Then paused.
It took another breath to recognize why she had stopped. She felt it in her chest before it reached her numb ears.
A low thump-thumping.
Then a crunch of snow only a yard away.
A figure rose out of the pall ahead of her, parting the snow like a veil, her features as white as fresh powder, her jacket the silver of ice, her blue eyes as piercing as the coldest mountain lake in winter.
Here came the Snow Queen.
Seichan put her trust in that thump-thumping and flicked her pistol higher. She squeezed the trigger twice. The Magnum’s blasts were explosive enough to knock a tuft of snow from the overhang. It added to the pile already covering her and Harriet.
It was that white blanket that had hidden them from Valya, long enough for Seichan to get off those shots.
The Snow Queen had been betrayed by snow.
The rounds both struck Valya—one to her chest, the other grazed her cheek, slicing across that black sun. She tumbled backward, disappearing again into the snowfall.
Then the skies lit up brightly.
Helicopters—flying in dark above the cloud bank—ignited brightly. Five of them, all becoming cold suns dropping through the snow. Ropes snaked down, and figures plummeted earthward, already firing at the ground.
A line crashed only a yard away.
Then boots.
A figure rushed to her.
She stared up at an impossibility.
She shivered and quaked. “P . . . Painter . . . ?”
“Figured if anyone was holding the high ground, it would be you.”
More men landed behind him, rushing forward with blankets that steamed in the cold. She passed them Harriet.
“Help her.”
As gunfire chattered all around the hilltop, Painter hauled her up. She was too weak to stand and fell into his arms. “H . . . how?”
“Kat,” he said, tossing a blanket over her shoulders. “She gave us a license plate to a van registered to a remote farm neighboring the Monongahela National Forest. With a team already in position, we got here immediately. Then we spotted a smoldering cabin with infrared. I knew that had to be your handiwork. After that we saw heat signatures converging on this hill.”
“Kat . . . then she’s okay.”
Seichan wanted to cry with relief, but Painter remained silent too long.
She looked up and read the truth in his eyes.
Oh, no.
3:18 P.M.
Lisa placed her palm on Kat’s cheek, noting her friend’s skin had already gone waxy. The helmet had been shoved back, allowing Lisa to lean forward and hug her friend one last time before they took her away.
“You did it,” she whispered in Kat’s ear. “Both your girls are safe.”
“Is it okay to shut everything down?” Julian asked.
She and the two researchers had been keeping vigil at Kat’s bedside, awaiting word from Painter. The good news had come a moment ago.
She straightened, stared at the flatlined EEG, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Good-bye, Kat.
Julian turned off his monitor. Dr. Templeton started to do the same—then stopped, abruptly enough to draw Lisa’s eye. The molecular biologist stumbled back from her station.
“L . . . look . . .” Susan stammered.
On the monitor, the thousands of motes flickered, one after the other, each switching from dull red to a bright green, shining far brighter than ever before. As they all watched, the motes swirled and shifted on the screen, settling slowly into distinct fractalized spirals across her cerebral cortex. Some patterns seemed to impossibly fold into her brain, the shapes defying any retina to interpret, aching the eye.
Julian gasped and pointed to the EEG.
While mesmerized by the transformation, the EEG had awakened, all the channels dancing erratically.
“What’s happening?” Lisa asked.
3:20 P.M.
The enormity of the light scattered the darkness.
Kat gasped, overwhelmed, consumed by that brightness. The light was both energy and substance. It flooded through her, leaving nothing unlit or hidden. She had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, yet so safe.
A voice filled her, music and language in perfect harmony. It contained no words she was capable of uttering. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced, just knowledge and certainty.
She never wanted to stop listening.
Then laughter at this thought, so bright and full of happiness.
The best she could interpret of what was told to her paled to do it justice. It boiled down to: Monk sends his love. For some reason, this thought came with an image of a beautiful stallion carved of light.
Then a command that she could never deny.
Now wake.
She opened her eyes, though her lids were heavy and leaden. She blinked at the glare. The light was only the tiniest fraction of what had lit her a moment ago. Still, it stung.
Faces formed out of that glare.
Two strangers with shocked expressions.
And one she knew well.
Lisa . . .
Kat tried to speak but couldn’t. She reached an arm up to remove whatever was blocking her throat. Lisa caught her wrist and held it, bringing her palm up to her own cheek.
Kat felt the hot tears.
“Welcome back,” Lisa said, her expression trapped between a smile and a sob. “Welcome back from the dead.”
38
December 27, 10:06 A.M. CET
Logro?o, Spain
The next day, on a bright, crisp morning, Gray followed Father Bailey into a dark church. The priest had summoned him to the small city of Logro?o, eighty miles southwest of San Sebastián.
Monk had already left for the States an hour ago after being treated the previous night for the gunshot wound to his shoulder. Kowalski went, too, accompanying him as a nurse. Doctors had wanted to do surgery in San Sebastián, but Monk opted for a patch job so he could catch the next military transport back to D.C., anxious to return to Kat and his girls.
Gray shared that same restlessness. He only agreed to this detour after hearing that Seichan was doing well, recovering from exposure and hypothermia, with maybe frostbite to two toes. Their child was also miraculously fine after so much trouble. As Seichan had said on the phone: definitely your kid, no paternity test necessary.
So, Gray had tolerated this summons, though Bailey still refused to say what this was all about, remaining annoyingly cryptic. He only told Gray to join him here at the Church of Santa María de Palacio in Logro?o. Gray had read up on the place on his short hop to the city. The church was one of the oldest in the region, founded in the eleventh century. It was a mix of Romanesque and Gothic styles, with a prominent pyramidal tower.
But Father Bailey had not brought Gray here to admire its architecture.
He led Gray across a nave, past a cloister, to a small chapel sealed with a door of oak and straps of iron.
Bailey opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”
“I don’t understand,” Gray said, growing exasperated. “Why did you summon me?”
Bailey’s eyes sparkled with an amusement that still reminded him of his old friend Vigor Verona. “It wasn’t me,” he said and waved Gray inside.
He stepped through to discover the chapel wasn’t empty.
Sister Beatrice rose from where she had been kneeling before a row of candles. She nodded solemnly to Gray and motioned him to take her place. Not to be rude—and still somewhat intimidated by the nun—he obeyed. He sank down atop the cushioned kneeler.
Beyond the candles, a gold box rested atop a marble altar. The object was distinctly Gothic with much filigree. Its precise finery captured and reflected the flames of the candles, making it look as if it were on fire. It was a masterful illusion. He now understood why this chapel had been sealed so stoutly. This box had to be priceless.
“It’s a reliquary,” Bailey explained. “A chest meant to hold the precious relic of a saint.”
“It’s beautiful, but why—”
“The saint revered by this reliquary is Saint Columba.”
Gray glanced back sharply.
The patron saint of witches.
Sister Beatrice stepped forward, lifting her hand from the silver handle of her ebony cane. Gray remembered her felling the traitorous Zabala with that stout stick. Her swift action had saved not only Monk but likely the world.
She held out her hand.
A symbol had been pressed into the palm’s center. He glanced over to her cane, guessing its silver head had left that distinct impression on her skin.
From a pocket, she pulled out an old key and placed it atop the mark on her palm; the two were a perfect match.
A key . . . ?
Then Gray stiffened as he understood. “Sister Beatrice . . . you’re a member of La Clave.”
The Key.
Beatrice bowed her head in acknowledgment, though she gave Bailey a slight roll of her eye, as if to say, Christ, this kid is slow.
Gray frowned at the priest. “She’s been your contact all along?”
He shrugged, his eyes still sparkling.