“You turning in soon?” asked Ax.
“Dawn to dusk, that’s the glamorous life of an archaeologist,” I said.
“Quit being so bitter about Indiana Jones.”
“It’s directed more at Lara Croft.”
He laughed.
“Permit will be up in three days,” I said with a sigh. “I need another two weeks, at least.”
“You’re lucky you got any sand time at all in these parts,” said Ax. He reached into his shirt pocket, the place where his cigarettes had once rested, and withdrew his stash of peppermint toothpicks. He put one of the toothpicks into the side of his mouth and chewed. “Can’t believe you talked me into doing this shit again. It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe anywhere,” I responded automatically. Ax liked to bitch about dropping his whole life—which was running a series of successful businesses, including a very popular bar—to be my muscle. We toiled away the days in hopes of finding a grand truth about humankind’s past before the season was over and we had to leave our beloved sites. It could be boring as hell, but passion for my job drove me forward relentlessly. I liked delving into the lives of long-dead cultures. Ax suggested that the reason I put so much energy into archaeological endeavors was to avoid seeking the truth about my own past. He was probably right. But even so, I loved it. No matter how mind-numbing the work got, it still held a magnificence that resonated in my soul. And hell, getting a pass to explore this part of the desert had taken a lot of money, and a lot more ego-stroking of officials—from border guards to country leaders. I’d been trying to get back here for years, to the place where my grandfather had poured out his own passion and energy. He’d been trying to save me—the granddaughter who’d imploded emotionally and returned from the brink with nothing but a fierce, pulsing rage. My grandfather probably should’ve left me in the loony bin, but instead he put me on a plane, dragged me halfway around the world, and gave me a purpose. He gifted me with the archaeological need to connect with our ancestors, to find the core of our truths, to embrace the past in hopes of gaining insight into the present.
No one came here. Too much desert, too much danger, too much digging. My grandfather thought there was a very important temple complex out here, one devoted to Set, the god of chaos. The killer of Osiris. Grandfather may not have found the site, but he’d never lost his belief in it. He’d known something grand was out here, something that could potentially change history, change the world.
And I wanted to find it.
Granted, trying to extract ancient history from the desert while war raged around our perimeter was certainly more dangerous than trying to cross the street in Manhattan.
But not by much.
“You going to therapy once we hit Stateside?” asked Ax.
Ugh. Ax kept asking me this question—no doubt hoping to get a different answer. He didn’t like my usual response. I looked at the dancing flames of the fire and pretended he wasn’t staring at me. “Nope.”
“Aw, Moira. You gotta do something.”
“I was thinking about a mani-pedi and a shopping spree at Louis Vuitton.”
“You’re too fucking stubborn,” he said. “You want your brain to melt again?”
“That was twenty years ago,” I said.
“So what?”
“I take my meds, all right?” I looked at him and twirled my forefinger near my temple. “Two pills a day keep the crazy away.”
“You need to get off that antipsychotic bullshit. Give the head shrinkers another shot.”
No, I didn’t. I had yet to find a psychiatrist who didn’t drive me crazy. Talking about the past didn’t help. Not at all. Ever. “I’d rather sit on hot coals and eat broken glass while listening to you screech the wrong lyrics to ‘Material Girl.’”
“And that’s why I stopped serving half-price shooters on karaoke nights.”
“The video got a lot of YouTube hits,” I said sweetly. After all, I was the one who’d posted two full minutes of Ax’s Madonna-induced shame. Actions such as those probably explained why I didn’t have a lot of friends. That, and my rep for being a total nut job. Honestly, you de-pant one senator’s son at the country club and you get a bad rap forever. Of course, I did shove him into the pool after yanking down his swim trunks and revealing his rather small penis to the party in progress. If he hadn’t tried to stick his tongue down my throat while making an awkward grab for my breasts, he would’ve remained clothed and dry. I was sixteen, my reputation tainted by my stint in the wacky hut, and according to the senator, I had relapsed. Years later, that same son was arrested for soliciting a prostitute, and when they searched his car, they found a shit ton of cocaine. He went to jail, the wife went to Italy, and the senator went to hell. Who was holding the handbasket then, I ask you?