While they were celebrating in Moscow, Rome was a different scene. The Cardinal was in a fury, venting his frustration and helplessness.

  “I HAVE BEEN INSULTED! I HAVE BEEN CHEATED! CURSED LIFE!” he bellowed—loud enough, one might think, to be heard in all four pontifical basilicas.

  Santiago merely listened, patient and silent.

  “THEY’VE MADE A FOOL OF ME!” the prelate went on. “FIRST A FUGITIVE POPE… AND NOW A LOST BOOK…”

  He took a gulp of water, set the glass down with a bang, and glared at Santiago. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “I think, Your Excellency,” Santiago said, drawing a slow breath, “that we ought to start looking for that book.”

  “Now she says we should know, because he was here in our archives!” the Cardinal snapped, clapping his hands in exasperation.

  “In fact, Your Excellency, we allowed it,” Santiago replied. “And there’s something behind all of this that unsettles me.”

  “Why?”

  “Something sinister, Excellency. It would be best to… cooperate.”

  The Cardinal studied him; then, slowly regaining his composure, muttered with resignation, “How could we have done such a thing?”

  “We needed money, Excellency. RAGNOK arrived with a valise full of it; you gave authorization. But to the point: exactly what book are they talking about?”

  “I don’t know!” The Cardinal tore off his red zucchetto. “I never imagined there would be grave implications when I allowed that man into the Vatican Archives to do his research.”

  The Camerlengo pressed his lips, doubtful. “It would be useful to know what Merkel is really after—and what that book is they now want you to find.”

  The Cardinal lifted a shoulder. “We should speak to our paleographer in the library,” Santiago suggested.

  “I didn’t know we studied dinosaurs,” the Cardinal said, puzzled.

  “That’s a paleontologist, Excellency. Ours is a paleographer—a scholar of ancient manuscripts,” Santiago said gently. The Cardinal nodded.

  They descended to the Vatican Library, crossing the great barrel-vaulted hall painted in baroque frescoes, where shelves heavy with books and manuscripts lined the walls. Silence reigned, broken only by the cough of a researcher or the soft tread of a librarian. They followed a passage to a security post; a guard checked their credentials. Once cleared, they took an elevator down to the basement: the sealed archives, closed to the public save for those whom the Pope himself authorized.

  The doors slid open to a quiet corridor. They walked until they reached a glass door and pressed the bell. Inside, the scholar was moving along a row of stacks with books in his hands. He turned at the sound and came slowly to the entrance. The paleographer was a decrepit old demon with long, bony hands, a beard trailing near the floor, and joints that creaked like the rigging of an ancient galleon. His name was Cicero. He was a learned demon who loved his work; for centuries he had organized and guarded the popes’ libraries. After the entry protocol, he admitted them.

  “We need your help, Cicero,” Santiago said as they followed the old man pushing a stainless-steel cart with a couple of volumes atop it. “About a year ago an American, Victor Walder, came to consult the library… do you remember?”

  The old man stopped, thinking. “Oh yes. I remember. He was here, indeed—he came seeking a book. I asked what sort of manuscript, but he requested something very specific.” Cicero resumed walking, the casters squeaking. “Believe me, Your Excellency, I was perplexed. I have thousands of ancient manuscripts—from Egyptian papyri, Chinese tablets, and Mayan codices to rolls from the Library of Alexandria and late volumes of the eighteenth century.” He gestured at the shelves. “Yet he was interested only in our collection of modern books, and asked for a particular one. He examined it while taking from his backpack a manuscript that left me rather stunned… I don’t know how it came into his hands, but it appeared to be a copy of ?tzy’s book—so it is known among those who know of its existence—the ‘manuscript of the wolf,’ or ‘the lycanthrope,’ to the ignorant… or ‘of Saint Christopher the Cynocephalus,’ to the devout.” Cicero slid the books from his cart back into their proper places beneath the dim lights.

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  “What book is that?” the Cardinal asked.

  “It was written by the monk ?tzy of the British Isles,” Cicero explained. “Composed in an archaic script, it recounts the monk’s pilgrimage to Rome—where curiosity led him into the catacombs, and there he discovered an immense treasure, supposedly the spoils Rome kept after defeating a barbarian who had ravaged the Gallic provinces.”

  “Merkel chasing a treasure? Doesn’t he have enough?” the Cardinal scoffed.

  “Merkel—the prince of the Moscova? The DRACO magnate?” Cicero asked.

  The Cardinal and Santiago cleared their throats.

  “You know of him?” Santiago asked.

  “Everyone does,” Cicero replied. “A powerful demon of the accursed line; now a powerful Russian industrialist and politician, owner of DRACO—a concern involved in military technology… and certain controversial research. It’s on Wiki.”

  Santiago nodded.

  “Perhaps it isn’t the treasure he seeks, Your Excellency,” the librarian went on. “Rather, what’s hidden among the treasure.”

  “And that is?” Santiago asked, intrigued.

  Cicero removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and set them back. “Your Excellency, this is not the first time it’s been sought. Boniface VII searched for it, Philip the Fair, and later Heinrich Himmler through the Ahnenerbe. I myself received certain Nazis to whom His Holiness Pius XII allowed access to the archives—and that little detail nearly destroyed the world as we know it, this one and the other…”

  “What are we talking about?” the Cardinal demanded, impatient.

  “Unfortunately, Your Excellency, I am not permitted to say. Only that it is exceedingly delicate, exceedingly dangerous—and knowing Merkel, whatever his motive, it must be… very, very wicked.”

  Santiago’s interest sharpened; the Cardinal’s face was skeptical.

  “What book did the man consult?” the Cardinal asked.

  The old demon beckoned them along. They wove through aisle after aisle, turning corners in that labyrinth of volumes, until they reached a tall case. Cicero rolled a metal ladder into place, climbed, and searched among a cluster of books.

  “What twisted escapade is Merkel plotting now?” the Cardinal muttered under his breath.

  “Billionaires do love their eccentricities,” Santiago replied.

  Cicero drew out a book with care, inspected it, and exclaimed, “Eureka!” He descended and carried it to a nearby metal table. “This is the volume he consulted.”

  The Cardinal took it. “This isn’t ancient—it’s an edition from 1928,” he said, perplexed. “I was expecting a medieval manuscript or an Egyptian scroll.”

  “Indeed. Written in 1928 by Christian Higgins,” Cicero said. “It may well be the only complete copy left in the world.”

  “What’s it about?” Santiago asked.

  “It explains events that occurred centuries ago and were deliberately left out of history,” Cicero replied.

  “What events?” the Cardinal pressed.

  “I cannot say… I’m sorry, Your Excellency,” Cicero answered. The Cardinal narrowed his eyes. Cicero flipped a few pages and showed them an engraving: a title page depicting a werewolf in ecclesiastical robes, crozier in one hand, the other raised in benediction.

  “?tzy’s book,” Cicero said, touching it with a bone-thin finger.

  “And what became of that book?” Santiago asked.

  “That is what must be found, Your Excellency,” Cicero said—just as his phone began to ring. He excused himself to answer. The Cardinal folded his arms and shook his head.

  “Madness—all of it.”

  The Camerlengo took the book and leafed through it, studying the plates and drawings. One image, in particular, caught his eye: a Roman fresco showing legionaries hauling treasure, led by a general with a wolf’s head, a crozier raised in triumph. The Cardinal stepped closer to peer over Santiago’s shoulder.

  “What’s with the legionaries with wolf’s heads?” he asked.

  The old demon returned and shut the book with a clap. “Forgive me, Your Excellencies—my Uber Eats has arrived,” he said, taking the volume to be shelved.

  The Cardinal and Santiago stood speechless.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Cicero added, “I must seal the chamber… and fetch my order.”

  “I think it’s time we go back upstairs,” the Cardinal said at last.

  They were about to leave when the paleographer addressed him once more. “Your Excellency, a warning. That book is more dangerous than you imagine. The wiser course would be… to forget the matter. There are books which, once opened, unleash demons that cannot be stopped.”

  “Why didn’t you report the book’s existence?” Santiago asked.

  “I received direct instruction from the Holy Father’s office to keep everything secret.”

  The Cardinal flushed; he himself remembered signing the paper in the Pope’s name. Wozny shook his head and started out.

  “One favor, Cicero,” he said, turning back to the librarian standing in the doorway. “This must not be mentioned to anyone.”

  “Your Excellency, you offend me to suppose that Cicero would speak of this,” the librarian replied. “Especially that Merkel is seeking such a book.”

  The Cardinal squinted and withdrew. Cicero closed the door, then took out his phone, opened WhatsApp, and typed a few words. When he finished, he went to the entrance; a guard was arriving with a paper Uber Eats bag.

  Meanwhile, the prelate and Santiago stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed behind them, the Cardinal muttered, “I feel like a fool.”

  “We didn’t know what we were dealing with, Your Excellency,” Santiago said, pressing the button. The doors slid shut.

  “I can hardly believe what lies beneath this,” the Cardinal murmured.

  “The worst of it,” Santiago said quietly, “is that we now have to find that book—whether we like it or not.”

  The doors opened, and they stepped into the service corridor. The Cardinal halted.

  “Santiago,” he said, turning to the Camerlengo, “we need to learn what he wants that book for.”

  He strode off down the hall. Santiago watched him go, already turning over in his mind where to begin.