Anne Rice - The Mummy or Ramses the Damned

Ramses lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He was drinking in the sunlight. Julie could see his hair moving ever so slightly; tiny tendrils at his forehead curling. The hair seemed to grow thicker. It was growing thicker.

Of course. This is what woke him from the dream-filled sleep, she realized. The sun! And he had been too weak to do more than struggle with Henry. He had had to crawl into the sunlight before he could gain his full strength.

There were shouts of "Police" from below. Rita came running with a pair of slippers in her hand, and a pile of clothing over her arm.

"There's reporters out there, miss; a whole crowd of them, and Scotland Yard and your uncle Randolph ..."

"Yes, I know. Go down now and tell them we'll be right there, but don't draw back the bolt!"

Julie took the silk bathrobe and white shirt and put them on the hook. She touched Ramses' shoulder.

He turned and looked at her and the immediate warmth of his smile astonished her.

"Britannia," he said softly, his eyes moving from right to left as though to encompass the spot on which they stood.

"Yes, Britannia!" she said. A sudden lovely giddiness took hold of her. She pointed to the bath. "Lavare!" she said. Didn't that mean wash?

He nodded, his eyes taking in everything around him-the brass taps, the steam billowing up from the deep tub. He looked at the clothing.

' 'For you!'' she said, pointing at the robe and then at Ramses. Oh, if only she could remember the Latin. "Vestments," she said desperately.

And then he did laugh. Softly, gently, indulgently. And she found herself petrified again, staring at him, at the smooth shimmering beauty of his face. Lovely even white teeth he had, flawless skin and such an oddly commanding manner as he gazed at her. But then he was Ramses the Great, wasn't he? She was going to faint again if she didn't stop this.

She backed out the door.

' 'Reste!'' she said. ' 'Lavare.'' She made pleading gestures with both her hands. Then she went to leave, and quite suddenly his powerful right hand closed on her wrist.

Her heart stopped altogether.

"Henry!" he said softly. His face took on an air of menace, but not towards her.

Slowly she caught her breath. She could hear Rita screaming at the men to stop their banging. Someone was shouting back from the street.

"No, don't worry about Henry. Not now. I'll take care of Henry, you can be sure." Oh, but he wouldn't understand this. Again she gestured for his patience, his forbearance, and then she gently removed his hand from her wrist. He nodded, let her go. She backed away again, and then shut the door and ran down the hallway and down the stairs.

"Let me in, Rita!" Randolph was shouting.

Julie almost stumbled on the bottom step. She rushed into the drawing room. The lid was in place on the coffin! Would they see that faint trail of dust on the floor? But no one would believe it! She wouldn't have believed it!

She stopped, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and then told Rita to go ahead and open the door.

She turned, a rather prim expression fixed on her face, and watched as her uncle Randolph, dishevelled and barefoot, wearing only his dressing gown, came into the room. The museum guard was right behind him, and two gentlemen who appeared to be police in plainclothes, though she did not know precisely why.

"What hi the world is the matter?" she asked. "You woke me from a sound sleep on the sofa. What time is it?" She looked about in confusion. "Rita, what is going on?"

"I'm sure I don't know, miss!" Rita almost screamed. Julie gestured for her to be quiet.

"Oh, my dear, I was terrified," Randolph answered. "Henry said . . ."

"Yes? Henry said what?"

The two gentlemen in greatcoats were looking at the spilled coffee. One of them was staring at the open handkerchief with its white powder spilled out on the floor. How very like sugar it looked in the sunlight. And there was Henry, suddenly, hovering at the hallway door.

She stared at him for a sullen moment. Killed my father! But she could not allow herself to feel it just now. She could not allow herself to believe it or she would go mad. She saw him again in her mind's eye, holding out that coffee cup for her; she saw his wooden expression, his pale face.

' 'Whatever is the matter with you, Henry?'' she asked coldly, suppressing die quaver in her voice. "You ran out of here half an hour ago as if you'd seen a ghost."

"You know damned well what happened," he whispered. He was blanched and sweating. He had taken out his handkerchief and he wiped his upper lip, his hand trembling so badly that she could see it.

"Get a grip on yourself," Randolph said, turning to his son. "Now what the devil did you see?"

"The question is, miss," said the shorter of the two Scotland Yard men,' 'has there been some sort of intruder in this house?''

A gentleman's voice and manner. The fear was leaving her. She could feel her conviction returning as she spoke. "Indeed not, sir. My cousin saw an intruder? Henry, you must have a guilty conscience. You're having hallucinations. I saw no one here."

Randolph eyed Henry furiously. The Scotland Yard men appeared confused.

Henry himself was in a silent rage. He glared at her as if he meant to strangle her with his bare hands. And she glared right back at him, thinking coldly, You killed my father. You would have killed me.

We do not know how we shall feel at such moments. We cannot know, she thought. I only know that I hate you, and I have never hated another human being in my life.

' 'That mummy case!'' Henry blurted out suddenly. He clung to the door as if he didn't dare to come into the room. "I want that mummy case opened now.''

"You are really past all patience. No one shall touch that mummy case. It contains a priceless relic, which belongs to the British Museum and must not be exposed to the air."

"What the hell do you mean saying these things!" he shouted. He was becoming hysterical.

"Be quiet," Randolph said to him. "I've heard quite enough!"

There was noise from outside, voices. Someone had come all the way up the steps and was peering through the front door.

"Henry, I won't have this confusion in my house," Julie said shortly.

The Scotland Yard man studied Henry coldly.

"Sir, if the lady does not want the premises searched . . ."

"Indeed, I do not," Julie responded. "I think quite enough of your time has been wasted. As you can see, nothing here has been disturbed."

Of course die coffee cup was lying on its side on the plate and the handkerchief was on the floor, but she stood her ground coldly, eyes moving from Henry to the officer. And then to the other officer, who was scrutinizing her just a little too carefully, though he did not offer a word.

None of them saw what she saw-the figure of Ramses coming slowly down the stairs. They did not see him come across the front hallway and silently enter the room. That is, until Julie could not tear her eyes off him, and the others realized it and turned to see the source of her fascination-the tall brown-haired man in the dark burgundy silk bathrobe standing in the door.

She was breathless looking at him. Majestic. It was what all Kings should be. Yet he looked otherworldly as though his court had been a place of superhumans. Men of uncommon strength and grand bearing, with vivid and piercing eyes.

Even the robe with its satin lapels looked exotic on him. The slippers were like those from an ancient tomb. The white shirt he wore was unbuttoned, yet that looked curiously "normal," perhaps because his skin had that robust glow to it, and because he thrust his chest slightly forward and stood with feet firmly planted on the floor at parade rest as no modern man would do. This was the posture for commanding subservience, but there was nothing arrogant in his expression. He merely looked at her and at Henry, who had flushed red to the roots of his dark hair.