Midnight In Madrid

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Lee Yuan had always been a bit of a mystic. Always had been and always would be. He saw things where other people didn’t, believed things that other people laughed at. But his friends and peers accepted him for what he was, a product of his background, and his experience.

Right now, however, Lee Yuan was halfway around the world and completely out of luck. It was not a healthy equation for examining fading artifacts in the dungeons of an ancient stone monastery. It was not a healthy equation for anything.

Worse, Lee Yuan felt as if he were freezing to death. His hands worked as quickly as possible. His only light was that from a kerosene lantern, lit with a small acetylene torch. There was a little heat from the torch, but still, his fingers were nearly frostbitten. He had traveled far. This was where he had been told he would find it.

On a bench built in the sixteenth century, he sorted through artifacts, bits and pieces of ancient times, stuffed together in a decrepit old wooden box. The box was the size of a child’s coffin. It had probably been built for that purpose, constructed by hands that had been dead for many centuries.

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