Alexis couldn’t argue with that. He was about to suggest they break for dinner when a ripple of magic rattled through the Archives.
Penelope glanced around. “What was that?”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He portaled into the main foyer of the palazzo. If Aelia and Phaidros had progressed to using magic on each other, he was going to send them both for a dip in the lagoon to cool off.
“Alexis!” Aelia screamed from the courtyard, her voice full of terror.
He ran to find her. Surely Thevetat wouldn’t be so stupid to try to attack us here again.
Aelia was panicking, clutching at her long hair with one hand, the other gripping the hilt of her gladius.
“What’s happening?” Alexis demanded, and she threw herself into his arms. “Breathe, Aelia. Tell me what’s wrong?”
“I g-got a call from my housekeeper in Vienna. She said there were people at the villa. She was s-so scared. I told her to stay hidden, but she started s-screaming. Then the line went dead.” Aelia clutched her phone. “Please take me to her. Thevetat attacked Elazar. Maybe they know where my villa is too.”
Cold settled along Alexis’s bones. “We’ll go. Let me get my things and meet me at the front door.”
Minutes later, he found Penelope waiting with Constantine, who was holding Aelia, murmuring low reassurances to her.
“You were meant to stay in the Archives,” Alexis said to Penelope.
“And let you go off on some crazy murder mission without saying goodbye? Unlikely.” She folded her arms.
“How did you know—”
“I felt it through the moíra desmós. It went dead-still and very cold.”
“Sounds like the killing calm,” said Constantine.
Alexis glared at him, but he wasn’t wrong. “Look after Penelope, and let Zo and Elazar know what’s happened.”
Aelia loosened her grip on Constantine and gave him a nod. “I’m ready.”
Alexis kissed Penelope. “I’ll be home soon.”
“You’d better be.”
Phaidros appeared, bow in one hand. “Don’t try to argue with me, Aelia. I’m coming.” He took Aelia by the hand, and she didn’t shake it off. Alexis placed his hand on Phaidros’s shoulder and released his magic, the palazzo blurring around them.
In Vienna, the sun was setting and the villa was in flames. They stood in Aelia’s gardens as the supernatural fire ate through the main building. Aelia let out a cry of terror and raced inside.
“Aelia, stop!” Alexis shouted, but she ignored him.
“I’ll follow her. Check the grounds for any escaping priests.” Phaidros hurried after her.
Alexis swore in frustration. His yataghan appeared in his hand, and he went hunting.
PHAIDROS CAST a shield around himself as the burning walls surrounded him. The strange energy of Thevetat’s power was tangible in the smoke and air.
“Aelia!”
He felt for her magic amidst the chaos. The rooms filled with ancient, beautiful instruments were burning to cinders. A high-pitched note echoed through the halls, and he latched on to the feel of Aelia’s magic. He found her in the courtyard in the middle of the villa, clutching a bloody body and sobbing.
“Aelia…” He approached her slowly, despite the flames creeping from the front of the villa. He’d seen a cry from Aelia melt a man’s brain with magic, and he wasn’t about to startle her.
“We were too late. I’m always too late.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Phaidros crouched by her side and studied the older woman in her arms. She’d been stripped bare, and her body was covered in the same carved and burnt glyphs that scarred Aelia’s own skin.
“I’m sorry, love.” He rested a hand on her shaking back, then looked up to see a message scrawled in bloody Atlantean symbols across the marble wall: Slut to a dead god.
“That’s what Kreios whispered when he carved into me.” Aelia’s sobs were gone; there was only sadness left. She would resent him for trying to comfort her, so Phaidros pried the old woman’s body from her tight grip instead.
“Let’s get her out of here. They could still be close by, and you won’t get your revenge sitting here weeping.” He scooped the body up in his arms.
Aelia got to her feet and drew her sword. Her clothes were smeared in blood, and she looked as fearsome as a Fury. “This way. I’ll cover you.” She strode past the wall of abuse and back into the villa.
Phaidros spotted the figure moving amongst the smoke just as Aelia moved, cutting down the priest before he detected them. She lifted a small earpiece from the dead man and fitted it into her ear.
“They’re meeting on the north side of the property. There are gardens there,” she said.
The place was huge, and a part of Phaidros was sad that he’d never seen it before then. Outside the house again, they placed the housekeeper’s body under a pine tree, where it would be safe from the ravaging flames. He unbuttoned his shirt and placed it over her, covering her nakedness as best he could. Aelia watched him, hollow-eyed.
“Thank you,” she murmured, then turned on her heel. “We have to hurry before Alexis gets them all.”
Phaidros followed her blindly through the dark gardens, checking the shadows for priests. A pulse of Alexis’s power shuddered around them, and Aelia slid to a halt.
“What in Poseidon’s name was that?”
“Alexis has just lost his temper.” Phaidros ran to where the power emanated from.
A priest missing an arm stumbled in front of them, and Phaidros sank an arrow into her eye. The smell of burning flesh and blood grew stronger with every step. More dead littered the ground, and they followed the decimated bodies until they came to a small clearing, where a large stone fountain had been reduced to broken marble and spraying water.
Alexis stood in the middle of a ring of fallen priests, blue power simmering over him. He raised a bloody hand toward the burning villa, and wind rolled out of him. Wherever it flowed, the flames died. Alexis’s head snapped to them, and Phaidros fought the urge to wet himself.
“Alexis, it’s us,” he said, his voice not nearly as strong as he wanted it to be.
Alexis swiped his sword down, shaking off the blood and gore that slicked it. “Kreios is here, and Thevetat too.” His voice was far away and wreathed in power.
Aelia made a small sound behind Phaidros. He spun to find her violet eyes wide as a blade pressed to her throat. Phaidros trained an arrow on the tall figure behind her.
“Too slow, bowman.” Red eyes gleamed in the shadows. It was a voice that echoed through his nightmares of blood and darkness and ash.
“Kreios,” Phaidros said. He did not lower his bow.
Alexis stepped through the rubble. “Let her go. You can’t take the three of us.”
“The high tide works in my favor as much as yours, magician.” Kreios smiled as he pulled Aelia back up against him. “You smell delicious as always, priestess. I can still detect my mark on you. There are some taints you can’t wash aw—” Kreios shuddered and shoved Aelia at Phaidros. The knife in his hand lowered, as if invisible hands were dragging it down. His red eyes flashed back to his natural black. “Run, Aelia! I can’t hold him back forever. Get out of here!”
Alexis tilted his head. “Gods, he’s trying to fight Thevetat.”
“Go, you insufferable bastard! He’s got something planned for Penelope. I don’t know what. You have to—” Kreios groaned, and the knife in his hand drove down into his thigh. He screamed, then lifted his head, eyes red once more. “Traitorous fool. You should know better than to force me away.” He pulled the knife from his thigh and sliced it into his arms as punishment.
Phaidros was frozen in shock as Alexis grabbed him by the arms and his magic dragged him down.
PENELOPE STARED AT the space where Alexis had stood minutes before, the panic rising in her. It was why she automatically answered her phone without checking the name on the screen.
“Hello?”
&nbs
p; “Penelope! Thank Christ you finally bothered to answer,” Stuart Bryne said.
Penelope flinched, and Constantine gave her a quizzical look. “Hey. Sorry I’ve kept missing you.”
“You could’ve made the time to call me back, at least to put your mother out of her misery. We’ve seen the footage from Florence. What’s happening over there? What have you gotten caught up in, Penelope?”
Penelope took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. “I haven’t called you because there’s been nothing to tell. There are ongoing investigations into the Florence attacks, but as yet, I haven’t been questioned, nor am I under any suspicion.”
“They are using your discovery as their rally cry! Of course you are going to be under suspicion. You packed up and left Australia to live with a group of strangers. Please tell me you aren’t involved in this movement, even remotely.”
Penelope couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you actually asking me if I’m encouraging people to bomb each other? Do you really think so little of me?”
“I know you’d do anything to prove you were right about the damn stone tablet and your Atlantis theory. You might not even know that you’re working with extremists. Have you accepted money from anyone lately to further your research?” If he hadn’t sounded genuinely worried underneath his anger, Penelope would’ve hung up on him.
“Stuart, listen to me and stop jumping to ridiculous conclusions. I haven’t accepted any private money to continue my research. I’ve always had people contacting me with crazy Atlantis theories, and I’ve never encouraged or entertained any of them—especially not ones that promote some messed-up sense of Aryan brotherhood, master race, neo-Nazi propaganda.”
“You might not have realized that was their agenda. If the police find out you’ve had any contact with them at all, you could be tried as a terrorist, Penelope! All because you wouldn’t let your bullshit about a myth die with Plato and get yourself a decent job in a respectable…”
Penelope let the rant wash over, numbed to her core by the fact that her own father would think she’d be involved—even remotely—with a mass killing. She didn’t fight Constantine when he plucked the phone out of her hand.
“That’s quite enough. Your daughter is one of the most intelligent, brave, and honorable people I’ve ever met, and I won’t allow you to accuse her of such nonsense. As her father, you should know better and believe her when she speaks the truth. Shame on you, sir.” Constantine hung up the phone and passed it back to Penelope. “I believe it’s time for some fresh air. Let’s go for a walk. I have a need to see the great saint’s bones.”
Penelope was horrified when tears began to fall down her cheeks. Constantine put his arms around her, and she bit back a sob. “There now, don’t let him get to you.” He rubbed her back. Though he didn’t wield magic, her nose still picked up the scents that identified the uncanniness of his long life. Constantine’s scent was like a holy war: parchment, temple incense, blood, and horses. She let him hold her until she’d calmed enough to speak.
“He actually thinks I’m a terrorist.” She scrubbed at her cheeks with the palms of her hands.
“He’s concerned, confused, and clearly terrible at communicating that correctly. I know you well enough to know that you’re not about to let his lack of approval change your mind about anything.”
Penelope sniffed and smiled at him. “You’re right, and I do need a walk to clear my head and take my mind off worrying about Alexis.”
They stepped through the blue door into the early Venetian evening. It was still warm, but the humidity had eased, replaced by a gentle breeze from the north. It took until the Accademia Bridge for the lump in Penelope’s throat to recede.
Tourists lingered in small groups, and lights flickered on along the Grand Canal. The whole city was pale orange in the fading light. Venice was beautiful, and it was that beauty that always managed to soothe Penelope’s ragged emotions.
“You really shouldn’t worry about Alexis so much either.” Constantine maneuvered around a group of Japanese tourists taking selfies on the top of the bridge.
“Yes, I should. He’s throwing himself into danger, knowing that it’s another trap of Thevetat’s.”
“Alexis has purposely walked into many traps before. Phaidros and Aelia will make sure he doesn’t do anything too reckless, and if he does, they will be there to clean it up. Thevetat is attacking their emotions, hoping it will make them irrational. Alexis won’t fall for it.”
Penelope didn’t want to argue with him about it. No one but her seemed to show any concern for Alexis. They all saw him as the Defender, with the exception of Nereus. Protect him, Penelope. Whatever happens, protect him, she’d said.
“Has your father always talked to you like that?” Constantine asked her.
“Pretty much.”
“Any idea why?”
“Lots of reasons. I know it started because he didn’t want children, but Mom got pregnant. He did his best, I suppose.” There was a time, when she was much younger, that she looked up to him, but that faded when she refused to follow in his footsteps. She’d always been determined to carve her own path instead of treading on the smooth way made by others.
“Some people aren’t cut out to be fathers. I would know; I’m one of them.”
“I thought you had loads of children.” So many, in fact, that the Roman Empire found itself in another civil war when his sons fought for supreme control.
“I did, and I failed them all in one way or another. The younger ones came too late, when I’d already stopped knowing how to love them or even trusted myself to do so.”
“Why wouldn’t you trust yourself to love your own children?” Penelope asked as they reached the still crowded Piazza San Marco.
“Because I didn’t know how to be an emperor and a father. There came a time I had to choose between the two, and I made the biggest mistake of my life.” Constantine looked over at her. “I thought Alexis would’ve already told you. It was the first—and most intense—falling out we ever had.”
“What did you do?”
Deep, bitter sadness filled his eyes. “I killed my son.”
Penelope let the noise of the piazza wash over her as she processed that statement, debating how much she could press him about such a personal matter. The Basilica San Marco rose up at the end of the square—a beacon to all who passed through Venice. Its iconic blend of Byzantine and Italian architecture never failed to fill Penelope with awe and reverence despite her lack of faith. It was stunning, from its great cupolas, stolen bronze horses, veined marbles, and mind-blowing mosaics.
Constantine stared at the building, looking a bit smug. “Do you know it was based on my design for the Church of Apostles in Constantinople?”
Penelope laughed. “Of course it was.”
“It’s true. I had plans to have the bones of all twelve apostles placed in it. In retrospect, I suppose it’s a good thing I never succeeded, or their bones would’ve been scattered and destroyed when Constantinople fell. This one has Saint Mark, at least.”
“You really believe it’s him? I mean, it could be anyone’s bones in there.”
“I have faith that those intrepid Venetian merchants and Greek monks managed to sneak him out of his crypt in Alexandria and to safety. It’s a fabulous story either way, and sometimes, a story can be just as powerful and holy as a saint’s bones.”
Instead of heading for the basilica, Constantine detoured around the lines of tourists outside of it and around the edge of the building. He stood in front of the purple-red, porphyry statues of the Tetrarchs and folded his arms.
“Speaking of terrible fathers, there are both of mine standing with my enemies,” he said with a nod.
“Both of them?” Penelope sifted through undergraduate Roman history.
“Constantius wasn’t too bad if you forget that he sent me to Diocletian’s court as a damn hostage. Diocletian taught me a lot about running a court, but he and Galerius th
ought the best way to deal with me was to send me to fight barbarians and Persians.” The expression on his face changed from amusement to a sneer as he whispered to the statue, “You thought the empire was too big for one man to run, and I did it for thirty years. I defeated all of you old bastards, and no matter how many years pass, the victory is still so sweet.”
Penelope glanced around, hoping that no one else could hear him. An older woman wearing a pale yellow dress stared back at her, her dark brows knit in confusion. Something shivered along Penelope’s skin—her magic and intuition warning her to move away before they drew any more attention.
“Stop abusing the statue, Con. People are starting to notice,” Penelope said as the stranger tugged on her husband’s sleeve.
“There are some pleasures that time doesn’t diminish, and having a good gloat over your enemies is one of them.” With that, he relented, and they made for the atrium.
Parts had been closed off to the public, and Penelope spied workmen and restorers repairing the warp on the mosaic floors. Above her, the golden tiles shone with the last moment of sun that lit up the Cupola of the Creation and the concentric bands, which told the story of creation in twenty-six scenes.
“This is the beginning of Genesis.” Constantine pointed at the script that ran around them and whispered it to her in perfect Latin.
They went inside the cool, dark interior—a welcome reprieve from the heat. The susurration of people trying to be quiet as they pointed in excitement echoed through the space over the background music of church choirs. Penelope was full of wonder at the magnitude of artistic creation and history around her, and awkward at the same time, because she didn’t know any of the Catholic rituals.
Constantine crossed himself before making his way to the candles. Penelope wondered who he would light a candle for when he’d lived so long and lost so many. Her thoughts automatically turned to Tim, and even though he would’ve made fun of her for doing it, she lit one for him and hoped that if there was an afterlife, he was enjoying it. She let the loss of him seep through her, hoping Constantine didn’t notice the way her eyes filled again. It must be the day for crying. Constantine took her hand as he stared at the flames.
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