Seduction: A Novel of Suspense (33 page)

“It’s a bone,” she said. “Very old.”

“A human bone, isn’t it?”

She nodded. Jac was thinking too about the catacombs in Paris where the bones of more than six million people had been deposited and decorated the caves with macabre beauty. “Human . . . yes, I think so.”

“Look. There are more of those figurines.” He pointed his torch toward one niche after another. Then he gave her the lantern and pulled out more carvings. “Behind every one of these is another bone. What does it mean?”

“Each of these little gods or warriors is standing guard, I think,” Jac said.

“Are all the bones from the same person?” Theo asked.

She looked down at what he’d pulled out. “No, these are all sacrum bones. It’s at the base of the spine, where the autonomic nervous system ends. We each have only one and it’s very special in ancient cultures. The Romans called it the
os sacrum,
which translates to the “holy bone.” The Greek name for it was
hieron osteon,
which means the same thing. There are people who believe that enlightenment can be achieved by awakening the spiritual energy in the sacrum. Holy yogis say that awakening would be a resurrection.”

“So it’s tied to reincarnation?”

Jac almost didn’t want to answer. The concept of being reborn, of soul migration, of a soul returning again and again to complete its
karmic path seemed to be following her everywhere since she’d gone to Paris at the beginning of the summer.

“Yes. The sacrum is the last bone in the body to rot, and ancients believed that it was the nucleus around which the whole body would be rebuilt in the afterlife.”

“You’ve been on a lot of digs, haven’t you?”

“Yes, why?”

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” he asked. “Anything to explain exactly what we’re looking at?”

She shook her head. “Never . . .” She thought. “Well, one thing is slightly similar. In Egypt the dead were buried with small shabti sculptures about this size. Their job was to protect the deceased on their journey to the afterlife.”

Theo had emptied eight niches. He reached into a ninth.

“This isn’t a bone,” he said as he extracted something else.

Jac shone the light on it. It was as slender as a bone but dark and polished. She touched it. “It’s wood . . .”

“It’s a pipe,” Theo said. “Not as old as the rest of these things. Probably a hundred years or so. We have a few in the house that belonged to some ancestor or other.”

Jac was still sniffing. She laughed. “It’s hashish.”

“Really?”

“I think they smoked hashish in the eighteen fifties. So this was someone’s den of iniquity—”

“Jac, there’s more here.” His voice was tense with excitement.

Theo was holding a leather-bound book, somewhat worn. It smelled slightly of mold. A leather strip wrapped around its middle kept it closed. Embossed on the front were two gold letters, still shining.

V. H.

Theo was trying to untie the knot.

Jac stopped him with her hand. “Be careful. It could be fragile.”

He gave it to her. “I’m too nervous. You do it.”

Holding the book gingerly, she walked around the stone and placed the journal on the slab table.

Theo put the lantern next to it and peered down, watching as, very carefully, Jac unknotted the binding and opened the book.

There was no title on the first page, no salutation, just line after line of script, slanting heavily to the right, almost as if a wind were blowing them in that direction.

“The ink isn’t at all faded. It’s possible this hasn’t been opened in years. Maybe even since it was placed here.” Jac whispered as if paying homage to the book.

“It’s in French,” Theo said. “Can you read it?”

Jac read the first few lines out loud, translating as she went.

Every story begins with a tremble of anticipation. At the start we may have an idea of our point of arrival, but what lies before us and makes us shudder is the journey, for that is all discovery. This strange and curious story begins for me at the sea.

She stopped and turned to Theo. “You found it! This is Hugo’s story about what happened to him here on the island.”

“I almost can’t believe it’s real.”

For the first time since she’d come to Jersey she saw an actual expression of happiness on his face.

“It’s real. Can you smell it?”

He bent over and sniffed. “Yes, what is it?”

“Mold, leather, the particular scent of paper decaying—it’s like a combination of grassy notes with an acidic tang and a hint of vanilla.”

But there was something else Jac smelled. A rich and spicy perfume that combined roses, ylang-ylang and oakmoss. Trapped in the pages for how many years, a fine French perfume was escaping. It was the kind of scent she had grown up with. Nothing like most modern mass-produced fragrances, but beautifully articulated and rounded. She sniffed at it. There was one note that she couldn’t quite figure out, and that note was similar to the mysterious note in Ash’s cologne. No, not similar, it was the same note. It was that curious amber she’d found in Fantine’s studio.

Was this another of Fantine’s scents? Was the amber note her signature? The way vanilla was Jean Guerlain’s? The way tuberose was her grandfather’s?

Theo was trying to read more of what was on the page. “I wish my French was better. You’re going to have to read it to me. Do you mind?”

“Mind? It would be an honor to read this.”

She started to translate the next line and realized she was talking over the sound of rushing water. “Do you hear that?” she asked.

“The water?”

“Yes, doesn’t it seem louder than it did even a minute ago?”

“It does.” Theo turned around. “Damn it,” he said. “The waterfall’s stream has swelled.”

Jac inhaled and said, “The scent of the minerals is stronger too. I never thought of that before, but primitive men must have learned to smell certain dangers. Rising waters. Rain storms.”

“We should go. The tide must be surging.” As Theo reached for the journal, he knocked over one of the little creatures and it fell to the ground.

Jac reached down, found the totem and picked it up. It had landed on a wet patch of ground, and now the figurine was sticky and gave off a more pronounced sweet and earthy smell. It was the same note of amber from Fantine’s studio. From Ash’s cologne. From the perfume in the book. She didn’t know of any resin that came alive when it was wet. She rubbed the effigy and its dirt and grime came off on her finger, revealing a semitranslucent golden creature. Glowing.

She thought about the beautifully carved amber owl Malachai had shown her the night she’d found the letter from Theo. If this wasn’t the same material, it was close. Malachai would note the synchronicity of that event and this.
Not a coincidence,
he’d argue,
but events coming full circle. The infinite possibilities of energy and spirit.
The more she rubbed, the stronger the aroma. Even without burning it, it had a scent? How was that possible? The small sculpture in Malachai’s study didn’t have an odor. This amber was different and it was familiar. From a long time ago. But that wasn’t possible either. She’d been sure in Fantine’s laboratory she’d never smelled it before coming to the island. So how could she be remembering it now?

When Owain walked into the hut, Gwenore was standing by the hearth. She looked up, a welcoming smile on her lips. But beneath it he could see worry in her eyes. He’d been gone for four days. The longest he’d ever spent, and the retreat had been exhausting. He could see in his wife’s reaction that his ordeal must be showing on his face.

“You look like you need to eat and to sleep,” she said. “Which first?”

“I’m starving.” He sat at the table, hoping she’d busy herself with making him food and not ask too many questions. Not yet. Not until he could talk to the elders. Perhaps the worst part of the retreat was the walk home, knowing she was going to want to know what path the gods had told him to take. What preparations the tribe needed to make.

Owain almost sobbed again as he thought of the revelation. Even though he’d already cried and beaten his fists on the ground for hours, his agony was still fresh and new. His anxiety as sharp as any knife’s edge.

Gwenore poured her husband a mug of ale. While he drank a long draft and then another, she brought over a plate of wheat cakes, set it down and sat next to him. He took a cake and bit into it. She was a
good cook, but it tasted like straw. Why had he thought he could eat? He felt as if he could barely breathe. She put her hand on his thigh as if she was making sure he was real and not an apparition. It was a quiet gesture, and he remembered that when they were first together and she was still shy with him, she had touched him this way too, often.

“So tell me about the mission. Was it very difficult? Why were you gone so long?”

How could he ever explain? What could he say? His fear made his voice gruff, his tone angry. “I’m hungry, woman. Can’t your questions wait?”

She rose, went to the hearth. From the pot hanging over the fire, she spooned stew into a wooden bowl. Once she placed it in front of him, he fell to eating it, forcing the food down. Anything to prevent the inquisition.

Gwenore poured him more ale. He stopped eating to take a draft, then went back to the stew. It was well cooked and spiced correctly, but like the cake, he wanted nothing to do with it. He filled his stomach only because it ached from being starved for so long, and eating gave him an excuse for not speaking.

“Did the visions come?” Gwenore asked.

“They did.” He had spent his days in the cave, fasting, dreaming and then meditating on his dreams.

“Were you able to interpret them?”

“I believe so,” he said, and then spooned more food into his mouth. Feeling as if he was going to choke on it.

“You stayed longer than I expected.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“The messages were complicated.”

She frowned.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“You tell me.”

“What do you mean, woman? Don’t speak in witches’ riddles.”

“You’re not reporting on what you learned. You always do. Right away. Usually you can’t wait.”

“Is that true?” He really wasn’t aware that he was so quick to confide in her when he returned from a retreat.

“Yes, Owain. You do. As soon as you come home, you tell me what you learned. I’ve been with you for fourteen years. I’ve watched you go forth on quests four times during each of those years. Over fifty retreats. You always return after two nights, spent but refreshed. Now you stay away twice that amount of time and you come home exhausted and sickly. Worry lines are around your lips, on your brow. Trouble in your eyes.”

“The visions were complicated, Gwenore. I’m not sure I understand what I saw, or what it means. I need to consult with the other priests tonight.”

“Can’t that wait till tomorrow?”

“Not really. No.”

“It must. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

He knew how tired he was. From the moment he had gleaned an interpretation from the vision, he had been unable to sleep. To rest. To do anything but worry. Was it possible that he’d misread the dreams? Might one of the other priests find a different interpretation? Oh, how he prayed they would. He was not a man who was often wrong, and he prided himself on that. But now? To be wrong would be a blessing.

“Come,” she said, holding out her hand. “At least try to sleep. If you can’t, you can go to see the others.”

Usually he washed before going to sleep, but he’d washed just hours ago in the cave, using the spirit water that spilled down the rock. That icy cold water he always used to come awake from the visions.

Gwenore stayed with him as he stripped off his tunic. He wondered what else the witch sensed, but he didn’t want to ask lest he invite more questions. Owain was afraid of what she could intuit. And he didn’t want to have to explain. Could not bear it. Not yet. Not while there was still a small chance that he was wrong about what he’d seen in the cave. Not until he’d consulted with the elders and made certain his interpretation was the correct one.

He lay down on the mat. Yawned. He really was tired. The visions
always wore him out. But this exhaustion went deeper. It struck his heart. It tore at his guts.

Gwenore lay next to him.

He shut his eyes and then asked the one question he did need the answer to. The one he’d been afraid to ask for fear of how his voice would sound saying his son’s name out loud. “Where is Brice?”

“Wth a group of boys on a fishing excursion. I expect we won’t see him until tomorrow or the day after. They planned on staying on the other side of the island at least for tonight.”

A burst of relief was followed by one of panic. He wanted his son home. Wanted to see him. To look into his eyes. To discover that Brice wasn’t the same boy he’d seen in his visions. That his son didn’t look as Owain saw him in the trance. That the boy in the dreams was someone else’s son.

Even as he wished it, Owain knew it had been Brice. Owain knew his own son. How could he not? How could he mistake him for anyone else? Unless the herb combination had been too strong. That was possible, wasn’t it? Maybe the smoke from the sacred fire had too much magic in it. That was possible, wasn’t it? Maybe the gods were playing tricks. Maybe . . .

“What is it?” Gwenore asked. “You are so restless.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Do you need a potion?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” He didn’t want her ministering to him. Didn’t want her kindness now. It would only make her fury that much worse when she found out the awful secret that had been revealed to him in the cave of the visions.

Still unable to accept what he’d seen, now he set to wondering if there was something wrong with his abilities. Maybe he was no longer capable of seeing the messages from the spirit world. Or maybe someone had invaded the sacred place where only priests were allowed, and altered it somehow. Corrupted the magic.

Was that possible?