Pockets of Darkness by Jean Rabe

through that union was the father of Prince Kanefer II, Prince Kawab, and Princess Meresankh.
    “Eldest son of the king,” she heard someone in the background whisper of Kanefer as if it was a title. If this man was the firstborn, Bridget would not determine that now. Perhaps that would be revealed in a future visit. But she suspected Kanefer was merely the oldest living son at the time the statue was carved; she heard Kanefer mention to the carver about his brothers Nefermaat and Rahotep being buried recently at the royal necropolis of Meidum. So not an only son.
    Greatest of Seers and Overseer of the Troops, Kanefer had been called.
    Despite her intention to only give herself a taste of this time period, Bridget continued to direct all of her being in an effort to delve deeper and deeper.
    Talk to me, high priest, she practically begged. “Talk to me like I am standing next to you.”
    Dear God, this Kanefer had been important . Images tumbled at Bridget far too quickly to be properly absorbed. She saw pieces, like highlights in an old newsreel fast-forwarding, this man leading a force and gaining control over the lands of the Sinai.
    Bridget’s chest grew tight and a part of her demanded she break the connection before she loose herself. But the greater part demanded that she continue the discovery. Sweat drenched her, both from the sensation of the desert heat and from the effort she expelled. She gasped for air and grasped the statue to her chest like a child would hug a beloved doll.
    The images continued until the sand and the dark-colored men, all of the sounds and the desert breeze overwhelmed her and she collapsed from exhaustion.
    She awoke sometime later, soaked, the statue next to her, the briefcase just beyond it. The air smelled putrid, of things washed up and rotting in the summer sun on the bank of the East River. The stench was so strong, and Bridget so spent after her delving, that she retched on the over-dyed Turkish oushak until her stomach was empty and she was weaker still. After several moments she pushed herself to her knees and froze.
    Sitting next to the briefcase was a repulsive-looking creature that fixed its misshapen eyes on her.
    The thing was size of a pit bull, but looked vaguely reptilian, squatty like a bullfrog with its long hind legs tucked to its side. Its hide was a mottled green-brown that bubbled and oozed, but was smooth and mustard yellow across its protruding stomach. Goo ran in thin rivulets down its skin and disappeared before hitting the rug.
    The creature was clearly the source of the horrific odor.
    Bridget was afraid to move. She was a dozen feet away from the intercom on the wall and the telephone on the desk. She didn’t have a cell phone on her, nothing at hand she could use to call for one of her attendants or Dustin—not that they could do anything about this beast. For once in her life she wished she carried a gun. She could spring for the door, but she was woozy and ruled out that option. And so she didn’t budge, waiting to see what the monster was going to do.
    She knew that’s what it was: a monster, not some figment of her imagination brought on by fatigue. There were such things in this world as true beasts, though she had never actually seen one, had only half-glimpsed their malformed shadowy images when she’d been mentally connected to ancient things of dubious origin or had ventured too deep beneath New York City. Where had this monster come from? And why? What did it want? Her life?
    It had four eyes—one set perched directly atop the other. As Bridget stared, she saw a fifth eye open above them in the center of its forehead. The eyes shifted color and size, making her dizzy, and she dropped her gaze to the thing’s mouth. The lips were bulbous, again conjuring up the image of a bullfrog, and when it yawned, Bridget saw a double row of fine, pointed teeth set against a black cave-like interior. It belched, the noxious cloud adding to the already