The Megiddo Mark, Part 1

by Mackenzie Lucas

  “Why can’t you just ask him?” she called from the other room, then poked her head around the doorjamb. “Might do you good to have a civil conversation with your own father for a change. Give you an excuse to call him.”

  His father had remarried six months after Juliana Wade’s death. Nathan Wade had quickly moved on with his own life, building an empire he planned to leave to Cullen. Not that Cullen wanted his father’s legal practice. But he could admire the hard work and determination that kept him at the top of his game at sixty.

  What he could not admire was that he’d stolen Cullen’s fiancée a month before their planned wedding. He hadn’t quite forgiven his father for the incident two years ago. Nathan Wade kept Veronica around for about six months before he’d gotten tired of her. He’d paid her off to get rid of her. It looked like Veronica had finally spent through the money.

  “You have something more to add?”

  “Sure, I guess . . . I’ll see what I can find out about Ms. Alexander, but I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t pay you to like your assignments. I pay you to complete them.” Cullen’s conscience nudged him. He hoped the seduction worked because if it didn’t, Sienna wouldn’t like the consequences.

  Yes, he did, sometimes, well, use sleight of hand to trick his opponents out of valuable purchases. Cullen rather admired the Alexander woman’s initiative earlier today. Too bad he couldn’t hold on to his objectivity where the book came into play, otherwise, he might be able to laugh at her stunt. But the book was too important. He needed that copy of poems.

  He’d never had to go this far, though.

  Flights of Fancy would be his. If there were any clues in the book about his mother’s reason for suicide, he’d find them. Then he’d board a plane for Turkey without looking back. Nothing, and no one, would divert him from his goal this time. Not even his gothic conscience who hissed and clicked as she walked back to her desk.

  Half an hour later, Sienna slapped a note in front of him. “Here’s what I found on her after a quick search.” She smiled at him. “And here’s a company check cut for two thousand pounds. Cheers, Boss. I’m outta here. Have a good weekend. Oh, and don’t forget to pay your dinner date for the book when you take it. La’Bel buzzed, he’s on his way up. Gotta run.”

  Cullen grunted. “Saboteur.”

  “What? Me?” She looked at him. “Never. You’re the boss. Since you don’t have your own woman, somebody’s got to keep you honest.”

  Damn. She’d done it again.

  Moments later Kane La’Bel walked through the opened door. Something about La’Bel always made Cullen shift into predator mode. He remained seated behind his desk, not bothering to rise for the head of Oxford’s School of Archaeology.

  “La’Bel. What can I do for you this evening? Little late for a social call.” He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He stretched back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

  “Wade, the witty conversationalist as usual.” La’Bel’s smile didn’t reach his silver-gray eyes. Around forty years old, he was known to attract women in swarms. Cullen guessed it was the blond hair and pale eyes. Personally, he couldn’t see the draw. Yet the department head seemed to have the opposite effect on Wade’s assistant. Today was no exception. She’d high-tailed it out of his office as soon as La’Bel called up for entry downstairs.

  He watched La’Bel, unsmiling.

  “Thought I’d stop by, see how you’re getting along.” Hands in his pockets, he looked around the office then moved to the bookcase. He pulled a book from the shelf, and walked toward Cullen’s desk where he stopped. He opened the book and ran his index finger down the page. No matter how much Cullen wanted to throw the bastard out on his arrogant ass, he refrained because of the man’s professional status within the field. He never burned bridges.

  “Well, I’ll sit, since you didn’t offer.” La’Bel unbuttoned his jacket then sat on the leather sofa. He tossed the book onto the seat next to him.

  “It’s late. I’m wrapping things up here.”

  “Yes, then I’ll be brief. Word on the street is that you were a heavy bidder today in Oxford.” He tapped his chin. “But you came up empty-handed.”

  Cullen gritted his teeth and held his silence.

  “Not something that usually happens to you.” La’Bel smiled warmly. “Losing your touch?”

  “No. Distracted.”

  “Ah, yes. A pretty young woman. What’s her name?”

  Kane La’Bel had been a bitter rival of Cullen’s since their early days at University. They’d been pitted against each other too many times, in far too many scenarios to underestimate one another in any situation. When La’Bel wanted something badly enough he usually got it, but people were often trampled in the process. Cullen, alone, had not let La’Bel run rough-shod over him and he knew that therein lay the challenge for La’Bel.

  “Not your usual type . . .”

  Cullen squinted. “Malena Alexander is not my type at all, not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “. . . of text. You target books a lot older and, shall we say, less whimsical in nature?” His smooth, deep voice had a hypnotic quality to it. Cullen had noticed the calming tone recently on several occasions when La’Bel conducted a series of lectures for top scholars. Again, tonight, he experienced the effect La’Bel’s cadence had on him, a gentle tug lulling him into a state of peaceful tranquility.

  “There’s nothing whimsical about A. Alexander’s poetry.”

  A glint of satisfaction flashed in La’Bel’s eyes, as if indicating Cullen had just given him a valuable piece of information.

  Damn. Cullen stood up, walked to the cabinet behind his desk and poured himself a brandy. “I’d offer you one, but I know you don’t drink.”

  “The poet claimed to be a friend of you mother’s, didn’t she?” He bent forward, supporting his elbows on his knees.

  La’Bel’s interest and intensity again raised his hackles. He fought the urge to grab the man by the throat for mentioning his mother. Instead he swirled his brandy then took a slow sip. La’Bel or Label in Hebrew meant lion and he felt every inch of the threat today.

  “Look La’Bel, we have a tenuous professional relationship at best, and that doesn’t give you the right to question my personal life.”

  “That may be true, but my role demands that I keep my finger on the pulse of what’s going on in modern archaeology.” La’Bel smiled and stood. “Can’t have our pre-eminent scholar and most respected archival archaeologist mired in a bog of reoccurring childhood despondency or off on his own flights of fancy, can we?”

  “We’re done.” Cullen clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. His pulse slammed at the base of his throat. He wouldn’t tolerate La’Bel playing with him.

  “You’re right. I’ve said enough for tonight.” La’Bel shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stooped to glance at the paper on Cullen’s desk. “I almost feel sorry for Ms. Malena Alexander of Cavendish Square. I’m sure she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no intention of furthering my relationship with the unfortunate woman. And as you can see, she can take care of herself. She won against me, which never happens. She’s accomplished something you yourself have never done.”

  “Yes, and that’s what I fear. I know you, Wade. You won’t let it go. You’re on the brink of some ground-breaking discoveries in Turkey, don’t let your obsession derail you.” He turned and walked out.

  Cullen’s hand shook as he drained the last of his brandy.

  While thirty-five years after the tragic event Cullen Wade had accepted the fact that his mother took her own life, he still hated it. He’d spent half his existence trying to ignore the implications. And he was no closer today to understanding what drove her to suicide than he had been the day he’d found out how she died. The question plagued him. But he’d never allow someone like La’Bel to use his mother’s death, her poss
ible mental illness, or his search for answers as a weapon against him to ruin his career, jeopardize his professional credibility, or question his own sanity.

  La’Bel would never lay one finger on a shred of evidence that could explain why Juliana Wade chose to embrace death rather than confront life. Cullen would ensure it. However, now he knew he couldn’t wait until tomorrow night to enact his plan to reclaim Flights of Fancy. Kane La’Bel would not pass up this opportunity to seize an object of such importance to Cullen.

  If he didn’t switch to his back-up plan right now, Malena Alexander could be in very real danger.

  Chapter Three

  Malena stared at the words. Flights of Fancy lay splayed open on her great-aunt Blanche’s coffee table. She’d removed the bookplate.

  Elizabeth had gone to bed hours ago, shortly after they’d settled into Malena’s great-aunt’s townhouse for their stay. She took a deep breath. No. Now her townhouse. It came with the inheritance–the bookshop, the Cornwall estate, and half a million pounds sterling. All quite unexpected. Just as the message.

  To the Guardian of the Vitae Lux and Her Consort

  What will you need to know?

  A test, a quest,

  Walk the shops in Town,

  buy a book, be curious.

  You will need to look at

  who you are.

  You will need to think

  what you must become.

  Go home,

  warrior and scholar,

  hear the sea cliff resound.

  But what will you need to know?

  That it was murder.

  The senseless death, the tragic mystery,

  murder.

  What will you need to find?

  An ancient text, the light

  of truth unveiled,

  and you to do it.

  You to release generations,

  Past, present, to come.

  What will you need to find?

  Love unbidden,

  the lover, and with the lover the key,

  love.

  Malena studied the enigma. She walked to the kitchen carrying the book with her. She growled deep in her throat. Her life seemed so out of her control at the moment and she despised the chaos. She needed to focus on something she could fix or solve. The poem.

  The obscure references puzzled her. She didn’t even know if the message was intended for her. No one else knew of her mother’s tendency to leave her private notes in random copies of her books. She’d never expected to find a book with a hidden message outside her own personal collection.

  There were no unexplained deaths in her family. And no tragic mystery in her generation. Her mother died well before her prime due to complications associated with a heart and kidney transplant. But no ambiguity there.

  Her mother’s pregnancy, discovered the autumn after her stay with her Aunt Blanche in England, had always been enshrouded in mystery. Her parents had been suitably upset when Ava returned to America heartbroken, alone, and three months pregnant. Ava delivered Malena later that same year and never heard from her lover again. No one asked any questions when she began to publish poetry using A. Alexander as her pen name. Malena’s father, supposedly, existed out there somewhere, yet she knew nothing about him.

  But she drew a blank when it came to most of the poem’s allusions. After reading and rereading the paper for the past hour, she still didn’t know what it meant. If the secret message had been written by her mother twenty years ago, why would she find it now? She had questions and not one grain of information to solve the riddle.

  Malena rubbed her eyes. She could barely think about the rhyme. She jotted the poem on notebook paper, added a pencil rubbing of the lacy flower symbol from the scrap of paper, and pinned it to the bulletin board in the kitchen. She’d grab it in the morning to mull over when she caught a taxi across town to The Curiosity Shop. She just didn’t know what it meant tonight.

  She ran her finger across the compelling image on the small square of paper she’d found at the back of the book. The memory of it burning yesterday at the auction flashed in her mind. As she traced the pattern in a clockwise movement, the tip of her finger tingled.

  Malena jerked her hand back.

  She wiggled her fingers then touched it again.

  This time her finger warmed upon contact. She pulled the paper closer, tilting it toward the light. Malena studied the intricate sphere trying to make out the symbols worked into the pattern. She tilted the paper first one way then the other and ran her finger across the icon again. Rough to the touch, the bold lines fused in an upraised embossed image.

  She traced the swirls and dips. Her fingertip grew warmer as she continued to outline the flower. A wave of dizziness surged. Her eyes blurred. She dropped the square, squeezed her eyes shut, and grabbed the counter to steady herself.

  This was madness. Clearly she was sleep deprived. Her equilibrium must be off. She blew out air in a rush. Breathed deep. Once more. Better.

  She tried opening one eye. Yep. Definitely better. She sighed, squinting against the bright kitchen light, then glanced at the image one last time before she picked up the paper by the corner–careful to not touch the lace flower again–dropped it between the pages, and slammed the book shut.

  Malena walked upstairs to the bedroom she’d chosen as hers. The room had always been her favorite when she’d stayed with her great-aunt. Delft-blue walls were trimmed with white crown molding. A white quilt with a Celtic love-knot interwoven with flowers in light green, pink, and blue draped her bed. Too bad the ancient blessing had never worked on her.

  She tucked the book into the nightstand next to the bed.

  As she closed her eyes, she thought of her mother and her great-aunt. They’d been so very different. Her mother bohemian, a free spirit who had been American red, white, and blue to her core. Blanche, on the other hand, mirrored her brother, Malena’s British grandfather, who had been all English blue-blood conservative. Blanche would have encouraged Malena to pray to find her soul mate. But Malena didn’t believe in the supernatural realm–the power of God or prayer. She tended to be more like her mother in her thinking. Her great-aunt had had some weird, antiquated ideas. She drifted to sleep.

  “Not so weird, my dear, maybe a little outdated, but not weird.” Malena saw her great-aunt and her mother. One on either side of her. They were walking in Cornwall along the coast. The breeze snapped their hair about their faces. Aunt Blanche’s unbound gray hair appeared a little longer than she remembered. Her mother’s strawberry blonde hair hung to her waist. She wore a flowing gossamer dress that whipped in the wind.

  “I miss you both,” Malena said. A tear trickled down her cheek. Water rushed and plumed in giant cascades, shattering over craggy monolithic boulders just off shore. She could feel the cold spray on her face.

  “I know, my dear. One day you’ll be here with us. We’re so glad it’s you.”

  “What do you mean, you’re glad it’s me?”

  “Who found the copy of Flights of Fancy, of course,” Blanche said.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To help you, dear. We couldn’t be sure who would find the book. Who would become the next Guardian. It was written long ago that there were two chosen to be the next successor, but only one would succeed. And we had no indication it might be you. We had no idea.”

  “Then why leave the message the way you did?” She turned to her mother.

  “I always hoped it would be you. You’re so strong, Malena. You can see this through.” Her mother kissed her cheek. A sweet, warm pressure.

  “And I’ve come to encourage you to keep the shop,” Blanche said.

  “Why are you making me choose between the shop and my career?”

  “I’ve done this for your own good. You love the shop almost as much as you love teaching. But the shop has been in our family for two hundred years. I need to make sure it stays in our line. It’s important. Teaching is your passion, dear, but the shop
is your destiny.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, no lost, only misplaced for the briefest moment.” Her mother spoke in a soft raspy voice as she slid her arm around Malena’s waist.

  “Go visit the shop again. It’s been too long. Accept the challenge. I think you’ll find it interesting. I want you to have the shop. I want you to be the owner,” Blanche said.

  “Why?” Malena said.

  “You’ll see. But it’s there your journey will begin.” Blanche hugged her. Malena smelled sea salt and lavender.

  “What can you tell me about the poem?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Nothing. We can’t help you solve the mystery. We can only let you know if you’re on the right path. Give you hints about your choices. There are rules even we must obey. Otherwise, you will pay a price I fear is too great.”

  “We’re glad you’ve been chosen,” Ava said. “But be careful, sweetheart. Your journey will be fraught with danger.”

  “Then, find your father,” Blanche said.

  “My father? Why?”

  “Because you need him. You are not alone in the world. I always told you to look for him, but you were stubborn. He’s part of who you are, vital to who you’ll become.” Blanche put her arm around Malena’s waist, too, as they walked. The wind continued to shower them with misty droplets of sea water.

  “Malena, my heart, look for your father. Your aunt is correct. You need to find him. It’s all right. The hurt was mine to bear, not yours. We were both young. I’m not even sure anymore if he knew of my pregnancy before he disappeared. If he’s alive, he may be a different man today. He loved me in his own way. He would love you, too. You need someone to love you. And do not believe everything you hear about him.”