Thirst of Steel

by Ronie Kendig

  Pressing on was their only option. He glanced to his three, where Runt raced up the rugged terrain with the unconscious objective as if he carried a sack of potatoes. Did he have no limits?

  Bark ruptured around them. Dirt erupted at their feet.

  Ram pressed on, knowing any second could be his last. Then Cell was out of luck, too. He grunted, planting a boot and shoving upward. Though the burden of carrying his friend was great, the fear of dying here was greater. About to fire off a few rounds, he heard shots rattle the woods to his far right. Then his left.

  Having deposited the target at the extraction point, Runt sprinted back to Ram and went to a knee, his weapon coming to bear.

  “Wait,” Ram hissed. “They’re guessing. Shooting in the hope we’ll return fire and betray our position.” He nodded up the hill. “Light and fast.”

  Runt hesitated, then complied.

  Maangi was already there, checking their objective, then turning to Cell on Ram’s shoulders. “Breathing, but a bit shallow.”

  “He’ll have to gut it up a little longer,” Ram muttered. “Cell knows he can’t die on a mission.”

  “You keep bouncing me . . . and I’ll reconsider.”

  Ram snorted at the raspy, drained voice in his ear—Cell had come around. “Go back to sleep, slacker,” he huffed.

  Hot breath gusted out of Cell. “You should fatten . . . your shoulders. Make the ride more comfortable.”

  “Ride?” Ram scoffed as he climbed the rocky hillside. “How about the fall?” he asked, threatening to dump his cargo.

  “Okay,” Cell grunted, “but I’m filing a complaint . . . with . . . transportation authority.”

  — NORTHERN VIRGINIA —

  Haven grabbed her ringing phone, heart in her throat. Would she finally be able to tell Cole? But the identifier on the caller ID wasn’t right. “Oh,” she said, swiping the phone and swinging a raised eyebrow at Chiji as she answered. “Dr. Cathey!”

  “Hello, dear. I’m sorry I missed your calls. It has been a bit busy.”

  “I understand,” Haven said, “I’m snowed under with responsibilities, too. But look, Mr. Tzaddik put me onto something.”

  “Did he?” His tone seemed more pensive. “How can I help?”

  “He asked me to work on Cole’s genealogy while he’s away, and I’ve discovered some very interesting things.” Haven snagged the file from the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. She dragged a throw pillow onto her lap and opened the file. “I’m not sure if you want the entire story of how this came about—”

  “I am in a bit of a hurry, unfortunately.”

  “Well, the short version, then. I discovered the Russells and Linwoods have been connected for a very long time.” Haven glanced at the genealogy chart. “The most relevant time was in the early 1800s when Raphael Russell married Elisabeth Linwood. When she died, he had a marble bust made of her.”

  “Did he?”

  Something about the way he asked that sent a trill of concern through Haven. He knew. “That bust ended up in the possession of a Linwood ancestor, but he sold it.” Intentionally leaving a long pause confirmed her suspicion. “I did the research, found the auction site, and looked up the sale.”

  “Sorry, dear, but I need to go.”

  The dead tone of a severed connection rang in her ear. Haven stared at the phone, stunned.

  Chiji moved around to the armchair in front of her and lowered himself to the edge of the cushion, threading his fingers.

  “He hung up,” she said, still surprised. “There was something in his voice . . . nervousness. Fear.”

  “This thing is important.”

  Haven nodded. “More than we realize.”

  — LONDON, ENGLAND —

  “You’re sure he’s not here?”

  Tzivia glared over her shoulder as she fished in her crossbody bag. “You look worried, Kazimir.”

  With good reason. Sliding his gaze around the fifth-floor foyer that provided access to four flats, Tox cringed at the limited escape options. Correction: option. One. Down the stairs. That was it. The elevator was a great way to die in a steel coffin. There might be fire escapes if they could get into the flats . . .

  She slid a key into the lock.

  “He must trust you a lot,” Tox noted.

  Tzivia shrugged as she pushed into the flat, then strode quickly to a wall-mounted keypad. “It was about convenience—he often sent me to retrieve things he’d forgotten.”

  Tox closed the door, flipped the deadbolt, and let out a slow whistle as he took in the home.

  “Nice, huh?” Tzivia shed her bag, dropping it on an armchair that sported hunting fabric. “And he could afford it, somehow. I was so annoyed that he lived on the other side of town and up five flights. But he insisted the stairs kept him healthy and the view happy. How that”—she waved a stiff hand at the curtained windows—“view keeps anyone happy is beyond me.” She shrugged. “Whatever. His money and sanity, not mine.”

  From a safe distance, Tox eyed the window and balcony. A wrought-iron barrier protected the six-by-fifteen balcony overlooking a dirty alley that, to the right, led to more flats, and in the other direction, a somewhat-treed view of the city.

  “On your tiptoes,” Tzivia mused, pointing, “you can see the top of the Eye and the Thames.”

  At least he had his bearings. He tugged the curtains closed and turned to her. “What’re we looking for?”

  Eyebrow winged up, she moved away without answering.

  Annoyance kept him in place as he once more assessed the flat. Expensive paper covered most walls. Surfaces not decorated in paper were painted a rich burgundy, making it feel cozy but also old. Like something from the turn of the century. Except for the divider separating the entry from the living room—an entire shelving unit at least twenty feet long with six additional shelving units jutting out. Like Cathey’s own personal library within his home. Tox guessed going to the university took too much time.

  In the living room, a leather sofa had been shoved back against an armchair and table to make room for a large oak desk that sat close to a fireplace. A gold filigree mirror hung above its mantel. Directly opposite, the kitchen.

  Tox made his way there, surprised at the cramped, cluttered space. But the sink was clear. A small doorway next to the stove lured him through, where he found a long, narrow passage that ended with the front door on one side and a bedroom on the other.

  “This is weird,” Tzivia muttered from elsewhere in the flat.

  Tox strode back through the kitchen and past a round dinette table to a short hall that provided access to a powder room on the left and—“Whoa.” He stopped short, marveling at the three walls covered in floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases. Though most of the shelves were stuffed with books, some held artifacts lit by lamps or domes. Thick, heavy velvet curtains restrained the light from violating the room’s coziness.

  “Yeah,” Tzivia said, huffing as she planted her hands on her hips, glaring at the wall of shelving at the far end. “That’s new, and I don’t like it.”

  He tried not to snort at the absurd comment.

  “It makes this room look smaller.” She bunched her shoulders. “And it already felt cramped.” Shoving back her thick black hair, Tzivia frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She slapped a hand at the offending shelves. “He’s moved everything for these shelves, so the small shelf is gone and”—she swiveled her head, glancing about the library—“so is what I need.”

  “If you tell me,” Tox said, “I might actually be able to help. Keeping secrets increases the chance we’ll get caught.” He walked the shelves. “Besides, I’m eventually going to see what it is once you locate it.”

  She huffed. “A picture—about five by seven. Gold frame.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” He knew it was a picture. “Subject?”

  “Dr. Cathey and . . . another man.”

  Her vault-like control with information w
as growing ridiculous. “What are you afraid I’m going to figure out?”

  “Dr. Cathey is my friend.”

  He pivoted, surprised at her answer. At her defensiveness. The ache of truth that even though the professor was her friend, she was breaking into his flat. Going through his things. “This other man—”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped.

  The rug beneath his shoes rumpled. He eyed it, noting that the far end had been tucked under because the carpet was now too big for the room with the new shelving. Yet the rug was big . . . a lot bigger. Not just the twelve inches of the shelves. “How will your friend feel about you being here, rummaging through his things?”

  “Just find the frame! We don’t have time for an inquisition.” She jerked away, bending to inspect a cluster of photographs on a lower shelf.

  He stumbled again on the carpet. Why was it so much larger? He moved around a small table and lifted the carpet to reveal that the folded section continued all the way to the sofa. At least six feet. The rug was folded nearly in half. Straightening, he eyed the shelves again.

  “What?”

  His mind spun possibilities, but he wasn’t ready just yet to betray his speculation. “Good craftsmanship,” he muttered, deliberately running a hand along the inside of the shelves. Not even a forearm’s length. “Now that I actually know what I’m looking for, I’ll search the living room and kitchen.”

  She grinned. “He called that his alcove.”

  “Some alcove,” Tox muttered as he crossed the room.

  “Don’t touch anything. He’s a pack rat, but he’s also obsessive about where things are.”

  “Order in chaos,” Tox said with a nod.

  Back in the living room, he made a quick scan for the frame, then slipped down the narrow hall spanning the length of the flat. He stopped halfway. Peering across the home to the foyer of the library where Tzivia was still searching, he lined up his shoulder with that wall. Eyes on it, he pivoted and faced the bedroom at the far end. He walked that way, counting steps. He nudged open the door and continued until a nightstand impeded his progress. Nearly thirty steps. Mentally, he jogged back to the library, remembering his steps in there. Fifteen, at best.

  Tox went to the kitchen. Eyeballing the baseboards, he backstepped to the bedroom. He swung around the corner and strode to the closet. Inside, he reached through the wool suits to the back wall. Smooth. He tapped along its length. Solid. Not lightweight.

  “Is that you?” Tzivia called from the library.

  In the kitchen, he traced the wall—alcove. Could it be possible? Tox’s assessment jarred against his speculation. Cathey knew they were looking for the sword pieces.

  Oak shelves gave way to a nook. It arched into the wall and held the statue of a woman. Classy little spot. But was it more? He eyed the molding trimming the arch. The baseboards! His heart punched his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Tzivia’s pitched voice interrupted his inspection.

  Tox stepped back—and cracked his head against something. Rubbing his head, he scowled at the old carved clock hanging on the wall. He checked his timepiece against the hands of the clock. Stupid thing didn’t even work.

  “What?” she bit out.

  “I think your good professor’s alcove is more than an alcove.”

  Uncertainty forced her to consider the space. “I don’t understand.”

  “In the library, I noticed the rug had been folded back.”

  “He’s a miser.”

  “In a multimillion-dollar flat.”

  “Everything’s expensive in London.”

  He’d concede that. “But it’s not just a few inches. It’s easily six to eight feet. Nearly half its length.”

  “So?”

  “The shelves are only twelve inches deep.”

  Tzivia opened her mouth, objection poised on her features, but then her breath caught.

  Tox pointed to a spot on the wall where the trim was different. “Slightly worn.”

  “Like it’s been touched.” She leaned in, eyeing the paneling. “Often.”

  “I think Dr. Cathey’s alcove conceals a hidden room.”

  Why hadn’t Dr. Cathey told her about the secret room? Granted, it had been months since they’d spoken, but somehow a tremor of rejection raced through her. Maybe it was her guilty conscience feeling exposed—as if he’d known she would break in to find the photo. “It’s not like he has great artifacts worth anything,” she grumbled. “I mean, these tomes only have allure to him. So why a hidden room?”

  “I really don’t care why,” Kazimir said, angling to the side as he ran one hand along the lower part of the trim and the other over the upper wood finial. “I just want to get in.”

  “I built it”—the professor’s voice jerked them both around and yanked a gasp from Tzivia—“to keep nosy parkers like yourselves out!” His suddenly fierce gray eyes latched onto Tzivia, projecting anger and—worst of all—betrayal. “What are you doing here, Tzivia?”

  “How did you get in without us hearing?” Kazimir asked, moving to check the door.

  “You carelessly left it open,” Dr. Cathey huffed as he pushed past her to the kitchen and lifted a kettle.

  Kazimir stopped. Shot the professor a look, then Tzivia.

  “I thought you locked it.” She started when he pulled a weapon. Where had he gotten that?

  “I did.” He stalked forward, gun in his hands. The way he moved, that ready posture, reminded her of someone else. Of Tox with his height. Of Ram with his maneuvering. Hmm, maybe not—Ram was more intense. No, this man operated a lot like Tox, with calm focus and intent. Bouncing her gaze between him and the front door, she backed up to the professor, whom she’d need to protect if there was trouble.

  “Why would you do this, Tzivia?” Dr. Cathey banged around the kitchen, opening cabinets, pulling open drawers.

  A noose around her neck would have been less painful. “I thought you were with Wraith. I . . .” She swallowed her excuse.

  “Why would you do this? Why would you be here? I trusted you!”

  “It’s not personal,” she muttered, not wanting to face him. “Since you’re assuming the worst of me—”

  “I do not have to assume! You are here going through my things.”

  She pivoted. Glared. “Obviously it’s not the first time you were worried about someone going through your things. Why did you build a secret room?”

  He surged toward her. “Give up this quest, Tzivia. Do not search for the sword.”

  When she didn’t respond, he shuffled from the far counter near the books to pick up a tin of his favorite loose-leaf tea. The lone light over a very small kitchen island provided little illumination. Dressed in a dark gray shirt with pale blue tie and black slacks, he seemed to blend with his dim surroundings.

  “How do you know what I’m looking for?” she finally asked.

  “Tzaddik knows more than you could imagine, and we feared this,” he said gravely, disappointment carved in his aged features. “He said you would do this.” His expression ached with betrayal. “We are friends. Tell me why you are here. What was so important you could not simply ask me?”

  “Ask? When you’re acting like this? Why else would I keep it from you? Look how you’re behaving!”

  “Me? You’re the one shouting and not answering my questions.”

  She drew back, surprised at herself, at him.

  Dr. Cathey murmured, shaking his head, and wheeled around to the stove again. “I thought you were smarter than this. That we were friends. I trusted you.”

  She’d never been especially good at friendships. Nor at making him proud. But in this moment, she realized just how far she’d strayed from the path she’d intended to walk. The one on which he’d believed her capable of traveling.

  Guilt rolled over her shoulders and settled into her chest. “Good grief. I’m not stealing anything,” she scoffed, but even that came out weak. “I just—” Forget subtlety. “There’s a p
icture I need to see.”

  He slammed the kettle on the burner and faced her again. “A picture?”

  “Small, gold frame.” She nodded, glancing at Kazimir, who eased the door closed and flipped the locks. “You and another man.”

  Kazimir turned, sliding along the entrance hall toward the back bedroom. Something in his expression, around the scars from his accident, felt ominous. Did he suspect someone had gotten in?

  “This is about the sword.” Dr. Cathey gave a faint nod. Sagged. “He was right. Tzaddik told me . . .”

  He knew. There was no pretense. So she might as well drop hers. “I just need it—actually, no.” She tilted her head. “Just tell me who he is.”

  His face darkened. “First you break into my flat. Now you would have me put my friend in danger?” He gaped. “Who are you anymore, Tzivia?”

  Deflecting the sharp insinuation, she jumped to the conclusion. “So he’s a friend.”

  “Tzivia,” he hissed, bushy eyebrows knotting beneath his glasses. “Do not persist on this path. You must abandon the search for the sword. It is not the answer you seek.”

  “It’s exactly what I seek.” Watching Kazimir clear a closet reminded her again of Tox.

  “Because I love you as my own child, I will not do this. I must deny you—”

  “You mean defy me. If you know I’m looking for the sword, do you know why?”

  “It does not matter! The sword cannot be given to them, and I will not aid you in this deep betrayal.” He pulled a mug down and set it on the counter. Then two more. “You may not have the thirst of steel like your brother, but you thirst all the same—for acceptance, approval. When what will fill you is only Yahweh.”

  There was a time she would’ve told him to shut up, save his religious platitudes, but she was tired . . . and he was right. She craved his acceptance.

  “In each of us is a perfect God-sized hole that can only be filled with His love.”

  “Love.” She snorted, but the hunger . . . the ache to be loved—she’d tasted that recently.

  “What of Omar?”

  She sniffed and shook her head. Omar. He’d accepted her, and though their relationship might be messed up in many ways, she never had to pretend with him. But this wasn’t about her and Omar. It was about her and Abba. “You’re getting off track,” she mumbled.