Page 2 of Rise of the Gods: Vardor’s Destiny (Time for Monsters)

" A ll you need to do is sign here and all your debts will be paid, my lord."

Quietly, I stood by the open door leading into my father's study with a mercilessly hammering heart. I pressed my right hand against my chest, afraid my heart would jump out, while fisting my left and partially stuffing it into my mouth, so I wouldn't betray my presence.

The sound of a metal dip pen—my father's latest purchase—scratching on parchment paper reached my ears. I bit into my fist to keep from screaming. It was done. I didn't know if I should be elated or scared to death.

I was about to become a Countess. The scratching sound of the metal dip pen told me that Thomas Ashford, the third Earl of Dunmere, had just agreed to marry me. Me!

That morning, when Father told me it was a done deal, I didn't believe him. I wanted to, but I didn't dare hope. But my father had just proved once again what a shrewd businessman he was.

Na?veté had no place in my thoughts. The chances of the Earl ever falling in love with me were slim to none, and that was fine. As much as I longed for romance, escape mattered more—so long as he freed me from this cage, from my father, I would be content. In truth, it might even benefit me if he didn't fall in love with me. Independence had always been my true desire. The freedom to live as I pleased, without chains or obligations. I was a contradiction to my gender. It wasn't the first time I regretted not being born a man—had I been, my father might have been proud of me instead of seeing me as a burden. More than that, I could have followed my own path, chased my dreams instead of being trapped in someone else's. Perhaps I would be in Egypt at this very moment rather than lurking in the shadows, eavesdropping on my father and my so-called fiancé. Fiancé . The word itself felt like a mockery.

As a countess, I would have the means to hire an entourage and travel as much as my heart desired.

"When do you wish the deed to be done?" A deep voice inquired.

Deed ? Was that what I was to him? A deed?

My heart stumbled for a few beats. Of course, I knew the Earl wasn’t exactly thrilled to marry a merchant's daughter, but a deed ?

"I have arranged for Roweena to attend the debutant's ball Friday night. You two can officially meet there, and you can pretend to fall head over heels in love with her. After that... say six months?" My father replied.

Six months?

You can wait six months , my mind whispered, there will be much shopping that needs to be done . That was true. I needed to find out what the weather would be like in Egypt in six months' time and plan accordingly. Thomas Ashford didn't know it yet, but he was about to spend his honeymoon in Cairo.

"Six months it will be," Thomas replied politely. "Now, let's talk about compensation. This wedding will be a costly affair, and as you are well aware, my financial situation is not the best at the moment."

And the reason why he is even entertaining the idea of marrying a low merchant's daughter , I added in my mind. Seven years ago, Napoleon's armies were defeated at Waterloo, causing the reestablishment of the Bourbon monarchy in France, which highly favored French aristocrats over the English. Thomas lost many of his most profitable landholdings in France because of it. He held on to them longer than other Englishmen, but in the end, he lost all legal battles and the money he had invested in them. His debtors were calling in their dues, and Thomas was close to having to sell off all his holdings. He was desperate. Which was when my father stepped in with his outlandish proposal: marry my daughter and be free of your debts.

It took the Earl an entire month to accept my father's proposal. A month I spent waiting in nervous anxiety, unsure of what I should hope for. I worried I would flee one cage just to be trapped in another, but in moments of hope, I tried to convince myself that maybe the Earl would be happy to have me travel as much as I wanted to. Since I was painfully aware of my lack of noble bloodline and skills, I hoped we could come to a mutually acceptable agreement—my promise to stay away from court in exchange for his promise to allow me to travel.

I was jarred out of my thoughts by the scraping of a chair against the floor. I didn't have time to flee before the Earl rushed out. He brushed by me without a glance, his face set in a disgusted snarl. Anger emanated from him, raising my anxiety.

"You can come in now. Don't think I didn't know you were lurking about, daughter," my father called.

For a moment, I considered rushing up the stairs away from him, but I knew better. I composed myself as much as my fast-beating heart allowed, pulled my shoulder blades back, lifted my head, and entered.

"Yes, Father?"

"Well, you heard. The marriage is going forward. Make sure you look fabulous Friday night. Spare no expenses on the dress." He ordered.

"Yes, Father."

He wiggled his fingers to dismiss me, a command I gladly obeyed.

My father was the most successful merchant in London, probably in all of England. Every high-born noble knew that whatever their hearts desired, my father would acquire for them. Despite his elevated prices, he remained their first choice. Shrewd and calculating, he knew that making money required spending it—a lesson he had never hesitated to act upon. Extravagance had never intimidated him; it was simply a tool to secure greater wealth—one he utilized on himself or me. I never lacked material things. Or education. I suppose for that I should be grateful.

No, what my father failed to provide ran deeper. Much deeper. For one, he was incapable of love. I didn't think he even loved himself. Not me, that was for sure, or at least not any different from all his other assets. Nor had he loved my mother, even though his greatest accomplishment had been marrying her. It had given him the in with the nobility he had always craved. It gave me that ounce of blue blood required for the Earl to even consider a marriage with me.

My mother was the third daughter of a minor baron. But that didn't matter to my father. What mattered was that he could finally add the coveted Sir to his name. She had been a frail, sickly person, much too young to marry my father, let alone give birth to a child. I only had brief memories of her since she never recovered from my birth, and when, against the doctor's orders, she fell pregnant again, neither she nor my little brother survived.

Driven to further his line, my father remarried three times. The first wife also died in childbirth, the second of the pox only months into their marriage, and the third, my current stepmother, had proved herself infertile, making me a commodity among my father's treasures. A very blemished commodity since I was of the wrong gender.

But it seemed as if the wily old man had found a way around this obstacle. His grandson, whom he was already making plans for, would be the next Earl of Dunmere, and he would not want for money. I was but a vessel to my father's unfulfilled dreams—for the first time I didn't mind. Because for the first time, I saw a way of fulfilling my dreams as well.

"Mistress Wellington, psst," a whispered voice reached me when I exited my father's office.

"Peter?" My father's assistant lurked around the corner. His presence here made no sense to me. He never came to our house. My father made a point of separating home and office. Well, most of the time, unless it was an earl he invited.

Peter Farthington waved me over in a very intimate, inappropriate way.

"What is it, Mister Farthington?" I took a hesitant step forward.

He put his fingers to his lips, scrunching up his pale face like he was doing something forbidden. Now that awakened my curiosity. Peter was nothing but a stiff arrow, always poised. He spent hours searching the accounts if they were off by a penny. Just the kind of man my father liked to surround himself with. He was also deeply in love with me.

"I want to show you something, Mistress, if it pleases you." His normally composed demeanor was nearly giddy, intriguing me even more.

"Alright," I agreed and followed him against my better judgment. I wasn't afraid of him. He had never been anything but polite and courteous. Even after my father laughed him out of his office when he dared ask about my marriage prospects.

I was still rattled from the Earl agreeing to our marriage, but now my heart beat faster for a different reason. I was about to do something forbidden, maybe even dangerous. My stomach fluttered in anticipation as I followed Peter toward our basement. When he started down the stairs, where the gas lights had already been lit, a nervous tremor moved through me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I knew without the shadow of a doubt that I was standing on the precipice of a life-altering event. Whatever Peter was about to show me would change the course of my life; I felt it in every fiber of my being.

"Careful Mistress, watch your step." Peter's advice was sweet but unnecessary. I had mastered the treacherous basement steps as soon as I could walk. For most children, dark, musty basements were a fright, but to my overactive imagination, ours had been a mausoleum, a forbidden temple, a long-forgotten ancient tomb, a gateway to another world.

That had been before my father had the gas lights installed. An outrageous expenditure, but necessary in his eyes to always be one step ahead of his competitors and to impress his patrons. Now the formerly dark rooms were lit, taking away the mystery.

At least not until I saw it ! That's when all my childhood adventures came rushing back to me. My eyes took in the ancient, carved hieroglyphs, faded over the years but no less fascinating to me.

"Oh, Mister Farthington, is this..." I didn't dare continue my question. My hand rose to my lips in wonder.

"Yes, Mistress. It's a sarcophagus. A true relict, brought straight from Egypt." He confirmed. "Your father acquired it for Mister Belzoni for one of his mummy unwrapping events. I thought you might like to see it."

"Oh dear." Carefully, I took a step forward. My hand moved from my lips to the sarcophagus, where it hovered, trembling, over the cold stone.

"You can touch it, Mistress, if you like," Peter smiled encouragingly. "We just brought it in."

"Why here?" My hand still hovered over the sarcophagus, something I had been wanting to touch since I could remember. Now that it was here, my nerves shook with trepidation.

"He thought something this valuable would be better protected here," Peter said. Then he pulled out a crumbled piece of paper, "at least until Saturday."

My eyes flew over the paper, but it took a bit of time for my mind to make sense of the words. A mummy unwrapping party. This Saturday. But then my brain went into overdrive. Surely I could talk the Earl into taking me? He would have to be on his best behavior, at least until we said our nuptials. Right?

I returned my attention to the sarcophagus. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. After taking a steadying breath, I carefully placed the tips of my fingers on the top of the stone.

"Boo," Peter hissed, chuckling when I withdrew with a startle.

I turned to him to chastise his manners, but the mischief in his twinkling eyes revealed a different side of him—a man I would have liked to know better. In that moment, I glimpsed the real person behind his stiff exterior. Someone thoughtful enough not only to show interest in me but to take the time to understand me, to learn what truly intrigued me. A man I was sure would have worshipped the ground I walked on. For the briefest of time, I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to be married to a man like him. One who would appreciate me, not think of me as a deed .

A small giggle escaped me, but my attention was drawn back to the stone coffin. This time, when I moved the tips of my fingers forward, Peter stayed thankfully silent, and I felt the full impact of the contact.

It felt as if a myriad of images had been let loose in my mind. Like butterflies, they flittered about without me being able to catch even a glimpse of one or to understand what I was seeing. My nerves felt like they were vibrating, as if the cold rock had stung me. Yet I couldn't let go or draw my fingers back. Instead, the need to press my entire palm against it became stronger until I gave in.

More images, like a book flipping open with incredible speed, assaulted me, and with them came a myriad of emotions. Every emotion known to man, even some I had never experienced before. Ones that pebbled my nipples and wetted my pantalettes. The last was so disturbing that I finally ripped my hand free. Feeling a blush heating my face, I averted it so Peter couldn't see it.

"Are you alright, Mistress?" he sounded honestly concerned.

"I'm fine, Mister Farthington. Thank you. It's just... I've wanted to do this for so long..." I drifted off.

"I understand," sadness entered his voice. "I truly do."

When I looked up and our eyes met, the sadness I saw in his nearly floored me. Had my hand not still been burning from touching the sarcophagus, I would have ignored etiquette and grabbed his arm to show him my commiseration. As it was, I could only give him a small smile, one that made his face light up.

"You like it?"

"I love it. Thank you for trusting and showing it to me." I put extra effort into my smile now, wanting him to know how much this meant to me.

"It's my pleasure, Mistress." He cleared his throat. "I need to return to the warehouse."

"Of course. I'll be fine here, I promise." I assured him.

"I would feel much better if you would accompany me back upstairs," he threw a dubious look around, as if the coal in the corner or the canned goods stood a chance of attacking me.

He had been so nice to me, nicer than anyone before, and I wanted to please him. I nodded and followed him up, fully intending to return later. I had four days with the sarcophagus before Saturday, and I vowed to take complete advantage of it.

Unfortunately, my father had other plans. Soon after Peter left, several of our seamstresses arrived loaded with fabric, ribbons, pelts, gauze, and even jewelry. My father wasn't about to shy away from any expense to make sure I would be the most extravagantly dressed woman at the debutant's ball Friday night.

Normally I enjoyed a dressmaking event as much as the next girl, but that day, I was fidgety. Not just because of my still soaked pantalettes, but because the need to return to the basement was torturing me.

I couldn't remember the last time I peed my pants, and a small voice in the back of my head was telling me that I hadn't this time either, that this was something different, even though the voice didn't have any idea what could be the cause. And then there was this strange tingling sensation by the bud in front of my sex. A bud that had often called to me, tempted me to do what I had never dared to: touch it.

Hastily I found an excuse to discreetly change my pantalettes, worried the seamstresses would notice how damp they were.

Despite all that, it was hard not getting caught up in the giggles of the women surrounding me, not getting excited looking at and touching the fine materials before me. Father had never spared expense on account of my wardrobe, but this was far more extravagant than anything previous. I didn't forget about the sarcophagus waiting for me in the basement, but I did get distracted.

The seamstresses departed, promising they would work on the gown all night and would return the next day for another fitting once we decided on the material, colors, and some of the finer details. I was just about to hasten down to the basement when Missis Fitzhugh, our housekeeper, informed me that a Mistress Prudence was awaiting my pleasure in the parlor.

It turned out that my father had hired Mistress Prudence to teach me everything I needed to know about court etiquette over the next six months. Her things were about to be moved into our house, and she was engaged to be at my side with unwavering attention to every minute detail of my life, starting with getting up in the morning and ending with me retiring to bed in the evening.

Without asking, I knew she would undoubtedly not let me go to the basement to satisfy my curiosity about the sarcophagus there. I would have to wait until she was asleep.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when I finally worked the nerve up to go back into the basement. Even after I went to my rooms at eight, I heard Prudence and Father talking in the parlor, probably discussing all the things I needed to learn. For a split second, I considered giving up on my plan and simply going to bed. I was exhausted, and God knew I needed my sleep. Especially if tomorrow were going to be a repeat of today, I would need all my wits about me. That moment came and went thankfully, the lure to investigate the sarcophagus was simply too great.

When I was five, my stepmom Helen took me to the Egyptian exhibition at Piccadilly Hall. Some might say five was too young of an age to form lasting memories, but I remembered. I remembered walking inside for the first time and being completely overwhelmed by a world I didn't know had existed so long ago. Every artifact had called to me in an unfamiliar way. I had walked through the nearly perfectly reimagined walls of a temple long forgotten, into the exact replica of a tomb, and I hadn't been the same since. I begged Helen to buy me the books at the gift shop, books far too advanced for me to read at the time, and then begged her to read them to me instead of the usual good night stories. She laughed and indulged me, probably convinced she was only coddling the fickle mind of a five-year-old. Little did she know I had become obsessed. From that day on, at least twice a year, I would beg her to take me back to the Egyptian exhibition.

Finally realizing how fascinated I had become, she taught me to read on my own and made it her quest to find books about Egypt more suitable for a young child. Which wasn’t easy, but since she wasn’t able to have any children of her own, she showered me with all the love of a barren woman.

I decided a good night’s sleep was highly overrated and snuck down the cold basement stairs, not daring to light the gas lights until I closed the door and was all the way down.

The gas lights didn't flicker like candles, but they still brought an eerie illumination that dipped the stone coffin in shadows, making the engravings and paintings appear lively.

I spent countless hours down here as a child, but never at night and never with a sarcophagus; the experience was far more unnerving than anything I'd ever faced, raising my heart rate and sending goosebumps over my flesh. The urge to run back upstairs and lock myself in my bedroom was nearly overpowering.

"Don't be a silly nilly," I chastised myself, but the sound of my voice only increased my anxiety.

"Stop it," I laughed and stepped closer to the coffin. To prove to myself that I didn't need to fear anything, I placed my palms on it. I felt a deep vibration, like a humming coming from the inside, and pulled my hands back with a small shriek.

A quick glance toward the staircase told me the way was free, like it should be. What had I expected? A mummy standing in my way? That didn't help my nerves either, and I shook my head to clear it from all the rubbish running through it.

"Quit. This is your one chance, stop it," I whisper-yelled at myself, stomping my foot for good measure. That finally seemed to do the trick. After a few deep breaths, my heart rate slowed down.

"Good, now let's try this again."

I placed my hand flat on the sarcophagus and yelped. It was still vibrating and humming. Determined to ignore it, I ran my hands all the way around the rectangular coffin. It was at least eight feet long and half as wide. Someone had finely sanded the rocky surface, leaving no rough edges.

The top was flat and filled with inscriptions I wished I could read. Carefully, I ran the tips of my fingers over them, tracing them, wondering about the person who had carved them. What had their lives been like?

More so, I wondered about the person inside the coffin. Was it a he or a she? Who were they? They must have been important to have been buried like this. That thought brought on a wave of sadness. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble having his or her coffin sealed and hidden for thousands of years, only to be here now, waiting to be opened in front of an audience.

We would never unearth a coffin from a cemetery, I mused, and opening one was even more out of the question. So why did we think it was right to do that to someone just because they were buried not a hundred, but thousands of years ago?

I understood intellectually that this was the only way for us to learn about humankind's past, a very intriguing past, yet every fiber in my being said this was wrong.

And yet, here I was, trying to pry the lid off. Which didn't budge an inch. That wasn't surprising, the lid alone must have weighed half a ton. It looked like heavy granite. The only thing I accomplished was to cut my palm on something sharp. It hurt, and instantly, blood ran down my wrist.

"Oh, bloody hell," I cursed and then threw my hands over my lips when I realized I had just cursed out loud. That was not how the future Countess of Dunmere was supposed to behave.

But then I saw what I had cut my hand on, and everything else was forgotten. There, previously hidden underneath an ornament that must have broken off when the movers brought the sarcophagus down, was a metallic lever. It was rusty, but when I applied pressure, it moved under some deep groaning, and with it... the lid of the coffin rose.

I froze.

The lid was lifting.

My heart hammered in my throat again. Unnoticed by me, my blood dripped down on the floor, but I was too fascinated watching the lid open to care or even to give it a second thought.

I leaned over and stared at the death mask of the coffin's inhabitant. It was beautiful, so much so, I stopped breathing. I think even my heart stopped beating for a few moments.

The death mask was made from gold but held nothing of the more primitive paintings I had observed with previous ancient artifacts. Neither had the eyes been painted black around the corners. No, this was as clear as a portrait.

I swallowed, because the person had been beautiful. Breathtakingly handsome.

A man with deep olive skin, black eyes and hair. His expression was grim as if he was chastising me for opening his grave, which I had just done, or was, at least, one of those responsible. His face looked as if it were carved from stone, all hard edges and angles. High cheekbones with somewhat hollow cheeks underneath gave him a menacing look. His nose was straight and aristocratic over full lips curved in a slight sneer.

My hand reached forward to touch the mask. I couldn't help it; it was like a magnetic pull. Blood dripped down into the coffin. Not just a little—quite a bit. I pulled my hand back and extracted a handkerchief from my pocket to wind around my cut. But blood was already soaking through the wooden part of a second coffin, which I was sure held the actual remains.

"Who were you?" I whispered, pressing the material of my handkerchief against my skin, unable to take my eyes off the death mask.

I didn't know where my courage came from, but I pulled on the lid of the wood coffin and flung it open. Wrapped in ancient linen lay the mummy of a man. As if drawn by unknown powers, the tips of my fingers brushed over the delicate, discolored linen wrapped tightly over his body. As my gaze moved up and down, I noticed a long, metal sword that looked heavier than anything I could ever lift. It was still polished, so much so, I could nearly see myself in it. The hilt was encrusted with jewels, but worn. This wasn't just a sword for ceremony or show, this sword had been used, indicated by the several scratches I discovered after further scrutinizing of the blade. This man had been a warrior!

I was convinced of it.

There were other items as well, such as wilted petals of flowers from long ago, that fell to dust the moment I tried to lift one. Someone, or several someones, had loved this man. There were also rings and bracelets. One ring with a unique, black stone called to me, and I picked it up. It was beautiful. The stone in the center could have been a black pearl. I held it closer to one of the gas lights and found that its insides seemed to be swirling.

A noise startled me. It came from right above me. The kitchen. Oh dear, how much time had passed? Was Cook already up making bread? I needed to get out of here at once before someone caught me. I didn't think Father would take too kindly to me snooping through the basement in the middle of the night—or opening the coffin.

In my haste, I put the ring in my pocket and placed my drenched with blood handkerchief inside the coffin. To my utter relief, both lids closed easier than they had opened. Afterward, I snubbed the lights off and climbed up the stairs in the dark.