Relics

by K. T. Tomb

  Marie.

  Epilogue

  Louis had been put in cuffs and led out by Interpol officers.

  Tony, Antoine, Thorin, Lana and Chyna had all been cut loose and then their wounds from their respective automobile accidents treated. Though Antoine vouched for Tony’s role in an elaborate undercover operation, Tony was still led out in the custody of Interpol, having earned his way onto their most wanted list. Chyna had watched him go, trying to hold back the tears in her eyes as she saw him look back at her and smile. It was that very same smile she’d seen every time they’d successfully completed one of their missions. While her eyes followed him out of the cavern, she was assaulted by Sirita, Mark and Oscar as they were finally allowed to come back into the cavern; Oscar being detained after he’d been seen fleeing from the cavern with a rifle in his hands. Oscar had received his kiss on the mouth from Lana and Chyna’s team, along with her Wolves, had taken a moment to celebrate before they were offered a ride back to their hotel. They packed and were on the next available flight out of Belgrade. No one had wanted to hang around.

  Belgrade, Serbia had become a memory among the many others that Chyna had tucked away in the back of her mind as she strolled along the boardwalk and looked out across the Atlantic. She’d found herself being a lot more reflective of things in her life. The trials that she’d been through, which had all come to an enormous culmination in Belgrade had made her aware of the simpler and more meaningful things that life had to offer.

  In a way, like Marie Antoinette, Chyna’s life had followed the exact path she’d set herself on from the beginning. However, it had managed to take a very different turn in the outcome. The dauphine had dreamt of being a queen and ruling an influential country alongside her husband. When the end came, she was the Queen of France, but her husband had been executed and she was on her way to the guillotine as well. Chyna had dreamt of being a famous archeologist and adventurer, just like her father. She’d achieved that but at what cost? Would she still be paying the price of it all at the end like Marie?

  With a heavy sigh, she lowered herself onto a bench and watched the sun moving steadily higher above the morning horizon. The morning had had just a nip of frost in it; a mid-September warning of autumn being just around the corner. Her gaze was locked upon the horizon when she felt someone sit down on the bench beside her. In New York, a person rarely looked to see who had joined them on a bench and she thought nothing of it, until the person spoke.

  She whirled toward the sound of Tony’s voice.

  “Where the hell did you come from?” she asked. It wasn’t exactly the best words for greeting him, but the sudden surprise hadn’t given her much time to form the right ones.

  “Good morning to you too, Chyna,” he grinned.

  She placed her hand over her thundering heart and took several deep breaths. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You startled me.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “I’ll try again.” She sat up straight, looked directly at him and said. “Good morning, Tony.”

  “That’s better.”

  “So, I guess Interpol didn’t lock you up and throw away the key, then?”

  “It took a few months of debriefing and we made a few more busts in Europe off of information that I’d obtained, but, yeah, they let me go.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments. Chyna wasn’t sure what conversation she was ready to have. There were plenty of things that the two of them needed to say to each other, but the relative peace of the morning might have been spoiled if either of them brought them up.

  “Looks like you got out of Belgrade and back to the States just fine,” Tony started in, keeping things casual, to Chyna’s relief.

  “Yeah. We didn’t hang around much after that one.”

  “How about that shot that Oscar made, huh?”

  “I didn’t know that he was a marksman. I even asked him about it and he informed me that there were a lot of things about him that I didn’t know.”

  “He damned sure placed it right on the button and right in time.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll have to pay for the damage to the All Seeing Eye,” Chyna laughed.

  “No, it’s insured,” he responded.

  The two of them burst into laughter after that comment, as much out of relief as Tony’s ludicrous comment. Their laughter died out.

  “Chyna,” he said after a few minutes, “I have to apologize. I never meant to hurt you. I really…”

  “Stop!” she ordered, holding up her hand. “Let’s not go there right now, okay?”

  “I want you to forgive me. I want you to trust me again.”

  “I said stop, Tony. Don’t spoil things. We’re just two people enjoying a morning on the boardwalk, okay? Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Fine,” he replied.

  “It’s peaceful and beautiful here in the morning, you know? I like to come down here and clear my head, get ready for the day that’s coming, you know, take in the simpler things,” Chyna said in a low tone after a few minutes. She didn’t want to push him away, but she wasn’t quite ready to get into forgiving and trusting him yet.

  “I can see that,” he answered. “After seeing the world on the brink of coming to an end, it tends to bring things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” she said, lifting her face toward the sun and taking in a long, deep breath. She rose from the bench. “It really does.”

  She started to walk away and she heard Tony rise to follow along behind her. She turned back toward him. “Don’t follow me,” she said. “If you ever want me to trust you again, don’t follow me, don’t show up wherever I am unannounced. Don’t surprise me. Don’t track me. Don’t stalk me. Don’t know every move that my team and I make. And don’t apologize for something that you had to do. Got it?”

  He let his chin sag to his chest. “Got it.”

  Chyna stood there for a moment, allowing what she had said to sink in. “Good. I’ll meet you right here tomorrow morning,” she said and turned to walk away.

  The End

  Return to the Table of Contents

  THE LOST GARDEN

  by

  K.T. TOMB

  An Evan Knight Adventure #1

  The Lost Garden

  Published by K.T. Tomb

  Copyright © 2013 by K.T. Tomb

  All rights reserved.

  The Lost Garden

  Introduction

  Aberdour Castle,

  Fife, Scotland.

  For Ophelia Morton, it was an auspicious morning for the organization.

  March 15th was anticipated every year by the senior members and staff as the start of the week in which new members were selected for the club. It was 8 a.m. and she’d already been three hours sitting at the desk in her private office. Over pot after pot of Earl Grey tea, she’d painstakingly reviewed the files she had on the final membership applicant.

  The cover page of the file in front of her read:

  Applicant’s Name: Dr. Evan Knight

  Occupation: Professor of Anthropology, Pepperdine University, Malibu

  Key Accomplishment: The discovery of the Garden of Eden

  Proof provided: Yes

  Type of proof: Oil from the Tree of Life

  Applicant status: Pending

  There was no doubt at all that Dr. Evan Knight was a well-qualified professional and a remarkable explorer. His theories, though spectacular, had been substantiated by his recent adventures and for those who were privy to the details, impressive was quite an understatement. Though what actually happened in Sahand was kept secret by a coalition of international government bodies, Knight’s research into the Garden of Eden’s location and the possibility it still existed had garnered notoriety in anthropological and historical circles. It was evident that there might even be a Nobel Peace prize in his future on account of his work.

  A member of his ilk, his values and his determination, would be a true asset to Quests Unlim
ited, of that fact Ophelia Morton was only all too aware.

  As head librarian at Aberdour, it was her responsibility to quantify the candidates, conduct the requisite interviews, then process them through their inauguration into the club. That included bringing them up to speed on the organization’s considerable history and rigid values, introducing them around to the staff and making sure the candidates were fully apprised of the club’s functions and available resources. It was the only way they could fully comprehend the magnitude of Quests Unlimited.

  She didn’t take the task nearly as seriously as she probably should have, though. For her, it was a chance to meet new people, enlighten curious minds, mold talented hands and enrich adventurous souls. Everything else tended to fall into place organically when one dealt with the kind of remarkable people who made good club members.

  Unlike most bibliophiles, she didn’t care half as much for the books and records kept at Quests Unlimited as she did for the people. It had been an honor when she’d been elected to the post of Head Librarian, and quite fitting, too. After all, her family had been keeping the secrets of the world’s adventurers for centuries before she’d been born and would continue to do so long after her death. Or so she hoped.

  The antique grandfather clock in her office chimed the 9 o’clock hour. Ophelia closed the files, stood from her seat. She slipped the folders under her arm and stepped out into the corridor. The clicking of the Mary Jane shoes she wore echoed off the stone walls as she made her way to the Grand Library.

  In the endless underground complex of rooms and tunnels beneath the ruins of Aberdour Castle, her team labored day and night to assist their members in the field with resources and information. From personal security and emergency evacuations to digital copies of ancient texts sent directly to a phone over instant messaging, the Quests Unlimited team was always on call.

  A young man approached Ophelia as she made her way briskly down a corridor. “Countess Morton, I have today’s list of adventurers in the field and their current locations.”

  “Excellent, Renoir!” she replied, scanning the paper. “Any news from Iraq? I’d expected some word from the Found History team by now.”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Understood,” she replied, pausing briefly to give the paper a quick scan. She lowered it and resumed walking; the young man fell into step beside her. “I need the latest satellite images of the city of Hillah. Highlight in the images anything you feel might be of interest to a rescue party. Chyna is going to need all the help she can get on this mission.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He strode off down an adjacent corridor.

  When she arrived at the central library’s heavy double doors, her free hand smoothed down the front of her crisp blouse and skirt, and then she neatened the stack of folders she’d been carrying under her arm.

  She paused, took a deep breath, and pushed the doors open. She stepped into the cool, dim room, a familiar tingle of excitement coursing through her. Meeting potential new members always had that effect on her.

  The figure seated at one of the long tables rose to his feet. Tall and lanky, he was certainly good looking and—she blushed slightly—fit as hell. The librarian did not mingle on a personal level with the members of the club, and certainly not with pending applicants.

  “Good morning, Dr. Knight.” She shook his hand. “My name is Ophelia, Countess of Morton, Head Librarian. But most people here call me Countess.”

  He nodded, smiled, and she caught something in his eyes, something haunted and, dare she say it, a little lost. But it was gone in a flash and his easy smile returned. “Please, have a seat.”

  She moved around the table and placed the files in a neat pile before her. Dr. Evan Knight, after all, was one of many applicants she would interview today.

  She started the process as she always did. “I’ve read everything in the files, including the letters of references from Miss Ragnarsson and Miss Stone. Most impressive, and everything checks out. But there’s one last piece of information.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Tell me, how did you come to discover the Garden of Eden?”

  The professor laughed lightly. “You get right to the point, Countess.”

  “I’m a busy woman, Professor.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  She smiled at that, waited.

  “Tell you now?” he asked.

  “Yes, Professor. Tell me everything...”

  Prologue

  We are lost.

  From the base of a massive, rock-encrusted mountain, General Del’ada Donatte crawls up onto a sunbaked boulder. He seeks a higher vantage point to discern anything green in the expansive desert that is supposed to contain an oasis, according to his flawed maps.

  The stone scorches his already-blistered hands, but he pays it little mind.

  What concerns Donatte is that his last twelve men are painfully dying of thirst and sunstroke. Succumbing to the same fate, he stands shakily upon the rock and shades his eyes against the glare. There is no wind, not even at this height. He can hear his own pulse in his ears, thumping hard from the rock climb. And from old age.

  Heat waves shimmer off the desert floor with sparkles that mock him with a distant sea that does not exist. It is clear from the bleak surroundings that he and his men are alone in an empty wasteland. Days ago, a nomadic shepherd had warned them that this land was cursed and that caravans had long ago learned to avoid it. The shepherd had pleaded with them not to take that route and be cursed along with those who had gone that way before and never returned. But they had gone that way. Donatte had led them. He had a good reason.

  He doesn’t know about the land being cursed, but he does know one truth:

  We will die today.

  He feels sure that this path leads through what must surely be Jahannam on Earth, but it is the only way to get close to something that Donatte covets more than anything. He isn’t just here to fight a war. He is here to find something of which he has not spoken to anyone since he had unexpectedly learned of it. Even his wife does not know the truth.

  But his secret quest of a lifetime is halted by their dire circumstances.

  Donatte’s men had been ambushed. His forty warriors had fought valiantly, but in the end, he and those remaining were forced to flee even deeper into the desert. The enemy had followed them. Like a painful blessing, a haboob rose up and soon swallowed them whole into the bosom of its ferocious, suffocating winds and searing, stinging sand. After hours of this, they had dug themselves out into an orange sky and a fiery sun. Their pursuers were nowhere to be found.

  Praise be to Allah.

  Now, Donatte looks down at his men, who suffer in what little shade is afforded by the boulder. Their camels, donkeys and horses have long ago been eaten or had died in the haboob. The last time any of them saw water was nine days ago and now their skin is dry, blistered and peeling. Yesterday, two men had died of thirst. Three today. They are left unburied, which is a disgrace and a crime that Donatte has been unable to rectify, but they had lost the donkey carrying the shovels in the haboob—no one left has the strength to dig graves with his bare hands. They have no cloth for shrouds, let alone water to cleanse the bodies. The men recite the collective prayer for the dead. It is all they can do. Later, they talk softly, flick scorpions off each other’s sleeves and know that they, too, will die soon.

  Donatte knows there will be no one to bury him, either.

  He has a wife that he has not seen since this campaign began seven months ago. She had been with child, their first, and would be ready to give birth by now. He reaches down and runs his fingers along the silver chain that he wears around his wrist. It was a gift from Atasa, his beautiful wife, whom they had thought was barren for the past twenty years until that one drop of oil had changed everything.

  She had begged him not to go, but he was a general, a warrior, and he had been summoned to duty. There was little he could do. He imagines her bustling about
their airy, whitewashed house, making ready for the child whom the astrologer said would be a boy—and for his homecoming, which would not happen now. His heart feels a pang at that loss.

  As he inhales, he feels his sand-slaked lungs tighten. He wishes he’d followed his instincts and claimed he was too old for such a rigorous overland campaign. He had served well these past twenty-five years. He would have been granted leave for this campaign had he pleaded his advanced age. As Donatte scans the horizon again, he almost chuckles when he admits to himself that he would rather kill for a living than help raise a newborn baby. He had held one once, and it had reeked of feces in the swaddling clothes. Moreover, it had pulled his beard and wailed at him.

  Unable to doze in the searing heat and in the stench of his own dried sweat, to his surprise, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. With his men all sitting with their backs to the boulder in the scant shade, Donatte is sure he is hallucinating due to extreme heat exhaustion and perhaps sun blindness. He turns sharply to his right and looks up the slope of the rocky mountain. The sky is so blue that it looks like the gleam of a sapphire. Against that blue, about a hundred cubits up, a figure clad in a black robe ducks behind another boulder.

  Am I seeing a ghost? thinks Donatte. Could this be the ghost that will come to steal my soul away from my dried-up husk of a lifeless body?

  He hears the sound of a small rock tumbling down the slope from where the figure had disappeared.

  Ghosts don’t disturb gravel.

  He looks down at his men. They sit with their backs against the shaded boulder, talking about their families—mostly, of their fathers and their sons. Donatte speaks rapidly in Arabic. Some of his words are coherent, others are dried whispers. He licks his lips, but his tongue feels coated with the grit of sand.