The Eye of the Wolf (4 page)

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Then, it was snatched harshly
from her hands.

Dejeune
set the crown back into the case quickly, shutting it as he turned around.
“Good day, Monsieur Kankaredes.” He looked over Mikayla’s shoulder to the
shadow next to one of the many pillars that surrounded the room. The man walked
out of the darkness and into the spotlight that threw light on the showcase. He
cast a shadow on Mikayla; the air turned colder.

Mikayla
shivered and turned. In front of her stood a man of imposing stature in a
severe black suit. His black hair was swept back from his temples. He stood
straight, without a hint of the stoop of most tall persons. His face was
heavily carved with deep lines. His long, pointed nose provided the perfect
opportunity for him to look down at others and make them feel small and
worthless. His eyes were black and bottomless. They reflected no emotion, none
of the immense displeasure he had felt and the fear he had felt upon seeing
Mikayla handling the royal crown. He carried a walking stick carved of
mahogany. The head of the walking stick was a wolf that fit perfectly into his
hand. The stick itself was covered in the intricate design of the Celtic knot.
Mikayla noted to herself that the Celtic knot continued to show up more and
more, even though the island nation of Amor had no connection to Ireland. 
The air around him seemed darker, more sinister, and colder.

Antonio
Kankaredes pinned Dejeune with one glance, daring him to slink off to a hiding
spot and threatening him if he tried to do so. He then turned those bottomless
eyes on Mikayla. She felt herself drawn to stare into the hidden depths of his
eyes like prey drawn to the snake. She tightened the grip on her camera until
her knuckles began to turn white.

“So,
this is the American we have hired to do our research for us.” He looked
Mikayla up and down taking in her simple attire, her backpack, and her camera
slung over her shoulder. He smirked. He moved his eyes to Dejeune. His voice
was smooth with the heavy accent of Greece. It flowed like that of a poet or
Shakespearean actor. If it hadn’t carried a bite in the words, Mikayla thought
it would be pleasurable to listen to. “You hire a child to do your work for
you, Dejeune. Are you not the resident historian? Is there a particular reason
you must bring in an outsider?”

Dejeune
squared his shoulders. Despite his height, he would never be taller than
Kankaredes. “Dr. Mikayla Knight, this is Antonio Kankaredes, the Royal Minister
of State.”

Mikayla
looked up into his cold eyes willing warmth into the icy air. She felt the hair
on her arms stand up. She resisted the urge to rub her arms vigorously. She
swallowed with difficulty and shook his clammy hand. Her own had begun to
sweat. “Good day, Mr. Kankaredes. I am pleased to meet you.” Her voice sounded
small and weak. She withdrew her hand and squared her shoulders. She tried to
stand taller.

“Well,
Miss Knight,” he stressed the formal title instead of using her academic title,
“I am sure that you will be wanting to meet with the Royal Family eventually.
Please, notify my office at least a day in advance of when you would like to
meet with them. We will take care of the security measures.”

Kankaredes
turned his attention from Mikayla, and absently sent a wave over his shoulder.
It was a motion of dismissal. Mikayla was forgotten. “Dejeune, I wish to speak
with you immediately.”

Dejeune
gestured towards Mikayla. “I apologize, Antonio, but I have to finish Dr.
Knight’s tour. I also need to acquaint her with the Hall of Records.”

Kankaredes
narrowed his eyes on Dejeune. “She’s a professional historian. I am sure, if
she’s as good as you say she is, she can figure out the Hall of Records
herself. This can’t wait.”

Dejeune
sighed. He took Mikayla’s arm and tugged her gently across the room to the door.
“The records are through there. Please, feel free to make yourself at home. I
will join you as soon as I can, and we will finish our tour.” He turned to walk
back to Kankaredes. He looked over his shoulder at Mikayla once before reaching
the imposing Minister of State.

Kankaredes
stood tall, with one hand on the glass of the showcase. His eyes were narrowed,
and he watched Mikayla move to the door. He watched very carefully. He tapped
his walking stick on the floor in an impatient gesture to hurry Dejeune along
and dismiss Mikayla from their presence.

Dejeune
joined Kankardes again by the showcase. Kankaredes didn’t acknowledge his
presence until Mikayla had slipped through the door and into the hallway that
separated the exhibit hall from the Hall of Records. He tapped the walking
stick once on the floor and turned his attention to Dejeune who appeared old
and beaten in the presence of the Minister of State instead of the tall,
imposing man Mikayla had seen him as on her arrival.

Kankaredes
held out a hand that was heavily jeweled. Rings decorated each finger, stones
winking in the light. “How dare you?” He growled. His smooth voice that was
reserved for political situations had faded into a growl like that of a wolf
guarding its young. His voice echoed off the marble floor and pillars.

Dejeune
looked around the room nervously. He plucked anxiously at the edge of his
Italian suit coat, fraying the edge by pulling on a loose thread. He looked
back at Kankaredes and swallowed. “Please, sir, I was only sharking the
workmanship of the crown with her. She didn’t seen the inscription, nor would
she have understood it.” He looked around again. This time, he whispered.
“Antonio, the crown and our plans are safe here, I promise you.”

Kankaredes
banged his walking stick on the floor. The crack reverberated off of the walls
and floor making the other glass cases ring. “Be quiet, you fool!” He drew in a
sharp breath and quieted his own voice. It would be very bad if he were
discovered there with Dejeune. “Don’t you realize what the consequences could
have been had she translated the inscription? Don’t you know that it could ruin
everything we have worked so carefully to bring about?”

Kankaredes
gripped Dejeune’s hand, crushing the bones in his own. “My friend, our time is
almost here. We don’t want to destroy it now.” His voice cool, denying his own
anxiety.

Dejeune
withdrew his hand from the bone-crushing grip, careful to avoid making noise of
any kind. “Antonio, you don’t have to worry about anything. Mikayla Knight is
nothing.” Kankaredes raised an eye brow. Dejeune patted the other man’s arm. “I
promise you, I hired her because of her ineptitude. She is young and eager to
be recognized in her field. She will never realize what we are doing. She is
the perfect front. With her here to accomplish the task of writing the
historical narrative, there is no danger of us being discovered.” He stepped
away, turning his back on the Minister of State. “She is the perfect cover for
our actions.”

Dejeune
opened the case and straightened the crown on its pillow. Kankaredes walked
around the case, tapping the walking stick on the marble floor as he moved. He
stopped behind the case and looked over the glass at Dejeune. Kankaredes leaned
in and grabbed the front of Dejeune’s shirt, pulling him closer until they were
nose to nose. His words hissed from beneath clenched teeth. “Just you be sure
she doesn’t get any closer than necessary with the information she finds. I
will do my part.”

Kankaredes
let go of Dejeune and straightened his own suit. “You know there is concern
about the presence of this Dr. Knight. Some think of her as a threat. She will
be watched very closely.”

Dejeune
straightened his own shirt and tie. He avoided Kankaredes’s eyes and stared
over his shoulder at the painting of the Madonna and Child on the far wall.
Kankaredes’s presence was enough to make him squirm and make his skin grow
cold. He didn’t need further reminders of the intrigues. He could see the
glowing gold eyes clearly, the eyes that shown through the night like a wolf’s
eyes when it was hunting. He cleared his throat. “There is nothing to worry
about. Dr. Knight is not a threat.” He looked at Kankaredes, fear written
clearly in his eyes. “Dr. Knight will accomplish her assignment, write her book,
and return to her pathetic life as a college professor in the United States. I
guarantee it.” He hissed the last and walked away from Kankaredes. Dejeune
pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow as he
walked towards the Hall of Records. His steps slow and measured, the model of
professional dignity.

Kankaredes
rapped his walking stick on the floor once before walking the other way. He
hoped Dejeune was right. If he wasn’t, Kankardes was prepared to take care of
the problem, and Dejeune while he was at it. Now was the time, with the 900
^th
celebration just weeks away, and no one was going to prevent the plans they had
worked so diligently to set-up. No one.

Mikayla
took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had been reading document after
document for a week. There was nothing more boring than sitting in a dusty hall
of records looking for something fascinating in a pile of dust. A pile of dust
that hadn’t been catalogued in at least a century. It was almost as thrilling as
watching paint dry, and almost as frustrating as looking for a needle in a
haystack.

Mikayla
looked around the room that the Amorians called the Hall of Records. She
thought it might have been suited better to be called the Closet of Records. It
was a long, skinny room filled from floor to ceiling and wall to wall with
wooden bookcases. The bookcases over-flowed with ancient manuscripts, many of
which had been illuminated in the tradition of the Catholic monks before the
printing press’s inception. What books, scrolls, boxes, and manuscripts
wouldn’t fit on the bookshelves were stacked precariously on the cement floor,
decaying with each passing moment. History was disappearing as she sat there
and watched, too over-whelmed to fight it.

Dust
covered every surface of the room, including the rickety wooden table someone
had set up near the door with its straight-backed wooden chairs that creaked
with every movement. The table-top was scarred with engravings done by persons
of the past. There was one that read, “Albert was here.” And another that read,
”Marjory loves Larry.”  Good for Marjory, Mikayla thought. Another was
inscribed in ancient Latin. Mikayla snickered slightly as her mind worked
through the translation. She hoped Abbot Stefano didn’t really smell like
rotten eggs.

The
table was cluttered with scrolls from a box Mikayla had found in the very back
of the Hall of Records. Edges of the scrolls had been nibbled away at some
point in the past by a very hungry mouse. The vellum crinkled underneath her
hand. Her legal sized pad of paper and pencil sat near at hand along with a
Latin to English dictionary she carried everywhere. In the box, she had also
discovered the royal seal of Amor that had been used to seal the scrolls.
Ancient candle wax was pooled at the bottom of the box, as if someone had left
the candle dripping before sealing the cardboard. It was an interesting
discovery, but certainly nothing life changing. Mikayla had seen hundreds of
seals just like that one.

Mikayla
rubbed her neck and willed the tension away. For a week she had tried to get
into the Secluded City to meet with anyone, it didn’t even have to be a member
of the royal family. She was having no luck in that area. It seemed almost as
if Kankaredes had given his staff strict instructions that she wasn’t to be
allowed to interview anyone. The last time she had stood at the gate of the
Secluded City with her Royal Pass in hand, the guards had physically turned her
around and locked the gates behind her. The message was clear; she was not
invited nor was she wanted.

Dejeune
had been off the island for the last week looking for some documents he thought
she might need that were in Paris. He had left the day after her tour of the
museum and had not returned. Dejeune had not even had the decency to tell her
he was leaving. Mikayla had gone to the museum to ask him some questions. His
secretary, a bleach-blonde with a huge chest under a tight sweater and
microscopic mini-skirt made of leather, had told her that she didn’t know when
to expect him back and he couldn’t be reached in Paris as she chomped heartily
on her bubble-gum.  Mikayla had had to settle for the Hall of Records and
every single document ever written relating to Amor history, most of which were
worthless.

Mikayla
sighed and unrolled another scroll, sneezing as dust filled the air in waves.
Her fingers traced the carvings in the tables absently. She settled into the
monotony.

He
stepped through the open door into the Hall of Records and stopped, frozen in
his tracks. He had known she was down here. He had known he was supposed to
meet with her and help her with her research, but he hadn’t expected his heart
to stop beating the moment he looked at her. Her head was bowed as she read an
illuminated scroll. Her long, auburn curls were piled in a messy knot at the
back of her head, and she twirled one curl that had escaped around her finger.
He smiled. It was a girlish gesture, and it was incredibly sexy. Her neck was
long and milky white. Her long fingers were unadorned and tapped on the wooden
table to a beat that was only in her head. The simple white shirt curved ever
so slightly around a petite but toned frame. He craned his head to the side and
scanned her profile. Her face was unadorned. There wasn’t a speck of make-up
that he could see, yet her cheeks carried a rosy tint and her full lips were
naturally red. He sighed. She was breath-taking.