The God Collector Read online

  Their love is ancient history if they can’t catch the thief out to kill them.

  Theodora Speer loves her job at the Columbian Exposition Museum designing murals, but a sense of movement—in her art and in her life—eludes her. She meets the museum’s enigmatic donor Seth Adler while working on a new exhibit: a strange cache of shabtis, or clay funerary figurines, accompanying a prize mummy, and something sparks.

  Seth Adler’s interest in the Egyptian artifacts and in Theo goes deeper than patronage, but he can’t tell her that. A series of robberies has everyone on edge and when the Columbian is hit, Theo and Seth are implicated. Someone thinks there was more to the ancient Egyptian funeral rites than meets the eye and wants the mummy and his grave goods.

  Seth and Theo are forced on the run, and it may be too much movement for strict realist Theo to keep up with. But the man—and the mummy—are more than she realized. And if she can’t reconcile the past and the present, she and Seth may have no future.

  Warning: A hero with an affinity for grave dust and an artist who’d like to do more than nail his unique skin tone to the wall. Contains an off-label use for paint thinner you WON’T want to try at home. Try to keep up!

  The God Collector

  Catherine Butzen

  Dedication

  For Z.S., who brought it to life.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to pretend that this book was the work of a swashbuckling lone genius, but that would be a lie in every possible way. I’m not a genius, I’ve never buckled a swash in my life, and a lot of other people contributed to The God Collector.

  First, I owe a debt of gratitude to my friend Zak, who gave me the idea of a mummy trapped in a museum’s collection. The world lost a great yarn when he chose not to use it, but I’m grateful that he let me take the concept in my own direction.

  My family was invaluable. The main six of them analyzed plot points, gave me honest feedback and put up with me yakking about ancient Egypt for three straight years. A special thank-you goes to my parents, Anne and Fred, who took us all to museums when we were little, nourished my interests in stories, languages and history, and didn’t laugh when I decided I wanted to write a book about a mummy.

  Pat Jackson was my first reader and reviewer, and her comments guided me on my maiden voyage into this subgenre. She read this book in its earliest, rawest form, and I owe her many, many thanks. Maybe hazard pay too.

  Feedback and morale boosting were provided by a very special crew: my online writers’ group. Theresa, Kathleen, C.Z., T.S., Kusari, T.W., Brigitte and all the other ladies of the Pit Literary Society—thank you for your critiques and honesty. And patience. Oh-so much patience.

  Carol Gorman taught my freshman class on novel writing and has been a friend and mentor ever since. She showed me how to outline, how not to write a pitch, and the value of a thorough edit. Her husband, Ed, introduced me to some of the realities of the publishing business and put up with my reflexively calling him “sir”, even after he asked me not to.

  Last, and definitely not least, editor extraordinaire Jessica Corra picked The God Collector out of the pile at Samhain and gave me a chance to make something of it. She called out my silly mistakes, hunted inaccuracies ruthlessly and waged a one-woman war on passive voice. Any remaining errors in this book are mine and mine alone.

  Prologue

  The security guard sat filling out a time sheet when the door opened behind him.

  “You took your damn time, Jay…” he began.

  It wasn’t Jay. A handful of gray powder blinded him, and a deep, hacking cough cut off his next words. The powder clung to him, filling his lungs, its sickly sweet scent overpowering him. In the space of three breaths, he was unconscious.

  Black-and-white monitors lined the small room, displaying feeds from all over the Oriental Institute. The man double-checked them all. Nobody was about to disturb him—especially not Jay, who was sleeping off his own dose under a table in the employee cafeteria. The man plugged in a small laptop and made a few artistic tweaks to the security system.

  The powder’s effects would wear off within fifteen minutes, and the guards wouldn’t remember a thing about their blackouts. Not enough time for a full-scale burglary, but more than enough to make the changes he needed. He typed quickly, tongue between his teeth, as the guard snored in his chair. Patience, patience and time management were the keys. They always had been, but modern technology required a little more patience than he was used to when doing this kind of work.

  In two weeks, the new collection would arrive. Once they actually had the items in hand, the Institute’s new procedures would go into effect, and the system would be virtually unbreachable. Unless, of course, he had first arranged a way in for himself.

  Behind him, Hank snorted a little in his sleep. The man smiled a little as he worked. Falling asleep on the night shift was regrettable, but not impossible. Besides, how much could’ve gone wrong in fifteen minutes?

  There. With a final keystroke, he sent his little bundle of code spiraling off into the system. When he came back, his door would be waiting for him. And the servants would be there in the darkness, waiting to answer his call, just like they should have been a long, long time ago.

  Chapter One

  …I gave the priest the whole story, reminding him of his promise of silence, and asked him what I should do. He said to me, “If you are insane, pray for healing. If you are telling the truth, begin a diary. No gods will help you in this.”

  ~Excerpt from the Steen Papyrus, circa. 1400 BCE (fragment)

  Transforming the main hall of a natural history museum into a party venue wasn’t always easy, but the planning committee had done a better job than usual. Long strands of lights hung from the second-floor balconies in glittering loops, the statues of the Muses near the ceiling had been cleaned and polished, and flickering lamps in cobalt-and-gold shades lit up the dozen round tables arranged in front of the central dais. A pack of skeletal Struthiomimus sedens stood proudly on their pedestal, their black fiberglass bones touched with glossy yellow-white in the lamplight. Behind them loomed the massive figure of Little John, a near-complete Tyrannosaurus unfazed by the party going on under his huge feet. Dozens of guests circulated in black tie and long gowns, their laughter and conversation muted slightly by the sheer size of the hall.

  Theodora Speer glanced down, checking her hands and dress one last time for any flecks of paint. She had worn a plastic smock while working and had looked herself over when she finished up for the night, but being surrounded by so many well-dressed people had started her worrying again. Paint stains, like spinach in your teeth, tended to be invisible until the moment of maximum embarrassment.

  Nothing. Good. She smoothed down her eggshell-white dress and tried not to look nervous.

  Waiters circulated among the crowd, carrying trays of champagne and, in a nod to the upcoming festive season and the chilly November weather, hot cider. Theo took a glass of cider and carefully sipped as she glanced around, trying to spot some of her coworkers.

  Every year the museum gave a party for its most generous donors, and certain staffers were selected to attend. Their job was to make friendly conversation with the people who funded their work and, hopefully, keep the donations flowing for another year. Theo wasn’t entirely sure why the art department had been tapped for the job this time; the people who designed murals, posters and resalable pop art for the gift shop didn’t usually rub elbows with the paleontologists and doctors.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Theo jumped a little and reflexively clutched the glass to prevent spilling her cider. That voice,
at least, she recognized.

  “I wasn’t thinking much of anything, Aki,” she said, turning to face the grinning, dark-haired man. Akeela Lee was an Abstract Impressionist who dabbled in Surrealism when he was bored and considered ragged T-shirts the height of fashion. Seeing him in a tuxedo was a little like seeing a clock melt. “Just letting my mind wander. You look good.”

  “Only under protest,” Aki responded, tugging at his bow tie with a momentary grimace. “I thought we were past the point where society requires that we kill ourselves to meet a standard of beauty.”

  “Society doesn’t require it, publicity does,” Theo pointed out.

  Aki yanked on the bow tie again. “Poh-tay-toh, poh-tah-toh.”

  “If it’s bothering you that much, get rid of it and go for the free-spirited artist look. I bet half the guests don’t want to be dressed up either.”

  “No can do. Schechter made a point to tell me, specifically, about the dress code.” Giving up on the bow tie, Aki tucked his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “On the other hand, it means I get to be the Asian James Bond for an evening. Lee. Akeela Lee.”

  “Sandy must’ve liked it.”

  Aki’s gaze flicked across the room, settling quickly on Sandra Navarro, a slim, dark-skinned woman in a flame-colored evening gown. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “Of course not.” Theo finished her drink and set the glass down on one of the tables, where it was instantly whisked away by a waiter. “You’re just a nice colleague with a healthy respect for her work, right?”

  That got a scoff from Aki. “So I’m taking it slow. Big freaking deal. And if we’re going to be talking about awkward personal stuff—”

  “Nice transition.”

  “Thank you. If we’re going to be talking about awkward personal stuff, what about you? I keep expecting to come in in the morning and find you sleeping under your desk. Hell, I’m surprised you even turned up to this.” He raised an eyebrow at Theo. “You need to have more fun.”

  “There’s a flaw in your argument. Two flaws, actually.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “One, implying that I’m here voluntarily. Two, implying that forced socializing with my coworkers, not all of whom are as adorably weird as you are, qualifies as fun.”

  “Still not an answer. Don’t tell me you couldn’t have weaseled out of this.”

  “Publicity.” That one word was sufficient to sum up the whole situation, and Aki nodded knowingly. Who could fathom the mind of Publicity?

  The art department of Chicago’s Columbian Exposition Museum of Natural History often fell victim to the plans of Mariana K. Schechter, PhD, and her public-relations team. Members of the scholarly departments—the historians, anthropologists and archaeologists, the preservation experts and librarians—made the discoveries and showcased the pieces of history that drew in the crowds, and Dr. Schechter rarely had a problem with them.

  The art department, on the other hand, was not only responsible for gift-shop fodder, banners and murals, but also the general aesthetics of the place, including that sticky and indeterminate requirement—“child friendly”. Theo had frequently crossed swords with Dr. Schechter over what was and wasn’t allowable in a public space. Unfortunately, Publicity had won their last bout after a parents’ group complained about the heavily armed and fearsome-looking Aztec warriors on the wall in the children’s annex, and Theo had been forced to concede that Publicity usually knew what it was doing.

  Still…

  “Why does Publicity even want us here?” Aki insisted. He was naturally inquisitive, especially when it came to things he didn’t like having to do. “They’re all fired up for Treasures of the Middle Kingdom, even to the point of Egyptianizing the annual party. So when they invite the trustees and board members to a shindig, they trot out the entire Egyptology Department, the Ancient Religions guys… I think I saw the Cultural Anthropology team leader buried in the hors d’oeuvres. And I saw that jackass Zimmer glaring at some old lady who was checking out the naked-warrior bronze. But the people who design brochures?”

  “Brochures for the exhibit,” Theo pointed out. She had to admit she was curious too, but after the Aztec warriors, she was trying not to rock the boat. “And of course they’ve got Zimmer here. The patrons probably like seeing the head of Security around; it tells them we’re serious about protecting their investments.”

  “You mean they’re serious now. If that Collector guy doesn’t get caught soon, Publicity is going to have a collective heart attack.”

  Theo shushed him. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about that. Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “Four times. I think Security has it in for me.” Aki tucked both his hands into his pockets and glanced around. “Come on, lighten up. If you really think nobody here has heard about that whole thing, you’re delusional. The minute the papers gave the guy a name—”

  “I know, I know. But I don’t want to get fired. Do you?” Theo glanced around, wondering if anybody had overheard them. The Columbian had its own specialized gossip networks and talk flowed freely enough most times, but it was widely acknowledged that talking about the Midwest’s recent spate of museum thefts was a bad career move. Nobody wanted the high-powered donors thinking the Columbian might lose the items they had helped it to buy.

  Fortunately, she spotted a distraction. Sandra Navarro had been buttonholed by the head of the Margrave Foundation and was sending out subtle but clear signals for help. Theo nudged Aki. “Go talk to Sandy.”

  Aki frowned. “What? Why?”

  “Trust me. Go talk to her.” Theo gave Aki a gentle push. “Be her artist in shining armor.”

  It took Aki a moment to catch on, but when he did, he quickly stepped up to the plate. Taking two champagne glasses from a passing waiter’s tray, he hurried across the room and neatly inserted himself between Freddie Margrave and Sandra, offering each a glass. Bond, indeed—the man could be smooth when he wanted to. Sandra’s expression of relief was noticeable, though she quickly changed it to a smile when Margrave glanced her way. Judging by her look, Margrave had been talking either golf or marital infidelity.

  Within moments, an army of waiters appeared from the sidelines, carrying stacks of dishes and silverware. As the guests chatted and sipped their drinks, the waiters—moving with the well-trained precision that made it a spectacle worth watching—whisked fresh cloths and place settings onto the tables and transformed the scene from lounge to dining room. Place cards were set out, and a tantalizing aroma stole into the air. Dinner was about to be served.

  Now the circling groups took on a purposeful air. The board members and wealthiest donors moved towards the dais, while the hoi polloi casually glanced around to find their place cards. The waiters melted into the shadows at the edge of the great hall, to be replaced by sommeliers bearing wine lists and more champagne.

  Theo quickly found her assigned spot. To her surprise, she was at one of the midlevel tables with a professor of art history, a prominent (and wealthy) modernist sculptor and a name she vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. Well, that explained it—Dr. Schechter always arranged these events as carefully as Caesar managed his legions, and she wanted someone from the art department for this group.

  A glance over her shoulder confirmed that Aki and Sandra had been placed a few tables over with some dour-looking men in suits. Clearly, the doctor was deploying those charmers where they were needed the most.

  Taking a seat, Theo surveyed the others joining her. Professor Greg Applebaum from Culver was a tousle-haired, blond man who looked much less comfortable than Aki in his own tuxedo and bow tie. The sculptor Sinai was lounging in his chair, glancing around at the gathering with bright eyes, an ironic smile lighting up his thin face. Theo didn’t know much about him, though she would bet good money that would change by the end of the evening.

  The third member of the group surpris
ed her somewhat. He was tall, six foot two at least, with fluid lips and neatly parted black hair—now streaked with iron gray—that reached to just past his earlobe. His brown eyes were slightly tilted, not quite almond-shaped but near enough to be noticeable, and fringed with charcoal lashes. Faint lines in the corners of his eyes and in the creases by his thin-bridged nose completed the look—he could be anywhere from an overstressed thirty-five to a carefree fifty.

  The thing that drew Theo’s gaze, though, was his skin. It was a deep coffee color and should have had a touch of copper in the yellow-tinted light of the table’s alcohol lamp, but instead there was a soft blue-gray undertone she had never seen before. It was as if the red notes normally found in such a color had been washed out and replaced with indigo.

  If I painted him, Theo thought, I’d begin with purple ochre. Not a color that normally cropped up in her life portraits. She rubbed her thumb against her folded knuckles, wishing for a pencil.

  The man turned and caught Theo’s stare eye to eye. Awkward. She felt her cheeks warm and instinctively lowered her head a little, trying to make herself unobtrusive.

  It didn’t work. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met,” the man said, holding out one broad hand. “I’m Seth Adler.”

  “I—nice to meet you, I mean, Mr. Adler,” Theo said, trying to maintain some form of composure. The words came out rushed. “I’m Theodora Speer. I’m one of the artists here at the Columbian.”

  Seth Adler’s eyebrows rose just a little at her first name, but he smiled and didn’t comment on it. The hand that Theo shook was hard and strong, with square, blunted fingernails and callouses discoloring the tips of the fingers. They were old and thick, their shade a little lighter than the rest of his skin. Purple ochre, Theo agreed with herself, but desaturated. Maybe some faint warm tones, blended and layered…get some cadmium yellow, but never enough to hide the blues underneath.