My hand moved before I thought about it, halfway through forming the sign of the cross before I caught myself.
I stared at my own bloody hand suspended in the air. The gesture was muscle memory, burned in deeper than thought. How many times had I made that sign? Thousands? Tens of thousands?
I lowered my hand and wiped the blood on my cassock.
God wasn't going to give me answers. The Church had already given me theirs with a noose and an execution chamber. Constantine had made his position clear.
But my father was in Rio. He was a Director in the Pantheon. If anyone had any answers, it would be him.
I pushed myself up. My hands left bloody prints on the stone. The stigmata wounds throbbed, but I ignored them and got my legs under me and stood.
I looked up at St. Michael one last time.
"I'm still Your sword," I said to the faded paint. "Just not the Church's anymore."
I bent down and picked up the knife, and tucked it into my pocket.
I turned toward the passage leading deeper into the catacombs, toward whatever tunnels would take me outside the walls.
"I'm done praying for truth. Now, I’m going to find my own."
The escape took hours,navigating by touch. I stripped off my cassock in a wider section and tore it into strips to bind my hands where the stigmata wounds kept bleeding.
The stone changed as I moved, getting smoother and younger. Christian symbols appeared on the walls. When voices echoed from ahead, I took a different fork and kept moving until fresh air hit my face.
I emerged in an alley outside the Vatican walls. The sun was just breaking over Rome's rooftops, painting everything in shades of pink and gold. Behind me, St. Peter's dome rose against the dawn sky.
I turned my back on it and startedwalking.
My stitches ached, butwhat else was new? Maybe I wouldn’t have been in so much pain if I’d been able to sleep on the train, but my paranoia kept me awake for the entire twelve hours. That and the puzzle that was Rafael Oliviera.
It was pathetic, really. Here I was arranging my own execution, and my cock stirred every time I thought about the way Rafael had looked at me in Rome.
The trip from the train station to the private hangar wasn't complicated, at least.
The hangar bay doors opened, and a broad-chested, chestnut-haired Spaniard emerged.
"Lorenzo!" Diego beamed. "So good to see you’re still breathing!"
Christ, I'd missed him.
I winced as he swept me into a bear hug that lifted me clean off my feet. When he set me down, his eyes swept over me, taking inventory of every bruise and bandage. "Someone's been playing very rough with you, amigo."
"The best kind of playing."
"Obviously." His smile faded. "But first we need to get you inside before mi príncipe oscuro decides you're a security risk and vanishes again."
I arched an eyebrow. "Dark prince?" That was a new nickname for Jasper.
Diego shrugged. "He hates it, which is exactly why I call him that. Come. We’ll do it inside, eh?"
The hangar was three times bigger than it looked from outside, packed with aircraft that probably had very interesting provenance stories and equipment that would make customs agents weep. Center stage sat a sleek twin-engine plane that screamed "fuck you" money in the quietest possible way.
Diego brought out a copper-lined box. “You know the drill, amigo.”
I did. Jasper's paranoia about Zeus and satellites hadn't mellowed since I'd last worked with them. I dropped my phone in the box and immediately started to strip.
Diego let out a low whistle. “Someone carved you up good! Tell me he looks worse.”
