Complete
Action/Adventure, Drama
Set in Season 8

Disclaimers:

Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, The SciFi Channel, The Sci-Fi Channel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is written purely for my own entertainment, and that of anyone else who may happen to read it. No infringement of copyright is intended. It is not intended and should never be used for commercial purposes.

The original characters, situations and ideas contained within this work are the property of the author.

Author's Notes:

This particular episode of the adventures of SG-7 takes its inspiration from the story 'Imprisoned with the Pharaohs', ghost-written by H.P. Lovecraft and published as the work of Harry Houdini.

 Acknowledgements:

 As ever, I am indebted to my beta-reader, Sho. Without her, none of this would have been possible.

The Black Pharaoh

Memphis, c.2190BC

It was intended to be the greatest banquet in Egypt's long and glorious history; a feast which would be remembered and spoken of in hushed tones for a thousand, thousand years. No expense was spared in making this an event of particular magnificence. Foodstuffs from across the known world were brought to Memphis; plates and goblets were beaten from pure gold; and a feast hall of unparalleled beauty was constructed especially for the occasion. This was the feast which the Great Queen Nitocris had commanded be held in memory of her beloved husband.

With the flair for conspicuous consumption which had characterised the short reign of the Pharaoh Nephren-ka, the hall for his funeral feast had been constructed at vast expense not beside the mighty river Nile but beneath it. Queen Nitocris had ordered the great chamber be hollowed out deep beneath the river course, in what many saw as an attempt to finally make her husband – a foreigner by birth – irrevocably a part of the Egyptian landscape. The walls were decorated with scenes from Nephren-ka's life, each one showing Nitocris by his side. Scenes of the royal couple hunting in the marshes by the river; the royal couple dispensing justice from their thrones; the royal couple riding to war in their chariots, not that they had had the opportunity between Nephren-ka's accession and his assassination to actually go to war. The artistry was exceptional, the scenes carved in bas relief by artisans sent in tribute from the Assyrian King, and only afterwards painted in the Egyptian style.

The final touch was the guest list. Everyone who was anyone had been invited – nay, commanded – to attend this event. Courtiers, priests and diplomats; dignitaries of every international power. Every person of influence in the Nile Valley and for a hundred miles around would be in attendance and Queen Nitocris had arranged suitable protection; a hundred soldiers would guard the only entrance to the chamber.

The arrival of the guests took more than three hours, as they filed one-by-one down the long passageway into the chamber beneath the Nile. The sun stood poised upon the horizon when the first guest, Nephren-ka's chief adviser Menera, passed the gates, but the desert sky was silver-studded black by the time the Queen rose from the head of the table to stand on the high platform beside her husband's sarcophagus – a great block of jet-black stone, engraved with the strange characters of Nephren-ka's native tongue – and faced the assembled throng.

"My lords," she began. "All of you have distinguished yourself by your compassion and your solicitousness since the death of my beloved consort."

A ripple ran around the chamber; a frisson of discomfort to hear the dead man referred to as the Queen's consort. That was a folly set aside a year ago, when Nitocris had accepted that a woman's role was not to rule. Despite her recalcitrance, she had finally agreed that Nephren-ka should be Pharaoh and she the consort. Glances were exchanged; various courtiers looked to Menera, who raised his hand to urge them to patience. This was a development which would need to be taken care of, but not now.

"I was all-but destroyed when my dear prince was killed; the sight of his ravaged corpse almost ushered my ba to join him in the Blessed West. It was you – all of you – who helped me to survive. If not for you, I would have succumbed to my grief and lain down to die. For that, I thank you all. I salute you all.

"If not for you," she continued, "I would have had nothing to keep me going. It was only your treachery that gave me the strength I needed. Your deceit which allowed me to see the true path beneath my feet."

The ripples among her audience became murmurs. Fear and confusion began to grip their hearts.

"When I realised that you had slain my beloved for fear of the power I wielded through him; when I realised that you had all plotted against me, for no reason but that you fear to be ruled by a woman; when I realised that you were plotting to marry me to some weakling in your power I knew what I had to do."

Slowly, the guests became aware of a sound rising above the hubbub of their own voices. It was a sound which provided them with a chilling reminder of where they were; the sound of flowing water. With a grinding of stone, a massive slab plunged down and covered the doorway.

"You will die for your treachery; every one of you. The sacred Nile itself shall be the weapon of my vengeance."

Water began to run from the base of the platform and lap around the feet of the guests. Cries of fear began to rise from their throats.

"Your Majesty!" Menera cried. "This is madness!"

"No, Menera. This is clarity."

"Your consort was a monster, Majesty! He killed thousands to slake his unholy lust for blood; threw children to his unearthly pets for no other reason than his own amusement."

"He had reason!" Nitocris declared, triumphantly. "He slew them all for my glory! He spilled their blood in my name."

"You will die as well! Your Majesty!"

Nitocris gave a cold, harsh smile as her platform gave a shiver. "Farewell, my treacherous counsellor."

Menera looked up and saw that there was a gaping void in the ceiling of the chamber. "No!"

With panicked strength, Menera leapt for the platform. He clutched at Nitocris' gown, but she drew a slim blade from behind her back and thrust it into her adviser's treacherous heart. He toppled back as, with stately speed, the entire platform rose up on a great pillar and disappeared into the void. The flow of water into the chamber redoubled, but it still took several hours for the chamber to fill completely. A few of the strongest guests were able to stay afloat for all of that time.

*

Captain Meredith Lloyd – Merlyn to her friends and colleagues in the US Air Force – woke from her nightmare as her plane descended towards Boston. A glance at the screen in the seatback in front of her told her that it was just after midday and that the city was almost completely fogbound. Her flight had been circling Boston for almost three hours while Air Traffic Control sought a clear runway to land them, but at last the plane was at last descending.

Merlyn secured her seatbelt and looked around for her papers.

"In the pocket, dear," her neighbour informed her; an elderly man travelling with his wife. "The stewardess put them there when you fell asleep."

"Thank you," Merlyn replied. She retrieved the thick sheaf of documents and photographs from their resting place alongside the in-flight magazine and the safety card and returned them to her briefcase. On top of the stack was a photograph of a black sarcophagus; it stirred a memory of her dreams and she remembered fear and cold, cold water.

Suppressing a shiver, Merlyn closed the case and stowed it beneath the seat. As she did so, she noticed a loose piece of paper which the stewardess had evidently failed to spot. She picked it up and glanced at it; it was the letter which had accompanied the documents when they arrived at her home in Colorado Springs three days ago. She glanced over the letter once more, still puzzled by the fact that it had come to her.

Dear Merry, the letter began.

Long time no see. Sorry if this seems to come out of nowhere but your name came up recently and I thought I'd get in touch. I heard a rumour you were working with that nutty archaeologist, Jackson? Say it ain't so, Merry; Little Miss Rational working with Wacko Jacko. That is too weird. Still; it's all good for me since I'm working on one of your favourite fields at the moment: Urban myth.

Done sniggering yet? Then I'll go on.

I've been tracing one of those ancient curse stories; Egyptian as it happens, which is why I was following up on what a few of the Egyptology fringe nuts were up to. A couple of contacts told me that Jackson was working on some government project and - surprise, surprise - a list of other names associated with this dodgy project included Dr Meredith Lloyd. No, sorry; Captain Meredith Lloyd: You go grrl.

Now, I'm not crazy enough to start digging into your business, Merry, but I wonder if you'd be interested in this case. It's compelling and also a little disturbing. Frankly I'm starting to become a believer with this one; I could use a calm head to go through my notes and remind me that there's no such thing as a curse. If you've got the time, have a look at the file I've included; maybe you could show it to Jackson if he's not too nuts.

If you're interested, give me a call. I'd appreciate your input and it would be great to see you again. In fact, call whether you're interested in this curse business or not, since it would just be great to talk to you.

All the best.

With love,

Joss.

Dr Jocelyn Rhys. Merlyn had an image of a pale, somewhat intense youth; a fellow student on the postgraduate course in Folklore which she had taken on part-time release from the USAF Academy. She had not thought about him much since graduating and to suddenly receive this mass of material from him was unexpected to say the least. Clearly she had made a bigger impression on him than he had on her.

Nonetheless, the material was intriguing and although it post-dated the Goa'uld period by several millennia, she had shown it to Dr Jackson. In light of his own experiences, he had agreed that it might be wise to investigate and since she was the contact point, Merlyn had been the logical choice. SG-7 were on two weeks' stand-down anyway, while Lieutenant-Colonel Ferretti supervised an off-world orientation at the Gamma Site.

With a mental shrug, Merlyn folded the letter and slipped it into her jacket pocket. In a few minutes she would find out just what this was all about, and whether it was a Goa'uld incursion or a silly story spread by idiots and gullible academics, it would be a nice break from dealing with the sometimes overwhelming spectre of the Elder Threat.

*

It was the sign which Merlyn spotted first; a long card bearing her name and rank. The man carrying the sign did not ring any bells at first, but slowly it dawned on her.

"Joss?" she asked, almost in disbelief. "You look good."

It was true. Clearly Joss was taking better care of himself than he had been; there were muscles under the cream-coloured linen of his jacket now and his once-pallid skin was almost bronzed. He had let his coppery hair grow long, which looked very odd to Merlyn's military eye, but it did seem to suit him.

"Merry," he replied with a broad smile. "You look great; you always did."

Merlyn set down her cases and kissed Joss lightly on the cheek. "It's good to see you again," she told him. "But," she winced, "please don't call me Merry."

"Sorry, Meredith."

Merlyn winced again. "Merlyn," she said. "I go by Merlyn."

Joss raised an eyebrow.

"It's my Academy callsign," she explained. "It just kind of stuck."

"It suits you, Merlyn," he said. "Look; let's get out of here and go somewhere we can talk. Do you want a coffee or something?"

"I wouldn't say no to coffee, but I need to go for a walk," Merlyn laughed. "I've been cramped up on a plane for nearly ten hours."

"Alright," Joss agreed, stooping to lift the larger of her cases. "I know a little café on Boston Common; it's not far from the museum."

"The museum?"

"Where the collection is being housed at present," Joss explained. "It's just a little place; one of those Rosicrucian Egyptology deals. The big museums won't touch the stuff because the provenance is so questionable, but the less respectable places can't seem to get enough of it. Since it resurfaced in the eighties the collection has been bouncing around from one to another as it switched owners."

"The whole thing's stayed together? I'm impressed."

"No-one ever seems to want to buy just part of it," Joss explained. "In the century and more since its excavation, the assemblage has never been broken up. The car's just over this way," he added, as they crossed the foggy parking lot.

"Not bad," Merlyn allowed, as they approached the gleaming Lexus. "I see one of us is finding a way to make folklore pay."

"Sad to say, it isn't the folklore. My Uncle Kit died and left me a little money."

"A little?"

"Well; actually a pretty vast amount of money, at least by my old standards. It's made a big difference to my life; just for starters I can afford the time to look after myself properly. I had a look at the graduation photos after you called; I was such a scrawny wretch back then."

"I didn't want to say anything," Merlyn admitted. They loaded her cases into the trunk and got into the car. "Now tell me a little more about this whole business."

"We'll park at the museum and I'll show you the collection, then we can get a drink in the park," Joss decided. "I can give you some more of the story while we walk."

*

The museum was clearly concerned over the value of the artefacts in the Armitage Collection. From the looks of the place – a three-storey brownstone with broadly-spaced bars on the windows – it was not normally used to house anything more valuable than a replica of the Rosetta Stone. The subject of Joss's 'curse' was infinitely more valuable, whether it was genuine or not, and the owners had drafted in extra security for the occasion. Guards in dark blue uniforms stood at the doors, front and back; security contract agents, wearing bullet-proof vests and sidearms. They waved Joss through without question; Merlyn headed off their examination by showing them her Air Force ID and openly displaying her sidearm. Inside, they crossed the small foyer to one of the museum's two galleries, where the collection was housed.

The entire gallery had been given over to the Armitage Collection. In the centre of the room a glass case covered the sarcophagus, an oblong of jet-black stone, carved deeply with rows of spidery, eldritch text. The lid of the casket, as decorated as the rest of the box, stood propped against the side, exposing the mummy case within. The case, sculpted in the shape of a human body, was the same deep, eye-straining black as the sarcophagus which contained it; the same symbols crawled across the black surface.

These pieces were dramatic to look upon, but for sheer impact they could not compete with what lay beside them. A petrified human body, only barely identifiable as female, lying on her back with her limbs akimbo. The skin was like leather, clumps of black hair still clung to the scalp and her body was all-but naked; only a few scraps of discoloured linen clung to her corpse.

"She was in the mummy case like that?" Merlyn asked, horrified.

Joss shook his head. "She wasn't in the mummy case at all; she was on top of it, face down and embracing it. No-one has been able to open the case, so far as is known. The big surprise is that the original excavators – Caldecott and Lessing, in the nineteenth century – didn't just crack it open. I had it x-rayed, but it seems to be lead-lined or something; from the weight I can believe it."

"It's horrible," Merlyn said.

"It is. The body is well-enough preserved to show that she broke her fingernails trying to claw her way out of the sarcophagus. She was buried alive. It's supposed to be her curse," he added, almost redundantly.

"I notice you didn't mention that in the report you sent me. Did you think I'd be squeamish?" Merlyn asked.

"I just didn't…I didn't want to creep you out."

Merlyn laughed. Oh, if only you knew, Joss. "I don't creep out so easily," she assured him, skilfully concealing the fact that she was creeped out, only not by the body. "On the other hand, I think I'd like some air – and caffeine – after this."

"Sure," Joss agreed. "Let's go."

*

"So is this a sickness and misfortune curse or a death-by-violence curse?" Merlyn asked, taking a deep lungful of the relatively clean air in the middle of Boston Common. The fog had lifted and the sun was now shining brightly. "You didn't give much detail of that."

"It's pretty gruesome," Joss confirmed, "and definitely of the violence kind. The collection has been associated with murder and violent death since its discovery; since before that in fact. What study of it has actually been done associates the sarcophagus with the Pharaoh Nephren-ka and his Queen, Nitocris."

"Nitocris? As in Herodotus?"

"That's right," Joss agreed. "The story turns up in writings from Herodotus to Harry Houdini, but nothing from the time. Still, it's a good bit of sensational journalism: A beautiful queen; murder; cruel revenge on a massive scale."

"Charming."

"You can see why Nitocris might have left a curse, though."

Merlyn snorted, sceptically. "I can see why the story got around," she replied. "If there has been any truth to the legends I'd put that down to the value of the artefacts. Violence often surrounds treasure; there's no need for magic. Odd though," she admitted.

"Oh?"

"On the plane, I was thinking..." Merlyn shook her head. "It's nothing," she decided.

*

Merlyn claimed tiredness – not entirely without truth – and retired to her hotel room early. Once she was there, hidden from view, she let her mask drop; without pretence, she was very worried indeed. She left her cases on the bed and dug out her cell phone.

The call was answered by an Air Force operator. "Cheyenne Mountain."

"Extension 52621; mobile line, scrambler code three," Merlyn said.

"One moment."

Merlyn switched her phone's internal scrambler to channel three, encrypting the signal so that only the SGC – using the appropriate decryption code – could understand what she was saying. The line gave a sharp click as the scrambler at the far end connected.

"Roberts."

"It's Merlyn; I'm glad you're still around. I thought the whole team might be offworld."

The lieutenant gave a soft chuckle. "Just the Colonel. Oh; and Sergeant Pearson's working with the Gamma techs on…something technical. Alexa took off for Russia this morning, though, so I'm feeling very lonely and abandoned. I wouldn't be surprised if I end up warped."

"You're already warped," Merlyn assured him, forcing herself to reciprocate his bonhomie.

"And you're scared," the lieutenant replied. "That's never a good sign. Was there a Goa'uld in that box after all?"

"Whatever was in the box is still there," Merlyn assured him, "but it isn't a Goa'uld sarcophagus. I need you to pack up some of my books and send them to me at the Boston Common Rosicrucian Museum."

"Which books?"

"The Candarian Pandects and the Sidereal Codex; and perhaps you had better send the Necronomicon as well," she added.

"The Necronomicon again?"

"It's a compendium," Merlyn explained. "There's something in there on more-or-less everything, although a lot of it's rubbish."

"I'll have a courier pick them up as soon as I dig them out; they'll be with you by the morning."

Merlyn gave a snort. "Don't bet money on it; there's something wrong with Air Traffic Control out here."

There was a pause. "I can fly out myself if you want," Roberts said. "I know Boston pretty well."

"That's okay," Merlyn assured him. "I'll be sure to let you know if I have any need for your particular talents, but for now I can't see there's much for you to do."

"Your call, Captain. I'll get those books sorted out."

"Thank you, Roberts."

Merlyn ended the call, the unpacked her things, carefully sorting everything into its proper place in the hotel room and stowing her case beneath the bed. By the time she was finished it was five o'clock and so she spent an hour perusing Joss's files for anything she might have missed before going down to the restaurant for dinner. Despite a generous and largely polite offer at the bar, Merlyn dined alone and drank a single glass of wine before retiring.

Alone in her room she studied the files for another hour, then checked over some of her other work for the SGC. At ten o'clock she said her evening prayers and went to bed.

*

Memphis,

Six months later

The Royal Barge of the Sun soared high into the sky, yet the divine light of Re did not fall upon the palace of Nitocris. The pall of greasy, black smoke which clogged the sky blotted out the sun's rays. Djefer, chief adviser of Queen Nitocris, held a cloth across his mouth as he struggled through the foul haze. He clambered up the steep steps to the royal apartments, trying to block out the unearthly howling of the beasts in Nitocris' kennels; beasts unlike any Djefer had ever seen; beasts that all his heart told him should never have been born.

Djefer's heart wavered as he reached the door to Nitocris' antechamber. The Queen stood at the window, gazing out over the great precinct at the column of smoke. Every few moments a scream rose up as another victim was hurled onto the ever-burning pyre. She watched with rapt fascination, a small shudder of delight running through her at each scream. Her left hand stroked up and down the smooth stone of Nephren-ka's open sarcophagus. Nitocris still refused to allow the body of her consort to be interred within the tomb prepared for him. She insisted that he would never leave her, and that he would be buried only when she could be lain alongside him.

"My Queen," Djefer called, softly. When she gave no response, he added more loudly: "My Queen."

Slowly she turned to face him, gaunt and lovely. She was clad in a simple, white linen shift and wore no adornment save the jewelled scarab at her breast. "Djefer, my loyal servant," she said. "What would you ask of your Queen?"

Djefer prostrated himself before her. "Oh Mighty Daughter of Osiris, I am the most humble of your servants. I beg forgiveness for my presumption but you must heed me. You must cease these endless sacrifices. The beasts in the pit grow fat and the sky is black from dawn to dusk."

"I make these offerings to my murdered husband," Nitocris whispered, coldly. "Would you have me dishonour him."

Djefer summoned up all of his courage. "Your consort is gone, My Queen," he said. "This slaughter will not bring him back and the people will not allow this to continue."

"The people shall do as I command, or their blood will flow to honour Nephren-ka!"

"If they do not rise against you, My Queen, then there shall soon be none left to do your bidding; or to die on your pyres."

"There will be enough," Nitocris assured him. "We shall add two more to tomorrow's lists."

"My Queen?"

"You have two daughters, do you not, Djefer?"

"I…Yes, My Queen," Djefer choked. He pressed his face to the floor and shuffled backwards form the room. On the stairs he raised his face to the sky. "I tried," he whispered. "I tried."

That night, Nitocris walked among her husband's pets; elephantine brutes with long, razor-toothed heads and pointed ears. They were like no earthly creature and their taste for flesh was all but insatiable, and yet she found their presence comforting and it soothed her to visit them before she went to her closet. It was late when she returned to her quarters. She bent over the sarcophagus and laid a gentle kiss on Nephren-ka's mummy case. Then she went to her closet, slipped into her cold, lonely bed, laid her head on the pillow and went to sleep.

She was awoken when rough hands gripped her arms. She screamed and thrashed against her captors, but as they dragged her from her closet she saw by the light of their torches that he guards had been slain. She looked around, desperately, at the sea of angry faces which surrounded her, until she spotted a familiar visage.

"Djefer! Help me, my faithful servant!"

"I tried," he said again. "I tried. I told you that the sacrifices must stop, but you would not listen to me. This is the only way."

"What do you mean? What…What are you going to do to me."

Djefer looked away, unable to face his queen. Her captors dragged on her arms, lifted her up and slung her roughly into the sarcophagus. The air was knocked from her lungs as she struck the hard surface of the mummy case inside. She struggled to recover, but sleep and shock made her sluggish. Her attackers closed in and with a scraping of stone they lifted the heavy lid of the sarcophagus over her.

"No!" she pleaded. "Please, no."

With a final crash the lid dropped down and plunged Nitocris into absolute darkness. She clawed at the base of the lid and screamed until her throat bled, but the stone was unyielding. Above her, the assassins listened to her screams and one by one they fled into the night, until only Djefer remained, sitting vigil by the sarcophagus until at last his mistress fell silent.

*

Merlyn stifled a cavernous yawn as she worked on the mummy case inscription. The storm which had struck during the night had disturbed her rest. She had slept fitfully right through it, but she could smell the ozone in the air as soon as she left the hotel, and the sky was still overcast. The lightning and thunder might well have contributed to the violence of her dreams. Her sleep had been troubled again; this time she had dreamed of being buried alive, no doubt inspired by the sight of the petrified corpse of Nitocris.

Not Nitocris, she reminded herself. Don't start buying into the myths; work from scratch and see where you go.

"Coffee?" Joss offered, offering a mug.

"Thank you," she replied, with feeling.

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Rough night?"

"I did not sleep so well," she admitted.

"I can understand; it's quite an upsetting story. I've been pretty on edge myself since I've been working on this story."

"Well," Merlyn said, "I'm getting nowhere on this translation without my reference material, so why don't you tell me some of the details on the curse? Maybe it'll help you to talk about it."

Joss sighed. "Well…I've been tracing the history of the collection for the past year. It's been one hell…" He blushed. "Sorry," he said. "I forgot."

"It's alright," Merlyn assured him with a patient smile. "Although I'd be grateful if you didn't say that word again."

"I remember now," Joss assured her. "I'll try to moderate my language. Anyway; it's been a heck of a trail. From Egypt to Seattle, then back down to Boston, and everywhere this sarcophagus has surfaced there are stories of violence."

"Anything in particular?"

"Murder and abduction, mostly. Some of the stories are pretty wild, but I've managed to confirm a number of them through newspaper cuttings and court records. A disturbing number of them, actually. Several dozen."

"Several dozen?" Merlyn was surprised. These kinds of stories usually rose up from one or two incidents, retold so many times that they mutated into a dozen different forms.

"Yes; and quite distinct incidents, but with common features and all quite horrible. There was one…" he halted. "I don't know if I should tell you. I don't want to upset you further."

Merlyn sighed. "It takes a lot to upset me, Joss," she assured him. "I'm not some silly girl; I'm an Air Force Captain. Take it from me that I could stare down things that would make most people turn white with horror."

"You sound like you speak from experience," he said, with something approaching reverence.

Merlyn winked, mischievously, but said nothing.

"Let me show you something less unpleasant before I start telling you about the incidents," Joss suggested. "Come and take a look."

Merlyn set down her papers and picked up her coffee and followed Joss from the gallery. He led her to the museum director's office and entered without knocking.

"Are you allowed in here?" Merlyn asked.

"The director and I have become good friends," Joss confirmed.

Merlyn caught sight of the set of mounted photographs on the wall and raised an eyebrow. "How good?" she asked. The photographs showed an attractive woman in her early thirties, captured standing at the Pyramids, in front of the Taj Mahal, and at Angkor Wat.

"Just good friends," he replied.

"She seems well travelled," Merlyn noted, hefting a marble paperweight in the shape of a sphinx from the desk.

Joss chuckled. "She's nothing more than a tourist really," he assured Merlyn. "I doubt she gets much out of the trips besides the photographs." He crossed to an ornately framed painting of the temple at Abu Simbel and at a touch it swung open on a hinge to reveal a safe.

Merlyn watched as Joss deftly dialled the combination and opened the heavy door. "Just good friends?" she asked, playfully.

"Just good friends," he repeated, with a long-suffering smile. "You know I only have eyes for one woman."

"Oh? Who?"

Joss looked away, pretending to rummage in the safe for the thing that sat in plain view at the front. Merlyn coughed awkwardly, but when he turned back, Joss acted as though nothing had happened.

"Here," he said, laying a large box on the director's desk. "Feast your eyes on this." He opened the box to reveal a fine chain of golden links, supporting a beautifully carved, jewelled scarab.

Merlyn's breath caught in her throat as something like terror gripped her heart. The jewel seemed appallingly familiar to her, and the sense of déjà vu was more chilling than any she had experienced before. She felt certain that the scarab had seen death; and a horrific death at that.

"It…It's hers, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes," Joss whispered in awe. "This was the jewelled scarab of Queen Nitocris."

"If it's genuine, and if it's that old, and if that body is that of Nitocris."

Joss laughed. "Yes. Yes; if all that. You see why I need you, Merr…I mean, Merlyn? I can't get this collection out of my head; I dream about it."

Merlyn could not tear her eyes from the jewel. "I think I know how that feels," she said.

"Would you like to try it on?" Joss offered.

Merlyn tore her eyes from the necklace. There was an alarmingly fervent look in Joss' eyes as he gazed expectantly in her direction.

"Oh…I…" she stammered, uncharacteristically lost for words.

"I think it would look good on you."

Merlyn's mind snapped clear. "No," she said. "Thank you, Joss, but no. It wouldn't feel right; something so laden with death."

Joss laughed, brightly. "Laden with death? When did you get so melodramatic, Merlyn?"

Merlyn forced a chuckle. "Must be spending so much time around Roberts."

"Who's Roberts?" Joss demanded.

Merlyn felt awkward again. "He's just someone I work with; a lieutenant on my team."

Joss raised an eyebrow. "Someone who works…under you?"

"Alright, I asked for that," Merlyn admitted, "but Roberts is just a colleague; and a good friend." The badinage lessened her tension, but the scarab still lay in its box and its presence gnawed at her mind. After a moment, she found herself unable to suppress a shudder. "Can you put it away please, Joss?"

Joss looked disconcerted. "Alright. Whatever you want, Merlyn." Looking perturbed, he closed the box and returned it to the safe. "I'm sorry; I thought you'd like it."

"It just makes me feel cold; I don't know why."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Go…sh; you look like someone walked over your grave."

"I think I need to get some air," Merlyn admitted.

"I'll come with you."

She shook her head. "It feels kind of like I'm never going to hear this story, but I think I need a little space. Perhaps later?"

"I have to go out for a while. Perhaps…over dinner?" Joss suggested, hopefully.

Merlyn drew a breath to give her usual gentle refusal. "Alright," she agreed, surprising herself somewhat. "Pick me up from the hotel at six-thirty."

"Six…?" Joss rolled his eyes. "Oh yes; I forgot about your monastic timekeeping."

Merlyn frowned, sternly. "I just agreed to my first date in fifteen years, Joss; don't push your luck."

"I'm sorry," he said, contritely. "Six-thirty; I'll be there."

Merlyn smiled. "So will I."

*

At a quarter-to-six, there was a knock on Merlyn's hotel room door. She gave a sigh as she went to answer.

"You're early," she began to say, but it was not Joss but a bellboy, carrying a parcel.

"Delivery for you, Miss Lloyd," the young man said.

"Captain," Merlyn corrected, absently. "Delivery from whom?" The parcel was far too small to be the books from her library in the SGC; besides it was too soon for them to have been delivered.

"A Mr Joss Rhys," the bellboy replied.

"Doctor, actually," Merlyn said.

"Well, pardon me, I'm sure."

"Were you looking for a tip at all?" Merlyn demanded.

"Sorry, Captain."

The bellboy handed over the parcel with a slightly ill grace and received Merlyn's generous gratuity with slightly more enthusiasm. Merlyn closed the door and looked at the card.

Forgot to say; dress for dinner. This should help. Hope you don't mind. Joss.

"Ooh-kay," Merlyn whispered. She looked at the box as though she expected it to contain a deadly serpent. She had a limited exposure to the kind of clothes which men thought she would look good in, but their choices were rarely things which she would be seen dead in.

With some trepidation, she opened the box and took out the dress. She crossed to the mirror and held it up in front of her.

"Oh my."

They met in the foyer of the hotel. Outside, it was raining again.

"You look stunning, Merlyn," Joss said, truthfully, looking pretty fine himself in a blue suit and white shirt open at the collar.

Merlyn blushed. She was sure that the elegant black dress was intended for a woman with far more hair than she had; the dress provided modest coverage in all the strategic areas, but her shoulders still felt uncomfortably bare. "I'm not really used to this," she admitted.

"Where do your dates normally take you?" Joss asked, playfully.

"A movie and the malt bar," Merlyn replied. "I told you; fifteen years."

Joss shook his head. "I felt sure that must be hyperbole. I am truly honoured," he assured her with a bow.

"Don't make fun of me, Joss."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he assured her, sincerely. "Shall we go; I'm in a no waiting zone."

"Thank you," she said, accepting his proffered arm.

The restaurant which Joss took Merlyn to was like nothing in her experience. She rarely dined out and when she did so it was usually nothing more than dinner with the team at Tabor's Algerian  Restaurant – the more traditional American fare of O'Malley's having been shunned by Ferretti since the bar and grill had placed a million year ban on SG-1. The Cider House was a completely different establishment; there wasn't a pool table and the live musicians played four-stringed instruments instead of six.

Merlyn was increasingly sure that she misremembered Joss. Not only had he fleshed out and toned up, she recalled a diffident man. This Joss was confident and charismatic and Merlyn found herself warming to him as the evening wore on. The food was excellent and for once the intimacy of the candlelit atmosphere did not seem uncomfortable to Merlyn. Joss did seem to be turning on the charm for her benefit, but he remained relaxed and she felt the same; there was no pressure.

Joss carefully deflected any questions about the collection until the waitress had brought the coffee. "I didn't want to spoil your appetite," he told her.

"Well, that's promising."

"I don't mean to be so dramatic," Joss apologised, "but it's pretty grim stuff."

"My business is grim," Merlyn assured him.

"And what is your business?"

"Photographic intelligence analysis," she replied. "I see a lot of war zone photographs; believe me, there aren't many lunatics who can match the horrors perpetrated by the sane in wartime."

"Alright then; if you're sure…"

"I'm sure."

"Well…It all begins with the marriage of Nitocris," Joss explained. "According to the legends – from Herodotus onwards – Nitocris ruled over the protests of her father's court nobles. Eventually, she agreed to marry and allow her husband to take the role of pharaoh from her, but perhaps in part to punish her recalcitrant nobles, the man whom she chose was a foreigner known as Nephren-ka."

"The Black Pharaoh," Merlyn gasped in horror.

Joss was taken aback. "You know the name?"

"I…I've come across it," Merlyn hedged; it would be hard for her to admit to him that she had read of Nephren-ka in the Necronomicon, a book that was itself the subject of innumerable folk myths.

"Well then, you know the stories?"

Merlyn nodded. "Nephren-ka was a foreigner from the East; a sorcerer, according to popular rumour, or at least according to the fancy of later historians. It's always difficult to make much of these things; there are no contemporary accounts, after all."

"You think the stories are hooey," Joss said.

"I think the stories are exaggerated," Merlyn admitted. "Unholy rites to weird gods in Ancient Egypt I can well believe, but unearthly animals? Probably elephants from Syria or something; it was a smaller world back then."

"Elephants don't eat people," Joss pointed out.

"It probably depends how hungry they are?"

Joss laughed. "Alright, Merlyn; you win this one. Still, the collection supports some of the stories; just for starters the fact that Nitocris…"

"Or whoever."

"…or whoever was buried alive on top of the mummy case of her consort."

"Or whoever."

Joss sighed. "I know I wanted you to bring a little scepticism to the proceedings, Merlyn; but the operative word was 'little'."

"Don't try to change me, baby," Merlyn quipped.

"Baby?"

Merlyn felt her skin prickle and burn; she was glad she could not see herself, but felt sure she must be a rather unflattering shade of purple.

Joss slid his hand across the table and gave Merlyn's hand a comforting squeeze. "Don't worry; I won't tell anyone."

"Won't tell anyone what?" Merlyn demanded, feeling flustered.

"That there's actually a funny lady under all that purity," Joss replied.

Merlyn laughed. "I think we should get back to the story of the collection," she said, but she did not withdraw her hand.

"If we must," he replied, with a dramatic sigh. He paused for a few moments to collect his thoughts. "Alright, so someone was buried with someone. If the stories are true then Nitocris was entombed with the mummy case of her husband at the hands of her own advisers. Nephren-ka himself had been murdered by the nobles of Khemet for corrupting the Queen with his sorcerous foreign ways and for failing to remove her from the position of true power. She continued to rule as Pharaoh, while he led her from the worship of the true gods" – Merlyn stifled a guffaw – "into unholy rites."

Merlyn nodded, sombrely. "The worship of the Outer Gods."

"You sound like the idea scares you," Joss said.

"I've read a lot of the stories," Merlyn replied. "To be honest, the people who describe the rites of the Outer Gods scare me."

Joss grimaced. "You know I wrote a monograph on that subject, don't you?"

Merlyn laughed. "I didn't, no."

He shrugged. "It was rubbish; it doesn't matter." He shook his head. "Anyway; Nitocris took revenge on those she blamed for the death of her husband by trapping them in a banquet chamber beneath the Nile and flooding it with everyone inside. After that she conducted a campaign of blood sacrifices in an attempt to appease the gods who held Nephren-ka's soul. She believed that if she could offer up enough blood in exchange, Nephren-ka would be returned to her and that they would be free to spread their rule across the face of the earth.

"Her bloody devotions continued for almost a year, but then she was betrayed and sealed in the sarcophagus by her faithless advisers. Her death ended the Twenty-First Dynasty and plunged the country into a year of civil war that was all but lost to history. The kingdom of Khemet did not benefit by her death; nor did the counsellors who betrayed her. The stories say that each of them died a gruesome, ghastly death. Her chief adviser was murdered by his own children and one of her faithful servants opened the pens which held Nephren-ka's beasts."

Merlyn was taken aback. She had heard a version of the story, but nothing this detailed. More than that, she was struck by the fervour with which Joss talked about betrayal and Nitocris' faithful servants; as though her death had been a personal affront to him.

"The beasts stormed through the city of Memphis, killing and maiming any who crossed their paths, shattering houses and temples until the city was a ruin, where blood run in the streets, and at last they were brought down by an army of hunters. Thus was Queen Nitocris avenged…!"

Merlyn snatched her hand back, suddenly more disturbed than she could say.

"Merlyn?" Joss asked. He looked surprised and Merlyn could almost have believed that she had imagined the fanatical gleam in his eyes.

"I have to wash up," she blurted out, rising hurriedly to her feet. "I'll just be a minute."

In the pristine environs of The Cider House's gleaming washroom, Merlyn splashed her face with cold water. A uniformed attendant passed a towel while declining to pass any kind of judgement.

Merlyn looked up into the mirror and started in alarm. She spun fast, hefting the only weapon within reach as she turned to face the hideous creature behind her: Long, jackal-like head as big as a microwave oven; razor-sharp teeth that glistened with drool; black eyes full of infernal malice. Merlyn was well aware that the soap dispenser she had seized was a paltry weapon, but fortunately she saw that there was in fact no beast behind her. She turned back and the slavering visage was gone from the mirror as well.

"Are you alright, ma'am?" the attendant asked, nervously.

Merlyn shook her head slowly and tossed the dispenser to the attendant. She gave a deep sigh. "Oh…balls," she said.

*

Egypt,

1923

"Mr Caldecott! Mr Caldecott!" Albert Bauer was a professional excavator and usually a most phlegmatic man. The sight of the powerful, sandy-haired overseer scrambling at speed across the sun-baked rocks towards the large tents was enough to tell James Caldecott that something extraordinary was happening.

"Calm down, man," Caldecott said in his lazy, New York drawl. He lifted a glass of gin and tonic from his table and sipped; the drink had been out too long and was unpleasantly warm.

Caldecott's daughter, Claire, looked up at the German in mild alarm as he halted, panting beside the table. "Why, Mr Bauer; you look quite out of sorts," the girl noted. "If Mr Coward is to believed I suppose you must be the mad dog, since you're certainly no Englishman."

"No, Miss Caldecott," Bauer agreed, patiently.

"Be quiet, Claire," Caldecott said, impatiently; he had been regretting his decision to allow his daughter to join him in Egypt since the day of her arrival. She in her turn had been punishing him for his neglect as often as possible. "What is it that requires such enthusiasm, Bauer?"

"It is Dr Lessing, Sir," Bauer explained.

"Robert?" Claire asked. She sat up in her excitement, dark eyes glittering excitedly. "What has Robert been up to? Has he found something scandalous?"

"Be quiet, Claire. Carry on, Bauer."

"Yes, Mr Caldecott. Dr Lessing has found the entrance to a crypt; he wants you to be there when he breaks the seal on the door."

"How exciting!" Claire exclaimed.

Caldecott sighed. "I shall be there momentarily," he told Bauer.

"We'll be there," Claire corrected.

"Hallo Robert!"

"Claire!" Robert Lessing turned from his consideration of the emerging door – a stone-framed portal with its opening blocked by a heavy slab – to greet his employer's daughter. Claire bounded forward, flung herself into his strong arms and kissed him.

Caldecott glowered at this scene of indecent affection. The Englishman was young, tall and handsome; hardly the typical image of an antiquarian. Claire was athletic and beautiful, with dark and daring eyes. They made an undeniably attractive couple and he had worked with Lessing for many years, but it still made Caldecott's blood boil to see his precious daughter in the arms of an employee; even if the employee in question was a respected academic. The patron of the expedition's disapproval was almost tangible, but neither Lessing nor Claire paid it any heed. When they returned to civilisation, Caldecott's word would mean something again, but in Egypt, Lessing's influence with the locals was such that his employer did not dare cross him.

Caldecott could simply have taken his daughter straight home of course, but he was too avaricious for that. Lessing was a renowned antiquarian and his sources assured him that there was something to be found in the desert here. Since word had come of Carnarvon's 'great find' in the Valley of the Kings, Caldecott's desire to find a rival treasure had redoubled and he would not spare even the time to take Claire back to Cairo to be put on a train; his fear that Lessing would cheat him overrode paternal instinct. He almost drooled to think of the riches that might be buried in the sands beneath his feet and – if truth be told – if his daughter's virtue and respectability were the only price that would secure those treasures and the wealth and fame they would bring for him and him alone, then that was a price he was willing to pay.

"You see, Mr Caldecott," Lessing challenged. "I told you it was here, did I not?"

"Are you sure?" Caldecott demanded.

"Of course he's sure!" Claire retorted, springing to her lover's defence with all the tenacious zeal of a devoted wife.

"See the seal on the door?" Lessing asked.

Caldecott look and did indeed see that the massive slab had been deeply inscribed with a panel of hieroglyphic text, surrounded by other symbols; symbols which seemed somehow to writhe and flow in the stone. "I see it," he agreed.

"That is the Seal of Sutekh," Lessing explained. "It is the most powerful symbol used by the Ancient Egyptians to lock away the greatest evil and warn of its presence. I have only ever read descriptions of it before now; it has not been seen by the eyes of man in over five thousand years. The Seal of Sutekh was used only a handful of times in all the recoded accounts. This is the tomb of the Witch-Queen Nitocris and her consort."

"Consort?" Claire asked.

"Yes, my dear," Lessing replied. "Like our own late, lamented Victoria, Nitocris ruled with the support of her consort, but in her own right."

"And what about her consort?"

"A handsome man with skin like the night, they say," Lessing explained. "A foreigner and a sorcerer, as hated by the nobles of Egypt as much as he was adored by his Queen."

"He sounds fascinating," Claire drawled.

"Well don't just stand there!" Caldecott snapped. "Open it up."

Lessing sighed. "Have patience, Mr Caldecott. We'll get the whole thing uncovered first; then we'll know if we can draw the seal-stone clean out or if we'll have to…"

"Just smash it open, man!"

Lessing closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to be patient. "This is the only extant example of the Seal of Sutekh; its archaeological value could well exceed that of everything within the tomb."

"Archaeological value?" Caldecott demanded. "It's a bit of carved stone. If you want one I'll have someone carve you a copy."

"Moron," Lessing muttered. "No offence, darling."

"None taken," Claire allowed.

"Damnit, Lessing!"

"It will be worth the wait, Sir," Lessing promised. "The tomb of Nitocris will render up treasures to put Carnarvon's finds to shame; I promise you."

Caldecott's eyes gleamed with avarice. "If that's true, Dr Lessing, I may just give you and Claire my blessing yet. If it is true."

Lessing released his hold around Claire's shoulders and turned towards Bauer's work crew. "Speed it up, Mr Bauer! His lordship wants it open."

"Yes, sir," Bauer replied, wearily. "Igri!" he snapped at the crew. "Move that sand!"

"Come and sit down, Claire," Lessing invited, gesturing towards his tent. "Mr Caldecott; may I offer you a drink while the teams clear the way?"

"I had a drink in my own tent," Caldecott grumbled, but he followed his wayward child and her lover anyway.

Lessing led the way down the stairs, a lantern in his hand. Caldecott and Claire followed. "Watch your step," he warned. "There may be loose steps; deadfalls."

"Look at the walls," Claire breathed. "The murals; they're so faded."

"If any light had reached them, they'd be gone completely," Lessing noted.

At the bottom of the stairs, the three found themselves standing before a second door; a slab of stone which completely blocked the corridor. Lessing turned and called up the stairs: "Picks and crowbars, Mr Bauer."

After almost an hour, the picks broke through and the work crew tore down the stone of the wall. Lessing stepped forward and raised the lantern. "Well, Mr Caldecott? Is it as I promised you?"

Caldecott swallowed hard. "Dr Lessing," he said, his voice a reverent whisper. "If you want, you can have my sister as well."

*

"Coffee?" Joss offered.

Merlyn almost jumped out of her skin.

Joss smiled, gently. "Je…Er, golly, Merlyn; you're skittish today. Another rough night?"

"Even worse," she admitted.

"I did warn you it was pretty gruesome stuff."

Merlyn shook her head. "I've seen worse," she assured him. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I think maybe its this weather," she added, looking at the rain pounding on the window.

"It is a little unseasonable. You know, you don't always have to be tough," he told her. "Although it is very cute." He smiled at Merlyn's blush. "Here you go; the coffee will help."

"Thanks." Merlyn took the cup; as she did so, her notepad tipped towards Joss.

"My God," he gasped.

"Joss!"

He ignored her protests. "You can read it!" he realised. "You can read the inscriptions. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not an exact translation," she demurred, "but the gist is familiar."

"A funerary incantation," Joss said, "in Nephren-ka's native tongue."

"It's not a funerary incantation," Merlyn replied, "and if that's his native tongue then he must have been a lot further from home than anyone thought; that and over a thousand years old. It's a resurrection passage contained in the Necronomicon," she explained, reluctantly. "According to al-Hazred the passage – and the script – is more than one hundred thousand years old and originates in the Far East."

"But what does it mean?" Joss demanded.

Merlyn was shocked; she had expected disbelief, maybe even scorn, at the mere mention of the Necronomicon. "It's a prayer to the Outer Gods," she admitted. "The text seems to be a plea for the gods to return the one interred in the coffin to life in exchange for an offering of blood."

"I knew it!" Joss exclaimed. "I knew it! It is the sarcophagus of Nephren-ka!"

Merlyn sighed. "It seems likely."

"This is incredible!" Joss laughed. "If we can prove that this coffin was intended as a vessel of resurrection, then it will go a great way towards proving the provenance of this collection."

"Or proving that it is a very clever fake."

"Or that," Joss allowed.

"How did it get here?" Merlyn asked. "How did the collection get to Boston?"

*

Albert Bauer was roused from sleep by the distant sound of a woman crying. He stumbled wearily from his tent and looked off towards the sound, but he saw nothing in the darkness. The wind blew hard in his face and he knew that on a night like this the source of the sound could be miles away; it could even be that the wind itself raised the mournful note.

He was about to return to his bed when something moved in the darkness; something huge and terribly fast. It approached with frightening speed, and as it grew nearer it loomed larger and larger from the deeper shadows which surrounded it; a wall of whirling grey that swallowed up all the blackness.

Bauer's eyes widened in horror. "Um Himmels willen," he whispered and he turned to run.

When the sun rose, the sandstorm was gone; as were the tents, the labourers, Albert Bauer, and all sign of the dig.

Lessing and Caldecott sat in the latter's cabin, smoking cigars and drinking brandy while the mighty ship rocked slowly beneath them.

"Claire looked particularly lovely tonight," Caldecott noted. "I was worried when I first saw what she had done with her hair, but it really does suit."

Lessing nodded. "She modelled the style on the murals in the tomb."

"I noticed. That dress as well?"

"Yes."

"And don't think that I did not notice that she was wearing the necklace from the tomb. It did look beautiful on her."

"Yes."

"She's grown so fast," Caldecott mused, wistfully. "And she looks so like her mother; so very lovely."

"Yes." Lessing set down his glass. "You are regretting your promise, aren't you?"

Caldecott coughed, awkwardly. "My word is my bond, Lessing. I gave you my blessing and I can't take that back."

"It's alright," Lessing said, reluctantly. "I…I'm not worthy of her, Mr Caldecott. I know that."

"Now I wouldn't say unworthy," Caldecott insisted. "You're a fine man, Dr Lessing."

"No, Mr Caldecott; you are kind to say so, but I have seen the truth. She is something finer than I am; something almost divine. To my sorrow, I am fit only to worship her."

"Steady on, old man," Caldecott said, but whatever else he might have been about to say was lost as the door to the cabin opened. "Claire!" he said, rising to his feet. "Whatever are you doing up, my dear?"

"She has a great destiny, Mr Caldecott," Lessing said, "but she must be free to fulfil that destiny."

"You are talking rubbish man. What could she achieve as a spinster?"

"I do not speak of freedom from me," Lessing explained. "She must have the freedom of money and position; she must be her own mistress."

Caldecott turned from his daughter. "What are you talk…" The breath exploded from his body at the force of the blow which Lessing struck. The ancient, ceremonial knife in the antiquarian's hand was as sharp as it had been millennia ago and the blade slid smoothly up, underneath Caldecott's ribs and into his heart.

"I am sorry, old friend," Lessing whispered, "but I do this for her."

James Caldecott sprawled onto his back, stretching his hand out in supplication towards Claire. She looked down at him with eyes that looked cold, cruel and remote. "Claire," he gasped and then he expired.

"Well done, my dear one," Claire said, showing no more regret over her father's murder than she might have done over the death of an insect. "Now gather him up, we must dispose of him before anyone sees the body."

"Yes, My Queen," Lessing agreed. He hastily wrapped the body in a sheet. He was surprised how little blood there was; the single stab wound was clean and neat and leaked only a little as he moved his erstwhile employer. Caldecott was not a small man, but Lessing's strength was equal to the task.

Claire opened the door to the cabin and the two of them went out into the companionway. They moved swiftly and they almost made it. They were less than twenty feet from the outer door – a matter of moments from being able to cast the body into the sea to be lost forever – when a door opened and a chambermaid emerged, carrying a covered dinner tray. The girl looked at them and her eyes widened in horror.

Claire leaped forward and seized the girl by the throat. With impossible strength she lifted the thrashing chambermaid from the deck, fingers crushing her delicate windpipe. Her action was too fast and precise for the other girl to have any chance to raise an alarm, but she was too rash. The tray dropped from the girl's hands; empty plates and cutlery clattered against the domed cover. In the narrow companionway, the sound was almost deafening. A steward came out of a cabin and took in the scene; he turned and ran.

"Stop him!" Claire demanded, but with Caldecott in his arms, Lessing could not obey. Claire threw the chambermaid to the ground, where she lay, coughing and choking. "We have failed," she said.

"Back to the cabin!" Lessing snapped, dropping Caldecott. "Quickly, My Queen."

They fled, running feet pounding after them, and locked the door to Caldecott's cabin behind them.

"What can we do?" Claire demanded, the cold certainty gone from her voice.

"You must go on," Lessing declared. "Shoot me!" He decided. "Your father's gun is in the dresser; shoot me and say that I did all this; that I forced you to help me."

"Yes," Claire agreed. "You are clever, my darling." She ran to her father's dressing table and pulled the small revolver from the drawer. She levelled the small weapon at Lessing's head.

"I love you, My…" Lessing's voice faltered. "Claire," he whispered at last.

Tears welled in Claire's eyes. "What…What have we done, Robert?"

"Do it, Claire," Lessing begged. "Save yourself."

"I can't," she sobbed. "I'm sorry, Robert. I haven't the strength."

"Open this door! Give yourselves up!" The cabin door shook as a body slammed against it.

"You must!" Lessing cried.

"I'm sorry." Claire squeezed the revolver's trigger. Lessing's body jerked backwards; his blood sprayed freely across the wall behind him. A flash of rage took hold of Claire as she saw her lover fall. "Bastards!" She spun towards the door and fired three more times, drawing cries of pain and fear from those on the other said. Then she raised the pistol to her head, and put the last bullet through her own brain.

She fell to the floor, her blood spilling freely over the jewelled scarab that hung around her neck.

*

"That's terrible!" Merlyn gasped. "And this is one of the stories you've managed to authenticate?"

Joss looked up from the file that lay open on his lap and nodded. "It caused quite a scandal with two members of society and a respected academic dead and four members of the ship's crew injured; the chambermaid's spine never truly recovered."

Merlyn shook her head in disgust. "All that over what? Money? Fame? To kill your own father over the possession of a few artefacts, however precious."

"I don't believe it was the artefacts," Joss told her. "Not as such. Claire Caldecott was obsessed by Nitocris. According to witnesses she talked about magic, resurrection; and about Nephren-ka. I believe that the idea of the curse took hold of her; in her fevered brain, she was Nitocris, striving to revive her beloved Black Pharaoh."

"And Lessing?"

"Just as obsessed with the legend. He was probably the one who encouraged her to dress as Nitocris; His obsession flattered and fuelled her delusions and so forth. It's a recurring theme; a kind of folie a deux which affects everyone who comes near to the collection."

Merlyn tried to look casual as she asked: "And what about you?"

Joss laughed and put his file to one side. "I'll admit to a certain obsession," he confessed, "but it isn't with Nitocris. If I'm honest, I didn't ask you here to consult about the collection."

"Then why…?"

"I didn't want to say before; I didn't want you to feel sorry for me, but when my Uncle died…Well, he died in a car accident; my mother was in the car as well."

Merlyn gave a gasp of sympathy. "Oh, Joss…"

"No," he said. "I mean it; I've come to terms with my loss, Merlyn. I really don't want sympathy. I only want you to understand; when I lost them both I started to think about my life. With my mother gone I realised that I didn't have anyone else in my life. I promised myself that I'd use the money Uncle Kit had left me to do the things I'd always wanted to do but told myself I couldn't: buy the things I wanted but couldn't afford; go to places I'd never had the time for; take the risks I'd never had the nerve to take. But I also wanted to take this as a warning and find what my life was missing. I asked you here because I wanted to ask you…" Joss gave a nervous laugh. "See; I still can't manage it."

"What is it?" Merlyn asked, kindly. She took hold of Joss's hand and squeezed, gently. "You don't need to be afraid; you can ask me anything. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Well that's just it. We are friends, Merlyn, or rather I hope so; but I've always wanted more."

"More?"

"Oh Merlyn; you are a wonder." Joss went down on one knee. "I realised that there was only one person I could imagine sharing the rest of my life with. Meredith; I'm asking you to marry me."

Merlyn blinked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car; her face flushed red. "What?" she asked, utterly bemused.

"I've loved you for years, Merlyn," Joss said. "I never had the guts to say anything at school because I knew I wasn't any kind of catch but I've changed. I'm worth something now, and I don't just mean the money. I feel like I've got something substantial to offer you, as a man."

"I don't know what to say," she admitted. "This is very sudden, Joss."

"It really isn't, although I know it might seem so to you. If you aren't sure then don't say anything yet," Joss told her. "I don't want to rush you or pressure you and I know that this isn't exactly the ideal time for this discussion. Give me an answer when you're ready and until then, I promise you I'll say no more about it."

"Thank you," Merlyn said. "So what's next?"

"Well, that's really up to you."

"No; I mean the collection," she explained.

"I ask you to marry me and you want to know more about the collection?"

Merlyn looked nonplussed and a little flustered. "But you said I should answer when I was ready and say no more until then," she reminded him. "I don't see why we shouldn't look a little deeper into this in the meantime. Think of it as my way of coping with an unexpected event," she added.

"Alright," he laughed. "Well then; with Caldecott and his daughter dead, the collection passed to James Caldecott's sister, Mrs Dora Armitage. She sold it to a showman named F.D. Rockwell."

"He must have been doing well," Merlyn noted. "This collection can't have been cheap."

"Actually, Mrs Armitage passed it on without even opening the crates. She conveniently 'mislaid' all of the paperwork, since that connected the collection to the murder, then flogged it as a job lot to a travelling show before the police could demand she hand it over. That's where the provenance of the collection went to. As near as I've made out in my research, the crates also contained Lessing's personal effects, including all his notes on Nitocris' legend."

Merlyn nodded, sadly. "That's a travesty," she sighed.

"She was scared," Joss replied.

"So what happened next?"

"Well," Joss admitted. "Now we come to a bit of an aberration in the pattern."

*

New York State,

1928

"Come closer, friends! Gather round and see one of the fairest jewels in Egypt's crown!" Fergus Duane Rockwell dropped his voice to a stage whisper and the organ music which played in the background dropped accordingly. "Rescued from the desert stands after centuries in the cold and dark. Ladies and gentlemen; boys and girls; I give you…Nitocris!" At Rockwell's signal, the gas lights flared into life and illuminated the stage. "The Flower of the Desert!"

The black mummy case of Nephren-ka stood at the back of the stage, flanked by papier mâché statues of loincloth-wearing slaves and animal-headed gods. The remaining artefacts from the collection – the shinier ones in any case – were distributed strategically around the stage. It was an impressive set; far and away the most impressive that Rockwell had ever created. The centrepiece cast all the rest into shadow, however; the mighty sarcophagus, propped up so that its interior was clearly visible to the crowd; the lid stood open on a hinge. The sarcophagus was now lined with black satin, and lying upon the satin was the perfectly preserved body of Queen Nitocris.

The crowd gasped in amazement. Rockwell loved that sound; it gave him an almost sexual feeling of satisfaction.

"Nitocris; that subtle Queen who slew her husband's killers, drowning them in the waters of the Nile. Nitocris; the most beautiful woman in all the world. Nitocris; so lovely, so gracious and so powerful that not even the ravages of time itself would touch her."

Nitocris' mummy was close-wrapped in bandages of red and black silk, her arms and legs bound separately. She wore a jewelled, golden belt, hung with talismans. Rings decorated her fingers, a high crown rested upon her head and a necklace hung around her throat; a necklace which bore a jewelled scarab. Her hands and feet were left free of the bandages; their olive-copper skin was smooth and flawless. Her hair was a short bob of jet black, trimmed straight across the fringe and around the level of his shoulders. Her painted eyes were closed in peaceful repose and she was indeed very beautiful.

"I know what you are thinking, my friends," Rockwell went on. "You are thinking: 'That woman is not a thousand years old'. So I want to invite a member of the audience to come up on the stage here and examine the Queen; to confirm that she is – most tragically – dead."

A number of hands in the audience shot up, while others backed away, made nervous by the funeral atmosphere; and by the waves of infrasonic vibrations radiating from the lowest pipes of the organ.

"Yes; you Sir," Rockwell decided. "You have a discerning face."

The man he had selected stepped up onto the stage.

"Feel free to examine the Queen for any sign of life, but please," Rockwell added, "remember to show a little respect. This is royalty you are dealing with."

"Alright," the man replied, taking a step towards the sarcophagus.

"No!" The audience jumped in alarm as a slender, almost beautiful young man with dark skin and hair pushed his way to the foot of the stairs. "You must not allow him to touch the Queen, Effendi!" the man pleaded in thickly accented English.

"Get out, Abdullah!" Rockwell snapped. "I pay you to look after the animals, not to lecture me on my own business."

"But the curse, Effendi!"

Rockwell sighed and turned to the volunteer. "I must in fairness warn you, Sir," he admitted. "Even now, Nitocris' beauty can exert a powerful influence, drawing men to dare to kiss that cold but perfect mouth. I must caution you therefore that there is a curse upon this woman, in death as there was in life. It was said in Ancient Egypt that any man whose lips touched hers would die and so I beg you to strive against that temptation. Now, Sir; if you dare…"

More hesitantly, the volunteer stepped forward again.

"You must all leave this place!" Abdullah cried, springing up to the stage. "You are in great danger."

Rockwell gave a twitch of his head and two of his bouncers hurried up and grabbed the young man by the arms.

"You must leave!" Abdullah repeated as he was dragged away.

A young woman in the audience swung her handbag at one of the bouncers, recriminating with him for his rough treatment of Abdullah.

"If you please, Sir," Rockwell said again.

With great reluctance, the volunteer took the final steps up to the side of the sarcophagus. He reached out with a trembling hand and took hold of Nitocris' wrist. "There's no pulse," he said.

Rockwell beamed. "Well, carry on, Sir." He turned back to the rest of his audience, taking a step forward to interpose himself between the crowd and the scene on the stage. "In the meantime, perhaps I should acquaint the rest of you with a few facts surrounding the life of this magnificent beauty.

"Nitocris was a princess of Ancient Egypt. She had no brothers and so when her father died her husband should have become Pharaoh in his place. But Nitocris' husband was a sorcerer; an evil man who fed screaming babies to his pets and tortured innocents for his own, jaded pleasures."

Rockwell rambled on, giving a garbled and sensationalised version of the dry story contained in Dr Lessing's notes. How anyone could make a tale of sex, murder and revenge so utterly tedious was beyond Rockwell, a born showman, but he had been able to restore the glamour and excitement to the narrative easily enough.

Someone in the audience cried out. Rockwell spun around to see the volunteer bending to press his lips to those of the body of Nitocris. "No!" he cried. "As you value your life, Sir! Do not kiss the Queen!"

But the man was beyond all warnings and his mouth pressed against that of Nitocris. The lights dimmed and after a moment the Queen's arm hooked around his neck. Several women screamed and a handful even fainted. With a jerk the volunteer was dragged into the sarcophagus and the lid slammed shut.

"My God!" Rockwell gasped, staggering down the steps from the stage.

The sarcophagus jerked and jumped and shuddered on the stage, as though some terrible struggle were taking place within it. A groan rolled out across the audience and with slow, jerking movements two of the animal-headed statues began to move.

"Ladies and gentlemen; I must ask you to clear the tent!" Rockwell cried. Half of the audience obeyed and half of them stared in rapt fascination.

The shambling statues reached the sarcophagus and opened the lid. The volunteer toppled out and crashed onto the stage. Those closest saw his face and cried out in fear; the once young visage had been replaced by waxen, wrinkled features.

Over the body stepped Nitocris, silk wrappings clinging to her slender figure. Deadly and seductive, she raised her hands and began to chant.

The remaining audience began to back away in fear. Only a handful were still in the tent to hear an answering voice chanting back at Nitocris. Abdullah stepped forward, pointing at her with a short, crooked staff.

"Quickly, please," Rockwell begged, shepherding the crowd with his arms. "We must leave." He hustled the last of the audience out of the tent. Moments later, a woman's scream split the night and the tent grew dark behind them.

Abdullah emerged from the shadows of the tent. "It is done," he told Rockwell. "Never do something so foolish again."

The audience – those who had not fled in terror already – slowly dispersed into the night, leaving F.D. Rockwell's travelling show standing dark on the common. A few tried to get their money back and were politely reminded that their tickets clearly stated that no refunds could be given.

"Pack it up!" Rockwell snapped. "Let's be somewhere else when they start to think about what they've seen."

In the tent, the 'volunteer' was peeling off the waxy mask which made his features look aged. Crudely applied, it would never have fooled anyone who bothered to look closely, but no-one ever did look closely. Why would anyone look at the grotesquely distorted face of Victor Janus when they could be looking at the silk-bound legs of Hetty Baker?

Hetty sat on the edge of the stage; she had donned a woollen robe over her silk and held her Nitocris wig in her hands. She was talking with 'Abdullah', whose anger seemed utterly mollified. Behind the three performers, Rockwell's common-law wife, Adrianna, was helping Pierre and François out of their animal masks. The two mimes looked exhausted as always.

"A fine show," Rockwell told them all. "I swear, there is no limit. You just get better and better. Abdullah; the ladies love their little Arab boy."

"My name is Armin," the young man replied, impatiently. "And I am a Parsee, not an Arab."

"Whatever. You have to be Egyptian for the show," Rockwell explained, as though talking to a child.

Armin narrowed his eyes, dangerously. "At least try to remember what my name is when we are not doing the show. The others are not addressed by their stage names after hours."

"Good job too," Hetty laughed. "I'd never remember 'oo I was supposed to be. Mistress Zara, Gypsy fortune-teller; Nitocris, Queen of the Nile; or plain old 'Etty B." As she spoke, Hetty's voice dropped into Mistress Zara's husky burr, before returning to her usual, brassy tones.

Rockwell had discovered Hetty fresh off the boat from England and known at once that her face was one which would sell tickets. It was unfortunate that her voice could have polished brass and he had often tried to get her to retain the Zara voice at all times. "What can I say though, Hetty? Magnificent!"

"Oh, 'ark at you, Mr R. All I does is a little shamblin' and some talkin' in tongues; ain't nothing to it. It's Armin does all the 'ard work; 'im and Victor."

Pierre coughed, pointedly.

"Oh yeah; and Pierre and Franky under them 'ot masks. All I does is lie there and try not to sneeze."

"I will not hear you put yourself down so, my dear Miss Baker!" Victor protested, sweeping up her hand and kissing it. "It is your radiant presence which glorifies this production beyond the level of mere sideshow attraction."

"Sauce," Hetty giggled, retrieving her hand with a smile.

Rockwell glowered at Victor. "Anyway; well done all of you. Now let's get packed away and ready to move."

Later that night, Rockwell made his way to one of the caravans. In the moment before he knocked on the door he heard a soft laugh, but paid it little mind.

Hetty answered the door and she looked flustered. From the way she was holding her robe closed, Rockwell suspected that she wore nothing underneath; nevertheless she stepped forward a little and closed the door behind her as though trying to keep him from seeing inside.

"Anythin' the matter, Mr R.?" she asked. "I was jus' getting' changed; I'll bring the jools over when I'm decent, I promise."

"No need for hurry, my lovely Nitocris," he assured her, "no need at all. In fact, why not keep them. You wear them every night, it seems foolish to keep them apart from you."

"Oh. Well, it's kind of you to say and I'm glad you trust me, but I…I don' like to. That necklace with the beetle on it; fair gives me the shivers it does."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Rockwell assured her. "Are you sleeping well? I know that you had some trouble with your dreams?"

"Dreams? Ha! Nightmares, they were. But I'm okay; Armin makes this thing that sends me right off. Some secret of the Orient."

"Is there anything else you need?" Rockwell asked. "Anything else you desire?"

"I…" Hetty looked a little nervous, taken aback by her employer's intensity. "Mr R., isn't your wife…"

"Forget about my wife! What has she got to do with anything? I'm talking about you, Nitocris."

"I really need to get some sleep," Hetty pleaded. "Just catch forty winks before we set off."

"Then I will leave you in peace," Rockwell said. "Goodnight, Nitocris."

Hetty forced a laugh. "'Etty," she insisted. "Call me 'Etty, Mr R. Please."

"Goodnight, Hetty."

Adrianna was waiting when Rockwell returned to his own caravan and she did not look pleased.

"And where have you been?" she demanded.

"Just making sure that the performers are ready to travel," Rockwell replied.

"Performers or performer?"

Rockwell snorted impatiently and went to pour himself a bourbon. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you heading off towards Miss Baker's caravan, Fergus! Do you think I'm blind? Do you think I wouldn't have noticed the way you drool over her?"

"All I did was say goodnight, Anna," Rockwell snapped.

"I'll bet! And you know why? I didn't say, did I?" she asked, in a tone full of sweetness and innocence. "I saw Victor going that way as well, just a few minutes before you."

"Victor?" There was a sharp crash.

"Fergus?"

Rockwell's right hand dropped to his side. The shattered glass fell to the floor; blood and whisky dripped from his fingers. "He has no right."

"No right!" Adrianna exploded. "I won't stand for this, Fergus. Either that woman goes or so help me…"

Rockwell turned, fast, and slammed the bottle of bourbon into his wife's head. Adrianna fell in a shower of glass, the side of her face a mess of blood; her left ear was in tatters. Rockwell crouched in front of her, holding the broken bottleneck like a knife.

"Fergus," Adrianna whispered. "Please."

Rockwell stroked her hair and shushed her. "I love you," he assured her, "but this is bigger than us. I wish you could have understood. Perhaps this is what was meant to be," he mused. "Perhaps only something as precious to me as you could suffice as an offering."

Adrianna's vision was swimming. "What…?" she managed to mumble.

"You will be my first sacrifice to My Queen," Rockwell explained. "I only hope that you realise what an honour I am doing you."

Hetty woke from a fitful sleep to find the moon shining full and bright through her window. She stirred and lifted herself on her elbow, then smiled down on the recumbent figure of her lover. The light caught her gaze again and her smile vanished.

"Wake up." She leaned down and kissed the smooth cheek. "Wake up, Armin. Something ain't right."

The young Parsee woke slowly and looked up at her. "Everything is well from where I'm lying," he assured her.

"Sweetie. But it's late. We must've both dropped off, but Mr R. should've been around to tell us all to 'it the road. Somethin' ain't right. Can you go and ask?"

Armin slid reluctantly from her bed and began to dress. "I don't see why I have to be the one to go."

Hetty felt cold and drew the blanket around her shoulders. "Please, Pet; you know I don't like talkin' to Mr R. these days. 'E's gone all creepy on us."

Armin stooped and lifted something from beside the door. "You may have to conquer your squeamishness," he told her.

Hetty chuckled. "I love in when you talk fancy," she told him. "You know so many pretty words."

"Not that it seems to stop Mr Rockwell treating me like a nine year old," Armin replied. "I'm not exactly eager to speak with him myself and it may be my lucky night." He passed a slip of paper to Hetty. "This was pushed under the door."

She took the paper and unfolded it. "Meet me by the big tree on the common," Hetty read, unconsciously copying her employer's accent as she recognised his hand. She stopped and looked up at Armin in fear. "Wear the necklace. With all my love and devotion, from your faithful servant," she finished. "Armin; I'm scared."

"I'll take care of you," he promised. "You don't have to be afraid."

Hetty shook her head. "I don't mean I'm scared of 'im."

*

"So only one person died that time?" Merlyn asked.

"That anyone knows of for sure," Joss agreed. "But no-one knows quite what happened. Adrianna Carson was knocked out and Victor Janus – né Finkelstein – was drugged; all either of them knows is that they expected to die that night but they woke up in the morning alive and…well, in Janus' case healthy; Ms Carson lost the hearing in her left ear and was scarred for life."

"Mentally as well as physically, I'm sure," Merlyn opined.

Joss nodded. "She gave up the road and married a mime; some might say that was a sign of a deranged mind. Hetty Baker and Armin Daruwala…disappeared."

"So they might have been killed as well?"

This time Joss shook his head and he beamed with pride. "I found them," he said.

"What?"

"It took a lot of research and I even had to hire a private detective, but I tracked down their granddaughter in Michigan. I contacted her and she told me that her grandmother kept a diary; she agreed to give the diary to me."

"I'm impressed," Merlyn said. "How did she seem when you spoke to her? Did it seem like this was a familiar family story?"

"You could say that."

Merlyn raised a questioning eyebrow.

"She told me that she would send me the relevant diaries and give me free permission to use them as I saw fit, on the sole condition that I never contact her or any member of her family again, never use their names in print and never bring any part of the collection within thirty miles of Ann Arbor."

"I notice there wasn't much sign of your folie a deux in this one," Merlyn pointed out.

"I said it was an aberration," Joss admitted. "The pattern of the original occurrence is repeated with the businessman who bought the collection from Ms Carson as a gift for his wife. It went into storage and surfaced again in Chicago in 1941. A couple of rich wackos – the Fotherbys – used the collection as props in a kind of Hermetic revival cult and ended up killing six people before they were arrested. Similar pattern in 1946; an infantry Colonel tried to start up a museum with pieces he brought back from SS caches. He organised his buddies into a quasi-religious gang of antiquities thieves who worshipped his sister. Then a hiatus until 1958 when another rich couple bought it and…oh."

"What?"

"They killed their three children," Joss admitted. "When they questioned him, the husband explained that he was not worthy to father children on his wife – whom he refused to call anything other than Nitocris – and that when he realised this, he had to correct his presumption by destroying the progeny of his forbidden liaison."

Merlyn forced herself to be hard. "Tell me the rest."

Joss sighed. "1965 saw one of the worst. A cult, sort of like the Manson Family, took the collection on a tour of most of the northern states. They were led by a woman called Lyn Newton whom they considered to be Nitocris reborn. Newton was from a good family but seems to have had a fair few problems to start with. She actually tracked down the collection in order to make it the centrepiece of a cult of personality. Her followers killed seventeen people and about a hundred household pets in her honour. She executed two of them – the people; rather more of the pets – by strangling them with her bare hands.

"When they were finally caught she was found not guilty by reason of insanity and the bulk of the blame was laid on her 'high priest'. Eight people were given the death sentence, three went to prison; Newton and five of her followers ended up in the asylum. She died there a few years ago; killed herself by jumping out of a hospital window after a warder had to break both of her arms to get her to stop strangling another patient."

"I think I may be physically sick," Merlyn whispered. "I'm sorry, Joss; I've seen some terrible things, but there's just so much of this. Besides, this isn't some distant p-province" – she kicked herself for almost slipping and saying 'planet'; she must be more upset than she had realised – "it's home."

"I know," he assured her. "I've just been studying this for so long I hardly see it anymore. What say we take a break?"

"Thank you; that sounds like a good idea."

"I should go and do some things I have to do then," Joss told Merlyn, regretfully. "Do you…Would you like to get something to eat later on, maybe?"

"Oh, I couldn't," she said, apologetically. "Really, I just don't feel up to it."

"Sure," he agreed. "I understand. You've got my cell phone number, though. Just call me if you need anything; anything at all."

"I will," Merlyn promised. As soon as Joss had left the museum office, she took out her own cell phone and dialled. "Extension 52621; mobile line, scrambler code three. Hello, Lieutenant."

"Afternoon, Ma'am. I got the package off okay, but apparently there's some problems getting it into Boston. Aside from the weather some clown managed to ship the books by way of Canada and now there's a customs issue; apparently your Sidereal Codex may have been illegally removed from Siam in 1872."

"That's all I need," Merlyn said.

There was a pause at the far end of the line. "You don't sound your usual, vivacious self, Merlyn."

"There's a lot of death in this case, Roberts," she replied. "A lot of people have died around this collection. I feel like a ghoul digging over their deaths on a matter of scholarship."

"Assuming its purely academic," Roberts reminded her. "This isn't just a puzzle; it's possible Elder Threat. Ma'am; are you in any kind of danger out there?" he asked.

"No. Or I don't think so, anyway."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come out there?"

Merlyn laughed. "Lieutenant; if I didn't know better I'd think you were fussing over me."

"Just bored," he chuckled. "Alright; if you don't want me in Boston, is there anything – and I do mean anything – I can do for you here?"

"If I give you some names and dates, can you get me some law enforcement details? The kind of stuff Joss can't get his hands on?"

"Sure," Roberts replied. "Shoot."

Merlyn reeled off every name and date she could remember. "See what comes up based on that."

"Will do," Roberts assured her. "And remember; if you need anything, call."

"A girl could get an ego," Merlyn laughed.

"Ma'am?"

"I've had Joss tell me to call if I need anything as well," she explained. She paused for a moment, considering, before she added: "He's also asked me to marry him."

"What!"

Merlyn jerked the phone away from her ear. "Ow," she protested. "Calm down, Lieutenant."

"When did you last see this guy?" Roberts asked.

"Eight years ago."

"Watch your step, Merlyn."

Merlyn laughed. "I might almost think you were jealous, Lieutenant Roberts."

Roberts' voice was serious. "I mean it, Merlyn," he said. "People in love are irrational and dangerous."

"So who are you in love with?"

"Cute," Roberts riposted. "Just take care. Remember that we need you back in one piece; there's no-one at the SGC who could take your place on the team."

"I'll bear it in mind," she promised. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For caring."

*

Las Vegas,

1988

Darkness lay across the floor of the warehouse; darkness and silence. Then a torch beam flickered through the shadows, dancing across packing crates and shelves.

"This is a mistake," a voice whispered.

"Trust me," another voice replied.

"We are robbing the cops."

"It's not like we're breaking into the third precinct; this is a low-security evidence lock-up. They won't catch us if you can just shut up."

The cynical burglar did not seem convinced. "If this stuff is so valuable, why is it lying around in a low-security warehouse?"

"Because the cops don't care about it. It wasn't important; when three thousand people see a Vegas magician shoot his assistant dead on stage, they don't need to bring their props in evidence. There was just no-one to take it away." The beam of the burglar's torch lit upon a plastic evidence bag. "Bingo." The lead burglar picked up the bag and held it out to his disbelieving comrade.

"Oh my God."

"You see, Mike. Isn't that worth the risk?"

Mike put out a hand to feel the weight of the necklace. "Damn straight, Bob."

Bob grinned under his balaclava then tucked the bag into his pocket. "Let's grab what we can and get out of here."

Bob lay in the bath at his apartment and let the tension of the job seep out of him. He closed his eyes and once more saw the night's haul in front of him; that great array of sparkling gold and lapis lazuli, set with what surely must be precious stones. Bob had no idea what anything so beautiful was doing among the tawdry tat of a Vegas magician's act, but of course the owner had hardly been the average Vegas magician. The average magician did not pull a gun on his assistant on stage and then try to convince the jury that she was a ruthless murderer several thousand years old.

With a contented sigh, Bob put such thoughts out of his mind and focused on the take from this job. With so much gold, it would be the biggest score of his life even if they couldn't find a buyer interested in the pieces as jewellery. Ten percent to his contact on the force, thirty to Mike, twenty to the fence and the rest for him; he could retire on that, or at least take a few years off.

Bob opened his eyes and nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus, Mel! Give a guy a heart attack."

Mel gave her boyfriend a lazy smile. She was wearing a low-cut top and the jewelled scarab glittered between her breasts; the effect was rather fetching.

"Ah…Mel; is anything wrong?"

Without a word, Mel crouched at the foot of the bath and trailed her hand seductively in the water. Bob was confused; he had never seen Mel look so confident and…poised.

"Mel? What…?"

With a  sudden surge of speed, Mel lunged into the bath and seized Bob by both ankles. She pulled hard and he slid towards her, his head disappearing under the water. He thrashed and struggled, but Mel gripped his ankles with brutal power and slowly Bob's strength faded.

Mike came over straight away when Mel called. While Bob had always looked down on his lover, Mike looked at her with eyes of love and saw a graceful goddess. Even so, he spotted the change in her at once.

"Oh, Mike," she said. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Oh yeah," Mike agreed. "Isn't what wonderful?"

"We're going to be a power in this world, Mike," she explained. "Don't you feel it?" She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, and Mike sank to his knees, suddenly gripped by an overwhelming awe.

"Wh-where's Bob?" he asked, worriedly. Bob was a possessive lover and would have beaten Mike black and blue if he suspected him of messing about with Mel.

"Don't worry about Bob. I didn't need Bob anymore; I need you, Mike. I need your help."

Bob looked up, adoringly. "What do you need me to do?"

Mel smiled the cruel, possessive smile of a woman who had been dead for four thousand years. "I need you to help me get something."

*

Merlyn woke up in a cold sweat, her body shivering at the memory of her dream. She felt physically ill, almost weak with shock. A flicker of lightning lit the room. As the thunder rolled, she dragged herself out of bed, hauled her aching bones to the sink and turned on the cold tap. Her face in the mirror looked pale and waxy, her eyes surrounded by dark shadows.

"And Joss wants to marry this?" she asked herself. To her embarrassment, the thought still made her feel excited; the thought that someone wanted to marry her. Despite her poor grasp of romantic subtext, Merlyn knew that she was not short of admirers but this was her first proposal of marriage. "And do I really want to say no?" she asked her reflection. "Do I really want to say yes."

Merlyn sighed and shoved her head under the cold water. When she looked up, her face was less pale and her eyes more alert. She drew a deep breath, then went back to kneel by her bed. It was only a little before five; not too early for her morning prayers.

*

"Tell me about the robbery," Merlyn challenged.

Joss looked up from his desk with a slightly guilty air. "Robbery, Merlyn?"

"In Vegas."

"Oh! That robbery."

Merlyn gave him a quizzical look. "What did you think I meant?"

Joss coughed uncomfortably. "I stole a few things at college; on dares mostly. I wanted to fit in."

"Well I'm not really worried about that," Merlyn assured him. "I want to know about Vegas."

"1985," Joss explained. "The collection found its way into the possession of a Vegas magician named Johnny Mysterio; second string but pretty good by all accounts. Apparently his assistant began throwing her weight around, calling herself Nitocris; you know the pattern by now."

"The folie a deux. She thought she was Nitocris; he worshipped her and killed people to honour her."

"Except that Mysterio didn't do it. Instead he…"

"Shot her in the head on stage," Merlyn said.

Joss chuckled. "Are you testing me on my own notes?"

Merlyn shook her head. "I've never heard anything about it," she assured Joss. "Tell me."

"Well; you're right. Mysterio killed his assistant. He told the cops that he had to stop her; that she had killed and would kill again if he didn't stop her, and on stage was the only place she let her guard down.

"After that, the collection spent three years in a police lock-up. Then a couple of small-timers swiped the small stuff. One of them had a girlfriend who got the Nitocris bug; she killed him, seduced his partner and tried to get him to help her steal the sarcophagus. Well, you can imagine how well that worked out; two people trying to lug that thing out of a police warehouse? They were both shot dead resisting arrest."

"I guess whoever gets 'the Nitocris bug', they still think the same way they did before," Merlyn mused. "Mel Hooper was a small-time crook, even when she thought she was an Egyptian Queen. Lyn Newton was a psychopath before and a psychopath after."

"She was a sick woman," Joss reminded Merlyn. "We shouldn't judge too harshly."

"She killed seventeen people, Joss; I don't feel I'm overreacting by using the word psychopath."

"No; I'm sorry," Joss admitted. "It just sounded…Well, I'm not used to hearing stuff like that from you. What happened to 'judge not lest ye be judged'?"

"Again, I fall back on 'killed seventeen people'. I'm not judging her; that's already been done. The courts tried her, the doctors diagnosed her and now she's answered to a higher authority."

Joss nodded. "You're right of course." A frown creased his brow. "How did you know her name?"

"You told me yesterday."

"Not Lyn Newton," he told her. "Mel Hooper. How did you know her name?"

"Well, that's what scares me," Merlyn admitted. "I really don't know."

"You must have seen it in the file," Joss said, decisively. "A simple case of cryptoamnesia. Honestly, Merlyn; I asked you to come here to be my voice of reason, but you're getting as bad as I am."

"Actually," Merlyn reminded him, "you asked me to come here for a rather different reason."

"True enough."

"I've had some time to think about it," Merlyn said, "and I've come to a decision."

Joss's eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry, Joss, but I can't say yes."

"Oh."

"But I don't want to say no, either."

"Oh."

Merlyn smiled. "I like you, Joss; you're sweet and smart and handsome…"

"You missed out modest."

"Stop; I'm being serious."

"Sorry."

"That's okay." Merlyn took a settling breath before continuing. "What I wanted to say is that I do like you and I can imagine a day when I would say yes. But we haven't seen each other in years and I have to be brutally honest, I haven't thought about you very much in all that time. I couldn't possibly say yes without getting to know you again first. It's too sudden."

"I understand."

"But," she hastened to add, "I do want to get to know you. If that's alright with you."

"It's fantastic," he assured her with a gentle smile. "I more than half expected to get shot down in a heartbeat."

"That's good then," Merlyn said. "I just hope this collection doesn't drive us both mad before we get a chance to see if this goes anywhere."

"A not inconsiderable risk, but we'll do what we can." There was a pause. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Joss busied himself making coffee for them both. "Do you want to know what happened next?"

"I hate not knowing the ending," Merlyn replied. "It's what I like about the Bible. That was a joke," she added after a tense moment. "I do occasionally make jokes, even about my faith. My comrades in arms tell me its one of the only reasons they can stand to be around me."

"Charming," Joss said.

Merlyn laughed. "It's a military thing; we call it camaraderie. Don't worry; it takes about five years to get the hang of it. Anyway, please continue."

"Sure," Joss agreed. "Okay; after the attempt to steal the collection, the police finally got an Egyptologist in to look at it. A man named Dr Adrian Pole was called in and he brought the whole lot back to UNLV to authenticate. After six months he transferred to Harvard and brought the collection with him. He believed them to be real and made the first serious attempt to track their provenance; I made substantial reference to his initial searches when I was tracking the progress of the stories surrounding the collection. He actually went so far as to purchase the entire collection when it went up for sale."

"How much did it set him back?"

"Not too much," Joss replied. "He bought it at police auction and withheld publication of his authentication until after the sale."

"Let me guess," Merlyn sighed. "He went mad and killed several people."

"I'm afraid so. His obsession focussed on his assistant, Miss Laura Last. There were several deaths, although it was some months before anyone connected them to Pole. He was careful and he was very smart. This was the most recent case and one of the best documented, although sadly I haven't been able to get access to the police files and Miss Last – understandably – doesn't much care to speak about it."

"She's still alive?" Merlyn was surprised.

"Oh yes," Joss confirmed. "She escaped the curse; like Hetty Baker. She's a clerk at Harvard Medical School these days."

"I see."

"I have some more business to take care of," Joss said, apologetically. "Do you mind me leaving you on your own again?"

"I'll live," Merlyn assured him.

"I'm just worried I'm not being a good host," he told her. "I don't suppose you'll be free for dinner tonight?"

"You know what? I think I might be. Usual time, but let's go somewhere a little less fancy this time; okay?."

"Fine," he replied. "I have to run."

Before he left, Joss leaned in to kiss Merlyn on the cheek. She drew back at first, but then relented and even returned the gesture.

After Joss was gone, Merlyn spent about an hour working on her translation before picking up the phone.

"Harvard Medical School," the operator said.

"Laura Last, please," Merlyn said.

*

Merlyn met Laura Last in the foyer of the administration building at Harvard Medical School; since the rain was still coming down in leaden sheets they went back up to Laura's office to grab a coffee. The clerk must have been fifteen years older than Merlyn but her tired green eyes looked nearer sixty than forty-five and her hair was almost certainly died brown.

"I realise this might be hard for you to talk about," Merlyn said, "but I need to get a personal perspective on the collection and I thought it might be easier for you to talk to another woman."

"You take your scholarship very seriously," Laura noted. She seemed nervous; hesitant. There was fear behind her pale grey eyes.

Merlyn found herself thinking that it would be odd for anyone to see Laura Last as Nitocris. The slope of her shoulders was not exactly regal and she was rather too fair to make a convincing Egyptian. Her gaze, on the few occasions it actually met Merlyn's, was diffident; her voice was thin and unassertive.

"I think it may be more than scholarship," Merlyn replied. "I believe that there might be something very real and very dangerous about this collection. I need your help to make sure that what happened to you doesn't happen again."

"That sounds like crazy talk, Miss Lloyd."

"Merlyn; and I have to say, you don't sound very convinced."

Laura sighed. "No. You're right; there's something about that collection. I don't understand it, but I saw it take control of Adrian. He changed so much. He was my lover, as well as my supervisor and my boss; you probably guessed that."

"Actually, no," Merlyn admitted.

"Oh. Anyway, not long after he started working on the collection he started getting weird. He stopped sleeping with me; said I 'deserved better' than him. I didn't know what to think. I was in love with him, but I couldn't seem to convince him. The next thing I knew, the marking on my work started to slide. He wasn't grading me, he was rubber-stamping; everything I said, he agreed with, without question. Good for the ego, terrible for the thesis. Eventually I asked to be transferred to another supervisor, but he told me he'd die without me."

So far, so familiar, Merlyn thought to herself. "Let me guess; he started calling you Nitocris?"

Laura looked startled. "Yes! How did you…? He was obsessed with the woman. I went along with it at first. I let him talk me into dying my hair black, getting a sort of Cleopatra hairdo; it didn't seem so much odder than a lot of my boyfriends, and he did get me a lot of gorgeous presents. But then it got strange. He was so intense about it; he used to prostrate himself in front of me and rattling on about glorifying my name with death. I started to get scared, but I was terrified of what he might do if I broke it off."

"I'm not surprised," Merlyn agreed.

"Then…Oh God; then there was the party." Laura was distraught now; so shaken that Merlyn did not even have the heart to chide her for her blasphemy. "One of Adrian's friends said he'd heard I wanted to switch supervisor and offered himself for the job. He…He made it pretty clear that he wasn't interested in my academic credentials."

"I see."

"When I told him I wasn't interested, he got angry and started attacking my work – and my moral character – in front of everyone there. Adrian stepped up to defend me and suggested I leave and let him try and sort things out; he said I'd feel better by the time I got home. I was about halfway there when Dr Scott – the one who…who said those things about me – came hurtling off the roof of a dorm block and…smashed into the ground at my feet."

Merlyn got up and crossed to an office door; the plate said 'Dr Rhodes Williams, Course Director'.

"What are you doing?" Laura asked.

"Following a hunch," Merlyn replied. She opened the door and went into the office, returning a few minutes later with a half-empty bottle. "Senior academics are so reliable," she said, pouring a generous measure of Irish whiskey into Laura's coffee. "I don't normally approve, but you need something to steady your nerves. You don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to."

Laura shook her head. "I think I need to finish it," she said. "My work started to suffer. I was clearly influenced by Adrian's obsession and my theories started to get wild. Two academics made a particularly scathing attack on my findings and they were both found dead after Adrian was out of town for a few days. Then one of my closest friends stole some of my thesis work and submitted it as her own. Three days after I found out and told Adrian, Tammy was murdered. A man attacked us both in the park; he just came out of nowhere and hit Tammy in the stomach, then he ran away. He didn't steal anything, just hit her and ran. It was only after he was gone that I saw that he'd had a knife.

"Then, when the police caught him, he said he didn't really know why he'd killed Tammy. What he did tell them was that he thought he had done it for me. They sent three officers to arrest me."

Laura held out her mug and Merlyn poured her another shot of whiskey.

"No whipped cream?" Laura asked, with a shaky laugh.

"Sorry."

"'S okay. They were taking me out to the car when Adrian arrived. He was always such a quiet man, but he tore into them like a maniac. I couldn't believe he'd do anything so insane; and I couldn't believe he won. Two of them died, the third was crippled for life; I only found that out later though. At the time I was too busy being dragged off."

"Where did he take you?" Merlyn asked.

"An old church. He holed us up there for a few hours, but the cops found us. He was raving more and more about how he was going to make the city streets run red with blood in my name – Nitocris' name, that is; by that point he hadn't called me Laura in months – and in the end I just got so scared I grabbed his gun and shot him."

"I'm sorry," Merlyn said. "I know it can't be easy for you to relive this."

Laura gave a bitter laugh. "I relive it every night. The worst part of it is that sometimes I almost bought into it. It was almost intoxicating, to have this man whom I idolised hold me up as a figure of worship. I know I should have cut him dead and in part I let him go on because I wanted him to revere me. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't led him on."

"It's not your fault," Merlyn assured her.

"Yes," Laura agreed, "so the therapists tell me. Oh yes; I spent six months in an asylum and I've not been able to look at an Egyptian artefact since. I had to drop my studies and I ended up here by chance more than anything."

"I'm sorry," Merlyn said again.

"It's not your fault."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Laura looked at her, shrewdly. "You look like a religious sort," she noted. "You could always pray for me."

*

By the time she got back to the hotel, Merlyn was feeling very low. Laura Last's testimony had muddied the waters, but it had convinced Merlyn that she was not imagining things; there was a power here and she was more-or-less certain that it was housed in Nitocris' scarab necklace. The weather continued to keep her spirits down; the rain had eased off a little, but the lightning and thunder had returned in spades and she was still drenched just from running to her hire car.

"Phone message for you, Ma'am," the receptionist said, passing across a memo envelope.

"Thank you." Merlyn opened the envelope and glanced at the note.

From Joss – Can't get away until 7. Any chance we can make dinner at half-past? Call me at the museum.

Merlyn called from her room, but the museum phone was engaged. She checked the clock; it was almost six. Who would be calling the museum at this hour? She wondered. She tried Joss's cell phone instead; the number was unavailable.

With a sense of impending doom, Merlyn pulled on her still-damp coat and left the hotel.

The main door of the museum was securely locked, but the rear door lay in the parking lot and the frame had been wrenched out as though to allow something large to be carried through. With a silent prayer to the loving God who had inspired her to bring her sidearm, Merlyn drew the pistol from her hip, snapped on her torch and stepped quickly into the storeroom, turning to check the corners. It had seemed paranoid to go armed for a simple artefact check – even if she had suspected Goa'uld involvement – but she suddenly wished that she had her trusty MPX to hand.

Inside the museum, everything was dark and quiet, but there was a smell of death. Congealing blood and released bowels; not quite fresh, maybe an hour old. Merlyn knew this scent, but she had never experienced it on Earth before; it was not a pleasant thing for her to encounter in what should have been a safe and familiar environment. Everything seemed too close to home. An itching sensation crawled up and down her spine as she moved further into the storeroom; close quarters combat was not exactly her forte.

Merlyn moved stealthily through the museum towards the office. As she slipped through the main galleries, broken glass crunched under her feet. She flicked on her torch and saw that the cases had been smashed open; it came as little surprise that only the pieces from the Caldecott Collection were missing. She took another step and touched something soft. The torch beam flickered down and then back up. Merlyn stepped back, squeezing her eyes shut to try and shut out the staring face of the dead security guard.

Illumination flared behind her closed eyelids as the main lights came on.

"Police! Drop the weapon!"

"Drop it, punk! Drop it now!"

Merlyn raised her hands. She eased the safety back on, then reversed the weapon before lowering it carefully to the ground.

"Step away from the guard; step away now you bastard."

Talk about adding insult to injury. Merlyn stifled a sigh. "Something tells me you have the wrong man," she said.

*

Two uniformed cops were waiting in the rain at the door to the museum when the detective arrived. He was in his late fifties; a big, powerful man with greying hair and sharp, clear eyes.

"Officers," he greeted them.

"Lieutenant Stevens," the older of the two replied. "So good to see you at last."

"Traffic's a bitch, Officer Bailey," Stevens replied, deadpan. "Tell me a story."

Bailey snorted with bleak humour. "Speaking of bitches," he said. "Woman name of Meredith Lloyd – we've got her in the office with Detective Merchant for now – found standing over the body of a murdered security guard with a gun in her hand." Bailey handed over the evidence bag. "The guard was Philip Tanner; an ex-cop," he added, angrily. "His throat had been slashed to ribbons and we found his partner in one of the cases, sliced and diced by the broken glass."

"And you think this woman is our killer?"

"Stands to reason; vicious little dyke."

"Hmm." Stevens peered through the window in the office door. The suspect stared back at him with her dark eyes. Another officer, a female detective, waited with her. "How many shots?"

"Pardon, Lieutenant?" Bailey asked.

"Simple question, Officer; how many shots were fired?"

"Well…none."

"I see; and what precisely makes you think she's a lesbian?"

"That hair," Bailey replied. "I mean, come on; what other kind of woman has hair like that?"

"Off the top of my head? A nun or a soldier," Stevens suggested, shaking his grizzled head. "You know, Bailey; I really can't think why you never made detective." He held up the evidence bag. "This is a USP9 SD if I'm not mistaken."

"What a lot of letters. So this thing has a degree; so what?"

Stevens sighed. "This is not a cheap gang-banger's pistol, it's a special forces offensive handgun; highly specialised, precise and expensive. In short, a professional's weapon. In the unlikely event that the person carrying a sophisticated piece of hardware like this was a lesbian hit woman and antiques thief, she isn't likely to also be getting her jollies by slashing throats or to be hanging around waiting for the police to show up. Is she? Officer Bailey?"

Bailey shot Stevens a poisonous glower. "Well I guess that's detective business, isn't it, Lieutenant?"

"Pretty much, Officer." Stevens turned away from Bailey and opened the door. "Evening Merchant."

The female detective nodded at her partner. "Lieutenant. Has Bailey filled you in on his theory?"

"Indeed. I'm reserving judgement." He jerked his head, gesturing for Merchant to join him in the gallery. She came to the door but did not leave the suspect alone. "What do we really have?" Stevens ask.

"We have jack," Merchant replied. "The only suspect is an Air Force Captain; she wants to make a phone call but I've put her off for now."

"We'll have to let her or there'll be hell to pay. I take it her credentials check out?"

Merchant nodded her head. "But that's about all that does. According to the files there shouldn't be anyone here at all but the guards; the place is closed for two weeks. We also have a missing person's on the museum director, Beth Alisen, whose mother hasn't seen her in days."

From her seat at the table, Merlyn watched the two detectives confer; the rookie and the grizzled veteran. In the past hour she had been grateful for the presence of Detective Merchant. Officer Bailey had seemed ready to summarily burn her at the stake but the detective was pretty grounded and to judge by their professional relationship, her lieutenant was more of Merchant's kind than Bailey's.

The lieutenant nodded and Merchant came over. "Make your phone call," she said.

"Can I have my cell phone, please?" Merlyn asked.

Merchant grimaced. "I'm afraid the officers were a little overzealous in confiscating your possession."

"Wonderful," Merlyn sighed, picking up the phone and dialling. "Extension 52621, unsecured line," she told the operator.

"Pretty fancy," Merchant said.

"I don't suppose I get any privacy?" Merlyn asked.

Before Merchant could respond, a voice emerged from the line. "O'Neill."

Merlyn's throat felt dry. "General. I'm sorry; I was sure I asked for 52621."

"You did," General O'Neill assured her. "They put you forward to me since Roberts isn't here right now. Apparently he mentioned that there was a potential Behemoth involved."

"I don't know about that, Sir, but I do need some help."

"What kind of help."

*

Stevens walked with Merlyn through the museum, while she gave him an outline of what had been stolen. Merlyn felt dog tired, but she tried to hide it as she gave the tour.

"I'm also worried about Joss," she said. "To judge by this destruction, it looks as though someone else has fallen victim to the…" She shook her head in frustration. "I can't think of any other word so I have to call it a curse. It's a kind of obsession which surrounds the collection and always seems to end up with murder."

Stevens laughed, grimly. "I don't believe in curses, Captain. The robbery is gang work; it's got all the hallmarks of the Beasts, one of our less professional brotherhoods. The guards isn't much their style though."

"Please believe me," Merlyn appealed. "This collection was connected to the Pole case, sixteen years ago; Joss gathered evidence of a dozen other incidents."

"And where is that evidence?"

"Gone," Merlyn admitted.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it. We'll find your Dr Rhys and sort out the Beasts. If you want my advice, you'll get a good night's sleep and give us a call in the morning."

"A good night's sleep," Merlyn laughed. "I haven't had many of those recently."

"Well, in that case there's some bedtime reading to help," Stevens told her. "A large consignment of books with your name on them; they came in by courier just after you were arrested. The officers took custody but we're to hand them over to you. You can pick them up from Merchant in the office when you collect your weapon."

Merlyn nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Just don't leave town in a hurry," he cautioned.

"I shan't," she promised.

As Merlyn headed for the office, Stevens called after her: "Tell me, Captain; how is it that a single call from a junior Air Force officer gets the President of the United States to put a call to my Captain?"

Merlyn shrugged. "It's not what you know," she told him, with a weary smile. "It's who you know. Goodnight, Lieutenant."

In the office, Merchant handed over a stack of wrapped books; two folios, a quarto and a more modern size volume. Merlyn looked at the last in bafflement and checked the address label. It was addressed to Jocelyn, it was postmarked Ann Arbor and the sender's name was Rose Daruwala.

"Is there a problem?" Merchant asked, shrewdly.

"No," Merlyn assured her. "Just getting them balanced. I don't suppose I could get someone to help me to my car with an umbrella; these are far too valuable to get wet."

"Sure; no problem." Merchant grinned and called out: "Bailey!"

*

Merlyn woke up at her desk, with a feeble beam of grey sunlight on her face and her face on a book. She sat bolt upright in terror, and was relieved to find that she had only drooled on her notes and not on the pages of the Necronomicon. While she waited for her brain to reach full speed, she glanced back over her translation of the spell on the side of the sarcophagus. As she had suspected, it was a fragment of a magical rite, the purpose of which was to grant life beyond death within the confines of an incorruptible physical body. Even if it had worked, Merlyn was pretty sure that the spell was intended to keep a living person alive, not to restore the dead to life.

The clock told Merlyn that it was almost six o'clock. She had overslept. Hurriedly she said her prayers, showered and dressed in fresh clothes, then rang down for breakfast. Only once she had consumed several cups of coffee and a goodly quantity of food did she feel ready to tackle the world again.

Merlyn sat at the desk, put her notes to one side and picked up the diary; the diary of Hetty Baker which had been sent to Joss. The granddaughter, Rose, had thoughtfully marked the place with a folded letter. Merlyn opened it up and read it.

Dear Dr Rhys,

I have enclosed the volume of my grandmother's diaries which will be of interest to you. I hope that this will answer all of your questions regarding Harriet Baker-Daruwala's involvement with the Rockwell Collection. I must repeat, however, that if you have further questions I would prefer it if you not contact me. Should you do so, I shall not respond and I shall take legal steps if you persist.

However, I feel that I should take this last opportunity to warn you against the path you seem set on taking. My father passed on to me the warning which his mother gave to him, that he should under no circumstances have anything to do with that cursed collection. I know it sounds like nothing more than superstition, but I have been raised to believe that collection, and particularly the scarab necklace, is pure evil. If you study it then it will possess you and not only you but those you care about will suffer.

The influence of that evil scarab is real. It drove F.D. Rockwell mad and it haunted my grandmother to her dying day. She lived her life in fear of that vile power and all the love of her husband and her children never quite gave her peace. Terror of that power moves through my family like a poison; a curse in and of itself. I grew up with it. I feel it in my bones every waking hour and it stalks in every dream I ever have.

I do not expect you to believe me, but I have to give you this warning. If it is within your power then you must do as my grandmother could not and destroy those vile relics of evil. I hope – I pray – that my grandmother's diary will convince you.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Rose Daruwala

Merlyn put the letter aside and turned her attention to the diary. Having scanned through the text the night before and ruled out entries in which the author obsessed about her weight and her love of cream cakes, Merlyn skipped straight to the relevant entries and read them through once, then again, more slowly. With a growing sense of unease, Merlyn recognised an echo of her own fears. Hetty Baker described the cold dread which seized her at the sight of the necklace and the fear which stalked her tormented nightmares.

I read the cards tonight to see what they said about me and Armin. In all the years since I learned to read them, the cards have never told me anything but what I wanted to know. It's like Madam Zelda told me, you look at what's there on a the table and you tell them what's there in their hearts. Same thing if you read for yourself, it's just a way of getting straight what you really feel and maybe don't admit to. Only not tonight.

I saw danger tonight. Something, an evil presence moving through the world. I felt it searching for me, its claws reaching for me. I think it's something I can fight, but if I don't then there will be death and destruction. Even if I do there'll be change and sorrow.

As I did the reading I saw something in my mind. I saw that necklace that Mr R. wants me the wear in the new act he's got planned. That horrible thing with the bloody big beetle on it. I hate that necklace, but he's so insistent. He kept reminding me that he's the boss and that he found me on the docks, one day away from selling myself like a common harlot. It's strange, I never heard him use that word before, except in the act. And he's never spoken to me like that. He seems so angry about something.

Merlyn glanced ahead to a later entry.

I dreamed of death again last night. A whole city overrun by monsters. I heard the screams and I felt the fear of the people as they were run down and devoured.

I woke up screaming myself. Armin shushed me. He made the fear go away for a little but it's still there. I can remember the pain of teeth crushing my leg and I can remember the feeling of the same leg breaking between my teeth. I didn't even tell Armin, but I dreamed that I was the monsters, and in the moment I first woke up I (and here the handwriting became wobbly for a moment) wanted to kill him, just to taste his blood.

I bit my own lip until it bled. I can still taste the blood and I can still feel what it was like to want to hurt my love.

What is happening to me?

Finally, she settled to read once more the passage in which Hetty described the fateful confrontation on the common, on the night when Rockwell tried to murder his wife.

I closed the door on Mr Rockwell and had to grab hold of Armin to support me. I wanted to kiss him, but I was shaking too hard. I never used to be so frightened of Mr Rockwell. He's changed.

---

It's later. I have to say what happened, just to get it straight in my head. I don't want to think about it, but we need to remember.

Mr Rockwell sent me a letter, asking me to meet him by the big tree on the far side of the common. I was frightened, more frightened than I should have been. I was worried that Mr R. wanted to seduce me, but I knew there was more to it than that. The evil I saw in the cards was coming for me. I could feel it as sure as I felt the coldness leaking from that awful scarab necklace. I told Armin everything, about the fear, about the cards. I thought he'd laugh at me, but he didn't. He said he believed me and that he'd come with me to make sure I wasn't hurt. He also told me to be careful and he gave me the pistol he keeps in case one of the animals gets out of control.

We went down to the tree together, but Armin told me to go ahead while he kept out of sight. I had my best dress on and the pistol in my little handbag.

As I got close, I saw that there were two people with Mr R., and they were tied to the tree. My blood went cold when I saw he'd got a knife in his hand. There was no light but the moon, but I could see that one of the people was Mr Janus. The other had something over her face. I didn't recognise Mrs R. until later when I realised that what she had over her face was blood. She wasn't saying anything, but Mr Janus was babbling on and on and pleading with Mr Rockwell not to hurt him.

I put my hand in my bag and held the pistol before I called out.

Mr Rockwell looked up and for a moment I saw something, or someone else in his eyes. "You're not wearing the necklace." He accused me. I told him again I didn't like it. I said it gave me the creeps. He told me that the necklace was the symbol of my majesty and that I should be wearing it for the sacrifice. I asked him what a sacrifice was and I didn't much like his answer.

"You are my queen," he told me. "You are the radiant light of the Nile in the sky. I offer you these lives in token of my adoration."

"Lives!"

"The light of my past life and the callow brute who thought he was good enough to lay his hand upon you."

Mr Janus leaped manfully to my defence and assured Mr R. that he would not consort with the likes of me. Blooming cheek from a man who was on my doorstep ten minutes before Mr R., begging me for I can't bring myself to say what. I was only grateful that Rockwell didn't know about Armin, otherwise it might have been him tied to the tree instead of that peacock Janus.

Mr Rockwell was still ranting on about how I was the light of his existence and no-one was worthy of me. I didn't like the way he was waving the knife around any more than I liked the way he was talking. He was also walking forward,