Page 9 of Curses & Keys
Hearing a noise to my right, I stop the bike and listen. There it is again. A low whistle. Definitely not customs officers. Doors slam shut. They’re in a vehicle. Not wanting to be trapped in the sea of cargo, I rev the engine and shoot out from the next opening onto the main road.
“Call gate,” I state clearly and concisely into the Bluetooth intercom built into my helmet. The guard at the gate picks up on the first ring.
“I’ve got company. Not official. Open the gate. Do not interfere.” I hang up. The last thing I need is a human getting killed trying to help me, especially not a guard looking to make an extra buck.
I glance back and see a large SUV swing out behind me, the rev of their engine roaring through the night air. Apparently, they’re not too worried about getting caught, which means they have power of some sort. Unwilling to get into a fight unless absolutely necessary, I map the streets of Newark in my head, trying to figure out if I can outrun them and get to my destination or if I need to figure out a different escape plan.
Bright lights shine on me, almost blinding in their intensity, and I squint into the dark. Wind rushes past my helmet. These guys aren’t playing around. I kick up the throttle as I hit PortStreet, flying past the guard at the open gate. Minutes later, I’m zooming past the New Jersey State Police station, a blur to any cameras, but there is no way to disguise the sound of the screaming bike. Troopers immediately race to their vehicles just in time to see the SUV behind me fly by too. Sirens and lights flip on, and cars peel out of the lot. It’s a full-on chase.
I watch in the right rearview mirror as a cruiser pulls up behind the SUV, lights flashing. Another takes the outside lane to follow me. Subtly shifting on the bike to get into a more comfortable position, I push it to 200 mph. The state trooper drops back a little but not much. I weave in and out of cars, hoping to lose my trail of followers, then spot two semi-trucks in the right lane. The perfect opportunity to hide. I slide into the middle lane in front of a car, then move over one more. With the car on my left, I’m now covered on all sides. The state trooper flies past. It won’t take him long to figure out I’m not in front of him, but that’s okay, because I see my exit. At the last second, I slide right and take the ramp for the Newark Liberty International Airport.
Sirens sound in the night, but there are no blue lights shining in my rearview mirror. Relieved, I make my way to the short-term parking lot where I’ve stored a black pickup and trailer. As a precaution, I fixed the cameras in the garage before I left, so I don’t worry about someone finding the footage of me rolling the bike into the trailer. All they will see is me entering the garage. With a roll of my shoulders, I slide into the front seat, lean my head back, and heave a sigh of relief.
That was close. And puzzling. I still don’t know why they chased me. Not wanting magical objects to be sent to Duke University, I always intercept them at customs. Different ports each time. I pack and label the contents. If there are ten items on the manifest, there are ten items in the crate. Nobody is awareof the additional items hidden in a false side. So why were they there?
I picture the figure on the roof. Definitely a man. Did he target me out of gut instinct? Or did something tip his hand? I’m certain it wasn’t the shipment itself. There wasn’t enough time for him to get inside and get to the roof in such a short time. What was it? Five minutes? Or maybe they didn’t need to if they had cameras set up. Again, why? How?
A crying baby jolts me out of my thoughts. Plenty of time to think about these things on the road. I quickly reach into the back and grab a change of clothes, along with a wig and hat. A young man drove this vehicle into the airport a couple of hours ago, and the same one will drive it out. I throw on my fake glasses and head out.
I switch vehicles in Washington D.C. Hitched to an older green truck, I pull the wrap off the trailer to change its appearance from solid black to white with a logo on it. While I haven’t seen anyone suspicious in the last few hours, caution has been carved into my bones over the last three thousand years. After all, nobody likes a thief, regardless of good intentions.
Hours later, I pull into an abandoned strip mall parking lot in a small town in the middle of nowhere, park the vehicle, then wipe it down. Once I’ve changed back into my jumpsuit, I put on my helmet and leave the keys in the ignition. Hopefully someone needs a truck. In less than a minute, I’m throwing my leg over the bike and heading to the vault hidden under an old farmhouse out in the country.
6
PHAEDRA
Crickets chirp in the warm, humid North Carolina night air as I come to a stop on the gravel drive in front of the large farmhouse. It’s had many facades over the years, but I like this one the most. Like a white sentinel standing guard over the surrounding land, it’s reminiscent of a time gone by. Two stories tall, the austere wooden farmhouse is softened by the massive wraparound porch surrounding it. Filled with rockers and swings that are just begging visitors to sit and stay a while, it’s the perfect place to catch a breeze on a spring day or cozy up on a crisp fall evening. Tonight, everything is silent and still.
Finally able to slip off the helmet, I peel the jumpsuit from my head and shoulders, then comb my fingers through the sweat-drenched hair sticking to my head. Without a cool breeze, there’s little relief, but at least the sweating slows. There’s work to be done before I can wash off all the dirt and grime from the night.
I roll the bike to the back of the garage, where a hidden wall opens with my thumbprint, leading to a secret room. Roughly ten by ten, it’s large enough for the bike and the tool cabinet in the corner. In another life, this was the tack room in the barn, but those days are long gone. I converted the barn to a garage once the modern world caught up with me but left this spot relatively untouched. Brown slats cover the walls, an indication of its true age, but the modern vent in the corner keeps it free of dust and debris. Given how frequently I use this bike in my nocturnal activities, I need it in good working condition and stored away from prying eyes.
I rub an appreciative hand over the seat, then drop a cover over it. While I love horses, I don’t miss using them as my main mode of transportation.
Walking over to the cabinet, I place the helmet and gloves inside, then close it. A quick twist of the latch on the side and the cabinet swings away from the wall, allowing me to step into the main area of the garage. It closes softly after me, leaving a seamless expanse of wall behind.
Five bays sit side-by-side, but only two vehicles are in the space right now. The black Mercedes-Benz GLE Coupe is my main vehicle, and the old, beat-up Range Rover gets me around the farm. While the garage feels a little over the top, it needed to be big in order to hide the basement below.
I walk over to the opposite end of the garage and slide another cabinet to the side. A light pops on, illuminating the stairs I need to take to get to the bottom. Once down the steps, I lean in close to let the security system scan my eye while I also give it a token of my blood. With a hiss, the sealed steel door slowly opens, allowing me to step inside the vault.
Bright lights shine across every available surface. Unlike newer vaults made with slabs, this one is made of solid steel-reinforced concrete with 20-inch-thick walls that are nearlyimpenetrable. A large rectangular table sits in the center of the room with trinkets scattered across its surface. Small and innocuous-looking, they’re actually some of the most lethal items in this vault. Most of them are either cursed or spelled with dark magic, which I haven’t figured out how to nullify yet.
The rest of the interior is filled with museum-quality glass cabinets displaying objects from various periods in history. Most of them don’t have a home because they were either excavated or stolen, so they stay here with me. Except for the large vessel in the corner. That one is mine. A secret from the gods themselves. One that could get me killed.
I slip the knapsack off and pull out the five items I took from the crate. Stolen from Nolan’s collection, the items are worth more than a pretty penny. Most of them will cost you your life.
I hold the first one up to the light. Any woman would love to wear this piece. Delicate white gold branches link together to form a bracelet, and a delicate chain wraps around the wrist and across the back of the hand, forming a small loop, which is designed to slip on your finger. Such a pretty trap. Once on, the Elven bracelet binds you to the gift giver. Forever. I sigh and toss it into a pile of small trinkets.
A rough shard of pottery is the next piece. I recognized it as soon as I saw it. Carefully carrying it over to the ugly brown vase in the corner, I hold the piece up against the edges until I find the place where it matches. Crazy Glue seals it in place. Before it was shattered, the vase was roughly twenty inches tall, pink with gold inlay, and had an ornate lid on top. Once the magic was released, the vase lost its luster, turning the color it is today.
For the past three thousand years, I’ve searched for the pieces, but I’m only about three-fourths of the way to the top. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll find them all. But I refuse to give up. I can’t. I owe it to my sister.
The gods gave the vase to my father to hide in the caverns beneath our palace. Unfortunately, from the moment I saw it, I was drawn to it. It was mesmerizing. Shadows moved inside. I had to know what was in it. Stupid, stupid girl. Sometimes I wish I could go back and shake some sense into that spoiled princess. Because of it, I lost the one person I loved more than any other.
Guilt fills me, tearing at the seams of my heart, and I press a hand against my chest to hold it all in. Every time I find a piece of the vase, all the emotions come rushing back, but the guilt is the worst. It’s a vicious monster, ripping me up inside. All I can do is stuff the memories down deep until the pain stops. After one last stroke across its surface, I lock it all up and return to the table.
The next piece is a thick gold arm cuff with a tile design on its surface. In an intricate pattern of white, bright teal, and orange, a mountain sits against the backdrop of a sunset. This pattern was exclusive to Pompeii before the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, and the curse placed on it reflects its heritage. Whoever puts this on their arm instantly turns to ash. Such a shame, but the piece should be salvageable. Once I remove the curse, the cuff can be shipped to the National Archaeological Museum in Naples to be showcased amongst the rest of the Pompeii collection.
