Author's Note: Sorry if the title of this chapter gives too much away. But you readers must know me well enough by now to know that I would never let any of our intrepid heroes be mortally wounded... I'm not Stephen Sommers, after all. ;)

8.

"Not wounded, not dying, merely enjoying a ladylike swoon."

~

Once I'd managed to shake them off, I ran quite a ways before I realized Evie wasn't moving. Not just pretending to be limp, but actually... well, limp. I called her name. Once, twice. No answer. No sign that she'd heard. For a second, I couldn't think straight. All I knew was, if she was hurt, I'd kill whoever was responsible. And I'd do it slowly.

We'd reached the more European section of Cairo by this time, so I figured it was safe (well, safer) to set her down and take a look. Even if any of them had managed to tail me, they wouldn't be stupid enough to attack us within earshot of dozens of British soldiers. There was enough light to see by as I laid her down on the ground, as gently as I could. I couldn't tell if she'd been shot.

"Evelyn... Evelyn, wake up. C'mon, honey, open your eyes..."

She was awfully pale, but she seemed to be breathing okay. So then--and I felt like kind of a sleazebag for doing it, especially while she was unconscious--I patted her down all over, to make sure she hadn't been hurt anywhere I couldn't see. It didn't look like it. It was hard to tell, because there was some blood on the pajamas to begin with.

"Oh, shit, Evie... what do I do?!" I could feel myself starting to panic. And I wasn't the kind of guy who panicked. I was the one who took over when other people lost it. But I felt so helpless...

Then, out of nowhere, I found myself flat on my back. My attacker, a guy who'd moved so quickly I hadn't had a chance to see his face, was sitting on my chest, yelling incoherently and jabbing at me with his fists. I was more surprised than overcome, and as soon as I heard the words "my sister," I knew what was going on.

"Jonathan!" I batted him away and sat up. "It's me!"

"Oh." He scrabbled to his feet and wiped his hand across his bleeding mouth. "Sorry, I thought... well, you know. What the devil's the matter with Evie?"

I bent over Evelyn again. "I don't know, she--she passed out! She wasn't hit--I just don't get it..."

Jonathan shoved me out of the way, then leaned in and examined her. "Fainted," he pronounced, then slapped her briskly across the face.

"Do that again and I'll tear you apart," I growled.

He looked at me like I suddenly had my head on backwards. "She's fainted, you nit!" he yelled. "That's what you're supposed to do!"

"But--but--Evelyn doesn't faint," I finished lamely. Well, it wasn't the kind of thing you'd expect from a girl who could look a walking, talking mummy in what was left of his face and not even blink.

Jonathan gave me a look, then shook his head, like he couldn't even be bothered. He slapped her cheek again. And a third time, harder. I guess I was being pretty arrogant. I was arguing with the guy who'd known Evelyn since the day she was born.

He hovered over her, hands fluttering nervously. "Yes, well... I dare say it's the first really ladylike thing she's done since--ah, there we are," he finished abruptly as Evelyn started to come around. "You gave O'Connell here quite a fright, my girl," he told her, chuckling.

Evelyn's response was to reach up and smack him. Hard.

"Oooh, I say, that was uncalled for!" he whined, rubbing his cheek.

"So was that last one of yours!" she shot back. "Not to mention calling me unladylike." Then, with the inconsistency that was typical of Evelyn, she sat up and threw her arms around him. He laughed, then got real quiet and held her tight. It only lasted a moment, but for the first time, I actually understood, a little, how Jonathan felt when Evie and I got so wrapped up in each other. Left out. Jealous, almost. He already knew her better than I ever would, in a lot of ways. They had a whole relationship and history that I was never going to be a part of. No matter what happened, they were still family. And I'd kind of swooped in out of nowhere and stolen his little sister away.

Jonathan moved back, then tapped her under the chin so she'd look up at him. "You won't get rid of me that easily, I'm afraid, old mum," he told her, then pinched her nose between his thumb and forefinger. She squealed, shoved him away, and wobbled to her feet.

"Rick, old man, pick her up, won't you?" Jonathan suggested, struggling to get up himself. "She won't admit it, but she's in no condition to walk. If she gives you any cheek, you have my permission to spank her."

"Ooooooh," she said. "Bloody men. I'm fine." Abruptly, she started to lean sideways. I barely managed to catch her in time. "Well, a bit dizzy." When I lifted her up, she didn't even protest, just sighed and shivered.

All the way back to the hotel, I carried her tucked close to my chest, her head on my shoulder. Jonathan walked beside me, stumbling, barefoot, looking like he was ready to pass out again himself. He talked a bit about where he'd been and what had happened. I didn't ask him any questions, and he didn't volunteer much information we hadn't already figured out. He'd woken up tied and gagged in the trunk of a car, head aching like it had been split open. From there he'd been taken to where he was when we found him. All the guys he saw and talked to had their faces covered and spoke "perfect textbook Arabic". He found out that his captors were English, he told me, during an attempted escape, when he kicked some guy in the vitals and distinctly heard the word "damn" before he was clubbed in the head again. Whatever they wanted, he didn't have it, and as soon as they left him alone, he started prying away the rotted boards near the base of the wall and digging with his bare hands. He assumed we were part of their group at first, which was why he pretended to be so out of it. And he'd fainted when he saw me, dressed like I was, because he figured she'd be caught for sure. Now that the whole thing was over, though, he was conveniently braver.

"Bunch of silly wankers playing dress-up, that's all they were. Don't know why they wanted Evie, though," he said thoughtfully.

"We'll figure it out," I told him, hugging her protectively.

He shrugged. "Yes. Well. Par for the bloody course, isn't it?"

"You two sure know how to find trouble," I said, grinning.

Jonathan clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, my fine young fellow... welcome to the family."

Much, much later, when we'd all had a chance to clean up, Jonathan and I were settled in the sitting room, waiting for Evelyn to finish getting dressed. The big window had been boarded up while we were gone, and a note of apology for the inconvenience had been left on the sideboard, along with a complimentary bottle of wine that even Jonathan wouldn't touch.

We made quite a team, the three of us. When I took my shirt off, I found that the bullet had left a crease in my shoulder. Wasn't the first time I'd been hit, or the worst. I knew from experience that it wouldn't be helped by stitches, or anything else other than rest and time. Evelyn insisted on playing doctor, though, fixing me up with so much tape and gauze that I could barely move my arm by the time she was through. I'll admit that I kind of liked having her fuss over me. She did it after we first came back from Hamunaptra; cleaning all my little scrapes with soft, tender touches, touching me and telling me how brave I was, shyly admitting that she didn't mind if I kept my arm around her waist while she worked. It took longer that way than it would have if I did it myself, but I'm not complaining.

Of course, she wouldn't let anyone look after her, insisting that all she needed was a hot bath and a good night's sleep to feel like herself again. She tended to all Jonathan's little scratches and bruises, even the split lip I gave him when he jumped on me. Apart from his head, which was starting to look like an overripe plum on the one side, he wasn't in bad shape. After pouring us each a generous ration of whiskey "as a panacea", he stretched out on the sofa with a wet towel draped over his eyes, milking it for all he was worth.

Evelyn had a little more colour in her face when she came in, but I noticed again that she was walking funny. Jonathan, peeking at her from under his towel, noticed it too. "I say, sis," he drawled as she limped across the room, "you haven't done your ankle, have you? She's got weak ankles," he added, looking over at me. "Been that way since she was this tall." He held his hand over the rug, at a height of about a foot and a half.

"She's been walking like that all night," I grunted. "Won't tell me why."

"Good lord, no, she wouldn't. Damn stubborn."

"No kidding."

"She can hear you," Evelyn added pointedly, going to the sideboard. "Oh, that's nice of them," she said, picking up the wine bottle. Seeing it was unopened, she looked curiously at her brother, then put it back.

Jonathan sat up, making room for her on the sofa. He'd gulped down his glass in three swallows and was starting to get happy. "Do stop tottering about, Evie." He patted the cushion beside him. "Sit down here like a good girl, and tell us what the trouble is. O'Connell will kiss it all better and make it go away."

Now she had a lot more colour in her face. "Be quiet, Jon."

It was the way she sat that gave it away. Half on, half off the sofa, back ramrod-straight. I couldn't help laughing when I figured it out, although I guess it wasn't that funny. Evelyn glared at me.

"What's the joke?" inquired Jonathan, leaning back and repositioning his towel.

"You sat on a piece of glass, didn't you?" I asked her. "When the window broke! Didn't you?"

She blushed even more, but didn't answer.

"No wonder you passed out! You probably lost some blood--God, Evelyn, you scared us half to death!"

"I wasn't scared," Jonathan corrected, planting his sock feet on Evelyn's knees. I wanted to smack him in the head, but unfortunately, someone had beaten me to it in a major way.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" I demanded.

She shrugged, folding her hands in her lap. "It wasn't important at the time."

"You fainted!"

"Just a little..."

Jonathan snickered. "Don't argue with her, old boy. You won't win. I say, if she wants to go running about like a harebrained twit and being a fine representative of her sex in general, who are we to stop her?"

"I did it to help you, idiot!" She shoved his feet away.

"Mmm, so you did, old mum, so you did." Jonathan reached over and helped himself to Evelyn's glass. "A toast, to my sister, the dashing heroine." Down it went, as quickly as the first.

I grinned and raised my glass. "I'll drink to that." I took a sip.

Evelyn fidgeted some more.

Well, I knew what I had to do. She wasn't going to appreciate it, but it was better to be embarrassed than to end up with a raw, infected wound in a very sensitive place. Believe me. Besides, it wasn't like we were complete strangers. Hell, we were supposed to be married in a week. And it wasn't like I'd never seen a woman's... okay, even I could see that that probably wasn't an argument that would work in my favour.

Jonathan had retreated under his towel and taken over most of the sofa. I didn't realize how hard the whiskey had actually hit him until his hand slid off his chest and dropped to the floor. He was completely out. Now was as good a time as any.

"Evie?"

"Mmm?"

"I think someone should look at where you sat on the glass."

"Like a doctor?"

"A doctor, sure. Or me."

She shook her head. "No, thank you."

"You really should get it looked at."

"I will."

"It could be infected."

"I'll have it taken care of."

"Evelyn..."

"No, Rick."

"Look, I'm not gonna try anything!" I yelled, throwing my arms up in the air. "What is it with you? I know you're not a prude, and I don't know why you want me to think you are! I'm not some sex maniac who's gonna go completely nuts at the sight of a little skin!"

"I never said you were, and don't yell at me!"

I took a deep breath. "I want to make sure you're okay. That's all. I won't even touch you, I swear. Just let me take a quick look."

"One quick look? That's all?"

"Yeah."

Jonathan snored loudly, which at least got a smile out of her.

"All right," she said softly.

We went into the bathroom and closed the door. She leaned over the sink, and I hunkered down so that I could see what I was looking at. She undid her skirt and slid it down, then peeled back underwear and bandages, revealing only what was necessary. It was a nasty cut. I mean, she'd done a good job of cleaning the wound, especially considering that it wasn't easily accessible or anything. But she definitely needed a couple of stitches to close it up.

"Well?" she asked, in a voice that was barely a whisper. Her skin was all goosebumps.

I reached up, rested my hand in the warm hollow of her back. "I think you'll live... hey, you like embroidery, right?"

She snorted. Huh. Guess not.

"Well, if you want this to stop bleeding and start healing, one of us is gonna have to practice our sewing skills."

She sighed.

I rubbed her back reassuringly. "I actually have experience with this kind of stuff. Believe it or not."

She sniffed, in that snooty way she had. "At the rate you go about getting yourself shot, I shouldn't wonder."

"You want a pinch while I'm down here?"

"You wouldn't dare!"

It was pretty tempting. But probably not the smartest thing I could have done in that situation. "Do you want me to fix this?"

"Can you? I mean, do you have the right... supplies?"

"There's a needle and gut in my bag. I suggest you have a good, stiff drink while I'm getting that set up."

She fixed her skirt and ambled back into the living room without even a look in my direction.

Well, I can't say it's the most pleasant thing I ever did, so I'm not going to dwell on the details. But I did it. Three neat little stitches--don't know how I managed it, with my hands shaking like they were. Poor Evelyn. Even with her senses numbed by booze, she still left a lasting impression on the belt I gave her to bite. Gotta give her credit, though. She didn't cry, didn't even make a sound. Which makes her tougher than I am.

When it was all over, I carried her to her bedroom. She was pretty well soused, of course; she stared up at me with wide, dazed eyes, like she knew me from somewhere, but couldn't quite place my face. I set her down in the bed, on her side, as gently as I could. I sat next to her, debating whether or not I should try to undress her or at least do what I could to make her more comfortable.

"People always talked about her..." she murmured. Dreaming, probably, although her eyes were still open.

"About who, honey?" I asked.

"My mum. They always said--I was young, but I--you know, children listen to those things!" She tried to sit up, but I took her by the shoulders and eased her back.

"Okay, Evie, okay... there we go. Take it easy."

"It was all because of Jonathan," she told me.

Well, that figured. "Yeah? What'd he do?"

"You should have heard the names they called her, Rick... the things they said..."

"Who said?" I was surprised she was even lucid enough to know who I was. But she obviously had something on her mind.

"My father's family. She was so young... the baby... she couldn't hide..."

"Jonathan."

"Mm-hmm."

I was starting to get the picture now. "So when your folks got married, Jonathan was..."

"The guest of honour," she murmured, then opened her mouth in a wide yawn.

"And so people always talked about your mom behind her back... right?"

No response.

"Evie? Evelyn..."

She was dead to the world. Poor girl. She was having a hell of a time lately: crazy dead guys trying to sacrifice her, crazy live guys kidnapping her brother, and now, as the final straw, stitches in her ass and the mother of all hangovers to follow. Maybe I was bad luck. In any case, I wasn't going to stick around; I'd seen her hung over once before, and it wasn't pretty. Besides, I felt kind of obligated to keep an eye on Jonathan. Still, at least now I knew why she always took it so personally when I called her brother a bastard. I'd have to quit doing that.

At least, when she could hear me.