In the dream last night, Blanche had advised her to begin her journey here at The Curiosity Shop, whatever that meant. She had no idea. Malena wasn’t even convinced she should put any stock in her late-night imaginings. Yet here she stood today.
She’d arrived in London a few days ago, visited Oxford for the book auction yesterday, cleaned up after the break-in last night, and packed Elizabeth off to visit friends today. Then she’d conducted a quick search to inventory her new London lodgings. She’d found nothing out of the ordinary, no magical key to the poem in Flights of Fancy and no reference to the slip of paper with Vitae Lux scrawled upon it.
Malena walked down another aisle of books, running her fingers along the spines. Shakespeare. Hamlet, Merchant of Venice, Much Ado About Nothing. She’d always loved that the bookshop housed an odd mixture of new and old books. She continued to browse.
The sections were organized by category. Divider cards separated new titles from the older, used books on the same topic. Black blade signs hung suspended from the ceiling labeling each section. She walked through Psychology. Shelf labels marked Self-help, Relationships, Marriage, Divorce.
A blur of color flashed at the periphery of her vision and she snapped around. No one there. She listened. Silence, except for the overhead music. Uneasiness crept over her. Her own ghosts must have her spooked. It’s nothing. She brushed off the feeling of apprehension that burrowed under her skin, then walked on.
Something thumped behind her.
She jumped. Whirled around.
A book had fallen off the shelf. Relief rushed over her.
She bent to look closer. The worn butterscotch leather felt soft and warm. Her hand tingled; perhaps the beginning stages of carpal tunnel syndrome. She shook off the sensation and lifted the heavy tome. That’s odd. At eye level, a gaping hole yawned where the book must have been shelved. Turning the spine out, she noticed the title of the book Secrets of Finding Your Life Mate.
“I won’t need that anytime soon.” She replaced the book. “There. Good as new.” Her fingers brushed the spine, a gentle caress. It might be an antique worth a good deal of money. She glanced at it one last time before she walked on.
She’d only taken one step when she heard the same thwamp behind her. The book had dropped on the floor again. This time, she lifted both hands to the shelf, wiggling the oak board to see if it had a wobble that caused the book to topple off the shelf. No. The shelf didn’t budge, it stood solid.
“Weird,” she said.
She stared at the book, puzzled. Again she picked it up, placed it on the shelf and walked into the next aisle. To her relief, the book stayed on the shelf this time. There must have been a loose floorboard that caused the bookcase to shift, sending the book to the floor when someone walked past.
Chopin played overhead, rushing piano notes swelled and swayed. She turned the corner, walking into the Parenting section.
There, on the floor, lay what looked like the same worn leather-bound book she’d reshelved in Psychology. She crouched down to examine it. The soft leather looked identical, but the title printed in gold embossed letters across the cover read Lost Daughters, Lost Fathers, not a book on dating at all.
Malena traced her fingers along the gold letters. Again, her fingers prickled with sensation. An empty spot stood on the second shelf from the bottom. She shelved the book and moved on, eager to get out of this section. She took three steps before she heard the book hit the floor again.
“That cannot be good for that old book,” she said.
This time she didn’t try to reshelve it. She picked up the heavy volume. Her palm grew warm where it came into contact with the spine. She looked at her hand. The center felt warm as if she’d touched a red-hot poker.
She carried the book to the front of the store, slamming it a little harder than she’d intended onto the countertop near the register. Whoever switched on the lights and music could reshelve the troublesome text if and when she tracked them down.
Had to be an unstable shelf. She returned to Psychology. The books were jammed tight for three shelves above and below where she could have sworn she’d placed the book. No leather-bound butterscotch volume. She stepped to the case to the right. Nope. Then the one to the left. No, not there either.
She wasn’t losing her mind. She walked back to the counter at the registers to make sure. The book still sat on the polished mahogany counter. She breathed a sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t imagined the book entirely.
Maybe she’d check the second spot.
Ouch!
Again, she looked at the palm of her left hand where it had come into contact with the book. An angry red spot the size of a silver dollar throbbed at the center of her palm. She touched it tenderly. The book could not have burned her. It just wasn’t possible. But that’s exactly what it felt like. She pivoted to go back to Parenting.
Malena yelped. An old man stood mere inches from her. He thrust his face close to her own. She jerked back. His shock of white hair stood on end. Creases in his face gave the stern visage a worn, weathered look. His eyes, though, were dark blue, bright and clear. A pair of reading glasses perched low on his nose.
“You scared me,” she said.
“Then don’t be sneaking around somebody’s closed shop,” he snapped. “Can’t you read the sign? We’re closed. Now get out.”
“I don’t think so. I’m the new owner.”
“Are you now? We’ll see about that.”
She wiggled her fingers. They felt like they’d fallen asleep, tiny needles penetrating her skin from the palm outward. She massaged her left hand while she talked. She couldn’t explain to a complete stranger that she believed the book she’d just touch had burned her in some way.
He’d think her crazy.
She thought she was crazy.
The man had to be at least seventy years old, maybe older. Lean and tall, he towered over her. His eyebrows, tufts of white hair, were drawn down in a permanent scowl. His mouth remained set in a firm, straight line. The frown he wore tapped into a network of crags and crevices, silent evidence this man scowled a lot.
“Who’d you say you were?” he said.
A grumpy old man working in her shop. Great. No wonder three booksellers had quit. That’s all she needed at the moment. Management issues. She couldn’t even seem to manage her own life right now let alone someone else’s.
She was supposed to be looking for clues and here she’d found a cranky septuagenarian. She hoped against hope he was the cleaning guy who she wouldn’t have to see very often.
“Malena Alexander.” She offered her hand. He looked through her then turned to walk away. His slow gait and stooped shoulders should have made her feel sorry for the old man, but she didn’t.
“Who are you?” she said rushing to follow him back through the store.
“Who wants to know?” he said, turning to look her up and down, one eye squinted almost closed as if he couldn’t see clear with both eyes open. He maintained a grim expression.
She looked at him, surprised by his rudeness. His question had taken her aback, his suspicion even more disconcerting.
“I do. Who else is here?” she said.
“Who, indeed?” He looked around the darkened interior, peering into the shadowy corners as he scanned the shop.
His paranoia whispered along her neck. She shivered and stepped back.
Menace overwhelmed her. But it didn’t come from the man in front of her. She looked around for the source of her discomfort. The hairs on her neck stood on end, as if someone was watching her. A dark shape darted across the front window, and then disappeared. She shook off the feeling of uneasiness. Her tension abated in an instant.
“Who’s that?” Malena said. “Someone was standing at the window. A customer?”
“No customer,” he growled, walking to the window. He gripped the white window sill and peered down the street. “Not any customer we’d want.”
He turned, look
ing at her again. “Joshua,” he said.
“Who is Joshua?”
“Me.”
“Oh.”
“Joshua Dellacourt, Ms. Alexander.” The words came out a gravelly rumble, more a challenge than a statement. Malena could not like this crotchety old man. How had he lasted this long? The book business depended on good customer service.
“And Joshua Dellacourt, what do you do here?”
“I’m the keeper of The Curiosity Shop. I live upstairs.” He pointed to the ceiling.
“Keeper?”
“Yes. I’m the keeper.”
“Okay. Well, Joshua, keeper of The Curiosity Shop, I’m here today to get a quick overview of the business.”
“Don’t have time for social calls or tours,” he said.
“I insist.” She stared him down, her gaze holding his until he shuffled his feet and looked at the floor. She’d already begun to plan his replacement. “But first, you need to reshelve this book. You might want to get your toolbox. You must have a faulty bookcase or something; that book wouldn’t stay on the shelf. It fell off several times as I walked past.”
Malena returned to the counter to grab the book. She shoved it at him then winced.
Joshua stared. He took the book from her, gaping like a catfish out of water. “You?” he said in wonder. “B-but–”
“Me, what?” She tried to read his impenetrable craggy face.
“You found this book on the floor?”
“Yes.” Of course she didn’t say she found it on the floor in two different sections with two entirely different titles. He’d think her deranged.
“Impossible,” he muttered. “It’s been dormant for thirty-five years.”
“I’m not following you.”
Joshua grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.
Malena yanked hard, staggering when he loosened his hold. She instinctively hid her pulsing left hand behind her back.
“Show me your left hand,” he said.
“Why?” She turned her palm up to show him anyway. “It’s only a little welt. I think I must have burned it–” She gasped. Sputtered.
Where the red spot had existed a few moments ago now a tattoo the size of an Eisenhower dollar marked her palm. The intricate pattern mesmerized her. She stared at it in wonder. In horror. The image of the lacey flower from the square of paper she’d found in Flights of Fancy now stamped the palm of her hand.
“How the hell? What the devil happened to my hand?” She choked on the words, snatching her hand away from the old man to stare at it up close.
A tattoo. She had to be hallucinating. She shook her head and closed her eyes, opening them again. Slow, careful. She’d been under a lot of stress the last few days. Exhaustion. That had to be the answer. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before. Maybe she’d experienced a delayed reaction from last night? Adrenaline had that effect on some people. She rubbed hard at the spot. The mark didn’t smear.
“It’s not from hell, Ms. Alexander. Or the devil. Quite the contrary to be exact,” Joshua said. The tone of his voice had changed. She heard fewer growls and more of what sounded like awe.
Malena looked at him, trying to hear his quiet words. Her whole body trembled. She hesitated, but desperate for understanding, bent closer. She wouldn’t like any explanation Joshua Dellacourt gave her now, or ever, but she needed answers. So she stayed when all she wanted to do was run. Fast.
“Looks like you are the owner. And what’s more, you’re now also the Guardian.” He turned and walked away from her for the second time in a few moments. He headed down a dark hallway to the back of the shop. “You had better follow me,” he said, turning to her as an afterthought.
“What do you mean? Of course I’m the owner, I told you so just a few minutes ago. Joshua, do you have a problem hearing?” She hurried after him.
“Nope.” He continued walking. “Perfect hearing.”
He stopped at an office door, pulling a large ring of old keys from his pocket; he slipped one into the lock and pushed open the door. He sat the book down on the desk, easing himself into a padded wooden chair on wheels behind the old mahogany desk. Gesturing toward a paisley wingback chair on the opposite side of the desk, he indicated she should sit.
“That book you handed me a few moments ago is the Vitae Lux.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“You’ll know all about it soon enough. The mark on your hand designates you the new Guardian. Not every owner is, but you’ve come in contact with the Mark of the Chosen. You are now the protector of the Vitae Lux as well as the owner of The Curiosity Shop. Congratulations. There hasn’t been a chosen one for thirty-five years.” Again, his tone registered–soft, reverent, almost kind.
Why had his disposition changed so much? And what was he babbling about? Guardian? Chosen One? Thirty-five years? She looked down at the tattoo on her hand again and rubbed at it; the mark didn’t come off. It was still there. She pinched her wrist. Maybe she was stuck in a dream again.
Ouch. Nope. Clearly awake.
“What? Guardian of what? I said I’m the owner. And there has been an owner. Remember, Blanche Brown?”
“Mrs. Brown owned the shop, but she wasn’t the Guardian. The book knows. It marks the Guardian, you are the Guardian of the book–Vitae Lux. And the book only works when there’s an active Guardian.”
She didn’t have time to listen to the deluded ramblings of a senile old man. She began to push herself up out of the seat but he laid his hand on her shoulder.
“What?” A moment ago he’d been sitting at the desk, now he stood beside her. She’d blinked. Nothing more. She massaged her temples. She must be more tired than she realized.
“Sit,” he said. “There are things you need to know before you walk out that shop door. Your life’s in danger. There are people hunting for this book. They want to be the Guardian.” He held her gaze, unbroken, steady. “And to be the new Guardian, the old one must die.”
She fell back into her chair, the wind knocked out of her. Who would want her dead? She stared at him. Looked at the door. Then back at him. He was crazier than she’d first thought. She’d ignore the roundabout death threat. Surely he meant it in jest? First she’d lull him into a conversation, then bolt for the door. “Was my aunt the last Guardian?”
“No. Now you’re not listening. As I said, there hasn’t been one for thirty-five years.”
“Who held the last guardianship?” She began to stand a second time.
“A woman by the name of Juliana Wade.”
She froze. “Any relation to Cullen Wade?” she said.
“Yes, his mother.”
She sat down hard in the chair again. Now he had her attention.
“How did she die?” She was afraid to hear the answer.
“The true story? Or the official one.”
“Is there a difference?” she said.
“Yes. The official ruling? She committed suicide. But in truth, someone killed her trying to gain guardianship of the book.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure? How can anyone be sure when it comes to suicide?” she said.
“I can be sure.” He lifted a pen from the desk and examined it before looking back at her keenly. “God knows.” Silence amplified in the room. “I’m an angel.”
“You? An angel?” She stood. “I’ve heard enough.”
“Ms. Alexander, you have not heard enough. You have not even heard the worst of the story yet. Your father was present when Juliana Wade died. As an angel, my knowledge is limited. None of us are omniscient like our Creator. He has remained silent. I do not know the who or why. I only know that she died because someone took her life. Part of your task as Guardian will be to cleanse the book by finding out who killed Juliana and bringing him or her to justice.”
“Oh, so I’m a cosmic cop as well as a heavenly librarian?”
“No, but I would think tha
t if your father played any role in this matter, you’d want to make sure his name is cleared.”
Tension squeezed her. “I don’t even know my father.”
“What better time to acquaint yourself?”
She stood and paced from the desk back toward the door. She didn’t know what to believe. She wanted to walk out the door and keep on walking until she boarded a plane and headed back to America. She didn’t want any part in this madness. She wiped her palm on her thigh. Then looked again. It hadn’t faded.
“If you walk out that shop door, you will be an easy target. Someone will try to kill you. And if you don’t have all the information you need, you will die soon.”
She crossed her arms and rested her hip against his desk. “I don’t believe it. Who would want to kill me? And you expect me to believe that you’re an angel?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Oh, because angels are supposed to be beautiful and kind, eternally young and buff. In a word, perfect. Plus, they live in Heaven and maybe they’re just a little invisible here on Earth.”
“Interesting ideas, but I assure you, Ms. Alexander, I am every bit an angel. I’ve been alive forever. Since before Creation. And I will never die. I lived in heaven until assigned to The Curiosity Shop and the Vitae Lux.”
“Why you?”
“Why me?” He looked at her, and then glanced away quickly. “They sent me.”
There was more to the story. Joshua Dellacourt, angel or not, was hedging the truth. “God sent you to protect a book for all eternity? What do other angels do? Where are they assigned?”
“They’re assigned to people. Lines of people.”
“And why did you get a book instead of a family to protect?” He looked at the tips of his shoes and mumbled something. “What? I didn’t hear you.”
“I said I touched the book.”
“What’s wrong with an angel touching the book?”
“Most angels cannot touch the book. Physically, they can’t. I am special. But, we were also instructed not to touch the book.
“You disobeyed God? I didn’t think angels could disobey.”
“No, not God, but the elders.”
The Megiddo Mark, Part 1 Page 5