The problem of keeping a walking corpse from being noticed by normal people was neatly bypassed; Lis’ plane was not some small Learjet or Gulfstream, but a full-sized 747, converted for private use . . . including a vehicle bay. Grant simply drove the limousine onto the lift platform, which rose up and sealed them into the belly of the beast.
The plane held an office, dining room, galley, and master bedroom suite, along with a smaller guest suite and crew quarters. All of it was decorated in tastefully understated luxury, a far cry from the commercial planes that normally trundled through the skyways. Grant disappeared up into the cockpit -- there appeared to be very little that the Englishman couldn’t drive -- with Victor close behind as co-pilot. Claude went into the galley, leaving just Alex, Lis, and the unnervingly animated corpse of Alex’s best friend all standing in the forward section, which contained a dozen large, comfortable seats.
Lis demonstrated the seat belt briefly for Nebmaatre’s edification before sinking into one of the big chairs. It was far easier to concentrate on such a mundane task instead of dwelling on what had happened to her beloved golden angel and what was happening to him now. "The flight will be about fifteen hours," she said, leaning back while clipping her own belt snugly around her graceful form. "It will still be daylight when we arrive, so I will be asleep. Provided that we are not met at the airport by anyone with some kind of connection to the new Reborn, I will see if I can still contact a few old friends to do whatever is necessary to get Zo -- Nebmaatre where he needs to be."
Though caught up in gazing about the well-appointed wide-bodied jet like some rustic hick visiting a city for the first time, Alex couldn't help but frown slightly at the chocolate-maned Toreador's words. It's not like he's not here with us . . .
The ghostly scribe let the precious khat in his keeping drop into one of the indicated seats. Somehow, this astounding thing of metal would be able to soar in the sky as Horus the Falcon did, winging its way to Khemet from this far-off land. Though utterly astounded at the marvels of modern man, Nebmaatre was faintly reassured by the fact that to Zoisite the entire concept was ordinary, commonplace. They understand a truly different mode of magic than in my day . . .
The distant whine of the engines changed pitch. Glancing about, Nebmaatre began to sense through the deadened awareness of the body surrounding him that they were beginning to move. Glazed-over emerald eyes stared up at the redheaded musician as Alex quickly dropped down into the seat next to the ancient Egyptian.
"Here we go," Alex warned while he fastened the sturdy seatbelt around himself with an audible snick. "It may be startling to you at first," the Gaelic-blooded ghoul continued, aware that the spirit that had hijacked his best friend had never flown in a jet before. "The engines have to push hard to get this thing in the air, so we're going to feel like we're getting shoved into the seats." He hoped the animating force within Zoey could understand his words.
Most tourists and travelers gave the booth only a cursory glance; it was small, a bit shabby-looking, tucked away in a corner of the concourse. The people who manned it were not as loud and emphatic in importuning passersby to stop and look at their wares, which were hardly all that unusual or interesting. True, there was a clay vase filled with beautifully folded and painted paper flowers -- papyrus and lotus blooms, the symbols of Egypt itself -- but the rest of the little booth was devoted to cheap jewelry and tourist trash. Keychains of clear plastic filled with "genuine sand from the Valley of the Kings", garish "Egyptian" jewelry with a gold wash that would probably rub off after a week of wear, even truly tacky water-filled globes containing indifferently executed models of the Sphinx and the pyramids, which, when shaken, stirred up flecks of gold glitter in a "sandstorm". Some people wondered how the little booth even stayed in business, but there it was, usually with one of three people behind the counter.
The first was a large fat man with a gold front tooth, one earring, a scruffy beard, and the kind of shifty look that most people associate with used car salesmen. There was always the feeling that at any moment, he would sidle up, pull back his sleeve to show fifteen "genuine Rolexes" on his forearm, and offer to sell you things that he might not actually own, but always promised delivery on.
The second was a very thin old woman who could almost be mistaken for a reanimated mummy at first glance. Her narrow face was a mass of wrinkles despite the spareness of her flesh, she appeared to have no teeth at all, and she spent most of her time behind the counter scowling at people who passed as though their failure to buy anything was a mortal offense.
The third, another woman, was the most successful salesperson of the group, simply because she was young and pretty, had a lovely smile, and usually costumed herself in the nearly sheer fine linen most commonly associated with the ancient Egyptians. She was also far more outgoing than her partners, not hesitating to wave and call out to get the attention of those who might otherwise simply glance at the booth in passing.
What nobody would have believed was that the three might have anything in common, aside from their business. They were members of a very secret organization, devoted to the task of locating and aiding the children of the God Osiris -- the Reborn. From their little booth, they watched the flow of humanity through the Cairo airport, passing information on to the rest of their sect that might save an embryonic Amenti from the horrors of bodily dissolution, or information that could lead to the downfall of one of the hated Setite vampires. They were very good at what they did.
As it happened, Saboud was sitting behind the counter when Victor and Grant strode into the concourse from the arrival gates. The big man glanced up, his nerves suddenly twanging, the amulet dangling from his left earlobe growing warm to alert its wearer. His eyes rapidly picked the two out of the crowd; the differences were too subtle for a casual onlooker to notice, but Saboud knew what to look for. The pair moved just a bit too gracefully, dancer-light on their feet, their eyes always moving to watch those around them. Saboud recognized them for what they were, and tension rolled through him; if the servants of an undead were entering Cairo, perhaps their master was not far behind them.
What actually was behind them caught Saboud’s attention instantly. A slender dark man -- French, from the look of him -- and a young red-haired man were accompanying a third male, who wore a long black coat buttoned to the chin and a pair of sunglasses, even inside the airport; long golden-blond hair was cinched back in a ponytail. The man moved with a faintly exaggerated care, as if having to constantly watch where he put his feet. Though his face had normal color in it, Saboud caught a glimpse of one hand before it slipped into a pocket, and that hand had the waxy-ashen tone of dead flesh; the face was probably given its color with makeup, then. It was the middle of the day, so surely this could not be a vampire . . . but it could be one of the Reborn.
Saboud slipped a hand beneath the counter and touched a small statuette that was hidden there, out of sight. The exquisitely carved basalt figure of Anubis was warm, pulsing with the rhythm of a beating heart; Saboud could feel the jackal head of the figure turning slowly, obviously following the progress of the blond man. So, it was indeed a newly born Amenti . . . but in the company of a vampire’s servants? Had this one been corrupted even before the casting of the Spell of Life? He pulled a cellular phone out of a pocket, hitting a speed-dial button. It was answered after one ring by a bored-sounding voice that told him he’d reached the car rental desk at the front of the airport.
"Praise to Osiris, the bringer of life," Saboud said quietly into the phone. "There are five men moving through the concourse. Four are most likely ghouls. The fifth one is a blond man in a black coat -- the Watcher has confirmed that he is Reborn, though it appears he has not gone through the ceremony. Pass the word on."
"Understood, Brother," the no-longer-bored voice replied. "If we must rescue him, it will be done. Praise to Osiris."
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