Strange and Ever After (22 page)

Our fuel salesman had fallen asleep beside his donkey—which had, in turn, fallen asleep beside a sycamore. I left Oliver to deal with him while Allison, Jie, and I hurried into the gondola. We found Joseph laying planks back over the engine.

His face lit up at the sight of us—especially at the sight of Jie. “You are well?” At her nod, he smiled wide. But then his eyes settled on our evening gowns. His forehead puckered. “I
do
hope you did not spend our funds on dresses.”

“Not at all,” Allison declared with a laugh. “One hundred eleven American dollars, two hundred thirty-four Turkish sovereigns, ninety-seven British pounds, and four hundred twenty-one Egyptian
gineih
. And it is all with Mr. McIntosh now, so he may secure our fuel.”

Joseph huffed a relieved laugh. “That is good. We were beginning to worry when it grew so late.” He picked at his bandages.

“Oh, do stop,” Allison scolded, flurrying toward him. “You will bring infection if you continue.” She leaned in and scrutinized. “Actually, we ought to change those wrappings now. Our trip was very fruitful, and we managed to buy both fresh bandages as well as a scarificator.” She twirled around, motioning to Jie. “Come along, both of you. We shall clean you up, Mr. Boyer, and try out the new scarificator, Miss Chen.”

She strode into the hall, and Jie tiredly followed. Before
Joseph could join, though, I snagged his sleeve. “Where is Daniel?”

“I believe he went for a walk in the ruins.” Joseph glanced at the open hatch. “He only
just
finished fixing the engine.”

Good
. I could find Daniel later then.

I let Joseph, Jie, and Allison vanish into the washroom before I hurried to my cabin. Then, in a rush, I closed the door and yanked the ivory tusks from my boots. My curiosity had been eating me up since the Bulaq Museum, and now I could finally examine these artifacts. I wanted to see how the fist had fused onto the carved, flat piece. I wanted to
know
what an ancient pharaoh had awoken to give me.

Moving to the porthole, I held both tusks in the moonlight.

The tusk with the half-clenched fist—
my
fist on it—looked as if it had never been broken. I squinted, my eyes still adjusting to the dimness of the cabin, but a careful scrutiny showed no sign of fracture. If I had not seen the two pieces fuse together, I would never have believed they were ever separated.

The next thing I noticed was that my ivory fist was the right hand, and the other was the left. Clearly, the two pieces were a set. The question was: a set for
what
?

A yawn cracked through my jaws. I was too tired and confused to examine properly, so I stowed the artifacts beneath my pillow for later inspection. Yet as I moved to undress, I glimpsed a figure outside, ambling along a distant wall; and as I watched, he hunkered down, craned his neck back, and stared up at the stars.

Daniel.

I could change into practical clothes later; right now I did not want to miss seeing him. So I hurried from the gondola and into the night. The cool air clung to my bare shoulders, my exposed collarbone, refreshing and alive.

My skirts rustled with each step—and the sounds grew louder as I glided through the grass, dug my heels into crumbled gravel. The nearer I drew to the ruins, the more the world seemed to melt away—fade into a dream.

For this moment—dressed in a beautiful gown, gliding through silver wheat toward the ancient remains of a temple—seemed too fantastic to be real.

And yet it
was
real.

As was Daniel when I rounded a row of broken columns and reached him. At the sound of my approach, he twisted . . . and then his eyes widened.

“Empress,” he breathed, kicking off the wall. His feet crunched onto the rubble, yet he did not move toward me. He simply watched, looking stunned. Lost.

So I moved to him, bold and unafraid, and stopped two paces away. The breeze ruffled through his hair, billowed through his shirt.

“Is this real?” he asked softly. “Or am I sleeping?”

I laughed, a soft but genuine
laugh
. “It’s real.”

Ever so slowly, as if he feared the moment might break, Daniel eased closer.

The breeze kept sweeping; the grass kept singing.

He shook his head, almost in wonderment. “I have no idea where that dress came from, but I would say it was made for you.”

I gave a shy smile, and happy heat warmed my face.

He grinned back and swooped into a graceful bow. “May I have this dance?”

“There’s no music.”

“We don’t need music.” Narrowing the space between us, he slid one arm tentatively around my waist. When I didn’t pull away, he grew braver and tugged me close. Then his left hand gently clasped my right. “The last time we danced,” he said, “at that ball in Paris, you were bewitched. I want you to have a new memory of dancin’ with me.” He eased into a slow one-two-three, one-two-three. “And”—he briefly touched his forehead to mine—“
I
want to have a new memory too.”

I could summon no worthy response. I could only shake my head and stare up at him. This
had
to be a dream. He still had grease streaks on his cheeks, and he smelled so very much like himself—of outdoors and machines.

Daniel. My Daniel.

One-two-three. He whisked me through the grass, past fallen columns, beneath wide sycamore limbs. One-two-three.

We left the ruins behind. Spinning. Stepping. Smiling. Until at last Daniel twirled me once, my skirt swirling out, and then . . . he stopped. And the only sound was our rhythmic breaths and the wind shimmying through the grass.

His eyes ran over my face. Then he barked a low laugh.

“What?” I asked, unable to look away from him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he said quietly. “You, lookin’ like this . . . and being with
me
.”

“And standing in the middle of an Egyptian wheat field.”

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly and wet his lips. “I never thought I would be this lucky. Not a fellow like me.”

“A fellow like you,” I said, lifting my hands to grab his collar. “Which is what?”

His lips curved into a half smile. “I believe you once called me a scalawag.”

“Then I suppose it’s good I like scalawags.” I rose onto my toes and brought my lips
almost
to his.

He stayed quiet. Frozen. If he spoke . . . if he breathed, our mouths would touch—and it would be over the cliff for us.

He knew it. I knew it. Magical moments like this did not happen every day. They meant something. They
changed
something, and once we crossed this line, there would be no going back.

And then his mouth moved. He spoke one word: “Yes.” Our lips grazed, our breaths mingled, and we fell utterly and completely into each other.

Slow. Determined. Unflinching.

Our bodies moved together, our lips feasted, and the grass around us vanished. My fingers explored the shape of him—the muscles in his back, the bones of his hips . . . the power of his thighs. And his hands roamed fiercely—hungrily—over every inch of me.

For the minutes or hours or years we spent tumbling into each other, I shared everything I had with Daniel—
my
Daniel.

And he shared back.

But as always happened, our dream came to an end. When Joseph shouted for Daniel to get the balloon inflated, Daniel had to disentangle himself from my limbs, my skirts, my fingers. And the instant he pulled away, I wanted him back. I wanted his mouth, his hands, his strength
back
. . . but I understood he was needed elsewhere.

And I understood we had our entire lives to drown in each other. We had started something—together—and there was no taking it back.

So I gave Daniel a lingering, full kiss, and I sent him on his way. Then I lay back in the grass and stared up at the moon. I was not ready for sleep—not yet. I wanted to savor this night. Replay every moment in my head.

For it had been perfection.

Wind caressed me. I turned my head to the side and caught sight of the obelisk. It gleamed like a knife, and behind it, the balloon was just starting to inflate.

I climbed to my feet, not even bothering to dust off my gown. There was no salvaging it at this point, and it had served its purpose.

Then, in a dreamlike haze, I wandered toward the obelisk. Something about it called to me. When I reached its base, I craned my head back and stared up to its tip.

This carved granite had stood here, inflicting awe, for
thousands of years. It was ancient. As immortal as my demon.

At the thought of Oliver, the obelisk seemed to flicker—to
drift
mistily before me like a beam of clouded sunlight—and I had an urge to explore the monument more closely. To trace the hieroglyphs and try to decode its secrets. . . .

“A perfect night, huh?”

I jolted around. Oliver stood only paces away, his yellow eyes bleary and flask in hand. He tipped back a swallow and listed to one side.

I frowned. “You’re drunk.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I believe I consumed enough zabib to kill a small donkey.”

I sniffed and turned back to the obelisk.

Oliver stalked in closer. “I need to speak with you.”

“Speak to me when you are sober.” I planted my hands on the cool granite and stared back to the top.

“Or . . .” Oliver paused beside my outstretched arms. His eyes seemed silver in this light. “I will speak to you now.” His lips curled back. “There is something we need to . . . discuss.”

“And what is that?” I asked in an indifferent tone.

“Tomorrow, at the pyramids, I cannot find the Old Man.”

I stiffened, then slowly dragged my hands down the smooth granite. “What,” I growled, “do you mean?”

“
You
must find him.” He slipped into the space between me and the obelisk. “Remember how Jacques Girard called you
pharaon
?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was puzzled by it.
Pharaon
. Pharaoh.” He licked his lips as if tasting the word. The breeze twined through his hair, brushing strands onto his forehead. Into his eyes.

He did not seem drunk now. He seemed poised. Dominant.
Demon
. His legs slid into a slow, predatory gait around me.

“You are not even male,” he murmured, his gaze roving up and down the length of me as he paced. “So why would Girard label you with such a title?”

“I don’t know,” I said, keeping my eyes firmly ahead. I would
not
let Oliver take control of this moment.

“Well, I asked Girard that question.” Oliver stalked behind me and then leaned in toward my ear. “Imagine my surprise,” he whispered, “when he said you carry an artifact. An
imperial
artifact that marks you as pharaoh.”

Cold slid through me. Yet I stayed very still and kept my face blank.

Oliver resumed his careful walk until he was back in front of me. Until his glowing eyes bored into mine. “Girard told me this artifact is an ivory hand, and funnily enough, I recalled someone else with such a hand. Someone in Paris who is now
dead
.”

“If you have known so long,” I said coolly, “then why have you said nothing until now?”

“Because you said nothing to me.” He cocked his head to one side. “I thought I would see how long before you
did
share—for surely you would tell me eventually. Me. Your demon. But then what should happen tonight?” His eyebrows lifted. “I watched as you received the final pieces of the artifact.” He tipped his face
toward me. “Yet you still. Said.
Nothing
.”

“You . . . you saw?” My mind raced back to that frozen moment when Thutmose II had knelt and offered me the ivory tusks. “How did you see? O-or know?”

“Time might have slowed, El. My brain, my eyes—they did not.”

“You should have said something.”

His nostrils flared. “No,
you
should have said something.”

I compressed my lips. I owed him no apology.

He pulled back, and with a forced nonchalance, he leaned against the obelisk. “But why ruin this perfect night, hmm? You and your inventor. So happy.” He spread his hands. “It amazes me how easily you forget all the darkness surrounding you, El. How blind you are to your own corruption. Luckily, I am here to remind you. Let us see. . . .” He ticked off one finger. “First, your brother killed Miss Wilcox’s brother—among many other victims, murdered at his hands.”

My teeth gritted as Oliver ticked off a second finger. “Then
he
died, and a necromancer took possession of his body.”

My teeth gritted harder.
Why
could he never let me have one moment’s peace?
“Stop.”

A third and fourth finger unfurled. “That same necromancer wearing Elijah’s skin then
killed
your mother and compelled your best friend—”

My hand cracked out. I slapped him. Pain lanced up my arm, and he lolled against the obelisk. Yet he did not stop speaking. “You are as blackened as Elijah now, Eleanor, and no matter how
fast you run, you cannot escape what you are becom—”

I attacked.

It was as if a switch went off inside me. I lost all sense of who I was. I simply saw Oliver’s gloating, perfect face, and I wanted to shred it.

My fingers grabbed at his cheeks. He spun away—but I expected it. We were
connected
. I knew what he would do.

I lashed out with my leg and tripped him. He tumbled forward, tangling in my skirts, and I sprang onto his back—pummeling. Scratching.
Hissing
.

His chest hit the earth. I landed on him, clutching for his neck—for the soft flesh above his pulse.

He flipped me. In half a breath, wheat and grass streamed along the sides of my vision. I crashed onto my back. My breath punched out. Oliver pinned my arms over my head.

I fought. I kicked.

But my demon was strong. He held me firmly trapped.

“What do you want?” I screeched at him, writhing. “Why do you
do
this?”

“Let’s call it a final attempt to reclaim my dignity.”

“But
why
do you torment me?” I fought harder. I kicked harder. “You know what shadows chase me—why can I have
no
happiness?”