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assistant bowed his head in deference. “Our people found this at the site of the most recent murder.”
    Ambrose stepped to his desk and held out his arm. Slowly, he turned his hand over and uncurled his fingers.
    In his palm rested a knife. Its curved blade resembled a tiger’s claw. The sharp hook bore a hole in one end, where a warrior could thread a finger through, allowing its wielder to whip the blade into a thousand deadly cuts. It was an ancient weapon called a karambit, one that traced its roots back centuries. And from the patina that burnished its surface, this particular blade was ancient—but this was no museum piece. It was plainly battle scarred and well used.
    Bernard took it from Ambrose’s hand. The heat against his fingertips confirmed his worst fear. The blade was plated with silver, the weapon of a Sanguinist.
    He pictured the faces of the murdered girls, of their throats sliced from ear to ear.
    He closed his fingers over the burning silver.
    Of all the holy order, only one Sanguinist carried such a weapon, the man who had vanished as the murders began.
    Rhun Korza.

4
    December 18, 4:32 P.M. PST
    Santa Clara County, California
     
    Astride her favorite horse, Erin cantered across meadows turned golden brown by the dry California winter. Responding to the slightest shift of her weight, the black gelding lengthened his stride.
    Attaboy, Blackjack .
    She kept her horse boarded at a set of stables outside of Palo Alto. She rode him whenever she got a chance, knowing he needed the exercise, but mostly for the pure joy of flying over fields atop the muscular steed. Blackjack hadn’t been ridden in a few days and was bouncy with energy.
    She glanced back over a shoulder. Nate rode not far behind her, atop a gray named Gunsmoke. Growing up in Texas, he was a skilled rider himself and was clearly testing the mare.
    She simply let Blackjack run out his high spirits, trying to concentrate on the wind across her face, the heady smell of horse, the easy connection between herself and her mount. She had loved riding ever since she was a little girl. It helped her think. Today she wondered about her visions, trying to figure out what to do about them. She knew they weren’t just PTSD. They meant something more.
    In front of her, the edge of the sun touched the top of rolling hills.
    “We should head back soon!” Nate called to her. “Sun will be down in another half hour!”
    She heard the trace of anxiety in his voice. Back in Rome, Nate had been trapped in darkness for days, tortured in those shadows. Night probably held a certain terror for him.
    Recognizing this now, she knew she shouldn’t have agreed to let him come along. But, earlier in the afternoon, after failing to reach Cardinal Bernard by phone, she had headed out of her office to burn off some of her anxiety. Nate had asked her where she was going, and foolishly she had allowed him to accompany her.
    These last months, she had trouble saying no to him. After the tragic events in Israel and Rome, he continued to struggle, even more than she did, although he rarely spoke about it. She tried to be there for him, to help him bear the memories that had been thrust upon him. It was the least that she could do.
    In the past, their relationship had been an easygoing one—as long as she pretended not to notice his attraction to her. But since she had fallen for Jordan, Nate had retreated into remote professionalism. But was it because of hurt feelings, anger, or something else?
    Sadly, after tonight, it probably wouldn’t matter.
    She inwardly sighed. Maybe it was just as well that Nate had accompanied her on this ride. This moment offered her the perfect opportunity to speak to him in private.
    She slowed Blackjack with a slight tension on the reins. Nate drew alongside her with Gunsmoke. He grinned at her, which broke off a piece of her heart. But he had to be told. Better to tell him now, before Christmas break, to give him time to get used to the