Page 71 of Skotos
“That doesn’t mean we have to be reckless—”
“I had a gun. He had a knife,” he said. “And he was a priest, for fuck’s sake. Will, I’m not out heretryingto get hurt.”
I blew out a breath and tossed down my scissors.
I was supposed to be caring for him, keeping him calm, tending his wound; and there I was, nagging him about throwing his body into the path of a dagger. How stupid was that? How senseless?
“I’m sorry.” I cupped his cheek. “I know you’re . . . I’m . . . it just does something to me, seeing you hurt. I can’t explain it. It’s like watching a piece of me bleed and die a little.”
“Nobody’s dying today.” He leaned in, forehead resting gently against mine. “And as long as we stick together, nobody’s going to die tomorrow either.”
“Together,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
“Together,” he repeated, his voice offering no room for protest.
I let that moment hang in the air—fragile yet stronger than anyvow.
But as much as I wanted to never leave that moment, we couldn’t remain.
“That priest wasn’t hiding.” Thomas exhaled and sat back. I missed the touch of his forehead the moment it vanished. “He was searching for something.”
“Yeah,” I said, rising to my feet. “Which means he thought that something was still here.”
“I doubt our friends will be back anytime soon. They were the priest’s getaway car.” Thomas pushed himself up with a quiet groan. “Let’s search again, starting with Marini.”
The silence in the chapel was louder than before. It pulsed in the walls, in the floorboards, in the beams above our heads. We moved with reverence—part respect, part dread.
Marini’s body lay where we’d found it earlier. The stain of dried blood on the floor had darkened, nearly black in the shifting light.
I kneeled beside the body, steeling myself. “We missed something. I can feel it.”
Thomas said nothing, merely hovered near the door, pistol in hand, eyes sweeping the chapel beyond.
Marini’s face had set into something oddly peaceful; and yet, seeing his kind eyes staring blankly at the ceiling sent an ache through my chest.
I searched his pockets again—every fold, every seam—and came away empty.
After a quick search of the office, we moved into the chapel proper. Thomas took to pacing along each pew, retracing the route our escapee priest had taken before the fighting ensued.
I walked toward the altar, my boots crunching over shards of broken tile and warped wood. Time had not been kind to this place. Neither had man.
Behind the altar was a narrow platform where the priest would’ve stood to deliver mass. A splintered lectern leaned precariously, and behind it, the floorboards bore deep gouges—centuries of footfalls worn into ancient wood.
And there, tucked behind the dais, partially obscured by a fallen tapestry, was a wooden square, barely noticeable in the gloom. Its circular handle was dented and hinges badly rusted.
It was a trapdoor.
And it was open.
“Thomas,” I called, voice low.
He turned, already rising.
I kneeled beside the hatch. A smell wafted up—damp earth and mildew, tinged with something older, something sour.
Thomas stepped up beside me, gun still in hand.
“Looks like our priest was crawling around for a reason,” I said. “Think he found this or crawled out of it?”
