by Misty Evans
That was the spot where Cole and the Merc demon—I never got his name—were forced to stay behind. We were about to pass under St. Peter’s Square and into the courtyard.
“Don’t take unnecessary risks,” Cole warned as he passed my cape through the hole.
Any risk I took at that moment was necessary. “I can’t play it safe. The world is depending on me.”
His forehead creased and he sighed, bent down to eye me through the small channel. His aura spiked with annoyance. “Right.”
He agreed with me, but didn’t like it. Making a fist, he held it out. I mimicked the fist and bumped it with mine. His eyes told me what he wanted to say but couldn’t. Hey, it’s been nice knowing ya but you don’t stand a chance in hell without me, so guess this is goodbye.
“Don’t count me out yet, War demon.”
“Are you kidding?” He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “I’m betting everything on you.”
He smiled. I smiled back. A sinking sensation set up camp in my stomach. No one knew me or my skills better than Cole. If he didn’t think I could pull this off, maybe I couldn’t.
A lot of supernaturals had doubted me through the years, a certain goddess and my entire handful of human friends as well. I’d proven every one of them wrong at one point or another. I appreciated that they worried about me, but I couldn’t stop being who I was to make them feel better.
Nor could I back out of this mission, no matter the odds.
I nodded at Cole, attempting to reassure him, and then faced the priests. “Let’s rock and roll.”
A new energy permeated the air; the air itself was lighter here, less tepid and cloying. No demons scurrying in the shadows. No dark magic riding the air currents or dank smell of rotting bones. The next hidden passageway showed me why.
“The Pope’s private underground subway is on the other side of this door,” Reese said. He pointed at what appeared to be another stone slab. “All you have to do is open it and we’re in.”
The slab sported a fresco of the shepherd and his flock. I lowered my shields and let my hand hover over the stone. After my last encounter with bare rock, I was hesitant to touch it. I scanned the stone with my eyes and even sniffed it. It smelled of earth and men and carried their faint energies—probably those who’d carved the slab from the ground and the one who painted the shepherd’s likeness on it. Gingerly, I touched the stone with my fingertips, ready to pull back if anything tried to grab hold.
A slight buzz against my skin made me jump back. Both priests jumped as well. Embarrassed, I shook out my hand and drew a deep breath. Focus, Kali. You have to do this.
Calling up my bravado, I went all in, slamming my hand against the rock and tensing in response to the shock I was sure was going to come.
Instead, the sensation of warm butter slid over my palm. In the far reaches of my mind, I heard singing. Faint, lilting, beckoning. My chest expanded and I saw dizzying lights behind my eyes. Felt the impression of lightness again.
Like a kid digging into ice cream, I placed my other hand against the stone and leaned in, opening all my senses.
Buoyancy filled my mind and body. I floated there, free of pain, free of anxiety.
What was this sensation? Where was it coming from? The closest thing I’d ever felt to this was…
An image of Rad’s face bloomed. Rad and I making love. Him bringing me to climax over and over again. You glow, Kali, he’d said to me.
I felt like I was glowing now, although when I looked at my hands, all was the same as it ever was.
“Kali?” Salmad eased into my peripheral vision. “What is it?”
I took his hand, pressed it against the stone. He was a vitium like me. “Do you feel it?”
Our faces were close and I could see the confusion in his eyes. He strained toward the door, pressing his hand firmly. After a few seconds, he shook his head. “What am I supposed to feel?”
I released his hand, laid my ear against the slab. The singing rose and fell like a wave in the ocean. “Do you hear the singing?”
He mimicked my gesture, placing an ear against the stone. We were face to face, his aura one of expectation. He wanted to hear what I did, but disappointment clouded his features. “All I hear is the sound of dripping water.”
I whirled on Reese. “Why can’t he feel and hear what I do? We’re both original vices. Both hybrids of good and evil. Shouldn’t we both be tapped into the energy here?”
Reese only shrugged. “God works in mysterious ways.”
After what’d I’d been through in my lifetime, I meant it when I said, “Dio cano.”
God is a dog. A common enough Italian swear, but both priests crossed themselves at my blasphemous words.
I wasn’t done. “God’s mysterious ways are bullshit. I’m not here to play games or get all mystical.” I lifted my hands from the door, raised my shields, effectively cutting off the euphoria and the singing. “Let’s get moving.”
The security system on the door was high-tech compared to the stone itself. A few zaps of my magic and it was disabled. Not wanting to trigger any silent alarms upstairs, I didn’t fry the system, only blanketed it with a bit of energy to keep it numb to the door’s movements. The slab probably weighed close to seven hundred pounds, but my strength had tripled since ingesting Dru’s blood. I moved it easily, then shoved open the door on the other side.
Turning to the priests, I held out a hand. “After you.”
As Reese passed me, I noticed him praying under his breath. I figured he was praying that we didn’t get caught, but when my sensitive ears turned into his Italian mumblings, I realized he was praying for me.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Pope’s subway was a modern day work of art. I caught myself staring at the arched ceilings, gilded statues and copies of the frescos from the Sistine Chapel. Of course, I’d never seen those frescos in person, but the copies in the tunnel were so good, they could have been originals to me.
The subway rose to ground level in the basement of the Apostolic Palace. More security—all electronic—was quickly disabled. The basement was like none I’d ever seen. Rich paneled walls, thick carpet. A library behind etched glass doors. An art room filled with pagan statues and erotic painting. I thought of Damon and his Nyx painting and gave a small chuckle. More from nerves than humor. Everything about my life at that moment seemed surreal.
There was a mahogany-paneled elevator. “This goes all the way to the papal apartments, but Swiss Guards are stationed outside the doors on the third floor. We’ll take the servant stairs. My friends will be waiting.”
I checked my watch. Only fifteen minutes until the Pope went into the papal chapel for Mass.
It wasn’t enough time. I wished I had a comm link to Cole, but he’d nixed the idea due to fear the security team inside would pick up on the transmission. Sal and Reese were my only available backup. They would have to do.
I stood at the bottom of stairs on the northwest side of the building, watching Reese climb to the next level. Sal stood behind me, his energy nervous but eager. I knew the feeling. No matter what happened, I was determined to see my father’s writings. Read my mother’s predictions.
Reese turned back, a question on his face when he realized I wasn’t following him. Sal laid a supportive hand on my shoulder.
I started climbing.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Reese’s friends from Memores Domini were waiting for us. Or at least they were waiting for him. On the third floor of the papal apartment, a woman Reese called Nicola greeted him at the secret door to the Pope’s study with the delighted air of a secret tryst.
Apparently these ‘meetings’ were somewhat normal between them.
The Memores Domini didn’t need to know about us or our visit—Reese insisted they be found guilt-free in the case our little B&E was discovered, so Sal and I stayed back in the shadows of the stairwell as per Reese’s instructions. My priest didn’t like the idea of a relationship
between his fellow padre and the woman, but it hardly shocked him. Disappointed him, yes, and that made me wonder if Sal had ever had a fling.
I had no problem with staying out of sight. The fewer people who knew about our heist, the better our chances of success.
Nicola was one of the four laywomen who cooked, cleaned and played secretary to the Pope. I sensed sexism, but held my tongue. In the overall scope of things, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t there to pass judgment.
Didn’t mean the vengeance demon inside didn’t castigate those who’d persecuted my father and mother and misled humans under their charge to believe falsehoods. But I had to stay focused. Doling out justice under the circumstances would only sabotage my mission. The women here chose their place in the order of things. I respected free will whether I agreed with the humans’ decisions or not.
During the next hour, Sal and I waited in silence for Reese’s return. On the other side of the walls, the Pope rose for the day, took Mass, ate breakfast. I opened my senses as far as they would reach, scanning the presences inside in this part of the building. Human, human, human. And then…
Not human. At least not in full. Half human and half supernatural.
I had the impression of wet hair, sharp teeth, glittering eyes. A shifter.
Female.
Cat?
She moved purposely but with an aura suggesting youth and a certain…flightiness.
Hmm. Did the Pope realize he was entertaining a female shifter? She must have been one of the Memores Domini. The irony made me smile into the dark.
The Church had persecuted us, exorcised us and killed many of us. Sent a lot of demons back to hell and thousands of other supernaturals into the fires as well. And here they were with what they considered an abomination to God within their very walls.
Although I couldn’t see him well in the dark, my keen eyesight found Sal’s outline. His aura sweated…much like he was probably doing. Waiting in the bowels of the enemy’s camp was nerve-wracking, no doubt, but if push came to shove and we were balls to the wall screwed, Sal would set loose his inner demon, just like I would mine. I sensed it in him. He struggled with his inner vice the same way he struggled to maintain his inner virtue.
A war neither of us will ever win, will we? The thought sobered me.
Too much thinking. I needed action.
Reese had made sure the door was unlocked, so I placed my ear against it and listened for telltale signs of anything moving on the other side. Heard nothing. Felt no aura. Where was Reese? Had he left us hanging? Was he enjoying himself with Nicola while we sweated it out?
According to the Pope’s schedule, he would spend the morning in the study beginning at nine a.m. Sal and I needed to get to the chapel and soon. If we didn’t, we might be stuck in our hiding place until the afternoon. More people would be in residence then, coming and going from the study for meetings and what not, and reducing our odds of success to nil.
What would Jesus do? I asked myself and then almost laughed.
Jesus wouldn’t be in this situation.
But I was.
Sal’s hand touched my back. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
My answer was to open the door.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The study was another example of inspired art, right down to the rug on the sixteenth-century inlaid marble floor and the beautiful Renaissance desk. Tightly packed shelves of books surpassed those Reese had in his bookstore. The smell of old parchment and worn leather accosted me. Faint magical energy did as well. More than one of those books, ledgers and atlases in the Pope’s collection had been written by a supernatural.
The same held for the art in the room. A soft buzzing emanated from a medieval sculpture on the Pope’s desk and a large oil painting of avenging angels striking down the devil on the far wall.
The energy made me shiver the same way I had in the tunnels. The entire length and breadth of Vatican City held much more than piety and sacrifice in the name of God. It held remarkable history, dark magic and the answers we needed to fend off the Four Horsemen.
Looking at the paintings, sculpture and books, a part of me stood in awe of the creativity of humans. The other part wondered if any of this would survive the coming apocalypse.
As I turned in a circle, taking it all in, Sal hung back in the doorway. The smell of breakfast foods, aging humans, old wood and melting wax drifted in from various places. There was a cake in the oven, robes recently delivered from the dry cleaners and the presence of dedicated, subservient males and females.
Not a bad way to live.
If you liked that kind of thing.
Instead of longing for a similar lifestyle, I wished for my own. I wanted to be back in my castle with Rad in my bedroom and a bunch of rowdy vices hanging out downstairs.
I wanted Maddy to nag me about my wardrobe and steal my perfume. I wanted to be torn over drinking vampire blood and hating the whole queen of the Undead thing. Hell, I even wanted Damon giving me his evil eye and threatening to fire me. The South Side of Chicago had never seemed so attractive.
Now that was my kind of living.
Motioning for Sal to follow me, I tracked the smell of melting wax. As expected, it led me to the chapel.
Enormous cross on the wall? Check. Kneeling bench? Check. Candles, Bible, stained glass windows? Check, check and check.
Most importantly? The Black Madonna portrait.
Must be a small safe.
The painting wasn’t the original Black Madonna of Częstochowa, but a reproduction. Still, the Madonna’s eyes chastised me as I ran my fingers around her frame, searching for the best way to remove her from my way.
The gold frame was heavy, but not overly so. I lifted a corner and peered underneath.
Clean beige painted wall met my eyes.
No safe.
Must be hidden. I pressed my fingers around the perimeter, scanned the wall with my senses. Nowhere did I detect a hidden anything. No metal, no steel, only plaster and lath.
I turned to find Sal but he was nowhere to be seen. I ran my eyes over the room, searching for another painting or anything else that might house the safe. When that turned up nothing, I closed my eyes and called up my magic, my heart fluttering like a bird inside my chest. My father had been dead for two-hundred and eighty-three years. Could I still find a trace of his energy?
For several heartbeats, I concentrated. Called up memories of my father…tall, a swimmer’s body, his bearded face that was always smiling…
A faint magic in the other room called to me.
In my head, I heard my father’s deep, kind voice. Kali…come…
I returned to the study, searching for Sal and following the trail of magic. My priest was hidden behind one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, running his fingers along the spines. “Look at this,” he whispered. “A whole section of apocalyptic literature.”
I stood beside him, eyeing the spines. Most had nothing written on them, but a couple had symbols. I matched his whisper. “There’s no safe in the chapel.”
Sal’s finger stopped and he frowned at me. “Reese was mistaken?”
Or he’d lied. Which meant this might very well be a trap. “Any of these books written in Greek?”
We both scanned the spines, and as Sal laid a finger on the ones he knew to be Greek, I also laid a hand on them, reaching for my father’s aura. Dozens of them were interspersed with other texts. A few were written on bark, some carved into shallow stone tablets. When I touched a strangely colored leather-clad journal, magic tickled my fingers. “This one.”
Sal gently removed it from the shelf. It was tied shut with several leather cords. The leather was worn down to threads and the pages inside were yellowed and loose as if stuck in helter-skelter.
“What is it?” I whispered, feeling the draw of the words.
“The codex. It’s written on papyrus and uses Greek lettering.” He pointed to the symbols on the page. “This is the date. Nine
ty A.D.”
With shaking fingers, I touched the odd symbols of faded ink. “Does it mean something to you?”
“No, but it does to you.”
The bird in my chest beat her wings in a furious staccato. “My father. He wrote this?”
The frown still darkened the priest’s face. “Why is it stored here, rather than the archives or safe, as Reese claimed?”
Trap, my instincts shouted.
But we’d been inside the study and chapel for nearly twenty minutes. If it was a trap, why hadn’t anyone tried to apprehend us? How would they have known we were coming?
I scanned the apartments again with all my senses. As before, there were people present, but none seemed agitated or focused on anything other than their normal morning duties.
“Reese said there was more than one. See if you can read any of that and I’ll keep looking for the other.”
Sal nodded and began ciphering, his index finger guiding his focus across the faded and aged papyrus papers. When he turned the page, the paper made the sharp sound of rigidity.
I wanted to scan those rigid papers, touch my father’s handwriting. Instead, I went back to work searching for his other codex.
The books were lined up like soldiers, waiting for me, but I couldn’t tell anything from the spines alone, so I pulled each one out far enough that I could lay on a hand on the cover. If I felt nothing, I put it back and went onto the next one.
Minutes later, I’d found nothing, and curiosity flared from Sal’s aura. Pausing in my ministrations, I glanced his way. Sure enough, he was reading and rereading a certain passage. “What is it?”
His piercing blue eyes left the page and met mine. “This is the third book. The one that tells how to fight the Horsemen and stop the apocalypse.”
Bingo. “What does it say?”
Even whispering, his tone held reverence and amazement. “You fight Heaven and Hell with the one group who represents both.”
I waited, but he didn’t spell it out. “Sal, I suck at riddles. What group?”
