James Rollins - Map of Bones

Raoul popped up out of the sunroof of the lead truck, facing back toward them. He raised a massive horse pistol in his fist.

“Down!” Seichan barked, dropping flat.

The gun sounded like a cannon. She heard the windshield collapse and the back window blow out. The thick slug passed completely through the vehicle. In plain sight, she rolled toward the rear, keeping the truck between her and Raoul.

Gunfire spat from the other side. Gray, on his belly, in a better position to snipe, shot at Raoul as the lead truck fishtailed toward the exit. The second truck followed.

Raoul continued to shoot, fearless of the hostile fire.

A slug slammed through the front grille of the SUV.

Shit.

The bastard was taking out their truck.

The front headlamp exploded. From her viewpoint on the ground, Seichan watched a stream of oil flow out of the engine compartment and pool on the stones.

The slide of Gray’s pistol popped open. Out of ammo.

Seichan crab-crawled to join him, but it was too late.

One truck, then the other, shot out of the gate. Raoul’s laughter carried back to them. The portcullis gate dropped behind the last vehicle, its teeth slamming into the stone notches, sealed tight.

A trundling noise penetrated the echo in her ears.

She rose to a crouch. Steel shutters dropped over all the windows and doors to the castle. Modern fortification. The Court took their security seriously. They were trapped in the courtyard.

A new sound followed.

The click of a series of heavy latches.

Seichan turned along with Gray and Rachel. She now understood the trailing laughter by the escaping bastard.

The gates to the line of twenty kennels rose up on motorized wheels.

Monsters of muscle, leather, and teeth stalked out, snarling, frothing, driven mad by the thunder and blood. Each pit-dog stood chest-high, massing close to a hundred kilos, twice the weight of most men.

And the dinner bell had just rung.

KAT REFUSED to concede defeat. Holding despair at bay, she stalked the length of the blue bedroom atop the Tower of Angels. “We’re looking at this the wrong way,” she said.

Unlike her, Vigor remained stock-still in the room’s center. His eyes were somewhere else, calculating. Or was it worry for his niece? How focused was he on the task at hand?

“What do you mean?” he mumbled.

“Maybe there’s not a magnetic marker.” She held up the compass, drawing his eye, attempting to engage him fully.

“Then what?”

“What about all that talk earlier? The Gothic history of the town and this place?”

Vigor nodded. “Something built into the structure of the building. But without a magnetic marker, how are we to find it? The palace is huge. And considering the state of disrepair, the clue might have been destroyed or removed.”

“You don’t believe that,” Kat said more firmly. “This secret society of alchemists would’ve found a way to preserve it.”

“Still, how do we find it?” Vigor asked.

Lightning crackled out the nearby window. It lit up the gardens below the tower and the spread of city below the hill. The dark river snaked past below. The rain had begun to fall harder. Another fork of lightning scintillated across the belly of the black clouds.

Kat watched the display and slowly turned to Vigor, conviction firming with sudden insight. She pocketed her compass, knowing it was no longer needed.

“ Magnetism opened Saint Peter’s tomb,” she said, stepping back to him. “And it was magnetism that led us to Alexander’s tomb. But once there, it was electricity that ignited the pyramid. The same might lead us to the treasure here.” She waved a hand at the dazzle of the storm. “Lightning. The palace was built atop the largest hill, the Rocher des Doms , the Rock Dome.”

“Attracting lightning strikes. A flash of light that illuminates darkness.”

“Is there some depiction of lightning that we missed?”

“I don’t recall.” Vigor rubbed his chin. “But I think you’ve struck a significant chord. Light is symbolic of knowledge. Enlightenment. It was the primary goal of Gnostic faith, to seek the primordial light mentioned in Genesis, to reach out for this ancient font of knowledge and power that flows everywhere.”

Vigor ticked off on his fingertips. “Electricity, lightning, light, knowledge, power. They’re all related. And somewhere there is a symbol of this, built into the design of the palace.”

Kat shook her head, at a loss.

Vigor suddenly stiffened.

“What?” She stepped closer.

Vigor quickly knelt and drew in the dust. “Alexander’s tomb was in Egypt. We can’t forget to carry that forward, one riddle to the next. The Egyptian symbol for light is a circle with a dot in the center. Representing the sun.

“But sometimes it’s flattened into an oval, forming an eye. Representing not only the sun and light, but also knowledge. The burning eye of insight. The all-seeing eye of Masonic and Templar iconography.”

Kat frowned at the drawings. She had seen no such markings. “Okay, but where do we begin looking for it?”

“It’s not going to be found — but formed ,” Vigor said, standing up. “Why didn’t I think of this before? A feature of Gothic architecture is the mischievous play of light and shadow. The Templar architects were masters of this manipulation.”

“But where can we—?”

Vigor cut her off, already heading out the door. “We have to go back down to the first floor. To where we already saw the potential for a flaming eye within a circle of light.”

Kat followed Vigor. She didn’t recall any such depiction. They hurried down the stairs and out of the Tower of Angels. Vigor led the way across a banquet hall and ended up in a room they’d already explored.

“The kitchen?” she asked, surprised.

Kat stared again at the square walls, the central raised hearth, and overhead, the octagonal chimneypiece. She didn’t understand and began to say so.

Vigor reached out a hand and cupped it over her penlight. “Wait.”

A brilliant bolt of lightning shattered outside. Enough illumination traveled down the open chimney to shine a perfect oval upon the fire pit. The silver light flickered, then went dark.

“As it is above, so it is below,” Vigor said in a hushed voice. “The effect is probably more evident when the noon sun climbs directly overhead or lies at some precise angle.”

Kat pictured the firepit ablaze, bright with flames. A fire within a circle of sunlight. “But how can we be sure this is the right place?” Kat asked, circling the hearth.

He frowned. “I’m not entirely sure, but Alexander’s tomb was under a lighthouse topped by a fiery flame. And considering the usefulness of both a lighthouse and a kitchen, it makes sense to bury something beneath a location that serves a good function. Successive generations would preserve it for its utility.”

Unconvinced, Kat bent down and slipped a knife free to examine the central hearth. She dug at the rock that lined the firepit, exposing an orange-hued stone at the base. “It’s not hematite or magnetite.” If it had been either one, she might be convinced. “It’s just bauxite, an aluminum hydroxide ore. A good thermal conductor. Makes sense for a fireplace. Nothing unusual.”