Exclusive Excerpt: The Museum of Mysteries - Vilma Iris | Lifestyle Blogger

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.

Book Type:

Thriller

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Exclusive Excerpt: The Museum of Mysteries
By Steve Berry + M.J. Rose

Exclusive Excerpt: The Museum of Mysteries

Bestselling authors M.J. Rose and Steve Berry combine talents in this magical, propulsive thriller that takes you from southern France to the streets of Paris as Cassiopeia Vitt chases a thief whose burgled the fabled Museum of Mysteries. Intriguing and fast-paced, this novella will hold you captive with its unique mix of magic and intrigue.

I’m so excited to share this exclusive sneak peek with an excerpt which will continue tomorrow at Natasha Is A Book Junkie.

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 grey 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 cafes 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 for 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.

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