“Not according to my friend, Nicodème.”

“I tried to buy it from him. It belongs to my family. Your friend, Nicodème, bought it a few years ago in Paris at an auction house once half owned by my family. The box should have never been placed for sale. Someone did that hoping I wouldn’t notice. But I did. It’s how I knew your friend owned it.”

“And who would do that?”

“That’s what I am trying to find out.” He motioned to the knapsack. “May I?”

I recalled the gun from the shop. “Where’s your weapon?”

“Inside the sack.”

I bent down, unzipped the top, and fished out the pistol.

“It’s not loaded,” he said.

I ejected the magazine and checked the chamber. No rounds anywhere.

“I just wanted to scare him,” he said.

I watched as he dug into the sack and came out with a sheaf of papers, the letterhead from the Louvre in Paris. He handed them over. I shielded them from the rain and read.

France 16th century, TRAVELING SABBAT CABINET WITH VARIOUS SEMI-PRECIOUS STONES SET IN GOLD BEZELS, inscribed in pen: 240588 - and with illegible inscriptions to the rosewood exterior with an etched iron lock and iron handles and hinges. The interior is inlaid with ivory and marquetry in the central compartment. There are a total of 15 compartments, 10 of them containing glass bottles possibly as old as 5th century. The contents of the bottles include oils and dried herbs not as yet identified. Owner François Lussac.

I knew the name.

The Lussac château and vineyard dated back to the 15th century. Some of the best cognac came from their label thanks to the sunshine, humidity, and the chalky reddish soil close to the marshes of southern France.

“François Lussac was my father,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

He seemed recovered from the assault and tossed me a semblance of a smile. “Do you have a name?”

“Cassiopeia Vitt.”

“I’m Antoine Lussac,” he said. “Not Peter Hildick-Smith. I thought it better to use an alias.”

“Is your family related to the Lussac family who owns the château in the Cognac Valley?”

He nodded. “My older brother and I run the vineyard. Are you familiar with our brandy?”

“I am, and I’m even more familiar with the château. I’ve been studying medieval architecture for years.”

His eyes lit. “Cassiopeia Vitt. Of course. I’ve read about your castle project and seen pictures. Quite an undertaking. I wish you could have met my father. He was obsessed with ancient buildings and spent a fortune restoring ours. Just like you, everything had to be original and period correct. That’s how we came to own the Sabbat Box.” He pointed at the knapsack. “He found it during an excavation of a cave on our property, about ten years ago.”

He reached back inside and removed the box, cradling it with great care. I noticed the same inlay of stones—amethysts, moonstones, garnets, and sapphires(from when I first saw it back at the shop.

He opened the lid.

As the document from the Louvre had described, inside were compartments, each one holding a thick glass bottle dotted with bubbles and flaws. Another compartment held two small copper funnels, green with age, and another contained some uneven glass pipettes. A crisscross of wood protected each bottle, proved by the fact that during the entire run through Eze and down the mountain everything had remained intact. I examined the inside lid where a leather portfolio held bits of old paper, now decayed.

“We think there were once formulas recorded there,” he said.

On the lower front were two iron pulls. I tried them, opening a drawer containing more tools. A small mortar and pestle, a knife, and an iron pan with scorch marks on its underside.

I closed the drawer. “This is extraordinary.”

“It is. But don’t uncork any of the bottles. Oddly, the scents are still potent. Five years ago we were doing research on them when the box disappeared. Then, as we now know, it found its way into the auction.” He pointed to one. “I can attest to the fact that this bottle contains fumes with some kind of hallucinogenic properties. I experienced a wild vision when I made the mistake of taking a sniff.”

Something about the box, the stones on top, the thick glass bottles, the iron corners, even the drawer, gave me pause. As if it were familiar, yet not. The feeling had started back in the shop, before the theft, while it had sat on the counter. There’d been no time to explore those feelings before all the excitement intervened.

But now—

A thought raced through my brain.

Somehow I knew that there should be vellum labels affixed to the bottom of each bottle. How? Why? I had no idea. Only that it was true. I gently touched one of them, then stopped and looked at Antoine. “May I take it out, if I don’t open it?”

He nodded.

I had to see if I was right.

I lifted out the bottle. Underneath was a label. Discolored and deteriorated with age. A word, written in a sepia script, had faded but could still be read.

Belladonna.

I replaced the bottle and reached for another.

Even before I lifted it out I knew that under it would be Diospyros.

And I was right.

I removed a third, but before I could peek beneath it I heard the grating sound of stones being ground beneath the soles of shoes and turned to see a man leaping toward me. Antoine shoved the newcomer away, then shouted for me to grab the box and run. Before I could move, a booted foot made contact with my arm. Somehow, I kept hold of the bottle in my

grasp, but I was driven down to the wet ground. I tried to recoil and go on the offensive but another blow found my brow.

Red hot pain exploded across my skull.

Then, nothing.

Chapter 3

A great hall surrounds me, along with revelers indulging in food and wine, all celebrating the night before the last day of the new year’s celebration. But I’m tired of the merriment and retire to my room.

“Are you ready for bed, my lady?” my maid asks as I enter the chamber.

“More than I can say.”

I sit before the fire in the hearth and the older woman unbraids my hair, then removes my broach. I stand and I’m helped out of my heavy robes and into my night dress. Not some sack of harsh wool that peasants are forced to endure. This is silk. A shimmering red sheer. The maid withdraws to hang the dress and I climb into bed. Beside me on the nightstand sits a cup of honeyed milk. My favorite. The warm, sweet liquid always calms me.

I lie in the bed, beneath the comforter.

Sleep comes quickly.

Perhaps tonight there will be a new message.

Dreams are the Sorcerer’s tool. A way of him avoiding the perils of travel, to send a message which cannot be ignored. Always, the message glows inside my head. Bright. Vibrant. Alive. With sound and smell. Even sensations. Especially the sensations. And the music. Played on a rebec and an organ, the odd combination of the stringed instrument and pipes one of the Sorceror’s ways to alert my subconscious to pay attention. When the dreams first started I told myself I was a woman worthy of honor and respect. Not an old man’s messenger. But I have come to welcome the visions.

Light and music appear inside my brain and I am standing by the gates to a fortress. No. The gates of my fortress. Snow falls. I feel the brisk air and the tinkle of the flakes as they dissolve on my skin. A dozen men on horseback are fast approaching. No faces are clear. Just outlines. They keep coming, riding at full gallop, but never really venture any closer.

Tags: Steve Berry Cassiopeia Vitt Mystery
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