by Elicia Hyder
“On my way.”
“What?” Cassiel asked, handing me Fury’s clothes.
I stuffed them into my backpack. “It was Samael. He’s found another body. We need to go.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was chilly and raining when we crossed through the spirit line onto the mainland near the airport outside Venice. Cassiel decided our arrival on any of the small, crowded islands that made up the city might be too conspicuous. “Water taxis are this way,” she said, looking at a map. Then she walked off without waiting for me.
“Cassiel?”
She stopped and turned.
“Water taxis aren’t free.”
She looked surprised. Not because we needed money, but probably because I’d thought of it before she did. I grinned as she walked past me in the direction the sign was pointing toward the airport entrance.
“We’ll need euros,” I said, jogging to catch up with her.
“I know that, Warren.”
I winked as I held the door. She cracked a small grin and walked inside.
My eyes searched the lobby until they landed on a sign with major credit logos on it. “Foreign exchange this way.”
The woman behind the desk smiled as we approached, but the smile faded as I neared the counter. So typical. She greeted us in Italian.
I took out my wallet. “Do you speak—”
“Buona sera,” Cassiel said with a smile. Then she handed the woman my credit card, and (I assume) asked for euros.
The woman looked at the card, then at me, then back at the card. Her smile magically returned. “Damn it, Nathan,” I whispered, shaking my head.
When the woman finished, she handed Cassiel the cash and handed me the card. “Signore Suave,” she said, unable to tame her teasing lips.
Cassiel snickered behind her hand.
“Thanks,” I said, shaking my head at both of them. I looked at Cassiel. “You ready?”
“Oh yeah. This might even be fun.” She held onto my arm, and I let her, trusting that she wouldn’t use her powers for evil. As we neared the door we’d come in, she stopped and looked up at a television mounted overhead.
It was a news report, but I couldn’t understand what the reporter was saying. One word in the caption was clear: omicidio.
“Are they talking about our victim?” I asked her.
She nodded. “I think so. They say another gruesome discovery was made this afternoon at an apartment building near Piazza San Marco, St. Mark’s Square. They are calling it too graphic for public television.”
I shuddered. “I’ll bet that’s where we find Samael.”
“Let’s go.”
Our water taxi across the lagoon was a large orange boat with a tight inside cabin. We moved all the way to the back of the U-shaped bench, and there was a very obvious gap between me and the skittish woman to my right. Cassiel moved closer to me. “Take my hand,” she whispered.
I narrowed my eyes.
“It will make you less conspicuous to the people here. They’re already terrified. Let’s not make it worse.”
“No funny business?” I asked.
“I promise.”
When our hands touched, and our fingers meshed, her warm energy flowed through me. Home.
Instantly, the other passengers relaxed. When Sloan and I were together, she had a theory that our powers somehow balanced each other out. I wondered if Cassiel had a similar effect.
Looking down at our hands, I felt the stress of Earth ease in my chest.
“Better?” she asked as if she could sense it.
“Yes.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“Mind if I check out for a minute and take a quick trip down Azrael’s memory lane?” I asked.
She looked at the lump under my shirt where the blood stone rested. “Do you know how rare that thing is?”
“Yes, I do. Do you mind?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes, and the world around me faded to black. I thought back to the first time Azrael ever encountered the work of il mostro di Venezia. His memory took over as my memory.
It was dark, and I was walking along a cobblestone street… or maybe a wide alleyway between buildings lit only by moonlight. A woman’s wails drifted along the quiet breeze, the only sound louder than the staccato clip clop of my heels against the stones.
I stopped at the open front door from which the cries were emanating. Fresh death seemed to make the building breathe. Its walls seemed to expand and contract as I stepped into the narrow entryway.
The sound was coming from the top of the stairs.
I took them two at a time until I reached the landing. Looked right. Looked left. Golden light flickered against the wood grain of an open door.
I stepped inside. A man was holding a woman in a nightdress as she screamed over the body of a young woman on the bed. The man drew back with alarm when I entered, pulling the crying woman away from me. I held up both my hands and took each step slowly toward the dead girl.
Picking up the candlestick holder that teetered dangerously on the edge of the bedside table, I moved it over the corpse on the bed. Her body was naked, ribs protruding like a washboard. Bruises covered her pale arms and legs, signs of beatings with a rod or a cane.
Her head was mounted on the headboard post, missing its eyes I knew to be brown and green. This girl, an orphan raised by the church, had approached me only days before near the fish market in the piazzetta. Her curiosity had given away her gift long before I’d been close enough to see her eyes.
Now, her mouth was gaping enough for me to see something white inside. I pried it open, and a bloody green eyeball rolled out. I barely caught it in my gloved hand.
“Smettila! Smettila!” the man screamed, still holding the woman.
I looked around the room. The girl’s spirit had to be close, as I was the only Angel of Death in Venice. That was when I saw her crouched in the small space between the bed and the wall. Placing the eyeball carefully on her body’s chest, I walked toward her, cautiously kneeling near her feet.
She was crying.
I offered her my hand. “Ceyet ai kayam,” I said gently, telling her not to be afraid.
Shaking, she put her hand in mine. Then together we walked out of the house.
“Only one more stop.” The voice of the boat’s captain jarred me from the vision. Quickly glancing around the boat, I saw we were the last passengers on board.
“Are you Americans?” he asked, his accent as thick as his black hair.
“Yes,” I answered before Cassiel could deny it.
“Lots of excitement at the square today. Be careful,” he said.
I straightened in my seat. I didn’t realize I’d slumped against Cassiel. “Are you talking about the murder? We saw it on the news at the airport.”
“Yes. They say we have a serial killer. Three murders now in the past two weeks.”
“Do you know where?” Cassiel asked.
He pointed off the side of the boat. “The one they found today is just over there. See the yellow building with the flag?”
I looked out the window. “The red flag?”
“Yes. That’s it. I heard the body was, how do you say…”
“Decapitated?” I asked.
“Yes. Decapitated.”
Cassiel looked at me. “How did you know that?”
I still hadn’t told her I’d known about these suspicious murders for a while. In lieu of an answer, I pulled the blood stone out from under my shirt.
She nodded.
“They say all the victims eyes were found in their throats,” the boat driver added.
Cassiel made a sour face.
I leaned against her shoulder and spoke quietly. “Same MO.”
“Were the other murders close by?” she asked him.
“All of them. The bodies have been found on the Calle dei Morti, which makes it, how you say…creepy? In English it means the Street of the Dead.”
/> I sighed. “So I’ve heard. Do the police have any leads?”
He shrugged as he steered the boat toward the dock. “If they do, they are not telling the public. And I think they would. The city is afraid. My boat is always full. The past few days, less than half.”
Once the boat was secured to the wooden dock, Cassiel and I got up. I shook the captain’s hand on our way out. “Thanks for the information.”
“You are welcome. Be safe,” he said with a smile.
Even in the drizzling rain, Venice looked like a postcard. Exactly how I’d imagined it would be. A clock tower and domed cathedrals in the distance. Ornate buildings lining the water. Arched bridges marking the inlets. The air smelled of fish and seawater.
A street vendor was selling umbrellas by the docks. Other things too: Carnival masks, shot glasses, magnets of the statue of David’s penis. I selected a black umbrella and handed the vendor the cash.
“Thank you,” I said, taking a step back and opening it over my head and Cassiel’s. “You ready to go check out the mob?”
“Where’s Samael?” she asked, searching the sky like he might fly by.
“Close.” I pressed a finger to my ear and called out to him. “I’m near St. Mark’s Square. Where are you?”
“Follow the police,” he replied in my mind.
I looked around us. A block up ahead along the lagoon, two police officers in black uniforms with safety-yellow vests were guarding a temporary metal fence blocking the side street. “This way.” I nudged the small of Cassiel’s back.
As we approached, a cop stepped forward with his hand raised to stop us. He said something in Italian that I assumed meant the area was closed. Cassiel argued with him. He argued back.
It was kind of entertaining.
Beyond them, a crowd of reporters and police were gathered at the entrance to the yellow building we’d seen from the boat. Samael wasn’t among them, but he was somewhere, maybe inside.
With an exasperated huff, the officer finally motioned us forward.
“Come on,” Cassiel said, leading me through the gap in the fence.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“I told him we had a vacation rental from an owner of one of the apartments and that we were late for check-in. He said the building was closed, but I insisted that we be able to look for our host. When he refused, I threatened to call the American embassy. I guess he decided I wasn’t worth the hassle.”
“Sometimes I feel the same way,” I said with a grin.
She elbowed me in the ribs.
“American, huh?” I asked, surprised.
“You’re the one with a passport.”
The street was paved with large concrete bricks, and it was a block and a half to the three-story building. Samael was walking out the front door when we reached it. It was weird seeing him in modern clothes: khaki pants and a navy polo under a tan raincoat. On his shoulder was a leather bag. When he spotted us, he gestured us forward.
I collapsed the umbrella to make it easier to press through the crowd, but the onlookers were reluctant to let us pass. I looked back at Cassiel, then dropped her hand. Immediately, the crowd moved away from me—like a clove of garlic dropped into a sea of vampires.
Another set of officers tried to block our way as Cassiel followed me up the steps to the entrance. Samael stepped between them and spoke in Italian. Then he looked at me. “Come. I told them you are with me.”
My head pulled back. “Who do they think you are?”
He reached into his inside-jacket pocket and produced an ID badge.
I smiled. “Interpol, David Miller.” He’d been wearing a David Miller name tag the first time we’d met on Earth. “Very impressive. Nice man purse.”
He held up the leather bag. “It’s a satchel.”
“OK,” I said with a laugh. “What’s going on here?”
The entrance hall was crowded with uniformed and plain-clothed police. We followed Samael up the stairs. “The body was found here this afternoon when she failed to report in at work. She’s a shopkeeper for her family’s jewelry store near the Rialto Bridge.”
“Is the body still here?” Cassiel asked when we reached the second floor.
“Yes, but they are getting ready to move it. You’re here just in time.” He turned right and flashed his badge to another officer standing watch at one of the doorways. The man moved out of our way.
The apartment was small and dimly lit by a single bulb in the overhead lamp and the storm-filtered sunlight barely making it through the window. A photographer was snapping pictures. A forensics team was looking for fingerprints.
Samael led us to the bedroom where the naked body of a woman was stretched across the bed. Like the others, the center of her chest had been mutilated, and her arms and legs were each tied to the bed’s four posts. Staring at us from the footboard post was her head, the eyes missing and the cheeks streaked with dried blood.
“My god,” Cassiel whispered, covering her mouth.
A tall woman—as tall as me—walked over from where she’d been giving directions to a second photographer. She had silky black hair and wore an expensive-looking navy pants suit. Her hand was outstretched as we approached. “You must be the other agents from Interpol,” she said in perfect English with a beautiful Italian accent.
I shook the woman’s hand but didn’t give our names.
“I am Inspector Santoro. I’m afraid we have little need for your services, as this is a local matter.”
Cassiel shook the inspector’s hand, then held onto it. “It’s lovely to meet you. Please give us your full report.”
The woman stared blankly for a moment. Then she nodded. “The victim’s name is Amalia Cosentino, age nineteen. The body was discovered at approximately twelve o’clock today by Dario Cosentino, the victim’s father. Like the others, she was strangled first and then decapitated.
“The eyes were removed and the chest carving was done while the victim was still alive. You can see that by the amount of blood present on the skin.”
“The eyes are in the mouth?” I asked, taking a closer look at the head.
“The examination has not yet been performed, but it’s a reasonable assumption.”
Cassiel walked to the bedside. “Warren.”
I joined her.
“It’s your mark,” she whispered.
Once again, my mark had been carved into the victim’s chest with something sharp. Probably the same something used to gouge out her eyes. I wasn’t surprised, but I tried to fake it. “Oh wow.”
Cassiel’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did you know about this?”
I tried to contain a guilty grimace and failed.
Looking back at the inspector, Cassiel pointed to the girl’s chest. “Did the other bodies have this same symbol?”
“Yes. The very same.”
“No one heard screaming? A commotion?” Cassiel asked.
The inspector shook her head. “We found residue from tape on the other victims’ mouths. We assume this will be the same.”
“What leads do you have?” I asked.
“None that are substantial. The apartment was rented to the victim’s father. No one saw her leaving or coming back.”
I looked at Samael. “Have you met her father?”
He nodded. “He checks out.”
“We questioned him extensively,” Inspector Santoro said.
I didn’t care about her opinion. Only Samael’s judgment really mattered. A murderer couldn’t be more plain to him if they were wearing a flashing neon sign.
I looked around the room, specifically between the bed and the wall. There was nothing. Aside from us, there were no spirits, human or otherwise. And no purple smoke.
I reached for the inspector’s hand again. “We’ll let you take it from here. Thank you for letting us invade your crime scene.”
Confused, she shook my hand. “You’re welcome?” She didn’t sound so sure.
&nbs
p; When we were back outside, I picked up the umbrella I’d left near the door. The three of us used it as an excuse to huddle together and talk quietly on the street.
“Did Jaleal take the girl’s soul across the spirit line?” I asked Samael.
“Yes. I considered waiting for you to get here, but…”
I shook my head. “No, you did the right thing. It’s unfair to keep them here suffering for any longer than they have to be.”
He looked relieved.
Cassiel grabbed me by the jacket and spun me around. “You’ve known about this.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think you should tell me?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t know it was related until we got to Malab.” That was the truth.
Frustrated, her head tilted toward the sky, and she pressed her eyes closed.
“So you were here soon after?” I asked Samael.
“I only missed the killer by minutes, I’d say.” He looked at me. “I also just sent Jeshua to cover for me at the gate while we sort this out. Did you pass him in the breach?”
I shook my head. “We came here from Asheville. Moloch attacked Echo-5 last night.”
“What do we know about these victims?” Cassiel asked.
Samael pulled a thick black file folder from his man purse and gave it to her. “I’ve been collecting information since I was in Thailand. The only similarity between our victims is that they all have mismatched eyes, and they were all found in the same state as what you saw upstairs.”
Cassiel flipped through the file.
Samael leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “All of Vito Saez's victims died the same way a few centuries ago, so we think it might be a copycat killer.”
I sighed and shook my head. “We don’t think that anymore.”
His brow lifted.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Cassiel looked around. “Preferably somewhere dry with food. I’m famished.”
I looked up and down the Street of the Dead. “Looks like there’s a restaurant on the next block. How does Italian food sound?”
“Right now? Almost as good as manna. Lead the way,” she said.
Osteria da Emiliano was slow (it was too late for lunch and way too early for dinner in Venice), so we were able to secure a private table in the back. The waiter brought us water, and Cassiel ordered a carafe of the house red wine. He lingered for our food order.