Secrets Of The Serpent's Heart (The Arkana Archaeology Mystery Series Book 6) by N. S. Wikarski
Authors: N. S. Wikarski
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thirteen hours. That was how long their nonstop flight from the Windy City to Beijing had taken. Afterward they’d boarded another plane for the hour and a half flight to Shenyang, the capital of Liaoning Province in northeastern China.
Liaoning skirted a region which bore the romantic name of Inner Mongolia. To Cassie, the phrase “Inner Mongolia” had always connoted the end of the world. Now that she’d personally traveled to Kathmandu and come within spitting distance of the equally exotic Timbuktu, Inner Mongolia didn’t seem all that out-of-the-way anymore.
Feeling chilled, the Pythia wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. The temperature was about forty degrees and windy. Turning to Griffin, she asked, “Is it my imagination or is the weather here exactly the same as Chicago?”
Never breaking stride, the Scrivener replied, “It should be. We’re at approximately the same latitude here as back in the Midwest which means a similar type of spring weather.”
“I think we should have started our search in Cambodia where it’s warm,” Cassie muttered. She struggled to catch her breath while attempting to put on a burst of speed. “Are we there yet?”
They were en route to meet the Hongshan trove-keeper at the Provincial Museum. Maddie had wisely booked them into a hotel which was walking distance from their rendezvous point. However, the Chatelaine hadn’t factored in Cassie’s disorientation from the thirteen-hour time difference which made even a three-block walk to Government Square an ordeal.
“We’ll be there in a moment.” Griffin pointed directly ahead. “That’s the museum across the street.”
They paused at the curb for a red light. Cassie studied their destination—a massive concrete affair with angled corners and overhanging exposed steel beams surrounding a central glass-clad atrium. The patch of grass and small shrubs bordering the structure did nothing to soften its antiseptic appearance.
It occurred to the Pythia that the design seemed consistent with the city’s architecture as a whole. The impression she’d formed of Shenyang was of a bustling megalopolis complete with steel and glass skyscrapers, expressways, traffic lights, and eight million people going about their daily routines in the same way as any urban American. The street signs even bore English captions below the Chinese characters. Cassie thought wistfully of rickshaws and junks—those picture postcard symbols of the colorful Far East but none were to be found hereabouts. Griffin had already told her that Shenyang was China’s industrial capital. It had been Chairman Mao’s model city of the future, complete with futuristic problems like smog thanks to its steel mills and coal-burning stoves. For decades, the air quality had been so bad that residents sometimes needed to wear face masks. Recognizing the necessity to go green, Shenyang had cleaned up its act about five years earlier by relocating its heavy industry to the outskirts and planting numerous parks within the city limits.
The light changed at last and the duo hurried across the street and through the doors of the museum.
“Ah, there he is.” The Scrivener rushed eagerly toward an elderly man standing in the middle of the entrance hall.
Considering his wizened appearance and the grey streaks in his thinning hair, the trove-keeper appeared to be in his late-sixties. The man advanced a few paces to clasp the Scrivener’s outstretched hand. Griffin seemed to tower over him, emphasizing the disparity in their heights. Cassie judged their guide to be no more than five foot four.
“Zhang Jun, it’s good to see you again.” Griffin pumped his hand enthusiastically. “It’s been a long time since you attended a meeting of the Concordance.”
In a barely discernible accent, the old man joked, “It’s a long trip to Chicago. I would need a good reason to fly that far.” He enunciated every word precisely as if he’d taken time to
Liaoning skirted a region which bore the romantic name of Inner Mongolia. To Cassie, the phrase “Inner Mongolia” had always connoted the end of the world. Now that she’d personally traveled to Kathmandu and come within spitting distance of the equally exotic Timbuktu, Inner Mongolia didn’t seem all that out-of-the-way anymore.
Feeling chilled, the Pythia wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck. The temperature was about forty degrees and windy. Turning to Griffin, she asked, “Is it my imagination or is the weather here exactly the same as Chicago?”
Never breaking stride, the Scrivener replied, “It should be. We’re at approximately the same latitude here as back in the Midwest which means a similar type of spring weather.”
“I think we should have started our search in Cambodia where it’s warm,” Cassie muttered. She struggled to catch her breath while attempting to put on a burst of speed. “Are we there yet?”
They were en route to meet the Hongshan trove-keeper at the Provincial Museum. Maddie had wisely booked them into a hotel which was walking distance from their rendezvous point. However, the Chatelaine hadn’t factored in Cassie’s disorientation from the thirteen-hour time difference which made even a three-block walk to Government Square an ordeal.
“We’ll be there in a moment.” Griffin pointed directly ahead. “That’s the museum across the street.”
They paused at the curb for a red light. Cassie studied their destination—a massive concrete affair with angled corners and overhanging exposed steel beams surrounding a central glass-clad atrium. The patch of grass and small shrubs bordering the structure did nothing to soften its antiseptic appearance.
It occurred to the Pythia that the design seemed consistent with the city’s architecture as a whole. The impression she’d formed of Shenyang was of a bustling megalopolis complete with steel and glass skyscrapers, expressways, traffic lights, and eight million people going about their daily routines in the same way as any urban American. The street signs even bore English captions below the Chinese characters. Cassie thought wistfully of rickshaws and junks—those picture postcard symbols of the colorful Far East but none were to be found hereabouts. Griffin had already told her that Shenyang was China’s industrial capital. It had been Chairman Mao’s model city of the future, complete with futuristic problems like smog thanks to its steel mills and coal-burning stoves. For decades, the air quality had been so bad that residents sometimes needed to wear face masks. Recognizing the necessity to go green, Shenyang had cleaned up its act about five years earlier by relocating its heavy industry to the outskirts and planting numerous parks within the city limits.
The light changed at last and the duo hurried across the street and through the doors of the museum.
“Ah, there he is.” The Scrivener rushed eagerly toward an elderly man standing in the middle of the entrance hall.
Considering his wizened appearance and the grey streaks in his thinning hair, the trove-keeper appeared to be in his late-sixties. The man advanced a few paces to clasp the Scrivener’s outstretched hand. Griffin seemed to tower over him, emphasizing the disparity in their heights. Cassie judged their guide to be no more than five foot four.
“Zhang Jun, it’s good to see you again.” Griffin pumped his hand enthusiastically. “It’s been a long time since you attended a meeting of the Concordance.”
In a barely discernible accent, the old man joked, “It’s a long trip to Chicago. I would need a good reason to fly that far.” He enunciated every word precisely as if he’d taken time to
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