Denizli is a large city of roughly half a million people, with a booming industrial feel to it. According to Vadim, who came here regularly, the smog in winter is terrible, but now in the summer, it wasn’t too bad. Our hotel was near the heart of the city, and palm trees lined the street, looking cheerful and tropical, but providing little protection against the Aegean sun.
We walked first to the shop, which had a nice selection of flashlights, and where we also stocked up on water bottles and a digital camera with more memory than our phones. Jason didn’t ask why I wanted it, just forked over the cash, and I thought if he was trying to buy my gratitude, he was doing an excellent job. I also picked up a guide book and some stuff for Geordi to do in the car, and while I was at it, grabbed sunglasses for me and Geordi, and three matching Indiana Jones-issue hats to combat the lack of shade trees. There was a snack aisle, but it mainly consisted of candy bars and chips, so I promised Geordi we’d look for “sugary slugs” later, and he seemed satisfied.
Jason quirked an eyebrow at us. “Sugary slugs?”
I winked at a giggling Geordi, then said to Jason, “What can I say? He loves to eat his bugs.” Jason, bless him, pretended to be horrified, which only made Geordi giggle harder.
We paid for our purchases, then retrieved the car and headed east up the mountain. Though it was barely nine o’clock, the sun was merciless, and the car didn’t have AC. Luckily, we didn’t have far to go. I’d decided the first thing was to check out the site where the rock came from. I didn’t think the Rousseaux were there already, but I wanted to get the lay of the land, in case I couldn’t find them before the fifth. Plus, it might give me a clue to their current location.
Colossae is twenty kilometers east of Denizli near the town of Honaz, on a mountain of the same name. There’s also Honaz Stream—formerly the Lycus River—to the north. The guidebook didn’t have much on Colossae, but it did clear up a few things. For one, in Biblical times, the site was a sanctuary, dedicated to Michael the Archangel. For another, the text said that Satan’s followers had once tried to destroy said sanctuary by diverting water from the Lycus at it. But Michael sent a lightning bolt which split the rock slab and rerouted the river, away from the church, while simultaneously sanctifying its waters.
So, one mystery solved. I still didn’t know why Michael or Satan coveted the leftover rock shards, but it was a start. If only I’d focused more on Christian artifacts back in my grave robbing days, but sadly, I’d been more interested in the Egyptians. Ask me anything about King Tut’s mummified cats, and I’m your gal. But who specifically annoyed Satan and why? No idea.
The drive only took fifteen minutes. Partly, this was because Jason handled the junker like a race car, and partly, it was due to an apparent lack of Turkish speed limits. I glanced at Geordi in the back, but he grinned from ear to ear, so I crossed my fingers and prayed until we pulled up at Colossae.
I don’t know what I expected, but for a religious site, it seemed pretty neglected. A grassy hillside sloped up to a flat area that, from here, looked empty and unkempt. There wasn’t even a parking lot, or a fence.
Jason pulled up on the side of the road, and we got out and walked up the mound. At the top, he shot me a dubious look. “This is why you came to Turkey?”
I could see his point. Whatever city was here in ancient times had been destroyed and buried, several times over, by a series of earthquakes. No one had excavated it, because it held nothing worth excavating. I’d never asked Vadim exactly where his last catch originated, but likely it came from somewhere nearby, not from Colossae itself.
The entire site was oblong, roughly thirty meters wide by a bit longer, covered in rocky dirt and low-lying grass. A path edged the top, affording a view of the surrounding countryside: fields and meadows, pine-dotted hills, and more mountains in the distance. It reminded me a lot of the Sierra Foothills in California, which I’d visited once before I left the States for Europe.
Geordi took off across the mound in search of bugs, and Jason said, “So, what are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe a way inside?”
“Want to tell me why?”
“Not especially.”
He considered me for a minute, chewing his lip, and I had a sudden flash of his mouth hot on mine, hand gripping my wrists, palm cupping my breast. I shivered, then looked quickly away. What the hell was wrong with me? It wasn’t like I was twelve, and he was my first crush.
Finally, he said, “Tell me why you want inside this hill, and I’ll answer one question.”
I jerked my gaze back to his. “The truth?”
“I already told you, I’m not going to lie anymore. I hated that part—hated that the person you thought you knew wasn’t me.” His gaze travelled over my face, as though memorizing it. “And I hate that, when all this is done, you’re going to hate me.”
Seconds passed while I thought it over. Did I want to know his secrets? Or, to paraphrase Eric, should I be careful what I wished for? Would the truth help or hinder me in the long run?
In the end, I couldn’t make myself believe that whatever Jason had done was that bad. Maybe I couldn’t be with him, romantically, but I could let down my guard a little.
“Okay. I want to get inside because I’m looking for something. It might be here or else nearby.” I hesitated. Screw it—he should know what we were up against. “It has to do with the Rousseaux. They might be nearby, also.”
His face blanched, and his gaze darted over the mound as though expecting Claude or Jacques to pop out from behind a clump of grass. “Shit. Are you crazy? They’re—they tried to kill you—they did kill Nick—and your sister! I thought you wanted to get away from them!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And Geordi!” He looked to where Geordi lay on his tummy several meters away, happily covered in dirt, up close and personal with a new six-legged friend. Jason turned back to me. “Why the hell would you drag him here—right under their noses?”
This was going well. “You asked. I answered. My turn.”
We glared at each other, until Jason ground out, “Fine. One for one. Go for it.”
“Why do you carry a gun?”
A bleakness flashed in his eyes, at odds with his simple answer. “For protection.”
“From whom?”
“People like the Dioguardis and the Rousseaux!”
Ouch. I waited, but he said nothing more.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”
“I answered the question, didn’t I? Two of them, in fact.”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play, then see how much I tell you next time.”
“Glad to hear there’ll be a next time.”
His gaze drifted to my mouth, and I turned away, half wishing Eric was there to balance things out. At least then I might not be so damn aware of Jason all the time. Even when, a few minutes later, he was yards away on the other side of the mound.
We did a thorough examination of the site, crisscrossing the top, walking the perimeter, crawling over the sides. It took two solid hours, and when we’d finished I concluded that, as near as I could tell, it was just a giant pile of dirt. If it had a secret entrance, it was very secret.
I took out the camera, stepping as far to one side as I could, and snapped enough shots to get the whole surface. Who knew what good it would do, but at least I’d have something to examine later. Then we all trucked back down the hill and walked the half kilometer north to the river.
It looked like a small, twisty little stream, nothing more. According to the guidebook, it originated on the eastern side of Honaz Mountain and flowed west, joining the Maeander River at Tripolis. Sure, it had some bends, and the map showed a bigger swerve south of the mound. But there was no cracked slab anywhere, no sign proclaiming, The Rock Cometh from Here.
Of course, during the thousands of years since Michael tossed down his lightning bolt, erosion had probably changed the landscape. Plus, ther
e were more trees down here, making it harder to get the lay of the land. I suppressed a sigh and took more pictures while Jason showed Geordi how to skip stones. Then we sat on the bank and ate lunch.
For Geordi and himself, Jason had bought lamb kebabs, and they smelled heavenly. I could almost feel the spiced meat on my tongue, taste the juices on my fingers, but I swallowed the urge. I had told Jason I needed more iron though, so for me, he’d bought lentil stew and a borek, a thin rolled pastry filled with spinach and potatoes. Not as good as meat, but they helped. So did the bottles of Zafer Gazozu—fizzy lemonade—he produced from the padded cooler he’d brought.
My energy restored, I got out the map and moved farther up the bank to a break in the trees where the light was better. Unfortunately, after a few minutes of staring at the paper, nothing came to mind. I recognized many of the sites scattered across the region, but mainly through Vadim’s stories, not from personal experience. I wondered yet again why Vadim kept the rock in the first place. I was sure it hadn’t spoken to him—I got the impression, from the rock itself, that I was the first person who’d heard it in a long while.
Another question was, why September fifth? Michael might think I only needed to know of the date but knowing why would help me more. Too bad Eric wasn’t around. He probably knew all the Saints’ days and things like that. Lily took Geordi to Mass regularly, but from conversations with him, I knew he paid about as much attention as I did. Turkey is ninety-nine percent Muslim, so unless I found an internet cafe somewhere, that left Jason. We’d never discussed religion, but then, we’d never discussed a lot of things that now seemed important.
I glanced to where he and Geordi lay stretched out on the grassy bank, hands behind their heads, watching the clouds. I could practically see them digesting, their brains shutting down while their bodies made good use of all that meat. They even looked a bit alike, with their dark hair peeping from under their matching hats, sunglasses hiding their eyes. In a few years, I could see them with beers in their hands, burping and settling in for their naps.
I suppressed a wave of sadness. Maybe I could watch Geordi’s progress to adulthood from wherever I went after this. I raised my gaze to the sky. Was Lily up there, watching him? Watching me? What did she think of all this? When Michael said earthly needs vanished, did he mean all earthly cares were forgotten, too?
I turned back to the map. I didn’t have time for melancholy, or napping, or anything else. I had to figure out the next step, so I could stay here long enough to keep Geordi safe.
The map was a local one, produced for tourists wanting to explore the region’s historic ruins and geographic wonders. It was hand-drawn, the places of interest linked by straight lines representing the roads between. The Turkish name of each site was written alongside an English translation, presumably to pique the interest of those who might not know that, for example, Denizli means “a locality with a sea.” Which is bizarre, since it’s landlocked, but what the hey?
Naturally, I’d been focusing on Colossae, assuming the Rousseaux were nearby. Since that wasn’t working, I widened my net, looking at sites farther out. There was Charax to the east, and Antiocheia to the west, neither of which set off any lightbulb moments. To the south lay nothing at all for miles, until the sea, so as a last-ditch effort, I looked north and saw Pamukkale.
About twenty kilometers from here, it forms an equilateral triangle with Denizli. I’d heard of it from Vadim—a natural wonder, made from mineral-rich hot springs leaking chalk down a series of cliffs. Over the centuries, the chalk hardened into limestone, which appears to cascade down the mountain like a frozen waterfall. Dotted throughout are terraces forming shallow pools of warm water, which is said to have healing properties. Over it all, fresh calcium carbonate makes the site a dazzling white, giving rise to its name—Cotton Castle.
I reached for my bag and pulled out the “map” Geordi’d drawn in Malta, before our run-in with the man at the stones—the stones that Geordi had called a “church”—and a chill shuddered down my spine. There it was, at the top of the crossword—the north—his very own white-crayon “Cotton Castle.” And below that, to the south, the mountain with the stream that the “good man” split in two to save it from the “bad men.”
I looked at Geordi, heart in my throat. He lay on his tummy, dipping his fingers in the “new” fork of the former Lycus River, watching water bugs dance across its surface.
How had he known to draw this? Why had he called the stones a church? Who—or what—had put either idea into his head?
In my current sphere of reference, there were only two possible interested parties: Michael, who I was pretty sure Geordi’d never met, and Satan, whose demons I knew he had.
I gathered the map and the drawing and shoved them in my bag, then ran back to my nephew, looking so peaceful and innocent in the bright-hot sun.
At least now I knew where to go next.
Chapter Fourteen
“Whoever rewards evil for good,
evil will not depart from their house.”
~The Bible, Proverbs 17:13
What surprised me most about Pamukkale was the noise. When I’d thought healing waters, I’d subconsciously imagined still waters. Or at least, quiet ones. But the whole thing is formed by springs bubbling up, rushing over, roaring down the mountain—a seriously loud process. It’s also huge, over fifty stories high, and about two and a half kilometers wide. The scale didn’t compute until we got there, though of course we could see it from far away. It’s supposed to be visible from Denizli, which is way on the other side of the valley.
All the pools are on the top third, in crescent-shaped terraces that are one of the two primary formations made by the limestone and travertine. The other formation consists of stalactites, which prop up and connect the terraces. At the base lies the actual city of Pamukkale, but since Geordi’d drawn the springs themselves, that’s where we went.
When I asked about it, he said in typical seven-year-old fashion, “I just wanted to draw that.”
“Did anyone…suggest something like this? Or describe it to you?”
He shook his head, and Jason looked at me curiously, but of course I couldn’t explain why it mattered. At least, not without getting into details about demons and Satan and such, which would inevitably lead to and by the way, I’m dead. So, I dropped it, and we headed for the car.
By the time we parked and paid admission—this place was better run than Colossae—the sun was high, blinding against the white cliffs. According to my handy-dandy guidebook, until a few years ago, the site had been damaged by hotels built directly over the pools, the guests allowed to bathe—with soap and everything—in the water. Now, it’s better protected. The hotels are gone, and visitors can only walk with bare feet on the terraces or in the pools.
From an archaeological perspective, it’s near the ancient city of Hierapolis, built a few kilometers away by the Phrygian Greeks. They were the ones who ascribed healing properties to the waters, believing them bestowed by the god of medicine, Asklepios, and his daughter, Hygieia, goddess of health, cleanliness and sanitation. None of which explained why the Rousseaux or Satan would like it here. In fact, the opposite seemed logical—wouldn’t they avoid anything to do with health, goodness, and gods? And so utterly white?
But something made Geordi include Pamukkale on his map, so up we trekked.
The terraces acted like stairs, ranging in height from about one to six meters. By the time we got to the top, we were a little winded, maybe partly from combing Colossae before coming here. Lunch evaporated midway up, and once again, I was starving. I almost asked Jason if there was any lamb left, but I managed not to. Still, I had to figure out this whole post-death nourishment thing. I couldn’t very well defeat demons on an empty stomach.
Geordi sat and dangled his bare feet in the nearest pool, while Jason caught his breath and awaited instructions.
“Just walk around,” I said. “Look for any sign of the Rousseaux or
anything strange.”
“Care to go for round two? I’ll let you go first.”
Another question? I thought about it, then gave in. “Sure. Why not?”
“That was quick. Shoot.”
Now that I’d taken the offer, I didn’t know what to ask. I watched him watching me, his gaze steady and sure, and it hit me—forget arriving in my life. The idea that Jason, Playboy Extraordinaire, hadn’t come on to me once, in all the time I’d known him suddenly seemed “cosmically improbable.” And his abrupt reversal, now of all times—was that part of the randomness of the cosmos? Or like the neatness of his room, was it carefully planned?
Either way, did I want to know?
For that matter, was he really a playboy? I thought back over the last six months. He’d been gone overnight a lot, and frequently staggered home from the bar long hours after his shift ended. But…he’d never once brought a girl home with him. Single guy, living alone, never takes a girl to his own bed? Now that was improbable.
I took a deep breath. “All those times you went away for the weekend—were you really having one-night stands?”
His eyebrows shot up. He glanced at Geordi, who didn’t seem to have heard, then back at me. “Okay, you have a right to know. I haven’t been with another woman since I met you.”
“Oh.” As declarations went, it was a pretty good one. The hitch being, I supposedly didn’t want declarations from him. And I didn’t know if I should be relieved at his words, or mad that he’d lied. Worse, I couldn’t be totally sure he was telling the truth now.
From the regret in his eyes, he must have sensed my doubts. “Hyacinth, I—”
“No, I’m good. We’re good. I asked, you answered. Your turn.”
He watched me for a long moment, like there was more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it. That made two of us.
Finally, he asked, “What are you looking for out here that might be ‘strange?’”
Debriefing the Dead (The Dead Series Book 1) Page 14