She looked to her left, where a plate of cold food on the table next to her invited her to sample its delights. Sarah licked her lips as she considered doing just that.
It might be poisoned, her inner voice told her, drugged, or both. But her growling stomach knew no reasoning and she decided it a risk worth taking. Besides, she thought, as she picked up a hunk of cheese to chew on, if they’d wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already.
After eating her fill and washing down the meal with a glass of water – and not having keeled over dead as a result – Sarah’s thoughts inevitably returned to the Anakim giant. That it had been alive was something else, that it had spoken was out of this world. That it had known her name was unreal. Did I mishear it? she thought. She shook her head at the sinister memory. No, there was no mistake. It had been as clear as day. Morgan, it had said, and something else in its strange tongue Sarah had no chance of understanding. It must have heard the man say my name, she told herself, either that or it was listening to others speak about me beforehand.
Or, she wondered, had it been listening when it was still inside the monolith?
She shuddered at the thought of it.
One thing was certain, however; that it was dead was a loss, not just for the beast itself, but for the entire human race. All those eons of knowledge it possessed, perhaps things only dreamt of by man, lost forever. And even though Sarah knew two more giants remained inside the ancient artefact, from what little knowledge she had gleaned through eavesdropping during her extended stay with Dagmar Sorensen – she shuddered again – she knew there was no guarantee they would live through their revival.
As Sarah continued to think about that which she couldn’t change, the simple wooden door to the room opened and a young man entered, his eyes growing wide as he caught sight of Sarah sitting up.
He wore open-toed sandals, plain grey trousers and a collarless, white, long-sleeved shirt. He walked forwards and placed a pile of folded clothes at the end of her bed, his eyes lingering on her shapely figure before he beat a hasty – but silent – retreat back out of the room.
The door closed noiselessly behind him and Sarah wondered where on earth she was.
She got out of bed, opened the shutters on the window and looked out onto a walled garden and blue skies above. The bustle of traffic could be heard beyond the high wall and church bells chimed in the distance. ‘Well, I’m above ground,’ she murmured to herself. At least, it looked that way. After living in USSB Sanctuary she couldn’t be certain of anything anymore.
Returning to the bed, she picked over the clothes she’d been provided, noting the absence of the torn paper garment she’d been wearing previously, and the white lab coat stolen from the train.
Slipping out of her nightgown, she put on some functional underwear, and held up one of two dresses. She gazed at the outdated floral design, made a face and tossed it aside, choosing instead to wear the plain white dress that complimented her food-starved athletic frame.
A knock on the door made her jump. The young man who’d entered previously poked his head inside. He gazed at her for a moment, before quickly averting his eyes. ‘Did you wish to shower, miss?’ he said, his European lilt hard to place.
Is it French? she thought. Or German, maybe?
His nervous eyes darted back to her as he waited for a response.
Sarah nodded. She felt dirty, she just wished he’d suggested it before she’d put on fresh clothes.
Slipping on a pair of canvas shoes, she followed him out of the door and into a long corridor clad in light grey stone. Their footfalls echoed down the deserted hallway and the boy, for he could have only been in his mid teens, led her down a spiral staircase and round a corner into a wider corridor lined with imposing columns.
They stopped soon after, outside a large entrance with no door.
The boy, still unwilling to look her in the eye, pointed inside. ‘The showers are through there. They’re communal, but there isn’t anyone inside. You’ll find towels and other toiletries in a pile next to the washbasins.’
‘Where are we?’ Sarah said. She touched a smooth wall, its stonework of medieval design, but its pristine lines giving it the air of a more recent build. ‘This looks new.’
‘You’re beneath the barracks,’ he said. ‘This is a brand new facility constructed especially for ...’
‘For?’
‘Forgive me, I’ve said too much.’ He stepped back a pace. ‘I’ll wait here to escort you back to your room when you’ve finished.’
Sarah studied him for a moment. Barracks means soldiers, she thought, her heart sinking. That’s probably why they’re not worried about me wandering around with this kid. Wherever ‘this’ is, it’s probably armed to the hilt.
Sarah moved inside, gave a wary glance back at her young escort, and then walked into the shower complex.
The initial opening narrowed down into a tight passage that passed a series of empty changing rooms, before opening out into an area containing a row of regimented washbasins, their granite bowls topped with metal taps.
Sarah found her towel, as the boy had promised, on the side. She draped it over one shoulder and picked up a bar of soap, which had been placed next to a toothbrush and a plain white tube of paste. So much for toiletries, she thought, looking around for signs of shower gel or shampoo.
She gave it up as a bad job, and with bar of soap and towel in hand, she moved through another tight passage which led to a low-lit circular atrium. Hanging her towel on a hook next to the entrance to one of two shower rooms, Sarah eyed a dark opening where clouds of steam wafted into the sparse intermediate changing area.
As she removed her dress and underwear, she hoped the youth outside ensured her privacy remained just that: private.
Seconds later she was under a stream of hot water and washing away weeks of grime that had accumulated during her mistreatment. And yet no amount of scrubbing would remove the mental scars that remained. She looked down at the wound from her surgery, the stitches still obvious in a jagged line across her chest, a section scabbed over where she’d pulled at one of them the week before. She picked at a loose thread, the sensation almost addictive as it eased the itching that accompanied it.
A sudden tremor made her fingers slip and a drop of blood trickled down her body to the floor. She held up her trembling hand, under the continuing cascade of steaming water.
She clenched it into a fist and opened it again, but the trembling remained and the sensation of pain returned to her body, a dull ache that permeated her bones. She didn’t know if what she felt was a result of the surgery, activating the Anakim monolith, or from her previous use of the pendant, which was used to power ancient technology. What she did know was that if she didn’t get another shot of drugs soon, the pain and shaking would increase exponentially.
She wiped water from her eyes and bowed her head, her short hair hanging down over her eyes.
Where do I go from here? she wondered. Wherever here is. A junkie with no family to speak of. No friends by my side. What is my purpose? She’d thought it had been to expose the existence of Homo gigantis to the world. To help people realise they were not alone, that the Anakim had existed, and that their discoveries could help humanity learn and grow from its failures and successes, but now she knew she couldn’t even take care of herself, let alone help an entire race, a whole world. The thought was a depressing one, but one she knew to be true. She laughed at her own folly, her own arrogance for assuming she could make a difference, the sound as scathing as it felt inside. She’d failed. It was as those who’d ridiculed her for her obsession had always said: she would amount to nothing; her dreams were fantasy and her work a laughing stock.
Giants. How they had laughed. How they would laugh at her now, a broken woman in a broken world. It had a poetic ring to it; if it wasn’t so tragic she would have thought it was someone else’s life, not her own. How did it come to this? she thought, the reoccurring question repeating over and
over in her mind. A deep sadness touched her heart. Where did it all go wrong?
A part of her wondered if she deserved such suffering, to endure such loneliness, such heartbreak. An image of a handsome man pushed itself to the forefront of her mind, a man she’d never see again, his death the cruellest of certainties she would never accept, could never accept. ‘Riley,’ she whispered, touching the faint outline of a golden cross on her chest, ‘I need you ...’
A noise behind her made her start. Is someone else in here? The large shower room remained devoid of other occupants, but through the haze of her own shower’s heat she could see a growing cloud of vapour emanating from a steam room, filling the circular changing area and obscuring her view.
Realising her skin was turning red, she decided it was time to end her shower, time to find out where she was and who had gone to the trouble to break her out in defiance of the mighty GMRC. If, indeed, she was the object of their mission, and not just some secondary prize to the giant’s blood the stranger had so expertly recovered.
She turned off the taps and splashed through the draining water to collect her towel and clothes.
Still naked, she walked back through the steam to the changing rooms, but as she entered the narrow passage she’d traversed on her way in, a shadowy figure barred her way.
She stopped dead, her towel and clothes hugged to her waist to protect her modesty.
At first she thought it was the boy, come to find out why she’d taken so long, but it wasn’t the silhouette of an adolescent she saw, but the muscular figure of a man that remained unmoving before her.
Moments passed and she thought about going back to change when he turned sideways and stood with his back against the wall, allowing her to pass.
Sarah hesitated before walking forward, the steam around her thinning a little as she neared what turned out to be the very same man she’d just been thinking of: the stranger with the green eyes. And it was those eyes that held hers now, but they weren’t the eyes she’d seen before, angry or cold, but hungry and filled with a burning intensity that made her pause.
Sweat dripped down his face and Sarah couldn’t help but notice he was as naked as her, his hand clutching a towel, his tanned skin within reach.
Her eyes returned to his, as he remained stock still in her presence.
She mumbled something like an apology and made to squeeze past him, but his hand slammed against the wall, blocking her way.
Her heartbeat quickened as she looked into his eyes, which now brimmed with fury. His brows furrowed and his jaw clenched as he ran his eyes down her glistening body, so blatantly Sarah couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been watching her in the shower.
He stepped closer, backing her up against the wall, the stone cold against her flesh.
He reached out a hand, his fingers shaking, as Sarah’s had in the shower, but unlike hers, his weren’t trembling through withdrawal. His fingertips touched the scar on her chest, the contact sending tingles through her body. She didn’t move, her breath caught in her throat as he ran his fingertips over the faint golden cross tattooed into the skin over her heart, a tattoo engraved onto her through unnatural means.
‘Cruce signatus,’ he whispered, and moved closer still, his own breathing coming in heavy bursts, his face flushed. Sarah couldn’t help but trace a trickle of sweat as it ran down his chest, stomach and ... her eyes widened as she saw his arousal.
He caught her look and grimaced as if in pain, a look of torment in his eyes as he gazed back into hers, his pupils dilated, his lips parted in animalistic desire.
His hand brushed against her breast, sending a thrill of excitement coursing through her.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing her cheek as her chest rose and fell in heightened anticipation. He breathed in her scent and Sarah thought he was going to kiss her and she opened her mouth to speak, but in a swirl of steam he was gone, his form vanishing into the mists towards the showers.
Sarah stayed there for a few seconds, wondering what had just happened. Wondering why she hadn’t moved or rebuffed his advances. She released her breath, which she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
She swallowed and tucked her hair back over one ear, feeling flustered, confused and incredibly turned on.
Walking into the cold changing room, her heady pleasure turned to guilt. She’d only just been thinking about Riley some moments before. Was her loyalty so shallow? Am I so shallow? she questioned herself, her thoughts returning to the stranger’s naked torso, his muscular naked body. She pushed the images from her mind, her blood beating loud through her chest like a drum.
After recovering her composure, she redressed and went back out to meet her guide, who was nowhere in sight.
‘Great,’ she muttered to herself.
After taking one glance back into the shower rooms, Sarah turned away to wander down the hallway in search of answers.
Chapter One Hundred Seven
As Sarah reached her room after having freshened up, her mind still lingered on the close encounter with the stranger in the shower complex. What kind of man does that? she wondered, blushing at the memory. She’d never been so affected by another’s presence before, not even Riley had elicited such feelings in her.
She paused in her deliberations and then carried on up some steps, through a long tunnel and out into the gardens she’d glimpsed from her window.
Wandering through the carefully tended flower beds, Sarah plucked a flower from its stem and put it to her nose to smell.
‘Ah, Miss Morgan, I hope you found your accommodation to your liking?’
Sarah spun round to see a man standing behind her, dressed in a simple black robe. His white hair and lined face put him somewhere in his late sixties, his passive features unremarkable, except for a steady gaze that spoke of a lifelong self assurance.
He glanced down at his plain ensemble. ‘I apologise for my appearance, I never was one to follow convention.’
Sarah frowned at the comment, wondering what he meant. Whoever he was – an Irishman by the lilt of his accent – his whole appearance and demeanour screamed religion.
He gestured with a hand, inviting Sarah to walk with him.
She hesitated before following his lead: a slow amble through pleasant surroundings.
‘I can sense your distrust,’ he said, glancing up at her, his height a couple of inches shorter than hers. ‘I can’t blame you, especially considering your recent ordeals.’
‘Who are you?’ she said, looking around. ‘Where am I?’
‘My name is Avery, Avery Cantrell, and I realise you have a deep distrust of all things religious.’
‘With good reason,’ Sarah said, trying to remain calm.
Avery nodded. ‘Of course, the world’s major religions have done many things in their time that were not in their nature, or perhaps I should say, not in line with their message.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘This is hard for you, I know. You blame the Catholic hierarchy in particular for the death of your mother, for the destruction of your career, for the theft of your most precious artefacts.’
Sarah said nothing. What else was there to say?
‘You also believe they have destroyed and kept secret evidence of a lost race. What is it you call them?’
Sarah refused to look at him, her gaze fixed elsewhere. She clenched her teeth. ‘Homo gigantis.’
‘Yes, of course. Gigantis. Yes.’ Avery stopped by a stone bench and sat down.
Sarah, unable to think of a reason not to, took a seat next to him.
They stayed there in silence for a while before the old man spoke again.
‘It is curious, don’t you think?’
‘What?’
‘That because I have faith in God, you tar me with the same brush as those you blame for your current suffering.’
Sarah felt her anger stir. ‘I have faith,’ Sarah said, noticing the trembling in her hands, ‘and I don’t
suffer.’
‘We all suffer, Miss Morgan – Sarah – some more than others. It’s been said all life is suffering, but I digress. This is not a discussion on theology. I have been sent to offer you an olive branch, and that you have faith is unexpected, considering that you’ve labelled all religion as pure evil.’
‘Faith is not religion,’ Sarah said, remembering what her friend Trish had once told her. ‘You don’t own God.’
Avery laughed. ‘I’ve never purported to,’ – his expression grew serious – ‘but I can say, hand on heart, that I have never been, nor ever will be, responsible for those who have wronged you. Rome is a law unto itself, and something in which I play no part. Every religion is different, Sarah, Catholic, Jew, Muslim. My religion is one that brings me closer to God every day of my life, it is not one responsible for ruining your life, and trust me when I say this, it is definitely not responsible for the death of your parent.’
‘What religion is it, then?’ Sarah said. ‘What club do you belong to?’
Avery’s jaw clenched at the sleight. ‘To mock another’s belief is beneath you. Do not let your past rule your present, or you’ll never be free of it.’
‘And who are you to lecture me?’ Sarah said, standing. ‘Kidnapping me and holding me against my will. If you are religious, is it Satan you follow, are you a Satanist, Avery? Is that what you are? Do you worship the Devil?’
‘Watch your tongue,’ said a familiar voice. ‘This is a place of God.’
Sarah turned to see the man from the showers, the man who’d rescued her from the train. The man who’d taken her from one prison only to condemn her to another. No longer naked, he wore a hooded robe, its cloth brown and coarse, its cowl pulled up to conceal his long brown hair, his face cast in shadow, piercing green eyes gazing out from beneath heavy brows. From the pitch of his voice, Sarah pegged him as English, like her, although unlike her East London twang, his speech hinted at a cultured upbringing, with what sounded like Scandinavian roots.
Sarah turned her back on him and pushed past Avery, who’d stood to bar her way.
Ancient Origins: Books 4 - 6 (Ancient Origins Boxset Book 2) Page 55