Vampire Sheikh (3 page)

“Josslyn would do the sacrifice if Gemma but asked her to,” Shahin continued to argue after the woman skipped off. “Gemma knows what it's like to be your vessel. Hell, she would do it herself if you let her.”

Seth cast the other man a glance. It had been just last week that the three of them had shared the most intimate act three people could have together. It had been at once breathtakingly sensual and mouthwateringly carnal. Seth had taken blood from her then, but only a small amount. And all three were still reeling from the effects.
Mostly in a good way, but he wasn't about to take any chances.

“No,” Seth said. “I don't dare touch your woman again. In the state I'm in, God knows if I could stop before she…”

He didn't complete the sentence. The circumstances they spoke of could have any number of outcomes, none of which he wanted driving an irreparable wedge between him and the sheikh. He'd already lost his best friend to this damnable situation. He would not lose another.

“Better it's a stranger,” he said. “Just in case.”

Shahin jetted out a breath, understanding the warning. “Very well,” he repeated. “I'll do my best to find someone by morning.”

But as it turned out, that was unnecessary. Shahin needed to look no further than the front gate of the palace to find a woman just begging to become Seth's sacrifice….

N
ephtys had plenty of warning before Haru-Re burst into her rooms in the
haram
of Petru's temple compound.

Unlike Khepesh, which was built solely under the ground, Petru Palace was gloriously placed aboveground in a magical bubble of temperate atmosphere, and flowing waters and never-ending sunlight in obeisance to the Sun God they served, Re-Horakhti. It was gorgeous, although Nephytys did miss the cool darkness of Khepesh when her thoughts turned inward…which was quite often these days.

Ray's element to call was fire, and as he approached, the sky above the lush temple garden outside her window lit up with ribbons of orange and red, showering down a rain of lightning. She could hear the scamper of hurried footsteps as the
shemsu
of Petru scattered
before their furious demigod like schools of fish before a crocodile.

The door crashed open.

“You!”
he roared, jabbing an accusing finger as he came at her. Streaks of fire flew from his hand, shooting onto the Persian rug. “You should stop meddling in affairs that don't concern you!”

She didn't turn to him, because she knew that would infuriate him even more. Nor did she bother to deny she was the one whose timely interruption had spoiled his assignation with the oldest Haliday sister.

“Oh, but it does concern me,” she said calmly, maintaining her meditative pose while sitting on the window seat overlooking the garden, “when my intended husband goes to see another woman in her hotel room, with seduction on his mind.”

Ray stalked over to her, halting with his huge body looming over her. She could feel the awesome power roll off him in hot, electric waves. The man was angry. As angry as she'd ever seen him.

Good. She was angry, too.

“I wasn't aware you were so interested in my dealings with other women,” he barked.

She finally turned and glanced at him. Shimmering in a golden tempest of light and fury, the high priest was tall and broad and handsome as a demon of temptation. Which he was. Her own personal sexual demon of temptation.

Her heartbeat doubled.

“On the contrary,” she said. “If I must remain pure for the year preceding our marriage, so must you, my dearest one. That is the whole point of this ritual period
of cleansing. To rid ourselves of past sins.” She looked at him meaningfully.

He leaned down a fraction closer. “And do you have so many sins on your conscience,
meruati,
that it will take a whole year to purify yourself of their stench?”

She returned his glare with equanimity. It was not
her
stench she was worried about. She had not had sex with another man for centuries. She had no appetite for being with any other than the one she loved.

Which, to her eternal sorrow and regret, was this man—the enemy of her brother and of her people, the architect of her misery and the ultimate betrayer of her heart.

But she'd rather he didn't know that little humiliating secret. His ego was big enough as it was. And it didn't help that despite her pain and in spite of his betrayal, she had never quite shaken the notion that under the hard, merciless exterior beat the heart of a man who was truly good.

“I am a veritable dung heap of trespass,” she said evenly. At least she could have the immense pleasure of needling him.

His eyes took on a dangerous glint. “Just tell me you haven't slept with that brooding jackal of a brother of yours.”

She gave a moue of distaste.
Or maybe she was wrong about him being good.
“Leave it to you to envision such a perversion.”

“It was the way things were done in the days of our birth,” he pointed out unappologetically. “And he is but your adopted brother, not of your blood. The way you fawn all over the man, one would think—”

“You had your chance to be the object of my fawning, Ray,” she interrupted him tersely. “You threw it away when you sold me to the highest bidder.”

Sparks exploded around him like a firecracker. “Lies! You were stolen from me! How many times must I say it to convince you?”

“As the number of grains of sand in the desert,” she threw back.

He
was the liar. She'd seen the proof.

As a captive, a lowly slave at the time, Nephtys had had no power to stem the tide of disaster that swept through her early years. But thanks to her driving need for revenge over the man who had broken her fragile young heart, she was now a powerful priestess. The most powerful in all of Egypt, and the only person remaining alive who held the secret of the spell that granted immortality. And
that
was the only reason Ray strove to possess her again, and well she knew it. So he could use her magic to replenish Petru's dwindling numbers and gain further superiority over Khepesh and her brother.

“Nephtys—”

“We stray from the point, Haru-Re. If you want me as your willing wife, you will cease your truck with other women. I will not tolerate infidelity of any kind in my husband.”

His nostrils flared and he grabbed her arms in his strong fingers, lifting her bodily from the window seat. Burning pinpricks of sparkles dusted her skin. He yanked her close to the hard wall of his chest. Her pulse beat out of control.

“Then
you
must satisfy my lust,
meruati,
” he growled.
“I am a man, with a man's carnal needs. And I am vampire, with a vampire's special cravings. Are you willing to fulfill those requirements? To be my sole vessel?”

The touch of his hands, rough though it be, sent spirals of desire drilling through her flesh. Oh, how she wanted him! It wasn't fair!

“So eloquently put,” she said, fighting her own traitorous flesh. Not wanting to feel this way about a man like him. A man who thought only of himself.

He combed his fingers through her riot of long, curling hair, so different from his—Ray's being thick, straight and the blackest black of midnight. Hers was the color of flame and sunset. As though she, too, were a natural part of his sun-ruled dominion, his own sexual element to call at his whim. “Just telling it like it is, my love,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.

She fought him. Didn't want his kiss. She knew what it inevitably led to. “No,” she said, and pushed at his immovable body. “We mustn't. We have sworn to stay pure. It will anger the god to break our promise!”

“I have made no such vow,” he said into her mouth. “And neither have you.”

Her heart sped like a gazelle in flight. “My duties as priestess—”

“Do not require your chastity,” he murmured, licking her lips with his warm, talented tongue. “Nor your purity. The god enjoys his pleasures through the bodies of his followers. Our bliss is his.”

She swallowed, feeling her addiction to him blaze to life. A vampire's kiss was like a banquet to the starving, his dark bite the most powerful drug on earth. Surrender
but once, truly surrender, and a woman could be lost forever to the ravenous cravings, desperate to feel the sting of his fangs again and again. For with his bite comes the most incredible sexual fulfillment, each climax more overwhelming than the last.

And Nephtys had surrendered to him many, many times.

One hand in her hair, the other traveled boldly over her curves, her hip, her waist, her breasts. He was watching her reaction to his touch, seeing the helpless, melting need she couldn't stop from seeping into her eyes.

He smiled. “You want me,” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“I've always wanted you, Ray,” she lamented softly. “From the moment I first saw you, so proud and arrogant and beautiful, like a statue of the Sun God himself.”

“Then stop tormenting us both and come to my bed.”

His thumb brushed over her nipple and a starburst of agonizing desire burst through her.

She gathered her will and pushed away from him. “No. Not until you can come to me without the scent of another woman on your skin.”

But his fingers were still tangled in her hair. He fisted them and drew her close again, looking angrily down into her eyes. “The reason I was with Josslyn Haliday had nothing to do with sex.”

“I
know
why you were with Josslyn Haliday,” she bit out, lifting her chin. “But that wasn't going to stop you from taking her anyway. Causing my brother pain just
made her seduction and fall all the sweeter for you, no doubt.”

“He took what was mine,” he growled, yanking back on her hair. “I was merely returning the favor.”

“He didn't—”

“Although, it appears he has abandoned his intended mortal plaything to her fate. Why else would she be hidden away, cowering alone in a hotel room?”

“You're hurting me!” Nephtys admonished, reaching back to pull her hair from his grasp.

She didn't want to think about Ray's assertion, for he'd hit upon a question that bothered her, too. What was Seth doing leaving Josslyn Haliday out in the world all on her own? He must know Ray would go after her with a vengeance. After the sacrifice Nephtys had made for her brother and Josslyn to be together, it pained her to think she had thrown away her freedom for nothing.

Rather than letting Nephtys go, Ray pulled her head back a fraction more, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. She gasped as his lips grazed slowly down the length of it, leaving a trail of burning heat on her skin. His tongue flicked her fluttering pulse point. An almost painful desire stabbed through her, like a dagger of want that cut clear to the core of her center. It was the remnant of his last bite, delivered nearly a month ago, but still it carried the vampyric lust spell that could drive a woman mad for want of another taste of the fang.

“Stop,” she begged.

“Why?”

“This isn't fair.”

“To whom?” he murmured, sliding his instruments of torture along her collar bone. He slipped the strap of
her gown over her shoulder, chasing it with his lips and tongue.

She wanted to give in. Blessed Isis, she wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him take what he wanted from her. Her sex. Her blood. Her will.

But that would be choosing the coward's path. The surrender of a weakling.

And Haru-Re would never respect a consort who wasn't as strong as he. Stronger, for Nephtys didn't have even half the power or magic that a demigod possessed. She must rely on her wits and her determination to come out on top of this most personal battle.

And at last achieve the revenge she craved.

His mouth slid down the slope of her breast and closed around her nipple. She cried out, and her breath caught as she felt the telltale scrape of fangs pressing hotly against her skin.

Sekhmet give her strength!

“No!” she cried and jerked away, this time succeeding in disentangling herself from his grasp. She dragged up the straps of her gown, covering her aching breasts and crossing her arms over them protectively.

She wanted to die of want.

He stared at her with half-lidded eyes, dark with lust. Preternatural energy roiled through the room.

She held her ragged breath. He could easily overpower her and take her. They both knew it.

His fangs slowly receded. His jaw clenched.

“You test my patience, woman,” he said, his voice rough with frustration. He was clearly not accustomed to having his demands thwarted.

Well, that was about to change.

“It's for the best this way,” she said, somehow keeping the words from quivering in her mouth.

He gave a humorless bark of laughter. “Tell that to my bollocks.”

“Silver-tongued as always,” she managed, but instantly regretted it.

His eyes cut to hers, but to his credit, he didn't give the response she clearly saw leap into them.

“You've been here only a week, and already I am at your throat,” he said instead. “Do you really believe you can fight me off for an entire year?”

She swallowed, knowing the answering truth in her heart. “Must it be a fight?” she asked with an edge of desperation.

“Oh, yes.” He smiled grimly. “It must. I won't give up until I have you where I want you. And that
is
a promise, my love.”

And with the gauntlet unmistakably thrown down, he stalked to the door and swept from the room, leaving a churning wake of sparking energy behind him.

S
eth-Aziz.

That was the name of the damn bastard holding Josslyn's sisters hostage. Keeping them against their will. It must be so. If she believed nothing else of the visit from that horrible man, Harold Ray, she believed that. If they were not prisoners of this Seth-Aziz, then why did they not come back to her? Or at least contact her in person?

For Joss did not believe those bogus notes anymore. Notes could be forged.

After last night, she knew something was going on. She didn't know what, exactly. Not yet. But it was bad. Really bad.

She paced the length of her hotel room, then paced back again. She'd been pacing for four hours now, ever since that maniac Ray had appeared and then vanished
from her balcony like some kind of creepy winged apparition.

Forget about sleep. No way could she even think about closing her eyes. He might come back for her. As he'd promised.

God help her.

Or…had she just imagined the whole thing?

Maybe it had all simply been one really vivid, terrifying nightmare.

But no. Because the crushed remains of his black cigarette lay out there on the verandah floor just outside the French door, motionless but oozing danger, like a scorpion in wait. Hard evidence. Proof the monster had truly been there. Hell, if she closed her eyes she could still smell a trace of that distinctive spicy smoke in the room. And that
wasn't
her imagination.

She stuck her hands under her armpits. She hadn't run up against much in this world that could make her tremble in fear, but damn, she was shaking like she was coming off a three-day bender.

Not that she'd ever actually been on a three-day bender. But this morning she was sorely tempted to give it a try.

Except that her sisters needed her. She was their only hope. Somehow she
had
to find them! Before it was too late…

Okay. Okay.

She gave herself a firm mental shake. This abject panic was getting her nowhere.

She needed a plan.

Forgetting about the big question of
why
for now, the
first thing she had to do was figure out
where
they were being held.

But how?

She took a deep, calming breath.

Plan, Josslyn!
The only way to accomplish this was to go about things methodically. Scientifically. Unemotionally.

A list. That's what she needed.

Hurrying to the desk, she pulled a piece of hotel stationery from the drawer and grabbed a pen. Rapidly she wrote down the three names she'd learned last night: Harold Ray; Seth, also known as Seth-Aziz; and Lord Rhys Kilpatrick, the dead guy.

Then the pen came to a frustrating halt over the paper. That was all she'd learned. The sum total of what she knew.

Damn.

Wait. There was one more thing. She knew the approximate location of the ancient tomb where Gillian had thought Lord Rhys Kilpatrick's grave marker had been inscribed.

She wrote that down, too.

Not that the information would do her any good. Harold Ray's crazy assertions aside, there was no way that Rhys Kilpatrick could be involved in this. Not unless he was a ghost.

Although…

Against her better judgment, she wrote the word “vampire,” followed by a large question mark. She added two more for good measure. Then crossed out the whole thing. No, only the facts. Not wild speculation. She still didn't quite believe what happened.

Joss blinked as a vague memory suddenly trickled through her mind. Something she'd completely forgotten. About the afternoon Gillian disappeared…

Before she and Gemma had gotten the phone call from Gillian telling them she was all right, they had gone up to Rhys Kilpatrick's alleged tomb to look for her. And something, someone…

She frowned, straining to remember. It was right on the tip of her—

With a gasp, she dropped the pen. Good God! There had been a
man
there! Dressed as some kind of Bedouin sheikh—just like those frightening men who had taken Gemma last week. And he'd been carrying Gillian in his arms!
Unconscious.
He'd spoken…. She strained to remember. That's right, he'd said Gillian had gotten too much sun and fainted.

But that's where the memory gave out. Try as Joss might, the rest was gone.

Jesus.
Why hadn't she remembered this until now? And why for the life of her couldn't she remember what had happened next?

Still. It gave her somewhere to start. She underlined Rhys Kilpatrick's tomb on her list.

Jumping up determinedly from the desk, she rushed to get dressed. No time to lose. She had to get across the Nile to the west bank and search that hidden tomb. There could be vital evidence in it. Something to tell her where Gillian and Gemma had been taken.

There had to be a clue. There
had
to be.

Her sisters' lives could depend on it. And there was no way she'd let them down. They were the only family she had left.

She
would
rescue them from whatever terrible fate had befallen them. She'd find them and bring them home, where they belonged.

She would.

If it was the last thing she ever did.

 

The trip across the Nile River to the far west bank took two excruciating hours, and it was another hour to reach the site of the ancient tomb, which was a good distance to the north.

When Gemma's note had compelled Joss to flee from their rented villa a week ago, she'd called the car rental company and had them collect their hired Land Rover. So she had no transpo. Not that she would have dared show her face at the villa again to fetch the vehicle, even if it had still been parked there. Gemma had warned her that the kidnappers were after her, too. Harold Ray's actions in her room last night confirmed the truth of that. And if they could find her at the Winter Palace Hotel, they would surely be watching the villa in case she showed up there.

Remembering the look on Ray's face when he said he'd be back for her—God, it sent chills down her spine. She'd just as soon not make it easy for him.

So with a scarf wrapped around her head, big sunglasses covering her face, plenty of water in her backpack and a camera hanging from her neck, she threw in her lot with a group of tourists headed for the Valley of the Kings. After disembarking from the ferry, the tour bus would make a stop at Qurna, the village where the only person she could think of who could possibly help her lived—a boy called Mehmet.

Mehmet was a little con artist whom Gillian had employed as a guide while doing her research. An adolescent of indefinite age and infinite shadiness, he'd nevertheless been a reliable helper and all-around boy Friday to her sister, who had for some obscure reason trusted the creature. Right now Joss had little choice but to trust him, too. At least to the extent of renting a donkey from him. A donkey was by far the most reliable transportation on the west bank. At least for where Joss was headed.

As luck would have it, she found Mehmet hanging around the village, and after an initial hesitation and driving a very hard bargain, he was able to scrounge up a suitable animal for her. Somewhere along the line he must have decided he liked her. Just her luck.

“You are sure you don't want me to come with you, miss?” he asked. “It is long way. Difficult trail. I show you. It's better.”

She shook her head. “No thanks, Mehmet. I'm just finishing up a few last details on my drawings of the Temple of Sekhmet. I'm quite familiar with the road there. But thanks anyway.”

The temple was just below the
gebel
where the tomb was located, and she wasn't about to tell him where she was really going. And she definitely didn't want him tagging along so he could learn the truth. He knew all about her archaeological work, so her stated destination made perfect sense.

“I come for free,” he told her earnestly, holding up his hands. “No pay. As favor to your sister, Miss Gillian,” he said, a shadow of some emotion flitting through his eyes. “She very good boss lady. I am sad she went away.”

“Me, too,” Joss said, and politely declined his offer once again. “I'll have the donkey back by this afternoon. See you then, Mehmet.”

With that, she mounted up and trotted off. She glanced back once at him as the road took a final turn going out of the village. He was still watching her. She gave him a smile and a wave. But he seemed lost in thought and didn't wave back.

It was a hard ride, and she pressed the donkey for all it was worth. Once away from civilization, she stowed her camera and pulled an old long-sleeved, full-length
gelebeya
from her backpack, which she put on over her clothes, along with a big native head scarf to hide her blond hair and fair complexion. When the few cars that appeared on the road passed her, she averted her face so no one would recognize her or suspect she was a foreigner.

Paranoid? Maybe.

She really wished she could have brought the shotgun, too, but it wouldn't fit in her backpack without sticking out like a sore thumb. Tough to explain to the tour guides and the scores of security guards posted around all the ancient monuments these days, thanks to the constant threat of terrorism.

When she reached the ruins of the Temple of Sekhmet, she dismounted to have a rest and cut the dust with a drink. Cracking open a bottle of water, she first respectfully poured a few drops onto the ground in libation, then drank thirstily.

Looking around the site of so many happy hours spent over the summer having picnic lunches with Gemma and Gillian, her heart ached. She missed them so much!

The three sisters had been apart far too much over the past several years, and it had been tough on all of them.

Gemma was a cultural anthropologist, a specialist in traditional Nubian stories and lore, and she had a new teaching position at Duke University in North Carolina. Gillian was an historian doing doctoral studies in Oxford, England. Joss herself worked for the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto and had been living in Canada for five years. So many miles away from each other. It seemed the only time the three of them ever saw one another anymore was during the summers when they were all doing their fieldwork in Egypt.

Egypt.
The country where the three sisters had practically grown up traveling with their Egyptologist father, Trevor Haliday. Their dad had become obsessed with the place, pursuing his dark demons after their mother disappeared not far from that very spot two decades ago, never to be seen again. So the four of them, father and daughters, had returned here season after season, searching for her year after year. One day Dad had simply walked into the endless sands of the country he'd loved, to be forever with the woman he'd loved too much to get over the loss of her.

It was a dual tragedy that had torn the sisters' lives apart. But it had also brought them closer, knowing that all they had left in the world was their love for each other.

People often asked how they could bear to come back to the unforgiving country that had robbed them of both parents. But the answer was simple.

All three of them loved Egypt with a passion that
flowed in their blood like the waters of the Nile. Despite the glaring cultural differences, the very real dangers and the personal heartaches it reminded them of, more than anywhere else in the world, Egypt felt like home.

Josslyn sighed and rested her back against the sandstone blocks of the temple wall, letting her gaze meander over the stark, rugged desert landscape that she, despite everything, loved more than anywhere else in the world. To the east, in the distance shimmered the graceful muddy curve of the Nile River, banked by a narrow parallel band of lush green fields. The vivid green ended abruptly in the harsh browns and blacks of the west-bank landscape. The rough dirt track that she had ridden up from Qurna cut its shallow twin ruts, hugging the edge of the fields. From there, the land began a gradual upward slope for about three-quarters of a mile, where it was blocked to the west by the rugged, towering sandstone cliffs of the
gebel.
The
gebel
marked the western border of the Nile valley, the distinct limits of civilization—ancient and modern—the universally recognized line beyond which anyone who valued their life dared not venture.

It was there, hidden deep in the forbidding shadows of the
gebel,
that the realm of the dead, the tombs of the ancients, lay. Including the tomb Josslyn fervently hoped would contain something, anything, to help solve the riddle of her sisters' disappearance.

Why had they been taken?

Of all the tens of thousands of visitors to this vast country, why them?

Had the Haliday family not sacrificed enough to
this land of savage beauty and stark enigma for one lifetime?

Enough was enough. This was one battle Joss intended to win.

Rousing herself, she shook off her weltschmerz and remounted, urging the donkey as far up the ever-steepening
gebel
trail as it could go. She recognized at once the place where she remembered seeing the mysterious man carrying off Gillian's unconscious body. Tying the donkey securely to a small boulder, she proceeded on foot.

Just before she reached the base of the crenulated, vertical cliffs, she spotted the well-hidden tomb entrance. Nearly invisible to the untrained eye, it was a mere fingernail of black shadow sandwiched between the pink-and-beige-striped pillars of rock, looking much like the eye of a needle.

She paused to listen for a long moment before taking the last few steps up to it—for the sound of voices, the scrape of a footstep or the slide of a weapon being drawn.

But all she heard was the whistling of the wind through the sandstone formations and the far-off call of a hawk.

Nevertheless, her heartbeat kicked up.

She sensed something…a swirl of the unknown, the thick brush of some mysterious force. Her mother, a child of the sixties, had believed the earth held spirits you could hear and feel, if you only tried hard enough.