by Liz D. Marx
Even in the poor light imposed by the low clouds and tall trees, Chloe could very well see his handsome features getting more tense by the second. If her instincts were right, he was the one who would help her find the sacred Valley of Vapors where the stone belonged, but it would not be easy. She needed to find a way of convincing this man to guide her around that area; however she was not quite ready to reveal the whole truth.
“I have inherited a very special Native American artifact and I want to find out more about it.”
“What artifact?” he asked in a suspicious tone. It was still harsh but he didn’t look as furious, more like cheesed off.
“Look, let’s start over,” she replied then offered her hand. “I’m Chloe Doyle.”
After a moment of awkward silence where the man just stared at her extended arm, he simply replied, “Mason.”
“Nice to meet you, Mason. As I was―” Chloe had intended her words to serve as a warm peace treaty but they got clogged in her throat when Mason suddenly lurched forward and crashed against her.
What the?
But before she could tell him off for his inexplicable behavior, shards of wood stung the side of her face as a bullet hit the tree trunk, inches from her left ear. Even before she had the time to digest what was going on, she was dragged to the ground and around to the other side of the tree.
“Stay here,” Mason whispered.
“Was that a bullet?” she cried out as Mason ran in the opposite direction. “Where are you going?”
Chloe peeked past the tree to find out what was happening and cringed when she saw three masked men approaching fast.
“Oh my gosh!”
One had a gun pointed at where she was and the other two had theirs lowered but ready to shoot. Panic made her insides quiver in fear. Why were those men coming after them? They certainly didn’t look like regular muggers.
Suddenly, Mason appeared behind the man in the middle. He hooked him by the throat and used the man’s own gun to shoot the other one on the left. Chloe’s mind chose to ignore the awful sight of blood splattering everywhere as the masked man plummeted to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
Her gaze darted to the other two men whom Mason was about to face by himself. The one he took the gun from had managed to get himself free of Mason’s hold and hit him hard on the face. Mason stumbled backwards.
“Watch out!” Chloe shouted, anticipating that the other attacker would come after Mason too, but the guy appeared to be struggling with something above him. Something Chloe couldn’t see. What the?
Mason had obviously had combat training because he was an amazing fighter. He wasn’t stronger than his opponent but his strikes were much more precise and fluid. His broad shoulders moved in perfect coordination with his legs and feet. Chloe found herself gawking in awe of how stunning he looked, like a deadly dancer, but made herself snap out of it quickly when the other masked guy took a few steps dangerously closer to Mason. He still seemed to be battling an invisible enemy but his deadly glare had turned to Mason. Soon it would be two against one.
Chloe was petrified for her life, but the prospect of having Mason taken down because of an unfair match helped her find the courage she didn’t know was in her. Forcing her legs to move, she ran toward the fight.
The masked man spotted her coming and raised his gun but once again seemed to get distracted, as if something had poked him in the eye. Not stopping to dwell on who her invisible angel was, she sprinted forward and swung her purse at the crazy masked man. Her blow hit him right across the temple. He managed to keep his footing, but was definitely dizzy, so Chloe took the advantage and whacked him again, this time harder. It worked. He swayed sideways before falling face-first on the grass.
Her breath was still stuck in her throat when she turned around to see the man Mason had been fighting was also down, in a large pool of blood. And even though relief washed over her, reality of what had just happened sunk in.
“Oh gosh!” Chloe cried out, her hand covering her mouth.
“Let’s go,” Mason commanded.
Chloe was shaking, her mind couldn’t focus. Had he killed those men?
“Chloe!” Mason shook her by the shoulders. “We’ve got to get out of here. Now!” Then he grabbed her elbow and started running.
Chloe followed Mason as fast as she could. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, fueling her legs, but her head was still spinning. She felt fat rain drops on her face, the wind blowing hard. Her drenched boots were getting heavier by the second.
They finally reached Central Avenue. As if sensing her distress, Mason guided her to a back alley and gestured for Chloe to take a break. The narrow dead-end street had seen cleaner days and was cluttered with boxes and containers.
Chloe leaned against the greasy wall and tried to catch her breath. A horrible smell of decaying food invaded her nostrils. She glanced around and realized she had chosen the spot right next to a dumpster, but was too tired and freaked out to feel nauseated.
Mason was at the mouth of the alleyway, probably checking if they had really gotten away from their muggers―was that really all they were? Muggers don’t wear masks, at least not in the movies. The light provided by the dim lamp above Mason wasn’t much, but the red blood pouring down his shoulder was obvious.
“You got shot,” Chloe gaped, horrified. She had never seen anyone get shot before. How close did they get to being killed? “We need to call the cops,” she said, reaching for her purse with shaky hands.
“No cops,” Mason replied.
“You’re bleeding, you need to go to the hospital and we need to get those men arrested!” Her voice came out a bit higher than usual.
“No cops,” he repeated and walked back to where she was. “What do you have in that purse, anyway?”
Chloe’s confusion with the odd question must have shown on her face, because he simply added, “You knocked out a six-foot-tall man with one swing.”
“Two swings, actually.”
Mason rolled his eyes and chuckled. Chloe blinked, still a bit shaken, but seeing him relaxed and smiling for the first time calmed her down.
“Okay, two swings,” he said lightly. “Now, tell me what’s in that purse.”
She straightened herself away from the wall and replied, “It’s the artifact I told you about.” She opened her purse to get the stone, but a rush of uncertainty made her stop.
What if she was wrong? What if he was not to be trusted?
No, she had to follow her instincts; they had never let her down. Drawing a deep breath, she pulled the stone out of her bag and partially unwrapped the thin black fabric she had covered it in. The triangular greenish-gray stone was revealed before their eyes. “I believe it’s from a lost tribe called―”
“Tula,” Mason breathed, reaching out for the relic.
Chloe recoiled in response. Without thinking, she pulled the totem back and clutched it to her chest. Mason looked at her in surprise.
“Sorry,” she apologized instantly, realizing how silly her over-protectiveness was. She stretched out her hand again and forced herself to allow him to see the stone.
“Where did you find this?” Mason asked slowly, as he took the bundle in his hands.
Chloe clutched her jaw and held her hands tight as she fought the urge to grab the stone back. What had gotten into her? She wasn’t five years old and that stone was certainly not her favorite doll.
“I work in the archive department at The Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C. I found this stone in one of the boxes of uncategorized objects.”
“Why do you think it’s from the Tula tribe?” Mason asked with his gaze locked on the tiny symbols adorning the stone.
Chloe stepped in closer and pointed at the shapes on the object’s surface, careful not to touch it. “I believe they tell the story of Mantaka.”
Mason shifted his penetrating gaze and met hers. “And you want me to help you find the sacred Valley of Vapors.” It wasn’t
a question.
Chloe nodded in response.
“That’s just a fairy tale. Mantaka is nothing but a story made up by some clever elders,” he replied, but didn’t hand the stone back.
“There’s a whole chapter about the Tula people and Mantaka in the chronicles of Hernando de Soto,” Chloe counter-argued.
“Oh, right,” Mason laughed sarcastically. “The infamous Spanish conquistador. Now that’s a reliable source.”
Chloe understood his cynicism but wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip. “De Soto’s chronicles are very well-regarded and some accounts in there were proven to be true.”
“But there’s no hard evidence that the Tula people were real.”
“De Soto describes them clearly and even says they were the best fighters he had ever encountered in his travels.”
“Yet, no historian or archeologist has ever found anything about the Tula anywhere else,” Mason countered in an impressive show of knowledge. “This stone could be from any other tribe of the pre-Colombian era.”
“It’s from the Tula people,” Chloe growled.
“How can you be so sure?”
She wasn’t planning on sharing everything with Mason straight away but he had pushed her. So she reached out and purposely brushed her fingers over the totem’s surface. “Because of this.”
At once, the drawings came alive, displaying colorful details that had not been visible before. Mason jumped in surprise and lost his grip, but Chloe grabbed hold of the stone before it fell on the floor. As her hands made contact with the bare rock, more symbols came to life and soon the relic was flooded with light.
Chloe’s earlier distress vanished instantly; her shoulders relaxed, her mind cleared and she was engulfed by a delightful sense of pure serenity.
Oh, wow. The stone was not only an amazing, magical relic, but also seemed to provide Chloe exactly what she needed to succeed.
“I’m not asking you to believe in it. All I ask is for you to help me find the place these symbols describe,” she said in a surprisingly even tone.
Mason’s gaze showed shock and confusion, but she was certain he could help her. She bundled the stone up and placed it back in her purse. “So, what do you say? Are you going to help me?”
Mason’s mind was racing at three hundred miles per hour. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. How did this woman manage to not only find a relic from his long lost tribe, but also ignite it with her own touch? He needed to find out how and why the gods had chosen her and, most importantly, who else knew about this.
“Why me?” he asked.
Chloe opened her mouth but didn’t answer straight away. She paused, as if debating with herself whether to tell him the truth or not. After a few moments, she finally said, “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me,” Mason replied, not wavering.
She exhaled a long sigh. “I need someone who knows this area well, who knows relics, who understands how important this may be, and from the conversation I overheard at the Tower, I figured that you do know this area, you know about the Tula tribe and that you are free for the next 24 hours because your friend can only meet you tomorrow afternoon.”
Wow. She said all that in one breath.
“And I’ll pay you, of course,” she added quickly.
Mason knew Chloe was only telling him half of the story, but he had to take his hat off to this woman. She had followed him around town, had not given up after his rather rude dismissal, had bravely lived through an attack on her life, and none of that had deterred her from what she had set herself to do. A pinch of admiration tugged at his heart, but his main concern was―what was she not telling him? He studied her, but not in the deprecating way he had when they first met at the hotel.
The poor lady was drenched from head to toe―her blond locks were plastered onto her face, her dress was glued to her body like a second skin and her light jacket was probably not doing much because Mason could see she was starting to shiver. She actually looked quite cute―you know, in a wet kitten kind of way.
“I can be your guide,” he answered, then added almost immediately, “with one condition.”
Her face went from almost cheerful to skeptic in one second. By the gods, this woman must suck at poker.
“What condition?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion.
He hid his smile by crossing his arms and covering his mouth, as if thinking about her question. Mason hadn’t thought of asking for any money, but he had to play the game well if he were to get his hands on that stone again. “It’s going to take much more than a few hours to find where the legend says the Valley of Vapors would be, likely a couple of days. And if we find the place and there’s nothing there, it won’t be my fault.”
“Okay, you have my word that even if we don’t find anything, you’ll get the full amount we agree upon,” Chloe replied.
After a couple of minutes of bargaining with her for a “fair” rate, pretending to care how much she was going to pay him, Mason agreed to what she proposed.
“Meet me tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp in front of the Fordyce Bathhouse Visitor Center,” Mason deliberated.
“Yes, sir,” she said beaming.
“And,” he added emphatically, “I travel light.”
“No problem, I can leave some of my stuff at the hotel,” she replied, but was unable to hide her excitement.
Mason felt something tingle inside him, like a slither of anticipation. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He stepped closer, purposely invading her personal space, then reached out, pulled the lapels of her jacket and gently closed them tightly. “You’re shivering. You should go now and take a warm shower.”
“How do I know you won’t bail out on me?” she murmured.
Damn, those emerald eyes were a dangerous temptation.
Mason retrieved his hands and stepped back. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”
She nodded in acknowledgement but narrowed her eyes at him, showing she was no fool―a geek that got easily excited by ancient societies, but no fool. “Okay then, see you tomorrow at eight a.m.”
Then, she turned around and walked off.
Mason watched her stroll down the street and mused over the past few hours. That little blond tornado had simply managed to accomplish what no one else had in all his two hundred years of existence―she had convinced him to go back to his roots.
Shaking his head at how bizarre the day had been, Mason pulled his cell phone out and speed dialed Foster’s number. “Hey, I need you to find out everything there is to know about a certain Chloe Doyle.”
Chapter Six
Pamela had had enough of this town. When her boss told her that this would be the opportunity of a lifetime, he had failed to mention that it included spending most of her days in a pseudo-resort for the elderly. Hot Springs gave her the creeps. If she saw one more group of jolly old chaps looking for some fine entertainment, she would seriously blow up the freaking town.
She looked at the watch on her cell phone. Twenty past ten. Dwayne should have been there already.
Pamela had set the meeting at this non-descript bar not for their cheap beer and greasy fries, but because it was truly non-descript. The sign outside was barely visible, there was nothing special about the décor and the patrons were local blue collars who just wanted to get pissed and forget about their miserable lives. She had even left her D&G bag at the hotel so as to not attract any attention. If she were in Paris or Prague or Milan she wouldn’t have had to wear these ridiculous flat boots and faded pink T-shirt; and yet she was still the best dressed in this hellhole.
Instead of feeling relieved, she became even more annoyed when the bulky man with dirty-blond hair walked in. Dwayne, the leader of her boss’ private army of mercenaries, did not look happy. He actually had a black eye, a swollen lip and was limping.
“What took you so long?” Pamela didn’t even wait for the man to sit down.
“You didn’t tell me h
e was a trained fighter,” Dwayne replied while trying to sit down, his face contorted in pain.
“What are you talking about?” Pamela had had enough of stupid excuses.
“Mason. You didn’t warn us about his skills in battle.”
Skills in battle? “He’s the owner of an antiques gallery, for Christ sake! What fighting skills can he possibly have? Did he attack you with his dusting brush?” She was fuming. Dwayne was trying to tell her he blew the mission. Again.
“No, he didn’t need to. His girlfriend helped him.”
“What girlfriend?”
“Dunno. Blonde wavy hair, green eyes.”
Pamela exhaled sharply. Where did her boss find such a waste of space? He obviously had no idea what “finishing the job” meant.
“Don’t tell me you don’t have Mason,” her voice came out low and even. Her eyes were focused on her second-in-command, on alert to catch the slightest of lies.
“Well, you didn’t tell me he could fight, did ya?” Dwayne retorted, confirming her suspicions. “Two of my men are in a serious condition, and I only managed to keep the cops off our tail because we were deep inside the park.”
Pamela leaned back on the chair and took a sip of her wine. Dwayne kept on babbling, trying to explain the unexplainable―how his men had failed to accomplish the simple task of capturing a freaking antique gallery owner.
She finished her drink, stood up and put her coat on.
“Where are you going?” Dwayne complained. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Pamela ignored his protests, turned on her heels and walked out of the stinking bar.
Not even bothering to dodge the water puddles left by the storm that struck the town earlier that day, she walked to her car while dialing her boss’ number. She dreaded what was coming. He would not be happy.
To hell with incompetent mercenaries. Now she would have to do the job herself.
The phone stopped ringing as a deep voice answered it.
“Your men screwed up again,” Pamela informed her boss without any preambles. “I’m going after Mason myself.”
Her boss grunted in reply.