Kajihi had said nothing as Nosferatu and his Bedouins headed to the southwest, into the desert. As soon as they were out of sight he hurried back to his hut. His wife and children were still gone and would stay away until he sent for them. He pulled out a piece of thick papyrus paper. He wrote, telling of Nosferatu’s visit. He rolled the papyrus and stuffed it into a piece of bamboo, sealing each end with wax that he imprinted with the Watcher crest from his ring. He then placed the tube on top of four others, his reports of activity in Egypt for the past fifteen years. Soon it would be time to forward them to England, to Watcher headquarters.
As he tied the tubes together he sensed a presence. He looked up to see a man — no, not a man — a creature in human form standing over him. He knew who it was even though they had never met before.
Kajihi bowed his head, refusing to meet the stare of the other. “Kajihi, the Watcher, the Wedjat.”
Kajihi nodded. “Aspasia’s Shadow.”
“You have had a visitor.” Aspasia’s Shadow sat down cross-legged on the dirt floor. He looked very much like Nosferatu, tall, thin, with an evil grin. The major difference was that Aspasia’s Shadow had jet-black hair instead of red. “How did you know?”
“Someone has been in the Roads of Rostau with you.” Kajihi nodded.
“Who?”
“Nosferatu.”
“Ah, so the legend is true. I remember when Isis and Osiris were killed. Two of the brood who committed the crime escaped. I’ve met one several times. Vampyr. But that was a very long time ago,” he added, almost to himself. “What did Nosferatu want?”
“He took a black tube. He said his love was in it.” Aspasia’s Shadow nodded. “Nekhbet. Where did he go?”
“Into the desert to the south and west.”
“Interesting.”
Kajihi kept his eyes downcast, hoping the creature would leave, also knowing it was just as likely that Aspasia’s Shadow would kill him.
“What did you write?” Aspasia’s Shadow indicated the tubes. “A report of recent events.”
“That will be so useful,” Aspasia’s Shadow said with a laugh. The smile disappeared and Aspasia’s Shadow leaned over Kajihi. “Watcher.” Kajihi reluctantly looked up. “Yes?”
“The Roads of Rostau are not for you or the Undead. Do you understand?” “Yes.” But Aspasia’s Shadow was gone.
To the southwest, the last things on Nosferatu’s mind were Watchers, reports, or Aspasia’s Shadow. The sun was well over the horizon, shooting beams of light across the desert. He wrapped another turban around his face, further protecting his skin and eyes. They rode through the day, putting distance between them and Giza. By noon, Nosferatu had triple-wrapped his head, practically cutting out all light, allowing himself to be led by the Bedouins deeper into the desert known as the Great Sand Sea. When he questioned them about how far it was to the other side, they always shook their heads and indicated the next destination was an oasis they knew of. Beyond that, they didn’t say anything. He realized their concept of travel was much different than his and he didn’t know enough of their language to make himself understood.
As the day wore on, Nosferatu rode in a daze, directly behind Nekhbet’s tube. He had no doubt she was in there and that she was alive, although he had little clue as to what condition he would find her in when he opened the tube.
At his urging they rode straight through the night and finally halted just before the next dawn at the small oasis. Nosferatu felt the hunger, but he knew he needed the aid of the Bedouins more than he needed to feed. The desert people were a strange race, having nothing to do with Egypt or the Gods, or, now, the Pharaohs, preferring to live in a land where survival was an everyday struggle. To them, distance and time all related to water holes like this.
As the sun rose, Nosferatu lay next to Nekhbet’s tube, covering himself with blankets despite the heat. He placed both hands against the side of the tube. Surprisingly, the metal was cool. He slowly fell into unconsciousness, the effort of the last few days and the growing hunger forcing his mind and body to retreat into itself.
He woke at dusk. He pushed aside the blankets and unwrapped the turbans from his head. It was cool, the sand giving up the day’s heat, a light breeze blowing in from the deep desert. The Bedouins were cooking a meal on the other side of the small water hole, ignoring Nosferatu and the tube. When complete darkness fell, Nosferatu went to the head of the tube. The control panel was alive with a glow that grew brighter as the sky grew darker.
Nosferatu’s hands trembled. From hunger, from anticipation. He tried to control the shake, but couldn’t. He knew he should wait. Opening the tube there and then would do no good. They must get across the desert. But she was there, so close, only the lid between the two of them after so many years apart, after so many years so close.
He tapped on the hexes. With a hiss, the lid cracked open and slowly swung up. She was as beautiful as the first time he had seen her brought into the cell under the Giza Plateau. Long flowing red hair splayed about her head. Smooth white skin stretched over high cheekbones. Red eyebrows cut across her lower forehead above her closed eyes. She was swathed in the same white robe he had seen her entombed in. Her pale lips were slightly parted, revealing perfect white teeth.
Nosferatu placed his hand on her forehead, just below the metal band. Her skin was cool to his touch. He moved his hand to just over her mouth. He felt nothing. There was no rise or fall to her chest, but he knew she was alive. The metal crown was still set on her head and he carefully reached in and removed it.
He knew how to bring her to full life. In the same way she had given him power so long ago.
But he was weak. He had the hunger. He looked up, across the water hole at the half dozen Bedouins. A muscle on the side of his face twitched. His heart was racing. He ran his fingers over Nekhbet’s face, marveling at the smoothness, the coolness, longing for the heat he had imagined for so long, that they had discussed for centuries.
He knew better. Patience had been chained into him. To act just then would be a mistake.
Nosferatu stepped away from the tube. He began walking around the water hole. All six of the Bedouins stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Despite his weakened state, the presence of Nekhbet gave him power unlike any he had ever known, even when he had drunk from Osiris himself. The six blades, the blades with which they had killed Osiris, were strung about his belt.
One of the Bedouins, the leader, was the first to realize the danger, drawing his scimitar. The blade didn’t even clear the scabbard as Nosferatu drew and threw the first dagger, the blade hitting the leader’s neck square on. The man staggered back, hands grasping at the handle. Nosferatu threw the second blade with his other hand as he pulled the third. Four of the Bedouins were down before they could mount a defense. The last two had their swords out as he threw the fifth dagger.
The man blocked the oncoming missile and charged Nosferatu. The sixth ran away.
Nosferatu dodged the man’s wild strike, stepped in close, and wrapped the Bedouin in his arms. He clamped down on the man’s neck, tearing through flesh to blood. As it had always been, the struggle was one-sided as Nosferatu gained strength and his victim lost it. Out of the corner of his eye, even as he drank, Nosferatu watched the sixth man running — keeping track. The Bedouin tried to leap onto one of the camels, but his fear made the animal skittish and he was unable to mount it.
Nosferatu drank, knowing he needed to break free and capture the last man.
Love won out against hunger and he threw the victim from him and ran toward the sixth man, who was by then running up the side of a dune. With the energy from drinking, Nosferatu easily caught him and dragged him down. The man fought, but a blow to the side of his head rendered him unconscious.