Ayden nods. “His complicity in that did cross my mind, too. We know they had a love/hate thing and there’s still a lot we don’t know about what went on between the two of them. Unfortunately, since Orlenda’s dead, there’s a good chance we’ll never know the full extent of what happened.”
“I know this is a lot to digest, Kylie, but time’s running out,” Noah says.
“I know.” I take in some air. “I’ll try and deal with all of it later. Maybe someday I can connect the dots and have it all make sense, but even if Julia Dennison isn’t the Child of Anarchy, she might be connected to the GEPSI kids.” I glance at Ayden. “You say she was in your vision?”
“Front and center. Hey, what’s with Noah?”
Our colleague stares out the window, eyes closed. I know the look. He’s getting a hit.
I’m about to open my mouth to answer when Noah’s eyes shoot open. “Julia Dennison can read the future and she knows we’re coming for her.”
“Wait, what?” says Ayden.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
Noah nods. “Yes. And here’s the kicker: she wants us to come get her. In fact, she’s already reached out to our contact there.”
“How the devil could she know about our contact?” asks Ayden.
Noah shrugs. “She saw the future and saw us speaking with him, so she figured out who he was and beat us to him.”
I shake my head. “This could be a trap. What if she is the Child of Anarchy? She could be luring us into an ambush.”
We are silent, each going over the possibilities—with only the fate of the world hanging in the balance. I’m not sure how Julia is connected to this, but somehow, she is.
“Well, what do you guys think? Where do we go from here?” Ayden asks.
Noah sighs. “I guess there’s one way to find out if it’s a trap or not.”
I nod. “We’re going in.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Vatican is a walled city-state within Rome. It’s also heavily protected, as one might expect for the headquarters of the Holy Roman Church.
The Swiss Guard serves as the de facto military of Vatican City, and these guys ain’t no joke, although they might dress like court jesters. Adorned in their traditional yellow-and-blue striped Renaissance uniforms, they patrol the grounds and the Pope’s residence with diligence on par with the U.S. Secret Service. Yes, they sport ceremonial swords, but they are also armed with modern handguns and tactical machine pistols. They are the real deal and then some—even if they look silly as hell.
All of which should be rendered moot once we meet our contact in the Swiss Guard. Any good intelligence agency has contacts around the world, many embedded within foreign agencies and governments. They aren’t necessarily traitors or double agents, just capable of seeing the bigger picture. And by bigger picture, I mean we either have dirt on them, or their love for money and/or women supersedes their love of country.
In our case, we own Alfred von Courten, a ten-year vice-corporal in the guard, who’s been on the PSI payroll for most of those ten years. He isn’t significant enough to have been briefed about us, or to know we are on the lam. Unless, of course, we are walking into a trap.
How much does Julia know? True futurists are a handful.
I have only met one, and they can do real damage. A skilled futurist involved in anything like spycraft will know exactly where to be, when to be there, and what to do. It’s pretty much impossible to surprise them. It is an incredibly valuable and powerful gift; no wonder the president wanted to adopt her, if that’s how it all went down. Simms and company would have had to somehow figure out what gifts the infant has, unless Simms has the capability of engineering specific gifts on demand, but somehow, I doubt that. Could it be that the president simply wanted a gifted child and he basically won the lottery with her?
Anyway, with Julia being a futurist, we really have to be on our toes.
We arrive, dressed in dinner attire for the occasion. Mercifully, the safe house comes fully stocked for such an occasion and we’re able to make ourselves look the part. Although my red dress could have fit more snugly around the waist, I can’t complain. The boys look like boys, in fact. Both suits are a little big, Ayden, in particular, is swimming in his. Unlike the James Bond movies, the best spies are smaller, faster, and more agile. Same goes for women spies as well.
Regarded as the greatest architectural achievement of its age, the basilica is truly a snapshot of heaven. Lined with massive arches and enclaves, all filled to overflowing with glorious works of art, sculptures, and Biblical frescoes, one can’t help but wonder where modern architecture went wrong. Nothing I have ever seen in our normal world comes close to the grandeur of St. Peter’s, but I can’t waste time sightseeing. I’m here with my team to kidnap the president’s daughter, possibly a second sibling of mine.
There’s too much going on right now for my brain to stop spinning. I try to force it out of my mind, but it is kinda hard to push aside that I’ve found out about two siblings in less than a year. Will I discover more? Has Simms used my mother like a broodmare to create a psychic army? The thought sickens me.
It’s been all I can do to hold it together while the three of us sketch out our plan. Our biggest obstacle is the extreme fortification of the reception room in the Basilica, located beneath the main structure.
Alfred, our contact, is dressed in his formal best, complete with a shiny metal helmet and ostrich plume. He looks away as we veer from the tourists pouring through St. Peter’s. As we pass, he holds out a folded piece of paper, which I snatch in stride as we continue down a brightly lit corridor lined with portraits of the many Swiss colonels who once had the honor of protecting the papacy. Interspersed between the paintings are medieval sconces holding candles encased in blown glass. The flickering light makes the place appear like something out of time, and for a moment, it disorients me into wondering if we’re still when I think we are. Is this what it feels like to be Hope?
“I haven’t seen this many candles since the last time Noah took a bath.” Ayden smirks.
Noah shakes his head. “I like atmosphere. And you said you would drop it.”
“I’m also a trained liar,” says Ayden, which is true. Spies, in general, can talk themselves into and out of just about anything. In fact, it’s part of our training.
Before being certified as a field agent for PSI, when I was with GEPSI, Grant Simms once demanded I collect $1,000 in one hour on a busy street from complete strangers. After begging, flirting, and lying my ass off, I collected $400 in fifty-five minutes. I ended up picking five pockets in the last ten minutes, amassing a total of $1,280. Grant only raised his eyebrows and nodded when I tossed the cash on his desk. Later, I mailed the wallets (and money) back to the addresses on the driver’s licenses, along with a note apologizing. I might have been a spy, but I wasn’t a jerk—well, if I didn’t have to be.
“Drop it,” I say. “Although the candles are a little girly. Just sayin’.”
“I don’t feel safe with you two,” Noah says.
I smile, but I’m too wound up. “I don’t think you have a choice.”
We hang a right down a smaller, dimmer hallway, and I pause to unfold the paper, using the closest candle to read by. It is a hand-drawn map, made with some skill. A red line starts from roughly where we stand, and zigzags deeper into the Basilica. At one point, the path descends a level or two, judging by the inclusion of stairs. A larger room is circled, which I assume is where the festivities are being held.
Noah asks, “Anyone else think that having a twenty-first birthday beneath St. Peter’s Basilica is a little… off?”
“Damn off,” Ayden says, glancing behind us. “Like they might already suspect they have the ultimate evil on their hands.”
“What are you getting at?” I snap my head around after memorizing the map. I hand it over to Noah, his turn. I cock my head and listen, scanning the place for any sounds.
And, no, I don’t
have a photographic memory, but my training includes memorization techniques. Basically, I might as well have a photographic memory. “You think they might harm her? By the way, we’re clear for now. There’s no one coming toward us.”
Ayden nods and relaxes. It is good to have an audial in the group. I only need to open my ears and scan the area, much like a parabolic dish. But in my case, with focused intent, I can control where I want to hear; at the moment, that’s anywhere along the hallway.
Ayden speaks up after we walk along for several quiet seconds. “I hate to say it, but if she is who we think she is, killing her will be a viable option. Maybe our only option.”
I sigh. Yes, I have thought about that, too. I decide not to dwell on it. But, yeah, we are also trained assassins when the situation demands it.
“Would the president know who she is?” Noah asks, passing the map to Ayden.
I shake my head. “I don’t think anyone will have, unless they know what the birthmarks mean. The scroll was only recently discovered.”
“If she has a birthmark,” adds Ayden.
“And we’re dealing with time travel,” says Noah. “Anything is possible.”
“Try to keep in mind that shortly after we received the information, our translator’s assistant showed up dead,” says Ayden.
I nod. “Yes, the information is out now, true. But this birthday celebration has been planned well before the translation. The likelihood of anyone knowing anything is slim.”
“Consider the reach of the Vatican,” says Ayden. “For all we know, there could be a duplicate scroll the Vatican was aware of, or other writings pointing to the very same thing.”
“As much as I hate to agree with him,” says Noah. “That’s sounding more and more likely. Who has a birthday celebration at church? Or deep beneath a church. This strikes me as… ceremonial. And kinda weird.”
“Someone else knows about this girl,” Noah says. “Or they think they do.”
Just as I’m about to speak, a young female voice calls from the depths of the Basilica: Help me. Please! Hurry! I freeze in place and try to focus on the sound.
“What did you hear, Kylie?” asks Noah.
“It’s her. She’s asking us to hurry.”
“Evil or not”—Ayden checks his sidearm—“I’m not going to stand around and let these pricks hurt her.”
Noah nods. “Let’s go find her.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hope lies curled up on her side in bed, eyes closed, too anxious to sleep.
She doesn’t move at all when the voices in the hallway outside draw closer. If Orlenda catches her awake, she’ll give her the needle again. She managed to use her gifts to speak with some kind of cop woman who also has audial abilities like her. The woman has promised to save her at least. But will she be able to find her fast enough?
Wait, she was awake, right?
She stares at her outstretched arm, tethered to the headboard by a handcuff locked about her wrist. Her attempt to escape the compound almost worked. She twists her arm now, trying to pull her hand free, but the stupid thing is too tight. Hope scoots closer to the headboard and sits up on her knees. She has small arms with thin wrists. It ought to be possible to escape if she can only pull hard enough. Damn… the clatter of metal attracts attention from the hallway.
Footsteps approach at a rapid pace.
With a gasp, Hope fights even harder to slip free of the handcuff, but can’t get her arm out. She stares at the door, terrified of what Orlenda will do to her. The doorknob turns. Trapped, she struggles harder, grunting and whining from the pain biting into her skin. Her hand turns red, but the restraint will not let go of her. That evil woman will use the needle on her again. Hope has to get away before they move her somewhere else, like the horrible compound. This hotel is only temporary. With each hour that passes, her chances of escape dwindle. Desperate, Hope keeps yanking at her arm, no longer caring how much it hurts. The door swings wide, revealing a hallway full of darkness.
Hope screams…
***
She sits up in bed, clutching her wrist and staring at Sister Marie-Luce standing in the doorway. Hope’s hard breathing fills the silence for a moment. Confused, she looks down at her arm. No handcuff, not even a red mark. True, the door to her bedroom opened, but she’d been dreaming.
Only a dream.
No. A nightmare.
“Hope?” asks Sister Marie-Luce, a touch over a whisper. “I heard you cry out. Are you all right?”
“Um.” She rubs her wrist. “I had a nightmare.”
Lantern in hand, Sister Marie-Luce steps in and walks over. She sets the light on the nightstand, then takes a seat on the edge of the bed. As soon as she holds her arms open, Hope leaps into them. Sister Marie-Luce rocks her gently for a while.
“Sorry,” mutters Hope. “I’m too old to have bad dreams. I shouldn’t act like a little kid.”
“It’s fine, dear.” Sister Marie-Luce keeps holding her. “You’re a brave girl. What you’ve survived would give someone my age bad dreams. There’s no shame in it.”
A phantom pain in her wrist makes her wince. She rests her head on the nun’s shoulder and soaks up the comfort of a real caretaker. For the first time in her life, she has someone genuinely concerned with her well-being and not simply looking to use her or her abilities.
“I dreamed I was still at the hotel in Morocco.”
Sister Marie-Luce pats her back. “It is perfectly normal to be frightened from such an ordeal. There are many adults, trained soldiers, who have nightmares after being through war. You will overcome your fear, and you will have a chance to be a child.”
Hope looks up at her. “I am a kid. Well, sorta. I’m twelve now. So, I’m both a child and not.”
The nun chuckles softly. “I mean you will soon be able to live and be happy, without worrying about someone trying to hurt you. And do all the fun things you missed out on.”
“Really?” Hope’s eyes widen.
“Yes.” Sister Marie-Luce’s warm smile fades to a look of seriousness. “But I’m afraid you will be tested first. Those who conspire against you and Kylie are not going to give up so easily, but I am confident you will find the happiness—and the family you deserve.”
Hope nods. “I don’t want Ky to get hurt. When is she coming back?”
“You will see her quite soon, in fact.”
Hope smiles, and snuggles a little tighter against Sister Marie-Luce. “My fake mother was never like this.”
“Like what? Traipsing about a monastery in the middle of the night with an oil lamp?” asks Sister Marie-Luce with a hint of a laugh.
“No.” Hope sits up to make eye contact. “Real. I can feel that you really care. She was always afraid. Fake. Like a nanny or something. Just paid to watch me. I want Ky.” Her need to have real family there—especially after a nightmare like that—grows painful. “Why do they have to be so cruel to us? We never did anything to them. Gary wanted to”—she gulps—“kill me.”
“Weak people often want to destroy that which they cannot control,” says Sister Marie-Luce. “He won’t be able to hurt you here.”
Hope looks up at her. “Why did God let Simms keep me locked up? Why does he let him hurt all those other kids?”
“I don’t know, dear. But He acts in ways we cannot understand. Your sister and her friends may be how He is helping them.”
Hope nods. That makes sense. She rubs her wrist where the phantom metal still holds her, a chain of fear rather than steel. How long will she see that place in her dreams? And why does her short time in that hotel frighten her more than the previous years she spent at the compound? The nun seems quite confident, but Kylie isn’t here, and so many people want to hurt them all. Hope shivers at the thought that her sister might never come back for her. “I’m scared.”
“It will take time for you to heal, but you will.” Sister Marie-Luce rubs a hand over Hope’s head. “You look exhausted; you need to sleep, child.�
�
She smiles. “All right. Thank you for checking on me.”
“Good night, sweetie.” Sister Marie-Luce stands.
Hope bites her lip. “I have to use the bathroom.”
The nun picks up the lamp. “Precisely why I was roaming the hallway in the middle of the night. Come, then.”
Sister Marie-Luce leads her down the hall to the bathroom. Creeping shadows run along the walls, fluttering in response to the lamp’s flame. Despite being in the desert, the stone floors have become remarkably cold at night under Hope’s bare feet. She can easily mistake this place for having gone back in time to a real medieval castle.
At least, the illusion holds until she reaches the bathroom, which looks more modern—except for not having electric lights. The monastery sits too high up in the mountains for anyone to run a wire, or so Sister Marie-Luce said on her first day here. They have a solar water heater for showers, little more than a crisscrossing series of black-painted pipes on the roof.
Soon, she returns to bed and crawls in under the covers. “Good night, Sister Marie-Luce.”
“Good night, Hope.” She pauses at the door. “If you’re still frightened, you can sleep with me.”
Hope bites her lip. As tempting as the idea sounds, it makes her feel too much like a baby. “Thank you, but I’m not that little.”
Sister Marie-Luce nods, and starts to pull the door shut.
“Um,” says Hope.
The nun pauses.
“Would you please leave the door open? Even a little?”
“Of course, dear.” Sister Marie-Luce smiles once more, and slips out of the room, leaving the door ajar.
Hope pulls the blankets up to her chin and stares at the narrow gap between the door and the wall. The opening proves she is not locked in. She lets out a sigh of relief and settles into the soft bed.
Before she knows it, she falls asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Sister Yael sets a bowl in front of Hope that contains a thick reddish substance with an egg floating in it. It smells spicy, and a little frightening, but also tempting.
Touch No Evil Page 7