The Osiris Curse by Paul Crilley Page B

strength and might. In fact, the word sekhem itself was often used in relation to divine beings. The Egyptians even used it to refer to their gods. There is a rather terrifying goddess called Sekhmet, and the god Osiris was also known as the Great Sekhem.” She smiled. “Which leads us to the shape of the ring.” She traced the shape with her finger. “An eye.”
    â€œThe Eye of Horus?” asked Bainbridge.
    Rowe shook her head. “It is not as intricate as the Horus symbol. No, this indicates the god Osiris.” She looked at them, pleased. “This is what puzzled me. Why the hieroglyphs inside the ring made no sense. But taken together, all three have a meaning.”
    â€œDo tell,” said Octavia.
    â€œThis is my educated guess. The eye represents Osiris. The kneeling figure, death. But not just death. Taken in connection with the Sekhem Scepter, which represents power, strength, even wrath, I take it to mean, ‘the wrath of Osiris.’ The terrible vengeance of those who wear the ring. Basically, it tells all that if you get in the way of the owner of the ring you will face the curse of Osiris, the wrath of the mighty god.
    â€œBut why have that on a ring?” asked Octavia.
    â€œPerhaps some group is using it as a means of identification. The followers of Egyptian lore always have a fascination with these types of things.”
    â€œA secret society?” said Tweed doubtfully.
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œLike the Freemasons?”
    â€œMore likely a group of rich socialites trying to make themselves seem important. But we’ll only know for sure when Stackpole arrives.”
    Bainbridge frowned and checked his watch. “I wonder where he is. He was most keen for this meeting. I don’t see what could have kept him away.”
    â€œDo you have his address?” asked Octavia. “We can go and see what’s keeping him. Perhaps he just misremembered the time.”
    â€œI suppose it couldn’t hurt,” said Bainbridge. “Just be careful. As I mentioned before, he’s a bit paranoid.” Bainbridge scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Octavia.
    â€œThank you,” she said.

“Belgravia,” said Tweed doubtfully. “Are you sure?”
    Octavia held up the piece of paper. “10 Wilton Crescent, Belgravia. Third floor.”
    â€œBut…” Tweed gestured around them at the up market, multistory houses. “If he can afford to live in Belgravia, why not fund his own archeological dig? He must be loaded.”
    Belgravia, and the areas surrounding it in Knightsbridge, were amongst the most sought-after addresses in the city. Definitely not the kind of place a lowly archeologist should be able to afford.
    â€œPerhaps he rents,” said Octavia doubtfully, heading toward the semicircle of five-story houses that curved around an expansive central garden.
    â€œYou think that would be any cheaper?”
    â€œNo, probably not.”
    They hurried along the cleared sidewalk, ignoring the suspicious glares they received from any of the residents of the area brave enough to be out in the cold weather.
    Octavia shivered. “What I wouldn't give for some sun right now. I'm tired of all this grey.”
    â€œIt's not grey,” Tweed pointed out. “It's white.”
    â€œYou know what I mean. The clouds, the rain. I want some blue sky, some heat. Some sand .”
    Tweed sniffed derisively. “Why? Horrible stuff. Gets everywhere. Even into sealed boxes. I had a theory once, when I was younger. About sand. Want to hear it?”
    â€œWhat if I say no?”
    â€œI'll tell you anyway, but I'll be slightly resentful with you for the rest of the day.”
    Octavia sighed. “Go ahead.”
    â€œI used to think that sand was some sort of…otherworldly life form. Like something H. G. Wells would write about. Think about it. Sand travels across the oceans to every single