Inquisitor (Orion Chronicles Book 3)

by John Barrowman

  ‘To wherever you hid the map.’

  Zach and Orianna swung away from the hangar towards the Vatican in their low-slung red car as Callum directed Matt to the fastest route to the Spanish Steps and the church where he’d hidden the illustration. Caravaggio was in the back. They drove the SUV as close to the church as possible before the three of them jumped out. The church door was locked, but with a quick animation they were inside.

  ‘Have you ever considered burglary as a career?’ asked Callum as they crept down the centre aisle towards the pipe organ.

  He ducked under the construction tape and the velvet ropes to retrieve the satchel and its precious contents. No matter what else it represented, it had been Pietra’s death warrant.

  ‘May I see it?’ asked Caravaggio, wiping his hands on his jacket.

  Feeling shy in front of the great artist, Callum opened the portfolio. Caravaggio leaned closer, staring at the head of a grotesque ram growing out of the bulbous trunk of a tree from which multiple branches reached out to pictures of ancient temples.

  ‘That is where the Watchers will rise,’ said Caravaggio, reverently pointing to the ram’s head.

  ‘Pietra and I always thought it was metaphorical,’ Callum said, staring at the image.

  ‘No,’ said Caravaggio in a hushed tone. ‘It is quite literal. This all lies beneath Rome. This is the Eternal City. Exactly as it is shown.’

  Matt was staring at Caravaggio and frowning.

  Callum sensed something shifting in the air.

  It all happened so fast, it was almost as if nothing had happened at all. Caravaggio replaced the map inside Callum’s messenger bag and flipped the bag over his own shoulder. Then, with all the grace of a dancer, he pivoted – and plunged his dagger into Matt’s side.

  Eyes wide, Matt crumbled to the stone floor.

  ‘Mi dispiace,’ said Caravaggio. ‘But I must go now.’

  Matt groaned, clutching his side. He struggled on to his elbows. ‘You bastard!’ he choked out as the artist ran for the doors. ‘I hope Luca tears you apart when he catches you.’

  The artist turned back briefly. ‘Ah, but you see my friend, that’s not going to happen. In return for bringing this map to Cecilia, I will get my life back. The map and, of course, this.’

  He produced a rolled-up canvas from his boot and waved it with a faint air of apology. Callum didn’t know what the canvas represented, but Matt clearly did.

  ‘The Devil’s Interval!’ he gasped. ‘The painting… you stole it when we were in Kentigern. I have been… so stupid…’

  ‘Yes,’ Caravaggio agreed. ‘Now there will be no more running for me. No more being hunted. You can see the appeal.’ He pulled open the heavy wooden doors. ‘Ciao.’

  The dark church echoed with the booming sound of the door as it shut, followed by the artist’s disappearing footsteps.

  ‘Why didn’t I see it?’ Matt’s eyes were wild and glazed with pain. ‘Too stupid… Too late…’

  Callum roused himself. The wound in Matt’s side was bleeding. ‘Stop moving, man,’ he said sharply, pressing his hand against Matt’s hip to staunch the flow. ‘I need to get help.’

  ‘No time,’ groaned Matt. ‘Get me something to draw with. We need to find that bloody tree and stop the Inquisitor. But we’ve lost the map…’

  Callum knew the map like the back of his hand. He’d drawn it, inch by inch, labouring late into the night. He could recall every detail, every twisting branch.

  ‘But we’ve still got a copy.’ He tapped his head. ‘In here.’

  74.

  Body Language

  Inside a luxurious salon in a wing of the Vatican’s private quarters, Cecilia zipped Sol’s skin-tight black leather jumpsuit up under her chin, then tugged it down again a couple of inches. Beads of perspiration glistened on Sol’s skin. Cecilia pressed a tip of her finger to one of the droplets, bringing the moisture to her own lips, tasting it.

  ‘Nervous?’ she said.

  Sol smiled. She was dressed as if for battle, her thigh high boots as highly polished as the ceremonial sword at her side, the Camarilla insignia boldly displayed on her back. ‘Not a bit. Everyone is here.’ She stepped aside to let Cecilia admire herself in the gilded mirror. ‘The invitation was impossible to resist. The atmosphere outside is almost rapturous.’

  ‘Wonderful.’ Cecilia brushed a loose strand of hair from Sol’s forehead and ushered her out of the door. ‘You have been an indispensable general in our struggles. This time we will succeed, and you will be rewarded handsomely. Go now. I’ll be there soon.’

  When Cecilia turned around, Luca was leaning against the massive marble fireplace.

  ‘I thought I felt a chill in the air,’ Cecilia remarked. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you have it?’

  Stepping forward, Luca handed her a rectangular box. She unclasped the lock. Inside the box sat the lyre, its strings shimmering beneath a layer of Bosch’s paint dust.

  ‘Good,’ she murmured, stroking the lyre. ‘Very good.’

  She lifted her head. The windows were open wide to the night, and Luca was gone.

  Dressed in a black satin stola with a diamond clasp on each shoulder and a jewelled crown of laurels expertly set in her up-do, Cecilia looked every inch the Italian couture model. Tilting her head at the long mirror as if seeing herself for the first time, a smile tugged at her plump red lips, her hands running over the curve of her breasts, her slender hips, her toned stomach.

  Not for one moment in the past few days had the Inquisitor regretted the decision to inhabit this body.

  75.

  Under Pressure

  The Basilica looked like a wedding cake, its walls and dome gleaming white with bunting and ribbons of red and gold adorning the façade. Rémy stood outside the metal barricades separating those with the hottest tickets in Rome and those only hoping for a standing view of the concert and perhaps even a glimpse of someone famous. Three massive screens had been set up around the perimeter of the square to broadcast the concert. The Vatican had announced that morning that even the Pope would be attending, and a raised, white-draped section with gold chairs had been installed near the wings of the stage.

  The stage itself looked like a long gold tongue, extending into St Peter’s Square from the steps to the Basilica. The square was lined with rows of chairs for the invitation-only crowd. There was still an hour before the concert was set to begin, and it looked as if most of Rome’s elite had already taken their seats while the rest of the city spilled away into the streets beyond.

  Rémy had the static cranked so high on his earbuds that a group of elderly men and women standing next to him glared at the spill-over. He growled at them, and they edged away.

  His fury at himself for losing Em had almost killed him back in Louisiana. When he’d crumpled to the marshy ground of the bayou beside the empty, gently rocking boat she had animated for them both, he’d been unsurprised to see the ram’s horns he’d given her, lying cracked open on the ground. All that remained was an invitation, pinned like a bad joke to the shattered pitch pipes that had lain within.

  GRAND GALA CONCERT

  ‘Black Orpheus’

  St Peter’s Square, Rome

  Come and get her

  Raging, Rémy had conjured tickets for flights to New Orleans and on to Rome. Over the Atlantic, he had tried to sleep, but his dreams were angry and disjointed, full of images of monstrous trees and devilish goats chasing him through the bayou while the dead sang to him. He had lost Em. He had lost the pipes: the key to his destiny.

  He’d thought about sending a message to Vaughn and the others, but knew they’d stop him. Alessandro’s words echoed in his mind. The last place you should be is Rome, Rémy. Trust me. It was risky. But what choice did he have? He couldn’t bear the scar of another loved one’s death on his heart.

  The entirety of St Peter’s Square was lit with enormous floodlights that washed the scene in sepia tones. The area was cordoned off with white sawhorse
s and wire fencing and running outside the perimeter of the security fence was a ring of soldiers. Rémy looked more closely at their uniforms. Every other soldier bore the lyre-insignia of the Camarilla on their flak jackets. They all had earpieces and mics. Rémy was sure they were on the look-out for him.

  He backed away from the crowd, straight into someone standing directly behind him. Alessandro pulled Rémy out of the main flood of pedestrian traffic towards the river.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ said Rémy in shock.

  Alessandro tapped the golden tablet, the talisman that hung around his neck. ‘You were not difficult to find,’ he said. The other half of the talisman that Alessandro had given to the mother on the slave ship and that Rémy’s mother had centuries later given to him hummed gently against his skin, calling to Alessandro’s half.

  ‘I told you to stay away,’ said Alessandro, his anger tightening his grip on Remy’s arm. ‘You could have sent us what you discovered through the… the cyber world. If the Camarilla catch you, they will use you to destroy us all. Vaughn’s already got his agents prepared and in place.’

  Rémy put his hand on the warm metal. ‘Em,’ he said softly. ‘I think the Camarilla have her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone took her from the bayou when we were there.’ Rémy pulled the invitation from his pocket. ‘They left this for me.’

  Alessandro stared at the mocking words. The sky above St Peter’s was suddenly a maelstrom of lightning, snapping and curling spider webs of silver light through the sky. If Rémy hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn it was part of the pre-concert light show. He slipped his mother’s journal from under the band of his jeans. ‘Take care of this for me. I need to do this alone.’

  Alessandro took the book and slid it into the leather pouch across his chest.

  ‘Not this time,’ he replied, and his voice was hard. ‘This time we do it together.’

  76.

  Cheap Trick

  Zach stood anxiously behind the private box and stared out at the people who filled the first three circles around the stage that had been constructed around the Egyptian obelisk in the middle of the square. The air was thick with incense and the unmistakable odour of weed and cigarettes drifting in from the far edges of the square. But it was the stink of arrogance, lust and hunger for power exuding from the seated Camarilla that forced Zach to breathe through his nose.

  Zach typed into his tablet.

  It’s starting. Do you have the map?

  The entire square was plunged into darkness. The screens shut down, the spotlights on the stage clicked off. The clouds overhead seemed to thicken and anchor themselves above the stage. The crowd whistled, cheered and stomped their feet in anticipation.

  A spotlight clicked on and Cecilia stood centre stage.

  Cheap trick, thought Zach.

  ‘My dear friends and honoured guests. I am Cecilia Ciardi, and I welcome you to this evening’s performance, a concert presentation of Black Orpheus in honour of the Museum of Antiquities.’ She nodded towards the Pope’s private box, where His Holiness, two cardinals, the Italian President, two cabinet members and Fiera Orsini sat. ‘You are about to experience a night that will change your lives forever.’

  She raised her hands to the heavens. Everything went dark again. A chill wind blew across the square. The ground shook. The hanging clouds parted. And the performance began.

  77.

  Puppet Show

  Luca swooped out of the light and over the square, brushing the tips of his wings over the heads of the audience. There was a sharp stink of singed hair. The crowd gasped, and the front rows of Camarilla members fell to their knees. Enjoying himself, Luca soared upwards and, in a flash of fiery light, settled on the dome of St Peter’s where he languorously spread his wings and took a bow.

  The square exploded with applause. Luca soaked in the accolades, then flew down to the stage where he folded his wings behind his back and raised a finger to his lips.

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  ‘You,’ he said.

  He pointed to a man and woman sitting in the ring of seats behind the Camarilla. With a flick of his wrist, he scooped them into the air and made them dance like marionettes. Their limbs jerked and flopped to the delight of the crowd, until Luca grew bored and set them back on their seats. He did the same with a couple on the other side of the stage, and again, and again, repeating the trick until everyone in the square – bar the Camarilla – was flopping against each other and twitching like herring in a fishing net.

  Oh yes. This was exciting. He had shifted his balance. Made his decision.

  78.

  The Main Attraction

  ‘I have to get closer,’ said Rémy, his earbuds blocking out most of the sounds coming from the square.

  Alessandro began to protest, but Rémy ignored him. He showed his invitation to a guard and was ushered inside and down one of the aisles. As he moved, a dazzling spotlight hit him full in the face. He put up an arm to protect his eyes even as the circles of Camarilla threw themselves to the ground with a collective gasp.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Rémy asked in a low voice as he headed towards the stage.

  ‘Every step of the way,’ came Alessandro’s reply behind him. ‘You know that you will now be the lead in this performance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Luca was waiting on the stage, his arms crossed, his wings folded behind his back. Cecilia was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ Alessandro asked.

  Rémy shielded his eyes from the light. ‘I’ve seen what I have to do,’ he said. ‘Find Em and get her away from here, Alessandro. Promise me.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  Alessandro melted back into the crowd.

  When he reached the stage, Rémy climbed up next to Luca, his heart hammering in his chest. The chant among the Camarilla began, low but distinct.

  ‘Ecce unus est. Ecce unus est… Behold the one!’

  A great roar echoed around the square.

  From the entrance to the Basilica came a rumbling like a monster truck.

  79.

  Howl

  It wasn’t a monster truck. Just a monster.

  A slavering she-wolf bounded out of the darkness and into the square, trampling over the incapacitated crowd. Her breath glistened like frost in the warm air, and her breathing was deafening to Rémy who cranked up the sound on his earbuds. Riding on the she-wolf’s back was Cecilia, standing upright, holding the wolf’s reins as if she were driving a chariot.

  The Camarilla were rapturous.

  The mark on Rémy’s neck was on fire.

  80.

  Ride Like the Wind

  Across town, Callum had managed to get Matt to his feet and outside. Between the two of them, they’d staunched the bleeding from the wound. Matt had animated a roll of surgical bandages and a tube of sterile glue, and Callum had played nurse.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The animated Range Rover was still outside. Callum helped Matt into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt.

  ‘You know this city, right?’ Matt gasped. ‘Get as close to St Peter’s Square as you can.’

  Out of the Range Rover window, tornadoes of litter and junk were swirling up into the air. Whatever was happening in St Peter’s Square was generating a gale-force wind, sending pedestrians inside for shelter and scooters rocketing off the roads. The wound in Matt’s side throbbed as Callum swerved through the flying debris, but Caravaggio’s betrayal hurt way worse. The Devil’s Interval and the map, both taken from under Matt’s nose. His fury blinded him. He kept his shades tight on his face.

  81.

  One Note Song

  The she-wolf reached the stage and let Cecilia dismount beside Rémy. She cocked her head at him in a gesture that was both seductive and malevolent.

  The First Watcher felt invincible. Her body was
strong and athletic and she could feel the power pulsing in her veins. She looked out at her acolytes. What fools they were. Reaching her hands in the air, she quieted their roars.

  Sol had appeared, holding a wooden box with the Conjuror’s mark on its scarred surface. Inside, a golden lyre lay nestled in silk, its strings yellow with age. It hummed where it lay.

  ‘Play,’ Cecilia ordered, lifting the lyre from the box and presenting it to Rémy.

  *

  The lyre was lighter than Rémy expected. His head rang with its power.

  ‘I will not play anything until I know Em Calder is OK,’ he said, as steadily as he could, feeling the pull of the darkness from the instrument.

  Cecilia’s head swelled as if it had been filled with air, then returned to normal size.

  ‘Play!’ she shrieked.

  Rémy plucked a string reluctantly. The sound was like a gunshot blast, echoing around the square. It was worse inside his own head. It began like the keening of a trapped animal, then became a chorus of wailing and weeping. Not of animals. Of men and women and children. All of human suffering, in one long note.

  The ground at his feet opened up. Bluebottle flies swarmed out of the hole. The stage creaked and rocked beneath his feet, fissures stretched out like fingers across the square. The surrounding buildings trembled.

  With a superhuman effort, Rémy lowered the lyre. ‘No more until I see Em.’

  Cecilia snarled. Her eyes matched the feral viciousness of the she-wolf.

  ‘Go then. See her,’ she spat.

  She raised her arms. An earthquake rocked the square, opening an abyss as wide as the stage itself. The branches of a great white tree emerged from the earth, reaching out into the square like monstrous fingers.

  Rémy fell.

  82.