Ramses the Damned Read online

  The man in my dream exists, she thought. We are connected somehow. And if I follow that connection as far as it goes, perhaps my nightmares will come to an end!

  Quickly she removed several sheets of her best stationery from the desk drawer and began to write. The letter was to her London publisher.

  “I have reconsidered your many invitations and now agree with you that it is an excellent idea for me to visit London, and accept any invitations you might recommend for speaking engagements or appearances….”

  As soon as the sun rose, she’d call her New York agent.

  * * *

  At breakfast Sibyl dropped two aspirin tablets in front of both her brothers, neither of whom looked up from his half-eaten swirls of scrambled eggs, neither of whom seemed to care in the slightest that it was almost noon on a Monday and he’d made no attempt to get started on the week’s business.

  “I’m leaving,” she said.

  It took Gregory several seconds to pick up his aspirin. He swallowed them with a sip of water small enough so as not to upset his tortured stomach.

  Ethan stopped massaging his temples, opened one bloodshot eye, and did his best to look at her with it.

  “Another stroll through the Lincoln Park Conservatory?” he grumbled. “So you can pretend like you’re an ancient lady in one of those gloomy novels you love?”

  “Further than the park, actually.”

  Gregory looked up from his plate and saw that she was dressed in her traveling costume. A tailored jacket checkered in squares of white and blue, the outward-facing flaps of the collar lined in blue satin. The band on her otherwise plain hat was also a matching shade of blue. She’d never been one to wear her corsets like something out of an illustration by Charles Dana Gibson, but Lucy’s nervous hands that morning had left her with a particularly tight fit. And that made sense, she thought. It made her feel as streamlined as the prow of the ship she planned to soon board.

  “How much further?” Ethan whined. “You’ve got writing to do.”

  “Yes, and I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but it’s only possible to write in the city of Chicago now. President Wilson just signed it into law.”

  “Well, I’m not sure what the president would have to say about your sharp tongue,” Gregory grumbled.

  “Who knows?” Sibyl responded. “Perhaps he’s a fan of my books.”

  “Ha! No one in the corridors of power is reading your trifles, miss,” Gregory responded.

  “Where are you going, Sibyl?” Ethan demanded.

  “London.”

  “London!” they both cried at once, their mutual outrage having pierced the veil of their hangovers.

  Her brothers began to bellow and cry about responsibilities that weren’t actually hers, which neither was capable of attending to on his own. She had expected just this sort of response. But she always knew that Ethan and Gregory were just lazy enough that if she presented her imminent journey as a fait accompli, they might not protest it with all they had.

  “For how long?” Gregory finally asked when he saw she remained unmoved by all their previous allegations and complaints.

  “For as long as it takes,” she answered.

  “For as long as what takes? Why must you be cryptic as well? There’s talk of war, you know. They’ve already had one in the Balkans and at the rate they’re all going Germany and Austria will make some sort of trouble soon.”

  “Serves them right,” Ethan grumbled. “Jamming all those countries onto that tiny continent like horses in a barn. What’d they think would happen?”

  “And you can’t go off traveling alone, all by yourself, I won’t permit it!” said Gregory. “No, I say no. Besides, you’ve been to Europe five times with Mama. You’ve seen everything in Europe.”

  “It’s time I went off on my own,” said Sibyl. “What have I been waiting for, after all?” But the dream came back to her, and the article in the paper, the face of that man.

  “By the time I’ve returned, Ethan,” she said, “I’m sure you will have assumed an important role in world affairs, and you can share that great insight with our president.”

  “We need you here,” said Gregory. “The staff needs you.”

  “What you mean is you’ll have to manage them on your own,” she replied.

  She was almost to the front door when Ethan called after her, “Fitting you’d make your escape just before the week started!”

  “It’s Monday, gentlemen,” she called back. “The week started hours ago!”

  She slammed the front door behind her just as she heard the tinkle of overturned glassware and chair legs scraping the dining room’s hardwood floor.

  Old Philip was waiting for her in the driveway and so was Lucy. All the bags had been loaded into the Rolls-Royce, and now Lucy and Old Philip were both smiling at her, as if they were proud of the speed with which she’d managed to escape from the house that morning.

  This was new, this authoritative voice she had discovered within herself, this assertiveness as well. When she unleashed it fully, this sense of power made her feel twice her size. In the past, she would have snuck out without saying anything to her brothers at all, and then, on the ride to the train station, she would have worried ceaselessly about their reactions to her sudden absence, and whether or not she was shirking the promise she’d made to her late parents to care for her brothers even amidst their terrible self-indulgences.

  But now, she felt like a different Sibyl Parker altogether, one capable of crossing the globe on her own and flattening anyone who dared step in her way.

  5

  Paris

  Samir Ibrahim dashed across the Place de la Concorde towards the most famous restaurant in the world. In one hand he clutched the telegram that had terrified him to the bone.

  He had to find Julie and Ramses at once.

  As politely as he could, he pushed his way through Maxim’s front bar, past the men in their tuxedos and the women in their flowing, lustrous gowns. All the while, the hypnotic strands of the “Morning Papers” waltz guided him through the din of boisterous conversation and into the restaurant’s main dining room.

  He spotted them immediately.

  The floor was full of other impeccably dressed couples performing the Viennese waltz, but he was sure most of the attention in the room was on Julie Stratford and her handsome Egyptian dancing partner.

  For the briefest of moments, Samir forgot his dark mission as he watched the only child of his dear, departed friend Lawrence, the man with whom he had traveled the world, unearthing tombs and relics, spin across the crowded dance floor in the confident grip of a former pharaoh. There had been a time, just after they’d traveled to Egypt in the wake of her father’s death, when it had seemed as if Julie’s grief for her father might overtake her. But now it was clear her spirit had been beautifully restored. Indeed, she danced with such confidence and beauty, tears came to Samir’s eyes.

  Her male attire reflected impeccable taste. Black tails, her pile of curls crowned with a top hat, the delicate hands with which she held her dancing partner sheathed in white gloves.

  And then there was the dancing partner himself, her new fiancé. The man whose tomb her father had discovered in the hills outside of Cairo. This man had rescued her from an attempted murder at the hands of her own cousin. For he was not just a man, but an immortal who had once ruled Egypt for over sixty years, before faking his own death so that the secret of his immortality would remain hidden from his subjects, and from history itself.

  Ramses the Great. Proud, handsome Ramses. Ramses the pharaoh of ancient Egypt who had shattered Samir’s sense of the limits of this world in which he lived, and transformed his view of it forever.

  It was an astonishing thing, Samir thought, to know the man’s true, ancient identity amidst the bustle and swirl of this opulent place with its colorful murals and liveried waiters and great clouds of cigarette smoke in which the scents of dozens of perfumes mingled and became an aroma that
seemed otherworldly. It was an astonishing thing to worship this man, accepting the rectitude of Ramses’ immortality, accepting the superiority of Ramses’ mind, accepting the power and seductive charm of this true monarch to whom Samir had pledged immediate and unquestioning loyalty.

  Samir knew this was a moment he must relish and savor.

  Oh, Lawrence, Samir thought. You would be so happy to see your daughter now. So happy to see that she is not just safe and protected, but electrified by immortality. More alive than she has ever been. And oh, if only you might have shared these revelations with me, that Ramses the Great lives, walks the earth, the very same king who once rode his chariot at the head of an army of chariots into battle against the Hittites. Oh, if only you could have heard the words of this man as he reflects on those long-ago centuries, answers the most complex questions about them so effortlessly….

  His thoughts returned to the dancing figures before him, to the present moment.

  Why did it fall upon him to shatter their happiness?

  But he could wait. Another few minutes at least.

  And so, along with the crowd, he watched them dance. He marveled at the immortal strength that allowed them to swirl and turn without pausing for breath, even as the dancers around them seemed to tire. The same strength that allowed each of them to dance without once looking away from the adoring gaze of the other.

  Did any of their onlookers notice that their eyes were an almost identical shade of blue? Perhaps. Or perhaps they were too distracted by the spectacle of the dance itself.

  Ramses saw him the minute the dance concluded. So did Julie. They moved towards him through the crowded tables, offering smiles to diners still applauding their performance.

  They were not surprised to see him. He had planned to meet them in Paris, but he had not planned to bring with him such frightening news.

  “Samir, my friend,” Ramses said, clapping him on the back, “you shall join us at our table at once. We have made new friends here and we shall be happy for you to join them.”

  “I’m afraid not, sire,” Samir answered.

  Mustn’t go into details in this crowded place. He handed Ramses the telegram.

  “I’m afraid she’s been found,” Samir said.

  Ramses read. Julie stiffened next to him.

  “In Alexandria,” Ramses said, his mood darkening.

  “Yes.”

  He handed the cable to Julie, whose expression had become an icy mask. No surprise there, Samir thought. Before becoming an immortal, Julie had almost died at Cleopatra’s hands.

  “I see,” Julie said softly, with a faint smile. “Well, perhaps we should look at it this way: now we know we too are capable of surviving great fire.” Her face went white and she swallowed, her lips trembling.

  Ramses curved an arm around his fiancée’s waist and steered her towards the bar.

  “Come,” Ramses said. “Let’s all return to the hotel at once and discuss the implications of this.”

  * * *

  This lavish suite at the Ritz, with its soaring, draperied windows looking out onto the Place Vendôme, had been their home for a week now—their last stop on the Continent before the return to London. Ramses loved it, as surely as he’d loved all of the grand hotels in which they’d lodged, dined, made love.

  The staff had been faithful in delivering great heaping platters of pastry and quiche at all hours, along with buckets of champagne, just as they had requested.

  Ramses, seated at the dining table, read the cable again, as if the brief message might reveal some hidden clue upon subsequent examination.

  WOMAN YOU SEEK IN ALEXANDRIA STOP MALE COMPANION SHE CALLS TEDDY UNKNOWN STOP BOTH ARRIVED FROM CAIRO ON MORNING TRAIN STOP ADVISE IF YOU WANT FURTHER ACTION

  He would do better to question Samir than to focus on these terse strings of words. He wanted more champagne. It was Samir who lifted the bottle from the bucket of ice and filled the crystal glass for him. Samir then sat back puffing on his small dark cheroot. Julie too enjoyed one of these little “smokes.” And indeed the smoke to Ramses was like perfume. Long centuries ago, tobacco had been very rare in his kingdom, coming from unnamed lands far across the sea. Just one of the many luxuries he’d known as a king.

  But again, it crossed Ramses’ mind that no pharaoh of his time had ever enjoyed the vast luxury known to a world of businessmen and commercial travelers in this day. And even the common people had their vintage wines and tobacco. He drank the champagne in one long draught.

  How he hated this dark intelligence from Alexandria.

  This was their last week in this great capital before they had to attend the betrothal party hosted by young gentle Alex Savarell, the very man Julie had once seemed fated to marry. Ramses wasn’t dreading it, precisely, merely waiting eagerly for it to be over. He understood the goodwill behind the gesture, and the importance of the family to his beloved companion.

  But he longed to travel again as soon as it was over, to see the Lake District of England, and the castles of the north, and the fabled lochs and glens of Scotland.

  Now this startling news cast its dark shadow over all their plans, here in Paris, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  Julie rose and opened one of the windows so the smoke from her cigarette could escape. The drapes fluttered in the cool night air.

  She was no longer a delicate thing. She had not been for some time. Long gone was the trembling young woman who had seen him rise from his sarcophagus in her very house in London, just in time to prevent her murderous cousin Henry from poisoning her in her own drawing room with a cup of tea—the same incorrigible man who had poisoned her father in Egypt, all in a bumbling attempt to raid the family’s company to pay off his gambling debts. But Henry Stratford was gone now, and so too was the version of Julie he had almost killed. She’d been outspoken but naïve, under pressure to marry a man she had not loved, and on the verge of being exposed to the true evils men can do in the name of avarice.

  Yes, quite completely gone now, that Julie for this ever-resilient bride of his heart, to whom he did not need to pledge his undying loyalty with rings and ceremony.

  On the ship carrying her back to London from their Egyptian adventure, that Julie had attempted to end her life, only to land in his powerful arms before the dark sea could claim her, accepting the elixir from him hours later with trembling hands.

  She radiated an effortless confidence and poise, this Julie, who had begun to see the world around her from an entirely new perspective. And all the world had been theirs to explore only moments ago.

  Ramses looked at Samir. How he treasured this mortal friend and confidant, an Egyptian of this age, dark of eye and face, with a deep understanding of Ramses and his ways that these lighter people of the north, even his beloved Julie, could not quite so easily discover. Someday, someday, perhaps, the time would come to confer the elixir once again, to this man, but there was time to ponder this, and Samir would never ask for this gift, never assume for a moment that Ramses, his lord and master, should be approached for such a thing, or so taken for granted.

  “What do we know of this man she travels with?” Ramses asked. “Aside from his first name.”

  “Not much of which we are sure. But I have suspicions.”

  “Do share them, Samir.”

  “As I wrote you some time ago, one of the trains that struck her car that night continued on. Much of its cargo was bound for an outpost in the Sudan. After some investigation, my men came across a report there of a body that had been discovered in one of its boxcars.”

  “From where did this report come?”

  “A local journalist.”

  “And the local hospital?” Ramses asked. “Did you contact them?”

  “No one would speak of it. The nurses who had been on staff that night had since departed.”

  “This was only two months ago,” Julie said.

  “This man she travels with,” Ramses said, “you believe him to be someone from the hosp
ital? Her doctor, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps, sire.”

  “And the others who departed?”

  “More murder,” Julie whispered.

  “Maybe, Julie,” Samir answered. “Or maybe not. One of my men in Cairo just contacted me about a rather large sale of artifacts. A private sale. The archaeological community is outraged, of course. Whoever made the sale has taken steps to conceal their true identity. But the rumor is they claimed the tomb in question was a secret storehouse of treasures kept by Cleopatra herself. That many of the coins and statues inside bear her likeness. There’s been some coverage of it in the Egyptian papers. I had them send the articles to my office at the British Museum by post.”

  “She sent vast stores of treasures south when it was clear Egypt would fall to Rome,” Ramses said. “I remember this.”

  A simple response, but it had sent him stumbling down a corridor of memories.

  How he had wanted to believe her a monster, the creature he had raised. A terrible aberration raised from death by his own arrogance. But on the night of her terrible accident, in the moments before she’d fled the opera house in shame, stealing off in a motorcar she couldn’t control, careening right into the path of two speeding trains, she had been far from a bumbling, voiceless ghoul. She had been full of focus and control and a desire for revenge. Moments before, she had confronted Julie in the ladies’ powder room. Menaced her, threatened her life. Delighted in Julie’s fear.

  During her rampage through Cairo, Samir and Julie had both done their very best to convince him that she was a soulless creature. Not Cleopatra, but some terrible, monstrous shell. But when they had finally faced each other at the opera, there had been no denying it, the sight of the old spirit in her eyes.

  And now? She lived still. Truly indestructible, it seemed.

  But what did she want? Why had she traveled to Alexandria on the arm of this young man? Was it to say goodbye to her old city, the same reason he had traveled the length of Egypt himself only months before?