Chapter 1: The Hanged Man
Chapter Text
The Hanged Man
Cairo, October 1922
“Cut him down!”
The words rang down from the balcony, just audible through the blood pounding in O’Connell’s ears. The rope around his neck went slack; he fell hard again for the second time in several seconds, and sprawled half-dead on the hay-strewn ground beneath the gallows. A ringing filled his ears: his own heartbeat and the cheering of the crowd at his reprieve. Twisting around, Rick looked out and up, up to where Evelyn Carnahan stood smiling down on him like some smug green eyed angel.
Of course he didn’t know her name then. Introductions were made later, in the street outside of the prison, where they were unceremoniously thrust after the restraints were removed from Rick’s arms and legs and his few personal possessions (keys, wallet) were returned to him. Rick leaned against the wall as his rescuer talked at him.
“My name is Evelyn Carnahan,” she said in that crisp English voice. “This is my brother, Jonathan. We’ll need a week at least to prepare for the dig. There are tools to buy, and supplies--Does a week suit you, Mister…?”
“O’Connell,” Rick rasped. His stomach was roiling. “Rick O’Connell.”
“Mr. O’Connell. As I was saying, a week should be sufficient for us to prepare. I will give you £10 and we will meet at the Port Office in Giza--”
“Excuse me.”
Rick lurched away from the siblings, stumbling towards a convenient refuse heap. He only barely made it before puking. He felt hot and sick, the memory of the rope, the drop, strangling at him, and he coughed before retching again. There really wasn’t much in him to bring up, but Rick stayed doubled up, half-collapsed against the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass.
“Mr. O’Connell,” Evelyn Carnahan began, her voice hesitant, and Rick heard her brother shush her.
“Here,” Jonathan Carnahan, sneak thief, thrust a pocket flask under O’Connell’s nose. “It’s brandy. Drink up, old chap.” He hovered, bobbing awkwardly, then danced a few steps back as though remembering Rick’s fist to his jaw. “Er, we’re currently staying at Fort Brydon, so you can look us up there anytime; otherwise we’ll see you at the Port Office Tuesday next.”
Rick sloshed the brandy down his aching throat. “Yeah. Great.”
And so they left him with ten pounds and his life. Rick leaned on the wall and watched the Carnahans go off, quietly bickering. They turned a corner and he let his head fall back against the wall. The prison door opened and a guard stuck his head out.
“You still here, pig? You can come back inside if you like!”
Rick O’Connell pushed himself off the wall and took himself away.
*
It seemed surreal to find his pathetic little room laid out exactly as he had left it two days ago, but nothing about that day felt real. Rick checked his drawers and satisfied himself that no one had touched either his underwear or his guns before collapsing onto his uncomfortable bed.
He slept like the dead until the next morning, and for a moment after waking, Rick had no idea where he was. Then it came back to him: the hanging, Evelyn Carnahan’s glowing eyes, the proposed safari to Hamunaptra, the brandy Jonathan had given him. Rick snapped awake and groaned. His head and neck were killing him, the muscles so tight that he could barely turn his head. The place where the rope had strangled him burned. Rick rolled off of his bed and sat on the floor, cradling his head in his hands. Shit fuck ow . It took everything he had to stagger to his feet, but Rick gritted his teeth and, putting one foot in front of the other, forced himself to get up and get moving.
The boarding house he lived in had running water, but only barely. Still, Rick stood under the shower’s lukewarm stream for a long time. It was good to wash away the dirt and grime of the prison, but he knew that this was far from enough. The water went some way in relaxing the muscles in his neck and back, but it didn't do anything for the tell-tale itch in his scalp. It was time to bring out the big guns.
The ten pounds Evelyn Carnahan had given him were still in the pocket of his ruined pants. Rick took the money and tottered out into the world.
The barber on the corner gave him a shave and a proper haircut (his first in months) and weeded the crawlers out of his hair, humming his disapproval. Rick almost fell asleep again under his ministrations, dozing under the hot towel folded over his face. He looked like a new man when the barber had finished with him, trim and handsome and not at all like the borderline-alcoholic who led rich tourists out to the Pyramids and got arrested for brawling. Looking at himself in the barber’s speckled mirror, Rick wondered how he had let himself go so badly.
The look on Evelyn Carnahan’s face at the prison haunted him. She had looked at him like he was a criminal, a simpleton. Well, who the hell was she, anyway? Just some rich, gorgeous girl who wanted to go on an adventure and had saved his life in the process. It wasn’t the first life debt Rick had incurred; maybe she would even live to let him repay it. He shoved the thought away and, paying the barber, limped out into the street.
Two hours later Rick emerged from the local baths a new man, feeling a bit more human in his worn khaki pants and cotton shirt. The baths had been exactly what he needed: hot and cold running water, and lots of it, and he’d even used some of Evelyn Carnahan’s money to treat himself to a massage. The attendant’s strong hands had worked out the worst of the knots in Rick’s neck and back, and he had even produced a soothing salve for the rope burn. Rick was not above paying for necessary luxuries. Now he needed food and a long nap. Rick grabbed a couple of schawarmas from a small cafe and went home.
*
Rick spent the rest of the week preparing for the upcoming trek to Hamunaptra and recovering from the dubious pleasures of Cairo Prison. The funny thing about being hanged was how the memory of it stuck to you. Rick was not unused to unpleasant memories intruding on his peace--the Great War and what he had seen during it and after were kept in a tightly lidded box accessible only in his nightmares--but it was damned inconvenient to suddenly remember a sharp drop and sudden stop while eating breakfast or trying on new shirts. Once or twice Rick woke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath and filled with the desperate need to do something, although he could never be clear on what.
Evelyn Carnahan haunted him as well, with those gorgeous green eyes and soft pink lips. What kind of a girl marched into a prison and saved a man’s life on his word alone? And why the hell did she want to go out to Hamunaptra? Neither of the Carnahans struck Rick as the adventuring type. Jonathan may have spent time on digs, but he was prepared to put money down that Evelyn hadn’t. He was equally certain that she would head out there whether Rick went along or not.
The truth of the matter was, Rick was almost afraid to go back to the City of the Dead. He had been against it the first time, when his Legion commander convinced the garrison that there were riches untold buried under the sands just there for the taking. Look where that had gotten them. Two hundred men dead, and for what? Strange sounds in the night and a palpable sense of evil that had followed him well out into the desert? There was something out there and Rick had no desire to find out what.
Still, he was a man of his word, and there was the not insignificant fact to consider that without Evelyn Carnahan’s interference, he would be dead now. Come hell or high water, he would see this through.
And he would, Rick decided, look like a respectable son of a bitch doing it.
Ten pounds was a lot of money, more than Rick had had in one go for a long time. He took some of it and went to a tailor for new clothes, then went through the souk for hair pomade and aftershave. There was also ammunition to buy, and a new waterproof duffle bag to carry his guns in. On the Monday night before the trek, Rick carefully packed the bag full of his guns (pistols, rifle) and ammunition, as well as a couple of knives, a change of clothes, and his shaving tackle. When he rose in the early morning light, he shaved carefully and pomaded his hair. Hedonned khaki pants so new they were still crisp, a snowy white shirt, and a linen safari jacket, and knotted a new blue kerchief around the raw place made by the hangman’s noose. Rick wore his shoulder holsters concealed under the jacket, just in case. He laced his newly polished boots and hefted the duffel bag and, taking a deep breath, strode out into the day. Time to go.
Giza Port was teeming with people, the usual chaos of a ship, in this case the Nile cruiser Sudan , loading up. O’Connell made his way through the masses, striding with an easy authority that parted the way ahead of him like Moses and the Red Sea. The Carnahans were easy to spot, dressed in pale linen safari clothes, Evelyn with a straw hat set at a jaunty angle on her head. Strangely, she seemed to be carrying all of their luggage; Jonathan ambled along beside her, arms swinging at his sides. They were talking as they went by; Rick lengthened his stride to catch up to them and heard Evelyn’s voice drifting back towards him.
“--filthy, rude, a complete scoundrel; I don’t like him one bit.”
“Anyone I know?” Rick asked, and was gratified when the siblings leaped around and boggled at him. Evelyn’s face went slack, her jaw falling and her gorgeous eyes going wide, and Rick felt a surge of smugness that he didn’t let show on his face. He raised his eyebrows at her in exaggerated innocence.
Evelyn Carnahan dropped her bags. “Um, hello,” she stammered, her voice suddenly soft and light.
Jonathan was not so easily startled. He smacked Rick’s chest and shook his hand. “Smashing day for the start of an adventure, eh, O’Connell?”
“Yeah, smashing,” Rick replied without humor, and made a show of checking his breast pocket for his wallet. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jonathan, but he didn’t trust Jonathan. But the Englishman just waved a hand.
“Oh, I’d never steal from a partner, partner.”
Rick managed a chuckle. “That reminds me, no hard feelings for the--” he took a mock-swipe at Jonathan’s face.
“Oh, no, no, happens all the time.”
I’ll bet it does , Rick thought, turning to look again at Evelyn. She was still looking up at him in wide-eyed astonishment, but her eyes narrowed as Rick looked at her.
“Mr. O’Connell, can you look me in the eye and guarantee me that this isn’t all some kind of a--a flim-flam? Because if it is I’m warning you I’ll--”
“You’re warning me?” Rick really had to hand it to her; she wasn’t lacking in audacity. “Lady, let me put it this way. My whole damn garrison believed in this so much that without orders they marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt to find that city, and when we got there, all we found was sand and blood.”
That gave her a pause. Satisfied that he had made his point--both of his points, really--Rick bent down and reached for her suitcases. “Let me get your bags.”
And, hefting them, Rick O’Connell walked up the Sudan’s gangplank and into his next adventure.
Author's Note: Ah, "The Mummy", the movie equivalent of a warm hug. I've watched probably too many times since the start of quarantine. I hope that you like this missing scene! Writing in Rick's voice was a lot of fun. In Tarot the hanged man means, among other things, surrender, letting go, and new perspectives. Please let me know what you think in the comments! And as always, thanks for reading!
Chapter 2: The Maiden
Chapter Text
The Maiden
60 miles south of Cairo, October 1922
“Can you swim?”
The dark water closed over Evie’s head; she sank into the Nile, her skirts tangling about her legs. Knowing better than to struggle while falling, she let herself go still and in moments had bobbed to the surface. The Sudan burned above her and Evie kicked away from it, striking out into the river. Treading water, she looked back at the river cruiser, anxiously scanning the burning deck for any sight of Jonathan or Mr. O’Connell. Bangs and crashes and bellows filled the air; men and animals going over the edge, then O’Connell pirouetted over the Sudan’s side, his kit bag full of guns slung over his shoulders.
“O’Connell!” Evie shrieked as he surfaced.
“Swim!” he barked, and his voice was so serious that Evie struck out alongside him, pressing further into the river.
“Where’s Jonathan?” she yelled.
“I’m here!”
The hail came from not far away; shouting back and forth the Carnahans found each other in the fire-filled darkness. They found the Warden, too, which was a relief if not a joy. Following O’Connell, they swam towards the bank and staggered into the shallows. O’Connell clambered upright and caught Evie’s arm, pulling her to her feet.
“Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right?” Evie cried, stumbling a little in the shallow water as she slogged towards shore. “We’ve lost everything , all our tools, all the equipment. All my clothes.”
O’Connell grunted, tossing his duffel bag down on the dry sand and pulling his pistols out of their holsters, shaking the water out of them. Evie stood on the bank, panting. Perhaps she was being churlish when he had, in fact, just saved her life, but she was close to tears. The expedition was over before it had even begun.
From far across the river came a shout. “Hey! O’Connell! It looks to me like I’ve got all the horses!”
O’Connell turned and bellowed back. “Hey, Beni! It looks to me like you’re on the wrong side of the river !”
It was such a childish interaction that Evie forgot herself and stared at him. O’Connell turned his back on the river and caught her eye. To her amazement, he grinned. “Well, he is. Come on.”
He was good after that, inexplicably, unbelievably good. Evie had rather believed, when she sprang him from Cairo Prison and left him puking in the gutter, that Rick O’Connell was a drunk and a thief and possibly a liar. She had been unprepared for the handsomely dressed and surprisingly knowledgeable man who presented himself on the docks that morning, and she was certainly unprepared for how he took charge now. O’Connell marched them higher up the bank and had them sit down on dry sand. He opened his duffel and dug out a pocket torch and a clean shirt. Of course he has spare clothes , Evie thought, nonsensically, and started when O’Connell tossed the shirt at her.
“Put that on; you’re shivering,” he said. “Jonathan, any injuries? Warden?”
“No,” came the chorus.
“Are you hurt, Evie?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m fine,” Evie said. She stood there looking over their motley party, clutching O’Connell’s spare shirt. She didn’t think she was shivering; it wasn’t cold out and she was entirely too old to have a fit of the vapours like some wilting violet in an adventure story. The Sudan was still burning out there on the river; gazing out at it, Evie was suddenly gripped by the horror that there had been people unable to escape the blaze. There hadn’t been many passengers, though, and there were lights blazing and people shouting on the far side of the river--
“Evelyn,” Rick O’Connell said, so forcefully that she looked at him. He took the shirt out of her hands and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Jonathan, I think your sister needs a slug of brandy.”
Jonathan materialized at her side, holding his pocket flask. “Drink up, old mum.”
“I would also like a slug of brandy,” the Warden said, his voice petulant.
Evie took a mouthful and felt warmth licking down her insides. She passed the flask back to Jonathan; it made the rounds among the men, but she noticed that O’Connell didn’t drink any. Instead he stood scanning the riverbank, pocket torch in one hand and pistol in the other. For a moment, Evie couldn’t imagine why. Then she realized that there were lights coming towards them--people-- attracted by the burning boat out on the river.
“Min hunak?” a man shouted. Who’s there?”
“Nahn musafirun,” O’Connell called. We are travellers. “Nahn bihajat lilmusaeadat! Kunna ealaa matn alqarib.” We need help. We were on that boat.
Evie stared at him. “You speak Arabic!”
“Yeah,” O’Connell said, shoving his gun back into its holster. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” snapped Evie. “I’m not a china doll!”
“Good,” O’Connell said, and he flashed her a grin. “Come on.”
The men coming towards them were from a small village, one of hundreds along the Nile. They carried with them torches and blankets, prepared for some kind of calamity, and in short order Evie found herself walking alongside Jonathan back to the village. The evening’s events were taking on a surreal quality, as though they had happened to someone else: the man in her cabin, the gunfight, O’Connell nearly getting his head blown off, the unceremonious way he had thrown her into the river. Evie shivered. Jonathan looked at her.
“You all right, old mum?”
“I don’t know.” Evie swallowed; her throat suddenly tight. “It’s over before it even began.”
“I know,” Jonathan said wearily. “Hell and damnation. I really thought we were on to something.”
Tears pricked at Evie’s eyes; she was so angry. “And we lost the map, and the puzzle box, and now I’ll never find the Book of Amun-ra--”
“Hey, who said we were quitting?”
The voice was O’Connell’s; Evie and Jonathan turned to stare at him. He looked perplexed, as though this were a small set-back instead of a calamity. “We’ll rest up here tonight, find some more tools, and head out tomorrow. No big deal.”
O’Connell’s voice was calm, in command; he wasn’t kidding. Hope began to bubble in Evie’s chest. Maybe this wasn’t over, after all.
They made it to the village, a motley collection of stone houses and canvas awnings, where a handful of veiled women descended upon Evie and bore her off, exclaiming over her. She was led to one of the small houses and through to the modest womens’ quarters, where her filthy, soaked nightgown and O’Connell’s shirt were removed. She was briskly bathed, dried, wrapped in a blanket, and put to bed on a divan by a couple of clucking Egyptian women, clearly members of a family. A mug of broth was pressed into her hands.
“Where is my brother? My companions?” Evie asked.
“They are in the next house, sitt,” said the lady of the house, a small, round woman with smile-lined eyes. “Your husband, he asked that we look after you and tell you to get some sleep.”
“My husband?”
“Yes, the big man,” the woman said. “Would you like me to bring him to you, sitt?”
Evie shook her head, amused, and lay back on the divan. She wondered what O’Connell would say if he knew that the women thought they were married. Probably he would be horrified. Still, for the first time on this adventure she was glad that he was there. What might have happened if O’Connell hadn’t come bursting into her cabin right when the villain had his hook to her face? Evie shivered. The lady of the house reached to steady the mug in her hands.
“I’m not sick, sitt,” Evie said, but the woman shook her head.
“Your boat sank and you had to swim in the river. It is the same thing.”
Evie smiled and submitted. When the broth was gone she lay back and closed her eyes. In minutes, she slept.
Dawn brought with it a flurry of activity. Waking, Evie was momentarily displaced: what was she doing in a small house, not in her cabin aboard the Sudan . Then she remembered and groaned. In the cool light of morning, memory and common sense reasserted itself and her hopes were dashed. How could they possibly get to Hamunaptra now?
Around her, the lady of the house and her assorted female relatives were rising and making their beds. Evie sat up and asked after her clothes. She couldn’t very well check on Jonathan and O’Connell dressed in nothing but a blanket. Her nightgown was unfortunate, but it was all she had. And besides, O’Connell would want his spare shirt back.
“You cannot go out in that,” she was informed. “You would bake in the sun.”
Instead, they presented her with a new set of Egyptian clothes: thin cotton trousers and undershirt and a flowing black yelek robe trimmed in silver that buttoned up the front and had split skirts for riding.
“I cannot accept this,” Evelyn said, “It’s too beautiful.”
The lady smiled. “It was arranged for by your menfolk. They asked that we find clothing for you.”
“Oh.” Evie rubbed the soft cotton between her fingers and smiled. “In that case, thank you.”
She donned the outfit and a pair of black riding boots. The outfit reminded Evie of the single photograph she had of her mother taken before she had married Alexander Carnahan and foregone Egyptian dress. Salwa Carnahan had been beautiful, and it pleased Evie to be dressed as her mother had in her youth. The effect was furthered when one of the young women painted a layer of kohl onto Evie’s eyes and draped her hair in a soft veil.
“Come, your menfolk are waiting. They are buying camels and supplies to carry you into the desert.”
“They are?” Elation filled Evie ; she wanted to scream and jump up and down. They were still going to Hamunaptra! Just as O’Connell said they would.
As Evie walked out into the village with her benefactors, she saw Jonathan and Rick O’Connell standing by the well, each holding the reins of two camels. Saddlebags of food and supplies were being loaded onto the animals’ back. O’Connell was staring at her.
“Good morning,” Evie said, smiling rather shyly at him.
“Morning,” O’Connell said, flashing her that charming grin. “You sleep well?”
“Oh, yes, very well, thanks.”
O’Connell made a gesture at her. “They got you your clothes all right?”
“Yes,” Evie replied, and wondered with a thrill of disbelief if he had been the one to “arrange” things with the ladies. It seemed a stretch to think that Jonathan would do that. She hid her sudden embarrassment by looking past O’Connell to where Jonathan and the Warden stood bickering. “We’re really carrying on, then.”
“Yeah, I told you,” Rick said. “You do want to, don’t you?”
“More than anything,” Evie said, and winced internally at how eager she sounded. She couldn’t help it. “I’m ready to go at any time, Mr. O’Connell.”
He grinned at her again and drat him , he really was handsome, with those blue eyes and that tousled hair falling over his forehead.
“You’d better check over the supplies; make sure I got everything right,” he said.
Evie did as he suggested, looking through the bags and baskets while O’Connell trailed behind her. Two canvas tents, blankets, enough food for two weeks, water skins, cooking gear, two shovels, a pick ax and a crowbar made up the lot. It wasn’t as comprehensive as what she had bought in Cairo and lost aboard the Sudan , but it would more than do. O’Connell had even gotten hold of a couple of cheap paper notebooks, which boggled Evie’s mind.
“It’s a shame I lost my tool kit, though,” she said, closing the flap of the last saddlebag and standing. She brushed her hands on her skirts. “We’d have to return to Cairo for a new one, or sail all the way down to Luxor.”
O’Connell looked curious. “What difference does it make?”
“Oh, a world of difference!” Evie said, archeological fervor taking hold. “I had brushes, and picks, and all of the things I would need to really dig into tiny little crevasses and the like. But it’s lost now. I suppose I’ll just have to make do.”
She glanced at O’Connell; he was looking at her with an odd expression on his face and Evie turned away, embarrassed and annoyed with herself. He clearly thought she was in over her head, some kind of silly girl, even if he had almost single handedly saved the Carnahan Expedition. Why did she care what he thought of her? Evie was a Bachelor Girl and had been since the War. She was a scholar and a librarian and, now, an archeologist. She had long decided to stop caring what men thought of her. Besides, she reminded herself, O’Connell was only in it for the money; he had no interest in her beyond that, even if he had kissed her. Come now, girl, enough of these thoughts . The morning was beautiful; they were safe and well and they were going to find the City of the Dead, and she would finally become a real archeologist. Evie checked her camel’s girth and sprang into the saddle.
“Are we ready, chaps? Forth the Carnahan Expedition!” she called, laughing. “To Hamunaptra!”
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to "The Hanged Man". The Maiden isn't a tarot card, but I like the sound of it. The closest card to describing Evie is, I think, the Strength card or possible the Queen of Wands. Anyway. The Arabic here comes courtesy of Google Translate (*hangs head*) so if anyone knows Arabic and wants to correct me, I'd be grateful. I hope you like the story! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!
Chapter 3: The Fool
Chapter Text
The Fool
Hamunaptra, October 1922
The Warden was dead--that much was obvious. Silence filled the tomb, but the man’s shrieks rang in all their ears as the Carnahans and O’Connell stood clustered together, staring agape at the body on the floor.
“I, uh,” Jonathan said, and swallowed. “Evie I think you’d better--”
He made a vague attempt to nudge her behind him, back towards the sarcophagus.
“Stay there,” O’Connell finished.
He began to edge towards the Warden’s body, gun still in hand. Jonathan swallowed against the bile rising in his throat and took a step after him. One step. Two. Three. He stopped. O’Connell kept going, but he was the professional, damn it, and they all knew the man was dead! O’Connell confirmed it anyway.
“Dead. Looks like he broke his neck.”
“How horrible,” Evie said, her voice small.
Jonathan retreated to her side, put an arm around her. “Come away, old mum. You don’t need to see this.”
She let him lead her back to the sarcophagus and O’Connell followed, looking grim.
“What was he doing?” he muttered, more to himself than to Evie and Jonathan. “I’d forgotten all about him. What was he doing ?”
“I thought you didn’t like him,” Jonathan remarked, pulling his flask from his pocket and handing it to Evie. She drank and held it out to O'Connell.
O’Connell gave him that look, the one that so plainly said he thought Jonathan was an idiot. “Doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”
Jonathan snorted. “He tried to kill you.”
O’Connell took the flask from Evie and swigged brandy. “Yeah. Still.”
He was my responsibility . The words were unspoken, but O’Connell may as well have shouted. Ugh, these heroic types. Jonathan took his flask back and drank, drank to drown the memory of the Warden’s frantic race, the screams, the crack of bone shattering against stone. If he thought about it too much the other screams would begin to leak out, and the cacophony of bombs and bullets and mustard gas.
“Don’t go blaming yourself for his choices,” he said, waving the flask at O’Connell. “Guilt never brought anybody back from the dead.”
O’Connell turned surprised eyes on him, but it was Evie who spoke. “What do we do?”
O’Connell shifted his eyes to her and Jonathan was glad. He took another quick gulp and let insouciance settle over him once more, shoving the memories away. Evie was safe, and he was safe. That was all that really mattered.
“We’ll have to carry him up,” O’Connell said. “And, er, find a place to bury him. Maybe some of the Americans’ crew’ll know the proper words to say.”
Jonathan almost reached for his flask again. There it was, the soldier’s need to do the thing right, to farewell a fellow properly. People weren’t supposed to die on archaeological digs, not in the twentieth century. Damned stupid thing to do. And Jonathan knew that he was about to do something damned stupid, too; like a prat, like someone who cared--
“I’ll get his legs,” he said.
They carried the body between them as far as the mummification chamber and laid it down by the rope they had shimmied down. O’Connell took himself off to find the Americans, and Evie and Jonathan retreated to the far side of the chamber. They passed an uneasy quarter of an hour until their guide returned, bringing with him a long sheet of tarpaulin and the news that there was a door out of this godforsaken place, so they would be spared the indignity of trying to lever the Warden’s body out through the ceiling. Small mercies. And thank God for the tarpaulin. Jonathan felt easier once the body was covered. He took the ends and followed O’Connell back to the surface, where the sun was sinking towards the west and the bustle of a camp being set up lent the site a disquieting air of normalcy. It made Jonathan cold, how life simply marched on even in the face of violent death. They set their cargo down just outside the tomb entrance.
“Why don’t you two go back to camp?” O’Connell said. “I’ll, uh, take care of the body.”
“You can’t bury him yourself,” Jonathan said, and felt a flash of irritation. He knew that O’Connell thought he was ridiculous, and he didn’t like it.
“You want to help?”
Jonathan huffed. “Not particularly, but I know how to see a thing to the end. It’s not my first improvised burial.”
Something flashed into O’Connell’s eyes: understanding, and a dawning realization. Good. Jonathan turned away and began the strenuous task of convincing Evie that she didn’t need to help them with this.
They buried the Warden at sunset, outside the ruined walls of Hamunaptra on the eastern slope. Jonathan and O’Connell dug the grave in silence, tossing up shovelfuls of sandy dirt until they had a hole deep enough that no animals would dig the poor sod up. When a handful of fellahin from the Americans’ crew joined them to dig their own pits, O’Connell and Jonathan stopped and leaned on their shovels.
“Not sure I want to know what happened there,” Jonathan remarked.
O’Connell shook his head. “Looks like a bad day was had by all.”
Jonathan took up his shovel again and struck at the soil. “I’ve had worse.”
He could feel O’Connell’s eyes on him again, assessing him. Let him, Jonathan thought. Whatever life O’Connell had led to get him here wasn’t important. He was a guide to riches and his opinion didn’t matter. Jonathan wiped sweat from his brow. He hadn’t been lying earlier, when they had held those beastly cowboys at gunpoint. He had been in tighter odds than fifteen to four, and he had survived them when no one else had. It was why he drank himself to sleep most nights, which was exactly what he was going to do when they were nice and wealthy from the treasure here, if they ever found it. Still, the question, when it came, was not unwelcome.
“Where did you serve?”
“Western Front. The Somme and Pozières,” Jonathan said bitterly. “You could call that a couple of bad months.”
“Or years,” O’Connell replied, and there was no contempt in his voice. “It was an ugly war.”
Well, if that wasn’t an understatement for the ages. For a moment the hot Egyptian sands vanished and everything was mud and blood and the screams of the dying. Jonathan closed his eyes and reached for his flask.
“I lost all my close friends,” he said. Funny, he had never really said that to anyone before. “Buried what we could of ‘em, of course; said all the right words. I got shot in the arse a week before the Somme campaign ended and was invalided home. Best thing that ever happened to me.”
He glanced at Rick O’Connell, daring him to say something glib and American, wishing he hadn’t opened his mouth. O’Connell’s face was somber; he stabbed at the soil with his shovel.
“Yeah, I know a lot of guys who’ll always be nineteen, too. Good men. Not one deserved it.”
“No.” Jonathan flung sand away in a wide, furious arc. “Shall we ask the fellahin how the ritual goes?”
O’Connell nodded and took himself over to the little group. He was only gone for a few minutes, but it gave Jonathan the time he needed to take another nip from his flask and gather himself. He glanced over at the Warden’s corpse, snug in its tarpaulin shroud. O’Connell had given him a look-over, but they didn’t know what had killed him. Something invisible. Jonathan shuddered. When he died, he hoped it would be fast and painless. He didn’t want to run screaming into death’s arms, clutching his head or hacking up bits of his lungs, or lying in pieces on the battlefield, screaming for his mother. He had always tried to ensure that the men he had killed died quickly, silenced by a sniper’s bullet. That they hadn’t suffered because of him.
“They say they’ll take care of him,” O’Connell announced, breaking into Jonathan’s dark thoughts. “Since they’re Muslim, too, it’s the best way; they know the rituals. We should get back to camp.”
Jonathan nodded. They hesitated over the Warden’s corpse for a minute, in Jonathan’s case, at least, silently apologizing for his rudeness over the past few days. The walk back to camp took place in semi-darkness, both of them watching their feet.
“I was at Gallipoli,” Rick said suddenly. “In ‘15. With the Legion. We went on to North Africa after that, mainly Algeria. It was bad fighting, but I didn’t muster out when it was over.”
Jonathan glanced at him. “Whyever not?”
O’Connell shrugged. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t like it, but by the end I didn’t know how not to fight. I kept expecting to die, too, you know?”
“I know.” Jonathan grimaced. “One does rather forget how to be ordinary.”
“Yeah.” O’Connell sighed. He waved a hand, encompassing Hamunaptra. “This was the site of my last battle. My colonel wanted the wealth of Egypt. There were two hundred of us and I was the only one to walk away.”
Jonathan winced. “Is that how you ended up in Cairo?”
“Yeah. I grew up there, actually. It made sense to go back and play tour guide to rich foreigners.”
“Like us?”
They were almost back at camp now. Jonathan could see Evie standing beside the campfire in her black and silver Bedouin dress, fussing with something. O’Connell shook his head.
“No.” O’Connell looked thoughtful. “You guys are different.”
Jonathan chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “Evie cares, at least, about Egyptology.”
“And you don’t?” O’Connell raised his eyebrows.
Jonathan shrugged. “Not like I used to. I haven’t really cared for much since the War. Can’t take a damn thing seriously.”
“No shame in that.” O’Connell grimaced. “Hell, I got arrested for brawling. Got drunk and tossed a guy out a window.”
“I know, I was there,” Jonathan said. “I picked your pocket, remember?”
“I remember.” He flashed Jonathan a sideways grin. “You learn that in the trenches?”
“One needed to do something to occupy one’s mind,” Jonathan said primly.
O’Connell snorted, but there was no contempt in it, no dislike. There hadn’t been since they started talking, Jonathan realized. And it had been good to talk.
Evie had tea ready and waiting at the campfire, and had set out a pitcher of water and some cloths for them to wash with. Jonathan settled down by the fire and drank his tea. Above them, the stars were coming out, vast and eternal in the desert sky. Maybe when this dig was over they would be rich (or richer; their parents hadn’t exactly left them impoverished). Maybe Evie would finally be accepted by the Bembridge Scholars, those sanctimonious bastards. Maybe they would keep Rick O’Connell on as a friend. Who knew what the future held? Maybe it would be good.
Author's Note: This one was inspired by this post, which has haunted me ever since I first read it and totally changed how I view the character of Jonathan. In Tarot, the Fool is the everyman, and also means new beginnings and not knowing what to expect. I hope you like this story! Please let me know what you think in the comments!
Chapter 4: Queen of Cups
Chapter Text
Queen of Cups
Hamunaptra, October 1922
“Leave this place or die.”
Those had been the man’s words, but had anyone listened to him? Of course not , Rick thought wryly, looking out over the ruins of Hamunaptra. God forbid they listen to the desert dwellers about what strangers could and could not do on their land. Still, it wasn’t as if they could just up and go now, tonight. It would take time to break camp, even their little one. The Americans’ camp would take a morning, at least. Tomorrow, then, after Evelyn had a chance to look inside the sarcophagus. If she was in any state to do that, mind. Rick swung his gaze back to the Carnahans and felt a grin creeping onto his face.
He couldn’t help liking these two. Their solution to the day’s sordid events had been to get roaring drunk on the dead Warden’s expensive whiskey. Rick had kind of expected it of Jonathan, when he first found the bottle; the other man had been badly shaken by the Warden’s death, though he had tried hard not to show it. Rick understood that well enough. The War had taken an awful toll on all of its soldiers, and like so many men, Jonathan Carnahan should never have seen battle. After the Bedouin had ridden off, Jonathan had drunk half the bottle and put himself to bed near the fire, leaving Rick and Evelyn to share the rest.
Evelyn, to Rick’s astonishment, knocked back three huge gulps of whiskey and became ebullient. He hadn’t thought that she was a neat whiskey kind of girl, but she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and informed him that she wanted to learn to fight.
“You want to learn to fight,” Rick repeated.
“Yes,” Evelyn said, taking another slug of whiskey and tottering to her feet. “I am a woman, you know.”
There was a certain logic to that statement and they had just been attacked by Bedouins, so Rick showed Evelyn how to place her feet so that an opponent couldn’t knock her down, how to ball her fists so that she wouldn’t break her thumbs when striking. Evelyn bobbed on her feet, cackling, as he corrected her form.
“Okay, tough stuff, try a right hook,” Rick said, assuming his own combat position. “Ball up your fist--like that; higher--and mean it.”
“ Mean it !” Evelyn cried, her fist slamming into Rick’s palm.
She did have a mean right hook, but she overbalanced and fell into Rick’s arms, laughing. She was warm and soft and smelled nice despite a day clambering around underground, and Rick was careful where he put his hands as he eased her to the ground.
“Time for another drink,” he said, settling down beside her.
He had meant for himself, since he hadn’t actually had any of the whiskey yet, but Evelyn, still giggling, took up the bottle and swigged. She was, Rick reflected, going to have a rotten hangover in the morning.
“Unlike my brother, sir, I know when to say no,” she said, planting the bottle back in the crook of Jonathan’s elbow. She wiped her hand over her mouth and snickered.
“Uh-huh,” Rick said, amused. “And unlike your brother, miss, you I just don’t get.”
Because that was it: he didn’t get Evelyn Carnahan at all. From the moment Rick had set eyes on her in Cairo Prison she had confused and wrong-footed him, with her beauty and her earnestness and her really rather relentless pursuit of her objective. Evelyn Carnahan was a gorgeous slip of a girl, the kind who looked like she should be drinking tea on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel and taking dainty donkey rides out to the Pyramids, not getting shot at by marauders and winning camel races across the desert and sneaking sarcophagi out from under the other team’s nose.
Evelyn laughed. “I know. You’re thinking, what is a place like me doing in a girl like this? ”
Rick grinned. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well.” Evelyn scooted closer to him, weaving back and forth so that her hair almost tickled Rick’s face. “Egypt is in my blood, you see; my father was a very, very famous explorer--” she tugged on the chain around her neck, popping open the locket on it and holding it up to his face, “--and he loved Egypt so much, he married my mother, who was an Egyptian, and quite an adventurer herself.”
Rick took the little oval between his fingers and looked at the photographs inside. An English gentleman and an Egyptian lady gazed up at him, their faces serene. So the Carnahan children were mixed race and passing white--he bet the Great British Establishment just loved that. It was plain to see where Evelyn had gotten her looks; her mother was gorgeous. Evelyn beamed at him, her eyes shining. Rick snapped the locket shut.
“I get your father, and I get your mother,” he said, letting the chain drop. He gestured at Jonathan. “I get him . But what are you doing here?”
The thing was, Hamunaptra attracted people with the wrong kind of motivation. If Evelyn Carnahan had only wanted field experience, there were any number of digs she could join all along the Nile. Hamunaptra was for dreamers, for the greedy, for the foolish, for the lost. Evelyn didn’t strike Rick as being any of those things. She was young and she was inexperienced, sure, but she was also one of the smartest people Rick had ever met. And his confusion clearly annoyed her.
With a huff, Evelyn rocked back on her heels and staggered to her feet.
“Look, I--I may not be an explorer or a--an adventurer or a treasure-seeker or a gunfighter, Mr. O’Connell !” she exclaimed, weaving dangerously. Rick automatically raised a hand to steady her and pulled it away when it only came in contact with her derriѐre. “But I am proud of what I am!” She raised herself up with all the dignity of a queen and looked out into the night.
“And what is that?” Rick prompted.
“I,” Evelyn announced, with such pride that Rick began to smile, “am a librarian!”
The words rang out into the quiet desert night, bright and full of satisfaction, and Rick remembered what she had said aboard the barge, about looking for the Golden Book of Amun-Ra. He grinned up at her, liking this girl more than he could say. Evelyn dropped to her knees before him.
“I am going to kiss you, Mr. O’Connell,” she said, and Rick’s heart leaped.
“Call me Rick,” he said, wondering if she was serious. They should at least be on first-name basis if this was actually going to happen.
“Oooh,” Evelyn said, her green eyes glowing in the firelight. “Rick.”
How was it that his own name, whispered reverently by a drunken English girl, could be such a turn-on? Evelyn tilted her gorgeous face towards him and let her eyes fall shut as she leaned in. Rick held still, letting her come towards him. This close, he could see a dusting of freckles on her nose. He tilted his head, letting his eyes fall closed, and abruptly snapped them open as Evelyn slumped forward into his chest and slid down his side with her face in his belt. Passed out.
Rick looked down at her ruefully. So close. Evelyn sighed and burrowed into him. Well, that was thrilling and entirely inappropriate. Carefully, Rick gathered her up and lifted her off of himself before his body could react any further. Evelyn sighed again, well and truly out. Rick shook his head and chuckled; she was a firecracker, all right. Tucking one of her arms over his shoulders, he lifted her and carried her to bed. In a way it was good that they had “joined forces” with the Americans for the night, as it had meant bargaining extra supplies out of them, including the cot he had found for Evelyn. Rick laid her down on it and reached for his water bottle. He half-lifted Evelyn and coaxed some water down her throat; she drank without waking and he settled her down again. That ought to help with the hangover, at least a little. He shook out a blanket, making sure there were no snakes or scorpions inside, and settled it over her, snugging the ends all around her and under her chin. Nights got cold in the desert.
“Hmmm,” Evelyn said.
“It’s okay, go to sleep,” Rick said, and let himself brush her curls off her forehead. I could love this woman, he realized. He already liked her more than he could say. She was like nothing he had ever experienced. It didn’t scare him; he wasn’t one of those guys who disliked and resented women. It was just that he had never thought he would be in a position to love one. It was true, what he had said to Jonathan earlier. Rick had spent the last eight years expecting to die, had looked death in the face more than once and not expected to survive. He looked down at Evelyn Carnahan. I could love you, he thought again. Hell, she had literally given him his life back, there in Cairo Prison. And she had smiled like the sun when he gave her Burns’s toolkit (that Burns had cornered him that evening and demanded payment for it was a secret he would take to his grave). Evelyn was a bright shining star and for the first time, Rick wondered what it would be like to stay in the orbit of such a woman, to live his life alongside her. Would she even want that?
Sighing, Rick shook out his own blanket and settled down. The night was quiet; a couple of fellahin patrolled the camp. He could sleep for a few hours. Those men who had attacked them wouldn’t come back; they had given them a day to leave. It was time enough for Evelyn to open her sarcophagus and look for her book. You know your history , she had said to him, and smiled. Rick looked across the fire at her. Maybe he could stop thinking of ancient artifacts as treasure and start seeing them through her eyes. Maybe she would hire him again on a safer kind of dig. Maybe tomorrow he would wake up before her and make some eggs and strong coffee to help with her hangover. Maybe she would even notice his interest and be flattered by it. Hell, Rick thought, letting his eyes drift shut, maybe she would even be interested back.
He did make eggs and strong coffee in the morning, but neither Evelyn nor Jonathan were remotely hungover, which was both deeply unfair and a huge relief, considering how the rest of the day went.
Author's Note: The Queen of Cups, in a love reading, is a positive sign that a relationship is progressing to a higher level. It's also fitting considering that Evie is drunk out of her gourd. Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this story. Please let me know what you think in the comments!
Chapter 5: The Ivory Tower
Chapter Text
The Ivory Tower
The Eastern Desert and Hamunaptra, October 1922
Evie dozed in the saddle, swaying in rhythm with her camel’s walk. It was dark and cold, and above them the stars sprawled across the heavens, but Evie was fairly comfortable, wrapped in a blanket with her scarf about her hair. O’Connell had only let them camp for a few hours that night, and they hadn’t put the tents up, merely wrapped themselves in blankets and dozed until he woke them at one o’clock to keep riding. He had said something about making it to Hamunaptra by sunrise, but hadn’t said why. He seemed, if not eager to reach the City of the Dead, then at least set on getting there as quickly as possible, and he had yet to say anything disparaging about the quest.
In any case, Evie was glad to be riding at night, sheltered from the relentless sun. She was glad of the headscarf the village women had given her; it kept the worst of the sun and sand out of her face and served as an extra layer against the desert cold. She was glad of their guide, too. Rick O’Connell knew his business well, and so far he had been nothing but polite, leading them through the desert by day and setting up camp with quiet efficiency at night, even cooking meals for them over the campfire.
He was also captivating to watch in the saddle. O’Connell had what her mother would have called a “splendid physique” and Evie, riding just behind him in their little caravan, had so far enjoyed the view very much.
A grunt from one of the camels brought Evie to wakefulness. She stretched in the saddle, looking around. The stars were beginning to fade and the sun tinted the horizon behind them. O’Connell glanced over his shoulder at her. He twitched a smile at her, the one that Evie found so attractive.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” Evie said, smothering a yawn. “Are we almost there?”
“Pretty close,” O’Connell said.
He gestured at the plain that stretched out before them, but before he could say anything else, movement caught their eyes. A lot of movement. Blinking the rest of the sleep from her eyes, Evie saw a group approaching: men on horseback, and camelback, and donkey back. What on earth--
“Oh no,” she murmured.
“Good morning, my friend,” called the weasley man who had taunted O’Connell on the riverbank. Beni, she recalled his name as.
O’Connell didn’t say anything, merely shook his head, and Evie realized that this was why he had made them get up in the middle of the night, to beat the American team and secure their claim over the dig site. How wonderfully kind of him! She looked at O’Connell as he pulled his camel to a stop, but still he didn’t speak.
“Remember our bet, O’Connell,” one of the Americans--was it Mr. Henderson? Evie had only met him once--called out around a wad of either bread or chewing tobacco. “First one to the city. Five hundred cash bucks!”
Evie looked at O’Connell again, surprised and a little disappointed. So he had moved them so quickly to win a bet? He didn’t seem like the kind to gamble, and she wondered if he even had five hundred cash dollars to his name. It had seemed, when they met, that his only money was the ten pounds she had given him back in Cairo. But he was a curious man, full of surprises, and she didn’t really know him. O’Connell just shook his head again. He seemed to be largely ignoring the other men as they continued to rib him over the bet and the state of his camel (poor, adorable creature), looking out across the plain towards the horizon.
“Get ready for it,” he said at last, his voice low.
“For what?”
“We’re about to be shown the way.”
Evie looked back out into the rapidly brightening dawn. Behind them the sun was rising, spilling over the hills and dunes behind them and spreading across the plain. The air seemed to ripple, turning gold in the rising light, and then it solidified and resolved itself into a great rounded circle of half-ruined walls. Sunlight glinted off something gold within. The Americans exclaimed among themselves.
“Here we go again,” O’Connell murmured, ruefully.
And with shouts, the men were off, whipping camels and horses into furious gallops. O’Connell’s camel leaped forward and roared off across the plain, neck and neck with Beni.
“Gie! Gie!” Evie cried, kicking her own steed, unwilling to be left behind. “Hut, hut, hut!”
Startled, the camel sprang forward and hurtled across the sand, snorting. Tapping it with her riding crop, Evie urged it forward, bobbing up and down in the saddle. Just ahead O’Connell and Beni were neck and neck, the odious little man whipping his crop across O’Connell’s shoulders, laughing as O’Connell screeched at him. The horrid little brute! Evie urged her mount faster, hoping to get between them; surely Beni wouldn’t dare to hit a woman. She didn’t find out; O’Connell reached out and, grabbing Beni by the coat, dragged him off of the camel and flung him to the ground.
“And that serves you right!” Evie shouted as she galloped by.
It was just the two of them, then, far ahead of the others, running flat out towards the City of the Dead. Evie pulled up alongside O’Connell and flashed him a happy grin. Exhilaration filled her, her hair flying in the wind, her camel running full tilt. This was living! O’Connell looked surprised, but he grinned back at her, and didn’t try to beat her as she passed ahead of him and guided her camel down the plain towards Hamunaptra. Evie laughed, delighted. She did like O’Connell. Somewhere behind her, Jonathan was whooping.
“Go, Evie! Go!”
Walls rose up before her and Evie guided her camel around them, down the path and then up, up into the lost city. She whooped aloud, joy filling her, smiling so hard her face hurt. Letting her camel slow to a walk, Evie looked back over her shoulder at O’Connell, coming up behind her. He cheered, saluting her with his riding crop. He looked, Evie thought with some surprise, genuinely delighted.
“Well done!” he called. “You beat ‘em by a mile!”
Evie laughed, joy filling her. “I wanted to be the first. Women so rarely get to be first at anything, and I’m the only one here.”
O’Connell grinned again and slid down from his camel, taking her reins. He reached up a hand to help her down. “Well, congratulations, Evelyn, and welcome to Hamunaptra. You’ve just won five hundred bucks.”
Evelyn laughed again. “We’ll see if they meant it.”
“They did,” O’Connell said, but Evie was already looking around, climbing the slope to get a better view of the ruins.
It was a huge place, all half-tumbled walls and partially-collapsed doorways and ancient statuary half-buried in sand. Soon it would be filled with diggers and men shouting, but for several long moments as Evie stood there, she was alone in this miraculous place, alone with history. For a moment, Hamunaptra was hers, and she was about to become a real archaeologist. She rested her hand on a pillar and smiled.
“What do you think?” O’Connell asked, and he sounded genuinely curious.
“It’s wonderful,” Evie said, smiling around at him. “It’s everything I wanted. Thank you for bringing me here.”
O’Connell gave her that sideways grin again. He looked pleased. The rest of the men arrived then, and they turned away from contemplating the ruins to setting up camp. Evie let O’Connell take the lead with that and wandered away on her own, looking around. According to the Bembridge Scholars, the Golden Book of Amun-Ra was said to be buried at the base of Anubis, and so it was Anubis that she looked for. She found him quite easily, buried to the waist, his noble features weathered by millenia of sun and sand.
“Hello, old boy,” she said, patting his arm. “Let’s see about finding your feet, shall we?”
At length Jonathan and O’Connell and Warden Hassan joined her, carrying ropes and shovels. By that time Evie had found two silver mirrors sticking up out of the sand, and a hole in the ground partially covered by rubble, which seemed to lead down into a cavern of some sort. Evie directed Jonathan to polish one of the mirrors while she took the other and O’Connell began to fix ropes to pillars. The Warden stood watching, but she didn’t mind. Better to have him not touching anything than to have an accident touching something he shouldn’t.
“So what are these old mirrors for?” O’Connell asked, coming over to her.
“Ancient mirrors,” Evie corrected, rubbing her cloth over the silver. “It’s an ancient Egyptian trick; you’ll see.”
“Oh. Uh.” O’Connell held his hand out. In it was a leather roll bound with straps. “Here, this is, uh, this is for you.”
Evie looked up at him, surprised, taking it. What on earth?
“Go ahead,” O’Connell said and bobbed awkwardly. “It’s something I, uh, borrowed off of our American brethren; I figured you might like it--might need it for when you’re, uh, down there…” he trailed off, clearly embarrassed, and walked away. Evelyn stared after him, then looked down at the leather kit, her heart beginning to jump. She unwound the leather strap. If this was what she thought it was…
It was . A beautiful leather toolkit stuffed absolutely full of everything an excavator could possibly need. The tools were of a very high quality with fine bone handles. Evie felt a smile stretching over her face. She looked up to thank O’Connell, only in time to see him take the rope in his hands and climb down into the hole.
And that was how it went, the entire time they were in Hamunaptra. It had been so long since she felt joy, not since before Jonathan came home from the War a shattered ghost, not since her parents’ deaths two years ago. But now, Evie was happier than she could remember being, despite snide comments from the Americans and their crew (Dr. Carmichael especially). And Rick O’Connell was at her side, always, and it was the strangest thing. She had thought, back in the little village after the barge sank, that the odd look he had given her was one of masculine amusement at her girlish enthusiasm. She had never imagined that he could actually be interested in all this. O’Connell had all the makings of an excellent field archaeologist--strength and care and surprisingly gentle hands when handling artifacts--and he actually listened when Evie talked, and asked questions about it. It was wonderful to have such a rapt audience, and Evie forgot her initial reservations and waxed eloquent. This was how mummification worked, and this was why there were so many antechambers in a tomb, and this was why one needed to have tools and supplies buried with them, and this was how the heart was weighed in the Afterlife...O’Connell listened, and he asked questions, and his eyes were bright and interested. He was the first man who had ever really listened to Evie. It was very flattering.
(He also brought Mr. Henderson over to her that first day and stood over him while he counted out five hundred dollars and handed it over. “See,” O’Connell said cheerfully as the American walked away. “He meant it.”)
The hidden sarcophagus startled all of them, but what a coup! True, the Warden’s death delayed their exploration of it, and then the desert peoples’ attack took her mind off it for the rest of the evening, but this was a career-making discovery! No one had ever discovered a locked sarcophagus before. Evie drank that evening partly to take her mind off the day’s misfortunes and partly to celebrate. Evie knew that she was a cheap drunk; she never really imbibed much beyond a glass or two of wine or a cocktail once in a while, and so she fell asleep quite quickly, and woke up tucked into the cot that O’Connell had found for her, warm and comfortable despite the cool morning air on her face. Funny, she didn’t remember putting herself to bed, much less snuggling in this comfortably.
“Good morning,” O’Connell said.
He was crouched before the campfire, stirring scrambled eggs in a pan.
“Good morning,” Evie said, snug in her bed.
“How’s your head?”
Evie blinked. “Fine, thank you. Should it not be?”
A funny look passed over O’Connell’s face, his eyebrows rising. “I kinda thought you’d have a raging hangover.”
“Really?” Evie was startled. “Surely I wasn’t that drunk.”
O’Connell’s eyebrows climbed higher, if that was possible. “What do you remember?”
Evie thought about it. “I remember you teaching me to box, and then I went to bed. Didn’t I?”
A rueful look passed over O’Connell’s face and he handed her a plateful of eggs and fried bread. “Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Oh dear.” Evie looked up at him. “I hope I didn’t say anything untoward.”
“No,” O’Connell reassured her. “You didn’t.”
He stuck close to her again that day, asking questions and helping to open the sarcophagus. He was the one who noticed the scratches on the cover of the mummy case, and who asked, later, about the hom dai . O’Connell was at her side, almost touching, when Evie opened the black Book of the Dead and read out the incantation. And he held her hand as they ran away from the swarm of locusts, as they raced through the tomb away from the scarabs, as he pulled her away from the walking, talking corpse that she had unwittingly unleashed. And hers was the first camel he saddled as they prepared to flee. As though she meant something to him. As though he cared about her.
So of course it was absolutely infuriating that the first thing he wanted to do on their return to Cairo was leave.
Author's Note: this story is being ret-conned into the series, largely because I felt there wasn't enough Evie at Hamunaptra. The Ivory Tower of the title isn't a tarot card, but a reference to the academic ivory tower, i.e. the stereotype that scholars like Evie don't have any real world experience. Evie is coming out of her ivory tower. A special shout-out, too, to @sweetfayetanner for the extra beta! Thank you for reading! I hope you like the story! Please let me know what you think in the comments.
Chapter 6: Five of Wands
Chapter Text
The Ivory Tower
The Eastern Desert and Hamunaptra, October 1922
Evie dozed in the saddle, swaying in rhythm with her camel’s walk. It was dark and cold, and above them the stars sprawled across the heavens, but Evie was fairly comfortable, wrapped in a blanket with her scarf about her hair. O’Connell had only let them camp for a few hours that night, and they hadn’t put the tents up, merely wrapped themselves in blankets and dozed until he woke them at one o’clock to keep riding. He had said something about making it to Hamunaptra by sunrise, but hadn’t said why. He seemed, if not eager to reach the City of the Dead, then at least set on getting there as quickly as possible, and he had yet to say anything disparaging about the quest.
In any case, Evie was glad to be riding at night, sheltered from the relentless sun. She was glad of the headscarf the village women had given her; it kept the worst of the sun and sand out of her face and served as an extra layer against the desert cold. She was glad of their guide, too. Rick O’Connell knew his business well, and so far he had been nothing but polite, leading them through the desert by day and setting up camp with quiet efficiency at night, even cooking meals for them over the campfire.
He was also captivating to watch in the saddle. O’Connell had what her mother would have called a “splendid physique” and Evie, riding just behind him in their little caravan, had so far enjoyed the view very much.
A grunt from one of the camels brought Evie to wakefulness. She stretched in the saddle, looking around. The stars were beginning to fade and the sun tinted the horizon behind them. O’Connell glanced over his shoulder at her. He twitched a smile at her, the one that Evie found so attractive.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” Evie said, smothering a yawn. “Are we almost there?”
“Pretty close,” O’Connell said.
He gestured at the plain that stretched out before them, but before he could say anything else, movement caught their eyes. A lot of movement. Blinking the rest of the sleep from her eyes, Evie saw a group approaching: men on horseback, and camelback, and donkey back. What on earth--
“Oh no,” she murmured.
“Good morning, my friend,” called the weasley man who had taunted O’Connell on the riverbank. Beni, she recalled his name as.
O’Connell didn’t say anything, merely shook his head, and Evie realized that this was why he had made them get up in the middle of the night, to beat the American team and secure their claim over the dig site. How wonderfully kind of him! She looked at O’Connell as he pulled his camel to a stop, but still he didn’t speak.
“Remember our bet, O’Connell,” one of the Americans--was it Mr. Henderson? Evie had only met him once--called out around a wad of either bread or chewing tobacco. “First one to the city. Five hundred cash bucks!”
Evie looked at O’Connell again, surprised and a little disappointed. So he had moved them so quickly to win a bet? He didn’t seem like the kind to gamble, and she wondered if he even had five hundred cash dollars to his name. It had seemed, when they met, that his only money was the ten pounds she had given him back in Cairo. But he was a curious man, full of surprises, and she didn’t really know him. O’Connell just shook his head again. He seemed to be largely ignoring the other men as they continued to rib him over the bet and the state of his camel (poor, adorable creature), looking out across the plain towards the horizon.
“Get ready for it,” he said at last, his voice low.
“For what?”
“We’re about to be shown the way.”
Evie looked back out into the rapidly brightening dawn. Behind them the sun was rising, spilling over the hills and dunes behind them and spreading across the plain. The air seemed to ripple, turning gold in the rising light, and then it solidified and resolved itself into a great rounded circle of half-ruined walls. Sunlight glinted off something gold within. The Americans exclaimed among themselves.
“Here we go again,” O’Connell murmured, ruefully.
And with shouts, the men were off, whipping camels and horses into furious gallops. O’Connell’s camel leaped forward and roared off across the plain, neck and neck with Beni.
“Gie! Gie!” Evie cried, kicking her own steed, unwilling to be left behind. “Hut, hut, hut!”
Startled, the camel sprang forward and hurtled across the sand, snorting. Tapping it with her riding crop, Evie urged it forward, bobbing up and down in the saddle. Just ahead O’Connell and Beni were neck and neck, the odious little man whipping his crop across O’Connell’s shoulders, laughing as O’Connell screeched at him. The horrid little brute! Evie urged her mount faster, hoping to get between them; surely Beni wouldn’t dare to hit a woman. She didn’t find out; O’Connell reached out and, grabbing Beni by the coat, dragged him off of the camel and flung him to the ground.
“And that serves you right!” Evie shouted as she galloped by.
It was just the two of them, then, far ahead of the others, running flat out towards the City of the Dead. Evie pulled up alongside O’Connell and flashed him a happy grin. Exhilaration filled her, her hair flying in the wind, her camel running full tilt. This was living! O’Connell looked surprised, but he grinned back at her, and didn’t try to beat her as she passed ahead of him and guided her camel down the plain towards Hamunaptra. Evie laughed, delighted. She did like O’Connell. Somewhere behind her, Jonathan was whooping.
“Go, Evie! Go!”
Walls rose up before her and Evie guided her camel around them, down the path and then up, up into the lost city. She whooped aloud, joy filling her, smiling so hard her face hurt. Letting her camel slow to a walk, Evie looked back over her shoulder at O’Connell, coming up behind her. He cheered, saluting her with his riding crop. He looked, Evie thought with some surprise, genuinely delighted.
“Well done!” he called. “You beat ‘em by a mile!”
Evie laughed, joy filling her. “I wanted to be the first. Women so rarely get to be first at anything, and I’m the only one here.”
O’Connell grinned again and slid down from his camel, taking her reins. He reached up a hand to help her down. “Well, congratulations, Evelyn, and welcome to Hamunaptra. You’ve just won five hundred bucks.”
Evelyn laughed again. “We’ll see if they meant it.”
“They did,” O’Connell said, but Evie was already looking around, climbing the slope to get a better view of the ruins.
It was a huge place, all half-tumbled walls and partially-collapsed doorways and ancient statuary half-buried in sand. Soon it would be filled with diggers and men shouting, but for several long moments as Evie stood there, she was alone in this miraculous place, alone with history. For a moment, Hamunaptra was hers, and she was about to become a real archaeologist. She rested her hand on a pillar and smiled.
“What do you think?” O’Connell asked, and he sounded genuinely curious.
“It’s wonderful,” Evie said, smiling around at him. “It’s everything I wanted. Thank you for bringing me here.”
O’Connell gave her that sideways grin again. He looked pleased. The rest of the men arrived then, and they turned away from contemplating the ruins to setting up camp. Evie let O’Connell take the lead with that and wandered away on her own, looking around. According to the Bembridge Scholars, the Golden Book of Amun-Ra was said to be buried at the base of Anubis, and so it was Anubis that she looked for. She found him quite easily, buried to the waist, his noble features weathered by millenia of sun and sand.
“Hello, old boy,” she said, patting his arm. “Let’s see about finding your feet, shall we?”
At length Jonathan and O’Connell and Warden Hassan joined her, carrying ropes and shovels. By that time Evie had found two silver mirrors sticking up out of the sand, and a hole in the ground partially covered by rubble, which seemed to lead down into a cavern of some sort. Evie directed Jonathan to polish one of the mirrors while she took the other and O’Connell began to fix ropes to pillars. The Warden stood watching, but she didn’t mind. Better to have him not touching anything than to have an accident touching something he shouldn’t.
“So what are these old mirrors for?” O’Connell asked, coming over to her.
“Ancient mirrors,” Evie corrected, rubbing her cloth over the silver. “It’s an ancient Egyptian trick; you’ll see.”
“Oh. Uh.” O’Connell held his hand out. In it was a leather roll bound with straps. “Here, this is, uh, this is for you.”
Evie looked up at him, surprised, taking it. What on earth?
“Go ahead,” O’Connell said and bobbed awkwardly. “It’s something I, uh, borrowed off of our American brethren; I figured you might like it--might need it for when you’re, uh, down there…” he trailed off, clearly embarrassed, and walked away. Evelyn stared after him, then looked down at the leather kit, her heart beginning to jump. She unwound the leather strap. If this was what she thought it was…
It was . A beautiful leather toolkit stuffed absolutely full of everything an excavator could possibly need. The tools were of a very high quality with fine bone handles. Evie felt a smile stretching over her face. She looked up to thank O’Connell, only in time to see him take the rope in his hands and climb down into the hole.
And that was how it went, the entire time they were in Hamunaptra. It had been so long since she felt joy, not since before Jonathan came home from the War a shattered ghost, not since her parents’ deaths two years ago. But now, Evie was happier than she could remember being, despite snide comments from the Americans and their crew (Dr. Carmichael especially). And Rick O’Connell was at her side, always, and it was the strangest thing. She had thought, back in the little village after the barge sank, that the odd look he had given her was one of masculine amusement at her girlish enthusiasm. She had never imagined that he could actually be interested in all this. O’Connell had all the makings of an excellent field archaeologist--strength and care and surprisingly gentle hands when handling artifacts--and he actually listened when Evie talked, and asked questions about it. It was wonderful to have such a rapt audience, and Evie forgot her initial reservations and waxed eloquent. This was how mummification worked, and this was why there were so many antechambers in a tomb, and this was why one needed to have tools and supplies buried with them, and this was how the heart was weighed in the Afterlife...O’Connell listened, and he asked questions, and his eyes were bright and interested. He was the first man who had ever really listened to Evie. It was very flattering.
(He also brought Mr. Henderson over to her that first day and stood over him while he counted out five hundred dollars and handed it over. “See,” O’Connell said cheerfully as the American walked away. “He meant it.”)
The hidden sarcophagus startled all of them, but what a coup! True, the Warden’s death delayed their exploration of it, and then the desert peoples’ attack took her mind off it for the rest of the evening, but this was a career-making discovery! No one had ever discovered a locked sarcophagus before. Evie drank that evening partly to take her mind off the day’s misfortunes and partly to celebrate. Evie knew that she was a cheap drunk; she never really imbibed much beyond a glass or two of wine or a cocktail once in a while, and so she fell asleep quite quickly, and woke up tucked into the cot that O’Connell had found for her, warm and comfortable despite the cool morning air on her face. Funny, she didn’t remember putting herself to bed, much less snuggling in this comfortably.
“Good morning,” O’Connell said.
He was crouched before the campfire, stirring scrambled eggs in a pan.
“Good morning,” Evie said, snug in her bed.
“How’s your head?”
Evie blinked. “Fine, thank you. Should it not be?”
A funny look passed over O’Connell’s face, his eyebrows rising. “I kinda thought you’d have a raging hangover.”
“Really?” Evie was startled. “Surely I wasn’t that drunk.”
O’Connell’s eyebrows climbed higher, if that was possible. “What do you remember?”
Evie thought about it. “I remember you teaching me to box, and then I went to bed. Didn’t I?”
A rueful look passed over O’Connell’s face and he handed her a plateful of eggs and fried bread. “Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Oh dear.” Evie looked up at him. “I hope I didn’t say anything untoward.”
“No,” O’Connell reassured her. “You didn’t.”
He stuck close to her again that day, asking questions and helping to open the sarcophagus. He was the one who noticed the scratches on the cover of the mummy case, and who asked, later, about the hom dai . O’Connell was at her side, almost touching, when Evie opened the black Book of the Dead and read out the incantation. And he held her hand as they ran away from the swarm of locusts, as they raced through the tomb away from the scarabs, as he pulled her away from the walking, talking corpse that she had unwittingly unleashed. And hers was the first camel he saddled as they prepared to flee. As though she meant something to him. As though he cared about her.
So of course it was absolutely infuriating that the first thing he wanted to do on their return to Cairo was leave.
Author's Note: this story is being ret-conned into the series, largely because I felt there wasn't enough Evie at Hamunaptra. The Ivory Tower of the title isn't a tarot card, but a reference to the academic ivory tower, i.e. the stereotype that scholars like Evie don't have any real world experience. Evie is coming out of her ivory tower. A special shout-out, too, to @sweetfayetanner for the extra beta! Thank you for reading! I hope you like the story! Please let me know what you think in the comments.
Chapter 7: The Comrades-in-Arms
Chapter Text
The Comrades-in-Arms
Fort Brydon, Cairo, October 1922
Jonathan sat at the bar in the officer’s mess, a bottle of scotch untouched at his elbow, staring glumly down at the key in his hands. Some puzzle box it had turned out to be. He had thought, when he swiped it from O’Connell, that it was an odd curio, probably New Kingdom, and that Evie might like it. He hadn’t felt bad about taking it off of the American, who had been bellowing in a really rather shocking Arabic gutter patois and so preoccupied with fighting three fellows at once that he hadn’t even noticed Jonathan brushing past him. Contrary to popular belief, Jonathan was not in the habit of petty thievery, but O’Connell had been playing with the relic before brawling and Jonathan hadn’t been exactly sober himself. That Rick had turned out to be a genuinely decent sort whom Jonathan suspected was in love with his sister was pure luck. But the key had brought them nothing but trouble.
I know all the silly blather about the city being protected by the Curse of the Mummy nonsense , Evie had said to Dr. Bey--was it only two weeks ago? Three? It seemed an age. God, Jonathan hated it when silly blather turned out to be true. Hamunaptra being real was one thing: they could have spent months, years, excavating, and it would have been a career-making dig. Uncomfortable nights camping in the desert, firefights with marauders, long, hot days in rubble-strewn tombs Jonathan could handle. Walking, talking, ancient corpses was entirely outside of his purview.
But there was nothing for it now. If Evie said they were staying to fight, then they were staying to fight. It was the Carnahan Way. And God bless Rick O’Connell, he actually thought he could change her mind. Jonathan smirked to himself. It was obvious that O’Connell had fallen for Evie. The man made calf-eyes whenever he looked at her. Jonathan had never seen any man hang so heavily on Evie’s words or go so far out of his way to make sure that she was comfortable. Not that she had particularly noticed. Poor kid; she was unused to positive male attention. The boys they had grown up with had either ignored her as a half-breed or viewed her as a passing dalliance for the same reason; others viewed her intelligence with chagrin and alarm. The first time a man had told Evelyn that he could never marry “a girl like her” had been when she was sixteen. She had written to Jonathan at Oxford about it and he had wanted to punch through a wall.
“Never change,” he had written back. “Never make yourself smaller to make someone else feel big.”
Then the War had come and killed all of the men, and Evie had buried herself in history and not looked back.
Well, Jonathan thought, Rick O’Connell would either love her or realize that he was a coward and run away like the rest, and leave them to deal with the mummy alone. Jonathan spun the key idly on the countertop, wondering which option O’Connell would choose. He was inclined to think that O’Connell would stay. He was a good man, likeable, even if he was a little rough around the edges. And he was a heroic type--how he hadn’t died a miserable death during the War was really beyond Jonathan. All of the heroic types he had served with had only made it home in a box. Others were only Known to God, buried in the Flanders mud. Jonathan knew that he was no hero. He hadn't wanted to be on the Front and he didn't want to fight the mummy now. But what one wanted was never really considered in the grand scheme of things. Events happened, a mummy's curse was unleashed on the world, and one simply got on with the business of defeating it. Jonathan knew that, and he knew that O'Connell did, too.
A soft box landed on his ear. Jonathan started and looked around. O’Connell had come up behind him, his face set. He gestured over his shoulder at Winston Havelock. Hurriedly, Jonathan shoved the key into his breast pocket and reached for the bottle of scotch.
“--hasn’t been a single challenge worthy of a man like me,” Winston was saying.
O’Connell yanked a bar stool out and sat on it. “Yeah, we all got our little problems today, don’t we, Winston?”
He looked exasperated and Jonathan suppressed a grin as he poured O’Connell a drink. That he had lost the argument with Evie was clear; Jonathan had figured he would. He poured himself out a measure of scotch, amused.
“I just wish I could have chucked it in with the others and gone down in flame and glory instead of sitting around here--”
“--rotting of boredom and booze,” Rick muttered with him.
“Cheers,” Winston finished, taking the glass from Jonathan’s hand and drinking. Jonathan sighed. Nothing was safe from Winston when he was on a bender. He smacked their backs a little too enthusiastically and shambled away.
“Tell me,” Rick said, hesitating with glass in hand, “Has your sister always been so…?”
“Oh yes. Always,” Jonathan replied ruefully, topping himself up.
O’Connell sighed. “She won’t go.”
“No.” Jonathan knocked his drink back. “She’s strong-minded, our Evie.”
“She says we have to go back and kill it,” O’Connell said, his voice surprisingly bleak. “But we can’t kill it. I tried.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Well, if anyone can find a way to put down an undead mummy, it’ll be Evie.” He looked sideways at O’Connell, who was frowning at the shot glass cradled in his hands. “You’re not leaving, then?”
“I don’t see how I can,” O’Connell replied. “You can’t do this alone, even if she is a one-woman force of nature.”
It was, perhaps, the best and most accurate description of Evie that Jonathan had ever heard, and it pleased him that O’Connell said it with admiration, not contempt. Exasperated admiration, it was true, but nonetheless. For a few moments they sat in companionable silence, nursing their drinks.
“How do you know Captain Havelock?” Jonathan asked at last.
“What? Oh, Winston. I stayed with him at the airfield a bit when I first came back to Cairo. We’d both lost our garrisons and were kind of at a loss. He found me a job and loaned me some money to try to get back on my feet. He’s a good man.” O’Connell drank and slapped his glass down on the counter. “How do you know him?”
Good question. He was an old friend of the family was one answer, as was he always corners me at parties and tells me how much he wishes he was dead was another. It was...difficult to like Winston Havelock sometimes. Heaven only knew that Jonathan knew how it felt to wish one had died with one’s friends. Still, he found Winston’s chronic death wishes irritating. They had survived the War. Didn’t they have a responsibility to live well for those who had not?
“We frequent the same bars,” he finally said, and O’Connell nodded.
“Sounds like Winston,” he said and fell silent, fiddling with his shot glass.
“Probably the best place to start is the library,” O’Connell said at last, and Jonathan looked at him in surprise. “What? Evelyn’s a librarian, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Jonathan said, “but she, uh, made rather a hash of the museum library before we left.”
O’Connell shook his head. “Well, we have to start somewhere. I suppose we should go and find her.”
“One more round, first,” Jonathan said, “To stiffen the sinews and all that.”
O’Connell opened his mouth to reply, but then a strident cowboy voice rang out behind them before he could speak.
“Well, we’re all packed up, but the damn boat doesn’t leave until tomorrow.”
Idiot , Jonathan thought. If Henderson had the sense that God gave a goose he would have remembered that Egypt had a perfectly serviceable railway with an hourly service to the port up at Alexandria. It would be so easy to take Daniels and Burns and flee instead of sitting around here, drinking. Jonathan knew that he ought to feel more pity for the poor sods, but he couldn’t muster any.
“Tails set firmly between your legs, I see,” he said.
“Yeah, you can talk, you don’t have some sacred walking corpse after you,” Henderson snapped.
That was true, thank God. At least the “sacred walking corpse” was somewhere out in the desert, far from here. Jonathan hadn’t seen hide nor hair of it on his nightly patrols as they fled back to Cairo. Perhaps they were safe in the city. Maybe the mummy would be frightened off by modernity.
“So, uh, how’s your friend?” O’Connell asked Daniels, who had come to lean on his other side.
Damn the man; he was always asking the decent sort of questions. Jonathan poured out drinks in recompense and slid them along to Henderson and Daniels. They did look haggard.
Daniels drank and sighed. “He had his eyes and his tongue ripped out. How would you be?”
There was no answer to that. Even trying to think of one sent Jonathan back to the medical tent after being shot. He had lain on his stomach with a pillow wrapped around his ears, trying not to hear the gurgle of men drowning of their own shredded lungs, the screams of men missing limbs. Jonathan pushed the memories away, scowling. Better not to think of that. Daniels put his empty glass down and walked away. They turned to watch him go.
“Don’t mind him,” Henderson said wearily. “He’s upset, that’s all. He’s known Bernie since they were kids.”
“That’s rough,” O’Connell murmured. He nudged his glass towards Jonathan. “One more round, and then we’ve got work to do.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Henderson asked, and nodded as Jonathan passed him back his glass.
“We’re going to the library,” Jonathan replied. “At the Museum of Antiquities.”
“Miss Carnahan is looking for ideas on how to kill this thing,” O’Connell added.
Henderson looked from one to the other, his eyebrows raised. “Well,” he said at last. “Good for her.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Good luck, boys.”
They clinked glasses and drank. Jonathan gagged; the scotch had gone thick, metallic; he spat it out, as did every man in the bar.
“Sweet Jesus!” Henderson gasped, coughing. “It tasted just like--”
The glass fell from O’Connell’s hand and shattered on the floor. His eyes were trained on the fountain in the middle of the room. Jonathan saw it at the same time: the water was red and thick and unctuous.
“Blood,” O’Connell finished.
It’s written that if a victim of the hom dai should ever arise, he would bring with him the ten plagues of Egypt . Jonathan went cold, his stomach turning.
“‘And the rivers and waters of Egypt ran red, and were as blood’,” he breathed.
O’Connell’s face had gone white under his tan. He locked horrified eyes with Jonathan.
“He’s here.”
Author's Note: many World War One memorials were dedicated to the unknown soldiers on battlefields, who were in too many pieces to be identified and sent home for burial. Grim, but true. Thanks for reading! I hope you like the story. Please let me know what you think in the comments!
Chapter 8: The Afreet
Chapter Text
The Afreet
Fort Brydon, Cairo, October 1922
Evie listened to O’Connell storm out of the flat, slamming the front door behind him, and tried not to boil with indignation. Drat O’Connell. She had counted on his help. She had counted on him . Evie had grown used to him over the past fortnight, used to his calm handle on everything, used to the way he never seemed to lose his head at a setback. The mummy was a setback if Evie had ever heard of one. She sighed, bending to pick her clothes up off of the floor. Drat O’Connell. Why did he have to be such a--such a man?
All this time, Evie had thought he liked her. True, he had teased her on the boat and then thrown her over the side, but from the moment those river pirates had attacked them until they got back to Cairo, O’Connell had been at her side, a steady and dependable presence. And he had respected her, too. Not once had he acted like he knew better than she did, and so to have him assume he knew best now was insulting as well as hurtful. It would have been better, Evie felt, if he had left because he was frightened. God knew she was afraid. But to simply storm out because he didn’t think she could handle it--!
Well, confound the man, she would do this by herself. With Jonathan’s help, of course, Evie reminded herself. Jonathan could wield a gun perfectly well when he wanted to. Not that bullets were going to be of any use here. No, this was going to require logic, research, and magic. Three days ago, Evie would have scoffed at the notion of magic, and lord only knew that she had. If I can see it, if I can touch it, then it’s real, she had said to O’Connell. Well, she had certainly seen it, and it had tried to touch her Evie suppressed a shudder. Who was he, and why had he suffered the hom dai ? And how to put him back in his grave?
Research , Evie thought. I need to get to the library. She winced, remembering the state she had left it in, and the looks on the faces of Abdul and Mohammed as they contemplated righting the bookshelves and stacking the books. More men who thought she was an idiot. O’Connell doesn’t think you’re an idiot, a small voice inside her whispered. Evie shook her head to clear it. There was work to do. Abandoning the mess that O’Connell had made of her clothes, she left her bedroom and strode across to the front door. There was a small yellow suitcase set down next to it, abandoned. Evie blinked at it, not recognizing it. All at once she realized that it was O’Connell’s, and her heart began to race. What did that mean? A small, hopeful flicker began to burn in her breast. Maybe--maybe--
Don’t think about that right now, Evie told herself sternly. O’Connell had probably just forgotten it in his bad mood and would be back for the case later. She stepped around it and went out the door.
The first order of business was to ask one of the grooms to bring the car around from the garage. This was easily accomplished; the grooms loved having a chance to drive an actual motorcar. Evie sent him off with baksheesh and a warning to take the corners carefully, and went off in search of a telephone. She needed to call home to the house in Zamalek and tell Daoud that they had returned early. Their reis had been ambivalent about the proposed trek, but he had also known Evie and Jonathan since they were babies and was well aware of the archaeological fervour that regularly overtook them both. He would want to know that they had returned safely. Fatima, his wife and the Carnahan family housekeeper, would as well.
There was a telephone on the secretary’s desk in the B Company offices; Evie had half finished dialing when it occurred to her that perhaps it was better that Daoud and Fatima not know that they had returned early. If they learned that Evie had awakened an afreet , they would be horrified. No, Evie thought, placing the receiver in its socket, better to get everything sorted before worrying anyone unduly. The mummy was still out in the Western Desert. Best to let her household think that’s where she and Jonathan were, too.
Speaking of Jonathan, she needed to find him before she left for the museum. Her hands in the pockets of her cardigan, Evie walked out of the office into the colonnade. The air felt strangely close, now that she thought about it, and there was an unseasonable rumbling of thunder in the distance.
“Looks like it’s going to storm,” a passing soldier commented, and Evie looked up at the sky, frowning.
“Oh, Evelyn!” came a shout and she turned to see O’Connell running full tilt towards her.
Evie’s heart leaped, but she was still upset with him.
“Oh, so you’re still here,” she said, trying for coolness.
O’Connell slid to a stop before her, chagrin on his face.
“We’ve got problems,” he began, but a bang cut him off before he could continue.
Evie jumped, startled, as the storm broke overhead. And what a storm it was: huge pieces of hail rained down in the courtyard as thunder crashed, hail and--was that fire ? What looked like a meteor burst in the sky, crashing into the roof of a nearby building and igniting several palms. Evie had never been in a firestorm, but certainly that was what was happening. Without meaning to, she stepped closer to O’Connell, who seized her by the arm and tugged her along down the colonnade. The people in the courtyard were yelling and ducking for cover, leaping out of the way of the burning trees and bushes, trying to get away from the pebble-sized hail. O’Connell said a rude word and pulled Evie closer to the wall, sheltering under the roof by the C Company stairs. His hand wrapped around hers, his grip crushing. Evie clung to him, staring out at the mayhem in the courtyard. What on earth was happening?
O’Connell lurched as though someone had run into him, knocking heavily into Evie. She jumped around as he yelled and grabbed at a man trying to run past. Could that possibly be--
“Beni, you little stinkweed, where’ve you been?” O’Connell roared, slamming him against the wall. It was a good question; Evelyn couldn’t remember seeing him once after waking the mummy.
A horrible screaming roar filled the air behind them, coming from the apartment upstairs. Horror rushed through Evie; she had heard that scream before, back in Hamunaptra, when the mummy had reached for her and only O’Connell’s sudden appearance had prevented it from touching her. O’Connell whipped around, reaching for his pistol with one hand and Evie’s hand with the other.
“Come on,” he said, tugging her after him up the stairs.
Evie was glad of his hand in hers as they ran; she thought that if he hadn’t been touching her, she might have curled up, crying in terror. That sound here , at a modern fort, in Cairo of all places, and the fire and hail outside--! He’s supposed to be in the desert, not here, never here , everything in Evie screamed even as she realized that they were running towards the Americans’ rooms, to where a doctor had set poor Mr. Burns to rest after his ordeal--
O’Connell dropped her hand as they neared the apartment. The door stood wide open.
“Stay behind me,” O’Connell murmured, holding his gun at the ready, and recognizing sense when she heard it, Evie did as she was told.
They pushed through the open door, O’Connell checking to see that the way was clear, and stopped dead in horror.
What was left of Mr. Burns lay sprawled in an armchair, grey and desiccated, mouth agape in a silent scream. And beyond him, stretching and flexing as his body regenerated, was the mummy. He turned to look at them and bellowed again, his grey flesh rippling over freshly repaired ribs.
“Fuck! ” O’Connell snarled, and opened fire on the creature.
Evie yelped, slamming her hands over her ears. The noise was incredible, a mixture of the creature’s inhuman roars, O’Connell’s shouting, the report of his pistols and the bullets spraying into the mummy. There were shouts behind them; Jonathan, Daniels, and Henderson running into the room and joining the firefight. It was all so fast, so noisy. The bullets had no effect but to ruin the decor; the mummy reached O’Connell and pushed him backwards, sending him crashing into the other men. And then it turned to Evie.
It spoke . It’s voice was deep and harsh, but there was a note of kindness in it, of thanks. It made her think of hieroglyphs, of the long-dead language that she had spent her entire life studying but never heard aloud. For a moment, through her terror and revulsion, Evie was fascinated, and then the creature leaned in, tilting its head, its melting lips pursed, and she squawked her dismay. Something happened then--later, Jonathan would tell her it was her “damned feline” walking on the piano--and the mummy bellowed again, and turned to sand, and blew away. Evie covered her face in her arms, cowering, as wind whipped at her skirts. And then there was silence.
Evie lowered her arms and met O’Connell’s eyes. She opened her mouth, closed it. What could she say? The mummy she had conjured was here , at Fort Brydon, in Cairo, and Mr. Burns was dead. O’Connell rolled to his feet and stumbled to her, his big hands gripping her shoulders.
“Are you okay? ”
“Yes,” Evie gasped, startled by his vehemence. “I’m fine. I think I’m fine.”
O’Connell let out a deep breath. “Good. That’s good.”
“Son of a bitch!” Mr. Henderson cried, leaping upright. “Bernie!”
There was more chaos then, Mr. Daniels and Mr. Henderson shouting and weeping over their friend, O’Connell summoning help, Jonathan passing his flask of brandy around. Evie stood by the bookshelf, trying to remember how to breathe, as a couple of medics covered poor Mr. Burns’s body and carried him away. Jonathan tried to get her to sit, but she couldn’t move.
“What the hell does this guy want?” Mr. Henderson demanded, his handsome face contorted with rage and fear.
“Whatever he wants, we need a plan,” O’Connell said. “Evelyn?”
Evie pulled in a deep breath. “Before all this--before the storm--I asked for the car to be brought round so that I could go to the museum. I think Dr. Bey might know what to do.”
“That’s what we were thinking,” Jonathan said. “Well, we thought of the library, down in the bar.”
“Let’s go,” O’Connell said, and led the way downstairs.
The fires outside had been put out, but Evie winced at the damage as they passed it. What Jonathan had said tugged at her thoughts.
“What were you doing in the bar?” she asked O’Connell in an undertone.
He gave her a surprised look. “Sulking, mostly. Having a drink.”
“I thought you were leaving. You said you were.” But you left your suitcase upstairs .
O’Connell sighed and scrubbed a hand through his already messy hair. “Yeah, well, I’m not. You can’t do this alone.”
It was an astonishing statement and Evie stared at him. But they were at the car, Mr. Daniels and Mr. Henderson climbing into the back, Jonathan into the driver’s seat. O’Connell held the door open for her and Evie slid in beside her brother. Jonathan gave her a nudge.
“To the museum, old mum?”
“Yes,” Evie said. “To the museum.”
Author's Note: an afreet is a kind of Arabic djinn or demon, a supernatural creature. I was going to give this story another tarot card name, but then realized that the title I'd selected is better off on a future story, so. I hope you like this fic! Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think in the comments!
Chapter 9: Ten of Swords
Chapter Text
Ten of Swords
Cairo, October 1922
Rick had hoped that they would find some good answers from Evelyn’s boss at the Museum of Antiquities. Bad news was, of course, the more likely scenario, but these people had to know something that could help them, and Evelyn had seemed confident that they would find answers, so he remained cautiously optimistic. But bad news was the order of the day. It was strange enough to walk into the gallery to find the desert warrior, Ardeth Bey, standing there with the Curator, a baleful glare on his face; at least he proved to be an ally, if one disgusted by their antics.
But then Evelyn told them about the mummy calling her Anck-su-namun, and how it had tried to kiss her, and everything went from bad to worse.
“It’s because of his love for Anck-Su-Namun that he was cursed,” Dr. Bey said. “Apparently even after three thousand years--”
“He is still in love with her,” Ardeth Bey finished.
Evelyn glanced at Rick and back at the men. “That’s very romantic, but what has it got to do with me?”
The men ignored her, continuing to speak to each other. Rick felt a stab of annoyance on Evelyn’s behalf; these idiots had done nothing but treat her like a fool from the beginning.
“Perhaps he will once again try to raise her from the dead,” Ardeth Bey said.
“Yes,” mused the Curator. “And it appears that he’s already chosen his human sacrifice.”
They turned to look at Evelyn, who took a step back in shock, and everything in Rick curled up in horror.
“Bad luck, old mum,” Jonathan said, and Rick wanted to sling him out the window.
“Oh, hell no,” he said, standing. “No, I won’t allow it. How do we stop him?”
Dr. Bey gave him an arch look. “His choice of Miss Carnahan may just give us the time we need to stop him.”
“We’ll need all the help we can get. His powers are growing.”
Rick followed Ardeth Bey’s glance to the skylight, as the moon slid across the sun in a totally unpredicted solar eclipse.
“How do we stop him?” he said again. “There has to be a way.”
Ardeth Bey looked at him, something flashing in his dark eyes. “Where is the Black Book of the Dead?”
Rick turned to Evelyn. Her face was white, but scholarly interest lit her eyes. “Do you think that it could contain an incantation to lay him down?”
“It’s worth a try,” Dr. Bey said. “We have fragments of ancient spells in the library, but I doubt that they would be enough, even if the library wasn’t in the state it is.”
He gave Evelyn a look that made her cringe and Rick, remembering what Jonathan had said in the bar about her making some kind of mess, put his hand on her arm and turned the full force of his glare on the man. This was no time to make anyone feel bad, least of all the potential human sacrifice. The older man looked at him in some surprise.
“Where’s the book now?” Rick said to Daniels.
“Dr. Chamberlain has it,” Daniels replied. “And one of those jar things. But I don’t know where he is now.”
“Yeah, he took off once we got back to Cairo,” Henderson said. “Didn’t even say goodbye; not that it matters.”
“Okay,” Rick said. “So we’ll go find him and you two,” he looked at the Medjai warriors, “can sort through the books and look for those spell fragments. Whatever you think may help,” he added, overriding their sputtering.
“We would need a librarian for that!” Dr. Bey sputtered.
“No,” Rick said, glancing at Evelyn. “Evelyn stays with us. It’s safer that way. The ones he’s after are staying together.”
“I know which book you’re talking about,” Evelyn added. “I may have a copy of it back at the fort.”
Dr. Bey gave her an exasperated look, but glanced at Rick and wisely decided not to say anything. Ardeth Bey was nodding.
“It would be wise to be surrounded by warriors,” he said. “Very well. We will wait for word from you.”
And so they trooped back to the car and drove out into the eerie afternoon light, back towards Fort Brydon. They were all subdued now, where on the outward journey they had all been talking over each other, comparing notes. Evelyn sat in the front seat between Rick and Jonathan, looking at her hands. She suddenly looked very small and worried. Rick nudged her.
“Hey,” he said in an undertone. “How are you?”
Evelyn looked at him, her face set. “I don’t know. It seems personal all of a sudden. It didn’t quite, before.”
The urge to put his arms around her filled Rick; he gripped his knees and willed it to pass. “I won’t--we won’t let him get you.”
Evelyn gave him a small smile. “We’ll certainly try to beat him. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, isn’t that right?”
Rick grimaced. “Only if we want to get killed. We have to be cautious.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair, cursing himself for a damn fool. He had been trying to comfort her. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Damn right we will,” Jonathan said. He took a hand from the steering wheel and put his arm around Evelyn, squeezing her tight. “Seven brains against one ancient mummy--the poor git’ll never know what’s hit him.”
Evelyn gave a small laugh. Rick met Jonathan’s eyes; the other man gave him a look of plain terror. Rick grimace. Me, too.
Back at the fort, they sequestered themselves in the Carnahans’ apartment. Evelyn found her copy of the book Dr. Bey had mentioned and passed it off to Jonathan, apparently unable to sit still.
“Who opened that chest?” she asked, pacing up and down, a line of thought drawn between her eyebrows.
“Well, there was me and Daniels, and that Egyptologist fellow,” Henderson said. “And poor Burns, of course.”
“What about my buddy, Beni?” Rick asked. He had the direst suspicions about that little rat. It couldn’t be a coincidence that he would be at the fort at the same moment that the mummy was killing Burns.
“Nah, he scrammed out of there before we opened the damn thing,” Daniels said.
Henderson looked disgusted. “Yeah, he was the smart one.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Beni.” Rick sighed. He had never trusted Beni, not when he first joined the Legion and especially not when he had learned that the only reason Beni had joined up was to escape prosecution for robbing synagogues in Budapest. He was a rat and a sneak and a toady, but he had an excellent sense of self-preservation.
“So we must find Dr. Chamberlain and bring him back to the safety of the fort before the creature can get to him,” Evelyn said. “He has an office in Boulaq, near the textile market; Dr. Bey gave me the address.”
Rick steeled himself for a fight. She really wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“Right,” he said, usurping command. “She stays here; you three, come with me.”
The outcry was immediate and uproarious; Rick stood shaking his head as the men refused to come with and Evelyn refused to stay behind. She flew across the room at him, her eyes bright with outrage.
“You can’t just leave me here like some old kind of carpet bag; I mean, who put you in charge--?”
This time Rick gave into temptation. Arguing would be fruitless; they would lose time. And so as she came towards him, shouting, her green eyes blazing, Rick ducked and slung her over his shoulder, carrying her into her bedroom.
“O’Connell!” Evelyn shrieked. “What do you think you are doing?! Jonathan!”
She was small and light in his arms, her hip bone digging into Rick’s shoulder, and he rather wished the circumstances were less awful as he slung Evelyn down onto her bed and strode back out the door, slamming it behind him. He palmed the key at the last second.
Evelyn fell on the door, bellowing, as Rick locked her in. He ignored her. Evelyn needed to be somewhere safe, because that thing wanted to kill her, and she wasn’t trained in fighting, and he couldn’t bear the thought of anything harming this brave, clumsy, wonderful girl. He had probably blown his chances with her now, anyway; she would never forgive him for this. Fine, as long as she was safe.
Rick turned to Henderson and Daniels. “This door doesn’t open. She doesn’t come out and no one goes in. Right?”
“Right,” Daniels said. Rick looked at Henderson, who nodded. Both men looked a little astonished. He turned his gaze to Jonathan, who was looking at him with no small degree of amusement. Rick snapped his holsters straight.
“Let’s go, Jonathan.”
The grin vanished. “Oh, I thought I could just stay at the fort and reconnoiter--”
“Now!”
“Right.”
They clattered downstairs and out to the car. At the last moment Rick looked back, up towards Evelyn’s bedroom window. She stood there, outlined in the light, her arms folded across her chest. She turned up her nose when their eyes met, and looked away. Rick climbed into the car, feeling like a cad.
“It’s safer for her to stay here,” he said.
“Agreed.” Jonathan turned the key in the ignition.
“She’s surrounded by soldiers, and Daniels and Henderson are real handy with guns.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We’re only going to get Chamberlain; she doesn’t need to run headfirst into danger.”
“O’Connell,” Jonathan said, “I know that. And once Evie calms down and thinks, she’ll realize she knows that, too. She’ll come around. She’s just not used to being bossed about.”
Rick took a deep breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Sorry, it’s just...this guy scares the bejesus out of me. He can’t be killed and he’s hunting us.”
Jonathan gave a soft bark of surprised laughter. “It does take you back, doesn’t it? At least in the War the enemy could be killed.”
“Yeah,” Rick said wearily. “Whether they deserved it or not”
It was a tense drive to Boulaq through the winding streets empty of people. Night had fallen and there were few lights along the way, which was unusual enough. Rick had never seen Cairo so empty. It was as though the creature had snatched away every single person. He shivered.
Jonathan glanced over at him. “All right, old chap?”
“Yeah. Just creeping myself out. Turn right up here; I think this is as close as we’re going to get driving.”
Dr. Chamberlain's office was down a narrow side street near the textiles market. Though there was no one about, lights burned in a number of windows, including Chamberlain's, and Rick felt his heart rise. Maybe this would be easy.
But as they approached, Rick realized that his hope was foolish. Chamberlain’s office door stood open, light streaming into the corridor, and from inside came the sound of somebody tossing the place. Rick and Jonathan glanced at each other and drew their guns. They edged carefully towards the ruckus. The room was a mess, furniture overturned, books yanked off of shelves, drifts of paper stirring in the breeze of a ceiling fan. All at once, Rick realized who it was inside and holstered his gun, disgusted.
“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping into the room. Beni leaped around, squealing. “Let me guess. Spring cleaning?”
Beni dropped the drawer he had been dumping out and ran across the room towards the window. Rick picked up a convenient chair and flung it at him, sending the little weasel sprawling.
“Nice shot!” said Jonathan.
Rick advanced on Beni, rage flaring through him. “Oh, Beni, did you fall down? Let me help you up.” He picked up the sniveling man and slammed him into a wall, eliciting a screech. “You came back from the desert with a new friend, didn’t you, Beni?”
“What friend? You are my only friend,” Beni said petulantly.
“Ha!” Rick snarled. He flung Beni again, pinning him to a table. It felt incredibly satisfying to actually fight someone. “What the hell are you doing with this creep, huh? What’s in it for you?”
Beni sneered. “It is better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path. As long as I serve him, I am immune.”
That was enough to make Rick throw him into a wall again. “Immune from what?”
Beni sneered something in Hungarian. Rick shook him.
“What did you say?!”
“I don’t want to tell you. You’ll just hurt me some more.”
Behind Rick, Jonathan snorted. “He’ll hurt you anyway, my good son, and no doubt you’ll deserve it.”
“No kidding,” Rick said, and hauled Beni away from the wall. “What are you looking for? And try not to lie to me.”
He hefted Beni to the fan spinning in the center of the ceiling. Beni screeched his dismay. He knew that Rick would have no qualms about sticking his head into the blades. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt like hell.
“The book! The black book they found at Hamunaptra! He wants it back; he said to me it would be worth its weight in gold.”
Rick and Jonathan looked at each other. This was unpleasant news.
“What does he want the book for?” Jonathan demanded.
“Oh, come on, I don’t know,” Beni said, and screeched again when Rick lifted him closer to the fan. “Something about bringing his dead girlfriend back to life, but that’s all, he just wants the book, I swear! Just the book, I swear. And your sister.”
Rick and Jonathan both snarled and Rick set Beni on his feet, fully intending to shake him like a dog with a rat. He thought he would let Jonathan have a go next; the man was white with outrage. Outside, someone screamed.
It was a horrible, gurgling death scream and for a moment Rick was a twenty year old kid watching his commander and comrades being blown to pieces. Then Beni hit him in the stomach, hard, and Rick dropped him, winded. Beni took off through the window; Jonathan took off after him. Rick struggled after them, gasping. By the time he reached the window, Beni was long gone and Jonathan was staring down at a sizable crowd gathered around a robed figure that bent over the desiccated corpse of a man dressed in white. Dr. Chamberlain.
“Aw, shit,” said Rick.
The robbed figure stood. In its hands was the Black Book of the Dead. It raised its head and the mummy, Imhotep, looked up at the men in the window. He opened his mouth. Flies poured out, swarming around him. Rick seized the shutter and slammed it shut.
“He’s got the book!” They were too late on both accounts.
Jonathan was already running for the door. “Let’s go! He’ll be after Evie next!”
Rick sprinted after him, his heart in his throat. He had barely prayed since the War--God seemed to have abandoned him--but now the plea pounded in his heart as they ran back to the car and turned towards the fort. Please let her be okay. Please, God, keep her safe.
Author's Note: Sorry this one took so long to appear! I had some trouble with it, including figuring out which character wanted to tell the story. But here it is. In Tarot, the Ten of Swords can mean betrayal, being stabbed in the back by someone you know well. Pretty apt for what Beni does. I hope you like the story! Please let me know what you think in the comments!
Chapter 10: The Magician
Chapter Text
The Magician
Fort Brydon, Cairo, October 1922
Evie stood in her window and watched Jonathan’s car pull out of the courtyard and into the night. Confound O’Connell! Never in all her life had Evie been forcibly detained by anyone, much less a man who did things to her insides. Much less a man who was, now that she stopped to think about it, right to have her stay here. Evie sighed, scrubbing her face with her hands. They would be back soon with Dr. Chamberlain. They were literally only going there and back. They weren’t going to engage with the Creature. And if O’Connell had bothered to stop and actually say that to her, Evie might not be so sore with him.
She turned away from the window and pushed it closed. If O’Connell had asked her to stay, rather than ordered her, Evie would have told him that she wanted to go with him because he made her feel safe, and she had not felt at all safe since the mummy had lurched up to her in the stale darkness of the Hamunaptra crypt. And it wasn’t just that he was a big, strong man, although heaven knew that Evie was only too well aware of O’Connell’s splendid physique. It was that he seemed genuinely concerned about her. He had defended her against Dr. Bey’s backhanded jibes, had been visibly upset when they said she was Imhotep’s intended sacrifice. Evie paced her bedroom, twisting her hands. O’Connell had almost hugged her on the ride back to the fort. She had seen his hands rise and fall and wished with all her heart that she could crawl into his lap and hide her face in his shoulder and wail like a frightened child. But no. And now he had actually locked her in her room, as though that would protect her. Evie kicked her dresser and felt a bit better. She decided that she would kick O’Connell in the shin when he got back, and serve him right.
At least he had had the sense to look sheepish when he was getting into the car to drive away.
A hesitant tap on the door broke into Evie’s thoughts.
“Miss Carnahan? You alright in there?” Mr. Daniels called.
“Yes,” Evie said. “I’m fine. Right as rain. Just peachy.”
Mr. Daniels paused for a long moment. “Well, that’s good. Henderson and me are just out here if you need us. Maybe get some rest?”
Evie sighed, reminding herself that she wasn’t the mummy’s only target. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels. I suppose we should all rest up while we can.”
“Well, just shout if you need anything.”
“Oh, very well,” Evie muttered. Clearly he wasn’t going to just let her out.
Suddenly she felt bone-weary. Maybe it was good sense to lie down for a bit. Had they only returned from their trek that morning? Evie sank down on her bed and pulled her shoes from her feet, letting them clatter to the floor. She was so tired. The room was hot and her cotton shirt felt clammy under the arms and down her back. Last night she had slid from her camel and collapsed into dreamless sleep under a starry sky. At least tonight she had a bed, and clean nightclothes to sleep in, and water in the pitcher to wash her face with. Evie went to her little closet and stripped herself down, sponging away sweat and irritation and rubbing cream into her face. She reached for one of her more luxuriant nightgowns, a lovely long black silk negligée with ivory trim, trying not to feel like she was wearing it now because she might never have the chance again. What would O’Connell think of her in it? Would he find her beautiful or would he recognize her Egyptian roots and turn away? The former, Evie decided. She had seen him looking at her once or twice in a way that made her feel warm and shy.
Anyway, it didn’t matter. Once this business was over Rick would return to the life he had led before they met. Does he want a life that leads to the gallows? Evie settled onto her bed and tugged a light blanket over herself. Who knew what Rick O’Connell wanted. She had thought, at Hamunaptra, that it was treasure, and then perhaps archaeology. She thought maybe he wanted....hoped he wanted...she slept.
Nearly three weeks of hard work, physical toil, and stress caught up with Evie, sending her so deeply to sleep that she didn’t hear the conversation in the other room, or the front door closing, or the rush of wind sweeping inside and the strangled shouts that followed it. She dreamed a fragmented kaleidoscope of dreams: opulent golden halls lit with flickering torches, sunlight on the river, sledding with Jonathan in a snowy park back in England. Then Jonathan became Rick O’Connell, holding her tight in his arms as they tobogganed down the hill, flying faster and faster towards a frozen pond and look out, we’ll drown! And then they were falling through the ice, and she couldn’t breathe, there was pressure on her mouth--
Evie’s eyes snapped open. There was a pressure on her mouth, a face pressed to hers, kissing her--the Mummy was on her bed, kissing her, and his face was melting against her lips, his flesh putrefying where it touched her--Evie clamped her lips shut and squealed her dismay, shoving at him. Imhotep sat up and looked at her, seeming almost amused at her shrieks. The bedroom door crashed open.
“Hey!” O’Connell bellowed. “Get your ugly face off of her!”
The mummy stood up and snarled at him, and Evie took the opportunity to fling herself off of the other side of the bed.
“Look what I’ve got!”
O’Connell held up-- Cleo?! Imhotep roared as though frightened and the white cat hissed and spat. The mummy bellowed again and turned to sand, whirling away towards the window. Evie yelped, covering her face with her hands to keep the stinging grit from her eyes. The shutter banged into the window and Imhotep was gone. Silence fell.
Evie raised her head and looked over at O’Connell and Jonathan, breathing a deep sigh of relief. Safe. Both men looked shaken, their faces set. Jonathan was rubbing his heart.
“You all right?” O’Connell asked.
“Well, I’m not sure,” Jonathan replied and made a face when O’Connell turned to stare at him.
Evie gave a kind of breathless laugh and stood. Jonathan would be Jonathan. Suddenly they were too far away; she needed to be holding them--both of them. She stumbled around the bed and caught hold of Rick’s outstretched hand.He pulled her into a brief, firm, hug and kept hold of her hand as she embraced Jonathan.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,”” Evie said. She couldn’t bring herself to let go of Rick’s hand, which was warm and firm around hers. “ How did he get in?”
“Probably the same way he left. He, uh--” Rick glanced over his shoulder. Evie felt a thrill of horror.
“He killed them?! ”
“No, just Henderson,” Jonathan said. He, too, glanced over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. “Daniels is taking it badly. He’d gone out for drinks. I’m going to help him with the, ah. Will you stay here with O’Connell?”
Evie nodded. She didn’t want to see what Imhotep had done to Mr. Henderson. If it was anything like what he had done to Mr. Burns...She shuddered, nausea curdling her stomach. Rick put his hand on her shoulder.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You want to sit down or something?”
“No,” Evie said, taking a deep breath. “No, if I sit down I’ll burst into tears and I don’t want to do that. Tell me what happened in Boulaq. Did you find Dr. Chamberlain?”
Rick shook his head, his face grim. “The mummy got him first.”
Evie looked down. She had never liked Chamberlain, but this was too much. Rick squeezed her hand, his other hand warm on her shoulder, and it was all that Evie could do not to close the space between them and hide her face in his chest. Now wasn’t the time to go to pieces; if she let go of her control she would never recover. Instead, she rubbed her thumb over the tattoo at the base of Rick’s thumb, and registered angry red welts running down his arm.
“What happened here?” She pulled his arm up, frowning at the scratches. They were new and deep.
Rick looked surprised. “I think the cat did that. It panicked when Imhotep turned to sand.”
Evie touched the scratches lightly, wincing. Cleo had raked a foot practically the length of his forearm.
“This needs iodine. There’s a first aid pack in the bathroom, if you’ll fetch it.”
“It’s just a scratch,” Rick said. “It’s fine.”
Evie shook her head. “It needs to be cleaned. Heaven only knows where that cat’s been. Go on, it’s in the bottom drawer on the left.”
Rick went, giving Evie time to wipe her eyes, and was back in a moment with the iodine bottle and some cotton gauze. He let Evie sit him down in her desk chair and swipe the medicine over his scratches, narrating their misadventure in Boulaq as she did. Her hands had almost stopped shaking by the time he reached the end.
“So he got the Book of the Dead,” Evie said, setting the iodine bottle aside. “And then he came here straightaway.”
“Yeah.” Rick rubbed the back of his head. “I thought I was protecting you, you know. By keeping you here. It seemed like the safest idea at the time. I could’ve been less caveman about it, I guess.”
Evie fiddled with the cotton gauze. “Well, don’t do it again, you hear? I’m not a soldier you can order around or a china doll that needs protecting.”
“Yeah.” Rick gave her a small smile; it made her insides squirm. “You kind of do need protecting now, though.”
“Yes, well. Generally speaking. When I haven’t got a murderous priest after me.”
Rick opened his mouth and closed it, looking at her, and for a moment Evie thought that he was going to kiss her. Then Jonathan came through the door and the moment passed.
“We’ve moved the, uh, body down to the morgue. What do we do now?”
Evie looked from Rick to her brother. “He has the Book of the Dead--you said he wants to use it to bring back his lover? I think I may know what we need to do.”
Author's Note: The Magician card can be quite powerful, though when reversed it can mean ill intent. I hope you like this story! I'd have had it posted sooner, but current events being what they are...If you're out protesting, please be safe, be careful, and stay strong.
Chapter 11: The Chariot
Chapter Text
The Chariot
Cairo, October 1922
“I think I may know what we need to do,” Evelyn said, the spark of determination returning to her eyes. She did not elaborate, but began to rush around the room, shoving her feet into her shoes and throwing her black cardigan on over her nightgown.
Rick watched her, unable to keep a small smile from his lips. God, this woman. Assaulted in her own room by a literal monster and yet here she was, leading the charge. She seemed to have forgotten them, frowning in concentration as she flicked her braid over her shoulders and bent to do up her shoelaces. Rick glanced at Jonathan.
“Uh, Evelyn…?”
“Hush, I’m thinking,” she replied, starting on the other foot, and Rick tried not to notice how nicely her silk nightie clung to her body. They waited. Finally, she straightened. “Right. We need to go back to the museum.”
“What, again?” said Jonathan.
“Yes.” Evelyn was already halfway out of the apartment; the men fell in line behind her and they clattered down to the car. “I think I know what we need to do, but I have to consult Dr. Bey and I have to do it quickly--if he has the Book of the Dead we may be too late already, but there’s a chance--”
“Just a chance?” Daniels snapped. “He’s after the two of us now, lady; we need a hell of a lot more than a chance--”
“Don’t you talk to her like that,” Rick snapped back, vaulting into the seat beside Evelyn. “She’s just been attacked by a walking corpse--”
“Oh hush, both of you!” Evelyn cried. “Shouting won’t help! Jonathan, can’t this thing go any faster?”
“Patience, old mum,” Jonathan replied, easing the car around a corner. “We don’t want to crash.”
He did, however, press his foot to the gas pedal and the car sped through the eerie empty streets. Silence fell. Rick sat at the edge of his seat, scanning the darkness, looking out for the mummy, for Beni, for anything that might threaten them. Beside him, Evelyn twisted her hands in her lap, her head bowed. Her brow was knit; she seemed to be thinking hard. Something welled up inside of Rick, hot and sweet and stupidly sentimental.
I love her, he realized, a thrill passing through him. He looked at Evelyn again, at her pale, determined face. Yes, he loved her, and he had since Hamunaptra. He loved her spirit, her tenacity, her courage; he loved the pleasure she took in her work; he loved her glowing eyes and her curly hair and her radiant smile. Rick swallowed. There was so much he loved about Evelyn Carnahan, and so much more to learn to love. And he would be damned if he let some ancient undead creep kill her.
Evelyn turned her eyes to him, questioning, and Rick realized he was staring. He pulled in a deep breath.
“It’s gonna be fine,” he said in an undertone, almost more to himself than to her. “We’re gonna beat him.”
Evelyn gave him a tiny smile. “That’s the spirit.”
It was strange to see the Museum of Antiquities fully lit up, a pool of brightness in the eerie quiet of the night, as they drove up to it. Evelyn led them around the side of the building to the staff entrance. The door had barely shut behind them when the Medjai, Ardeth Bey, appeared before them through a door marked Kitchen. His dark eyes flicked over them.
“The Creature has taken Mr. Henderson,” he said. Daniels nodded. The Medjai bowed his head. “May Allah give him an easy and pleasant journey, and shower blessings upon his grave.”
“He has the Book of the Dead, too,” Rick said. “We didn’t get to Chamberlain in time.”
Ardeth Bey sighed. Behind him, Dr. Bey came out of the kitchen, holding a tiny cup of coffee.
“He’s taken Chamberlain? God rest his soul.” Dr. Bey’s eyes shifted to Evelyn. “Well, Miss Carnahan, the odds are distinctly not in our favor.”
“I know,” Evelyn said. “But I’ve had a thought. I need to see the Mariette Tablet right away.”
The two Medjai looked at each other, and Dr. Bey shrugged. They led the way deeper into the museum, upstairs to a long gallery overlooking the Seti exhibit.
“What’re we looking for, exactly?” Rick asked.
“Yes, Evie, I think it’s time you shared your theories with us,” Jonathan added.
Evelyn waved her hands. “Well, according to legend, the black book that the Americans found at Hamunaptra is supposed to bring people back from the dead. Until now, it was a notion I was unwilling to believe.”
“Believe it, sister,” Rick said grimly. “That’s what brought our buddy back to life.”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes, but I’m thinking that if the black book can bring dead people to life--”
“--Then maybe the gold book can kill him,” Rick finished.
“That’s the myth,” Evelyn said. “Now we just have to find out where the gold book is hidden.”
“And the Mariette Tablet has something to do with that?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes, it contains the most detailed information we have about Hamunaptra; the Bembridge Scholars are famous for having translated it back in the ‘60s. I read the translation before we left; it said that the Golden Book of Amun-Ra was buried under the statue of Anubis--”
“That’s where we found the black book,” Daniels interjected.
“Exactly!” Evelyn beamed at him. “I’m thinking there was an error in translation, so I--”
From outside came a low rumbling, a swell of voices calling out into the night. The entire group stopped dead on the landing, looking at each other. Evelyn went towards the window, heedless of any danger, and Rick followed. What on earth--?
Outside, an enormous crowd crossed the plaza in front of the museum. They bore torches and knives and staves, and they were chanting a name. Imhotep.
“Seriously?” Rick said. “He has minions now?”
“They have become his slaves,” Ardeth Bey intoned, joining them at the window. “So it has begun: the beginning of the end.”
The thought ran through Rick’s mind that this guy had missed his calling as an actor, but Evelyn was already shaking her head.
“Not quite yet, it hasn’t. Come on,” she said to Rick and strode away, leaving the rest of the men staring out the window at the crowd advancing on the museum doors.
The Mariette Tablet--at least, that’s what Rick guessed it was--stood in the center of the upstairs hallway, a huge jagged piece of stone densely engraved with hieroglyphs. Evelyn made a beeline to it and leaned in, running her finger along the ancient letters, muttering under her breath. Dr. Bey joined her. Rick looked over at Ardeth Bey; without speaking, they each took up a look-out position, listening to the assault on the doors downstairs. How long would it take for the bewitched Cairenes to break through?
“The Bembridge Scholars said that the Golden Book was buried inside the statue of Anubis--”
“So the old boys at Bembridge were mistaken,” Jonathan said. He sounded delighted.
“Yes, they mixed the books up, mixed up where they were buried.” Evelyn’s nose was almost touching the tablet. “So if the black book is inside the statue of Anubis, the golden book must be inside--”
Downstairs the museum doors crashed open; a stream of shouting men poured into the museum. As one, Rick and Ardeth Bey leaned over the railing, looking to see where they were going. Jonathan peered over the edge and groaned.
“Hurry, Evie, come on!”
“Patience is a virtue!” Evelyn snapped.
The men were heading for the stairs. Rick turned to her.
“Not right now, it isn’t!”
Jonathan was halfway down the corridor. “I think I’ll go and get the car started!”
“Be careful!” Rick called after him, and jumped when Evelyn gave a cry of triumph.
“I’ve got it! The Golden Book of Amun-Ra is at Hamunaptra inside the statue of Horus. Take that, Bembridge Scholars!” she crowed, punching the air and grinning like an idiot. She looked so delighted with herself; at any other moment Rick would have fallen at her feet in adoration. Instead, he seized her arm and began to sprint down the hallway after Jonathan, tugging her along with him as the others followed.
“Great job!” he shouted, squeezing her hand. “Let’s go!”
They ran hard, down the service staircase and through the narrow empty halls of the back of the museum, and finally out the staff entrance. Outside, Jonathan was putting the car into gear, shoving the passenger door open.
“Evy, come on Evy, hurry up!” he shouted. “Let’s go, come on!”
Daniels dived into the backseat, closely followed by Ardeth Bey and Dr. Bey. Rick slung Evelyn into the front seat and leaped in after her, bellowing at Jonathan to go, go! Somehow Beni was there, sliding out of the museum doors, shouting for Imhotep. From somewhere, the mummy screeched in rage. Men began to pour out of the museum, chasing them and shouting. Rick stood up in the car as Jonathan pulled away, suddenly hating Beni with everything he had.
“You’re going to get yours, Beni, you hear me? You’re gonna get yours! ”
“Sit down!” Evelyn cried, tugging on his pant leg. “They could have guns!”
Rick dropped down into the seat beside her and Evie clutched at his arm with both hands. “That was close,” she said. “I can’t believe that man is working with Imhotep! What on earth possessed him?”
“Fear,” Rick said. “And greed, if I know Beni.”
“Where to now?” Jonathan asked, turning a hard left and driving deeper into the souk in Khan al-Khalili. “How are we going to get to Hamunaptra before him?”
That was a good question.
“Just get us out of the city,” Rick said. “Head south-west--”
He was thrown suddenly forward as Jonathan slammed on the brakes, and only saved himself from being brained by the dashboard by falling hard on his arms. Evelyn smacked her head on his shoulder; the men in the backseat were exclaiming.
“What the hell--” Rick began and stopped, following Jonathan’s gaze.
A pack of men stood in the narrow street before them, watching with cold, silent, bewitched eyes. There was no way out but through them. Rick looked at Jonathan. The other man was biting his lip, his face set. Rick glanced down; Jonathan’s foot still rested on the gas. Rick stamped down on it, hard. Jonathan yelped. The car leaped forward.
Everything was chaos then, of men leaping onto the hood of the car and other men leaping out of the way. Rick shoved Evelyn down and crouched on the seat, fists raised, flinging guys left and right, trying to keep them off of Jonathan, who was doing his best to drive them in a straight line. Behind him, Ardeth Bey, Daniels, and the Curator were dealing with their own problems, slugging and punching and tossing. Everyone was shouting. A man leaped across Jonathan; Evelyn popped up and dealt him a solid right hook in the eye. Jonathan took a corner hard and Daniels went flying off the back of the car, out into the street with a couple of others. God save him, Rick thought as they continued to race through the souk. There was nothing more they could do for him.
“Hold on!” screeched Jonathan, sending a couple of townies flying as he flung the car around a corner. Rick wobbled; only Evelyn’s hand on his belt kept him from flying out like Daniels had. The roads were widening as they left the souk and sped out into the Sharia al-Azhar, but that did nothing to dislodge the men still thronging the car. One of them leaped at Jonathan; he lost control of the carl and they crashed into a fountain just outside of the al-Azhar mosque. Water spurted up into the air; their pursuers were almost on them. There was nothing for it but to run. Rick leaped over the side and turned back for Evelyn, swinging her down. He kept a firm hand on hers as they ran towards the mosque. If they could get inside, maybe the crowd wouldn’t follow. Would enchanted people still obey modern religious law? Rick had no idea, but it couldn’t hurt to try. He snatched up a torch that someone had dropped and waved it at the advancing men, driving them back a few paces. Ahead of him, Jonathan had caught hold of Evie and was towing her towards the mosque, Ardeth Bey and the Curator covering them.
“Move! Get back!” Rick screeched at the crowd.
It was a lost cause and he knew it. They were surrounded. The crowd hemmed them in against the wall, cutting off any route into the mosque itself. Rick waved his torch, looking desperately for any means of escape. It couldn’t end like this. Rick planted himself in front of Evelyn and Jonathan. He had survived ridiculous odds before, but always at the loss of companions. He was not going to lose these ones.
But instead of falling on them and tearing them apart, the crowd stilled. They began to chant again, Imhotep. Imhotep. An avenue opened among them, a man walking forward, his head held high, his stride purposeful. Rick felt a hand on his arm. Evelyn. He glanced at her; she stared ahead, her face pale in the torchlight.
“It’s the Creature,” Dr. Bey said, horrified. “He’s fully regenerated.”
So much for Daniels, then. Imhotep advanced on them, tall and striking in the torchlight. He spoke, and his voice was deep and melodious. Behind him came Beni.
“Come with me, my princess. It is time to make you mine, forever,” he translated.
“For all eternity, idiot,” Evelyn corrected. She sounded disgusted.
Imhotep continued to speak, reaching his hand out, Beni translating in an injured tone.
“Take my hand and I will spare your friends.”
Evelyn gasped. Rick sneered, gripping the torch like a club, fully prepared to set the mummy on fire if he came any closer. The audacity of the man, to assume that they wouldn’t fight to the death to protect her. Imhotep watched them, smirking.
“Oh dear,” Evelyn breathed. “Have you got any bright ideas?”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Rick said. If they could just back up a little to the left, they could get through the mosque gates--
“You’d better think of something fast,” Evelyn said, looking at him, and something in her tone drew Rick’s gaze. “Because if he turns me into a mummy, you’re the first one I’m coming after.”
And Evelyn stepped forward out of the circle of men and took the mummy’s outstretched hand.
“Evie!” Jonathan cried.
“No!” Rick fumbled for his gun, horror filling him. Ardeth Bey leaped at him, seized his arm.
“Don’t!” Evelyn said, her green eyes huge. “He still has to take me to Hamunaptra to perform the ritual.”
“She is right,” Ardeth Bey said, trying to force Rick’s arm down. “Live today, fight tomorrow.”
Rick kept the gun pointed at Imhotep, almost too horrified to think. He looked at Evelyn, desperate. He can’t have you; death can’t have you. Evelyn looked back at him, her eyes determined, silently asking him to trust her. To live to fight another day. Rick snarled and holstered his gun. Imhotep looked from one to the other, understanding in his eyes. He did not let go of Evelyn’s arm.
“I’ll be seeing you again,” Rick said to him, and the promise in his voice clear even if the mummy couldn’t understand his words.
Imhotep smirked and turned away, leading Evelyn back through the crowd. Evelyn kept her eyes on them as she walked, a long look that Rick tried not to interpret as goodbye. He couldn’t bear this, couldn’t bear to watch her walk away to her death.
“Evelyn!” he cried, trying to go after her, but Ardeth Bey held him back, his grip on Rick’s shoulders like steel.
Imhotep shouted something then and the crowd began to sway and chant. His meaning couldn’t be clearer. Kill them all. Evelyn began to scream and struggle.
“No! Let go of me!” she screeched, clawing at him. “Rick! Jonathan!”
Beni darted forward and snatched at Jonathan, grabbing the key out of his pocket. Jonathan slugged him, hard, but Beni danced away.
“Thank you!” he said, and gave Rick a grin. “Goodbye, my friend.”
This time Rick managed to yank himself from Ardeth’s grasp. “Come here, you little--”
But Beni was gone, disappearing into the crowd after Imhotep, and the men were advancing to do their master’s bidding. Rick looked around, desperate. A glint on the ground caught his eye; a manhole cover. The sewers. He threw his torch at the advancing crowd and bent to drag it open.
“Come on!” he shouted, grabbing Jonathan’s hand and pulling him forward.
“What about my sister?”
“We’re gonna get her back!” Rick slung Jonathan down the hole. Ahead of him, Dr. Bey advanced on the crowd, drawing his sword and hacking on their attackers. Ardeth made a move to help him, but Rick grabbed him and forced him down the hole after Jonathan.
“Come on!” Rick shouted at the Curator. “Give me your hand!”
“Go!” Dr. Bey shouted back.
“Come on!” Rick screeched. Couldn’t the man see that this was futile?
“Go, now!” Dr. Bey bellowed, and there was nothing for Rick to do but to leap feet first down into the sewer.
Hands caught him, steadied him; Jonathan’s hands, clutching at Rick’s shirt. It was pitch black underground, but somehow they were running, the roar of the crowd and Dr. Bey’s dying screams drifting down to them as they hurried through the underground. They splashed through filthy ankle-deep water, away to safety--or at least, Rick hoped it was towards safety. He felt sick.
Light filtered down from overhead, another grate in the street. Ardeth Bey climbed up, looked, gestured for them to follow. They pushed the grate open and emerged into the deafeningly silent night. They were in the main courtyard of the mosque.
Jonathan fell to his knees on the grass, panting. Rick fell down beside him.
“I can’t lose her!” Jonathan said, tears in his voice. “I can’t, O’Connell, she’s the only family I’ve got left.”
Rick clutched his head, closer to crying himself than he had been in years. All he could see was Evelyn’s face as she walked away from them, saving their lives.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God.”
Author's Note: Finally, an update! The largest souk in Cairo, according to my guidebook, is the one in the old city, and I wanted to find a place kind of like the one they used in the movie for the final showdown. If you've listened to the commentary, that wall behind them is the entrance to a burial ground. I've made it a mosque here because it's right in the souk, which is very convenient, as well as making it a place of sanctuary. I hope you like this story! Please let me know what you think in the comments.
Chapter 12: The Fool, Reversed
Chapter Text
The Fool, Reversed
Cairo and the Western Desert, October 1922
In the deep velvet darkness of night, Jonathan sat with Rick O’Connell and Ardeth Bey and waited.
Before tonight, he had thought that God had thrown him all of the hell allotted to one person in a lifetime. The War, the trenches, the constant noise and ceaseless parade of death. His parents’ deaths, the telegram delivered by a boy on a bicycle, Evie’s shriek of grief and his own sickened collapse to the floor of their house in Kent...Jonathan wrapped his arms around himself and shuddered. In that moment, none of it compared to the horror of watching his baby sister give herself up to the Creature. Of all the damned foolish, stupidly heroic things to do, this was the worst, and she had done it willingly, without question, to save their lives.
That had been two hours ago. Two whole bloody hours they had been trapped in the mosque, waiting for the crowd outside to disperse so they could make it to the car. Evie could very well be dead by now. Jonathan couldn’t bear it. She might be dead, and they were just sitting here inside the gates, biding their time. In the darkness, he felt more than saw O’Connell turn to look at him.
“Hey,” O’Connell murmured. “She’s gonna be okay.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Jonathan snapped.
O’Connell sighed and was silent for a long moment.
“I have to believe it,” he said at last. He sounded exhausted. “And so do you, or else we’ll both give into despair, and we can’t do that.”
Jonathan sighed. Damn the man, he was right. There was a chance that Evie was still alive, that they would get to her in time. A chance, and they had to hold onto it as long as possible.
Sitting across from them, keeping watch out of the gate, Ardeth Bey spoke for the first time in hours.
“He must take her to Hamunaptra. Magician or not, it will take him time to get there.” He gestured at the street outside. “I believe the way is clear now.”
Standing, Jonathan and O’Connell peered over his shoulders, out into the street. The last of the bewitched Cairenes had straggled away, presumably home to bed. The car was where they had left it, jammed up against the broken fountain. Thank God Jonathan had had the sense to put the keys into his pocket as they’d fled.
In silence, the three men climbed over the gate and dropped into the street. They were halfway across the plaza when Ardeth Bey changed direction and hurried towards a bundle of rags lying near the open manhole. Jonathan looked after him and then looked away, his gorge rising. He kept walking towards the car, even as O’Connell realized what the Medjai was doing and turned to follow.
“I can’t,” Jonathan said to him, an image of arms and legs sticking out of the stinking Poziѐres mud flashing across his vision. “I can’t do it, O’Connell. Call me a coward--”
“You’re not a coward,” O’Connell said, gripping his arm. “Get the car. I’ll help him.”
Jonathan did as he was told, fighting the urge to be sick as O’Connell went to help Ardeth lay out the broken remains of the valiant Dr. Bey. They carried him to the gates of the mosque and left him there, wrapped in Ardeth Bey’s cloak. The Imam would look after him, come daylight.
The car was mostly unharmed, though the front fender was crushed in, and Jonathan was able to start it and back it out of the fountain. They drove in silence through the city, O’Connell occasionally murmuring directions. Jonathan was grateful for the orders. He couldn’t think quite straight, and it was only as they were crossing the bridge towards Giza that Jonathan realized where they were going.
“The airfield?” he said, surprised.
“Yep,” O’Connell replied. “Winston wants an adventure, remember? He has a plane.”
And a bright flare of hope filled Jonathan’s heart.
The sun had begun to rise before they reached the No. 9 Auxiliary Airfield west of the Great Pyramids, flushing the sky with rosy pink light. Jonathan had never been out to Winston’s airfield; it had mostly been abandoned since the Armistice, the air force content to operate from the bigger base north of Cairo. He knew that Winston Havelock was the last of his garrison at the place, the only man in it who hadn’t met a horrible fiery death over North Africa. How sober would he be at four o’clock in the morning?
The airfield was mostly deserted; a couple of kids raised the barrier as the car approached and saluted them as they went by. More children herded goats and played on a single yellow biplane that sat on the runway. They waved as Jonathan parked the car, and rushed to gather around it as the men climbed out.
“Sabah alkhyr, O’Connell effendi!” they shouted. “Good morning!”
“Sabah alkhyr,” O’Connell replied, smiling at the children and seeming not to notice how Jonathan and Ardeth Bey were looking at him. “Where’s Winston, guys?”
“He is taking his breakfast over there,” one of the older boys said, waving at the dunes at the edge of the airfield. “Will you take us in your motor car, O’Connell effendi?”
“Not right now,” O’Connell replied, hauling his duffel bag of guns out of the boot. “But tell you what, you guys keep a good eye on it and don’t push on the horn, and we’ll talk. Okay?”
This seemed agreeable; they left the children gathered around the car, climbing in and out of it, as they walked around the motley collection of buildings towards Winston, who was sitting under an umbrella at the top of a small dune.
“Who are all these children?” Ardeth Bey asked.
“Local orphans, mostly,” O’Connell replied. “Winston lets them sleep in the old barracks. They go into Giza for work.”
This was an astonishing piece of information, and not one that O’Connell elaborated on as he led them across the compound. Winston watched them coming, sipping something from a teacup. Jonathan prayed that it was actually tea, not something stronger. Soft jazz played from a gramophone. Jazz and tea at four in the morning. Well, why not? Winston didn’t have a kidnapped sister to be worried about.
“Morning, Winston!” O’Connell called. “A word?”
Winston surveyed them with interest over his teacup. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”
“You could say that,” Jonathan replied.
Winston raised his teacup, affable and interested. “So what’s your little problem got to do with His Majesty’s Royal Air Corps?”
“Not a damn thing,” O’Connell replied. He sounded almost cheerful.
Winston’s eyes brightened; he sat up and leaned forward. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, you probably won’t live through it.” O’Connell was definitely sounding chipper. Jonathan shot him a look, but he ignored it.
“By Jove, do you really think so?” Ah yes, there was Winston’s death wish coming out to play. Jonathan swallowed, glancing at Ardeth Bey to see what he thought. The Medjai’s face was impassive, but his eyes held a note of curiosity. Jonathan sighed.
“Everybody else we’ve bumped into has died. Why not you?” he said.
Winston leaped to his feet. “What’s the challenge, then?”
“Rescue the damsel in distress, kill the bad guy, save the world.”
O’Connell had definitely read too many dime novels. It did the trick, though; Winston bounded to his feet, laughing gleefully and proclaiming himself at their service. Abandoning his breakfast, he strode off back towards the compound, leaving the men to trail after him.
“Selim! Abdul! Fill the gas tank! I’m taking the old girl up. Have you eaten breakfast, men? No? Well, go find something; there’s always food in the kitchen. I suppose all three of you need to come along? Issa, fetch some ropes, there’s a good lad. Look lively, men! Ha ha!”
O’Connell flashed his sideways grin at Jonathan and Ardeth and followed Winston. Jonathan collared a loose child and inquired after the direction of the kitchen. In short order he and Ardeth Bey were raiding the larder, assembling a hasty meal of ful and boiled eggs and bread while water boiled for coffee. They ate standing up, leaning on the kitchen table.
“Your brother is very resourceful,” Ardeth Bey said, pouring coffee into tea cups.
Jonathan blinked. “My what? Oh, O’Connell. He’s, uh, he’s not my brother.”
Ardeth Bey looked surprised. “Forgive me, I have misunderstood. He is very much attached to your sister.”
Jonathan smirked. “Saw that, did you? No, we only met him a few weeks ago. He was our guide out to Hamunaptra.”
“Ah.”
Ardeth Bey said no more, which was lucky, because O’Connell chose that moment to swing around the kitchen door. He dropped his duffel bag by the door and sloped across to the stove. There was a bounce in his step; he was optimistic.
“Winston says be ready to go in fifteen minutes,” he said, helping himself to ful and coffee. “We should pack some of this for Evelyn; she’ll be starving by now.”
Jonathan glanced at Ardeth Bey; the other man’s eyes were amused, but he said nothing. The unspoken thought of “if she is still alive” was heavy in all their minds. Jonathan swallowed and reached for a clean cloth to wrap bread and cheese and eggs in. She was alive. She had to be alive.
Fifteen minutes later, looking over the solution Winston and O’Connell had come up with to get all of them to Hamunaptra, Jonathan reflected that their own deaths were imminent.
“Come on,” O’Connell said, strapping him to the wing with stout leather cords. “Pilots do this with baggage all of the time.”
Jonathan glared at him through the goggles he had donned. “This is either madness or brilliance.”
From the cockpit, Winston gave his bark of laughter. “Ahaha! It’s remarkable how often those two traits coincide, what? Ahaha!”
Jonathan met O’Connell’s eye. The American gave him a sheepish look and socked him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just hold on.”
Just hold on. Jonathan shook his head. He wished he could see Ardeth Bey’s reaction of being strapped down to the other wing. He felt obscurely relieved that his brandy flask was tucked deep in his pocket. If they lived through this, he would need it.
The flight itself wasn’t so bad, at first. They took off into the bright morning light and flew due west for an hour. Once Jonathan began to get over the fright of being stretched belly down with nothing between himself and a long fall but a slender steel wing, he almost began to enjoy himself. O’Connell must have drawn Winston a map, for they were following the same route that he had led them back to Cairo on. It was interesting to see the desert from the air. Still, when O’Connell whistled at him and asked if he was alright, Jonathan replied in the negative. No he was not bloody alright. He was strapped to a tin can, hurtling through the air in search of a three thousand year old undead maniac who may or may not have killed the only family he had left. Of course he wasn’t alright.
But as the flight continued, Jonathan couldn’t help feeling hopeful. The journey that had taken three long, weary days by camel took them little over an hour by plane. For all his foibles, Winston was a good pilot. The day was clear, not a cloud in the sky to impede their way. There was Hamunaptra, up in the middle distance. Jonathan clung to the wing and prayed to a god he had long thought abandoned him that they would not be too late to save Evie. And then he saw the whirlwind.
It was huge, a sand tornado that rivalled drawings of American tornadoes he had seen in newspapers, and it moved with purpose. Jonathan stared out at it. How could a whirlwind move with purpose? Through the roaring of wind in his ears, he could hear Winston shouting that he had never seen one so big.
“Never?” O’Connell bellowed.
“No!”
Well, that wasn’t alarming at all . And then, before Jonathan’s astonished eyes, the tornado resolved itself into three figures on a sand dune--the wretched Imhotep, that rat Beni, and Evie. Jonathan gave a whoop.
“Do you see her, O’Connell?!”
“I see her!” O’Connell shouted back, a smile in his voice.
Alive! She was alive! They weren’t too late! Evie had seen them, too, and was hopping up and down. Jonathan resisted the urge to cheer. She was still in Imhotep’s clutches. And he, too, had seen them.
“Oh, my God,” O’Connell said.
Jonathan snuck a look over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn’t. A wall of sand rose up behind them, charging in their direction. A face appeared in it: Imhotep’s face, smirking at them, his mouth opening in a roar to engulf them. Jonathan screeched like a child; O’Connell was screaming and firing at it; Ardeth Bey was yelling on the other wing. Winston roared with maniacal laughter, revving the engine and pointing them in a nose-dive over the edge of a cliff.
This is it, Jonathan thought, not for the first time in his life. We’re going to die; we’re dead.
The sand engulfed them, blinding him, scouring his face. And then, somehow, it stopped. The sand fell away and the plane sputtered forward, tottering, and the engine burst into flame, and they crash-landed into the rocks behind the crumbling walls of Hamunaptra.
Jonathan hung upside down from the wing, panting. He seemed to be several feet from the body of the plane itself. Ardeth Bey was stumbling to his feet, his hair standing on end; O’Connell clambered out of the gunner seat and fell with a yelp on his arse. Both men stood swaying and panting. Jonathan reached around the wing and felt for the straps holding him down. He couldn’t find them.
“Excuse me!” he called to his companions. “A little help would be useful if it’s not too much trouble!”
“Yeah, yeah, all right.” O’Connell tottered over, tossing his gun bag down, and loosened the straps so that Jonathan fell to the sand. O’Connell took him by the hand and pulled him to his feet.
“You okay?”
“Yes, you?”
“Fine.” O’Connell stumbled back towards the body of the plane. “Winston! Hey, Winston!”
There was no answer from the man in the cockpit, and O’Connell seemed to go very still, bending over him. Jonathan’s heart sank. Winston sat in the pilot’s seat, gripping the stick, with a smile on his face. Jonathan didn’t need O’Connell’s grim face to tell him that he was dead.
The ground seemed to waver around them. The plane began to sink. O’Connell, too, wavered.
“Quicksand!” yelled Jonathan, seizing his friend and dragging him back. “Get back! It’s quicksand!”
O’Connell dived forward, snatching his gun bag, and Jonathan yanked his arm to pull him back. Ardeth Bey joined them as they stumbled away from the wreckage, taking refuge on the rocky ground a few feet away. They stood watching as the plane sank from sight. O’Connell saluted Winston as he sank from view.
“He always did want to die with his boots on,” Jonathan murmured. “God rest his soul.”
O’Connell said nothing, merely hefted his gun bag and, socking Jonathan lightly on the chest, walked away. Jonathan remembered then what he had said in the bar--had it only been yesterday?--about how Winston had helped him get back on his feet after the War. So O’Connell had lost yet another friend. Still, there was nothing now to do but to fall into step behind him. Winston was finally at peace. Now they had to save Evie, and save the world.
Author's Note: Sorry for the long pause between updates; I was attacked first by melancholy and then by period pain, so got no writing done for a few days. The Fool, Reversed in tarot means, among other things, chaos. I think we can all agree that this part of the movie is very chaotic. :-) I hope you like the story! Please comment and let me know what you think!
Chapter 13: The Whirlwind
Chapter Text
The Whirlwind
The Western Desert, October 1922
The streets of Old Cairo were dark and silent; Evie’s ears rang with it after the mayhem of the Sharia al-Alzhar. The Creature--Imhotep--strode along, guided by Beni, his grip tight on Evie’s arm. She let him tow her along, moving woodenly, numb.
Kill them all , Imhotep had ordered the bewitched crowd. He had dragged her away, kicking and screaming, but not so fast that Evie hadn’t heard someone’s horrible bellowing death scream. Since then she had gone quietly, nauseated. Dead, they’re dead. What chance was there that Rick and Jonathan and the others had been able to fight their way through that ? They had been cut off from escape, hemmed in on all sides. The thought of Jonathan, of Rick, being torn apart was sickening in the extreme. And worse was the memory of the look on Rick’s face as she had walked away. There had been horror in his eyes as he looked at her, horror and something very like...what?
Trust me, Evie had tried to tell him without words. This is the only way to keep you alive. She should have known that Imhotep would double cross them. She should have known not to trust an enemy’s honor. But she was not a soldier like Rick or Jonathan or Ardeth Bey, and now they were mostly likely all dead, and there had been that look in Rick O’Connell’s eyes--
He loved me. The thought pierced Evelyn right through the center of her chest, so sudden and so astonishing that she stumbled and would have fallen if not for Imhotep’s iron grip on her arm. The Creature snapped something at her.
“You’re hurting me!” Evie snarled back in what she hoped was a close approximation of Ancient Egyptian. It was so difficult when one had only ever read a language.
But it must have been close to correct, because Imhotep gave her an appraising look and loosened his grip on her arm, though he did not let her go entirely. Evie gave him as imperious a look as she could muster and turned away, dismissing him as one would a servant. Imhotep did not seem to care, but hurried her along through the winding streets. Evie let her thoughts return inward.
Rick O’Connell loved her. It was a shocking realization, and yet when Evie thought about it she was not in the least surprised. Hadn’t Rick been showing her that he loved her since Hamunaptra? Evie swallowed. He had saved her life and her expedition, had found her new clothes when her own were lost, stolen her a toolkit, he had listened to her. Men so rarely listened to her. He had been proud of her when she won that silly camel race, his face amused and happy and so lovely. And he had done everything in his power to keep her safe since they had raised Imhotep. All of Rick’s actions, his gestures, his small embraces, his looks, came rushing back to Evie, playing out in front of her eyes. His hand always wrapped around hers as they ran, the way his thumb had trailed along her jaw after the Medjai attack, the brief, firm hug he had given her back at the fort, the way he had almost kissed her when she tended to his scratches in the apartment, the horrified look on his face as she walked away with Imhotep just now…
Oh, God. Evie felt sick. He loved her and he might be dead now, and she might never have the chance to tell him that she loved him, too. Because she did love Rick O’Connell, so much so she felt desperate. She knew almost nothing about his past, his interests, but she loved everything that he had shown of himself: his kindness, his dependability, his courage, the way that one lock of hair continually fell over his eyes. She had been drawn to him from the beginning; Evie realized that now. From that moment in Giza port, Rick had subverted her every expectation of him.
Evie pulled in a deep breath. What was it that Jonathan had told her, that Rick had been the only soldier to walk away from his final battle? And he had survived Gallipoli. And Jonathan! He too had survived: the trenches, the horror of the Somme and Pozières, the field hospital before being invalided home. They were both survivors.
Well, then. She would just have to believe that they were all right, that somehow, someway, they had survived the frenzied crowd. Her mother had always said that hope was the greatest weapon. And so, against all odds, Evie let hope creep back into her heart. All she had to do was stay alive long enough for them to reach her.
On the outskirts of Cairo, close to the bridge over to Giza, Beni stole a car. He bowed Imhotep into it, telling him in Hebrew to “take the place of honor” in the backseat. Evie found herself sitting in the front seat beside Beni, driving past Giza and into the desert, taking the roads that led out to the oases. None of them spoke. The night was at its darkest point, the stars an endless vault overhead. Evie sat with her hands folded in her lap, resisting the urge to wring them. She was not going to show these men how frightened she was. Still, she must have made some noise, because Beni looked over at her.
“O’Connell always had more heart than sense,” he said, more to himself than to Evie.
“He has more honor than you could ever have,” Evie replied.
Beni scoffed. “He had to die sometime. We used to call him Ricochet for the way the bullets just seemed to bounce off him. But he was never going to survive by choosing you .”
“Is survival more important to you than human kindness?”
Beni looked sideways at her again. “Yes.”
There was nothing one could say to that.
They drove on through the interminable darkness, as far as they could go on roads that increasingly deteriorated. Finally, as they juttered over a path that was more pothole than packed dirt, Imhotep called for Beni to stop the car.
Dawn was turning the edge of the horizon a pale orange red as they climbed out of the car and stood in the sand. The desert air was still cold; Evie shivered, wrapping her cardigan more tightly around herself. Imhotep took her arm and led her across the sand--a shame, Evie thought; she bet she could have knocked down Beni and knicked the car keys from him. Imhotep seemed to be getting his bearings; he stood looking out over the desert, turning this way and that. Finally, he smiled to himself. Taking Beni’s arm in his other hand, he turned on the spot and--
Sand kicked up around Evie, whipping her skirts and hair, scouring her face. She scrunched her eyes and mouth closed, trying to breathe without inhaling sand into her lungs. Her feet seemed to leave the ground; she was swirling out of control, Imhotep’s grip on her arm the only thing keeping her from flying off into nothing. Roaring filled her ears.
An eternity seemed to pass, of sand and wind and noise and the weightless terror of being swirled around and around and around. As a child, Evie had accompanied her parents to beach resorts and swum in the ocean, rough-housing with Jonathan and trying to ride the waves like the Polynesian surfers whose pictures she had seen in newspapers. Sometimes the waves had closed over her head and sent her tumbling along the ocean floor, a frightening weight and force that seemed to say I could kill you, little girl, but I won’t today before it tossed her up, gasping for breath, on shore. This was exactly like that, only hot and dry and made from dark magic, not nature.
And then Imhotep let go. Evie flew through the air, screaming, to land with a bone-jarring thunk on hot sand. Beni fell hard on top of her.
“Get off me!” roared Evie, striking at him, scrambling away. It felt good to hit him. “ Get off me! ”
Beni groaned, rolling away. “I need a new job.”
Evie snarled, rolling a ways downhill, shaking sand out of her hair. So much for her neat plait; her hair stood on end, thick with grit. As the whirlwind resolved itself into Imhotep Evie bent low and spat. He strode down the hill, ignoring them completely.
Bastard, Evie thought, stumbling to her feet. She watched him stride away down the slope, not stumbling in the slightest, and felt a twinge of disbelief: beyond the Creature, across the wide salt flat that she had so joyously raced across on camelback, was Hamunaptra.
“Oh my God,” Evie whispered, her heart sinking to her toes.
They were back already: how was that possible? Had Imhotep’s whirlwind really moved them that far that fast? Evie had anticipated days in which to stall for help, not hours. Oh, God. She stood there, paralyzed, with everything she had ever learned about Ancient Egyptian ritual flashing through her mind. Under it all ran an infuriating refrain: doomed, you’re doomed, you’re doomed --
Suddenly from overhead came the distinct drone of a whirring engine. They all looked up into the clear blue sky, where a yellow biplane curved towards them. A figure in the gunner’s seat raised both hands over its head in salute. Evie felt her whole self breaking into a smile.
“O’Connell,” she whispered, and laughed, hopping up and down.
Beni began to mutter in Hungarian, no doubt dire epithets; Imhotep, too, looked furious. He raised his hands and a blast of wind jolted Evie, whipping past her to sweep sand once again into the air. A wall of whirling gold rose up from the desert floor, rushing after the plane. The pilot struggled to fly faster, but the wave engulfed the plane. Evie screeched.
“Stop it! You’ll kill them!”
“That’s the idea,” Beni replied, not taking his eyes off of the scene unfolding above Hamunaptra.
Stop him, stop him. Evie ran forward, shoving Beni out of the way, and slid to a stop before Imhotep. He stood with his eyes closed, absolutely still, his hands raised to direct the sandstorm. Should she hit him? No, that would only make him angry. Evie raised her hands and chose the only alternative she could think of. She grabbed the Creature’s face and kissed him.
Startled, Imhotep did not kiss her back, but did not stop her either. Evie didn’t let go of him. Over his shoulder she could see the sand wall collapsing, the biplane shooting out of it, juddering but still airborne. Instantly Evie let go of Imhotep’s face with a whoop. Yet even as she hooted in triumph, the biplane seemed to burst into flame, and in another moment it disappeared behind the dunes. A great plume of sand burst forth, and then nothing.
For a moment they all stood silently, staring at the place the biplane had been. Imhotep smirked and walked away towards Hamunaptra, leaving Evie and Beni no choice but to follow.
As they walked across the salt flat, Evie kept her eyes on the dunes, but there was no sign of Rick or Jonathan or anyone. She swallowed against her fear and panic. Were they alive? Had she stopped Imhotep too late to save them? No, no, please God, no, let them be alive, let them be alright.
Hamunaptra was as they had left it a week ago, empty but for ruined pillars and a couple of milling camels. Where on earth had those come from? Evie wondered. One didn’t just leave expensive livestock out in the desert. Perhaps if she could get away from Imhotep and Beni, she could ride one to freedom. Perhaps some of Ardeth Bey’s Medjai warriors were camped nearby. Perhaps--
“Don’t even think about it,” Beni said, following her gaze, and jabbed Evie in the side. “You saw what he did to O’Connell.”
Evie turned and stared at him, eyes narrowed. “You know, nasty little fellows such as yourself always get their comeuppance.”
Beni sneered at her, but there was a flash of something in his eye. Worry? “They do?”
“Yes. Always,” Evie said, and lifting her chin, walked into the crypt behind Imhotep.
Author's Note: Here this is, finally! I don't know why it took me so long to write this; it just didn't want to be written. I hope you like it! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! Also, if you'd like to ask me something about the series or leave me a prompt, please feel free to pop over to my Tumblr!. :-)
Chapter 14: The Crypt
Chapter Text
The Crypt
Hamunaptra, October 1922
They entered the City of the Dead though a crevasse in the rocks that Ardeth Bey led them to at the back of Hamunaptra--apparently the Medjai knew more about the interior of the lost city than they let on. Rick pulled a couple of torches from his bag and handed one to Jonathan.
“If you see anything, hit it hard and fast,” he said and the other man nodded.
A second torch went to Ardeth Bey, who led them on swift, stealthy feet through the maze of sand- and rubble-strewn corridors. Rick brought up the rear, one pistol cocked and ready. All was silent; they may well have been alone in that dank underground place. They walked for what seemed like a long time, eventually passing the stairway that the Americans had found on the original Carnahan Expedition, and the map in Rick’s mind oriented itself.
“Where’ll he have taken her?”
“To the funerary temple complex,” Ardeth Bey replied. “Only there can he complete the ritual.”
“And how much time to do you think we have?”
Ardeth Bey hesitated and Rick and Jonathan glanced at each other. Without speaking, they picked up their pace. Anxiety gnawed at Rick. Somewhere in this nightmare place was Evelyn. He just hoped that she was giving her captors hell.
At length they came to a doorway partially blocked with loose stones.
“We did this, in my grandfather’s youth,” Ardeth Bey said, planting his torch in the sand. “We hoped it would deter tomb robbers and force them to take the more dangerous route.”
“So this is a shortcut, then?” asked Jonathan.
“Yes. It leads through Seti’s treasure chamber and down into the temple.”
“When you say ‘treasure chamber’--” Jonathan began, an Egyptological glint coming into his eyes.
“Save it,” Rick said, stowing his own torch in a niche in the wall and turning his hands to the stones. “It can wait.”
“Quite,” said Jonathan.
For a while they scrambled to pull the stones out to create a large enough hole to climb through. The doorway was narrow, only wide enough for O’Connell and Ardeth Bey to stand abreast, tugging stones down and casting them aside. Jonathan stood to one side, holding his torch aloft and offering advice.
“I’d take those bigger stones first. Take them from the top, otherwise the whole thing’ll cave in on us. Come on, put your backs into it!”
“Who died and made you drill sergeant?” O’Connell asked, exasperated.
Jonathan grinned a little. “Yes, well, you’ve got the idea. Chop chop!”
O’Connell growled and turned back to the task at hand. Chagrined, Jonathan ambled a little ways away. He was acting glib again, as he always did when he was worried and trying not to show it. Somewhere in this wretched place was Evie, hopefully giving her captors the worst possible time. Evie wasn’t one to go quietly, Jonathan knew, but even she might be cowed by Imhotep. Beni, on the other hand...Jonathan smirked to himself.
It was as he stood there imagining Evie terrorizing O’Connell’s erstwhile friend that something glinting in the torchlight caught Jonathan’s eye. He raised the torch and moved closer, examining the hieroglyphs and carvings dug into the stone. A pharaoh--Seti, probably--stood supplicating Ra in his sun form, hands stretched out and up. Ra himself was filled with blue-grey bulbs. Jonathan frowned. His career may have lapsed of late, but he was educated enough in Egyptology to recognize this as unusual. Curious, he ran his fingers over the bulbs. Glass. Glass? He turned the little orb gently in place and with a soft pop it fell out into his hand. It was not heavy, but it was solid, and something inside it rattled.
“I say,” Jonathan said, waving a hand at O’Connell and Ardeth Bey, “come and have a look at this--”
The glass shattered, a bug popping out--a scarab-- oh, shit--
Almost before he could blink, the beetle bit down hard on Jonathan's palm and burrowed into the incision. Jonathan screamed, as much in terror as in pain. O’Connell leaped around.
“What, what is it?!”
“My arm, my arm!” Jonathan screeched, clawing at the scarab crawling just under the skin. It hurt like hell and it was moving fast.
O’Connell grabbed him, yanking his shirt open at the shoulder, revealing the fast-moving bulge. He screeched almost as loudly as Jonathan.
“Do something, do something!” Jonathan howled, even as his companions seized him, immobilizing his arm, grasping his shoulder, trying not to let the scarab burrow any deeper. O’Connell pulled out a butterfly knife, swirled it open, and stabbed the beetle through Jonathan’s skin. Jonathan screamed again as O’Connell dug the scarab out and flicked it across the chamber. For a moment it lay dazed, then it surged back towards them and O’Connell pulled out his pistol and shot it dead.
For a long moment the three men stood clutching each other, panting. Blood flowed freely down Jonathan’s shoulder, the skin on his arm bruising rapidly.
“Good shot,” he said weakly, trying not to fall over.
O’Connell looked at him, his face pale in the torchlight. “Where’d it come from?”
“There.” Jonathan pointed a shaking hand at the relief of Ra on the wall. “I thought it looked unusual and touched it.”
O’Connell and Ardeth leaned forward to look, then shuddered as one man and stepped back.
“Well,” O’Connell said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think we know now what killed the Warden.”
Jonathan did sink down then, sitting on a stone, putting his head between his knees. Oh God. Memories of the Warden running screaming through the passage flashed through his mind. Oh, God, oh God.
“ Fuck,” O’Connell muttered, shaking his head.
Ardeth Bey looked from one to the other. “You lost one companion to the scarabs?”
“Yeah,” O’Connell said, shortly. “We didn’t know it at the time, though.”
Ardeth Bey made a face and tore a length of fabric from his black robes. “Here, for a bandage. Will you attend to your bro--to Carnahan?”
“Yeah,” Rick said again, taking the fabric. “Can you finish the stones yourself?”
Ardeth Bey nodded and Rick grabbed up his pack, opening the outside pocket and fishing out the bottle of iodine he had swiped off of Evelyn’s table on their way out of the Fort Brydon apartment. Jonathan was white to the lips, and small wonder. Rick felt a bit sick, himself.
“Do you still have your flask?”
Jonathan blinked. “Uh, yes, actually, excellent idea.”
He fished it out of his pocket as Rick swiped the stab wound down with iodine and wrapped the makeshift bandage around it. The wound was not deep, but it looked like it hurt like hell, and there were awful purple puckers all the way up Jonathan’s arm that Rick couldn’t do anything about. He swabbed more iodine over the bite on Jonathan’s palm and bandaged the hand up to the wrist.
“You’ll live,” he said, tying off the knot and taking a nip from Jonathan’s proffered flask.
“Are you in love with my sister?” Jonathan replied.
Rick blinked. “Yes.”
Jonathan nodded. “Alright. Let’s go.”
Rick watched him get up and walk on unsteady but determined feet towards Ardeth Bey and the rock-filled doorway. Well, then. Time to go.
*
On the other side of the lost city but closer by than any of them realized, Evelyn stood watching Beni struggle with removing stones in a similarly rubble-filled doorway. Imhotep stood nearby, looking bored and impatient. If only he hadn’t planted himself firmly in the center of the narrow passage, Evie might have been able to slip away. Blast and damn these wretched men, thwarting her every attempt at escape! She only hoped that Jonathan and Rick had survived the plane crash. It had been flying low and she hadn’t seen any flames when it went down, only that enormous plume of sand. She had been praying ever since. Gallipoli and Poziѐres. They had survived Gallipoli and Pozières. She had to believe they had survived the crash.
Because Evelyn knew that if they didn’t come for her, no one would, and she would die at Imhotep’s hand. She was long passed being able to save herself.
Beni succeeded at last in making a hole in the doorway large enough for them to pass through and Imhoptep led them on through a maze of passages and ultimately down a once-magnificent staircase into a mortuary temple. Evie gazed around her, taking it all in, her fear warring with the flicker of excitement at seeing a ruin of such splendor. If only the circumstances were different, what a coup such a find would be! This was a mortuary temple to rival Hatshepsut’s at Deir el-Bahari! Evie looked over at Imhotep, wondering if her obvious fascination would delay him a little, long enough for her men to come for her. Perhaps he would even see it as a last act of kindness to the condemned. But then she remembered the state of poor Mr. Burns, the ruthless way he had hunted and killed Mr. Henderson and Mr. Daniels, and she knew that such hope was futile.
There was nothing to do but stand about and wait as Imhotep set about preparing for the ritual. He set the canopic jars out on the basalt altar and placed the Book of the Dead by them. Beni planted himself next to Evie, holding his gun in one hand to prevent her from escaping. Evie sighed and turned away from him. Terror flickered inside her, hope fading as they got closer and closer to the ritual. That long altar there was where a mummy was laid out before being put in its box. Evie looked at it and away. Somehow she knew that soon she would be laid out there, herself.
A bang echoed through the chamber, at once distant and nearby. A gunshot. They all jumped. Evie’s heart leaped. O’Connell.
Annoyance flooded Imhotep’s face and he reached for one of the canopic jars. Pouring powder into his hand, he blew it towards a stele depicting priests paying conducting a sacred ritual. From behind the stone came a long, angry groan. Intrigued and horrified, Evie watched the stone priests crumble, becoming long-decayed bodies wrapped in bandages. Mummies.
Scholarship really is lacking on practical magic , Evie thought as the mummies and Imhotep bowed to each other. If she lived through this, she was going to write a paper on the subject. Lord only knew she had enough information to begin with. The mummies shambled away on unsteady legs in the direction of Rick’s gunshot. Imhotep turned to Evie.
“You really think they’re a match for living men?” she said to him, contemptuous, in her broken Ancient Egyptian.
“Yes,” Imhotep replied and his hand shot out, gripping Evie around the throat.
His grip was tight, unyielding, cruel. Evie clawed at him but he did not let go, pressing tighter. She couldn’t breathe. Evie squirmed and struggled but couldn’t shake off Imhotep’s implacable grip. His face curved in a gloat; he tightened his fingers around Evie’s throat, pressing down on the veins. She couldn’t breathe. Evie’s vision went white, then black; she felt as though she was falling, drowning, dying. And then nothing.
*
The passageway beyond the now-opened doorway was narrow, wide enough only for one man to walk at a time. Rick led the way, torch in one hand, gun bag in the other, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The passage was narrow, claustrophobic. God, Rick hated corridors like this. Ardeth Bey, behind him, had said that it wasn’t very long, but it didn’t really matter how long a place was when you didn’t know what lay ahead or if you would even be in time. Evelyn might be dead already, murmured a nasty little voice in the back of his head. Rick swallowed. She was alive. He had to believe that she was alive.
And when he got her out of here, he was going to take her into his arms and hold her for a long, long time.
The passage ended in an abrupt fissure in the rock. Rick tossed out his torch; the flame falling in a wide arc illuminated a kind of antechamber and, beyond that, a staircase. There was no sound at all. No one there. Rick tossed out his gun back and climbed down after it, rifle at the ready. He had been in too many battles not to be wary.
Behind him, Ardeth Bey and Jonathan climbed down from the passage. Walking on silent feet and with guns raised, they approached the staircase. All before them was darkness, but for a smudge of light high up on the wall. Rick looked at it. A mirror. A mirror? It’s an ancient Egyptian trick, he remembered Evelyn saying that first day at Hamunaptra. A light trick, the beams passed mirror to mirror--a genius, that Evelyn. Rick took a pistol from its holster and took careful aim. He needed to turn the mirror, not break it. Steady, O’Connell, steady...
Bang. The bullet glanced off the edge of the mirror, knocking it backwards and up towards. Light flooded the chamber, branching from mirror to mirror, turning everything a bright warm gold. Rick blinked away the dazzle. It wasn’t just the refracted sunlight that was gold. The light glanced off of countless precious objects; statues, ushabtis, piles of furniture and jewelry and decor. Seti’s treasure chamber.
For a long moment, the three men boggled. Even Ardeth Bey looked astonished by the riches. Jonathan was making small incoherent noises.
“Do you see--”
“Yes.”
“Can you believe--”
“Yes.”
“Can we just--”
“No,” Rick said, and started down the staircase. “Not until we’ve got Evelyn and have killed that guy.”
“I know, I just…” Jonathan’s voice trailed off.
“You’re an archaeologist. I get it,” Rick began. Hell, he wanted to have a look around when all of this was over. Surely Ardeth Bey wouldn’t protest, especially if they succeeded in laying down Imhotep. Evelyn was going to lose her damn mind when she saw all this stuff.
They made their way through the treasure chamber, Rick shaking his head. All of this stuff, just sitting here, doing nothing. When Rick thought about all the hungry people in Cairo, the orphaned kids scrabbling for a few pennies so they could fill their bellies and survive just one more day, it made his blood boil. The wealth of Egypt, and what good was any of it doing?
A strange, creaky gurgling broke through Rick’s dark thoughts. As one man, he and Jonathan and Ardeth Bey whipped around.
Hands were popping out of the ground, dry, decrepit, mummified hands. Mummies broke through the sand, two, four, five, eight of them.
“Who the hell are these guys?” Rick asked.
Ardeth Bey sounded resigned. “Priests. Imhotep’s priests.”
“Okay, then.” And Rick opened fire.
The nice thing about guns was that they did have one hell of an effect on the walking dead. The mummies screeched and fell back as bits of them were blown away, but they did not stop walking. Jonathan fired off the last of the bullets in his derringer--really, he was going to have to buy a better gun--and snatched the pistols from O’Connell’s shoulder holsters. They fell back, retreating down the chamber towards the doors on the far end. The firefight was loud and chaotic; the shambling corpses just kept coming, and the worst part was that nothing that was happening was remotely as awful as what Jonathan had seen and done in the trenches.
Rick seized the back of his shirt and dragged him away.
“Let’s go, come on!”
Jonathan flung a pistol at one of the undead priests, snatched up his torch, and led the way out of the treasure chamber and down the next passage. Behind him, O’Connell and Ardeth Bey kept up a steady spray of bullets as they ran. Horus, we have to find Horus. And there he was, at the top of a long, narrow room that had three doorways opening off of it. Jonathan whooped as his torch lit up the tumbled-down statue.
“Hello, Horus, old boy!”
He stuck his torch in a niche and ran around, examining it. There had to be a compartment here somewhere. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw O’Connell toss Ardeth Bey his rifle and pull a stick of dynamite out of his bag.
“Time to close the door!”
Jonathan dropped to his knees behind the statue and grabbed hold of Ardeth Bey and O’Connell as they rocketed into place beside him. The dynamite exploded, blowing up the doorway and taking the mummies with it, and for a moment Jonathan was at Pozières again, shells falling around him, killing them. He clutched his ears. No. No. We’re in Egypt. We have to save Evie. Now was not the time to break down.
“You okay?” O’Connell shouted.
Jonathan shook his head, trying to hide his sudden weakness by scrambling about the base of the stature. “Look for a loose panel, something that could be removed. It’ll be hidden behind it.”
They found the compartment pretty quickly, all things considered, behind a board directly under the statue’s feet. Jonathan took O’Connell’s knife and slid it into the crack between wood and stone at the top, easing the ancient panel forward and setting it aside as it came out into his hand. Another career-making find ruined; what ought to have been a proud and solemn moment marred by the mummies that Ardeth Bey kept shooting down. How many of the wretches were there?
“You got it?” O’Connell asked as Jonathan reached a cautious hand into the hole and felt around for the book he prayed was inside.
“I think so,” Jonathan said. “There’s a box in here--”
He broke off as hands shot out of the sand at their feet and both he and O’Connell leaped backwards. O’Connell wasn’t fast enough; the hands seized the gun bag still slung around his shoulders and pulled it down. Rick went down yelling, scrabbling for his knife. Jonathan snatched it up and leaped at him; a tug and a slice and the strap was cut and O’Connell was rolling away from the hole, swearing. He snatched for his bag, but it was gone, only a couple of sticks of dynamite coming away in his hands. From underground came a horrible rending sound.
“You alright?” Jonathan asked.
“Yeah,” Rick panted. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Jonathan reached back into the base of the statue, dragging at the box inside. It was ridiculously heavy--well, the Book of Amun Ra was said to be made of solid gold. Jonathan slid the lid off, pushed aside ancient wrappings.
“The Book of Amun-Ra,” he said, relieved.
“This is it?”
“Yes.”
Jonathan dragged it up out of the box, hefting it into his arms. Behind them, Ardeth Bey fired shot after shot into the corridor, until with a click the rifle fell silent: no more bullets, and all of their ammunition was lost. He turned to them.
“Save the girl. Kill the creature.” And with a yell, he charged off into the corridor, clubbing at the mummified priests with the rifle.
Rick leaped to his feet, horror flooding him. Ardeth Bey was surrounded and moving fast; they couldn’t get to him in time to save him.
“What are you waiting for? Go!” he bellowed, and vanished around a corner.
“ Damn it!” Rick shouted, diving for their last remaining stick of dynamite. “I hate heroics!”
He lit the fuse and flung it at the doorway, not seeing the incredulous look on Jonathan’s face as he did so. They dived for cover as the doorway caved in. Another companion lost.
“You okay?” he shouted at Jonathan. He was not going to lose either of the Carnahans.
“Yes,” Jonathan replied, staggering to his feet under the Golden Book’s weight.
They charged off through the last remaining doorway, both praying that it would lead them to Evelyn. They had no more weapons, just the Golden Book and hope. Moving quickly, they ran deeper into the Lost City, following the long tunnel until --at last-- it opened up into a cavernous room: the mortuary temple. Rick and Jonathan slid to a halt, transfixed with horror, at the top of an ornate and ruined staircase.
*
Evelyn opened her eyes slowly. Her throat hurt abominably, and her head. But she could breathe. She sucked in lungfuls of hot, stale air and reached to brush her face, only she couldn’t. Her arms were stuck. Stuck? Evie turned her head. Manacles. She was lying on her back, manacled at the wrists and, she found, the ankles. Manacled to the altar.
Suddenly Evie was wide awake, adrenaline surging through her. She was chained to the altar, and that was a corpse laid out next to her, and that was Imhotep chanting incantations, and more of the mummified priests surrounding him, bowing and supplicating as he did so. The air was thick; from a pool at the far side of the temple rose a roiling purple-grey shape: a woman’s soul, rising up into the air and approaching the altar, hovering over her. Evie gave an almighty screech, her courage gone.
“ O’Connell!” she howled. “Jonathan!”
Imhotep smiled at her. “With your death, Anck-sun-namun will live,” he said, raising his knife, and Evie realized that he was going to kill her and give that soul her body. She screamed again, wailing for her brother. And, improbably, he answered.
“I found it, Evie!” Jonathan screamed from the top of the temple staircase. “I found it!”
Author's Note: Okay, I have to apologize for my six week break from updating this series. Action scenes are hard to write, y'all. But! Here it is, and hopefully the next story will come quickly. I hope you like this story! Please let me know what you think in the comments and, as ever, thanks so much for reading.
Chapter 15: The Necromancer
Chapter Text
The Necromancer
The Mortuary Temple of Seti I, Hamunaptra, October 1922
“The Book of Amun-Ra! I found it, Evie!”
The book was almost impossibly heavy in his arms and yet Jonathan did not feel it. His sister lay stretched out on the altar below, shrieking; Imhotep stood over her with a knife, and everything inside Jonathan was screaming in terror, even as he danced about, taunting him. Imhotep lowered the knife, looking up at Jonathan with anger and contempt, and that was good, it was perfect; it just might buy them the time they needed.
“Can you read this thing?” O’Connell had asked some minutes before, as they stood looking at Evie unconscious on the slab and the Creature laying the unmoving mummy of a woman down beside her. “Can you stop him?”
“Well, I can read it,” Jonathan had said, “but not as well as Evie.”
“That’s okay, just do what you can,” O’Connell replied. “Distract him; get him to walk away from her, okay? I’ll go around behind and pull her off that thing.”
He had moved away to do just that, crouching down to swing himself over the ledge and climb hand-over-hand down the wall.
“Be careful!” Jonathan hissed.
Their chances of surviving this were slim, almost non-existent, yet he was finding that he couldn’t bear it if anything happened to O’Connell. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Jonathan had grown to like him. Besides, O’Connell loved Evie, and if there was a chance of her finding happiness in the big lug’s arms, then that was all to the good.
And so there he was, dancing about at the top of the staircase, the perfect bait for an irate undead priest. Jonathan couldn’t see O’Connell anywhere, but Evie was straining against her bonds.
“Open the book, Jonathan! It’s the only way to kill him!” she yelled. “You have to open the book and find the inscription!”
“I can’t open it!” Jonathan yelled back. “It’s locked or something. We need the key!”
“It’s in his robes!” his mercifully level-headed sister yelled back.
And there came Imhotep, striding up the staircase. Now seemed like a great time to retreat into the passages they had just come out of. Jonathan hefted the book and scuttled off into the shadows.
As far as distractions went, it worked. Rick, creeping around the back of the mortuary temple with his heart in his throat, was gratified to see Imhotep walking away from Evie. Please let Jonathan get that key . Jonathan had light fingers; if anyone could get that thing off Imhotep, it was him. Rick looked around for something, anything, to use as a weapon against the mummies that still knelt around the altar. Standing sentinel at the back of the chamber was the statue of a pharaoh, probably Seti, holding a sword. He hurried to it, keeping to the shadows as best he could.
“Open the book, Jonathan!” Evelyn was shouting. “You have to open the book and find the inscription; it’s the only way to kill him!”
Wonderful girl, that Evelyn, keeping her head even now. Rick reached for the sword in the statue’s hand and pulled it down. It was still sharp, somehow, or at least sharp enough for his purposes. He hefted it, wrapping his hands around the hilt, and jogged towards the altar. There were fourteen of the priest-mummies genuflecting around the altar; Rick had the element of surprise and that was all. No time to think about it. With a shout he leaped into their midst, swinging his sword.
“O’Connell!” Evelyn shrieked.
“Ball your fists!” Rick bawled, and brought the sword down hard on the chains at her wrists. One snapped, freeing her; the other only dented. No time for a second swing yet; he worked his way around the circle of priests towards her feet, hacking and stabbing at the shambling corpses, cutting through the chains holding Evelyn’s legs. At least there was no blood; whatever was keeping their bodies going, it wasn’t that. These mummies were like paper, easy to cut through, disintegrating on contact. Rick aimed for the heads and upper bodies; losing them seemed to destroy whatever magic was at work here. On the altar behind him, Evie had worked an arm and a leg free and was throwing canopic jars at the priests, kicking and yelling in outrage. Wonderful girl, Rick thought again, sending the last mummy’s head flying across the chamber with a swing of his sword. He grinned at Evelyn, lying on her stomach on the altar.
“Mummies,” he said, raising his sword to break through her last chain.
Evie grinned back at him, close to laughing with relief. And then something pulled Rick’s feet out from under him and he fell on his stomach with a yelp and a crack: one of the priests, dragging at him. Evie pulled herself up and fell back, the chain around her ankle catching on something. She struggled against it, screeching; if she could only get free, she could help him. Rick’s sword had fallen wide; he struggled against two of the priests scrabbling at his neck and his legs. He couldn’t get free and the sword was just out of reach.
Evie lay across the altar, her left wrist still manacled, watching as the undead priests held Rick down. He struggled against them; he was strong, but they were stronger. Another approached, holding a stele in its bony hands and laughing. Evie screamed and thrashed; her legs were stuck, only one free from its chains. She couldn’t pivot and kick at the mummies, couldn’t save him. Another priest approached, laughing, an enormous stone stele clutched in its hands. Evie’s stomach turned over.
“No!” she screeched. “ Rick!”
No, no, no, not this, never this, not when they were so close to escape! It was like a nightmare, Evie stuck to the slab, unable to move, Rick grappling with the mummies, grasping for his sword and just missing it, the priest shuffling forward to kill him. Rick clawed at the creature holding his shoulders. Evie screamed aloud. And then Rick lunged, caught his sword up, and cut the legs from the priest with the stele. It fell back, crushed under its own weapon. Another thrust of the sword and the two mummies holding Rick down were gone, crushed. He leaped to his feet, swearing, and kicked the remains into dust.
“Shit!” Rick howled.
“Oh my God!” Evie screeched.
She couldn’t think of anything more sensible to say; her heart was going too fast. Rick ran around the bottom of the altar and freed her leg from its last chain, then ran up and smacked the edge of his sword against the chain on her wrist. Evie sat up and rolled off the altar into his arms. For a brief moment, Rick crushed her to him, and she felt his lips graze the top of her head.
“Are you okay?!”
“Yes!” Evie said, clutching at him.
“Good!”
Rick grabbed her hand and they turned to run, and in that moment, a pair of doors on the far side of the temple crashed open and a platoon of mummified soldiers marched out.
“Oh yeah,” Rick said, “this just gets better and better.”
Jonathan was not having the best time. He was unused to this kind of battle, where a man had to run and hide and evade rather than duck and cover. There had been nowhere to hide in the trenches, once they went over the top, and at least he had been able to rest comfortable in the fact that the poor wretches on the other side were as miserable as he was. This was nothing like that. This was pure, palpable evil and Jonathan hated it. It clouded his mind, made him sick with fear for Evie, for Rick. For himself. And so he hefted the Golden Book that had been Evie’s obsession since childhood and struggled to read the inscriptions.
Linguistics had not been Jonathan’s focus of study. Antiquity, excavation and art history, yes. Actual Egyptian language, no. But he could read it, mostly because one had to know these things if one wanted to work successfully in Egyptology. That the inscription he managed summoned a troop of mummified soldiers was less than ideal, especially when they went after O’Connell. Even that wouldn’t have been such a catastrophe if the mummy of Anck-su-namun had not at that moment rolled off of the altar and gone after Evie with a knife.
Jonathan did not usually swear, but for this he made an exception.
Evie, standing shoulder to shoulder with Rick, was naturally caught off-guard. When the embalmed soldiers came marching out of an adjacent chamber, she drew closer to him, curling her fists and assuming the boxing stance she remembered him teaching her, back when they had nothing more than marauders to fear. The soldiers stepped closer, not yet inclined to fight but wary, watching. Evie still reeled from the shock of seeing Rick nearly crushed, of feeling his lips pressing against her head. She wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him again, even if he had a sword and combat experience and all she had was her fists and her brain.
“Do something, Jonathan,” she said, trying not to startle the undead warriors into action. “You can command them.”
“Me?” Jonathan sounded horrified. “You’ve got to be joking!”
“Finish the inscription on the cover, idiot, then you can control them!”
It came out harsher than she intended; the soldiers raised their spears and Rick nudged her behind him.
“I want you to hide,” he said softly. “Get into the shadows and get over to Jonathan, quick as you can.”
“But--”
Bony hands closed over Evie’s shoulder, dragging her backwards. There was barely a moment to realize that it was the woman, Imhotep’s lover, wielding the ceremonial dagger he had abandoned when he went after Jonathan. Evie leaped back, yelling, dodging blows. She had a last glimpse of Rick’s horrified face before Imhotep’s shout set the soldiers on him and Anck-su-namun chased her into the labyrinthine recesses of the temple.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. As Evie scuttled into the shadows, desperate to avoid the screeching corpse that chased her, she could hear Rick screaming and the sounds of battle. How bloody inconvenient of Anck-su-namun to come alive just at this moment--had that been a side effect of Jonathan’s incantation? Whatever it was, Imhotep’s lover meant business. She chased Evie around the pillars and piles of stone, shrieking, stabbing at her, and it was all Evie could do to stay one step ahead of her. I am not going to die like this. All Anck-su-namun had to do was stab her once through the heart and Evie would die and the woman’s soul could take over her body. No. No, she would not let it happen. Not when she was only just beginning to live.
“I can’t figure out this last symbol!” Jonathan shouted.
“What does it look like?!”
Evie ducked around a corner and ran straight into Anck-su-namun. With a scream, she decked the mummy in the face, hard, a flash of pain shooting up her wrist.
“A--a bird, a stork!”
Anck-su-namun recovered quickly. She seized Evie by the throat and it was only Evie’s hand wrapped around her wrist that kept her from being stabbed to death.
“Amenophus!” she screeched around the mummy’s choking hand.
Somewhere in the temple, Rick was screaming and fighting. There was an awful sound of a man tumbling down stairs, of the undead soldiers roaring, and over it, Jonathan’s triumphant shout.
“Hootash im Amenophus!”
The words rang out, striking silence into the temple. From where he lay on his back at the base of the temple stairs, spear tips just touching his face, Rick’s ears rang in the sudden silence. He was winded, his body aching from being flung backward down the stairs. Amazing, really, that he hadn’t broken his neck. Something had audibly cracked as he fell, but the adrenaline was too strong in his blood for Rick to feel it yet. If he lived through this, it was going to hurt like hell. But the spears pressing against his face did not advance, did not stab into him. Rick cracked his eyes open. The mummified soldiers stood frozen over him. From somewhere to the left, Jonathan shouted again.
“Fa-hooshka Anck-su-namun!”
The spears were lifted. The soldiers turned and marched away, towards Evie grappling with the female mummy. Panting, Rick scrambled backwards and up, scrabbling for his sword. Fucking hell. Ricochet O’Connell strikes again.
Imhotep was screaming, filling the chamber with his rage and pain as the soldier mummies tore Anck-su-namun apart. If he hadn’t been a vicious killer, Rick might almost have felt sorry for him. As it was, all he could feel was relief as Evelyn scuttled away from the mummies into the shadows. She was safe. For now.
But Jonathan wasn’t. Even as Rick regained his feet, Imhotep was charging the other man, forcing him to drop the Golden Book, pinning him to the wall. Rick raised his sword and charged as Imhotep wrapped his hand around Jonathan’s throat, strangling. In a panic, he rushed at Imhotep and brought his sword down hard on the priest’s upraised arm. The arm came away, falling to the ground in a rush of blood.
They had seen men lose limbs before, these veterans of the Great War, seen them stumble and fall, screaming and crying or silent and staring, too stunned to react to being maimed. Imhotep did none of those things. The look he turned on Rick was merely annoyed, contemptuous. For a moment they stared at each other, Jonathan lying gasping at their feet, and then Imhotep hit Rick, hard, a strike with superhuman rage behind it, and sent him flying.
Across the chamber, crouched in the shadows as he has asked her to, Evie watched Rick crash to the ground, wincing: that could only have been a bone-jarring thud. Sick horror filled her as Imhotep picked up his severed arm and affixed it to his body. What kind of a man was this, who could not be killed? He advanced on Rick, hit him again, flinging him into the wall, a cat toying with a mouse before killing it. The third time Imhotep hit Rick, he did not get up. Evie looked around for a weapon, something, anything, to help him with, but there was nothing, and the Golden Book was locked. Where was the Key? Where was Jonathan? She looked around, desperate, to see her brother rising to his feet, rubbing his throat with a smug look on his face.
“Evie!” he shouted, holding up his hand, hefting the Golden Book. “I’ve got it!”
The Key.
Abandoning caution, Evie flew across the temple chamber to her brother. Imhotep ignored them, his attention on Rick. She had her back to them, desperately turning each heavy gold page, scanning the spells and incantations. Oh, please, oh, please, oh God, please! In another life she would have gone over the pages slowly, reverently. Now Evie was only too aware that something horrific was about to happen to the man she loved and that only she could stop it. Jonathan’s face was horrified as he watched over her shoulder. Imhotep had his hands around Rick’s throat and was squeezing.
“ Hurry, Evie!”
Evie, fumbling over hieroglyphs and incantations, felt another stabbing of terror. From behind her came an awful gurgling. “You’re not helping!”
Rick clawed at Imhotep’s hands. It couldn’t end like this. He dangled in the priest’s grip, feet kicking at air, unable to breathe against the force crushing his throat. For a moment Rick was back at Cairo Prison, dangling at the end of a rope, the roar of blood and the crowd pounding in his ears. This time there would be no fast-talking English girl with glowing eyes to save him. Then Rick was back in the mortuary temple, vision blurring against the sight of Imhotep’s smirking face, the man’s iron fingers digging into his jugular. He couldn’t breathe. No. No, please. He didn’t want to die, not now that he had something to live for.
“I’ve got it!” Evie shrieked. “Kadeesh-mal, kadeesh-mal! Parad oos, parad oos!”
With a cry, Imhotep let go of Rick. He crashed to the floor and laid there, gasping. It was only his training as a soldier that kept Rick from staying down; there wasn’t a single part of him that didn’t hurt. It was all that he could do to roll away towards Evie and Jonathan, gagging and coughing, grabbing his sword as he staggered to his feet in front of them. Their hands grasped him, supporting him as he struggled to get his breath back, watching to see what would happen next.
Blue light filled the chamber, bursting out of nowhere and coalescing into a figure on a chariot. It crashed into Imhotep with a surge of energy that had them all reeling to stay upright; crashed through the priest and continued on up the temple stairs, the struggling soul of Imhotep clutched in its arms. The priest advanced after it, howling.
“I thought you said it was going to kill him,” Rick gurgled.
Imhotep swung around, hatred in his eyes as he looked at them. Evie clutched at Rick’s side. Even injured as he was, the big man stood planted in front of her, prepared to defend them to the last. Imhotep surged forward, ready to kill, and Rick raised his sword and stabbed him through the gut.
For a moment they all stared at each other, ears ringing in the sudden silence. Then Rick shoved Imhotep back and away. Blood covered the sword.
“He’s mortal,” Evie breathed.
A horrible gurgling groan came from Imhotep as he stumbled backwards and fell into one of the sacred ponds. His stolen flesh began to melt away from his body as he sank. He whispered something, eyes wide with horror, and was gone under the black water.
“‘Death is only the beginning’,” Evie translated.
Silence fell over the temple. It was over.
Evie took a deep breath and let it gust out, looking at Rick clutching his sword, at Jonathan clutching the Golden Book. They were bruised and bloodied and, improbably, alive. Rick lowered his sword and gave a small laugh. They were alive. They had survived.
“Are you okay?” Rick asked, as though he hadn’t just almost been strangled to death.
“Yes,” Evie and Jonathan said in unison, and looked at each other and laughed.
“Yes,” Evie said again. “And you? How are you?”
Rick took a deep breath, rubbing his throat. “I’ll live to fight another day.”
They grinned at each other, foolish with relief. And then from somewhere deep inside the Lost City came a low crunching rumble. The stones and columns around them began to move.
“Bollocks,” said Jonathan.
“Time to go!”
Rick grabbed Evelyn’s hand and the three of them ran hell-for-leather towards the temple stairs. Around them the Lost City shook and rattled, sand raining down like a fine mist. Rick took the lead, Evelyn’s hand warm in his, and only looked back when Jonathan gave a screech as he fell. The Golden Book, so heavy in his arms all this time, flew out of his grip and vanished into the sacred pool.
“You lost the book!” Evelyn shrieked, sliding to a halt. “I can’t believe it! You lost the book!”
“Come on!” Rick and Jonathan screeched, grabbing her arms and hauling her away.
Wonderful girl, that Evelyn, but she had absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
They ran full tilt through Hamunaptra, back the way they had come. Past Horus, rattling on his hollow foundation, thought the winding passages littered with mummy corpses, into the treasure chamber. There Jonathan faltered, staring at the artefacts, but Rick and Evelyn seized his arms and hustled him onwards, up more stairs and away. Hamunaptra was sinking around them, slipping back into the desert, and no amount of treasure was worth their lives. Already the doorways were half-closed. Rick saw Evelyn and Jonathan crawl through one opening and slid through himself on his belly. From behind him, a scream.
“O’Connell! Wait!”
Beni.
On his belly, Rick reached back through the rapidly-closing doorway. “Come on, hurry! Hurry!”
But it was too late. Even as Beni reached for his hand, the doorway fell shut and Rick had to scramble back to avoid being crushed. He swallowed, his stomach turning over. It was a horrible way to die, but there was no saving him now.
“Goodbye, Beni.”
On, on, on they ran, sand pouring down on them, through shifting doorways and falling rubble and finally--thank God!--up into the open air. But even outside it wasn’t safe. The ruins of Hamunaptra were tumbling down around them, columns crashing, ground collapsing downwards. Rick held Evelyn’s hand in a death grip and dragged her onwards; she in turn held tight to Jonathan. Together they ran out into the plain before Hamunaptra, where once they had raced joyously across the desert. They skidded to a halt among a pack of camels--where on earth had those come from?--and turned to watch the ruins of Hamunaptra vanish into the sands. In moments, all that was left was a cloud of displaced sand.
The three of them stood together, breathing hard, watching the sand shimmer over the Lost City. A hand fell onto Jonathan’s shoulder. He screamed; Evie screamed; Rick leaped a foot in the air. From his perch atop one of the camels, Ardeth Bey looked over them with serene amusement.
“Oh, thank God!” Rick said, loosening his grip on Evelyn’s hand. “We thought you were dead!”
“Yes, thank you!” Jonathan rubbed his chest. “Thank you very much.”
Ardeth Bey smiled. Of all of them, he looked the least rumpled. “You have earned the respect and the gratitude of me and my people.”
Jonathan and Rick glanced at each other, at Evie.
“Yes, well,” Jonathan floundered, “it was nothing.”
“No trouble at all,” Rick added.
It is so improbable for them all to be standing here, to have survived this, that they start to laugh a little. Evie slipped her hand into Rick’s.
“May Allah smile upon you always,” Ardeth Bey said and, saluting them, turned and rode away.
“Stay out of trouble!” Rick called after him.
They stood together, watching the Medjai warrior ride away. He did not look back.
“He’s just leaving us here,” Jonathan said, shaking his head.
“Perhaps we’re not far from his camp,” Evie said. “They must have come from somewhere close by, before.”
“Yes, well.” Jonathan sighed, looking back over at Hamunaptra. “That’s that, then. I suppose we go home empty handed, again.”
Rick looked at them both, standing there alive and more or less unharmed beside him. He looked at Evelyn, her curly hair standing on end, a smile bright as the sun lighting her face, her hand folded around his. She was alive; she was safe, and the relief of it was staggering, and Rick loved her so much he thought he might fall to his knees at her feet.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said.
Evie turned her head and looked up at him, at this man whom she loved. There were so many emotions at play in his eyes: hope, affection, trepidation, desire. He bent his face towards her, questioning. Letting her come to him. Evie put her hands on his waist and reached up, asking for his kiss. And Rick kissed her.
It was a good kiss, gentle and tender, and when they broke apart Rick rubbed his nose to hers and rested their foreheads together. Evie beamed up at him, laughing, joy flooding her. He loved her, and she loved him, this dear, sweet, wonderful man. Rick’s grin was broad across his face, his body warm under her hands, and Evie gave in to temptation and wrapped her arms about him, pressing her body into his. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and let her breath out. Rick folded his arms around her and held her tight.
“I’ve got you, honey,” he whispered, sighing in relief. “I’ve got you.”
They held each other for a long while, arms warm and tender, and then from somewhere behind them Jonathan cleared his throat.
“All right, you two,” he said, mildly. “We’re losing the light.”
Rick and Evie parted reluctantly, to see that Jonathan had caught a couple of camels. He rolled his eyes at them, but they could see him smiling. Rick popped Evie onto one of the camels and mounted up behind her. She kissed him as the camel clambered upright, hooking her arm about his waist. She didn’t want to ever let him go. Together, they turned their faces to home.
Author's Note: finally! I've been working on this for ages and I think I'd have had it posted sooner if a) I hadn't psyched myself up about it, b) I hadn't been rather sidetracked by Life Events (there was a death in my immediate family--not unexpected but still rather sudden), and c) I just...couldn't write for a bit. HOWEVER. Here we are. It's not perfect; it's not as good as some of the other fics in this series, but it is DONE and I'm choosing to focus on that. There will be an epilogue. If you want to see what our heroes get up to immediately after riding away from Hamunaptra, have a look at Slings and Scarabs (Jonathan), Sun-Filled Windows (Rick) and Always Expect the Unexpected (Evie), all of which roughly take place at the same time and which I'm not including in the series proper. And I'll see you at the epilogue!
Chapter 16: The Lovers
Chapter Text
The Lovers
Fort Brydon, Cairo, October 1922
It was as the muezzins were calling the Maghrib prayer, at dusk on a Saturday evening, that three weary travelers on camelback limped through the stable gates at Fort Brydon. They were hot, hungry, sunburned, and sandy, and they gratefully surrendered the camels to the grooms. They did not, however, accept any help with their saddlebags, which they tottered off carrying over their shoulders claiming it was “no trouble”.
God, it was good to be back in the city. Rick, shouldering two of the artefact-laden saddlebags, followed Evelyn and Jonathan through the fort back to their apartment. His whole body ached, but he was in better shape (he thought) than the two of them. Jonathan’s arm was still in its sling and Evelyn limped on bruised and blistered feet. But they were alive. Rick smiled.
The fort itself was in shambles, broken masonry and fallen tree branches littering the ground a souvenir of Imhotep’s brief reign of terror. A couple of children, shamelessly skipping their prayers, were playing in the rubble; Jonathan called to them and, producing the wallet he had somehow managed to hang onto, sent them off to collect dinner for three from the officer’s mess.
“And if you make it snappy, you can keep the change!” he called after them.
“Let them keep it anyway,” Evelyn said, leading the way up the stairs. “They need it more than we do.”
“Quite,” said Jonathan.
“Let’s put these things in my closet,” Evelyn continued as they stumbled into the apartment. “Away from prying eyes, and all that.”
It felt a little surreal to be back in the Carnahan apartment, putting down the wealth of Hamunaptra among Evelyn’s clothes. It felt surreal to be alive, as it always did after a battle. Rick flexed his arms after putting down his heavy burden; he was stiff and sore after all this misadventure. The trip back to Cairo had been largely uneventful, though long and hungry. Dinner would be a welcome affair. Rick stood to one side as Evelyn and Jonathan moved around the apartment, kicking off their shoes, turning on the electric lights, and laying the table with plates and silverware. They were easy and comfortable despite everything, back on their own turf. Rick felt a little awkward as he pulled his boots off and set them by the front door. It was one thing to be together out in the desert, riding through the never-ending sand by day and camping under the stars by night. Rules broke down in the desert. Rick wanted to stay with these two mad scholars so much it was a physical ache in his chest, and they seemed to welcome him, but would things change now that they were back in civilization? Would they remember that they had only known each other for three weeks, and that they had saved him from the hangman’s noose? Would Evelyn change her mind about wanting him around?
“Rick,” she said, looking over at him with her glowing green eyes, “would you get the door? I think I hear those children coming.”
“Oh, sure.”
It was indeed dinner, a hearty mix of English and Egyptian fare, roast beef and potatoes and koshary and red lentil soup and flatbread. The kids had even brought up a sweet rice pudding and baklava for dessert. Rick’s stomach rumbled as they set the dishes out on the table.
“Bon appetit,” Jonathan said, and they fell on the food.
For a long time there was silence broken only by requests to pass the bread or potatoes. Jonathan brought out a bottle of wine and finally Rick sat back, holding his glass in his hand and looking at his companions. Evelyn looked over at him and smiled, her mouth full. Jonathan was spooning up the last of the rice pudding, his elbows on the table.
“I, um.” Rick hesitated. The Carnahans looked over at him, waiting. “Who should I talk to to get a room around here? Or should I go find an inn? I, uh, I gave up my room back when I thought we would leave Egypt.”
Evelyn swallowed, shaking her head. “No need. You’ll stay with us, of course.”
It was the of course , so casually stated, that made his heart jump. “Yeah?”
“You asked if you could, remember? Out in the desert? I mean,” Evelyn floundered, “unless you don’t want to, of course.”
“I want to,” Rick said. “I just...you barely know me. I could be anybody.”
“Oh yes, we know nothing at all,” Jonathan said wryly. “Only that you saved both of our lives several times over when no one would have blamed you for running away.”
“And you--” Evelyn broke off and blushed. When she spoke again, Rick was pretty sure it wasn’t what she had originally meant to say. “You’ve been such a brick these last few weeks. You just said you gave up your room, so of course you can stay with us. I’ll send out for a camp bed for you until we can go home to Zamalek.”
Rick felt an idiot grin spreading across his face. “That’ll be great. Thanks.”
Evelyn smiled at him, that small, happy smile she had given him so many times over the past few days as they sat atop their camel. Rick grinned back at her; for a moment they sat there smiling at each other, until Jonathan groaned and reached for another piece of baklava.
“If this is what living with the two of you under one roof is going to be like,” he groused, but there was no malice in it, and they all laughed. Evie pushed her chair back from the table and stood up.
“I’m going to have a bath,” she said, “and then I am going to sleep until I wake up. Gentlemen.”
She took herself off and Rick settled back into his chair. God, he was tired. Across from him, Jonathan gave a gusting sigh and lay down on the couch, propping his feet up. He reached for a slice of flatbread and tore off strips of it.
“Good to be back, isn’t it? Odd, though. I keep expecting something to jump out at me.”
“Yeah,” Rick said, relieved that he wasn’t the only one. “I always feel like this for days after a battle.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “And how many battles have you dealt with these past few years?”
Rick shrugged. “None since 1919 until now, but you know how it is.”
“Oh, yes.” Jonathan chewed and swallowed. “Tell you what, let’s not make this a habit, eh? If Evie comes across anything that Ardeth Bey disapproves of, we’ll try to convince her to leave it.”
Rick gave him a bemused look. “You’re really serious about keeping me around.”
Jonathan met his eyes; Rick saw the bantering tone flicker and die. “You saved Evie’s life. I couldn’t have done that alone, and you did it because you love her. Right?”
Rick nodded.
“And that’s just it: nobody has ever loved Evie the way she deserves to be loved. Nobody. Blokes have always wanted to change her, make her less herself. Do you want to do that?”
“No!I like her just the way she is, I--” Rick floundered; he wasn’t used to this kind of conversation. Jonathan pressed on.
“ And you didn’t take off at any point in this whole mess, when I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had. I mean of course I’d have been bloody furious, but I’d have understood. I was sure we’d have to give up when those men attacked us on the boat, but you didn’t let us, did you?”
“No?”
“No,” Jonathan agreed and nodded. “You kept us safe and got us a whole new rig and everything. And you saved Evie, and you saved me, and for heaven’s sake, you’re a good man, Rick, a good friend. ‘Course we want to keep you around.”
Rick had no idea what to say to that. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. Jonathan gave him a shrewd look and a smile.
“I’m going to lie here until Evie’s done in the bathroom and then you and I can toss a coin for who gets the first bath. Right?”
“Right,” Rick said, almost pathetically relieved that he didn’t have to form any more coherent answer.
Jonathan saluted him and settled down against the cushions, closing his eyes. Rick leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. He marveled at the Carnahans. What a pair. It was funny to think how wrong his first impressions of them had been. He hadn’t made a very good impression on them, either. But that was over now.
Rick let his eyes drift shut. The remains of dinner were still on the table and he needed to see about finding a cot or something, but for now it was enough to sit here, dozing, listening to the sound of running water coming from the bathroom, where Evelyn was having her bath. He needed a bath, himself. Rick found himself wondering what it would be like to lie in a tubful of hot water with Evelyn, bathing each other, their bodies soft and warm and-- no. Don’t go there, O’Connell. They weren’t there yet. But hopefully...hopefully someday. Rick smiled to himself, and dozed.
*
In the bathroom, Evie lay in the hot bathwater for a long time before scrubbing herself clean. The next time they set out on a dig, she was going to do things properly, not offend any desert tribes or awaken any undead creatures. And, she thought ruefully, looking at her black and blue toenails, she was going to wear the proper shoes.
She had rather enjoyed the trip home, as glad as she was that it was over. It had been nice to ride along in Rick’s arms, talking quietly with him or dozing as the mood took her. They had talked about all sorts of things: how to catalogue the artefacts in the saddlebag, her work at the museum library, the bones of Rick’s story of how he had come to Egypt first in 1905 and then again after the War. He had had a busy life so far, and a lonely one. Evie still felt a rush of sorrow for him when she thought of how he had been alone for so many years, even though he had kept his voice light. She had put her hand on his arm that second night in the desert, when the three of them had had to share a single blanket to keep warm, curling up alongside him, and Rick had wrapped his arm around her and held her close. But that was all. He was a gentleman, for all that her first impression had been one of crude dissipation. Rick was neither crude nor dissipated, Evie thought, rinsing her hair. He was a good man, one of the best she knew.
She climbed out of the bath and toweled herself dry, rubbing lotion into her skin. She had kept the blanket wrapped around her shoulders for sun protection, but was still quite red and raw, so she rubbed lotion into her face and body with no small amount of relief. She dabbed a little setting lotion into her hair and wound it up in a flannel cloth and with a happy sigh pulled on clean underwear and nightclothes: not a nightgown this time, but a pair of eau de nil silk pajama trousers and a matching sleeveless tunic. Evie thought she might go off of nightgowns for a bit. They weren’t particularly practical if one was going to have adventures. Then she caught the train of her thoughts and laughed, and went out of the bathroom.
Her eyes went first to Jonathan, sound asleep on the sofa, and then to Rick in his armchair. He was sprawled in it, his long legs kicked out and his arms folded across his chest, his head tilted at an awkward but endearing angle. Evie could see, where his collar was askew, the circle of bruises around Rick’s throat made by Imhotep’s hands, and beneath those the red remains of the ropeburn from his hanging. She swallowed. Poor Rick. He had been through so much; the War, the Legion, being orphaned as a child. And Evie knew she didn’t know the half of it. She had never been alone the way Rick had, and yet he was one of the kindest, gentlest men she had ever met, as much as he was brave and strong.
When we get back to Cairo, I’d like to stay with you, he had said out there in the desert, shy and hesitant, but honest. Well, good, because she was keeping him. Men like Rick O’Connell weren’t exactly a dime a dozen. A surge of affection welled up in Evie’s breast. She wanted to reach out and smooth his hair back from his face. She wanted to climb into his lap and kiss him. She wanted to do something for him, to show him that she cared.
Turning, Evie went back into the bathroom. She had rinsed the tub on climbing out of it; now she turned the taps and let steaming hot water flow. She fetched out a clean towel and laid it on the bathroom counter, then went back into the front room. Rick had left his small suitcase near the door, days before; she picked it up and set it on the table, hoping he wouldn’t mind if she fetched out his pajamas. The case’s contents were neatly folded but jumbled; a couple of shirts, a fresh pair of trousers, a few sets of underthings, a couple pairs of socks, and a flannel bag containing a pair of shoes were inside. There was also a toilet bag, a linen bag for laundry, a ribbon with a couple of military medals on it, and a pair of books. Surprised, Evie picked up the books. Around the World in Eighty Days was bound in embossed green cloth covers; A Princess of Mars was in red binding with a paper jacket. Why did it surprise her that Rick owned a couple of books? So he liked adventure stories. Evie smiled.
There were no pajamas in the case, though. That was fine, she would lend him a pair of Jonathan’s; the trousers would probably fit, if not the shirt. Evie took the toilet bag and a set of underthings and fetched the pajamas from Jonathan’s room, and laid them out on the bathroom counter. If he was cross with her for going through his things, well, she would apologize later. Her intentions at least were honorable. As a final touch, Evie took out her little bottle of lavender oil and poured a glug of it into the bathwater. There. She went out into the front room and bent over him.
“Rick. Rick.”
Rick opened his eyes. Darkness had fallen outside; he had slept longer than he intended. Evelyn bent over him, her hand on his shoulder, a smile tilting the corners of her mouth. She wore a pair of pale blue-green pajamas, the collar of which gaped open at the throat in such a way that Rick knew if he looked, he would get quite an eyeful. He stared up at Evelyn, beautiful, soft, clean, sweet-scented Evelyn, with wide eyes.
“I’ve run a bath for you,” she said, her voice pitched low. “Best take it before Jonathan does.”
Rick blinked up at her, still dazed with sleep. “You ran me a bath?”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes, go on, while the water’s hot.”
Rick looked at her. She stood before him with that smile on her face, the one that said she was happy, her hair wrapped up in a piece of white flannel. She was so lovely, and Rick suddenly wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and bury his face in her neck. He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting temptation. He was going to do right by this girl.
“I’ve laid out your things,” Evelyn continued, straightening. “I couldn’t find your pajamas, so I’ve given you a set of Jonathan’s. They should fit.”
“You laid out my things?” God, he sounded like an idiot.
Evelyn gestured, looking awkward. “You left your suitcase here, remember? When you wanted us to go away with you.”
Rick followed her glance; she had put the battered suitcase containing all his worldly possessions beside his chair. He remembered dropping it inside the door when he had come back to collect them, back when he had wanted to take the Carnahans and flee to safety.
“I hope you don’t mind.” Evelyn sounded suddenly anxious; he looked up at her again. “You just looked so peaceful, sitting there, I didn’t want to wake you until absolutely necessary.”
Rick stood. He put his hands on Evelyn’s shoulders, bent in to kiss her very gently on the corner of her mouth. “I don’t mind. Thank you.”
Evelyn blushed, relief washing over her face. “Go on then, before Jonathan wakes up and beats you to it.”
“Can’t let that happen,” Rick whispered, and they both giggled, and Rick kissed her again before taking himself off to bathe.
It was warm in the bathroom, water pouring from the taps, tendrils of steam rising out of the bathtub. His underwear and the borrowed pajamas were set out on the countertop, his shaving tackle and toothbrush laid out alongside. A clean cotton towel hung beside the bath. The air smelled of lavender; Rick bent over the half-filled tub and inhaled. Beads of yellow lavender oil dotted the pale green bathwater. Rick’s throat closed, tears pricking perilously behind his eyes. Lavender in his bath and his things laid out. No one had ever done that for him before. He took a deep breath, willing the tears away, and began to strip off his clothes. The shirt was ruined, but maybe the pants could be saved. He was definitely going to have to mend the socks. He bundled the filthy outfit all together and stuffed it into the laundry hamper by the door. He took a deep breath and climbed into the tub.
The water was clean and hot and good, and Rick lay back in it, letting it seep into his hair and fill his ears, until only his face was unsubmerged. He took a deep, shuddering breath and let the fight go out of him, a load that he had carried for so long he had forgotten to notice it falling from his shoulders. He was here, safe and clean and fed, and he had a future to look forward to now. The thought was a strange one; Rick had not looked forward to anything much for a long time. But now he had Evelyn, and the promise of a life with her was so outrageous, so wonderful, that Rick sat up and reached for the soap to bring himself back to reality.
It was good to scrub away the desert and the last of Hamunaptra. Rick lathered his hair with Eveyln’s shampoo and rinse, scoured his body with soap and a soft sponge. He was all over bruises; he had suspected that he’d cracked a few ribs, so it would probably be for the best if he looked up a doctor tomorrow. His feet were fine, though, protected by his boots. That was a mercy.
Reluctantly rising from the bathwater , Rick dried himself with the towel Evelyn had laid out and wound it around his waist while he shaved. He pulled on his clean underwear and grinned to himself as he remembered Evelyn’s words: I couldn’t find your pajamas . How could he tell her that he never slept in pajamas? Jonathan’s were too short in the leg, but at least they were roomy in the waist, closed by a drawstring. The shirt didn’t fit. That was fine; Rick pulled his white undershirt on and left the other folded on the counter. He stepped out into the front room.
The lights had been turned off, save for a squat reading lamp on a side table. A camp bed had been set up beside it, it's canvas frame adorned with a thick feather mattress. The whole thing had been made up in fresh linen sheets and a pile of blankets, and there were two pillows stacked at the head. The blankets were turned down, ready to be crawled under. Rick’s throat closed again. This time he caught the tears with his hands, wiping his eyes and breathing deeply to get a hold of himself. Why was he reacting like this? It was just a bed. Just a nice, clean, soft bed, made up for him by a woman who loved him, who cared about him enough to make him as comfortable as she could after a fight for their lives. He must be more exhausted than he realized.
Rick looked around the room. Jonathan still lay sleeping on the couch, but Evelyn had tucked a blanket around him and stuck a pillow under his head. She had tidied away the remains of dinner, too. Rick scrubbed at his eyes again. Evelyn had not gone to bed yet; light shone out of her open bedroom doors. He took a deep breath and went to them.
Evelyn stood by the window, running a brush through her long hair. She turned at his tap and smiled.
“Hello,” she said. “Did you have a nice bath?”
Rick nodded, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “Yeah, it was great. Thank you. And thanks for the pajamas; I don’t…” he trailed off, uncertain of what to say to her.
“The shirt didn’t fit,” Evie said, her glowing eyes dancing. “I didn’t think it would.”
“No.” Rick swallowed again, cleared his throat. Words pushed themselves up and out of his mouth. “Evelyn, I want to apologize for the way I treated you at Cairo Prison. I was incredibly rude and I shouldn’t have--I shouldn’t have called you names or kissed you the way I did. I never forced a woman to do anything before, and I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. I’m sorry.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“Oh,” she said after a long moment. “Oh, you know, I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“You...did?”
“Yes, it rather fell by the wayside,” Evelyn said, brushing a damp lock back from her face. “With everything that happened, you know. It wasn’t a good kiss, anyway. You’ve done much better since.”
Rick felt the blood rush to fill his face. “So you’re not angry?”
“Goodness, no, not anymore. I don’t think I’ve thought about it since the boat went down. Too much was happening. And anyway, you haven’t acted like that since, and given the circumstances at the time...Well, you’ve rather shown that you’re not that kind of man.”
Rick took a deep breath. “I was lost,” he said. “After the War. Lost and--and I fell apart. It ended with me punching some jackass and getting arrested for brawling, and then I couldn’t pay off the Warden and--and I was about to die, and I was just...angry. And then you and Jonathan showed up and, well.”
Evelyn cocked her head. “Rick, why are you apologizing to me?”
“I want to be with you,” Rick said. “I asked, out in the desert, if I could stay with you, and I mean it. I want to be with you, always; I want to go where you go and see what you do and help you do it. If you want me to. I don’t want there to be any bad feeling between us.”
Evelyn was staring at him, a smile playing on her lips. “I want you, Rick. I want you to stay with me. In all those ways and more.”
An idiot grin stretched across Rick’s face.
“Good,” he said. “That’s real good.”
They stood there smiling at each other, and then Rick realized that every light in the room was on, and that though the bed was turned down, Evelyn was nowhere near it.
“I thought you said you were going to bed,” he remarked, and it was Evelyn’s turn to blush.
“I was,” she replied, “and you’ll probably think me foolish, but I was scared. When I got into bed all I could think of was how the last time I slept in it, I woke up to him kissing me and…” Evie shuddered. “Rick, his face was melting against mine. I could feel it melting, and he was right here, like he’d just stepped out of a nightmare and I just...I just couldn’t go to bed like that.”
“Hey,” Rick said, reaching out. “Come here.”
Evelyn went into his arms and folded herself against him, pressing into his body. Rick wrapped his arms around her and held her close, stroking her half-dry hair.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He’s dead and gone. You laid him down and he can’t hurt you anymore. It’s okay.”
“I know,” Evelyn said, her breath warm against his neck. “It’s a stupid thing to be frightened about--”
“No it’s not. It was fucking terrifying. Excuse me,” he added as she scoffed a laugh. “Hell, it scared me and I wasn’t the one he was kissing.”
Evie looked up, a small smile in her eyes. “You were scared?”
Rick scoffed. “Of course I was! I don’t think I stopped being scared until Hamunptra had sunk into the desert.” He tipped her chin up so that he could see her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to sleep alone, either, with that the last memory I had in bed.”
“I rather thought I would come out and sleep in the armchair near you and Jonathan.”
“Nah, don’t do that, it wouldn’t be comfortable. Tell you what: how about I bring that camp bed in here and put it right here by the door? That way you won’t be alone and can sleep in your own bed. What do you think?”
It was a mildly audacious suggestion, but they had just spent two nights sharing a blanket in the desert.
“You would do that?”
“‘Course,” Rick said. “You’re my girl, Evelyn.”
That bright smile stretched across her face. “Rick, call me Evie.”
Rick kissed her. It was a good, proper kiss and Evie got her arms around him and kissed him back; for several long moments they ignored everything but each other. Rick brushed her nose with his when they broke apart. Evie smiled. If he was going to make a habit of that, she wouldn’t complain.
“Hang on a minute,” he said, and ducked out into the front room again, to turn off the reading lamp and carry his bed into Evie’s room.
Jonathan was still sound asleep on the couch as Rick clicked off the reading lamp and picked the camp bed up. The pillows wobbled, but Rick held the whole thing steady and carried it through to Evie's room on silent feet. He set it down just inside the open doors, close enough to her bed that she could touch him if she reached, but far enough away to maintain a semblance of propriety. He didn't close the bedroom doors.
"Is this good enough?" Evie asked, straightening the pillows and blankets. "Will you be comfortable."
Rick smiled at her. "Yeah, honey. This might just be the nicest bed I've ever slept in."
He could see her wondering about that, but she didn't ask. Rick reached for her hand and tugged her towards her own bed.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll tuck you in.”
“You will?” Her eyes danced, her smile amused.
“You ran me a bath,” he replied, shaking out her blankets.
“Has nobody ever run you a bath before?”
“No,” Rick said, bending down to peck her nose. “Not since I was a little kid.”
Get used to it, then. Evie settled down on her mattress and let Rick tuck the blankets up around her. Really, he was a darling man. And he was hers. It was an extraordinary thought.
Evie rolled onto her side and watched him as he climbed into the camp bed. A thought came suddenly to her mind, something she had meant to say before.
“Rick,” she said, “you do realize that I’m not going to give up Egyptology?”
“Yeah,” Rick said, a flash of surprise passing over his face. “Soul-sucking fiends aside, it’s gone pretty well for you so far, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Evie said, chuckling. “I plan to continue, so I just wanted you to know.”
“I’ll have to buy more guns before we go out again.” Rick tugged his blankets up and grinned at her. “Good night, sweetheart.”
Smiling, Evie clicked her light off and lay down. “Good night, darling.”
She lay quietly in her soft bed, listening to Rick settling his blankets around him. Shortly his breath evened out as he fell asleep. Evie relaxed. If Rick could sleep, they were safe. Nothing could hurt them. She closed her eyes.
Author's Note: This is a Shameless Wallow in Fluff and Romance and I am very proud of it. This marks the end of the series, so thank you for coming on this ride with me. I hope you like this epilogue! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think. :-)