In a hot desert town outside Egypt

Nefarious things were always done at night. Tomas had seen it countless times, and this time would be no different.

As a man who lived in shadows, he expected it. After all, didn’t Tomas also move by darkness to accomplish his dirty deeds? And, he should note, those deeds did not come cheap.

Under the cloak of night, Tomas had acquired a tail—not the kind that wagged behind him, he might add. His tail was of the human variety, and he caught them following, but only by chance. Whoever they were, he would commend them before he killed them because they were truly gifted at the art of blending in.

No amateurs these. Their garb was a perfect foil, the fabric worn and dusty. The head covering revealed only the eyes. He might have thought them townspeople if not for the intelligence and rapier tracking of their gazes. The lethargic Bedouins in this small, sleepy town weren’t that determined.

The inhabitants of this place also never followed Tomas, not once they knew why he’d come—and it wasn’t for the spicy maqluba that Hala made fresh every day.

There were other things in this sleepy town that caught his eye. Old things.

I am the man who speaks with ghosts. Not literally. Although, he would add that he found the dead much easier to handle than real people. Real people talked and expected replies. Some wanted to be his friend. As if he’d stoop so low. Bad enough that he had to work among the unknowing masses. Even his team of archeologists—many of them fresh-out-of-school ideologists—grated on his nerves. He would have preferred to study this new scientific site on his own. I want to keep the secrets for myself. But in this day and age, appearances had to be kept, and permission given.

I am a modern-day Indiana Jones—without the hat, the whip, and the girl. Why waste his time on trappings when Tomas was more interested in other things? Like the past. More specifically, the mysteries lost through time.

Knowledge is priceless.

Tomas wasn’t the only one who liked ancient artifacts. Robbers, especially those dealing with rich collectors, wanted to get their grubby hands on his treasures. They could try. It would be the last thing they did.

Tomas couldn’t abide robbers. And no, he didn’t think of himself as a thief, but rather a collector. As such, he didn’t have to abide by the same rules as others. I am above petty laws, but since killing people tended to cause problems, he tried to ensure people deserved it—and usually, guaranteed there was no body to find.

In the case of his tail, he magnanimously decided to see if they deserved a quiet death.

Screaming ones are better for morale. Yes, they were also more fun, but it tended to freak out civilians, and many citizens were armed nowadays.

In the off chance Tomas’s paranoia tried to get the better of him—who knew what that last batch of hashish he smoked was laced with—he darted into a stall, fabric stretched on poles framing the entrance to a shop.

The curtain barely rustled when he ducked inside and startled the man eating his dinner. The mustache on the man’s upper lip was lush, his skin pockmarked from acne. When the shopkeeper went to stand, Tomas held up a hand.

“Don’t stop eating on my account. Finish your meal while I browse your wares.” Tomas had not planned to buy anything, but since he needed a reason to linger, he might as well see what was being offered.

The largish room was filled with carpets, most of them rolled tightly, but there were a few lavishly woven pieces hanging on the walls, and another spread out on the floor.

A bright blue mosaic fabric at the top of a pile drew his eyes. Even rolled, the bold patterns appealed. He forgot for a moment why he’d initially come in here—tail, what tail?—and Tomas did what any shopper would. He ordered a carpet—one that he did not need.

I want it.

He would enjoy the new rug in his tent, the thickly woven tapestry a rush of bold color that would brighten his living quarters when they delivered it the next day.

No one else entered the store while he conducted his business. Tomas paid the shopkeeper and then ventured out.

Emerging from the dim interior, he let his eyes adjust to the gloom of the thick night. The glow from a few lanterns was the only thing holding back the deepest darkness. He immediately noticed he’d not lost those following him. It didn’t prove difficult to spot furtive movement ahead on the dusty path between dwellings, and the prickling on his nape let him know that another hid somewhere behind and nearby.

Sandwiched. How sporting.

Tomas pretended as if he didn’t spot them—wouldn’t want to scare them off. He sauntered with feigned casualness to hide the adrenaline that had begun to course through his veins. Finally, a little more excitement than the careful digging, dusting, and sifting of broken bits found in the dirt.

I was so sure I’d find something here. All the signs indicated to the treasure trove being around here somewhere. But he’d yet to find definitive proof.

Frustration wasn’t something he handled well, so this group’s attempt to shadow him provided a much-needed break in the monotony of his current excavation project.

Foolish thieves. They should have chosen an easier mark. He’d teach them a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

With his hands shoved into his pockets, Tomas walked along the dusty path that wound through the eclectic mix of buildings, most built of stone, some of corrugated siding, even a few canvas tents. He exited the town without being accosted—a shame—and began heading toward his camp. He doubted they’d let him get that far.

Look at me, walking as if I haven’t a care in the world. La-de-fucking-da. He thought about whistling, but worried it would be a little too much insouciance.

The thieves waited for him to reach a curve in the path, the one that took Tomas out of sight of town and away from any eyes that might be watching. A fellow stepped into the middle of the road and pointed a knife at him. Tomas didn’t need to peer over his shoulder to know his second pursuer closed the gap. Probably sporting another blade, or perhaps he was more of a gun-toting chap. Either way, not good odds…for them.

Lips pulled into a grim smile, Tomas dropped his knapsack onto the ground. He took a moment and rolled up his sleeves, the picture of indifference. In a sense, he was. The challenge wouldn’t last long, and wouldn’t even cause him to break out in a sweat he was sure. Few things humans did could really make him exert himself.

It was only as the guy with the knife neared that Tomas realized there was no scent, none at all—wyverns!—confirming a gleeful fact.

These aren’t simple thieves. Because where there were wyverns, dragons usually followed. What an excellent evening this was turning out to be. The most exciting thing to happen since he’d arrived.

His tunic shirt gave him plenty of room to move in. He dropped into a fighting stance, limbering up his muscles as he bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” His fist shot out, and the knife guy dodged left, avoiding it. The knife slashed forward, but Tomas blocked it with a blow to the man’s wrist. He swung with his other hand and gut punched the fellow. His opponent blew out a hard blast of air and hunched, drawing his shoulders in, his face down.

Crack. Tomas connected his fist to the guy’s chin and sent him flying backwards.

He’d no sooner finished the arc of that swing than he ducked and spun, lashing out with his foot and tangling it in the ankles of the second assailant.

In a mere blink, he knelt on the guy’s chest, his knees pinning the man’s arms, his hands gripping the fellow by the neck. “What do you want? Is it treasure you’re after?”

“Now!” yelled the fellow on the ground.

Too late did Tomas realize the trap he’d fallen into. While busy with two weak opponents, the true threat moved in.

The men, dressed in night-blending attire, aimed a series of guns at him. Too many for them all to miss.

But it would be interesting to see how many he could take out before they took him down. He roared as he charged, pulling on his essence, not caring if anyone saw. The seams on his clothes pulled apart then ripped as his true self sought to break free.

The first dart hit, and he kept moving. The second and third still didn’t do much. By the fourth and fifth, his body started slowing. By the time he’d gotten hit by his eighth dose of drugs, his eyes were shutting, and his beast let out a wail within his mind—even as it succumbed.

When next Tomas woke, he was in chains, the guest of a madman.

He couldn’t have been more delighted. It gave him cart blanche to spill blood and finally indulge in that break he’d been wishing for.

About time I took a vacation.