EykelhofExecutive Editor, Harlequin MIRA Books
Contents
Prologue
The midnight hour
Austin Miller loved his comfortable home. Built by his grandfather in 1872, after the ravages of the Great Chicago Fire of October 10, 1871, it had the grace—and even opulence—of the mid-Victorian era. The staircase was carpeted in deep crimson, a shade picked up in the period furniture. Swirling drapes in black and cream adorned the parlor, and the windows were etched glass. He had changed little since his grandfather’s day.
It boasted a true gentleman’s den with bookshelves that lined the walls, filled with wonderful tomes, old and new. It also boasted some of his fabulous collections, the most impressive of which was his collection of Egyptian artifacts. They were legally obtained, since Austin’s grandfather had been on the dig when Tut’s tomb was discovered; he had lived much of his life prowling the sands of the Sahara in pursuit of discoveries. Canopic jars were kept in a temperature-controlled display case, along with funerary statuettes that were gilded and bejeweled. A real sarcophagus—that of a king’s illegitimate son, of little import to Egyptians at the time—stood open in a corner of the room. It had been arranged in a display case of its own, built by his grandfather in the mid-1930s. He’d exhibited his collection of mummified snakes and cats behind glass, as well. On one side of Austin’s beautiful desk was an exquisitely crafted statue of the god Horus, adorned with gold paint and fine jewels. On the other side was a carafe, where he kept his finest brandy and glasses for when the need arose.
Yes, Austin loved his den. He held his most important meetings here, with business associates and with fellow members of the Egyptian Sand Diggers, the Society of Chicago and scholars who loved and appreciated all things Egyptian.
He felt the need for a brandy arise at that moment. Tonight, he was happy. So happy. After more than a century of being at the bottom of Lake Michigan and her shifting sands, the Jerry McGuen might well be on her way to twenty-first-century discovery!
He knew he should go to sleep. His doctor had warned him that he had to rest and that he had to avoid sleeping aids, that he needed to take his heart and blood pressure medications and stick to a healthful regimen. He was, after all, eighty-three years old.
But…
They were on the brink of knowledge. Nothing had hit the papers yet, but come morning, divers and documentarians would, at long last, discover the Jerry McGuen.
And, with the ship, untold treasure.
His cat, Bastet, a beautifully marked Egyptian Mau, also seemed restless that night. Bastet meowed and sidled along his leg.
“Tomorrow, Bastet, tomorrow!” He had changed for bed and wore his pajamas and a smoking robe, although he’d long ago given up the cigars he’d once enjoyed so much.
But a little brandy wasn’t a bad thing.
He poured himself a snifter and rolled the tawny liquor against the sides of the glass, smelled it and finally sipped. He let out a soft sigh. “Tomorrow, Bastet, tomorrow,” he said again.
But the cat leaped atop his desk with a screech that was frightening.
“Bastet!” He frowned. He tried to stroke the cat, but Bastet vaulted from the desk and disappeared behind the standing sarcophagus. What could be bothering the creature? Mrs. Hodgkins, his housekeeper, was long gone for the day.
The massive grandfather clock behind him began to toll the midnight hour.
He swallowed another sip of his brandy.
A cool breeze blew from the patio beyond the den; the curtains wafted.
The clock chimed three times, four, five.
And then…
He saw it. Moving in from the patio.
He sat completely still and blinked. He had to be seeing things. But, as if compelled by his vision, he rose, swallowing down the rest of the brandy. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t scream, but somewhere in his mind he knew that even if he could, no one would hear.
The clocked chimed six times, seven, eight.
It was coming…coming…coming for him.
His heart! Instinctively, he clutched his chest and felt the thundering of his heart. He groped in his pocket for his nitroglycerin pills, but just as he reached them, it reached him. The pills were knocked from his hand.
The clock chimed nine times, ten, eleven.
He felt as if he’d been struck by a sledgehammer. The pain was overwhelming. The thing before him was enveloped in the black of his vision.
The clock chimed the hour of midnight.
And he fell down dead.
The wee hours
Kat Sokolov slept deeply, and in that sleep, she dreamed. It was a lovely dream. She was sailing somewhere. She stood on the deck looking out at the darkness of the water and watched the stunning display in the sky overhead. The moon was full, but clouds drifted in and out,
