He shifted his weight and smiled with relief.
“We must be close—we did it!”
Louisa allowed herself a smile of relief, but it was short lived.
“Little Rabbit?” Called an all-to-familiar voice. “Is that you?”
Like falling in a dream, like waking up suddenly, Louisa’s entire body gave jolted. She let go of Cato’s hand, and turned around. There, standing with a detachment of officers from her very own precinct, was Giorgio Stanto. Face pale, mouth wide, he eyed her fretful appearance, then looked questioningly at Cato. Trapped between worlds colliding, Louisa tried to think what she should do, what she should say, but her mind had gone snowy. Only Cato, who saw Giorgio as just another cop—dangerous and potentially dirty, knew how to react. Retaking Louisa’s hand, he whirled around and dragged her into an uneven run.
“Hey!” Exclaimed Giorgio, shoving after them with the others. “Hey, wait!”
But now Louisa was running too, her feet carrying her along beside Cato, overtaking him even. Reaching the alley’s ivy archway, she slipped beneath it with Cato in tow and took to the cobblestones. Faster than spring thaw down a dry riverbed, they dashed side-by-side. Though his leg must be killing him to do it, Cato kept pace with her, swearing and spitting all the while.
Hot in pursuit, the ominous echo of boots rang off the brick walls to pierce Louisa’s stormy mind with memories she knew were not her own. The smell of ozone grew stronger, and the air seemed to crackle. Compounding the interference, time began to peel away like the layers of paint on a restoration. Where drying clothes hung from high balconies, the specter of Nazi flags snapped in their place. Where open windows looked in on happy homes, broken boards and bullet holes filled their frames. Waving away these proto ghosts, Louisa saw them for what they really were, relics from another person’s life, his life. Nevertheless, they persisted; animating the precise path the Man had taken seventy years earlier in a situation much like this one.
On her left, another alley opened up, lined with apartment buildings that sloped downhill toward a piazza at the bottom. Taking it instinctively, Louisa yanked Cato past row after row of doorways, gaining speed as they ran. In the vision, a Nazi troop-transporter rolled out to block their path, but in reality, no such obstacle presented itself. Wide and open, the piazza waited.
“Louisa!” Yelled Giorgio again, thundering down the alley behind them. “Louisa, stop!”
Headless of his calls, Louisa entered the piazza and looked desperately around. A fountain jetted azure waters high into the air, and flowers hung from the lampposts. She turned and saw the church of Santa Æmelia, tall, broad, and domed in regal copper. Running for the doors she grasped the large iron rings and tugged. Nothing happened. Cato joined her, throwing his weight behind the effort, yet even still, the doors would not budge.
“It’s locked!” Louisa cried. “What now? What do we do now?”
Almost upon them, Giorgio called Louisa’s name once more, his voice high and confused. Slinging the backpack from his shoulders, Cato dug out the Uzi and pointed it across the piazza at the alley.
“I’ll hold them here,” he growled. “You find another way in!”
“Wait!” Cried Louisa. “You can’t shoot him—he’s—”
Before she could finish, Giorgio came into the piazza, his gaze lighting on Cato’s Uzi. Ducking, he pulled his own pistol out and took aim.
“Drop it!” He ordered.
The other officers arrived around him, drawing their weapons to join the escalating stand-off.
“I said drop it!” Giorgio repeated. “Put down the gun!”
He flicked his eyes to Louisa, standing stock-still beside Cato.
“Get out of the way, Little Rabbit. Take cover.”
Seeing Giorgio’s finger tense on the trigger, Louisa threw her hands up and leaped in front of Cato to shield him. Giorgio faltered, taking a full step back as if rolled by a wave.
“L—Louisa,” he stammered. “What are you doing?”
“Please Giorgio,” she said. “You’re making a big mistake! You shouldn’t be here—it’s too dangerous! He’s coming!”
As if summoned by her words, a shadow fell from above, wider than a storm cloud, and twice as dark. Landing between Giorgio and the other officers, it gathered itself up to strike. Louisa’s heart stopped beating, and time slowed to a deep, gentle crawl. Unfolding with the grace of an elegant dance, events too rapid to be witnessed by mortal eyes spun out before her in perfect detail.
The officer nearest Giorgio was plucked up and thrown headlong into the side of a building. Spewing out, red life departed his body as he tumbled to the ground in a tangle of dead limbs. Another man screamed and was sent reeling, his back broken in nine places. Helpless to defend themselves, the group whirled in shock, beset on all sides. Blows rang out, powerful enough to reduce teeth to dust. Like cheap dolls, the remaining men skipped and skidded over the cobblestones, grunting their final breaths.
In the confusion, Giorgio accidentally jerked the trigger and let fly a stray shot aimed at Louisa. Blurring out, an impenetrable hand snatched the bullet from empty space and hurled it back at Giorgio. It ripped through his shoulder with a puff of bloody fabric, and he dropped his weapon to clutch the wound. Over him now, the shadow loomed, wicked, hungry, and inescapable. With eyes that flashed molten gold, it scooped him up and threatened to tear him apart.
Thrashing against time’s slow-moving current, Louisa uttered a low growl that grew into a savage scream.
“No!” She bellowed. “Not him—not him!”
The shadow hesitated and became what it really was—the Man. Lips curling ever so slightly; he gave Louisa a sickening wink, then hurled Giorgio across the piazza and into the stone fountainhead.
LI
As Officer Stanto splashed down with a wet thud, the Man stepped over the bodies of the other polizia and came slowly up the steps of Santa Æmelia. Before him, Cato swallowed and backed into the tall doors. Louisa on the other hand, stood just where she had stood during the attack, her round eyes staring at him as if for the first time. Having seen this expression upon the faces of many before, the Man smiled.
“Friends. It pleases me to see you both alive.”
He reached out to touch Louisa’s cheek, his fingers leaving smears of blood as they brushed the recoiling flesh.
“Are you hurt?”
Seemingly unable to find her voice, Louisa shrank from him and shook her head.
“Good,” he smiled. “And you, Cato—how bad is that leg of yours?”
Cato gave a start and lowered the Uzi.
“It’s—” he faltered. “I’m—”
Voices sounded from the alley above, more men coming with weapons and badges to bolster their confidence. Although it would be no trouble to butcher them when they arrived, the Man guessed that such a display would not improve his standings with Cato and Louisa. They were of a modern mindset, empathetic to a fault. Further violence would only make things more difficult.
“Come,” he said, going to the church doors. “We can speak safely inside.”
He reached into his pocket for an old iron key and inserted it in the lock. Making four full turns, the key set a great many mechanisms into action. Upon the fifth turn, the door shuddered and swung in. Like a cave of forgotten riches, the sanctum of Santa Æmelia was a lofty mixture of marble and gold leafing. Seeping in through the stained-glass widows, colored light bathed the scattered pews in every shade visible to the human eye, and even some that were not. With a heavy clank, the Man shut the large doors and locked them once more. Cut off from the world beyond, the church became a hidden refuge—a space between spaces.
Leading Cato to the nearest pew, the Man sat him down and knelt before him.
“It was a knife,” said Cato, gesturing to his leg. “He stabbed me.”
“War wounds,” smiled the Man.
He opened the cut in Cato’s slacks and peered in at the gash.
“A simple
matter,” he said.
Biting the tip of his tongue, the Man drew blood and spat into his palm. Clearly disgusted, Cato made a quiet gagging noise as the Man then rubbed the Ichor into the wound. When he was finished, he rewrapped the scarf and stood.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, addressing both Cato and Louisa.
For her vantage near the door, Louisa blinked several times as something behind her eyes was struggling to get out.
“What happened?” She repeated in a low voice. “What happened?”
“Yes.”
Taking a step toward him, Louisa raised a finger and pointed.
“I should be asking you that question. You said Artemis wouldn’t come for us at the hotel! You were so sure!”
“Even I may be deceived from time to time,” said the Man. “I’m not omniscient.”
Louisa swooned, gripping the end of a pew for support.
“They—” she stammered. “They’ve been hunting us like animals—killing people, innocent people, and polizia—”
Here she looked up, angry tears in the corners of her sparkling eyes.
“Polizia like those men outside—my friends!”
“Regrettable,” said the Man, indifferent to her theatrics. “Yet I could not allow any harm to visit Cato. It is what my enemies want most.”
Louisa drew a sharp breath.
“Not omniscient, but almost—is that it?” She whispered. “If you already knew they wanted Cato dead, why didn’t you warn us? Niccolò—he—”
Seeing where this was going, and deciding it was better simply to lie, the Man slid across the space between them and peered deeply into Louisa’s eyes.
“Niccolò is alive,” he spoke. “And much of what I know now, he told me from the back of an ambulance.”
This statement, so effective in its designed purpose, struck Louisa visibly. She loosened before him, became pliable and hopeful once more.
“He—” she wavered. “My zio is alive?”
Artfully, the Man replied with a look of concurrence.
“And who knows,” he added for flare. “If you are very lucky, he may well share a hospital room with dear Giorgio out there. Imagine the things they will have to talk about as they mend their broken bones.”
Louisa choked out a kind of laugh and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Moved by obvious relief, she lifted her eyes to the nearest window and let the sun fall on her pretty face.
“Now,” said the Man, turning away from her. “What remains of our enemies? How many Spartoi still stand?”
“Two that I saw,” Cato piped up. “I killed one of them on the bridge—you should have seen it.”
“Good boy,” nodded the Man. “What of Hannity?”
“He’s alive,” Louisa answered, returning her gaze from the window. “But I shot him.”
“Does he still give chase?” The Man prompted. “Should I ready myself—mount a defense?”
Louisa sighed and moved around the pew to sit beside Cato.
“There was a big mess on the Via del Corso,” she explained. “I haven’t seen him or any of the Spartoi since then. I get the feeling they’re off regrouping and licking their wounds.”
She glanced at Cato, then looked back to the Man.
“But I must know—why did they try so hard to kill Cato? Is it because he and Leta were twins?”
The Man waited for a beat to see how Cato would react. When he saw that the boy had clearly made some kind of peace with this fact, he nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then I suppose it’s no a coincidence that Artemis and Apollo were twins as well, is it?”
Suddenly interested again, Cato did a double-take.
“Hey wait a second,” he said. “That’s right, isn’t it? They are twins!”
He narrowed his eyes at the Man and touched Leta’s backpack.
“Is that why Artemis killed Leta? Was it Blood for Blood? Was she paying you back for Apollo?”
“Yes,” said the Man. “And no.”
Backing into the light of the stained glass he became painted by patterns of pink, gold, blue, and red.
“It is true that I killed Apollo and thus incurred a Blood for Blood debt to Artemis. However, Leta’s murder did not absolve me of that debt. Only my death will suffice to settle things with Artemis. My death, or hers.”
Louisa furrowed her brow.
“You speak of this as if it’s a contract, a law.”
“It is,” said the Man. “For all intents and purposes—a natural law.”
“But why?” She pressed. “I don’t understand.”
“Geminus.”
“Twins?”
Bowing his head slightly, the Man folded his hands behind his back.
“Mortals and Immortals alike know the miracle of rearing twins,” he said. “I need not argue the mystique that surrounds the phenomenon—it persists in all cultures and remains even to this day.”
He turned to Cato.
“Tell me that you do not feel your sister’s fighting spirit—alive in you right now.”
Face clouded, Cato simply stared.
“Twins,” said the Man again, enunciating the word. “Are special. No living being born without one can understand their bond—the depth of their connection. For this reason, Blood for Blood, where twins are involved, is a very sticky business indeed.”
He looked at the painted ceiling above. Credited to an obscure Renaissance artist but in reality crafted by his own brush to mask the damage, a massive fresco showed the God Apollo, prostrate on the ground with a great serpent choking the life from his glowing limbs.
“Because of what I did,” he spoke. “I can never kill Artemis with my own hands. Though I have brought low Titans and monsters alike, I took from her something profound and singular—something elemental. Now, the wicked Fates and the long reaching shadow of Vengeance dictate that she should end my life in retribution. I am powerless to stop this.”
Finishing, the Man dropped his gaze and found Louisa’s eyes waiting for him. Again, she was staring at him as if for the first time. Knowing she was far to clever to miss the underlying meaning of what he had just revealed, the Man hoped his Ichor would be enough to cloud Cato’s mind should she attempt and intervention.
“Cato,” she spoke, turning from the Man. “Do you know what this means? If what he says is true, then—then you’re protected too. Leta’s murder was…”
She checked herself and hesitated.
“Artemis can’t kill you, Cato,” she said. “You’re protected from her just like she is from him.”
Blinking, Cato glanced up.
“Is that true?”
“It is,” said the Man.
“Well isn’t that a bit of luck?” Cato smiled dully. “About fucking time!”
The Man smiled back and nodded. For her part, Louisa wore a stormy look.
“Yes,” she said under her breath. “Luck.”
“This is why I called you to Rome, Cato,” said the Man. “We have been given a rare opportunity.”
Strolling forward in the colorful light, he sought Cato’s eye’s and held them.
“Think about it, my son,” he whispered. “You—Cato Fin, cannot die at the hands of that craven bitch. You can kill her—put to rest countless human souls, including your sister’s. Vengeance will protect you and see that the deed is done.”
The Man stopped before Cato and lit a cigarette. In the sweet haze, he extended the case, and struck the Zippo.
“What say you, my boy?”
Cato accepted the cigarette, putting it to the flame. For a long moment, he sat and smoked, his lackluster gaze betraying an Ichor-affected mind.
“Here’s what I have to say,” he exhaled at last. “I’ll do what you want—I’ll kill Artemis. But you have to do something for me.”
“Name it.”
Casting Louisa a complicated glance, Cato took another drag.
“It’s been a hell of a day,” he said. “And I never wou
ld have made it this far without her. She’s a good person—she’s my friend, but she doesn’t know you like I do. She doesn’t know what you are.”
The Man narrowed his eyes, impressed. There was still fire left in Cato, still fight. Corallina had outdone herself.
“You’ve got all these fucking crazy rules and laws,” Cato went on. “But down here where us lowly mortals live, promises are promises—you don’t break them, understand?”
The Man nodded.
“Good, then I want you to promise to do everything in your power to help Louisa find out who killed her brother, and I want you to promise to help her get revenge—whatever that may mean. You’re going to be her Blood for Blood—her protection. Deal?”
Smiling a serpentine smile, the Man bowed deeply.
“On my life,” he spoke. “I promise.”
…
Beside Cato on the pew, Louisa chewed her tongue to keep from saying what was in her heart. At last, she saw the Man as Cato did—menacing, vile, a monster not to be trusted. When he had spoke of Vengeance and Blood for Blood, he had unmasked himself, shown his true intent. Cato’s immunity was no accident; Leta had been sacrificed to achieve it. Why else had the Man separated the twins, and hidden them from one another? If Artemis had known, if she had held the slightest suspicion, she never would have killed poor Leta. Blood for Blood was not about taking revenge. It was about creating a weapon—Cato.
“What are you thinking?” Asked Cato, causing Louisa to jump in her skin. “Will you stay and help us? This is your city after all.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Louisa shook off the heavy yoke of truth and met Cato’s gaze. No good could come from exposing to him why things were as they were. Better to focus on what could be done about it. Weapon or not, Cato was walking into oblivion and he needed a friend by his side—a real friend.
“I’m—not going anywhere,” Louisa answered. “We’re a team, you and I—partners. Remember?”
She stood and faced the Man. Locking eyes with him, she made it known that she understood his wicked plan. Obviously taking pleasure in the secret they now shared together, he deflected her fiery gaze with a wink.
The Man From Rome Page 28