known the difference. The box looked bug-free at least, so that was a bonus. Kept things from getting too crowded.
I fished around in one of my inside pockets until I found the slender plastic disk. Squatting down, I placed the reliquary carefully on its side, then pulled the disk free from its backing. I adhered the wafer to the corner of the reliquary, where the metal was the smoothest. Once in place, the sensor was virtually invisible, a tiny disk, but through the miracle of plastic tech—and a very wise decision I made with an incredibly smart, incredibly hot circuitry genius a few months back—it would make sure I didn’t end up empty-handed.
Satisfied, I stowed the reliquary in my jacket once more and slipped the safety off my gun in its shoulder holster. Then I hit the next ladder, picking up speed.
Just as the square slab of rock in the tomb had been easy to dislodge, the manhole cover above me proved equally accommodating, and I pushed up the circular slab of metal to see out. I was in the middle of some sort of side street, and though a few cars were visible lining the curb, no traffic stirred. I heaved the manhole off the opening, then crawled out of the shaft, pausing only long enough to drop the cover back over the hole. I’d finished that process, still on my knees, when I heard a car door open.
And then the lights came up.
Sweet Christmas, that’s bright. I hunkered down in legitimate pain, practically blinded with the sudden glare after so many hours in darkness. Steps sounded loudly around, me, official and precise, and I heard a gun cocking into place. My own weapon remained holstered tight to my side, but I needed to understand how many people I’d be shooting at before I went that route.
“The inscription.”
“What?” I growled, turning around. Had someone said that aloud? And in English? No one spoke again for another moment, then the man closest to me started shouting at me in rapid-fire Italian.
“Scatola!” the man next to him cried out over his associate’s words, and I understood what they wanted, despite my lousy Italian. Box. They wanted the reliquary.
Worked for me. To hit me, they’d have to go through the relic, and I figured they didn’t want to risk damaging the thing. So with my left hand, I reached inside my jacket and pulled the box out, waving it in front of my chest as I turned, keeping my feet moving and the relic close.
“Read the inscription.” The order was louder this time, more insistent. Definitely English. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.
“I can’t!” I shouted back, finally getting a good look at the men surrounding me. A dozen guys ranged in a tight circle wearing black uniforms and berets, all of them with rifles trained on my twirling form. Oh, goodie. SANCTUS. How did they find me so quickly? And what exactly had happened to Armaeus’s other agents—
Meanwhile, I sensed the press of otherworldly eyes upon me again as words were forming in my head, words such as I had never heard before, ancient and melodic, hypnotic and strange. Running around and through and over and above the Italians who were edging closer, their shouts growing louder as the sun finally broke over the horizon and flooded the far-off street, its light not quite reaching into this side alley.
“The inscription!”
“Fine!” I bellowed. Waving the reliquary in my left hand, I squinted at it, then spoke the words that had formed in my head in a rush—all three lines, not truly knowing what I was saying as the sounds tumbled and crashed over themselves, my heart lightening as I neared the inscription’s end.
Whatever I was saying, though, I wasn’t saying it fast enough. I heard the cock of a pistol, sensed the gun aimed at me as I babbled out the last words. Crap and double crap!
Without warning, the box suddenly went from weighing about two pounds to two hundred. I dropped it, shocked,
I fished around in one of my inside pockets until I found the slender plastic disk. Squatting down, I placed the reliquary carefully on its side, then pulled the disk free from its backing. I adhered the wafer to the corner of the reliquary, where the metal was the smoothest. Once in place, the sensor was virtually invisible, a tiny disk, but through the miracle of plastic tech—and a very wise decision I made with an incredibly smart, incredibly hot circuitry genius a few months back—it would make sure I didn’t end up empty-handed.
Satisfied, I stowed the reliquary in my jacket once more and slipped the safety off my gun in its shoulder holster. Then I hit the next ladder, picking up speed.
Just as the square slab of rock in the tomb had been easy to dislodge, the manhole cover above me proved equally accommodating, and I pushed up the circular slab of metal to see out. I was in the middle of some sort of side street, and though a few cars were visible lining the curb, no traffic stirred. I heaved the manhole off the opening, then crawled out of the shaft, pausing only long enough to drop the cover back over the hole. I’d finished that process, still on my knees, when I heard a car door open.
And then the lights came up.
Sweet Christmas, that’s bright. I hunkered down in legitimate pain, practically blinded with the sudden glare after so many hours in darkness. Steps sounded loudly around, me, official and precise, and I heard a gun cocking into place. My own weapon remained holstered tight to my side, but I needed to understand how many people I’d be shooting at before I went that route.
“The inscription.”
“What?” I growled, turning around. Had someone said that aloud? And in English? No one spoke again for another moment, then the man closest to me started shouting at me in rapid-fire Italian.
“Scatola!” the man next to him cried out over his associate’s words, and I understood what they wanted, despite my lousy Italian. Box. They wanted the reliquary.
Worked for me. To hit me, they’d have to go through the relic, and I figured they didn’t want to risk damaging the thing. So with my left hand, I reached inside my jacket and pulled the box out, waving it in front of my chest as I turned, keeping my feet moving and the relic close.
“Read the inscription.” The order was louder this time, more insistent. Definitely English. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.
“I can’t!” I shouted back, finally getting a good look at the men surrounding me. A dozen guys ranged in a tight circle wearing black uniforms and berets, all of them with rifles trained on my twirling form. Oh, goodie. SANCTUS. How did they find me so quickly? And what exactly had happened to Armaeus’s other agents—
Meanwhile, I sensed the press of otherworldly eyes upon me again as words were forming in my head, words such as I had never heard before, ancient and melodic, hypnotic and strange. Running around and through and over and above the Italians who were edging closer, their shouts growing louder as the sun finally broke over the horizon and flooded the far-off street, its light not quite reaching into this side alley.
“The inscription!”
“Fine!” I bellowed. Waving the reliquary in my left hand, I squinted at it, then spoke the words that had formed in my head in a rush—all three lines, not truly knowing what I was saying as the sounds tumbled and crashed over themselves, my heart lightening as I neared the inscription’s end.
Whatever I was saying, though, I wasn’t saying it fast enough. I heard the cock of a pistol, sensed the gun aimed at me as I babbled out the last words. Crap and double crap!
Without warning, the box suddenly went from weighing about two pounds to two hundred. I dropped it, shocked,
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