Seals of Eternity: Book 6 of the Peacetaker Series, #6

By Edita A. Petrick

A cruel and mercurial ancient deity, stranded on Earth for thousands of years, has been searching for his means to escape from his earthly confinement. The only two artifacts that will do the job, the Seals of Eternity, have been lost in the sands of time. Sed, the mysterious and shadowy figure of jackal, has killed thousands in his relentless search for the Seals. The 21st century sees him taking over bodies of delegates attending an archeological convention in Miami, in pursuit of the knowledge about the two Seals.  

 

When Stella's husband, Carter, takes their adoptive son, Gabriel, to see the newly opened exhibit of recently discovered ancient treasures in a museum in Coral Gables, he has no idea that once again the doomsday clock started ticking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: Apr 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386965381

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

Chapter One

He needed to get a human body. More importantly, he needed to get the one whose current owner was jogging along the beach. The sun had not set yet, but this stretch of the beach was neither public nor a private paradise. The sloping shore, rocky outcrops and messy sand made it an unattractive prospect for resort developers. There were still a lot of beachfront properties in Key West that waited for the assault by bulldozers. The emptiness of the shore made the path stomped into the sand by many sneaker-shod feet rushing to nowhere into a prison yard. A fairly scenic prison yard, he reflected, if one took into account the turquoise shimmer of the shallows but a place without hope nevertheless. The mood of the place was the same as his last memory of the funerary enclosure of Meni’s collapsed tomb, back in Abdju. Ironic…or did the definition of irony change after six thousand years?

It took him a long time to be in the right place, at the right time. It would have been shorter, if he’d been able to get to his target before it was loaded on to the cargo plane. But someone attempted to decipher another symbol on the left-hand gold cylinder, and he lost substance. It took him more than twenty years to lengthen his shadow to a degree where his movement across the landscape was no longer subject to sun’s or moon’s tyranny. Mind you, shadows on a moonless night or during a day when the sky was overcast, made people suspicious. Still, considering what was at stake, it was well worth the risk. By the time he regained a modicum of solid albeit shadowy presence, the man who sealed his fate in a diplomatic pouch was already en route to America.

The shrill cry of a sea bird shattered the delicate crystalline atmosphere of an early evening. The formative stage of any scape, any mood required calm and silence. His very existence depended on it. The jogger had to keep moving along his meaningless path. He could not become distracted by the noise of scavengers. His feet had just settled into a familiar rhythm. It had to be maintained until the body reached the point of no return.

He started the countdown. It was longer than the usual ten-point ultimatum. He wanted to savor the man’s approach; wanted to see his solid figure grow in size until the feet crossed the invisible line in the dirty sand.

Gotcha, he whispered, when the man ran straight into what he believed was a shadow. Naturally, he never bothered to look around to see whether there was anything on the shore that could actually cast a shadow.

He pressed his right index finger against the man’s neck, and that was all there was to it. The copper sheath on his finger delivered the poison straight into the jugular. The ancient ritual called for a shen. The poison rings in ancient Egypt were always filled with deadly substance, but that would have defeated his purpose. Rings were also more difficult to calibrate as to the amount of poison needed. The finger-sheath was much easier to fill. He’d changed a part of the ancient ritual. Was that something to worry about? Not in this millennium and not in the last few either. He had not been consulted on how it should be carried out. If anything, the whole process had been forced upon him. He merely adapted it to his needs. The paralytic gave him the needed effect. He seldom inspected his victims before takeover. What he had to do to stay alive was distasteful but, like most unpleasant things in life, necessary. This body, however, was special. Two days from now it would be in Miami, close enough to that which he had been chasing for thousands of years. He needed the Seals of Eternity, one in each hand, to bridge the two realms. Without such balance, he could not achieve the eternal loop that would open the pool of energy for his use and distribution alone. He was sick and tired of having to share everything…except his misery, of course. Ma’at prevented him from sharing that aspect of his existence. He needed this particular body to lead him where his glorious destiny waited for him to become truly immortal, as befitted a god. It was his means to an end—a very powerful and a very satisfying end. Once he reached his goal, he’d collapse the bridge. He didn’t need this wretched dimension to remind him how careless he had been to let himself be caught by Ma’at’s stupid rules.

He started to spread his night cloak over the man’s head when the body twitched, as if in the grips of a seizure. He let the cloak fall, to once again become his shadow, and looked at the man’s face.

It was a very ordinary face. Other than a large black mole on the lower jaw, on the left side of the face, there was nothing to distinguish it from all those other faces he had worn until he wore them out.

He knew his victim’s name, age, race and sexual persuasion. There was absolutely nothing outstanding about him—save one tiny detail. He was a treasure hunter. It was precisely what he needed to get close enough to his treasure to claim it once again. The body owner also had a membership in a guild that would assure him an admission into the circle of his peers. He needed the wretched man’s credentials, as much as he needed his body. It was the only way he could realize his goal.

Why are you twitching? he mused and knew that if his victim would have been able to hear, he’d have only heard a soft whisper of the night breeze.

Allergies, a voice he’d first heard about fifty years ago awakened a memory.

You can’t possibly be allergic to this paralytic, he said. It’s organic. It’s the best poison that ever came out of Abydos. It’s synthesized from the nightshade plant… He stopped. So much had changed in six thousand years after all. How typical that the modern man would develop an allergy to his own natural environment. There was not a moment to lose.

He draped the night cloak over the man. The outside world would still see him standing on the beach, perhaps in a slump as might be normal for a jogger to take a breather. It only took a minute to liquefy the man’s substance and drain it out. The sand would take care of the rest. It was such a wonderfully porous medium. The birds scavenging on the shore might come to peck on the spot, lured there by the blood, but that wouldn’t happen for a while. The cloak held the organic shell in its slumped position. The features collapsed like a deflated balloon but that was only a temporary effect. Quickly, he made another puncture with the needle-point of his sheath under the man’s left armpit. The skin was already settling into wrinkles since its occupant was being flushed out. He didn’t bother to countdown when he took over any human form. This time he did. On the count of three, he marshalled his presence into a thin gaseous streamer and injected himself into the empty skin envelope.

A few moments later, the slumped figure straightened out, arched its back and then resumed jogging.

Are you all right? A woman’s face blocked his view of the beach. She came literally out of nowhere. He wasn’t prepared to meet another presence so soon after transference. He was still disoriented and unable to make a sound.

Maybe you should just take it easy, sit down here, rest, she kept talking, and he felt himself manhandled. That’s when he realized that the illusion of jogging was just that—an illusion. In reality, he had never left the spot where he took over the man’s body. Except he was no longer slumped but on his knees.

I’m calling an ambulance, the woman’s voice said.

Oh, dear god, no, he screamed at her and knew she didn’t hear a thing. His vocals had not settled yet. His motor functions were not synchronized with the rest of his consciousness. Why was it taking so long this time? The takeover was instantaneous. There were no aftereffects. Dizziness and nausea never lingered…until now.

The last thing that penetrated his newly-occupied senses was the shrill howl of an ambulance siren. Then the darkness took away his reason.

Chapter Two

Winters in Montana were not for those who craved seasonal temperatures. It could be fifty below zero or thirty-five and sunny, and both extremes would be a ‘norm’ in wonderland Montana. Carter had respect for Mother Nature and its whimsical application of seasons, but in four years of living in upstate Montana, that respect had eroded—a lot.

Big parka and boots, Stella’s voice floated from the kitchen.

Carter looked at Gabriel standing in the hallway, five feet in front of him, and already dressed for the weather.

She means you, Dad, the boy grinned at him.

Yes, dear, Carter called back. He’d already checked the temperature on his cell phone. Only an idiot would venture outside without big parka or boots when it was minus twenty below zero. For some reason, Stella believed that he subscribed to the ‘macho’ attitude that would see him step out the front door in t-shirt and sandals in the dead of the winter.

And get the mail while you’re at it.

I always do, Carter murmured, since walking Gabriel to the bus stop and waiting with him until the school bus picked him up had been his daily norm during any school year.

She’s anxious, Gabriel said softly.

About what, for heaven’s sake? Her last book’s been out for more than a year. It’s doing great. Carter shook his head and sighed.

She’s going to have to defend her research, the boy said.

To whom? Carter stiffened his neck. Suddenly, he got a vision of a tiny snowball rolling down the hill, gaining speed until it landed at the bottom, on the very spot where he stood—a huge snow mountain.

The world. The boy’s eyes twinkled, but his expression remained earnest.

You’re putting me on, right?

No, Dad. Her publisher was challenged so she, in turn, challenged Mom.

Outstanding, he mumbled and nodded at Gabriel. Let’s go, or we’ll miss the bus. Then I’ll never hear the end of it. Don’t they ever cancel the school buses because of weather…?

This is Montana. The buses have a snowplow up front and run in minus fifty below, Gabriel said and laughed. It’s not much different from Sudan, in the opposite way. There, the buses have an old army jeep grille up front and run in fifty above, and that’s in Celsius. And, they rattle the same way here as they do over in Africa, so that’s the comparative for you.

It was Carter’s turn to shake his head and laugh. Gabriel had acclimatized beyond Stella’s wildest hopes to life in small-town Montana, but she wanted the boy to remember his roots.

Not origins, Carter, I said roots, she’d said, leveling one of her patented judgmental looks at him. His parents and his uncle were missionaries, God’s couriers, as my aunt used to say. Gabriel should know as much as there is about his parents and his forebears.

Carter agreed, but the sad reality was that there was very little known about Lucille and Andrew Kraft, Gabriel’s parents, who died in Africa when their son was barely four years old. Andrew’s brother, Martin, took over the care of the young orphan and the two spent the next three years moving along the eastern coast, staying in various missions. Those were the memories that Stella wanted to nurture because they gave the boy a sense of belonging.

Carter disagreed. You gave him a sense of belonging. He’s a child of American parents, born abroad, and you as his caretaker are responsible for his adjustment. I’m not saying that the first seven years he lived in Africa should be forgotten, but I think you should let them fade on their own.

Naturally, Stella turned a deaf ear to good advice. Every school project, every essay, every story time and every show-and-tell, Stella insisted the boy choose his ‘other heritage’ as a subject. Finally, Carter put his foot down.

No more stories about capsizing ferries, tribal raids, and midnight flights through dense underbrush. Let him choose his own story to tell. Even better, ask him what he wants to choose as his topic and then help him research it—after all, it’s what you do best.

She grudgingly agreed to let the ‘dark’ past fade on its own, but now and then, Gabriel would come up with a recollection that had roots in his distant past, as Stella called it. Carter suspected the boy did it for effect, and most of the time, he’d pretend to be stumped by the comparative reference.

Do you think we should move to a bigger town, maybe a city? Carter asked the boy when they were already outside, trudging through the snow and trying to conserve breath, in case it froze inches away from his mouth.

Nope. Gabriel too had learned to speak with economy. Winters in Montana were great teachers.

Why not?

Like it here.

Hockey everywhere.

Sure, but here also friends.

Friends everywhere.

Yep, but not good friends.

Gotcha.

The big yellow school bus sat at the end of a very long street. Carter knew why it didn’t want to come in closer. Some of the mounds on either side of the road may not be just snow—but cars buried in snow. Carter walked the boy within a dozen feet of the bus and stopped.

Gabriel took a couple of steps toward the bus then turned. If it comes in the mail, don’t let Mom program it, he said.

Program what?

My new cell phone.

She ordered a cell phone for you—on the net?

Yes…didn’t she tell you?

What do you think? Carter made a face at the boy. Don’t worry. I won’t let her program it.

I want to try myself first. Gabriel was going to miss the bus if he let his worries consume him.

I said she won’t.

And you won’t either?

No. Now go, the bus driver is about to close the door. Why do you need a cell phone?

It’s safer to have one in Miami, the boy said and ran up the bus steps, the door closing after him.

Carter stood there watching the bus recede, but if someone had asked him when had the bus finally made a turn and disappeared, he wouldn’t have been able to answer.

Miami? finally, he breathed out. Miami? What the he…oh, that woman…Miami, really? By the time he was digging a bundle of mail from the mail box, the idea of actually seeing sun that warmed, as opposed to one that merely reflected its rays off an icy surface, was beginning to gain appeal.

What’s in Miami? he entered the kitchen with the question.

Heat, she said, not taking her eyes off the mountain of paper spread on the kitchen table.

The basketball team?

No. Have you ever seen me watch basketball?

No. What’s in Miami and it better be good.

I told you, heat—and a conference.

He put down the bundled mail. What kind of conference?

The regular kind.

Stella, you don’t know the meaning of that word. Besides, if it was regular, you wouldn’t have bought Gabe a cell phone. He motioned at the small package he’d just put down.

He’s going to be thirteen years old, Carter. He should have a cell phone—for emergencies.

Absolutely—if we lived in an area that actually has cell phone reception.

Come on, Carter. We have cell phone reception here and even Wi-Fi.

Sometimes. Other times, when we actually need to use a phone, we have satellite phone.

He needs to have some means of communication if he’s ever caught…. Her voice trailed off.

What—caught behind enemy lines?

Schools are not a safe place anymore. I just want him to have a cell phone, so he doesn’t have to go borrowing his friends’ all the time.

Fine. I understand, and I’m not arguing that point. I’m not even upset that you didn’t consult me on the matter. But I’m still waiting for an answer—what kind of conference?

26th Annual International Conference on History & Archaeology: From Ancient to Modern, December 15-23, she said.

Who schedules a conference for Christmas? Momentarily he was taken aback by the date.

It was supposed to be in July—in Wiltshire.

Wiltshire, Wiltshire…England?

She nodded and finally looked up. Naturally, it never happened.

"Why…oh, that Wiltshire." He made a soft hissing sound. Two years ago, his old mentor, Kriek, told him that the next wave of terror in Europe would be aimed at historical sites—those that would be difficult to repair, never mind rebuild. The site with stones that had withstood the test of time, succumbed to three consecutive attacks of terror. What was left of the Stonehenge could not be called anything but rubble.

Yes, Carter, that Wiltshire that no longer boasts Stonehenge amongst its tourist attractions. They were going to cancel the conference altogether, but they found a spot open at the Miami Beach Convention Center—for December 15 to 23—and I guess the organizers booked the conference.

And why are you going to the conference? he tested.

I was going to the one in July.

Really? How come I wasn’t invited?

Gabe was in summer camp, and you made plans to go camping and fishing with your buddy, Saunders.

You were going with Renata? His brows shot up. Saunders never mentioned that his wife would be going with Stella to England—to an academic conference of all things.

I was going with Renata—and Kaylee and Julia and Mollie.

The entire Saunders’ clan was going with you? He couldn’t believe his ears. How come he didn’t know a thing about this?

Kaylee is finishing her master’s in social anthropology at Stanford. There were a couple of papers from Russian delegates that were of interest to her. Julia has just started hers, in forensic psychology. There was an interesting paper—since withdrawn—from Montenegro, on assessment of criminal behavior throughout the history of man. Rennie was just coming along for support.

I see, he pursed his mouth. He’d spent a week with Saunders at the rustic cabin in the woods, fishing on the lake, and they’d certainly talked, but he didn’t interrogate the man about his family.

Come on, Carter, you would have been bored surrounded by all those professors, men and women of deep-dish academia.

Maybe…so how come the organizers invited you?

Because I’m a history professor and author.

You are an author, but you are no longer a history professor.

Cynthia asked me to submit a paper.

Your publisher, Cynthia? Why would she be asking you anything?

"Because there were a couple of papers challenging some of my findings in my Texts and Treasures book."

The one that has been out for more than a year already?

She stared at him as if he was her idiot cousin.

I thought your research was above reproach.

It is.

But…?

I didn’t include any treasure maps.

Did you find any treasure maps?

Once again, she served him her patented look meant to stop his questions.

Who would dare to challenge your research, Stella? He decided to be plain.

She shook her head. Cynthia got an anonymous letter, threatening to send evidence to the newspapers that I manufactured my research—my references.

He knew she would never do anything like that. It just wasn’t in her nature to be that unethical. She might withhold information—such as a treasure map—but only to stem the kind of hysteria that followed in the wake of her rival’s book on monasteries and treasures. However, he felt that she still hadn’t told him everything.

What would be the consequences to you if the author of that letter made good on his threat? He decided to explore this angle.

My reputation would be ruined.

What reputation? You’re not a professor anymore, and your publisher is actually on your side, so what’s the worry?

You wouldn’t understand, she tried to dismiss him.

Maybe, but unless you explain, we’ll never know.

There’s nothing to explain. Predictably she turned defensive

But Cynthia asked you to explain—isn’t that what you said? She asked you to submit a paper.

And I will, she said and started to sweep the paper mess together into a pile.

This isn’t your paper, is it?

No. This is my research.

Stella, what are you not telling me?

She rose and unceremoniously swept the pile of paper into a garbage bag she had next to her chair. He had never seen her do that with garbage, much less something that was her research.

I need to go down to Missoula for a couple of days. Will you and Gabe be all right? she asked without looking at him.

Sure. Take the SUV. Drive carefully…but what do you think you’ll find in the university library that you’d not be able to find from home—networking within your impressive academic global community?

I just need to double-check my references, she mumbled but wouldn’t look at him.

You triple-checked them a year ago, and you’re still being challenged. What is it about, Stella? Why can’t you tell me?

He didn’t expect her to pad over to him, hands outstretched for a hug, and took a step back.

Stella? He held her out at arm’s length. You’re just going to Missoula for couple of days, not leaving the planet.

Yeah, she pushed his arm down. And it’s just as cold there as it is here. I better pack enough warm clothing.

Chapter Three

It took Stella two hours to pack enough warm clothing to feel secure for a couple of days in Missoula, where she was going to stay at one of her old college friend’s house. Carter had met Sherry and her husband James, on a couple of occasions, when shopping for technology in Missoula. The Prestons had an electronics franchise that was doing all right. All through the two hours of watching Stella choose one sweatshirt only to put it down and pick up another nearly identical one, Carter didn’t say a thing. He figured that if or when she wanted his input, she’d ask for it. She certainly didn’t want him asking any questions.

Finally, when it looked like she would walk out the front door still dressed in her pajamas, he blocked her way.

It’s a five-hour drive to Missoula, not for the faint of heart in the dead of the winter, Stella. Why do you want to tease fate and test my endurance?

I need to spend a day or two in the university library, making sure all my footnotes and references are in order, she said, avoiding eye contact.

In the book that’s been out a year or in your mysterious research paper that Cynthia asked you to present at an even more mysterious conference?

Finally, she looked at him. I should have let Gabe stay home. Then we all could have gone down to Missoula and made it a mini-holiday, she said.

Or you could just stay home and tell me what it’s about.

For a moment, it looked like she might capitulate, but then she dropped the bag at his feet and said, I’ve got to go get dressed. Please take this out to the truck. You don’t mind, do you? She spoke the last words over her shoulder, heading back into the family room.

He didn’t mind taking out bags. He minded not knowing what the source of her panic was because that’s what it was. Fear and worry—panic. It wasn’t like Stella at all.

He made her take one of the two sat-phones they owned, even though she had a cell phone, and threatened her into promising that she’d call home—the moment she set foot in her friend’s house.

Why in a god’s name are you heading out for five hours in this kind of weather? he mumbled, watching the Volkswagen slowly make its way down the street. The Tuareg was a four-wheel drive, with great traction, still, he worried because Stella tended to grow inattentive when something was occupying her mind.

He made himself a fresh pot of coffee and then put the old-fashioned landline appliance on the table. He had to get to the bottom of this or he’d not be able to sleep…well, he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, until Stella called.

It was almost noon. California was just an hour behind. Was that sufficient for the museum to be open?

Oh, what the hell, he mumbled and dialed long distance.

Dr. McEwen, please, he said when the call was picked up.

May I ask who’s calling?

Don’t you have a call display? For some reason, the girl still annoyed him, and the last time he saw her was four years ago.

Just a moment, Mr. Hunter, she came back and put him on hold.

Serves me right, he mumbled.

Dr. McEwen is not in today, the receptionist came back to annoy him some more.

She could have told him that when he asked for Abby but probably recognized his voice—as the visitor who bullied her four years ago.

Thank you, he said and hung up. He wasn’t going to play her game today. He called Abigail at home.

Carter, is everything all right? Naturally, since he never called Stella’s ex-enemy-turned-best-friend, she would assume that something was wrong.

Nothing wrong here, Abby. I just wanted to talk to you…about something.

Ah, Stella’s gone out. Understood. What is she up to now?

He told her as succinctly as possible, finishing with, She’s really strung out by this challenge or whatever, and that’s not like her at all.

It’s a good thing you called me now. I wouldn’t be able to talk to you about it down in Miami, she said.

Miami? You’re going to that forsaken conference too?

She laughed. Frank and I both are delegates, though only Frank is giving a workshop. I’ll be there more to support him—and Stella, of course.

Is there something wrong with Stella’s last book? He decided to be blunt.

Not a thing, Abigail McEwen assured him,

So, her sources and references aren’t in question?

"They are in question, but that doesn’t mean they’re flawed or incorrect."

I don’t understand.

One way to ruin an academic’s credibility is to question his or her methods of conducting research and gathering data. Another is to challenge the interpretation of the said data. The last punch comes when the academic is challenged to prove his sources have integrity, which means produce them—document them—indeed, for all I know present a legal affidavit as to their validity. Stella’s being squeezed from all sides.

I understand that, but Stella’s no longer a university professor. I’m not saying she doesn’t care about her reputation as an author, but an academic…she’s out of that environment, he said.

Yes, but her book is still very much in that environment. In fact, it was written for just that kind of environment, therefore it needs endorsement by the academic community.

Why?

Abby laughed. I thought you’d have figured it out by now. Stella doesn’t write fiction, she writes text books. If a text book sells like fiction, more power to her. But that’s not where the book’s success lies.

He would have said that it was precisely where the book’s success came from. Abby disagreed. If the academic community endorses Stella’s book, it will find its way into every library in North America, even the rest of the world. It will become a curriculum text book. Do you know how huge that kind of achievement is for an academic?

He didn’t. But if Abigail McEwen thought it was huge, then Stella would too.

So, what parts of the book are being challenged? he asked.

Every part.

How can that be?

Stella’s book is about texts and treasures. She cites all sources, gives credit where credit’s due, and draws all the right conclusions. Her data analysis is flawless, her research is above reproach and her list of sources is about as complete as it can get.

But…? He held his breath. Instinct told him whatever came next would not be good.

I repeat—I thought you’d have figured it out by now.

Tell me, he growled.

Abby laughed. She did not include a single schematic, not a single drawing or reproduction of a treasure map.

And that’s what’s being challenged? He felt outrage welling inside him.

Texts and treasures. Unless you fill your appendix with treasure maps, no student is going to pick up that book and include it as a reference in his thesis.

He remembered Stella sorting through a regular portfolio of sketches and maps. She would have meticulously documented each and every claim, each and every statement with diagrams. Why didn’t she include them in her appendix?

So, which one of her old colleagues is challenging her? he asked.

None of her old colleagues would dare as much as raise a brow at her research. Not after two books that met with such spectacular success, Abby said.

Then who?

Only her foe.

You?

Come on, Carter. Stella and I have been best of friends even when we were enemies. I never doubted a speck of her research.

Then who?

"The man Stella’s hell bent on unmasking as