The Fallen by Tarn Richardson Page B

rest. He seemed overworked and weak, susceptible he supposed to the Devil’s temptations.
    Refocusing his mind on his case notes, he considered what he knew. The round which had been used was a .455 and had come from a Webley revolver, standard issue for Inquisitors. Inquisitor Cincenzo, the individual who had been killed, was young, eager, had achieved good grades during his acolyte years and showed a penchant for learning, perhaps too much. Perhaps it was that which got him into trouble eventually, speaking to the wrong people, asking too many of the wrong questions?
    Benigni looked back across the bridge and the marks in the dirt where the pack had surrounded Cincenzo and hemmed him in. The grip marks proved they were regulation inquisitional boots. Everything pointed to an internal killing.
    Everything except the sulphur.
    There was a smell of sulphur which seemed to linger around the spot where Cincenzo had been shot. That was hard to explain.
    â€œMonsignor Benigni!” called one his team of the Sodalitium Pianum, approaching with urgency.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œSomething we have found scrawled on Inquisitor Cincenzo’s wall in his residence.”
    â€œOh? And what would that be?”
    â€œSimply three words. Eyes. Flesh. Life.”
    â€œWhatever does that mean?” Benigni mumbled, more to himself than his fellow Priest.
    â€œI have no idea. He’d scrawled it on his wall beside his bed, along with a name. Tacit.”
    â€œPoldek Tacit?” muttered Benigni, adding Tacit’s name to the three words in his notes. “Why should Cincenzo ever name him?”

EIGHTEEN
    R OME . I TALY .
    â€œI’m surprised,” said Isabella, pulling her still damp clinging clothes away from her skin, “you dealing with Inquisitors? The soldiers of the Catholic Church? I thought the Church was your enemy?”
    â€œHave you listened to nothing we’ve said?” Sandrine shouted, propelling herself forward to lean over Isabella. Her reaction was so extreme that Isabella, thinking the woman was about to lash out at her, cowered away in fear. “Everything has changed. Old feuds have ended, concessions have been made. They’ve had to be, especially now in these dark days. This Inquisitor? He was an ally.”
    â€œAnd how many of you are there?”
    â€œNot enough,” Sandrine sighed, turning away. “The Darkest Hand, they have corrupted too many minds, enslaved too many hearts. Where there is fear in a person, there is an open harbour within which to moor the seeds of hate and darkness. And we are even fewer now.” She looked across at Henry, who nodded.
    â€œThere were four other Inquisitors who had joined us but we lost contact with them three days ago,” he said.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œIn the city. There were rumours of demons in south Rome. They went to investigate and sent a message, something about a seer.”
    â€œA seer? Who’s that?”
    â€œWe don’t know. And they’ve not been heard from since.”
    â€œBut we are a start,” insisted Sandrine, her jaw squared by her gritted teeth. “A beginning. Soldiers, Priests, Inquisitors. We are all fighting for the same reasons against the same enemy.”
    â€œFor many months now we’ve infiltrated the Vatican,” said Henry. “Found allies.”
    â€œWe’ve had to,” said Sandrine, anticipating Isabella’s next question. “For it is there that the Darkest Hand first took root, perhaps even before 1877. We have learnt that much. From that black seed it has spread far, throughout the faith, enslaving many within the Inquisition and the Priesthood, slithered into industry, politics, royalty, the military, wherever there is the opportunity to gain favour and an initiative against others presumed to be weaker. The lure of the Devil is strong. And we must work together to fight him.”
    â€œAnd who exactly are you?”