“The soldiers put on him a crown of thorns and he was scourged and received condemnation from Pilate, and he was crucified at the place of a skull and two thieves with him, and they gave him vinegar to drink with gall, and Longinus the soldier pierced his side with a spear.”

—Gospel of Nicodemus, the Apocrypha

 

“We may be destroyed, but if we are, we shall drag a world with us—a world in flames.”

—Adolf Hitler, quoted in The Last Days of Hitler by Hugh Trevor-Roper

 

“I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses… Choose life, so that you and your children may live.”

—Deuteronomy 30:19

 

 

Prologue

Dust motes danced in the dim light that filtered through the narrow window high above. Johannes Schell leaned closer to the antique book and squinted at the faded gold leaf title on the cracked spine. Incunabula, books printed before 1500, were his specialty, but this one was a puzzle indeed. He could barely make out the imprinted words and he couldn’t pull it down from the shelf until he was clear what he might be working with. It would have to wait until later.

With a frustrated sigh, Johannes pushed his glasses higher on his nose and pulled out the logbook tucked under one arm. He noted the book’s approximate location before moving on to the next potential mystery.

The Austrian National Library Archives in Vienna housed over twelve million items in its various collections. How many of them were in this wing — or even in this storeroom — was unknown. Johannes had been assigned by the head librarian to this particular area, which had lain untouched for too long and desperately needed reorganization.

The previous archivist’s failing health had resulted in a slackening in documentation and correct storage protocols, and Johannes had inherited disarray and chaos. Decades of unsorted acquisitions overflowed from cabinets around him, spilling haphazardly into every corner, and while sometimes it felt like an overwhelming task, he also sensed a glimmer of excitement at what treasures he might uncover here.

These centuries of books, papers, and curiosities revealed the story of a once-glorious and powerful empire now reduced to a modest republic. There might be personal diaries, obscure philosophical tracts, and hand-drawn maps of vanished borders buried here. Ephemera that might hint at the dark secrets of those who pursued Empire and glory, but inevitably ended up as dust and ashes.

These documents were more than just records of the past. If he could recover long-buried insights, Johannes could ensure these memories lived once more. He might experience, even for just a moment, the long-forgotten thoughts of another person reaching out across the years. The power of words on paper never failed to thrill him, although, of course, most of what he picked through every day were dry books and dull papers, records and receipts that left even the most passionate historian cold.

The hope of discovery was enough to keep him sorting and cataloging, paging through brittle manuscripts and breathing in the dust of generations past. But some days Johannes knew he was losing the battle against entropy’s steady creep, as rot and decay devoured humanity’s attempts at immortality.

He shifted a teetering pile of leather-bound journals to reach the shelf beyond. As he gingerly tugged out the diary of a little-known seventeenth-century astronomer, the bookcase shifted slightly.

Johannes steadied the heavy oak structure, then peered around it to see what had caused the movement. A small iron latch was just visible against the wood molding and Johannes could make out the dark outline of a door.

He frowned. This door wasn’t on any of the maps he knew of, but the building had been reconfigured multiple times over centuries. As the number of artifacts and manuscripts piled up, old rooms had been filled, their doors closed and not opened again for decades. Perhaps the previous archivist had just piled a load of stuff in there, shut the door, and forgotten about it.

The room probably contained nothing of value: piles of tax records or vehicle requisition forms, the repetitive diaries of unknown Viennese aristocrats.

Or perhaps there might be something far more intriguing.

Johannes looked down at the pile of books he was meant to catalog today. There was no mystery to be solved in those, but the thrill of possibility awaited behind this strange door.

He took a deep breath, shunted the bookcase sideways, and squeezed into the gap to inspect the door more closely.

Dust streaked his jacket, but he barely noticed. His heart pounded as he placed a hand on the wood, considering what might lie behind. He was Howard Carter at the entrance to the tomb of Tutankhamun. He was Flinders Petrie before the Temple of Karnak. After all, the great archaeologists didn’t know what they would find until they made their most famous discoveries.

Johannes pushed, then gave the door a shove with his hip.

A faint click sounded within the wall. The narrow door opened a crack, dislodging dust that billowed into the surrounding air.

Coughing a little, Johannes eased the door open just wide enough to squeeze through sideways.

It was pitch dark inside.

He fumbled for a light switch and flicked it on.

As a single bulb buzzed and brightened, Johannes felt the crest of excitement — but his heart sank at what lay within.

The space was the size of a child’s bedroom. Perhaps once a cleaning store cupboard, it was now filled to the ceiling with accounting boxes of moldy cardboard and a few metal filing cabinets that looked many decades old, perhaps from the Second World War period.

It was musty and damp and smelt of decaying paper, old wool, and metal polish. The boxes were stacked so close to the door that Johannes could hardly get into the room. All of this had to be dragged out and examined more carefully. Most likely, these were discarded bureaucratic records that could be shredded and scrapped before the room was used for new archives. Johannes sighed. His curiosity had led to even more hours sorting through even more boring paperwork.

Then he noticed a gap between the stacked boxes.

Johannes peered through, pulling out his trusty pen torch and shining it into the space beyond.

Three suitcases lay piled one atop the other. Next to them, a woman’s green beaded handbag, a couple of brass-handled walking sticks, and a child’s wooden rocking horse, its paint faded, its mane grey with dust. In one corner stood a dressmaker’s dummy swathed in a dress of lace and satin, moth-eaten and spider-webbed.

These must be personal effects, maybe from a wealthy Viennese family caught in the violence of the 1940s and hastily hidden in the hopes of retrieval after the war.

Once again, Johannes considered his options.

Technically, according to the rules, he should retreat and call in help to move the boxes, before investigating officially and documenting everything along the way. But no doubt someone in senior management would take credit for the find, and he would lose access to it completely.

His curiosity drove him on. There might be something far more interesting in the suitcases. He would report it, of course, but he wouldn’t know what to report unless he investigated further.

Johannes slowly shifted a tower of bulging document boxes to make a narrow path between them. He edged his way into the back section of the room, folding himself through the restricted space until he reached the personal effects.

He ran his fingertips over the top suitcase and tried the latches.

They clicked open, and he pulled up the lid.

Johannes gasped at the sight of a crisp red Nazi flag folded within, the swastika clearly visible. He lifted the edge. An iron cross medal lay on top of a stack of papers and photographs bearing the eagle insignia of the Third Reich.

Remnants of Europe’s most devastating war were not uncommon in Vienna. Most were in official archives, protected from being sold to those who idolized the Führer, those who still wanted the change he sought to deliver at the expense of the lives of millions. In these modern times, Europe was once again on the brink of a wider war, spreading out from conflict in the East. With a refugee crisis and ongoing economic struggles, some chanted the same slogans and urged the same actions as the Nazis, even if their words were thinly veiled with nationalist rhetoric.

As a historian, Johannes was devoted to preserving his country’s past, even when it repulsed him. But he didn’t have to enjoy doing it.

He closed the lid and lifted the suitcase from the pile, then opened the one beneath. Inside was an old machine nestled among yellowed maps and spiral notebooks, its black casing dulled by time.

Johannes recognized it instantly as a device used to encode wartime messages. The Allies had broken its cipher, although the Nazis didn’t realize the fact until it was too late.

It was an Enigma machine.

He’d never seen one in person and the device was smaller than he expected, less substantial than its historic weight. The series of rotors on top, each marked with letters of the alphabet, were now frozen in place. The adjacent keys were yellowed with age, the letters on them faded but still discernible. Johannes could almost hear the clacking of those keys in a dark, smoke-filled room, encoding messages that directed movements of troops and U-boats, carrying orders that would change the course of the war.

The Enigma machines had facilitated Nazi conquest in the early years of the war, their impenetrable cipher crucial to Blitzkrieg dominance. The efficient encryption also shrouded SS directives for deportations and mass murder in concentration camps, as the engines of genocide fired up in the Final Solution.

British and Polish code breakers finally cracked the secret messages after years of failure, and once Germany lost their advantage, the tide turned, and the Allies began to take back ground.

Johannes reached out and carefully gripped both sides of the machine. He lifted it out and tilted it to check underneath for a maker’s mark or inspection stamp.

Faint engraving marked the box as from the Berlin factory of Heimsoeth & Rinke. A valuable unit indeed, most likely used by intelligence or high command.

A rustle came from within as he moved the machine.

Johannes tilted it once more. There was definitely something inside.

He placed the machine down and inspected the wooden sides and base. As he ran his fingers over the smartly dovetailed joins, he sensed subtle irregular bumps on the bottom.

He pressed along the seam. A faint click came from within as a slim panel shifted. A shallow, hidden drawer popped out with a folded and yellowed piece of paper nestled inside.

Heart thudding and hardly daring to breathe, Johannes gently unfolded the corners of the paper.

The handwritten German note was hard to make out, and what he could discern made little sense as it was in code. But the drawing on one side made Johannes’s heart beat even faster. It depicted a Roman spearhead beside a stark SS lightning rune.

He knew that spear. It lay in the Schatzkammer, the treasury of the Hofburg Museum, within walking distance of the library he stood in right now.

It was the Heilige Lanze, the Holy Lance.

The Spear of Destiny.

 

 

Chapter 1

The chill of winter hung heavy in the air as Morgan Sierra pushed open the ancient wrought-iron gates of Wolvercote Cemetery on the outskirts of Oxford, England. Skeletal branches of leafless trees loomed over the gravestones as she walked slowly along the winding path. Her boots crunched softly on the thin layer of frost that clung to the carpet of dead leaves as the harsh caw of a crow broke the silence.

The cemetery in its winter shroud was bleak, but in the sheltered root system of an old oak, Morgan spotted the fresh green shoots of early snowdrops. She couldn’t help but smile at nature’s optimism.

The seasons would turn again, and ‘this too shall pass,’ as Ben used to say, quoting the old Persian adage that summed up the ephemeral nature of life. Ben had never been afraid of death, even though it had come for him violently in the end, and while Morgan thought of him often, she needed him now more than ever.

She finally reached the corner of the cemetery reserved for monks and friars. Father Ben Costanza’s simple headstone was unassuming but dignified, as befitted a Dominican monk who spent his life in service to God and his students at Blackfriars College.

Ben had been a close friend of her mother’s and had promised to protect the family after her death. But he had been far more to Morgan than a teacher and mentor.

She sighed, her breath misting in the air. As she stood amongst the tombstones, it seemed that death crept ever closer. Her parents were long gone — her mother from cancer, her father from a terrorist bomb. Her husband, Elian, had been killed in a hail of bullets on the Golan Heights when they served together in the Israel Defense Force. And Father Ben, whose death came in the wake of an ARKANE mission he should not even have been involved in.

The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience (ARKANE) Institute specialized in solving religious and supernatural mysteries around the world, and Morgan had joined them a few years back as an agent. She had thought the work would answer some of her deeper questions, but her curiosity about what lay beyond the veil of the visible world only multiplied with each mission.

She curled her fingers around a small, smooth pebble in her pocket, then placed it gently on top of Father Ben’s grave next to all the others. Each stone already there was a symbol of her many visits, her unspoken conversations, her respect for the man she missed so much.

She reached out to trace the engraved letters on the headstone and whispered a prayer to the god Ben believed in. The harrowing events of the ARKANE missions had never shaken his faith, and Morgan wished he was here now. She needed his advice, because she felt lost in a darkness that sank deeper into her bones every day.

A sudden gust of wind whipped around the cemetery. She pulled her coat tighter around her as the memory resurfaced.

She was back in the dimly lit chamber of the Northumbrian citadel, the air thick with the stench of decay and ancient dust. Morgan struggled to escape the bonds of shadow that held her to the altar as the Black Anchorite loomed above her.

His skin was a mosaic of grafted dead flesh, writhing under the flickering torchlight. His breath wheezed, each inhalation a theft of life, each exhalation a death rattle, as he offered her an unholy gift of immortality.

He wrenched the tainted miracle of a heart from his chest. The blackened, pulsating organ dripped with blood as its dark veins curled toward her.

Morgan’s heart pounded, her palms sweating, as she remembered those final moments — the pull of the heart’s corrupt power, the visceral smell of blood and incense — before she found the strength to throw the cursed organ into the flames.

But the words of the Black Anchorite still echoed in her mind, words spoken as his cursed flesh collapsed into dust and fragments of bone.

“For what you have destroyed, you will suffer a blood torment that time can never heal…”

As his rasping breath faded, Morgan shivered in the chill of the cemetery.

Her partner agent at ARKANE, Jake Timber, had been there in the moments after and dismissed the curse as an empty threat. But he did not experience the power of the heart or glimpse the true dark nature of the Black Anchorite.

The curse was real. Morgan was sure of it.

In recent days, she had submitted to a battery of tests in the ARKANE medical labs, but they found nothing. No markers in her blood, no new mutations, even though drops of tainted ichor had burned her skin.

Father Ben had always given her a fresh perspective, weaving his deep religious faith with an encyclopedic knowledge of the occult and supernatural.

“What should I do, Ben?” Morgan whispered.

She closed her eyes and imagined standing in his old study at Blackfriars, drinking his special blend of chai. In answer to any question, he would pull down a book from his extensive collection and quote some long dead theologian or philosopher.

Morgan sighed, her breath a cloud of vapor in the frigid air.

If she was honest with herself, she knew what Ben would say. ‘Take another step forward, and trust that you will figure it out along the way.’ While Ben had his doubts about some within ARKANE, he had never doubted Morgan.

He had also left his extensive collection of books to the ARKANE library, which lay within the Institute’s labyrinthine complex under the Museum of Natural History in the centre of Oxford. Perhaps she might find some answers there, and it was at least a practical next step.

Morgan took one last look at Ben’s grave, then turned away, her footsteps quicker now as she traced the path back to the lych-gate.

As she reached the boundary of the cemetery, the threshold between the dead and the living, her phone rang.

The shrill tone pierced the atmosphere of silent reverence, and she walked quickly outside the gate toward the road beyond. She fumbled in her pocket, her fingers numb from the cold, and pulled it out.

She took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Jake. I’m just on my way back.”

“You’re still in Oxford?”

Morgan could hear his concern. They had been through so much together and even though there was much unspoken between them, their bond was close.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m going to search through Ben’s old books and see what I can find about blood curses.”

“That’s going to have to wait. I need you with me in Vienna.”

Morgan turned to look back at the cemetery, imagining the peace of the dead beneath the earth. How easy it would be to join them.

“Can someone else handle this with you? I need more time to figure out this curse.”

“The Black Anchorite is dead, Morgan. The heart was burned. But the world doesn’t stop.” Jake’s voice softened. “I know you. You’re stronger than any curse, and we’ve faced down worse together. This is what we do. Besides, I know you’re going to want to be part of this.”

His words piqued Morgan’s curiosity. “Why? What do you have?”

“An old letter hidden in a long lost Nazi Enigma machine. A letter about the Holy Lance, the Spear of Destiny. Come to Vienna and you can see it for yourself. It’s only a few hours’ flight. You can be here by early evening.”

Morgan hesitated a moment, but the familiar quickening at a new mission outpaced her fear. It would be another step forward, at least.

“I’m on my way.”

As Morgan hurried down the road, her stride grew more confident, more purposeful. Each step away from the grave was a step back into the world of the living, a world of supernatural mystery, of ancient relics and obscure secrets.

She would join Jake in Vienna, and perhaps he was right. Perhaps the curse was nothing at all.

 

 

Chapter 2

Later that evening, Morgan stepped out of a taxi by the Schatzkammer, the Imperial Treasury of Vienna. It was even colder here in the capital of Austria, and Morgan tightened her coat as she looked around the deserted square.

The regal Hofburg Palace complex resonated with the echoes of a bygone era. Statues of gods and lions stood as silent sentinels, once representing the power of the Austro-Hungarian Habsburg dynasty and now consigned to history. The wind carried whispers of centuries past, of power and intrigue that once pulsed through the heart of an empire that commanded most of Europe. Now its glory was gone, its majesty faded like ink in the dusty records of history.

The treasury loomed ahead, its entrance a grand gateway emblazoned with intricate gold and russet designs along with a regal coat of arms. A single streetlamp lit a path to the gateway.

Jake Timber stepped out of the shadows, a thick coat covering his muscular frame. Morgan walked over to meet him, a smile on her lips.

Jake was her partner agent at ARKANE, but he had also become far more than that over their many missions together. They had saved each other’s lives countless times, and their shared history gave them a bond that strayed into feelings neither would speak aloud. They had both lost so many loved ones that neither of them was ready to tempt fate again.

“Glad you could make it.” Jake grinned, and the faint corkscrew scar above his left eyebrow twisted a little. “I know the mystery of the Spear will take your mind off that curse.”

“I’m certainly intrigued. Legend says the Spear belonged to Longinus, the Roman centurion who pierced the side of Christ on the cross. But there are many other relics that claim to be the real spear, so why are we interested in this one?”

As they walked through the gateway into the square beyond, Jake pulled out his phone and tapped through to an image of a yellowed page.

“This was found inside a previously undiscovered Enigma machine, decoded easily with modern decryption software. It’s a letter from an SS officer to Heinrich Himmler, but I want you to see the relic first and make your own judgment before I tell you what it says.”

The SS lightning runes on the letter sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine. Despite the decades since the Nazis had been thwarted in their attempt to kill every Jew in Europe, those who still upheld the principles of the Third Reich cast a long shadow once more. There were many who said the conditions in Europe now mirrored those in the 1930s, when Hitler’s party cast a destructive spell over the most cultured of nations.

As agents of ARKANE, she and Jake followed threads of religion and violence woven across centuries into modern day mystery. Blades still pierced the flesh of the living, just as the lance had pierced the side of Christ, and some wounds never heal completely.

Jake led them to a nondescript entrance in the corner of the square. Two stony-faced security guards in immaculate uniforms stood by the door, next to a far more enthusiastic young man. He was tall and slender with a lopsided grin, and wore a brown corduroy jacket flecked with dust. As they approached, he thrust out his hand to shake theirs.

“I’m Johannes. I found the letter that brings you here on this mysterious quest, and I shall be your guide to the Spear of Destiny.”

His eyes lit up with excitement as he spoke and his hands trembled slightly as he pointed the way inside.

Morgan and Jake followed Johannes inside the halls of the treasury. The rooms were dimly lit to preserve the colors of the regal and sacred artifacts within. Glass cases shimmered in the muted light. They were almost works of art themselves — constructed of carved and gilded wood, lined with faded velvet — as if each one cradled not mere physical objects but time itself, encapsulated in gold and gemstones.

Portraits of solemn-faced monarchs peered down from the walls, their names wielding great power within their lifetimes but now forgotten, as all must one day be.

Johannes walked on past cases filled with the regalia of power: crowns that had graced the heads of emperors, scepters that once directed the fate of nations. He pointed up at a picture of a corpulent king in splendid robes.

“The Habsburgs were not just rulers; they were the architects of hundreds of years of European history. They orchestrated political marriages that linked kingdoms, and their strategic alliances and conflicts set the stage for the modern political and cultural landscape. The peace treaties, the shifting of power, the art and architecture you see across Europe — all lead back, in some way, to the Habsburgs.” He sighed and shook his head. “Vienna was once a great power, perhaps even the center of the world. It’s hard to believe that now.”

He led them on to rooms filled with reliquaries, each precious for their gold and jewels, but more spiritually treasured for the fragments of bone and blood — the relics of saints — that lay within.

Morgan noticed a Baroque reliquary bust of St Matthew, rays of gold encircling his head in a halo, his face contorted in a silent scream of martyrdom.

A fourteenth-century reliquary originally from Prague lay in a nearby case, its gilded peak reaching toward heaven. The central glass cylinder held a single tooth encased within filigree of gold, hanging suspended on a thread.

Morgan frowned at the unusual object and bent to read the label: The tooth of John the Baptist. That was… interesting.

She still found the Catholic obsession with bodily relics strange, even after so many ARKANE missions centering on them. Raised in Israel by her Jewish father, separate from her Catholic mother, her own tradition focused on the unseen and the spiritual, an intangible god without form or physicality.

Perhaps the relics were part of a human need to see and touch objects of belief, to make tangible the divine stories that shaped faith. Like Thomas placing his fingers into the bleeding side of the resurrected Christ, these objects gave the faithful an anchor.

But the question remained: how many were body parts of random dead people sold by a corrupt church, and how many were real relics with a power that could touch the physical realm?

Morgan would have once said that all relics were fake, a way for the church to control the masses. But after what she had seen on her ARKANE missions — in the temple at Abu Simbel in Egypt, at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, and in the heart of the citadel — it was clear that some relics held great power. It was just hard to find them in a labyrinth of counterfeits. Which would this Spear of Destiny be?

Johannes spun around as he led them into another room, its walls a dark burgundy hung with more portraits of dead royalty.

He waved his arms with a flourish. “Behold the imperial regalia.”

The Imperial Crown rested in the middle of the room in its own case, raised up on a dais and spot-lit so its jewels reflected facets of light. It was a kaleidoscope of color, almost gaudy with bright stones and gleaming gold. The Imperial Orb lay in a nearby case, alongside scepters and the Imperial Sword of St Mauritius.

These symbols of power and dominion over millions of people and lands stretching across Europe now sat largely ignored in their display cases. Evidence that temporal power is transient and even the greatest empires must fall, even if those who rule them believe they never will.

Johannes pointed at a case in the corner of the room. “Here are the most important religious relics of empire, including the Heilige Lanze, the Holy Lance, known as the Spear of Destiny.”

The display case was dominated by a huge gold cross encrusted with jewels, an eleventh-century vessel made to hold the precious relics. On its left lay the Heilige Lanze, and on the right, the Particle of the True Cross, a piece of wood encased in precious metal.

The Spear was smaller than Morgan expected, but then it was merely the point, without the long shaft needed to wield the weapon. It was a fusion of steel and iron, strong enough to bear the weight of its own legend. Its metal was aged to a dull sheen and it was bound with wire in a decorative pattern, with a band of silver and gold covering its midsection. Strands of wire anchored a nail, said to be from the hand of Christ crucified, into its tip.

Morgan bent to examine the Spear more closely through the glass.

She imagined its blade forced deep into a dying man’s side before being wrenched free as blood poured out. Whether or not that man had been Jesus, this spear had certainly caused the death of many. History was written with blades of iron and ink of blood, and this spear, real or not, cast a long shadow.

That shadow reached Morgan now, creating a chill deep inside.

She took a deep breath and stood tall again, shaking her head to dispel the darker thoughts that twisted around her. The threat of the curse sent her mind into desolate places and she needed to get back to her usual practical self.

Johannes recounted the legend of the artifact, his voice tinged with reverence.

“Some say that when the Roman centurion Longinus pierced the side of Christ, his spear was already a talisman of power. It could have been the spear of Herod Antipas, King of the Jews, passed down through generations from the hand of Joshua, who breached the walls of Jericho. Even before then, it might have been the spear hurled at a young David from the hand of King Saul, before David rose to become the most powerful—”

“What about modern times?” Jake interrupted.

Johannes took a breath before continuing. “Of course. Many rulers and warriors held the Spear, channeling its earthly and spiritual power to win great battles. The Roman emperor Constantine, the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne, and, of course, the Habsburgs. When not borne into battle, the Lance lay here at the Hofburg until 1938.”

Morgan nodded. “The Anschluss, of course.”

Johannes explained further. “Indeed. When Hitler annexed Austria in 1938, it became part of the German Reich. He took possession of the imperial regalia, as well as the Heilige Lanze, and ordered it all taken to Nuremberg.”

“Why did Hitler want the Lance in particular?” Jake asked.

Johannes frowned and shuffled his feet, clearly uncomfortable with this aspect of his country’s history. “When Hitler was a poor art student here in Vienna, he visited the Spear many times. He stood here for hours contemplating it, and records show he researched its history in the state library, as well as aspects of the occult. Legend tells that whoever possesses the Spear holds destiny on the tip of its blade, and whoever holds it in battle will never be defeated — but only if they offer a blood sacrifice. The greater the sacrifice, the stronger the power. As the far right rises again across the nations of Europe, there are rumors of those who seek the Spear once more.”

In the silence that followed, Morgan considered the enormity of Hitler’s blood sacrifice. Six million Jews – as well as Roma and other ethnic groups, political prisoners, homosexuals and those considered deviant – were murdered in the death camps, on top of the war waged across continents. There were around eighty million dead across Europe by the end of the most deadly war the world had ever seen.

Jake broke the silence. “But Hitler lost the war.”

Johannes nodded. “Yes, he killed himself in the bunker in Berlin on 30 April 1945, but it turned out that the Allies took possession of the Spear in Nuremberg on 20 April, ten days before. Hitler lost the Spear before he lost the war and his life.”

As his words echoed in the darkened room, it seemed to Morgan that the stink of smoke and charred flesh suddenly rose around them, and flames crackled as bodies burned in the ultimate sacrifice.

Hitler’s belief in the spear, whether it was real or not, gave it power even generations after his death. There would always be those who sought to control destiny, and darkness was rising once more.

A cacophony of gunfire suddenly shattered the hush of the treasury.

Returning fire rang out, silenced quickly.

Johannes stood frozen, his eyes wide with terror.

Morgan spun to Jake. Neither had thought this place a threat. Neither of them were armed.

“We have to get out of here.” The gunfire, muffled slightly by how deep they were inside the building, sounded as if it had come from the direction of the entrance. Morgan gestured to the Lance. “But what if they’re here for this?”

Running footsteps sounded from the outer rooms of the treasury. A small team, clearly not expecting much resistance.

They were only a few rooms away — and getting closer.

Jake seized a fire extinguisher from the side of the room, hefting it high — and slammed it down on the display case.

The glass shattered. An alarm cut through a renewed barrage of gunfire, its shrill note high and piercing.

Morgan reached in and grabbed the Lance, as Jake pulled Johannes away.

They raced together into the next room — as a hail of gunfire tore into the imperial regalia right behind them.

 

 

Chapter 3

“Which way?” Jake shook Johannes as he half-ran, half-dragged the archivist along.

They darted between the display cases, Morgan following behind as the gunfire fell silent. She imagined the assailants entering the room of priceless treasures. Had they come for the imperial regalia?

Her hopes were dashed almost immediately.

“They must have the Spear. Go! Go!” The man’s voice was deep, resonant with military authority — and his accent was American.

That gave Morgan pause. Why was an American military team after the relic?

“This way.” Johannes ducked through a service door. Beyond it, a concrete staircase led in two opposite directions.

He headed quickly downstairs and Jake followed, but Morgan hesitated. Whoever it was, they wanted the Spear, and without weapons, their best chance was to split up. She did not want Johannes’s blood on her hands.

“Get him to safety,” she urged Jake, and sprinted up the stairs away from them, the Spear in her hand.

She heard a muttered curse from Jake as she raced upwards. He would want to fight alongside her, but they also trusted each other’s skills. He would get Johannes to safety, and perhaps she might discover more about those who sought the Spear.

As Morgan sprinted up the stairs, she heard the door open on the landing below — then footsteps running both up and down as the attack team split up.

Her breath was ragged as she reached the top of the staircase and burst out of the fire escape onto the roof of the Hofburg Treasury.

The State Hall’s majestic dome loomed ahead, and before her, a vast expanse of centuries-old stone tiles worn smooth by the passage of time. Ornate stone chimneys and intricately carved decorative elements cast deep shadows across the rooftop. They offered shelter, but not enough.

A narrow metal walkway clung precariously to the side of the roof, hanging suspended between the steeply sloping tiles and a dizzying four-story drop to the hard stone square below.

There was no other route. She had to go on.

Morgan ran, her footsteps thudding along the metal in a cacophony that her pursuers would have no trouble following. She had to get off this roof.

She scanned the area as she raced on, heart pounding, legs tiring, as she gripped the Spear in one hand. While Morgan had been skeptical back in the treasury, the attention of this group made her more determined to protect the relic, whatever it might be.

A bullet whistled past her ear — so close that she could feel the displaced vibration.

A shout from the rooftop behind.

Morgan ducked. Her foot skidded on the frost-slicked metal.

She caught herself with her free hand on the sloping tiles, hunkering behind a row of marble statues as a hail of gunfire pinged against the roof.

She risked a look back.

There were only two of them, but they were close.

Looking around for another route, she spotted a tiny window higher up. It was wedged open and, with some luck, it would take her pursuers time to figure out where she went.

She crouched low behind the marble statues, and quietly clambered up the tiles, climbing through the window into a storeroom.

As the men drew closer below her, Morgan ducked low beneath the sill, trying to control her breathing.

Footsteps grew louder below.

She braced herself, ready to run, but they walked directly below the window, hurrying on, presuming she had continued along the walkway out of sight. But they were clearly professionals, and it wouldn’t be long until they circled back.

Morgan darted out of the storeroom and ran down a narrow wooden flight of stairs. They widened onto a landing at the bottom, and then opened out further into a grand marble hallway, with towering pillars and stairs leading further down.

This must be the adjoining building, the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, the National Library and State Hall. There was no time to stop and admire its beauty as Morgan sprinted down, the Spear gripped tightly in her hand. If she couldn’t find another weapon, or a place of safety, she needed somewhere to hide.

She darted through a gap between a pair of gigantic double doors and found herself in the State Hall.

It was a literary cathedral, a temple to knowledge, with shelves of leather-bound books stretching up to the high ceiling. Domes of brightly colored frescoes depicted figures of terrestrial beauty alongside violent war and conquest. They echoed the dual nature of humanity, capable of both creation and destruction, in homage to the grandeur of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

Four gigantic Venetian globes stood in the corners of the vast hall, their painted lines evidence of a time when the world was still a mystery, when cartographers still charted unknown waters.

While the surface of the world might now be mapped, there were still mysteries, and as she ran on down the marble hallway, Morgan wondered what forgotten knowledge lay in these ancient tomes. Perhaps there was an answer here — to the truth of the Spear, or a clue to her curse. If only she had time to linger.

A bang came from upstairs, the window of the attic slamming against its casing.

She didn’t have long.

Morgan weaved through the hall, staying close to the towering bookcases. As the footsteps grew louder, she ducked into a shadowed niche and sheltered behind one of the massive Venetian globes next to a high ladder. She calmed her breathing as she pressed her back against the wall of books.

The double doors creaked open.

The hollow sound of footsteps echoed through the grand hall, magnified by the cavernous space. It was only one person, the tread heavy enough to be a man. The team must have split up in order to search more of the enormous library complex.

Morgan shifted her grip on the Spear, turning the relic into a weapon, readying herself.

She exhaled slowly, allowing her years of Krav Maga martial arts and combat training with the Israeli Defense Force to surface. She didn’t seek conflict, but the warrior in her was always ready to fight. The shadow of death was a constant companion for her people, and in her land. She would not seek its embrace, but neither would she shy away from it when it came calling.

From her concealed position, Morgan watched the solitary figure advance down the marble corridor, his movements deliberate and practiced.

The man moved quickly with the quiet confidence of a predator, his gun held outstretched before him. He wore black military gear, with no insignia that might betray his allegiance.

His face was etched with scars and stubble, his jaw set in a hard, determined line — the visage of a man who had known many battles and carried their legacy on his skin.

Morgan sensed a lethal calm in him. He had faced down death and walked away unflinching from those he had left behind. She had to disarm him, then at least she might have a chance. As the man advanced, she tightened her grip on the Spear, letting its weight become an extension of her arm.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold where shadow met light, Morgan struck.

She darted out, low and lethal.

He spun around, his gun coming up in a professional reflex — but she was a wraith, a shadow in motion. She closed the gap and swept her arm up and out in a practiced arc, an inside deflection that redirected the muzzle of the gun.

Bullets raked the shelves as he fired.

Morgan jabbed an elbow strike to his head. As he reared back, she used the end of the Spear to thrust into a pressure point on his arm.

He dropped the gun, stumbled back, his surprise evident at her ferocity. Morgan kicked his gun away as they circled each other.

“I just want the Spear,” he said, gaze fixed on her. “I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. Just drop it and go.”

He reached forward to grab her, arm outstretched.

Anticipating his move, Morgan side-stepped and delivered a hammer fist strike to his ear.

He spun from the blow and staggered into the Venetian globe with a crash. It rocked precariously, tipping him off balance. He dropped to his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear his vision.

Morgan turned to sprint away.

He lunged after her with a roar, managing to grab a handful of her hair. He spun her to the ground. Morgan gasped as she smashed into the cold marble. The Spear fell from her hand and clattered to the ground.

He charged after it.

Morgan rolled to her feet in a practiced movement and barreled into him, knocking him away from the relic.

He followed her down, pinning her to the floor, one arm beneath her, his heavily muscled body on top of her torso. He was incredibly strong, almost unnaturally so.

Morgan hip thrust and rolled, trying to throw him off.

She managed to get one hand free — gouged at his eyes — but he grabbed her hand, twisting it back over her head. With his other hand, he gripped her throat and began to choke her.

Pinned down, the cold press of the floor at her back, Morgan’s world narrowed. She saw the pores of his skin, the lines of a rune tattoo on his neck, the healed scars on his face. The promise of his grip was oblivion, and part of her welcomed its embrace.

But as his fingertips touched the pulse in her neck, he hesitated.

Their gaze locked and Morgan felt a jolt of connection. This man was far more than he seemed.

His eyes widened. He loosened his grip on her neck, his grasp faltering. His breath was a ghost across her skin as he whispered, “Who are you to be so cursed?”

Morgan lay immobile for a beat as the chill of his words pierced her. He clambered off, grabbing the Spear from the floor and his gun from where it lay.

She rose to her feet as he raced away down the hall.

“Who are you?” she called after him. “How do you know?”

He turned at the end of the hallway in front of the double doors. Their gazes locked once more, then he darted out, the prize of the Spear in his hand.

 

* * *

 

As Gabriel Blackthorn sprinted down the marble staircase away from the State Hall, he pressed the comms button on his radio.

“Package acquired. Meet back at alpha base.”

His team would scatter and rendezvous later, and the precision of a mission planned and executed satisfied him, but his mind still reeled at the encounter in the library.

The woman — the fighter — haunted him.

She was clearly military of some kind but she wasn’t armed for a mission or dressed for combat. With her dark curls and lightly muscled frame, she could have been a curator at the museum, but her unusual cobalt blue eyes, the right bisected with a slash of violet, had seemed to gaze right into his soul.

But it wasn’t her striking looks he couldn’t get out of his mind. It was the electric sensation he felt when his hand touched her neck, when he felt her pulse against his bare skin.

Her blood was like his. Tainted somehow.

Who was she? What was she?

As Gabriel hurried out into the street and jogged away from the Hofburg complex, he resolved to find out who the woman was and why she sought the Spear of Destiny. But in the meantime, he needed to report back.

Once he was several streets away, Gabriel pulled out his phone and sent an encrypted text. Mission accomplished.