Chapter 18: Werner's Apartment

Kurtis Trent

Outside the Louvre

06:20

The jarring sound of a ringing phone shattered Kurtis' peaceful slumber, yanking him from the realm of dreams. He instinctively reached his throbbing head, the lingering ache reminding him of the earlier blow. Amidst the persistent ringing, his fingers brushed against the cool surface of his phone, while his disoriented gaze fell upon Miss Croft sprawled on the ground beside him, her still form casting a sense of unease over the scene.

His heart raced as he patted his pockets frantically, the texture of the fabric rough against his fingertips. Panic began to grip him as he realized the painting was gone, its absence a weighty absence he could almost feel.

With a mix of annoyance and apprehension, Kurtis finally retrieved the phone and pressed it to his ear, oblivious to the fact that a single crystal shard had slipped from his grip, shimmering faintly on the pavement.

"Steph, what is it?" he muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of sleep and concern.

"Kurtis, you need to hurry," Steph's voice crackled urgently through the receiver, carrying a sense of urgency that resonated in the pit of his stomach.

A cacophony of gunfire erupted in the background, each shot reverberating through the air like thunderous drumbeats, punctuated by the horrified screams of people caught in the turmoil. The soundscape was so vivid that it was as if Kurtis could sense the acrid scent of gunpowder and the tang of fear in the air.

"What's happening? Where are you?" Kurtis inquired, his steps already carrying him out of the dim alley and toward the place where he had concealed his motorcycle.

"Turkey!" Steph's voice was a blend of frantic urgency as she barked orders to someone nearby, imploring them to find cover. "We're at the dig site, the one that holds the sleeper."

"And William?" Kurtis felt his heart constrict, anxiety tightening its grip as he awaited her response.

"He's here, safe for now," Steph's words rushed out in a breathless rush as if each syllable carried the weight of the chaos around her.

"I'm on my way. Text me the location," Kurtis replied, the determination in his voice a stark contrast to the chaos that unfolded over the line.

The call abruptly ended with a beep, leaving Kurtis momentarily disconnected, his anxiety spiking in the vacuum of silence.

"Steph!" he called out, his voice echoing off the alley's walls in a desperate plea.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Kurtis vaulted onto his motorcycle, the vibration of the engine resonating through his body as he accelerated away, each twist of the throttle propelling him closer to the crisis unfolding in Turkey.

"Please, don't let me arrive too late," he silently beseeched the fates, the wind rushing past him as if carrying his urgency toward the distant horizon.


Lara Croft

Outside the Louvre

06:25

Lara's determination burned like a wild flame inside her, a relentless pursuit that pulled her forward like gravity. It shimmered in her mind's eye, an elusive firefly dancing just out of her reach, teasing her with its elusive glow. She felt the sting of frustration as it seemed to dim, slipping through her fingers like water through a sieve. The dream that had held her was abruptly shattered by a jolt, a rough hand slapping against her cheek, grounding her in the here and now. The haze of her thoughts dissolved into reality, the surroundings stark and tangible – cold, damp concrete mixed with gritty rainwater.

A raspy voice pierced through the fog of confusion. "You okay?"

Lara's eyelids fluttered open, and her gaze settled on the figure before her. "Bouchard?" Her voice emerged hoarse, and she struggled to sit up.

All this while, the crossbow had pressed into her back, a constant presence even during her restless sleep.

She rubbed her sore head as her memories reassembled themselves. "What are you doing here?"

"No time for explanations now, hurry!" Bouchard's urgency resonated like a wake-up call, jolting her fully back to reality.

Her surroundings came into sharper focus. She scanned the area with a mix of anxiety and alertness, realizing that the stranger who had led her here had vanished, leaving only a trace of his presence, like a glimmering fragment of light that lingered momentarily. Instinctively, her fingers closed around the cool, smooth object that had caught her attention, slipping it into her backpack as she rose to her feet and joined Bouchard's side.

"Did you see anyone leaving here?" Her words were hurried, laden with concern.

"No, there was no one," Bouchard replied, his voice tinged with confusion. "Come on, we can't stay out here."

He motioned toward a somber Mercedes nearby, its windows shrouded in a veil of rain. A young driver stood against the car, his complexion turning a shade of pink as the rain-soaked him further. The door on the driver's side was open.

"Bouchard, I have to go back to Von Croy's apartment," Lara insisted, her resolve firm. "There's something I need to check."

"Your friend's place, I understand..." Bouchard's pace slowed a hint of hesitation in his demeanor. "Where is it?"

"Rue Valise," Lara replied. "The Chantell Building. Are you familiar with it?"

Bouchard stole a quick glance down the alley, his unease palpable. "My driver knows the way," he replied, indicating the drenched man. "Get in."

Despite a vague sense of unease, Lara pushed her doubts aside. The rain was now falling more heavily, and the distant wail of sirens grew louder.

Determinedly, she straightened her posture and entered the car. The scent of luxury greeted her as she leaned against the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass like liquid silver. The dampness of her clothes clung to her skin, a constant reminder of the trials she had faced.

Bouchard settled into the seat beside her, his restlessness evident in his fidgety movements – his hands repeatedly finding their way to his knees, tapping on the windowsill, and grazing his chin absentmindedly.

Breaking the silence, Lara's voice cut through the sound of rain. "What were you doing at the Louvre?"

Bouchard's response was curt, his tone revealing only a hint of amusement. "Listening to police chatter on my scanner. You were attracting quite a bit of attention there. I thought you might need assistance."

Lara nodded appreciatively, but beneath the surface, she sensed a reluctance to share the full story.

As if guided by an invisible force, Bouchard's hand found its way onto her knee. The touch was possessive, invoking a mix of discomfort and irritation within her. She adjusted herself subtly, reclaiming her personal space.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to explore somewhere safer than your friend's apartment?" His words held a note of concern, though they also carried an undertone of control.

"I discovered some leads in the Louvre that might connect to Von Croy's death," Lara responded, her expression serious. She placed his hand back onto the seat with a measured gentleness. "I have to investigate his apartment, Bouchard."

The smile on Bouchard's face faded, his lips forming a thin, tense line. "Don't worry. We're nearly there."

The car's pace began to slow, navigating familiar streets that brought the imposing silhouette of the Chantell Building into view. Lara's heart quickened at the sight, anticipation, and apprehension intertwining like vines in her chest.

A cough from Bouchard signaled the car's halt. "There's something you should know. The police frequencies were buzzing with details about another Monstrum killing, this time in Prague."

"Prague?" Lara's unease was palpable. "Not Mathias Vasiley, the dealer?"

Bouchard winced at the mention of the name. "Yes, him. Did you know him?"

"His connections are tied to something I need to find at Von Croy's apartment," Lara revealed, her resolve unwavering. As she reached for the door handle, Bouchard rose from his seat. Their eyes met in silent understanding. "I have to go in alone."

For a fleeting moment, it seemed Bouchard might challenge her decision, but to her relief, he relented, sinking back into his seat. "Alright then, be careful."

A genuine smile graced Lara's lips, weariness momentarily forgotten. "Thank you, Bouchard."

With a casual salute, he settled back into his seat, already engrossed in a conversation on his mobile.

Likely ordering food, she mused. I hope he saves me a slice or two. I'm absolutely famished.

Setting her hunger aside, Lara ascended the stairs leading to Werner's floor. The door stood before her, cocooned in yellow tape like a barrier to another world. With practiced caution, she tore through the tape and slipped inside, the door having been left unlocked. Beams of light cut through the darkness, revealing fragments of a life left behind – a life now forever stilled, like a sleeping form shrouded in blankets.

Lara's heart ached, but she didn't let sorrow or regret consume her. Time was of the essence, and she had a purpose to fulfill.

Lara stood amidst the scene, a mixture of somber determination and growing intrigue coursing through her veins. Her eyes moved with a purpose, absorbing every intricate detail around her. The room felt like a puzzle waiting to be solved, and she was determined to fit every piece together, even as a tide of emotions swelled within her.

The room lay before her like a tableau of chaos. Her feet treaded on the plush carpet, carrying her through the aftermath of what had transpired. The air was heavy with the musty scent of books, mingling with the faint scent of rain and the metallic tang of blood. A muddy stain sprawled beneath a toppled coffee pot, its earthy aroma intermingled with spilled coffee's acrid bitterness. The crockery lay shattered, like a mosaic of broken dreams, strewn haphazardly amidst the remnants of a low table that had borne witness to some unseen tumult.

As if in a daze, armchairs lay sprawled, their posture evoking the confusion of disoriented wrestlers. The atmosphere was one of disarray and disconnection, the world tilted off its axis. Books, once nestled with pride on a stately mahogany shelf, now lay strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers on a battlefield of literature. Their titles beckoned with promises of lost knowledge and enigmatic stories: "Fingerprints of the Gods," "Akhenaten," and "False Prophet, Principles of Egyptian Art." Among them stood the remains of a jade-colored Denby vase, a fragment of beauty juxtaposed against the chaos. Yet, amidst this wreckage, the haunting gaze of Werner's walking cane pierced through the disarray, its silent accusation a specter of the past.

Lara's spine tingled as her gaze locked onto the inlaid jackal's head, its eyes a haunting reminder of the enigmatic Werner. Her mind whirred, contemplating the significance of his possession, a token that seemed to bridge his life with ancient myth. It was an eerie talisman, a link to an age-old battle between good and evil, a juxtaposition that mirrored the complexity of the man she had thought she knew. Her fingers twitched, an involuntary response to the eeriness that lingered, even as her rational mind fought to dispel the unease.

Pushing through the unsettling sensation, Lara approached the window. The curtains danced in rhythm with the breeze, a delicate ballet accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric. The shattered glass pane allowed the outside world to intrude, bringing with it the scent of rain-soaked earth and the distant promise of a storm. A flash of lightning painted ghoulish shadows on the bloodstained wall, the lines and curves of symbols etched in obsidian ink seeming to writhe and beckon like forbidden incantations. Her breath caught, a mixture of trepidation and fascination mingling as she beheld the incomprehensible marks that had held Werner in their grip.

Drawing herself closer, Lara reached out to touch the symbols, her fingers grazing the surface with a mixture of reverence and apprehension. The tinkling of glass shards beneath her touch sent a shiver down her spine, a reaction heightened by the peal of thunder that resonated in her chest. The shattered frame lifted in her hands, its sharp edges a reminder of fragility, both in the physical world and the realm of memory. As the thunderclap faded, her gaze settled upon the photograph that had been concealed by the broken glass, an artifact that carried the weight of shared history.

The photograph spoke of a time long past, a moment crystallized within its borders. Professor Von Croy stood with an air of confidence, a mentor encapsulated in the prime of his expertise. The details came alive before her eyes: the tailored traveling clothes that bespoke refinement, the cream fedora casting a shadow over his features, and his hand resting upon the shoulder of a spirited teenage girl. The girl's expression held a blend of innocence and exuberance, a snapshot of a life unburdened by the shadows that had crept in since. Her brunette hair was woven into playful pigtails, a testament to her youthful curiosity.

A pang of bittersweet nostalgia washed over Lara, memories cascading like a river of moments long cherished. The photograph was a window to their past, a reminder of adventures shared and dreams woven together. Yet, beneath the surface, questions lurked, emotions simmered. What had he truly felt in that moment? What lay behind the mentor's pride and the girl's infectious enthusiasm? The photograph was a doorway to a labyrinth of emotions, a connection that begged to be explored further.

"Fate has a cruel way of intertwining lives," Lara mumbled to herself, her voice carrying a weight that transcended the words.

The irony of the photograph wasn't lost on her—an artifact of their earliest collaboration, a testament to a bond that had now been severed by cruel fate. Her hand trembled slightly as she set the photograph down, the weight of purpose settling upon her shoulders once more. The gilt-vermeil mirror reflected her resolve back at her, a silent challenge to rise above the tide of emotions that threatened to engulf her.

Lara closed her eyes, her lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. She sought to immerse herself fully in the moment, to channel her senses in pursuit of answers. The storm outside mirrored the tempest within her, and she embraced its energy, seeking solace in its chaotic beauty. The thunder reverberated through her bones, a visceral reminder of the night Werner's life had been extinguished. His voice echoed in her mind, a phantom whisper that called forth a myriad of emotions.

She let her olfactory senses guide her, inhaling deeply. The scent of a meal lingered, a memory of Werner's culinary endeavors. The aroma of fish and onions intermingled a fragrance that brought to mind the evenings he had spent crafting meals with care. It was a symphony of flavors, a reminder of shared experiences that had once brought them together. The memories of those moments danced at the edges of her consciousness, a comforting embrace amidst the turmoil of the present.

Her senses deepened, a vivid tableau of sensations unfolding before her. The texture of worn books beneath her fingers, the sensation of the wind's caress against her skin, and the sound of rain tapping against windows. She summoned them all, layering them upon each other, forging a connection to the past that felt almost tangible. The storm's crescendo matched the storm within her, each element weaving together in a symphony of emotions and memories.

But there was more to uncover, secrets buried beneath the surface of perception. Her mind's eye flitted back to the night of Werner's murder, a fragmented reel of images and sounds that had haunted her since. She relived the moment of confrontation, the jab of a gun aimed at her, and the shock that had jolted her awake. The memory was raw, and visceral, and she felt the adrenaline surge even as her eyes remained closed.

Footsteps—their soft yet purposeful rhythm—played in her ears, a haunting melody that left imprints on her soul. The sensation of a strong arm on her shoulder, the force that had swept her aside like a gust of wind, left her dazed and disoriented. Her body had collided with a bookshelf, and the memory of the phantom pain in her shoulder blades brought forth a grimace.

Her mind's eye then transported her to the scene of Werner's final moments. The books at her feet—tumbled and dislodged—had been the aftermath of their struggle. Werner's cry had pierced the air, a sound that echoed with terror, not mere pain. The scene unfolded like a nightmare: the bloodstained rug, the discarded gun, and the antique handgun in her hands. It was a relic of another time, a juxtaposition of history and violence.

Seven bullets were left in the magazine, each a reminder of the choices made that night. The shadowy figure—doubled and distorted—had loomed over her, a specter of malevolence. The memory of the figure's last breath, the sound of a body collapsing, echoed in her mind. Strangled to death, Werner's demise seemed to replay before her, a horror she couldn't shake.

Her eyes shifted upwards, her gaze meeting the ceiling as if seeking solace in its panels. A phantom figure had moved above her, leaving behind a trail of dread and dread. She attempted to piece together the puzzle, to understand the sequence of events that had led to Werner's death. The realization struck like a lightning bolt—her encounter with the Monstrum, a gray-suited figure with eyes that burned with an unnatural fire. He had been there, a silent witness to the tragedy that had unfolded.

Her trembling fingers clenched into fists, her emotions a tempestuous tide. The room spun, and she swayed on unsteady feet. Doubt gnawed at her, a gnawing suspicion that she had been manipulated, that the truth had been obscured. Guilt surged within her, threatening to drown her in its depths. She questioned herself, questioned the choices she had made.

"Why didn't I see it? Why didn't I anticipate it?" she muttered, her voice a mixture of frustration and self-recrimination.

The weight of her emotions threatened to pull her under, and she struggled to maintain her footing. Her heart raced, a torrent of emotions flooding her senses. The room's atmosphere felt oppressive, the scent of blood a constant reminder of the lives that had been shattered within these walls.

Yet, amidst the storm of emotions, a surge of warmth kindled within her. It was a fire of resolve, a beacon of determination that cut through the darkness. Memories of friends, of shared moments, swelled within her. The warmth spread through her limbs, a renewed sense of purpose taking root. She wasn't alone; she carried with her the memories of those who had touched her life.

With a deep breath, Lara's eyes fluttered open, and she found herself once again within the confines of the room. The storm outside raged on, its fury a mirror to her own determination. The curtains billowed and whispered as if bidding her farewell, a silent understanding passing between them.

She straightened her posture, her gaze now unyielding as she focused on the task at hand. The engravings—those elusive symbols that held the key to the truth—remained her priority. The storm within her had found its purpose, a driving force that would guide her forward.

Lara's steps were deliberate, each footfall echoing with purpose. The kitchenette beckoned, its remnants carrying echoes of Werner's presence. The scent of fish lingered in the air, a reminder of his culinary endeavors. The sea bass lay filleted, a testament to his culinary skills, now intertwined with the enigma of his life and death. A magazine about horse racing stood atop the countertop, an unexpected revelation of his interests beyond archaeology.

Lara's ascent up the stairs led her to the bedroom and the shower room. Each space told a story—the bedroom's bland elegance a testament to Werner's reserved nature, the shower room's overflowing bin a poignant reminder of his vulnerabilities. His meticulous grooming had been overshadowed by the looming threat that had become his reality.

With a practical resolve, Lara examined the first aid kit, a lifeline to survival. The contents bore the scars of use, evidence of Werner's struggles against the storm that had ultimately consumed him. She pocketed the kit, a silent acknowledgment passing between her and the memory of its owner.

As Lara stood amidst the remnants of a life now marked by tragedy, the storm outside began to ebb. The rain's pattern faded, and the wind's howl subsided. It was a temporary respite, a pause in the chaos. The room held its secrets, the scent of blood and the weight of emotions still hanging in the air.

In the calm after the storm, Lara's determination burned brighter than ever. The engravings remained hidden, waiting to be unearthed. The truth was a labyrinth, and she was its intrepid explorer, guided by memories and driven by a need for justice. The storm had passed, but its echoes lingered, a testament to the storm that raged within her and the world she was about to uncover.

Nestled within the heart of Paris, the apartment stood as a modest sanctuary, though it paled in comparison to Werner's opulent family estate in Vienna. In one corner, Werner's office space stood, a realm dominated by towering bookshelves and overflowing files that held the secrets of ages.

A triumphant smile played on Lara's lips as she combed through the folders, her fingers tracing the embossed titles. "Eureka," she whispered, her eyes dancing with excitement. Her gaze fell upon the folder labeled 'The Lux Veritatis'. According to Werner, they were a splinter group of the Knights Templar from the 12th century, a clandestine order sworn to obliterate the works of sorcery and alchemy. The revelation that they were also accountable for the downfall of Pieter Van Eckhardt, the Black Alchemist, in the year 1445, sent shivers down her spine.

Her mind connected dots, intertwining the diary entries of the zealous fanatic who had pursued the painting before her. "These pieces fit perfectly," Lara mused aloud.

Delving deeper, Lara uncovered information about the enigmatic Sanglyph. Frustration crept into her voice as she murmured, "The Sanglyph, a relic of tremendous alchemical power... But what purpose does it serve? What's its true essence?"

A deep intuition tugged at her, a whispered connection between the Sanglyph and the Nephilim. Her brow furrowed, contemplative.

With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, Lara continued her exploration of the documents. "The Cabal," she exclaimed, her voice rich with intrigue. The alliance of five alchemists and sorcerers from the 13th and 14th centuries stirred her imagination. "Eckhardt's betrayal and subsequent elimination of most of the Cabal members to control their arcane knowledge... It's a tale of power and manipulation."

Lara could feel the puzzle pieces shifting in her hands, aligning to form a clearer picture. "Eckhardt needed their expertise for something he was unwilling to share. Could it have been the Sanglyph?"

"Yes, perhaps," Lara replied to herself, her tone pensive.

Werner's writings revealed a bitter conflict between the Cabal and the Lux Veritatis, long past the disappearance of Eckhardt in 1445. The imagery of the deteriorated figure she had encountered beneath the Louvre lingered in her mind, suggesting the fervent dedication of Eckhardt's followers to his enigmatic 'Great Work.'

A sudden realization struck like lightning. "Could the Eckhardt Werner was serving be the same individual as the Black Alchemist?" Lara pondered aloud. The notion hung in the air, enticing and disconcerting.

The threads of time seemed to weave together as Lara's thoughts spiraled. "Meeting immortals is no rarity for me," she recalled, her voice tinged with curiosity and apprehension. "But the symmetry between the names and their objectives across centuries... it's almost uncanny."

Her fingers danced across the pages, absorbing the knowledge imprinted in the ink. "The original Eckhardt crafted the Sanglyph and concealed them within the paintings. Now, this contemporary Eckhardt relentlessly hunts for the Paintings, and Werner, dear Werner Von Croy, lived in unending dread of him."

More pages turned, and more theories bloomed. "Werner wasn't the kind to be intimidated easily," Lara mused, her voice colored with skepticism.

Lara's gaze shifted from papers to books, her determination unyielding. "But still, the Sanglyph's true purpose eludes me," she admitted with a hint of frustration.

Her eyes scanned the room, searching for answers. A glint caught her attention: Werner's fax machine. The enigma of the Sanglyph briefly receded, replaced by a pressing query. How had Werner safeguarded something as potent and perilous as the Engravings?

A revelation ignited in her mind – the most effective hiding spot was often the most conspicuous one. "Hidden treasures require discovery," Lara said with an unwavering smile. "And all it takes is a map!"

Lara's fingers reached for the ornate painting adorning the office wall, a rendition of the ancient Silk Road in Persia from the 16th century. Its delicate frame concealed secrets beyond the canvas. As the artwork was lifted, a plain brown envelope slipped free from its hiding place, landing softly in her grasp. Lara crouched, her anticipation palpable. With a gentle motion, she peeled open the envelope, revealing its contents.

Four sepia-toned sketches cascaded onto her palm, etchings that seemed to blur the lines between the visions of Da Vinci and the intricacies of M. C. Escher at his most surreal.

A triumphant grin tugged at Lara's lips. "Found you," she whispered, her fingers tracing the enigmatic sketches that held the key to her unfolding quest.