Page 23 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)
Will
A s we strode past St. Peter’s Square, its vast colonnades curving like arms ready to embrace the faithful—or ensnare the unwary—I found myself slack-jawed, gawking like a tourist on his first trip abroad.
We’d lived in Paris and London, seen the beauty of Bern, the horrors of wartime Berlin, and traipsed the fields of the Netherlands, but nothing we’d seen had prepared me for the grandeur of the Holy City.
Golden domes shimmered in the morning light, every angle of the architecture radiating centuries of calculated majesty. Statues loomed from rooftops, as gargoyles glared from their corner perches, solemn guardians carved from marble, each expression some sacred riddle or horrific warning.
“You’re staring,” Thomas murmured beside me, a lilt of amusement in his voice .
“Can you blame me?” I muttered. “It’s like walking into a painting.”
He smirked. “You look one dreadful statue away from buying a souvenir pope snow globe.”
Before I could retaliate, our guide—a slim, soft-spoken priest in a slate-gray cassock—glanced back at us. He smiled kindly, clearly overhearing, though he made no comment.
Every hall we passed inside the Church’s headquarters glittered with gold-leaf trim and frescoed ceilings. The walls were draped in tapestries woven before our country even existed. Even the floors gleamed with intricate tile work.
Monks, priests, and nuns strolled past, mostly clustered in twos or threes.
Some chatted amiably, while others marched with silent determination.
No one met my gaze or acknowledged our presence.
Such was the way of any capital, bustling with missions and missives, those in service barely glancing up to notice guests in their midst lest they lose a step or fall grievously behind schedule.
We moved through a series of high-ceilinged corridors, our footsteps muted by the ancient stone. Painted saints watched us from every wall, giving me a sudden, irrational urge to whisper, as though we were trespassing on hallowed ground—which, I supposed, we were.
Thomas leaned closer. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, though my voice came out more reverent than I intended, my throat utterly dry. “I just . . . wasn’t ready for it to feel like this.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll stop feeling like an altar boy on a field trip once Rinaldi shows up.” He gave me one of his trademarked smirks. “Now, if we get to meet the big guy, please try not to pee your trousers. That would be most . . . unforgivable, even for His Holiness.”
That earned a quiet chuckle from our guide and a sharp glare from me.
We finally reached a set of heavy double doors, each carved with Latin inscriptions and embossed with the Vatican crest, a pair of crossed keys beneath the papal tiara. Our guide paused, reached up, and gently touched the keys.
“The keys to Heaven given to Saint Peter by our Lord. They call to me each time I see them,” he said with clerical reverence. A moment passed before the holy man turned and said, “This is the anteroom to Monsignor Rinaldi’s office. He will be with you shortly. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
I sank into one of several red velvet chairs, the wood beneath me groaning like it, too, had seen better days.
Across from us sat a low table stacked with theological texts, official communiqués , and a bowl of oranges so perfectly arranged it looked suspicious.
The doors closed with a muffled click , leaving us in a room that felt like the waiting chamber of God himself.
“I feel like if I breathe too hard in here, I’ll break a relic,” I whispered.
Thomas smirked. “You probably would.”
A few minutes later, the inner doors opened and a tall, pale man with deep-set eyes, wiry spectacles, and the weary expression of someone who hadn’t had a proper vacation since before the war entered the room.
Monsignor Rinaldi greeted us politely and motioned for us to follow him into the inner sanctum, which was more intimate yet held the same restrained elegance as his foyer.
I couldn’t help but gawk up at the ceiling arched overhead, its soft barrel vault painted with delicate angels whose golden haloes caught the ambient light from a tall, mullioned window framed in thick crimson drapes.
Sunlight poured through the stained-glass panels, splashing subtle hues across the polished parquet floor.
We exchanged pleasantries and sat across from him at his desk, a large, ornate antique monstrosity that dominated the center of the room, its surface immaculately empty save for a worn leather-bound Bible and a crystal inkwell with a gold-nibbed fountain pen resting beside it.
Behind the desk, tall bookcases reached toward the ceiling, filled with dusty tomes, Vatican archives, and a surprising number of modern books bound in red twine.
From our briefing materials, I recognized those volumes as Vatican intelligence, their version of America’s Top Secret folders.
Rinaldi calmly folded his hands, resting them on the smooth surface of his desk, but his eyes gave him away. They were frantic and worried— haunted even.
“I must admit,” he began, “I was not expecting this meeting. When I heard Americans from your intelligence service were requesting time, I assumed it pertained to the safety of His Holiness, which falls under the purview of the Swiss Guard.”
“I suppose this does relate to the Pope’s safety, perhaps that of the Church, too,” Thomas said, tiptoeing through his words.
“The Pope is in danger then?” Rinaldi leaned forward and drew a sharp breath. “Has there been a credible threat?”
“Not directly,” I replied. “But we are concerned. As I am sure you are aware, three Western-leaning leaders have been assassinated in the last week. There is a ceremonial component to their killings that makes us wonder if there isn’t some connection to religion or a specific religious order.”
Rinaldi’s hands twitched as he ignored the subtle implication of Thomas’s statement. “And you think the Pope could be next? ”
“It as a possibility we cannot ignore,” Thomas said.
The Monsignor rose and began to pace, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Dear God . . . If there’s even a chance—”
“We’re not saying anything definitive,” I cut in, “but we are pursuing every lead we find.”
He stilled and turned to us, panic blooming in his voice, his hand now clutching the silver crucifix dangling about his neck. “Tell me plainly. Is there a threat to the Pope’s life?”
“We aren’t sure. There has been no direct threat, but there was none with the others who were killed. Every leader in Europe is tightening their security in the wake of these murders,” Thomas said calmly. “This is why we need your help . . . to understand what we’re up against.”
“My help?” the Monsignor asked, his eyes widening. “How could I possibly help with something like this?”
I pulled the folded photograph from my jacket and laid it on his desk. “Do you recognize this symbol?”
He leaned in, adjusted his glasses, and stared at the image of the scorched casing and the etched spear.
“I’m afraid I do not. This is not Church iconography, though we have many orders in every corner of the world.
I suppose it is possible one of them may have adopted new symbols without our knowledge, though this is unlike any I have seen. ”
“Nothing even similar?” I asked.
Rinaldi shook his head, visibly agitated. “Please, gentlemen, if someone is targeting spiritual leaders—or sees the Holy Father as a symbol of Western power—then I need to alert the Swiss Guard. Why are you here speaking with me instead of them?”
Before we could respond, the doors swung open with sudden force, and a gust of fresh air whooshed in from the foyer. Every muscle in my body tensed, as two robed attendants entered—but it was the third who stole the breath from the room.
“Holy Father,” the Monsignor said as he bowed deeply.
Tall, composed, and exuding a calm authority that silenced even my whirring brain, Pius XII offered a faint smile.
“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice warm and strong, his English carrying the pleasant taste of basil, as any Italian’s voice should.
At seventy-four, the man appeared to have lost none of his youthful vigor.
“A . . . little birdie tweeted that I had visitors from across the great sea.”
Manakin.
Of course, he would have a direct connection to the Pope.
He likely had spies or allies in every presidential or ministerial office on the planet.
Still, how did the Pope know about our bird monikers?
Or was he simply turning a phrase? I’d been in the business too long to believe in coincidences, and the keenness in the Pope’s eyes told me he knew more than anyone suspected—and likely always would.
Thomas and I stood, offering bows of our own.
My throat went dry.
I had no idea how to greet a Pope, but luckily, he spared us the awkwardness with a gentle gesture.
“No need for ceremony,” he said, stepping forward. “Please, sit. Monsignor, gentlemen, would you give us the room, please? I would like to speak with our guests alone.”