Siren's Secret (30 page)

Lampley apologized. “Sorry. Surrounded by beauties, you know. Can’t help it.” He winked at Olivia and Elizabeth. When he tried his charm on the duchess, she froze him with a chilling glare.

“You’d be quite likable, Mr. Lampley,” she said, “if you weren’t such a damned ass.”

“Now then, Your Grace. No hard feelings over the knives. I promise you will get them back before you leave.”

The duchess huffed and joined Olivia’s father to better hear his commentary.

Olivia stayed near her father, proud of him at that moment. True, he had managed to find himself in a bit of trouble, but charisma emanated from him when talking about his passion. She’d heard his stories of the Greeks and the Egyptians converging on Alexandria endless times but still listened, spellbound. Every now and then he turned to her to share the attention, and she eagerly expounded on a piece of knowledge or story she’d learned from him. It felt like they were a team—just as she always imagined.

Her father’s commentary made the experience feel like an excursion, and for twenty minutes she nearly forgot there were armed men with them. Even
those
men were fascinated by their surroundings. Olivia smiled despite herself. It could not be so bad. Moreau must have a common respect for the magnitude of this discovery. He must realize what a rare chance it was to experience this in their lifetime. She lifted a hand to feel the cool wall, wanting to touch where other humans had touched thousands of years before her.

For the umpteenth time, she adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder, the funerary cone heavy.

The leather strap was lifted over her head. She turned, and Stafford draped it over his own shoulder.

“Thank you.” While she had not wanted to relinquish it, she trusted him, and her numb shoulder felt relieved. He reached a large hand to the spot and rubbed. She smiled gratefully and reached to put her hand on his.

He took her hand firmly, his grasp warm. He pulled her closer to his side until he could lift her hand to his lips. Then he lowered it, gave a quick squeeze, and led her through the tunnel to the next open juncture.

It felt natural to hold his hand through the dark, and their connection made her feel unusually happy. And stronger, she realized. She felt stronger when he was near.

The group slowed as they reached another flight of stairs, and he released her so she could follow him downward. She placed a hand on his shoulder as they stepped deeper into the cold, dimly lit home of the dead. His heat and strength reassured her somehow that all would be well.

The second level more easily captured the lingering scent of decay. This was where the wealthy families rested. It had more spacious tunnels and elaborate murals.

When they finally reached the bottom of the steps, they walked through a short vestibule into what felt like a grand central courtyard. Olivia wasn’t the only one gasping.

“It’s beautiful,” Elizabeth exclaimed as Lampley instructed the guards to light additional torches around the great hall.

Her father advised them to take a break and have some water. Servants who had joined them carried supplies, and water was passed out. For now Lampley and Moreau allowed her father to run the expedition, and Olivia found that encouraging.

The colossal room where they rested formed an octagonal space with minialtars recessed into each wall and stone benches for visitors to rest. Riedell brushed a stone seat for Elizabeth to sit on. The others followed their example.

Olivia took her time, observing it all with a keen eye. There was not enough light to distinguish the design on the ceiling, but she thought it might be a tribute to the god Osiris, judge of the underworld. She mentioned it to her father, and he ordered the men to light the torches they’d installed into the walls. When they did, the room lit up magnificently, casting shadows that danced merrily across the walls.

“The Egyptians, according to Herodotus, were a deeply religious culture. All wanted to be on good terms with the god of the underworld when they entered the final realm.” He showed them a representation of Osiris on a mural wall.

“Why is his skin green?” Elizabeth asked.

Olivia joined them and answered, “It’s a color of rejuvenation and rebirth.” She observed the four tunnels that led out of the great hall. “This is the way,” Olivia said to her father.

He nodded.

She’d been drawn to it without knowing, sensing something strangely familiar, as if she’d been here before. It made the fine hair on her arms stand on end.

She took another step and touched an empty, stelliform hole at the outermost entrance, instantly recognizing the star shape. They had obtained the funerary cone here! She looked at the inscription below, reading the hieroglyphics left to right, the meaning starkly and in some ways frighteningly clear.

WHAT YOU SEEK, YOU ALREADY HAVE.

Were these the librarian’s last words of wisdom? Advice or warning?

Her father explained, “Those other paths lead to rest areas, smaller than this hall, with six to eight family crypts leading off from each. That one is different. A long path, maybe fifty yards, that opens into the tomb at the end. The artwork from here to there is unsurpassed.”

Olivia entered the tunnel only intending to inspect the entrance. An icy cold emanated from the walls that no amount of heat from the torches could warm. The floor chilled her toes even through her sturdy shoes.

She stepped toward the wall to study the mural, in awe of the complex designs framing each vignette as well as the elaborate pictorial rendering. Slowly she walked along, her fingers grazing the surface ever so lightly, desperate to touch, but careful not to damage the ancient art. It was as if a distant memory called to her.

The story started with a beautiful landscape near an aqua-colored sea. She wondered if it was meant to be Alexandria. People then began to swim out of the water to the beach, until there was a large number. Eventually the story described the construction of what seemed to be a fairly modern city made primarily from quarried stone. Stunned by its beauty and familiarity, she pulled her hand away.

Over the templelike city a figure with orange hair and a long robe reigned. Olivia stopped in her tracks, unaware of the duchess behind her until she spoke.

“Is it a story, or is it real?” she asked.

Olivia turned to her and lifted the lantern to the duchess’s cold, determined face. There was a hint of fear.

“Which is it?” she asked again.

Their eyes made contact. Olivia guessed the woman wanted to hear the former. “I’m not sure, but …”

At her pause, the other woman kept walking to the end of the story. Olivia followed as the images changed to those of a war, then finally to that of a small person either being sacrificed or jumping at the edge of the city’s wall into the ocean. Olivia knew in her bones the figure did not go willingly, but at the duchess’s distress, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The scent of rot and decay became heavier the closer they walked to the room’s entrance. Olivia covered her nose and mouth from the smell.

“Olivia,” the duchess whispered. “We must not go further. No one must enter this tomb. Look at the other side of the wall.”

Olivia did. A female figure lifted her arm toward the seas. The next scene showed the destruction of the city as it crumbled into the earth and a tidal wave swept it away.

“That’s the past, Your Grace. It won’t affect us now.”

“No—”

“Something of interest, ladies?” Moreau interrupted, a handkerchief over his mouth, the others behind him.

“Just noting how the beautiful colors have survived,” the duchess said.

“Ah. Quite a history lesson, isn’t it?”

“Or a parable about the dangers of greed,” she returned, her voice cool.

“Nonsense.” He lifted his torch over the archway.

“Merryvale, you’ve been no use to us. Perhaps your daughter can tell us what this says.”

The casual threat in Moreau’s voice put Olivia on guard. She glanced to Stafford. He and the others appeared on alert. Damn if she were going to tell this malevolent, odious, contemptible abomination of a man
anything
that would help him.

Olivia stared at the hieroglyphics above the entrance to the next chamber. She motioned for Stafford to bring her bag and pulled out her journal. Elizabeth held her writing tools as she wrote down the symbols, already understanding, but struggling for the closest words in English.

“I’ll need time to study them,” she answered, staring at her notes.

Then she heard a click.

It had become a familiar one.

Moreau held a gun to her father’s head. And he looked ready to kill.

Excellent. In a tomb, surrounded by guards, a loaded pistol to her father’s brains, and Moreau thought that was conducive to coherent analysis and translation? Truly an ass and mome.

Moreau nodded to the guards, and suddenly weapons were aimed at her friends.

Her father looked to Lampley. “It doesn’t need to be like this, Hugh.”

“You’re afraid of success, Merryvale. You want to let others take credit for the work we have done.”

“So you do this? Threaten? Will you murder as well? Or have you already crossed that line?”

Lampley laughed harshly. “This from the man who tried to get the star cone behind my back. What did you think I would do? Give up?”

Moreau shoved the gun harder against her father’s head, ensuring silence. “You have ten seconds, my lady.”

Her father stared at them speechless, but she saw his left hand tremble.

“Five seconds, dear.” Moreau smiled.

Somehow Moreau had learned she could read hieroglyphics. She didn’t dare test his willingness to follow through with his threat. She stumbled, her nerves making the words come out a bit jumbled.

“I believe it … it says—”

Suddenly a warm, reassuring hand squeezed her shoulder. She looked up, knowing it was Stafford. He’d moved toward her at the first threat, and his hand rubbed her back steadily, sending heat back into the core of her body.

He winked. That was supposed to help, a wink? Damn silly man.

The annoying thing was that it
did
help. She straightened her back, recovering. She’d fought vicious pirates. She could handle Moreau. And she would not let him succeed, no matter what.

“I believe it says, ‘Here rests a treasure of no value … er without price,’ ” She spoke clearly and with confidence. “ ‘So a priceless treasure, a secret some will perish for, and knowledge of …’ I think, ‘of all time, or of the ages.’ ” She breathed carefully, covering her mouth again from the sickeningly sweet odor, and looked to see if he was satisfied. “Something like that.”

Moreau lowered his weapon. “Very good, my dear.”

Lampley nodded to Moreau. “You were right.” Then to her father, “Shame on you, Merryvale, for hiding that from me.”

“That was cruel and malicious,” Olivia spat. “My stomach is ill.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Moreau said. “You’ve a talent. Sometimes it just takes a little encouragement to make the talent blossom.”

The guards lowered their weapons again.

“Now then, gentlemen.” Moreau turned to Lampley and her father.
“That
is very promising news.”

Olivia didn’t speak. She recognized the wary looks of her companions.

“Olivia, I’m going to return to camp,” Elizabeth said. To Merryvale, “Thank you for the tour, my lord. I’ve had enough excitement for the day, and I’m afraid I’m not dressed for an extended excursion.”

“Of course, my dear,” he replied.

Riedell took her arm, ready to leave. Guards blocked their way. He turned back to Moreau and waited. The man gave permission.

Riedell nodded to Stafford and escorted Elizabeth out. Four guards followed them.

Olivia swallowed her fear and anger, and turned that energy to what was next. It was difficult. The smell increased—she thought she could taste it. Her stomach burned with tension, and she felt more than a little lightheaded as she faced the vestibule to the next chamber.

Her father stopped her before she could enter. “Three men have died here,” Merryvale explained. “It seems the passage has some kind of trap. We believe on the floor. When you step through, poisonous darts shoot from the walls.”

“Clever,” Olivia said.

“This is what happens when people have too much time on their hands,” the duke noted.

Her father continued his theory. “Olivia, here’s where we believe the funerary cone might prevent the dangers in each room.”

“It’s the key,” the duchess said, understanding.

Olivia opened her pouch and pulled out the cone. She lifted it to the matching insert in the wall and pushed. It stopped a bit, and she pulled it back out to feel around for the obstacle. She cleared a small pebble and tried again. The cone slid in perfectly, and at the end the magnet’s force pulled, and it attached with a click. There was a brief silence followed by a strange deep grumble under the dart room—as if a wall moved under the floor. The group listened in silence to the slow reverberating movement at their feet.

“Perhaps our protection is in place,” Lampley said. “Who’s first?”

Olivia stepped into the chamber. The smell of rotten meat assailed her. She choked.

“Olivia, don’t move!” her father cried.

She froze, half confident, half terrified. When nothing deadly occurred, she released a breath of air. “There. No darts.” She just needed to trust herself. She took another step deeper into darkness. Then another. Samuel leaped ahead to follow.

Her father followed right behind, shouting a warning.

“Really, I think we’re safe, Father—other than the horrendous odor.” She took another step onto the patterned floor of the immense chamber that opened up before them.

Her father grasped the back of her shirt and yanked violently.

A sound whished loudly in front of them and ended with a thud.

Samuel held his torch in front of Olivia to illuminate. Where she had stepped, there now stood a long, sharp spear buried in the ground.

Olivia swayed dangerously, and he pulled her against him. The others joined them in the space, staying around the edge of the room. Their combined light illuminated what Olivia had not seen previously—two dried corpses speared in standing position not far in front of them.