Page 26 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Marini’s contented smile morphed into a scowl.

“My boy, as long as men walk this earth, symbols will hold power. They may inspire or deter, enflame or defuse, uplift or condemn the soul to mourn. Those etched in darkness often bear no letters but speak more powerful words than tomes filled with the prattling of proud men. ”

As he opened it, the bulb above us sputtered, casting jagged shadows across the map and book. In that moment, I realized something.

We weren’t hunting a killer.

We were waking ghosts.

A chill crawled across my skin.

Marini adjusted his glasses and slowly turned the pages, each one a stiff flap of parchment etched with hand-drawn crests, seals, and symbols. He muttered to himself in Latin, sounding more like some motion-picture witch than a Catholic priest.

“I have seen it,” he murmured. “The spear. Somewhere . . . I know it.”

Thomas leaned in. “Where? When?”

“It was not recent.” Marini shook his head, agitated now. “Not . . . officially recorded. A footnote, perhaps. An annotation scrawled in the margin of an older translation.”

He flipped faster now, turning past whole centuries in heartbeats. The tome was an atlas of forgotten allegiances—flags of breakaway abbeys, marks of military orders no longer sanctioned, the sigils of nobles whose names hadn’t been spoken aloud in a thousand years.

He stopped suddenly, fingers trembling.

Silence shrouded the chamber.

Even the light bulb dangling above stopped flickering .

“This family,” he said, pointing to a faded crest. “It is not the same, but similar. The head, the shape, a stylization, perhaps.”

Thomas and I leaned closer.

The spear was thinner, straighter, but undeniably reminiscent. Was it a variation? A prototype? Or perhaps a forgery?

“Who were they?” I asked.

“An order loyal to Avignon during the Great Schism. They were denounced as heretics once Rome was restored.” He hesitated, his brow furrowed. “But I cannot say whether this is the same. Only that it . . . echoes with similar tones.”

Marini’s fingers flipped another page—and froze.

“There,” he whispered. “This is it.”

Thomas and I crowded closer. The drawing was simple but haunting: a long, jagged spear laid over a black circle. Beneath it, the Latin inscription:

Ordo Sancti Longini: Lancea et Umbrae

“The Order of Saint Longinus,” Marini translated. “Spear of Shadow.”

He read aloud from the faded script:

Founded in the year of our Lord 1456 by a conclave of knights and clerics, the Order Sancti Longini claimed guardianship over the relic of the Lancea Longini—the spear said to have pierced the side of Christ. Though many relics bear this claim, the Order believed theirs to be true.

Their devotion was rooted in secrecy. They operated apart from Rome, outside papal sanction, existing only in shadows, believing in the divine judgment of violence.

Their enemies were many—heretics, kings, and those deemed unworthy of the Church’s grace.

He paused.

“My translation may be a bit off, but I believe the basic meaning to be correct.” Then he mumbled, almost to himself, “This annotation is dated 1483. It says the Order was declared anathema by the Holy See and excommunicated in absentia. No record exists of its members. Only . . . sightings, alleged assassinations, and cloaked figures bearing the mark of the spear.”

“And this was recorded here,” I said slowly, “centuries ago.”

Marini nodded. “Buried and forgotten, but not erased. Benedictus wrote, ‘ We seal this knowledge for the safety of the soul and the preservation of peace. To know the Lancea et Umbrae is to walk with peril in one’s shadow. ’”

“Could this be a resurgence? A revival of some sort? A group reliving the missions of the past in the present day?” Thomas asked. “Surely, this Order doesn’t still exist? Hasn’t continued to exist throughout the centuries?”

Marini didn’t answer. His eyes scanned the next few pages, searching .

“Give me a moment,” came an impatient reply. “I . . . I believe I have seen this spear . . . on another page, as well.”

Marini scooted back from the table and returned to the shelves, this time disappearing into the darkness. For the briefest moment, I wondered how the man could see—then a light flickered to life, revealing more of the eternal hall.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Neither of us spoke.

I occasionally leaned over and examined the spear in the text, as if it might shift or change while we stared. It did not.

Nearly twenty minutes later, the Curia returned, another tome, this one thinner, tucked beneath one arm.

When he reached the table and set the book down, I saw its leather binding was far newer than the volume we’d first examined.

Gilded lettering reflected the light, shimmering faintly.

It wasn’t Latin or Greek or Aramaic. In fact, it wasn’t written in any of the ancient languages prominent in liturgical study.

It was penned in Cyrillic.

Thomas sucked in a breath and asked, “Is that . . . Russian?”

And for the first time since stepping into the Vatican’s bowels, I felt it.

A shiver. But not one of fear .

One of proximity.

We were close to something.

Whether truth or myth, I couldn’t yet say; but the shadows on the walls felt darker than they had when we entered . . . and something warned me they were listening.

“Here.” Marini muttered another phrase in Latin under his breath as he ran a crooked finger across the spine of cracked red leather.

“Имперская Гвардия при Екатерине Великой”

Thomas translated aloud, his Russian still quick and fluid. “ Imperial Guard under Her Imperial Majesty the Empress Catherine by Vasili M. Sokolov, Court Historian and Archivist, 1791.”

“Written by her official court historian.” Marini passed it over. “This might be . . . something.”

Thomas cracked the cover, and the breath of age-worn paper escaped into the air—musty and impossibly well preserved.

The first few pages were filled with elegant script, then sketches and watercolors so vivid they looked freshly painted: St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace under snow, Catherine herself in resplendent robes, her children painted with regal detachment.

And then—

A full two-page spread illustrated a company of elite guards.

They were tall, stoic men in ornate uniforms trimmed in gold.

Across their chests ran sashes of blue and crimson.

In each of their hands, a ceremonial weapon—long spears with distinct, unmistakable points.

The shape was jagged, aggressive—and all too familiar.

“Read the caption,” I said, my voice tight.

“The Leib-Gvardiya: a corps of elite guards assembled in 1777 at Her Imperial Majesty’s personal behest, sworn to unwavering loyalty.

Their weapons, forged in mimicry of the Holy Spear, were said to imbue divine favor in defense of the Empire.

Known unofficially as ‘The Spears of the Court,’ they operated beyond the reach of generals or ministers, answering only to the Tsarina herself. ”

Thomas looked up, eyes dark. “There’s our connection.”

“To the Soviets?” I asked, still not believing my own eyes.

Marini nodded slowly. “If their tradition survived . . . even in fragments . . .”

Thomas finished the thought aloud, “Then whoever’s behind these assassinations may believe they are the rightful heirs to this shadow Order—first from the Church, then from the Russian throne.”

Marini looked up, his eyes appearing even more outsized in his ridiculous spectacles, and shook his head furiously.

“No, no, no. The Order of Longinus would never consort with anything Russian. They believed themselves to be apart from mortal rule, a divine blessing guiding their work in purifying the unholy. They would have viewed the Russian Empress as a heretic, a woman possessed of such hubris as to usurp the rightful place of a man—a man anointed by God—as well as a believer in a false fork of the Mother Church. They would more likely seek to assassinate her, not work within her designs.”

“So, what?” I struggled to form a question. “They aren’t Russian? The Order, I mean? Or they aren’t working with the Russians, but the Russians are another Order? I’m lost.”

Marini quirked a brow, as if translating my gibberish into proper English.

“The Order and the Russians have nothing to do with one another besides the fact that they both used the Holy Spear as a symbol. The Order used it largely in ink, while the Russians recreated actual spears for ceremonial purposes.”

An “O” formed on my lips, but no more gibberish flowed out.

Thomas rocked back on his heels.

Monsignor Rinaldi drew in a breath and held it.

Marini said simply, “The spear belongs to both the Order and the Russians, though few Soviets would share a love for symbolism from their Imperial past. Stalin would not tolerate such.”

“Unless they were royalists hoping to return the Russian Empire to its former glory,” Thomas murmured.

Rinaldi’s held breath whooshed out .

Marini blinked.

I tried to breathe.

The spear wasn’t just a symbol.

It was a legacy.

One buried under centuries of silence—and now, rising again.

And as with other powerful symbols through history, it was also a weapon.

1. Sensitive compartmented information facilities (SCIFs) were first introduced during WWII.

The British referred to the original SCIFs as “huts.” The Americans advanced the technology, originally through their use within the walls of the Pentagon and basement of the White House.

The term SCIF was not used during WWII; rather, it became popularized in the early 1980s by non-state actors, largely in Hollywood productions.