Chapter 5

Jordan's POV 

I froze with Caterina still warm and naked against me, her breath catching at Agnes’s voice on the other side of the door. My heart slammed against my ribs. One silly wrong sound and everything would unravel.

“Father Brick?” Agnes called again, sharper this time. “The bishop is waiting. Brother Thomas has disappeared.”

Caterina’s eyes widened in the candlelight. I pressed a quick, passionate kiss to her lips, then helped her slip out of bed. She gathered her habit with practiced silence while I pulled on my cassock, smoothing it as best I could. The scent of her and of us still clung to my skin.

“Coming, Sister,” I answered, my voice steady. “Give me a moment to dress.”

We waited, barely breathing, until Agnes’s footsteps retreated down the corridor. Caterina touched my arm one last time, her fingers trembling slightly.

“Find out what happened to Thomas,” she whispered. “I’ll try the archives again at first light.”

She slipped out behind me, vanishing into the shadows of the hallway like she belonged to them. I watched her go; one could notice she wasn't wearing panties as she walked. My chest was tight with something far more dangerous than lust. Then I headed toward the bishop’s private study, the stone floors cold beneath my bare feet inside my sandals.

The storm had worsened. Rain lashed the windows of the long corridor, and thunder rolled like distant judgment. Candles flickered in their sconces, throwing uneasy shadows that seemed to reach for me.

Bishop Hale was not alone. Signore Vittorio stood by the fireplace, a glass of dark wine in his hand. Sister Agnes waited near the desk, arms folded. The bishop himself sat behind it, looking older and more exhausted than he had that morning.

“Another one,” the bishop said without preamble. “Brother Thomas. He was last seen heading toward the belltower after evening prayers.”

I kept my expression neutral. “The tunnels again?”

Vittorio smiled thinly. “You seem quick to assume that, Father Brick.”

“I’ve heard things,” I replied. “And I was with Perpetua when she died. Her words… they linger.”

The bishop waved a hand. “Delirium. We have searched the obvious places. I want you to lead a small party into the upper tunnels at first light. Your connection with the younger brothers may prove useful.”

Useful. This was the same word that Agnes had used to describe me in the tunnels. I nodded. “Of course.”

As I left the study, my mind spun. Thomas had trusted me. If he was gone because of what he saw—the lights, digging, and voices—then my growing involvement with Caterina was putting her at greater risk too. Yet I couldn’t stay away from her. The feel of her body beneath mine, the way she whispered my name… It was becoming as necessary as breath.

Sleep was impossible. I returned to my cell, lit the candle, and sat at the desk. The loose page from the library still lay there. I studied it again under the weak light. The broken circle symbol. The repeated phrase about the saint.  

At some point I must have dozed off, because a soft knock woke me. The candle had burned low. I opened the door to find Caterina again, her face pale.

“Thomas isn’t the only one,” she whispered, stepping inside. “Another novice is missing. A girl named Lucia. They’re keeping it quiet.”

I pulled her close, needing contact. We didn’t make love this time. We simply held each other on the edge of the bed while the rain continued its assault outside. Her head rested on my shoulder, and I stroked her hair.

“I’m scared, Jordan,” she admitted softly. “Not just for them. For us. Whatever is under this place… it devours people.”

I kissed the top of her head. “Then we will face it together.

Dawn came speedily; I assembled a small group, two seminarians and an older priest, and we entered the tunnels with lanterns and ropes. The air was thicker today, heavier with moisture from the storm. Our footsteps echoed endlessly.

We found signs of struggle near the section where Caterina and I had been the night before. Scuff marks on the floor, a torn piece of Thomas’s cassock, and scratched into the wall with something sharp, a single word: "LIAR."

My stomach twisted. Was it a message for me?

We searched deeper, the passages branching like veins. One tunnel led to a sealed iron door I had never seen. Rust covered the hinges, but fresh scratches showed around the lock, which means someone had tried to open it recently.

“Father,” one of the seminarians called. “Over here.”

He had found a small alcove. Inside lay a rosary—Thomas's, I recognized the worn beads. Beside it, a pool of blood, still sticky.

The older priest crossed himself. “We should tell the bishop.”

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. The blood truth, the son returns, and Perpetua’s warning. Everything pointed back to the bishop and whatever crime this monastery had been built to hide.

We carried the rosary back. The bishop received the news with a grave face but little surprise. “Pray for their souls,” he said. “The devil tests us in many ways.”

As the day wore on, suspicion settled over the entire community like a shroud. I saw Safiya Brick in the courtyard interviewing lay workers, her notebook open. Detective Moretti was back, examining the tunnel entrance with a grim expression.

Caterina found me briefly in the library stacks during the afternoon. We stole a moment between the tall shelves.

“Any progress?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

She shook her head. “Agnes is guarding the restricted section. But I overheard her talking to Vittorio. They mentioned, "The archive must stay hidden," and "The heir cannot claim it.”

Heir!! The word sent a chill through me.

That night, after the community had gone to bed, I went alone to the abandoned chapel. I needed space to think. The altar still bore faint marks from our passion. I knelt there, not in prayer, but in something closer to desperation.

I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, expecting Caterina.

It was Sister Agnes.

She stood in the doorway, lantern raised. “You and the novice,” she said quietly. “I know. I’ve known for days.”

I rose slowly. “What do you want, Sister?”

“Truth,” she replied. “Or survival. Sometimes they are the same. The bishop is dying, Father Brick. And when he does, the secrets he guards will try to take all of us with him. Including you.”

She stepped closer. “Especially you.”

The storm outside reached its peak. Lightning flashed, illuminating Agnes’s old, tired face, carrying the weight of decades of silence.

I realized then that the real darkness wasn’t just beneath the monastery; it was all around us.