Getting Wilde

by Jenn Stark

  Once again, I felt it. That strange sense of being watched.

  I checked my watch. Four thirty a.m. The sun would be rising in less than two hours, and I had no idea how I’d get out of the catacombs anymore. I certainly wasn’t going to be getting back out through the Forum. All of which meant I couldn’t waste any more time here, not when I had a long flight into nowhere ahead of me.

  Using one of the ceremonial candles lying to the left of the reliquary, I pushed the sashes off the box. There was a faint crackling noise as the candle connected with the beam of light. But God didn’t cry out in holy fury, so, so far, so good. I squatted down, trying to eye the platform beneath the gold. No way to tell what was under it, and I stood again, weighing my options.

  Just get it over with, I thought, feeling strangely inclined to laugh. Sometimes, it really was that easy.

  I reached out with my right hand and plucked the golden box off its pool of vestments. Something seemed to shift, and, frowning, I swept the vestments back—just as a green light on a technical-looking platform clicked to red. And started blinking.

  “Crap!”

  And sometimes, it wasn’t. Time to go.

  I shoved the box into my jacket, sparing a few extra, precious seconds to throw the vestments back over the blinking red light, as if that was going to have some meaningful effect on anything. Then I dashed into the long corridor leading away from St. Peter’s tomb, moving fast. Sticking my hand in my pocket, I yanked out another card—Chariot.

  I frowned, picking up my pace. Chariot? I’d expected the Sun again, dammit. Surely the best idea would be to go back to the room where I’d entered the necropolis.

  The sudden crack of pounding boots on stone shot my attention toward the edge of the corridor as I skidded past a room dominated by an enormous mosaic of—

  “Do not mess with me,” I gritted out, swinging into the room and turning around, then around again. The chariot on the floor in black-and-white was unmistakable, and for added points, the scene it depicted was the freaking kidnap of Proserpina, daughter of Ceres—but there was no door out of this room, no big flashing arrow pointing anywhere, and I was out of time.

  “Double Crap!” The box in my right pocket suddenly seemed to gain about a thousand pounds, and I hurtled forward, smacking facedown onto the floor. Just then, two guards ran past the crypt’s doorway, their flashlights sweeping the space, but not stopping. Spitting out rock dust as quietly as I could beneath the tramp of their feet, I squinted up—and then I saw it. A grate at eye level in the floor, maybe added after excavation to shore up splintering rock or to cover a dangerous hole, who knew. The important part was it was there—and darkness loomed behind it.

  I scrambled for the grate and tested it quickly, realizing it wasn’t attached. Seriously, who were these architects? Hadn’t they heard of security systems? Still, not one to look a gift escape in the mouth, I yanked out the grate and stuck my penlight into the space, tossing more rock dust down. Nothing but open air lay beyond the hole, and then, finally, the pebbles struck bottom, loud enough to almost reassure me I wouldn’t break every bone in my body trying to make the drop. Dare to dream.

  As shouts erupted in St. Peter’s tomb, I resecured my light and zipped up my jacket, then snagged the grate. I shimmied down into the hole, pulling the grate behind me until it clanked into place over the opening. Then I hung for another sickening moment in the open air.

  And dropped.

  The weight of the gold box eased up in flight, and I landed with only the usual amount of pain, sprawling onto the chamber floor with a grunt, then rolling into a tight ball to spread the agony around a little more. The place was black as pitch, and I wrenched out my penlight again, flipping it around as I squinted into the darkness. The chamber held two doors, so, fine, two cards: Hanged Man and Sun. “Oh great, now you give me the Sun.”

  I’d take it, though. I was starting to feel a little claustrophobic. Probably because I was forty feet underground.

  I headed back into the darkness through the east-facing door, the one indicated by the Sun, and prayed for a quick exit.

  I didn’t get one.

  The cards started playing hard to get from that point forward, showing me the Devil at every turn as the weird half-echo of spectral laughter dogged my steps. Finally I gave up and started jogging, taking whatever passageway seemed like it was leading up. My last intelligent card had been the Sun, after all. Well, the sun was in the sky, right? And the sky was up.

  Finally, after what felt like hours but which my watch confirmed was only ninety minutes, I stumbled into a space that seemed ever so slightly newer than third century AD. A wide cistern of some sort had been cut into the floor, holding a deep well of murky water. I craned my neck upward, my penlight barely picking out a catwalk high upon the wall. And hanging down from that catwalk, bolted against the wall…

  “Finally.” I raced over to the side of the cavern, then stuck the penlight in my mouth again—never mind where else it’d been stuck during the last several hours—and attacked the ladder with newfound energy. Hand over hand, I climbed up the side of the sheer wall, not bothering to look down until I finally collapsed onto the landing of the catwalk far above, my lungs blowing hard. From there I could totally see where I was, if only I spoke Italian. The underside of an official-looking manhole lay above me not six more feet.

  Pausing to ensure everything was going according to plan, I did one more check of the cards and got The Devil, which I was getting used to by now. Then the Five of Wands—another of the minors I’d already encountered this evening, and one I wasn’t at all happy to see again. And then Justice.

  I scowled. From my underground position, I had no way of determining what Justice meant. Was I going to crawl out in front of a police station or come face-to-face with the Super Friends? Toss-up. Justice was always a pain that way. You got what was coming to you, but every so often that was the boomerang of doom.

  I glanced up at the manhole. Security forces were typically presented by knight cards, and knights were conspicuously not showing up to my card party so far. But if the enforcers for SANCTUS were waiting for me up there, for some reason, things were not going to end well for Armaeus’s box.

  Or for me, as it happened.

  Getting to my feet, I pulled the dull yellow reliquary out of my pocket and held it under the gleam of the penlight. As Armaeus had instructed, there was nothing on the piece but the inscription, carved into the box in some unreadable language. Aramaic, he’d said, but it didn’t matter. It could have been Alien and I wouldn’t have known the difference. The box looked bug-free at least, so that was a bonus. Kept things from getting too crowded.

  I fished around in one of my inside pockets until I found the slender plastic disk. Squatting down, I placed the reliquary carefully on its side, then pulled the disk free from its backing. I adhered the wafer to the corner of the reliquary, where the metal was the smoothest. Once in place, the sensor was virtually invisible, a tiny disk, but through the miracle of plastic tech—and a very wise decision I made with an incredibly smart, incredibly hot circuitry genius a few months back—it would make sure I didn’t end up empty-handed.

  Satisfied, I stowed the reliquary in my jacket once more and slipped the safety off my gun in its shoulder holster. Then I hit the next ladder, picking up speed.

  Just as the square slab of rock in the tomb had been easy to dislodge, the manhole cover above me proved equally accommodating, and I pushed up the circular slab of metal to see out. I was in the middle of some sort of side street, and though a few cars were visible lining the curb, no traffic stirred. I heaved the manhole off the opening, then crawled out of the shaft, pausing only long enough to drop the cover back over the hole. I’d finished that process, still on my knees, when I heard a car door open.

  And then the lights came up.

  Sweet Christmas, that’s bright. I hunkered down in legitimate pain, practically blinded with the sudden glare after so many hours in
darkness. Steps sounded loudly around, me, official and precise, and I heard a gun cocking into place. My own weapon remained holstered tight to my side, but I needed to understand how many people I’d be shooting at before I went that route.

  “The inscription.”

  “What?” I growled, turning around. Had someone said that aloud? And in English? No one spoke again for another moment, then the man closest to me started shouting at me in rapid-fire Italian.

  “Scatola!” the man next to him cried out over his associate’s words, and I understood what they wanted, despite my lousy Italian. Box. They wanted the reliquary.

  Worked for me. To hit me, they’d have to go through the relic, and I figured they didn’t want to risk damaging the thing. So with my left hand, I reached inside my jacket and pulled the box out, waving it in front of my chest as I turned, keeping my feet moving and the relic close.

  “Read the inscription.” The order was louder this time, more insistent. Definitely English. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.

  “I can’t!” I shouted back, finally getting a good look at the men surrounding me. A dozen guys ranged in a tight circle wearing black uniforms and berets, all of them with rifles trained on my twirling form. Oh, goodie. SANCTUS. How did they find me so quickly? And what exactly had happened to Armaeus’s other agents—

  Meanwhile, I sensed the press of otherworldly eyes upon me again as words were forming in my head, words such as I had never heard before, ancient and melodic, hypnotic and strange. Running around and through and over and above the Italians who were edging closer, their shouts growing louder as the sun finally broke over the horizon and flooded the far-off street, its light not quite reaching into this side alley.

  “The inscription!”

  “Fine!” I bellowed. Waving the reliquary in my left hand, I squinted at it, then spoke the words that had formed in my head in a rush—all three lines, not truly knowing what I was saying as the sounds tumbled and crashed over themselves, my heart lightening as I neared the inscription’s end.

  Whatever I was saying, though, I wasn’t saying it fast enough. I heard the cock of a pistol, sensed the gun aimed at me as I babbled out the last words. Crap and double crap!

  Without warning, the box suddenly went from weighing about two pounds to two hundred. I dropped it, shocked, then instantly went for my gun, yanking it out as the box made contact with the asphalt—

  And everything went sideways.

  The reliquary bounced hard on the asphalt as an explosion ripped through the space with a percussive blast, though there was no sound, not even much light. I was knocked to the side, away from the manhole, but I had the easy end of it. The commandos standing around me all burst backward as well, like leaves caught in a strong wind, stumbling to the ground, smashing up against the alley’s wall, while I was yanked to my feet, and—

  Found myself staring into the face of the second most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my life.

  “Second?” the impossibly beautiful vision in front of me said with a twist of his sensual lips. “How disappointing.”

  Outrage swept through me, flavored with a salty dash of fear that I stamped down with more outrage. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I snapped. “Armaeus sent me after the actual Devil? As in the Prince of Darkness, Father of Lies, Enemy of Righteousness—you’re what I just stole from the Vatican?”

  The Adonis before me gave me a lazy grin.

  “Speak of the Devil,” he said, his voice as heart wrenchingly beautiful as his features. “And he shall appear.”

  Chapter Ten

  With that, the Devil shot out his right hand toward the closest SANCTUS guard. “Besides,” he continued, “they stole me first.”

  The guard screamed as his gun turned to flames, the fire jumping from his weapon to one held by a soldier across the alley so quickly I could barely follow it. Then it leapt again.

  “Aleksander Kreios,” the Devil said by way of introduction. He didn’t let go of me as he stooped to pick up the golden box at his feet, examining it with marked distaste as the men around us erupted into screams. “I think we should be leaving. Where is the plane?”

  “Ciampino Airport,” I said, trying to process the carnage in front of me. Not very easy, given the smell of burning flesh on either side of us. “Thirty miles south of the city. Were you the one watching me in the catacombs, then?” I frowned more deeply. “And how did you get in that box?”

  “It appears Armaeus did not expect us to meet. He always was a man of no manners, despite his protestations.” He shrugged. “But it’s time to go. As enjoyable as it would be to see these men suffer longer, there is work yet to be done.” He turned, guiding me over a man whose cries of torment only increased on seeing Aleksander Kreios standing over him. Kreios paused long enough to stop the guard’s screams—by kicking him savagely in the head. Then he turned back with a satisfied smile. “After you,” he said, gesturing me on.

  I glanced back as we strode down the alley. The fires dissolved into dirty smoke as I watched, but half the men still seemed in abject pain, and the other half were held in some kind of thrall, none of them making a move.

  “Um, are you doing that to them?”

  “Not at all, Sara Wilde. They are doing it to themselves.”

  Breaking out onto a main street, Kreios walked right into traffic, moving ahead of me to flag down a sleek Alfa Romeo. The driver stopped, pole axed with alarm, gaping at us as we approached his vehicle. Kreios put his hand on the hood appreciatively. “It is a fine car.”

  The man—a prosperous-looking businessman, judging by his suit and tie—promptly exited the vehicle with his briefcase in hand. His expression had that same enthralled look about it, and he stood by the driver’s side while the few cars that were on the street pounded their horns and angled around us. Kreios nodded to him and spoke in musically fluent Italian, something about a Banco Credito. The man gestured magnanimously to his car. “È tutto tuo.”

  Then he walked off. Whistling.

  “You see?” Kreios said, dropping my hand to open the passenger door for me. “Men of refinement yet walk this world.”

  I eyed the car, thinking only two words. “Flight” and “Risk.”

  “Um—you are planning to head back to Vegas now, right?” I’d cuff the man to me, only the moment my brain contemplated that idea all other rational thought jumped ship. Besides, no handcuffs. Damned poor packing job.

  Kreios nodded toward the car. “Have you any doubt?”

  “Lots of them.”

  “Well, fret not on my account.” His brows lifted as he studied me. “Now this is interesting. I have not been to Kavala in many years. Your desire to return those young women to their homes, it is a worthy goal.”

  Freaking council mind-reading freaks. Still, I was more than happy to phone a friend. “So they are in Vegas? They’re still alive?”

  “There is only one way to find out, it would seem.” He opened the driver’s side door as chorus of police sirens suddenly screamed from a few streets over, and Kreios winked at me. “Rome is always so invigorating.”

  He leapt for the driver’s side, and I clambered into the passenger seat, barely getting the door shut before he slammed the car into gear.

  “Buckle up, Sara Wilde.” After the second turn, I did as he instructed, the belt the only thing keeping me from being plastered against the roof of the vehicle, the door, or the Devil himself. We raced through the streets, conversation impossible what with half the city roiling with lights and sirens, all of them seeming immediately behind us. By the time I realized that the cars and noise had faded, I realized something else had disappeared too.

  Namely, any signs referencing “Aeroporto”.

  “I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be heading to an airport.” I eyed Kreios. “You know, a place with planes?”

  “I regret that I will be unable to join you in that endeavor. But hopefully you’ll agree that I did not leave you
to fend for yourself alone in Rome, yes? I do not want to appear callous.”

  “How about you appear sensible and turn the car around now.”

  “I do hate to disappoint a woman of your undoubted skills.” As if on cue, the car slowed, but that didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, I tensed up further, sensing a trap as Kreios skidded the vehicle onto a side road, fishtailing. There were large warehouse-looking buildings along this stretch, and little else. “And yet it appears we are doomed to both be disappointed today.”

  He turned the wheel sharply and we flew into the parking lot of a large, flat-topped concrete building, which looked absolutely abandoned until another vehicle emerged from the far corner, heading toward us fast. Before I could react, Kreios gave me one last grin, then opened the door and jumped free of the car, wrenching the wheel as he went. The car shuddered and bucked, then suddenly we were rolling, as if Kreios had managed to flip the car with no more than a flick of his wrist.

  Chaos rained down as I screamed, the car turning over once, twice. The concrete and the building and the sky became part of a kaleidoscope of light and terror and bone-wrenching fury as I caught sight of the asshole getting into the car that now idled at the opening of the drive, waiting patiently for me to stop rolling. When the Alfa Romeo finally crumpled to a stop, with me strapped in and hanging upside down, it roared off.

  “Asshat!”

  I sucked in a tight breath and unhooked my seat belt, letting fly a litany of curses as I crunched to the ceiling of the car. The windows had shattered but hadn’t blown out, and the door opened willingly enough on my side. I crawled out and lay on the ground, staring up at the sky, panting.

  “Bastard.” I liked that name better. My chest heaving, I rolled to my knees. My head had suddenly morphed into an overripe grapefruit, and I suspected I’d herniated myself on the safety belt. Otherwise, I was intact. Sweat poured off me, the adrenaline of the high-speed chase and the Devil’s precipitous exit combining with the overdue reaction to the race through the necropolis. I blew out a long breath, squinting across the sun-soaked pavement, then checked the sky again. He’d gone east, I was almost certain. Fair enough.