Peter jumped hard, back into the bookshelf, and whatever Abe was saying with that cool, impassive face of his had Peter paling dramatically. Henry walked over quickly, let me in as he checked to make sure we hadn’t been noticed. He flicked the switch next to the door, blanketing the store in near darkness. A backroom light cast an eerie glow through the space.
Behind Henry, I caught the flying, graceful movements of Delilah, who put my own hand-to-hand skills to an instant shame. Within a minute, Peter was trussed up and immobilized. Although he was furious.
She slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth. Shrugged.
“Well done,” Abe said, pulling a chair in front of Peter. He sat with a kind of elegance, crossing his legs like we had all the time in the world. Henry and Delilah were fanning out, searching. I wasn’t convinced a whole team of Dresden security guards weren’t about to stream—
“Oh, goddammit,” I said as our three best Dresden friends came in through the same back entrance and launched themselves at us with frightening speed. Peter was yelling behind his duct tape as Delilah and Henry tag-teamed the first guard, taking him to the ground with ease.
With that same elegance, Abe stood, picked up his chair, and walloped the second guard across the back. Delilah threw tape across the room, and Abe bit a piece off to restrain his wrists.
The third guard was my old pal Linebacker. The moment he threw himself at me, I pepper-sprayed him—again. Then picked up the closest hardcover book and smacked him across the face with it. Delilah kicked his knees out, sending him to the ground before subduing him.
“Nice moves,” I said. She was breathing hard, hair a bit mussed, but other than that still looked gorgeous in her gown.
“Not so bad yourself.” She winked.
“She’s always had a Xena Warrior Princess vibe going on,” Henry told me.
“So three guards,” Delilah panted. “And no emergency button, as far as I could see. Which means Peter has this place watched. They must have seen us enter and followed behind.”
Peter was still staring at us with wide eyes as the guards wiggled like giant fish nearby. Abe kicked the chair out of the way and crouched in front of the man.
“I don’t know what your actual name is, Peter. I do know that two months ago, in Philadelphia, you masqueraded as an intern at The Franklin Museum where you stole the George Sand letters. And helped to steal a rare first edition of Don Quixote from Dr. Bradley Ward. And I’m going to guess that you know where the hell Bernard Allerton is.”
Peter’s entire body shook until he composed himself, lifting his chin and glaring defiantly.
“Abe.”
Delilah’s voice was thick with emotion. She stood in front of a giant bookshelf with the words The Great Game scrawled in elegant cursive over the top. All three of us were there in an instant. Delilah was breathing quickly, fingers shaking as she reached for the books.
“It’s an entire Arthur Conan Doyle collection,” she said. “And this row right here is just copies of The Hound of the Baskervilles.”
Henry and Delilah exchanged a shocked look.
“What?” Abe said sharply.
“The last time Henry and I encountered a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles,” she said. “A secret passageway appeared behind a bookshelf.”
45
Abe
I crouched down next to Delilah, tracing the row of thirteen red spines.
“Where?” I asked. “At Victoria’s?”
Henry blew out a breath. “The way that Delilah and I accessed Victoria’s secret passageways was by pulling a book from her bookshelf. It unlocked the door and sprang it open. The Hound of the Baskervilles is Bernard’s favorite. He…” Henry cleared his throat. “He would always talk about Victoria whenever he was handling that book. We had a rare first edition at the McMaster’s Library he was unbearably proud of.”
I turned from my prone position and stared at Sloane. Her eyes dazzled with pure excitement. “Any guess why there are thirteen of them?”
“Thirteen members of The Empty House,” Henry said. “Bernard loves his symbols.”
Sloane dropped next to me, cupped my face with her palm. “Together.”
I struggled to swallow past this rising emotion—that even if searching for Bernard turned up fruitless, meeting this woman, trusting this woman, falling for this woman was actually bigger, bolder and much more beautiful.
“Together,” I repeated.
I pulled the first book. Nothing.
“It’s only because I’m nervous,” Henry said. “But I feel compelled to share with everyone the relevance of the name of this bookstore.”
“Irene Adler, the woman, right?” I said to Henry.
Sloane pulled the second and third book. The fourth book. The fifth book.
Nothing. Her lips pressed into a grim line.
I pulled the sixth book and the seventh.
“Exactly,” Henry said. “And she only ever appeared to Sherlock Holmes in disguise. Hiding in plain sight. He never saw her as she truly was.”
Hiding in plain sight. I looked over at Sloane.
The eleventh book. The twelfth book.
Nothing.
Delilah squeezed Henry’s hand.
Sloane hooked her finger into the thirteenth copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and pulled it. Waited—every single one of us holding our breath.
The entire bookshelf creaked open.
“Oh my god,” Sloane whispered.
An intense calm settled through my body in that vital moment, a total clearing of my nerves and my racing thoughts. I remembered ten years ago, a file landing on my desk with the research I’d requested on a famous librarian in England that didn’t seem quite right. Four years ago, starting Codex and wondering if I’d ever have the chance to go after him for real. One year ago, sitting in front of a guilt-stricken Henry as he nervously shared his remarkable story.
And one week ago, meeting Sloane at the lecture, both of us leaning forward in our seats at the name Bernard Allerton.
I grabbed Sloane’s hand and stood slowly. Peter and the guards were making loud, wild sounds behind their tape. Behind the secret door was a narrow, shadowy hallway.
I held out my palm to Henry and Delilah, who were primed for immediate action. I mouthed wait.
Sloane and I slipped between the gap and into the hallway. It was wall-papered, and on the wall hung old black-and-white photos I couldn’t make out. We reached a warm light, an open door, a large living room.
There was a fireplace. An expensive-looking sofa. Built-in shelves filled with novels. An open bottle of expensive whiskey.
And sitting in a high-backed chair, book open on his knee, was Bernard.
I blinked, sure it was a mirage. But Bernard remained in focus, staring at Sloane and me like we were minor annoyances.
He was that fucking confident.
Sloane and I stood, silent and shocked.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he said, in his dignified British accent. “Sit, sit. I can’t have the great Abraham Royal in my home away from home and not offer him the finest whiskey on the market.”
If Henry and Delilah had called the police, we’d need only a few minutes to keep him in place. So Sloane and I sat down for whiskey. With a famous con man.