Empire of Ash: A Passionate Paranormal Romance with Young Adult Appeal (God of Secrets Book 1)

by L. R. W. Lee

  “Yes, I took pictures!” I shout. I’m not crazy, and I can prove it.

  My hand digs in my cargo pants pocket and extracts the broken phone and I hit the On button.

  No, I’m not crazy.

  I touch the Photos and furrow my brow when the pictures I took of colorful pottery shards another of my colleagues found recently come up.

  I scroll.

  But I run out of images in short order. “They have to be here.” Insistence fills my voice. and I scroll back to the bottom, but the pottery shards are the last ones.

  I shake my phone—because that’ll definitely help—then growl at the broken screen, “Cough ’em up, you stupid device.”

  Nothing happens and I throw up my hands and let out a growl.

  “Okay, fine. Fine. I can’t get to my pictures.”

  Pell, you can figure this out. You can.

  I exhale heavily and recite, “I came to check on the stability of the cistern.”

  I work through the events, systematically, like any good scientist.

  I turn around, my boots scuffing across tiny pebbles that line the dirt floor and shine my Maglite around the walls and surface of the water. It’s fine.

  I turn back and gaze at the wall again. “Part of this wall collapsed.”

  I step forward and scrutinize it, yet no matter how long I study it, I find nothing to suggest any of the stones have moved in ages. I step closer and press a hand to the limestone. It’s solid.

  My chest tightens.

  Calm down, Pell. You’re a scientist. You pride yourself in being factual and literal, and avoiding embellishing.

  “Walls don’t collapse and get magically rebuilt. People don’t appear out of thin air, then vanish again.”

  I bite my lip harder as my brain struggles to make sense of the disparate facts. Minutes tick by without a coherent story emerging, and I start doubting.

  Did a part of the wall really collapse? I run my fingers across the stones again and shake my head.

  Did I really talk with a crazy, sexy man… with unique and beautiful and very familiar eyes… who isn’t anywhere in the vicinity?

  I frown at my traitorous phone, then grab the back of my neck. There has to be an explanation. Has the stress of the earthquake and the toxic environment of the dig finally sent me over the edge?

  I bring a hand up and feel my forehead, but my fingers are too cold to tell if I’m sick.

  Have I been projecting, displacing my feelings of frustration onto a person I somehow conjured? The stranger’s dark, brooding good looks and deep baritone voice, the conversation… did I imagine all of it?

  I’m not a psychologist. Has my brain created an invisible friend to help me cope? The guy beats Harvey the rabbit, hands down, but really?

  I suck in a breath as another possibility dawns. Am I suffering from delusions? Does early onset Alzheimer’s run in my genes? I’ve no way of knowing. If it does, what am I to do? How long will I live? Will I forget everything?

  My chest tightens and my breathing labors. Now I’m worried. I need to get it checked out. I’m too young to die. I have too much to live for.

  I sneeze and a shiver races up my back, bringing me back. I scrounge in my pocket, grab another Kleenex, and blow my nose.

  I snort. I am sick, all my sneezing proves it. That’s all this is. Maybe I’ve hallucinated. Yes, it has to be.

  I need drugs and sleep, that’s all. They say the mind is an amazing organ capable of unimaginable feats, well, my brain has outdone itself. I’m sick and I’ve imagined everything.

  The back of my throat suddenly feels sore. There see, more proof I’m sick. That’s all this is. I’m not crazy. My mind’s just playing tricks on me. I need lots of cold meds and sleep.

  My body instantly relaxes with the declaration, releasing the tension that’s been building, and I take one last look around the landing. Boy, sickness sure did a number on me.

  I shake my head, pocket my cracked phone—it’s not the only thing cracked—then climb the ninety-nine steps and slough my way through the drizzle and mud, back to the command tent.

  Thankfully only Jude is around when I enter.

  “The cistern is secure, but I’m not feeling well. I need to go.”

  Jude looks me up and down but doesn’t ask any questions, only replies, “Then get some rest, and we’ll see you tomorrow. A little avgolemono soup will fix you right up.”

  “Thanks, I’ll give it a try,” I say, waving as I leave.

  _______

  I feel my forehead again, then sneeze as Grumpy, the old black beater I got a deal on, gives another sputter as I drive. I don’t know how many more days he has in him, but I hope he’ll last the rest of this dig because I don’t want to have to ride share with any of the guys. But however long he has, I pray he doesn’t die today, not with the rain pelting like it is.

  Grumpy lurches and chuffs as I pull into a parking space in front of my room at the ramshackle motel. I pull my hood up, then grab my take out—Jude’s suggested remedy—and a few other Greek cold meds, which never work as well as Nyquil, from the passenger seat, and make a run for the door whose bright blue paint is peeling.

  The musty smell of the old, gold shag carpet greets me as it always does as I slam the door shut and lock both bolts. I kick off my muddy boots as I set my packages on the desk next to the door, twist close the bent, formerly white mini blinds, then make a bee line to the thermostat, zipping it up. No doubt whoever ends up upstairs tonight will complain about the heat, but I don’t care, I’m freezing. And sick.

  The metal radiator against the far wall starts hissing as I throw my wet coat on the extra twin bed and head into the bathroom. The place is a dump, but its one redeeming grace is that it has scalding hot water, exactly what I need to get warmed up and forget my episode of crazy.

  Steam begins to fill the closet-sized space as I strip off my sodden clothes and slip into the stream of hot water, ignoring the brown that colors the grout between the avocado tiles.

  “Ahhhh.” It comes out a moan.

  Refusing to think further about my hallucination, I welcome the image of the pair of eyes that always comforts me. It fills my mind almost immediately as I pick up the soap and start washing my body. “You’d never believe…” I chuckle. “I imagined an entire breathing, talking guy with your eyes. Granted he was sexy and cute, but still. What’s my subconscious trying to tell me?”

  Now that I’ve rationalized the situation and know I was hallucinating from this cold, I feel safe remembering my fictitious encounter as I lather my hair.

  “This gorgeous guy was dead serious as he leveled an accusation at me.”—I try to mimic his tone—“You read the scroll aloud, didn’t you?” I laugh. “I really hate being accused of anything. I can’t believe my subconscious turned on me like that.”

  I pause lathering. Even though I know my mind has made it all up, an uneasy feeling besets me. I try pushing it back as I resume massaging my scalp with my fingernails.

  “You brought to life the being whose secret that is.” I again mimic Mister Sexy’s serious tone. Another accusation, this one with dire consequences if sphinxes are real, thank god they aren’t. All the same, my legs start fidgeting.

  “I’ll be waiting for you to come to your senses.” Kind of creepy but he’ll be waiting a good long time at this rate since it’s just my insane imagination talking. All the same, my stomach starts churning.

  “Okay, enough already.” I can’t believe my body is so triggered.

  I force myself to stop rehashing and turn my full attention to rinsing my hair, then toweling off and dressing in my comfortable navy hoodie and sweats. The sooner I get some hot soup in me and take my cold meds, the sooner I’ll feel better.

  Several minutes later, wet hair wrapped in a towel turban, I nest one leg beneath me on the uneven chair and set the other foot tapping beneath the desk that proudly bears its history in a plethora of nicks and dings. I slurp broth from a plastic spoon whi
le I open my browser to a US news site on my laptop.

  The lead story is titled, “Inspector General’s Report Reveals Irregularities but No Criminal Charges Filed in the Latest Scandal to Rock Washington.” I click Play on the video, then scan the text as it loads, which will take a while with the motel’s internet.

  “What? No charges filed?” Broth splashes as I drop the spoon in the container. I know precisely which scandal they’re reporting on. I’ve been closely following as it’s unfolded over the past several months. Scandals always wind me up.

  I had to fight tooth and nail for fairness at the group home. The image of one such occasion, this one with my best friend, Margo. She’s crying as I force her to tell me how Mr. Foutsey—mister footsy and handsy more like—the group home director has gotten “friendly” with her, comes to mind unbidden. The memory never gets easier. Gods, the letch. I shake my head.

  I looked like a rail—still do, relatively speaking, for that matter, and to this day I’ve still not had a period, but I digress—and, thank god, the pervert paid me no mind. Margo wasn’t so lucky. She started getting her curves, and the freak wasted no time. She begged me to keep quiet so I took to writing letters to whoever might listen. I lost track of the number I wrote before a bishop at the diocese finally came.

  I seethe as the memory replays.

  Mr. Foutsey got a slap on the wrist. I lost my best friend; she refused to ever talk to me again.

  The video starts, returning my focus to the scandal, and I take a deep breath.

  Scandals show how unfairly those in authority, rich politicians case in point, are treated. They seemingly live above the law while we mere mortals are subject to every nuance of it.

  The video freezes, and I roll my eyes. Damn motel internet can’t stream videos to save its life. Why do I bother?

  “Forget it.” I kill the thing and continue scanning.

  It’s the continuing saga of a big wig politician accused of using top secret information to bribe a big tech company and lying to the FBI. From everything I’ve learned, the guy is guilty as sin and I want to see him punished. Severely. If it was me or any other US citizen who had done what this guy has, they’d be locking all of us up for the rest of our lives and throwing away the key.

  I hungrily scan the article. “Evidence of consequential errors in judgment, failure to advise, inconsistent information, yeah, yeah, yeah, probable cause. They sure paint his crimes PC, don’t they?” I maintain my ongoing commentary as I read, but frustration has me scrolling to the end in short order. I need to read the conclusions.

  “That’s it?” I let go of a guttural growl and bring a fist down on the desktop making my computer and soup jump as I finish the article.

  “But it’s not fair.” I’ve waited months to hear the result of this investigation, and this is all it concludes?

  “How many people did you pay off to keep your dirty little secrets, ya weasel?” I shake my head, thoroughly disgusted.

  The guy’s above the law. He’ll walk away with only a slap on the wrist… one more time. The country’s run by a bunch of corrupt bureaucrats. Where’s the justice?

  The utter unfairness settles over me, and I know there’s only one thing to do. I rummage in the paper bag and pull out six honey baklava. I’ll drown my frustration in the heavenly treat.

  Nibbling on a sticky piece of heaven, I turn my attention back to the news site to find a breaking news banner flashing along the bottom. It reads, “Chaos Erupts at the Louvre.”

  I draw in a quick breath and click.

  Chapter Seven

  Footage of what looks like a war zone starts playing. Chunks of concrete lay strewn among a host of dust and debris.

  My breathing speeds.

  A museum employee, who they stop to get a word, is covered in dust that cakes around his nose and mouth and makes his hair look gray. “It’s chaos, it’s just chaos.” He starts hacking and moves on.

  I barely catch the Styrofoam soup container my elbow knocks as I straighten my computer screen to see better.

  Gray colors the museum’s security guards’ navy uniforms, too. One woman sputters as she sips a bottle of water.

  I draw my hands over my mouth. This can’t be happening.

  The reporter stops another person, a Louvre official from the uniform, and shoves a mic in his face. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but it appears a bomb detonated in the Egyptian exhibit. We’ll hold a press conference once we know more.” The man scurries away.

  “Shit!”

  The camera pans across what’s left of the arched chamber the sphinx sat in, partly occluded in a haze of dust. The statue of the sphinx used to sit atop a raised platform in the middle of it, but despite poor visibility, there’s no sign of the pink granite lion-person.

  I bite the side of my fist and let out a whimper the instant I spot a gaping hole in the wall behind where the statue had rested. Daylight streams in, illuminating the haze.

  “Damn!”

  “Now do you believe me?” The familiar baritone voice comes from behind me, and I shriek.

  My arm swipes the soup over as I scramble to turn, spewing rice, chicken, and veggies all over my sweats as I bolt up.

  “Damn!” I flail my soupy hands, glancing quickly at the mess, before turning my attention to the intruder.

  I gasp when I find Crazy Guy reclining on the far side of the extra bed in his leather duster with his back against the headboard, arms and ankles crossed with a grin firmly planted on his pretty face. His gold and silver eyes dance.

  “No, no, no, no.” My feet shift back and forth as I raise my hands until my forearms cradle my turban. I thought he was dangerous before, I’m sure of it now. There’s something wild and untamed about him.

  “That’s very cute. What do you call that dance? The drunk penguin?”

  I stop dancing and start shaking my head. “I’m hallucinating again.”

  Crazy Guy leans forward, concern lacing his features. “Hallucinating? Maybe you should sit down.”

  I lower my hands, then turn palms out and start waving them. “This can’t be happening. How am I imagining you again?”

  Crazy Guy stands, then extends his hands as if cajoling a skittish kitten, and slowly rounds the end of the bed. Step after careful, sexy, step he approaches, his eyes locked with mine.

  I freeze, like a deer in headlights.

  His short but wavy, onyx locks are perfectly ordered as they’d been the first time, accenting his olive skin, and making him entirely too attractive for my fraying nerves.

  “Everything’s okay, Pellucid,” he says.

  I sniff in a breath. “How… how do you know my name?”

  He takes another slow but sure step, confidence dripping off him. “I’m not going to hurt you, Pell.”

  He seems so real. How can I be hallucinating this?

  “How… how do you know where I live?” My pitch rises and my breathing labors.

  “You’re okay, Pell.” The tails of his duster kiss his booted feet as he takes yet another step toward me.

  Is he fact or fiction? My mind wars with itself.

  “That’s right.” His tone turns soothing.

  “Are… are you real?”

  “As real as you, Pell.” His voice is calm and reassuring, and he takes another labored step.

  Stubble still mars his chiseled jaw, and my heart accelerates.

  The rings on his fingers click against one another like they did before, as he takes another measured step.

  He can’t be real. Real people don’t enter my room any way but the door.

  A squeak escapes me as he takes another step, but I remain frozen, unable to move a muscle.

  Fight or flight. Fight or flight? What to do?

  The door is mere steps away, I can bolt. Yet something… something I’ve never felt before but is as real as the soup soaking my sweats, keeps me firmly planted.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I press the heels o
f my hands to my eyes.

  He gives a low, throaty chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Pell. You’ve just never met someone like me before.”

  My limbs turn shaky as I drop my hands, and he closes to within four feet, then stops.

  He stopped, he stopped, I tell myself.

  I’m about to exhale when he starts sniffing the air, just like I hallucinated down in the stairway.

  He’s only my imagination, only my imagination, I try desperately to convince myself.

  He closes his eyes and a corner of his mouth rises as if he’s… savoring my smell, like in my hallucination.

  I’m crazy, this confirms it. My imagination has created an ultra-weird dude.

  But no matter how strange his behavior, I can’t look away as, eyes still shut, he smiles, and my pulse quickens.

  Dangerous. Wild. Untamed. The words tangle up in my brain.

  He opens his eyes and stretches out a hand, palm up. “Pell, I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  I draw in a breath and my feet start fidgeting again.

  He holds his outstretched hand steady and takes one more step. “Give me your hand.”

  A clean scent, austere, fresh, and cool tickles my nose. It’s light, subtle, and almost citrusy. I sniff—I’m as bad as him. There’s a hint of cloves, too. He smells good and entirely male, and my stomach quivers.

  Wait, how am I smelling him? Can I smell the scent of a hallucination?

  I look up into his striking eyes that are now… what? Shuttered, inscrutable, mysterious? I can’t tell what he’s feeling or thinking. Mirth is gone, and he hasn’t moved; he’s just holding out his hand.

  Crazy Guy is waiting for me. A kaleidoscope of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.

  But why? Why does he want me to take his hand? Does he somehow sense my inner turmoil?

  Bullies I’ve grown up with stirred frustration and a thirst for justice in me. Irik just plain old ticks me off. I’m neutral with most other people unless they do something incredibly stupid. But Crazy Guy… he elicits excitement, confusion, apprehension, fear, even dread in me.