The Eye of the Wolf (6 page)

In his hand, he held that day’s
report. All of her movements were recorded in minut detail. He didn’t need to
read the report to know that she had been on the island for over two weeks and
had not left the Hall of Records other than to eat, sleep, and wander the
museum. She had made several phone calls to the States, all to her family in
Michigan. He couldn’t take any chances, not this time. It was too important and
too dangerous. The Wolf was too dangerous.

He
shuddered at the thought of the golden eyes that could freeze a man in one
spot. The feral movements when the Wolf was angry with one of his employees,
and how those employees who angered the Wolf or who did not follow directions
somehow came up missing.

The
servant shivered with the thought and then glanced at his watch. It was time.
He turned and walked along the parapet until he came to one of the guard
towers. It spired into the blackness of the night. A glow from within either
welcomed or warned the visitor. There were stories that the ghost of a king
past walked the parapet at night, searching for vengeance for his death. Those
stories often included the light that glowed in the guard tower on nights when
the moon was full in the sky. Many said it was the king’s unhappy soul
bloodlessly killing the guard who should have been protecting the castle. He
knew that the light within was the signal, not the restless soul of a butchered
king. The Wolf was waiting.

The
servant pushed the heavy wooden door inward and swept inside. He closed the
door quickly, wishing he would remember to bring oil so that door didn’t creak
as loudly. He turned and faced the darkened room. The only light came from the
fireplace that was used in the past to keep the guards warm on cold nights.
Ancient tables and chairs that decorated the room were thrown into shadow. He
looked through the thin light, but there was nothing but shadow.

Then,
he heard the rustle of clothing on furniture from behind him. He turned
carefully and felt himself pinned by the yellow eyes glowing from the darkness.
His heart froze in his chest. For a moment, he stood, not breathing, frozen in
terror. Then, just as quickly, his heart began to race and his breathing was
shallow. It was like this every time he met with the Wolf. Terror. He was the
prey caught in the trap, the only difference was, he couldn’t run. He had
sought out the terror and the power that came with it.

As
he regained his composure, the Wolf moved about the room but only in the
shadow. The Wolf was only but a shadow with a fiercesome bite. Beneath the
glowing yellow eyes, white teeth shone in a crooked sneer. “Still terrified, my
servant?” The voice was soft and lethal. “I would think that after all of our
years together you would no longer suffer from such fright.” A low, malicious
laugh floated from a darkened corner where the Wolf rested on a chair.

He
straightened himself and his tie. He swallowed. “Not fright, Sire, merely
startled. That is all.” He pulled a rickety chair from the table. He carefully
sat down. Once seated, he folded his hands on the table and waited. The Wolf
always wanted a person to wait; it was part of the hunt.

The
Wolf laughed again. “Ah, what would I do without you? You are by far the best
person for the job I have outlined.” A flame flickered from his fingertip and
lit the end of a cigarette. He passed this cigarette to his servant who took it
warily. Then, the Wolf lit another and inhaled deeply.

The
Wolf laughed again. “Come, you and I have shared many a drink together. Do you
honestly believe I would kill you now, with a cigarette, when there are so many
things to be accomplished.” He laughed again, deep and low, almost a growl.

The
servant smiled across the room to the shadow with the glowing eyes, white
smile, and smoldering fire. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.
He then took a long drag, feeling the drug of choice, whatever the Wolf had
laced the tobacco with float into his brain. “I apologize, Sire. I meant you no
disrespect.”

The
fiery tip waved through the air in a gesture of dismissal, to forget the
slight. The gleaming eyes grew larger and more insistent. “Now, my servant,
fill me in on the progress of our resident historian.” He inhaled again and
slowly let out the smoke, pleasuring in the buzz that rose to his brain and
fogged it slightly. “How is she progressing in her research. Not to far I
hope!”

He
relaxed. The Wolf needed him. The plan couldn’t be carried out by the bungling
idiot, Dejeune. The Wolf needed someone who was close to the royal family but
wouldn’t be suspected. The Wolf needed someone who was clever and cunning,
intelligent, and trustworthy. The Wolf needed him, and he needed the money that
was guaranteed to him at the end of this one job. He put out his cigarette.
“Well, Sire, she hasn’t made much progress; I have personally seen to that.” He
pulled some tobacco from his tongue that had flaked off from the unfiltered
cigarette. “She has spent the majority of her time searching through old
population records. There isn’t a whole lot in the Hall of Records, you
realize.”

The
Wolf nodded. “Has she been through the Secluded City yet?”

The
servant shook his head. “I have prevented that as you requested. I think she is
feeling frustrated though.” He leaned forward, “I feel that perhaps she will
become problematic if she isn’t allowed within the City soon. I believe that
she is more intelligent and more skillful than Dejeune originally gave her
credit. Perhaps there is something to her reputation that he didn’t take into
account.”

The
unblinking yellow eyes closed for a moment. “Hmm…yes, I hadn’t thought of
that.” The eyes flickered open and intensified their gaze.

He
felt his skin begin to crawl with the gaze. He had seen that gaze before, right
before the Wolf had ordered him to kill Dejeune’s assistant for asking one too
many questions. It was a messy business, killing a person; he didn’t want to
have to repeat the performance.

“Grant
her the tour.” The command was sharp, a bark.

He
jumped. “What, Sire?” His heart began to beat again.

The
Wolf rose and began to move about the room, on the prowl. He watched as flames
of the fire cast shadow on the cloak worn by the Wolf as he moved about the
room. “I said, grant the tour. Keep it short and limited to more public areas.
Don’t allow her to take pictures or record anything. Then, allow her to meet
with the Princess Royale. Keep her far from the King. That should curb her
curiosity.”

The
Wolf leaned down, his breath hot on the ear and neck of his servant. In his
pacing, the Wolf had slipped behind him in his chair without his knowledge. The
servant swallowed and held still. He didn’t dare turn, but his mouth was dry.
“And if it doesn’t?” He asked weakly. He hated himself for his weakness.

The
Wolf’s voice was low, growling in his ear. “Then, you will kill her.”

Mikayla walked slowly through the halls and
galleries of the Museum of History. Her tennis shoes squeaked faintly on the
highly polished floor, like nurses’ shoes do on the floors of a hospital.
Lights glimmered off the finish like perfect ice on a starry night. It was
quiet, as if she were the only person in the building, on the earth. She had
noticed that about Amor. Everything was quiet, a murmur of the city she had
left behind to come to this strange, tropical paradise. That was what it was.
It was paradise.

She had never known this kind of peace, tranquility.
Her life, up to that point had been a bustle of activity, from class to society
parties in Baltimore to be with Alex as he worked his way through the powerful,
beautiful people of Maryland politics. When she wasn’t teaching or playing the
dutiful fiancée, she had been traveling to Europe, Greenland, Iceland, and the
Middle East to study some relic, some scroll, some parchment, some decimated
building that had once been beautiful, that held some secret to the past. A
past that was far more intriguing than the present.

Mikayla craned her head back to
study the mural covering the ceiling of the main hall of artifacts. It was
breath-taking. The slashes of color, the life-like angels who watched her from
on high. She wasn’t a religious person, but she could understand the draw to the
angels and God, the draw to miracles and the repulsion of hell. The angels
smiled down on her, protectors in that room, protectors in life, perhaps, had
she believed in the power of prayer and deities.

Mikayla moved over to the glass
cases that held the crowns, sceptors, and swords of the monarchs who had come
before, who had reigned from the Secluded City, almost god-like in their need
to be separate and above their subjects. She leaned over the glass and allowed
herself to be drawn into the beauty of the jewels that gleamed out of the satin
lining at her. Sapphire, ruby, and diamond necklaces glittered against
blood-red satin. Men had died and women had cried over those jewels, she knew.
The history of every piece of jewelry that dated prior to the modern century
was the same, whether it be the Hope Diamond or the Coeur de la Mere. 
Every piece of jewelry was a death-wish to the person who wore it and to those
who protected it.

Mikayla traced her fingers
along the glass above a diamond collar. The diamonds shot fire into the case
and dulled the other jewels that surrounded it. She squatted down to look
through the side, directly at the collar. Five layers of diamonds, balanced
precariously on one another, delicate, yet strong enough to cut glass, and
deadly enough to cause men to bleed. It was a breath-taking piece. She had
never seen its equal, not even among the British royal jewels, which were the
best collection of ancient jewels in the world. It was the type of necklace
given from a man to a woman who owns his passion, who is above all others in
his heart and in his life. It was the type of necklace that made a homely woman
feel beautiful, and a beautiful woman feel like a queen.

The brass tag sewn into the
satin lining designated that collar as the necklace of Queen Amelia. It had
been her bride price from her husband, the current king of Amor. She had worn
it once, on her wedding day, before placing it in the vault for safe-keeping
until another occasion arose to wear that beautiful piece. Unfortunately for
the royal family of Amor, that occasion never arose for Queen Amelia.

Mikayla sighed. She knew that
Queen Amelia had died many years before during the birth of a son who hadn’t
lived much longer than his mother. The King had never remarried, so heart-broken
was he to lose his beloved Amelia. He had spent ten wonderful years with the
woman he had made his queen, a peasant raised on Amor who was both beautiful
and intelligent. Who stole his heart the first time he saw her climb the stairs
to the Secluded City to beg for a little more time for her father to pay his
taxes. He had forgiven the man his taxes and married the daughter, loving her
above all else. It was a beautiful, if not tragic story. Romantic like a
fantastic love story.

She traced her finger along the
glass: wistful, sad suddenly as the thought of never experiencing that king of
love swept through her.

Mikayla straightened and moved
to the next case where the sceptor and crown of King Henry was kept. She knew
what the crown looked like; she knew the heat it gave off. She had held it in
her hands, had seen it glimmer in the lighting. She had seen the engraving
within the crown, and now, since she was alone, she longed to see it again.
Crowns did not have engravings inside of them unless there was something to be
hidden or some message to be passed along. Crowns were meant to be worn by
generations upon generations of monarchs. There was no other reason for a
crown. In her research, only one other crown had ever had an engraving on the
inside. That crown had been owned by the Romanovs prior to their assassinations
during the Russian Revolution. That crown had been a marker, a marker to the
Romanov fortune that the girls had not hidden in their corsets. It also had
been a marker to the answers as to what happened to the fabled Anastasia
Romanov. It had been a fake! It had been the Piltdown Man of jeweled artifacts.

Mikayla looked around her. The
hall was empty. She strained her ears and slowed her breathing to hear over her
own heartbeat. There were no sounds. There was only stillness, silence, and an
eerie echo from each move she made. She swallowed and ran her fingers along the
lid, under the hinge. With one last look around, Mikayla gently pulled up.

Nothing happened. The lid was
locked tight.

Mikayla leaned down and
examined the lock closely. It was a typical brass key lock, but it was solid.
She jiggled the lid and nothing happened. She would need the key if she was
going to look at the crown again. And she would look at that crown again. It pulled
at her. Intrigued that part of her that loved to do jigsaw puzzles and read
mysteries. It hinted at a mystery just waiting to be solved. Kankaredes and
Dejeune had both acted strangely about that crown. What was it hiding? What
message did it contain from a long-dead monarch? What was the secret that
allowed the same family to rule peacefully for 900 years?

Mikayla knew a fairy tale when
she heard one. The story of Amor sounded too much like a fairy tale for her
cynical self. Plus, there was the fact that the story didn’t seem to match the
books she had been reading in the Hall of Records, books that looked like they
hadn’t been opened in the last 900 years. Books she had found in the very back
corners of the hall, hidden in a dusty, mildewed chest made from hearty
redwood. The smell of cedar had permeated the air when she cracked the chest
open mixing with the smell of vegetative decay. She had had to break the lock
on the chest, but Mikayla figured that since no one probably knew the chest was
there, no one would really care that she had destroyed the lock on the chest.