Chapter 1
Dormant No Longer
Lillian
TELL ME IT’S TRUE!” I demand, stepping away from Ben’s side.
“Tell me what I heard in that ballroom wasn’t all a ruse, that I didn’t flee with false information.
” My voice cracks against the fatigue as I take another step forward.
The train to France, and then the ship from Cherbourg to Southampton, had been rough, not allowing for much rest.
The sleepy eyes of an elderly Mr. Morgan do nothing to give me respite either. He has given us nothing since our arrival.
The man in question clears his throat and pinches the left sleeve of his pajamas, surely contemplating all the information that has come to light since our soiree just last night.
His gaze finds me before sweeping over to Ben.
“This could wait until tomorrow, Mr. Reed. All that can be done today has already been done.”
Offended that Mr. Morgan would look past me, I fight the frustration as my head whips to Ben.
He stands as still as a statue beside me, not daring to speak.
He had wanted to wait to rouse Mr. Morgan until tomorrow, but I would hear none of it.
All I want is to get going, to place all of the pieces, and enact the plan we’ve meticulously curated over the years.
My partner clears his throat before running his fingers through his hair that the pomade gave up on hours ago.
“Mr. Morgan, it has been a very trying day. We’ve gotten the information we’ve been looking for.
All Lillian and I want is to get on with it.
” His sweet eyes slip to me, and I give him a gentle smile full of all the things I want to say to him but won’t until we’re alone.
Despite the yearning feeling to reach out and grab his hand, I refrain and turn my attention back to Mr. Morgan, who is dragging a hand down his face.
The years have been kinder to him than to Ben and me, it seems. Who was once an old man has merely turned into an older one.
Ben and I have aged from seeming children to haggard and experienced adults.
A surprising rush of gentleness washes over me at the sight of the exhausted man sitting in the same chair he broke the news to us in, back in 1928.
Suddenly the feeling turns to sickness knowing I’ve brought such anxiety to his home at an abysmal hour.
My shoulders relax as I reel in a semblance of my training.
“I apologize, Mr. Morgan.” A flighty breath escapes me as a knock on the door alerts me to the front of the parlor where Mr. X has peeked his head in.
He doesn’t need to say anything; the concerned look on his face says enough.
There will be things he wants to talk to Mr. Morgan about without us in the room.
A knowing silence passes between all four of us before Mr. X steps fully into the room. “Your rooms are made up, and baths have been drawn. Company is expected first thing tomorrow morning; this conversation can wait until then.”
Without another word, Mr. X breezes past us and aids Mr. Morgan to stand. As the two of them pass, Mr. Morgan leans closer, forcing his aid to loiter. “Your father paid London a visit yesterday. Our allies claim he has passage booked to S?o Luís in just two days.”
Ben finds the small of my back as he reaches for clarification. “So, it’s true then. The Germans are sending another expedition?”
Mr. Morgan’s face grows taut as his lips fall into a thin line. “Get a good night’s sleep; there is much to discuss with the team tomorrow.”
The team.
Not so much a team, more of a ragtag group of dually interested and trustworthy individuals that Ben and I have only gotten to know through the passing of government files. I swallow my nerves and, with the rising of my arm, finally let Mr. Morgan pass me by.
When the door closes behind our host, the room becomes still. There is nothing but the shuffling and occasional creak of feet moving up the stairs. The grandfather clock chimes in the hallway, seemingly urging Ben and me to turn in.
Ben collects me by the end of the third chime, and the two of us trudge to the top floor where our accommodations—and a freshly drawn bath—wait.
Moisture, that has proven impossible to get rid of by towel, drips from my hair down to the shoulders of my silk robe. The sticky sensation would usually bother me, but all my focus is on the girl in the mirror. The necklace is safely around her neck once again.
Twirling the stone between two fingers, I glance down at the safe below my feet. A floorboard is tossed to the side, revealing the open lock box where two more artifacts remain hidden away from the prying eyes of the world.
“I had so hoped I could spare you from ever having to wear that again.” Ben’s soft voice takes my focus from the floor to my doorway.
He’s freshly washed and freshly shaved, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. Turning fully, I drape my right arm on my chair back and watch as he pulls a sleep shirt over his head and invites himself in.
He’s always joked about how he’s older than me, but in my eyes, time has done nothing to this man before me.
If anything, he’s been further whipped into shape by the training Mr. Morgan insisted he take part in.
He’s taken the role of protector seriously, and while I’ve always trusted him with my life, he has become something else entirely.
My eyes flick over to my bed where he’s laid out his weapons and a leather bag.
Ten years of wanting him, and we still utilize my bed as nothing more than a staging area for quick getaways.
Much to my horror, Ben follows my gaze. I know he’s about to bring up every reason why we shouldn’t be intimate, arguments I’ve heard time and time again, so I rush into a change of subject and turn away from him.
“I always knew that I would have to wear it again.” My huff of a laugh is cut off by his aggressive approach.
He wraps a finger around one of the curls that frames my face and kneels to look in the mirror. The curls have been freed, but so much of the red still remains. At least the powder on my skin was easy to rinse away.
Not wanting to think about disguises any longer, I tilt my head just enough to tug the coil from his grasp. He licks his lips in retort but is respectful enough to step away. He strides to the bed and tosses his things into his bag before retreating toward the door.
He comes to a stop at the threshold, a hand resting on the frame. “I hope the voices don’t cause you too much pain now that we’ll be returning.” There’s an awkward clearance of his throat and then, “You know my door is always open to you.”
I refuse to think of the night in Munich when I took him up on that very offer.
The night he truly rejected me. The night I let him explain, and though I know he was right, it still hurt more than anything I experienced in the Amazon.
Holding back every bit of overpowering emotion, I bob my head without turning to face him.
It must be enough of an answer for him because when I lift my eyes to the mirror again, all I can see is a dark hallway reflecting back at me.
Shadows seem to emerge and retreat in quick succession before the door creaks slowly shut. Throwing my head over my shoulder, the spirit’s teasing ends and the door handle stops its shaking.
Minutes later, when I finally push my form from the vanity, a chilling breeze blows swiftly through the small space. I don’t need to glance down to know that the amulet at my breast is glowing, and glowing brightly. Wrapping my palm around the light, I pray that it will stop.
“I’m not ready,” I gasp. The amulet glows brighter still. The shadows in the corner mock me, stare at me, and whisper.
Sombra de uma montanha.
Luz da Amaz?nia.
Um sacrifício deve ser feito antes de um novo amanhecer.
As quickly as it started, the light burns out, leaving me in the shadows once again. As the lines play over and over in my head, I drop to my knees and dig for my old journal beneath the floorboards. Procuring it quickly, I push myself up against the wall and begin to translate.
Shadow of a mountain.
Light of the Amazon.
A sacrifice must be made before a new dawn.