This one? No different, except it had more woo-woo flavor. We followed Miss Wittingham into a side room, and immediately noticed the difference from the seance setup in the engine room of the White Maiden. For one, she had an actual crystal ball, and for another there were others in the room - Miss Marie Van Teufel and the supposedly psychic Miss Wittingham, of course, but also some Kraut soldier type and a Texan in a big cowboy hat, Billingham by name. If it's anything I can't stand more than a Hun, it's a Texan. Always walking around, thinking they own the damn place. Too big for their britches, all of them, and this guy? Well, I just had a feeling he was bad news. Call it instinct. A premonition, maybe. Then again, it could have just been the hokey feel of the whole thing. I could see the strings, for God's sake - it was like this hack of a "seer" barely even tried.
At least, that's what we thought, until the seance actually began. Oh sure, there was all sorts of talk of "cleansing our souls" and plenty of "Psychic winds" blowing the silk curtains around, but we knew it was fake. We could even see the light bulb in the crystal ball when it glowed. It all seemed to be fake, until the golden shimmer of a halo-like light curled around Miss Wittingham's head, like a strange glow. And then, well then she started speaking in tongues... at least, we thought they were tongues, until Sarah listened carefully and realized something shocking.
"Ted," She murmured to me, alarmed. "She's speaking Demotic Egyptian!"
"You mean like, Cleopatra, King Tut Egyptian?" My brow furrowed. "Ancient Egyptian? That ain't possible..."
"No," Clayton replied, his tone serious. "She's right. It's phonetically accurate to Demotic Egyptian... How is she doing that?"
"Well? What's she saying, then?" Ewan asked, looking from Sarah to Clayton thoughtfully.
"Something about her... sisters being in trouble, at the temple of Sekhmet." Sarah then sat up, looking as alarmed as we were about the whole thing. "But... I don't... I don't understand, how come I can understand what she's saying? Nobody's spoken that language for over 2000 years!"
We didn't get much chance to respond, because Miss Wittingham screamed and then swooned. Around that time, a diversion hit - doves, fluttering around the room and causing a commotion, no doubt intended to distract us - but it failed miserably when a very concerned-looking young man named Karl stumbled out of the curtains holding the cage. Yeah, just as we thought. This was all fake, the whole lot of it. Someone called for one of the saffragi to take Miss Wittingham to her room to rest, while the rest of us corralled in the bar to drink and discuss what happened. None of the folks aside from the German (why would I want to talk to him anyway?) seemed too friendly, really, so we mostly talked amongst ourselves.
Nothing about what happened made any sense to us. If the whole thing was really fake, then why could Sarah understand Miss Wittingham's words if they were nothing but meaningless gibberish? According to Karl, the doves were planned, but not the gold halo of light. Marie insisted that Miss Wittingham's tiredness was a result of her age (which was why she had thought to teach Marie her tricks), but that neither she nor her friend nor anyone there knew how to speak Demotic Egyptian. We were getting nowhere, and got no new information, so all of us retired to our own rooms - Ewan, Clayton and I in one, and the ladies in another - to sleep. It was late, anyway, and we were tired from seeking leads in the noise and bustle of Cairo's streets.
Unfortunately, we didn't get much rest. It was around 10 PM that a noise from the girls' room woke us up, the sound of a gunshot and a struggle. Well, we didn't waste any time; we ran right over there. Have I mentioned how tough them ladies are, by the way? Because I ain't never seen two women wrestle with anyone the way they were wrestling the knife-armed saffragi, inverse ankh of the Brotherhood prominently tattooed on his chest and visible. I mean, Sarah, the little 0ne, she's a real spitfire of a girl, she is - she had her straight razor at the guy's throat and was clinging for dear life. Meanwhile, Bridget had socked the guy clean in the jaw, disorienting him, and had turned to reload her .38 revolver, which incidentally, had made the noise we all heard. Lord, I love these ladies, what would any of us do without them? Us menfolk, we made quick work of the interloper, quickly subduing him from there. He spat baseless threats and empty lies at us about the Brotherhood having a thousand eyes and that more would only take his place. Then he took out a thin knife none of us noticed before, and sliced his own throat.
"Well, looks like the Black Pharaoh's got two fewer eyes now, hasn't he?" Ewan murmured as he lit a cigarette. Scot or not, I'm admittedly starting to like the guy.
From there, the police came, took our statements, and cleaned up. Of course, we're probably under watch by 'em now, but at least they didn't arrest us. They took one look at the dead cultist, one look at the scared women and us in our pajamas, and decided the dead Arabian was to blame. Who were we to correct them, anyway? It got us out of trouble and back into bed, although we all decided someone should probably take first watch. I drew the short straw, while meanwhile everyone else went back to bed. Better me than anyone, I guess.
Of course shit didn't end there. Does it ever for us? Midnight came, and I heard noises from Miss Wittingham's room. The sound of clawed feet or talons hitting the floor, as well as an odd meeping noise. Well, I knew that sound - I remembered it from old Charley Nodd's place back in London - and I knew it meant trouble, so I took up my handgun and went to check. Sarah also peeked out of the ladies' bedroom at this time, and mentioned she heard noise, too. We both agreed backup would be a good thing, so while I went to check, she went to wake the others. Bridget was none too happy about that, so she turned over and went right back to sleep. Well, my gut instinct was correct - about five seconds later, Miss Wittingham screamed and the weird noises intensified. This got Ewan and Clayton up, and they ran to my aid while I worked on busting the door down. Wouldn't you know it, there were four or five of the damn rat-men bastards we'd met before, all of them manhandling Miss Wittingham and trying to push her through some sort of glowing circle of light, through which we saw what looked like a warehouse. No rest for the wicked...
We made pretty quick work of the critters, and made our way after the rest trying to kidnap Miss Wittingham, only to land in a warehouse, our currently carried weapons our only protection, in our pajamas and underwear, at 12:30 PM. Any other time, I'd call that hilarious, and looking back I guess it is kinda funny, me in my wife-beater and white undies with a rifle in hand, ladies in their negligees and the rest in PJs, but at the time it was no laughing matter. The three critters took one look at us, scattered, and then we heard the footsteps and Arabic. Great, more cultists to deal with.
That wasn't the only odd thing, either - Miss Wittingham had some sort of bug up her butt, because she ran for it. Of course we followed, and fortunately the cultists and us somehow missed each other, until one of them saw us as we approached a set of old Great War canvas-topped trucks and watched Miss Wittingham get on a motorcycle and rev it. I didn't even know she knew how to drive one of those, but the implication was clear as she looked from us to the button over the door - someone would have to hit it. Ewan, being the quickest of us, made a break for it while we prepared for the inevitable rush of cultists with clubs. Why is it they always have clubs, anyway? None of them ever think to have guns... maybe it's my head injury from a week or two ago getting the better of me, but it doesn't make much sense either way. Meanwhile, Ewan had hit the button, and the door to the warehouse opened, letting Miss Wittingham scream out into the night on her motorbike. Well, the cultists noticed her getting away, and piled into one of the trucks, so we followed suit, realizing we'd never catch up to her if we didn't. I drove, Ewan being better suited to trying to hit the fleeing cultists.
You ever try to chase a truckload of Brotherhood cultists through the winding streets of Cairo at half past midnight? It's not a picnic, let me tell you - the locals apparently have a thriving nighttime culture, because we ran into crowd after crowd of them... or should I say the cultists did. Fortunately, we found some rounds of ammo in the back of the truck. Unfortunately, so did they, plus weapons for the ammo to go in, and they started shooting at us. Nobody got hit, though I'm sure more than a few of us got dinged up during the chase - I think that head injury has gotten to me, because my driving skills are going and for that, I'm sorry. At one point, I even tried to swerve around and get in front of the fleeing cultists, only to lose control and end up half buried in a fruit stand. I mean, pomegranate and mango everywhere, staining half the canvas cover.
At least, that's what the others told me - I must have blacked out for a second due to the nasty whiplash from the crash, because everything after that is a blur and Ewan took over the wheel while I rested up. I do remember trying to sober myself around the same time I heard Sarah scream something about a short-cut, and felt Ewan ram through something hard in the road. Damn fool barely knows how to drive, but what choice did I have? My ears were ringing and my vision was fuzzy. I regained control of my senses around the same time I felt the truck lurch to a stop, and then heard the sound of the cultist's truck crash into yet another one of those ubiquitous fruit stands. I peeked out of the back, and sure enough, the cultists were bailing out of the truck, a nearby caravan of camels was panicking and braying while their handlers tried their best to calm them, and the noxious smell of gasoline mingled with the fruity smell of smashed produce.
"Petrol leak!" Ewan cried to us, foot already on the gas pedal. "Brace yerselves, lads, their truck's gonna blow!"
We didn't ask questions, we just braced for impact as he sped away from the scene. Sure enough, a few seconds later, we saw and smelled their truck burst into a ball of flames, no doubt probably taking a few of the local businesses with it. I just hope nobody got caught in the crossfire... but at least we caught up to Wittingham as she sped mile after mile across the vast desert sands and roads, finally arriving in a marshy area several miles down the Nile. There, we parked and we all saw the site of a recent dig, ruins of what seemed to be a temple half revealed, but this was no archeological expedition.
There, under the moonless stars, lay at least five or six mummies strewn about and lying on the marshy ground, surely soon to be ruined by the moisture if something wasn't done. A gathered crew of around fifteen Brotherhood men and several more of the rat-things had gathered, digging and pulling simple sarcophagi from a vast burial pit as they searched in vain for something. And standing in the middle of it, back to us all, a man in a very familiar looking broad-brimmed Texan hat, and when he turned, we all recognized it as Billingham, the man from the seance earlier!
Well, to say our blood boiled, that really doesn't do it justice. Our blood steamed and if it weren't for Miss Wittingham, crouched behind a ruined wall, we would have probably shot first and asked questions later. But there was something odd about her, something about her eyes... They glowed yellow, like a cat's eyes, and had slit pupils like them, too! Now we knew we were dealing with something suspicious and maybe even supernatural, especially as she quickly turned to Sarah and began speaking in Egyptian again. Maybe the girl knew something we didn't, because she once more understood, and translated.
"Her name's Sekhmetkemsaf," Sarah murmured, awed. "She's possessing Miss Wittingham... and she needs help. The Brotherhood are defiling these grounds. Those mummies are priestesses, this was her temple... She was head priestess of the Temple of Bastet!"
"A ghost?" I murmured, confused. "An Egyptian ghost?"
"More or less, yes." Sarah's hand immediately went for her straight razor, but the possessed Miss Wittingham stopped her, motioning to be quiet as she began muttering something, a prayer I guess. Then, something occurred to Clayton, and he spoke up.
"Hey... didn't Dr. Kafour mention to you, Sarah, that the Brotherhood was looking for the mummy of someone named Nitocris?" he asked. "Do you think that's what they're looking for here?"
"Yeah," Sarah confirmed. "Maybe they're... but then, does that mean that they're planning something with the mummy?"
I was going to reply, but unfortunately Clayton's footing slipped as he readjusted his position, and Billingham heard us. Then he muttered something and made a weird motion with his hand, and one of those hideous six-eyed whispering snake things came from nowhere, startling Sarah. I don't know how the girl kept her cool, but she did as the thing came looking for us. Around that time, Clayton motioned for us to shut up, so we did... and then the fool man stood up and offered himself as a target. Stupid idea, Clayton, but it may just have saved our hides. And maybe he is stupid, but he's a brave man - he stared the thing in the six-eyed draconic face as it edged within a few feet of him, hissing and laughing, prepared to eat him alive as per Billingham's orders...
I'm not sure what happened then, but there was a blast of bright, golden light as the possessed Miss Wittingham stood, aiming her hands at the vile snake-beast. The blast hit it dead on, and it screeched in agony as it disintegrated from the force of the attack. Immediately, all eyes were on her as the cultists aimed and tried to shoot her, but it was like a shield was around her and the bullets just bounced right off. The rat-things panicked and scattered. The cultists reacted with abject horror. Billingham tried to back up, but it was too late - I'd lined up my shot, and taken it, dropping him in a spray of crimson into the sand while the others rushed one of the fleeing cultists, daring him to run. Yeah, he didn't, especially not when just about everyone had guns trained on him, and the possessed Miss Wittingham had that glowing gold fireball of hers poised to smite his ass into oblivion.
He pretty quickly spilled the beans - Omar Shakti had given this group of cultists orders to find the mummy of Queen Nitocris, and sent them there, letting recent recruited priest Billingham take the lead. They hadn't found it, however, only the priestess mummies, and were getting frustrated. That was about the time we showed up. He swore he knew nothing else and just wanted to be let go. Yeah, sure, we let him go... and then when he got halfway away from us, Clayton shot his ass and sent him tumbling into the Nile and its waiting, hungry crocodiles. So much for reporting back to Shakti...
Meanwhile, the possessed Miss Wittingham began attempting to restore the mummies to their former location, so we helped out. No sense in leaving them like that, though I will say it's a lot different handling a mummy than it is handling any other dead body, and the less you know about why I know what handling a dead body's like, the better. The bodies reburied, she chanted and prayed, drawing a large sigil of some sort on the ground, and soon after that... well, it glowed, a bright and brilliant soothing green. I managed to sketch the symbol, it looked something like a tree branch to me.
Shortly thereafter, Miss Wittingham fainted, and when we got her back to the hotel and she came to, she had no idea of anything that had just happened. We told her she had been sleepwalking - no sense in telling her something she'd never believe anyway. She thanked us, and offered to help in any way she could, but to be honest I'm not too sure what sort of help a fake psychic could be, and I'm too tired to think of any idea of how she could, anyway. Mostly, I need sleep. As for tomorrow... well, we've got some more leads to check out, and I'll definitely need my strength for that.
-- Ted Bates, Bounty Hunter (March 10, 1928)