“Thanks for that.” She grimaced.
“But I was no better,” he objected. “I was a mild-mannered bookworm with an acute caffeine addiction and a pathological fear of leaving the vault. By no stretch of the imagination could either of us have been considered suitable field agent material—just an awkward librarian and a fledgling psychic.”
“You used to insist on being called an archivist,” she reminded him playfully.
“Hadn’t you heard,” he countered. “I’ve been promoted to Right Honourable Chief Scrivener. Admit it. You’re impressed.” He jutted his chin out, eyes twinkling, daring her to contradict him.
Cassie narrowed her gaze in mock disapproval. “You’re not the only one who got a promotion, pal. You’re in the presence of the Right Honourable Pythia. Show a little respect.”
They beamed at one another, silently acknowledging the distance they’d traveled.
Griffin rose to go. “I think I’ve made my point, so I’ll bid you goodnight and wish you a pleasant holiday.”
He walked to the door, but she rushed after him.
“Griffin, wait!”
“Yes.” He looked down at her quizzically.
She threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.
Taken aback, but pleased, he returned the embrace. When they parted, he asked, “What was that for?”
“Because you’re you.”
“Existentially speaking, it would be impossible for me to be anyone else. It defies—”
She grabbed his shirt collar and drew his face down close to hers. Then she kissed him on the cheek, rendering him speechless. “Goodnight, Right Honourable Chief Scrivener. Get some rest.”
“Yes, well, um...” He bumped into the doorframe on his way out. “Goodnight.”
Cassie slipped on her jacket and prepared to leave, pausing as she caught the echo of a jaunty tune bouncing down the corridor.
The pythia shook her head. “I never would have pegged him for a whistler. What’s that about?” She switched off the lights in her office and headed for the exit, anticipating an evening of decadent luxury—a long bubble bath followed by a pizza made with cheese that hadn’t come from a yak. In her newfound appreciation for simple pleasures, life didn’t need to get any better than that.
SECRETS OF THE SERPENT’S HEART
Secrets of the Serpent’s Heart
Book Six of Seven—Arkana Archaeology Mystery Thriller Series
http://www.mythofhistory.com
Copyright © 2015 by N. S. Wikarski
Second Revised Edition 2017
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1—How a Golden Age Turns Bronze
Gansu Province, Northern China, 2650 BCE
During the age of Shen-Nung, people rested at ease and acted with vigor. They knew their mothers but not their fathers. They lived among deer. They ate what they cultivated and wore what they wove. They did not think of harming one another. –Zhuangzi
The woman stood upright and stretched to ease the stiffness in her back. She’d been cultivating around the roots of a row of millet plants. She paused to study the feathery seed heads drooping above their tall stalks—still green though the weather had been fair and promised to ripen them in a few more weeks. Her youngest son, barely more than a toddler, was attempting to help her by attacking weed clumps with a sharp stick.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement in the distance. Several dozen figures were descending from the mountains that surrounded the river valley where she and her clan lived. They were moving at a leisurely pace down the slopes. Curious, she dropped her hoe and, taking her son by the hand, threaded her way through the millet field. Several others of her clan, also working in the fields, had noticed the approach of the strangers. The farm folk wandered toward the river bank and gathered in a small group to watch their descent.
As the band loomed ever nearer, a collective murmur of surprise rose from residents. The woman gasped audibly at the spectacle. The strangers numbered about fifty men, women, and children. These people were odd-looking. Whereas the villagers were short and stocky with straight black hair and brown eyes, the strangers were tall and gangly, their skins as pale as a fish’s belly. Their eyes were round and set deep in their sockets. Their hair was bushy—the color and texture of straw.
They were not walking but riding. The lead figure sat astride a long-necked, long-nosed beast which he controlled with leather straps fastened around the creature’s mouth. The woman had seen a few of these animals before though large numbers of them were said to roam across the grasslands beyond the mountains. They were useless as livestock. Not placid like the pigs which her clan kept in pens. These long-necked creatures were easily frightened and, once startled, they ran like the wind. Sometimes her people would hunt them for their meat, but no one had ever tried to sit on one before.
Yet here was a band of humans astride the backs of these creatures as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Not all the strangers were riding the animals though. Several among them, mainly women and children, were traveling in even stranger fashion. They sat in square wooden boxes with round disks attached on either side. Long-necked beasts were tied to these boxes and pulled them forward, making the disks spin and leaving behind tracks in the grass.
The woman’s son had wrapped his arms around her leg as if it
