Authors: Monica Burns
She turned and crossed the study's hardwood floor to sink into the large, swivel chair her father had loved so much. The well-worn leather held the distinctive aroma of her dad's pipe tobacco. She closed her eyes and drank in the smell. Amazing how after five years the scent still clung to the leather. Her fingers brushed across the smooth, dark wood of the mahogany desk as she scooted closer.
A small stack of mail sat in the center of the desk, and she sorted through it. The invitation to the opening of the Oriental Institute's latest exhibition made her grimace. Just what she needed--intense scrutiny from her peers and other interested
parties.
Not showing up wasn't an option either.
Most everyone knew about Jonathan's infidelity, and she refused to let him, or anyone else, think she was afraid to be in the same room with the son of a bitch. Resigned to attending the event, she pulled on the handle of the middle desk drawer in search of a pen. It didn't give way easily.
Exasperated, Emma released a sound of frustration. The drawer had been cantankerous since her parents had left home for the last time. She'd just never taken the time to try and fix it. Now was as good a time as any. She bent over and looked at the drawer slide. In the darkened space, she could see where a wad of paper had been jammed up into the groove, making it difficult to budge the drawer.
With a sigh, she tugged harder. It gave way a small amount, enough for her to grab the drawer with both hands and jerk on it. Her efforts pulled the entire drawer free of its tracks so it scattered its contents out onto the floor.
"Damn it to hell," she muttered.
The only things left in the drawer were a couple of paper clips and some crumbs from God knew what. Wrinkling her nose, she scooted her chair closer to the trashcan and flipped the drawer over to knock out the dirt. The moment she saw the envelope with its crumpled corner, taped to the edge of the tray's bottom she frowned. So that's what had been keeping the tray from sliding open smoothly.
The drawer resting on her knees, Emma carefully peeled the yellowing tape off the wood. She reached for the letter opener on the desk. Why would her father tape a letter to the bottom of the drawer? Maybe a safety-deposit box she didn't know about? The opener lifted the envelope flap with relative ease and she pulled out the folded square of paper.
A Vigenere cipher written in hieroglyphs.
Why would her father have written a cipher in hieroglyphics? Puzzled, she studied the paper and blinked. Over the years, she'd solved a lot of difficult ciphers her dad had written for her. This one made her think she should have taken up Latin instead. It would have been easier.
By using hieroglyphics instead of letters, her father had brilliantly combined the two mediums. A computer hacker might be able to decipher it with the right database, but by hand--the person decoding the message would need to know cryptology and hieroglyphics. She was pretty certain there weren't too many people running around Chicago fitting that description.
Quickly cleaning up the drawer's spilled contents, she shoved the tray back into its slot and picked up the cipher. Why had her dad hidden the coded message? For that matter, why tape it to the bottom of a desk drawer?
As she studied her father's familiar handwriting, a tremor went through her. If only her parents and Charlie were here to help her sort out this whole mess. Maybe she'd have answers to questions she was still asking.
Her gaze fell on the Sicari coin lying next to the stack of mail. She set aside her father's coded message to pick up the medallion. She'd found it in Charlie's personal effects a couple of days ago. How the authorities had missed it when they'd searched through his things, she had no idea. She expelled a noise of disgust. The police had taken greater care with his belongings than hers.
The coin was almost identical to the one Detective Shakir had shown her, except this one was far more weathered. When she'd first found the artifact, she'd been terrified to touch it. But when she'd finally succumbed to the necessity of it, she was relieved the artifact had only shown her images from the distant past, nothing recent.
Emma tilted the coin so the overhead light outlined the profile of Constantine I on its head, before flipping it to study the Sicari icon on the reverse. The writing was indecipherable, but the icon was the same as the one she'd seen on the wall of Ptolemy's tomb. She frowned. The coin she'd touched in Cairo had been found near Charlie's body. She knew that because her vision had shown him holding it when he died. But this one--this artifact had been in his possession long enough for him to leave it with his belongings and return to the dig.
She turned the coin over to study the worn text.
Iter Sicari Domini factis, non verbis aestimatur.
She frowned and released a sigh. The last six years had been spent reading hieroglyphics, and her Latin was really rusty. She'd need to download some translator software to verify a lot of the text. At least she recognized two of the words. Domini was Latin for "lord" and Sicari meant "assassin." Did domini refer to a deity or was it used in a different context here?
A soft creak of wood echoed in the hall. She jerked her head up at the sound and her heart slammed against her chest. Had she forgotten to lock the front door? No, she distinctly remembered turning the dead bolt.
God, when had she become so irrational? She rubbed her forehead with a sense of self-disgust. What on earth made her think the person who'd killed Charlie would come after her? As the memory of her parents' murder flitted through her head once more, she shivered. They'd died the same way Charlie had and with the same mark on their cheeks. It was stupid to think their deaths weren't connected.
The Cairo police obviously thought they were. It was why they'd taken the easy way out and focused on her as a suspect. But what about the mysterious cloaked figure the locals had seen?
An unidentified man carrying a sword.
Emma could understand why the locals' story had raised eyebrows at police headquarters. It sounded worse than a B-movie plotline. A puff of air blew past her lips as she flipped the coin over to study the opposite side again.
Even as far back as his college days, her father had believed the Sicari assassin order still existed. When he'd first met her mom, he'd been an intern for the Sorbonne in the south of France in Cathars territory. Even then he'd been searching for signs of the Sicari Order.
Her father had been involved with another woman at the time, but the minute he'd seen her mother, there had never been anyone else. Their marriage had been one of deep love and trust. Something Emma never expected to have. Her parents' kind of relationship was far from the norm.
The coin came back into focus, and her thoughts drifted back to the story the locals had told about the stranger at the scene of Charlie's murder. They'd made the man sound like some avenging monk from the Elizabethan era. Had the Sicari ever dressed like that? Maybe the man at the dig . . . she snorted with disgust at the wild notion.
God, that had to be the most ridiculous thing she'd considered yet. She'd found an icon proving the Sicari had existed. She hadn't found one of them alive and living in Chicago. Another squeak of the hall floor whispered its way into the study. Her gaze jerked up to stare at the room's dark doorway. The pitch-black beyond the softly lit office reminded her of Ptolemy's tomb and finding Charlie's body. With the memory came the fear once again.
The chill of it wrapped its tentacles around Emma. Burying the coin and her father's cipher under some papers, she quickly stood up and glanced around.
A weapon.
She needed a weapon. The Egyptian dagger on the bookshelf caught her eye. She'd given it to her father on his last birthday. It was just for looks, but it had a sharp point. Better that than nothing at all.
Her hand slid around the metal grip as she unsheathed the blade. Looking down at the silver weapon, she winced. Christ, she was losing it. She'd locked the frigging front door. She knew that. It was just the house settling. Houses did it all the time. Particularly old houses like this one. She didn't like the way a voice in the back of her head laughed at her attempt to dismiss the soft noises.
Fine.
She'd check the locks in the house. When she finished, she could feel like a fool. But at least she'd be a safe fool.
The dagger sleeve didn't make a sound as she set it down on the papers at the desk. With as much stealth as she could manage, she circled the desk and started toward the door. She only got halfway across the room when a man suddenly filled the doorway of the study. Terror kept her immobile, her scream locked in her throat.
Tall and solidly built, he would have been intimidating no matter what the setting. Dressed completely in black, he moved with a raw power reminiscent of a large predator. The effect was so striking she half expected to hear a low-pitched growl fill the room. Black pants hugged long muscular legs, while a thick, black turtleneck sweater and hip-hugging black leather jacket shouted danger. He wore his dark blond hair cropped short, and his strong features resembled the busts she'd seen of early Roman emperors.
Emma swallowed hard. Throughout history, scribes had depicted Lucifer as a beautiful blond angel. Maybe they were accurate. Her fear almost paralyzed her, but her fingers tightening on the dagger reassured her that she could protect herself. She waited for him to rush her, but he simply stood quietly just inside the doorway. Something about the way he watched her sent a chill down her back. He seemed familiar and yet she was certain she'd never seen him before. This was a man one didn't forget.
"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?" she managed to croak.
"I'm here to collect something that doesn't belong to you." The deep richness of his voice had a soothing, almost hypnotic, quality to it. Her fingers flexed around the dagger's metal grip.
"You didn't answer my question."
"No, I didn't." His evasive answer held a mocking note that irritated her.
"If it's the coin you're looking for, I don't have it anymore," she sneered with more bravado than she felt. "So you'd better get out before the police arrive."
"Never lie unless you can be convincing." Amusement curled his lips in a slight smile. "I'm not convinced."
The mockery in his expression kicked her anger into high gear.
Arrogant bastard.
Why in the hell hadn't she taken those karate classes her mother tried to push her into years ago? She might have been able to take him.
Then again, maybe not.
Just the breadth of his chest and width of his shoulders would have made her think twice about going up against him even with martial skills. He could easily crush her. So why didn't he? His amusement grew more pronounced as he moved deeper into the room. Sweet Jesus, was he wearing a sword on his back? Her heart skipped several beats before it settled back into a frantic rhythm. Taking a quick step back, she raised her meager weapon in a defensive gesture.
"Come any closer and you'll be sorry."
This time the man actually chuckled. He arched his eyebrows at Emma as a strange pressure bit into her skin at the base of her palm. They were the only two people in the room, but she could swear someone had her by the wrist. The unseen hand squeezed tighter until her fingers flexed open and released the dagger.
The pressure vanished as the blade left her hand. But it didn't hit the floor. Instead, it hovered in the air just below her hand before it flew across the room to become embedded in the wall on her right. The blade wobbled back and forth for a moment, until it grew still and remained buried deep in the wood.
"Now then," he murmured. "I want to know where the Tyet of Isis is."
Horrified, she simply stared at the dagger sticking out of the wall. What the--he'd done the impossible. No, she knew differently. Anything was possible. All she had to do was look in the mirror for proof of weird science. But it didn't change the fact she was in trouble.
Trouble with a capital T.
She didn't know how he'd performed that particular trick, but it made him even more dangerous than she'd realized. Determined not to show any fear, she shook her head as she dragged her gaze back to his.
"The Tyet of Isis is a symbol, not a thing."
"Correct," he said as his mouth tilted upward. "A symbol in the form of a knot often used to represent the Egyptian goddess Isis. But I'm looking for an artifact that goes by the same name."