Restless Soul - Alex Archer [32]
She took a picture, thinking she knew people on the archaeological networks that might help translate it. She took more pictures from different angles and then returned to it, seeing a thumb-size dark brown splotch.
“More dried blood.”
She drew in a deep breath. The air was fresher here than in any other chamber they’d been in, but there were traces of old things in it—the teak and the treasure…and now that she was alert to it, she was sure she could smell blood.
She took another deep breath and picked up the scents of the jungle and the rain.
Finally, she leaned forward, fingers gently folding around the container, chastising herself for doing this without gloves but not able to stop herself.
The moment her fingertips touched the surface, images flashed through her mind. The jungle. Rain coming down. Flowered vines twisting in the wind. The black gaping maw of…of… What? A tomb? Men. White men with green-and-black paint smeared on their cheeks, dirt smeared on their hands, their expressions transforming from joy and excitement to being twisted by fear. Pain. Then eyes closed in death and pale skin flecked with blood.
She shuddered and nearly pulled back, but her need to know what it meant was stronger than her discomfort.
Free me.
“This is it,” she said more firmly. “This place in the mountains and this…thing.”
Something about the container had led her there, had touched her through the teak coffins and the mountain range when she and Luartaro were at Tham Lod and worried at her enough to pull her through chambers and twisting tunnels filled with the rising river. “But what is it?”
She drew the bowl toward her and held it directly in front of the flashlight. The light played across the surface, and she stumbled. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she almost dropped the thing in her hands.
The container was a skull.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed deeply and evenly, and steadied her hands until she could open her eyes and examine the object.
The top part of a skull had been fashioned into a bowl, the jaw removed. It looked as if it had been polished, then engraved with symbols or letters. Some sort of dye had been applied to make the symbols stand out.
No, not dye. Blood.
The etchings were inlaid with blood like a jeweler might inlay gold or a souvenir maker might inlay cloisonné. The lid was ceramic. It was shaped vaguely like a parasol and had a little nub in the center to grasp to open.
Annja set the container on the floor between her feet, brought the flashlight down and tried to remove the lid. It didn’t budge, but the images flashed again, more intensely. Dirty, tired faces transformed by excitement, then fear. The jungle all around them.
She could smell the sickening scent of the thick-petaled flowers. She could feel the tiresome rain that had pattered against the men’s faces.
Who were they?
When were they?
She felt their excitement at discovering something, though she couldn’t see what it was. She shared their surprise when thunder boomed and felt it turn to fear when it was followed by a rat-a-tat-tat that was not part of the storm. And she took their last, dying breaths with them.
She released the breath she hadn’t even been aware she was holding and was grateful for the air that filled her lungs. Grateful that she was still alive.
The images of the men’s faces swirled around her like the thick morning fog on a riverbank, and then dissipated, leaving her numb.
Free me.
Whatever was inside the skull container wanted out. She could almost feel it thrumming beneath the bone bowl.
But should she let it out? Running her finger around the edge of the lid, she felt a hard waxy substance, like a seal. She wanted to pry at it with her nails. But something held her back.
If she was going to open it, she should take the bowl with her and open it later when Zakkarat and Luartaro were not around. No use jeopardizing them further.
Free me.
She had witnessed some extraordinary things since she’d come into possession of the sword. She truly