by David Wood
DESTINATION: LUXOR
By David Wood and Sean Ellis
DESTINATION: ADVENTURE- BOOK 2
An Adventure from the Dane Maddock Universe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Destination: Luxor (Dane Maddock Destination Adventure, #2)
FROM THE AUTHORS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
BOOKS and SERIES by David Wood
BOOKS and SERIES by SEAN ELLIS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
A Pharaoh’s curse reaches up from the grave.
Dane and Bones have traveled to Luxor, Egypt, and the historic Valley of the Kings to explore a sunken subterranean passage that just might lead to the undiscovered tomb of a forgotten Pharaoh. But someone else has beaten them to it. A ruthless black-market art dealer wants the Pharaoh’s riches for himself, and to hide his crimes, is prepared to unleash a deadly, ancient curse on an unsuspecting world.
DESTINATION: LUXOR is the second in a new series of stand-alone novellas by USA Today bestselling author David Wood and prolific action-adventure novelist Sean Ellis, featuring the characters from David Wood’s bestselling Dane Maddock Adventures. Each new story in the DESTINATION: ADVENTURE series will transport Dane, Bones and the crew of Sea Foam to an exotic and exciting locale, where treasure, mystery, and adventure await!
Praise for David Wood and Sean Ellis!
“Dane and Bones.... Together they're unstoppable. Rip roaring action from start to finish. Wit and humor throughout. Just one question - how soon until the next one? Because I can't wait.”
-Graham Brown, author of Shadows of the Midnight Sun
“What an adventure! A great read that provides lots of action, and thoughtful insight as well, into strange realms that are sometimes best left unexplored.” -Paul Kemprecos, author of Cool Blue Tomb and the NUMA Files
“Ellis and Wood are a partnership forged in the fires of Hell. Books don’t burn hotter than this!” -Steven Savile, author of the Ogmios thrillers
Destination: Luxor
Copyright 2018 by David Wood
All rights reserved
Published by Adrenaline Press
www.adrenaline.press
Adrenaline Press is an imprint of Gryphonwood Press
www.gryphonwoodpress.com
Cover design by Bees’ Knees Creatives
This is a work of fiction. All characters are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously
FROM THE AUTHORS
This story includes the names of several historical figures. These names are used fictitiously. We have also changed the names of certain historical characters who might be familiar to you. Hope you enjoy the story!
PROLOGUE
November 26, 1922
The Valley of the Kings
Captain Roger Bell, personal secretary to Howard Carter, mopped his brow and took a deep breath of the parched air. It was a hot, sunny day in the Valley of the Kings, with highs approaching 25 Celsius of late. He was tired: tired of the heat, tired of the dust, and tired of Carter’s obsession. Of course, Bell had known early on what sort of man Carter was, and knew that same obsession just might drive him to greatness. And today, they perhaps stood on the precipice of a magnificent discovery.
Experts agreed that the Valley of the Kings had long ago given up all its secrets. Countless archaeologists had scoured the valley, digging up everything they could find that thousands of years of tomb robbers hadn’t manage to carry away. It was only the legend of ancient curses that served to deter some of the latter. Some, but not all. Nevertheless, Carter had insisted that there were still wonders waiting to be unearthed in this place. Undeterred, Carter kept searching.
“What do you reckon?” a voice asked.
Bell recognized the odd accent immediately.
Arthur Cruttenden Mace, known to most as A.C., was a Tasmanian-born Egyptologist and a member of the excavation team. He was a lean man with overlarge ears, dark hair, and thick mustache. His skin was tan and weathered from working in the unforgiving Egyptian climate, but his eyes shone with youthful vigor.
“I don’t dare hope,” Bell admitted. “He’s been disappointed too many times before.”
Carter had begun work in 1914, only to be interrupted by the Great War. Work resumed in 1917 as Carter continued on what many considered a fool’s errand: the search for the tomb of a little-known pharaoh named Tutankhamun. He cited several pieces of evidence a faience cup, a piece of gold foil, and a cache of funerary items, all bearing the name of Tutankhamun, as proof that the pharaoh had, in fact, lived, died, and was buried somewhere in the valley. He further vowed to dig “down to the bedrock” if need be. Not everyone was persuaded, but all agreed on one thing: the tomb of Tutankhamun, if it existed, had not yet been found. Five years later, hope waned in everyone except Carter.
“Don’t be like that,” Mace chided. “Wasn’t it you who predicted the staircase would just lead back to Rameses’ tomb?”
Bell nodded. Three weeks earlier, in what Carter grudgingly vowed would be his final season of excavation here, the team had uncovered a step carved into the bedrock near the tomb of Rameses VI. Though Bell had been skeptical, Carter insisted it was the breakthrough they’d been searching for.
Days of digging and clearing rubble revealed a staircase, which had led to a sealed door. The plastered door bore no names, but they identified seals of the royal necropolis. Hope sparked anew, though Bell still tempered his with a healthy dose of skepticism. Fearing grave robbers, Carter and his team had covered the steps over again, leaving them that way until they received word of the arrival of their chief financier, Lord Carnarvon and his daughter, Lady Evelyn Herbert, in Luxor three days ago.
“Well, he was right about it being Tutankhamun,” Bell said. “I just hope there’s still something there to be found.” When the crew had uncovered the steps again, along with the door, in anticipation of Lord Carnarvon’s arrival, they had found Tutankhamen’s name at the bottom. Their joy had been somewhat tempered by the realization that the door was not fully sealed. Someone had broken through the corner and sealed it again. They were not the first to discover the tomb. Behind that door, they had found and cleared a twenty-six foot passage, which ended at another, door, one that had also been resealed in antiquity.
“I think we’re going to find riches,” Mace said. “Just because the door was-re-sealed, it doesn’t necessarily mean that robbers have completely looted it, or taken anything from it at all. Certainly nothing larger than the small hole they opened. And the fact that no artifacts associated with Tutankhamun have surface, that gives me hope.”
“Let’s just hope it hasn’t been cursed,” Bell joked.
Mace ignored him. “I don’t see any newspaper men. Hopefully we’ve finally confounded them.”
Word of a potential discovery had somehow reached local journalists. Fearing Carter would attempt to open the tomb without government officials present, they’d circled like carrion birds for days. Meanwhile, Carter had quietly coordinated for the tomb to be opened on a Friday afternoon, when the tourists were gone and all the important players would be present. Hopefully they would be able to do this undisturbed.
“There’s Carnarvon now.” Mace said. “I suppose it’s time.”
His mouth suddenly dryer than the desert that surrounded him, Bell nodded and followed Mace. A small group had gathered, and he recognized several f
aces, though he didn’t know all the names.
Carter took the lead, followed by Mace and Arthur Callender, known to friends as “Pecky.” The three led the way down to the sealed door. A barrier had been constructed before it, and the men moved around behind it. Carter, stripped down to his vest and trousers, paused to make a speech, which Bell barely heard over the pounding of his heart. The moment had almost arrived! Leave it to Carter to stretch things out after so many years of searching. The man was clearly driving home the point that he had been right, and all the so-called experts wrong, about Tutankhamen.
At long last, it was time to open the tomb. While the onlookers kept their distance, Carter was ready to begin. They watched as he located the wooden lintel above the door and began removing the small stone beneath it. When he had broken through, he pushed a long rod into the hole.
“Open space behind,” he announced.
Excited whispers broke out among the onlookers. They waited impatiently as the men conducted candle tests to check for the presence of poison gases. Finally satisfied it was safe, Carter thrust a candle through the opening and peered inside.
Silence hung over those assembled as Carter stood frozen in place. The man did not move.
What did he mean by it? Bell wondered. Was the tomb empty. Had some strange gas paralyzed him? Was there, in fact, a curse?
Unable to stand the suspense, Lord Carnarvon blurted, “Can you see anything?”
Another pause, and then Carter spoke softly.
“Yes. Wonderful things.”
February 20, 1930
St. James, London, England
Roger Lane Powell Bell, third Baron Grayson, poured himself a glass of sherry and strode to the window of his seventh floor St. James apartment. He gazed out at the night sky that cloaked London in a darkness that paled beside that which filled his heart.
In his right hand he clutched the letter from Howard Carter. It was not the sole cause of his black mood, but it had deepened his despair and fueled his anger.
He glanced down at it again, his eyes scarcely taking in the text.
“...this talk of a curse is utter nonsense...”
“The hell with you, Carter,” he muttered.
He sank down in the chair closest to the window and took a sip of sherry, savoring the way it burned its way down his throat. It was like fire, but it could not cleanse him. Perhaps nothing could.
“No curse.” He barked a sharp laugh. He knew there was a curse. Its hand upon the world was evident. It was even inside of him!
He crumpled Carter’s letter into a ball and flung it in the direction of the fireplace. He missed badly, but didn’t care.
“How can the man be so blind?” he whispered. He had written to Carter, laying out the evidence that proved the curse of the Pharaohs was real. He wasn’t certain what he was hoping for. Perhaps some arcane knowledge Carter had uncovered in Egypt that could counter the curse. There had to be a cure. He’d tried doctors and priests, but nothing could cure what burned inside him.
He stood and began pacing. The names rang inside his head. He had long ago learned them by heart.
Lord Carnarvon, died four months after the opening of the tomb.
George Jay Gould I, died one month later.
Prince Ali Kamel Fahmy Bey of Egypt and Colonel Aubrey Herbert both died later that same year.
The list went on.
Sir Archibald Douglas-Reid, the radiologist who x-rayed Tutankhamun’s mummy, died just over a year later from a mysterious illness.
Sir Lee Stack, Governor-General of Sudan.
A.C. Mace, a key member of Carter’s excavation team.
Mervyn Herbert, Lord Carnarvon’s half-brother.
And his own son, Captain Roger Bell, secretary to Howard Carter.
All had entered the tomb of Tutankhamen.
And all were dead.
A wave of grief washed over him, and he stood and rushed to the locked cabinet on the other side of the room. He opened it with trembling hands and stared at the contents.
A collection of artifacts stared back at him: a scarab, a lamp, a dagger, a chalice, even a vial that had once contained perfume. All were items his son had taken from the tomb and given to his father. He knew he ought to feel repulsed by the sight of them, but they were a tangible link to the child he had lost.
On an impulse he picked up the vial of perfume, uncapped it, and held it to his nose. He inhaled deeply, imagining he could breathe in the scents of ancient Egypt, imagined he was reunited with his son. He could almost see the two of them strolling in the shadows of the great pyramids. This had become a regular ritual since his son’s death, a veritable compulsion. Several times a day he handled the artifacts, running his hands over the scarab, and along the blade of the dagger. Breathing in the long-vanished scent of perfume. Even sipping water from the chalice.
He breathed in again and his sinuses burned. A series of ragged coughs tore through his chest, the ensuing dizziness brought him to his knees.
Ghostly images swam before his eyes. Ghosts and demons.
He wasn’t getting better. He would not recover, of this he was certain.
All he wanted was to be free of this curse and reunited with his son.
His eyes fell on the open window and he made up his mind.
ONE
“Are you sure we’re in the right country?”
Dane Maddock glanced over at his friend and partner, Uriah “Bones” Bonebrake, sighed, and braced himself for another awful joke. “Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been here two days and I haven’t seen anyone walking like this.” Without breaking stride, Bones turned and struck an odd pose—wrists, elbows and knees bent at sharp angles, his left hand bobbing sinuously in front of his face like a cobra about to strike, his right held at the small of his back like a duck’s tail. The effect was somewhat blunted by the large beige and black Pelican BA-22 carry-on case he gripped in his right hand, and the even larger hockey gear bag slung over one shoulder, but that didn’t stop him from adopting a falsetto voice and vocalizing what Maddock assumed was meant to be the harmony from a Bangles’ song. “Way-oh-way-ohhh-way-ohohohh. Walk like an Egyptian.”
His antics earned a few curious glances from passersby, but the faces just as quickly looked away, clearly intimidated by his appearance. At six feet-five inches, Bones towered above everyone, including the almost six-foot-tall Maddock, but the height disparity was only part of it. Bones’ Native American heritage gave him a dark complexion, not unlike the skin-tone of the Egyptians around them, but his long pony tail and complete lack of facial hair distinctly set him apart as something else entirely.
Maddock regarded his friend for a few seconds and then, in his best approximation of a Jeopardy contestant, said, “Who is Steve Martin?”
Bones frowned. “Steve Martin?” He shook his head. “Dude, I worry about you sometimes.”
“If you don’t know who Steve Martin is, maybe I should be worried about you.”
“I know who Steve Martin is,” Bones shot back, sourly. “I just don’t see what he has to do with this.”
“You’re kidding, right? King Tut?” Maddock, fully aware that it was completely out of character for him, nevertheless adopted a pose similar to what Bones had displayed, and sing-songed, “‘How’d you get so funk-y? Did you do the mon-key?’”
Bones just blinked at him.
“Born in Arizona, moved to Babylonia?”
Bones shook his head. “Susannah Hoffs versus Steve Martin, and you go with the old white dude? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Maddock resumed walking down the train platform, passing ornate columns—replicas of the actual historic artifacts that were ubiquitous throughout the region—interspersed with vending machines. “I would have thought you, of all people, would like that song.”
Bones snorted. “Keep singing. Even if I don’t figure it out, at least it will scare the locals off.”
As if on cue, a young Egyptian
man, bolder than the others, stepped in front of them. “Taxi? You need taxi?”
Despite his impulse to politely dismiss the man, Maddock simply ignored him. Showing even a little deference would only encourage more offers, or so all the guidebooks said, and since most of the supplicants were actually con artists hoping to bilk unwary tourists with bait-and-switch games, there was no reason to feel bad about being a little rude.
The Egyptian repeated the offer a couple more times, then fell back, setting his sights on someone else disembarking from the overnight express train, but another entrepreneur quickly took his place. Unlike the first Egyptian, who had been wearing Western attire, this man wore a more traditional jellabiya long garment of light blue cotton, and a white turban.
“Camel ride? You want camel ride? Just seventy-five pounds. Valley of the Kings? Deir el-Bahari? My cousin take you there.”
They actually were headed for the first location, the famed archaeological site, where in 1922, archaeologist Howard Carter had discovered the treasure-laden tomb of Pharaoh Tutankhamun, but despite the fact that seventy-five Egyptian pounds converted to about five American dollars, Maddock was wary of both the offer and the suggested mode of transportation.
Bones either shared his antipathy or couldn’t resist the opening for an off-color joke. “I’m not getting my moose knuckle anywhere near a camel toe.”
Maddock groaned and dead-panned. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“You know,” Bones went on, conversationally, as they continued down the platform, leaving the camel-tour vendor behind, “when you said we had a job in Luxor, this wasn’t exactly what came to mind.”
Maddock had heard variations on this theme several times during the flight to Cairo and the subsequent overnight train ride along the Nile River. Bones had been crestfallen to learn that they were headed to Egypt instead of to the Luxor Casino on the Las Vegas Strip, although he had commented that he was not a fan of the Luxor’s elevator, which ascended and descended at a forty-five degree angle.