CHAPTER 13
Fort Brydon, Cairo.
There was a great storm brewing over Cairo.
Heavy grey nimbus clouds shielded the land from the Sun's rays, and thunder rumbled as if Baal the storm god was feeling particularly wrathful.
But within Jonathan Carnahan's home in Fort Brydon, another sort of storm was tearing the place apart.
"I don't understand how you could just flat-out abandon me like that, Perry!"
"What I don't understand, Jonathan, is how you could just accidentally awaken a three thousand year old mummy!"
The front door slammed shut.
The soles of Jonathan's spectator shoes slapped noisily onto the hardwood floors as he thundered about the front room of his house.
A round of dull thuds overpowered this noise momentarily as Pyrrah dumped his bags carelessly by the door, and then her own footsteps pattered across the ground.
"Well, I didn't wake the damn thing up!" he shouted back at her.
He stood and ran his thin fingers through his hair, muttering curse words under his breath and seething from the stress of it all.
Jonathan's home was less of a home and more of a check-point, to which he retreated every now and again to seek sanctuary.
His bed was second only to whatever benches he passed out on during the week, and so between his car, the bar and the lodgings of the numerous women he slept with, it wasn't used half as much as it could have been.
Deciding the weather outside was not very eye-pleasing, Perry stormed over to the cretonne curtains and yanked them shut.
"I told you to leave, though." She had lowered her voice, but spoke with noticeable anger.
Jonathan switched a lamp on to make up for the darkness cast by the drapes; on the table below the light sat a bottle of scotch, already opened, from which he proceeded to pour himself a tumbler.
Perry watched him seat himself in his armchair and sink into the leather. It creaked. He rubbed his eyes sighed, before practically draining his drink.
As far as she knew, most of the furniture in Jonathan's house had been picked out by Evie some time ago. The basic stuff, anyway.
But bland, tasteful, colour-coordinated items were never really Jonathan's style, and so a jumble of mismatched items he had collected over the years now sat between squashed silk pillows and creased pongee throws.
African masks hung from the walls, and a massive stone statue of a foo dog from his travels in the orient guarded one corner. The marble head of a Greek statue served as a paperweight on his desk, and tribal vases lined the shelves of books that adorned every wall.
Brass carvings of Hindu gods, a jug from Pompeii, the helmet of a Mongol warrior and a brightly coloured rocking chair from South America were among the cluttered mess in which he resided.
Jonathan had acquired some of these artefacts himself, objects that had caught his eye when his career was flourishing and had never end up being sold. Others, like a stone tablet with Horus, Osiris and Isis sculpted into it, had once belonged to his father.
It was madness and adventure spread over poshness and coated with the smell of whiskey.
Perry imagined this to be what Evie's house would look like, if Evie were insane.
"Well, I told you to stay," Jonathan said, tiredly. "But, apparently, not everybody does what they're told."
The argument that had spanned the entire duration of their arrival in Fort Brydon had just lost its fire.
Gingerly, Perry moved over to Jonathan's desk and took a seat at his chair. She stifled a yawn and joined him in staring at the floor.
The old railway station clock that hung on the wall— one of Perry's favourite items of Jonathan's, since she had never seen an English train station but rather fancied it— ticked steadily in their silence.
"I thought you'd been eaten by locusts."
It was five minutes or so before she made that remark. Jonathan looked over at her and scoffed.
"Little buggers couldn't tear through this chap's skin, I'll tell you now," he said, with all sincerity. "Tough as nails, I am."
Perry giggled.
The angry tension in the air evaporated.
"So," she sighed. "Do you have any idea what we should do now?"
Jonathan looked thoughtful.
"Leave."
His assistant raised an eyebrow, watching as he drummed his fingers along his lips.
"Leave?"
"Yes," Jonathan mused. "Get as far away from that bloody creature as possible, what do you say?"
Perry looked down at her clothes, which were still largely stained with Burns' blood. It was no surprise that people had been staring as they made their way through Fort Brydon.
She wanted to visit Burns, and see how he was getting along. Even Daniels and Henderson would be shaken, and should be checked up on.
"Um, no." she told Jonathan. "We can't leave now. We've created a mess, and we can't just run away from it."
Jonathan moaned, and sunk further into the armchair.
"Why? Can't those men with swords sort it out?"
Perry rolled her eyes and stood up.
"No!" she walked over to his side and snatched his crystal tumbler off of him. "You have to at least make an effort to fix this, Mr. Carnahan."
Like a petulant child, Jonathan groaned and buried his head in the arm of the chair.
"Fine!" he droned, his voice muffled. "How do you propose I 'fix things', then?"
She shrugged and stepped around the back of the armchair, leaning on the mahogany backing with her elbows.
"I don't know. What do you know about curses?"
Jonathan sat up, and stared blankly at wall opposite him. There was a framed picture, of he and a man with a top hat and moustache. Following his eyeline, it took Perry a while to realise that it was a photograph of he and Howard Carter.
"Nothing," he told the portrait, voice blue. "I know nothing about curs—"
He stopped.
Perry looked down at him with concern. To her surprise, he spun to face her and bolted up onto his knees. The suddenness of his enthusiastic face in front of hers gave her a shock.
"I know nothing about curses," he said, beaming at her. "But it just so happens, darling, that I know somebody who does."
Perry paused. She couldn't fathom what he might be talking about.
"Who?"
Jonathan hopped off the chair and stood in the centre of the room, clicking his fingers boisterously and striding around with a sudden nervous anticipation. He looked like a street performer, trying to capture his audience with the portrayal of an anxious schoolboy.
"Perry, do you know why I was at the Sultan's Casbah the night I stole from O'Connell?"
Well, this was something she hadn't known. Jonathan rarely needed a motivation to end up in a bar, but now she was intrigued.
"...Because you were kicked out of every other pub in Cairo?"
Jonathan ignored her snarky statement.
"No. Because I wanted to get very, very drunk. Because of a lady."
Within the minute, they were out of Jonathan's flat and thundering downstairs to his car.
"What lady?" Perry demanded as they descended another flight of steps.
Jonathan had 'relations' with countless Helens and Ruths, Marjories and Thelmas, all beautiful, all rich, and all sharing his love of alcohol.
There was the occasional high-class prostitute— Perry was smart enough to tell when a girl was working— or exotic dancer thrown into the mix, but at the end of the day, he wasn't committed to a single one of them.
Perry had grown to believe it was simply the culture of Western men to behave in such ways.
So when Jonathan said that he had gotten drunk over a woman, she was more than curious.
"Oh, a monster of lady," he told her with bitter glee. "A real witch, a Jezebel if ever I've—"
"Jonathan, who?!"
She grabbed the shoulder of his coat and stopped him as they reached the outdoors. The sky rumbled. Jonathan glanced up at the storm and sighed.
"Her name is Marina," he admitted. "Marina Quatermain."
XxXxXx
"I've known her since I was a boy. Our fathers were good friends."
The current lodgings of Ms. Marina Quatermain were situated on the north side of Fort Brydon, a penthouse suite within the British Embassy's establishment.
Once they had been directed to the woman's whereabouts, Jonathan explained to Perry a little bit about his old friend. Quite frankly, Perry thought she sounded like a figment of her boss' imagination: he had obviously built her up in his memory as being some sort of beautiful goddess of torture.
"And what exactly is the nature of your... Relationship?" she asked him, suspicious of his state of mind.
Jonathan pulled a pained face.
"Let's just say she was the first girl I... became close with. When I was a teenager."
Oh, Perry thought, putting the pieces together. That's why this is all so tragic to him.
They reached the front door of Marina Quatermain's home. This building, to the top floor of which they had just hurried, was like a hotel. Classical music was playing softly somewhere, and everything reeked of lavender potpourri.
Jonathan knocked, and then loosened his necktie worriedly.
"Did you leave her?" Perry whispered, carefully.
He stared at the door, for so long that she thought he wasn't going to answer at all.
"Quite the opposite," he finally replied. "She left me, and tore my bloody heart out as she went."
Perry felt a twinge of sadness for the man. They waited in silence for this dreaded first love of his to answer the door, and when the lock clicked, she found herself anxious to get a look at this heartbreaking harlot.
The door opened.
Surrounded by floating ribbons of cigarette smoke was a woman— a woman whose aura didn't read 'harlot' or 'jezebel' at all, but rather beheld the female embodiment of an angel.
A shock of blonde marcel curls met a silver silk gown, and between them her porcelain white skin was without flaw.
Bright, aquamarine eyes watched the world lazily from behind smoky lashes, and her scarlet smile was crooked as it curved up at the sight of Jonathan.
"Well, if it isn't Jonathan Carnahan." Her voice was melodic, her accent proper and English. "Heard I was in town, did you?"
If Jonathan had been any weaker-willed, he might have dropped to his knees then and there and begged her to take him back. Instead, he smiled, like he was somehow relieved to hear her speak.
"Yes, Marina, I did."
Marina Quatermain turned around and drifted back into her home, leaving them in the open doorway. Jonathan ushered Perry through, and shut the door behind them.
The suite was probably the exact opposite of Perry's house. Spacious, expertly decorated, clean, fully furnished and with a calming atmosphere, it didn't take her long to deduce that Marina was either a millionaire or closely related to a millionaire.
Their hostess glided— because she was inhumanly graceful in even the way she moved from place to place— over to a cabinet to pour herself an alcoholic drink of some sort.
Perry nudged Jonathan, urging the man to stop daydreaming and get on with their intended business. He cleared his throat.
"Um, actually, Marina, if—"
"Is that your wife?"
There was a pause. Marina hadn't turned to face them yet. It took Perry a moment to realise that she was asking about her.
"Oh, no, this is my assistant, Perry," Jonathan laughed. "Say hello, Perry."
There's no need to talk to me like I'm a dog, she thought.
"Salutations, Ms. Quatermain."
Marina turned and beamed at Perry. The champagne glass she held was practically the size of a fish bowl.
"Pleasure to meet you, dear," she said. "Does Jonathan treat you well?"
Perry nodded.
"Yes."
Marina's smiling eyes shifted from she to Jonathan.
"Of course he does. He's a sweetheart, isn't he?"
Jonathan laughed in embarrassment, and waved his hand in dismissal of her flattery.
"Oh, I wouldn't—"
"Drink, Jonathan?"
Marina tapped her long, manicured fingernails on her glass. Perry's own nails were bitten down, and currently encrusted with a mixture of blood and sand.
"No, thank you." Jonathan lied. "Actually, I—"
"Say, Jonny, what have you been up to lately? Still crying yourself to sleep every night?"
Ouch.
Marina leaned against the edge of her desk, an eyebrow perked as she sipped at her champagne. There was a mischievous glint in her eye, a little devilish sparkle.
Jonathan smiled sourly.
"Very funny. You're funny."
Perry felt the need to aid him. The battle between Marina Quatermain and the man's pride was definitely tipping in favour of the former.
"Jonathan's been doing very well for himself, Ms. Quatermain," she interjected. "Actually, we were just on an expedition to Hamunaptra."
Marina froze.
Her face dropped along with her champagne glass.
"Hamunaptra?" she asked. "The Hamunaptra?"
"None other." Jonathan told her, smugly.
She stroked the golden waves of her hair, as if trying to console herself. She looked worried.
"Well, I must say I'm impressed." she admitted. "Come to think of it, a friend of mine mentioned such a trip just last week. I didn't believe him, of course."
Jonathan tilted his head with curiosity. Although, Perry could see it was less about curiosity, and more about possessiveness.
"A friend of yours?"
Marina's eyes shifted around the room. She cleared her throat.
"Yes, Hungarian fellow. His name's Beni."
Perry's eyes went wide. Beni hadn't ridden home with them to Cairo. She had assumed he was dead; maybe the creature was wearing his skin as they spoke.
"Mr. Gabor accompanied us, actually." she told the English woman.
Marina and Jonathan's eyes were locked. She didn't look away from him to respond.
"No kidding?"
Jonathan's face was stone cold.
"Beni's a friend of yours?" he asked.
There was a silence that could have made the walls freeze over. Marina eventually lost the staring competition, her eyes dropping guiltily to her drink.
"A friend."
Perry stood awkwardly by as some sort of telepathic battle ensued between Jonathan and his former girlfriend. She waited until the tension became unbearably awkward, and then broke the suspense.
"Well, Ms. Quatermain, Jonathan here told me you know a thing or two about curses?"
Marina turned her head to Perry like she was addressing an annoying child. But when she realised how long there had been an absence of noise, appreciation of the question arose.
"Yes. I've lived all over Africa, and believe me when I say black magic exists."
"Uh, yes, well," Jonathan started, back to his normal mannerisms for the time being. "What can you tell us about bringing things back to life?"
Marina sipped her drink.
"Resurrection?"
The archaeologist and his assistant glanced at each other.
"...Kind of."
Perry wrung her hands as she thought of a better way to put the question.
"Marina, what do you know about the Hom-Dai curse?"
A laugh startled them when she chuckled loudly. Rising to her feet, she set her champagne on the table and wagged a finger at Perry.
"Oh, that's a bad one. The Ancient Egyptians didn't create that curse for their sweethearts."
"We know." Jonathan muttered.
Marina caught his remark.
She put her hands on her hips, and frowned at the two visitors to her house.
"Does this have something to do with your trip to Hamunaptra?"
a/n: Okay, so I hope everybody enjoyed this chapter!
Special thankyous to everybody who has posted a review so far- you are all wonderful and supportive. And same goes to everybody who has followed/ favourited it. :) More coming as soon as possible!
-Anne