by M C Dulac
He had the strength of a demon. He forced me to the table. He lifted the green bottle and pressed it to my lips. I inhaled its vile fumes. It reeked of such evil I felt sick, mentally and physically. How had he and Carissa drunk it?
“Help me.”
“No,” I said.
“Then you shall also taste death,” he said.
The green liquid was at the rim of the glass. I closed my mouth as I sensed the droplets beneath my lip. At the last moment, he tipped the bottle away from me. I gripped my stomach, for even the fumes were poison.
“Do what I want or you will share my agony. I will chain you in this cellar. And you will die here - slowly.”
He threw me to the floor.
“Go. You know what I need.”
And so I went out into the city, tears flooding down my cheeks. It was not hard to find the girl. She was living under the bridge and had sad, defeated eyes. She had lived too much in her short life, and now she had seen the Holy City, she was ready to die. Had she escaped the evil grind of a factory, or the brutal hand of her employer? She was just one of the poor who seek death in the cities of this terrible century. She gazed at me as though I were an angel, her saviour, for what must I look like in my fine clothes?
She followed me through the city, until we came to the Pantheon.
She sat down because I told her. She was no older than my sister, no older than Maria, no older than the maid whom Carissa had killed in Malta. Her eyes were adoring and trusting, until I could bear it no more.
Run, I was about to tell her, go from here.
I swear to the saints, that was my intention.
Standing at the edge of the square was a cloaked figure by a carriage. Perhaps Schumann did not trust me to go through with his order. He smiled and nodded. I was needed no longer.
The girl walked toward him, like a sleepwalker. And I returned to my fine apartments, where I wept as I drew her portrait, poor, lost, innocent soul. Forgotten by all, but not by me!
Mi dispiace, mi dispiace.
What use were my tears now? Was I saying sorry to her, or to the better part of my heart? For man cannot serve a devil, without becoming one.
Schumann has recovered - for now. The elixir lasts only for a certain time. It is not measurable in its effect, neither in how long it lasts or how quickly it wears off. Will he exist into the next century or the century beyond that? I do not know how to destroy either the man or the monster.
This then, is my confession. It is the year 1899. I have lived for one hundred and fifty eight years and have the face of a boy. Schumann has played a part in war and revolution. When he is well, he roams the halls of Europe’s palaces. When he is ill, the monster of Amalfi returns. He treats me well, but what has serving such a master done to my soul?
He must be destroyed. I will wait until he grows weak, and leave him alone in his dank cellar for he cannot survive for long once the illness has him.
Until that time, I live in a gilt-cage of hell. I am Antonio, servant to a monster. We are bound together, Schumann and I, and only in our destruction, can either of us be free.
chapter twenty
REBECCA’S
STORY
Amalfi Coast & Rome
Present day
Rebecca closed the book.
The sun had risen and a new day beckoned. She should have been tired, but her mind was spinning too fast to sleep.
She had taken this book out of the very hiding space that Antonio had described. She had wandered in the dying forest before the ruined palazzo and watched the waves breaking on the cliffs around the smugglers’ cove. She had stood before the painting of Antonio and Price, which Antonio himself had painted, centuries before. And yesterday, when Antonio had drunk the elixir of the elements and dissolved in front of her, she had seen the effects of alchemy with her own eyes.
Antonio had chosen the only possible ending for himself. He had died, so she could live. All his beliefs and codes had been broken. He had spoken to her of angels and art, when his life was consumed by devils and darkness. Schumann had dragged him into a hell which he could not escape in this world.
Theirs had been a love story out of time, fractured by centuries. It was a connection that was eternal and infinite, a cure for all her grief and unhappiness. They had shared the simple pleasures of discovering the city and its wonders, unhindered by worldly concerns. They had walked side by side, like angels separated by time. She had always known there was something unusual about him, but she had learned to trust and to see the world in a new light. He was as impossible for her to touch, as she had been for him.
He had been too good to be true. A gentleman from a different century, even though he never believed that could be his position. But he had become more noble than the people he served.
If only they had met earlier, he had said on the bridge. They had now, she replied. And then they had kissed, defying time and magic. She hoped that one moment had made up for his centuries of loneliness.
But he had other plans to carry through. In the stark light of morning, Antonio was gone. The book beneath her fingers, however, was very real.
She had read a story about monsters. A monster that needed blood to live. The monster of Amalfi of folklore, who roamed the cliffs and coves in darkness. A monster who existed to this day and who had chosen her.
Schumann must have thought she would give in easily, and accept perpetual sleep like the innocents he had led to their deaths before. And maybe she might have, when her grief was raw and the world was forlorn and all she saw were grey skies and sombre tombs. But she had come through to the other side, onto a sunlit terrace in the Pincio Gardens. And waiting there had been her protector - her dark angel - Antonio.
Antonio’s story had helped her survive the night. He hadn’t written the last chapters in the story. She had thought she was living in a simple romance: Boy meets girl. But instead this story was: Boy meets girl. Boy is under the control of an evil alchemist. Boy sacrifices himself to save girl. And now...
The shadows in the hotel room were wavering, as if they had a life of their own. There was a draught from somewhere, causing the curtains to rise and fall. She rubbed her eyes and stood up.
She must leave this enchanted coast now, and take the book with her. She was not out of Dante’s dark woods yet. She had more chapters to live, and no one to guide her.
She packed quickly and rolled her suitcase into the hall. The hotel manager had just opened the reception desk. Rebecca paid for her room and carried her suitcase across the town square.
She had hired the car in Amalfi and probably should return it to the same place, as she didn’t want any misunderstandings to delay her. But when she walked along the seafront to the car hire shop, she found it did not open until midmorning. Should she leave the car there anyway? She checked the timetable at the coach depot, but no buses left for an hour.
As she stared around the deserted coach stop, she tried to push away the guilt that hovered at the edge of her mind.
Was Schumann still alive in the palazzo? What if he recovered and continued? She would have to live with the secret of knowing someone else had died in her place. What was she doing except saving herself? This was not the way things were meant to be. She wanted to be brave, but recently all she had been was powerless.
She glanced at the clock on her phone. She’d have to wait a long time. She still had the car. Perhaps she could go to Palazzo Ombre again.
She did not know what she expected to find, but driving along the coastal road was better than sitting at the coach stop and brooding. In daylight Schumann was at his weakest. Perhaps there might be something to incriminate him in the palazzo. Then she could ring the police anonymously, and they could investigate. Schumann may be a monster, but it was now an era of fact and evidence, and if he intended to commit murder, she would find the proof.
The estate was swathed in shadow when she arrived at the gates. She thought of Antonio’s descriptions of the
lemon groves and fine gardens and the palazzo on the cliff. With the beams of morning light blinding her eyes, she tried to think of what the estate had once been. But the decay was everywhere, and the heyday of the Duke’s palazzo had faded into history.
Rebecca closed the car door. She walked along the drive and came to the lawn below the house. There were deep hollows in the ground. Some holes led straight down to the sea. The cavern must lie directly below and its collapse had undermined the gardens. Treading carefully, Rebecca reached the terrace.
The palazzo was silent. A breeze whistled through the empty rooms, where the windows and ceilings had long fallen away. The circular staircase seemed suspended in the air. A black and white tiled floor was just visible under dirt and leaves, and faint remnants of frescoes covered the walls. Here must be the sitting room, where Price had entertained Carissa and her uncle. There must be the library where he wrote out his accounts. A few pieces of furniture were strewn around the rooms - a rotting chair and a mold-spotted mirror. But she sensed Schumann was not there. The palazzo was a ruin open to the elements, offering no shelter or shade.
The charred ruins of the white villa lay across the cliff top. It had been burnt deliberately and teetered on the edge of the sea.
Although she was sure she was alone, she could not shake off a feeling of chills. She returned to the terrace and walked along the side of the house, gazing into the empty rooms. Turning around, her heart skipped a beat. The gardens below had fallen into the sea and the terrace led straight over the cliff.
Placing her hand on the balustrade, Rebecca climbed down to the next garden. Below were the remains of the cavern. The smuggler’s cove, prized by the nobility for its seclusion for centuries, was now no more than an open cove on the coast.
A passage led into the cliff. Was Schumann there? There was no safe path and the way along the cliff showed the scars of recent rock falls. Nevertheless, she could not tear her eyes away from the passage.
Her eyelids lowered and she sensed a heartbeat on the wind. A heartbeat echoing against stone walls. She opened her eyes and found she had stepped closer to the edge, and the sea was swirling below her.
But the heartbeat ebbed and flowed, and then was gone altogether. The air suddenly seemed lighter. She heard the waves and the birds cry overhead. A spell was broken, and her head was clear again.
She carefully climbed up the terrace and began to walk back through the orchard. She had almost reached the drive when she paused.
Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth. The estate had such a surreal silence, that the sound of snapping branches rung out like a bell. Someone was moving among the trees. With a racing heart, she saw a silver car parked beyond the gates.
The couple from Rome were walking through the orchard. They must have followed her from the town. Their presence jolted her back to reality. Schumann was a shadowy monster, but these people were real. They had walked up stairs in Rome and opened and closed doors. They had come to Amalfi with solid questions. They were looking for Antonio and they knew about her. The man had an air of authority, despite his casual polo shirt and chinos. She was sure he was some sort of investigator.
The book was in her bag. Antonio was no longer around to protect her and she doubted Otto von Schumann could be found at the moment, to prove the story was real. How could she explain why she had such a valuable antique book?
The couple headed toward the palazzo. Rebecca crept quietly through the gates. She got in her car, wincing at the roar of the engine. She turned the car quickly, and sped to Amalfi.
She drove straight to the car hire shop. She handed over the keys, anxious at the time it took for the clerk to find the bill. The coach ticket counter was now open and she bought a ticket to Naples. It was the first bus that left that morning, and from there she would find a way to get to Rome.
Walking as fast as she could while rolling the heavy suitcase, Rebecca headed to the coach stop. The coach pulled away before she could reach it. It was an hour before the next departure. She sat down along the seafront, alone and conspicuous. She hoped the couple were still at the estate, or had returned to Positano. She was sure they had not followed her when she had driven back to Amalfi.
But then she saw the silver car parked near a restaurant.
The couple was seated at a table. The man raised a cup to his lips. He did not appear to drink. The blonde haired girl sipped a juice and wore sunglasses despite the shade.
Rebecca stood up, but her movement caught the young woman’s eye. They rose from their seats, and began walking toward Rebecca.
Rebecca walked fast toward the hotel. Her suitcase caught a crack in the pavement and she wheeled it around until it was free. The couple had almost caught up, but stopped suddenly.
Rebecca had the feeling they couldn’t step into the sunshine.
“May we speak to you?” the girl asked in English.
“If you come over here.”
Rebecca was lightheaded. Why couldn’t the girl enter the sunlight? Just as Albert Price and Antonio avoided sunlight?
“Who are you?” she said, her heart thudding. Maybe they weren’t investigators. The girl’s voice had a similar tempo to Antonio’s and her face was strangely smooth. The Carissa in Antonio’s story had dark hair, but hair colour was easy to change. Antonio had written that Carissa had died in Malta. But had she?
“My name is Elise. Elise du Bois.”
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“I want to talk about Antonio.”
The blood rushed to Rebecca’s head. She was balancing on the edge of reality and myth again. How could she explain what had happened in the cove the day before? And how could she explain the confession in the book? She was suddenly aware of the crisp morning air and the smell of the sea. What if it was all real? Maybe Antonio had jumped into the sea and she had fled the scene of an accident. Maybe there was an earthly answer and she was in big trouble.
The man’s eyes narrowed in concern.
“Perhaps you should sit down,” he said, calmly, “You don’t look well.”
“Who are you?”
He spoke softly and fast, as though conveying a secret, “My name is Jean-Louis Champillon. Please, join us.”
Rebecca glanced at the bus drivers, talking in the distance. Her head was spinning and she felt weak. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Reluctantly she joined Elise and Champillon. They took a seat under the striped umbrellas of the cafe.
“Breakfast?” Champillon suggested.
Rebecca nodded and ordered, then fixed her eyes on the couple.
“What do you want to know about Antonio?”
“I saw you both in the cove yesterday,” Elise said.
“What did you see?”
“I saw Antonio fade away.”
Rebecca shivered. It had happened. But she shook her head, “Do you know about Antonio - fading away?”
“Yes, I saw it too,” Champillon said.
“Why were you following Antonio?”
“We believed he might help us.”
“Help you do what?”
Champillon was handsome but moved strangely, like Antonio, “To answer some questions.”
“About alchemy?”
Champillon nodded slowly as though he didn’t expect Rebecca to know.
“So what did you want from Antonio? The elixir of life? The secret of gold?”
“We have no need,” Champillon smiled.
“Why not?”
“We are already alchemists,” Elise said.
Rebecca tried to ignore the blood pounding in her head.
“You aren’t Carissa, are you?” Rebecca still feared somehow Carissa had survived the experiment in Malta.
“Carissa? I have never heard of that name,” Elise’s confusion seemed genuine.
Rebecca went on, “How did you become alchemists?”
“We learned from another alchemist,” Champillon said.
“What was his name?”<
br />
“Albert Price.”
“Are you going to faint, Rebecca?” Elise said with concern.
Champillon waved to the waiter to bring some chilled water.
“No, I’m fine,” Rebecca said, although she wasn’t.
“We came to Rome to find any trace of Price’s time there,” Champillon said, “It was difficult, as centuries had passed and Price had always been secretive. Then, by chance, we found a painting in a gallery. It was the first we knew that Albert Price had an apprentice.”
“We had found the apartment building where Price had stayed,” Elise went on, picking up Champillon’s story, “When we stood outside one evening, the young man who emerged from the door was identical to the man in the painting.”
“Why didn’t you tell Antonio?”
“We were not certain Antonio was an alchemist,” Champillon said, “The resemblance might have been a coincidence. Antonio wore jeans and sneakers and left each night to teach at the art school. There was nothing extraordinary about his lifestyle. The apartment was not a laboratory. We did not want to reveal a secret that might be used against us.”
The church bells rang. They fell silent until they finished.
“Antonio never said anything about you.”
“He never knew we were in Rome. We were about to return to Paris, when we learned that Antonio worked for a man called Otto von Schumann.”
Rebecca put down her glass.
“Otto von Schumann is a powerful man in Europe,” he continued, “He always has money to bail out banks or corporations. Once we looked closely at his businesses, it appeared that he had acquired the secrets of alchemy at some time.”
“You are shivering,” Elise said with concern, “Are you cold?”
“I’m not shivering because of the cold,” Rebecca said, “What do you know about Otto von Schumann?”
“We realised why he never ran out of money,” Champillon said, “He made his own gold. But I had seen Schumann in Geneva once. Schumann did not have the glow of one who had drunk the elixir of life.”
“The glow of the elixir - like both of you and Antonio.”