The Devil Colony(152)

This seemed to raise an amused croak inside him—painful as it was to emit.

“Others have named these bloodlines les familles de l’étoile, the star families. I hear they once numbered more, but now there is but one, the True Bloodline. To stay strong, they seek to rebuild from younger families, like my own, families of the upper echelon.”

“Echelon?”

“A ranking system among the younger families who seek to join the Bloodline. First tier is designated by a single mark: the star and moon of the oldest mystère. The second adds the Freemasons’ square and compass. Another énigmatique order, non? And for our service in America, the Saint Germaine clan was granted entry to the third level. We were chosen—I was chosen—because of our knowledge of nanotechnology. An honor.” He coughed thickly, tasting blood. “Come see.”

Rafael turned his head and weakly lifted his hand to part the fall of hair that hid his mark. The third symbol had been added just days ago, inked in crimson around the older two, to mark his new elevation.

He heard Painter gasp, knowing what the man saw. In the center of the tattoo, the star and moon . . . encircling it, the square and compass . . . and around them both . . .





“The shield of the Knights Templar,” Painter whispered. “Another secret order.”

“And there are more, or so I’ve heard.” Rafael let his arm drop heavily. “As I said, we are the secret within all secret societies. This third mark brings my family one step closer to joining the True Bloodline on that highest pedestal. Or at least it would have.” Again a painful chuckle croaked forth. “Failure is severely punished.”

Painter remained quiet for a long breath, then spoke. “But to what end? What is the goal of all of this?”

“Ah, even I do not know everything. Some things you’ll need to discover on your own. I’ll tell you no more because I know no more.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face away.

After a time, Painter rose and headed back up the tunnel.

Once alone, Rafael Saint Germaine leaned down and gave one last kiss to his love, holding it until he felt those lips dissolve away—taking him with them.





Chapter 42





June 1, 6:22 A.M.

Yellowstone National Park



Painter burst out of the darkness into light.

He didn’t know what to think of Rafael’s claims: grand delusions, lies, madness, or truth. All he knew was that the danger below had to be stopped.

While talking to the Frenchman, Painter had stared out into the cavern. Nothing remained. No bodies, no temple. As rock turned to sand and sand to dust, what he saw there offended him at a fundamental level, frightened him to the core of his being. Steps away, there had swirled a storm of pure entropy, where order became chaos, where solidity had no meaning.

The nano-nest had to be destroyed.

In the short time he’d been down below, the Fairyland Basin had changed into a bustle of frantic activity. Helicopters dotted the valley floor, ferrying everyone clear. They had one last chance to stop the growing cancer below from eating its way down into the depths of the volcanic caldera. And that hope hinged on striking while the nano-nest was still relatively small and confined.

Painter strode across the valley toward where Chin and Kowalski were working. It looked like they were ready.

As he passed one of the helicopters, he spotted Kai and Jordan seated next to Hank. Kai turned and waved, but Jordan’s attention was on her alone. The professor leaned down and accepted a blanket-wrapped package from Major Ryan. Hank gingerly settled the dog to his lap, so as not to jar the broken leg. Ryan had insisted that Kawtch receive attention from the field medic before his own wounds were treated.

As Painter headed away, the chopper lifted off behind him, roaring skyward and kicking up a whirlwind. He joined Chin and Kowalski.

“Are you ready?” Painter asked.

“Just about done here.” Kowalski sat cross-legged on the ground. Coiled at his feet was a spool of detonation cord threaded through cubes of C4. “It’s just like stringing popcorn.”

“Remind me not to come over to your house for Christmas.”

He shrugged. “Christmas is okay. It’s Fourth of July that scares most people away.”

Painter could only imagine.

Kowalski plus fireworks. Not a good combination.

Chin stood beside the ten-foot geyserite cone called the Pitcher’s Mound. He had topographical maps spread out on the chalky fields of sinter, along with scans of the basin that had been done with ground-penetrating radar.

“This cone’s the best spot,” Chin said. “GPR scans show this is the closest access point to the plug blocking the geothermal vent below. Release that and the superheated cauldron suppressed deep in the earth will come roaring up like a sleeping dragon.”