by Ash Krafton
"Sure they do." I tapped a finger on the glass, pointing to a piece of carved red jasper, described beneath as a Blood of Isis amulet. "That's how Isis got her magic. She tricked Ra into telling her his name."
"Many cultures still believe surrendering the knowledge of their name would give someone power over them. Some assume false names to keep their inner secrets safe from those who intend harm."
I glanced at him. "Are you one of them?"
"No." He almost smiled. "Marek Thurzo is my right and true name." Marek paced along the edge of the room, pausing to peer into several of the longer glass boxes.
Marek gazed intently at each mummy as if urging some secret from their long-closed mouths. I wondered what he sought to learn from them.
"Without their name, they couldn't be judged or allowed to enter eternity. To erase a name..." The corners of his mouth tightened. Marek's tone became condensed and chilled. "To erase a name is to destroy a person's existence."
I didn't expect cute and fuzzy bunnies but this was depressing. I turned, eyebrows lifted in a politely quizzical expression.
"I know the ancients erased names from monuments," I said. "It implied what those people did should be disregarded and it removed them from public record. But you make it sound worse, Marek. You equate erasing a name with destroying a soul."
"Shouldn't I?" He paused in a shadow created by the beams of two ceiling lights. Darkness flowed down his body like a shroud. The shadows and the mummies and the whole tomb décor were actually starting to feel gloomy. "Forgetting the name of someone you've known—wouldn't it be like forgetting their existence? Who exists if they are not acknowledged?"
He rubbed his jaw in a pensive gesture. "If someone you loved forgot all about you, how would you feel?"
That did it. His melancholy finally penetrated my happy almost-on-a-date mood. I felt like I'd donned cement shoes and a fog-lined coat, and the dreariness made me droop. "I'd feel abandoned. Worthless."
Marek closed the distance between us with a few smooth strides and took up my hands. The melancholy drifted away as I warmed to the comfort in his nearness. "That's why the ancients took such pains to keep their names, even in death. So the gods wouldn't turn away in abandon."
I lifted my chin and my gaze. Marek contemplated my upturned face, permitting the intimate closeness. I felt the warmth of his body and breathed in his scent, a vague mix of sandalwood and leather, exotic and confident.
His throat, so smooth above his collar, rising like a column toward his jaw, practically beckoned for a touch of lips. If I just stood on my tiptoes, I could probably...
An alien idea intruded. Damn. I hated when intellectual thoughts interrupted the lewd ones. "Unless..."
My outburst startled him and his eyes widened. Shock loosened his grip on my fingers and I drew my hand back, pressing the base of my throat.
"Unless they wanted to be forgotten by the gods. Right?" I backed away, running my fingers along the top of one of the glass coffins. "They were just people, after all. And really, how much could human nature have changed over a couple thousand years? There had to be a few low-life jerks running around, don't you think?"
He cocked his head and followed me with his eyes. Light glinted off his green irises, a flash of emerald in the shadow.
Turning to the wall behind me, I flicked a finger at a painted scene of Judgment. Osiris presided, scales ready, punishment waiting. "Criminals hide behind aliases so the law doesn't catch up with them. I'm sure there was an Egyptian or two so vile they'd rather avoid eternity all together than risk getting eaten by that hippo-crocodile guy. Maybe they'd erase their own name. On purpose."
Marek remained silent, lips pressed tightly together. I still suspected he had serious academic tendencies so my tirade must have sounded ridiculous.
At least he didn't come right out and say so. When at last he spoke, his voice was mild. "It's a distinct possibility. I've never come across any accounting of the theory. Have you?"
"Nah." I shrugged. "Pseudo-educated guess."
To my relief, he smirked.
"Such wisdom. Incidentally, you should be wise, if you are aptly named."
"Huh? You mean, Miss Know-It-All?"
He exhaled through his nose with exaggerated patience. "Sophia. The Greek word for wisdom."
"Oh, right. No wonder I'm so smart." I fluttered my eyelashes and dimpled. "How about you? Are you aptly named?"
"I sincerely hope not." His voice turned dark again and for a moment I felt that peculiar sense of danger around him, the threatening gloom. When his eyes found mine, however, it diminished and his expression seemed to lighten. "Perhaps not. Now I have your wisdom to guide me."
Funny. I heard what his mouth said but a voice echoed something different in my head.
I hope not, now I have finally found you.
Smiling, I slipped my arm around his, delighting in the firmness of his bicep. Sigh. Muscles. It didn't take much to thrill me. "Let's go, then. My wisdom tells me there's a gift shop downstairs. I'm in the mood for a souvenir."
"Yes, my Sophia." His laughter sounded warm and mellow and together we headed for the stairs, leaving the dead to their exhibitional afterlives.
When we reached the main staircases, I led him toward the commercial side of the museum, where a cafe and gift shop were located, and offered him a drink.
"What?" He seemed shocked and glanced around with concern. "Here?"
"Um, well, actually, over there," I said and pointed to the door of the cafe. I disapproved of museums that built their own mini-malls. It cheapened the whole learning experience by turning a history course into a side order at a malt shop.
He had the same opinion, if his reaction was any proof. Marek offered his arm, the gesture smoothly dispelling the awkwardness of his hesitation. Holding open the door, he ushered me inside and we chose a table by the windows.
I ordered coffee and a sandwich, although Marek only sipped at a cup of tea. Conversation flowed so effortlessly that anyone watching us would find little indication we'd been complete strangers only an hour or two before.
Eventually the darkening sky told me I had stayed much longer than I intended and I reluctantly brought our interlude to a close. When I stood to leave, he again offered his arm and escorted me to the main doors. Marek helped me into my raincoat, which by this time was dry despite having been sandwiched between other damp garments. A gentleman, through and through.
"Thanks for the tour, Marek," I said. "I'll see you again, sometime?"
"You can count on it, Sophie." His voice blended with the sound of the rain as he pushed open the door, turning into a melody that echoed in my mind long after I stepped out under the shelter of my umbrella and began the journey home alone.
For the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without agonizing over the letter I'd gotten from a dead man. Marek must be a hell of a guy if he could distract me from the one thing that haunted me most.
Early Monday morning, I swung my feet over the arm of Barbara's big red chair, cradling a huge wide-mouthed mug of hazelnut brew. I'd recently figured out how to use the milk steamer and a frothy layer of sugared foam floated like a cloud in my coffee.
Barbara's glasses did little to hide the crease between her lowered brows. The cap of a pen jutted from her mouth and she wagged it from side to side as she scowled at a much-abused stack of copy. She was on her second red pen of the morning.
I tried not to glance over even though I was dying to know who wrote the crap. It wouldn't have been professional of me. And hey, I was all about being professional.
"Were you sober, Sophie? He doesn't sound like your type."
"What—smooth, smart, and sexy isn't my type? Thanks a bunch."
"Physically, he sounds like a dream, okay? And you know..." She tugged her glasses down and rubbed the spot between her eyebrows, trying to dispel her aggravation. "I don't even care if you're embellishing. About time I got a vicarious jolly from you."
I stuck
my tongue out at her. "I'm not embellishing. He really was all that. And a bag of chips. And a huge bowl of three-cheese-sour-cream dip on the side."
Sliding her glasses back up, she leaned over the copy again, crossing off an entire block of type. "He just sounds so dark. I guess it's true when they say opposites attract."
I'd told Barbara every detail about my afternoon with Marek. Recalling our conversation in the cafe, I decided dark was too mild a term. He was a tremendous pessimist, hinting at a tragic soul. His views, especially concerning himself, were intensely negative. It surprised me, considering he was the most handsome man I'd bumped into—literally–in years.
Usually I steer clear of nay-sayers and doom-criers but I was drawn to him. Had it all been an elaborate pick-up line? The overall impression I'd gotten from him was I am damned, who will save me? Does it even matter anymore? Truly told, there probably wasn't an easier way to rope in a sucker like me. Marek must have noticed the tattoo on my forehead that read bleeding heart.
Barbara's voice interrupted my reverie. "What did you say he did for a living? A professor or something?"
"Uh, no." I tapped my front teeth with a fingernail as I tried to remember. "He sort of explained but I didn't quite follow." Actually, I hadn't followed at all because I'd been incredibly distracted at the time. The conversation went something along the lines of:
"I am in business with my family. We control several local enterprises, as well as others in the country and abroad. Yadda yadda..." Wow. Look at those eyes. I mean, did you ever see a shade of green like that? They practically glow. "Yadda yadda... and unfortunately the role of ambassador usually falls to me. It is no terrible thing, as I am fortunately blessed with yadda yadda..." Martha Stewart would kill to get her hands on paint that color, I bet. What would she call it? Spring? Emerald? And those lashes. Oof! "...yadda yadda difficulties when dealing with the executive boards of other... interests... but such is the nature of politics."
So, no, I hadn't caught the whole thing. Hell if I told Barbara that part, though. I tried my best to look responsible in front of her and that bit would totally have blown my cover.
"And anyways, Mother," I said. "Aren't I old enough for a wild mysterious encounter with the occasional dark and alluring stranger? I could have asked him for his curriculum vitae but it would have seemed so—I don't know. Forced."
Barbara didn't answer. Shaking her head at the pages, she streaked an entire page with red from corner to corner and scrawled a brief note before dropping the pen with a sigh of disgust. She punched the button on the intercom, holding it down like a recently-squashed but resilient bug.
Her secretary answered immediately. "Yes, Ms. Evans?"
"Oh, God, Amanda." Barbara huffed out the last of her patience. "I can't take any more. Call Donna in here in fifteen minutes and tell her to bring her resume. I need to be reminded why I let her talk me into this."
"Yes, Ms. Evans." Amusement colored her voice, making it even harder for me to maintain an I'm-not-being-nosy expression.
Barbara released the button. Her forehead creased, revealing her frustration. Rubbing her brow with the heel of her hand, she looked at me from behind her wrist. "Hope your day goes better than mine. Take my advice, kiddo. Be careful when offering to do someone a favor."
Laughing, I swung my legs down and slid out of the chair, hoisting my coffee cup. "I told Research I'd help fill in a feature on the latest tax debates. See you."
I walked out and shut the door behind me. I couldn't resist a furtive glance toward the far side of the office, where a white-faced and thin-lipped Donna flipped through her file cabinet. Apparently Amanda had relayed Barbara's message verbatim.
I chortled wickedly. Can this day get any better?
Blinking, I stepped out into the sun, wishing I'd remembered to grab my sunglasses before I'd left for work. The afternoon sun shone high overhead and the sidewalks were crowded. After a moment's hesitation near the main doors, I slipped into the stream of walkers, heading uptown.
Shouldering my bag, I set off at a comfortable pace. My apartment was about ten blocks away but it was too nice out for a bus.
It wasn't long until I arrived in my neighborhood in the east side of town, close to the harbor. My apartment had a clear view from the fire escape and in warm weather I kept a portable hammock outside for myself and my roommate, Euphrates. We'd spent many evenings out there over the last few years, Euphrates licking my fingertips with his lazy tongue, rumbling contentedly as he dozed against my chest...
I did tell you he was a cat, didn't I? I usually called him Fraidy. Euphrates sounded more like an accusation.
He was a kitten when I found him, drenched and half-starved in the alley behind my building. Fraidy was my most favorite intervention. It wasn't long before he had taken complete run of the place. He's a cat and therefore genetically predisposed to being the boss. Who was I to interfere with nature?
Now, if I could get him to help pay the rent, he'd be the perfect roommate. Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers.
The buzz of the can opener brought him thumping into the kitchen, mid-whine, scolding me for taking so long to fill his dish. I spent a few moments stroking his back, enjoying his rough rumble of a purr, before heading into the living room.
I'd dropped the mail on the couch when I first came in. Picking up the stack, I flipped through the various bills and SASE responses before coming to the handwriting that made my heart thud. My fingers went numb and I lost hold of the letter. It slipped to the floor.
Patrick. The dead just wouldn't stay dead.
That night I dreamed.
I crawled through the living room window onto the fire escape. Instead of being surrounded by black-painted metal grates and the smells of springtime city air, everything was fog. Nothing above or below but a thick gray haze that could have held little or hidden much.
I longed for the safety of my living room. I backed up, intending to crawl back through the window but Marek stood behind me.
Don't go. Marek's green eyes were the only color in the sea of gray.
The fog's so thick, I said. I can't see the rail.
It's there.
I can't even see my feet.
Yet you stand on solid ground.
That supposed to be symbolic?
Your dream. Marek spread his hands and half-grinned. You decide.
My dream, eh? So maybe if I. . . I slid my hands boldly along his sides and pressed against him, braver for the fog and the safe confines of my fantasy.
Nice, he replied. You feel good against me. He stroked his hands up my arms, cupping my shoulders, brushing my hair away from my face and pushing it back. I felt the thrill of his fingers stroking my throat. You surprise yourself.
I do, actually. I wouldn't normally do this.
Embrace me?
I shook my head. Stand in the fog.
It's mysterious. He lifted me by the waist and spun, gently. Lost in the fog, I forgot up and down. I forgot the way back. Here with Marek, I forgot why the way back even mattered.
It's hiding something, I said. Turning in his arms, I peered at the solid gray everything. I can sense there is something. . . big out there.
So, see through it.
The fog is too thick.
You have to take a chance. He lowered his face next to mine, his chest against my back, arms crossed in front of me.
Wait. Holding rather tightly. Faint alarm bloomed. I'd hoped the dream would take a rather different direction. And do what?
Fall. Marek jumped off into the gray unknown, taking me with him.
My scream was a tight squeal that echoed long after the gray faded to black.
I woke, sitting up in bed, the scream still in my throat. Euphrates, straight-legged and yowling at the bottom of the bed, arched and hissed at the shadowed corner of the room by the window. My heart pounded, my brain replaying the dream.
I grappled with the bedside lamp, flooding the room with light. No one. Nothing.
The cat's siren snapped off and he crouched, trembling. Nothing there.
Or was there? It felt like the dream lingered, gray wisps of memory hovering, watching, waiting for sleep to provide another opportunity to descend.
Feeling like any moment something would pop up behind me, I shut off the light and dragged the cat to my chest like a teddy bear. Together we hid from the remainder of the night, deep under the covers, waiting for sunlight's rescue.
"That's why I love to do what I do," Marek said. "It's the chase, the hunt, the challenge. Every day is an opportunity to go out and prove myself again. There is no chance of becoming complacent. If I want to survive, I must keep going."
We sat at a fountain side table at one of the patio restaurants downtown one Wednesday afternoon, talking about our work. He'd shown up at The Mag earlier with an offer to take me to lunch. Even though we'd been seeing each other for about two weeks, he'd never come to my office before. I was pleasantly surprised by his unexpected arrival. The rest of the office got an eyeful as well.
Even Donna lost her composure, stumbling and unashamedly staring, slack-jawed, when she spied us outside my cube. I supposed it gave her another reason to hate me.
Thank God I'd worn what I did—a flirty skirt in fruit salad colors with a slim fit tangerine tee shirt. Since I was five-foot-seven and somewhat knobby, I didn't usually show off my legs. However, the shoes I chose—buckled round-toed pumps with a smart heel that reminded me of silver-screen starlets—stretched my legs and made them look like proper gams. I'd pinned my hair up in a bun with lots of loose strands, so artfully tousled it was impossible to tell if I spent seconds or hours doing it.
I was desperately glad he hadn't shown up the day before on "Roll Out of Bed and Drag Yourself to Work In Any Old Thing" day. I'd actually worn flip-flops. They weren't even real shoes.
At lunch, birds took advantage of a free meal, hopping on the tiles beneath our table, while Marek described in detail what he did for a living. This time around I vowed to pay close attention.