“Change of plans,” I say. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
“Xavier is an old friend. Should I be concerned for his welfare?” Gaetano asks. I can’t tell if the tremor in his voice is from age, or fear.
“We were separated en route to Naples,” Henry says. “Our mission is one of urgency, as you likely are aware.”
Gaetano nods, but his watery eyes don’t look convinced. He then gestures toward the western end of the Forum, and then turns to move toward it, his steps shuffling. He’s not nearly as fierce or determined-looking as Shamira and Joseph were.
“A podium sits down there adequate for our needs,” Gaetano explains.
The gravel underfoot is the sole sound as we move toward the squared-off pile of bricks. Some of the columns along the Forum’s sides are still topped with what looks like might have been part of a roof structure; when the flashlight is aimed at the marble tops, carved letters appear.
Sure enough, as we approach the western end, a brick podium/pedestal construction surfaces out of the darkness.
Gaetano stops before it and turns to me. “I knew your mother,” he says. Just like Shamira did. Unlike Shamira, however, he doesn’t offer condolences or pat my hand. When he pulls out the key under the neckline of his button-down shirt, he doesn’t kiss it or whisper a prayer or tuck it away again.
I watch the key closely, praying it doesn’t turn black before my very eyes. My unease is not soothed when I note that Henry is taking his gloves off, slowly, one at a time, his eyes wide and alert.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end; the fire behind my sternum blazes.
Gaetano then turns to Henry and me. “You must present your texts to prove your identity.” I stare at Henry for a moment, wishing I could speak directly into his brain—This doesn’t feel right— but I can’t risk touching him or conjuring any images. We don’t have time.
“Do you have the key piece?” I ask.
“Of course,” Gaetano says. He nods at Pietro, who then pulls a square jewelry-style box out of his pocket. Pietro opens the hinged box, and inside is another polished, gray-stone piece of the temple key.
Henry and I pull off our backpacks. As soon as my hands make contact with the text, the vibration begins, even through my gloves, only this time it feels sharp and almost painful. Not like before.
Gaetano motions to the podium and pats the surface gently.
“Please place your texts here and lay a hand atop,” he says, his voice wavering.
As we did with Shamira, Henry and I follow Gaetano’s instructions. I pull off my right-hand glove. Like it did when I was first sealed to it, as my skin touches the book’s surface, energy blows through me, rattling my teeth and initiating an instant searing headache.
Gaetano begins speaking, extends a gnarled hand first on top of mine and then on Henry’s. The exchange between me and the book slows, but whereas before I felt strong and invincible after the prior ritual, I now feel depleted and anxious.
As the last words cross Gaetano’s lips, the key hanging from his neck turns deathly black.
And bright light floods the area around us.
Gaetano is shaking, his hands clasped in front of his face in prayer formation, his head bobbing and tears flowing down his cheeks. “Mi dispiace molto! I’m so sorry! Ti prego, perdonami!” His La Vérité key shimmers in its own cloud of black vapor. Pietro is already lying flat on the ground, his arms outstretched. Gaetano is near wailing at this point, alternately raising his hands into the air and clasping them in front of his face.
“It’s an ambush,” I say quietly, as if commenting on the weather.
An ambush made worse when a third man emerges from the black night.
Gaetano attempts to speak, but only a pained squeak emerges.
“Benvenuto,” Xavier says. “Welcome to Pompeii.” He steps forward, arms outstretched. Three other men emerge from under the glare of the blinding lights.
Xavier stops in front of me, lips pursed in amusement.
“You’re a fucking traitor.” I spit on his boot.
His eyes flash in warning as he withdraws the weapon at his hip. “This is my associate, Enzo,” he says, gesturing toward the grinning Italian now next to him, his own weapon drawn. Enzo looks like a movie star—clean-cut brown hair, no hint of stubble, large brown eyes, perfect white teeth that gleam in a terrifying smile. He and his associates are dressed like they’re going to an exclusive nightclub—shimmery button-down shirts with coordinating ties, dark slacks, expensive-looking shoes, suit coats.
Except Enzo’s tie is held in place with a shining silver pin: the inverted triangle overlying the circle.
He catches me looking at it.
“That’s right. You know what this means, don’t you?” Enzo purrs, reaching to pull the knitted hat from my head. “And she does look so much like her mother, even without those fiery, flowing locks. I heard she did.” He brushes a finger under my chin and tosses my hat away; I flinch from his touch just as Henry moves to step in front of me. The man laughs at him. “Your girlfriend is beautiful. You are a lucky man, Henry Dmitri. Your father sends his regards.”
“Enough,” Xavier barks. “Get what we came for before the morning guards show up.” He stares hard at me, then down at my hands, then back up to my eyes, nodding ever so slightly.
What the hell is going on?
“You heard the man,” Enzo says, signaling with one finger at the books. The two goons with him move toward us; one hits Gaetano upside the head to stop his wailing. He crumples to the ground next to Pietro. I don’t know who’s more the coward—a hired muscle beating up an old man, or the old man’s bodyguard stretched out like a dead starfish.
I’m clenching and stretching my fingers, but Enzo sees my movement. “Ah, no, no, no, my young friend, Miss Aveline warned me. You put both of those gloves back on, or I will make you watch while I kill everyone else here first, starting with lover boy. Do you understand what I am saying?” Enzo raises his gun arm at Henry. A chilling click as the safety releases. I stare daggers at Enzo and tighten my fists against the rage burning inside me. A breeze wafts past carrying the smell of singed skin and fabric.
Enzo’s lackeys shove the AVRAKEDAVRA texts and both key pieces in a large, leather satchel.
“Please don’t do this,” I say, trying to mask the frustrated horror coursing through me. We can’t lose these books here tonight. We can’t have suffered so much for it to be over so soon.
Henry, standing close enough that I can hear his rapid, scared breaths, grabs my wrist, the bare skin just above where my glove ends and my sleeve starts. Alicia appears next to him.
“Genevieve, give me your energy,” he says under his breath. “Help me.”
And then Henry drops to his knees and slams his other hand flat onto the ground in front of him, immediately conjuring a horrifying scene of the earth shaking, the sky blackening, the air choked with hot ash. Smoldering debris rains from the sky, settling alight everything it touches. The Forum is as it was nearly two thousand years ago, the colonnade supporting a roof over our heads, and the space is filled with panicking people running and screaming and shoving one another to escape. Carts are overturned; produce and bread is mashed underfoot. Amphorae holding wine and oils smash to bits, their aroma spicing the smoky air.
Children separated from parents howl and shriek; horses rear and bolt and goats bleat, stampeding over whatever gets in their way. The air is so thick and hot, every inhale burns like I will never breathe again. People drop around us, choking and foaming at the mouth, eyes wide with the terror that they’re being asphyxiated by the tantrum of an angry mountain just miles from where we stand.
It’s having the same effect on Enzo and his men, all of them spinning in confusion, grabbing at their throats, coughing, spitting, gagging on the sooty air, dropping to their knees, eyes bulging and neck veins protruding as they struggle for one clean breath.
Enzo relinquishes his hold on the leather satche
l containing the AVRAKEDAVRA texts.
Xavier is on his knees, bent in half, choking and coughing, but his fingers are wrapped around the grip of his handgun.
“Genevieeeeeve, everything you have!” Henry yells. I’m frozen in place but I look down at him, light blowing out of his eyes like frigid blue spotlights, and I see Alicia with her arms outspread, her ghostly form glowing, lit from the inside. I close my eyes and force the inferno burning inside me down through my arm and into Henry’s hand. I know by the agonizing holler that he feels everything I’m giving him, a long, painful sound that manifests in the worsening of the ash plume choking the men around us.
Just when I think my lungs can’t possibly bear another airless second, Henry lets go and the vision dissipates.
No one else is left standing.
Enzo’s men are still and coiled in the fetal position, their eyes fixed open, their foamy lips purple and faces blue. Enzo is on his back, coughing and sputtering, his formerly pristine complexion splattered with streaks from tiny broken blood vessels, his irises floating in the blood that has flooded the whites of his eyes. Xavier, still huddled over, drops his gun but then draws a formidable knife from his boot.
“Henry!” I scream as Xavier stumbles toward him. But my father doesn’t slice into Henry’s flesh. He bends down and buries the blade in Enzo’s neck.
Holy shit. He didn’t kill Henry. He killed Enzo.
What the hell is happening? Is he going to take the books for himself now?
Unsteady, Xavier stands and stabs both of the other men in the heart, even though they look plenty dead to me. He then drops his knife, coughing and wheezing in air that is once again free of sulfuric contaminants.
Henry collapses onto his side, his face sweaty and red and his breaths short like he’s just sprinted a race.
I turn and vomit onto the sacred ground. I spit and cough, and then kneel next to Henry. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
His eyes closed, he hacks his lungs clear. “I didn’t either.” He rolls flat onto his back, a dusty arm over his forehead, smearing dirt into the moisture on his skin.
Xavier crouches at Henry’s feet. He tucks his right hand inside his jacket, wincing with the motion. When he pulls his hand out, it’s slick with blood.
“Where is that coming from?” I ask, pushing to my feet.
Xavier pulls his jacket back. I grab Pietro’s discarded flashlight and click it on—Xavier’s dark-blue shirt is soaked with blood.
“What—”
“Enzo’s gun. He fired just as Henry conjured the scene.” When he looks at me, I see fear. “Help me up.”
“I can fix this. Just lie down for a minute,” I say, even though I don’t know where I’ll find the resources to heal him after what we just went through.
“In a minute.” Xavier stumbles to Gaetano, miraculously still alive, and helps him into a sitting position against his own damaged body. Pietro lies unmoving nearby. Between raspy breaths, Gaetano tries to talk, his efforts impeded by his sobs.
Henry pushes himself upright. Gaetano clasps Xavier’s hand in both of his.
“What’s he saying?” Henry asks solemnly.
“He doesn’t want me to leave him here alone. Enzo killed his family. He wants to join them.” Xavier looks straight at me, his eyes sad, but anger sparks behind it. He unzips a narrow, hidden pocket on his jacket just below collarbone level. From it, he extracts a capsule. “One of you give him a canteen.” Xavier cups Gaetano’s hand in his own, dropping the capsule within.
I pull out my canteen and give it to Xavier. “What is that?”
“Aconite.”
I grab his wrist. “That’s poison.”
Xavier yanks free and looks directly into my eyes. “He has nothing left, Genevieve. It’s what he wants.”
Henry moves in behind me, and together we kneel and place our hands on Gaetano’s leg, thanking him for his sacrifice. I don’t know if he understands us, but the smile through his tears makes me think he does. He stretches toward me, something in his hand—into my open palm, he drops his La Vérité key. “You are beautiful and good, like your mother before you,” he says.
“Thank you, Gaetano.”
“Get the texts,” Xavier says. “I’ll meet you by the centaur. The sun will be rising soon.”
“We’ll wait here. With you,” Henry says. I nod in agreement and tuck Gaetano’s key—restored to its usual aged silver—into my pocket.
With the rate at which he’s losing blood, Xavier won’t live to see the sunrise if I don’t get my hands on him.
And I have some big questions that require his heart to still be beating.
28
HENRY GRABS XAVIER’S BLACK DUFFEL. WE THEN EACH TAKE ONE OF HIS arms over our shoulders and stumble down the Forum toward the centaur. My left hand feels sticky through my glove; I look down and am not surprised to see blood dripping onto the dusty ground.
“It would be great if this would heal. I’m out of gloves.”
“Can you help Xavier if you’re bleeding yourself?”
“We’ll make do. Just get us to the sculpture.”
Henry coughs again. “Is this what you feel like after you heal someone?”
“Weak and breathless and legs made of Jell-O?”
“I’m not a fan.”
We reach the sculpture and help Xavier slide down the ancient brick to the rocky ground. “I need to see the damage,” I say, ripping off my gloves and carefully lifting his shirt. It looks like the bullet went right through, but there’s no way to tell if any organs were hit. It’s a messy wound.
“Hurry up. We made too much noise,” he snaps.
“Or I could leave you here to bleed to death.” I wipe my hands off—his blood, and mine—on a shirt Henry’s handed me. “How do I know you’re really one of us?”
“Because Enzo is dead, and you aren’t,” Xavier says, glaring up at me. I lean back on my heels. “Is there a problem?”
“You show up in the dead of night with the minions of our sworn enemy in a clear ambush and point a gun at Henry’s head, so forgive me for being a little confused about where your loyalties lie.”
Xavier winces, the wound obviously hurting him. “Maybe we should back up and you can explain why you stole a speedboat and left me with its crazed owner in the middle of the Mediterranean.”
“Genevieve, we need to make a decision here—heal him, or let’s just go,” Henry says.
“Yes, Genevieve, heal me, or leave.”
Henry hands me his canteen and I use the water to pour over the wound, to get a better visual of what I’m dealing with. Xavier sucks in against the pain.
“Big baby,” I say.
He smiles as I nudge in closer, hands at the ready. I’m not gentle about it. I hope the energy I’m shoving into his body hurts like hell.
I don’t have much left in the tank, but when Xavier’s teeth grind together and he grimaces, I know he’s feeling every surge of healing energy—and maybe a little electricity thrown in for good measure.
I get him to the point where he can walk on his own, and Henry helps him to his feet. My heartbeat pounds through the carving on my left arm, sending fresh waves of nausea.
Henry lifts me up under my armpits and hands me the bloodied shirt from earlier. “Wrap this around your wounds until we can get some more gauze.” He helps me strip out of my coat, and I’m instantly chilled by the midwinter air.
“What is aconite?” he asks close to my head as he wraps the shirt and then ties it with the sleeves.
“Monkshood. It’s a plant,” I say, my voice solemn. “Deadly plant.”
“Where would Xavier get that?”
I look over at Xavier as he walks in a tight circle, stretching his newly repaired side slightly as he lights a cigarette. “Probably from Nutesh’s greenhouse. From my mother.”
“How can we be responsible for so much death, Gen?” Henry asks, his eyes sad.
“It’s not our fault, Henry. We ju
st have to fix what Nutesh and the rest of them have screwed up so we can keep countless more alive. Lucian gets the books; Lucian turns back time; us and all this is poof.”
He nods.
Xavier stuffs the AVRAKEDAVRA texts and key pieces, one each, into our respective packs. He checks the inside of Enzo’s leather satchel, and then throws it aside. “That bag has a tracker in it. We need to move,” Xavier barks.
We’re all beyond the point of exhaustion, but there are dead men cooling on the ground at the other end of the Forum, and Xavier’s right—we made way too much noise.
We manage a lumbering jog out of the Forum, down the main road, and through the Porta Marina. Xavier stops suddenly, arm outstretched as he flattens us against the wall. Flashing blue lights bounce off the tourist-trap shops at the far end of the street.
Polizia.
Xavier’s eyes scan frantically, looking for a space between the buildings across from us.
“Can we go back inside? Exit through one of the other gates?” I whisper.
“The gates won’t be safe now, if they think someone is on the grounds,” Xavier says. “Follow me. Stay close.” He takes off as quietly as he can across the street to the farthest end of the last building, a sleeping restaurant. It’s a tight squeeze between a concrete retaining wall and the building’s exterior, especially with our hefty backpacks, our steps made noisier by dried leaves underfoot.
We come out the other end; the area behind the businesses is fenced, the other side a thicket of spiky bushes. “Climb it,” Xavier says, pointing to the black metal fencing. “Quickly!”
Henry is up and over, landing noisily in the scratchy branches and bushes on the other side. I follow, though I’m clumsier than usual thanks to my left arm and utter exhaustion. Xavier tosses that ever-present black duffel over at us, and then we’re through the bushes and off down a narrow two-lane street flanked by tall, skinny stucco-and-tile houses on one side.
New sirens whine loudly behind us.
More polizia.
Dear god, I hope Xavier has a car nearby. The black Fiat we came here in is back where the police are, and we can’t exactly jog to the airport.
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