Aeromancist - The Beginning (Seven Forbidden Arts 2)

The inner door on the ground floor hallway opened and a small group of women poured into the square. On Thursdays Lann opened his private library to the public. Since its opening a few weeks ago, a steady flow of regulars made use of the unusual privilege. He didn’t give the books out on loan, but the visitors could make use of the downstairs reading rooms until 5pm. He’d been criticized for it by experts, claiming that the books should remain under lock and key, but he’d paid for them and would be damned if he locked such treasures away when all the world should be able to enjoy them.

Resting his hands on the rail, he watched the women without much interest. His mind was elsewhere, on how to handle the unwelcome media exposure. It wasn’t the fact that the journalist had lots to say about his character. It was his old Russian nickname she’d somehow managed to dig up. Weatherman. If anyone knew how he’d acquired the name, he was screwed. He’d have to give up all of this and hide out in New York. Indefinitely. He had no intention of running like a—

His thoughts froze in mid-sentence. Everything came to a standstill as he focused on the person who’d just walked through the door—a redhead with curls hanging down her back, her lush body clad in a purple dress.

He leaned back into the shadows and watched her from his post. The females were unaware of his presence. Mrs. Sullivan, a romantic arts professor who brought a group of students in on Thursdays, touched the redhead’s arm and said something. The group made their way to the library. Everyone except for her. She lingered in front of the statue of Teresa, staring at it in a way that made Lann wish he were that statue. Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up, and their eyes locked. For a charged second neither of them blinked or moved. Nothing but the moment existed, and then she flushed a little and hurried after Mrs. Sullivan.

“Alfonso,” Lann called over his shoulder, not taking his eyes from the retreating form of the female.

“Yes, Sir?” Alfonso said from the door.

“Who’s that woman?” Lann followed her progress until the library door shut behind her.

“The redhead? She comes every week with the student group, Sir.”

Well, hell. All this time she’d been right under his nose. It was enough to make him believe in fate.

“Every week?”

“Yes, Sir. Comes in with Mrs. Sullivan. They arrive at ten, leave for lunch between one and three, and she’s gone with the group at five.”

Lann turned. “When the group leaves, keep her behind and bring her to my office. And find out under what name she signs in.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alfonso said as if Lann had asked him for nothing more extraordinary than heating up his cold tea.Kat was waiting her turn to sign out when a man dressed in a black suit approached her.

He inclined his head and said softly, “Excuse me, Miss. Mr. Dréan requests a word with you before you go.”

Trepidation filled her. There were many rumors about the owner of the monastery, but she also felt a spark of curiosity, and excitement, which she promptly stomped out.

Feigning nonchalance, she asked, “What about?”

“He did not say, Miss.”

Kat turned to Marianne Sullivan with an unspoken question. Instead of reflecting Kat’s concern, Marianne looked enthusiastic.

“That’s a first,” Marianne said under her breath. “No one has actually met him.”

“Why would he want to see me?” Kat whispered.

Marianne shrugged. “I’ll wait for you.”

The man leaned in, joining their discussion in a hushed tone. “It won’t be necessary to wait, Mrs. Sullivan.” When both women lifted their heads quickly, he continued, “I assume it may take a while.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Marianne said. When Kat still hesitated, she nudged her with an elbow. “Go on.” She added with meaning, “Call me tomorrow.”

“This way,” the man said, motioning to the hallway door.

The last person had signed out and the women piled through the door. It shut with a soft click, and then there were only her, the receptionist, and the man standing with his hand extended in the air, indicating the exit she was to follow. The building suddenly seemed very quiet. The receptionist said nothing as she gathered her bag to leave for the day. One look at the man’s stony face told Kat he wasn’t going to budge, so best to get this interview, whatever it was about, over and done with.

They entered the hallway that ran around the inner courtyard. Stone pillars threw long shadows across their path. She always found the inside of the building tranquil, but now it seemed eerily still. Only their footsteps sounded on the polished terracotta tiles as the man escorted her down the southern street-facing hall that formed one leg of Mr. Dréan’s museum of religious arts.