Reawakened (The Reawakened Series) Page 2

  For the better part of an hour, I sat at a distance, watching her and sketching her silhouette in my notebook. At one point, a tear ran down her face and she finally moved, digging into a giant crocheted bag for a tissue. What caused her tears? I wondered. Did she have a long-lost love of her own? Someone she had never shared her feelings with? The possibilities and questions swirled in my head as I adjusted my backpack and headed down the hall, shoes clicking on the marble floor. Noticing a familiar guard, I stopped.

  “Hi, Tony.”

  “And how are you today, Miss Young?”

  “I’m well. Hey, listen. I need to do some serious work. Is there a less-trafficked place around here that I can go to before I meet my friends for lunch? The people are too distracting.”

  “Hmm.” Tony rubbed his chin and I heard the bristly sandpaper sound that meant he hadn’t shaved that morning.

  “The Egyptian wing is roped off,” he said. “They’re adding some new pieces. But they shouldn’t be in there today. The boss lady is at a conference, and nothing in this museum moves without her.”

  “Do you think I could go in there and sit? I promise not to touch anything. I just need a quiet spot.”

  After a brief frown of consideration, his brows drew apart and he smiled. “All right. Just make sure you’re careful. Stay out of view of the tourists, or they might get the idea to follow you in.”

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  “You’re welcome. Come back and see me again when you get a chance.”

  “Will do,” I said, and headed toward the special-exhibitions exit, then turned back, “Hey, Tony, there’s an old woman over by the photography exhibit. Can you check on her in a little while? She’s been there a long time.”

  “I will, Miss Lilliana.”

  “Bye.”

  I sped past the wall of photographs and headed downstairs to the main floor. The Medieval Art and the Hall of Cloisters, full of tapestries, statues, carvings, swords, crosses, and jewels, led to the museum store and then, finally, to the Egyptian wing.

  When no one was looking, I slipped under the fabric rope. Despite the air-conditioning, the dust from thousands of years ago had a sharp enough tang to be noticeable. Perhaps the recent remodeling of the exhibit had released centuries of dust into the air, giving the effect of old things being stirred to life.

  The overhead lights were off, but sun came through the large windows and lit up displays as I continued. Tens of thousands of artifacts were housed in a couple dozen rooms, each room focusing on one era. I felt adrift in a black ocean of history, surrounded by little glass boxes that offered fading glimpses of time gone by.

  Displays of cosmetics boxes, canopic jars, statues of gods and goddesses, funerary papyrus, and carved blocks from actual temples, all gleaming with hidden stories of their own, captured my attention. It was as if the artifacts were simply waiting for someone to come along and blow the sandstone grit of time from their surfaces.

  A sparkling bird caught my attention. I’d never seen it before and wondered if it was part of the new display or just on rotation. The rendering, a beautifully made golden falcon that represented the Egyptian god Horus, was called Horus the Gold.

  After finding a cozy corner lit well enough for me to see, I sat with my back against the wall, turning to a blank sheet in my notebook to list all possible majors and major/minor combinations in groupings my parents would approve of. I was matching up my top three choices with their universities when I heard a scrape.

  Wondering if a tourist had followed me in, I listened carefully for a few minutes. Nothing. This wing of the museum was as silent as a tomb. Smirking at my own stupid cliché, I went back to my notes and examined a glossy college brochure.

  Before I made it through the first page, there was a thumping sound, followed by the same scraping noise. Though I considered myself a rational person, not easily frightened, a chill ran from my scalp down the length of my spine, as if icy fingers were caressing my vertebrae.

  I set down my pencil and notebook carefully, trying to not make any sounds of my own, and listened with increasing alarm to the scrapes, scuffs, and distinctly nonhuman groans coming from the other side of the wall. Someone or something was definitely there. Calling forth my sensible mind to dispel my fear, I considered that perhaps the sounds were being made by an animal.

  An eerie moan made my hands tremble, and the sight of my shaking fingers steeled me. I was being silly.

  “Hello?” I ventured quietly. “Is someone there?”

  I stood and took a few steps forward. The sounds abruptly ceased and my heart stilled. Was someone hiding? A museum employee would have answered me.

  Sucking in a shaky breath, I rounded the corner only to come face to face with a wall of plastic. This must be the section they’re working on, I thought. It was too dark to make out any shapes inside the room, so I stood there for a full minute gathering my courage.

  I ran my fingers along the thick plastic lining until I found an opening, gasping when I saw a figure staring back at me, not inches from where I stood. But the frightened girl clutching the plastic drape was just me: her slightly wavy, product-enhanced, long brown hair, pale skin, and white designer blouse now marked with dust. Yep, me. The tile beneath the large artifact read ANCIENT COPPER MIRROR. I shook my head as I tried to make out what else was in the room.

  The polished floor was protected by a heavy drop cloth, which was covered with sawdust, and several boards, cut in various shapes, lay haphazardly on the floor. I used one to prop open the plastic curtain, taking advantage of whatever meager light I could get, and moved deeper into the room.

  Dark shapes and statues filled makeshift shelves, with stacked crates blocking every path. Now that I knew this shipment was so recent, I rationalized that what I’d heard was most likely a rat or a mouse making its home in one of the boxes. That would explain the silence since I’d come in.

  I saw nothing that looked out of place in a museum. A box of tools here, a circular saw there. Opened crates filled with Egyptian treasures resting on the straw. True to my word, I didn’t touch any of the pieces, and moved through the space carefully and quietly until a golden light behind some boxes caught my eye. I let out a small gasp as I came upon an enormous sarcophagus.

  The lid, resting at an angle on the lower half of the coffin, was breathtaking. As I focused on all the little details—the handsome carved face, with polished green stones for eyes, the crook and flail he held crossways on his chest, the precious gold details that meant he was likely someone of importance—my fingers itched for my pencil and notebook.

  Right away I noticed the patterns of three—three birds, three gods, three sets of wings, three bands on the arms. I wondered what they signified and began coming up with possible scenarios as I continued exploring. The packing slip on the coffin-sized crate nearby read:

  UNKNOWN MUMMY

  DISCOVERED 1989

  VALLEY OF THE KINGS

  EGYPT

  Despite my fascination with the upcoming exhibit, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. No rat tails or droppings that I could see. No squeaking mouse hiding in a corner. No grave robbers or cursed mummies. Not even any museum employees.

  As I turned to leave, I looked down and suddenly realized two things: first, the straw-filled sarcophagus didn’t contain a mummy, and second, there was a set of footprints other than my own in the sawdust, ones made by two bare feet, and they led away from the coffin.

  An intense curiosity took hold of me, and ignoring strong reservations, I followed the footprints. They led me on a path between boxes and crates until I met a dead end. No climactic movie music was triggered. No rancid scents of decay or death assaulted my nose. No creepy monster leered at me from the darkness.

  Recognizing I’d let my imagination get the best of me, I began making my way back toward the plastic curtain. I was passing the copper mirror when a hand shot out of the darkness and locked on my arm. My choked scream echoed, the shriek b
ouncing off relics. The golden gods and stony statues kept their icy eyes forward, remaining as still and dead as everything around them.

  The hand, which was extremely warm and not covered in ancient mummy wrappings, let go the instant I screamed. I dashed through the plastic curtain and around the wall to grab the can of pepper spray I kept in my bag. I stood there, can aimed, finger on the trigger, as the bare feet that were poking out beneath the curtain retreated into the darkness.

  The sound of rummaging soon became obvious as the mysterious person began cracking open boxes. Something, most likely a box, crashed to the floor, and a metallic ringing indicated that a precious object of some kind had also been heedlessly dropped.

  “I’m warning you. I’m armed,” I threatened.

  Whoever was in there paused and said a few words I didn’t understand before they went back to whatever it was they were doing.

  “What was that? What did you say?” I asked. When they didn’t respond, I tried another tack. “Qui êtes-vous? ¿Quién es usted?” The only response was a grunt of frustration and the unmistakable sound of a crate being tossed aside.

  “Look, I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing in this exhibit,” I said, switching back to English while I knelt and threw my papers into my bag, “but you really shouldn’t be in there.”

  Hoisting my bag over my shoulder without taking the time to zip it, I kept my eyes trained on the sheets of plastic ahead while inching toward the entrance. I hid behind the displays until I reached the main walkway, still holding up the pepper spray in case the stranger jumped out at me. When the plastic sheet came into view, I scanned the area for a sinister shape, but nothing emerged from the closed-off section.

  Was the person hiding? Was I being stalked? “Please come out and explain yourself,” I called bravely. Keeping my back to the wall, I waited for an answer.

  What I should have done was leave and report what was happening to the security guards, but as I stood there, curiosity overwhelmed me and I couldn’t. If the person had wanted to attack me, they already had had ample opportunity.

  Perhaps he or she was lost. What if it was a transient who had wandered into the exhibit and was trying to catch a nap? Maybe it was an employee. Maybe they were hurt. I lowered my aching arm and slowly walked back toward the plastic curtain.

  “Hello? Do you need help?” I ventured. I didn’t sound as confident as I had hoped.

  I heard a sigh as someone came toward me. Even though I was no longer pointing the can of pepper spray, I was still clutching it, nervously running my forefinger in little circles over the trigger.

  “Who are you?” I asked again quietly, more to express the thought out loud than because I expected an answer.

  A hand grasped the curtain, pushing it aside as the object of both my fear and curiosity stepped through, mumbling an assortment of words that sounded very much like expletives in another language. Stopping just outside the curtain, he—it was most definitely a he—let the plastic fall and faced me with an irritated expression.

  Though we were in the darkest part of the exhibit, I could clearly make out the pleated white skirt that ended just at his knees and the wide expanse of a tanned and very bare chest. His bare feet were covered with sawdust. He seemed young, maybe just a few years older than me, yet his head was bald.

  Crossing muscular arms over his wide chest, he boldly looked me up and down and I got the feeling that he found me both surprising and disappointing. “Stay back,” I said, raising the can of pepper spray and feeling like an idiot for getting into this situation. He just raised an eyebrow and smirked, seeming to taunt me.

  Jabbing a finger toward me, he uttered something that sounded like a command.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand you,” I answered.

  Noticeably frustrated, he repeated himself, more slowly this time, as if he were talking to an imbecile.

  I answered back just as slowly, first gesturing to myself, “I,” then shaking my head, “don’t understand,” and finally pointing at him, “you.”

  Crying out in exasperation, he threw his hands into the air and kept them there. At that exact moment, the overhead lights came on. A little squeak escaped my mouth as I got my first real glimpse of the guy I’d assumed had been living with the relics. He was definitely not a transient.

  Who are you? I wondered as I studied the person, who was not a man and yet not a teen. He seemed…timeless. Hooded hazel eyes, at that moment more green than brown, beneath a strong brow pinned me with a gaze that was both intelligent and almost predatory. I felt like a mouse looking up at a swooping falcon, knowing death loomed but utterly unable to look away from the beauty of it.

  His physical splendor was undeniable: brooding eyes, miles of muscles beneath smooth, golden skin, and full lips that would send any girl swooning. But there was something deeper behind the beauty, something very different about him that made my fingers itch for a pencil and paper. I wasn’t sure I could even capture the indescribable thing I felt when I looked at him, but I really wanted to try. As easy as I found it to put people in categories based on the things I noticed about them—their clothes, the way they moved, the people they were with, or their patterns of communication—I thought that for him I just might have to come up with a new system. He didn’t belong in any particular group. He was unique.

  I blinked and realized he was smirking again. Even if the rest of him was a mystery, I could identify the expression. I’d met dozens of boys with expressions like that. International or not, they were all the same. They thought their wealth and good looks made them powerful. This guy was practically dripping with power. Definitely not my type.

  “So what are you supposed to be?” I lashed out, heat stinging my cheeks in response to his arrogance. “Are you some international model taking photos down here and now can’t find your pants?” I scoffed, indicating his costume or lack thereof. “Well, believe me,” I said, using my best condescending voice and punctuating each word with a dramatic gesture for emphasis, “nobody would look twice at you, so just…move along.”

  Sighing, Model-boy mumbled a few words as he swirled his fingers in the air. Suddenly, there was a funny taste in my mouth, a kind of fizzing, like an effervescent candy had just dissolved on my tongue. The sensation quickly disappeared and I was trying to figure out what he was doing when he said a word I finally understood.

  “Identify.”

  “Identify?” I repeated dumbly. “Are you asking my name?”

  He nodded once.

  Shifting my weight, I answered tersely, “Lilliana Young. What’s yours?”

  “Good. Come along, Young Lily, I have need of your assistance,” he said, forming his lips around the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth, and effectively ignoring my question.

  Presuming I’d follow, he turned and plunged back through the plastic curtain. After a brief hesitation, my insatiable nosiness got the better of me, and unable to come up with another good option, I threw aside the curtain and followed. Light filled every corner of the once-dark room, and I found Model-boy sifting through items in a crate, tossing the discarded ones aside like rubbish.

  “What exactly are you doing? Why are you dressed like that? And how can you suddenly speak English?”

  “Too many questions, Young Lily. Please pick one.”

  He lifted a heavy jar from the box. Closing his eyes, he spoke softly, melodically, in another language. After a moment, he shook his head, put the item back, and selected another.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as he repeated the chant.

  “I am seeking my jars of death.”

  “Jars of death?” I paused. “Do you mean canopic jars? And what do you mean, ‘my’?”

  “No more questions, Young Lily.”

  “So,” I mumbled, stalling as I tried to figure out what exactly was going on, “you’re looking for canopic jars, aka death jars. I read about those recently in National Geographic. They’re the kind used for
mummies. The ones their organs are kept in.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you stealing them?”

  He moved to another crate. “I cannot steal that which belongs to me.”

  I crouched and peered into the guy’s face. I was pretty good at reading people, so I usually knew when someone was lying. This guy wasn’t. Which meant he either actually believed he had some claim on these Egyptian relics or he was crazy. I was inclined to go with crazy.

  “Look,” I said quietly. “These items belong to the museum. You’re not supposed to be touching them. You can’t just come into a museum and take whatever you like.”

  “Museum?”

  “Yes, museum. As in, collection house of antiquities, displayer of old documents and art of great value.”

  Pulling the top off yet another crate, he squatted to examine the contents. “Ah,” he said. “A House of Muses.”

  “A what?”

  He ignored me and, after a brief perusal of the box’s contents, rose with a grunt of frustration. “They are not here.”

  “The death jars?” I asked.

  “Yes. These are replicas. They do not hold my life force.”

  “Life force, right.” Definitely crazy.

  Mumbling a few excuses, I stood and began my retreat, but he followed me.

  “Without my life force, I am merely a walking shadow on borrowed time,” he stated gravely.

  His eyes locked with mine in a disturbingly determined way as I backed away nervously. “I need sustenance, Young Lily,” he said while advancing.

  “Sustenance, okay.” Please don’t let hot foreign-model guy turn into Hannibal Lecter. “Well, there are a lot of places where you can get something to eat. May I recommend the Roof Garden Café on the fifth floor?” I backed around a stack of crates as I gave him directions, but he pressed forward.