The name is Greek,Semele grimly reminded herself, trying to calm down.
But then how was it possible that Ionna knew about Gundeshapur, a city founded several hundred years after her time? Unless this manuscript was a fake and had been written years later. She needed to talk to Cabe and find out what the DNA test revealed about the manuscript’s date of origin.
If, in fact, this manuscript was written during the time Ionna lived, or said she lived, Semele had a real problem: a woman living in the time of Cleopatra had foreseen the rise of the Sassanid Empire, and this alone would make the manuscript priceless.
Semele glanced around the room again and saw the man who had just caught her eye. Why did he look so familiar?
Her computer beeped—her battery was running low. She took it as a sign. She had been sitting there all day translating Ionna’s manuscript, and seeing her name again had completely unnerved her. She needed to get out of there.
She bent down to put her things away in the bag by her feet, when it came to her.
The man had been on her plane.He was the man who’d been staring at her from the next row on her flight from Switzerland.
A surge of adrenaline hit her, but she tried to remain calm as she gathered her things.
She looked at the man again discreetly, trying to remember every detail about him: forties, knit sweater and thin metal glasses, short hair, clean-shaven. Possibly German or Swiss, if she had to guess. There was nothing sinister about him. He had a preoccupied look, the kind that made people forgettable. If she hadn’t caught him staring at her, she never would have noticed him.
Without turning around again, she grabbed her things and hurried to the exit. But right as she was leaving, she couldn’t resist the urge to look one more time.
The man’s seat was empty.
Eight of Swords
Semele hit the street running, besieged by questions.
Had he been following her since Switzerland? Did he know where she lived? And how the hell had Ionna known?
Semele felt more than a little crazy, but Ionna had warned her. There was no way she could deny it.
Glancing over her shoulder, she scanned the street. She saw no evidence of the man. But still, she was afraid to go home. She fished her phone out and hit the second name at the top of her favorites. Calling Bren was out of the question.
Cabe answered on the last ring before the call went to voice mail. “Hey, stranger.”
“Hey. Can I come over now?”
“Sure. Everything okay?” he asked.
Semele took a breath and tried to keep the tremor from her voice. “Stressful day.” That was putting it mildly. “I’ll explain later.”
“I’ve got my award-winning pasta going. Come on over.”
“Great, see you in a bit.” She hung up.
Cabe lived about a fifteen-minute walk from her place in Brooklyn. She would go to his apartment and then figure out what to do. They’d been planning to catch up since she’d gotten back, and they would have already set a dinner date if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Ionna’s manuscript.
***
Semele rang the bell to Cabe’s building, out of breath from her demented-looking power walk down the street. She glanced up and down the block again, clutching the bottle of cabernet she had bought at the liquor store around the corner like a weapon. Cabe buzzed her in and she ducked inside, relieved to be behind a locked door. She made her way to his apartment at the end of the hall, where the smell of garlic greeted her.
Cabe swung his door open and she held out the bottle of wine. “For the chef.”
“Graci! Buongiorno, buongiorno…,” he said in a flurry and disappeared into the kitchen. “Step into my house,” he called out with a bad Italian accent.
Semele took off her shoes in the tiny entryway and squeezed past Cabe’s ten-speed. The chain on the bike scratched her leg as she brushed past. She looked at the run in her stockings and grimaced.
“I hate your bike.” She padded the five steps into the closet-sized kitchen. “Smells amazing.”
Cabe poured her a glass from the bottle he had already opened. “Cheers.” They clinked glasses and he continued stirring the bubbling Bolognese.
