"You have a remarkable eye, Ms. Volancort," DeMorrell favored her with an indulgent smile. He had insisted she call him Lucius, but for some reason she could only think of him as DeMorrell. The tall man continued, seemingly pleased that her attention was more on him than on the contents of the display case, "The figures of Wotan and Dionysius, even the Quetzalcoatl, are commonplace, well known figures in the study of shamanic traditions. But this one! This piece was a lucky find. He is so old he doesn't even have a name or at least one that is remembered. Much of his cult was wiped out during colonial slave-raids."
It occurred to Nora that the professors she had studied under, academically and sexually, could learn a little something about excitement in a presentation from Mr. DeMorrell, but overall his explanation of the intriguing effigy lacked some meat. DeMorrell had easily picked up on her interest in the fourth display. He immediately moved to show it off in the same way an aging playboy would show off his prize sportscar to a much younger woman, and in a way this was precisely what he was doing. She wished he would just hurry up and explain where the artifact was from, or at least assign it some cultural provenance, never realizing it was all an act on DeMorrell's part. She was skilled at detecting falsehod and pretense, but not that skilled.
DeMorrell had no need to impress this young woman for the purposes of bedding her or otherwise. She might not recall it, but he could vividly remember many, many sexual encounters with her. He need not impress her with the historical importance of his collection nor was this ridiculous statue the prize of his collection. The prize of his collection was the all-powerful stone and DeMorrell had no intention of ever again making Nora aware of its existence. Rather, DeMorrell was sounding Nora out, determining what she remembered, who she was in this new world, figuring out precisely what chain of events had led her back here to his door.
"I call him the Proto-Ogun, though there is not much evidence to support a Yoruba origin for this figure," DeMorrell locked eyes with the young beauty and lowered his voice to convey the true sense of gravity his purpose required, "In fact, he is one of the primary reasons I had invited you to visit. It is my hope that together we can unlock the mystery of his birthplace."
"I assume you mean his specific birthplace?" Nora arched one brow, her voice becoming cool and professional as she turned back to the case, "Now that I have had a chance to examine it more closely, it is obvious the figure is African. The elongated form and fluid, almost abstract stylizations. Certain deocrative touches also, though you are correct in that those earrings and pectoral plate do not conform to the usual Yoruban iconogrphy. Those are more, well - - not Egyptian, but..."
"I know, precisely, 'but what?' Intriguing isn't it?" DeMorrell exposed even white teeth in a satisfied grin, knowing that the mystery of the statue had her hooked.
Nora smiled in spite of herself. She could almost see how some women might consider him charming, in his own way. He was too much an old money, jet-set alpha male for her tastes, of course, but he had a certain magnetism. Hannibal Lecter's calm. House's brains. James Bond's style. None of which meant she wasn't putting on a bit of the old starstruck student bit, eager to please the rich benefactor, talking way too much because she was in a rush to show the breadth of her knowledge. Still, it was almost a shame the man was married. At least he knew enough about his own collection to intelligently talk shop with her. Some collectors she had met couldn't tell a genuine find from a genuine fake.
"What's the material? Iron? And is it solid or hollow?" Nora turned to ask him. She caught her host staring out the windows along the west wall, eyes searching the darkness beyond, but for what?
"Oh, ah, iron, yes, but with some unsual impurities. Platinum, nickel, even traces of electrum and cobalt," DeMorrell realized she was staring and smiled self-consciously.
"And is it solid?" Nora repeated with a return smile, trying to direct him back to the statue with her eyes.
"Solid? Yes, I mean, no. There is a long cylindrical cavity inside it. Samples indicated it was etched out with or possibly contained some form of corrosive acid," DeMorrell sounded distracted as he answered.
"It held acid? It sounds almost like some kind of primitive battery," Nora threw him another look and he was once again staring out the window, which served to rekindle her earlier wariness.
"Battery? That seems un - -," DeMorrell never fisnished his sentence. He was interrupted by a heavy rumble which shook the entire southern wing of his sprawling mansion.
The ancient timbers groaned in protest, Nora could hear china and crystal in every room up and down the hall shivering like chimes, but the stoutly constructed building held strong. Nora and DeMorrell, however, were both thrown from their feet. DeMorrell made to catch her before he lost his own footing. They became hopelessly tangled, rolling over once, then twice before coming to a stop. Nora somehow landed on top of him instead of underneath.
Nora distantly realized she was straddling DeMorrell's waist, her skirt hiked all the way up on side, both shoes missing and a run in her stockings. The tips of her ears burned in a sudden blush of embarassment. As for DeMorrell, his face was suddenly buried in the sweater concealing Norah's firm young breasts, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other on the curve of her hip. They rode out the earth tremor in this somewhat undignified mannner, but when it ended as suddenly as it began, Nora was a little miffed that she didn't have to pry DeMorrell off her. After a quick look to make sure his guest was unhurt, DeMorrell leapt up, scarcely noticing their brief, but close contact, and darted to the nearby intercom control.
"All sections, report!" DeMorrell scowled after several seconds of no response and punched another button, "Security alert! All guards, condition black!"
Nora could hear a speaker crackle somewhere, though she was unsure if her host's message was intelligible to anyone but her.
"What happened?" Nora said in a slightly breathy voice, absently trying to rearrange her dishevelled hair.
"Earthquake, a fault line runs through this part of the Alps," DeMorrell tried to smile reassuringly and mostly succeeded, the lie springing to his lips unbidden, instinctually, "Rare, but not unheard of, my dear."
"Earthquake, I see," Nora said slowly, trying the idea on for size and privately deciding it was bullshit, "And 'condition black?'"
"A combination of things - - no alarms, so the security system is presumed offline. Perimeter sweep and recovery of any intruders. Just a precaution."
"Why? Do you think it was maybe some sort of explosion?" Nora unconsciously drew closer to her host. She was a little scared and Paolo was very far away.
"I must go, my dear," DeMorrell ignored her question, instead his big paws gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze, "I have to supervise my men, search for any injured, structural damage to the building, that sort of thing. You stay here. It will be safe, but on no account are you to leave this place."
With that, DeMorrell turned on his heel with military precision and strode from the room. Nora had it in her to be angry with his patronizing tone, but she envied his calm certainty and seeming lack of fear. If you had that, she guessed you were allowed to be a little patronizing. The Proto-Ogun momentarily forgotten, Nora nervously wandered about the spacious study, briefly admired the carved, wooden Wotan (one of very few not to be destroyed by early Christian missionaries to Germania), pulled books at random from the shelves.
Paracelsus. Blavatsky. Plato. Homer. Oppenheimer. Marquis De Sade. Freud. Schroedinger. Cayce. Poe. Crowley. Von Junzt. Tolkien. Cromwell. Sun Tzu. Lord Dunsany. Nora put each of them back in turn. DeMorrell obviously had a broad spectrum of interests, but Nora doubted that she could distract herself with any of them. A little further nosing about disclosed a well-stocked sideboard hidden behind a row of fake books. DeMorrell's taste in liquors was no less varied than his taste in reading material. Nora chose a smoky twenty year Scotch and tossed back the first shot without bothering to appreciate it. She downed the second shot slowly, savoring it, even as the mellow ball of fire lit by the first began to expand deep inside her.
Nora indulged herself in a third shot to take with her back to the Ogun's case. On the way back her eyes fell upon some sort of small portable communications tablet. It was laying on the endtable beside DeMorrell's overstuffed leather chair. His unfinished drink was next to it. Nora drifted toward it, the Ogun forgotten once more. Somehow it no longer seemed important. How could it distract her any more than the books? This had been an ill-omened trip from the start, her fight with Paolo, the long drive by night into the jaws of a storm, DeMorrell's bizarre behavior, and now, earthquakes or explosions or something for God's sake. The Ogun wasn't worth the trip, so how could it comfort her? Maybe this gadget could at least keep her up to date on what was happening.
Nora flopped down into the chair and snatched up the tablet with her free hand. The touch screen came alive at the flick of her thumb across it. Several feeds appeared. TV. Internet. Satellite. Radio. Video. Intercom. Nora went to hit Video, thinking she might be able to tap into the security cameras, but the Scotch was still at work, giving her a light, pleasant buzz. She hit Intercom by accident. The panel enlarged and subdivided into several color coded feeds; Manor, Guest House, Boat House, Gate, Helipad, and one last option that drew her eye both from sheer incongruity and from her own earlier thoughts about making babies, OB-GYN Lab One.
Nora selected OB-GYN Lab One and clicked the LISTEN half of the TALK/LISTEN button which sprang up.
She heard screaming. A woman screaming.
