C. Palov - Ark of Fire

But why?

The question had been plaguing him for the last two hours. Neither he nor Edie Miller could identify Jonathan Padgham’s killer. Nor did they know the current location of the bejeweled breastplate.

So why launch a bloodthirsty manhunt?

The manhunt implied that their foe did not want it made public that after several thousand years, the fabled Stones of Fire had been rediscovered. If true, it spoke to motive. Clearly, their foe had an ulterior purpose for stealing the breastplate, one that had nothing to do with plunder and profit.

Lost in thought, he belatedly realized he’d depleted his glass.

Careful, old boy. You’ve already slain that dragon.

Needing to pace himself, Caedmon set his tumbler on the dresser. Drink was a tempting mistress, one that beckoned when he least expected it.

Bare feet still dangling over the side of bed, Edie looked at him, her expression forthrightly quizzical. At a loss for words, he returned the stare, enjoying the sight of long brown curls framing her face and shoulders in a riotous halo. Admiring a woman’s attributes was one of those simple pleasures that made a man momentarily forget stress and strife; he lowered his gaze. Like chapel hatpegs, her nipples were visibly prominent through the thin fabric of her silk pullover, Edie having removed her bulky jumper.

“Is something the matter?”

Caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, Caedmon quickly glanced at the telly on the other side of the room. His cheeks warm with color, he picked up his depleted G&T and made a big to-do of swirling the ice cubes clustered in the bottom of the glass.

Damn the woman for being so keenly observant. And so blunt in expressing those keen observations.

A sudden knock at the door sparked their joint attention.

“You don’t think . . . ?”

“No, I do not,” he replied, striding toward the locked door. A quick glance in the peephole confirmed what he already knew—the bellhop had arrived. A fortuitous interruption, the room awash with sexual tension.

Come now. What did you expect, checking into a hotel room with a lovely American woman?

Unlocking the door, he greeted the bellhop with a courteous nod as the young man handed him a paper bag emblazoned with the Holiday Inn logo. Before taking custody of the bag, Caedmon reached into his trouser pocket and removed several crumpled notes. The exchange made, he closed and locked the door.

Awkwardly smiling, still conscious of the earlier misstep, he hefted the white bag in the air. “I come bearing gifts, compliments of the establishment.”

Edie patted the mattress. “Sit yourself over here and let’s see what’s in the gift sack.”

Uncertain what to make of the invitation, he obediently complied. He knew that in the aftermath of a bum-clenching terror, each person acted differently. Some turned to alcohol, some turned to drugs, and a good many turned to sex. Caedmon preferred the first, had never been interested in the second, and wasn’t altogether certain how he felt about the latter. While he found Edie Miller attractive, he in no way wanted to take advantage of the situation.

He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed. “One tube of toothpaste, two toothbrushes, hand lotion, shaving cream, razor, and, alas, only one comb. I’m afraid we’ll have to share.”

“I’m kinda getting used to sharing.”

Caedmon assumed the offhand remark had to do with the fact that the room had been paid with a soggy hundred-dollar bill that had come from her “spinach fund.” Concerned that their electronic transactions would be monitored, he had imposed a moratorium on all credit cards. Certain his room at the Churchill would also be monitored, he phoned his hotel and asked that they gather his belongings and put them in storage until such time as he could collect them. He’d also rung up his publicist, informing her that he was catching a late-night flight back to Paris. If asked, she would lead the inquisitors astray.

“Would you mind . . . ?” Edie toggled her glass back and forth, silently indicating that she needed a refill.

“Not in the least.” Getting up from the bed, Caedmon walked over to the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. Along the way he collected his own glass.

The silence unnerving, he busied himself with mixing the drinks. Rightly concerned that he might cross the invisible line, and equally worried his companion might be receptive, he went easy on the gin. With his font of small talk dried up, he wordlessly handed Edie a replenished glass.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his tumbler to hers.

“Actually, more like ‘Tears,’ don’t you think?” Her demeanor glum, Edie listlessly raised the tumbler to her lips.

“For myself, I prefer taking the ‘glass is half-full’ approach to all of this.”

“Don’t you care that your friend was murdered?”

“Of course, I care,” he retorted, not wanting to have this conversation with a woman he barely knew. “However, experience has taught me that the pain will only worsen if I permit myself to wallow in it.”

“Is that what I’m doing, wallowing?”

“No, you are not wallowing. Wallowing is when one for-goes the tonic water.” As well he knew. Hoping to lighten the mood, he said, “His pet name for me was ‘Mercuriophilus Anglicus.’”

“I assume that you’re referring to Dr. Padgham.”

“Padge could never recall anyone’s forename.”

“Probably because he was too caught up in his own self-importance.” No sooner did the words escape her lips than Edie slapped a hand over her mouth. “God, that was horrible! I’m sorry.” Then, laughing, “Did I mention that I’m a mean drunk? So, what does Mercurio Blabbityblop mean?”

“It means the English Mercury Lover.”

Still smiling, she lifted a brow. “Hmm, sounds kinky. Do I really want to know the story behind your strange moniker?”

Enjoying the silly game, he feigned indignation. “I can assure you that the story is not nearly as racy as you presume. It so happens that alchemical mercury suffuses all of creation. In ancient times, it was thought to be the secret essence of the All in all things.”

She drew a long face. “Oh, puh- leeze . There must be a class you guys take at Oxford where they teach you how to pontificate to us little people.”

“Are you always so frank?”

“Not always.” Her brown eyes mischievously twinkled. “I do have to sleep.”

Caedmon threw back his head and laughed, her offbeat humor growing on him.

“You know it’s crazy,” Edie said, suddenly serious. “All of this murder and mayhem happening because of an old breastplate.”

He walked over to the striped wingback chair situated on the far side of the bed and seated himself. “The Stones of Fire are much more than ‘an old breastplate.’”

“You said something about the breastplate being designed by God and manufactured by Moses.”

“So claim a good many biblical scholars.”

“Come on. You don’t really think that the breastplate was divinely inspired?”

“Actually, I think the breastplate has a far more”—he paused, not wanting to offend her religious beliefs—“ complex pedigree than that contained within the pages of the Old Testament.”

“ Really? What exactly do you mean by ‘complex’?” Drawing her legs onto the bed, she curled them beneath her bum. “I thought it was pretty straightforward: Moses would don the breastplate in order to control the—how did you phrase it?—the ‘cosmic power’ contained within the Ark of the Covenant.”

“Which raises the question . . . where did Moses learn such a feat? I have long suspected that Moses was not only an Egyptian, but a trained magician in the pharaoh’s court.”