by Misty Evans
Cole and I exchanged a look. Neither of us had ever heard Damon so complimentary. “Cole’s supposed to be lying in wait for Pestilence.”
Damon continued to focus on his laptop. The pilot announced our destination, the weather conditions we’d be flying in and asked us to buckle up. When he finished, Sal brushed me aside and hustled into the seat across from Damon. The priest’s forehead glistened with sweat. Not a flyer, apparently.
Damon buckled in. “Kirill will need a day or two to lure the Red Horseman into your trap. Cole’s services are more effective in our service for the next twenty-four hours.”
“You said you couldn’t spare him from the training center when I wanted to put him on Rad’s protection detail.”
With what might have been a sigh, Damon turned his dark eyes on me. “Radison Beaumont is not my concern at this time. You are. Sit down and buckle up.”
The plane lurched forward, challenging my balance. Huffing, I did as instructed, throwing myself into the seat. I didn’t buckle up, though. Score one for rebellion.
The plane’s engines grew loud as we taxied down the runway. Cole finished assembling his gun, laid it on the cloth-covered table, kicked back and gave me a hooded look. Questions lit his eyes, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. Probably wasn’t allowed to tell him the plan anyway. I had a dozen questions of my own, most of them surrounding Damon’s suspicions about Rad. What did my boss know that I didn’t? And why was he keeping it from me? My own suspicions were easy to stomp on. Damon’s, not so much.
But there was no way Rad was working for the Noctifectors. That I was sure of.
A hundred years had passed since I’d left my European home to journey to America. Nearly three-hundred since the last time I set foot in Rome. A brick of dread sat heavy in my stomach, and because of my boss, I couldn’t talk to the one person who would understand.
Rad.
Facing the window, I sunk down into the leather seat and watched as the ground and Chicago grew farther and farther away.
____________
Three hours later, everyone in the cabin was asleep. I tip-toed to the restroom, cradling my phone.
Locking myself in, I sat on the toilet seat and scrolled through the names in my contact list. My phone didn’t ring once—not even a text from Maddy who sent me all types of unnecessary messages every hour on the hour. What had Damon done to keep everyone from contacting me? Every time I thought about it, a warning bell rang in my head. Something wasn’t right about this trip; I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
The restroom was spacious compared to commercial planes. And clean. There were even decorative soaps in a dish on the vanity. But the motor noise here was worse than the cabin. No way could I carry on a discreet phone call.
I pulled up JR’s number and texted him. What do you know about the Vatican Secret Archives?
The text took several seconds longer than usual to go through, but the supped up cell phone Damon made me carry got the job done. A minute later, JR responded. Everything.
That’s why I kept him around. Well, that and his gift with technology. When dealing with supernaturals and religious cults on a daily basis, you can’t go wrong hiring a guy with the golden touch for bits and bytes and a master’s degree in religious studies.
I need details about the underground vault the extra secret stuff is kept in. Blueprints, diagrams, diagnostics, etc.
Again, there was a pause as my message flung itself across the Atlantic and back to Chicago. JR responded. Fifteen minutes. Check your inbox.
Speedy as well as knowledgeable. But was he as omniscient as he appeared? Do you know where I am?
Even though I was safely tucked into the privacy of the restroom, I scanned the walls top to bottom looking for hidden cameras (found none), sent out a thread of magic to check that my companions were still sleeping (they were), and tapped my foot, waiting for JR’s reply. When it came, I had to look at it twice to decipher.
43.068888°
-26.71875°
Longitude and latitude. My tech guru had my coordinates as I winged my way over the Atlantic toward Italy.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever Damon had done to take me off the grid, I still had the ability to contact the people back home and JR could find me. Seemed silly to be comforted by those two simple facts, but I was. Maybe I was making a big deal out of nothing. Letting my paranoia get to me.
I texted Rad, then Maddy, with nonchalant messages. How’s it going? Any new developments?
In rapid succession, I received two undeliverable messages from the phone carrier. Paranoia set in again. Why could I communicate with JR and not the others?
I tried Di and Neve next. Undeliverable.
Was it magic or something else? Why did I suddenly feel like I’d entered the Bermuda Triangle?
JR got a new message. Testing. Reply if you receive this.
Tapping my foot, I counted the seconds, then the minutes until he replied. Success. Trouble with phone? I can run diagnostic.
Nope, just trouble with my boss. Why had Damon allowed the link to JR to still work? Had he simply forgotten to cut him off from me like he’d done the others?
Damon was nothing if not meticulous with his planning. He didn’t forget things.
Send me a test message every hour, would you?
Sure thing.
JR didn’t question why I was over the Atlantic Ocean or why I was acting cryptic. The sign of a good follower. Eyeing the decorative soaps, I almost wished he’d been a bit more proactive and asked what I was doing, where I was going, and why.
Ironic I’d hated having so many people living at my house and interfering with my life over the past two months and now that I was finally free of them, I wanted nothing more than to make contact.
Six minutes had passed, but I was too antsy to wait any longer. I hacked into Damon’s Wi-Fi hub and checked my email—JR was rubbing off on me. His code name appeared in my inbox with six different emails. Nothing from anyone else. Again, I wondered what the hell my boss was up to that even my emails were culled so I only received JR’s.
I shoved that problem aside. Understanding Damon’s thought process was too time consuming and probably fruitless. A plethora of information regarding the Vatican Secret Archives awaited me. Settling in as best I could on the toilet seat, I opened JR’s emails and went to work.
Chapter Sixteen
Stato della Città del Vaticano, otherwise known as Vatican City, is its own country. The Italian government labeled it a ‘sovereign city-state’ and behind the walled enclave built inside Rome lies the Pope’s personal island.
Vatican City has its own government, issues its own passports, and has the only absolute monarch in Europe. Looking to enlighten yourself with history and culture? Check. Some of the most famous paintings in the world can be found in the Vatican’s museums and churches. Searching for the meaning of life? Check. You can find philosophers, spiritual leaders and an abundance of theories on life, the afterlife and good versus evil. Need to launder money or blackmail the church? Check and check. Ways to do both abound behind those walls.
Of course, I’ve never seen the art or the architecture or talked to any priest about my sins and the afterlife. Never once ventured into Vatican City, assuming all the time, I was one-hundred-percent demon. Demons and consecrated ground don’t mix. Throw in a bunch of self-righteous do-gooders who want my head and you’ve got a recipe for the apocalypse right there.
Since finding out I’m one of the seven deadly sins Jesus cast out of Mary Magdalene back in the day, I’ve also discovered Jesus’s mojo gave me a hefty dose of virtue. That virtue is what drives me to save and protect humans from supernaturals who would harm them. It’s also a free pass on consecrated ground.
Hello, Vatican City.
Except we didn’t land at da Vinci-Fiumicino or Ciampino airports in Rome. VC doesn’t have an airport, but Rome has two nearby. Nine hours after leaving Chicago, we landed on a long, pot-hole fil
led runway fifty miles north of the city, coming to a stop in front of a rundown building with floor-to ceiling glass windows that reflected the plane’s running lights back at us. In the distance, a huge military-type castle outlined a cliff overlooking a large lake.
“What the hell is this?” was all I could say.
Rain tapped against the windows. Damon donned his coat. “Castello di Guerriero Feroce. The Italian Bridge Institute. They moved from Milan a few years ago.”
Cole and I exchanged a look. I drew on my cape, fingered my weapons. “Why are we here?”
“I have business with Marco Agresta, a friend of mine. We’ll spend a few hours here, preparing for your entrance into Vatican City, and allowing me and Marco to catch up and share news.”
Damon had friends? Friends he needed to catch up with? “That’s what email is for—catching up. Besides, you’re on the phone to the Bridge people over here all the time.”
Heat filled my head. Please refrain from questioning my actions in front of others.
I stifled my middle finger’s reaction. If Damon felt the need to visit Marco and the Italian Bridge Council, it was for a good reason. What I didn’t like was the fact it was a false reason. Combined with him lying to me about Cole and the communication isolation from everyone but JR, the subterfuge made my skin itch.
I also felt uncomfortable because I didn’t like meeting new people. I didn’t like being in Italy, where so many memories from my past haunted me.
Fog was creeping in, cradling the castle and inching its way toward the hangar and runway. Two males emerged from the building riding a truck with some kind of seal on the side and a large liquid tanker on the back. They stopped near the plane and went into maintenance mode, docking the wheels and running a hose to the plane’s fuel tank.
A woman appeared in the entrance to the building and suddenly Damon’s stop at Castle Fierce Warrior made more sense. She was classic Italian—long black hair, a pointed chin and full lips. Her dark eyes seemed to look right through the plane’s walls and search for Damon’s presence.
She was dressed in a black, conservative suit, underneath which was a lacy tank top with an overtly generous V to it. Her breasts pushed up to full attention, showing as much olive skin from the top as was covered by fabric. The moment her gaze fixed on Damon, I felt him freeze.
Salmad grabbed our bags and rubbed the top of his head in a gesture I’d come to recognize as nervous relief. Cole sidled up next to me and whispered in my ear. “Marco, huh? You buying that?”
I shook my head no, swinging my attention from Damon to the woman. Both of them were way too still for my liking. I moseyed over to the archdemon, rubbed my shoulder against his. “Hey, boss. Everything okay?”
His lips formed a thin, tight line. His aura exuded a weird mix of lust and hate.
Mixed feelings I had a time or two myself. Had that recipe down to a science. I patted him on the back. If you need me to play your girlfriend, just say the word. I hear I’m pretty good at making others jealous.
It was ridiculously forward of me to invade his brain—although he did it on a regular basis to me—and suggest we act like lovers. The mental push, or perhaps the psychological one, broke the spell she seemed to have on him.
He gave me a grateful nod. That won’t be necessary, but I appreciate your concern.
Who is she?
An old friend.
And I was the Pope.
Damon picked up his laptop case, made for the stairs which had lowered while we talked. I gave Cole a shrug and followed.
The magical energy between Damon and the woman nearly lifted me off the ground. The moment Damon exited the plane, her features tensed. She stood stock-still, but her aura bounced and gyrated like a small child jumping for joy.
Friend, my ass.
There was an awkward moment as they faced each other and then Damon smiled. A generous if not overly-friendly smile, making her tension ease. The full lips brushed kisses on his cheeks and she gripped his arm to lead him inside.
Once we were all out of the rain, Damon introduced us. “Valentina, these are my employees, Kali and Cole. The priest is Salmad.” He took his eyes off her face long enough to address us. “Everyone, this is Valentina Bellucci. She’s head of the Bridge Council here.”
What about Marco? I almost said it out loud, but Cole must have sensed my rudeness because he stepped on the side of my booted foot as he stepped forward and offered Valentina his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The woman’s breasts jiggled as she shook his hand. “The War demon. Damon speaks highly of you.”
Cole smiled, suddenly smitten with her. I almost kicked him to snap him out of it.
Sal set down our overnight bags and took his turn exchanging greetings with her.
Then she turned to me. Instead of a handshake, she grabbed my arms and pulled me into an embrace, air kissing my cheeks.
I’m not a touchy-feely demon. Recently, everyone from Maddy to Dru had had their hands on me, hugging me, carrying me, feeding me their blood. I was less sensitive to being touched now than previously, but I still wasn’t prepared for Valentina’s assault.
I did not return the air kisses, nor did I find being pillowed by her gigantic breasts comforting or titillating.
“You!” she said, stepping back and regarding me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Damon’s enforcer. What an honor it is to finally meet the famous Kalina Dolce.”
She was lying and I didn’t like the way she massacred my name, making it sound like Kee-a-leena.
My mother, a Greek demon whose family name was Kalinikos, insisted on using K rather Ch to begin my name in memory of her home. Italians always had difficulty pronouncing Kalina, since the consonant k does not exist in their alphabet. Some, like Val, threw an i after the ch and turned it into Chialena. A pretty sounding version, but not my name.
I didn’t go by Kalina anymore, only Kali, and Damon had introduced me as such. Val’s misstep—on purpose or not—raised my hackles.
Her fingernails dug into my skin, right through my cape and shirt sleeves. Her magical fingers probed at me as well as she assessed my powers. Her eyes scanned my body and conveyed she found me lacking in all areas.
My assessment of her was less emotional and more objective. She was a Kopek—a female nightmare demon—with a little greater demon thrown in for good measure. She haunted humans’ nightmares and got them to make crossroads deals in their sleep. Underhanded and devious…but if she worked for the Bridge Institute, she had to keep her hauntings to supernaturals only.
My boss appeared to be a living example. His aura continued to be a wild mix of desire and hate. Those emotions clawed at my chest where my demon resided. I had no doubt Val had haunted him, but before or after his wife died? His fling with Nyx had to have been centuries before his beloved Spanish wife happened onto the scene, but he seemed too edgy for a fling with Val to have been so long ago.
I almost let my demon peek out at her just for fun. Instinct told me to keep my cards close to my chest. I didn’t know her or any of the other demons here…tipping my hand or appearing in any way to be ruffled by her rudeness only gave her more power.
And the male between us was the best weapon to fight her with. “Funny, Damon never mentioned you.”
Shazam, as Maddy would say. The she-demon tightened her hold on me while inside she roared with anger. But she was no giddy young girl who couldn’t control her emotions. As fast as her anger surged, it shut off. Like a lid being dropped on a grease fire, smothering it. Her lips formed a cat-like smile. “He said you were cheeky.”
Cheeky? That was rather mild for Damon and not a word I’d ever heard him use. “Cocky, imprudent, annoying as hell…those are more like it.”
“And honest. I like that.”
Liar.
Damon’s voice filled my head. Kali.
Just my name, but stated with enough reprimand—even mentally—to make me return Val’s smile. “It
’s nice to meet you. Quite a place you have here.”
Her smile turned more genuine. She released my arms. “Come. Marco is waiting.”
A set of Maserati SUVs waited on the other side of the hangar to drive us to the castle. The luxury cars seemed extravagant for the hundred-yard drive. I considered suggesting Val and her demon council members think about scaling down the autos and fixing the runway instead. A swift glance from Damon squelched that impulse.
On the side of the stone gates hung a sign as old as the castle itself, greeting us as we pulled into the courtyard:
Castello di Guerriero Feroce
Semper Paratus
Always ready. Ready for what, I wondered as the gates to the castle closed slowly behind us.
Chapter Seventeen
The castle was home to nearly two hundred supernaturals from all over the globe. Apparently, while Damon and I were doing our thing in America, the European Bridge Council had established a new directive, recruiting demons and other supes from all walks to train for war.
Boot camp, weapons management and Battle Psychology 101 were all on the list of graduation requirements. Castle Fierce Warrior was the magical equivalent of the United States Department of Defense.
Where they found so many supernaturals willing to help humans was beyond me. Times were obviously changing. As one of the female cat shifters who was showing me to my room said with a lift of her shoulders, “It’s a brand new world for us.”
Her name was Isi, and her shifter was close to the surface. Her white hair flowed thick and full around her baby face, contradicting her human genes. She shook my hand with feline grace, and nearly purred when we were introduced. “Kali Sweet. I can’t believe you’re here. I’m a huge fan.”
Beside me, Damon smiled. Cole looked as confused as I felt.
“Fan of what exactly?” I said, my hand still caught between both of hers.
She giggled and her eyes snapped with playfulness. Something about her eyes looked familiar. “Your work, silly.”
