Layla couldn’t help herself. The moment her husband turned on the dashboard light and met her eyes, she laughed and pointed. She slapped her thighs and doubled over and everything, it was just that funny.
There he was, slouched in the driver’s seat of their rented jeep, his arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to one side, and that ‘yeah, yeah, laugh it up’ purse-twist to his lips. And there the mummy was, only a pane of glass away from the love of Layla’s life: tilting her shriveled, bandaged head this way and that as she tried to get a good look at herself in the rearview mirror, whining softly.
Layla got out her phone to take pictures. Who ever said shelling out extra for the fancy-schmancy version with the night view camera would never pay itself back even in their line of work, huh?
Marc scooted over into the passenger seat to roll down the non-beleaguered window and lean out. "I see you’re taking this rescue mission very seriously."
"Exactly as seriously as is warranted. Look a little crankier for me, baby, this is gold."
He heaved an amused sigh and obliged like the dutiful husband he was, deep down.
"I could artfully tear my shirt open if you think that would make for better pictures," he drawled.
While Layla but her lip almost to bleeding to keep from saying "YES", the mummy looked up and noticed something had changed. Moaning, she started shuffling around the car towards Marc. Layla stuffed a fist between her own teeth to stifle her laughter and switched the camera to the video setting.
Marc rolled the window back up with a long-suffering grumble. The mummy made a plaintive noise.
Only when she had thoroughly amused herself did Layla tuck her phone away and venture closer.
"Excuse me? Hi. I’m Layla, nice to meet you. We spoke over the phone earlier. I’m this man’s wife, so I’m going to have to ask you to please stop bothering him about marriage," she said. In English. Just for the hell of it. Followed by a similar spiel in modern Egyptian Arabic, also just because.
No mummy in the world was young enough to understand any of that. And this one clearly wasn’t interested either way. She’d barely spared Layla a glance when she got closer and just kept on impotently pawing at Marc and Steven through the car window.
Thinking a little harder, Layla next tried for as much of the message as she could get across in every dead language she had ever studied (including Latin, because, again, why the hell not). Unsurprisingly but still a little disappointingly, none of those worked either. She waved her hand beside the mummy’s head and whistled, and still nothing.
"Taweret?" Layla said, looking over her shoulder. "You got a minute? Taweret?"
LAYLA! Taweret trilled after a moment. Forewarned by plenty of previous experience, Layla refused to flinch. (But Taweret couldn’t see her rub her ears from wherever she was, so she did do that.) Hello, darling. So happy to hear from you! I’m sorry though, but is it urgent? I’m really quite busy at the moment!
"Uh..." Layla looked at the mummy, who was now sprawled across the passenger side corner of the car, one leg awkwardly attempting to lift onto the hood, as if she could bear hug Marc or Steven by proxy that way. She honestly looked more pathetic than threatening. "I wouldn’t call it urgent, no."
How about I come visit when I’m done with this ride, then?
"Yeah, that works."
Lovely! I hate to make my one and only avatar wait, you know that, but gosh, the Duat hasn’t been this busy in millennia! If this is what one night of visibility does for our popularity, maybe we should put on a show like Khonshu and Ammit’s more often, haha! You know what I say; people could do a lot worse for an afterlife than the Field of Reeds!
Taweret had, indeed, told Layla all of this at least a dozen times by now. Layla couldn’t fault her for still not being used to her underworld getting a steady stream of souls again, though. Layla herself still wasn’t used to the fact that someone or something had chosen this squealing, excitable hippo lady as what, technically, counted as a death goddess.
"I know. See you later."
Laters, gators!
Layla turned her attention back to her husband. "Taweret is busy ferrying souls, but she’ll be here as soon as she clocks out, okay? She has that magical language thing, so she can probably help us communicate with whatsherface. If communication is on the table at all."
"Yippee," Marc deadpanned.
The mummy, now stretched out all the way across the hood of the car and sliding slowly but steadily down it, moaned.
While Whatsherface squeaked along, Layla strolled past, casual as can be, and slipped inside the car door Marc unlocked for her. The mummy was so engrossed in her own slippery slide, she didn’t even seem to notice.
"Evenin’," Layla said.
"Evenin’ to you too, gorgeous," Marc said, and leaned in.
Layla held up a hand. "Just a second. Exactly how close to ‘sticking her tongue down your throat’ did the mummy get? I am not swapping saliva with you if it’s full of mummy germs."
"Relax, I was kidding. Nowhere near. Not even Steven is that respectful of the invaluable historical find." He lowered his voice, as if that meant Steven couldn’t hear them. "If it smells funny in here, it’s because he used up all the disinfectant we had on hand to get the mummy crumbs off."
"Hey! You wanted to strip naked because you thought the wet wipes weren’t good enough to get the mummy cooties out of our clothes," Steven butted in indignantly. Then, in a very different tone: "Hey, Layls."
Layla pulled him in for that kiss. "Hi. You couldn’t have stripped anyway, as an enticement for me? The scantily clad damsels always get the more spectacular rescue scenes."
"Hm, now that you mention it..."
"But, ah, I know I started it, but you guys do remember that even the biohazard theory about King Tut’s curse wasn’t real, right?"
"I know, I know. It’s just –"
Thump.
Layla and Steven turned their heads. The mummy had fallen off the car. She stuck a hand in the air and moaned. It almost sounded like a mummified version of "I’m fine".
"Huh," Steven said. "Just hard to set that kind of ingrained caution aside, you know?" He grimaced. "Especially when you can smell the mummy."
Layla grimaced back. "Yeah. Just to be clear, I definitely won’t complain if you err on the side of caution after this, hygiene-wise."
"Good. I can promise we won’t cleanse anything with fire, but no more than that."
They lapsed into companionable silence and watched as the mummy laboriously clambered upright and dusted off her... er... wrappings. Not the best idea; little bits of it crumbled and fluttered to the ground.
"On the way here I was trying to think of safe ways to tie her up, but suddenly they all still seem excessive," Layla said.
Steven nudged her with a teasing elbow. "Some savior you’re turning out to be."
"Well, I did marry an annoyingly self-sufficient man, so if my saving skills aren’t up to snuff, you only have Marc to blame for never letting me practice."
"Marc wants you to know this attack on his character is a grievous injustice, and he is wounded. Wounded."
"I’m sure he’ll take the recovery process entirely on himself and refuse to even let me be in the same room for the duration."
"Ooooh, burn."
Layla took his hand and, with an affectionate squeeze, whispered: "Don’t worry, Marc. I’ll protect you."
The mummy was studying them now, as intently as they were studying her. Layla couldn’t imagine the old girl liked what she saw. She shrugged apologetically. The mummy’s shoulders visibly fell. She turned her back on them, staggered away a few meters, and sat down on a rock with her head propped up on her hand.
Sulking. Absolutely, one hundred percent sulking.
She was starting to feel a little sorry for the poor thing, but still. A sulking mummy. It was fucking amazing. Layla loved her job so much.