Long Hot Summoning (22 page)

His reflection stared back.

Apparently, there was a trick to it.

He leaned closer until his breath fogged the glass. Leaned a little closer until there was less than a cat-hair’s width between his nose and the mirror. He was
not
in the mood for tricks. “HEY!”

Blue-on-blue eyes snapped up out of nowhere. “I’m not deaf! Or I wasn’t,” Jack added petulantly as Sam jumped back. His eyes slid from one side of the mirror to the other, then widened. “Okay, this is new. Hold it!” Sam froze, one paw in the air.

“Don’t move your reflection off the glass. It’s all that’s holding me here. Not that it
should
be holding me here. Or that I should be here at all.” The eyes narrowed speculatively. “Who knows, maybe our earlier connection left some residue or something. So what do you want?”

“Information.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m a mirror-not a database.”

“Information on Claire and Diana.”

“You lost
both
Keepers?”

Sam really didn’t like the way that sounded. “You know something.”

“Not about Claire, I haven’t seen her since you guys crossed over, but ...” Jack’s pause suggested all sorts of horrible possibilities. “But what?” Sam demanded, surging back toward the mirror.

“Diana was in the store; her and some elfin cutie. They stopped and talked, I told them what I knew, and they went into the back room. I don’t know how to break this to you, kid, but from the buzz I picked up later, they got caught.”

“By the bad guys?”

Blue-on-blue eyes rolled. “No, by the Publishers’ Clearing House prize patrol.

Of course by the bad guys!”

“And?”

“Sorry, kid. That’s all I know.”

“Okay.” Sam stepped away from the mirror, and the eyes disappeared. Tail whipping from side to side, he caught Stewart in an amber gaze and growled, “Get Arthur.”

Dean knew he was dreaming because, although he had once played hockey in his underwear, he’d never had so much trouble covering the ice. It had to have been five or six kilometers between the goals and by the time he crossed the blue line, he could barely put one skate in front of the other. With all his remaining strength, he drew back his stick, set up for a slap shot, and stared in amazement as the blue light around the puck turned white and sparkly and, for no good reason that he could determine, it ascended, becoming a higher being.

“Hey, McIssac!”

He looked down at Austin, wondering how he could actually blow a whistle without lips.

“What have I told you about keeping your stick on the ice?” It took him a moment to remember how his mouth worked. “Nothing.”

“Fine. If that’s the way you’re going to be about it, get up and feed me.”

“What?”

“I said, get up and feed me!”

A sudden sharp pain on his chin jerked his eyes open in time to see Austin pull back his paw, claws still extended.

“What’s a cat got to do to get some breakfast around here?” Rubbing his chin with his left hand, Dean reached for his glasses with his right. “That’ll do it.” The sheet felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and after he swung his legs out of bed, it took him a moment to remember what he was supposed to do next.

“Are you all right?”

“Just some tired.” He squinted toward the bedside table. “Is that the time, then?”

“Let’s see . . .” Austin walked across the pillows. “Numbers on a clock; yes, I’d have to say that was the time.”

“It’s seven thirty. I slept through the alarm.” He never slept through the alarm.

Had
never slept through the alarm. Ever. It bordered on irresponsible. Two tries to stand up, but once he was actually on his feet, his head seemed a little clearer.

Washing, shaving, dressing, refolding perfect hospital corners; by the time he set Austin’s saucer of cat food on the floor, he’d shaken off the sluggishness and was feeling more like himself.

Moving the fridge out from the wall and vacuuming the cooling coils banished the last of it.

It had probably been nothing more than a reaction to the uncomfortably warm temperature in the bedroom. He hated sleeping with a fan on and the air outside was so still and hot, an open window made little difference.

“Good morning.”

A pleasant soprano voice but not one Dean recognized unless Dr. Rebik had woken up in even worse shape than he had. He finished shouldering the fridge back against the wall, turned, and was surprised to see Meryat’s shrouded form standing alone at the end of the counter dividing kitchen and dining room.

“It is a ... beautiful day.”

It was already 29 degrees C, the sun so bright on the front of the guest house he’d nearly been blinded stepping into the office. Still, for someone used to the weather in Egypt it probably felt like home.

“You’re speaking English.”

Although he still couldn’t see her face, the tilt of her hood looked confused.

“England?”

“No, Canada.”

“But . . . English?”

“Canadians speak English. Except for those of us who speak French. We have two official languages, see, and we have people who speak both. And a Prime Minister who speaks neither. Sorry, that was kind of a joke,” he added hastily as he felt her confusion level rise. Taking a step toward her, he tried to explain. “He’s after having this accent that’s uh . . .”

Her hand rose toward his chest.

His voice trailed off and he froze, trying to decide which would be ruder, backing away or shuddering at her touch.

Fingertips, a little less black than they had been, stopped just above his Tshirt. Close enough that he could feel body heat filling the space.

“You are . . . strong.”

“Strong?” Then he remembered she’d seen him move the fridge and blushed.

“Well, yeah, I guess. Thank you.”

“Strong is ... good.”

There was a note in her voice that deepened the color of his ears. Nine months ago, he wouldn’t have even realized she was hitting on him, but since Claire . . .

“Your Keeper . . . will return . . . soon?”

“I hope so.”

She was smiling. He
knew
she was smiling. He just wished he knew what to do about it.

“Meryat?”

Her hand fell, but the heat lingered. She turned toward Dr. Rebik and murmured something in her own language. When he shook his head, she repeated it.

Or something so close to it Dean couldn’t tell the difference.

The archeologist sighed and motioned toward the dining room, allowing Meryat to precede him. “Would a little breakfast be possible, Mr. Mclssac?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll have what I had yesterday, and Meryat would like to know if there’s any chance of chopped dates and honey on a flatbread.” Why didn’t she ask him herself?

“Sorry, no, but I could do up some grape jelly on Melba toast.” Dr. Rebik glanced down at his companion then back at Dean, and shrugged wearily. “Close enough.”

“I don’t trust her. You’re too tired to get up this morning, and suddenly she’s able to complain about the food.”

“It’s not what she’s used to.”

Austin sighed and walked over to stand on the dishwasher where he could look Dean in the face.

“You’re missing the point. You’re tired. She’s got new skills. She’s a mummy. Mummies are known for sucking the life force out of the people they come in contact with.”

“We’re not in a cheesy horror movie here,” Dean protested as he straightened.

Austin merely stared.

“No matter what it seems like most of the time,” Dean amended. “And besides, you said you checked on her and she didn’t leave her bed. She’d have a little trouble sucking my life force from the second floor.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Why are you so suspicious?”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Austin, I can’t be after accusing her of something without proof. It doesn’t do any harm to think the best of people.”

“Yeah, tell that to your dried and desiccated corpse,” the cat muttered.

Jumping carefully down, he followed Dean out into the hall. “Now, where are you going?”

“Up to the third floor.” He hauled back the elevator door. “I can’t just leave Lance at the beach indefinitely. You want to come, then?”

“No . . . yes.”

“You’re thinking he’ll be an ally in this sudden antimummy thing of yours, aren’t you?”

Austin wrapped his tail around his toes and snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

By concentrating on what a pleasant swim she was having, Claire managed to have pretty much exactly that. Granted, the water had a tendency to throw in a grope or two when she was least expecting it, but she was a strong swimmer and, bottom line, it made what could have been a tedious hour a little more interesting.

When she could hear the breakers folding against the shore, she stopped and had another look, checking out potential landing sites. The white sand beach stretched in a shallow arc for six or seven kilometers rising up from the water in a series of staggered dunes, sand giving way to grasses, to low ground covers, to aspens, and a good distance inland to the darker blur of a mature forest.

The blue-and-white-striped cabana, flags flapping, sides billowing in the gentle breeze, looked ridiculously out of place.

Blue-and-white-striped cabana?

Claire lost her stroke, got smacked in the face by a wave, choked, coughed and started swimming with everything she had left. Assumptions, conscious or subconscious, were no longer relevant. She
knew
what lived here.

The first time they’d used the elevator, the first time they’d stepped out on this beach, had nearly been their last. While she and Dean had been wading, taking a bit of a break from the extended responsibilities their lives had become bogged down in, a giant not-a-squid had heaved itself up through the surf, attacked, and almost crawled-squelched? flopped?-back into the elevator with them. It had moved terrifyingly fast even on land, out of its natural habitat.

Did an unnatural creature
have
a natural habitat,
Claire wondered, sucking in a lungful of damp air and then burying her face again for another dozen strokes.
Or
would it be an unnatural habitat?

Not that it mattered. It was fast on land. In the water . . .

The gentle touches had become motivating rather than interesting, each bringing with it the image of a tentacle tip rising from the depths.

Or the shallows.

The waves were stronger this close to shore and gritty with sand scooped up from the bottom. Claire crested a breaker, let it carry her forward, tumbled out of it, rolled once, got her feet under her, planted them firmly, and pushed off. It wasn’t quite body surfing, but it was faster than swimming.

Still not as fast as the not-a-squid.

Would you just shut up!

Subconscious, conscious; she neither knew nor cared.

During the brief time Augustus Smythe had been back in charge of the guest house, he’d killed three. In the first two months they were back, she and Dean had taken out two more. They hadn’t seen one since.

Which didn’t mean anything, really.

What part of shut up are you having trouble understanding?

The next time her feet touched bottom, she was standing in water only thigh-deep and it was faster to run. Her skirt, which had been floating free and in no way impeding her kick, had decided to buy into the general sense of urgency by wrapping around her legs. Wet silk had the tensile strength of 80s hair spray and, unable to get the knots untied, she finally hoisted it to waist level and made it ashore.

Well aware that collapsing at the edge of wet sand, sinking down, gasping for breath, and giving thanks for her survival would have been the proper dramatic gesture, Claire kept moving until she got to the cabana. A dramatic gesture on the Otherside tended to call an appreciative audience. She did
not
need to deal with any more weirdness right now.

Throwing back the flap, she stared down at the large blond Bystander lying on one of the air mattresses, his left arm tucked up behind his head, his right curved around an inflatable shark. Even in the dim light filtering through the canvas, all his exposed skin was a deep, painful red; Claire’d seen rarer steaks.

His eyes were a brilliant blue.

Eyes?

“Nice underwear!”

Dropping her skirt, she wondered why she’d expected him to be Australian.

“Who are you?”

“Lance Benedict!” Tossing the shark aside, he bounded to his feet. “You escaped from her, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Meryat!”

“No.” She stepped inside and let the flap fall. “How did you get here?”

“The same way you did, I imagine!”

“Do us both a favor and don’t imagine anything.” Technically, Bystanders couldn’t affect the Otherside, but in all the times she’d taken the elevator to the beach, Claire had never realized it was on the Otherside so ... wait. Could there be more than one Otherside? Would that not depend on how many sides reality started with? And did that not depend on an agreed upon definition of reality?

My head hurts.

“Did she throw you from her dahabeeyah?”

“Her what?” With any luck, there was some variety of painkiller in the first aid kit.

“Her boat. You’re wet! Did she throw you from her boat?”

“Who is
she
?”

“Meryat, the reanimated undead! I’m the only one who knows how to stop her!”

Claire looked down at the two aspirins in her hand and realized they were going to be insufficient.
“Please,
tell me everything from the beginning.”

“In the beginning, only the ocean existed, and on this ocean appeared an egg from which was born the sun-god, Atum. He had four children, Geb and Shu, Tefnut and Nut. Planting their feet on Geb . . .“

“Lance.”

“Yeah?”

“Skip ahead.”

Okay. There was a 3,000-year-old mummy and the archaeologist who’d freed her from her cursed existence in the guest house with Dean and Austin. Given the type of clientele the guest house attracted, this was in no way surprising. A pair of Shriners and their wives, yes. Reanimated Egyptian noblewomen, no.

But Lance believed that Meryat was dangerous, that she would suck dry the lives she came into contact with until she regained her former power, that she would then use that power to take over the world. He also believed that Dr. Rebik was under some kind of mind control that kept him from seeing Meryat as she really was and that the beach was her initial attempt to bury the world under the sands of ancient Egypt.