Honey Cut (Lyonesse Book 2)

Prologue

Nothing bad could happento him here, he told himself.

Archbishop Anthony Stitt strode through the lobby of the Hotel Vesta, relief easing his shoulders. Surely, there could be no danger while the hot Roman sun was beaming through these gracious windows? Surely there were no threats under the coffered ceilings or among the tasteful neoclassical art?

In fact, after he walked into his room and beheld the tidy opulence of the freshly made canopy bed and the luncheon already laid out on the dinner table, he almost felt ridiculous. Here was the life he was used to; here was the hotel he’d stayed at countless times while visiting Rome. And when he looked in the mirror, there was the same hard, bloodless expression he’d become famous for during his ecclesiastical career.

The world was the same; he was the same. Nothing had changed since last night.

Except…there had been that predawn rendezvous deep in a corner of the Vatican, the shaken whispers of his informant. Afterward, Stitt had taken his usual meetings and sidled along the web he’d spent the past twenty years weaving, but for the first time since he’d set his eyes on the Piscatory Ring, Stitt’s mind was elsewhere. Still in that murky corner, still listening to a story with implications so profound that he almost wanted to discount it entirely.

But his source had never been wrong before, and it… Well, there was a logic to it, wasn’t there? A feel of truth?

How did I miss it?he asked himself as he walked over to the table for his customary midday meal of salmon rillette, bread, and crudité. The aroma of fresh coffee drifted from a silver pot, familiar as incense, familiar as spilled wine.

How did I miss it?

Because if it was true, that meant His Eminence Mortimer Cashel had been building castles while Stitt had been spinning webs. It meant that Cashel had resources beyond what Stitt could hope to muster.

It meant that in the slow, clever dance for the mitre, Cashel was winning.

Ys, the informant had called it. The—well, what was it even? A network? An order of priests? A crime family? Even the informant hadn’t really known, but one thing the informant had known for certain: the Holy Father had no idea. Which gave Stitt an opening. A chance to outplay Cashel before Cashel’s hand grew too strong.

And that was what he would do, he determined. He would bring this to the Holy Father himself and expose Cashel and whatever this Ys was. And with Cashel gone, Stitt’s path to the Vatican would be clearer than ever.

Yes, of course. He’d do it today. And now that he was in his favorite room, about to have his favorite lunch, everything was suddenly right again. He had things in hand—more than in hand, actually, because this was a good thing, an ingot of good fortune dropped right into his lap, and how absurd that he’d been scared just a few minutes ago, scurrying like he thought Cashel himself was after him. No, if Ys were real, then Stitt finally had the means to destroy his rival. A rival who wasn’t interested in sex, wasn’t tempted by drink, and had no whiff of financial impropriety.

Cashel’s singular vice was power, but here at last would be the wage of that sin.

Confidence restored, Stitt poured himself a cup of coffee, took a scalding drink, and turned to face the deep-set window that looked out over the piazza. Except the piazza with its throngs of people and view of the Pantheon was blocked by a woman.

Standing inside his room.

He couldn’t help it—he took a step back. The coffee sloshed over his hand, burning over his bishop’s ring, and his cassock tangled around his legs. Then his mind caught up with the moment, and he was irritated with himself. It was just a hotel employee, wearing a neat suit and tie, red hair pulled into a demure ponytail. She’d probably just finished bringing up his food, and he’d been so distracted with this information about Cashel that he hadn’t noticed her.

“I need a napkin or a towel,” Stitt told her sharply, setting down his coffee.

She gave a small nod and went to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth. When she silently handed it to him, Stitt frowned at her. He’d have a word with management about this; the owner was a friend of his and would be appalled to hear that one of his employees hadn’t apologized for such an intrusion.

He took in details of her while he scrubbed at his hand—the unnatural sheen to her hair, almost as if it were a wig. The creases on her blazer, like it had never been worn before. The black gloves on her hands, thin and disposable.

Something shifted inside his mind then, and the fear from earlier began to trickle back in.

“Leave,” he ordered, to his own fear as much as to the young woman.

She didn’t leave. Neither did the fear.

“I think you should sit,” she said in English. It was American English, Stitt’s own English, common enough in certain Vatican circles, but unusual for a Roman hotel employee.

Stitt’s fingertips tingled and also his lips, and he thought it was the fear moving through his body. But then he tried to step back, and he stumbled again.

He didn’t know where his feet were anymore. Dizzy spots crept at the edge of his vision.

“I think you should sit,” she said again, and this time he sat. Heavily.

“What…” His voice sounded strange to him. “What’s happening?”

She didn’t answer, just looked at him with steady blue-green eyes. She was so contained, her face betraying nothing. Nothing but pink skin across the bridge of her finely shaped nose.

Locals didn’t have sunburns.

“You don’t work here,” Stitt said stupidly.

She nodded.

“Did Cashel send you?”

Could he already have discovered what Stitt knew? Stitt trusted his informant, but loyalty was cheap in Rome. Perhaps Cashel or one of his camp had already turned his source. Maybe they’d done something worse.

“God sent me,” the young woman corrected. She had the look of a zealot now, young and fiery-eyed. Practically vibrating with intensity.

“Nonsense. Was it Cashel or someone else?” he managed to ask.

“Nebraska,” she said, ignoring his question. “Nineteen years ago. I’m sure you remember.”

The skipping in his chest was a jumping now, a lurching. “It’s in the past,” he said. Wheezed.

“Our God is the god of the past as well as the present.”

She moved toward him. He had just enough energy left to flinch, but she didn’t strike him or even touch him at all. Instead, she took the used washcloth and coffee cup from his table and carried them to the bathroom. He heard the splash of the coffee down the drain and then the running of the sink from its gold taps.

For the first time in a very long time, Stitt found himself embarrassed. Of the palatial bathroom, with its marble floors and clusters of fresh flowers and the hydrotherapy tub large enough that a grown man could lie down flat and never touch the sides. Of the canopy bed, fit for a king; the suite itself, high and spacious and filled with every luxury. When he’d started his climb toward the Apostolic Palace, it had been normal for princes of the Church to live sumptuously; it had been expected. They’d had a proper pope then, one who understood the history and the power of the Church. But this new pope had sown a harvest of austerity—had shunned the opulent papal apartments and the plentitude that was his by right—and now the world seemed to expect the same of everyone else.

Stitt had refused, of course. Not unreasonably, because what was a Church that couldn’t reflect the grandeur of its own god? What was a Church that recalled sandals and sawdust rather than the glory of the prince of kings?

But as the young woman returned, the coffee cup empty and being slipped into a plastic bag along with the washcloth, he saw the judgment reflected in her eyes, and he was embarrassed.

Why? Because she knew about Nebraska?

“I did the best I could,” he tried again. The words came out in a whisper. “It would have hurt the Church.”

“You did what was best for your career,” she said. “And God has not forgotten.”

He was sick to his stomach now and clammy. “So this isn’t about Ys?”

He didn’t think he invented the confusion that flickered through her expression, but it was gone as soon as he saw it, replaced again by that eerily impassive expression, paired so incongruously with those fervent eyes.

“No,” she said after a moment. She sealed the plastic bag and then bent over to pull something from her ankle. A knife, sheathed there. Stitt saw a single silver-blond loop of hair trapped against her neck. She must have missed it while tucking her hair into her wig.

When she stood, the knife was in her hand, its handle inset with rubies and gold. It looked almost liturgical.

A thing for sacrifice.

Stitt’s stomach twisted up into his chest. “You’re going to kill me,” he rasped.

“I already have, Your Grace,” she said, and there was something else in her voice now, a sadness. She found a small bag she’d stashed near a chair and put the plastic-wrapped coffee cup inside. Then she produced an identical cup and set it on the table next to him. He watched dizzily as she poured coffee into it and then sloshed it over the rim and onto the table. Intentionally. As if the cup had been held by a man who’d abruptly felt weak and needed to sit.

She stood in front of him when she was finished. She was petite, slender. Aside from the sunburned nose and cheap wig, she was altogether lovely. An angel of death.

“You took too much of your heart medicine today,” she explained, and her voice was inflectionless once again. “An easy mistake for someone who’s so disorganized with their medications.”

“I’m not—” He stopped. She’d already been here when he walked in; she’d had the coffee and the tainted cup waiting. Of course she would have staged his medications, made it look accidental. A tragedy brought about by a busy man’s haphazard habits.

He stared at her and she stared back, the understanding crystalizing between them. It didn’t matter what he’d learned about Ys, about Cashel. It didn’t matter that he was going to be the next American cardinal, that the only thing between him and the papacy was gap-toothed Cashel with his amiable grin and mismatched eyes.

Nothing mattered because he was going to die. He was dying.

“Why?” he asked the young woman. His voice was gasping, grating. “Nebraska? Is that all?”

“All?” Disgust flitted across her face. “What would be enough, Your Grace? Two Nebraskas? Three? You with millions of souls already in your care having billions instead, and all for the price of your own? Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but underneath are ravenous wolves.” She stepped back, over to the window. The knife flashed, and he heard the snap of metal as she used its flat edge to pop open the lock. The window swung open.

“Where are you going?”

“There is one more after you,” she said. It looked like her hands were shaking the tiniest amount. “Just a couple streets over. A deacon.”

“You can’t—” Stitt found he could barely breathe. He was horribly cold. “You can’t,” he finished in a voice that was no longer a voice.

“But God can,” said the young woman, and she climbed onto the windowsill.

Stitt was dead before she was gone.