Chapter 2: Dreams and Reality

He was walking down a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the little remaining daylight filtering in from the windows of the rooms he passed. All was deserted and quiet, yet all his senses sought out a single sound, evidence of a presence he knew to be there. Yet he couldn't name whom it was he was searching for. He gave cursory glances into the rooms as he passed, completely empty, as he somehow knew they would be. The light was failing, and he must find her soon. Her. Yes, it was a she. His steps made no sound as he passed down the hallway, which stretched on and on, yet the end was near. If he could reach the end of the hallway he could find her. He fought time, fought the air, and reached out for the silver knob to the battered old door. Turned, pushed the door inward, and stepped inside.

A child's play room is what stood before him. The sunset cast a glow on the rocking horse, dollhouse, and red wagon cast randomly about the multicolored carpet as the corners collected dark that had begun to creep inward toward the center of the room where she sat. She glowed, cast in gold from the remaining rays of sun through unclean glass, her voluminous black skirt billowed around her. She sat with her back to him inside a ring of wooden blocks, reaching out a thin ivory hand to replace one of the ring with another block from the collection scattered about her. She held the block and turned it over in her curious fingers.

Amon circled her slowly, warily, as though approaching a wild animal, cautiously pacing the outside of her makeshift circle till he could see her profile. She set down the block she had been examining and looked at him from the corner of her eye. "I knew you would come," she breathed, slowly turning her head till their eyes met. "I had faith."

"I almost didn't make it," he admitted without knowing why.

Robin nodded as though this answer were perfectly expected. "I know." She gave her attention again to the blocks clustered in the folds of her skirt, rifling through them, rolling them over until she found the one she sought. At her gesture he finished his circumnavigation and knelt facing her. She cupped the chosen block in her hand, and from this angle he could see these were children's blocks, the painted kind with letters on each side. Except these letters were none he had seen before, at least none that he understood.

She sensed his questioning glance and extended her hand toward him. "This one is me," she whispered, turning it to reveal the same character resembling the letter H carved and red painted on each side. "But you knew that already."

"I did?"

The corners of her mouth curled in the beginning of a smile. "Yes, you just don't remember knowing." Then she frowned. "At least, I thought that was me. He told me so, trained me to it. But then I learned differently."

Amon felt as though his head was full of wool, scratchy and stifling. The shadows were taking on a sharper edge, growing deeper, and were etching and filling the hollows of Robin's face. She looked sorrowful as she considered the rune block in her hand. "Who is he?" Amon questioned the girl before him.

Robin frowned harder at the block. "The only man who knows. I don't know what he knows. I can't make sense of all of this," she gestured widely at the blocks encircling her, "not on my own." Then she looked up at Amon with those amazing emerald eyes. Her countenance had cleared. "I know somebody else who can, though."

At this she reached with her free hand and collected another block, holding it close to her chest for a moment. Then she took the block emblazoned with the H symbol and set it on the ground between and Amon and herself, placing the new block, a rune resembling F on top of it. This accomplished, Robin looked at Amon expectantly. He returned her gaze with undisguised bewilderment.

"He doesn't understand," came a worn female voice, startling Amon to his feet with gun drawn in one smooth movement. An ancient woman sat hunched in a wheelchair inside Robin's circle, behind and to the left of the girl. It took a long moment before he recognized her, and he lowered his gun slowly.

"Methuselah," he hissed, every nerve at the ready should she even twitch in Robin's direction. It was a few seconds before the reasonable voice in Amon's head reminded him that Methuselah was dead, that Robin herself had killed her with the fire Craft. Yet here she sat, real as the black clad girl at her feet. Robin, however, appeared completely unshaken at the old woman's sudden appearance, not even glancing over her shoulder as she answered the crone's statement. "I wish he could see."

"And so he will," intoned Methuselah, fixing her hawk-like stare on Amon, "with time."

Amon's temper was rising, ignorance being a state of mind he had considerably little patience for. "What will I see?"

Both girl and crone looked at him with eyes quickly filling full of shadow. "It may be, however," Methuselah said slowly without looking away, "that he is more their pet than you suppose little one. He may not be what we think."

Robin finally looked at the woman behind her, rising up on her knees as though a supplicant. "No, I know that's not true. He can see, I know he can. Just time, that's all he needs. And faith."

"That word again," Methuselah smiled at Robin. "Everyone can say it. Not everyone has it. No, not everyone has faith. Some people refuse it." And here her eyes slid back to Amon.

He bristled at what he perceived to be an implied insult or shortcoming. "I have faith in what it right."

His temper was not soothed when the old woman smirked. "And how do you know what is right? Do you know, or were you told? Can you see or do you follow blindly?"

Amon shook his head angrily. "I don't understand what you're talking about."

"No, you don't," came the old woman's reply with laughter in her voice. Robin had sunk back to the floor and was rifling earnestly through her blocks, distracting Amon's attention. Methuselah watched her with interest, then looked at Amon pointedly, then back to Robin. Amon was fumbling about in his muddled head for an explanation to the old hag about what faith really was, but was spared further consideration when Robin turned to Methuselah beseechingly.

"Please," she begged quietly, "please tell me which one it is. Show me." A pause stretched out meaningfully as the women eyed each other. "I can help him," Robin continued, "then he'll understand. It will be all right then. Won't you tell me which it is?"

Just when it seemed she wouldn't answer, Methuselah sighed and nodded. "You truly are chosen," was her cryptic conclusion, though she smiled when she said it. Using her stick, she rolled the blocks to and fro, then rapped one sharply. "This one." The block in question was just behind Robin and she turned to pounce on it eagerly.

But when she turned Methuselah was gone and Amon was looking at Dojima. Amon took a startled step back. "What the hell is going on?"

Dojima had the block in her cupped hands, hiding it within. "What do you think is going on?" Came the defensive reply.

Amon stepped back to the border of the block ring, and Dojima stood to face him. "Where is Robin?" Amon asked, trying to squelch the alarm rising in his chest. "What did you do with her?"

"You could answer that question better than me," Dojima replied infuriatingly, still hiding the block, casting about the room with her eyes as though expecting to be overheard.

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I had nothing to do with her. More than you can say for yourself." The young blond was trying to find a pocket in her tight fitting ensemble that would hold the wooden block, but every one proved too small. "Damn it," she hissed, looking more frantically around the room.

"She was right here and then she was gone!" Amon admonished loudly, his abused patience all but spent.

"Yes I know that," she replied with exasperation, "but we can't do anything about that now. It's in their hands."

"Their hands? Who are you talking about?" Dojima's paranoia was starting to affect Amon, his eyes tried to pierce the darkness in the corners, looked warily toward the door to the empty hallway.

"You know who," Dojima pointedly proclaimed, "you're one of them after all." Then she looked at the wooden block in her hand. "Or maybe not. You are, aren't you?" Her eyes registered doubt and a twinge of fear.

Amon growled in anguished frustration, wishing to understand even two words spoken together. Dojma looked at him from under her eyelashes. "You know, if they get a hold of this," she said, indicating the concealed block, "you're history."

"God damn it!" Amon shouted, "What is it? Why can't anyone tell me what's happening?"

But before she could answer, a sound was heard from the hallway. "They're here," she warned as she turned to it, reaching for her gun, and a hand grasped Amon's shoulder from behind.

He whirled around and came nose to nose with Master, whose large brown eyes seared into his own. He whispered one word. "Run."

Amon turned to do just that and stopped short. Zaizen stood in the center of the circle, a block balanced on his open palm. Fear trickled down Amon's throat and froze his stomach, and his feet now felt glued to the floor.

"One, just one," Zaizen said conversationally, his face betraying no emotion. "Just like the others," with an indication to the wooden cubes at his feet, "yet singular in its own fashion. Each different, but serving the same purpose. Interchangeable." There was a pause, and Zaizen looked up at Amon with a smile of triumph. "And I own them all."

He turned his outstretched hand in slow motion, and Amon watched the block slide off Zaizen's palm and slowly fall toward the floor, spinning as it fell. Amon felt sudden panic and surged forward. It was falling, it mustn't touch the ground, must not fall…

Like a baseball player sliding into home plate Amon threw himself to the ground at Zaizen's feet and caught the cube inches before it made contact with the floor. Safe, it was safe, thank goodness. Before Amon could even figure out what it was about the toy so worth protecting, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Amon looked up to Zaizen's face as the man towered over him, saw the disdain distorting the older man's features. "Worthless," he spat contemptuously, and Amon felt the contact of a well-polished shoe smashing into his ribcage.

White-hot pain, surface searing with ache underneath, making colored lights dance in Amon's vision as his eyes popped spontaneously open. He felt it again, now with his eyes wide open and staring, the shoe in his dream ramming home into his side, the air blasting out of his lungs. Uncoordinated limbs reached out and sought to fend off the attacker. A lamp beside the bed illuminated the nurse as she tried to restrain him, dropping the bandages she had been holding until a moment ago.

With surprisingly responsive reflexes, Amon darted a hand out and caught the woman's wrist, instinctively giving it a turn and bending it back. The woman cried out weakly, incapacitated by the pressure hold.

"Where is she?" he gasped, wide eyes sweeping the room but seeing nothing. "Where is she?"

Keeping his grip, Amon pushed with his legs, still heavy with the residue of medicinal narcotics, until he was nearer to a sitting position. He pulled the woman closer using her wrist and used his free hand to grab the hair at the crown of her head, snapping her head back. "Where am I?" he asked instead with a voice that sounded very out of practice.

When the nurse didn't answer, he twisted her wrist a little further behind her. "Answer me," he ground out menacingly.

"I don't know what you're saying!" the woman panted, whimpering with pain. Amon cursed his foggy mind. He had addressed her in Japanese, and she had responded in Italian. Italian was not an easy language for him even on a good day. Under these circumstances he would be impressed if he managed a complete sentence.

He decided to try another tack. "Do you understand me now?" he croaked, the rasp in his parched throat hiding the slight Japanese inflection to the English he was now speaking.

"Yes," she cried out, also in English.

The answer had been a little loud for his taste, and he pulled her head a little further back, compressing the trachea and limiting her air supply. "Don't scream, don't call anyone here," he whispered in her ear, "do you understand?"

"Yes," she answered again, this time in a whisper that matched his own. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to know where I am," Amon said, repeating his first question. "Where am I and why am I here?"

He eased up a bit on her head, giving her air needed to speak. "You are at a private hospital in Rome," the nurse explained hastily in heavily accented English. "You were hurt, shot several times, and we are treating you." She tried to swallow and failed. "You must not do anything to me," she pleaded breathily. "I am changing your bandages. I look after you. I have done nothing."

Amon was frantically taking stock of his surrounding and situation. The hospital room was the same as he remembered it, except a look over his shoulder told him no unnerving priest sat in the chair by the door. Thank goodness for small favors. What was highly unfavorable was the state of Amon's body. His naked torso was half bandaged and ached alarmingly. His entire body felt like a lead weight, the result of painkillers, sleeping drugs, both; maybe something even stronger. If he was where he figured now he must be, it would not put it past Solomon HQ to have a drug in their possession strong enough to make a person speak in tongues or be completely paralyzed. Maybe even something as debilitating as Orbo…

He wrestled his attention back to the young woman he had pinned to him in a wrist-lock. "I don't intend to hurt you," he whispered, feeling her body tremble with tears or pain or both. What exactly did he intend to do? He was only in this situation because of fight honed reflexes, defending himself against a perceived attack. Certainly she hadn't been attacking him, and yet…

"How long have I been here?" he asked, fighting down the vertigo the remaining drugs in his system seemed bent on making him experience.

"A little more than a week," came her fast reply, which made him unconsciously twist her arm even tighter.

"Please sir," she gasped, "You are breaking my wrist!" He eased up a little, but didn't let go. A week! He had been here more than seven days, and that was just the time he had been here. Who's to say where he had been before that, what route they had taken to bring him here from Japan? Whatever Solomon's intentions were, keeping him drugged and incapacitated in their private hospital wasn't a good sign. He needed out, needed to get back to Japan. He had to find out what had happened, had to know….was Robin alive? And the others, what had happened to them? What the hell had happened?

His dilated eyes glimpsed something on the bedside table and he focused hard. A stainless steel tray with bandages, gauze, alcohol swabs, and a syringe. He released the poor nurse's hair and took hold of her other arm instead, pinning her arms behind her. "What is in that syringe?" he asked quietly, and felt her body stiffen in even more panic. "Is that what they've been giving to me?" With her head now free she took advantage by nodding.

The decision made, Amon used one hand to hold both her wrists and reached for the hypodermic needle. The nurse had now guessed his intention and was struggling despite the increase of pain to her now very sore wrist. Amon pried the cap from the syringe with his teeth and spat it away, sinking the long needle into what he had to guess was the fleshy part of her hip. He pushed the drugs through the needle and then waited. She continued to struggle, crying audibly now, but after 30 seconds she began to quiet. Slowly her body became heavier, her sobs shallower. And then she crumpled to the floor with a sigh.

The room now seemed filled with a roaring silence as he slumped back against the pillows. He was winded, exhausted, and every part of his body was groggily complaining. He sternly sought to ignore the protest, to block the pain. With a groan he swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid to his feet, tipping forward like he was drunk. He grabbed the bed, steadying himself. There was no time to wait for the drugs to wear off, whatever it was they had given him. He had to get out of here.

Amon was on his feet, standing under his own power, which was a vast improvement over the last conscious interlude he'd had. But faded blue hospital scrub pants were all that clothed him. He had no weapon, or even shoes. A cursory look at his torso revealed several gun shot wounds – one over the lower right lung, one high in the deltoid of the left shoulder, and a bullet graze on his left mid oblique. Swiss cheese, he thought sourly, sloppily finishing the bandage job that his waking had interrupted. Then he slowly pulled the long IV needle from his right hand and let it drop.

The nurse, now unconscious due to the unknown drug he had dosed her with, was crumpled in a heap at his feet. He studied the empty syringe briefly, but the label was not terribly illuminating, simply printed with SRD 221 50mg.

He had little time.

He searched the room on silent bare feet looking for anything that might serve as a weapon. Nothing presented itself. His clothing was not in the wardrobe, nothing of his was stowed in the room at all. There was no window, the only way out appeared to be the door leading to the hallway. Stealthily he approached it and pressed his ear to the thick wood. Nothing. Amon eased the door handle down and slowly cracked the door open, eye pressed to the opening. Plush carpeting and soothing ambient light met his eye, reminding him more of a hotel corridor than a hospital.

The hall was deserted. A camera stood in plain view at one end of the corridor, scanning on a ten-second arc, and a look the other way showed another camera on a matching mirrored path. It was impossible. Whenever one scanned the other way the other was pointing inward to the hall and Amon's door. Cursing quietly, Amon eased the door closed again and sat on the edge of his bed.

How? He thought frantically, mentally pushing the cobwebs aside and urging his mind into the icy analytical calm necessary to control the situation. He needed time to consider this, needed time to let the drugs wear off, but time was not a luxury he had. If there was a way out of this room, he needed to find it now. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Amon closed his eyes and cupped his face in his hands.

And that's when he heard it. He remembered the sound, and scanned the room again.

There it was, high in the wall just above the wooden wardrobe, a grated ventilation duct. It was large enough to fit through from the look of it, and Amon was already dragging the cushioned chair toward the wardrobe. Amon retrieved the pass card clipped to the front of the unconscious nurse's blouse and returned to his chair.

With the card clenched in his teeth he attempted to pull himself atop the wardrobe, only to find tears of pain stinging his eyes. The sutures were pulling alarmingly and his limbs trembled violently under his weight. Apparently a week in bed on IV fluids alone had done nothing for his strength or stamina. But there was no other way and Amon knew it. Now if only he could convince his body. Gritting his teeth to trap a groan of pain, Amon ignored the mutiny of his body and with a surge of will he pushed, scrambled, and flopped precariously on top of the large piece of furniture.

He slid carefully along the metal tunnel, and soon other ventilation grates began to appear before him. He was directly above the hallway outside his room and he followed this quietly. He turned left at a T intersection he came to, looking for an empty room that might hold something useful like clothes. A likely such room came into view through a grate, dark and utterly quiet. He pushed the grate aside and lowered himself painfully down.

It was a lounge by the look of it, two couches and a coffee table situated in the middle of the room with a kitchenette in the corner. He checked the closet and found a dark windbreaker. An adjoining door led to a bathroom, another led to a shower and locker room. Here he struck gold. Small lockers held the personal items of staff members and he gratefully pillaged, collecting a white T-shirt, sneakers, and a white lab coat. He dressed the part of a doctor, clipping the nurse's stolen pass card to the coat for a finishing touch.

In the bathroom he slicked back his long ebony hair and fastened it into a smooth ponytail. He glanced in the mirror to check the result of his disguise and was startled at the man looking back. With his hair away from his face, the dark, sunken sockets of his eyes and the hollowness of his cheeks was magnified, liberal stubble lining his jaw. Wow, I look like shit, he mused.

But that thought was interrupted by the sound of a door opening in the lounge. Amon quickly turned out the light and slid in behind the bathroom door. Footsteps sounded and rustling was heard as someone walked into the locker room. A locker door opened and closed again, then silence. Amon was breathing shallowly, straining his ears for any sound. The pause stretched, then rapid-fire cursing in Italian, little of which Amon understood. Heavy steps heading this way. Amon got ready.

"… and I can't even find my damn shirt," the man was saying as the door opened and the bathroom light turned on. Amon could just see in the mirror the image of a middle aged man in hospital issue garb, scrubbing his shirt angrily with a napkin. He moved to the sink and turned on the tap and Amon moved in behind him.

Without giving the doctor time to see he was not alone, Amon quickly grabbed a handful of the man's hair, the other hand to the small of his back, and slammed him face down into the porcelain sink, then up as Amon assisted him on a head first rush into the wall. The doctor slid down without a sound, knocked out cold.

After depositing the unconscious man in the shower stall and confiscating his electronic pass card as well, Amon stepped out into the hallway, choosing the path leading away from the nurse's station, using the pass card to admit himself into the stairwell at the end of the corridor.

As he limped down the stairs, trying to take a full breath despite his damaged lung, Amon wished fruitlessly for a microphone in his ear with Michael's voice on the other end saying, "I'm sending the blueprints of the hospital to you now, Amon." Short of that, he would welcome the feeling of a gun in his hand. Or the quiet but reassuring presence of Robin following just behind him. Any of those things would be wonderful right about now.

Robin. The thought of her paused his steps for a moment and made him forget his own uncertain situation. His last look at her had been from inside the well as he activated the mechanism that would seal her in. Tears had welled in her astonishing green eyes… she had been calling his name…

Stop it, Amon warned himself, now is not the time for that. First you get out of here. Then you find out what happened to her.

At the ground floor he cautiously opened the door and peered out. There were many more people down here, most of whom appeared to be hospital staff. Letting himself into the hallway, Amon attempted to blend into the action by grabbing a patient chart from a door and studying it absently as he walked, all the while looking furtively for the exit. This floor was a maze of hallways and doors, cameras everywhere and no exit in sight.

He was passing another nurse's station when a tall, auburn haired attendant called out to him. "Doctor," she hailed him in Italian, "Hey, sir?"

Cursing inwardly, Amon paused and turned to the woman with a questioning look.

"Are you the consult they were sending down from surgery?" she asked him, looking at him curiously. He could see her taking in his haggard appearance, and he tried to stand a little straighter.

"No, sorry," he grumbled, turning and continuing down the hallway. Unfortunately this nurse was not to be put off so easily.

"Well what are you doing down here then?" she inquired curiously as she caught up and matched stride, trying to catch a glimpse at the pilfered file in his hands. He shoved it under his arm. "Are you looking for someone? I don't remember seeing you before."

"I'm new," he answered slowly, cursing himself for not keeping in better practice with his Italian. "I was just leaving." He gave her his best 'Don't Screw With Me' scowl.

She frowned in return. "Then you're going the wrong way, the Atrium's back and down the west corridor. Wow, you must be new because…"

"Thank you," he cut her off gruffly, turning on his heel and picking up the pace.

Amon hurriedly began retracing his steps, following the nurse's directions as best he could figure. Spying the placard indicating him down another hallway to reach the Atrium, he came upon a roadblock. To continue down this hallway, one had to pass between two guards and insert an ID pass card into a turnstile. He hesitated, but only for a moment before squaring his shoulders and approaching, trying to look distracted and immersed in the patient chart he was carrying. The guards nodded to him and he nodded back, unclipping the pass card from his coat and running it through the slot without even slowing his step.

He knew immediately that something was wrong. A phone beside one of the guards began ringing and the man picked it up. His greeting was cut off and he listened for several seconds and hung up. Amon continued walking and reading the file.

"What?" he heard one guard ask the other as Amon hurried forward.

"That guy's not authorized.'"

"Who, that doctor?"

"Well go stop him!"

Amon turned the corner and passed through a cluster of people waiting to board an elevator. He dropped the file and shed the white coat, revealing the black windbreaker beneath. He pulled out the rubber band and shook his hair loose, looking over his shoulder as he did so to see the guard rounding the corner.

Through the milling people Amon could see it now, a glass bank of doors directly before him across a large expanse of marble floor. High above soared a glass ceiling, blue sky and clouds visible through the panes. He tried to look unhurried, he could hear the guard behind him, he just had to get to the doors and the people passing on the sidewalk outside. He could disappear then. Thirty yards to go…

"Hey! Dark coat! Stop!" The guard yelled. Amon urged his body into a jog.

"Stop where you are!" Twenty yards…

The sound of others joining the pursuit convinced Amon's trembling legs into a run. His chest was on fire. Ten yards…

The security guard near the door spotted the pursuit and drew his pistol, stepping between Amon and his escape. Before he had time to aim Amon lowered his head and rushed him in a burst of speed, ploughing into the man's chest, spinning in around behind him, grabbing his arm and taking control of the gun while using the man as a human shield.

They were facing into the atrium, the guard unwilling pointing his gun at his fellows who had stopped running but who had not lowered their own weapons. Amon no longer heard their warnings, was deaf to the scared cries of the onlookers. His sole focus was slowly dragging the man backward toward the door.

He was almost there, almost there….green orbs floated in his vision, he fought to stay on his feet, green orbs like eyes, emerald eyes, Robin's eyes shining as she looked at him, tears spilling over her ivory cheeks… Robin, help me, I can't breathe… I can't breathe…

"I think this has gone on long enough, don't you?" A woman's conversational voice called out from behind him.

Amon spun around, felt himself fall forward, and had a face full of pillow as a very strong individual pushed him down on the bed and pinned his hands. He struggled wildly, but his prone position was suffocating him and he eventually gave up. When he showed no signs of fight, the hands pinning him pulled him over onto his back and he looked up into chocolate brown eyes in a stern but beautiful female face, the female attendant who had questioned him!

He was back in his bed, in his hospital room, and the gray haired priest stood before the door while the brown-eyed woman stood over Amon.

How? God damn it how had he gotten back into his room? He hadn't dreamt all that, he hadn't…

The priest was looking at him with his typical lack of expression. Those almost colorless eyes, like a thin winter sky, searing into his own.

"The nurse is unconscious," said the woman in American English, and Amon looked to the floor where the nurse had fallen. That much then, at least, he hadn't imagined.

"You've got some fight in you, huh?" The auburn haired woman was addressing Amon. "We leave you alone for five minutes…" She shook her head with the ghost of a smile. "That's the third hospital employee you've hurt! I swear, you're better unconscious then most agents are awake!"

She looked about to continue, but the priest raised a hand and she closed her mouth firmly, shoving her hands into the pockets of the black trenchcoat she wore.

It was all beginning to come clear to Amon. "It was an earth Craft, wasn't it?" he rasped, looking at the priest, then to the woman. "An illusion." The woman nodded and flicked her eyes to the old man. "You did it," Amon realized with a look to the black clad man. His expression neither confirmed nor denied it, but Amon could sense it.

"Father Adrian was posted here to ensure everyone's safety," the female agent informed Amon, "and to control your reactions. We quickly found that restraining you did no good. You're like Houdini." There was the faint smile again, her eyes betraying amusement and a touch of respect.

"I want some answers," Amon stated firmly as he sat up. "Why am I being held here?"

The woman shook her head. "You're not being held. You're recovering from several gun shot wounds and a surgery to repair your collapsed lung." When Amon opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. "I swear, you're not a prisoner. We are trying to help you. The precautions," and here she glanced to Father Adrian still standing silently by the door, "are in place because you are being a very uncooperative patient. You are at Solomon's private hospital facility. You are among friends, believe me."

"Friends who shot me in the first place," Amon pointed out dryly.

The woman grimaced. "Unfortunate, but not intentional. You'll have answers Mr. Amon. You just need patience." Then she glanced at her feet. "And you need to stop hurting the staff." A smile. "Agreed?"

Amon looked between the two Solomon agents, then addressed the woman. "Who are you?"

She extended her hand. "Morgan Excelior, agent and aide to Father Adrian. I'm glad to finally meet you. Juliano speaks of you often."