Bernard, like most priests, took notice of the Gloamings’ inroads into the Catholic hierarchy, but the abbey felt cocooned, far away from the noise in Rome and the rest of the world. Until one day, when Bernard was working on a broken pipe in the kitchen, the steward informed him he had received permission to accept an urgent phone call from his mother.
Bernard suspected it couldn’t be good news—it was forbidden for the monks to communicate with people outside the abbey. Indeed, when Bernard picked up the phone and heard the sobbing, he knew: his father was dead.
Bernard received permission from the abbot general to attend the funeral, and when he arrived at his mother’s home in the town of Alençon, he greeted her, then walked to the cathedral to pray before the mourners arrived.
He had been praying before the altar of Saint Joseph for about an hour when he heard a slight commotion. A group of four men entered the main hall of the altar in an animated conversation.
Bernard smelled an odd, sweet scent that overpowered even the strong fragrance of the incense and candles.
The four men in conversation stopped as they noticed Bernard at the side altar. One—a tall man with silver hair—approached Bernard. He wore a dark suit with a light sweater. Bernard, already overtired and in mourning, was angry that this man would interrupt his prayer. It seemed more than bad form, especially given that the man was in the company of two priests.
Bernard halted his prayer and looked up.
The man’s appearance up close—gold eyes and an almost shimmering skin—was shocking. He emitted a tactile energy. “How are you?” he said. “I am Monsignor Amaud Laurent and I administer this region for the diocese.”
It hit Bernard: this was one of the Gloamings so many people had been speaking of. He had never met one before, certainly not in the clergy.
“How are you, Monsignor?”
“Good. I see you’re taken aback—is it the way I am dressed?”
Monsignor Laurent was playing with him, but Bernard did not want Laurent to know he was unsettled. “Absolutely the way you’re dressed,” Bernard said.
Laurent smiled, but it was not a friendly one. “I knew you would speak without much fear, Brother. Truthfully, I’ve actually heard much about you since your arrival at Bellebranche Abbey.”
“Is that so?”
“It truly is, Bernard. I’ve seen the spirit that you and Kamel exhibit in your duties at the abbey. I believe that spirit could be channeled in other ways to move our church forward.”
“The church always moves forward,” Bernard replied, making eye contact although it was a struggle. His heart beat faster and his gaze seemed to swim with every movement of the monsignor.
“True, but not always with all people.” He knelt down beside Bernard. “I am starting my own order of monks. I think there might be a place for someone like you. Someone open to re-creation.”
The nerve of this so-called holy man! “With all due respect,” Bernard said, “I have no interest in a new order.”
Monsignor Laurent’s smile turned cruel. Full of pity. “May your days be blessed, then, my friend.”
It turned out Monsignor Laurent was the priest who conducted the rosary for Kristof’s funeral. Bernard could only sit next to his weeping mother, seething as Laurent conducted the prayers. Every so often, he glanced at Bernard with a smile. Following the service, the mourners flocked to Laurent as if he were a rock star or mystic. Even Juliette was bewitched by this arrogant and evil man. But Bernard could see the truth.
Less than a year later, Bernard Kieslowki and Kamel Paquet joined the Order of Bruder Klaus.
The details here are sketchy. Trained by members who were former Special Forces operatives in other countries, Bernard was present in Rome during the troubles of Pope Victor II, which led to the great schism in the Catholic Church: the College of Cardinals must call a conclave to elect a new pope, yet the dean of the college, a Cardinal Benelli, refused. He had recently been re-created and knew that the non-Gloaming cardinals outnumbered the Gloamings, which meant the next pope would most certainly be a non-Gloaming. There were even rumors that the Gloaming cardinals were prepared to call a Gloaming-only conclave, but even Cardinal Benelli must have realized the church would never support such a pope. The conclave was postponed—and postponed again—as Gloaming and non-Gloaming factions argued.
It became a standoff.
The Order of Bruder Klaus decided that for the church to continue, the most reasonable way to resolve the schism, and save the church, was to assassinate Cardinal Benelli. After the order presumably murdered three of the Gloaming cardinals within the walls of the Vatican, the security on Cardinal Benelli became even more strict. But the order was nothing if not patient. Cardinal Benelli enjoyed his newfound celebrity and could be found most nights attending some social event.
We know that Bernard and Kamel were appointed by the order to conduct surveillance on Cardinal Benelli for over a year. The order waited and watched.
Benelli’s favorite restaurant, La Focaccia, was one of the oldest restaurants near the Piazza di San Pietro. Tucked between two large stores, it was a small restaurant. Gloamings don’t eat food—they subsist on blood alone—but Bernard and Kamel surmised it had been Benelli’s favorite restaurant before he re-created, and he enjoyed visiting the owner and basking in the ambience.
Bernard and Kamel continued to watch Benelli at night, and during the day they watched the restaurant. They even ate there more than a few times but couldn’t figure out why Benelli loved La Focaccia so dearly: everything about it was ordinary. It was simply another Italian restaurant near Vatican City.
Rome contains vast, ancient underground tunnels and complexes that, even today, are hidden to most people. Although many are not connected to anyplace in particular, and they are not contiguous, Bernard and Kamel began to search various tunnels to find out if any reached La Focaccia. They reportedly hit literal dead ends until one afternoon, when Kamel was in the twelfth-century Basilica of San Clemente.
He had stopped there purely to admire the mosaics and frescoes, and to pray at the altar of Saint Joseph. As the candles burned bright and he felt comfort in the familiar smoldering scent, another feeling came over him—the presence of a Gloaming. Kamel kept his head down in prayer but cut his eyes to the side. He saw a figure exit a side door and walk toward the front entrance of the basilica. Strange. Where had the Gloaming come from?
Kamel looked up and glanced at the tourist sign next to the donation box. Although his Italian wasn’t the best he could read that the basilica had three levels underneath that connected to various tunnels from old Rome. Another older basilica was on the second level and the tourist sign spoke of how it was used in previous centuries. Kamel thought to remind Bernard that here was another building with an ancient tunnel system, but first he had to see for himself where the Gloaming had emerged from.
Kamel reached the side door from which the Gloaming had exited. It was locked, of course, though poorly so. He pulled out a fine-edge blade and slipped it into the ancient keyhole. After a few twists, the lock’s mechanism slipped back.
A long stairwell led down, lit by a few hanging candles on the wall. Kamel took the steps carefully until he reached a third belowground level. It was here that the rough stone floor opened into a sanctuary of an undetermined size. Kamel heard some movement and a few voices near a pedestal and altar. There were also several stone caskets of various lengths.
In the dim light, he noted another entranceway open, leading to a separate series of tunnels. He pulled out his compass and by candlelight directed himself to the tunnel that led east. In five hundred feet, he found a door locked with a biometric scanner. Clearly, this was no forgotten passageway and wouldn’t make their job easier. Nevertheless, it was a breakthrough: after almost a year of surveillance around the city, Kamel had found their proof. He took out his phone and snapped a picture, texted it to Bernard.
A rusted placard was still fused to the door’s sto
ne casing:
“La Focaccia: Established 1520 A.D.”
On the appointed day, Bernard and Kamel armed themselves with various anti-Gloaming weapons, including explosives and a modified CPM 15G carbon scythe. They called the scythe—which could be used to cut the head off a Gloaming—the Einig Wesen. They dressed in expensive suits more befitting rich playboys or embassy employees out on the town. In case they were stopped by the authorities, they carried false identification listing them as employees of the French embassy.
Bernard and Kamel walked inside the basilica and made their way down the stone stairs, step by step and careful to stop every so often to listen for anything amiss. At the bottom, the ancient altar room was empty and quiet, unnerving them both. It couldn’t be so easy. Kamel stopped before the series of sarcophagi along the wall. He shined his flashlight along the edges and noticed that the dust which was present previously had been cleaned up. The stone boxes also looked misaligned. Were they robbing graves now?
Bernard shined his light on Kamel’s face as if to hurry him along. Kamel pointed to the stone caskets and gave Bernard a prearranged hand signal that meant “concern” or “danger.” Bernard continued toward the east tunnel but stopped as he heard voices coming from inside the north passageway. He cupped his ear and pointed to the north tunnel.
When they reached the door to La Focaccia, Bernard pulled the cover off the biometric pad to disable the fingerprint scanner. The lock opened within five minutes. Bernard took a deep breath and pulled open the large oak door. Kamel pointed his gun and stepped inside.
The small room smelled musty. Kamel scanned the room with his flashlight: this appeared to be a storage space filled with an old desk, some overturned chairs, and boxes.
And another closed door.
Bernard assumed it led up to the kitchen, but he was unsure of how many people were working in the restaurant at the time. They’d assumed—correctly, as it turned out—that the kitchen employees would be uninterested in fighting two well-armed men. The employees stopped their activities when Bernard and Kamel entered the restaurant from a storeroom in the back.
Bernard looked over to the old swinging doors and to the dining room. There sat the man he believed was the owner with Cardinal Benelli and two other older men dressed in expensive suits. Every other table was empty.
Given the physical prowess of the Gloamings, Bernard and Kamel couldn’t simply run in and expect to be successful in their task. They had planned for this. They changed into a set of kitchen uniforms and then stepped into the restaurant carrying dinner trays. Bernard went first. Gloamings were quite adept at catching any nonverbal cues to divine a person’s true intention, so Bernard and Kamel both wanted to appear as though all of their attention was on the restaurant’s owner and no one else.
Bernard glided across the dining room floor. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The cardinal had not even looked up from his animated conversation. Could it really be this easy? As they took their last steps to the table, Bernard sensed Kamel twist and leap. He heard the tray clang before he understood that Kamel had deviated from the plan.
The Gloaming cardinal reacted to the attack as any Gloaming would—with fast, supple movements that had Kamel grabbed by the throat and pinned against the floor. The others at the table were in shock.
Benelli had his back to Bernard, and Kamel’s eyes met Bernard’s urgently.
At that moment, Bernard understood. Kamel had always planned it this way—to sacrifice himself.
Bernard dropped his tray and unleashed the scythe attached to his arm. He swung, with all the power mustered from weeks of practice for this very moment, and sliced Cardinal Benelli’s head from his shoulders. It fell to the ground with a thud.
Bernard took a last look into Kamel’s eyes, now devoid of life, before sprinting back into the kitchen in a spray of bullets from Benelli’s security detail.
He jumped the stairs down to the basement in a tumble, his heart pounding, his weight still steady over his feet. Bernard reached the northern tunnel and ran the way he’d come, his heartbeat or his footsteps echoing off the walls. He knew they were chasing him; he just didn’t know how many there were.
A few shots rang out but they seemed oddly distant. Another piece of luck: Benelli’s people did not have any experience in the darkened tunnels below the city. Bernard reached the ancient altar room and stopped for a moment. One of the sarcophagus lids was fully removed from its base and leaning against the wall. He felt oddly transfixed, frozen before what he knew was waiting, but he raised his gun, knowing what was going to exit the box or was already out of it. He realized that he would have to deal with it or he would never make it upstairs to the main altar of the basilica. Running was not an option and he would have to make a stand here.
A figure stepped into the weak light, broad-shouldered and crooked, and then stepped closer. Bernard reached for and released what he later realized was one of the new anti-Gloaming grenades. Untested, it was a risky choice. Still, he leapt behind a large statue of a saint in combat. The blast moved the statue and threw Bernard back even with the cover. He heard a shriek and stood up. The figure was still before him but looked broken and in bad shape. Maybe the grenade did work after all, he thought. Or maybe not.
The figure was already aware of Bernard’s presence so the scythe was out of the question—he would never wield it in time. He steadied his gun as the Gloaming approached him through the blast smoke. The body lurched over, Bernard released three quick shots, and then the beast was on him.
Even dazed, Bernard could feel the Gloaming lift him up by his neck. He was ready to die.
As he felt his neck tighten, he looked at the gnarled face of the monster holding him.
In a flash, it was gone. He actually saw the face hit the ground as he did as well.
He looked up. Another figure in black, holding a scythe, just like his. The person—with curly black hair, tactical gear—came over and helped him up.
It was Sara Mesley. Once again, Bernard had been saved.
Benelli’s death quashed the schism in the Catholic Church. Within a week, the College of Cardinals met at the Vatican and elected Pope Gregory XVII, a rather unremarkable and bookish cardinal from Denmark. Although the press hailed this event as the return of the traditional church, this was just a fine gloss over the turmoil still present in the Vatican: Pope Gregory XVII was, in truth, such a surprise and a begrudging choice that he was left with less power than the consensus of his cardinals. A considerable number of Gloaming cardinals still held high office in the church, and Pope Gregory did not have the will to excommunicate them. He actually felt there could be a truce with the Gloamings.
Once we—well, the Italian police, then Interpol, then the FBI—traced the fingerprints in La Focaccia to Bernard Kieslowki, we determined that the bombings were the work of the Order of Bruder Klaus. Soon enough, a pattern emerged as later bombings targeted legitimate shipments of the drug dextromethorphan [DXM] and/or shipments of its ingredients, and also illegal DXM labs.
The FBI then began a concerted effort to investigate the Order of Bruder Klaus and build a RICO [Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act] case against them. In October, after a seven-month investigation, the FBI raided houses in several states tied to the order. The evidence recovered was not strong, but by then other forces were at play. The Gloamings had many friends in all branches of government, including supporters in the Justice Department, who wanted to take down the order by any means. To do this under the pretense of government legality would, for the Gloamings, be worth its weight in gold. In spite of the weak evidence, the U.S. attorney for the Western District of Texas charged the Order of Bruder Klaus with organized crime and terrorism.
Twenty members of the order were indicted, including Bishop Lawrence Thomas, the head and founder of the order. Legal observers assumed the cases would assuredly end up in jury trials; however, Bishop Thomas instructed his attorneys to seek a plea deal.
The government said it would drop all charges against the other defendants if Bishop Thomas would agree to plead guilty to the RICO allegations. Thomas agreed.3
And what a spectacle that was, based on all the news reports. If I hadn’t been so busy I would have shown up. With popcorn.
The Bureau of Prisons made a determination that Bishop Thomas would be sent to the minimum security prison4 on Terminal Island, California. Located on an actual man-made island off the coast of Long Beach, California, the facility mostly held low-security male inmates serving white-collar crimes. Bishop Thomas acclimated himself well enough, even starting a prison ministry, and tended to his many visitors. The order had been effectively disbanded by court order but unofficially regrouped at their base in El Paso, Texas—and from the day of sentencing, we learned, the order’s primary focus was extracting Bishop Thomas from the prison at Terminal Island.
Bernard Kieslowki would not be available, so they sought out the next experienced operative—though many claimed she was even better prepared for the task at hand than Bernard. Of course we all now know that operative’s name.
1 Miguel Velazquez Trevino was the head of the Gulf Coast cartel (GCC), the largest and most profitable drug cartel in the world. The GFC started out as poppy and marijuana farmers, but years later they imported marijuana, methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin to the United States and Europe. With a net worth estimated to be $10 billion, Trevino was annually listed by Forbes as one of the richest men in the world. He also happened to be on another well-known list: the FBI’s ten most wanted.
2 Moretti was re-created at the age of eighty by an unknown creator in an abandoned castle in Sicily. He then became known in Gloaming circles as a creator without failure. For Moretti, money was not a concern when considering a re-creation. He simply chose—by all reports, very selectively—whom he wanted.
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