Harold glanced at the IV bag. It was less than a quarter full.
"Where is it all going?" he asked.
"Into the rain, maybe," Wendy said, "Or a sacrifice to Satis. It's another reason we need to figure out how to stop all this."
"But you said you saw yourself ruling over Chicago. You can't do that if you die of dehydration."
Wendy met his gaze. She looked determined, queenly.
"I don't trust dreams. Do you? Our dreams, our obsession with the poem, that's what got us into this mess in the first place."
"But you are a goddess now, aren't you? You tell me--" he stopped, tried again, "you tell people what to do and they do it. You got me out of the ER, you got this room up here, Pierce, who never does anything out of line, got the phallus out of the truck for you. That wouldn't have been possible without some sort of magical power."
"Whatever power I have, it's not enough to save myself," she said, her voice quiet but strong, "I don't think the dream was a promise to me, but to whatever goddess I'm channeling."
"Satis."
Wendy nodded. "Possibly. Or Isis, or some ancient goddess whose name we don't know."
"Satis pours the water that makes the Nile flood. It's got to be Satis. I-- wait." Harold got off the bed. Forgetful of his own nudity, he went straight to the tablet and turned it on again.
"The pattern around the outside of the brand," he said, looking down at the image, then over to Wendy, "Those aren't flower petals, each one is the crown of Upper Egypt. That's a symbol consistently used to depict her."
Wendy grinned at him, held out her hands for the tablet. "Smart boy," she said, looking at the picture. "And I had a thought, too. Take off the bandage."
Harold peeled back the tape that framed the square of cotton to reveal the brand burned into his skin. Wendy reached for the switch on the light cord the hung by her head, turning on the lights.
"Come closer," she said. Harold took a few steps toward her. She lifted a hand, as if to touch the brand, but saw him flinch in anticipation. She put her hand atop her thigh, instead, and looked back at the image on the tablet.
"Cover it up again, slave. I want you to heal. We'll just reverse the image then take it into Tracer. I'm guessing it'll be easier to read if we look at it the way it was meant to be seen. Come, sit." She shifted her hips away from him, toward the IV, and tapped at the mattress.
Harold replaced the bandage and sat where she'd indicated, facing her, his right hip snuggled against her right thigh.
"My right-hand man," she said. Harold blinked, flashing back to his dream. He wondered whether or not to tell his goddess about it. Wendy handed him the tablet. "I don't use Tracer, so I'm guessing you'd be faster at this."
Harold took the tablet and reversed the image before importing it to the app he often used for pulling hieroglyphs or other text out of images. First he used guide lines to mark out the symmetry, then traced over one quadrant of it, following the flowing script over the guidelines where it appeared to overlap. He ignored the bulbous shapes of the crowns of Upper Egypt, leaving just the glyphs within.
"Satis," they both said, Wendy's voice a fierce, angry whisper, Harold's one of wonder.
"That's it?" Wendy's voice cracked, "Just her name? That's not enough. We need a spell to stop this!"
"But at least we know who--" Harold stopped speaking as his phone rang. He reached down for his bag and pulled out his phone. "It's Peter," he said, looking at Wendy for direction.
"Answer it."
Harold tapped the screen to accept the call. "Hello?"
"Harold, Peter. Listen. Those amphorae? The x-ray lab just e-mailed us images of the interiors. Not grain like we thought, but bodies, mummified females."
Harold swallowed, fear returning to his bones and muscles.
"Sacrifices?" Harold finally managed, his voice weak.
"Yeah, I think so. I think Wendy was on her way to becoming mummified."
"Why are you--"
"I know you didn't go home. You've been pussy-whipped. I'm just sharing information with Wendy, one professional to another."
"Thank you for letting us know about the amphorae."
"Don't mention it. Particularly to DeReal. He's planning on giving you some time off from work. Don't know if you'll be coming back." Harold opened his mouth to reply but Peter had already ended the call.
"What did he say?" Wendy asked. Harold told her about the mummies. She was silent for a moment, her eyes on his, before she said, "If you hadn't taken the phallus away from me, I'd be just like them."
"I think so, yeah," Harold nodded.
"That cache isn't going to hold any clues on how to stop this," she said with a sigh, "It was something they wanted, obviously some sort of yearly ritual, a sacrifice, something they thought they had to do to bring the floods."
"But it's real," Harold said, "It really is bringing a flood."
Wendy waved a hand, whether dismissive of him or the rain outside, Harold wasn't sure.
"What if this rain storm isn't related to what we did," Wendy said.
"I think it is," Harold insisted, "We know the geological and atmospheric science behind why the Nile floods every year, so of course this magic doesn't replace that. I'm not saying Satis makes it happen. I'm saying maybe she helps with its regulation, ensuring the right amount at the right time. And, in exchange--"
"In exchange, she gets a human sacrifice," Wendy finished for him.
"Or two," Harold said, "I would have killed myself if you had died."
Wendy made a face, as if to protest.
"I'm serious," Harold said.
"Well, let's hope that enthusiasm helps us find a way to stop this. We have to figure out a five-thousand-year old puzzle no one wanted to solve back then, a puzzle no one else has known about until now."
"It does seem rather impossible," Harold agreed, watching her. Wendy looked as though she felt hopeless. The queenly energy she had radiated appeared to have drained away. She gave a little shrug.
"Now at least I kind of understand what life was like for you," she said, her voice slow and sad, "hooked up to a machine on a regular basis in order to stay alive. I can't imagine dragging an IV around for the rest of my life."
Harold glanced at the saline drip. It was almost empty.
"I guess I'd better get dressed before they come in to replace that," he said, nodding at the bag. Wendy wasn't looking at him but at the rain, sheeting down the window, distorting the view of the skyline's lights and the clouds they lit from below.
Harold let her be and dressed in silence. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to help her.
"The sex helped," she said, as if reading his mind. Her voice was flat. Harold thought she didn't sound hopeful. "Maybe that's the next thing to investigate."
"How did it help?" Harold asked, zipping his fly.
"Have you ever heard of sati?" Wendy said, apparently changing the subject.
"Is that a variation on Satis' name?"
"No, it's the word for a widow's self-immolation in India."
"Just because it's similar to--"
"I know phonetic similarities don't mean much," Wendy said, cutting him off, "But it's an interesting link, this kind of female self-sacrifice."
"I don't think it's a real link," Harold objected as he shrugged on his shirt. Wendy sighed, watched him as he buttoned what buttons were left.
"Maybe not," she said, "I'm just trying to come up with something."
"The sex sounds like a better something. I hope you're not thinking of setting yourself on fire."
"No. No, but now I'm thinking about the old concept of matter, of everything being made up of fire, water, earth, and air. Women masturbate themselves into mummification so that Satis pours water. Widows commit sati by throwing themselves on the funeral pyre. Maybe another culture's story has women dying by being buried alive, and others sacrificed by, what, strangulation?"
"That doesn't sound like--"
"It sounds like patriarchy, is what it sounds like."
"I'm sorry," Harold said, sitting by her side. Wendy finally looked at him. He lowered his eyes and took her hand in his.
"Listen," he said, "I'll follow whatever leads you want me to, whether it's an investigation into all the ways patriarchal societies have come up with to kill women, or if it's sacrificing myself, or even if it's begging Peter for help. But I need you to be the goddess. I need you to be yourself. Don't give up. Please." He waited in the silence, watching his pale thumb rub at her dark skin. Behind his fear and confusion he wanted to take her again, he wanted to bite her while thrusting into her, sink his teeth into her skin in his ecstasy.
"It's hard to be a goddess when I just don't know what to do," Wendy said, wiping a tear from her eye with her free hand, "and I don't think we have much time to figure it out."
A nurse arrived with a full bag of saline solution and smoothly exchanged the empty one for the new one.
"How are you feeling?" she asked Wendy, smiling at her for a moment before focusing on the machinery read-outs. "You're doing fine, despite needing all this extra fluid. Considering how much it's raining outside, you could just be standing out there instead of hanging out here."
Wendy and Harold looked at each other, eyebrows raised.
"I'm feeling pretty good, actually," Wendy lied, surreptitiously wiping away another tear. "I'd like to be discharged."
"The doctor will need to confirm that it's okay for you to leave," the nurse said, making a note in her digital pad, "but I can let him know you feel ready to go."
"Yes, please," Wendy said. The nurse gave her another perfunctory smile and left.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Harold asked.
"Having sex in the rain has always been a fantasy of mine," Wendy said.
"I'm willing to give it a try," Harold answered. He lifted her hand and kissed it.
"If this doesn't work--" she began.
"We'll try something else. I'm not giving up on you."
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