Crypt of Bone

Chapter 1

1

Oxford, England. 6.43am

The verdant green of summer was intensified by the rain that pounded down. It darkened the day, shadowing the earth in cloud.

Morgan Sierra ran through the gates of the University Parks by Keble College, her stride lengthening as she headed towards the river Cherwell. In the distance she could hear the rumbling of thunder as it grew closer and lightning forked towards her from the north. This was her favorite time to run. When most people hurried inside, she quickly changed into her gear and sprinted towards the storm. She had always been a chaser of violent weather. It thrilled her to move over the earth connected to this power of Nature, yet it was rare to have such tropical storms in England. This was a country of gentle rolling hills and soft rain that pattered onto the leaves of spreading oak trees. English rain was persistent but rarely violent so this was an event to be savored.

The rain made the ground slippery and Morgan was soaked through, t-shirt slick against her skin. She was more a thing of water than of air, her breathing even and pace strong as she raced through the park. She came out at St Catherine’s College, crossed the river and continued towards Magdalen Bridge. Oak trees shaded the path, a canopy of mottled jade, leaves open to the rain. Morgan splashed through puddles, a smile growing wider on her face. Sprinting now, she pushed herself as hard as she could along the towpath until she finally reached the crossing point at Magdalen.

Panting, she stopped to catch her breath, skin cooling in the downpour. I needed this, she thought. I need to push myself physically to feel alive. A nagging part of her knew that her attraction to ARKANE lay in this acknowledged truth. She had felt alive during the search for the Pentecost stones and then the Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience Institute had offered her a job. That had been almost a month ago and still she couldn’t decide her response.

Morgan ran on through the Botanical Gardens towards the junction where the Cherwell met the Isis, that part of the Thames that belonged to Oxford. Running helped her think, gave her body something to do while she mentally processed. The storm was a bonus, a way to hide and also to clear the paths of Oxford which heaved with tourists in the summer months.

She had thought about resurrecting her clinical psychology practice, but the problems of individual patients no longer seemed as challenging as the mysteries that ARKANE agents were investigating. She was distracted and it showed in her patient numbers. The University was quiet over the summer months, when she was meant to be writing scientific papers and improving her academic standing. But the work seemed insignificant in the face of almost losing her sister and niece.

At the thought of little Gemma, Morgan ran harder, her love and fear needing the outlet. She would do it all again to keep them safe.

Then there were the memories of the firefight in her office. ARKANE had done a great job of clearing up the bodies and repairing her furniture, but her Jungian mandala was forever stained with dark blood and her bookcases pockmarked with bullet-holes.

Morgan knew that she should be more affected by the deaths, by her own ability to kill. It was self-defense, but she had felt the thrill of battle again. Some people just didn’t get post traumatic stress; she knew that academically as a psychologist. Those types of people made excellent soldiers, accomplished assassins. Perhaps not brilliant academics. She thought of her father then. He too had loved the rain and the storms. Living in Israel, rain had been so precious. Through the back-breaking work of Jewish immigrants, they had made the desert bloom, the kibbutzim a family of life-bringers. Her father would have been so proud of her place at Oxford, but then he had also been desperately proud of her place in the Israeli Defense Force.

She smiled. He would have approved of a warrior academic.

Morgan emerged onto the Isis river bank at the end of Christchurch meadow as the storm broke over her head. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rolled past immediately. Cattle in the meadow huddled together under the trees, heads down. Local swans floated in loving pairs on the river, splattered by huge drops of rain. Ripples overlapped each other, spreading out to slap against the side of canal boats tethered on the banks, their bright shutters closed against the deluge. Morgan ran up the wide pathway towards Christchurch College, the power in the storm transferred to her through the crackling air. She recognized that the energy she felt now, the exhilaration, was what she had felt working with ARKANE and with Jake Timber.

Catching her breath again, Morgan set off at an easier pace towards the imposing college and again considered her options. Going back to the practice in the last few weeks had felt more like an end than a new beginning. Working with ARKANE would give her the chance she needed to develop her skills further and it would give her access to their unique and diverse material. Morgan smiled to herself, and thought, let’s face it, clinical practice just isn’t as exciting as exploring the spiritual mysteries of the world.

She had spent nights dreaming of the underground vault that ARKANE kept hidden under London’s Trafalgar Square. There were mysteries locked away down there, a kaleidoscope of mankind’s spiritual history. She had a chance to be part of that world. She only had to pick up the phone to call Director Marietti. But part of her still stung from the betrayal and the secrets they had kept from her, the fight she had with Jake. Yet he still haunted her dreams as well. Sometimes she woke from a vivid dream of them together, physical violence morphing into passionate s*x. She hadn’t heard from him since she had walked away from the ARKANE vault. Perhaps he never thought of her at all.

The storm was retreating now, thunder taking longer between the lightning strikes. Even the rain was easing to a gentler refrain. Now that the frenzy of the storm had passed, the city was washed and shone in the morning sun. Morgan jogged towards Walton Street, her pace slowing. She had always dreamed of working at Oxford. Now she was a respected academic at this great University, with her own private clinical practice. She was close to her family.

How could it be any better than this? So why did she feel so conflicted?