The next installment in the thrilling Arcana Oracle series finds heroine Pamela Colman Smith kidnapped, imprisoned, and fighting to protect her tarot deck from Aleister Crowley once again.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Emperor and Hierophant by Susan Wands, which is out May 6th 2025.
On tour with the Lyceum Theatre in Manchester, Pamela Colman Smith is kidnapped by a mysterious force. In captivity, she begins a relationship with her mute keeper, a strange creature at the beck and call of her nemesis, Aleister Crowley. Experiencing visions and visitations from other ethereal beings, Pamela works to escape her prison before Aleister harms another one of her muses over the ownership of her magical tarot deck.
Meanwhile, her guardian and mentor, Bram Stoker, tries to find her as he tours with the stars of the Lyceum Theatre, Pamela’s muses for the Magician and Empress cards. Alerted to Pamela’s plight, Ahmed Kamal, Pamela’s Egyptologist friend, joins Bram to come to her aid. Plotting against the mysterious forces who abducted her, Pamela must outwit and out magic Aleister, as he tries to destroy her muses and tarot deck. Learning the lessons of her Emperor and Hierophant, she must free herself and command the power manifesting from her tarot deck.
CHAPTER ONE
Water Signs
“Do you think the undead follow the living?” Pamela asked her two seated traveling companions, Bram Stoker and Ahmed Kamal.
Nestled in a first-class train compartment, twenty-two-year-old Pamela Colman Smith could pass for a fifteen-year-old girl or a woman of thirty. Her copper-hued coat revealed glimpses of a lilac dress, a red Jamaican coral necklace, and a purple sea-glass bracelet. If her mother were still alive, she would disapprove of Pamela’s fashion sense, aided by the Lyceum Theatre’s costume shop. But the costumers had sewed special earflaps in her lilac hat, which hid sporadically raised letters on her left earlobe. These were the initials that had materialized on her tarot muses, and now Pamela could enjoy the warm gaze of her friends without worrying about the possible appearance of her own earmarks.
“Pixie,” Bram said, using her nickname, “you know better than to bring up the undead unless you’re asking for one of my Irish yarns.” The six-foot-tall, broad-shouldered Bram crossed his legs, taking up even more room in the two seats across from Pamela and Ahmed. Bram’s close-set blue eyes sparkled at them.
Pamela glanced at Ahmed Kamal sitting next to her, who shifted his gaze across her and out the window. Stern and slight, Ahmed was barely taller than Pamela, and the effect of his fez and old-fashioned traveling clothes also earned sideline looks on the train platform before they had boarded. Only Bram was more modern, mimicking the Prince of Wales with his casual country-house Norfolk jackets and fur-felt homburg hat. Ahmed’s formal jacket and wire-framed glasses bestowed the appearance of a cleric or a judge, and although in his early fifties and younger than Bram he seemed the older of the two.
“Ah, the undead,” Ahmed said, stroking his close-cropped beard. “There seems to be a whole industry based on the antics of the undead.”
As Bram sat back, Pamela could see him studying Ahmed. This was the first time Bram and Ahmed had spent close time together.
Last year, Bram hired her at the Lyceum Theatre, where her job entailed designing posters and occasionally walking on as an extra in the productions, and he had also recommended her to the newly formed cult, the Golden Dawn, to create a tarot deck. Even now, the final versions of her first four cards, the Magician, Fool, High Priestess, and Empress, were locked up in her desk at the British Museum. Ahmed was her contact at the museum, handling her requests to view mummies and Egyptian artifacts as well as research for the cards. He was also temporarily in charge of the Egyptian Antiquities Acquisition and Evaluation department. The last two months, Pamela had his help putting in requests to view artifacts from the Special Collections room, requests not usually granted to non-staff or women researchers. It was a fluke that Ahmed’s schedule allowed him to travel up to Manchester with them, as he was usually traveling to country houses in the south to scout for antiques.
“I hope the undead are popular,” Bram said. “My book is centered on their activities.”
“And your book is . . . ?” Ahmed asked.
“The Un-Dead: The Story of a Vampire,” Bram replied.
“Should be Dracula,” Pamela said under her breath.
“Ah,” Ahmed said as he glanced from Pamela to Bram. “Are there spirits protecting this Dracula, or is he a solitary force?” Ahmed asked.
“Oh, he has many little spirits protecting him in their own winged way,” Bram replied, shifting his large frame so that his elbows and ankles spilled out into the aisle.
“You should title your book after your main character, Dracula,” Pamela said. She knew Uncle Brammie would be sensitive to discuss this in front of Ahmed, but she so wanted Ahmed to know that Bram was more than a general manager of the Lyceum Theatre Tour.
“We’ve discussed this. No one would know what that means,” Bram replied, brushing his hands together as if to shoo her away. “The title will remain The Un-Dead.”
“So, your ‘undead,’” Ahmed said, “has spirits protecting him, much like an afrit. Intriguing.”
There it was, Ahmed’s “intriguing”— a rare sign that he was in a mood to talk. This train ride was looking promising— perhaps they would all be friends by the time she and Bram got off in Manchester.
“Ahmed,” Pamela said, “please tell us the story about the afrit guarding Queen Hatshepsut’s tomb and the mummy. You’ve promised to tell it ever since that sarcophagus arrived at the museum, supposedly with an afrit’s curse on it.”
Ahmed had told Pamela that afrits were the Islamic version of demons but would not elaborate. Bram drummed his fingers on his armrest and sighed. Pamela knew he did not like to be thwarted from telling one of his own stories about the undead.
Pamela leaned forward and said softly, “Bram, I’ve been waiting for this story for months.”
Though she was allowed to call him “Uncle Brammie” at the start of their relationship, she was told before the London trip that informality was no longer suitable. It was to be “Mr. Stoker” in public or, privately, “Bram.” Ahmed had insisted on being called “Ahmed” after she first mispronounced his surname, calling him “Mr. Camel.” He only laughed and said as punishment he would make her call him “Ahmed,” but only the proper way, with an “ach.”
Ahmed leaned forward, his brown eyes wide. “Very well,” he said, “I will start with my own experience with the afrit. And I will share my tea with you, yes?” Ahmed stood to retrieve his hamper.
Slanting rain started racing down the outside of the train’s window, and Pamela noticed that it gushed toward her, forming a claw shape. Is this a sign that other forces are listening or merely water racing across glass? She traced lines of condensation on her side of the window into a circle. She added spikes through it. This shield should protect them if there were bad spirits following them. Pamela was relieved to see that both men were too distracted by the pouring of tea to notice the claw shape or her drawing.
“Yes, teatime is story time,” Pamela said, picking up the lunch basket at her feet and opening it. She unwrapped the sandwiches she’d bought for herself and Bram as Ahmed took out a lunch tin. Inside was a corn dish made with raisins and almonds he had once tried to get Pamela to eat at the museum. He motioned the opened tin to her.
“Miss Smith, Mr. Stoker,” Ahmed said, “would you like to try my Egyptian dish that will accompany my Egyptian story? My wife, Fatima, taught me back home before I came here how to make this, but this is not as good as hers.”
This was the first time that Ahmed had willingly mentioned his wife to Pamela. Months ago, he had left to go back to meet his latest child, a second son, in addition to the eldest daughter. Only recently did Ahmed mention now and then that
Pamela resembled his wife in her ability to disturb his concentration. She knew she should be polite and accept a portion of the dish, but the scent, reminiscent of unshod feet, overpowered her.
“No, thank you,” she said, trying not to choke.
“Goat cheese is not a favorite?” Ahmed asked, his lips starting to smile. “Mr. Stoker?” he added, offering Bram some.
Bram eyed the waxed papers lining the tin of cheese and corn and took a small portion. His eyes widened as he tasted it, but Pamela noticed he chewed very quickly. Pamela’s heart felt heavy. Perhaps he and Ahmed were not going to hit it off after all.
After swallowing, Bram asked, “Now what is the story of your Egyptian demon? And where did you study?”
“I was born in Cairo to Turkish parents,” Ahmed said. “I studied antiquities in Cairo under the French archeologist Auguste Mariette. As an expert in royal artifacts, during one of my many digs near Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, a Turkish dealer contacted me. This man, Ayant, offered to sell me a royal ushabti.”
“What is that?” Pamela asked, taking a large bite of her roast beef sandwich.
“A ushabti is a blue statue of the pharaoh, a doll-sized artifact, under a foot in length. Easy to loot from graves,” Ahmed answered.
Bram threw his head back and laughed, “Looted graves! One of my favorite subjects.”
Seeing him reach into the lunch basket for another of their sandwiches, Pamela felt her chest lighten. Uncle Brammie and Ahmed would get along.
“Ah, but Mr. Stoker, this is more than looted graves; this is a case of defiled royal tombs,” Ahmed said.
“Your afrit spirit sounds a lot like our Irish fairies from the other world. They also stand guard in the other—”
“Uncle Brammie,” Pamela said, “Excuse me—Bram, let Ahmed continue?”
The Irishman colored. “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Pixie.” He smiled crookedly. “Rather, Miss Smith. Mr. Kamal, please continue.” He gave his beef sandwich a decisive bite.
“After Ayant tried to sell me this ushabti, he put me in touch with two brothers,” Ahmed said. “Rasul and his brother, Mohammed, were experienced grave robbers. With another Egyptian, they were scouring the cliffs above the temple of Queen Hatshepsut when they discovered the signs of a hidden airshaft. Tossing a stone down to determine the extent of the shaft, they realized it was enormous. They returned at night with a local boy, ropes, and a donkey and worked to enlarge the opening. The local boy and Mohammed lowered Rasul with a torch down into the hole, and, after waiting a period of time, they put their heads down into the shaft to see if they could hear him. Do you know what they saw?”
“What?” Pamela asked, her heart beginning to beat faster.
“At the bottom of the tomb, Rasul was climbing the rope as fast as he could, batting something away. ‘Hurry!’ He yelled. ‘It almost has me!’ Mohammed and the other man tried to pull up the boy as fast as they could. But then . . . .”
Ahmed shook his head and looked away, looking at something outside in the dimming light of the countryside.
Pamela turned to him. “What? What happened?”
Ahmed whispered, “They heard . . . they heard . . . .”
Pamela leaned in closer to him. A piercing screech, sounding like a woman’s scream, rang out, sending Pamela sprawling against the window. There was a whoosh darkness enveloped the train.
In the pitch black there was only the rhythmic clacking of the rails, the dank smell of the compartment, and the feel of the textured seat that she clutched. Another whoosh and they were thrust out of the tunnel into the flat light of the British countryside. The train whistle roared again.
Pamela leaned against Ahmed and laughed in relief. “Excellent timing!” she said.
Bram chuckled as he slowly clapped, the theatre company’s trademark response to successful stage “bits.”
“Well played, Mr. Kamal, well played,” Bram said. “I might think you were a Lyceum Theatre tragedian, the way you timed that. How did you know when the train was to whistle?”
“I know the tunnel entrances, and most specifically that tunnel, and the darkness that follows. You see, I have made this trip to Liverpool several times before.”
“Chasing looted goods?” Bram asked.
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Ahmed answered.
“Now, Ahmed, you must finish the afrit story,” Pamela said. “There must be more to the story than that.”
“Indeed,” Ahmed said. “To continue: Mohammed and the other robber heard Rasul’s screams echoing in the air shaft. The donkey anchoring them almost bolted as the rope began to fray. Rasul kept shrieking that something was attacking him. With much difficulty, they finally lifted him out. Once he was on the ground, Rasul claimed that an afrit, an evil demon, had attacked him. It was angry that they had disturbed the queen’s temple. The trio went back into town and told everyone an afrit had chased them out and that it would do the same to anyone else. When the brothers and the local boy went back to loot the next day, a terrible, noxious smell escaped from the temple’s airshaft. This was a sign for everyone to stay away. But despite the smell, the looters kept stealing everything they could get their hands on.”
“Wait. Do afrits smell bad? And are they invisible?” Pamela asked.
“Afrits can threaten people with bad smells,” Ahmed said. “The afrit itself is not the smell. And they are invisible, when they want to be.”
Bram grimaced. “If they smelled, being undetected would be difficult, even if they are invisible.”
“When it suits the afrit, the afrit is invisible,” Ahmed said. “The two brothers looted the temple of the queen and continued to loot for many years. They used caution not to sell too many items at a time, to avoid suspicion. This Turkish art dealer, Mustapha Aga Ayant, procured many of these Egyptian artifacts. Most prized among them were the ushabti, these blue statuettes of a pharaoh. Collectors from Russia, Belgium, and even here in
England hunt them. The art dealer had diplomatic immunity since he was a ‘consular agent.’ He could sell these antiquities without being arrested. But many people in Egypt began to realize how many treasures were being stolen and taken out of the country.”
“I don’t think our British Museum archeologists would consider themselves tomb robbers,” Pamela said. “Don’t they come back from digs claiming they’ve saved countless relics from demolition?”
“I have my own thoughts about that, Miss Smith,” Ahmed said, looking out the window past Pamela. “But in my story, a new official laid a trap to discover where this Ayat, the art dealer, got this blue statuette and tricked him into revealing the names of the two brothers, Mohammed and Rasul. Arrested, questioned, and beaten, they refused to give up the location of the queen’s temple’s airshaft. But Mohammed betrayed his brother. He told the official that it was Rasul who had found the queen’s temple entryway—that Rasul killed their donkey and threw it down the airshaft to create the scent of rotting bodies. Rumors spread about the afrit to keep the locals away, but the looting continued.”
“So there was no afrit in the temple after all,” Pamela said.
“No afrit there—at the time,” Ahmed said. “But officials discovered later the royal remains of over forty great pharaohs. These pharaohs waited centuries to be restored to the other life on the other side of the river. When the main official found all these pharaohs, he hired three hundred men to clear the temple, so that they could take the great ones to a museum in Cairo. But as the workers cleared the temple, they also pilfered and destroyed treasures. Rather than make the trek out of the temple for lamps, some took mummified bodies of royal children and used them as torches to light the pitch-black tunnels.”
Pamela shuddered. “They used the bodies of children as torches?”
“Yes,” Ahmed replied. “The afrits saw this and remembered.”
The wind howled outside and the train car hurled on as dark clouds closed in. The rain streaked by with new intensity. The shield that Pamela had drawn on Ahmed’s side of the window deflected rows of dripping water. The dark water pooled and trickled down the glass like beads of blood.
“Some of the findings from the temple you might have heard of,” Ahmed continued. “Ramses I, II, III, XI, the Tuthmosis I, II, and III, and Ahmose. During this move, the mummies were set out in the blistering sun, waiting to be loaded onto the barges.”
“Such a desecration of the dead. Did you see this?” Pamela asked.
“Yes,” Ahmed answered. “I was there. I saw it. Ramses I, partially unwrapped, was lying out on the ground, and his arm slowly rose in the air. His bandaged hand pointed to the workmen who had burned the bodies of the royal children. The guilty parties he pointed to were cursed because the smell appeared whenever those workmen were on any future site, marking those who were robbers that were living corpses. Most of the robbers went mad; the rest were shunned. Others can make excuses, but I believe the afrit marked them with a bad smell.”
“What happened to the mummies?” Bram asked.
“The mummies were put on boats and floated down the Nile to the museum in Cairo. All along the banks of the Nile, thousands turned out to honor their ancestors, each of their faces turned toward Mecca.”
“Did you see the procession, Mr. Kamal?”
“I not only saw the procession; I was one of the first honored historians in the men’s line due to my presence in the tomb when Ramses was unwrapped . . . .”
“Men’s line?” Pamela asked.
“Yes, Miss Smith, in my country, we have separate sections for the men, women, and children. The imam recited the prayers for all. The silence among the crowd afterward was very moving.”
Bram sat up and leaned forward. “Who else was an honored historian in this procession of boats?”
Ahmed smiled. “I stood next to Émile Brugsch, at that time only a German digger, and Auguste Mariette, my former employer in Cairo. Bergsch is my current employer with the Cairo Antiquities Department.”
“Just like my tarot cards, you have worlds within worlds, Mr. Kamal,” Pamela said. “Your family is Turkish, yet you worked for a Frenchman in Egypt alongside a German digger. You are truly universal.”
“I think the word you are looking for, Miss Smith, is ‘international,’” Ahmed said. “‘Universal’ denotes acceptance, and for me that is truly not the case. Not yet, at least.”
There was silence while the three of them squinted out at the inclement weather.
“Ahmed, what does a real mummy look like?” Pamela asked, putting away her lunch box. “An actual mummy—not the bandages, not the outer cases, like those you’ve shown me at the museum.”
“Ha, well,” Ahmed said, “the most curious thing that struck me, in addition to a mummy’s dehydrated skeleton, was the length of its earlobes.”
Pamela shifted in her seat. How much did Ahmed know about the tattoo markings that had appeared on herself and her muses? In recent months, each of Pamela’s muses—William Terriss, Henry Irving, Florence Farr, and Ellen Terry—all had noticed a mysterious white tattoo appearing on their earlobes. It was a symbol of three letters—a monogram: “PCS.” Pamela’s initials. Bram and Ahmed might have noticed the markings but didn’t realize they marked her tarot muses.
“Yes, the earlobes were all very much stretched out on all the royal ones,” Ahmed said, his half-moon eyebrow arching. “Only priests had piercings or tattoos.”
“I thought most religions forbade markings,” Pamela said.
“In Egyptian culture, ear markings signify three things: prayer, meditation, and protection from demons,” Ahmed said. “I hope your theatrical production in Manchester will be free of demons. If I did not have to travel on to Liverpool to investigate a stolen statue, I would stay . . . .”
Ahmed’s words trailed off and he pointed to a dewy symbol on the window. In the condensation, three intertwined letters appeared: “PCS.” Pamela wondered if Ahmed had ever glimpsed Florence’s markings when she came to the museum; she would be the only one that he knew. If Bram had spotted the magical tattoos of both Ellen and Henry, he had never said anything to her. But now, only three of her muses were still alive. Her Fool, William Terriss, lay interred in a grave, a murder victim.
The three watery letters dripped, their dense weight dragging their shapes downward. As the letters sagged, “666” formed in their place.
Her left ear burned, and her hand immediately went to massage the raised bumps on her earlobe, feeling the edges of each one of her initials.
“Miss Smith, something has been conjured,” Ahmed said softly. “Perhaps an afrit is following you.”
Pamela swallowed and looked away from her companions. It’s not an afrit following me, but Aleister Crowley, the Golden Dawn Magician determined to own my tarot cards’ power.
