by Amber Benson
“I want to stay,” Runt said tentatively as she looked from me over to her dad.
“Then be a good girl for your dad,” I whispered as I pulled the soft, black-furred puppy into my arms and pressed my cheek against her soft muzzle.
“Just don’t forget me,” Runt said softly. “I wanna come back soon.”
“Of course,” I said, scratching her ears. “You’re an honorary Reaper-Jones now—whether you like it or not.”
Giving the hellhound pup one more kiss on the top of her head, I stood up and watched as she trotted over to her father and sat back on her haunches beside him.
“See you later, then, alligator,” I said as Snarly head licked Runt sloppily across the side of the face.
I truly didn’t think I had ever seen anything cuter.
twenty-five
“Hey, Mr. Mom, how about a wormhole outta here?” I asked, very glad to be getting out of Hell in one piece and without a new job looming on the horizon. I shuddered, not wanting to think about how close I had come to losing everything that was important to me in one fell swoop.
“It would be our pleasure to send you home,” Snarly head said, giving Runt a knowing look. “Giselda?”
Runt issued a short bark, then gave her tail a furious wag. Suddenly, I heard a tinkling sound—like a thousand tiny fairy bells ringing in concert—followed by a dry breeze that counteracted the saturating sweatiness that I disliked so much about Hell. The dryness enveloped me, sending pleasant shivers up and down my spine, and I smiled, a sense of well-being permeating my entire body. A shimmering doorway magically appeared before us, splitting apart the air and radiating so much love and happiness that I wanted to sing with joy. My mind was filled with images of butterflies and unicorns and ice cream cones that dripped their sticky sweetness all over your hands when you tried to eat them.
It was like being shoved bodily into the overecstatic mind of a seven-year-old girl (which was kind of what Runt was), which was both fascinating and kind of frightening at the same time.
I had come across this kind of doorway before—both times at Runt’s behest. She was the only being I had ever met who could make traveling through time and space a pleasurable and satisfying experience, rather than a gut-churning, mindratcheting event. I decided that if I could learn to open a wormhole/doorway the way she did, I wouldn’t dread the prospect of time/space travel so much anymore.
“See you on the other side,” I said to Runt as I took Senenmut’s arm and we walked into the yawning chasm of light.
the only problem with Runt’s mode of transport was that after all the happiness and well-being you experienced inside the doorway, it was major emotional-letdown time when you actually reached your destination—which for us happened to be my dad’s darkened library. Whether you wanted it or not, you were left with a big, gaping hole in your heart where all the butterflies and unicorns and ice cream cones had, until just recently, resided.
I could see from Senenmut’s face that I wasn’t the only one who was affected by the loss of all the seven-year-old-girl stuff. I could only imagine that the experience was even harder on Senenmut than me because I had never lost a child before.
Especially a young female child.
Senenmut’s usually handsome face was ashen in the evening light, both hands curled into tight fists that he held rigidly at his sides. I couldn’t decide if it was anger or grief that consumed him so completely, but whichever emotion it was, I was glad it wasn’t directed at me. I knew that sometimes the only way to diffuse such strong emotion is to share it with someone else—even if it is only through the means of touch.
“It’s okay now,” I said, grasping Senenmut’s arm, causing him to instantly relax his hands. He gave me a tight smile and nodded, all the sadness pooling in the depths of his yellow eyes.
“Thank you.”
I smiled and squeezed his arm once more, then turned on the bronze standing lamp that stood beside the grandfather clock. It barely emitted enough light to half illuminate the room.
“Where are we?” Senenmut asked curiously.
“My dad’s library,” I said.
“You’re back, thank goodness—”
I turned to find Jarvis in the doorway, his face strangely passive. He had changed clothes since the last time I’d seen him, so that now he was wearing a thick brown Windbreaker, a white thermal shirt, and a pair of boy-sized corduroy pants. This gave me pause, as I had never seen Jarvis wearing anything less than Armani.
“Yep, home again, Jarvi—and what the hell are you wearing?” I said, my face twisting into an incredulous smirk.
I found myself wishing once again that I hadn’t lost my purse, so I could’ve pulled out my phone and taken a few blackmail-worthy pics of Jarvis’s wardrobe—for posterity, of course—even though I knew he would’ve gutted me if I’d even tried to go all paparazzi on his ass. Still, there was something really bizarre about seeing Jarvis dressed in Salvation Army castoffs, and the whole thing just begged to be documented.
Jarvis turned red as he caught me staring at his clothing choice.
“I’m in disguise,” he spat back at me defensively, pulling on the zipper of his light jacket.
“In disguise for what?” I said, snickering. “You look like an American Apparel ad gone bad.”
Jarvis pulled out his pince-nez—trying to regain his dignity, I supposed—and glared at me through the glass, which served only to make me snicker louder because he looked so absurd.
“Oh my God, I wish I had a camera,” I moaned as the snickering became full-fledged laughter.
“Just shut up,” Jarvis said as he prissily slipped the pince-nez from his face and put it back in his pocket.
I guess he’d realized how silly he looked trying to mix hip-hop hobo with dandy chic.
“Why are you in disguise anyway?” I asked.
Jarvis sighed, flipping on a few lamps before sitting down in one of my father’s leather wingback chairs and patting its arm. It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the extra light flooding the room, but out of the corner of my eye I caught a flash of fawn-colored fur streak across the Oriental carpet, pass the carved mahogany fireplace—which instantly burst into flame—and land gently upon the proffered arm of the chair.
A moment later, Clio followed the cat into the room—and I almost choked.
She had on a low-cut red halter top and a pair of supershort daisy dukes that made her look like a white-trash trailer-park princess. I had never in my life seen my younger sister dress this way, and frankly I was shocked at her choice of attire.
“Oh, you’re back,” Clio said absently as she came to stand behind Jarvis’s chair.
I didn’t know what to say. The Clio I knew and loved would never behave (or dress) like this. I was beyond certain that Bast was responsible for this new change in my sister’s personality.
“Uhm, yeah, we’re back.”
Clio’s eyes bounced away from me and flicked over Senenmut in a way that almost made me blush.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” I blurted out, but Clio merely shrugged.
“Oh, do I?”
Jarvis spoke up, his words sort of diffusing the tension.
“I suppose that we must let Bast fill you in on our wanderings,” Jarvis said softly as he reached out to stroke the back of the Abyssinian’s neck.
It kind of creeped me out the way Jarvis was petting the cat. I mean, he wasn’t usually this demonstrative, and when we’d last talked, we’d both pretty much agreed that we didn’t care for the Queen of the Cats . . . and now this?
Weird.
“I don’t think I want to hear what Bast has to say,” I murmured, my jawline rigid as I tried to contain my annoyance.
It seemed that while I was gone, trying to save Runt from what I thought was a permanent return to Hell, Bast was busy ingratiating herself with all my friends and family.
And trying to control their minds at the same time, I thought angrily.
Cl
io left the safety of the wingback chair and moved toward me, her eyes catching mine as she stepped closer.
“Callie, you have to listen to Bast,” Clio said, putting her arms around me and squeezing. “She didn’t know we were her allies before.”
“Allies in what?” I asked testily, shaking away Clio’s comforting embrace. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
Clio shrugged at my unwillingness to be reasonable and sat down on the leather couch in front of the fireplace. She gave Jarvis a meaningful glance, but he only shrugged.
“Calliope,” Jarvis said, continuing to stroke Bast, “I think you would do well to listen to what Bast has to say.”
I opened my mouth to answer him, but something stopped me—Jarvis never called me by my first name without trying to add a Mistress or Miss in there somewhere.
“My dear, I think by now you know the reason that I am here,” Bast said abruptly from her perch on the delicate arm of Jarvis’s wingback chair, her amber eyes like liquid gold in the firelight.
“It’s the curse. You wanted me to find Senenmut so that the curse the dying priest spoke would be set into motion,” I said gamely. It was only a guess, but I was pretty sure I had just hit the bull’s-eye.
Bast blinked, then sat back on her haunches to get a better look at me. I found myself entranced by the cat’s luminous eyes, so much so that I almost walked over to Jarvis’s chair and petted her. Only the knowledge of how much sneezing would be involved with the gesture kept me hanging back at a safe distance.
“Yes,” she said, her voice like crème caramel to my ears as she began to purr. “Hatshepsut and her Minx must be destroyed.”
“And that is precisely why I am wearing this disguise,” Jarvis added tersely.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“When I told Bast that you had been paid a visit by Madame Papillon, the noted aura specialist,” Jarvis said, “she was convinced that this could not be the case.”
“The real Madame Papillon hasn’t practiced in years,” Clio said. “She was ninety-four and not immortal. Bast and Jarvis just returned from her home in Wellington, New Zealand, where sadly they were informed that the old woman had recently died.”
I turned back to Senenmut to see what he thought about this new piece of information, but he was intently staring at Clio, his eyes narrowed.
“Yeah, well, you’re already preaching to the choir,” I said. “I figured all that out when Senenmut and I were back in Egypt. Besides, I know why Hatshepsut pretended to be Madame Papillon anyway: to warn me off you.”
I pointed to Bast.
“If I thought cats were my weakness, then I would steer clear of you and the curse might never be enacted,” I continued.
“Or at least that was Hatshepsut and her Minx’s hope.”
Jarvis and Clio exchanged another look.
“Yes, I believe you are correct,” Bast said, purring quietly. “But sadly, that hope was not correct. By the very action of trying to deceive you, they have now brought forth their own demise.”
“None of it really surprises me,” I said. “We already know that the Minx lied to Hatshepsut in order to get rid of Senenmut, so it only makes sense that it would try and trick me, too.”
Both Clio and Jarvis were staring at me and I couldn’t help wondering what the two of them were thinking.
“Minx are succubi,” Bast said suddenly, her voice low and harsh. “Their very survival depends on the continued existence of their host.”
“Wait—so as long as Hatshepsut remained alive . . .” I said but stopped, thinking—there was one important piece missing here.
“Why was Senenmut stuck with the Jackal Brothers?” I said abruptly. “He should’ve been judged and sent into the Afterlife.”
Bast nodded, pleased at my progress.
“Oh my God,” I said as the final piece snapped into place. “Senenmut was a sacrifice! So that Hatshepsut—and through her, the Minx—could gain some kind of immortality.”
“Yes!” Bast purred.
“You said that she had sworn to outwit the Gods.” I turned to Senenmut for confirmation. “That she would keep Death at bay as revenge for the Gods taking her daughter—”
“That cannot be,” Senenmut said, his voice tremulous. “Hatshepsut could not do something so terrible to me.”
I felt awful for the guy, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to him and tell him that the woman he loved hadn’t destroyed him for her own gain.
“I think part of her hated you because you were her link to everything she had lost,” I said softly.
Senenmut shook his head.
“No.”
But there was no weight to the word. He looked drawn and defeated as he sank down in the other wingback chair and pushed his face roughly into his hands, sobs racking his strong, able body.
I wanted to go to him, but Bast caught my eye and shook her head.
“Leave him be. He has much to process.”
“So, now what do we do?” I asked Bast.
“It seems only natural that you would invite the false Madame Papillon here so that you could set a trap for her and her Minx,” Bast said, her voice as smooth and sexy as silk. “Does it not?”
“Okay, say I invite them here,” I said, trying not to look at Senenmut’s hunched form. “What do I give as my reason for wanting to get in touch with her? I mean, it’s not like I can just call them up and say: I miss you. Let’s hang out.”
Bast, still purring, sat back on her haunches, away from Jarvis’s touch.
“Summon Hatshepsut under Madame Papillon’s name. Tell her that you would like to have the magic lesson she promised you. I believe that will be an offer that she and her Minx cannot afford to pass up.”
“Fine,” I said, “but only on one condition.”
“And what is that?” Bast purred as she hopped off the arm of the chair and skulked dangerously close to where I was standing.
Immediately, my nose started to itch.
“I want Daniel’s Shade back.”
Bast paused, her tail flicking arrogantly behind her.
“Oh, is that all,” she purred. “Of course you may have him back, my dear . . . of course.”
jarvis had insisted that the best way to summon Madame Papillon was to invoke a calling spell. Now, I had never in my life done a calling spell before, so I left the logistics of the thing up to Jarvis and Clio—who were much better at the magic stuff than I was. Together, they decided that the best place to invoke the spell was outside by the cliff’s edge—you know, the really creepy place where the three benches overlooked the water? I thought this was an odd place to do an invocation, but since Senenmut had chosen the same place to call up Nephthys, I just assumed that the benches had some kind of magical vibe surrounding them.
So, as the two of them—plus Bast—went outside to prep the spell, I waited in the kitchen with Senenmut.
in the overwhelming brightness of the kitchen’s recessed lighting, the poor guy looked like he’d just gotten hit by a Mack truck. His eyes were lusterless in his ashen face, and dark smudges circled them like desiccated leeches. The defeated slope of his shoulders belied the misery that was eating him from the inside out.
“Want some hot chocolate?” I asked. Senenmut only glanced at me blankly. It occurred to me after the fact that the guy had probably never even heard of hot chocolate before.
“It’s really good. I’m gonna make some anyway, so you can try mine, and if you like, I can make you some, too.” I said, my maternal instincts kicking in.
Senenmut nodded but didn’t look very excited at the prospect of this “hot chocolate” I was offering him. As I bustled around the kitchen, pulling milk from the refrigerator and cocoa powder from the ridiculously overstuffed pantry—I guess one never knew when one was gonna have to feed an invading army—I tried to keep an eye on the morose Egyptian. He sat hunched over a faded white wooden stool that was pushed up against the center isl
and, his face in his hands. He didn’t move as I poured the milk into a pan and set it to heat on the stainless steel Viking range that was the jewel of my mother’s kitchen.
“I cannot believe that Hatshepsut was aware of Mustafa’s treachery,” Senenmut said, his voice so low that I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to himself.
I waited, stirring the pan as the milk began to simmer, and figured that if it were me he was talking to, he’d let me know when he wanted an answer.
“I thought that I knew her . . . and the woman that I loved would not have betrayed me so willingly.”
I took two white china cups and saucers from the cabinet and poured some milk into each one.
“Maybe her need for revenge was greater than her need for human love,” I said softly.
“I do not think so,” Senenmut said gravely, looking up at me for the first time.
I didn’t answer as I stirred a couple of spoonfuls of cocoa powder into one of the cups of milk and set it in front of him. I did the same for myself, then took the stool beside him.
“Maybe you just didn’t know her as well as you thought you did,” I said, taking an exploratory sip of my drink—which was delicious—and trying not to burn the roof of my mouth at the same time.
Senenmut watched me sip my drink, then looked down at his own cup of hot chocolate.
“You said I could try yours first.”
I shrugged.
“I lied. It’s cocoa. I promise you you’re not gonna want to share it, either.”
This made Senenmut smile, but only for a moment, then the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“Do you really believe that it is a good idea to bring Hatshepsut and her Minx to your home?” Senenmut asked, sniffing the cup of cocoa curiously before sipping it.
“I don’t think I have any choice,” I said. “I either confront them here, where I have a little support, or at my tiny apartment, where I don’t.”
