by Kit Colter
Inside were towering steel shelves fit with hundreds of drawers, all with numbers written in gleaming silver print. There were at least two dozen of the towering shelves crowding the vault, with barely enough room to slip between them. Near the enormous vault door stood a tall, wooden podium holding a large, leather-bound book. Erin made her way to the podium, carefully watching for molten steel as she went, then flipped open the book.
It was exactly what she’d hoped: a copy of the sub-index Lyle had been copying, only with an extra set of numbers in parenthesis next to each item showing the location of each original text within the vault. Erin started flipping pages, then looked up to see Lyle tumble through the gap and then scuttle out of the danger zone. She waved him over, then stepped aside and watched him work. Erin had worried he’d be too overwhelmed to focus—she was close to it herself—but the instant Lyle got his hands on the book, he went to work without another word or backward glance. Erin took a few steps back, close enough that she could still hear Lyle, but giving herself a slight lead. She was terrified that the liquid nitrogen would run out, and they’d all be trapped in the vault. The heat would turn the vault into an oven.
“6,” Lyle said. “Row 6, drawer 1161.”
Erin turned and sprinted down the aisles to row 6, then gazed up at the drawer numbers. Her gaze crawled up to the eleventh line of drawers, which had to be close to twelve feet in the air. She wiped the sweat off her palms, then pulled out the first drawer—closest to the ground—and stepped into it. Then she pulled out the next drawer and stepped in, and the next, creating a staircase out of the drawers as she climbed to the eleventh line. She reached into drawer 1161 and felt her fingers close around edge of a rough, leather book.
“Got it!” Erin called, then turned and saw Seven standing below. Erin dropped the book, feeling a jolt of relief when Seven caught it, then climbed backwards down the staircase of drawers as fast as possible. Then she headed for the gap in the vault wall with a sick feeling in her stomach. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the molten steel, and the stream of nitrogen was getting thinner by the second The four-wheeler tires had burst into flames on the other side, and the heat was rising once more.
Derek tossed the index book onto the floor, dragged the podium over to the puddle of fire-hot slag, and kicked it over so that one end rested on the floor inside the vault and the other rested on the melted lip of the hole in the wall. Smoke swirled into the air and a small fire glowed to life between the burning steel and underside of the wooden podium.
“Better hurry,” Derek said.
Erin climbed onto the podium and raced through as quickly as she could while staying in a half crouched position. Lyle tumbled through behind her, then Seven hopped through with the book clutched in one hand. She tossed it to Erin, then hopped off the four-wheeler and ran toward the hole in the library wall. Derek sailed through the gap and took off at a full sprint behind her.
Erin raced after them. She couldn’t keep up—much less catch up—but running felt like the right thing to do. So, she gritted her teeth against the stabbing pain in her side and darted through the library toward the bus. Up ahead, Seven slid into the Viper and started the engine. Thrash metal exploded from the speakers of the bus a moment later. Erin bounded through the bus door and up the steps, panting.
“C’mon, Einstein!” Derek called.
Lyle fell into the bus. Erin dragged him up the steps as Derek jammed the shifter into gear, drove the bus back over the curb, and followed the Viper into the labyrinth of dark streets. Erin made her way down three seats and sat down, one hand clutching her side, the other clutching the book to her chest. Soft morning glow spilled over the horizon. The darkness of the city began fading into misty dove grey. Erin felt her heartbeat slowing. She was so tired. Too tired to stay excited for long.
A line of police cars—lights flashing—streamed by.
Lyle dragged himself up from the bus steps and squared his shoulders. “The books. The files. They’ll burn. Everything.”
“The alarm went off,” Derek said. “The cops’ll show up sooner or later.”
“And if it’s later?” Lyle asked. “If the vault goes up in flames?”
Derek grinned and tossed Lyle a cell phone. “Call it in yourself, if you’d like.”
Lyle looked at the keypad for a moment, probably trying to remember the number for 911, his hands trembling. Then he dialed and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Yes, I’d like to report a chemical fire. Mm-hm. Chemical. Yes. Obviously, I’m sure. The Scottish Rite Temple—certainly, it’s an emergency. Have a good evening, then.” He handed the phone back to Derek. “I’m not sure they believed me.”
Derek pocketed the cell phone and turned his attention to the road.
“Won’t the police be after us?” Lyle asked. “That wasn’t entirely stealthy, and this vehicle is, um, rather conspicuous.”
“We’ll be halfway across the state by the time they sort out the first report,” Derek said.
“In this?” Lyle asked, giving the bus a second glance. “How, um, fast can it travel?”
“Gets shaky around one-eighty,” Derek said.
“One-eighty. That’s ludicrous.”
“Modified Cummins,” Derek said. “Eleven-hundred horses.”
“Oh. Oh my,” Lyle murmured and, keeping a wary eye on Derek, made his way down the aisle to one of the seats. He took several very deep breaths, pushing his glasses up on his nose. Flattened the first button on his shirt.
“Hey Einstein, I wouldn’t sit there if I was you!” Derek called over the music. Lyle just looked at him.
“See the storage compartment behind the wheel?”
Lyle leaned to the side, looking through the window to the outside of the bus.
“That’s where we keep the touchy explosives,” Derek called with a grin. “They go off every so often.”
Lyle leapt out of his seat, moving to the seat in front of Erin.
Derek turned up the music.
Chapter 17
There was an odd growling sound. The second Erin opened her eyes, a pair of jaws clamped over her face, needle sharp teeth sinking into her right temple and the bridge of her nose. She jumped, striking at the creature, and saw Princess tumble off the couch. The Chihuahua regained its feet, ruff bristling, and growled at her. Erin swiped a tiny trail of blood from her temple, staring at the dog with a frown. When he continued snarling, she threw a seat cushion at him and moved to her feet. The night’s events flashed through her mind as she looked around at the chain link fencing covering her walls. There was an odd chemical smell in the apartment, but she was too tired to worry about it. Just like she was too tired to worry about the two motorcycles parked in the center of her living room. Speed bikes. Erin followed the sound of a frying pan to the kitchen, where Seven was perched on the counter in a bra and panties, forcing Lyle to cook an omelet at taser-point. Erin stared, stunned. Literally hundreds of scars sliced, gouged, and ripped their way across Seven’s body. Slash wounds. Burn scars. Bullet holes. Scars so severe she couldn’t imagine what inflicted them, let alone living through the injury.
Seven pointed to the scar slashing over her left breast, down her chest, and across her torso. “Fourteen inch Bowie knife,” she said. “Stick around. You won’t feel left out for long.”
Erin nodded, a little lost. She noticed Seven’s hair was slicked back with some kind of black stuff. Seven took a gulp of tequila and handed the bottle to Erin, who simply set it down on the counter.
“Why are there motorcycles in my living room?” Erin asked.
“They wouldn’t let us park them in the hall,” Seven replied, then snapped the taser at Lyle.
“What is that smell?” Erin mumbled, making her way down the hall to the bathroom, where she found Derek bent over the tub in nothing but a pair of tiger-stripe underwear. His bare body was a perfect match to Seven’s. Scars from head to toe.
“You want to give me a hand?” he asked, turni
ng around. He had a plastic, nozzle-tipped bottle in one hand. Erin’s looked at the open box sitting on the sink with Noir Black printed beneath a pretty, raven haired model.
“I can’t see the back of my head,” Derek said, tossing Erin the bottle of black hair dye. “Seven won’t do a damn thing to help ‘til she’s eaten.”
Erin just stared at him.
“C’mon, Peaches. Is this what we get for gratitude after last night?”
Erin walked irresolutely over to Derek and looked at his hair for a moment, feeling suddenly overwhelmed again. Nothing fit. She couldn’t possibly be standing here with black hair dye after—
“Look, I know I’m sexy, but—”
“Alright!” Erin said, swiftly pulling aside several locks of hair. She paused, staring at his strawberry toned roots. “You guys are redheads?”
“I’ll leave it that way if it turns you on.”
Erin frowned, swiftly applied the dye, and worked it through Derek’s hair. She was so anxious to get it over with, she didn’t bother with the gloves even after she remembered. The process took less than five minutes to get the dye worked in thoroughly.
“I’ll do yours if you want me to,” Derek said, again in that smooth, suggestive voice. Erin turned around and left the bathroom, walking to the kitchen sink and washing her hands. She turned off the faucet and looked at her palms. They were tinged grey from the dye.
Seven reached over Erin’s head and retrieved the maple syrup from the cabinet, then poured out half the bottle on the omelets Lyle had made. Erin watched, too tired to process what she was seeing, then noticed Lyle tiptoe over to the table and sit down in front of a large, leather bound book. The book. Erin had just taken her first step in that direction when there was a knock at the door.
Lyle looked up. “Oh, there’s someone—”
Erin leapt across the room and clapped a hand over Lyle’s mouth. “Quiet,” she whispered, then slowly released him and walked to the door. She peered through the peephole.
A man with black hair and warm olive skin stood in the apartment complex hallway. He was looking up, above the peep hole. Then Erin realized he was inspecting the fire damage to the doorframe caused by the Elemental. If she had to guess, this was Detective Ibarra. Seeing his face made all his voicemails seem suddenly real. Maybe she had been too distracted, too panicked and overwhelmed, but it seemed she hadn’t quite registered the fact that there was an actual detective on her trail. Not until that very moment.
He knocked again.
Erin watched through the peep hole as the man took something out of his jacket. Then he disappeared from sight, and she backed away from the door as quietly as possible. She noticed the twins—and luckily their Chihuahua as well—had disappeared. After ten minutes, she felt safe approaching the door and cracking it open. A card fell to the ground. She snatched it up, then closed and locked the door once more. The words on the card read Detective Hector Ibarra. Erin shoved it into her back pocket and sighed.
“Oh, my. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think. Oh, my.” It was Lyle, standing with his hands clenched tightly against his sides. “The Gemini—I think they jumped right out the window.”
“They’ll be back,” Erin said. If she knew the twins, they’d be back in a couple hours. Probably with something she didn’t want in her apartment.
“The police?” Lyle asked, apprehension rippling through his voice.
“Them too,” Erin said, wondering what to do. If she contacted her parents and said she was okay, would they believe her? Could they cancel a Missing Persons Report?
“I really ought to be getting back to Santa Fe—work and all. Although I’d hate to leave now, after all that, before solving the big mystery. And they might not even notice a short—short—absence at the Labs. I might even call in sick, come to think of it.”
“Labs?” Erin asked.
“Los Alamos,” Lyle said, flattening the first button on his shirt.
“Oh,” Erin said, wondering why she hadn’t asked before.
“Biophysics,” Lyle said distractedly, with his eyes pinned on the book. “Shall we take a look?”
Erin took a careful breath. “Yeah.”
The two of them walked to the table and sat down before the book. Inscribed on the cover were the words De Consuetudinibus Fabulisque Regionis Alpium. In full light, the book seemed older, with a weathered leather face and brittle, yellow pages, all tattered and stained at the edges. Despite having carried the text through an inferno, Erin now worried the book might simply crumble.
“Before we go any further,” she said to Lyle, “you probably ought to know something.”
He looked at her curiously, hints of apprehension flickering across his face.
“My name’s Erin. Not Ann.”
“Really?” Lyle asked, as though this was the first surprise he’d had in a long while.
She nodded.
“Erin—really?”
Erin nodded again.
“Sort of a tomboy name, isn’t it? Erin?” He pushed his glasses up. “Hmph.”
Erin turned her attention to the book. There were trails of some kind of golden vine decoration around the edges which had been worn away with time. She gazed at the title, suddenly realizing she had a serious problem.
“That’s a different language,” she said, a little panicked.
Lyle nodded. “Obviously,” he said, methodically scrutinizing the cover.
“I don’t even know what language that is,” Erin said. “Let alone how to read it.”
“Latin, I believe,” Lyle said. “I suppose we’ll just have to translate it.”
Erin stared at him. “Just translate it? There’s no just about it. That could take months.”
Lyle nodded, leaning closer and squinting at the upper right corner.
“I don’t have months,” Erin said. She felt a flutter of panic branching through her stomach. Erin stood abruptly, started to walk one way, then turned around, then stopped. “Oh. Damn it. This isn’t going to work.” She took a slow breath. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, this thing has to be hundreds of years old. The chances of finding someone who can read this is— There’s just no chance.”
“Mm,” Lyle mumbled. “Although Latin’s been fairly static, comparatively speaking.”
“You don’t think Gregory could?”
“Judging from his Aramaic, it’s a wonder he can stammer his way through Old English,” Lyle said with a chuckle. He was quiet for a moment, lightly brushing two fingers across the cover.
“And you don’t, by any chance, speak Latin?”
“I can read some. A little. Not enough for this, certainly.”
“Why didn’t I think of this before?” Erin murmured.
“I suppose we could always go back to the library and demand the translation script,” he said a bit absently, still studying cover. “Probably one of the Masons did the original translation. They have one, the Masons do. I guarantee it.”
“They’d never give it to us,” Erin said. “Not once they figure out we were the ones who ripped the doors off and melted the vault.”
Lyle adjusted his glasses.
“I guess I could go see one of the history professors at A.S.U.,” Erin said. “Somebody should at least be able to point me in the right direction.”
“Maybe,” Lyle said. “I know a bit about old texts myself, and I’ve never even seen anything like it. Splendid, isn’t it, though? Brilliantly preserved.” He looked at the cover for a moment longer. “You have internet access?” he asked.
Erin nodded.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but I’ll try a few things,” Lyle said, resolutely moving to his feet and walking over to a black laptop lying at the center of the table. He opened it.
“Oh.”
Erin looked at him. “What is it?”
“It’s, umm, it’s Russian Porn.”
Erin sighed. “There’s no time for porn, Lyle.”
“It’s not
mine!” Lyle sputtered.
Erin hadn’t noticed herself open the book, but now found herself staring down at the first page. The text actually was rather beautiful—more like art that writing.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find something that will let us at least get started?” Erin asked.
“Started translating? Well. Yes. I think I just did, actually.”
“So, where do we start?”
“Well, page one, I’d expect. Or, not the true page one, because that will just be formalities, probably. So, the table of contents, if there is one.” He looked rather optimistic as he said this. “Is there one?”
Erin carefully turned through the first ten pages. More beautiful script. More tattered edges. A few holes in the pages. Nothing at all that looked like table of contents. She shook her head.
“I suppose, if we wanted to be quick about it, we could search each page for Annexus Mons and then translate forward and backward from that point to the nearest obvious break. That would be a good starting place if time were a serious concern, although I have to say it certainly will not be the most accurate or sensitive approach. If we want to truly understand the issue, we ought to translate the entire text.”
“Yes,” Erin said. “The quick option. Let’s do that.”
Lyle looked crestfallen.
And so the search began.
It was painstaking work, flipping through ancient page after ancient page and hoping not to ruin them. Reading through thousands of foreign words that meant nothing. Trying to focus. Trying not to think about Detective Ibarra, Coach, Elementals, Sirian. Trying not to notice Lyle hovering over her shoulder, mumbling and adjusting his glasses every few seconds. Erin told herself she would take a break when she became too distracted. She didn’t want to miss the right page—the possibly single reference to Annexus Mons—and have to go through the whole book twice.