The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (23 page)

Guilford paused to breathe.  “His grammar book and other works are the source of many of the prescriptive common foundations and beliefs studied in schools.”

Calla stopped listening all together, absorbed by the entrancing lettering. 
Had no one ever thought to look here?

She interjected, securing more time.  “What distinguished Lowth?”

“His works established him as the first in a long line of usage commentators who critiqued the English language.”

Nash had also spent several minutes scrutinizing the material on the wall.  His attention returned to the one-sided conversation.  “Where can we learn more about this Lowth?”

“I’m sure you can find something in our library or pick up a copy of his famous work in any good bookstore.”

“Thank you, professor,” Nash said.

“Is there anything else you wish to know?”

“You’ve given us much to work with,” Calla said.

“I’m pleased you came, but you could’ve found this information in any reference book.”

Nash searched his face.

No one has such inscriptions in their offices.
“True, but better to hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak,” Calla said as her mind caught Nash’s drift.

“Ah, a sense of humor.  I like it.  If you’ll then excuse me, I have a lecture to prepare for.”

They marched out of the office. The hallway had crowded with students and professors hastening back and forth from lectures. They wandered outside into the sunshine and Nash searched for a secluded spot away from the hubbub of the main entrance. 

“Did you recognize any of the symbols?” asked Nash as he plopped onto a bench on the grounds.

“Yes.” Calla said.  “We need to go back in.”

“You think Lowth put them there?”

“Him?  I don’t know, maybe someone else.”

Calla mused.  “It’s almost lunch time.  Surely the professor will take a break.  We need to head back.”

“I’m loving your plan, but then what?”

“Something took place in that office when Lowth occupied it as professor of poetry.  We need to find out what it is.”

Nash checked his watch.  “All right. 

They took turns watching the entrance.  After thirty minutes, Calla slithered back into the facility and emerged minutes later with a triumphant grin.  “Let’s go, soldier.”

They returned towards the professor’s office and hesitated by the locked door. 

“What do we do now?” Calla said.

A handful of engaged students lurked at notice boards and chatted on cell phones. Nash set a hand on the handle and studied the lock.  “It’s a spring bolt.  Do you have a credit card you don’t use?”

“I wish.” She dug her hand in her bag.  “Use this.”

He took the credit card from her and wedged it between the door and the frame.  Holding it within the crack against the door border, he wiggled and forced down the card towards the latch. 

Sensing resistance, he bent the card away from the door knob. 

It slid, freeing the lock.

“A bit old school, but it works.  Let’s do this fast,” he said.

Calla stole past him in a hasty movement that loosened her hair, falling wildly behind her back.  Dark as a raven’s coat against her skin, the mane flowed rhythmically as she moved. 

Nash watched fascinated. Only now, did he realize its length, and dark radiance. He’d never seen it unbound, reminding him of the new resolve she’d mastered in the last twenty-four hours. 

He smirked and followed.

Once inside the office, the two prowled to the walls.  Placing their hands against the detailed wallpaper, their fingers traced the symbols looking for patterns.  Calla fished for the journal from her bag and studied a page with several encryptions as Nash strode back to the front office.  “I’ll stay here and watch the door.  What does the inscription say?”

Calla had to pace the room a couple of times to complete the task.  She set her fingers along the symbols and read them slowly.

“It’s a bit repetitive, but what I have so far is, ‘
beware the test, beware the prize’.”

A noise from the hall caught Nash’s attention and he slipped back into the hallway pulling the door behind him.  “Keep going.  I’ll stand guard outside.”

What do they mean?

Calla’s fingers rested on the ornate wall, brushing the material with caution.  Without thought or force, her hand slid right through the concrete. 

An effortless break-in. 

She inhaled. 
Hmm, I wonder?

Instinct told her to proceed.  She eased ahead and disappeared through the wall in what could only have been possible in a psychotic dream. 

Coming out on the other side, she glimpsed around.  Her eyes could not distinguish what she saw ahead of her.  Caught between ecospheres, she faced a blinding light ahead and blinked every few seconds as she followed its lead. 

The path grew narrower, while the gap she stood in reeked of dampness and mold.  Stretching her hands in front of her for guidance, she fingered her moist environs, unable to grasp object or form in front of her.  The pathway before her was dimly lit, and she began a slow pace towards the now flickering light. 

The more she progressed, the further the light bounced away. 

Hesitating, her eyes glistened in the light’s shady glow, as she tried to identify an advancing, lurking silhouette.

Leaning away, she charged back the way she’d come.

After a few stampeding steps, she came to a halt. 

Was it curiosity? 

Or stupidity?
 I want to see you! 

Not knowing where strength was sourced, she whisked her head round and found herself face to face with what she thought was a man, but his comportment suggested otherwise.

Inches from him, she stumbled backwards. 

He drew what looked like a weapon and swung it in her direction. 

A gun she could deal with. 
Maybe?

This was no gun. 

She failed to identify the weapon and braced herself for combat she’d never experienced. 

Calla retreated, and found her back flat against the wall she’d penetrated. 

Her assailant slashed the air with his weapon that, without effort, extended into a steel dagger.

With hands crawling up the wall, Calla scratched for an entrance through which she could reenter Guilford’s office.

Unlike her journey here, none became apparent. Her only option was to duck from his steel or fight back. 

With what?  

How?

She raised her arms and slammed the assaulter with her fists. 

Not one of her agitated blows touched him as he cornered her up against the concrete. 

She slid to the ground, her pained arms shielding her face from the peril.

Is this it?

She closed her eyes and as if by mishap, plummeted, back first, into the professor’s office.

Her aggressor pursued.

“Nash!”

The assailant edged closer.

“Nash!”

Adrenaline threatened to fire Calla’s breathing into gasps.

With hastened promptness, the office door burst open.  Nash surged towards her cowering frame with tunneled vision and chopped a horizontal fist at the assailant’s neck. 

Stirred, the seething man took evasive action, blundering backward as the strike deflected off his monstrous frame.

Nash recoiled back shielding Calla from the onslaught fury, flaring from the masked assailant.  Nash clasped his injured hand and examined it for damage as it throbbed with discomfort.

Calla drew back in trauma, as a sense of vulnerability swamped her. They could not pry off the towering mutant. Her eyes scanned the room for any item they could use in defense, as the assailant whipped towards them. Short of impact, he disbanded like condensation before their eyes

What is this thing?

Calla staggered to Nash’s side, suppressing her urge to curse.

His eyes narrowed as they met Calla’s in a confounded stare. A light flared north of Calla’s position, followed by fluttering near the drapes, signaling that the assailant had resurfaced.

He perched like a falconer by the door.

Calla blinked her eyes several times as the man re-emerged by the window, and then by the desk.

Each time he appeared, he morphed an inch taller and a breadth wider, as his deafening cackle filled the room.

He’s looking for something
!

Calla thought hard.  Was it a man, a shadow, a spirit, a form?  It certainly moved like a man, but nothing in his godlike strength gave Calla the confidence that they were evenly matched. 

Nash reached for her hand and drew her to his side as the figure crouched, ready for another assault.

Nash’s fist tightened at his side.

Can he fight this thing?

Without warning, the attacker reached for the journal and ripped it out of Calla’s hand. 

She held her breath, and in an instant, he dissolved through the wall.

With heightened senses and a moist brow, Nash’s eyes fixed on the direction he’d taken.  “What the heck was that?”

* * *

1:41 P.M.

School of English

Oxford University

 Silence gripped the room. 

Calla shriveled as if breaking free from a spell and found she could suddenly move.    

With a focused squint, Nash concentrated on something outside the window.  “It’s him.” He scooted to the glass pane.  “Let’s get that journal.”

Astounded at Nash’s insistence, Calla obeyed and followed him. 

They left the office racing back through the deserted floors of the faculty. Nash shot out of the building with Calla flurrying behind.  They dashed towards the southern grounds of the college, with Nash sprinting and Calla keeping pace behind him.  Footing determined steps, they collided into several baffled students and staff.

Calla caught up with Nash for a second. “I see him.”

Pursuing in the direction he took, they hounded after him, further towards the extensive gardens around Worcester College Lake. 

The fleeting figure increased pace, not once glancing back at his pursuers. 

He vanished.

Calla came to an abrupt halt.  “Nash!”

Not one to accept defeat, he drew to a reluctant stop as she caught up with him.  She hunched over clasping her knees and regained her breath. “I think he’s gone,” she said.

They glanced back at the campus from the grounds of Worcester College - one of the main institutions of the University.  The imposing eighteenth-century building stood behind them, haunting them with its neoclassical style as they stood watching for their assailant. 

Calla glimpsed to one side of the construction, noticing a row of medieval cottages, perhaps some of the oldest structures in the town. She glared ahead of them.  “What do we do?”

Bathed in the stillness of the meadows overlooking the water, the peculiar tranquility was cut by a few wandering ducks and the quiet whistling of the weeping willows.

Nash squinted an eye, eager to do something, as he paid attention to a movement by the lake.  “Sh—”

The silhouette re-emerged.

In a mind-numbing flash, the man arched himself behind Calla and seized her arms from behind, her gaze still face to face with Nash.

 She felt herself shrink from his seething breath, over her left shoulder.  His head was veiled with chain-mail and a burnished helmet, similar to those worn by medieval knights. Calla zipped round and studied the lengthy cape that covered him from shoulder down.

He grunted through his closed helmet, snorting at Nash, even from behind his extravagant façade.  She tried to wriggle sideways, imagining the severe damage this knight-like being could cause both of them.

Nash moved without haste threading his way purposefully toward them until he trapped Calla between him and the assaulter.

Before he could launch a defensive maneuver, Calla reached over her side, caught the man’s wrists and hurled him forward. The momentum threw both her and the attacker to the ground, toppling Nash backwards.

Nash stood back stunned.

Gasping for breath and shuddering violently, Calla groped the man’s arm and wrestled him with the passion of a terrified tigress.  She pinned his arms securely behind his back and drove her whole weight over him.

Liberating his hands with sudden force, with grunted breath he caught her wrists and forced her arm backward.

She heaved her upper body evading his grasp and chopped a vertical palm at the base of his head.

He screeched in pain and attempted to wrench his arm free to no avail. 

Calla had found a weak spot, at the base of his neck where his shoulder bone began.  She kept her grip on him.  “Okay, whatever you are, hand it over. My journal!  Who are you anyway?”