“What about the heretic monks, who infiltrated the Scions?” I ask. Daniel looks at me in surprise.

“There was a rumor over a century ago that several brothers from the monastery in Romania had made a vow to achieve such a thing,” Daniel says, unlocking another drawer. “A secret, fanatical sect, condemned as heretics before they disappeared. But that is all I ever heard of it, many years ago.”

By noon there are enough names to fill in several more circles of the Scion map—destroyed, in part, by the Historian, still fully intact in my head. And the picture is far worse than I realized, the Scions’ influence extending into the upper echelons of the European Union, Interpol, the IMF, and governments as far east as Asia.

I sit silent, eyes hollow.

The last item Daniel lays on the table is a thick, bound book.

“This is the true diary,” he says, spreading his arms to encompass the entire collection around us. “We have committed to collecting and protecting its growing tale for centuries, moving it from monastery to monastery at great risk to ourselves . . . in the hope that one day the entire story may be brought to light. Your mother worked tirelessly to complete the most recent years of this account. It is the reason she never allowed her memory to be taken, lest the work be exposed, or destroyed. And here”—he touches the book—“are the names and stories and relations of all who have died, with as many details of their lives as we have been able to gather. It is a more complete genealogy of the Utod than that in the Historian’s possession.”

I hesitate, and then open its cover. Turn to the back. There is Ivan, with more pages of information on his early life than I would have thought possible. And Nino is there, the date of the newscast announcing his murder penned in recent ink.

My breath catches.

And there is Ana. Her birthdate and biological and adopted parents. Nothing of her love for Nino or her otherworldly eyes that provoked such fierce adoration from others or the steely loyalty sheathed in her waiflike frame.

Her death is dated four days ago.

Sometime later I recover enough to ask how many brothers have died protecting this archive.

“Seventy-nine,” Daniel says. “Nothing near the losses suffered by your bloodline through the centuries. But they were precious to us, and each life was given gladly.”

“What about the diary of Elizabeth Bathory?” I say. “Does it exist?”

“If it does, I have not seen or heard of it, except in legend. And if it does, it has no power to end the killing. Only the truth, now, can do that. As for Elizabeth Bathory . . . God judged her long ago.”

“The truth won’t stop anything,” I say, incredulous. “Nothing is going to stop this. They’re too big!”

“You can stop it,” Daniel says quietly.