Page 24 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

T he doors clicked shut, and for a moment the air in the room felt too still, like the silence inside a tomb.

The Pope moved slowly, deliberately, to the chair behind the Monsignor’s desk and lowered himself into it as though the weight of centuries now rested on his shoulders, which, I supposed, it did.

Pius was a lean man, his frame cloaked in snowy robes that billowed and shimmered with every motion, a stark contrast against the dark, heavy furniture casting him in ghostly relief.

His face, pale as parchment, bore sharp angles and lines carved by age and deep intellect.

He studied us with eyes so dark they seemed to draw in the lamplight.

Once we were again seated, the Holy Father steepled his fingers and said, “I understand you requested to speak with Monsignor Rinaldi, but it appears your concerns may reach beyond his authority. ”

“We never intended to trouble Your Holiness,” I said, inclining my head with what I hoped passed for proper deference.

Will leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the Pope’s. “Three world leaders have been murdered. Each was pro-Western. The only clue we have is a symbol carved into a bullet casing—a spear, possibly referencing Christian or some other mythology.”

The Pope’s brow quirked upward at Will’s use of the word “mythology,” but he said nothing.

When Will slid the photo across the desk, Pius didn’t touch it, but he studied it carefully.

“Curious. This appears to be Roman, from the first century or the years that followed,” he murmured. “I do not believe this to be a symbol used by the Church, though I am no expert on symbology. I . . . am sorry, gentlemen, I do not recognize this.”

Will glanced at me, then said, “We came to you because no one understands symbols and secret histories like the Vatican.”

The Pope’s gaze flicked back to the photo, and a brief silence followed. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “There are many orders, many movements within our Church. I have never seen this spear before, but . . .”

He hesitated.

“But what?” I prompted, my instincts tingling.

“There are always factions within the Church vying for power or jockeying for position. Some want radical reform, while others seek to maintain tradition and ties to the past.” The Pope’s lips tightened.

“There have been . . . whispers of discontent. Certain conservative factions believe the Church has strayed too far from literal interpretation of scripture. There are rumors of clandestine meetings, of rhetoric steeped not in faith but in power. Frankly, I dismissed them as idle gossip. If priests want to gather and debate, what harm is done? Questioning our faith serves to strengthen it, much like a blacksmith folding metal to forge a sword.”

“A frighteningly apt metaphor for this moment,” I said, more to myself than the others.

Will’s eyes narrowed. “Do you believe someone inside the Church could use that discontent to effect change outside these walls?”

The Pope turned and stared out the window. He didn’t blink as the rise and fall of his breath slowed. For a moment, I wondered if he’d left our conversation altogether and was thinking about the myriad other concerns forever cluttering his plate.

“I cannot say for certain,” he said at last. “But I would be lying if I said the thought had not crossed my mind. While our message of peace and compassion is clear, there are those within the Vatican who prefer a more medieval approach to problems.”

“Medieval?” I asked.

Pius turned back to face us. “Think Crusades but with tanks rather than horses. ”

That hit like a punch to my gut.

The Pope straightened in his chair. “But understand—if someone has turned rogue within our ranks, they are acting without the knowledge of the Vatican, without my blessing. That symbol . . . it does not belong to us.”

“Or perhaps it was made to appear as though it does,” I added. “To cast blame where none belongs.”

“Yes,” the Pope said. “Which is another reason this whole situation is fraught with such danger. Truth can be manipulated, symbols repurposed. The Church’s enemies are many, and not all wear different vestments.”

Will drew a sharp breath. “That doesn’t narrow things down.”

“No, it does not.” The Pope leaned back, steepling his fingers again, his expression grave.

“Which is why I must also raise another possibility. I received word from bishops and cardinals in the East—Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. They speak of a rising tide, of churches shuttered, clergy silenced, and whispers replaced with fear. Communism spreads, not merely as a political ideology, but also as a spiritual adversary. Its aim, I fear, is the eradication of faith.”

He paused again, and for a moment, I saw something beyond calculation in his eyes—something akin to dread .

“But Russia has its own church, a cousin to your own,” I countered.

“Cousins indeed.” The Pope’s smile was wan, his chuckle wry, as he muttered, “Moscow professes adherence to the Orthodox faith; but in truth, I believe it is a veil, a mask for the West to see and the East to fear, a lie dressed in cassocks, if you will forgive the double entendre.”

“The Russian people might disagree with that statement,” I said.

The Pope inclined his head. “They pray to a church that betrays them with their own government. I do not doubt the people’s faith, rather that of their leaders.”

“Do you suspect they are behind these killings? The Soviets? Stalin?” I asked.

He thought a moment before answering. “I cannot say they are. Nor can I say they are not. None but our Lord may know the soul of another, but the Soviets have motive, means, and a long history of cloaking daggers in diplomacy.”

Will nodded, digesting the implications. “So we have two possible culprits—either Moscow or someone inside your own Church.”

“And, perhaps, a dozen other actors you have yet to identify.” The Pope stood slowly, his face unreadable. “I suggest you widen your scope. Our enemy may be closer than you think. ”

We rose as the Pope moved toward the door and paused again. “You were right to come to me, even if the truth proves unwelcome.”

“We were told to follow the killer,” Will said. “And he’s left us nothing but riddles.”

“Then follow the riddles,” the Pope said. “Even when they lead to places you would rather not go.”

He opened the door and stepped out, but not before turning to linger in the doorway.

“If you truly believe someone within the Church is orchestrating these events, how would you flush them out?” Pius asked, his voice barely a whisper.

And that was a damn fine question, one we had yet to fully consider.

Sensing our hesitation, the Holy Father stepped back inside, closed the door behind him, and said, “Perhaps it is time to try to smoke out the rabbit.”

“Holy Father?” Will asked.

The Pope’s smile was downright conspiratorial. “What if we spread the rumor that you were, as Hollywood might say, hot on the heels of a suspect?”

“Leak our presence and progress to spook the culprit?” I translated.

“Assuming there is a culprit in the Vatican,” Will countered.

“If there is none—and I pray there is no one here capable of such horrors—no harm will be done. If there is, however, our little rumor might scare them enough into making a mistake. ”

“A mistake that could bring them into the light,” I said.

The room fell silent once more, each of us lost in thought, in the mental calculus of a Vatican-wide plot to unmask a devil. It was bold, a bit brash, and came from the lips of the Holy Father himself.

How could it go wrong?

“If a dark force is rising within my Church,” the Pope said, his voice low and grave, “it would not be the first time. There are shadows in our history—orders extinguished, heresies buried, and more betrayals committed in God’s name than I care to count.

Do not assume purity in every collar or habit you pass.

Do not underestimate what evil can do when shrouded in sanctity. ”

That warning floated in the air like incense, heavy and unforgettable.

“I will arrange for your visit to be noticed and for word to spread. I will also have Monsignor Rinaldi take you to the Grottos where the Curia might shed more light on your spear.”

“The Curia? Isn’t that the government of the Church?” Will asked.

“Many things have many names, especially in these halls. The chief historian of the Church was nicknamed the Curia centuries ago. I have no idea why. Apparently the name stuck, despite its conflict with the title of our central government.” Pius smiled and inclined his head. “May God guide you in the darkness.”