The Pope Must Die: The Relic of Truth, #1

By Eira Wolfe

In 2046, the Pope is found dead. His eyes glowing. No wounds. No witnesses. No salvation.

As the world reels, Father Caleb Stone—a skeptical FBI agent undercover as a priest—is summoned to Vatican City under the cover of night. What begins as a political investigation into Pope Gregory XIX's bizarre death spirals into something far stranger: a hidden vault, sealed for centuries, and a relic that defies all theology.

Teamed with Maria Vance—a brilliant U.S. liaison with secrets deeper than the catacombs—Caleb uncovers a truth buried by time: an alien artifact pulsing beneath the Vatican, a beacon not of God, but of something… other. Something watching.

Hunted by the Circle of the Veil, a secret order older than the Church itself, Caleb and Maria must navigate encrypted doctrines, corrupted faith, and coded prophecies. As drone surveillance fails and ancient texts rewrite themselves, Caleb realizes this isn't just a cover-up—it's a countdown.

The Pope may be dead, but the message he died protecting is very much alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nightspire Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231979578

Book preview

​Chapter One: The Silent Bell

Vatican City, 3:17 a.m., April 12, 2046. The air hung heavy with wax and secrets. A single candle burned in the Pope’s private chambers, its flame unnaturally steady, casting shadows that seemed to writhe against the ancient walls. Father Lorenzo, a young priest with trembling hands, stood frozen at the threshold. His breath caught as he stared at the figure slumped over the mahogany desk. The Pope was dead.

No blood. No signs of struggle. Just the stillness of a man who’d carried the weight of a billion souls, now reduced to a husk. Lorenzo’s eyes darted to the surveillance drone hovering silently in the corner, its red light flickering erratically. It should’ve recorded everything. It hadn’t. The priest’s fingers twitched toward his rosary, but he stopped short. Something about the room felt wrong, as if the air itself was holding its breath.

FATHER CALEB STONE stepped off the private jet into Rome’s predawn chill, his leather satchel slung over one shoulder. The Vatican’s summons had come at midnight, encrypted and urgent, pulling him from a half-finished bourbon in a D.C. dive bar. An FBI agent masquerading as a priest, Caleb was used to lies, but this job felt like a trap wrapped in a prayer. The Pope, dead at 67, and the Vatican claiming natural causes? He didn’t buy it. Not when the College of Cardinals had specifically requested a neutral investigator with his particular skill set—fluent in theology, skeptical of miracles, and allergic to bullshit.

Caleb’s boots echoed on the cobblestones as he approached St. Peter’s Square. The basilica loomed ahead, its dome a silent sentinel against the gray sky. He adjusted his clerical collar, a prop he wore with the ease of a seasoned actor, and muttered to himself, If God’s watching, He’s got a hell of a sense of humor.

A woman waited at the Vatican’s bronze gates, her silhouette sharp against the floodlights. Agent Maria Vance, the U.S. liaison, was everything her file promised: tall, poised, with dark hair pulled into a severe bun that somehow made her look more dangerous. Her navy blazer and skirt were modest, but the way she carried herself—shoulders back, eyes scanning like a predator—commanded attention. Caleb felt her gaze dissect him before he even reached her.

Father Stone, she said, her voice smooth as polished marble, with a faint trace of a Southern drawl she hadn’t quite erased. You’re late.

Blame the jet lag, Caleb replied, offering a lopsided grin. Or the fact that nobody told me I’d be playing detective for the Holy See at three in the morning.

Maria’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. You’ll get used to the hours. The Vatican doesn’t sleep when a pope dies. She turned, gesturing for him to follow. Walk with me. We don’t have much time before the Cardinals start circling.

Caleb fell into step beside her, noting the way her heels clicked with military precision. Her file had mentioned fluency in six languages, a Ph.D. in cryptography, and a knack for getting under people’s skin. Already, he felt her probing, testing his edges. He wondered if she knew he wasn’t really a priest—or if she suspected worse.

THE POPE’S CHAMBERS were a study in contrasts: opulent tapestries clashed with sleek, modern tech. A holo-screen flickered on the desk, displaying a frozen image of the Vatican’s crest. The candle, still burning, threw light across the room, illuminating the body. Pope Gregory XIX lay slumped forward, his white cassock pristine, his hands folded as if in prayer. Caleb’s stomach twisted. He’d seen death before—too many times—but this felt staged, like a scene from a Renaissance painting gone wrong.

Maria stood by the door, arms crossed, watching him work. No wounds, she said, her tone clinical. No poison, according to the initial tox screen. Heart failure, they say.

Caleb crouched beside the body, careful not to touch anything. The Pope’s eyes were open, staring blankly at the desk. No bruising, no ligature marks. But something caught his eye: a faint smudge on the desk, barely visible in the candlelight. It looked like ink, or maybe blood, wiped clean. He glanced at the drone overhead, its red light still flickering. This thing record anything useful?

Maria shook her head. Glitched at 3:15 a.m. Two minutes before Father Lorenzo found him. Convenient, don’t you think?

Caleb snorted. Convenient as a miracle. He stood, scanning the room. A rosary lay coiled on the floor, its beads glinting like tiny eyes. He hesitated, then left it there. Touching it felt like inviting trouble.

Maria’s eyes narrowed. You don’t strike me as the praying type, Father.

I’m not, Caleb said, meeting her gaze. But I know the script. He pulled a small notebook from his satchel—his journal, a habit from his FBI days. He jotted a quick note: Smudge on desk. Drone glitch. Rosary untouched. Something’s off. He didn’t trust Maria yet, but he needed her. She was