“Oh, well.” He rocked from heel to toe and back again. “I am certain she isn’t here for any nefarious purpose,” Virgil murmured to Eleanor, positively meaning the exact opposite. “Quite likely, she has come for the company.” He nodded toward a cobwebbed old man who looked as though he’d been unearthed just that morning. “Or indeed the refreshments.” Of which there were none, for the tables were occupied with crated treasure after crated treasure. “Or the delightful night air.” He picked out salt water and rotting wood and, if one lingered long enough and had the nose of a wolf, dead fish.
Virgil took comfort in the way Eleanor’s elbow jabbed him hard in the ribs. He grunted, but did not remove his arm from around her.
“And see there,” she whispered.
Virgil did see the way Akila moved away from the crate she had studied and toward a row of chairs, one of which was already occupied by George Pettigrew. Pettigrew was dressed in a fine black suit, his coat open to reveal the pearl white of both shirt and tie. An onyx oval winked from the perfect knot of his tie, keeping all pinned and tidy. He was younger than Virgil expected, chestnut hair caught back in a low queue. He wore a short beard, but Virgil could not discern if it was intentional or simply that the man had been too busy to properly groom himself. Virgil recognized the rumpled disarray of him in this regard, and didn’t care for it. Neither did he appear any older than Virgil; being that the man had ties to Howard Irving, Virgil had presumed Pettigrew would be older as well, well-travelled and versed in acquiring things that were not his own. Virgil wanted him to be less a potential peer and more a definite adversary.
“Surely another coincidence,” Virgil said, not meaning a single word of it. “The odds of Akila—a time-traveler who has sworn to protect Egypt against all enemies—settling in right next to George Pettigrew—a known associate of the late Howard Irving, himself known for procuring and using Egypt’s finest treasures for his own nefarious doings—”
“You keep using that word,” Eleanor said around a laugh, but there was underlying uneasiness within it. How could there not be?
“Eleanor.” Cleo sidled up to them, nodding toward Akila as she bowed her silver head toward George Pettigrew in a greeting. “Have you seen—”
“Oh, we have indeed,” Eleanor said.
Cleo remained behind Virgil and Eleanor, and Virgil could not help but wonder if she was hiding—Akila had wanted to examine her, after all, in ways that were likely uncomfortable on the whole.
“If she comes within arm’s reach of either of you,” Virgil said, “you shall bite her around the neck, drag her to the ground, and not cease biting until she is still.” On this matter, he was only partially joking; the woman’s appearance could mean nothing good for them on any front.
“I can’t help but wonder if she uses the rings to travel,” Eleanor murmured as more people filtered into the auction and the chairs.
“Virgil.” Auberon joined their tight knot, nodding toward Akila as she now regarded the auction catalogue all attendees had been given. “Have you seen—”
“You’re late to the party, old man,” Virgil said, but was moderately reassured by Auberon’s presence. Should hell claw its demonic way from one of the assembled sarcophagi, they stood a better chance of putting it down with Auberon. Virgil’s confidence in his friend and partner had only grown these past few months; he had no doubts about him, not even with Cleo Barclay in such proximity. Auberon would never let such a thing cloud his performance.
“Ladies, gentlemen, if you would please find your seats, this evening’s auction shall presently begin.”
They did not want to appear overeager, though Virgil could sense the excitement that tightened Eleanor’s hand as she gripped his own and led him to chairs in the row behind both Akila and Pettigrew. Cleo and Auberon fell in alongside them, and Virgil tried very much not to squirm out of his necktie as the auctioneer began to get the auction underway.
It was not so uncommon, the trafficking of items out of Egypt in this manner; many of Mistral’s own archives had likely been procured in this way. It still made part of him sick, perhaps the part that knew and respected the work Eleanor Folley did to preserve such items. He had learned in his own work that context was vital to an artifact’s provenance; to take the items and scatter them only diluted history as a whole.
As matters went, the majority of the auction was predictable, the larger and more desirous items left until the last moments. Virgil took careful note of who was interested in what; while Akila and Pettigrew both bid on smaller items—headrests, chests, broken tablets—neither made a true stand or pressed their fellow bidders. They were content to bid and pass, and Virgil wondered if they were waiting for the sarcophagi or something else.
When the lot of rings came to the floor, the sense of dread Virgil believed well behind him curled around his throat. The rings were not those of Anubis—surely they would not open a portal to the past through which Eleanor or any of their party would be lost. And yet, he supposed it was rather like a person who looking upon the ocean for the first time after having nearly been drowned by it. It was hard not to have a reaction to something known to cause harm.
“A modest collection of rings,” the auctioneer said, as his young assistant displayed them upon their padded tray. This young man made a slow circle through the assembled chairs, pausing beside Virgil and Eleanor.
Even under the meager warehouse lights, the rings shone. Virgil swallowed the lump in his throat. Four rings, exactly as before, though these were unlike those Eleanor had reclaimed for Anubis.
“Two rings of gold—take note of the green jasper and glass and the delicate way they have been shaped into one of the smallest scarabs we have encountered, if you would. A third ring of nephrite, and one of corroded iron,” the auctioneer continued, detailing the markings, the likely age, but not where they had been found.
The iron ring, however, Virgil noted with a twinge, was similar to that left with Eleanor’s notebooks in the archive. Her hand tightened hard around his at the sight of it, and he wanted to tell her absolutely not, wanted to prohibit any bids by her hand, but he imagined himself in her neatly laced boots, and what she must be experiencing at the sight of the rings—fear mingled with that ever-present curiosity—and he knew he could say none of it. She would not deny him were their positions reversed, and he would not deny her, so he returned the squeeze of her hand, and stroked a firm line against her fingers with his thumb. They had been brought here for a reason; if this was it, they would see it through as they always did.
It wasn’t strange that Eleanor bid, but Virgil wondered at the way Akila did not. Pettigrew joined in the bidding, turning to flash Eleanor a rakish grin at one point, and bowing deeply when he at last conceded to her bids. If Akila did not want the rings, what was she after? She had not turned to look at them, and Virgil wondered if she had recognized Eleanor’s voice, if she had spied them enter the auction at all.
Virgil found he could not relax even once Eleanor had won the rings. Someone had set this entire play in motion by leaving the ring in the archive; there was a plan at hand, but being that Virgil didn’t control it, he disliked every aspect.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the centerpiece of this evening’s auction, the sarcophagi found in the heart of deepest Egypt and come to you wholly preserved and as perfect as anything we have ever had the chance to encounter. Such care was taken with these, you shall see there is no chisel mark upon them that was not placed there by their original artisans, and artisans they were indeed, please gaze upon these ancient wonders.”
Eight men wheeled the sarcophagi into better position for viewing—each sarcophagus rested upon a cart, and even with two men assigned to each, Virgil could see them struggling to move the massively heavy objects. He had trouble wondering how they had been carted from the desert at all, but men properly motivated by profit might be moved to do any number of vile things, he knew. One was the most remarkable sarcophagus he had
seen, carved from serpentine. Veins of light green stone shot through fertile valleys of the darker hued stone; this, Virgil knew, would garner an amazing amount. Strangely however, the sarcophagus bore no mark upon it; no name, no insignia. It had only its stone to speak for who had once rested inside.
Eleanor’s hand tightened around his again, and he threaded his fingers through hers, leaning into her shoulder.
“Oh, Virgil. They look wholly preserved,” she whispered. “But not as old as I expected.” She leaned in, to get a better look at them and Virgil looked too, but he was sure that she noticed something entirely different from what he did, given how much more she knew about such matters. “But” –and with this she settled back into her chair, turning to Cleo— “Ptolemic?”
Cleo remained standing, peering past Akila and Pettigrew toward the sarcophagi. Being shorter, she had difficulty until she bent down to peer between their arms. “One looks to be cartonnage,” she said. She sat back down and nodded to Eleanor. Virgil took her expression to be one of surprise, though he recognized it better on Eleanor’s own face. “Much younger than I would have thought, but…not outside the realm.”
“And Ptolemic means when, exactly?” Virgil asked.
“Dating from Alexander the Great’s time to the Cleopatra everyone knows best, the seventh,” Eleanor said. She leaned back into her chair. “I would have thought…well, I don’t know what I thought—it’s surprising, I suppose. We have rarely seen such things at auction, Virgil. It’s not ancient, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, either. If we can acquire them—”
“We should,” Cleo finished.
They had been allotted a budget from Mistral for such things, but the bidding rose quickly as each individual sarcophagi was presented. They were not grouped together as a lot, though plainly they were meant as such; dividing them up increased the profits for the auctioneers, causing those interested to bid more fervently to obtain a complete collection.
Virgil feared they were doomed when it came to actually leaving with the sarcophagi in their possession, so heated was the bidding. He noted that once again, Akila did not bid, but sat very still, watching the sarcophagi rather than the bidders. Among the latter were Eleanor, George Pettigrew, and three others Virgil did not know, but it was Pettigrew who emerged victorious, refusing to give ground on any of the treasures. While Virgil would have contributed personal funds toward the acquisition of the sarcophagi, there was simply no way they could cover the amounts Pettigrew could.
After the bidding, Pettigrew turned and extended a hand to Virgil. His grip was clammy, but strong, and Virgil offered the man a smile. Pettigrew’s own smile was viper-like, devouring even as it welcomed.
“Quite an acquisition, especially that serpentine,” Virgil said. “Whatever to do you intend to do with them?” Virgil could not imagine Pettigrew meant to donate them to a museum or otherwise display them to the public.
“This, my friend, is ever the question!” Pettigrew said, and he laughed as he looked at the others of their group. “Given your keen interest in the items—and the lady’s acquisition of the beautiful rings—I would like to invite you to my home. One week from tonight, we shall open the caskets and unwrap whomever lays within!”
Chapter Four
April 1887 – Alexandria, Egypt
Dear Mister Auberon,
I write to you slowly this morning, an exercise in using the new arms I have been fitted with. Doctor Fairbrass has made me two extraordinary mechanical arms, which I am still learning my way around.
By all accounts, I should not have survived such an injury—they tell me you were there when I was pulled from the rubble of the catacombs, my arms nearly severed clean through. I remember nothing of those moments. Indeed, the first thing I remember is waking in the hospital, my arms bound so that I could not move them. I felt rather like a mummy—Doctor Fairbrass tells me this is not far from wrong, given how he had to stabilize me. He remains reserved as to other details, however, suggesting I should write to you and slay the monsters of Questions and Adaptation with one letter.
I would enjoy hearing from you, should you have the time. Until then I remain as ever
C. Barclay
* * *
December 1889 – Alexandria, Egypt
The dawn light was not yet a smudge on the horizon when Eleanor rose from her bed, ill-tempered from a night of poor sleep. She pushed the tangled sheets off and stared at her bare feet against the wood floor. The jackal inside her pressed for release. She drew in a deep breath in an attempt to calm the jackal, but it did not.
The hotel, overtaken by the British after their occupation of the city seven years prior, had been outfitted with a system of bell pulls and Eleanor took advantage of hers, calling to have tea sent up, despite the early hour. She couldn’t fathom how she would approach the day ahead without it. She and Cleo were to meet and compare their sketches of the sarcophagi, to see if they might determine who occupied them prior to George Pettigrew’s party.
But before that…
Eleanor looked at the small wood box that sat on the bureau. The box was as lovely as the rings within, carefully crafted and hinged with brass, though not remotely connected to the rings prior to having been brought to auction. The rings, much like the Mistral archive in Paris, were without context and Eleanor tried to push this worry to the side. Context might yet come, given the markings upon them, or even the tiny glass and jasper scarab. If she could trace similar artwork to other regions…
She opened the box to gaze upon the rings, a little nauseated as she beheld them. It was only the memory of sliding Anubis’s rings onto her fingers, she told herself. The memory of having time turn upside down and blood run through her hands. Nothing like that was happening here and now; she remained firmly within her hotel room. She could not quite believe she was faced once again with four ancient rings; had not been able to explain to Mallory what they meant to her—though suspected he knew without a word between them, probably swallowing all of the fuss he actually wanted to make as she acquired them. But how could she let them go? She could not, and he had known as well as she.
Now, she pressed her finger to the corroded iron ring and wondered that it was here; so very like the ring that had been left in the Paris archive for her. Exactly like it, were she being honest.
There came a soft knock at the door, and Eleanor crossed to allow the server entry. But as she opened the door, looking forward to the ritual that tea would bring with it—cups, warm tea, and careful pouring that would distance her mind from the whine of the jackal who wanted to run, it was not a server who stood in the hallway, but the dark god Anubis, holding a tea tray set for two. In this moment, he was as the Egyptians had drawn him: the body of a man, the head of a jackal. Both were pitch black, as if he had stepped from a pool of Indian ink.
Eleanor stepped back in alarm, believing she had finally fallen into a solid asleep while looking at the rings, because Anubis did not deliver tea in the small hours of the morning. But as it had been before, it was now; Anubis strode past her on bare feet and the warmth of him rushed over her, a living and breathing body, absolutely here and present. He was fetid and foul like the earth full of all the dead that had ever been, and she closed the door behind him, lest someone else smell him, though a glance at the hallway proved it empty.
She had last seen Anubis in Paris, in her very rooms where they had reached an accord as to her continued association with him. I am not your instrument, she had told him, no matter that I carry a jackal within me. I go of my own accord or not at all.
I would have it so, he had replied, and Eleanor meant to hold him to that now.
Anubis placed the tea tray at the foot of the bed and turned to look at Eleanor with his jet eyes. He was clad in a linen shendyt, pleated beneath a belt of hammered gold. The linen draped him from waist to knees, leaving the vast expanse of his belly bare. Gold curled up his arms and draped his neck, wide necklaces of gold and lapis echoing the curve and splash
of the Nile at sunset. His rings were in their proper places upon his fingers; Eleanor’s attention lingered on them overly long.
Daughter.
She had only ever known him to be calm; even when he had taken the Irvings in hand to judge them, he had not flinched or grown angry. It was so now, too, as he watched her. His velvet ears flicked as he regarded her.
Daughter.
He did not speak the word so much as he thought it. Eleanor’s eyes slid shut, because the voice was like nothing she had known; when he wasn’t ordering her to do something in a rough purr, the voice was equal parts pleasure and aggravation. Tonight, it was as if a thousand beetles had taken up inside her mind, scrambling one over the other. She pushed them back, for they only called to the jackal inside her, made that part of her even more restless. She opened her eyes to look at him, then forced herself to move toward the tea tray. She picked it up and carried it to the table near the sofa. It gave her something to do, something to busy her hands with.
“Anubis.”
Anubis did not immediately follow, but looked instead at the four rings within their box. Eleanor’s breath hitched and she poured two cups of tea—two, though the idea of Anubis drinking from a china cup struck her as terribly unlikely. Still, she let the tea sit, curious if he would pay it any attention. For now, his fingers whispered over the rings.
These are not so splendid as my own, but this one—
He pressed a finger to the corroded iron ring and his mouth parted in a hiss. The sight of his gleaming fangs only made Eleanor want to slip from her human form even more.
The Honey Mummy (Folley & Mallory Adventure Book 3) Page 5