Following the internationally acclaimed Gold of Kings, Storm Syrrell returns in the compelling story of The Black Madonna. Antiques expert Storm Syrrell heads to Europe to investigate the clandestine trade in religious artifacts. She dismisses superstitious tales of miraculous healings and divine omens. Yet when an obsessive Russian oligarch calls—just as her friend Harry Bennett vanishes—all assumptions must be cast aside. Storm seeks answers in a medieval monastery. There, the scarred visage of an icon provokes ever more startling questions. Is she prepared to confront both earthly and spiritual powers? Storm remains haunted by lessons in love and betrayal that lie just outside her grasp. But hesitation now holds mortal consequences. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa, the priceless object sought by Storm Syrrell and Harry Bennett, the art historian and treasure hunter from Gold of Kings (2009), is Poland’s holiest relic. The painting, a representation of Mary Magdalene cradling the baby Jesus in her arms, was supposedly painted by Saint Luke. Somehow, the Black Madonna has been stolen (and replaced by an exquisite forgery), and now Harry and Storm are racing around the world to get it back. The story takes a while to get going—there’s a lot of prefatory running-about before the Black Madonna is introduced—but once the premise takes hold, Bunn’s mixture of adventure and historical mystery should keep readers engaged. Further details about the murder of Storm’s grandfather, a mystery introduced in the previous book, are also revealed. Perhaps not quite as good as Gold of Kings, this one is still recommendable to fans of adventure novels with a historical element. --David Pitt “A smooth blend of romance, biblical history, archeology, and murder mystery. . . . With this adventure, Bunn should win another crown.” ― Publishers Weekly “An excellent book—fast moving with plenty of action and history. Read it!” ― Sacramento Book Review Davis Bunn is the author of numerous national bestsellers in genres spanning historical sagas, contemporary thrillers, and inspirational gift books. He has received widespread critical acclaim, including three Christy Awards for excellence in fiction, and his books have sold more than six million copies in sixteen languages. He and his wife, Isabella, are affiliated with Oxford University, where Davis serves as writer in residence at Regent’s Park College. He lectures internationally on the craft of writing. ONE FROM THE CREST OF THE Herodium dig, Harry Bennett could look out and see three wars. The isolated, cone-shaped hill rose two thousand feet over the Judean Desert. Herodium, the palace-fortress built by Herod the Great, had been erected on the site of his victory against the Parthians in 40 BCE. Herod had then served as king of Judea under his Roman masters, but he had been utterly despised by the Judeans. When Herod’s sons were finally vanquished, Herodium had been evacuated. Over the centuries, the city became a legend, its location a myth. Modern excavations had begun in the sixties, only to be interrupted by wars and intifadas and disputes over jurisdiction. Harry Bennett was part of a group excavating the original palace fortress. The current project was supervised by a woman professor from the Sorbonne. She had fought for six years to gain the license, and nothing so minor as somebody else’s war was going to stop her work. The volunteers came from a dozen nations, to dig and learn and bury themselves in history. Most were in their twenties and tried to keep up a brave face despite the rumbles of conflict and the brutal heat. The day Harry arrived at Herodium, three Scandinavian backpackers had perished hiking above the Ein Gedi National Forest. With water in their packs. Just felled by the ferocious heat. And here Harry was, huddled under the relentless glare of that same deadly sun, using his trowel and his brush to scrape two thousand years of crud off a stone. Officially Harry and the other volunteers were restricted to the dig and their hilltop camp. With Hamas missiles streaking the nighttime sky, none of the other unpaid staff were much interested in testing their boundaries. But twice each week the Sorbonne professor traveled to Jerusalem and delivered her finds to the ministry. When she departed that particular afternoon, Harry signaled to the Palestinian operating the forklift. Ten minutes later, they set off in Hassan’s decrepit pickup. The angry wind blasting through his open window tasted of sand as dry as volcanic ash. Hassan followed the pitted track down an incline so steep Harry gripped the roof and propped one boot on the dashboard. He tried to ignore the swooping drop to his right by studying the horizon, which only heightened his sense of descending into danger. North and east rose the Golan hills and sixty years of struggle with Syria. Straight north was the Lebanese border, home to the Hezbollah hordes. To the southwest lay Gaza