Grim Shadows
Page 8
“You know what? I don’t even care why you lost it,” she said, doing her best to curb the desire to call up her specters again. Maybe they’d unlatch the berth above him and re-break that crooked nose of his. “No more of your silly stories. Show me the amulet.”
He stopped picking through the sandwiches. “Show me a check.”
“Money. Of course. My father said that would be your first concern.”
“It’s everyone’s first concern.”
“You’re wrong, and that’s the difference between us.”
“Oh, do enlighten me.”
“You’re a digger. I’m a scholar.”
“If people like me didn’t dig, what would you study? Mummified rats in the walls of your precious museum?”
They stared at each other through the whorls of steam rising from the coffeepot. She eventually gave in and dug out Father’s check from her handbag, placing it on her side of the table.
He brushed breadcrumbs off his hands before reaching for his satchel. Ah-ha! She’d guessed correctly. No chance he’d pack the object in a shipping crate after all the hullabaloo it had garnered in the press.
Moreover, she really did experience an inexplicable buzzing sensation when she’d walked into the train station. It wasn’t the first time she’d sensed power coming from an object. The museum contained a door from Newgate Prison that made her head swim whenever she got within a few feet of it, and her father had occasionally acquired things over the years that made her hair stand on end. An object’s power was like a perfume, recognized upon first scent, but fading into the background as one’s nose became accustomed to it.
Lowe took out a small bundle of suede cloth and opened it on the table. Inside sat an elongated golden figure, about six inches tall, two inches wide. Osiris, funerary god of the Egyptian afterlife. The atef crown sat atop his head, and the iconic crook and flail crossed his chest. The figure was one component of the mythical Thoth djed amulet. Osiris’s body was the base of a pillar. Missing were the four crossbars that stacked upon each other to create the top: a dark hole on the figure’s crown hinted where the missing pieces would attach.
She fished out a folding magnifying glass from her handbag and examined the piece more closely. The style was right. Telltale metallurgy markings showed at the side seams, and the gold bore a distinct reddish coloration that gold from Ancient Egypt often possessed. According to the National Geographic article, Lowe claimed to have found the piece in a flooded secret room of the main temple at Philae.
Her throat went dry.
“Can I see the other side?” she said, her voice a raspy whisper.
He flipped it over. The back was flat, embossed by a series of hieroglyphs and unrecognizable symbols that abruptly cut off where the rest of the amulet’s crossbars would attach. Was she really looking at magical symbols from the mythical Book of Thoth? God, it was thrilling to even allow herself a moment to believe it might be true.
If she was forced to validate the piece’s authenticity and give a blind assessment on the spot, her education and experience told her that the object very well could be 3,000 years old—a priceless artifact, and a beautiful example of Amarna Period goldwork. Now, whether it actually opened a door to some mythical underworld was unknown, but something powerful crackled beneath the surface.
“If it’s real, my father wants it,” she finally said.
“I can’t just hand it over to you right now,” he said, reclaiming the amulet. “I’ll need signatures, people present, that sort of thing. And you and your father will want the Egyptian documentation.”
“You have it?”
“My uncle does.”
Dear God. How thrilling.
Nothing mattered but this. All the insults he’d thrown her way were forgotten. Every strange feeling he’d dredged up inside her. Whatever she’d endured had been worth it to secure this arcane piece of history. The knowledge that it would also secure her the job promotion she so desperately wanted was, as they say, killing two birds.
She slid the check across the table. “Consider this a down payment. I want your word that you won’t sell it to someone else. My father will give you the remainder when you meet.”
“Gentlemen’s agreement.” He stuck out his hand—the one still flaunting all its digits—but shook his head when she offered hers in return. “No gloves. Like a man would.”
Skin to skin? Not even the promise of the amulet could make her give him that. She avoided touching in general and skin contact at all costs. Beyond a few brief kisses at petting parties in high school and the loss of her virginity in college, she didn’t remember the last time she’d touched someone with her bare hand on purpose.
Within the space of one afternoon, this walking vaudeville act of a man had already touched her several times: his palm against her back when he was walking with her inside the station lobby; running hand-in-hand with her to catch the train; intimately pressing himself against her torn skirt. So much touching!
She supposed it was nothing to him—some people had no boundaries, after all—but it was something to her. “A gentleman would keep his gloves on,” she insisted, thrusting her gloved hand forward.
“Fine. If you don’t want it to be binding. There are special Man Rules, you know. Spitting, secret handshakes.” Smiling a crooked smile, he took her hand.
His grip was firm and steady. Warm through the thin leather. Rational thought abandoned her until she realized they weren’t shaking. Why weren’t they shaking? A small noise vibrated from the back of his throat. Her gaze lifted to meet his.
He stopped picking through the sandwiches. “Show me a check.”
“Money. Of course. My father said that would be your first concern.”
“It’s everyone’s first concern.”
“You’re wrong, and that’s the difference between us.”
“Oh, do enlighten me.”
“You’re a digger. I’m a scholar.”
“If people like me didn’t dig, what would you study? Mummified rats in the walls of your precious museum?”
They stared at each other through the whorls of steam rising from the coffeepot. She eventually gave in and dug out Father’s check from her handbag, placing it on her side of the table.
He brushed breadcrumbs off his hands before reaching for his satchel. Ah-ha! She’d guessed correctly. No chance he’d pack the object in a shipping crate after all the hullabaloo it had garnered in the press.
Moreover, she really did experience an inexplicable buzzing sensation when she’d walked into the train station. It wasn’t the first time she’d sensed power coming from an object. The museum contained a door from Newgate Prison that made her head swim whenever she got within a few feet of it, and her father had occasionally acquired things over the years that made her hair stand on end. An object’s power was like a perfume, recognized upon first scent, but fading into the background as one’s nose became accustomed to it.
Lowe took out a small bundle of suede cloth and opened it on the table. Inside sat an elongated golden figure, about six inches tall, two inches wide. Osiris, funerary god of the Egyptian afterlife. The atef crown sat atop his head, and the iconic crook and flail crossed his chest. The figure was one component of the mythical Thoth djed amulet. Osiris’s body was the base of a pillar. Missing were the four crossbars that stacked upon each other to create the top: a dark hole on the figure’s crown hinted where the missing pieces would attach.
She fished out a folding magnifying glass from her handbag and examined the piece more closely. The style was right. Telltale metallurgy markings showed at the side seams, and the gold bore a distinct reddish coloration that gold from Ancient Egypt often possessed. According to the National Geographic article, Lowe claimed to have found the piece in a flooded secret room of the main temple at Philae.
Her throat went dry.
“Can I see the other side?” she said, her voice a raspy whisper.
He flipped it over. The back was flat, embossed by a series of hieroglyphs and unrecognizable symbols that abruptly cut off where the rest of the amulet’s crossbars would attach. Was she really looking at magical symbols from the mythical Book of Thoth? God, it was thrilling to even allow herself a moment to believe it might be true.
If she was forced to validate the piece’s authenticity and give a blind assessment on the spot, her education and experience told her that the object very well could be 3,000 years old—a priceless artifact, and a beautiful example of Amarna Period goldwork. Now, whether it actually opened a door to some mythical underworld was unknown, but something powerful crackled beneath the surface.
“If it’s real, my father wants it,” she finally said.
“I can’t just hand it over to you right now,” he said, reclaiming the amulet. “I’ll need signatures, people present, that sort of thing. And you and your father will want the Egyptian documentation.”
“You have it?”
“My uncle does.”
Dear God. How thrilling.
Nothing mattered but this. All the insults he’d thrown her way were forgotten. Every strange feeling he’d dredged up inside her. Whatever she’d endured had been worth it to secure this arcane piece of history. The knowledge that it would also secure her the job promotion she so desperately wanted was, as they say, killing two birds.
She slid the check across the table. “Consider this a down payment. I want your word that you won’t sell it to someone else. My father will give you the remainder when you meet.”
“Gentlemen’s agreement.” He stuck out his hand—the one still flaunting all its digits—but shook his head when she offered hers in return. “No gloves. Like a man would.”
Skin to skin? Not even the promise of the amulet could make her give him that. She avoided touching in general and skin contact at all costs. Beyond a few brief kisses at petting parties in high school and the loss of her virginity in college, she didn’t remember the last time she’d touched someone with her bare hand on purpose.
Within the space of one afternoon, this walking vaudeville act of a man had already touched her several times: his palm against her back when he was walking with her inside the station lobby; running hand-in-hand with her to catch the train; intimately pressing himself against her torn skirt. So much touching!
She supposed it was nothing to him—some people had no boundaries, after all—but it was something to her. “A gentleman would keep his gloves on,” she insisted, thrusting her gloved hand forward.
“Fine. If you don’t want it to be binding. There are special Man Rules, you know. Spitting, secret handshakes.” Smiling a crooked smile, he took her hand.
His grip was firm and steady. Warm through the thin leather. Rational thought abandoned her until she realized they weren’t shaking. Why weren’t they shaking? A small noise vibrated from the back of his throat. Her gaze lifted to meet his.
