Page 1 of Honey Cut
prologue
THREE YEARS AGO
Nothing bad could happento him here, he told himself.
Archbishop Anthony Stitt strode through the lobby of the Hotel Vesta, relief easing his shoulders. Surely, there could be no danger while the hot Roman sun was beaming through these gracious windows? Surely there were no threats under the coffered ceilings or among the tasteful neoclassical art?
In fact, after he walked into his room and beheld the tidy opulence of the freshly made canopy bed and the luncheon already laid out on the dinner table, he almost felt ridiculous. Here was the life he was used to; here was the hotel he’d stayed at countless times while visiting Rome. And when he looked in the mirror, there was the same hard, bloodless expression he’d become famous for during his ecclesiastical career.
The world was the same; he was the same. Nothing had changed since last night.
Except…there had been that predawn rendezvous deep in a corner of the Vatican, the shaken whispers of his informant. Afterward, Stitt had taken his usual meetings and sidled along the web he’d spent the past twenty years weaving, but for the first time since he’d set his eyes on the Piscatory Ring, Stitt’s mind was elsewhere. Still in that murky corner, still listening to a story with implications so profound that he almost wanted to discount it entirely.
But his source had never been wrong before, and it… Well, there was a logic to it, wasn’t there? A feel of truth?
How did I miss it?he asked himself as he walked over to the table for his customary midday meal of salmon rillette, bread, and crudité. The aroma of fresh coffee drifted from a silver pot, familiar as incense, familiar as spilled wine.
How did I miss it?
Because if it was true, that meant His Eminence Mortimer Cashel had been building castles while Stitt had been spinning webs. It meant that Cashel had resources beyond what Stitt could hope to muster.
It meant that in the slow, clever dance for the mitre, Cashel was winning.
Ys, the informant had called it. The—well, what was it even? A network? An order of priests? A crime family? Even the informant hadn’t really known, but one thing the informant had known for certain: the Holy Father had no idea. Which gave Stitt an opening. A chance to outplay Cashel before Cashel’s hand grew too strong.
And that was what he would do, he determined. He would bring this to the Holy Father himself and expose Cashel and whatever this Ys was. And with Cashel gone, Stitt’s path to the Vatican would be clearer than ever.
Yes, of course. He’d do it today. And now that he was in his favorite room, about to have his favorite lunch, everything was suddenly right again. He had things in hand—more than in hand, actually, because this was agoodthing, an ingot of good fortune dropped right into his lap, and how absurd that he’d been scared just a few minutes ago, scurrying like he thought Cashel himself was after him. No, if Ys were real, then Stittfinallyhad the means to destroy his rival. A rival who wasn’t interested in sex, wasn’t tempted by drink, and had no whiff of financial impropriety.
Cashel’s singular vice was power, but here at last would be the wage of that sin.
Confidence restored, Stitt poured himself a cup of coffee, took a scalding drink, and turned to face the deep-set window that looked out over the piazza. Except the piazza with its throngs of people and view of the Pantheon was blocked by a woman.
Standing inside his room.
He couldn’t help it—he took a step back. The coffee sloshed over his hand, burning over his bishop’s ring, and his cassock tangled around his legs. Then his mind caught up with the moment, and he was irritated with himself. It was just a hotel employee, wearing a neat suit and tie, red hair pulled into a demure ponytail. She’d probably just finished bringing up his food, and he’d been so distracted with this information about Cashel that he hadn’t noticed her.
“I need a napkin or a towel,” Stitt told her sharply, setting down his coffee.
She gave a small nod and went to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth. When she silently handed it to him, Stitt frowned at her. He’d have a word with management about this; the owner was a friend of his and would be appalled to hear that one of his employees hadn’t apologized for such an intrusion.
He took in details of her while he scrubbed at his hand—the unnatural sheen to her hair, almost as if it were a wig. The creases on her blazer, like it had never been worn before. The black gloves on her hands, thin and disposable.
Something shifted inside his mind then, and the fear from earlier began to trickle back in.
“Leave,” he ordered, to his own fear as much as to the young woman.
She didn’t leave. Neither did the fear.
“I think you should sit,” she said in English. It was American English, Stitt’s own English, common enough in certain Vatican circles, but unusual for a Roman hotel employee.
Stitt’s fingertips tingled and also his lips, and he thought it was the fear moving through his body. But then he tried to step back, and he stumbled again.
He didn’t know where his feet were anymore. Dizzy spots crept at the edge of his vision.
“I think you should sit,” she said again, and this time he sat. Heavily.
“What…” His voice sounded strange to him. “What’s happening?”
