Justice League of America - Batman: The Stone King by Alan Grant (best books to read for self development .TXT) 📕

Eyes narrowing, Peter sank to his knees in front of the altar block. He'd been extra careful not to touch anything in the chamber for fear of contamination–the bacteria on a normal human hand could be enough to do it, and once contaminated, it was near-impossible to get a proper radiocarbon dating fix. Peter and Mills might not get along, but Peter had never forgotten the first rule the professor had taught him: Never do anything to disrupt an ancient site.

But now Peter's head was pounding. He'd discovered something unknown, something no one else even suspected. His thoughts of Robert Mills, of careful assessment, of nonintrusion, were forgotten as he stared hard at the small patch of disturbed soil. Something had been buried there.

Balancing the flashlight on the floor to illuminate the spot, he leaned forward and began to scrabble at the surface with his bare hands. He knew that he shouldn't be doing this–that he should call the professor and arrange for a proper stone-by-stone excavation–but his mind was curiously detached, he felt driven, and he didn't even register the pain in his fingertips as they scraped at the stony earth.

The soil came away more easily than he'd expected, and his heart thudded as his right hand closed around something cold and hard. He tugged at it, twisting it slightly to ease it from the earth that held it. It came free with a jerk, sending an almost electric tingle shooting up his wrist and arm.

Peter picked up the flashlight in his other hand and focused its beam on his find.

It was a carved stone ax head, made from some kind of heavy granite rock, four or five inches wide and double that in length. At each end it had been honed to a razor-sharp edge that seemed unaffected by its long years below ground. And on each side of the ax blade, a spiral was carved–a counterclockwise spiral.

In his excitement, Peter hadn't heard the noise behind him as Robert Mills lowered himself into the chamber. But the student heard him now, as a low, angry growl escaped from the professor's lips.

"Glaston! Glaston, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Peter tried to answer him, but no words would come. His right hand and arm were still tingling, as if the ax head he held were sending out jolts of low-voltage current. His thoughts refused to focus. There was a buzzing in his ears, low and rhythmic and throbbing. It almost sounded like voices chanting.

Slowly, Peter rose from his knees to stand fully erect, swiveling to face the accusing gaze of his teacher.

"Heaven knows, I've tried to make excuses for you, but this is unforgivable!" Mills hissed through clenched teeth. "Who knows what damage you've done here? Come on–out! Now!"

Peter stood paralyzed, trying to figure out what was wrong with him. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue felt thick and swollen, preventing any attempt at speech. Images flashed deep in his mind, disturbing pictures that were gone before he could pin them down. The noise in his ears grew louder.

Yes, it was definitely chanting. But the words sounded completely alien, in no language that he had ever heard.

"Are you deaf?" Mills barked. "I want you out of here before the room's completely contaminated!"

He reached to grasp Peter's arm, trying to tug him away from the altar, and found himself surprised by the student's strength as he resisted. "Stop acting like a spoiled brat, or–"

The professor broke off as Glaston's right hand, the one clutching the ax, rose above his head. In the light of his flash, Mills could see that the boy's face was blank and expressionless, but his eyes glinted in a way Mills had never seen before.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Mills felt suddenly afraid. Something was wrong here. Glaston hadn't spoken since Mills surprised him, and that look in his eyes was inhuman–even murderous!

He looked up at the ax head held high in Glaston's hand. As if refusing to accept the atrocity that he knew with awful certainty was about to be committed, he took note of the artifact. The dark, beautifully shaped stone. The curious left-hand spiral, like none he'd ever seen before. The impossibly sharp blade, honed to a razor edge, that was coming down fast toward his head. . . .

The others were descending. They were almost at the fifth course when they heard the scream.

Jenny froze. "That sounded like Rob . . . like Professor Mills!" she exclaimed.

"Maybe he's fallen." Lorann shone her flashlight down the pyramid face till its beam was lost in the shadows. "Can anybody see anything?"

They scrabbled down the rope ladder till they stood on the ledge mat was the pyramid's fifth step. Four flashlights shone as one, and for an instant the hole Peter had made seemed to blaze with reflected light.

"There's someone in there!" Len Dors handed his flash to Lorann and swiftly began to lower himself through the opening. "Keep your beams on me."

There was a dull thump as Len landed on the chamber floor.

"Catch," Lorann called down, dropping Len's flashlight.

There was a long, pregnant silence.

"Len?" Dors heard the anxiety in Jenny's voice as she craned her neck, vying for a better view of the chamber interior. "What have you found?"

But Len Dors couldn't answer. He stood rooted to the spot, the flashlight fixed on the chamber's altar stone. The body of Robert Mills was draped across it, lying on his back. An ugly wound in his head oozed blood, staining his silver hair before dripping to the ground, where the dry earth absorbed it greedily.

"Professor?"

There was no reaction, and Len's voice was hoarse with shock as he called up to the others. "It's the professor. He–he's lying here bleeding. It looks like he's been attacked!"

Quickly, the student knelt by the altar and grasped the professor's wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none. "I–I think he's dead!"

Up above, Jenny felt suddenly faint. "Omigod!" she whispered. Then, louder, her voice strained. "And Peter?"

"Not