Meanwhile, in Lilith’s office, the storm of uncertainty—and the argument over what to do—raged on.

  “This is unheard of!” Lilith burst out. “The world will come crashing down the moment Merkel finds out, and all because of those idiots. I’d have them executed if it wouldn’t bring the entire clan down on us… Damn it, we’re in a real mess. What are we going to tell the prince?”

  “Let’s calm down and look at this coldly,” Belial suggested. “First: Walder is confirmed dead. But our objective remains unresolved—the book hasn’t surfaced. So the next phase should be to search the most likely places Walder could have hidden it, or—if I recall—one of the hunters said he saw him enter a post office.”

  “The other one said he saw him enter many post offices,” Lilith said dryly.

  “Well, we could scrutinize postal records. Our lead is that Walder mailed the manuscript.”

  “That was only a supposition—and made by a pair of idiots,” Lilith snapped.

  “And besides, genius,” Bafomet added, “you planning to check every post office in Italy? Those two blockheads only think that might’ve happened. For all we know, the damned manuscript is already destroyed.”

  Lilith exhaled through her nose.

  “How do we justify any of this to Merkel? We need resources… he’ll be furious, especially with our involvement and the cost of deployment.”

  “Sorry to remind you, Lilith,” Bafomet said, “but you insisted on assigning Marek and Ivo.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” Lilith shot back. “They’re demons of my own clan. They delivered results in the war—well, not them; their grandfathers.”

  “You should’ve listened to me. We would’ve hired berserks instead of those bargain-bin headhunters,” Bafomet grumbled.

  “We’re finished,” Lilith muttered, collapsing into her chair.

  “Because of you,” Bafomet pressed. “You’ve dragged us all down.”

  Belial stood at the window, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Moscow’s horizon winked with frost-bitten lights, the city shrouded in a drifting veil of snow like a funeral cloth. He turned back to Lilith and Bafomet.

  “What if we make the Cardinal do it for us?” he said. “After all, he asked you for a favor: help him find the Pope. He could, in turn, help us trace the manuscript.”

  “The Cardinal won’t keep still without splashing muck everywhere,” Lilith said. “Best to make our report and accept the blame.”

  “Lilith…” Belial stepped closer and lowered his voice. “It’s better for the Cardinal to stumble and answer for it than for us to admit—we weren’t effective and…” He leaned in, whispering, “…our hunters were incompetent.”

  “That task is impossible,” Lilith said. “Colossal.”

  “Colossal, not impossible,” Belial corrected. “And it’s win–win: he helps us find the book; we find the Pope.”

  “And facing Merkel’s wrath becomes his problem,” Bafomet added. “Trust me, that won’t be pleasant.”

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “We can try,” Belial said.

  Lilith chewed her lower lip, drummed her fingers on the desk, and picked up the receiver.

  The Camerlengo hurried down a marble corridor, Lilith’s voice in his ear through the mobile. He reached the door to the Cardinal’s dining room, knocked lightly, and eased it open.

  The room was small and austere: a table with six chairs, a baroque sideboard lined with silver platters and a pair of candlesticks, an image of the Virgin Mary in one corner, and on the wall, a photograph of the Pope. Supper was laid out: a bowl of fruit, a basket of sliced bread. A single place was set in proper Italian form—two forks (salad, main), two spoons (soup, dessert), and two knives at the top right—one for meat, the other… for whatever else the diner pleased.

  The Cardinal sat before his plate, presently in a standoff with a stout, flinty-eyed nun, who stood with both hands on her hips like a Monday-morning bureaucrat itching for a fight.

  “Sister Ludwika, what have I said about fish?” the Cardinal asked, glaring at the steaming fillet before him.

  “Your Excellency, today we eat fish. I am sorry,” Sister Ludwika replied in a thick Eastern European accent.

  “I don’t eat fish!” Wozny barked.

  “Well it’s all we have. Don’t act like a child. Eat it,” Sister Ludwika scolded.

  “Then go to the corner of the Borgo and buy me a sandwich—anything. And take this away.” The Cardinal pinched his nose in disgust. With a grunt she whisked up the plate and swept past the Camerlengo, who slipped inside.

  “They’re trying to starve me,” the Cardinal grumbled. “I’ve told that mustached tyrant a thousand times I don’t eat seafood, and still they bring me that swill…”

  “My apologies, Your Excellency,” said the Camerlengo, steering the conversation elsewhere. “Lilith is on the line.”

  The Cardinal grimaced, snatched the phone from Santiago’s hand, and answered curtly.

  “When will I have your support? Resources to find him—hunters, diviners, anything? And get Vergolo off my back while you’re at it.”

  “We’re working on it,” Lilith replied. “But we need… a favor.”

  “I’m listening,” the Cardinal said, wary.

  “We’ve been searching for an American named Victor Walder,” Lilith began. “After a fruitless hunt, we’ve learned he turned up dead near the Slovenian border.”

  The Camerlengo swallowed.

  “And?” the Cardinal said. “I suppose your search has reached its end. Or would you like me to say a Mass for his eternal rest?”

  Lilith smiled thinly at her staff and continued. “Your Excellency, ever the wit. In any case, the search doesn’t end there. What we want is the book he carried. We suspect he mailed it to someone from a post office in Italy.”

  “And what is it you want?” the Cardinal asked, suspicion sharpening his tone.

  “We’d like your help obtaining shipping logs,” Belial said, leaning toward the speaker, “packing slips, tracking numbers—and, ultimately, the recipient’s identity.”

  “How simple,” the Cardinal said, dripping sarcasm.

  “It’s a titanic task, we know,” Lilith said, “but not impossible.”

  Wozny leaned back in his chair and rested both hands atop his ample stomach. “If you want my answer… I can’t.”

  “You can,” Lilith replied. “Call it… leveraging your contacts in the Italian government.”

  “Merkel can do it. He has more political power and resources than I.”

  “Yes, but… Merkel is a very busy man—state affairs—he could—”

  “Why don’t you do it, Lilith?” the Cardinal asked.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Well then here’s my answer,” the Cardinal concluded. “I can’t. I have no resources. I asked you for hunters to locate the Pope and you told me you couldn’t—so I can’t either. As you yourself said moments ago: each must handle matters with their assigned resources. Mine are for finding the Pope. I’m sorry.” He pressed the button and ended the call.

  On the other end of the line, Lilith broke into a fresh tirade as the connection died.

  “You know he’s right,” Belial said quietly. “It isn’t his problem. It’s ours.”

  “Damn it… damn it a thousand times,” Lilith hissed. “Now we’re truly in trouble.”

  “Thanks to you,” Bafomet threw in. “Better get used to the idea of sweating under Aunt Natasha’s sun in the mines.”

  “I don’t need the reminder,” Lilith said. “I need a drink. Let’s go to Rasputin’s.”

  “I’m coming,” Bafomet said.

  “Come—but if you keep harping on it, I’ll break the bottle over your skull,” Lilith warned.

  She rose and strode out with Bafomet toward the bar across the street—Rasputin’s, directly opposite DRACO’s office. Belial, meanwhile, stayed behind, alone with the snow-blurred lights of Moscow and the work that refused to end.