Taryn sauntered back to the table. Out of breath, she balanced her rump on the puffed crown of her wooden stool. In an instant, her smile left her face. Her eyes narrowed and filled with suspicion.
Evangeline hummed and looked away. She tried to pretend she wasn’t hogging all the mugs of ale.
“Are you having fun, Evan?”
“Uhhh-huh.”
Evangeline attempted to stand. But her hip bumped against the table. Ale sloshed like stormy sea waves. Liquid gold escaped the rims of half-filled mugs. A large coat of amber spread a puddle across the table, roiling into fizzy foam. Taryn screeched and saved her purse, throwing several large wads of napkins in an effort to contain the oozing mess.
“Okay, time to go home, Evangeline.”
With the wave of Taryn’s hand, Jake approached. She collected her ticket and laid a wad of cash on the only dry spot left on the table. Evangeline reached in her purse and threw her own wad of money. It landed on top of Taryn’s pile.
Taryn’s dark brows furrowed. “No, Evan, I’ve got the ticket!”
Evangeline laughed impishly. “I know, but Jake kept me hydrated.”
“All right, girl, let’s go!”
Evangeline swaggered across the parking lot, her best friend in tow. She hummed until they reached Taryn’s black Corvette, a must-have after a summer visit to Jersey. Relaxing against the gray leather, Evangeline played with the radio buttons in search of any good beat. She had to admit, British radio was rubbish compared to nine years of American radio. With the push of a button, she turned it off. The ride to the house was in comfortable silence. Engine horses revved as they turned onto the Estate drive. Only the scent of orange blossoms welcomed her home.
“Thanks for taking me out. You were right. A night out was a jolly idea.”
“You’re welcome. Do you need any help? I shouldn’t have let you drink so much.”
Evangeline shrugged her shoulders. “I’m fine. I had what…three beers?
“Try more than that. You drank all your pints…and mine.”
“Duly noted,” Evangeline slurred, slipping her house key into the mahogany door. She couldn’t get the door to unlock. The clinks of jiggled keys chimed from wriggling them without mercy. “These keys are stuck again.” Tempted by the garden of colors from the door’s floral patterned stained glass window, Evangeline resisted the urge to push her fist through it to unlock it by hand. She was lucky she didn’t need to use the bathroom.
In a gentle brush, Taryn pushed her aside. Turning the key with a swift twist of wrist, the door swung wide open. With a smile, she withdrew the keys and nestled them in Evangeline’s palm.
“Go to bed, Evan. I love you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I love you, too. I’ll talk to you then.”
The large wood door glided closed and latched behind her. Its angry echo permeated the silence. She set her bronze quilted purse next to the large crystal vase of fresh flowers. Her manicured fingernails swooshed an invisible trail along the edge of the round glass foyer table. Evangeline’s gait was lazy. She shuffled her sandals against marble opalescent tiles. Its slide became muffled upon contact with plush mocha carpet.
She scanned the large living room for any sign of life. All that lingered here was the solemn spirit of this desolate house. Dark and still, her broken home was eerie and silent. Even a ghost would find it foreboding.
Unexpected goose bumps covered her flesh. Rubbing her hands up and down the length of bare arms, her gaze became fixed on the stairway leading towards the basement. Biting her lip, she ran on impulse towards the stairs. It had been so many years. But still, how could she ever forget?
Chapter Three
The house was attached to the museum through a private underground passage built as a safety precaution during the First World War. The length of six city blocks, it enabled the museum to hide priceless treasures in the event of emergency, war, or disaster. Fond memories forced Evangeline’s smile. Her father had always told this story with such animated excitement. His eyes would become as big as saucers, twinkling with such a deep rich blue. His hand movements were fast, dramatic like a magician’s. Closing her eyes, she could still imagine the soothing tone of his voice and the warm safe feeling of his hands. Employees often asked how they slipped into the museum unseen. But it was their secret. She’d never told a soul about the passageway. Not even Taryn.
Evangeline descended the stairs and she shuffled towards the library. Brushing away another wave of regret, the last time she graced this room, the whole course of her life had changed. She would never forget the day she learned her parents were sending her to Princeton.
The lifeless soot-scarred fireplace begged for the warmth of a cozy fire. The large stone hearth stood out in stark contrast against impressive towers of massive mahogany bookcases. The ample collection of works was innumerable; enough to drop any jaw. Colored spines of hard-backed books presented an array of brilliance, lining the shelves from floor to ceiling, encompassing the entire room.
Cambridge, Yale, and the British Library were regular borrowers of the Montgomery compilations of priceless literature. Not a soul was aware that behind one of the massive bookcase panels concealed a secret passage door that led to the bowels of the museum. Standing on tiptoe, Evangeline searched for the weathered crimson leather-bound book. Locating The Hidden Fortress, she pulled it from its place. With a soft click, the bookcase opened. Its seal broke with a dewy human-like gasp.
A sudden gust of cold air hit Evangeline in the face. Stirred-up dust and cobwebs billowed into the air, forcing her to take a step back and cough. Swooshing her hand back and forth in front of her nose, she peered into the canal. Mortal vision could never adjust to the pitch-black intensity of the abyss-like tunnel. Light beams poured from inside the library, just enough to silhouette the familiar boxes of flashlights and batteries inside the opening.
She chose a handy flashlight, pointing its beacon into the darkness. Fighting a chill, an unseen force beckoned her to leave the safety of the library. Leaving the passage door ajar, Evangeline submitted. With a bounce in her step, she delighted in the urgency of her unknown mission.
The walk wasn’t bad. The damp, chilled air was quite invigorating. But random memories flooded her with each step. She endured another round of despair and loneliness. Slowing her steps, she felt along the wall, grateful to reach the end of the passage. Finding the wall’s latch, her fingers pressed it hard. The secret door opened with a coiled pop. She was greeted by the familiar scents of metal, spice, leather, and old pottery. Inhaling deep, it was impossible to hold back her smile. Despite her decade long absence, the essence of this place still had the power to make her feel vibrant and alive.
The angelic glow of her flashlight danced like a spotlight. Evangeline gazed around the room with a child-like wonder. Breathing in the musk of the Treasure Recovery Room, her father always insisted this was where the real treasures were found. Pain-staking hours of care and research were given to every artifact, making sure each piece was labeled and its history recorded before earning a permanent place in the main museum upstairs. Stacked crates and boxes were piled high like blocks, similar to a military depot. Each container had been packed with care, filled with waiting remnants. Every treasure was a survivor, a moment preserved by precious time.
Evangeline searched the walls. The task of finding a light switch wasn’t going in her favor. Steps behind her golden path, Evangeline rushed toward the center of the room. Eager to find another light source, she was thankful for her luck. A small collection of oil-filled lanterns rested on a rustic wood table.
She glided through the twisted labyrinth of piled crates. Her foot felt the tug of a heavy web of fabric. Knocked off her balance, Evangeline lurched forward. Her arms reached towards the table. The flashlight slipped from the safety of her grip and tumbled towards the floor. Metal clinked hard against tile and spun in grated circles. Discotheque flashes danced around the room. Her open palms make
contact with the splintered wood. The sting of slivers scraped along the bottom length of her forearms. Landing on her knees, Evangeline howled in pain.
With gritted teeth, she held the table for her life. Pain was blunt and intense, reverberating through her bones. Tiny cuts burned her tender skin. Flashlight collected, she ignored the throb of bleeding scratches. She cared only for the safety of the lanterns.
Steadied against the heroic table, Evangeline rose to her feet. A halo of light illuminated the row of ancient-looking lanterns. A handy box of matches made it easy. Striking a matchstick against a sandy-gritted contact strip, the Hellish smell of sulfur drifted into her nostrils. The flaming head ignited oil-drenched wicks. Glowing bright, dark shadows were forced away.
Dried smears of crimson marred her battered knees. Wincing at the sight of her own blood, Evangeline mumbled under her breath, cursing her lack of grace. She attempted to lift a heavy leg, but her foot was still trapped. She freed her sandal from the rope-like laces of a doe-soft leather tarp. Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Scanning the room, she searched for its source of origination. Struck by the unexpected impact of shock, she stood frozen in stunned surprise.
Evangeline approached the white, marble statue. Her jaw dropped in awe. Shaking her head in disbelief, she blinked several times to test her liquored perception. The muscled warrior facing her was not only huge; he was magnificent. The most beautiful man ever sculpted. Studying the figure, years of Hellenic training kicked in. She read the identification tag adhered to the statue’s pedestal. Evangeline’s brows furrowed. There had to be some mistake.
Minoa Battlefield, Italy, July 16, 1918.
He must have been covered with the tarp upon arrival, only to be forgotten for almost a century. But how could a relic of this magnitude be overlooked, abandoned in the bowels of this museum? The history of this piece was quite obvious.
The subject was Greek; a prince of Sparta. Majestic in his flowing cape, the color would have been as crimson as blood. A dagger and short sword rested in the hollow of their sheaths. A large round shield rested against a solid muscled thigh. The broad expanse of armor was covered with the stellar constellation of Orion. Royal symbols of the Agiad family line were boasted proud. A twirl-swished moon paid homage to the goddess Artemis, and the imprint of a royal scepter signified his royal authority, a demand for swift, Spartan justice. His matching crested helmet was nestled under the crook of a bulging bicep. Square-shaped eye notches would have made him look lethal. All décor was an intentional combination, calculated to stir fear and discord in the heart and mind of an enemy.
Evangeline dated the piece just prior to 500 B.C. Despite the ample display of royal symbolism, the subject was not King Leonidas. Recalling the names of the Agiad family line, history failed to immortalize the exploits of Leo’s younger brother or his presumed twin brother Cleombrotus. Older brother Dorieus was the only other Spartan prince whose history as a soldier was noted. Without a doubt, this statue held no mystery. She knew who this fearless warrior was. Her eyes rested upon the sculpted face of valiant Prince Dorieus.
Hellenic studies at Princeton had taught her well. A beacon of Sparta, Dorieus was known for his quick wit, wisdom, and unfailing honor. To be overlooked and disregarded for the throne in the guise of Spartan tradition was tragic and unsound. He chose to travel the world with a handful of his most loyal men rather than suffer the fate of watching his people be ruled by his deranged half-brother Cleomenes. In Italy, an Oracle promised victory in reclaiming Heraclea Minoa, or modern Sicily. But the Oracle’s vision fell short. Dorieus and his men found nothing but death.
Standing before the statue, Evangeline estimated his measurements. Large and menacing, he was well over six feet tall. His arm and leg muscles were sculpted perfect. She enjoyed the sight of firm thighs and tight buttocks. The heat of her blush flooded her face. There was nothing small about him. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his neck, broad shoulders, and washboard abs.
Leave it to her to find the perfect man made of marble!
Evangeline laughed out loud in irony. As she admired his body, she sighed at the shame of losing a man so beautiful. Placing her palms against his leg, alabaster skin felt as cold as ice. She caught herself fighting the bite of a shiver.
He was the finest sculpture of a nearly naked man she had ever seen. In her field of study, she had seen so many. But still, this one was far from ordinary. Unable to find any hint of damage, it was nothing short of miracle. He hadn’t suffered any mayhem, not even a chip, nor was he wasn’t missing any limbs. All relics suffered the abuses of time-inflicted injury, wasted away by natural forces and the elements. But there wasn’t a mark on this one. He was perfect. Her head cocked aside; perhaps she had overlooked a flaw after all. Making a closer examination, Evangeline gaze swirled over the small dimpled hole immortalized on the left side of his chest.
An arrow’s wound?
Stepping back with a start, she quickly circled around him. A slashing wound marred the lower right side of his back.
He suffered a sword in his back!
No wonder he was missing his breastplate. He was mortally wounded! But who in the world would create a statue depicting him in this state? It was almost as if the artist were boasting of his weakness, or reveling in his loss of life. Regardless, she couldn’t help but wish a horrid punishment for the coward who put a blade in this Spartan’s back. If Karma went full-circle, the bloke would have suffered a far worse fate than Dorieus.
Spotting a chair, it grated noisily against textured tiles. Evangeline pushed it in front of the statue. Stepping up high, she stared at the warrior, examining the beauty of his face. His features were fine and detailed, eerie and lifelike. It was as if a thin layer of white latex paint was the membrane that separated them. Strikingly handsome, he somehow made her gut ache.
His hair was short. Loose curls adorned the nape of his muscular neck. Eyes were wide set, with perfect sculpted eyebrows and jaw. She pondered his eye color and imagined his hair to be as black as raven. His strong nose was masculine, with no trace of a hump. He had the pout of an angel; a full bottom lip and smaller upper lip. Perfect for kissing. His marble face smooth, Evangeline couldn’t resist caressing the line of his jaw with her fingers.
Tracing the length of his face, her hands fell to his chest. Cold and muscled, it was void of any hair, making her think of an athlete. Her hands stroked the long broad width of his shoulders. Brushing over bulged muscles of his chest, a strange tingle filled her lower belly. Nine years was an awful long time to be without a man, even for a girl who insisted she didn’t want one. She caressed his washboard stomach. Any man would kill to have a six-pack like this.
And so would a woman.
Evangeline’s smile was devilish.
Her fingers reached his coverlet. Wanton thoughts made her blush. Did his man-parts look anything like the rest of his body? Resting her forehead against the broad expanse of chest, she groaned at the realization of her need.
The demon of her loneliness rose from its fiery pit. Her heart cinched tight with pain. The truth was evident. No one loved her! No one could hold her or claim her as family! She was alone, forgotten. Her life was destroyed. It would never be the same.
Tears rolled hot down her cheeks. Evangeline shook her head, unable to fight the devastation. Retreating backwards, the lid of an open crate stabbed into the small of her lower back. Glancing aside, she grabbed a long black crowbar from a nearby box. With deliberate wild swings, she cared nothing about price or value. She struck at everything within reach.
“What good is the value of anything if it can’t love you?” Her voice echoed through the darkness. Crates and pottery shattered, exploding upon impact. Her wrath unsated, she hammered against tiles on the floor.
Why couldn’t everything break, just like her heart?
Whirling around, Evangeline turned full-circle. Her eyes narrowed into fine slits, glaring at the statue.
“What are you looking at
?”
In an instant, she was angry. How could the voidless stare of a statue make her feel so pierced and violated? She felt mocked, laughed at. Like he knew her every secret. With a bolt, she charged towards him. Her arms were raised high. The crowbar posed above her head, she was ready to strike. But her steps slowed, practically on their own volition. She realized her folly and fell to her blood-dried knees. The bar went reeling aside. Its eerie echo consumed the room with the angry sounds of metal.
Her arms embraced the statue’s legs. Tears fell on his sandaled feet. She hiccupped aloud. The unknown force was back, urging her to look upon his handsome face again; making her wish his strong arms could hold her. Stepping up before him, Evangeline’s arms wrapped tight around his neck. Her head rested under his chiseled chin. Her heart hurt with every beat.
Was there anything that would ever heal this ache?
“I’m so lonely,” she whispered.
Her head still buzzed from an ale-induced stupor. She didn’t mind the crazy idea swirling around in her mind. She was alone. Nobody would ever know. For some strange reason, she had to find out. What would his lips feel like against hers? The tender swipe of her moist cheek brushed glistening tears against his lips. Imagining he was real, she kissed him. Her lips lingered in passion over his cold hard mouth. Releasing a breath, her seeking tongue licked and traced his bottom lip. Tasting the salt of her tears, pink fingernails dug into loose curls made of stone.
“Please! Won’t you love me back?”
The heated flush of embarrassment flooded Evangeline’s body. How could she act like an absolute idiot? This was a marble statue! Pulling away abruptly, she realized her mistake. Teetering back and forth, her sandal caught on the chair. Despite the gusts of flailing arms, she couldn’t catch her balance. She tried to scream in horror, but nothing would come out.
Spartan Heart, Part One Page 3
