Chapter 9 #2
Teddy let out a long, irascible exhalation. “With the way you came barging in here, I thought you knew who I was. Do you know nothing of my most preeminent discovery—what should have been the most pivotal archaeological discovery of the century for mythics?”
Lienna and I shrugged.
He snapped his grimoire shut on his pencil. “Come with me.”
Not waiting for our agreement, he strode into the hall. I adjusted the straps of my backpack as I trailed after him, feeling uncomfortably overheated and unfocused.
“Kit?” Lienna whispered.
I silently shook my head as we followed Teddy through the next doorway.
This second room was slightly smaller than the first and far less inviting.
Wooden crates were stacked dangerously high in the corners, and a large bookshelf was stuffed with binders, coil-bound books, and folders.
A wooden desk with an uncomfortable-looking chair in front of it took up most of the rest of the space.
More wooden shutters covered the lone window.
Keeping his grimoire tucked under one arm, Teddy pulled one of the coil-bound books from the shelf, slapped it down on the desk, and flipped it open. A few pages in, he pointed at a map that I recognized as Bahla and the surrounding area.
“Here, twenty-two years ago, I discovered the tomb of an Arabian king from 1000 CE. Entombed with the body was a grimoire.” He flipped a dozen pages and stopped on a series of images of an ancient book, its pages covered with blocky symbols.
“Arabic text filled the back half of the grimoire, but the first half was written in this.”
Lienna leaned closer. “A runic alphabet?”
“Futhark,” Teddy declared. “The runic alphabet used in the Viking Age.”
“Wait, so it was a Viking grimoire? Here in Oman?” I jolted. “The weird guy from the story on the walls of Bodil’s tomb! The Shaver—”
“The Sha’ir,” Lienna corrected, her eyes brightening. “Bodil’s partner.”
“Exactly.” Bitterness twisted the archaeologist’s face as he turned more pages, revealing brief glimpses of photos and notes.
“The grimoire was a treasure trove of information, including details of the Sha’ir’s journey to and escape from Denmark, the Arcana spells he developed alongside Bodil, and the tool they used to create their prodigious magic. ”
He slapped his hand against a new page—and there it was, the same photo of the non-weapon from Darius’s documents and Trident’s auction file. My heart rate picked up, anticipation fizzing through me. Finally, the answers we’d been searching for were right in front of us.
Lienna stepped forward and flipped the page over. On the next spread were more photos—close-ups of the engravings, as well as comparisons to hand-drawn illustrations on ancient paper that showed the same markings.
“It’s … an astrolabe,” Lienna breathed. She looked up at Teddy. “That’s what Bodil’s artifact is?”
Sounded like syndicated sci-fi speak to me. “What’s an astrolabe?”
“A navigation tool, typically. This astrolabe is a unique precision tool for Arcana spell construction.” Teddy jabbed a wrinkled finger at the drawings of the astrolabe.
“After learning about it in the grimoire, my archaeological partner and I immediately began searching for traces of Bodil. We were in Denmark when humans discovered a new ring fortress. Beneath the fortress, I discovered Bodil’s tomb, and my partner convinced the MPD to grant us full control of the site.
I opened the sarcophagus. I found the astrolabe. ”
His voice rose to a zealous pitch before cutting off. He snapped the book shut.
“And then it was stolen,” Lienna concluded softly.
“Before I could give it more than a cursory examination.” He exhaled through his nose, his face reddening.
“I was fired from the project, blacklisted by my benefactors, my reputation tarnished, my legacy teetering on the precipice of mediocrity, my life’s work relegated to indulgences at cocktail parties for the rich and bored—”
He abruptly stopped speaking, cleared his throat, then continued in a more measured tone. “The grimoire was the true prize—the spells, the astrolabe’s uses, the descriptions of magic wielded by Bodil and the Sha’ir. I could live without the astrolabe, but the grimoire.”
Lienna’s eyes narrowed. “Where is the grimoire now?”
“With my former partner, Dr. Ricard Ballester, at the Museum of the History of Barcelona.” Teddy carried the coil-bound bundle back to the bookshelf and returned it to its pile.
“Ballester took all that knowledge—the result of my work—and traded it for an empty title. The grimoire is locked in a glass box where it can no longer be studied or its secrets revealed. It’s a disgrace, a crime against our mythic history. ”
Silence pressed down on the room. Teddy took a long inhale, composing himself, then turned to face me with avid intensity. “But not all is lost now that I’ve met you, Mr. Morris.”
Lienna’s shoulders stiffened. “What are you talking about?”
He ignored her, his focus solely on me.
“What do you want to know?” I asked.
He flipped his grimoire open, pencil back in hand. “What classes are your parents? Their names, as well. I will need to track your lineage.”
“I’m an orphan,” I informed him. “I don’t know anything about them.”
“Kit,” Lienna hissed. “What—”
“I’ll sort out lineage later.” Teddy jotted another note. “Tell me, are you registered as a psycho warper?”
Lienna grabbed my arm and yanked me back a step, her glare fixed on Teddy. “You said you didn’t recognize Kit’s name. What—”
I put my hand over hers and squeezed gently. Her expression was a medley of protectiveness, anger, uncertainty, and confusion. But when she looked at me, concern replaced them all.
My voice was low, almost a whisper. “I think he knows what I am.”
Releasing her death grip on my elbow, she slid her hand down my arm to entwine our fingers, and I could have kissed her for the steadiness her touch gave me.
Teddy’s scowl had faded. “With your interest in Bodil, I’d assumed you both already knew.”
“We thought I was a psycho warper until a few months ago.” I drew in a deep breath. “You know, don’t you? You know what I am.”
Teddy lowered his pencil. Closing his grimoire, he tucked it under his arm, considered me for a moment, then placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. Finally, he spoke.
“You, Kit Morris, are an atavism.”
Well, this was awkward. I’d been hoping for an answer that didn’t require a dictionary.
Lienna’s fingers clamped more tightly around mine. I had a feeling that word meant something to her.
“You, Bodil, and the Sha’ir are the same thing,” Teddy continued, removing his hand from my shoulder, his words slow and deliberate.
“Humans, mythics, and scholars have called it different names, sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of respect or awe. More recent names include a xenomythic—one with strange, alien powers—or a praemythic—one with an excess of magic. But I prefer the most accurate term: archmythic.”
Lienna’s fingers squeezed mine so hard it hurt—or was I crushing her hand? I couldn’t tell.
“What does that mean?” I asked, the words scraping my dry throat.
“Archmythic,” he repeated. “A mythic who ranks above all others.”