JOSH

05

JOSH

You have no idea, I thought sadly, marveling at the fate of this conversation. I pointed to the crumpled cover of the book.

— So you've had this book since you were fourteen?

Petra shook her head.

'I bought this copy from a used bookstore in DownMoor. My father gave me a beautiful hardcover copy for my fourteenth birthday. But I wouldn't bring it somewhere. My books are precious, especially my father's.

“A woman who speaks to my heart.

She smiled then, a genuine smile that made my heart flutter against my stomach.

- Oh yes?

"I have a little cabin in Sherwood Forest," I explained. “I go there when I'm not working. It's very small and very basic. There is no cell reception and you have to shower in a small stream outside. But I keep all my books there.

In my head, I pictured her sitting beside me in front of the fire, her feet on my knees as she leaned back on the sofa, a book open on her lap, those adorable glasses on her nose.

I haven't been back to the cabin since Dad died. Everything there carried its perfume, its unmistakable presence. I couldn't face being there alone. But the idea of ​​Pietra being there with me made a return trip feel instantly palatable. The things we could do on that river…

"Sounds divine," she said, her voice a little wistful. 'I live with my mum in a flat in Crooks Crossing. There isn't much space, so I have to store my favorite books in boxes under the bed. Even so, there are several boxes hidden in the loft.

— Do you live with your mother? So your parents are divorced.

Petra shook her head. My stomach dropped as I realized what that probably meant. Pietra looked away, her whole body stiffening. Her hand flew to her wrist, which the silver bracelet still clasped defiantly.

"I have to go," she whispered, the book falling from her hand and skittering to the floor.

- Why? — My disappointment was transparent. I was really enjoying talking to her. I wanted to find out more about what books she liked, about her family, about her studies and what made her want to be an archaeologist.

But for some reason, her father's death—because that was all it had to be—kept her closed off from me. But he didn't have to. I reached out to her, willing to say anything to get her to stay and talk to me.

- Pietra. I know how you feel. My father…

"I just…I can't…" She grabbed her coat and got to her feet, running out the trailer door and out into the wet night as fast as her legs could carry her.

**

I stayed in the trailer for another hour in case Pietra came back, but she didn't. I got stuck talking to Ruth and Max about reality TV—an illness I hadn't yet succumbed to. As a park ranger, I didn't get a chance to watch much TV, and when I did, I watched Western movies and Star Trek reruns, not the internal monologues of ten thin models who pose as seductive lampposts in an avant-garde commercial for a lighting company. As I turned off the stupid discussion, I mentally replayed the conversation with Pietra, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Her father. I assumed he was dead, but what if I was wrong? What if I had thought that because that was my situation? What if Pietra's father was in prison? What if he was under arrest for something he'd done to her?

If that were true, it was quite heavy. I understood why she wouldn't want to talk about it with a stranger, especially not in the trailer with Frances, Ruth and Max listening. Fuck, I was an insensitive idiot.

Try again tomorrow, I told myself. I wasn't completely screwed. Yet. Even though I didn't want a partner, I was more and more intrigued by Pietra SanDiir. Perhaps it was the pain I saw flash across his face… a pain that mirrored my own.

With that decision made, I got up and ran to my tent without wishing the others good night. As I walked through the camp, the moon rose higher through the trees, teasing me with its pale light. In two days it would be completely full. The itch pulsed through my veins, making me feel restless, nervous. I scratched my cheek furiously, out of habit, but nothing could quench the itch of the moon warming my wolf blood.

I was in Daniel's tent, which he left for me after rushing off to deal with the emergency I had invented for him. I was lucky to have a dishonest friend in Liverpool (is there any other kind of friend in Liverpool?) who was willing to break into his flat for me. He didn't steal anything, he just messed the place up enough that Daniel had to spend time cleaning it up as well as filing reports with the police. He took two weeks off, which should have been more than enough time for me to do what I came to do.

Fortunately, Daniel had set up his tent fifty yards from the others, between the camp and the caves. I would at least have some privacy. Most of Daniel's things were still inside. I opened my backpack and took out my bottle of Lycan pills. They weren't the usual ones, but I'd heard good things about Clara — the local witch in DownMoor village — and she assured me they were even more potent. Fortunately, the pills would keep my wolf personality in check while the moon was up. Otherwise, I might do something I later regret, especially with the delicious Pietra around.

I took two pills and waited. The itching seemed to subside a little. Good. I had something important to do tonight.

The moon rose higher and the itch throbbed through my entire body. I clenched my teeth and held my hands at my sides, resisting the urge to scratch my skin the way I used to as a kid.

Instead, I counted the minutes on my watch. Eleven-thirty… eleven-forty-three… eleven-fifty-seven… when I was sure everyone was asleep, I grabbed my flashlight, a crowbar, and a notebook from my backpack, and walked quickly and silently from camp. towards the caves. It was better to finish the job. So I could focus my attention on Pietra.

The trail of basalt rock ran through the forest for miles, and I knew that a huge network of caves ran through it, hollowed out by the movement of the earth and the paths carved by the water that flowed ever downwards. People had inhabited the caves since the Neolithic period, but few people knew how long they had been occupied.

I had to keep it that way.

It took me a few minutes to find the cave entrance in the dark. I sniffed the air again, but it was hard to make out the smells. Everything out here was stained by Pietra's intoxicating perfume. I could smell her footsteps as clearly as if she'd wandered into a tub of butter.

I slipped through the small hole, my boots splashing in the water. Now that the rain had finally stopped, the pool around my feet wasn't as deep as it had been, although it was still slippery. I lit my torch and made my way carefully over the rocks and through the room.

The archaeologists were using string lines to create a grid of twelve squares (or quadrants, as Pietra called them) across the floor of the room, and they were systematically cleaning up the stratigraphic layers of each square, recording all artifacts and features, and mapping notable objects with the theodolite to create a three-dimensional spatial map. So far, it doesn't look like they've ventured into the cave. That was a good sign.

Even as cancer destroyed his mind and body, my dad remembered the layout of the cave as if he'd been there yesterday. I knew from his description that the cave paintings were located in a tunnel leading down from a secondary cave located through a small fissure at the end of the living room. I needed to find them before Frances and her team did, and destroy them if there was anything left. Nearly a hundred years have passed since they were last seen. Nature could have taken care of things for me.

I made my way carefully along the wooden planks placed between the quadrants and scanned the back wall with my flashlight. It only took a few moments to find what I was looking for, a small opening in the back wall of the cave, waist high. I steadied the flashlight first, resting it on an overhanging rock so that it pointed back at me. I squeezed my shoulders forward and wriggled my body into the small hole, using the wall behind me to start with my feet.

It was tight, but after a few moments of sweating, writhing limbs, and grunting, I managed to slide my arms in. I used the rock in front of me to pull my torso into the darkness. I got up, dusting myself off, and held the flashlight around me. I was standing in a long fissure between the rocks, the roof of the cavern at least ten feet above my head. I maneuvered my way between the two sloping walls. At the end of the fissure, the room opened into a large cavern. In the opposite corner, a pool of water reflected my flashlight back at me. Dark openings led left and right.

Dad said it was the left tunnel.

I jumped onto the next boulder and headed toward the opening, the crowbar on my back slamming against the rock as I turned.

Back here, the rocks were dry, the ground beneath me crumbling. At the entrance, I ran my flashlight through the tunnel, reflecting light off the walls, looking for the colorful designs that marked the paintings. I couldn't see anything.

“It needs to be here,” I muttered, bending over to check the tunnel ceiling. It was exactly where he said it would be. So why couldn't I see?

“What the hell are you doing? a sultry voice demanded from behind me.

Shit. I got caught.