Excerpt from Chapter Two of Brenda Drake's Thief of Lies

            I tossed another page. “Check out this library in Paris. It’s so awesome. The Bibliothèque nationale de France.”

            They leaned over to get a better view. “Wow, those arches are massive,” said Afton.

            “I’ll show you massive.” Nick waggled his eyebrows at her.

            Afton straightened and rested her fists on her hips. “Oh no, you didn’t just say that.”

            “Hey, what’s this?” Nick reached over me and grabbed a folded piece of yellowing paper. He unfolded it carefully. “Damn, it’s old. I think it’s written in Latin or something. What do you think?”

            “It must have fallen out of the book.” I took the paper from him and studied the fancy script. “It’s definitely in Italian. Jeesh, Nick. You’re more Italian than I am.”

“And your point?”

            “You should know this,” I said. Nick and I took years of Italian lessons together, but he’d never gotten it. His lack of passion for his Italian heritage bugged me.

            “Well, I do know it’s talking about a door,” he said. “Porta means door, right?”

            “Yeah, it’s door. Open the door.”

            “Well, that’s just strange,” Afton said. “It was probably someone’s bookmark or something.”

            “It looks ancient,” I said. “It’s in formal Italian, and the script might be calligraphy, I think.”

            Nick leaned farther over my shoulder and tried to read it out loud. “Apre–apra–”

            A vision of a young boy wearing Victorian clothes came to me. The paper slipped from my hand, and my breath hitched. The boy stared down at the book, which lay open on a table, and he struggled to say the same phrase just as Nick had. He reached into the pocket of a threadbare coat, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and read it.

             “Gia?” Nick’s voice brought my attention back to the paper.

            “Yes?” I answered, distracted, still stunned by what I saw. The image felt real. As if I were there standing behind the boy, my hands twisting together while waiting for my

turn. My turn at what, I didn’t know.

            “I asked how to pronounce it,” he said.

            I inhaled, deeply, because I needed air, and tried to focus on Nick’s words. “Pronounce it?”

            “The paper?”

            “Oh, sorry.” I picked the slip back up and studied it. “It’s aprire la porta.”

            The book quivered and its spine thumped against the table.

            “It’s an earthquake,” Afton shrieked.

            “In Boston? I don’t think so—” The words jammed in my throat as a strong wind swirled around us, smashing me into Afton and Nick and squeezing us together until I

couldn’t breathe. The wind whirled faster and faster, drawing us into the page. My heartbeat sped up and when I tried to call out to them, nothing came out.

            The squeezing pressure intensified and then it was gone. Wheezing and kicking my legs, I grabbed for something to hold onto, but there was nothing. We were in a pitch-black

void. Afton and Nick panted nearby. And before I could call out to them, we fell, the cold air speeding past and wailing in my ears.

            Shit, shit, shit!           

            Afton let out a piercing scream and Nick cursed. My sandals were sucked away from my toes.

            “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Afton cried.

            I recited the Hail Mary.

            Nick repeated each verse.

            Musty air punched my face.

            My stomach clenched.

            Legs thrashed.

            Arms flailed.

            We plunged farther.

            And farther.

            I jerked to a stop, suspended mid-air in inky darkness, my legs level with my body. Afton’s and Nick’s silhouettes were gray masses against the blackness, their whimpers hushed against the wind.

            Then we plummeted again.

            I held my breath.

            Silence.

            Cold.

            Fear.

            Smack!

            A dim light tickled through my eyelashes. Sprawled across a carpet, I tried to move, prickly rug fibers scratching my cheek. One sandal hit my head and the other landed on

my back. A thud sounded to the right of me and another thud to the left. Books tumbled down around me from the shelves of a nearby bookcase.

            Terror pumping through me, I lay there for several minutes, evaluating the pain. My left shoulder and hip throbbed, but nothing was broken. “Afton?” I called out. “Nick?”

            “Yes,” he groaned.

            “Are you okay?”

            “I think so.”

            “Afton?” She didn’t answer, so I got to my knees and crawled over the books to her. I shook her shoulder. “Afton?”

            She didn’t move, but she breathed. I pulled her head onto my lap and Nick scooted to my side, wrapping his arm around my back. The world was a Tilt-A-Whirl, and I wanted desperately to get off. I needed to stop freaking out and get help for Afton, but panic rocked my insides and rooted me firmly in place.

            Nick muttered something, and I only caught the word “dead.”

            Tears wet my cheeks, and my nose started running. “What did you say?”

            “Are we dead?”

            I sniffed. “I don’t think so.”

            Nick pulled a wad of tissues he always kept for his fierce allergies from his pocket and then passed them to me with a shaky hand. “Here, they’re not used.”

            “Thanks,” I said, taking the wad and then blowing my nose.

            Afton stirred. “Ouch,” she moaned. “What happened?”

            “We fell through a wormhole,” Nick said.

            Afton sat up slowly. “What’s a wormhole?”

            “It’s a shortcut through space.”

            “This isn’t Star Wars or one of your video games.” I helped Afton to her feet. “It’s some sort of...something.” But nothing I’d ever experienced before.

            “Okay. I’m freaking.” Afton’s lower lip quivered. “We fell. It was dark. This can’t be happening, right?”

            “Oh, it’s happening.” Nick struggled to his feet. “Where do you think we are?”

            A dim light illuminated the stadium-sized room. Above us, circular windows resembling flowers rimmed the edge of a vast domed ceiling. Underneath the dome, massive concrete arches vaulted over cherry wood bookshelves. Library lamps with green glass shades lined the tops of several long tables stretched across the room.

            We’d landed in a reading room I recognized.

            Fear grabbed me, but I sucked it back, willing myself to stay calm. My arms and legs betrayed me, though, trembling uncontrollably. “I think we’re in the library from the photo

in that book. The one in Paris.” My voice came out shaky. Though certain we were in that library, I hardly believed it myself.