Your quest is ending soon,
Come to Deir el-Bahri.
Focusing on the language of the letter and not the anger that flooded through her, Eleanor knew. She knew.
Christian.
Valley of the Kings, Egypt ~ April 1882
“It’s absurd.”
Christian threw the sheaf of paper across the tent, where it hit the canvas wall and fluttered to the floor. Eleanor collected the pages and set them to rights. What was absurd, she thought, was the tantrum. She studied Christian in the low lamplight, his shadow thrown on the tent wall behind him.
“It’s not,” she said. “It looks like punctuation gone mad, yes, but there is a method here—”
“I don’t need to know it.” Christian stretched his long legs out before him, crossing his hands over his belly. The wicker chair he occupied creaked with the motions, more so when he shifted again to reach for his leather cigar case. He carried three cigars and was down to his last.
Eleanor wasn’t accustomed to seeing this side of Christian, the side that could be defeated by something like hieratic writing. Christian wasn’t one to be defeated by anything; he didn’t pout, he didn’t waver, he set his mind to the thing and had it done, enjoying the ride. Not this time. Could the hieratic actually have stumped him?
“This isn’t like you,” she said as he withdrew the cigar and snipped its end.
Christian grasped the lantern and angled it toward his cigar for lighting. He was careful to ensure the flame never touched the cigar as he rotated it in the wavering heat. His green eyes met Eleanor’s, appraising, as steady as she had ever seen. Still, something was amiss.
“What I’m about to say goes no further than this room,” he said. He blew a gentle breath on the lit tip of his cigar, causing the embers to glow, and set the lantern down.
Eleanor looked around the tent interior, their meager supplies stacked against one side, two bedrolls splayed on the other; the walls moved as the wind blew outside, sand whispering against the canvas.
“Such as this room is,” she murmured as the peppery scent of the cigar began to fill the small space. “Who would I tell, the camels?”
She only smiled in return. Would it always be this way, a challenge at every turn? As much as she enjoyed it, it was also wearing thin.
“I’m worried,” he admitted. As if allowing the cigar to serve as distraction from the truth of the conversation, he blew a breath carefully through it, then settled it into the corner of his mouth.
“You never worry, or if you do, you’re well practiced at hiding it.” Eleanor set the sheaf of papers to the side, away from the lantern’s flickering flame.
“This is big, Eleanor,” he said. “Claiming that mummy from those Germans.” He rubbed his hands together, then drew the cigar from his mouth, its end glistening with spit. He rolled it between his fingers, looking excited despite his worry.
The unspoken “what ifs” that weighted Christian’s words made Eleanor feel a little sick. How could he doubt this? After all they had planned, to keep that body here, in Egypt where it belonged. The Germans had been digging in the Valley for weeks, carting bits of Egypt off as they would, but this large a find—this mummy who might well be royalty—neither one could stand to see taken from its homeland.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she said. “We have studied that camp inside and out. You’ve never doubted yourself before—” She broke off. “Do you think I should stay behind?”
This would be the first raid they had attempted together. She had known Christian for six months, and while that seemed a goodly period of time to get to know a person, she still wondered if it was enough time. Did she fully trust him? Did he trust her? Maybe he thought she would muck it up and didn’t know how to say such.
She had found him a great help when it came to seeking information about the Lady’s rings; she thought he felt the same of her. This adventure had not been planned, but she thought they were both in accord: the mummy needed to stay in its homeland.
“Eleanor—no. I can’t do this without you.”
The words startled her, but no more so than what followed. She realized she was perched on the edge of her chair. The wicker creaked as she tensed. This man’s opinion mattered too much to her; she wanted to be seen as worthy out here in the field, even if what they proposed was a theft of sorts.
“Every day, you amaze me,” he said, leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs. Smoke curled up from his cigar, slow and spicy. “I think I know so much and then there you are, a dozen damning steps ahead.” He gestured to the papers on the ground. “That is gibberish to me, yet you read it as smoothly as your native tongue.”
Only after years of study, she wanted to say, but didn’t, deliberating what else Christian might admit to her. What he said made her fall into a deeper silence.
“I saw you in Cairo, before we met in the tomb,” Christian said. “I asked about you; everyone praised you even if they thought you were unconventional, said you were tracking a great mystery, looking for a thing you would never find or understand. I put myself in that scribe’s tomb to meet you, Eleanor. And this time, I can’t do this without you. I think you are my good-luck charm,” he finished with a laugh. He drew his cigar back to his lips, inhaling a mouth of smoke.
“You’re even more absurd than the hieratic,” she said and felt a slight thrill knowing he had watched her. She pushed her vanity to the side, because if he had observed, if he had listened to others speak of her, what did he know about the rings? “You had an amazing career before you met me, did quite well for all those years—”
“ ‘Quite well’ has never been good enough for me.”
Eleanor nodded, knowing it was true. “Agreed. But, Christian—”
“If we succeed in this, no one will know. If we fail, the world will witness it.”
Eleanor suspected that no one had ever seen this side of Christian. This was not a part of himself that he revealed to anyone—and why reveal such doubt and weakness to her? Why now? Eleanor stood from her chair, crossing to his. She knelt before him and touched his hands.
“We will succeed,” she said. She felt certain of it, because the alternative was impossible. Egypt could not be carted off to distant lands; Egypt and her treasures needed to stay right here.
Christian’s eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled at her. “And one day, I will write poetry in hieratic.”
Eleanor said nothing, for the idea that he would write poetry in hieratic seemed a foolish thing to them both—which meant he believed the raid on the German camp would fail.
“You will write that poetry,” she whispered.
Seven years later, he did.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Virgil lifted his eyes from his notebook to sidestep a passing Sirocco agent in the hallway and discovered Director Howard Irving standing at the hallway’s end. There was no pretending he hadn’t seen him, for Irving’s hard eyes pinned Virgil like a butterfly to board. Virgil resisted the urge to squirm. If there was anything he liked less than eels or eel jelly, it was the icy assessment he had always found in Irving’s cool blue eyes.
Irving should not have been back, Virgil thought as he closed the notebook and slid it into his jacket pocket. Yet there he stood at the end of an otherwise desolate hallway. A smile slid over Irving’s face, but did not reach his eyes, and not for the first time Virgil saw Caroline’s own expression there, distant and cold. Irving was impeccable as always, his suit neatly pressed, graying blond hair neatly groomed. He didn’t look as though he had just weathered the long journey from the Dominion of Canada.
“Son.”
It was the one word Virgil did not wish to hear from the man. Even after all this time, it made him flinch, for he and Irving had never shared a father-son relationship, despite their connection through Caroline. Irving always gave an impression of vague annoyance around Virgil. Whether it was because he presumed Virgil had taken his daughter away, no matter how clear it was that Caroli
ne had possessed her own wants and desires, Virgil could not say.
“Howard.”
Virgil extended a hand to clasp Irving’s. He hadn’t seen Irving in the three or so years since Caroline’s funeral; while they worked for the same organization, their paths rarely had cause to cross. That they crossed now left Virgil feeling ill at ease. He wished he could fully blame that feeling on the lack of opium, but knew he couldn’t. Maybe it was Irving’s scent, the deep rot that followed the man wherever he went.
“Good to see you,” Irving said, and withdrew his hand from Virgil’s to brush his fingers down his waistcoat in an almost nervous manner. “A surprise, but good. What brings you to Cairo?”
“Tying up loose ends on a case,” Virgil said and patted the notebook in his pocket. It wasn’t entirely untrue. “And you? I asked when I arrived, and Agent Barclay said you were traveling.”
Irving rubbed his hands together as though they were cold. “I was on a case that didn’t take quite as long as anticipated. Good to catch you here, though.”
Virgil allowed himself a smile, one that was likely toothier than it should have been. Caught, indeed. He felt as though his collar had shrunk, even though he wore it open against the morning’s heat. How much did Irving know? Did he know that the Lady had been examined? Did he know of Cleo’s assistance? When Irving stepped forward, Virgil tensed; he didn’t anticipate the hug.
The beast inside Virgil growled at the contact and clawed to get out; Virgil found himself making a concerted effort to not change forms and take Irving to the floor. What was in the box, Howard? What did you gift your daughter with on the day of our wedding?
“Seeing you always brings Caroline right back,” Irving murmured in Virgil’s ear. “I still think you two are coming to dinner.”
Virgil forced himself to remember the times they had gone to dinner. They weren’t his favorite memories, but gave him something to quiet the wolf. Irving would take Virgil back into his study after the meal concluded, light cigars and pour brandy, and talk for hours about things that didn’t matter. Caroline had been the fragile thread that held them together; otherwise, Virgil was certain he would have no need to know this man. Not even in a professional manner.
“How are you, Virgil?”
It was the same question Irving had asked at Caroline’s funeral, though at that time Virgil had felt less equipped to provide a genuine answer. Now Virgil turned out of Irving’s embrace, and the wolf felt but a handbreadth away.
“I’m well,” he managed to say and took a step backward, not caring what Irving might think of it. Chasing what Caroline left behind, but I’m well. His thoughts shifted to Eleanor, to the comfort of her pressed against him in the Egyptian night, and he began to regain control of himself. “How are you and Sabrina?”
“Every day is a challenge.” Irving said it as though Caroline’s death were fresh, an occurrence from last week. Virgil looked more closely at the man and could see the fine tremor in his hands, the exhaustion that muddied his eyes. No matter where Caroline’s work had taken her, Virgil reminded himself that she was this man’s daughter. A blood bond would always reach beyond her treachery.
“We should have dinner, we three,” Irving said. “I know Sabrina would love to see you.”
Virgil wondered if Sabrina longed to talk at length about the grandchildren she had never known. He knew he was being unkind, that he could not imagine the grief these two had known. Yes, he had been Caroline’s husband, and yes, her blood was on his hands even now, but Howard and Sabrina were her parents, and losing a child was something Virgil could not fully comprehend. It was something no person should ever have to know.
“You know how it is,” Virgil said in a low tone. Was his voice edged with a growl? He didn’t try to rein it in. “The life of a Mistral agent.”
Irving laughed at that and reached a hand out to pat Virgil’s shoulder. “Caroline said you were always busy with work, never had time to sit down and properly be with her, and here you are: nothing has changed.”
There was a host of things Virgil wanted to say to that, but he swallowed them all when he heard Eleanor’s voice behind him.
“Agent Mallory?”
Virgil didn’t miss the way Irving’s eyes snapped toward Eleanor. Irving would know who she was, of that Virgil was certain, for how could the director not know the young lady who had helped free the Lady from her slumber? When Irving’s nostrils flared, Virgil almost took it for the scenting of prey. As though Irving were stalking her. He was not a creature like Virgil, which made it all the more curious.
“Miss Folley,” Virgil said, “this is Director Irving.”
As Irving moved toward her, Virgil pivoted, watching Eleanor discreetly tuck an envelope into her pocket before greeting the director. If Irving found her trousers and waistcoat odd, he said nothing; Irving was the portrait of proper etiquette, welcoming Eleanor to the Sirocco headquarters and fair Cairo.
“Miss Folley,” Irving said, “a true pleasure.”
Virgil thought Irving might have rocked his lips across Eleanor’s knuckles had she not withdrawn her hand so quickly.
“A pleasure,” she agreed, and then those warm brown eyes slid toward Virgil. “Agent, I have news. If I could have a moment of your time?”
News in addition to Irving’s sudden return? When it rained, it often did pour. Virgil nodded to Eleanor, then looked to Irving. “Howard, it was good to see you, but if you will excuse me?”
For a moment, Irving looked as though he didn’t intend to excuse them at all. He looked poised to protest, but held his silence. Virgil’s hand rested against Eleanor’s back as they moved away, out of the hallway and into the nearby library that stood empty. He closed the doors behind them, but Eleanor kept walking, appearing to want more distance between them and Irving. Virgil could hardly blame her. He followed her through the stacks and stopped when she turned to offer him the envelope he had seen earlier.
“Hieratic,” he said when he unfolded the page inside and studied the collection of curves and slashes. He looked at Eleanor, then back to the page between them. “If you need a translation, you might want someone quicker and more skilled than me. Looking for years . . . possibly you have looked?”
“You have looked now for years,” Eleanor said. “I cannot be sorry. Your quest is ending soon, come to Deir el-Bahri.”
Virgil’s head came up, realizing she needed no translator; she already knew the words. They sent a strange chill through him. “That’s a clumsy kind of poetry. What is this?”
“It’s from Christian.”
Virgil stared at Eleanor, thinking it possible she was making a joke, but there was no humor in her eyes.
“He left it in my room last night.”
Virgil once again felt the wolf inside him straining to get out, claws pressed to flesh. He folded the poem back into its envelope, careful to not add new creases to the paper when his hands began to shake. He offered the envelope back to Eleanor, willing his hands to steady. He had no claim on this woman, though the memory of her soft mouth against his was fresh and sharp in his mind. The scent of her on the balcony, the line of her head in his hands, the taste of her blood against his tongue.
“And how,” Virgil forced himself to ask, “did Hubert come to be in your room last night?”
Eleanor’s eyes flew wide, anger rewriting the lines of her face. “Mallory!”
His name was almost a snarl in her mouth, and she lifted a hand, smacking his arm. Virgil captured her wrist and propelled her backward, deeper into the stacks, where the shadows fell and he could press and keep her in a corner.
“How?”
“Not by my hand, if that is what you’re thinking.”
Relief washed over him like cold water, and then he was bowing his head, rubbing his cheek against hers as if to mark her with his scent before his mouth closed over her own. There was a short intake of breath from Eleanor—surprise? anger?—and then she reached for him in kind, hand fisting h
ard into his hair, not stopping him, but keeping him where he was.
Virgil growled, his mouth moving from hers. He traced a path down the line of her jaw, past the snowy fold of her collar, and into the warmth of her neck, where the intoxicating scent of her pooled. Thinking only of making his claim, he bit her, teeth pressing into flesh. The bite wasn’t hard enough to puncture, but when he lifted his head, he could see his mark on her, deeply red even in the library shadows.
Eleanor lifted her hand, though not to strike him again. She covered the mark, fingers and chin trembling. Virgil thought that if they weren’t pressed into the corner shelves as they were, they might both topple into a heap on the floor.
“Miss Folley, I—” He felt as though he should apologize, because as his mind began to clear, he realized what a brute he had been. He had never done such a thing to any other person. He smoothed his hands down her arms and helped her out of the corner, fully buttoning her collar to conceal the mark he had made. “You must forg—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” she whispered. She held his gaze as he turned her collar down with shaking hands. “But don’t you dare believe I let Christian into my room, either.”
Virgil touched Eleanor’s chin before he withdrew. Looking at her, one could not tell she had just almost been mauled but for the slight pinking of her mouth. It pleased him, her reaction and refusal of his apology. He nodded.
“No apologies, then,” he said.
“A-are Auberon and Gin nearby?” she asked then, straightening the envelope she had entirely crumpled in her hand.
“They should be with Cleo, likely in her office.” Virgil tried not to grin in amusement at the near-utter destruction of the envelope and its poem. It looked more like trash than evidence.
They walked to Cleo’s office together, so that Eleanor might tell the story once and keep everyone on the same page. Virgil told himself not to be a beast, to let her explain, and to not allow anger to fill him again at the idea of Hubert in her rooms. Eleanor shared the note with the other agents, and Virgil applauded himself for his patience as Auberon and Gin each took a stab at reading the ancient writing before Eleanor simply read it for all them as she had him.
Rings of Anubis: A Folley & Mallory Adventure Page 24
