“You should take some rest, Sister Elizabeth,” he offered for the eleventh time. “I can watch over him. If there’s any change, I will inform you immediately.”
She opened her mouth to refuse—when she felt a soft buzz from the pocket of her skirt, rising from the phone hidden there.
Tommy.
She had used many moments during the night—when she was alone—to try to call the boy, but she only heard the same mechanical voice over and over again, asking her to leave a message. She never had, fearing who might retrieve her words.
“Thank you, Friar Patrick.” Elizabeth stood from her bedside stool. “I believe I shall go rest.”
His expression was a mix of surprise and relief.
She gave him a bow, then turned on her heel and left the room. She crossed to the neighboring cell and closed the stout door. Only then did she pull out the phone. Words glowed on the small screen.
She didn’t understand how to respond to Tommy’s message, nor did she understand the small symbol at the end. But she understood the word trouble.
Fearfully, she gripped the phone and dialed his number.
7:32 P.M.
Rome, Italy
C’mon, already . . .
Tommy sat on the closed seat of the bathroom toilet, the shower running noisily nearby. He wore only a towel. He stared at his phone, praying for Elizabeth to respond to his text. He watched the locked door, fearful of the guards out in the hallway of this apartment in the outskirts of Rome. The windows of the place were barred. The only way in or out was past a pair of Sanguinist priests, both wearing civilian clothes, who stood post before his door.
Finally, the phone vibrated in his hand.
He answered it immediately, keeping his voice down to a whisper. “Elizabeth?”
“Tommy, where are you? What’s wrong?” As usual, the woman never bothered with the usual pleasantries that everyone else used on the phone.
“I’m somewhere in Rome.”
“Are you in danger?”
“I don’t think so, but something’s wrong with this whole setup. The priest who came with me from Santa Barbara didn’t take me to Vatican City. He dumped me in some apartment instead. It’s locked up tight . . . with guards.”
“Can you tell me anything about where they’ve taken you?”
“It’s an old building. Yellow. Smells like garlic and fish. I’m on the third floor. I can see a river from the bedroom window and a fountain with a fish spewing water. Also I think there’s a zoo nearby. At least, I heard lions roaring.”
“Good. I should be able to find such a yellow building. It might take time, but I will get to you.”
Tommy lowered his voice even more. “They say I’m in danger . . . from you, but I know that’s wrong.”
“I would never hurt you, but I will make them pay if you come to harm while under their care.”
Tommy grinned. He had no doubt that she would come and kick their asses, but he didn’t want to see her get hurt.
As the room grew steamy from the running shower, he listened for a moment to see if anyone noted their conversation before continuing. “I overheard them saying that Bernard wanted me kept under lock and key until you do what they want. I don’t know if that’s true or not. But if it is, don’t give in to them.”
“I will do what I need to do to get back to you. I will free you, and we will find a way to make you well again.”
He sighed, baring his arm. The single melanoma lesion had multiplied, spreading like wildfire up his arm. He had new lesions on his legs and left buttock. With his angelic blood gone, it was like the cancer was making up for lost time.
“It’s not so bad,” he lied. “Just get tired easily, but they let me sleep.”
“Save your strength.”
Yeah, easier said than done.
Knuckles rapped against the bathroom door, making Tommy jump. He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but those Sanguinists could move like ghosts.
“I gotta go,” Tommy hissed. “I miss you.”
“I . . . miss you as well.”
He pressed the disconnect button, pushed the phone behind the toilet’s water tank, and dashed into the shower. He splashed around loudly before shouting.
“Can’t a guy take a shower in peace?”
“You’ve been in there a long time,” a gruff voice said. “And I heard talking.”
“I’m a teenager! Sheesh. I’m always talking to myself.”
There was a long moment of silence, then his guard spoke in a more fatherly tone. He must have known Tommy was lying, covering something up, but the guy went for the wrong explanation.
“If you are touching yourself in there, young man, it is nothing to be embarrassed about. But you must confess such sins to your parish priest.”
“First of all, I’m Jewish. Second of all, screw you!”
Tommy stood under the spray, his face hotter than the steam.
Okay, now I really do want to die.
7:35 P.M.
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Elizabeth headed back to Rhun’s room, resting a palm over her concealed phone. Anger flared inside her, but she banked it. When the time came to rescue Tommy, she must act with icy clarity. Emotion had no place until then.
She intended to confront the cardinal, but first she wanted to check on Rhun.
As she entered, she smoothed her skirt and adjusted her sleeves. She found Friar Patrick kneeling next to Rhun’s bed, holding his hand.
The friar raised his head and beckoned her forward. “He still rests.”
Stepping to the bed, she studied Rhun’s face, relaxed in sleep. He looked much as he always had, untouched by the many years and tragedies that had made up his long life. Would that he had lived the life of an ordinary priest, dying with only a single lifetime of cares at the end. He did not deserve the fate that had been thrust upon him.
“I’m sure he’ll rouse soon,” Patrick continued. “The prompt care in the field saved his life.”
She pictured Erin painting her blood over his wounds. As frail and mortal as she was, the archaeologist had saved him.
“You may sit and pray with me if you like,” the friar offered.
She wanted to stay, but she glanced back at the wooden door. “I must speak with Cardinal Bernard first.”
“I heard the others are meeting with him soon.”
This she had not heard.
Anger built inside her, knowing what that villain had done with the ailing boy, turning him into a pawn.
She backed out of the room, then hurried down to the end of the corridor. A trio of unfamiliar Sanguinists—two men and a woman—guarded this section of the residence. But was it to protect Rhun or keep her in place?
She spoke to the woman, an African, with skin darker than Elizabeth had ever seen. “I must speak to Cardinal Bernard. I have information vital to the security of the order.”
The woman’s round eyes studied Elizabeth. “Access to the prisoner is restricted. Only his personal aide, Father Gregory, is permitted to speak to him, to attend to the cardinal’s requests. I could give such a message to Father Gregory to pass on.”
“I must speak with the cardinal myself.”
The other’s lips pinched. “Given his crimes against you, I’m afraid that is forbidden.”
Elizabeth kept her voice soft, as meek as she could manage. “But I understand that my companions are scheduled to meet with him this morning. Surely, I may address him in the company of others?”
“The edict was firm.” The nun’s expression turned sterner. “As the victim in the charges against him, you are not to be allowed to see him under any circumstances.”
“Then it appears I must permit my companions to pass on that information themselves.” Elizabeth gave a small bow of her head, hiding her fury, and walked slowly back to her cell.
Once alone in her room, she slammed a palm against the brick wall.
I will make you pay for taking Tommy, Bernard . . . e
ven if I have to destroy everything you hold dear.
A knock on the door drew her attention back around. Friar Patrick called through the stout planks, his voice stoked with happiness.
“Rhun . . . he wakes!”
March 19, 7:39 A.M. CET
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Rhun struggled through a fog of pain and blood. He smelled wine, incense. He heard excited voices, naggingly familiar. His vision swam, then slowly settled to reveal a small room, lit by candlelight.
Where am I . . . ?
He tried to raise his head, but that only set the world to spinning even faster. Cold hands touched his forehead, encouraging him to lie back down.
“It’s okay, Rhun, my son. Not too fast.”
He focused on the gently smiling face, recognizing the friar.
“Patrick . . .”
“That’s right.” The friar turned enough to reveal someone bent behind him.
“You’re finally awake, I see,” Elizabeth said sternly, but her eyes shone with clear relief.
“I am.”
He barely recognized his voice. It was deep and hoarse, the voice of another man, a weaker one. He tried to sit up, but he fell back as pain flared up along his left side. He gritted his teeth against it, reaching to massage the source—only to find nothing there. He turned to see.
My arm is gone.
The shock returned a kaleidoscope of memories: the bell shattering atop him, Erin pulling him to safety, fire and smoke closing in on them both.
That was as much as he recalled.
“What happened?” Rhun gasped out. “How are we in Castel Gandolfo? Why are we—?”
Elizabeth sank to a stool and took his right hand. He gripped her fingers, and she, in turn, squeezed reassurance.
He took several breaths, steadying himself. “How long have I been out?”
“Just the night.” Elizabeth slowly explained all that had transpired, telling him what they had learned from John Dee’s papers, and how they connected him to Cardinal Bernard. “That’s why we’re here. To find out what he knows. But you, the famous Knight of Christ, need to rest.”
She smiled at him.
He turned his head and studied the bandaged stump of his limb. “I remember . . .”
He let his voice die away, recalling a vague vision of writhing in pleasure, of hot fingers, steeped in blood, gripping him, bringing him to the height of rapture.
He stared up at Elizabeth. “Erin.”
A wounded look shadowed her eyes. “Yes, it was the archaeologist who saved you. Used her blood to draw you back from the brink of death.”
Patrick touched Elizabeth on the shoulder. “But it was you, my dear sister, who never left his side all night, tending to his wounds, ministering Christ’s blood through his lips.”
Rhun touched Elizabeth’s knee. “Thank you.”
She dismissed his gratitude with a toss of her head. “Erin and Jordan are scheduled to meet with Bernard this morning.”
“When?”
Elizabeth glanced to Patrick, who checked his watch.
“In another twenty minutes or so,” he said.
“I should be there.” Rhun used his remaining arm to push himself up. Agony flared, but he withstood it this time. “Where are my clothes?”
“I do not believe that is wise,” Patrick said.
“Wise or not, I must go.”
Recognizing his determination, Patrick slid an arm around his shoulders. The friar glanced to Elizabeth as Rhun’s blanket slid down, exposing his naked state. “Perhaps, Sister, you should leave him to me for the moment.”
Elizabeth turned to the pile of clothes, picked up a folded pair of trousers, and shook them out. “Not to be immodest, but who has been cleaning his wounds all night? I am not so faint a woman as to go weak at the sight of a naked man.”
Patrick lowered his face, hiding a grin. “As you wish.” The friar helped Rhun stand. “Go slowly.”
It was sage advice. The room swayed as he attempted a few steps, but after several tries, he could soon stand on his own and move with little assistance. Still, he needed help dressing, especially with only one arm.
Once finished, Elizabeth knotted his loose sleeve and tucked it into his belt. She eyed him up and down. “You’ve looked better, Rhun.”
“I’ve felt better.”
Patrick took him by the elbow, helping steady him toward the door. “I’ll go with you, take you to where they are holding Cardinal Bernard.”
Rhun glanced to Elizabeth. “Are you coming?”
She looked hopeful, but Friar Patrick quickly quashed it. “That is not allowed, I’m afraid. The cardinal has insisted that he will only speak with the trio of prophecy.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “As a prisoner, can he set such conditions?”
“He can,” Patrick answered. “He is not without his allies in the Holy See. Even now. I am truly sorry, Sister.”
“So be it.” Elizabeth crossed her arms, looking more defiant than the acquiescence of her words.
Rhun understood her frustration. Bernard had wronged her, stolen her very soul, and yet he was free to set the terms of their contact, while she was restricted and confined. Who truly was the prisoner here?
“Go,” she said, dismissing them both, her words bitter. “Perhaps I shall take up needlepoint while I wait.”
With no other choice but to leave her behind, Rhun headed out the door and down the corridor. Even with Patrick’s support, he trailed fingers along the whitewashed bricks to keep his balance. His right arm was gone. Even though he could see the stump and feel the pain, he did not seem able to come to terms with his new state.
A new limb will grow.
He had seen such miracles in the past, but he also knew it might take years.
How can I properly protect Erin and Jordan in this maimed state? What will become of our quest?
Patrick led him through the papal residence, letting Rhun set the pace. Thankfully he grew stronger with every candlelit hall they crossed, every winding stair they climbed. Eventually, he walked free of Patrick’s support, but the friar stuck to his side.
Rhun sensed his friend wished to speak. “What is it, Patrick? If you keep looking over your shoulder like that, you’ll get a permanent crick in your neck.”
Friar Patrick tucked his hands into his wide sleeves. “It concerns your other friend.”
It took Rhun a moment to decipher his words. “The lion cub . . .”
He remembered the creature’s plaintive cry, how the small cat had nudged the body of its dead mother.
“He has changed much. Growing far faster than any natural creature should.” Patrick looked at him. “What haven’t you told me about him?”
Rhun knew he could no longer keep the secret of the cub’s birth. “His mother was a blasphemare.”
Patrick drew to a sudden stop in the hallway, forcing Rhun to do the same. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Shame flared through him. “I thought if you believed the cub to be tainted you wouldn’t take him in.”
“Nonsense. He is clearly not tainted. If anything, I’d say he is blessed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have never seen his like before. He is a gentle soul. Full of mischief, yes, but there is no corruption. I see only a sweetness about him.”
Rhun felt a deep measure of relief. He had sensed the cub’s essential goodness back in the desert, and he was glad to hear it borne out. “I’ve wondered about him since I found him.”
“And do you know anything more about him?”
“Very little. His mother was badly wounded by the angelic blast following the battle in Egypt. I suspect the cub was spared in her womb, a testament to its innocence. And perhaps some of that angelic essence was instilled into him.”
Patrick touched his arm. “I don’t doubt it. Thank you for sharing this miracle with me. I never thought to see its like, a creature the mirror opposite of the blasphemare, a beast blessed by purit
y. It is a wonder.”
“Can you still keep it a secret . . . at least for now?”
“Do not trouble yourself on that account.” Patrick waved ahead and set them in motion again. “I am happy to have this miracle all to my own for now.”
They continued through to a far corner of the residence.
“The cardinal is being kept in a private apartment around the next corner,” Patrick said.
As they turned into another hall, Rhun spotted a pair of Sanguinists, both hooded and cloaked, with blades drawn, at the end of the passage. They guarded a stout wooden door, marking Bernard’s current prison cell.
Rhun started toward it, noting the windows lining the way looked out upon the blue majesty of neighboring Lake Albano. Rare Renaissance paintings dotted the walls, their oils aglow in the sunlight. He imagined Bernard’s cell had the same view and was likely equally well appointed.
The cardinal certainly did have allies who were looking after him.
A call rose from behind, coming from another hallway that ended here.
“Rhun!”
He turned to see Erin rushing forward, her jacket winging open. Jordan stalked after her, looking less thrilled to see him.
“Shouldn’t you still be in bed?” the big man said as they gathered together in the hall.
Friar Patrick bowed his head toward Erin and shook Jordan’s hand. “He has mended well enough for now, but I’ll trust the two of you to take charge of him from here.” The friar turned to Rhun. “I will leave you with your companions. But I will be on the estate should you need the council of an old fool such as myself.”
“You have never been a fool,” Rhun answered.
Friar Patrick shrugged, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and walked briskly away.
Erin’s eyes studied Rhun anxiously as they headed toward the guarded doors. “How do you feel?”
“Stronger,” he answered truthfully. “It seems I have you to thank for my life.”
She gave him a small smile. “It was my turn.”
“Gotta admit,” Jordan said, “for a guy who counts his birthdays by the centuries, you’re a tough old nut.”
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