A Book of Spirits and Thieves

“Sixty years ago, this book appeared in Toronto, out of nowhere. Because of some other . . . strange circumstances in her life, the woman who found it believed it was something she needed to hide from others seeking it. So hide it she did, holding her secret to her chest for years before she trusted my father enough to share it with him.

“My father told me that the moment he saw the Codex, the moment he touched it, he knew that it was incredibly rare and special. He had worked with rare books—so-called grimoires and spell books from many cultures and ages—but he’d never come across something that affected him at first sight as this one did. This language, he believed, could potentially unlock the mysteries of the universe—and could imbue great power on anyone who can read and comprehend such a language. This . . . the Bronze Codex . . . is a book of spells from another world, Miss Hatcher.”

Crys felt the color drain from her face with every word he spoke. Her hands were cold, clammy.

A book of spells. Real magic . . . from another world. Did she believe that?

“What does Markus King have to do with this book?” she asked, breathless.

Dr. Vega placed one palm flat against the binder, his other on top of the paper he’d written. “All I can say is, I know that he wants it and he’s more than willing to kill for it.”

When she didn’t reply right away, the words sticking in her throat at this flat proclamation, he flipped further through the binder to an illustration of what looked like an ornate stone wheel. “Such detail. It’s incredible, don’t you think?”

Crys moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue before she found her voice. “You said this book is not from our world.”

Vega nodded gravely. “That is both my father’s and my hypothesis, yes.”

Crys realized she was clutching the strap of her bag, still slung over her shoulder, so tightly that her fingers had gone numb. She loosened her grip. “Are you talking about outer space and, like, intergalactic travel?”

He shook his head. “No little green men here, Miss Hatcher. Many believe our world to be the only one, but this is arrogant thinking. Then there are those whose minds are open to more flexible possibilities. It would be best and easiest for you to picture these other worlds as . . . parallel dimensions. And I believe the Codex . . .” He caressed the binder as one might do to a lover’s cheek. “It must explicate the means to create a magical gateway between these worlds, which is how it got here in the first place.”

“A magical gateway?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief out of her tone. “You know that sounds crazy, right?”

He nodded now, as if in partial agreement. “So most have told me, but that’s done nothing to change my mind.” He flipped to the middle of the binder. “I’ve studied my father’s notes and sketches for years, and I’ve been poring over these photocopies ever since Jackie sent them to me, giving me my first glimpse at the book itself. This language—just as my father always claimed, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Nothing even comes close. I’m familiar with hundreds of languages, both modern and ancient. I learned ancient Babylonian in a month. I can translate hieroglyphics while simultaneously chewing gum and standing on my head. But this? This is the greatest undertaking of my life.”

“Because you can’t decipher it.”

“Don’t be so quick to assume, Miss Hatcher. Your aunt believes in my abilities; otherwise she never would have shared so many secrets with me. I believe with enough time, I can crack the code. Here.” He touched a page with one large line of script on it, surrounded by hawks and a drawing of a meadow with what looked like a glass city in the distance. “This word. I believe it could be evergreen. Perhaps never-ceasing . . . perpetual . . .” His gaze moved to hers. “Immortal.”

“Immortal,” she repeated, her mouth dry. “Maybe . . . maybe this is all just some sort of a hoax. There have always been con men throughout history who’ve tried to fake one-of-a-kind artifacts, right?”

He actually grinned at that, the maniacal smile of someone who doesn’t sleep much and who compensated for it daily with gallons of caffeine. A quick glance at the professor’s desk confirmed Crys’s hunch: There were multiple coffee mugs and Styrofoam cups strewn across the surface. “A fair assessment, but I know I’m right about this. Down to my very soul, I know.” He flipped forward again and pointed at an illustration of what looked to Crys like a squirrel, but with very long ears. “For example, this particular species does not and has never existed in our world.”

“That’s just a drawing. Mickey Mouse isn’t actually a real mouse, either, you know.”

An edge of annoyance entered his gaze. “You want to deny what I’m saying, but I see in your eyes that you believe it could be true.”