Vicki Pettersson - Cheat the Grave

Three medieval-style windows popped from their casements along one wall, mere eye slits compared to the giant leaded windows overlooking the front lawn. Unadorned, they also seemed to follow my progress across the cavernous room. The rest of the marble room was sparse, making the giant gold dais and throne stand out all the more. With no interest in waking the dead, I avoided the prayer wheels, my attention on the masks spaced along the white. All were antique, all mystical, and I knew all contained a spirit trapped inside the hollowed space.

I put a wide swath of space between myself and a mask I’d worn before, even while squinting at the design work, looking for the telltale depiction of a snake. The spirit residing in that mask had once tried to take over my mind. When donned unwillingly, it trapped a person’s breath inside the concave form, effectively suffocating them without ever allowing their death. I half expected it to leap from the wall, secure itself to my face, and never let go.

Finishing with the masks, I turned my attention to the etchings on the Book of the Dead , bending low so I could view the spine of the book, propped open in its protective casing. Nothing. A closer look at the dais, carved and lacquered with geometric designs, proved it absent of anything resembling a snake, and the ornate throne was covered only in faceless whorls and endless knots. Sighing, I turned around in the room’s center, trying to see the place anew, then stilled as my gaze locked on Xavier’s office opposite the stupa’s entrance.

My office now, I reasoned, eyes narrowing like those slitted windows. And one containing a hidden room where he’d ritualistically, incrementally, given up his soul to provide power and strength to his benefactor, the Tulpa. Resisting the urge to spin a prayer wheel on the way, I left the aboveground tomb for a room buried even deeper.

Pressing my back against the office door, I took in the scent of leather and old books, a faint stale whiff of the cigars Xavier had liked to smoke, and something like invisible iron lying in the air-heavy, but not readily there. Any other mortal would dismiss it-and the chill it induced in the spine-as skittishness induced by a dead man’s room. Yet I knew it for the scorched remnants of a soul, leaving Xavier a dead man even before his body had given up the fight.

Pushing from the oak door, I made my way to the giant desk, where I flipped on a banker’s lamp and sent the shadows scurrying like rats. The chocolate walls were still lined with bookshelves, their contents still untouched. Smoked mirrors and crown molding slipped along the coffered ceiling, and everything else was dark mahogany, rich and shining, yet utterly without warmth. I left the heavy burgundy curtains drawn, not wanting the light from the study to spill out and reveal my location.

Now to discover the hidden room’s entrance.

I tried all the places you see in the movies-a latch under the desk, the wall lamp shaped like a candle, individual books lining the back wall. Nothing. Yet in going through the desk drawers I discovered the giant folder Xavier had handed over to me while on his deathbed. It detailed every boring financial aspect of the family business, which is why I hadn’t missed it, though I had no idea how and when it got shoved back into his study.

Helen, I thought wryly, dropping the folder onto the desk. She must have removed it during that bleak period I’d been convalescing in the mansion. Like I said, I had no interest in its contents, but I hated when someone made assumptions about what I could or couldn’t do. I’d decide for myself if I were interested in the family business, thanks very much. So I left the binder on the desk for later and went back to my search.

“C’mon, Jo,” I whispered, looking for some freaky little symbolic mark. Everyone in the Zodiac world loved that shit. Hearing a muffled sound just outside the door, I fell still, but after a full minute I resumed my search. It was probably just one of the masks yawning in boredom.

I was about to do the same when my gaze caught on the fireplace…and more specifically the tool set perched next to it. Interesting, as I’d never seen a fire burning inside it. Then again, Xavier had been built like an ox, and had probably run hot, at least before his illness. Which made the stoking tools even more of an oddity. Bending closer, I found hinges attached to each wrought-iron tool. “Bingo,” I whispered, yanking on one.

It wasn’t that easy. They obviously had to be pulled in a specific order, and with four tools, the combinations were endless. I tried a variation of the most obvious ones, glanced at my watch, then began a second, more hurried round. By the third I was sweating. By the fourth I heard another sound outside the office door.

“Think,” I cajoled myself, closing my eyes, trying to figure out what combination Xavier would find meaningful. The man had been neither sentimental nor superstitious. He’d only gotten involved with the Tulpa out of a desire to make a boatload of money. But while that told me he was a stupid, greedy bastard-things I already knew-it didn’t help me ferret out the combination leading to his secret room. Frustrated, I yanked on all four tools at the same time, like I could force the damned thing open.

A latch handle shot from beneath the middle shelf.

I couldn’t hold back my surprised laugh. Of course it would be all four at once. Xavier Archer always had wanted it all. Grabbing the handle and yanking it up, I pulled the heavy hinged door wide and entered the secret room.

Dual scents of sandalwood and soot hit me, the molecules and motes still heavy with remnants of the rituals Xavier had performed here. Obviously no one had aired out the room since his death, and for once I was thankful I’d lost my overly keen sense of smell.

After locating and lighting a thick, squat candle-the room lacked both electricity and contemporary furnishings-I shut the false wall behind me to prevent the scent’s escape, then gave the odd room a long onceover.

It’s like a movie set . Though all the furnishings-the pillows and throws, the incense and gold Buddhist statues-had been imported directly from Tibet. Xavier’s fetish for authenticity, and undoubtedly the Tulpa’s insistence on it, was apparent in every carefully chosen item. Colorful rugs in primary colors were rolled like yoga mats in the corner of the room. Bowls of bronze, silver, copper, and wood were stacked on a shelf above those, while another held an astonishing array of incense and candles, caught in stark relief against the whitewashed walls. I held the candle and the photo out in front of me and began comparing objects.

Intricate singing bowls, originally meant to worship the Buddhist gods, sat next to simple mallets lined on a rough-hewn shelf. I compared my photo to those, again coming up empty.

Dropping to the rug I’d once seen Xavier worshipping upon, I remembered the way Helen had stood at his back, forcing him to his knees and holding him there. The look on his face had been one of fear laced with agony, and while shock and lifelong animosity kept me from feeling sorry for him then, when I knelt on the very same pillow and viewed the room from his perspective, I couldn’t help feeling a sympathetic twinge.

The air was cooler and less cloying on the floor than when standing, so I crossed my legs and reached for the sole item still propped in the room’s center, a handheld prayer wheel. I’d researched the things after watching Xavier chant with one, and I gave this wheel an experimental flick of my wrist. Its weight surprised me as the metal cylinder inside clicked and the ballasted chain whirled to release the universally revered sound “Om” into the room.

I flicked my wrist again, then again, finding it strangely soothing. A mortal mind focused on the ritual of worship would easily fall into a trancelike state, bringing them closer to the object, or personage, of their worship.