When he knocked on Eleanor’s door a short time later and there was no reply, he realized it was possible she was wholly unlike him in that regard. Maybe she did not want anyone with her; perhaps that was why Cleo had returned so quickly to her office. He knocked again, this time placing an ear against the door in hopes of catching even the most muted reply.
“Eleanor.”
“Go away, Mallory.”
He considered her reply progress at least. “Eleanor, please. I only want to—”
The door came open without warning, and Virgil straightened before he could topple inward and looked down at Eleanor. She showed signs of crying, her eyes and cheeks reddened, but also vexation. Her entire body was coiled and ready to spring.
“Only want to what?” she asked.
Her voice was deceptively quiet in the doorway, but Virgil could see she had energy yet to spare. She was sad, but also angry and ever curious. Her childhood haunted her—and here another piece of it had been revealed.
“Talk,” was the word he came up with, and when she shook her head in refusal, he plunged onward. “Or if not talk, then walk. Look at you.” He gestured to her disheveled hair and rumpled clothes. He didn’t suspect she was given to fainting. She likely felt out of sorts over that as well. “Let’s go enjoy Cairo for a time.”
Distractions had done him a world of good over the years, and he could sorely use one now. He could feel the tremors beginning in his hands again and the ache inside for the sweet smoke and its even sweeter oblivion. What alarmed him now, however, was the similar comfort being with Eleanor gave him.
“Surely you would like to see something of Cairo while you’re here,” he added. “A ride out to Giza—”
“I’m not prepared for—”
“Giza!” cried a new voice.
Gin announced his presence in the hallway behind them and Virgil sank against the doorframe, defeated by a single word.
“Under the moonlight, the glorious pyramids rising before us,” Gin continued. “Let’s climb them—are we allowed? Can we do that? We are Mistral . . . we can do what we like. Auberon! Come, we’re bound for Giza!”
Gin’s voice trailed away and Virgil watched Eleanor’s face, not understanding what emotion flickered there. But when she at last nodded, he felt as though a knot had been undone.
“All right, Mallory,” she said. “Giza.”
With her concession to the journey, Virgil allowed himself a grin. “For the love of Egypt, call me Virgil, will you?” She had seen him in the altogether, had seen him as a wolf; it seemed odd for her not to use his given name.
Eleanor’s defeat, if it could ever be called such, stiffened her spine. “I’m tired, Virgil,” she said, stressing his name and making it abundantly clear that he had been the one to make her tired.
“You’re frightened,” he pressed. The words were intentional, because he wanted to see the anger flare in her, the anger he knew from his own eyes when the wolf consumed him. When the anger filled her eyes, he wasn’t prepared for the gut-punch it felt like.
“I’m not—”
“Down to your marrow, scared,” he said, and dared to touch her chin and the faint scar that marked it. She didn’t move under his lingering touch. “The way I was in the temple, naked before you.” Naked in more than one way.
“Virgil.”
There was a hint of something in Eleanor’s voice that he hadn’t heard before, that he couldn’t dare to place. Was it desperation? Was it longing? Her hand closed over his and they stood this way, doing little more than breathing as the shadows in the hallway deepened around them. Though cool, her fingers burned into his, and he pictured a fragrant smoke rising between them, a smoke that kept the beast within him at complete bay. Instead, he felt the beast reach for her and his mouth dipped toward her own.
“Virgil.”
It didn’t sound like a denial, especially when Eleanor’s chin lifted in his hand, her mouth moving toward his. He could feel her breath, warm and unseen. She no longer smelled like hotel soap; this close, he could smell her, the earthy scent of her that he wanted to roll in.
The slap of a hand against his shoulder drew Virgil’s attention, and he found himself looking at Gin. Gin, with a pack of gear and a grin that Virgil could have cheerfully wiped off his face with one solid fist. Gin, who smelled strangely like fresh mango and bright sunlight after the warmth of Eleanor.
“We have an accord?” Gin asked. “Pyramids by moonlight!”
An accord. Virgil looked back to Eleanor, who slipped back into her room, murmuring she needed a jacket. Virgil only wanted to stalk after her, close the door in Gin’s face, and damn the rest of the world. Down to your marrow, scared. Yes, that.
They arrived as sunset spread its golden light across the Giza plateau. Virgil slid from his kneeling camel and helped Eleanor down from hers. He wished that either Cleo had decided to join them, or that Auberon and Gin had stayed at the townhouse. As it was, it felt like an awkward quartet to him.
The field before them was largely deserted this time of evening, but Virgil picked out two small fires burning, likely indications of archaeological teams. He saw Eleanor pause and wondered if she had seen them too, if she wished to be out there, excavating all that Giza had to give. Farther out, he spied a larger field of light, a tent rising up in shadow before it. Perhaps Bedouin. Virgil contemplated securing their camels more firmly. Camels were valuable in the desert, especially to the nomadic tribes. He tied extra knots in the lead ropes, looping them around the iron posts that had been set years ago for such a purpose.
“I was twelve my first time here,” Gin said as he opened the pack he had brought and uncoiled a line of rope. “You heard about that slide of stone from the top of the Great Pyramid?” He held his hands up. “I was nearly caught in it, but truly had nothing to do with that one.”
“And you’ll have nothing to do with any such incidents this time,” Auberon said, lengthening his strides to keep up with Gin as the smaller man picked his way toward the pyramids.
Eleanor and Virgil stayed a short distance behind, Virgil watching the agents because it was easier than watching Eleanor. “They’ve never shared a mission before,” he said.
“They’ll be lucky to survive this one,” Eleanor said.
Her own stride lengthened, but Virgil kept pace with her, not wishing to find himself behind her and at the mercy of her tweed trousers. It was difficult enough walking beside her when he was keenly aware of her scent. He thought of the way she leaned into him in the hallway, the way her chin lifted to him. The slight parting of her lips. These things were more intoxicating than even opium, and he would have traded anything to find them within his hands again.
“Can you believe,” she said as they walked on, “it took them roughly thirty years to build one of these?”
With some measure of difficulty, Virgil turned his attention to the pyramids before them and pictured the men who had built them, the pharaohs who had commanded it. “Thousands of men. Can you imagine, we may be walking over some of them now.”
Pyramids. Dead people underfoot. Virgil tried to rein his thoughts away from Eleanor, but only came back to Eleanor in the hallway, her clothes rumpled. Pyramids . . . the case . . . the rings . . . Focus, Mallory. He rubbed his thumb across the silver ring he wore as the ground under their boots made a sound like crunching bones. Virgil’s stomach rumbled at the very thought.
His thoughts turned to young Eleanor, imagining her in this place, so small when framed against the looming pyramids or Sphinx.
“Eleanor, that photograph—”
“I was eight,” she said, which surprised him, for he was prepared for her to make more fervent denials.
“Eight,” he said when she fell to silence.
Their boots crunched across more rocky ground as they walked, eyes on the pyramids before them.
“We were still in Ireland, getting ready to come here. It was my first proper pith helmet. Mother added a length of fab
ric to it so I would be shaded, and I insisted they take my photograph.” She laughed, but Virgil heard sorrow in the sound even so. “I felt quite the princess. My mother took the photograph, though my father was close by, telling me to stand still.” She imitated her father’s voice, gruff and firm: “Stand still, Eleanor, or you’ll blur the image.”
Virgil let the silence stretch between them this time, although he wanted to ask her what it was like to see the photograph again, after so many years gone. He could guess, but it would be only that, a guess. He kept his silence, trusting Eleanor would continue. She did.
“My mother carried it with her everywhere she went. Da bought her the case in a little shop in Dublin, said the flowers reminded him of her, for while they were rounded on the edges, they were sharper along their stems. Sharper where one would be caught unawares.”
“Would she have had it with her that day, Eleanor? The day you found the Lady?”
“It would have been odd for her not to have it.”
Virgil pondered exactly how to bring up his next point, but to his surprise, Eleanor did it for him.
“The easiest conclusion is that it fell from her jacket during the attack,” Eleanor said. “The only problem with that is, she wore it close to her skin. She didn’t carry it in a pocket, as most would. She wanted it close.”
“It was that important to her,” Virgil said.
“She treasured little of this modern world, Virgil, much preferring the dead and their secrets. Old texts, master paintings, anything not of this century. But that case was strangely dear to her, and she took pains not to lose it.”
This brought Virgil to his next point. His fingers fussed with his collar, then slid down dust-gritted lapels. Ahead, he could hear the murmur of Auberon and Gin, but his focus stayed on Eleanor. Eleanor in the hallway—stop it, Mallory.
“There is a test we could perform,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even all the while. “We could isolate a sample of your nuclein and a sample from the Lady. Much like the radiant energy method, it’s a new science, but there have been cases where the identity of a person could be— That is to say—”
“Do you think the Lady is my mother, Virgil?”
Eleanor came to a standstill. In the setting light, her eyes lost all their color, yet in their depths, he saw a small spark of the sun itself, like light across deep water. Virgil allowed himself to take Eleanor’s hand. She didn’t refuse.
“In all truth, Eleanor, I don’t know, but I think we should explore the idea.” He felt her tremble and squeezed her hands. He realized his own stopped shaking when he did.
“It doesn’t necessarily aid us in the search for the rings,” Eleanor said.
“No, but . . . ” He looked down on her, choosing his words with care, for he didn’t mean to hurt her. “I think there’s more going on here than the rings. While that is one search, you’ve been on another—to discover what happened to your mother. And if we might solve that, I say we’d be fools not to.”
“Addlepated,” she said.
Virgil couldn’t help but smile. “Benish,” he offered.
“Cakey?”
“Mmm, pure chubs.” He gave her hands another squeeze, his thumb sliding against her own.
“You really are insufferable, Virgil,” she said, but by the upward slant of her mouth, he could see she was having him on. When she pulled him back into motion, moving ever toward the pyramids, she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“My mother says—”
“Are you her only child? It’s no wonder she dotes on you as she does.”
“Older brother, younger sister,” Virgil said, quick to derail that train of thought. “You?”
“It was only ever me,” Eleanor said, “so naturally I was terribly spoiled—a princess, as I said. You being wedged between two others though . . . ” Her voice trailed off, she laughed, and then she said, “You aren’t the oldest, the first, so everything you did, your brother had already done. And you aren’t the youngest, the most engaging . . . and it being a sister that occupies that place, well, there’s no way to compete. However . . . there is the entire wolf thing to consider. What did your parents think of it?”
“Isn’t it ridiculous,” he murmured, “but they still don’t have the vaguest clue.” He felt her curious look, but didn’t look down to meet it. “The poor middle child, always striving for a shred of attention that is utterly his own. Resorts to outlandish techniques, going so far as to transform himself into a beast if his mood is foul enough.”
“Virgil.”
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and now did look at Eleanor, to meet her wide eyes. “One learns to live with certain regrets, yes?” He prayed he might yet learn to live with this one, but couldn’t see how. When he saw the raw look in Eleanor’s eyes, he knew that one did not learn. They pretended to go on well enough, but that barb was always there.
“No,” she whispered.
He reached for her again as their steps slowed, his fingers tracing over the scar across her chin and then further down her neck. Though the desert was cooling around them, Eleanor radiated heat like a fire. He slid his fingers down to the chain which rested against her pulse.
“Hey, Antony! Cleopatra!”
Virgil lifted his head to look at Gin, who yelled at them across the plain. He was gesturing toward the pyramid beside him, all shadow and gangly arms.
“The pyramids wait for no man! Or woman! First one to the top doesn’t pay for drinks tonight.” With that, Gin launched himself toward the stones, looking rather like a spider in silhouette as he ascended.
“We could tie him to a camel with his ropes,” Eleanor offered.
“We could also conquer that damn pyramid before he does. Free drinks await, after all.”
Eleanor’s grin told him what he needed to know, and they set out to close the distance to the pyramid. It was only when they had climbed three levels that Virgil realized the pyramid was the Great Pyramid of Khufu, the largest of them all.
Paris, France ~ August 1884
From the end of the bed, Virgil watched Caroline fold another shirt into her hard-sided case, a man’s shirt although it had been tailored to fit her smaller frame. Likewise the waistcoat and jacket that followed. Everything she placed into the case appeared to belong to a man: a cigar case, pressed handkerchiefs, a handful of ties.
They rarely spoke of their individual missions, often giving only locations, and those sometimes off by an entire country. Caroline often found herself in Russia when she said Germany, China when she said India. This was an undercover mission, but Virgil didn’t press for more details.
He never presumed marriage to a fellow agent would be simple. The requirements of the job itself would not allow that. There were people they could speak with, for they were not the first Mistral agents to marry, but Caroline wouldn’t hear of it. Counselors intruding into their personal matters? That was more obscene than anything she could fathom.
“Should be beautiful this time of year,” Virgil said in a mocking tone, and eyed the careful folds of the ties within the case. He often thought Caroline dressed better as a man than he did; her ties were always flawlessly knotted and never came undone.
Caroline looked up from the wardrobe drawers, her reflection smiling at him from the round mirror nearby. “I hope I can find some time to gather specimens.”
As reticent as Caroline could be about some subjects, she was oddly expansive about others. When Virgil met her, he had had no idea she had a fondness for flora and fauna. Chiefly, it was the flora of an area that caught her interest; she could spend hours collecting flowers and pressing them flat to save. They weren’t keepsakes so much as they were—as she said—specimens. She delighted in discussing them. The way one stem curled and another didn’t, the way crimson might blotch one petal of an otherwise ivory tulip. These things brought out a curiosity in Caroline that Virgil hadn’t otherwise seen.
Once again, the words
hovered against his lips. Darling, I’m a wolf. What would she say? Would she demand proof? What logical woman wouldn’t? Would her interest in flora and fauna provoke a curiosity about him, what he was? He shifted on the bed, lips parting. Tell her. Say the words and trust that all will be well.
“I’ll bring you a parrot,” she added, turning to place an extra shirt into her bag. One could never be too careful.
The desire to tell her passed, and Virgil plucked the top tie from her bag, winding the watered silk around his hand. “A parrot is precisely what our schedules need,” he said, then gestured to the framed leaves, petals, and butterflies on the far wall of their room. “More petals, fewer parrots.”
Caroline lunged for the tie he held, but Virgil held it out of her reach, which caused her to brace against the bed, her slender body notched between his legs. When she met his eyes, Virgil felt the beast inside him react. Stalk, leap, tackle, bite. Caroline touched his nose, a simple tap, but it was enough to shift Virgil’s thoughts.
“We may pass over Morocco,” she said and reached again for the tie.
Virgil surrendered the fabric, watching Caroline smooth it flat and fold it, placing it back into her case. Were they bound for Morocco? Could one obtain a parrot there? Part of him longed to ask her where she was going, but the other part of him knew she wouldn’t tell him. It wasn’t their way.
Caroline drew a blue gown from the wardrobe and a pair of gloves. She folded both into her case and then, to his surprise, pressed her mouth to his.
“I’m sorry to go,” she murmured.
She smelled like lemons and pepper, and Virgil slid his hands into the short bob of her hair, digging fingers in as deeply as they would go. He swallowed her words, praying they would sweeten the kiss, but it was as ever and he felt something missing. The beast inside him lay still, only watching.
“Two days weren’t enough this time?” he asked against her parted lips, trying to be light about it. There were times he felt certain he had worn out his welcome. Why had she married him at all? Wouldn’t an affair be as easy? Discreet meetings when their paths crossed and nothing more.
Rings of Anubis: A Folley & Mallory Adventure Page 20