Chapter 28

  Richard’s upstairs study smelled of leather, smoke, and steel wool polish, I’s view of the ocean was epic. The curtains were drawn tight, but the room felt brighter for all the tension crowding its walls. The Vatican lawyers had arrived sleek and sure, dark coats draped like armor, briefcases embossed with golden crosses. They carried themselves as if the outcome was already written.

  Agents Halvorsen and Ruiz had followed them up the stairs, unwilling to leave the field. The four faced off across Richard’s heavy desk, with me, Steve, and Martha pressed to the edges like witnesses in a tribunal. Tudor prowled the bookcase, tail lashing, sensing every ounce of anger in the room.

  Out in the hallway, Candy and Nina hovered like nosy understudies who hadn’t been called on stage yet. Candy leaned in just far enough to whisper, “Should we bring popcorn, or would that be tacky?” Nina, pale but recovering, shot her a look and muttered, “Definitely tacky. But if you have kettle corn, I’m in.” Their voices carried just enough to break the tension, and for a heartbeat, I almost laughed—because of course my life had turned into a Vatican standoff with a side of snack commentary.

  I had no idea where Elizabeth had taken herself off to, but she was no where to be found.

  The older lawyer adjusted his spectacles and spoke as though the FBI were children interrupting his lecture. “This was a defensive action. Unfortunate, regrettable, but within bounds. Our mandate covers circumstances that are… anomalous.”

  Halvorsen’s jaw flexed. “Anomalous? You mean unlawful.”

  Ruiz leaned forward, hands braced on the desk. “Corwin Thorne was a trafficker. We had survivors ready to testify. Families waiting for justice. And now you stroll in with your leather folders and expect us to accept ‘anomalous’ as a cause of death?”

  “Not death,” the younger Vatican lawyer interjected smoothly. “Disappearance. And disappearance does not always mean guilt. This will be resolved under papal shield.”

  Richard’s voice cut through, quiet but hard. “Enough word games. You both know Corwin wasn’t simply a fugitive. He was something else entirely.”

  Ruiz snapped toward him. “And who made you judge and executioner? You think because you wear that accent and a tailored coat we’ll just let you rewrite the crime scene?”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed, ice on steel. “Better an executioner than a jailer with no bars strong enough to hold what he was.”

  The Vatican lawyers smirked like it amused them to see these warriors squabble. The older one began snapping the brass lock on his briefcase. “You can argue jurisdiction all day, agents, but the matter is closed. Reports will say: inconclusive. Papal shields will protect all parties involved.”

  That was when Steve finally moved. He reached into the inside pocket of his worn blazer —

  not hurried, but deliberate. From it he withdrew a small, time-darkened reliquary: a bronze medallion inset with a fragment of blackened wood, its edges worked with Latin inscriptions so old they looked carved rather than struck.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  The room went utterly still.

  The older lawyer froze mid-snap of his briefcase. His younger partner’s smirk faltered. Even Richard’s eyes flicked sharply to the token, recognition sparking.

  Steve held it up, his voice low but resonant. “This is the Sigillum Corvinus. My grandfather carried it into Verdun. My great-grandmother was asked by your own envoys to guard it in 1917 when the veil nearly tore over Europe. Before them, it was in the keeping of the Kr?mer line, the House of the Crow. Warren blood has held it for centuries. Do you understand? This isn’t yours to archive. It was entrusted — to us. And it give me supreme authority in this house, and over all who are here.”

  Martha touched his sleeve, her eyes shining with quiet pride.

  The lawyers exchanged a look — not panic, but recognition of authority. Then, with crisp precision, the older one withdrew another reliquary from his case: a silver cruciform locket, etched with the crossed keys of Saint Peter. He placed it on the desk beside Steve’s token, the metal catching firelight like a duel laid out in miniature.

  “This is the Petrine Seal,” he said, voice still smooth but tighter now. “It represents the authority of the Apostolic See. If you invoke your legacy, we invoke ours. Balance must be kept.”

  I turned sharply to my father. “Dad, what the *fuck*?”

  Steve opened his mouth, but it was Martha who answered. She set her teacup down with a steady hand and looked right at me. “These balances aren’t just politics, Sadie. They’re the scaffolding that holds the world together. Certain relics, certain bloodlines, certain vows — they counterweight each other. Too much in one direction, and the veil thins. Too much in the other, and powers break free. This is how it’s always been.”

  Her voice softened, but her eyes didn’t. “The Warrens don’t get to choose whether to play. We’ve always been part of the scale.”

  I glanced at Richard. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered there — the kind of knowing that went deeper than Martha’s words. He looked away first, jaw tightening, as if silence was safer than admitting how much more he knew about these so-called balances.

  The words settled like lead in my chest.

  Ruiz broke the silence, voice hard. “Balance? Families are still waiting for their loved ones to come home. You all want to talk about balance while pretending the blood isn’t real?”

  Something in me snapped. I stood, words tumbling out before I could stop them. “The blood

  *is* real. You want the truth? Fine. Corwin Thorne wasn’t just running humans like cargo. He was feeding something older, binding something in that attic. We stopped him because no one else could. And if his body’s missing, it means he isn’t finished.”

  The room went quiet except for my pulse hammering in my ears.

  Richard stepped forward, steadying the edges of my confession. “She’s telling you what your files will never admit. Thorne was no ordinary trafficker. He was a vessel for something you don’t have the vocabulary to prosecute. And if he rises again, it won’t be chains or subpoenas that hold him back.”

  Halvorsen’s pen stopped mid-scratch. Ruiz’s mouth opened, then closed, her fury tangled with disbelief.

  The older lawyer finally exhaled, palms folding over his briefcase. “Then it seems we have two duties. One — to safeguard against his return. Two — to provide settlement and closure for the victims left behind. Compensation packages. Foundations in their names. Quiet dispersals through diocesan channels. Their grief will be managed.”

  Ruiz spat the word back at him. “Managed? You mean bought.”

  “Settled,” the lawyer corrected, as if the right term could scrub it clean. “It is the most expedient path forward. Justice in the courts would expose too much.”

  Steve’s hand tightened over the medallion. “No papal shield can restore what was taken.” But the lawyers were already writing notes, drafting agreements like clerks at a bank.

  And I realized, with a sick twist of my stomach, that they would do it. They would bury it all

  — under relics, under signatures, under settlements written in numbers instead of names.