“One would hope you wouldn’t be trapped in an Egyptian tomb very often,” Thorne said dryly, stalking off to run the torch across the surface of the east wall.
“I’m going to take a bunch more pictures, okay?”
“Go ahead; the flash will help over here.”
Isis wasn’t any less thirsty or tired, but knowing for sure that there was a way out gave her a new burst of energy. She took shots of the two shrines from every angle. Whether her father had Alzheimer’s or memory loss, he’d appreciate the magnificence of Cleo’s last resting place.
“There’s another soul door over here,” Thorne called, his voice carrying across the chamber.
Isis followed the red glow. “You think it’s also a real door to the lower level?”
“I’m searching anything that might be feasible. Can you hold this?” He handed her the torch and Isis held it up high as he ran his hands over the surface from the lintel at the top, then down. This door showed an image of what Isis was sure was Cleopatra, sitting in front of an offering table. Scribed into the stone was a reed mat with a loaf of bread on it, as well as bowls of petrified food. She held in her hand a goblet covered with gold.
As Thorne meticulously felt and tapped on every inch, Isis let her artist’s eye search, too. Looking for anything out of place, anything that might indicate a latch, or—
Her breath snagged.
All the embellishments surrounding the center panel were in bas-relief with exquisite coloration and intricate detail. The tiles and stone glinting in the flickering light, the gold giving off a rich glow. Except for the small winged god used as decoration on a chalice in Cleopatra’s right hand: Isis, wings spread, was the only object in sunk relief.
“Thorne, give me my amulet!”
“Find something?” He dug in his pocket and handed her the tiny chamois pouch.
For a moment Isis curled her fingers around the bag as she said a little prayer to her patron goddess. Opening her eyes, she carefully pulled the little cord and tipped the bag onto the flat of her hand. “Look,” she whispered, her fingers clumsy as she fit her amulet into the image on Cleo’s goblet. “A perfect fit—”
As if in a coin slot, the amulet started sliding down, out of sight. Isis lunged to grab on to the fine gold chain as the charm disappeared.
The center panel of the false door screeched open as stone grated across stone.
SEVENTEEN
Thorne judged the narrow opening to be about seventeen inches wide and ten feet high. Beyond it was dense black space. A rush of cool, dry, ancient-dust-smelling air drifted around them.
Isis’s fingers tightened on his upper arm. “Am I imagining this?”
“Surreal, isn’t it?” Thorne wedged the backpack into the gap, then pushed his arm through the opening, holding the torch aloft. Isis crowded behind him, her hand on his back as she tried to see around him.
She studied the area. “Who used this? An alien?” Her fingers curled into the back of his shirt. “I wish I hadn’t said that. People believed aliens did help build the pyramids…”
“I doubt aliens need stairs,” Thorne told her dryly, passing the torch deeper into the void.
“Stairs? Seriously?” Her slender fingers dug into his upper arm, her excitement contagious. “Woo-hoo!”
“Don’t get excited. We have no idea where they lead.”
“I’m guessing down,” Isis suggested, resting her head on the back of his shoulder as he assessed the situation. Thorne loved the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him. He liked the way she held on to him as she peered inside the opening, and the tickle of her soft curls brushing the side of his face. He loved the smell of cinnamon combined with the musk on her skin. And he admired the hell out of a woman who’d been put through some damn terrifying times and still maintained a sense of humor.
“I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but they could just as easily end abruptly midair, with a forty- or fifty-foot drop.”
“Buzzkill,” she muttered, half teasing, half serious.
Thorne smiled, brushing her nose with his fingertip. “Or they could take us all the way to the lower level and a well-marked exit.”
She slid her palm up his back, resting her hand between his shoulder blades. Had anyone else done the same gesture, Thorne would’ve spun around and taken his opponent out before shoving them unceremoniously down into the darkness. With Isis it was merely