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CHAPTER TWO: SYDNEY
Sydney came to awareness slowly. She felt warm and cozy and well rested. This was an uncommon feeling lately, but he sleepy brain couldn't quite grasp why. There was a warm body beside her. She rolled towards it, snuggling into the warmth. A familiar scent surrounded her, one that tugged at her, and one that she had been missing. Nigel. The thought brought her instantly awake. The feeling and smell of Nigel didn't fade out as it usually did when she dreamed of him. He was real and solid against her. She lay there in the weak morning light, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the light rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. It was so pleasant that she didn't want to get up. Even so, she knew she had work to do. Thanks to Nigel, she had another lead on Morgan Lewis. With luck, she would catch him before he found La Mort Rapide and used it for nefarious purposes. If it existed, it was way too dangerous to let fall into the hands of a madman, especially one that was capable of doing what Lewis did to Carmen Facey. The thought of Carmen's mutilated body caused her to shudder slightly, but she felt more removed from it than she had for days. Sydney wasn't sure whether that was because she had talked it out, because she had slept well, or because of Nigel. Whatever it was, she had once more found her perspective. “Thank you, Nigel,” she whispered. As if he heard her, he grunted in his sleep, but his deep breathing didn't change. After two years, she was not surprised to discover that she still needed him. She would probably always need him. His logic was the perfect counterpoint to her intuition, his knowledge of certain ancient cultures surpassed hers, and it was nice to know someone you could trust completely was always at your back. Maybe that's why she had kissed him. Vulnerability was not a common feeling for Sydney, and any other man would have seen weakness and attacked. Not Nigel. He just acknowledged that Sydney was human and continued to be his incredibly sweet self. It had hurt when he left, she admitted to herself. It hurt more than she could let her pride show him. In the back of her mind somewhere, she'd always known the day would come. After all, no matter how much they enjoyed working together, being her TA was Nigel's job. Nobody stayed at the same job forever. Unfortunately, her heart had apparently refused to believe that. Sydney allowed herself to run a gentle hand over his chest. He still felt the same. This could have been any morning during the five years they worked together. But it wasn't. Reluctantly, Sydney pulled away, her body protesting the sudden lack of warmth. She paused for a moment, hovered over him, watching him sleep. She considered waking him, but he looked so peaceful that she just couldn't do it. Instead, she kissed him on the forehead and slipped as quietly as she could from the bed. Once out of the bedroom, Sydney's mind immediately moved forward to what she had to do. First, she had to eat, brush her hair, and dress. Then, she had to find out where this writer lived and pay him a visit. She took as little time as possible getting ready and was careful not to make too much noise. Once her mundane tasks were done, she looked up Turnbull's address and wrote Nigel a note. Putting down the pen afterward, she allowed herself a soft smile. “Until we meet again, my friend.” Turnbull lived as close as Nigel had said. Sydney didn't even have to call a cab to go to his home. Instead, she walked in the misty early morning. She wished that she had thought to bring a jacket, but was glad that the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle. The walk to Turnbull's house took about ten minutes. Standing on his doorstep, waiting for an answer, Sydney rubbed arms that were once again feeling chilled. The door was opened by a diminutive old man who squinted at her suspiciously. “Yes?” “Good morning. I'd like to speak to Nathan Turnbull, please.” The old man raised his wisps of eyebrows. “Mr. Turnbull doesn't usually entertain at this hour of the morning.” “It's important,” she assured him. “Very well. Who shall I tell him is calling?” “My name is Sydney Fox. I'm interested in something he's recently become an expert in.” If the old man recognized her name, he gave no indication. “Wait here,” he said, closing the door in her face. Sydney shivered in the dampness, wishing she had even thought to bring one of Nigel's jackets. She raked back her hair and tied it back with an elastic from her satchel. To his credit, the butler wasn't gone long. He looked slightly friendlier as he said, “Mr. Turnbull will see you.” He led her through a richly furnished foyer and into an equally opulent sitting room. Waiting for her was a young man who stood up when she entered. Nathan Turnbull was nothing like she expected. For one thing, he wasn't all that much older than the students in her introductory classes. For another, he was almost as tall as her father, and his shoulders must have been twice as wide. He looked more like a football player than a scholar and writer. His face split into a grin. “Good morning, Professor Fox. I couldn't believe it when Ruggles told me who was at the door. I'm Nathan Turnbull. Pleased to meet you.” He offered a hand that made hers look like a child's. She took it gingerly but needn't have worried as his grip was firm but gentle. “I'm sorry to call so early,” she said, taking back her hand and flexing it to make sure it was in one piece. “That's all right. I get up at six to write. I'm working on a book about the Star of Endostan right now. I was actually going to call you. I was hoping you could make me a copy of the thief's journal.” “Actually, my former assistant has that. His name is Nigel Bailey. I'm sure he'd be happy to make you a copy.” Turnbull's smile widened, if that were possible. “Great. Have a seat. Tell me how I can help you.” Sydney sat on a nearby chair, conscious of what her wet clothing was doing to the upholstery. After making sure she was seated, he took a chair across from her. “I'm in a bit of a bind, Mr. Turnbull. You see, I'm looking for a relic once owned by a man known as Le Sorcier...” “You too!” He broke in. “Someone came to see me yesterday about Le Sorcier. Morgan Lewis, I think his name was. He needed some help with a document he had found that mentioned Le Sorcier.” The writer's face turned wistful. “It was a wonderful piece of work. I wish I'd seen it before I wrote my book.” Sydney's stomach jumped at Turnbull's words, and she couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. “Do you have the document? Do you remember what he asked?” “He kept the document with him. He was reluctant to even let me see it. Is this important?” Sydney leaned forward. “Very important. That man wants to exploit La Mort Rapide. I want to find it before he can.” “Well,” Turnbull tapped his lip. “There were two things he needed help with. Once was a place he'd never heard of. He wanted to know where it was and if I knew if Le Sorcier had ever been there. Also, there were instructions...in Le Sorcier's secret code.” Sydney raised an eyebrow. “Secret code?” “Yes.” The young man nodded. “And as far as I know, I'm the only one who's ever been able to crack it.” “Do you remember the instructions?” He smiled. “I wrote them down as I was figuring them out.” With grace that was strange for one so large, Turnbull rose and made his way across the room to an antique mahogany desk. She watched as he rifled through the drawers, wondering how he'd become so interested in history. She also wondered if she could trust him, though he didn't seem to be shifty or hiding anything. “Here are the papers, Professor.” Sydney rose and went to join him at the desk. What she saw looked like a jumble of words with no rhyme or reason. Puzzled, she shot Turnbull a glance. “Don't worry. I'll make some sense of these for you. Do you have some time?” “I'll make time. Can I have these?” She took one of the papers from his hand and studied it. Gently, he took it back, though Sydney could feel the power in his hand. “I'd rather you didn't. I was keeping them for my sequel to Le Sorcier, since Lewis wouldn't sell me his monograph. I will make you copies, though. I have a copier.” Sydney nodded in acceptance, and then listened closely as Turnbull explained his scratchings. She took notes, wishing Nigel were there so he could store it all in his brain. When he was finished, Turnbull asked, “Do you understand?” She frowned. “I believe so.” “If you need any help, be sure to call me. I'll write my number on your copy of the pages.” “Thanks.” It was heartfelt. After all she'd been through, she was grateful to be on the trail again. With this information, she would not only nail Morgan for killing Carmen Facey, she'd also prevent him from unleashing the power of La Mort Rapide on the world. “Anytime, Professor Fox. Are you sure this Bailey will make me a copy of the journal?” At first she was puzzled, then remembered why Turnbull had initially been so happy to see her. “Just tell him I sent you. Now, tell me, the second part of what Lewis wanted to know. A place?” “Oh, yes. Pres Herbeux See, I have it written right here.” He pointed to his papers. Sydney drew her brow down in a frown. “Pres Herbeux?” “I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It disappeared centuries ago. It was a very small town that Le Sorcier ruled over from his nearby castle. No one could tell me where it was, but after much research, I discovered that the ruins are located near today's Fleuve de Sang.” Sydney didn't think she'd heard of that place either. “River of Blood? Charming.” He grinned at her. “That's what I thought. Someday, I'm going to research the origin of that name and write a book about it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go make those copies for you.” Sydney nodded absently, her mind already miles ahead, somewhere in rural France. Thanks to Turnbull, she now had the pieces that would lead her to La Mort Rapide. All she had to do was get there before Lewis, which was going to be hard as he had at least half a day's head start. Even so, she'd faced worse odds, and now that she knew where she was going, she was confident that she could do what she had to do. “River of Blood, here I come,” she whispered.
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