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4

     
    Rurik knelt before the window into the tomb, removing the stones one by one, brushing away the dust of a thousand years. Concentrating on his work . . . and all the while, along the edges of his mind, he was aware of Tasya. He heard the clicking of her camera as she recorded his movements. Listened to her voice as she noted his progress. Felt the heat of her body as she knelt beside him.
    He didn't want her here.
    Every bit of research he'd done on Clovus the Be-header told him the warrior had been nothing better than a medieval serial killer—a cannibal, a savage, a bully who scorched a path of destruction across Europe, and took such pleasure in others' suffering, modern society would label him a psychopath.
    Traps? Yes, for all that Clovus was most certainly burning in hell, and had no use for his plunder there, he would have made sure no one else would ever have a moment of pleasure from his loot.
    Working here was nothing more or less than waiting for the next blow to fall . . . and if Rurik wasn't careful, Tasya would be the next one lying dead on a slab in the church.
    At the same time, he rejoiced to know they worked together again. He would keep her alive, and somehow make her pay for making a fool of him. Make her pay with her lips and her body and her mind, over and over, until she hadn't the strength to walk away again.
    As he eased each stone away, opening a larger and larger door into the home of the dead, he kept his attention on his work and away from the stone shelf that held the treasure chest.
    He wanted to reach out and take it, but the lesson taught by Hardwick's greed couldn't be discounted. And, too, the placement of the chest was suspect— why put a treasure where it would be so easily seen by any casual grave robber? Why was there a stone wall behind it that concealed the interior of the tomb? A thin sheet of hammered gold covered the box, and the brass lock held a key, waiting to turn. The treasure chest was a lure, and Rurik did not doubt that more traps awaited him.
    "Wait a minute, Rurik." Tasya turned and handed Ashley the camera. "Step back—carefully!—and take pictures of the project as a whole. I want a wide frame of the walls,, the path, and the hole we're opening here."
    "Right." Ashley sounded glad to move back—she must be truly frightened.
    As he placed his fingers on the next stone, Tasya laid her hand over his, and spoke softly in his ear. "Don't pull that one loose."
    He turned to look in her eyes.
    The bright blue had turned gray and grave; she knew something he didn't. "It doesn't feel right. Step away, and pull it with a stick or a grappling hook."
    It doesn't feel right? What the hell does that mean?
    "Why should I listen to you?" Why should he listen to a warning issued by a woman concerned with nothing but herself and her career?
    Tasya's hand clenched on his. "It's not like I give a damn whether you live or die. But I'm not anxious to see another man dripping blood while he hangs on the tip of a sword."
    "Charming."
    "Right. So what have you got to lose?" Her sarcastic tone belied the intensity in her face. She was sure. So sure.
    And while he wanted to dismiss her, he'd seen his mother,the most prosaic woman in the world, clutched in the jaws of a powerful prophecy. On that day less than two weeks ago, his life had broken in half . . . again.
    A man learned from his experiences. Rurik would not dismiss Tasya's warning, but he would use the opportunity to discover more—about her, and about her past, the past about which she never spoke.
    Moving with care, he withdrew his hand from the stone. He turned his palm within hers, and grasped her fingers. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
    Tasya shrugged and looked away. "I have a feeling," she said in a low tone.
    "Did you have a feeling about Hardwick?"
    Tasya's pale complexion turned gray.
    Apparently, even a tough reporter knew fear when brushed by the supernatural. "Yes. But I couldn't get to him in