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his feet, he saw the old scar on his brother’s wrist, a match to his own. Despite the impossible, it was indeed Christian.
    “Are you hurt?” his brother asked him.
    How did one answer that when one’s life was unhinged in a single moment?
    Still, he managed to shake his head.
    Christian led him back to the kitchen, to the table where the remains of his last meal still sat. He settled Arthur to a seat, then picked up the empty bottle of pinot noir.
    “Nice vintage,” he said, taking a sniff at the bottle. “Good oak and tobacco notes.”
    Arthur found his voice again. “Wh . . . what are you?”
    Christian cocked an amused eyebrow—a look that ached with the memory of their shared past, as perfectly preserved as the rest of his features. “You know that already, Arthur. You just must let yourself accept it.”
    Christian reached to his leg and unhooked a leather flask. Branded into its surface were the crossed keys and crown of the papal seal. Christian took Arthur’s empty goblet, filled it from the flask, and pushed it back toward him.
    Arthur stared warily at the glass. “Wine?”
    “ Consecrated wine,” Christian corrected. “Turned by the holy act of transubstantiation into the blood of Christ. It is what I’ve sworn to drink. It’s what sustains me and my brothers and sisters.”
    “The Sanguinist order.”
    “The blood of Christ allows us to walk in daylight, to do battle with those who haunt the shadowy corners of the world.”
    “Like the Belial.” Arthur remembered Simeon’s sharp teeth.
    “And others.”
    His brother found another goblet from the kitchen, filled it, and joined Arthur at the table.
    Arthur took a sip from his glass, tasting only wine, none of the supposed miracle it held. But for the moment, he accepted this truth.
    Christian lifted his own goblet, drank deeply, then raised his glass. “Seems we’re blood brothers yet again.”
    This earned a shy smile from Arthur.
    Christian reached over and clinked his glass against Arthur’s.
    “To you, my industrious and persistent brother. I told you before that you would make an excellent journalist.”
    “You knew what I discovered.”
    “I’ve never stopped watching you. But your efforts stirred up a hornet’s nest. There are those—even in my own order—who need secrets.”
    Arthur remembered Simeon’s words about the Belial.
    Our darkness cannot thrive in the light.
    It seemed the Sanguinists needed those shadows, too.
    “For your safety,” Christian said, “I tried to warn you.”
    Arthur could still smell a slight scent of gardenias. “The orchid.”
    “I had to be subtle, using a means of communication that only you would understand. I had hoped you’d abandon this line of inquiry on your own, but I should have known better. When you didn’t, I couldn’t let anyone harm you.”
    “You saved my life.”
    Christian grew momentarily pensive. “It was only fitting after you saved my soul.”
    Arthur frowned at this.
    Christian explained. “It was your love, our bond as brothers that finally broke me down enough to seek out the Sanguinists and what they offered, a path to service and redemption for my sins.”
    Arthur flashed to the burning church, to the priest in the doorway.
    Christian brightened again, straightening his spine. “So I saved your life, and you saved my soul . . . let’s call it a wash.”
    Arthur asked other questions, got some answers, but others were denied him.
    He slowly accepted this and the need for such secrets.
    Finally, Christian stood. “I must go. You should check into a hotel for a couple of days. I’ll send someone over—someone I trust—to fix your window, to clean up the place.”
    In other words, to get rid of the body.
    Arthur followed him to the door. “Will I see you again?”
    “It’s forbidden,” Christian said, his eyes a mix of sadness and regret. “I’m not even supposed to be here right now.”
    Arthur felt a pang that threatened to break his already old