Page 98 of Bitter Burn
“She’s Cashel’s niece,” I say, not saying the implication aloud—that she’s Inis Laurence’s daughter, so Barbara should choose her next words with care. Isolde should know about how her mother really died, but I’d rather she learn when she has time to process something that fucked up, and apparently we’re on the FBI’s timetable now.
Fuck me, why did it have to be the FBI? Isn’t it bad enough getting arrested without having to look at a suit purchased with Kohl’s Cash?
When my phone rings for a third time, I seriously consider smashing it with the heel of my shoe. The bats fuck off for good, disappearing up the belfry at the far end of the church. “I’m a little busy—” I say as I pick it up, but I hear Jago’s heavy breathing, and I stop talking immediately.
“Nine or ten, sir. Coming into the church now.”
“Jago, don’t risk yourself?—”
The front doors of the church swing open.
I strip off my coat as I move toward Tristan and Isolde, tossing it on the floor, reaching into my suit jacket?—
The air itself splits, snaps, cracks back into place, and Barbara falls to the side and then to the floor, part of her face missing. From the belfry, I hear the very faint fuss of the sleep-deprived bats.
Appropriately warned, I stop moving and slowly lift my hands as they surround us. The crucifix of Barbara’s rosary swings and thumps against my palm.
They’re not wearing any kind of uniform—just dark tactical clothing with no helmets, eye protection, or packs—but they move with a silent, sinuous grace that belies years of experience. Isolde stiffens when she sees one young woman step forward. She has burnished skin, a thick black braid slung over one shoulder, and a battered brown scapular over her vest—undeniably a saint. Someone Isolde has worked with before, if memory serves.
Luckily, my memory always serves. A handy gift for the lord of Lyonesse and the keeper of its treasury of secrets.
So the saints are here. Which means that I was being watched or that Cashel was watching Barbara. More important than either possibility is that the Scales moved so quickly to have Isolde sent here. Which means Isolde’s uneasy reprieve under Cashel’s trust has ended. Cashel can have only one outcome planned then, with only two variations likely.
The short way or the long way.
And as three saints break off to move behind each of us and press a gun to the backs of our necks, I have to imagine that the short way is very short indeed.
“The Holy Father would like to see you, Mr. Trevena,” the leader of the group says with a level, almost courteous voice. I can tell which saints are newer, I think, because the more seasoned ones remind me of Isolde—contained and shuttered—while the others have a feverish glitter in their eyes. The soul-rusting reality of homicide hasn’t yet dulled the shine of their zeal. “And you too, Isolde.”
“Is your plan to drag the three of us to Rome?” I drawl. I discreetly scan the space as I speak, wondering if Jago has ignored my bitten-off warning. One brave bat has fluttered back to the rafters, determined to sleep in his own bed apparently. “Surely the Episcopus Romanus has better things to do with his time than come to Albany.”
“The three of you? No.” The leader looks at Tristan. “The Holy Father hasn’t asked for this one. There’s no need to bring him with us.”
Not good. If they leave him here, they won’t leave him alive.
I slouch back a little, loosening my posture into that of a well-dressed inebriate. “He should have asked for him,” I volunteer. “He thwarted Cashel’s plans in Carpathia last year, didn’t you, Tristan? I’m sure the pontiff wouldn’t mind a word or two with the hero who saved the Carpathian prime minister from a premature death?”
The muzzle at the back of my head is unwavering, the pressure consistent even as I sway and shift. I wouldn’t expect less from a saint, but it does make me miss Filip Drobny’s crowd. They were much sloppier and so, so easy to fool into making a mistake.
“What do you think, little wife?” I say, turning my head a little to see Isolde. She stares back at me with a completely blank expression, having gone into saint mode herself. Perfect. “Should we talk your uncle into meeting some military royalty? Maybe Tristan can walk him through how fucking flimsy the assassination plan was from start to finish?” I gesture a little to emphasize start and finish. Above Isolde’s head, I see the blurred, drunken flap of more bats returning from the belfry.
“Enough,” says the leader. Her voice is still utterly neutral. “We’re not changing our plans.”
Isolde’s eyes are now on my left hand, where my thumb is in the middle of my palm. One of our signals.
Watch me.
Her gaze slides to mine. Her chin dips ever so slightly. She’s watching.
Tristan for his part has gone completely still, his eyes roving from saint to saint, his breathing even. He might as well be back in the hills of Carpathia on a dangerous patrol.
I toy with the rosary in my right hand as I talk. “Was Barbara part of these plans? Did you know about her? It’s a waste of time to lecture you all on holiness, obviously, but I would have thought some loyalty would be in order. But maybe you don’t know exactly what she did for your fearless leader.” The beads aren’t looped around my fingers any longer. The crucifix makes a slow, dizzy pendulum in the air.
The margin for error is nothing, absolutely nothing. Three of us need to simultaneously move two or three inches of very important skull out of our warders’ lines of fire—and two or three inches sounds like nothing, but with killers as well trained as the saints, it’ll take all our considerable skill.
And more bats.
I have succeeded in irritating the leader with my sermonizing, and she steps forward, her jaw working to the side. “There’s nowhere else to go, Mr. Trevena,” she says. Wonderful, wonderful exasperation is evident in her voice. “Nothing else you can do. Your pet bodyguard will die here, and you will go to Rome, where you will also die. But if you’re cooperative, I believe the Holy Father will show mercy. Normally, apostates die painfully, but as a consideration to you, he may give Isolde a clement death.”
