Lestat, come to me. Hatshepsut let her words flow into the night, the stars visible in the warm darkness as she stood perched upon some rock ledge of the great mountain. In the morning, her eyes would behold greater things, but for now, she had been content to cloister herself among the faceless stone obelisks.
The Egyptian had caught his bitter scent as she traveled; surely he had followed her here, the dark angel, beautiful killer. "Yes," she whispered to herself, crossing slender forelegs as her gaze searched Nut's dominion for any sign of Akasha's beloved. "I know who and what you are, my demon."
Any resident of Karnak or the surrounding cities, even to the smallest village, knew the story of Akasha and Enkil. It was an old tale, now relegated to childhood fables, but Hatshepsut knew better than to dismiss such an outrageous tale, for it had been from the blood shed by the two paragons of darkness that Lestat and his murderous bedfellows had sprung, in time. But she did not fear him. The Egyptian feared little, and only that which she did not truly understand.
Silently, she awaited the fallen one, a sphinx gilded and set upon a pedestal of rock.
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