Providence (Statera Saga Book 3)

by Amy Marie

  “I’m not sure. We’ve never done it before, but it seemed so real,” I explain. “Part of me is scared my mind’s playing tricks on me. In my dream, he didn’t believe it either. He asked me to tell him something that he wouldn’t know, to prove that he wasn’t making me up.”

  “My God, Nora. You didn’t tell him we were in Paris did you? He’s still under Lilly’s control!” Rafe twitches in panic.

  “No, I didn’t tell him. Though, I did tell him I had a dream about Aurora,” I admit.

  “Nora!” Rafe chides. The driver looks at us in his rearview mirror, and Rafe continues in a whisper. “If Darcy knows that you know about Aurora, he’ll make the connection to Paris. Which means Lilly could know where we are. She could be on her way here!”

  I flinch as Rafe voices my own fears.

  “He told me that she was only controlling his body. That he was still the same inside, and that the dreams were his own. I think it’s true, Rafe. The connection between our souls is strong.”

  “I guess we’ll see if they show up then,” he says, clearly skeptical. “We should let the others know to be on their guard.” Rafe gets out his phone.

  “I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier.” My gaze drops to my lap.

  Rafe lets out a sigh. “Nora, you have nothing to be sorry about. I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now. Even if there’s a small hope that you could connect with Darcy… well, I would’ve done the same thing.”

  Our car pulls up to Mr. Sinclair’s home on Rue Saint-Martin and I quickly wipe my eyes before any tears escape.

  Rafe reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Don’t worry, we’ll just be extra careful. C’mon, let’s go meet your… adopted great uncle’s brother-in-law? Is that right?” Rafe succeeds yet again, at making me smile.

  To our surprise, Rafe’s knock is answered by an elderly man in a motorized wheelchair. Only then do I notice the handicap ramp off to the side of the townhouse.

  “Mr. Sinclair?” Rafe asks the man.

  “Indeed, and you must be Raphael.” The cheerful older man greets Rafe with a handshake, and then turns to me with a toothy grin. “And who is this lovely young lady we have the pleasure of sharing company with?”

  His polished British accent reminds me of Uncle Mike, and it warms my heart.

  “Hello, sir, my name is… N-Kora, Kora Killebrew,” I fumble over the new name I was given on my fake identification. Rafe’s ability to come up with an inconspicuous name has been blinded by his love of baseball and superheroes. The result is a fake name that sounds like it belongs to a stripper. Regardless, I beam at Mr. Sinclair to make up for it, responding to his jolly mood.

  His own smile instantly falters, and I wonder if I’ve been caught.

  I glance to Rafe in concern just as he asks, “Is everything alright, sir?”

  Rafe’s words snap the old man out of his daze and he’s quick to apologize. “Yes, yes, my apologies. As it happens, I could use a bit of fresh air. Would you two mind terribly if I asked you to accompany me for a jaunt? You stroll, I’ll roll,” he jokes, and his mood picks right back up.

  “It looks like it might rain.” I glance up at the overcast sky.

  “I’ve a brolly here, if we’re caught.” He pats a side pocket of his chair where he’s tucked an umbrella. “Besides, you won’t have experienced the true heart of Paris if you haven’t walked her streets in a drizzle. Come now, the news is making it sound as if the world is falling apart these days. Paris doesn’t seem to be as badly affected, but I need some reassurance.”

  Humoring the amiable old man, we walk through the quaint neighborhood at the center of the city and exchange pleasantries. Apart from the threat of rain, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that there’s a global crisis going on. Other major cities have rioting in the streets, Paris has cafés open on every corner and street musicians still performing every few blocks.

  “Charity told me you were traveling through on business. What is it that brought you to Paris?” he asks us.

  “We’re trying to connect something from our historical archives with the museum here,” I’m quick to give our rehearsed response.

  “Ah, you both have that old soul historical air about you,” he chuckles. “The Louvre isn’t far from here. But don’t neglect the smaller galleries. The city’s full of hidden gems for you to stumble upon.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who works for the Louvre, would you?” Rafe does his best to sound casual.

  Mr. Sinclair stays silent as a distant roll of thunder announces the coming of a storm. “It’s funny you should ask,” he says eventually, stopping to look up to the sky. “Let’s turn down this way. We can escape the storm.” He makes a quick left turn down a side street called Rue de Montmorency, and we duck into a cozy café.

  When we’re seated, Mr. Sinclair examines me carefully. “When I spoke to Michael’s great niece and agreed to meet with you, I didn’t know quite what to expect. I must admit, I hadn’t thought about Augustine in years. There’s some tragedy involved, I’m not sure if you know,” he pauses.

  “We were told what happened to your sister. I’m so sorry,” I say as gently as I can.

  “I expected you would have some idea, being connected to Augustine’s family. But there’s something else… a strange coincidence of sorts. You asked if I knew anyone who worked at the Louvre. Well, I used to. I had a cousin who was like a sister to me. Beautiful and bright young woman, so full of life,” he says, meeting my eyes. “She was working there when she was killed. I suppose I’ve blocked it all out, mind you, it’s the only way I could really move on from it all. If I didn’t think about Michael, I didn’t have to think about what had happened to her, or my sister, Addie. But there’s one thing that’s bringing it all back to me.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Your smile,” he declares. “For a moment, I was swept back in time. I thought I was looking at my dear cousin, Aurora. It’s been so long. I’m not sure if it’s your looks, or your mannerisms, but there most definitely is something. I guess you could say I caught a glimpse of her in your smile. Isn’t that strange?” He laughs off the notion. “Forgive me, ramblings of an old man.”

  Rafe and I glance at each other with a silent question passing between us.

  Should we tell him?

  Rafe gives a quick shake of his head. We’re pressed for time and there’s no reason to put this older gentleman in Lilly’s destructive path.

  “Probably just memories stirring up from the connection to Mr. Augustine,” I suggest. But I have to admit, there’s something inside of me that’s endearing me to Mr. Sinclair. There’s some sort of bond I can sense. Proof that a family’s love can hold strong, even beyond one’s lifetime.

  “You may be right,” he agrees. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The Louvre. What exactly is it you’re looking for? Perhaps I can be of help? It’s not far from my home, you see. I’ve been there countless times.”

  Rafe opens his mouth to speak, but I follow my gut and take the initiative. “We’re looking for some information on an ancient Egyptian necklace that has to do with the inspiration in the creation of the Great Seal of the United States.”

  Rafe gawks at my blunt response.

  I continue on, “Before he passed, Uncle Mike found some clues that connected the artifact with the Eye of Providence and the pyramids. His work particularly mentioned the significance of the pyramid’s capstone. I believe it’s called the ben-ben?” I throw out the clues of Uncle Mike’s notes, hoping to catch Mr. Sinclair’s attention.

  Judging by his face, my plan is working.

  “My word, young lady. You’re surprising me with one coincidence after another today,” Mr. Sinclair says.

  “Why is that?” asks Rafe, leaning forward.

  The older gentleman holds up his arms to gesture to the room. “The ben-ben stone?” he says and pauses, waiting for us to make some sort of connection.<
br />
  I glance at Rafe. He’s as confused as I am.

  Mr. Sinclair laughs at our reaction. “Oh my, you two have certainly made my afternoon so much more interesting! I suppose you may not have noticed it when we walked in, but the building in which we now sit is somewhat of a historical landmark for Paris.”

  I glance around and take note of the elegant décor. The stone fireplace next to our table balances the elegance with a cozy ambiance, but I’m missing any clues as to what would constitute this place as a historical landmark. Finally, I take a closer look at the menu for a clue. The logo displayed across the front reads Auberge Nicolas Flamel.

  “Nicolas Flamel?” I ask. “Why does that sound familiar?”

  Mr. Sinclair sits back with a smile on his face, enjoying the game.

  Rafe snaps to attention and grabs the glass bottle of mineral water from our table to examine the logo. “I recognize it too, but where…” he trails off.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, just as he produces his phone to look it up. My recognition beats him to it. “Isn’t it from Harry Potter?” I ask, completely bemused.

  It’s Mr. Sinclair’s turn to lean forward. “I’ll give you both a break since you’re not locals,” he laughs. “While the link to that wonderful popular culture character has sparked a resurgence in his popularity, I assure you, Mr. Nicolas Flamel was indeed a very real Frenchman. This building was once his residence,” he explains, waving his arms again. “His rumored dabbling in alchemy, I suppose, is exactly what inspired the lovely Ms. Rowling to weave the real man into her tale. He’s famously credited in legend for possibly succeeding in the two objectives of alchemy: Turning metal into gold and creating the elixir of life. In the fantasy novel you refer to, I believe they called it the Philosopher’s Stone, or the Sorcerer’s Stone on your side of the pond. But it also has a very rare other name in a different culture. You just happened to mention it.”

  I did?

  “What is it?” I ask, still puzzled.

  “The Ben-Ben Stone.”

  Chapter 10

  My pulse leaps to such a frantic beat I feel almost dizzy.

  Can this be real?

  We’re talking about fantasy fiction! Though, if there’s one thing Uncle Mike taught me, it’s that fiction often stems from some version of truth.

  Rafe’s mouth keeps popping open and closed in shock. I think he’s speechless.

  I clear my throat, trying to recover. “That’s… quite the coincidence,” I say.

  Mr. Sinclair clasps his hands together with a laugh. “You two look properly gobsmacked! I assure you, it’s a load of codswallop. Michael must have been playing a prank of some sort. There’s of course no such thing as turning metal to gold, or an elixir of life for immortality.”

  No… of course not.

  But I do know of a gold object that has been known to wound a man and prolong his life for over two-hundred-and-fifty years with a miserable curse. Darcy and the dagger are living proof that a legend like this can be real.

  “The French are such romantics, they live for this type of folklore,” Mr. Sinclair continues talking, but I can barely pay attention anymore. Everything is piling up together in my head, and suddenly it’s just too much.

  I rush to stand and excuse myself to the bathroom. Once inside, I lock the door. Leaning my hands on the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The bathroom lights dim in unison with the nearby rumble from the storm. The hair on my arms stand on end. It may just be bad weather, but the elements seem to be calling out a warning.

  The flame of immortality.

  The final words of Uncle Mike’s message. His clues helped us find the path to Paris, and chance led us here. There’s a connection here with Flamel.

  But what does it all mean?

  As if in answer to my thoughts, my reminiscence brings me to the floor of the ladies’ room, and I black out, spiraling into another vision — the memory of yet another life.

  When my head stops spinning, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dark crypt-like room. A dancing glow catches my attention and I turn and lean toward the warm radiance of a flame-lit torch nearby.

  It’s an eerie feeling sitting in the circle of torchlight, not knowing what may lie on the outskirts of the circle’s glow. It’s a rare glimpse into a time long past and thankfully, a nuisance obsolete. Also, pretty terrifying for a girl who grew up dependent on night lights.

  “This must remain a secret. It is a thing that only those like you and I would understand,” a man’s voice at my side surprises me, stirring me from my thoughts. He’s speaking in a foreign language, but just like in my other dreams and visions, my mind interprets.

  “How can you know for sure?” I can both hear and feel the shock in my voice from whatever had just been revealed.

  “I hear the hum of power. It crackles like the torch. I am certain you will hear it. Come, you must learn to listen.” He points to a gold object on the table.

  It’s a dagger — an ancient dagger. I recognize the familiar rose carved into the golden handle at the pommel.

  Darcy’s dagger.

  Instinctively, I lean closer. There is a hum that I didn’t notice, but I don’t hear the flickering of flames. Instead, the dagger’s hum carries a melody. I can almost feel a warmth from the sound like never before as my two senses overlap. It’s an energy — like light.

  “Do you hear it?” the man leans closer and I notice the length of his beard marking his old age.

  “Yes, Monsieur Flamel,” the words pour out of my mouth. “But it’s difficult to describe.”

  It’s Nicolas Flamel!

  “Words cannot capture the essence of this kind of power. No power can compare to this sacred substance,” he says, voice full of admiration.

  “It looks like plain gold, Monsieur,” I can detect the doubt in my own voice. This feels like a soul of light that has not yet fully accepted her potential.

  I glance back up to the bearded man.

  “It looks like gold to those who don’t know it’s potential. I’ve spent my life trying to recreate this substance with alchemy. But this… this was created from pure energy. We are connected to it. Me, fire. You, light,” the old man explains, pointing in turn.

  Ahh… Flamel.

  His was a soul of fire. That makes sense.

  “How did you find it, Monsieur?” I ask, doubt still lingering in my tone.

  “It was unearthed from an ancient culture, chanced upon in my travels. I had no choice but to take it, knowing what evil could attempt with this kind of power. That evil will hunt us, we must remain vigilant.”

  He’s talking about the destructors. Talbot and Lilly had this dagger when Darcy and Shkote’Nsi were cursed. It must’ve been taken sometime after Flamel’s time.

  My hand reaches out in the vision and I trace my finger along the carved petals of the flower. “Why the rose?” I hear myself ask. There’s more detail along the petals and the grip of the weapon is much less worn than the dagger I have in my waking possession.

  “The rose is a symbol for life eternal,” Flamel answers. “This dagger holds a special kind of power. Power I have only read about in my studies of ancient scriptures.”

  “What kind of power?” I ask, shrinking away from the weapon.

  “The very power I have sought my whole life,” he whispers. “Immortality.”

  I look down to the dagger, not able to comprehend such a thing. “How does it work?” I ask.

  He glances my way, weighing something internally. After a moment’s hesitation, he answers. “The power of the Materia Prima is sacred. Passed into this life from the energy that created it. The greatest of all power is rooted in sacrifice.” He points to the blade. “There is always a price for such power.”

  With that last powerful statement, the vision fades. I’m left on the floor of the bathroom catching my breath. After huddling for a moment to collect my thoughts and bearings, I get up and exit the bathroom to face Mr. Sinclai
r with a new round of questions.

  I catch him unprepared straight away. “What can you tell me about the Materia Prima?” I ask as I plop back down into my seat at the table of the establishment that housed the man I just had a vision of from over seven-hundred years ago.

  Mr. Sinclair’s eyebrows raise at the question, but his cheerfulness never falters. “Why, it’s another nickname for the Ben-Ben Stone. Or more precisely, it’s the substance from which it was created. It’s said to be the original matter. You may have heard it referred to as ether, the fifth element, or the quintessence.”

  His answer gives me the equivalent of goosebumps for my soul. I know deep down I’m connected to this. And after my vision, I know that part of the answer to this mystery is in my possession.

  The perks of flying private internationally allowed me to carry Darcy’s dagger on me when we arrived in Paris. With my new knowledge, I can hear the hum of energy from the weapon from my bag. Or maybe it’s more that I can feel it now.

  Taking a risk, I pull the dagger out of my bag and lay it on the table.

  Rafe’s eyes go wide in panic, but it’s nothing compared to Mr. Sinclair’s reaction.

  “I think this might have a connection to what you’re talking about,” I say, leaning forward with a low voice.

  “W-where did you get this treasure?” he asks, reaching out his hand, but hesitating to touch.

  “Do you know it?” I ask, surprised.

  He reaches out again and touches the petals of the rose pommel before he answers, just like I did in my vision.

  “I’ve read about something like this. Though, I didn’t know it was real,” he admits. “I searched for years to find record of anything like it, but never succeeded. I eventually chalked it up to legends of myth.”

  “Where did you read about it?” Rafe joins the conversation.

  “There are letters. Old family heirlooms filled with riddles, drawings, writings, and codes. I’ve seen drawings of something like this,” he points, “the same rose handle. The documents are a part of my family’s keepsakes that’ve been passed down…” he trails off, lost in thought. “Matter of fact, when I first met Michael he was very interested in the letters, but they were in my uncle’s possession at the time and he wouldn’t give them up. He wouldn’t even let Michael look at them. He was a religious zealot, you see. He thought letters containing pagan practices would disgrace the family name.”