Getting out of the building has the distinct air of fleeing a heist—which technically I suppose we are. The only people we see are two actual priests up the long hall before Sean Tattersall presses open the door to a perfectly maintained spiral staircase and launches down it at speed.
We’re running then. Great.
Normally running isn’t in the top hundred activities I prefer, but it comes easily. More of Luke’s magical powers. Though without them, he’s not huffing and puffing or anything. But there is a distinctly grim set to his mouth. I wish we could have a sidebar to discuss this situation.
Sean was conning people out of their money by pretending to be a Vatican priest doing an exorcism. Who is this man?
We exit the ground floor and Sean slows once we’re outside. Tall trees surround the building behind us, groomed into cone-shaped topiaries. A driveway has a few cars parked along it.
The best way to describe Sean Tattersall really is to imagine a missing Hemsworth. He’s at that level of sexypants. He has the strong jaw, flinty eyes, muscled chest … and the rest of him seems muscled as well. And he has a stunning ability to switch accents in a nanosecond.
Thing is, he’s even more striking when he steps into the full sun and removes his priest’s collar to reveal a glimpse of neck beneath. He dangles the cloth in his fingers. I stop my brain from filling in the image of the broad chest beneath the black shirt …
“Like what you see, princess?” he asks. Still British.
These new senses are wonderful, except at this particular moment. I swallow. Then and only then do I remember, oh, yes, Luke, who I lo—wait, we still haven’t said that to each other—is watching this exchange.
Not that I think he’s a gross possessive type. He knows I’m my own woman. And he trusts me.
I hope.
Though it’s also true that anyone could be forgiven for thinking a missing Hemsworth-level sexypants could make a woman—or almost anyone—forget their romantic priorities.
I check in to see how Luke’s dealing with Sean’s flirting and find him frozen in a way that means he’s considering a number of options. All of them will escalate the situation. The last thing I want is these two fighting in some misguided show of macho prowess.
So I slip my hand firmly into Luke’s. Beside me, he relaxes. A little.
Sean smirks down at our hands and I swear his eyes actually sparkle with mischief.
“We should get a drink … or three,” Sean says. “When in Rome.”
I try to convey my lack of amusement. “We’re not in Rome.”
“Details. We can be. I know just the spot. We will need a ride.” Sean scans the driveway and it’s fascinating. There’s so much calculation in it. Two men in suits lean against the side of the building next to this one. “I’m sure they won’t mind helping us out.”
He does not think we’re going sightseeing in Rome.
I go for stern. He’s probably not used to stern.
“We’re on a tight schedule,” I say and the words vibrate in the air around us.
I’m also not used to my voice coming out in something like stereo. I jerk in surprise.
Sean tilts his head at the same curious angle Bosch the dog does at an odd noise. “Can’t say I ever saw many demons like you. I might’ve stuck around. Come on.”
“I’m—” I start to explain to Sean that I’m not truly demonic, that Luke is, and what we need from him, since Lucifer didn’t bother to … But it’s day one and I have the distinct impression the more information we give this guy to use against us, the worse off we’ll be. We still need to make it back to Lexington in time to take over for those skater goofballs.
“Yes?” Sean asks.
We need to find out about him first. Then we can figure out how to redeem him. Hashtag thoughts and major prayers. “I’m happy to get you that drink,” I say, changing tactics.
“You are?” Luke asks. But after a beat, he seems to catch on to where I’m going with this. “Yes, you are. We are.”
“Great,” Sean says. “Like I said, I’ve got just the spot.”
He takes off toward the two men in suits. Does he intend to borrow a car from some Vatican officials? He must be dreaming.
“We’re going along to get him to trust us?” Luke asks.
The question behind the question doesn’t escape me. There’s a note of insecurity. It’d be adorable if it wasn’t so unlike Luke. Being human after having a universe of random facts and all sorts of other abilities I haven’t even begun to discover at your fingertips can’t be easy.
“Yes. And we’re a team,” I say. “Us against him.” For his ultimate benefit, but still.
Luke drops a kiss on my cheek. He makes a noise and says, “Not good enough,” and I angle my head for an actual kiss. A quick one. A reassuring one. That we’re an us.
I resist the urge to sink into it. Which is good.
Because when we part, it’s to Sean honking the horn of a small green sedan as it barrels toward us then screeches to a halt. The two men in suits have been joined by others. They hop in the other cars and floor the gas after him.
Men sporting the flamboyant red-, yellow-, and blue-striped floppy uniforms of the Swiss Guard stream from the building pointing guns at us and screaming in Italian. I understand a few of the words, another element of my newfound gift. “Stop! Thief!” and variations.
“Get in,” Sean says through the window as it cracks. “Now.”
“You could zap him,” Luke offers, but he’s already opening the car’s back door.
“We’re playing him, remember.”
Against my better judgment, we jump in as the other cars’ brakes shriek to avoid hitting Sean’s stolen one. As soon as Luke shuts the door, Sean guns the engine and laughs while checking the rearview.
“You may want your seat belt, demon or no, love,” he says.
There’s a car gaining on us fast, a sleek black sedan nicer than this one. I’m confused about many things in this situation, but it’s the most random that comes to the front of my mind.
“Is this a Ford Focus?” I say. “My brother has one of these. I guess I figured the Vatican would only use Italian cars…”
Oh no.
We hit an intersection and the screaming of sirens and blue lights greet us. My brain supplies an inconvenient fact about this Ford Focus.
“You stole the pope’s Ford Focus!” I shout.
“I did?” Sean sounds surprised and pleased.
“Why does the pope have a Ford Focus?” Luke asks. He’s impressed despite himself, I can tell from his tone.
“Man of the people,” I say. “Drives himself around in it sometimes too.”
“He did before I took it,” Sean says.
I kick the back of Sean’s seat hard and he laughs harder and cuts a right like we’re in a remake of The Italian Job and drives down a row of short steps, across cobblestones as people dive out of the way, and onto a street. Miraculously, perhaps literally I guess, the car makes it unscathed.
And he’s still laughing.
“This is not funny!” I say.
“Don’t worry, we’ll leave it for him when we’re done,” Sean says. “Admit it, you’re having a blast.”
“I am not.” A car chase is not something I ever wanted to be in. I don’t even like movies with car chases (except the feminist epic of our time, Mad Max: Fury Road, obviously: We are not things).
But the truth is more complicated … Part of me wants to cackle gleefully. We are in a car chase with the Italian police and the Swiss Guard because we’re in a stolen beater of a car that belongs to the pope.
“Okay,” I say, lower, to Luke, as I’m thrown over into his lap by another wild turn. “I admit to you only, I’m having a little fun.”
He wolf-grins and tightens his arm around me. “I am too, now.”
“I heard that,” Sean says. “You could do better than him, sweetheart.”
I keep my focus on Luke. The seasick motion of the car hurtling through the streets and the blare of the sirens makes the connection I feel that much more intense.
But when I speak, it’s to Sean: “Call me sweetheart again and you’ll find yourself tied up in the pope’s apartment.”
I hear it the second I say it.
“Don’t either one of you make a joke right now.” The words vibrate again. Sean wisely keeps his mouth shut and drives on. Luke grins like he could eat me up.
“There’s the smallest spot of trouble.” Sean slows and the car stalls.
Ahead of us is a bridge that my mind tells me immediately was built by Hadrian, arched and lovely over the Tiber, pedestrian only now, closed to car traffic.
Meanwhile, the street directly in front of us is blocked by gendarmes and flashing lights and tourists snapping a thousand photos. Behind us, it’s the same thing.
“That was fun,” Sean says. “But I know when I’m beat. Go ahead and take me back.”
He’s giving up. I didn’t expect that. Did he do this with that intention?
“Not yet,” I say.
He does a double take at that. “Why not? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Shh.” I need to think.
Luke holds up his hand to silence Sean. Outside the car, men and women in police uniforms are creeping closer to us.
“What do we do?” An image passes through my mind and before either of them can answer, I decide it’s worth a shot. “Hold on.”
I close my eyes like I did when I had the Holy Lance briefly in my possession and I imagine my—well, Luke’s—wings on the top of the car. Not in reality, but I visualize it lifting and I hear Luke gasp in surprise.
“Didn’t see that coming,” Luke says.
“Me neither,” I say as I open my eyes.
We’re flying across the Ponte Sant’Angelo, the bridge of angels, statues of different heavenly beings below us—along with gawking tourists. The green Tiber below, romantic in the startling warmth of the late sun as it begins to sink in the sky. Ahead is Rome.
Sean gapes at me, something I get the feeling he doesn’t do often.
“You’re not just anyone, are you?” he asks and he studies the two of us, the calculation from before back in evidence.
I don’t want to be a demon. But part of me is joyous at the sheer audacity of what we’re doing. At what the world below must think.
Focus, Callie.
I look at the streets below us and find one that seems deserted of people. Closing my eyes again, I envision the softest landing I can. The wheels skip on the ground once as we hit pavement.
We’re still breathing and the car isn’t smoking or anything. Soft enough.
“That was the best time I’ve had in years!” Sean says. “I like you.”
I shake my head. “Now I need a drink. And we need to talk.”
Luke’s breath is warm against my ear. “I wasn’t sure about bad Callie, but I like it.”
I turn to face him. The way the words hit shows, because regret reflects back in his blue-ocean-sky-cornflower gaze. I could fall into it.
“You’re still good,” he says, low. “You could never be anything else. I…”
I’m worried about the fact he’s moved to reassure me, but more at the implication he’s bad. This isn’t the time though. I hear sirens, not close enough for human ears but getting closer by the second.
“Everyone out, quickly,” I say.
Neither Luke nor Sean protests. We hop out and head up the street toward what looks to be a busier avenue. Sean glances around and says, “You brought us to the perfect place.”
He looks too happy. What can we do except follow? He leads us into an alley, then another. Soon we’re walking along a more crowded avenue with a fountain and I’m about to tell him to knock it off and pick a place when a stone staircase covered in lounging Italians and tourists comes into view.
“Those are the Spanish Steps.” There are times when this life still stops me in my tracks, and this is one of them. Maybe this date isn’t a complete loss.
“Yes,” Sean says over his shoulder, dodging around people lounging on them. “What’d you think? I was bringing you to any old pub? Just a bit farther.”
When we reach the top, he’s stopping to shrug into what has to be a couture jacket. That he’s stolen on the way up.
“I’ll bet he’s quite the pickpocket too,” Luke says. “I used to find that kind of thing amusing … until I grew up.”
We both know if Luke wanted to pick someone’s pocket he’d still do so with zero regrets.
“I’ve got at least ten years on you,” Sean says, his grin wide. He’s enjoying the challenge.
“There’s no contest between us,” Luke says.
Sean winks at me again.
“You can knock that off too,” I say. “It’s not helping your cause.”
Then I remember he’s our cause. Think of Agnes, Callie.
“You didn’t use your demon voice,” he says, cheery. “But I’ll do my best.”
He takes us a little farther and stops with a flourish. “And here we are.”
Night has fallen around us. The white facade isn’t ostentatious, barely lit with soft ambiance. A sign this is a truly fancy place. It doesn’t need to announce anything.
A mustached doorman stands beside an arched entrance that leads into the building, a twinkling courtyard visible beyond. He gives Sean a long look.
“Mr. Sean! We haven’t seen you in … it must be five years,” he says. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”
“Missed you too, old chap.”
The doorman smiles with genuine sincerity. “It is good to have you back, sir.”
“You know I always love it here.” Sean lifts his hand and gives the tip of an imaginary hat to the guy, who nods like he’s been paid the biggest compliment in the world.
As soon as we’re past, I shake my head again.
“You brought us to a place where they know you?” I ask. “Why would you do that? Aren’t you dead?”
“Only the best for you,” he says. “That, back there—up there—was sensational.”
More deflection. Luke’s growl under his breath summarizes my feelings exactly. “Where are we?” he asks me.
I blink and know. “Hotel de Russie.”
“And its secret garden,” Sean supplies.
We walk into a terraced courtyard that’s one of the most beautiful spots I’ve ever seen. He escorts us farther in and up a set of steps, nodding to a waiter in a crisp uniform. Trees surround the terrace and courtyard, luscious and green. Every scent comes at my nose and I can’t bring myself to push them back.
Orange trees. Blossoms. The slightly chemical note of fountain water. The complicated bouquets of wine in the glasses of the people at the tables spread throughout the lower and upper levels. Fresh, buttery, oily pasta.
Sean slides into a seat at a table near the edge of the garden, where we have a view of the dimly lit tables around us and the courtyard below.
“Nice choice,” Luke says.
“My table,” Sean replies. “They hold it for me.”
“They still hold it for you.” I goggle. “But you were in Hell for five years, I take it?”
“More or less,” he says. “Or a lifetime.”
I’ve had it with the cute quips. We need answers.
The waiter bustles toward us with a tray holding three glasses and two bottles of wine. “White and red, your usual varietals,” he says to Sean. “Excellent vintages.”
“Leave them,” I say.
The server waits for Sean’s agreement and I consider demon-voicing it. The waiter discreetly vanishes before it comes to that.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” I say to Sean once he’s gone. “You answer a question, we open a bottle of wine.”
“Fine. Shoot.”
“She wasn’t finished,” Luke says.
I’m touched that he knows me well enough to catch that. “You answer another question, we pour ourselves a drink. You answer a third, you get one. Understand?”
Sean shrugs a shoulder languidly. A night bird in the tree above us sings what might be a paean to his beauty. Funny, that’s starting to wear on me already. Luke was a lot when I met him—cocky, beautiful, infuriating—but I never actually wanted to be rid of him.
I can’t wait to get rid of this guy. A problem, since we have to redeem him. I’m beginning to understand exactly where Lucifer gets his reputation.
“You also have to answer truthfully,” Luke adds. Then he looks at me. “You’ll know.”
Sean glances between us. “Interesting that she takes instruction from you.”
“She doesn’t, and it’s none of your business,” Luke says.
“Are you ready for your first question?” I ask to prevent the two of them from going full bicker-twins.
Sean leans back in his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Shoot. Metaphorically speaking.”
“What landed you in Hell?”
Sean considers. He leans forward and plucks the bottle of red up and across the table, a challenge. “I don’t think we’ve got that kind of time, love.”
I reach over and take the bottle back, returning it to our side of the table. “Can I make him talk?” I ask Luke.
His lips curl at the edges. “Your so-called ‘demon voice’ is also known as interrogation mode.”
Sean frowns. “Can’t I at least have wine with my torture?”
I shrug at Luke and he opens the bottle and pours a glass. But he keeps it on our side of the table.
“Why were you there?” I ask. “The short version.”
“I did some bad things.”
I don’t use interrogation mode, not yet. “I bet. Did you choose to come to Vatican City?”
He nods. “I did.”
“Why?” I don’t believe he just had a massive craving to do a fake exorcism.
“Since you asked nicely…” He pauses and I’m pretty sure it’s for drama.
“Go on,” I prompt, a slight hint of interrogation vibration in it.
More casual than a stroll in the park, he says, “I’m a Grail seeker. I figured this was as good a spot to start looking as any, and better than most.”
A Grail seeker. That’s a term tied to a specific relic. The Holy Grail. Also known as the Holy Chalice.
It hurts me to think too much about the Grail at the moment and although I try to locate it without meaning to, the site is obscured from view. I can’t tell where it is. Thankfully.
I don’t have to use any special powers to supply the other details about it. This one’s right in my occult knowledge wheelhouse.
The vessel Jesus used at the Last Supper, believed to be a cup or a serving platter or a bowl, depending upon the translation. Joseph of Arimathea used it to catch his blood at the crucifixion. In various traditions, the Grail is credited with the ability to grant immortality and provide healing, to offer up plenty and create peace. Supposedly a legend, but I learned with the Holy Lance that legends like this can be all too real. Why do I always seem to be in the path of people looking for them?
“Did you find it?” I’m fairly sure the answer is no, since I don’t know where he’d be hiding it. But I’ve learned you can’t be too careful where magical objects are concerned.
“Wasn’t there,” Sean says, and waves for the wine.
Shaken, I nod to Luke and he pushes the glass across the table.
“So not yet,” Sean says. “But I will.”
Sean picks up the wine stem with delicate fingers and drinks deep. I try to figure out what’s the best thing to ask him next. And how we broach his potential redemption.
Unfortunately, that’s when the shouting starts.