Chapter 1
Gwen
I could date a blade by the feel of it in my palm. The balance, the taper, the way centuries of oxidation changed how the steel met my hand. But figuring out its age wasn’t the hardest part of my job.
No, the hardest part was being confident enough to tell other people.
I pulled open the glass door of Caine-Ferraro’s Fine Art Investigations and stepped into the vestibule between the outer and inner doors.
Beyond, stairs rose to the investigations office that was part of a larger art conservation studio.
A security panel hung on the wall, and before I hit the buzzer, an athletic woman in cargo pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt jogged down the stairs.
Samantha Caine-Ferraro’s long brown ponytail bounced as she moved. She smiled as she pushed the door open and ushered me in. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Gwen.”
“You said Sutton Hoo-era sword,” I said as I shook her hand. “I seriously considered chartering a helicopter.”
“I said possibly Sutton Hoo era.” She motioned for me to follow her through the conservation studio on the main floor. “The possibly part is why you’re here.”
“What did you tell the FBI about it?”
“That I needed the best arms and armor specialist I’d ever worked with, and that she’d be here by morning.” Sam glanced over her shoulder at me. “Glad I wasn’t wrong.”
Three years ago, Sam and I had crossed paths on an insurance investigation she was doing.
The policyholder claimed significant damage had been done to his Roman-era helmet—a helmet I’d proven to be a fake.
She’d hired me for a case when no firm would touch me, because my prior boss wouldn’t give me a reference.
I’d been upfront with her about the scandal, but she’d countered with a long list of questions.
She must have liked my answers, because she’d used me as her expert.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I said, and followed her through the studio.
The space was gorgeous with high ceilings and skylights that poured natural light over six long worktables.
One conservator worked on a gilt frame at the nearest table, while another worked on a painting barely the size of my hand.
The room smelled like linseed oil and turpentine, with a hint of spicy flowers underneath.
Alternative rock came through tiny speakers mounted somewhere in the walls or soaring ceiling.
“You said it was a black-market auction?”
“Yeah, with a lot of artwork included. I consulted with the agent in charge and selected the items I thought we should review for them. Our conservators are handling the paintings, but the sword is mine,” Sam said, slowing until I caught up with her. “Well, yours now.”
“And you don’t know the sword’s provenance?”
“Not for sure. The paintings had paperwork I suspect is mostly genuine, but the sword didn’t have much documentation. The FBI logged it as ‘sword, medieval, origin unknown,’ which is why I called you instead of running it through our standard process.”
We passed two offices and the reception desk, then arrived at a heavy door at the far side of the studio. Sam pressed her thumb to a biometric reader beside the door, and the lock clicked. “Fair warning. When I unpacked it, I had a moment.”
“What kind of moment?”
She pushed the door open. “You’ll see.”
The storage room was cool and dry, with paintings standing in wooden slots along the walls. In the center, in a padded case, sat a sword.
I froze.
Long blade. Over two and a half feet. Golden pommel with red enamel and a ring attachment. The blade was old and heavily corroded. Even from twenty feet away, everything felt right. It didn’t look like a prop from a movie, or something a person simply claimed was ancient. It was worn and ragged.
And absolutely beautiful.
“Told you,” Sam whispered.
I withdrew a pair of nitrile gloves from my bag and approached the table.
I circled it once before I let myself touch anything.
The shape was consistent with seventh-century construction.
The hilt might have been original, but the gold was warm and still gleamed.
Black-market buyers would pay for the contrast between the degraded ancient blade and the near-perfect golden hilt.
So either someone had cared for it, or someone had faked the caring to fetch a higher price.
The case itself was hard-sided black leather, with a light gray interior molded around the sword. I could examine one side, close the lid, and flip the case over for the backside.
I slid my fingers under the blade, and my pulse kicked up. “Was it in the case when they seized it?”
“It was.” Sam stood across from me and crossed her arms. “The owner may have been shady, but from the looks of the pieces the FBI recovered, he took care of his antiquities.”
I held my breath as I lifted it—no more than an inch, testing the blade’s integrity. But the weight settled beautifully in my hands. It wasn’t modern steel pretending to be old. No, this piece had a soul.
“It’s real,” I breathed. Don’t get ahead of yourself. “That’s preliminary, of course. I’ll need days with it.”
“But it’s the same thing my gut said.”
“Neither of our guts are peer-reviewed.”
She laughed. “Your gut was right about that Roman helmet when three other appraisers said it was genuine.”
I set the sword back into its padded home. There were tests to run. I needed a lab. Needed time. Needed to calm the hell down. This was a tremendous find, and I couldn’t afford a mistake. Perfect. You have to be perfect.
“The photo room next door has scientific imaging,” Sam said, pulling out her phone to glance at it. “UV photography, X-ray fluorescence, Raman spectrometer. It’s yours as long as you need it.”
That wasn’t the sort of setup I’d expected in a small town like Brenton, Michigan, but it would make my job a lot easier. “That’ll help. Thank you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, the security consultants are here.” She slid her phone back into her pocket. “I’ll be right back.”
As she disappeared, I turned back to the sword. So much to examine. Where to start? Photographs and measurements first. Then leave the sword, dig through the databases, and start calling people.
Call whoever will talk to you, right?
I circled the sword, taking in the visible surface from all angles. I placed my bag on a nearby table and pulled out my small digital camera to take a few preliminary shots. Sam’s photo lab would be a huge help, but that would have to wait until I got my bearings.
Sam’s voice carried into the storage room, alongside a deep, steady male voice. They came through the door together, and I froze for the second time this morning.
The man was tall. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair, brown eyes, and a strong jaw hidden by a short beard.
He wore a charcoal jacket over a white shirt with no tie.
His gaze swept the room like he’d been trained to evaluate everything and everyone. But when his eyes met mine, they held.
“Gwen, this is Arthur Penn,” Sam said. “He’s with Round Table Security. Arthur, this is Dr. Gwen Lyons, our arms and armor specialist.”
I put my camera down on the table next to the case, removed one glove, and shook his offered hand.
His palm swallowed mine. The grip was firm, and the contact sent a wave of heat through me, as though he were melting me from the inside out.
Then his cologne hit me. Citrus and sandalwood, only enough to catch when someone was this close.
Too close.
I let go.
“Dr. Lyons.” His words were crisp and unhurried. “What are we protecting today?”
He didn’t ask what it was or what it was worth. No, he asked about protecting it.
I liked his question more than was reasonable. “Sixth or seventh century, from my initial impression. Anglo-Saxon or Frankish. But I still need to confirm its authenticity.”
He nodded once and turned his head toward Sam. The movement was slow, his eyes lingering on me for a beat—or had I imagined it? “Walk me through access to this room?”
Sam and Mr. Sexy As Hell Security Consultant began discussing everything from the biometric locks to the cameras and doors. Somewhere around the third question about locks, Sam suggested she show him the rest of the studio.
They moved out into the main space, their voices fading as Sam walked him through the building.
The air finally returned to the room.
Focus, Gwen. You’re here for work.
I turned back to the sword, trying to be grateful for the quiet, and pulled my glove back on. My brain needed to sort itself out, because it was split between the most exciting item I’d had in front of me in a decade and a man who was…
Was “wow” descriptive enough? Probably not.
I rummaged through my bag for my notebook and tape measure.
With each photo, I jotted down ideas and tasks to complete.
This sword would take time. It wasn’t a project I could rush or risk getting wrong.
I used the case to flip it over, and reopened it to look at the underside.
Just as beautiful. Just as perfectly ancient.
It had the same red enamel in the gold, but there was a different texture on this side.
Something… I snapped a photo and zoomed in, trying to make it out.
An inscription? Was that what it was? It was so faded, buffed almost smooth, but it was definitely letters. I muttered as I enlarged the image further, “C-L-A-V-I-S—”
“Sorry I’m late,” came a male voice from the doorway, and I startled.
“I think you’re looking for—” The words died in my throat when I saw him.
He stopped.
I stared.
Oh shit.
Lance Collins. He was tall, too, with light brown hair and friendly eyes. The same warm grin he always wore spread across his face as recognition landed. He looked good. He always looked good. That had not been the problem.
“Lance.”
“Gwen Lyons.” He strode over to me, took my hand that I hadn’t offered, and kissed my cheek. His lips lingered just long enough for his cologne to rewind my brain two years. “It’s been too long.”
“It has.” It hadn’t.
We’d dated for a few months while he was on a security contract in New York City. When his contract wrapped up, neither of us brought up long-distance. There’d been no hard feelings. No real feelings at all, and that had been the actual problem.
“Hey, Lance,” said Arthur, as he reentered the room. “Thought you’d never get here. You met the arms expert?”
“Oh yeah,” Lance said with that stupid, irrepressible grin. “Gwen and I go back.”
Arthur Penn was with Round Table Security. And Lance worked with him?
Arthur and Lancelot?
Shit.
Before I died of embarrassment in front of my ex—and his co-worker I’d been ogling—Sam joined us.
“Now that we’re all here,” she said, “let me explain the project.”