The Papillion Prophecy: Hierarchy

The Papillion Prophecy:

HIERARCHY

By

Madelaine Montague

© copyright by Madelaine Montague, May 2009

Cover Art by Eliza Black, May 2009

ISBN 1-60394-311-6

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

The excitement that had been pumping through his veins since he’d made his discovery turned to uneasiness as Bill Duncan waited for the man at the enormous Louis XIV desk to acknowledge his presence. He’d never stepped inside the High Lord’s mansion before, never been invited to, and he discovered that being surrounded by such opulence unnerved him almost as much as the man sitting at the desk across the study from him.

He yielded to the urge to gawk since Caleb Westmoreland seemed unaware of him, scanning the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with leather bound volumes, that lined most of the walls, he tipped his head back to stare at the paintings on the ceiling. Like the walls and ceiling of the main corridor he’d been escorted down when he’d arrived and requested an ‘audience’, ornate moldings formed a pattern overhead that created ‘frames’ for each of the depictions—which seemed to be scenes from mythology if the fantastic creatures were anything to go by—battles.

Frowning, he probed his memory for any reference to the scenes and finally gave up on identifying them aside from the fact that, to his admittedly untrained eye, they at least appeared to be the work of a master.

They couldn’t be, of course, he told himself, not one of the old masters. The mansion wasn’t that old—not that he knew much about it’s history, but America wasn’t that old so it couldn’t be. Reproductions, he decided, although he couldn’t remember anything like the paintings from his art appreciation classes.

He supposed he should’ve made an attempt not to sleep through them.

When he finally returned his attention to Caleb Westmoreland, a jolt went through him. Caleb was studying him, his gaze hooded. He’d seemed completely absorbed in the paperwork on the desk before him only moments before. Now, he lounged almost negligently in the matching Louis XIV chair that looked almost more like a throne than a chair, his attitude as still and watchful as a cat studying a mouse and trying to decide whether to eat it or toy with it a while.

The uneasiness that had wafted through Bill before returned, intensified by the realization that there was every reason for the impression. After several long, heart-stopping moments, Caleb lifted one hand from the arm of his chair, curling his fingers in a summoning motion, a silent command to approach that made Bill’s knees feel suddenly weak and spawned the urge to flee instead.

Casting an uneasy glance at the closed door behind him, Bill ordered his feet to move and approached the desk, wondering a little wildly if he should bow or kneel. He discovered he couldn’t do either, which was fortunate since it finally occurred to him that Caleb not only did not demand that sort of abeyance, he forbade it—at any time. It was just the sort of thing that could attract unwelcome attention and Caleb Westmoreland was as ruthless in protecting his privacy as he was in business.

After studying him for several unnerving moments, Caleb gestured to the straight-backed chair before his desk. Almost as if mesmerized, Bill followed the gesture, stared at the chair blankly for a moment and finally wilted into it, wondering abruptly if it was wise to have approached Westmoreland in his lair.

The sunlight spilling into the room through the French doors in the west wall intensified the impression of a great cat, picking up the pale streaks in Caleb’s tawny hair and making his golden eyes, cast in shadow, glow briefly with an unearthly sheen that sent cold fingers of dread creeping along Bill Duncan’s spine. Caleb’s hard mouth curled after a few moments in a cold smile. “Cat got your tongue?”

Bill thought for several moments that he would wet himself. He swallowed convulsively, opened and closed his mouth several times, and searched a little frantically for his facility of speech, wondering what idiocy had possessed him to think he might wrangle with Caleb Westmoreland for a reward for his discovery. He’d be lucky if he left the mansion in one piece—if he was wrong!

He realized a little sickly that he had almost no proof whatsoever of his tale, none that couldn’t be disputed.

“I saw her!” he burst out finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer.

If he hadn’t been staring at Westmoreland in pure terror, he wasn’t certain he would’ve noticed the sudden tension in seemingly every muscle. As it was, the sense of a great cat preparing to pounce washed over him in a chilling tidal wave.

Westmoreland seemed to force himself to relax. Reaching for the silver letter knife on his desk, he picked up the ornate blade and began to turn it idly in his hands, studying it as if he’d never seen it before. “Her?” he prompted after a few moments.

“She had the mark,” Bill said shakily, wondering if it was a good thing or a bad thing that he had Westmoreland’s full attention again.

His tawny brows rose toward his hairline, emphasizing the deep widow’s peak on his brow. “The mark?”

Bill nodded jerkily. “On her right wrist … just as the prophecy described.”

Caleb sat forward, placing the letter knife carefully on his desktop. “Am I to assume you left her waiting in your car?”

Bill felt his face heat to the point that it felt like it would go up in flames and then chill so abruptly he felt faint. “Uh … no,” he whispered in a choked voice.

Caleb forced himself to relax. Sitting back in his chair once more, he settled his elbows on the arms of his chair, laced his fingers together and propped his chin on the steeple he’d formed, studying the man seated before him and struggling with the urge to leap over the desk and choke the life out of him. The smell of the man’s fear incited his wrath as much as the intrusion and the suspicion that had begun to settle inside of him that the fool had thought to scam him. “Meaning you lost her?” he murmured in a rumbling growl of displeasure.

Bill found himself gabbling in his efforts to excuse and explain at the same time. “I only caught a glimpse of her. It was on a crowded city street. I couldn’t …grab her!”