Fury From the Tomb
Page 34
“A-ha. And your interest in occultism?”
“I have my father’s library – now, my library. I will further my studies.”
“At your leisure?”
She smiled. “At my leisure.” She nodded. “I like the sound of that.” She stretched out like a cat. Her cats’ eyes sparkling green as jewels. A little sleepy, still alert. Her breath was warm on my cheek when she asked in a whisper, “Where will you go, Romulus?” To hear her pronounce my Christian name – a name only my mother ever used – was oddly stimulating. I wanted her to say it again. I was sure I would never grow tired of finding ways to make her call to me just so I might listen. But would she?
“I don’t know,” I said, answering honestly. I could take no credit for my only archaeological dig. I had no sponsor. No prospects. “Back to school? I miss the stuffy library.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “If you go back anywhere, it will be to Egypt.”
“On whose dollar?”
“Monty Waterston’s. I am funding an Institute for Singular Antiquities in memory of my father. Based in New York City. For the study of ancient cultures and their most uncommon artifacts. Something like that, oh, I haven’t worked out the details yet, but we will probably be able to scrape up some coins for Rom Hardy to get back into the grave-robber business.”
Return to Egypt? On my own terms this time, without the burden of another man’s agenda and ethics? I was nearly speechless at the prospect. The ancient world opened up to me once more: renewed, mysterious, deeper than it had been the first time, and overflowing with treasures even before I stuck another shovel into the sand. The chance to remain in contact with Evangeline enticed me more. It was as if my world had doubled, then quadrupled in size. I felt dizzy watching it grow in all directions.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Always,” she said, her voice growing husky.
She wrapped her arm around mine, and leaned against my chest. But a second later she pulled her head back and said, “What is this awful lump in your jacket?”
I fished into my pocket. “Oh, I had nearly forgotten about this.”
I showed her the ancient flint dagger that I had returned to salvage from the mine.
She traced the shape of the unnamed monster carved into it. The edge of her thumb played along the exquisitely sharp blade.
“The judges from the Duat left it behind,” I said.
“This will be the first artifact in our Institute for Singular Antiquities.”
She handed me the dagger, resumed her napping position, and soon entered dreamland.
In Yuma, we went our separate ways. McTroy and Wu returned to Black Shirl’s with our horses, Moonlight and Neptune. Evangeline bought a train ticket to California.
Parting was sad business as it always is when we separate from those of whom we have grown fond. There is a taste of death, a pinch sprinkled into the mix of goodbyes and promises to write letters that we all can taste. I hated most to leave her. Her sudden offer to sponsor my work, to sponsor me – felt like more than pure scholarly interest or a mere investment in a potentially lucrative exotic venture. But what if that was all it was?
She was bolder than I. If she wanted something beyond a decent Egyptologist for her Institute, then she would leave me some clues. It would be my job to decipher them.
I went to New York, and waited to hear more.
New Year’s Day, 1920
Manhattan, New York City
Dear Rom,
I regret to be the one who must tell you the great man is among us no more. He has gone to the stars. That was his wish, he confided, as I sat him up on his horse only two evenings ago, and we walked around the corral. Our world is more desolate for his having left it. I remind myself the bottomless grief I feel at this moment too shall pass. At least he did not suffer. I happily took away his pain during these final twilit days. My medical training proved worthy of the years I spent in study if only to accomplish this task. The opium tinctures made him sleepy yet inclined to conversation. We talked about old times! About Mexico, and the “bandaged bastards” as he still called them. To the end he slept with loaded pistols hanging from the bedpost, saying he saw the raggedy, gauze-bound corpses lurching forward in his dreams. Going through his night chest, I discovered a newspaper cutting of Miss Evangeline I had never seen before. Does a public recital in San Francisco ring any bells? It was sweet of him to keep it for so long. Would you not agree? I hope this subject is not too tender to broach. I am aware your last parting was not on the best of terms, and in recent years no communication passed between you, the great rift only widening. Yet history – beginning with our dangerous ride south and the ill-fated Mexico expedition! – will always bind you together. So I was wondering if we three survivors – you, Evangeline, and me – might we not get together for dinner in Manhattan? I will be attending a New Year’s party in the City. Are you interested in a social call on New Year’s Day? Please say, “Yes!”
Truly, one of your oldest friends,
Dr Yong Wu, MD
December, 1919
San Francisco, California,
My windows were frozen. I scraped ice from the inside of the glass and looked down on the streets. They were, for the most part, empty. My whisky bottle was empty too. Hail McTroy! My head: achy. These bones creaked when I moved. Can everyone hear?
I put away the ushabti. When I stood, the blood rushed to my head and I had to steady myself. Where was my ape’s-head cane? Ah, by the door. I grabbed it. What a comfort, better than a dog. I never had to take my walking stick out for a walk. Ha! Ha!
I closed the cabinet, located water, poured it down my parched throat.
Dry as a desert…
Once I knew a dangerous young woman and we shared some adventures you never would believe. Old men get to dreaming in the idle hours… what never was… what might have been… I can’t go back. You never go back. But in your mind, you do. You can’t help it. You pick at your past and dust it for clues. Your heart beats faster, but you’re lucky that it beats at all. Old man, you’ve enjoyed a good, full life. It’s never enough. The thrills return to me. The perils, too. We are side by side. Evil gathers like a thundercloud, but oh, I wish to live it all again…
The old knees were knocking.
No, it was a door. Three floors below. Someone was pounding on the front door.
I went to the window and scraped.
There was a man. Not too tall. Well-dressed, in a top hat.
And a woman was with him.
I didn’t need a clear view to know who she was. Her shape was enough.
I was down the stairs in no time. The walking stick hit each step like a drumbeat. When I reached the ground floor and opened the inner door leading to the vestibule, I heard her talking to him, to Yong Wu.
“Perhaps, he isn’t here,” he said.
“He always comes to the Institute. Trust me, I know.” She sounded the same as she did years before. But since I had been caught up in memories, I heard something fresh in her voice.
I touched the cold, cold doorknob and I paused. What if opening this door is a mistake. The past should stay in the past. Odji-Kek and the mummy brethren. McTroy with his guns and horses. His rough charm. Why ruin old memories? Things had settled. Like layers in a dig, my life had settled. Why go back and re-live what can’t possibly happen again. But do I know what is over? Or what is merely paused? Does anything vanish as long as we still remember?
You think too much, Rom.
Snow had blown under the door sill. White as sugar, soft as sand. For someone who has spent the better part of the last four decades digging, burrowing like a scarab, day and night it seemed, into mountains of dry, golden trickling, windswept tombs, I have never gotten comfortable with the stuff. The electric winds of memories were standing my hairs on end. How did I get here? Egypt. Egypt and Evangeline made me who I am.
I opened the door.
Acknowledgments
It is a t
rue pleasure working with everyone on the Angry Robot team. I especially want to thank Phil Jourdan, Marc Gascoigne, and Penny Reeve for bringing my words up from the tomb and into the light of day. Thanks to Gary Heinz, Bob Tuszynski, and Shari Wright for being my early readers. Special thanks to fellow writer and damn fine novelist Steve Hockensmith for reactions and advice on craft. My extraordinary agent, Ann Collette, told me to write this book, and without her there would be no cowboys and mummies. Lastly, I would not make it through the day without the support and inspiration of my wife and children. Lisa, Emma, and Quinn – you’re the best.
About the Author
S A Sidor writes supernatural historical adventures. He lives near Chicago with his family. He is also the author of four acclaimed dark crime thrillers.
stevensidor.blogspot.co.uk • twitter.com/sa_sidor
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An Angry Robot paperback original 2018
Copyright © S A Sidor 2018
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UK ISBN 978 0 85766 761 8
US ISBN 978 0 85766 761 8
EBook ISBN 978 0 85766 762 5
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-0-85766-762-5
Fury From the Tomb
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
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