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Then, it was snatched harshly from her hands.
Dejeune set the crown back into the case quickly, shutting it as he turned around. “Good day, Monsieur Kankaredes.” He looked over Mikayla’s shoulder to the shadow next to one of the many pillars that surrounded the room. The man walked out of the darkness and into the spotlight that threw light on the showcase. He cast a shadow on Mikayla; the air turned colder.
Mikayla shivered and turned. In front of her stood a man of imposing stature in a severe black suit. His black hair was swept back from his temples. He stood straight, without a hint of the stoop of most tall persons. His face was heavily carved with deep lines. His long, pointed nose provided the perfect opportunity for him to look down at others and make them feel small and worthless. His eyes were black and bottomless. They reflected no emotion, none of the immense displeasure he had felt and the fear he had felt upon seeing Mikayla handling the royal crown. He carried a walking stick carved of mahogany. The head of the walking stick was a wolf that fit perfectly into his hand. The stick itself was covered in the intricate design of the Celtic knot. Mikayla noted to herself that the Celtic knot continued to show up more and more, even though the island nation of Amor had no connection to Ireland. The air around him seemed darker, more sinister, and colder.
Antonio Kankaredes pinned Dejeune with one glance, daring him to slink off to a hiding spot and threatening him if he tried to do so. He then turned those bottomless eyes on Mikayla. She felt herself drawn to stare into the hidden depths of his eyes like prey drawn to the snake. She tightened the grip on her camera until her knuckles began to turn white.
“So, this is the American we have hired to do our research for us.” He looked Mikayla up and down taking in her simple attire, her backpack, and her camera slung over her shoulder. He smirked. He moved his eyes to Dejeune. His voice was smooth with the heavy accent of Greece. It flowed like that of a poet or Shakespearean actor. If it hadn’t carried a bite in the words, Mikayla thought it would be pleasurable to listen to. “You hire a child to do your work for you, Dejeune. Are you not the resident historian? Is there a particular reason you must bring in an outsider?”
Dejeune squared his shoulders. Despite his height, he would never be taller than Kankaredes. “Dr. Mikayla Knight, this is Antonio Kankaredes, the Royal Minister of State.”
Mikayla looked up into his cold eyes willing warmth into the icy air. She felt the hair on her arms stand up. She resisted the urge to rub her arms vigorously. She swallowed with difficulty and shook his clammy hand. Her own had begun to sweat. “Good day, Mr. Kankaredes. I am pleased to meet you.” Her voice sounded small and weak. She withdrew her hand and squared her shoulders. She tried to stand taller.
“Well, Miss Knight,” he stressed the formal title instead of using her academic title, “I am sure that you will be wanting to meet with the Royal Family eventually. Please, notify my office at least a day in advance of when you would like to meet with them. We will take care of the security measures.”
Kankaredes turned his attention from Mikayla, and absently sent a wave over his shoulder. It was a motion of dismissal. Mikayla was forgotten. “Dejeune, I wish to speak with you immediately.”
Dejeune gestured towards Mikayla. “I apologize, Antonio, but I have to finish Dr. Knight’s tour. I also need to acquaint her with the Hall of Records.”
Kankaredes narrowed his eyes on Dejeune. “She’s a professional historian. I am sure, if she’s as good as you say she is, she can figure out the Hall of Records herself. This can’t wait.”
Dejeune sighed. He took Mikayla’s arm and tugged her gently across the room to the door. “The records are through there. Please, feel free to make yourself at home. I will join you as soon as I can, and we will finish our tour.” He turned to walk back to Kankaredes. He looked over his shoulder at Mikayla once before reaching the imposing Minister of State.
Kankaredes stood tall, with one hand on the glass of the showcase. His eyes were narrowed, and he watched Mikayla move to the door. He watched very carefully. He tapped his walking stick on the floor in an impatient gesture to hurry Dejeune along and dismiss Mikayla from their presence.
Dejeune joined Kankardes again by the showcase. Kankaredes didn’t acknowledge his presence until Mikayla had slipped through the door and into the hallway that separated the exhibit hall from the Hall of Records. He tapped the walking stick once on the floor and turned his attention to Dejeune who appeared old and beaten in the presence of the Minister of State instead of the tall, imposing man Mikayla had seen him as on her arrival.
Kankaredes held out a hand that was heavily jeweled. Rings decorated each finger, stones winking in the light. “How dare you?” He growled. His smooth voice that was reserved for political situations had faded into a growl like that of a wolf guarding its young. His voice echoed off the marble floor and pillars.
Dejeune looked around the room nervously. He plucked anxiously at the edge of his Italian suit coat, fraying the edge by pulling on a loose thread. He looked back at Kankaredes and swallowed. “Please, sir, I was only sharking the workmanship of the crown with her. She didn’t seen the inscription, nor would she have understood it.” He looked around again. This time, he whispered. “Antonio, the crown and our plans are safe here, I promise you.”
Kankaredes banged his walking stick on the floor. The crack reverberated off of the walls and floor making the other glass cases ring. “Be quiet, you fool!” He drew in a sharp breath and quieted his own voice. It would be very bad if he were discovered there with Dejeune. “Don’t you realize what the consequences could have been had she translated the inscription? Don’t you know that it could ruin everything we have worked so carefully to bring about?”
Kankaredes gripped Dejeune’s hand, crushing the bones in his own. “My friend, our time is almost here. We don’t want to destroy it now.” His voice cool, denying his own anxiety.
Dejeune withdrew his hand from the bone-crushing grip, careful to avoid making noise of any kind. “Antonio, you don’t have to worry about anything. Mikayla Knight is nothing.” Kankaredes raised an eye brow. Dejeune patted the other man’s arm. “I promise you, I hired her because of her ineptitude. She is young and eager to be recognized in her field. She will never realize what we are doing. She is the perfect front. With her here to accomplish the task of writing the historical narrative, there is no danger of us being discovered.” He stepped away, turning his back on the Minister of State. “She is the perfect cover for our actions.”
Dejeune opened the case and straightened the crown on its pillow. Kankaredes walked around the case, tapping the walking stick on the marble floor as he moved. He stopped behind the case and looked over the glass at Dejeune. Kankaredes leaned in and grabbed the front of Dejeune’s shirt, pulling him closer until they were nose to nose. His words hissed from beneath clenched teeth. “Just you be sure she doesn’t get any closer than necessary with the information she finds. I will do my part.”
Kankaredes let go of Dejeune and straightened his own suit. “You know there is concern about the presence of this Dr. Knight. Some think of her as a threat. She will be watched very closely.”
Dejeune straightened his own shirt and tie. He avoided Kankaredes’s eyes and stared over his shoulder at the painting of the Madonna and Child on the far wall. Kankaredes’s presence was enough to make him squirm and make his skin grow cold. He didn’t need further reminders of the intrigues. He could see the glowing gold eyes clearly, the eyes that shown through the night like a wolf’s eyes when it was hunting. He cleared his throat. “There is nothing to worry about. Dr. Knight is not a threat.” He looked at Kankaredes, fear written clearly in his eyes. “Dr. Knight will accomplish her assignment, write her book, and return to her pathetic life as a college professor in the United States. I guarantee it.” He hissed the last and walked away from Kankaredes. Dejeune pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked towards the Hal
l of Records. His steps slow and measured, the model of professional dignity.
Kankaredes rapped his walking stick on the floor once before walking the other way. He hoped Dejeune was right. If he wasn’t, Kankardes was prepared to take care of the problem, and Dejeune while he was at it. Now was the time, with the 900th celebration just weeks away, and no one was going to prevent the plans they had worked so diligently to set-up. No one.
Mikayla took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had been reading document after document for a week. There was nothing more boring than sitting in a dusty hall of records looking for something fascinating in a pile of dust. A pile of dust that hadn’t been catalogued in at least a century. It was almost as thrilling as watching paint dry, and almost as frustrating as looking for a needle in a haystack.
Mikayla looked around the room that the Amorians called the Hall of Records. She thought it might have been suited better to be called the Closet of Records. It was a long, skinny room filled from floor to ceiling and wall to wall with wooden bookcases. The bookcases over-flowed with ancient manuscripts, many of which had been illuminated in the tradition of the Catholic monks before the printing press’s inception. What books, scrolls, boxes, and manuscripts wouldn’t fit on the bookshelves were stacked precariously on the cement floor, decaying with each passing moment. History was disappearing as she sat there and watched, too over-whelmed to fight it.
Dust covered every surface of the room, including the rickety wooden table someone had set up near the door with its straight-backed wooden chairs that creaked with every movement. The table-top was scarred with engravings done by persons of the past. There was one that read, “Albert was here.” And another that read, ”Marjory loves Larry.” Good for Marjory, Mikayla thought. Another was inscribed in ancient Latin. Mikayla snickered slightly as her mind worked through the translation. She hoped Abbot Stefano didn’t really smell like rotten eggs.
The table was cluttered with scrolls from a box Mikayla had found in the very back of the Hall of Records. Edges of the scrolls had been nibbled away at some point in the past by a very hungry mouse. The vellum crinkled underneath her hand. Her legal sized pad of paper and pencil sat near at hand along with a Latin to English dictionary she carried everywhere. In the box, she had also discovered the royal seal of Amor that had been used to seal the scrolls. Ancient candle wax was pooled at the bottom of the box, as if someone had left the candle dripping before sealing the cardboard. It was an interesting discovery, but certainly nothing life changing. Mikayla had seen hundreds of seals just like that one.
Mikayla rubbed her neck and willed the tension away. For a week she had tried to get into the Secluded City to meet with anyone, it didn’t even have to be a member of the royal family. She was having no luck in that area. It seemed almost as if Kankaredes had given his staff strict instructions that she wasn’t to be allowed to interview anyone. The last time she had stood at the gate of the Secluded City with her Royal Pass in hand, the guards had physically turned her around and locked the gates behind her. The message was clear; she was not invited nor was she wanted.
Dejeune had been off the island for the last week looking for some documents he thought she might need that were in Paris. He had left the day after her tour of the museum and had not returned. Dejeune had not even had the decency to tell her he was leaving. Mikayla had gone to the museum to ask him some questions. His secretary, a bleach-blonde with a huge chest under a tight sweater and microscopic mini-skirt made of leather, had told her that she didn’t know when to expect him back and he couldn’t be reached in Paris as she chomped heartily on her bubble-gum. Mikayla had had to settle for the Hall of Records and every single document ever written relating to Amor history, most of which were worthless.
Mikayla sighed and unrolled another scroll, sneezing as dust filled the air in waves. Her fingers traced the carvings in the tables absently. She settled into the monotony.
He stepped through the open door into the Hall of Records and stopped, frozen in his tracks. He had known she was down here. He had known he was supposed to meet with her and help her with her research, but he hadn’t expected his heart to stop beating the moment he looked at her. Her head was bowed as she read an illuminated scroll. Her long, auburn curls were piled in a messy knot at the back of her head, and she twirled one curl that had escaped around her finger. He smiled. It was a girlish gesture, and it was incredibly sexy. Her neck was long and milky white. Her long fingers were unadorned and tapped on the wooden table to a beat that was only in her head. The simple white shirt curved ever so slightly around a petite but toned frame. He craned his head to the side and scanned her profile. Her face was unadorned. There wasn’t a speck of make-up that he could see, yet her cheeks carried a rosy tint and her full lips were naturally red. He sighed. She was breath-taking.
Mikayla lifted her head and slowly turned around. He straightened from the doorway and met her eyes. Her eye-brows were raised in speculation. The brilliant blue of her eyes took his breath away and left him speechless.
Mikayla met his gaze, but she took him in one glance. He leaned casually against the door-frame in blue jeans faded just past the point of respectable and a denim button-down shirt. His jeans fit him just right, curving around a well-toned body with a hint of what lay beneath, a body well-toned and used to abuses that others wouldn’t even contemplate. His blond hair was cropped short but fell over one half of his forehead in a devil-may-care fashion. His skin was tanned like those who reside in the Mediterranean year-round. His gray eyes were soft but secretive. His face was handsome and hinted at his heart. He was tall and athletic. His smile was just on the verge of a secret, hiding hidden thoughts that perhaps weren’t polite enough to be thought and certainly weren’t polite enough to be shared. Mikayla felt her words stop in her throat as she looked into the eyes of either an angel or the devil. Her heart pounded just slightly faster than was respectable, and her mouth was very dry. Any and all thoughts that had been in her head instantly disappeared.
He broke the spell first and stepped forward. He moved smoothly, as only someone accustomed to his height could. He held out a hand. “Good day, Dr. Knight.” His British accent surprised her, but it also stole her breath away.
She took his hand and shook. It was surprisingly gentle but strong. The kind of hand a person could hold onto forever. She swallowed and searched for her voice. “Good afternoon.” She watched as he pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “Why is it that everyone here knows my name on sight, but I don’t know theirs?”
He laughed slightly. A musical sound that Mikayla knew she could get used to very easily if she allowed it. “Perhaps because it is a small island and you are an incredibly beautiful person.”
Mikayla sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Hmm,…really?” She shook her head and another curl escaped. “Then, who might you be?”
“I am William Chambers. I was asked by Rene Dejeune to help you with your research.” He smiled at her and tucked a curl behind her ear in a move that appeared to Mikayla as if it were very practiced. She slid her chair a little further away; its legs scratching like nails down a chalkboard. “I’ve been in Britain for the last few weeks on business and wasn’t able to join you until now. I apologize for my tardiness.”
Mikayla rolled her shoulders and picked up the scroll she had been working on. She, however, did not move her eyes from him. “I see. Dejeune didn’t mention any assistants.”
“Well, I don’t actually work for him. I live here in Amor, and I have a peculiar interest in the monarchy and its history.” When she didn’t relax but kept her eyes on his face, he smiled. He held up the bag he carried in his hand. “I am a photographer. I have been working on a book of photos of the Mediterranean region.”
Mikayla inclined her head and studied him. She had known handsome men before and knew that generally, they tended to be pure trouble, but something in her drew her to him. He was intriguing, and he was offering to help. This pro
ject was looking as if it were going to be larger than she had originally anticipated, and she had no itching-to-help graduate student knocking on her door. “All right, but first, let me ask you a question.” He shrugged. “Can you read Latin?”
Will’s smile grew. He shrugged. “I can try.”
“Hmm…” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, … Mr. Chambers, I don’t really have time to look over your shoulder and help you translate every word. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have the time nor the interest.” Her voice was very prim as were the hands that were crossed on the table in front of her. Then, he heard the pencil snap and saw her slip the two halves under her hands that were still crossed.
Will looked her in the eye and noted the irritation in them. He grinned. “Look, Mikayla,” Her head jerked up at the use of her first name. All of her assistants used her academic title; it was considered a sign of respect, even with those assistants she was friendly with outside of the office and academic sphere. She expected the same from him. She narrowed her eyes.
His grin grew larger. He didn’t know why, but irritating her was a lot of fun. “I grew up here. I know all of the local legends and the local folk lore. I also know the royal family pretty well.” He paused. “I can get you the folk lore and secrets of the people who have lived here for centuries.”
The Eye of the Wolf Page 3
