Staked

“Rosicrucians have a long and occasionally dark history—are you already familiar with them?”

“I’ve heard the term before but don’t know very much about them.”

“They’re a secret society that began in the early fifteenth century. They influenced Freemasonry and plenty of other societies that pledged themselves on their face to the betterment of society but kept their methods for achieving that behind closed doors. Some of them—I should say many of them—were genuinely trying to make things better, and I think that they did in some cases. They had a philosophy and despised the corruption of the Catholic Church, and they thought their mucking about with the mysteries of the universe was entirely honorable. We still have some Rosicrucian orders scattered about today, or other secret societies that claim no formal ties but were clearly influenced by them. The thing is, some of these groups—or, rather, offshoots of them—were cauldrons of evil, you know? Dudes made up their own secret societies and wore the term Rosicrucian to give them respectability, but underneath that lurked horrors, like a syphilitic dick hidden under a blanket. They would say they were dedicated to the sciences, but that really meant that they were pursuing alchemy and trying to learn dark secrets. You remember that Werner Drasche’s powers were given to him by an alchemist and that he later killed his creator, so to speak? Well, I got a good look at his tattoos back in Toronto. On the very top of his pate, in amongst the alchemical symbols, was a Rose Cross.”

“Oh. So some kind of Rosicrucian bad seed created the arcane lifeleech.”

“Yes. And it’s a safe bet that these Rosicrucian wards are going to be nasty. In fact, given that they most likely exist to protect Theophilus and we know of his connection to Werner Drasche, we can practically guarantee it. Let me throw another name at you: Ever heard of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?”

“Golden Dawn—yeah. Wasn’t that the group with Bram Stoker, William Butler Yeats, and Aleister Crowley?”

“Yes. They were influenced by Rosicrucian mysteries as well. Very much into that, as well as into Hermetic Qabalism.”

“Hermetic Qabalah as opposed to Jewish Kabbalah?”

“Yes. A different system. More syncretic with other traditions. But their ceremonies still have the Tree of Life as their basis, so if you’re going to do something major—like ward three buildings—you probably need more than one person working on it.”

“Meaning there might be a bunch of Rosicrucians nearby.”

“Exactly. Let’s take a closer look at those wards.”

We descended the steps and crossed the piazza to examine the wards, hounds trailing behind us. In the magical spectrum we saw points of light in what appeared to be a random distribution, but after our recent conversation I was able to spy a pattern.

“Look here, Granuaile,” I said, pointing near the boundary of the ward but being careful not to touch it. I traced my finger in a lightning pattern. “See this? Ten points on the Tree of Life. And interlocking with it on all sides are more trees. It’s a Qabalistic ward. The Hermetic kind, I’m guessing.”

“Yes, I see. But what does it do?”

“That I do not know. We can see people going in and out of the stores here without a problem. I’m betting that it’s a ward specifically to mess with Druids. And I’m nervous about it because I remember when the Hammers of God confronted me in Tempe and essentially cut off my ability to bind anything. So I’m not anxious to stick my finger into this particular socket.”

“Well, you told me that you are on better terms with the Hammers of God now after Toronto. Why not give them a call and see if they can take this down? I mean, we don’t absolutely have to go after the vampires today, right? We can wait for a bit of help?”

“Yes. That’s an outstanding idea.” I pulled out my new burner phone and punched in Rabbi Yosef Bialik’s number from memory. He answered in a sleepy voice—it’s not early afternoon in Toronto but rather closer to six in the morning. “Hello, Rabbi? Atticus here. How soon can you and your friends get to Rome?”

CHAPTER 25

After Atticus convinces the rabbi to fly to Rome as soon as he can, we have the rest of the day and a night to kill. It’s just as well: Neither of us is 100 percent healthy, still recuperating after our assorted run-ins with gods and the undead. We decide to shift elsewhere before the vampires wake up for the night, but we take our time returning to the Villa Borghese. We make a date out of it, visiting a charcuterie to fulfill my promise to Orlaith and delight Oberon in the process. I’m not super-familiar with Rome; I had to get instructions to find the Piazza di Spagna—so Atticus shows me a few things and we get espressos at one of the ubiquitous caffè bars that pepper the city the way Starbucks peppers Seattle. I love the clink of saucers and cups and the gurgling hiss of steam wands frothing milk over the music of the Italian language. When we get to the Villa Borghese it’s about an hour before dusk, and as we’re walking to the tethered tree we see a familiar figure walking toward us.

“Oi! Well, at least findin’ ye wasn’t the nightmare I expected,” a deep growly voice says. “Didn’t have to take a single step onto that dead land.”

“Hello, Owen,” Atticus says. “We were just about to leave. What are you doing here?”

“Lookin’ for you. I have news, good and bad, and some of your bollocks.” He tosses Fragarach to Atticus in its scabbard, and the leather strap flaps in the air. Then he tosses a plastic bag to him, which Atticus catches and examines.

“Oh! My new documents. Thanks. It’ll be good to have a bank account again. Huh—Connor Molloy. Not bad.”

The archdruid’s face twists into an ugly sneer and he spits to one side. “The good news is that Werner Drasche is finally dead. Greta killed him.”

“Oh, wow. That is good news! But wait—are you saying Werner Drasche was in Flagstaff?”

“That’s exactly what I’m feckin’ saying to ye, lad. And before Greta killed him, but very shortly after Hal Hauk brought your documents there and raised a toast to your bloody arse, Werner Drasche brought seven vampires with him and shot up our house. Now, why do ye suppose he’d do a thing like that?”

“Oh, no. I bet it was retaliation for Berlin.”

“What’s Berlin?”

“A city in Germany. I unbound nineteen old friends of Theophilus there, but he escaped. He must have told Drasche to strike back however he could.”

“So he hopped on a plane and came straight for us.”

“I guess so. Was anyone hurt?”

Owen’s fists clench at his sides and he shouts, “Yes, someone got hurt! Hal Hauk is dead, ye fecking shite-heap! Because of you! He was there to deliver your new identity and then he took a silver bullet to the brain because of something you did in Berlin! And the father of one of me apprentices was killed too!”

Atticus shrinks back under the onslaught. It’s awful, terrible news, and I see that it hits him hard. Especially since it was delivered with such a large load of blame.

“Oh, gods,” he says. “What can I do? Is there a service to be held, or…?”

“It’s been held already. I just came from there. And I have a message to deliver from the pack—packs, I mean, both Tempe and Flagstaff. You’re banished, lad. If ye enter their territory again, they’ll try to kill ye. They’re not going to hunt ye or set the world’s packs on your tail. But ye can’t ever go back. And Magnusson and Hauk won’t be your firm anymore after they finish what business they have with ye. Time to get some new attorneys.”