The Midas Trap

by Sharron McClellan

  It was a woman carved in gold, breathtaking in detail. Veronica knew it was much more than a simple carving. This statue was once a living, breathing human being.

  She came up to Veronica’s shoulder and was as petite in structure as she was in height, with sculpted cheekbones, a delicate nose and small chin. Her hair was plaited into a thick braid that fell over her shoulder. Her clothes were simple, almost toga-like, except for what seemed to be a kirtle cinching the garment in at the waist.

  One delicate hand clenched the knife that was thrust into her heart, but her eyes were closed, and a Mona Lisa smile gave her a serene appearance. This young woman welcomed death.

  Thalassa.

  Her other hand was outstretched as if offering a great gift.

  In her open palm was a single stone. Formed from what might be granite, it was covered with thin veins of gold.

  The Midas Stone.

  Chapter 17

  Veronica and Simon looked at each other. “You know there’s got to be a trick to taking it,” she said.

  “You think?” Simon replied.

  She gave him a halfhearted shrug. “Let’s figure out how to take this Stone without getting killed. Maybe we should split up. We’ll get more ground covered that way.”

  Simon raised his eyebrow. “Not a good idea.”

  “Why not?” Veronica argued. “We’re on limited time. You said it yourself—this whole site will lock down once the tide turns.”

  “I could be wrong.”

  “There’s a first,” she snapped. “A man saying he’s wrong.”

  Simon stared at her, dumbfounded. “Funny, but I still don’t like it.”

  “How about if I promise not to touch anything that seems even vaguely threatening?” she suggested.

  He waited, unconvinced.

  She rested her hand on his forearm, knowing it was his concern for her that moved him. “Let’s get this done and get out of here. We’re wasting time.”

  His expression softened. “Okay. But be careful.”

  She grabbed him by the wetsuit. “You, too. Remember, I saved you last time.” She gave him a quick kiss before he could retort, then set off to the right of the Temple. Scanning the columns as quickly and efficiently as possible, she looked for a clue to the booby trap she presumed kept the Stone safe.

  But the columns had no markings or carvings.

  “Damn it.” There had be something. She searched the bases, praying for a sign, but nothing out of the ordinary caught her eye.

  When she reached the back wall and turned to follow it, she saw Simon’s light paralleling hers. His stopped. “Veronica.” His voice echoed in the dark expanse. “I found it.”

  She broke into a jog.

  He stood in front of another door. This one was made of gray granite speckled with mica and quartz. Flush with the wall, it was such a perfect fit that the edges were almost invisible.

  In fact, both she and Simon might have missed it altogether except for the indentation—in the shape of a hand with the fingers spread wide—that was in the middle of the rectangular entryway.

  Veronica held up her open right hand. It was smaller than hers, but not by much.

  “Let’s do it,” she said, her breath coming fast.

  Simon gave a curt nod.

  She placed her hand in the indentation the way a tourist would match a handprint at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

  The door slid into the wall like a pocket door, revealing a room. She guessed the door weighed a thousand pounds, but it slid as if it weighed nothing. She shone her light around the edges of the entryway, but there was nothing to indicate how the door worked.

  They illuminated the room with their flashlights.

  It wasn’t a big room. Perhaps ten feet in depth and width. The walls were bare. In the middle, serving as a table, was a short stone pillar. On it was a lecythus—a tall, slender-necked vase.

  “Let me go in first,” Simon said.

  Veronica didn’t move. “Why? ’Cause you’re the guy?”

  “Yeah.” He set the metal case down. “There could be another trap, and I don’t want you killed.”

  Veronica still didn’t move. “Did it occur to you that I might feel the same way about you going in there? I almost lost you back there, and frankly, I don’t want to go through that again.”

  His hard gaze softened.

  She continued. “This doorway was made to fit a woman’s frame. If you go, you might trigger a trap. Think about it. The women who built this were petite. I doubt they would have triggered the trap on the step. That was made to catch someone who was heavy. Like a man in armor.”

  His eyes skimmed her frame. “Then you’re in as much danger, because you’re not as small as the women who built this place.”

  Veronica stiffened. “I’m not that big, either, and I weigh a hell of a lot less than you.”

  He didn’t relax, but he set his light down. “I don’t like this.”

  She heard the acquiescence in his voice. “Neither do I. But we all have to do things we don’t like. That’s why I let you be on top sometimes.”

  His lips twitched. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Taking a deep breath, she edged through the narrow entry, the granite scraping her shoulders even as she stepped into the darkened room.

  The door slid shut before Simon could follow, trapping her in the room.

  “Simon!” Veronica whirled around and pounded on the door, but the granite was so thick, there was little chance he could hear her.

  “But if there was a way out of the first trap, there’s a way out of this one.” She surveyed the door. There was another indentation, and with the exception of fitting the left hand, it was similar to the one on the other side.

  “Here goes.” She put her hand in it.

  The door didn’t budge.

  “I knew that was too easy,” she muttered.

  She ran a hand over the smooth stone, and contemplated using Lily for a brief moment, but the chance a ricochet would hit her was good in the small room.

  She went to the pillar in the center of the room. It was five feet high and a foot across. She studied the lecythus. A lecythus was given as a funeral offering—that didn’t bode well. Slowly, she picked it up.

  No blades came at her, the floor didn’t drop out from her feet or the ceiling cave in.

  Her breath whooshed out in relief.

  Carved from the same crystal as the Eye and the door, the vase was cool and damp against her skin. She held it up to the light. Etched into the crystal were words surrounding the base of the flask.

  Strange. Generally, there were painted scenes and nothing more.

  Whoever carved this had beautiful craftsmanship but lousy syntax. The words weren’t in the usual order—or at least none that made sense to her. She couldn’t be sure, but it was something about a priestess…or maybe believer…becoming one with the holy vessel to gain the blessing…or was that the curse? “Of the Stone,” she finished aloud. It didn’t make sense. Stones didn’t give blessings. That was the job of immortals.

  She noticed that it was also sealed shut with wax. She thought of Alice in Wonderland. “Drink me?” It didn’t seem like a good idea.

  She swung the light in a circle again, but a different solution didn’t offer itself, and she knew she was being herded to a single, inevitable decision.

  “Let’s get this over with.” Pulling out her knife, she wedged the tip under the hard wax and popped it free. The small vase was filled with a dark liquid. Water? She sniffed. It smelled sweet, with a hint of something familiar. She reassessed her decision. Not water. Wine.

  In the original myth, it was Dionysus, the God of Wine, who gave King Midas the gift of gold. It seemed he played a part here as well.

  Now the writing made some sense. A follower of Artemis drank the wine, or whatever it was, to become one with the holy vessel.

  She shut her eyes and gave her version of a prayer. “Artemis, please watch over me.
Over us. Let this work.” She toasted the air, then took a tiny, cautious taste. The wine was sweet on her tongue, reminding her of apples and oak.

  Her tongue didn’t burn off. Nothing happened. She didn’t feel any different, and the door didn’t open.

  “Fine. Be that way,” she said to the silence.

  She tipped the flask higher and took a generous swallow. It was thick in her mouth with an oily texture.

  Grimacing, she swallowed.

  The burning in her stomach was almost instantaneous. Veronica doubled over, with a cry. “Help me,” she cried out to no one. Fire raced through her body, consuming her. Shaking violently, she managed to set the vase back down on the pillar before she gave herself over to the pain, clutching herself as the fire centered on her chest then flowed down her arms in a fiery trail.

  She was sure she was having a heart attack.

  The screaming sensation stopped at her hands and centered on her palms like red-hot coals. She clenched her hands together, rocking with pain.

  Then there was nothing but blackness and screaming.

  Veronica opened her eyes to total darkness. Confused, she blinked. Where was she? Her hand throbbed and she remembered. The flask.

  How long had she been out? She pressed the stub of her watch and it illuminated. Not even five minutes.

  She sat up with a groan. Her head felt as if someone had filed it with rocks and then given it a good shake.

  She had to get out. Get to Simon. Let him know that she was fine—other than a horrible hangover from drinking thousand-year-old wine.

  She rubbed her sore hands on her thighs then started feeling the floor, searching for her light. She must have dropped it when she passed out. She prayed it wasn’t broken.

  She found it a few feet away. She picked it up and it made an ominous rattling. When she clicked the on button, the lack of illumination didn’t surprise her. “Fine,” she said.

  Knees wobbling, she crawled to the wall and used it to push herself upright. Taking a moment to breathe, she started feeling for the indentation. It hadn’t worked before, but the burning in her hands gave her hope that it would no longer be an issue. Slowly, she made her way around the room, dragging her hand along the wall until she found the indentation. She placed a burning palm in the imprint, and the door slid open.

  She staggered out and into Simon’s arms, her knees finally giving out. He held her up.

  “Simon, I’m sorry,” she said, pressed against his chest. “I should have listened.”

  “Don’t be” he said, “You were safer in there.”

  “What?” That was when she noticed they were not alone.

  Deacon Gilchrist had found them. Also dressed in a wetsuit, he stood behind Simon with a Glock pointed at the back of Simon’s head.

  “Hello, Veronica.” A familiar voice coincided with something hard being jabbed into her ribs from behind.

  She froze. “Hello, Michael.”

  “I’ll take that.” He took the knife from the sheath on her thigh and Lily from the makeshift holster on her back. “You took long enough, but I am so glad you could join us.”

  Grabbing her by the braid, he pulled her away from Simon and yanked off her backpack in the same motion.

  One hand holding her scalp, she jerked the length of hair from his grasp and turned to land a punch. He dodged her fist, and she stumbled past him, her legs still weak. “Too slow,” he teased. His head-to-toe black neoprene offset his choirboy-blond hair and gave him a menacing appearance.

  Deacon’s deep laughter made her shiver and she spared him a glance. He was enjoying this. He gave Veronica a nod. “Nice job. Thanks for opening the door.”

  “Bite me,” Veronica growled.

  “Veronica, stay calm,” Simon said angrily.

  “Excuse me?” She replied, her anger growing. Deacon and Michael were holding them hostage and she was supposed to remain calm? “You think I should relax?”

  “He has a gun.”

  “I know.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Deacon roared, thwacking Simon in the back of the head for emphasis.

  Veronica clamped her jaw shut.

  “Have a lover’s spat on your own time,” he said. “Now, you,” he spoke to Veronica. “Tell me what happened in there, and don’t lie. If you do, I’ll know, and while Michael has issues with shooting people, you know I have no such inhibition.” He cocked the gun. “And it won’t be easy. Or quick. I can make your boyfriend hurt for a very long time.”

  “How did you find us?” Veronica asked. The more Deacon talked, the more likely they’d find an opportunity to overpower him and Michael.

  “Deacon was never in Athens,” Michael said. “He was watching you the entire time. When you set up a phony trail to Ephesus but went to Delos, we realized you’d cracked the code, so we set a phone trail of our own.” He sighed with dramatic regret. “You got careless, Veronica. Very, very careless.”

  She bit her lip. He was right. They’d underestimated them.

  “And thanks for solving that booby trap on the stairs,” Deacon added. “Otherwise, we could have been killed.”

  Damn. It hadn’t reset.

  “Now, talk,” Deacon said. “You’re wasting my time.”

  Her gaze slid to Simon. His expression was unreadable.

  “Put your hand in the impression,” she explained. “The door opens. Easy as that.”

  “What happens once you’re inside?”

  “There’s a similar impression on the other side. Put your hand in it and the door opens again.”

  Deacon shook his head. “What did I tell you about lying?”

  Her skin broke out in goose bumps at the cold undercurrent to his voice. Or was it the damp air? “I’m not.”

  “Sure you are. If getting out was as easy as that, why was Simon trying to blow the door?” Deacon took a few steps back. “Can’t have him dying right off, can we?”

  “No!”

  Deacon squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot reverberated throughout the room, and Simon fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder.

  “Simon!” Jerking away from Michael, Veronica ran to him, dropping beside him. “Where are you hit?” What had she done?

  “S’okay,” Simon whispered, his voice tight.

  Her gaze zeroed in on the blood oozing from between his fingers.

  He increased the pressure. “Don’t tell them jack.”

  Deacon jerked her to her feet. “As I was saying. Tell me everything.”

  Simon met her horrified gaze and shook his head, his lips pressed together. He was as white as marble.

  Sorry, she mouthed. Nothing was worth seeing him bleed to death. Not the Stone.

  Nothing.

  She glared at Deacon. “When you go in, there is a lecythus in the middle of the room.”

  “What’s a lecythus?”

  “Funeral flask,” Michael answered.

  She crossed her arms, physically reining in the urge to punch Michael in the face. “Drink from it. The door opens. Simple as that.”

  “And?” Deacon prompted. “Or I shoot him again.”

  “Whatever is in the flask won’t kill you,” she answered, her voice dead flat. “But you will pass out for a minute or two. Afterward, you can open the door. I don’t know why it works, but it does. That’s it.”

  “Other than the parlor trick of reopening the door, what else does it do?” Deacon asked.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Deacon cocked the gun again.

  “I said I don’t know,” Veronica screamed, furious.

  Deacon lowered the weapon. “I believe you.”

  Shoving past her, he placed his hand in the imprint and the door slid open.

  “Do you think this is a good idea?” Michael asked.

  “If it gets us the Stone, it’s a great idea,” he replied, stepping through.

  The door slammed shut. Veronica went to Simon but Michael grabbed her away. “It’s you and me
now,” he said, running a fingertip down the inside of her arm. “Wanna kill some time?”

  “I’d rather kill something else,” Veronica snarled.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He glanced at Simon and laughed. It was cold. Humorless. Different from anything she’d ever heard from him before.

  “Do it and I’ll never help you,” she said through gritted teeth.

  Michael pressed his weapon into her side. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “No,” Simon said. “She stays.”

  “You’re in no position to argue,” Michael said.

  “Don’t worry,” Veronica urged. “He won’t hurt me.” Or she hoped he wouldn’t. Michael always claimed he loved her. She’d be fine, but the way he looked at Simon. She shuddered. She wasn’t so sure Michael would give him the same consideration.

  Michael drew her toward one of the pillars, and his face changed. Lost some of its hardness. “Deacon’s going to kill you.”

  She didn’t need Michael to tell her that but hearing it aloud was more unnerving than she’d thought it would be. “I know.”

  “I can save you if you let me.”

  “Is this to make up for Brazil?” The question slipped out before she thought to stop it.

  The muscles in Michael’s jaw tightened. “I never meant to abandon you. Never.”

  Veronica took a deep breath and ran a hand over her damp hair. Despite the tightness of his jaw, there was an air of desperation about him. A need to be believed.

  There was no more ignoring the fact or denying it. She believed him, and despite her protest, she always had. She’d known Michael could never hurt her. Not intentionally. “I know,” she whispered.

  He lowered the gun until it hung limp in his hand. “You do?”

  “Yes,” she said with a regret so deep it pained her. What would he have done if she’d admitted that earlier? she wondered. If she’d loved him enough, forgiven him, could she have talked him out of working for murderers? She laid a palm against his cheek. “I believe you.”

  “Veronica.” He wrapped his arms around her and pressed his lips softly to hers. She’d heard the hope in his voice. The elation. Felt his love for her in his touch.