LEGACY OF THE LOST
Atlantis Legacy, book 1
Lindsey Fairleigh
Rubus Press
Contents
More Books by Lindsey Fairleigh
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
More Books by Lindsey Fairleigh
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Rubus Press
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.
Editing by Katherine Shaw
www.katherinedshaw.com/
Cover by We Got You Covered
www.wegotyoucoveredbookdesign.com/
More Books by Lindsey Fairleigh
ATLANTIS LEGACY
Sacrifice of the Sinners
Legacy of the Lost
Fate of the Fallen
ECHO TRILOGY
Echo in Time
Resonance
Time Anomaly
Dissonance
Ricochet Through Time
KAT DUBOIS CHRONICLES
Ink Witch
Outcast
Underground
Soul Eater
Judgement
Afterlife
THE ENDING SERIES
The Ending Beginnings: Omnibus Edition
After The Ending
Into The Fire
Out Of The Ashes
Before The Dawn
World Before
For more information on Lindsey and her books:
www.lindseyfairleigh.com
Join Lindsey’s mailing list to stay up to date on releases
AND to get a FREE copy of Sacrifice of the Sinners.
www.lindseyfairleigh.com/sacrifice
For all who are afraid
but do it anyway.
1
“Get down!” Fiona shouted, her voice ricocheting off the cavern walls.
I reacted without thinking, dropping to my belly and making myself as flat as possible. An arrow whizzed past my right ear as I pressed my cheek against cool, rough stone.
On the very edge of my vision, I could see Fiona laying a few feet behind me, one hand covering the back of her ducked head, the other beneath her, clutching the Staff of Osiris. A horde of black-robed goons was pouring out through the gleaming, golden exit of the tomb we’d just raided, some hundred paces beyond Fiona. The sound of their footfall thundered up the cave, echoing off the walls, growing ever louder.
I rolled onto my left side, pulling the pistol from the holster strapped to my thigh. Curling upward, I aimed the gun over Fiona’s auburn ponytail, targeting our pursuers.
Two bowmen fanned out from the head of the horde and settled into firing stances near the cavern walls. We were maybe forty yards from reaching the mouth of the cave. With them firing on us, we would never make it out alive.
Sweat coated my palms, but my grip on the gun remained steady. Just three rounds left. I had to make each shot count.
I squeezed the trigger. The explosive crack of gunfire was magnified by the stone surrounding us, making my ears ring.
My aim was true, and the bullet struck the nearest bowman in the shoulder. He spun around, black robes flaring out, and landed face-first on the cavern floor. His comrades swarmed over him, but thankfully, none paused to retrieve his bow. The action must not have been programmed into them.
Shifting my aim to the right, I focused on the other bowman, nearest the tomb, and pulled the trigger.
“Shit!” I hissed as the bowman ducked behind a massive stalagmite. But I didn’t lower my gun. I had one round left. I couldn’t miss. If I did, we were dead.
I inhaled deeply, held my breath, and waited. Seconds passed. My pulse hammered in my ears. The horde drew ever closer.
The bowman finally peeked out from behind the stalagmite, and I didn’t hesitate. I squeezed the trigger, blinking reflexively.
In that fraction of a second, the bullet struck the bowman in the abdomen. He stumbled back a few paces, then dropped to his knees and keeled over.
I watched him for a moment, making sure he was really down. Belly shots were tricky. But thankfully, he didn’t move again.
Blowing out my breath, I shoved my pistol back into its holster and rolled onto my belly. The horde was halfway to us. We were running out of time.
“Let’s go!” I yelled to Fiona, scrambling up to my feet.
As I lurched into a dead sprint, I could hear Fiona’s boots slapping stone right behind me.
The mouth of the cave, a bright beacon just ahead, beckoned us onward. Our pursuers were close on our heels, but daylight—safety—was mere paces away.
I spared the quickest glance over my shoulder, the corner of my mouth raising in a faint smirk. They were too far behind us; they couldn’t possibly catch us, now.
When I returned my attention to the way ahead, my eyes widened. The mouth of the cave opened to a sheer cliff high above the glittering Nile.
I skidded to a halt, barely stopping myself from hurtling over the precipice. I thrust out my arm, sucking in a breath to warn Fiona to stop.
“It’s the only way!” she shouted, ramming into my arm and grabbing on with her free hand.
I screamed as she yanked me over the edge, and down, down, down we fell . . .
“Cora?” Fingers touched my shoulder through the cotton of my T-shirt. Real fingers, not virtual ones.
Startled, I jumped out of my chair, tripping over the stocky pit bull lying at my feet. I stumbled into the desk off to the right, the cord of the virtual reality headset pulling tight between me and the console, and the jerky motion yanked the headset clean off my head. I lunged to the side, barely catching the headset by the cord before it crashed onto the hardwood floor.
Roused from her slumber, my dog Tila ambled past me, snorting derisively. She settled down near the dormant fireplace in the patch of rare March sunlight filtering in through the window, shooting me a baleful glance for the unwelcome disruption.
“Fio!” I said, voice raised, fingers fumbling with the VR headset to angle the microphone toward my mouth. “I’ll be right back. Hang on . . .” I tucked the headset under my arm, pressed the button on the back of my interactive gloves that would withdraw me from the game, and turned around to face the intruder.
Emerging from the virtual world was always a disorienting experience—for anybody. But for me, the jarring transition verged on painful. In the virtual world, I could be whoever I wanted to be. Go wherever I wanted to go. In there, I could have adventures that felt almost real. But out here, in the rea
l world, simply leaving the house for a quick trip to the grocery store felt like a life-and-death excursion.
Out here, I had to face the truth of my pathetic existence: for the rest of my life, I would never really go anywhere, and I would never really do anything. I was twenty-six going on ninety, a prisoner of my own body. Of my own mind.
Emi stood behind the discarded desk chair, petite and poised, hands upraised and expression appeasing. “Sorry, Cora,” she said, angling her head to the side. Her long, sleek braid slipped over her shoulder, and the light from the desk lamp lent a golden gleam to the gray streaks in her black hair. “I shouldn’t have touched you—I know,” she said, “but I couldn’t get your attention, and—”
I raised my eyebrows. Emi knew better than anyone how dangerous a simple touch could be to me. It could trigger an episode. An attack. It could leave me bedridden, trembling as I fought to break free from the prison of my own mind. I pressed my lips together, thinking she’d better have a good reason for playing fast and loose with my sanity.
I grabbed the pair of discarded gloves off the desk and tugged them on, covering my hands and forearms with the thinnest, softest leather. They were custom made by a glover in Italy, a guy my mom found years ago during one of her trips. I had a pair for every season, plus a few dozen extra. My “episodes” were triggered by skin-to-skin contact, but cotton and other knits had proven to be an unreliable barrier. Latex, rubber, and pleather worked well to prevent an episode, but they made my hands sweat like crazy. So, leather it was.
“You have a package,” Emi told me. If that was her excuse for risking touching me, it wasn’t nearly good enough. Unless . . .
A surge of excitement made me all too eager to forgive and forget. Emi had been careless, but no real harm had been done, after all. And I had a new toy to try out—a full-body virtual reality suit meant to translate the sensations from the virtual world into the real one. It was the latest, greatest gadget on the gamer scene, and I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it.
“Where is it?” I asked, giving the bedroom a quick scan. The box would be large. Hard to miss.
Emi stepped to the side, rolling my abandoned chair out of the way right along with her to reveal the brown box resting on the foot of the four-poster bed. It was smaller than I’d been expecting—barely larger than the standard shoebox, but not nearly large enough to contain a whole VR suit. Had they only sent part of it?
I started toward the bed, but my steps faltered. The box didn’t bear the tell-tale logo of Techtopia; the massive online tech retailer didn’t miss a chance to advertise, which meant no box ever left their vast warehouses without their logo stamped on all sides. This box, however, was dented and battered, with no identifying markers other than a hand-scrawled address and foreign-looking postage markings on the top. This was definitely not a package from Techtopia.
Frozen in place, I furrowed my brow. I glanced at Emi, then back at the box.
My name—Cora Blackthorn—had been written hastily on the top in black permanent marker, along with the rest of the address for Blackthorn Manor. But that didn’t make the handwriting any less recognizable.
The writing was my mom’s.
The small surge of excitement from moments ago melted, warping into dread. The unsettling sensation pooled in my belly, leaden and sickening.
The only other time my mom had ever sent me a package while she was away on an expedition, she hadn’t expected to return home. She had sent me the package because she’d wanted the invaluable artifacts within to have a chance to make it to safety, even if she couldn’t. I hadn’t seen or heard a thing from her for nearly two months after receiving the package. I was twelve, at the time, and I thought mom was dead. I mourned her.
When she finally surfaced, more than a little worse for wear, I gave her the silent treatment for another two months, hoping my cold shoulder would force her to rethink her constant need to gallivant around the globe in search of adventure. Hoping she would, for once, choose me.
And it had worked. She’d stayed home. For a little while.
I stared at the package on the bed. How long would I have to wait for her, this time? Another two months? A year?
Forever?
“Emi . . .” I looked at my mom’s best friend, my chin trembling. “When was the last time you talked to my mom?”
Emi and her son, Raiden, had lived in the hill house on the edge of our estate, Blackthorn Manor, for as long as I could remember. She and my mom were incredibly close, often fighting like sisters. Emi was a second mother to me, caring for me when my mom was away. Sometimes she seemed more like a mother than my own mom. It wasn’t unheard of for my mom to call Emi when she was away, but not call me. But it was unheard of for Emi not to share word of the call.
Emi’s dark eyes glistened with unshed tears. I could understand now why she’d risked touching me to get my attention. She hadn’t been careless, at all; she’d been afraid. Afraid of what was in the box. Afraid of what the box meant.
I had a feeling I wouldn’t be rejoining Fiona in the game anytime soon.
Emi gripped her onyx braid with slender fingers until her knuckles blanched. She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to Diana since her call a couple weeks ago,” she said. “You know how she is—always so bad about checking in.”
I had spoken to her then, too. Weeks ago. She’d been in Brazil, hopped up on the adrenaline of a promising lead, certain she was days away from discovering Z, the lost city made famous by Col. Percy Fawcett’s obsession and resulting disappearance in the 1920s.
My mouth went dry, and I swallowed roughly. What if that brief phone conversation was the last time I ever heard my mom’s voice?
“Be careful,” I’d said for what had felt like the millionth time over the last two and a half decades.
My mom’s response had been the same as ever. “Always.”
I cleared my throat, eyes glued to the package. “What’s in it?” I asked, fully aware that Emi couldn’t possibly know, because the box remained unopened.
Emi moved closer to the bed and reached out, skimming her fingertips along the top of the box. Her eyes met mine, and she gulped. “Only one way to find out.”
2
Fighting through the paralyzing fear, I moved closer to the bed and, gripping the carved wooden post, sat on the edge. I released the bedpost and reached for the package, hands trembling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Emi gripping the top of the chairback tightly, her delicate fingers digging into the cushioned leather.
I moved the box to my lap and started picking at a corner of the packing tape. Despite being roughly the size of a shoebox, the package was light—lighter than it would have been had it actually contained shoes, even sandals.
“Here,” Emi said, drawing my gaze as she plucked a pair of scissors from the ceramic utensil cup on my desk.
Emi held the scissors out for me.
“Thanks,” I said, accepting them.
I hesitated for a few seconds, scissors opened wide and one pointed blade poised over the seam of the package. I licked my lips. Maybe there was nothing to fear. Maybe this was just a souvenir. Just some trinket.
My gut told me that wasn’t the case.
I pressed the blade against the packing tape, sinking it into the seam. The adhesive strip resisted for a moment, then gave with a gentle pop. Breath held, I slid the scissors along the length of the package, then cut the tape along the sides.
I exhaled slowly, then drew in another breath as I slid my thumbs into the opening and lifted the flaps.
The box was filled to the brim with wadded-up newspaper. I took out a ball of newspaper and unfurled the sheet. The words printed on the page weren’t in English. The language was easy enough for me to identify—Italian, one of the three foreign languages I’d mastered during my homeschooled studies. I was also fluent in Spanish and Arabic, and I was currently working on a fourth language—Gaeilge—courtesy of Fiona, who got a kick o
ut of my butchered pronunciations of her native, tongue-twisting vocabulary. It’s amazing the skills you can master when you have no place to go and nothing but time on your hands.
I balled up the sheet of newspaper and tossed it onto the floor, then closed the box so I could see the postage mark.
Rome. Shipped out eleven days ago.
Anything could’ve happened to my mom in that span of time.
“What was she doing in Italy?” I wondered aloud, glancing at Emi.
This was supposed to have been a South America trip. A few months in the Amazon rainforest. Back by the end of March.
Emi’s grip on her braid tightened, and she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, a haunted cast to her eyes.
I stared at her for a moment longer, trying to decipher her expression. Small but mighty, Emi was always cool composure and unshakable nerves—no doubt a result of the shadowed military past she shared with my mom. But she was shaken now, and seeing her like this frightened me almost more than the arrival of the package itself.
“Well,” I said, turning my attention back to the box, “what did you send me, Mom?”
I pulled out sheet after sheet of crinkled-up newspaper, opening up each to ensure it was nothing more than filler. During my careful unpacking, I unearthed two newspaper-wrapped bundles; one the size of a baseball, though much lighter, the other small enough to fit in my closed fist. I set them beside me on the bed and continued the search.
Legacy of the Lost Page 1