CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
J ust as they arrived back in her rooms, the telephone gave a shrill ring and Selene scrambled to snatch up the handset. ‘Captain Alleva speaking.’
‘Vatican switch … transferring …’
Selene waited, impatient and curious. Only outside calls went through the switch. Eliot or Caterina, then. Or, if she was really unlucky, it’d be Lucia.
‘ Little French shit! ’
Selene pulled the phone away from her ear, wincing. ‘Caterina?’
‘I’m going to kill him.’
Selene’s heart leapt to her throat. Was she talking about Jules?
‘Goddamn … slippery …’ In between swears, the line crackled loudly.
Selene gritted her teeth. ‘Caterina, for the love of God, speak into the receiver. And slow down .’
‘Captain! There you are!’ Caterina’s voice was only a little clearer. ‘We’re—’ What sounded like a train whistle drowned her out and her next words were shouted even louder to be heard. ‘Gotta go, boss. We’re coming back to Rome. The train’s—’
Another protracted whistle.
‘There he is!’ shouted Lucia excitedly from the background.
Click . The line went dead.
Selene stared at the phone, feeling as though she’d experienced a very confusing week in double time.
‘What was that?’ Jules sounded amused.
She turned, finding him in the doorway watching her with a strange expression. Damn . He also looked gorgeous, lazily leaning against the doorframe, adjusting his cufflinks. Formal white tie looked good on him. Unbidden, a treacherous little voice added, Everything looks good on him.
If only he could wear the medals he’d earned on the front. Of course, that was silly. Eliot had no medals of honour to wear.
The trailing ends of his white tie caught her eye and she stepped closer. Voice failing her, she swallowed. ‘Do you even know how to tie that?’
‘I’m not an idiot,’ he said, eyes sparkling.
Selene smothered a smile as he turned to the mirror, crossing one end over the other, proceeding to look very much like an idiot. She pressed two fingers to her lips so she wouldn’t laugh.
‘Come here.’
Her heart seemed to sit too high and beat too fast, tripping over itself by the time Jules stopped in front of her. She untied the clumsy knot and smoothed down his collar. Even her fingers were trembling.
‘It’s quite simple.’
He nodded, his eyes roaming over her features. She swore she could feel the heat of his gaze on her skin.
Carefully she did up the white tie, taking longer than necessary.
Her fingers brushed his throat and she felt the flutter of his pulse.
Jules broke the silence. ‘What was the call?’
‘Caterina,’ she explained. ‘It sounded … chaotic. I have no idea what’s happening. They’re coming back to Rome apparently.’
‘From Nice?’
‘I suppose so.’
Selene finished and ran the backs of her fingers lightly against his jaw. Stubble pricked her fingers and a coil of heat burned in her belly. Dio , she had it bad. ‘Did you forget to shave?’
‘Damn. I knew I forgot something.’ He yanked at the tie, preparing to rip it all off so he could shave.
Her hands covered his. ‘Wait.’
‘Selene, I don’t want to be late.’
She drew his hands down from his throat and pulled him into the bathroom. ‘Come with me.’
He fell silent as she guided him to the edge of the bathtub. When she found the shaving kit, she handed him the brush and soap and draped a towel around his shoulders. Jules soaped up, still watching her intently. Trailing her fingers along the selection of ivory-handled razors, she made her choice.
He swallowed.
‘I’m very good with knives.’ Selene tested the edge with her thumb. Wicked sharp. She smiled.
He made a choked sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. ‘Believe me, I know.’
‘So you have nothing to worry about.’ She rolled her eyes, stepping between his knees. ‘Head back.’
With the same dedication she gave to her work, she started to shave him with long, smooth strokes. Wiping the blade on the towel, she smoothed a thumb over the clean skin and made a soft sound of satisfaction.
Jules gripped the bathtub with one hand. His other hovered, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then, taking a breath, he settled it lightly on her waist.
His touch was like fire. Hotter than Baliel’s flames. An impression that only worsened when he began to trace patterns against her side with his thumb. She shivered, tightening her grip on the ivory handle.
At her urging, he angled his head, exposing the column of his throat. But she could still feel his undivided attention, and it made warmth coil in her stomach. ‘What?’ she murmured, not looking up. She couldn’t risk their eyes meeting or he’d see the truth there.
Would that be so bad? asked a traitorous little voice. Yes . Jules couldn’t know how much she wanted him. Neither of them could afford the complication. Or the distraction.
‘Nothing.’ He sounded somewhat strained.
She paused to clean the blade. ‘No, seriously, what?’ Daring a glance, she was arrested by the intensity of his gaze.
A smile played at the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re beautiful.’
Heat rose to her cheeks. It was frankly quite rude of Jules to have such lovely eyelashes.
‘I’m serious—’
She hushed him, pressing the edge of the blade to the last remaining patch of lathered skin. ‘Hold still, unless you want me to slit your throat.’
He fell silent, but his hand on her waist shifted, thumb drawing slow circles against her ribs as he tipped his head further back to let her work. And oh , that distracting thumb. He was lucky she truly was the best in the Vatican with a knife.
There was a loud rap at the entrance to her rooms, and from beyond the closed bathroom door came a flurry of activity. ‘Oh. That’s for me.’ She was loath to leave, taking her time with the final stroke. Setting aside the razor, she patted a towel against his skin.
‘Done?’ he asked in a husky voice.
She touched his perfectly smooth cheeks with her fingertips, and with no more excuses left, she met his eyes. ‘Done.’
He grasped her waist between his palms and seemed about to say something more when a knock sounded from the other side of the bathroom door.
‘A minute,’ Selene called, not breaking their gaze. The knocking increased in enthusiasm. She dragged her eyes from his to glare at the closed door. ‘I said, a minute!’
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, mia signora , and you won’t be made fit for the empress in one hour!’
Jules grinned, sliding his hands higher. ‘ Mia signora ,’ he murmured, teasing.
His fingers were too strong against her ribs, his touch far too warm. ‘Shut up.’
Jules waited in one of the smaller chambers between the wing of St Peter’s where Selene’s rooms were located and the centre of the dome, exiled as he was from the apartment. None of the ladies who arrived to help Selene get ready seemed eager to countenance his presence until their task was done.
As he looked out the vast window at the empty piazza below, he heard Selene before he saw her, and turning, he forgot to breathe. Whatever those bossy women did was nothing if not some unspoken Vatican magic, because she had been transformed.
He’d always found Selene frighteningly attractive—literally, frightening—but now there was more to it than the way his body reacted to hers. The dress she wore was the kind of black that swallowed the light, like only the most complete shadows. She was still dangerous, but there was a softer edge to her beauty. And maybe it wasn’t all about the dress. It was something in her eyes … an unspoken spark of possibility.
His traitorous heart grabbed onto it.
Yes , it beat in reply. I want you too .
The fabric moved like liquid as she descended the stairs. He wondered if it felt as good as it looked where it dipped against her slender waist and over her hips. He wanted to touch it. But maybe that was only because he wanted to touch her .
She held her scabbarded sword loosely in one hand. Even if she’d been descending these steps at his execution, he doubted he would have noticed anything but her legs. A long slit opened up the side of her gown, baring a stretch of smooth thigh to right below her hip. Where some panels were daringly sheer, others were opaque and had been sewn with gold embellishments, stars and constellations, as though she’d captured the starry night in her skirt.
He swallowed, adjusting his cufflinks to stop himself adjusting his trousers. A dress like this one should be illegal. Praise the Deathless God that it wasn’t—but it should be.
He let his eyes roam over her, from the beaded straps on her shoulders to the sheer skirts.
She paused halfway down the stairs and raised a brow.
He jerked his chin up. Now he knew how the field mouse felt under the eye of a hawk.
‘Where are you looking?’ she asked, expression unreadable.
‘Just admiring the tailoring. It looks, um, proficient.’
Her lips tipped into a small smile. ‘ Really .’
He leapt up the steps to meet her, taking her hand. ‘Not at all, no.’
As she led them through the halls of the Vatican at a quick clip, Jules was a man on fire. He could still feel her touch. The blush dusting her cheeks was a sight he’d never forget. But most surprising of all was how patient she’d been as she shaved him.
Of course, he knew by now she could be gentle with those slender fingers of hers. He knew they got chilly fast and touched softly, but the electricity of the contact had felt different today. He wanted to believe there was a chance.
Dieu . Every moment she’d pressed the blade against his skin, he’d fallen more in love with her. Infatuated by the way she bit her lip. The pressure she applied at the edge of his jaw.
It didn’t even matter that for a moment he thought she might slit his throat.
And that was the crux of it. If Selene learned what he was, she would kill him, not love him.
Maybe tonight he could hold her. But then he’d have to run. One more night. Even just a moment. Couldn’t he have that?
The thought broke him.
He walked half a step behind her, careful not to step on her gauzy dress. The plunging back showed off her shoulder blades and a series of minuscule tattoos along her spine. He raised his hand to graze his knuckles against them. They held a remarkable similarity to the elegant elongated symbols from Matteo’s journals. He felt sure he recognized one.
Proteggere. Jules mouthed the word.
His footsteps faltered. He could smell blood. It crept up on him, choking him. Filling his nostrils.
Selene glanced over her shoulder and her brows tugged together at whatever she saw on his face.
The scent of blood was overwhelming. He turned his hands, looking them over. Were they covered with blood? Was that where it came from? Sometimes, when the Vatican sword shattered, all that remained was the blood dripping between his fingers. As though he’d ripped the demons apart with nothing but his hands.
St Peter’s was quiet. Distant footsteps sounded through the halls but he couldn’t see who they belonged to. What was it about this place that triggered his fear response? And his battle instinct, too? He thought he could kill someone. Right now.
‘Jules?’ Selene whispered his name.
Turning sharply, he angled his head and inhaled. The hairs on his neck stood on end—if he were a wolf, his hackles might rise. He strode past her, grabbing her hand. ‘Hurry.’
‘What is it?’
Her heels clicked on stone as she ran to keep up with him, holding her dress in one hand.
‘God, do you smell that?’ he muttered.
Selene frowned, responding in French. ‘I don’t smell anything, Jules.’
He was confused a moment. He’d reverted to his mother tongue. Unease climbed his throat, and he felt penned in by the reek—he was an animal, and all he wanted was to run.
So he did.
They ran past paintings and sculptures worth more than the orphanage he was raised in. More than Nice itself. Selene kept saying his name, softly at first then louder. Nothing broke through and he only stumbled to a stop at a dead end.
His pulse and the howling in his ears was louder.
Selene pulled him back, grasping his jacket. Then she tried to grab his hands, her fingers digging into him. They stumbled together as she became increasingly frantic in her efforts. ‘Jules, please—’ But the rest of her words faded away as they slammed into a pair of double doors, sprawling to the marble floor.
The scent was less overwhelming here, but it still lingered in the air, acrid as burned citrus.
Jules pressed his palms to his temples, tempted to crush his skull between his fingers. What was this agony? This … this yearning? This desperate wail into the abyss to please— please …
Jules didn’t know if the thoughts were his own. He couldn’t separate what came from him and what came from elsewhere, and that frightened him. His mind pressed back against the pain and it felt as though only a shimmering membrane held his mind apart from oblivion.
Tipping his chin back slowly, Jules looked upon the face of the Deathless God, and tears ran through his lashes and streaked down his cheeks.
Towering over them, crucified on the great burned oak beam of an ancient cathedral, was a beautiful God. A great spear pierced him through.
His lean, languid limbs were shrouded in deep shadow, as though the darkness loved him. But then so did the light. His bent neck curved in such a way that a rogue bar of pale light picked out the delicate bumps of vertebrae beneath pale skin. A silken fall of dark curls shadowed his features.
Jules devoured the sight. If not for the steady drip of lustrous golden blood along the length of the spear, he could be sleeping.
‘ Dieu Immortel .’
His words weren’t a prayer but a curse. For the thing in front of him was no god. He was a demon .
Jules’s hands slid on the warm marble. No, that wasn’t right. When he tore his eyes off God, he saw a luminous pool like liquid gold spreading from beneath his feet.
Blood. So much blood.
It filled the chamber, making the space echo with a constant hollow dripping that he’d first thought was water.
His hands were soaked in it.
The Deathless God’s voice resonated through Jules’s veins. Let me—please … When Jules angled his wrists up, they sang with it. Aureate and breakable as a crescent moon. He ran a finger over one of the glowing veins, not quite understanding.
Somewhere he could hear Selene screaming, her voice breaking as she ordered someone to Get out or I’ll kill you myself. Or maybe she was speaking to him.
But … that didn’t matter.
Everything beyond the high, sweet thrum in his veins felt smudged.
A primal plea seemed to pass through his blood and bones, echoing in his skull as though a tuning fork had been struck. Please, let me die.
Selene pulled him away, gasping as she hauled him up and stumbled with him against the wall, tearing down a tapestry as they fell together. She pressed her hands to his wrists, covering the spiderwebbing gold veins from sight as she hurried him through the depthless halls. When they passed a gilded mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself and he wasn’t crying tears but blood .
Somewhere else, somewhere where the stench was less and the song was quiet, she slid with him to the marble floor, her hands cupping his face.
‘Jules … Jules !’
His unfocused eyes finally found her.
‘ Dio ,’ she breathed, relief stealing her remaining strength. ‘I thought …’ She trailed off, dropping her forehead to his chest.
He tangled his hand in her hair. It was so dark and fine it felt like silk. His fingers felt rough and clumsy in comparison. ‘You thought what?’
His voice was hoarse. Perhaps some of the screams he’d heard had been his own? He couldn’t quite remember.
‘I thought you were going to die. Like anyone else.’ Selene blinked away tears. ‘His blood burns.’ She smoothed her palm over his fingers, using her silk shawl to wipe away gold liquid. Blood. All over his hands.
‘ You aren’t dying.’
‘No, but I’m an exorcist. We’re immune to the divine touch.’ She pulled his sleeve aside to see his wrist, her fingers gentle as she turned his hand. His veins had returned to normal—faint blue lines beneath pale skin. Tentatively she trailed a fingertip along one as though he might disintegrate beneath her touch.
‘I’ve never seen anything like this. What was it?’ She pressed her thumb against his pulse point and his heart stuttered. He wanted to pull away from her, to shift from her touch—so different to earlier—but he couldn’t. Her long, tapered fingers were unyielding.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
One of the Vatican’s great bells began to ring, echoing through the empty halls.
Jules’s hands trembled like leaves and he started to turn away. ‘I can’t go to the masquerade.’
Selene took his shirt collar in one hand, forcing him to face her. ‘Eliot would never disobey an order. The Imperium Bellum ordered you to be there tonight. He’s already watching us, Jules. Don’t give him a reason to suspect anything is amiss. This is both our lives now.’
She helped him to his feet.
Jules trailed behind her, touching the skin of his wrists. Despite how it had looked, when his blood ignited, it hadn’t burned. And he had a valuable new piece of information. Selene’s God was a demon like him.
She couldn’t know. She would never question her god, and she wouldn’t be able to fake her faith.
Which begged the question, did the demons know? Was this why the Tsarina had sacrificed waves of her men assaulting Rome’s borders? And why demons attacked Rome more than anywhere else in the empire?
All the questions made a deeper throbbing begin at his temples, and he leaned against the wall to catch his breath. He needed to speak with Sparrow about what he’d learned, and soon. Before he made a mistake in front of Selene and she decided to finish him off herself.
‘Come on,’ she urged.
Jules scratched at his arm. His skin felt tight and hot.
Selene glanced back and came to a sudden stop. Following her gaze, he saw crimson blotches like flowering poppies on his white sleeves. Heart stammering in his chest like a moth trapped inside his ribs, Jules tore at his shirt cuffs. Every one of his kill marks bled, even ones that had been healed for years. His blood ran thick and dark in the guttering light of the Vatican halls.
His thoughts were panicked. This was punishment from the Deathless God. A false god but a real demon. Jules had killed hundreds of them during the war. His throat tightened. He was a killer, and the only rationalization he’d ever needed was that they were demons and he was not.
He scratched his arms, as though trying to pull away his skin and see what was beneath. He was a demon too. What twisted, corrupted being hid beneath his flesh? He clawed at the dozens of bleeding crucifixes on his arms, splattering dark blood on the black and white tiles beneath his feet.
Selene made a wordless sound of horror, grabbing for his hand. Her fingers slid between his own—strong and warm. She pulled him along, taking him somewhere. He was unaware of all but the sound of her footsteps.
‘Jules, stop .’ Her voice cut like glass, and he stopped.
His back was against something cold and hard. When he shifted, he felt ironwork. A distant dripping echoed. The swirl of panic receded as he tried to match his breathing to hers. She was panting too, muscles trembling at the effort she’d gone through to fight him and prevent him from mutilating himself. After a few more deep breaths, her muscles relaxed, fingers loosening on his but not letting go.
‘Where are we?’
He could see the delicate blue veins on her eyelids from here, and the way his breath stirred her hair. Beyond her, dark stairs curved upwards.
‘The Vatican necropolis.’
His hand tightened reflexively on hers. ‘Not the most popular place in the building?’
‘Kind of avoided actually.’
The chill in the air was deterrent enough. Beyond the ironwork gate, stone coffins had been arrayed in the necropolis and disappeared into the darkness. He finally dared a look at his sleeves. The white fabric was stained scarlet. Shaking, he tried to unbutton his shirt, pulling at the tie around his throat. She pushed his hands aside and made quick work of his buttons. Her pulse was still up—he could see it in the flutter of her throat.
Reaching for her, he pressed his thumb against her wrist, counting the beats of her heart until his own seemed to settle. ‘I’m sorry …’ His words sounded papery. ‘Sorry for scaring you.’
Her lashes trembled. ‘I wasn’t scared.’
Resuming her task, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Her eyes lowered and she stilled. ‘This scar—’ She dropped the shirt and it fluttered toward the ground. Jules snatched it out of the air before it could land on the cold stone, but his whole attention was on her fingertips tracing the briar thorns carved into his skin.
He shrugged, walling off his feelings.
Her expression clouded over. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Since before I was found. Since I was a day old, I suppose.’
She scanned his face and he couldn’t quite recognize the intense look in her eyes.
‘Do you know what it is?’
‘Nothing. Just a scar. Or a birthmark.’ He brushed her off, putting a foot on the first stair.
She twisted his bloody shirt between her fists. ‘I’ll get you another shirt.’
She swept past him and Jules dropped his face into shaking hands, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as her footsteps faded away.