Page 95 of Edge of Oblivion (Night Prowler 2)
His gaze flickered down to her mouth, and his nostrils flared. “Ufficio Scavi,” he blurted, brusque. She didn’t understand and her brows lifted.
His gaze darted right to a small black door recessed in the stone wall perhaps a hundred yards away, beneath a huge statue of a robed woman in traditional habit. Another damn nun.
“Ufficio Scavi,” the guard said again, more forcefully, now staring at her mouth.
“Oh,” she said, understanding. Ufficio—office. Office of the... Scavi? She jumped when the guard answered her in heavily accented English, his voice low.
“I’ll take you.”
Was it her imagination or was there a double entendre there? “Why, I’d just love that,” she purred, gazing up at him through her lashes. She was gratified to see his flush deepen.
He took her by the arm and quickly led her down the wide marble steps and over the worn cobblestones to the Plaza of Protomartyrs around the side of the basilica. They passed beneath an arched corner and went through the squeaking black door of the Ufficio Scavi, which swung shut with an echoing thud behind them. They were in a small stone antechamber, totally unadorned, cool and quiet as a tomb. An arched doorway directly in front of them had steps leading down into a tunnel swallowed in gloom. They were alone.
“Wait,” the guard said, releasing her arm, and pointed to the floor. “Here. First tour at nine.”
“You’ve been so helpful! Thank you so much. Grazie,” Morgan breathed, doing her best impression of a damsel in distress. A damsel whose heart hadn’t recently been ripped—beating and bloody—from her chest. Sweetly smiling, she trailed a finger down the soft folds of the collar of her sweater dress, exposing as if by accident the top swell of her breasts, the cleft between. “May I show you something, since you’ve been so nice?”
The guard blanched. His gaze flickered to the closed door; then he stepped forward and licked his lips as if she were a trussed and roasted Thanksgiving turkey and he hadn’t eaten in years. He lifted his hand to her face, but before he could touch her she had him by the wrist.
Quietly, she said, “Stop.”
Obediently, he froze midstep. His face wiped blank.
“You’re going to answer a few questions, then you will leave this room and forget you ever saw me. Understood?”
The guard stared at her, his blue, blue eyes utterly blank.
“Capisce? ” she insisted.
Slowly, he nodded.
“Good,” Morgan said, keeping her grip on his wrist. With her other hand she pulled the medallion from beneath the draped collar of her dress. “Do you know this symbol?”
The guard nodded again.
“What is it?”
“Horus,” he said in a monotone, “Dio della vendetta. ”
Dio—God. OK. Vendetta...revenge? “God of revenge?”
The guard frowned a little, concentrating. He said softly, “Sì. Er...vengeance.”
The god of vengeance. It sent a chill down Morgan’s spine. She swallowed around a sudden lump of fear that lodged like a stone in her throat. “Where can I find this symbol in the necropolis?”
“The tomb of the Egyptians,” he intoned, staring at her chest. “Tomb lettered Z; symbol of Horus is painted on the north wall.”
Painted on the wall? “Anywhere else?”
He blinked, slowly lifted his gaze to hers, and with a vague motion of his hand said, “Ovunque. ”
Morgan stifled a frustrated sigh. “English, please.”
The guard gazed blankly into her eyes. “Everywhere,” he said, very soft.
“What do you mean, everywhere?” Morgan said sharply, so that her voice echoed off the stone walls.
“Paintings,” he calmly responded, “statues, frescoes, the obelisk in St. Peter’s Square, the pope’s hat—”
