Meanwhile, in Rome, the Cardinal and Santiago stepped out of the dining room and into the corridor.

  “How brazen of Lilith to ask us for favors when she refused me one—and over something that has nothing to do with us,” the Cardinal grumbled as they walked.

  “On the contrary, Your Excellency,” Santiago said. “We’re more involved than you think.”

  The Cardinal halted and stared at him.

  “How could we possibly be involved in that case? Explain yourself.”

  Santiago glanced up and down the baroque hallway. It was empty, save for a Swiss Guard in his brightly colored uniform—tradition held they were designed by Michelangelo—standing rigid, halberd in hand. Santiago cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

  “You see, Your Excellency… Victor Walder was the American who was granted access to the Vatican Archives last year.”

  The Cardinal’s eyes widened.

  “And what privilege did that man enjoy to merit such audacity?” he barked.

  “Let’s say his sponsor was the powerful conglomerate RAGNOK,” Santiago murmured. “They arrived with a ‘donation’ of two million euros for Your Excellency, and that is how Victor Walder obtained access to the archives—by your express authorization.”

  “Damn it… I’d forgotten,” the Cardinal muttered. “That money paid for votes at the last chapter meeting. Vergolo has hated me ever since.”

  “But, Your Excellency—do you realize what that could mean?” Santiago lowered his voice further. “Merkel will be furious if he learns we did that. RAGNOK is DRACO’s competitor—and worst enemy. Imagine the magnitude of our problem if the prince finds out.”

  The Cardinal pressed a pudgy finger to his lips, thinking.

  “That would be catastrophic,” he said at last. “He’d cut our balls off.” He jabbed a finger at Santiago. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I warned you many times, Your Excellency,” the Camerlengo replied.

  Hands clasped, the Cardinal began to pace in circles.

  “This is not good… not good,” he muttered. Then he stopped, faced Santiago, and poked him in the chest. “Listen carefully. No one must know about this—absolutely no one. If it ever comes to light, we say the authorization came from that damned Pope Lázló.”

  Santiago pressed his lips together and nodded. They resumed walking.

  “Your Lordship,” Santiago ventured, “for safety’s sake, shouldn’t we cooperate with Lilith’s request? I have a bad feeling about all this.”

  “Never,” the Cardinal snapped. “She denied me help; I deny her mine. Let everyone scratch with their own nails!”

  “But, Your Excellency,” the Camerlengo pressed, “at least appear cooperative, to avoid any—”

  “Nothing!” the Cardinal thundered. “That pretentious Russian witch won’t get a single drop of assistance. And I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

  Santiago shook his head and followed in silence. At the far end of the corridor, the Swiss Guard—a tall man, as the Vatican required, with blond hair and bright blue eyes typical of the demons from the Kuhr basin—had heard everything. When he was certain the hall was empty, he slipped a mobile from the folds of his dazzling uniform.

  Meanwhile, in Moscow, Belial remained at his workstation. He detested loud music, raised voices, alcohol, and the stench of tobacco; his senses were too keen for such assaults, and Bafomet’s odor had never been easy to tolerate. So he had stayed to work on the executive deck while the others went out. His phone rang. Curious, he answered.

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  “Belial,” a man’s voice said. “This is Lares.”

  Belial smiled, recognizing a member of the pack.

  “Hey, old wolf! I haven’t heard from you since we were pups.”

  “That’s right… Listen. I don’t have much time—I need to get back to my post—but I’ve got something you’ll want to hear,” said Lares—none other than the Swiss Guard from the corridor, whose woodland-bred hearing had caught every detail of the Cardinal and Santiago’s conversation.

  Minutes later, Belial sprinted out of the DRACO building and darted through the murderous traffic, leaping and weaving between cars and lorries that blared their horns. He slipped on the frozen pavement, tucked, rolled into a pile of dirty snow, and narrowly avoided being crushed by a truck. Soaked and disheveled, he burst into Rasputin’s. A few patrons snickered at his bedraggled appearance—he could have passed for a drunk. Belial scanned for Lilith and Bafomet, spotted them in a back booth, and hurried over.

  Lilith was nursing a vodka; Bafomet a beer. They sat in heavy silence, lamenting their fate by turns. Belial slid in across from them.

  “Hell… what happened to you?” Lilith asked. “Tried to jump from the top floor and botched the attempt?”

  “Looks like a pack of wolves in heat rolled you in the street,” Bafomet added.

  Belial straightened his tie.

  “Lilith, I have news,” he said, still catching his breath. “We might have an ace up our sleeve.”

  “Oh, come on—we’re finished,” Lilith sighed. “Only option now is to resign and vanish somewhere. Argentina. Paraguay.”

  “Right—let us drown our sorrows,” Bafomet said. “And you—who can’t even play Monopoly—suddenly you’re our maverick?”

  “If you’d just listen,” Belial said, leaning in. “You’ll want to hear this. But I need something to steady me.”

  Lilith slid the bottle toward him.

  “Here. Take a pull.”

  Belial lifted the vodka, took a swallow—and promptly coughed it back up, hacking. Lilith and Bafomet, already tipsy, burst out laughing. Lilith thumped his back.

  “What kind of demon are you?” she teased.

  When he could breathe again, Belial glared at them, eyes watering.

  “I’m a damned dhampir. We don’t drink.”

  “I forgot you’re one of those Kuhr-basin vermin,” Lilith mocked.

  “Right—maybe you should shapeshift, do a few flips; perhaps a circus manager will discover you and sign you for the state circus,” Bafomet snorted.

  “Well, at least one of us would have a job lined up,” Lilith added, cracking up again. Belial did not.

  “My kind renounced metamorphosis when we went into exile in the Urals,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, don’t be so touchy,” Lilith said. “Have another sip. To our future star of the Moscow Circus—cheers!”

  They laughed again. Belial pushed the vodka away and ordered a bottle of water; the waiter brought it and charged more than for the vodka. Belial chugged half, then set it down.

  “What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “you owe to another of my kind—now serving in the Vatican Guard.”

  Without further preamble, he recounted what the Swiss Guard had overheard in the Vatican corridor. When he finished, all three sat in stunned silence. Bafomet’s cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth; Lilith held hers between index and middle finger as it burned slowly to ash.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Belial asked at last, satisfied with the effect.

  “I don’t believe it,” Lilith breathed. “The old fox cut a deal with RAGNOK. That will send Merkel into a fury—he may even demand the pig Cardinal be removed.”

  “And worse,” Belial said. “He allowed Walder into the archives to work on the book—and, obviously, to benefit someone else who wants to decipher it.”

  “And in the end, that crimson sow said nothing,” Bafomet sneered.

  “Walder vanished with the book, yet someone helped him hide and gave him access to the archives,” Lilith said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. “He was working for someone following in Merkel’s footsteps. I don’t know all the details… but I do know this—the Cardinal didn’t warn Merkel.”

  “That’s treason,” Belial said.

  “He’ll boil him in oil like a fat hog,” Bafomet muttered.

  “What I don’t understand,” Lilith said, “is why he was in Slovenia—and why he was killed.”

  “Maybe he knew too much. Or he’d served his purpose and they disposed of him,” Belial replied.

  “Or… he mailed the manuscript to someone, and they killed him in revenge,” Bafomet added.

  “It fits,” Lilith said. “As does the hunter’s claim that someone was protecting him.”

  “Even that train accident could have been staged—a cover for his escape,” Bafomet mused.

  “Well, Lilith,” Belial said softly, “I think we have a case.”

  “Are you kidding?” Lilith lifted her glass, eyes bright now. “We have a tremendous case—and we’re going to win it.” She raised her drink. “To kicking the Cardinal’s filthy, sanctimonious ass. Na zdoróvie!”

  They clinked glass, bottle, and water alike.