Disclaimer: Teh Beej and Lydia belong to People Who Are Not Me. Osiris, Ammit, and Ma'at belong the the Egyptians. Dorothy Parker belongs to herself. Cookies for whoever can guess the other dead people.

A/N: written for a friend, for Halloween. Enjoy.

We passed upon the stair; we spoke of 'was' and 'when'
Although I wasn't there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise: I spoke into his eyes
"I thought you died alone, a long, long time ago."

"Oh no, not me, I never lost control
You're face to face with the man who sold the world…"

"The Man Who Sold The World," David Bowie

The night was cold and still as the grave, without even a decent thunderstorm. That struck her as being slightly unfair. If she was going to be stuck alone in a haunted house on Halloween, there should at least be a storm. Though – and here she slumped further in her chair, folding her arms and resting her head sideways on them, art deco watch pressing into her cheek to leave an imprint like a gate on pale skin – they had to go too, didn't they? Barbara and Adam had some kind of thing in the afterlife they'd been very vague about, but they had to leave. And her father and Delia had gone to the city for some gallery's Halloween fete.

So she was all alone on Halloween, too old to go trick-or-treating, without any party invitations, and too much a trek from the town to go through the trouble of fixing the place up for kids in sheets and Spiderman costumes.

And it didn't look as though the night would be anything but clear skies and a sliver of bone-white moon. So much for drama.

At least she had a decent supply of popcorn, and AMC was running a horror movie marathon.

Three years. Three damn years in that damn cage, and now he was out, and where did that sick-minded bitch from Administration put him? Back in the fucking model, where everything had started to go wrong in the first place.

Not like he couldn't make his way back from here. Still, it was pretty fucking low; he had been so close - ! She knew he didn't like to be reminded of his failures. Dammit, he had an image to maintain…

Still… mortals had such short memories. Three years was a long time, especially for a kid; maybe – nah, don't think that way, once a scam's collapsed it's over, oldest rule in the book. No going back; maybe he could find another mortal stupid enough to call him out and just book it over the horizon before they thought to put him back.

But he'd never gotten that close to real, permanent freedom before; if the Maitlands hadn't interfered, if the ceremony had gone through… he'd be loose in the world of living for as long as Lydia lived; years yet, and there were ways to ward her against harm and spell a long life for her that wouldn't cramp either of their styles.

…it occurred to him that he might have had more luck if he's explained that.

Oh well. No use crying over spoiled milk.

So when the kid – and she'd aged (wow, had she aged), no doubt about that but he'd know her sense anywhere – passed by, it didn't really come as surprise that he called out to her. What the hell; it was worth a shot, for his freedom. A lot could change in three years.

"Hey! Babes!"

For a moment she thought she was hearing things; but the rough voice persisted and she had to turn, look and see for herself, and it was him, and for a moment her world tilted crazily so she had to drop the popcorn, not noticing or caring that it was spilling oil, grease, and kernels over Delia's thousand-dollar rug because she was too busy holding Delia's latest bit of wretched structure for support, so tightly that the thin wire buckled under her grasp.

"It's you!"

"None other, babe. So, how about saying those magic words?"

"Are you crazy?"

He was standing under the lamppost, leaning against it – and it seemed like everything around him had twisted somehow, skewed, the lamppost now a contorted bit of pseudo-cubism – and as she gaped he looked idly at his fingernails. They were filthy, he noted with pride.

"Might wanna shut your mouth, there."

She did, snapping her jaw shut and glaring at him, flushing bright red. He smirked. She made a move towards him – like she was going to squish him – and then pulled back, thinking better of it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed, and he was grinning now.

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd check in, see how things were getting along… guess those two losers never kicked you out."

"They're my friends, asshole." She snarled as she said it and grabbed a flyswatter (a relic from the dead summer, not yet packed up with the rest of the detritus of the season), taking a step towards the model.

"Whoa, no need for that," he said, putting up his hands and taking a step back. "I'm just here to… to…" He flailed around for a decent excuse. "…apologize! Yeah. See, it's part 'a my punishment, I gotta make amends, kiss up a little, write a few cards, clean a few highways… all part of showing how I'm a redeemed soul these days."

"I don't believe you." The flyswatter was still hovering up by her shoulder and he couldn't help eyeing it nervously and backing away a bit more.

"Hey, babes, I don't expect you to believe me, I just want you to know that I am really, truly, deeply sorry," he said in his best sincere voice, which frankly wasn't all that good, but it wasn't like he could help seeing everything as a joke, a scam, a series of levers to pull… not when there wasn't any evidence to the contrary. She eyed him suspiciously.

"Look, you obviously don't wanna hear it, so I'll just take my leave… though – " and here was where he cast the dice; if he had a beating heart it would have been pounding through his chest. " – I thought you might appreciate the company, since it's Halloween and all, and you're alone…"

The flyswatter lowered a little and he let out a breath, quietly, pretty sure she couldn't see.

"How do you know I'm alone?"

"Well, you know how it is, guy has to go make amends, he wants to check things out a little first, see if it's a good time…"

"You were spying on me!" And up went the flyswatter again.

"No, babe, no, nothing like that – well, maybe a little, but hey – can ya blame me? Last time I barged into your life I ended up on a one-way ticket to solitary confinement for three years. Excuse a guy for being a little nervous." Perfect – the flyswatter went down again. The whole story was a load of bull, of course, with just enough truth sprinkled in to hold it all together – he hadn't been spying (he couldn't, from where they'd stuck him), it'd been a lucky guess based on her expression and a few other things, missing coats and the like, but mostly it'd been pure dumb luck. And he hadn't been in solitary, though considering the company they stuck him with he might as well have been alone; not an interesting thought in their heads, most of them, and no way to pull a scam, no powers to make his stay entertaining…

"Solitary?"

He managed to work up a hangdog expression and lowered his hands, shoving them in his coat pockets.

"Yeah. It's what they do to hard-knock cases like yours truly. Three years in one room, without anything to do – you can't leave, and no one can come in. No light, no entertainment, nothing but one bare room."

The flyswatter lowered even more and was that perhaps a spark of sympathy in her eyes? He grinned internally.

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, not the first time." That was a flagrant lie, but anything to fan the flames. "Besides, I'm supposed to be apologizing to you."

She was giving him that look again.

"If you've been punished like that before, why do you keep… you know… breaking rules?"

"Birds gotta swim, fish gotta fly, you know? Can't help how I was made. Anyway, if you're not gonna let me out so I can really make things up to ya, I'll just be on my way and hope the administration buys it."

"…What do you mean?"

"Well, see, you have to accept my apology before I can be fully released; this is kind of like time off for good behavior, you know? I apologize to everyone I've hurt, they let me out, you're the last one, if I don't make full restitution I go back in the cell but hey, I can't make you accept my apology. I did my best; maybe it'll be enough." He turned away, slumping his shoulders; partially for pathos, but mostly to hide the wicked smile as he started to walk away.

One… two… three…

"Wait!"

He looked over his shoulder, managing to keep his expression dejected.

"Yeah?"

"If I let you out… you won't try anything?"

"Cross my heart, babe," he said, crossing his fingers in one pocket.

"…and if I don't let you, they'll lock you up again, won't they?"

"I'm hopin' they won't." He turned his head again and kept walking. C'mon, say it!

"Betelgeuse."

"Babes?

"Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse!"

YES! The world spun around him, opening up to accept him; for a moment he couldn't think of his plans, just that he was out, free…

And then he was standing in front of her, those big brown eyes looking up in shock, like she couldn't believe what she had done, and he couldn't resist a cackle. Then she looked downright afraid and he could see her thinking maybe she should say the words now, before he broke his word – so he improvised and grabbed her in a hug, swinging her around in a full circle as though she'd just given him the greatest gift ever. Hey, if he was going to act the sap, he might as well go all out.

"Babes! Ya trusted me!"

Of course – he realized as he grinned down at her, still caught up against his body and looking rather dizzy – now that he was out, he still had to get her totally on his side. Easy enough; dinner, a little dancing, some of the afterlife's stronger liquors and she'd be putty in his hands. And then he would be free. Permanently.

He'd probably even enjoy the experience… shit, he was still holding her, wasn't he? He cleared his throat and dropped his arms, taking a few steps back.

"Thanks, babe. Means a lot to me."

"Lydia."

"Huh?"

"My name is Lydia, not babes."

"Lyds. Great. So – where to?"

"I… I don't know," she said, pulling the wide collar over her ragged shirt over one shoulder. "I just didn't think… three years in a cell. I didn't want that to happen."

"Huh. Well. Lemme think."

He put on a good show of it, too, but he was nothing if not fast on his feet.

"There's a place I know… do you like Italian?"

"I… it's okay."

"Great! Though ya can't go lookin' like that."

"I can change…"

"You're beautiful just the way you are, Lyds." Her face drew tight and confused; he grinned jagged and yellow and snapped his fingers. "Check it out," he said, summoning a mirror and holding it in front of him.

Instead of sweatpants and a ragged shirt, she was wearing floor-length dress with a square neck and a bodice that laced up the front, stopping just under her breasts. There was a scarlet chemise with a black spiderweb pattern under it, keeping her from being entirely indecent (though she still pulled it up over what little cleavage was showing). The chemise even extended past the thick straps and covered her shoulders; bell sleeves the same color as the dress (a rich blue-purple deep enough to pass as black until the light hit it just so) fell down to almost cover her hands

Bit of luck, there. Not like he had been thinking about what to put her in or anything.

He'd kept her hair in its upsweep. She looked better that way; when it was down she was just another goth kid like the hundreds he'd fucked with back in the movement's heyday. The upsweep was… unique. And it exposed her neck; she had a very nice one… smooth and white, probably soft and definitely pulsing with life and warmth, blood racing where his no longer flowed…

Regretfully, he put those thoughts aside (and hah, she was a young woman now, not a thirteen-year-old kid; he was allowed to have them without feeling he'd crossed a line) and watched as she touched the surface of the mirror, oblivious.

"…It's beautiful…"

"That's just you, Lyds." And okay, he hadn't exactly intended to say that, but from the way she started and looked up at him – and there were those luminous dark eyes again – he had a feeling he hadn't blundered too badly. He cleared his throat and stepped back again (it was too early in the evening to really push it, he told the part of him that demanded to know why, when she was standing right there), banishing the mirror to the department store he'd pulled it from. With a thought, he was in his favorite striped suit, and his hair was even a little neater than usual. He offered her his arm.

"Shall we?"

She blanched a little and he mentally kicked himself for reminding her of the earlier incident. He couldn't think of a way to salvage the situation – luckily, while he groped for a reaction (had he overused the redeemed and hangdog shtick? How far did her sympathy go; should he ignore it or could he believably seem dejected at her lingering distrust?) she stepped forward and rested her hand on his arm.

"Alright. Where are we going?"

"The afterlife, Lyds."

"But – I'm alive – "

"You're with me, babe," and he risked covering her hand with his, briefly – he could feel her blood racing, muscles tensed, bright and alive – "I'll bring ya back safe."

There was that feeling again, the one he lived for; balancing on the edge. Even the best scams failed if the mark didn't believe – if you didn't find the angle, that approach that made them want it to be real so badly they'd stop thinking – or more accurately, think with anything but their minds. If he had breath he'd be holding it, just a little.

"I guess; I mean, you'll get in trouble otherwise. Um… is there actually food in the afterlife?"

"Sort of. Not sure you could eat it, though… huh. How does maggiolino alla piastra sound?"

"What is it?"

"Grilled beetles on a bed of lightly spiced rice. Delicious."

"You know, I already ate," she said quickly. "Early dinner. Very filling."

"Skip the meal, then?"

"Please."

"How do you feel about dancing?"

"I've… never tried." There was a hint of a lie in that; might have fooled anyone else, but 600 years and a certain level of occult power had given him just a bit of insight. Not that it mattered.

"Just follow my lead, Lyds."

Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his forearm as they entered Totentanz, a rather secretive dance hall in the very center of the main necropolis proper; as new arrivals finished their terms on earth and migrated permanently to the afterlife, they built new structures, new buildings on the outskirts, each seeking to avoid reminders of their state. The afterlife was for those who could not accept their fate, or died with unfinished business, or didn't know what was supposed to come after death or were afraid to find out; so the city sprawled ever outwards, the abandoned interior falling into a rotting collapse.

It was his favorite part of town; she had gasped slightly when they emerged a few blocks away and he'd looked over, wondering if he'd miscalculated the appeal death and decay held for her. She had an expression of wonder on her face, drinking in the slanted buildings and cracked pavement (dead grass poking between the slabs) as if she was seeing something she's waited her whole life for… like someone witnessing exceptional beauty and knowing they would never see it again. It made him grin; she was enraptured enough that he didn't have to hide it. Her morbidity had matured and ripened instead of falling away with age as he had half-feared.

Dried leaves crunched like bird bones under their feet and a crooked yellow moon had grinned as he escorted her – the very picture of a gentleman – to the blocky, nondescript building that held the afterlife's greatest secret: Totentanz. Dance halls were common in the afterlife, as it was a favorite occupation of the dead, but Totentanz was something special; for one thing, you could only find it if someone told you where it was. For another, it had static membership, considering new members only upon the very rare occasion that a former member had sorted through their issues and passed into the true Beyond. The reasoning was that it helped the club maintain a certain ambience. He had been accepted as a member to replace another roguish character… how many centuries ago? A long time, that was for certain. He had noticed that events more than a century ago took on an air of unreality, like a play seen as child and remembered half as a dream.

They'd gone in (no bouncers here; only members would ever find the place) and he wouldn't even have noticed her sharply indrawn breath if it hadn't been for the tightening of her hand on his arm. When he looked at her, she was white; not her usual pale but dead white, almost as white as he was. So he looked at the scene – pretty typical night, really – and tried to see it as a breather would.

There were a few couples out on the dance floor, but the night was still young as the dead measured these things and the band wasn't really in its groove yet. The serious dancers were still waiting on the sidelines, drinking steaming concoctions and talking idly. One woman – Isadora, he thought her name was – stood at the very edge of the dance floor, swaying silently with closed eyes to the rhythm. A bloodied scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck, her head tilted at an odd angle from the break; despite it all, there was a grace to her movements. A wiry man with an icepick sticking out of his head sat at the table near her, speaking lowly in a sonorous Russian accent to a tired-looking woman who'd died of a heart attack, judging by her blue lips and bruised eyes. Over by the bar, eight mummies in 1940s USAAF uniforms were standing and drinking as though they hadn't seen a drop in decades; a woman dressed like TV anchor with the back of her head blown away and dried blood creasing her suit eyed them speculatively. She, in turn, was being given the once-over by a rather dull-looking man with a fist-sized hole in his chest. And then there was the usual crowd from the Titanic… and that Boleyn chick was chatting up that monk again. Two decades she'd been after him and he'd never seemed remotely interested.

Hardly worth the reaction. Unless…

"Maitlands ever take you to the afterlife?"

"N – no."

"Oh. This is pretty typical, just so ya know. No one likes to let go of their death. Buncha stiffs."

"…then how did you die? You're not…" she nodded at the room, some color returning to her face.

"Drowned. Like the Maitlands. One a' the only C.O.D.s that don't leave a mark, 'less ya die in freezin' water like that bunch," he explained, gesturing to the group from the Titanic; frost still clung to them, and their skin was blue.

"Oh."

He led her through the tables and to the dance floor, not particularly worried about her getting cold feet but not exactly wanting to give her the opportunity to back out. Possibly she was dazed by her surroundings, or possibly she didn't know any better, but he managed to hold her just a tad closer than was strictly necessary; all part of the seduction, of course. Not that he didn't enjoy it – all that life in his arms, her pulse beating so fast next to his dead wrist, knowing that there was nothing but a few thin layers of flesh and cloth between him and that pulsing red heat… if he didn't think of something else, he was gonna scare her off in a few seconds.

"You sure you've never danced before, Lyds?"

"Not like this."

"Then how?"

"Well…" and she bit her lower lip, and he couldn't help being rather fascinated by the white of her teeth and the dark red of her lips… "When I was a kid, I asked a neighbor to teach me how to dance. Mom had just died, and she and dad had always gone dancing, and I thought… I thought he'd like it, for Father's Day."

"Did he?" The minute he said it he knew it was a bad idea; her expression tightened and she drew back. He knew better than to follow – it would be too much, too early, he'd played this game before – so he held his peace and attempted to act as though he wasn't curious about the answer. That was the second time she'd thrown him off his game; lucky for him that she wasn't as guarded as she should be. Funny how that worked.

"…no. It made him cry."

I'm sorry, was what he almost said. Then he came to his senses, shaking his head slightly. Damn, and it hadn't even been that long since he'd gotten laid; three years was nothin', he'd gone three decades at times…

"My mom died of cancer," she said abruptly and he blinked.

"Uh."

"That's what you were going to ask next, wasn't it?"

"Thought crossed my mind, yeah."

"She died of cancer and I saw it. I was in the room when she flatlined." Her voice was flat now, devoid of any expression, and he swallowed convulsively at the detached look on her face. "I think that's why I can see ghosts. Because I saw my mother die. How many six-year-old girls can say that?" She was trembling now, just a little, her chin tilted upwards a little too forcefully and he found himself at an utter loss to salvage the situation.

"I, uh – you want to sit down for a bit?"

"...please."

So he guided her off the dance floor, cursing himself for a fool and feeling the entire scam spin out from under him. He could go for sympathy – nah, that wouldn't work for her. She wasn't stupid, just naïve… he left her at an empty table for some drinks, half-noting her request for something nonalcoholic before dismissing it (he might still be able to disarm her), knowing he needed time to think.

Fernand got the drinks ready while he rested his head in his hands, knowing she couldn't see it from this angle. Dammit. Sympathy wasn't his strong point. What to do, what to do… though it explained a lot about the kid, come to think of it. Even when he'd been alive and death was expected, it'd still come as a shock when his parents bought the farm; he had a sudden vivid sense-memory of throwing the first clot of dirt in the shared grave (his father had died only days after his mother, unwilling or unable to keep going) and hating the priest with a pure, easy clarity. No matter what the fat hypocrite said, they were gone, and wouldn't be coming back… the clay of the earth had left stains under his nails and thin layer of sandy grime on his hand, had thudded like a hammer on the wood of the coffin…

When his whiskey sour came he took an enthusiastic swig and managed to work up a decent swagger on the way back to the table, realizing halfway there that he'd ordered a plain soda for Lydia, with no alcoholic content whatsoever.

Dammit.

She shuddered as soon as he was gone, pressing her hands flat against the table, pushing against it as if she wanted to sink herself into the wood, run away from this place, from him…

No, that wasn't fair. She just wanted to run away, period. From her memories, mostly, though life was still a viable option as she saw it. Except suicides spent their years of service in the afterlife's central administration, filing paperwork. So that was out…

Why had she let him out, gone with him to a place where she clearly did not belong?

Because he'd asked, mostly. As though she were a woman, not a child. He'd come to apologize to her, not the Maitlands or her parents. Her, as an individual. He had dealt with her as someone capable of making their own decisions from the beginning; aside from the one earnest, confused 'why?' he hadn't questioned her, hadn't told her why it was a bad idea… obviously because it wouldn't suit his purposes, but there was a freedom in that. She was just another… another person to use, and that gave her a bizarre feeling of equality.

She knew what to expect from him.

That didn't explain why she'd told him about her mother, and the dancing.

She'd been staring at the table and hadn't noticed that the tired-looking woman – the one who had been talking to the Russian man – had walked over and was standing in front of her.

"Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad -
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse."

She looked up.

"Hello, dear. Been here before?"

"N – no. This is my first time."

"Interesting escort you've got." She started to answer, she wasn't sure how, and the dead woman raised a hand. "Don't bother; I've known him for as long as I've been a member. He spoke for my induction. And I think I know who you are. Just… remember the poem, dear, and that things are very often exactly what they seem."

"I – "

But the woman was already gone, and he was coming back, and she wasn't about to cry in front of him no matter how angrily the memories beat at the walls in the back of her mind.

Feeling vaguely disgruntled – this evening was not going as planned – he slid her soda across the table and took a seat, pointedly sprawling as much as possible.

"So, babes, what do you think of the afterlife?"

"It's interesting. I think I'd like to spend more time here."

God, she was weird. Who the hell would want to unlive for eternity in a world with no proper sunlight (the wavering light of the afterlife's 'sun' gave neither comfort nor heat), where there was no feeling, no warmth, no life…

He couldn't even remember what being warm was like anymore. Except for the glimpses he'd caught when she'd been pressed up against him, pulsing with heat, all bright blood and sparking nerves, no idea how it felt to him; how he kept biting back the urge to fasten himself to her and not let go until he was warm again, until her heat had leeched into him – come to think of it, he couldn't think why he wasn't. The evening was botched anyway, might as well get what enjoyment he could out of the last of it.

Except…

She was staring at her soda as if it contained the mysteries of the universe, and if he looked hard enough (which he didn't mind at all) he thought he could see tears glittering in the furthest corners of her eyes. He could use that… crying women were easy… he could…

It wouldn't be fair.

When the hell had he cared about fair?

"Hey, Lydia."

She looked up. He grinned, jagged and now with a kind of strain around the edges; there was a glint of alien emotion in eyes usually sharp and cold as broken glass.

"Wanna see somethin'?"

Past even the lowest domestic sprawl of the necropolis, out past the warped, dead woods, there was nothing but desert; not Saturn, wherever the hell that actually was, but an ancient, blistering monster of a desert, shimmering and lifeless. There was supposedly heat here, though none that he or any other inhabitant of the city could feel.

This was Egypt.

The Egyptians had been the first to imagine a concrete afterlife, and had chosen to believe it was much like their lives. Some credited them with – or blamed them for – inventing the whole afterlife, and said that the Powers just used the space they had already created when the rest of the world got around to seriously wondering what happened after death. He didn't really care, but an old professor had once told him that the ancient Greeks had envisioned an afterlife much like the current one, and he had never seen one in the afterlife, so maybe there was some merit to the thought. Only the lost, afraid, angry, and confused came to the city and its surrounding habitats.

He didn't bother to explain this to her; that wasn't what they were here for. Instead he moved them from Totentanz to the gates of the Hall of Ma'at and was really rather gratified by her gasp.

"They built to impress, the Egyptians."

"…this is Egypt?"

"Yep. Their afterlife, anyway."

And it was impressive; a strictly geometric stone building at least a mile high, unpainted and massive in scope, a simple testament to existence in the wasteland. He knew there were other buildings – a whole civilization, modeled after the Nile valley – behind it, but you couldn't see that. He didn't say anything else, his instinct being to stay silent and let the building speak for itself. There were very few things that he felt he couldn't be improved with a little juice and some jazzy narration: the Hall of Ma'at was one of them.

"Are you sure we're allowed in?"

"Huh? Oh, sure, no problems, babe."

This was not technically a lie, since he had never been officially banned, not by the head cheese, though Isis and the other goddesses had suggested, strongly, that he not set foot within Egypt again. As if that would ever stop him; he was an expert at going where he wasn't wanted.

Though the doors stretched at least half a mile high, they opened with a touch. He'd thought it was magic, once, but when he'd ventured to suggest it Imhotep had almost scorched him with disdain and launched into a long, technical explanation of the engineering behind it and then he's gone home with a headache.

The inside was as spectacular as the outside, pillars arranged diagonally across the space and the size of California redwoods soaring towards a ceiling and almost disappearing; if you craned your had back and looked really hard, you could almost see a series of dark roundish blotches where the pillars met the ceiling. They were carved with hieroglyphics telling the story of Egypt under the gods and the pharohs and held torches; the floor was inlaid with an intricate pattern of marble and semiprecious stones (which couldn't be pried up by any agency, not that he'd tried or anything like that). The walls and ceiling were a painted to resemble the sky at the edge of sunset, the sun sitting bronze and round on the horizon at the far wall. And seated before it – in a gold throne under a canopy, appearing to be part of the sun itself – was Osiris, a calm and stonelike giant still in his funeral wrappings, Lord of the Afterlife, eternally in judgment of the dead who no longer came to receive his wisdom, preferring to make their own.

Or an aspect of him anyway. It was complicated.

There was some kind of protocol for approaching gods, but he wouldn't have bothered with it even if he knew it. The closest he got to polite was not increasing his size so he could speak to them on the same level, as it were, and that was as much a sense of self-preservation as anything else.

Lydia was trying to hang back as they approached the throne (he had knew this as much from the play of muscles in her hand on his arm as the slight drag her resistance created; it occurred to him that maybe he was a touch too aware of the young life stretched tight in her body even for him and he dismissed the thought as soon as he had it). She'd been startled going into Totentanz, too, and that'd worn off within a few minutes; he'd even seen her chatting a little with Dorothy. And he was right, too; by the time they'd made it across the hall – damn walk got longer every time he made it – and stood in front of the golden scale, with Ma'at's feather still standing proud though no hearts were weighted against it these days – she was relaxed again, looking around her with wonder.

"Hey! OZZY!"

If there was one thing he'd gotten good at, it was attracting attention when he was very, very small. With a sound like a crumbling rockface, Osiris bent down a little and fixed them in his timeless regard.

"Betelgeuse."

"Hey, now, easy on the B-word."

The cracked and crumbling lips of the enormous mummy pulled back in a caricature of an archaic smile.

"Sly One. What brings you here, and with a living child?"

"Was showin' her the sights, thought I'd drop by… ya got a nice place here and all…"

"Ah…" The sigh was like winds over the dunes and Osiris settled back in his throne almost imperceptibly, voice echoing in the pillars and only fading long after he had spoken. Lydia looked a little faint and he used this as an excuse to put an arm around her, resting a hand lightly on her hip.

"Perhaps she would care to have her heart weighed," the Lord of the Dead intoned, waving a hand trailing bits of wrapping towards the scale. "It would take only a moment, and would cause no harm; she is not one of mine, and Ammit could not take her heart."

She went pale at that. "N – no, sir, I… I'd prefer not to."

"No? Ah, well," and here he seemed to shift again, as though trying to get comfortable. "No shame in that, child; there are precious few able to voluntarily measure the truth of their hearts…" and while he was saying it in response to her, Betelgeuse got the distinct feeling Osiris was talking to him. Weird fuckin' guy, but sitting in the same place for millenia probably did that to you.

"So, Sly One," and his voice rumbled like a rockslide, like the great floods of the Nile, "Why did you bring her?"

"Well, she's kinda into all that morbid stuff, you know, bats and ghouls and heh, geists like me… thought she might appreciate seein' Ammit."

"The Eater? Sly One, you have not thought this through."

"She can handle it!"

"I don't think – " Lydia cut in, voice thin and frail next to Osiris' deep-water bass and Betelgeuse's whiskey-stained baritone. But Osiris heard it and nodded regally.

"She protests."

"Babes, you'll be fine," he protested, absolutely certain she would be. Ammit was small fry compared to other things. Like sandworms.

"I…"

"C'mon, trust me."

"Trust you?" she said, giving him an incredulous look. "What have you ever done that's trustworthy?"

"Hey, I saved the Maitlands for ya, didn't I? I followed through my end of the deal, Lydia, you couldn't hold up yours. I did everything you expected of me, and I even came back to apologize!"

"Because someone forced you!"

"Well – but…" He couldn't think of a response, largely due to the shock of realizing he'd forgotten his cover story entirely; he'd never forgotten his hook before. She took a breath, looking as if she was winding up to tear him and new one and he couldn't think of a damn thing to say to defuse the situation: the only things that came to mind were… soft, and horribly true, and ran deep into places he refused to even remember he'd forgotten –

"Enough."

Osiris' voice rolled over them like water and stone, the pressure of endless blackness, smothered them with eternity and forced them to look. One rotted and putrescent arm was pointing off to the left side of the throne, gnarled as an old branch.

"Evidence has been given and judgment reached. Come forward, Devourer of Hearts!"

And in the shadows beyond the flickering torches, scale, fur, and leathery hide heaved darkly, iron claws scrabbling and sparking against torn marble as the great beast lumbered forward, a monstrous head piercing the light with slime and slitted eyes, gaping mouth with teeth like knives, sharp and cold… a wave of stench and fear, slithering regret and forever loneliness. It howled – a bone-shattering scream – and wild eyes rolled over them, unfocused.

"Behold Ammit, the Eater of Men; behold eternal damnation; behold horror in the service of light and beauty."

It shook itself, once, mane flying, and then lunged –

Lydia screamed –

It jerked back into the darkness, moaning in a way that seemed more of a laugh –

She sagged against him and he half-turned, his other arm coming around her.

"Lyds?"

She'd fainted.

"Great."

It had been the work of moments to move them from Egypt to the house in Winter River, though for some reason they'd ended up in the living room when he'd been aiming for her bedroom. Which was irritating; he could carry her up but he'd never been inaccurate before and he was quite sure her bedroom was where they needed to be; when she woke up she would be dazed and it would be easy…

The thought held no particular glee for him and he was usually vibrating with energy at this point, so close to the end of the con.

So he put her on the couch instead and walked towards the door; if this weird, squishy feeling wouldn't let him seduce her he'd just walk out, walk away, easiest thing in the world, he'd done it a hundred times…

There was a mirror near the door. He cast no reflection; he could see her lying on the couch behind him, face pale and drawn, vulnerable, and that strange softness made him turn around and stand vibrating, torn between walking away and staying.

She opened her eyes.

"What…"

"Took ya back home. …I'm, um. Sorry. …'m sorry." he mumbled, feeling like he didn't even know what; open and rubbed raw, exposed and he needed to leave –

He didn't want to leave.

She got up off the couch, eyes heavy, and walked over with a kind of dazed grace, stopping a few feet away.

"So…"

"Yeah."

"I… well, I accept your apology, if that's… I do, honestly."

"Um. Thanks."

"You should go now… mom and dad and the Maitlands, they'll be back soon."

They were close enough; it would be easy, far too easy for him to reach out and do what he'd been meaning to, finish what he started. She was half-expecting it, really, she was certainly old enough to have an idea of how these things went. He could see as much in tense lines of her body, caught between running and advancing, resistance and surrender…

They'd make a hell of a team.

If he didn't move now the moment would be lost, and with it his chance of escape.

A sigh formed right in the lowest depths of his being and swept up through, slumping his shoulders and causing a flare of something alien in poison-green eyes, alien and entirely too human. She flinched slightly as he stepped forwards and he closed his eyes for a second, almost hating himself as he placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed cold, dead lips against her forehead.

She was bright and warm and human and young, too terribly young for all she'd aged physically. If he had just swept in and swept her up as he intended to, it would have been a different story; if he had thought to keep his distance instead of asking stupid questions, getting to know her… too many centuries in opposition to authority, morality, the ruling class, and anything it occurred to him to be opposed to (including good hygiene) had made him forget that you can only use them as long as they're just caricatures. He had never been a user, just a trickster; for all his flaws, he never had the kind of mindset that would let him worm his way into someone's heart just so he could take a bite and leave them bleeding.

He pulled away and stepped back before he could feel her trembling.

"Think it's time I went back. Would ya…?"

"What?"

He rolled his eyes and jerked his head towards the model.

"Oh! Um, sure."

A beat where she didn't speak, and he was about to ask why when she answered the question for him.

"Can I… call you again, sometime?"

"Well, I dunno, you know how it is, international celebrity and all, I got gigs through the next century and someone's always after me for something…" she was retreating and even as something told him it was right, another, louder part didn't want to let her escape completely. "…but yeah. Yeah, sure, Lydia. Anytime."

And that was the end of it, that was the promise; he had meant to trap her and had trapped himself and he was damn aware of it, thank you.

Then again – and the thought made him brighten as she said his name and sent him away – humans grew up damn fast. And if she made the move, instead of him, then there'd never be any doubt; she chose him and he never had a hand in it. He was innocent, honest, she practically forced him into it…

As Lydia walked away from the attic, she could swear she heard demented laughter. A moment of disconcertion passed and she went on her way upstairs smiling slightly, wondering what had amused him so. Maybe he'd tell her next time; she would have to remember to ask.