Page 36 of Skotos (Of Shadows & Secrets #6)

Thomas

W hat first appeared to be only a few steps leading toward a basement quickly became dozens of stairs guiding us much deeper beneath the chapel.

The further we went, the cooler it got. My shoulder throbbed with every jolt of movement, the makeshift bandage now soaked with blood.

Still, I pushed forward, one hand on Will’s shoulder, more for balance than comfort.

At the bottom, we stopped before a wood-plank door that looked even older than the chapel ruins above.

Its carved surface was covered with faded symbols—crosses, thorns, and what looked like Latin prayers etched deep into the grain.

The hinges were iron, rusted through, and the lock was massive and ancient.

I stepped around Will and ran my fingers across the heavy iron ring that served as a handle.

Dust lay like a blanket across everything—except for a few places where other fingers clearly left a cleansing mark.

“Well,” Will muttered, his voice hushed in the gloom, “looks like we’re not the first to come this way.”

I kneeled, pulling out tools from the pouch I kept tucked in my belt. “Give me a minute.”

It took ten.

The lock was stubborn, the tumblers stiff and unyielding. Sweat beaded along my temple despite the coolness of the stairwell. My shoulder screamed every time I shifted. But then—

Click .

I placed a palm on the center of the door and pushed. It creaked open with the groan of a dying beast. Will’s hand squeezed my shoulder as I rose. We stepped inside.

The room beyond was surprisingly wide and vaulted, the air dense with the acrid tang of mildew. The only light came from our flashlights, cutting narrow beams through the gloom.

More religious symbols adorned the walls—crosses, icons of obscure saints, and images of martyrdom rendered in flaking paint and faded gold leaf.

Along one wall hung medieval coats of arms, their heraldry worn but still decipherable—lions, swords, dragons, and a few others I couldn’t name.

Rapiers were affixed in neat rows beneath them, gleaming faintly with polish too recent to be centuries old .

“This isn’t just a chapel basement,” Will murmured. “This is a sanctum.”

I grunted. “More like a war room.”

The long table in the center of the room confirmed that statement. It was massive, carved from black walnut, its edges notched and scarred from age and use. A ring of chairs surrounded the piece, the spot before each bearing a single unlit candle.

On the wall opposite the one with the armament, news clippings covered every inch of rock.

Some were yellowed and worn, while others shone crisp and recent.

Each featured world leaders—Churchill, Truman, Stalin, Franco, Pope Pius, King George, and many others we didn’t recognize.

Some were pinned with daggers or marked with symbols—spearheads, crosses, and crescents—while others bore no markings at all.

“What the hell is this?” Will whispered.

My flashlight flicked over a corner of the map display where an old Soviet insignia was tacked near an image of the Kremlin, circled in red ink.

“Targeting Soviets?” he asked. “Or Soviets doing the targeting?”

I shrugged.

My eyes were then drawn to a third wall lined with books, ledgers, and scrolls, many written in Latin, Russian, and even Greek.

I could make out the Russian, though many of the words appeared so old as to obscure their present-day meaning.

The Greek and Latin were lost on me, though from what I could tell of the Russian volumes, the shelves were simply filled with religious teachings and research.

I turned back to take a fresh look at the room, starting with the centerpiece, the table.

That’s when I noticed something odd carved into the floor in a ring around the table.

It wasn’t mystical symbols or random words—it was a phrase, like those one might see ringing the outer edge of a coin. I stepped closer to read it aloud.

“ Fiat voluntas tua .”

“Thy will be done,” Will translated. My eyes widened as I learned my dear partner could read Latin. He smirked and gave me another shrug, as if to say, “You don’t speak Latin?”

“It never ceases to amaze me what men do in their god’s name,” I said, holding Will’s gaze.

“You think any god would sanction this?” He waved around the room. “It’s—”

Will’s eyes locked onto something in the corner behind me. I glanced back, not sure what I was supposed to look for.

“What?”

He stepped past me, moving as though his feet didn’t want to take him to his destination. When he reached the far end of the chamber, his flashlight cast an eerie glow against the rough stone of the walls, and my heart stilled .

“This may be the answer to who’s doing the targeting,” he said, grabbing something off the wall and turning to face me.

In Will’s hands was a hanger on which hung the black cassock of a priest—with the red trim of a cardinal. On the same hanger was a zucchetto , the crimson skullcap worn by Catholic clerics of the highest rank.

“How many cardinals are there in the Church?” Will asked.

“Seventy, give or take. Pope Pius hasn’t ordained many over the years. I read about it back in Paris. Some Church leaders worry the lack of fresh blood among the cardinals is leaving the Church unmanageable or vulnerable.”

“How many of those live in Rome?”

I thought a moment. “I would guess half, maybe more. They’re the senior leadership, and many work out of the Vatican like executives in a corporate headquarters.”

“So, which of those cardinals is involved in a plot to kill world leaders?” Will asked, draping the garment over the back of one of the chairs.

“Hang on,” I said, raising a palm. “All we know is that a cardinal’s outfit was found in the basement of a Catholic chapel.”

“A long-ago abandoned chapel with a dungeon filled with clippings about murdered world leaders. ”

I shrugged. He wasn’t wrong. “Okay, fine. The setting is . . . suspicious. Still, this doesn’t prove anything. What if the Soviets—or some other actor—got their hands on this cassock to frame the Church? I doubt they’re that hard to find—or to make.”

Will looked unconvinced but didn’t argue. He turned away and resumed scanning the newspaper clippings, his flashlight barely settling on one before moving to the next.

“Why have a secret chamber? If this isn’t—”

“I believe this is where they met. It might even be their home base,” I conceded.

“And we stumbled in here like drunk freshmen tripping through the Yard?”

“Something like that.” I smirked, recalling Will doing exactly that in our days at Harvard, though he wasn’t a freshman at the time.

“And that’s why we need to finish looking around and get out of here.

If that priest gets back into Rome and makes a phone call before we’re out of here, we could be in serious trouble. ”

Will nodded absently, his focus fixed on the articles.

“What was on that note?” I asked, suddenly remembering the message in Will’s pocket.

Will turned, shaking his head. “What note?”

“The one you took from Marini. ”

His palm flew to his face. “How could I forget something I pried out of a dead man’s hand?”

“It’s not like we were interrupted by a knife-wielding monk or anything,” I quipped.

Will rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket. Unfolding the paper, he held up his flashlight and froze.

“What?” I asked. “What’s it say?”

“It looks like this was torn from a larger page. There are only two complete names. The rest are fragments torn away.” Will looked up.

“Well? Who are the two you can read?”

“George VI and Pius XII.”