Soul Slam, Soul Warriors Book 1

Soul Slam, Chapter One B

They entered the room.

More security guards doing nightly rounds?

Impossible.

The overhead lights flickered and then flooded the room. Footsteps shuffled on the concrete floor. Whoever it was, they weren't worried about making noise or getting caught.

But I was.

I dove toward a display case and crawled inside a concrete box with carvings on the sides. The heavy lid covered a small portion of the two by four foot space. The air stank of mold and it was hard to breathe. Even with the lid mostly off, I felt like I was suffocating in a coffin.

Maybe because it was a coffin. Or sarcophagus, as the Egyptians called it.

My lungs deflated and I quietly gasped for air. Sweat ran down my back in rivers. My entire body convulsed like a junkie in withdrawal. I hated small dark spaces.

Hate might be too mild.

Terrified. Petrified. Horrified. Or all three combined.

The sweat on my back chilled and I shivered, remembering my third set of foster parents and their interesting form of punishment. Now, I really felt sorry for the guard if he was still stuck in the mummy case. We'd both shrivel up and die.

My skin prickled and I felt like it would crawl off my body. I wanted to scream and jump out of the box, escape out of the museum and run into the night. Ragged breaths spurted between my lips. I stared blindly at the hieroglyphics and artwork of ancient cats with gold collars and bejeweled beds. My gaze caught on an etched golden key.

The realization I'd forgotten my pick came like a hard slap on the back of my head. A sharp shock jerked my body like the time I plugged in Christmas lights from the dumpster. I hadn't noticed the wires were frayed. I'd only wanted to brighten the younger kids' day, and instead I'd brightened the inside of my veins.

I peeked over the edge of the sarcophagus and glowered at the back of the display case. My pick stuck out of the lock like a big, red, warning flag.

All my nerve endings short-circuited. I imagined Fitch's harsh voice, "Never leave your tools behind. It's like leaving the cops your calling card." His lessons had been learned the hard way.

The footsteps moved closer to my hiding spot. Definitely more than one person. One set sounded off-rhythm, like he had a limp. The other flapped at a leisurely pace.

"Hurry, Xander. We don't have much time." The voice sounded older, probably the guy with the limp.

Hurry up hurry up hurry up.

I waited for them to get what they came for and leave, not caring if they were legitimate, or thieves like me. I wanted out now. So I could finish my job and get away.

"I've waited years for this and now you want to rush." The other guy's voice, the one called Xander, reminded me of the snooty owners of the fancy stores on Nob Hill that I'd cased.

"The Society has waited centuries," the older, more weary-sounding man answered. "You're only sixteen."

Sixteen like me. Only I wasn't arrogant. At the moment, fear and adrenaline twisted the acid in my stomach like an out-of-whack mixer. The instinct to run, or barf, came over me.

"How long will it take?"

My question exactly.

"The full moon eclipse will last for seventy-two minutes. The ceremony takes eighteen," the old guy said.