Isis swallowed, giving him the evil eye, which he missed as he walked over to their small campsite and started stuffing things in the duffel. “Gather what supplies you can find—” He saw her pick up his dress shirt and held out his hand. “Great, give me that.” He took it from her and ripped off several buttons.
“Breathe through your nose; it’ll prevent the membranes in your mouth from drying out, and suck on this.” Handing her a small button, he popped the other in his mouth. “Scarves pulled up as well; the dust is going to be a problem depending how deep the tunnel goes.” Even though he was prepared to go deeper into what Isis was sure was a tomb, he didn’t sound that confident that the tunnel would lead them anywhere.
She mentally conjured up some of the drawings of tombs her father had left lying around over the years. While she hadn’t formally studied Egyptology, she’d learned a lot from him by osmosis. Or so she hoped. Because right now, their lives might depend on her knowing how to navigate the labyrinth of passages and rooms, if this was indeed part of a tomb.
And at this stage of the game she didn’t care whose tomb it was, just that there was an exit of some kind.
And enough air to support them as they searched for it.
THORNE PICKED UP THE sleeping bag, shaking off the rocks and debris. Half a dozen large scorpions dropped, tails curved over their backs as they scurried into the surrounding darkness. Four were the common variety. They’d sting, but the worst result would be a painful red welt. Two, however were the fat-tailed variety, the most dangerous group of scorpion species in the world. Four inches of “man-killer.” Powerful neurotoxins in their venom could kill. Being stung by two while they’d been otherwise distracted could’ve killed them.
“Check your clothes and tuck in what can be tucked,” he told her grimly, not wanting to think how close the arthropods had been to their naked body parts. They’d been so consumed with making love, scorpions had been the last thing on their minds.
They both shook out what they were wearing. Nothing dropped out. “I’m okay,” Isis told him. “You?”
He thoroughly checked his own clothing, then helped Isis tuck her pants tightly into her socks, then did the same for himself. “Fine. Fire and we’re gone.”
Picking up a couple of the two-foot-long sticks, which were now red-hot and glowing, he handed her one to carry like a baton. Rolling several large rocks with the side of his foot, he smothered the small fire. “Let’s check out your tunnel.”
Isis put her hand on his arm to stop him. “Be careful where you walk. Don’t put your weight on your front foot until you’re sure you’re stepping somewhere solid. There could be hidden holes. My father thought they probably hid them under delicately balanced wood manhole covers, so the lightest step would tip the robber into a pit.”
“Lovely. An ancient burglar alarm. Except it was death instead of jail. Good to know.” He’d never been inside a tomb, but it already seemed like a fucking death trap before they’d even started in. They walked side by side, but he made sure Isis was one step behind him. The smell of burning wood was accompanied by the smell of ancient dust as their feet kicked up little puffs of sand.
“Don’t worry about the powder toxins,” she said, almost cheerfully. “Those are too old to be effective anymore. You know about the fatal properties of ancient Egyptian medicines, right?”
“Everything I know you just told me,” Thorne said dryly. “They no longer work.” He walked cautiously and kept his eyes, ears—and now nose—open and looking for danger.
He carried his “torch” high while Isis kept hers low. For now the atmospheric red glow sufficed. The tunnel, running north to south, seemed to be dead straight.
“It’s strange that there are no paintings or mosaics in this section.” Isis lightly ran her fingers along the rough brick of the wall as she walked. Her soft voice echoed slightly on the hard surfaces. Clearly man-made, the completely bricked corridor was about five feet wide, nine or ten feet high, and disappeared into the darkness in front of them.
Every now and then they came across piles of limestone rubble with a broken potsherd and a few intact painted jars tossed in it like trash. “My father would be in his glory right