Disclaimer: Nothing.

Prologue

This wasn't supposed to happen to guys like him.

Peter Lewis was a mild-mannered man in his early thirties who spent his life studying myths. It was a rewarding job, though one that few people actually took seriously, but that was another perk: he was never in any danger. Who would target a mythologist?

Yet there he was, sitting in a dark room with one bare, flickering light above his head, hands chained behind his back and legs shackled to the floor. He'd been kidnapped in the middle of the night, shoved into the back of a truck, and brought into this mysterious, foreboding place.

From the opposite side of the room, a metallic door opened, and a figure maneuvered through the shadows. "Welcome, my friend," it greeted, voice deep and raspy. "I am honored to meet you."

A minor in psychology told Peter to play along with the game, to avoid upsetting his enemy. "As am I," he managed in spite of a dry throat and chattering teeth, "though I would be interested in why I am here."

"For your profession, of course. An expert in your field, I assume you know quite a bit about the ancient stories of the globe." The other was surprisingly calm, as though this arrangement was the most normal in the world, and Peter forced himself to adopt that same mentality.

"I suppose you could say that."

"So what do you know about the Emeralds of Egypt?"

Peter blinked—few people knew about the emeralds. "They were gifts from the Egyptian gods to the first Pharaoh. There were fourteen of them, and they were supposed to bring unlimited power to him. He misused them, though, ravaged the land and left his people to die, so they were retaken by the gods' prophets on earth, hidden far from mere mortals. They were guarded by generation after generation of prophets until the age of discovery, when they spread them across the world, two per continent."

"I already knew that. What I don't know is, where would they be? Specifically, in this continent?"

"Uh, well, that's hard to pinpoint exactly…"

A shrill, horrible screeching filled the room. "For your sake, I would figure it out," the man hissed, all courtesy drained away.

Peter squinted, struggling to get a glimpse of his assailant but seeing nothing but a faint figure in the dark. "The prophets have become cult-like, in a way, in Egypt, dismissed as a fable, but they exist, shifting the emeralds every so often, so, they, they would have changed locations several times over, to keep them safe. They like to keep them in populated places, cultural landmarks, where the hustle and bustle would mask the power emanating from the emerald. If, if I had to guess, I'd say New York City."

"Care to narrow it down?" There was an edge to his words, and the screech followed, louder than before.

"St-Statue of Liberty?" It was a guess—a well-based guess, but a guess nonetheless. "The emeralds were g-given to bring peace and prosperity to the land, to ensure the safety of all. If the emerald were anywhere, it would be there."

Silence followed, and Peter shifted uncomfortably, contemplating how much leeway those shackles gave him. Half a foot, at the most. That would not be beneficial at all.

"I will check that immediately. Have you no other idea for the emerald's location?"

"No. If you happened to have another emerald, you could search that way; they're attracted to one another. Even in the busiest of areas, they will find each other. Pieces to a whole."

"Very good. Considering I have thirteen of them, that should prove most helpful."

"You have thirteen?" Peter gasped. "They're real? How—?

"That is not of your concern," the man quickly interrupted. "You have proved yourself useful. That, unfortunately, is quite a shame for you."

From the darkness emerged a bear of a man, dressed in Samurai-like black armor. A golden eagle hood hung over his face, leaving only his sadistic smile exposed. He raised one hand, seethed in metallic claws stained red. "I have no need for you."

"P-p-please, wait, I won't, I won't tell, I swear, please." He flailed, lost his balanced, tumbled to the floor. "I promise. Please, I won't tell, I swear, a secret, I'll keep this all a secret."

The claws dug into his chin and jerk him forward. "I'm sorry, my dear fellow, but I can't be taking any chances. Fear not, though; impaling kills its victims—"

He rammed the weapons into Peter's stomach and offered a quick twist before pulling them out slowly. There wasn't even a gasp.

"Instantaneously." Standing, the villain barely glanced at the corpse, blood oozing from the wound and open mouth. "Henchmen!" he called, and the three men who had kidnapped the mythologist entered the room. "Take our guest outside. Give him a nice burial—he did well. And after that, ready yourself. We have a city to visit."