Rings of Anubis: A Folley & Mallory Adventure

by E. Catherine Tobler

  “So why take it at all? In an effort to woo Ele—Miss Folley back into his life?” While other men might resort to flowers or chocolates, Hubert might prefer to present a priceless artifact to the object of his affection. Hubert and Caroline would have gotten along famously, for she would have loved the unique gift, something another woman could not buy or otherwise possess.

  “From the records we’ve found, Eleanor loved that life. Hubert wants her back, so he claims the one thing that remains from the day Eleanor lost her mother. What woman wouldn’t swoon into his arms at that?”

  “You’re mocking me now.” Virgil couldn’t imagine Eleanor swooning for anyone, but surely she would feel something if Hubert brought the ring to her. “Maybe you’re right, nodcock. Hubert will bring her the ring.” Virgil sought Eleanor in the crowd again, but this time did not find her and felt a shred of disappointment. “We observe Miss Folley and when Hubert arrives, we do what we do.”

  Virgil prayed this would not involve bodies falling dead at their feet, though he rather suspected, considering how things had gone thus far, it would.

  Loire Valley, France ~ June 1879

  “She’s so . . . shiny.”

  Virgil looked from his younger sister, Imogene, to Caroline Irving Mallory, his new bride, who indeed shone as she spoke with her father. She had chosen to follow in Queen Victoria’s footsteps and wore a glimmering gown of white and cream, which made her the focal point of the post-wedding reception at the Mallory vineyard.

  “You say that as if she doesn’t suit me,” Virgil said. Caroline looked like a creature from another place and time, wrapped in a froth of organdy, lace, silk, and linen. Her white-blond hair was caught up in a profusion of roses and peonies, the scent of which carried clearly to Virgil.

  “It’s not that,” Imogene said.

  Imogene was shiny in her own right tonight, wrapped in sky-blue silk, her hair twisted up with their mother’s glittering sticks. A line of eight piercings marked her left eyebrow; each earring was a pale blue stone, like cool lake water: the work of Dr. Fairbrass, or so she claimed when she’d attempted to smother their parents’ ire at the jewelry. Virgil pictured his sister in a Bohemian’s tent smoking while the work was done.

  Imogene struggled to explain. “She looks nothing like a Mistral agent. Her father, now, he looks like one, no matter what kind of clothing you dress him up in.”

  “He’s Mistral’s director. Today, she’s a bride and should look like nothing else.” Virgil swallowed the last of his champagne and handed off the glass to a passing waiter. The waiter asked if he would have more and Virgil shook his head. The more he drank, the more this elaborate reception would blur, even if the creature inside him would keep its silence a little longer. On one level, the idea appealed, but he wouldn’t make an ass of himself simply because he and Caroline had argued over the style of their reception.

  “I think it’s strange,” Imogene continued, “that you’ve never brought her home. Mother and Father should have met her before today.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Virgil took a flute of champagne from a passing tray, his point of view on losing focus turning in a heartbeat. Maybe making an ass of himself would feel good. His grip tightened on the glass, but he didn’t yet drink.

  That he hadn’t been able to introduce Caroline to his parents before their wedding still shamed him. There was never time, Caroline always said. She didn’t want to spend her few free days with his parents; she would much rather spend it with him, tangled in bed if they weren’t arguing over how little they saw one another. Mistral kept them both busy: why should he want to make her life even busier?

  His parents liked her well enough, but what else might they say on this day of all days? Virgil knew they would say nothing that might make him doubt. Deep down, he worried he did doubt, but more champagne easily smothered that idea.

  “She is nice,” Imogene said. “Not that I know her. At all.” Imogene took Virgil by the shoulder. He looked down at her, into brown eyes that were worried under the winking blue gems. “Do you know her?”

  It wasn’t at all the question he expected from his younger sister. He looked back at his wife—such a strange word, that. In truth, he feared he didn’t know Caroline as well as he should. And she didn’t know him—didn’t know the creature inside him, nor did anyone in this room. He wanted to tell Caroline, had wanted to tell her before this day of all days.

  Virgil dropped a kiss on his sister’s upturned nose and ruffled her hair. He smoothed the blond strands back into place before she could fuss too much. “I love her, Im, enough to make her my bride.”

  But that, Virgil knew, didn’t answer his sister’s question. He did love Caroline; he loved her shine, for lack of a better word. She was utterly alive, throwing herself into the world and daring it to catch her if it could, and the past two years had been some of the best he could remember.

  When he stopped to recall the promotions and missions to unimaginable corners of the world, he was also mindful that he had been alone for most of them. Caroline didn’t know the heart of him, the things he feared. That she would leave him if she did know was chief among them.

  God, what have I done?

  He lifted his glass to empty it when it was abruptly taken from him. Their older brother, Adrian, held the glass, blocking Caroline from view. He, like Virgil, favored their father: dark of eye and hair, whereas Imogene took their father’s eyes and their mother’s gold hair. To Virgil, they were similar coins thrown into a fountain, glimmering differently depending on how the sun cut through the water.

  “Becoming a drunkard won’t do, my dear brother,” Adrian said and handed the glass off to another passing waiter.

  Virgil didn’t fuss over the glass. The creature inside wanted to upset Caroline’s reception, and while arguing with Adrian would accomplish that, Virgil refused to give in to the desire. It was more important that his brother was here at all, given their rocky history.

  “She’s quite lovely,” Adrian said, turning to look at Caroline. “And that dress.”

  Virgil made a vague sound, somewhere between a grunt and a growl, and looked at Caroline—his wife. She did look lovely and shiny and all those things, and that dress . . . God, the dress. Virgil wanted to pay the tailor so that he might never make another creation like it, to save other men from looking upon its loathsome beauty. The back of the dress was a marvel, topaz-encrusted lace draped in a way that allowed bare skin to be glimpsed. Even the edge of her corset could be seen, butter-yellow ribbons rising in a froth against her back. Virgil didn’t appreciate that every man in the room, including his brother, had ogled his new bride. He prayed that in fifty years, it would not be what he remembered of this day.

  “Once again, you are goodness incarnate,” Adrian said.

  There it was. The quiet had passed. Virgil looked at Imogene. She looked elsewhere, knowing—as Virgil did—what was coming. He had the silly idea they might escape it, but fleeing the room with his sister in hand would only raise eyebrows. Caroline couldn’t abide raised eyebrows.

  “Always good, wherever you are.”

  Color stained Adrian’s cheeks. How much champagne had his brother consumed? “No need for drunkards, brother.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Adrian turned on Virgil. There was a line between his eyes and a sneer on his lips, as though one had been cued by a stage manager to assume them. Virgil knew it would never change. The words would come next, the words Adrian always used as though he followed a script.

  “The jewel of their lives. Why, Mother and Father don’t even care that they have not previously met your bride. Of course, it was such a short engagement, Virgil, but still—not a moment to introduce your love? Not even a dinner party to acquaint the families? That isn’t how it’s done—and yet, you still shine. Golden Boy.”

  Imogene stepped into their small circle and placed her hand against Adrian’s arm. “Adrian, can we not—”

  Adrian threw her han
d off, never looking away from Virgil. Virgil held the angry gaze, hoping to contain the explosion rather than prevent it. If his work with Mistral had taught him anything, it was that bombs were made to explode.

  “What’s next? Youngest director in the history of Mistral?” Adrian bit off a rough laugh. “Director at twenty-four.”

  “Adrian, stop it.”

  But Imogene’s words went ignored. In Adrian’s eyes, she was the youngest and a woman and didn’t matter.

  “It’s fine, Im,” Virgil said. He felt the beast inside him rise. That beast wanted to tear Adrian’s throat out, brother or no; wanted to taste his blood and watch his body fade into death. “We’re all used to it, aren’t we?” Virgil looked from Imogene to Adrian. “But dear brother, I will not have you spoiling Caroline’s day. She will not look back on this and remember you facedown in the cake.” Won’t remember you in a pool of your own blood, my own chin dripping with it.

  Virgil studied the cake, a glittering four-tier confection that would make quite a mess were he to shove his brother into it. Virgil pictured Adrian with sugar roses in his hair and wasn’t amused. He kept coming back to his brother dead by his own hand. Pulling the beast backward was a feat that left him shaking.

  “I’m not golden,” Virgil whispered.

  “Leave be, Adrian,” Imogene tried again. “If you are unhappy at the vineyard, you can change that. It isn’t Virgil who keeps you tied there. It isn’t even Father. And do not tell me it’s the family legacy. That vineyard will thrive with or without you.”

  Adrian raised his hand to slap Imogene, but Virgil caught and held it.

  “Don’t.” Virgil’s voice was low and edged with a growl. He felt the beast rise up, claws pressed to skin as if to a window, looking at all he could not have. The darkness was so close Virgil felt it slide around his neck and run Stygian fingers through his hair. His tie grew tighter and so, too, his waistcoat. For one terrifying moment, he felt himself slip. His jaw began to lengthen.

  “Virgil.”

  It was Imogene’s voice, small and bright like a candle in utter darkness, that brought him back to himself. Virgil released Adrian’s hand. Adrian stepped back with a low moan. Imogene’s light touch on Virgil’s arm kept him grounded in his human form.

  “I think you should fetch your lady and head home,” Virgil whispered.

  Adrian bowed his head, then met Virgil’s furious expression. “Happy honeymoon, brother.”

  He turned and crossed the ballroom to collect the young woman who had been waiting for him near the staircase. Virgil knew Adrian wouldn’t take his anger out on her, because only those he loved most were subject to such wrath. With her, Adrian would stifle his rage. Not family, not her concern.

  “You okay, Im?” Virgil looked at his sister.

  “It’s good Caroline didn’t meet us sooner,” she whispered. She kissed Virgil on the cheek. “See you in a little while.”

  Virgil let her go, eyes drifting to Caroline again. She had missed Adrian’s tantrum, and Virgil exhaled in relief. No bride should have to deal with such madness. He watched Caroline’s father slip a small box into her hand. Caroline opened it, but at this distance Virgil could not see what she’d been gifted with.

  She would show him later, he thought, but when later came, Virgil had forgotten the gift and was drunk enough to fully appreciate the lace and topaz concoction that was the back of his wife’s wedding gown.

  Paris, France ~ October 1889

  It was before sunrise, and the Galerie des Machines stood quiet. There was a cathedral silence to the space as Eleanor worked to unshelve the books burned in Mistral’s attack. Mistral had left them on her father’s insistence that they and they alone handle them, being that the books were old and required a careful hand. Eleanor didn’t mind the work, but hated that it was necessary.

  Working in the quiet of the Galerie—the booth illumined by lamplight—didn’t bother her either. It was better than falling asleep only to dream of that day, of the plumes of dust, the riders within, the light and the hand. The voice.

  It was like being inside a silhouette whirligig, turning and turning until she couldn’t tell left from right, shadows thrown tall around her. The light shimmered, and a large hand moved within it from a great distance off. Eleanor tried to take hold of the swirling light, the shadowed hand. Both were warm like Cairo sun and smelled of orange blossoms.

  “Not yet, Eleanor.” That voice was a rein around her wrist, holding her back.

  Eleanor drew a burned volume off the shelf. These books were irreplaceable, but she supposed it was a small price for Mistral to pay in an effort to convince her to help them. The idea they would be so careless with another person’s treasure—not to mention lives—bothered her, even if it didn’t surprise. Mallory wasn’t half so careless, even if he was with the agency.

  As if she had summoned him, she looked up to find Virgil Mallory watching her from the corner of a case containing a statue of tall, falcon-faced Horus.

  Eleanor offered him a smile as she set the burned book on the center table. There was no question Mallory’s strings were also being pulled by Mistral, considering the nature of the agents they had dispatched yesterday. This entire endeavor was costing him something, too, but what she couldn’t say.

  “Agent Mallory,” she said.

  Today he wore a smudged green suit that reminded her of the hills of home. As a child, her father had dared her to count all the colors of green that made up Ireland; Eleanor felt she was still counting, for she always managed to find a new shade whenever they returned.

  Today’s Mallory looked unassuming, not the man who had drawn so quickly during the assault, and surely that worked to his advantage. How many weapons were hidden on him today? He was certainly the one to be most wary of.

  Weapon or not, she was coming to believe she could share her beliefs with Mallory; he would not judge them or her. In the storage room, she felt he understood exactly what was at risk if they pursued this course. If one opened a portal to the past, the future itself might be transformed. Her father always put her off, telling her how foolish the idea was, how foolish she was—forever the child.

  “Miss Folley,” he returned, with a nod. He didn’t move from his position against the case.

  Eleanor drew another book from the shelf. “Did I see you on Cairo Street last night?”

  Mallory’s smile was crooked. “I don’t know. Did you?”

  Eleanor blushed and she turned back to the shelf of damp books. A Thousand Miles Up the Nile, On the Origin of Species, and The Great Pyramid were all damaged, smelling heavily of oil and soot. She tried to concentrate on that smell and the loss of the books, but it was Mallory her mind turned to, the glimpses she’d had of him and his partner in Cairo Street. Mallory eating a sloppy meat pie, Auberon looking entirely too content with . . .

  “Was it eels?” she asked when she turned back to the table, adding the trio of books to the stack.

  Mallory laughed. He pushed away from the glass case. “Auberon has an undue fondness for them.”

  “I’m glad you got to see some of the Exposition—or perhaps you’d seen it before? Being that it’s been open since May. But then, are you stationed in Paris?”

  Mallory closed the distance between them. “We haven’t had time prior to this, despite being headquartered here.” Glass crunched under his feet nearer to the table.

  “I should sweep again,” she murmured. “You’ll still find glass in the most unnatural . . . places . . . ” Her voice trailed off as Mallory opened a book and a glitter of glass sifted out of it and onto the floor.

  Mallory carefully closed the book and set it aside. “That’s the best place to find things,” he said.

  Eleanor shook her head in disagreement. “I like things where I expect them to be. Books on their proper shelves. The sun rising in the east. The tea in the right cupboard. The Sphinx at Giza, not Luxor, and please don’t move my hairbrush.”

  “In all your ti
me raiding, didn’t you ever welcome something unexpected?” Mallory perched against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest.

  She didn’t like that word, raiding. It carried too many ugly possibilities. It implied she wasn’t a proper archaeologist. Her gender was an issue among most of the men in the field (if not the world), but that had never held her back; had never stopped her father from giving her the best education he could.

  “When exploring, the unexpected can kill you. And to clarify, I never raided. That might imply the theft of artifacts rather than their recovery.”

  The easy smile on Mallory’s face slipped away. “I never said—”

  “It’s only a short step away, though, isn’t it?”

  A frown flickered over Mallory’s face as if she had struck at some buried truth. Mallory had mentioned her file the day before. What skewed point of view filled the pages Mallory was familiar with? Eleanor turned back to the burned books and pulled another few free.

  “What can I do for you today, Agent Mallory?”

  “It’s actually what I can do for you.” At Eleanor’s doubtful expression, he continued. “Whether you like it or not, the Lady’s ring has been stolen—”

  “Agent—”

  “My research tells me the ring may open, for lack of a better word, a portal. I suspect Christian Hubert played a part in the theft. You are connected, Miss Folley, by your prior acquaintance with him and your mother’s disappearance. You were with her when she discovered the Lady—”

  Oh, to be five again. Five again and Mother alive and whole and Egypt only a bedtime story, not a living, breathing place that could carry someone away.

  “—and were then attacked by men who attempted to claim the arm for themselves. But your mother was already lost, wasn’t she? She had already gone back.”

  It was strangely intimate, her ideas conveyed by him. She didn’t ask herself if he believed it; he believed that she believed and that was enough. The memory of that day pressed near again as Mallory’s hand closed around her arm. She recalled the way the riders had grabbed her, remembered the stench of the man who pulled her into the sand in an effort to get the arm. His mouth had not been human.