Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  “What’s Codex’s priority?” I said.

  “Our safety,” she said, repeating Abe’s words with little conviction. I waited until she said, “The book. Always the book.”

  “And I think it’s here.”

  Delilah chewed on her lip. I watched her scan the audience, analyze the crowd. Behind us, guards were posted everywhere.

  “So what do you want to do, partner?”

  “I might have a plan,” I said. “But it might also get us fired.”

  37

  Delilah

  Every bone in my body was vibrating like a tuning fork. My instincts screamed it’s here—even as I wanted to give up, go home, and crawl into bed.

  But Henry knew me now, knew that if I’d caught the scent of wrongdoing, I’d need to chase it down.

  “Fired, huh?” I said. I pulled out my cell phone, contemplated dialing Abe. I knew what he’d say—even if we knew where the book was, Victoria could still move it, hide it, bury it. “I’ve never gone against Abe’s express orders before.”

  Henry was watching me with calm eyes. “We’re partners. We can’t go it alone. The decision has to be made together.”

  “Abe will fire us. And then murder us.”

  He was quiet, allowing me time to turn everything over in my mind, examine it for weak points. And there were a lot of weak points. “What’s this mysterious plan?”

  He slipped his hands into his pockets, glanced behind him back at the library. “What if Victoria is hiding it in a secret hallway?”

  “Like Bernard had mentioned?”

  “If you loved books, you might ask your contractors to build you something private off of the library.”

  I wrinkled my nose, thinking. Victoria had babbled on about the newspapers accusing her of building the Winchester house which I knew was famous for its secret doors and hidden, mysterious rooms.

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “We find the hallway, search for the book. If we find it…” He trailed off. “Maybe the hallway leads to a back entrance, and we sneak away, without getting caught.”

  “That plan doesn’t take into account guards, security cameras, alarms, or that Victoria probably has some kind of torture chamber for friends of hers who try and steal her books.”

  His lips quirked up. “Not too shoddy for my first one, though.”

  What if we took all of these risks—and the book was nowhere to be found?

  What if we took none of these risks—and I found out later we’d had a chance and blown it?

  My phone vibrated—Abe calling.

  I stared at Henry. Trusting him fully.

  I hit “ignore.”

  “We can at least try,” I said, hope filling my chest.

  I wanted to do what Henry had done—kiss his cheek. Kiss his mouth. Be bold and reckless in the face of a night that could go wrong in a million different ways.

  “We’ll start in the library?” he asked.

  I nodded and took his hand. I tried to convey relaxed and easy smile as we made our way through the crowd—just a newly married couple enjoying this gorgeous mansion. The library was unguarded and magnificent—row after row of bookshelves as tall as the high ceilings, spilling over with books. A rolling ladder sat near a gilded fireplace and bay windows that opened out into the forest.

  “This is the—”

  “Ms. Whitney doesn’t allow guests in here.”

  A guard stood, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. Goddammit. In a stroke of pure luck, I peered back into the great room and locked eyes with the woman in question.

  “Victoria told us to go in here. We were in her private collection a few minutes ago.”

  “Does it look like I give a shit?”

  My fists clenched at my sides. Victoria was cocking her head at me quizzically. I shrugged at her, pointed at the guard. With an imperious glare, she tapped Sven and said something that caused our guard’s radio to crackle a few seconds later.

  He brought the radio to his ear with pure malice. I affected the same haughty air, as if his very presence was offensive to me.

  “Fine,” he barked.

  “Why, thank you,” I trilled.

  “Victoria really does trust us,” Henry said softly, running his fingers along the first shelf of books.

  I ignored the oddest feeling of guilt at that. Backed myself into the shelf and grabbed Henry by his jacket. Kept my eyes trained on his as I pulled him into my body.

  “Mrs. Thornhill,” he whispered with a grin.

  “We’re just two newlyweds, sneaking away to make out in a library.”

  “Good cover.”

  “The guard is definitely still there,” I whispered. “His back is to me, but I’m going to bet he’s watching us from the corner of his eye.”

  Henry nodded, thinking. “Let’s stroll around casually and check for hidden doors.”

  Hands entwined, we pretended to admire every inch of the library—the rolling ladder, those bay windows. The room was gigantic. I sat on the couches, felt casually beneath the cushions for a lever or a button. Henry plucked at the edges of shelves and dipped his head into the fireplace when the guard wasn’t looking. My fingers landed on Tolstoy, Austen, Whitman, Joyce. I wondered if Victoria actually devoured these classics or if she simply enjoyed the look of them.

  At the farthest corner of the room, Henry stood with a look of absolute concentration on his face. I recognized that look.

  “Tell me what you remember about that day,” I prodded.

  His eyes were roaming the shelves. “We were about to give a tour to some students. Librarians. I was cleaning a —”

  Henry stopped.

  There was a loud crash of laughter from the hallway, groups of people gleefully walking by. I had a feeling we wouldn’t be alone in this library for much longer.

  “What is it about this one that has you captivated?” I asked, starting to press my fingers to books, shelves—searching for a key or a latch, trying to follow his lead.

  “The time period is wrong.” Henry seemed distracted—stepping back like the shelf was a painting he was admiring. He rubbed his jaw—my eyes shot to the back of the guard. “Ellison, Kerouac, Rand, Ginsberg, Capote… All the books in this section are contemporary. 1950s and later.”

  He stepped over to the adjoining shelf, then the next one. “This shelf is mid-nineteenth century. This is current, 2000s on up.”

  He strode back to the original shelf.

  “Henry, what is it?” I whispered, urgent.

  He reached up—but didn’t touch—the spine of a red book. I peered at its title: The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  “Doyle wrote this in the early 1900s, fifty years before the rest of these. Her shelves are organized by time period.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly.

  “That day, with Bernard, I had this book in my hands.”

  My instincts started roaring at me, loud as a jet engine. I had no idea what this really meant, only that I was sure the guard was going to turn around any fucking second.

  “Maybe it means something,” Henry was saying. “Maybe we need to—”

  Without a second thought, I hooked my finger in the top of the book. Pulled it toward me.

  The wall of books immediately next to Henry popped open—a secret fucking door—revealing a dark hallway.

  And another guard.

  38

  Delilah

  The guard was as startled as we were.

  His eyes widened, radio heading toward his mouth—but I pushed past Henry and kneed the guard in the groin. He bent over in surprise and pain, and I hit both of his ears, hard.

  “What the fuck?” he sputtered.

  I punched him in the nose.

  Henry pulled the secret door shut behind him, plunging us into darkness. Low lights glowed at the corners—giving me just enough vision to use the guard’s bodyweight to shove him to the ground.

  “Sit,” I hissed at Henry, using my stiletto between the guard�
��s shoulder blades like a knife. Henry dropped his knees on top of the guard, effectively immobilizing him. I hoisted the guard’s beefy arms behind him, slapping his wrists together. My muscles burned at the memory of doing this on countless suspects over the years—but I hadn’t done it in a long time, and the awkward angle had me wincing.

  “Wait…wait a fucking minute,” the guard tried to yell.

  “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you again,” I said. I reached beneath my dress and yanked the zip-tie from my belt. Henry watched me, awed. Once the guard’s wrists were bound, I grabbed the duct tape, pressing the heel of my stiletto into the back of his head. “But you do need to shut the fuck up.”

  “Who the hell—”

  I slapped the silver tape over his mouth. He wiggled like a fish beneath Henry’s weight.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling a stunned Henry to his feet. I unclipped the guy’s pistol from his holster with nimble fingers. I dropped the magazine, checked the rounds, disarmed the safety.

  Cocked it.

  And turned to find Henry Finch staring at me with blazing lust. We were both breathing heavily.

  “I don’t need saving,” I said, chin lifted.

  “I know you don’t,” he said hoarsely. “And saving isn’t what I want to do to you right now.”

  The guard’s radio crackled sharply: “What the hell just happened?”

  I swore beneath my breath at my own idiocy. Grabbed the radio and went to smash it between my heels.

  “Wait.”

  Henry stilled my movements. The guard was still wiggling and grunting as Henry dropped down and held down the talk button on the radio.

  “Caught ’em,” Henry said, affecting a rougher tone. “It’s fine.”

  I grinned at his genius. The radio crackled something nondescript back—a sigh and then “whatever.” They’d still get suspicious, but it could buy us an extra, precious ten minutes we could use.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking Henry’s hand.

  We turned the corner and fully took in this strange, secret hallway.

  “You were right,” I said, allowing one second for me to beam at my partner with pride. He returned my smile.

  “I was. But also…where the fuck are we?”

  Ahead of us stretched emerald green carpet. The walls were an intricately patterned red wallpaper, Tudor-period. Yellow doors appeared sporadically as we walked carefully through the confined space.

  “What should we do?” he asked.

  “Start pulling on doors, see what’s inside.” I reached for one, which opened up into a narrow, winding staircase. Henry and I exchanged a glance. Keeping the gun close, I kept Henry behind me as we crept up the creaking steps, backs to the wall. I half expected another guard to pop out. On the walls hung more portraits of European royalty. The stairs stopped, suddenly, leading to a tiny alcove with giant windows.

  “It’s like a…a widow’s walk,” I breathed, taking in the impressive landscape that stretched beyond the bare windows. We could see a few other mansions, dotted in the woods, the floodlights of Victoria’s party, the cars that stretched for a decent mile down the street. Valet drivers were racing up and down between the vehicles. Henry searched the room, which was almost bare, and I tapped on walls and pulled on pieces of furniture, wondering if there’d be more secret latches.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  Henry shook his head. Down the winding staircase we went, back into the creepy hallway. I could hear sounds of the party through the walls as we tugged on more yellow doors—all locked.

  “Goddammit,” I muttered.

  “Wait,” he whispered, “this one opens.” He slipped inside before I could caution him.

  Another staircase. This one so intensely vertical we couldn’t see past the first curve in the wall.

  “Should we take them?”

  Henry let out a sharp breath. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  We were winded by the tenth step.

  “What is this, fucking Everest?” I huffed.

  Henry’s lips twitched. The walls were wooden, ancient-looking, with porthole-style windows. We kept ascending, the stairs winding as though we were inside a lighthouse. A creepy claustrophobia started to invade my senses, a disorientation that made my skin clammy.

  The top of the stairs appeared out of nowhere—so quickly I bumped into it.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  It was another fucking door.

  With a shrug, I opened it.

  And fell right into the open night sky.

  39

  Delilah

  I was free-falling.

  But only for a second.

  Henry had my hand in a vise-like grip, tethering me with an impressive strength.

  “Oh my God,” I cried. My left hand and left leg were dangling over manicured grass and landscaped flowers, four stories down.

  “Delilah.” Henry’s voice was calm. Steady. “I’ve got you.”

  I closed my eyes. My throat closed, my muscles shook. I was going to be sick all over my dress.

  “Delilah, I need you to trust me, beautiful.” Ever-so-gently, Henry was tugging me in. My right leg was slipping from its hold on the narrow strip of landing. “Keep your eyes closed.”

  I complied, not needing to see that view again. I could feel the breeze, the night air—and absolutely nothing else. No wall, no rope, no roof, just a tumble right to the ground below.

  Another hand closed around my waist, arm banding tightly. There was a sharp yank.

  Both of my feet landed on solid ground.

  My body slammed into Henry’s solid, broad chest immediately. I was dimly aware of the door being clicked shut. Then Henry’s big hand, smoothing down my hair. I was shivering, freezing—but slowly, so slowly, melting against my partner. My fingers clutched at his shirt, gripped his ribcage, caressed up his spine. I laid my cheek right above his heart, which was beating faster than my own.

  “Let’s never do that again, wife,” he said softly.

  “Thank you,” I stuttered. “I’m terrified of heights.”

  “Anyone would be terrified of falling out of a door that leads to nowhere.”

  “What on earth could she use that for?”

  Henry still had me cradled against his chest—it reminded me of our moment in the closet, my body still clenching with pleasure, mouth closing around the fabric of his jacket to quiet my screams.

  “On the bright side, if we find the Copernicus, we could toss it out this door and pray it lands on a soft bush.”

  A delirious giggle escaped my lips. I kissed his jaw, his throat, that patch of skin left open by his shirt. The adrenaline and the fear were turning me into the woman Mark had accused me of being—easily swept away by her passions, her inner desires.

  As if that was a bad thing. As if being a woman in love with her life was somehow wrong.

  “We have to keep going,” Henry said, ghosting his lips at my temple. “But don’t take that to mean I don’t want to stay here like this.”

  I stepped back, tucked my hair behind my ear. Grabbed the gun that had clattered to the floor at my almost-fall. “Let’s go.”

  We both refocused, although Henry kept my hand in his, steadying me down the steep stairs. Back in the main hallway, confusion threatened to swamp my instincts. It was so dark, and every inch looked exactly the same: the yellow doors, the wallpaper, the carpet.

  “I’m starting to get the creeps,” I whispered. “How about you?”

  Henry tried another door—arching a brow at me when it clicked. He creaked the door open a half-inch.

  Then slammed it with a horrified expression.

  “Oh my God, she does have a torture chamber,” I said.

  “Kitchen,” he mouthed. Bent over to whisper, “I think this is another entry point to the kitchen. I saw people, trays, ovens.”

  “Did they see you?”

  We both froze, listening for the sound of waitstaff yelling about secret-passageway-in
truders. There was an unbearable crawling of time—but nothing.

  We exhaled, backs against the wall, heads tilted up.

  “For the record,” I said, “I still think this is a brilliant plan.”

  “For the record,” Henry replied, “I still think you are brilliant.”

  Our smiles were shy.

  “Do you think we’re heading east?” I asked, attempting to orient us in this claustrophobic hellhole.

  Henry stared over my shoulder, breath tickling my ear. “I don’t think so.”

  I sighed, frustrated, anxious, moving quickly toward my gut instinct. We took a hard left, then another. Two rights into hallways that appeared to be exactly the same. “Do you think it could be—”

  We walked right into Victoria fucking Whitney.

  40

  Henry

  Delilah gasped and I slapped my palm over her mouth, yanking her back against my body.

  “Well, that’s what I’m saying, darling,” Victoria lectured, “you must get your portrait done with James.” In a quieter tone: “You know he removes the wrinkles, right?”

  Bitzi Peterson and Victoria Whitney stared directly into our faces, a mere six inches from us—but they saw nothing.

  “It’s a spy painting,” I whispered into Delilah’s ear. “Wealthy people used them to watch their guests or spy on their servants. It works like a two-way mirror. We can see her, but she can only see the painting.”

  I’d guessed that Victoria had them—it fit her flair for drama and “historical accuracy” —and we’d stumbled right into it. I could feel tension vibrating in Delilah’s muscles…but her breathing slowed. I lifted my hand from her mouth but kept my arm wrapped around her waist.

  “Can she hear us?” Delilah mouthed, right at my ear. I nodded, placing a finger to my lips. Against my arm, her muscles were coiled, ready to strike. Just moments earlier, she’d moved with deadly accuracy, toppling that guard with ease. She’d looked like a warrior goddess in stilettos, holding her gun cocked, her red lips curved with determination.