Kurtis Trent
Outside the Louvre
06:20
The shrieking of a phone roused Kurtis from sleep. He touched his head where the blow had been, the phone still ringing, as he found Miss Croft lying on the ground beside him unconscious. He patted his pockets, finding the painting missing
Great.
Kurtis finally fished it out and answered it, not noticing that he had dropped one of the crystal shards.
"Yes, Steph."
"Kurtis, you better come help!"
The roaring of gunfire and the screams of people wailed over the crackling of his phone.
"What's going on? Where are you?" Kurtis said as he left the alley and headed to where he hid his bike.
"Turkey!" Steph said, yelling at someone in the background to duck for cover. "We're at the dig site where the next painting might be."
"William?"
"Yes, he is here, unharmed." Steph gasped.
"I'm on my way, just text me the location," Kurtis said.
The line died with a beep.
. "Steph! Steph! Shit."
Kurtis pocketed his phone and hopped onto his bike, speeding off in the direction of Turkey.
Please don't let me be late.
Lara Croft
Outside the Louvre
06:25
There was something Lara had to get to, something she had to reach no matter what. It spun before her like a firefly, bobbing just beyond her snatching fingers. She cried as it began to fade, getting further away, or dying altogether. A coarse hand was slapping her face. The dream evaporated into concrete: damp, and grit mixed with rainwater.
"You okay?"
Lara opened her eyes.
"Bouchard?" Lara croaked, sitting up.
The crossbow had been digging into her back the entire time she'd been asleep.
Ouch.
"What are you doing here?"
"No time now, quickly!"
His worried tone sobered her back to consciousness more effectively than ten raw eggs and a pint of espresso.
Lara glanced around, her belly tingling. The stranger was gone. A slice of reflected light caught her eye where he'd been lying, and she picked it up on reflex. It was something smooth and crystal-cool. Hurriedly, she tucked it into her backpack and darted to Bouchard's side before he noticed.
"Was anyone around when you got here?" Lara said.
"No, no one," Bouchard said, sounding puzzled. "Come on! We have to get off the street."
He gestured to a somber-looking Mercedes, where a pink-faced young driver stood steadily getting wetter in the now pouring rain. The passenger door was open.
"Bouchard, I must get back to Von Croy's apartment," Lara said. "There's something I have to check out there."
"Your friend's place, of course…" Bouchard's gait slowed. "Where is it?"
"Rue Valise," Lara said. "The Chantell Building. Do you know it?"
Bouchard sneaked a hurried glance down the alley.
"My driver will," Bouchard replied, gesturing to the soaking man. "Get in."
Something about his manner struck an off-note, but Lara couldn't quite put her finger on what.
Besides, the rain was worsening and she could already hear sirens in the distance.
Lara cast her doubts aside and squared her shoulders. The car reeked of expensive upholstery and Cuban cigars. It was a relief to be in the dry as she leaned on the window sill and gazed at the rain-lashed streets gliding past. She was suddenly aware of her still-damp clothes. It felt like weeks since she'd last been appropriately cleaned.
Bouchard perched next to her in the back seat. He kept fidgeting with his hands, resting them on his knee, tapping on the sill, and stroking his flaccid chin.
"What were you doing at the Louvre?" Lara asked, breaking the silence.
"Trawling police shortwave," Bouchard said curtly with a ghost of a smile. "You were attracting a lot of attention there. I figured you might need some help ."
"Thanks."
He doesn't strike me as the generous sort, and he didn't answer the question.
Bouchard slid his hand across her knee. The gesture, more possessive than protective, made her hackles rise.
"Wouldn't you prefer somewhere safer than your friend's apartment?"
"I found some leads in the Louvre that may link to his death," Lara said, unsmiling, and replaced his hand tactfully on the seat. "I have to at least check his apartment, Bouchard."
Bouchard's smile vanished, and his lips tightened into a white line. "Don't fuss. We're almost there."
Indeed, the car was slowing, idling along familiar streets.
The bulk of the Chantell Building emerged from the pouring darkness ahead, making Lara's heartthrob.
Bouchard coughed as the car slid to a halt.
"There's something you should know. The police bands were full of details of another Monstrum killing, in Prague."
"Prague?" Lara squirmed. "Not a dealer named Vasiley? Mathias Vasiley?"
Bouchard flinched. "Yes. You knew him?"
Be careful with him.
"He's connected with something I have to find at Von Croy's apartment." Lara laid a hand on the door handle, Bouchard rising from his seat. She met his eye. "I need to go in alone."
For a moment Lara thought he'd insist, but much to her relief, he shrugged and settled back into his seat.
"Alright, I'll wait here. You be careful now."
Lara smiled despite how weary she was. "Appreciate it, Bouchard."
Bouchard flicked her a carefree salute as she slammed the door, turning her steps towards the entrance.
Lara glanced backward, spotting him already chatting away on his mobile.
Probably ordering tonight's pizza. Hope he saved me a slice or seventeen. I'm famished.
Pushing her hunger aside, Lara prowled up the stairs to Werner's floor. His door was covered by a web of yellow tape. Making doubly sure she was unobserved, she snapped the flimsy barrier and slipped inside. The door had been left unlocked. Beams of light parted the shadows like gentle hands pulling away the blanket of a sleeping man, - cautious, tentative, unsure as to what lay underneath.
No time for sorrow. Or regrets.
She was here to observe and to find those engravings. There'd be time to mourn him later.
Lara forced herself to take notice of every last detail. It was a crime scene. She had to think like a detective if any of it was going to make sense.
With a deep breath, Lara stalked past Werner's peace lily and entered the living room.
A muddy stain spread under a knocked-over coffee pot. Matching crockery was scattered amid the ruins of the low table. Armchairs lay like dazed sumo wrestlers, their legs pointing at nothing. Books from a handsome mahogany case littered the floor. Fingerprints of the Gods. Akhenaten. False Prophet, Principles of Egyptian Art. The remains of a jade-colored Denby vase stood out like shards of bone amongst the books, and the baleful eyes of Werner's walking cane stared back at her from where it sat abandoned by the fireplace.
Lara suppressed a shudder, even though she knew the inlaid jackal's head was only a reproduction. Perhaps her earlier judgment of Werner had been right after all. It didn't seem right to carry a constant reminder of a creature that had enslaved minds and tried to destroy the world just because she had recurrent gout.
She walked towards the window, taking everything in with as much dispassion as she could muster. Light curtains swayed in the breeze coming through the shattered pane. She hadn't remembered it breaking. A flash of lightning threw ghoulish shadows across the bloodstained wall. Her belly twisted as she beheld the symbols, as incomprehensible now as they had been two days ago.
Lara stepped closer to examine them. Glass tinkled and she jumped. Bending, she lifted the broken frame, brushing away the shattered glass. Thunder rumbled as she beheld the photograph. She blinked. Professor Von Croy dominated the shot, brimming with the pride and experience of a man in his prime.
She remembered his traveling clothes, tailored at Seville Row, and the cream fedora partially shading his face. His hand rested on the shoulders of a teenage girl. Her expression blended modesty with mischief, and genuine excitement from being in the Cambodian jungle. Her brunette hair was restrained by two playful pigtails, and she couldn't have been more than sixteen years old.
I had no idea Werner kept it after all these years.
"Focus, girl," Lara muttered.
The irony of the photograph was powerful, a memento of their first shared adventure, in the very place her mentor had met his death.
What did he die for?
Only by understanding it would she come close to avenging his murder.
Lara set the photograph down on the sideboard and leaned on it while she gathered her thoughts. Her reflection in the gilt-vermeil mirror gazed back in challenge.
Lara closed her eyes, letting her senses rise to the forefront. It had been stormy the night of his murder, too.
Listen to the thunder, remember his voice, the sound of his words.
Smell the meal he'd prepared that afternoon, something with fish and onions.
Remember!
The night of his murder zoomed through her head. Lara sucked in her stomach, remembering the jab of a gun, but her eyes had snapped open.
Yes! Footsteps. Soft but deliberate.
An arm on her shoulder, impossibly strong, swept her aside.
Lara staggered back, shock coursing through her. Dazed, she bumped against the far bookshelf, and her shoulder blades winced in phantom pain.
"The books at my feet… I'd knocked them off the shelves."
Werner had cried out. In terror, not pain.
Lara's gaze traveled to the place where she'd found him, where his blood was still a glutinous black puddle on the Persian rug. He dropped the gun. She heard it thump on the rug and skitter away. She rushed to the dining table, emerging a moment later with an antique handgun. A Rigg 09 or early Luger model. It was exactly the kind of curio a distinguished Austrian professor might keep as a family souvenir from the war or the kind of sub-standard rubbish a harassed Parisian crime boss would fob off to a frightened old man.
The magazine held room for eight rounds. There were seven bullets left. There had been a shadow across her, doubled and misshapen. The sound of a last, gargled exhalation and the heavy thud of a body dropping to the ground.
Werner… Strangled to death.
Lara's eyes rolled upwards, to the paneled ceiling. A figure had stepped over her, fleeting as a ghost, one clumsily wrapped hand dripping hot liquids. Awkwardly, she tried to triangulate her position. The figure had left by the front door, so he must have passed her by, leaving her unharmed.
But why, and who?
Lara's eyes squeezed shut as she ransacked through the fog of dreams and after-images. There had to be something, some clue as to who it was. The realization, when it came, nearly pole-axed her. A man brushed her aside at the entrance to Rennes' pawnshop. Grey suit, grey hair, an aura like a death shroud, with eyes like muted fire behind smoked glasses.
He was here the night Werner died. He killed my friend while I lay senseless.
All unknowingly, she'd bumped shoulders with the Monstrum.
Lara trembled like a leaf in a storm. A strangled gasp escaped her throat. The doubt she had carried, the question of whether she had actually been the one to end Werner's life, was suddenly drowning in heart-wrenching guilt. She should have trusted her instincts and paid more attention to the stranger in the pawnshop.
The murderer couldn't have gotten far. She would have caught him if she hadn't been so preoccupied with collecting Werner's equipment! It was all she could do not to fall over. Dizziness and shame roared like a black tide through her thoughts, blinding her to the room and the everpresent stench of blood.
A warmth seemed to infuse her limbs, like a sunrise in the desert. Other memories returned to her, memories of dear friends and her soul's cleansing.
I need to focus and find those engravings. And find that murderer.
Lara took a deep breath. Lightning flashed along with thunder that rumbled in her bones. The storm was gaining strength, its fury whipping the skies into turmoil. The curtains snapped aside, and the wind buffeted her face, piercing her damp clothing like an icy shock to the heart. It was dreaming beneath the crushing waves of a waterfall and taking its wrath as her own.
Every lungful of the freezing wind steeled her resolve, every exhale expelled her doubt. Werner, Carvier, even Rennes, and all the other faceless victims of the Monstrum.
She would avenge them all.
The sound of pattering rain increased, drawing her gently back into her body. The wind eased, and the curtains seemed to whisper a farewell as they settled back into place.
It passed.
Now, where were we…
She began to search in earnest.
The engravings had to be around here, somewhere.
The kitchenette held little except a lingering reek of fish. A partially filleted sea bass lay on the cutting board next to a pot of stew filled with wilting onions and leeks. There was a magazine about professional horse racing on the countertop. She'd never have placed Werner as a gambler.
She had never really known much of Werner's hobbies outside of archaeology.
A quick scout upstairs revealed a handsome, if bland bedroom, and a shower room decorated in classic bachelor style. Socks and shirts fought to escape the laundry basket, and the bin in the corner was overflowing with used tissues, most of them speckled with blood.
Lara frowned. Werner had always been meticulously clean-shaven. Evidently, his nervousness had made even shaving a dangerous chore. A quick search of the drawers uncovered a basic first aid kit, which she pocketed with the gratitude of long experience. She doubted Werner would have begrudged her for using his supplies.
All in all, the apartment was a tidy little retreat for the middle of Paris, though still a far cry from Werner's family estate in Vienna. His office area, crammed with bookshelves and files, turned up far more informative prizes.
"Bingo." Lara smiled, examining the folder titles. "The Lux Veritatis! Werner says they were a 12th-century offshoot of the Knights Templar, dedicated to suppressing works of sorcery and alchemy. Apparently, they were also responsible for destroying the Black Alchemist, Pieter Van Eckhardt, in 1445."
It ties in with the diary entries of that fanatic who tried to find the painting before me.
"There's information on the Sanglyph, too, but... damn! There's nothing here I don't already know, except that it was an artifact 'of great alchemic power'. But what in the blazes does it do?"
It's something to do with the Nephilim. I can feel it.
Lara frowned.
"The Cabal. A powerful alliance of five alchemists and sorcerers in the thirteen and fourteen hundreds. Eckhardt is said to have betrayed and murdered almost all of them to control their secrets."
Now that is interesting…
"Power-hungry megalomaniacs don't play well with others, as a rule. He must have needed their expertise. Eckhardt was working on something. Something he didn't want to share. Could it have been the Sanglyph?"
Maybe.
"Werner also mentions the Cabal and the Lux Veritatis. They battled constantly even after Eckhardt's disappearance in 1445. If our moldy friend under the Louvre is anything to go by, Eckhardt gathered a pretty rabid set of followers to support him for this 'Great Work'."
The thing that had been bugging the back of her mind suddenly reared its head.
"What if this Eckhardt Werner was working for is the same person as the Black Alchemist?"
Lara gasped as she mumbled to herself.
"So, not impossible. I've banged into a couple of immortals before. It just seems too much of a coincidence that the name and the purpose are the same now as they were then."
Lara scratched her head.
"The first Eckhardt created the Sanglyph and hid them in the paintings. Now, this Eckhardt is searching for the Paintings, and Werner, Werner Von Croy, lived in mortal terror of him."
Lara rifled through more papers.
"I can't see Werner being intimidated by just another everyday client."
Lara swept through more books.
"But it still doesn't tell me what the Sanglyph's purpose is meant to be!"
Her gaze traveled back along the desk, narrowing at the sight of Werner's fax machine, and the enigma of the Sanglyph was nudged aside by a more pressing concern.
Where would Werner have hidden something as important, and as dangerous, as the Engravings?
In the best hiding place of all, naturally. Plain sight.
"Something hidden, go and find it. And to find something, all you need is a map!"
Lara reached for the large painting hanging on the office wall, a print of the old Silk Road, Persian, circa 1590. It was delicate and not a little heavy, but as she lifted it from its pegs, something slipped out from behind the frame. A plain brown envelope. Crouching, she held it open and the contents fell into her hand. Four, A4- sized sepia-colored sketches at first and even second glance looked like the mad offspring between Da Vinci and M. C. Escher at his most macabre.
Found it