CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
J ules sat across from Cesare Alleva in a Vatican interrogation room. The high stone walls had been daubed with symbols in black paint. Though he couldn’t read most, he could feel their power. More of the language stolen from demons. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into gloom, but he could sense the symbols hemming him in.
The flash of anger in Sparrow’s eyes was fresh in his memory. Acrid guilt churned in his gut. When he’d asked Sparrow to protect Selene, he had chosen to ignore that Sparrow was most desperate to protect him . Jules rubbed at his chest, kneading his knuckles against his breastbone. But he knew something Sparrow didn’t—Selene was more fragile than anyone realized. And if he couldn’t watch her back, he needed someone he trusted implicitly to do it for him.
Opposite him, Cesare steepled his fingers. The silence stretched, until finally his expression twisted from its usual calm to something much more dangerous. ‘What are you?’
Jules spat on the table between them, tonguing a cracked tooth.
Fragmented by the haze of agony, he remembered Cesare dragging Selene away, the sclera of his eyes black with tainted magic. Selene was a quarter his size and he was still afraid of her.
‘I think you mean who , sir,’ Jules managed to drawl, though it was difficult to summon his usual laissez-faire attitude with blood streaming down his face and blinding one eye. ‘Eliot D’Alessandro. You know, I’m engaged to your niece? I guess your memory really does go to hell as you age. We spoke the other day, remember? You were staring at me like, You’re not good enough for her . And I was like, Yeah, well, sucks she gets to choose . But only internally, because manners.’
Jules stretched his arms over his head, smothering a pained wince. A nun medic he didn’t recognize had belatedly shoved his dislocated shoulder back into the socket—which hurt worse than it had coming out—but Jules would die before he allowed Cesare fucking Alleva to see his pain.
Cesare checked his watch and grimaced. ‘Ambrose claims he has proof you’re a demon.’
Jules tipped one brow in mild curiosity. He knew from the train that anyone with the surname Alleva hated casual disrespect, so he lounged in his seat, ignoring the way the handcuffs limited his movement. ‘Make him prove it.’
One corner of Cesare’s mouth kicked up in a smirk. ‘You know I could.’ He scratched his chin, as though considering. ‘But I don’t care. You see, I’ve read the file Selene had compiled. Orphan. Conscript. Soldier. Deserter. Demon or not, I have cause enough to have you executed.’
Jules leaned forward with his hands spread on the table. ‘I’m a what now ?’
Cesare ignored him. ‘I don’t like you, Jules Lacroix. I don’t like you as Eliot. I don’t like you for Selene. And I don’t like you breathing.’ He adjusted his shirt cuff. ‘Ambrose doesn’t need to convince me of anything, because in my heart of hearts I hope it’s true.’
Jules’s stomach dropped and he slouched down in his chair.
Cesare wasn’t questioning him. He was creating plausible deniability. As though to prove him right, Cesare stood. ‘It’s been long enough. You sang like a bird.’
Jules watched Cesare leave through lowered lashes, tipping his head back. ‘Good. This overbearing-uncle thing is getting old. I get it, you don’t like me. Kind of creepy, the way you want to be the only man in her life. But … whatever.’
His expression impassive, Cesare almost had Jules fooled. But as he turned for the door, a muscle in his jaw feathered—just like Selene’s did when she was irritated—and Jules knew his words had found their mark.
Gathering his composure around him like a tattered coat, Cesare suppressed the tell, and said, ‘As ever, you test my patience. A skill. No matter … You won’t survive the day.’
Jules forced a slow smile. ‘You know, you didn’t send Eliot far enough. He still protected her.’ Eliot had been there to put Jules in Selene’s orbit and make him stay. Eliot had watched out for her from Nice and ensured she wouldn’t have to face this man alone. Jules sat up straighter, speaking through his teeth as he smiled wider. ‘Next time you want to isolate her, you’ll have to look further than Nice.’
‘Oh, I concur.’ Cesare didn’t even turn back. ‘I plan to send you straight to hell, Lacroix.’
With that parting shot, he slammed his fist against the door and stormed out when it was opened from the other side.
A pair of exorcists entered as he left. The hairs on Jules’s arms prickled and he moved as far back from them as he could. They wore identical hard leather masks that had no visible eyes. The brow led to a smooth expanse where the eyes should be, a nose and soft cherubic lips. He didn’t know the insignia on their military jackets, but he did recognize his executioners.
Fear was a torrent through his veins. They were armed to the teeth. And they were ready for him if he tried to resist. One came for him while the second, a woman, waited near the door, arm exposed. The tattoos covering her flesh looked like the runes tattooed down Selene’s spine. Together they were ready for anything.
He went with them, unresisting.
Neither spoke as they led him through the cold and silent halls beneath St Peter’s Basilica, and they didn’t lower their guard.
At a scuffle of movement, one exorcist jerked him to a stop.
The other drew a dagger, pressing his palm against the flat of the blade as he faced the direction of the sound.
Ambrose stumbled around the corner, using a bundled-up jacket to staunch the flow of blood that dripped down his front, teeth and chin stained red.
Jules sneered. Fucking Vatican and their damned healers. If not for them, he’d be dead.
When Ambrose met his gaze, his eyes flared with hatred distilled.
At least the executioners were utterly cold. They might be taking him to be crucified, but they harboured no specific resentment toward him.
Ambrose stumbled forward, leaning against the wall, and his hand left a bloody streak on the smooth stone.
‘Halt.’ The female executioner tightened her grip on Jules’s arm.
The male executioner reacted to his partner’s change in stance, his weapon at the ready.
Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you two bloody idiots? I speak for Cesare Alleva when he’s not around. Didn’t anybody tell you?’ He slapped his hand against his chest, leaving dark blood on his elegant stamped buttons. From experience Jules knew dried blood in the fiddly bits would be a nightmare to clean. ‘Nobody tells me to halt.’
The executioners turned their masked faces toward each other, sharing some unspoken thought.
Even knowing the little he did of Vatican hierarchy, Jules was surprised. He sensed the difference in power between the executioners and Ambrose—they should be his superiors. Ambrose was just a thug. Any talent he had was squandered when he let his rage control him. The woman’s head cocked only a fraction, but Jules caught it. He could almost smell the blood she was about to shed.
A tall figure stepped between the two groups. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, little Ambrose. I don’t think you know what you’re doing.’
Caterina Altamura .
She levelled her gatling at Ambrose’s chest, shoulders squared in her familiar unyielding posture.
Ambrose’s face twisted. ‘What are you doing back?’
‘Saving the day apparently.’ Lucia poked her tongue out at Ambrose. ‘What were you even planning? The Imperium Bellum explicitly asked us to bring the prisoner to him.’ She stepped up beside Jules, tucking her knife under his chin. Jules slid his eyes toward Lucia. When no one was looking, she flashed him a cheeky wink, then set her face to neutral.
‘He’s preparing a public execution,’ Ambrose snarled. ‘Give the prisoner to me. I’ll take him.’
The executioners appraised the warring parties. Jules sensed their hesitation, though they didn’t say a word. They had reason enough not to trust Ambrose, and Lucia was holding a knife to his throat. Rather too convincingly, Jules thought.
Caterina slung the gatling over her shoulder. ‘Old news. Now he’s doing it nice and private. Bloodier that way. More pain. He likes that, you know.’
‘You’re with us ?’ Ambrose asked. ‘Last time I heard, you were loyal to Selene.’
Jules didn’t think he imagined Caterina’s tension—the way her bicep shifted as she adjusted her rifle—and he strongly suspected she’d barely resisted saying, Captain Alleva . She smiled instead. It tugged at the scarred skin of her beautiful face. ‘Of course we’re with you. With Cesare. Who would side with the lesser Alleva?’
Ambrose nodded slowly, his thumb picking absently at the opposite thumbnail. ‘True.’
‘So …’ Lucia said, stretching her arms over her head, yawning widely before finishing her thought. ‘We’ll be taking him now.’
Ambrose took a stumbling step forward. ‘No! Give him to me.’
Without further hesitation, the female executioner relinquished her hold on Jules’s arm to Caterina, and the two of them walked away, passing either side of Ambrose without a word.
Caterina roughly gripped his bicep and shoved Jules in the opposite direction.
Down here, in the depths of the Vatican, the walls were smooth damp stone and thick black cables ran along the roof to ancient caged lamps. It was a testament to how little faith they had in the electrics that yellow gas lamps lined the walls.
‘Where are you going?’ Ambrose asked quietly.
Lucia wiggled her fingers. ‘To Cesare. The greater Alleva.’
Ambrose frowned in confusion. ‘But he’s in the Cor Cordium .’
Caterina stiffened, her fingers tightening on Jules’s bicep. It took Jules a moment to recall the Latin. Heart of hearts, where they kept the Deathless God.
‘Don’t let them go!’ Gabriel walked down the hall.
The lights overhead flickered with an electronic hum.
Ambrose lunged forward, but Lucia spun on him, fingering her throwing knives.
‘You’re not here on behalf of the greater Alleva at all, are you?’
Lucia flicked her tongue against the sharp edge of a throwing knife. ‘Of course we are … Selene Alleva, the greater Alleva.’
‘You want to die with the demon?’ Ambrose snarled.
Lucia laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘Traitors.’ Gabriel’s eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared at Jules, looking bored.
Caterina stepped between them and they stared each other down.
Jules’s muscles tightened as Ambrose grabbed his arm. Lucia gave him a dirty look, tugging Jules’s other arm as though to pull him out of Ambrose’s metal grip. With him still in chains they were evenly matched. Except that Gabriel was an exorcist and his sleeve was rolled up enough to show a line of tattoos on the pale skin of his wrist, a butterfly knife in one hand.
He’d have to go first.
With his magic at the ready, he was an immense threat. Jules had seen what Selene could do with a sword, but she was a thousand times deadlier when she tapped her God’s stolen power. Gabriel was an unacceptable risk.
Jules surreptitiously shifted his weight to his back heel.
Lucia looked between Ambrose and Gabriel, expression darkening with suicidal intent. She was not one for rational thought, even at the best of times, and her finger tapped a rhythm against her throwing knife as the tension ratcheted up.
‘Don’t make me show you why I was top of our class, Gabriel,’ Caterina breathed. ‘Not today.’
Gabriel’s lips crooked lazily. ‘Scared of a little rematch, Caterina?’ His sword hung on his opposite hip, just outside Jules’s reach.
Tired of being ignored, Ambrose thumped his fist against his chest. ‘ I’m in charge here.’
Jules dropped to his knees, using his own weight to yank out of Ambrose’s grip, and lunged for the hilt of Gabriel’s sword with his bound hands behind his back. It was a split-second manoeuvre but his hands found only air as Gabriel whirled toward him.
Jules flung himself away, rolling across the floor to avoid Gabriel’s butterfly knife.
Everything happened lightning fast. Caterina pulled a shotgun from her hip and Ambrose kicked it from her hand. Snarling, Caterina then swung the gatling rifle from her back and bullets ate up the wall. The enormous gun was deafening in the confined space.
Lucia crouched with her hands over her ears, wailing, ‘Not the big one, not inside!’
But a manic grin was writ large on her face.
Jules’s ears rang—deaf, but for the echoes of gunfire—and now that he couldn’t hear Gabriel coming, he was completely vulnerable. Pivoting, he found the exorcist not a second too soon as Gabriel came for his throat with the butterfly knife.
Jules reacted. Muscles accustomed to fighting to survive tugged ligaments and joints, guiding bone and tendon, all before his brain could catch up. He caught the blade against the meat of his arm, sacrificing his bicep to protect his neck. The blade bit deep and his blood hit the floor. The pain, while terrible, was only just beginning. He screamed through his teeth as physical agony was displaced by a greater torment.
Heat kindled inside him.
It burned like coals as though his very bones had caught fire. And as his body ignited, the manacles on his wrists loosened. Melted. Sloughed, molten, to the floor.
Gabriel threw up a defensive barrier as he and Ambrose stumbled back. Snarling in pain, Gabriel flung away the knife that had flared cherry red in his hand.
As the pain running through his nerves faded, anaemic blue flames danced across Jules’s skin, devouring his flesh. Turning his hands over, Jules marvelled at the tongues of flame licking harmlessly at his skin. He fingered his bicep but didn’t find the wound he expected. Ignoring the blood, he found his old scar. The line of briar thorns encircling his arm had been bisected. With one slice of an exorcist’s knife, whatever potent magic his mother wrought to bind his power had been undone.
Then Gabriel’s magic slammed him down, like a giant palm crushing him into the travertine stone. Ambrose wore studded knuckledusters on one fist and he brought the points to rest against Jules’s temple.
‘Give me a reason, demon,’ he rasped. ‘I beg you.’
Clink . Clink. Clink. Lucia’s expression had gone slack with shock and her throwing knives fell to the floor.
Jules did not give Ambrose a reason. His body went numb as the flames died on his skin, and his senses faded. His ears and eyes might be better than a normal human’s, better even than Selene’s, when she wasn’t hopped up on demon magic, but now his normal was dulled, as though the world were painted in shades of dullest grey where once there was colour. The footfalls on marble, the hushed voices and shouts from the training yards, all faded to the suffocating silence of the hallway.
‘It’s true. You’re a demon,’ Lucia breathed.
Ambrose crowed and punched the air. ‘That bitch really has been fucking a demon. I can’t wait to ruin her. Have you ever seen her cry? I can’t wait —’
Jules lunged, his lips curled over his teeth in a feral snarl.
Gabriel tackled Jules, kicking his legs out from under him. His knees hit stone.
‘Not so calm now, huh? She’s trained you well,’ Ambrose goaded, as though he hadn’t just fallen over himself to put distance between them.
‘Don’t talk about her.’ Jules looked at the scars of his Glasgow grin. ‘You really can’t see how outclassed you are, can you?’
‘This?’ Ambrose asked, indicating his wounds. ‘She’s in far worse shape than I am, demon. And far less pretty too.’
Alarm coiled in his gut. He had faith in Selene, but he didn’t trust Ambrose. If it was true … Jules’s strength left him.
Gabriel adjusted his grip and held him up, keeping the dagger pressed to his throat.
Sensing victory, Ambrose strode forward and grabbed Jules’s chin. ‘You can picture it as I brand you.’
‘I thought I was going to be killed?’
Ambrose showed even more teeth as he said, ‘You’ll be executed. After.’
‘Then why brand me?’
Ambrose licked his teeth, thinking about that for a moment. ‘Because I want to.’
Jules should’ve felt angry, but all he felt was pity. Ambrose’s perverse joy in watching others suffer would rot him from the inside.
Please … Jules’s eyes fluttered closed. The Deathless God spoke only to him. Let me die.
Ambrose made a furious sound and slapped his face.
Jules felt a sharp cut across his cheek and his eyes snapped open. He saw the golden blood before Ambrose did. It dripped from his cheek to the floor. Veins spiderwebbed his wrists, coruscating gold as though he’d swallowed a drop of the sun.
His kill marks bled and gold crucifixes soaked through his shirt, turning him from sinner to saint where he knelt on the floor. Angling his face blindly toward the Deathless God—trapped, tortured—he felt Ambrose’s fear before he saw it.
Jules couldn’t move. All he could do was bleed and whisper a thought to the massive consciousness pressing down against his own that he was sorry—because he would be the one to die first.
No , the Deathless God thought back. You will not .
Jules felt more alive than he ever had. The blood running through his veins flared brighter, escaping through the marks carved into his flesh, before they healed and faded beneath smooth skin.
Ambrose stumbled back and his fear made him angry, something he already had so much of. ‘Kill him. Kill him now!’ he babbled.
Caterina’s eyes were wide with shock.
She gripped her gatling in a double-handed stance, but even if she wanted to help, the immense rifle was useless in such close quarters as long as Ambrose and Gabriel stood over him. And Jules was no longer sure she did, now that she knew what he was.
The voice in his mind grew clearer as though the Deathless God’s attention had sharpened to focus in on him, aware of him in the same way Jules couldn’t help but be aware in turn. He could almost perceive the personality, and perhaps even the ideals, of the one they called God . But still Jules couldn’t move. It was as though his knees had fused with the stone, trapping him in a penitent pose. Gold blood dripped down his fingers.
With a flick of the butterfly knife, Gabriel scored the symbols tattooed across his knuckles with the barest hint of a laceration. The scent of terrible magic surrounded them, sparking in Jules’s senses like a wildfire. He wanted to take flight. He wanted to fight . But he couldn’t even move.
‘ Non semper excitare .’ Gabriel spoke the words with the weight of a promise. You won’t ever wake up.
Then everything went black.