Page 8 of Sacrifice

Eve took the paper and looked it over.

“The only known tablet inscription of the final tale. It was discovered when a farmer heard strange noises and, after clearing away debris, discovered a goat that had got itself trapped, and the tablet wrapped in white linen, tied with twine. And that wasn't all.” He pointed to the column of images that ran down one side of the page. There were jewelry, coins and papyrus scrolls also found on site.

“If that's true, it's incredible,” Eve said.

“Oh, it's true.”

Eve blinked up at him.

It was as if she'd been transported back into a university lecture, the old enthusiasm seeping through the alcohol-fueled exhaustion of her final year.

Who the hell was this guy?

“What are you doing with these?” she asked.

“I'm planning an exhibition.” He nodded towards the museum. “Focusing on how ancient civilizations communed with their gods and the sacrifices that were considered essential to appease them.”

Eve looked back at him, blinking stupidly. She couldn't be sure if it was the hangover or something else, but this man was having a weird effect on her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to clear the fog in her brain.

“The summoning of Apophis! Good luck getting hold of that. I mean, the last I heard the tablet was in the hands of some fat-cat collector.”

Like you're in the know. Shut up, Eve.

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. There was nothing else for it but to blunder on.

“Don't think they'll be sharing it with the great unwashed of academia anytime soon, do you?” She brushed beads of coffee from the back of her hands. “I mean, no-one's going to let something like that be exposed to clumsy idiots like me.”

He pulled himself up to stand a little straighter, and Eve’s gaze dropped to his mouth.

“Oh, you might be surprised,” he said. There was the hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place. Something faintly Mediterranean, rich and mellow. “Especially as it's in my private collection.”

Eve snorted and said, “Yeah, right,” but wasn't sure whether or not to believe him. She had a good look at his face for signs he was lying. It was a very nice face - and a bit familiar.

“Can I buy you another coffee?” he asked. His eyes were glowing gold in the sunlight, and she was breaking out in a sweat.

“To replace the one I threw over you?” She cringed rather obviously, and he shrugged. Then she noticed the time. She was seriously late.

"I, er, I'm sorry I have to go. Shit! I really have to go."

She thrust the soggy papers she’d picked up into his arms and dashed away.

Five

DI Michaels flashedhis warrant card at the receptionist as he walked into the pathology lab at Westminster. The woman gave it a cursory glance. Michaels could see her heart wasn’t in her job. She was far more interested in scrolling through her Instagram feed than protecting the dead.

He didn’t blame her. There were very few parts of his police work Michaels could say he actually enjoyed, but visiting the mortuary was amongst the worst of his duties. The aura of death permeated the very fabric of the building. It leached what little joy there was from his soul.

The temperature fell as he walked down the steps to the basement and by the time he’d reached the morgue, his skin prickled with goosebumps. The lab technician was a pale man with a hollow expression. Michaels knew the look well. He’d seen too much. Spent too long among them.

“I’m here about the Hammersmith Bridge murder,” Michaels said, putting away his warrant card and shaking the man’s cold, skeletal hand. “Has the autopsy been performed?”

“Not yet,” the man replied sharply, as if it were a criticism. “He only came in this morning.”

Good, thought Michaels, the distraction of the girl hasn’t blown the capture. There was still time.

“I was just about to go on my break,” the technician added, obviously unhappy with the unannounced visit.

“I can handle it,” said Michaels. His voice deepened reassuringly. “I just need to verify his identity.”

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