The man in front of her spoke a language she could not understand but one she was familiar with. Egyptian. Not the Arabic of her time but a dead language of Kings revered as Gods and Priests who wielded power over the dead. A magic language that had long faded into textbooks and broken stones.
He was a well-known face that had initially inspired her intrigue, but that had soon given away to terror and anger. Imhotep. Almost a deity himself, out for blood, destruction and nothing else.
He spoke again, stood there in the rags of a black cloak, expressionless, imposing, dead-eyed. The same phrase, a whisper on the wind, but it morphed into a howl that screamed in her brain until he dematerialised and blew away on the breeze of his voice, no more than sand in the wind.
* * *
Magdalene sat up in her bed, a plain wooden cross that stood on her bedside table now clutched to her chest. She had not dreamed like this in eight years, and it was enough to set her skin like marble and stop her blood like tar. The black crook and flail tattoo the creature had imprinted on her upper arm itched with excitement.
She opened the window to her room to let in the reliably cold and bitter London air. She couldn’t tell Evy that she had another dream like the visions in Egypt, she would only try to explore them which exposed them to far too much risk. Rick would laugh it off as a nightmare or tell Evy, most likely both. Jonathan, well as a Carnahan you learn that you never tell Jonathan anything important.
Ardeth was her only choice. He would worry perhaps more than Evy, but he would be worried for the return of that creature rather than about her. He would be constructive, he could help. The Medjai were born to protect the world from Imhotep and they were very good at it.
She pulled a sheet off the bed to bundle herself in and turned on the lamp by her desk. There was a pile of opened letters spilling over on the desk, a paperweight sat on top of them that really wasn’t much use any more. Magdalene brushed a thumb over them as she took out a new sheet of paper and headed it in her scratchy writing, Imhotep’s words still pounding in her head.