Free Tomb Raider: The Ten Thousand Immortals by Dan Abnett, Nik Vincent Page B

well-groomed, elderly man.
    He was sitting behind an imposing desk. It was clearly antique, and gleamed with a mirror finish buffed by dozens of hands over hundreds of years. The room, an office or study, was savagely austere in an unmistakably masculine way, and it looked as if it hadn’t changed, ever, probably not since the building had been erected in the seventeenth century.
    Lara was on the top floor of one of the majestic buildings on one of the most famous streets in the world. No attempt had been made to keep the destination from her. If she looked out of the window to her left, she could see onto the Champs-Élysées below. She didn’t look. She concentrated on the man’s face.
    “ My father taught me never to speak to strangers,” said Lara.
    “Then let us become acquainted,” said the man, unsmiling.
    “Perhaps my sister should introduce us,” said Lara.
    “If you’d be more comfortable with a woman present...” said the man.
    “I’d be more comfortable anywhere but here,” said Lara.
    “And yet here you are. It is an honour. The chair you are sitting in came from the private rooms of the most influential man at the court of Tsar Nicolas II of Russia.”
    Lara thought for a moment.
    “Grigori Rasputin,” she said.
    “The very same,” said the man.
    “And this desk came from Manchester College in England. It is the library table that John Dee used during his time as warden at the college.”
    “I’m astonished these objects aren’t in museums,” said Lara. “Such rare things usually belong to public institutions.”
    “They belong to me,” said the man. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ares. Now, you see, we are no longer strangers.”
    Lara tried not to show her surprise. She needed time to think, to process, to piece together what she knew. She decided to follow Ares’s lead. She glanced away from him, down at Rasputin’s chair.
    “This really belonged to Rasputin?” she asked, allowing the conversation to play out while she sifted back in her mind through what she had read.
    “Indeed it did,” said Ares.
    Ares, God of War, of destruction, of violence. What else did the Book say?
    “Are you one of those people who believes objects should be looked at and not used?” asked Ares. “Do they not become meaningless, inert, if they are not put to their proper use? Should they not live in the world?”
    Ares was cross-referenced in the section on immortality, but that was wrong. The Book was misleading.
    Lara stalled for time. She stroked the arm of the chair, as if pondering the question.
    “I think that objects should be shared and studied, and I think they should be conserved. This chair has a place in history. People would want to see it if they knew it existed. People will still want to see it in a hundred years or five hundred years.”
    “That is the beauty of owning such an object,” said Ares. “To have the privilege of choosing who sees it, who uses it, to have power over its exposure in the world, to use it oneself. Don’t you see?”
    “On the other hand, it’s a dead man’s chair,” said Lara.
    “Not just any dead man,” said Ares.
    “A powerful man,” said Lara. “A man who shaped a dynasty. Nevertheless, a man who fell.”
    “You miss my point,” said Ares. “Rasputin was killed five times before he died. He was poisoned, shot twice through the torso, and subsequently shot twice more. Then, he was severely clubbed, and finally he drowned.”
    “Nevertheless, he died,” said Lara.
    Ares barked a sudden, deeply unpleasant laugh.
    “What do you know about the Golden Fleece?” he asked for the second time.
    “You collect antiques,” said Lara. “You’re clearly interested in history. If you want to know about the Golden Fleece, you have the means to find out that information. Buy a book.”
    “Your belligerence is neither necessary nor becoming,” said Ares. “What is your interest in the artifact?”
    “I’m an archaeologist,”