Page 31 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

T he spear fragment still burned in my pocket as we stepped out of Marini’s office and followed Monsignor Rinaldi back down the hall. The silence between us had shape and weight. Even the marble saints carved into niches above the doorways seemed to glare as we walked past.

Rinaldi looked even worse in the morning light—gaunt and pale, his cassock wrinkled like he hadn’t slept—or had slept in it while slouched over his desk. The cross around his neck swung in a nervous rhythm as he walked.

I nearly flinched at every nun or priest we passed in the massive halls. Their smiles, their nods—were they genuine? Or were they practiced masks? Did one of them betray us? Was the leak hidden beneath a collar or veil?

Suspicion wound through me like a wire pulled taut. Every footstep behind, every voice in the corridor, every whisper not quite heard—they all set my nerves on edge, and with Marini still missing, the question wasn’t just who was following us, but who they would follow next.

When we reached Rinaldi’s office, he motioned for us to sit, though he remained standing.

Then something shifted. He didn’t speak. It was as if he no longer noticed us sitting before him.

He began pacing, muttering under his breath in a mixture of Latin and Italian, his hands tugging at the ends of his sleeves, his steps erratic and sharp. His lips kept forming the same words over and over, something about shadows or truth. I couldn’t quite tell.

Thomas and I exchanged a glance. The room felt colder than before.

After a long moment, I cleared my throat and said, “Monsignor?”

He stopped mid-step, blinking as if waking from a trance.

His eyes found us again, and his haunted expression slipped behind a practiced veneer.

“Can we talk about Father Marini?” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Is there anyone who had reason to harm him?”

“No,” Rinaldi said too quickly. “Father Marini . . . Lucien . . . was . . . is beloved, perhaps more than any beneath this roof, save the Holy Father himself. He is a quiet man, dedicated, living for his archives. His world is down there among the parchment and dust. I cannot imagine any force on Earth that might tear him from those vaults.”

“He didn’t have any enemies?” Thomas asked.

“None that I know of, but . . .” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “There is one thing you should know, one of his few sparks of his life beyond these walls. Lucien had family—a mother.”

“He had a mother?” I asked.

Rinaldi blinked and threw himself into his chair, covering his face with both hands. “He has a mother. Forgive me.”

“What would his mother have to do with his disappearance?” I asked.

“I doubt she has anything to do with it.” Rinaldi cocked his head. “She is old—very old. From what little he says, she barely knows where she is most of the time. I doubt there is any connection, but, as you say, we are pulling every thread, yes?”

I nodded with more confidence than I felt. “Of course.”

Thomas scooted forward in his chair, leaning on the desktop. “Where does she live?”

“A nursing home here in Rome. I do not recall which one.” He turned from us to the hundreds of books and ledgers on the shelves behind his desk.

His gnarled fingers traced one after another, row after row, before settling on a binder whose spine bore only a handwritten scribble for a title.

We waited in silence while he flipped through pages, watched as he ran a finger across lines as he read, listened as he whispered words and phrases, whole paragraphs, never glancing up from his task.

We waited . . . and waited.

Sitting there, in the safety of that office, I felt time slipping away, giving enemies who were many steps ahead an even greater advantage, putting even more lives at risk.

Rinaldi murmured a prayer beneath his breath, then stilled. “Here. Her name is Gianna Marini. She lives at Santa Marta dell’Angelo.”

He turned the binder so we could see the page.

Thomas scribbled the address in his ever-present notebook. “Do you think she might know anything? About where he went, I mean.”

Rinaldi shook his head. “They were close. He visited her often, always brought her books or trinkets, but I cannot say whether she would know anything about his current whereabouts. As I said before, there are days when she would not even recognize her own son.”

“Still,” I said. “It’s a lead.”

Thomas straightened. “Is there anything else you can think of? Any place Father Marini visited often? His favorite restaurants? Coffee shops? Places he went to relax?”

“For Lucien, his work is his ultimate relaxation.” Rinaldi almost smiled. “He lives in apartments within the complex, eats every meal in our cafeteria, and walks these halls when he requires a reprieve. I am certain he shopped or did other ordinary things in the city, but I could not name them.”

“Then his mother’s home is where we go next,” I said as I stood.

Rinaldi nodded, weariness lining every feature of his face. “Please be gentle with her. From what Lucien told me, she is quite frail.”

“We will,” I promised.

Thomas stood, and we each shook Rinaldi’s hand. He’d seemed so strong only a day before. Now, even his grip felt weary.

Outside, the Vatican bells rang noon.

The sound echoed off stone walls and into the sky, holy and hollow at once. I again felt the weight of the torn parchment in my coat and wondered if Marini had left us a trail—or if this was all that was left of the kindly old man.