Welcome to the Dream (A Celeste Cross Book, #1) (3 page)

‘
That's it. If the texts we
retrieved from that mausoleum are right, then there may be a stash
of Solomon Clarke's commentaries, maybe even some of his old
equipment too. And you know the Yaoguai, you know how they operate.
If Clarke had some kind of old relic, they could still be infecting
it. All you need is for one of those historians to accidentally
dislodged a stone we didn't scan properly, find some
innocuous-looking cross, and then—’ Gustaf began.

‘
I've got the picture,’ Jack
interrupted, voice brusque. ‘And you're right, this is a threat.
We'll have to send someone after it. Any suggestions?’

‘
Cindy? You know she's been
raring to go since Panama.’ Gustaf swung around in his chair again.
‘We can send her in, make it fairly easy. She can do some
preliminary recon, and if she finds anything, we can call in a
team. Like I said, there's no real threat at this stage, just the
possibility of one. It's your call.’

Jack paused. He needed to
think about this one. His first reaction was to say he'd deal with
it on his own. That was his first reaction to everything. Yet the
threat of the Yaoguai had taught him one thing: it was too big for
just him to handle. That was why he led a team. That was why he had
Squire. He had to rely on everyone else. So yeah, maybe Cindy was a
good idea. She was a fantastic operative, very intelligent, and had
faced off against her fair share of Yaoguai. She'd be just the
right person to put on the ground to figure out if this was a real
threat or not. Whilst she could get a bit fiery, she'd do what was
needed.

Jack nodded. ‘Do it. But keep me
posted.’

‘
Aren't you meant to be having a
meeting with the head of NATO tonight?’ Gustaf grabbed at the cold
cup of coffee next to his keyboard and took a slow sip. For some
reason the crazy Frenchman always liked it tepid, and preferably
with bits of biscuit floating in it from where he'd dunked them,
the residue falling to the bottom in a stodgy mess.

‘
Yes I am. But this is a
priority. I've had more than enough experience with Solomon
Clarke's legacy to know not to take this lightly. So you have full
authorization to interrupt that meeting.’ Jack nodded down at
Gustaf, the move abrupt.

A wry smile slowly moved across
Gustaf's face. ‘You know there are plenty of other teams out there,
plenty of other guys who could deal with this, right?’

‘
Squire is the best, and Squire
is my team, so I'm going to deal with it.’ With that, Jack turned
on his foot and walked out of the room.

He had a couple of things to
deal with before his meeting tonight, just a couple of chores. If
at any point he got the call from Cindy, he would suit up and he
would head out. Gresham City was his town, and he wasn't ever going
to forget that.

Celeste Cross

Celeste brushed a strand of
hair from her face. She leaned down, hands resting on her knees.
The torn hems of her loose jeans trailed in the dirt. She'd been
planning to take them up for months now.

She wanted to say something
intelligent, but her brain wasn't playing nice. Instead she made a
show of looking intently at the carved rock below her.

‘
This is the only stone of its
kind in the whole church. It's been dated to the 11th century. Some
historians believe it was taken from Jerusalem during the First
Crusade. How it got here, though, is a mystery.’ The tour guide, a
squat man in his late fifties, wandered around the group as they
all knelt there on the dirty stone floor.

Probably by
boat.
Celeste thought as
she resisted the urge to brush her fingers over the carvings; she's
just had an ice cream, and half of it had melted over her in the
heat.
Unless
it swam all the way here on its own.

‘
Many historians believe it
depicts a demon,’ the guide continued.

One of the other tourists, a
woman with wiry red hair and Roman sandals, punched her hand in the
air, obviously keen to ask a question.

Celeste chuckled. There was
something about tour groups that brought out the kindergarten kid
in everyone.

She zoned out and looked
back at the stone below her. The carving was rough, the strokes
deep and wide in the worn-down rock. If you tipped your head at the
right angle, you could almost see a creature. Almost.
Whoever thinks this
looks like a demon, has been watching too much TV.
Celeste thought as she pushed
herself up, knees creaking. She stretched her back out, planting
her hands on her hips and leaning backwards. Her eyes drifted to
the ceiling above. The church was old, all sandstone, oak, and
iron. It had been sold off to the National Register of Historic
Places when the upkeep had become too costly for the local parish.
Now the only foot traffic it saw was of the socks and sandals
variety; tourists hungry for a nice, cool building to escape the
sun.

Celeste twisted her
shoulders back, making the most of her stretch. As she did,
something caught her eye: there was a carving on the oak bearer
above. She peered at it, eventually giving up, grabbing at the
camera in her bag, using the zoom so she could bring the image
close enough to identify it.

It was a Star of
David.

It was rough and burnt into
one of the giant oak beams that ran lengthwise through the ceiling,
stabilizing the roof.

Her lips parted open gently,
her nose crumpling up. What was a Star of David doing in a
Christian Church?

Somebody jostled into her,
and Celeste straightened up.

‘
Now onto the graveyard. The
architect of this church is buried just aside. Originally an
English Monk, Solomon Clarke came to our fair shores as an
immigrant.’ The tour guide motioned them on through the
church.

Celeste fell to the back of
the group, taking a moment to stare up at the vault
again.

To be honest, she wasn't one
for tours. She preferred exploring on her own. There was something
about the droning voice of the guide that made her
sleepy.

She cast her gaze once more
to the ceiling, nose crumpling as she wondered what the star was
doing up there.

‘
Keep up,’ the tour guide
shouted, his voice echoing through the cavernous
building.

‘
Why isn't he buried in the
crypt?’ the wiry redhead shot up her hand again.

‘
While this church does have a
crypt, it was never used.’ The guide pulled one of the large,
stained, oak doors open, leading the group outside.

A blast of heat buffeted
against Celeste's face, and she wiped the back of her hand over her
brow.

‘
Why wasn't the crypt used?’ the
red-head's voice was quick with interest.

‘
Solomon Clarke was, to put it
nicely, a pedant. He spent 20 years designing and building this
church. He obviously had some vision in mind, but unfortunately
that vision was never fully realized. He spent a lot of his time on
the crypt, but before the church was opened, he walled it off.’ The
guide removed his hat and passed this hand down his face, gathering
the perspiration as he went, wiping his hand on a handkerchief that
he drew from his trouser pocket.

‘
But it was recently opened,
right?’ the redhead continued. She stood very straight, body
balanced and poised. Though everyone else was reeling under the
heat, her clear skin looked pristine - not a bead of sweat
visible.

She must be
used to hot weather.
Celeste reasoned as she flicked her long ponytail over her
shoulder, exposing her sweaty neck to the air.

‘
That's right,’ the guide parked
the group in the relative cover of a giant, well-leafed
oak.

Celeste found herself moving
around the side until she could press her back into the trunk,
resting against it. She wasn't good in heat. She hated it. If it
was cold, she could always wrestle into a massive jacket or turn
the heating on. But there was nothing you could do in heat like
this, save flop under an air con and wait for it to end.

‘
Will we be going to the crypt on
this tour?’ the red-head's eyes narrowed with obvious
interest.

‘
Unfortunately not. The crypt was
only opened up several months ago, when the church was released to
the National Register of Historic Places. Ever since then, it’s
been studied by a team of historians and archaeologists. Solomon
Clarke was an influential commentator on a number of ancient texts,
and this building is the only extant example of his foray into
architecture.’ The guide grabbed a water bottle from his bag,
unscrewed the white cap with his thick fingers, and took several
gulps.

‘
Is there any way to arrange a
tour of the crypt?’ the redhead stood with one hand on her hip, her
neck angled to the side.

She seems way
too interested in this crypt.
Celeste thought as she rubbed her eyes.

‘
You could contact the head
historian—’ the guide began.

‘
I'll get the details off you
after the tour,’ the redhead didn't wait for the guy to
finish.

‘
On with the tour then,’ the
guide said quickly.

Celeste cast her eyes over
the redhead as she pushed off the back of the tree, the exposed
skin of her arms sticking to the bark unpleasantly. It really was
horribly hot. But seriously, that woman didn't seem to be sweating
at all. She simply looked perfectly poised, collected, and
ridiculously professional, considering this was just a tour
group.

I wonder what
she does.
Celeste
thought as she plunged a hand into her bag, searching around until
she found her sunglasses and crammed them on her face. It was such
a bright day that her poor eyes was starting to sting. Why she'd
decided to spend the afternoon trotting along on a tour of a
church, she couldn't quite figure out any more. Seriously, this was
suicide; she was so hot and sticky. And if redhead kept on
interrupting, they'd be here forever.

When Celeste had seen the
little brochure advertising this group, she'd thought spending the
afternoon in a very cool, massive stone building was just the thing
to do. Now she was regretting it. Now she was wondering why she
hadn't just climbed in her car to spend the afternoon trying to
find the house she was meant to be looking after. That would have
been a productive use of her time. On the other hand, buying an ice
cream, having it melt all the way down her arm, and sweltering in
the sun in a graveyard was just as horrible as it
sounded.

Still, it was kind of nice
to learn about the history of the town, considering she was meant
to be saying here for a couple of months. When she'd agreed to
house sit for a friend of her mothers, Celeste had jumped at the
opportunity. Gresham City was all the way on the other side of the
State, and was meant to be an incredible spot. It had massive,
spruce-filled forests leading down to a rocky, beach-covered
coastline. It was meant to have a lot of history too, a lot of old
buildings, a lot of ruins to explore on cool summer mornings. Plus,
the house she was meant to be looking after was fantastic. The
owner, Susie, had sent several photos by email. A beautiful
three-story place that looked over a field that lead down to its
very own beach.

It would be perfect for
Celeste. She worked from home as a freelance programmer, so it was
easy enough to take work with her. And the chance to combine that
with a holiday, seemed far too good to pass up.

‘
This is the headstone of Solomon
Clarke himself,’ the tour guide walked around a fairly
plain-looking tombstone, then he rested his hand reverently on top
of it. ‘Despite Solomon's achievements, and despite his eye for
detail, you will note that when it came to death, he received no
fancy headstone or personal crypt. Just a plain headstone was good
enough for a man of God.’

Celeste glanced over at the
age-worn stone before her. His name and the year of his death were
carved into it, though now they were hard to make out, as years of
weather had worn them down, caking the engraving with mud and
dust.

The redhead immediately
leant down, coming as close to the tombstone as she could without
actually standing on the grave.

Not for the first time,
Celeste caught herself wondering just what Miss Redhead did for a
living. And, more importantly, why she was so damn interested in
Solomon Clarke and his crypt.

Celeste ran a hand over her
neck. It felt hot and sticky, and she just knew it was sunburnt.
She was covered in sweat too; the blue singlet she'd stripped down
to was unpleasantly wet under along her back. The second she got to
the house, she was going to have a shower, a long and cold one.
Then maybe she was going to head down to the beach.

‘
We usually tour around the
entire graveyard, as many historically significant citizens of
Gresham City were buried here. However, because of the heat,’ the
tour guide stuck a finger into his collar and pulled it away from
his neck, ‘I think it best we retire inside.’

There was almost a cheer
from the group, and Celeste practically pushed herself into a run
as she headed back to the cool church before her. That didn't stop
her from noticing that Miss Redhead stayed behind, casting a hand
down the carved tombstone of Solomon Clarke. She watched as her
fingers traced the letters of his name.