"Okay." Sam stepped away from the mirror, and the eyes disappeared. Tail whipping from side to side, he caught Stewart in an amber gaze and growled, "Get Arthur."

Dean knew he was dreaming because, although he had once played hockey in his underwear, he'd never had so much trouble covering the ice. It had to have been five or six kilometers between the goals and by the time he crossed the blue line, he could barely put one skate in front of the other. With all his remaining strength, he drew back his stick, set up for a slap shot, and stared in amazement as the blue light around the puck turned white and sparkly and, for no good reason that he could determine, it ascended, becoming a higher being.

"Hey, McIssac!"

He looked down at Austin, wondering how he could actually blow a whistle without lips.

"What have I told you about keeping your stick on the ice?"

It took him a moment to remember how his mouth worked. "Nothing."

"Fine. If that's the way you're going to be about it, get up and feed me."

"What?"

"I said, get up and feed me!"

A sudden sharp pain on his chin jerked his eyes open in time to see Austin pull back his paw, claws still extended.

"What's a cat got to do to get some breakfast around here?"

Rubbing his chin with his left hand, Dean reached for his gla.s.ses with his right. "That'll do it." The sheet felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and after he swung his legs out of bed, it took him a moment to remember what he was supposed to do next.

"Are you all right?"

"Just some tired." He squinted toward the bedside table. "Is that the time, then?"

"Let's see . . ." Austin walked across the pillows. "Numbers on a clock; yes, I'd have to say that was the time."

"It's seven thirty. I slept through the alarm." He never slept through the alarm. Had never slept through the alarm. Ever. It bordered on irresponsible. Two tries to stand up, but once he was actually on his feet, his head seemed a little clearer. Washing, shaving, dressing, refolding perfect hospital corners; by the time he set Austin's saucer of cat food on the floor, he'd shaken off the sluggishness and was feeling more like himself.

Moving the fridge out from the wall and vacuuming the cooling coils banished the last of it.

It had probably been nothing more than a reaction to the uncomfortably warm temperature in the bedroom. He hated sleeping with a fan on and the air outside was so still and hot, an open window made little difference.

"Good morning."

A pleasant soprano voice but not one Dean recognized unless Dr. Rebik had woken up in even worse shape than he had. He finished shouldering the fridge back against the wall, turned, and was surprised to see Meryat's shrouded form standing alone at the end of the counter dividing kitchen and dining room.

"It is a ... beautiful day."

It was already 29 degrees C, the sun so bright on the front of the guest house he'd nearly been blinded stepping into the office. Still, for someone used to the weather in Egypt it probably felt like home.

"You're speaking English."

Although he still couldn't see her face, the tilt of her hood looked confused. "England?"

"No, Canada."

"But . . . English?"

"Canadians speak English. Except for those of us who speak French. We have two official languages, see, and we have people who speak both. And a Prime Minister who speaks neither. Sorry, that was kind of a joke," he added hastily as he felt her confusion level rise. Taking a step toward her, he tried to explain. "He's after having this accent that's uh . . ."

Her hand rose toward his chest.

His voice trailed off and he froze, trying to decide which would be ruder, backing away or shuddering at her touch.

Fingertips, a little less black than they had been, stopped just above his T-shirt. Close enough that he could feel body heat filling the s.p.a.ce.

"You are . . . strong."

"Strong?" Then he remembered she'd seen him move the fridge and blushed. "Well, yeah, I guess. Thank you."

"Strong is ... good."

There was a note in her voice that deepened the color of his ears. Nine months ago, he wouldn't have even realized she was. .h.i.tting on him, but since Claire . . .

"Your Keeper . . . will return . . . soon?"

"I hope so."

She was smiling. He knew she was smiling. He just wished he knew what to do about it.

"Meryat?"

Her hand fell, but the heat lingered. She turned toward Dr. Rebik and murmured something in her own language. When he shook his head, she repeated it. Or something so close to it Dean couldn't tell the difference.

The archeologist sighed and motioned toward the dining room, allowing Meryat to precede him. "Would a little breakfast be possible, Mr. McIssac?"

"Sure."

"I'll have what I had yesterday, and Meryat would like to know if there's any chance of chopped dates and honey on a flatbread."

Why didn't she ask him herself?

"Sorry, no, but I could do up some grape jelly on Melba toast."

Dr. Rebik glanced down at his companion then back at Dean, and shrugged wearily. "Close enough."

"I don't trust her. You're too tired to get up this morning, and suddenly she's able to complain about the food."

"It's not what she's used to."

Austin sighed and walked over to stand on the dishwasher where he could look Dean in the face.

"You're missing the point. You're tired. She's got new skills. She's a mummy. Mummies are known for sucking the life force out of the people they come in contact with."

"We're not in a cheesy horror movie here," Dean protested as he straightened.