Two sets of footsteps approached down the pa.s.sage; one slow and steady, the other shuffling along, feet never leaving the ground.

"Okay, that's . . . weird."

"I'm just guessing here," Austin muttered, backing up to cover both possible lines of escape, "but I think the phrase you're looking for is: Oh, my G.o.d! The mummy! It's alive! Alive being a relative term," the cat added thoughtfully.

"You're not helping."

"Oh. Was I supposed to be?"

Before Dean could answer, Dr. Rebik appeared in the doorway carefully supporting a slender figure wearing a floor-length, hooded cloak. Where would you buy something like that, then? he wondered stepping out of the way.

"Mr. McIssac, this is Meryat. She was Chief Wife to Rekhmire, Grand Vizier to Ramses the Great."

"Ma'am."

"Meryat ..."

And that was the only word Dean recognized. Made sense; why would an ancient Egyptian speak modern English? On the other hand, why would a modern archaeologist speak ancient Egyptian? Still, that was a moot point given that there was a mummy shuffling toward the dining room. Was she hungry? What would he feed a reanimated corpse?

"Uh, Dr. Rebik, just so we're clear, the guest house has a few rules. No bloodsucking, no soul sucking, no dark magic in the room, anything that detaches while you're here leaves with you . . ." They'd added that one after a trio of zombie folk musicians had left part of the base player in the bathtub. ". . . and all long distance calls must be either collect or on your calling card. We've been stuck with the bill a few times," he expanded when Dr. Rebik looked confused. "As long as you're in the dining room, will you be wanting anything to eat, then?"

"Nothing for me, thank you, Mr. McIssac. Meryat . . ." Again a soft string of words in a foreign tongue.

This time, there was an answer.

Meryat's voice was husky, a whiskey voice, his grandfather would have called it, and a small hand wrapped in strips of yellowing linen emerged from the depths of the cloak to close gently over Dr. Rebik's. He held it as though it might break, which for all Dean knew, it might, and smiled into the shadows of the hood.

"Meryat thanks you for your consideration, Mr. McIssac, but she only wants to rest a moment before she attempts a flight of stairs. She's not very strong yet."

"Okay. Sure. Uh, when you said mummy on the phone, I was a.s.suming it . . ."

The hood turned toward Dean.

"Sorry. . . . she'd have her own place to sleep. Our rooms only have one bed."

"That's fine." Another smile into the shadows. They were definitely holding hands.

It was kind of sweet. Creepy, but sweet.

Chapter SEVEN.

Dean lifted Austin's chin out of his eye socket, and sat up in bed scrubbing at the cooling cat drool running down beside his nose. Something . . .

Pounding. Distant pounding. At the front door.

Groping for his gla.s.ses, he pushed the arms more or less over his ears and peered down at the clock. Six twelve a.m. Almost a full hour before the alarm.

More pounding.

"Why don't you just ignore it?" Austin grumbled from the pillow. "Make them come back later."

Wishing he could curl up and wrap his tail over his nose, Dean swung bare feet out onto the floor. "That would be rude." His jeans were folded neatly over the back of an old wooden chair. He stared at them stupidly for a moment, then shook them out and raised his right foot. "Besides, it could be important."

More pounding.

About to shimmy the faded denim up over his hips, his brain finally caught up to his body.

"It could be Claire!"

"Don't be ridiculous, she has a key," Austin reminded him as he tucked in and zipped up just a little too fast to be safe.

"Then it could be someone with news from Claire!" More pounding as he ran from the bedroom and across the living room, exploding out into the office. Hoping the scream of hinges hadn't woken up either of their guests, Claire referred to them as eldritch hinges; multiple cans of WD-40 had no effect, he threw himself to his knees and slid under the drop leaf at the end of the counter, a black-and-white blur barely seen in the corner of one eye. By the time he reached the door, Austin was there waiting for him.

"I thought I was being ridiculous?" he panted, fumbling with the lock.

"If it's news about Claire, you'll need me to be here."

"Why?"

Austin snorted. "Because I'm the cat."

"The cat?" Twist back the deadbolt.

"The only one talking to you."

He wrapped his hand around the doork.n.o.b, turned, and yanked.

The man standing on the porch was a little shorter than Dean's six feet. His hair and eyebrows had been sun-bleached to the color of straw. Sunburn lent a painful-looking ruddiness to his complexion, and the end of his nose was peeling. Bulky muscle making him appear stocky, he wore a tan short-sleeved shirt with the top three b.u.t.tons undone, matching shorts, with all b.u.t.tons safely fastened, and hiking boots. A number of leather pouches hung from his broad leather belt and both his arms were covered in an interesting patchwork of scars.

"All right, where is it?"

Not Australian in spite of appearances; the accent was Canadian heartland.

"Where is what, then?"

"The mummy!" His pause carried the expectation of a musical emphasis, as though his life came with its own soundtrack that only he could hear. "I know it's here," he continued when Dean didn't immediately respond. "I tracked Dr. Rebik's car to your parking lot!

That didn't sound good. Unwilling to give the benefit of the doubt to someone who banged on doors at six in the morning, Dean barely covered a yawn and decided to play dumb. "Why?"

"Because I'm hunting the mummy!"

"Why?" Maybe if he kept repeating himself, he'd get an answer.

"It's a mummy!"

Okay. New track. "So what's Dr. Rebik's mother done to you, then?"