Page 89 of The Devouring Time

“James?” Myers’s eyebrows lift. “You’ve got to be a lot more specific than that, pal.”

“James Olden! My business partner. My…my friend.”

“Oh, the guy Mr. Hart was expecting instead of you, that day at Hart’s Leap.” Myers shrugs. “Boss thought he might be getting suspicious and didn’t want the two of you to have a chat. You were supposed to stay in the dark about it all, but we didn’t count on the investigator here coming back to be a pain in our asses.”

Adrian glares at him but doesn’t say anything to provoke the gangster. I sit in silence, absorbing the fact that James had begun to wonder about my behavior in a way that made the cult nervous for us to meet again. Maybe he hadn’t completely lost faith in me, after all.

And now he’s dead and will never know why his friend and partner suddenly changed. Just as Bianca’s family never knew. She’d wanted so badly to get back to her son, had fought so hard, only to lose him anyway.

“Where are you taking us?” Helen asks. Mary sits on her other side, still seeming dazed, though I can’t tell if she’s faking it or not.

“To the boss. I figure he and Hart can find some use for you.” Myers shrugs. “And if not, we’ll kill you.”

60

I have to stop thinking about those already dead and start worrying about the living. We need to get out of this situation…but how?

My mind grasps at any scenario it can conjure—rushing them, trying to get past and jump out the back of the truck, screaming at the top of my lungs in hopes some pedestrian hears and alerts the police before the ice truck is too far away…

None of them seem likely to succeed, and all are guaranteed to leave at least one of us bleeding out on the floor.

The truck makes a series of turns, then begins to pick up speed. We’re leaving the town proper behind and heading out into the countryside. Before long, the vehicle slows again, and the track becomes more and more rough. We’re bounced against the floor, the wall, and one another, until at last it comes to a stop.

The door swings open, revealing bright daylight glinting off sand studded with rocky outcroppings, waves lapping at the beach just beyond. “This is as far as we can go in the truck,” Myers says. “Get out and walk. If you try any funny stuff, I’ll fill you with daylight.”

We have no choice but to obey. Mary takes a few unsteady steps away, but one of the men grabs her by the shoulder and puts his knife at the level of her kidney. “You and I are sticking together, doll.”

Myers nods approvingly. “Any of the rest of you try something, Mike here will gut the broad.”

He leads us north along the beach for what feels like miles. To our left, the land rises, until ragged cliffs rear high above us. As it does so, the beach narrows further and further. Judging by the strands of kelp and tidal pools between the rocks, this stretch is only accessible at low tide. A stiff wind brings the scent of rock and salt.

Sand almost immediately gets into my shoes, the tiny particles rubbing against tender skin. I want to stop and empty them, but I doubt Myers will let me.

The ruins of an enormous building perch along the clifftop, and I realize some of the boulders are actually chunks of fallen masonry. Some disaster took place here, though at least it doesn’t seem to have occurred recently.

“Stormhaven Cove,” Helen says. “Of course.” Seeing my confusion, she adds, “That was a lunatic asylum up on the cliff, but it fell into the ocean before I was even born. But before that, I’m told it was a smuggler’s den.”

“And it is again.” Myers sounds satisfied by the fact. “Now that bootlegging is so profitable.”

A sea cave—that’s why the rocks looked slick with moisture when Bianca and I reached through time. Perfect for bootleggers, or the smugglers before them, to hide their ill-gotten gains. When the tide is up, a shallow-bottomed boat could probably ferry cargo back and forth to a larger vessel with relative ease.

My guess proves right when a crack in the rock comes into view, tucked into the cliff face in a way that renders it nearly invisible until we’re almost on top of it. Men with guns lurk in the shadows to either side; they nod to Myers as we pass.

The interior of the cave is a rough split in the rock, formed by some ancient convulsion of the earth, its edges smoothed by centuries of tides. It doesn’t look to flood completely, judging by the line of algae that ends about three feet from the sand-covered floor, though presumably king tides and storms force the water higher. The air is chilly here out of the sun, and the roar of the ocean recedes rapidly, blocked by the stone.

After a few twists and turns, the jagged rock walls retreat, and we step into a far larger space. Torches burn all along the walls, and under any other circumstances I’d be enraptured by the natural beauty of the place. Now, however…

The cavern has been transformed into a temple similar to that beneath the pharmacy back in New York City. There are the two long tables, the seven symbols inlaid in a mosaic embedded within the stone floor.

Sunlight streams down through a large gap in the ceiling, probably torn open by whatever cataclysm destroyed the building above us. But rather than highlighting a throne at the end of the mosaic path, it glints off the bulbs, gauges, and tubes of Dr. Dane’s machine.

Zebulon Hart’s wizened form sits at the head of one of the tables, closest to the machine. On the table before him is an old tome bound in red morocco with gilt ornamentation along the spine.

Adrian lets out a soft gasp at the sight. “The Key of Mithras,” he murmurs. “Hart had it all along.”

At the table across from Hart sits a dark-haired man I don’t recognize. Both of them wear robes like the ones we saw in the pharmacy’s basement. They seem to be talking to a thin blonde woman wearing coveralls…and Dr. Dane.

Dr. Dane, who was so interested in speaking with the Swarm. Who wanted access to the Key of Mithras to complete her machine.