Page 48 of Skotos
“If you truly believe someone within the Church is orchestrating these events, how would you flush them out?” Pius asked, his voice barely a whisper.
And that was a damn fine question, one we had yet to fully consider.
Sensing our hesitation, the Holy Father stepped back inside, closed the door behind him, and said, “Perhaps it is time to try to smoke out the rabbit.”
“Holy Father?” Will asked.
The Pope’s smile was downright conspiratorial. “What if we spread the rumor that you were, as Hollywood might say, hot on the heels of a suspect?”
“Leak our presence and progress to spook the culprit?” I translated.
“Assuming there is a culprit in the Vatican,” Will countered.
“If there is none—and I pray there is no one here capable of such horrors—no harm will be done. If there is, however, our little rumor might scare them enough into making a mistake.”
“A mistake that could bring them into the light,” I said.
The room fell silent once more, each of us lost in thought, in the mental calculus of a Vatican-wide plot to unmask a devil. It was bold, a bit brash, and came from the lips of the Holy Father himself.
How could it go wrong?
“If a dark force is rising within my Church,” the Pope said, his voice low and grave, “it would not be the first time. There are shadows in our history—orders extinguished, heresies buried, and more betrayals committed in God’s name than I care to count. Do not assume purity in every collar or habit you pass. Do not underestimate what evil can do when shrouded in sanctity.”
That warning floated in the air like incense, heavy and unforgettable.
“I will arrange for your visit to be noticed and for word to spread. I will also have Monsignor Rinaldi take you to the Grottos where the Curia might shed more light on your spear.”
“The Curia? Isn’t that the government of the Church?” Will asked.
“Many things have many names, especially in these halls. The chief historian of the Church was nicknamed the Curia centuries ago. I have no idea why. Apparently the name stuck, despite its conflict with the title of our central government.” Pius smiled and inclined his head. “May God guide you in the darkness.”
24
Will
The corridors of the Apostolic Palace whispered with the weight of centuries.
“You’re staring,” Thomas murmured beside me, an amused quirk playing at his infuriatingly perfect lips.
“So would you,” I muttered. “If you hadn’t spent all your time dodging catechism.”
Our guide, a tall, soft-spoken priest with the weathered face of a confessor and the silence of a crypt, turned his head slightly. “You grow used to the beauty of this place,” he said in a tone both wistful and resigned, “but never to its majesty.”
Was that a line taught to every priest who worked in the place?
My mind reeled as I took in the remnants of a glorious past, a church that stood tall and proud through centuries—no millennia—shepherding its flock, guiding nations, sometimes toppling nations. It would be impossible for anyone to calculate theimpact of the Catholic Church on humanity, but walking the halls of the fulcrum on which it balanced, I somehowfeltthat impact deep within.
No, I couldn’t imagineevergetting used to this.
It felt like walking through the bones of a sleeping god, like one of those fantastic stories in which the hero must delve into the carcass of a long-dead dragon to retrieve a precious relic. The beast’s ribs were the columns, its heart the Seat of Saint Peter.
And we?
We were intruders, a virus, a cancer infesting the body of Christ.
We didn’t belong, and my skin crawled with anticipation and trepidation, a sensation that only grew with each step we took, each clap of the Monsignor’s shoes on the marble, with each painting of long-dead saints glaring down to follow us with a gaze that offered no absolution, only accusation.
Or perhaps my imagination was getting the better of me.
