The inside of the club was dark and warm, but the music was fantastic—techno funk with a wicked beat and a slightly exotic sound. Immediately, I felt out of place since most of the women wore tight little dresses, high heels, and heavy makeup. Amon was leading us to the bar when I shouted above the din, “I’m going to the restroom! I’ll be right back!”
The atmosphere was pulse-poundingly hot, but when I finally found the bathroom, it was an almost frigid contrast. Air-conditioning blew onto the women standing in front of the mirror primping, and I wondered if the men’s room had the same feature or if it was specially arranged to keep the ladies happy.
After removing my clunky boots and swapping them out for sandals, I quickly changed into the skirt I’d brought and then plucked at my T-shirt, wondering what I could do to make it look more like I was going to a club than to a farmers’ market. I was standing in front of the mirror frowning, when a girl applying lipstick asked me a question in another language. I just shrugged, lifted the hem of the tee, and made a thumbs-down sign.
The girl pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, gesturing at herself, and when I nodded hesitantly, she pulled a pair of tiny scissors from her purse. I was even more hesitant then, but she didn’t make a move until I nodded again.
With deft hands she cut the neck out of the T-shirt, making a wider neckline so the shirt slipped off one shoulder. She then took the bulk of the T-shirt hem and tied it in a knot at my back, revealing an inch or so of midriff. Finally, she turned me around to gather the hem of my skirt.
I was going to protest her cutting it, but she set down the scissors and wrapped the material around my body, tucking it in at the side so that I ended up with a sarong skirt that stopped just at the knee on one side and about halfway up my thigh on the other. I’d never in my life worn anything that left me feeling so exposed.
As a parting gift, the girl handed me her lipstick and rolled some of her perfume on my wrists and neck. The scent was exotic—a light floral and musk. I freshened my lipstick and fluffed my hair, said a quick thanks, then left the bathroom to seek out Amon.
After checking my bag and taking a claim ticket, I scanned the bar. Amon wasn’t there or seated in any of the sections around the dance floor. Deciding he must have gone outside for air, I headed in the direction of the door, then stopped when I heard a ruckus coming from the dance floor that was even louder than the music.
Nudging aside enough women so I could see what was going on, I was shocked, not at seeing Amon in the middle of the crowd or his skin gleaming as if he were under a spotlight but at seeing him dance. I’d expected his style to be exotic and very different from modern dancing, but I hadn’t expected that he would be doing a male version of belly dancing.
Amon had ditched his outer shirt, so the only thing covering his taut torso was the thin white T-shirt, which clung to him so tightly it looked like the seams would burst at any moment.
He turned in a slow circle, abs undulating and pelvis rotating in a way that was sensual enough to be illegal. Amon’s dancing was like a mashup of Elvis and the Chippendales. The human sun god was a stomach-dropping, chest-popping, feet-sliding, shoulder-swaying, hip-rotating, flutter-inducing, liquid locomotive, and I was surrounded by women who couldn’t wait to buy a ticket.
As Amon turned, his eyes took in his admirers and he paused. A huge smile lit his face as he shouted out to the crowd surrounding him, “Thank you, ladies, but my Lily has come. I wish to dance with her now.”
Amon held out his hand and I stepped forward, ignoring the gasps from the women around me. One by one, they turned aside, some good-naturedly, some with jealousy obvious on their faces.
As Amon took my hands and began moving his body again, I jerked awkwardly back and forth in small movements and then leaned close to his ear. “If you think I’m doing what you did, you’re crazy!” I said.
He drew me closer and then turned in a circle, matching each step with the beat. Then he slid his hand down my arm, took hold of my hand, and turned me, too. I was surprised I didn’t miss the beat. By the time a few songs were over, I felt much more confident and was actually having fun. Amon spun me around until I collapsed against his chest, dizzy and laughing.
Eventually, the music changed to something slow. Amon seemed confused at first, and he watched with a curious expression as the other dancers paired off. A woman who’d been watching him before returned and asked him to dance. He shook his head and answered, “I am not meant for you. I am dancing with Lily.”
As she left, I took a step forward, closing the distance between us, and ran my hands slowly up his muscular arms, over his shoulders, and around his neck. After standing stiffly for a few seconds, he relaxed and pulled me tightly against him. Slowly, we began moving together. His hands, splayed on my back, moved inch by tantalizing inch downward until they reached the bare skin at my waist. Wedging me even tighter against his body, he put his forehead to mine. The side of his mouth tickled my cheek.
If I shifted just a bit, I could be kissing him. But I was too much of a coward to make the first move. His hands slid to my hips and then back up to my waist. The tension and nervous energy I felt as his electric fingertips stroked my bare skin was driving me crazy. To distract myself, I stood on tiptoe and asked, “What did you read in her thoughts?”
“Whose thoughts?” he answered in a husky voice. His eyes, a darker shade than I’d ever seen them, glittered as they searched mine. “Ah, the woman who asked me to dance. She hunts for a companion to fill her lonely nights.”
“I imagine most of the people here are looking for that.”
“Yes. But she seeks for something empty. She holds out no hope for love.”
Tilting my head at an angle to see his face better, I asked, “Do you?”
“Do I what, Nehabet?”
“Hold out hope for love.”
Amon paused. His body froze in a way that anyone who’d seen him dance would have thought impossible. He didn’t answer but instead took my hand and said, “Come, Lily. It is time to go.”
He seemed impatient as he waited for me to retrieve my bag. When we stepped outside, I wanted to take a moment to allow the night air to cool my heated skin, but he tugged me along, not giving me a moment to think. We had barely rounded the corner of the club when Amon suddenly stopped and pulled me roughly against him. Before I could even form a question, he murmured some words in Egyptian and we were sucked into a whirlwind.
We had rematerialized in the bedroom of our hotel room. Amon abruptly said goodnight and left me alone, heading for the living-room couch and shutting the door firmly between us.
I listened at the door, but I couldn’t hear him and I couldn’t seem to muster the courage to open the door and confront him about his brusqueness. Amon hadn’t hurt me physically, but he’d left me feeling vulnerable and rejected. I wondered what I’d said, what I’d done to make him desert me so abruptly, and whether he was feeling like I was feeling or if I’d been misreading him.
Sinking to the floor, I rested my head against the door and felt the hot sting of tears on my cheeks. I’d never cried over a boy before, but my emotions were all over the place since starting this journey. I was unstable, heated, and on edge. Amon had used a lot of energy today, and I was feeling it. Eventually, I crawled into bed, sinking into a fitful sleep, and dreamed that my tears were enough to fill the Nile.
The next morning Amon knocked lightly on my door. When I opened it, attempting to wipe the sleep from my swollen eyes, he was not only dressed and ready for the day but looked as good as the night before. I drew my robe tightly over my new pajamas and tried to smooth my tangled hair.
After a cold, perfunctory glance he asked, “How soon can you be ready?”
I answered, “Fifteen minutes,” and with raised eyebrows he nodded and closed the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, I was wiping the steam from the mirror and brushing the tangles from my heavily conditioned hair. This time seeing the blond strea
ks didn’t make me feel impulsive or wild; instead I saw them as a symbol of what happens when you put yourself out there and it backfires. My limbs felt heavy and lethargic, which was most likely a combination of lack of sleep and the giant meal I’d scarfed down the day before.
I brushed my hair away from my face with harsh strokes and twisted it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. As I jabbed some pins I’d found among the new purchases into the bun, I welcomed the little stings, considering them punishment for wandering too far outside my comfort zone. There was a reason that my mother constantly said “moderation in all things.”
Eating too much rich food leads to feeling puffy and bloated. Not enough sleep, and energy wanes. Crushing on the wrong boy? Well, that is a recipe for heartache.
Unfortunately, I would spend the morning suffering a rich-food, sleepless-night, hot-guy-rejection hangover. But I had certainly learned my lesson, and I wouldn’t be dabbling in any of that stuff again. I was getting right back on track to living my practical, boring, perfect life. My walk on the wild side had pretty much ended in disaster, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hitch a ride back on the familiar wagon of levelheadedness.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I opened the door. “Will we be returning to the hotel?”
Amon looked me over, focusing his piercing gaze on my hair, and wrinkled his nose as if he found the severe style distasteful. “No. We have no need to return to Cairo,” he replied.
“I see. Give me another minute, then.” Turning my back on him, I stiffly gathered up the clothing I thought would fit me and stuffed extra things from the hotel room—soap, shampoo, a toothbrush and toothpaste, the small sewing kit and, of course, water bottles—into my bag.
Amon folded his arms across his chest and watched me. “You are angry. I feel it,” he said.
“It’s not your concern,” I tossed back. Throwing my stuffed bag over my shoulder, I gave him a strained smile and said, “Shall we go?”
Amon took hold of my arm as I passed. “Lily, I am sorry if I hurt you. But I cannot give you what—”
I held up my hand. “Please don’t finish that sentence. I don’t want to hear any platitudes and I have no interest in listening to your interpretation of what I want. I’m over it. So let’s not talk about it anymore. All right?”
Hazel eyes gauging my reaction, Amon nodded. “If that is your wish.”
“It is. Now can we go?”
Moving to a more open space in the living area I held out my arms so we could disappear in a cloud of sand, but he ignored me, instead walking over to a tray and pulling off a domed lid. Steam poured from the dish. “Will you eat first, Lily?”
“No. I appreciate your asking nicely, though, instead of ordering me.”
“Lily, whether you acknowledge it or not, your body is being taxed by supporting both of us. You are drained.”
“It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well.”
“It is more than that.”
Amon came closer. Too close. My breathing hitched and I tried to back away, but he took hold of my upper arms. “Remain still,” he directed in a quiet voice. With both hands, he cupped my cheeks, fingertips grazing the hair at my temples. Heat edged down my neck and trickled over my shoulders, spilling into my limbs, advancing like viscous lava. A hot flush remained as Amon slid his hands down to my neck, and I was fairly certain it was from more than just his magical doctoring.
As he stared into my eyes, tears began to fall from mine. “What have you done to me?” I asked, unsure of the exact nature of my question.
Amon wiped a tear away with his thumb and rubbed his fingers over it. He sighed heavily, and stepped away. “More than I should,” he answered cryptically. He picked up several pieces of fruit and held an apple under my nose. “You will eat this later. Though I will refrain from ‘forcing’ you to eat it, consider my encouragement to do so of a strenuous nature.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I murmured noncommittally as I stuffed the fruit into my already overloaded bag. As I struggled with the zipper, Amon took the bag from me, draping it across his wide chest before he opened his arms. Keeping my head down, I stepped into his embrace. With the whisper of a few words in ancient Egyptian, sand began to twist around our bodies.
Soon sunshine encircled us, shining brightly through my closed eyelids. I waited for the sand to dissipate. It seemed to take longer than normal, but when I cracked open my eyes, I realized it was a natural breeze stirring the sand on the dune where we’d appeared.
“We are here, Young Lily,” Amon announced.
I guess I had been expecting an Indiana Jones–type temple or something, but what we were looking at seemed more like a mine in the dust export business or a quarry of crumbling rocks. My ankle-high boots were already filled with grainy sand.
Amon led me down the hill, my feet sinking into the sand up to my calves in some places, and the valley came into view. Between the small cliffs was a well-cared-for excavation site. Piles of coarse stones and loose gravel had been built up big enough to look like rocky burial mounds.
The day was already stifling, and I pulled my shirt away from my skin, fanning myself with it to circulate some air. Already thirsty, I dug a water bottle from my bag, sucked down about half, and offered the remaining half to Amon. He refused it, saying I needed it more than he did, so I finished off the bottle about the same time we reached the valley floor.
We merged with a group of tourists heading for what looked like a small bazaar. Vendors had set up tables and tents to sell various souvenirs. Amon wandered off to take in our surroundings while I eavesdropped on a tour guide who was explaining how to buy tickets.
I took a map when he began passing them out, and I smiled and nodded at a middle-aged woman next to me, who said, “Isn’t this so exciting? I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt. My husband finally got us tickets for our thirtieth anniversary.”
“Congratulations,” I mumbled as I studied her profile. She and her husband would be an interesting duo to draw. The woman had curly red hair that was graying at the roots. It was loosely gathered in a ponytail, and a cheap plastic sun visor shielded her eyes. Her husband had a sunburned bald spot, cargo shorts hanging low beneath his potbelly, and a vacation beard. But it wasn’t their appearance that fascinated me; it was more the way they interacted with one another.
As the woman talked easily with strangers, the man remained quietly by her side, chuckling at jokes despite the fact that I was sure he’d heard them several times, and when he forgot where he had put his glasses and began patting pockets, she told him without even looking, “Check your head, dear.”
The woman clucked her tongue. “What would you do without me?”
Smiling, the man answered, “I’d never want to find out. Shall we go?”
With that, the couple headed off on their Egyptian tomb adventure after paying what I considered to be way too much for a flashlight and a stack of postcards.
Amon finally returned and pulled me away from the line. “I got us a map,” I declared as I held the document up.
“The map I require will be found within the tombs.”
“Really? How does that work exactly?”
“The tombs are all connected, and each one will provide direction to the next.”
“Are you sure? Because they made it sound like there are only small groupings of tombs. Nobody mentioned a tomb highway.”
“I am sure. I have discovered an entrance that is not as frequented. We will begin there.”
“Okay, lead the way.”
As Amon headed toward one of the entrances, I tagged along, trying to make sense of the map. “It says all of the discovered burial chambers are labeled with numbers according to the date of discovery. For example, King Tut’s tomb is called KV62, which means King’s Valley number 62. The most recent one, KV63, was rumored to be the possible burial chamber of the woman believed to be King Tut’s mother, Kiya, but it ended up being a storage cave, full of mummification paraphernalia
. Hey, did you know King Tut? I mean, personally?”
“I am not familiar with this name.”
“Oh, his full name was Tutankhamun. He was a boy pharaoh.”
“It is pronounced toot-ahnk-ah-MOON. Tut means ‘the image or likeness of.’ Ankh is ‘living.’ And Amun represents the sun god Amun. So ‘Tutankhamun’ translates as ‘the living image of the sun god Amun,’ and to answer your question, no. His reign must have occurred while I slept.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you the living image of the sun god?”
“I have been imbued, gifted, with a portion of his power so that I may fulfill my duties, but I am not the sun god personified. It was common for the leaders of Egypt to align with one god or another. The pharaohs did this for two reasons. First, they believed that if they took the names of the gods for themselves they would receive divine aid, but perhaps more important, this also cemented the loyalty of their people. They made it so that to reject a pharaoh was to reject deity. This helped offset internal strife and rebellion.”
“But didn’t he know about you?”
“Who?”
“King Tut.”
“As the centuries passed it was considered safer if the leaders of the time were unaware of our presence. We did not wish to be seen as a threat or as a means of inciting revolt if the people were unhappy with the current politics. Our purpose was merely to protect the land from darkness, not to rule.”
“Then how is it you were welcomed with feasting and song?”
“There was always a group of priests who passed the knowledge of us from generation to generation. They made sure that we were well cared for when we woke, that our burial sites were protected, and that the rituals were fulfilled. The people who celebrated our return were the humble, the poor. They kept our secret, not those in power. Though each rising is different, they have always been our watchers.”
“So since your sarcophagus was taken, what you’re saying is that somebody stopped watching.”