The ice cold of the woman’s hand almost froze Magda’s fingers. The cook’s chest was still. No heartbeat. No rise and fall to show she was breathing. Magda stared at her in horror.
The woman released her hand.
“You killed me and now it is your turn.”
The room filled with the sickly light. A dark, shadowy cloud formed at the entrance to the room. It writhed and twisted until it settled into the figure of Set. The god moved forward. The ground quaked when he moved. His eyes flashed red fire and Magda silently prayed.
The woman stepped aside. Set raised his arm. A blistering white flame shot from the end of his staff. Magda screamed. Flames erupted all around her, trapping her in their midst. They licked at the fabric of her dress. It caught alight and they spread upward...hungry to consume her body. The woman watched and laughed as Magda’s mind seared with agonizing shards of pain.
She struggled to speak. “Hail Mary, full of grace…” No more words would come.
Her mouth filled with bubbling, hot blood. She writhed and twisted, trying to escape, but the unearthly fire held her firm in its grasp. Through dimming eyes, she saw her blistered and burned skin sizzle and shrink from her bones. Her cries became pitiful wails as what remained of her sanity mercifully deserted her.
Smoke filled her nostrils and burned her already ruined throat. Magda’s scorched lungs collapsed as blackness descended and her soul begged for release.
Chapter 13
Adeline woke with a start. The rhythmic clattering of the train had lulled her to sleep and now she peered out of the window at a darkening sky. The ghostly silhouettes of trees rushed past them. The compartment was empty except for her and the professor, who had also taken the opportunity to nod off, his head bent forward.
Adeline returned her attention to her limited view of the outside world. The sky had taken on a greenish hue that reminded her of the house she had fled from. A shudder quickened her muscles.
Bang! A searing flash of light. The carriage lurched forward, backward. Iron scraped against iron. Professor Mayer cried out as he was tossed from his seat.
“My God. Professor. Professor.”
Adeline struggled to reach him as the train veered from side to side, throwing her one way and then the other. The professor lay on the floor where he had landed, apparently unconscious. Adeline crawled on all fours and managed to get to him before being thrown aside by the violent motion of the train. The sickening grating of the wheels, the eye-watering smoke that stank and made her throat clench, and, above it all, the screams and cries of the injured and dying. This must be what hell was like. Flashes of light pierced the semi-darkness of the compartment as the train blundered on. Adeline stretched out her hand to the professor. She grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse, finding nothing. But it couldn’t end like this. The professor mustn’t die. They still had a job to do.
“Professor, wake up. Please.” She gripped the edge of the seat to hoist herself up, fighting against the momentum of the shuddering train.
One massive jolt. Thunderous crashes. Adeline twisted her knee. Daggers of pain shot up her leg—so fierce she couldn’t breathe.
Trees scraped the window. The train must have left the tracks. Adeline struggled to stand. She must get the professor up on the seat. But then the world seemed to somersault. Her head banged against the carriage wall and she passed out.
* * * *
“Madame! Madame!”
Someone shook her arm. Shouted in her ear. Adeline struggled to open her eyes and winced at the bright light. She looked up …at the floor…
“Gott sei Dank! She is alive.” A young man in a uniform she didn’t recognize bent over her.
“What happened?” Someone must have stuffed her head full of cotton wool. Everything sounded muffled. She moved and pain sliced through her arms and legs. A ferocious headache throbbed at her temples.
The young man came into focus, his kind, brown eyes showing concern while he gently examined her for broken bones.
“There was an explosion. We think a group of nationalists set a bomb on the track. It’s a miracle not more people were killed.” He laid her arm down gently on her stomach. “You have been very lucky. I can’t find any fractures, but we will take you to hospital to be on the safe side. I’m afraid you will be black and blue for a while.”
He held up some of his fingers in front of her. “How many do you see?”
“Three,” she said.
“Good.”
Adeline remembered. “My companion. Professor Mayer. Is he all right?”
The young man’s face darkened. “I am so sorry.”
Adeline struggled up. Nearby, two of the young man’s colleagues were preparing to lift a body, shrouded in a blanket.
“Oh no. Please tell me he’s not…”
“I’m afraid so. There was nothing we could do. He was already dead when we got here.”
Adeline remembered. “Please. I must… He is carrying something I need to take with me. In his pocket.”
The men stopped. One of them reached under the blanket and felt around. He withdrew his hand, laid down a clean handkerchief and some keys. He then repeated the motions.
“That is all there is,” he said.
“No, it must be there. A little statue. It is terribly important I have it.”
“I’m sorry, madame. It is not here.”
Adeline tried to stand. The young man who had been helping her assisted her. Fresh waves of pain shot through her feet and legs and even though he had a gentle touch, her arm throbbed where he held it to steady her.
A rush of cold air from the smashed carriage windows chilled her.
“His briefcase. The professor’s briefcase. It must be here.”
The men looked around the small compartment.
“It must have been blown out during the crash,” the young man said. “But I’ve found this. It was wedged between the seats or you would have lost it as well.” He handed Adeline her purse containing some money, personal items and her house keys. She took it and thanked him.
Panic filled her head and overwhelmed the pain of her bruised limbs. She didn’t have the statue and she didn’t have the scroll. There was no longer any point in continuing to Taposiris Magna and, in any case, the thought of traveling there alone was unthinkable. She didn’t speak the language. She would be a woman alone in a strange country. Who knew what might happen?
But with the statue missing, what did that mean for the future?
All she could do was pray that they had left the evil behind in a basement in Vienna. God protect anyone who came across it.
* * * *
Dust, grime, manure, and gasoline fumes had turned the air rank, but Adeline wanted to kneel down and kiss the filthy London streets. She had arrived home after more than two weeks in a Trieste hospital, dusty from her journey and distinctly lacking in baggage. The luggage van had gone up in flames. All she possessed was contained in a Gladstone bag a nurse at the hospital in Trieste had given her, along with some serviceable, but not particularly fashionable, clothes to see her through until she could be reunited with her much-depleted wardrobe. Adeline didn’t care. Inside her house, she bent to pick up the accumulated mail. She recognized the handwriting on one envelope and ripped it open. A letter from an intrigued Miss Sinclair.
My dear Mrs. Ogilvy,
What a trying and traumatic time you must have had. You mustn’t think of trying to work until you are fully recovered, but I must tell you a quite extraordinary thing happened today…
Adeline checked the postmark. Two days earlier.
… An invoice I submitted to Dr. Quintillus’s legal firm came back undelivered. I decided to investigate further and went to the address, only to discover that the company had simply closed down. Disappeared. Not even a plaque on the door to show they had ever been t
here. While I was in the building, I spoke to staff at a few other companies who had offices there and they all said the same thing. None of them had ever heard of Marchant, Finch and Stafford—the legal firm I have been corresponding with until now and who have been paying for your services. They suggested the firm had been using that address purely for receipt of their mail. But what do you think about that? I have never heard of a legal firm without a proper office. Of course, I shall ensure you are paid until the end of the month, and look forward to seeing you when you are quite recovered from your ordeal.
Yours sincerely
Emily Sinclair
Adeline folded the letter and stuffed it back in the envelope. Somehow she had half-expected this news—or something like it. In the circumstances, how could such a legal firm exist? Not for the first time since the train crash, Adeline’s eyes teared up. If only Professor Mayer were still alive, he would no doubt have a perfectly rational explanation.
She sighed, put the rest of the mail on her kitchen table and drew back the curtains. The sun was shining in Wimbledon. Storm clouds might be gathering across Europe but here, at least for now, she could enjoy the peace and tranquility of an English spring, while her body and her mind healed.
* * * *
Two weeks earlier, on a wrecked railroad track not far from Trieste, a young, smartly dressed man inspected the carnage of twisted iron, smashed, and burned-out carriages and an exploded engine. The fifty-two dead bodies had been removed, but the lingering stench of oil, coal, and charcoal remained. Streaks and pools of congealed blood stained the tracks. Fallen branches and uprooted trees littered the ground beyond, where the front half of the train had toppled over and come to rest. Count Wilhelm von Königsberg shook out the gleaming white handkerchief from his top pocket and held it in front of his nose. The scent of lavender did its best to overpower the noxious odors.
He caught a gleam of metal and stepped carefully over a bent and twisted rail. With his gloved hand, he prodded the gold object and pulled it out. Filthy. Covered in grease but, what a few wipes of his handkerchief revealed, spread a smile across his face. Irina would love this. She never ceased to tell him how much she admired Egyptian art.
The once-pristine handkerchief was ruined forever as he wrapped the precious statue and placed it in the pocket of his top coat. No one had seen him. They were all too busy. This would be a major salvage operation and his father’s company stood to make a small fortune. One day he would inherit it all. One day he and Irina would be independently wealthy. And if war did come, as his father predicted, that day could come much sooner than anyone yet anticipated.
Wilhelm looked around. Maybe he could find more where that little statue had come from. Strange how it had felt when he held it. Energy surged within it and seeped through his now-filthy glove and into his veins.
A battered briefcase lay a few yards away, half-hidden in the debris at the side of the track. Closer inspection revealed that half of it had burned almost to charcoal and its contents were scorched and unidentifiable. That was about as far as the fire had extended. As a result, around two hundred passengers escaped with their lives.
Satisfied that there were no other trinkets of interest, Wilhelm went back to the business of the day. How to ensure maximum profit from the devastation all around him.
In his pocket, the statue lay, quietly gleaming. Gold and green.
Part Two
1923
Chapter 14
Hietzing, Vienna
Wilhelm discovered the entrance to the basement from the library a few days after he and Irina moved in. He wasn’t a great reader and the library’s only fascination for him had been in the Klimt ceiling which looked in need of some urgent attention. A sunny day, with light streaming in through the large windows had enticed him over to the far side of the room for the first time. He gazed out across the overgrown garden and decided to employ a gardener.
He was turning away when he spotted the inconspicuous handle. The key was in the lock.
Curiosity led him onward. A fusty smell of disuse hit him and he wrinkled his nose. He searched in vain for a light switch and made another mental note. He must get an electrician in.
He looked around the library and spotted an oil lamp on the partner desk. He removed the glass funnel and lit the wick. Once he had adjusted the flame to his liking, he took the lamp and made his careful way down the steps.
Wilhelm reached another closed door at the end of the corridor. He turned the handle and pushed. The hinges creaked a little, but nothing a drop of oil wouldn’t cure.
Once inside, he shone the lamp around the still, quiet room.
The red hieroglyphics grabbed his attention.
They’ve been written in blood. He dismissed the thought and shook his head. The room was a little spooky. Weren’t all basements? He stared at the symbols for a minute and wished he could understand what they meant. He turned back to face the rest of the room. A short distance away, the floor seemed darker. Wilhelm moved toward the patch and bent down. Small piles of charcoal colored ash lay scattered across a couple of square feet of stone floor. He picked up a little in his fingers and rubbed them together. Maybe someone had been burning old papers, but the texture seemed wrong somehow. The residue clung to his fingers in an unpleasant, almost greasy fashion.
He rested the lamp on the floor while he rubbed his hands on a handkerchief. Then he picked up the lamp and stood. A glint of gold in the light sent shivers coursing through his body. A portrait of a woman…her profile looked familiar, although he couldn’t think when he would have met such an exotic creature. Besides, this one must be an Egyptian queen. Cleopatra. Or Nefertiti maybe? No. Cleopatra. He spotted a signature. He peered closer and nearly dropped the lamp. What in God’s name was an original Klimt doing down in a dingy basement room?
The excitement was almost too much to bear. He must tell Irina. After all, she… He started toward the door. Stopped. No. Not yet. Not until he could show it to her in all its glory. First there must be light. And due ceremony. In the fullness of time, the portrait must hang in the library. He’d rename it the Klimt Room and take great delight in showing it off to his friends. But for now, let it stay here, surrounded by those hieroglyphics and, of course he had his own Egyptian artifact. The little gold statuette he had found all those years ago, when he and Irina were first married, graced the mantelpiece upstairs. He had put it there himself this very morning.
He would bring it down here. Just for the unveiling to Irina. Until then, not a word.
He moved closer to the portrait and shone the light closer to it, then moved to one side. Still it seemed to focus on him. He moved to the other side. Then a bit farther away, until he could barely see the features himself. No matter which way he turned, her gaze followed him. But then, Gustav Klimt was a most talented portrait painter. His early death, in 1918, had been a great loss to the art world and beyond.
A sudden cold draft disturbed his train of thought. It had seemed to come from within the room itself, but that wasn’t possible. Had he imagined the slight fluttering of the pile of ash? No, it had definitely moved. He couldn’t see where his fingers had left indentations when he had picked some of it up.
It must have come from the door. But that was on the opposite side of the room from the direction he had felt it.
Wilhelm shrugged. No matter. As he had thought earlier, basements were always a bit spooky, and this one was no exception.
Sighing, reluctant to leave the portrait, he nevertheless left the room and closed the creaking door behind him.
Back in the library, he closed and locked the basement entrance. He hesitated and then removed the little key, placing it in his waistcoat pocket. Wouldn’t do for Irina to discover this and go down before he’d got her surprise ready for her.
* * * *
“I’m telling you, there is something not right down there i
n your basement.” The wretched-looking electrician was wringing his cloth cap in his trembling hands.
Wilhelm studied him with contempt. This silly little man was ruining all his plans for Irina’s surprise. If he didn’t finish the job in the next day or two, Irina would be bound to become suspicious. She was already asking some awkward questions. Such as why this workman had run out of their house white-faced and screaming that he’d seen some sort of ghost in the basement. It didn’t help either that their eccentric housekeeper kept filling her head with old superstitions about the house and its former owner.
“I suppose this is all a ruse to squeeze more money out of me.”
The man looked horrified. “No, sir, I can assure you it wouldn’t matter how much money you offered me, I wouldn’t go back down in that basement. I would never go back down there. What I saw there… No man should ever have to see that. Nor woman come to that.”
Furious, Wilhelm threw his half-smoked cigarette into the fire. “I contracted you to complete a job for me. Electricity. In the basement. You will not get a single Krone out of me until the job is completed.”
“But, sir! I have completed the kitchen and the wine cellar. I have expenses…”
Wilhelm’s lips twisted into an unpleasant grimace. “Then you had better set to and fulfill your contract, hadn’t you? And you had best be quick about it if you don’t want your children to go hungry.” Wilhelm turned his back on the hapless electrician, who hesitated for a few moments and then sped out of the library. He never returned.
Two days later, Wilhelm managed to engage another electrician. This one came from out of town—from a small village in Lower Austria where, presumably, the errant workman’s lurid tales of ghosts in the basement had not reached.
He worked quickly and, a couple of days later, he managed to stutter that he had completed the job.
Wilhelm noted the man’s shaking hands and frowned. What was it about the laboring class? No doubt the man had been drinking beer in a local hostelry and had been regaled with gossip about the Königsberg House.
Wrath of the Ancients Page 15