by Geonn Cannon
“Mm?”
“More tea?”
Dorothy looked at her cup. She would have assumed it was only tepid, but she was surprised to see it was completely empty. “Yes, Trix. Thank you.”
Beatrice retrieved the cup and went back downstairs. She paused a moment to take in her surroundings. Still raining. Maybe a few more voices from the bar below. She hoped if anyone joined her in the library they respected the fact she was hard at work. It was a gathering of minds, not a social club. She picked up the statue and examined the face, then focused again on the faded carvings around his feet. At some point Beatrice returned so quietly that Dorothy was unaware the cup was back until she’d absent-mindedly reached for it. She smiled as she brought it to her lips. Perfect, as always. Dorothy had always been particular about her tea, but Beatrice hadn’t learned that method. The truth was that she brewed tea a certain way and Dorothy found she preferred that style to her own. She took another sip and let it roll over her tongue for a moment before returning to work.
“Here imprisoned, gathered to the bosom of the not time, but ages, lies Amenemhat, High Priest of Amun. Beloved advisor... trusted... and so on. Here released, the beloved Amenemhat, granted new life and freedom from the warm embrace of Amun.”
Her voice caught in her throat and she swooned where she sat. She closed her eyes to fight the sudden lightheadedness. One hand reached out for her tea, but her fingers trembled too much to grip the handle. She coughed roughly, tasting spittle on her lips as she pushed her chair back and rose unsteadily onto her feet. She felt like she was choking or being choked from within. She felt as if the room was spinning was room the if as felt she felt as if the room was--
Strange.
He placed his hand on the table and stared it at. Small. Feminine. Pale and pink. He straightened his back and looked down at his body. Female. Trousers, a belt. White. There was the taste of something on his tongue. An herbal drink. His stomach was empty. He examined the room again for clues as to where he was and how long he had been imprisoned. There were not many. Bound books lined the shelves, dozens of them.
He heard voices from below and moved to the top of the staircase. Lights. Men and women speaking a language he didn’t recognize. He looked back at the table, the statue which had been his home for centuries untold stood near the lantern. He would return for it before leaving. For the moment, his most pressing desire was learning about his circumstances. He began descending the steps and hoped whoever waited below would pay no attention to a scholar stepping out for a moment.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs. A woman behind the bar. A blonde man sitting at a table, with a brown-haired man in a booth behind him. An older woman leaned upon the bar, elbows bent and fingers steepled in front of her. With the exception of the Oriental bartender, everyone in the bar seemed to be White. After a moment to examine the people without being noticed, he crossed toward what he hoped was the exit.
The beautiful woman with brunette hair looked in his direction and smiled. “Hu-low da’r’thee,” the woman said.
He continued walking, eyes on his goal.
“Da’r’thee?”
He was almost to the door now, but someone was approaching from behind. He heard rapid footsteps on the wooden floor. Someone touched his arm and he turned to see the Oriental woman. She returned his gaze with concern. She spoke too quickly for him to decipher. Now everyone in the room was looking at him. The elderly woman at the bar seemed concerned. He met the Oriental woman’s gaze in time to see something harden in her eyes.
“U’ah not Da’r’thee Bune.”
Whatever her words meant, it was clear they knew something was amiss. The woman’s grip tightened on his arm. He twisted at the waist and pulled free, his other arm coming up almost without thought to shove the woman away. She stumbled, eyes widening with shock before she recovered and advanced again. Again he moved without conscious thought, shoving his arm out like a piston and hitting her hard in the chest. When she stumbled, he punched with the other arm and caught her on the chin.
“Blu’de ‘el!” one of the men said. Both rose from their seat and rushed toward him. He didn’t have much faith in his chances against two men while he was in a female vessel, so instead he threw open the door and ran. Cold water doused him from head to foot, startling him into stopping just over the threshold. Was he underwater...? No. It was a storm. He looked up into the skies as he was grabbed from behind. Powerful male arms closed like a vice around his breasts and he was easily lifted off his feet.
The man babbled something in his ear. He twisted and fought, but the blonde man came around and grabbed his feet.
“Hold ‘er, Seh-sull!” the man behind him said.
“Um bloody try’n’!” the blonde man said. “She kicks like a damned mule!”
He kicked out with one dainty, feminine boot and caught the blonde man on the chin. He barely even registered the fact he could understand them better. He swung his fist back and hit the man behind him on the hip. It was enough to weaken his hold, so he squirmed free and spun on the ball of his foot. He already knew his host well enough to stop thinking and let the body take over. He looked at the man, declared him an enemy, and let the muscles take over. He lunged, punched, shoved, kicked, and in a matter of seconds, his foe was on the ground.
The bartender was back in it now. She swung at him and he deflected, kneed her in the stomach, and sent her reeling into the wall. She hit at an awkward angle, her shoulder impacting the wall first before her head cracked against the plaster. The impact caused her neck to snap back and she crumpled to the floor without trying to break her fall. He assumed she was dead. Cecil, the blonde man whom he’d kicked, came back inside. The rain had smeared blood across the whole lower section of his face, but he was still spoiling for a fight.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’m going to stop pulling my punches soon.”
He grabbed Cecil’s fist and twisted until he felt resistance. Then he twisted again until he heard and felt something snap near the elbow. Cecil howled in pain and fell.
With his foes dispatched, he jumped over the fallen man’s body and fled into the dark, wet evening. The rain was freezing and his clothes were heavy with it, clinging to his body as he ran blindly. The city! The city was immense and constructed of stone. Peculiar scarab-like constructs roamed the streets, lights burning on their fronts. Each one grumbled from within as if powered by individual motors.
This certainly couldn’t be Egypt. No amount of time could account for his home becoming so alien and foreboding. He ran through the alien world, shivering from fear as much as the cold. He only stopped when he reached an immense stretch of grass. More grass than he had ever seen in his entire life, and it sparkled with rainwater as if someone had spilled an entire treasury worth of gems on the ground. He dropped to his knees and pressed his palms against it. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been followed but, worse than that, he knew he couldn’t find his way back. The statue was lost to him now. No matter. He didn’t plan to need it again.
He brought his dripping hands up to his face and pressed them to his cheeks. He was Amenemhat. High Priest of Amun. He had bound his spirit to the ka statue so, upon his death, he could be brought back. He’d sacrificed passage to the afterlife in exchange for the promise of a second birth and now he knew it had worked. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but it must have been an immense stretch of time. He laughed and turned his face back up to the clouds, letting the rain cascade over his features and into his long hair.
Amenemhat knew he couldn’t remain in the body he’d taken. It was female and too weak for a permanent host. But there were bound to be others nearby who would be more appropriate. Without the statue, he wouldn’t be able to return the body to its proper owner, but perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. This “Dorothy” was powerful, clever, and capable of fighting men who were twice her size.
She would make a marvelous host for his beloved.
Chapter Four
“She just went batty and started whipping all of us!” Cecil’s voice was nasal and muffled by the rag pressed under his nose. Trafalgar frowned at Cecil’s assessment and turned to examine the rest of the room. He was seated on the edge of the booth being tended to by Cora Hyde, who had managed to escape any kind of harm during Dorothy’s inexplicable to-do: a chair broken by Strode’s fall, the pool of rainwater where the door had stood open while Dorothy brawled with her fellow Society members, the blood spray from young Cecil’s broken nose, caused by a boot to the face.
And then there was Beatrice. Beatrice had been knocked unconscious and was lying across one of the long padded benches that ran along the northern wall. Desmond, who had driven Trafalgar to the tavern upon receiving the call from Cora, was monitoring her to ensure she didn’t slip away from them before a doctor could arrive.
“It doesn’t ring true,” Trafalgar finally said.
Cora looked apologetic. “I was here, Trafalgar. I saw it with my own eyes. She didn’t say a word. She came downstairs and, when Beatrice tried to stop her from leaving, she attacked everyone without provocation. Cecil and Abe were only trying to subdue her when she assaulted them.”
Strode muttered, “Well, not everyone...”
Cora glared at him. “Would you feel better if I had been knocked unconscious as well, Mr. Strode?”
“All for one, as the book says.”
Trafalgar held up a hand to stop their arguing. “I believe events transpired exactly as you said, Mr. Dubourne, but I can’t make sense of it in my head. Given the right motivation, I can see Dorothy fighting anyone in this room, myself included. The exception being Miss Sek. I cannot fathom a scenario where Dorothy would cause her injury and yet, here she lies, hurt worse than anyone else. You all know how they feel about one another.”
Cecil said, “We do?”
Trafalgar flinched. “They are extraordinarily close.”
“Like sisters,” Cora supplied.
“Yes. And yet you say she hurled Beatrice against the wall with such force that she has yet to regain consciousness? That is not the Dorothy Boone I know.”
Beatrice sat up, her movements stiff. Her voice was rough. “Because it was not her.”
Desmond put a hand on her shoulder when she tried to sit up. “Stay right where you are. A doctor is on the way to examine you.”
“That’s not necessary.” She pushed his hand away and sat up. “I looked into her eyes. The woman I saw looking back at me was not Dorothy Boone.”
Desmond said, “How is that possible?”
Strode said, “It is possible. Possession, of course. It could also have been mind control. What was she working on upstairs?”
“A translation...” Beatrice stood up and stumbled almost immediately. Rather than chiding her to remain seated, Desmond slipped her arm across his shoulders and guided her to the stairs. Trafalgar followed and, after a moment of silent debate, the rest of the society went as well. The chair in which Dorothy had been sitting was knocked over. Desmond righted it and Beatrice gingerly lowered herself into the seat, scanning the items spread out in front of her.
Trafalgar instantly focused on the ka statue. “This is what she was working on?”
“I believe so. She was so transfixed when I brought her tea that she didn’t even notice me. Do you know where it came from?”
“Indeed I do. I gave it to her. I received it from Leola, who believed it was a reproduction. It would appear she was incorrect.” She picked up the statue and examined the carvings on its base. She had examined them herself, but she’d been unable to translate any of it. She looked at the notebook open on the table. “Had she made progress?”
Beatrice rested her elbow on the table, two fingers resting on her forehead. She rubbed in slow circles as she focused on the page. “Much progress. She’d translated most of the phrase. ‘Here imprisoned--’”
“Ah!” Strode said, interrupting her with a snap of his fingers. “Until we know what happened, perhaps it would be wise not to read anything aloud.”
Trafalgar said, “Good thinking.” She gestured for the notebook and Beatrice handed it to her. She read the completed translation to herself. “Imprisoned and released... Amenemhat. Oh, good lord. It would appear the statue is authentic after all.”
Cecil said, “What is it supposed to do?”
“The Egyptians believed the soul was free to wander the earth after death. The ka statue was designed as a focal point it could return to. A home once its body decayed. I believe this statue was created for a High Priest called Amenemhat and his soul remained tied to it even after all this time.” She touched the statue’s face. “I believe Dorothy inadvertently freed him, and he took possession of her.”
Beatrice said, “So the person who attacked me was Amen... Ah-mun...”
“Amenemhat,” Trafalgar said, “wearing Dorothy’s body.”
Desmond said, “So where is Dorothy? Her... her soul or identity or whatever you wish to call it?”
“It could be where it’s always been, just overwritten by the priest. Or... alternatively...” She held up the statue. “She may have swapped places with him.”
Beatrice took the journal back. “Here imprisoned, the--”
“What are you doing?”
“If Dorothy was imprisoned in the statue, then perhaps repeating the incantation will free her.”
Trafalgar said, “If that is true, then she will take your body and leave you trapped.”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
Cora said, “If there is any truth to this madness, I’m not sure a potentially concussed brain should be... swapped about.”
Trafalgar said, “Not to mention the fact that I’m certain your participation will be necessary if we are to find Dorothy’s body. She can’t afford to have you sitting on the sidelines when she’s in this much peril. I should be the one to do it.”
Beatrice said, “Dorothy will need you more than she needs me. This man will most likely try leaving London for familiar territory. Egypt. As a girl, you traveled from Cairo to London with nothing but the coat on your back. If anyone knows what he’ll do and where he’ll go, it’s you.”
Before Trafalgar could counter the argument, Desmond said, “It has to be me.” The room turned to face him. “Am I wrong? When you go off to reclaim Dorothy’s body, I will be left behind. I’m unnecessary to your adventuring and I would be next to useless in a fight. But I can be a vessel for Dorothy’s mind, which is one of the most formidable weapons one can wield.”
Trafalgar said, “Even if this works, we have no idea if the process will be reversible and we have no idea how much time we’ll have to act if it is. You are putting your life at risk.”
“I put Dorothy’s life at risk when I asked her to find my colleague’s son.”
“She didn’t blame you for that.”
“I blamed myself. This is a chance to put things right. For everything she has done for me in the past, I owe her.”
He didn’t have to explain what he was talking about. If anyone at Oxford knew about his sexuality, they would immediately remove him from his position. He would be arrested, put on trial, imprisoned. Dorothy provided him with an alibi that not only prevented speculation but allowed him to date without arousing suspicion.
“If the worst does occur, my affairs are in order. I’m a professor. The world has thousands of us. But it only has one Dorothy Boone. It needs her in whatever vessel she can get.”
Trafalgar looked like she wanted to continue arguing, but she had no recourse. “If you insist. But this means Dorothy will be inhabiting your body. A male body. There may be --”
He waved his hand. “I trust she will use discretion and return my body to me unharmed. Now, if you wouldn’t mind... the journal?”
Beatrice said, “It may require contact with the statue as well.”
Desmond nodded. He held the book in one hand, the statue in the other, and read Dorothy’s
translation. He cleared his throat and spoke the words aloud. He stumbled a bit over the name but corrected himself the second time he had to say it. When he finished, he stood as still as possible and waited for... something. A sensation or a flash to tell him it had worked. He flexed his fingers on the statue and looked at everyone else in the room, their eyes locked on him to see if it worked.
“I’m still me,” he said.
“You said Amenemhat,” Cecil said. “He’s not imprisoned anymore. Lady Boone is.”
Trafalgar said, “Excellent point. Substitute her name.”
Desmond cleared his throat. “Here imprisoned, gathered to the bosom of the ages, lies Lady Dorothy Boone... ah. Clever adventuress, erudite and stubborn. Here released, the beloved Lady Dorothy Boone, granted new life and freedom from the wa--” He choked on his words and coughed, the hand holding the book trembling so violently that it fell to the floor. He stumbled backward and Strode moved to catch him by the elbow so he wouldn’t collapse. He thrust out the statue and Beatrice took it before he could drop it as well.
Violent tremors passed through her, and she held so tightly to Beatrice’s hand that she feared she might cause injury. She didn’t remember Beatrice being in the room when the fit began, and who was holding her up? She felt ill. Seasick. Nauseated. The room swam in her vision and she realized everyone from downstairs had surrounded her. When had Trafalgar arrived? Why did everyone look so concerned? It was just a spell, albeit an unusually strong one. She was horribly parched.
“What on earth...” She stopped herself and cleared her throat. “Good lord. What... wh-what on... what... I’m...”
Trafalgar stepped forward. “Easy, Dorothy. Just relax. You’ve... you have apparently been through quite the ordeal. Just relax.”
“What’s wrong with my voice?” She turned her head to see where Desmond was. Why could she feel him just over her shoulder? Why did she feel an odd pressure in her throat every time she spoke? She looked down at her body and saw a waistcoat, a tie, and slacks over a distinctly male physique. The timbre of her voice suddenly made more sense, but her mind rebelled at the sight. “What happened? What... what is... what’s...”