CHAPTER 1
PEACEFIELD
"For when they shall say, Peace and safety; then sudden destruction cometh upon them... and they shall not escape." — 1 Thessalonians 5:3
You'd always considered yourself an unlucky bastard, but this time you'd outdone yourself.
"Shit! No!" you growled, slamming your palm against the steering wheel.
Taking a detour on the SP18 to avoid the unbearable traffic jam on the Strada Statale 45—caused by an accident—was a bad idea; you knew it because it was a poorly paved, somewhat desolate local road, but you still made the stupid decision you did. You cursed yourself for not listening to your gut; if you had, just meters back, your car's tire wouldn't have gone flat for whatever the fuck.
At night.
In the middle of nowhere in rural, wooded Italy.
In the rain.
You had to pull over to the side of the road, having pushed the car a bit to climb one of the steep sections leading to the mountain pass. Turning off the engine, you slammed a couple more frustrated thumps on the steering wheel and leaned back in your seat to catch your breath, eyes closed, listening to the thankfully not-so-torrential rain falling outside.
That's what you get for being an idiot, Nicolo, you thought. Moron, moron, moron!
Opening your eyes again, you stared at the road. What the hell had punctured your tire? Ahead, there was another stretch of asphalt at last; the previous kilometer had been entirely gravel and dirt. If only you'd managed to drive a little further...
Screw it. You had to do something.
Your backpack was on the passenger seat. You pulled a waterproof jacket out of the car and put it on, hood up, and got out, careful not to hit the limestone rock face with the door. The rain, pleasant for now, soaked you. As did the cold.
Damn was it cold.
The first thing you did was check the tire. It was the front one, on the right side. It certainly didn't look good. You must have run over something big, because the hole it had left was a solid ten centimeters. There was nothing you could do about it; you had a repair kit in the trunk, but it was only good for minor punctures.
You cursed under your breath. Still crouched down, you made a makeshift roof with your own body to get your phone out. There was no signal, of course. Fucking great.
You stood up and faced the landscape. If there was anything good, anything positive in that precarious situation, was the landscape. You approached the right side of the road, near the ravine covered in weeds and trees that plunged down to a river whose course you couldn't quite see. In the distance, the rain subtly outlined the silhouette of the Apennine Mountains.
It was the perfect moment for a damn cigarette. You took the pack out of the car trunk, returned to the edge of the ravine, and put the filter between your lips, ready to pull out your lighter and…
The rain intensified.
The cigarette got wet and was unusable.
You must have been furious, but it wasn't going to get you anywhere. Besides, it wasn't a good idea to be so angry so close to a steep drop of several meters.
So you set out to investigate what the hell had punctured your tire.
You walked a good few meters downhill in the rain. The path wasn't steep enough that slipping would have been a problem, but you were still careful, as every now and then a few small rocks and branches came tumbling down the mountainside.
When you reached the section where you remembered feeling the prick, you squinted and crouched down to look at the ground more closely.
There.
A metal spike was sticking out of one of the puddles. It turned out to be a piece of thick barbed wire, which made sense considering you were in a rural area. Some farmer must have dropped it.
So you cursed the damn farmer too.
You threw the piece of spikes off the cliff, lest some other poor soul suffer the same fate as you, and went back to the car.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky and the mountain peaks, and seconds later, it thundered in your ear. The rain wasn't going to let up anytime soon, and staying in your car to wait wasn't an option, so you'd have to find help. From anyone. Someone with a spare tire, maybe.
You grabbed your backpack, a flashlight, and started up the hill.
Just as you expected, there wasn't a sign of life for several meters. You walked for about ten minutes, climbing the neglected road that wound up the mountainside, shining your flashlight on the ground so you wouldn't step on another piece of damn barbed wire.
Your feet were already aching. The cold, intensified by the rain, was making you shiver, and the heavy downpour seemed intent on sinking you to the ground. You didn't know how much further you would walk, but you were beginning to think there wasn't a single shack around.
But then you spotted something in the distance.
A row of yellow lights flickered in the middle of the storm, a little higher up the slope. As you drew closer, a flash of lightning revealed a building perched on the mountainside, overlooking the ravine.
It was a complex of interconnected pavilions, built in a traditional style, likely from the late Romantic period, with thick, unadorned windbreak walls painted a light beige that dulled the stone of the low wall surrounding the complex, and small, rectangular windows that lent an austere air to the place. Dark roofs covered the structure evenly and levelly, and just behind it rose a tall, rustic, and sturdy stone bell tower.
Was it a... church? No, it couldn't be. A church didn't have rooms. It looked more like a convent. Some kind of religious center.
It wasn't exactly what you were looking for, but it was better than nothing.
Relieved, you followed the path up the hillside until you reached the stone fork that descended to the right, skirting the steep terrain until you reached the front of the compound. Only the windows on the top floor were lit. The rooms, you assumed.
You approached the door, made of beautiful, well-maintained, and varnished wood, and read the metal sign above the frame: Convento di Santa Maria della Rupe. Obviously, there was no doorbell, but there was a thick metal ring hanging to knock on the door. You used it three times.
Nothing at first. Standing still for so long, you realized how much you were shivering. You knocked a couple more times, harder. Desperate.
Suddenly, the sound of a heavy wooden bolt and a key turning made you look up.
The door opened just a crack, and out peeked...
A young woman.
You didn't really know what you were expecting. An older woman, perhaps? All your mental images of nuns were of elderly women or women over thirty. But this young woman, who kept her body hidden behind the door and her habit perfectly fitted so that only a sliver of her dark brown hair was visible, must be your age.
And she was... well, she didn't look very Italian.
"W-what are you doing here?" the young woman asked stiffly, in perfect, polite Italian. She looked you up and down with an air of distrust. "Can't you see the storm raging?"
"I know... um, Sister," you nodded, your voice trembling, hugging yourself for warmth as the rain threatened to erode you like a rock. "My car got a flat tire a couple of kilometers back."
"And couldn't you fix it?" the Sister inquired suspiciously.
"No, if I had, I wouldn't be here. May I...?"
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