Solomon's Seal

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  Probably with teeth.

  My peripheral vision picked up a simple black and white tux like the other gentlemen in the room, and he wore it like he belonged in it; I’d grown good over the years at discerning between those with money and those playing at having money. He was as comfortable in the tuxedo as any rich child practically born in one.

  I continued to stare at him. “That’s my wrist you seem to have.”

  He made a point of looking at my fingers coiled around the stem of my near-empty champagne glass. “So it is.”

  My skin prickled strangely and heart beat faster. “You should do something about that.”

  “Excellent idea.” His fingers holding my wrist deftly shifted to snatch my champagne glass and drop it on the tray of a passing waiter, then gripped my hand, drawing me to him as his other palm came to rest low on my hip. At that precise moment, as if he’d timed it, a new song picked up, the songstress sinking into the opening of “I Only Have Eyes for You”, and Mr. Tall, Dark, and In My Personal Space pulled me into a dance.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  He stood a few inches above my height in heels, and this near I had to tip my head back to look up at him. I had the distinct sense that he liked it that way.

  And I kind of wanted to knee him in the balls.

  Unfortunately, my body settled into dancing like second nature; my shoulders pulled back, neck elongated, and I followed his steps. He wasn’t overly broad, no, but there was strength in the way he held me, coiled tight and reined in. Precise and deliberate. He moved with a feline grace—a cat playing with his meal.

  “You know,” I said as he swept me along, and at last I settled my hand—and the clutch gripped in it—on his shoulder, “I was rather looking forward to making a scene.”

  “My timing is impeccable.”

  “And an intrusion on mine.”

  His lips quirked in a cocky smile and not once had his stare left mine. “Perhaps I’m with security, tasked to keep scandals to a minimum.”

  “By dancing with potential threats?”

  “Now that,” he had us part for a moment and turned me once before returning me to his embrace, “was purely my decision.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Indeed.”

  His hand was a heavy weight on my hip—a little too firm. Come to think of it, so was the grip on my hand. As if he expected me to dart away.

  I had no clue where he’d get such an idea.

  I still held his gaze because he hadn’t looked away and I wasn’t about to give in. “So do you have a name?”

  “I have a few.”

  Oh, this was promising.

  “Do you?”

  “Just the one, actually.”

  Interestingly, he didn’t ask it. Maybe he knew. Maybe he really was with security and knew exactly who Olivia Anne Talbot was and why he had to watch me for a scandal. While I liked my reputation proceeding me sometimes, I didn’t like being at a disadvantage in the knowledge department.

  My gauzy wrap slipped off my shoulders, pooling low in the hollow where my arms bent at the elbow. It left my skin exposed, vulnerable, and I suppressed a shiver.

  The air around him was charged and tense, and I still hadn’t eliminated the possibility of him trying to kill me if we weren’t in a room surrounded by wealthy people who were scandalized by things such as drinking cheap wine. Murder would definitely be frowned upon, but I took comfort in the gun in my purse.

  And at least he wasn’t Dick Moss.

  My skirt breezed around my legs as he forced me into another turn, and his slight grin grew into a full-fledged smile. “Used to leading, are you?”

  “Used to practicing solo these days,” I said mildly.

  “I have trouble picturing you as lacking for partners.”

  “It’s more an issue with finding one to keep up.”

  The song was blessedly ending, and as the singer belted out the last words of the final chorus—drawing out, “only have eyes,” sensually—he turned us swiftly three times and dipped me low. His face came within inches of mine and my head was tilted back, exposing my throat in an unfortunately submissive manner.

  It’s an odd feeling as a woman being suspended in the air like that, a few feet from the floor, trusting one’s partner not to drop her. My heart sped because I most certainly didn’t trust this man.

  “Let’s test that some time,” he said in a deep voice that settled right under my skin and gave me goose bumps.

  He held me there as breathless seconds passed, then the tempo and music picked up again with the very end of the song, and he righted us. A brief nod—not deep, but enough to acknowledge me—and he turned to exit the room, moving fluidly as he wove around people.

  Right. People. Gosh, there were quite a few of them and they all were looking at me.

  Heat touched my cheeks. I pulled the wrap up over my shoulders again and casually turned to stare at the glass of the nearest wall like nothing happened.

  “Olivia!”

  I tensed at the voice booming my name, gaze darting around, but there was nowhere to hide anyway.

  I turned toward approaching steps and attempted not to sigh. Please don’t let him be my client. Please. “Dick.”

  Mr. Moss frowned, briefly, as he stopped in front of me. “Richard.”

  “Of course.”

  “Great to see you here.” He offered me a sexy smile and his arm.

  Oh no. Mr. Possibly-Security-Guy had me flustered and wound up, and Moss would certainly go for the kill with me too off my game to put up a fight. I took a subtle step back, angling myself so I was no longer quite facing him and definitely obvious I had no intention of taking his arm.

  The appendage hung there a moment before it seemed to sink in that I wasn’t taking it. He returned his arm to his side. “Well. I almost never see you at this kind of thing.”

  “No...you don’t.” I went to take a sip of my wine and realized the previous guy had taken it. And left.

  There were too many guys for me to keep track of. I needed another drink.

  Moss would simply not be daunted by my lack of desire to participate in conversation with him. “Did you get the flowers?”

  I kept up the smile, hoping he didn’t mean last night’s rose was among them. “Yes.”

  “Both bouquets?”

  My face is going to freeze like this. What the hell was wrong with me—why did I always stand around and put up with this sort of thing rather than run away? “Mm-hmm.”

  He waited, as if he expected me to explain why I hadn’t responded to either, blinking those pretty dark eyes, and not revealing yet if he was indeed my client. “You know, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the museum.”

  He’d left before security arrested me—good thing, too, as I didn’t trust my picture wouldn’t’ve ended up on his blog in front of millions. “Well...” Where is the wine? Why won’t someone bring me wine! “Lucky me.”

  Moss’s sandy brows pulled together in confusion.

  “Miss Talbot?”

  I swung around immediately to see who the new intruder was. It wasn’t my random dance partner this time, but an older man in a tux who brought to mind the wait staff; he held himself differently than the others, shoulders turned inward and head slightly bowed.

  “I’m to bid you to join your patron this evening. He’s ready for the meeting to commence.”

  I might have to go to church if prayers I haven’t even formed yet are answered with such frequency.

  My attention returned briefly to Moss, thankful he wasn’t my client. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sure.” He seemed about ready to reach for my hand in goodbye, so I abruptly turned to my savior. Ridiculously persistent—despite being pretty to look at, and probably a decent enough guy, it just would end so, so badly. Maybe I’d have to change my number after all.

  The older man gestured for me to follow. I smiled politely, nodded, and let him lead me through
a side exit and down another hall. I scoped the place out as I went, remembering the layout—force of habit. We passed the other guests, went down a dark corridor, and up a narrow flight of stairs I suspected had been servant ones when the house was a home. Perhaps I’d done enough to make my presence known, and the man who invited me wasn’t interested in parading me up the proper staircase in front of the guests.

  The second floor was quieter than the first, whether because it was out of bounds permanently or just for the evening, I didn’t know. The lighting was poorer and we walked down a long hallway of closed doors. There was one at the very end and it didn’t surprise me when my guide stopped in front of it, opened it for me, and bowed.

  Nervous energy ran through me, though I moved with practiced calm and showed none of it. He’d ushered me to a conference room with a wall of windows at the far end. The other three walls were paneled in dark wood, the area rug Persian in autumn tones and undoubtedly expensive, and a long oval conference table waited in the center. I was offered a glass of wine by the man standing just inside the door, which I accepted and continued on into the room.

  Facing the windows, with his back to me and hands knotted against his lower spine, stood the man I assumed had called me here. He was tall, shoulders thick and proud, hair a gleaming black combed smoothly back.

  He glanced over his shoulder at me and offered a smile. “Please, have a seat, Miss Talbot. We’ll get started shortly.”

  Nothing about him was familiar—I couldn’t even say if he lived in the city. When I reached the table, the man from the door darted over to pull a chair out for me; I accepted it and sat more out of habit than desire to.

  I studied my host as he rounded the table and made a gesture to the side door, which the doorman swiftly went to. He was perhaps my father’s age, though strangely with no sign of gray around the edges. It was more something in his expression that made him seem old.

  And powerful. There was no mistaking the aura of respect-me-or-else about him. The “else”, I was certain, wouldn’t be pleasant. My father was the CEO of Phoenix Enterprises, which owned half a dozen different companies, and he could be an utterly ruthless businessman—hell, he was the kind of guy who could hate his own daughter. If my host was that type, well, consider me on edge.

  “I’m Moses Ashford,” he said. “And I would like you to retrieve something for me.”

  “I gathered from your invitation.”

  He walked around the table slowly, dark gaze away from mine as he appeared to ponder something. A floor to ceiling cabinet waited off to the side, and he slid back one of the doors to reveal a large monitor. Seconds later the lights dimmed and the screen glowed.

  A presentation. Wow. This potential client went all out.

  The side door opened and figures stepped inside; I couldn’t make them out well until they approached the table and neared the blue glow of the screen. The first was a large man with dark hair in a ponytail—sort of the quintessential Comic Book Guy, though he smiled shyly at me and gave off an air of kindness. His button down shirt and pressed pants were new, however not enough to get by downstairs; he must not have attended the party at all. He took a seat off to the side, shoulders hunched like an awkward sort of teddy bear.

  Someone else stepped up to stand by the screen: a woman, thirtyish, petite with very dark skin, curly black hair closely cropped to her head, and glasses. She held a clipboard, which—when you’re used to freelancing and doing your own thing, shooting randomly and bouldering and stuff—was utterly terrifying. Her skirt and jacket business suit was a simple beige but a smart pair of Louboutin pumps in red suggested the girl knew how to dress.

  Still a third person stood off to the side and I couldn’t make him out from where I sat with the lights so dim.

  “Are you familiar with the Seal of Solomon?” Ashford asked, his eyes on me.

  I took a sip of my wine. “Very vaguely—not much beyond the Wikipedia version.”

  Ashford nodded at the woman, and she lifted a controller and pointed it at the monitor. The screen flared to life with simple drawings of the Star of David and various other symbols, and some Hebrew writing I couldn’t read.

  “It was a signet ring which, according to legend, belonged to Sulaiman ibn Da’ud,” he said. “King Solomon, the son of David as you know him.” Another nod and the screen changed again, this time to show various drawn depictions of the ring. “Earliest versions say it was made of iron and brass. It had the true Name of God written upon it, was inlaid with four jewels, and is said to give the wearer the ability to control demons, genies, speak to animals, and had various other powers.”

  “Handy...for those nasty demon infestation problems that always seem to crop up.”

  Nothing, not even a smile.

  “Or the Dog Whisperer?”

  He pointedly ignored me.

  Since I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be fired from a job I hadn’t even yet been given, I decided to be a team player. “It was primarily mentioned in One Thousand and One Nights, no?”

  “Yes.” His voice lightened a little, as if it pleased him to realize I wasn’t a drooling idiot. “Legends are also mentioned in a handful of medieval grimoires from around the sixteenth century.”

  His assistant brought up images of old books I’d never read but seen on display various places. I honestly found occult texts painful to read and hoped my part in this expedition wouldn’t involve combing them for evidence.

  “No one knows precisely what it looks like—accounts varied—or where it is.”

  “Or if it existed,” I pointed out. “King Solomon supposedly lived three thousand years ago if he even existed at all; if he wasn’t real, the ring isn’t.” I mean, I hunted down supernatural stuff for a living, but someone had to say it.

  “Let us say I wouldn’t be calling this meeting if I wasn’t quite certain of its existence,” Ashford said.

  “Touché.” The Pulse, after all, activated all sorts of shit humans hadn’t believed in, so anything was possible.

  The next image was of some sort of modern-looking war medal, with the Star of David and a cross. “Do you recognize this?”

  I shrugged. “Not all the elements combined, no.”

  “This is The Order of the Seal of Solomon, instituted by Emperor Yohannes IV in the nineteenth century. The kings of Ethiopia have claimed to be direct descendants of King Solomon—the Solomonic dynasty, if it did indeed exist, was no doubt broken a few times over, but it is a popular claim still heard today.”

  “You think the Seal might be there.”

  The medals faded into a map of southeast Ethiopia, and from there images of a cave system with several photos that he cycled through. “That is my theory. I have reasons for it I will not get into at this time; suffice to say I’ve spent some time since the Pulse tracking the Seal and this is where I continue to land.”

  I didn’t recognize the caves, but they looked like any other—limestone carved by rivers over centuries. The lights flickered on again though the screen remained on with the vast cave photos. I blinked, adjusting to the light, and sipped my wine some more while I thought. “Why me?”

  Ashford stood before the table, hands behind his back. “I have approached a handful of people in your line of work but have yet to find a good fit. Too many have a history of turning items over to local governments.”

  “Ah, yes, I don’t think so. They rarely pay as well.”

  “There’s also your particular...skill set.” Lest I think he was referring to my ability to model swimwear and answer questions with “world peace”, he tilted his head in the direction of the monitor where the images of caves remained, faded in the room’s bright lights.

  Nowadays treasure hunters like me seemed to come in two breeds: those with a flat out burglary background, and the outdoorsy types who got their hands dirty. I lacked a certain je ne sais quoi for slipping into a guarded fortress in a black catsuit, but send me outdoors where it was less about having a preci
se plan and with no rules to follow, and I was right at home.

  Ashford continued, as if that answered any lingering questions about why he chose me. “I’ve assembled a team to go in. Dawson Fabrini,” he nodded to Comic Book Guy, who gave me a simple little wave, “heads tech. Laurel James,” he gestured to Clipboard Woman, who eyed me with distaste, “is my representative—my eyes and ears while you’re out. You’ll be in charge but she’ll have my authority. Finally, there’s Mr. Rolph.”

  The white man standing at the back of the room had one of those pornstaches, so thick and dark it hardly looked real. The top of his head was mostly bald, bringing to mind the idea that perhaps the hair fell from the top of his head and just landed on his upper lip. A tiny gold cross hung at his throat, light catching it and sending darts across the room. He watched me from behind thick glasses—those bottle type not popular for years—that interrupted my viewing, and evaluation, of him.

  In summary, he kind of looked like he should be a serial killer named Kevin who lived someplace like the end of my street.

  “He is familiar with the region you’ll be visiting and legends surrounding Sulaiman ibn Da’ud. He’ll be advising you from a scholar perspective.”

  When Ashford said nothing else, I glanced over my new “team” again before returning my gaze to his. “While I have no doubt of the qualifications of the people you’ve brought on board, if we’re going caving, I’m going to need a party of cavers—preferably extremely experienced ones. A team no fewer than four, and preferably six.”

  He nodded as if he’d been expecting it. “You’ll have people at your disposal there when the plane touches down. Hired help. Mr. Rolph and Ms. James will also accompany you inside; the former has experience caving, the latter has been taking classes and will be quick to adapt.”

  Right. Sure. Maybe I should sit her in front of The Descent before going in, and scare her into staying at the campsite. I didn’t enjoy potentially dangerous activities with newbies on board.

  “As for the matter of payment...”

  I tried not to noticeably perk up, as there’s nothing worse than looking desperate.