A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“Jackie Kendall told me to come and see you.”


His eyes bugged out. A moment later, he jumped up from his desk and reached the door in three big steps, pulling her farther inside. “Jackie sent you?”

It was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, a complete personality change in a split second. “Yes, I’m . . . I’m Crys Hatcher. Her niece. She said this would be a good time to talk.”

“Why didn’t you say that to begin with?” He pushed the door shut and locked it, then pressed his back against it. “Were you followed?”

The question made her feel queasy. “Uh . . . I don’t think so.”

He went to the small window behind his desk and peered outside, scanning the area before yanking down the blinds. “You must know these things. You must always be vigilant.”

Jackie hadn’t said anything about watching for stalkers—although, she had mentioned self-defense. Was Dr. Vega totally paranoid or was he simply being cautious, like Jackie?

She nudged her glasses back up her nose. “I’ll remember that in the future. Promise.”

He sat down with a heavy thud behind his desk and signaled for her to take a seat on the rather uncomfortable-looking wooden stool across from him. The professor reminded Crys of a youngish Albert Einstein: frazzle-haired, wild-eyed, eccentric.

Hopefully nearly as brilliant.

“Where is Jackie?” he asked.

“In Paris, I think. She’s trying to get here as soon as she can.”

“Really? She’s coming here?” He leaned back in his chair, his expression now wistful. “I haven’t seen her in over a year, not since our last meeting in London. A beautiful woman, your aunt. She’s . . . quite remarkable. I look forward to every e-mail she sends me.”

Crys could practically see the little cartoon hearts popping up over his head. He wouldn’t be the first, or even the fiftieth, man who’d fallen hard for her free spirit of an aunt.

Vega’s frown returned slowly, popping the cartoon hearts like soap bubbles. “Jackie always informs me of any news or changes. She didn’t mention anything about you.” He swept a skeptical gaze over Crys. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Let me see your ID. I have no proof that you are who you say you are.”

Definitely paranoid. She fished around in her bag and pulled out her Sunderland High School student card. “Good enough?”

He pursed his lips as he studied it. “Hmm. I suppose.” He leaned back again and eyed her guardedly. “What do you want?”

How was she supposed to get information from a man whose mood swung so wildly from minute to minute? “Jackie said that you’d give me”—did she really have to say it out loud?—“the . . . full monty on the book.”

The bug eyes returned. He whipped off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his rolled-up shirtsleeve. “She said that? Those words exactly?”

“Um, yes.”

“Does this mean that you have it?” Vega asked, his voice hushed to a hoarse whisper.

“Have what?”

“The Bronze Codex.”

He was speaking another language, and she tried to keep up. “What’s the Bronze . . . ?” And then it clicked. “That’s what the book’s called, isn’t it?”

He drew in a ragged breath. “So you do have it?”

She wasn’t going to admit anything. Not now. “I didn’t say that. Jackie just said you’d tell me what it is and what it can do. Can you do that?” Jackie hadn’t been that specific, but he didn’t have to know that.

“The Bronze Codex is my life’s work. Of course I can.” He stared into her eyes so deeply she thought he might be trying to see her brain. “Very well, if Jackie says the full monty, the full monty’s what you shall get.”

He stood up and went to his bookshelves, then pulled a full set of volumes off a midlevel shelf, tossing them carelessly to the floor. They had hidden a safe behind them. He worked the combination lock until it clicked, then opened the door and pulled out a thick black binder, nothing more extraordinary than something she might carry around at school.

He brought it to his desk and placed it down gently.

“Jackie sent me digital photos of each page when she first acquired it.” He flipped through the photos, and Crys watched with amazement as images of the pages that had been burned into her memory flitted across her eyes as three-hole-punched black-and-white printouts. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“You said it’s your life’s work.”

He nodded. “It was my father’s obsession first. The Codex was brought to him by its original owner many years ago for an initial assessment of the language and origins. My father named it the Bronze Codex, after the bronze hawk on its cover, a symbol that is repeated on twenty-four of its pages.” He flipped through the binder, brushing his index finger over every hawk illustration he came across.