IKARIA, GREECE
EVA WAITED UNTIL TWO HOURS BEFORE DAWN TO WALK THE quiet streets toward Therma, in her pocket a key to the thermal spas that her uncle had given to her years ago. Looking around to make sure there were no spying eyes, she slipped in through the back and walked toward the cave opening that housed the baths and sauna. It was eerily quiet and pitch-black. She pulled out her flashlight to illuminate the path, and when she reached the sauna, she stepped inside and walked straight to the bench in the back. She squeezed behind it and felt along the floor for the drain covering, which she pried open with a screwdriver, then retrieved a small plastic bag from the drain and pulled out the key. After replacing the cover, she inched along the wall and away from the bench.
A slight whistling sound made her freeze, and she held her breath, all her senses on high alert. Its steady rhythm indicated that what she heard was breathing, and she jumped and moved the flashlight around in front of her to try to find the source.
“Who’s there?” she called into the black. There was no response. Heart pounding, she hurried from the cave, stopping at its mouth to shine her light around some more, but there was no one in sight. She chided herself for her overactive imagination.
She ran the two miles back up the hill, grateful that she was in such good shape thanks to her training at the self-defense studio. Looking behind her every few steps until she was satisfied that no one had followed her, Eva finally reached the island’s funeral home and went inside to the small area that housed the mausoleums. Even though it was after hours, the door was unlocked. She and her uncle had bought one of the crypts, ostensibly to hold his mother’s ashes, but a wooden box containing sand and dust had been the hiding place for the coins for the past twenty-four years. As she pulled it out and fished in the sand for the coins, she felt a chill go through her as she placed each coin in the pockets of her dress. She became warmer and warmer, her body filling with an increasingly intense dread. When the tenth coin was in place, she locked the box and ran from the room.
The coins must be exerting their power on her, she realized, as her mind was flooded with images of murder and blood. She barely made it to the edge of the road before she vomited. It was clear the coins could not stay on her person for long.
She hurried back into the mausoleum and found a small silver can filled with sand and a couple of candles. She took the coins from her pocket and placed them into the can, where the candles began to melt from the heat of the coins, then rushed home, out of breath but forcing her legs to take her as fast they could back to the safety of her house. When she got there, she put the can on the floor and grabbed her Bible, praying fervently until the violent images bombarding her began to slow and eventually recede.
Hiding the coins in the icons Father Basil had left was still the plan, but she didn’t want to let them touch her skin again. Her uncle had told her that her familial connection to the coins made her particularly sensitive to their power. When enough time had passed that she felt calm enough to handle it, she grabbed a pair of gloves from the closet and began the painstaking work of carefully adhering the coins into the false backs of the icons. Her hands shook, and perspiration dampened her shirt as she worked, but finally she finished and put the icons in a suitcase she hid in the back of her closet, then took her Bible to bed with her and clutched it to her chest as she slept.
Her dreams that night were dark and disturbing.