A.k.a. Goddess. Evelyn Vaughn
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own magic cup,” Sofie finished, pacing me. “The older I got, the more lame a going-away present that seemed.”
“Yeah, well, that’s allegory for you.” Both Sofie and I were in good shape; our breathing stayed regular. “Did you read in the paper last week about an ancient goblet that was destroyed in the National Museum of New Delhi, India?”
“Nope.”
“It wasn’t a big news item, so it would be easy to miss—”
She stopped, right there in the stairwell. “A goblet?”
“The Kali Cup,” I said, breathing just a bit harder. “Or chalice or grail. Scholars believed this cup was used in ancient ceremonies worshipping the goddess Kali. But it was destroyed—smashed—before it could go on display.”
I’d felt actual pain, deep in my gut, when I read that.
“And you think that was a magic chalice sent out with some great queen’s daughter?” Sofie blinked. “Reality check. That’s just a fairy tale.”
“I used to think that, too. But if you had to pass along information in a way that would seem harmless to the people in power, what better form than fairy tales and nursery rhymes?”
She started climbing again, absorbing it all. “You’re saying the Great Queen story was true.”
I said, “All I know for sure is that since my cousin and I started looking, we’ve found a lot of women who were raised the way you and I were—‘circle to circle.’ With the Kali Cup gone, we’re starting to wonder if some people weren’t raised to hate or fear those chalices.”
“Why?” she asked. “Unless they’re really magic, I mean. History can’t hurt anybody.”
I held up a cautious hand as we emerged onto the third floor. Emergency lights cast the long hallway into shadows, brightened only by the red eye of an exit sign.
I whispered, “Tell that to my great-aunt Brigitte.”
We made our way down the dark hallway, past the occasional row of plastic chairs. My office stood at the far end, so we got to pass all the other doors—all the possible hiding places. None of the doors had a window, even a peephole.
Taking a deep breath to slow my pulse, I slipped my key into the lock and turned it.
Sofie caught my hand. “Let me.”
Since she was the one with the gun, I nodded. I stepped back while she pressed a shoulder against the doorjamb, crooked her arm so that her pistol pointed toward the acoustic ceiling tiles, slowly turned the knob—
And burst into the office in one abrupt, practiced move. “Police!”
Her shout bounced back down the hallway. Nothing.
I peeked around the jamb, relieved. It was just my office, darker than usual and straightened up for the summer break.
No books strewn across the floor. No computer monitor lying on its face. No mysterious bad guy lurking in the darkness.
With a last look around the office, Sofie holstered her weapon. “That plays better when there’s a perp waiting.”
I went in, turning on the light. “Better you than me. I never much liked guns. Weapons are too patriarchal.”
She grunted, stepped inside, and examined my décor—a framed illumination of Chaucer’s Wife of Bath from Canterbury Tales; stone fleur-de-lis over the window; an imitation suit of armor in the corner with a mortarboard balanced on his tin head.
Above the inside of the door hung a slim, sheathed sword, not quite Asian enough to clash with the rest of the office.
Sofie looked meaningfully back at me.
I shrugged. “Well, we do live in a patriarchy now.”
I reached for the power button on my CPU, to check my files—then abruptly stopped, opening my hand to splay it across the computer case.
Wait a minute.
Warmth tickled my palm. “Someone’s been here.”
“What?” Even as she asked it, Sofie’s head came up and she was on guard again, glancing more closely at the filing cabinets, the bookshelves, the knight.
Anything that might hide an intruder.
“It’s warm.” I straightened, leaving the computer alone. “Someone was just here.”
I switched off the lights and went to the window. My office overlooked the campus quadrangle, not the parking lot. Still, the walkways were wide enough that service vehicles could use them for maintenance.
And sure enough—
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered, staring down at the dark car that waited smugly, not fifty feet from the building.
In a moment Sofie stood beside me. “Plymouth. Current model. Looks empty. I can’t see the license from this high up.”
“Then we need to get back down.” Now. A few minutes ago.
“Let me go first,” she said, heading for the door.
She stopped when I opened the window and said, “No.”
My office was too far from the stairway. It made sense to hurry. What if the car left before we made it down?
Leaning out, I had to really stretch, balancing on my stomach across the sill to reach the drainpipe I knew was there. Good thing I’d stretched out by swimming laps tonight.
“Are you crazy?” demanded Sofie.
I’d seen students climb this pipe more than once, despite regulations and safety concerns. I knew it would hold my weight. Probably. Then again, here I was grasping a copper drainpipe as I eased my knees out a window into sheer air, three stories up. So was I crazy?
Who knows? I’ve been wrong before.
I centered and balanced in order to slowly raise myself, then precariously stand on the windowsill. I touched the top of the sash for balance, then slowly shifted my center of gravity across to the drainpipe, my chest brushing ivy-laced brick. Just before the step of no return, I remembered that I was wearing sandals. I caught the heel strap of each on the inside of the windowsill to pull them off, one at a time.
One fell into the office. The other slid out the window, spinning in freefall down into the hedge at the base of the building, three floors below me.
Yeah. Gulp.
Not that I could’ve gotten back in if I’d wanted to. By now, gravity had pretty much committed me. Tightening my hold on the pipe, I swung my feet and knees across to straddle it. My toe caught on an edge of ivy. Stone bit into my soles. For a brief moment I simply clung there, deepening my breathing.
I’m in pretty good shape, but there’s a reason chin-ups measure men’s strength better than women’s.
Aunt Bridge, I thought firmly, breathing strength into my arms as I glanced down at the mysterious car. Sons of bitches.
Holding the pipe with my knees, I let go with one hand to reach down. I slid some—mostly controlled—then reached down with the other hand. The copper pipe felt cool and coarse under my palms as I descended, hand under hand. My arms vibrated with the strain, and my knees dragged against brick and ivy. I looked up and saw my window empty; Sofie had vanished. I looked down and couldn’t see where my sandal had landed.
Within ten feet of the ground I thought, Close enough. I probably could have slid—like a fireman’s pole but with ridges. Instead I pushed away in a leap and landed in a low, shock-absorbing crouch.
My bare feet safe on manicured grass, I straightened and spun for a better look at the dark car’s license plate. X1—
Then something hard pressed against the base of my skull—something