Echo Prophecy
ECHO TRILOGY, BOOK 1
By LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH
Copyright © 2013 by Lindsey Fairleigh
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events are products of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or should be inferred.
Editing by Sarah KolbWilliams
www.kolbwilliams.com
Book cover design by Scarlett Rugers Design
www.scarlettrugers.com
L2 Books
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MORE BOOKS BY LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH
THE ENDING SERIES
After The Ending
Into The Fire (coming in November 2013)
FOR MORE INFORMATION ON LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH & THE ECHO TRILOGY:
www.lindseyfairleigh.com
DEDICATION
For my beta readers—LP, Steve, Beth, Brian, and Mom.
You’re each worth your weight in gold.
For Jim, who encouraged my love of the ancient world.
CONTENTS
MORE BOOKS BY LINDSEY FAIRLEIGH
DEDICATION
MAPS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: University of Washington
CHAPTER 1: Unreal & Real
CHAPTER 2: Mom & Dad
CHAPTER 3: Nightmares & Dreams
CHAPTER 4: Answers & Questions
CHAPTER 5: Sisters & Friends
CHAPTER 6: Ignorance & Stupidity
CHAPTER 7: Explanations & Omissions
CHAPTER 8: Recollection & Recuperation
CHAPTER 9: Details & Arrangements
CHAPTER 10: Asleep & Awake
CHAPTER 11: Discovery & Acquisition
CHAPTER 12: Ah-ha! & Agh!
CHAPTER 13: The Beginning & The End
CHAPTER 14: Dates & Plans
CHAPTER 15: Catch & Trap
CHAPTER 16: Do & Don’t
CHAPTER 17: Show & Tell
CHATPER 18: Prophecies & Protectors
CHAPTER 19: There & Gone
PART TWO: The Heru Compound
CHAPTER 20: Enemies & Friends
CHAPTER 21: Hello & Goodbye
CHAPTER 22: Age & Wisdom
CHAPTER 23: Mother & Child
CHAPTER 24: Struggle & Survive
CHAPTER 25: Do & Damn
PART THREE: Deir el-Bahri
CHAPTER 26: Claim & Bond
CHAPTER 27: Sex & Blood
CHAPTER 28: Marcus
CHAPTER 29: Lost & Found
CHAPTER 30: Enter & Unlock
CHAPTER 31: Once & Again
PART FOUR: Council Headquarters
CHAPTER 32: Introductions & Celebrations
EPILOGUE: Set
APPENDIX
GLOSSARY
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF LEX AND MARCUS?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MAPS
PROLOGUE
“Meswett, know yourself and you shall know the gods.
Meswett, trust yourself and you shall trust the gods.
So it ends, from start to finish,
as found in writing.”
—taken from the Prophecy of Nuin, Old Kingdom, c. 2180 BCE
I thought I knew people. I didn’t.
I thought I could trust my family and my friends. I couldn’t.
I thought I at least had some idea of who I am. Wrong.
But here’s the real kicker: I never thought I’d be in the heart of an ancient temple, driven by desperation and hatred, ready to kill my own father.
Screaming, I launch myself at him. My rage and sorrow are so great that I no longer have room for any other emotions. Coherent thought is foreign to me. I have one purpose—to destroy him.
He doesn’t see me coming. He can’t see me coming. I’m moving too quickly, bending time to my will. It’s impossible, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
“How—?”
My father doesn’t have time to finish the question. I’ve already torn the gun from his grasp and pressed the muzzle against the side of his head.
I flex my index finger.
Click.
PART ONE
University of Washington
Seattle, Washington
CHAPTER ONE
Unreal & Real
“NO!” I screamed as a speeding, moss-green station wagon slammed into my graduate advisor, who had been running across the street.
Dr. Ramirez’s body rolled up onto the hood, his head hitting the windshield with a sickening crack, before sliding back down and settling on the asphalt. His arm flopped out to the side, landing in one of the many puddles created by the morning’s incessant drizzle.
“Oh my God! Dr. Ramirez!” I sprinted the rest of the way down the paved path, across the sidewalk, and onto the university’s main drag. As I knelt beside Dr. Ramirez, I dropped the copy of the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology I’d been carrying—I’d been intending to show him an article on the discovery of a new Iliad manuscript, but the journal’s pages lay askew, dirty and collecting droplets of rain.
My hands hovered over Dr. Ramirez, but I was too afraid of injuring him further to touch him. He was wearing his usual, casual professor’s garb—medium-wash jeans and a heavy, navy-blue raincoat—but it hadn’t protected him during the collision. The hair on the left side of his head was matted with blood, and his forehead looked slightly misshapen.
“I’m so sorry!” the driver cried as she lurched out of the car, leaving the driver’s side door open. “I didn’t see him … He just ran out … Oh my God … I …”
I ignored her and the flurry of activity taking place around us, instead reaching for Dr. Ramirez’s limp hand, which still lay in a puddle. Trembling, I placed two fingers on his wrist to check his pulse, but I felt nothing.
“You killed him,” I said hollowly.
The driver looked at me—into me—her eyes filled with horror.
Gasping, I jerked upright. My right leg was curled under me, numb. I’d fallen asleep in one of the wooden torture devices that doubled as desk chairs in the Anthropology graduate office, and according to my stiff joints, it hadn’t been a wise decision. My beloved monstrosity of a desk—a battered, oak rolltop that might have been worth something if it wasn’t covered with as many dents and dings as carvings—had been an equally foolish place to rest my head. Damn, I thought as I took in the disarray under my elbows. A chaotic jumble of open books, photos, and papers was scattered across the desk’s surface, some with brand-new folds and wrinkles, and one with an unfortunate drool spot.
“Fabulous,” I muttered, wiping away the wet stain with a tissue.
Once again, I’d been attempting to decipher the ancient, oh-so-frustrating puzzle that had been driving me nuts all quarter. A combination of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs—two parallel, vertical lines, one with a flag-like protrusion, the profile of a lion’s head, a filled-in half circle, and a full circle with a smaller circle cut out of the center—that seemed perfectly content to remain undecipherable.
Shaking with adrenaline lingering from the awful dream, I sighed, shifted my leg from under me, and lowered my head to rest my cheek on the desk. I stared at the end of my coffee-brown ponytail, unbelievably glad that I’d been asleep and that Dr. Ramirez hadn’t been hit by a car. It had been a dream … just a stupid, freakishly realistic dream.
“Hey, Lex!”
“Gah!” I exclaimed, jumping slightly and causing the invisible pins and needles poking into my reawakening leg to jab with renewed gusto. At seeing the short, excited man standing beside my desk, I shook my head and laughed
. It was almost impossible to be irritated at Carson, whose diminutive build, artfully mussed brown hair, and bright blue eyes made him look more like a member of a boy band than a fellow grad student. “Seriously, Carson? Was that absolutely necessary?”
He slapped his hand down on one of the open books, lifting it a few seconds later to reveal a folded hundred-dollar bill. “You win,” he said grudgingly. “I still think my article was far superior, but apparently my opinion doesn’t count.” He tossed an academic journal onto the desk beside the money. It was opened to an article titled “Fact From Myth: Cross-Referencing Texts Across Ancient Cultures to Decipher Unknown Symbols”—my article.
With a smug smile, I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair. We’d made a bet several months back—a Benjamin to whichever of us was published by a major academic journal first. Though we’d both been co-authors or contributors to other people’s articles, neither Carson nor I had been published for our individual work. Until now.
“I’m surprised they didn’t take one look at that monstrous title and toss your article into the trash,” Carson said.
“Ouch! You wound me with your pointy words!” I exclaimed, clutching my chest dramatically.
Carson flopped down in a chair beside my desk and let his head fall backward with a groan. “It’s not fair, Lex,” he whined, only amplifying his pubescent image.
“You’re ridiculous,” I told him, laughing. I patted his knee, happily noting that my own leg was back to normal. “Maybe you’ll be in the next one … doesn’t Mediterranean Archaeology come out tomorrow? I thought you submitted a few things to them?” Remembering my dream, the Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology discarded on the grimy road, I stifled a shiver.
Carson raised his head and stared at me with annoyance. “That’s the latest issue of Mediterranean Archaeology,” he said, pointing to my article.
My blood instantly chilled, and this time I couldn’t repress a shiver. It was Thursday, and that particular journal was always delivered on Fridays. It’s just a coincidence, I told myself.
Pointing to the open journal, I asked, “So, other than my amazing article, is there anything else in there worth noting?”
Carson shrugged. “Mostly it’s just the usual … retranslations of this or that text, an update on Pompeii and the volcanic activity at Mount Vesuvius, an explanation of some new techniques for underwater excavating”—suddenly excited, he leaned forward and rubbed his hands together—“and, an analysis of a new Iliad manuscript. It’s fragmented, but it’s also the oldest version ever found.”
Something in my chest tightened, and my lungs felt too weak to draw in enough air.
When I didn’t say anything, Carson added, “Awesome, right?” He specialized in the classics—Homer, Plato, Catullus—practically worshipping the long-dead poets and philosophers.
“Uh … yeah.” I snatched my iPhone off the desk and checked the time—half past eleven. In fifteen minutes, I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Ramirez in his office downstairs for my final advisory meeting of the quarter. He’d barely been able to squeeze me in between appointments with professors and other students, so there was no reason for him to be crossing the road as he’d been doing in the dream … even if it did pass right by our building.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated, and a blue text message alert box appeared in the middle of the screen. The message was from Dr. Ramirez.
Running out for coffee. Will try to be back in time for our meeting.
“No effing way!” I hissed, standing so quickly my chair nearly fell over backward. I grabbed the journal, then shook my head and tossed it back onto the desk before speeding through the maze of desks and cubicles honeycombing the communal graduate office.
“Lex? Where are you going?” Carson called after me.
“Be right back,” I said, not even glancing over my shoulder. I raced down the dim, narrow third-floor hallway and shoved the heavy stairwell door open. It slammed against the wall with a loud, metallic thud. In a matter of seconds, I descended the two flights of stairs and exploded into the main hall of the first floor. I bumped into someone, receiving a masculine grunt as we both crashed to the linoleum floor. My knee and elbow hit the floor so hard that bruising was inevitable.
“I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed, extricating myself from beneath the legs of … Dr. Ramirez. “Oh my God … are you okay?”
Dr. Ramirez—tall, dark, middle-aged, and dignified—stood and made a bit of a show of dusting himself off. He studied me, holding back a smile. I was still sprawled on the floor.
“I’m going to assume your rush was caused by excitement about the recent publication of your work,” he said.
Blushing, I stood. “I … yes,” I lied.
“Well, since you’re here, Alexandra, do you want to come with me to get coffee?” Dr. Ramirez checked his watch. “I don’t think I’ll have another chance all day.” But then he might cross a street, and there might be a moss-green station wagon, and …
“No!” I blurted, thrusting my hands out in front of me. When his eyebrows rose, I added, “I’ll go get coffee for us both. I’m sure you have better things to do.” Spinning away from him, I jogged to the main doors. From the ache in my knee, I could tell the bruise was going to be a beauty. “You just stay here,” I said over my shoulder.
It wasn’t until I was through the glass doors and halfway down the steep, slippery stone steps that I realized I had no clue what kind of coffee Dr. Ramirez liked. I turned around and, when I poked the upper half of my body through the open door, was only half-surprised to find my advisor standing exactly where I’d left him, his face utterly bemused. “I forgot to ask what you wanted,” I said breathlessly.
Chuckling, Dr. Ramirez said, “Just black coffee. Large, please.”
“Okay. Great! Sorry about … you know. I’ll be right back!” Again I hurried down the stairs, not caring that it was raining and that I was wearing only a thin sweater, jeans, and slouchy suede boots. I paused when I reached the sidewalk and road that had featured so prominently in my midday nightmare. Looking up the street toward the campus gatehouse, I spotted a single car approaching, but it was too far away to distinguish any details. I squashed my curiosity and changed direction, heading for the coffee stand in Suzzallo Library instead of the cafe in the Burke Museum, which was closer but across the main road. My psyche wouldn’t be able to handle passing a moss-green station wagon, coincidence or not.
***
My phone buzzed as I was walking back up Denny’s steep front steps, one to-go cup of piping hot coffee in each hand. I set both on the campus newspaper stand beside the glass doors and pulled my phone out of my back pocket. Dr. Ramirez had texted me again.
Check your email.
Intrigued, I opened my inbox and quickly scanned through the newest messages. Three were from students and were utterly predictable—two of my undergrads were asking for extensions on their final papers and one wondered how much it would affect his grade if he skipped it altogether. Shaking my head, I snorted and muttered, “Too much.”
The fourth message also had a University of Washington domain, but it wasn’t from anyone I knew.
Hello Ms. Larson,
I am a visiting professor in the Classics department here at UW. I contacted your department head, and he directed me to you. I need an on-site ancient languages specialist at an upcoming excavation in Egypt, preferably someone with a background deciphering unfamiliar symbols. Please let me know if you are interested, and I will send you the specifics. If you agree to participate, you will be abroad during the latter half of spring quarter and most of summer. Please let me know if you have any questions. I hope to hear from you soon.
Marcus Bahur
Professor of Classical Archaeology
University of Washington
University of Oxford
I studied the email, rereading it several times. A professor visiting from Oxford wanted me, specifically, to accompany him on a dig in Egypt … as an
ancient languages specialist. I’d worked on a half-dozen excavations all around the Mediterranean, but mostly just as a grunt—a field school student. Being a specialist would give me the chance to pursue my own research along with that of Professor Bahur. The opportunity sounded too good to be true. It also sounded too expensive, and there wasn’t enough time to apply for grants to cover room, board, and travel expenses. If it cost anything on my end, I’d have to pass.
Rushing, I replied, vaguely proclaiming interest and requesting more details. As I typed, I thought, please be free … please be free … please be free …
Again with coffees in hand, I headed back into majestic Denny Hall. Built late in the nineteenth century, it was the university’s first building. Accordingly, the exterior was stunning—a combination of stone and archways and small-pane windows that befit a French chateau far more than a university building—but aside from the first-floor professor’s offices, the interior was laughably mundane.
After squeaking my way down the wide hall, I knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door to Dr. Ramirez’s office.
“Come in,” he called, his voice rumbling.
As I entered, Dr. Ramirez was placing a book on the top shelf of the built-in bookcase beside his desk. “Ah, I see the coffee has arrived,” he said, his eyes laughing though he wore no smile. After taking in my appearance, he asked, “Did you take a dip in the fountain on your way?”
I glanced down at myself, unsurprised to see that my clothes were more than a little damp, clinging to me like plastic wrap to ceramic, which was pretty much how they felt. “I forgot my coat,” I said lamely. I set the two cups of coffee on his well-organized desk but didn’t sit in either of the wooden visitors’ chairs. I didn’t want to be rude and drip all over them.
Noticing my internal predicament, Dr. Ramirez said, “Please, Alexandra, sit.”
For the thousandth time, I noted how lucky I was to have landed him as my graduate advisor. A sturdy, former college football player, he was like a towering, slightly intimidating father figure to everyone in the archaeology department. He was both stoic and sage, and tended to hand out criticism far more often than praise, but the criticism was always of the constructive variety.
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