The Expected One by Kathleen McGowan Page B

what he is up to,” the Englishman snapped. He picked up a hardcover book from the table and shook it at the two men. “I’ve read it twice. There’s nothing new here, nothing at all that could be of interest to us. Or to him. So what is it? Do either of you have any thoughts on this at all? Or am I talking to myself?”
    The Englishman tossed the book onto the table with obvious disdain. The American picked it up and thumbed through it absently.
    The American stopped at the inside cover and looked at the photograph of the author. “She’s cute. Maybe that’s all it is.”
    The Englishman scoffed.
Typical ridiculous Yank, missing the point.
He had always objected to American members in the Guild, but this idiot was from a wealthy family connected to their legacy and they were stuck with him.
    “With Sinclair’s money and power, he has far more than ‘cute’ at his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day. His playboy exploits are legendary in Britain and the Continent. No, there is something other than a romp going on with this girl, and I expect the two of you to figure it out. Fast.”
    “I’m almost certain he believes she’s the Shepherdess, but I’ll know soon enough,” asserted the Frenchman. “I’m traveling to the Languedoc this weekend.”
    “This weekend is too late,” snapped the Englishman. “Leave no later than tomorrow. Today would be preferable. There is a time element here, as you well know.”
    “She has red hair,” observed the American.
    The Englishman growled. “Any tart with twenty euros and an inclination can have red hair. Get in there and find out why she matters. Fast. Because if Sinclair finds what he is looking for before we do…”
    He didn’t finish his sentence; he didn’t have to. The others knew exactly what would happen then, knew what had happened the last time someone from the wrong side got too close. The American man was particularly squeamish, and the thought of the red-haired author without her head made him very uncomfortable.
    The American picked up the copy of Maureen’s book from the table, tucked it under his arm, and followed his French companion out into the glaring Paris sunlight.

    When his underlings were gone, the Englishman, who had been baptized with the name John Simon Cromwell, rose from the table and walked to the rear of the basement. Around the corner and out of view from the main room was a shallow alcove. Within the space was a heavy cabinet made of dark wood; a small altar sat to the right of the fixture. A single kneeler made room for one supplicant before the altar.
    There were wrought-iron fixtures on the doors of the cabinet, and the lower compartment was protected by an oppressive-looking lock. The Englishman reached into his shirt to find the key he wore around his neck. Kneeling, he applied the key to the weighty lock and opened the lower cabinet.
    He extracted two items. First, he took out a bottle of what appeared to be holy water, which he poured into a golden font that rested on the altar. Next, he removed a small but ornate reliquary.
    Cromwell placed the reliquary gently on the altar and dipped his hands into the water. He rubbed the water into his neck with both palms and said an invocation as he did so. Then he held the reliquary at eye level. Through a tiny window in the otherwise solid gold box, a glint of what looked like ivory was visible. Long, narrow, and notched, the human bone rattled in its casket as the Englishman peered at it. He clutched the bone to his chest and said a fervent prayer.
    “O great Teacher of Righteousness, know that I will not fail you. But we beseech that you help us. Help us who seek the truth. Help us who live only to serve your exalted name.
    “Most of all, help us to keep the whore in her place.”

    The American, alone now, walked down the rue de Rivoli and shouted over the noise of Paris traffic into his cell phone.
    “We can’t wait any longer. He’s a complete renegade, totally out of