Read an excerpt of Tomb of Relics

Ex morte vita.

From death comes life.

 

Prologue

Desert near Acre, the Holy Land. 1183.

Dark clouds hid the moon as the four knights rode out across desert scrub to the ruined temple in the Judean Hills. A blanket of night lay across the land, dulling all sound but their hoofbeats and a single far-off cry of a night bird. Crusaders had besieged the village that once surrounded the temple, the people slain or forced out under the banner of the scarlet cross. Only shadows remained now and perhaps the restless spirits of those who couldn’t move on, but William de Tracy did not want to think of spirits tonight.

He looked up as a sliver of moonlight pierced the clouds and touched the edge of the ruined temple, turning the rough-hewn stone into the mottled silver of a blade. It had taken much blood and gold to uncover the ancient myth that surrounded this place, and William could only hope it would be worth it.

Twelve years fighting the heathen in this god-forsaken country.

Twelve years into a lifetime sentence for something he only did to serve his king.

Could this temple hold the key to ending their perdition?

Richard de Brito vaulted from his horse, leading the creature to the shadows as he tethered it at the side of the temple. Reginald FitzUrse and Hugh de Morville followed suit, but at a slower pace, both men suffering from battle wounds.

William’s own movements were just as hampered, his body and soul exhausted from the penance of servitude, even as a knight here in the Holy Land. They had the privileges of rank, but they had no freedom to leave, banished by the Pope for their sins, their service the only way to buy a way into heaven.

In blazing days under the desert sun, William dreamed of England — the babbling brook at the edge of his estate, the dappled light of the forest, so gentle on the eyes compared to this savage land. It was holy to some, perhaps, but William would give it all to be home again.

“Are you sure this is the place, Will?” de Brito called out as he climbed over a low wall. “It looks to be only a ruin.”

“And no doubt some Moor bastard has beaten us to whatever’s left of the treasure.” FitzUrse was bad-tempered at the best of times, but tonight, he seemed particularly out of sorts. His preferred squire had recently left and his armor was tarnished, his beard unkempt. The darkness that plagued them all hung over his head the most.

As de Morville helped his friend down, William dismounted, leaning gingerly on his left leg, a sword cut still healing on the limb. He would have considered it nothing in his younger days, but they were no longer knights of carefree summer. The memory of those years still held them together, but the bond of spilled blood remained their strongest tie. Without it, they would have gone their separate ways by now.

From his tunic William pulled a tattered map, a scrap of goatskin painted with intricate markings matted with dirt and hair that smelled of the grave. “This is the place. Before it was sacred to the Jews, it was an ancient burial ground. A place where those of myth were worshipped and where it’s said, long life could be found.”

William looked up from the map and into the labyrinth of broken pillars. “Come, we must be away before dawn.”

The four knights picked their way through broken masonry, the destruction so complete that they were barely able to make out what once stood here. The air was still, as if something in the shadows held its breath, daring them to take another step.

The Crusaders had done their worst here, for sure, and the label of Crusader was one that William detested. It gathered all those who fought for Christ under one banner: the rabble of poor souls who begged at the roadside with empty bellies and the knight with jeweled armor and a feast awaiting him after battle. Both would meet God in heaven on the same terms, but down here, they would never be equals.  

De Brito scrambled ahead until he disappeared into the darkness of a stone arch, still partially standing above the wreckage.

A minute later, he stuck his head back out. “Over here, there’s a way down.” He reached for an oil lamp and struck it alight, holding it high to illuminate the way ahead as they descended into darkness.

The stone steps were worn and slippery with the passage of feet over years, evidence of the life that once filled this place. It had echoed with the laughter of families, songs of praise to the Most High, and the weeping of mourners for the slaughtered. Now it was silent, and the scent of incense lingered under the damp mossy smell of water on stone as nature reclaimed what it had lost with each passing generation.

William let de Brito lead the way, aware of traps set for enthusiastic tomb raiders and keen for the younger man to set them off first. But no thud of stone on flesh came from ahead as they spiraled down into the earth, the circular staircase growing narrower as they descended.

This would be easy to defend, one way in and out, and no ability to see what was ahead. But William could sense no soldiers waiting in the dark. The bones of the dead were all that remained.

The air grew thin as they reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged into a vast circular tomb. There were niches around the sides, each one with a casket mounted within. These were not the body-sized coffins of English tombs, but boxes just big enough for long bones stacked beneath skulls after flesh had rotted away.

In the darkness, William stepped into a cobweb with viscous, thick strings that stuck to his face and quivered as he fought to escape. A huge spider with a bulbous body scuttled out of a hole in the stone. William thrust his arm up, slashing the web away, brushing it from his face as if to ward off the mark of the grave. He held up the torch to see more cobwebs coating every surface. A twitching layer, entwined with the hard stone, alive with the bodies of arachnids that spun their lives down here. Spiders that grew fat on the flesh of the dead.

William turned to look at the tomb. A deep pit lay in the center, edged with copper, engraved with words in Hebrew, Greek and Latin. FitzUrse picked up a fragment of masonry and dropped it down the hole. They stood listening for a moment, but there was no answering clunk, only a silence that spoke of the depths below.

“It would be better if we found decent plunder up here, old friend,” FitzUrse grunted. “If it’s down there, we’ll have to find a scrawny infidel to retrieve it for us.”

“Let’s have a better look at this place.” De Brito held his torch high and the flickering light played over a dusty scabbard encrusted with rubies. The reflection cast a crimson pall over the faces of the gathered men, and William had a sense that they were all bathed in tainted blood.

He shook his head to stop the memory flooding back, but as it had so many times, the vision rose up.

Archbishop Thomas Becket lay on the stone floor in a pool of blood, his skull split, ivory lumps of brain spilling out. As the white heat of their fury dissipated, William and his fellow knights stood with swords dripping gore, panting with exertion. The smell of sweat mingled with the metallic scent of blood and Becket’s body lay motionless as they realized what they had done.

But it was too late to take back the killing blows.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was dead, a martyr lying on the stone of the cathedral floor, a rough hair shirt of penance visible under his pallium cloak of office.

Monks gathered around, wailing and crying out to God on their knees, even as others drew near to dip pieces of cloth in the martyr’s blood.

William could still feel the cold wrench that twisted his guts that day — not at the bloody corpse, for he had seen many sights worse than that — but at what he had lost with a single sword stroke. For all his faults, the Archbishop was anointed by God and even a king’s order could not stand against that truth.

Hugh de Morville had taken charge and as chaos swirled around Canterbury Cathedral in the aftermath of the martyrdom, the knights escaped to de Morville’s castle of Knaresborough. They waited for word of pardon from King Henry II, since they had gone to Becket at his urging after the Archbishop invalidated the coronation of the king’s son. But no word came from Henry, only rumors that the king himself would do penance for the murder with a pilgrimage to Canterbury, where he would be whipped by the monks for his sin.

William still smarted from the betrayal of his old friend, the monarch choosing to side with Rome and the Church over the knights who avenged the offense upon him.

The Pope excommunicated the four, banishing them to the Holy Land to fight for a way back into the good graces of the Church. But William hoped this tomb might hold the promise of early release from such earthly purgatory.

He took a deep breath and wrenched himself back to the present.

The three other men examined the caskets, opening lids and peering inside, picking out jeweled rings as they filled their bags with anything that looked valuable. They had found much treasure in their expeditions under the auspices of taking territory for the Church. Since they were damned already for the murder of the Archbishop, it seemed of little matter to add more sin to their tally.

On the flagstones beneath the caskets lay piles of archaic manuscripts, brittle scrolls and old books, ancient wisdom discarded down here — or perhaps hidden from those who destroyed the temple above.

There were symbols above each niche, chiseled into stone by the hand of long-dead craftsmen — a mix of geometric shapes, Hebrew letters and Greek notations. William scanned the room, looking for something that might identify what he sought.

One particular niche caught his eye.

It had the symbol of water inscribed above: three wavy lines undulating across the rock. Water represented life in every culture, especially here in this punishing landscape of desert and scrub. A humble casket lay below, an unmarked chest of hardwood that the other knights ignored in favor of gold and jeweled boxes that promised more obvious riches.

William walked around the pit to the far side and approached the niche, his heart racing as he tried to hide his excitement from his companions. Could this finally be the relic he sought?

The others didn’t know of the private audience that William attended with Pope Alexander III on the night before they left Rome — and he had no intention of sharing it with them.

The Pope was old and sick and the many relics laid upon his body brought no relief while the prayers of the faithful did nothing to ease his pain. The Pope had legitimized forced conversion of heathens and promised remission of sin for fighting in the Crusades, but he had so much more to do to fulfill his mission on earth.

That night, Pope Alexander had told William of a fabled relic, the heart of Methuselah, who lived for nearly a thousand years. It promised the miracle of long life and if he brought it to Rome, William would be absolved of his sins. More than that, he would be honored with high office and reunited with his family.

He could return to England.

The relic was his way back and the longing for home drove William onward. They plundered tomb after tomb until, finally, he discovered the map to this one.

He bent to examine the casket more closely. It was carved from walnut wood, but the whorls once polished to a fine grain were now covered in cobwebs and the dust of ages. William brushed the casket clean with the hem of his cloak to reveal what lay beneath. Etched Latin words next to Greek, Hebrew, and what looked like images of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Perhaps the same phrase repeated in each language to make sure the meaning was clear. William could read the Latin and Greek.

From death comes life. Life is the price.

He frowned. Surely life was the reward?

He opened the casket. The hinges squeaked a little, stiff with rust and lack of use. Inside lay a shriveled organ, blackened with time, a desiccated heart resting upon a piece of folded parchment. William glanced back at the others. They were busy stuffing bags full of relic boxes, raiding each niche for valuables, bundling up precious items with cobwebs and dust to sift out what could be sold on later.

But this tomb of relics held only one real treasure.

William pushed down the dark foreboding that rose inside, pulled off his glove and reached out a finger.

He touched the heart. It was strangely warm, even in the chill of the tomb.

It pulsed suddenly with a double beat.

William jerked back with a quick intake of breath. He looked around to see if the others had noticed, but they were engrossed in their plunder and paid him no heed.

He reached out once more and laid his fingertips on the organ.

It pulsed again.

William frowned as he considered what it might mean. Other relics were mere pieces of dead flesh, but this was clearly something far more. If the Pope wanted it, then it was precious indeed.

Unseen by the others, William wrapped the heart in the parchment it lay upon and slipped both inside his tunic, next to his skin. He placed the box in his bag and joined the others in ransacking the surrounding niches. They would have a rich haul tonight, enough to buy them many months of luxury in the Holy Land. Enough to satisfy the others so they did not question what he withheld.

As the four knights left the tomb, now relieved of all its relics, William felt the heart pulse next to his own, a promise of life in every beat.

Perhaps he would not take it to Rome after all…

 

Chapter 1

Canterbury, England

It was early morning as Morgan Sierra walked through the streets, navigating puddles from last night’s rain that reflected the pale blue sky above. Her dark curls were tucked into a woolen beanie and she thrust her hands deep into her pockets, huddling up in her fleece jacket against the chill. It was quiet, even though the cathedral precinct lay in the center of the city’s shopping area. British people were not early risers, especially in the depths of winter.

Director Marietti had called late last night about a theft from the cathedral, one that needed to be kept quiet. A simple theft didn’t seem like a mission for ARKANE, but after her years as an agent, Morgan knew things were often more complex than they seemed at first.

The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience (ARKANE) Institute investigated supernatural mysteries around the world. They focused on relics of power, religious and occult forces, and threats that verged on the supernatural. Her ARKANE partner, Jake Timber, was away on another case, but if needed, he would join her. She would assess what was going on first. Marietti had provided little insight, but it was a chance to see one of the country’s most famous cathedrals and that was worth a trip.

Morgan arrived at the imposing Christchurch Gate that led into the Canterbury Cathedral precinct. It brought to mind the entrance of a castle with two stone turrets and crenellations between, where archers could lean over to fire down on invaders. A bronze statue of Christ in Glory sat in the center flanked by stone carvings — the arms of the Tudor dynasty, heraldic symbols, and angels with outstretched wings. A huge arch surrounded a thick, oversized wooden door next to a smaller entrance, just big enough to step through. It had a bell mounted beside it, an out-of-place modern juxtaposition to the medieval grandeur of the gate.

Morgan pressed the bell and moments later, a young police constable opened the wooden door, her black uniform freshly pressed, her peaked cap marked with blue and white checks and the badge of the cathedral in the center.

“Morning, Ms Sierra,” the constable said. “The Dean told us you were coming.”

Morgan stepped through the gate. “Thank you for letting me in so early. I didn’t know the cathedral had its own police.”

The constable led the way into the precinct at a quick pace. “Yes, this is our patch. The custom goes back to the twelfth century, so we have a long pedigree.”

As they walked across the courtyard, the smell of coffee wafted out from the tiny office by the door. Morgan really wanted to ask for a cup, but the constable seemed to be in a hurry. A theft on the grounds would usually be their jurisdiction, so perhaps her presence wasn’t wanted — or perhaps the constabulary didn’t know of the theft as yet. Marietti said to speak only with the Dean about the situation. 

Morgan looked up at the imposing cathedral as they walked through the grounds. Founded in the sixth century, it had been rebuilt in medieval times and expanded into the Gothic style. Primarily constructed of Caen limestone, the upper tower gleamed with golden light in the rising dawn, a truly magnificent site for weary pilgrims and inspiring awe in the faithful. But extensive renovation work currently shrouded the true grandeur of the cathedral. Scaffolding cloaked one tower like a metal skin and giant wooden boards stood around the base of the building telling the story of the renovation. They portrayed images of those who worked upon stone and stained glass, as well as listing the manuscripts and artifacts inside, some of which pre-dated even the cathedral.

As much as she would have liked to see the building in all its glory, Morgan felt privileged to witness the cathedral this way. Stonemasons worked here now as they had done for over a thousand years, an ancient craft passed down through family ties and apprenticeships. The work they did with their hands and traditional tools gave the cathedral hundreds more years of life, and generations to come would look upon their carvings.

Much of the renovation fought against the inevitable process of entropy, the gradual decline into disorder that happened to everything in life. The artisans only replaced parts of the building when it was absolutely necessary, choosing to restore rather than rebuild in most cases. It was slow and painstaking, the work of a generation and a poignant reminder of the brevity of human life against the backdrop of history.

Morgan accepted that everything she did would disappear, that no one would remember the missions where she and Jake risked everything, that their actions were ultimately ephemeral. But when they passed on, these stones would remain — and that was a kind of comfort.

Tiers of niches flanked the arched entranceway into the cathedral, each containing a statue of a notable person in Church history. Amongst them, Morgan could make out the medieval Archbishop Anselm, and Thomas Cranmer, leader of the English Reformation, burned at the stake in 1556. Unusually, there was also a female figure, St Bertha, a sixth-century queen of Kent, whose Christian influence helped to spread the faith across pagan England.

There were fifty-five statues around the entranceway, but two new figures stood out in particular from the weathered stone. Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh, their mature features carved with care. The British monarch was the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, but Morgan wondered whether this Queen would be the last honored here. The popularity of the monarchy waned in these modern times, but then again, the cathedral was testament to the longevity of tradition against the tide of history. Time answered all questions, solved all conflicts, and these stones had witnessed much in over a thousand years of faith.

The constable opened the door and gestured for Morgan to enter. “The Dean is waiting near the altar.”

Morgan walked into the shadowed nave, her footsteps echoing on the stone floor. A single ray of sunlight lanced through one of the high arched windows and illuminated slender pillars rising to the vault above. The nave was set with modern chairs, much easier to move around than the wooden pews so often found in English churches.

After the glimpse of wild nature in the hunt for the Tree of Life on her last mission, Morgan appreciated this architectural order. There was beauty in the stark lines of stone pillars and soaring arches, and in the carvings made by skilled artisans. Yet, even as she stood in this sacred place, the air dense with a millennium of prayers offered by the faithful, disquiet edged into her mind. The chill of winter seemed more intense here, as if the stone amplified the cold and sucked warmth from her body.

She walked further in. A lone figure knelt on the flagstones in front of a plain altar, head bent in prayer, dwarfed by the grandeur of the surrounding cathedral. Morgan hung back, waiting for the Dean to finish.

Before the Reformation, this had been a Catholic cathedral, but now it was the seat of the Archbishop of the Church of England. There were no bloody crucifixes or icons of tortured saints. Only an altar covered with a white cloth, and topped with a plain cross. An ornate Victorian pulpit stood against a pillar to one side, its colored imagery of the crucifixion and annunciation a contrast to the surrounding stark stone.

A compass rose lay inset into the flagstones before the altar, a symbol of Anglican Communion worldwide, engraved with Greek words from the New Testament. “The truth will set you free.” Morgan recognized the text from the book of John, chapter eight. But whose truth, she wondered — and not for the first time.

The Dean stood up from prayer and turned to greet her. He was a tall, angular man with tightly cropped white hair that stood out against his black skin. Deep laughter lines crinkled around his eyes and as he smiled, Morgan couldn’t help but respond in kind. If only all clergy were so inviting. His warmth radiated in the frosty morning, but she also sensed an underlying anxiety.

“Good morning. You must be Morgan Sierra. Welcome to our cathedral.”

“Thank you, I wish I had more time to look around but Director Marietti said you had an urgent problem.”

The Dean’s smile faded and his lanky frame, relaxed just a moment before, became taut and stiff. “Yes, come. I’ll show you.”

He led Morgan behind the simple altar to the crossing, a raised area where the nave intersected with the transept. It lay in front of the pulpitum, a large stone screen that separated the choir area from the rest of the church, and Morgan couldn’t help but stop to look at the detail. A wide stone archway flanked by statues of kings with angels above, all surrounded by intricate carvings that mirrored the tall columns in the nave.

“It was built in 1450,” the Dean said, noting her interest. “Back in Catholic times, only members of the priory could cross into the space beyond. Of course, we believe there is no separation between us and our Father in heaven, no need for intercession by those ordained. Anyone can speak to God and read His Word.”

Morgan reflected on the similarities to the Holy of Holies in the ancient Jewish Temple, the place where God dwelt and only priests could enter. This cathedral was certainly an interesting mix of Catholic history and architecture with a modern faith that used a simple altar in the nave, and kept the high altar beyond for feast days and special occasions.

“It’s always good to meet another fan of Gothic architecture,” the Dean continued, the warm smile returning to his face as he noted her expression. “And sometimes eyes like yours mean you see the world differently, perhaps even into realms the rest of us cannot perceive. Do you find that to be true?”

Morgan’s cobalt blue eyes were indeed distinctive, with a slash of violet through the right. Her twin sister Faye had the same slash through the opposite eye, and they certainly saw things differently. In recent years, they had become closer because of Morgan’s clear devotion to her little niece Gemma. Faye had been raised by their Christian mother in England, while Morgan had been brought up in Israel by their Jewish father. A family torn apart by faith and geography was not so uncommon in this multicultural age, but perhaps she did see things differently because of her mixed upbringing. Her missions with ARKANE had certainly opened her eyes to more.

Morgan nodded. “I’m not sure whether it’s a gift or a curse.”

The Dean put a gentle hand on her arm. “Sometimes that does not become clear until we reach the end of things. Only time can provide wisdom. Until then, we have faith to guide us.”

He indicated a chapel to the side of the crossing. “This way.”

As they walked on, a meow came from the shadows, and a small grey cat darted out. It wound its way between the Dean’s legs and he bent to stroke it.

“You shouldn’t be in here, Willow.” As his face transformed from authoritative clergyman to cat lover, Morgan couldn’t help but smile at the obvious bond between the two.

She thought of her own cat, Shmi, back in her little house in Jericho, Oxford. He pretty much lived with her old neighbor down the street these days, returning occasionally when Morgan was briefly home between missions. She hunkered down to stroke Willow, enjoying the feel of her soft fur.

“You’re a cat person, too.” The Dean nodded with an approving smile. “Willow lives in the rectory, but she gets a lot of attention in here, so she’s often around the place. Come, we must hurry before the other clergy arrive.”

They descended a small flight of stairs into a side chapel with Gothic archways and carvings similar to the rest of the cathedral. In such a grand building, this small chapel should have been unremarkable — but it had a unique, historical resonance.

A metal cross flanked by two jagged swords hung above a plain grey marble altar. Light from the high windows above cast shadows behind the swords, so there appeared to be four blades pointing down to the sacred place where blood was spilled on holy ground over 850 years ago.

“This is the Martyrdom site of Archbishop Thomas Becket,” the Dean said. “And the scene of the crime I need you to investigate.”

 

Chapter 2

Breton Biomedical, Boston, USA

It didn’t take very long to dismember a human body, especially if you knew which parts were valuable and should be extracted carefully and which could be disassembled more quickly.

Dr. Kelley Montague-Breton made her first incision as the clock ticked past two a.m. Her slender hands were deft and confident in white medical gloves that covered her pale, freckled skin and her abundance of strawberry blonde curls lay tucked up inside a medical cap. Her face was freshly cleaned of the precise makeup she wore during the day as armor against the corporate world in the towering offices above. Down here in the levels below ground, Kelley could strip back to essentials. The dead didn’t judge and there was no one to witness her at this time of night.

She wore blue scrubs that hung loose over her slender frame. Naturally petite, Kelley knew she was too thin at the moment, a result of anxiety that gnawed at her gut and kept her from sleep most nights. Nightmares punctuated the few fitful hours she managed — and the sense of dread continued to haunt her days.

Kelley rarely processed corpses herself these days. As CEO of Breton Biomedical, she had an entire team of disarticulators to do the grunt work. But disassembly took her mind off everything else. She could focus on each cut of the blade, each rasp of the saw.

Full tissue recovery was labor intensive, but she would start the process and her team could finish the job later. No part of the precious human body would be left unused. It was an anatomy jigsaw puzzle in reverse as she removed each separate part, complicated enough to keep her attention on the task and not on the email that had come through yesterday afternoon.

The disassembly room was a hybrid space, somewhere between a morgue and an operating theatre with clinical white tiles and stainless steel equipment. Metal trolleys on rolling wheels flanked each side of the room with vats of preserving liquid and sterile storage boxes ready for the parts that would be dispersed after processing. It smelled of strong disinfectant, and air conditioning kept the room at a few degrees below a comfortable working temperature. There was no need for beeping equipment monitoring signs of life — the cadaver on the metal gurney had no need of them.

The man’s pectoral muscles were firm under Kelley’s gloved hand as she cut into his flesh, an intimacy that no living lover could have experienced. He had a scar on his chest, a sunburst of tissue, but the story behind it was now only a memory for those he left behind. As she sliced, Kelley focused on the rhythm of her breath, the quiet tick of the clock, the puff of airflow through the room. For these few mindful hours, she could forget everything else.

Her father had taught her the methods of disassembly during Kelley’s teenage years. A strange bond perhaps, but one she appreciated. Both of them preferred the quiet of disarticulation to the boardroom meetings and etiquette of business that kept the wheels turning and the money pouring in. As an only child, Kelley inherited the company on her father’s death — as well as its secrets. But she was intent on being the last Breton to shoulder this burden of generations.

Neither of her two sons were interested in joining the firm and she intended that they live out the lives they chose. But there was much to be done to keep the curse of knowledge from them and Kelley could only hope she would have the strength to complete what must be done before it was too late.

She looked down at the body before her, a particularly valuable corpse. A Caucasian man in his early forties, naked on the slab, with a square of gauze over his face to preserve some sense of dignity. Not that there could ever be much dignity in death, when a human was reduced to a pile of meat, with nothing of the real person left behind.

This man had the body of someone who worked out regularly and looked after his diet. Shame about the massive heart attack that killed him, possibly from some genetic defect that no amount of lifestyle change could avoid. But the rest of him would help many others — and the bottom line of her company.

It was illegal to pay for corpses or body parts in the USA, and the National Organ Transplant Act and the Uniform Anatomical Gift Act prevented profit from the sale of organs, particularly if used in human transplantation. The business in corpses was payment for ‘processing,’ a service fee for the time and labor to harvest each part, as well as the further use of what remained.

The postmortem biomaterials industry was a necessary one, hidden under technical terms that made it easy to forget there were actual human bodies involved. A basic corpse might be worth thirty- to fifty-thousand dollars, but they could fetch over two hundred thousand once processed into products like demineralized bone matrices, medical implants or skin grafts. Most people didn’t know and, in fact, didn’t want to know about the necroeconomy that lay beneath aspects of health care. They just wanted their pain to stop and another day alive in the world. 

While there were rumors of a ‘red market’ for whole cadavers, organs and bones from developing markets, Breton Biomedical worked with a trusted body broker to avoid the potential of using corpses without consent. That had taken other biomedical companies under in the past and Kelley would not have it destroy what her family had worked so hard to build over generations.

She would do that on her own terms.

With a sigh she considered the necessary trip ahead. Back to the place that lay behind her sleepless nights and the dark shadows under her eyes. She could face a boardroom of corporate lawyers or a pack of vitriolic press reporters with a backbone of steel, but what awaited her in England brought her out in a cold sweat.

Kelley refocused on the task at hand, each slice of the scalpel anchoring her to the present moment. This man’s corpse would help countless others without suffering for his donation.

From death comes life. It was the motto of the company, although few knew that the Latin version, Ex morte vita, was carved upon her ancestral family coat of arms back in England on the estate she avoided as much as possible.

Kelley sliced away the remaining ligaments and underlying muscle around the neck, tightened the brace that held the head immobile, and picked up the bone saw. This head was promised to a training school for plastic surgeons who paid handsomely for the labor to process it so they could practice the operations that made them rich.

The physical work of sawing through bone made her sweat a little, even in the cold room. The sound was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, but underneath, Kelley sensed the savagery of dismemberment. It was a violent act to saw the head from another human being and for a moment she imagined the features of another underneath the square of gauze.

A decomposing face with pinches of skin stitched together in a macabre patchwork. Eyes of piercing turquoise, like Egyptian jewels laid out upon the dead.

Kelley imagined those eyes opening and the smell of rot and decaying flesh filling the room. She shuddered and pushed the image away, focusing back on the task at hand as the memory of the stench faded.

After removing the head, Kelley began the painstaking process of harvesting large swatches of skin from the man’s torso. Sold by the gram, skin was an incredibly precious resource. Cadaver repurposing did not cross any legal or moral lines, but Kelley understood that next of kin expectations rarely matched the reality. Did this man’s family know that his body lay in the disassembly room while they were mired in the throes of grief?

But such was the natural order of things.

Her father had always said there was no point in fighting death. It would always win in the end. Time ticked forward and you could not stop the clock.

Their business was built on pushing back the point at which it claimed another life, an attempt to keep the spark of light alive for another month, another year. Her father had lain upon this slab — although Kelley had left his disassembly to others — and she would lie here too one day. She only hoped she could free her sons from their family’s cursed history before then.

She sliced once more and eased back the skin from the man’s chest. It was a delicate task, as each segment of cadaver skin needed to be kept intact. The size of the piece determined its possible usage and the corpse of an adult could provide four to six square feet from the flat surfaces of chest, back and thighs. Large jars of saline solution infused with antibiotics stood on trolleys beside the gurney where the skin would be stored for refrigeration and used within a few weeks. Some would be freeze-dried and turned into biological wound dressings, packaged in foil pouches with rehydration instructions for the military. Clear biohazard markings distinguished it from dehydrated field ration kits that apparently looked disturbingly similar.

The defense contract was one of their most lucrative and also one that Kelley was personally proud of. Those who served their country deserved the best medical care and, while there were many things wrong with the way veterans were treated, at least their skin grafts were of good quality.

As she placed the square of skin in a jar, she wondered where this piece would end up. As much as she hoped it would go to some deserving veteran, it could just as easily be used in bladder incontinence surgery, eyelid reconstruction, or other dermal fillers for those who could not live with what nature gave them.

As Kelley gently placed the final swatch of skin in preserving fluid, she sighed once more. Time was running out. She couldn’t put off the trip to England any longer.

 

Chapter 3

Canterbury, England

Morgan walked forward to look more closely at the Martyrdom site. Copper candlesticks stood on either side of an altar topped with thick white candles, lit with a steady flame. A wooden rail with a kneeling cushion welcomed devoted pilgrims to prayer and red letters on the stone spelled out the name of the saint, as crimson as Becket’s blood when it was spilled on this holy ground.

She knew the history of England’s most famous Catholic saint, cut down by four knights in 1170 after rash words by King Henry II and canonized soon after. In previous missions, she and Jake had recovered powerful relics of the early Church, physical remains of saints that some believed had supernatural powers. But there should be no relics in an Anglican church. This cathedral hadn’t been Catholic since the sixteenth century and given the bloody history between Christian denominations, it was surprising to find even an altar for Becket.

Morgan frowned as she turned back to the Dean. “So what was stolen?”

He pointed at a carved wooden plinth topped with a glass case to one side of the altar. A clear indentation lay in the center of the red velvet lining and a precise circular hole was visible in the glass.

The case was empty.

“The Becket reliquary was taken sometime in the night.” The Dean pulled out his phone and swiped to a photo, enlarging the image before handing it to Morgan.

The reliquary was the size of a large brooch, a silver oval with decorative filigree edges, and a window of glass. A fragment of bone lay inside, wrapped in red velvet and secured with golden thread. A Latin inscription ran around the outside: Ex Cranio St Thomae Cantvariensis. From the skull of St Thomas of Canterbury.

“The reliquary has been safe in Liège, Belgium for many years,” the Dean explained. “It was brought here for an inter-faith ceremony, the most important in many years.” He fell silent for a moment. In the stillness of the cathedral, there was no sound but their breathing.

The Dean bent closer and spoke softly. “His Holiness, Pope Francis, is coming and will pray here at the altar. It’s critical that we get it back before he arrives in five days.” He wrung his hands together. “Word of this theft could jeopardize the ceremony, which is why I called Director Marietti. Our friendship goes back many years and I know ARKANE has experience in such matters.”

“But why not involve the constabulary on the grounds or use the Vatican’s resources?” Morgan asked.

The Dean pointed to a stone plaque on the wall to one side.

In this place hallowed by the martyrdom of Thomas Becket 29 December 1170, Pope John Paul II and Robert Runcie, Archbishop of Canterbury, knelt together in prayer 29 May 1982.

“The conflict between our Church and the Catholics goes back to the Reformation, the Dissolution of the Monasteries, and the many wars that have been fought since.” The Dean paced the chapel, his expression troubled. “That visit by Pope John Paul II was the first ever by a reigning Pope. Pope Benedict XVI came in 2010, but you must know of the controversies surrounding his papacy.”

Morgan nodded. The German Joseph Ratzinger, who later became Pope Benedict XVI, had been a member of Hitler Youth as was legally required of men his age. He was drafted into the German Army and served before becoming a priest. While many accepted that aspect of his past, Morgan’s father and many other Jews had never forgiven his support for the beatification of Pope Pius XII, who stayed silent as millions were sent to the concentration camps.

The Dean continued. “Pope Francis is loved by many outside the Catholic Church for his humility and dedication to the poor. Given the state of the world right now, this inter-faith celebration is much needed. Of course, Anglicans don’t value relics in a religious sense. We only need God’s Word and the power of prayer. But the relic of the martyrdom is precious to those attending, so we must get it back.”

Morgan examined the empty glass case on the plinth. “It must have been a professional job, since you have so much security on the grounds. Do you have camera footage?”

The Dean shook his head, worry lines deepening on his brow. “The renovations are ongoing and yesterday, a block of stone fell and damaged the cable to the cameras. We have nothing for the last twenty-four hours. The constabulary officers are working to restore it.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow as she walked around the plinth. “The timing of the accident seems fortuitous. Was anything else taken?”

“No, only this.”

The sound of running feet came from the nave.

A moment later, a choirboy burst into the chapel, his white robe tangling around his legs as he rushed in, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.

“You must come, Dean.” His voice was loud with excitement and echoed around the chapel, the sound almost shocking after the quiet contemplation of the Martyrdom. “There’s something you need to see.”

The Dean reached out a hand. “Hush now, what is it?”

“This way.”

Morgan and the Dean followed the boy back out of the chapel and into the choir stalls where ranks of Victorian wooden benches allowed the full number of singers: twelve adult Lay Clerks, twenty-five boy choristers and twenty-five girl choristers.

The choirboy ran between two of the benches and pointed to something on a red-cushioned seat. “Here. I didn’t want to touch it.”

The Dean edged his way in between the seats and smiled at the discovery. He bent down and gently picked up the reliquary. “Praise God. The thief must have dropped it. Perhaps someone startled them.”

His tone expressed a deep gratitude for the gift of the returned relic, but Morgan felt a shiver of unease. Something wasn’t right here.

“Thank you.” The Dean nodded at the choirboy. “Back to your study now, and no word of this to the others.”

The boy smiled and walked off with a spring in his step at the secret discovery.

The Dean cupped the reliquary in his palm and bowed his head toward the altar, praying in silence for a minute before turning to Morgan.

“It seems I brought you here for no reason after all, but at least I can offer you a coffee after we put this back.”

As much as Morgan really needed a hit of caffeine, the sudden discovery of the reliquary bothered her. It was too much of a coincidence, but then her ARKANE missions had made her pretty sensitive to the mysteries of relics. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps she just needed that coffee.

As the Dean led her back toward the chapel, Morgan noticed an unusual cadaver tomb on one side of the altar surrounded by a colorful arch and decorated with figures from the Church. While most tombs in the cathedral were grand monuments commemorating the life of the dead, this tomb was quite different. It had two levels, almost like a bunk bed. The effigy of an Archbishop in full ecclesiastical robes and gold mitre lay on top. His skin was painted as fresh as it had been in life and it looked as if he could rise and lead a service. Directly underneath lay a statue of the Archbishop’s cadaver, grey skin tight against his skeleton, naked except for a shroud. Stripped of his finery, the Archbishop was just another human body ready for the grave.

The Dean noticed her interest. “Archbishop Henry Chichele died in 1443, but he had this built while he was alive and stared down at it as he preached. He believed it was important to remember death while still living. No matter our status in life, we all end up the same way.”

“Memento mori, indeed,” Morgan said softly, considering how many others had considered the brevity of life in this very spot over hundreds of years.

The cadaver effigy of the Archbishop with his tonsured head was also a reminder that Becket’s physical body had lain in this place after his brutal murder. Morgan glanced down at the reliquary in the Dean’s cupped hands. Was the fragment of skull inside really Becket’s? Did it matter if it wasn’t? She supposed it mattered to some, but perhaps it was faith that gave the object its power, not something intrinsic within the bone.

Morgan looked once more at the face of the cadaver effigy and then followed the Dean to the chapel of the Martyrdom.

The sacred space had a sense of expectation, as if the ghosts of the faithful held their breath as they waited for the relic to be restored. The Dean laid the reliquary back inside the glass box, resting it gently into the red velvet indentation.

He pulled out his phone as he walked around to look at it from the front once more. “I’ll call the glazier right now and stay here until he arrives. The security cameras will be back on today and all will be right once more.”

He frowned and leaned forward to look more closely at the jewel. “I’ve stared at this for so long over the last week that I know each filigree element intricately. I’ve counted every gold stitch as I prayed here for the guidance of God to be as faithful as Becket.”

The Dean looked over at Morgan, his dark eyes desolate. “This isn’t the same reliquary. This is a fake. So where is the genuine relic of Saint Thomas?”