Infinityglass (Hourglass 3)

He was watching me. Raw, unmasked. All that control conquered. Finally.

“Dune,” I whispered back.

His fingers dug into my hips, holding me back, but his expression didn’t change. “A lot of terrible things went down tonight.”

“Yes, they did. Good reason to claim a stake on life, don’t you think?”

“All I can think about is trying to stop this.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me?” I traced the outline of his bottom lip, staring at his mouth. “Are you really going to tell me no?”

“Yes, I want to kiss you. I’m not insane. And who could possibly tell you no?”

I had time to smile before his kisses burned down the column of my throat, across my collarbone. He took my face in his hands, leaned back, and brought my mouth down to his.

I let myself sink into the kiss, into him.

When he rolled me over and covered my body with his own, I lost my breath.

Dune thought he was so quiet, sneaking out of bed. When a 220-pound weight lifted, a girl noticed.

I’d slept enough, but I stayed quiet, letting him think I was still out cold. I had a lot to think about, and he’d spent a good part of the past hour making sure I hadn’t thought at all.

When he shut the door behind him, I opened my eyes. His laptop was open on my desk. I didn’t hesitate.

I clicked on the external hard drive that held all the Infinityglass info. I didn’t look at anything else on his computer. I didn’t want to invade his privacy. I just wanted a quick look at the things that pertained to me that I hadn’t seen yet. No one could fault that.

Especially if I didn’t get caught.

There were carefully labeled folders organized by year, and one with the words time-related objects underneath. I found other folders with lists of links, articles scanned from old newspapers, and thumbnails of pictures, one of which showed an hourglass in a frame made out of human bones. It had been stolen from a museum.

By me.

Others were things I’d never seen or heard of, and while some of them were truly scary, others seemed downright ridiculous. I kept skimming until I found a folder with my initials on it, and then I was overcome by that undeniable feeling of anxiety that arrives when you’re seeing something you shouldn’t.

That didn’t stop me from clicking.

Three other names occupied my desktop file, each with folders of their own.

Two females, one male.

Very little information was provided. One of the girls helped on an archeological dig that took place around the time Tut’s tomb was discovered, in the golden age of archeology. The other worked on a farm, possibly in the United Kingdom, and listed no dates.

The guy’s folder had nothing but a name and a GPS location.

I scanned the rest of the information.

Scientific terms, mathematical equations—gibberish to me. I closed out the hard drive and saw a minimized document I’d missed before. It didn’t even have a title, so it must have been what Dune was typing when I woke up.

There were notes about activation, with more questions than answers, and paragraphs written in another language: what looked like Arabic or Egyptian. There were also photographs of hieroglyphs.

Attempted translations were directly below the pictures, and one phrase in bold jumped off the page.

I read it. Twice.

And went to find Dune.

Dune