Solomom Stone: Captive: The Journey Home Series, #1

By Diana K Potter

A saga merging a beautiful ancient Spartan woman and a modern American man in a gripping tale of action, adventure, and budding romance.

Solomon Stone's life is about to change drastically. It's already taken a turn for the better—after a few stagnant years, he is finally able to travel the deserts of Egypt, completing much-needed research for his thesis in anthropology. In the midst of his exploration, an inexplicable turn of events sends him hurtling through time. 

Thrust into the distant past, Stone struggles to survive in the harsh and vast Persian Empire. 

Born more than two thousand years before Stone took his first breath, Alexis has always been content enough to work the land of her small farm, raise horses, and keep her family fed. After a simple trip to the marketplace goes badly awry, Alexis must rely on her bravery and charm to keep herself and her sister safe. 

When she encounters a strange man who claims to come from a faraway land with a nonsense name, she knows their best chance of survival is to work together against the cruelty of slavers and the dangers of the sea. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana K Potter
• Release date: Oct 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393119944

Book preview

Stone

He’d never been so hot in all his life. Solomon Stone had done a great deal of traveling, more than most others had done before they were thirty, but there was something about the heat of Egypt that was different than anywhere else. The pyramids of Giza loomed before him. Larger than life, they cast deep shadows that provided scant relief from the heat. Stone tilted his head back, craning his neck as he squinted at the top of the great pyramid. What had once been carved into a perfect point had long since eroded into something more rounded, but it still should have been far more impressive than Stone currently found it.

To say he loved history would be an understatement. It went hand in hand with his obsession with other cultures. But now that he was here, standing before one of his childhood obsessions, it felt as though he was missing something vital. Perhaps they would have lived up to his expectations if they weren’t so cluttered with tourists, but even in the latter weeks of fall, there were crowds of people milling about, snapping pictures with their phones and boosting their children onto the lower levels of the structure for the optimal shot. There were no barriers to keep them from doing so, and while he had spotted a few men in security uniforms wandering the area and checking tickets, none of them appeared to be invested in safeguarding the treasures they were paid to protect.

Camel ride? A man asked, inviting him on this supposedly divine excursion for the sixth time since he entered.

"La shukran," he said, the Arabic phrase for ‘no thanks’ rolling off his tongue. His knowledge of the language was rudimentary at best, but he had learned a few basics since his flight touched down several long weeks ago. ‘No thank you’ was proving to be the most useful phrase by far when it came to navigating the streets of Cairo. He did his best not to come off as an obvious tourist, but the men and women who patrolled historical sites selling their various wares seemed to have a sixth sense for picking out those new to an area. Stone didn’t take a frivolous amount of pictures or wave his American passport around. Perhaps there was something in his eyes that gave him away.

Are you sure, sir? Only five hundred pounds.

The government rate, posted on signs all around them, was quoted at three hundred pounds. I’ll pass, he said. "La shukran."

He strayed from the wooden pathway that skirted the great pyramid and walked toward the smaller queen’s pyramid, hoping to make his way to the Sphinx without being hounded any further. The sand slowed his gait considerably, and he could already feel it slipping into his sneakers with each step. He had spent the past month in the desert, doing preliminary research on a thesis that was meant to explore the culture of the Bedouin tribes. He had grown accustomed to many things, but the sand was not one of them.

Stone trudged through it as best he could, ignoring the sweat dripping down his nose and the strong wind that flung yet more sand in the direction of his eyes. He strayed further off the pathway, trash crunching underfoot as he turned around to glance at the imposing stone giants once more. It was easier from a distance to imagine the crowds away; he pictured them fading from view, as though swallowed up by an encroaching sandstorm.

He stopped at the queen’s pyramid on his way to the Sphinx, pleasantly surprised when it seemed that his entrance ticket allowed him to take a peek inside. He did so under the guidance of a stern looking security guard who led him through the low entrance and down a steep, sloped ladder. Inside, he was shown a dimly lit, stone-walled room. The guard ushered him through and gestured enthusiastically at the empty hole that had once held a sarcophagus. Inside, a man around his own age with red hair and a rather patchy beard posed for an exasperated looking young woman. Stone couldn’t bring himself to feel any irritation; it wasn’t like there was anything left in the tomb to preserve. The guard didn’t spare them a glance.

You know, the man said, pulling himself out of the grave and onto the narrow walkway that led to it, he only came down here with you because he’s angling for a tip. He inclined his head at the guard, who was waiting patiently to one side.

I didn’t invite him down, Stone said. He ripped my ticket and followed.

The man shrugged. Doesn’t matter. He’ll still expect one. The key is not to make eye contact.

The key, the woman offered a separate opinion, is to say ‘no thanks’ three times. We don’t start listening until the fourth round. She looked to be Egyptian, though her accent gave little away. I studied in London for a while, she said, answering the question he hadn’t meant to ask.

The man had already begun inching past the guard and toward the first room. It’s like an oven in here, Mal, he said. I’m heading back up.

Right, the woman said, with a nod in Stone’s direction. Apparently we’re leaving.

Stone only stayed a moment longer himself, looking around the dark, dusty room and doing his best to imagine it in its prime, with statues and finery adorning every corner, an ornate sarcophagus housing a sleeping queen just feet away.

Halfway up the steep ladder, the woman in front of him nearly fell, her soft-soled shoe slipping on the metal rung. Had Stone not been behind her, she might have fallen. As it was, her descent slowed by means of her foot against his face, smashing into his nose where he had unluckily been trying to peer around her at the grey sky above. He felt a bright burst of pain and cursed colorfully, nearly losing his grip on the ladder himself.

Shit, the woman said from above him. "I am so sorry! Did I hit you?"

Slightly, Stone answered, one hand still gripping the rung, the other prodding at his nose. It’s my fault, he added. Shouldn’t have been so close.

Her companion could be heard chuckling lightly above her, while the woman herself continued dropping apologies atop him as they climbed the rest of the way. After the oven-hot air within the depths of the pyramid, the heated desert almost felt cool in comparison. It wouldn’t last, but it was nice for the moment.

Stone stepped aside for the next group heading in and placed a few bills into the outstretched hand of the expectant security guard.

Hate to say I told you so, the red-haired man said with a grin.

The woman was staring at him with dawning guilt. "Ya Allah, she said. You’re bleeding." She fished about her bag for a long moment, while Stone and her companion exchanged an amused glance, before presenting him with a tissue. Stone took it gratefully and pressed it to his still throbbing nose, not surprised when a small dot of blood appeared against the thin white cloth.

It’s fine, he said again. I’ve had worse, believe me.

Still, the woman said. I’d have preferred not to maim anyone. I’m Malak. This is Clinton, she said, nodding at the man.

Solomon Stone, he said, shaking both of their outstretched hands in turn.

We were gonna head to the Sphinx and then grab some lunch. You’re welcome to join us. I can pay you back by scaring away the camel drivers. They bother you less if you are with an Egyptian.

That’s the only reason I’m friends with her, Clinton said, nudging the woman with an elbow.

Stone briefly considered turning down the offer and continuing to explore alone, but the option held little merit. The pyramids themselves were doing little for him; perhaps the experience could be salvaged if he had someone to commiserate with.

Sure, he said, inclining his head toward the security guard who was now pocketing his money and chatting with the next batch of tourists. I need all the help I can get.

❖❖❖

About halfway out there, Clinton went on. "They stop the camels and coax you into taking pictures of the panorama. They’re obsessed with the panorama and think every tourist is, too. While you’re taking pictures, this guy appears from nowhere like a literal mirage and hands you ice-cold soda. Never. Drink. The soda."

No matter how thirsty you are, Malak added.

Stone sat with the two friends on the second story of a pizza joint across the street from the pyramid complex. It wasn’t authentic Egyptian fare by a long shot, but Malak had claimed it had the best view of the pyramids. He’d been doubtful, but now that he was sitting in a booth alongside a huge window, he would gladly admit that she was right. From this far away, most of the trash that littered the sand wasn’t even visible, and the constant harping of the camel drivers and souvenir salesmen couldn’t quite reach them through the