Lucifer's Triangle: The Trove Chronicles, #1

By N. S. Wikarski

During the untold millennia before patriarchy was conceived, the world was a very different place. Nothing concealed stays buried forever.

• For Fans of Archaeology Adventure and Historical Thrillers
• New Adventures from the World of the Arkana

THE TROVE CHRONICLES
For centuries, the Arkana's antiquarians have sifted the planet, continent by continent, retrieving artifacts that reveal humanity's lost past. They preserve the legacy of a world before chronic warfare, enslavement, and female subjugation. That world might yet return. The Arkana's mission continues in The Trove Chronicles.

 

Lucifer's Triangle

In a city where belief means everything, putting your faith in the wrong person can get you killed.
 

Two Arkana agents are sent to Jerusalem on a standard artifact retrieval mission. What could possibly go wrong? Absolutely everything. The agents find themselves enmeshed in a confusing suicide bomb plot where they can't tell who or what is being targeted for destruction. That's because the mastermind pulling the strings is as devious as the devil himself, and he wants nothing more than to see the whole world go up in flames.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Northgate Press
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223655480

N. S. Wikarski

Nancy Wikarski is a fugitive from academia. After earning her Ph.D. from the University of Chicago, she worked in corporate America for two decades before becoming a historical fiction author. Her books primarily highlight the unknown elements of women's history. In her Arkana series, she foregrounds the latest archaeological discoveries about pre-patriarchal cultures around the planet and weaves these facts into fictional treasure hunt mysteries. Her Gilded Age Chicago books depict the real issues of first-wave feminism while following the fictional adventures of two amateur sleuths. Both her series have been award-nominated and have ranked on Amazon's bestseller lists. The author is a member of ALLi, Mystery Writers of America, the Society of Midland Authors, and has served as vice president of Sisters in Crime-Twin Cities and on the programming board of the Chicago chapter. Her short stories have appeared in Futures Magazine and DIME Anthology, while her book reviews and essays have been featured in Murder: Past Tense, Deadly Pleasures, and Mystery Readers Journal. She is currently writing an Arkana spinoff series called The Trove Chronicles that will continue to feature discoveries about global pre-patriarchal cultures. More mysteries from the casebook of Gilded Age detectives Evangeline LeClair and Freddie Simpson are also in the works.

Book preview

Prelude—The Arkana Backstory

FOR CENTURIES, THE Arkana’s antiquarians have sifted the planet, continent by continent, retrieving artifacts that reveal humanity’s lost past. They preserve the legacy of a world before chronic warfare, enslavement, and female subjugation. That world might yet return. The Arkana's mission continues in The Trove Chronicles.

Chapter 1—Prospects

Tower of David, The Citadel—Old City of Jerusalem, Israel

A MAN WEARING A DARK business suit, white dress shirt, and very expensive designer tie strolled over to the edge of the observation deck topping the Tower of David. It was the highest point in the old city of Jerusalem and afforded a view for miles in every direction. He removed his sunglasses and took a moment to enjoy the fine spring morning. It was still too early for the incessant buzz of tourists who would arrive in a few hours to inspect every nook and cranny of the old city. At this time of day, it was almost possible to believe that the place belonged entirely to him. He savored the notion, albeit briefly. In reality, the city belonged to the world and its three fractious monotheistic religions.

This tiny patch of rocky ground took up an immense amount of space in the minds of millions of people, as it had for millennia. These days, it was the most hotly contested piece of real estate on the planet. Then again, the ownership of Jerusalem had always been hotly contested by somebody or other. During the past three thousand years, it had changed hands almost fifty times. It had also been besieged more than twenty times and completely destroyed at least twice, courtesy of the Babylonians and Romans. Such dismal statistics made Jerusalem a veritable Bermuda Triangle of manmade catastrophes.  That was because nobody who lived here ever got along with anybody else who wanted to live here.

The businessman shook his head in wry disbelief at the absurdity of it all. After allowing his gaze to travel across the contours of the old city, he contemplated the way that this minuscule piece of ground had been divided even further among its various factions. Aside from the ancient wall that separated it from the rest of the town, the old city had segmented itself into four distinct quarters—each one belonging to a different monotheistic sect. The northeast quadrant was inhabited by Muslims. The southeast quarter belonged to the Jews. The northwest corner had been claimed by the Christians, with the area to the south of them being occupied by Armenians. Strictly speaking, the Armenians were also Christian, but their flavor of Christianity didn’t seem to pair well with the rest.

The four quarters taken together amounted to one-third of a square mile of land crowded with 37,000 inhabitants. The population density was higher than Hong Kong’s, which was ridiculous considering the hostility that prevailed here. People living at close quarters ought to get along better with each other than this lot. Instead, the city’s residents behaved like chickens in overcrowded battery cages, trying to peck the eyes out of any other chickens who got too close. In Hebrew, Jerusalem meant city of peace. Never was any metropolis on earth more inappropriately named.

The businessman narrowed his gaze to focus on the epicenter of the controversy. He studied the beams of sunlight glinting off the golden Dome of the Rock on Temple Mount. If Old Jerusalem’s one-third mile of limestone was fiercely contested by the Abrahamic religions, Temple Mount was the flashpoint for their hostility. The site had been doomed to thousands of years of bloodshed because someone long ago had made the colossal semantic mistake of calling it holy.

He leaned his elbows on the citadel’s parapet to consider the situation. Temple Mount was a lopsided rectangle measuring roughly 300 by 500 yards. It took up one-sixth of the old city and was administered in a ludicrously contorted way to appease the touchy, religion-infused political sensibilities of the inhabitants. Order was maintained by the Israeli police, but the structures on the mount itself were managed by the Islamic Waqf. Only Muslims were allowed to worship on the mount, but that rule was repeatedly tested by the city’s Orthodox Jews. Simmering religious resentments aside, the mount seemed quite peaceful this morning. The man squinted in the glare from the golden dome and slipped his sunglasses back on.

Of course, he knew how deceiving appearances could be. He himself was living proof of that adage. Anyone who chanced to notice him would see an average-looking, thirty-something businessman with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. One might easily assume he worked in an office nearby. That assessment was partially true. He was a businessman, and he was about to start his workday. However, he didn’t follow a profession as mundane as banking or law. His true vocation lay in stirring up trouble, and he was a master of his craft. After their last successful venture, Akeem had taken to calling him an agent provocateur. He liked the title. It had a certain bygone elegance to it.

Aside from that colorful descriptor, most of his current contacts knew him as Lucifer. He realized the pseudonym was a ridiculous cliche. Still, he liked the flair of it. He valued flair because it was the one trait that someone in his line of work couldn’t afford to display. That was ironic since his current venture might amplify his fame to legendary proportions among his prospective clientele. But he was getting ahead of himself. He needed to arrange all the details first. Lucifer had already zeroed in on some toy soldiers who would be perfect for this mission. Next, he needed to muster them and get them marching in the right direction before Akeem would feel inclined to greenlight his proposal.

Lucifer allowed his gaze to travel to the hills surrounding the old city. He could hear car horns honking below as motorists navigated the congested thoroughfares. Locals and tourists crawled the streets below him like ants. It was all so ordinary. A scene like this might be taking place in thousands of urban areas across the world. Jerusalem, for the moment, was maintaining its precarious balance. He marveled at how easily that balance could be destroyed. Just a whisper in the right ear, and voila—a fresh sense of outrage to stoke a fresh conflagration. Religious intolerance made such wonderful kindling. He visualized a change sweeping across the quiet landscape beneath him. In his mind’s eye, he saw a city in flames. Yes, if all went as planned, Jerusalem would burn. He fancied that Lucifer Senior, if he existed at all, might smile at the prospect.

Chapter 2—After Party

The Arkana Vault—Northern Chicago Exurbs,

United States

CASSIE FORSYTHE SPED around the final curve on the dirt road leading to the schoolhouse, bumped across the wide lawn, and unceremoniously slapped on her brakes, parking next to the pines that bordered the clearing. If she’d had time, she would have gone around the property and parked in the underground garage, but she didn’t have time. She knew she was late. She was always late for these things—for most things, in fact. It had gotten to be a joke among her teammates.

Cassie pulled down the car’s sun visor makeup mirror to hastily scan her appearance. Choppy chin-length brunette hair, check. Opaque grey eyes that everybody found so fascinating. Ugh. Check. Proportional features covered with just the right amount of makeup. Check. She paused to survey the full effect. Some people called her pretty. Others had even used the word beautiful. She rolled her eyes and flipped the mirror shut. She couldn’t see it.

Climbing out of the car, she crossed the lawn in a hurry. Today was the kick-off for a major Arkana event. It was early April, and even though spring could be a temperamental season in the Midwest, the weather was cooperating. The sky was sunny; the temperature was in the sixties, and birds were chirping everywhere. People had spilled out of doors and across the grass, all of them talking, laughing, and eating.

Cassie headed purposefully toward the old white schoolhouse that dominated the little clearing in the woods. On its surface, it looked like a slice of small-town Americana left over from the nineteenth century. Its builders could never have foreseen that someday it would be the headquarters for an organization intent on preserving the archaeological record of lost civilizations around the planet. Its underground vault contained a catalog of the contents of every Arkana trove in the world. These were the collection points for ancient artifacts that flatly contradicted mainstream history and its overlord values.

Cassie checked her watch. It was half-past four in the afternoon, and she’d already missed the welcoming ceremony. Waving distractedly to familiar faces among the crowd on the lawn, she skipped up the stairs to the front vestibule. Its doors were usually locked, but today they were flung open in an uncharacteristic gesture of welcome. She entered the schoolhouse proper, which had been converted into a general meeting area decades earlier. The stained-glass windows gracing the walls shed multi-colored shadows of nature scenes across the floor.

Well, look who finally showed up.

Cassie swung around to see a tall, olive-skinned woman regarding her with an air of mild amusement. This was the Arkana’s formidable operations director, Maddie. Her official title was Chatelaine, or keeper of the castle keys. Obviously, the name hearkened back to the days when the Arkana was still in its sixteenth-century infancy. Maddie didn’t need a fancy title to assert her authority. Her ample proportions, colorful apparel, and burgundy hair tended to make her stand out in a room. She coupled her flamboyant appearance with a forthright manner that told everyone who was in charge. Aside from her forcefulness, Maddie could also be fiercely protective of the people who worked for her. Her staff secretly called her Mama Kodiak when she was out of earshot.

Maddie grinned at Cassie. Running true to form. Aren’t you, kiddo?

Cassie shrugged. I couldn’t help it. I got stuck in downtown traffic on my way back from Rhonda’s shop.

Rhonda? Maddie drew a blank.

My sister Sybil’s business partner. You ought to remember her since you were the one who whisked her out of town before Leroy Hunt could get his hands on her.

Oh, right. I thought we set her up in an antique shop in San Francisco to keep her out of harm’s way.

We did, Cassie agreed. But now that the Nephilim have been squished, and Hunt has gone to the eternal reward of all dead hitmen, I told her it would be safe to come back. She did so well with the shop on the West Coast that she’s expanding into another antique gallery off the Mag Mile.

Good for her. Maddie nodded approvingly. Are you still a partner in that biz?

Yeah. After Sybil died, Rhonda took me on as her silent partner. I haven’t been so silent lately since I’m helping her set the place up. Veering abruptly to another topic, Cassie asked, Did I miss anything important?

Not much. Faye gave her big welcome speech half an hour ago.

Cassie noticed that the schoolhouse was packed with more people than she had ever seen at any past meeting of the Concordance.

Maddie followed her gaze. Yup. Everybody who’s anybody is here. And they all brought a plus one.

Cassie noted that the immense round table in the center of the room, usually reserved for the governing body of the Arkana, was now filled to overflowing with a buffet of exotic delicacies. Many of the attendees had converted the bleacher seats that lined the walls into an impromptu snack bar. Waiters were passing among the guests offering hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne.

Since when do we cater? Cassie registered bemusement.

Some of the tyros volunteered to be the wait staff for the day. Maddie was referring to the apprentice agents whose training she managed.

Volunteered, Cassie echoed dubiously.

Maddie gave an airy wave of her hand. More or less. She patted her pants pocket. I need to go outside for a smoke. I just saw Griffin a minute ago. He was asking around for you. You should go look for him. With that, the chain-smoking chatelaine drifted toward the door, muttering to herself as she dug into another pocket, searching for her lighter.

Cassie only stood five feet tall, so craning her neck to see over people’s heads to find Griffin was useless. She decided to wander until she bumped into someone who might have seen him. While looking over her shoulder, she collided with the equally diminutive Faye, nearly causing her to spill a glass of champagne.

Oh, my. The elderly woman raised her hand to her heart.

Jeez, Faye! I’m so sorry.

No harm done, my dear. Faye dabbed at her brocade coat dress with a napkin. She was the closest thing to a leader that the Arkana had. Her official title was Memory Guardian, and she had been overseeing the organization for so long that nobody could remember how old she really was. As was typical for formal occasions, she was decked out like the Queen of England, pillbox hat and all. Ordinarily, when receiving company at her farmhouse, Faye preferred cotton housedresses splattered with garish posies.

I see that you just arrived. Her cornflower-blue eyes twinkled.

Cassie flushed slightly with embarrassment. In a room crammed with hundreds of people, you still don’t miss anything, do you.

But the pythia’s arrival is a noteworthy occasion, Faye demurred. Several overseas visitors who’ve never met you yet have been whispering and pointing.

Cassie winced at the observation. She wasn’t comfortable with the fuss people made about her role in the organization. She possessed telemetric abilities that allowed her to touch an artifact and psychically connect with its past. This skill was indispensable for validating archaeological finds. It had become even more critical in beating the Nephilim to the Sage Stone on a previous mission.

I missed your welcome speech, didn’t I? Cassie asked guiltily.

It wasn’t really anything you needed to hear. I regaled our visitors with the story of how we defeated the Blessed Nephilim once and for all. Since you were a participant in that drama, I hardly think you would have benefited from a recap.

Oh. The pythia felt vaguely relieved. You know, nobody ever explained why we waited months after that smackdown to hold a victory party.

As you know, we are a far-flung organization.

Tell me about it. Cassie flashed back to her many globe-trotting adventures to troves on every continent except Antarctica.

Well, it took some time to coordinate this affair since so many people were involved. It couldn’t be managed on short notice. Aside from that, Faye glanced up at the sunlight streaming through the windows, it seemed to me that spring would be a particularly appropriate season for a new beginning. Today is just the opening ceremony for a weeklong conference to plot our future course. The Arkana is entering a grand new era. Now that the Nephilim have been defeated once and for all, we can think about something other than defense and survival.

No kidding! Cassie agreed. Take it from me. Dodging somebody who’s trying to kill you on a daily basis can seriously cut into your free time.

Faye chuckled appreciatively. She gestured toward the waiters circulating with trays. Why don’t you join me in a glass of champagne to celebrate?

Sounds good. Now that I’m twenty-two, nobody bothers to card me anymore. Cassie glanced around, noticing a waiter walking toward them with a full tray of champagne. I’ll take one, please. She reached for a glass before she noticed who the waiter was. Zach!

Hey, Cassie. A spiky-haired teenager greeted her cheerfully. In a slightly quieter voice, he added, Hey, Gamma.

Hello, my dear boy. Faye smiled at him warmly. Zach was one of her descendants, though she was so elderly that she generally referred to him as her great-great-something-or-other grandson because she couldn’t remember which generation he was. Unlike all of Faye’s other family, Zach had been admitted into the Arkana and was now training as a tyro.

So, Maddie roped you into waiting on guests? Cassie took a sip from the glass now in her hand.

It was either that or kitchen duty. Zach gave a wry grin. At least I get to talk to people this way.

The sound of classical music wafted gently through the room and out onto the lawn.

When did we get speakers? the pythia asked in surprise.

That was my idea, Zach announced proudly. I told Maddie that we needed something to liven this place up if we were planning a major shindig. I expected a hard pass since she usually shoots down my ideas the minute I open my mouth, but she said it was okay. He shifted the tray to his other hand. Well, I better get busy before She Who Must Be Obeyed starts growling at me. See ya. Giving his ancestor a parting smile, he turned on his heel and cruised off toward the far end of the room.

At that moment, one of the visiting trove keepers from Oceania cornered Faye with an urgent question, so Cassie moved on in the direction of the buffet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik encircled by a group of female admirers. In his late twenties, with blond hair, green eyes, and a muscular build, he was definitely a chick magnet. Cassie noted that Erik had gotten his California surfer-dude act down cold, which was probably why she’d nicknamed him Dude. Why he’d countered by calling her Toots was anybody’s guess.

Cassie and Erik had gotten off to a rocky start after he was forced to act as the security coordinator for her first mission. His contempt soon turned to appreciation for her abilities as a field agent, which led in turn to a brief romantic fling a few years later. His official title was Paladin, the pythia’s protector, though she hadn’t needed protecting from the bad guys for a very long time now.

Erik noticed her studying him and broke into a grin. He shrugged as if to say, It is what it is, toots. I’m catnip for the ladies.

Cassie simply shook her head and smiled as she walked away. She’d traded up for better. Speaking of which, she spied a familiar figure threading his way through the crowd to intercept her.

Hello, my love. Griffin gazed down at her with an adoring puppy dog expression that always made her heart melt.

Hey, you. Cassie raised up on tiptoe to kiss him lightly.

Shortly after their final confrontation with the Nephilim, they had admitted their feelings for each other. Months later, they were still in the process of figuring out what that meant.

Griffin stood about six feet tall with curly chestnut hair and soulful hazel eyes. The pythia thought he was good looking but telling him so always seemed to embarrass him. In his mid-twenties, he was the youngest director of the Central Catalog that the Arkana had ever appointed. His official title was Chief Scrivener, again hearkening back to the Arkana’s early roots. With typical British diffidence, he couldn’t bring himself to admit just how brilliant he was, but his intellectual abilities made him the perfect partner in the field for Cassie and her intuitive skills.

Were you able to get Rhonda sorted? he asked.

For now. Cassie sighed. It’s going to take weeks to organize the shop. At least it’s a change from sitting in my office and validating artifacts. She paused to give the scrivener a searching look. Admit it. Don’t you miss the danger sometimes?

Griffin stared at her as if she’d suddenly begun speaking Urdu. Danger? he echoed, perplexed.

You know. The good old days. Cassie smiled briefly at the memory. Running all over the planet just to keep one step ahead of Leroy Hunt and the Nephilim. Living by our wits. Snatching victory out of the jaws of defeat. Your standard hero stuff.

The scrivener remained speechless for several seconds before he touched Cassie’s forehead with an air of concern. Have you recently suffered a blow to the head? Should I escort you to the vault infirmary?

She scowled in mock anger. All right. You’ve made your point.

What you’re describing sounds perfectly dreadful. I didn’t like it the first time we risked life and limb. I certainly wouldn’t care to repeat the experience.

But don’t you ever get bored? Cassie persisted.

Griffin gave a wistful smile. Boredom is my friend, and I am loath to part with it. I love my books, and I love the catalog, and I love you. Not necessarily in that order. He squeezed her hand affectionately.

You’re changing the subject. Cassie wrapped an arm around his waist.

Oh, look who’s here. Griffin pointed off in the distance.

You ought to know by now that trying to distract me never works.

No, really. It’s our Nephilim allies.

Cassie looked toward the vestibule and saw Daniel Metcalf walking in their direction, accompanied by his partner Chris. They both brightened at the sight of Griffin and Cassie.

At last, a familiar face, exclaimed Chris, treating them to one of his 1000-watt smiles. He reminded Cassie of the paintings of angels she’d seen as a child—all flowing golden hair, trailing clouds of grace and glory.

Why are all the handsomest men gay? she asked, accepting a peck on the cheek from Chris.

The librarian shook Griffin’s hand. You’re lucky I play for the other team. Otherwise, I might be tempted to steal her away from you.

Then I shall count my blessings not to count you among my rivals for Cassie’s affection, Griffin retorted dryly.

Daniel stepped forward to shake hands. Unlike Chris, he was of medium height, with dark hair and somber brown eyes. His slight build, coupled with a self-effacing nature, gave him a tendency to slouch. Daniel was a younger son of the polygamous Nephilim prophet, Abraham Metcalf. Because of his scholarly tendencies, Daniel became an unwilling participant in his father’s quest to acquire the Sage Stone. Metcalf had been the Arkana’s chief adversary during a global artifact hunt that resulted in his death. Fortunately, due to Chris’s benign influence, Daniel had thrown his support behind the Arkana and turned the tide in their favor. As Metcalf’s heir, he was now doing his best to disband the fundamentalist cult, but that was proving to be slow going.

I had no idea you’d been invited, Griffin said to the new arrivals.

Daniel gazed around the large room, impressed. Faye called me personally and asked if we would attend. I feel honored to be included among the friends of the Arkana.

Wait till you see the vault downstairs, Cassie offered.

Yes, absolutely, Griffin added. I’d be happy to give you a tour if you’d care to step this way. He swept his arm toward the back of the room that led to the downstairs elevators.

Oh, of course. Daniel hesitated. Please go on ahead. I’ll be right with you. He transferred his attention to Cassie and peered at her fixedly. Do you think you might come to the Nephilim compound tomorrow? There’s something you need to see.

Sounds mysterious. Care to give me a hint? the pythia prompted.

I’m sorry, but you’ll have to see for yourself. It isn’t anything I can explain here. He shook hands with her again before following Griffin and Chris to the elevators. Stop by at ten o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you.

Okay, Cassie murmured. She puzzled over Daniel’s odd request for a few seconds longer as she watched the three men disappear through the crowd. Then, shrugging off her concern, she said, Anything to get me out of another morning of validating pottery shards.

Chapter 3—An Answer to a Prayer

Temple Mount—Old City of Jerusalem, Israel

A SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD boy walked slowly out of the Al-Aqsa Mosque on Temple Mount. He had just completed his afternoon prayers, but the boy was hardly in a prayerful mood. He had foolishly thought that entering the mosque might calm his spirit. Instead, the dark thoughts that he had carried with him all morning remained. He glanced up at the sky. It was a bright cloudless spring day with a light breeze stirring the branches of the trees. It was the sort of day guaranteed to lift anyone’s spirits. Just not his.

The boy sighed and skirted the upper pavilion leading to the shrines. Wandering aimlessly toward the grove of greenery on the other side of the buildings, he headed for one of the low retaining walls that bordered the garden belt with its assortment of cypress, olive, and hackberry trees. Off in the distance, a group of women had brought chairs to sit together in the shade and study the Quran. They were all modestly dressed, their heads covered with the traditional hijab. Most Arab men who lived in the old quarter adopted Western attire. Teenagers like him favored tee shirts, blue jeans, and track shoes. He dressed like everybody else in the city, but the Jewish authorities would never let him forget that he wasn’t wanted here.

His attention was briefly drawn to the endless stream of tourists mounting the stairs to the upper pavilion and taking pictures of the shrines. If they weren’t Muslim, they wouldn’t be allowed to enter the interior of the holy sites, of course. Still, they seemed happy enough to take photos of the courtyard while their tour guides gave them history lectures. Today, he wanted to avoid people entirely, so he found an isolated spot on a retaining wall where nobody would bother him. He needed to hear himself think. The boy wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he sat listlessly, recalling the tragedy of the past few days, tears streaming unchecked from his eyes.

Still caught in his memories, he