hundreds of years now. Many of the artifacts you can see in the museum are fakes but the real items are down here, a source of ancient power we are still investigating. You’d know the public face of the agency as the ARKANE Institute.”
Morgan ran her fingers along one of the dark wooden cabinets, her eyes widening at the name.
“I’ve been to some of the ARKANE conferences. I thought it was just an academic collective for research and publication.”
Jake smiled as they reached a large wooden door at the end of the hall.
“That’s just the official version. Welcome to the other side of ARKANE.”
He opened the door and Morgan gasped as she walked onto a small balcony overlooking five more levels below her with large glass windows opened to the lightwell. Each level had workstations with different artifacts spotlighted upon them, and equipment for dating and analyzing. The place was empty now, but she could see that during the day it was a working lab combining technology with ancient manuscripts to fathom the secrets these objects held.
“I knew there were levels below Oxford, as I’ve been in the stacks under the Bodleian library, but how could this all be kept secret?” she asked Jake. He grinned, raking his hands through his dark hair, tiredness evident in his eyes.
“There’s a whole city beneath Oxford, chambers of secrets from down the ages. Some were hollowed out by the early monks and used for teachings banned in the University, and others for the secret societies that have always flourished in the company of powerful men. Occult knowledge has always needed its protectors and the ARKANE Institute is just one in a long line. The secrets are only known to a few, but now you need to know about this particular one because the stone you’re wearing puts you in danger.”
Morgan touched the worn leather around her neck.
“So what’s going on? We need to protect Faye and her family if those men are coming for the stones. We each have one.”
Jake indicated the stairs leading down into the complex.
“A team is on the way to her house now so she and her family will be safe, but we need to talk. Come down to the research center and I’ll tell you what we know about these stones and why the timeline is so critical.”
Woodstock. Near Oxford, England.
May 18, 10.32pm
David Price took another long sip of the Chilean pinot noir. It was his third glass and only now was some kind of inspiration starting to swirl around him. This was becoming a habit. He frowned and put the glass down, trying to concentrate on the sermon in front of him. Even though the parish was small, he owed them the best he could give, even if some liquid stimulation was needed to write his thoughts these days. His flock relied on him to give them something to think about on Sundays and he was also trying to improve his speaking so he might be invited to lecture at larger parishes and conferences.
It was difficult to reconcile a certain amount of ambition with the call to humility his profession demanded. He preferred to frame his aspiration as the desire to share the wisdom of God with more people, but he knew his deeper motivations. The pulpit was a powerful place to stand, to feel both physical and spiritual authority. He reveled in being the center of attention for that short time each week, to feel the gaze of the parishioners on him and to look back into their eyes, some questioning, some devoted. If he was honest, there were eyes he sought to look into more often, God forgive him. If only the Church of England had something like Catholic confession, where he could repent, do penance and move on. Then he could believe his sins were washed clean every week. But his personal relationship with God had stalled, and so his sins were piling up in front of him.
David shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts that cluttered his mind. He was reaching the edge between insight and
Morgan ran her fingers along one of the dark wooden cabinets, her eyes widening at the name.
“I’ve been to some of the ARKANE conferences. I thought it was just an academic collective for research and publication.”
Jake smiled as they reached a large wooden door at the end of the hall.
“That’s just the official version. Welcome to the other side of ARKANE.”
He opened the door and Morgan gasped as she walked onto a small balcony overlooking five more levels below her with large glass windows opened to the lightwell. Each level had workstations with different artifacts spotlighted upon them, and equipment for dating and analyzing. The place was empty now, but she could see that during the day it was a working lab combining technology with ancient manuscripts to fathom the secrets these objects held.
“I knew there were levels below Oxford, as I’ve been in the stacks under the Bodleian library, but how could this all be kept secret?” she asked Jake. He grinned, raking his hands through his dark hair, tiredness evident in his eyes.
“There’s a whole city beneath Oxford, chambers of secrets from down the ages. Some were hollowed out by the early monks and used for teachings banned in the University, and others for the secret societies that have always flourished in the company of powerful men. Occult knowledge has always needed its protectors and the ARKANE Institute is just one in a long line. The secrets are only known to a few, but now you need to know about this particular one because the stone you’re wearing puts you in danger.”
Morgan touched the worn leather around her neck.
“So what’s going on? We need to protect Faye and her family if those men are coming for the stones. We each have one.”
Jake indicated the stairs leading down into the complex.
“A team is on the way to her house now so she and her family will be safe, but we need to talk. Come down to the research center and I’ll tell you what we know about these stones and why the timeline is so critical.”
Woodstock. Near Oxford, England.
May 18, 10.32pm
David Price took another long sip of the Chilean pinot noir. It was his third glass and only now was some kind of inspiration starting to swirl around him. This was becoming a habit. He frowned and put the glass down, trying to concentrate on the sermon in front of him. Even though the parish was small, he owed them the best he could give, even if some liquid stimulation was needed to write his thoughts these days. His flock relied on him to give them something to think about on Sundays and he was also trying to improve his speaking so he might be invited to lecture at larger parishes and conferences.
It was difficult to reconcile a certain amount of ambition with the call to humility his profession demanded. He preferred to frame his aspiration as the desire to share the wisdom of God with more people, but he knew his deeper motivations. The pulpit was a powerful place to stand, to feel both physical and spiritual authority. He reveled in being the center of attention for that short time each week, to feel the gaze of the parishioners on him and to look back into their eyes, some questioning, some devoted. If he was honest, there were eyes he sought to look into more often, God forgive him. If only the Church of England had something like Catholic confession, where he could repent, do penance and move on. Then he could believe his sins were washed clean every week. But his personal relationship with God had stalled, and so his sins were piling up in front of him.
David shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts that cluttered his mind. He was reaching the edge between insight and
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