She examined his legs. Both femur bones were snapped in half and jutted through the legs of his pants, which were stained in blood. The fabric was stiff and unyielding.
“This was dirt that we had to dig him out of here. Buried up to his hips,” Ari’s partner Shlomo advised.
He was buried alive.
A suffocating, awful way to die—and so much pain. Arden shuddered and ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she began her examination of the body. The skeleton wore a button-down shirt, still stained with his day’s work.
She lifted the skull. Once-thick black hair was still, after fifty years, matted to the bone. It crunched when she touched it. Arden turned the hollow skull over and examined its inside. She sighed.
“Anything?” Nicky asked. He was sorting through the location map, making notes; his handwriting scrawled across the page in red ink.
“Nothing yet,” she answered and continued to examine the clothing before cutting the shirt off of the skeleton.
Arden considered herself lucky if any letters, diaries, or any form of identification was discovered with the bodies. She had only been fortunate once. Where they had been lucky was the discovery and recovery of shards of clay pots, pieces of fabric, and rotted wood, including the nearly intact woven basket.
“I hear we’re having shawarma tonight,” Nicky said with a wide smile.
“That sounds wonderful. Why don’t you go on over and relax? It’s been a long day. I’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Okay. No problem Dr. Blakely,” he said, tossing the map on top of the growing piles of maps, books, and files.
Arden watched him leave the tent and heard his feet shuffle away, back toward the food tent on the other side of the team’s compound of tents and living spaces.
When the silence enveloped her, she returned to her examination. As with all the bodies before this one, she surmised the victim was male, first by bone structure and then by the clothing.
His work pants. They were covered in so much blood that the fabric was stiff and wouldn’t yield to her touch. She bent the fabric harder, cracking the blood; several pieces fell to the table.
She continued down the pant legs, examining the holes along the worn hems. This victim carried no wallet or other form of identification, and there were no hidden pockets. As she took a second pass down his pant leg, her fingers grazed over a hard lump in the rolled hem.
A bone shard?
She tugged at the fabric, which, after several decades, scrunched together in such a tight knot that it refused to un-bunch. After rubbing it between her hands for several minutes, she managed to loosen the fabric, releasing the hidden item.
What’s this?
The laborer had hidden a large iron and copper ring inside the hem of his pants. Arden removed a flashlight and shined it on the decorative ring.
Did you find this down there?
The ring was heavy and ornate, its flat top decorated with a raised six-pointed star with three stones and a set of empty prongs, all positioned in the shape of a square. Arden placed the ring on her finger and noted that it was most likely made for a man, as the very large ring slipped right off.
“What are you?” Arden said aloud to the empty tent.
“Find something?” Nicky asked, entering with a large sandwich and a drink for his boss.
As he lay the food on the table, Arden held up the ring for him to see. If Nicky was impressed, he held it inside.
“Oh, cool. What is it?” Nicky removed a long strand of hair from his eyes for a better look.
“Well, according to all my research on this dig site, the original excavation was looking for a lost temple of King Solomon’s. If that’s true, this might have belonged to him or someone in his court.”
“Nice.” Rather than leaving for the evening, Nicky busied himself with straightening the folders and books.
Arden turned the ring over again, looking for distinguishing markings to tell her what the ring was and who it might have belonged to. Inside the band, she saw an engraved verse so faint that she turned on her flashlight to examine the language.
The language of the Canaanites: Syriac and Egyptian! This isn’t just a ring.
Arden ran a finger across the words, which were nearly smooth from age and barely readable. Her mind wandered through history, and her thoughts scrambled for ideas until information became clear. Her fingers grazed the six-pointed star, and she ran to her research books on the makeshift bookshelf at the back of the tent.
Her library consisted of ancient atlases and books on Israeli history, ancient languages, and rulers of the ancient world. She chose a tome about the history of King Solomon. If this was his temple, maybe the ring was his as well.
She perused the chapter list, searching for anything about a ring until she found a chapter entitled “The Seal of Solomon.”
It’s a seal. It can’t be.
Arden read the passage, immediately honing in on the description of a six-pointed star used to seal the documents of King Solomon—a star surrounded by four Chintamani Stones. She stared at her ring again and then back to the page, comparing the ring to the illustration inside. Her hands shook.
“You okay Dr. Blakely?” Nicky asked, concerned. He reached for the ring, but Arden tightened her grip on the artifact.
Of all the dumb luck, finding this ring here in the middle of the desert.
The Seal of Solomon.
Her mind wandered through history and through the Bible stories she had studied in college and in graduate school.
The ring, she remembered, was supposedly imbued with the magical powers to control the demons known as djinn. She returned to the book.
There!
The djinn: shapeshifting demons also known today as genies.
But demons, they’re not real.
Arden could barely contain her excitement. As an archaeologist, a student of science, she didn’t believe in magic and demons—and yet this book described the ring she held in her hand.
The Seal of Solomon!
Arden pocketed the ring, gently covered up her victim, labeled the body for further examination, and zipped the plastic body bag.
“I need to leave for a little while,” she said to Nicky.
“Where to? Surely nothing’s open at this hour,” Nicky replied as he continued to straighten the books. “Is it about that ring?”
“Yeah. There’s a library in town. The librarian told me to call anytime I needed help. If it’s not open, I’ll call him. If anyone wants me, I’ll be back after the meal.”
She couldn’t remember ever being this excited. The emotions fluttered in her stomach like a tent full of butterflies, swirling and twirling, rising and sinking. She grabbed the keys to one of the off-road vehicles and hopped inside, driving away from camp. It was the only desert road. Arden was thankful that the town had a library.
I hope it’s open.
Her brain churned with wonder and excitement; pictures of ancient cultures flitted inside her head.
Who forged this ring? What was it meant to do? Could it truly be the Seal of Solomon?
As she drove deep in the desert, her car was the only one on the sand-covered road. Arden pushed the speed to the highest she could without skidding and losing control. It was a rough ride in the car, which was meant for driving extremes, and it only got worse as she came around a bend. The speed, too fast, caused the car to fishtail; plumes of sand flew out behind her. Even after she righted the vehicle, sand blew everywhere, blocking her rear view. Determined to make it to town, Arden slammed her foot against the gas pedal and drove along the road.
The sun hung low in the sky and shone brightly in her eyes. Arden lowered the sun shade and drove west, unaware of anything outside the clouds of sand.
BUMP. Her head snapped forward as an unseen vehicle rammed her rear bumper. Surprised, Arden turned the wheel hard and swerved off the road. Using her all-terrain vehicle, she maneuvered the car through the sand,
gained control, and jumped back on to the pavement. Again, her foot smashed against the gas pedal until she reached top speed, racing along the road. It did little to deter the other car, which matched her speed and drove alongside of her.
Arden glanced over, unfamiliar with the driver and unable to make out the passenger in the dim light. The driver rammed his car into hers. She held her wheel tightly as the tires spun and her vehicle slid off the road. She pounded against the gas, but even though the wheels churned and smoked in the sand, it was too thick and smooth for her to remove her car.
“Crap! Crap! Crap!” she shouted to herself and glanced at the road. The sand settled and revealed the second car, another like the one she drove herself. It crept backwards until it was even with hers, its engine humming softly. With trembling hands, Arden fumbled with the latch on the canvas door until she finally released it. She jumped from her car and trudged in the sand toward camp.
The car that ran her from the road was her most immediate problem. The engine hummed softly as the tires cracked against the sand. It didn’t speed up or come near her, but it followed her, stalked her. Whoever it was inside scared her—terrified her—and it took all her energy to concentrate on taking the next step and the next as she drew closer to camp.
She walked, slogged, and plodded through deep sand, hard sand, and even more kinds of sand. It covered her as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Fear and anxiety overtook her as the temperatures fell. Arden realized she hadn’t eaten and had no supplies. She hoped that camp would somehow spring out of the landscape.
Over the course of an hour, her stride slowed, and her legs began to feel like heavy, rubbery appendages. She longed for a cool glass of water or her creaky old cot; her knee buckled.
Where am I? Camp should be here.
Arden fought back the fear and the tears and determinedly picked up her stride, ignoring the tires against the sand that continued to follow her. Her next step landed in a hole near the road; she stumbled and fell to her knees. She could no longer contain her tears. The car squeaked and moaned behind her, stopping inches from where she sat.
“Help me.”
A door creaked open, footsteps crunched against the sand, and two strong hands yanked her up. “Where is it?” The voice was gruff and angry, unfamiliar to her.
“I don’t…” she cleared her dry and parched throat. Her head slumped forward as unfamiliar hands patted down her legs, yanking on her pockets and pushing against her breasts. Against the lights of the car, Arden clearly the second man, the passenger, anxiously pacing.
Nicky!
His long, floppy hair fell in his face, and he averted his eyes, unable to meet her gaze.
When the hands found her hiding place, they lifted the ring, and relief filled her chest—until a blinding pain filled the side of her head, and the world turned to black.
Chapter 1
From the point of view of FBI Special Agent Jack Ramsey, demons and vampires walked the streets, hid at crime scenes, and stared at him wherever he went. Or so he thought. He paid special attention to cases that seemed odd and possibly magical, and he had spent his own time investigating them, until he eventually realized that he knew too much about the magical world and really needed a vacation.
Since the conclusion of the Princess Amelie murder case, ending in the trial of Wolfgange Rathbone, Jack hadn’t called Annie Pearce. He still got indigestion when he remembered the special problems that came with magical cases. Instead, he’d decided to move on and work the heavy case load of investigations that came across his own desk—and to hope those other cases worked themselves out.
The farther from the magical case he was, the more he fell back into his normal schedule. He learned how to relax and eventually opened himself up and met someone—a nice lawyer who worked in the building across from his office. It started with coffee, moved to lunch, which became dinner, and finally Jack Ramsey asked Amanda McCoy to join him for a little time away.
The overworked FBI agent booked a trip to Hawaii for the two of them, where he now found himself on a lounge chair in the sand with a beer in one hand and a book in the other, his pasty white skin glowing in the bright sun.
Beside him, Amanda positioned herself lazily across her lounger, crossing her long legs that shimmered with a thick layer of sunscreen. The Type A lawyer had just started on the first of a large pile of magazines—some trashy, some newsworthy—tossed in the sand between them. Pouting her perfect lips, she reached for Jack’s beer, drinking half before handing it back to him.
Happily distracted, Jack found it difficult to return to the biography purchased at the airport.
This book seemed like a good idea at the time.
Instead, he watched Amanda, her hand resting comfortably on her leg, her fingers drawing circles against her skin. His eyes trailed from her feet to her hips to the magazine in her hands. His thoughts took a turn to the mundane as he glanced at the pile of papers in the sand, and reached for the Chicago paper at the bottom of the pile.
“No papers,” she chided.
“Then why did you buy them?”
“To keep up with the news.” Amanda smiled coyly as if tempting him. “You promised. No papers, no phones, no internet.” She uncrossed her legs and changed sides.
“Just a peek. That is, unless we’re going back to the room,” Jack suggested hopefully.
“At dinner.” With a grin on her lips, she returned to her magazine.
Throwing his book in the sand Jack exchanged it for the paper. As promised, he refrained from reading the news, opting instead for the sports section where he caught up on the basketball, hockey, and early spring training reports. After reading every line, every score, every opinion piece, and all the sports news that held no interest for him, a bored Jack rifled through the lifestyle section. Uninterested in the latest fashion or the best sellers list, he tossed the used section on the sand.
Jack grimaced at the editorials, thoughtfully read the food section, and made mental notes on the movie and theater reviews. After reading each section, the FBI agent threw it on the growing pile.
With the final newspaper section left in his lap, he remembered this was vacation and leaned back, breathed in hot, salty air, and stared at the ocean. The waves rolled in, washing away footprints collected during the morning rush of tourists. The water, a clear crystal blue, should have invited him in. Instead, Jack wiped away sweat from his brow with a towel and realized disappointedly that relaxing was hard work and a little boring.
“Go take a dip,” Amanda suggested as she reached for her own book, leaving the magazine on the top of the pile.
“No. I’m good. Just finishing the paper.”
“News?”
“I promise, I won’t do anything with it,”
“You wouldn’t be you if you let it sit.” She smiled at him, and her white teeth sparkled against the tan she was cultivating. Jack’s stomach flipped and flopped in that happy way.
Finally giving in to the tug of the news, Jack opened the front page: murder, a teacher’s strike, city hall, gang warfare. Nothing peculiar or odd. Since he was currently in paradise, the news made no difference to his mood. He chose to be happy and worked on relaxing. Accepting his good fortune, Jack thought of taking a nap before lunch and washing his hands of the outside world.
While others played in the warm water and paddled on large boards, Jack returned to the paper, which was nearly finished. He almost escaped thoughts of work, but of course he pushed it and trouble fell in his lap: a story just enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.
It wasn’t odd to find a murdered John Doe; that wasn’t what caught Jack’s attention. It was the picture of the victim. It was his riding cloak.
He reread the article from the very first word. John Doe, found dead in the middle of Busse Woods, a large park just outside Chicago. The police had been unable to identify the victim and requested the help of the community to identify him.
When Jac
k gleaned nothing more from the story content, he returned his attention to the computer-generated picture beside the article. Long hair tied in a ribbon, a riding cloak loosely draped over the victim’s shoulders.
I’ve seen this before.
Jack remembered well his first and only foray into the world of magic. The cloak on the John Doe pictured in the paper was similar to the one worn by Wolfgange Rathbone the night Jack arrested him for the murder of Princess Amelie of Amborix eight months ago. It was a fashion choice Jack was unfamiliar with, but as he worked with Annie Pearce and her team and had the opportunity to meet several other wizards, he realized that some wizard traditions survived in the modern world. The riding cloak was common in the magical community.
An overwhelming feeling churned in the pit of his stomach. It gnawed at him in a way he couldn’t ignore.
A covert meeting gone wrong? A body dump? That damn riding cloak!
Few details were released to the press and Jack hunched over the paper, rereading the article for a third time, gleaning the words for anything that might be relevant.
He noticed the sidebar’s short notes related to the main story. At first, Jack didn’t notice a connection between the weather service’s claim there had been no lightning strikes in the area the day the victim died, until he read the cause of death… Electrocution?
“Can a spell do that?” he murmured.
“What, sweetie?” Amanda asked, turning the page of her book.
“Nothing… just normal weirdness,” he responded. He continued to read the sidebar’s debate about whether the victim been electrocuted or struck by lightning. After considering the weather at the time of death, authorities had concluded the victim was murdered by electrocution.
After so many months of believing he saw magic all around him, Jack had finally found something. Something weird and worrisome. His left eye twitched.
“Damn,” he said under his breath.
“Everything okay?” Amanda rolled over to face him, concern on her drawn lips. Her finger grazed his knee.
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