CHAPTER THREE
W hen Selene hit the street, it was full dark. Flakes of snow alighted on her shoulders, melting instantly. She wiped one off her nose with her sleeve as she marched toward the buttery gold light of gas lanterns along the main road.
‘Selene Alleva.’
Selene’s lip curled. Lowering her hand, she met Florentina’s eyes.
There were many choice things she could say about Florentina Altieri, but at the heart of it she was competition. They had been in the same year at the Academy, and Florentina never let her win easily. Now she managed to lounge against a filigreed pole in such a way that she looked both utterly relaxed and also ready to disembowel someone. Her wheaten ponytail draped over her shoulder, rivalling her uniform’s gold buttons in brightness. Flanking her were a pair of artificers Selene didn’t know.
‘ Florentina , you actually graduated?’
Florentina laughed, a sound devoid of any humour. ‘You should know. You were there.’
‘I must have forgotten,’ Selene said flatly. ‘Too busy being first in class.’
‘Captain, please .’ Lucia’s distinct whine interrupted Florentina’s next words. ‘Don’t send me to the regions. I’ll be so bored. I hate being bored.’ Florentina’s dark eyes lit with interest.
Of course Lucia wouldn’t take her punishment quietly. Selene rubbed a finger between crumpled brows. Her mistake. ‘We will discuss this later.’
Caterina shadowed Lucia, adjusting her rifle over her shoulder. ‘This whining will be all I hear for weeks.’ Seeing Florentina, Caterina straightened her shoulders and took her place at Selene’s right hand. ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant Altieri, you’ve arrived too late for the fight.’
‘We got five demons.’ Lucia wiggled five fingers. ‘Which happens to be five more than you’ve killed this week.’
‘It’s only Tuesday. Give me time.’ Florentina let her eyes trail over them. ‘And where’s the rest of your team?’
Selene bit the inside of her mouth. ‘Florentina, we’re done here. You were too slow .’
Florentina’s expression flattened and she pushed away from the lamp post. At the edge of the circle of light, she paused. ‘Five demons, you said. What kind?’
Caterina raised one shoulder, but Lucia, ever the callous little thing, said, ‘It was a Noble that killed Benedetta.’
A Noble. A Level Four demon. How had she missed it? Surprise flickered across Florentina’s face. ‘And the rest?’
‘A handful of lower demons,’ Selene replied. ‘Ghouls mostly.’
Lucia stretched so her spine arched. ‘And a Fiend.’
‘Enough.’ Selene massaged her temple. ‘Florentina can read the report.’
Laughing, Florentina gave a mock salute. ‘You know how much I love your reports, Selene, so full of sparkling wit and vivid detail.’ She yawned hugely. ‘Just thinking about it makes me excited.’
There was a flash.
Selene raised a hand, squinting against a second flashbulb pop.
Reporter .
He lowered the camera, his eyes searching their faces eagerly. ‘What happened here tonight, Macellaia ?’
‘Get him out of here,’ Florentina snapped, stepping between the reporter and Selene.
The bandages that had wrapped Florentina’s arms coiled to the cobblestones, exposing the tender flesh of her inner arms and the rows of sigils tattooed in pale metallic ink between wrist and elbow. Of course, Florentina guarded her hard-earned symbols jealously.
‘Did I hear correctly that you’ve suffered casualties? Who died, Captain Alleva?’ the reporter asked, voice sharp with interest. He smelled a story the same way she smelled demons. ‘Was it Benedetta Fiore? Of the Fiore exorcists?’
How had he slipped through their perimeter?
One of Florentina’s artificers relieved him of his camera, lifting the strap over his head while the other took him unyieldingly by the elbow, steering him away. He twisted, looking over his shoulder at Selene. ‘Do you have any words for her family?’
Florentina scoffed, waving him off.
She had ten symbols on each arm now but Selene refused to be impressed.
Unlike artificers, who were limited to one weapon, exorcist magic was infinitely adaptable. With mastery their magic could be woven into a complex working like the notes in a symphony. Each note a symbol. Each symbol a word. Some exorcists knew only a few words of power—enough to weave an exorcism and not much more. Others were like Florentina, who constantly added to her repertoire—inking sigils into skin.
None were like Selene, who had hers carved into her bones.
She allowed herself a moment of self-indulgent bitterness.
Florentina needed only to lightly score the symbols on her arms to release her magic. Whereas Selene’s magic was tethered to her bones. An exorcist only had to trigger the symbols they intended to use and weave them into an intention—limited only by the number of words they could master.
And how far you could push the limits of your body.
With feline languidness Florentina rebound her forearms with the bandages, concealing her tattoos once more. Twenty symbols. Twenty words of power. And if Selene knew anything at all about her competition, Florentina knew how to use them.
‘I guess I’ll head back.’ Tucking her hands into her pockets, Florentina melted into the night.
Seamlessly resuming their earlier conversation, Caterina turned to Selene. ‘Lucia made a mistake tonight,’ Caterina said, low enough not to be overheard. ‘She knows that. She’s sorry.’
‘I am. So sorry. Please, Selene.’
Selene considered letting it slide. They were excellent hunters, and their city needed them. The Vatican had branches across the map—from Edinburgh to Marrakech to Shanghai—but they were small units, adept at dispelling curses and managing the illegal trade of demon magic. And sometimes, however rarely, lower-level demons needed to be dispelled. But the vast majority of demon attacks happened within Rome. Their talents would be more useful within city limits, but Caterina and Lucia sorely needed a lesson on the dangers of complacency.
‘Report my decision to the field office upon your return. And enjoy your secondment … After today I’m certain neither of you are prepared to face another Noble.’
Maybe they’ll learn rather than die .
Selene moved from the dark streets, lit only by gas lamps and a few candles on window sills, to a busier boulevard, where orange lights flickered faintly overhead. Yet again demonic power had knocked out their electricity.
Here, Romans strolled, unafraid of night or cold or demon. Laughter spilled from an aperitivo bar. Tempting if she hadn’t just lost a subordinate. Or if she cared a little less.
News of another death would already be spreading through the city. It was cruel that Benedetta would just become a statistic. The citizens would mourn—of course they would—but Rome had never really known her.
Selene pulled up the hood of her black coat, but the sword crossing her back was a brand. As she passed through the late market—through wafting steam scented with roasted chestnuts, sweet apples, and toffee—ordinary Romans fell away from her, giving her space. Whether it was a sign of fear or respect, the result was the same. Selene ignored the whispers as though she was deaf to them, her face a pitiless mask just as they’d expect from one such as her.
There goes the Butcher of Rome.
She could never be sure whether they called her Butcher because of the demons she slaughtered or the bodies she left in her wake.
Vatican bodies. Other exorcists. Her father.
And now Benedetta, another to her tally.
Dio … perhaps she should have ordered her to stay back? No .
Artificers might typically be weaker than exorcists—their magic was borrowed only briefly—but far be it from her to ever underestimate them. She’d grown up idolizing hunters like Caterina who wielded their artificed weapons like an extension of their own body.
Her fingertips brushed the Alleva family crest on the hilt of her sword. It had been forged by her father and so she had never had to forge her own. Praise the Deathless God . Wielding her own body as a weapon was taxing enough.
Breath puffing in the cold air, Selene sighed. She’d lost her edge tonight. Let down her guard and paid for it with her own lifeblood. Not a mistake she could afford to repeat. Despite disciplining Caterina and Lucia, the fault was hers. She was their commanding officer.
A burgundy tram whispered past and she ran to leap up its steps before the doors snapped shut. The world seemed closer than usual. The metallic clanking of the tram changing tracks, and the electric hum of the lights, were almost claustrophobic in her heightened state. The earlier use of her magic seemed to leach a piece of her into everything now. Sinking into the cobbles flying beneath the tram, the rails under the wheels, and the flesh of those around her. Into their breath and blood.
The other passengers in the tram gave her a wide berth. Vedi Vaticano nero, addio tuo amante , a popular saying coined in Rome, roughly translated to: see Vatican black, farewell your lover.
Exorcists were not exactly feared but were rightly considered dangerous. That they only appeared where demons already were, and not the other way around, was considered inconsequential.
One man with the glazed eyes of a drunkard and dressed well enough to be a young aristocrat playing with trouble, leaned in to speak quietly to the girl draped languorously between him and another man.
Trouble , Selene assumed.
‘That, my lovely, is Selene Alleva.’
As the girl twisted to look, she pulled the second man’s shirt, revealing to Selene’s exorcist eye a brand across his back, reflected in the tram window.
He watched her with a lidded gaze as the inebriated youth lowered his voice further. ‘The Imperium Bellum’s protégée.’
The girl drew in a soft gasp.
Pride flickered in Selene’s chest at the words.
Some two hundred years had passed since full political power shifted to the Vatican, where it rested uneasily between the Imperiums—the Imperium Bellum, Lord of War, and the Imperium Politikos, Chancellor of State—leaving Empress Augustus naught but a figurehead, a tiger made toothless by the holy power that rested within the Vatican’s walls. And ruling over all, the Exorcist Primus, whose word was law.
Selene revelled in her body’s near intolerable hypervigilance. In the mixed-up euphoria of it, even the pain of her wounds felt sublime. St Peter’s dome came into view as the tram trundled around a corner. Lit with russet-gold tones, it shone high above the city skyline. Leaping off the tram, she glanced at her watch as she crossed St Peter’s Square.
Fifteen minutes late.
Cesare Alleva, Imperium Bellum to the rest of Rome, was not the sort of man to be kept waiting. With no time to change out of her bloodstained gear, she set her shoulders and strode toward the Vatican dining hall, tightening her leather armguard to stem the flow of blood. Her vision briefly dulled as agony rolled through her in a deep ache.
‘God fucking damn it,’ she hissed between her teeth.
The chequerboard marble amplified the click of her shiny boots.
Either side of her, subordinates shrank away, pressing their backs to the walls and their fists to their hearts in ardent salute. No doubt news had spread of another fallen body. Selene inclined her chin at the few she knew by name.
At least her white button-down shirt had survived the initial blood spray. It remained unstained, the gold chains linking its double-breasted buttons untarnished by gore.
‘Captain Alleva, the Imperium’s gone ahead to the Cor Cordium .’
Her jaw tightened. ‘When?’
‘Moments ago.’
She could catch him.
Desperate to intercept Cesare before he reached the chamber at the heart of the Vatican, she ran.
Artificers and exorcists moved aside for her. Even ignoring the difference in uniform, they were easy enough to tell apart. Artificers were always accompanied by their weapon—typically something obscenely large, like Caterina’s gatling—and exorcists had their tattoos.
The Vatican bells echoed through the halls.
Her uncle, the Imperium Bellum, cut an impressive figure. When she saw him ahead, she slowed. His shadow stretched ahead of him, taking up space. The Shadow of God, they called him. A title spoken in whispers.
Hearing her footsteps, he paused.
Tonight his hair was messy. He was relaxed, then. Otherwise it would be slicked back, displaying the barest glint of silver at his temples. But as she approached, something about his posture made her ill at ease. Cesare wasn’t entirely off duty.
Then again, when was he ever?
His voice rolled across the marble like distant thunder. ‘The Butcher of Rome finally favours me with her presence.’ The hard cut of his jaw made it difficult to tell if he was being serious, but the slightest twitch at the edge of his lips betrayed the way he bit back a smile.
‘Apologies, Imperium, I was waylaid.’ Selene pressed her fist to her chest.
His eyes snagged on her armguards. ‘You used your magic?’
She nodded, crushing a grimace.
After eight years in the role, Cesare was still frequently considered the new Imperium Bellum. His predecessor had held the role for almost sixty years before his death, and to many Cesare was seen as something of an upstart. An impression not improved by his relative youth, not even thirty at the time of his appointment. But he was the only Imperium Bellum Selene had ever known.
His expression darkened. ‘I see.’
‘It was already on the brink of death,’ she said simply.
The exorcism had not used much of her power. But now her veins were flooded with unused magic, tempting her to wield it.
‘Power is dangerous as well as heady.’ Cesare rested a palm against an ornate double door. ‘You need to be more careful. Remember?’
She averted her eyes from the lacquered board that sealed the doors permanently closed. Of course she did. On her first attempt to harness her magic, Cesare had been inside that vaulted room with her as her magic lashed out wildly, stripping priceless friezes from the walls and corroding stone.
The stolen blood being pumped through her body was a double-edged sword.
It had begun as a destructive thing, but now the damage was invisible. It took place inside her veins.
Cesare knew the facts of her predicament, but he would never understand. Not really.
Shoving away her bitterness, she considered it from his perspective. He was right to be disappointed. She’d let a demon goad her into using too much of her magic. Pathetic . Unlike other exorcists, unlike even Cesare, when she shed blood for magic, it smoked when it hit the air—acrid black, writhing with the violence of a headless snake. That was the power in her blood. A blessing and a curse. She was one of the most powerful exorcists in the order, but each time she used her magic her life trickled away.
In fact, it was worse. If it was only her life, she could live with it. The glory of a short life appealed to her, burning bright before flashing out of existence, but it wasn’t only her life at stake. It was her soul . More than once, Selene had been present when an older exorcist pushed their magic to its limit, and witnessed the corruption that spread through them, unleashing the beast within. She’d seen it. She never wanted to be it.
She would die first.
Cesare lifted her chin with the backs of his fingers. His expression softened. ‘I don’t want to be the one to have to put you down, Selene. Not you, too.’
She drew a steady breath and flicked her eyes up to his. ‘I know. I promise I’m careful.’
He was sombre, somewhere inside his own head, and a weight like a stone settled into her stomach.
‘What is it?’ she asked, afraid of the answer. ‘ Really .’
Selene had heard whispers Cesare now spoke for the ailing Exorcist Primus of Rome. In practice, that made him the most powerful man in the city—and the world. When she’d asked him if it was true, ‘His Holiness the Exorcist Primus has had quite a few good ideas lately, no?’ was all Cesare had said, a hidden smile at the corner of his mouth.
‘I’m conflicted. On the one hand, you’re my most powerful exorcist. On the other, I am afraid of you overextending. We’ve all seen what happens when an exorcist pushes beyond their limits …’ His eyes pinned her with more ferocity than affection. ‘I’ve lost too many good exorcists, Selene. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.’
‘Nobody wants that, uncle.’ She held his eyes, unflinching. ‘But you said you were conflicted? My magic can’t be all that’s bothering you.’
His lips tightened into a reluctant smile. She fell into step beside him.
The Basilica’s echoing halls were quiet given the late hour, though the Vatican never truly slept. They didn’t have the luxury of switching off. They were the guardians of Rome, and Rome was under attack.
‘I have a job for you,’ Cesare said. ‘I suspect it’ll test your limits in a way they have not been tested here in Rome.’
‘You’re sending me away?’ Selene asked sharply.
‘Not as such. But I must ask you to forgive me. All this time I’ve put you in a position where you constantly risk having to use your magic, and now I’m asking you to do just that.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You don’t care that your uncle is a hypocrite?’
Selene shifted, and again her gloved thumb ghosted over the Alleva family crest on her sword hilt. ‘Tell me more, then I’ll decide.’
In fact, she was surprised he hadn’t done more than allude to it already.
It was unusual for there to be any lapse between their becoming aware of demonic activity and the Vatican’s reaction to it. Usually a team would be deployed within minutes.
Cesare chuckled, amused. ‘Very well.’
When he was done, silence stretched between them. An hour ago, a village was destroyed close to Nice , he had said. We suspect a demon .
And it would be dangerous.
‘You know what this means,’ Selene murmured.
Cesare jerked his chin in acknowledgement.
A high-level demon. Powerful beyond anything the local branch was capable of fending off. In the heart of Rome powerful wards prevented them from being entirely overrun—though they couldn’t stop the demons entirely. Except for the Vatican, which had been warded to keep away even the highest-ranked demons, there were always places demons slipped through. Nice was not so lucky.
Selene frowned, raising her glove to pull it tighter on her aching fingers. They were broken beneath the supple leather, but nobody else needed to know that. Her body would heal soon enough with the blood in her veins. A secret the Vatican held tighter than any other was the source of their stolen power; stolen from the lifeblood of demons condemned to die. The thought of it brought to mind the metallic tang on her tongue. Trickling hot down her throat.
Her hands curled into fists, the splintered bones grinding.
Cesare angled his head toward her slightly, catching the sound of her weakness with his keen senses. Selene was grateful he said nothing of it.
‘Do you know who we have in France at the moment?’ she asked.
Cesare shook his head and rubbed his jaw with a calloused thumb. ‘No. And it doesn’t matter. You’ll be taking lead.’ They approached the Cor Cordium , and, rounding the corner, the enormous doors of the Crucifixion Room loomed up ahead. ‘I’ll put in a call to the Nice office and have someone meet you.’
She nodded distractedly, keeping her face turned so she wouldn’t have to see the doors.
‘I should go,’ she blurted, her words tumbling over each other. ‘Prepare for—’
But she was too late.
His reply was swallowed by yawning silence. It rolled from beyond the studded doors as the guards swung them soundlessly open. Selene turned her head, catching a pale glimmer at the far end of the dark room. She wrenched her gaze away. She hadn’t seen a thing. She refused to see.
Selene turned her wrist to look at her watch. The hands seemed to bend against the movement of time, as though every second she stood this close to the Vatican’s heart, time itself slowed.
‘I really must—’
‘Pray with me.’ It was not a request.
Selene bit the inside of her mouth.
Cesare watched her strangely, and belatedly she realized his demand had the ring of words repeated. Unable to refuse, she trailed him into the Cor Cordium . The Vatican’s heart of hearts.
The Deathless God towered over them, crucified on the great beams of the cathedral that had burned around Him. Selene pressed her fingertips to her forehead, blocking Him from sight for a moment, before she touched her breastbone and sank to her knees on the marble.
When her eyes settled on His face, tears slipped down her cheeks. He was beautiful, His hair an inky spill across His forehead. His head bent forward, hanging heavily. Dark lashes cast crescents against His cheeks. For a moment she let herself believe He was sleeping. Then her traitorous gaze tracked the length of the great spear that pierced Him through, pinning Him to the obsidian pillar along His spine. Lustrous blood dripped down the spear to the floor, where a pool of liquid gold filled the centre of the room.
‘ Dio Immortale ,’ she murmured.
But she was not faithful.
None of them were.
The Vatican was splitting at its stony seams with heathens who had killed their god. If not by driving the spear deep, then by choosing not to pull it free.
And we revel in His eternal death.
After kissing her fingertips, Selene dipped her fingers into the pool of golden blood and drew a rune on her forehead with the edge of her thumbnail.
God’s blood was still warm.