Book of Souls: A Prof Croft Prequel by Brad Magnarella

Author:Brad Magnarella [Magnarella, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2016-09-02T04:00:00+00:00

11

James volunteered to pickaxe the gargoyles while Flor and I dealt with the front door. Bertrand, who remained convinced the texts were somewhere in the monastery, went limping off with a make-shift torch in search of them. I let him, figuring it would keep him out of the way for the time being. It was the nighttime, when the rest of us would be sleeping, that he concerned me the most.

I grunted my way to the top of the stones Flor and I had piled against the timber we’d stood over the entrance. Ribs protesting where the gargoyle had driven its knee, I hefted a chunk of fallen pillar into the final space.

I exhaled. “There.”

Flor blew a strand of hair from her eyes and assessed the pile, fists on her hips. “Now we use the rest of the timber to brace it.”

I nodded wearily and climbed back down. Together, we stood a scavenged beam on end, wedged it against a fallen pillar set back from the entrance, and then lowered the other end against the piled-up stones at an angle. Opposite me, Flor seemed to be handling the work with relative ease, and I caught myself admiring the slender muscles along her arms.

“So…” I said as we lifted another beam, “now that there are no texts … want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“You do not give up, do you?”

Her voice seemed to carry a flirtatious note of challenge. I peeked past the wooden beam to find the black eyes beneath her thick brows fixed on mine. A small smile teased her lips.

“On some questions, no,” I said.

“What difference does it make why I am here? Like you say, there are no texts.”

“Maybe I just want to trust you.”

Far away, a wolf’s howl went up. Flor looked from the sound to me, eyebrow cocked. “I saved you from them, didn’t I?’

I opened my mouth, then closed it. She had a point.

With a cool dusky wind circling the courtyard, we set the final beam in place. Flor dusted off her hands and came forward until our legs were almost touching. “What is it you really want, Everson?”

I didn’t realize I had been bracing my ribs on the right side until her hand slid under my sweat-damp shirt and over the ache. For someone who behaved with such dispassion in the face of danger, her palm blazed with heat. My body stiffened, then molded against her touch.

“I work for collectors,” she said with a sigh. “A group with an interest in ancient texts and artifacts.”

“Like a museum?” I asked, struggling to keep her face in focus. God, she felt good.

“No, they are private collectors.” Her palm shifted to another sore spot. “They read the same article as you, James, and Bertrand. They hired me to see if the texts were here and to keep anyone from taking them.”

I fought for a little analytical distance. Her secrecy, her military-grade rifle, her composure—and, yes, her terminal good looks. They all seemed consistent with someone who contracted out her services to the highest bidders.

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