An autumn morning dawned, drab and dismal, where there should have been a sunny spring afternoon. Conrad sat, yawned, and rubbed his sanded eyes, the movement triggering his stomach into pushing up an acid burp of protest. It had been doing this all throughout a restless night.

Fair enough, jetlag seemed to be the price to pay for jumping global time zones. The upset stomach he owed to his blasted client. The lovely Ms. Lewis's stinginess forced him into cattle class, hurtling through the turbulent skies for a lot longer than he'd bargained for, with vegan food tasting of dead men's feet to round off the experience.

Or perhaps that honor was owed to the little terror behind him. Was it his fault the airline kitted the thing out with unstable seats? Nope. Was it his fault she was filling her face when he needed a shuteye? Nope. The young woman seemed pretty enough, sure, but jeez, all that fuss over nothing.

Okay, the flight attendant had been real eye candy, with the curves in all the right places and a come-hither smile. Actually, her attentions had been a bit OTT, but when she slipped him her number, he took it. One never knew.

The train journey from Zurich to Paris and from there to Brittany had been no better. Delays, more delays, trains bursting with stressed tourists, the bistro on board closed—in France, of all places—added to the nightmare journey. As a result, he'd arrived at the Coeur du Carnac after eleven p.m., which meant banging on the hotel's closed doors, until the sour-faced landlady deigned to let him in.

"You're late, monsieur."

"Sorry, but I called you. Twice."

"Pas mon problème."

Europe was one messed-up continent. And this job off to a poor start.

He checked his watch. Another hour until he was to meet the lovely Ms. Lewis. The reasons for meeting at the crack of dawn remained a mystery. Unless she expected him to be jetlagged and wanted to make his life easier?

Conrad snorted. What he'd learned about the woman so far didn't exactly give him the warm fuzzies. He reached for the folder lying atop the rickety nightstand and skimmed through his notes. Others might laugh at his extensive research, but he liked to understand who he was dealing with—

A black, hairy spider scuttled from the folder onto his hand and raised its front legs in a way that could only be described as menacing.

"Shi-it."

Conrad shook off the monster and the folder, scattering pages all over the place. In search of his shoe, he jumped off the bed. Then he jumped back up again. The spider, far from being dead or at least terminally concussed, scuttled at him, full speed.

Accompanied by a pinging of springs and the headboard banging the wall, he grabbed the pillow and hurled it at the many-legged pest. His missile landed with a muffled thump, knocking over the rickety nightstand. The can of coke he'd left there spilled its content in a frothing rush, soaking the fluffy mauve carpet.

Were he in a bowling alley instead of a seedy bedroom, he would just have scored a strike. At least the spider had vanished, hopefully flattened by the pillow.

Conrad waited, but his antagonist didn't show. No way would he lift that pillow to find out what happened to the doggone crawly. Only a spider, his sister would say. Yeah, right? She hadn't been the one to get bitten by a black widow as a child and nearly die. And no matter what Wikipedia had to say about the European specimens being mostly harmless, he didn't like the qualifier.

When still nothing happened for anxious moments, he jumped from the bed, and picked up his scattered research.

Someone hammered against the wall and shouted something. It didn't sound French. Bloody tourists.

On second thought, perhaps it was a bit early after all, and perhaps he had been rather noisy.

"Pardon," he yelled at the wall.

More hammering. Some people really were hard to please.

Giving the pillow—and hopefully the flattened spider—a wide berth, Conrad picked up his papers and put them back in order. Then he mopped up his spilled drink with a towel. The thin rag had turned brown, but a quick rinse in the sink took care of that. Finally, he sat, his heart still thumping away, and read through his notes.

There'd been both too much and too little information on Ms. Amanda Lewis, aka #mandalove, a world-famous influencer he'd never heard of before. Since she apparently influenced people interested in things like cosmetics and clothes, this came as no big surprise.

Looked cute enough, with those large green eyes, button nose, and pouty lips. Perfect hair, blonde, the way he liked it. Curves like the flight attendant and knockers to die for. But unlike the high-flying cutie, he suspected Ms. Lewis's assets were fake, or at the very least enhanced by someone really good at their job. Not his problem, theirs would be a business relationship. She collected art, and so did he, even if it was mostly for others.

Her collection sounded impressive, but in reality it seemed to be one wild jumble. The more rare, exotic, and expensive, the better. There must be a lot of money to be made with influencing these days.

It was all fine with him; meant she'd have the readies to pay his fees. Some rather damning intel not to be found on the internet bothered him a lot more. He didn't include it in his notes, since it was of the sort that might get him killed if it ended up in the wrong hands.

One didn't fail Ms. Lewis unless one had a death wish. Quite a few guys in his line of business suffered odd accidents, which terminally affected their life expectancy. Rumors had it they'd all been involved with the lovely Mandy. Manda. Whatever.

It was only a rumor. Nothing was proven. Just friendly warnings slipped to him when he asked around; warnings that told him he needed to be careful, very careful, when he met up with his client. To be fair, she'd offered big bucks, if only at some rather tough terms. A guy had to live. And it might simply be a case of the informants overdoing things, exaggerating. Hm. Still...

He looked up. Outside, the fog had thickened, and condensation clouded the window panes. Somehow, the walls of the room had pushed closer since he last looked.

Conrad shook himself and checked his watch once more. Exactly forty-five minutes to get from here to the coordinates he'd been given. What a crazy place to meet. Well, since he didn't know his way around Carnac, he'd better crank his butt into gear.

Williams was late, which meant he'd failed the first test already. Manda tutted, opened her tablet and carefully placed a black dot next to the man's name. With a delicious shiver running down her spine, she closed her tablet again. Two more strikes and the guy was out. Hopefully not before he'd delivered the goods, but they usually did.

Men. How she hated them, but admittedly they had their uses. It wouldn't do to creep around in dusty, nasty places, ruin her hairdo and smudge the makeup. And, horror upon horror, someone might see her like that. Her reputation would be shot in an instant. No, she needed her little minions, and until recently there had been plenty of them, all ready to run around at her bidding, filling her collection with precious, beautiful things that protected her from the pain.

Another layer to my armor.

It never lasted long. Soon she'd be searching again. Sudden heat spurted through her veins, and it took all the self-mastery she could muster not to throw the tablet on the grass and stomp on it.

You only hurt yourself. And you don't want to do that anymore.

Repeated ten times, the mantra worked. But Williams was still late. Should she give him another black mark? No, sadly she couldn't. Her own rules forbade it. Only one black mark per transgression, and if he over-performed, he could win it back.

She licked her lips. They seldom did.

She squinted at the haze surrounding her, smelling of wood smoke, rotting apples, and wet vegetation. Here and there, dark shapes showed in the whiteness, only to get swallowed again into the gloom. In the last few minutes, a pink tinge had crept into her environment. The sun was rising.

Meh, the light wasn't ideal, but why not try some filming? It would give her something to do while she was waiting.

The tripod with the small, state-of-the-art camera stood in the right place, ready for her to push the button. Was she herself ready? Manda tapped the selfie function on her phone.

Her filmy dress, lace over silk, was as gorgeous as it could get. Her hair had been sprayed and moussed to perfection, the makeup—ack. She'd bitten her lips again and stained her teeth blood-red. No, no, that wouldn't do. Her customers wouldn't like to see her like that. They wanted her perfect, eternal, untouchable. And ever so spot-on with her fashion tips.

Well, she would be. She was paying enough to the trend scouts for their intel. Bloody leeches, the lot of them.

Another spurt of fury scorched her throat.

You don't want to hurt yourself. You really don't.

Manda plastered a charming smile on her face before switching on the camera.

With a leathery flapping of wings, something unseen launched itself from the blackberry hedge. Conrad jumped aside, the soles of his sneakers slipping on the sodden grass. The earthy aromas of mushroom and sheep dung hit his nostrils. The goddamn path had somehow disappeared, and since the fog had eased off a bit, he could make out more of his environment, a field dotted with uneven chunks of rock, lined up like the battered survivors of a car crash.

Or an airplane disaster.

But he knew better. World-famous, the standing stones of Carnac certainly had been on his bucket list forever, and his feet itched to turn around and explore an ancient monument as mysterious as it was awe-inspiring. Well, those parts he could see.

Unfortunately, if he were any later for his meeting, his client would most likely demand her money back. Between the weather and a brain stuck halfway over the ocean, he'd completely lost his bearings. It was unprofessional, not his style. The meeting place had to be somewhere around here. Surely. But something seemed to be messing with his GPS, telling him he was too far north, and—when he moved north—telling him he should go south.

Paranormal vibes sent by the stones?

Bullshit. He would believe in giant spiders next, weaving their webs from streamers of the fog once more blurring his vision.

Ugh.

As he stopped in his tracks, something cold and sticky touched his cheek. An unmanly shriek threatened to rise and was swallowed down, he staggered—and stumbled over the remains of a standing stone, half-hidden in the weedy tangle covering the ground.

Man, this place was giving him the creeps. He was a scientist, dammit. Jetlagged, but still rational. Man-sized spiders didn't exist. The stones were mementos of the past, impressive but locked away in the tomb of time, unable to cause grief in the here and now.

From ahead drifted an eerie trill. The next instant a silhouette outlined in white shifted? danced? fluttered? between the stones.

Now what? He squinted into the distance. As if to mock him, the freaky fog had lightened, and had taken on a pearly sheen. Rays of watery sunshine played with the vapor, allowing him to work out what he was seeing wasn't a silhouette, but some sort of fabric. It billowed like the sail on his buddy Rory's catamaran, only it seemed to be cleaner. And somehow flimsier. Sort of...lacy. And close by, something red blinked away, an evil little eye, its radiance reflecting on the leaves of a bush. The trill came again, this time accompanied by twanging and pinging.

His stressed brain tried to put the auditory pieces together and told him the odd twittering seemed to be music, only it sounded pretty outlandish.

The red light winked off. The sail-thing, which was probably some sort of long dress, stopped in its tracks. If he hadn't known better, he'd say someone wore a wedding gown.

"Hi, anybody out there?" he hollered.

"Mr. Williams?"

Finally. The clipped pronunciation he recognized from the phone calls. He'd found his client.

"Ms. Lewis. So glad to meet you." He stepped up, and as if on cue, the haze ripped apart, bathing the world in golden October sunshine and outlining the woman approaching him in a golden glow. Yes, she was wearing a wedding gown and a wreath of roses and thistles on her head. The eyes in a face too smooth to be natural glinted like icy shards.

He blinked. "Sorry, I'm late. I had some serious problems with finding this place and—"

"I don't like excuses."

Okay. Try again. Forcing himself to catch her frosty stare—this green was too intense, she must be wearing contacts—he said, "It's not an excuse, it's a fact. I was here on time. Since you didn't specify where exactly you'd be, just that I'd find you, I did just that, despite the fog. Now, would you like us to continue, or not? For if you don't, no hard feelings. I'll simply return your advance and take a holiday.

Something stirred in the frozen depths of her eyes, and it was nothing good. He tensed his muscles. Manda's hands curled at her side, but he didn't see any weapons. Martial arts she couldn't do, not when wearing a wedding gown. If she reached into her pockets, assuming she had some, he'd be ready. But coiled like a cobra, the woman never moved.

Suddenly, Manda laughed and her stance loosened. Conrad didn't follow her example.

"Touché. I asked you to come out here, because we wouldn't be overheard, but the weather really didn't help. But now you're here, I suggest you listen to what I have to propose."

That sounded more reasonable, and Conrad forced himself to relax. "Sure thing. Go right ahead."

The lacy train of her gown swishing over the nettles, Manda sauntered across to a fallen standing stone, where she sat, and draped her skirts around her. She licked her lips, the only thing moving in her porcelain face. "You'll have heard of the Birds of the Gods?"

Had he? The name resonated with something, though he wasn't sure what. His fogged brain was slow in banging through the memory compartments, but eventually it found the right one.

"They're priceless Zimbabwean soapstone figures, correct? Unless I'm mistaken, there's eight of them in total. Once, they got stolen, but the Zimbabwe government clawed seven of them back. One is in South Africa, I believe."

Manda responded with a dazzling smile and a slow applause. "Excellent."

"You want me to steal that one? That's going to be a trifle difficult, I'm afraid. Plus, I'm totally in the wrong place."

She laughed, which unfroze her features to something almost human. "No, I know that. Fact is, of the eight one is a fake. The real McCoy is still out there. The guy who had it faked, is dead, but he was delirious at the end and talked to the wrong person. Or rather, the right person from my perspective. The clue to the treasure is here in Europe, and I want you to get it for me. But there's a minor complication."

Conrad leaned against a standing stone. He grinned. "Figures. Let me guess, the thing is buried or hidden somewhere."

Her face, so mellow a minute ago, stiffened once more. "Yes. There's a map, actually. You understand, if I show it to you, you're committed. You can't share the intel with anyone. Absolutely no one, you understand?"

The woman's gaze channeled an icicle drilling into his head, which promptly started throbbing.

"I'm a pro. If I agree to take on the job, the information stays with me."

"So I've heard. Well, then. Do you take the job or not? Conditions as discussed. Ten percent now, another ten percent once you find the next clue, and the rest on delivery. Expenses paid, of course."

She'll never let you walk if you say no.

But that wasn't what made him say, "Yes." She'd had him at "map". He'd always been a sucker for maps that lead to hidden treasures.

The glacial features melted into another smile. She clapped her hands together in almost childish glee. "Wonderful. We're partners." She blew him a kiss, and it took all his effort not to wince.

"Yeah. We are. Okay, so what about this map?"

She reached into her gown—so it had pockets after all—and held out a sheet of paper. "Don't ask me how I got hold of this."

He took the map and unfolded it. "I won't." He read the information and looked up. "The Stopicá cave, on the Zlatibor mountain? You're telling me the clue isn't here, but in...where is this place?"

She sniggered. "Serbia. You don't expect me to let you anywhere near it, without a face-to-face meeting, do you? That wouldn't be good business practice."

Conrad couldn't help a groan. "Yeah, I'm with you on that. But it means I have to zip off again."

"And that's a problem why? You can start straightaway, surely."

"I'm jetlagged. And I need to be 100 percent fit if I'm to get things right."

Manda tutted and flapped her hand, her perfect nails shining in rainbow colors. "We need to move."

"Why, when the thing has been hidden for ages?"

The chill in her doll-like face would have scared a polar bear into hiding. "Because I want it. And because the cave is only the first waypoint. The bird isn't there."

He wouldn't let that woman boss him around. Not her, not anyone. "I get that. However, if you want me to embark on what looks like a treasure hunt, I need rest. Can't just shoot off again. It will make things worse. If that artifact is so important to you, why didn't you hire someone local instead of hauling my ass halfway across the world?"

The glare in her eyes told his hunch had been spot-on. There wasn't much left for hire.

"Fine. Two days. During that time, you'll make yourself familiar with the lay of the land."

"Sure thing. Research's super important. You won't be disappointed."

The smile was back in her face, but the ice in her eyes remained unbroken. "So I hope, Mr. Williams, so I hope."

Without looking back once, her latest hireling wove around a stone and disappeared down the trail that led to Carnac Le Bourg.

"Hmmm." Manda rose from her seat, removed the wreath from her head and, on a whim, hung it over the edge of the nearest standing stone. She'd leave a message in today's blog where people might find it. By that time, she would be long gone.

Followers were best enjoyed at a safe distance. The same applied to men. At least Williams had kept his distance. The man was clever; she'd give him that. He'd been wary of her, rather than dazzled by her looks like so many others.

Would he do the job? He wasn't a particularly dishy specimen of the species. If anything, she didn't like redheads. And the stubble looked stupid on him. Lean of build, he had no muscles to speak of. But despite the grayness in his face and his tired eyes, there's been a shrewdness about him that told her he might just do.

Did she trust him?

Manda snorted a laugh. "As if I trusted anyone."

Which reminded her of something. Since he'd agreed and held the information, it was high time to put the usual safety measures into place.

Manda's probing fingers first hit the slim can of mace concealed among the voluminous folds of her skirt. Then the stiletto. Finally, she found the phone and pulled it out.

She thumbed a number and smiled.

Better safe than sorry.

https://youtu.be/_5pvvPJXML4