C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“Not that those calamities didn’t occur. Despite the precautions, there are accounts of Ark bearers being tossed bodily through the air and a few blokes being killed outright.” Caedmon pointed to the sketched drawing. “Now imagine that the wings on the two cherubim were hinged with leather and bitumen, enabling them to flap back and forth. The accumulated electric charge would not only have created visible sparks, it would have emitted strong electromagnetic pulses similar to Hertzian radio waves. Once charged, the Ark would have picked up strikes of lightning anywhere in the world. That, in turn, would have created an audible static.”

“Like the crackling sound you get in between AM radio stations, right?”

“Precisely. And to the ears of the ancient Israelites that ‘crackling’ would have sounded like the voice of God. A careful reading of the Old Testament proves that the Ark of the Covenant isn’t a literal deus ex machina. Rather it was envisioned and executed by Moses.”

Edie stared at his sketched drawing, as though seeing the Ark of the Covenant in a new, and slightly disturbing, light. “Yeah, well, there’s a whole legion of true believers who would disagree with you on that one.”

Knowing she spoke the truth, Caedmon wearily nodded, having more than a passing acquaintance with the naysayers of the world.

A few feet away from where they sat, the coach’s windshield wipers hypnotically swung to and fro like a metronome. Blinking, he fought off a seductive wave, having caught only a quick cat nap on the transatlantic flight.

In the distance he could see the honey-colored villages and rolling sheep pastures of Oxfordshire. From those pastures, limestone had been quarried and lugged to Oxford, where it had been used to construct some of the most stunning architecture in medieval England.

As the countryside passed in a wet blur, so too did his memories. He’d journeyed to Oxford by coach when he’d been a gangly lad of eighteen, his father too busy to accompany him. As the coach neared the city limits, he’d been in a tumult, his emotions ranging from anxiety to excitement to shame suffered on account of his father’s indifference. Then, quite suddenly, those gut-wrenching emotions were superseded by a burst of exhilaration, his younger self staggered to have landed in the most famous university city in the world.

A sweet city with her dreaming spires.

“You mentioned that you went to Oxford,” Edie remarked, making him wonder if she might not be a mind reader. “This will be like a homecoming for you, huh?”

“Hardly,” he murmured, disinclined to reveal his tainted academic past. Particularly because she would find out soon enough.

Like most postgraduate students, he’d spent two years doing field research, after which he confined himself to his Oxford digs and commenced writing his dissertation. “The Manifesto,” as he’d jokingly taken to calling it, had been an exhaustive examination of the influence of Egyptian mysticism on the Knights Templar. To his horror, the head of the history department at Queen’s College publicly denounced his dissertation topic, claiming it a “harebrained” notion that could only have been opium induced. Not unlike the poetry of William Blake.

Such stinging criticism amounted to the kiss of death.

Finished as an academic, he left Oxford, his tail between his legs.

What a perverted bit of irony that he was, once again, en route to the fabled city of his youth. The gods must be chortling, gleefully rubbing their hands in anticipation.

Somewhat idly, he wondered what Edie would say if he were to inform her that Moses and the Knights Templar had been initiated into the same Egyptian mystery cult. He bit back an amused smile, certain his assertions would be met with a raised brow and a quick-witted rebuttal. Truth be told, he enjoyed their verbal jousts. Although she could punch hard, hers was an open mind.

He hoped that Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown would be equally open-minded. If not, they would have journeyed to Oxford in vain.

As Edie peered through the coach window, he, in turn, peered at her. The straight brows gave his companion a decidedly serious mien wholly at odds with her exuberant personality. So, too, did the softness of her lips and the pale Victorian smoothness of her skin. When he first met Edie Miller, he’d thought her an unusual mix of Pre-Raphaelite beauty and quirky modernity.

Unthinkingly he raised a hand, cupping her chin between his fingers. Slowly, he turned her face in his direction. Startled, her eyes and mouth opened wide.

How bloody perfect is that? he thought as he leaned into her, about to ascertain if those wide open lips were as soft as they appeared.

Amazingly, they were.

Not having asked permission, he barely grazed his lips across her mouth, concerned she might balk at the trespass. For several seconds he played the gentleman, softly applying pressure, deepening the kiss in small increments. Until she murmured something against his lips. What, he had no idea; he only knew the incoherent utterance sounded incredibly sexy.

The male biological response not unlike a trigger mechanism, he shoved his tongue into her mouth. Then he shoved his hand to the back of her neck, effectively imprisoning her. Open-mouthed, he kissed her, wetly and deeply, doing all that he could to wed his lips to hers.

For several long moments he went at her like a madman, his hand moving from her neck to her back, pulling her that much closer to him, not stopping until her breasts were smashed against his chest.

Not stopping until he heard a horror-struck gasp from the across the aisle.

Abruptly, and somewhat awkwardly, he ended the kiss.

“That was unplanned and—forgive me if I acted inappropriately.” His cheeks warmed at the butchered apology.

Wet lips curved into a fetching smile. “The only thing you did wrong was to end that kiss way too soon.” Edie glanced out the window. “Looks like we just pulled into Oxford.”

CHAPTER 33

Hoping she didn’t appear too awestruck, Edie discreetly checked out the buildings that fronted High Street.

Everywhere she looked there were hints, some subtle, some in your face, of Oxford’s medieval roots. Battlements. Gate towers. Oriel windows. And stone. Lots and lots of stone. Varying in shade from pale silver to deep gold. All of it combining in a wondrous sort of sensory overload.

“Where’s the university?” she inquired, scrunching her shoulders to avoid hitting a group of midday shoppers who had just emerged from a clothing shop. She and Caedmon were en route to some pub called the Isis Room, where Caedmon seemed to think they would find Sir Kenneth Campbell-Brown.

Caedmon slowed his step as he gestured to either side of the busy thoroughfare. “Oxford University is everywhere and nowhere. Since leaving the bus depot, we’ve already passed Jesus, Exeter, and Lincoln colleges.”

“We did?” Edie swiveled her head, wondering how she could have missed the three campuses. She knew that Oxford University was made up of several dozen colleges spread throughout the town limits. Having attended a downtown college herself, she assumed there would be placards and signposts identifying the various buildings. Clearly, she’d been working under a false assumption.

“Look for the gateways,” Caedmon said, pointing to an imposing iron portal wedged in the middle of a stone wall. “They often lead to a quadrangle; most of the colleges were built to the standard medieval pattern of chapel and hall flanked by multi-storied residential ranges.”

Edie peered through the iron bars. Beyond the gatehouse, she glimpsed an arched portico on either side of the quad.