Page 94 of The Phoenix

Their boots clacking on the tile, they followed their guide through the connected houses, a labyrinth of rooms, each with a distinct personality. One done in cool blues. Another in warm reds. A third in sunny yellows. Ornate floors with thick rugs, coordinated wall decor, and special furniture enriched each room. When they reached an older part of the house of mazes, Adom opened a sturdy metal door and waved them inside.

The room was cool and most likely humidity-controlled because lining the walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves which held artifacts and books, worthy of any world-class museum. The lack of windows assured no sunlight would damage the ancient treasures.

Indigo dropped into a chair at a table, her eyes wide as she took in the surroundings. A family’s history and culture going back centuries.

Who was this far-sighted? Amazing.

Adom seemed to sense her shock. “I know,” he said. “An ancient ancestor, with enormous foresight, began this tradition. I have heard of no other undertakings elsewhere in Alexandria.” He searched the shelves, returning to the table with a large dusty book. “I am the family archivist. As such, I am most familiar with our history. Though the sword is not here, perhaps, mention of it exists. This account is a collection of documents transcribed by my predecessor and arranged by date. Give me a few moments to find the years you seek.”

While Indigo and Roark shared stunned glances, Adom pored through the old book. “Interesting,” he said. “A relation during that time was a tomb builder.” He read silently. “Sorry, the modern term might be engineer or architect. If I read between the lines, I believe he designed Antony and Cleopatra’s resting place.”

“Anything about a sword with a ruby-encrusted hilt?” asked Indigo.

“Nothing.”

Indigo’s shoulders slumped.

More silent reading, his finger trailing along text. “But this is interesting. The architect had a son who became a shipbuilder, an adventurer upon the seas.” Adom’s lips moved as he read to himself. He chuckled. “His wife was a poetess. Not a very good one, but you might find her words enlightening. Her husband went off on a journey with a sword of ‘dragon’s tears,’ a gift from his father. He never returned.”

Indigo, her foot tapping the floor with excitement, nodded at Roark whose full attention was now on the young man.

“Nothing more is written of the sword. The next accounting shifts to a story of the next generation of Gamals. I can search for other records of that period.”

“Thank you.” Indigo fingered the ruby stone in her pocket while she whispered to Roark as Adom revisited the shelves. “My gift to find objects does not travel across large bodies of water. If the shipbuilder went down in the sea, we are SOL. If he made it to land, easy-peasy, though I must be on the same continent to track the sword.”

Adom returned to the table. “I am sorry I could find no other reference to what you seek.”

Roark stood, offering his hand to Indigo. Though she did not need assistance, she took it, enjoying the warm rush of his touch. They thanked Adom Gamal, Roark adding something in Arabic while he bowed his head.

At the car, Roark pressed Indigo against the passenger-side door, his lips brushing hers, his tongue dipping inside to steal a quick taste. “Success goes straight to my dick, Indy.”

When he released her, she snorted, thinking everything made him stiff. Then something caught her eye. Shadows among the trees.

Indigo patted the ruby in her khaki shorts pocket. Yep. Zipped up tight.

****

Two Aeternals popped out of a hiding spot in the foliage near their car.

Fuck.

Roark should have sensed them. Between the thrill of finding a clue about Blood’s Kiss and his always-present lust for Indigo, he’d let down his guard. Sizing the attackers up at a glance, Roark shouted, “The berserker’s mine.”

He was confident a witch as powerful as Indy could handle the warlock. His bad guy outweighed her by two hundred pounds. Hell, if the asshole sat on her, he’d kill her. Besides, a berserker armed with a shield would negate her spells.

Raven wings exploded from Roark’s back, thrusting him off the ground. Though he thought of any number of ways to kill his opponent, he chose the most painful. For starters, he booted the humongous attacker in his whiskered square jaw. The guy skidded ass-first along the street.

Ouch. Road rash.

When the berserker staggered to his feet, he straight-armed his shield, confident it would provide protection. It wouldn’t. The guy dropped into a crouch, his wicked blade held in an icepick grip.

Roark gave the guy points for fighting style, but the admiration stopped there. Hyped up on amanita muscaria, he had let himself go. Blood-encrusted dreads rested on the mangy pelt around his shoulders. His knee-high boots had seen better days years ago. To top it off, he smelled like a Darque warcat in heat. With a battle whoop, the guy charged.

Shedding his raven body but retaining dark, curved claws, Roark settled on the ground. He spread his legs wide to withstand his attacker’s onslaught. When it came, he flicked the guy’s shield aside, dragged talons down the asshole’s unshaved cheek, spun him around, and kicked his large ass.

Turning, the startled berserker lowered his blade. With disbelief in his eyes, he examined the blood dropping onto his pelt. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

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