Bektaten was never to know.

At last, she withdrew from the Hittite kingdom, leaving the murder of Marupa unavenged. She abandoned the kingdom to its pestilence and to its wars, as the great Ramses II of Egypt battled the Hittite king, Muwatalli, at Kadesh.

In time, fate did bring Bektaten close to Saqnos again, only for Bektaten to ascertain that he had not been the thief and the murderer. In the fabled city of Babylon with its one hundred thousand citizens, Enamon and Aktamu spied on Saqnos easily from afar, and bribed his mortal servants for intelligence of him.

It was plain enough that he had gathered alchemists around him, paying them absurd sums, and constructing a secret laboratorium where he and they desperately sought the pure, uncorrupted form of the elixir he had begged from Bektaten in Jericho. It almost saddened her to see him still lost in the grip of this obsession.

But she had not confronted him. She had left Babylon without ever speaking to him. However, from then on, she had maintained a network of mortal spies to report to her on Saqnos's whereabouts and doings. At times, the network had failed, and Saqnos had vanished only to be rediscovered at some later date, engaged in the same desperate experiments. Mortals passed on the tales of the mad one who was ever enticing new healers or alchemists with rich bribes and wild promises, the mad one who paid absurd sums for any new plant or cure or potion or purgative on the market.

Who had stolen the elixir from the slain priestess? Who had murdered Marupa?

Bektaten looked at the news clippings, both old and new, spread out on the table before her.

MUMMY'S CURSE KILLS STRATFORD SHIPPING MAGNATE, "RAMSES THE DAMNED" STRIKES DOWN THOSE WHO DISTURB HIS REST

HEIRESS DEFIES MUMMY'S CURSE, "RAMSES THE DAMNED" TO VISIT LONDON

And the latest:

ENGAGEMENT PARTY FOR REGINALD RAMSEY AND JULIE STRATFORD ATTRACTS FAMOUS NOVELIST FROM AMERICA AND OTHER DISTINGUISHED GUESTS

Could it have been Ramses II himself who blundered into that cave long ago? Could he have been the one who dared to drink the elixir to the dregs and strike down the helpless Marupa with his sword?

Tales of ancient times told Bektaten nothing. But what of the talk now of "blue eyes," the handsome blue eyes of the enigmatic Egyptian, and then that talk of Julie Stratford's blue eyes--a remarkable result indeed of a fever she'd contracted in Cairo?

Bektaten rose to stir the fire in the grate, and then to walk about the small stone-walled library before gazing out on the sea-carved landscape before her.

Time had cooled her rage. It was true. And though the pain she felt for the loss of Marupa would never entirely go away, she had to admit to herself that she felt curiosity now more than a desire for vengeance.

She settled in her chair once more and scarcely noticed when her beloved cat, Bastet, came into the room, sidling up to the chair to rub her back against its legs and to stir the folds of Bektaten's long robe. Without looking at the animal, Bektaten scooped her up in her arms and kissed her, Bektaten's long fingers massaging her fur and the bones beneath it.

Bastet gazed up at her mistress with blue eyes--just as she had for the last three hundred years, ever since the day that Bektaten had given the cat the elixir. It was not a cruelty for such animals, Bektaten mused, not for those tender creatures who lived effortlessly in the moment, as all creatures should perhaps, enjoying each moment of being alive without memory or anticipation of anything more than a meal of fish or lamb, or a bowl of clean cool water.

"There are times when I wish I knew no more than you know, my pretty," said Bektaten, lifting the cat so that she might feel the silken fur against her cheek. "There are times when I wished I knew nothing."

Ramses the Damned. Mummy's curse. Legends.

Three thousand years had passed since Bektaten had knelt weeping in that cave, and the dread pharaoh of Egypt led his armies on their rampage on the banks of the Orontes River in the land of the Hittites. Surely he had learned much since then, just as Bektaten herself had learned. And maybe that was far more important than bringing the doomed king's life to a close with a touch of the strangle lily. But then again, maybe not. Bektaten had more to study, more to ponder, more to learn about the man called Reginald Ramsey.

16

They gathered in the castle keep as dawn's first light broke across the roaring sea outside.

They had dressed the part of British gentlemen, her loyal servants, in shirt and tie and raglan overcoats and derby hats. Both men were so tall their clothes had to be tailored specifically for them.

Her own height was the reason she preferred the swaddling of robes and linens to elegant garments. She maintained a trunk full of fashions suitable to every social occasion, a wardrobe befitting a member of a royal family on perpetual holiday. But when she enjoyed relative solitude, she had no patience for such ensembles, no patience for foundation garments her tall, slender figure did not need.

The hats her men wore were an amusing touch. Far too small, teetering atop their heads like molded, ill-fitting crowns. As they began to recount what they had witnessed, she passed between them, removed their hats, and set them on the grand console table against the nearest stone wall.

Now she would not be distracted from their words.

Of the two men, Enamon had always been the more forceful. Aktamu, on the other hand, had a quiet, introspective nature complemented by his round, boyish face. Perhaps Enamon's bent nose, a reminder of his mortal tilt towards physical confrontation, only made him seem more aggressive, or perhaps it was his age; he had been a few years older than Aktamu when they were made.

But any mortal years which had once separated the two men made for a meaningless division now, Bektaten thought. Both had lived centuries. They were now equals in experience and acquired wisdom. And yet, this difference in temperament flared up every now and then, particularly when she asked them to work together on a mission of great importance. It seemed to exist in the very fiber of their beings, preserved forever in the elixir's grip.

"He is immortal, this Mr. Ramsey," Enamon said. "I'm sure of it. His eyes are the very right shade of blue and he does not sleep. The windows of the house in Mayfair glowed at all hours and he made love to his fiancee throughout the night."

"And his fiancee?" she asked.

Tags: Anne Rice Ramses the Damned Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net