The Ben Hope Collection
The Alchemists Secret
The Mozart Conspiracy
The Doomsday Prophecy
The Heretics Treasure
The Shadow Project
The Lost Relic
Copyright
These novels are entirely works of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
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Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
The Ben Hope Collection © Scott Mariani 2012
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Individual Editions:
The Alchemists Secret: 9780007331475
The Mozart Conspiracy: 9780007329038
The Doomsday Prophecy: 9780007320042
The Heretics Treasure: 9780007334575
The Shadow Project: 9780007358021
The Lost Relic: 9780007342778
Ebook Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780007491704
Version: 2017-05-04
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Alchemists Secret
The Mozart Conspiracy
The Doomsday Prophecy
The Heretics Treasure
The Shadow Project
The Lost Relic
Exclusive Extract
Keep Reading
About the Author
About the Publisher
SCOTT MARIANI
The Alchemists Secret
To Marco, Miriam and Luca
Seek, my Brother, without becoming discouraged;the task is hard, I know, but to conquer withoutdanger is to triumph without glory.
The Alchemist Fulcanelli
Table of Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Authors Note
Acknowledgements
1
France, October 2001
Father Pascal Cambriel pulled his hat down tight and his coat collar up around his neck to protect against the lashing rain. The storm had ripped open the door to his hen-house and the birds were running amok in a panic. The sixty-four-year-old priest herded them back in with his stick, counting them as they went. What a night!
A flash of lightning illuminated the yard about him and the whole of the ancient stone village. Behind the wall of his cottage garden lay the tenth-century church of Saint-Jean with its simple cemetery, the crumbling headstones and ivy. The roofs of the houses and the rugged landscape beyond were brightly lit by the lightning flash that split the sky, then plunged back into darkness as the crash of the thunder followed a second later. Streaming with rainwater, Father Pascal pushed home the bolt of the hen-house door, locking the squawking birds safely in.
Another bright flash, and something else caught the priests eye as he turned to dash back to the cottage. He stopped dead with a gasp.
Visible for just an instant, a tall, thin, ragged figure stood watching him from across the low wall. Then it was gone.
Father Pascal rubbed his eyes with his wet hands. Had he imagined it? The lightning flashed again, and in the instant of flickering white light he saw the strange man running away across the edge of the village and into the woods.
The priests natural instinct after all these years as pastor to his community was to try immediately to help any soul in need. Wait! he shouted over the wind. He ran out of his gate, limping slightly on his bad leg, and up the narrow lane between the houses, towards where the man had disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
Father Pascal soon found the stranger collapsed face down among the brambles and leaves at the edge of the woods. He was shaking violently and clutching at his skinny sides. In the wet darkness the priest could see that the mans clothes were hanging in tatters. Lord, he groaned in sympathy, instinctively taking off his coat to wrap around the stranger. My friend, are you all right? Whats the matter? Please, let me help you.
The stranger was talking to himself in a low voice, a garbled mutter mixed with sobbing, his shoulders heaving. Father Pascal laid the coat across the mans back, feeling his own shirt instantly soaked with the pouring rain. We must go inside, he said in a soft voice. I have a fire, food and a bed. I will call Doctor Bachelard. Are you able to walk? He tried gently to turn the man over, to take his hands and help him up.
And recoiled at what he saw in the next lightning flash. The mans tattered shirt soaked in blood. The long, deep gashes that had been cut into his emaciated body. Cuts on cuts. Wounds that had healed and been slashed open again.
Pascal stared, hardly believing what he was seeing. These werent random slashes, but patterns, shapes, symbols, crusted in blood.
Who did this to you, my son? The priest studied the strangers face. It was wizened, gaunt almost to the point of ghoulishness. How far had he wandered in this state?
In a cracked voice the man muttered something: Omnis qui bibit hanc aquam
Father Pascal realized with amazement that the man was speaking to him in Latin. Water? he asked. You want some water?
The man went on mumbling, staring at him with wild eyes, clawing at his sleeve. si fidem addit, salvus erit.
Pascal frowned. Something about faith, salvation? Hes talking nonsense, he thought. The poor soul was deranged. Then the lightning flashed again, almost directly overhead, and as the thunder roared an instant later he saw with a start that the mans bloody fingers were wrapped tightly around the hilt of a knife.
It was a knife like no other hed ever seen, a cruciform dagger with an ornate gold hilt set with glittering jewels. The long, slim blade was dripping with blood.
It was then that the priest understood what the stranger had done to himself. Hed carved these wounds into his own flesh.
What have you done? Father Pascals mind swam with horror. The stranger watched him, rising to his knees, his bloody mud-streaked face suddenly lit up by another flash of lightning. His eyes were empty, lost, as though his mind was in some other place. He fingered the ornate weapon.