The Book of Eden

by Alex Temples

  The ghost smiled then, fondness sliding over her features. “Yes. Roger is a good man.”

  “Roger is gone though, Joyce. Why are you still here?” I asked, as delicately as possible.

  The old ghost looked sad for a moment. “Yes, I know he’s gone. I’m the one who sent him away.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

  Joyce looked me up and down, nodding with satisfaction before answering. “Because, you needed to be here more than he did.” She said.

  My eyes widened. “What do you mean, I needed to be here? I chose this place on my own. Nobody told me to move here.” I argued.

  Joyce clucked her tongue, giving her head a shake. “Ah, no lassie, twasn’t yur idea alone, I’m afraid. The magic likely drew you here. It does that with your kind. You’re not the first to find your way to this place by accident, I’m afraid.”

  “The portal.” Claire whispered.

  I turned to look at her, tilting my head.

  Claire met my eyes. “She’s right. You may have thought you stumbled upon this place, but it is more likely the magic drew you. There is a lot of it here, Keeper magic specifically, not the least of which is flowing from the portal. There’s a lot of residual magic, nothing active, just signatures of those who’ve been here before. I hadn’t mentioned it, because I figured you knew.”

  Great. Not only was my house haunted, but I was living in a magical dumping ground. I glanced at Orielle who remained quiet, but was still eying Joyce with suspicion, as if she expected her to leap for my throat at any moment.

  “Okay, suppose I buy this idea that the magic drew me here.” I paused. “Why would it have drawn me here?”

  Joyce smiled then, gesturing with a nod of her head towards the crinkled vellum I still clutched in my hand. “Because of that dearie.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What do you know about this?”

  “Quite a lot, I suppose. It is my family that has protected it all these generations since St. Columba stowed those documents away.”

  Orielle gasped.

  Claire made a guttural sound. I glanced back to see if she was okay.

  “You’re trying to tell me your family has protected the four treasures since the 6th century?” I asked, my expression dubious.

  Joyce laughed then, a musical sound. “Not at all, lassie. We’re only responsible for one of the objects.”

  “One, huh. Can you show us where it is?” I asked.

  Joyce shook her head. “I’m afraid not. I don’t know where it is precisely, or for that matter, what it is.

  I frowned. “I think you need to start from the beginning.”

  Joyce nodded. “My mother’s side of the family, the Currans – they have long been responsible for protecting the artifact. One of my ancestors was a good friend of St. Columba. He studied with him in the monastery, ye see.” She offered in explanation.

  I shifted to a more comfortable position, sensing this was going to be a long story.

  The old woman smiled and continued. “When St. Columba was on his deathbed, he entrusted the care of several objects to the men he had known and prayed with for many decades. These men, mortals of course, took their vows to Columba very seriously. Over the years, the objects they protected have remained out of the hands of those who would use them for evil. Until, one year – it was the year 1816.”

  She paused. Claire and I leaned forward eagerly. Orielle had moved up beside us.

  “Yeah, then what?” Orielle asked.

  The ghost laughed. “My many times great grandmother arrived at the port in Alexandria with her small daughter. She was fleeing something, but would tell no one what it was she ran from. Her destination was the Bahamas, but she’d fallen ill of malaria on the voyage and knew she wouldn’t make it that far. Traveling with her daughter, two maids, and a gentleman of unknown relation, she was taken to a tavern and boarding house right here in the city. Unfortunately, she died there a couple days later, and with her, the location of the item she was carrying.”

  “If she died without telling anyone the location, how could you know about this treasure? How could you protect it?” I asked skeptically.

  Joyce’s ghost peered at me, an amused expression on her face. “You forget, dearie – she had a daughter.” She said.

  “Ahhh. Go on.” I said, gesturing for her to continue.

  “She left her maid a sum large enough to purchase this house and care for the little girl until she was old enough to care for herself. Many generations of Curran women were raised right here in this house. My parents, they raised me in Ireland for much of my youth, but eventually we came back to this house, my mother unable to stand being away from it for too long.”

  “So, here we are.” I said.

  Joyce nodded, glancing down at the paper. Her eyes twinkled. “I knew someday one of the protectors would come seeking information. I only wish it had been while I was alive.” The ghost flickered a bit and I stepped back, startled.

  Joyce waved a hand at me. “I’m sorry dear, I think the only reason my spirit lingers is because I have unfinished business.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  Joyce nodded toward the paper. “This paper will lead you to the artifact, but you will have to be close to the object for it to work.”

  Claire and Orielle shuffled behind, likely as shaken by the old woman’s’ revelation as I was.

  “There is nothing on this paper.” I argued.

  The ghost ignored my comment, continuing. “Abigail Curran had the artifact on her deathbed. She wouldn’t have trusted it to anyone else, not even her daughter, who was at such a tender age. It will be close to where here mortal life ended.”

  My heart raced as I began to understand. Abigail Curran had died right here in Alexandria. It stood to reason the artifact wasn’t far away.

  “Where? Where did she die?” I asked.

  Joyce smiled. “Why, the best accommodation in town at the time. She was a lady after all.”

  “Which is where?” I probed, my patience ebbing.

  “Good old John Gadsby’s place, though he was no longer the owner at the time.”

  Gadsby’s Tavern. Of Course.

  I turned to Orielle to see if she was thinking what I was.

  She nodded. “I remember seeing a place called Gadsby’s tavern on the map.” She confirmed.

  I’d seen it too. Back in the day, it had served as both tavern and hotel. I knew exactly how to get there. It was only a short walk from my house.

  “What about the page? How do we use the page to find the artifact?” I asked, spinning around to face Joyce.

  The ghost was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “I guess we’re on our own from here.” Claire announced, turning to me and Orielle.

  I nodded.

  “I suppose we should start at Gadsby’s.” I said.

  Claire nodded.

  “You want to go now while everyone else is away?” Orielle asked, frowning at me.

  “Orielle, you know as well as I do, the longer we wait, the greater chance another artifact falls in Gethin’s hands. What would be harder to live with – one of us getting injured, or Gethin gaining more power?”

  Orielle considered this for a moment, then nodded hesitantly.

  “What artifact are we going after?” The dark haired fae asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer her, but realized I didn’t know.

  “Hmm. I guess we don’t know, do we?” Claire asked.

  I crossed the room to where we’d left the page with the drawing. Stooping to pick it up, I frowned at the image of the injured man lying on the ground.

  “There’s a sword next to him!” Claire exclaimed.

  “There’s also a cup.” I said, pointing to where the woman was helping the man drink from a simple goblet.

  Orielle sighed. “Well, I think we can safely assume it isn’t the spear, as there isn’t one of those. I also don’t see anything that woul
d qualify as the Lia Fail, so it’s not the stone either.”

  “Only one way to find out!” I said, scooping up the rest of the pages and heading for the stairs.

  Orielle made a noise of protest, but a moment later I heard two sets of footsteps behind me.

  I ducked into the guestroom briefly, stopping to give Tristan a kiss on the forehead. I also scratched out a short note, and tucked it under the lamp on the dresser, along with the recovered pages of the book, save the one with the drawing. Hopefully, whoever walked in the room next would see the note.

  The three of us covered the distance to the Tavern in record time. It was late afternoon. The cobbled walks were packed tight with tourists hoping to squeeze in a last little bit of vacation before fall. As we neared the entrance to the tavern, I saw a tour group gathering outside the Gadsby’s visitor center. If I remembered correctly from reading the city guide, this building used to be the hotel portion of the tavern.

  “Perfect timing.” I said, smiling back at Claire and Orielle, who had paused on the sidewalk.

  “We can’t go in with a tour group.” Orielle said, eyeing the cluster of older women clutching their water bottles and brochures.

  “Sure, we can. We just need to get upstairs, and this is the easiest way. We also don’t know where the woman stayed, and maybe the tour guide will.” Claire said, backing me up.

  Orielle shrugged.

  I pushed open the door to the visitor’s center, and enjoyed the rush of cool air.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. Are you here for the 4 o’clock tour?” Asked a male voice.” It’s just about to get started.”

  We’d stepped into a little gift shop of sorts. It was a small room, perhaps serving as the hotel lobby in times past. Presently, the room was roughly 8x10, with hardwood floors and walls lined with white bookcases. Elegant crown molding made the otherwise plain room appear rather charming. The bookcases were filled with various trinkets, books and the re-creations of period items. A portly man in his sixties sat behind the small counter, smiling expectantly at us.

  “Yes.” We’d like to join the 4 o’clock tour, please.” I confirmed, moving towards the counter.

  “Excellent, let me go ahead and get you rung up, and then we can round up the others and get started.”

  I paid for three tickets and snagged a brochure off the counter before moving to join Claire and Orielle who stood awkwardly in the cluster of fanny packers now waiting in the front hall. The hall was much like the small foyer, with the same high ceilings and hardwood. I admired the gently curving staircase in the center, wanting very much to just dart up it and begin the hunt.

  Excitement tingled in my belly. There was something here. I felt it. I wondered if perhaps the book could feel it to. With a sudden stroke of intuition, I pulled the page out of my shoulder bag and glanced down, expecting to see something different about the illustration. It looked the same.

  Claire caught my eye, hope shining in here face.

  I shook my head and she frowned.

  Oh well. Apparently, this was going to involve more effort than simply waiting for the map to light up.

  “Welcome to Gadsby’s Tavern and Hotel.” Our guide announced.

  The portly man wore a name tag that said John. Sadness washed over me as I thought of my father, who had also been named John, and loved history. The sadness was quickly replaced with a desire for vengeance. I welcomed it, knowing we’d need any edge we could get in this fight against Gethin. He couldn’t be allowed to get to another artifact.

  I’d tuned out the rest of what the man had said, but he must have concluded his introduction, because the group moved forward to view a room filled with furniture and food props. The kitchen I presumed, glancing briefly over the large hearth.

  We need to get upstairs to where the guests would have stayed back in the day. I glanced over at my friends. Hmm. I thought of these women as friends?

  I scrunched my brow momentarily. I had felt an immediate connection to Claire, but generally my interactions with Oreille involved barely veiled hostility on both our parts. When had that changed? I wondered. It was the moment we were studying the pages. She’d begun to help us without even noticing. Maybe there was hope there after all. I thought, sneaking a sideways glance at her. She was immersed in whatever the tour guide was talking about.

  “And on that note, we’ll head upstairs, where you’ll see the guest quarters.”

  I perked up at this announcement, and hurried to follow the rest of the group up the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My eyes were glazing over, and I was starting to feel like my idea to join the tour was a horrible waste of time. The tour guide had just finished a soliloquy about the intricacies of chamber pots, and was headed for another set of stairs, when I impulsively raised my hand.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You were just talking about some famous guests, I wondered if you’d ever heard about a woman that might have stayed here when the hotel was still fairly new. Someone who died here, perhaps?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Ah, yes. Female Stranger.” The guide replied.

  Well, yes, I suppose. A female who no one knew.”

  The man laughed and I glanced around, wondering what I’d said that was so amusing.

  “You’ll excuse me ma’am, but I really meant what I said. You see, there was a woman who stayed here long, long ago. As they tell it, she’d arrived off a ship headed to the Bahamas, sick you understand. She checked into to the hotel, and never checked out. She made everyone swear not to reveal her identify, even if she died, and people kept their promises. She was buried in the cemetery just down the street in an anonymous grave, labeling her “female stranger.”

  I nodded, excitement making me suck in a breath. Orielle and Claire had come to attention. The other ladies in the tour group looked fascinated.

  “Oh, how fascinating.” I said. “” Do you happen to know what room she stayed in?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He said, gesturing to his left. “Room 8.” He smiled then, a sort of amused smile, and added. “Some people say the lady haunts the room, if you believe in that sort of thing.” He said with a wink, turning back towards the stairs.

  “Now, if you’ll all follow me up to the ballroom, I’ll tell you about George Washington’s Birthnight Ball.”

  The gaggle of older ladies followed him eagerly.

  Orielle and Claire dropped back, joining me on the landing in front of the room the tour guide had indicated. We waited until the last member of the tour group began ascending the stairs before moving towards the room.

  “I’ll be lookout.” Orielle said, waving us into the room.

  Claire and I ducked into the small room. It was narrow, with a small fireplace on one wall and a modest shaker-style bed with an ivory quilt on the other wall. In one corner sat a small desk with a chair.

  “Where do we start? Is this furniture even original to the room?” Claire whispered, examining the bed.

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. Maybe the fireplace?”

  She nodded and we moved to the fireplace. If I were on my deathbed, trying to hide a magical object, where would I put it? Yep, probably the fireplace.

  Claire was examining the mantle and surrounding bricks, so I dropped to my knees and tried to stretch my neck out far enough to peer up into the chimney. I squinted, fumbling with my phone, until I’d activated the flashlight app I often used to search for my keys in the dark.

  I pointed it up the chimney. Soot-stained bricks stared back at me, looking utterly unremarkable. The entire chimney was blanketed in black. Nothing. I pushed myself back, careful not to bump my head as I backed up.

  The two of us finished examining every square inch of the fireplace, hoping we’d find something hidden behind a loose brick, with no luck. From the hallway, came the faint sound of voices moving closer.

  “The tour group is coming back down any second.” Orielle said, her head appearing in
the doorway.

  “Shit.”

  I glanced at Claire, who wore the same frustrated expression on her face. We looked around the Spartan room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. A small painting of the harbor hung near the window. I strode across the room and lifted it off the wall.

  “Brin. They’re coming!” Orielle hissed in a loud whisper.

  The painting had a yellow sticker indicating it was half off. Clearly not original to the room, and there was nothing behind it. I hung it back on the wall, just as the sound of footsteps began descending the stairs.

  “Brin, come here.” Claire whispered. “There’s no time to get out without being seen. I think we can both fit under here.” She knelt on the floor next to the bed, and slid under it. I crossed to the bed and ducked behind it quickly, flopping down on my belly to join her.

  Voices in the hallway reached us and I heard Orielle explaining that we’d had to use the restroom. I stared down at the thick layer of dust on the floor. Clearly, they hadn’t cleaned under the bed anytime in the last decade. Next to me Claire jerked, and I looked over to see she was trying to hold back a sneeze.

  She shot me a look of panic, pressing her finger under her nose. If she sneezed we were done for. After a moment, she let out a slow breath of relief. The impulse had passed. I let out my own breath and some of the dust beneath my head stirred. Yuck. I’m going go to sneeze if we’re under here too long. I grimaced and tried to breathe shallowly. They were still talking in the hallway.

  I focused on the lightly scuffed hardwood under me and frowned. One board was scuffed on several sides, where the others were almost pristine. That’s strange, I thought. Then turning my head to Claire, I caught her eyes and made a face, gesturing with my chin for her to look down at the unusual plank.

  It took her a moment, and then her eyes widened, and she looked up at me. She nodded. There was something strange about the plank.

  Moving slowly and deliberately to avoid making noise, or pushing Claire, I slid one of my arms forward, resting on my chest instead of my elbows. Hooking a finger in the groove between two boards, I pulled up. It lifted slightly. Claire let out a gasp and I shot her a look. They likely couldn’t hear us over their own chatter, but the damn tour group was right there in the hall, listening to the guide talk about 19th century hotel accommodations.