DAMON GOT OUT OF THE LIMO AND WALKED UP THE STONE steps, then stopped at the top, taking a minute to compose himself. It had been a long time since he’d been in a church.
The heavy wooden door creaked as he opened it, and the interior was dark. A few candles were burning in the entryway, and the glow from a portable lantern up near the altar beckoned to him. He was able to make out a figure in the dark.
“You’re right on time,” the man said, his voice reverberating.
Damon walked toward him down the carpeted aisle, toward the altar, feeling oppressed with all the murals of Christ and saints surrounding him. He was beginning to regret agreeing to meet here. He stopped a few feet from the man, whose features he could now make out a little. He was young, maybe in his thirties, and didn’t have a beard, which most priests did. He also looked to be in remarkably good shape.
Damon looked around the church, narrowing his eyes, to make sure that no one was lurking in the shadows.
“Did you bring the money?” the deacon asked him.
“Yes, of course. But I need to see them first.”
The man opened a small box, pulling out a velvet sack and placing it on the pew in front of him. Damon picked it up and opened it. Extracting one of the coins, he examined it and felt excitement course through his veins.
“Where’s the money?”
Damon looked up at him. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your money. After I make sure these are real.” He moved to one of the pews and laid out all ten coins. He took the vial of Evan’s blood he had brought and put a drop on each of them. Before he had even finished, he felt the heat emanating from them, and he watched, fascinated, as blue smoke billowed up from their surfaces, curling and rising until it formed a heptagram.
These were authentic! Damon picked them up and returned them to the pouch.
He walked back toward the priest.
“Here’s your money.” He pushed the large suitcase toward the man who opened it and looked inside.
The priest smiled. “Good doing business with you.”
Damon wasn’t about to turn his back on the man. “I’ll wait here until you leave.”
The man hesitated, began walking toward the exit, then turned back around, a gun aimed at Damon. “FBI. Put the coins down in front of you and you won’t get hurt.”
The two of them stared at each other a long moment, and Damon watched, amused, as the man slid a phone from his pocket. Before he could press a key, Damon pulled out a handful of coins and began to recite the words Friedrich had taught him so long ago. Within seconds, the man froze, his face contorting in agony, before he dropped the phone and clutched at his chest. His face turned red, and he began to wheeze. “What . . . did you do . . . Can’t breathe.”
Damon saw the shock in the man’s eyes.
He heard heavy footsteps outside. Someone was coming. He had to leave now, no time to wait to make sure the man died. He picked up the satchel with the money and ran up on the altar and through the hidden doorway inside one of the closets. He’d been alerted to the secret exit by Father Basil. Damon never did anything without the proper preparation. He’d come out two streets away with his driver waiting.
Now he only needed the last ten coins. And thanks to the good priest, he knew exactly where they were. They were all so stupid.
Father Basil was the latest in a series of well-intentioned clergy to be corrupted by the coins. When would Logan and Taylor learn to be wiser about who they trusted? He shook his head. Some people never learned.