The Mummy (Ramses the Damned 1)

Unlocked. He stepped into the darkened stateroom.

Ah, this thing has made me a sneak and a thief, he thought. But he didn't stop. He did not know how long he would have. And now, with only the moon through the portal to light his way, he searched the wardrobe full of neatly hung clothes, the bureau drawers of shirts and other such things; the trunk which contained nothing. No secret formula in this room. Unless it was well hidden.

Finally he gave up. He stood over the desk, staring down at the biology books spread open there. And then something black and ugly, glimpsed from the corner of his eye, frightened him. But it was only the mummy's hand, curled there on the blotter.

How foolish he felt. How ashamed. Yet he stood there staring at the thing, his heart knocking dangerously in his chest, and then he felt the burning pain that always followed such shocks and the numbness in his arm. He stood quite still, breathing very slowly.

Finally he went out and closed the door behind him.

A sneak and a thief, he thought. And leaning on his silver cane, he walked slowly back to the saloon.

It was almost dawn. They had left the warmth of the tent hours ago and come here into the deserted temple, with only the loose silk sheets around them. They had made love in the sand, over and over. And then he had lain in the dark, looking up at the stars, the King who had built this house.

No words now. Only the warmth of his naked body against hers, as he cradled her in his left arm. Only the smooth sheet wound tightly around her.

Just before sunrise. Elliott dozed in the chair. He heard the little boat come alongside; the lapping; the sound of the ropes creaking as the two lovers came back on board. He heard their furtive quick steps on the deck. Silence again.

When he opened his eyes, his son was there in the shadows. Dishevelled, as if he had not undressed to go to bed, his face unshaven. He watched as his son took a cigarette from the ivory box on the table

and lighted it.

Then Alex saw him. For a moment, neither said a word, and then Alex smiled the familiar congenial smile.

"Well, Father," he said slowly. "It will be good to get back to Cairo and a little civilization."

"You're a good man, my son," Elliott said softly.

They must have all known, she realized. She lay beside Ramses beneath the warm blankets of her bed, the little steamer moving north again, towards Cairo.

Yet they were being discreet. He came and went only when no one was about. There were no displays of affection. Yet they revelled in the freedom they had stolen; until dawn they made love, tumbling, struggling, coupling in the dark as the engines of the ship carried them ever onward.

Too much to wish for anything more. Yet she did. She wished to be rid of those she loved, save for him; she wished to be his bride or to be among those who questioned nothing. She knew when they reached Cairo, she would make her decision. And she would not see England again, for a long time, unless Ramses wanted it.

Four o'clock. Ramses stood by the bed. She was lovely beyond all reckoning in her sleep, her brown hair a great shadow beneath her against the white pillow. Carefully he covered her, lest she get cold.

He picked up his moneybelt from the tangle of his coat and pants, and feeling the four vials safely taped against the fabric, he put it around his waist again, buckled it and then dressed quickly.

No one on the deck. The light burned in the saloon, however. And when he peered through the wooden blinds, he saw Elliott fast asleep in the leather wing chair, a book open on his knee, a half-filled glass of red wine beside him.

No one else about.

He went into his room, locked the door and closed the little wooden blinds on the window. Then he went to his desk, turned on the green shaded lamp, sat down in the wooden chair and stared at the mummy's hand which lay there, fingers curled almost to the palm, nails yellowed like bits of ivory.

Did he have the stomach for what he meant to do? In ages past, had he not done enough of these ghastly experiments? But he had to know. He had to know just how powerful it was. He told himself he should wait for laboratories, equipment, wait until he'd mastered the chemistry texts; had listened to the learned physicians.

But he wanted to know now. It had come into his mind like an evil light in the Valley of the Kings when he had seen the hand, the leathery, shrivelled hand. No fake. He knew that. He'd known it the minute he'd examined the bit of bone protruding from the severed wrist, the moment he'd seen the black flesh cleaving to it.

Ancient as he was.

He shoved the biology books aside. He placed the thing directly under the lamp, and slowly he unwrapped the linen. There, very faintly, he could see the stamp of the embalmer--the words in Egyptian which told him the thing was from a dynasty before his time. Ah, poor dead soul, who had believed in the gods, and the makers of linen wrappings.

Do not do this. Yet he reached into his shirt, and reached inside the money belt and pulled out the half-full vial and opened the cap with his thumb without even consciously deciding to do it.

He poured the elixir on the blackened thing. Poured it into the palm, and over the stiffened fingers.

Nothing.

Was he relieved? Or disappointed? For a moment he didn't know. He stared at the window, where the pale dawn pushed at the blinds, making tiny seams of brightness. Maybe the sun was needed for the first effect. Though that had not been so when he'd stood in the cave with the priestess. He had felt that powerful alchemy before the sun's rays touched him. Of course they had strengthened him immeasurably. And without them, he would have gone into the sleep within a few days. But he had not needed them initially.