Aliens, Archaeology, and the Advantages of Falling in Love (Otherworldly Findings #1)

CHAPTER 1

ELLIE

There are internationally-agreed upon ethical guidelines in the field of anthropology; I adhere to them without question.

I’m sweating. It’s fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit, and I’m fucking sweating.

It probably has something to do with the way I’m crouched in front of this grid unit, thighs burning as I brush dirt from a single femur.

From under the dust appears a tiny divot in the trochanteric crest. Without taking my eye off the small indent, I place my brush at my feet and reach for the camera slung around my neck, snapping a photo.

It could be anything—damage from the burial, disease, trauma—but that’s what we’re here to find out.

“Déjeuner est servi.”

A small chorus of thankful groans breaks out around me, but I don’t lift my eye from the camera’s viewfinder. I adjust the settings slightly, trying to reduce the haze at the edge of the lens. Lunch can wait.

While I snap more images, the rest of the research crew organizes their little heaps of tools, chattering about open air and cigarettes and sunlight.

The tension in my shoulders unwind more and more with every step they take toward the stairwell that will lead them above ground.

At the last second, when their voices are already starting to fade, someone hesitates.

“Elliott, viens-tu?” Paul, our research team lead asks, sounding like he really hopes the answer is non. He dislikes me the least, or at least can feign professionalism better than the rest of them, but that doesn’t mean he wants me around more than strictly necessary.

“Non, je vais continuer à travailler,” I respond in horribly accented French, without looking away from my bone. Paul makes a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat, but doesn’t argue. He never does, and neither do the rest of my team.

We’re not supposed to be in the catacombs alone. It’s probably the only rule I break without feeling that weird, itchy sensation under my skin. But I justify it by the sheer quantity of work I get through when I’m not fending off side-eyes and prying questions.

I realign the ruler against the femur, directly beneath the pitting I’m trying to capture, ensuring it’s perfectly parallel to the stretch of alabaster.

Finally, in the dusty, cold silence, I feel at ease.

I’m far more comfortable among the dead than I am among the living, especially when the living are so fucking annoying.

I move through my assigned section of remains with the smooth, easy expertise of someone who has done this same series of actions a thousand times.

Because, well, I have. I’m not an expert by any means—being in my third year of PhD candidacy actually makes me an infant in the world of professional archaeology—but I’ve been doing this calming, monotonous work for months, and it’s almost muscle memory at this point.

Document, extract, measure, photograph, document more, examine, maybe scrape, sample, photograph, document once again, return, document somehow even more, again and again and again for every phalange, vertebrae, pubis, and scapula in the sea of remains that is the Paris Catacombs.

When it’s quiet like it is now, I can remember how much of an honor it is to get to work on this team.

There are thousands of baby archaeologists, some much smarter and more experienced than I, who would literally kill for this opportunity.

And I recognize that I’m doing important, industry-changing work.

A study of this magnitude on the evidence of disease, disorder, and other public health incidents on the bones of the catacombs has never been conducted before.

Even if it’s not my dream research, it’s a step in the right direction, and few archaeologists get to do their dissertation research on something so groundbreaking.

My name on these papers and studies will—hopefully—lead to more research opportunities, maybe a fellowship, and eventually a position at a university where I can direct my own inquiries, forge new paths in archaeology and biological anthropology.

To get there, all I have to do is not get removed from this project.

That truly is a possibility. As annoying as I find my colleagues, I know fundamentally that I am the problem.

From the moment I landed in Paris, everyone was welcoming and warm.

They asked questions about my university in Pennsylvania, shared stories about their home countries and cities, and made a few good-humored jokes about the reputation of Americans in Europe.

They invited me out with the team, taught me phrases in French that the little green owl on my phone had failed to mention. They tried.

And so did I, at first. It was easier before we started our actual work.

In bars and cafes, on trains and in hotel lobbies, I could attempt to be personable, laughing along with everyone else even if I didn’t hear the joke over the roar of voices in the train station, or look at photos of nieces and nephews on phone screens and coo with the group.

But once the work began, I fell back into my old, rigid patterns.

I really can’t help it. Conversations about personal lives distract from the job.

Late nights drinking and laughing lead to sloppy work in the morning.

And maybe if it was just me going to bed early and being quiet as we worked, it would have been fine. Weird, but fine.

Except that I get mean when I’m annoyed.

I try not to, but my brain’s natural reaction to overstimulation and incompetence is to lash out.

At home, I could slip in my noise-cancelling headphones and focus on the work until someone tapped me on the shoulder to let me know that we were done with our dig for the day.

But here, where safety rules don’t allow earplugs or anything of the like, I’m forced to let the cacophony of poor decision making and overlapping voices raise my blood pressure until I break.

My charming personality, coupled with my unyielding adherence to every rule and best practice in existence (well, except the one about working alone), wasn’t winning me any employee of the month awards any time soon.

I think if I didn’t produce nearly double the amount of perfectly documented findings than the rest of the group, they already would have replaced me.

I breathe deeply, the damp smell of earth and lingering sense of decay long completed tempering the heat rising up my neck.

I wish I could be one of those asshole researchers who was so confident they didn’t care about their asshole-ness, but unfortunately I’m deeply embarrassed that this is the personality I was born with.

No matter how hard I’ve tried, I always default back to uptight bitch.

I’ve been lost in my thoughts for so long that I barely noticed how much work I was getting through.

The bones in my assigned section of this wall of the catacombs have been fully examined, cataloged, and documented.

It’s taken months, but I can finally say something I’ve worked on for this project is complete.

When I glance at my watch, I realize nearly an hour has passed since Paul and the team left, which really doesn’t mean much.

The French take a very casual approach to the term lunch hour, and my team has adopted that mentality with enthusiasm.

I stand up straight and stretch, the substrate of my white jumpsuit crinkling as I raise my arms over my head.

I should take the time to head back into the land of the living and find something to eat, or at least stand in the sunlight and absorb some vitamins or whatever.

But the long, narrow path that stretches beyond our survey zone beckons me.

There are so many stories nestled here deep under the bustling city streets of Paris.

So much history, so much humanity. It really is an honor to get to help uncover it.

I promise myself I won’t go far. No farther down the path than has been marked for our project.

I grab the binder of documentation off the little folding table and flip through until I find the full scoping maps.

Fifty yards west down the pathway from this point has been evaluated and confirmed safe for our work.

I won’t go past that; not only would that be unsafe, but more importantly, it would be a fireable offense.

I grab a lantern and check the battery level, making sure I won’t be left in the dark around the bend from our larger LEDs, and at the last second, grab a UV flashlight, too.

Just in case I find something interesting.

I remind myself I’m not doing anything wrong as my scraping footsteps echo, muted by the padding of the dirt path.

The whole team made this walk together at the beginning of our project.

It’s totally fine to be doing this. Even if my heart is beating unevenly in my throat.

The warm, gentle glow of the lantern illuminates exactly what one would expect of the catacombs: thousands upon thousands of human bones.

Skulls and long bones are the most prevalent, creating neat, organized layers in the surrounding walls.

Visitors often claim that the catacombs are eerie, even haunting.

And perhaps, if you’re not familiar with the hum of the dead, it can feel that way.

But I’ve felt this sensation at almost every dig site I’ve been to since I was an undergrad, bright-eyed and begging for a chance to do the work I’d spent so many years reading about.

It’s the energy of stories untold. Of lives begging to be witnessed.

Of history undocumented. I don’t believe in ghosts or an afterlife, but if I did I would use this sensation as evidence toward their existence.

It’s an energy you can feel in your teeth, that makes your skin buzz and your heart feel closer to the surface of your skin.

It doesn’t, however, explain the weird anxiety that has nestled in my chest. But maybe this is just another reason they don’t want anyone alone in the catacombs. Maybe the solitude gets to you.

Still, I follow the hum, waving my lantern in arcs to supplement the light from my headlamp as I make my slow trek down the path. I don’t know where I plan to stop, but I keep a mental log of how far I’ve been walking, ensuring I don’t stray outside our charted survey area.

I’m about twenty feet from that invisible line in the sand when I notice something…

off. Not strange in the usual way of the catacombs, but disjointed.

Unsettled. The dust seems disturbed, not by human footprints, but like a great wind whooshed through the cavern, spinning the grains of sand into odd circles on the ground.

My heart beats tighter against my ribs as the hum of the catacombs changes, something more electric marrying with the unheard voices of the dead.

Like those whistles only dogs can hear or the unnerving high pitch of whalesong, it sprints through me, making my blood run faster in my veins.

I know there’s something wrong. Something new, that wasn’t here when our team did the initial walkthrough.

I can feel it in the pit that’s growing in my stomach.

But I can’t actually see anything wrong.

There’s no evidence of human activity, but that must be it.

Generations of people have lived underground among these remains, but The Catacombs’ preservation teams assured us that this area was not inhabited. They must have been wrong.

I should turn back. Retreat to the safety of our well-lit survey area and await the return of my team. Or hike my ass up those stairs and sit in the sunlight until everyone else returns. For the first time in a while, I’m actually looking forward to having other people around.

But before I can, the light of my headlamp catches on…

something. A flash. Just for a moment, like light refracting against water.

Contrary to every preservation instinct instilled in me via human evolution, I approach the section of wall where I’m certain it came from.

But there’s nothing. No abnormality, nothing shiny. Just stacks upon stacks of bones.

I click on the UV flashlight, but it takes a moment to find the courage to raise it. The purple glow climbs up the remains like a spider on ivy, inching its way toward my eye level as I raise my arm. I don’t know when I stopped breathing, but my lungs scream for oxygen that I can’t give them.

The air that the UV light passes through wavers. Just slightly. Almost like a noxious gas hangs among the nitrogen and oxygen. I flick my wrist, watching the neon glow warble and warp between my eyes and the wall of the cavern.

It’s disappointingly unscientific, really, when I reach out my hand. If I was in my right mind, I’d scold myself for not following proper procedure, for forgetting to run tests and have a safety buddy in my area as my gloved fingers skim the space in front of me.

We have rules and procedures for a reason, which I’m reminded of as the wall of the cavern dissipates before my eyes.

Fragments of sunlight filter through an unnatural hole in the dirt ceiling that’s already crumbling in on itself.

Splinters of silver and chrome are strewn among the quiet remains.

And strangest among it all, a figure, lodged into the rubble of bones like a meteor fallen from the sky.

It’s not an animal. Well, at least not one I’m familiar with, but zoology has never been my strong suit.

In fact, if it weren’t for the teal blue skin and strange, glowing blueish patterns running like a current over its body, I’d almost call it humanoid.

A dark mop of hair, two eyes (mercifully closed), a nose with two nostrils, lips, shoulders, arms, torso, legs.

I can’t count its fingers and toes at this angle, so unsure on that front.

Its body is covered in a tight fabric that has webbing, almost like my suit, but much more fluid-looking.

Like latex, but less shiny. It doesn’t breathe, not in the way I do, with my chest rising and falling in near-hyperventilation. Maybe it’s dead.

Holy shit. Maybe it’s fucking dead.

I am in way over my head. Whether this is some really tall person doing some ill-advised cosplay in a burial site, or some strange, hereto unknown animal, I know for a fact this is above my pay grade.

The strange urge to video call my best friend Jo, a mammalogist with a secret love for cryptozoology, flashes through my mind before I shake myself.

I have to get the fuck out of here and report this. Immediately.

I take one single step backward.

Its eyelids flash open, revealing two black pools filled with glimmering stars.