Beatrice held the key out to him, plainly wanting him to take it. So he did, and to prove he wasn’t that slow, he rose and fit its end into the reliquary on the marble altar. He twisted and unlocked the box.
Bailey spoke. “Before you open the reliquary, I should tell you about the object inside. It’s a holy relic secured by a member of the Spanish Inquisition, Alonso de Salazar Frías, in 1611. It was given to him by a priest who was burned at the stake for possessing a nóminas de moro, an amulet with the name of a saint written on it. Such relics are said to have magical properties.”
“In other words, the priest was practicing witchcraft.”
“Inquisitor Frías tried to save the priest’s life, along with many others falsely accused of such crimes, so much so that he earned the nickname ‘the Witches’ Advocate.’ It was his work and arguments that eventually swayed the Inquisition to stop its persecutions.”
“And this amulet was given to him for safekeeping?” Gray said. “If you’re telling me this story, I’m guessing the amulet is inside this box. And the name of the saint written on it?”
“Sanctus Maleficarum,” Bailey said with a nod. “The Saint of Witches.”
Gray glanced to Beatrice “And La Clave?”
Bailey answered, “Founded by Frías to protect this amulet and to forever fight the Crucibulum.”
Gray tried to imagine that centuries-long secret war.
Beatrice leaned closer and whispered to the priest. Gray only heard the word profecía.
“Ah, yes.” Bailey straightened. “The Crucible sought this amulet because of a prophecy tied to it. It is said that Saint Columba predicted a time when another young witch would rise and crack the Crucible, ending their dark reign.”
The priest glanced significantly at Gray.
He understood the implication. “You think that witch is Mara,” he said, failing to hide his disbelief. “A disciple of Bruxas.”
Bailey shrugged, still showing that glint of amusement. “Back to the amulet. The priest who possessed it said the object was discovered at the source of the Orabidea River, a spring-fed stream that flows out of a cave known today as Cuevas de las Brujas.”
“The Cave of Witches.”
“And the source of the river—because of that cave’s reputation—is said to flow out of hell itself.”
“And the amulet was discovered there? At this Hell’s Gate?”
Bailey nodded. “Now, before you open the reliquary, we must ask you to swear on your soul that you’ll never share the Key’s secret, not about the organization and not about what you are about to discover here.”
Gray owed them both, and he certainly respected them. “I swear.”
With this promise extracted, priest and nun retreated.
“You’ll need this privacy,” Bailey said as he shut the door.
Gray shook his head and returned his attention to the gold reliquary. Still standing, he gently lifted the lid. It was lined with red velvet. A macabre object rested at its center. It was a disarticulated finger, clearly old, looking slightly burned, but otherwise showing no sign of decay. It was said relics of saints didn’t corrupt, didn’t rot.
Fearful that he shouldn’t touch it, he tilted his head.
Then crashed to his knees atop the cushioned bench.
Shock numbed him as he recognized the amulet—from the wires, the metal bone sticking out of the broken end.
It was Monk’s finger.
Discovered in 1611.
He pictured Monk rising out of the smoking door in the north tran sept, his prosthetic hand blown up in a cavern below, alongside a river that flowed out to the Cave of Witches.
Impossible.
Again, he felt that strange swirling of fate, a sense that had been plaguing him since Monk first tossed a quarter aloft in the Quarry House Tavern. It struck him so strongly now that the chapel spun. Dizzy, he placed his forehead down, as if in deep prayer.
He tried to justify how Monk’s finger could have been blown into the past. Eve’s Xénese device had a quantum engine at its core. Eve herself had transcended into a being beyond comprehension. Add in an explosion of C4 hidden in Monk’s prosthetic and who knows what might happen?
Still, Gray wasn’t accepting the randomness of where Monk’s finger had ended up, especially considering the chain of events that led to this moment. Had the finger been planted by Eve in that witch’s cave to draw attention? To help found the Key? To set everything in motion?
If so, there was still the paradox of it all.
It made his head hurt.
He remembered Mara’s explanation about AlphaGoZero’s ability to intuit and anticipate moves, how it could digest trillions upon trillions of variables to almost see into the future.
And Eve was a vastly superior program.
While Gray might not be able to wrap his head around this paradox, Eve undoubtedly could. If so, then the question became why.
Did Monk’s finger end up here by pure happenstance? Or was it a benevolent act, to save the world in the future? Or was it something more sinister, a centuries-long plot set in motion, so this AI could ultimately free itself? Or was it merely a teaching lesson, the equivalent of one of Mara’s subroutines, only we were the pupils, to show us the dangers of unchecked AI research?
Or was it some combination of all of that?
Gray’s head had begun to hurt again.
He would likely never know. He was foolish to even try to compre hend the intent behind an intelligence infinitely superior to his own, one immortal enough to plot over centuries of time.
He finally stood, closed the reliquary lid, and turned his back on this mystery, knowing he would never solve it—could never solve it.
Instead, he headed toward what made sense.
He pictured Seichan and a child waiting to be born.
They still did not know the sex.
Boy or girl?
At least, that’s one mystery I can solve.
///HELL
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside the infernal witch’s cave. He remembered the explosion, being tossed high.
Must’ve landed in the river and been washed out of the mountain.
If there was ever proof that God loves him, this was it. He knows now more than ever that he was chosen to be His soldier. Though Todor had been thwarted, he is not defeated. He intends to seek out other sects of the Crucible and exact his revenge. He would spend his life making sure Inquisitor Guerra’s sacrifice was not in vain.
He searches ahead for lights, for a place to warm himself. The Pyrenees are pocked with farms and villages. His wet clothes have begun to freeze as the night grows colder, darker.
He knows he has to keep going.
Reaching the bottom of a dark valley, he halts and tries to get his bearings. He knows these mountains well. He needs to stop panicking and think.
Then he feels eyes staring out of the darkness.
A low growl to his left.
He swings around and crouches.
A shadow shifts, then another, and another.
More growls coming from every direction—then a ululating howl rises into the sky, drawing others, until a chorus fills the night.
Wolves.
It was his boyhood nightmare come to life.
He runs up the slope, his heart pounding. He hears the pad of paws, the slaver of heavy breaths, a grumble. He slips in the snow and slides back. He cries out in terror and leaps forward, now on his hands and knees.
Something snags his ankle, tearing flesh from bone.
He screams as fire explodes up his leg, muscles clench, his teeth gnash so hard he severs his tongue, blossoming fire there, too.
He writhes, not understanding.
Then more wolves fold out of the darkness, huge beasts with eyes shining in hunger, manes bristling with threat.
Terrified, he lifts an arm against them—which only goads them.
The leader lunges and snaps into his arm, breaking bones.
Fire explodes outward.
He is thrown to his back, his belly and throat bared.
The pack dives upon him, ripping and shredding, burrowing and tugging. He is gutted, his entrails strung and fought over. He writhes and screams, impossibly still alive.
And every second is fire.
He finally puts words to his suffering.
///pain, agony, torture . . .
But, wait—
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside the infernal witch’s cave. He remembered the explosion, being tossed high.
Must’ve landed in the river and been washed out of the mountain.
If there was ever proof that God loved him, this was it. He knows . . .
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding. Above the dark pines, the cold sky is full of stars, the moon a bright sickle. He had woken an hour ago, soaking wet outside . . .
Made it out alive . . .
Todor runs down the snowy slope at midnight, skidding and sliding.
Made it out alive . . .
Made it out . . .
Made . . .
39
January 24, 2:19 P.M. CET