Inquisitor (Orion Chronicles Book 3)

by John Barrowman

‘What do you fear?’ Cecilia inquired, stepping closer to him. ‘That the Camarilla have not made you rich enough? That we have not given you enough power? That your children have not visited enough countries yet?’

  Victor blanched. Cecilia smiled.

  ‘I know you’ve sent your family from Rome,’ she said. ‘Tut tut, Victor. Just when we need you most.’

  ‘They needed a break from this summer heat,’ he said, a whimper catching his words.

  Cecilia tipped her head to one side. ‘You and your family have always been weak. For centuries, you have managed to avoid the real work that has to be done. My grandfather tolerated it because he adored your mother, but I have no such feelings for her, or for you.’

  Zach laid out a carafe of wine and two silver goblets on a nearby table then stepped away. Cecilia poured wine into each one, wiping the excess from the lip of the carafe with one of the white linen napkins sitting on the tray. The red wine stained the monogram of the Camarilla like a bloody kiss. She handed the glass to Victor. With trembling hands, he accepted, bowed his head and backed away from the table, but he didn’t take a drink.

  Footsteps echoed across the floor from the stairs. Victor looked over at the figure who’d entered and what was in their hands.

  He dropped to his knees and spread himself in front of Cecilia in full supplication, his goblet clattering across the floor, the wine puddling at his feet.

  ‘Please,’ he begged, choking back a sob. ‘I can be stronger. I can do better.’ He lifted his eyes to the new arrival and then back to Cecilia. ‘You need me.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  24.

  Everything’s True but Everything Lies

  ‘Stay,’ Cecilia instructed Victor when he tried to get to his knees. She put her foot on his head and pressed his face into the travertine. ‘I’m not interested in your failures any more.’

  She increased the pressure on his skull with her foot. A bone in his jaw cracked. He cried out, blood flowing from his nose.

  ‘I promise to leave your family alone if…’ Cecilia paused, lifted her foot a little, relieving some of the pressure. ‘If, and only if, you answer my question with the honesty the cause deserves.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’

  She crouched down. Victor remained prostrate, a puddle spreading out beneath his trousers.

  ‘Who else does Orion have spying on us?’ she asked softly.

  The person who had entered the room raised a broad sword above Victor’s head. Cecilia took the sword from Sol.

  ‘Who?’ she repeated, weighing the sword.

  ‘No one, no one!’ Victor sobbed. He tried to lift his head. ‘It’s the truth.’

  Cecilia cracked his jawbone against the marble again.

  ‘No one, I swear!’ His words slid out with a bloody, broken tooth.

  Cecilia’s fury shook the room. She raised the sword and brought it down on Victor’s neck with such force that the blade cracked the travertine, sending sparks into the air.

  ‘Thank you, Sol,’ said Cecilia, returning the sword. ‘You’ve been helpful today.’

  Sol bowed her head. ‘I have someone checking all the street cameras for the white van,’ she said. ‘I think we’ll find it was someone working on behalf of Victor himself.’

  ‘Orion,’ said Cecilia. Her voice dripped with scorn. ‘Hoping to avoid losing Victor if they killed me first. As if they could.’

  ‘Now that Victor is out of the way,’ said Sol, ‘may we proceed as planned?’

  Cecilia’s grim expression relaxed a little. ‘The lyre is within our reach. The Devil’s Interval too. And someone I trust is watching the Conjuror. So yes. We are almost ready.’

  Sol stepped over the pool of blood. ‘I’ll have this cleaned up.’

  ‘Wait.’ Cecilia picked up Victor’s head by its hair. She set it on the silver tray, using her napkin to dab blood from its mouth. ‘Let’s get a picture of this. I’m sure his wife would like an update on her husband’s whereabouts.’

  ‘What about Luca?’ Sol asked. ‘Can we depend on him to exterminate the Order of Era Mina? Take out the vaults?’

  ‘Zach gave him the message,’ said Cecilia. ‘The Nephilim will bend to our will.’

  Sol used Victor’s jacket to wipe his blood from the sword blade. Cecilia drew her close and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Your service will not go unrewarded,’ she said. ‘But first, I need you to fetch something the Scottish student has stolen.’

  ‘The student who was working with Pietra Scoretti? Callum Muir?’

  ‘Yes. I paid him a visit earlier today. I thought he knew nothing of Pietra’s plans. I showed him mercy and left him with his life. But I was misinformed.’ Cecilia picked up the portfolio from her desk and flipped it open. ‘This map is a forgery.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘It’s lifeless.’ Cecilia cast it back on to the desk in disgust. ‘Dull. The real map is still out in the world. It cannot fall into Orion’s hands before the concert. Not when everything else we need is within our grasp.’

  Sol ran a hand through her blonde hair. ‘You want another accident? Like Pietra’s?’

  Cecilia squeezed Sol’s arm and dropped a set of keys into her hand. ‘I took these from the boy earlier. Be as creative as you like. But get me that original.’

  A few minutes later, with Victor’s head on its silver platter, Sol headed into the labyrinth of tunnels and catacombs that stretched beneath the original foundations of the island, all the way to Vatican City.

  25.

  What’s Your Name?

  Sol had just left the building when Luca strolled through the lobby of the Museum of Antiquities, ignoring the plinths and pedestals displaying busts of men and women he’d once known inhabiting the space. He was about to head up the wide stairs to the Camarilla’s private offices when an icy breeze checked him. He cautiously followed the sweet scent of oranges below the stairs to the museum’s archives.

  If he was surprised by what he found, he had enough sense not to show it.

  Cecilia’s stilettos floated centimetres off the ground as she reached a high shelf stacked with scrolls. She arched a brow at Luca’s entrance.

  ‘Good of you to grace us with your presence.’

  ‘Are you a believer?’ asked Luca, more insolently than was wise. His human emotions were a toxic blend.

  ‘Always the defiant one.’ She grasped a scroll tied with a red band and floated back to the ground.

  Luca bowed slightly before adding in a more controlled tone, ‘What should I call you now, your Eminence? Father seems a little… inaccurate.’

  ‘Cecilia.’ She smoothed her hands thoughtfully down the length of the body-hugging dress. ‘She has given me a new outlook on this world.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve summoned me?’

  ‘I’ve summoned you because I need you to take care of something,’ she said. ‘Try not to fail… again. The time is upon us. We must raise the Second Kingdom.’

  Luca shoved his hands in his jeans and scanned the room. It was as he remembered it from four hundred years earlier, with the exception of the top-of-the-line security system and the controlled air, and the alcove full of glowing musical instruments stolen over the centuries from Animare paintings – evidence of the Camarilla’s failed attempts to find the lyre. Leather-bound over-sized volumes to tiny pocket-sized books filled the shelves. Frescoes covered the vaulted ceiling with images of god and goddess, and apothecary jars filled with plant and human matter stocked surrounding cabinets. The room was rich with the musk of dark magic and the power of ancient manuscripts.

  Cecilia loosened the band and unrolled the scroll. Luca stiffened. He recognized it as one that had been hidden in the Tomb of Martyrs. It had disappeared during his last confrontation with the Conjuror. He’d assumed it had fallen into the hands of whoever was protecting the Conjuror. How did it get here? Was an Orion agent working both sides?

  ‘Where did you get that?’


  ‘One of my generals brought it to me as a token of loyalty. He felt he had something to prove.’ Cecilia eyed Luca. ‘As do you.’

  Luca bowed ironically. ‘What is it that you wish me to do?’

  Cecilia brushed a fleck of dust from her dress. ‘Since my re-awakening, I’ve learned that the Camarilla have been taking musical instruments from paintings, in a fruitless bid to find the lyre.’ She flicked her hand dismissively at the glowing objects in the alcove. ‘We both know they could have simply asked you where it was.’

  A sudden pain stabbed Luca’s skull. A trickle of blood splashed like a tear from the corner of his eye on to the scroll in Cecilia’s hands.

  ‘You were once the best of us, Luca.’ Cecilia traced a finger over the blood spatter and slowly raised it to her lips. ‘Until you allowed yourself to love. You must subvert your human nature or Orion will destroy you with their lies.’

  She pressed her hand on top of Luca’s. A hot vice squeezed his brain. He was burning up inside.

  ‘You are my offspring, anointed in fire to be my general. When the others rise, I want you by my side.’

  The fire in Luca’s brain subsided. Cecilia smiled. ‘But first, prove that you are loyal… to me alone.’

  Blood and darkness and destiny bound Luca to this being, this Watcher. But was it enough any more? An image of Sebina flashed across his mind.

  Cecilia’s expression darkened. ‘Do not fail me. Bring down the Order of Era Mina, and bring me the lyre.’

  26.

  Closed for Repair

  Callum landed on a group of teenagers slouching, drinking and smoking on the broad steps directly beneath the museum’s window. He untangled himself, and while they screamed their wrath in English and Italian, he sprinted to the top of the Spanish Steps behind the obelisk in front of the Trinity dei Monti. He stopped at the portico and looked back down at the Spanish Steps.

  Police had started to gather under the window, and the teenagers swiftly moved on. Several Fiat squad cars blasted up to the museum, and the area was cordoned off. One or two armed soldiers sprinted across the square. Their presence ramped up the situation at once.

  Callum ducked inside the church where he found an open pew near the back, his heart racing, his mind flipping through his options. He scanned his surroundings. All the church signs were in French, then Italian and finally English, the largest announcing that the pipe organ was under repair until further notice.

  Callum had jacked his hip on someone’s shoulder when he’d dropped from the window. It was sore to the touch. He cautiously stretched his legs out across the wooden bench, folded his hands over the satchel and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  An Englishman wearing a blue windbreaker was poking gently at Callum’s shoulder. ‘Do you mind moving over?’ He pointed to his wife and two teenage sons standing in the aisle.

  Callum sat up with a start. The nave was filling up and the gates to the high altar were open. Around him, a steady stream of worshippers was entering the church for the evening mass. Mumbling something about leaving, he slid along the pew and out into the main aisle. The family watched him curiously before they settled themselves.

  Callum’s head was in a fog, but he knew two things for sure. He needed to get his head straight, and he had to hide the illustration. The curator would be on to him at once.

  He glanced around for a place to hide his satchel. The church was more austere than most, lacking in grottos and side chapels, with only a handful of effigies and a small chorus of statues. It was better known for its frescoes of the Old and New Testament, and its massive pipe organ.

  The organ. Callum remembered the construction notice. He moved among a flock of worshippers towards the high altar, darting through the wrought iron gate. Then he dropped back into the shadows, and waited until he was sure he was alone. The moment the coast was clear, he slipped next to the organ, crawled under the construction tape, and tucked the satchel with his treasure beneath the decorative console and a wide pedalboard.

  27.

  Wanted for Questioning

  Rome at night always seemed more muted to Callum than Edinburgh or Glasgow. Whereas all three cities had vibrant nightlives, there was something about the light here, the way it slanted off the monuments, the way it washed through the shadows on the narrow streets, the way it rained from the moonlight.

  Yawning from his afternoon nap, he left the church and worked his way to the closest metro heading south to San Lorenzo. Standing on the platform, he caught a flash of his name on a digital news tracker, scrolling above the track.

  Son of British Lord, Sir Archibald Muir, wanted for questioning in connection with murder of Rome banker, Victor Moretti, whose headless body was found earlier today floating in the Tiber.

  A rush of disgorging travellers jostled Callum as he stood in shock, watching his passport photo scroll across the screen. He sprang to life, squeezing on to the train at the last second, head down, riding the seven stops into San Lorenzo. Thinking harder than he’d ever thought in his life.

  He felt sure the police would be watching the garret where he had lived with Pietra. Callum decided instead to head to his flat, a couple of rooms he’d hardly used since arriving in Rome. Even though it stretched his funds every month, Callum had hung on to the flat as well as helping Pietra to pay for the garret. It had essentially become a place to store his crap that Pietra didn’t want.

  The flat was only a block from the garret, but keeping to the dimly lit streets and the crowded alleys, the journey took him longer than he’d hoped. It wasn’t until he reached the building that he realized he’d lost his keys. When he tried to remember where he’d last seen them, his memory grew foggy again.

  He sat inside the doorway to the building and tried to make sense of why he was wanted for the murder of an Italian banker. If he hadn’t been so scared and confused, the irony might have been funny. He’d had no money in a bank since he’d left Scotland. He was about to contemplate breaking in when a tall lanky figure found him tucked against the wall.

  ‘Jesus, Callum. You scared me!’ Raoul was carrying groceries shoved inside his book bag, a bunch of leafy carrots poking out the top. A friend of Pietra’s, he was studying at the university and had found this flat for Callum in the first place. ‘You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.’

  ‘By a set of stone steps and a pile of teenagers, actually,’ Callum said.

  Raoul pushed open the outside door and waited until Callum hobbled into a hallway that reeked of overflowing rubbish from cans lining the interior wall. ‘Are you hurt badly?’

  ‘Just banged up,’ said Callum. ‘Do you still have my spare key?’

  Ten minutes later Callum was in his shower, his clothes in a heap in the middle of the floor, the hot water running over him. He pressed his forehead on the chipped tiles.

  What the hell was going on?

  Pietra would have had answers. He pulled the curtain closed and sat in the tub, wishing the last month had never happened. He began to shiver, pulled himself up, his hip aching from his jump out of the window. Then he grabbed a towel and walked into a bedroom the size of his closet in Edinburgh.

  From the street below he heard a car door slam and loud Italian voices. He moved cautiously to the window. His view of the rooftops was one of the reasons he’d loved this place when he first arrived, and dozens of pencil sketches in the light of dawn, the brilliance of high noon and the soft shadows of dusk layered the walls around the window. The view was also how he and Pietra had discovered their garret; its skylights shimmered opposite the flat like pools of water. His grief took his breath away as he stared across the roofs.

  He glimpsed movement.

  Reaching for the binoculars he kept on the window ledge, he adjusted them to focus on the garret windows. His whole body stiffened at the grotesque tableau.

  No way was he getting out of this situation without some serious help.

  28.
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  Still Life with Banker

  A severed head lay on a silver tray with a white cloth draped around the edges. Mouth wide open, empty eyes staring. The head was as horrible as in Caravaggio’s famous painting. Callum dropped the binoculars against his chest and backed away from the window. The banker. Had to be.

  He forced himself to look again. The space was chaos, clothes and books strewn everywhere. Pietra’s favourite Frida Kahlo tapestry had been torn from the wall. All of his art supplies and chemicals were in disarray next to the sink, his light table smashed and his inks spilled. The wardrobe had been moved closer to the door and the couch had been pulled away from the slope of the ceiling. And down in the street, the police were watching, waiting for his return.

  Callum dropped the binoculars, pulled on his boots and slipped his phone under the waistband of his jeans. Thinking better of it – they might be able to trace him – he ground the phone under the heel of his boot, then dropped it into the sink and ran the water.

  Scrambling into the tub, Callum punched open the narrow bathroom window and climbed outside on to the flat roof. Ducking low, he ran to the other side of the building where he flattened himself in the shadows of the roof air vents before scrambling on to the fire escape at the back of the building, unhooking the mechanism and sliding to the ground with a bone-shaking clatter.

  Raoul flung open his kitchen window as Callum hurtled past.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he yelled down the building.

  ‘You never saw me, man.’ Callum jumped off the fire escape and on to the ground, his hip throbbing.

  He heard the window slam as he jogged into the alley between the apartment building and a restaurant. The smartest option would be to cut his losses and get out of Rome. At the very least find a haven where he could figure out why all of this was happening. But Callum was so bloody angry that neither of these options appealed. He was going to see this through for Pietra’s sake.