The Museum of Mysteries
A Cassiopeia Vitt Adventure
By Steve Berry and M.J. Rose
The Museum of Mysteries
A Cassiopeia Vitt Adventure
By Steve Berry and M.J. Rose
Copyright 2018 Steve Berry and M.J. Rose
ISBN: 978-1-948050-67-8
Published by Evil Eye Concepts, Incorporated
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Book Description
Cassiopeia Vitt takes center stage in this exciting novella from New York Times bestsellers M.J. Rose and Steve Berry.
In the French mountain village of Eze, Cassiopeia visits an old friend who owns and operates the fabled Museum of Mysteries, a secretive place of the odd and arcane. When a robbery occurs at the museum, Cassiopeia gives chase to the thief and is plunged into a firestorm.
Through a mix of modern day intrigue and ancient alchemy, Cassiopeia is propelled back and forth through time, the inexplicable journeys leading her into a hotly contested French presidential election. Both candidates harbor secrets they would prefer to keep quiet, but an ancient potion could make that impossible. With intrigue that begins in southern France and ends in a chase across the streets of Paris, this magical, fast-paced, hold-your-breath thriller is all you’ve come to expect from M.J. Rose and Steve Berry.
About the Authors
STEVE BERRY is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of fourteen Cotton Malone novels and four stand-alones. He has 23 million books in print, translated into 40 languages. With his wife, Elizabeth, he is the founder of History Matters, which is dedicated to historical preservation. He serves on the Smithsonian Libraries Advisory Board and was a founding member of International Thriller Writers, formerly serving as its co-president.
* * * *
New York Times bestseller, M.J. Rose grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park and reading her mother's favorite books before she was allowed. She believes mystery and magic are all around us but we are too often too busy to notice... books that exaggerate mystery and magic draw attention to it and remind us to look for it and revel in it.
Please visit her blog, Museum of Mysteries at http://www.mjrose.com/blog/
Rose’s work has appeared in many magazines including Oprah magazine and she has been featured in the New York Times, Newsweek, Wall Street Journal, Time, USA Today and on the Today Show, and NPR radio. Rose graduated from Syracuse University, spent the ‘80s in advertising, has a commercial in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City and since 2005 has run the first marketing company for authors - Authorbuzz.com
Rose lives in Connecticut with her husband the musician and composer, Doug Scofield.
Also from Steve Berry
Click to purchase
Cotton Malone Novels
The Lost Order
The 14th Colony
The Patriot Threat
The Lincoln Myth
The King’s Deception
The Jefferson Key
The Emperor’s Tomb
The Paris Vendetta
The Charlemagne Pursuit
The Venetian Betrayal
The Alexandria Link
The Templar Legacy
The Bishop’s Pawn
The Malta Exchange
Stand-alone Novels
The Columbus Affair
The Third Secret
The Romanov Prophecy
The Amber Room
Also from M.J. Rose
Click to purchase
Tiffany Blues
The Library of Light and Shadow
The Secret Language of Stones
The Witch of Painted Sorrows
The Collector of Dying Breaths
The Seduction of Victor H.
The Book of Lost Fragrances
The Hypnotist
The Memoirist
The Reincarnationist
Lip Service
In Fidelity
Flesh Tones
Sheet Music
The Halo Effect
The Delilah Complex
The Venus Fix
Lying in Bed
Dedicated to all of the talented writers of
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SEARCHING FOR MINE by Jennifer Probst
DANCE OF DESIRE by Christopher Rice
ROUGH RHYTHM by Tessa Bailey
DEVOTED by Lexi Blake
Z by Larissa Ione
FALLING UNDER YOU by Laurelin Paige
EASY FOR KEEPS by Kristen Proby
UNCHAINED by Elisabeth Naughton
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DRAGON FEVER by Donna Grant
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STRUNG UP by Lorelei James
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OCK CHICK REAWAKENING by Kristen Ashley
ADORING INK by Carrie Ann Ryan
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RAZR by Larissa Ione
ARRANGED by Lexi Blake
TANGLED by Rebecca Zanetti
HOLD ME by J. Kenner
SOMEHOW, SOME WAY by Jennifer Probst
TOO CLOSE TO CALL by Tessa Bailey
HUNTED by Elisabeth Naughton
EYES ON YOU by Laura Kaye
BLADE by Alexandra Ivy/Laura Wright
DRAGON BURN by Donna Grant
TRIPPED OUT by Lorelei James
STUD FINDER by Lauren Blakely
MIDNIGHT UNLEASHED by Lara Adrian
HALLOW BE THE HAUNT by Heather Graham
PRINCE ROMAN by CD Reiss
THE BED MATE by Kendall Ryan
DIRTY FILTHY FIX by Laurelin Paige
NO RESERVATIONS by Kristen Proby
DAWN OF SURRENDER by Liliana Hart
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TEMPT ME by J. Kenner
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Table of Contents
Book Description
About the Authors
Also from Steve Berry
Also from M.J. Rose
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection One
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Two
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Three
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Four
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Writer’s Note
Discover 1001 Dark Nights Collection Five
Discover the World of 1001 Dark Nights
An excerpt from The Bishop’s Pawn by Steve Berry
The Malta Exchange, coming soon from Steve Berry
An excerpt from Tiffany Blues by M.J. Rose
Special Thanks
“In this time of winter and destruction there were brave men among the Britons, striving with might and wisdom to preserve their country, to maintain an orderly and decent system of government, to preserve town, church, and villa, to rescue the beleaguered, and to bring peace to the land.
Such a man was Arthur.”
An anonymous ancient historian
Chapter 1
I ran barefoot after the thief.
But here’s a life lesson.
Kitten heels and cobblestones don’t go together.
Never have. Never will.
And since there was no way to avoid the treacherous ancient walkways, I just kicked off my shoes and kept going. Making matters worse, the narrow, wet street twisted upward in a brutal S curve, but I managed to keep the dark gray sweatshirt in sight as my quarry plunged through the few tourists who’d braved the nasty weather.
Eze was part town, part museum, part a-place-from-another-time. Its shops, galleries, hotels, and cafés attracted people by the busload from around the world. The oldest building dated to the early 1300s, the whole thing just a mere few acres and appearing like something created as an amusement park. The tourist office loved to boast that Walt Disney once spent a lot of time there. Why? Who knows. But I’d like to think it provided a bit of inspiration.
The tiered village nestled high in the clouds above the French Riviera, about halfway between Nice and Monaco, and carried a mystique that I’d always been drawn to. Writers likened it to an eagle’s nest atop a rocky seaside peak. So many had tried to claim its valuable perch. First the Phoenicians, then Greeks, Romans, Italians, Turks, and Moors. By the 14th century the French had gained a firm hold and the House of Savoy fortified it into a stronghold.
From its 430-meter elevation above the sea, an enemy could be seen a day in advance of coming ashore. Its motto was particularly apropos. In death I am reborn. Its emblem was a phoenix perched on a bone. Not exactly Mickey Mouse, but the symbolism seemed to fit this charming piece of the past.
I kept running.
Thankfully, I stayed in shape. Not three miles every day, but at least every other. But that was usually on flat French terrain. This obstacle course was a different story. Still, I was gaining on the bastard.
And I’d get him.
The thief disappeared over a crest.
A black thunder cloud rolled across the sky. Rain continued to pour down in ever-increasing sheets, the water filling the drains at either side of the shiny cobblestones, rushing downward in two swift currents. A sharp flash overhead was followed by another thunder clap which rattled glass in the olden buildings. I came to the crest and started downhill, the winding twists working even harder against me.
News flash.
Bare feet and wet rocks don’t mix either.
Gray Sweatshirt was wearing rubber-soled sneakers. New ones, I’d noticed earlier. Not a mark on them. Working like wings at the moment, providing sure footing. He was toting the knapsack he’d carried into the museum, which surely still held the wooden box. What a way to spend what was supposed to be a relaxing day with an old friend.
I wasn’t sure of Nicodème’s age. Maybe mid-eighties. I’d never asked, though he’d been around nearly my whole life. He was a gnarled, walking stick of a man with a face like the pummeled look of an unfinished sculpture topped by a mop of unkempt white hair. My father, doing what wealthy men did, had been a collector of rare coins, stamps, and books as well as ancient Egyptian and Roman glass and pottery. Nicodème had long been a dealer in all of those and visited us several times a year in Spain, always bringing curiosities for my father’s perusal, staying with us a few days, telling stories of the world, then leaving with more money than when he’d arrived.
Knowing how much I loved perfume, he never failed to bring me a flacon of some kind. My favorite was still the tiny quartz bottle with a black jade stopper that hung from a silver chain, which I wore often. Opened, I could catch a whiff of the original formula it had once held. I’d never filled it with anything else for fear of losing that faint suggestion of that long lost scent. My curiosity about scents began as a child when my mother gave me my first bottle of cologne. A light floral lemon with a hint of orange blossom. Expectations. A curious name. But one I never forgot.
A jolt of pain surged up my right leg.
Dammit.
Something had bruised the bottom of my foot. Aware of the fragility of ankles and the price of stumbling, I slowed and reached down, applying pressure which resulted in more pain.
No choice.
I kept going.
More of that self-discipline I’d taught myself through too many life lessons and bad decisions to count.
My target remained in my sights about thirty meters ahead. I stumbled on a cracked cobble and nearly lost my balance, but I wasn’t going to stop. This thief had stolen something invaluable. How did I know that? Nicodème’s instructions as I’d bolted from the shop.
Get it back. No matter what.
His air of urgency unmistakable.
Nicodème’s shop sat at the end of one of Eze’s oldest streets, against the outer wall, pressed to the mountain, where not all that many tou
rists ventured. The thief had knocked, entered, and examined what he’d come to see—a wooden box waiting for him on the counter. He was polite and asked intelligent questions. Which raised no alarm bells, as antique dealers were the shop’s main customers.
He even provided a name.
Peter Hildick-Smith.
Nicodème never advertised and no signage identified the building or business other than a bronze number 16. The door stayed locked and all visits were by appointment only. Hildick-Smith had scheduled his last week, there to see some of the ancient glass, as he’d heard Nicodème stocked quite a bit.
Which was true.
The display cases were filled with rare antique bottles, glasses, bowls, jugs, and jars. Differing styles and craftsmanship from around the world. The shelves were stacked with catalogs and books about glass, pottery, and carved stone. A reference library any museum would be envious to own. Hildick-Smith, though, had come to see something in particular, something that he’d confirmed was there at the time of the appointment.
A wooden box.
Rectangular shaped, fashioned of shiny rosewood, the cover inlaid with cabochon stones—amethysts, moonstones, garnets, and sapphires.
From the back of the shop. In what Nicodème called the Museum of Mysteries.
Where access to the front was by invitation, only people who possessed treasures Nicodème was trying to acquire, or scholars who harbored information about treasures already ensconced, were invited into the museum itself. Few of the locals living in Eze knew the stone house and storefront, located at #16 on Rue de Barri, harbored a secret museum. Nor did they know that the elderly antique dealer, Nicodème L’Etoile, was also a mystic whose passion was collecting supposedly powerful and sometimes dangerous portents from the past.