CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
T he interrogation room was colder by degrees than the outside. Selene was dragged in by Tommaso and an artificer from Gabriel’s team. Florentina Altieri was notable by her absence and Selene hoped she wasn’t part of this. When she was thrown into the chair behind the steel table, she laughed—it echoed longer than the shriek of metal chair legs scraping against stone.
Warily taking a seat, Ambrose dropped the key around his neck.
She let a small smile linger around her mouth. It hid her rage and made him nervous. She only cared about the latter. And for perhaps the first time ever Selene was pleased that the chairs on both sides of the interrogation table were equally uncomfortable.
‘Why did you pretend he was Eliot D’Alessandro?’
She gasped. ‘He’s not ?’
Ambrose slammed his fist against the table.
Rather than flinch away, Selene leaned closer. His gaze flicked to her cuffed wrists, as though checking she was still bound. Good. He still feared her.
‘He’s a soldier. And a demon.’
Selene blinked in exaggerated surprise. ‘Who am I even marrying ?’
All she could see when she looked at Ambrose now was his attempt on Jules’s life with her stolen sword. His face made her sick with fury. She would never forgive the brother of medicine who had saved Ambrose, dragging him back from the brink of death. ‘I’m an Exorcist First Class. You can’t keep me in here. Even my uncle has limits to his power.’
‘You don’t know, do you?’ Ambrose smirked, pleased to know something she didn’t. ‘The Exorcist Primus is dead. Whatever limits there were are being dismantled as we speak.’
A chill slipped down her spine. She slapped her palms flat on the table and pushed herself to standing.
Ambrose scrambled to stand too, puffing up his chest to look tough. It didn’t work.
‘You know, you made one mistake bigger than the rest,’ she whispered, so quietly he was forced to lean in.
She could practically see the gears in his mind moving. Since being wounded he’d been jittery. Erratic. Afraid of more pain. It made him weak. She flicked her eyes to look over his shoulder, as though someone stood behind him.
His attention wavered and she grabbed his head, smashing his nose into the metal table. Then, wrapping her knee around his neck, she encircled his throat with the chains on her wrists and held on.
Ambrose flailed like a Spanish bull, slamming her against the wall with his back.
She gritted her teeth against the pain, knowing she had to wait it out. He was tiring. Tightening the chain to give herself some slack, she slid her hand into his shirt and found the key.
His metal fist swung and missed, but his other connected, cracking ribs. The breath whooshed out of her. Devoid of oxygen, her lungs smouldered. Before he could take a third swing, she kneed him in the back. Then, with a turn of the stolen key, her handcuffs clattered to the floor.
Flashing a vicious smile, she drew a hidden stiletto from her boot— not her favourite boot knife, which Tommaso had relieved her of—but wicked sharp, and that was all she needed. Fear flickered behind the rage on Ambrose’s damaged face as she carved the back of her hand, finding the marks on her ring, middle and index fingers.
‘You never use your magic—’
He was blasted against the wall.
Selene stepped over him and paused in the doorway. ‘You underestimate me. I use my magic when it matters.’
It was achingly cold in the bowels of the Vatican complex. Selene cradled her ribs with a hand as she panted for air. What she wouldn’t do to have Lucia with her now. She only had herself—her body and magic. Tearing a strip off her shirt, she wrapped it around her knuckles. She had to find Jules and get him out.
Soft voices came from the corner ahead. Leaning against the damp stone, Selene sidled closer to eavesdrop.
‘Prepare St Peter’s Square for an execution at two o’clock.’
‘An execution? Whose?’
‘ Eliot D’Alessandro .’ The name was spoken in a hushed tone, but it echoed in the serpentine hall. The second man choked on a breathless curse before he was sharply cut off. ‘I assure you, it comes from the top. Now get going.’
One set of footsteps hurried away.
Selene rounded the corner and took out the remaining guard with ease. It should have been more difficult, but the exorcists her uncle had recruited had grown soft. Without the constant threat of death, they were nothing. Selene kicked him in the ribs once more for good measure, then shouldered open the heavy studded door, dragging him inside to cover her tracks.
If Cesare suspected Jules was a demon, there was only one place they’d hold him. Dropping the guard, she straightened and pain lanced through her ribs. Every breath hurt. She had no patience for a punctured lung.
What she was about to do was treason. And possibly impossible. No going back.
Selene dashed around the corner and slammed into a wall of muscle. Her broken ribs ground together, knees weakening at the agony.
Cesare held her biceps, supporting her until she found her feet. Then gently he released her.
Clutching her side, Selene shot him a reproachful glare.
His expression didn’t soften. No hint of a smile around his eyes. None of the usual mannerisms that told her she was special.
‘Where—’
‘Think very carefully before you finish that sentence.’ Cesare’s deep voice was taut with barely contained anger.
She knew better than to test him, but she did it anyway. ‘Where’s Jules?’
‘I told you not to ask.’ He sounded softly pained.
It was nearly two o’clock. Each breath burned as Selene watched the crucifix being erected in the square. Each minute that passed killed her slowly. Cesare was her uncle and the only father figure she had known since the age of eleven. As she watched him now, though, he was almost a stranger. But she held on to a sliver of hope.
‘Imperium … please . Please don’t do this. He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
‘Nothing wrong? He infiltrated the Vatican fortress.’
‘I made him.’
He ignored the words. ‘Worse, he went into our most sacred place.’
She remained utterly expressionless. How can he know that? But Cesare could read her every nuance, and where others would fail to see the flutter of emotion cross her face, her uncle saw.
A tight smile, there and gone again. ‘It’s true, then? He has been inside the Cor Cordium ? How could you, Selene?’
‘I’ve been with him every moment. He’s done nothing wrong.’
‘He attempted to murder an exorcist. A capital crime.’
‘He was defending me.’ Cesare had an answer for every argument. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. But it was grief that made them carve down her cheeks and drip off her chin.
‘I was there,’ Cesare said quietly. ‘So he didn’t have to do that.’
There were so many words unsaid between them. What she had heard in the necropolis. The truth about the Deathless God. Her belief that Cesare had betrayed the Vatican—and her. But she was trapped in a moment she had barely survived once before. ‘Please, Cesare … I can’t see someone I love die here again. I watched when you killed my father. I didn’t cry. You saw me. I made you proud.’
He nodded, affection smoothing the hard lines of his face.
‘You praised me for that, remember?’
His eyes softened. ‘I do.’
‘I’m begging you, please don’t hurt him. I can’t do that again. I won’t survive.’
Beyond the crucifix, people moved from the shadows of the building into the bright afternoon light. Jules had to be one of them. Caterina was dragged out first. Then Lucia.
As though sensing her gaze, Caterina looked up. Her lip was split and blood dripped down her habit.
Caterina’s beautiful ruined face crumpled. She shook her head.
No good . Or perhaps, I’m sorry .
Selene held her eyes, muscles trembling as she fought not to break. Her second always made her proud. The world roared in her ears as Gabriel and Ambrose stepped out of the shadows, dragging Jules. He wasn’t moving. He might even be dead.
They’d crucify him anyway. Like their God.
Her own words echoed in her ears. It’s kind of symbolic .
She became aware of Cesare watching her, his eyes on the side of her face. ‘You’re right,’ he said quietly.
She bit her lip. He’d heard her.
‘You’re right,’ he repeated, taking her chin. ‘I can’t make you watch.’
The true meaning of his words resolved as he placed his hand on the back of her neck and propelled her along.
‘No,’ she whispered, numb. She fought him, writhing and spitting, but Cesare tightened his fingers painfully on her neck. Flashes popped in her vision. ‘No … Jules !’ She made herself go limp, a dead weight hanging like a kitten in his grip.
He tossed her down, clicking his tongue. Then, with a flick of his fingers, he summoned his bodyguards. ‘Bring her.’
They overwhelmed her. She kicked and lashed out to slow them down, trying to catch a last glimpse of Jules. But it was too late. The sound of nails through wood split the air.
Crack .
She had argued her case too well. She wouldn’t have to see Jules die.
Crack .
The bells tolled two.
Crack .
Now she would never see him again.