Ghost Phoenix

by Corrina Lawson

  “Those sound unique,” Richard said.

  “All of our stones are beautiful.” She frowned. “They are far better than the synthetic rocks they make now. These are real, made by nature and God. Synthetic is not the same. Fake. No good.”

  “I agree. I want to see the real ones,” Marian said as she took the guidebooks from the receptionist. “Tell me, do you get many other visitors who appreciate the real stones?”

  “Not as many in passing years but in the last few months, the number of visitors has picked up. There were even some monks who came a few months ago.”

  “Monks! Fascinating. Well, it is a place to worship what God has created,” Richard said.

  “So they said, almost those words, sir,” the receptionist answered.

  “Were they traveling? I didn’t realize monks traveled in packs,” Marian said.

  “I have no idea. I never thought to ask.” The receptionist sat back down in her chair and picked up a pencil, as if going back to work. Perhaps they had been too nosy, Marian thought.

  “Thank you so much for your assistance,” Richard said again in German and smiled at her. “It has been a pleasure to deal with someone who appreciates history.”

  That won him a small answering smile from the receptionist. She bent back to the journal or whatever she was writing in.

  They passed through the museum doorway into the first room. Daz looked back.

  “She didn’t have a computer that I could see.”

  “Obviously, they don’t have enough visitors to need a computer to track them all,” Marian said.

  “So she sits out there alone all day, with no internet connection, unless someone happens to come in?” Daz shook his head. “I’d go crazy. And if monks did arrive en masse one day, I’d ask them all kinds of questions, if only for the company.”

  “Maybe they told her they had a vow of silence?” Richard said.

  Daz laughed.

  “Germans as a whole aren’t big on questioning or curiosity,” Marian said more seriously. “A German client visiting the U.S. once asked me why police had to guard an area cordoned off. I said it was to prevent anyone from crossing the crime scene tape. He said in Germany, no one would dare cross the tape.”

  “Hah,” Daz said. “I guess we’re not big on following directions.”

  “I’ve noticed that,” Richard said. “It’s not always a positive trait.”

  “You would say that,” Daz answered. “But even so, it might not be a cultural difference with the museum employee. For all we know, she’s Romanoff’s contact.”

  “True. So now what?” Marian asked.

  “We look at the gems and minerals,” Richard said. “And see what happens.” He took Marian’s hand. “I’ve noticed that patience is not an American virtue either.”

  Daz only shrugged.

  “Once we see the museum, we can ask her more specific questions, which might lead to some information,” Marian said.

  Overhead lights lit the exhibits in the museum. Their first stop was a room of whitewashed walls with wooden braces along the walls. The exhibit featured various rocks and minerals not only from local sources, but around the world. Pretty stones but nothing spectacular. Marian sighed. Not a promising start, but at least no one was trying to kill them.

  The next room held the fossil corals. She stared for a long time at wide-mouth rock that looked to have blue fungus growing out of the bottom of its yawning opening. But she knew if she could reach out and touch it, it would be solid and unyielding.

  Richard stared for a time at green lichen trapped inside a glorious field of blue rock.

  Until someone had split it open, it had looked like any other large rock.

  Daz whistled. “Maybe I should I have explored this place instead of the Felsenkirche.”

  “Maybe,” Richard said but his voice was flat, as it had been when talking about the abbey.

  “Bummed these stones are even older than you?” Daz teased.

  “Only noting that while I seem old, I am but a tiny child compared to the rest of the Earth. One day, even I will be dust. These rocks will remain.”

  “That’s hardly a happy thought,” she said.

  “I suppose I have had too many years that provide too much time to think.” He smiled. “It’s good to see such beauty, even if I half expect murderous monks to jump out of the shadows.” He pulled her close, with his arms wrapped around her waist. “Nature produces the most amazing things, more so even than man. And that includes you, Marian Doyle.”

  Daz cleared his throat. “I’ll just check the next room for problems, since this one is clear.”

  Marian let Richard hold her, for a time not wanting to speak. Richard had all the time in the world. She wondered how much time she had in comparison, at least with him.

  “Have I scandalized you, Angel?”

  “With Daz? No, after the last couple of nights, I think I’ve gotten over that. Or, at least, he has.” She closed her eyes, letting her head rest against his shoulder. “I’ve no idea what this is between us but I’m glad it exists.”

  “Have I not made my feelings clear?”

  I have no idea if your feelings are the same as ordinary human feelings. “I know you’re glad to be with me.”

  “Ah. I forget, even after all these years, women require words along with actions. Shall I quote some poetry?”

  “Are you kidding?” She pushed back from him. “Poetry is the last thing I want. Try something less showy and more real.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Richard, I know you care about me. It’s not hard to see that. But you must have had so many women over the years, and I’m sure you’ll have many more in the future. I don’t need pretty words or romantic gestures. I want something real.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “There were no women like you.”

  “Because I can turn into a phantom? Because I’m a novelty? Because I’m interesting? What in the world makes me so unique?”

  He frowned. “Why do I have to sort out reasons? I want to be with you. It makes me happy, as I haven’t been in at least the last hundred years. I want to be with you for as far into the future as I can imagine.”

  “I love you.”

  She put her fingers over her mouth. Oh, God, would she never stop blurting stuff out when nervous? She tried to break away from Richard.

  He held her shoulders firm, preventing any escape. “Oh, Angel,” he whispered. “After all my years, I’m unsure of what love is. But rest assured, I’m yours.”

  She looked up to meet his gaze. “You are?” Her voice broke.

  “And you are mine.”

  He kissed her and she kissed him back, pulled him closer, wrapping her hands around his neck, trying to show him just how crazy in love she was with him. Crazy being the operative word.

  “Now, before the world crashes in, let us enjoy ourselves,” he said.

  “But we can’t do it here,” she whispered. Though if he asked…

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Not my intention. I meant we ought to enjoy the day, at least until the world crashes in.”

  They wandered into the next room, a brightly lit modern exhibit, so different from the previous room, as if walking from a dreary twilight into light. Or maybe she was still dazzled by Richard. Okay, she was definitely still dazzled by Richard.

  A little voice told her she was infatuated, not in love, because Richard was the first man in her life who insisted she was unique and perfect as she was. No conditions, nothing to prove. He simply thought she was wonderful.

  She decided that was an excellent reason for falling in love with someone.

  She turned her attention to the exhibit. There were more chunks of minerals, mostly quartz embedded in stone. The quartz colors ranged from pink to blues and greens
and all spectrums in between. Marian vowed not to say another word and risk breaking this spell of beauty and perfection.

  “The next room is the room with the glow-in-the-dark rocks,” Daz said, breaking the silence. “In case you two feel the need to wander to a secluded corner for stuff, let me know where you are, okay?”

  “A dark room seems a perfect place for an ambush,” Richard said. “I’ll be on guard.”

  “I’ll be right next to you,” Daz said.

  True to its billing, the next room featured glowing crystals and rock in the midst of darkness, another kind of beauty.

  She stopped to admire the large boulder in the middle with iridescent golden flecks. “I always wished to travel and see things for their own sake but I’ve never had the time.”

  “Your family asks much of you,” Richard said.

  “Too much.”

  “Perhaps. In a way, you’ve been lucky, Angel. I too used to believe my family obligations were a heavy destiny. But, in many ways, I’ve been blessed with my first and second families, as you have been. You never had to toil in a mine. You never had to fear where your next meal might come from. You never had to physically fight to protect your own from certain death.”

  Her throat closed up. “First-world problems, you mean?”

  He brushed a curl back from her face. “I’m not familiar with the phrase.”

  “It means there are many who struggle for simple survival and, whatever my problems, I’m not one of them.”

  “Ah. Something like that, then.”

  “Have you lost many people in your life?”

  “Yes. I thought I’d get used to it but each loss cuts deeper.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I stayed away from the Court for a long time, but I miss them. I even miss my insufferable brother.”

  “I don’t want to lose my family. I just want some space.” She turned. “Daz? It’s time to go. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the next room, casing it,” he said from beyond a doorway. “Give me a sec.”

  A strangle shuffling sound came a few seconds later.

  “Daz?” she said.

  “Montoya?” Richard snapped to attention in the darkness. As they rushed to the light, the sound of glass shattering echoed around them.

  The large case in the middle of the next exhibit had been smashed, exposing an ancient rock to the air. The pieces of glass scattered around the floor were splattered with blood.

  There was no sign of Daz or any attackers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Montoya!” Richard had no expectation of being answered. His yell was a roar of anger that he could not squelch.

  He put his arms on Marian’s shoulders. “Search the museum in phantom form. I want to know where the menace comes from. And be safe.”

  She nodded, became a ghost and went through the floor. Good. She would come to no harm in that guise. He spotted a tiny drop of blood near the bottom of the wall to his right. Stepping closer, he discovered a Russian dagger under a corner exhibit.

  The monks were behind this. And Daz had fought back, enough to cause one of his attackers to drop the dagger. But maybe enough to be injured too.

  The blood-drop was a half-circle, as if the attackers and Daz vanished in midair. Where had the other half of the blood fallen? If Marian were here, she could go through the wall. But he could go through the wall too, if not in the same way. And better he do it when she was away and safe.

  “Enough!” He drew back his arm and smacked the wall with the flat of his hand, his anger giving strength to his blow.

  A fist size chunk of the wall fell at his feet. He hit it again and again and again. On the fifth blow, the barrier crumbled before him. Dust covered him for a few seconds, obscuring his vision. When it settled, the opening revealed a passage on the other side.

  Tunnels again. Into the deep water, now.

  He rushed into the darkness, smiling, the rush of possible combat filling his veins.

  Ahead, he heard the sound of footsteps and muffled voices in Russian. He ran, heedless of possible obstacles, his shoes smacking against the rock floor. Flickers of light came into focus, perhaps from the torches carried by their monks. Torches. Hah. He half expected these backwards monks to be carrying traditional ones of cloth and oil, not the electric version.

  He rounded a curve in the passage and crashed into someone. He stumbled, grabbed in the darkness and came up with his hands full of rough wool. He yanked hard. The torch the monk carried in his hand bounced up and down. Richard pried the torch away and simply tossed the man aside. He heard an ugly smack and a moan as the monk hit the rock walls of the tunnel behind him.

  First to pay but not the last.

  He ran again, following the flickering torches, keeping his newly acquired light dark.

  The lights ahead of him winked out. He slowed, confused, but not fast enough. He shoulder smashed into hard wood. Pain shot up into his neck, and he stumbled backward and struggled to keep his balance.

  He put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath to dispel the pain lancing through his shoulder. He flicked on the light.

  Door. And he’d hit it hard. No wonder his shoulder felt knocked out of its socket. Richard framed the door in the light of his torch. Solid wood, perhaps oak, and edged with metal borders. There was no handle, at least on this side.

  He spun in a circle to gain a better sense of the chamber he was in and saw a monk lying in the far corner, unmoving.

  Knife held at the ready, Richard knelt beside the body and checked the pulse. Nothing. Dead. He felt along the chest and felt liquid. He brought his hand to the light. Blood.

  Daz had fought his attackers and had taken down at least one. He could be uninjured, even. This dead monk could be the source of the blood drops. Daz could still be rescued.

  Richard walked back to the door and smacked it as he had the wall, as hard as he could with the flat of his hand. He barely made a dent in the oak.

  He would not admit defeat, ever. He drew back and kicked, sending spikes of pain up to his knee but creating a sizable impression in the oak. He ignored the agony and kicked the wood over and over. Splinters flew around him. He put up a hand to protect his eyes.

  He stopped and peered at his handiwork. All he had created was a small hole, barely big enough for his hand.

  Wait. Big enough for his hand. Perfect.

  He put his fingers through the opening, ignoring the jagged edges. When he had a firm grip, he pulled on the door.

  It shifted, just a little.

  God’s bloody eyes, move, you damned thing.

  A rivet on the metal border of the door gave way and pinged against the far wall. He pulled again, this time using both hands. An entire hinge gave way. Just a little more.

  He closed his eyes, intent on one last effort, braced his foot against the wall, grabbed the door with both hands, and pulled.

  The door creaked, splintered and came free, nearly falling on top of him. He scrambled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed under it.

  It hit the floor with a wooden thunk and the thundering clink of the metal edges against stone.

  Richard shined the torch into the newly revealed opening. Steps, going up and up as far as the eye could see. He could see no end. But there must be one. This was the only way the monks could have gone, into the mountain.

  Dagger held in one hand, torch in the other, he leapt up the steps, relying on speed rather than stealth. Surely, the monks had heard the commotion of the door being torn off the hinges. No need to hide. They knew he was on their trail.

  Yet with each step, his legs grew heavier, as they had the last time he’d exerted his newfound strength. His pace slowed. He put his hand on the wall and kept going, counting steps as he ran.

  Beth Nakamora had said he knew not what strength he posse
ssed. Fine, he would take her at her word. Psychic abilities depended on believing in them, else the subconscious would sabotage them.

  He knew he could keep up, he could get to the top of these steps, save Montoya and make Rasputin’s people pay.

  He would make those foolish enough to come after him and his people know what it meant to cross the Court. He would drag Rasputin to the Queen and make him kneel at her feet.

  His lungs burned. Spots appeared before his eyes. His heavy breathing echoed in the close confines. He took the next step, his knee screaming at him in pain, and stumbled.

  Stumbled because this last step had been no step at all but the top of the stair. Before him, the stone was flat. He took a few seconds to lean against the wall, catch his breath and listen for his quarry.

  Nothing.

  Another door stood before him, this one a modern wooden one, an odd-looking thing among the gray granite of the tunnel.

  He put his hand to the doorknob and turned it.

  It opened with ease. Light burst into the passage. He drew the dagger and stepped through, anticipating attack.

  He blinked his eyes at the overhead lights.

  He stood in the nave of the Felsenkirche, the Church of the Rock.

  Before him, instead of murderous monks, was a tour group listening to a guide speak in German.

  He’d lost his quarry. And Daz.

  Richard tucked the dagger inside his hoodie, hoping he didn’t look as shocked as he felt. His only consolation was that the tour group was paying attention to their guide and not him. He looked around for any sign the monks had passed this way, but nothing hinted his quarry had been here at all. Could he have taken a wrong turn in the tunnels? Perhaps there had been another, hidden door.

  The entrance from which he’d come was closed and effectively disguised as part of the wall now. There could be many such doors inside the church.

  He curled his hand into a fist, wishing his anger had a target.

  Numbness crept up his legs. He passed through the nave to the church proper, not even bothering to look up, and stumbled to a pew. He sat and took deep breaths, trying to regain stamina. If only he had been faster, if only he had run up the stairs instead of slowing, if only he had insisted Daz stay closer to them. Together, the three of them could have beaten anyone.