Chapter 6
NOLAN
T he next morning, I pace the east wing with Allison at my side.
Whoever left that footprint and that strip of velvet isn't just playing games.
They're baiting us. I can almost feel the invisible strings tugging through the house, pulling us toward something larger.
Saltmoor has become a stage, and every guest is part of a performance none of them understand.
Allison pretends not to shiver, but I see the tension riding her shoulders and the sharp scan of her eyes. She doesn't miss much. Neither do I.
Once the guards sweep and clear the storage room again, we head back toward the main corridors.
Allison keeps her stride quick, her chin lifted, daring the world to challenge her.
I let her take point, watching the way she moves: efficient, contained, but carrying more fire than she wants anyone to notice.
Something has cracked open between us. This morning hammered it again.
Now every second near her feels like walking on the edge, waiting for the slip that will change everything.
I need to ground myself in what I came here for: the mask.
History doesn't lie, even when people do.
I stop by the exhibit once more, ignoring the look she throws me when I veer off course.
The jeweled mask sits in its case, glittering with the kind of menace only centuries can breed.
My reflection stares back from the glass, pale and restless, but the carvings around the eyes draw me more.
Spanish, yes. But older symbols are hidden beneath the gilding: etched faintly, worn by time, but there.
Allison steps up beside me. "What now, Professor? Looking for a curse hiding in the filigree?"
I crouch slightly, eyes narrowing as I trace the lines without touching the glass. "Not a curse. A map."
She laughs, a low, incredulous sound. "You're serious."
"Deadly." I tap the edge of the glass where the pattern curves into a series of repeating shapes, taking out my notebook and drawing the etchings. "These aren't decorative. They're directional. Ancient navigational marks, tied to early coastal tribes before the Spanish ever laid claim."
Allison tilts her head, her dark hair catching the filtered light. "So you're saying someone carved a treasure map into a mask, wore it at rituals, and centuries later it ended up here so you could play explorer?"
"You make it sound absurd."
"It is absurd."
I meet her gaze steadily. "Absurd things keep getting people killed. Ask the Calusa who disappeared when this ship went down. Ask the smugglers who tried to recover it in the nineteenth century and vanished before they reached shore."
Her sarcasm falters, if only for a beat. "And you think this connects to the mess we've already seen here at Saltmoor?"
"I think someone believes it does. The velvet, the footprint, the tampering: pieces on a board. And if this mask truly carries a map, then someone here intends to claim it."
For once she doesn't have a quick retort. She studies the mask again, eyes narrowing. Her silence tells me she's turning the possibility over despite herself.
"When the Calusa spoke of treasure," I say, my voice quiet, reverent, "I doubt they meant gold or jewels. Their power wasn't mined or grown—it was fished, engineered, commanded."
Allison tilts her head, studying me through the half-light like she's weighing every word for weakness. "So you're saying this thing isn't pointing to a stash of gold and silver in the swamps?" Her tone is skeptical, clipped, but there's an edge of curiosity in it she can't hide.
A faint smile tugs at my mouth, not amusement but patience. "The Calusa built an empire without farming. They mastered the sea—nets of palm fiber, canals through mangroves, fishponds that fed thousands. To them, that was treasure. Power."
Allison folds her arms, eyes narrowing on the mask. "Knowledge as currency. Techniques that could keep a whole people alive."
"Exactly." I trace the lines on my page, feeling the weight of what's been lost. "Gold and silver—even from Spanish wrecks—were ornaments. Symbols. Real wealth was control: food, labor, belief."
Her breath slips out in a wry exhale. "Belief. You mean the spiritual side."
"The Calusa said each person had three souls," I murmur. "They raised mounds to the sky, and in their ceremonies, priests wore masks like this. Not disguises—conduits. Power made flesh."
She studies me in silence, shadows hardening her face. "So the mask itself is the treasure. Authority. Legitimacy. A claim on the spirit world."
I hold her gaze, steady. "Yes. And if someone believes in that power, it's more dangerous than gold."
Her laugh is soft, without humor, and it cuts sharper than any blade. "Dangerous, sure. Because people don't just kill for money. They kill for power and for faith."
The silence that follows is thick, pressing in on us.
The mask stares back from the case between us, its features frozen, unreadable.
I can't shake the sense that it knows more than it should, as though the real secret is still buried inside it, waiting for us to be brave—or foolish—enough to find it.
"I'll need to compare this pattern to other references," I continue. "Saltmoor's library should have the atlases I need. The Murphys collect everything from colonial charters to pirate logs."
Her lips curve. "Of course you'd know that."
"Of course I would. I knew Ryan long before he became a billionaire."
We slip away from the staff and security, heading for the library on the second floor.
The hall stretches long, lined with portraits whose painted eyes follow every step.
Allison moves like she belongs here, like she owns the ground she covers, and I can't help the sense of pride at walking beside her.
She notices everything: the creak of a door, the shift of a servant's glance, the weight of silence where sound should be.
She notices me too, though she works hard to hide it.
Inside, the library smells of polished wood, fine leather and old paper.
Shelves climb toward the high ceiling, ladders resting against them like afterthoughts.
Heavy curtains mute the sun, casting the room in honeyed shadow.
Allison closes the door behind us, her movements precise, controlled, as though she can will away the pull between us.
I move to the long oak table at the center, spreading the reference books I need.
She leans against the far end, arms crossed, watching me as though daring me to bore her.
I find the symbols I copied from the mask into my notebook, then flip through atlases, searching for a match.
Minutes stretch, broken only by the rustle of pages.
Finally, I find it: etched into a seventeenth-century chart of Florida's Gulf Coast. The same directional patterns, leading inland toward a network of rivers. My pulse quickens, the weight of history pressing sharply. This isn't myth. This is fact.
I look up. Allison is still watching, her expression unreadable. "You found something," she says.
I push the atlas toward her. "See for yourself."
She bends over the table, eyes scanning the map. Our shoulders almost touch. Her perfume is subtle, fresh, distracting in ways I don't want to name. "Bloody hell," she whispers. "It matches."
"It does." I close the space deliberately, bracing my hand on the table beside hers. "Which means the mask is more than ceremonial. It's a key."
Her eyes flash to mine. "And you're planning to use it, aren't you?"
I hold her gaze. "I'm planning to stop whoever else is."
Something flickers across her face: fear, maybe, though she hides it quickly. She straightens, folding her arms tight again. "So what do you expect me to do? Guard you whilst you play treasure hunter?"
"I expect you to admit you believe me now."
She lets out a sharp breath, half laugh, half surrender. "You're insufferable."
"And you're still here."
The air between us tightens. She should walk away, call in security, return to her perfect control. Instead, she stays. I see the fight in her: the push to stay detached, the pull to lean closer. It's the same war I've been losing since the moment she stepped into Saltmoor.
I lower my voice. "You hide behind control, Allison. You wear it like armor. But I see what's underneath."
Her chin lifts, defiant. "And what do you think you see?"
"A woman who's stronger than she lets herself believe. And a woman who's terrified of what happens if she stops holding everything so tight."
Her breath catches. I press closer, the heat between us undeniable. My fingers brush hers on the table, just enough to jolt. She doesn't move away.
"You think you know me," she whispers.
"I'm beginning to."
The silence thickens until it presses against my skin. I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing the edge of her lower lip, offering her every chance to retreat. She doesn't. Our mouths meet, slow at first, then searing, a kiss that tears through reason and replaces it with raw hunger.
She tastes of defiance, salt and fire, and underneath it the sweetness of surrender she doesn't want to admit. Her hands fist in my shirt, dragging me closer, her body pressing flush to mine, the heat impossible to ignore.
Before either of us can speak, a crash reverberates from the corridor outside. Heavy, deliberate. Allison stiffens, reaching instinctively for her weapon. I grab her wrist, steadying her. "We move as one," I say, my voice low and unyielding.
She nods once, brisk and certain. Whatever waits beyond that door just made the mistake of interrupting us.
We follow the sound into a narrow passage behind the library. At the end, a locked door stands forced open, fresh scratches marring the brass keyhole. Inside, scattered papers cover a desk beneath a single lamp. Sketches of the mask, translations, references to hidden caches inland.
"Someone's been busy," Allison whispers, scanning the documents.
I gather the papers. They mirror my own notes, but with more detail. Whoever worked here knew as much as I do, maybe more.
"They're after the same thing," I say. "But they're ahead of us."
Allison steps closer, lamplight carving shadows across her face. "Then we close the gap."
A sudden clang reverberates from below, the unmistakable slam of the front doors. Allison's eyes cut toward the corridor. "They're not done."
"No," I say, my grip tightening on her hand. "But neither are we."
The fire in her gaze locks with mine, an unspoken vow sparking between us. Whoever stalks these halls has no idea what they've unleashed.