Dragon Bones: a Nia Rivers Novel (Nia Rivers Adventures Book 1)

by Jasmine Walt

  Tensing my body, I kept as quiet and still as I could and studied them. Two of the raiders were locals. I could tell by the way they moved lithely through the dark. The third, the leader, was a foreigner. He was likely a young man studied in the new-age art of parkour. But tree branches were not like rooftops or concrete half-pipes, and he lagged. It wasn’t long before he slipped. The branch beneath him, too slight to hold his weight, cracked.

  I watched with bated breath as the man grabbed hold of the tree trunk. From yards away, I saw his fingers turn pale as they held fast. His lips moved rapidly, probably praying to whatever god he believed in that nobody would see him. Or, if he was smart, that he wouldn’t fall.

  The branch snapped. The break was clean. The thick piece of bark turned over, top to bottom, on its way down. Its young leaves were stripped of twigs as the branch fell.

  But it was the only thing that fell. The man had managed to wrap his legs around another branch and was now holding on to the tree trunk with his fingernails and feet crossed at the ankles. Much like my sloth companion.

  The branch hit the ground with a heavy thud, and one of the soldiers was instantly alerted. He looked left and right. Thankfully for the parkourist, the soldier didn’t look up.

  The soldier peered around for another minute but then turned and marched away. His thunderous steps cleared the animals from his path, making way for the thieves in the night. The tree climbers pulled out anaconda-thick ropes and began quietly rappelling their way to the ground. When they hit the terrain floor, they crept toward the dig site.

  I rose from my crouch in the trees, bidding farewell to the staring sloth before swan-diving straight off the branch. The wind whistled past my ears as I tucked my body into a double flip, then landed soundlessly with sure feet on the damp rainforest floor. Not that my silent landing did me any good.

  Straightening, I found myself face to face with one of the soldiers. My heart jumped into my throat. His eyes immediately went wide with terror. The sweat that broke out on his temples had nothing to do with the ever-present humidity.

  “El espíritu,” he whispered, stumbling backward. “El espíritu!”

  His frightened shout echoed through the trees, and I sighed. My cover was blown. I’d traded in my jeans and linen blouse for a dark tunic that covered my legs and torso. The head covering that masked my face did a decent job of hiding my identity. With the ornamental design on the strap of the bush sword hanging over my shoulder, I supposed I did look like a vengeful Mayan goddess.

  The second soldier came running into the clearing, gun already drawn. He stopped short at the sight of me. In the near distance, the raider and his cronies paused to watch the commotion.

  “I wouldn’t do that—” I began as the soldier raised his shaking gun at me, but he didn’t listen.

  He squeezed off two shots in succession, one flying wide, the other winging straight for me despite his terrible aim. I deflected that one easily with my blade, but his third shot was steadier. It hit the leather strap of my sword case; the strap snapped in two, and my bag fell to the ground.

  Anger ripped through me, and I sucked in a deep breath as I brushed the residual metal scraps off my top. Dirt, I could get out. But the torn fabric where the bullet hole had bounced off my skin was another matter. The soldier tried to squeeze off another shot, but I closed the distance in less than a second. My fingers dug into his neck as I picked him up off the ground.

  Gritting my teeth, I slammed him against the tree trunk. His head knocked against the bark with a satisfying thunk, and his eyes rolled back into his head as he immediately passed out. Curling my lip, I released him. His body slumped to the ground like a broken doll, gun hanging uselessly at his side.

  But at least he’d live.

  I turned toward the second soldier, but he was already gone, crashing through the bushes as he sprinted away. Two of the raiders were right behind him, flitting through the trees as if their lives depended on it. But the parkourist had gone ahead while I’d been distracted. Through the clearing, I watched him race off into the ruins.

  I sighed and headed off in his direction at no great rush. Even though we were out in the open, there was only one way in and out of the area, and he was running straight into the out door. I was never one to sneer during a horror movie when the villain or the monster strolled after the distressed, erratically running damsel or clumsy dumb dude. They always ran into the trap.

  But then, I heard a crash and the splintering sound of a thousand years’ worth of knowledge being smashed. The raider, who’d tripped over a carefully plotted, roped-off area of the dig, was straightening from his face-plant.

  Seriously? I’d encountered rhinoceroses more graceful than this guy. My heart turned to stone as I zeroed in on the remains of a vase shattered in the dirt. I took off after him, my powerful legs eating up the ground much faster than any human runner could manage. Hell, I’d even outrun cheetahs once. I was on him before he took his next breath.

  With one hand, I grabbed him, then tossed him into an unmarked section of the grass. He landed with an even louder thud than the branch he’d snapped. By the time his eyes blinked open, my foot was pressed into his chest.

  “Do you have any idea of the value of what you just destroyed?” I demanded.

  He sputtered, his eyes bugging out, and I knew he was seeing the same vengeful spirit the others had.

  “The knowledge we would have gained from that single unbroken piece could have filled an entire volume. Would have filled,” I added with a snarl, “if you hadn’t just destroyed it with your clumsy footwork.”

  I eased up on his throat a bit so he could whine and beg. But he only stared up at me in muted confusion. I began to snap at him again, but I suddenly realized I had spoken to him in my native tongue, which was older than English or Spanish. Older than Latin, Hebrew, or any other language still spoken today.

  “W-what are you?” he stammered.

  The way his lower lip trembled made him look like a damn kid. Unfortunately for him, my sympathy meter was low. I felt more for the broken vase than I did for this petulant child.

  “A-are you really a vengeful spirit?” He covered his face with trembling hands. “Oh, God.”

  The stench of urine laced the air, and I curled my lip at him.

  He pulled his hands away from his face. “This is your tomb, isn’t it? And now you’re going to curse me for trying to steal your treasures!”

  “Sure,” I said dryly, easing back a little. “We can go with that.”

  I took a moment to study the man-child who’d somehow grown enough balls to try to rob this dig site. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Probably watched Indiana Jones as a kid, played Assassin’s Creed as a teen. He was likely an adrenaline junkie looking to make a quick buck.

  An idea popped into my head, and my lips curved into a wicked smile. I could make use of this guy. “The curse is upon you,” I said, filling my voice with Spanish flair even though the ancient people who lived here a millennium ago had never met a Spaniard. “If you want to break the curse and curry my favor, you’ll do as I wish … or your family will perish.”

  “Yes,” he immediately agreed, his voice filled with a combination of fear and eagerness. “I understand.”

  I stepped back and let him up. He rose on wobbly legs. His hands went to cover the wet spot of his cargo pants.

  “My people have long been hidden,” I intoned in a grave, ancient voice. “It is past time for the world to know about us. You shall be the one to tell them. Follow me.”

  I turned on my heel without another word. He scrambled after me like an eager puppy, but I could tell he was being careful not to crush any more artifacts.

  I led him further into the tomb, to the artifact that had first caught my eye when I came here. It was a clay tablet with writings etched into it that predated the Mayan script. I’d already started translating the tablet. It told a different story than the Maya and their descendants told.<
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  According to the writings, these two cultures had met. The Maya had learned much from this older, more learned culture. I knew that if I left the tablet here the Honduran government would steal it away and bury it so their dirty secret wouldn’t get out. But I couldn’t let them do that. This tablet was bigger than their need for tourism. On it were clues as to why this civilization fell. It was likely because the people turned on their gods, which was a common reason.

  Gently, I plucked the tablet from its perch. After wrapping it in a protective cloth, I handed it to my delivery boy along with a business card.

  “Take my story to this address,” I said. “And handle it with care.”

  The raider took the tablet and cradled it in his arms. He stuffed the business card into his pocket. If he wondered how a millennia-old goddess happened to be in possession of a business card with a D.C. address, he didn’t mention it.

  Looking him squarely in the eye, I warned, “If you betray me, I will find you.”

  I took a step forward, and he gulped when I patted his cheek.

  “Be careful,” I said softly. “The next time you plan to raid a tomb, the god you find inside may not be as kind.”

  Nodding, he took off like a rocket. As I watched him sprint out of the tomb, I prayed he was better at escaping than he was at breaking and entering.

  3

  “When most people think of archaeology, they think of fossils and mummies. They picture huge reptiles buried beneath the ground. They imagine great rulers hidden in triangular castles in the sand. As archaeologists, what we do is bigger than that.”

  I stood in front of a crowd of fifty professors, professionals, and students in the theater of the National Museum of the American Indian at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. Believe it or not, fifty was a stadium-sized crowd in my field. The numerous prescription lenses in the crowd reflected off the bright fluorescent lights. Pencils belonging to the older crowd worked furiously over notepads. The nimble fingers of the younger ones flew over keyboards and handheld devices to capture my jewels of knowledge.

  “We’re not just uncovering physical relics of the past, we are uncovering ideas. We think we are innovative, only to see that it has been done before.”

  A raised platform stood next to my lectern. I pulled the sheet covering it off to reveal the tablet the parkourist had hand-delivered to one of my colleagues at the Smithsonian. The young man had managed to deliver it without a nick or even a raised flag from customs.

  The Honduran government hadn’t been happy, but I had warned Lieutenant Alvarenga about the raiders. Actually, it was Captain Alvarenga now. Letting out the inarguable facts of this older culture had cost him his rank. Now the entire world knew a civilization predated the Maya. The stories of these lost people would finally be told.

  “History books are written by the victors,” I continued. “But sometimes, those winners lie. It’s important to unearth not only a pharaoh, but also the pharaoh’s servant. When you go out there and dig, search for the marginalized, the minorities, and the underrepresented. Give them a voice. Their stories matter. All tales must be told, even the ugly ones—especially the ugly ones.”

  The applause from the smattering of audience members might as well have been the boom of a rock concert. I wasn’t often recognized for the work I did; I preferred the shadows and the cover of night to run my crusades of discoveries of the dead. But this long-dead story had to be told, and I was the only living one who could tell it.

  I stepped off the platform and fielded a few questions, declining selfies with excuses ranging from needing to keep my identity quiet so I could participate in secret digs—true—to photokeratitis—not true, but fun to say.

  A notification on my phone got me out of a one-sided debate with a tall man in a tweed suit. I could tell by his incessant inhaling and rubbing at the back of his neck that he was working up the courage to ask for my number. I was amusing myself trying to decide if he was going to ask me out for drinks or to coauthor a paper with him. I couldn’t tell. Either way, the answer would’ve been no. I didn’t want the notoriety that came with signing my name to published documents. And the reason I wasn’t interested in drinks with him was ringing my phone right now.

  I turned my back, hoping the junior professor would get the message and stop trying to further build up his courage. When he kept hovering patiently, I moved closer to the window and then out of the building entirely.

  The cell reception inside the museum wasn’t poor. I had full bars, but the text message still took its time loading onto the screen. I stepped outside into the cool afternoon air and waited, refreshing my phone every other second.

  Finally, the picture came through. It was fuzzy and hazy, but I made out my own face in the painting. There was a rainbow of reds from the lightest of pinks to the darkest of fuchsias. At the center of the canvas was a nude woman reclining with her arms thrown above her head. Her bare thighs were squeezed together, and her toes were curled as though she’d been assaulted with more pleasure than she could handle. Her lips were parted in a sated grin. She had one eye closed and the other open with a sparkle at its center. He’d painted me just like I’d been the last time he’d seen me.

  Below the picture was a text message bubble. It read, This is how I spent my Manboobs.

  I snorted and hit reply. I take it your Monday is going well? Love the fuckweasel.

  I hadn’t typed fuckweasel on my end, but when the “delivered” notification popped up below the text bubble on my phone, I knew the autocucumber had struck again.

  Autocorrect was a constant bane in our relationship. No matter how many times either of us proofed our words, the text messages were a little wrong and often dirtier than we’d intended. Sexting was a comedy of errors with his pumas and my china doing all manner of naughty things.

  I waited patiently for the reply. It came a full two minutes later.

  God donut, fuchsia is beautiful against your skin.

  He said that about every color. My lover, Zane, had painted me in every color of the spectrum. I aimed my thumb to prepare for another text when my phone screen went dark.

  I hit the home button and got no response, then I held the power button at the top of the device. Still not a flicker.

  I cursed under my breath, preparing to toss the device down the steps. But I didn’t. I knew the malfunction wasn’t my phone’s fault. I tried not to take it too personally. I’d be seeing him later tonight, after all.

  I pocketed the phone. It would turn back on when it was ready. By then, Zane would be lost in whatever piece of art he was working on. Once he got in the zone, he wouldn’t pay attention to anything but the creation at his fingertips.

  I knew that firsthand. The details of that nude portrait of me were intricate and meticulous—down to the slight freckling on my high cheekbones. Thankfully, he’d pleasured me into an oblivion before he’d picked up his paints to capture the aftermath. He hadn’t come to bed until the work of art was finished. Zane was nothing if not dedicated to his work.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Rivers?”

  My hand brushed the blade strapped to my upper thigh. The weapon was tucked in a compartment sewn into the pocket of my pantsuit. My movement was an automatic response whenever anyone came up behind me. I’d been too distracted by Zane to notice the woman’s approach.

  I knew it was a woman. Her accent was African. The consonants came off her tongue clipped and harsh like she was South African. But she added a softening to the end of my name, lengthening the vowel sound as though she had leisure time at her hands and the freedom to spend it. An Afrikaner, maybe?

  “You are Dr. Nia Rivers, antiquities expert?”

  The question was a challenge. I turned to see Charlize Theron’s younger, prettier sister. Her pale skin was deeply tanned; it was a healthy tan that came from the sun and not a tanning bed. Her blonde hair was knotted low at the back of her swan’s neck. The woman’s cool blue gaze raked over me in assessment.
Mine did the same in the way of two lionesses on a savanna, two princesses eyeing the crown, two cheerleaders angling for the top of the pyramid.

  “You’re a hard woman to track down,” she said.

  No, I was an impossible woman to track down. My skills were sought after, but I gave clients a wide window of when I might arrive on a site, never a firm date. My preference was to simply pop up without notice like I’d done in Honduras. I didn’t like people knowing my daily itinerary.

  My hand brushed the hidden blade on my thigh again. The woman’s eyes flicked down to my motion. Her penciled brows arched, but she kept her hands on her bag strap. My eyes caught the bag—vintage Gucci. Nice.

  Her eyes went to my boots. They were Stuart Weitzman. Hers were Kenneth Cole. Stylish boots with good soles and protective leather. Her skirt was designer—Stella McCartney. My pants were Prada. Our gazes met back at the center.

  “I’m Loren Van Alst, Import/Export specialist.”

  I quirked a brow, shifting my assessment. Again, her eyes flicked almost imperceptibly. Ms. Van Alst continued as though she hadn’t caught my disapproval. Import/Export was synonymous with tomb raider as far as I was concerned.

  But Loren smiled confidently at me, like she had a secret. She reached into her designer bag and pulled out an 8x10 photo. The sun reflected on the white back of the photo paper as she held the image close to her chest.

  “I could use your expertise with authenticating an artifact.”

  I decided to bite. “What kind of artifact?”

  Her blue eyes danced. She thought she had me. “You’ve heard of dragon bones?”

  I had. Dragon bones were an ancient record-keeping method before paper made its way through Asia. Past events of note and future predictions for the noble class were etched on turtle shells and ox scapula.

  “I found one.” Loren tapped her manicured fingernail on the back of the photograph.

  “I thought you said you were in Import/Export,” I said.