by Jenn Stark
What wasn’t fair? Not getting the freaking information I needed from the Cat in the Hat. Armaeus was going to pay for this. He’d sent me after a box, not Mr. Muscles. Aleksander Kreios. The actual Devil. For the love of Kansas. Clearly, I hadn’t asked for enough money on this job.
Gritting my teeth, I hauled myself to my feet and reached into my jacket. My phone was there. So was something else. Something I hadn’t expected to be needing again quite so soon: a map of the city.
My new favorite limo driver picked up on the second ring. “Maximilian Ber—”
“You have any knowledge of a warehouse under construction south of Rome? Maybe thirty miles out of the city, just off a main highway? Blue signage that’s half-finished, begins with PRO?”
“Ah, yes I do, Miss. Very nice facility, construction halted due to permits, and—”
“How long till you get here?”
Max didn’t pause. “Thirty minutes, give or take. You have shade? Water?”
I squinted back to the battered car. No way was I getting back in that thing. But beyond the vehicle, a line of trees stood at the far end of the parking lot. Just enough distance for me to stretch out my legs and maybe lose the throbbing headache. “Shade. No water.”
There was the slightest hesitation then. “Are you hurt?”
“I’ll manage. Get here as quick as you can, please.”
“It will be my pleasure.”
Twenty minutes later, the familiar sedan pulled up. By then I’d ditched my jacket and was sitting on it, hunched over my phone like an irritable gargoyle. Grinning like one too.
Max brought the car up to me and had barely slowed when I heard the sound of his door locks disengaging. I pulled open the passenger door before he came to a complete stop and slid into the back of his vehicle.
“There is water and a first aid kit in the case to your left,” he said, replicating his cheerful patter from this morning. Had it only been this morning? “Where are we headed? I can assure you I know everything there is to know about Rome and southern Italy. It has become a sort of passion of mine.”
I glanced down to my phone. After he’d popped out of the reliquary like a grumpy genie, Aleksander Kreios had pocketed the gold box, and apparently had not paid too much attention to it. My bug remained intact, and for the past twenty minutes, I’d been following it as it made its way southeast of Rome, trying to figure out where it was heading. “What’s Sermoneta? What’s its importance?”
“Sermoneta?” Max frowned from the front seat, but he bounced the car back onto the access road and headed east. “It is a very pretty medieval town, with a fine abbey and castle to boot.”
What would the Devil want with an abbey? “Abbey as in still active?”
“Yes, indeed, though it’s had a bit of a troubled past. It was founded by Greek Basilian monks in the third century AD, a very secretive order, and was home to the Templar knights for a time, right up until they were disbanded. It’s somewhat famous for an unusual Sator Square on the grounds, impossible to be translated but rumored to be very powerful. The Cistercian monks work the place now, a very practical, somewhat boring lot. But it’s a pretty enough abbey.”
“Right.” I’d had my fill of the religious for the day, but there had to be some reason Kreios was heading there. I reached into my jacket and thumbed free a few cards. A quick glance confirmed we were on the right track, so to the abbey we’d go.
“Who owns the castle?”
“The Caetani family. Very ancient, very rich. Well connected too.” Max snorted. “One of Italy’s most famous popes was a Caetani, actually, Boniface VIII. You might remember him from Dante’s Inferno—made it all the way to the eighth circle of Hell.”
“Nice.”
He laughed. “The family remained deeply loyal to the church throughout their existence, though for a time their own castle was confiscated by a later pope, Alexander VI. One of the Borgias, not a nice character. But the Caetanis continued to thrive, producing more bishops and cardinals along the way. That line of the family died out in 1961, though. Very sad.”
I frowned. “I thought you said they owned the castle.”
“Their descendants do, but they are no longer of the pure bloodline, eh? Times, they change.”
“Yeah.” I leaned back against the rich leather seat, watching the Italian countryside zip by. Max Bertrand had not asked about the car that I’d abandoned at the warehouse. He’d not asked a lot of things. “How much did Armaeus tell you about me?”
“Le seigneur? He said only that I must fetch you from the airport and deliver you safely to wherever you directed. He did not tell me why. He also did not tell me that I would have the pleasure of your company a second time.”
I eyed him. “And have you reported in?”
“What am I to report? That a beautiful woman cannot last a day without me? That would be terrible hubris, non?” He flashed me another smile. “It is enough that I am able to serve you in my own small way.”
“Got it.” I thought about Armaeus. He’d said he was going to be called back to the States imminently. Was he across the pond yet? In flight? As long as there was a body of water in between us, as I’d learned quite by accident, he’d have no way of contacting me. I preferred having an ocean of distance between us for that very reason. That, and I no longer trusted the Tyet to keep me safe.
Nevertheless, while I had the Magician on mute, there was no use wasting a willing tour guide. “How connected are you with the Bertrands outside of Paris? How much do you know about their operation?”
“Not as connected as I once was,” Max said with a little shake. “Why do you think I am here, so far from home? I’ve been assigned as a watchdog for the family, without knowing what it is I am watching.”
I frowned at him. “You’ve learned nothing about SANCTUS?”
“Oh, but of a certainty. I merely don’t what the import is of what I know. That is for wiser minds. I report on them coming and going from the Vatican, of attacks in the city. They wisely do not trouble much of the Connected in Rome proper, so as not to draw too much attention. But the whispers, they have been coming to us from other places. Budapest. Ankara. Cairo. Close enough for us to hear about, not so close that any are worried.”
“But the family is worried?”
“Not for ourselves.” His shrug was noncommittal, betraying his French origins. “We are not part of the Connected, exactly.”
“Um, how is that possible?” I asked, thinking about Dante and Claire. “Don’t any of you have psychic skills?
“It only takes one member per generation to retain the blood tie. Time marches on, the families do not practice the old ways, they weaken, they die. Much like the Caetani, we too will have our end if we do not rekindle that nascent force within us.” He sighed and shook his head, a sigh not even Henri could have bettered. “I once thought I had the whisper of magic within me, but as a Bertrand, we do not take such things lightly. There was another of my generation who had already been chosen for that coveted spot, and his bid was not to be denied. He had the very cast of le seigneur.”
I thought of Dante, back at the mansion. I’d not felt even a flicker of magical ability within him, though, and I frowned. “And how did that work out?”
“I assume well,” Dante said. “It is never spoken of. The chosen simply do the work they are called to do, and the rest do what we are told. I cannot help but wish, eh? It is a weakness I cannot put behind me.”
As he spoke, I put my hand inside my jacket, an instinctive move I didn’t really think about until I felt the cool, crisp surface of my cards. I fanned through the deck, nudging out a card. I slipped it out as we angled off the main highway onto an exit.
“We’re coming into Sermoneta now,” Max said. “What are we looking for?”
I glanced down at my hand. The six of swords. A card of journeys over water, better times ahead and, the old books said, the voyage of an initiate toward psychic mastery. I grinned out the window as
we passed over an ancient medieval bridge, a crystalline river snaking beneath us, flashing in the sunlight. “I think we’re looking for trouble. And along the way, I suspect all your dreams might just come true.”
Chapter Eleven
We left Max’s car as close as possible to the edge of town, pointing outward, as if we would be able to dash back out and escape the city before the Saracens caught up to us. The place just had that kind of feel. We walked through tiny, cobblestoned streets and almost passed as tourists. Max had ditched his cap and suit jacket, and strolled along in the heat wearing a shirt and tie like a businessman on lunch hour. I trudged along in my leather jacket, battered clothes, and boots like a biker who’d lost her ride. None of the natives paid any attention to us, and the tourists were too busy with their own selfies to notice anyone else.
As we walked, I kept my phone handy. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew if I was able to track Kreios, someone could track me doing so. But I had a few things going in my favor. Thing One, Armaeus didn’t know I’d lost his prize—at least not yet. Thing Two, my phone was the equivalent of a burn phone, though admittedly jacked up with a state-of-the art international plan that included the latest bells and whistles in security along with its powerful tracker app.
Accordingly, I at least had a snowball’s chance in hell of completing this search undetected, at least while Armaeus was in the air and not aware that I wasn’t safely en route to Vegas as well. Either way, I had to act fast. Because I had a bad feeling about the Devil being here.
Which sounded ridiculous even thinking out loud.
Still, there was something important I needed to figure out here. If Kreios had merely wanted to dump me, he could have left me on the ground with the SANCTUS guards. Had he somehow been trying to protect me? If so, I didn’t know if I should be charmed or irritated. Irritated was winning. And besides, his idea of protection needed work, given that he’d left me in a tumbling cage of Alfa Romeo.
“We seem to be heading directly for the abbey, not the castle.” Max’s words cut across my thoughts, his voice casual, as if we were discussing the merits of Italian street food. “Does that make sense for what you’re seeking?”
I glanced at him. “Do you really not know why I’m here?” Another French shrug, and I shook my head. I’d been pissed when Armaeus had left me out of the loop, but Max was family. Surely that should count for something more. “I’m trying to find one of Armaeus’s…fellow council members. Embodiment of the Tarot Devil, maybe you know him?” At Max’s blank stare, my irritation ratcheted up another notch. “Your little council needs to get on Twitter or something. You guys are the worst.”
“The council has thrived because of its isolation. They won’t be eager to change that.”
“Well then, they’ll be eager to fail. I don’t know what the devil the Devil is up to, but he’s totally gone off the reservation, coming out here. Armaeus wanted him collected and returned to the fold, not haring off on some field trip through Italy.”
“Perhaps he had unfinished business?”
“Yeah, well that’s not…” I stopped. As in literally stopped, standing stock-still in the street while Max continued forward a few more strides before turning around to glance at me.
“Miss Wilde?”
“You said the abbey had unusual Templar artwork here? Some sort of Sator Square, but different?” I took off at a brisk trot, and Max hurried to catch up with me.
“Yes, the Sator Square here is in a unique design. Normally the words make up an actual square—five words lined up, one beneath the other: SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA ROTAS. You can read them upwards downwards, backwards—you’ll always have the same order of words. There are other consistent repetitions as well. But the one in the abbey is different. Same words, but they are laid out in five concentric rings instead of a true square, with each of the five words flaring out from the center, like five points on a star—or a target. You can read the words edge to edge, or around the circle.”
“Clockwise or counterclockwise?”
He thought about it. “Clockwise. Does it matter?”
“We’ll find out.”
We reached the abbey and edged into the back of the line, where two young lovers leaned into each other, the girl loosely holding her tickets as she sighed up at her paramour. I brushed by them with irritation, pushing to the front of the line, past a group of feral teens, a harried tour guide, and a stern-faced older woman holding a guidebook like it was the Holy Bible.
“Biglietti.” A sweet-faced young girl held out her hand, and I gave her two tickets, Max’s head swiveling to watch the transaction.
“The young Americans?”
“They’ll get over it.”
We pushed into the abbey and drew closer together, the hush of the ancient place demanding reverence.
“You’ve been here before, you said?”
Max bowed slightly. “I was a tour guide for five years. There is no rock in Italy I haven’t peered under.” Max took me by the arm, and I froze for half a second. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing. Lead on.” I shook him off but didn’t bother hiding my grin as he strode ahead of me. Had Armaeus known? Dante the golden child back in France didn’t have one-tenth the kinetic power that Max’s casual touch had betrayed, and yet Dante was the one holding court at Le Sri, while Max was playing tour guide. How long was Armaeus going to let that continue? Or did he care?
Or, more interestingly, was he doing it on purpose? From what I could see, being a member of the council had its perks, and I would assume one of its ranking generals would have its benefits as well. But with perks generally came sacrifices. Armaeus could easily be trying to protect his extended family in his own misguided, megalomaniac way.
Max turned toward me. “It’s just around the—”
“Stop.” I pulled him into a long hallway hung with paintings that were not original to the abbey by any stretch. Behind and between the paintings, the walls were hung with carpenter cloths, pinned into place with low scaffolding. “What is this place?”
Max looked down the long gallery. “They removed the original frescoes for restoration, but this was once an entire gallery of beautiful artwork, commissioned over the years by the Holy See.”
“Uh-huh. As in popes and bishops of the Caetani family?”
Max nodded. “Of course. Whenever they could divert funds to Sermoneta, they did so. Enrico Caetani commissioned one of the more famous pieces, but it is no longer viewable by the public.”
“And he lived…”
“Late 1500s.”
“Right. And that fresco hung here, in this room. While the Templar Sator Square is in the next chamber. Do we have any other weird symbols close by, either for the Templars or the—”
Max cut me off excitedly. “You’re looking for a line?”
“I’m looking for anything I can find. My phone says my guy is here, but—” I waved around. “Here is a little broad.”
“Of course, of course.” Max blew out a breath. “There is the Templar Cross in the rose window overlooking the nave, of course. And the symbols of Solomon’s knot in the courtyard.” He frowned, turning as if to stare through the walls. “That would be in a direct line from here. The knot, that is. With the Sator Square between us.”
I nodded. I remembered the cards I’d pulled in the limo on the way here. The Two of Pents, with its infinity symbolism, equal sides balanced and intertwined. The Wheel. And the Hierophant. And here I was at the end of a line of artwork, starting with Solomon’s knot, ending with a fresco commissioned by the pope. And in the center of us was the Wheel. It all made sense. Almost.
Max kept frowning, though. “But your quarry, this devil character, he cannot do anything here in the abbey. It’s public. Hundreds of people see that symbol every day. There is doubtlessly a tour in there right now. He can’t be in there without being seen. It’s not possible.”
“He’s not.” I shook my head, flipping my phone around for him to
see. “He’s beneath it.”
Max frowned. “There is no beneath—”
“Bullshit. Where’s the nave where that window you mentioned is?”
We reached the stunning chapel quickly enough. It was nearly noon now, the sun pouring in the brilliant window, lighting the floor in a myriad of brilliant colors. This wasn’t Indiana Jones, it wouldn’t be that obvious, but the light was still going to point us the way. The four equal stems of the cross flared brilliantly on a panel on the floor. A panel that appeared like any other panel. Due to a trick of the light, however, the cross seemed to elongate slightly, its top stretching a bit almost to point…
I looked up. A confessional box stood at the far end of the chamber, ornate and unused. It gleamed with modern fittings. “Bingo.”
“Bingo?” Max followed my gaze. “You wish to make your confession?”
“They lock those things?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.” Max followed me over to the booth, and I tried the doors. First, the side box. It opened. I poked my head inside, saw the placard. Part of the display, not used for actual confessions anymore except on special occasions. Even the Italians were embracing Vatican II, it seemed. It’d only been in play since the 1960s, but baby steps.
The main box was not quite so easy. The door didn’t budge, and an old-style lockset gleamed beneath the handle. “Stand right there for a minute.”
“It is a marvelous place, this abbey, is it not?” Max gazed upward, his voice reverential but not quite hushed. He nattered on as I pulled my picklocks from my jacket pocket. The second skeleton key worked, and I felt the door give way. I leaned against him, drawing him away as we caught the eyes of a passing tour guide, who smiled and nodded at us.