Hidden Magic: A Ley Line World Urban Fantasy Adventure (Relic Guardians Book 2) Read online

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” I said, as much to convince myself as Doctor Naidoo.

  We moved through the vast museum with purpose. A dusty, chemical smell and the sound of low growls hit us as we entered the World of Ancient Mammals. I jumped at the screams of school children startled by movement within a roped off display. Their screams soon turned to giggles when they admired the animatronic diorama of woolly mammoths.

  Doctor Naidoo steered me towards a service elevator, hidden behind the display of stuffed bison and a giant deer skeleton with humongous antlers.

  The elevators opened to the sound of an angry voice carrying along the corridor.

  “What do you mean, it’s not here?” the man shouted. “I don’t care if you have to tear everything apart, find it.”

  “We’ve looked everywhere,” said a British voice I recognised as Ben. “It’s just not here.”

  There was a loud thump, like the sound of a table being pushed over.

  “The whole point of this damned expedition was to find the Cintamani Stone!”

  Doctor Naidoo straightened her jacket, squared her shoulders, and pushed through the plastic door sheeting. I ran to keep up, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I was responsible for this shipment. If anything happened to it…

  The sight that greeted us in the loading bay was anything but reassuring. The director took a sharp intake of breath that mirrored my own. The crates were scattered in disarray. Lids were strewn on the floor with packing material and artefacts too precious to comprehend. How could anyone do this?

  I fell to the floor at the nearest crate and picked up a discarded bowl. The intricate artwork was reminiscent of others believed to have been created at the time of Songtsän Gampo, the founder of the Tibetan Empire. The bowl alone could help prove the dig site at the base of the Kailash Mountain was that of one of the first Buddhist temples in Tibet. I scanned the bowl for any sign of recent breakage, but, to my relief, there were none. I prayed that could be said for the other artefacts spread throughout the bay.

  Doctor Naidoo stormed past me, her face ashen. “What is the meaning of this?” She grabbed the arm of the nearest worker, a man I recognised from the airport. “Who are you? What are you doing with these crates?”

  The man shrugged her off. “I’m just doing my job,” he said.

  “Job, what job? Who hired you?” The man ignored her and continued to rummage through a clearly empty crate.

  I carefully laid the bowl on a nearby table and joined Naidoo. “These are the same men who collected the shipment from the airport. Are you saying they’re not museum staff?”

  “Museum staff? Certainly not. I’ve never seen these men before in my life.”

  My heart thumped, and I strained to stop my brow from creasing as I considered the implications. Then I remembered hearing Ben’s voice. I scanned the loading bay looking for his familiar face.

  “There,” I said to Naidoo as soon as I spotted him. “Ben Collins, my colleague from the UK.”

  “Sebastian Davenport,” Naidoo responded.

  “Sorry?”

  “Sebastian Davenport. The investor I mentioned.” Doctor Naidoo charged across the room. “Mr Davenport,” she shouted at the gentleman dressed in a sharp grey suit, standing next to Ben. “I insist you explain this outrage.”

  “Ah, Tanya,” said Mr Davenport. “How good to see you.” With that, he placed a hand on the visibly irate Doctor Naidoo’s back and herded her outside the room, leaving me alone with Ben.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked.

  Ben shrugged. “As soon as we arrived, that guy started barking orders and the men started opening the crates.”

  “And you didn’t stop them?”

  “He seemed important.”

  I shook my head and reached into my bag for the shipment paperwork. Running my finger along the list, I scanned the items looking for something to pop out. “What’s this Cintamani Stone, he mentioned?” I asked. “There’s nothing on my list about a stone.”

  “Probably why he couldn’t find it.”

  Doctor Naidoo returned and stood beside us with slumped shoulders and a look of defeat on her face. “It seems, once again, I must apologise to you, Ms Bevan. You, too, Mr Collins. I assure you, we normally operate in a much more professional manner.”

  “Is there any problem we need to be aware of?” I asked.

  “No, no, everything's fine. As I mentioned, Mr Davenport is a large donor to the museum and financed the dig in Tibet. In fact, he was instrumental in locating the ruins and securing the work permits in the first place.” Naidoo sighed. “I have made him aware that such contributions do not give him the right to barge in and open crates like this, and he has assured me that nothing has been damaged or taken.”

  I surveyed the loading dock and hoped he was right, but in the mess, how could anyone be sure?

  “I trust this will in no way hinder your work for the museum.” Naidoo straightened her jacket along with her shoulders, then, composed once more, she turned to me and smiled. “I’ll leave the cataloguing and preparation of items for Friday’s gala in your capable hands.”

  I looked at the damaged crates, the artefacts disregarded on the concrete floor, and the workmen leaving with Mr Davenport.

  “I’m sure I’ll manage,” I said, and ignored the pressure building in my head.

  Chapter Three

  It took the best part of the day for Ben and me to repack the crates and arrange to have them moved to our designated work area.

  Six o’clock came. The sun was setting outside, the crowds of visitors had made their way home for the night, and Ben was dead on his feet.

  “Go,” I told him. “You said yourself, you never managed any sleep last night.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. You’re no good to me here in this state, anyway.” I leaned back in my chair and stretched my arms above my head.

  “You should come, too. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ll just finish up this one crate and then head back to the hotel myself.”

  “Promise.”

  “Promise.” I smiled. “Now go. I’ll be fine.”

  I rubbed my head and returned my attention to the pottery before me. Ben was right. It had been a long day, and I was close to exhaustion myself. But the ever-looming deadline of Friday night’s celebration played on my mind.

  So far, I’d catalogued jewellery, pottery and even a disk-shaped object that strongly resembled the spindle whorls found at Tha Kae. Those whorls were dated between the third century BC and the third century AD. If my suspicions were correct and my whorl was from the same era, it could put the monastery ruins at the dig site three-hundred years earlier than the suspected seventh-century date we’d been working on. Earlier than the believed date of Buddha’s birth.

  However, the whorl would require immense study and verification before even a whisper of it could be published. On top of that, although it might have proved controversial, it wasn’t that impressive to look at, and though I loathed to state it, so far we had a few curios, but we needed something... sexy for the gala. Or, at least, something shiny that looked valuable.

  I stood for a while to stretch my feet and wandered around the musty workroom. I thought I caught the faint whiff of pizza in the air, but shrugged it off as my overactive imagination when the gurgle in my stomach made me realise I hadn’t eaten in a while. I’d grab some room service back at the hotel.

  Faded tapestries lined the walls, and the Roman bust of what appeared to be Emperor Lucius Verus, given the curly hair and beard, stood on a nearby table, its nose on a metal tray next to it. Someone had a repair job on the go.

  The sound of whistling drew my attention to the door just before Ben popped his head through.

  “I thought you were headed back to the hotel for some rest,” I said.

  “I am.” He waved a bagel and a bottle of water in the air. “I just thought I’d bring you some fuel before I
left.”

  “You’re a superstar,” I said, taking the food and tearing the wrapper off. I sighed as the fresh scent of tomato, basil and mozzarella hit me, and my stomach growled in anticipation. “Thank you,” I said between mouthfuls. “God, I was sooo hungry.”

  Ben laughed. “Don’t work too late,” he said as he headed out the door.

  With my stomach sated, I returned to my work in a positive frame of mind and a spring in my step. I whizzed through the remains of the crate in no time at all and decide to make a start on the next one.

  I lifted the lid carefully and laid it on the ground, then sifted through the packing material until my hand hit stone. My eyes widened when I pulled out a statue of Buddha. I choked back a sob at the exquisite design that strongly resembled the destroyed Buddhas of Bamiyan, carved into the sandstone cliff in the Bamiyan valley. Although, much smaller than their astonishing one hundred and seventy, and one hundred and fifteen feet, this statue depicted the same standing Buddha in flowing robes formed of fine, regular ridges. I instantly knew this was the show-stopper I was looking for.

  With a lightness in my chest, I carefully carried it over to my workbench. “Twenty-eight centimetres,” I said, measuring the height of the statue and recording it in my book. I hefted it in my hand to feel the weight.

  “Interesting,” I thought. “Feels light.”

  I brought over the set of scales I’d been using to weigh the artefacts. Five and a half kilograms. Heavy, but not as heavy as it should be. I placed it back on the table and grabbed my water bottle, suddenly conscious of my dry mouth.

  Leaning back in my chair and sipping on my bottle, I studied the Buddha. It had to be hollow. I jumped forward. Impossible! The statue looked to be chiselled out of stone. How could it be hollow?

  I replaced the bottle in my hand with a pen, and then, moving my ear as close as I could, I gently tapped the statue on the head whilst offering an apology to The Awakened One. The head definitely had a hollow ring to it. I repeated the process on the body. A muffled clunk greeted me. Strange. It didn’t sound hollow but didn’t have the ring of solid stone to it, either. I tried the feet. Solid.

  I leaned back in my chair again and sucked on the end of my pen. Why would the statue be hollow? The feet were solid to provide a strong base, I surmised. The rest is hollow, except the body. What about the body?

  There was something inside. There had to be, but what? How?

  I picked up the Buddha, turned it every way I could think of, checked every nook and cranny. The outside was seamless. There was no doubt in my mind that the statue had been chiselled from rock. But, if that were true, how did they make the statue hollow, and how the hell did they get something inside?

  So many questions buzzed around my head. The director needed to see this. It was late, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be available. I could chance a trip to her office. I stood up, grabbed my bag and the statue, and went along the corridor to find Doctor Naidoo.

  As I walked slowly through the deserted corridors, I wondered how to proceed. I’d need permission to spend more time studying the statue. The smooth grain of the rock was uniformly dark, leading me to suspect it was made of basalt. A simple test would confirm that. Then, we could determine what the actual weight the piece should have been. This would help establish whether there was a hollow recess inside. But then what? We could drill a small hole to confirm. After that, who knew, but I couldn’t imagine the museum allowing us to further dismember such a rare find to explore the possibility of something inside.

  I headed for the stairwell that lead to the upper floor and Doctor Naidoo’s office. Her door was open. I debated knocking, but the sound of a voice inside stilled my hand.

  “What the hell am I paying you guys for?” the man said. From the anger in his voice and the gravelly tone, I recognised him as Sebastian Davenport, the investor who had vandalised my crates, and from the absence of any other voice, I surmised he was talking on the phone. “It’s there, I know it’s there. I don’t care what it costs. Dig out the whole damn mountain if you have to.”

  An empty feeling welled in the pit of my stomach as he kept getting angrier and angrier. I turned to leave, I would speak to the director tomorrow, but I froze when Mr Davenport said, “Round up the locals, those fools must know something. Maybe they’ve already found it and hidden it away. Kill them one by one. Eventually, they’ll give me my stone.”

  My heart thundered in my chest. Kill them? He spoke of murdering people? And with such ease. Fear crawled up my spine. What if he found me? Would he kill me, too? I edged away on silent feet, and when I was a decent distance from the door, I turned to run. What the hell was this Cintamani Stone?

  As I pushed through the door, I looked at the statue in my hands, and a terrible realisation caused my head to swim. Was the stone inside the Buddha?

  I jumped at the sound of movement along the corridor. With one final look at the statue, I shoved it in my bag and ran down the stairs.

  Chapter Four

  I fumbled my key card into my pocket, sagged against the inside of the door to my hotel room, and closed my eyes. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning unit and my ragged breathing. I’d left the museum without a backward glance. The bag clutched in my arms weighed heavily on my chest. I shook my head and tried to push away the sour taste rising in the back of my throat. What was I doing?

  I wanted to stand there forever, but I didn’t have that luxury.

  When I opened my eyes, a light from the scaffolding on a neighbouring building blazed through the window. My room was described as having a nice view of the park, and it did, if you were willing to crane your neck at a ninety-degree angle and squint a little.

  I laid my bag on the table and drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. As an afterthought, I moved back to the door and quickly placed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside handle. Then, after switching on a lamp, I removed the statue from my bag and placed it on the table.

  Oh, God. I’d taken it.

  I couldn’t believe I’d taken it. When I heard Sebastian Davenport say he’d kill to find the stone, I’d panicked. I couldn’t explain why, but every instinct told me the stone was hidden in the statue, and that I needed to keep it away from him at all costs.

  The main thing now was to find out what the hell I was dealing with. I booted up my laptop and Googled “Cintamani Stone.” Wikipedia kindly advised me it was a wish-fulfilling jewel and that it featured in both Hindu and Buddhist traditions. Okay, so, links to Buddhism. That tied in with the statue and the monastery. The rest just detailed how it fit into the various religions.

  I trawled through the results one after another: it was a mythical stone that had fallen from the heavens, a meteor from a planet in the Sirius star system, a relic brought to Earth by extra-terrestrials. But nothing could tell me if it was real or not. Just that it was considered so dangerous, it was sent to the mythical city of Shambhala for safekeeping. Great. A mythical relic in a mythical city. But if there’s one thing any great conservator knows, it’s that all myths have a grounding in reality at some point.

  I needed to talk to someone; someone with a strong understanding of this area. Nathan Scott sprung to mind. He would be the best person to ask, but was out of reach in the Amazon or some equally far-flung location. Although, he might as well be in another world as far as contacting him was concerned. There had to be someone else I could turn to, but who?

  Then it hit me. I knew just the person. Brown wavy hair, blue eyes, black leather jacket. I could see her now. What the hell was her name? I picked up my mobile and started scanning through contacts. I was all the way to the bottom when I finally reached her. Zoe Stark. Perfect.

  I’d only met Zoe once, at a university talk, but if I remembered correctly, she worked in tracking down mythological relics. Not really my sort of person: a bit gung-ho and reckless. She seemed more interested in the adventure of a mystery than the history behind an object. But stil
l, if anyone could help me, maybe it was her.

  I pressed call on the phone and waited. It rang and rang in my ear and I found myself breathing heavily into the mouthpiece.

  “Come on, answer… answer.”

  “Yes?” a voice finally said on the other end.

  “Hello, Zoe Stark.”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Hayley Bevan. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met at the lecture on African mythological & religious objects five months ago. It was my understanding that you specialised in the investigation of mythical artefacts.”

  “Mmm.” She sounded tired, impatient. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  “I’ve been conducting some research into the Cintamani Stone and was wondering if you’ve heard of it?” I asked, deciding Ms Stark was still my best option.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, I’ve garnered a little information through my research, but given your experience in these matters, I was wondering…” I sighed with the knowledge I was probably making a fool of myself, and instead of asking the question I wanted to, I bottled it. “Would you say it was worth killing for?” I asked instead.

  Zoe scoffed. “In my experience, there’s very little people aren’t willing to kill over.”

  I held on the line in silence for a few seconds, unsure of how to proceed. This had been a mistake. Zoe couldn’t help me.

  “Look,” Zoe said, her impatient nature shining through. “I’m on holiday now. Call my museum if you need anything else. I have to go, bye.”

  “Ms Stark, please wait.” It was now or never. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but do you think it’s real? I mean, do you think it’s really magic?” There, I said it. I don’t know who was more shocked, me or Zoe Stark.

  “What have you found?” she demanded. Something in her voice made me question everything. God, did she think it was real? Did she believe in the magic?