The Judas Strain - James Rollins [10]
Vigor followed the larger man into the closet.
“We also used the room to store some of our tools.” Balthazar waved to the bottom shelf of one rack. “To keep them from getting underfoot.”
Vigor shook his head, growing tired from the heat and the heaviness of his heart. “I don’t understand. Why then was I summoned?”
Something like a grumble echoed from the man’s chest. “A week ago,” he said, “one of the guards chased away someone snooping about.” Balthazar waved a hand to encompass the closet. “In here.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” Vigor asked. “Was anything stolen?”
“No, that’s just it. You were in Milan, and the guard scared off the stranger. I just assumed it was a common thief, taking advantage of the confusion here, with the comings and goings of work crews. Afterward, I posted a second guard up here, just in case.”
Vigor waved for him to continue.
“But this morning one of the art restorers was returning a lamp to the closet. He had it still switched on when he entered.”
Balthazar reached behind Vigor and shifted the door closed, shutting out the light from the other room. He then clicked on a small hand lamp. It bathed the room in purple, lighting up his white coveralls. “We use ultraviolet light during art restoration projects. It can help bring forth details the naked eye can miss.”
Balthazar pointed to the marble floor.
But Vigor had already noted what had appeared under the lamp’s glow. A shape, painted crudely, shone on the center of the floor.
A curled dragon, nearly turned upon its own tail.
Vigor’s breath choked in his throat. He even stumbled back a step, trapped between horror and disbelief. His ears roared with the memory of blood and screams.
Balthazar placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “Are you all right? Maybe I should have better prepared you.”
Vigor stepped out of the man’s grip. “I…I’m fine.”
To prove this, he knelt closer to inspect the glowing mark, a mark he knew too well. The sigil of Ordinis Draconis. The Imperial Royal Dragon Court.
Balthazar met his eye, the whites glowing under the ultraviolet. It was the Dragon Court that had burned this tower two years ago, aided by the traitorous former prefect of the Secret Archives, Prefetto Alberto, now dead. It was a story Vigor had thought long ended, finally put to rest, especially now with the tower’s phoenix-like rise from the smoke and ashes.
What was the mark doing here?
Vigor knelt with a crick of his left knee. The mark looked hastily sketched. Just a crude approximation.
Balthazar hovered at his shoulder. “I studied it with a magnifying loupe. I found a drop of restoration paste beneath the fluorescent paint, indicating it had been recently drawn. Within the week, I’d guess.”
“The thief…” Vigor mumbled, remembering the start of the story.
“Perhaps not just a common thief after all.”
Vigor massaged his knee. The mark could only be of dire import. A threat or warning, maybe a message to another Dragon Court mole in the Vatican. He remembered Balthazar’s message: A most horrible and wonderful discovery has been made. Staring at the dragon, Vigor now understood the horrible nature of that message.
Vigor glanced over his shoulder. “You also mentioned discovering something wonderful in your note.”
Balthazar nodded. He reached behind and opened the closet’s door, allowing in a flood of light from the outer room. With the brightness, the phosphorescent dragon vanished off the floor, as if shunning the light.
And Vigor allowed a long breath to escape with it.
“Come see this.” Balthazar knelt beside Vigor. “We would have missed this if not for the dragon painting on the floor.”
He leaned forward on a palm and reached out with his other hand. His fingers brushed across the bare stone.