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swallowed several times to work open her airway enough to speak. The man leaned forward, turning his ear toward her mouth as if he understood she was preparing to form words. It was clear he was used to having his commands obeyed. Isra tried to raise her head to bring her lips even closer to his ear. She wanted to make sure he heard her.
    â€œAs you wish.”
    He exploded from his seated position, and Isra could see his shadowed arm as it raised. She closed her eyes.
    But no blow fell, only the sounds of wood against stone again and a confused shuffle of footsteps and movement.
    â€œStan? What are you doing?”
    â€œYou shouldn’t be up. And why didn’t you tell me he had woken?”
    â€œI was coming to tell you now, yes? As you can plainly see, he would no do as I asked. Who is she?”
    Footsteps came close to her, and Isra tried to force her eyes open once more, hoping against hope as the conversation carried on in the room without her.
    â€œI don’t know,” her interrogator said. “But I’ve a feeling we’re about to find out.”
    Isra felt her hand being taken up once more, in a grasp that was rougher, larger than the palm of the man who had threatened her, and yet this touch was gentle, protective. At last she could make out bright blue eyes and the impossibly blond hair that now curled around chiseled cheekbones. She felt the painful welling of tears in her eyes.
    â€œHow are you feeling?” Roman Berg asked.
    Her throat convulsed and she had to swallow down the overwhelming emotion as best she could. “Your hair is long.” Her words were garbled, broken whispers, and yet she saw that he had understood her by his look of surprise and then the half grin that came over his lips.
    â€œIt’s been a while since last we met,” he conceded.
    â€œRoman.” His name was spoken in warning by the man behind him who had threatened her.
    His expression sobered. “I need to know your name. If I—we,” he corrected, “are to keep you safe, you must tell us how you found me, and why you are here.”
    Isra tried to roll her eyes around the room and look at the two men and the red-haired woman who had come to stand behind Roman. It was not hard to determine that the man with the long auburn hair had been her inquisitor; his eyes were haunted, his face haggard even from several paces away. The dark-haired man could have been from her own country, and yet Isra surmised he was the infamous Spaniard of the group by the sound of his accent when he had spoken moments ago. All three men, including Roman, were wearing monk’s robes.
    â€œYour friends?” she rasped.
    Roman hesitated a moment before nodding his head.
    â€œFrom Damascus?”
    He only stared at her, his lips in a line.
    Isra understood. “My name,” she whispered, trying to command her swollen lips and tongue to enunciate clearly, “is Isra Tak’Ahn.” She paused to swallow. “I’ve come because you must return to Syria.”

Chapter 2
    R oman sat at his spot at the large table in Melk’s secret library, the silence so palpable it seemed to press against his throbbing arm. Someone—Valentine? he hadn’t thought to ask—had stitched his wound, and now the muscles beneath it screamed and burned. He judged that he had lost quite a lot of blood by the way his head swam and his stomach roiled. But he had refused Stan’s order to return to his cell and his bed.
    Constantine sat in his usual chair, in his usual posture: forearms braced on the table, his hands linked, head down. He’d said nothing since he and Roman and Valentine had left Maisie Lindsey with Isra. Valentine sat to the right of Roman, attending his cuticles with a short blade while the three of them waited for Victor and Adrian to join them.
    They entered through the door that led to the gatehouse, the skinny old abbot preceding Adrian, who carefully pushed the