The spaces between the columns had been filled with walls made from bricks of solid gold. Those were just the backdrop. The backdrop.
The nearest case was filled with paintings by Italian Renaissance masters, all working in the theme of divinity, showing images of saints and the Virgin and the Christ. Veneziano. Donatello. Botticelli. Raphael. Castagno. Michelangelo. Freaking da Vinci. Maybe fifty paintings in all, each displayed as meticulously as they might have been in the Louvre, in protected cases, with lights shining just so upon them from oddly shaped lanterns that might have been made from bronze and that put out no smoke whatsoever.
Surrounding the paintings, framing them, was a variety of topiary shapes—except instead of being made from living plants, I saw, after several glances, that they’d been made from emeralds. I couldn’t tell how whatever craftsman had shaped them had done it. Hell, I could barely tell that they weren’t plants at all. A fountain poured water silently into a shining pool in the display’s center, but then I saw that it wasn’t water, but diamonds, tiny and shining, pouring out in streams that somehow gave the impression of liquid.
That fountain could have filled every backpack we’d brought with us, plus all the improvised containers we could manufacture from our clothes. Never mind the emeralds. Never mind the tons of gold. Never mind the hundreds of millions of dollars in priceless art, paintings that had probably been written off as lost forever.
That was only one of the displays. And, I realized, as I swept my eyes slowly around me, it was one of the more modest ones.
“Okay,” Ascher breathed, her eyes wide. “I don’t know if I’m about to pass out or have an orgasm.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. “Me too.”
Valmont shook off the awe of the place first. She strode over to the diamond-fountain, unzipped her backpack, and held it beneath the spigot in a matter-of-fact gesture, filling it as if it were a bucket.
“Seriously?” Ascher asked her. “You aren’t even going to shop?”
“Highest value for the weight,” Valmont replied tightly. “And they’re small enough to move easily. There’s no point in taking something you can’t sell when you get it back home.”
“But there’s so much,” Ascher breathed.
“Ascher,” I said. After a couple of seconds, I said, louder, “Hannah.”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Go tell Nicodemus that it looks clear. Let’s get our stuff and get gone.”
“Right,” she said. “Right. Gone.” She turned and hurried from the room.
I turned to Michael and the Genoskwa and said, “I’m going to do a quick circuit of the room with Valmont and check for anything else, just in case. Don’t wander anywhere until I give you the high sign.”
Michael nodded slowly. There has never been a backpack made that was big enough for the Genoskwa. But he had several military-style duffel bags looped to a long piece of cargo strapping like you see used on diesel trailers on the highway.
“Come on, Anna,” I said. “Let’s check for more booby traps.” I started walking. Valmont shouldered her pack and came after me. I lifted my staff as we went, pouring out more light, until Valmont had to squint against it, and we walked out of sight of the others. Our shadows faded to mere slips beneath the extreme illumination.
“What’s with the light show?” she asked me.
“Trust me,” I said quietly, and dropped my voice to a bare whisper, leaning down close to her ear. “When it starts, stay close to me. I’ll protect you.”
Her eyes widened and she gave me a quick nod without saying anything back.
I nodded my approval, then leaned my staff against another Corinthian column, putting enough effort of will into it to make the light continue issuing forth for a while. Then I put a finger against my lips, and beckoned Valmont to follow me.
I cut immediately through the displays to get to the amphitheater, and descended into it, heading for the stage, at the feet of the two enormous statues.
Valmont looked back at my brightly blazing staff in sudden understanding. Look, everybody, Dresden and Valmont are right there, see? Nowhere near the heart of the collection.
The amphitheater stage, in stark contrast to every other display in the vault, had no overwhelming riches, fantastic jewels, or precious metals. It was stark and bare, with a single block of silver-veined marble rising about four feet off the stage floor in its center.
And upon the marble sat five simple objects.
An ancient wooden placard, its paint so faded that the symbols could not be recognized.
A circlet woven from thorny branches.
A clay cup.
A folded cloth.
A knife with a wooden handle and a leaf-shaped blade.
Why take one priceless holy relic when you could take five of them?
And I knew exactly what relic Nicodemus truly wanted.
I turned to Anna and mouthed, “Check it.”
She nodded and hunkered down to examine the block, moving cautiously around it. Meanwhile, I extended my senses toward them, feeling carefully for any enchantments that might be protecting them.
That was a mistake. There weren’t any traps on the objects, but the collective aura of power around them seared my awareness as sharply as if I’d jammed a penny in an electrical outlet. I let out a hiss and leaned back, while my thoughts blazed with the energy focused upon those artifacts—a combined aura that made the thrumming power of a roused Amoracchius seem like a low-wattage lightbulb by comparison.
“My God,” I breathed, before I could remember to remain silent. “These are weapons.” I looked slowly around me. “This isn’t a vault. It’s an armory.”
Anna Valmont did not respond.
In fact, she didn’t move at all.
I stepped around the block and found her peering at its rear side, her expression focused in concentration. She was entirely frozen.
I then realized that the quality of the light had changed, and I looked up at the flames in the outstretched hands of the two Hecate statues. The flames had ceased flickering. They hadn’t gone out—they’d simply frozen in place.
The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t go up so much as they let out tiny, hirsute whimpers and started trembling as violently as the rest of me.
“You are, of course, correct,” said a basso rumble of a voice from behind me. “This is an armory.”
Slowly I turned.
A man in an entirely black suit stood on the amphitheater stage behind me. He was seven feet tall if he was an inch, with the proportions of a professional athlete and the noble features of a warrior king. His hair was dark and swept back from his face in a mane that fell to the base of his neck. His beard was equally black, though marked at the chin with a single streak of silver. His eyes . . .
I jerked my gaze away from those caverns of utter midnight before I could be drawn into them. My stomach twisted, and I suddenly had to fight not to throw up. Or fall down. Or start weeping.
“Wh—” I stammered. “Wh—wh— Are, uh, y-y-you—”
“In point of fact,” he said, “it is my armory, mortal.”
“I can explain,” I blurted.
But before I could try, Hades, the Lord of the Underworld, Greek god of death, seized the front of my duster, and a cloud of black fire engulfed me.