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The line dividing archaeologists and thieves was a fine one. Sure, archaeologists would have you believe that their university education and mountain of student debt set them apart from the common criminal, but when you got down to it, there was really only one distinction.
Archaeologists had the good sense to only steal from the dead.
Don’t get me wrong, it was a safer career path, to be sure. But there were times when one just could not wait for history to bury or uncover the arcane trinket that might save a life. Particularly not when that life was mine.
Time, that fickle mistress. I had always been acutely aware of how valuable it was. Mine had been running out since the day I was born. For us mere mortals, death was always inevitable, but for an unfortunate few, fate had decided to give it a helping hand.
For my family, our die was cast generations ago, when my forebear stole something from a coven of witches. My ancestor’s choice may have saved his life, but magic always came at a price. His price was the undying hatred of a witch cult and a curse that would follow his lineage until they drew their final breath.
On days like today, I could almost feel it, our familial curse, clawing at the edges of my mind. Testing, probing, searching for any sign of weakness so that it might take root and bear out the bitter vengeance of a long dead priestess.
Most families passed down a name, and perhaps if you were lucky, a fortune. Mine had done both, and more. Born Seth Ryder Caldwell, heir to the Caldwell dynasty, I had inherited the future most longed for, but with it enough familial obligations and baggage to make one want to run for their life. I had.
In the supernatural world, your family determined a great deal. It was your bloodline, your lineage. One’s bloodline divided the supernatural from the normals. It also determined the nature and extent of a wizard’s power.
Thanks to a particularly hateful hag of a witch, that same bloodline was also the vehicle for my family’s curse: an arcane malady that literally pulsed through my veins. I had spent my life trying to cure it.
It was that very affliction that drove me here, to New York City’s Museum of Antiquities. Through fate or happenstance, the museum had acquired an artifact I was hoping might lead to my salvation. All I had to do was liberate it from its current owner.
My earnest attempts to purchase the artifact using an intermediary had been rebuffed by the current curator, even when accompanied by a generous donation to the museum. Rumors surrounding the relic and its bloody history had caused quite the stir. There were things, it seemed, that money simply could not buy.
Times were changing. The attack on New York City had been the catalyst. The supernatural world had lurked out of sight for centuries, magical beings hiding from the scrutiny and prejudice of normal society. The advent of smart phones had hastened the inevitable, and a murderous wizard marauding through downtown Manhattan had been broadcast live over social media to the entire world.
Now the secret was out, and like Pandora’s Box, closing the lid wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it.
The world itself was in commotion. Many panicked; the revelation of witches and wizards in their midst was more than they could handle. Others lashed out in fear against a power and presence they did not understand.
Then there were the few, like the museum’s curator, whose curiosity for magic was as infectious as it was insatiable. They were entranced by a world of opportunity they had never known existed.
The relic was her concrete connection to the supernatural world. She would not be parted from it, no matter the price.
Bereft of more civilized paths for acquiring the relic, I was left with only one option. Like my forebear, I was going to have to steal it.
It was a crisp day. The city teetered between the last breath of winter and the first taste of spring. Cool but not freezing, the breeze drifting off the Hudson managing to offset the sun that was beating down between the city’s skyscrapers. All in all, it was as good a day as any for a heist.
The Museum of Antiquities was a newly established institution that was located on the corner of Columbus and West 66th Street. The structure itself was a simple affair, with a brick facade and a set of concrete stairs that ran between a pair of Corinthian pillars to an entrance hall. Inside, it featured a large central exhibition hall and two adjoining wings.
The main hall was dominated by an exhibit titled ‘Magic and Mankind,’ featuring row after row of display cases loaded with trinkets, each accompanied by a placard explaining the item’s significance or supposed supernatural connection.
As I lingered past the glass cases, I could sense they were largely worthless. I’d bought, sold, crafted, or stolen more enchanted artifacts than most wizards would handle in a lifetime.
Half the reason I spent my life hunting for traces of history was to learn what we wizards had forgotten. Relics from the golden age of magic were particularly valuable. Most of them had been lost, hidden, or stolen. For most wizards, Arcanology was a theoretical exercise, study conducted in universities and schools of magic. I preferred field work. Most of my ‘training’ had been on the job, so to speak.
Potent relics exuded the magic of their creator; they were infused with it. The exhibit was full of household goods and trinkets from suspected wizards. An ancient Greek urn bearing the image of Hera, a flintlock musket, and a set of china.
A tremor shot through my hand as it passed over the display case. Pausing, I noted the placard by the dinnerware. If it was to be believed, they bore an enchantment that rendered them all but impervious to destruction. Indestructible or not, it was difficult to tell. They certainly had a lingering whisper of power about them. Intriguing.
Not all were worthless trinkets, it would seem.
At the center of the exhibit rested a grimoire. The tome bore a worn leather cover, covered in runes. Its pages had yellowed with age and the display suggested it had once been the property of Nikola Tesla. Scholars asserted that it contained many of the inventive wizard’s more supernatural experiments.
Bending over the glass, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” a voice to my left asked.
Turning, I found Adaeze had sidled up beside me while I’d been distracted with the exhibit. Adaeze Alasa, Dizzy for short, had been one of the few constant companions in my life. As students, we’d both attended the London Academy, a school for the gifted. Or at least the horrendously wealthy supernatural elite who could afford the highway robbery that was the Academy’s annual tuition.
I had been enrolled until an incident with Peter Chalmers, perhaps the greatest knob of my generation and an insufferable git to boot. He had thought it a delightful prank to vanish my clothes while I was speaking at a school assembly. I had been left naked, in front of five hundred students.
Unfortunately for poor Peter, I was born without the good sense of a proportional response. I shouldn’t have, but in a moment of petty revenge, I’d used the same spell to vanish his motorbike while he was still on it. Peter spent two weeks in the infirmary, and suddenly I was no longer welcome at the Academy.
My parents, members of London’s high society, exiled me to a finishing school in New York. Fortunately, Dizzy managed to persuade hers to send her as well. Partners in crime until the end.
Pointing down at the leather-bound grimoire, I whispered, “I was just wondering if they knew that the centerpiece for their exhibit is a forgery.”
Dizzy bent over to examine the tome, her jet-black hair almost touching the glass as she got a closer look. “What makes you so sure? It looks authentic enough to me.”
“The paper,” I whispered. “In the 1800s most paper was made from rag, rather than pulp. Over time the edges should have worn, lending an uneven appearance. This paper has been weathered to look the part, but lacks the right texture. It’s made from pulp. It can’t possibly be old enough.”
“Nerd.” Dizzy shook her head. “You can tell all that from here?”
“Sure.” I cracked a grin. “It also helps that I have the original in the vault.”
I was rewarded with an elbow in my side. “That’s cheating!”
“I never said otherwise,” I replied, rubbing my poor ribs.
“I guess not. That’s my Seth. The most honest thief there ever was.”
I winced, worried that her voice had carried to the other patrons.
“Relax, Seth, no one is paying any attention to us. Not yet anyway.” She shot me a knowing look. “Speaking of attention, what are you wearing? Who shows up to a heist in a suit and a fedora? Are you looking to be the most memorable thief since those clowns tried to rob a Barclays in the nude?”
Clowns. There were three things I truly feared. Clowns, heights, and creatures from beyond the veil. On any given day the order might change, but I did my level best to avoid any of them, at all times.
An involuntary shudder coursed through me and Dizzy grinned.
“You’re too easy.”
I shoved the images from my mind and touched the brim of my hat. “The hat will help prevent the cameras getting a clean shot of my face, and the suit, well, it never hurts to be well-dressed. Are you ready?”
“Just say the word,” Dizzy said. She shot me with a finger gun before she headed into the crowd. At five foot five, she vanished into a gaggle of passing school students and was gone. People often made the mistake of discounting Dizzy on account of her stature, but such ignorance brought with it a world of hurt. When it came to my crew, Dizzy was the muscle.
“Might want to get a move on, lover-boy. She’s coming,” Dizzy said, her voice emanating from the ear-piece in my left ear.
My body tensed up and my heart skipped a beat. Fighting the urge to look, I turned away and wove through the crowd toward the west wing of the museum. Once I cleared the room, I stole a glance back into the exhibition hall, and spotted the museum’s curator descending the stairs from the second-floor office suites.
Lara Stiel, the formidable curator of the Museum of Antiquities, and the best thing to ever happen to me. Lara’s reddish-brown curls barely reached her winter jacket, but seemed to bounce just a little with each stride as she crossed the hall. Always the anthropologist, Lara rocked a set of black combat boots that would have been more at home on a dig site than a museum, the perks of being the boss. The dress code didn’t apply to her.
Dizzy let out a low sigh. “Seth, my friend. You are so far out of your league, you may as well be on a separate planet.”
“Don’t I know it,” I replied, letting out the nervous breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
I’d met Lara last autumn at the Museum’s grand opening. As an arcanologist and a purveyor of enchanted goods, I had wanted to stop by the new museum at least once, if for no other reason than to chuckle at everything the normals got wrong. Instead, I had been sucked into her world and a whirlwind engagement that had turned my life on its head, in a wonderful and terrifying way.
Before Lara my life had been chaotic, messy and dangerous. Living with the certainty of the curse hanging over me, I had been adrift. Not wanting to put down roots for fear that having a life only gave me more to lose.
Lara was not what I’d been expecting. An anthropologist with a gift for languages, she’d turned her attention away from the well-trodden path of her professional peers and was blazing a new trail in the study of the supernatural.
She was smart, determined and fighting for a place in a world that mocked her interests. Lara never let that get her down though. She was a rock, the calm to my chaos, which made my current intentions with the relic all the more unpalatable.
For Lara the artifact was a link to what she described as the hidden history of the earth. A history she suspected was shaped by the presence of magic.
She was closer to the truth than she knew, and while she was mocked by many of her peers, I had no doubt history would one day remember her as a pioneer. In the meantime, other academics, like my unfortunate assembly at the London Academy, were simply unprepared for the unpleasant reality that had been thrust upon them.
“Neil, are you ready?” I asked softly into the comms.
There was silence as I waited for the third member of our crew to respond. Neil Matthews was a grifter. A New York City native, born and raised in Brooklyn, he had aspirations that greatly exceeded his wallet’s capacity to accommodate. Relying on his roguish looks and silver tongue, Neil had managed to insert himself into New York City’s high society, or at least he had, until he’d been caught in a compromising position with the governor’s wife. His roving eye and silver tongue were two of the many reasons I’d never introduced the sticky-fingered con man to Lara.
The precious seconds dragged on and I wrung my hands. Knowing Neil, he was likely flirting with a barista somewhere. Relying on him had been a foolish gambit, one I wouldn’t have made if I had the luxury of more time.
“Neil,” I whispered again, watching Lara cross the hall.
Ahead of Lara, a mother wrestled with her toddler in a pram. The young boy was throwing a tantrum and hurled his sippy cup as far as he could manage.
The cup bounced across the tiles ahead of Lara, and she went after it, scooping up the cup and returning it to the mother. As she handed it over, she pointed to the museum’s wing and said a few words. The mother nodded, thanked her and took off in the direction she’d suggested.
Lara waved at the toddler and headed for the front entrance.
“Neil, where are you? She’s almost at the door.”
“Don’t sweat it, I’m here. I just had to help some Swedish tourists find Broadway,” Neil replied. “I’m out front now. But I just don’t get why we have to rob your poor fiancée.”
I ground my teeth. I didn’t like the thought any more than he did, but I didn’t see any other way. I couldn’t risk telling her the truth and I certainly didn’t want her to pay the price for my actions.
“If I swipe her security pass at home, it will be pretty evident who took it, and I don’t want to torpedo our relationship, her career, or both.”
“Might I suggest you are going about this the wrong way then?” Neil replied.
The suggestion grated on my nerves. My dating life, until Lara, had been one failure after another, but given Neil never slept in the same bed twice, I doubted he could help me.
I silently counted to three, and fought the urge to raise my voice. “Your relationship advice would carry a lot more weight, if I hadn’t just had to bail you out of jail for your little soiree at the governor’s residence.”
There was a laugh. “Fair enough, but can you blame me? She was impossibly flexible, and besides, that was as much Dizzy’s fault as it was mine.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked, my eyes tracking the movements of the museum’s security personnel.
“Snitches get stitches, Neil!” Dizzy warned.
“Dizzy bet me a hundred bucks that I would strike out at the party.”
“You little tattletale,” Dizzy said. “I can’t believe you sold me out.”
“So you were egging him on?” I said, the truth finally emerging.
“Relax, Seth, Neil’s been in such a slump lately, I thought it would motivate him to break his little drought.”
“Slump? Me? Never!” Neil replied.
“Oh, I think we both know better,” Dizzy said. “You keep fishing in the wrong pond, mate. You remember that cute little barista from the Starbucks on 9th? Tifanee, wasn’t it? With two e’s?”
“Yeah, what about her?” Neil asked, his voice guarded.
“I’m taking her to Avant Garden on Thursday. So, I’m afraid she’s on Team Dizzy. Sorry to disappoint you.” Dizzy’s voice carried an air of giddy satisfaction that she made no effort to hide.
“You sneaky little minx,” Neil sighed. “That British accent, it’s not even fair.”
“If you two are quite finished.” I interrupted, “would you mind robbing my dear wife-to-be so we can get out of here before she finishes her lunch?”
“Husband of the year, right here, folks,” Neil replied. “I’m on my way.”
“Shake a leg. She’s in the gray coat, black jeans, and boots. She’s heading out the front door now. The pass is with her credentials, clipped to her jacket.”
I was wracked with guilt as I briefed the man that was about to rob my fiancée, but I had little choice. Lara had smuggled me into her office late one night, and I knew that her credentials were the only way in. Whoever the patron of the museum was, they had deep pockets. The upstairs security doors had been imbued to repel magic. Wizard or not, I was not getting through them without Lara’s pass, and what I needed was stashed somewhere inside.
Moments later, Neil appeared in the doorway of the museum. In one hand he held a leather briefcase, in the other Lara’s security credentials. He strode over to me looking pleased with himself.
“Like stealing candy from a baby.”
“Until she catches you,” I replied. “And in a fight, my money is on her.”
Neil handed me the security pass and I slipped it into the pocket of my slacks.
“And the other matter?” I prompted.
Neil held up the leather briefcase. “Those were a little harder to come by. I would love to know what you need them for.”
I took the briefcase. “Everything in its time, Neil. You’ve done well, but you ought to head home and lay low. Things are about to heat up in here.”
“So we’re even, then,” Neil replied.
“Not even close,” I said with a chuckle. “Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you out of holding? There aren’t many people willing to brave the governor’s wrath. That early release cost me something from my private collection.”
Neil shrugged. “What’s a priceless relic among friends?”
I cracked a grin. “You know, the governor wanted to get the death penalty reinstated for you, and I’m beginning to wish he’d succeeded.”
“You wound me.” Neil feigned being stabbed in the chest. “If it’s all the same to you, I might stick around and watch the fireworks. Dizzy is an agent of chaos.”
“It’s your funeral,” I replied. “Try to keep yourself out of a cell. Not sure I can pull off that particular trick twice.”
From within his pocket, Neil produced a silver dollar and rolled it through his fingers. “You won’t need to, not today. I can feel it.”
Neil’s lucky dollar. If he was to be believed, it was the first dollar he’d ever earned. And while Neil being truthful was about as likely as him having worked a day in his life, it was the one possession he seemed to cherish. It was never far from his hand.
Clutching the coin, he nodded toward the stairs. “How are you planning to get past the guards?”
I followed Neil’s gaze to the pair of armed security hovering at the top of the stairs.
“Dizzy is going to provide a little diversion. If you’re going to stick around, feel free to fan the flames when the time is right.”
“Roger that, boss. See you on the other side,” Neil said before he wandered off.
Strolling through the West Wing, I hovered by an exhibit of 16th century doubloons. The coins had been likely looted from Central America during the height of the colonial era. The pieces were worth a small fortune, but it was the sign above them that had caught my interest. ‘Treasures of the Americas’ announced a large three by five feet banner bearing a majestic photograph of a wooden mask. The timber was a rich crimson hue that stood out against the backdrop of Spanish gold.
The Máscara de la Muerte, or Mask of Death. This was the first time in centuries it had seen the light of day. Exhibited here among these minor trinkets and misidentified nonsense, it was out of place. The mask was a relic of true power, or at least it would be for those who understood its unique purpose. It had once belonged to the high priestess of the Brujas de Sangre, the infamous Blood Witches coven that had once ruled Central America. Its history was interwoven with my own and I knew what Lara did not: the mask was the key to entering their lost temple.
Unfortunately, the sands of time had erased most evidence of the Brujas de Sangre, including the location of their ancient temple. I had been hunting for it since the day my father told me the truth about our family. That temple was where my family’s curse had begun, and while my ancestor had narrowly escaped with his life, the head priestess had ensured he would pay the ultimate price for his sacrilege. A curse wrought in blood on both him and his posterity.
Blood magic was not for the faint hearted. Frowned on by the civilized magical community, modern wizards knew precious little of how it worked, and even less about how its effects might be undone. When the Brujas de Sangre vanished, their knowledge was lost with them. Our only hope lay in finding their temple and unearthing its forgotten knowledge.
My family had sought for the temple since my forebear had escaped Central America. Hunted by witches and harried by the Spanish, he’d beat a hasty retreat to England only to find that his newfound wealth came at a terrible cost.
It seemed the mask itself was to be the centerpiece of the museum’s new exhibit. Lara would be devastated at its loss. I felt a pang of guilt at the pain I would cause her. I didn’t want to, but I had no other choice. The mask was a genuine relic and further evidence that the arcane was buried just beneath the veneer of the world as she knew it. It was also the key to curing my curse, and the only chance I had found of us having a real life together.
A child’s laugh pulled my focus from the exhibit. A young boy sat in his pram, reaching for the shiny doubloons. His fingers touched the glass and he giggled again. His mother smiled at his childish wonder.
The sight of the young family pricked my heart. It was everything I wanted, and everything I could not have. Without the mask, and the temple of Brujas de Sangre, the future I dreamed of with Lara was nothing but a dream with an expiry date. To bring a child into the world under the pall of the curse was an act of selfishness I couldn’t countenance. I would never do that to my child. Turning, I left the mother and her son, more than a little envious of the joy they shared.
I just had to hope that what I was about to do could be forgiven. My heart ached at the thought of losing Lara. Was this really the only course of action? Or was I making the same hasty mistakes I’d made in Rome? Fear clutched at my heart as the painful memory surfaced. Time hadn’t done anything to dim the pain I’d felt in the catacombs that day.
Taking a deep breath, I forced the memory back into the darkest abyss of my mind and looked up at the poster of the mask.
Focus. You can’t change the past, but you can do something about your future.
“Dizzy? Are you ready?” I whispered.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dizzy replied in the comm.
“Where are you?” I asked, winding my way back toward the central exhibit.
“Killing time here in the blind spot by the entrance to the West Wing. It wouldn’t do to have the cameras spot my change, now would it?”
“Not at all,” I said. “They would just as soon stick you in a cage with all their other curiosities.”
“I’d like to see them try.”
Dizzy was a shifter mage, able to change her form at will. It was a skill her family had relied on for centuries. The Alasa family heralded from Nigeria, where they had served as guardians. Loosely translated, Alasa meant shield, which was the Alasan birthright. Shifter mages safeguarded what was left of their native land, hunting would-be poachers and preserving the beautiful wilderness that was rapidly being overrun by game hunters and profiteering corporations. Then at Dizzy’s birth, her parents had uprooted and moved to London for reasons that had never been explained.
Separated from her homeland, and her family’s duty, Dizzy had thrown herself behind an assortment of animal-rights movements. She was the kind of individual most governments would term an agitator, though she would dearly prefer the term activist.
Entering the main hall, I spotted Dizzy standing in the archway between halls. The power building around her was palpable, and for a moment I wondered if I should have been more specific than simply asking for a distraction.
The thought brought a smile to my face. It didn’t matter. Dizzy would do as she pleased. She was a free spirit, but she’d never let me down.
Dizzy’s magic allowed her to readily shift into the form of any creature she had encountered. Unlike a lycanthrope whose violent and barely controlled transformation occurred at a genetic level, shifter mages channeled arcane energy to reshape their form along with any objects they were holding, like her bow.
Shifter mages were rare, and Dizzy was one of only a few I’d ever met, but even by our teacher’s standards she was gifted. It was to be expected. It was as if the Alasa bloodline had been predestined for their role as guardians.
Dizzy shot me a wink, and a golden flare radiated through the chamber.
There was a chorus of gasps, and I shielded my eyes against the light. Patrons scattered in panic, blindly trying to get their bearings.
It was time to move. I wove my way across the hall, avoiding the crowd as my vision returned. When the light faded, Dizzy was gone, replaced by a magnificent lioness. As the other patrons recovered their senses, Dizzy let out a billowing roar that shook the exhibition hall. Glass cases rattled in their frames, and a man standing beside Dizzy leapt so high he almost achieved orbit.
The poor chap was going to need a change of pants.
The mother from the doubloon exhibit screamed as she pushed her pram toward the exit. Her son laughed, delighted by the animal’s sudden appearance, seemly oblivious to the threat such a predator posed.
Dizzy loped through the exhibition hall before launching herself at a glass case containing a set of medieval armor. She bowled over the glass tower, sending the steel clattering across the floor.
“Lion!” a voice hollered. Neil. “Run for your life.”
He suppressed a smile as he leaned against a wall in the central exhibit.
“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” I whispered into the comms.
“You have to live a little, while you still can,” Neil replied, his eyes following Dizzy’s rampage through the museum.
The crowd fought to push through the exits as Dizzy let out another museum-shaking roar to hasten their retreat.
Even though my brain knew I was in no danger at all, the hairs on my neck stood on end as my body weighed its primitive fight or flight reflexes.
Overhead, an alarm spooled up and patrons skirted the room, trying to reach the exit, without attracting the attention of the lioness stalking the hall. With a bounding leap, Dizzy landed atop the central exhibit, shattering the glass case before the table collapsed under her weight. The exhibit crumbled, sending pieces to the four corners of the room.
Bending down, I scooped up a china plate that had rolled to a stop at my feet. In spite of its unceremonious journey across the exhibit, the piece was pristine. There wasn’t a blemish to mar its perfect surface,
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that down,” a voice shouted. I turned to find one of the security guards standing behind me, his hand stretched out to receive the plate.
“By all means, I simply didn’t want anyone to tread on it.” I held out the plate as Dizzy turned toward us.
Ignoring me, the guard drew his pistol and took aim at the lioness bearing down on him.
Raising the plate, I swung it with a forehand that would have made Roger Federer proud. The china connected with the security guard’s jaw and the man dropped like a sack of potatoes. The second guard was already legging it for the exit and Dizzy nodded as she loped after him, ensuring he would not be around to disturb my adventure on the second floor.
Lifting the plate, I was surprised to find it still intact.
“Unbreakable indeed,” I muttered as I examined the fine piece. “I didn’t come for you, my friend, but this is what we call a bonus.”
Sitting the briefcase on what was left of the table, I slid the plate inside. Closing the case, I made my way to the stairs.
Several staffers from the upstairs office raced for the front door. If any of them had a question as to where I was going, they kept it to themselves as they fled the building.
Reaching the top of the staircase, I found the hall clear. Black and gray carpet tiles lined a corridor with offices that ran along both sides. From my previous visit, I knew my destination was at the end of the hall. I tilted my head down to avoid the camera and picked up my pace.
At the end of the hall, a pair of steel doors greeted me with a placard that read ‘Office of the Curator’. On the wall beside them was a miniature steel scanner the size of my fist. If the mask was anywhere, it would be here. Lara would be spending every minute she could studying the mask. I drew out Lara’s security pass from my pocket.
I clutched the pass. There would be no turning back now. If I used the pass, the theft would be tracked back to her. Lara would bear the blame, even though she wasn’t directly involved. I’d dealt with enough antiques to know, even if she was cleared of all involvement in the heist, it could damage her career. The loss of such a relic would be a cloud that would follow her forever.
Part of me, the better part of me, wanted to turn back. Hurting Lara was the last thing I ever wanted. It felt like a cruel trick of fate that had brought the mask here. I needed the mask and there was no way Lara was going to let me borrow it, so I had no other choice. Asking would have only raised questions I wasn’t allowed to answer.
Letting out a long breath, I raised the security pass and swiped it. The doors clicked as the locking mechanism released.
“Sorry, Lara, I’ll make it right, I swear.”
I’d chosen my words carefully. For a wizard, oaths and promises had power. I had no intention of neglecting mine.
The doors swung inward, revealing Lara’s office. The chamber had an expensive teak desk that occupied one end of the room. I remembered it well. One of my fondest memories had been made on that desk. Thoughts of that night came flooding back into my mind, and the scent of her lavender perfume that hovered in the air was not helping at all.
Reluctantly shooing the pleasant thoughts from my mind, I surveyed the office. A series of filing cabinets ran along the wall behind the desk. The tops of the cabinets had a series of replicas atop them, including a Trojan horse. The tale of Troy was one of Lara’s favorite tales.
The office also had a pair of tables, with cupboards built in underneath. Both were strewn with textbooks and dissertations. We had talked away many nights studying ancient cultures and theorizing how magic had influenced their existence. I’d been careful to couch my knowledge as hypotheses as I hadn’t had the courage to tell her the truth about my wizarding heritage. I began to straighten the texts, purely on impulse, and caught myself. There simply wasn’t time.
I tore my eyes off the clutter and settled on Lara’s desk. It was piled high with manila folders but there was no sign of the mask.
I opened the top drawer. Finding nothing but a handful of stationery, I slammed it shut and moved on to the second. Inside it there were several files but nothing else. Shutting the drawer, I leaned on the table and caught my breath.
“It has to be here,” I told myself, looking down at the stack of folders on the table.
One carried a familiar seal—that of the US government.
“Why, hello there,” I muttered as I pulled the stack of folders toward me, straightening them so that they formed a neat pile. Underneath the seal was the designation ‘Section 9’ over which the word classified had been stamped. In the bottom right-hand corner was a second logo, a compass on a shield, with an eagle head above it.
I knew that logo. Everyone knew that logo.
It belonged to the CIA.
As I searched the table, there were more than a dozen of them with titles including The Brujas de Sangre, The Inquisition, and Magic in the Central Americas.
Lifting the folder for the Blood Witches Coven, I flipped it open to find a picture of the mask and a report. The header of the report caught my eye: Central intelligence Agency Section 9 Classified Briefing 38462 Máscara de la Muerte.
As I started to read, the distinct metallic click of a gun being cocked drew my attention back from the case file.
“What do we have here?”