The Explorers Part 4 | A Romantic Short Story
Tensions run high on a journey to find a mysterious text for a driven professor aiming to protect history and an overzealous archaeologist with uncertain alliances. A LVNDR Romantic Short Story. 18+
“Sweet dreams?” The Archaeologist jeered as he docked the plane, his hands flitting across the control panel. He twisted towards The Professor, a smug grin on his face.
“Yes.” Margret stretched as much as possible in the tiny compartment as they taxied to a docking station. “I dreamed I was far away from you.”
”Oh, don’t lie.” Henry’s grin widened. “You talk in your sleep.”
The plane stopped, and Henry circled to Margaret’s door, opening it wide. The London chill rushed in, wiping the blush from her cheeks.
Before she could refuse his gesture, Henry grabbed the luggage at Margaret’s feet, picked her up by the waist, and set her down on the tarmac. The Archaeologist had begun walking away, her bag still in tow, before she could even decipher East from West.
”I’ll grab a taxi from here.” The Professor insisted as she trotted to catch up to Henry, who was already opening the gate between the runway and the car park.
“Ah, look at that,” Henry was saying as he tossed the bags into the back of a forest green Cadillac before dropping into the driver’s seat. “Taxi’s here.”
The Archaeologist’s flat smelled of wet grass and burnt firewood as if the nature he was most comfortable has infused itself into the urban apartment. Margaret was admiring the view of the park beyond the living room’s cracked window when Henry’s voice broke her meditative state.
“The shower’s down the hall,” Henry offered as he walked out of his bedroom, holding a single white button-down shirt. He handed the top to The Professor, before picking her bag up from where he’d dropped it in the entryway. “You wash yourself, and I’ll wash what’s in here. Deal?”
The Professor didn’t argue as she took the button down from his hands on her way to the bathroom.
When she emerged from it an hour later, the scent of garlic was wafting from the kitchen.
“What can I get you to drink?” Henry asked from where he was leaning against the hearth with a glass of wine in one hand and lighting the fireplace logs with the other.
“I’ll have the same,” Margaret gestured toward his cabernet before taking a seat on the soft leather of the second-hand couch.
Henry retreated to the kitchen, returning a few seconds later to hand over a freshly poured glass before sitting beside her. He went to rest his hand on the book, sitting unassuming on the coffee table, before pulling it back. “I was hoping we could get some light reading in before dozing off for a few hours.”
The Professor took a long sip of the drink before lightly placing her fingertips onto the leather cover. She half expected the book to react; fearful it might retract any permissions it’d previously granted. To her relief, the book stayed cool beneath her fingertips.
”They say it has the power to control,” Henry mused as he watched Margaret flip through the hundred or so pages. “Each page is rumored to be a unique siren song.”
The Professor nodded absently, unsure of how to handle the weight of the potential before her. Or what it could do in the wrong hands.
Henry placed a hand on The Professor’s knee, still avoiding picking it up himself. “We should memorize one.”
”Or we could hand it over to the historical society immediately before anyone else lets such a stupid idea take root.”
”While I’d typically love to agree with you,” Henry’s tone dripped with sarcasm, “if Ferguson’s team gets their hands on it, we need to have a backup plan.”
”You don’t actually believe that.” Margaret asked, unsure whether or not she believed it.
Henry ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I want to say no, but don’t make me do it in front of the book.”
She started to offer a snide retort, but was stopped short by Henry’s grip over her mouth. It wasn’t until she heard the footsteps in the hallway that she knew why.
The Archaeologist moved the hand at her mouth to his own lips in a universal gesture to stay silent before pointing to a closet in the corner of the room. He followed just behind as she scurried toward it. Once tucked between two coats, she turned towards him.
“They know that I’m home, but won’t think to look for you.” Something shifted behind Henry’s eyes before he backed away, blocking the door. “Or the book.”
Margaret’s brows furrowed, but all she could offer in response was a slight shake of her head as if she could think of a better plan in the mere seconds they had until the Curator barged into the apartment.
Before an idea broke the surface of her thoughts, the door shut in her face. Seconds later, she heard the door unlock before.
“Hey, boys,” Henry started, his jovial greeting almost believable, “glad to see you got home safe.”
The only response seemed to be more footsteps, this time towards where she now stood frozen in the corner closet.
”Do you have it?” Ferguson’s own playful tone seemed etched in something much more sinister than Henry’s. “Or does she?”
“You’re mad.” There was an audible snag in Henry’s natural confidence. “After seeing what it did to this ol’ brute, we stayed far away.”
It felt like a lifetime passed between the sound of the punch and Henry’s gasp as he caught his breath.
“Let’s have this conversation at the office.”
The Professor had lived in the city long enough to find her way from Henry’s apartment to the museum without a map. The harder part was maneuvering his car around the cobblestone streets, crowded with people returning home from their evening activities, but she knew they’d need a reliable escape car.
She parked on the other side of the street, crossing the courtyard in front of the museum before strolling up the stairs, past the regal columns, and to the doors which — to her surprise and dread — were unlocked.
Her being there was undoubtedly their plan, yet there seemed to be no way around it as she took a few hesitant steps inside. Comitting, she removed her heeled boots — the only item of clothing that was hers — to tiptoe inside the main hall. She was grateful she’d had the thought to steal one of The Archaeologist’s leather jackets to throw over the button-down for both modesty and how the dark brown camouflaged into the shadows.
Moving up the stairs, Margaret strode through the exhibits until she found the hall of offices tucked within them.
Last year, she’d had a meeting there to barter for a relic on behalf of a colleague. They’d lost. At the time, Margaret recalls the effort being a waste of time. She’d had no way of knowing how valuable knowing the office’s location would become.
Standing just outside the door with Ferguson’s name and title etched into a plaque beside it, Margaret could hear a flurry of hushed conversation that stopped in a heartbeat. She barely had time to register the shift before the door she was leaning on swung open, spilling her into the room’s carpet.
“Welcome.” The Curator offered her a hand, but she didn’t take it as she rose onto her feet. Her gaze fell to Henry in one of the wing-backed office chairs, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheek.
The slow, cordial greeting from earlier dissipated as the man who had been burnt by the book placed two meaty hands on Margaret’s shoulders, pushing her into the chair beside Henry’s.
“You have perfect timing,” Ferguson continued with genuine pep. “We trust you’ll be more accommodating in telling us the book’s location than he has.”
“Of course,” Margaret answered honestly, pulling herself up in her seat as if she were in a meeting rather than a hostage situation. “I have it with me.”
Ferguson’s smile grew too large for his face. Henry looked towards her, shock and confusion breaking through his pained exterior.
“But you don’t need it,” Margaret said, staring straight at the Curator before turning to the two men still standing behind the wooden desk. “And neither do either of you.”
The Curator stood up, realization crossing his striking features. He obviously wanted to lunge toward her bag, but couldn’t seem to manage it. In a heartbeat, he shifted his efforts towards the Professor.
Margaret went to shout at him — to command him — to stop, but he’d placed a meaty hand over her mouth before she could.
The way Margaret’s eyes widened confirmed Ferguson’s suspicion. He turned toward Henry. “Pick it up.”
Margaret cringed at how weak Henry was as the chair was pulled out from underneath him, and he crashed to the floor. She barely noticed the knife now at her own throat.
Henry walked toward where Ferguson was still holding tight to Margaret, gesturing toward the satchel at her waist. The Archaeologist took a few slow, appraising steps until he could smell the musty scent of cigarettes on the Curator’s breath.
“What are you waiting for?” Ferguson chided. The knife creating angry red marks on Margaret’s neck as she shook her head. “Get the book.”
It all happened too fast for Margaret to truly make sense of it. One minute, she watched Henry steel himself with a deep, slow breath. The next minute, the Curator was writhing on the ground in pain, grasping at where the book had been thrown at him.
Piecing it together, Margaret looked at Henry, who was examining his own hands. They both seemed surprised that they were entirely free of damage. Catching each other’s eyes, Henry nodded as if reminding Margaret that she could speak again, just as the Curator’s men tried to escape out the door.
“Stop moving.”
Six Months Later
Henry picked Margaret up at exactly a quarter ‘til noon. He’d been to her place many times since their trip. Dedicated sessions to study the book turned into dinners, which turned into long nights at each other’s homes. Today was the first time they were sharing it with anyone outside of themselves.
It wasn’t until the last month that the Professor and the Archaeologist were even able to hunt down a scholar they trusted to ensure its safety. An advisor who, now retired, spent most of her free time building a collection of ancient texts. Returning them when she could find a single place to call home, and donating proceeds to impacted societies when she could not.
They knew the Curator and his men had kept it a secret, as well. Not out of their own personal interest for its safety, but one of the several commands that Margaret had left them with in the officeongside doing them.
Henry drove. Margaret guided them through the winding streets of London until they were at their destination. Just as they’d done for months, hunting down artifacts to preserve, and just as they planned to do for a long time.