Bleeding Hearts: Book One of the Demimonde Page 2

  "I'm over that. There was something else, something I can't remember. Something—not right about the whole thing."

  "Let it go. It's in your blood to be nice. The fact you didn't put the poor guy up in a room for the night speaks volumes for how far you've progressed. Good morning, ladies," she called to a group near the copier, who turned and waved back.

  "Sophie, wait a minute, please." A voice not unlike the dragging of talons on a chalkboard cut through the cheerful hum of friendly chatter. Donna. I closed my eyes so nobody could see them roll and I dragged to a stop.

  "See you later." Barbara maintained her course for her office, abandoning me. I sighed, plastered on a smile, and spun to face Donna, the office monster. Sorry, I meant manager.

  Only Donna Slate could turn a nice word like please into a bitchy demand. Her sour expression matched her tone. Why not? Donna coordinated everything, from accessories to attitude.

  "I noticed you still haven't signed up." The words marched out of her mouth with a prim and reprimanding cadence. In her manicured fingers, Donna held the sign-up sheet to work at the Annual Citywide Expo.

  I suppressed a groan. Each year The Mag gave a presentation and set up a table, which we worked in shifts. It's voluntary, the supervisors said, but normally volunteers were not rounded up and hairy-eyeballed into compliance.

  I'd hoped to avoid it this year. Last year I spent an hour and a half deflecting half-assed pick-up attempts from my fellow volunteer, some guy who worked in Marketing. Besides, who needed to waste a perfectly good Saturday with a woman who looked at me as if she were imagining ways to execute me?

  "Oh. I've been meaning to take care of it..." I popped a light slap on my forehead in feigned forgetfulness. Maybe if I acted incompetent, I'd satisfy her apparent need to be the only one around here who did anything right.

  "Right. You've been too busy. Well, you're not busy now." With a hand on her hip and a smug smirk ruining her precisely lip-sticked mouth, she held out the paper.

  I took the sheet and scoured the remaining slots. All the daytime shifts were full. This should teach me: either sign up first to get the least crappy job or stay out of the office until the whole mess blew over. I smiled with an effort to thaw her out as I scribbled my name next to one of the few remaining shifts. "Can't I just make a donation?"

  Her tone dropped several degrees. "You are. Your time. You've got more than anyone else does, apparently."

  My patience leaked away with every breath. "I don't see your name on here anywhere."

  Donna plucked the page out of my fingers and brushed it off. "That's because I have the worst job of all. I have to hunt down people who think they're too good for things like this."

  Holding out her pen, I smiled. It was venomous but hey, it was still a smile. Snatching the pen, she clicked off. Even her footsteps sounded bitchy, as if she had nails in her heels.

  "You're welcome," I called. She didn't even acknowledge it.

  As the sound of her footsteps disappeared, I frowned with annoyance. How ironic. Maybe that stranger had been right when he criticized me for being nice. Maybe I wouldn't survive in this city if I didn't learn the rules.

  But one thing he didn't realize—some days, I actually did deserve a medal.

  The sky wore a low ceiling of iron gray with a wispy under-layer of near-black that skulked slowly by. A curtain of cool drizzle had been falling since I'd rolled out of bed and showed no indication of letting up.

  Production was well ahead of schedule, so I quit early, skipping lunch and leaving as soon as the payroll clerk made his rounds. After I finished at the office, I decided to visit one of my favorite haunts. It was Friday and my paycheck, tucked away in my purse, spared me another week's worrying about the rent.

  One sodden and crowded bus ride later, I found myself in University Heights, standing in the courtyard of a stately building. Rain darkened the red brick walls, making them look awash with old blood. The edifice had the same style as the others on campus: old brick and modern tinted window, lines and squares and angles. Ivy League. Traditional.

  Sheltered under my umbrella, I gazed through the rain at the great front windows of the University Museum of Archeology and Anthropology and shivered. My mood was perfect for visiting the dead.

  The wind shifted, blowing the rain sideways and reminding me to go inside before I got drenched. I avoided what puddles I could as I crossed the bricked courtyard before hurrying inside.

  The admissions clerk was chatting on the phone but she smiled and covered the receiver with her free hand. "New exhibit this week. Biblical scholars, missing texts. Right up your alley."

  I grinned. "Sounds interesting."

  "Presentation, too. Islamic Dome, three o'clock." She slid a flyer across the counter. "Watch the time. It fills up fast."

  I waved my thanks and she resumed her phone call. Shrugging out of my soggy jacket, I hung it on the rack in the main lobby. I slipped through the arches leading into the atrium of the museum. A brief glance at my watch showed it was already after two o'clock so I headed down the corridor toward the Middle Eastern regional exhibits.

  Halfway down the corridor I paused, reconsidering my plan. As much as I wanted to hear the lecture, I retraced my steps to the atrium and climbed a staircase on the other side of the museum.

  I had a sudden, inexplicable craving to visit Old Egypt.

  In the great hall housing the Egyptian exhibitions, I immediately noted the change in the atmosphere. The room was cool and dry, its climate controlled to mimic the conditions in which the relics had existed in their native land.

  The entire room had been designed to resemble an Old Kingdom temple. The main lights were dimmed while strategically-placed spotlights emphasized massive columns and magnificent wall carvings like sunbeams through temple windows.

  I scanned the room. No other tourists. Even better. I meandered, enjoying the rare opportunity to linger.

  Craning my neck, I ran my gaze up each of the columns, reading the images, admiring the palm leaves carved at the tops like great stone trees. Eyes toward the ceilings, I turned slowly around, admiring the handiwork of the ancient artists.

  What was it like to live in those lands and those times? Could an ancient version of my spirit have been there, stepping barefoot and silently through a sandy temple like this one?

  Lost in contemplation, I was completely unprepared for the shock of smacking into someone, bumping him hard enough to lose my balance. I'd have fallen had he not caught my arm. Wide-eyed with consternation, I stammered an apology to the handsome but serious-faced gentleman.

  "You are not hurt, I hope?" His voice, deep and smooth, sent shivers marching down my neck, between my shoulders, down my spine.

  "I'm okay." I shook my head, too shy to make direct eye contact, wishing I'd checked my hair and lipstick before coming in. "I'm far too adept at being inept."

  He flashed a grin and I caught a glimpse of nice white teeth. "Temples are places for spiritual reflection. It is forgivable if your vision was turned inward, rather than toward where you were walking."

  His expression softened by amusement, he tilted his head toward the pillars. "Majestic, aren't they?"

  I stole another glance at him—black hair smoothed back into a discreet tail, clear light skin framed by long sideburns, strong jaw culminating in a square, cleft chin. Like the other items in the museum, something about him made me want to look closer, inspect each detail.

  A subtle flush warmed my cheeks and ears so I quickly turned back to the heights of the exhibition. Murmuring a sound of agreement, I circled the column, stepping a few feet away so I could see both him and the stone. "Do you visit this museum often?"

  Furtive glances allowed me to take in more of his appearance a tiny section at a time. Clothing dark as his hair. Long blazer, something in between a suit coat and an overcoat. In one hand he carried a bound book and fountain pen, as if he'd been making notes.

  His gaze was calm and steady and ent
irely on me. Taking a deep breath I permitted the contact of the direct look. My boldness was well-rewarded. His Paul Newman lips brought to mind the sculptured busts on display in the Greco-Roman Quarters and he wore a stern expression that cast a veil of hardness upon his features, enhancing the impression he'd been carved from marble.

  Except for his eyes. The Roman busts bore eyes that were blank and white but this man's eyes were alive with bright green color. Like gemstones, they glittered and drew my gaze.

  "No, actually," he said. "My first time here. Although, I admit, I'm drawn to places like this." His voice made music of the words—deep bass notes and soothing rhythm.

  "Ah!" I said. "A man after my own heart." His left eyebrow arched so sharply I thought it might disappear into his hairline and I hurriedly continued. "Are you a professor?"

  "No, nothing like that. I do studying of my own, it's not a living. It's more of a hobby. Personal research, of sorts."

  "Studying past times is one of my pastimes. It's my preferred form of entertainment."

  "Mmm." Eyebrow cocked again, he cast a disapproving look at me and swept his hand around the contrived temple. "Would the gods be pleased to know they are reduced to the level of entertainment?"

  "I hope so." I kept my tone light. Considering the seriousness of his expression, I didn't want to accidentally insult him. "Otherwise, they'd have to be content with staying dead, right?"

  His gaze swept over me and I shivered again as if the touch had been tangible, a brush of fingertips against my cheek.

  "Well, I'll leave you to your worship. I mean, your wanderings." He gave me a conspirator's wink. "Unless..."

  He hesitated, with a quiet clearing of throat as he tucked his notebook and pen into an inside pocket. "You wouldn't mind a companion? Sometimes one sees things differently when seeing through another's eyes. I would appreciate a new perspective."

  I mulled it over, listening to the rain spattering the windows and distant voices echoing faintly from other rooms. Although I'd looked forward to a quiet afternoon, it might be nice to spend it with someone who seemed to share my interests. He certainly was attractive, and his pleasant voice intrigued me.

  I realized I'd become used to living inside a shell. This man made me want to step outside for once.

  "I'd like that." I smiled at his pleased expression. "I'm Sophie, by the way." I stuck out my hand in introduction.

  Instead of shaking my hand, he bent his head over it and pressed polite lips to the backs of my fingers. The quaint gesture would have seemed strange and out of place had we been elsewhere. "I am Marek. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Fingers tingling from the unexpected kiss, I fought the urge to curtsy. "Well, Marek. Lead me into the past."

  His almost-smile sent a thrill down the back of my neck. "That's exactly the sort of thing I'd hoped you say. Shall we?"

  He turned on his heel and swept out a hand with a slight bow, indicating the archway to another exhibit. For the first time since I'd been coming to this museum, I wondered what I'd see on the other side, and was surprised to realize I wasn't afraid to find out.

  We exited the temple exhibit through a side chamber, a brightly-lit, white-walled box of a room. An entire wall showcased a painting of a brilliantly colored and bejeweled goddess, golden ankh in hand.

  "Oh, look." I hurried over to a set of suspended carved and painted slabs. In all its winged glory shone a portrait of Isis. "My lady."

  Marek glanced at me in surprise. Approval added a light inflection to his voice. "A fan, are you?"

  The goddess's painted eyes gazed passively from the splendid carvings of her many forms: the out-stretched wings, the horns and sun disk, the empty throne of Osiris. "Isis wasn't some god high above and far removed from the world and its ordinary mortals. The ancients worshiped her as a living queen. Who wouldn't be endeared to her?"

  I glanced over my shoulder. Marek, arms crossed across his broad chest, watched me with wide eyes.

  "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to sound like a zealot. I'm quite Catholic." I tugged my collar aside to reveal a Crucifix. "She's a favorite of mine, that's all."

  He pondered the pendant lying below the base of my throat for a few moments. "Don't apologize. Isis has been worshiped and adored by countless people throughout thousands of years. Many still believe she is the mother of us all..." His voice trailed off when he gazed up at her countenance. The harsh lines of his brow and mouth softened, a lightening of his weighty demeanor.

  I recognized that look. My own faith gave me similar peace. "Are you one of them?"

  After a thoughtful pause, he nodded. "Sometimes."

  "What about right now?" I took advantage of the moment to admire once more the cut of his profile and the green of his eyes shining brightly under the fluorescent lights. I would have killed for a professor this striking in college. I might not have learned anything but, oh well, the sacrifices one made.

  He turned solemn eyes toward me and caught me in his gaze. "Right now, I believe the Goddess walks among us. All we have to do is find her."

  Marek's tone held such gravity I didn't dare make light of his response. The mood had grown considerably heavier, thick and congested with an undercurrent I didn't understand. I nodded in vague agreement and turned wordlessly to a different set of paintings.

  As we explored the other exhibits, I decided that accompanying Marek was one of my more brilliant decisions. His knowledge of ancient Egypt seemed intimate, his pronunciations lending an exotic sound to the names of peoples and cities I'd only previously read.

  He had to be a professor. Nobody went this far with a hobby.

  We drifted from room to room, chatting and browsing. At times his hand politely guided me along, a soft pressure at the small of my back. Normally I didn't tolerate such closeness from a stranger but I had to admit: this guy was hot. Marek acted somber and academic and I figured him for a gentleman. An intelligent, alluring gentleman.

  Of course, I kept my saucy thoughts to myself. It wouldn't do to let him know I was such a wild thing. Slut was usually not a good first impression.

  Looks and brains aside, his sheer size made me feel protected. A man of his build, wearing that occasionally grim expression and steely gaze, should have made me wary, at the very least. If he intended harm I wouldn't stand a chance. I just didn't get that feeling.

  Not that he couldn't put it out. I had distinct impressions of warning whenever we passed other people. Marek was a master of body language. His expression never changed, and his voice never rose from the quiet conversational tone he used when we were alone, but if someone approached, he stood in front of me in a subtle but unmistakable attitude of ownership.

  It was strange, but not strange enough to alarm me. Surrounded by warrior priests and treasured queens, I imagined ourselves falling into similar patterns, assuming the roles of the relics around us. After so many years of coming here with my daydreams, I had finally met someone who fit right into them.

  When we turned the last corner of the corridor and stepped through the doors of the mock Burial Chamber, I practically shivered with anticipation. My enthusiasm must have been apparent because he turned to me with an appraising glance.

  "You are not put off by the notion of death," he said. The statement sounded like a curious question.

  "Well," I said. "Death is a sucky thing for the most part, but I like mummies."

  He glanced at my throat, perhaps looking for my Crucifix. "You are Christian. Surely you believe in eternal life."

  "Sure I do. I just don't like to think about the dying you have to do first."

  Marek nodded. "Not everyone is fortunate enough to die peacefully."

  The walls were painted to recreate the interior of a New Kingdom tomb; figures and hieroglyphics danced across walls plastered and textured to resemble cut stone and false doors. Long glass cases, each holding mummified remains and descriptions of each step in the preservation process, stood along the perimeter of the room
.

  Other smaller cases and stands displayed funerary items, papyrus scrolls, and tools used by ancient embalmers. Somber lighting, provided by electric torches with flickering bulbs, created deep shadows while bright track lights shone down with distinct rays of light, an effect that was both ethereal and clinical.

  "The Egyptians feared death but they celebrated it as well." Marek's voice took on the patient instructional tone I'd already come to recognize. "How else could one enter Paradise?"

  Gesturing toward the center of the room, he urged me toward one of the smaller cases. "Life, Sophie, is an unending river. It continues after corporeal death and moves on into the afterlife. The Egyptians wove countless spells around their deceased to protect the soul on its journey through the underworld, which is dark and treacherous."

  I contented myself to play the student's role. Marek's method of explaining history made it seem alive and real, as if he himself had stepped out of a painting to grant me a glimpse into the past.

  "See?" He pointed into a glass case at his side. "There are spells to protect the soul, spells to guard the heart, and spells to pass through final judgment unscathed. Collectively, they are referred to as Spells for Going Forth by Day."

  Strolling over to where he stood, I peered into the glass case. He moved aside to make room and we stood side by side, examining the handwritten scrolls inside. Marek briefly brushed his hand against me, a gentle touch on my lower back that sent shivers in all directions. I smiled, enjoying the shivers as they faded into delightful tingles.

  "The Book of the Dead," I said. "I like Chapter 125, myself. The whole Ten Commandments connection, you know?"

  "You've read the Book of the Dead?" He sounded surprised. "It's not book club material."

  "It's not like I memorized it. Names, names, names." I shrugged. "It's an ocean of names."

  "You must realize how important names are, Sophie. Notice the cartouche? The drawing of a cartouche is the casting of a protective spell. Names have great power."