Long Hot Summoning

by Tanya Huff

  “Sam, you wait in here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because going through a door on the Otherside can be dangerous; you don’t always end up on the other side of the door and I don’t want to explain to Diana that I lost her cat.”

  “Her cat?” Sam snorted. “I am a free agent in the universe.”

  “Not until you can open your own cans of cat food, you aren’t.” Without waiting for a reply, she pressed down on the bar latch, and pushed. Her mind carefully blank, she stepped over the threshold. And then again—press, push, blank, step—for the outside door.

  She was still on the Otherside. A half turn. She was outside the copy of the mall. All things considered, it wasn’t a bad copy. Some of the edges in the middle where neither the elves nor the darkside held complete control were a little fuzzy, but, even so, it would pass.

  The concrete pad was exactly as she remembered it: black metal bench, newspaper box. The headline GFDHK SCGH TPR! was different—most newspapers used at least a couple of vowels—but the hockey scores seemed current. That probably wasn’t relevant. Or no more relevant than the appalling reality of hockey in June. The only things missing were Dean and Austin and they were safe in the guest house.

  She didn’t remember it smelling so bad.

  Although the edges of the parking lot faded into mist—intent on their segue, the darkside hadn’t bothered to anchor the mall on the Otherside—the lot itself was glossy black, the yellow lines gleaming. And steaming. And bubbling. Claire jumped back as an ebony bubble swelled to iridescence then burst almost at the edge of the concrete. The parking lot was a very very large tar pit. She had no idea how the yellow lines stayed in place, but at least that explained the smell.

  On the bright side, there’d be no attacks coming in through this door.

  As she turned, she noticed something she’d missed before. A sign and a ramp. There was parking on the roof.

  Frowning, she remembered there were skylights over the hexagonal cuts through the floor. Designed to send light down into the lower level, Claire had a sudden image of dangling…

  Not ninjas. Think old people, dangling old people. Images that were already real.

  Trouble was, she remembered looking up and seeing handrails around the skylight.

  There had to be a way up to the parking on the roof.

  Where?

  * * *

  “Greetings, I am Professor Jack Daniels…”

  Far too polite to say what he really thought, Dean peered across the desk at the balding man in the tweed jacket and said, “I’m sorry?”

  “Jack Daniels…”

  “Is a kind of whiskey.”

  “Oh.” He sighed, looked down at his hands, and up again. “Bad choice?”

  “Not a good one,” Dean allowed. “Besides, you gave me your real name when you called.” He spun the registration book around and pointed. “Dr. Hiram Rebik.”

  “Right.” Another glance down at his hands. “I’m uh…I mean, just so you know, I’m not a medical doctor. I have a doctorate in archaeology.”

  “Yeah? I’ve seen Raiders of the Lost Ark more than twenty times.”

  “Have you?”

  “Maybe thirty even, it’s some good. I’m Dean McIssac.”

  A small self-conscious smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “You wanted a room for you and your mummy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve had the dehumidifier running in room two all day.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Did you want help carrying him…or her,” Dean corrected hurriedly, “inside?”

  “No, thank you. I’m parked in the back. I assume there’s a back door?”

  “Yes, of course.” Coming out from behind the counter, he indicated that Dr. Rebik should follow, and led the way down the hall.

  “You have an elevator,” Dr. Rebik observed as they passed. “Late Victorian?”

  “Sometimes.” Slipping back the deadbolt, Dean opened the door out into the narrow passageway that separated the guest house from the building to the north. “I hope there’s enough room.”

  “Plenty.”

  As Dr. Rebik hurried out to the parking lot, Austin appeared to wind around Dean’s feet. “I wonder why he wanted to use the back door.”

  “Well, it’s a mummy. There’s got to be, you know, a sarcophagus or something.”

  “You think that skinny little guy could carry a sarcophagus on his own?”

  “No.”

  “Then…?”

  Dean shrugged. “You’re the expert, you tell me.”

  Two sets of footsteps approached down the passage; one slow and steady, the other shuffling along, feet never leaving the ground.

  “Okay, that’s…weird.”

  “I’m just guessing here,” Austin muttered, backing up to cover both possible lines of escape, “but I think the phrase you’re looking for is: Oh, my God! The mummy! It’s alive! Alive being a relative term,” the cat added thoughtfully.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Oh. Was I supposed to be?”

  Before Dean could answer, Dr. Rebik appeared in the doorway carefully supporting a slender figure wearing a floor-length, hooded cloak. Where would you buy something like that, then? he wondered stepping out of the way.

  “Mr. McIssac, this is Meryat. She was Chief Wife to Rekhmire, Grand Vizier to Ramses the Great.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Meryat…”

  And that was the only word Dean recognized. Made sense; why would an ancient Egyptian speak modern English? On the other hand, why would a modern archaeologist speak ancient Egyptian? Still, that was a moot point given that there was a mummy shuffling toward the dining room. Was she hungry? What would he feed a reanimated corpse?

  “Uh, Dr. Rebik, just so we’re clear, the guest house has a few rules. No bloodsucking, no soul sucking, no dark magic in the room, anything that detaches while you’re here leaves with you…” They’d added that one after a trio of zombie folk musicians had left part of the base player in the bathtub. “…and all long distance calls must be either collect or on your calling card. We’ve been stuck with the bill a few times,” he expanded when Dr. Rebik looked confused. “As long as you’re in the dining room, will you be wanting anything to eat, then?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you, Mr. McIssac. Meryat…” Again a soft string of words in a foreign tongue.

  This time, there was an answer.

  Meryat’s voice was husky—a whiskey voice, his grandfather would have called it—and a small hand wrapped in strips of yellowing linen emerged from the depths of the cloak to close gently over Dr. Rebik’s. He held it as though it might break—which for all Dean knew, it might—and smiled into the shadows of the hood.

  “Meryat thanks you for your consideration, Mr. McIssac, but she only wants to rest a moment before she attempts a flight of stairs. She’s not very strong yet.”

  “Okay. Sure. Uh, when you said mummy on the phone, I was assuming it…”

  The hood turned toward Dean.

  “Sorry….she’d have her own place to sleep. Our rooms only have one bed.”

  “That’s fine.” Another smile into the shadows. They were definitely holding hands.

  It was kind of sweet. Creepy, but sweet.

  SEVEN

  DEAN LIFTED AUSTIN’S CHIN out of his eye socket, and sat up in bed scrubbing at the cooling cat drool running down beside his nose. Something…

  Pounding. Distant pounding. At the front door.

  Groping for his glasses, he pushed the arms more or less over his ears and peered down at the clock. Six twelve a.m. Almost a full hour before the alarm.

  More pounding.

  “Why don’t you just ignore it?” Austin grumbled from the pillow. “Make them come back later.”

  Wishing he could curl up and wrap his tail over his nose, Dean swung bare feet out onto the floor. “That would be rude.” His jeans were folded neatly over the back of an ol
d wooden chair. He stared at them stupidly for a moment, then shook them out and raised his right foot. “Besides, it could be important.”

  More pounding.

  About to shimmy the faded denim up over his hips, his brain finally caught up to his body.

  “It could be Claire!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, she has a key,” Austin reminded him as he tucked in and zipped up just a little too fast to be safe.

  “Then it could be someone with news from Claire!” More pounding as he ran from the bedroom and across the living room, exploding out into the office. Hoping the scream of hinges hadn’t woken up either of their guests—Claire referred to them as eldritch hinges; multiple cans of WD-40 had no effect—he threw himself to his knees and slid under the drop leaf at the end of the counter, a black-and-white blur barely seen in the corner of one eye. By the time he reached the door, Austin was there waiting for him.

  “I thought I was being ridiculous?” he panted, fumbling with the lock.

  “If it’s news about Claire, you’ll need me to be here.”

  “Why?”

  Austin snorted. “Because I’m the cat.”

  “The cat?” Twist back the deadbolt.

  “The only one talking to you.”

  He wrapped his hand around the doorknob, turned, and yanked.

  The man standing on the porch was a little shorter than Dean’s six feet. His hair and eyebrows had been sun-bleached to the color of straw. Sunburn lent a painful-looking ruddiness to his complexion, and the end of his nose was peeling. Bulky muscle making him appear stocky, he wore a tan short-sleeved shirt with the top three buttons undone, matching shorts—with all buttons safely fastened—and hiking boots. A number of leather pouches hung from his broad leather belt and both his arms were covered in an interesting patchwork of scars.

  “All right, where is it?”

  Not Australian in spite of appearances; the accent was Canadian heartland.

  “Where is what, then?”

  “The mummy!” His pause carried the expectation of a musical emphasis, as though his life came with its own soundtrack that only he could hear. “I know it’s here,” he continued when Dean didn’t immediately respond. “I tracked Dr. Rebik’s car to your parking lot!”

  That didn’t sound good. Unwilling to give the benefit of the doubt to someone who banged on doors at six in the morning, Dean barely covered a yawn and decided to play dumb. “Why?”

  “Because I’m hunting the mummy!”

  “Why?” Maybe if he kept repeating himself, he’d get an answer.

  “It’s a mummy!”

  Okay. New track. “So what’s Dr. Rebik’s mother done to you, then?”

  “Not mother. Mummy!” Veins bulging on his neck, mouth open to continue his protest, he paused and glanced down. “Is that cat laughing?”

  Dean shoved Austin with the side of one bare foot. “Hairball.”

  “Right. Look, my name’s Lance Benedict…”

  This time both men looked down.

  “Really big hairball.” Dean shot Austin a warning frown.

  “Right.” Lance’s broad smile showed perfect teeth. “Anyway, I realize this must all seem extraordinary to you, an ordinary kind of a guy, living an ordinary kind of life…”

  Dean bent down and turned Austin around to face the kitchen. “You should be having a drink of water to take care of that hairball.” One hand against the cat’s back legs, he shoved. If looks could maim, he’d have collapsed bleeding on the hardwood.

  The angle of his tail promising later retribution, Austin stalked off down the hall.

  When Dean straightened, Lance sighed. “Everything will make perfect sense the moment I explain it!”

  Sighing and exclaiming simultaneously was quite the trick, Dean had to admit.

  “Evil is afoot!”

  “It’s not in Dr. Rebik’s car, then?”

  “Not on foot! Afoot!” Another, more dramatic sigh. “Can I come in? Your neighbors must not discover the darkness that hides in the forgotten corners of their little worlds!”

  Curtains twitched in a second-floor window across the street and Dean realized he was standing in the doorway wearing only his jeans and his glasses. Professor Marnara had been slipping salacious haiku in the mailbox for a couple of months now and she really didn’t need more inspiration. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.” He stepped back and closed the door firmly behind the mummy hunter. “All right, then, explain.”

  “You’re Irish, aren’t you? I can tell from your accent; it’s a skill I have! County Cork, by way of Dublin.”

  “Newfoundland. Harbor Street, St. John’s, by way of Herring Neck.”

  “Right. Sixteenth-century Irish derivative. Corrupted, of course.”

  Dean’s lip curled. Good manners only extended so far. “The explanation?”

  “Right.” Lance leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Dr. Rebik has been vilely kidnapped by a woman who died almost five thousand years ago! Late one night in his lab, the unfortunate doctor broke the spell confining her wretched, evil form to her sarcophagus. She rose and took over his mind, feeding off his life force to reduce the gruesome effects of centuries of decay. When I discovered what she’d done, I fought valiantly to stop her, but her control over Dr. Rebik was so strong he attacked me and left me for dead!”

  “And you got messed up in this because…?”

  “Because I’m Dr. Rebik’s grad student and I intend to save him! I am quite possibly the only person now alive who knows how to stop the foul fiend!” His hands curled into fists as he rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “Just tell me what room that pustulant monstrosity is in!”

  “Meryat?”

  “That’s her!”

  Mummies. Doctors. Grad students. Dean weighed what he knew and came to a decision. “Third floor. Room six. You should take the elevator, it’ll be faster.” He led Lance to the brass gates, folded them open, and waved the other man inside. “Just pull that lever over to the three. I’ll wait in the lobby in case she makes a run for the front door.”

  “Good man!” Legs braced, back straight, Lance yanked the lever toward him. The elevator began to rise.

  “Was that nice?” Austin asked as the dial showed the elevator just passing the second floor.

  Dean shrugged. “Before he left, Augustus Smythe fixed it so that the third floor always opens to the beach. We haven’t seen a giant not-quite-squid in months and the fire sand is all posted. There’s food and water in the cabana. Lance’ll do some exploring, he’ll get a bit more sunburn, maybe he’ll go swimming. He’s safer there than back out on the street.”

  “So it was nice.” Austin looked disgusted. “Just when I think you’re acquiring a personality that doesn’t involve cleaning products, Claire, or hockey. I suppose I should be moderately encouraged that you actually lied to the man.”

  “And I should be concerned that you’re having a worse influence on me than Hell ever did.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, but don’t stop.” He ran to catch up as Dean started back down the hall. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Put a shirt on and wake Dr. Rebik. I’m after hearing his side of the story.”

  * * *

  Lance stood ankle-deep in white sand, staring at the brilliant blue sky, and the turquoise breakers. A breeze off the distant dunes caressed his cheek with the scent of warmed sweet grass. This had to be another one of the mummy’s evil spells—a way to turn this world into the ancient world she’d lost. Which hadn’t included an ocean or a sign that read Please return your towels to the guest house, but that had to be only because she wasn’t yet at full strength.

  He still had time to stop her.

  But first, he had to find Dr. Rebik. Or what was left of the man.

  He pulled his cell phone from its belt pouch and punched in Dr. Rebik’s number. His mentor hadn’t answered any of his previous calls, but there was always the chance that the resurrected she-demon had left her captive
alone for a moment or that—as he was now so close—he’d hear the ringing of the doctor’s phone.

  “We’re sorry; this number can not be completed as dialed. You must dial bleri or syk before the number. Please hang up and try again.”

  Bleri or syk? Brows drawn in to meet over his nose, Lance stared down at the keypad. His phone didn’t come with a bleri or syk. Damn! It was the whole pizza number debacle all over again. No bleri, no syk, no eleven…he should never have been seduced by that “Friday the Thirteenth Free” calling plan.

  No matter.

  Tucking the phone back into its pouch, he pulled a bandanna from another and tied it around his neck. Although Dr. Rebik could be anywhere in this mystical world of dark magic, the cheery looking blue-and-white cabana perched just above the high tide mark seemed the logical place to start.

  * * *

  “Lance is…”

  Meryat offered two words from within the shadows of her hood.

  “No, he’s not an idiot.” Dr. Rebik smiled and stroked the back of her hand with one finger. “He’s just under the impression that archaeology should be an adventure, like it is in the movies and on television. Mystic relics. Cursed idols. Dark magics. The return of ancient gods, wrathful and virtually omnipotent. He has a problem differentiating between fact and fiction.”

  “And yet…” Dean set a mug of coffee in front of the doctor and dropped into a chair across from him, cradling his own mug with both hands. “…you are traveling with a resurrected mummy there.”

  “Yes, well, there’s always an exception that proves the rule.”

  “He said you broke the seal keeping Meryat in her sarcophagus.”

  “I did. Good coffee. Blue Mountain?”

  “Organic Mexican.”

  “Ah.” Another swallow and a happy sigh. His face puffy and deep purple bags under both eyes, the archaeologist looked as thrilled to be up at six thirty as Dean felt. “My Meryat was once the wife of Rekhmire, Grand Vizier to Ramses the Great. One of Ramses’ Grand Viziers at any rate. He had four that we know of during the many years of his rule. She used to give the most magnificent parties—we’ve found records of them in a number of writings of that era—and at one of them she inadvertently insulted a High Priest by…”