She forced her response out between frozen lips: “Oh, very well. But you’ll leave after you’re done explaining. I suppose you want tea?” Not gracious certainly, but far more than she intended. She cursed the good manners she’d been brought up with.
“Tea would be wonderful. Thank you.” Rashida smiled, and it was like watching dawn over the harbor. Erica very nearly melted, only just forcing herself to flee the room in search of cups and hot water. Rashida trailed after her into the kitchen, giving her no time to recover.
“You’ve done a lot with the place since your aunt died. I like it.” She held the words out like a peace offering and Erica grimaced, knowing that the ceiling was covered with cracked and peeling paint and the random stains of old leaks. Her small inheritance and the income from her books was scarcely enough to pay the property taxes and her own needs, certainly not enough for upkeep in a place this big.
A great rage filled her. “I’m engaged. To be married. To Mr. McGillicuddy next door.” She blurted the words out, unable to stop herself.
Rashida’s dark face paled and she looked away, as if from something she could not bear to see. At last, she murmured, “Congratulations,” so softly that Erica barely caught the word.
She cursed the impulse that made her invent such a patent falsehood and longed to throw herself at Rashida’s feet to beg for forgiveness. But pride held her upright, made her pour the tea and seal her lips.
Rashida rose, pacing, as she blew on her tea to cool it, her agitation clear. “I had hoped…well, never mind about that now. Can we go back to the other room? I hate to let the statue out of my sight for long.” She walked out the door and down the hall without a backward glance or even the saucer that Erica held out to her.
Erica followed her down the hallway, already making up her mind to admit that she’d told a little fib about Mr. McGillicuddy. But when she got to the study, Rashida was sitting at the table, eyes fixed on the cat, and she found she couldn’t say it. Instead, she picked up Rashida’s cup and smacked it onto the saucer with unnecessary force. “All right, so it’s clear that you didn’t come back to see me. What’s the story with the statue?”
Rashida brought both hands up to her face and rubbed her cheeks as if suddenly exhausted. “All right. You remember when my mother disappeared?”
As if Erica could forget the most traumatic moment of their high school years. Mrs. Simmons had vanished into the night, leaving only the briefest of notes for her husband and teenage daughter. She had assured them that she’d be back and told them not to worry. They never heard from her again.
Erica had spent months consoling Rashida; it had been what had drawn them together. How ironic that Mrs. Simmons’ disappearance was somehow instrumental in today’s events, too. “Of course I remember. The FBI never found a thing. Your father became a private detective but was never able to find any trace of her. Why? Have you heard something?”
Rashida reached into the front pocket of her immaculately tailored suit and pulled out a crumpled envelope. Wordlessly, she handed it to Erica. For an instant, Erica contemplated refusing to read whatever it was. After all, what did it matter now? But her curiosity was aroused. She took it, opening the envelope slowly and carefully as if something inside might bite her. A distant part of her brain noted the two-year-old postmark.
The letter inside was typed on an actual typewriter; there were even smudges where the correction tape failed.
My dearest daughter,
I hope you can forgive me. There’s no time to try to explain it all now—it wouldn’t be good enough for what you’ve lost anyway. Just know I always meant to come back and that I love you and your father very much. If I hadn’t left, I’d have lost both of you.
Now I have to ask you to do something for me. My family, generation upon generation back to our ancestors’ time in Nubia of old, were appointed as the guardians of a sacred relic. It is an object of great power and it must be protected from those who would misuse it. The time has come when I must pass it on to you, my child. I know you have started your training and are almost ready to take on this great burden. I will come to you soon to tell you more.
If you do not hear from me again, know that I am prevented from coming by forces beyond my control. I will send the object into safekeeping with friends who will guard it until you are ready. Return to the beginning to seek what you need.
Your loving mother,
Keira
“I never heard from her again. I believe that she may have run afoul of forces trying to find the statue. I think my aunt and uncle knew what befell her, but feared to tell me in case her fate frightened me from performing my duties,” Rashida offered up in spectral tones.
“Not to be overly skeptical, Rashida, but are you sure that your mother was quite…right when she wrote this? Or that this letter is even from her? What ‘training’? What sacred relic?” Erica’s questions all rushed together until they emerged almost as a single sentence. She bit back a few others. Nubia? The Simmons family has been here in Foggy Harbor for generations.
“Still the same old cautious Erica.” Rashida smiled wistfully as she took the letter from Erica’s hand and carefully folded it before putting it in the envelope and tucking it back in her suit. “My aunt and uncle came to visit about a week before I left town. They told me some of this back then but I didn’t believe it either. Not at first. But then they showed me some things and I…had to leave with them. It was my duty. Can I trust you with one of my family’s greatest secrets, Erica?” Her face was grave and her eyes didn’t waver from her former lover’s.
Erica bit back a few more responses and thought about it through the numb cloud currently filling her mind. Even if she suspected Rashida was now as crazy as the letter writer, who would she tell? Her bridge club? Her publisher? Not likely. Besides, how different could this story be from anything she’d read recently? There was even a cat in it. She shrugged and sat down at the table. “Disclose away.” She sipped at her tea and waited.
Rashida stood and closed all the blinds and curtains, shrouding the room in twilight gloom. Then she walked over to the table and the cat. She raised her hands to shoulder height and a distant look crossed her features, as if she traveled across time. Her lips parted to emit a chant in a language that Erica did not recognize, one that was at once guttural and musical. The hairs stood up on Erica’s nape and she shivered despite herself, filled with a heretofore unknown sense of eldritch dread.
Rashida’s eyes were pools of molten gold, her face that of a warrior goddess of old. Erica could not tear her gaze away, though her heart cried out in fear that this new Rashida could never be hers again. The statue’s eyes began to glow as the hieroglyphics on its sides were outlined in light. A strange humming sound filled the room, vibrating its way through Erica’s china cabinet. The hieroglyphs blazed brilliantly, far too bright to look at, and Erica threw her arm over her face.
The humming lasted a moment more before dying away into silence, and the room went dark once again. “It’s safe to look now.” Rashida’s voice was reassuring but Erica still hesitated a moment before lowering her arm. The cat’s inscrutable emerald eyes glowed back at her.
She found her voice with an effort. “So does it do anything besides glow and hum?”
Rashida gave her a look of disbelief. “Of course it does. It’s an object of destiny, a source of ancient and terrible power.”
“Okay. So what does it actually do?” Erica was beginning to remember one of Rashida’s less desirable traits, namely a tendency toward the unnecessarily dramatic.
“It can be used as a weapon of awesome destructive power. And it can bring back what was lost and change fate, perhaps even raise the dead if the user is powerful enough.”
Or it could just be battery-powered and you might be a few scarabs shy of a full complement. Erica stopped the words before they escaped her lips, focusing instead on Rashida’s first statement. “What do you mean, ‘it can be used as a weapon’? W
hat kind of weapon? Used by whom?”
“Only the followers of Set himself, clearly nothing you’d be worried about.” Rashida glared at her and Erica realized that she had been using the same voice she used on Mrs. Grayson, her neighbor who had early onset Alzheimer’s. “Very well,” Rashida said finally. “I can see that you don’t believe me. I’ll take the statue and go. I have one last task to perform in Foggy Harbor, then we need never see each other again.”
“No, wait. What are you going to do next? At least let me cook dinner for you before you go. For old time’s sake.” Perhaps she could find a way to bring Rashida back to a little of her old, saner self, she thought. Or get her to spend the night. She squelched the second thought.
The doorbell rang again and Erica rolled her eyes. “Let me just get rid of whoever it is and we can have a cozy chat. I’d really like to hear about what you’ve been up to.” At least I hope I’ll like it. She skirted around the statue as she headed for the front door. No point in taking too many chances. At least it wasn’t changing fate right now, and Rashida wasn’t bolting for the door.
The doorbell rang again and Erica found herself looking into Alex McGillicuddy’s faded blue eyes through the glass pane. She could have screamed with frustration. Instead she made herself open the door. “Hello, Mr. McGillicuddy. I’m afraid I can’t stop to chat. I have a guest. Did you need something?” Such as a shove off my porch? She held the words back. Clearly Rashida’s return was doing nothing for her good nature.
“Well, hello there, neighbor. I didn’t mean to intrude—I was just hoping to get that recipe from you again, the one for that wonderful chicken dish you dropped off when I moved in. I seem to have misplaced the copy you gave me. But it can wait. I’ve got a frozen pot pie I can just heat up.” Alex gave her a look of pure longing that nearly made Erica roll her eyes before he turned away, shoulders slumped with rejection.
Damn the man. “Wait a minute, Alex. We can’t have you resorting to the microwave every night. Just follow me back to the kitchen and I’ll give you another copy of the recipe.” She ushered him, trying not to cringe at his beaming smile.
That was the moment when Rashida emerged from the study. Erica couldn’t help the tremor that went through her. After all, Rashida still thought…. “Hello. I’m Rashida Simmons,” she announced before Erica could say anything. “I understand that congratulations are in order.” She gave Alex a stiff, wooden smile and clutched his hand in a death grip, white knuckles clearly visible.
Alex looked surprisingly alert, if a bit baffled. “How do you do? I was just stopping by for a recipe. Congratulations, you say?”
Rashida chose that moment to twist their hands so that Alex’s wrist was exposed. Erica caught a brief glimpse of a snakelike tattoo before he yanked his arm away and pulled his sleeve down. Rashida and Alex glared at each other as if they were about to engage in mortal combat.
Desperate to end the standoff, Erica began to babble. “Let’s talk about that later, Alex. Rashida and I were just going to sit down to dinner and chat about old times. Why don’t we head back to the kitchen so you can get on with your own dinner?” She seized Alex’s arm and steered him down the hallway with unnecessary force.
She couldn’t help but notice the glance he sent after Rashida as she receded down the hallway in the distance. Had he always possessed that gleam of pure malice in his faded blue eyes? It made her think of ancient temples, their walls oozing with ichor and unspeakable evil. And snakes. She couldn’t abide snakes. The thought made her scowl fiercely at him. He blinked innocently back, which made her scowl more.
She snatched her recipe box from the stove and yanked the card from the front. “Here you go. Just copy it over and give it back to me when you get around to it. Have a lovely evening!” She flung her back door open and gave him a smile that contained no ambiguities whatsoever.
“Your friend seems very nice and of course I don’t mean to intrude, but perhaps we could all dine together. She seems as though she’d be very interesting to talk to.” Alex smiled ingratiatingly at her and made no move toward the door.
“Perhaps another time. We have a lot to catch up on. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” Erica glanced pointedly from the door to her neighbor.
At a glacial pace, he stepped toward the door, mumbling words like “sorry” and “intrude.” Erica smiled and nodded, making it clear that her mind was somewhere else entirely. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he oozed out of her kitchen. She watched him make his way down the garden path and out the gate with a fierce enthusiasm.
Then she raced back to the study. An empty room met her eyes: both the statue and Rashida were gone. Erica delivered herself of several unladylike comments before she noticed the note at the edge of the desk. As she reached for it, a part of her could not help but notice that the room felt better somehow. There was no sense of dread, eldritch or otherwise, only her familiar comfortable furniture and her sleeping cats. She glanced at them as if hoping for answers, but only got gentle snores in response.
She opened the note, knowing what it would say. Rashida was gone for good, driven away by some nonsensical quest and the stupid lie that Erica had told her. In a moment of stunning clarity, she recognized that perhaps even a somewhat deranged Rashida was worth having, at least to her, and she knew despair even before she began reading. The actual text only confirmed her fears.
Dear Erica,
I’m sorry to have intruded on you like this. I had forgotten how people’s lives change. Please know that I wish only the best for you in your future life and rest assured that I will not burden you again.
Yours,
Rashida
Erica was just slumping into the chair Rashida had recently occupied when she remembered something that the other woman had said. Something about “one last task.” Where could the long lost scion of Nubian priests guarding a sacred relic perform a task here in Foggy Harbor? She wouldn’t have gone back to the old Simmons place, surely. Mr. Simmons had passed on a few years back and the family who bought the place had done a drastic remodeling job. That left his old office and…Mrs. Simmon’s mausoleum! Of course, why hadn’t it occurred to her before?
Erica leapt to her feet and threw caution to the winds. She grabbed her purse and her shoes. Following some instinct she hadn’t known she possessed, she bolted down the hall to the kitchen and obtained a small flashlight and, after a moment of hesitation, a box of matches, several packages of salt, and a longish kitchen knife.
Had there been anyone to ask her why she chose those items, she would not have been able to answer them. Perhaps it was one of her own ancestors advising her, maybe a long forgotten Goodie Somebody or Other who narrowly avoiding meeting her death in Salem. Or perhaps it just was editing too many cat horror anthologies. But whatever the reason, the knife felt good and comforting in her hand and the rest felt like essential tools.
She seized her coat from the hook and made sure the cats had enough to eat in case she was gone for a while. The bridge club would take them in if need be, she reminded herself sternly. Then she was off like a shot on her bicycle, pedaling as if her life depended on it toward the Shady Oaks Resting Place out on the edge of town. Rashida would be there already, if that’s where she was headed. Erica hoped for the best and rode as she had never ridden before.
Fortunately, the cemetery was not far away and traffic was light. Erica skidded to a halt in front of the locked gates moments later and wondered how she was going to get inside. Then she remembered that Rashida had another way in, a gap in the fence some ways down that she used when she wanted to visit the family tomb after hours. She rode her bike on a bit further, then chained it to a post near where she thought the hole was.
With a deep breath, she straightened out her coat and marched up to the fence. Her memory had served her well. An impossibly skinny opening met her searching gaze and she despaired. Then she heard the noise of an engine, one that sounded vaguely threatening, if an engine could be descr
ibed that way. She shrank into the shadows and glanced around.
Alex was parking his car on the street near the cemetery entrance. And he wasn’t alone. There were two men with him, neither of them familiar, but both of an aspect that would have caused a braver heart than Erica’s to quail. They got out of the car and made for the locked gates of the cemetery.
For an instant, she thought of going home and calling the police. But what would she tell them? Then she thought of the way Alex had looked at Rashida when they met. There had been something in his expression that filled her with urgency. She found that if she held her breath and twisted just right, she was able to squeeze through the fence to fall, gasping, onto the soft green grass on the other side.
She could hear an ominous clicking noise from the entrance; they must be cutting or picking the lock. Brushing herself off, she rose and sprinted for the deeper shadows under the trees. Then she pulled out her little flashlight, and shielding it as much as she could with her fingers, she dashed forward through the tombstones and trees toward the Simmons mausoleum.
It took longer than she expected and she got lost once, but she finally found it. To the amazement of Foggy Harbor, Rashida’s grandfather had built the family tomb as a small stone pyramid in the midst of the more standard marble structures. It was trimmed with black stone and guarded by statues of Anubis and Bastet. There were even hieroglyphs, which everyone else in Foggy Harbor thought was an unbearable pretension. Erica had thought so herself upon occasion. Now her nerves were so agitated, it was all she could do to approach the structure.
As she got closer, she noticed that the hieroglyphs were glowing faintly. Could Rashida be inside, unaware of her danger? Still, she mustn’t overreact. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that Alex presented any kind of threat. Perhaps he just enjoyed late night visits to cemeteries with large male friends. Large terrifying male friends.
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