by C. J. Lyons
“She’s not a Kingston,” he protested. “Now that Leo’s gone, I’m the only true Kingston left.”
“Devon is your son. Esme is your granddaughter. Someone targeted her. Are you really going to let them get away with that? An attack on your family, on your flesh and blood?”
That caught his attention. Finally, I’d found the right tactic. Not his prestige or power, but rather, his pride. And there was nothing Daniel Kingston was more proud of than his family’s honor—despite the way he and Leo had tarnished it.
“Help me save Esme.”
The darkness crept closer, waves of roiling, inky blackness, dark tendrils swirling out, tasting, testing...
Daniel nodded.
The setting changed. We were on a grassy meadow at the edge of the forest. The darkness oozed from between the trees and bushes but held its distance.
The sun was shining. A few yards in front of us, a man and woman walked their horses. The young Daniel Kingston and the woman he loved, Francesca Lazaretto. I started to ask a question, but Daniel waved me to silence. To my surprise, sadness clouded his expression—the first true emotion, other than anger, I’d seen from him.
“I just asked her to marry me,” he said as the young couple left the horses to graze and sat down in the grass. “She’s telling me no.”
“What’s that have to do with me?”
“This is where you were conceived,” he snapped.
I turned to him in horror.
“No, not that. You’re no blood of mine. Where the idea of you was conceived. Francesca was only nineteen but already a talented researcher. She was desperate to save her family, so she decided to use her eggs to create a new generation of Lazarettos.”
“Wait. Are you saying I’m the product of some lab experiment designed to eliminate the fatal insomnia genes?” The thought, as shocking as it was, made a kind of warped sense. Except for the fact that it had obviously failed terribly.
“You don’t understand. The Scourge—what the Lazarettos have called their fatal insomnia going back centuries—is their family’s greatest gift, the source of their power. But in the last generation, they had begun to see fewer affected children.”
I didn’t understand how a disease like fatal insomnia could ever be seen as a gift. “That’s a good thing, right? Natural selection is designed to eventually breed out harmful genes.”
He shook his head, obviously impatient with me. The black tendrils seeped through the grass, on a search-and-destroy mission. Behind us, the forest had vanished, replaced by ribbons of black tossed about by an unfelt wind.
“The Lazarettos have used the Scourge since the time of the Black Plague. Then, their mutant DNA protected them from certain diseases, like the plague, and allowed them to rise in Venetian society. But most of their power came from an unexpected gift from the disease. Usually, the Scourge didn’t show up until adulthood, often after the afflicted already had children and had already passed the gene on. But occasionally, a handful of each generation would show symptoms at a young age—before adolescence. In them the disease moved faster, but it also left them with the ability to capture someone’s memories under the right circumstances.”
“Like what I can do.”
“No.” He shook his head. “What you can do is...enhanced. These children could take one person’s memories, especially after the family learned to use various venoms to create a special form of coma—”
Venom would stimulate the same pain-response neurons as PXA. “Leo took their venom compound and used it to create PXA.”
“Yes, basically. The point is, they use these children—Vessels, the family calls them—to steal the secrets of the most powerful men in the world.”
“Children as spies? That’s—” I didn’t even have words for it.
“In the Lazaretto family, every member is treasured as long as they contribute. These children were revered, well taken care of before their deaths. Just as the adults suffering from the Scourge are—they’re all tested for prion disease at a young age, their education accelerated so they can make real contributions before symptoms set in. While the healthy members of the family run the long-term business side of things, the members with the Scourge are trained in functions suitable to their shortened life-spans. Some are educated in science—to study their disease, find ways to increase the number of Vessels, better ways to induce coma in their targets, ways to prolong the productive life-span of the ones with fatal insomnia who aren’t Vessels. If they aren’t scientifically inclined, then they’re set to work as assassins—well, in the old days, now I’m pretty sure they’re just corporate spies—or placed in positions where they can help the family get close to their targets. Priests sent to the Vatican, executive assistants sent to seduce CEOs and marry politicians.”
“I get the idea. This Lazaretto family has evolved like the Mafia—no scruples about what they do as long as it serves the family. You’re not saying I’m one of them? Or my father?”
“Yes. Your father was assigned to join the priesthood. They wanted him to infiltrate the Opus Dei—the family’s sworn enemy and most fierce competitor going back centuries. But first, Francesca used him as one of many donors to artificially inseminate her eggs. No member of the family with the Scourge is meant to ever have children, not the natural way. They only act as egg and sperm donors for their scientists to combine. Angelo learned of Francesca’s research, recombining the family’s mutant DNA in new ways in the hope of creating more powerful Vessels for the family to use.”
“But the Vessels die after the family uses them. So she was basically genetically modifying her own children so that they would grow up to die?”
“Yes, but the family would survive. That’s all that mattered. And if she knew the secret to creating future Vessels, Francesca could solidify her own position, maybe even lead the family. It almost worked. Except your father found you—I’m not sure how— rebelled against the family, and fled here with you when you were only an infant.”
The encroaching darkness made my hair stand on end as it slithered toward us. We didn’t have much time. “No. I don’t believe it. Besides, what does it matter? Why are the Lazarettos here now? Why did they infect those children with fatal insomnia? And how?”
“It matters because the family needs more Vessels. That’s why they infected the children. If they can create and control Vessels who aren’t of the family, then they can let their own disease die out. The family will be cured of the Scourge, even as they inflict it upon others.”
I wanted to slap the proud smirk from his face as he looked fondly across the field to where young Daniel and young Francesca spoke earnestly, their heads so close they almost touched. He nodded to the couple. “She’s explaining the science and her idea. No one in her family took her seriously—not until much later. A decade later. But I did. I believed in her. That’s why she trusted me to help.”
“You helped her infect those children?” I demanded. The darkness surrounded us, swallowing his memories of his younger self and Francesca in a whirling vortex. It was still silent—making it all the more terrifying, but I was so enraged, I almost didn’t care.
Daniel shook his head. “No. Not me. You did. You’re Patient Zero. Not because you were the first patient with symptoms, but because you’re the person who infected them. The fatal insomnia in the children came from you, Angela.”
Chapter 24
MARCO’S MEN DELIVERED Francesca across the waters back to the Lazaretto family island that had been a safe haven for those afflicted with the Scourge for centuries. It was the middle of the night, those dark hours when the only lights visible on the nearby islands of Murano and San Michele came from the lamps guarding their docks. Then they turned toward Francesca’s island. There, even still a mile out at sea, the horizon filled with glimmering golden willow wisps. Some would go out, but others would take their place, a constant dance of lights.
Legend had it that the island was haunted, and the lights were
lamps carried by the dead who were forbidden entrance to heaven or hell, doomed to wander the earth. Yet another layer of protection for her people—no one set foot on their “cursed” land except her family. No one dared.
Tonight, the ancient monastery with its watchtower glittered with light, as did the modern glass and steel laboratory. Not for any holiday celebration. Every night was like this on the island where sleep never visited.
They pulled up to the dock, a concrete pier that broke the line of the centuries-old, fifteen-foot-high wall surrounding the island. The iron spikes jutting out from on top of the brick were invisible in the dark but no less deadly. Not that the island had needed any defense—it had been hundreds of years since anyone tried to attack the Lazarettos where they appeared to be vulnerable. The bodies of those who had tried had hung from the spikes near the massive iron gate, a warning heeded by all, even the most vicious and greedy of pirates.
Of course today, the spikes were only for show. A part of their history, like the monastery that ran the width of the island—the original hermitage where her people had come to die centuries ago, tended by monks who were also Lazarettos. There were no guards here today—there was no need. The Lazaretto name was protection enough from modern-day thieves.
Until tonight. Only, the thieves who brought Francesca home were worse. Sent by her own brother. Lazaretto turned against Lazaretto. Betraying the afflicted, the people who had built their family. Anger seared through her, although she kept her face a mask as she took the hand of one of Marco’s men and allowed him to help her out of the launch and onto the dock.
“The six of us will secure the dock,” he told her as his men leapt from the boat. They stood huddled on the suddenly crowded jetty before the wrought-iron gates. The men were armed with machine pistols similar to the ones the soldiers who patrolled the streets of Venice carried. “Tell your people to open the gates.”
As a defense, the gates weren’t much—but then, they hadn’t had to do any actual work other than serve as an ornamental barricade to the occasional lost tourist in a rented boat who wandered on shore thinking the island was open to the public. They were controlled by electronics housed in the monastery and manned by her people. Tonight, it was a teenage boy who left the security office to press his face against the wrought iron as if he didn’t believe what he’d seen on his monitor. “Francesca?”
“It’s all right, Enrico. You can open the gate.” No need to risk bloodshed. Not here, not tonight. She smiled at Enrico and, ignoring her armed escort, strode forward just as the gates swung open, welcoming her home. “These men will be taking over guard duty. I’ll find you a new assignment.”
The boy looked flustered—the afflicted took care of themselves, those with few symptoms caring for those at the end of their days. Laundry, cooking, cleaning, monitoring the sick, working in the lab, each was assigned a job according to their abilities. Francesca’s people. Her true family. Each would do her bidding until they died.
Each would kill for her if she asked.
Out of sight of Marco’s men, she allowed herself to finally smile. Poor Marco. His men were as good as dead already. They simply didn’t know it yet.
<<<>>>
RYDER REMAINED ON the floor of their cage while Grey examined their prison more closely—well, at least as best he could in the dark.
“I was thinking you could climb out between the top of the wall and the ceiling, shimmy up onto the chains and out over the gate at the top of the shaft,” Ryder told the other man, not even sure if he was aiming his voice in the right direction, the darkness was that complete.
The sound of metal being shaken combined with the motion of the cage to let him know Grey had heard and was testing his theory. “I think it will work, if you don’t mind me using you as a step stool—I want as much height as I can get before I have to trust a blind climb.”
“No problem. It’s a long way down if we don’t get this right the first time.”
“The chains are anchored to each corner, so I’ll go up the front right corner.”
“You can brace yourself against the wall.” Keeping his balance in the disorienting pitch black would be the trickiest part.
The cage swayed as Grey returned and crouched beside Ryder. “Do you know where Rossi is? I really should send some guys for her, get her into protective custody.”
“I don’t know exactly where she is, but Devon Price will.” Ryder debated whether to tell Grey everything, but he couldn’t risk it. If the Fed escaped, a call to Price wouldn’t compromise Rossi’s safety or the children’s. And Price could take care of himself. Funny how he’d come to trust the former criminal more than fellow law enforcement officers. Proof of just how crazy his world had become.
“Price? Why do I know that name? Wait, he was there when you were shot and Leo Kingston was killed. What’s Price got to do with Rossi?”
“Call him. He’ll know how to get word to Rossi.”
“Interesting group you hang out with.”
“So says the man following the trail of a madman.” Ryder accepted Grey’s help up. “I wouldn’t wait for the FBI, the Staties can get here quicker with their Special Response Team.”
“You think I’d risk your life to get some credit from my bosses?” Grey’s tone was wry. “Seriously, Ryder, I’m not obsessed or crazy. Just decided to follow a lead on my own time, see if it led to any solid evidence before I risked taking it up the chain of command. Don’t tell me you’ve never done the same.”
Ryder never broke the law doing it—like planting an illegal tracking device on a suspect. And he certainly never endangered anyone else’s life. But he said nothing; he needed Grey focused on bringing back help, not playing the hero.
They moved to the front corner of the car, the floor swaying beneath them with each step. Between the total darkness and the unreliable spatial cues from the cage’s constant swinging, Ryder counted himself lucky he didn’t suffer from motion sickness. Although his hands were now almost totally numb, and sooner or later, hypothermia would do him in—if Tyrone’s goons didn’t take care of matters before that.
“Good luck,” Ryder whispered to Grey. He knelt down, head pressed to his knees, while Grey climbed onto his back. The cage shook, then Grey’s weight vanished. Ryder scooted back in case the other man fell, but a thud sounded from the metal ceiling, telling him Grey had made it that far.
Ryder visualized Grey’s progress in his imagination, translating each shudder of the cage. That quaking was Grey clinging to the chain, reaching for the barrier gate at the top of the shaft. The sudden push back was Grey jumping onto the gate. The rattle of metal was his climbing over.
Then there was nothing. The cage slowly came to a stop—other than the occasional shiver from the air currents in the shaft. The darkness remained, but that was no surprise—Tyrone’s men would have taken the lantern with them back to the mine’s entrance and their main work area.
The absolute silence was the most difficult part for Ryder as he sat shivering. He could project anything onto that silence, from miraculous success to catastrophic failure.
Neither helped. Nothing he could do now except wait. He focused on contracting his core muscles, performing awkward squats and lunges in the confined space, trying to keep warm and alert for what came next.
The sudden sound of gunfire made him jump. He strained to listen as men shouted, their words obscured by the way noise ricocheted from the stone walls surrounding him. Grey, had they caught him? Had he been able to call for backup first?
Silence reigned once more. Ryder stared up at the exit Grey had escaped through, despite the fact that he knew he’d never be able to see anything.
He strained to listen as the sound of men’s voices and a shuffling noise came closer. Was that the faintest sliver of light forming along the edge of the ceiling?
Before he could decide if he was imagining things, the anguished cry of a wounded animal shrieked through the air.
Not an ani
mal, Ryder realized with a sinking feeling. Grey. Being tortured.
Chapter 25
I WAS DROWNING in black, a silence that swallowed all light, stole all thought and sound. Floating, no up or down, no arms or legs, no me...
A bright light skewered one eye and then the other. I blinked. The light pulled back to reveal Louise, holding an ophthalmoscope.
“Angie, are you okay?” Louise asked, her voice filled with concern. Her features were cloudy from the artificial tear gel she’d put into my eyes to keep them from drying out during my fugue, but a few more blinks and my vision cleared.
Wish I could say the same for my brain. I nodded in answer to her question—didn’t have the strength for words yet. She checked my pulse, nodded, patted my hand, and then moved away from me. I closed my eyes—it was too much work to keep them open.
Usually after a fugue, I was exhausted, but there was also a weird energy. And my other fugues had ended with cascades of music and light and sensory experiences that, while frightening, were also stimulating. This one hadn’t been like any of the others—I felt drained, as if I was the one who’d been sucked dry of every memory.
Maybe it was because with the other fugues the people had had a final thought, one last wish, if you will, that they wanted passed on? Patrice had wanted me to save Esme. All of her focus had been directing me there. Alamea had wanted forgiveness from her family—not that she needed it. She hadn’t done anything wrong, but she’d felt guilty for the pain her family had gone through because of her. Leo, the man who kidnapped and tortured her, hadn’t wanted forgiveness. He’d wanted to be remembered for his crimes. In a warped way, he’d been proud of them, wanted his fame to continue beyond his death.
And Jacob? Other than the message Tommaso had forced him to give me, all Jacob had wanted was to tell me he loved me...and that he forgave me. Even in death, he was a better person than I’d ever be.