Page 33 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

“ S o can we walk through this?” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

“We’re chasing a half-lucid woman’s cryptic warning to an abandoned chapel well outside the city, based on what?

Her son maybe mentioning it once? Or more likely, her thinking she remembers her son mentioning it? That’s our plan?”

Our taxi rattled over a pitted country road, tires crunching gravel, cypress trees closing in on either side like silent, watchful sentries.

I kept glancing over my shoulder at the increasingly distant skyline of Rome, wondering—again—why the hell we were leaving it behind.

Thomas sat across from me in the rear-facing jump seat, his arms folded and expression unreadable.

He didn’t blink. “Do you have a better plan?”

I opened my mouth—then closed it. Because no. No, I didn’t.

“I’m just saying,” I muttered, looking out the window, “this feels like grasping at that mist out there.”

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But sometimes shadows point the way.”

I glanced back at him. “That was very poetic.”

“I’ve been reading more,” he said with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. “So what is the plan? We check out this chapel, find a dusty pew or two, maybe a few bat droppings? Then what?”

“Then we see what’s there—or what isn’t.”

“And after that?”

He tilted his head like he was weighing his words. “Then we stop by our favorite tailor.”

Favorite tailor? Had he lost his marbles? Did I miss the part where he banged his head against something at the nursing home?

Thomas merely stared, one brow arched, as if to say, “ The tailor , you idiot. You know, the one in Washington I can’t mention because we’re in a cab with a foreign driver who might understand English?”

Oh! That tailor , I thought as clarity descended.

I blinked. “The one in the city?”

Thomas nodded. “You know. The one who takes special orders.”

Right, Manakin, of course. I gave him the barest nod.

“And we’ll need to make sure the tailor has all our measurements,” I added .

“Exactly.”

The cab hit a pothole that jolted us both upright. I cursed and rubbed the back of my head.

“Maybe next time we’ll rent something with shocks,” I muttered.

The driver said nothing, his eyes fixed forward as if he was part of the car itself.

We were well past the last village, with nothing around but the winding road and a sea of hills.

There was a quality to the air out here.

It was cooler and thinner, somehow more expectant, like it knew something we didn’t.

The closer we got to the chapel, the louder the voice in my head grew, whispering that we were being watched, calling out that we were hunted, screaming that someone—some thing—was waiting for us out here in the countryside.

I leaned forward, resting my forearm against the inside panel, careful to keep my voice down. “They’re still behind us.”

Thomas shifted subtly to look. “Close?”

“Closer than they were.”

His eyes narrowed. “They’re not being discreet at all now.”

I nodded. “They definitely want us to know they’re there.”

Thomas turned to the driver. “Can you speed up? We’d rather not be late for our appointment. ”

The driver glanced at the mirror and paled, his response confirming that he spoke enough English to make out whatever we said. “ Si, signore .”

As the engine revved and we jolted forward again, I reached across the cab.

My hand found Thomas’s, and I gave it a gentle squeeze.

He looked at me for a moment, and his hardened edges softened.

Warmth filled his eyes, something I needed more than I realized, especially in moments fraught with danger.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

My thumb rubbed across the back of his hand once, twice, before I let go, pretending to reach for something in my coat pocket.

It was a small gesture. A hidden one. But it was everything.

I looked back. The Fiat was gaining.

I could see its grill now, dark and aggressive, a wolf bearing down with its open maw and angry fangs. I could practically hear the growl of its engine over the rattling of our own wheels.

My stomach twisted.

“For a second there,” Thomas muttered, “I thought they might try to run us off the road.”

“They still might.”

The Fiat kept pace, matching every curve and surge.

There were no other cars, not that far out into the Italian countryside.

We tore around a corner so fast the tires screamed.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a mix of fear and adrenaline pounding through my veins.

The image of Marini’s pale, thoughtful face flashed in my mind.

Had he seen this same car? Had they followed him here, too?

Then—abruptly—the road narrowed and curved sharply again. Up ahead, I caught sight of a crumbling wall.

“There!” the driver shouted, slamming the brakes.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the chapel—or what was left of it. We tumbled out, feet hitting gravel.

The Fiat didn’t shut off. The driver didn’t follow.

He simply paused at the bend, engine idling, then performed a perfect J-curve and sped away, dust billowing in its wake, leaving us alone outside the abandoned ruin of a chapel with unknown men in an unmarked car pulling to a halt across the country road.

Thomas and I exchanged a glance.

“Looks like they’re not joining us for prayers,” he said, his mouth twisting to the side the way it did when he was deep in thought. “Guess they weren’t trying to run us over. Maybe they just wanted to scare us.”

“Mission accomplished.”

We turned toward the chapel. Half choked in ivy and the shadows of tall olive trees, it looked like it hadn’t seen worship in a century .

Thomas scanned the area. “This it?”

“This is it,” I confirmed, swallowing the unease rising in my chest.

We pushed the gate open, earning a groan of metal on metal. We hadn’t even crossed the threshold yet, but already I felt like we were being watched from every direction, not simply by the men of the Fiat.

The chapel’s doors hung heavily on their hinges, wailing with the pain of movement after so long idle.

Inside, the chapel was dim and cold. Stale air clung to the walls, and a draft whistled low through cracks in the stone.

Dust blanketed everything. Wooden pews sprawled, cracked and splintered, some half collapsed, with cobwebs stretching from rafter to wall like delicate veins of forgotten time.

A bird’s nest, long abandoned, lay beneath a broken window.

My boots echoed against the uneven flagstone as we walked down the center aisle. A rotting wooden cross still hung above the altar, tilted, one arm broken. I imagined a whisper of incense, faint and sour, though mold and decay were all that remained.

We reached the front. Two doors flanked the altar. Thomas motioned toward the first, as though offering to let a lady step before him on a crowded sidewalk. Unable to resist, I gave him a shallow bow of my head and stepped forward .

The door creaked open to reveal a small library.

Shelves sagged under the weight of water-stained books.

Most were unreadable, their titles faded or peeling away.

Dust motes danced in a shaft of pale light slicing through a crack in the ceiling.

Scanning the shelves, I doubted anyone had touched a single volume in a dozen or more years.

We stepped back into the main chapel and approached the door on the left. Thomas went first this time as we stepped into a cramped office. A wave of musty, cold air greeted us the moment he opened the door.

Thomas reached for the light switch and flicked it, but nothing happened.

“Dead bulb or no power,” he muttered.

Only a sliver of daylight filtered through the curtain-draped window.

Thomas crossed the room slowly, his boots scuffing across dusty stone, and grasped the edge of the curtain, yanking it aside.

Dust billowed as light spilled into the room.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “Thomas . . .”

Father Marini lay on the floor behind the desk, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, his robes stiff with dried blood. A grotesque halo darkened the floor around his chest.

The smell hit me next—iron and the unmistakable sourness of death. The priest’s eyes were open, glassy, and staring at the ceiling as if to ask, “Why, Lord?”

Thomas stood frozen, his hand still gripping the curtain.

The room was silent as a tomb.

Too silent.

And then—

Creeeak .

We both looked up.

My heart raced.

Another sound.

A bump this time.

Something large shifted.

Then a dull thud.

“What the hell was that?” I whispered.

Thomas’s hand went to the inside of his jacket where his weapon remained hidden.

Something was moving above us.

Or below.

Maybe outside in the chapel proper.

I couldn’t tell anymore.

All I knew was that we were not alone.