The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  Finally, he waves his hand for quiet and turns back to his plate. His movements may be slower than average, but not from age. His body’s momentum is well defined and in sync with the Earth’s rotation. Over the centuries, his mental capacity has sharpened, and his keen awareness has broadened exponentially.

  “Come noo, yer fate here in this time would be far worse.” Seamus bends his head, purposely herding a row of peas onto his fork with the flat-end of his knife.

  “Worse than losing everything I know?”

  “It’s yer chance at life. There is nothing more fur ye here. Salva willna rest ’til they find ye. Yer husband, ye ken this when he committed murder an’ turned the gun on himself.”

  “What?” Sophie gasps. A piece of beef goes down the wrong way. It causes a fit of coughing and she is forced to spit a mouthful of food into her napkin. “I don’t believe you!”

  “Believe what ye will,” Seamus says. For a split second his face oddly softens. “My apologies, I assumed Mr. Sesay shared this with ye. Yer fate is sealed.”

  Sophie moves quickly to her next thought, not wanting to get worked up over a stab of fresh grief, “But what if I run into Jane and Bryce? Won’t they know who I am? They are there in 1863, aren’t they?”

  “Assumptions an’ preconceived notions.” Seamus’ mouth constricts sideways as if he has just bitten down on a tough piece of gristle with a decayed tooth. He tilts back in his seat. When the attendant rushes over, he quickly waves him off with a well-manicured hand.

  “I’ll say nae more. Ye must accept yer destiny.”

  “Sounds more like I am only the vessel of a greater cause,” Sophie hisses, feeling satisfied she has drawn the man out further than he had ever intended. She takes a tentative sip of her wine. The warm, fruity flavor is splendid.

  “You promise your Guardians will keep me and my baby safe?”

  “Aye, at any cost. Ye an’ yer unborn bairn will be cosseted.”

  Sophie wonders out loud, glancing at the people around them. “I’m curious, what role will they play in my life?”

  Seamus’ yellowed eyes form cagey slits, “Ye will be well cared fur in yer travels. Noo, enough with the questions.” A stony hush ensues. Without a doubt, Sophie is irrefutably dismissed.

  Chapter 22

  WHERE IS DOCTOR ARCHER

  Sophie’s eyelids spring open before her mind reaches full consciousness. There is a disturbing quiet, then another set of muffled rapid repeats reverberate through thick stone walls. Lying frozen in place, she is confused at first. She listens intently through a multitude of different sounds, all unfamiliar and making the fine hairs ripple on her forearms. This time she knows. It is the discharge of automatic weapons, followed by an air-shattering bang, much closer.

  Sophie shoots up straight. The door flies open and light from the hallway spills into the space. Two people rush into her chamber. One of them is already throwing the bed covers aside and pulling her to her feet.

  “What’s going on?” Sophie stammers. A full-length cape is flung over her shoulders. “Ow!” she yelps when a sprig of hair on the tender part of her neck is unintentionally yanked.

  “Shush. Hold onto this.”

  A wrapped leather handle of an overstuffed piece of luggage is thrust into Sophie’s hand. The weight of it tips her sideways.

  “Don’t drop it,” the French accent cautions.

  “Where are my shoes? I can’t see—”

  Sophie is sharply cut off by another crushing explosion that makes her involuntarily duck from the impact.

  “There is no time,” the woman says.

  Sophie recognizes the voice, but cannot put a face to it. “Do I know you?” she asks.

  “Coast is clear.” A tall male figure near the door urgently flicks his wrist.

  “Coast is clear? Really?” Sophie scoffs. The tired old cliché seems out of place. Nothing is real anymore. This is all some bizarre fantasy, a suspenseful scene in a badly played thriller, a dream world full of misfits with swelled heads. Before she can pull away, a reflexive arm around the center of her back hustles her to the door.

  A powerful kabang from above rattles nerves and objects around them. Chunks of mortar fall from the ceiling. The proximity amps up the pressure and makes their ears pop.

  Struggling with a surge of primal fear and the force that propels her forward, Sophie’s shoulder slams into the edge of the door on her way out. A flash of pain streaks down her free arm. The woman clutches her elbow and she is rushed down a dim corridor. A string of emergency lights have activated along the walls and cast an eerie green miasma.

  They enter an octagonal-shaped room with shadowed remnants of medieval grandeur. Their scrambled footfalls echo as they sprint around a massive 15th Century table to a wall with carved oak paneling. Invisible seams in the ornate trim reveal a hidden door in a sizable section of heavy wood. It opens to a passage.

  “How convenient,” Sophie chirps in giddy alarm, hunching down as she passes through.

  It makes sense. Old castles have secret passageways, intriguing escape routes that were used during dangerous times when hostile invasion befell the occupants. Their existence portrays a dramatic time in history when Scottish kings, Highland clans and Celtic traditions ruled.

  “Would someone mind telling me what we are running from?” Sophie demands, her lungs beginning to burn from exertion.

  “The enemy,” a rich male voice with smooth Italian overtones says matter-of-factly.

  Sophie remembers the man from dinner. “You’re the priest, Father, uh—”

  “Hurry up, now. Sbrigati!”

  A few more paces and they descend a spiral staircase chiseled out of igneous rock mixed with fused marble, quartz and mica. The mountainous stone as wild and rugged as Scotland itself is sculpted by ancient volcanoes springing from the seabed over three hundred fifty millions years before.

  “Down? Why not up?” Sophie is beginning to hate stairs and feeling like a fugitive. “How far does this go?”

  “Not far,” the woman promises, although her pitch is strained and unconvincing.

  As they go deeper, it is obvious they are drawing away from the chaos. Sophie can smell the sour sweat of trepidation on her two companions. With labored breathing, they travel several yards, stop and listen, casting quick glances over their shoulders all the while. Sophie thinks whatever happened is unplanned and must be really bad.

  Shifting her mind to priorities, “Where is Doctor Archer . . . Seamus?” This question provokes heightened tension and a tightened grip on her.

  “Dead, and we will be too if we don’t keep moving.” The priest swings his arm at a massive web gathering dust and abandoned by spiders long ago.

  They descend for what seems like an eternity to a place that becomes much colder. A stale, musty dampness fills the atmosphere. Sophie’s feet have begun a numbing throb as she struggles to keep her balance on a crude stone floor. She winces when she crosses a patch of something slimy and as slick as black ice.

  “Bloody hell!” Sophie cries out. If it were not for the two supporting her, she would have fallen flat on her face. As it is, she is sure she just pulled a muscle in her inner thigh that will smart in the morning.

  The passageway they follow eventually becomes an unfinished tunnel, dark and menacing. The man lifts a large Gothic-style torch from a rusted iron fitting. He lights the combustible material at one end and holds it up high, swishing it this way and that to get his bearings. It emits an ominous glow. A fork in the tunnel gives Sophie the strong inkling they could easily be lost.

  “Maybe we should turn back,” Sophie suggests.

  “This way,” the priest jerks his head and darts off.

  “We are almost there, no?” the woman says. “Her feet will be raw.”

  “They’re so cold I can’t feel anything right now,” Sophie pants.

  Luckily, their pace slows again as the tunnel narrows to a slit just big enough for one person at a time. The trio natura
lly forms a single file with Sophie in the middle.

  “Are you nuts? I’m not going in there.” Sophie backs up.

  “Go!” the priest barks.

  “Not with this heavy thing,” Sophie says. The awkwardness of the bulky carpetbag is Sophie’s futile attempt to stall.

  The woman snatches it up. “Now, go.”

  Sophie works her feet, slowly inching sideways, unsure and searching with her bare toes. The stone beneath them is slightly angled, which messes with her equilibrium. Brushing against the wall, tentacles of moisture penetrate the fabric on her back. Shivers ripple up her spine.

  Sophie hopes they have traveled deep enough into the recesses of the stony-pit to discourage rodents and crawling insects. The overwhelming smell of rotten eggs drifts on thinner air. Primordial walls, untouched for thousands of years, seem to press inward on them as the trio snake their way into the abyss. Flattened further still with her nose inches from the barrier in front, Sophie bats at something that is not there and grinds her teeth against panic and the sensation of being a wriggling worm burrowed within the earth, buried alive, entombed.

  The onset of claustrophobia causes her heart to beat erratically. Her quickened breath sounds like thunder in her ears and produces small clouds of vapor in the flickering light. When she thinks she can stand it no longer, another hidden door is kicked open by force and fluorescent light pours out from a sterile room with modern fixtures.

  At first, it registers as a hospital operating room, but to Sophie’s relief she spies a string of computer monitors. It is a laboratory of some kind.

  Chapter 23

  GOD’S ANCIENT PORTAL

  “Father Cambrio!” Lead Technician Walter Abbott’s eyes bulge with astonishment. The short stout Scotsman in his early fifties and known for his jokey attitude was sent a frantic message in the middle of the night.

  “Ye used the secret passage. Few ken about it,” he remarks. The startling priority alert, this is not a drill, forced him and his skeleton crew to implement their operation’s emergency action plan.

  “You forget,” Cambrio brushes his sleeves, “I have the original blueprints of this castle. I know every inch—”

  “Including this dungeon we’re standing in now,” Tamera Hudson, an award-winning American molecular biologist, breaks in. She scans the disheveled, barefooted woman, assuming it must be Mrs. Downing. A trace of empathy passes behind her eyes.

  “She’s not ready,” Tamera appraises.

  “No kidding,” Sophie chimes. Self-conscious, she crosses her arms and looks down at the hem of her blue-silk nightgown peeking out from under her cape. Her toes are filthy. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  “We’re leaving,” Father Cambrio declares, his steely glare on Tamera.

  “Leaving?” Sophie’s eyes dart around the room. She has a sick sense of what leaving means. “Oh no, no way! I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You have no choice,” Cambrio snaps.

  “I don’t like it. Where’s Seamus?” Tamera demands with the power of her superior rank. She stuffs her hands deep into the front pockets of her wrinkled lab coat. Her feet are planted apart, as if she is ready to do battle. Angry eyes denote lack of sleep and bear down on Father Cambrio for answers.

  “Gone.”

  “And the others?”

  Cambrio’s lips draw into a serious line. He shakes his head, no.

  “We chance flaws in the process,” Tamera insists. “It is incomplete. No one in their right mind would authorize such a thing.”

  Tamera looks intently at the priest, and moves her eyes to the French woman. “Colette, I’m surprised you are in on this. Neither of you has been selected by—”

  “So?” Cambrio challenges.

  “But, you don’t know—”

  “I know enough,” Cambrio flaps his hand and proceeds to rant in Italian, which Tamera returns twofold in pithy retorts.

  Trying to shake the creepy vibe of being a lab rat in a scientist’s mad experiment and wishing she could speak Italian, Sophie has a quick chance to size up Father Cambrio.

  He is over a head taller than the others. Sophie’s eyes go immediately to the man’s starched white clerical collar that puts a stamp on his saintly occupation. It stands out against his olive skin where the color has retreated. His hair, combed straight away from his face, has a black sheen. Except for his strange slanted eyes, which seem to slant even more when he’s incensed, his chiseled profile and the noble bump on his elongated nose suggest the stereotypical Italian with Greek influence.

  A rising star in the Highland Gaelic Rite’s hierarchy with a bloodline to the reigning Pope in Rome, the priest wears a modest cassock, the traditional full-length black robe of the clergy. A wide tasseled sash is tied snugly around his slim waist and a gold cross the size of an index finger hangs from his neck. The square toes of his black boots poke out from under fabric that drapes to his ankles. His clothes are timeless and suitable for any era.

  Tamera’s scowl deepens, “It’s against my better judgment.”

  “They have already infiltrated the inner sanctum,” Cambrio declares with an unsettling calm. “As I see it, we have no more than fifteen minutes before this whole place comes crashing down on our heads. Our resistance cannot hold them off. There are too many.”

  Finally, Tamera straightens and takes a decisive breath. “Well, Abbott, get on with it,” she glowers belligerently.

  “It does nae good ta cry ower spilt milk,” Abbott says with a furtive wink and goes into action. “Let’s pop ye aff, then.”

  Abbott addresses his technicians, “Well, ladies an’ gents, shall we begin?”

  “Do you have the Yang Vortex to end this?” Cambrio asks.

  “Aye, right here.” Abbott flips the dual spring locks to unlatch the lid of an aluminum case and retrieves the Yang Vortex from the protective black foam lining.

  Sophie recognizes it instantly. Tiny sparks of light flash from deeply cut facets in the gold jeweled case. It is the three-dimensional object Ben slipped into her purse at the hospital. Had Ben meant this to happen all along? Did Salva know about their future, hers and the baby’s? Was the abortion their way to eliminate a threat?

  “You have your instructions, Abbott. As soon as we pass through.” A palpable intensity flares on Father Cambrio’s Romanesque features and quickly disappears. “Do you understand?” His fierce gaze fixes on Tamera for confirmation. He does not move until he gets a curt nod.

  Sophie, Father Cambrio and Colette are herded into a steel and glass encased chamber. The impenetrable structure juts from a slick black wall, ancient and weeping. Small streams of water drizzle down and have formed pits in the hard surface. A heavy, rustic gate on a hand-forged black iron track slides automatically with a primitive system of weights and pulleys. It beckons.

  Sophie’s mind briefly drums up contrasting images of God’s ancient portal, the gates of heaven where angels trod. It is quickly marred by a vision of the Tower of London’s infamous Traitor’s Gate, the worst way in with no way out. Her body quakes with fear. It tingles through her like tiny bolts of current. The satanic hint of sulfur permeates the air.

  “My crew should have us set in a jiffy. Father, it’s been a buzz,” Abbott chuckles, pumping Father Cambrio’s limp arm. “May God go with ye.”

  “That’s my line,” Cambrio says dryly. There is no humor in his voice.

  “And Colette,” Abbott turns. “I am going to miss that sweet smile of yers, lass.” His eyes travel down the petite French woman’s body, assessing her outfit that reeks servant girl. He cannot help but comment, “A slave, Colette? I don’t see ye as the type.”

  “Taisez-vous,” Colette snarls artificially. Catching Sophie’s annoyed expression, she translates, “Shut up. Yes?”

  Stepping forward, Colette gives the Scot a fond hug. “Save yourself, if you can,” she murmurs. Her flawless obsidian-colored skin has a slight bluish tint within the tiny creases of concern on her high fore
head.

  Feeling manhandled and totally ignored, Sophie frets, “What makes you so sure this will work, that it’s even safe for—”

  “You will be all right,” Father Cambrio sighs heavily. He is preoccupied with a chart Abbott has given him.

  “I wasn’t only thinking of myself,” Sophie says. She wonders if Cambrio is studying a timeline, a history cheat sheet, but she isn’t close enough to see.

  “The bairn will be fine, lass,” Abbott speaks gently. “Dinna fash.”

  A low, deadly rumble is a persuasive reminder of their predicament. This time a powdery dust swirls out of metal vents lining the artificial ceiling.

  “The Ides of March ur upon us,” Abbott quips, and signals his team. He seals the door of their airtight chamber, shutting out the last bit of sound and the world they know, forever.

  “Not funny,” Sophie squeaks, her stomach in knots.

  “Put these on,” Colette says. She had retrieved a pair of soft leather shoes from the old-fashioned carpetbag. “We’ll get you cleaned up, first chance,” she says sympathetically.

  Sophie warms to Colette’s kindness, “You won’t leave me?” She feels like a kid afraid of the dark. Holding Colette’s extended arm, she slips the shoes on over caked feet. Amazingly, they are not too tight.

  For a moment, she has the urge to fight them off, give it everything she’s got to get away. The woman in the wrinkled lab coat is against what they are doing. Perhaps she will help. But then, it’s taking a big chance. Her baby could get hurt in the process.

  “We’ll both be by your side,” Father Cambrio replies absently. His mind is on the immediacy of his great duty.

  Through the glass and looking much the part of a mad scientist, Abbott gives an exaggerated nod and mouths, “It’s time.”

  “We’re not ready!” Sophie shrieks a delayed reaction triggered when she puts two and two together. This is go-time, for real. “Isn’t there a countdown or something?”