by A. W. Exley
Malachi turned his hat around in his hands. “Based on real events from a town in Lower Saxony, Germany, where it was said the rat catcher lured away all their children for their failure to pay his bill. I’m still trying to ascertain what exactly the flute does. Records are rather vague. It could make others dance to your bidding, or it could be an instrument of death.”
Something to ponder for another day. Cara had had quite enough of death.
“I have been studying the rubbings your husband took of your mysterious box. It has sent me on a rather exhausting archaeological dig trying to unearth anything about it. The markings are fascinating. I believe they are cuneiform script, which was invented by the Sumerians in around 4,000 BC. However, they are resisting all my translation abilities.”
The familiar shiver ran down her spine and Cara rubbed at her arms. “Is this your way of telling me we will never know?”
He cleared his throat, the warning sign that he was about to launch into a scholarly lesson. “Humour me for a moment. Have you ever tried to place the north poles of two magnets together?”
Cara tried to drag her mind away from the disturbed soil. She had stayed until the men filled in the hole, unable to leave while her mind recounted all her moments spent with the other woman. She knew that Helene’s soul now resided in Soho, and only her discarded outer shell lay beneath the grass, but she mourned the loss of her friend.
“I’m sorry, Malachi. My mind has trouble focusing today, and you will have to explain.”
“If you place the same poles of magnets together, they repel each other. I had a hunch that your reaction to the box is for a similar reason.” He talked with his hands, holding them up and struggling to make them meet.
She glanced up as the sick, cold dread worked its way into her bones. “We’re the same?”
He nodded and excitement gleamed in his eyes. “While I believe the inscription to be cuneiform, I pursued another direction given your reaction to the box. After some months, I turned up an obscure little reference in an eighteenth dynasty Egyptian scroll. An obsidian box with the strange script upon it was given to a very powerful Egyptian mage called Rahotep. The same man who created the mechanical gem known as Nefertiti’s Heart.”
The world spun. The sky shot away beneath her feet while grass and soft sod were at her head. Whatever was in the box tugged at the ancient artifact that joined her to Nate.
“There is a little known story about Rahotep. He had a passionate and forbidden love that, when discovered, led to him being executed in a most horrible and agonising way.”
“Who did he love?” Cara whispered, her throat parched as dread sucked the moisture from her body. She knew the answer already. It was carved in her bones, but she couldn’t stop herself from voicing the question.
Malachi put out a hand to steady her as she swayed on her feet. “Akhenaten’s wife, Nefertiti.”
Rachel
For what seemed like years, Rachel had tried to ignore the voice. It whispered to her at night, calling her name. Even when she placed the pillow over her head, it seemed to come from the feather filling.
Tonight the household had all retired early, exhausted after the funeral and trying to soothe two fractious babies to sleep. Rachel lay in her bedroom staring at the ceiling as moonlight crept across the floor and played over the books on her desk. The whisper seemed louder and more insistent.
She shouldn’t go downstairs. She wasn’t allowed on her own and could only go there accompanied by Nate or Cara. But she had to know what was calling her name. Tonight was the best opportunity she would have to tell the voice to be quiet and let her sleep.
Rachel grabbed a woollen robe and tied it around her body to guard against the nighttime chill. She pulled the door open and stuck her head out in the corridor. No one stirred, not even the nanny in the nursery next to her room.
In bare feet, she snuck down the wide main staircase with its domed light well above. When one of the men walked by on patrol, she ducked behind a set of armour until he had passed. Along a corridor she continued, then paused under a particular painting of a dour-looking lady. Rachel popped open the panelling to reveal a hidden door.
The next set of stairs was narrow and dark. Before closing the door, Rachel shook the glow stick in her metal hand and used the soft green light to find her way. The stairs ended before a locked door, but this one was easy.
A push of a button on her prosthetic made a thin metal rod appear from a fingertip, and she used it to pick the lock. A skill Uncle Jackson had taught her. The locked door was used to deter the idle curious. The real defences lay beyond.
A short, wide corridor ended in an enormous metal door. As she approached, blue flames flared into life within lanterns attached to the walls and lit the room with their cold light.
The middle of the door was taken up by an enormous wheel, just like on an airship. To one side was a stack of three number combinations, each six digits long. Visits to the cavern were accompanied with such excitement that Rachel had no problem memorising the three numbers. She turned each dial on each row until the three correct strings of numbers were shown.
Rachel turned the little lever beside each combination and waited for a click before moving to the one below. When she had three faint clicks, she reached for the wheel that would retract the bolts holding the door shut. She hauled with all her weight, dragging it down towards the floor. Then she reached up and grabbed a new spot and pulled that around. It took her agonising minutes until the door released and swung open.
At every moment, she expected a guard to drop a hand on her shoulder and call out to denounce her. Normally someone sat in the hallway, guarding the entrance. Tonight was a rare exception. All the men had been present at the party to remember the Countess de Sal and to toast the safe arrival of the boys.
For one single night, the men left their posts, and they all relied on the protective barrier of the foundation stone to guard the artifacts. But this thief couldn’t be held at the estate boundary like the unfortunate man sent by Darwin. This thief was already inside. Not that she planned to steal anything. Rachel simply wanted to know what whispered to her so she could tell it to stop. It was bad enough with the babies crying. She didn’t need phantom voices keeping her awake as well.
She crept down into the bowels of the earth, blue flames bursting alight as she neared and snuffing out as she passed. The air grew colder and she shivered within her thin robe. At the end of the slanted corridor was another locked door. This one was more difficult for thieves who made it this far. This door would only open for family.
To one side sat a small alcove. Within the niche perched a statue of a small goblin. Cara said it was from Cornwall and was called a Knocker. They were mining goblins who lived underground and warned of cave in. This particular Knocker enjoyed beer. Rachel turned a lever on her prosthetic and the small compartment popped open. Where she normally kept a pencil was a glass syringe. When no one was looking, she had sucked up some beer.
She raised the syringe and pressed the plunger, letting beer dribble over the goblin. The amber liquid disappeared into the stone with a sigh. A click came from the door and it swung inward.
Rachel stepped over the threshold, blue lights marking her progress. The next room was a cavern, big enough to hold all three dragons if necessary. This was the secret resting place of every artifact Cara and Nate had gathered. A wall of metal compartments in various sizes kept each object entombed and separate from all the others.
Rachel was family. She was trusted. And she knew how to access every dangerous artifact hidden away from the world.
The contents of one box whispered to her. It called her name and murmured of secrets it would share with only her. Rachel opened a metal door and pulled out another, smaller metal container. She carried the smaller one to the long table and set it down. Artifacts were like Russian nesting dolls, boxes within boxes to be peeled away before you found the last one hidden inside.
At last she reached in
side and removed the final box. She closed her eyes and ran a finger over its heavily carved surface. Cara hated the thing and said it made her shiver and gasp, whereas Rachel wanted to hug it to her like a treasured teddy bear. She ran her hand along its decorated sides. Runes marched in rows over the top, and understanding danced at the corners of her vision. If she squinted hard enough, she would be able to make out the words.
Patterns and swirls swooped over the sides. Apart from the carving there was no seam, no hinge, and no evidence that it even opened.
The only way they knew something lay inside was because of Cara’s reaction to the obsidian box. And that the horrid old man had wanted it at his resurrection. While the young girl caressed the cold stone, it sang to her. An ancient song in a tongue that was hauntingly familiar, and she hummed along with it.
A single tear ran down her cheek and dropped onto the stone. The moisture hissed and puffed as though it hit hot metal. Then a loud click made Rachel sit up straight. Hinges and a seam appeared from nowhere as the lid popped open.
Just as the goblin demanded beer before he opened the door, the black container only responded to a tear.
She slipped a finger under the edge and lifted it. As she did so, her skin caught on something metallic inside. A tiny spot of pain flared over her fingertip, and she pulled it back as a drop of blood rose from a small wound.
She frowned at the revealed contents. Cold lights flickered across its surface. She expected something magical or fearsome, and instead it was old and musty. A shrivelled and dried-up mushroom, perhaps? Long ago spoilt and all the moisture sucked from the tissue? No, the more she looked at it, the more she thought it resembled not any fungus, but a desiccated organ.
She reached out to touch it, to determine texture. Would it be spongy or petrified like stone? Perhaps it was a fossil from long ago. Then another thought occurred to her: what if she touched it and it crumpled into a pile of dust? Cara wouldn’t be happy. Or maybe she would, as destroying the contents would remove what caused her adopted mother such pain.
Rachel took a breath and stretched out her index finger to the blackened object. As she made contact, she caught sight of the droplet of blood hanging from her fingertip. The tiny patch of blood smeared onto the thing. She snatched her hand back, but her gaze was locked on the interior of the container—partly fascinated and partly repulsed.
Her blood disappeared into the void, but where she had touched, the colour lightened just a fraction. Her mind whirled through cause and effect. To prove it was a genuine reaction, she would have to duplicate the effect. She held out her finger. Squeezing, she wrung another droplet of blood onto the thing. Again her life force disappeared as soon as it touched the surface. As though it were swallowed by a thirsty mouth. An area the size of her drop of blood changed from darkest black to deep grey.
“Interesting,” she whispered to herself.
The dried flesh in the box sighed and thanked her. The unseen voice promised her all the treasures and affection in the world, if only she would nurture it.
Love it.
Feed it.
Rachel stuck her finger in her mouth and considered the offer. She didn’t need treasures and affection. She was loved by a wealthy family and even had her own dragon. What did she need with a silly, dried-up bit of flesh in a box with its inane chatter?
“No. Certainly not. And you are to stop bothering me at night,” she said. Then she slammed down the lid and the obsidian sealed itself instantly.
Rachel put it away in its multiple layers and then deposited the larger box back in its double locked chamber that hung in a liquid meant to dampen the forces within.
The voice was quieter as she walked back out of the secret chamber and headed back up the corridors and stairs to her warm room. She had everything. Nothing could tempt her.
Is there nothing you desire? whispered the voice.
Deep and husky, it made desires she didn’t understand swirl in her stomach.
Perhaps not today, but one day…
Also by A.W. Exley
For all the books in this series, series reading order, and to find more books by A.W. Exley, please visit my website.
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Books by A.W. Exley
About A. W. Exley
Books and writing have always been an enormous part of my life. I survived school by hiding out in the library, with several thousand fictional characters for company. At university, I overcame the boredom of studying accountancy by squeezing in Egyptology papers and learning to read hieroglyphics.
Today, I write historical fantasy novels from my home in rural New Zealand.
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