The Passion of Cleopatra (Ramses the Damned 2)

Mr. Reginald Ramsey would. She was sure of it. At the very least, something about the man would point her to the next clue in this mystery. That alone was cause for hope. That alone was reason to continue on this journey across the world.

When Lucy returned with her glass of water, Sibyl closed her journal quickly, as if this decisive gesture could somehow contain the swirl of mysteries in which she now seemed to dwell.

12

SS Orsova

She couldn't remember returning to the stateroom, but she was on the bed, Teddy beside her, applying and reapplying wet towels to her forehead, her cheeks, her throat, all while her chest rose and fell from an exertion so desperate it gave her a dull ache throughout her torso.

He had comforted her through other visions, but none this powerful. Pain and darkness; these things had become alien to her once she'd left behind those first few terrifying days following her resurrection. And yet, without warning, they had descended on her like a cloud of locusts capable of tearing her limb from limb.

She had only the vaguest memory of other passengers responding to her terrible scream, of Teddy shooing them away with empty explanations.

Vertigo, that's all, he'd growled at them. She didn't realize how high up we were before she looked over the rail.

The face. A woman's face. Who was this strange woman?

Ramses, she thought, and the name filled her with rage. But this rage focused her, drove the last traces of panic from her restored veins. This is because of what you've done to me. You call me back from death only to leave me tormented by madness.

"Cleopatra," Teddy said. But his voice was tentative and weak, and he'd refrained from using her favorite title--his queen. And was that a surprise? Hers was the behavior of a mad priestess, not a queen.

"Stop," she heard herself say.

"You must rest," he insisted.

The repeated touch of the damp towel and the occasional slip of his fingertips across her throat felt like acid on her skin. She reached out suddenly in an effort to seize his wrist. Only when she heard a great clatter did she realize she had sent him into the dresser against the opposite wall of the cabin. She had forgotten her strength.

The expression on his face sickened her; it was the same terrified expression of the shopgirl she'd killed in Cairo. Wide eyed, uncomprehending, tinged with revulsion.

"You fear me," she said.

He didn't answer. He tried to shake his head, but he couldn't. He froze, eyes wide.

"You look at me and see a monster."

"No!" he cried.

"Liar!" she roared.

He went to her, sank to the bed next to her, took her face in his hands. It meant the world to her suddenly that he had done this. That her violent eruption had not caused him to flee the stateroom in a panic, as Ramses had fled from the site of her tattered, resurrected form.

"The only thing I fear is that I have no cure for what ails you. I am a doctor, but I can't treat what I don't have a name for, and to see you like this, it's a torment, my queen."

"He will know," she whispered. "That is why we must find him."

"Of course."

"I need more," she said. "That must be it. He has not given me enough and so my mind...it is...it is..." Not mine, were the words that almost sprang from her lips, but they terrified her, so she turned her face to the pillow like a frightened little girl as this horrible feeling tore through her with paralyzing strength. My mind, my body. They are not my own.

And the mere thought that an episode as severe as this one might come on again, it terrified her. She had asked Teddy to teach her about the modern world, yes, but if her condition worsened she would become his slave.

But he was stroking her hair, nuzzling his lips against her neck, trying to lure her out of her dark reverie with gentle passion. "My queen," he whispered. "I am here, my queen."

"Prove it," she whispered to him.

"Prove what?" he asked.

"Prove to me that I am still your queen."