The Eye of the Wolf

by Sadie Vanderveen

“What’s the purpose of the stone carvings, Professor?”

  “It’s a way for the future generations to find the stone. Follow the clues, if you figure them out, you’re worthy of the stone?” Her shoulders rose and fell with a shrug. “Where did he put the Eye of the Wolf?” she mused softly.

  “The parapet.”

  Mikayla shook her head, loose strands of hair sliding into her eyes. “No, I don’t think so. What would it mean ‘mother’s hand’?”

  “Well, the Secluded City is called ‘Mother’ by our secret service agents. It must be somewhere inside the palace.”

  Mikayla locked eyes with him and tapped the tip of her nose with an index finger.

  Will smirked, his old boyishness returning with the idea of an adventure that required him to be nothing other than who he was. He had to admit, he was impressed. He had believed that together they could answer the question of where the sapphire had gone to, but he had never thought she would accomplish the task completely on her own. He pinched her cheek playfully. “All right, Knight, I see your logic.” He resisted the tug on his hand as she tried to pull him to his feet. Instead, he pulled her down on his lap. “So, what we have to do is start somewhere in the palace that existed when Malachi was king and look for the Eye of the Wolf.”

  Mikayla nodded. She tried to climb off of his lap, but he held her tight. “Let’s go, Will! We know where we’re looking; let’s get to it.”

  Will nodded as he pulled the barrette from her hair that held some of it out of her eyes. He nuzzled at her neck and smiled to himself with her sharp intake of breath. “We will, Mikayla, we will, but it’s been there for over eight hundred years. Another hour or so won’t make any difference, I promise you.”

  He tipped her head back and drowned her in his own desire that had simmered throughout the day. He laid her gently on the grass, the world forgotten, wind swirling long grasses around them, sun streaming through ancient stones that held deep secrets.

  She slid the heavy door closed, grimacing as the old door echoed through the stillness. Her tread was cautious as rubber-soled shoes worked noiselessly across the marble floor. Her heart hammered in her ears, drumming out everything. Her breathing was labored; she felt as if she could jump right out of her skin. She skirted around the ancient pews, following the aisle towards the altar. She paused in the darkness, her eyes drawn up to the crucifix where Jesus hung, forgiving all sins. Silently, she prayed for forgiveness for what she about to do.

  She made a hasty sign of the cross before moving on. A beam of light shot across the gleaming floor as she flicked on the flashlight that had become such a handy tool. The light searched the names and dates engraved in the floor. Ancient rulers and their queens. Dates and people long relegated to forgotten history. She moved noiselessly from marker to marker.

  She stilled when she came to the marker she sought. Her breath caught in her throat as she paused, unsure what to do next. Sadness filled her at the thought of all that would be lost if she carried out her plan, if she became the tomb raider she had planned to be.

  She ran a hand through her hair and huffed out a breath. It was now or never. She hitched a pant leg to kneel before the long dead queen. It was the voice from the gloom that froze her.

  “You’re going to need a crowbar if you intend to open that.”

  Chapter 25

  Mikayla turned slowly, the flashlight piercing the darkness in the direction of the voice. Her mouth was dry, and her heart beat wildly as the coldness of those gray eyes pierced her.

  “You know, Mikayla, you might have shared with me your intention to go grave robbing. I can be pretty handy sometimes.” Will reclined casually in one of the pews just steps from where she stood. His posture was ridiculous compared to the steel in his voice. He remained where he was, but his eyes imprisoned her.

  Mikayla swallowed, her heart in her throat. Her voice came out as a whisper. “Whatever do you mean?” She tried for an innocent look and tone, but she knew he wasn’t buying what she was selling. She kept her eyes locked to his as he slowly stood from his seat. He moved slowly as he raised a shovel from the seat and slung it over his shoulder.

  Mikayla’s eyes widened slightly, but she held her ground as he crossed over to her in three long strides. He loomed over her, anger creasing his face, but his movements were casual even as his voice was clipped. “So, Mikayla, where are we digging and what are we digging for?”

  Mikayla swallowed again and stepped back.

  Will’s smile was feral; white teeth gleamed through the gloom. “Luv, if I wanted to kill you, I could have done it many times before.” He grasped her chin firmly in his fingers and pulled her close.

  His fingers pinched harshly and she willed herself to fight his strength, but found herself to be too weak. They were only a breath apart; his eyes locked on hers, freezing her blood.

  “Tell me why, Mikayla.” His breath was hot on her face. “Tell me why you are here.”

  There was silence as he waited for her reply. His heart beat madly in his chest, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  The silence was deafening as time ticked by. Mikayla stared into his eyes seeking the honest adventurer. She only found ice and anger. She swallowed once and was pleased that her voice was cool, like a professor should be.

  “I am here to pray, Will. Why else would I be in a cathedral at midnight?”

  He smirked slightly at the imperious tone. He released her chin, shifted the shovel to his other shoulder, and then reached into a pocket. All along, his eyes never left her face; a smirk permanently plastered to his lips. One eye brow rose as his fingers held up a yellow Post-It-Note. Mikayla’s eye brows rose also, but she said nothing.

  Will’s smile grew wider. “You’re good, Mikayla, but not good enough. What are you up to?”

  Mikayla plucked the Post-It-Note from his fingers and read her own neat hand. She folded it neatly and pushed it into her own pocket. She tucked wild hair behind an ear before meeting his eyes again. She turned and strode several feet away. She shone the flashlight on a name in the floor when Will stood behind her. Her voice echoed off of the solid walls of the cathedral.

  “If you want it, it’s in there.”

  Will tossed the shovel aside and climbed from the hole he had dug in the dirt beneath the foundation of the cathedral. He still found it a disgusting practice to bury important monarchs and their families in the floor of the cathedral so that the congregation of the church would never forget them and the dead monarch would forever be on sanctified ground. It was gross; there was no other word for it.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and sipped from the thermos Mikayla held out to him. She climbed down in the hole to begin her shift at digging now that he had done all of the hard work by removing the slab of marble floor and the rocks that created the foundation. She flashed a smile bright enough to rival the sun at him.

  “I guess, today, history really is a treasure hunt, but” she held up a warning finger, “don’t tell my students.”

  With a snicker, he leaned back against one of the heavy carved pews that lined the cathedral where the citizens of Amor worshiped each Sunday. His earlier anger forgotten as the spirit of adventure took over. The scrape of the shovel in the dirt and Mikayla’s occasional muttered swear word echoed off of the high, arched ceiling painted in murals of conquests and peace, King Malachi’s angelic face, wreathed by a halo beamed down on them while King Henry frowned. Will wondered for just a moment if King Henry had ever smiled during his reign, but then, Will knew, Henry hadn’t had much to smile about. Lost at sea. A rebellion by the people who inhabited the island against the foreign invaders. A bride from the local people simply to prevent any more rebellions, a connection among them. Murdered on the walls surrounding the beginning of the Secluded City, some said by his son, King Richard.

  The cathedral was dark except for the lanterns and flashlights that surrounded their work space. Mikayla had been right, he supposed, to come under the cover of darkness,
when the bishop and his clerics had retired to their house next to the cathedral and it would be empty. People surely would have taken offense to their current activity. They were, after all, digging up the body of a queen.

  Will shuddered. The thought of their actions creeped him out, but the part that wasn’t creeped out knew their actions were for the best because he knew the Wolf wasn’t done.

  Will glanced briefly into the hole where Mikayla stood, the dirt now about waist deep. Her hair was pulled back into a messy tangle in a rubber band. She wore all black, dressed to steal in like the thief she was. She was incredibly sexy in the slimming black that clung to curves. He wore simple jeans and a t-shirt, knowing they wouldn’t be interrupted. The worshipers of Amor were similar to church-goers of other civilized nations. Church was for Sunday, end of story.

  He took another slurp of water and jumped back into the hole. He took the shovel from Mikayla and dug in. He used the physical exercise to keep his mind blank. He focused on the task at hand, not allowing thoughts of the Wolf or the deaths of the innocents to sneak back in. When he couldn’t focus on the digging, he focused on Mikayla and loving her under the sun that afternoon. A fairytale moment, she had called it and had laughed at herself, reminding him that she didn’t believe in fairytales and Prince Charmings. He smiled up at her just as his shovel hit wood with a hard thunk that shook him to his toes.

  Mikayla grabbed the shovel from his hand as he clambered out of the hole. He picked up the crowbar.

  With her heart in her throat, Mikayla watched as he wrenched at the rotted wood with the crowbar, the creaking and breaking of the wood echoing throughout the chamber. A chamber designed to echo the heraldic sounds of angels, not death. It was the smell that assaulted them first, the decay from a time lost to others but very much alive on Amor. The putrescent wood pealed away revealing scraps of purple velvet. The lady’s bones, small and fragile, remained as she had been when laid to rest eight hundred years before. Her dark brown hair flowed down to her white shoulders, curtaining the bone that was once her face. Rings, necklaces, and bracelets glimmered in the muted light reminding the resurrectionists that at one time, this woman had been a queen. Her hands were clasped around a rosary, ivory beads, golden cross. Her satin gown was tattered from the years, but the beauty it once had was obvious.

  Mikayla swallowed stiffly. She hadn’t realized that opening the tomb of someone, a person who had once lived and walked the earth would affect her so. She wanted to think about the historical find; the clothes and jewels added to the burial procedure were excellent historical research that should be recorded. Questions still remained about how people during the Middle Ages dealt with the death of kings and queens. Here was a fine example that should be studied and recorded, except…The smell was sickening, but it was the emotional upheaval that caused her to wretch, her head turned away from the body, prayers for the lost queen raising to heaven through upturned eyes.

  Will blinked back tears from the smell. He reached into the coffin and felt along the side of the skeleton, careful to not disturb the person of one of his ancestors. He felt nothing except tattered scraps of fabric that broke loose when his fingers brushed over her person.

  Behind her fingers, Mikayla mumbled. “Will, check her hands.” When he frowned quizzically at her, she gestured for him to get moving, to remember what the translation had said. “Remember, it said, ‘Look to your mother’s hands.’ Maybe he meant literally!”

  Will shrugged and pried the bony hands apart, brittle fingernails breaking as he moved the arms that had remained in one position for eight centuries. The rosary slipped from its position. He felt the fabric beneath her hands, looking for anything, but his search was fruitless and he knew it. He shook his head and put her hands back, careful to wrap the rosary as it had been before their rude interruption on her eternal rest. He placed the rotted lid back over his ancestor and began filling in the hole, defeat evident in every move.

  Mikayla nibbled on a nail. “Did someone get here before us?” She wondered aloud.

  Will frowned into the hole. “I don’t think so. Who else would know to look here. You said you translated it with the help of a friend in the States. There isn’t anyone else here that would have that kind of knowledge. Even Kankaredes and Dejeune couldn’t translate the message.”

  “Then where did we go wrong?” She frowned and began to clean up the mess they had created as Will slid the foundation stones and marble back into its place. She felt defeated. Her first attempt at archeology and treasure hunting was a failure. She waited patiently as he whispered a fervent prayer for the dead over the tomb, wishing her back to eternal rest. Together, they blew out the lanterns and exited the cathedral, stealing down the hill into the dark unaware of shadows that moved with them, following each step, following each move.

  She leaned against the railing of the deck, watching the sea gulls soar in the thermals above the water. As a child, she had wondered what it would be like to be a sea gull, soaring above the water, free of even gravity’s restrictions. It always seemed the birds were having fun that humans couldn’t comprehend. She wished, even for a moment, that she felt that freedom, to do as she pleased. If she had that freedom, her suitcases wouldn’t be packed and her plane tickets ready for a flight in the morning. If she were really free, she would beg Will to run away with her. But she wasn’t really free, and he wasn’t running anywhere.

  She sipped the iced tea in the glass, listening to the friendly clink of the glasses and remembering another time when ice had clinked in a glass, sun shining above her head and a handsome man sitting across from her in the grass, telling her stories of his childhood lived in a fairytale.

  Fairytales.

  Mikayla shook her head, wondering why, right at that moment, her mind should skip back to fairytales and the many times she had denied that they existed. She had living proof, if fairytales existed, Will would ask her to stay with him, pledge his love and marry her. She would be Cinderella to his Prince Charming, but she knew, the next morning, she would climb aboard the chartered flight, along with the other tourists, and return to her life in Washington with beautiful, if not bitter-sweet, memories of a land far, far away.

  He had left her alone that day, disappearing at dawn to finish with the preparations for the largest ball ever held on Amor. All people, whether citizen or guest had been invited to attend the black-tie affair. Her own dress hung on the bedroom door, airing out after arriving that morning from France, according to the box label. She hadn’t even looked at it, allowing him to hang it up for her before rushing from the house to live up to his obligations. His last words had been a reminder that he would meet her in the ballroom at nine o’clock. After that, he had gone, leaving her to herself, perhaps not wanting to witness the packing that they both knew had to be done. She had put it off long enough.

  She finished the glass and wandered back in the door. She stopped at the counter-top, still littered in Post-It-Notes, tracing the history of Amor. A paper sat nearby where she had already begun to transcribe the crazy time-line she had developed. It would be helpful, especially now that the rest of her research had been returned, in the writing of the book that she had promised she would write. Her materials, computer and all, had been found in Kankaredes’s office, hidden in a locked desk drawer. All of the books and notes in her precise hand neatly stacked. Just another clue pointing to Kankaredes’s guilt. Why then did things just not feel right?

  Mikayla leaned her head on her fist, her eyes scanning the notes, cursing herself for the waste of time it had been to create it. She moved through each event, time melting away until she felt as if King Malachi were beside her, speaking to her in the words of his diary. He told her the story of the arrival of King Henry and his Crusaders. The bloody rebellion that decimated the population of Amor. The mysterious death of Henry. The building of the Secluded City. The life of his grandmother Elena and her influence. His own coronation and …She pulled the note off of the counter and ripp
ed it to shreds. She shoved the pieces into the trash and went back to recreating her timeline.

  Chapter 26

  The sweet song of violins and deep, melodic voice of cellos blended with the brassy sound of trumpets and shrill of flutes as dancers glided across the glossy wooden floor. The scents of hot-house roses and perfumes blended into a sweet smell that made the heart smile. Black ties and tux coats whirled silver sequins, pink taffetas, and purple velvets around the room. Diamonds glittered at throats and winked at ears, decorated the best dress. Royalty mixed with commoner. Famous mixed with unknowns. Smiles and laughter added to the music of the evening.

  A trumpet rose sweetly above the voices, heralding the entrance of the King and Queen, newly crowned. Citizens lowered onto one knee, heads bowed to their sovereigns. King Andrew escorted his wife through the main door of the ballroom, his black tuxedo neatly pressed and set off by the royal blue bowtie. His burnished crown sat proudly, nestled in silvered blond hair. His hand rested on that of his wife resting gently in the crook of his other arm. Her free arm raised in a royal wave, white satin gloves glimmered but not as strongly as the strapless white column sheath that showcased a figure she was more proud of than anything. Diamonds and rubies glittered at her throat and wrist. Blood red teardrops dripped from her ears, accenting the Queen’s crown that sat proudly on her head winking in the light of the room. She was a vision, royalty as it should be, in the eyes of many of the attendants.

  Carefully, the new Queen Elizabeth lifted the skirt of her dress, moving down the stairs beside her husband, her head lifted in pride. Behind her, her daughter, the Crown Princess, moved smoothly down the stairs, her ice blue bell shaped skirt sweeping across the stairs as her sequined slippers clicked merrily on the polished floor. A laugh tinkled from her perky mouth as her escort attempted to make sure that she knew he was in love with the princess. Her ring covered fingers played with the necklace at her throat and dipped low into the vee of her necklace, drawing his eyes down to the soft swell of her breasts under the sequins and pearls of the short-sleeved top. A tiara of diamonds nestled in among the blonde hairs swept away from her face.