Part-time
tomb raider and real estate broker, Wendy Darlin joins her lover,
archaeologist Roger Jolley, in a quest for Cleopatra’s tomb. All they
have to do is get from Cairo to the Temple of Taporisi Magna alive.
Armed only with a couple of hijacked ashtrays can Wendy out-maneuver
Russian oligarchs, a dozen Dark Force mercenaries, and Roger’s chubby
ex-girlfriend in time to find the tomb and seal it before chaos erupts
in Egypt?Excerpt
The chilly breeze kept whipping
through the burial shaft, strong enough to make the torches flicker but, so
far, not blow them out. I kept my left hand on the left wall. It was a stunt I
learned for finding my way in mazes. As long as I kept the same hand on the
same wall I could find our way back. Or was it the opposite hand on the
opposite wall?
Well, so
far the burial shaft had been easy, not maze-like at all. Okay, maybe a little.
I was so focused on Roger that I might have missed a twist or turn or two or
three. But I was pretty sure I hadn’t. Pretty sure.
The
rough surface abraded my palm so I started lifting my hand and plopping it on
the wall. I continued down, plop, plop, plopping until I plopped my hand on a
scarab, an actual live bug. Yuck! I shook my hand till I thought my fingers
would fly off. The light from the torch wasn’t bright enough to show the nasty
things on the rough walls so I worked my hand into my sleeve and plopped a
little harder, hoping to mash them before they could run up my sleeve. I
shuddered to think of it.
I heard
Fiona fall twice. I didn’t stop for her or look back. Petri would take care of
her. I yelled Roger’s name over and over and over. How could he have come this
way in the dark? And why? I soldiered on. Lightheadedness set in. Was the air
bad or was I yelling too much? I was getting dizzier. I plopped my hand against
the wall but the wall wasn’t there.
Ass over teacups never made sense before, but as I
tumbled down a steep smooth slope, chased by my torch, it became abundantly
clear. I was down the rabbit hole with fire cascading behind me. Yikes! My long
skirt bunched up to my waist as my torch bounced over me and showered my butt
with tiny sparks. I brushed them off frantically. Oh, oh. Now I was catching up
to the torch.
I yanked
my skirt over my butt, rolled on my back, and tobogganed my body to the side of
the torch, grabbing it as I slid by. I was in something that, in the poor light
emanating from the torch, looked like a natural watercourse. Maybe it was part
of an ancient underground river or tidal flow. I started to slow. The tube was
leveling out. Then there was light at the end of the tunnel.
Not the
white light that people say they see when they’re about to croak, but a spooky
blue shade. I slid out of the tube and smacked into a Smart Car-sized boulder.
I groaned and stared at the ceiling of what appeared to be a natural chamber
about the size of a planetarium. I didn’t want to move. I had more sore places
than I had places. I hauled myself up and propped my elbows on the rock.
A pool
of water glowed blue and illuminated the grotto. The color transmuted from dark
to light to silver with swirls of black and purple. Hieroglyphics covered the
gold-flecked walls.
A mural
depicting a team of priests preparing a body for embalming extended twenty feet
along a nearby wall. One of the priestly figures was inserting a hook in the
nostril of the dead man, and removing his brain as it was held to be a useless
organ. They were pretty much right on. Most people never get around to using
theirs.
Canopic
jars painted in vivid reds, turquoise, and orange stood waiting for the liver,
lungs, stomach, and intestines. Somewhere I’d read that the ancient Egyptians
thought the heart was the source of all wisdom and so they left it in the
embalmed body.
I lifted
my torch above my head illuminating the far side of the cavern. Roger sat at
the edge of the pool in his lotus-thinking position with his hand outstretched
dangling the Multi-phasic
Unidirectional Density Diviner over the water. My
legs buckled. The walls closed in on me. I choked out his name but he didn’t
respond. I wobbled around the pool and knelt beside him.
He
didn’t move. I wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe he was in a trance or merely in
archaeological deep-think. I placed my hand on his cheek and he turned to me.
His eyes began to focus.
“Roger,
it’s me. Are you okay?”
Author Bio
Silkstone’s
writing has been described as “perfectly paced and pitched – shades of Janet
Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen – without seeming remotely derivative. Fast moving
action that shoots from the hip with bullet-proof characterization.”
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