The Serpent's Daughter by Suzanne Arruda Read Free Book Online

yards before it turned left and angled down. Stone walls replaced the stucco as she descended beneath the floor of the present city. The air smelled dank with mold, the walls moist and green. It turned cooler as she continued, like entering into a cave. The tunnel took a sharp right down a flight of worn stone steps, their surface polished by countless feet. Another right, and Jade knew she was heading back under the city.
    A new odor tickled her nostrils, a human smell. She sniffed, testing the air. She detected stale perspiration and something else; something cloying, reminiscent of a meat market. Blood. She hastened forward and saw that the tunnel forked ahead. In her haste, she nearly tripped over the body.
    There, at her feet, lay a Moroccan on his right side, a knife in his back. His length spanned the width of the tunnel, his left arm pointing to the right fork.

CHAPTER 3
    The Atlantic coastline bears witness to the multitudes of cultures that have laid
claim to Morocco at one time or another. Portuguese fortresses sit on top of Roman
foundations, which sit on top of Phoenician storage cellars. Most of the underground
levels have been filled in or forgotten by everyone except the jinni . The ones
who shun iron and salt seem to favor caves, ruins, and dirt, rather like children.
    —The Traveler
    A STRONG SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION, honed by Jade’s service driving an ambulance at the front lines during the Great War, quickly replaced her initial shock and disbelief. She instantly crouched against the wall and switched off her light. If the murderer lurked nearby, she didn’t need to present herself as the next target. After several uneventful minutes, she risked turning her light back on and scrambled over to the body.
    Jade put her fingers to the man’s neck below the jawline. No pulse . His gray, waxy face verified what she already knew. Definitely dead . The right side of his face had turned a purplish red where the blood pooled after death. The blood from the knife wound spread down, a macabre blossoming in his otherwise white robe. She turned her attention to the knife, or at least the hilt, since most of the blade was deep in the man’s back. The intricate filigree design on the hilt looked Arabic and continued up into the fan-shaped end. The empty scabbard tucked into the man’s waistband hinted that this was his own weapon.
    She tried to move his left arm, the one pointing into the tunnel. It moved, but reluctantly. So he’s been dead for only a few hours, maybe three or four. Surely, she thought, he didn’t land in this position. Someone must have placed his arm that way to leave a message, and they did it not long after killing him. These tunnels weren’t the most popular tourist spot, but someone counted on the body being found and wanted the discoverer to go farther into the right tunnels. Is Mother in there? Is it a trap?
    She tiptoed eight paces to the fork, stood with her back to the left branch, and played her light along the floor of the right one. A slight breeze wafted over her face as another bat fluttered past her on its nocturnal flight. Jade opened her mouth to call once more for her mother when she heard voices murmuring from deep within. She cocked her head to hear better. They came from the left tunnel, and one voice belonged to a woman. Jade pivoted and entered the left branch.
    Jade tugged her handkerchief from her skirt pocket and covered the flashlight to dull the beam. She could still see, but with less risk of being seen. Then she tiptoed along the narrowing passageway. Again the echo of a woman’s commanding voice, followed by whispered murmurs. Not Mother’s voice . This one was higher in pitch, although maybe the tunnel’s acoustics played with it.
    Now the voice turned pleading, and an argumentative male answered it. Where’s it coming from? It seemed to be everywhere at once: behind her, before her, and beyond the walls. Jade took a deep breath, her head foggy from the