Seeker's Curse (Rogue Angel, Book 19)
Alex Archer, Victor Milán
Enlisted by the Japan Buddhist Federation to catalog a number of ancient shrines dotted across Nepal, archaeologist Annja Creed is honored to help. Political violence has prompted the Federation to protect holy sites from desecration and vandalism, and Annja is their last hope to properly conserve these sites. Where there's vandalism, there's plundering, and local police soon become suspicious of Annja's presence. But she is more concerned about the antiques smugglers and Maoist guerrillas trying to kill her. When she must trek high up in the Himalayas to protect a sacred golden Buddha statue from falling into the hands of her pursuers, she's told that the place is cursed--and guarded by demons. And Annja has no choice but to face her demons.
Annja, it seemed, were her personal hunters. The few other people Annja saw were hurrying toward the plaza to see what the excitement was about. She broke into a run. An alley opened to her left. She turned into it. Once off the street she accelerated into a full-on sprint. The alley reeked of fish, vegetables and coffee grounds decomposing into the black greasy muck that slimed its floor and made footing tricky. She reached the end of the short block and dodged left again. This street was
sagging into middle age behind glasses and a large mustache. She was so engrossed staring at the portrait she barely heard the door in the back open and someone come into the room. “This is Prachanda,” a voice said in English. “He whose clarity of vision lights the way forward to a progressive future for all nations, not just Nepal.” “Really?” Annja said. “I’m pretty a political myself.” “Not to be political is to be political,” the man said sternly. “I am Chatura, district commissioner of
her. He just wouldn’t say where. Particle by particle the shadows condensed around them into dusk. Though the sky overhead remained a brilliant blue, the few cirrus clouds only beginning to blush with the pink of sunset, down here among the rustling hemlock boughs it was getting to be dark. The hiking party came around the side of a steep ridge and Annja glimpsed a warm orange glow ahead. “Is that where we’re headed?” she asked. “Yes,” Prasad said. The porters began to mutter in their native
speck of cloud nor sound of thunder. Yet my hosts here, gracious though they be, warn me that the way becomes only more perilous from here. The air grows colder and thinner, the snow and ice thicker. The gods’ whims become more capricious in directing the weather. Zeus forgive me, but I cannot say whether our own gods and goddesses hold sway at all in this land so distant from lofty Olympus. And most sinister of all, it seems, is the Lost Monastery, high up beyond the point at which even the
my young friends. No worries. Prasad has elected to remain with you. He is a good man.” “He is,” Pan said. “We have told him we will keep the body of his nephew until his return. Should he not return, we will give the body to you to deliver to his relatives in Baglung. If you do not return, we shall see him home ourselves.” Annja nodded. “As for Sherpas, we have arranged for men from the vicinity to carry such supplies as you will need.” Annja looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t think