As the blond man gathered his coat and gloves, Lucan reiterated his position where the Dark Hallows were concerned. “No witnesses, Roman. Anyone who’s caught so much as even a glimpse of one of the Hallows . . .”
Roman inclined his head in silent concurrence.
Lucan said no more. There was no need. Roman knew how he liked things handled, as did all who worked for him and continued to live.
Some time later, shortly after midnight, Jessi was back on campus for the third time that day, in the south wing of the Archaeology Department, unlocking Professor Keene’s office.
She wondered wryly why she even bothered leaving. Given the hours she kept, she’d be better off tucking a cot into that stuffy, forgotten janitor’s closet down the hall, amid mops and brooms and pails that hadn’t been used in years. She’d not only get more sleep, she’d save on gas money too.
When the professor had called her from the hospital to tell her that he’d been in a “bit of a fender bender” on his way back to campus—“a few inconvenient fractures and contusions, not to worry,” he’d assured her swiftly—she’d been expecting him to ask her to pick up his classes for the next few days (meaning her sleep window would dwindle from four or five hours to a great, big, fat nil), but he’d informed her he’d already called Mark Troudeau and arranged for him to take his classes until he returned.
I’ve a wee favor to ask of you, though, Jessica. I’ve a package coming. I was to accept a delivery at my office this evening, he’d told her in his deep voice that, even after twenty-five years away from County Louth, Ireland, had never lost its lilt.
She loved that lilt. Couldn’t wait to one day hear a whole pub speaking it while she washed down a hearty serving of soda bread and Irish stew with a perfectly poured Guinness. After, of course, having spent an entire day in the National Museum of Ireland delightedly poring over such fabulous treasures as the Tara Brooch, the Ardagh Chalice, and the Broighter Gold Collection.
Hugging the phone between ear and shoulder, she’d glanced at her watch, the luminous dial indicating ten minutes past ten. What kind of package gets delivered so late at night? she’d wondered aloud.
You needn’t concern yourself with that. Just sign for it, lock it up, and go home. That’s all I need.
Of course, Professor, but what—
Just sign, lock it up, and forget about it, Jessica. A pause, a weighty silence, then: I see no reason to mention this to anyone. It’s personal. Not university business.
She’d blinked, startled; she’d never heard such a tone in the professor’s voice before. Words sharply clipped, he’d sounded defensive, almost . . . well, paranoid.
I understand. I’ll take care of it. You just rest, Professor. Don’t you worry about a thing, she’d soothed hastily, deciding that whatever pain meds he was getting were making him funny, the poor dear. She’d once had Tylenol with codeine that had made her feel itchy all over, short-tempered and irritable. With multiple fractures, it was a sure bet he’d been given something stronger than Tylenol 3.
Now, standing beneath the faintly buzzing fluorescent lights in the university hallway, she rubbed her eyes and yawned hugely. She was exhausted. She’d gotten up at six-fifteen for a seven-twenty class and by the time she got home tonight—er, this morning—and managed to fall back into bed, she would have put in another twenty-hour day. Again.
Turning the key in the lock, she pushed open the office door, fumbled for the light switch, and flipped it on. She inhaled as she stepped into the professor’s office, savoring the scholarly blend of books and leather, fine wood polish, and the pungent aroma of his favorite pipe tobacco. She planned to one day have an office of her own very much like it.
The spacious room had built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases and tall windows that, during the day, spilled sun across an intricately woven antique rug of wine, russet, and amber. The teak-and-mahogany furniture was formally masculine: a stately claw-foot desk; a sumptuous leather Chesterfield sofa in a deep, burnished coffee-bean hue; companion wing chairs. There were numerous glass-paned curio cabinets and occasional tables displaying his most prized replica pieces. A reproduction Tiffany lamp graced his desk. Only his computer, with its twenty-one-inch flat screen, belied the century. Remove it, and she might have been standing in the library of a nineteenth-century English manor house.
“In here,” she called over her shoulder to the deliverymen.
The package hadn’t turned out to be quite what she’d expected. From the way the professor had spoken of it, she’d imagined a bulky envelope, perhaps a small parcel.
But the “package” was actually a crate, and a huge one at that. It was tall, wide, about the size of a . . . well, a sarcophagus or something, and proving no easy matter to navigate through the university corridors.
“Careful, man. Tilt it! Tilt it! Ow! You’re smashing my finger. Back it up and angle it!”
A muttered “Sorry.” More grunting. “Damn thing’s awkward. Hall’s too frigging narrow.”
“You’re almost here,” Jessi offered helpfully. “Just a bit farther.”
Indeed, moments later, they were carefully lowering the oblong box from their shoulders, depositing it on the rug.
“The professor said I needed to sign something.” She encouraged them to hurry. She had a full day of working and studying tomorrow . . . er, today.
“Lady, we need more than that. This here package don’t get left ’til it’s verified.”
“ ‘Verified’?” she echoed. “What does that mean?”
“Means it’s worth boo-koo bucks, and the shipper’s insurer’s got to have visual verification and release. See? Says so right here.” The beefier of the two thrust a clipboard at her. “Don’t care who does it, lady, so long as somebody’s John Hancock’s on my paperwork.”
Sure enough, Visual Verification and Release Required was stamped in red across the bill of lading, followed by two pages of terms and definitions detailing shipper’s and buyer’s rights in pedantic, inflated legal jargon.
She pushed a hand through her short dark curls, sighing. The professor wasn’t going to like this. He’d said it was personal.
“And if I don’t let you open it up and inspect it?”
“Goes back, lady. And let me tell you, the shipper’s gonna be plenty pissed.”
“Yeah,” said the other man. “Thing cost an arm and a leg to insure. Goes back, your professor’s gonna have to pay the second time around. I bet he’s gonna be plenty pissed too.”
They stared at her with flat, challenging gazes, clearly disinclined to wrestle the awkward crate back up on their shoulders, squeeze it back down the hall, reload it and return it, only to end up delivering it again. They weren’t even talking to her breasts, a thing men often did, especially the first time they met her, which told her how deadly earnest they were about dumping their load and getting on with their lives.
She glanced at the phone.
She glanced at her watch.
She hadn’t gotten the professor’s room number and suspected that if she called the main desk, they’d never put her through at this hour. Though he’d insisted he wasn’t badly hurt, she knew the doctors wouldn’t have kept him if he hadn’t been seriously injured. Hospitals these days spit people out as fast as they took them in.
Would the professor be more upset if she opened it—or if she refused the delivery and it cost him a fortune to have it reshipped?
She sighed again, feeling damned if she did and damned if she didn’t.
In the end it was the constantly-broke college student in her who flipped the coin and made the call.
“Fine. Let’s do this. Open it up.”
Twenty minutes later the deliverymen had secured her wearily scribbled signature and were gone, taking the remains of the crating with them.
And now she stood, eyeing the thing curiously. It wasn’t a sarcophagus after all. In fact, most of the packaging had been padding.
From deep within layers and layers of
cushioned wrapping, they’d unearthed a mirror and, at her direction, propped it carefully against the east wall of bookshelves.
Taller than she by more than a foot, the mirror’s ornate frame was a shimmery gold. Shapes and symbols, of such uniformity and cohesion to imply a system of writing, were carved into every inch of the wide border. She narrowed her eyes, pondering the etchings, but linguistics was not her specialty, and the symbols were nothing that, without searching through books or notes, she could identify as a letter, word, or glyph.
Inside the gaudy gilt frame, the outer edges of the silvery glass were marred with a cloudy, uneven black stain of some sort, but aside from that, the glass itself was startlingly clear. She suspected it had been broken and replaced at some point and would ultimately prove centuries younger than the frame. No mirror of yore had achieved such clarity. Though the earliest artificial mirrors discovered by archaeologists dated back to 6200 B.C.E., they had been fashioned of polished obsidian, not glass. The first glass mirrors of significant size—roughly three-by-five-foot panels—hadn’t been manufactured until the 1680’s by Italian glassmaker Bernard Perroto for the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, commissioned by the extravagant Sun King, Louis the XIV. Exceptional glass mirrors of the size of the one before her—an impressive six and a half feet tall—generally proved to be a few hundred years old, at most.
Considering this one’s pristine silvering, it was likely less than a century in age, and no one had gone mad or died from slow mercury poisoning making it. Hatmakers, or “hatters,” hadn’t been the only ones to suffer from the toxic fumes of their trade (though, for some reason Jessi’d never been able to figure, the idiom “mad-as-a-mirrormaker” had never quite caught on).
Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, she scrutinized it. The archaeologist in her itched to know the piece’s provenance, wondered if the frame had been accurately dated.
She frowned. What did the professor want with a mirror, anyway? Such an item wasn’t at all in keeping with his usual tastes, which ran toward replica weapons and reproductions of ancient timepieces such as the sixteenth-century German astrolabe adorning his desk. And how could the professor possibly afford something worth “boo-koo bucks” on his teaching salary, anyway?
Fishing the key from the pocket of her jeans, she turned to leave. She’d done as he’d asked. Her work here was finished.
She flipped off the light and was just stepping through the doorway when she felt a chill. All the fine hair at the nape of her neck lifted, tingling as if electrified. Her heart was abruptly pounding against the wall of her chest, and she felt the sudden, terrifying certainty that she was being watched.
In the manner that prey was watched.
Flinching, she turned back toward the mirror.
Dimly illumed by the pale blue glow of the computer’s screen saver, the artifact looked positively eerie. The gold appeared silvery; the silver glass, smoky, dark and deep with shadows.
And in those shadows something moved.
She sucked in a breath so fast she choked on it. Sputtering, she groped for the light switch.
Overhead light blazed down, flooding the room.
She stared into the oblong glass, a hand pressed to her throat, swallowing convulsively.
Her reflection stared back.
After a moment, she closed her eyes. Snapped them open. Stared into the glass again.
Just her.
The hair at her nape continued to bristle, icy chills rippled up her spine. The pulse at the hollow of her neck fluttered frantically beneath her palm. Eyes wide, she glanced uneasily around the room.
The professor’s office, precisely as it should be.
After a long moment, she tried for a laugh but it came out shaky, uncertain, and seemed to echo unpleasantly in the office—as if the room’s square footage and actual occupiable space didn’t quite coincide.
“Jessi, you’re losing it,” she whispered.
There was nothing, no one with her in the professor’s office but her overactive imagination.
With a dismissive toss of her head, she turned, flipped off the light again, and this time pulled the door shut behind her hard and fast and without a backward glance.
Hurrying down the corridor, she dashed out into the back parking lot, kicking up a swirl of red and gold leaves as she hastened to her car.
The more distance she put between herself and the building, the more ridiculous she felt—really, getting all spooked alone on campus at night! One day she would be working on excavations in the middle of nowhere, quite likely late at night and sometimes alone. She couldn’t afford to be fanciful. At times, though, it was hard not to be, especially when holding a twenty-five-hundred-year-old Druid brooch, or examining a fabulously detailed La Tène period sword. Certain relics seemed to carry lingering traces of energy, the residue of the passionate lives of those who’d touched them.
Though not anything like what she thought she’d just seen.
“How weird was that?’ she muttered, shaking off a lingering shiver. “God, I really must have sex on the brain.”
Watching the hottie and his girlfriend earlier had apparently done quite a number on her. That, coupled with exhaustion and the low lighting, she decided firmly as she unlocked her car and slipped behind the wheel, must have pushed her over the edge, into a brief, eyes-wide-open kind of hallucination/fantasy.
Because for a moment she actually thought she’d seen a half-naked man—an absolute sex-god of a man, no less—standing in Keene’s office, looking back at her.
A trick of the light, strange shadows falling, nothing more.
A towering, muscle-ripped, darkly beautiful man, dripping power. And hunger. And sex. The kind of sex nice girls didn’t have.
Oh, honey, you so need to get a boyfriend!
Looking at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood and the big, bad wolf hadn’t been fed in a long, long time.
Definitely a trick of the light.
Looking at her from inside the mirror.
In a place that was not a place, yet was place enough to serve as an inescapable fortress prison, a place to terrify, to drive the common man stark raving mad, six feet five inches of caged ninth-century Highlander stirred.
A hungry animal sound rumbled deep in his throat.
Just as he’d thought: He smelled woman.
2
A FEW DAYS LATER . . .
When next Jessi unlocked the professor’s office—late on Monday night—a distant part of her brain noted something askew, some tiny niggling detail, but she failed to process it, as she was currently the guest of honor at her own festive and highly enthusiastic pity-party.
That she turned the key, and back again, actually locking then unlocking the door, eluded her utterly.
Had she not been busy muttering beneath her breath about the depressingly huge stack of freshman papers that had been dumped on her in the professor’s absence, that she might have actually gotten time to work on grading if he hadn’t left her a message last night with a list a mile long of periodicals and sources he wanted her to collect from a dozen different places and bring to the hospital so he could flag notes for the book he was writing while laid up recuperating, she might have been cognizant enough of her surroundings to have reconsidered walking through the door.
Maybe closed it again, locked it for real, and gone and gotten campus security.
Unfortunately, enthused celebrant of her own misery, she didn’t notice a thing.
She paused with the door slightly ajar, puffed a few strands of hair from her face, and shifted the crammed-full backpack on her shoulder so her textbooks would stop gouging the back of her ribs.
“A hundred and eleven essays? Would somebody just shoot me and put me out of my misery?” She’d counted them in disbelief when Mark Troudeau, smirking openly, had handed them over. There went any hope of sleeping for the next few days.
Hey, I agreed to teach Keene’s classes, Jess, and you know how tight my schedule is. He sai
d you would grade.
She knew exactly why Keene had said she would grade. Because, no doubt, Mark had called him over the weekend and “suggested” she grade. Mark had been a shit to her ever since last year, when he’d hit on her (unsuccessfully) at the department Christmas party. She couldn’t stand men who talked to her breasts, as if there was nothing above them worth noting, and he was one of the worst. She didn’t go around talking to men’s crotches.
Sure enough, the professor had left her another message while she was in class, bringing his total in the past twenty-four hours to five (would somebody please either take that man’s phone away or knock him out with sedatives?), and thanked her for being “such a lovely assistant and helping out. Mark really does have his hands full, and I told him you would be happy to assist.”
Right. As if anyone had given her a choice. And as if Mark’s hands were any more full than hers. But the world of academia was, like the rest of the world in many ways, still an Old Boys’ School, and anytime Jessi began to forget that, life invariably gave her a refresher course.
Nudging the door open with her hip, Jessi pushed inside, leaving it ajar. Skirting the desk, she headed straight for the wall of bookshelves. She didn’t bother turning on the light, partly because she’d organized the office herself and knew exactly where to find the two books on Celtic Gaul that Professor Keene wanted, and partly because she was determined not to get distracted by the mirror, and the slow, relentless burn of questions it had ignited in her mind.
She’d made peace with that weird little trick of the eye she’d suffered on Friday—a product of nothing more than low light and exhaustion. But she was dying to know if the mirror was a genuine relic. How had the professor come across it? Was its origin provable? Had any valid dating been done? What were those symbols, anyway?
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