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Back The Progeny Save as PDF
Chapters (50)
  1. Dedication
  2. THE CENTER
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  50. Copyright

Outside the wind has picked up, bringing in a string of clouds.

Three days left.

44

We have driven nearly a full day straight. We have spoken little in the last few hours; even my frantic calls with Jester have subsided to only the occasional text. The three of them—Claudia, Piotrek, Jester—are safe for the moment.

Luka, however, is another story. The most recent proof of his life arrived less than an hour ago in the form of a video. He was so still I thought it proved nothing at all—until one of his captors kicked him into consciousness.

One of you has to live.

“Rolan?” I say, glancing at him. The cuff of his sleeve slides back from his wrist as he rubs his face, exposing a double-barred cross tattooed on the inside of his wrist. It’s similar to others I’ve seen except that the lower bar is shorter than the one above it.

“Yes?”

“You’re a monk. But you’re a hunter. For real. Aren’t you?”

His expression is grim. He carries with him burdens beyond my knowing, not the least of which was the body we left near Zagreb.

“Yes,” he says finally. And then: “We were monks. I am not much of one now, if I ever was. Not much of a believer, either, sometimes. I have become the darkness I have hated.”

“I’m sorry,” I say and think of the long side of the church, devoid of windows but invariably lit from the other side. Of Luka, the night he claimed forgiveness was enough or it wasn’t. And I hope that it is—enough. For him. For Rolan.

For me.

“I need you to do something for me, Rolan.”

He glances at me, and it is the first time I have seen anything resembling apprehension on his face.

“If something happens—”

“I’ll protect you. To my dying breath.”

“I know you will. But I’m trusting you to do something else,” I say. “No matter what we find, we both know they’re not going to let me trade it for Luka and leave with him, alive. And I won’t be their pawn.”

“What are you saying?” he says, voice rising in alarm.

“If something happens to me, Rolan . . . I want you to take my memory.”

45

Even from here I think I smell sage blowing down to the sea from the hills.

In the time since our ride from shore, the Adriatic has shifted from turquoise to lapis beneath the morning sun. Now, as we arrive at the almost perfectly round island of Košljun in the Bay of Punat on Krk, it is on a sea of jade.