HDA - Living in Darkness Trilogy - Pt 2 - The Search

It was barely an hour past sunrise as he stepped out onto the deck of the yacht. A chill breeze washed across the river and over him, ruffling through his hair. He scanned the area as he sipped his coffee. He could already hear the city waking up around him. Nicholas Quinn never would have thought he'd fall in love with the city of Paris like he did. It was so different from his hometown or where he'd spent the last of his teenage years. And yet after all this time, only Paris felt like home.

He turned around to gaze toward the north. In the distance to his left rose the magnificent Notre Dame Cathedral. The floodlights that made it an awesome sight every night at switched off with the dawn. Further west was the famous Louvre that was also floodlit every night. Nicholas Quinn stood there, savoring the early morning hush before the roar of cars and trucks filled the streets; before tourists invaded the Louvre and the cathedral.

Then something washed over him, something that he hadn't felt since his grandmother had passed away nearly eight years before. The one time he'd tried to find the words to explain it to his grandmother, she'd told him then she didn't understand it either. Quinn turned slowly around toward the east where the rising sun played peek-a-boo with white clouds. He spotted a girl walking drunkenly along the Pont de Tournelle bridge. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if the feeling was coming from her.

Before he could make a move, the girl jerked, spun around and tumbled over the railing and plunged into the river. Stunned, he tossed the mug half full of coffee overboard, jumped off the yacht's deck and hit the concrete walkway at a run. As he came closer to the bridge, he kicked off his moccasins and made a shallow dive. Through the murky water, he saw her drifting down, the short dress floating up to her waist to reveal slender legs and lacey panties. Getting a good hold on her, he pulled her to the surface. A nasty bruise ran from her temple to her cheekbone and a thin rivulet of blood trailed into her wet hair.

The sensation was there but muted now. As he laid her down on the embankment, he took in the slender frame, cinnamon hair that was nearly to her waist and smooth alabaster skin with only a dusting of freckles. He'd swear he'd seen her before--somewhere.

"Hey, Quinn."

He looked up to see a tall slender woman hurry toward him. "Al, over here."

Brunette, brown-eyed Alethea Hadley rushed over to him. Her eyes widened as she saw the girl. "What happened?"

Quinn bent over the girl to check if she was breathing, when she coughed, spitting up river water. He rolled her on her side, brushing wet tendrils of hair away from her face. She sagged against him and moaned, her eyes half-open and he discovered she was more woman than girl. "I think she fell off the Pont de Tournelle."

Alethea glanced quickly at the stone bridge, then back at Quinn. "Or she jumped?"

He frowned and picked her up, cradling her gently and headed for the yacht. "I don't know."

Once inside, he laid her on the leather couch, not caring that she was dripping river water. He bent down to lightly touch the bruise, noticing the scrapes were turning a raw angry red. One scrape was bleeding as if she'd hit her head on something pointed. "Al, what do you make of that?"

Alethea leaned close and pulled her sunglasses down her nose. "That's not from hitting the bridge, Quinn." She glanced at him. "You think she was shot?"

"I don't know." Quinn carefully removed her sandals and found a tiny curved piece of metal underneath the second toe on her left foot. A bruise had already formed on the bottom of her foot as if the piece of metal had been something else that hit her foot before breaking off. "Go look for a purse or something by Pont de Tournelle." He couldn't shake the feeling he knew this woman. "Maybe we can find out who she is."

"Quinn--"

He straightened up. "Please. Alethea. It may hold a clue as to why someone might have shot at her."

Alethea tossed her shoulder-length hair back and sighed. "Okay. I'm going already."

Belatedly realizing, he was dripping himself, Quinn shed the olive-green T-shirt. He ran both hands over his dark hair and squeezed the water out. It bothered him that he couldn't put a name to the face. "Our only other option," he said softly, "is to wait until she wakes up." He frowned down at her. And what would that tell them?

***

19 May 2003

Paris, France

9:47 am

It was the pain that roused her--a bone-deep pain that nearly blotted out all else. She opened her eyes slowly, squinting against the brilliant sunshine coming through the metal-rimmed circular window. She recognized the shape but couldn't remember what it was called. Carefully, she angled her head to look out the round window (it had something to do with water, didn't it?) to see a brassy blue sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds above a gray stone wall. The scents of roses, fruit and polished wood flooded her senses.

No more darkness, she thought distractedly, swallowing. God, she was thirsty--and freezing. Whatever she was lying on was smooth but the light material did nothing to warm her. She moved to see why by lifting the sheet and went completely still. It took a full thirty seconds to register in her pain-fogged brain that she was naked.

She yanked the sheet to her chin and groaned as the movement jarred her pounding head. Where were her clothes and why did the left side of her face hurt so bad? And where was she? She took a deep breath. Something had happened--but the question was what? Or maybe, why she couldn't remember--why couldn't she? She stared up at the planked ceiling and swallowed hard. The cold settled deep inside her. Something was wrong...

A strange feeling washed over her and she felt a sense of oddness about it. Then a soft footfall from her right alerted her that she wasn't alone. "How are you feeling?" asked a deep, well-modulated voice with a faint unidentifiable accent. The owner of the voice stepped into her field of vision and smiled.

She swallowed hard and stared. He was....gorgeous. Everything....hurts," she managed hoarsely. "And I'm....thirsty."

The man nodded, his dark hair smoothed back into a low queue. He was clad in a bright white T-shirt that snugly delineated his muscles and black jeans. He took a plastic bottle off a small table she hadn't noticed was there and shook two bi-colored caplets in his hand. "Here, take these," he said and poured her a glass of water from a clear plastic pitcher.

She gingerly propped herself on one elbow, careful to keep the sheet to her shoulders, swallowed the pills and washed them down with the cool water. She handed him the empty glass. "Can I have some more?"

"Of course." He poured her another glassful. "Here."

She gulped the second glass of water down as fast as the first and took a deep breath. "Thank you."

His smile widened. "You're welcome."

He was gorgeous, she thought again. Feeling a little more human and potently aware she wasn't wearing anything but a wine-colored satin sheet, she laid back down. "Where am I?"

"My yacht." He set the glass she'd handed back to him on the table beside the bed. "I....pulled you from the river."

Her eyes drifted to the round window and suddenly words spilled into her mind: River--water--yacht--boat--porthole. She frowned and looked back at him. "What happened?"

He blinked and looked at her. "You....fell off the bridge."

Strange that she didn't remember falling off a bridge. That might be part of the problem, she thought to herself, part of whatever was wrong. "You rescued me?"

"Yes." An expression flitted across his face making her nervous though she didn't know why.

She took a deep breath. "Thank you." She swallowed hard. "Do I....know you?"

"No."

"Then you...don't....know me."

He slowly shook his head. "No."

Panic crept over her. Then he couldn't possibly answer the question she was so afraid to ask herself. "Who--?" Her throat closed up with the panic. "Who...am...I?"

The question hung in the sudden silence and tears filled her eyes, spilled over, hot on her cold cheeks. "Oh God," she whispered, as full realization hit her. "I don't...know...." She shook her head and felt ice-cold down to her soul. "I don't know who I am."

He slid one hand to the back of her head, sitting on the edge of the bed in the same motion. He gently embraced her. "Shh, it's okay. You'll remember when you're ready."

"I don't...." Her voice trailed into silence. His arms around her felt so good, so strong. For a moment, she sobbed into his shoulder and felt the strangest sense of deja vu. Then it registered that she was clad in nothing but a sheet. She jerked back, away from him. "Sorry."

He shifted back slightly, folded his arms across his chest. "It's okay."

"Who are you?"

"Nick Quinn."

"Thank you, Mr. Quinn." Strange that name sounded so familiar.

He stood up. "Call me Nick."

She looked up at him. She told herself she didn't know this man but...but she trusted him. Why? "Thank you...Nick."

He flashed her a quicksilver smile. "Rest now," he said andleft her to cool dimness and blessed sleep.

***

"Well?"

"She's sleeping."

"But you talked to her, Quinn?"

"Yes. I think she has amnesia, Al."

Alethea let out an explosive sigh. "Damn. I searched, Quinn. The bridge on both sides. Got yelled at, cursed at, gestured at. Nothing. Even looked in the river. Nothing."

Quinn heaved a sigh, noting absently that's why she'd changed clothes. "Give her time, Al. She'll remember."

Alethea perched herself on the arm of a chair, adjusted the cropped sweater she was wearing with slim snug jeans. "What did you mean, you sensed her?"

Quinn sighed again. "I can't really explain it, Al."

She arched a slim eyebrow at him. "Try."

Quinn grunted. "When I was a kid, my grandmother and I....had this connection. I always knew when she was near or if she was okay. I was in Mombasa when she died but I knew the instant she passed away."

Alethea wrinkled her nose as if she'd caught whiff of a skunk. "Weird."

"Yeah. I haven't felt it since she died."

"But you feel it with her." Alethea jerked a thumb at the closed stateroom door. "Wonder why?"

"Haven't a clue." Quinn walked to a porthole and gazed out. "Your cycle's double-parked."

Alethea glanced out the other porthole. "Oh shit." She started for the short stairs that led topside. "Why is it the police are always in force until you desperately need them?"

He gave her a surprised look. "Since when have you ever needed them?"

"When my car was stolen."

Quinn shrugged. "I say tit for tat."

"I don't steal cars," snapped Alethea and left.

Nicholas Quinn chuckled deep in his throat as he headed topside himself. He had met Alethea Hadley when she'd tried to pick his pocket. How they'd ended up friends, he stil wasn't sure. Sometimes he still wasn't sure how he'd ended up settling down in Paris after all. He'd been born in Alburquerque, New Mexico--a wonderful city laden with history that he loved still. He had been the only son of Nathaniel and Sarah Quinn and when they followed their calling to be missionaries to Africa, he at seven years old, had gone with them.

The hot humid jungles and the vast savannahs were a far cry from the deserts of New Mexico but Nicholas had taken to them and the Masai tribe his parents were missionaries to. Quinn turned to watch Alethea talk with the constable. He had just turned sixteen when they died, killed by poachers. For nine years, the Masai had been like an extended family to him and never did the thought of leaving cross his mind. He'd been content to stay there until he'd learned of his grandmother's death.

Back in Alburquerque after a decade away, he'd been stunned to learn his grandmother, Elizabeth Hathaway Quinn had been sole owner of Hathaway Shipping based in Paris and with her death, it was his. He never returned to Mombasa. He'd come to Paris instead to finalize the change of ownership, to see just what he'd inherited. He'd found Alexander Du Bois ably running things. Unfortunately, they didn't exactly hit it off on that first meeting, with Du Bois seeing him as an usurper.

Frustrated and adrift, Nicholas left Paris. Growing up in Alburquerque, he'd never gone hungry or cold, but he'd never had a lot of things; moving to the west coast of Africa, made him appreciate the comparative wealth of his childhood. Now more well off than he'd ever imagined he could be, Nicholas started traveling. Vienna, Austria...Rome, Italy. In the next several years, he found himself visiting all the places he'd once only dreamed of--Greece, Israel, China and India. But finally, he returned to Paris. This time Du Bois wasn't quite so upset over Mrs. Quinn's death and welcomed Nicholas back. They'd been friends ever since.

Then he'd met Alethea--a scoundrel with the face of an angel. He stood there, watching Alethea talk with the constable, getting more expressive with her gestures. Then his dark brown eyes drifted around the yacht and something dawned on him. His favorite mug. Did he really throw it overboard this morning? Damn, that was his favorite mug. His old friend Michael had given it to him after they'd reunited right here in Paris.

He shook his head. He'd never imagined his childhood buddy would move lock, stock and barrel to Paris while he'd been traveling the world. But when he found out why Michael had moved to Paris to open a bookshop, he'd decided that the how and why of it wasn't important. He was just glad to see him again. Poor Michael, a former archeologist who'd been constantly ridiculed for his belief in a master civilization before recorded history. Now he kept his theories as quietly as he kept shop.

"Well, that's taken care of," muttered Alethea, stomping back onto the yacht.

"What'd you do? Bribe him?"

Alethea glared at him. "Ha. Gave him a tip on those muggings down river."

"How would--?" Quinn sighed. "Never you mind. I really don't want to know. I'm going to talk to Michael. Keep an eye on her."

Alethea plopped down on the cushioned bench lining the bow of the yacht. "Tell him I've gotten rusty. I'll see him soon."

Quinn held back a groan and shook his head, then left.

***

19 May 2003

Paris, France

10:15 am

"What do you want me to do?" Michael Radcliffe thunked an old cloth-bound book on a shelf. At this time of day, the place was relatively empty. "I'm an historian. What do you expect me to do?"

"Help me find out who she is."

"Why?"

"I have to call her something," said Nick, striving for a joking tone. Truth was, it bothered him. The more he thought about it, replayed the images in his mind, the more he believed Alethea may have hit it. If the girl had been shot, that meant someone was out to get her. Which meant the sooner he knew who she was, the sooner she'd be safe.

"Jane Doe?"

"She doesn't look a Jane."

Michael turned away the shelves and groaned. "Quinn..."

"Look, I know her from somewhere."

"I'm not your date book." Michael ran a hand through his sandy brown hair and sighed. "I think the only place you haven't been is the Bermuda Triangle."

"Well, I wouldn't want to get stuck there forever. Michael--"

Michael grunted rather loudly. "You're interfering with the vital work that keeps this place running."

Quinn looked around the shop. Unlike most people who sold out of the book stalls not far from the river, Michael had done the American thing of a real bookstore. The building had once been an abandoned print shop and Michael, ever the historian, had chosen to keep the antique ambience of the place. Most of the book shelves had come from old houses or even the library when they discarded several shelves in lieu of newer ones. "You're stacking books on shelves." He gestured to the empty shop. "You're not even open."

"If you're gonna bug me, help."

"I don't know your system."

Michael arched an eyebrow at him. "Well, if you won't help, then go. Please--before I revert to my barbaric, cannabilistic ways."

Quinn looked him up and down. "Conan the Barbarian you're not."

Michael folded his arms across his chest and growled. When Quinn didn't seem too worried, Michael heaved a sigh and went back to stacking books. "I've already sorted by genre, now I'm stacking alphabetically." He gestured to the books rather emphatically and Quinn picked one up and handed it to him.

Michael rolled his eyes and put the book on the shelf. "Now tell me, how I'm supposed to find out who your Jane Doe is. Excuse me, Jean Deaux," he added, putting a French accent on the name.

"Very funny," snapped Quinn. "How the hell should I know?"

Michael stopped in mid-move and twisted around to glare at Quinn. "I am not a detective, damn it. I hate it when people compare archeology to historical detective work."

"Hey, don't look at me."

Michael pointedly looked at Quinn's empty hands. "Help or get lost."

Quinn grunted and got another book. "Look, I think something's off on all this. I saw the whole thing and maybe Al's right...Oh by the way, she said she's getting rusty."

Michael jerked, and nearly fell back into the bookshelf behind him. "Keep that woman away from my shop, damn it. I've had to change the locks three times in the last year."

Quinn bit back a grin. "She said she'd see you later."

Michael growled low in his throat. "Why can't she find someone else to annoy? Like a constable or something."

"Now where's the fun in that. She knows you won't press charges. You haven't even reported her once."

"I may surprise her one day."

Quinn seriously doubted it. From the moment Michael and Alethea had met, sparks flew. She found she liked picking the locks on his shop, it was a 'safe' way to keep in practice. Michael usually hit the roof but never called the police in on it. Quinn handed Michael another book but Michael just stood there. Finally he glared at Quinn. "Well?"

"Here's a book."

"Not that, damn it. Before you raised my blood pressure nine points, you were saying you saw the whole thing and maybe Al's right. Right about what?"

"She may have been shot."

"Alethea?" asked Michael hopefully, as he took the book.

"No. Jane Doe."

Michael's amusement vanished. "Why didn't you tell me? Hell, why haven't you called the gendarmes?"

"I--" Quinn broke off as the telephone rang.

Michael cursed a blue streak in Latin and went to answer it. He didn't even say hello, he just handed the receiver to Quinn, a second after putting it to his ear. Quinn frowned and put the phone to his ear. Alethea's voice came loudly over the wire. "She's gone, Quinn," she said, her tone of voice announcing how disgusted she was. "I was in the bathroom--not even five minutes."

Quinn tightened his grip on the receiver and took a deep breath. "She can't have gone far. I'll swing by and get you."

Alethea sighed. "Look...Quinn, I'm sorry."

"Forget it. We'll find her." He handed the phone back to Michael. "I have to go."

Michael nodded. "You're serious? She may have been shot?"

"Yeah."

Michael practically shoved him toward the door. "Go find her now. Before the idiot discovers she's still alive."

Panic washed through Quinn and he hurried out of the shop. Damn, he hoped she hadn't gotten too far.

***

This was totally insane.

She looked down at the hopelessly wrinkled slipdress. She looked like a hooker or a bum. Why was she running away anyway? She had to find---She stopped on the sidewalk. What? What did she have to find? She caught sight of a man eying her and she turned away. Damn, this was so totally insane. "Damn," she muttered, kicking the nearest treetrunk for added emphasis. "Ow, shit." She'd forgotten about the flimsy sandals.

She spun around and leaned up against the tree and massaged her toes. hell, she didn't even know what....city....she was in. Her thoughts trailed off as she stared at the tall lacey metal structure towering in the distance. It had been built for the world's fair eighteen-something or other...What the hell was it called? Damn it, she'd been there. She went very still...A bomb--the elevator--someone had saved her--someone who could fly?

A black car caught her eye, cutting off her thoughts. She studied it's lines, the curves, and sucked in a breath. A mint condition Aston-Martin--didn't see that every day. The Aston-Martin's brakes screeched and the driver threw the car into reverse. It stopped in front of her. Without thinking, she ran a reverant hand along one warm, graceful fender. She heard rather than saw the driver get out of the car. She felt that odd sensation again but told herself to ignore it. "You've got a gorgeous car."

"Thank you."

Her head shot up and her breath caught in her throat. Somewhere it registered that she'd sensed him--twice. "You!"

He frowned at her and she felt giddy. He was still gorgeous--even angry. "What are you doing?" he asked roughly.

She gave a weak laugh. "Admiring your car?"

Quinn folded his arms across his chest and just looked at her. She heaved a sigh. "Oh, hell, I don't kow."

"Get in."

She didn't budge. "Why?"

God, she was stubborn, he thought. "Damn it, you can't run around like that. Get in. We'll go shopping."

She narrowed her eyes like a cat about to pounce. "Why? Why do you care? Why should I trust you?"

Quinn wasn't ready to tell her about the peculiar sensation he felt every time he got near her. He cleared his throat. "Because...you've got no one else to trust."

Alethea got out of the passenger seat, slipping on sunglasses and tossing her hair over one shoulder. The cropped sweater was a rich tangerine color and rose up to reveal a toned midriff and a discreet belly button ring. She glanced at Quinn. "Just so you know, subtlety's not your forte."

"You just stay out of this."

She took a deep breath, feeling nervous and scared and off balance. "It's a two-seater basically." She swallowed hard, chilled. Where had this sudden claustrophobia come from?

"Don't fret," said Alethea. "I'll become a human pretzel and get in the back."

"It's not that small," snapped Quinn. He reached in and flipped his seat forward.

Alethea watched him and narrowed her brown eyes. "Watch it, big boy. I have ways to get you back."

"Picking my locks won't generate the same explosion it does on him."

She reached for the chrome handle, then stopped. "Is it all right if I roll the window down?"

Alethea's gaze met Quinn's as she made her way to the other side of the car. Quinn shrugged, then turned to her. "Yes."

Once Alethea was sequestered in back, he and the girl got in the front. She rolled down the window and practically hung her head outside. Alethea and Quinn shared a puzzled look, then Quinn cleared his throat. "Suggestions as to where to shop, Al?"

"You really asking me? That's a very costly question."

Quinn groaned at her quick grin. "Thanks for reminding me."

"I'll tell you the best spots for clothes, accessories, you name it. But only if you're buying."

Quinn realized the mistake he'd just made. Alethea loved clothes almost as much as she loved what she did. "Al..."

Alethea just laughed. "Drive, chauffeur, just drive."

***

19 May 2003

Paris, France

1:24 pm

Despite the dark clouds and the rain, it was early yet. Since he'd opened the bookshop three years ago, the place had become a hang-out for university students. He had rare and used books galore most of which ended up being bought from the bookstalls for a small price. He had enough books on such a variety of subjects sometimes there was that one that a literature student would need.

Michael heaved a sigh. But for all the searching, all the finds, he still hadn't found a good condition editon of The Antediluvian World by Ignatius L. Donnelly. It was a passion of his lately. He'd read countless versions of explanations of what, where and when Atlantis existed. The suppositions were piling up. Spurgnow said it was in the North Sea, Collins said it was off the coast of Cuba. Some claimed it was Antarctica, others claimed it was in the middle of South America.

Michael sat back in his desk chair, watched idly as students and even tourists milled around the shop. What he wouldn't give for the original writings of Plato--especially his version of the story of Atlantis. With that, he could finally prove it one way or another. Did Atlantis exist at the time and at the place it was suggested? Or was it merely a cautionary tale and not a bit of fact involved? Over the years of searches for the famous island going bust, Michael was beginning to think it had never existed.

He believed it was just a story told by the first civilization that existed long before Egypt's rise to power. Something had to have happened in that time frame, he just knew it. But because of his belief, he'd discovered that his colleagues thought he was crazy. There was no master civilization prior to Egypt, they told him. It took millions of years for this planet to evolve into something livable, they told him. The earliest humans were nothing more than hunter-gatherers who didn't have the sense to come in out of the rain.

Michael sighed, forced himself to banish those unwanted memories and glanced around the shop. There was a small alcove dotted with old threadbare chairs and sofas where students were reading or researching theories. He wondered not for the first time if he should turn the small alcove into a coffee shop. It was still the craze in the States and he liked the idea. But would his customers?

His eyes zeroed in on one regular who was searching the fiction stacks. Joely Carstairs was a junior literature major at the university. She was built like a model with long blond hair and way-too-serious blue eyes. Michael got to his feet and walked over to her. "Looking for something specific?"

Joely turned to him and nodded, her twin ponytails bouncing against her neck. "First edition Dracula by Stoker."

Michael let out a low whistle. "You're not asking much, are you? That's so rare it's in the stratosphere. I can maybe track down as early as a fifth edition. Still, it would be expensive."

"How much?" Joely had a low voice with the faint French accent she'd acquired since moving to Paris.

Michael shrugged. "A fifth edition in passable condition? At least four hundred dollars. Mint condition, eight hundred to a thousand."

Her blue eyes widened. "For a book?" Her accent faded and she sounded pure American. Michael would wager a first edition Ben Hur she was from Southern California--if he had it.

"Yep. And you don't even want to know how much a mint condition first edition would cost."

Joely groaned and tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind one ear. "You're right, I don't..." Her voice trailed off as the shop door opened.

Michael caught her look of surprise and turned around to see Quinn, Alethea and the woman Quinn must have rescued. He smiled. "Hi there."

Quinn was still wearing his white T-shirt and black jeans. Alethea wriggled her fingers suggestively to Michael and glanced at the door. Michael forced himself to ignore her and looked at the other woman. The girl was wearing linen shorts and a matching long vest in buttery yellow. Her auburn hair hung in soft waves around her face, just barely hiding the small white square of gauze on her temple and the vivid bruise on her cheek. "Hello there," he said nodding to the girl.

"You said that already, Radcliffe," said Alethea tartly.

"Hi," said the girl, smiling back.

Quinn touched her elbow and nodded to Michael. "This is Michael Radcliffe."

Michael stepped forward but instead of shaking her outstretched hand, he grasped it and bowed low, then kissed the back of her hand. "Ah, mademoiselle," he said, laying on the accent. "What beauty is thine. A living, breathing Ariel."

She cocked her head to one side carefully, as if it still hurt. "You...know me?"

"Alas, my lovely--"

"Michael," said Quinn.

Michael shot Quinn a glare, then sighed. "No. I don't But with that long auburn hair, you make me think of Ariel, the Little Mermaid."

"Oh I loved that movie. You think I look like Ariel?"

Michael nodded. "Oh yes."

She flashed him a grateful smile, relieved to find a name at last. It had been the topic of discussion all during the shopping and even lunch. "Thank you. Ariel it is."

Michael blinked and looked at Quinn who shook his head. But Joely stepped forward. "But what's your name?"

Ariel's face clouded and her eyes dropped to the floor. "I can't remember."

"Oh God, I'm sorry." Joely tentatively touched Ariel's arm. "I didn't mean to be rude."

Ariel raised her eyes to Joely's face. "That's okay. And you are?"

"Joely Carstairs. I moved from Irvine, California to attend the university here."

"Lovely place, isn't it. Such a serene campus with those gothic buildings. My---" Ariel frowned, as she drew a blank. "My--" She shook her head, fighting back tears. "I'm always this close."

Michael spared Joely a look. Bingo, hadn't lost a wager yet--which considering it was with himself was probably the only saving grace. "It's okay," he said, turning his attention to Ariel. "You'll remember in time."

Ariel gave an unladylike snort. "You're as bad as he is."

"Well, we were joined at the hip once," said Michael, slinging an arm around Quinn's shoulders. "How long ago was that, Quinn? Birth? First grade?"

Ariel frowned. "If neither of you remember, you're both worse off than I am."

Quinn grinned. "Only if it were literally. We grew up together."

"Ah-hah. That explains it," commented Alethea, sagely.

Michael glared at her. "Explains what?"

Alethea shrugged. "Never mind. You don't need to know everything."

Michael grunted. "Oh really."

Quinn held up both hands. "You two behave."

Ariel took her first look around. "You own a book store?"

Michael nodded. "Rare and used, second-hand. Good, bad, a little bit of everything."

Ariel walked along a row of shelves. "That I see." She pulled a small book off the shelf. The spine was creased, the paper cover was dog-eared and ragged. "My God, it's been a long time." She shook her head. "Tarzan at the Earth's Core. That one was good."

Michael grunted. "Yeah. It just followed the current craze at the time, believing Earth was hollow. I kept expecting him to discover Atlantis while he was at it."

Ariel looked over at him. "You believe Atlantis existed?"

"No. I don't."

Quinn groaned. "Let's not go down that well-trod path. Let's keep today nice and cheerful."

Michael frowned. "Have you looked outside? Today is not even remotely cheerful. Now if you want depressing, despondent---"

"Shut up, Radcliffe," said Alethea.

Ariel grinned at the exchange. "I'm not ready to decide about Atlantis. Plato gave several key points of information as to where it was once located. As for as Earth being hollow, it's structurally impossible. The weight of the tectonic plates and the density of the earth's core would cause the earth to collapse in on itself like a souffle'."

Michael looked at Quinn in surprise, then grinned. "By God, I could kiss you."

Quinn took a hasty step back. "I'd rather you didn't."

Alethea shook her head. "Don't even think it, buster."

Michael's grin widened. "You've found her!"

"Who," asked Joely, curious.

"My intellectual doppleganger."

Alethea snorted. "She looks nothing like you. Lucky for her."

Ariel grinned and put the book back on the shelf. "He said intellectual, not physical."

"See? See? How I have longed to meet you, to discover the secrets of the universe, my pretty one. More pearls of wisdom, please."

Ariel laughed. "Wisdom? All I said--"

"All you said. How modest art thou, o wise one."

Quinn groaned. "Michael, simmer down."

"Yes," drawled Alethea. "Please. Before I do it for you."

Michael pretended not to hear her. He linked arms with Ariel and started toward his desk tucked into another alcove. "Now, my dear Ariel, what is your discourse on the fabled Atlantis?"

Joely watched them walk off, then left the shop, shaking her head. Alethea watched Joely leave. "My sentiments exactly." She glanced over at Michael and his new companion. "Ariel," she said softly, her brown eyes narrowing slightly.

Quinn glanced at her, puzzled at her tone. "I like it. It sounds....Italian."

"It's not. It's Hebrew."

"And how would you know?"

"I like to know what names mean."

"What does yours mean?"

"Truth," answered Alethea.

Quinn stared at her. "Oh really."

"Oh shut up. You're no innocent."

"Never claimed to be."

Alethea speared him a haughty look. "Hah."

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.