Chapter 3
chapter
three
Verity
I glare at the petrified bee, its every tiny detail captured in stone. I’m sure it would get compliments if anyone noticed it on my office desk. I should have thrown it out the window, but I kept it for some reason. It’s a rather beautiful shade of blue with veins of gold where the stripes would be. I know others would find it pretty, but I find it annoying. Mainly because it serves as a reminder of how that gorgon humiliated me at the party two weeks ago.
I poke at it, thankful it didn’t come back to life. It falls over, its tiny stone wings too heavy to stay upright. I assume it didn’t recover from the gorgon’s glare because it’s so tiny.
I frown at the bee and decide to put it in one of my desk drawers. Pretty it may be, but it’s still a humiliating reminder of how I nearly ruined poor Della’s garden party. Not that Della minded; she’s been nothing but apologetic about depriving me of my EpiPen. Still, my face burns with shame when I recall my spectacular display of hysteria and clumsiness.Not to mention my panties when I fell on my ass, and my skirt flipped up.
I’m about to pick up the bee and put it away when my phone blares with an incoming call. It’s an old tune, but it has always been my favorite. So much so that I’ve made it my ringtone. I’m pretty sure no one else my age still uses ringtones. They keep their phones on silent, carefully curating each call. But this isn’t just my personal phone, it’s my work phone.
I frown when I see the call is from an unknown number, but my clients’ parents often pass my number around. I’ve lost Adrian as a client since he’s graduated to an elite scholarly program, so a new client wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Verity Rogers speaking,” I say, accepting the call.
“Hello, Verity,” a smooth, intoxicatingly deep voice says from the other end of the line.
My jaw nearly drops to the floor, not because of how attractive the voice is, but because I know immediately who it belongs to. That odious and obnoxiously handsome gorgon somehow finagled my number from the Lancasters. How dare he?
I gasp, ready to unleash a tart response on him before disconnecting the call.
“Please don’t hang up. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but give me a chance to apologize again,” he rushes to say.
For some unknown reason, I decide to give him that chance. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I’m so sorry I accidentally turned you into a statue. And I, uh, have a job offer for you.”
My eyebrows rise. A job offer? He wants me to tutor his child? Why hadn’t I considered the notion of him being a father? And why does the thought of that make me feel so uncomfortable?
I clear my throat, lower my eyebrows from my hairline, and tilt my head.
“Go on,” I instruct as though he’s one of my students and not the hottest man I’ve ever seen, snakes notwithstanding. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been dreaming about those strong hands touching me all over.
Nope.
Never even considered that. Certainly never dreamed about him or his strong hands.
I clear my throat again.
“Maybe I should start with my name. I’m Gideon,” he says.
“Gideon. I wonder why you didn’t tell me that when we met? Oh, I know! Because you were busy turning me to stone!” I accuse.
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I nearly choke on them.
Why did I say that?
It’s so unlike me. I’m never rude, and certainly not to a potential client.
It’s not that I’m so desperate for work that I grovel (because I’m not, and I would never), but because the world of filthy rich monsters who need specialized tutors for their children is a small one. And clients talk.
If you think rich humans are petty, they ain’t got nothing on immortal beings.
Despite my obvious blunder, Gideon chuckles with apparent self-depreciation. “Exactly. Though in my defense, I was trying to save your life.”
“Hmm.” I make a non-committal humming noise, partly because he’s right and partly because I’m not sure I can trust myself to be nice.
When I say nothing more, he clears his throat. “I have a book I’ve been trying to translate. Since you’re a renowned linguist, I thought you might be able to help.”
“You don’t want me to tutor your children?”
There’s a pause. “I have no children. I want your services for myself.”
I want your services for myself.
Why does that sound so filthy?
“I see.”
“I’d certainly make it worth your while.”
Why does everything he says make me think of sweaty nakedness?
I’m only tempted for a moment because I truly don”t need the work. “I’m afraid I can’t help. I don’t do that kind of work. I keep very busy with my regular, long-term tutoring jobs.”
It’s not even a lie.
I don’t consult on individual translations. I never have.
So why am I tempted, if only for a moment? Surely not because he’s sinfully good-looking (even for a monster) and has the striking golden eyes of a tiger.
Eyes that turned you to stone, dumb ass!My helpful inner voice reminds me.
As annoyed with myself as I am with him, I add, with a bit of snark in my voice, “Maybe I can recommend some references that might help. A good English to … what language did you say this manuscript is in?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well?” I prod.
He clears his throat, and his voice is hesitant in a way I’m sure is foreign to him when he says, “Ancient Sumerian.”
I nearly snort with laughter but manage to make it sound like a cough. “Well, Mr. … What did you say your last name was again?”
“I asked you to call me Gideon.” His dry response makes me think I didn’t cover my laugh as neatly as intended.
“Well, Gideon, I’m afraid you’ve been duped. Whoever sold you the manuscript was clearly unscrupulous. There are no books from ancient Sumer. They didn’t record anything on parchment or rolls. Only stone tablets and?—”
“Yes, I am aware,” he interrupts in that bone-dry tone of his. “And I didn’t say the book dated to ancient Sumer, only that portions of it seemed to be written in it.”
I’m not taking the job, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “When does this book date to?”
“It’s medieval.”
“And only parts of it are in Sumerian? What about the rest of it?”
“Some of it’s in Sumerian, but it also has passages in Greek and demotic. As well as some in another—” he pauses, seeming to mull over his choice of words “—more obscure language.”
Something about how he says that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up … not in fear, but with a prickle of excitement.
“Sumerian, Greek, demotic, and something else?” I ask. “That almost sounds like the Rosetta Stone.”
It sounds exactly like the Rosetta Stone, in fact. Could this manuscript be the key to deciphering other languages? Maybe even ones we’ve seen only a handful of times?
Can you say catnip? This man sure knows how to dangle his carrot.
I chuckle at my unintentional joke.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks.
“Nothing. Sorry. Just clearing my throat.”
He makes a noise that might be a chuckle of disbelief.
He’s a cocky monster, that’s for sure.
“My book is the Elysian Chronicles, and I guess it could be compared to the Rosetta Stone. But if you’re not available …” He lets his words trail off, a sure sign he knows he’s hooked me.
“Can you tell me more about the other languages? The ones you haven’t yet identified.”
“I could tell you. But I think it would be better if you saw it yourself. It’s the kind of thing some people don’t believe when they’re looking at it.”
Once again, I have that prickle of awareness that tells me he’s about to bait the hook with something bigger than his book, as intriguing as it sounds.
But what other mysterious medieval manuscripts are there?
On instinct, I blurt, “Is this about the Lenayovitch Tome?”
A moment passes, and another chuckle comes from the end of the line—a chuckle that warms me right down to my toes, though I’d never admit it. “You’re not only intelligent but perceptive. Are you interested?”
The Lenayovitch Tome is a very ancient and mysterious book filled with fantastic beasts and plants that don’t exist on this planet, all surrounded by words that cannot be deciphered.
Or, if Gideon’s hints are to be believed, might one day be deciphered with the help of this book of his.
My blood rushes in my ears as my thoughts race. I know it may be a new dialect of the old language, but if I were the one who helped to decipher it, I’d get credit for that work. I’d make sure of it.
“What do you think? Are you interested now?”
“Are you saying you have a book in Voynichese?”
Voynichese is the word most scholars use to describe the mysterious text of the Lenayovitch Tome. It’s a script seen nowhere else in the world.
Unless Gideon has some other medieval manuscript written in it?
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone, during which I sense Gideon is debating how much to tell me.
Finally, he says, “If I admit that I believe portions of the Elysium Chronicles are written in Voynichese, will you work for me?”
My heart is full on pounding in my chest now. “It might not be provable. Not without access to the Lenayovitch Tome itself. And that has been locked up in the Yale library for decades.”
“True. Only someone with a great deal of money and power could get access. But until then, that same someone might have high-quality digital photos of the Lenayovitch Tome.”
Oh, my.
“So, to be clear, you believe the Elysium Chronicles might allow me to decode the Lenayovitch Tome, one of the rarest, most secret manuscripts in the world?”
This is a man after my own heart. Rare books and secret knowledge are my love language.
“Hmm. Maybe. Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I can meet you at Rosalia’s Grill at noon if you are,” I say. This man is a challenge to my libido, but my scholarly curiosity outweighs my sense of self-preservation.
“That’s fine. I’ll meet you there. Have a good evening, Verity,” he says in that smooth voice that’s so delicious it makes my knees a little weak.
And my panties a little damp.
What the hell? I frown at my reaction, say goodbye, and end the call. I’m not the kind of silly woman who goes weak-kneed over a man. But, oh, shit. What should I wear?
My frown deepens, and I pick up my phone again to call my best friend. Alice almost makes my ears bleed with her shriek of excitement when I tell her about the meeting with the gorgon.
“Oh my god, you’re so lucky! Are you going to charm his one-eyed trouser snake?” Alice snorts loudly on the other end of the line. She’s so different from me, which only strengthens our friendship. We balance each other out.
“I certainly am not,” I huff, although I can’t help the smile that tugs at my mouth. “I’m meeting him in public because all I could hear was your voice in the back of my head telling me to be safe.”
“You’re right. That’s exactly what I would have said. So, is he handsome? Is he the kind of guy you could finally let loose with?” Alice asks, typing so loudly that I can hear her nails hitting the keyboard in the background.
“I guess he’s handsome, in a classical sort of way. Mediterranean with dark hair and tanned skin. You know the type,” I say with feigned disinterest. Because I’m not interested in Gideon. Not at all.
Liar.
“Wait, is this the guy who turned you to stone?” Alice squeaks, finally connecting the dots.
I told her all about the humiliating excursion to the Lancasters, and she had some not-so-nice words to say about what she’d do to “that snake-headed gorgon” if she ever saw him. I suspect that if Alice saw him, she wouldn’t want to do any of those things.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” I finally say after a long pause to think about how hot Gideon was and how he pulled me to my feet with little effort before one of his snakes hissed at me and scared me silly.
“I think you should jump his bones, either way,” Alice says. “You could do with some bedroom time. And I don’t mean sleeping.”
“I don’t need any time with that man, in the bed or otherwise,” I refute with an offended sniff. “And I’m not jumping anything. I’m not looking for love. Especially with a man who can turn me to stone, accident or not. I like my life, thank you very much.”
“Okay, okay. But you’re the one who agreed to meet him tomorrow, not me. Seems to me there’s a little interest there,” Alice says teasingly, the laughter evident in her voice.
“Interest in his ancient tome, that’s all,” I clarify.
She releases another unladylike snort. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“I mean it, Alice. Play nice, or I won’t tell you anything else about him ever again,” I warn, meaning it.
“Fine. I’ll stop. But I know this much; I’d be finding out if his trouser snake has one eye or two.” She sniggers. “Does it hiss? Does it have a long, forked tongue? Does it bite?”She snaps her teeth together down the line.
I can’t help but laugh at her insanity. I love that she says what she’s thinking, no holds barred. There’s not an ounce of pretense or falseness about her.
“What am I going to do with you?” I groan.
But deep down? I’m a little curious now, too. What exactly does Gideon have hidden in his pants? And then there’s his book. Can’t forget that book, I remind myself quickly. It’s the only reason I agreed to meet him.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.