Chapter 12
Inside Duncan and Archie’s apartment, Sharyn stood with her back to a glass dining table. The others remained seated there, studying the strange book. She could barely stomach looking at it, knowing how much blood had been spilled just to carry it across the city.
With her arms hugged around her, she stared out a set of panoramic windows. The view overlooked the storm-swept snake of the River Exe. Lightning chased across the bottom of the low, dark sky. Morning seemed an impossibility.
Duncan’s flat consumed a corner of the fourteenth floor of a new tower in St. Leonards, one of Exeter’s toniest neighborhoods.
The room’s furnishings fit the polished building.
Everything looked Scandinavian modern, with sleek lines, cool leathers, all softened with faux-fur throws.
An electric fireplace glowed along one wall with a huge TV screen above it.
While tasteful, it was not her style.
Still, Sharyn appreciated the building’s other amenities, especially its security features.
In the foyer below, a reception desk was manned 24/7.
On Duncan’s phone, he had pulled up a feed from the lobby camera.
Normally it allowed residents to approve any guests.
Now he kept watch for anything suspicious.
Additionally, Sharyn had taken her own safeguards: memorizing the location and number of elevator bays, the routes to the north and south stairwells. Still, she felt exposed, waiting for the next damned shoe to drop.
She lifted a hand and rubbed the back of her neck.
She had considered tossing the book down the building’s incinerator chute, to be done with this once and for all.
Yet, she could not. It wasn’t out of respect for a rare text that was centuries old.
Nor was it from any sense of duty or obligation.
Instead, she knew the copper-bound book remained their group’s only leverage.
But how best to use it?
Before reaching his flat, Duncan asked her group to turn off their phones, even removing the SIM cards. His explanation spiked her fears: Maybe it wasn’t the CCTV cameras that led them to the Lemmy. Maybe they traced your cells.
Duncan kept his own phone powered for a couple of reasons.
First, it was unlikely the enemy would connect her group to these two men.
At least not quickly. So the risk was low.
Sharyn also asked Duncan to dial that mysterious number on the business card, but still there was no answer—which meant only one thing.
We’re on our own.
Naomi spoke up behind her. “Come look at this!”
The shock in her voice drew Sharyn’s attention away from the windows.
Suppressing a groan, she returned to the others.
Earlier, she had explained to Duncan and Archie all that had transpired, starting with how she had come to be burdened by the book.
Afterward, she had expected Duncan to toss her out.
Instead, he had merely gone darkly quiet, clearly needing time to digest this all.
With book in hand, Naomi sat between Tag and Duncan.
On the other side of the table, Archie slumped in his seat, his chin resting on his chest, half-asleep.
Tag had treated his bullet graze. Apparently, Tag’s own health challenges had gifted him with some basic medical knowledge.
The wound—mostly a bloody burn—had been pasted with an antibiotic salve and wrapped.
A handful of ibuprofen helped dull the pain, but Archie assured them he had suffered far worse on the rugby pitch.
Still, the long night had taken its toll on him.
On all of us.
Sharyn crossed to stand over Naomi’s shoulder. “What did you find?”
Her roommate held Duncan’s phone over the book’s leather cover. She fixed its camera light on the crystal eye, setting it aglow, and studied it closer using the phone’s magnifying feature.
“You were right,” Naomi said. “The symbols aren’t engraved into the surface but lay within the crystalline structure itself.”
Sharyn had already suspected as much. “What about it?”
Naomi, her eyes as bright as the crystal, glanced to Sharyn. “Come see.”
Sharyn leaned down, drawing Tag and Duncan closer. Naomi slightly rotated the orb, while attempting to hold the phone steady. The image on the screen jittered, then settled enough to make out one of the symbols.
Tag gasped.
Duncan swore.
Embedded shallowly into the crystal, a stylized gold centaur shone in astounding luminous detail. In its hands, it held aloft a stretched bow with a notched arrow.
Sharyn gaped at the sight. The image had to be no larger than a matchhead.
Yet, the artistry—the exquisite detail—stole her breath.
She remembered visiting a museum in New York that held an exhibit of carvings made from single grains of rice: birds, roses, busts of famous people, even a rearing stallion like shown here.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Naomi murmured.
Tag squinted at the crystal. “The skill and know-how to do this seems impossible for a book of this age.”
“And it’s not just this one symbol.” Naomi rotated the orb.
With each halting stop, she revealed more tiny golden figures: a ram with curled horns, a crab with menacing pincers, a charging bull with its head held low, a scorpion threatening with a raised poisonous tail.
They all knew what these shapes represented, but Duncan was the first to voice it.
“Zodiac signs.” He pointed to the centaur, which Naomi had returned to again. “That’s supposed to be Sagittarius. Look at those silver lines that cut across the gold. They link together brighter blebs . . . stars . . . forming the constellation for the symbol.”
“Tiny celestial maps,” Sharyn whispered. “The entire crystal orb is a chart of the heavens.”
“But what does it mean?” Tag asked.
No one had an answer, but one thing was clear.
“The crystal sphere,” Sharyn noted, “the rare artistry on display, it alone must be worth a small fortune.”
Tag stared at the book. “If something this amazing sits atop the book, imagine what might be inside.”
“Whatever it is,” Naomi noted, “someone locked it up tight for a reason.”
“But who and why?” Duncan asked.
Archie interrupted with a gruff snore, loud enough to stir himself fully awake. He lifted his face and gazed blearily around the room. “What’s going on?”
Duncan sighed, shook his head, and stood up.
“Enough of this. At this point, we’re just faffing about.
We’re all shattered and need sleep. In a few hours, it’ll be morning.
We can figure out a plan then. Maybe we risk going to the police.
Maybe we reach out to Archie’s dad, who has a lot of pull.
Right now, we’re too tired to think straight. ”
Sharyn tried to raise an objection but all that came out was a jaw-straining yawn. She recognized he was right. Adrenaline could only carry one so far.
Duncan pointed across the common area to a short hall. “Sharyn, you and Naomi take my room. Tag can bunk with Archie.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’ll take first watch.” He lifted his cell, which still displayed a view of the lobby. “Someone needs to keep an eye out for the bastards.”
“Then wake me in an hour. I’ll take the second shift.”
“If I can last that long.”
Guilt stabbed at her, but Duncan waved her off with a tired smile. “Fear not. I’ll not dishonor my grandad’s uniform by falling asleep at my post.”
Sharyn still hesitated, until Naomi grabbed her arm and drew her across the common area.
As they headed away, Sharyn wondered if the apartment had come outfitted this way or if Archie and Duncan’s parents had hired a designer for this chic bachelor pad.
The answer came when she entered Duncan’s bedroom.
It was like stepping into another century.
A tall Edwardian wardrobe commanded one wall.
Bookshelves covered another, packed with a disorderly muddle that spoke of its well use.
There was even an old Victorian washstand with a marble bowl.
Its scarred walnut surface held toiletries and grooming gear, including what appeared to be an old badger-hair shaving brush.
She wondered if the furnishings, like Duncan’s fatigues, had been passed down from his grandfather. If so, she struggled to balance this sentimental side of Duncan with his otherwise cavalier attitude.
“That bed . . .” Naomi said, gliding past everything else. “I could sink into it forever.”
The four-poster looked as much of an antique as the rest—and as well-used and worn. The mattress rose just shy of her waist. Layers of mussed blankets and quilts, all in tartan patterns, formed a masculine nest.
Naomi shed clothing with every step.
Sharyn followed, but she only removed her Army jacket, ball cap, and boots. Anxiety kept her otherwise dressed—ready in case they should need to run. Naomi had no such restraint. She stripped to panties and a loose-tailed shirt, then buried herself into the pile, nearly vanishing away.
As Sharyn climbed onto the other side, a soft drone of voices rose from down the hall.
Duncan had turned on the television, likely to keep himself awake.
She half-listened to what sounded like a soccer match as she cocooned herself into the blankets.
The bed proved to be as comfortable as it looked.
The sheets were silken, the duvet as soft as velvet.
It all tempted her to remove more clothing, down to the skin.
Still, she refrained.
As she settled in, she noted the coverings and pillows smelled like Duncan, a muskiness that further lulled her, reassured her that someone had her back. She closed her eyes, but she knew any sleep would be fitful at best, especially as the night’s terrors replayed in her head.
I may never sleep again.
She was proven wrong when time slipped, and a hand suddenly shook her hard. She shattered out of a dreamless void into a room lit by blinding rays passing through folds in the drapery.
Morning already . . .
She shifted up to an elbow, still bleary-eyed, to find Naomi leaning over her, somehow fully dressed again. Her friend’s eyes were huge, her features flushed.
Sharyn coughed to clear the hoarseness from her throat. “Why didn’t someone—”
“You must see this.” Naomi tugged her up. “Right now.”