Title: Avatar Of The Gods: Fas Fortuna
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: Post 'The Mummy Returns'. Ardeth Bey travels to England, determined to gain possession of the Horn Of Isis before the enigmatic White Lady. A shock awaits him.
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Universal Pictures.
Genre: Action/adventure and hints of more to come. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires
Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.
Notes: This is the sequel to
*
Kensington, London
It was raining, fulfilling the expectation of visitors that it always did so in Britain. A light, warm summer drizzle that surreptitiously soaked through clothing, it darkened pavements and varnished foliage a deeper, lustrous green. Ardeth Bey inhaled the scent of wet concrete, guttering gas lamps and the day's traffic, watching the golden light from the windows of the magnificent Edwardian town house across the street. It was late, some considerable time past midnight, but the lively party showed few signs of abating. Shifting position infinitesimally, concealed behind a wall, he found he was entertained watching the gentlemen in evening suits and ladies in cocktail dresses as they danced and gossiped.
As with his last trip to England, he found night the best time to move unhindered through the streets. Blacks, Chinese and Indians were usual sights around London, if not in the majority, but a Bedouin with a tattooed face was something to be stared at. Presently, the black painted door opened, flooding the night with a stream of canary yellow light and merry, inebriated voices. Demure in white lace cap and pinafore, a maid handed out coats; mink or fox fur for ladies, fine worsted wool for gentlemen. Private, chauffeur-driven cars and rumbling taxi cabs pulled up, whisking tired revellers away to their homes and neatly made beds.
Ardeth waited patiently for the last guest to leave, a portly, white-whiskered man in his late sixties with a thread-veined red face that bespoke a fondness for alcohol. The front door slammed, the brass knocker rattling against the painted wood, and the night was quiet again, save for the soft patter of drizzle. Some minutes later, the light winked out in the front windows, a silhouetted figure drawing across heavy brocade curtains. When there was no further movement within the house, Ardeth looked around for chance observers. Seeing nobody, he quickly crossing the street and stole up to the front of the house, feet soundless on the white marble step. A lovingly polished brass nameplate above the doorbell proclaimed the resident as the Hon. Miss Rhiannon Ward. The house, located in an exclusive suburb, indicated wealth and standing.
Touching a fingertip to the nameplate, Bey pondered the relative uncommoness of an unmarried woman owning her own home. He understood it was traditional for a woman to live with her family until she married. Meeting Evelyn O'Connell had broadened his perspective on what she called the 'modern woman' and dispelled many of his preconceptions, but he still found some English and American ways odd. Med-Jai women were afforded much more personal freedom than in other Bedouin tribes, as were ancient Egyptian women in millennia gone by, but it was unheard of for them to own a dwelling.
Glancing up at the second and third storeys to check for light and movement, he slid around to the bottom window. It would be quicker and easier all round if he simply purloined the Horn, which he was fairly sure lay somewhere within the house. The day before he had visited the British Museum in the heart of the city, listening to the chatter of the staff as he pretended to examine the desiccated mummies and incomplete chunks of hieroglyphic masonry. Staring fixedly at a shrunken tobacco brown mummy, he remembered how it had screamed and frenziedly scrabbled against the glass case, awakened by the spell used to rouse Imhotep. When nobody mentioned the Horn Of Isis, he knew Miss Ward had not yet presented her treasure to the pompous Egyptologists who comprised the Bainbridge Scholars group.
Beneath the deft attentions of his fingers, the window clicked and swung open. Swinging his leg over the ledge, he climbed in and quietly shut it behind him. Finding himself in a well-appointed parlour with a white marble Art Deco fireplace, he looked around. Though the décor was typically modern, with plain eggshell blue walls, white skirting and ceiling, with dark wood furniture, many objects were not. A small, unobtrusive basalt statuette of Osiris stood on the hearth, no more than a metre tall. An excised cartouche hung on the far wall, the carved hieroglyphs erased by shadow. A large, octagonal chest, embellished with gold and what appeared to be gemstones, sat on a side table next to one of a pair of plush velvet wingchairs.
Expensive trinkets to have lying around, Ardeth thought, bending to glance at the chest, half expecting it was a reproduction set with coloured glass. And all genuine… this chest alone would warrant an exhibition at the museum, and yet it sits in her house… curious…
Reaching for the chest, he lifted the lid and looked inside, finding it full of pot-pourri that gave off a subdued, sweet scent. He frowned, finding the fragrance unsettlingly familiar, picking up a crinkled bud the colour of paprika that crumbled to flakes in his fingers. Hearing a sound within the house, he froze, straining his ears. He would rather not have a maid wander in, see him and immediately scream loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood. Minutes crawled by and the house remained silent save for the measured ticking of a cherrywood clock on the mantel.
Satisfied there was nobody up, Ardeth moved to the door and slipped into the hallway, taking careful steps across the black and white tiled floor. A swift exploration revealing nothing more than a large dining room littered with party debris, a book-crammed study and a passage leading to the kitchen, he approached the stairs. Listening to the restful quiet of an occupied house late at night, honed senses alert for signs of movement, he set one booted foot upon the bottom stair. The wood creaked, loud in the noiselessness, and he winced, ascending to the next step. He had reached the bend in the staircase when he happened to glance down into the hallway. The door to the scullery was open. He frowned, certain he had closed it on leaving.
A defensive growl, resonating through a deep chest and quasi-feline throat, echoed from the foot of the stairs. Bey turned, black eyes widening in horror as the sphinx-like djinn surged up the staircase, razor claws gouging up great curls of wood. Ripping both Brownings from his bandoleer, he shot the creature four times, bursts of fire flashing at the muzzles. Scrambling up the remaining stairs to the first floor, he slipped and fell backwards. A white dart of pain punctured the back of his skull, sight momentarily fuzzing. His guns spun away across the varnished wooden floor, clattering against the skirting. Driven back by the bullet impacts, the djinn howled, enraged, and tumbled down to the ground floor, crashing through the spindles. Snarling like a basketful of panthers, she crouched low, all carved granite flanks and fury, and sprang.
Vision dominated by silky rough golden fur, sleek sliding muscle and light-glancing claws, Ardeth rolled to one side. Thudding onto the landing where he had lain, the floorboards splintering beneath its paws, the djinn howled and turned a lightning swift circle.
"What on earth is going on?!" a female voice demanded loudly from the second floor, accompanied by hurrying feet.
Educated in timbre, irritated in tone, it clearly belonged to the mistress of the house. Molten eyes snapping towards the source of the voice, lips peeling back over clashing teeth, the djinn rumbled like an earth tremor.
"MISS WARD!" Bey yelled in English, clambering to his feet, feeling the warm trickle of blood down his neck. "Stay where you are! DO NOT COME DOWN!"
Scimitar in hand, he dropped his weight back onto his heels, ignoring the pounding ache and hazy vision that accompanied a concussion. Tail switching angrily, plumed at the end like a lion's, the djinn blurred and blocked out the night. Hot feline breath scalded his face as his back thumped against the unyielding floor, tearing cloth and jagged pain streaking across his torso. Deafened by a cacophony of furious snarling, pinned by the creature's weight, he jammed the point of his scimitar into its belly and slashed left to right. Rearing back, it batted the weapon away as if it were a pocketknife, one gargantuan taloned paw whistling back to strike.
"Enough!" the command rolled across the landing with indisputable authority. "Khepri – leave him be, there's a girl."
Gulping to fill his screaming lungs as the dead weight of the djinn lifted from his chest, Ardeth lay prostrate. He lifted a hand and saw it glisten redly with his own blood, abruptly feeling dizzy. A pair of female feet walked around his head, clad in green velvet slippers, and stopped at his side. He peered up through the landing gloom at the woman, who wore a nightgown and robe of matching hue. Dressed for bed, hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, luminous eyes bare of Bedouin kohl, it took him several seconds to recognise her.
"You!" he rasped accusingly, unconsciously using his native tongue.
"We do seem to meet under the most unfortunate circumstances, sayadi," she replied mildly, watching dispassionately as he struggled to sit up, grimacing and holding his heavily bleeding chest.
Holding out her open hand, she blinked once and a life-sized cow horn fashioned from softly burnished platinum appeared, floating above her palm. Inscribed with countless tiny hieroglyphs, it radiated an eldritch silver light.
"I assume this is what you're looking for?"
The Med-Jai did not reply, a sudden defeated slump of his shoulders saying what his mouth did not. His eyes crinkled shut, then reopened, filled with resolve. His scimitar lay within diving reach.
"Take it."
Astounded, unsure if he had misheard, Ardeth merely stared at her. Lips quirking in a brief, almost-smile, she offered it to him. Suspiciously, he got to his feet, disregarding the agonising pain the movement caused in his wounds. The djinn watched him, unblinking, ready to rip out his throat. Slowly, he reached out, eyes narrowed a little against the Horn's glow.
"A word of caution before you touch it," she said levelly. "I assume you can read what is engraved around the base?"
Focussing on the series of hieroglyphs, Ardeth squinted, then his fingers curled and dropped to his side. If he had touched the Horn of Isis, it would have instantly killed him. The inscription read 'No hand of man shall grasp the Horn, lest he seek death. The Horn belongs to she who bears the mark of Isis'.
"So you see, it is mine, and no other's. The power it contained is mine also."
Ardeth did not miss the past tense, casting quick glances towards the next floor and the stairs. The djinn yawned, lioness lazy, gaping maw studded with vicious, wetly gleaming teeth. Nobody else had appeared to investigate the disturbance, though such a house required several members of staff. What had happened to Rhiannon Ward and her household was open to debate. Sharp mind racing, Bey saw his Brownings lying on the floor several feet behind the djinn's rump.
"What have you done with Miss Ward?" he demanded.
The white lady appeared momentarily bewildered, her brow crimping, then she threw back her head and laughed aloud. Khepri, now silent and watchful, sat at her mistress's side, only her sinuous tail in motion.
"My dear, noble Mr Bey," she said, in English. "I am Rhiannon Ward! Surely you bullied that out of that fat, greedy antiques dealer?"
She seemed highly amused and folded her hand around the Horn, shutting off its corona. Transferring it to the crook of her arm like a baby or a coddled lap dog, she stroked the blunt tip, running the pad of her finger around and around.
"We did not have opportunity," Ardeth observed darkly, switching to English. "You killed him, as you did the staff attending the Royal Ibis."
"What?!"
Snapping incandescent, her emerald eyes slitted with dismay and sudden anger. At her feet, the djinn growled and shifted restlessly, great jaws click snapping as she hungrily eyed the unarmed Bedouin. The surrounding air crackling with a palpable aura of power, the white lady's jaw tightened.
"I did not kill those people," she hissed, her voice taking on the familiar unearthly resonance that made Bey's head ring like it was captured inside a silver bell. "What cause had I?"
Visibly furious, shoulders rigid beneath the shantung silk dressing gown she wore like a queen's state robes, her cheeks coloured a pale raspberry.
"You tell me, lady," he retorted, part of him questioning the wisdom of provoking a being that could undoubtedly kill him in an instant.
"Silence!" she snapped, then muttered a command to the djinn in the ancient tongue, placing the Horn of Isis between her jaws like she was a dog taking a stick.
When the djinn failed to respond, aristocratic features pinched with reluctance, she scowled and repeated the order, throwing up a hand. Dipping her head deferentially, Khepri rumbled unhappily and vanished where she stood. Uneasy at the sudden dismissal, Ardeth eyed her warily, gaze once more skipping to his fallen weapons.
"Much as you disbelieve, stubborn Med-Jai, I am whom I claim to be," she said, dangerously calm. "And I didn't kill Fahrer or the hotel staff – may Ra strike me dead if I lie."
Seeing him peering around her to the indistinct lumps of his Brownings in the gloom, she made an exasperated sound and snapped her fingers. Ardeth jumped as they appeared in his hands, the metal oddly warm and tingling against his skin. Instinctively, his index finger looped through the triggers.
"Have your way!" she declared, lifting her hand.
Against his will, Bey's right arm rose until the muzzle of the gun was level with the centre of her forehead. She moved forward, slippered feet soundless, until there was scant inches between her brow and the gun. Dark head bowed, lashes jet crescents against her opaline cheek, she spread her hands in acquiescence.
"Shoot me!" she commanded, with such vigour that Ardeth barely stopped his trigger finger contracting. "I won't stop you. If you're so convinced I'm a monster in the mould of your cursed Imhotep – killer of the defenceless, just shoot me and be done with it!"
Lids sliding back, emerald orbs lifting, she stared down the length of his gun and into his eyes. Arms flung out, regal and composed, the shadows formed sweeping wings against the cream plaster wall at her back. Transfixed, breath coming quick and shallow, Ardeth could hear the rapid thunder of his heart. He had lost a great deal of blood and taken a blow to the head, the soporific song of concussion crooning in his ears.
"Shoot me," she whispered, voice cashmere soft, almost reverent. "Shoot me and take off my head with your scimitar. Do what you know is right, Med-Jai, holy warrior of god."
Feeling the individual muscles tighten along his arm, shift and contraction of bicep, tricep, forearm and wrist, Ardeth checked himself. He could feel the indomitable force of her will, could see it contained behind the clear panes of her eyes, but it was not brought to bear against him. The choice was his. Indecision warring on his features, mouth turned down at the corners, brow ruckled, he took a deep breath. Suddenly greasy slick in his palm, stinking of gun oil, the Browning weighed heavy, and he readjusted his grip. Oval face alabaster smooth, eerily expressionless as an ivory theatre mask, she waited. A tiny seed of doubt that had nagged him from the outset flourished in his mind. Exhaling, long and resolvedly, he lowered the gun.
"I cannot in all conscience shoot you, lady," he admitted tiredly. "Whoever you are."
Serenely, she lowered her arms, head held askance as she regarded him, noting the sudden blanch of colour from his face. Crooking a finger, she summoned his scimitar to her hand and offered it to him hilt first, a peaceful gesture. Fingers clumsy with dulling pain, something he knew was not a good sign, Ardeth jammed his guns back into the bandoleer, wondering if it was him or the landing that was swaying. Taking back his sword, he returned it to his sash, not knowing what to expect next.
"You're hurt, sayadi," she observed, gesturing to his bloodied hands and sodden clothing. "And I don't want you bleeding to death on my floor – it's just been polished."
"Then I shall take my leave," he returned, acerbically polite. "Rather than inconvenience you further."
Her agate green eyes hardened ominously, then sparkled with a smile that did not quite reach her mouth. The Med-Jai had spirit in abundance.
"No, you've lost too much blood to go wandering about," she said. Her expression softened, and she added gently, "Stay – at least long enough for me to tend your wounds. You know the fever that results from such injuries."
Bey nodded reluctant agreement, realising he would find neither the herbs nor the skills in London to treat the claw gashes.
"Very well," he said gruffly. "Though I can't promise not to shoot you if the need arises, lady."
"My name is Rhiannon," she reminded. "And I would expect nothing less, Med-Jai."
She reached out and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, a gesture that startled him. At once, a current of reassuring warmth flowed from her palm, enveloping him.
"Not everything not of this plane needs vanquishing and consigning to the underworld," she said softly. "Let me dress those cuts, and you may ask me anything you like. I promise I'll answer truthfully."
Suspicious, but curious, and very much aware he needed answers as much as medical care, Ardeth Bey allowed the white lady to steer him to a side room.
*