Lorna Tedder

by Dark Revelations (lit)

  “You’re changing the subject,” I told Myrddin. “We were talking about Cabordes. What’s his deal?”

  “You were talking about Cabordes. I was talking about driving. Watch this next curve.” He ground his feet into imaginary brakes. “Slow down!”

  I gritted my teeth. I needed to know what was going on. How could I make any plans if I didn’t know anything? “We’re fleeing for our lives, old man. I’m not slowing down. If I do, the locals will run me over.” I shielded my eyes from the next pair of bright headlights coming up quickly behind and prayed the driver wasn’t an Adriano. “I suggest you buckle up.”

  “Why? At my age, an automobile crash will kill me anyway. I’m more worried about those artifacts. That manuscript must either be buried where no Adriano will ever find it or it must be destroyed.”

  “There’s no way I’m—”

  “You don’t need it. Not to find the others. I’ve seen the book. Long ago. I know the family names. I can find them myself.”

  He’d seen the manuscript? “What were you? Max’s right-hand man?”

  “You need those tiles unbroken, if possible. But even if that’s not possible, you must to keep them away from Simon.”

  “Me?”

  The road passed in an awkward silence between us.

  “You,” he said at last, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “You and all those of your kind. Those tiles are vital to your mission.”

  “I don’t have a mission.” What was he talking about? Then again, he was well into his eighties. Maybe his mental faculties had started to erode. “I have back the property that was mine. And a bit more. And that bit more will fetch enough spare change that I can use to change my life.”

  Including changing my face and my address to someone and something that Simon would never find. To a face my daughter would never recognize. To something Matthew would never…Ah, Matthew.

  “I agree,” Myrddin said, but I wasn’t listening. “You need to change your life, but no amount of money in the world will do it for you. You have to change from within.” He pounded his chest once to emphasize the words and then winced at his own strength.

  Matthew, not Myrddin, was on my mind. I blinked back the tears that wanted to come, but I wouldn’t let them. Not now, not ever. The time to cry for Matthew had long passed. He was dead. And according to Myrddin, he had been for more than half my life. And I’d grieved every minute, never ending my grief because I’d never really known for sure.

  I sucked in a breath that came out just as ragged and I tried to breathe through the ache in my throat. I should have known all that time ago that he was lost to me, but I’m not a girl who gives up under normal circumstances. Matthew had died protecting me. He’d loved me. But that was all in the past. Right now, the best I could hope for was to stay alive and do whatever I could to protect my daughter from afar so maybe she could find the home and the life and the love that had eluded me.

  My mind was a jumble. Myrddin was right about focusing on surviving. Everything else could be sorted out with daylight, provided I lived that long. There were so many things I wanted to ask, and yet Myrddin had insisted I asked too many questions. There was so much I wanted to know! About my mother. About her legacy. About the tiles. About the Joan of Arc manuscript. About Matthew.

  Oh, God, about Matthew!

  I’d learned everything I knew about him in a three-month span, but a whole lifetime ago. But what did I really know about him? I hadn’t even known who we were hiding from! And how could anyone ever expect me to believe he’d been sent to kill me or that he’d worked for Simon?

  Except that I, too, worked for Simon. And I’ve done things that I’m not too proud of, either. Things it’s best Ma Ma did not live to see.

  “My mother,” I began, but when I glanced at the old man again, he’d fallen asleep in his seat. I sighed and concentrated on the dark road ahead punctuated by headlights and the edge of the guardrail that sometimes wasn’t there at all. More than two decades had passed, and I still missed my mother as if I’d lost her yesterday. Almost as much as I missed my daughter.

  I never let myself think much about my mother. We’d been close, the kind of close I later dreamed of having with my daughter. Losing Ma Ma was something that had still been raw in my blood when I’d met Matthew and he’d whisked me away. I’d felt so alone in the world, with no one to nurture me or protect me, and I’d been overwhelmed by the aloneness. I’d told myself that I’d get over losing her, but I never had, not even after all these years. I never really finished mourning for her either, before there was Matthew to grieve and Lilah to raise and a busy life to occupy my thoughts. Some nights, especially more recent nights when I was with a lover and still felt all alone, I longed to wrap my arms around Ma Ma’s waist and have her pull me to her to be held, just held. More than anything, I missed the weight of her gentle arms around my shoulders.

  A fine mist splattered across my windshield as the road seemed to become a bit bumpy. I let Myrddin sleep as I searched for the button for the windshield wipers. By the time I found it, the rain was already peppering down with the ferocity of pebble-size hail and the road was even bumpier than a few seconds before.

  I squinted into the rearview mirror. Funny. It didn’t seem to be raining at all behind us. Ahead, water fell out of the sky in sideways sheets, white in my headlights like some kind of translucent force field. I’d never seen anything like it. Almost as if we were entering the outer band of concentric circles and the inner circles were still clear.

  Again I glanced at Myrddin. Poor guy. Still sleeping and just deaf enough not to notice the ferocity of the storm. Was he this hard of hearing all the time or was he still suffering from being locked inside a vault of energy that affects the senses? Either way, the old man was obviously exhausted, and frankly so was I. A few times I heard whimpering as he slept. Almost a soft crying.

  The front right of the automobile shifted downward with every bump, and I moaned out loud. The debris I’d crushed a few kilometers back must have cut my tire just enough for the air to ooze out over the distance. We needed to keep moving, damn it. The storm flashed jagged bolts of lightning across the night sky, spotlighting the narrow road carved into the cliffside. If we stayed on this course, we might easily find the road washed out ahead or blocked by a small landslide that would leave us stranded and without enough room to turn the automobile around and go back the way we’d come. And going back meant facing an enemy who was, for the moment, stronger than I was. We had to get off this road, and the sooner, the better.

  By the time I found a deserted road—a small dirt path already muddy—the rain pelted so hard I couldn’t see beyond the three-pronged hood ornament on the Mercedes. I found a safe spot where I wouldn’t bog down.

  For the moment, I felt somewhat safe. We couldn’t drive in the storm, but neither could anyone else. Even with the storm raging outside, I surprisingly managed to doze out of sheer exhaustion. Still, it was that fitful kind of sleep where you jerk yourself awake every few minutes. I dreamed of Matthew and of Ma Ma and of Lilah…and the whole Adriano clan after me, after my daughter, all bent on revenge. I didn’t need a dream to tell me that they’d kill me if they ever saw me again.

  Sometime after that, a panicked dream struck that I immediately forgot the plot of but remembered the fear. I opened my eyes wide, blinking at the clear weather and the palest pink hues of sky, signaling the coming sunrise. Myrddin slept peacefully while I slipped out into the morning and quickly changed the tire, muddying my shoes in the process. The sun was higher in the sky by the time I slipped back behind the steering wheel, and I was weary of cursing Mercedes tire jacks.

  Myrddin stirred beside me, then startled awake. “Why are we stopped?”

  I heard the panic in his voice but stayed calm. My adrenaline rush had crashed and I was tired. “Storm,” I said, yawning. “You missed it.”

  “You stopped for a storm?” he asked, incredulous. He stared at me with his gray-stubble-
framed mouth open. A greasy wisp of hair hung between his eyes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “Saved our lives? Worst rain I’ve ever seen, second only to the traffic.” I stretched and turned back to Myrddin. I was getting used to the smell of his dirty clothes; my eyes no longer watered. “You didn’t want me to drive off a cliff, did you?”

  “Might as well if Simon catches you. It may already be too late.” He frowned at the stone fence beside us, the one made of lava rock that had kept us hidden from plain sight. “It’s lucky for us that they can’t track you in one of these storms. If they could, you’d be dead right now. Don’t you realize that?”

  I jammed the keys back in the ignition and twisted. The engine started right away. “I’ll find a way out of here. That’s my specialty—finding a way out.”

  “And you’re a little too good at finding ways in. You weren’t supposed to be here at all. We went to a lot of trouble to keep you from leaving San Francisco. You and that manuscript—”

  “We?”

  “Stop asking questions and drive. Concentrate! You need to get as far north as you can before it starts raining again.”

  Uh-oh. We were heading south.

  I tilted my head to look out the windshield. Not a cloud in the sky. “I think the rain is over.”

  “I said before it starts raining again. The sky may be clear now, but that doesn’t mean anything. Don’t you think it was a little coincidental that a freak rainstorm forced you to stop for the night?”

  “Oh, I don’t think…” What was he saying? That the Adrianos had something to do with the sudden bad weather? They weren’t gods, after all. Though Caleb would probably have disagreed with me on that.

  “You’ve already been tricked. Simon’s slowed you down. He probably has men scouring the planet right now, looking for you. Satellites, tracking devices. He’ll be looking for those tiles and the manuscript. Aubrey—” the old man grasped my wrist and squeezed. “—whatever you do, you have to get to Paris. To a flat on the Left Bank.”

  My old stomping grounds? I’d been there three times in the past six months, mainly to impose on friends for a place to stay for a few days while on my way to a new assignment.

  “There’s a woman named Catrina Dauvergne. You have to—”

  “Cat?” Speaking of friends I occasionally imposed on. “You know Catrina? She’s a friend of mine.”

  Cat was really more acquaintance than friend, but she was as close as I got to anyone. At one point, after a particularly bad night for nightmares around the anniversary of my mother’s death, I’d felt much closer to Cat and after a few glasses of wine I’d confided a few secrets, including my birth name and my identity as an English professor. Now I wondered if that might have been a mistake. Our friendship had cooled a bit over the past year, and I wasn’t sure why. She’d asked a favor of me recently, a problem with an old letter written during the height of the French Revolution, and I’d been satisfied to answer her questions without asking any of my own. She’d given me a place to stay and a friendly smile on a few particularly bad occasions, and I owed her whatever favor she asked.

  “It’s not her friendship with you that matters. What matters is that she’s one of your kind. Get the tiles to Catrina,” he reiterated. “The manuscript, too. She’ll help you hide them—and yourself.”

  “Do I need to be there today?” Old habits die hard. It was a question I frequently asked with assignments. A train didn’t seem feasible, given the bulk of the tiles in the trunk. And an airport was out of the question. Leaving Italy by plane would be like waving red flags in front of the polizia and begging to be arrested. To keep a low profile and carry that kind of bulk, the best mode of transportation was by automobile. That would take a good day’s drive if I stuck to the Autostrada del Sol. That would take longer, but the rural pathways would be safer for me if I needed to disappear, and I usually did.

  “You don’t necessarily have to be there today, but the sooner, the better.” He pulled the door lever and it opened wide.

  “You’re not coming with me? Where are you going?”

  He flailed one hand toward a small villa ahead, barely visible in the first rays of sunlight. “I have connections. It’s best we separate so you don’t slow me down.”

  I rolled my eyes at the old man. Always thinking he could do anything and refusing to consider the possibility that he couldn’t. I liked him for that.

  “I have a man on the inside, Aubrey. He has my full authority to do whatever he must and he knows more about you than you yourself know. He’ll know how to delay Simon. I’ll do what I can to give you some time, as well.”

  “To get to Cat’s. And she’ll know what to do.”

  He nodded. “Right. There are others like you.” He shrugged. “Not thieves but…I need to find them. Quickly.”

  “What others? I don’t understand.”

  “You’re all descendants of some of the most powerful women in history. A few of you have tried to come together over the centuries. Before, you’ve failed. This time, you can’t let that happen.” He paused for a second, his gaze faraway in the dimness. “It’s a shame that you and Matthew didn’t have a child. It would have been a child of destiny. One under special protection from the higher powers.”

  I held my breath and said nothing.

  Myrddin stepped out of the automobile, onto the muddy roadside, and then peered back through the open door at me. The words caught in his throat as if he had already decided we’d never see each other again. Then he added, “The child would have had a double bloodline. Matthew, too, was descended from your kind.”

  Chapter 8

  Every few kilometers I caught a glimpse of a black Saab behind me, just at the edge of my vision. At first I’d thought it was a shadow, a cloud passing between the sun and Earth. I didn’t recognize the automobile, but the driving patterns were familiar. The distance from the center of the road, the way the automobile hugged the curves. The reason I never carried a cell phone. The reason I changed automobiles frequently. The reason I cut my deals in currency and numbered bank accounts. Interpol agent Analise Reisner.

  As much as I hated to admit it, she’d saved my life back in France. After I’d saved hers. Simon had sent me to follow her and find a Black Madonna statue she supposedly had, but in the end, we wound up working together to destroy Simon’s electromagnetic device, which several strong Adriano henchmen had been very determined to fire off to cause a massive power outage in Europe. I’d left the scene battered and limping, my knee twisted in pain and promising an end to my physically active career in artifact acquisitions. We’d left that confrontation in a draw, but we’d both known that she had no choice but to come after me later.

  I yawned, trying to unplug my ears and rid myself of the vague ringing. The radiological electromagnetic energy Myrddin had spoken of still played havoc with my senses. The last time my ears rang like this was during the fifth week of the six-week Joan of Arc seminar. Was there a connection?

  If Reisner caught me red-handed with centuries-old tiles and a relic proving Joan of Arc had a twin, Interpol would declare it a mighty victory. It would be one thing for Reisner to arrest me based on an alleged history of art thefts, but I’d never be able to explain how a manuscript worth millions had legitimately fallen into my possession. I owed the athletic blonde a grudging respect for her abilities, but not enough to spend the rest of my life wearing a bland prison uniform.

  In my rearview mirror I watched the Saab appear and then disappear on the horizon. Reisner was closing in too fast and she knew it. She didn’t plan to confront me on the open road, where I could outdrive her. No, she’d wait until I was on foot, on my unsteady knee. That’s where she had the advantage. That’s where she’d act. And the fuel in my rented Mercedes was dangerously low.

  Must ditch my auto, I reminded myself. Sooner than planned.

  I glanced in the mirror again. Still there. Lurking. Waiting. She’d take her sweet time for the rig
ht moment. I couldn’t keep my gaze off the Saab in the reflection. I was absolutely certain I would tangle with Reisner again. My best hope was to lose her in the next city.

  The next city wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to get lost in. I parked and slipped down a narrow street between stone buildings and waited in an alcove with a fresco of Mother Mary and Child painted on the wall, watching over me—I was glad someone was! Glass jars of red candles burned at its base. Some no bigger than tea lights burned on white trivets.

  I lost myself quickly in the market-day crowd. Young lovers on the street corner kissing passionately. An elegant businessman with a cell phone to his ear. Nuns walking side by side. A dark-haired girl in a white apron listening to her iPod as she swept the sidewalk in front of her father’s shop. Several elderly women haggling with a street vendor over a small white ceramic tile stamped with a red image of Mother Mary in prayer, a tile that seemed to be in popular demand as a coaster, trivet, candleholder and the like.

  After a latrine visit, I gathered a loaf of bread, some cheese, fruit and several bottles of water and pomegranate juice in my arms, purchased them and headed back to the car. With Interpol agent Reisner hopefully several kilometers away by now, I fell into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and dumped my purchases into the seat beside me.

  There it was again, coming from the far side of the automobile—that mewling sound I’d thought was the old man’s stomach. Then soft crying.