  But Julie could sense something else. A presence she could not identify. Many of them, in fact, and her heightened senses told her they were underfoot. Somehow underneath this very stone floor. This presence seemed to be coming to life at the sounds of commotion from above.

  Suddenly, Cleopatra stood upright. But at just that moment, her body pitched forward as if she'd been struck from behind by a great and terrible force. She bucked forward, her arms flying out blindly in front of her. She seized the upraised arm of the statue.

  At first, Julie thought it was Cleopatra's pure strength that had bent the statue's outstretched arm like a lever. But there was a great grinding sound from all around them suddenly. The floor beneath Julie began to move. Instinctively, she backed up and away. The stone that had been underfoot a split second before shifted dramatically to one side.

  Impossible to make sense of it. It was all happening so fast. And Cleopatra was wholly unaware. Perhaps she couldn't distinguish between her spinning mind and the very real changes in her physical environment.

  She rose upright suddenly.

  "Stop!" Julie cried. "Cleopatra, stop!"

  Did she even hear?

  There was no telling, for just then, Cleopatra stepped forward and disappeared through the hole that had opened in the center of the floor.

  *

  She fell, expecting the plummet to end at each terrifying second. Clawing for the mud walls on either side of her. They were too far outside her reach.

  Falling and falling, until she crashed into some sort of hard metal surface. No pain, but a kind of dazed bewilderment. Then just above her, scraping sounds and a metallic whine. The darkness became impenetrable as a lid was drawn shut over her.

  She writhed and flailed, summoning all the strength she had. This was a coffin! She was trapped within a coffin! The lid was held down by a strength as formidable as her own.

  Was she the only one who heard her screams? Was she the only one deafened by them? Trapped, confined, unable to move.

  And then, motion.

  This sarcophagus--what else could it be?--was being carried away, jostling from human movement. Her screams went with it, far beneath the earth, unheard, she feared, by all those except the ones who had just taken her captive.

  *

  Ramses had not expected this kind of fight out of the man. These wild punches, this desperate clawing.

  Who was he? From where did his rage come? He was mad and stinking of alcohol. He made Ramses afraid of his own strength. If he wasn't careful, he would break bones or shatter the man's skull by mistake. And he didn't want that at all. But if the man didn't stop fighting!

  His goal was to pin the rogue against the wall, thereby making his own strength known. Then the rageful drunk would have no choice but to answer his questions.

  But it was not to be.

  The man slipped free of his grip suddenly, his steps turning into a drunken dance as he ran away.

  Someone was waiting for the man at the end of the hall.

  She was tall and slender, and her skin was as black as a Nubian's. Her gold turban matched the color of her flowing dress, which was complemented by a shawl of yellow and gold brocade; its intermingling of color made it look like a form of armor. Her neckline was exposed, and despite the jagged gold plates that composed her necklace, this expanse of visible skin made her seem terribly vulnerable to the madman's careening approach. But she held her ground with utter confi
dence.

  Would she move out of his way?

  She did not.

  Instead, just at the moment when the drunken fool seemed ready to plow her off her feet, she reached out and seized the back of his neck. He froze under her powerful grip.

  For the first time, Ramses saw the woman's eyes. They were as blue as sapphires, as blue as his own.

  The madman snarled, "Unhand me, you black--"

  She slammed the side of his head into the wall.

  The plaster dented.

  He collapsed in a lifeless heap.

  From behind her appeared two men, also black skinned, and blue eyed, both impeccably dressed.

  "Remove him," she said. "Bind him if need be."

  Silently, the men lifted the unconscious body. Together, they carried it away as if it were a rolled-up rug, offering Ramses polite nods as they passed. They headed in the opposite direction of the front hallway. Away from the party, away from the clamor of guests outside.

  And then he was alone with her, this mysterious woman who had appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, who closed the distance between them with a warm and patient smile, as if the ugly business in this hallway were merely an inconvenience.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "Find your fiancee. They are preparing the champagne toast. You must not drink. Either of you. You understand me? You must not drink. I will take care of this one."

  He'd forgotten about her, the golden-haired woman with Cleopatra's eyes, whose sudden disappearance had lured him into this little mess.

  She was unconscious, slumped on the washroom floor.

  "Go, Ramses the Great," said the black woman with the fiery blue eyes.

  "Who are you and what have you done?" he asked.

  "Only those who have come to do you harm will be harmed. Provided you and Miss Stratford do not drink the champagne. Do as I say. Find your fiancee. Now."

  As if she had no doubt he would follow her command, she sank to her knees and turned her attention to the sleeping beauty on the bathroom floor. She drew her great shawl from around her back and wrapped the comatose woman's body on it. Then, without the slightest struggle, she picked up the golden-haired woman with both arms. An immortal, this powerful, black-skinned woman. There was no doubt in his mind. But...

  The champagne. Do not drink the champagne...

  He ran.

  25

  Julie ran.

  She spotted Ramses on the stone terrace. Was he looking for her?

  Yes!

  When he saw her racing across the vast expanse of green on the other side of the hedge, he rushed down the steps, weaving between waiters passing out flutes of bubbling champagne to all the guests.

  When he reached her, she fell against him, not just to seek comfort, but because it would allow her to whisper everything she'd seen. The wall of hedge concealed them from the party, but they were close enough that frightened talk might be overheard.

  "She's here," Julie rasped. "Cleopatra. I took her to the temple to keep her away from Alex. She is sick. Something ails her. She thinks more of the elixir will cure it. She tried to explain, but there was some sort of trap. Ramses, the floor itself, it opened and swallowed her, and I could hear movement in the tunnel below. Someone took her, Ramses."

  "We must end this gathering at once," Ramses said. "And we must do so without creating a panic."

  "What is happening, Ramses?"

  Memory struck. A memory only moments old. That strange, brittle woman, Jeneva Worth, and her husband, Callum, asking for a tour, not just of the grounds, but of the very temple from which Cleopatra had just been abducted.

  "Julie, come with me. I will explain everything as I--"

  "There you are!" Alex Savarell shouted. He'd just appeared around the side of the hedge, and now he was bounding towards them with drunken glee.

  "Do not drink," Ramses whispered fiercely. "Do not drink the champagne. Only pretend to drink. Don't let a drop of it touch your lips. Nod to indicate that you understand."

  She nodded. And so there was more to this, she realized, more to this strange plot into which Cleopatra had stumbled, and Ramses was aware of it, and the only choice was to follow his instructions.

  From behind, Alex steered them towards the lawn.

  "We've been looking all over for you two," he said, sounding as if he had already imbibed a great deal. "I've been preparing this toast for weeks now. Force me to wait another moment and I'll suffer an attack of nerves all the wine in Yorkshire won't cure."

  Seconds later, Alex had positioned them at the base of the terrace steps.

  The crowd turned to face them. And there in front, Jeneva Worth and her husband, Callum. Impossible to believe they weren't connected to what she had just witnessed inside the temple. How else to explain their strange, overly detailed request for a tour of that very place? Now their expressions were unreadable, thanks to the sunglasses they wore. But they were certainly staring in her direction. Were they noting the little smudges of dirt from the temple on her dress?

  As he spoke, Alex's gentle voice carried across the quiet lawn, occasionally drowned out by the breeze moving through the trees overhead.

  It seemed a perfectly respectful toast, full of gracious, humble sentiments designed to tell the group before them that he and his entire family had truly moved on, that all those present should accept Mr. Reginald Ramsey and Julie as destined for each other. But Julie heard only every few words of it, and so it came as a surprise when Alex said, "And so I ask you now to lift your glasses in celebration of Mr. Reginald Ramsey and his bride-to-be, Miss Julie Stratford."

  All of the guests complied.

  She only pretended to take a sip, just as Ramses had instructed. But what could this mean?

  She looked from glass to glass to glass to glass, searching for a mysterious cloud or flecks of some strange particle. But she saw only sparkling fluid in each.

  There was a smattering of applause, some polite laughter, a few murmurs about what a lovely champagne it was.

  Jeneva Worth dabbed the side of her mouth with a napkin. Then she went suddenly and conspicuously still. The sight of something on the terrace behind Julie had paralyzed the woman with fright.

  She reached up and removed her glasses. Julie saw the woman's eyes were as blue as her own. Then she gripped her husband's wrist, whispered something to him that caused him to also stare past Julie.

  He too removed his sunglasses. His eyes were also startlingly blue.

  Finally, Julie looked over her shoulder at whatever had captured their attention.

  She was one of the most beautiful women Julie had ever seen, and she was emerging slowly through the terrace doors. Her gold turban glinted in the sunlight, and she lifted her chin gradually as she crossed the empty stone terrace, until her features were visible to everyone on the western lawn who had noticed her arrival. Her skin was dark as ebony, her eyes as blue as an immortal's, and the gaze she leveled on the crowd before her seemed as steady and immutable as the Sphinx.

  Many had noticed her arrival, but were trying not to openly stare. This was not the case with Jeneva and Callum Worth. Or with the giant bearded man she'd seen them mingling with earlier. Or with several other guests, who had noticed the arrival of this beautiful black woman with an evident horror that caused their jaws to gape and their hands to tremble. Each of these terrified guests wore sunglasses they now removed. Each revealed the crystalline-blue eyes of an immortal.

  Ramses seemed less surprised by this woman's entrance than Julie was, but he stared up at her now, as well. He recognized the importance of her quiet arrival.

  Most of the guests had gone back to chitchat.

  But Julie felt as if every muscle in her body had coiled.

  Do not drink, Ramses had told her. Only pretend to drink.

  And now...

  There was a soft thud against the grass a few paces away. Jeneva had dropped her champagne flute. She stared down at it as if it were a serpent preparing to
strike.

  "The queen," Callum Worth whispered.

  And then Jeneva hit the grass knees first. The blue drained from her eyes, replaced by what at first appeared to be a fiery shade of red, then her eyes became empty, black sockets.

  When Callum Worth reached for his wife's shoulder, he saw that his own hand was withering before his very eyes, as if every ounce of blood and every drop of water had been sucked from his flesh in one swift and silent instant.

  Jeneva's hands appeared exactly the same. But this didn't stop her from reaching out for Ramses and Julie even as her jaw fell away from her face and turned to a drift of ash that danced gracefully on the cool breeze.

  And then the screams began, piercing, terrible screams.

  For it was happening to all of them. All of the terrified immortals who had removed their sunglasses at the sight of the magnificent woman now standing proudly on the empty terrace, staring down at all of them like a monarch preparing to address her subjects. Only her address was silent, Julie realized, and it unfolded with terrible and destructive speed.

  All over the lawn, the immortals had begun to wither and decompose, creating little pockets of chaos among the guests. Here a withering arm reached out for nothing; there a desiccated torso collapsed onto a pair of suddenly hollow legs, both becoming clouds of swirling ash.

  Chairs and tables were overturned as everyone raced to make an escape.

  When a hand seized the back of her dress, Julie screamed.

  It was the stately black woman, the architect of this, Julie was sure.

  "Come with me," she said. "Both of you."

  She held Ramses in a similar grip and pulled them both backwards up the steps as chaos reigned.

  "Who are you?" Ramses demanded. He was masking dread with fury.

  "I am your queen," the woman answered.

  "I answer to no queen."

  "Perhaps not," the woman answered. "But you still have one."

  26

  Inside the house, servants fled down the front hallway.

  The woman led them through empty rooms, then out a side door and across a terrace much smaller than the western one. Then they were hurrying through a shady, manicured garden towards a wide gate that stood open across the entrance to the staff road.