The Fallen (5 page)

“The day we reward those who murder within our faith,” the Cardinal
replied coldly from the other end of the room, “is the day we should call for the Catholic faith to be brought to an end.”

“Then perhaps we should end our faith right this moment,” said Adansoni, going to sit in his chair, defeated. Casado called out to him before he could do so.

“Why say such a thing, Javier?”

“Murder in the name of our faith?” replied Adansoni, turning his eyes from his old friend back over to Strettavario. “The Inquisition. Remember the Inquisition, and what it is they do on a daily basis in the name of our faith.”

FIVE

R
OME
. I
TALY
.

As she fled, all Isabella could taste was fear. Night had fallen across the city with alarming speed, plunging it into an almost instant purple darkness.

She sprinted along the river bank and up the stone staircase at the far end, onto the bridge above, her breath snatched, every twenty paces looking back over her shoulder to see if they were still on her tail. And as she ran, Tacit's name echoed over and over in her ears, though whether as a tribute or a warning she did not know.

Isabella knew she had one advantage over her pursuers, small though it was. She knew the capital well. Her Chaste assignments within the city, coaxing errant hands and snatched kisses from wayward Priests, had taken her to the more unfrequented areas of the city, the dark streets, the paths rarely travelled. She would lead her pursuers into the labyrinthine parts of Rome, the twisting confusion of side-streets, courtyards and alleyways, which could confound and bind the unwary. She would try to lose them there.

There was no question who was chasing her. She had recognised them from the moment she'd laid eyes on them through the grey dusk, their black uniforms, their ruthless demeanour, the way they acted without hesitation
or doubt. But still she could find no explanation as to why, in the open heart of Rome, the Inquisitors had behaved so brazenly? Even the Inquisition had rules. Even it didn't gun down Priests and agents of the Chaste without good reason. What had the man who had toppled mortally wounded from the bridge done that was dreadful enough to demand his public execution? Why was his dying word the name of the man Isabella loved? And why did witnessing the shooting bring its own death sentence?

Isabella's light fleet feet barely made a sound as she sprang across the Via dell' Olmetto and plunged into the darkness of the street beyond. She was no longer cold from the river. Instead, she was chilled with fear. She had not felt like this since Arras, when Tacit …

As she ducked right down a side-alley, a handgun exploded behind her and a piece of masonry burst from the wall beside where she was running. She ducked beneath it, her hair sprayed with masonry and dust, unable to contain the cry of alarm from her throat, and turned into the alley immediately on her left, crouching low as she went.

There was a six-foot wall in front of her and she threw herself over the top of it, taking a moment to look back before she dropped down the other side. Four men. Robed. Hooded. Dark-featured.

Isabella raced up the alleyway into which she had dropped, climbing broad cobbled steps lined with slate. It was cold and dark, every shadow suggesting another Inquisitor lying in wait to reach out for her. She sprinted along it with reckless speed, taking the steps three at a time, her lungs burning, pleading for her to stop. But to do so would be the death of her. She knew that much.

There was a ladder to her right and she leapt onto the third rung and climbed, reaching the top moments before the Inquisitors reached its base. Two men went after her, bounding up the rusted iron rungs, the ladder groaning under their weight, the remaining Inquisitors taking another route, hoping to head her off at the far side of the building.

Across the roof tops Isabella ran, her arms held wide as if on a high wire, hoping not to lose her balance and plunge to the dark streets below. She reached the far side of the building, where, faced with a seven-foot gap between her and the building opposite, she took her chance, clearing it and landing on the other side. But her momentum carried her forward and she rolled onto the tiles beyond. At once she felt the roof sag and buckle beneath her. Seconds later, the aged rafters gave way, the tiles cracking and splintering in a circle around her, before plummeting Isabella downwards, down into the room below.

The air filled with clouds of choking masonry and plaster, clinging to her nostrils and choking her throat. She shook the dust from her hair and stars from her eyes, gathering herself gingerly to her feet. Through the hole above an Inquisitor appeared, levelling a revolver at her. She spun aside as the round buffeted the floor, and hurled herself through an open doorway.

There was a window at the far end of the corridor into which she had run, and she burst through it, not caring where it led, whether there was a dramatic drop beyond it or not, just desperate to get away from her pursuer. She thrust forward, her eyes closed, her arms held out in front of her, glass and wood splintering in every direction. She tumbled out onto a sloping roof and rolled and slithered down it, her hands and clothing ripped by the shattered window, coming to a halt at the edge of the eaves. An eight-foot drop onto the street below greeted her and she threw herself into space, sinking onto her haunches to cushion the fall. She was powdered white with plaster dust, as if she had risen from the dead.

And she was also aware of eyes on her. An Inquisitor towered over the ashen woman, smiling a wicked broken smile as he pointed his gun at her skull.

SIX

B
ERLIN
. G
ERMANY.

Something loathsome howled in the dark of the bedchamber, a voice more like a dog's than the young child's it should have been. The guttural noises were coarse and profane, an abuse to the ears, and there were words woven within the noises, indistinct and masked. And the words were as putrid as the stench from the tiny person strapped to the bed.

“It's a child,” muttered the Priest to the exhausted Inquisitor waiting in the shadows outside the bedchamber, wiping the beads of sweat from his lined brow. “No more than eight years old. An only child.”

If the Inquisitor felt any sympathy for the little one, he did not show it. “Eight? For how long has she been like this?”

“He. And this is the third day.”

“When were you first alerted that something was wrong?” The Inquisitor's tone was pressing.

“At first the smell. We thought something had climbed under the floorboards beneath the bed and died. We took some up but …”

“You found nothing?”

The Priest nodded and looked back to the open door as the howling changed to yelps, like those of jackal around a kill. “We thought it prudent to send for the Inquisition after the second day, when the child's condition worsened.” He looked across at the Inquisitor, into his searching eyes. “Rages. Profanity. Bleeding from orifices.” He swallowed, his throat dry, and ran his tongue across his chapped lips. “We bound him to the bed after the first day, to protect him and the others within the dormitory, and isolated him after the second.”

The Inquisitor's fingers curled into a gloved fist. “You should have sent for the Inquisition on the very first day. Not left this child to the torment of the beast within him.”

“I heard you were overstretched. I didn't want to bother you.”

“We are stretched, but we would have come.”

A long high-pitched shrieking cry wound out of the room, suddenly stifled, after which a longer stream of profanity tore from the child's lips.

“Good Lord,” muttered the Priest, his hand clamped firmly to his mouth. “Saints preserve us.”

“I suspect they won't,” replied the tall man next to him, moving half a step to his right to allow him a view into the bedroom. He saw it then, the possessed child, a mottled and twisted shape, blackened and sickly green as if the plague had taken him, strapped firm to the bedposts by greying bonds tensed tight against every corner of the bed. The fourth victim he had visited this very week.

“I have been told that this is the third occurrence of possession just today within the city,” muttered the Priest. “Can it be true?”

“I am not at liberty to say. Leave me to do my job.”

The Inquisitor moved towards the open door, but the Priest caught hold of his wrist.

“There were seven last week. I know. Priests talk.”

The Inquisitor turned briefly to look at him, saying nothing, his eyes searching the dark places of the terrified Priest's face.

“I fear this is the start of something,” trembled the Priest, “with so many possessions within the city, something is coming. He is gathering his strength to return.”

The Inquisitor looked back to the open door. Instantly the child's eyes latched malevolently onto him, as if the mention of the Devil had drawn his evil gaze. It pierced the Inquisitor with a glare, its blue oily maw turning upwards into a dripping toothless grin.

“The Holy See,” said the Inquisitor. “They know, and they are doing all they can to help.” Without another word the Inquisitor strode quickly into the room, his case clutched firmly in his hand. Seconds later invisible forces slammed the door of the bedchamber shut behind him.

SEVEN

R
OME
. I
TALY
.

“You should never have run,” the Inquisitor grinned, pointing his gun at Isabella. She could see his left ear was missing, torn fragments all that remained from a previous mission. “It would have been easier if you hadn't.”

“Easier for whom?” asked Isabella, watching his finger whiten against the trigger. She shut her eyes and turned away grimacing, waiting for impact.

The mechanism turned over and jammed. Isabella heard it and, like a flash, lashed out with her foot, knocking the Inquisitor off balance. He swore and ejected the snagged round, slamming the chamber shut, moments before Isabella struck him as hard as she could on the leg with a lump of discarded wood. The revolver fired wide as the Inquisitor's tibia snapped under the blow and he went down with a pained cry, his free hand clutched to his shattered limb.

Isabella sprang to her feet and kicked out again, booting him hard in the side of the head, feeling the force of her blow run the length of her leg and gather like a jolt in her thigh. The Inquisitor went over with a groan, rolling onto his front and lying still, the gun spinning out of his hand. She snatched it from the ground and turned the very instant two more Inquisitors dropped into the street from the roof above her. She fired twice, killing both instantly before they had a chance to level their own weapons at her.

Staring aghast at the lifeless bodies lying before her, Isabella let her gun hand drop slowly to her side. She'd murdered two people. She'd killed them with such ease and without a moment's thought.

What have I done? What have I become?

Darkness swept into her mind, spinning every sense into a bewildering whirling frenzy; unconsciousness beckoned her. The revolver trembled against her thigh before slipping from her fingers and clacking onto the flagstone floor.