Page 34 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Will

“ W e need to get out of here,” Thomas hissed.

All I could do was stare at Marini’s body. I’d seen men killed, more times than I cared to count. And yet, seeing the kindly old priest slaughtered in a chapel stirred my soul and struck me far more deeply than I would have imagined.

“What was he doing?” I asked, more mental musing than actual question.

“Will, there’s someone here. We need to go!”

Thoams gripped my arm and tugged me toward the door.

“Wait,” I said. “Just . . . let me look. We owe him that.”

I wasn’t sure what checking the dead body of a priest would do for his eternal soul, but I knew I had to do it. If he’d died searching for something, following some lead or path we’d shoved the poor man down, I couldn’t rest without knowing what he’d unearthed.

“Make it quick,” Thomas snapped, drawing his sidearm and creeping to stand guard beside the closed office door.

I dropped to my knees beside Marini’s body and swallowed back the bile climbing up my throat. Marini’s face had lost its softness, its curious wonder, replaced by something slack and hollow. The man who loved books and forgotten histories lay broken on cold stone.

I reached for his robe, my fingers trembling.

“Will—” Thomas’s voice was soft, warning.

“I have to,” I said. “We need something . Anything.”

I searched his pockets first—carefully, methodically.

A worn rosary.

A linen handkerchief.

A broken fountain pen.

Nothing that screamed clue.

My hands moved to the folds of his robe, patting gently, hating how stiff and cold he felt beneath the fabric.

Still nothing.

Then, just as I made to rise, I noticed something clutched in his right hand.

His fingers were curled tightly around it, as though in death he’d refused to let go.

I pried them apart to reveal ancient paper.

The parchment was brittle, yellowed at the edges, and folded twice over.

I held it up to the light and began unfolding it—

BANG .

The sound echoed through the chapel like a thunderclap.

I startled, my heart leaping into my throat.

Thomas spun toward the door, pistol sweeping left then right.

“Front of the chapel,” he whispered. “Stay behind me.”

I tucked the parchment into my coat and crouched low. Every breath was a shallow whisper in my chest. We listened—ears straining—for another sound or a voice or footsteps.

Instead, the old floorboard spoke again.

Creeeeeak .

Then another groan from somewhere below us.

Or maybe above? The rafters?

Could it have been a breeze, a gust of air?

Some animals rummaging around the ruins?

No, it sounded too heavy. It wasn’t the wind or a rat.

“Someone’s here,” Thomas whispered.

“I felt it earlier,” I admitted. “That we weren’t alone.”

He nodded, already stepping to the door. “We need to move.”

Behind us, Marini’s body shrank in the light. The man who had opened the secrets of the Vatican to us was now just another secret himself.

Creeeeeeeeeeak —closer this time.

Thomas edged into the chapel first, gun raised. I followed, blood pounding in my ears.

That’s when we saw him.

A figure in a priest’s robe—hunched over, skulking low between the pews, hands rifling through broken hymnals and rotten wood like a rat in search of some buried morsel. The sliver of daylight from the shattered stained-glass window caught his pale skin and sunken eyes.

The man’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

I didn’t know him, but I swore there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze.

Thomas darted forward.

The priest moved, faster than I thought possible. His hand darted into his robe—and came out with a small, gleaming dagger.

“Thomas! Knife!” I shouted.

Thomas lunged as the man raised the blade.

They collided in a blur of fabric and grunts, the dagger flashing between them.

There was a sharp cry— Thomas’s —and a spatter of blood across his shirt.

He staggered but didn’t let go.

The priest wrenched free, releasing the dagger as he stumbled backward and bolted toward the side door.

Thomas recovered in a heartbeat and sprinted after him.

I started to follow, but by the time I reached the threshold, Thomas had stopped. He stood there, breathing hard, watching as the priest dove into the back seat of the Fiat.

The driver didn’t hesitate as the engine roared, a beast freed from its chains. Tires screeched and dust plumed as the car tore down the road and vanished into the mist.

Thomas turned slowly. His hand was still pressed to the cut on his arm. His shirt was stained red.

“Damn it, Thomas,” I said without thinking.

He gave me a sheepish grin—the one that usually got him into trouble—and said, “At least I didn’t get shot this time.”

I scowled and turned away, reaching down to pick up the dropped dagger. It was heavier than I expected. The hilt was old and worn smooth, but the blade—

I turned it in the light. “Oh, shit.”

Etched near the base of the steel was the unmistakable shape of a spearhead, the same as the one carved into the bullet casings, the same one Marini was researching when he was killed.

Thomas stared at it, his face suddenly pale.

“They were never just watching,” he said. “They were waiting .”