Chapter Four
It's an accepted fact in her family that Lola is… changeable. The word "flaky" comes to mind, but she likes to think of herself as independent and adaptable.
Commitment is hard, okay?
Her parents, lovely people that they are, support each of her phases for as long as she deems them interesting. They wear her team colors and attended every game for the eight months that she plays soccer. They pay for piano lessons a year later. They attend plays, assist in the cleaning of cooking disasters, and help her complete half of the DIY projects on Pinterest.
Her decision to attend art school, however, doesn't go over as smoothly.
"You want to do what?"
"Art school. You know, drawing, painting, marijuana. Maybe a little French beret."
Her mother looks at Lola like all of her dreams for her daughter are shattering before her eyes.
"…To be clear, I was joking about the marijuana."
"What happened to law school?"
"That was when I was, like, eight, Mom! Eight and impressionable." Eight and impressionable and obsessed with Daredevil comics. She figured that if Matt Murdock could be a kickass lawyer and fight crime, she could, too. And then she looked up requirements for law school.
It was yet another short-lived phase.
"Art school is a big commitment, honey. It's a lot harder to switch to, say, communications or premed—"
"Or underwater basket weaving," her dad interrupts.
"—when you go to such a major-specific school."
"I don't want to go into communications or—Lord have mercy—premed. I want to do art things."
Art things, her dad mouths.
"But will you want to do 'art things' for four years?"
The thing is, Lola doesn't know. But, as per usual, she's ready to jump in headfirst to find out.
In the end, though, her mom comes around ("But we are telling your grandparents that your major is undecided for the next four years. You're too young to be disinherited."), and her dad is pretty chill about it.
"You would've made a shitty lawyer, anyway. You cry when arguments get heated."
"…Thanks, Dad."
And now here she is, living the life, visiting art schools, and she's about to be murdered by museum exhibits.
"I should have sucked it up and gone to freaking law school," Lola mutters, skittering over to the thumping sarcophagus. The whole thing is shaking as its inhabitant loudly protests his confinement. She wonders how those little peg-things are managing to hold up under all of the angry banging. She flinches a little, fingers hovering over the only thing keeping the lid between her and a very ugly (and very cross) corpse.
Is this really the lesser of two—three? possibly more?—evils?
She can't think with all of the racket.
"Hey," she gives the lid a sharp rap. "Hey, could you hush for a minute?" The wailing continues for a moment—it sounds a little like words, but mostly like aaaarrrrhhhhh—before abruptly cutting off. She figures it took some time for the words to sink in. Reaction time probably slows when you're dead.
Lola glances back at the Huns in the sudden quiet. There was loud, unintelligible arguing when the mummy was still screaming, but everyone in the room took notice when it ceased. Every pair of eyes are now focused on her. She gulps.
"Er, carry on. Nothing to see here."
The guards look torn (or as torn as stone can look—she's not an expert on how rock emotes) between the invading Huns and the girl bending over the tomb.
Clearly, I am not the threat here.
"You're doing a very good job. I feel safer already."
They don't look comforted.
Attila recovers before the guards do, though, and shoves past them mutinously.
Sweet plastic Jesus.
Decision made, then.
She grabs at one of the pegs and yanks. It pings as it hits the marble floor. The second and final peg slips between her clammy fingers. She can hear the other Huns struggling past the Anubises (Anubi? Ah, fuck it.) to follow their leader. Attila is mere feet away.
The second peg jolts out of its resting place.
"Okay, dude, rise and shine!"
Please don't conform to any of the evil mummy stereotypes.
The lid flies off of the sarcophagus.
Damn. That is not promising.
Rough hands grab at her shoulders, and she's knocked off balance, good arm pinwheeling back. There are strange, foreign voices yelling in her ear, and she can feel other pairs of hands tugging at her clothes, at her limbs—and ow, shit, that arm is broken, assholes—and she's engulfed in a tangle of loud, foul-smelling bodies.
Bonus points for historical accuracy, she thinks hysterically.
"Unhand her." A loud, clear voice cuts through the mayhem.
The mass of Huns parts, though several hands still hold her tightly—and don't think I didn't notice you copping a feel, there, bro—and a figure steps closer.
My her—oh.
Lola might have to pick her jaw off of the floor later because damn. Talk about not conforming to mummy stereotypes. Where she'd been expecting a shriveled husk, there is smooth, unblemished tan skin, and the widest, most doe-like eyes she's ever seen on a guy.
Yes, 911, I'd like to report a crime. His face is illegal.
He coughs and a cloud of dust erupts from his lungs.
Aaand that just ain't right.
A vicious yank on her bad arm brings her back to the present.
"Ow! The cast means don't touch," she hisses, eyes watering.
There's some foreign babbling from the manhandler and then there is coarse fabric on her left arm as a wrapped hand gently disengages her from the crowd. The dude—guy? pharaoh? she can't exactly call him a mummy, now—has a brief conversation with Attila, which goes over her head both literally and figuratively. The two of them look at Lola, then back to each other, ending with a diplomatic nod from her rescuer and a terse word from the leader of the Huns to his followers. His men look disappointed. Lola takes this as a good sign.
"They have promised not to harm you, though I would not test their goodwill by traveling through their territory again tonight." The not-mummy keeps his eyes on the warriors' retreating backs. One of them looks back, and he narrows his eyes slightly, uttering a sharp phrase to his guards. Lola doesn't know any Coptic, but she can venture a few guesses as to the meaning when one Anubis nearly takes the man's head off.
The Huns finish filing out dejectedly under the guards' watchful eyes. The pharaoh keeps his hand on her arm, and Lola tries very hard not to think about the bandages wrapping him from neck to toe. On one hand, yikes, undead guy with untold power over scary men.
But on the other hand, those wrappings are slipping and I spy with my little eye tanned hipbones and—no, no, don't shift, I'm already sinning, oh gods.
The mummy being hot really complicates things, and Lola is too tired for this tomfoolery.
The pharaoh turns to her for the first time, brows drawn together in concern.
"Are you injured?"
"Preexisting conditions aside, no." She raises her right arm in proof, the red cast inhibiting the movement somewhat. "Thank you, by the way. Being torn apart by Huns seems like an unpleasant way to die." She winces.
Oh yeah, bring up death to the dead guy. Real smooth, Lola.
"It is I who must thank you. I had begun to lose hope of ever being freed." A shadow passes over his face, the smile in his eyes tightening into a blankness. He blinks and the look is gone.
Not touching that PTSD with a ten foot pole. Sorry, my guy. After tonight I'm gonna need all the therapy, too.
"Ah, forgive me for not introducing myself. I am Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, and keeper of the sacred tablet." His eyes dart to the side, and she follows his line of sight to the golden plaque-thing on the wall. It's a little gaudy, but then she knows nothing about Egyptian décor.
"Snazzy. I'm Lo-lo-lo-lo-Lola." And that sounded better in her head. He looks politely confused. "Er, The Kinks? 1971?" Still nothing. "No? Well, there are bound to be some communication gaps. Anyway, I'm Lola McGivers, I'm from Jersey, and I'm having a really bad night." Captain obvious, thy name is Lola.
"I would imagine so." He smiles and Lola can feel her face gaining some color.
Play it cool, he's gotta be, like, thousands of years old. Also, dead. Ish. He and death are on a break. They're still figuring out the parameters of their relationship.
He's said something else, and she is embarrassed to discover that she hasn't caught a word of it due to her musings. A full-blown blush emerges.
"Sorry, what?"
His smile widens.
"I asked if you would like an escort to your destination. I imagine the Huns are not the only dangerous group wandering these halls." He has a very earnest way of speaking, all bright eyes and brighter smiles.
"You have no idea." She's thinking back to the skeletons and meteorites, and the countless other corridors that likely contain such friendly exhibits as the Spanish inquisition and freaking black plague victims. "I mean, yes, please. If you wouldn't mind? I'm trying to get out of here undetected. I don't trust the night guards."
His eyes darken again. She can't help but notice that he goes from zero to ninety real quick.
Maybe I should book a joint therapy session. Is there anyone who specializes in treating victims of magical museums?
"Nor I," he says quietly, biting off the words. "I have a great many questions that need answered after tonight." He takes a breath, and most of the tension melts. Lola wonders how much of it is an act. He tilts his head toward her. "I can hardly repay you for freeing me, but I will assist you in whatever way I can." He's looking down at himself now, tugging at a loose end of wrapping. He meets her eyes, smiling wryly. "Though, if we are to venture out, I believe a change of clothes is in order."
"Hey, I change clothes, like, three times before leaving the house. No judgment." Plus, she bets those itch like the devil.
He walks over to a display case, peering through the glass at all the relics that had once been his. (Or, are still are his? Is it archeology or grave robbing if the original owner is undead? The court wants to know.)
"I don't suppose you have a pin with you?" He's found what he was looking for apparently, but the case is locked. He runs a finger over the keyhole, frowning.
"Will a bobby pin work?" She tugs one from the cluster holding her bangs back. It always works in the movies, but that keyhole looks pretty small.
"It should, yes. Do you mind if I… adjust your pin to my needs?"
"Uh, no?"
He nods and turns to the display of weapons on the wall, scanning the array of pointy objects.
Too bad that diplomacy works equally well with the Huns; those look pretty wicked.
He chooses a sickle-looking thing—the plaque calls it a khopesh—and slices off the round heads of the bobby pin. This done, he slots the now much thinner tip of the pin into the hole and performs some jiggery pokery (that's the scientific term) and voila! The case slides open.
"I'm not gonna lie, that was impressive."
He gives her a little half smile.
"It's a very useful skill to have when you spend your nights among locked doors and very little else to do but explore and learn." He sounds almost wistful. Lola can't imagine such an existence.
He has a bundle of swanky-looking material in his hands, all gold-edged and highly impractical. He stares at a headpiece for a long moment before shaking his head.
"It's a bit ostentatious. You did mention wanting to travel undetected, did you not?"
"Yeah, I keep imagining how they've managed to keep all of this—" she motions to the museum at large "—a secret."
Lola shifts her weight to the foot that still has a shoe. Ahkmenrah glances down, noticing her bare foot for the first time. He quirks a brow.
"Don't ask. It's been a long night."
He presses his lips together in a poorly concealed smirk.
"Anyway, as I was saying, I've narrowed it down to either memory wipes or death threats, and personally I'm not a fan of either."
He looks a bit bemused at the mention of memory wipes, but doesn't question further.
"Then as soon as I change into more suitable attire, I will help you escape unobserved."
"Thank you. Really. I've been having a helluva time on my own."
"As I've said, I am in your debt."
He stares at her.
Lola stares back.
What's with all of the staring contests tonight? Granted, this is one staring contest I could really get behind.
He does have lovely eyes. And hoo, boy, lashes for days.
And then she realizes he's waiting to change.
"Oh! Right. I'll just, uh. There's a door and I'm going to use it now." She does a swift one-eighty, and doesn't quite run, but definitely speed walks out of the entrance.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Her bare foot slaps embarrassingly against the marble floor.
"Don't stray far," he calls after her, laughter in his voice.
I honestly don't know if my night has gotten better or worse.